A touch of the cold shower set his nerves to tingling and sent his mind to recalling pleasantly the pretty faces of the evening before, after the manner of young gentlemen of leisure with a proper share of vanity. Two figures rose immediately—Rita Kildair and Nan Charters. He remembered them both without excitement, but with different emotions. "By George, Rita’s a thoroughbred," he said. "She has them all beat—mysterious as a sphinx. Prettiest sight in the world, seeing her manipulate a crowd. Jove, but she has nerve!" Then he reflected a little guiltily that he had rather deserted her for other shrines, and he resolved enthusiastically to make amends by throwing himself, heart and soul, into the recovery of the ring. "By George, it’s something to have the confidence of a woman like that!" he exclaimed, sublimely fatuous. "That old mammoth of a Slade would give ten years of his life, I’ll bet, to stand where I do with her." Then he remembered Nan Charters, with a little movement of impatience at the thought of his sentimentality. "What the deuce got into me last night?" he said, displeased with himself. "I acted like a school-boy. I suppose she thinks she’s got me on her scalp-belt—easy as a stage-door Johnny. What the deuce got me wabbling so? These actresses are full of tricky stuff." He resolved that he would show her his complete indifference by not calling for at least a week, maybe two, and concluded, with profound penetration: "Good game. She’ll remember how I started in, and wonder what changed me. That’s it—keep ’em guessing." He went into the dining-room, where the coffee was boiling in the percolator, and sat down, after assuring himself by a trip to the opposite bedroom that Bo Lynch was still sleeping the profound sleep of the unjust.. But hardly had he begun on the iced grape-fruit when a lank figure in peppermint pajamas appeared at the doorway, brushing from his sleep-laden eyes the long wisps of hair which, carefully treasured to conceal the bare upper regions, now hung about his sharp, supercilious nose. "Why the devil don’t you breakfast with a chap?" he said, emerging. "Hello, Bo," said Beecher pleasantly. "Up till four or five, training for your polo match this afternoon?" "Well, Fontaine was there; we call it pairing off." "Auction?" "Yes, damn it. I cut that little wild ass of a Plunket six times running. He’d gamble away his grandmother on a couple of aces. I say, Teddy," he continued, with a little more animation, emptying a bottle of mineral water which Charles, knowing what might be termed the regularity of his habits, had set out for him, "do you ever try a flier in the market?" "I have been such a fool."