Helen was wrestling with her refractory tresses—for the coiffure that suits glaciers and Tam o’Shanters is not permissible in evening dress—when a servant brought her a note.
“Dear Miss Wynton,” it ran,—“If you are able to come down to dinner, why not dine with me? Sincerely,
”Charles K. Spencer.”
She blushed and laughed a little. “I am in demand,” she thought, flashing a pardonable glance at her own face in the mirror. She read the brief invitation again. Spencer had a trick of printing the K in his signature. It caught her fancy. It suggested strength, trustworthiness. She did not know then that one of the shrewdest scoundrels in the Western States had already commented on certain qualities betokened by that letter in Spencer’s name.
“I cannot refuse,” she murmured. “To be candid, I don’t want to refuse. What shall I do?”
Bidding the servant wait, she twisted her hair into a coil, threw a wrap round her shoulders, and tapped on Mrs. de la Vere’s door.
“Entrez!” cried that lady.
“I am in a bit of difficulty,” said Helen. “Mr. Spencer wishes me to dine with him. Would you——”
“Certainly. I’ll ask him to join us. Reggie will see him too. Really, Helen, this is amusing. I am beginning to suspect you.”