"Her name, dear lady—her name is one that stirs a thrill of admiring homage in all our hearts. It is—Mistress Barbara Ladd!"
Barbara caught her breath, and her eyes dilated.
"What?" she cried, though she had heard quite clearly.
"Her name is Mistress Barbara Ladd!" repeated Jerry Waite.
"Oh, Mr. Waite. No! No! Don't tell me it was on my account that Robert fought. Impossible! He might have been killed! And I thought—" but she stopped herself in time, without saying what it was she had thought.
Jerry Waite became serious.
"It seems to me, dear lady, that your thought, whatever it was, did Gault an injustice," said he, gently. "And that is my explanation. Am I forgiven?"
Barbara conquered her distress. This was the easier—after the first pang of remorse—because the fact that Robert had not failed her soon overtopped in her mind the fact that she had failed Robert. That unknown woman—the hateful vision vanished in a burst of light. The ache of loss was healed in her heart. She was reinstated, too, in her self-esteem. New York grew bright again. Her conquests were once more worth while. Robert should behold them all,—and be one of them,—the most subjugated of them all. At last her face grew radiant,—her eyes dancing, her teeth flashing, her mouth the reddest rose, her clear brown cheeks softly aflush.
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Waite," she cried, holding out her hand. "It is a beautiful story, and wins you a very high place in my regard. You may stay and talk to me till dinner-time, if you like; and then my uncle will be glad to have you dine with us!"
The first part of the invitation Waite accepted with alacrity, and cursed himself bitterly that he had an engagement to prevent him staying for dinner. In the conversation that followed Barbara gained him and chained him fast, not as a mad, intoxicated lover, but as one of the best and most loyal of her friends. But the moment he was gone she rushed to her scrutoir and in fierce haste scribbled a note. It ran: