“You'll do!” he cried, softly, reaching out and clenching her knuckles in his palm a moment. “You're the wise one! I felt sure that pretty little face of yours was only a mask for the ugliest and most valuable thing a woman can possess.” “What's that?” said Kedzie, hoping he was not going to begin big talk. “Wisdom,” said Ferriday. “A woman ought to be as wise as the serpent, but she ought to have the eyes of a dove. Your baby sweetness is worth a fortune on the screen if you have brains enough to manage it, and I fancy you have. Here's to you, Miss Anita Adair!” He drank deep, but she only touched the brim. She saw that he was drinking too much--he had had several cocktails while he waited for her to arrive. Kedzie felt that one of the two must keep a clear head. She found that ice-water was a good antidote for champagne. When Ferriday sharply ordered the waiter to look to her glass she shook her head. When he finished the bottle and the waiter put it mouth down in the ice as an eloquent reminder Ferriday accepted the challenge and ordered another bottle. He was just thickened of tongue enough to say “boddle.” Kedzie spoke, quickly: “Please, no. I must go home. It's later than I thought, and--” “And Mrs. Gilfoyle will wonder,” Ferriday laughed. “That's right, my dear. You've got to keep good hours if you are going to succeethe on the screen. Early to bed, for you must early-to-rise. _Garcon, garcon, l'addition, s'il vous_ please.” While he was paying the bill Kedzie was thinking fleetly of her next problem. He would want to take her home in his car, and it would be just her luck to find her husband on the door-step. In any case, she was afraid that Ferriday would be sentimental and she did not want Ferriday to be sentimental just yet. And she would not tolerate a sentiment inspired or influenced by wine. Love from a bottle is the poorest of compliments. Already she was a little disappointed in Ferriday. He was a great man, but he had his fault, and she had found him out. If he were going to be of use to her she must snub that vinous phase at once. The cool air outside seemed to gratify Ferriday and he took off his hat while the carriage-starter whistled up his car. Now Kedzie said: “Please, Mr. Ferriday, just put me in a taxicab.” “Nonsense! I'll take you home. I'll certainly take you home.” “No, please; it's 'way out of your way, and I--I'd rather--really I would.” Ferriday stared hard at her as if she were just a trifle blurred. He frowned; then he smiled. “Why, bless your soul, if you'd rather I wouldn't oppose you, I wouldn't--not for worlds. But you sha'n't go home in any old cabby taxishab; you'll take my wagon and I'll walk. The walk will do me good.” Kedzie thought it would, too, so she consented with appropriate reluctance. He lifted her in and closed the door--then leaned in to laugh: