Greg looked hard at the young gentleman of the party. A hot little flame of jealousy scorched his breast, for a subtle deference in the young man's air informed Greg that he was not a member of the family. Which girl was he after then? He had not been among those in the Ninth Street house. In his way he was perfection too; exquisitely slender, arrogant, assured; an Olympian youth. He looked like the slightly exhausted scion of a long Castilian line. Greg's intuition told him that this proud youth would aim higher than the dark-haired beauty who, beside little auburn hair, looked common; and Greg's honest, democratic heart hated him at sight. All this happened in a breath of course. The party passed to the sidewalk, and Greg went into the hotel. He went to the desk. To the clerk he said with an offhand air: "I just passed a young lady on the way out who recognized me, and I can't place her. A little lady with dark red hair; she was with two other ladies who looked Spanish." Greg's appearance was a sufficient warranty to the clerk. "Oh yes, Señorita Amèlie de Socotra," he said. Greg's heart went down. "De Socotra," he repeated like a man trying to remember. "And who were the other two ladies?" "Señora de Socotra, her mother, and Señorita Bianca Guiterrez, a relative, a cousin I believe." "Ah yes, now I remember," said Greg. "Are they of the family of Señor Francisco de Socotra?" "Why yes, his wife and daughter." Greg's brain whirled a little. He couldn't reconcile this with what the girl herself had told him. He suddenly became aware that the clerk was staring at him. "Of course," he said, "I met them in Havana. Are they leaving?" "Yes. Señor de Socotra was called to Peru last night." "Peru?" said Greg, dryly. "Peru in Irving Place," he thought. "And the ladies decided to go up to the Marsden Farms Hotel in Westchester County to await his return." "The Marsden Farms Hotel; thank you very much." As Greg turned away from the desk he perceived the Castilian youth reëntering the hotel. So he had just been putting the ladies in the cab. Greg kept the tail of an eye on him, and when he presently strolled into the bar in his languid high-born manner, Greg followed. The young man with a condescending air ordered a Bronx cocktail. "Our drinks are scarcely good enough for him," thought Greg bitterly. Greg himself, a few feet distant from the other, ordered a drink he did not want, and continued to nourish his hatred with watching the other. The young man sipped his drink quite unconscious of the violent distaste he had engendered in the one near. He asked the bar-tender a question. His English was poor and he had difficulty in making himself understood. It appeared that he wanted to know how long it would take him to drive to Thirty-Sixth Street, as he had an engagement there, and did not wish to start too soon.