"Aren't you--oh----!" She gave a quick exclamation. "What's the matter?" "I dropped my fan." "I'll go and get it," he said, and just then the music started. "No," said Becky, "never mind now. This is your dance with Mary--and she mustn't be kept waiting." "Aren't you dancing this?" "It is Truxton's, and I begged off. Run along, dear boy." When he was gone she leaned over the rail. Below was a tangle of bushes, and the white gleam of a stone bench. Beyond the bushes was a path, and farther on a fountain. It was a rather imposing fountain, with a Neptune in bronze riding a seahorse, with nymphs on dolphins in attendance. Neptune poured water from a shell which he held in his hand, and the dolphins spouted great streams. The splash of the water was a grateful sound in the stillness of the hot night, and the mist which the slight breeze blew towards a bed of tuberoses seemed to bring out their heavy fragrance. Always afterwards when Becky thought of that night, there would come to her again that heavy scent and the splash of streaming water. "Becky," a voice came up from below, "I have your fan." She peered down into the darkness, but did not speak. "Becky, I am punished enough, and I am--starved for you----" "Give me my fan----" "I want to talk to you--I must--talk to you----" "Give me my fan----" "I can't reach----" "You can stand on that bench." He stood on it, and she could see his figure faintly defined. "I am afraid I am still too far away. Lean over a bit, Becky--and I'll hand it to you." She stretched her white arm down into the darkness. Her hand was caught in a strong clasp. "Becky, give me just five minutes by the fountain." "Let me go." "Not until you promise that you'll come." "I shall never promise." "Then I shall keep your fan----" "Keep it--I have others." "But you will think about this one, because I have it." There was a note of triumph in his soft laugh. He kissed her finger-tips and reluctantly released her hand. "The fan is mine, then, until you ask for it." "I shall never ask." "Who knows? Some day you may--who knows?" and he was gone. He could not have chosen a better way in which to fire her imagination. His voice in the dark, his laughing triumph, the daring theft of her fan. Her heart followed him, seeing him a Conqueror even in this, seeing him a robber with his rose-colored booty, a Robin Hood of the Garden, a Dick Turpin among the tuberoses. The spirit of Romance went with him. The things that Pride had done for her looked gray and dull. She had promised to marry Randy, and felt that she faced a somewhat sober future. Set against it was all that George had given her, the sparkle and dash and color of his ardent pursuit. He was not worth a thought, yet she thought of him. She was still thinking of him when Randy came back. "Did you get your fan?" he asked. "No. Never mind, Randy. I will have one of the servants look for it." "But I do mind."