and whose whole attention, from the moment of her entrance, seemed fixed upon her.  She ordered her dinner, steadfastly ignoring them, and sat as usual with her eyes fixed upon the door, but her indifference was not sufficient to chill the ardour of the younger of the three men.  She saw him call a waiter and write something on the back of a card, and immediately afterwards the waiter, with some hesitation, and a half-expressed apology, presented it to her.  She tore it in pieces, and went on with her dinner without a word.  Then a voice at her elbow startled her.

“Miss Longworth,” it said, “won’t you allow me to sit at your table?  I will promise not to intrude in any way, and you may possibly be saved from such impertinences as that.”

He pointed to the waiter, retiring discomfited, and Virginia, with a little murmur of delight, recognized Mr. Mildmay standing before her.

“Mr. Mildmay!” she exclaimed, holding out her hand.  “Why, how glad I am to see you again!”

“And I you, Miss Longworth,” he answered heartily, “but to be frank with you, I would rather have met you somewhere else.”

The colour which had suddenly streamed into her cheeks faded away, and she sighed.  Tall, and very immaculate in the neat simplicity of his severe evening dress, he seemed to her a more formidable person than ever he had done on the steamer.  The disapproval, too, which he felt, he could scarcely help showing in some measure in his face.

“Perhaps,” she said, “I ought not to have asked you to do anything so compromising as to sit with me.  Please don’t hesitate to say so if you would rather not.”

He seated himself by her side and drew the carte toward him.

“Have you ordered?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I am so sorry,” she said, “but I am in no hurry.  You can catch me up.” 
 He ordered something from the waiter who was standing by, and then
turned again to her.

“You mustn’t be unfair to me, please,” he said.  “It is only because I hate to see you subjected to such affronts, that I have any feeling in the matter at all.  Couldn’t you have a companion, or something of that sort, if you must come to these places?”

She laughed softly.

“No!” she said, “I am afraid I couldn’t do that, but if it really gives you any satisfaction to hear it, I think that my search—­I told you that I had come to look for some one, didn’t I?—­will be over to-night, and then it will not be necessary for me to do this sort of thing.”

“I am glad,” he answered heartily.  “I am glad, that is to say, unless—­”

“Unless what?”

“Unless it means your going back to America.”

She raised her eyes to his.

“And how does that concern you?” she asked, simply.

“I wish to God I knew why it should!” he answered, almost bitterly.  “Do you know what a fool I have been making of myself for the last week or so?  I have given up my club and all my friends, refused every invitation, and spent all my time going about from restaurant to restaurant, cafe to cafe, hoping somewhere to come across you.”