The young man looked at her. He was over the brink of ruin now;
nothing remained of the interesting little affair of the past three
weeks but a mangled and lamentable wreck at the bottom of a deep
abyss.

Perhaps a shaft of compunction touched her flinty soul at the sight
of his aghast and speechless face, for she had the grace to look
away. Her gaze encountered the absorbed and excited countenance of
Billy B. Hill, and the poppy-pink of her cheeks became poppy-red
and she turned her head sharply away. She rose, catching up her
gloves and parasol.

"Thank you so much for your tea," she said in a lowered tone to her
unfortunate host. "I've had a delicious time.... I'm sorry if I
disappointed you by not cowering before your disapproval. Oh, don't
bother to come in with me--I know my way to the lift and the band is
going to play God Save the King and they need you to stand up and
make a showing."

Billy B. Hill stared across at the abandoned young man with supreme
sympathy and intimate understanding. He was a nice and right-minded
young man and she was an utter minx. She was the daughter of
unreason and the granddaughter of folly. She needed, emphatically
needed, to be shown. But this Englishman, with his harsh and
violently antagonizing way of putting things, was clearly not the
man for the need. It took a lighter touch--the hand of iron in the
velvet glove, as it were. It took a keener spirit, a softer humor.

Billy threw out his chest and drew himself up to his full five feet