“I can win her, yet,” reflected he, as his car swung into the long and brilliant night-vista of Fifth Avenue.  “I know women, and I understand the game.  Flowers, letters, telephone calls, attention every day—­every hour, if need be—­these are the artillery to batter down the strongest fortresses of indifference, even of dislike.  And she shall have them all—­all and more.  Wally, old chap, you’ve never been beaten at any game, whether in the Street or in the pursuit of woman.  You’ll win yet; you’re bound to win!  And Kate shall yet open the door to you, toward wealth and power and position such as never yet were seen on earth!”

Thus fortified by his own determination, he slept more calmly that night.  And, on the morrow, his campaign began.

It lasted but a week.

At the end of that time, a friendly little note from Idle Hour told him, frankly and in the kindest manner possible, that—­much as she still liked and respected him—­Catherine could not, now or ever, think of him in any other way than as a friend.

Stunned by this body-blow, “Tiger” first swore with hideous blasphemies that caused his valet to retreat precipitately from the famous, nymph-frieze bedchamber; then ordered drink, then walked the floor a while in a violent passion; and finally knit up his decision.

“By God!” he swore, shaking his fist in the direction of Englewood.  “She’s balky, eh?  She won’t, eh?  But I say she will!  And if I can’t make her, there’s her father, who can.  Together we can break this stiff-necked spirit and bring her to time.  Hm!  Fancy anybody or anything in this world setting up opposition to Flint and Waldron, combined!  Just fancy it, that’s all!

“So then, what’s to do?  This:  See her father and have a heart-to-heart talk with him.  It’s obvious she hasn’t told him, yet, the real state of affairs.  I doubt if the old idiot has even noticed the absence of my ring from her finger.  And if he has, she’s been able to fool him, easily enough.  But not much longer, so help me!

“No, this very morning he shall hear from me, the whole infernal story—­he shall learn his daughter’s unreasonable rebellion, the slight she’s put upon me and her opposition to his will. Then we shall see—­we shall see who’s master in that family, he or the girl!”

With this strong determination in his superheated mind, Waldron rang up Flint, asked for a private talk, at eleven, in the Wall Street office, and made ready the mustering of his arguments; his self-defense; his appeals to Flint’s every sense of interest and liking; his whole plea for the resumption of the broken betrothal.

And Catherine, all this time of convalescence—­what were her thoughts, and whither were they straying?  Not thoughts of Waldron, that is sure, despite his notes, his telephoning, his flowers, his visits.  Not to him did they wander, as she sat in her sunny bedroom bay-window, looking out over the great, close cropped lawn, through the oaks and elms, to the Palisades and the sparkling Hudson beneath.