She had told him and no one else. Was the thing calculation, quite bereft of love? Oh, no. George couldn't imagine he was of such importance she would flee that far to be rid of him; but he went to bed at last, confessing the situation had elements he couldn't grasp. Perhaps, when he knew surely who the man was, they would become sufficiently ponderable. XI He was up early after a miserable night, and failed to rout his depression with a long ride over country roads. When he got back in search of breakfast he found the others straggling down. First of all he saw Dalrymple, white and unsteady; heard him asking for Sylvia. Sylvia hadn't appeared. "Who's for church?" Blodgett roared. Mrs. Sinclair offered to shepherd the devout. They weren't many. Men even called Blodgett names for this newest recreation he had appeared to offer. "How late did you play?" George asked Blodgett. "Until, when I looked at my watch, I thought it must be last evening. These young bloods are too keen for Papa Blodgett." "Get into you?" George laughed. "I usually manage to hang on to my money," Blodgett bragged, "but the stakes ran bigger and bigger. I'll say one thing for young Dalrymple. He's no piker. Wrote I. O. U's until he wore out his fountain pen. I could paper a room with what I got. I'd be ashamed to collect them." "Why?" George asked, shortly. "When he wrote them he knew they had to be redeemed." Blodgett grinned. "I expect he was a little pickled. Probably's forgot he signed them. I won't make him unhappy with his little pieces of paper." "Daresay he'll be grateful," George said, dryly. His ride had brought no appetite. After breakfast he avoided people with a conviction that his only business here was to see Sylvia again, then to escape. It was noon before she appeared with Betty. He caught them walking from the hall to the library, and he studied Sylvia's face with anxious curiosity. It disappointed, repelled him. It was quite unchanged, as full of colour as usual, as full of unfriendliness. She nodded carelessly, quite as if nothing had happened--gave him the identical, remote greeting to which he had become too accustomed. And last evening he had fancied her nearer! He noticed, however, that she had put her hands behind her back. "I hope you're feeling better." "Better! I haven't been ill," she flashed. Betty helped him out. "Last night Mrs. Sinclair told us you had a headache." "You ought to know, Betty, that means I was tired." But George noticed she no longer looked at him. She hurried on. "Dolly!" he heard her laugh. "You must have sat up rather late." "Trying to forget my worry about you, Sylvia. Guess it gave me your headache."