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He spoke with his eyes fixed steadily upon Babbacombe’s face, ignoring the woman’s presence as if he had not even seen her.

Babbacombe was momentarily disconcerted. He glanced at Cynthia before replying; and instantly, in her quick, gracious way, she came forward with extended hand.

“Why, Mr. West,” she said, “don’t you know me? I’m Cynthia Mortimer–a very old friend of yours. And I’m very glad to meet you again.”

There was a quiver as of laughter in her words. The confidence of her action compelled some species of response. West took the outstretched hand for a single instant; but his eyes, meeting hers, held no recognition.

“I am afraid,” he said stonily, “that your memory is better than mine.”

It was a check that would have disheartened many women; not so Cynthia Mortimer.

She opened her eyes wide for a second, the next quite openly she laughed at him.

“You are not a bit cleverer than you used to be,” she said. “But I rather like you for it all the same. Come, Mr. West, I’m sure you will make an effort when I tell you that I want to be remembered. You once did a big thing for me which I have never forgotten–which I never shall forget.”

West was frowning. “You have made a mistake,” he said briefly.

She laughed again, softly, audaciously. There was a delicate flush on her face, and her eyes were very bright.

“No, Mr. Nat Verney West,” she said, sinking her voice. “I’m a lot cleverer than you think, and I don’t make mistakes of that sort.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and was silent. She was laughing still.

“Why can’t we begin where we left off?” she asked ingenuously. “Back numbers are so dull, and we were long past this stage anyway. Lord Babbacombe,” appealing suddenly to her host, “can’t you persuade Mr. West to come to the third act? I always prefer to skip the second. And we finished the first long ago.”

Babbacombe came to her assistance with his courteous smile. “Miss Mortimer considers herself in your debt, Mr. West,” he said. “I think you will hurt her feelings if you try to repudiate her obligation.”

“Yes, of course,” laughed Cynthia. “It was a mighty big debt, and I have been wondering ever since how to get even with you. Oh, you needn’t scowl. That doesn’t hurt me at all. Do you know you haven’t altered a mite, you funny English bulldog? Come, you know me now?”

“Yes, I know you,” West said. “But I think it is a pity that you have renewed your acquaintance with me, and the sooner you drop me again the better.” He spoke briefly and very decidedly, and having thus expressed himself he turned to Babbacombe. “I am going to the library. Perhaps you will join me there at your convenience.”

With an abrupt bow to Cynthia, he turned to go. But instantly the high voice arrested him.

“Mr. West!”

He paused.

“Mr. West!” she said again, her voice half-imperious, half-pleading.

Reluctantly he faced round. She was waiting for him with a little smile quivering about her mouth. Her grey eyes met his with perfect composure.

“I want to know,” she said, in her softest drawl, “if it is for my sake or your own that you regret this renewal of acquaintance.”

“For yours, Miss Mortimer,” he answered grimly.

“That’s very kind of you,” she rejoined. “And why?”

Again he gave that slight lift of the shoulders that she remembered so well.

“You know the proverb about touching pitch?”

“Some people like pitch,” said Cynthia.

“Not clean people,” threw back West.

“No?” she said. “Well, perhaps not. Anyway, it doesn’t apply in this case. So I sha’n’t drop you, Mr. West, thank you all the same! Good-night!”

She offered him her hand with a gesture that was nothing short of regal. And he–because he could do no less–took it, gripped it, and went his way.

“Isn’t he rude?” murmured Cynthia; and she said it as if rudeness were the highest virtue a man could display.