she had not looked at him when she began but now she saw him. What had she said? she demanded of herself in fright. Exactly what had she said? More than she realized, undoubtedly; or else a decent, fair word spoken for him was so rare and surprising an event for Felix Rinderfeld that it affected him out of proportion to her intent. She had never seen Rinderfeld affected by anything before; so unpersonal, indeed, had he kept himself that she had never thought of him as possessing and controlling sensitiveness like other men; but here, by her word for him, she had unmasked him a man, eager for approbation—not scorning it—hungry for warmth and sympathy, not contemptuous of it, and a man yearning for affection from her.
Affection? It frightened her even to form the idea in her own head; yet she meant every word she had spoken and she would not have taken them back; they were true and deserved. Felix Rinderfeld had played fair with her from the first; and she could not imagine him going on with her except playing fair; and she would play fair with him.
"I think my presence does not help your talk with him," Rinderfeld said to her quietly, and it struck her as his characteristic refusal to take personal advantage from her. "I shall wait for you outside to take you home; or I shall go now myself, whichever you prefer."
"I think," said Marjorie, and she faced him, alternately white and overswept with flushes, she was aware, "I will take him to Clearedge Street. I meant what I said a minute ago."
"Thank you," said Rinderfeld, barely audibly; he glanced at Billy and hesitated but decided not to speak to him at all. Rinderfeld opened the door to the res-
