“He says he must see you--on business,” said Mollie, lingering at the door. “On business?” “That’s what my young man says when he whistles up the tube,” said Mollie. Madge Vernon looked at her friend and said rather “meaningly”: “Don’t you _want_ to see him? If so I shouldn’t if I were you.” “Oh, yes,” said Clare, trying to appear quite cool. “If it’s on business.” “Very well, ma’am,” said Mollie. As she left the room she said under her breath: “I thought you would.” “Do you have business relations with Mr. Bradshaw?” asked Madge Vernon. “Yes,” said Clare; “no.... In a sort of way.” “I thought he was a novelist,” said Madge. “So he is.” “Dangerous fellows, novelists.” “Hush!” said Clare. “He might hear you.” “If it’s on business I must go, I suppose,” said Madge Vernon, rising from her chair. “No, don’t go; stay!” said Clare, speaking with strange excitement. As soon as she had uttered the words the visitor, Gerald Bradshaw, came in. He was a handsome, “artistic” looking man, with longish brown hair and a vandyke beard. He was dressed in a brown suit, with a big brown silk tie. He came forward in a graceful way, perfectly at ease, and with a charming manner. “How do you do, Mrs. Heywood?” “I _must_ be going,” said Madge. “Good-by, dear.” “Oh, _do_ stay,” whispered Clare. “Impossible. I have to speak to-night.” Although Madge Vernon had ignored the artist, he smiled at her and said: “Don’t you speak by day as a rule?” “Not until I am spoken to.... Good-night, Clare.” “Well, if you must be going--” said Clare uneasily. Madge Vernon stood for a moment at the door and smiled back at her friend. “You will remember, won’t you?” “What?” “The Eighth Year,” said Madge. With that parting shot she whisked out of the room. Gerald Bradshaw breathed a sigh of relief. Then he went across to Clare and kissed her hands. “I can’t stand that creature. A she-devil!” “She is my friend,” said Clare. “I am sorry to hear it,” said Gerald Bradshaw. Clare Heywood drooped her eyelashes before his bold, smiling gaze. “Why did you come again?” she asked. “I told you not to come.” “That is why I came. May I smoke?” He lit a cigarette before he had received he permission, and after a whiff or two said: “Is the good man at the club?” “You know he is at the club,” said Clare. “True. That is another reason why I came. Clare Heywood’s face flushed and her voice trembled a little. “Gerald, if you had any respect for me---- “Respect is a foolish word,” said Gerald Bradshaw. “Hopelessly old-fashioned. Now adays men and women like or dislike, hate or love.” “I think I hate you,” said Clare in a low voice. Gerald smiled at her. “No, you don’t. You are a little frightened of me. That is all.” The woman laughed nervously, but there was a look of fear in her eyes. “Why should I be frightened of you?”