had prepared her. She began to see why it was called a nuisance--if
this were love--and wondered if she had better not suppress it at
once. It wouldn't be suppressed. Her thoughts continually came back
to Pleydon, and the warmth, the disturbing thrill, always resulted.
It led her away from herself, from Linda Condon; a sufficiently
strange accomplishment. A concern for Dodge Pleydon, little schemes
for his happiness and well-being, put aside her clothes and
complexion and her future.

Until the present her acts had been the result of deliberation. She
had been impressed by the necessity for planning with care; but, in
the cool gloom of the covered bed, a sharp joy held her at the
possibility of flinging caution away. Yet she couldn't quite, no
matter how much she desired it, lose herself. Linda was glad that
Pleydon was rich; and there were, she remembered, moments for
surrender.

As usual these problems, multiplying toward night, were fewer in the
bright flood of morning. She laughed at the memory of Arnaud
Hallet's humor; and then, it was late afternoon, the maid told her
that Pleydon was in the drawing room. Her appearance satisfactory
she was able to see him at once. To her great pleasure neither
Pleydon nor his clothes had changed. He was dressed in light-gray
flannels; a big easy man with a crushing palm, large features and an
expression of intolerance.

"Linda," he said, "what a splendid place to find you. So much better
than Markue's." He was, she realized, very glad to see her, and
dropped at once, as if they had been uninterruptedly together, into
intimate talk. "My work has been going badly," he proceeded; "or