Blodgett said something about tea. They strolled into the house. A fire burned in the great hall. That was the only light. George came last, directly after Sylvia. "So you're a friend of Mr. Blodgett's!" she said with an intonation intended to hurt. "I wouldn't have expected," he answered, easily, "to find you a caller here." She paused and faced him. Lights from the distant fire got as far as her face, disclosing her contempt. He wouldn't let her speak. "I won't have you think I had anything to do with bringing you. I never guessed until I saw your brother drive up." She didn't believe him, or she tried to impress him with that affront. Blodgett and Lambert had gone on into the library. They remained quite alone in the huge, dusky hall, whose shadow masses shifted as the fire blazed and fell. For the first time since their ancient rides he could talk to her undisturbed. He wouldn't let that fact tie his tongue. She couldn't call him "stable boy" now, although she did try to say "beast" in another way. This solitude in the dusk, shared with her, stripped every distracting thought from his mind. He was as hard as steel and happy in his inflexibility. "You believe me," he said. She shook her head and turned for the door. "Let me say one thing," he urged. "It's rather important." She came back through the shadows, her attitude reminiscent of the one she had assumed long ago when she had sought to hurt him. He caught his breath, waiting. "There is nothing," she said, shivering a little in spite of the hall's warmth and the furs she still wore, "that you would think of saying to me if you had changed at all from the impertinent groom I had to have discharged." He laughed. "Oh! Call me anything you please, only I've always wanted to thank you for not making a scene at Miss Alston's dance a year ago." He would be disappointed if that failed to hurt back. The thought of Sylvia Planter making a scene! At least it fanned her temper. "What is there," she threatened, defensively, "to prevent my telling Mr. Blodgett, any one I please, now?" "Nothing, except that I'm a trifle more on my feet," he answered. "I'm not sure your scandal would blow me over. We're going to meet again frequently. It can't he helped." "I never want," she said, as if speaking of something unclean and revolting, "to see you again." His chance had come. "You're unfair, because it was you yourself, Miss Planter, who warned me I shouldn't forget. I haven't. I won't. Will you? Can't we shake hands on that understanding?" With a hurried movement she hid her hands. "I couldn't touch you----" "You will when we dance." He thought her lips trembled a little, but the light was uncertain. "I will never dance with you again." "I'm afraid you'll have to," he said with a confident smile, "unless you care to make a scene." She drew away, unfastening her cloak, her eyes full of that old challenge.