"Are you ready to go, Mr. Eaton?" she asked.
"You needn't wait for him unless you wish; I'll drive you back," she offered.
"Of course I'd prefer that, Miss Santoine."
They went out to her trap, leaving Donald to motor back alone. As soon as she had driven out of the club grounds, she let the horse take its own gait, and she turned and faced him.
"Will you tell me," she demanded, "what I have done this afternoon to make you class me among those who oppose you?"
"What have you done? Nothing, Miss Santoine."
"Oh, no," he denied so unconvincingly that she felt he was only putting her off.
Harriet Santoine knew that what had attracted her friends to Eaton was their recognition of his likeness to themselves; but what had impressed her in seeing him with them was his difference. Was it some memory of his former life that seeing these people had recalled to him, which had affected his manner toward her?
"Were you sorry to leave the club?" she asked.
"I was quite ready to leave," he answered inattentively.
"It must have been pleasant to you, though, to--to be among the sort of people again that you--you used to know. Miss Furden"--she mentioned one of the girls who had seemed most interested in him, the sister of the boy whose place he had taken in the polo practice--"is considered a very attractive person, Mr. Eaton. I have heard it said that a man--any man--not to be attracted by her must be forearmed against her by thought--or memory of some other woman whom he holds dear."
"She seemed very pleasant," he answered automatically.
"Only pleasant? You were forearmed, then," she said.
The mechanicalness of his answer reassured her. "I mean, Mr. Eaton,"--she forced her tone to be light,--"Miss Furden was not as attractive to you as she might have been, because there has been some other woman in your life--whose memory--or--or the expectation of seeing whom again--protected you."
"No--none," he replied simply. "It's rather ungallant, Miss Santoine, but I'm afraid I wasn't thinking much about Miss Furden."
She felt that his denial was the truth, for his words confirmed the impression she had had when singing with him the night before. She drove on--or rather let the horse take them on--for a few moments during which neither spoke. They had come about a bend in the road, and the great house of her father loomed ahead. A motor whizzed past them, coming from behind. It was only Avery's car on the way home; but Harriet had jumped a little in memory of the day before, and her companion's head had turned quickly toward the car. She looked up at him swiftly; his lips were set and his eyes gazed steadily ahead after Avery, and he drew a little away from her. A catch in her breath--almost an audible gasp--surprised her, and she fought a warm impulse which had all but placed her hand on his.