Then he sent a telegram to Strelsa: "Unavoidably detained in town. Hope to be up next week. Am crazy to see your house and its new owner. R. S. Q." Dankmere at the other end of the telephone hung up the receiver, looked carefully around him to be certain that Jessie Vining was still in the basement where she had gone to straighten up one or two things for Quarren, then, with a perfectly serious face, he began to dance, softly. The Earl of Dankmere was light-footed and graceful when paying tribute to Terpsichore; walking-stick balanced in both hands, straw hat on the back of his head, he performed in absolute silence to the rhythm of the tune running through his head, backward, forward, sideways, airy as a ballet-maiden, then off he went into the back room with a refined kick or two at the ceiling. And there, Jessie Vining, entering the front room unexpectedly, discovered the peer executing his art before the mirror, apparently enamoured of his own grace and agility. When he caught a glimpse of her in the mirror he stopped very suddenly and came back to find her at her desk, laughing. For a moment he remained red and disconcerted, but the memory of the fact that he and Miss Vining were to occupy the galleries all alone--exclusive of intrusive customers--for a day or more, assuaged a slight chagrin. "At any rate," he said, "it is just as well that you should know me as I am, Miss Vining--with all my faults and frivolous imperfections, isn't it?" "Why?" asked Miss Vining. "Why--what?" repeated the Earl, confused. "Why _should_ I know all your imperfections?" He thought hard for a moment, but seemed to discover no valid reason. "You ask such odd questions," he protested. "Now where the deuce do you suppose Quarren has gone? I'll bet he's cut the traces and gone up to see those people at Witch-Hollow." "Perhaps," she said, making a few erasures in her type-written folio and rewriting the blank spaces. Then she glanced over the top of the machine at his lordship, who, as it happened, was gazing at her with such peculiar intensity that it took him an appreciable moment to rouse himself and take his eyes elsewhere. "When do you take your vacation?" he asked, carelessly. "I am not going to take one." "Oh, but you ought! You'll go stale, fade, droop--er--and all that, you know!" "It is very kind of you to feel interested," she said, smiling, "but I don't expect to droop--er--and all that, you know." He laughed, after a moment, and so did she--a sweet, fearless, little laugh most complimentary to his lordship if he only knew it--a pretty, frank tribute to what had become a friendship--an accord born of confidence on her part, and of several other things on the part of Lord Dankmere.