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Mrs. Egerton's so that she should not miss this lovely music."

"Mrs. Egerton's," grunted Monty Dressler to himself. "It's odds on she was never in the house. Wonder how she got here?"

At this moment the curtains separating the drawing-rooms were thrown back, disclosing the great Von Bulowitz in theatric pose.

Mrs. Jones-Smythe gasped with delight. "Oh, Mr. Dressler, do tell me," she said to the unfortunate Monty, who had not had time to escape, "is that Herr von Bulowitz?"

"Yes, that's his nibs, all right; Zulu hair and all."

Her red face assumed an expression of horror. "How can you be so disrespectful to art?" she protested.

"Because I bar a chap who won't get his hair cut."

"To me he is divine," she answered, so loudly that she might have been heard in Eighth street. Then, turning to her host, she continued: "Do introduce me to the maestro."

"With pleasure," murmured Mr. Schuyler, though the truth of his remark was questionable. So Mrs. Jones-Smythe swept proudly toward the great Von Bulowitz, her dress crackling at every step, and her daughter Mabel fluttering in her wake.

Meanwhile, Ainslee had been telling Renée Dressler, in a blunt, straightforward way, that he was weary of the life he had been leading, and could see nothing but misery if the false relationship they had established should continue. He was ashamed of the part he had played, but so far it had been only a flirtation—thanks to her cleverness—with nothing serious to regret. He was too sincere not to explain the case frankly, and she was too confident of her own power to consider the situation dangerous. Men were always cautious when they were afraid—and to be afraid of her meant an unconditional surrender in the end, if the cards were properly played.

"So you're contemplating matrimony?" she said, with a cynical smile,

"Why not?" he answered.

"Humph! That's the way a stupid man always ends an affair. He marries some little minx to pet him and darn his stockings, and flatters himself he's virtuous—until he falls in love again."

Those deep, mysterious eyes forced a confession, even against his will. "Men love women like you in spite of themselves," he said, his voice trembling as he spoke.

"Until we're foolish enough to care," she laughed. "A man in love is like the baby in the advertisement—he won't be happy till he gets it."

"If I thought you had ever cared for——"

"Of course," she answered, sarcastically, "a woman never cares; it's only men who are brave and self-sacrificing—only men who love."

Ainslee smiled. "Then you won't find it difficult to forget?"

"That will be the easiest part of it."

"Well, we've played the game," he sighed.

"And it wasn't worth the candle."

"Yes. If you weren't an American we'd have eloped long ago."

"I fail to see the point," she said, with a show of interest.

"For once you are dense. In Europe women have hearts; in America merely intellects."

She shrugged her pretty shoulders unconcernedly. "Well?" she said.

"I gave you the chance," he replied. "You remember my letter."

"I'm not a fool."

"The game is give and take—not solitaire."

"Patience is the game a man should play."

"Indeed!" he answered, coldly. "For me it must be all or nothing."

"Then marry your little minx," she said, with a gesture of indifference.

"Precisely what I intend to do," he replied, plunging his hands into his pockets and settling himself comfortably in his chair, as if a great weight had been lifted from his mind.

Renée glared at him angrily. "If you dare!" she said.