But he was not given to introspection, and so the disturbing question left him almost as readily as it had come.  When one attempted to think things out, there was no hope of escaping the endless circle with a clear head.  No, he wasn’t analytical, thank Heaven!

While he was still rejoicing in what he called his “practical turn of mind,” he remembered suddenly an appointment at his club which he had made a week ago and then overlooked in the absorbing interest of his engagement.

“By Jove, you’ll get me into an awful scrape some day,” he remarked cheerfully as he hurried into his overcoat.  “I might have lost fifty thousand dollars by letting this thing slip.”

His manner had changed completely with the awakened recollection; and finance in all its forms—­the look of figures, the clink of coin—­had assumed instantly the position of romance in his thoughts.  For the moment Laura was crowded from his mind, and she recognised this with a pang sharp and cold as the thrust of a dagger.

“If you only knew how much you’d nearly cost me,” were his last words as he ran down the steps.

At the corner he met Gerty’s carriage and in response to her inviting gesture, he gave an order to the coachman as he sprang inside.

“Well, this is a godsend,” he observed with a grateful sigh while he wrapped the fur rug carelessly about him.  “A drive with a pretty woman leaves a surface car a good many miles behind.  And you are unusually pretty this morning,” he commented with a touch of daring gallantry.

“I ought to be,” returned Gerty defiantly, “for heaven knows I take trouble enough about it.  Oh, I am glad to see you!” she finished gayly, “how is Laura?”

He met her question with his genial smile.  “She makes a pretty good pretence at happiness,” he answered.

“And so she’s really over head and ears in love?”

“Does it surprise you that she should find me charming?” he asked, laughing.

She nodded with unshaken candour.

“I was never so much surprised in all my life.”

If his smile was ready it did not fail to betray a touch of vanity that was almost childlike.

“And yet there was a time when you yourself rather liked me,” he retorted with his intimate and penetrating glance.

“Was there?” She avoided his look though her tone was almost insolent, “my dear fellow, I never in my life liked you better than I like you at this minute—­but we are speaking now of Laura’s liking not of mine.  Oh, Arnold, Arnold, I am in a quake of fear.”

“About Laura?  Then get over it and don’t be silly.”

“And you are honestly and truly and terribly in earnest?”

“My dear girl, I’m going to marry her—­isn’t that enough?  Does a man commit suicide except when he’s sincere?”

Her shallow cynicism had dropped from her now, and she turned toward him with an unaffected anxiety in her face.