She had gone some little distance, but still did not turn round. Worshipers of beauty, modesty, good feeling and decorous behavior, rejoice! She did not turn round! Her gay _svelte_ figure marched bravely along, virginal defiance in her shoulders and the swing of her tailor-made skirt. The fragments of a gallant whistle floated back to Tony, and he murmured "Bravado!" with an uneasy doubt. The curve of the road was close at hand now: a few more yards would carry her past in triumph, and the sex be vindicated. Tony was in painful agitation, for his knowledge of woman and powers of swift diagnosis were at stake. Three yards were left--two--hope seemed dead. Then, alas! she stopped and a smile crept to his lips. But she did not turn round--there is still a loophole for the sex,--she did not turn round! All she did was to open her reticule and take her handkerchief from it. As the handkerchief was withdrawn a bit of pasteboard was caught in its folds and fell--unnoticed?--on the road. Tony waited with vast contentment until she had turned the corner. Then with a light heart he followed and picked up the card. He read the inscription with amused curiosity. It was, "Miss Arkwright, The Quiet House." CHAPTER XIII RATHER STAGY After Beatrice had bidden Lionel good-by in the early dawn she did the most sensible thing possible: she went to bed. But it is one thing to go to bed and another to go to sleep, as many a sufferer--from insomnia, love, indigestion, or kindred ailments--has found to his cost. You feel weary, oppressed with the want of sleep, let us say, yawnsome--in a word, ready to drop off the moment you are between the sheets. But, if a white night be inscribed in the book of Fate, how changed the mood as soon as the light is out! At once, almost, you lose that sense of impending slumber and become wide awake, clear-eyed and keen of brain. Something occurs to interest your mind and you meditate perspicaciously thereon. Another thought succeeds, and another, and you grow more wakeful every moment. Soon you begin to say, "I must go to sleep now," and resolutely try to refuse to think. But resolution is vain before insomnia. Eyelids may be tightly shut, but the masked eyeballs still peer vigilantly into the void: hands may clench themselves in the hopeless effort to compose the will and induce the wished-for slumber: the alert body may strive to cheat itself by observing the accustomed ritual--first on the right side, then left, then right again--in the expectation of influencing mind by matter: droves of sheep may be counted passing through innumerable gates--poems recited till the very thought of verse revolts--numerals repeated by the ticking brain--but still you are far from the haven. It seems that "Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world" could bestow the most blessed of all boons. And at last you give up the unequal struggle and try to make the best of it.