“No, but that was enough, wasn't it. Besides, the rest was plain. I could see it myself. He is calling here about every night in the week, and--and being around everywhere with you and--and--Oh, anyone can see!” Helen's usually placid temper was beginning to ruffle. “Very well,” she said, “then they may see. Why shouldn't he call here if he wishes--and I wish? Why shouldn't I be 'around with him,' as you say? Why not?” “Well, because I don't like it. It isn't the right thing for you to do. You ought to be more careful of--of what people say.” He realized, almost as soon as this last sentence was blurted out, the absolute tactlessness of it. The quiet gleam of humor he had so often noticed in Helen's eyes was succeeded now by a look he had never before seen there. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he added, hastily. “I beg your pardon, Helen. I didn't mean to say that. Forgive me, will you?” She did not answer immediately. Then she said, “I don't know whether I shall or not. I think I shall have to think it over. And perhaps you had better go now.” “But I'M sorry, Helen. It was a fool thing to say. I don't know why I was such an idiot. Do forgive me; come!” She slowly shook her head. “I can't--yet,” she said. “And this you must understand: If Ed Raymond, or anyone else, calls on me and I choose to permit it, or if I choose to go out with him anywhere at any time, that is my affair and not 'everyone else's'--which includes Issachar Price. And my FRIENDS--my real friends--will not listen to mean, ridiculous gossip. Good night.” So that was the end of that attempt at asserting the Divine Right by the South Harniss king of hearts. Albert was more miserable than ever, angrier than ever--not only at Raymond and Helen, but at himself--and his newly-discovered jealousy burned with a brighter and greener flame. The idea of throwing everything overboard, going to Canada and enlisting in the Canadian Army--an idea which had had a strong and alluring appeal ever since the war broke out--came back with redoubled force. But there was the agreement with his grandfather. He had given his word; how could he break it? Besides, to go away and leave his rival with a clear field did not appeal to him, either. On a Wednesday evening in the middle of September the final social event of the South Harniss summer season was to take place. The Society for the Relief of the French Wounded was to give a dance in the ballroom of the hotel, the proceeds from the sale of tickets to be devoted to the purpose defined by the name of this organization. Every last member of the summer colony was to attend, of course, and all those of the permanent residents who aspired to social distinction and cared to pay the high price of admission.