_Isabel (modestly)_. One must make a beginning. I think I shall begin with you. (_She smiles at him_.) Positively, I must have you on my mantel-shelf! (_She rises and looks at the clock_.) But it’s time to dress for dinner. (_She holds out her hand to him and he kisses it. They look at each other, and it is clear that he does not quite understand, but is watching eagerly for his cue_.) _Warland (coming in)_. Hullo, Isabel--you’re here after all? _Isabel_. And so is Mr. Oberville. (_She looks straight at Warland_.) I stayed in on purpose to meet him. My husband--(_The two men bow_.) _Warland (effusively)_. So glad to meet you. My wife talks of you so often. She’s been looking forward tremendously to your visit. _Oberville_. It’s a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Warland. _Isabel_. But now we are going to make up for lost time. (_As he goes to the door_.) I claim you to-morrow for the whole day. _Oberville bows and goes out_. _Isabel_. Lucius... I think you’d better go to Washington, after all. (_Musing_.) Narragansett might do for the others, though.... Couldn’t you get Fred Langham to ask all the rest of the party to go over there with him to-morrow morning? I shall have a headache and stay at home. (_He looks at her doubtfully_.) Mr. Oberville is a bad sailor. _Warland advances demonstratively_. _Isabel (drawing back)_. It’s time to go and dress. I think you said the black gown with spangles? A CUP OF COLD WATER It was three o’clock in the morning, and the cotillion was at its height, when Woburn left the over-heated splendor of the Gildermere ballroom, and after a delay caused by the determination of the drowsy footman to give him a ready-made overcoat with an imitation astrachan collar in place of his own unimpeachable Poole garment, found himself breasting the icy solitude of the Fifth Avenue. He was still smiling, as he emerged from the awning, at his insistence in claiming his own overcoat: it illustrated, humorously enough, the invincible force of habit. As he faced the wind, however, he discerned a providence in his persistency, for his coat was fur-lined, and he had a cold voyage before him on the morrow. It had rained hard during the earlier part of the night, and the carriages waiting in triple line before the Gildermeres’ door were still domed by shining umbrellas, while the electric lamps extending down the avenue blinked Narcissus-like at their watery images in the hollows of the sidewalk. A dry blast had come out of the north, with pledge of frost before daylight, and to Woburn’s shivering fancy the pools in the pavement seemed already stiffening into ice. He turned up his coat-collar and stepped out rapidly, his hands deep in his coat-pockets.