"We spirited her away for the night," Mrs. Sinclair explained. She turned to Sylvia. "My dear, I'll see that you don't cloister yourself any more. Your father's going on for years." Yet it occurred to George, as he looked at her, that her cloistering had accomplished no change. The alteration in Dalrymple, on the other hand, was striking. George, as he met him with a difficult ease of manner, quite as if nothing had happened, couldn't account for it; for the light-headed look had gone from Dalrymple's eyes, and much of the stamp of dissipation from his face. His hands, too, were quiet. Was it credible he had forgotten the struggle in George's office? No. He had cashed the check; yet his manner suggested a blank memory except, perhaps, for its too-pronounced cordiality. There was nothing for it but a dinner together. The Sinclairs expected it, and couldn't be made to understand why it should embarrass any one. Dalrymple really helped matters. His mind worked clearly, and he could, George had to acknowledge, exert a certain charm when he tried. Moreover, he didn't drink, even refusing the cocktail a waiter offered him just before they went inside. As always George disliked speaking to Sylvia in casual tones of indifferent topics. She met him at first pleasantly enough on that ground--too pleasantly, so that he found himself waiting for some acknowledgment that she had not forgotten; that she still believed in their quarrel. It came at last rather sharply through the topic that was universal just then of General Wood's civilian training camps at Plattsburgh. Lambert had gone. Goodhue would follow the next month, having agreed to that arrangement for the sake of the office. Even Blodgett was there. Sylvia took a great pride in the fact, pointed it at George. "Although," she laughed, "I'm told he's not popular with his tent mates. I hear he has a telephone fastened to his tent pole. I don't know whether that's true. He's never mentioned it. But I do know he has three secretaries in a house just off the reservation. Of course it's a sacrifice for him to be at Plattsburgh at all." George stared at her. There was no question. Her voice, her face, expressed a tolerant liking for the man. The engagement had lasted considerably more than a year, and now she had an air of giving a public reminder of its ultimate outcome. Or was it for him alone, as her original announcement had been? "I'm off next month," Goodhue said. "Lambert writes it's good fun and not at all uncomfortable." "I'll be with you, Dicky," Dalrymple put in. "Beneficial affair, besides duty, and all that." George experienced relief at the very moment he resented her attack most. It was still worth while trying to hurt him. "Practically everyone has gone or is going. It's splendid. When are you booked for, Mr. Morton?" Even the Sinclairs had silently asked that question. They looked at him expectantly. "I'm not going at all," he answered, bluntly.