She turned swiftly and went into the other room, I following. There were a few minutes of conversation--a monologue by her mother. Then I ceased to disregard Ellersly's less and less covert yawns, and rose to take leave. I could not look directly at Anita, but I was seeing that her eyes were fixed on me, as if by some compulsion, some sinister compulsion. I left in high spirits. “No matter why or how she looks at you,” said I to myself. “All that is necessary is to get yourself noticed. After that, the rest is easy. You must keep cool enough always to remember that under this glamour that intoxicates you, she's a woman, just a woman, waiting for a man.” XIII. “UNTIL TO-MORROW” On the following Tuesday afternoon, toward five o'clock, I descended from my apartment on my way to my brougham. In the entrance hall I met Monson coming in. “Hello, you!” said he. “Slipping away to get married?” “No, I'm only making a call,” replied I, taking alarm instantly. “Oh, is _that_ all?” said he with a sly grin. “It must be a mighty serious matter.” “I'm in no hurry,” said I. “Come up with me for a few minutes.” As soon as we were alone in my sitting-room, I demanded: “What's wrong with me?” “Nothing--not a thing,” was his answer, in a tone I had a struggle with myself not to resent. “I've never seen any one quite so grand--top hat, latest style, long coat ditto, white buckskin waistcoat, twenty-thousand-dollar pearl in pale blue scarf, white spats, spotless varnish boots just from the varnishers, cream-colored gloves. You _will_ make a hit! My eye, I'll bet she won't be able to resist you.” I began to shed my plumage. “I thought this was the thing when you're calling on people you hardly know.” “I should say you'd have to know 'em uncommon well to give 'em such a treat. Rather!” “What shall I wear?” I asked. “You certainly told me the other day that this was proper.” “Proper--so it is--too damn proper,” was his answer. “That'd be all right for a bridegroom or a best man or an usher--or perhaps for a wedding guest. It wouldn't do any particular harm even to call in it, if the people were used to you. But--” “I look dressed up?” “Like a fashion plate--like a tailor--like a society actor.” “What shall I wear?” “Oh, just throw yourself together any old way. Business suit's good enough.” “But I barely know these people--socially. I never called there,” I objected. “Then don't call,” he advised. “Send your valet in a cab to leave a card at the door. Calling has gone clean out--unless a man's got something very especial in mind. Never show that you're eager. Keep your hand hid.” “They'd know I had something especial in mind if I called?” “Certainly, and if you'd gone in those togs, they'd have assumed you had come to--to ask the old man for his daughter--or something like that.” I lost no time in getting back into a business suit.