"That depends on the applicants--the larger number are without the least claim of merit; simply barnacles that one has to hew away. I leave it to my secretary--he does it for me and gets quit of them." "It must be a very pleasant feeling to help the deserving and needy," she reflected. "The modern business man hasn't much time either for the deserving or the needy, Mrs. Lorraine," he answered. "He's not an eleemosynary institution--he's a hustler. If he isn't a hustler, he's not for long--in the way the game is played now-a-days." "I suppose not," she said slowly--"and it seems a pity." "Why?" he asked. "Why does it seem a pity? It's the natural way--to kill off the drones and incompetents." "That doesn't make it any the less cruel--and not every one who is killed off is a drone or an incompetent." "Then he is not fitted--which is the same thing in the end." "No, it is not the same thing--there is a wide difference. A man may be a poor financier but an admirable musician--or a poor musician and an adroit financier--and all that ails him is that he was started wrong." They were passing the angle where she and Pendleton had sat the prior evening, and he looked at her thoughtfully. He could see it all again, as clearly as if it were occurring now:--her upturned face and enchanting smile, Pendleton bending over her with the air of entire possession. Surely this could not be the same woman who walked beside him--so calm, so dignified, so thoroughly sure of herself. It was incredible! And yet his eyes had seen.... And was Pendleton the only one?--were there others also?--might he be one, too?... He did not quite feel so sure of himself, nor of her, as he did before dinner, up in his room alone with his intentions. With some women, the sort whom he knew by experience, his question would have been sharp and to the point. But Stephanie Lorraine was--different. He could not bring himself to it--his courage was weak---- Suddenly he realized he was staring at her--and that she was looking at him questioningly. "I--beg your pardon," he stammered. "For what?" "For my bad manners--I forgot myself." "You mean that you were staring at me?" "Yes--too long--at one time, I fear." "I don't feel any ill effects!" she smiled. "A woman gets used to being stared at, especially in these days of tight skirts--and scanty other things." "_You_ would be stared at if you wore crinoline and hoops," he answered, with an attempt to be gallant. "I undoubtedly should--as a perfect sight!" she laughed. "And a mask also," he added. "I should then be mysterious:--'Who is it?' they would ask." "You would have individuality and beauty, whatever you wore," he averred. "You did better that time," she remarked. "I am exceedingly glad. It encourages me to hope that in the end I may not be such a--duffer." She raised her eyebrows and gave just the slightest shrug of her bare shoulders. "Whatever I should call you, Mr. Porshinger, I shouldn't call you a duffer."