“Oh, yes, I get it!” Elsie gave a faint sigh of envy. This radiant assured young person had evidently never met defeat in her life. But she was the more ready to assist in the achieving of Miss Pleyden’s latest whim because on the only two occasions she had seen her brother since the dinner he had asked abruptly after Gita. He had frowned as if annoyed with himself, no doubt recalling his characteristic remark after he had handed her over to Topper. Probably those black eyes of Gita’s had been haunting him! She could conceive of no bond between those two and was determined they should not meet again if she could prevent it. No doubt Bylant would succeed in his suit before Gita went to New York for the winter. If she knew anything of men he was the sort whose enforced patience would come to an abrupt end when he had accomplished his purpose, and he would marry her at once. But she sighed again. She had had her day-dreams. . . . She moved over to the manor next day, and, as her novel was hanging fire, she determined to make an experiment. “I know at least one novelist,” she told Gita, “who writes every new book in a new place. Finds that surroundings dissociated from habit stimulate the imagination. So, if you will give me a quiet corner——” Gita, delighted, gave her a room off the library that had been used as an office by her grandfather, and the experiment was a success. The social gods were placated, Elsie wrote from six until noon, while Gita either amused herself alone, or rode, walked, talked with Eustace Bylant; who was the most complacent of the trio. He never deluded himself that he had struck a spark from his own steady flame, but she depended on him increasingly, she did not wince, at least, if he touched her hand, or shoulder, as they bent together over a book, and he had the field to himself. He knew Polly’s plans but had no intention of considering them. He still had four months, for the Pleydens did not move to New York until January, and he was determined to marry Gita as soon as he had worn down her defenses. They were strolling on the Boardwalk one Sunday morning after what was known as the “summer crowd”—drawn from every state in the Union—had taken possession of Atlantic City, and commenting on the lack of feminine beauty in the American masses after the mere prettiness of youth had surrendered to an utterly commonplace maturity. “No wonder the girls come here in the hope of picking up a husband,” said Bylant. “This has always been a great marriage-mart, even in the days when visitors were practically all of one class. Now the opportunities are more casual, but in the big hotels there is dancing every night, girls are bound to meet men, and the number of engagements that come off every year in Atlantic City makes it the goal of all mothers with young daughters, whose social circle is narrow and mainly composed of women.” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Gita, who shrugged indifferently.