then, a young woman in New York who had not heard of Richard
Warrington.

"In asking you to be seated," he explained, "it was in order that you
might wait in comfort while I despatched a messenger to your home.
Doubtless you have a brother, a father, or some male relative, who
will come at once to your assistance." Which proved that Warrington
was prudent.

But instead of brightening as he expected she would, she straightened
in her chair, while her eyes widened with horror, as if she saw
something frightful in perspective.

What the deuce could be the matter now? he wondered, as he witnessed
this inexplicable change.

"No, no! You must not send a messenger!" she protested.

"But--"

"No, no!" tears welling into her beautiful eyes again. They were
beautiful, he was forced to admit.

"But," he persisted, "you wished the waiter to do so. I do not
understand." His tone became formal again.

"I have reasons. Oh, heavens! I am the most miserable woman in all the
world!" She suddenly bowed her head upon her hands and her shoulders
rose and fell with silent sobs.