“Gingeration, Mr. No’th, sir! I just wish I could play the game the way you can. I never saw anything like it! It’s a pleasure, sir, to be defeated by you, sir! By doggie, yes, sir!” John sat for a full half-hour in front of the fire in his bedroom, attired only in a suit of red-and-white pajamas, and smoked his pipe and watched the flames. He didn’t always see the flames, however, and his thoughts were at least the length of the house from them. He reviewed the day’s events and grew cold at recollection of that frightful and anxious race down Pine Top, and warm at the memory of what had followed. He wondered whether he had made a mistake in “showing his hand” so early in the game, and believed he hadn’t. On its face it appeared a reckless, impossible, even frivolous thing to make a declaration of love――even an off-hand one――twenty-four hours after first meeting a woman. But John found extenuating circumstances. In the first place, it had been entirely unpremeditated. In the second place, his acquaintanceship with Margaret was not limited to twenty-four hours; he had known her ever since he had known Phillip. Corliss’ allusion to her had aroused his curiosity and sympathy and appealed to his imagination. He had fallen in love with her the moment he had seen her picture on Phillip’s mantel. His passion――not a very deep one then, perhaps――had been fed by their short correspondence and by the constant mention of her name and news of her doings doled out by Phillip. And then he had seen her in the flesh! And now it was all confirmed, established, irrevocable! No, he didn’t believe he had hurt his chances by his impulsive words. He was not an expert in affairs of the heart. Had he ever felt the slightest desire to do so――which he never did――he could have counted his love affairs on the fingers of one hand and still, perhaps, have a thumb left untapped. He had never made a study of the pleasant art of making love, yet he had learned somehow that interest must precede affection, and had a strong suspicion that no woman can fail to feel interest in a man who has declared his love for her, no matter how indifferent to his passion she may be. No; on the whole he was very well satisfied with his second day at Elaine. It did not occur to him as among the possibilities that Margaret could really cherish resentment against him for what he had done. She was beautiful to him in every way, and he loved her. Then why not tell her so? It was the natural thing to do, and he had done it. To be sure, she was justified in finding fault with his method; he owned to himself that he had been rather crude, almost discourteous; and on that score she was right to show displeasure. But in the end―――― He knocked the ashes from his pipe and pulled himself erect, yawning cavernously. The fire was low and little chills were sporting up and down his back. He blew out the light and crawled into the four-poster.