Jim shuffled into his coat, whistling, pulled on his cap, and left without a trace of regret. Granthope pulled a chair up to the grate. The dusk fell, and he still remained, watching the fire. It was after six o’clock when a knock awoke him from his reverie. He called out a moody, annoyed, "Come in!" without rising. Mrs. Page rustled in, bringing an odor of sandalwood. She was dressed in a squirrel-coat and a Cossack cap, from which a long veil floated. Her cheeks were rosy with the wind, her glossy hair coquetted over her forehead in dark, springy curls. She stopped, her head on one side, her arms saucily akimbo, as Granthope sprang up and snapped on the electric light. "Oh, I’m _so_ glad I found you!" she bubbled. "You’re run after so much now that I knew it was only a chance, my finding you in. I hope I didn’t disturb you at silent prayer, or anything, did I? You looked terribly serious. Were you thinking of home and mother? If you don’t look out, some day you’ll be framed and labeled _Pictures in the Fire_. Now, you’re angry with me! What’s the matter? Don’t frown, please; it isn’t at all becoming!" She walked up to him, her hand outstretched. Lightly he evaded her and forced a smile. "What an iceberg you are, nowadays, Frank!" she laughed. "Don’t be afraid; I’m not going to kiss you! It’s only little Violet, the Pride of the Presidio. Please laugh! You used to think that was funny." "Do have a seat, won’t you?" he said, in a half-hearted attempt to conceal his distaste. "Thanks, awfully, but really I can’t wait. I just simply tore to get here, and I must go right off. You must come along with me; so get on your hat and coat." She looked about the room for them. "What is it?" he asked without curiosity. "Why, a dinner, of course! What else could it be at this time of day? It’s Mr. Summer’s affair, and I promised to get you." "Mr. Summer is the latest, I suppose?" She came back to him and took his coat by the two lapels, smiling up at him. "That’s mean, Frank! You know I never went back on you. But you as much as gave me notice, as if I was a servant-girl. Gay’s a nice boy, and I like him—that’s all. I’m educating him. Of course, he doesn’t know what’s what, yet, but he’s rather fun. Do come—we’re going to have dinner at the Poodle Dog, and the Orpheum afterward perhaps—Heaven knows where it’ll end. There’s an awfully swell New York girl coming, a Miss Cavendish, and she’s simply _dying_ to meet you. You’ll like her. She’s a sport—you can’t feaze her—and she’s pretty enough to suit even you. You can have her all to yourself. Come on!" "I’m sorry, but I can’t go to-night," he said wearily. "Oh, Frank, please! Not if I beg you?" She looked at him languishingly, and tried for his hand. "Really, no! I’m sorry, but I’m too busy." Mrs. Page pouted and turned slowly toward the door.