There never was man more loyal to woman in his secret meditations than Spencer; but his gorge rose at the sight of Helen's winsome gratitude to one so unworthy of it. With him, now as ever, to think was to act. Watching his chance, he waylaid Helen when her vigilant chaperon was momentarily absorbed in a suggestion that private theatricals and the rehearsal of a minuet would relieve the general tedium while the snow held. "Spare me five minutes, Miss Wynton," he said. "I want to tell you something." Mrs. de la Vere pirouetted round on him before the girl could answer. "Miss Wynton is just going to bed," she informed him graciously. "You know how tired she is, Mr. Spencer. You must wait till the morning." "I don't feel like waiting; but I promise to cut down my remarks to one minute--by the clock." He answered Mrs. de la Vere, but looked at Helen. Her color rose and fell almost with each beat of her heart. She saw the steadfast purpose in his eyes, and shrank from the decision she would be called upon to make. Hardly realizing what form the words took, she gave faint utterance to the first lucid idea that presented itself. "I think--I must really--go to my room," she murmured. "You wouldn't--like me--to faint twice in one evening--Mr. Spencer?" It was an astonishing thing to say, the worst thing possible. It betrayed an exact knowledge of his purpose in seeking this interview. His eyes blazed with a quick light. It seemed that he was answered before he spoke. "Not one second. Go away, do!" broke in Mrs. de la Vere, whisking Helen toward the elevator without further parley. But she shot a glance at Spencer over her shoulder that he could not fail to interpret as a silent message of encouragement. Forthwith he viewed her behavior from a more favorable standpoint. "Guess the feminine make-up is more complex than I counted on," he communed, as he bent over a table to find a match, that being a commonplace sort of action calculated to disarm suspicion, lest others might be observing him, and wondering why the women retired so promptly. "I like your American, my dear," said Mrs. de la Vere sympathetically, in the solitude of the corridor. Helen was silent. "If you want to cry, don't mind me," went on the kindly cynic. "I'm coming in with you. I'll light up while you weep, and then you must tell me all about it. That will do you a world of good." "There's n-n-nothing to tell!" bleated Helen. "Oh yes, there is. You silly child, to-morrow you will have to choose between those two men. Which shall it be? I said before dinner that I couldn't help you to decide. Perhaps I was mistaken. Anyhow, I'll try." * * * * * At midnight the snow storm ceased, the wind died away, and the still air deposited its vapor on hills and valley in a hoar frost. The sun rose with a magnificent disregard for yesterday's riot.