In the hallway Jack Remsen stopped dead. The first thing of which he was conscious was that the voice of the girl he loved and had continued to love against every dictate of conscience and honor was running like sweet fire through his veins again. Instantly the fire became bitter and scorching. For there was another voice, accompanying and fulfilling hers, the barytone which she had adduced as one of her British lover’s chief charms. (Remsen had to admit the quality of the voice, now raised in _his_ song. The song which she had promised to keep as his and hers; the one thing which he might claim of her!) A hot anger rose in his heart and as quickly faded. Why shouldn’t she sing that song with her lover? At most it was an idle promise which he had had no right to exact. He conquered an impulse to turn and leave. No; the thing had to be faced. Might as well face it now. When the chords died down he advanced to the door and spoke. Darcy whirled on her seat, and rose, very white. His one glance told Remsen that she was lovelier than ever. Then everything was swallowed up in the amazement of finding Hannon there. Harmon—alone in the dusk with Darcy where he had expected to find the fiancé—his song—and that charming, clear barytone of which Darcy had boasted in Sir Montrose! An explanation came to his mind, light in the darkness. It was just another masquerade—Darcy apparently specialized in them—and Veyze had been but a blind for Harmon, the real lover in the background, all the time. He felt Harmon wringing his hand in welcome and heard himself saying with a creditable affect of heartiness: “Then I suppose it’s you that I’m to congratulate.” “It is,” returned the other, chuckling joyously. “Though how on earth you knew it I can’t conceive.” “Isn’t it evident enough?” said Jack. He marched over to Darcy. She saw him changed, thinned, with lines in his smooth face; lines of thoughtfulness, of self-control, of achieved manhood, and her heart was in her eyes as they met his and drooped. “And you,” he said. “I wish you every happiness. I couldn’t wish you better than Tom Harmon.” “_What!_” cried that complimented but astounded gentleman. “Me? Miss Darcy?” “Well, if it isn’t you,” said Jack lifelessly, looking from one to the other: “will you kindly tell—” “It _is_ me, but it isn’t her,” broke in Harmon, with the superb disregard of grammar suitable to the occasion. “Man alive, it’s _Gloria!_” As if in confirmation, Gloria’s voice came to them, down the hallway. “Darcy! Where are you, child?” Two chairs which foolishly attempted to impede Mr. Thomas Harmon’s abrupt and athletic progress across the floor were sent to the janitor next day. “Tom!” cried Gloria’s voice in a breathless and different tone. Then the door slammed. Jack Remsen turned to Darcy. “So that’s it, is it?” he said slowly. “That,” answered Darcy, “is it. Isn’t it splendid!” “Couldn’t be splendider—for those most concerned. What about the rest of it?”