“I’ll attend to him—­the little squirt!...  Who are your new friends?”

“There’s a perfectly sweet girl in the French class, Marguerite Barret.  I think she likes me....  Louis, I don’t believe you understand how very happy I am beginning to be—­”

“Do people come here?”

“Yes, on Sunday afternoons; I know nearly a dozen nice girls now, and those men I told you about—­Mr. Snyder, Mr. Jim Anthony and his brother the artist, and Mr. Cass and Mr. Renwick.”

“You can cut out Renwick,” he said briefly.

She seemed surprised.  “He has always been perfectly nice to me, Louis—­”

“Cut him out, Dolly.  I know the breed.”

“Of course, if you wish.”

He looked at her, convinced in spite of himself.  “Always ask me about people.  If I don’t know I can find out.”

“I always do,” she said.

“Yes, I believe you do....  You’re all right, Dolly—­so far....  There, don’t look at me in that distressed-dove fashion; I know you are all right and mean to be for your own sake—­”

“For yours also,” she said.

“Oh—­that’s all right, too—­story-book fidelity; my preserver ever!—­What?—­Sure—­and a slow curtain....  There, there, Dolly—­where’s your sense of humour!  Good Lord, what’s changing you into a bread-and-butter boarding-school sentimentalist!—­to feel hurt at nothing!  Hello! look at that kitten of yours climbing your silk curtains!  Spank the rascal!”

But the girl caught up the kitten and tucked it up under her chin, smiling across at Malcourt, who had picked up his hat, gloves, and stick.

“Will you come to-morrow?” she asked.

“I’m going away for a while.”

Her face fell; she rose, placed the kitten on the lounge, and walked up to him, both hands clasped loosely behind her back, wistfully acquiescent.

“It’s going to be lonely again for me,” she said.

“Nonsense!  You’ve just read me your visiting list—­”

“I had rather have you here than anybody.”

“Dolly, you’ll get over that absurd sense of obligatory regard for me—­”

“I had rather have you, Louis.”

“I know.  That’s very sweet of you—­and very proper....  You are all right....  I’ll be back in a week or ten days, and,” smilingly, “mind you have your report ready!  If you’ve been a good girl we’ll talk over ’The Inca’ again and—­perhaps—­we’ll have Mr. Bulder up to luncheon....  Good-bye.”

She gave him her hand, looking up into his face.

“Smile!” he insisted.

She smiled.

So he went away, rather satiated with the pleasures of self-denial; but the lightly latent mockery soon broke out again in a smile as he reached the street.

“What a mess!” he grinned to himself.  “The Tressilvains at Portlaw’s!  And Wayward! and Shiela and Virginia and that awful Louis Malcourt!  It only wants Hamil to make the jolliest little hell of it.  O my, O my, what an amusing mess!”