"Well, if anybody can tell about it, Mother can," said Randy, "but I don't believe there were ever any prettier girls than are here to-night." "Becky looks like an angel," Mrs. Paine stated, "but she's pale, Randy." "She is tired, Mother. I think she ought to go home. I shall try to make her when I come back. She dropped her fan and I am going to get it." He had not told Becky where he was going. He had slipped away--his mind intent on regaining her property. But when he reached the bushes and flashed his pocket-light on the ground beneath, there was no fan. It must have fallen here. He was sure he had made no mistake. He decided finally that someone else had found it. It seemed unlikely, however, for the spot was remote, and the thickness of the bushes offered a barrier to anyone strolling casually through the grounds. He went slowly back to the house. Ever since that night when Becky had said she would marry him he had lived in a dream. They were pledged to each other, yet she did not love him. How could he take her? And again, how could he give her up? She had offered herself freely, and he wanted her in his future. And there was a fighting chance. He had youth and courage and a love for her he challenged any man to match. Why not? Was it beyond the bounds of reason that some day he could make Becky love him? They had agreed that no one was to be told. "Not until I come back from Nantucket," Becky had stipulated. "By that time you won't want me, my dear." "Well, I shan't if you talk like that," Becky had said with some spirit. "Like what?" "As if I were a queen and you were a slave. When you were a little boy you bossed me, Randy." There had been a gleam in his eye. "I may again." He wondered if, after all, that would be the way to win her. Yet he shrank from playing a game. When she came to him, if she ever came, it must be because she found something in him that was love-worthy. At least he could make himself worthy of love, whether she ever came to him or not. He stopped by the fountain; just beyond it the long windows of the Hunt Room opened out upon the lawn. The light lay in golden squares upon the grass. Randy, still in the shadow, stood for a moment looking in. There were long tables and little ones, kaleidoscopic color, movement and light, and Becky back in her corner in the midst of a gay group. He was aware, suddenly, that he was not the only one who watched. Half hidden by the shadows of one of the great pillars of the lower porch was a man in light flannels and a gray cap. He was not skulking, and indeed he seemed to have a splendid indifference to discovery. He was staring at Becky and in his hand, a blaze of lovely color against his coat, was Becky's fan! Randy took a step forward. George turned and saw him. "I was looking for that," Randy said, and held out his hand for the fan. But Dalton did not give it to him. "She knows I have it."