the smiling eyes and robust figure and yellow hair, who was so
frank, so straightforward, and so wonderfully pretty.

But evidently they had come to the last move in the game, and as
Condy reflected that after all he had never known the real Travis,
that the girl whom he told himself he knew through and through was
only the Travis of dinner parties and afternoon functions, he was
suddenly surprised to experience a sudden qualm of deep and
genuine regret. He had never been NEAR to her, after all. They
were as far apart as when they had first met. And yet he knew
enough of her to know that she was "worth while." He had had
experience--all the experience he wanted--with other older women
and girls of society. They were sophisticated, they were all a
little tired, they had run the gamut of amusements--in a word,
they were jaded. But Travis, this girl of nineteen, who was not
yet even a debutante, had been fresh and unspoiled, had been new
and strong and young.

"Of course, you may call it what you like. He was nothing more
nor less than intoxicated--yes, drunk."

"Hah! who--what--wh--what are you talking about?" gasped Condy
sitting bolt upright.

"Jack Carter," answered Travis. "No," she added. shaking her
head at him helplessly, "he hasn't been listening to a word. I'm
talking about Jack Carter and the 'Saturday Evening' last night."

"No, no, I haven't heard. Forgive me; I was thinking--thinking of
something else. Who was drunk?"