Looking at her in her gay light chiffon with its traceries of gold Steve wondered vaguely whether or not he had been wrong in selecting his goal, whether he would ever be able really to understand this Gorgeous Girl now that she belonged to him, or would discover that there was nothing much to understand about her, that it could all be summed up in the statement that her father by denying her a chance at development had stunted the growth of her ability and her character into raggle-taggle weeds of self-indulgence and willful temper. "I shall not ask you to go with me," he knew he answered. It is quite as terrifying to find that one's goal has been wrongly chosen and ethically unsound as to find a boyhood dream merging into gorgeous reality. Beatrice swept out of the room. Steve made an elaborate pretense of finishing his meal. Then he went into the drawing room in search of a newspaper. He came upon Beatrice sitting on a floor cushion, feeding Monster some bonbons. "Have you been at her house?" she said, curiosity overcoming the pique. "Yes. Where is that paper? I dropped it in this chair when I came in for luncheon." "I had it taken away. I abominate newspapers in a drawing room--or muddy shoes," she added, looking at his own. "What did she say? What sort of a house is it?" Steve stared at her in bewilderment. "What the devil difference does it make to you?" he demanded, roughly. She gave a little scream. "Don't you dare say such things to me." Then she began to cry very prettily in a singsong, high-pitched voice. "Monster--nobody loves us--nobody loves us--we can't have a merry Christmas after all." "I shan't be home for dinner," Steve added more politely. "Miss Faithful's absence just now makes things quite rushed--I'll work until late." Beatrice sprang up, letting Monster scramble unheeded to the floor. "Oh, you are trying to punish me!"--pretending mock horror. "Stevuns dear, don't mind my not going! Plans are plans, you must learn to understand. And I'll send her a lovely black waist and a plum pudding for her Christmas. Tell her I was laid up with one of my bad heads.... No? You won't let me fib? Horrid old thing--come and kiss me!... Ah, you never refuse to kiss me, nice cave man with bad manners and muddy shoes, wanting to thump his strong dear fists on my little Chippendale tables--and grow so good and booky all in an instant. Forgets he was ever a bad pirate and robbed everyone until he could buy his Gorgeous Girl. Good-bye, story-book man, don't let the old funeral frazzle you!" Steve left the house, undecided whether he was taking things too seriously and ought to apologize for being rude to Beatrice or whether his intuitive impression was correct--that Beatrice was not the sort of person he had imagined but that he, per se, was to blame in the matter.