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 manner all day, quiet and abstracted, bore witness to a great deal of cogitation. There was no telling to what conclusions her thoughts might have led. Grover was calling down the aid of all the aphorisms about women he had ever heard: that women had been known to change their minds, that their No was not to be taken as final. It had been a strange day, full of poignant moments, and now it was at an end,—for whatever private conclusions Olga had reached, his instinct told him that rashness would only hinder his cause. Other men might succeed by methods which would only be foreign to him.

At the door she turned and faced him, holding out her hand for her portmanteau with a noncommital smile.

"May I come to see you tomorrow?" he asked.

"Not tomorrow."

"The day after? . . . If you like we can go up the river and dine—and dance."

Her smile turned indulgent, a little wry. "Yes, that's what we'll do."

The concierge had opened the door and was handing her a note that had been left for her.

"Bonsoir, Prince!" she called back to him.

Lacking a safe margin for the dinner party, he was obliged to borrow a hundred francs from Mme. Choiseul, thus enrolling himself on the long and