Rodrigo attended a private auction of Flemish art the next morning and did not reach the office until noon-time. Having glanced through his mail, he thrust his head into John's office to tell him of the purchases he had made. He was quite well pleased with himself and was looking forward to Dorning's commendation on his bargains. Mary Drake was alone in the office.
"Good-morning, Mary," called Rodrigo. "Has John gone to lunch already?"
He saw with a little uneasiness that something of the usual warmth with which she greeted him had fled from her eyes and voice. "Yes, he is lunching with a Miss Van Zile at the Plaza."
Rodrigo frowned. His high spirits were somewhat quenched. He entered and walked over toward Mary and sat down. He looked at her a moment, hesitated, then said abruptly, "Mary, if your best girl friend was attracted to a chap who you knew was no good, what would you do about it?"
She regarded him seriously and said rather pertly, "I would make very sure first that my opinion of the man's unworthiness was correct."
"And if you had made sure—then what?"
She gave a little helpless gesture. She was so serious that he was on the point of asking her what was troubling her. "How can you make sure?" she asked gravely. And went on, "I used to think that first impressions of people were instinctively the right ones. That everything after that just had the effect of clouding things, of leading to wrong judgments. Recently I changed my mind. I decided that what a person has been in the past has nothing to do with the present. I thought people could change, could find themselves, and become new men—or women. Now—I don't know."
He tried to take her delicate, white hand, but it eluded his. "Mary," he asked softly, "are you thinking of me when you say these things about—first opinions?"
He took her troubled silence for an affirmation.
"Has someone been talking to you since about me?" he queried intuitively.