Darcy’s companion, abashed by the elegance of this obvious “swell,” wriggled and fluttered and protested. Mr. Remsen paid no heed. “Here we are,” he announced cheerily, stepping to the pavement. “Watch your step.” Thus overruled, the woman followed. The assumer of burdens not his own attained the sidewalk and all but dislocated his neck by the jerk with which he turned it, as a voice from the departing bus said clearly, and, as he thought, a shade maliciously: “Thank you, Mr. Remsen.” The malice was there. It was a reflex of Miss Darcy Cole’s resentment in that, apart from any question of recognition, Mr. Jacob Remsen had failed to see, in one casual glance at her face, anything which impelled him to bestow a second glance. Genuine though they had been, the testimonials of Messrs. Andy Dunne and Holcomb Lee were thereby attainted and brought to naught. No one, to hear Miss Cole’s lightsome subsequent report of the occurrence for the benefit of Gloria Greene, would have dreamed that it had left a sting. “Now, what,” concluded the narrator of the episode, “do you suppose the magnificent Mr. Remsen was doing in a scrubby Third Avenue locality?” “Precisely what you were going to do,” opined Gloria. “Helping some one who needed his help.” “You mean that that combination of Adonis and Ananias had no real business of his own there at all?” “I can’t conceive what it would be.” Darcy opened wide and luminous eyes. “Then it was just to be a good fellow?” “Probably. You wouldn’t think it of Jack Remsen, would you?” “I don’t know that I wouldn’t. Why not?” “Oh, he gives the impression to those who don’t know him of being so particular about himself and so indifferent about all the rest of the world that isn’t a Remsen,” said Gloria. “D’you think so?” queried Darcy carelessly. “That wasn’t the impression he gave me when I first met him.” “What was your reading of his character, oh, wise and profound student of human nature?” “If you laugh at me I won’t tell you,” retorted Darcy, and, as Gloria was openly laughing at her, proceeded to do it in the following inventory: “I thought that if I was a very old, plain woman with a lot of bundles, or a sick cat, or a man in an awful mess, I’d look to him first in any crowd.” “Jack would like that,” commented Gloria, with her sunlit smile. “But not if I were a plain, little, unnoticeable girl” Gloria twinkled. “An afterthought,” she declared. “Meaning yourself?” “Meaning myself.” “Liar.” “Well, aren’t I that kind of a girl? And if I aren’t, why didn’t he recall me, or even look at me twice?” “Perhaps he’s engrossed in his own troubles.” “Didn’t look as if he had a trouble in the world.” “No; Jack wouldn’t if he were to be shot at sunrise.” “Is he?”