“D’Artois will know,” said Mrs. Richmond hastily, to cover the almost blunt refusal to continue the acquaintance. “We can find out from him.” “I lead rather a secluded life there,” was Roger’s reply. “One must fight constantly against the temptations to distraction. But I needn’t explain that to the wife of a busy man of affairs.” “No, indeed,” cried she, with undiminished cordiality--and she did not find it difficult to be cordial to a man whose charm she was now feeling, hardly the less, perhaps the more, because he was defeating her will. “Still,” she went on, “we’ll venture to hope that you’ll relent a little and not look on us altogether as intruders, Mr. Wade.” “You are too kind, Mrs. Richmond,” said Roger. He made as much of a move toward turning away as politeness permitted. “Again, I’m sorry--so sorry, about dinner,” said Mrs. Richmond, once more extending her hand. She was all friendliness, all cordiality. “And I’ll hope you and Fate will be kinder in Paris. Good-by. Mr. Richmond will be really distressed. And Beatrice----” Roger’s eyes shifted. A faint color crept into his cheeks. “She will think you’re a sadly negligent friend. She’s at the Wolcott. If you are in town----” “Unfortunately, I’ll not be,” interrupted Roger curtly. “I’ll have to trust to you to make my apologies.” Mrs. Richmond once more looked defeated. “Don’t forget us,” she pleaded. “Thank you,” said Roger embarrassed. “Good-by.” Roger bowed. The machine got under way and disappeared in a cloud of dust while he went slowly and moodily back to the veranda to take up his book, but not to read it. As Mrs. Richmond’s auto swung into the terrace before the main entrance to Red Hill Richmond’s auto departed, having just set him down upon the stone esplanade. He opened the door of the car for his wife. “Well?” said he sharply. “He can’t--that is, won’t--come.” “I thought so.” “He’s sailing.” “I know. Next week.” “No--Saturday.” Richmond startled. “Day after to-morrow?” “And he wouldn’t come either to-night or to-morrow night.” They walked in silence side by side into the house. “He’s a splendidly handsome man,” said Mrs. Richmond. “Any woman would be proud to have him as her husband. And he has the air of a personage.... I must telephone Beatrice.” “You must do nothing of the sort,” ordered Richmond in the tone which, when he first had begun to use it with her, had made her feel like a servant. “You’ll not tempt her to make a public fool of herself.” “You don’t understand her,” protested Mrs. Richmond. “No matter. No telephoning. Small, timid people never can understand that a person of her sort has unlimited capacity for reckless folly.” “But what are we to do?” demanded his wife. “I’ll go to see him.” “To say what?” “What circumstances may dictate after I get there,” said her husband. “I’ll go at once.” “Yes--yes. The time’s very short,” cried she. “On the contrary, there’s plenty of time.”