“What makes the stars so big and bright up in this country, Phil?” he asked.

“Because of the clearness of the atmosphere through which you are looking,” replied Philip, wondering what was passing through the other’s mind.  “This air—­compared with ours—­is just like a piece of glass that has been cleaned of a year’s accumulation of dirt.”

Gregson whistled softly for a few moments.  Then he said, without turning: 

“She’s got to go some if she beats the girl I saw this evening, Phil.”  He turned at Philip’s silence, and laughed.  “I beg your pardon, old man, I didn’t mean to speak of her as if she were a horse.  I mean Miss Brokaw.”

“And I don’t particularly like the idea of betting on the merits of a pretty girl,” replied Philip, “but I’ll break the rule for once, and wager you the best hat in New York that she does beat her.”

“Done!” said Gregson.  “A little gentle excitement of this sort will relieve the tension of the other thing, Phil.  I’ve heard enough of business for to-night.  I’m going to finish a sketch that I have begun of her before I forget the fine points.  Any objection?”

“None at all,” said Philip.  “Meanwhile I’ll go out to breathe a spell.”

He put on his coat and took down his cap from a peg in the wall.  Gregson had seated himself under the lamp and was sharpening a pencil.  As Philip went to go out Gregson drew an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the table.

“If you should happen to see any one that looks like—­her,” he said, nodding toward the envelope, “kindly put in a word for me, will you?  I did that in a hurry.  It’s not half flattering.”

Philip laughed as he picked up the envelope.

“The most beau—­” he began.

He caught himself with a jerk.  Gregson, looking up from his pencil-sharpening, saw the smile leave his lips and a quick flush leap into his bronzed cheeks.  He stared at the face on the envelope for a half a minute, then gazed speechlessly at Gregson.

It was Gregson who laughed, softly and without suspicion.

“How does your wager look now?” he taunted.

“She—­is—­beautiful,” murmured Philip, dropping the envelope and turning to the door, “Don’t wait for me, Greggy.  Go to bed.”

He heard Gregson laugh behind him, and he wondered, as he went out, what Gregson would say if he told him that he had drawn on the back of the old envelope the beautiful face of Eileen Brokaw!

V

A dozen steps beyond the door Philip paused in the shadow of a dense spruce, half persuaded to return.  From where he stood he could see Gregson bending over the table, already at work on the picture.  He confessed that the sketch had startled him.  He knew that it had sent the hot blood rushing to his face, and that only through a fortunate circumstance had Gregson ascribed its effect upon him to something that was wide of the truth.  Miss Brokaw was a thousand or more miles away.  At this moment she was somewhere in the North Atlantic, if their ship had left Halifax.  She had never been in the north.  More than that, he knew that Gregson had never seen Miss Brokaw, and had heard of her only through himself and the society columns of the newspapers.  How could he explain his possession of the sketch?