Mrs. Sinclair offered to shepherd the devout. They weren't many. Men even called Blodgett names for this newest recreation he had appeared to offer.
"How late did you play?" George asked Blodgett.
"Until, when I looked at my watch, I thought it must be last evening. These young bloods are too keen for Papa Blodgett."
"Get into you?" George laughed.
"I usually manage to hang on to my money," Blodgett bragged, "but the stakes ran bigger and bigger. I'll say one thing for young Dalrymple. He's no piker. Wrote I. O. U's until he wore out his fountain pen. I could paper a room with what I got. I'd be ashamed to collect them."
"Why?" George asked, shortly. "When he wrote them he knew they had to be redeemed."
Blodgett grinned.
"I expect he was a little pickled. Probably's forgot he signed them. I won't make him unhappy with his little pieces of paper."
"Daresay he'll be grateful," George said, dryly.
His ride had brought no appetite. After breakfast he avoided people with a conviction that his only business here was to see Sylvia again, then to escape. It was noon before she appeared with Betty. He caught them walking from the hall to the library, and he studied Sylvia's face with anxious curiosity. It disappointed, repelled him. It was quite unchanged, as full of colour as usual, as full of unfriendliness. She nodded carelessly, quite as if nothing had happened—gave him the identical, remote greeting to which he had become too accustomed. And last evening he had fancied her nearer! He noticed, however, that she had put her hands behind her back.