“And what am I to have from you this evening, Mr. Budd?” asked Gertrude, seating herself for a chat that she knew would prove amusing. “Censure for the new woman?” “No, Miss Van Vleck; I crave advice for the old-fashioned man.” Gertrude smiled, and her eyes flashed merrily as she exclaimed,-- “There is a mystery here! Mr. Buchanan Budd seeking advice from a woman whom he suspects of holding advanced ideas! That seems hardly reasonable.” There was something in Gertrude Van Vleck’s manner and appearance that struck Budd as unusual. He had always considered her a handsome woman, but to-night her eyes were more brilliant, her complexion more dazzling, than he had ever seen them, while there was something in the tone of her voice and the movements of her hands that seemed to indicate suppressed excitement. These phenomena, he argued, augured well for the advance movement that he, with Napoleonic cleverness, had determined to order along the entire line of his attack. But the moment for his forward movement had not quite come. A little skirmishing in the open field was essential before he ordered up his heavy troops. “But why is it not reasonable, Miss Van Vleck? Surely, even a conservative, and, if you please, reactionary, man may feel anxious to put himself in touch with the new ideas. It may even be that he honestly desires to embrace as many of the iconoclastic theories of the day as possible, if for no other purpose than to retain the friendships he made in the peaceful days before--before”-- “Before the women of our set began to think, you mean,” said Gertrude, as he hesitated a moment. “It is certainly complimentary on your part--and so self-sacrificing.” There was a touch of sarcasm in her voice. Budd looked at her appealingly. “You hardly do justice to my motives, Miss Van Vleck. I am honestly anxious to overcome my ancient prejudices and to put myself in sympathy with the age in which I live. You can do _so_ much to help me in this--if you will.” There was a note of tenderness in his voice that Gertrude had never heard in it before, and she glanced at him suspiciously. She had derived considerable pleasure, in a mild way, from her friendly intercourse with Buchanan Budd; and her liking for him had been based, to a great extent, on the utter absence of flirtatiousness in his manner. That he had any intention of jeopardizing their friendship by injecting sentiment into the relationship was a new thought to her. At that moment it was the most unwelcome suspicion that could have entered her mind. There is no time when a woman so dreads the advances of a man to whom she is indifferent as the moment when she admits to herself that her heart is influenced by another. Buchanan Budd had unconsciously forced Gertrude Van Vleck into a self-confession that made her pulse flutter and her cheek turn pale.