and affronted him. A girl he knew had died, had passed out of his life forever—worse than that had never existed; and yet the city went or just as though that made no difference, or just as little difference as it would have made had Sister Anne really lived and really died.
At the same early hour, an hour far too early for the rest of the house party, Anita Flagg and Helen Page, booted and riding-habited, sat alone at the breakfast table, their tea before them; and in the hands of Anita Flagg was the DAILY REPUBLIC. Miss Page had brought the paper to the table and, with affected indignation at the impertinence of the press, had pointed at the front-page photograph; but Miss Flagg was not looking at the photograph, or drinking her tea, or showing in her immediate surroundings any interest whatsoever. Instead, her lovely eyes were fastened with fascination upon the column under the heading “The Red Cross Girl”; and, as she read, the lovely eyes lost all trace of recent slumber, her lovely lips parted breathlessly, and on her lovely cheeks the color flowed and faded and glowed and bloomed. When she had read as far as a paragraph beginning, “When Sister Anne walked between them those who suffered raised their eyes to hers as flowers lift their faces to the rain,” she dropped the paper and started for telephone.
“Any man,” cried she, to the mutual discomfort of Helen Page and the servants, “who thinks I'm like that mustn't get away! I'm not like that and I know it; but if he thinks so that's all I want. And maybe I might be like that—if any man would help.”
She gave her attention to the telephone and “Information.” She demanded to be instantly put into communication with the DAILY REPUBLIC and Mr. Sam Ward. She turned again upon Helen Page.
“I'm tired of being called a good sport,” she protested, “by men who aren't half so good sports as I am. I'm tired of being talked to about money—as though I were a stock-broker. This man's got a head on his shoulders, and he's got the shoulders too; and he's got a darned good-looking head; and he thinks I'm a ministering angel and a saint; and he put me up on a pedestal and made me dizzy—and I like being made dizzy; and I'm for him! And I'm going after him!”
“Be still!” implored Helen Page. “Any one might think you meant it!” She nodded violently at the discreet backs of the men-servants.
“Ye gods, Parker!” cried Anita Flagg. “Does it take three of you to pour a cup of tea? Get out of here, and tell everybody that you all three caught me in the act of proposing to an American gentleman over the telephone and that the betting is even that I'll make him marry me!”
The faithful and sorely tried domestics fled toward the door. “And what's more,” Anita hurled after them, “get your bets down quick, for after I meet him the odds will be a hundred to one!”
Had the REPUBLIC been an afternoon paper, Sam might have been at the office and might have gone to the telephone, and things might have happened differently; but, as the REPUBLIC was a morning paper, the only person in the office was the lady who scrubbed the floors and she refused to go near the telephone. So Anita Flagg said, “I'll call him up later,” and went happily on her ride, with her heart warm with love for all the beautiful world; but later it was too late.
To keep himself fit, Sam Ward always walked to the office. On this particular morning Hollis Holworthy was walking uptown and they met opposite the cathedral.
“You're the very man I want,” said Hollworthy joyously—“you've got to decide a bet.”
He turned and fell into step with Sam.
“It's one I made last night with Anita Flagg. She thinks you didn't know who she was yesterday, and I said that was ridiculous. Of course you knew. I bet her a theatre party.”
To Sam it seemed hardly fair that so soon, before his fresh wound had even been dressed, it should be torn open by impertinent fingers; but he had no right to take offense. How could the man, or any one else, know what Sister Anne had meant to him?
“I'm afraid you lose,” he said. He halted to give Holworthy the hint to leave him, but Holworthy had no such intention.
“You don't say so!” exclaimed that young man. “Fancy one of you chaps being taken in like that. I thought you were taking her in—getting up a story for the Sunday supplement.”
Sam shook his head, nodded, and again moved on; but he was not yet to escape. “And, instead of your fooling her,” exclaimed Holworthy incredulously, “she was having fun, with you!”
With difficulty Sam smiled.
“So it would seem,” he said.
“She certainly made an awfully funny story of it!” exclaimed Holworthy admiringly. “I thought she was making it up—she must have made some of it up. She said you asked her to take a day off in New York. That isn't so is it?”
“Yes, that's so.”
“By Jove!” cried Holworthy—“and that you invited her to see the moving-picture shows?”
Sam, conscious of the dearly bought front row seats in his pocket, smiled pleasantly.
“Did she say I said that—or you?” he asked
“She did.”
“Well, then, I must have said it.”
Holworthy roared with amusement.
“And that you invited her to feed peanuts to the monkeys at the Zoo?”
Sam avoided the little man's prying eyes.
“Yes; I said that too.”
“And I thought she was making it up!” exclaimed Holworthy. “We did laugh. You must see the fun of it yourself.”
Lest Sam should fail to do so he proceeded to elaborate.
“You must see the fun in a man trying to make a date with Anita Flagg—just as if she were nobody!”
“I don't think,” said Sam, “that was my idea.” He waved his stick at a passing taxi. “I'm late,” he said. He abandoned Hollis on the sidewalk, chuckling and grinning with delight, and unconscious of the mischief he had made.
An hour later at the office, when Sam was waiting for an assignment, the telephone boy hurried to him, his eyes lit with excitement.
“You're wanted on the 'phone,” he commanded. His voice dropped to an awed whisper. “Miss Anita Flagg wants to speak to you!”
The blood ran leaping to Sam's heart and face. Then he remembered that this was not Sister Anne who wanted to speak to him, but a woman he had never met.
“Say you can't find me,” he directed. The boy gasped, fled, and returned precipitately.
“The lady says she wants your telephone number—says she must have it.”
“Tell her you don't know it; tell her it's against the rules—and hang up.”
Ten minutes later the telephone boy, in the strictest confidence, had informed every member of the local staff that Anita Flagg—the rich, the beautiful, the daring, the original of the Red Cross story of that morning—had twice called up Sam Ward and by that young man had been thrown down—and thrown hard!
