Her manner brought the color into Barry’s cheeks, and made him wonder whether she saw through his clumsy subterfuge. He did not hesitate, however, but stood aside for her to enter the turnstile door, following close behind. The dining room was almost empty, for it was the quiet interval which comes between dinner and the after-theater supper crowd. They were ushered at once to a table against the wall. While Barry was slipping out of his coat he noticed the girl glancing into a mirror beside her, touching her hair here and there, and giving the frilly lace thing at her neck an unconscious pat. She was still shaking a little, and when she drew off her gloves he saw that she was gently chafing her hands together beneath the shelter of the white cloth. Her hair was brown, thick, and dark, with glints of copper in it, and waved attractively above her brow. Her eyes were almost of the same shade, with long, curling lashes, which made them seem almost too large for the delicate, oval face. Her mouth was sensitive, and infinitely appealing with its pathetic downward droop at the corners. There was an unmistakable refinement in everything about her; and, in spite of the fact that she was very tiny, she held herself with an air which made Barry quite forget her forlorn condition. "How the mischief could I have ever taken her for a child?" he thought, with a faint flush of embarrassment, as he reached for the card. "I suppose it was because she seemed so little and helpless." *CHAPTER X.* *SHIRLEY RIVES.* Having ordered two portions of a nourishing bouillon to be served at once, Lawrence picked out several dishes, then leaned back in his chair. "I quite forgot to introduce myself," he said, with quick, boyish impulsiveness. "My name is Lawrence—Barry Lawrence." A faint, shadowy smile curved the girl’s lips. The warmth of the room was beginning to touch her cheeks with color, and make her even more lovely than before. "It will be easier," she conceded gravely. "I am Shirley Rives." "From Virginia?" Barry inquired quickly, then bit his lips. "I beg your pardon," he added contritely. "I forgot for a second that I meant to ask no questions." "That one doesn’t matter," she said quietly. "I am from Virginia. Since you’ve asked it, though, I’ll venture one myself: Do you happen, by any chance, to be a Harvard man?" Barry stared. "Why, yes!" he exclaimed. "How in the world did you guess?" "You seem rather like other Cambridge men I’ve known," she answered slowly. "I had a cousin there, and his friends used to visit——" She broke off abruptly, as if regretting that she had been so frank, and for a moment there was silence as she touched one of the forks nervously. "I don’t know that it makes much difference," she went on at length. "His name is Philip Calvert. Perhaps you knew him."