As Duane Mallett strolled into the living-room, Geraldine felt again, as she so often did, a slight sense of insecurity mingle with her liking for the man, or what might have been liking if she could ever feel absolute confidence in him. She had been, at times, very close to caring a great deal for him, when now and again it flashed over her that there must be in him something serious under his brilliant talent and the idle perversity which mocked at it. But now she recognised in his smile and manner everything that kept her from ever caring to understand him--the old sense of insecurity in his ironical formality; and her outstretched hand fell away from his with indifference. "I didn't have the happiness of riding with you, after all," he said, serenely seating himself and dropping one lank knee over the other. "Promises wouldn't be valuable unless somebody broke a lot now and then." "You probably had the happiness of riding with some other woman." He nodded. "Who, this time?" "Rosalie Dysart." Rumour had been busy with their names recently. The girl's face became expressionless. "Sorry you didn't come," he said, looking out of the window where the flapping shade revealed a lilac in bloom. "How long did you wait for me?" "About a minute. Then Rosalie passed----" "Rosalies will always continue to pass through your career, my omnivorous friend.... Did it even occur to you to ride over here and find out why I missed our appointment?" "No; why didn't you come?" "Bibi went lame. I'd have had another horse saddled if I hadn't seen you, over my shoulder, join Mrs. Dysart." "Too bad," he commented listlessly. "Why? You had a perfectly good time without me, didn't you?" "Oh, yes, pretty good. Delancy Grandcourt was out after luncheon, and when Rosalie left he stuck to me and talked about you until I let my horse bolt, and it stirred up a few mounted policemen and riding-schools, I can tell you!" "Oh, so you lunched with Mrs. Dysart?" "Yes. Where is Kathleen?" "Driving," said the girl briefly. "If you don't care for any tea, there is mineral water and a decanter over there." He thanked her, rose and mixed himself what he wanted, and began to walk leisurely about, the ice tinkling in the glass which he held. At intervals he quenched his thirst, then resumed his aimless promenade, a slight smile on his face. "Has anything particularly interesting happened to you, Duane?" she asked, and somehow thought of Rosalie Dysart. "No." "How are your pictures coming on?" "The portrait?" he asked absently. "Portrait? I thought all the very grand ladies you paint had left town. Whose portrait are you painting?" Before he answered, before he even hesitated, she knew. "Rosalie Dysart's," he said, gazing absently at the lilac-bush in flower as the wind-blown curtain revealed it for a moment. She lifted her dark eyes curiously. He began to stir the ice in his glass with a silver paper-cutter.