Lambert sprang from the runabout he had driven up and helped Sylvia down. She was bundled in becoming furs. The sharp air had heightened her rich colouring. How beautiful she was--lovelier than George had remembered! Here was the tonic to kill the distracting doubts raised by Betty. Here was the very spring of his wilful ambition. Glancing at Sylvia, Betty's tranquil influence lost its power. At her first recognition of him she stopped abruptly, but Lambert ran across and grasped his hand. "How do, Morton. Never guessed Blodgett's message referred to you." George disapproved of Blodgett's methods. Why had the man made him a mystery at the very moment he used him as a bait to attract Lambert and Sylvia? Wasn't he important enough, or was it only because he was a Princeton man and Blodgett had feared some enmity might linger? Lambert's manner, at least, was proof that he had, indeed, meant to give George a message that night in the dressing-room at New Haven. George appreciated that "How do, Morton"--greeting at last of a man for a man instead of a man for a servant or a former servant; nor was Lambert's call to his sister without a significance nearly sharp enough to hurt. "Sylvia! Didn't you meet this strong-armed Princetonian at Betty's dance a year ago?" George understood that she had no such motives as Lambert's for altering her attitude, so much more uncompromising from the beginning than his. There had been no contact or shared pain. Only what she might have observed from a remote stand that Saturday could have affected her. How would she respond now? She advanced slowly, at first bewildered, then angry. But Blodgett had nothing but his money to recommend him to her. She wouldn't, George was certain, bare any intimacies of emotion before him. "I rather think I did." In her eyes George recognized the challenge he had last seen there. "Thanks for remembering me," he said rather in Wandel's manner. "A week ago Saturday----" she began, uncertainly, as though her remembering needed an apology. "Who could forget the great Morton?" Lambert laughed. "With a broken head he beat Yale. That was a hard game to lose." "I'd heard," she said, indifferently, "that you had been hurt." George would have preferred words as ugly and unforgettable as those she had attacked him with the day of her accident. She turned to Blodgett. George had an instinct to shake her as she chatted easily and casually, glancing at him from time to time. He could have borne it better if she hadn't included him at all. He was glad her brother occupied him. Lambert was for dissecting each play of the game, and he made no attempt to hide the admiration for George it had aroused. He gave the impression that he knew very well men didn't do such things--particularly that little trick with Goodhue--unless they were the right sort.