“My dear Kathryn, it was never on,” Barnard looked squarely at the pretty nurse facing him, a faint trace of distress visible in his polished manner. “When I called to see my aunt, Mrs. Lawrence, I always showed you the civility and attention which I accord to any woman; that you chose to attach a deeper meaning----” he shrugged his shoulders. “I very deeply regret the--misunderstanding.” Kathryn Allen’s gaze shifted from his face to the desk, and she saw the ornaments dimly through blinding tears. “You repudiate----?” she asked huskily. “Everything you claim--yes.” “Then your presents, your photograph....” “Meant nothing,” with smiling effrontery, “except _pour passer le temps_.” In the stillness the click, click of a typewriter in the adjoining office was distinctly audible. Barnard, with an impatient frown at the wall dock, turned back to the silent woman. He abhorred a scene, and Representative J. Calhoun-Cooper had an engagement with him shortly; it would never do for him to find Kathryn Allen in that office. The pause lengthened, then the woman rose shakily to her feet, and meeting Barnard’s look of solicitude, a bitter laugh broke from her. “You have shown me a new side,” she said, controlling herself with difficulty. “You are not usually neglectful of your own interests, Chichester; hadn’t you better cultivate your memory?” and before he could answer, she slipped from the room and was gone. Reaching the sidewalk Kathryn walked aimlessly up F Street until her wandering attention was caught by a tall clock in front of a jeweler’s shop, whose hands registered three o’clock, and she paused instantly. “Mercy,” she muttered. “I’ve forgotten Joe!” and turning about she made her way to Harvey’s restaurant. Joe Calhoun-Cooper, lurking in the doorway, watched her approach with eagerness. “At last!” he exclaimed. “I thought you had forgotten to come.” “Not a bit of it,” following him to the ladies’ dining-room. “Mrs. Wallace was not so well, and I was detained. Nurses can’t be choosers, you know.” “Why don’t you give up this drudgery?” asked Joe heatedly. “Marry me, my darling----” sinking his voice. “Marry you?” repeated Kathryn drearily, then her face brightened into a quick warm smile. “Well, why not?” “Do you mean it?” Joe was on his feet, his eyes alight. “Sit down, you foolish boy,” and Joe, a trifle abashed by the waiter’s stare, sank down into his seat. “What will you have, Kathryn?” he inquired, taking up the menu card. “Some hot roasted oysters and plenty of pepperine sauce; no, no wine,” as he turned to the wine list. “You know I don’t approve of that, Joe.” “Just a cocktail,” he pleaded. “It’s bitter cold outside.” But Kathryn shook her head.