“Before I go—­may I say one more word?” he asked gently.

“Yes—­if you please.  Is it about Gerald?”

“Yes.  Don’t let him gamble. . . .  You saw the signature on that check?”

“Yes, Phil.”

“Then you understand.  Don’t let him do it again.”

“No.  And—­Phil?”

“What?”

“That check is—­is deposited to your credit—­with the rest.  I have never dreamed of using it.”  Her cheeks were afire again, but with shame this time.

“You will have to accept it, Alixe.”

“I cannot.”

“You must!  Don’t you see you will affront Gerald?  He has repaid me; that check is not mine, nor is it his.”

“I can’t take it,” she said with a shudder.  “What shall I do with it?”

“There are ways—­hospitals, if you care to. . . .  Good-night, child.”

She stretched out her gloved arm to him; he took her hand very gently and retained it while he spoke.

“I wish you happiness,” he said; “I ask your forgiveness.”

“Give me mine, then.”

“Yes—­if there is anything to forgive.  Good-night.”

“Good-night—­boy,” she gasped.

He turned sharply, quivering under the familiar name.  Her maid, standing in the snow, moved forward, and he motioned her to enter the brougham.

“Home,” he said unsteadily; and stood there very still for a minute or two, even after the carriage had whirled away into the storm.  Then, looking up at the house, he felt for his keys; but a sudden horror of being alone arrested him, and he stepped back, calling out to his cabman, who was already turning his horse’s head, “Wait a moment; I think I’ll drive back to Mrs. Gerard’s. . . .  And take your time.”

* * * * *

It was still early—­lacking a quarter of an hour to midnight—­when he arrived.  Nina had retired, but Austin sat in the library, obstinately plodding through the last chapters of a brand-new novel.

“This is a wretched excuse for sitting up,” he yawned, laying the book flat on the table, but still open.  “I ought never to be trusted alone with any book.”  Then he removed his reading glasses, yawned again, and surveyed Selwyn from head to foot.

“Very pretty,” he said.  “Well, how are the yellow ones, Phil?  Or was it all debutante and slop-twaddle?”

“Few from the cradle, but bunches were arriving for the dance as I left.”

“Eileen went at half-past eleven.”

“I didn’t know she was going,” said Selwyn, surprised.

“She didn’t want you to.  The Playful Kitten business, you know—­frisks apropos of nothing to frisk about.  But we all fancied you’d stay for the dance.”  He yawned mightily, and gazed at Selwyn with ruddy gravity.

“Whisk?” he inquired.

“No.”

“Cigar?”—­mildly urgent.

“No, thanks.”

“Bed?”

“I think so.  But don’t wait for me, Austin. . . .  Is that the evening paper?  Where is St. Paul?”