Miss Webling felt that she was defying all the powers of espionage and convention when she made so brave as to linger while Miss Gabus left the room in short twitches, with the painful reluctance of one who pulls off an adhesive plaster by degrees. When at last she was really off, Miss Webling went to Davidge's door, feeling as wicked as the maid in Ophelia's song, though she said no more than: "Well, did you have a successful journey?" Davidge whirled in his chair. "Bully! Sit down, won't you?" He thought that no goddess had ever done so divine a thing so ambrosially as she when she smiled and shook her incredibly exquisite head. He rose to his feet in awe of her. His restless hands, afraid to lay hold of their quarry, automatically extracted his watch from his pocket and held it beneath his eyes. He stared at it without recognizing the hour, and stammered: "Will you lunch with me?" "No, thank you!" This jolted an "Oh!" out of him. Then he came back with: "When am I going to get a chance to talk to you?" "You know my address." "Yes, but--" He thought of that horrible evening when he had marched through the double row of staring cottages. But he was determined. "Going to be home this evening?" "By some strange accident--yes." "By some strange accident, I might drop round." "Do." They laughed idiotically, and she turned and glided out. She went to the mess-hall and moved about, selecting her dishes. Pretending not to see that Miss Gabus was pretending not to see her, she took her collation to another table and ate with the relish of a sense of secret guilt--the guilt of a young woman secretly betrothed. Davidge kept away from the office most of the afternoon because Mamise was so intolerably sweet and so tantalizingly unapproachable. He made a pretext of inspecting the works. She had a sugary suspicion of his motive, and munched it with strange comfort. What might have happened if Davidge had called on her in her then mood and his could easily be guessed. But there are usually interventions. The chaperon this time was Mr. Larrey, the operative of the Department of Justice. He also had his secret. He arrived at Davidge's home just as Davidge finished the composition of his third lawn tie and came down-stairs to go. When he saw Larrey he was a trifle curt with his visitor. Thinking him a workman and probably an ambassador from one of the unions on the usual mission of such ambassadors--more pay, less hours, or the discharge of some unorganized laborer--Davidge said: "Better come round to the office in the morning." "I can't come to your office," said Larrey. "Why not? It's open to everybody." "Yeh, but I can't afford to be seen goin' there." "Good Lord! Isn't it respectable enough for you?" "Yeh, but--well, I think it's my duty to tip you off to a little slick work that's goin' on in your establishment." "Won't it keep till to-morrow evening?" "Yeh--I guess so. It's only one of your stenographers."