"You _do_ understand me, don't you?" she said gratefully. "There are so many serious things in life to learn and to think of, and that is the very last thing I should ever consider. . . . I am very, very glad I had this talk with you. Now I am rested and I shall retire for a good long sleep." With which paradox she stood up, stifling a tiny yawn, and looked smilingly at him, all the old sweet confidence in her eyes. Then, suddenly mocking: "Who suggested that you call me by my first name?" she asked. "Some good angel or other. May I?" "If you please; I rather like it. But I couldn't very well call you anything except 'Captain Selwyn.'" "On account of my age?" "Your _age_!"--contemptuous in her confident equality. "Oh, my wisdom, then? You probably reverence me too deeply." "Probably not. I don't know; I couldn't do it--somehow--" "Try it--unless you're afraid." "I'm not afraid!" "Yes, you are, if you don't take a dare." "You dare me?" "I do." "Philip," she said, hesitating, adorable in her embarrassment. "No! No! No! I can't do it that way in cold blood. It's got to be 'Captain Selwyn'. . . for a while, anyway. . . . Good-night." He took her outstretched hand, laughing; the usual little friendly shake followed; then she turned gaily away, leaving him standing before the whitening ashes. He thought the fire was dead; but when he turned out the lamp an hour later, under the ashes embers glowed in the darkness of the winter morning. CHAPTER IV MID-LENT "Mid-Lent, and the Enemy grins," remarked Selwyn as he started for church with Nina and the children. Austin, knee-deep in a dozen Sunday supplements, refused to stir; poor little Eileen was now convalescent from grippe, but still unsteady on her legs; her maid had taken the grippe, and now moaned all day: "_Mon dieu! Mon dieu! Che fais mourir!_" Boots Lansing called to see Eileen, but she wouldn't come down, saying her nose was too pink. Drina entertained Boots, and then Selwyn returned and talked army talk with him until tea was served. Drina poured tea very prettily; Nina had driven Austin to vespers. The family dined at seven so Drina could sit up; special treat on account of Boots's presence at table. Gerald was expected, but did not come. The next morning, Selwyn went downtown at the usual hour and found Gerald, pale and shaky, hanging over his desk and trying to dictate letters to an uncomfortable stenographer. So he dismissed the abashed girl for the moment, closed the door, and sat down beside the young man. "Go home, Gerald" he said with decision; "when Neergard comes in I'll tell him you are not well. And, old fellow, don't ever come near the office again when you're in this condition." "I'm a perfect fool," faltered the boy, his voice trembling; "I don't really care for that sort of thing, either; but you know how it is in that set--" "What set?" "Oh, the Fanes--the Ruthv--" He stammered himself into silence. "I see. What happened last night?"