lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. There was a
worried pucker on his forehead, half-hidden by the rumpled hair,
and his eyes were wide and sleepless. He had dined at the Drews'
the evening before and had had an awakening. As he thought of the
matter he could recall no special occurrence that he could really
use as evidence. Colonel and Mrs. Drew had been as kind as ever
and Barbara could not have been more charming. But something had
gone wrong and he had endured a wretched evening.

"That little English Johnnie was to blame," he argued. "Of course,
Barbara had a right to put any one she liked next to her, but why
she should have chosen that silly ass is more than I know. By
Jove, if I had been on the other side I'll warrant his grace would
have been lost in the dust."

His brain was whirling, and for the first time he was beginning to
feel the unpleasant pangs of jealousy. The Duke of Beauchamp he
especially disliked, although the poor man had hardly spoken
during the dinner. But Monty could not be reconciled. He knew, of
course, that Barbara had suitors by the dozen, but it had never
occurred to him that they were even seriously considered.
Notwithstanding the fact that his encounter with "The Censor" had
brought her into undesirable notice, she forgave him everything
after a moment's consideration. The first few wrenches of
resentment were overbalanced by her American appreciation of
chivalry, however inspired. "The Censor" had gone for years
unpunished; his coarse wit being aimed at every one who had come
into social prominence. So pungent and vindictive was his pen that
other men feared him, and there were many who lived in glass
houses in terror of a fusilade. Brewster's prompt and sufficient