time irreparably in trying to bring the meddling American to the
feet of the French woman. Quentin revelled in her discomfiture, and
Dorothy in secret enjoyed the unexpected turn of affairs.

She had seen through her mother's design, and she had known all
along how ineffectual it would prove in the end. Philip puzzled her
and piqued her more than she cared to admit. That she did not care
for him, except as a friend, she was positive, but that he should
persistently betray signs of nothing more than the most ordinary
friendship was far from pleasing to her vanity. The truth is, she
had expected him to go on his knees to her, an event which would
have simplified matters exceedingly. It would have given her the
opportunity to tell him plainly she could be no more than a friend,
and it would have served to alter his course in what she believed to
be a stubborn love chase. But he had disappointed her; he had been
the amusing companion, the ready friend, the same sunny spirit, and
she was perplexed to observe that he gave forth no indication of
hoping or even desiring to be more. She could not, of course, know
that this apparently indifferent young gentleman was wiser, far
wiser, than the rest of his kind. He saw the folly of a rash, hasty
leap in the dark, and bided his time like the cunning general who
from afar sees the hopelessness of an attack against a strong and
watchful adversary, and waits for the inevitable hour when the vigil
is relaxed.

There was no denying the fact that with all his confidence his
colors were sinking, while hers remained as gallantly fluttering as
when the struggle began. He was becoming confused and nervous; a
feeling of impotence began slyly, devilishly to assail him, and he
frequently found himself far out at sea. The strange inactivity of