"If--they had the line in their hands," Joan broke in; "but they haven't, you know!" "Exactly." Just then Raymond made a bad break. He asked Joan if she did not trust him well enough to give him her telephone number. "Something might occur," he said, "business pops up unexpectedly. I hate to lose a chance of seeing you--and I hate to wait on street corners." "I am sorry," Joan replied, "but that would spoil everything." Raymond flushed. It was just such plunges as this that made him recoil. "I understand," he replied, coolly; "I had hoped that you could trust me." "It is not a matter of trust. It's keeping to the bargain." There was nothing more to say. But, quite naturally, several days elapsed before they saw each other again. Fierce, broiling days without even the debilitating moisture to ease the suffering citizens. Joan, alone in the dark, hot studio, thought of Doris and Nancy and wondered! "Of course, what I am doing would be horrid if I didn't know all about _him_," and then Joan tossed about. "Some day--it will be such a lark to tell them--and think of his surprise when he--knows! I'll see him with all barriers down next winter," for at this time Joan had written and accepted all Doris's plans for her. She was to study music determinedly--she had a proud little bank account--and she would live at the old house and revel in Nancy's social triumphs. And Raymond, in his shrouded house, had his restless hours and with greater reason, for he was playing utterly in the dark and had to acknowledge to his grim, off-standing self that, except for the fact that he was in the dark, he would not dare play the very amusing game he was playing. "If she is masquerading," Raymond beat about with his conscience, "it's the biggest lark ever, and she and I will have many a good laugh over it." "_But if she--isn't?_" demanded the shadowy self. "Well, if she isn't, she jolly well knows how to take care of herself! Besides, I'm not going to hurt her. Why, in thunder, can't two fellow creatures enjoy innocent things without having evil suggestions?" "_They can!_" thundered the Other Self, "_but this isn't innocent--at least it is dangerous_." "Oh! be hanged!" Raymond flung back and the Shadow sank into oblivion. Left to himself--one of his selves--Raymond resorted to sentiment. "Of course we both know--under what might be--what _is_. She's like Kipling's girl in the Brushwood Boy." But that did not take in the Other Self in the least. It laughed. When July came the heat settled down in earnest on the panting city. "Aren't you going to take any vacation?" asked Raymond. He and Joan were sauntering up Fifth Avenue to a certain haven in a backyard where the fountain played and the birds sang. "No. I'm going to stay in town and let Miss Gordon have her outing. The Brier Bush is too young to be left alone this year. Next year it will be my turn."