ALL THE SAD YOUNG MEN




_By_

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD




NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

1926




TO

RING AND ELLIS LARDNER




CONTENTS

THE RICH BOY

WINTER DREAMS

THE BABY PARTY

ABSOLUTION

RAGS MARTIN-JONES AND THE PR-NCE OF W-LES

THE ADJUSTER

HOT AND COLD BLOOD

"THE SENSIBLE THING"

GRETCHEN'S FORTY WINKS




THE RICH BOY


Begin with an individual, and before you know it you find that you have
created a type; begin with a type, and you find that you have
created--nothing. That is because we are all queer fish, queerer behind
our faces and voices than we want any one to know or than we know
ourselves. When I hear a man proclaiming himself an "average, honest,
open fellow," I feel pretty sure that he has some definite and perhaps
terrible abnormality which he has agreed to conceal--and his
protestation of being average and honest and open is his way of
reminding himself of his misprision.

There are no types, no plurals. There is a rich boy, and this is his and
not his brothers' story. All my life I have lived among his brothers but
this one has been my friend. Besides, if I wrote about his brothers I
should have to begin by attacking all the lies that the poor have told
about the rich and the rich have told about themselves--such a wild
structure they have erected that when we pick up a book about the rich,
some instinct prepares us for unreality. Even the intelligent and
impassioned reporters of life have made the country of the rich as
unreal as fairy-land.

Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me.
They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them
soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful, in a way
that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand.
They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better than we are
because we had to discover the compensations and refuges of life for
ourselves. Even when they enter deep into our world or sink below us,
they still think that they are better than we are. They are different.
The only way I can describe young Anson Hunter is to approach him as if
he were a foreigner and cling stubbornly to my point of view. If I
accept his for a moment I am lost--I have nothing to show but a
preposterous movie.




II


Anson was the eldest of six children who would some day divide a fortune
of fifteen million dollars, and he reached the age of reason--is it
seven?--at the beginning of the century when daring young women were
already gliding along Fifth Avenue in electric "mobiles." In those days
he and his brother had an English governess who spoke the language very
clearly and crisply and well, so that the two boys grew to speak as she
did--their words and sentences were all crisp and clear and not run
together as ours are. They didn't talk exactly like English children but
acquired an accent that is peculiar to fashionable people in the city of
New York.

In the summer the six children were moved from the house on 71st Street
to a big estate in northern Connecticut. It was not a fashionable
locality--Anson's father wanted to delay as long as possible his
children's knowledge of that side of life. He was a man somewhat
superior to his class, which composed New York society, and to his
period, which was the snobbish and formalized vulgarity of the Gilded
Age, and he wanted his sons to learn habits of concentration and have
sound constitutions and grow up into right-living and successful men. He
and his wife kept an eye on them as well as they were able until the two
older boys went away to school, but in huge establishments this is
difficult--it was much simpler in the series of small and medium-sized
houses in which my own youth was spent--I was never far out of the reach
of my mother's voice, of the sense of her presence, her approval or
disapproval.

Anson's first sense of his superiority came to him when he realized the
half-grudging American deference that was paid to him in the Connecticut
village. The parents of the boys he played with always inquired after
his father and mother, and were vaguely excited when their own children
were asked to the Hunters' house. He accepted this as the natural state
of things, and a sort of impatience with all groups of which he was not
the centre--in money, in position, in authority--remained with him for
the rest of his life. He disdained to struggle with other boys for
precedence--he expected it to be given him freely, and when it wasn't he
withdrew into his family. His family was sufficient, for in the East
money is still a I somewhat feudal thing, a clan-forming thing. In the
snobbish West, money separates families to form "sets."

At eighteen, when he went to New Haven, Anson was tall and thick-set,
with a clear complexion and a healthy color from the ordered life he had
led in school. His hair was yellow and grew in a funny way on his head,
his nose was beaked--these two things kept him from being handsome--but
he had a confident charm and a certain brusque style, and the
upper-class men who passed him on the street knew without being told
that he was a rich boy and had gone to one of the best schools.
Nevertheless, his very superiority kept him from being a success in
college--the independence was mistaken for egotism, and the refusal to
accept Yale standards with the proper awe seemed to belittle all those
who had. So, long before he graduated, he began to shift the centre of
his life to New York.

He was at home in New York--there was his own house with "the kind of
servants you can't get any more"--and his own family, of which, because
of his good humor and a certain ability to make things go, he was
rapidly becoming the centre, and the débutante parties, and the correct
manly world of the men's clubs, and the occasional wild spree with the
gallant girls whom New Haven only knew from the fifth row. His
aspirations were conventional enough--they included even the
irreproachable shadow he would some day marry, but they differed from
the aspirations of the majority of young men in that there was no mist
over them, none of that quality which is variously known as "idealism"
or "illusion." Anson accepted without reservation the world of high
finance and high extravagance, of divorce and dissipation, of snobbery
and of privilege. Most of our lives end as a compromise--it was as a
compromise that his life began.

He and I first met in the late summer of 1917 when he was just out of
Yale, and, like the rest of us, was swept up into the systematized
hysteria of the war. In the blue-green uniform of the naval aviation he
came down to Pensacola, where the hotel orchestras played "I'm sorry,
dear," and we young officers danced with the girls. Every one liked him,
and though he ran with the drinkers and wasn't an especially good pilot,
even the instructors treated him with a certain respect. He was always
having long talks with them in his confident, logical voice--talks which
ended by his getting himself, or, more frequently, another officer, out
of some impending trouble. He was convivial, bawdy, robustly avid for
pleasure, and we were all surprised when he fell in love with a
conservative and rather proper girl.

Her name was Paula Legendre, a dark, serious beauty from somewhere in
California. Her family kept a winter residence just outside of town, and
in spite of her primness she was enormously popular; there is a large
class of men whose egotism can't endure humor in a woman. But Anson
wasn't that sort, and I couldn't understand the attraction of her
"sincerity"--that was the thing to say about her--for his keen and
somewhat sardonic mind.

Nevertheless, they fell in love--and on her terms. He no longer joined
the twilight gathering at the De Sota bar, and whenever they were seen
together they were engaged in a long, serious dialogue, which must have
gone on several weeks. Long afterward he told me that it was not about
anything in particular but was composed on both sides of immature and
even meaningless statements--the emotional content that gradually came
to fill it grew up not out of the words but out of its enormous
seriousness. It was a sort of hypnosis. Often it was interrupted, giving
way to that emasculated humor we call fun; when they were alone it was
resumed again, solemn, low-keyed, and pitched so as to give each other a
sense of unity in feeling and thought. They came to resent any
interruptions of it, to be unresponsive to facetiousness about life,
even to the mild cynicism of their contemporaries. They were only happy
when the dialogue was going on, and its seriousness bathed them like the
amber glow of an open fire. Toward the end there came an interruption
they did not resent--it began to be interrupted by passion.

Oddly enough, Anson was as engrossed in the dialogue as she was and as
profoundly affected by it, yet at the same time aware that on his side
much was insincere, and on hers much was merely simple. At first, too,
he despised her emotional simplicity as well, but with his love her
nature deepened and blossomed, and he could despise it no longer. He
felt that if he could enter into Paula's warm safe life he would be
happy. The long preparation of the dialogue removed any constraint--he
taught her some of what he had learned from more adventurous women, and
she responded with a rapt holy intensity. One evening after a dance they
agreed to marry, and he wrote a long letter about her to his mother. The
next day Paula told him that she was rich, that she had a personal
fortune of nearly a million dollars.




III


It was exactly as if they could say "Neither of us has anything: we
shall be poor together"--just as delightful that they should be rich
instead. It gave them the same communion of adventure. Yet when Anson
got leave in April, and Paula and her mother accompanied him North, she
was impressed with the standing of his family in New York and with the
scale on which they lived. Alone with Anson for the first time in the
rooms where he had played as a boy, she was filled with a comfortable
emotion, as though she were pre-eminently safe and taken care of. The
pictures of Anson in a skull cap at his first school, of Anson on
horseback with the sweetheart of a mysterious forgotten summer, of Anson
in a gay group of ushers and bridesmaid at a wedding, made her jealous
of his life apart from her in the past, and so completely did his
authoritative person seem to sum up and typify these possessions of his
that she was inspired with the idea of being married immediately and
returning to Pensacola as his wife.

But an immediate marriage wasn't discussed--even the engagement was to
be secret until after the war. When she realized that only two days of
his leave remained, her dissatisfaction crystallized in the intention of
making him as unwilling to wait as she was. They were driving to the
country for dinner, and she determined to force the issue that night.

Now a cousin of Paula's was staying with them at the Ritz, a severe,
bitter girl who loved Paula but was somewhat jealous of her impressive
engagement, and as Paula was late in dressing, the cousin, who wasn't
going to the party, received Anson in the parlor of the suite.

Anson had met friends at five o'clock and drunk freely and indiscreetly
with them for an hour. He left the Yale Club at a proper time, and his
mother's chauffeur drove him to the Ritz, but his usual capacity was not
in evidence, and the impact of the steam-heated sitting-room made him
suddenly dizzy. He knew it, and he was both amused and sorry.

Paula's cousin was twenty-five, but she was exceptionally naïve; and at
first failed to realize what was up. She had never met Anson before, and
she was surprised when he mumbled strange information and nearly fell
off his chair, but until Paula appeared it didn't occur to her that what
she had taken for the odor of a dry-cleaned uniform was really whiskey.
But Paula understood as soon as she appeared; her only thought was to
get Anson away before her mother saw him, and at the look in her eyes
the cousin understood too.

When Paula and Anson descended to the limousine they found two men
inside, both asleep; they were the men with whom he had been drinking at
the Yale Club, and they were also going to the party. He had entirely
forgotten their presence in the car. On the way to Hempstead they awoke
and sang. Some of the songs were rough, and though Paula tried to
reconcile herself to the fact that Anson had few verbal inhibitions, her
lips tightened with shame and distaste.

Back at the hotel the cousin, confused and agitated, considered the
incident, and then walked into Mrs. Legendre's bedroom, saying: "Isn't
he funny?"

"Who is funny?"

"Why--Mr. Hunter. He seemed so funny."

Mrs. Legendre looked at her sharply.

"How is he funny?"

"Why, he said he was French. I didn't know he was French."

"That's absurd. You must have misunderstood." She smiled: "It was a
joke."

The cousin shook her head stubbornly.

"No. He said he was brought up in France. He said he couldn't speak any
English, and that's why he couldn't talk to me. And he couldn't!"

Mrs. Legendre looked away with impatience just as the cousin added
thoughtfully, "Perhaps it was because he was so drunk," and walked out
of the room.

This curious report was true. Anson, finding his voice thick and
uncontrollable, had taken the unusual refuge of announcing that he spoke
no English. Years afterward he used to tell that part of the story; and
he invariably communicated the uproarious laughter which the memory
aroused in him.

Five times in the next hour Mrs. Legendre tried to get Hempstead on the
phone. When she succeeded, there was a ten-minute delay before she heard
Paula's voice on the wire.

"Cousin Jo told me Anson was intoxicated."

"Oh, no...."

"Oh, yes. Cousin Jo says he was intoxicated. He told her he was French,
and fell off his chair and behaved as if he was very intoxicated. I
don't want you to come home with him."

"Mother, he's all right! Please don't worry about----"

"But I do worry. I think it's dreadful. I want you to promise me not to
come home with him."

"I'll take care of it, mother...."

"I don't want you to come home with him."

"All right, mother. Good-by."

"Be sure now, Paula. Ask some one to bring you."

Deliberately Paula took the receiver from her ear and hung it up. Her
face was flushed with helpless annoyance. Anson was stretched asleep out
in a bedroom up-stairs, while the dinner-party below was proceeding
lamely toward conclusion.

The hour's drive had sobered him somewhat--his arrival was merely
hilarious--and Paula hoped that the evening was not spoiled, after all,
but two imprudent cocktails before dinner completed the disaster. He
talked boisterously and somewhat offensively to the party at large for
fifteen minutes, and then slid silently under the table; like a man in
an old print--but, unlike an old print, it was rather horrible without
being at all quaint. None of the young girls present remarked upon the
incident--it seemed to merit only silence. His uncle and two other men
carried him up-stairs, and it was just after this that Paula was called
to the phone.

An hour later Anson awoke in a fog of nervous agony, through which he
perceived after a moment the figure of his uncle Robert standing by the
door.

"... I said are you better?"

"What?"

"Do you feel better, old man?"

"Terrible," said Anson.

"I'm going to try you on another bromo-seltzer. If you can hold it down,
it'll do you good to sleep."

With an effort Anson slid his legs from the bed and stood up.

"I'm all right," he said dully.

"Take it easy."

"I thin' if you gave me a glassbrandy I could go down-stairs."

"Oh, no----"

"Yes, that's the only thin'. I'm all right now.... I suppose I'm in
Dutch dow' there."

"They know you're a little under the weather," said his uncle
deprecatingly. "But don't worry about it. Schuyler didn't even get here.
He passed away in the locker-room over at the Links."

Indifferent to any opinion, except Paula's, Anson was nevertheless
determined to save the débris of the evening, but when after a cold
bath he made his appearance most of the party had already left. Paula
got up immediately to go home.

In the limousine the old serious dialogue began. She had known that he
drank, she admitted, but she had never expected anything like this--it
seemed to her that perhaps they were not suited to each other, after
all. Their ideas about life were too different, and so forth. When she
finished speaking, Anson spoke in turn, very soberly. Then Paula said
she'd have to think it over; she wouldn't decide to-night; she was not
angry but she was terribly sorry. Nor would she let him come into the
hotel with her, but just before she got out of the car she leaned and
kissed him unhappily on the cheek.

The next afternoon Anson had a long talk with Mrs. Legendre while Paula
sat listening in silence. It was agreed that Paula was to brood over the
incident for a proper period and then, if mother and daughter thought it
best, they would follow Anson to Pensacola. On his part he apologized
with sincerity and dignity--that was all; with every card in her hand
Mrs. Legendre was unable to establish any advantage over him. He made no
promises, showed no humility, only delivered a few serious comments on
life which brought him off with rather a moral superiority at the end.
When they came South three weeks later, neither Anson in his
satisfaction nor Paula in her relief at the reunion realized that the
psychological moment had passed forever.




IV


He dominated and attracted her, and at the same time filled her with
anxiety. Confused by his mixture of solidity and self-indulgence, of
sentiment and cynicism--incongruities which her gentle mind was unable
to resolve--Paula grew to think of him as two alternating personalities.
When she saw him alone, or at a formal party, or with his casual
inferiors, she felt a tremendous pride in his strong, attractive
presence, the paternal, understanding stature of his mind. In other
company she became uneasy when what had been a fine imperviousness to
mere gentility showed its other face. The other face was gross,
humorous, reckless of everything but pleasure. It startled her mind
temporarily away from him, even led her into a short covert experiment
with an old beau, but it was no use--after four months of Anson's
enveloping vitality there was an anæmic pallor in all other men.

In July he was ordered abroad, and their tenderness and desire reached a
crescendo. Paula considered a last-minute marriage--decided against it
only because there were always cocktails on his breath now, but the
parting itself made her physically ill with grief. After his departure
she wrote him long letters of regret for the days of love they had
missed by waiting. In August Anson's plane slipped down into the North
Sea. He was pulled onto a destroyer after a night in the water and sent
to hospital with pneumonia; the armistice was signed before he was
finally sent home.

Then, with every opportunity given back to them, with no material
obstacle to overcome, the secret weavings of their temperaments came
between them, drying up their kisses and their tears, making their
voices less loud to one another, muffling the intimate chatter of their
hearts until the old communication was only possible by letters, from
far away. One afternoon a society reporter waited for two hours in the
Hunters' house for a confirmation of their engagement. Anson denied it;
nevertheless an early issue carried the report as a leading
paragraph--they were "constantly seen together at Southampton, Hot
Springs, and Tuxedo Park." But the serious dialogue had turned a corner
into a long-sustained quarrel, and the affair was almost played out.
Anson got drunk flagrantly and missed an engagement with her, whereupon
Paula made certain behavioristic demands. His despair was helpless
before his pride and his knowledge of himself: the engagement was
definitely broken.

"Dearest," said their letters now, "Dearest, Dearest, when I wake up in
the middle of the night and realize that after all it was not to be, I
feel that I want to die. I can't go on living any more. Perhaps when we
meet this summer we may talk things over and decide differently--we were
so excited and sad that day, and I don't feel that I can live all my
life without you. You speak of other people. Don't you know there are no
other people for me, but only you...."

But as Paula drifted here and there around the East she would sometimes
mention her gaieties to make him wonder. Anson was too acute to wonder.
When he saw a man's name in her letters he felt more sure of her and a
little disdainful--he was always superior to such things. But he still
hoped that they would some day marry.

Meanwhile he plunged vigorously into all the movement and glitter of
post-bellum New York, entering a brokerage house, joining half a dozen
clubs, dancing late, and moving in three worlds--his own world, the
world of young Yale graduates, and that section of the half-world which
rests one end on Broadway. But there was always a thorough and
infractible eight hours devoted to his work in Wall Street, where the
combination of his influential family connection, his sharp
intelligence, and his abundance of sheer physical energy brought him
almost immediately forward. He had one of those invaluable minds with
partitions in it; sometimes he appeared at his office refreshed by less
than an hour's sleep, but such occurrences were rare. So early as 1920
his income in salary and commissions exceeded twelve thousand dollars.

As the Yale tradition slipped into the past he became more and more of a
popular figure among his classmates in New York, more popular than he
had ever been in college. He lived in a great house, and had the means
of introducing young men into other great houses. Moreover, his life
already seemed secure, while theirs, for the most part, had arrived
again at precarious beginnings. They commenced to turn to him for
amusement and escape, and Anson responded readily, taking pleasure in
helping people and arranging their affairs.

There were no men in Paula's letters now, but a note of tenderness ran
through them that had not been there before. From several sources he
heard that she had "a heavy beau," Lowell Thayer, a Bostonian of wealth
and position, and though he was sure she still loved him, it made him
uneasy to think that he might lose her, after all. Save for one
unsatisfactory day she had not been in New York for almost five months,
and as the rumors multiplied he became increasingly anxious to see her.
In February he took his vacation and went down to Florida.

Palm Beach sprawled plump and opulent between the sparkling sapphire of
Lake Worth, flawed here and there by house-boats at anchor, and the
great turquoise bar of the Atlantic Ocean. The huge bulks of the
Breakers and the Royal Poinciana rose as twin paunches from the bright
level of the sand, and around them clustered the Dancing Glade,
Bradley's House of Chance, and a dozen modistes and milliners with goods
at triple prices from New York. Upon the trellissed veranda of the
Breakers two hundred women stepped right, stepped left, wheeled, and
slid in that then celebrated calisthenic known as the double-shuffle,
while in half-time to the music two thousand bracelets clicked up and
down on two hundred arms.

At the Everglades Club after dark Paula and Lowell Thayer and Anson and
a casual fourth played bridge with hot cards. It seemed to Anson that
her kind, serious face was wan and tired--she had been around now for
four, five, years. He had known her for three.

"Two spades."

"Cigarette? ... Oh, I beg your pardon. By me."

"By."

"I'll double three spades."

There were a dozen tables of bridge in the room, which was filling up
with smoke. Anson's eyes met Paula's, held them persistently even when
Thayer's glance fell between them....

"What was bid?" he asked abstractedly.


     "_Rose of Washington Square_"


sang the young people in the corners:


     "_I'm withering there
      In basement air----_"


The smoke banked like fog, and the opening of a door filled the room
with blown swirls of ectoplasm. Little Bright Eyes streaked past the
tables seeking Mr. Conan Doyle among the Englishmen who were posing as
Englishmen about the lobby.

"You could cut it with a knife."

"... cut it with a knife."

"... a knife."

At the end of the rubber Paula suddenly got up and spoke to Anson in a
tense, low voice. With scarcely a glance at Lowell Thayer, they walked
out the door and descended a long flight of stone steps--in a moment
they were walking hand in hand along the moonlit beach.

"Darling, darling...." They embraced recklessly, passionately, in a
shadow.... Then Paula drew back her face to let his lips say what she
wanted to hear--she could feel the words forming as they kissed
again.... Again she broke away, listening, but as he pulled her close
once more she realized that he had said nothing--only "_Darling_!
_Darling_!" in that deep, sad whisper that always made her cry. Humbly,
obediently, her emotions yielded to him and the tears streamed down her
face, but her heart kept on crying: "Ask me--oh, Anson, dearest, ask
me!"

"Paula.... _Paula_!"

The words wrung her heart like hands, and Anson, feeling her tremble,
knew that emotion was enough. He need say no more, commit their
destinies to no practical enigma. Why should he, when he might hold her
so, biding his own time, for another year--forever? He was considering
them both, her more than himself. For a moment, when she said suddenly
that she must go back to her hotel, he hesitated, thinking, first, "This
is the moment, after all," and then: "No, let it wait--she is mine...."

He had forgotten that Paula too was worn away inside with the strain of
three years. Her mood passed forever in the night.

He went back to New York next morning filled with a certain restless
dissatisfaction. Late in April, without warning, he received a telegram
from Bar Harbor in which Paula told him that she was engaged to Lowell
Thayer, and that they would be married immediately in Boston. What he
never really believed could happen had happened at last.

Anson filled himself with whiskey that morning, and going to the office,
carried on his work without a break--rather with a fear of what would
happen if he stopped. In the evening he went out as usual, saying
nothing of what had occurred; he was cordial, humorous, unabstracted.
But one thing he could not help--for three days, in any place, in any
company, he would suddenly bend his head into his hands and cry like a
child.




V


In 1922 when Anson went abroad with the junior partner to investigate
some London loans, the journey intimated that he was to be taken into
the firm. He was twenty-seven now, a little heavy without being
definitely stout, and with a manner older than his years. Old people and
young people liked him and trusted him, and mothers felt safe when their
daughters were in his charge, for he had a way, when he came into a
room, of putting himself on a footing with the oldest and most
conservative people there. "You and I," he seemed to say, "we're solid.
We understand."

He had an instinctive and rather charitable knowledge of the weaknesses
of men and women, and, like a priest, it made him the more concerned for
the maintenance of outward forms. It was typical of him that every
Sunday morning he taught in a fashionable Episcopal Sunday-school--even
though a cold shower and a quick change into a cutaway coat were all
that separated him from the wild night before.

After his father's death he was the practical head of his family, and,
in effect, guided the destinies of the younger children. Through a
complication his authority did not extend to his father's estate, which
was administrated by his Uncle Robert, who was the horsey member of the
family, a good-natured, hard-drinking member of that set which centres
about Wheatley Hills.

Uncle Robert and his wife, Edna, had been great friends of Anson's
youth, and the former was disappointed when his nephew's superiority
failed to take a horsey form. He backed him for a city club which was
the most difficult in America to enter--one could only join if one's
family had "helped to build up New York" (or, in other words, were rich
before 1880)--and when Anson, after his election, neglected it for the
Yale Club, Uncle Robert gave him a little talk on the subject. But when
on top of that Anson declined to enter Robert Hunter's own conservative
and somewhat neglected brokerage house, his manner grew cooler. Like a
primary teacher who has taught all he knew, he slipped out of Anson's
life.

There were so many friends in Anson's life--scarcely one for whom he had
not done some unusual kindness and scarcely one whom he did not
occasionally embarrass by his bursts of rough conversation or his habit
of getting drunk whenever and however he liked. It annoyed him when any
one else blundered in that regard--about his own lapses he was always
humorous. Odd things happened to him and he told them with infectious
laughter.

I was working in New York that spring, and I used to lunch with him at
the Yale Club, which my university was sharing until the completion of
our own. I had read of Paula's marriage, and one afternoon, when I asked
him about her, something moved him to tell me the story. After that he
frequently invited me to family dinners at his house and behaved as
though there was a special relation between us, as though with his
confidence a little of that consuming memory had passed into me.

I found that despite the trusting mothers, his attitude toward girls was
not indiscriminately protective. It was up to the girl--if she showed an
inclination toward looseness, she must take care of herself, even with
him.

"Life," he would explain sometimes, "has made a cynic of me."

By life he meant Paula. Sometimes, especially when he was drinking, it
became a little twisted in his mind, and he thought that she had
callously thrown him over.

This "cynicism," or rather his realization that naturally fast girls
were not worth sparing, led to his affair with Dolly Karger. It wasn't
his only affair in those years, but it came nearest to touching him
deeply, and it had a profound effect upon his attitude toward life.

Dolly was the daughter of a notorious "publicist" who had married into
society. She herself grew up into the Junior League, came out at the
Plaza, and went to the Assembly; and only a few old families like the
Hunters could question whether or not she "belonged," for her picture
was often in the papers, and she had more enviable attention than many
girls who undoubtedly did. She was dark-haired, with carmine
lips and a high, lovely color, which she concealed under pinkish-gray
powder all through the first year out, because high color was
unfashionable--Victorian-pale was the thing to be. She wore black,
severe suits and stood with her hands in her pockets leaning a little
forward, with a humorous restraint on her face. She danced
exquisitely--better than anything she liked to dance--better than
anything except making love. Since she was ten she had always been in
love, and, usually, with some boy who didn't respond to her. Those who
did--and there were many--bored her after a brief encounter, but for
her failures she reserved the warmest spot in her heart. When she met
them she would always try once more--sometimes she succeeded, more often
she failed.

It never occurred to this gypsy of the unattainable that there was a
certain resemblance in those who refused to love her--they shared a hard
intuition that saw through to her weakness, not a weakness of emotion
but a weakness of rudder. Anson perceived this when he first met her,
less than a month after Paula's marriage. He was drinking rather
heavily, and he pretended for a week that he was falling in love with
her. Then he dropped her abruptly and forgot--immediately he took up the
commanding position in her heart.

Like so many girls of that day Dolly was slackly and indiscreetly wild.
The unconventionality of a slightly older generation had been simply one
facet of a post-war movement to discredit obsolete manners--Dolly's was
both older and shabbier, and she saw in Anson the two extremes which the
emotionally shiftless woman seeks, an abandon to indulgence alternating
with a protective strength. In his character she felt both the sybarite
and the solid rock, and these two satisfied every need of her nature.

She felt that it was going to be difficult, but she mistook the
reason--she thought that Anson and his family expected a more
spectacular marriage, but she guessed immediately that her advantage lay
in his tendency to drink.

They met at the large débutante dances, but as her infatuation
increased they managed to be more and more together. Like most mothers,
Mrs. Karger believed that Anson was exceptionally reliable, so she
allowed Dolly to go with him to distant country clubs and suburban
houses without inquiring closely into their activities or questioning
her explanations when they came in late. At first these explanations
might have been accurate, but Dolly's worldly ideas of capturing Anson
were soon engulfed in the rising sweep of her emotion. Kisses in the
back of taxis and motor-cars were no longer enough; they did a curious
thing:

They dropped out of their world for a while and made another world just
beneath it where Anson's tippling and Dolly's irregular hours would be
less noticed and commented on. It was composed, this world, of varying
elements--several of Anson's Yale friends and their wives, two or three
young brokers and bond salesmen and a handful of unattached men, fresh
from college, with money and a propensity to dissipation. What this
world lacked in spaciousness and scale it made up for by allowing them
a liberty that it scarcely permitted itself. Moreover, it centred around
them and permitted Dolly the pleasure of a faint condescension--a
pleasure which Anson, whose whole life was a condescension from the
certitudes of his childhood, was unable to share.

He was not in love with her, and in the long feverish winter of their
affair he frequently told her so. In the spring he was weary--he wanted
to renew his life at some other source--moreover, he saw that either he
must break with her now or accept the responsibility of a definite
seduction. Her family's encouraging attitude precipitated his
decision--one evening when Mr. Karger knocked discreetly at the library
door to announce that he had left a bottle of old brandy in the
dining-room, Anson felt that life was hemming him in. That night he
wrote her a short letter in which he told her that he was going on his
vacation, and that in view of all the circumstances they had better meet
no more.

It was June. His family had closed up the house and gone to the country,
so he was living temporarily at the Yale Club. I had heard about his
affair with Dolly as it developed--accounts salted with humor, for he
despised unstable women, and granted them no place in the social edifice
in which he believed--and when he told me that night that he was
definitely breaking with her I was glad. I had seen Dolly here and
there, and each time with a feeling of pity at the hopelessness of her
struggle, and of shame at knowing so much about her that I had no right
to know. She was what is known as "a pretty little thing," but there was
a certain recklessness which rather fascinated me. Her dedication to the
goddess of waste would have been less obvious had she been less
spirited--she would most certainly throw herself away, but I was glad
when I heard that the sacrifice would not be consummated in my sight.

Anson was going to leave the letter of farewell at her house next
morning. It was one of the few houses left open in the Fifth Avenue
district, and he knew that the Kargers, acting upon erroneous
information from Dolly, had foregone a trip abroad to give their
daughter her chance. As he stepped out the door of the Yale Club into
Madison Avenue the postman passed him, and he followed back inside. The
first letter that caught his eye was in Dolly's hand.

He knew what it would be--a lonely and tragic monologue, full of the
reproaches he knew, the invoked memories, the "I wonder if's"--all the
immemorial intimacies that he had communicated to Paula Legendre in what
seemed another age. Thumbing over some bills, he brought it on top again
and opened it. To his surprise it was a short, somewhat formal note,
which said that Dolly would be unable to go to the country with him for
the week-end, because Perry Hull from Chicago had unexpectedly come to
town. It added that Anson had brought this on himself: "--if I felt that
you loved me as I love you I would go with you at any time, any place,
but Perry is _so_ nice, and he so much wants me to marry him----"

Anson smiled contemptuously--he had had experience with such decoy
epistles. Moreover, he knew how Dolly had labored over this plan,
probably sent for the faithful Perry and calculated the time of his
arrival--even labored over the note so that it would make him jealous
without driving him away. Like most compromises, it had neither force
nor vitality but only a timorous despair.

Suddenly he was angry. He sat down in the lobby and read it again. Then
he went to the phone, called Dolly and told her in his clear, compelling
voice that he had received her note and would call for her at five
o'clock as they had previously planned. Scarcely waiting for the
pretended uncertainty of her "Perhaps I can see you for an hour," he
hung up the receiver and went down to his office. On the way he tore his
own letter into bits and dropped it in the street.

He was not jealous--she meant nothing to him--but at her pathetic ruse
everything stubborn and self-indulgent in him came to the surface. It
was a presumption from a mental inferior and it could not be overlooked.
If she wanted to know to whom she belonged she would see.

He was on the door-step at quarter past five. Dolly was dressed for the
street, and he listened in silence to the paragraph of "I can only see
you for an hour," which she had begun on the phone.

"Put on your hat, Dolly," he said, "we'll take a walk."

They strolled up Madison Avenue and over to Fifth while Anson's shirt
dampened upon his portly body in the deep heat. He talked little,
scolding her, making no love to her, but before they had walked six
blocks she was his again, apologizing for the note, offering not to see
Perry at all as an atonement, offering anything. She thought that he had
come because he was beginning to love her.

"I'm hot," he said when they reached 71st Street. "This is a winter
suit. If I stop by the house and change, would you mind waiting for me
down-stairs? I'll only be a minute."

She was happy; the intimacy of his being hot, of any physical fact about
him, thrilled her. When they came to the iron-grated door and Anson took
out his key she experienced a sort of delight.

Down-stairs it was dark, and after he ascended in the lift Dolly raised
a curtain and looked out through opaque lace at the houses over the way.
She heard the lift machinery stop, and with the notion of teasing him
pressed the button that brought it down. Then on what was more than an
impulse she got into it and sent it up to what she guessed was his
floor.

"Anson," she called, laughing a little.

"Just a minute," he answered from his bedroom ... then after a brief
delay: "Now you can come in."

He had changed and was buttoning his vest. "This is my room," he said
lightly. "How do you like it?"

She caught sight of Paula's picture on the wall and stared at it in
fascination, just as Paula had stared at the pictures of Anson's
childish sweethearts five years before. She knew something about
Paula--sometimes she tortured herself with fragments of the story.

Suddenly she came close to Anson, raising her arms. They embraced.
Outside the area window a soft artificial twilight already hovered,
though the sun was still bright on a back roof across the way. In half
an hour the room would be quite dark. The uncalculated opportunity
overwhelmed them, made them both breathless, and they clung more
closely. It was eminent, inevitable. Still holding one another, they
raised their heads--their eyes fell together upon Paula's picture,
staring down at them from the wall.

Suddenly Anson dropped his arms, and sitting down at his desk tried the
drawer with a bunch of keys.

"Like a drink?" he asked in a gruff voice.

"No, Anson."

He poured himself half a tumbler of whiskey, swallowed it, and then
opened the door into the hall.

"Come on," he said.

Dolly hesitated.

"Anson--I'm going to the country with you to-night, after all. You
understand that, don't you?"

"Of course," he answered brusquely.

In Dolly's car they rode on to Long Island, closer in their emotions
than they had ever been before. They knew what would happen--not with
Paula's face to remind them that something was lacking, but when they
were alone in the still, hot Long Island night they did not care.

The estate in Port Washington where they were to spend the week-end
belonged to a cousin of Anson's who had married a Montana copper
operator. An interminable drive began at the lodge and twisted under
imported poplar saplings toward a huge, pink, Spanish house. Anson had
often visited there before.

After dinner they danced at the Linx Club. About midnight Anson assured
himself that his cousins would not leave before two--then he explained
that Dolly was tired; he would take her home and return to the dance
later. Trembling a little with excitement, they got into a borrowed car
together and drove to Port Washington. As they reached the lodge he
stopped and spoke to the night-watchman.

"When are you making a round, Carl?"

"Right away."

"Then you'll be here till everybody's in?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Listen: if any automobile, no matter whose it is, turns in
at this gate, I want you to phone the house immediately." He put a
five-dollar bill into Carl's hand. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mr. Anson." Being of the Old World, he neither winked nor smiled.
Yet Dolly sat with her face turned slightly away.

Anson had a key. Once inside he poured a drink for both of them--Dolly
left hers untouched--then he ascertained definitely the location of the
phone, and found that it was within easy hearing distance of their
rooms, both of which were on the first floor.

Five minutes later he knocked at the door of Dolly's room.

"Anson?" He went in, closing the door behind him. She was in bed,
leaning up anxiously with elbows on the pillow; sitting beside her he
took her in his arms.

"Anson, darling."

He didn't answer.

"Anson.... Anson! I love you.... Say you love me. Say it now--can't you
say it now? Even if you don't mean it?"

He did not listen. Over her head he perceived that the picture of Paula
was hanging here upon this wall.

He got up and went close to it. The frame gleamed faintly with
thrice-reflected moonlight--within was a blurred shadow of a face that
he saw he did not know. Almost sobbing, he turned around and stared with
abomination at the little figure on the bed.

"This is all foolishness," he said thickly. "I don't know what I was
thinking about. I don't love you and you'd better wait for somebody that
loves you. I don't love you a bit, can't you understand?"

His voice broke, and he went hurriedly out. Back in the salon he was
pouring himself a drink with uneasy fingers, when the front door opened
suddenly, and his cousin came in.

"Why, Anson, I hear Dolly's sick," she began solicitously. "I hear she's
sick...."

"It was nothing," he interrupted, raising his voice so that it would
carry into Dolly's room. "She was a little tired. She went to bed."

For a long time afterward Anson believed that a protective God sometimes
interfered in human affairs. But Dolly Karger, lying awake and staring
at the ceiling, never again believed in anything at all.




VI


When Dolly married during the following autumn, Anson was in London on
business. Like Paula's marriage, it was sudden, but it affected him in a
different way. At first he felt that it was funny, and had an
inclination to laugh when he thought of it. Later it depressed him--it
made him feel old.

There was something repetitive about it--why, Paula and Dolly had
belonged to different generations. He had a foretaste of the sensation
of a man of forty who hears that the daughter of an old flame has
married. He wired congratulations and, as was not the case with Paula,
they were sincere--he had never really hoped that Paula would be happy.

When he returned to New York, he was made a partner in the firm, and, as
his responsibilities increased, he had less time on his hands. The
refusal of a life-insurance company to issue him a policy made such an
impression on him that he stopped drinking for a year, and claimed that
he felt better physically, though I think he missed the convivial
recounting of those Celliniesque adventures which, in his early
twenties, had played such a part of his life. But he never abandoned the
Yale Club. He was a figure there, a personality, and the tendency of his
class, who were now seven years out of college, to drift away to more
sober haunts was checked by his presence.

His day was never too full nor his mind too weary to give any sort of
aid to any one who asked it. What had been done at first through pride
and superiority had become a habit and a passion. And there was always
something--a younger brother in trouble at New Haven, a quarrel to be
patched up between a friend and his wife, a position to be found for
this man, an investment for that. But his specialty was the solving of
problems for young married people. Young married people fascinated him
and their apartments were almost sacred to him--he knew the story of
their love-affair, advised them where to live and how, and remembered
their babies' names. Toward young wives his attitude was circumspect: he
never abused the trust which their husbands--strangely enough in view of
his unconcealed irregularities--invariably reposed in him.

He came to take a vicarious pleasure in happy marriages, and to be
inspired to an almost equally pleasant melancholy by those that went
astray. Not a season passed that he did not witness the collapse of an
affair that perhaps he himself had fathered. When Paula was divorced and
almost immediately remarried to another Bostonian, he talked about her
to me all one afternoon. He would never love any one as he had loved
Paula, but he insisted that he no longer cared.

"I'll never marry," he came to say; "I've seen too much of it, and I
know a happy marriage is a very rare thing. Besides, I'm too old."

But he did believe in marriage. Like all men who spring from a happy and
successful marriage, he believed in it passionately--nothing he had seen
would change his belief, his cynicism dissolved upon it like air. But he
did really believe he was too old. At twenty-eight he began to accept
with equanimity the prospect of marrying without romantic love; he
resolutely chose a New York girl of his own class, pretty, intelligent,
congenial, above reproach--and set about falling in love with her. The
things he had said to Paula with sincerity, to other girls with grace,
he could no longer say at all without smiling, or with the force
necessary to convince.

"When I'm forty," he told his friends, "I'll be ripe. I'll fall for some
chorus girl like the rest."

Nevertheless, he persisted in his attempt. His mother wanted to see him
married, and he could now well afford it--he had a seat on the Stock
Exchange, and his earned income came to twenty-five thousand a year. The
idea was agreeable: when his friends--he spent most of his time with the
set he and Dolly had evolved--closed themselves in behind domestic doors
at night, he no longer rejoiced in his freedom. He even wondered if he
should have married Dolly. Not even Paula had loved him more, and he was
learning the rarity, in a single life, of encountering true emotion.

Just as this mood began to creep over him a disquieting story reached
his ear. His aunt Edna, a woman just this side of forty, was carrying on
an open intrigue with a dissolute, hard-drinking young man named Cary
Sloane. Every one knew of it except Anson's Uncle Robert, who for
fifteen years had talked long in clubs and taken his wife for granted.

Anson heard the story again and again with increasing annoyance.
Something of his old feeling for his uncle came back to him, a feeling
that was more than personal, a reversion toward that family solidarity
on which he had based his pride. His intuition singled out the essential
point of the affair, which was that his uncle shouldn't be hurt. It was
his first experiment in unsolicited meddling, but with his knowledge of
Edna's character he felt that he could handle the matter better than a
district judge or his uncle.

His uncle was in Hot Springs. Anson traced down the sources of the
scandal so that there should be no possibility of mistake and then he
called Edna and asked her to lunch with him at the Plaza next day.
Something in his tone must have frightened her, for she was reluctant,
but he insisted, putting off the date until she had no excuse for
refusing.

She met him at the appointed time in the Plaza lobby, a lovely, faded,
gray-eyed blonde in a coat of Russian sable. Five great rings, cold with
diamonds and emeralds, sparkled on her slender hands. It occurred to
Anson that it was his father's intelligence and not his uncle's that had
earned the fur and the stones, the rich brilliance that buoyed up her
passing beauty.

Though Edna scented his hostility, she was unprepared for the directness
of his approach.

"Edna, I'm astonished at the way you've been acting," he said in a
strong, frank voice. "At first I couldn't believe it."

"Believe what?" she demanded sharply.

"You needn't pretend with me, Edna. I'm talking about Cary Sloane. Aside
from any other consideration, I didn't think you could treat Uncle
Robert----"

"Now look here, Anson--" she began angrily, but his peremptory voice
broke through hers:

"--and your children in such a way. You've been married eighteen years,
and you're old enough to know better."

"You can't talk to me like that! You----"

"Yes, I can. Uncle Robert has always been my best friend." He was
tremendously moved. He felt a real distress about his uncle, about his
three young cousins.

Edna stood up, leaving her crab-flake cocktail untasted.

"This is the silliest thing----"

"Very well, if you won't listen to me I'll go to Uncle Robert and tell
him the whole story--he's bound to hear it sooner or later. And
afterward I'll go to old Moses Sloane."

Edna faltered back into her chair.

"Don't talk so loud," she begged him. Her eyes blurred with tears. "You
have no idea how your voice carries. You might have chosen a less public
place to make all these crazy accusations."

He didn't answer.

"Oh, you never liked me, I know," she went on. "You're just taking
advantage of some silly gossip to try and break up the only interesting
friendship I've ever had. What did I ever do to make you hate me so?"

Still Anson waited. There would be the appeal to his chivalry, then to
his pity, finally to his superior sophistication--when he had shouldered
his way through all these there would be admissions, and he could come
to grips with her. By being silent, by being impervious, by returning
constantly to his main weapon, which was his own true emotion, he
bullied her into frantic despair as the luncheon hour slipped away. At
two o'clock she took out a mirror and a handkerchief, shined away the
marks of her tears and powdered the slight hollows where they had lain.
She had agreed to meet him at her own house at five.

When he arrived she was stretched on a _chaise-longue_ which was covered
with cretonne for the summer, and the tears he had called up at luncheon
seemed still to be standing in her eyes. Then he was aware of Cary
Sloane's dark anxious presence upon the cold hearth.

"What's this idea of yours?" broke out Sloane immediately. "I understand
you invited Edna to lunch and then threatened her on the basis of some
cheap scandal."

Anson sat down.

"I have no reason to think it's only scandal."

"I hear you're going to take it to Robert Hunter, and to my father."

Anson nodded.

"Either you break it off--or I will," he said.

"What God damned business is it of yours, Hunter?"

"Don't lose your temper, Cary," said Edna nervously. "It's only a
question of showing him how absurd----"

"For one thing, it's my name that's being handed around," interrupted
Anson. "That's all that concerns you, Cary."

"Edna isn't a member of your family."

"She most certainly is!" His anger mounted. "Why--she owes this house and
the rings on her fingers to my father's brains. When Uncle Robert
married her she didn't have a penny."

They all looked at the rings as if they had a significant bearing on the
situation. Edna made a gesture to take them from her hand.

"I guess they're not the only rings in the world," said Sloane.

"Oh, this is absurd," cried Edna. "Anson, will you listen to me? I've
found out how the silly story started. It was a maid I discharged who
went right to the Chilicheffs--all these Russians pump things out of
their servants and then put a false meaning on them." She brought down
her fist angrily on the table: "And after Tom lent them the limousine
for a whole month when we were South last winter----"

"Do you see?" demanded Sloane eagerly. "This maid got hold of the wrong
end of the thing. She knew that Edna and I were friends, and she carried
it to the Chilicheffs. In Russia they assume that if a man and a
woman----"

He enlarged the theme to a disquisition upon social relations in the
Caucasus.

"If that's the case it better be explained to Uncle Robert," said Anson
dryly, "so that when the rumors do reach him he'll know they're not
true."

Adopting the method he had followed with Edna at luncheon he let them
explain it all away. He knew that they were guilty and that presently
they would cross the line from explanation into justification and
convict themselves more definitely than he could ever do. By seven they
had taken the desperate step of telling him the truth--Robert Hunter's
neglect, Edna's empty life, the casual dalliance that had flamed up into
passion--but like so many true stories it had the misfortune of being
old, and its enfeebled body beat helplessly against the armor of Anson's
will. The threat to go to Sloane's father sealed their helplessness, for
the latter, a retired cotton broker out of Alabama, was a notorious
fundamentalist who controlled his son by a rigid allowance and the
promise that at his next vagary the allowance would stop forever.

They dined at a small French restaurant, and the discussion
continued--at one time Sloane resorted to physical threats, a little
later they were both imploring him to give them time. But Anson was
obdurate. He saw that Edna was breaking up, and that her spirit must not
be refreshed by any renewal of their passion.

At two o'clock in a small night-club on 53d Street, Edna's nerves
suddenly collapsed, and she cried to go home. Sloane had been drinking
heavily all evening, and he was faintly maudlin, leaning on the table
and weeping a little with his face in his hands. Quickly Anson gave them
his terms. Sloane was to leave town for six months, and he must be gone
within forty-eight hours. When he returned there was to be no resumption
of the affair, but at the end of a year Edna might, if she wished, tell
Robert Hunter that she wanted a divorce and go about it in the usual
way.

He paused, gaining confidence from their faces for his final word.

"Or there's another thing you can do," he said slowly, "if Edna wants to
leave her children, there's nothing I can do to prevent your running off
together."

"I want to go home!" cried Edna again. "Oh, haven't you done enough to
us for one day?"

Outside it was dark, save for a blurred glow from Sixth Avenue down the
street. In that light those two who had been lovers looked for the last
time into each other's tragic faces, realizing that between them there
was not enough youth and strength to avert their eternal parting. Sloane
walked suddenly off down the street and Anson tapped a dozing
taxi-driver on the arm.

It was almost four; there was a patient flow of cleaning water along the
ghostly pavement of Fifth Avenue, and the shadows of two night women
flitted over the dark façade of St. Thomas's church. Then the desolate
shrubbery of Central Park where Anson had often played as a child, and
the mounting numbers, significant as names, of the marching streets.
This was his city, he thought, where his name had flourished through
five generations. No change could alter the permanence of its place
here, for change itself was the essential substratum by which he and
those of his name identified themselves with the spirit of New York.
Resourcefulness and a powerful will--for his threats in weaker hands
would have been less than nothing--had beaten the gathering dust from
his uncle's name, from the name of his family, from even this shivering
figure that sat beside him in the car.

Cary Sloane's body was found next morning on the lower shelf of a pillar
of Queensboro Bridge. In the darkness and in his excitement he had
thought that it was the water flowing black beneath him, but in less
than a second it made no possible difference--unless he had planned to
think one last thought of Edna, and call out her name as he struggled
feebly in the water.




VII


Anson never blamed himself for his part in this affair--the situation
which brought it about had not been of his making. But the just suffer
with the unjust, and he found that his oldest and somehow his most
precious friendship was over. He never knew what distorted story Edna
told, but he was welcome in his uncle's house no longer.

Just before Christmas Mrs. Hunter retired to a select Episcopal heaven,
and Anson became the responsible head of his family. An unmarried aunt
who had lived with them for years ran the house, and attempted with
helpless inefficiency to chaperone the younger girls. All the children
were less self-reliant than Anson, more conventional both in their
virtues and in their shortcomings. Mrs. Hunter's death had postponed the
début of one daughter and the wedding of another. Also it had taken
something deeply material from all of them, for with her passing the
quiet, expensive superiority of the Hunters came to an end.

For one thing, the estate, considerably diminished by two inheritance
taxes and soon to be divided among six children, was not a notable
fortune any more. Anson saw a tendency in his youngest sisters to speak
rather respectfully of families that hadn't "existed" twenty years ago.
His own feeling of precedence was not echoed in them--sometimes they
were conventionally snobbish, that was all. For another thing, this was
the last summer they would spend on the Connecticut estate; the clamor
against it was too loud: "Who wants to waste the best months of the year
shut up in that dead old town?" Reluctantly he yielded--the house would
go into the market in the fall, and next summer they would rent a
smaller place in Westchester County. It was a step down from the
expensive simplicity of his father's idea, and, while he sympathized
with the revolt, it also annoyed him; during his mother's lifetime he
had gone up there at least every other week-end--even in the gayest
summers.

Yet he himself was part of this change, and his strong instinct for life
had turned him in his twenties from the hollow obsequies of that
abortive leisure class. He did not see this clearly--he still felt that
there was a norm, a standard of society. But there was no norm, it was
doubtful if there had ever been a true norm in New York. The few who
still paid and fought to enter a particular set succeeded only to find
that as a society it scarcely functioned--or, what was more alarming,
that the Bohemia from which they fled sat above them at table.

At twenty-nine Anson's chief concern was his own growing loneliness. He
was sure now that he would never marry. The number of weddings at which
he had officiated as best man or usher was past all counting--there was
a drawer at home that bulged with the official neckties of this or that
wedding-party, neckties standing for romances that had not endured a
year, for couples who had passed completely from his life. Scarf-pins,
gold pencils, cuff-buttons, presents from a generation of grooms had
passed through his jewel-box and been lost--and with every ceremony he
was less and less able to imagine himself in the groom's place. Under
his hearty good-will toward all those marriages there was despair about
his own.

And as he neared thirty he became not a little depressed at the inroads
that marriage, especially lately, had made upon his friendships. Groups
of people had a disconcerting tendency to dissolve and disappear. The
men from his own college--and it was upon them he had expended the most
time and affection--were the most elusive of all. Most of them were
drawn deep into domesticity, two were dead, one lived abroad, one was in
Hollywood writing continuities for pictures that Anson went faithfully
to see.

Most of them, however, were permanent commuters with an intricate family
life centring around some suburban country club, and it was from these
that he felt his estrangement most keenly.

In the early days of their married life they had all needed him; he gave
them advice about their slim finances, he exorcised their doubts about
the advisability of bringing a baby into two rooms and a bath,
especially he stood for the great world outside. But now their financial
troubles were in the past and the fearfully expected child had evolved
into an absorbing family. They were always glad to see old Anson, but
they dressed up for him and tried to impress him with their present
importance, and kept their troubles to themselves. They needed him no
longer.

A few weeks before his thirtieth birthday the last of his early and
intimate friends was married. Anson acted in his usual rôle of best
man, gave his usual silver tea-service, and went down to the usual
_Homeric_ to say good-by. It was a hot Friday afternoon in May, and as
he walked from the pier he realized that Saturday closing had begun and
he was free until Monday morning.

"Go where?" he asked himself.

The Yale Club, of course; bridge until dinner, then four or five raw
cocktails in somebody's room and a pleasant confused evening. He
regretted that this afternoon's groom wouldn't be along--they had always
been able to cram so much into such nights: they knew how to attach
women and how to get rid of them, how much consideration any girl
deserved from their intelligent hedonism. A party was an adjusted
thing--you took certain girls to certain places and spent just so much
on their amusement; you drank a little, not much, more than you ought to
drink, and at a certain time in the morning you stood up and said you
were going home. You avoided college boys, sponges, future engagements,
fights, sentiment, and indiscretions. That was the way it was done. All
the rest was dissipation.

In the morning you were never violently sorry--you made no resolutions,
but if you had overdone it and your heart was slightly out of order, you
went on the wagon for a few days without saying anything about it, and
waited until an accumulation of nervous boredom projected you into
another party.

The lobby of the Yale Club was unpopulated. In the bar three very young
alumni looked up at him, momentarily and without curiosity.

"Hello there, Oscar," he said to the bartender. "Mr. Cahill been around
this afternoon?"

"Mr. Cahill's gone to New Haven."

"Oh ... that so?"

"Gone to the ball game. Lot of men gone up."

Anson looked once again into the lobby, considered for a moment, and
then walked out and over to Fifth Avenue. From the broad window of one
of his clubs--one that he had scarcely visited in five years--a gray man
with watery eyes stared down at him. Anson looked quickly away--that
figure sitting in vacant resignation, in supercilious solitude,
depressed him. He stopped and, retracing his steps, started over 47th
Street toward Teak Warden's apartment. Teak and his wife had once been
his most familiar friends--it was a household where he and Dolly Karger
had been used to go in the days of their affair. But Teak had taken to
drink, and his wife had remarked publicly that Anson was a bad influence
on him. The remark reached Anson in an exaggerated form--when it was
finally cleared up, the delicate spell of intimacy was broken, never to
be renewed.

"Is Mr. Warden at home?" he inquired.

"They've gone to the country."

The fact unexpectedly cut at him. They were gone to the country and he
hadn't known. Two years before he would have known the date, the hour,
come up at the last moment for a final drink, and planned his first
visit to them. Now they had gone without a word.

Anson looked at his watch and considered a week-end with his family, but
the only train was a local that would jolt through the aggressive heat
for three hours. And to-morrow in the country, and Sunday--he was in no
mood for porch-bridge with polite undergraduates, and dancing after
dinner at a rural road-house, a diminutive of gaiety which his father
had estimated too well.

"Oh, no," he said to himself.... "No."

He was a dignified, impressive young man, rather stout now, but
otherwise unmarked by dissipation. He could have been cast for a pillar
of something--at times you were sure it was not society, at others
nothing else--for the law, for the church. He stood for a few minutes
motionless on the sidewalk in front of a 47th Street apartment-house;
for almost the first time in his life he had nothing whatever to do.

Then he began to walk briskly up Fifth Avenue, as if he had just been
reminded of an important engagement there. The necessity of
dissimulation is one of the few characteristics that we share with dogs,
and I think of Anson on that day as some well-bred specimen who had been
disappointed at a familiar back door. He was going to see Nick, once a
fashionable bartender in demand at all private dances, and now employed
in cooling non-alcoholic champagne among the labyrinthine cellars of the
Plaza Hotel.

"Nick," he said, "what's happened to everything?"

"Dead," Nick said.

"Make me a whiskey sour." Anson handed a pint bottle over the counter.
"Nick, the girls are different; I had a little girl in Brooklyn and she
got married last week without letting me know."

"That a fact? Ha-ha-ha," responded Nick diplomatically. "Slipped it over
on you."

"Absolutely," said Anson. "And I was out with her the night before."

"Ha-ha-ha," said Nick, "ha-ha-ha!"

"Do you remember the wedding, Nick, in Hot Springs where I had the
waiters and the musicians singing 'God save the King'?"

"Now where was that, Mr. Hunter?" Nick concentrated doubtfully. "Seems
to me that was----"

"Next time they were back for more, and I began to wonder how much I'd
paid them," continued Anson.

"--seems to me that was at Mr. Trenholm's wedding."

"Don't know him," said Anson decisively. He was offended that a strange
name should intrude upon his reminiscences; Nick perceived this.

"Naw--aw--" he admitted, "I ought to know that. It was one of _your_
crowd--Brakins .... Baker----"

"Bicker Baker," said Anson responsively. "They put me in a hearse after
it was over and covered me up with flowers and drove me away."

"Ha-ha-ha," said Nick. "Ha-ha-ha."

Nick's simulation of the old family servant paled presently and Anson
went up-stairs to the lobby. He looked around--his eyes met the glance
of an unfamiliar clerk at the desk, then fell upon a flower from the
morning's marriage hesitating in the mouth of a brass cuspidor. He went
out and walked slowly toward the blood-red sun over Columbus Circle.
Suddenly he turned around and, retracing his steps to the Plaza, immured
himself in a telephone-booth.

Later he said that he tried to get me three times that afternoon, that
he tried every one who might be in New York--men and girls he had not
seen for years, an artist's model of his college days whose faded number
was still in his address book--Central told him that even the exchange
existed no longer. At length his quest roved into the country, and he
held brief disappointing conversations with emphatic butlers and maids.
So-and-so was out, riding, swimming, playing golf, sailed to Europe last
week. Who shall I say phoned?

It was intolerable that he should pass the evening alone--the private
reckonings which one plans for a moment of leisure lose every charm when
the solitude is enforced. There were always women of a sort, but the
ones he knew had temporarily vanished, and to pass a New York evening in
the hired company of a stranger never occurred to him--he would have
considered that that was something shameful and secret, the diversion of
a travelling salesman in a strange town.

Anson paid the telephone bill--the girl tried unsuccessfully to joke
with him about its size--and for the second time that afternoon started
to leave the Plaza and go he knew not where. Near the revolving door the
figure of a woman, obviously with child, stood sideways to the light--a
sheer beige cape fluttered at her shoulders when the door turned and,
each time, she looked impatiently toward it as if she were weary of
waiting. At the first sight of her a strong nervous thrill of
familiarity went over him, but not until he was within five feet of her
did he realize that it was Paula.

"Why, Anson Hunter!"

His heart turned over.

"Why, Paula----"

"Why, this is wonderful. I can't believe it, _Anson_!"

She took both his hands, and he saw in the freedom of the gesture that
the memory of him had lost poignancy to her. But not to him--he felt
that old mood that she evoked in him stealing over his brain, that
gentleness with which he had always met her optimism as if afraid to mar
its surface.

"We're at Rye for the summer. Pete had to come East on business--you
know of course I'm Mrs. Peter Hagerty now--so we brought the children
and took a house. You've got to come out and see us."

"Can I?" he asked directly. "When?"

"When you like. Here's Pete." The revolving door functioned, giving up a
fine tall man of thirty with a tanned face and a trim mustache. His
immaculate fitness made a sharp contrast with Anson's increasing bulk,
which was obvious under the faintly tight cut-away coat.

"You oughtn't to be standing," said Hagerty to his wife. "Let's sit down
here." He indicated lobby chairs, but Paula hesitated.

"I've got to go right home," she said. "Anson, why don't you--why don't
you come out and have dinner with us to-night? We're just getting
settled, but if you can stand that----"

Hagerty confirmed the invitation cordially.

"Come out for the night."

Their car waited in front of the hotel, and Paula with a tired gesture
sank back against silk cushions in the corner.

"There's so much I want to talk to you about," she said, "it seems
hopeless."

"I want to hear about you."

"Well"--she smiled at Hagerty--"that would take a long time too. I have
three children--by my first marriage. The oldest is five, then four,
then three." She smiled again. "I didn't waste much time having them,
did I?"

"Boys?"

"A boy and two girls. Then--oh, a lot of things happened, and I got a
divorce in Paris a year ago and married Pete. That's all--except that
I'm awfully happy."

In Rye they drove up to a large house near the Beach Club, from which
there issued presently three dark, slim children who broke from an
English governess and approached them with an esoteric cry. Abstractedly
and with difficulty Paula took each one into her arms, a caress which
they accepted stiffly, as they had evidently been told not to bump into
Mummy. Even against their fresh faces Paula's skin showed scarcely any
weariness--for all her physical languor she seemed younger than when he
had last seen her at Palm Beach seven years ago.

At dinner she was preoccupied, and afterward, during the homage to the
radio, she lay with closed eyes on the sofa, until Anson wondered if his
presence at this time were not an intrusion. But at nine o'clock, when
Hagerty rose and said pleasantly that he was going to leave them by
themselves for a while, she began to talk slowly about herself and the
past.

"My first baby," she said--"the one we call Darling, the biggest little
girl--I wanted to die when I knew I was going to have her, because
Lowell was like a stranger to me. It didn't seem as though she could be
my own. I wrote you a letter and tore it up. Oh, you were _so_ bad to me,
Anson."

It was the dialogue again, rising and falling. Anson felt a sudden
quickening of memory.

"Weren't you engaged once?" she asked--"a girl named Dolly something?"

"I wasn't ever engaged. I tried to be engaged, but I never loved anybody
but you, Paula."

"Oh," she said. Then after a moment: "This baby is the first one I ever
really wanted. You see, I'm in love now--at last."

He didn't answer, shocked at the treachery of her remembrance. She must
have seen that the "at last" bruised him, for she continued:

"I was infatuated with you, Anson--you could make me do anything you
liked. But we wouldn't have been happy. I'm not smart enough for you. I
don't like things to be complicated like you do." She paused. "You'll
never settle down," she said.

The phrase struck at him from behind--it was an accusation that of all
accusations he had never merited.

"I could settle down if women were different," he said. "If I didn't
understand so much about them, if women didn't spoil you for other
women, if they had only a little pride. If I could go to sleep for a
while and wake up into a home that was really mine--why, that's what I'm
made for, Paula, that's what women have seen in me and liked in me. It's
only that I can't get through the preliminaries any more."

Hagerty came in a little before eleven; after a whiskey Paula stood up
and announced that she was going to bed. She went over and stood by her
husband.

"Where did you go, dearest?" she demanded.

"I had a drink with Ed Saunders."

"I was worried. I thought maybe you'd run away."

She rested her head against his coat.

"He's sweet, isn't he, Anson?" she demanded.

"Absolutely," said Anson, laughing.

She raised her face to her husband.

"Well, I'm ready," she said. She turned to Anson: "Do you want to see
our family gymnastic stunt?"

"Yes," he said in an interested voice.

"All right. Here we go!"

Hagerty picked her up easily in his arms.

"This is called the family acrobatic stunt," said Paula. "He carries me
up-stairs. Isn't it sweet of him?"

"Yes," said Anson.

Hagerty bent his head slightly until his face touched Paula's.

"And I love him," she said. "I've just been telling you, haven't I,
Anson?"

"Yes," he said.

"He's the dearest thing that ever lived in this world; aren't you,
darling? ... Well, good night. Here we go. Isn't he strong?"

"Yes," Anson said.

"You'll find a pair of Pete's pajamas laid out for you. Sweet
dreams--see you at breakfast."

"Yes," Anson said.




VIII


The older members of the firm insisted that Anson should go abroad for
the summer. He had scarcely had a vacation in seven years, they said. He
was stale and needed a change. Anson resisted.

"If I go," he declared, "I won't come back any more."

"That's absurd, old man. You'll be back in three months with all this
depression gone. Fit as ever."

"No." He shook his head stubbornly. "If I stop, I won't go back to work.
If I stop, that means I've given up--I'm through."

"We'll take a chance on that. Stay six months if you like--we're not
afraid you'll leave us. Why, you'd be miserable if you didn't work."

They arranged his passage for him. They liked Anson--every one liked
Anson--and the change that had been coming over him cast a sort of pall
over the office. The enthusiasm that had invariably signalled up
business, the consideration toward his equals and his inferiors, the
lift of his vital presence--within the past four months his intense
nervousness had melted down these qualities into the fussy pessimism of
a man of forty. On every transaction in which he was involved he acted
as a drag and a strain.

"If I go I'll never come back," he said.

Three days before he sailed Paula Legendre Hagerty died in childbirth. I
was with him a great deal then, for we were crossing together, but for
the first time in our friendship he told me not a word of how he felt,
nor did I see the slightest sign of emotion. His chief preoccupation was
with the fact that he was thirty years old--he would turn the
conversation to the point where he could remind you of it and then fall
silent, as if he assumed that the statement would start a chain of
thought sufficient to itself. Like his partners, I was amazed at the
change in him, and I was glad when the _Paris_ moved off into the wet
space between the worlds, leaving his principality behind.

"How about a drink?" he suggested.

We walked into the bar with that defiant feeling that characterizes the
day of departure and ordered four Martinis. After one cocktail a change
came over him--he suddenly reached across and slapped my knee with the
first joviality I had seen him exhibit for months.

"Did you see that girl in the red tam?" he demanded, "the one with the
high color who had the two police dogs down to bid her good-by."

"She's pretty," I agreed.

"I looked her up in the purser's office and found out that she's alone.
I'm going down to see the steward in a few minutes. We'll have dinner
with her to-night."

After a while he left me, and within an hour he was walking up and down
the deck with her, talking to her in his strong, clear voice. Her red
tam was a bright spot of color against the steel-green sea, and from
time to time she looked up with a flashing bob of her head, and smiled
with amusement and interest, and anticipation. At dinner we had
champagne, and were very joyous--afterward Anson ran the pool with
infectious gusto, and several people who had seen me with him asked me
his name. He and the girl were talking and laughing together on a lounge
in the bar when I went to bed.

I saw less of him on the trip than I had hoped. He wanted to arrange a
foursome, but there was no one available, so I saw him only at meals.
Sometimes, though, he would have a cocktail in the bar, and he told me
about the girl in the red tam, and his adventures with her, making them
all bizarre and amusing, as he had a way of doing, and I was glad that
he was himself again, or at least the self that I knew, and with which I
felt at home. I don't think he was ever happy unless some one was in
love with him, responding to him like filings to a magnet, helping him
to explain himself, promising him something. What it was I do not know.
Perhaps they promised that there would always be women in the world who
would spend their brightest, freshest, rarest hours to nurse and protect
that superiority he cherished in his heart.




WINTER DREAMS


Some of the caddies were poor as sin and lived in one-room houses with a
neurasthenic cow in the front yard, but Dexter Green's father owned the
second best grocery-store in Black Bear--the best one was "The Hub,"
patronized by the wealthy people from Sherry Island--and Dexter caddied
only for pocket-money.

In the fall when the days became crisp and gray, and the long Minnesota
winter shut down like the white lid of a box, Dexter's skis moved over
the snow that hid the fairways of the golf course. At these times the
country gave him a feeling of profound melancholy--it offended him that
the links should lie in enforced fallowness, haunted by ragged sparrows
for the long season. It was dreary, too, that on the tees where the gay
colors fluttered in summer there were now only the desolate sand-boxes
knee-deep in crusted ice. When he crossed the hills the wind blew cold
as misery, and if the sun was out he tramped with his eyes squinted up
against the hard dimensionless glare.

In April the winter ceased abruptly. The snow ran down into Black Bear
Lake scarcely tarrying for the early golfers to brave the season with
red and black balls. Without elation, without an interval of moist glory,
the cold was gone.

Dexter knew that there was something dismal about this Northern spring,
just as he knew there was something gorgeous about the fall. Fall made
him clinch his hands and tremble and repeat idiotic sentences to
himself, and make brisk abrupt gestures of command to imaginary
audiences and armies. October filled him with hope which November raised
to a sort of ecstatic triumph, and in this mood the fleeting brilliant
impressions of the summer at Sherry Island were ready grist to his mill.
He became a golf champion and defeated Mr. T. A. Hedrick in a marvellous
match played a hundred times over the fairways of his imagination, a
match each detail of which he changed about untiringly--sometimes he won
with almost laughable ease, sometimes he came up magnificently from
behind. Again, stepping from a Pierce-Arrow automobile, like Mr.
Mortimer Jones, he strolled frigidly into the lounge of the Sherry
Island Golf Club--or perhaps, surrounded by an admiring crowd, he gave
an exhibition of fancy diving from the spring-board of the club raft....
Among those who watched him in open-mouthed wonder was Mr. Mortimer
Jones.

And one day it came to pass that Mr. Jones--himself and not his
ghost--came up to Dexter with tears in his eyes and said that Dexter was
the ---- best caddy in the club, and wouldn't he decide not to quit if
Mr. Jones made it worth his while, because every other ---- caddy in the
club lost one ball a hole for him--regularly----

"No, sir," said Dexter decisively, "I don't want to caddy any more."
Then, after a pause: "I'm too old."

"You're not more than fourteen. Why the devil did you decide just this
morning that you wanted to quit? You promised that next week you'd go
over to the State tournament with me."

"I decided I was too old."

Dexter handed in his "A Class" badge, collected what money was due him
from the caddy master, and walked home to Black Bear Village.

"The best ---- caddy I ever saw," shouted Mr. Mortimer Jones over a
drink that afternoon. "Never lost a ball! Willing! Intelligent! Quiet!
Honest! Grateful!"

The little girl who had done this was eleven--beautifully ugly as little
girls are apt to be who are destined after a few years to be
inexpressibly lovely and bring no end of misery to a great number of
men. The spark, however, was perceptible. There was a general
ungodliness in the way her lips twisted down at the corners when she
smiled, and in the--Heaven help us!--in the almost passionate quality of
her eyes. Vitality is born early in such women. It was utterly in
evidence now, shining through her thin frame in a sort of glow.

She had come eagerly out on to the course at nine o'clock with a white
linen nurse and five small new golf-clubs in a white canvas bag which
the nurse was carrying. When Dexter first saw her she was standing by the
caddy house, rather ill at ease and trying to conceal the fact by
engaging her nurse in an obviously unnatural conversation graced by
startling and irrevelant grimaces from herself.

"Well, it's certainly a nice day, Hilda," Dexter heard her say. She drew
down the corners of her mouth, smiled, and glanced furtively around, her
eyes in transit falling for an instant on Dexter.

Then to the nurse:

"Well, I guess there aren't very many people out here this morning, are
there?"

The smile again--radiant, blatantly artificial--convincing.

"I don't know what we're supposed to do now," said the nurse, looking
nowhere in particular.

"Oh, that's all right. I'll fix it up."

Dexter stood perfectly still, his mouth slightly ajar. He knew that if
he moved forward a step his stare would be in her line of vision--if he
moved backward he would lose his full view of her face. For a moment he
had not realized how young she was. Now he remembered having seen her
several times the year before--in bloomers.

Suddenly, involuntarily, he laughed, a short abrupt laugh--then,
startled by himself, he turned and began to walk quickly away.

"Boy!"

Dexter stopped.

"Boy----"

Beyond question he was addressed. Not only that, but he was treated to
that absurd smile, that preposterous smile--the memory of which at least
a dozen men were to carry into middle age.

"Boy, do you know where the golf teacher is?"

"He's giving a lesson."

"Well, do you know where the caddy-master is?"

"He isn't here yet this morning."

"Oh." For a moment this baffled her. She stood alternately on her right
and left foot.

"We'd like to get a caddy," said the nurse. "Mrs. Mortimer Jones sent us
out to play golf, and we don't know how without we get a caddy."

Here she was stopped by an ominous glance from Miss Jones, followed
immediately by the smile.

"There aren't any caddies here except me," said Dexter to the nurse,
"and I got to stay here in charge until the caddy-master gets here."

"Oh."

Miss Jones and her retinue now withdrew, and at a proper distance from
Dexter became involved in a heated conversation, which was concluded by
Miss Jones taking one of the clubs and hitting it on the ground with
violence. For further emphasis she raised it again and was about to
bring it down smartly upon the nurse's bosom, when the nurse seized the
club and twisted it from her hands.

"You damn little mean old _thing_!" cried Miss Jones wildly.

Another argument ensued. Realizing that the elements of the comedy were
implied in the scene, Dexter several times began to laugh, but each time
restrained the laugh before it reached audibility. He could not resist
the monstrous conviction that the little girl was justified in beating
the nurse.

The situation was resolved by the fortuitous appearance of the
caddy-master, who was appealed to immediately by the nurse.

"Miss Jones is to have a little caddy, and this one says he can't go."

"Mr. McKenna said I was to wait here till you came," said Dexter
quickly.

"Well, he's here now." Miss Jones smiled cheerfully at the caddy-master.
Then she dropped her bag and set off at a haughty mince toward the first
tee.

"Well?" The caddy-master turned to Dexter. "What you standing there like
a dummy for? Go pick up the young lady's clubs."

"I don't think I'll go out to-day," said Dexter.

"You don't----"

"I think I'll quit."

The enormity of his decision frightened him. He was a favorite caddy,
and the thirty dollars a month he earned through the summer were not to
be made elsewhere around the lake. But he had received a strong
emotional shock, and his perturbation required a violent and immediate
outlet.

It is not so simple as that, either. As so frequently would be the case
in the future, Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter
dreams.




II


Now, of course, the quality and the seasonability of these winter dreams
varied, but the stuff of them remained. They persuaded Dexter several
years later to pass up a business course at the State university--his
father, prospering now, would have paid his way--for the precarious
advantage of attending an older and more famous university in the East,
where he was bothered by his scanty funds. But do not get the
impression, because his winter dreams happened to be concerned at first
with musings on the rich, that there was anything merely snobbish in the
boy. He wanted not association with glittering things and glittering
people--he wanted the glittering things themselves. Often he reached out
for the best without knowing why he wanted it--and sometimes he ran up
against the mysterious denials and prohibitions in which life indulges.
It is with one of those denials and not with his career as a whole that
this story deals.

He made money. It was rather amazing. After college he went to the city
from which Black Bear Lake draws its wealthy patrons. When he was only
twenty-three and had been there not quite two years, there were already
people who liked to say: "Now _there's_ a boy--" All about him rich
men's sons were peddling bonds precariously, or investing patrimonies
precariously, or plodding through the two dozen volumes of the "George
Washington Commercial Course," but Dexter borrowed a thousand dollars on
his college degree and his confident mouth, and bought a partnership in
a laundry.

It was a small laundry when he went into it but Dexter made a specialty
of learning how the English washed fine woollen golf-stockings without
shrinking them, and within a year he was catering to the trade that wore
knickerbockers. Men were insisting that their Shetland hose and sweaters
go to his laundry just as they had insisted on a caddy who could find
golf-balls. A little later he was doing their wives' lingerie as
well--and running five branches in different parts of the city. Before
he was twenty-seven he owned the largest string of laundries in his
section of the country. It was then that he sold out and went to New
York. But the part of his story that concerns us goes back to the days
when he was making his first big success.

When he was twenty-three Mr. Hart--one of the gray-haired men who like
to say "Now there's a boy"--gave him a guest card to the Sherry Island
Golf Club for a week-end. So he signed his name one day on the register,
and that afternoon played golf in a foursome with Mr. Hart and Mr.
Sandwood and Mr. T. A. Hedrick. He did not consider it necessary to
remark that he had once carried Mr. Hart's bag over this same links, and
that he knew every trap and gully with his eyes shut--but he found
himself glancing at the four caddies who trailed them, trying to catch a
gleam or gesture that would remind him of himself, that would lessen the
gap which lay between his present and his past.

It was a curious day, slashed abruptly with fleeting, familiar
impressions. One minute he had the sense of being a trespasser--in the
next he was impressed by the tremendous superiority he felt toward Mr.
T. A. Hedrick, who was a bore and not even a good golfer any more.

Then, because of a ball Mr. Hart lost near the fifteenth green, an
enormous thing happened. While they were searching the stiff grasses of
the rough there was a clear call of "Fore!" from behind a hill in their
rear. And as they all turned abruptly from their search a bright new
ball sliced abruptly over the hill and caught Mr. T. A. Hedrick in the
abdomen.

"By Gad!" cried Mr. T. A. Hedrick, "they ought to put some of these
crazy women off the course. It's getting to be outrageous."

A head and a voice came up together over the hill:

"Do you mind if we go through?"

"You hit me in the stomach!" declared Mr. Hedrick wildly.

"Did I?" The girl approached the group of men. "I'm sorry. I yelled
'Fore!'"

Her glance fell casually on each of the men--then scanned the fairway
for her ball.

"Did I bounce into the rough?"

It was impossible to determine whether this question was ingenuous or
malicious. In a moment, however, she left no doubt, for as her partner
came up over the hill she called cheerfully:

"Here I am! I'd have gone on the green except that I hit something."

As she took her stance for a short mashie shot, Dexter looked at her
closely. She wore a blue gingham dress, rimmed at throat and shoulders
with a white edging that accentuated her tan. The quality of
exaggeration, of thinness, which had made her passionate eyes and
down-turning mouth absurd at eleven, was gone now. She was arrestingly
beautiful. The color in her cheeks was centred like the color in a
picture--it was not a "high" color, but a sort of fluctuating and
feverish warmth, so shaded that it seemed at any moment it would recede
and disappear. This color and the mobility of her mouth gave a continual
impression of flux, of intense life, of passionate vitality--balanced
only partially by the sad luxury of her eyes.

She swung her mashie impatiently and without interest, pitching the ball
into a sand-pit on the other side of the green. With a quick, insincere
smile and a careless "Thank you!" she went on after it.

"That Judy Jones!" remarked Mr. Hedrick on the next tee, as they
waited--some moments--for her to play on ahead. "All she needs is to be
turned up and spanked for six months and then to be married off to an
old-fashioned cavalry captain."

"My God, she's good-looking!" said Mr. Sandwood, who was just over
thirty.

"Good-looking!" cried Mr. Hedrick contemptuously, "she always looks as
if she wanted to be kissed! Turning those big cow-eyes on every calf in
town!"

It was doubtful if Mr. Hedrick intended a reference to the maternal
instinct.

"She'd play pretty good golf if she'd try," said Mr. Sandwood.

"She has no form," said Mr. Hedrick solemnly.

"She has a nice figure," said Mr. Sandwood.

"Better thank the Lord she doesn't drive a swifter ball," said Mr. Hart,
winking at Dexter.

Later in the afternoon the sun went down with a riotous swirl of gold
and varying blues and scarlets, and left the dry, rustling night of
Western summer. Dexter watched from the veranda of the Golf Club,
watched the even overlap of the waters in the little wind, silver
molasses under the harvest-moon. Then the moon held a finger to her lips
and the lake became a clear pool, pale and quiet. Dexter put on his
bathing-suit and swam out to the farthest raft, where he stretched
dripping on the wet canvas of the spring-board.

There was a fish jumping and a star shining and the lights around the
lake were gleaming. Over on a dark peninsula a piano was playing the
songs of last summer and of summers before that--songs from "Chin-Chin"
and "The Count of Luxemburg" and "The Chocolate Soldier"--and because
the sound of a piano over a stretch of water had always seemed beautiful
to Dexter he lay perfectly quiet and listened.

The tune the piano was playing at that moment had been gay and new five
years before when Dexter was a sophomore at college. They had played it
at a prom once when he could not afford the luxury of proms, and he had
stood outside the gymnasium and listened. The sound of the tune
precipitated in him a sort of ecstasy and it was with that ecstasy he
viewed what happened to him now. It was a mood of intense appreciation,
a sense that, for once, he was magnificently attune to life and that
everything about him was radiating a brightness and a glamour he might
never know again.

A low, pale oblong detached itself suddenly from the darkness of the
Island, spitting forth the reverberate sound of a racing motor-boat. Two
white streamers of cleft water rolled themselves out behind it and
almost immediately the boat was beside him, drowning out the hot tinkle
of the piano in the drone of its spray. Dexter raising himself on his
arms was aware of a figure standing at the wheel, of two dark eyes
regarding him over the lengthening space of water--then the boat had
gone by and was sweeping in an immense and purposeless circle of spray
round and round in the middle of the lake. With equal eccentricity one
of the circles flattened out and headed back toward the raft.

"Who's that?" she called, shutting off her motor. She was so near now
that Dexter could see her bathing-suit, which consisted apparently of
pink rompers.

The nose of the boat bumped the raft, and as the latter tilted rakishly
he was precipitated toward her. With different degrees of interest they
recognized each other.

"Aren't you one of those men we played through this afternoon?" she
demanded.

He was.

"Well, do you know how to drive a motor-boat? Because if you do I wish
you'd drive this one so I can ride on the surf-board behind. My name is
Judy Jones"--she favored him with an absurd smirk--rather, what tried to
be a smirk, for, twist her mouth as she might, it was not grotesque, it
was merely beautiful--"and I live in a house over there on the Island,
and in that house there is a man waiting for me. When he drove up at the
door I drove out of the dock because he says I'm his ideal."

There was a fish jumping and a star shining and the lights around the
lake were gleaming. Dexter sat beside Judy Jones and she explained how
her boat was driven. Then she was in the water, swimming to the floating
surf-board with a sinuous crawl. Watching her was without effort to the
eye, watching a branch waving or a sea-gull flying. Her arms, burned to
butternut, moved sinuously among the dull platinum ripples, elbow
appearing first, casting the forearm back with a cadence of falling
water, then reaching out and down, stabbing a path ahead.

They moved out into the lake; turning, Dexter saw that she was kneeling
on the low rear of the now uptilted surf-board.

"Go faster," she called, "fast as it'll go."

Obediently he jammed the lever forward and the white spray mounted at
the bow. When he looked around again the girl was standing up on the
rushing board, her arms spread wide, her eyes lifted toward the moon.

"It's awful cold," she shouted. "What's your name?"

He told her.

"Well, why don't you come to dinner to-morrow night?"

His heart turned over like the fly-wheel of the boat, and, for the
second time, her casual whim gave a new direction to his life.




III


Next evening while he waited for her to come down-stairs, Dexter peopled
the soft deep summer room and the sun-porch that opened from it with the
men who had already loved Judy Jones. He knew the sort of men they
were--the men who when he first went to college had entered from the
great prep schools with graceful clothes and the deep tan of healthy
summers. He had seen that, in one sense, he was better than these men.
He was newer and stronger. Yet in acknowledging to himself that he
wished his children to be like them he was admitting that he was but the
rough, strong stuff from which they eternally sprang.

When the time had come for him to wear good clothes, he had known who
were the best tailors in America, and the best tailors in America had
made him the suit he wore this evening. He had acquired that particular
reserve peculiar to his university, that set it off from other
universities. He recognized the value to him of such a mannerism and he
had adopted it; he knew that to be careless in dress and manner required
more confidence than to be careful. But carelessness was for his
children. His mother's name had been Krimslich. She was a Bohemian of
the peasant class and she had talked broken English to the end of her
days. Her son must keep to the set patterns.

At a little after seven Judy Jones came down-stairs. She wore a blue
silk afternoon dress, and he was disappointed at first that she had not
put on something more elaborate. This feeling was accentuated when,
after a brief greeting, she went to the door of a butler's pantry and
pushing it open called: "You can serve dinner, Martha." He had rather
expected that a butler would announce dinner, that there would be a
cocktail. Then he put these thoughts behind him as they sat down side by
side on a lounge and looked at each other.

"Father and mother won't be here," she said thoughtfully.

He remembered the last time he had seen her father, and he was glad the
parents were not to be here to-night--they might wonder who he was. He
had been born in Keeble, a Minnesota village fifty miles farther north,
and he always gave Keeble as his home instead of Black Bear Village.
Country towns were well enough to come from if they weren't
inconveniently in sight and used as footstools by fashionable lakes.

They talked of his university, which she had visited frequently during
the past two years, and of the near-by city which supplied Sherry Island
with its patrons, and whither Dexter would return next day to his
prospering laundries.

During dinner she slipped into a moody depression which gave Dexter a
feeling of uneasiness. Whatever petulance she uttered in her throaty
voice worried him. Whatever she smiled at--at him, at a chicken liver,
at nothing--it disturbed him that her smile could have no root in mirth,
or even in amusement. When the scarlet corners of her lips curved down,
it was less a smile than an invitation to a kiss.

Then, after dinner, she led him out on the dark sun-porch and
deliberately changed the atmosphere.

"Do you mind if I weep a little?" she said.

"I'm afraid I'm boring you," he responded quickly.

"You're not. I like you. But I've just had a terrible afternoon. There
was a man I cared about, and this afternoon he told me out of a clear
sky that he was poor as a church-mouse. He'd never even hinted it
before. Does this sound horribly mundane?"

"Perhaps he was afraid to tell you."

"Suppose he was," she answered. "He didn't start right. You see, if I'd
thought of him as poor--well, I've been mad about loads of poor men,
and fully intended to marry them all. But in this case, I hadn't thought
of him that way, and my interest in him wasn't strong enough to survive
the shock. As if a girl calmly informed her fiancé that she was a
widow. He might not object to widows, but----

"Let's start right," she interrupted herself suddenly. "Who are you,
anyhow?"

For a moment Dexter hesitated. Then:

"I'm nobody," he announced. "My career is largely a matter of futures."

"Are you poor?"

"No," he said frankly, "I'm probably making more money than any man my
age in the Northwest. I know that's an obnoxious remark, but you advised
me to start right."

There was a pause. Then she smiled and the corners of her mouth drooped
and an almost imperceptible sway brought her closer to him, looking up
into his eyes. A lump rose in Dexter's throat, and he waited breathless
for the experiment, facing the unpredictable compound that would form
mysteriously from the elements of their lips. Then he saw--she
communicated her excitement to him, lavishly, deeply, with kisses that
were not a promise but a fulfilment. They aroused in him not hunger
demanding renewal but surfeit that would demand more surfeit ... kisses
that were like charity, creating want by holding back nothing at all.

It did not take him many hours to decide that he had wanted Judy Jones
ever since he was a proud, desirous little boy.




IV


It began like that--and continued, with varying shades of intensity, on
such a note right up to the dénouement. Dexter surrendered a part of
himself to the most direct and unprincipled personality with which he
had ever come in contact. Whatever Judy wanted, she went after with the
full pressure of her charm. There was no divergence of method, no
jockeying for position or premeditation of effects--there was a very
little mental side to any of her affairs. She simply made men conscious
to the highest degree of her physical loveliness. Dexter had no desire
to change her. Her deficiencies were knit up with a passionate energy
that transcended and justified them.

When, as Judy's head lay against his shoulder that first night, she
whispered, "I don't know what's the matter with me. Last night I thought
I was in love with a man and to-night I think I'm in love with
you----"--it seemed to him a beautiful and romantic thing to say. It was
the exquisite excitability that for the moment he controlled and owned.
But a week later he was compelled to view this same quality in a
different light. She took him in her roadster to a picnic supper, and
after supper she disappeared, likewise in her roadster, with another
man. Dexter became enormously upset and was scarcely able to be decently
civil to the other people present. When she assured him that she had not
kissed the other man, he knew she was lying--yet he was glad that she
had taken the trouble to lie to him.

He was, as he found before the summer ended, one of a varying dozen who
circulated about her. Each of them had at one time been favored above
all others--about half of them still basked in the solace of occasional
sentimental revivals. Whenever one showed signs of dropping out through
long neglect, she granted him a brief honeyed hour, which encouraged him
to tag along for a year or so longer. Judy made these forays upon the
helpless and defeated without malice, indeed half unconscious that there
was anything mischievous in what she did.

When a new man came to town every one dropped out--dates were
automatically cancelled.

The helpless part of trying to do anything about it was that she did it
all herself. She was not a girl who could be "won" in the kinetic
sense--she was proof against cleverness, she was proof against charm; if
any of these assailed her too strongly she would immediately resolve the
affair to a physical basis, and under the magic of her physical splendor
the strong as well as the brilliant played her game and not their own.
She was entertained only by the gratification of her desires and by the
direct exercise of her own charm. Perhaps from so much youthful love, so
many youthful lovers, she had come, in self-defense, to nourish herself
wholly from within.

Succeeding Dexter's first exhilaration came restlessness and
dissatisfaction. The helpless ecstasy of losing himself in her was
opiate rather than tonic. It was fortunate for his work during the
winter that those moments of ecstasy came infrequently. Early in their
acquaintance it had seemed for a while that there was a deep and
spontaneous mutual attraction--that first August, for example--three
days of long evenings on her dusky veranda, of strange wan kisses
through the late afternoon, in shadowy alcoves or behind the protecting
trellises of the garden arbors, of mornings when she was fresh as a
dream and almost shy at meeting him in the clarity of the rising day.
There was all the ecstasy of an engagement about it, sharpened by his
realization that there was no engagement. It was during those three days
that, for the first time, he had asked her to marry him. She said "maybe
some day," she said "kiss me," she said "I'd like to marry you," she
said "I love you"--she said--nothing.

The three days were interrupted by the arrival of a New York man who
visited at her house for half September. To Dexter's agony, rumor
engaged them. The man was the son of the president of a great trust
company. But at the end of a month it was reported that Judy was
yawning. At a dance one night she sat all evening in a motor-boat with a
local beau, while the New Yorker searched the club for her frantically.
She told the local beau that she was bored with her visitor, and two
days later he left. She was seen with him at the station, and it was
reported that he looked very mournful indeed.

On this note the summer ended. Dexter was twenty-four, and he found
himself increasingly in a position to do as he wished. He joined two
clubs in the city and lived at one of them. Though he was by no means an
integral part of the stag-lines at these clubs, he managed to be on hand
at dances where Judy Jones was likely to appear. He could have gone out
socially as much as he liked--he was an eligible young man, now, and
popular with down-town fathers. His confessed devotion to Judy Jones had
rather solidified his position. But he had no social aspirations and
rather despised the dancing men who were always on tap for the Thursday
or Saturday parties and who filled in at dinners with the younger
married set. Already he was playing with the idea of going East to New
York. He wanted to take Judy Jones with him. No disillusion as to the
world in which she had grown up could cure his illusion as to her
desirability.

Remember that--for only in the light of it can what he did for her be
understood.

Eighteen months after he first met Judy Jones he became engaged to
another girl. Her name was Irene Scheerer, and her father was one of the
men who had always believed in Dexter. Irene was light-haired and sweet
and honorable, and a little stout, and she had two suitors whom she
pleasantly relinquished when Dexter formally asked her to marry him.

Summer, fall, winter, spring, another summer, another fall--so much he
had given of his active life to the incorrigible lips of Judy Jones. She
had treated him with interest, with encouragement, with malice, with
indifference, with contempt. She had inflicted on him the innumerable
little slights and indignities possible in such a case--as if in revenge
for having ever cared for him at all. She had beckoned him and yawned at
him and beckoned him again and he had responded often with bitterness
and narrowed eyes. She had brought him ecstatic happiness and
intolerable agony of spirit. She had caused him untold inconvenience and
not a little trouble. She had insulted him, and she had ridden over him,
and she had played his interest in her against his interest in his
work--for fun. She had done everything to him except to criticise
him--this she had not done--it seemed to him only because it might have
sullied the utter indifference she manifested and sincerely felt toward
him.

When autumn had come and gone again it occurred to him that he could not
have Judy Jones. He had to beat this into his mind but he convinced
himself at last. He lay awake at night for a while and argued it over.
He told himself the trouble and the pain she had caused him, he
enumerated her glaring deficiencies as a wife. Then he said to himself
that he loved her, and after a while he fell asleep. For a week, lest he
imagined her husky voice over the telephone or her eyes opposite him at
lunch, he worked hard and late, and at night he went to his office and
plotted out his years.

At the end of a week he went to a dance and cut in on her once. For
almost the first time since they had met he did not ask her to sit out
with him or tell her that she was lovely. It hurt him that she did not
miss these things--that was all. He was not jealous when he saw that
there was a new man to-night. He had been hardened against jealousy long
before.

He stayed late at the dance. He sat for an hour with Irene Scheerer and
talked about books and about music. He knew very little about either.
But he was beginning to be master of his own time now, and he had a
rather priggish notion that he--the young and already fabulously
successful Dexter Green--should know more about such things.

That was in October, when he was twenty-five. In January, Dexter and
Irene became engaged. It was to be announced in June, and they were to
be married three months later.

The Minnesota winter prolonged itself interminably, and it was almost
May when the winds came soft and the snow ran down into Black Bear Lake
at last. For the first time in over a year Dexter was enjoying a certain
tranquillity of spirit. Judy Jones had been in Florida, and afterward in
Hot Springs, and somewhere she had been engaged, and somewhere she had
broken it off. At first, when Dexter had definitely given her up, it had
made him sad that people still linked them together and asked for news
of her, but when he began to be placed at dinner next to Irene Scheerer
people didn't ask him about her any more--they told him about her. He
ceased to be an authority on her.

May at last. Dexter walked the streets at night when the darkness was
damp as rain, wondering that so soon, with so little done, so much of
ecstasy had gone from him. May one year back had been marked by Judy's
poignant, unforgivable, yet forgiven turbulence--it had been one of
those rare times when he fancied she had grown to care for him. That old
penny's worth of happiness he had spent for this bushel of content. He
knew that Irene would be no more than a curtain spread behind him, a
hand moving among gleaming tea-cups, a voice calling to children ...
fire and loveliness were gone, the magic of nights and the wonder of the
varying hours and seasons ... slender lips, down-turning, dropping to
his lips and bearing him up into a heaven of eyes.... The thing was deep
in him. He was too strong and alive for it to die lightly.

In the middle of May when the weather balanced for a few days on the
thin bridge that led to deep summer he turned in one night at Irene's
house. Their engagement was to be announced in a week now--no one would
be surprised at it. And to-night they would sit together on the lounge
at the University Club and look on for an hour at the dancers. It gave
him a sense of solidity to go with her--she was so sturdily popular, so
intensely "great."

He mounted the steps of the brownstone house and stepped inside.

"Irene," he called.

Mrs. Scheerer came out of the living-room to meet him.

"Dexter," she said, "Irene's gone up-stairs with a splitting headache.
She wanted to go with you but I made her go to bed."

"Nothing serious, I----"

"Oh, no. She's going to play golf with you in the morning. You can spare
her for just one night, can't you, Dexter?"

Her smile was kind. She and Dexter liked each other. In the living-room
he talked for a moment before he said good-night.

Returning to the University Club, where he had rooms, he stood in the
doorway for a moment and watched the dancers. He leaned against the
door-post, nodded at a man or two--yawned.

"Hello, darling."

The familiar voice at his elbow startled him. Judy Jones had left a man
and crossed the room to him--Judy Jones, a slender enamelled doll in
cloth of gold: gold in a band at her head, gold in two slipper points at
her dress's hem. The fragile glow of her face seemed to blossom as she
smiled at him. A breeze of warmth and light blew through the room. His
hands in the pockets of his dinner-jacket tightened spasmodically. He
was filled with a sudden excitement.

"When did you get back?" he asked casually.

"Come here and I'll tell you about it."

She turned and he followed her. She had been away--he could have wept at
the wonder of her return. She had passed through enchanted streets,
doing things that were like provocative music. All mysterious
happenings, all fresh and quickening hopes, had gone away with her, come
back with her now.

She turned in the doorway.

"Have you a car here? If you haven't, I have."

"I have a coupé."

In then, with a rustle of golden cloth. He slammed the door. Into so many
cars she had stepped--like this--like that--her back against the
leather, so--her elbow resting on the door--waiting. She would have been
soiled long since had there been anything to soil her--except
herself--but this was her own self outpouring.

With an effort he forced himself to start the car and back into the
street. This was nothing, he must remember. She had done this before,
and he had put her behind him, as he would have crossed a bad account
from his books.

He drove slowly down-town and, affecting abstraction, traversed the
deserted streets of the business section, peopled here and there where a
movie was giving out its crowd or where consumptive or pugilistic youth
lounged in front of pool halls. The clink of glasses and the slap of
hands on the bars issued from saloons, cloisters of glazed glass and
dirty yellow light.

She was watching him closely and the silence was embarrassing; yet in
this crisis he could find no casual word with which to profane the hour.
At a convenient turning he began to zigzag back toward the University
Club.

"Have you missed me?" she asked suddenly.

"Everybody missed you."

He wondered if she knew of Irene Scheerer. She had been back only a
day--her absence had been almost contemporaneous with his engagement.

"What a remark!" Judy laughed sadly--without sadness. She looked at him
searchingly. He became absorbed in the dashboard.

"You're handsomer than you used to be," she said thoughtfully. "Dexter,
you have the most rememberable eyes."

He could have laughed at this, but he did not laugh. It was the sort of
thing that was said to sophomores. Yet it stabbed at him.

"I'm awfully tired of everything, darling." She called every one
darling, endowing the endearment with careless, individual comraderie.
"I wish you'd marry me."

The directness of this confused him. He should have told her now that he
was going to marry another girl, but he could not tell her. He could as
easily have sworn that he had never loved her.

"I think we'd get along," she continued, on the same note, "unless
probably you've forgotten me and fallen in love with another girl."

Her confidence was obviously enormous. She had said, in effect, that she
found such a thing impossible to believe, that if it were true he had
merely committed a childish indiscretion--and probably to show off. She
would forgive him, because it was not a matter of any moment but rather
something to be brushed aside lightly.

"Of course you could never love anybody but me," she continued, "I like
the way you love me. Oh, Dexter, have you forgotten last year?"

"No, I haven't forgotten."

"Neither have I!"

Was she sincerely moved--or was she carried along by the wave of her own
acting?

"I wish we could be like that again," she said, and he forced himself to
answer:

"I don't think we can."

"I suppose not.... I hear you're giving Irene Scheerer a violent rush."

There was not the faintest emphasis on the name, yet Dexter was suddenly
ashamed.

"Oh, take me home," cried Judy suddenly; "I don't want to go back to
that idiotic dance--with those children."

Then, as he turned up the street that led to the residence district,
Judy began to cry quietly to herself. He had never seen her cry before.

The dark street lightened, the dwellings of the rich loomed up around
them, he stopped his coupé in front of the great white bulk of the
Mortimer Joneses house, somnolent, gorgeous, drenched with the splendor
of the damp moonlight. Its solidity startled him. The strong walls, the
steel of the girders, the breadth and beam and pomp of it were there
only to bring out the contrast with the young beauty beside him. It was
sturdy to accentuate her slightness--as if to show what a breeze could
be generated by a butterfly's wing.

He sat perfectly quiet, his nerves in wild clamor, afraid that if he
moved he would find her irresistibly in his arms. Two tears had rolled
down her wet face and trembled on her upper lip.

"I'm more beautiful than anybody else," she said brokenly, "why can't I
be happy?" Her moist eyes tore at his stability--her mouth turned slowly
downward with an exquisite sadness: "I'd like to marry you if you'll
have me, Dexter. I suppose you think I'm not worth having, but I'll be
so beautiful for you, Dexter."

A million phrases of anger, pride, passion, hatred, tenderness fought on
his lips. Then a perfect wave of emotion washed over him, carrying off
with it a sediment of wisdom, of convention, of doubt, of honor. This
was his girl who was speaking, his own, his beautiful, his pride.

"Won't you come in?" He heard her draw in her breath sharply.

Waiting.

"All right," his voice was trembling, "I'll come in."




V


It was strange that neither when it was over nor a long time afterward
did he regret that night. Looking at it from the perspective of ten
years, the fact that Judy's flare for him endured just one month seemed
of little importance. Nor did it matter that by his yielding he
subjected himself to a deeper agony in the end and gave serious hurt to
Irene Scheerer and to Irene's parents, who had befriended him. There was
nothing sufficiently pictorial about Irene's grief to stamp itself on
his mind.

Dexter was at bottom hard-minded. The attitude of the city on his action
was of no importance to him, not because he was going to leave the city,
but because any outside attitude on the situation seemed superficial. He
was completely indifferent to popular opinion. Nor, when he had seen
that it was no use, that he did not possess in himself the power to move
fundamentally or to hold Judy Jones, did he bear any malice toward her.
He loved her, and he would love her until the day he was too old for
loving--but he could not have her. So he tasted the deep pain that is
reserved only for the strong, just as he had tasted for a little while
the deep happiness.

Even the ultimate falsity of the grounds upon which Judy terminated the
engagement that she did not want to "take him away" from Irene--Judy,
who had wanted nothing else--did not revolt him. He was beyond any
revulsion or any amusement.

He went East in February with the intention of selling out his laundries
and settling in New York--but the war came to America in March and
changed his plans. He returned to the West, handed over the management
of the business to his partner, and went into the first officers'
training-camp in late April. He was one of those young thousands who
greeted the war with a certain amount of relief, welcoming the
liberation from webs of tangled emotion.




VI


This story is not his biography, remember, although things creep into it
which have nothing to do with those dreams he had when he was young. We
are almost done with them and with him now. There is only one more
incident to be related here, and it happens seven years farther on.

It took place in New York, where he had done well--so well that there
were no barriers too high for him. He was thirty-two years old, and,
except for one flying trip immediately after the war, he had not been
West in seven years. A man named Devlin from Detroit came into his
office to see him in a business way, and then and there this incident
occurred, and closed out, so to speak, this particular side of his life.

"So you're from the Middle West," said the man Devlin with careless
curiosity. "That's funny--I thought men like you were probably born and
raised on Wall Street. You know--wife of one of my best friends in
Detroit came from your city. I was an usher at the wedding."

Dexter waited with no apprehension of what was coming.

"Judy Simms," said Devlin with no particular interest; "Judy Jones she
was once."

"Yes, I knew her." A dull impatience spread over him. He had heard, of
course, that she was married--perhaps deliberately he had heard no more.

"Awfully nice girl," brooded Devlin meaninglessly, "I'm sort of sorry
for her."

"Why?" Something in Dexter was alert, receptive, at once.

"Oh, Lud Simms has gone to pieces in a way. I don't mean he ill-uses
her, but he drinks and runs around-----"

"Doesn't she run around?"

"No. Stays at home with her kids."

"Oh."

"She's a little too old for him," said Devlin.

"Too old!" cried Dexter. "Why, man, she's only twenty-seven."

He was possessed with a wild notion of rushing out into the streets and
taking a train to Detroit. He rose to his feet spasmodically.

"I guess you're busy," Devlin apologized quickly. "I didn't realize----"

"No, I'm not busy," said Dexter, steadying his voice. "I'm not busy at
all. Not busy at all. Did you say she was--twenty-seven? No, I said she
was twenty-seven."

"Yes, you did," agreed Devlin dryly.

"Go on, then. Go on."

"What do you mean?"

"About Judy Jones."

Devlin looked at him helplessly.

"Well, that's--I told you all there is to it. He treats her like the
devil. Oh, they're not going to get divorced or anything. When he's
particularly outrageous she forgives him. In fact, I'm inclined to think
she loves him. She was a pretty girl when she first came to Detroit."

A pretty girl! The phrase struck Dexter as ludicrous.

"Isn't she--a pretty girl, any more?"

"Oh, she's all right."

"Look here," said Dexter, sitting down suddenly, "I don't understand.
You say she was a 'pretty girl' and now you say she's 'all right.' I
don't understand what you mean--Judy Jones wasn't a pretty girl, at all.
She was a great beauty. Why, I knew her, I knew her. She was----"

Devlin laughed pleasantly.

"I'm not trying to start a row," he said. "I think Judy's a nice girl
and I like her. I can't understand how a man like Lud Simms could fall
madly in love with her, but he did." Then he added: "Most of the women
like her."

Dexter looked closely at Devlin, thinking wildly that there must be a
reason for this, some insensitivity in the man or some private malice.

"Lots of women fade just like _that_" Devlin snapped his fingers. "You
must have seen it happen. Perhaps I've forgotten how pretty she was at
her wedding. I've seen her so much since then, you see. She has nice
eyes."

A sort of dulness settled down upon Dexter. For the first time in his
life he felt like getting very drunk. He knew that he was laughing
loudly at something Devlin had said, but he did not know what it was or
why it was funny. When, in a few minutes, Devlin went he lay down on his
lounge and looked out the window at the New York sky-line into which the
sun was sinking in dull lovely shades of pink and gold.

He had thought that having nothing else to lose he was invulnerable at
last--but he knew that he had just lost something more, as surely as if
he had married Judy Jones and seen her fade away before his eyes.

The dream was gone. Something had been taken from him. In a sort of
panic he pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes and tried to bring
up a picture of the waters lapping on Sherry Island and the moonlit
veranda, and gingham on the golf-links and the dry sun and the gold
color of her neck's soft down. And her mouth damp to his kisses and her
eyes plaintive with melancholy and her freshness like new fine linen in
the morning. Why, these things were no longer in the world! They had
existed and they existed no longer.

For the first time in years the tears were streaming down his face. But
they were for himself now. He did not care about mouth and eyes and
moving hands. He wanted to care, and he could not care. For he had gone
away and he could never go back any more. The gates were closed, the sun
was gone down, and there was no beauty but the gray beauty of steel that
withstands all time. Even the grief he could have borne was left behind
in the country of illusion, of youth, of the richness of life, where his
winter dreams had flourished.

"Long ago," he said, "long ago, there was something in me, but now that
thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry.
I cannot care. That thing will come back no more."




THE BABY PARTY


When John Andros felt old he found solace in the thought of life
continuing through his child. The dark trumpets of oblivion were less
loud at the patter of his child's feet or at the sound of his child's
voice babbling mad non sequiturs to him over the telephone. The latter
incident occurred every afternoon at three when his wife called the
office from the country, and he came to look forward to it as one of the
vivid minutes of his day.

He was not physically old, but his life had been a series of struggles
up a series of rugged hills, and here at thirty-eight having won his
battles against ill-health and poverty he cherished less than the usual
number of illusions. Even his feeling about his little girl was
qualified. She had interrupted his rather intense love-affair with his
wife, and she was the reason for their living in a suburban town, where
they paid for country air with endless servant troubles and the weary
merry-go-round of the commuting train.

It was little Ede as a definite piece of youth that chiefly interested
him. He liked to take her on his lap and examine minutely her fragrant,
downy scalp and her eyes with their irises of morning blue. Having paid
this homage John was content that the nurse should take her away. After
ten minutes the very vitality of the child irritated him; he was
inclined to lose his temper when things were broken, and one Sunday
afternoon when she had disrupted a bridge game by permanently hiding up
the ace of spades, he had made a scene that had reduced his wife to
tears.

This was absurd and John was ashamed of himself. It was inevitable that
such things would happen, and it was impossible that little Ede should
spend all her indoor hours in the nursery up-stairs when she was
becoming, as her mother said, more nearly a "real person" every day.

She was two and a half, and this afternoon, for instance, she was going
to a baby party. Grown-up Edith, her mother, had telephoned the
information to the office, and little Ede had confirmed the business by
shouting "I yam going to a _pantry_!" into John's unsuspecting left ear.

"Drop in at the Markeys' when you get home, won't you, dear?" resumed
her mother. "It'll be funny. Ede's going to be all dressed up in her new
pink dress----"

The conversation terminated abruptly with a squawk which indicated that
the telephone had been pulled violently to the floor. John laughed and
decided to get an early train out; the prospect of a baby party in some
one else's house amused him.

"What a peach of a mess!" he thought humorously. "A dozen mothers, and
each one looking at nothing but her own child. All the babies breaking
things and grabbing at the cake, and each mama going home thinking about
the subtle superiority of her own child to every other child there."

He was in a good humor to-day--all the things in his life were going
better than they had ever gone before. When he got off the train at his
station he shook his head at an importunate taxi man, and began to walk
up the long hill toward his house through the crisp December twilight.
It was only six o'clock but the moon was out, shining with proud
brilliance on the thin sugary snow that lay over the lawns.

As he walked along drawing his lungs full of cold air his happiness
increased, and the idea of a baby party appealed to him more and more.
He began to wonder how Ede compared to other children of her own age,
and if the pink dress she was to wear was something radical and mature.
Increasing his gait he came in sight of his own house, where the lights
of a defunct Christmas-tree still blossomed in the window, but he
continued on past the walk. The party was at the Markeys' next door.

As he mounted the brick step and rang the bell he became aware of voices
inside, and he was glad he was not too late. Then he raised his head and
listened--the voices were not children's voices, but they were loud and
pitched high with anger; there were at least three of them and one,
which rose as he listened to a hysterical sob, he recognized immediately
as his wife's.

"There's been some trouble," he thought quickly.

Trying the door, he found it unlocked and pushed it open.


The baby party began at half past four, but Edith Andros, calculating
shrewdly that the new dress would stand out more sensationally against
vestments already rumpled, planned the arrival of herself and little Ede
for five. When they appeared it was already a flourishing affair. Four
baby girls and nine baby boys, each one curled and washed and dressed
with all the care of a proud and jealous heart, were dancing to the
music of a phonograph. Never more than two or three were dancing at
once, but as all were continually in motion running to and from their
mothers for encouragement, the general effect was the same.

As Edith and her daughter entered, the music was temporarily drowned out
by a sustained chorus, consisting largely of the word _cute_ and directed
toward little Ede, who stood looking timidly about and fingering the
edges of her pink dress. She was not kissed--this is the sanitary
age--but she was passed along a row of mamas each one of whom said
"cu-u-ute" to her and held her pink little hand before passing her on to
the next. After some encouragement and a few mild pushes she was
absorbed into the dance, and became an active member of the party.

Edith stood near the door talking to Mrs. Markey, and keeping one eye on
the tiny figure in the pink dress. She did not care for Mrs. Markey; she
considered her both snippy and common, but John and Joe Markey were
congenial and went in together on the commuting train every morning, so
the two women kept up an elaborate pretense of warm amity. They were
always reproaching each other for "not coming to see me," and they were
always planning the kind of parties that began with "You'll have to come
to dinner with us soon, and we'll go in to the theatre," but never
matured further.

"Little Ede looks perfectly darling," said Mrs. Markey, smiling and
moistening her lips in a way that Edith found particularly repulsive.
"So _grown-up_--I can't _believe_ it!"

Edith wondered if "little Ede" referred to the fact that Billy Markey,
though several months younger, weighed almost five pounds more.
Accepting a cup of tea she took a seat with two other ladies on a divan
and launched into the real business of the afternoon, which of course
lay in relating the recent accomplishments and insouciances of her
child.

An hour passed. Dancing palled and the babies took to sterner sport.
They ran into the dining-room, rounded the big table, and essayed the
kitchen door, from which they were rescued by an expeditionary force of
mothers. Having been rounded up they immediately broke loose, and
rushing back to the dining-room tried the familiar swinging door again.
The word "overheated" began to be used, and small white brows were dried
with small white handkerchiefs. A general attempt to make the babies sit
down began, but the babies squirmed off laps with peremptory cries of
"Down! Down!" and the rush into the fascinating dining-room began anew.

This phase of the party came to an end with the arrival of refreshments,
a large cake with two candles, and saucers of vanilla ice-cream. Billy
Markey, a stout laughing baby with red hair and legs somewhat bowed,
blew out the candles, and placed an experimental thumb on the white
frosting. The refreshments were distributed, and the children ate,
greedily but without confusion--they had behaved remarkably well all
afternoon. They were modern babies who ate and slept at regular hours,
so their dispositions were good, and their faces healthy and pink--such
a peaceful party would not have been possible thirty years ago.

After the refreshments a gradual exodus began. Edith glanced anxiously
at her watch--it was almost six, and John had not arrived. She wanted
him to see Ede with the other children--to see how dignified and polite
and intelligent she was, and how the only ice-cream spot on her dress
was some that had dropped from her chin when she was joggled from
behind.

"You're a darling," she whispered to her child, drawing her suddenly
against her knee. "Do you know you're a darling? Do you _know_ you're a
darling?"

Ede laughed. "Bow-wow," she said suddenly.

"Bow-wow?" Edith looked around. "There isn't any bow-wow."

"Bow-wow," repeated Ede. "I want a bow-wow."

Edith followed the small pointing finger.

"That isn't a bow-wow, dearest, that's a teddy-bear."

"Bear?"

"Yes, that's a teddy-bear, and it belongs to Billy Markey. You don't
want Billy Markey's teddy-bear, do you?"

Ede did want it.

She broke away from her mother and approached Billy Markey, who held the
toy closely in his arms. Ede stood regarding him with inscrutable eyes,
and Billy laughed.

Grown-up Edith looked at her watch again, this time impatiently.

The party had dwindled until, besides Ede and Billy, there were only two
babies remaining--and one of the two remained only by virtue of having
hidden himself under the dining-room table. It was selfish of John not
to come. It showed so little pride in the child. Other fathers had come,
half a dozen of them, to call for their wives, and they had stayed for a
while and looked on.

There was a sudden wail. Ede had obtained Billy's teddy-bear by pulling
it forcibly from his arms, and on Billy's attempt to recover it, she had
pushed him casually to the floor.

"Why, Ede!" cried her mother, repressing an inclination to laugh.

Joe Markey, a handsome, broad-shouldered man of thirty-five, picked up
his son and set him on his feet. "You're a fine fellow," he said
jovially. "Let a girl knock you over! You're a fine fellow."

"Did he bump his head?" Mrs. Markey returned anxiously from bowing the
next to last remaining mother out the door.

"No-o-o-o," exclaimed Markey. "He bumped something else, didn't you,
Billy? He bumped something else."

Billy had so far forgotten the bump that he was already making an
attempt to recover his property. He seized a leg of the bear which
projected from Ede's enveloping arms and tugged at it but without
success.

"No," said Ede emphatically.

Suddenly, encouraged by the success of her former half-accidental
manœuvre, Ede dropped the teddy-bear, placed her hands on Billy's
shoulders and pushed him backward off his feet.

This time he landed less harmlessly; his head hit the bare floor just
off the rug with a dull hollow sound, whereupon he drew in his breath
and delivered an agonized yell.

Immediately the room was in confusion. With an exclamation Markey
hurried to his son, but his wife was first to reach the injured baby and
catch him up into her arms.

"Oh, _Billy_," she cried, "what a terrible bump! She ought to be
spanked."

Edith, who had rushed immediately to her daughter, heard this remark,
and her lips came sharply together.

"Why, Ede," she whispered perfunctorily, "you bad girl!"

Ede put back her little head suddenly and laughed. It was a loud laugh,
a triumphant laugh with victory in it and challenge and contempt.
Unfortunately it was also an infectious laugh. Before her mother
realized the delicacy of the situation, she too had laughed, an audible,
distinct laugh not unlike the baby's, and partaking of the same
overtones.

Then, as suddenly, she stopped.

Mrs. Markey's face had grown red with anger, and Markey, who had been
feeling the back of the baby's head with one finger, looked at her,
frowning.

"It's swollen already," he said with a note of reproof in his voice.
"I'll get some witch-hazel."

But Mrs. Markey had lost her temper. "I don't see anything funny about a
child being hurt!" she said in a trembling voice.

Little Ede meanwhile had been looking at her mother curiously. She noted
that her own laugh had produced her mother's, and she wondered if the
same cause would always produce the same effect. So she chose this
moment to throw back her head and laugh again.

To her mother the additional mirth added the final touch of hysteria to
the situation. Pressing her handkerchief to her mouth she giggled
irrepressibly. It was more than nervousness--she felt that in a peculiar
way she was laughing with her child--they were laughing together.

It was in a way a defiance--those two against the world.

While Markey rushed up-stairs to the bathroom for ointment, his wife was
walking up and down rocking the yelling boy in her arms.

"Please go home!" she broke out suddenly. "The child's badly hurt, and
if you haven't the decency to be quiet, you'd better go home."

"Very well," said Edith, her own temper rising. "I've never seen any one
make such a mountain out of----"

"Get out!" cried Mrs. Markey frantically. "There's the door, get out--I
never want to see you in our house again. You or your brat either!"

Edith had taken her daughter's hand and was moving quickly toward the
door, but at this remark she stopped and turned around, her face
contracting with indignation.

"Don't you dare call her that!"

Mrs. Markey did not answer but continued walking up and down, muttering
to herself and to Billy in an inaudible voice.

Edith began to cry.

"I will get out!" she sobbed, "I've never heard anybody so rude and
c-common in my life. I'm glad your baby did get pushed down--he's
nothing but a f-fat little fool anyhow."

Joe Markey reached the foot of the stairs just in time to hear this
remark.

"Why, Mrs. Andros," he said sharply, "can't you see the child's hurt?
You really ought to control yourself."

"Control m-myself!" exclaimed Edith brokenly. "You better ask her to
c-control herself. I've never heard anybody so c-common in my life."

"She's insulting me!" Mrs. Markey was now livid with rage. "Did you hear
what she said, Joe? I wish you'd put her out. If she won't go, just take
her by the shoulders and put her out!"

"Don't you dare touch me!" cried Edith. "I'm going just as quick as I
can find my c-coat!"

Blind with tears she took a step toward the hall. It was just at this
moment that the door opened and John Andros walked anxiously in.

"John!" cried Edith, and fled to him wildly.

"What's the matter? Why, what's the matter?"

"They're--they're putting me out!" she wailed, collapsing against him.
"He'd just started to take me by the shoulders and put me out. I want my
coat!"

"That's not true," objected Markey hurriedly. "Nobody's going to put you
out." He turned to John. "Nobody's going to put her out," he repeated.
"She's----"

"What do you mean 'put her out'?" demanded John abruptly. "What's all
this talk, anyhow?"

"Oh, let's go!" cried Edith. "I want to go. They're so _common_, John!"

"Look here!" Markey's face darkened. "You've said that about enough.
You're acting sort of crazy."

"They called Ede a brat!"

For the second time that afternoon little Ede expressed emotion at an
inopportune moment. Confused and frightened at the shouting voices, she
began to cry, and her tears had the effect of conveying that she felt
the insult in her heart.

"What's the idea of this?" broke out John. "Do you insult your guests in
your own house?"

"It seems to me it's your wife that's done the insulting!" answered
Markey crisply. "In fact, your baby there started all the trouble."

John gave a contemptuous snort. "Are you calling names at a little
baby?" he inquired. "That's a fine manly business!"

"Don't talk to him, John," insisted Edith. "Find my coat!"

"You must be in a bad way," went on John angrily, "if you have to take
out your temper on a helpless little baby."

"I never heard anything so damn twisted in my life," shouted Markey. "If
that wife of yours would shut her mouth for a minute----"

"Wait a minute! You're not talking to a woman and child now----"

There was an incidental interruption. Edith had been fumbling on a chair
for her coat, and Mrs. Markey had been watching her with hot, angry
eyes. Suddenly she laid Billy down on the sofa, where he immediately
stopped crying and pulled himself upright, and coming into the hall she
quickly found Edith's coat and handed it to her without a word. Then she
went back to the sofa, picked up Billy, and rocking him in her arms
looked again at Edith with hot, angry eyes. The interruption had taken
less than half a minute.

"Your wife comes in here and begins shouting around about how common we
are!" burst out Markey violently. "Well, if we're so damn common, you'd
better stay away! And, what's more, you'd better get out now!"

Again John gave a short, contemptuous laugh.

"You're not only common," he returned, "you're evidently an awful
bully--when there's any helpless women and children around." He felt for
the knob and swung the door open. "Come on, Edith."

Taking up her daughter in her arms, his wife stepped outside and John,
still looking contemptuously at Markey, started to follow.

"Wait a minute!" Markey took a step forward; he was trembling slightly,
and two large veins on his temple were suddenly full of blood. "You
don't think you can get away with that, do you? With me?"

Without a word John walked out the door, leaving it open.

Edith, still weeping, had started for home. After following her with his
eyes until she reached her own walk, John turned back toward the lighted
doorway where Markey was slowly coming down the slippery steps. He took
off his overcoat and hat, tossed them off the path onto the snow. Then,
sliding a little on the iced walk, he took a step forward.

At the first blow, they both slipped and fell heavily to the sidewalk,
half rising then, and again pulling each other to the ground. They found
a better foothold in the thin snow to the side of the walk and rushed at
each other, both swinging wildly and pressing out the snow into a pasty
mud underfoot.

The street was deserted, and except for their short tired gasps and the
padded sound as one or the other slipped down into the slushy mud, they
fought in silence, clearly defined to each other by the full moonlight
as well as by the amber glow that shone out of the open door. Several
times they both slipped down together, and then for a while the conflict
threshed about wildly on the lawn.

For ten, fifteen, twenty minutes they fought there senselessly in the
moonlight. They had both taken off coats and vests at some silently
agreed upon interval and now their shirts dripped from their backs in
wet pulpy shreds. Both were torn and bleeding and so exhausted that they
could stand only when by their position they mutually supported each
other--the impact, the mere effort of a blow, would send them both to
their hands and knees.

But it was not weariness that ended the business, and the very
meaninglessness of the fight was a reason for not stopping. They stopped
because once when they were straining at each other on the ground, they
heard a man's footsteps coming along the sidewalk. They had rolled
somehow into the shadow, and when they heard these footsteps they
stopped fighting, stopped moving, stopped breathing, lay huddled
together like two boys playing Indian until the footsteps had passed.
Then, staggering to their feet, they looked at each other like two
drunken men.

"I'll be damned if I'm going on with this thing any more," cried Markey
thickly.

"I'm not going on any more either," said John Andros. "I've had enough
of this thing."

Again they looked at each other, sulkily this time, as if each suspected
the other of urging him to a renewal of the fight. Markey spat out a
mouthful of blood from a cut lip; then he cursed softly, and picking up
his coat and vest, shook off the snow from them in a surprised way, as
if their comparative dampness was his only worry in the world.

"Want to come in and wash up?" he asked suddenly.

"No, thanks," said John. "I ought to be going home--my wife'll be
worried."

He too picked up his coat and vest and then his overcoat and hat.
Soaking wet and dripping with perspiration, it seemed absurd that less
than half an hour ago he had been wearing all these clothes.

"Well--good night," he said hesitantly.

Suddenly they both walked toward each other and shook hands. It was no
perfunctory hand-shake: John Andros's arm went around Markey's shoulder,
and he patted him softly on the back for a little while.

"No harm done," he said brokenly.

"No--you?"

"No, no harm done."

"Well," said John Andros after a minute, "I guess I'll say good night."

"Good night."

Limping slightly and with his clothes over his arm, John Andros turned
away. The moonlight was still bright as he left the dark patch of
trampled ground and walked over the intervening lawn. Down at the
station, half a mile away, he could hear the rumble of the seven o'clock
train.


"But you must have been crazy," cried Edith brokenly. "I thought you
were going to fix it all up there and shake hands. That's why I went
away."

"Did you want us to fix it up?"

"Of course not, I never want to see them again. But I thought of course
that was what you were going to do." She was touching the bruises on his
neck and back with iodine as he sat placidly in a hot bath. "I'm going
to get the doctor," she said insistently. "You may be hurt internally."

He shook his head. "Not a chance," he answered. "I don't want this to
get all over town."

"I don't understand yet how it all happened."

"Neither do I." He smiled grimly. "I guess these baby parties are pretty
rough affairs."

"Well, one thing--" suggested Edith hopefully, "I'm certainly glad we
have beefsteak in the house for to-morrow's dinner."

"Why?"

"For your eye, of course. Do you know I came within an ace of ordering
veal? Wasn't that the luckiest thing?"

Half an hour later, dressed except that his neck would accommodate no
collar, John moved his limbs experimentally before the glass. "I believe
I'll get myself in better shape," he said thoughtfully. "I must be
getting old."

"You mean so that next time you can beat him?"

"I did beat him," he announced. "At least, I beat him as much as he beat
me. And there isn't going to be any next time. Don't you go calling
people common any more. If you get in any trouble, you just take your
coat and go home. Understand?"

"Yes, dear," she said meekly. "I was very foolish and now I understand."

Out in the hall, he paused abruptly by the baby's door.

"Is she asleep?"

"Sound asleep. But you can go in and peek at her--just to say good
night."

They tiptoed in and bent together over the bed. Little Ede, her cheeks
flushed with health, her pink hands clasped tight together, was sleeping
soundly in the cool, dark room. John reached over the railing of the bed
and passed his hand lightly over the silken hair.

"She's asleep," he murmured in a puzzled way.

"Naturally, after such an afternoon."

"Miz Andros," the colored maid's stage whisper floated in from the hall,
"Mr. and Miz Markey down-stairs an' want to see you. Mr. Markey he's all
cut up in pieces, mam'n. His face look like a roast beef. An' Miz Markey
she 'pear mighty mad."

"Why, what incomparable nerve!" exclaimed Edith. "Just tell them we're
not home. I wouldn't go down for anything in the world."

"You most certainly will." John's voice was hard and set.

"What?"

"You'll go down right now, and, what's more, whatever that other woman
does, you'll apologize for what you said this afternoon. After that you
don't ever have to see her again."

"Why--John, I can't."

"You've got to. And just remember that she probably hated to come over
here just twice as much as you hate to go down-stairs."

"Aren't you coming? Do I have to go alone?" "I'll be down--in just a
minute."

John Andros waited until she had closed the door behind her; then he
reached over into the bed, and picking up his daughter, blankets and
all, sat down in the rocking-chair holding her tightly in his arms. She
moved a little, and he held his breath, but she was sleeping soundly,
and in a moment she was resting quietly in the hollow of his elbow.
Slowly he bent his head until his cheek was against her bright hair.
"Dear little girl," he whispered. "Dear little girl, dear little girl."

John Andros knew at length what it was he had fought for so savagely
that evening. He had it now, he possessed it forever, and for some time
he sat there rocking very slowly to and fro in the darkness.




ABSOLUTION


There was once a priest with cold, watery eyes, who, in the still of the
night, wept cold tears. He wept because the afternoons were warm and
long, and he was unable to attain a complete mystical union with our
Lord. Sometimes, near four o'clock, there was a rustle of Swede girls
along the path by his window, and in their shrill laughter he found a
terrible dissonance that made him pray aloud for the twilight to come.
At twilight the laughter and the voices were quieter, but several times
he had walked past Romberg's Drug Store when it was dusk and the yellow
lights shone inside and the nickel taps of the soda-fountain were
gleaming, and he had found the scent of cheap toilet soap desperately
sweet upon the air. He passed that way when he returned from hearing
confessions on Saturday nights, and he grew careful to walk on the other
side of the street so that the smell of the soap would float upward
before it reached his nostrils as it drifted, rather like incense,
toward the summer moon.

But there was no escape from the hot madness of four o'clock. From his
window, as far as he could see, the Dakota wheat thronged the valley of
the Red River. The wheat was terrible to look upon and the carpet
pattern to which in agony he bent his eyes sent his thought brooding
through grotesque labyrinths, open always to the unavoidable sun.

One afternoon when he had reached the point where the mind runs down
like an old clock, his housekeeper brought into his study a beautiful,
intense little boy of eleven named Rudolph Miller. The little boy sat
down in a patch of sunshine, and the priest, at his walnut desk,
pretended to be very busy. This was to conceal his relief that some one
had come into his haunted room.

Presently he turned around and found himself staring into two enormous,
staccato eyes, lit with gleaming points of cobalt light. For a moment
their expression startled him--then he saw that his visitor was in a
state of abject fear.

"Your mouth is trembling," said Father Schwartz, in a haggard voice.

The little boy covered his quivering mouth with his hand.

"Are you in trouble?" asked Father Schwartz, sharply. "Take your hand
away from your mouth and tell me what's the matter."

The boy--Father Schwartz recognized him now as the son of a parishioner,
Mr. Miller, the freight-agent--moved his hand reluctantly off his mouth
and became articulate in a despairing whisper.

"Father Schwartz--I've committed a terrible sin."

"A sin against purity?"

"No, Father ... worse."

Father Schwartz's body jerked sharply.

"Have you killed somebody?"

"No--but I'm afraid--" the voice rose to a shrill whimper.

"Do you want to go to confession?"

The little boy shook his head miserably. Father Schwartz cleared his
throat so that he could make his voice soft and say some quiet, kind
thing. In this moment he should forget his own agony, and try to act
like God. He repeated to himself a devotional phrase, hoping that in
return God would help him to act correctly.

"Tell me what you've done," said his new soft voice.

The little boy looked at him through his tears, and was reassured by the
impression of moral resiliency which the distraught priest had created.
Abandoning as much of himself as he was able to this man, Rudolph Miller
began to tell his story.

"On Saturday, three days ago, my father he said I had to go to
confession, because I hadn't been for a month, and the family they go
every week, and I hadn't been. So I just as leave go, I didn't care. So
I put it off till after supper because I was playing with a bunch of
kids and father asked me if I went, and I said 'no,' and he took me by
the neck and he said 'You go now,' so I said 'All right,' so I went over
to church. And he yelled after me: 'Don't come back till you go.'..."




II

"_On Saturday, Three Days Ago._"


The plush curtain of the confessional rearranged its dismal creases,
leaving exposed only the bottom of an old man's old shoe. Behind the
curtain an immortal soul was alone with God and the Reverend Adolphus
Schwartz, priest of the parish. Sound began, a labored whispering,
sibilant and discreet, broken at intervals by the voice of the priest in
audible question.

Rudolph Miller knelt in the pew beside the confessional and waited,
straining nervously to hear, and yet not to hear what was being said
within. The fact that the priest was audible alarmed him. His own turn
came next, and the three or four others who waited might listen
unscrupulously while he admitted his violations of the Sixth and Ninth
Commandments.

Rudolph had never committed adultery, nor even coveted his neighbor's
wife--but it was the confession of the associate sins that was
particularly hard to contemplate. In comparison he relished the less
shameful fallings away--they formed a grayish background which relieved
the ebony mark of sexual offenses upon his soul.

He had been covering his ears with his hands, hoping that his refusal to
hear would be noticed, and a like courtesy rendered to him in turn, when
a sharp movement of the penitent in the confessional made him sink his
face precipitately into the crook of his elbow. Fear assumed solid form,
and pressed out a lodging between his heart and his lungs. He must try
now with all his might to be sorry for his sins--not because he was
afraid, but because he had offended God. He must convince God that he
was sorry and to do so he must first convince himself. After a tense
emotional struggle he achieved a tremulous self-pity, and decided that
he was now ready. If, by allowing no other thought to enter his head, he
could preserve this state of emotion unimpaired until he went into that
large coffin set on end, he would have survived another crisis in his
religious life.

For some time, however, a demoniac notion had partially possessed him.
He could go home now, before his turn came, and tell his mother that he
had arrived too late, and found the priest gone. This, unfortunately,
involved the risk of being caught in a lie. As an alternative he could
say that he _had_ gone to confession, but this meant that he must avoid
communion next day, for communion taken upon an uncleansed soul would
turn to poison in his mouth, and he would crumple limp and damned from
the altar-rail.

Again Father Schwartz's voice became audible.

"And for your----"

The words blurred to a husky mumble, and Rudolph got excitedly to his
feet. He felt that it was impossible for him to go to confession this
afternoon. He hesitated tensely. Then from the confessional came a tap,
a creak, and a sustained rustle. The slide had fallen and the plush
curtain trembled. Temptation had come to him too late....

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.... I confess to Almighty God and
to you, Father, that I have sinned.... Since my last confession it has
been one month and three days.... I accuse myself of--taking the Name of
the Lord in vain...."

This was an easy sin. His curses had been but bravado--telling of them
was little less than a brag.

"... of being mean to an old lady."

The wan shadow moved a little on the latticed slat.

"How, my child?"

"Old lady Swenson," Rudolph's murmur soared jubilantly. "She got our
baseball that we knocked in her window, and she wouldn't give it back,
so we yelled 'Twenty-three, Skidoo,' at her all afternoon. Then about
five o'clock she had a fit, and they had to have the doctor."

"Go on, my child."

"Of--of not believing I was the son of my parents."

"What?" The interrogation was distinctly startled.

"Of not believing that I was the son of my parents."

"Why not?"

"Oh, just pride," answered the penitent airily.

"You mean you thought you were too good to be the son of your parents?"

"Yes, Father." On a less jubilant note.

"Go on."

"Of being disobedient and calling my mother names. Of slandering people
behind my back. Of smoking----"

Rudolph had now exhausted the minor offenses, and was approaching the
sins it was agony to tell. He held his fingers against his face like
bars as if to press out between them the shame in his heart.

"Of dirty words and immodest thoughts and desires," he whispered very
low.

"How often?"

"I don't know."

"Once a week? Twice a week?"

"Twice a week."

"Did you yield to these desires?"

"No, Father."

"Were you alone when you had them?"

"No, Father. I was with two boys and a girl."

"Don't you know, my child, that you should avoid the occasions of sin as
well as the sin itself? Evil companionship leads to evil desires and
evil desires to evil actions. Where were you when this happened?"

"In a barn in back of----"

"I don't want to hear any names," interrupted the priest sharply.

"Well, it was up in the loft of this barn and this girl and--a fella,
they were saying things--saying immodest things, and I stayed."

"You should have gone--you should have told the girl to go."

He should have gone! He could not tell Father Schwartz how his pulse had
bumped in his wrist, how a strange, romantic excitement had possessed
him when those curious things had been said. Perhaps in the houses of
delinquency among the dull and hard-eyed incorrigible girls can be found
those for whom has burned the whitest fire.

"Have you anything else to tell me?"

"I don't think so, Father."

Rudolph felt a great relief. Perspiration had broken out under his
tight-pressed fingers.

"Have you told any lies?"

The question startled him. Like all those who habitually and
instinctively lie, he had an enormous respect and awe for the truth.
Something almost exterior to himself dictated a quick, hurt answer.

"Oh, no, Father, I never tell lies."

For a moment, like the commoner in the king's chair, he tasted the pride
of the situation. Then as the priest began to murmur conventional
admonitions he realized that in heroically denying he had told lies, he
had committed a terrible sin--he had told a lie in confession.

In automatic response to Father Schwartz's "Make an act of contrition,"
he began to repeat aloud meaninglessly:

"Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee...."

He must fix this now--it was a bad mistake--but as his teeth shut on the
last words of his prayer there was a sharp sound, and the slat was
closed.

A minute later when he emerged into the twilight the relief in coming
from the muggy church into an open world of wheat and sky postponed the
full realization of what he had done. Instead of worrying he took a deep
breath of the crisp air and began to say over and over to himself the
words "Blatchford Sarnemington, Blatchford Sarnemington!"

Blatchford Sarnemington was himself, and these words were in effect a
lyric. When he became Blatchford Sarnemington a suave nobility flowed
from him. Blatchford Sarnemington lived in great sweeping triumphs. When
Rudolph half closed his eyes it meant that Blatchford had established
dominance over him and, as he went by, there were envious mutters in the
air: "Blatchford Sarnemington! There goes Blatchford Sarnemington."

He was Blatchford now for a while as he strutted homeward along the
staggering road, but when the road braced itself in macadam in order to
become the main street of Ludwig, Rudolph's exhilaration faded out and
his mind cooled, and he felt the horror of his lie. God, of course,
already knew of it--but Rudolph reserved a corner of his mind where he
was safe from God, where he prepared the subterfuges with which he often
tricked God. Hiding now in this corner he considered how he could best
avoid the consequences of his misstatement.

At all costs he must avoid communion next day. The risk of angering God
to such an extent was too great. He would have to drink water "by
accident" in the morning, and thus, in accordance with a church law,
render himself unfit to receive communion that day. In spite of its
flimsiness this subterfuge was the most feasible that occurred to him.
He accepted its risks and was concentrating on how best to put it into
effect, as he turned the corner by Romberg's Drug Store and came in
sight of his father's house.




III


Rudolph's father, the local freight-agent, had floated with the second
wave of German and Irish stock to the Minnesota-Dakota country.
Theoretically, great opportunities lay ahead of a young man of energy in
that day and place, but Carl Miller had been incapable of establishing
either with his superiors or his subordinates the reputation for
approximate immutability which is essential to success in a hierarchic
industry. Somewhat gross, he was, nevertheless, insufficiently
hard-headed and unable to take fundamental relationships for granted,
and this inability made him suspicious, unrestful, and continually
dismayed.

His two bonds with the colorful life were his faith in the Roman
Catholic Church and his mystical worship of the Empire Builder, James J.
Hill. Hill was the apotheosis of that quality in which Miller himself
was deficient--the sense of things, the feel of things, the hint of rain
in the wind on the cheek. Miller's mind worked late on the old decisions
of other men, and he had never in his life felt the balance of any
single thing in his hands. His weary, sprightly, undersized body was
growing old in Hill's gigantic shadow. For twenty years he had lived
alone with Hill's name and God.

On Sunday morning Carl Miller awoke in the dustless quiet of six o'clock.
Kneeling by the side of the bed he bent his yellow-gray hair and the
full dapple bangs of his mustache into the pillow, and prayed for
several minutes. Then he drew off his night-shirt--like the rest of his
generation he had never been able to endure pajamas--and clothed his
thin, white, hairless body in woollen underwear.

He shaved. Silence in the other bedroom where his wife lay nervously
asleep. Silence from the screened-off corner of the hall where his son's
cot stood, and his son slept among his Alger books, his collection of
cigar-bands, his mothy pennants--"Cornell," "Hamlin," and "Greetings
from Pueblo, New Mexico"--and the other possessions of his private life.
From outside Miller could hear the shrill birds and the whirring
movement of the poultry, and, as an undertone, the low, swelling
click-a-tick of the six-fifteen through-train for Montana and the green
coast beyond. Then as the cold water dripped from the wash-rag in his
hand he raised his head suddenly--he had heard a furtive sound from the
kitchen below.

He dried his razor hastily, slipped his dangling suspenders to his
shoulder, and listened. Some one was walking in the kitchen, and he knew
by the light footfall that it was not his wife. With his mouth faintly
ajar he ran quickly down the stairs and opened the kitchen door.

Standing by the sink, with one hand on the still dripping faucet and the
other clutching a full glass of water, stood his son. The boy's eyes,
still heavy with sleep, met his father's with a frightened, reproachful
beauty. He was barefooted, and his pajamas were rolled up at the knees
and sleeves.

For a moment they both remained motionless--Carl Miller's brow went down
and his son's went up, as though they were striking a balance between
the extremes of emotion which filled them. Then the bangs of the
parent's moustache descended portentously until they obscured his mouth,
and he gave a short glance around to see if anything had been disturbed.

The kitchen was garnished with sunlight which beat on the pans and made
the smooth boards of the floor and table yellow and clean as wheat. It
was the centre of the house where the fire burned and the tins fitted
into tins like toys, and the steam whistled all day on a thin pastel
note. Nothing was moved, nothing touched--except the faucet where beads
of water still formed and dripped with a white flash into the sink
below.

"What are you doing?"

"I got awful thirsty, so I thought I'd just come down and get----"

"I thought you were going to communion."

A look of vehement astonishment spread over his son's face.

"I forgot all about it."

"Have you drunk any water?"

"No----"

As the word left his mouth Rudolph knew it was the wrong answer, but the
faded indignant eyes facing him had signalled up the truth before the
boy's will could act. He realized, too, that he should never have come
down-stairs; some vague necessity for verisimilitude had made him want
to leave a wet glass as evidence by the sink; the honesty of his
imagination had betrayed him.

"Pour it out," commanded his father, "that water!"

Rudolph despairingly inverted the tumbler.

"What's the matter with you, anyways?" demanded Miller angrily.

"Nothing."

"Did you go to confession yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Then why were you going to drink water?"

"I don't know--I forgot."

"Maybe you care more about being a little bit thirsty than you do about
your religion."

"I forgot." Rudolph could feel the tears straining in his eyes.

"That's no answer."

"Well, I did."

"You better look out!" His father held to a high, persistent,
inquisitory note: "If you're so forgetful that you can't remember your
religion something better be done about it."

Rudolph filled a sharp pause with:

"I can remember it all right."

"First you begin to neglect your religion," cried his father, fanning
his own fierceness, "the next thing you'll begin to lie and steal, and
the _next_ thing is the _reform_ school!"

Not even this familiar threat could deepen the abyss that Rudolph saw
before him. He must either tell all now, offering his body for what he
knew would be a ferocious beating, or else tempt the thunderbolts by
receiving the Body and Blood of Christ with sacrilege upon his soul. And
of the two the former seemed more terrible--it was not so much the
beating he dreaded as the savage ferocity, outlet of the ineffectual
man, which would lie behind it.

"Put down that glass and go up-stairs and dress!" his father ordered,
"and when we get to church, before you go to communion, you better kneel
down and ask God to forgive you for your carelessness."

Some accidental emphasis in the phrasing of this command acted like a
catalytic agent on the confusion and terror of Rudolph's mind. A wild,
proud anger rose in him, and he dashed the tumbler passionately into the
sink.

His father uttered a strained, husky sound, and sprang for him. Rudolph
dodged to the side, tipped over a chair, and tried to get beyond the
kitchen table. He cried out sharply when a hand grasped his pajama
shoulder, then he felt the dull impact of a fist against the side of his
head, and glancing blows on the upper part of his body. As he slipped
here and there in his father's grasp, dragged or lifted when he clung
instinctively to an arm, aware of sharp smarts and strains, he made no
sound except that he laughed hysterically several times. Then in less
than a minute the blows abruptly ceased. After a lull during which
Rudolph was tightly held, and during which they both trembled violently
and uttered strange, truncated words, Carl Miller half dragged, half
threatened his son up-stairs.

"Put on your clothes!"

Rudolph was now both hysterical and cold. His head hurt him, and there
was a long, shallow scratch on his neck from his father's finger-nail,
and he sobbed and trembled as he dressed. He was aware of his mother
standing at the doorway in a wrapper, her wrinkled face compressing and
squeezing and opening out into new series of wrinkles which floated and
eddied from neck to brow. Despising her nervous ineffectuality and
avoiding her rudely when she tried to touch his neck with witch-hazel,
he made a hasty, choking toilet. Then he followed his father out of the
house and along the road toward the Catholic church.




IV


They walked without speaking except when Carl Miller acknowledged
automatically the existence of passers-by. Rudolph's uneven breathing
alone ruffled the hot Sunday silence.

His father stopped decisively at the door of the church.

"I've decided you'd better go to confession again. Go in and tell Father
Schwartz what you did and ask God's pardon."

"You lost your temper, too!" said Rudolph quickly.

Carl Miller took a step toward his son, who moved cautiously backward.

"All right, I'll go."

"Are you going to do what I say?" cried his father in a hoarse whisper.

"All right."

Rudolph walked into the church, and for the second time in two days
entered the confessional and knelt down. The slat went up almost at
once.

"I accuse myself of missing my morning prayers."

"Is that all?"

"That's all."

A maudlin exultation filled him. Not easily ever again would he be able
to put an abstraction before the necessities of his ease and pride. An
invisible line had been crossed, and he had become aware of his
isolation--aware that it applied not only to those moments when he was
Blatchford Sarnemington but that it applied to all his inner life.
Hitherto such phenomena as "crazy" ambitions and petty shames and fears
had been but private reservations, unacknowledged before the throne of
his official soul. Now he realized unconsciously that his private
reservations were himself--and all the rest a garnished front and a
conventional flag. The pressure of his environment had driven him into
the lonely secret road of adolescence.

He knelt in the pew beside his father. Mass began. Rudolph knelt
up--when he was alone he slumped his posterior back against the
seat--and tasted the consciousness of a sharp, subtle revenge. Beside
him his father prayed that God would forgive Rudolph, and asked also
that his own outbreak of temper would be pardoned. He glanced sidewise
at this son, and was relieved to see that the strained, wild look had
gone from his face and that he had ceased sobbing. The Grace of God,
inherent in the Sacrament, would do the rest, and perhaps after Mass
everything would be better. He was proud of Rudolph in his heart, and
beginning to be truly as well as formally sorry for what he had done.

Usually, the passing of the collection box was a significant point for
Rudolph in the services. If, as was often the case, he had no money to
drop in he would be furiously ashamed and bow his head and pretend not
to see the box, lest Jeanne Brady in the pew behind should take notice
and suspect an acute family poverty. But to-day he glanced coldly into
it as it skimmed under his eyes, noting with casual interest the large
number of pennies it contained.

When the bell rang for communion, however, he quivered. There was no
reason why God should not stop his heart. During the past twelve hours
he had committed a series of mortal sins increasing in gravity, and he
was now to crown them all with a blasphemous sacrilege.

"_Domini, non sum dignus; ut interes sub tectum meum; sed tantum dic
verbo, et sanabitur anima mea...._"

There was a rustle in the pews, and the communicants worked their ways
into the aisle with downcast eyes and joined hands. Those of larger
piety pressed together their finger-tips to form steeples. Among these
latter was Carl Miller. Rudolph followed him toward the altar-rail and
knelt down, automatically taking up the napkin under his chin. The bell
rang sharply, and the priest turned from the altar with the white Host
held above the chalice:

"_Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam meam in vitam
æternam._"

A cold sweat broke out on Rudolph's forehead as the communion began.
Along the line Father Schwartz moved, and with gathering nausea Rudolph
felt his heart-valves weakening at the will of God. It seemed to him
that the church was darker and that a great quiet had fallen, broken
only by the inarticulate mumble which announced the approach of the
Creator of Heaven and Earth. He dropped his head down between his
shoulders and waited for the blow.

Then he felt a sharp nudge in his side. His father was poking him to sit
up, not to slump against the rail; the priest was only two places away.

"_Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam meam in vitam
æternam._"

Rudolph opened his mouth. He felt the sticky wax taste of the wafer on
his tongue. He remained motionless for what seemed an interminable
period of time, his head still raised, the wafer undissolved in his
mouth. Then again he started at the pressure of his father's elbow, and
saw that the people were falling away from the altar like leaves and
turning with blind downcast eyes to their pews, alone with God.

Rudolph was alone with himself, drenched with perspiration and deep in
mortal sin. As he walked back to his pew the sharp taps of his cloven
hoofs were loud upon the floor, and he knew that it was a dark poison he
carried in his heart.




V

"_Sagitta Volante in Dei_"


The beautiful little boy with eyes like blue stones, and lashes that
sprayed open from them like flower-petals had finished telling his sin
to Father Schwartz--and the square of sunshine in which he sat had moved
forward half an hour into the room. Rudolph had become less frightened
now; once eased of the story a reaction had set in. He knew that as long
as he was in the room with this priest God would not stop his heart, so
he sighed and sat quietly, waiting for the priest to speak.

Father Schwartz's cold watery eyes were fixed upon the carpet pattern on
which the sun had brought out the swastikas and the flat bloomless vines
and the pale echoes of flowers. The hall-clock ticked insistently toward
sunset, and from the ugly room and from the afternoon outside the window
arose a stiff monotony, shattered now and then by the reverberate
clapping of a far-away hammer on the dry air. The priest's nerves were
strung thin and the beads of his rosary were crawling and squirming like
snakes upon the green felt of his table top. He could not remember now
what it was he should say.

Of all the things in this lost Swede town he was most aware of this
little boy's eyes--the beautiful eyes, with lashes that left them
reluctantly and curved back as though to meet them once more.

For a moment longer the silence persisted while Rudolph waited, and the
priest struggled to remember something that was slipping farther and
farther away from him, and the clock ticked in the broken house. Then
Father Schwartz stared hard at the little boy and remarked in a peculiar
voice:

"When a lot of people get together in the best places things go
glimmering."

Rudolph started and looked quickly at Father Schwartz's face.

"I said--" began the priest, and paused, listening. "Do you hear the
hammer and the clock ticking and the bees? Well, that's no good. The
thing is to have a lot of people in the centre of the world, wherever
that happens to be. Then"--his watery eyes widened knowingly--"things go
glimmering."

"Yes, Father," agreed Rudolph, feeling a little frightened.

"What are you going to be when you grow up?"

"Well, I was going to be a baseball-player for a while," answered
Rudolph nervously, "but I don't think that's a very good ambition, so I
think I'll be an actor or a Navy officer."

Again the priest stared at him.

"I see _exactly_ what you mean," he said, with a fierce air.

Rudolph had not meant anything in particular, and at the implication
that he had, he became more uneasy.

"This man is crazy," he thought, "and I'm scared of him. He wants me to
help him out some way, and I don't want to."

"You look as if things went glimmering," cried Father Schwartz wildly.
"Did you ever go to a party?"

"Yes, Father."

"And did you notice that everybody was properly dressed? That's what I
mean. Just as you went into the party there was a moment when everybody
was properly dressed. Maybe two little girls were standing by the door
and some boys were leaning over the banisters, and there were bowls
around full of flowers."

"I've been to a lot of parties," said Rudolph, rather relieved that the
conversation had taken this turn.

"Of course," continued Father Schwartz triumphantly, "I knew you'd agree
with me. But my theory is that when a whole lot of people get together
in the best places things go glimmering all the time."

Rudolph found himself thinking of Blatchford Sarnemington.

"Please listen to me!" commanded the priest impatiently. "Stop worrying
about last Saturday. Apostasy implies an absolute damnation only on the
supposition of a previous perfect faith. Does that fix it?"

Rudolph had not the faintest idea what Father Schwartz was talking
about, but he nodded and the priest nodded back at him and returned to
his mysterious preoccupation.

"Why," he cried, "they have lights now as big as stars--do you realize
that? I heard of one light they had in Paris or somewhere that was as
big as a star. A lot of people had it--a lot of gay people. They have
all sorts of things now that you never dreamed of."

"Look here--" He came nearer to Rudolph, but the boy drew away, so
Father Schwartz went back and sat down in his chair, his eyes dried out
and hot. "Did you ever see an amusement park?"

"No, Father."

"Well, go and see an amusement park." The priest waved his hand vaguely.
"It's a thing like a fair, only much more glittering. Go to one at night
and stand a little way off from it in a dark place--under dark trees.
You'll see a big wheel made of lights turning in the air, and a long
slide shooting boats down into the water. A band playing somewhere, and
a smell of peanuts--and everything will twinkle. But it won't remind you
of anything, you see. It will all just hang out there in the night like
a colored balloon--like a big yellow lantern on a pole."

Father Schwartz frowned as he suddenly thought of something.

"But don't get up close," he warned Rudolph, "because if you do you'll
only feel the heat and the sweat and the life."

All this talking seemed particularly strange and awful to Rudolph,
because this man was a priest. He sat there, half terrified, his
beautiful eyes open wide and staring at Father Schwartz. But underneath
his terror he felt that his own inner convictions were confirmed. There
was something ineffably gorgeous somewhere that had nothing to do with
God. He no longer thought that God was angry at him about the original
lie, because He must have understood that Rudolph had done it to make
things finer in the confessional, brightening up the dinginess of his
admissions by saying a thing radiant and proud. At the moment when he
had affirmed immaculate honor a silver pennon had flapped out into the
breeze somewhere and there had been the crunch of leather and the shine
of silver spurs and a troop of horsemen waiting for dawn on a low green
hill. The sun had made stars of light on their breastplates like the
picture at home of the German cuirassiers at Sedan.

But now the priest was muttering inarticulate and heart-broken words,
and the boy became wildly afraid. Horror entered suddenly in at the open
window, and the atmosphere of the room changed. Father Schwartz
collapsed precipitously down on his knees, and let his body settle back
against a chair.

"Oh, my God!" he cried out, in a strange voice, and wilted to the floor.

Then a human oppression rose from the priest's worn clothes, and mingled
with the faint smell of old food in the corners. Rudolph gave a sharp
cry and ran in a panic from the house--while the collapsed man lay there
quite still, filling his room, filling it with voices and faces until it
was crowded with echolalia, and rang loud with a steady, shrill note of
laughter.

Outside the window the blue sirocco trembled over the wheat, and girls
with yellow hair walked sensuously along roads that bounded the fields,
calling innocent, exciting things to the young men who were working in
the lines between the grain. Legs were shaped under starchless gingham,
and rims of the necks of dresses were warm and damp. For five hours now
hot fertile life had burned in the afternoon. It would be night in three
hours, and all along the land there would be these blonde Northern girls
and the tall young men from the farms lying out beside the wheat, under
the moon.




RAGS MARTIN-JONES AND THE PR-NCE OF
W-LES


The _Majestic_ came gliding into New York harbor on an April morning.
She sniffed at the tugboats and turtle-gaited ferries, winked at a gaudy
young yacht, and ordered a cattle-boat out of her way with a snarling
whistle of steam. Then she parked at her private dock with all the fuss
of a stout lady sitting down, and announced complacently that she had
just come from Cherbourg and Southampton with a cargo of the very best
people in the world.

The very best people in the world stood on the deck and waved
idiotically to their poor relations who were waiting on the dock for
gloves from Paris. Before long a great toboggan had connected the
_Majestic_ with the North American continent, and the ship began to
disgorge these very best people in the world--who turned out to be
Gloria Swanson, two buyers from Lord & Taylor, the financial minister
from Graustark with a proposal for funding the debt, and an African king
who had been trying to land somewhere all winter and was feeling
violently seasick.

The photographers worked passionately as the stream of passengers flowed
on to the dock. There was a burst of cheering at the appearance of a
pair of stretchers laden with two Middle-Westerners who had drunk
themselves delirious on the last night out.

The deck gradually emptied, but when the last bottle of Benedictine had
reached shore the photographers still remained at their posts. And the
officer in charge of debarkation still stood at the foot of the gangway,
glancing first at his watch and then at the deck as if some important
part of the cargo was still on board. At last from the watchers on the
pier there arose a long-drawn "Ah-h-h!" as a final entourage began to
stream down from deck B.

First came two French maids, carrying small, purple dogs, and followed
by a squad of porters, blind and invisible under innumerable bunches and
bouquets of fresh flowers. Another maid followed, leading a sad-eyed
orphan child of a French flavor, and close upon its heels walked the
second officer pulling along three neurasthenic wolfhounds, much to
their reluctance and his own.

A pause. Then the captain, Sir Howard George Witchcraft, appeared at the
rail, with something that might have been a pile of gorgeous silver-fox
fur standing by his side.

Rags Martin-Jones, after five years in the capitals of Europe, was
returning to her native land!

Rags Martin-Jones was not a dog. She was half a girl and half a flower,
and as she shook hands with Captain Sir Howard George Witchcraft she
smiled as if some one had told her the newest, freshest joke in the
world. All the people who had not already left the pier felt that smile
trembling on the April air and turned around to see.

She came slowly down the gangway. Her hat, an expensive, inscrutable
experiment, was crushed under her arm, so that her scant boy's hair,
convict's hair, tried unsuccessfully to toss and flop a little in the
harbor wind. Her face was like seven o'clock on a wedding morning save
where she had slipped a preposterous monocle into an eye of clear
childish blue. At every few steps her long lashes would tilt out the
monocle, and she would laugh, a bored, happy laugh, and replace the
supercilious spectacle in the other eye.

Tap! Her one hundred and five pounds reached the pier and it seemed to
sway and bend from the shock of her beauty. A few porters fainted. A
large, sentimental shark which had followed the ship across made a
despairing leap to see her once more, and then dove, broken-hearted,
back into the deep sea. Rags Martin-Jones had come home.

There was no member of her family there to meet her, for the simple
reason that she was the only member of her family left alive. In 1913
her parents had gone down on the _Titanic_ together rather than be
separated in this world, and so the Martin-Jones fortune of seventy-five
millions had been inherited by a very little girl on her tenth birthday.
It was what the consumer always refers to as a "shame."

Rags Martin-Jones (everybody had forgotten her real name long ago) was
now photographed from all sides. The monocle persistently fell out, and
she kept laughing and yawning and replacing it, so no very clear picture
of her was taken--except by the motion-picture camera. All the
photographs, however, included a flustered, handsome young man, with an
almost ferocious love-light burning in his eyes, who had met her on
the dock. His name was John M. Chestnut, he had already written the
story of his success for the _American Magazine_, and he had been
hopelessly in love with Rags ever since the time when she, like the
tides, had come under the influence of the summer moon.

When Rags became really aware of his presence they were walking down the
pier, and she looked at him blankly as though she had never seen him
before in this world.

"Rags," he began, "Rags----"

"John M. Chestnut?" she inquired, inspecting him with great interest.

"Of course!" he exclaimed angrily. "Are you trying to pretend you don't
know me? That you didn't write me to meet you here?"

She laughed. A chauffeur appeared at her elbow, and she twisted out of
her coat, revealing a dress made in great splashy checks of sea-blue and
gray. She shook herself like a wet bird.

"I've got a lot of junk to declare," she remarked absently.

"So have I," said Chestnut anxiously, "and the first thing I want to
declare is that I've loved you, Rags, every minute since you've been
away."

She stopped him with a groan.

"Please! There were some young Americans on the boat. The subject has
become a bore."

"My God!" cried Chestnut, "do you mean to say that you class _my_ love
with what was said to you on a _boat_?"

His voice had risen, and several people in the vicinity turned to hear.

"Sh!" she warned him, "I'm not giving a circus. If you want me to even
see you while I'm here, you'll have to be less violent."

But John M. Chestnut seemed unable to control his voice.

"Do you mean to say"--it trembled to a carrying pitch--"that you've
forgotten what you said on this very pier five years ago last Thursday?"

Half the passengers from the ship were now watching the scene on the
dock, and another little eddy drifted out of the customs-house to see.

"John"--her displeasure was increasing--"if you raise your voice again
I'll arrange it so you'll have plenty of chance to cool off. I'm going
to the Ritz. Come and see me there this afternoon."

"But, Rags!" he protested hoarsely. "Listen to me. Five years ago----"

Then the watchers on the dock were treated to a curious sight. A
beautiful lady in a checkered dress of sea-blue and gray took a brisk
step forward so that her hands came into contact with an excited young
man by her side. The young man retreating instinctively reached back
with his foot, but, finding nothing, relapsed gently off the thirty-foot
dock and plopped, after a not ungraceful revolution, into the Hudson
River.

A shout of alarm went up, and there was a rush to the edge just as his
head appeared above water. He was swimming easily, and, perceiving this,
the young lady who had apparently been the cause of the accident leaned
over the pier and made a megaphone of her hands.

"I'll be in at half past four," she cried.

And with a cheerful wave of her hand, which the engulfed gentleman was
unable to return, she adjusted her monocle, threw one haughty glance at
the gathered crowd, and walked leisurely from the scene.




II


The five dogs, the three maids, and the French orphan were installed in
the largest suite at the Ritz, and Rags tumbled lazily into a steaming
bath, fragrant with herbs, where she dozed for the greater part of an
hour. At the end of that time she received business calls from a
masseuse, a manicure, and finally a Parisian hair-dresser, who restored
her hair-cut to criminal's length. When John M. Chestnut arrived at four
he found half a dozen lawyers and bankers, the administrators of the
Martin-Jones trust fund, waiting in the hall. They had been there since
half past one, and were now in a state of considerable agitation.

After one of the maids had subjected him to a severe scrutiny, possibly
to be sure that he was thoroughly dry, John was conducted immediately
into the presence of m'selle. M'selle was in her bedroom reclining on
the chaise-longue among two dozen silk pillows that had accompanied her
from the other side. John came into the room somewhat stiffly and
greeted her with a formal bow.

"You look better," she said, raising herself from her pillows and
staring at him appraisingly. "It gave you a color."

He thanked her coldly for the compliment.

"You ought to go in every morning." And then she added irrelevantly:
"I'm going back to Paris to-morrow."

John Chestnut gasped.

"I wrote you that I didn't intend to stay more than a week anyhow," she
added.

"But, Rags----"

"Why should I? There isn't an amusing man in New York."

"But listen, Rags, won't you give me a chance? Won't you stay for, say,
ten days and get to know me a little?"

"Know you!" Her tone implied that he was already a far too open book. "I
want a man who's capable of a gallant gesture."

"Do you mean you want me to express myself entirely in pantomime?"

Rags uttered a disgusted sigh.

"I mean you haven't any imagination," she explained patiently. "No
Americans have any imagination. Paris is the only large city where a
civilized woman can breathe."

"Don't you care for me at all any more?"

"I wouldn't have crossed the Atlantic to see you if I didn't. But as
soon as I looked over the Americans on the boat, I knew I couldn't marry
one. I'd just hate you, John, and the only fun I'd have out of it would
be the fun of breaking your heart."

She began to twist herself down among the cushions until she almost
disappeared from view.

"I've lost my monocle," she explained.

After an unsuccessful search in the silken depths she discovered the
illusive glass hanging down the back of her neck.

"I'd love to be in love," she went on, replacing the monocle in her
childish eye. "Last spring in Sorrento I almost eloped with an Indian
rajah, but he was half a shade too dark, and I took an intense dislike
to one of his other wives."

"Don't talk that rubbish!" cried John, sinking his face into his hands.

"Well, I didn't marry him," she protested. "But in one way he had a lot
to offer. He was the third richest subject of the British Empire. That's
another thing--are you rich?"

"Not as rich as you."

"There you are. What have you to offer me?"

"Love."

"Love!" She disappeared again among the cushions. "Listen, John. Life to
me is a series of glistening bazaars with a merchant in front of each
one rubbing his hands together and saying 'Patronize this place here.
Best bazaar in the world.' So I go in with my purse full of beauty and
money and youth, all prepared to buy. 'What have you got for sale?' I
ask him, and he rubs his hands together and says: 'Well, Mademoiselle,
to-day we have some perfectly be-_oo_-tiful love.' Sometimes he hasn't
even got that in stock, but he sends out for it when he finds I have so
much money to spend. Oh, he always gives me love before I go--and for
nothing. That's the one revenge I have."

John Chestnut rose despairingly to his feet and took a step toward the
window.

"Don't throw yourself out," Rags exclaimed quickly.

"All right." He tossed his cigarette down into Madison Avenue.

"It isn't just you," she said in a softer voice. "Dull and uninspired as
you are, I care for you more than I can say. But life's so endless here.
Nothing ever comes off."

"Loads of things come off," he insisted. "Why, to-day there was an
intellectual murder in Hoboken and a suicide by proxy in Maine. A bill
to sterilize agnostics is before Congress----"

"I have no interest in humor," she objected, "but I have an almost
archaic predilection for romance. Why, John, last month I sat at a
dinner-table while two men flipped a coin for the kingdom of
Schwartzberg-Rhineminster. In Paris I knew a man named Blutchdak who
really started the war, and has a new one planned for year after next."

"Well, just for a rest you come out with me to-night," he said doggedly.

"Where to?" demanded Rags with scorn. "Do you think I still thrill at a
night-club and a bottle of sugary mousseaux? I prefer my own gaudy
dreams."

"I'll take you to the most highly-strung place in the city."

"What'll happen? You've got to tell me what'll happen."

John Chestnut suddenly drew a long breath and looked cautiously around
as if he were afraid of being overheard.

"Well, to tell you the truth," he said in a low, worried tone, "if
everything was known, something pretty awful would be liable to happen
to _me_."

She sat upright and the pillows tumbled about her like leaves.

"Do you mean to imply that there's anything shady in your life?" she
cried, with laughter in her voice. "Do you expect me to believe that?
No, John, you'll have your fun by plugging ahead on the beaten
path--just plugging ahead."

Her mouth, a small insolent rose, dropped the words on him like thorns.
John took his hat and coat from the chair and picked up his cane.

"For the last time--will you come along with me to-night and see what
you will see?"

"See what? See who? Is there anything in this country worth seeing?"

"Well," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "for one thing you'll see the
Prince of Wales."

"What?" She left the chaise-longue at a bound. "Is he back in New York?"

"He will be to-night. Would you care to see him?"

"Would I? I've never seen him. I've missed him everywhere. I'd give a
year of my life to see him for an hour." Her voice trembled with
excitement.

"He's been in Canada. He's down here incognito for the big prize-fight
this afternoon. And I happen to know where he's going to be to-night."

Rags gave a sharp ecstatic cry:

"Dominic! Louise! Germaine!"

The three maids came running. The room filled suddenly with vibrations
of wild, startled light.

"Dominic, the car!" cried Rags in French. "St. Raphael, my gold dress
and the slippers with the real gold heels. The big pearls too--all the
pearls, and the egg-diamond and the stockings with the sapphire clocks.
Germaine--send for a beauty-parlor on the run. My bath again--ice cold
and half full of almond cream. Dominic--Tiffany's, like lightning,
before they close. Find me a brooch, a pendant, a tiara, anything--it
doesn't matter--with the arms of the house of Windsor."

She was fumbling at the buttons of her dress--and as John turned quickly
to go, it was already sliding from her shoulders.

"Orchids!" she called after him, "orchids, for the love of heaven! Four
dozen, so I can choose four."

And then maids flew here and there about the room like frightened birds.
"Perfume, St. Raphael, open the perfume trunk, and my rose-colored
sables, and my diamond garters, and the sweet-oil for my hands! Here,
take these things! This too--and this--ouch!--and this!"

With becoming modesty John Chestnut closed the outside door. The six
trustees in various postures of fatigue, of ennui, of resignation, of
despair, were still cluttering up the outer hall.

"Gentlemen," announced John Chestnut, "I fear that Miss Martin-Jones is
much too weary from her trip to talk to you this afternoon."




III


"This place, for no particular reason, is called the Hole in the Sky."

Rags looked around her. They were on a roof-garden wide open to the
April night. Overhead the true stars winked cold, and there was a lunar
sliver of ice in the dark west. But where they stood it was warm as
June, and the couples dining or dancing on the opaque glass floor were
unconcerned with the forbidding sky.

"What makes it so warm?" she whispered as they moved toward a table.

"It's some new invention that keeps the warm air from rising. I don't
know the principle of the thing, but I know that they can keep it open
like this even in the middle of winter--"

"Where's the Prince of Wales?" she demanded tensely.

John looked around.

"He hasn't arrived yet. He won't be here for about half an hour."

She sighed profoundly.

"It's the first time I've been excited in four years."

Four years--one year less than he had loved her. He wondered if when she
was sixteen, a wild lovely child, sitting up all night in restaurants
with officers who were to leave for Brest next day, losing the glamour
of life too soon in the old, sad, poignant days of the war, she had ever
been so lovely as under these amber lights and this dark sky. From her
excited eyes to her tiny slipper heels, which were striped with layers
of real silver and gold, she was like one of those amazing ships that
are carved complete in a bottle. She was finished with that delicacy,
with that care; as though the long lifetime of some worker in fragility
had been used to make her so. John Chestnut wanted to take her up in his
hands, turn her this way and that, examine the tip of a slipper or the
tip of an ear or squint closely at the fairy stuff from which her lashes
were made.

"Who's that?" She pointed suddenly to a handsome Latin at a table over
the way.

"That's Roderigo Minerlino, the movie and face-cream star. Perhaps he'll
dance after a while."

Rags became suddenly aware of the sound of violins and drums, but the
music seemed to come from far away, seemed to float over the crisp night
and on to the floor with the added remoteness of a dream.

"The orchestra's on another roof," explained John. "It's a new idea--
Look, the entertainment's beginning."

A negro girl, thin as a reed, emerged suddenly from a masked entrance
into a circle of harsh barbaric light, startled the music to a wild
minor, and commenced to sing a rhythmic, tragic song. The pipe of her
body broke abruptly and she began a slow incessant step, without
progress and without hope, like the failure of a savage insufficient
dream. She had lost Papa Jack, she cried over and over with a hysterical
monotony at once despairing and unreconciled. One by one the loud horns
tried to force her from the steady beat of madness but she listened only
to the mutter of the drums which were isolating her in some lost place
in time, among many thousand forgotten years. After the failure of the
piccolo, she made herself again into a thin brown line, wailed once with
sharp and terrible intensity, then vanished into sudden darkness.

"If you lived in New York you wouldn't need to be told who she is," said
John when the amber light flashed on. "The next fella is Sheik B. Smith,
a comedian of the fatuous, garrulous sort----"

He broke off. Just as the lights went down for the second number Rags
had given a long sigh, and leaned forward tensely in her chair. Her eyes
were rigid like the eyes of a pointer dog, and John saw that they were
fixed on a party that had come through a side entrance, and were
arranging themselves around a table in the half-darkness.

The table was shielded with palms, and Rags at first made out only three
dim forms. Then she distinguished a fourth who seemed to be placed well
behind the other three--a pale oval of a face topped with a glimmer of
dark-yellow hair.

"Hello!" ejaculated John. "There's his majesty now."

Her breath seemed to die murmurously in her throat. She was dimly aware
that the comedian was now standing in a glow of white light on the
dancing floor, that he had been talking for some moments, and that there
was a constant ripple of laughter in the air. But her eyes remained
motionless, enchanted. She saw one of the party bend and whisper to
another, and after the low glitter of a match the bright button of a
cigarette end gleamed in the background. How long it was before she
moved she did not know. Then something seemed to happen to her eyes,
something white, something terribly urgent, and she wrenched about
sharply to find herself full in the centre of a baby spot-light from
above. She became aware that words were being said to her from
somewhere, and that a quick trail of laughter was circling the roof, but
the light blinded her, and instinctively she made a half-movement from
her chair.

"Sit still!" John was whispering across the table. "He picks somebody
out for this every night."

Then she realized--it was the comedian, Sheik B. Smith. He was talking
to her, arguing with her--about something that seemed incredibly funny
to every one else, but came to her ears only as a blur of muddled sound.
Instinctively she had composed her face at the first shock of the light
and now she smiled. It was a gesture of rare self-possession. Into this
smile she insinuated a vast impersonality, as if she were unconscious of
the light, unconscious of his attempt to play upon her loveliness--but
amused at an infinitely removed _him_, whose darts might have been thrown
just as successfully at the moon. She was no longer a "lady"--a lady
would have been harsh or pitiful or absurd; Rags stripped her attitude
to a sheer consciousness of her own impervious beauty, sat there
glittering until the comedian began to feel alone as he had never felt
alone before. At a signal from him the spot-light was switched suddenly
out. The moment was over.

The moment was over, the comedian left the floor, and the far-away music
began. John leaned toward her.

"I'm sorry. There really wasn't anything to do. You were wonderful."

She dismissed the incident with a casual laugh--then she started, there
were now only two men sitting at the table across the floor.

"He's gone!" she exclaimed in quick distress.

"Don't worry--he'll be back. He's got to be awfully careful, you see, so
he's probably waiting outside with one of his aides until it gets dark
again."

"Why has he got to be careful?"

"Because he's not supposed to be in New York. He's even under one of his
second-string names."

The lights dimmed again, and almost immediately a tall man appeared out
of the darkness and approached their table.

"May I introduce myself?" he said rapidly to John in a supercilious
British voice. "Lord Charles Este, of Baron Marchbanks' party." He
glanced at John closely as if to be sure that he appreciated the
significance of the name.

John nodded.

"That is between ourselves, you understand."

"Of course."

Rags groped on the table for her untouched champagne, and tipped the
glassful down her throat.

"Baron Marchbanks requests that your companion will join his party
during this number."

Both men looked at Rags. There was a moment's pause.

"Very well," she said, and glanced back again interrogatively at John.
Again he nodded. She rose and with her heart beating wildly threaded the
tables, making the half-circuit of the room; then melted, a slim figure
in shimmering gold, into the table set in half-darkness.




IV


The number drew to a close, and John Chestnut sat alone at his table,
stirring auxiliary bubbles in his glass of champagne. Just before the
lights went on, there was a soft rasp of gold cloth, and Rags, flushed
and breathing quickly, sank into her chair. Her eyes were shining with
tears.

John looked at her moodily.

"Well, what did he say?"

"He was very quiet."

"Didn't he say a word?"

Her hand trembled as she took up her glass of champagne.

"He just looked at me while it was dark. And he said a few conventional
things. He was like his pictures, only he looks very bored and tired. He
didn't even ask my name."

"Is he leaving New York to-night?"

"In half an hour. He and his aides have a car outside, and they expect
to be over the border before dawn."

"Did you find him--fascinating?"

She hesitated and then slowly nodded her head.

"That's what everybody says," admitted John glumly. "Do they expect you
back there?"

"I don't know." She looked uncertainly across the floor but the
celebrated personage had again withdrawn from his table to some retreat
outside. As she turned back an utterly strange young man who had been
standing for a moment in the main entrance came toward them hurriedly.
He was a deathly pale person in a dishevelled and inappropriate business
suit, and he had laid a trembling hand on John Chestnut's shoulder.

"Monte!" exclaimed John, starting up so suddenly that he upset his
champagne. "What is it? What's the matter?"

"They've picked up the trail!" said the young man in a shaken whisper.
He looked around. "I've got to speak to you alone."

John Chestnut jumped to his feet, and Rags noticed that his face too had
become white as the napkin in his hand. He excused himself and they
retreated to an unoccupied table a few feet away. Rags watched them
curiously for a moment, then she resumed her scrutiny of the table
across the floor. Would she be asked to come back? The prince had simply
risen and bowed and gone outside. Perhaps she should have waited until
he returned, but though she was still tense with excitement she had, to
some extent, become Rags Martin-Jones again. Her curiosity was
satisfied--any new urge must come from him. She wondered if she had
really felt an intrinsic charm--she wondered especially if he had in
any marked way responded to her beauty.

The pale person called Monte disappeared and John returned to the table.
Rags was startled to find that a tremendous change had come over him. He
lurched into his chair like a drunken man.

"John! What's the matter?"

Instead of answering, he reached for the champagne bottle, but his
fingers were trembling so that the splattered wine made a wet yellow
ring around his glass.

"Are you sick?"

"Rags," he said unsteadily, "I'm all through."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm all through, I tell you." He managed a sickly smile. "There's been
a warrant out for me for over an hour."

"What have you done?" she demanded in a frightened voice. "What's the
warrant for?"

The lights went out for the next number, and he collapsed suddenly over
the table.

"What is it?" she insisted, with rising apprehension. She leaned
forward--his answer was barely audible.

"Murder?" She could feel her body grow cold as ice.

He nodded. She took hold of both arms and tried to shake him upright, as
one shakes a coat into place. His eyes were rolling in his head.

"Is it true? Have they got proof?"

Again he nodded drunkenly.

"Then you've got to get out of the country now! Do you understand, John?
You've got to get out _now_, before they come looking for you here!"

He loosed a wild glance of terror toward the entrance.

"Oh, God!" cried Rags, "why don't you do something?" Her eyes strayed
here and there in desperation, became suddenly fixed. She drew in her
breath sharply, hesitated, and then whispered fiercely into his ear.

"If I arrange it, will you go to Canada to-night?"

"How?"

"I'll arrange it--if you'll pull yourself together a little. This is
Rags talking to you, don't you understand, John? I want you to sit here
and not move until I come back!"

A minute later she had crossed the room under cover of the darkness.

"Baron Marchbanks," she whispered softly, standing just behind his
chair.

He motioned her to sit down.

"Have you room in your car for two more passengers to-night?"

One of the aides turned around abruptly.

"His lordship's car is full," he said shortly.

"It's terribly urgent." Her voice was trembling.

"Well," said the prince hesitantly, "I don't know."

Lord Charles Este looked at the prince and shook his head.

"I don't think it's advisable. This is a ticklish business anyhow with
contrary orders from home. You know we agreed there'd be no
complications."

The prince frowned.

"This isn't a complication," he objected.

Este turned frankly to Rags.

"Why is it urgent?"

Rags hesitated.

"Why"--she flushed suddenly--"it's a runaway marriage."

The prince laughed.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "That settles it. Este is just being official.
Bring him over right away. We're leaving shortly, what?"

Este looked at his watch.

"Right now!"

Rags rushed away. She wanted to move the whole party from the roof while
the lights were still down.

"Hurry!" she cried in John's ear. "We're going over the border--with the
Prince of Wales. You'll be safe by morning."

He looked up at her with dazed eyes. She hurriedly paid the check, and
seizing his arm piloted him as inconspicuously as possible to the other
table, where she introduced him with a word. The prince acknowledged his
presence by shaking hands--the aides nodded, only faintly concealing
their displeasure.

"We'd better start," said Este, looking impatiently at his watch.

They were on their feet when suddenly an exclamation broke from all of
them--two policemen and a red-haired man in plain clothes had come in
at the main door.

"Out we go," breathed Este, impelling the party toward the side
entrance. "There's going to be some kind of riot here." He swore--two
more bluecoats barred the exit there. They paused uncertainly. The
plain-clothes man was beginning a careful inspection of the people at
the tables.

Este looked sharply at Rags and then at John, who shrank back behind the
palms.

"Is that one of your revenue fellas out there?" demanded Este.

"No," whispered Rags. "There's going to be trouble. Can't we get out
this entrance?"

The prince with rising impatience sat down again in his chair.

"Let me know when you chaps are ready to go." He smiled at Rags. "Now
just suppose we all get in trouble just for that jolly face of yours."

Then suddenly the lights went up. The plain-clothes man whirled around
quickly and sprang to the middle of the cabaret floor.

"Nobody try to leave this room!" he shouted. "Sit down, that party
behind the palms! Is John M. Chestnut in this room?"

Rags gave a short involuntary cry.

"Here!" cried the detective to the policeman behind him. "Take a look at
that funny bunch across over there. Hands up, you men!"

"My God!" whispered Este, "we've got to get out of here!" He turned to
the prince. "This won't do, Ted. You can't be seen here. I'll stall them
off while you get down to the car."

He took a step toward the side entrance.

"Hands up, there!" shouted the plain-clothes man. "And when I say hands
up I mean it! Which one of you's Chestnut?"

"You're mad!" cried Este. "We're British subjects. We're not involved in
this affair in any way!"

A woman screamed somewhere, and there was a general movement toward the
elevator, a movement which stopped short before the muzzles of two
automatic pistols. A girl next to Rags collapsed in a dead faint to the
floor, and at the same moment the music on the other roof began to play.

"Stop that music!" bellowed the plain-clothes man. "And get some
earrings on that whole bunch--quick!"

Two policemen advanced toward the party, and simultaneously Este and the
other aides drew their revolvers, and, shielding the prince as they best
could, began to edge toward the side. A shot rang out and then another,
followed by a crash of silver and china as half a dozen diners
overturned their tables and dropped quickly behind.

The panic became general. There were three shots in quick succession,
and then a fusillade. Rags saw Este firing coolly at the eight amber
lights above, and a thick fume of gray smoke began to fill the air. As a
strange undertone to the shouting and screaming came the incessant
clamor of the distant jazz band.

Then in a moment it was all over. A shrill whistle rang out over the
roof, and through the smoke Rags saw John Chestnut advancing toward the
plain-clothes man, his hands held out in a gesture of surrender. There
was a last nervous cry, a chill clatter as some one inadvertently
stepped into a pile of dishes, and then a heavy silence fell on the
roof--even the band seemed to have died away.

"It's all over!" John Chestnut's voice rang out wildly on the night air.
"The party's over. Everybody who wants to can go home!"

Still there was silence--Rags knew it was the silence of awe--the strain
of guilt had driven John Chestnut insane.

"It was a great performance," he was shouting. "I want to thank you one
and all. If you can find any tables still standing, champagne will be
served as long as you care to stay."

It seemed to Rags that the roof and the high stars suddenly began to
swim round and round. She saw John take the detective's hand and shake
it heartily, and she watched the detective grin and pocket his gun. The
music had recommenced, and the girl who had fainted was suddenly dancing
with Lord Charles Este in the corner. John was running here and there
patting people on the back, and laughing and shaking hands. Then he was
coming toward her, fresh and innocent as a child.

"Wasn't it wonderful?" he cried.

Rags felt a faintness stealing over her. She groped backward with her
hand toward a chair.

"What was it?" she cried dazedly. "Am I dreaming?"

"Of course not! You're wide awake. I made it up, Rags, don't you see? I
made up the whole thing for you. I had it invented! The only thing real
about it was my name!"

She collapsed suddenly against his coat, clung to his lapels, and would
have wilted to the floor if he had not caught her quickly in his arms.

"Some champagne--quick!" he called, and then he shouted at the Prince of
Wales, who stood near by. "Order my car quick, you! Miss Martin-Jones
has fainted from excitement."




V


The skyscraper rose bulkily through thirty tiers of windows before it
attenuated itself to a graceful sugar-loaf of shining white. Then it
darted up again another hundred feet, thinned to a mere oblong tower in
its last fragile aspiration toward the sky. At the highest of its high
windows Rags Martin-Jones stood full in the stiff breeze, gazing down at
the city.

"Mr. Chestnut wants to know if you'll come right in to his private
office."

Obediently her slim feet moved along the carpet into a high, cool
chamber overlooking the harbor and the wide sea.

John Chestnut sat at his desk, waiting, and Rags walked to him and put
her arms around his shoulder.

"Are you sure _you're_ real?" she asked anxiously. "Are you absolutely
_sure_?"

"You only wrote me a week before you came," he protested modestly, "or I
could have arranged a revolution."

"Was the whole thing just _mine_?" she demanded. "Was it a perfectly
useless, gorgeous thing, just for me?"

"Useless?" He considered. "Well, it started out to be. At the last
minute I invited a big restaurant man to be there, and while you were at
the other table I sold him the whole idea of the night-club."

He looked at his watch.

"I've got one more thing to do--and then we've got just time to be
married before lunch." He picked up his telephone. "Jackson? ... Send a
triplicated cable to Paris, Berlin, and Budapest and have those two
bogus dukes who tossed up for Schwartzberg-Rhineminster chased over the
Polish border. If the Dutchy won't act, lower the rate of exchange to
point triple zero naught two. Also, that idiot Blutchdak is in the
Balkans again, trying to start a new war. Put him on the first boat for
New York or else throw him in a Greek jail."

He rang off, turned to the startled cosmopolite with a laugh.

"The next stop is the City Hall. Then, if you like, we'll run over to
Paris."

"John," she asked him intently, "who was the Prince of Wales?"

He waited till they were in the elevator, dropping twenty floors at a
swoop. Then he leaned forward and tapped the lift-boy on the shoulder.

"Not so fast, Cedric. This lady isn't used to falls from high places."

The elevator-boy turned around, smiled. His face was pale, oval, framed
in yellow hair. Rags blushed like fire.

"Cedric's from Wessex," explained John. "The resemblance is, to say the
least, amazing. Princes are not particularly discreet, and I suspect
Cedric of being a Guelph in some left-handed way."

Rags took the monocle from around her neck and threw the ribbon over
Cedric's head.

"Thank you," she said simply, "for the second greatest thrill of my
life."

John Chestnut began rubbing his hands together in a commercial gesture.

"Patronize this place, lady," he besought her. "Best bazaar in the
city!"

"What have you got for sale?"

"Well, m'selle, to-day we have some perfectly bee-_oo_-tiful love."

"Wrap it up, Mr. Merchant," cried Rags Martin-Jones. "It looks like a
bargain to me."




THE ADJUSTER


At five o'clock the sombre egg-shaped room at the Ritz ripens to a
subtle melody--the light _clat-clat_ of one lump, two lumps, into the
cup, and the _ding_ of the shining teapots and cream-pots as they kiss
elegantly in transit upon a silver tray. There are those who cherish
that amber hour above all other hours, for now the pale, pleasant toil
of the lilies who inhabit the Ritz is over--the singing decorative part
of the day remains.

Moving your eyes around the slightly raised horseshoe balcony you might,
one spring afternoon, have seen young Mrs. Alphonse Karr and young Mrs.
Charles Hemple at a table for two. The one in the dress was Mrs.
Hemple--when I say "the dress" I refer to that black immaculate affair
with the big buttons and the red ghost of a cape at the shoulders, a
gown suggesting with faint and fashionable irreverence the garb of a
French cardinal, as it was meant to do when it was invented in the Rue
de la Paix. Mrs. Karr and Mrs. Hemple were twenty-three years old, and
their enemies said that they had done very well for themselves. Either
might have had her limousine waiting at the hotel door, but both of them
much preferred to walk home (up Park Avenue) through the April twilight.

Luella Hemple was tall, with the sort of flaxen hair that English
country girls should have, but seldom do. Her skin was radiant, and
there was no need of putting anything on it at all, but in deference to
an antiquated fashion--this was the year 1920--she had powdered out its
high roses and drawn on it a new mouth and new eyebrows--which were no
more successful than such meddling deserves. This, of course, is said
from the vantage-point of 1925. In those days the effect she gave was
exactly right.

"I've been married three years," she was saying as she squashed out a
cigarette in an exhausted lemon. "The baby will be two years old
to-morrow. I must remember to get----"

She took a gold pencil from her case and wrote "Candles" and "Things you
pull, with paper caps," on an ivory date-pad. Then, raising her eyes,
she looked at Mrs. Karr and hesitated.

"Shall I tell you something outrageous?"

"Try," said Mrs. Karr cheerfully.

"Even my baby bores me. That sounds unnatural, Ede, but it's true. He
doesn't _begin_ to fill my life. I love him with all my heart, but when
I have him to take care of for an afternoon, I get so nervous that I
want to scream. After two hours I begin praying for the moment the
nurse'll walk in the door."

When she had made this confession, Luella breathed quickly and looked
closely at her friend. She didn't really feel unnatural at all. This was
the truth. There couldn't be anything vicious in the truth.

"It may be because you don't love Charles," ventured Mrs. Karr, unmoved.

"But I do! I hope I haven't given you that impression with all this
talk." She decided that Ede Karr was stupid. "It's the very fact that I
do love Charles that complicates matters. I cried myself to sleep last
night because I know we're drifting slowly but surely toward a divorce.
It's the baby that keeps us together."

Ede Karr, who had been married five years, looked at her critically to
see if this was a pose, but Luella's lovely eyes were grave and sad.

"And what is the trouble?" Ede inquired.

"It's plural," said Luella, frowning. "First, there's food. I'm a vile
housekeeper, and I have no intention of turning into a good one. I hate
to order groceries, and I hate to go into the kitchen and poke around to
see if the ice-box is clean, and I hate to pretend to the servants that
I'm interested in their work, when really I never want to hear about
food until it comes on the table. You see, I never learned to cook, and
consequently a kitchen is about as interesting to me as a--as a
boiler-room. It's simply a machine that I don't understand. It's easy to
say, 'Go to cooking school,' the way people do in books--but, Ede, in
real life does anybody ever change into a model _Hausfrau_ unless they
have to?"

"Go on," said Ede non-committally. "Tell me more."

"Well, as a result, the house is always in a riot. The servants leave
every week. If they're young and incompetent, I can't train them, so we
have to let them go. If they're experienced, they hate a house where a
woman doesn't take an intense interest in the price of asparagus. So
they leave--and half the time we eat at restaurants and hotels."

"I don't suppose Charles likes that."

"Hates it. In fact, he hates about everything that I like. He's lukewarm
about the theatre, hates the opera, hates dancing, hates cocktail
parties--sometimes I think he hates everything pleasant in the world. I
sat home for a year or so. While Chuck was on the way, and while I was
nursing him, I didn't mind. But this year I told Charles frankly that I
was still young enough to want some fun. And since then we've been going
out whether he wants to or not." She paused, brooding. "I'm so sorry for
him I don't know what to do, Ede--but if we sat home, I'd just be sorry
for myself. And to tell you another true thing, I'd rather that he'd be
unhappy than me."

Luella was not so much stating a case as thinking aloud. She considered
that she was being very fair. Before her marriage men had always told
her that she was "a good sport," and she had tried to carry this fairness
into her married life. So she always saw Charley's point of view as
clearly as she saw her own.

If she had been a pioneer wife, she would probably have fought the fight
side by side with her husband. But here in New York there wasn't any
fight. They weren't struggling together to obtain a far-off peace and
leisure--she had more of either than she could use. Luella, like several
thousand other young wives in New York, honestly wanted something to do.
If she had had a little more money and a little less love, she could
have gone in for horses or for vagarious amour. Or if they had had a
little less money, her surplus energy would have been absorbed by hope
and even by effort. But the Charles Hemples were in between. They were
of that enormous American class who wander over Europe every summer,
sneering rather pathetically and wistfully at the customs and traditions
and pastimes of other countries, because they have no customs or
traditions or pastimes of their own. It is a class sprung yesterday from
fathers and mothers who might just as well have lived two hundred years
ago.

The tea-hour had turned abruptly into the before-dinner hour. Most of
the tables had emptied until the room was dotted rather than crowded
with shrill isolated voices and remote, surprising laughter--in one
corner the waiters were already covering the tables with white for
dinner.

"Charles and I are on each other's nerves." In the new silence Luella's
voice rang out with startling clearness, and she lowered it precipitately.
"Little things. He keeps rubbing his face with his hand--all the time,
at table, at the theatre--even when he's in bed. It drives me wild, and
when things like that begin to irritate you, it's nearly over." She
broke off and, reaching backward, drew up a light fur around her neck.
"I hope I haven't bored you, Ede. It's on my mind, because to-night
tells the story. I made an engagement for to-night--an interesting
engagement, a supper after the theatre to meet some Russians, singers or
dancers or something, and Charles says he won't go. If he doesn't--then
I'm going alone. And that's the end."

She put her elbows on the table suddenly and, bending her eyes down into
her smooth gloves, began to cry, stubbornly and quietly. There was no
one near to see, but Ede Karr wished that she had taken her gloves off.
She would have reached out consolingly and touched her bare hand. But
the gloves were a symbol of the difficulty of sympathizing with a woman
to whom life had given so much. Ede wanted to say that it would "come
out all right," that it wasn't "so bad as it seemed," but she said
nothing. Her only reaction was impatience and distaste.

A waiter stepped near and laid a folded paper on the table, and Mrs.
Karr reached for it.

"No, you mustn't," murmured Luella brokenly. "No, I invited _you_! I've
got the money right here."




II


The Hemples' apartment--they owned it--was in one of those impersonal
white palaces that are known by number instead of name. They had
furnished it on their honeymoon, gone to England for the big pieces, to
Florence for the bric-à-brac, and to Venice for the lace and sheer
linen of the curtains and for the glass of many colors which littered
the table when they entertained. Luella enjoyed choosing things on her
honeymoon. It gave a purposeful air to the trip, and saved it from ever
turning into the rather dismal wandering among big hotels and desolate
ruins which European honeymoons are apt to be.

They returned, and life began. On the grand scale. Luella found herself
a lady of substance. It amazed her sometimes that the specially created
apartment and the specially created limousine were hers, just as
indisputably as the mortgaged suburban bungalow out of _The Ladies' Home
Journal_ and the last year's car that fate might have given her instead.
She was even more amazed when it all began to bore her. But it did....

The evening was at seven when she turned out of the April dusk, let
herself into the hall, and saw her husband waiting in the living-room
before an open fire. She came in without a sound, closed the door
noiselessly behind her, and stood watching him for a moment through the
pleasant effective vista of the small _salon_ which intervened. Charles
Hemple was in the middle thirties, with a young serious face and
distinguished iron-gray hair which would be white in ten years more.
That and his deep-set, dark-gray eyes were his most noticeable
features--women always thought his hair was romantic; most of the time
Luella thought so too.

At this moment she found herself hating him a little, for she saw that
he had raised his hand to his face and was rubbing it nervously over his
chin and mouth. It gave him an air of unflattering abstraction, and
sometimes even obscured his words, so that she was continually saying
"What?" She had spoken about it several times, and he had apologized in
a surprised way. But obviously he didn't realize how noticeable and how
irritating it was, for he continued to do it. Things had now reached
such a precarious state that Luella dreaded speaking of such matters any
more--a certain sort of word might precipitate the imminent scene.

Luella tossed her gloves and purse abruptly on the table. Hearing the
faint sound, her husband looked out toward the hall.

"Is that you, dear?"

"Yes, dear."

She went into the living-room, and walked into his arms and kissed him
tensely. Charles Hemple responded with unusual formality, and then
turned her slowly around so that she faced across the room.

"I've brought some one home to dinner."

She saw then that they were not alone, and her first feeling was of
strong relief; the rigid expression on her face softened into a shy,
charming smile as she held out her hand.

"This is Doctor Moon--this is my wife."

A man a little older than her husband, with a round, pale, slightly
lined face, came forward to meet her.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hemple," he said. "I hope I'm not interfering with
any arrangement of yours."

"Oh, no," Luella cried quickly. "I'm delighted that you're coming to
dinner. We're quite alone."

Simultaneously she thought of her engagement to-night, and wondered if
this could be a clumsy trap of Charles' to keep her at home. If it were,
he had chosen his bait badly. This man--a tired placidity radiated from
him, from his face, from his heavy, leisurely voice, even from the
three-year-old shine of his clothes.

Nevertheless, she excused herself and went into the kitchen to see what
was planned for dinner. As usual they were trying a new pair of
servants, the luncheon had been ill-cooked and ill-served--she would let
them go to-morrow. She hoped Charles would talk to them--she hated to
get rid of servants. Sometimes they wept, and sometimes they were
insolent, but Charles had a way with him. And they were always afraid of
a man.

The cooking on the stove, however, had a soothing savor. Luella gave
instructions about "which china," and unlocked a bottle of precious
chianti from the buffet. Then she went in to kiss young Chuck good
night.

"Has he been good?" she demanded as he crawled enthusiastically into her
arms.

"Very good," said the governess. "We went for a long walk over by
Central Park."

"Well, aren't you a smart boy!" She kissed him ecstatically.

"And he put his foot into the fountain, so we had to come home in a taxi
right away and change his little shoe and stocking."

"That's right. Here, wait a minute, _Chuck_!" Luella unclasped the great
yellow beads from around her neck and handed them to him. "You mustn't
break mama's beads." She turned to the nurse. "Put them on my dresser,
will you, after he's asleep?"

She felt a certain compassion for her son as she went away--the small
enclosed life he led, that all children led, except in big families. He
was a dear little rose, except on the days when she took care of him.
His face was the same shape as hers; she was thrilled sometimes, and
formed new resolves about life when his heart beat against her own.

In her own pink and lovely bedroom, she confined her attentions to her
face, which she washed and restored. Doctor Moon didn't deserve a change
of dress, and Luella found herself oddly tired, though she had done very
little all day. She returned to the living-room, and they went in to
dinner.

"Such a nice house, Mrs. Hemple," said Doctor Moon impersonally; "and
let me congratulate you on your fine little boy."

"Thanks. Coming from a doctor, that's a nice compliment." She hesitated.
"Do you specialize in children?"

"I'm not a specialist at all," he said. "I'm about the last of my
kind--a general practitioner."

"The last in New York, anyhow," remarked Charles. He had begun rubbing
his face nervously, and Luella fixed her eyes on Doctor Moon so that she
wouldn't see. But at Charles's next words she looked back at him
sharply.

"In fact," he said unexpectedly, "I've invited Doctor Moon here because
I wanted you to have a talk with him to-night."

Luella sat up straight in her chair.

"A talk with _me_?"

"Doctor Moon's an old friend of mine, and I think he can tell you a few
things, Luella, that you ought to know."

"Why--" She tried to laugh, but she was surprised and annoyed. "I don't
see, exactly, what you mean. There's nothing the matter with me. I don't
believe I've ever felt better in my life."

Doctor Moon looked at Charles, asking permission to speak. Charles
nodded, and his hand went up automatically to his face.

"Your husband has told me a great deal about your unsatisfactory life
together," said Doctor Moon, still impersonally. "He wonders if I can be
of any help in smoothing things out."

Luella's face was burning.

"I have no particular faith in psychoanalysis," she said coldly, "and I
scarcely consider myself a subject for it."

"Neither have I," answered Doctor Moon, apparently unconscious of the
snub; "I have no particular faith in anything but myself. I told you I
am not a specialist, nor, I may add, a faddist of any sort. I promise
nothing."

For a moment Luella considered leaving the room. But the effrontery of
the suggestion aroused her curiosity too.

"I can't imagine what Charles has told you," she said, controlling
herself with difficulty, "much less why. But I assure you that our
affairs are a matter entirely between my husband and me. If you have no
objections, Doctor Moon, I'd much prefer to discuss something--less
personal."

Doctor Moon nodded heavily and politely. He made no further attempt to
open the subject, and dinner proceeded in what was little more than a
defeated silence. Luella determined that, whatever happened, she would
adhere to her plans for to-night. An hour ago her independence had
demanded it, but now some gesture of defiance had become necessary to
her self-respect. She would stay in the living-room for a short moment
after dinner; then, when the coffee came, she would excuse herself and
dress to go out.

But when they did leave the dining-room, it was Charles who, in a quick,
unarguable way, vanished.

"I have a letter to write," he said; "I'll be back in a moment." Before
Luella could make a diplomatic objection, he went quickly down the
corridor to his room, and she heard him shut his door.

Angry and confused, Luella poured the coffee and sank into a corner of
the couch, looking intently at the fire.

"Don't be afraid, Mrs. Hemple," said Doctor Moon suddenly. "This was
forced upon me. I do not act as a free agent----"

"I'm not afraid of you," she interrupted. But she knew that she was
lying. She was a little afraid of him, if only for his dull
insensitiveness to her distaste.

"Tell me about your trouble," he said very naturally, as though she were
not a free agent either. He wasn't even looking at her, and except that
they were alone in the room, he scarcely seemed to be addressing her at
all.

The words that were in Luella's mind, her will, on her lips, were: "I'll
do no such thing." What she actually said amazed her. It came out of her
spontaneously, with apparently no co-operation of her own.

"Didn't you see him rubbing his face at dinner?" she said despairingly.
"Are you blind? He's become so irritating to me that I think I'll go
mad."

"I see." Doctor Moon's round face nodded.

"Don't you see I've had enough of home?" Her breasts seemed to struggle
for air under her dress. "Don't you see how bored I am with keeping
house, with the baby--everything seems as if it's going on forever and
ever? I want excitement; and I don't care what form it takes or what I
pay for it, so long as it makes my heart beat."

"I see."

It infuriated Luella that he claimed to understand. Her feeling of
defiance had reached such a pitch that she preferred that no one should
understand. She was content to be justified by the impassioned sincerity
of her desires.

"I've tried to be good, and I'm not going to try any more. If I'm one of
those women who wreck their lives for nothing, then I'll do it now. You
can call me selfish, or silly, and be quite right; but in five minutes
I'm going out of this house and begin to be alive."

This time Doctor Moon didn't answer, but he raised his head as if he
were listening to something that was taking place a little distance
away.

"You're not going out," he said after a moment; "I'm quite sure you're
not going out."

Luella laughed.

"I _am_ going out."

He disregarded this.

"You see, Mrs. Hemple, your husband isn't well. He's been trying to live
your kind of life, and the strain of it has been too much for him. When
he rubs his mouth----"

Light steps came down the corridor, and the maid, with a frightened
expression on her face, tiptoed into the room.

"Mrs. Hemple----"

Startled at the interruption, Luella turned quickly.

"Yes?"

"Can I speak to--?" Her fear broke precipitately through her slight
training. "Mr. Hemple, he's sick! He came into the kitchen a while ago
and began throwing all the food out of the ice-box, and now he's in his
room, crying and singing----"

Suddenly Luella heard his voice.




III


Charles Hemple had had a nervous collapse. There were twenty years of
almost uninterrupted toil upon his shoulders, and the recent pressure at
home had been too much for him to bear. His attitude toward his wife was
the weak point in what had otherwise been a strong-minded and
well-organized career--he was aware of her intense selfishness, but it
is one of the many flaws in the scheme of human relationships that
selfishness in women has an irresistible appeal to many men. Luella's
selfishness existed side by side with a childish beauty, and, in
consequence, Charles Hemple had begun to take the blame upon himself for
situations which she had obviously brought about. It was an unhealthy
attitude, and his mind had sickened, at length, with his attempts to put
himself in the wrong.

After the first shock and the momentary flush of pity that followed it,
Luella looked at the situation with impatience. She was "a good
sport"--she couldn't take advantage of Charles when he was sick. The
question of her liberties had to be postponed until he was on his feet.
Just when she had determined to be a wife no longer, Luella was
compelled to be a nurse as well. She sat beside his bed while he talked
about her in his delirium--about the days of their engagement, and how
some friend had told him then that he was making a mistake, and about
his happiness in the early months of their marriage, and his growing
disquiet as the gap appeared. Evidently he had been more aware of it
than she had thought--more than he ever said.

"Luella!" He would lurch up in bed. "Luella! Where _are_ you?"

"I'm right here, Charles, beside you." She tried to make her voice
cheerful and warm.

"If you want to go, Luella, you'd better go. I don't seem to be enough
for you any more."

She denied this soothingly.

"I've thought it over, Luella, and I can't ruin my health on account of
you--" Then quickly, and passionately: "Don't go, Luella, for God's
sake, don't go away and leave me! Promise me you won't! I'll do anything
you say if you won't go."

His humility annoyed her most; he was a reserved man, and she had never
guessed at the extent of his devotion before.

"I'm only going for a minute. It's Doctor Moon, your friend, Charles. He
came to-day to see how you were, don't you remember? And he wants to
talk to me before he goes."

"You'll come back?" he persisted.

"In just a little while. There--lie quiet."

She raised his head and plumped his pillow into freshness. A new trained
nurse would arrive to-morrow.

In the living-room Doctor Moon was waiting--his suit more worn and
shabby in the afternoon light. She disliked him inordinately, with an
illogical conviction that he was in some way to blame for her
misfortune, but he was so deeply interested that she couldn't refuse to
see him. She hadn't asked him to consult with the specialists, though--a
doctor who was so down at the heel....

"Mrs. Hemple." He came forward, holding out his hand, and Luella touched
it, lightly and uneasily.

"You seem well," he said.

"I am well, thank you."

"I congratulate you on the way you've taken hold of things."

"But I haven't taken hold of things at all," she said coldly. "I do what
I have to----"

"That's just it."

Her impatience mounted rapidly.

"I do what I have to, and nothing more," she continued; "and with no
particular good-will."

Suddenly she opened up to him again, as she had the night of the
catastrophe--realizing that she was putting herself on a footing of
intimacy with him, yet unable to restrain her words.

"The house isn't going," she broke out bitterly. "I had to discharge the
servants, and now I've got a woman in by the day. And the baby has a
cold, and I've found out that his nurse doesn't know her business, and
everything's just as messy and terrible as it can be!"

"Would you mind telling me how you found out the nurse didn't know her
business?"

"You find out various unpleasant things when you're forced to stay
around the house."

He nodded, his weary face turning here and there about the room.

"I feel somewhat encouraged," he said slowly. "As I told you, I promise
nothing; I only do the best I can."

Luella looked up at him, startled.

"What do you mean?" she protested. "You've done nothing for me--nothing
at all!"

"Nothing much--yet," he said heavily. "It takes time, Mrs. Hemple."

The words were said in a dry monotone that was somehow without offense,
but Luella felt that he had gone too far. She got to her feet.

"I've met your type before," she said coldly. "For some reason you seem
to think that you have a standing here as 'the old friend of the
family.' But I don't make friends quickly, and I haven't given you the
privilege of being so"--she wanted to say "insolent," but the word
eluded her--"so personal with me."

When the front door had closed behind him, Luella went into the kitchen
to see if the woman understood about the three different dinners--one
for Charles, one for the baby, and one for herself. It was hard to do
with only a single servant when things were so complicated. She must try
another employment agency--this one had begun to sound bored.

To her surprise, she found the cook with hat and coat on, reading a
newspaper at the kitchen table. "Why"--Luella tried to think of the
name--"why, what's the matter, Mrs.----"

"Mrs. Danski is my name."

"What's the matter?"

"I'm afraid I won't be able to accommodate you," said Mrs. Danski. "You
see, I'm only a plain cook, and I'm not used to preparing invalid's
food."

"But I've counted on you."

"I'm very sorry." She shook her head stubbornly. "I've got my own health
to think of. I'm sure they didn't tell me what kind of a job it was when
I came. And when you asked me to clean out your husband's room, I knew
it was way beyond my powers."

"I won't ask you to clean anything," said Luella desperately. "If you'll
just stay until to-morrow. I can't possibly get anybody else to-night."

Mrs. Danski smiled politely.

"I got my own children to think of, just like you." It was on Luella's
tongue to offer her more money, but suddenly her temper gave way.

"I've never heard of anything so selfish in my life!" she broke out. "To
leave me at a time like this! You're an old fool!"

"If you'd pay me for my time, I'd go," said Mrs. Danski calmly.

"I won't pay you a cent unless you'll stay!"

She was immediately sorry she had said this, but she was too proud to
withdraw the threat.

"You will so pay me!"

"You go out that door!"

"I'll go when I get my money," asserted Mrs. Danski indignantly. "I got
my children to think of."

Luella drew in her breath sharply, and took a step forward. Intimidated
by her intensity, Mrs. Danski turned and flounced, muttering, out of the
door.

Luella went to the phone and, calling up the agency, explained that the
woman had left.

"Can you send me some one right away? My husband is sick and the baby's
sick----"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hemple; there's no one in the office now. It's after
four o'clock."

Luella argued for a while. Finally she obtained a promise that they
would telephone to an emergency woman they knew. That was the best they
could do until to-morrow.

She called several other agencies, but the servant industry had
apparently ceased to function for the day. After giving Charles his
medicine, she tiptoed softly into the nursery.

"How's baby?" she asked abstractedly.

"Ninety-nine one," whispered the nurse, holding the thermometer to the
light. "I just took it."

"Is that much?" asked Luella, frowning.

"It's just three-fifths of a degree. That isn't so much for the
afternoon. They often run up a little with a cold."

Luella went over to the cot and laid her hand on her son's flushed
cheek, thinking, in the midst of her anxiety, how much he resembled the
incredible cherub of the "Lux" advertisement in the bus.

She turned to the nurse.

"Do you know how to cook?"

"Why--I'm not a good cook."

"Well, can you do the baby's food to-night? That old fool has left, and
I can't get anyone, and I don't know what to do."

"Oh, yes, I can do the baby's food."

"That's all right, then. I'll try to fix something for Mr. Hemple.
Please have your door open so you can hear the bell when the doctor
comes. And let me know."

So many doctors! There had scarcely been an hour all day when there
wasn't a doctor in the house. The specialist and their family physician
every morning, then the baby doctor--and this afternoon there had been
Doctor Moon, placid, persistent, unwelcome, in the parlor. Luella went
into the kitchen. She could cook bacon and eggs for herself--she had
often done that after the theatre. But the vegetables for Charles were a
different matter--they must be left to boil or stew or something, and
the stove had so many doors and ovens that she couldn't decide which to
use. She chose a blue pan that looked new, sliced carrots into it, and
covered them with a little water. As she put it on the stove and tried
to remember what to do next, the phone rang. It was the agency.

"Yes, this is Mrs. Hemple speaking."

"Why, the woman we sent to you has returned here with the claim that you
refused to pay her for her time."

"I explained to you that she refused to stay," said Luella hotly. "She
didn't keep her agreement, and I didn't feel I was under any
obligation----"

"We have to see that our people are paid," the agency informed her;
"otherwise we wouldn't be helping them at all, would we? I'm sorry, Mrs.
Hemple, but we won't be able to furnish you with any one else until this
little matter is arranged."

"Oh, I'll pay, I'll pay!" she cried.

"Of course we like to keep on good terms with our clients----"

"Yes--yes!"

"So if you'll send her money around to-morrow? It's seventy-five cents
an hour."

"But how about to-night?" she exclaimed. "I've got to have some one
to-night."

"Why--it's pretty late now. I was just going home myself."

"But I'm Mrs. Charles Hemple! Don't you understand? I'm perfectly good
for what I say I'll do. I'm the wife of Charles Hemple, of 14
Broadway----"

Simultaneously she realized that Charles Hemple of 14 Broadway was a
helpless invalid--he was neither a reference nor a refuge any more. In
despair at the sudden callousness of the world, she hung up the
receiver.

After another ten minutes of frantic muddling in the kitchen, she went
to the baby's nurse, whom she disliked, and confessed that she was
unable to cook her husband's dinner. The nurse announced that she had a
splitting headache, and that with a sick child her hands were full
already, but she consented, without enthusiasm, to show Luella what to
do.

Swallowing her humiliation, Luella obeyed orders while the nurse
experimented, grumbling, with the unfamiliar stove. Dinner was started
after a fashion. Then it was time for the nurse to bathe Chuck, and
Luella sat down alone at the kitchen table, and listened to the bubbling
perfume that escaped from the pans.

"And women do this every day," she thought. "Thousands of women. Cook
and take care of sick people--and go out to work too."

But she didn't think of those women as being like her, except in the
superficial aspect of having two feet and two hands. She said it as she
might have said "South Sea Islanders wear nose-rings." She was merely
slumming to-day in her own home, and she wasn't enjoying it. For her, it
was merely a ridiculous exception.

Suddenly she became aware of slow approaching steps in the dining-room
and then in the butler's pantry. Half afraid that it was Doctor Moon
coming to pay another call, she looked up--and saw the nurse coming
through the pantry door. It flashed through Luella's mind that the nurse
was going to be sick too. And she was right--the nurse had hardly
reached the kitchen door when she lurched and clutched at the handle as
a winged bird clings to a branch. Then she receded wordlessly to the
floor. Simultaneously the door-bell rang; and Luella, getting to her
feet, gasped with relief that the baby doctor had come.

"Fainted, that's all," he said, taking the girl's head into his lap. The
eyes fluttered. "Yep, she fainted, that's all."

"Everybody's sick!" cried Luella with a sort of despairing humor.
"Everybody's sick but me, doctor."

"This one's not sick," he said after a moment. "Her heart is normal
already. She just fainted."

When she had helped the doctor raise the quickening body to a chair,
Luella hurried into the nursery and bent over the baby's bed. She let
down one of the iron sides quietly. The fever seemed to be gone
now--the flush had faded away. She bent over to touch the small cheek.

Suddenly Luella began to scream.




IV


Even after her baby's funeral, Luella still couldn't believe that she
had lost him. She came back to the apartment and walked around the
nursery in a circle, saying his name. Then, frightened by grief, she sat
down and stared at his white rocker with the red chicken painted on the
side.

"What will become of me now?" she whispered to herself. "Something awful
is going to happen to me when I realize that I'll never see Chuck any
more!"

She wasn't sure yet. If she waited here till twilight, the nurse might
still bring him in from his walk. She remembered a tragic confusion in
the midst of which some one had told her that Chuck was dead, but if
that was so, then why was his room waiting, with his small brush and
comb still on the bureau, and why was she here at all?

"Mrs. Hemple."

She looked up. The weary, shabby figure of Doctor Moon stood in the
door.

"You go away," Luella said dully.

"Your husband needs you."

"I don't care."

Doctor Moon came a little way into the room.

"I don't think you understand, Mrs. Hemple. He's been calling for you.
You haven't any one now except him."

"I hate you," she said suddenly.

"If you like. I promised nothing, you know. I do the best I can. You'll
be better when you realize that your baby is gone, that you're not going
to see him any more."

Luella sprang to her feet.

"My baby isn't dead!" she cried. "You lie! You always lie!" Her flashing
eyes looked into his and caught something there, at once brutal and
kind, that awed her and made her impotent and acquiescent. She lowered
her own eyes in tired despair.

"All right," she said wearily. "My baby is gone. What shall I do now?"

"Your husband is much better. All he needs is rest and kindness. But you
must go to him and tell him what's happened."

"I suppose you think you made him better," said Luella bitterly.

"Perhaps. He's nearly well."

Nearly well--then the last link that held her to her home was broken.
This part of her life was over--she could cut it off here, with its
grief and oppression, and be off now, free as the wind.

"I'll go to him in a minute," Luella said in a far-away voice. "Please
leave me alone."

Doctor Moon's unwelcome shadow melted into the darkness of the hall.

"I can go away," Luella whispered to herself. "Life has given me back
freedom, in place of what it took away from me."

But she mustn't linger even a minute, or Life would bind her again and
make her suffer once more. She called the apartment porter and asked
that her trunk be brought up from the storeroom. Then she began taking
things from the bureau and wardrobe, trying to approximate as nearly as
possible the possessions that she had brought to her married life. She
even found two old dresses that had formed part of her trousseau--out
of style now, and a little tight in the hips--which she threw in with
the rest. A new life. Charles was well again; and her baby, whom she had
worshipped, and who had bored her a little, was dead.

When she had packed her trunk, she went into the kitchen automatically,
to see about the preparations for dinner. She spoke to the cook about
the special things for Charles and said that she herself was dining out.
The sight of one of the small pans that had been used to cook Chuck's
food caught her attention for a moment--but she stared at it unmoved.
She looked into the ice-box and saw it was clean and fresh inside. Then
she went into Charles's room. He was sitting up in bed, and the nurse
was reading to him. His hair was almost white now, silvery white, and
underneath it his eyes were huge and dark in his thin young face.

"The baby is sick?" he asked in his own natural voice.

She nodded.

He hesitated, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he asked:

"The baby is dead?"

"Yes."

For a long time he didn't speak. The nurse came over and put her hand on
his forehead. Two large, strange tears welled from his eyes.

"I knew the baby was dead."

After another long wait, the nurse spoke:

"The doctor said he could be taken out for a drive to-day while there
was still sunshine. He needs a little change."

"Yes."

"I thought"--the nurse hesitated--"I thought perhaps it would do you
both good, Mrs. Hemple, if you took him instead of me."

Luella shook her head hastily.

"Oh, no," she said. "I don't feel able to, to-day."

The nurse looked at her oddly. With a sudden feeling of pity for
Charles, Luella bent down gently and kissed his cheek. Then, without a
word, she went to her own room, put on her hat and coat, and with her
suitcase started for the front door.

Immediately she saw that there was a shadow in the hall. If she could
get past that shadow, she was free. If she could go to the right or left
of it, or order it out of her way! But, stubbornly, it refused to move,
and with a little cry she sank down into a hall chair.

"I thought you'd gone," she wailed. "I told you to go away."

"I'm going soon," said Doctor Moon, "but I don't want you to make an old
mistake."

"I'm not making a mistake--I'm leaving my mistakes behind."

"You're trying to leave yourself behind, but you can't. The more you try
to run away from yourself, the more you'll have yourself with you."

"But I've got to go away," she insisted wildly. "Out of this house of
death and failure!"

"You haven't failed yet. You've only begun." She stood up.

"Let me pass."

"No."

Abruptly she gave way, as she always did when he talked to her. She
covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

"Go back into that room and tell the nurse you'll take your husband for
a drive," he suggested.

"I can't."

"Oh, yes."

Once more Luella looked at him, and knew that she would obey. With the
conviction that her spirit was broken at last, she took up her suitcase
and walked back through the hall.




V


The nature of the curious influence that Doctor Moon exerted upon her,
Luella could not guess. But as the days passed, she found herself doing
many things that had been repugnant to her before. She stayed at home
with Charles; and when he grew better, she went out with him sometimes
to dinner, or the theatre, but only when he expressed a wish. She
visited the kitchen every day, and kept an unwilling eye on the house,
at first with a horror that it would go wrong again, then from habit.
And she felt that it was all somehow mixed up with Doctor Moon--it was
something he kept telling her about life, or almost telling her, and yet
concealing from her, as though he were afraid to have her know.

With the resumption of their normal life, she found that Charles was
less nervous. His habit of rubbing his face had left him, and if the
world seemed less gay and happy to her than it had before, she
experienced a certain peace, sometimes, that she had never known.

Then, one afternoon, Doctor Moon told her suddenly that he was going
away.

"Do you mean for good?" she demanded with a touch of panic.

"For good."

For a strange moment she wasn't sure whether she was glad or sorry.

"You don't need me any more," he said quietly. "You don't realize it,
but you've grown up."

He came over and, sitting on the couch beside her, took her hand.

Luella sat silent and tense--listening.

"We make an agreement with children that they can sit in the audience
without helping to make the play," he said, "but if they still sit in
the audience after they're grown, somebody's got to work double time for
them, so that they can enjoy the light and glitter of the world."

"But I want the light and glitter," she protested. "That's all there is
in life. There can't be anything wrong in wanting to have things warm."

"Things will still be warm."

"How?"

"Things will warm themselves from you."

Luella looked at him, startled.

"It's your turn to be the centre, to give others what was given to you
for so long. You've got to give security to young people and peace to
your husband, and a sort of charity to the old. You've got to let the
people who work for you depend on you. You've got to cover up a few more
troubles than you show, and be a little more patient than the average
person, and do a little more instead of a little less than your share.
The light and glitter of the world is in your hands."

He broke off suddenly.

"Get up," he said, "and go to that mirror and tell me what you see."

Obediently Luella got up and went close to a purchase of her honeymoon,
a Venetian pier-glass on the wall.

"I see new lines in my face here," she said, raising her finger and
placing it between her eyes, "and a few shadows at the sides that might
be--that are little wrinkles."

"Do you care?"

She turned quickly. "No," she said.

"Do you realize that Chuck is gone? That you'll never see him any more?"

"Yes." She passed her hands slowly over her eyes. "But that all seems so
vague and far away."

"Vague and far away," he repeated; and then: "And are you afraid of me
now?"

"Not any longer," she said, and she added frankly, "now that you're
going away."

He moved toward the door. He seemed particularly weary to-night, as
though he could hardly move about at all.

"The household here is in your keeping," he said in a tired whisper. "If
there is any light and warmth in it, it will be your light and warmth;
if it is happy, it will be because you've made it so. Happy things may
come to you in life, but you must never go seeking them any more. It is
your turn to make the fire."

"Won't you sit down a moment longer?" Luella ventured.

"There isn't time." His voice was so low now that she could scarcely
hear the words. "But remember that whatever suffering comes to you, I
can always help you--if it is something that can be helped. I promise
nothing."

He opened the door. She must find out now what she most wanted to know,
before it was too late.

"What have you done to me?" she cried. "Why have I no sorrow left for
Chuck--for anything at all? Tell me; I almost see, yet I can't see.
Before you go--tell me who you are!"

"Who am I?--" His worn suit paused in the doorway. His round, pale face
seemed to dissolve into two faces, a dozen faces, a score, each one
different yet the same--sad, happy, tragic, indifferent, resigned--until
threescore Doctor Moons were ranged like an infinite series of
reflections, like months stretching into the vista of the past.

"Who am I?" he repeated; "I am five years." The door closed.


At six o'clock Charles Hemple came home, and as usual Luella met him in
the hall. Except that now his hair was dead white, his long illness of
two years had left no mark upon him. Luella herself was more noticeably
changed--she was a little stouter, and there were those lines around her
eyes that had come when Chuck died one evening back in 1921. But she was
still lovely, and there was a mature kindness about her face at
twenty-eight, as if suffering had touched her only reluctantly and then
hurried away.

"Ede and her husband are coming to dinner," she said. "I've got theatre
tickets, but if you're tired, I don't care whether we go or not."

"I'd like to go."

She looked at him.

"You wouldn't."

"I really would."

"We'll see how you feel after dinner."

He put his arm around her waist. Together they walked into the nursery
where the two children were waiting up to say good night.




HOT AND COLD BLOOD


One day when the young Mathers had been married for about a year,
Jaqueline walked into the rooms of the hardware brokerage which her
husband carried on with more than average success. At the open door of
the inner office she stopped and said: "Oh, excuse me--" She had
interrupted an apparently trivial yet somehow intriguing scene. A young
man named Bronson whom she knew slightly was standing with her husband;
the latter had risen from his desk. Bronson seized her husband's hand
and shook it earnestly--something more than earnestly. When they heard
Jaqueline's step in the doorway both men turned and Jaqueline saw that
Bronson's eyes were red.

A moment later he came out, passing her with a somewhat embarrassed "How
do you do?" She walked into her husband's office.

"What was Ed Bronson doing here?" she demanded curiously, and at once.

Jim Mather smiled at her, half shutting his gray eyes, and drew her
quietly to a sitting position on his desk.

"He just dropped in for a minute," he answered easily. "How's everything
at home?"

"All right." She looked at him with curiosity. "What did he want?" she
insisted.

"Oh, he just wanted to see me about something."

"What?"

"Oh, just something. Business."

"Why were his eyes red?"

"Were they?" He looked at her innocently, and then suddenly they both
began to laugh. Jaqueline rose and walked around the desk and plumped
down into his swivel chair.

"You might as well tell me," she announced cheerfully, "because I'm
going to stay right here till you do."

"Well--" he hesitated, frowning. "He wanted me to do him a little
favor."

Then Jaqueline understood, or rather her mind leaped half accidentally
to the truth.

"Oh." Her voice tightened a little. "You've been lending him some
money."

"Only a little."

"How much?"

"Only three hundred."

"_Only_ three hundred." The voice was of the texture of Bessemer cooled.
"How much do we spend a month, Jim?"

"Why--why, about five or six hundred, I guess." He shifted uneasily.
"Listen, Jack. Bronson'll pay that back. He's in a little trouble. He's
made a mistake about a girl out in Woodmere----"

"And he knows you're famous for being an easy mark, so he comes to you,"
interrupted Jaqueline.

"No." He denied this formally.

"Don't you suppose I could use that three hundred dollars?" she
demanded. "How about that trip to New York we couldn't afford last
November?"

The lingering smile faded from Mather's face. He went over and shut the
door to the outer office.

"Listen, Jack," he began, "you don't understand this. Bronson's one of
the men I eat lunch with almost every day. We used to play together when
we were kids, we went to school together. Don't you see that I'm just
the person he'd be right to come to in trouble? And that's just why I
couldn't refuse."

Jaqueline gave her shoulders a twist as if to shake off this reasoning.

"Well," she answered decidedly, "all I know is that he's no good. He's
always lit and if he doesn't choose to work he has no business living
off the work you do."

They were sitting now on either side of the desk, each having adopted
the attitude of one talking to a child. They began their sentences with
"Listen!" and their faces wore expressions of rather tried patience.

"If you can't understand, I can't tell you," Mather concluded, at the
end of fifteen minutes, on what was, for him, an irritated key. "Such
obligations do happen to exist sometimes among men and they have to be
met. It's more complicated than just refusing to lend money, especially
in a business like mine where so much depends on the good-will of men
down-town."

Mather was putting on his coat as he said this. He was going home with
her on the street-car to lunch. They were between automobiles--they had
sold their old one and were going to get a new one in the spring.

Now the street-car, on this particular day, was distinctly unfortunate.
The argument in the office might have been forgotten under other
circumstances, but what followed irritated the scratch until it became a
serious temperamental infection.

They found a seat near the front of the car. It was late February and an
eager, unpunctilious sun was turning the scrawny street snow into dirty,
cheerful rivulets that echoed in the gutters. Because of this the car
was less full than usual--there was no one standing. The motorman had
even opened his window and a yellow breeze was blowing the late breath
of winter from the car.

It occurred pleasurably to Jaqueline that her husband sitting beside her
was handsome and kind above other men. It was silly to try to change
him. Perhaps Bronson might return the money after all, and anyhow three
hundred dollars wasn't a fortune. Of course he had no business doing
it--but then--

Her musings were interrupted as an eddy of passengers pushed up the
aisle. Jaqueline wished they'd put their hands over their mouths when
they coughed, and she hoped that Jim would get a new machine pretty
soon. You couldn't tell what disease you'd run into in these trolleys.

She turned to Jim to discuss the subject--but Jim had stood up and was
offering his seat to a woman who had been standing beside him in the
aisle. The woman, without so much as a grunt, sat down. Jaqueline
frowned.

The woman was about fifty and enormous. When she first sat down she was
content merely to fill the unoccupied part of the seat, but after a
moment she began to expand and to spread her great rolls of fat over a
larger and larger area until the process took on the aspect of violent
trespassing. When the car rocked in Jaqueline's direction the woman slid
with it, but when it rocked back she managed by some exercise of
ingenuity to dig in and hold the ground won.

Jaqueline caught her husband's eye--he was swaying on a strap--and in an
angry glance conveyed to him her entire disapproval of his action. He
apologized mutely and became urgently engrossed in a row of car cards.
The fat woman moved once more against Jaqueline--she was now practically
overlapping her. Then she turned puffy, disagreeable eyes full on Mrs.
James Mather, and coughed rousingly in her face.

With a smothered exclamation Jaqueline got to her feet, squeezed with
brisk violence past the fleshy knees, and made her way, pink with rage,
toward the rear of the car. There she seized a strap, and there she was
presently joined by her husband in a state of considerable alarm.

They exchanged no word, but stood silently side by side for ten minutes
while a row of men sitting in front of them crackled their newspapers
and kept their eyes fixed virtuously upon the day's cartoons.

When they left the car at last Jaqueline exploded.

"You big _fool_!" she cried wildly. "Did you see that horrible woman you
gave your seat to? Why don't you consider _me_ occasionally instead of
every fat selfish washwoman you meet?"

"How should I know----"

But Jaqueline was as angry at him as she had ever been--it was unusual
for any one to get angry at him.

"You didn't see any of those men getting up for _me_, did you? No wonder
you were too tired to go out last Monday night. You'd probably given
your seat to some--to some horrible, Polish _wash_woman that's strong as
an ox and _likes_ to stand up!"

They were walking along the slushy street stepping wildly into great
pools of water. Confused and distressed, Mather could utter neither
apology nor defense.

Jaqueline broke off and then turned to him with a curious light in her
eyes. The words in which she couched her summary of the situation were
probably the most disagreeable that had ever been addressed to him in
his life.

"The trouble with you, Jim, the reason you're such an easy mark, is that
you've got the ideas of a college freshman--you're a professional nice
fellow."




II


The incident and the unpleasantness were forgotten. Mather's vast good
nature had smoothed over the roughness within an hour. References to it
fell with a dying cadence throughout several days--then ceased and
tumbled into the limbo of oblivion. I say "limbo," for oblivion is,
unfortunately, never quite oblivious. The subject was drowned out by the
fact that Jaqueline with her customary spirit and coolness began the
long, arduous, up-hill business of bearing a child. Her natural traits
and prejudices became intensified and she was less inclined to let
things pass.

It was April now, and as yet they had not bought a car. Mather had
discovered that he was saving practically nothing and that in another
half-year he would have a family on his hands. It worried him. A
wrinkle--small, tentative, undisturbing--appeared for the first time as
a shadow around his honest, friendly eyes. He worked far into the spring
twilight now, and frequently brought home with him the overflow from his
office day. The new car would have to be postponed for a while.

April afternoon, and all the city shopping on Washington Street.
Jaqueline walked slowly past the shops, brooding without fear or
depression on the shape into which her life was now being arbitrarily
forced. Dry summer dust was in the wind; the sun bounded cheerily from
the plate-glass windows and made radiant gasoline rainbows where
automobile drippings had formed pools on the street.

Jaqueline stopped. Not six feet from her a bright new sport roadster was
parked at the curb. Beside it stood two men in conversation, and at the
moment when she identified one of them as young Bronson she heard him
say to the other in a casual tone:

"What do you think of it? Just got it this morning."

Jaqueline turned abruptly and walked with quick tapping steps to her
husband's office. With her usual curt nod to the stenographer she strode
by her to the inner room. Mather looked up from his desk in surprise at
her brusque entry.

"Jim," she began breathlessly, "did Bronson ever pay you that three
hundred?"

"Why--no," he answered hesitantly, "not yet. He was in here last week and
he explained that he was a little bit hard up."

Her eyes gleamed with angry triumph.

"Oh, he did?" she snapped. "Well, he's just bought a new sport roadster
that must have cost anyhow twenty-five hundred dollars."

He shook his head, unbelieving.

"I saw it," she insisted. "I heard him say he'd just bought it."

"He _told_ me he was hard up," repeated Mather helplessly.

Jaqueline audibly gave up by heaving a profound noise, a sort of
groanish sigh.

"He was _u_sing you! He knew you were easy and he was _u_sing you.
Can't you see? He wanted _you_ to buy him the car and you _did_!" She
laughed bitterly. "He's probably roaring his sides out to think how
easily he worked you."

"Oh, no," protested Mather with a shocked expression, "you must have
mistaken somebody for him----"

"We walk--and he rides on our money," she interrupted excitedly. "Oh,
it's rich--it's rich. If it wasn't so maddening, it'd be just absurd.
Look here--!" Her voice grew sharper, more restrained--there was a touch
of contempt in it now. "You spend half your time doing things for people
who don't give a damn about you or what becomes of you. You give up your
seat on the street-car to _hogs_, and come home too dead tired to even
_move_. You're on all sorts of committees that take at least an hour a
day out of your business and you don't get a cent out of them.
You're--eternally--being _used_! I won't stand it! I thought I married a
man--not a professional Samaritan who's going to fetch and carry for the
world!"

As she finished her invective Jaqueline reeled suddenly and sank into a
chair--nervously exhausted.

"Just at this time," she went on brokenly, "I need you. I need your
strength and your health and your arms around me. And if you--if you
just give it to _every_ one, it's spread _so_ thin when it reaches
me----"

He knelt by her side, moving her tired young head until it lay against
his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Jaqueline," he said humbly, "I'll be more careful. I didn't
realize what I was doing."

"You're the dearest person in the world," murmured Jaqueline huskily,
"but I want all of you and the best of you for me."

He smoothed her hair over and over. For a few minutes they rested there
silently, having attained a sort of Nirvana of peace and understanding.
Then Jaqueline reluctantly raised her head as they were interrupted by
the voice of Miss Clancy in the doorway.

"Oh, I beg your pardon."

"What is it?"

"A boy's here with some boxes. It's C.O.D."

Mather rose and followed Miss Clancy into the outer office.

"It's fifty dollars."

He searched his wallet--he had omitted to go to the bank that morning.

"Just a minute," he said abstractedly. His mind was on Jaqueline,
Jaqueline who seemed forlorn in her trouble, waiting for him in the
other room. He walked into the corridor, and opening the door of
"Clayton and Drake, Brokers" across the way, swung wide a low gate and
went up to a man seated at a desk.

"Morning, Fred," said Mather.

Drake, a little man of thirty with pince-nez and bald head, rose and
shook hands.

"Morning, Jim. What can I do for you?"

"Why, a boy's in my office with some stuff C.O.D. and I haven't a cent.
Can you let me have fifty till this afternoon?"

Drake looked closely at Mather. Then, slowly and startlingly, he shook
his head--not up and down but from side to side.

"Sorry, Jim," he answered stiffly, "I've made a rule never to make a
personal loan to anybody on any conditions. I've seen it break up too
many friendships."

"What?"

Mather had come out of his abstraction now, and the monosyllable held an
undisguised quality of shock. Then his natural tact acted automatically,
springing to his aid and dictating his words though his brain was
suddenly numb. His immediate instinct was to put Drake at ease in his
refusal.

"Oh, I see." He nodded his head as if in full agreement, as if he
himself had often considered adopting just such a rule. "Oh, I see how
you feel. Well--I just--I wouldn't have you break a rule like that for
anything. It's probably a good thing."

They talked for a minute longer. Drake justified his position easily; he
had evidently rehearsed the part a great deal. He treated Mather to an
exquisitely frank smile.

Mather went politely back to his office leaving Drake under the
impression that the latter was the most tactful man in the city. Mather
knew how to leave people with that impression. But when he entered his
own office and saw his wife staring dismally out the window into the
sunshine he clinched his hands, and his mouth moved in an unfamiliar
shape.

"All right, Jack," he said slowly, "I guess you're right about most
things, and I'm wrong as hell."




III


During the next three months Mather thought back through many years. He
had had an unusually happy life. Those frictions between man and man,
between man and society, which harden most of us into a rough and
cynical quarrelling trim, had been conspicuous by their infrequency in
his life. It had never occurred to him before that he had paid a price
for this immunity, but now he perceived how here and there, and
constantly, he had taken the rough side of the road to avoid enmity or
argument, or even question.

There was, for instance, much money that he had lent privately, about
thirteen hundred dollars in all, which he realized, in his new
enlightenment, he would never see again. It had taken Jaqueline's
harder, feminine intelligence to know this. It was only now when he owed
it to Jaqueline to have money in the bank that he missed these loans at
all.

He realized too the truth of her assertions that he was continually
doing favors--a little something here, a little something there; the sum
total, in time and energy expended, was appalling. It had pleased him to
do the favors. He reacted warmly to being thought well of, but he
wondered now if he had not been merely indulging a selfish vanity of his
own. In suspecting this, he was, as usual, not quite fair to himself.
The truth was that Mather was essentially and enormously romantic.

He decided that these expenditures of himself made him tired at night,
less efficient in his work, and less of a prop to Jaqueline, who, as the
months passed, grew more heavy and bored, and sat through the long
summer afternoons on the screened veranda waiting for his step at the
end of the walk.

Lest that step falter, Mather gave up many things--among them the
presidency of his college alumni association. He let slip other labors
less prized. When he was put on a committee, men had a habit of electing
him chairman and retiring into a dim background, where they were
inconveniently hard to find. He was done with such things now. Also he
avoided those who were prone to ask favors--fleeing a certain eager look
that would be turned on him from some group at his club.

The change in him came slowly. He was not exceptionally unworldly--under
other circumstances Drake's refusal of money would not have surprised
him. Had it come to him as a story he would scarcely have given it a
thought. But it had broken in with harsh abruptness upon a situation
existing in his own mind, and the shock had given it a powerful and
literal significance.

It was mid-August now, and the last of a baking week. The curtains of
his wide-open office windows had scarcely rippled all the day, but lay
like sails becalmed in warm juxtaposition with the smothering screens.
Mather was worried--Jaqueline had over-tired herself, and was paying for
it by violent sick headaches, and business seemed to have come to an
apathetic standstill. That morning he had been so irritable with Miss
Clancy that she had looked at him in surprise. He had immediately
apologized, wishing afterward that he hadn't. He was working at high
speed through this heat--why shouldn't she?

She came to his door now, and he looked up faintly frowning.

"Mr. Edward Lacy."

"All right," he answered listlessly. Old man Lacy--he knew him slightly.
A melancholy figure--a brilliant start back in the eighties, and now one
of the city's failures. He couldn't imagine what Lacy wanted unless he
were soliciting.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Mather."

A little, solemn, gray-haired man stood on the threshold. Mather rose
and greeted him politely.

"Are you busy, Mr. Mather?"

"Well, not so _very_." He stressed the qualifying word slightly.

Mr. Lacy sat down, obviously ill at ease. He kept his hat in his hands,
and clung to it tightly as he began to speak.

"Mr. Mather, if you've got five minutes to spare, I'm going to tell you
something that--that I find at present it's necessary for me to tell
you."

Mather nodded. His instinct warned him that there was a favor to be
asked, but he was tired, and with a sort of lassitude he let his chin
sink into his hand, welcoming any distraction from his more immediate
cares.

"You see," went on Mr. Lacy--Mather noticed that the hands which
fingered at the hat were trembling--"back in eighty-four your father and
I were very good friends. You've heard him speak of me no doubt."

Mather nodded.

"I was asked to be one of the pallbearers. Once we were--very close.
It's because of that that I come to you now. Never before in my life
have I ever had to come to any one as I've come to you now, Mr.
Mather--come to a stranger. But as you grow older your friends die or
move away or some misunderstanding separates you. And your children die
unless you're fortunate enough to go first--and pretty soon you get to
be alone, so that you don't have any friends at all. You're isolated."
He smiled faintly. His hands were trembling violently now.

"Once upon a time almost forty years ago your father came to me and
asked me for a thousand dollars. I was a few years older than he was,
and though I knew him only slightly, I had a high opinion of him. That
was a lot of money in those days, and he had no security--he had nothing
but a plan in his head--but I liked the way he had of looking out of his
eyes--you'll pardon me if I say you look not unlike him--so I gave it to
him without security."

Mr. Lacy paused.

"Without security," he repeated. "I could afford it then. I didn't lose
by it. He paid it back with interest at six per cent before the year was
up."

Mather was looking down at his blotter, tapping out a series of
triangles with his pencil. He knew what was coming now, and his muscles
physically tightened as he mustered his forces for the refusal he would
have to make.

"I'm now an old man, Mr. Mather," the cracked voice went on. "I've made
a failure--I _am_ a failure--only we needn't go into that now. I have a
daughter, an unmarried daughter who lives with me. She does stenographic
work and has been very kind to me. We live together, you know, on Selby
Avenue--we have an apartment, quite a nice apartment."

The old man sighed quaveringly. He was trying--and at the same time was
afraid--to get to his request. It was insurance, it seemed. He had a
ten-thousand-dollar policy, he had borrowed on it up to the limit, and
he stood to lose the whole amount unless he could raise four hundred and
fifty dollars. He and his daughter had about seventy-five dollars
between them. They had no friends--he had explained that--and they had
found it impossible to raise the money....

Mather could stand the miserable story no longer. He could not spare the
money, but he could at least relieve the old man of the blistered agony
of asking for it.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lacy," he interrupted as gently as possible, "but I
can't lend you that money."

"No?" The old man looked at him with faded, blinking eyes that were
beyond all shock, almost, it seemed, beyond any human emotion except
ceaseless care. The only change in his expression was that his mouth
dropped slowly ajar.

Mather fixed his eyes determinately upon his blotter.

"We're going to have a baby in a few months, and I've been saving for
that. It wouldn't be fair to my wife to take anything from her--or the
child--right now."

His voice sank to a sort of mumble. He found himself saying
platitudinously that business was bad--saying it with revolting
facility.

Mr. Lacy made no argument. He rose without visible signs of
disappointment. Only his hands were still trembling and they worried
Mather. The old man was apologetic--he was sorry to have bothered him at
a time like this. Perhaps something would turn up. He had thought that
if Mr. Mather did happen to have a good deal extra--why, he might be the
person to go to because he was the son of an old friend.

As he left the office he had trouble opening the outer door. Miss Clancy
helped him. He went shabbily and unhappily down the corridor with his
faded eyes blinking and his mouth still faintly ajar.

Jim Mather stood by his desk, and put his hand over his face and
shivered suddenly as if he were cold. But the five-o'clock air outside
was hot as a tropic noon.




IV


The twilight was hotter still an hour later as he stood at the corner
waiting for his car. The trolley-ride to his house was twenty-five
minutes, and he bought a pink-jacketed newspaper to appetize his
listless mind. Life had seemed less happy, less glamourous of late.
Perhaps he had learned more of the world's ways--perhaps its glamour was
evaporating little by little with the hurried years.

Nothing like this afternoon, for instance, had ever happened to him
before. He could not dismiss the old man from his mind. He pictured him
plodding home in the weary heat--on foot, probably, to save
carfare--opening the door of a hot little flat, and confessing to his
daughter that the son of his friend had not been able to help him out.
All evening they would plan helplessly until they said good night to
each other--father and daughter, isolated by chance in this world--and
went to lie awake with a pathetic loneliness in their two beds.

Mather's street-car came along, and he found a seat near the front, next
to an old lady who looked at him grudgingly as she moved over. At the
next block a crowd of girls from the department-store district flowed up
the aisle, and Mather unfolded his paper. Of late he had not indulged
his habit of giving up his seat. Jaqueline was right--the average young
girl was able to stand as well as he was. Giving up his seat was silly,
a mere gesture. Nowadays not one woman in a dozen even bothered to thank
him.

It was stifling hot in the car, and he wiped the heavy damp from his
forehead. The aisle was thickly packed now, and a woman standing beside
his seat was thrown momentarily against his shoulder as the car turned a
corner. Mather took a long breath of the hot foul air, which
persistently refused to circulate, and tried to centre his mind on a
cartoon at the top of the sporting page.

"Move for'ard ina car, please!" The conductor's voice pierced the opaque
column of humanity with raucous irritation. "Plen'y of room for'ard!"

The crowd made a feeble attempt to shove forward, but the unfortunate
fact that there was no space into which to move precluded any marked
success. The car turned another corner, and again the woman next to
Mather swayed against his shoulder. Ordinarily he would have given up
his seat if only to avoid this reminder that she was there. It made him
feel unpleasantly cold-blooded. And the car was horrible--horrible. They
ought to put more of them on the line these sweltering days.

For the fifth time he looked at the pictures in the comic strip. There
was a beggar in the second picture, and the wavering image of Mr. Lacy
persistently inserted itself in the beggar's place. God! Suppose the old
man really did starve to death--suppose he threw himself into the river.

"Once," thought Mather, "he helped my father. Perhaps, if he hadn't, my
own life would have been different than it has been. But Lacy could
afford it then--and I can't."

To force out the picture of Mr. Lacy, Mather tried to think of
Jaqueline. He said to himself over and over that he would have been
sacrificing Jaqueline to a played-out man who had had his chance and
failed. Jaqueline needed her chance now as never before.

Mather looked at his watch. He had been on the car ten minutes. Fifteen
minutes still to ride, and the heat increasing with breathless
intensity. The woman swayed against him once more, and looking out the
window he saw that they were turning the last down-town corner.

It occurred to him that perhaps he ought, after all, to give the woman
his seat--her last sway toward him had been a particularly tired sway.
If he were sure she was an older woman--but the texture of her dress as
it brushed his hand gave somehow the impression that she was a young
girl. He did not dare look up to see. He was afraid of the appeal that
might look out of her eyes if they were old eyes or the sharp contempt
if they were young.

For the next five minutes his mind worked in a vague suffocated way on
what now seemed to him the enormous problem of whether or not to give
her the seat. He felt dimly that doing so would partially atone for his
refusal to Mr. Lacy that afternoon. It would be rather terrible to have
done those two cold-blooded things in succession--and on such a day.

He tried the cartoon again, but in vain. He must concentrate on
Jaqueline. He was dead tired now, and if he stood up he would be more
tired. Jaqueline would be waiting for him, needing him. She would be
depressed and she would want him to hold her quietly in his arms for an
hour after dinner. When he was tired this was rather a strain. And
afterward when they went to bed she would ask him from time to time to
get her her medicine or a glass of ice-water. He hated to show any
weariness in doing these things. She might notice and, needing
something, refrain from asking for it.

The girl in the aisle swayed against him once more--this time it was
more like a sag. She was tired, too. Well, it was weary to work. The
ends of many proverbs that had to do with toil and the long day floated
fragmentarily through his mind. Everybody in the world was tired--this
woman, for instance, whose body was sagging so wearily, so strangely
against his. But his home came first and his girl that he loved was
waiting for him there. He must keep his strength for her, and he said to
himself over and over that he would not give up his seat.

Then he heard a long sigh, followed by a sudden exclamation, and he
realized that the girl was no longer leaning against him. The
exclamation multiplied into a clatter of voices--then came a pause--then
a renewed clatter that travelled down the car in calls and little
staccato cries to the conductor. The bell clanged violently, and the hot
car jolted to a sudden stop.

"Girl fainted up here!"

"Too hot for her!"

"Just keeled right over!"

"Get back there! Gangway, you!"

The crowd eddied apart. The passengers in front squeezed back and those
on the rear platform temporarily disembarked. Curiosity and pity bubbled
out of suddenly conversing groups. People tried to help, got in the way.
Then the bell rang and voices rose stridently again.

"Get her out all right?"

"Say, did you see that?"

"This damn' company ought to----"

"Did you see the man that carried her out? He was pale as a ghost, too."

"Yes, but did you hear----?"

"What?"

"That fella. That pale fella that carried her out. He was sittin' beside
her--he says she's his wife!"


The house was quiet. A breeze pressed back the dark vine leaves of the
veranda, letting in thin yellow rods of moonlight on the wicker chairs.
Jaqueline rested placidly on the long settee with her head in his arms.
After a while she stirred lazily; her hand reaching up patted his cheek.

"I think I'll go to bed now. I'm so tired. Will you help me up?"

He lifted her and then laid her back among the pillows.

"I'll be with you in a minute," he said gently. "Can you wait for just a
minute?"

He passed into the lighted living-room, and she heard him thumbing the
pages of a telephone directory; then she listened as he called a number.

"Hello, is Mr. Lacy there? Why--yes, it _is_ pretty important--if he
hasn't gone to sleep."

A pause. Jaqueline could hear restless sparrows splattering through the
leaves of the magnolia over the way. Then her husband at the telephone:

"Is this Mr. Lacy? Oh, this is Mather. Why--why, in regard to that
matter we talked about this afternoon, I think I'll be able to fix that
up after all." He raised his voice a little as though some one at the
other end found it difficult to hear. "James Mather's son, I said--
About that little matter this afternoon----"




"THE SENSIBLE THING"


At the Great American Lunch Hour young George O'Kelly straightened his
desk deliberately and with an assumed air of interest. No one in the
office must know that he was in a hurry, for success is a matter of
atmosphere, and it is not well to advertise the fact that your mind is
separated from your work by a distance of seven hundred miles.

But once out of the building he set his teeth and began to run, glancing
now and then at the gay noon of early spring which filled Times Square
and loitered less than twenty feet over the heads of the crowd. The
crowd all looked slightly upward and took deep March breaths, and the
sun dazzled their eyes so that scarcely any one saw any one else but
only their own reflection on the sky.

George O'Kelly, whose mind was over seven hundred miles away, thought
that all outdoors was horrible. He rushed into the subway, and for
ninety-five blocks bent a frenzied glance on a car-card which showed
vividly how he had only one chance in five of keeping his teeth for ten
years. At 137th Street he broke off his study of commercial art, left
the subway, and began to run again, a tireless, anxious run that brought
him this time to his home--one room in a high, horrible apartment-house
in the middle of nowhere.

There it was on the bureau, the letter--in sacred ink, on blessed
paper--all over the city, people, if they listened, could hear the
beating of George O'Kelly's heart. He read the commas, the blots, and the
thumb-smudge on the margin--then he threw himself hopelessly upon his
bed.

He was in a mess, one of those terrific messes which are ordinary
incidents in the life of the poor, which follow poverty like birds of
prey. The poor go under or go up or go wrong or even go on, somehow, in
a way the poor have--but George O'Kelly was so new to poverty that had
any one denied the uniqueness of his case he would have been astounded.

Less than two years ago he had been graduated with honors from The
Massachusetts Institute of Technology and had taken a position with a
firm of construction engineers in southern Tennessee. All his life he
had thought in terms of tunnels and skyscrapers and great squat dams and
tall, three-towered bridges, that were like dancers holding hands in a
row, with heads as tall as cities and skirts of cable strand. It had
seemed romantic to George O'Kelly to change the sweep of rivers and the
shape of mountains so that life could flourish in the old bad lands of
the world where it had never taken root before. He loved steel, and
there was always steel near him in his dreams, liquid steel, steel in
bars, and blocks and beams and formless plastic masses, waiting for him,
as paint and canvas to his hand. Steel inexhaustible, to be made lovely
and austere in his imaginative fire ...

At present he was an insurance clerk at forty dollars a week with his
dream slipping fast behind him. The dark little girl who had made this
mess, this terrible and intolerable mess, was waiting to be sent for in
a town in Tennessee.

In fifteen minutes the woman from whom he sublet his room knocked and
asked him with maddening kindness if, since he was home, he would have
some lunch. He shook his head, but the interruption aroused him, and
getting up from the bed he wrote a telegram.

"Letter depressed me have you lost your nerve you are foolish and just
upset to think of breaking off why not marry me immediately sure we can
make it all right----"

He hesitated for a wild minute, and then added in a hand that could
scarcely be recognized as his own: "In any case I will arrive to-morrow
at six o'clock."

When he finished he ran out of the apartment and down to the telegraph
office near the subway stop. He possessed in this world not quite one
hundred dollars, but the letter showed that she was "nervous" and this
left him no choice. He knew what "nervous" meant--that she was
emotionally depressed, that the prospect of marrying into a life of
poverty and struggle was putting too much strain upon her love.

George O'Kelly reached the insurance company at his usual run, the run
that had become almost second nature to him, that seemed best to express
the tension under which he lived. He went straight to the manager's
office.

"I want to see you, Mr. Chambers," he announced breathlessly.

"Well?" Two eyes, eyes like winter windows, glared at him with ruthless
impersonality.

"I want to get four days' vacation."

"Why, you had a vacation just two weeks ago!" said Mr. Chambers in
surprise.

"That's true," admitted the distraught young man, "but now I've got to
have another."

"Where'd you go last time? To your home?"

"No, I went to--a place in Tennessee."

"Well, where do you want to go this time?"

"Well, this time I want to go to--a place in Tennessee."

"You're consistent, anyhow," said the manager dryly. "But I didn't
realize you were employed here as a travelling salesman."

"I'm not," cried George desperately, "but I've got to go."

"All right," agreed Mr. Chambers, "but you don't have to come back. So
don't!"

"I won't." And to his own astonishment as well as Mr. Chambers' George's
face grew pink with pleasure. He felt happy, exultant--for the first
time in six months he was absolutely free. Tears of gratitude stood in
his eyes, and he seized Mr. Chambers warmly by the hand.

"I want to thank you," he said with a rush of emotion, "I don't want to
come back. I think I'd have gone crazy if you'd said that I could come
back. Only I couldn't quit myself, you see, and I want to thank you
for--for quitting for me."

He waved his hand magnanimously, shouted aloud, "You owe me three days'
salary but you can keep it!" and rushed from the office. Mr. Chambers
rang for his stenographer to ask if O'Kelly had seemed queer lately. He
had fired many men in the course of his career, and they had taken it in
many different ways, but none of them had thanked him--ever before.




II


Jonquil Cary was her name, and to George O'Kelly nothing had ever looked
so fresh and pale as her face when she saw him and fled to him eagerly
along the station platform. Her arms were raised to him, her mouth was
half parted for his kiss, when she held him off suddenly and lightly
and, with a touch of embarrassment, looked around. Two boys, somewhat
younger than George, were standing in the background.

"This is Mr. Craddock and Mr. Holt," she announced cheerfully. "You met
them when you were here before."

Disturbed by the transition of a kiss into an introduction and
suspecting some hidden significance, George was more confused when he
found that the automobile which was to carry them to Jonquil's house
belonged to one of the two young men. It seemed to put him at a
disadvantage. On the way Jonquil chattered between the front and back
seats, and when he tried to slip his arm around her under cover of the
twilight she compelled him with a quick movement to take her hand
instead.

"Is this street on the way to your house?" he whispered. "I don't
recognize it."

"It's the new boulevard. Jerry just got this car to-day, and he wants to
show it to me before he takes us home."

When, after twenty minutes, they were deposited at Jonquil's house,
George felt that the first happiness of the meeting, the joy he had
recognized so surely in her eyes back in the station, had been
dissipated by the intrusion of the ride. Something that he had looked
forward to had been rather casually lost, and he was brooding on this as
he said good night stiffly to the two young men. Then his ill-humor
faded as Jonquil drew him into a familiar embrace under the dim light of
the front hall and told him in a dozen ways, of which the best was
without words, how she had missed him. Her emotion reassured him,
promised his anxious heart that everything would be all right.

They sat together on the sofa, overcome by each other's presence, beyond
all except fragmentary endearments. At the supper hour Jonquil's father
and mother appeared and were glad to see George. They liked him, and had
been interested in his engineering career when he had first come to
Tennessee over a year before. They had been sorry when he had given it
up and gone to New York to look for something more immediately
profitable, but while they deplored the curtailment of his career they
sympathized with him and were ready to recognize the engagement. During
dinner they asked about his progress in New York.

"Everything's going fine," he told them with enthusiasm. "I've been
promoted--better salary."

He was miserable as he said this--but they were all _so_ glad.

"They must like you," said Mrs. Cary, "that's certain--or they wouldn't
let you off twice in three weeks to come down here."

"I told them they had to," explained George hastily; "I told them if
they didn't I wouldn't work for them any more."

"But you ought to save your money," Mrs. Cary reproached him gently.
"Not spend it all on this expensive trip."

Dinner was over--he and Jonquil were alone and she came back into his
arms.

"So glad you're here," she sighed. "Wish you never were going away
again, darling."

"Do you miss me?"

"Oh, so much, so much."

"Do you--do other men come to see you often? Like those two kids?"

The question surprised her. The dark velvet eyes stared at him.

"Why, of course they do. All the time. Why--I've told you in letters
that they did, dearest."

This was true--when he had first come to the city there had been already
a dozen boys around her, responding to her picturesque fragility with
adolescent worship, and a few of them perceiving that her beautiful eyes
were also sane and kind.

"Do you expect me never to go anywhere"--Jonquil demanded, leaning back
against the sofa-pillows until she seemed to look at him from many miles
away--"and just fold my hands and sit still--forever?"

"What do you mean?" he blurted out in a panic. "Do you mean you think
I'll never have enough money to marry you?"

"Oh, don't jump at conclusions so, George."

"I'm not jumping at conclusions. That's what you said."

George decided suddenly that he was on dangerous grounds. He had not
intended to let anything spoil this night. He tried to take her again in
his arms, but she resisted unexpectedly, saying:

"It's hot. I'm going to get the electric fan."

When the fan was adjusted they sat down again, but he was in a
supersensitive mood and involuntarily he plunged into the specific world
he had intended to avoid.

"When will you marry me?"

"Are you ready for me to marry you?"

All at once his nerves gave way, and he sprang to his feet.

"Let's shut off that damned fan," he cried, "it drives me wild. It's
like a clock ticking away all the time I'll be with you. I came here to
be happy and forget everything about New York and time----"

He sank down on the sofa as suddenly as he had risen. Jonquil turned off
the fan, and drawing his head down into her lap began stroking his hair.

"Let's sit like this," she said softly, "just sit quiet like this, and
I'll put you to sleep. You're all tired and nervous, and your
sweetheart'll take care of you."

"But I don't want to sit like this," he complained, jerking up suddenly,
"I don't want to sit like this at all. I want you to kiss me. That's the
only thing that makes me rest. And anyways I'm not nervous--it's you
that's nervous. I'm not nervous at all."

To prove that he wasn't nervous he left the couch and plumped himself
into a rocking-chair across the room.

"Just when I'm ready to marry you you write me the most nervous letters,
as if you're going to back out, and I have to come rushing down
here----"

"You don't have to come if you don't want to."

"But I _do_ want to!" insisted George.

It seemed to him that he was being very cool and logical and that she
was putting him deliberately in the wrong. With every word they were
drawing farther and farther apart--and he was unable to stop himself or
to keep worry and pain out of his voice.

But in a minute Jonquil began to cry sorrowfully and he came back to the
sofa and put his arm around her. He was the comforter now, drawing her
head close to his shoulder, murmuring old familiar things until she grew
calmer and only trembled a little, spasmodically, in his arms. For over
an hour they sat there, while the evening pianos thumped their last
cadences into the street outside. George did not move, or think, or
hope, lulled into numbness by the premonition of disaster. The clock
would tick on, past eleven, past twelve, and then Mrs. Cary would call
down gently over the banister--beyond that he saw only to-morrow and
despair.




III


In the heat of the next day the breaking-point came. They had each
guessed the truth about the other, but of the two she was the more ready
to admit the situation.

"There's no use going on," she said miserably, "you know you hate the
insurance business, and you'll never do well in it."

"That's not it," he insisted stubbornly; "I hate going on alone. If
you'll marry me and come with me and take a chance with me, I can make
good at anything, but not while I'm worrying about you down here."

She was silent a long time before she answered, not thinking--for she
had seen the end--but only waiting, because she knew that every word
would seem more cruel than the last. Finally she spoke:

"George, I love you with all my heart, and I don't see how I can ever
love any one else but you. If you'd been ready for me two months ago I'd
have married you--now I can't because it doesn't seem to be the sensible
thing."

He made wild accusations--there was some one else--she was keeping
something from him!

"No, there's no one else."

This was true. But reacting from the strain of this affair she had found
relief in the company of young boys like Jerry Holt, who had the merit
of meaning absolutely nothing in her life.

George didn't take the situation well, at all. He seized her in his arms
and tried literally to kiss her into marrying him at once. When this
failed, he broke into a long monologue of self-pity, and ceased only
when he saw that he was making himself despicable in her sight. He
threatened to leave when he had no intention of leaving, and refused to
go when she told him that, after all, it was best that he should.

For a while she was sorry, then for another while she was merely kind.

"You'd better go now," she cried at last, so loud that Mrs. Cary came
down-stairs in alarm.

"Is something the matter?"

"I'm going away, Mrs. Cary," said George brokenly. Jonquil had left the
room.

"Don't feel so badly, George." Mrs. Cary blinked at him in helpless
sympathy--sorry and, in the same breath, glad that the little tragedy
was almost done. "If I were you I'd go home to your mother for a week or
so. Perhaps after all this is the sensible thing----"

"Please don't talk," he cried. "Please don't say anything to me now!"

Jonquil came into the room again, her sorrow and her nervousness alike
tucked under powder and rouge and hat.

"I've ordered a taxicab," she said impersonally. "We can drive around
until your train leaves."

She walked out on the front porch. George put on his coat and hat and
stood for a minute exhausted in the hall--he had eaten scarcely a bite
since he had left New York. Mrs. Cary came over, drew his head down and
kissed him on the cheek, and he felt very ridiculous and weak in his
knowledge that the scene had been ridiculous and weak at the end. If he
had only gone the night before--left her for the last time with a decent
pride.

The taxi had come, and for an hour these two that had been lovers rode
along the less-frequented streets. He held her hand and grew calmer in
the sunshine, seeing too late that there had been nothing all along to
do or say.

"I'll come back," he told her.

"I know you will," she answered, trying to put a cheery faith into her
voice. "And we'll write each other--sometimes."

"No," he said, "we won't write. I couldn't stand that. Some day I'll
come back."

"I'll never forget you, George."

They reached the station, and she went with him while he bought his
ticket....

"Why, George O'Kelly and Jonquil Cary!"

It was a man and a girl whom George had known when he had worked in
town, and Jonquil seemed to greet their presence with relief. For an
interminable five minutes they all stood there talking; then the train
roared into the station, and with ill-concealed agony in his face George
held out his arms toward Jonquil. She took an uncertain step toward him,
faltered, and then pressed his hand quickly as if she were taking leave
of a chance friend.

"Good-by, George," she was saying, "I hope you have a pleasant trip.

"Good-by, George. Come back and see us all again."

Dumb, almost blind with pain, he seized his suitcase, and in some dazed
way got himself aboard the train.

Past clanging street-crossings, gathering speed through wide suburban
spaces toward the sunset. Perhaps she too would see the sunset and pause
for a moment, turning, remembering, before he faded with her sleep into
the past. This night's dusk would cover up forever the sun and the trees
and the flowers and laughter of his young world.




IV


On a damp afternoon in September of the following year a young man with
his face burned to a deep copper glow got off a train at a city in
Tennessee. He looked around anxiously, and seemed relieved when he found
that there was no one in the station to meet him. He taxied to the best
hotel in the city where he registered with some satisfaction as George
O'Kelly, Cuzco, Peru.

Up in his room he sat for a few minutes at the window looking down into
the familiar street below. Then with his hand trembling faintly he took
off the telephone receiver and called a number.

"Is Miss Jonquil in?"

"This is she."

"Oh--" His voice after overcoming a faint tendency to waver went on with
friendly formality.

"This is George Rollins. Did you get my letter?"

"Yes. I thought you'd be in to-day."

Her voice, cool and unmoved, disturbed him, but not as he had expected.
This was the voice of a stranger, unexcited, pleasantly glad to see
him--that was all. He wanted to put down the telephone and catch his
breath.

"I haven't seen you for--a long time." He succeeded in making this sound
offhand. "Over a year."

He knew how long it had been--to the day.

"It'll be awfully nice to talk to you again."

"I'll be there in about an hour."

He hung up. For four long seasons every minute of his leisure had been
crowded with anticipation of this hour, and now this hour was here. He
had thought of finding her married, engaged, in love--he had not thought
she would be unstirred at his return.

There would never again in his life, he felt, be another ten months like
these he had just gone through. He had made an admittedly remarkable
showing for a young engineer--stumbled into two unusual opportunities,
one in Peru, whence he had just returned, and another, consequent upon
it, in New York, whither he was bound. In this short time he had risen
from poverty into a position of unlimited opportunity.

He looked at himself in the dressing-table mirror. He was almost black
with tan, but it was a romantic black, and in the last week, since he
had had time to think about it, it had given him considerable pleasure.
The hardiness of his frame, too, he appraised with a sort of
fascination. He had lost part of an eyebrow somewhere, and he still wore
an elastic bandage on his knee, but he was too young not to realize that
on the steamer many women had looked at him with unusual tributary
interest.

His clothes, of course, were frightful. They had been made for him by a
Greek tailor in Lima--in two days. He was young enough, too, to have
explained this sartorial deficiency to Jonquil in his otherwise laconic
note. The only further detail it contained was a request that he should
_not_ be met at the station.

George O'Kelly, of Cuzco, Peru, waited an hour and a half in the hotel,
until, to be exact, the sun had reached a midway position in the sky.
Then, freshly shaven and talcum-powdered toward a somewhat more
Caucasian hue, for vanity at the last minute had overcome romance, he
engaged a taxicab and set out for the house he knew so well.

He was breathing hard--he noticed this but he told himself that it was
excitement, not emotion. He was here; she was not married--that was
enough. He was not even sure what he had to say to her. But this was the
moment of his life that he felt he could least easily have dispensed
with. There was no triumph, after all, without a girl concerned, and if
he did not lay his spoils at her feet he could at least hold them for a
passing moment before her eyes.

The house loomed up suddenly beside him, and his first thought was that
it had assumed a strange unreality. There was nothing changed--only
everything was changed. It was smaller and it seemed shabbier than
before--there was no cloud of magic hovering over its roof and issuing
from the windows of the upper floor. He rang the door-bell and an
unfamiliar colored maid appeared. Miss Jonquil would be down in a
moment. He wet his lips nervously and walked into the sitting-room--and
the feeling of unreality increased. After all, he saw, this was only a
room, and not the enchanted chamber where he had passed those poignant
hours. He sat in a chair, amazed to find it a chair, realizing that his
imagination had distorted and colored all these simple familiar things.

Then the door opened and Jonquil came into the room--and it was as
though everything in it suddenly blurred before his eyes. He had not
remembered how beautiful she was, and he felt his face grow pale and his
voice diminish to a poor sigh in his throat.

She was dressed in pale green, and a gold ribbon bound back her dark,
straight hair like a crown. The familiar velvet eyes caught his as she
came through the door, and a spasm of fright went through him at her
beauty's power of inflicting pain.

He said "Hello," and they each took a few steps forward and shook hands.
Then they sat in chairs quite far apart and gazed at each other across
the room.

"You've come back," she said, and he answered just as tritely: "I wanted
to stop in and see you as I came through."

He tried to neutralize the tremor in his voice by looking anywhere but
at her face. The obligation to speak was on him, but, unless he
immediately began to boast, it seemed that there was nothing to say.
There had never been anything casual in their previous relations--it
didn't seem possible that people in this position would talk about the
weather.

"This is ridiculous," he broke out in sudden embarrassment. "I don't
know exactly what to do. Does my being here bother you?"

"No." The answer was both reticent and impersonally sad. It depressed
him.

"Are you engaged?" he demanded.

"No."

"Are you in love with some one?"

She shook her head.

"Oh." He leaned back in his chair. Another subject seemed exhausted--the
interview was not taking the course he had intended.

"Jonquil," he began, this time on a softer key, "after all that's
happened between us, I wanted to come back and see you. Whatever I do in
the future I'll never love another girl as I've loved you."

This was one of the speeches he had rehearsed. On the steamer it had
seemed to have just the right note--a reference to the tenderness he
would always feel for her combined with a non-committal attitude toward
his present state of mind. Here with the past around him, beside him,
growing minute by minute more heavy on the air, it seemed theatrical and
stale.

She made no comment, sat without moving, her eyes fixed on him with an
expression that might have meant everything or nothing.

"You don't love me any more, do you?" he asked her in a level voice.

"No."

When Mrs. Cary came in a minute later, and spoke to him about his
success--there had been a half-column about him in the local paper--he
was a mixture of emotions. He knew now that he still wanted this girl,
and he knew that the past sometimes comes back--that was all. For the
rest he must be strong and watchful and he would see.

"And now," Mrs. Cary was saying, "I want you two to go and see the lady
who has the chrysanthemums. She particularly told me she wanted to see
you because she'd read about you in the paper."

They went to see the lady with the chrysanthemums. They walked along the
street, and he recognized with a sort of excitement just how her shorter
footsteps always fell in between his own. The lady turned out to be
nice, and the chrysanthemums were enormous and extraordinarily
beautiful. The lady's gardens were full of them, white and pink and
yellow, so that to be among them was a trip back into the heart of
summer. There were two gardens full, and a gate between them; when they
strolled toward the second garden the lady went first through the gate.

And then a curious thing happened. George stepped aside to let Jonquil
pass, but instead of going through she stood still and stared at him for
a minute. It was not so much the look, which was not a smile, as it was
the moment of silence. They saw each other's eyes, and both took a
short, faintly accelerated breath, and then they went on into the second
garden. That was all.

The afternoon waned. They thanked the lady and walked home slowly,
thoughtfully, side by side. Through dinner too they were silent. George
told Mr. Cary something of what had happened in South America, and
managed to let it be known that everything would be plain sailing for
him in the future.

Then dinner was over, and he and Jonquil were alone in the room which
had seen the beginning of their love affair and the end. It seemed to
him long ago and inexpressibly sad. On that sofa he had felt agony and
grief such as he would never feel again. He would never be so weak or so
tired and miserable and poor. Yet he knew that that boy of fifteen
months before had had something, a trust, a warmth that was gone
forever. The sensible thing--they had done the sensible thing. He had
traded his first youth for strength and carved success out of despair.
But with his youth, life had carried away the freshness of his love.

"You won't marry me, will you?" he said quietly.

Jonquil shook her dark head.

"I'm never going to marry," she answered.

He nodded.

"I'm going on to Washington in the morning," he said.

"Oh----"

"I have to go. I've got to be in New York by the first, and meanwhile I
want to stop off in Washington."

"Business!"

"No-o," he said as if reluctantly. "There's some one there I must see
who was very kind to me when I was so--down and out."

This was invented. There was no one in Washington for him to see--but he
was watching Jonquil narrowly, and he was sure that she winced a little,
that her eyes closed and then opened wide again.

"But before I go I want to tell you the things that happened to me since
I saw you, and, as maybe we won't meet again, I wonder if--if just this
once you'd sit in my lap like you used to. I wouldn't ask except since
there's no one else--yet--perhaps it doesn't matter."

She nodded, and in a moment was sitting in his lap as she had sat so
often in that vanished spring. The feel of her head against his
shoulder, of her familiar body, sent a shock of emotion over him. His
arms holding her had a tendency to tighten around her, so he leaned back
and began to talk thoughtfully into the air.

He told her of a despairing two weeks in New York which had terminated
with an attractive if not very profitable job in a construction plant in
Jersey City. When the Peru business had first presented itself it had
not seemed an extraordinary opportunity. He was to be third assistant
engineer on the expedition, but only ten of the American party,
including eight rodmen and surveyors, had ever reached Cuzco. Ten days
later the chief of the expedition was dead of yellow fever. That had
been his chance, a chance for anybody but a fool, a marvellous
chance----

"A chance for anybody but a fool?" she interrupted innocently.

"Even for a fool," he continued. "It was wonderful. Well, I wired New
York----"

"And so," she interrupted again, "they wired that you ought to take a
chance?"

"Ought to!" he exclaimed, still leaning back. "That I _had_ to. There
was no time to lose----"

"Not a minute?"

"Not a minute."

"Not even time for--" she paused.

"For what?"

"Look."

He bent his head forward suddenly, and she drew herself to him in the
same moment, her lips half open like a flower.

"Yes," he whispered into her lips. "There's all the time in the
world...."

All the time in the world--his life and hers. But for an instant as he
kissed her he knew that though he search through eternity he could never
recapture those lost April hours. He might press her close now till the
muscles knotted on his arms--she was something desirable and rare that
he had fought for and made his own--but never again an intangible
whisper in the dusk, or on the breeze of night....

Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are
all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.




GRETCHEN'S FORTY WINKS


The sidewalks were scratched with brittle leaves, and the bad little boy
next door froze his tongue to the iron mail-box. Snow before night,
sure. Autumn was over. This, of course, raised the coal question and the
Christmas question; but Roger Halsey, standing on his own front porch,
assured the dead suburban sky that he hadn't time for worrying about the
weather. Then he let himself hurriedly into the house, and shut the
subject out into the cold twilight.

The hall was dark, but from above he heard the voices of his wife and
the nursemaid and the baby in one of their interminable conversations,
which consisted chiefly of "Don't!" and "Look out, Maxy!" and "Oh, there
he _goes_!" punctuated by wild threats and vague bumpings and the
recurrent sound of small, venturing feet.

Roger turned on the hall-light and walked into the living-room and
turned on the red silk lamp. He put his bulging portfolio on the table,
and sitting down rested his intense young face in his hand for a few
minutes, shading his eyes carefully from the light. Then he lit a
cigarette, squashed it out, and going to the foot of the stairs called
for his wife.

"Gretchen!"

"Hello, dear." Her voice was full of laughter. "Come see baby."

He swore softly.

"I can't see baby now," he said aloud. "How long 'fore you'll be down?"

There was a mysterious pause, and then a succession of "Don'ts" and
"Look outs, Maxy" evidently meant to avert some threatened catastrophe.

"How long 'fore you'll be down?" repeated Roger, slightly irritated.

"Oh, I'll be right down."

"How soon?" he shouted.

He had trouble every day at this hour in adapting his voice from the
urgent key of the city to the proper casualness for a model home. But
to-night he was deliberately impatient. It almost disappointed him when
Gretchen came running down the stairs, three at a time, crying "What is
it?" in a rather surprised voice.

They kissed--lingered over it some moments. They had been married three
years, and they were much more in love than that implies. It was seldom
that they hated each other with that violent hate of which only young
couples are capable, for Roger was still actively sensitive to her
beauty.

"Come in here," he said abruptly. "I want to talk to you."

His wife, a bright-colored, Titian-haired girl, vivid as a French rag
doll, followed him into the living-room.

"Listen, Gretchen"--he sat down at the end of the sofa--"beginning with
to-night I'm going to--What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm just looking for a cigarette. Go on."

She tiptoed breathlessly back to the sofa and settled at the other end.

"Gretchen--" Again he broke off. Her hand, palm upward, was extended
toward him. "Well, what is it?" he asked wildly.

"Matches."

"What?"

In his impatience it seemed incredible that she should ask for matches,
but he fumbled automatically in his pocket.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. Go on."

"Gretch----"

Scratch! The match flared. They exchanged a tense look.

Her fawn's eyes apologized mutely this time, and he laughed. After all,
she had done no more than light a cigarette; but when he was in this
mood her slightest positive action irritated him beyond measure.

"When you've got time to listen," he said crossly, "you might be
interested in discussing the poorhouse question with me."

"What poorhouse?" Her eyes were wide, startled; she sat quiet as a
mouse.

"That was just to get your attention. But, beginning to-night, I start
on what'll probably be the most important six weeks of my life--the six
weeks that'll decide whether we're going on forever in this rotten
little house in this rotten little suburban town."

Boredom replaced alarm in Gretchen's black eyes. She was a Southern
girl, and any question that had to do with getting ahead in the world
always tended to give her a headache.

"Six months ago I left the New York Lithographic Company," announced
Roger, "and went in the advertising business for myself."

"I know," interrupted Gretchen resentfully; "and now instead of getting
six hundred a month sure, we're living on a risky five hundred."

"Gretchen," said Roger sharply, "if you'll just believe in me as hard as
you can for six weeks more we'll be rich. I've got a chance now to get
some of the biggest accounts in the country." He hesitated. "And for
these six weeks we won't go out at all, and we won't have any one here.
I'm going to bring home work every night, and we'll pull down all the
blinds and if any one rings the door-bell we won't answer."

He smiled airily as if it were a new game they were going to play. Then,
as Gretchen was silent, his smile faded, and he looked at her
uncertainly.

"Well, what's the matter?" she broke out finally. "Do you expect me to
jump up and sing? You do enough work as it is. If you try to do any more
you'll end up with a nervous breakdown. I read about a----"

"Don't worry about me," he interrupted; "I'm all right. But you're going
to be bored to death sitting here every evening."

"No, I won't," she said without conviction--"except to-night."

"What about to-night?"

"George Tompkins asked us to dinner."

"Did you accept?"

"Of course I did," she said impatiently. "Why not? You're always talking
about what a terrible neighborhood this is, and I thought maybe you'd
like to go to a nicer one for a change."

"When I go to a nicer neighborhood I want to go for good," he said
grimly.

"Well, can we go?"

"I suppose we'll have to if you've accepted."

Somewhat to his annoyance the conversation abruptly ended. Gretchen
jumped up and kissed him sketchily and rushed into the kitchen to light
the hot water for a bath. With a sigh he carefully deposited his
portfolio behind the bookcase--it contained only sketches and layouts
for display advertising, but it seemed to him the first thing a burglar
would look for. Then he went abstractedly up-stairs, dropped into the
baby's room for a casual moist kiss, and began dressing for dinner.

They had no automobile, so George Tompkins called for them at 6.30.
Tompkins was a successful interior decorator, a broad, rosy man with a
handsome mustache and a strong odor of jasmine. He and Roger had once
roomed side by side in a boarding-house in New York, but they had met
only intermittently in the past five years.

"We ought to see each other more," he told Roger to-night. "You ought to
go out more often, old boy. Cocktail?"

"No, thanks."

"No? Well, your fair wife will--won't you, Gretchen?"

"I love this house," she exclaimed, taking the glass and looking
admiringly at ship models, Colonial whiskey bottles, and other
fashionable débris of 1925.

"I like it," said Tompkins with satisfaction. "I did it to please
myself, and I succeeded."

Roger stared moodily around the stiff, plain room, wondering if they
could have blundered into the kitchen by mistake.

"You look like the devil, Roger," said his host. "Have a cocktail and
cheer up."

"Have one," urged Gretchen.

"What?" Roger turned around absently. "Oh, no, thanks. I've got to work
after I get home."

"Work!" Tompkins smiled. "Listen, Roger, you'll kill yourself with work.
Why don't you bring a little balance into your life--work a little, then
play a little?"

"That's what I tell him," said Gretchen.

"Do you know an average business man's day?" demanded Tompkins as they
went in to dinner. "Coffee in the morning, eight hours' work interrupted
by a bolted luncheon, and then home again with dyspepsia and a bad
temper to give the wife a pleasant evening."

Roger laughed shortly.

"You've been going to the movies too much," he said dryly.

"What?" Tompkins looked at him with some irritation. "Movies? I've
hardly ever been to the movies in my life. I think the movies are
atrocious. My opinions on life are drawn from my own observations. I
believe in a balanced life."

"What's that?" demanded Roger.

"Well"--he hesitated--"probably the best way to tell you would be to
describe my own day. Would that seem horribly egotistic?"

"Oh, no!" Gretchen looked at him with interest. "I'd love to hear about
it."

"Well, in the morning I get up and go through a series of exercises.
I've got one room fitted up as a little gymnasium, and I punch the bag
and do shadow-boxing and weight-pulling for an hour. Then after a cold
bath-- There's a thing now! Do you take a daily cold bath?"

"No," admitted Roger, "I take a hot bath in the evening three or four
times a week."

A horrified silence fell. Tompkins and Gretchen exchanged a glance as if
something obscene had been said.

"What's the matter?" broke out Roger, glancing from one to the other in
some irritation. "You know I don't take a bath every day--I haven't got
the time."

Tompkins gave a prolonged sigh.

"After my bath," he continued, drawing a merciful veil of silence over
the matter, "I have breakfast and drive to my office in New York, where
I work until four. Then I lay off, and if it's summer I hurry out here
for nine holes of golf, or if it's winter I play squash for an hour at
my club. Then a good snappy game of bridge until dinner. Dinner is
liable to have something to do with business, but in a pleasant way.
Perhaps I've just finished a house for some customer, and he wants me to
be on hand for his first party to see that the lighting is soft enough
and all that sort of thing. Or maybe I sit down with a good book of
poetry and spend the evening alone. At any rate, I do something every
night to get me out of myself."

"It must be wonderful," said Gretchen enthusiastically. "I wish we lived
like that."

Tompkins bent forward earnestly over the table.

"You can," he said impressively. "There's no reason why you shouldn't.
Look here, if Roger'll play nine holes of golf every day it'll do
wonders for him. He won't know himself. He'll do his work better, never
get that tired, nervous feeling-- What's the matter?"

He broke off. Roger had perceptibly yawned.

"Roger," cried Gretchen sharply, "there's no need to be so rude. If you
did what George said, you'd be a lot better off." She turned indignantly
to their host. "The latest is that he's going to work at night for the
next six weeks. He says he's going to pull down the blinds and shut us
up like hermits in a cave. He's been doing it every Sunday for the last
year; now he's going to do it every night for six weeks."

Tompkins shook his head sadly.

"At the end of six weeks," he remarked, "he'll be starting for the
sanitarium. Let me tell you, every private hospital in New York is full
of cases like yours. You just strain the human nervous system a little
too far, and bang!--you've broken something. And in order to save sixty
hours you're laid up sixty weeks for repairs." He broke off, changed his
tone, and turned to Gretchen with a smile. "Not to mention what happens
to you. It seems to me it's the wife rather than the husband who bears
the brunt of these insane periods of overwork."

"I don't mind," protested Gretchen loyally.

"Yes, she does," said Roger grimly; "she minds like the devil. She's a
shortsighted little egg, and she thinks it's going to be forever until I
get started and she can have some new clothes. But it can't be helped.
The saddest thing about women is that, after all, their best trick is to
sit down and fold their hands."

"Your ideas on women are about twenty years out of date," said Tompkins
pityingly. "Women won't sit down and wait any more."

"Then they'd better marry men of forty," insisted Roger stubbornly. "If
a girl marries a young man for love she ought to be willing to make any
sacrifice within reason, so long as her husband keeps going ahead."

"Let's not talk about it," said Gretchen impatiently. "Please, Roger,
let's have a good time just this once."

When Tompkins dropped them in front of their house at eleven Roger and
Gretchen stood for a moment on the sidewalk looking at the winter moon.
There was a fine, damp, dusty snow in the air, and Roger drew a long
breath of it and put his arm around Gretchen exultantly.

"I can make more money than he can," he said tensely. "And I'll be doing
it in just forty days."

"Forty days," she sighed. "It seems such a long time--when everybody
else is always having fun. If I could only sleep for forty days."

"Why don't you, honey? Just take forty winks, and when you wake up
everything'll be fine."

She was silent for a moment.

"Roger," she asked thoughtfully, "do you think George meant what he said
about taking me horseback riding on Sunday?"

Roger frowned.

"I don't know. Probably not--I hope to Heaven he didn't." He hesitated.
"As a matter of fact, he made me sort of sore to-night--all that junk
about his cold bath."

With their arms about each other, they started up the walk to the house.

"I'll bet he doesn't take a cold bath every morning," continued Roger
ruminatively; "or three times a week, either." He fumbled in his pocket
for the key and inserted it in the lock with savage precision. Then he
turned around defiantly. "I'll bet he hasn't had a bath for a month."




II


After a fortnight of intensive work, Roger Halsey's days blurred into
each other and passed by in blocks of twos and threes and fours. From
eight until 5.30 he was in his office. Then a half-hour on the commuting
train, where he scrawled notes on the backs of envelopes under the dull
yellow light. By 7.30 his crayons, shears, and sheets of white cardboard
were spread over the living-room table, and he labored there with much
grunting and sighing until midnight, while Gretchen lay on the sofa with
a book, and the door-bell tinkled occasionally behind the drawn blinds.
At twelve there was always an argument as to whether he would come to
bed. He would agree to come after he had cleared up everything; but as
he was invariably sidetracked by half a dozen new ideas, he usually
found Gretchen sound asleep when he tiptoed up-stairs.

Sometimes it was three o'clock before Roger squashed his last cigarette
into the overloaded ashtray, and he would undress in the darkness,
disembodied with fatigue, but with a sense of triumph that he had lasted
out another day.

Christmas came and went and he scarcely noticed that it was gone. He
remembered it afterward as the day he completed the window-cards for
Garrod's shoes. This was one of the eight large accounts for which he
was pointing in January--if he got half of them he was assured a quarter
of a million dollars' worth of business during the year.

But the world outside his business became a chaotic dream. He was aware
that on two cool December Sundays George Tompkins had taken Gretchen
horseback riding, and that another time she had gone out with him in his
automobile to spend the afternoon skiing on the country-club hill. A
picture of Tompkins, in an expensive frame, had appeared one morning on
their bedroom wall. And one night he was shocked into a startled protest
when Gretchen went to the theatre with Tompkins in town.

But his work was almost done. Daily now his layouts arrived from the
printers until seven of them were piled and docketed in his office safe.
He knew how good they were. Money alone couldn't buy such work; more
than he realized himself, it had been a labor of love.

December tumbled like a dead leaf from the calendar. There was an
agonizing week when he had to give up coffee because it made his heart
pound so. If he could hold on now for four days--three days----

On Thursday afternoon H. G. Garrod was to arrive in New York. On
Wednesday evening Roger came home at seven to find Gretchen poring over
the December bills with a strange expression in her eyes.

"What's the matter?"

She nodded at the bills. He ran through them, his brow wrinkling in a
frown.

"Gosh!"

"I can't help it," she burst out suddenly. "They're terrible."

"Well, I didn't marry you because you were a wonderful housekeeper. I'll
manage about the bills some way. Don't worry your little head over it."

She regarded him coldly.

"You talk as if I were a child."

"I have to," he said with sudden irritation.

"Well, at least I'm not a piece of bric-à-brac that you can just put
somewhere and forget."

He knelt down by her quickly, and took her arms in his hands.

"Gretchen, listen!" he said breathlessly. "For God's sake, don't go to
pieces now! We're both all stored up with malice and reproach, and if we
had a quarrel it'd be terrible. I love you, Gretchen. Say you love
me--quick!"

"You know I love you."

The quarrel was averted, but there was an unnatural tenseness all
through dinner. It came to a climax afterward when he began to spread
his working materials on the table.

"Oh, Roger," she protested, "I thought you didn't have to work
to-night."

"I didn't think I'd have to, but something came up."

"I've invited George Tompkins over."

"Oh, gosh!" he exclaimed. "Well, I'm sorry, honey, but you'll have to
phone him not to come."

"He's left," she said. "He's coming straight from town. He'll be here
any minute now."

Roger groaned. It occurred to him to send them both to the movies, but
somehow the suggestion stuck on his lips. He did not want her at the
movies; he wanted her here, where he could look up and know she was by
his side.

George Tompkins arrived breezily at eight o'clock.

"Aha!" he cried reprovingly, coming into the room. "Still at it."

Roger agreed coolly that he was.

"Better quit--better quit before you have to."

He sat down with a long sigh of physical comfort and lit a cigarette.
"Take it from a fellow who's looked into the question scientifically. We
can stand so much, and then--bang!"

"If you'll excuse me"--Roger made his voice as polite as possible--"I'm
going up-stairs and finish this work."

"Just as you like, Roger." George waved his hand carelessly. "It isn't
that I mind. I'm the friend of the family and I'd just as soon see the
missus as the mister." He smiled playfully. "But if I were you, old boy,
I'd put away my work and get a good night's sleep."

When Roger had spread out his materials on the bed up-stairs he found
that he could still hear the rumble and murmur of their voices through
the thin floor. He began wondering what they found to talk about. As he
plunged deeper into his work his mind had a tendency to revert sharply
to his question, and several times he arose and paced nervously up and
down the room.

The bed was ill adapted to his work. Several times the paper slipped
from the board on which it rested, and the pencil punched through.
Everything was wrong to-night. Letters and figures blurred before his
eyes, and as an accompaniment to the beating of his temples came those
persistent murmuring voices.

At ten he realized that he had done nothing for more than an hour, and
with a sudden exclamation he gathered together his papers, replaced them
in his portfolio, and went down-stairs. They were sitting together on
the sofa when he came in.

"Oh, hello!" cried Gretchen, rather unnecessarily, he thought. "We were
just discussing you."

"Thank you," he answered ironically. "What particular part of my anatomy
was under the scalpel?"

"Your health," said Tompkins jovially.

"My health's all right," answered Roger shortly.

"But you look at it so selfishly, old fella," cried Tompkins. "You only
consider yourself in the matter. Don't you think Gretchen has any
rights? If you were working on a wonderful sonnet or a--a portrait of
some madonna or something"--he glanced at Gretchen's Titian hair--"why,
then I'd say go ahead. But you're not. It's just some silly
advertisement about how to sell Nobald's hair tonic, and if all the hair
tonic ever made was dumped into the ocean to-morrow the world wouldn't
be one bit the worse for it."

"Wait a minute," said Roger angrily; "that's not quite fair. I'm not
kidding myself about the importance of my work--it's just as useless as
the stuff you do. But to Gretchen and me it's just about the most
important thing in the world."

"Are you implying that my work is useless?" demanded Tompkins
incredulously.

"No; not if it brings happiness to some poor sucker of a pants
manufacturer who doesn't know how to spend his money."

Tompkins and Gretchen exchanged a glance.

"Oh-h-h!" exclaimed Tompkins ironically. "I didn't realize that all
these years I've just been wasting my time."

"You're a loafer," said Roger rudely.

"Me?" cried Tompkins angrily. "You call me a loafer because I have a
little balance in my life and find time to do interesting things?
Because I play hard as well as work hard and don't let myself get to be
a dull, tiresome drudge?"

Both men were angry now, and their voices had risen, though on
Tompkins's face there still remained the semblance of a smile.

"What I object to," said Roger steadily, "is that for the last six weeks
you seem to have done all your playing around here."

"Roger!" cried Gretchen. "What do you mean by talking like that?"

"Just what I said."

"You've just lost your temper." Tompkins lit a cigarette with
ostentatious coolness. "You're so nervous from overwork you don't know
what you're saying. You're on the verge of a nervous break----"

"You get out of here!" cried Roger fiercely. "You get out of here right
now--before I throw you out!"

Tompkins got angrily to his feet.

"You--you throw me out?" he cried incredulously.

They were actually moving toward each other when Gretchen stepped
between them, and grabbing Tompkins's arm urged him toward the door.

"He's acting like a fool, George, but you better get out," she cried,
groping in the hall for his hat.

"He insulted me!" shouted Tompkins. "He threatened to throw me out!"

"Never mind, George," pleaded Gretchen. "He doesn't know what he's
saying. Please go! I'll see you at ten o'clock to-morrow."

She opened the door.

"You won't see him at ten o'clock to-morrow," said Roger steadily. "He's
not coming to this house any more."

Tompkins turned to Gretchen.

"It's his house," he suggested. "Perhaps we'd better meet at mine."

Then he was gone, and Gretchen had shut the door behind him. Her eyes
were full of angry tears.

"See what you've done!" she sobbed. "The only friend I had, the only
person in the world who liked me enough to treat me decently, is
insulted by my husband in my own house."

She threw herself on the sofa and began to cry passionately into the
pillows.

"He brought it on himself," said Roger stubbornly. "I've stood as much
as my self-respect will allow. I don't want you going out with him any
more."

"I will go out with him!" cried Gretchen wildly. "I'll go out with him
all I want! Do you think it's any fun living here with you?"

"Gretchen," he said coldly, "get up and put on your hat and coat and go
out that door and never come back!"

Her mouth fell slightly ajar.

"But I don't want to get out," she said dazedly.

"Well, then, behave yourself." And he added in a gentler voice: "I
thought you were going to sleep for this forty days."

"Oh, yes," she cried bitterly, "easy enough to say! But I'm tired of
sleeping." She got up, faced him defiantly. "And what's more, I'm going
riding with George Tompkins to-morrow."

"You won't go out with him if I have to take you to New York and sit you
down in my office until I get through."

She looked at him with rage in her eyes.

"I hate you," she said slowly. "And I'd like to take all the work you've
done and tear it up and throw it in the fire. And just to give you
something to worry about to-morrow, I probably won't be here when you
get back."

She got up from the sofa, and very deliberately looked at her flushed,
tear-stained face in the mirror. Then she ran up-stairs and slammed
herself into the bedroom.

Automatically Roger spread out his work on the living-room table. The
bright colors of the designs, the vivid ladies--Gretchen had posed for
one of them--holding orange ginger ale or glistening silk hosiery,
dazzled his mind into a sort of coma. His restless crayon moved here and
there over the pictures, shifting a block of letters half an inch to the
right, trying a dozen blues for a cool blue, and eliminating the word
that made a phrase anæmic and pale. Half an hour passed--he was deep in
the work now; there was no sound in the room but the velvety scratch of
the crayon over the glossy board.

After a long while he looked at his watch--it was after three. The wind
had come up outside and was rushing by the house corners in loud,
alarming swoops, like a heavy body falling through space. He stopped his
work and listened. He was not tired now, but his head felt as if it was
covered with bulging veins like those pictures that hang in doctors'
offices showing a body stripped of decent skin. He put his hands to his
head and felt it all over. It seemed to him that on his temple the veins
were knotty and brittle around an old scar.

Suddenly he began to be afraid. A hundred warnings he had heard swept
into his mind. People did wreck themselves with overwork, and his body
and brain were of the same vulnerable and perishable stuff. For the
first time he found himself envying George Tompkins's calm nerves and
healthy routine. He arose and began pacing the room in a panic.

"I've got to sleep," he whispered to himself tensely. "Otherwise I'm
going crazy."

He rubbed his hand over his eyes, and returned to the table to put up
his work, but his fingers were shaking so that he could scarcely grasp
the board. The sway of a bare branch against the window made him start
and cry out. He sat down on the sofa and tried to think.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" the clock said. "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

"I can't stop," he answered aloud. "I can't afford to stop."

Listen! Why, there was the wolf at the door now! He could hear its sharp
claws scrape along the varnished woodwork. He jumped up, and running to
the front door flung it open; then started back with a ghastly cry. An
enormous wolf was standing on the porch, glaring at him with red,
malignant eyes. As he watched it the hair bristled on its neck; it gave
a low growl and disappeared in the darkness. Then Roger realized with a
silent, mirthless laugh that it was the police dog from over the way.

Dragging his limbs wearily into the kitchen, he brought the alarm-clock
into the living-room and set it for seven. Then he wrapped himself in
his overcoat, lay down on the sofa and fell immediately into a heavy,
dreamless sleep.

When he awoke the light was still shining feebly, but the room was the
gray color of a winter morning. He got up, and looking anxiously at his
hands found to his relief that they no longer trembled. He felt much
better. Then he began to remember in detail the events of the night
before, and his brow drew up again in three shallow wrinkles. There was
work ahead of him, twenty-four hours of work; and Gretchen, whether she
wanted to or not, must sleep for one more day.

Roger's mind glowed suddenly as if he had just thought of a new
advertising idea. A few minutes later he was hurrying through the sharp
morning air to Kingsley's drug-store.

"Is Mr. Kingsley down yet?"

The druggist's head appeared around the corner of the prescription-room.

"I wonder if I can talk to you alone."

At 7.30, back home again, Roger walked into his own kitchen. The general
housework girl had just arrived and was taking off her hat.

"Bebé"--he was not on familiar terms with her; this was her name--"I
want you to cook Mrs. Halsey's breakfast right away. I'll take it up
myself."

It struck Bebé that this was an unusual service for so busy a man to
render his wife, but if she had seen his conduct when he had carried the
tray from the kitchen she would have been even more surprised. For he
set it down on the dining-room table and put into the coffee half a
teaspoonful of a white substance that was not powdered sugar. Then he
mounted the stairs and opened the door of the bedroom.

Gretchen woke up with a start, glanced at the twin bed which had not
been slept in, and bent on Roger a glance of astonishment, which changed
to contempt when she saw the breakfast in his hand. She thought he was
bringing it as a capitulation.

"I don't want any breakfast," she said coldly, and his heart sank,
"except some coffee."

"No breakfast?" Roger's voice expressed disappointment.

"I said I'd take some coffee."

Roger discreetly deposited the tray on a table beside the bed and
returned quickly to the kitchen.

"We're going away until to-morrow afternoon," he told Bebé, "and I
want to close up the house right now. So you just put on your hat and go
home."

He looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to eight, and he wanted to
catch the 8.10 train. He waited five minutes and then tiptoed softly
up-stairs and into Gretchen's room. She was sound asleep. The coffee cup
was empty save for black dregs and a film of thin brown paste on the
bottom. He looked at her rather anxiously, but her breathing was regular
and clear.

From the closet he took a suitcase and very quickly began filling it
with her shoes--street shoes, evening slippers, rubber-soled oxfords--he
had not realized that she owned so many pairs. When he closed the
suitcase it was bulging.

He hesitated a minute, took a pair of sewing scissors from a box, and
following the telephone-wire until it went out of sight behind the
dresser, severed it in one neat clip. He jumped as there was a soft
knock at the door. It was the nursemaid. He had forgotten her existence.

"Mrs. Halsey and I are going up to the city till to-morrow," he said
glibly. "Take Maxy to the beach and have lunch there. Stay all day."

Back in the room, a wave of pity passed over him. Gretchen seemed
suddenly lovely and helpless, sleeping there. It was somehow terrible to
rob her young life of a day. He touched her hair with his fingers, and
as she murmured something in her dream he leaned over and kissed her
bright cheek. Then he picked up the suitcase full of shoes, locked the
door, and ran briskly down the stairs.




III


By five o'clock that afternoon the last package of cards for Garrod's
shoes had been sent by messenger to H. G. Garrod at the Biltmore Hotel.
He was to give a decision next morning. At 5.30 Roger's stenographer
tapped him on the shoulder.

"Mr. Golden, the superintendent of the building, to see you."

Roger turned around dazedly.

"Oh, how do?"

Mr. Golden came directly to the point. If Mr. Halsey intended to keep
the office any longer, the little oversight about the rent had better be
remedied right away.

"Mr. Golden," said Roger wearily, "everything'll be all right to-morrow.
If you worry me now maybe you'll never get your money. After to-morrow
nothing'll matter."

Mr. Golden looked at the tenant uneasily. Young men sometimes did away
with themselves when business went wrong. Then his eye fell unpleasantly
on the initialled suitcase beside the desk.

"Going on a trip?" he asked pointedly.

"What? Oh, no. That's just some clothes."

"Clothes, eh? Well, Mr. Halsey, just to prove that you mean what you
say, suppose you let me keep that suitcase until to-morrow noon."

"Help yourself."

Mr. Golden picked it up with a deprecatory gesture.

"Just a matter of form," he remarked.

"I understand," said Roger, swinging around to his desk. "Good
afternoon."

Mr. Golden seemed to feel that the conversation should close on a softer
key.

"And don't work too hard, Mr. Halsey. You don't want to have a nervous
break----"

"No," shouted Roger, "I don't. But I will if you don't leave me alone."

As the door closed behind Mr. Golden, Roger's stenographer turned
sympathetically around.

"You shouldn't have let him get away with that," she said. "What's in
there? Clothes?"

"No," answered Roger absently. "Just all my wife's shoes."

He slept in the office that night on a sofa beside his desk. At dawn he
awoke with a nervous start, rushed out into the street for coffee, and
returned in ten minutes in a panic--afraid that he might have missed Mr.
Garrod's telephone call. It was then 6.30.

By eight o'clock his whole body seemed to be on fire. When his two
artists arrived he was stretched on the couch in almost physical pain.
The phone rang imperatively at 9.30, and he picked up the receiver with
trembling hands.

"Hello."

"Is this the Halsey agency?"

"Yes, this is Mr. Halsey speaking."

"This is Mr. H. G. Garrod."

Roger's heart stopped beating.

"I called up, young fellow, to say that this is wonderful work you've
given us here. We want all of it and as much more as your office can
do."

"Oh, God!" cried Roger into the transmitter.

"What?" Mr. H. G. Garrod was considerably startled. "Say, wait a minute
there!"

But he was talking to nobody. The phone had clattered to the floor, and
Roger, stretched full length on the couch, was sobbing as if his heart
would break.




IV


Three hours later, his face somewhat pale, but his eyes calm as a
child's, Roger opened the door of his wife's bedroom with the morning
paper under his arm. At the sound of his footsteps she started awake.

"What time is it?" she demanded.

He looked at his watch.

"Twelve o'clock."

Suddenly she began to cry.

"Roger," she said brokenly, "I'm sorry I was so bad last night."

He nodded coolly.

"Everything's all right now," he answered. Then, after a pause: "I've
got the account--the biggest one."

She turned toward him quickly.

"You have?" Then, after a minute's silence: "Can I get a new dress?"

"Dress?" He laughed shortly. "You can get a dozen. This account alone
will bring us in forty thousand a year. It's one of the biggest in the
West."

She looked at him, startled.

"Forty thousand a year!"

"Yes."

"Gosh"--and then faintly--"I didn't know it'd really be anything like
that." Again she thought a minute. "We can have a house like George
Tompkins'."

"I don't want an interior-decoration shop."

"Forty thousand a year!" she repeated again, and then added softly:
"Oh, Roger----"

"Yes?"

"I'm not going out with George Tompkins."

"I wouldn't let you, even if you wanted to," he said shortly.

She made a show of indignation.

"Why, I've had a date with him for this Thursday for weeks."

"It isn't Thursday."

"It is."

"It's Friday."

"Why, Roger, you must be crazy! Don't you think I know what day it is?"

"It isn't Thursday," he said stubbornly. "Look!" And he held out the
morning paper.

"Friday!" she exclaimed. "Why, this is a mistake! This must be last
week's paper. To-day's Thursday."

She closed her eyes and thought for a moment.

"Yesterday was Wednesday," she said decisively. "The laundress came
yesterday. I guess I know."

"Well," he said smugly, "look at the paper. There isn't any question
about it."

With a bewildered look on her face she got out of bed and began
searching for her clothes. Roger went into the bathroom to shave. A
minute later he heard the springs creak again. Gretchen was getting back
into bed.

"What's the matter?" he inquired, putting his head around the corner of
the bathroom.

"I'm scared," she said in a trembling voice. "I think my nerves are
giving away. I can't find any of my shoes."

"Your shoes? Why, the closet's full of them."

"I know, but I can't see one." Her face was pale with fear. "Oh, Roger!"

Roger came to her bedside and put his arm around her.

"Oh, Roger," she cried, "what's the matter with me? First that
newspaper, and now all my shoes. Take care of me, Roger."

"I'll get the doctor," he said.

He walked remorselessly to the telephone and took up the receiver.

"Phone seems to be out of order," he remarked after a minute; "I'll send
Bebé."

The doctor arrived in ten minutes.

"I think I'm on the verge of a collapse," Gretchen told him in a
strained voice.

Doctor Gregory sat down on the edge of the bed and took her wrist in his
hand.

"It seems to be in the air this morning."

"I got up," said Gretchen in an awed voice, "and I found that I'd lost a
whole day. I had an engagement to go riding with George Tompkins----"

"What?" exclaimed the doctor in surprise. Then he laughed.

"George Tompkins won't go riding with any one for many days to come."

"Has he gone away?" asked Gretchen curiously.

"He's going West."

"Why?" demanded Roger. "Is he running away with somebody's wife?"

"No," said Doctor Gregory. "He 's had a nervous breakdown."

"What?" they exclaimed in unison.

"He just collapsed like an opera-hat in his cold shower."

"But he was always talking about his--his balanced life," gasped
Gretchen. "He had it on his mind."

"I know," said the doctor. "He's been babbling about it all morning. I
think it's driven him a little mad. He worked pretty hard at it, you
know."

"At what?" demanded Roger in bewilderment.

"At keeping his life balanced." He turned to Gretchen. "Now all I'll
prescribe for this lady here is a good rest. If she'll just stay around
the house for a few days and take forty winks of sleep she'll be as fit
as ever. She's been under some strain."

"Doctor," exclaimed Roger hoarsely, "don't you think I'd better have a
rest or something? I've been working pretty hard lately."

"You!" Doctor Gregory laughed, slapped him violently on the back. "My
boy, I never saw you looking better in your life."

Roger turned away quickly to conceal his smile--winked forty times, or
almost forty times, at the autographed picture of Mr. George Tompkins,
which hung slightly askew on the bedroom wall.