Just to see how far he had gone, she took out the other things. She caught her breath.

"Well, it's your own affair," she commented. "But, if you eat all this, I'm sorry for you."

She spread a napkin before him and placed the chicken on it, surrounding it with the tin of sardines, the boxes of crackers, the jar of marmalade, the cheese, the confectionery, and other things.

Then she unrolled her own package of sandwiches, and proceeded to munch one.

"Look here!" he exclaimed. "You didn't think I bought this all for myself?"

"I'd rather think that than to think you thought I was silly enough to want you to throw away your money."

He was carving the chicken, and he handed her a portion upon one of the bright aluminum plates. But she shook her head in refusal.

"You aren't going to have any of this?"

"No, thank you."

"I call that rather too bad, because if you don't it will be wasted."

"It was wasted when you bought it."

"But you didn't tell me what to get."

"I told you we'd each bring our own luncheon," she reminded him.

"And so we did; but I don't call it very friendly of you not to share with me."

"I have quite enough of my own."

She seemed determined about the matter, so he put all the things back again in the basket, closed and fastened the lid, and, placing it to one side, lighted a fresh cigarette. She watched him in amazement.

"Aren't you going to eat your lunch?" she demanded.

"I refuse to eat alone."

"I'm the one who is eating alone," she said.

"That seems to be what you want."

"You've no right to do things and then blame me for them," she protested.

"You're doing all the blaming yourself," he returned.

For a moment she continued to eat her sandwich in silence and to watch his set face. She was quite sure he would remain stubborn in the stand he had taken.

"It was silly enough to buy all those expensive things, but it would be even sillier to throw them away," she a.s.serted.

"It would at least be too bad," he confessed. "But I can't help it, can I? I can't _make_ you eat, you know."

There he went again, placing the whole blame on her.

"Hand me that basket," she ordered.

He handed her the basket, and she brought out the delicacies.

"Next time I shall prepare both lunches," she declared.

"That will be very nice," he nodded.

CHAPTER XIX

A LETTER

Letter from Miss Frances Stuyvesant to Donald Pendleton, Esq.:--

PARIS, FRANCE, June 20.

DEAR OLD DON:--

I'm having a very good time, Don, dear, and I know you'll be glad to hear that. Dolly has a great many friends in Paris, and so has Dad, and so has Chic. Between them all we are very gay. But it is raining to-day, and somehow I've been worrying about your being in town with nothing to do but work. I do hope you are taking care of yourself and running to the sh.o.r.e or the mountains for the week-ends.

Now I must hurry up and dress; but please remember that I am still, as always,

Your FRANCES.

CHAPTER XX

STARS

At lunch one warm Wednesday, Don suggested to Miss Winthrop that after the close of business they take a car for the beach instead of going to their respective homes.

"We can go down there, have our supper, and then get out of the crowd and smell the ocean awhile," he said.

He had a knack for putting in a most reasonable light anything he wished to do. It was a feature of his selling gift, and she recognized it as such.

"What do you say?" he pressed her.

She blushed at her own hesitancy.

"Oh, I'll go," she answered.