Laura looked very grave.  “I think he does,” she said slowly.

“And then he’s `different,’” said Richard.  “He’s more a `man of the world’ than most of us here:  she never saw anything just like him before, and she’s seen us all her life.  She likes change, of course.  That’s natural,” he said gently.  “Poor Vilas says she wants a man to be different every day, and if he isn’t, then she wants a different man every day.”

“You’ve rather taken Ray Vilas under your wing, haven’t you?” asked Laura.

“Oh, no,” he answered deprecatingly.  “I only try to keep him with me so he’ll stay away from downtown as much as possible.”

“Does he talk much of Cora?”

“All the time.  There’s no stopping him.  I suppose he can’t help it, because he thinks of nothing else.”

“Isn’t that rather—­rather queer for you?”

“`Queer’?” he repeated.

“No, I suppose not!” She laughed impatiently.  “And probably you don’t think it’s `queer’ of you to sit here helplessly, and let another man take your place——­”

“But I don’t `let’ him, Laura,” he protested.

“No, he just does it!”

“Well,” he smiled, “you must admit my efforts to supplant him haven’t——­”

“It won’t take any effort now,” she said, rising quickly.  Valentine Corliss came into their view upon the sidewalk in front, taking his departure.  Seeing that they observed him, he lifted his hat to Laura and nodded a cordial good-day to Lindley.  Then he went on.

Just before he reached the corner of the lot, he encountered upon the pavement a citizen of elderly and plain appearance, strolling with a grandchild.  The two men met and passed, each upon his opposite way, without pausing and without salutation, and neither Richard nor Laura, whose eyes were upon the meeting, perceived that they had taken cognizance of each other.  But one had asked a question and the other had answered.

Mr. Pryor spoke in a low monotone, with a rapidity as singular as the restrained but perceptible emphasis he put upon one word of his question.

“I got you in the park,” he said; and it is to be deduced that “got” was argot.  “You’re not doing anything here, are you?”

“No!” answered Corliss with condensed venom, his back already to the other.  He fanned himself with his hat as he went on.  Mr. Pryor strolled up the street with imperturbable benevolence.

“Your coast is cleared,” said Laura, “since you wouldn’t clear it yourself.”

“Wish me luck,” said Richard as he left her.

She nodded brightly.

Before he disappeared, he looked back to her again (which profoundly surprised her) and smiled rather disconsolately, shaking his head as in prophecy of no very encouraging reception indoors.  The manner of this glance recalled to Laura what his mother had once said of him.  “Richard is one of those sweet, helpless men that some women adore and others despise.  They fall in love with the ones that despise them.”