She recalled the day when she had sat on the sands after the tilt with her grandmother and reflected that she had not an illusion; and a horror and hatred of life. Well, she still had no illusions but horror and hatred had fled. And although Polly and Elsie had contributed, to him belonged the credit of completing the cure. She was now not happy at intervals but consistently. And satisfied as she was with the present she looked to the future with an eager indubious eye. Under his expert guidance life in all its multiform phases would unroll, for he devoted only his mornings and but eight months of the year to work; and it was quite evident he enjoyed playing his own part in life as well as being one of its chroniclers. And he had every opportunity to live it to the full. And she, herself, wanted to live, to see all there was to see, learn all there was to know. A girl alone had small chance of that unless she had a gift that brought the world to her feet. If she abandoned her background she became the natural prey of men. She doubted if any man would dare make love to Eustace Bylant’s wife. She smiled as she thought of Polly, who nonchalantly assumed that no plan of hers could go wrong. She had thought her fatuous, fortunately placed as she was; and here was herself tearing a leaf out of Polly’s book. Well, why not? Life was fairly shoving her at a book with pleasant rustling leaves and bidding her choose. She determined to put it squarely to Eustace the next time he angled. Have it over. Senseless to fence when the business of life was up for settlement. She’d get more out of life as a married girl than running round with Polly’s crowd, incidentally enlivened with harmless sophisticates. That would be seeing life through the wrong end of an opera-glass. “So that’s that.” And she climbed into bed and fell asleep at once. CHAPTER XVIII But time passed and Bylant betrayed no part of his purpose again. He had lingered on in Chelsea, and finally announced he would make no visits that year, nor return to New York until after Christmas; and while he told Gita frankly that he was remaining on her account, he was as matter-of-fact as if he were a tutor reluctant to leave a promising pupil. Two days after Gita had sketched out her platform Mrs. Pleyden called her on the telephone and invited her for dinner on the following evening. “You see, my dear, it is over four months since your grandmother’s death, and you must be dull at times,” she said with crisp sympathy. “I am sure she would agree with me that you should begin to see more of your future friends and associates (she means men, thought Gita), and before you go to New York for the winter. It will make things so much easier for you. And we are very informal. The men do not dress for dinner—of course the girls do!—but when the men are let off that means we are really informal.”