“Oh, all over the map. But no place as good as this.” He smiled down at her, still holding her hands. To a keen, thin, sensitive face, with a mobile mouth and quiet eyes, the smile set the final impression of charm. Instanter and before he had spoken ten words, Darcy decided that he was the one man she had ever seen worthy of Gloria Greene. And she was glad they had found each other. “But where’s Darcy?” asked the hostess, looking about. “Who?” asked her visitor. “A little acquaintance whom I left here when I went out.” The concealed girl sat up. “Here I am,” she announced shyly. “I fell asleep.” “Oh, then I’m afraid I waked you up with my silly hammering,” said the man. “N-no. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t mind. I—I mean, I liked it,” stammered the girl, falling into her usual acutely zero feeling in the presence of the masculine gender. “Then go and play it again, Jack,” commanded Miss Greene, “while I get off my things. And then go away. You can come back for dinner. Miss Cole and I have important things to talk over.” “Oh, no! Please! I can come some other time,” protested Darcy in a flutter of embarrassment. “I don’t want to drive Mr.—Mr.—-him away.” “Mr. Jacob Remsen has all the time in the world,” said Gloria calmly. “Time is the least of his troubles. He kills it at sight.” “Don’t mind her, Miss Corey,” put in Remsen. Darcy, noting the error in her name, wondered petulantly why Gloria didn’t introduce them in proper form. But her uneasiness and _gaucherie_ presently dissipated before the cordial and winning simplicity of Gloria’s man. And, to her own surprise, she found herself volunteering a harmonic solution of the difficult change where he had blundered over the transition, and humming the melody while she played her version. He accepted it with enthusiasm. “Sing it,” he urged. “I like your voice—what little you let us hear of it.” Instantly Darcy stiffened up inside and stammered a refusal. She didn’t mean to be ungracious to this sunny and inspiriting young fellow. It was just her unhappy consciousness of a cramped and graceless self. Remsen took it with matter-of-fact good humor. “I’m sure you do sing, though,” he called back as his hostess finally evicted him. “I’m going to send you that song.” But he didn’t look at her, she noticed, as he said it. Why should he, indeed, when Gloria was in the room? For that matter, men never looked at Darcy. And here was her grievance against the scheme of things exemplified anew. “There it is,” she complained, waving an awkward arm toward the door through which Mr. Jacob Remsen had vanished. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you about.” “Jack?” puzzled her hostess. “Why, what’s wrong with Jack?” “Oh, nothing,” replied the girl wearily. “But—did you notice what he did when he left?” “Offered to send you some music. I thought it was quite polite. Jack’s always courteous.” “Oh, _courteous!_ He didn’t even _look_ at me.” “Well, why—”