“Well, of course, Tryon, if you wish it——­” said his mother, with anxious hesitation.

“I certainly do wish it, Mother.  I shall take it as personal if anything is done in this matter without consulting me.  Remember, Cornelia, I will not have any trifling.  A girl’s reputation is certainly worth more than several hats and rain-coats, and I know she has not taken them.”

He walked from the dining-room and from the house in angry dignity, to the astonishment of his mother and sister, to whom he was usually courtesy itself.  Consulting him about household matters was as a rule merely a form, for he almost never interfered.  The two women looked at each other in startled bewilderment.

“Mother,” said Cornelia, “you don’t suppose he can have fallen in love with Norah, do you?  Why, she’s Irish and freckled!  And Tryon has always been so fastidious!”

“Cornelia!  How dare you suggest such a thing?  Tryon is a Dunham.  Whatever else a Dunham may or may not do, he never does anything low or unrefined.”

The small, prim, stylish mother looked quite regal in her aristocratic rage.

“But, Mother, one reads such dreadful things in the papers now.  Of course Tryon would never marry any one like that, but——­”

“Cornelia!”—­her mother’s voice had almost reached a patrician scream—­“I forbid you to mention the subject again.  I cannot think where you learned to voice such thoughts.”

“Well, my goodness, Mother, I don’t mean anything, only I do wish I had my hat.  I always did like all black.  I can’t imagine what ails Try, if it isn’t that.”

Tryon Dunham took his way to his office much perturbed in mind.  Perplexities seemed to be thickening about him.  With the dawn of the morning had come that sterner common-sense which told him he was a fool for having taken up with a strange young woman on the street, who was so evidently flying from justice.  He had deceived not only his intimate friends by palming her off as a fit companion for them, but his mother and sister.  He had practically stolen their garments, and had squandered more than fifty dollars of his own money.  And what had he to show for all this?  The memory of a sweet face, the lingering beauty of the name “Mary” when she bade him good-by, and a diamond ring.  The cool morning light presented the view that the ring was probably valueless, and that he was a fool.

Ah, the ring!  A sudden warm thrill shot through him, and his hand searched his vest pocket, where he had hastily put the jewel before leaving his room.  That was something tangible.  He could at least know what it was worth, and so make sure once for all whether he had been deceived.  No, that would not be fair either, for her father might have made her think it was valuable, or he might even have been taken in himself, if he were not a judge of jewels.