When she was left alone in the big hall, the coolest apartment in the big house during the afternoon, Ethel Cartwright went to the French windows and looked out over the smooth lawns to the trees at the back of them. A long drive wound its way to the highroad, up which she could see speeding a big motor. The porte-cochère was at the other side of the house and she retraced her steps to the hall she had left with the hope of meeting the man she had liked so much a year ago in Paris. A minute later he was ushered in, but did not at first see her. Then, as he looked about the big apartment, he caught sight of the girl, and stood for a moment staring as though he could hardly venture to believe it was she. “Miss Cartwright,” he cried enthusiastically, “is it really you?” She took his outstretched hands graciously. “How do you do, Mr. Denby,” she said. “Mr. Harrington told me to expect a surprise,” he cried, “but I was certainly not prepared for such a pleasant one as this. How are you?” “Splendid,” she answered. “And you?” “Very, very grateful to be here.” “I wondered if you’d remember me,” she said; “it’s a long time ago since we were in Paris.” “It was only the day before yesterday,” he asserted. “And what are you doing here?” she asked. “Oh, I thought I’d run over and see if New York was finished yet.” “Are you still doing--nothing?” she demanded, a tinge of disappointment in her voice. He looked at her with a smile. “Still--nothing,” he answered. “Ah,” she sighed, “I had such hopes of you, a year ago in Paris.” “And I of you,” he said, boldly looking into her eyes. Her manner was more distant now. “I’m afraid I don’t admire idlers very much. Why don’t you do something? You’ve ability enough, Mr. Denby.” “It’s so difficult to get a thrill out of business,” he complained. “And you must have thrills?” she asked. “Yes,” he answered, “it’s such a dull old world nowadays.” “Then why,” she exclaimed jestingly, “why don’t you take to crime?” “I have thought of it,” he laughed, “but the stake’s too high--a thrill against prison.” “So you want only little thrills then, Mr. Denby?” “No,” he told her, “I’d like big ones better. Life or even death--but not prison. And what have you done since I saw you last? You are still doing nothing, too?” “Nothing,” she said, smiling. “And you’re still Miss Cartwright?” “_Only_ Miss Cartwright,” she corrected. “Good,” he said, looking at her steadily. “By George, it doesn’t seem a year since that week in Paris. What made you disappear just as we were having such bully times?” “I had to come back to America suddenly. I had only an hour to catch the boat. I explained all that in my note though. Didn’t you even take the trouble to read it?” He looked at her amazed. “I never even received it.” There was a touch of relief in his voice. “So you sent me a note! Do you know, I thought you’d dropped me, and I tell you I hit with an awful crash.”