Mrs. Smith-Parvis had gone on ahead with Signor Juneo, and was loudly criticizing a beautiful old Venetian mirror which he had the temerity to point out to her.
"Well, I don't like it," Stuyvesant said roughly. "That sort of thing doesn't go with me, Miss Emsdale. And, hang it all, why haven't you had the decency to answer the two notes I stuck under your door last night and the night before?"
"I did not read the second one," she said, flushing painfully. "You have no right to assume that I will meet you—oh, can't you be a gentleman?"
He gasped. "My God! Can you beat that!"
"It is becoming unbearable, Mr. Smith-Parvis," said she, looking him straight in the eye. "If you persist, I shall be compelled to speak to your mother."
"Go ahead," he said sarcastically. "I'm ready for exposure if you are."
"And I am now prepared to give up my position," she added, white and calm.
"Good!" he exclaimed promptly. "I'll see that you never regret it," he went on eagerly, his enormous vanity reaching out for but one conclusion.
"You beast!" she hissed, and walked away.
He looked bewildered. "I'm blowed if I understand what's got into women lately," he muttered, and passed his fingers over his brow.
On the way to Pickett's, Mrs. Smith-Parvis dilated upon the unspeakable Mr. Juneo.
"You will be struck at once, Miss Emsdale, by the contrast. The instant you come in contact with Mr. Moody, at Pickett's—he is really the head of the firm,
