No one guessed his hopes and high aspiration, not even his friend Crowder. When Crowder rallied him about this treatment of the Alstons he had been short and offhand--didn't care for society, hadn't time to waste going round being polite. He left upon Crowder the impression that the Alston girls did not interest him any more than any other girls. "Old Mark isn't a lady's man," was the way Crowder excused him to Chrystie. Of course Chrystie laughed and said she had no illusions about that, but whatever kind of a man he was he ought to take some notice of them, no matter how dull and deadly they were. Crowder, realizing his own responsibility--it was he who had taken Mark to the Alston house--was kind but firm. "It's up to you to go and see those girls. It's not the decent thing to drop out without a reason. They've gone out of their way to be civil to you, and you know, old chap, they're _ladies_" Mark grunted, and frowning as at a disagreeable duty said he'd go. It took him some weeks to get there. Twice he started, circled the house, and tramped off over the hills. The third time he got as far as the front gate, weakened and turned away. After long abstinence the thought of meeting Lorry's eyes, touching her hand, created a condition of turmoil that made him a coward; that, while he longed to enter, drew him back like a sinner from the scene of his temptation. Then an evening came when, his jaw set, his heart thumping like a steam piston, he put on his best blue serge suit, his new gray overcoat, even a pair of mocha gloves, and went forth with a face as hard as a stone. Fong opened the door, saw who it was and broke into a joyful grin. "Mist Bullage! Come in, Mist Bullage. No see you for heap long time, Mist Bullage." "I've been busy," said the visitor. "Hadn't much time to come around." Fong helped him off with the gray overcoat. "You work awful hard, Mist Bullage. Too hard, not good. You come here and have good time. Lots of fun here now. You come." He moved to hang the coat on the hatrack, and, as he adjusted it, turned and shot a sharp look over his shoulder at the young man. "All men who come now not like you, Mist Bullage." There was something of mystery, an odd suggestion of withheld meaning, in the old servant's manner that made Mark smile. "How are they different--better or worse?" Fong passed him, going to the drawing-room door. His hand on the knob, he turned, his voice low, his slit eyes craftily knowing. "Ally samey not so good. I take care Miss Lolly and Miss Clist--_I_ look out. _You_ all 'ight, _you_ come." He threw open the door with a flourish and called in loud, glad tones, "Miss Lolly, Miss Clist, one velly good fliend come--Mist Bullage."