Thinking of this now, she thought of her brother—­and the old hurt at his absence on that night throbbed again.  Forgive?  Yes.  But how could she forget it?

“I wish you knew Gerald well,” she said impulsively; “he is such a dear fellow; and I think you’d be good for him—­and besides,” she hastened to add, with instinctive loyalty, lest he misconstrue, “Gerald would be good for you.  We were a great deal together—­at one time.”

He nodded, smilingly attentive.

“Of course when he went away to school it was different,” she added.  “And then he went to Yale; that was four more years, you see.”

“I was a Yale man,” remarked Selwyn; “did he—­” but he broke off abruptly, for he knew quite well that young Erroll could have made no senior society without his hearing of it.  And he had not heard of it—­not in the cane-brakes of Leyte where, on his sweat-soaked shirt, a small pin of heavy gold had clung through many a hike and many a scout and by many a camp-fire where the talk was of home and of the chances of crews and of quarter-backs.

“What were you going to ask me, Captain Selwyn?”

“Did he row—­your brother Gerald?”

“No,” she said.  She did not add that he had broken training; that was her own sorrow, to be concealed even from Gerald.  “No; he played polo sometimes.  He rides beautifully, Captain Selwyn, and he is so clever when he cares to be—­at the traps, for example—­and—­oh—­anything.  He once swam—­oh, dear, I forget; was it five or fifteen or fifty miles?  Is that too far?  Do people swim those distances?”

“Some of those distances,” replied Selwyn.

“Well, then, Gerald swam some of those distances—­and everybody was amazed. . . .  I do wish you knew him well.”

“I mean to,” he said.  “I must look him up at his rooms or his club or—­perhaps—­at Neergard & Co.”

“Will you do this?” she asked, so earnestly that he glanced up surprised.

“Yes,” he said; and after a moment:  “I’ll do it to-day, I think; this afternoon.”

“Have you time?  You mustn’t let me—­”

“Time?” he repeated; “I have nothing else, except a watch to help me get rid of it.”

“I’m afraid I help you get rid of it, too.  I heard Nina warning the children to let you alone occasionally—­and I suppose she meant that for me, too.  But I only take your mornings, don’t I?  Nina is unreasonable; I never bother you in the afternoons or evenings; do you know I have not dined at home for nearly a month—­except when we’ve asked people?”

“Are you having a good time?” he asked condescendingly, but without intention.

“Heavenly.  How can you ask that?—­with every day filled and a chance to decline something every day.  If you’d only go to one—­just one of the dances and teas and dinners, you’d be able to see for yourself what a good time I am having. . . .  I don’t know why I should be so delightfully lucky, but everybody asks me to dance, and every man I meet is particularly nice, and nobody has been very horrid to me; perhaps because I like everybody—­”