Meredith spent the next day in great tribulation and perplexity; he felt that something had to be done, but what to do he did not know. He still believed that a “stirring-up” was what Harkless needed--not the species of “stirring-up” that had taken place last night, but a diversion which would divert. As they sat at dinner, a suggestion came to him and he determined to follow it. He was called to the telephone, and a voice strange to his ear murmured in a tone of polite deference: “A lady wishes to know if Mr. Meredith and his visitor intend being present at the country-club this evening.” He had received the same inquiry from Miss Hinsdale on her departure the previous evening, and had answered vaguely; hence he now rejoined: “You are quite an expert ventriloquist, but you do not deceive me.” “I beg your pardon, sir,” creaked the small articulation. “This is Miss Hinsdale, isn't it?” “No, sir. The lady wishes to know if you will kindly answer her question.” “Tell her, yes.” He hung up the receiver, and returned to the table. “Some of Clara Hinsdale's play,” he explained. “You made a devastating impression on her, boy; you were wise enough not to talk any, and she foolishly thought you were as interesting as you looked. We're going out to a country-club dance. It's given for the devotees who stay here all summer and swear Rouen is always cool; and nobody dances but me and the very young ones. It won't be so bad; you can smoke anywhere, and there are little tables. We'll go.” “Thank you, Tom, you're so good to think of it, but----” “But what?” “Would you mind going alone? I find it very pleasant sitting on your veranda, or I'll get a book.” “Very well, if you don't want to go, I don't. I haven't had a dance for three months and I'm still addicted to it. But of course----” “I think I'd like to go.” Harkless acquiesced at once, with a cheerful voice and a lifeless eye, and the good Tom felt unaccountably mean in persisting. They drove out into the country through mists like lakes, and found themselves part of a procession of twinkling carriage-lights, and cigar sparks shining above open vehicles, winding along the levels like a canoe fete on the water. In the entrance hall of the club-house they encountered Miss Hinsdale, very handsome, large, and dark, elaborately beaming and bending toward them warmly. “Who do you think is here?” she said. “Gomez?” ventured Meredith. “Helen Sherwood!” she cried. “Go and present Mr. Harkless before Brainard Macauley takes her away to some corner.” CHAPTER XVI. PRETTY MARQUISE