She gazed at him with palpable surprise gathering in her widely opened eyes. “But,” she said breathlessly, “everybody knows that you never address a polite syllable to a woman. It is more speculated on than any of your other traits.” He expanded at this indication of a widespread discussion of his qualities. “I have had no time for merely polite speeches,” he responded. “And I assure you that I am not only complimentary now; I mean that I am not saluting you with vapid elegance. I am awaiting only a more fitting occasion to speak further.” She circled him slowly, with a minute whispering of crinoline, her gaze never leaving his face. Her muslin, below her white, bare throat, circled by a black velvet band, was heaving. The parasol fell with a clatter. He stooped immediately; but she was before him and snatched it up, with crimson cheeks. “They say that you are the most hateful man alive!” she half breathed. “Who are 'they'.” he demanded contemptuously. “Men I have beaten and women I failed to see. That hatred grows with success, with power; it is never wasted on the weak. My competitors would like to see me fall into a furnace stack—the men I have climbed over, and my debtors. They are combining every month to push me to the wall, a dozen of them together, yelping like a pack of dogs. But they haven't succeeded; they never will!” His words were like the chips from an iron bloom. “They never will,” he repeated harshly, “and I have only begun. I want you to see my house sometime. I planned a great part of it with you in mind. No money was spared.... I should be happy to have you like it. I think of it as yours.” All the time he was speaking she was stealing by imperceptible degrees toward the door; but at his last, surprising sentence she stood transfixed with mingled wonder and fear. She felt behind her for the open doorway and rested one hand against the woodwork. A ribald clatter sounded from the bar, and without rose the faint, clear note of an approaching packet. Her lips formed for speech, but only a slight gasp was audible; then her spreading skirts billowed through the opening, and she was gone. Alexander Hulings found that he was still holding his silk hat; he placed it carefully on the table and took a deep drink from the iced glass. He was conscious of a greater feeling of triumph than he had ever known before. He realized that he had hardly needed to add the spoken word to the impression his being had made on Gisela Wood-drop. He had already invaded her imagination; the legend of his struggle and growth had taken possession of her. There remained now only a formal declaration, the outcome of which he felt almost certain would be in his favor.