Two minutes later he was waiting at the appointed spot, and in another two minutes Rachel herself, with Arthur Aldington, came up and met him there. Arthur disappeared with a few words from Rachel, who arranged that he should fetch her in ten minutes and take her back to the Van Santens, and then she and Gerard were once more alone together. The change in her was so sudden, so great, that he could scarcely believe his eyes. Every trace of the brilliant manner, of the laughing face, the light, easy manner, the slight affectation, which had distinguished her tone and manner but half an hour ago, when she was with Denver and among the rest, had disappeared, and given place to a demeanor touching in its grave sadness. “Mr. Buckland,” she began quite simply, as soon as Arthur was out of earshot, “you must think me a strange creature, I’m afraid.” “I don’t know what to think of you,” he replied desperately. “You seem to be, not one or two, but half a dozen women; and they’re all charming, though some of them--might well break a man’s heart.” “I don’t want to break yours, or any man’s,” she said simply. “You must break mine or Van Santen’s,” he said dryly, “if you go on acting as you’ve done this evening, being one woman, and a very sweet though puzzling one, to me, and quite another, a brilliant, charming one, to him. How am I to believe that you like one of us better than the other? You were certainly doing your best to make him think he was the man you liked. I don’t want you to make a fool of me like that. I can’t deny that you could if you wished.” She sighed softly. “I’m not going to tell you I like you,” she said gently. “You are welcome, if you wish, to believe I don’t care in the least.” “No, no, I’d rather you should pretend you cared for me--at least, I think I’d rather!” stammered poor Gerard, who was struggling against the impulse to yield himself wholly to the personal fascination she exercised over him. She looked at him steadily, but with eyes so mournful, so full of some deep-seated distress, that he was seized by an overpowering desire to know what the secret was which made her such a tantalizing, maddening mystery. Why was she so sweet to him, after having been but a short time before in his very presence, just as irresistible, in a wholly different fashion, to another man? Was she a coquette, after all? Was she only trying to show her power, by bringing to her feet a man whom she had recently disgusted by her open encouragement of another? Miss Davison read his thoughts. “I don’t pretend--to you,” she said simply. “I don’t tell you I care for you. You can think, if you like, that I like someone else better.” “But I don’t like to think so!” burst out poor Gerard. She went on imperturbably.