“Tony, you aren’t engaged to him?”

She shook her head.

“Not exactly.  I am afraid I might as well be though.  I said I didn’t ever want to see him again, but I didn’t mean it.  I shall want to see him again by to-morrow.  I always do no matter what he does.  I always shall I am afraid.  It is like that with me.  I’m sorry, Dicky.  I ought to have told you that before.  I’ve been horrid not to, I know.  Take me home now, please.  I’m tired—­awfully tired.”

Going home in the cab neither spoke until just as they were within a few blocks of the Hostelry when Dick broke the silence.

“I am sorry all this had to happen to-night,” he said.  “Because, well, I am going away tomorrow.”

“Going away!  Dick!  Where?” It was horribly selfish of her, Tony knew; but it didn’t seem as if she could bear to have Dick go.  It seemed as if the only thing that was stable in her reeling life would be gone if he went.  If he went she would belong to Alan more and more.  There would be nothing to hold her back.  She was afraid.  She clung to Dick.  He alone of the whole city full of human beings was a symbol of Holiday Hill.  With him gone it seemed to her as if she would be hopelessly adrift on perilous seas.

“To Mexico—­Vera Cruz, I believe,” he answered her question.

“Vera Cruz!  Dick, you mustn’t!  It is awful down there now.  Everybody says so.”  He smiled a little at that.

“It is because it is more or less awful that they are sending me,” he said.  “Journalism isn’t much interested in placidity.  A newspaper man has to be where things are happening fast and plenty.  If things are hot down there so much the better.  They will sizzle more in the copy.”

“Dick!  I can’t have you go.  I can’t bear it.”  Tony’s hand crept into his.  “Something dreadful might happen to you,” she wailed.

He pressed her hand, grateful for her real trouble about him and for her caring.

“Oh no, dear.  Nothing dreadful will happen to me.  You mustn’t worry,” he soothed.

“But I do.  I shall.  How can I help it?  It is just as if Larry or Ted were going.  It scares me.”

Dick drew away his hand suddenly.

“For heaven’s sake, Tony, please don’t tell me again that I’m just like Larry and Ted to you.  It is bad enough to know it without your rubbing it in all the time.  I can’t stand it—­not to-night.”

“Dick!” Tony was startled, taken aback by his tone.  Dick rarely let himself go like that.

In a moment he was all contrition.

“Forgive me, Tony.  I’m sorry I said that.  I ought to be thankful you care that much, and I am.  It is dear of you and I do appreciate it.”

“Oh me!” sighed Tony.  “Everything I do or say is wrong.  I wish I did care the other way for you, Dicky dear.  Truly I do.  It would be so much nicer and simpler than caring for Alan,” she added naively.

“Life isn’t fixed nice and simple, Tony.  At least it never has been for me.”