Beekman rose quietly. His cigarette was in one hand, and with the other, instead of threatening, he pointed to the stairway. "Run along," he said. Stevens jumped to his feet and crouched, like a panther ready to spring. Mary, overturning her chair, flung her arms about him and pinioned him in an embrace. "Don't, Bill!" she whispered, and, over her shoulder: "Don't, Mr. Beekman! Can't you two be friends? Can't you see it's all right, Bill? Can't you let him alone, Mr. Beekman? Bill, you know how much I think of you." She put her lips to his rough face. She whispered rapid, unthought lies into his ear. She caressed and cajoled him, and at last, when Philip had been persuaded into a half-scornful apology, she managed to get Stevens out of the room and started him down the stairway to seek sympathy of Big Lou while she herself had her talk with Beekman. They sat down again at the round table and took a drink. Philip wanted to upbraid himself for his conduct to her in his mother's house, and yet, because he felt that he could have followed no course save that which he had taken, he did not know how to begin: all that he was sure of was that there was a wrong somewhere, and that he must somehow make confession of it. Mary, on the other hand, was divided between panic from the trouble so lately avoided and a desire to hear from Philip nothing approaching condolence. She sought escape in the commonplace. "You mustn't mind him," she said, with a nod toward the stairs down which the glowering Bill had departed. "Not a bit," answered Beekman. "I only wanted to get rid of him in order to tell you hew sorry I am for--for--oh, you know." "Don't talk about that, Mr. Beekman--please." "But I must talk about it." "Not now; not yet. Tell me how you are." "Oh, I'm as near right as I ever am, or ever will be. But, Violet----" "You're looking rich." His eyes followed hers to his gilt-buttoned yachting jacket. "You can never judge a man by his clothes," he said. "Necessity is the mother of pretension." "Are you married yet?" "Hardly. There are only two things that a man can't honestly promise: to love, and to cease to love. I'm still too poor to afford those lies." Mary only half understood his mood, but she was wholly intent on keeping him free of dreaded topics. "Do you hear anything of the people we used to know?" she asked. "Well," said Philip, "Rose was let off, you know, and is back at the old address and the old business." He looked at his watch and started. "By Jove," he continued; "I must have been pretty tight. I had no idea it was so late. I've got to be getting back to the yacht soon." He stood up, his cap in one hand. Mary followed him to the stair door, and there he turned. "Violet," he said, "I am going to tell you how sorry I am. I am going to tell you, whether you like to hear it or not." The flush had gone from his face and eyes, leaving them simple and sincere.