She was of her world and time, not unsophisticated; but it chanced that she possessed a mind natively maiden. Through all her vigil, through all her questioning and novel self-criticism, her mind's-eye picture of Canning, as his arms went round her, ran like a torturing motif. The portrait became detestable to her. She hated him, she would hate him forever as the man who had cruelly revealed to her that love and his base brother can speak with the same voice and hand. And next day, when a box of glorious and penitent blossoms was followed within an hour by Canning's card and presence at her door, the girl's resolution to see him nevermore held staunch. It held to deny him a second time on the afternoon following. After that it was subjected to no more tests. And the social columns of another morning made it known to the general public that the Paynes' distinguished house-guest had departed for points south. XII How V. Vivian still felt the Same about the Huns, No Matter what Sam thought; also, how Kern Garland lost Something at the Works, and what made Mr. V.V. look at her That Way. While Vivian was still engaged with his sick, O'Neill, recently returned from a three weeks' industrial tour of the State, stuck his head informally through the office door. "Oh! Busy, hey?" "This is the last, I think. Step into the waiting-room and come in when I whistle." In three minutes Vivian whistled, and O'Neill instantly opened the door. It looked as if he had meant to come in just then anyway, and he had. "Say, V.V.!--step out here!" he said in a low, interested voice. "There's a whiskered bum dodging around your back hall here, and if I'm not very much mistaken, he's got your Sunday pants!" "It's Mister," said V.V., looking round from his secretary. "Shut the door." "Oh!--_Garland_, hey? But he's swiped your best pants!" "They were a gift," said V.V., with a touch of soberness. "_Sh!_ he'll hear you." "Oh!" said the Labor Commissioner again, and looked a little disappointed. He shut the door and came on in, a substantial figure in his glossy suit. It was the 30th of January, and he had been taking on flesh since October. "Well, when'd _he_ blow in? Say, he's a ringer for Weary Waggles, all right." "Sometime in the night," replied the young man, tilting back in his swivel-chair. "Mrs. G. found him in the entryway when she went down for the milk, asleep in the Goldnagels' hall-rug. I'm afraid he's only come to be outfitted again, and she will not be firm with him, no matter what she promises.... By the way, they were not my best trousers at all, except in a sort of technical sense. Never had 'em on but once, at a funeral.--Well, how was the lunch with the Governor?" The Commissioner, having pushed a new brown derby to the back of his head, walked about.