Stunned by this “facer,” Reginald Van Slyke gasped and stared.  That he, a scion of the Philadelphia Van Slykes, in his own right worth two hundred million dollars—­dollars ground out of the Kensington carpet-mill slaves by his grandfather—­should be thus flouted and put upon by the daughter of Flint, that parvenu, absolutely floored him.  For a moment he sat there speechless, unable even to reach for his drink; but presently some coherence returned.  He was about to utter what he conceived to be a strong rejoinder, when the girl suddenly standing up, turned her back upon him and ignored him as completely as she might have ignored any of the menials of the club.

His irritated glance followed hers.  There, far down the drive, just rounding the long turn by the artificial lake, a big blue motor car was speeding up the grade at a good clip.  Van Slyke recognized it, and swore below his breath.

“Wally, at last, damn him!” he muttered.  “Just when I was beginning to make headway with Kate!”

Vexed beyond endurance, he drummed on the cloth with angry fingers; but Catherine was oblivious.  Unmindful of the merry-makers at the other tables, the girl waved her handkerchief at the swiftly-approaching motor.  Waldron, from the back seat, raised an answering hand—­though without enthusiasm.  Above all things he hated demonstration, and the girl’s frank manner, free, unconventional and not yet broken to the harness of Mrs. Grundy, never failed to irritate him.

“Very incorrect for people in our set,” he often thought.  “But for the present I can do nothing.  Once she is my wife, ah, then I shall find means to curb her.  For the present, however, I must let her have her head.”

Such was now his frame of mind as the long car slid under the porte-cochere and came to a stand.  He would have infinitely preferred that the girl should wait his coming to her, on the piazza; but already she had slung her bag of sticks over her strong shoulder, and was down the steps to meet him.  Her leave-taking of the incensed Van Slyke had been the merest nod.

“You’re late, Wally,” said she, smiling with her usual good humor, which had already quite dissipated her impatience.  “Late, but I’ll forgive you, this time.  I’m afraid we won’t have time to do all eighteen holes round.  What kept you?”

“Business, business!” he answered, frowning.  “Always the same old grind, Kate.  You women don’t understand.  I tell you, this slaving in Wall Street isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.  I couldn’t get away till 11:30.  Then, just had a quick bite of lunch, and broke every speed law in New York getting here.  Do you forgive me?”

He had descended from the car, in speaking.  They shook hands, while the chauffeur stood at attention and all the gossips on the piazza, scenting the possibility of a disagreement, craned discreetly eager necks and listened intently.

“Forgive you?  Of course—­this time, but never again,” the girl laughed.  “Now, run along and get into your flannels.  I’ll meet you on the driving green, in ten minutes.  Not another second, mind, or—­”