“She doesn’t strike me as needing education; she’s a finished product.  I felt very young in the divine presence.”

“She gives one that feeling,” laughed Dan, his mood of impatience dissolving.

“Who’s this rival who has made the higher education seem necessary for Morton Bassett’s daughter?”

“She’s an amazing girl; quite astonishing.  If Mrs. Bassett were a wise woman she wouldn’t enter Marian in competition.  And besides, I think her fears are utterly groundless.  Marian is delightful, with her waywardness and high-handedness; and Mrs. Owen likes originals, not feeble imitations.  I should hate to try to deceive Mrs. Sally Owen—­she’s about the wisest person I ever saw.”

“Oh, Sylvia!  Mrs. Owen has mentioned her.  The girl that knows all the stars and that sort of thing.  But where’s Morton Bassett in all this?  He’s rather more than a shadow on the screen?”

“Same old story of the absorbed American father and the mother with nerves”

* * * * *

Two afternoons later, as Harwood was crossing University Park on his way to his boarding-house, he stopped short and stared.  A little ahead of him in the walk strolled a girl and a young man, laughing and talking with the greatest animation.  There was no questioning their identity.  It was five o’clock and quite dark, and the air was sharp.  Harwood paused and waited for the two loiterers to cross the lighted space about the little park’s central fountain.  It seemed incredible that Marian and Allen should be abroad together in this dallying fashion.  His anger rose against Allen, but he curbed an impulse to send him promptly about his business and take Marian back to the Whitcomb.  Mr. Bassett was expected in town that evening and Dan saw his duty clearly in regard to Marian; she must be returned to school willy-nilly.

The young people were hitting it off wonderfully, and Marian’s laughter rang out clearly upon the winter air.  Her tall, supple figure, her head capped with a fur toque, and more than all, the indubitable evidence that such a clandestine stroll as this gave her the keenest delight, drove home to Harwood the realization that Marian was no longer a child, but a young woman, obstinately bent upon her own way.  Allen was an ill-disciplined, emotional boy, whose susceptibilities in the matter of girls Dan had already noted.  The combination had its dangers and his anger rose as he followed them at a safe distance.  They prolonged their walk for half an hour, coming at last to the Whitcomb.

Harwood waylaid Allen in the hotel office a moment after Marian had gone to her room.  The young fellow’s cheeks were unwontedly bright from the cold or from the excitement of his encounter.

“Halloa!  I was going to look you up and ask you to have dinner with me.”

“You were looking for me in a likely place,” replied Harwood coldly.  “See here, Allen, I’ve been laboring under the delusion that you were a gentleman.”