She looked up, drew back, uttered a little cry. For a moment she was silencing herself, saying to herself: "I must be calm. I must keep a hold on myself.... I can't have a scene here." Then she arose, smiled brightly a spurious smile, and extended her hand. "Why, Mr. Waite, this is such a surprise!" She turned to her companion. "This is Mr. Waite, from Detroit, Mrs. Roscombe. Mrs. Roscombe and I have worked up here by degrees from Palm Beach. Our last stop was Pinehurst. Such golfing! You've been to Pinehurst, of course." She was talking rapidly, saying anything that came into her head until she could gain full possession of herself. Mrs. Roscombe stared, then gave Potter her hand. "Of the Waite Motor Company?" she asked. He nodded. "What brings you here?" Hildegarde said, fearing a pause. "Oh, to be sure! I know. It's your motor, isn't it? How is it getting along? Sit down and tell us all about it.... You haven't lunched, have you?" "No," he said, tonelessly, wondering how she could seem so happy, be so trivial, with that black thing crouching behind her. He was young.... "Sit down, then, and tell me all about Detroit--and everybody. Who's married whom?..." "I haven't seen you for months," he said, baldly, and Mrs. Roscombe smiled faintly. She had perceived something of the tenseness of the moment and had wondered at it. Now she fancied she knew. She imagined some lover's misunderstanding, and, dowager-like, saw herself in the beneficent rôle of peace-maker and match-maker. Why not? The son of the Waite Motor Company was a catch worth angling for. "Do sit down, Mr. Waite," she said, and motioned to a chair. He complied stiffly, like a man functioning in his sleep. "You--you look just the same," he said. "You didn't expect me to age a great deal in four months, did you?" He was not thinking of age. He was thinking of that other thing, wondering how she could retain that air of boyishness, that outward semblance of joyous virginity? He was astonished that she bore no mark, no scarlet letter.... To him she was lovely, glowing--the slender, daring, boyish-pure fairy prince of his dreams. "There's going to be war, isn't there?" she said. "Yes." "Shall you enlist?... I suppose you can have a commission for the asking." "I sha'n't enlist. I wish I could.... But I've work to do here." Enlisting was a new thought, but an attractive one. He wished his duty did not lay where it was; that he might go to France and be a part of that Gehenna where, he thought, no man might remember. If a tenth of the stories of battle were true, then a man might find forgetfulness on the field of carnage. "Your motor, of course. Tell me about it. You know I--I am interested." "There's nothing to tell.... I'm waiting."