"The one with the pansy velvet dark eyes—with the face of a damask rose—Ida May, I believe you called her."
Ravenswood looked wonderfully relieved. As long as it was not Hildegarde, he would not trouble himself.
"By George!" exclaimed Ainsley, stopping short, "I believe those three young girls ride the bicycle. Now that I think of it, I'm sure I saw them whirl past the club yesterday morning. They wore natty navy blue suits and blue veils. I couldn't see what their faces were like. Two elderly gentlemen accompanied them."
"Yes, they ride the wheel," assented Ravenswood, reluctantly. "The two gentlemen were Mr. Ryder and Mr. Cramer, who are very enthusiastic over the sport. There's a millionaire's club of wheelmen here at Newport."
"I presume they will be at the fancy masquerade cycle tournament next week, then?" said Ainsley, carelessly, though he listened anxiously for the reply.
"No doubt," returned Ravenswood. "They were all at the last one. By the way, it's a very select affair. One has to be a member of the club, or have considerable outside influence, to secure tickets."
"Are you a member?" asked Ainsley, quickly.
"Yes," returned Ravenswood. "It was Hildegarde's father who proposed my name. I did not get even one black ball, and was consequently voted a member."
"Do you suppose, if you had been a poor devil of a clerk, instead of a millionaire's son, you would have been voted in?" asked Ainsley, a trifle bitterly, a hard light flashing into his eyes.
"Possibly not," replied Ravenswood, with a good-humored laugh.