diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-21 20:36:32 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-21 20:36:32 -0800 |
| commit | 89fb9385c06ef74518b3c275076d4b324e50a3ce (patch) | |
| tree | d94c3468cd689be82e733f9f8d508c5d8b54ebd3 | |
| parent | f6710f75cf750a20f824683291a742e3b06d46fb (diff) | |
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 4 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68229-0.txt | 8647 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68229-0.zip | bin | 148507 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68229-h.zip | bin | 302683 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68229-h/68229-h.htm | 10784 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68229-h/images/young_cover.jpg | bin | 200114 -> 0 bytes |
8 files changed, 17 insertions, 19431 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cae85bb --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68229 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68229) diff --git a/old/68229-0.txt b/old/68229-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index def4dc9..0000000 --- a/old/68229-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8647 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of All the Sad Young Men, by Francis -Scott Fitzgerald - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: All the Sad Young Men - -Author: Francis Scott Fitzgerald - -Release Date: June 5, 2022 [eBook #68229] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by - Hathi Trust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THE SAD YOUNG MEN *** - - -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. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THE SAD YOUNG MEN *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/68229-0.zip b/old/68229-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index b6094a0..0000000 --- a/old/68229-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/68229-h.zip b/old/68229-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 2e982f5..0000000 --- a/old/68229-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/68229-h/68229-h.htm b/old/68229-h/68229-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 9984e8a..0000000 --- a/old/68229-h/68229-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10784 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of All the Sad Young Men, - by F. Scott Fitzgerald. - </title> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; - text-indent:4%; -} - -.nind {text-indent:0%;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; - clear: both; -} - -table { - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; -} - - -/* Images */ -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - - -/* Poetry */ -.poem { - margin-left:10%; - margin-right:10%; - text-align: left; -} - -.poem br {display: none;} -.poetry-container { text-align: center; } -.poem { display: inline-block; text-align: left; } -.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} -.poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} - - </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of All the Sad Young Men, by Francis -Scott Fitzgerald</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: All the Sad Young Men</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Francis -Scott Fitzgerald</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: June 5, 2022 [eBook #68229]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: - Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by -Hathi Trust Digital Library.) </p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THE SAD YOUNG MEN ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/young_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h1>ALL THE SAD YOUNG MEN</h1> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><i>By</i></h4> - -<h2>F. SCOTT FITZGERALD</h2> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>NEW YORK</h4> - -<h4>CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS</h4> - -<h5>1926</h5> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>TO -<br /> -RING AND ELLIS LARDNER</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> - -<p class="nind"><a href="#RICH">THE RICH BOY</a><br /> - -<a href="#WINTER">WINTER DREAMS</a><br /> - -<a href="#BABY">THE BABY PARTY</a><br /> - -<a href="#ABSOLUTION">ABSOLUTION</a><br /> - -<a href="#RAGS">RAGS MARTIN-JONES AND THE PR-NCE OF W-LES</a><br /> - -<a href="#ADJUSTER">THE ADJUSTER</a><br /> - -<a href="#HOT">HOT AND COLD BLOOD</a><br /> - -<a href="#SENSIBLE">"THE SENSIBLE THING"</a><br /> - -<a href="#GRETCHENS">GRETCHEN'S FORTY WINKS</a></p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="RICH">THE RICH BOY</a></h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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?" -</p> -<p> -"Who is funny?" -</p> -<p> -"Why—Mr. Hunter. He seemed so funny." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Legendre looked at her sharply. -</p> -<p> -"How is he funny?" -</p> -<p> -"Why, he said he was French. I didn't know he was French." -</p> -<p> -"That's absurd. You must have misunderstood." She smiled: "It was a -joke." -</p> -<p> -The cousin shook her head stubbornly. -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Cousin Jo told me Anson was intoxicated." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no...." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Mother, he's all right! Please don't worry about——" -</p> -<p> -"But I do worry. I think it's dreadful. I want you to promise me not to -come home with him." -</p> -<p> -"I'll take care of it, mother...." -</p> -<p> -"I don't want you to come home with him." -</p> -<p> -"All right, mother. Good-by." -</p> -<p> -"Be sure now, Paula. Ask some one to bring you." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"... I said are you better?" -</p> -<p> -"What?" -</p> -<p> -"Do you feel better, old man?" -</p> -<p> -"Terrible," said Anson. -</p> -<p> -"I'm going to try you on another bromo-seltzer. If you can hold it down, -it'll do you good to sleep." -</p> -<p> -With an effort Anson slid his legs from the bed and stood up. -</p> -<p> -"I'm all right," he said dully. -</p> -<p> -"Take it easy." -</p> -<p> -"I thin' if you gave me a glassbrandy I could go down-stairs." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no——" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, that's the only thin'. I'm all right now.... I suppose I'm in -Dutch dow' there." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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...." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Two spades." -</p> -<p> -"Cigarette? ... Oh, I beg your pardon. By me." -</p> -<p> -"By." -</p> -<p> -"I'll double three spades." -</p> -<p> -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.... -</p> -<p> -"What was bid?" he asked abstractedly. -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"<i>Rose of Washington Square</i>"</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -sang the young people in the corners: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"<i>I'm withering there</i></span><br /> -<span class="i2"><i>In basement air——</i>"</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"You could cut it with a knife." -</p> -<p> -"... cut it with a knife." -</p> -<p> -"... a knife." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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 "<i>Darling</i>! -<i>Darling</i>!" 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!" -</p> -<p> -"Paula.... <i>Paula</i>!" -</p> -<p> -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...." -</p> -<p> -He had forgotten that Paula too was worn away inside with the strain of -three years. Her mood passed forever in the night. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Life," he would explain sometimes, "has made a cynic of me." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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: -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>so</i> nice, and he so much wants me to marry -him——" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Put on your hat, Dolly," he said, "we'll take a walk." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Anson," she called, laughing a little. -</p> -<p> -"Just a minute," he answered from his bedroom ... then after a brief -delay: "Now you can come in." -</p> -<p> -He had changed and was buttoning his vest. "This is my room," he said -lightly. "How do you like it?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly Anson dropped his arms, and sitting down at his desk tried the -drawer with a bunch of keys. -</p> -<p> -"Like a drink?" he asked in a gruff voice. -</p> -<p> -"No, Anson." -</p> -<p> -He poured himself half a tumbler of whiskey, swallowed it, and then -opened the door into the hall. -</p> -<p> -"Come on," he said. -</p> -<p> -Dolly hesitated. -</p> -<p> -"Anson—I'm going to the country with you to-night, after all. You -understand that, don't you?" -</p> -<p> -"Of course," he answered brusquely. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"When are you making a round, Carl?" -</p> -<p> -"Right away." -</p> -<p> -"Then you'll be here till everybody's in?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, sir." -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Mr. Anson." Being of the Old World, he neither winked nor smiled. -Yet Dolly sat with her face turned slightly away. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Five minutes later he knocked at the door of Dolly's room. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"Anson, darling." -</p> -<p> -He didn't answer. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -He did not listen. Over her head he perceived that the picture of Paula -was hanging here upon this wall. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Why, Anson, I hear Dolly's sick," she began solicitously. "I hear she's -sick...." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"When I'm forty," he told his friends, "I'll be ripe. I'll fall for some -chorus girl like the rest." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Though Edna scented his hostility, she was unprepared for the directness -of his approach. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Believe what?" she demanded sharply. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -"Now look here, Anson—" she began angrily, but his peremptory voice -broke through hers: -</p> -<p> -"—and your children in such a way. You've been married eighteen -years, and you're old enough to know better." -</p> -<p> -"You can't talk to me like that! You——" -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -Edna stood up, leaving her crab-flake cocktail untasted. -</p> -<p> -"This is the silliest thing——" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Edna faltered back into her chair. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -He didn't answer. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -When he arrived she was stretched on a <i>chaise-longue</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Anson sat down. -</p> -<p> -"I have no reason to think it's only scandal." -</p> -<p> -"I hear you're going to take it to Robert Hunter, and to my father." -</p> -<p> -Anson nodded. -</p> -<p> -"Either you break it off—or I will," he said. -</p> -<p> -"What God damned business is it of yours, Hunter?" -</p> -<p> -"Don't lose your temper, Cary," said Edna nervously. "It's only a -question of showing him how absurd——" -</p> -<p> -"For one thing, it's my name that's being handed around," interrupted -Anson. "That's all that concerns you, Cary." -</p> -<p> -"Edna isn't a member of your family." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I guess they're not the only rings in the world," said Sloane. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -He enlarged the theme to a disquisition upon social relations in the -Caucasus. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -He paused, gaining confidence from their faces for his final word. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"I want to go home!" cried Edna again. "Oh, haven't you done enough to -us for one day?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VII</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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 -<i>Homeric</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -"Go where?" he asked himself. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -The lobby of the Yale Club was unpopulated. In the bar three very young -alumni looked up at him, momentarily and without curiosity. -</p> -<p> -"Hello there, Oscar," he said to the bartender. "Mr. Cahill been around -this afternoon?" -</p> -<p> -"Mr. Cahill's gone to New Haven." -</p> -<p> -"Oh ... that so?" -</p> -<p> -"Gone to the ball game. Lot of men gone up." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Is Mr. Warden at home?" he inquired. -</p> -<p> -"They've gone to the country." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no," he said to himself.... "No." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Nick," he said, "what's happened to everything?" -</p> -<p> -"Dead," Nick said. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"That a fact? Ha-ha-ha," responded Nick diplomatically. "Slipped it over -on you." -</p> -<p> -"Absolutely," said Anson. "And I was out with her the night before." -</p> -<p> -"Ha-ha-ha," said Nick, "ha-ha-ha!" -</p> -<p> -"Do you remember the wedding, Nick, in Hot Springs where I had the -waiters and the musicians singing 'God save the King'?" -</p> -<p> -"Now where was that, Mr. Hunter?" Nick concentrated doubtfully. "Seems -to me that was——" -</p> -<p> -"Next time they were back for more, and I began to wonder how much I'd -paid them," continued Anson. -</p> -<p> -"—seems to me that was at Mr. Trenholm's wedding." -</p> -<p> -"Don't know him," said Anson decisively. He was offended that a strange -name should intrude upon his reminiscences; Nick perceived this. -</p> -<p> -"Naw—aw—" he admitted, "I ought to know that. It was one of -<i>your</i> crowd—Brakins .... Baker——" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Ha-ha-ha," said Nick. "Ha-ha-ha." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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? -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Why, Anson Hunter!" -</p> -<p> -His heart turned over. -</p> -<p> -"Why, Paula——" -</p> -<p> -"Why, this is wonderful. I can't believe it, <i>Anson</i>!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Can I?" he asked directly. "When?" -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"You oughtn't to be standing," said Hagerty to his wife. "Let's sit down -here." He indicated lobby chairs, but Paula hesitated. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -Hagerty confirmed the invitation cordially. -</p> -<p> -"Come out for the night." -</p> -<p> -Their car waited in front of the hotel, and Paula with a tired gesture -sank back against silk cushions in the corner. -</p> -<p> -"There's so much I want to talk to you about," she said, "it seems -hopeless." -</p> -<p> -"I want to hear about you." -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"Boys?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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 -<i>so</i> bad to me, Anson." -</p> -<p> -It was the dialogue again, rising and falling. Anson felt a sudden -quickening of memory. -</p> -<p> -"Weren't you engaged once?" she asked—"a girl named Dolly something?" -</p> -<p> -"I wasn't ever engaged. I tried to be engaged, but I never loved anybody -but you, Paula." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -He didn't answer, shocked at the treachery of her remembrance. She must -have seen that the "at last" bruised him, for she continued: -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -The phrase struck at him from behind—it was an accusation that of all -accusations he had never merited. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Where did you go, dearest?" she demanded. -</p> -<p> -"I had a drink with Ed Saunders." -</p> -<p> -"I was worried. I thought maybe you'd run away." -</p> -<p> -She rested her head against his coat. -</p> -<p> -"He's sweet, isn't he, Anson?" she demanded. -</p> -<p> -"Absolutely," said Anson, laughing. -</p> -<p> -She raised her face to her husband. -</p> -<p> -"Well, I'm ready," she said. She turned to Anson: "Do you want to see -our family gymnastic stunt?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes," he said in an interested voice. -</p> -<p> -"All right. Here we go!" -</p> -<p> -Hagerty picked her up easily in his arms. -</p> -<p> -"This is called the family acrobatic stunt," said Paula. "He carries me -up-stairs. Isn't it sweet of him?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes," said Anson. -</p> -<p> -Hagerty bent his head slightly until his face touched Paula's. -</p> -<p> -"And I love him," she said. "I've just been telling you, haven't I, -Anson?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes," he said. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes," Anson said. -</p> -<p> -"You'll find a pair of Pete's pajamas laid out for you. Sweet -dreams—see you at breakfast." -</p> -<p> -"Yes," Anson said. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VIII</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"If I go," he declared, "I won't come back any more." -</p> -<p> -"That's absurd, old man. You'll be back in three months with all this -depression gone. Fit as ever." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"If I go I'll never come back," he said. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>Paris</i> moved off into the wet -space between the worlds, leaving his principality behind. -</p> -<p> -"How about a drink?" he suggested. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"She's pretty," I agreed. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="WINTER">WINTER DREAMS</a></h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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—— -</p> -<p> -"No, sir," said Dexter decisively, "I don't want to caddy any more." -Then, after a pause: "I'm too old." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"I decided I was too old." -</p> -<p> -Dexter handed in his "A Class" badge, collected what money was due him -from the caddy master, and walked home to Black Bear Village. -</p> -<p> -"The best —— caddy I ever saw," shouted Mr. Mortimer Jones over -a drink that afternoon. "Never lost a ball! Willing! Intelligent! Quiet! -Honest! Grateful!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -Then to the nurse: -</p> -<p> -"Well, I guess there aren't very many people out here this morning, are -there?" -</p> -<p> -The smile again—radiant, blatantly artificial—convincing. -</p> -<p> -"I don't know what we're supposed to do now," said the nurse, looking -nowhere in particular. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, that's all right. I'll fix it up." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly, involuntarily, he laughed, a short abrupt laugh—then, -startled by himself, he turned and began to walk quickly away. -</p> -<p> -"Boy!" -</p> -<p> -Dexter stopped. -</p> -<p> -"Boy——" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Boy, do you know where the golf teacher is?" -</p> -<p> -"He's giving a lesson." -</p> -<p> -"Well, do you know where the caddy-master is?" -</p> -<p> -"He isn't here yet this morning." -</p> -<p> -"Oh." For a moment this baffled her. She stood alternately on her right -and left foot. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Here she was stopped by an ominous glance from Miss Jones, followed -immediately by the smile. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Oh." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"You damn little mean old <i>thing</i>!" cried Miss Jones wildly. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -The situation was resolved by the fortuitous appearance of the -caddy-master, who was appealed to immediately by the nurse. -</p> -<p> -"Miss Jones is to have a little caddy, and this one says he can't go." -</p> -<p> -"Mr. McKenna said I was to wait here till you came," said Dexter -quickly. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"Well?" The caddy-master turned to Dexter. "What you standing there like -a dummy for? Go pick up the young lady's clubs." -</p> -<p> -"I don't think I'll go out to-day," said Dexter. -</p> -<p> -"You don't——" -</p> -<p> -"I think I'll quit." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>there's</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -A head and a voice came up together over the hill: -</p> -<p> -"Do you mind if we go through?" -</p> -<p> -"You hit me in the stomach!" declared Mr. Hedrick wildly. -</p> -<p> -"Did I?" The girl approached the group of men. "I'm sorry. I yelled -'Fore!'" -</p> -<p> -Her glance fell casually on each of the men—then scanned the fairway -for her ball. -</p> -<p> -"Did I bounce into the rough?" -</p> -<p> -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: -</p> -<p> -"Here I am! I'd have gone on the green except that I hit something." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"My God, she's good-looking!" said Mr. Sandwood, who was just over -thirty. -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -It was doubtful if Mr. Hedrick intended a reference to the maternal -instinct. -</p> -<p> -"She'd play pretty good golf if she'd try," said Mr. Sandwood. -</p> -<p> -"She has no form," said Mr. Hedrick solemnly. -</p> -<p> -"She has a nice figure," said Mr. Sandwood. -</p> -<p> -"Better thank the Lord she doesn't drive a swifter ball," said Mr. Hart, -winking at Dexter. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Aren't you one of those men we played through this afternoon?" she -demanded. -</p> -<p> -He was. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -They moved out into the lake; turning, Dexter saw that she was kneeling -on the low rear of the now uptilted surf-board. -</p> -<p> -"Go faster," she called, "fast as it'll go." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"It's awful cold," she shouted. "What's your name?" -</p> -<p> -He told her. -</p> -<p> -"Well, why don't you come to dinner to-morrow night?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Father and mother won't be here," she said thoughtfully. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Then, after dinner, she led him out on the dark sun-porch and -deliberately changed the atmosphere. -</p> -<p> -"Do you mind if I weep a little?" she said. -</p> -<p> -"I'm afraid I'm boring you," he responded quickly. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps he was afraid to tell you." -</p> -<p> -"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—— -</p> -<p> -"Let's start right," she interrupted herself suddenly. "Who are you, -anyhow?" -</p> -<p> -For a moment Dexter hesitated. Then: -</p> -<p> -"I'm nobody," he announced. "My career is largely a matter of futures." -</p> -<p> -"Are you poor?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -It did not take him many hours to decide that he had wanted Judy Jones -ever since he was a proud, desirous little boy. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -When a new man came to town every one dropped out—dates were -automatically cancelled. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Remember that—for only in the light of it can what he did for her be -understood. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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." -</p> -<p> -He mounted the steps of the brownstone house and stepped inside. -</p> -<p> -"Irene," he called. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Scheerer came out of the living-room to meet him. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Nothing serious, I——" -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -Her smile was kind. She and Dexter liked each other. In the living-room -he talked for a moment before he said good-night. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Hello, darling." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"When did you get back?" he asked casually. -</p> -<p> -"Come here and I'll tell you about it." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -She turned in the doorway. -</p> -<p> -"Have you a car here? If you haven't, I have." -</p> -<p> -"I have a coupé." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Have you missed me?" she asked suddenly. -</p> -<p> -"Everybody missed you." -</p> -<p> -He wondered if she knew of Irene Scheerer. She had been back only a -day—her absence had been almost contemporaneous with his engagement. -</p> -<p> -"What a remark!" Judy laughed sadly—without sadness. She looked at -him searchingly. He became absorbed in the dashboard. -</p> -<p> -"You're handsomer than you used to be," she said thoughtfully. "Dexter, -you have the most rememberable eyes." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"No, I haven't forgotten." -</p> -<p> -"Neither have I!" -</p> -<p> -Was she sincerely moved—or was she carried along by the wave of her -own acting? -</p> -<p> -"I wish we could be like that again," she said, and he forced himself to -answer: -</p> -<p> -"I don't think we can." -</p> -<p> -"I suppose not.... I hear you're giving Irene Scheerer a violent rush." -</p> -<p> -There was not the faintest emphasis on the name, yet Dexter was suddenly -ashamed. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, take me home," cried Judy suddenly; "I don't want to go back to -that idiotic dance—with those children." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Won't you come in?" He heard her draw in her breath sharply. -</p> -<p> -Waiting. -</p> -<p> -"All right," his voice was trembling, "I'll come in." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Dexter waited with no apprehension of what was coming. -</p> -<p> -"Judy Simms," said Devlin with no particular interest; "Judy Jones she -was once." -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"Awfully nice girl," brooded Devlin meaninglessly, "I'm sort of sorry -for her." -</p> -<p> -"Why?" Something in Dexter was alert, receptive, at once. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Lud Simms has gone to pieces in a way. I don't mean he ill-uses -her, but he drinks and runs around——-" -</p> -<p> -"Doesn't she run around?" -</p> -<p> -"No. Stays at home with her kids." -</p> -<p> -"Oh." -</p> -<p> -"She's a little too old for him," said Devlin. -</p> -<p> -"Too old!" cried Dexter. "Why, man, she's only twenty-seven." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I guess you're busy," Devlin apologized quickly. "I didn't -realize——" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, you did," agreed Devlin dryly. -</p> -<p> -"Go on, then. Go on." -</p> -<p> -"What do you mean?" -</p> -<p> -"About Judy Jones." -</p> -<p> -Devlin looked at him helplessly. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -A pretty girl! The phrase struck Dexter as ludicrous. -</p> -<p> -"Isn't she—a pretty girl, any more?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, she's all right." -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -Devlin laughed pleasantly. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Dexter looked closely at Devlin, thinking wildly that there must be a -reason for this, some insensitivity in the man or some private malice. -</p> -<p> -"Lots of women fade just like <i>that</i>" 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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="BABY">THE BABY PARTY</a></h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>pantry</i>!" into John's unsuspecting left -ear. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"There's been some trouble," he thought quickly. -</p> -<p> -Trying the door, he found it unlocked and pushed it open. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -As Edith and her daughter entered, the music was temporarily drowned out -by a sustained chorus, consisting largely of the word <i>cute</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Little Ede looks perfectly darling," said Mrs. Markey, smiling and -moistening her lips in a way that Edith found particularly repulsive. -"So <i>grown-up</i>—I can't <i>believe</i> it!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"You're a darling," she whispered to her child, drawing her suddenly -against her knee. "Do you know you're a darling? Do you <i>know</i> you're -a darling?" -</p> -<p> -Ede laughed. "Bow-wow," she said suddenly. -</p> -<p> -"Bow-wow?" Edith looked around. "There isn't any bow-wow." -</p> -<p> -"Bow-wow," repeated Ede. "I want a bow-wow." -</p> -<p> -Edith followed the small pointing finger. -</p> -<p> -"That isn't a bow-wow, dearest, that's a teddy-bear." -</p> -<p> -"Bear?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, that's a teddy-bear, and it belongs to Billy Markey. You don't -want Billy Markey's teddy-bear, do you?" -</p> -<p> -Ede did want it. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Grown-up Edith looked at her watch again, this time impatiently. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Why, Ede!" cried her mother, repressing an inclination to laugh. -</p> -<p> -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." -</p> -<p> -"Did he bump his head?" Mrs. Markey returned anxiously from bowing the -next to last remaining mother out the door. -</p> -<p> -"No-o-o-o," exclaimed Markey. "He bumped something else, didn't you, -Billy? He bumped something else." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"No," said Ede emphatically. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, <i>Billy</i>," she cried, "what a terrible bump! She ought to be -spanked." -</p> -<p> -Edith, who had rushed immediately to her daughter, heard this remark, -and her lips came sharply together. -</p> -<p> -"Why, Ede," she whispered perfunctorily, "you bad girl!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Then, as suddenly, she stopped. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"It's swollen already," he said with a note of reproof in his voice. -"I'll get some witch-hazel." -</p> -<p> -But Mrs. Markey had lost her temper. "I don't see anything funny about a -child being hurt!" she said in a trembling voice. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -It was in a way a defiance—those two against the world. -</p> -<p> -While Markey rushed up-stairs to the bathroom for ointment, his wife was -walking up and down rocking the yelling boy in her arms. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Very well," said Edith, her own temper rising. "I've never seen any one -make such a mountain out of——" -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Don't you dare call her that!" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Markey did not answer but continued walking up and down, muttering -to herself and to Billy in an inaudible voice. -</p> -<p> -Edith began to cry. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Joe Markey reached the foot of the stairs just in time to hear this -remark. -</p> -<p> -"Why, Mrs. Andros," he said sharply, "can't you see the child's hurt? -You really ought to control yourself." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -"Don't you dare touch me!" cried Edith. "I'm going just as quick as I -can find my c-coat!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"John!" cried Edith, and fled to him wildly. -</p> -<p> -"What's the matter? Why, what's the matter?" -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -"What do you mean 'put her out'?" demanded John abruptly. "What's all -this talk, anyhow?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, let's go!" cried Edith. "I want to go. They're so <i>common</i>, -John!" -</p> -<p> -"Look here!" Markey's face darkened. "You've said that about enough. -You're acting sort of crazy." -</p> -<p> -"They called Ede a brat!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"What's the idea of this?" broke out John. "Do you insult your guests in -your own house?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -John gave a contemptuous snort. "Are you calling names at a little -baby?" he inquired. "That's a fine manly business!" -</p> -<p> -"Don't talk to him, John," insisted Edith. "Find my coat!" -</p> -<p> -"You must be in a bad way," went on John angrily, "if you have to take -out your temper on a helpless little baby." -</p> -<p> -"I never heard anything so damn twisted in my life," shouted Markey. "If -that wife of yours would shut her mouth for a minute——" -</p> -<p> -"Wait a minute! You're not talking to a woman and child now——" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -Again John gave a short, contemptuous laugh. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Taking up her daughter in her arms, his wife stepped outside and John, -still looking contemptuously at Markey, started to follow. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -Without a word John walked out the door, leaving it open. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I'll be damned if I'm going on with this thing any more," cried Markey -thickly. -</p> -<p> -"I'm not going on any more either," said John Andros. "I've had enough -of this thing." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Want to come in and wash up?" he asked suddenly. -</p> -<p> -"No, thanks," said John. "I ought to be going home—my wife'll be -worried." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Well—good night," he said hesitantly. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"No harm done," he said brokenly. -</p> -<p> -"No—you?" -</p> -<p> -"No, no harm done." -</p> -<p> -"Well," said John Andros after a minute, "I guess I'll say good night." -</p> -<p> -"Good night." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -He shook his head. "Not a chance," he answered. "I don't want this to -get all over town." -</p> -<p> -"I don't understand yet how it all happened." -</p> -<p> -"Neither do I." He smiled grimly. "I guess these baby parties are pretty -rough affairs." -</p> -<p> -"Well, one thing—" suggested Edith hopefully, "I'm certainly glad we -have beefsteak in the house for to-morrow's dinner." -</p> -<p> -"Why?" -</p> -<p> -"For your eye, of course. Do you know I came within an ace of ordering -veal? Wasn't that the luckiest thing?" -</p> -<p> -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." -</p> -<p> -"You mean so that next time you can beat him?" -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, dear," she said meekly. "I was very foolish and now I understand." -</p> -<p> -Out in the hall, he paused abruptly by the baby's door. -</p> -<p> -"Is she asleep?" -</p> -<p> -"Sound asleep. But you can go in and peek at her—just to say good -night." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"She's asleep," he murmured in a puzzled way. -</p> -<p> -"Naturally, after such an afternoon." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Why, what incomparable nerve!" exclaimed Edith. "Just tell them we're -not home. I wouldn't go down for anything in the world." -</p> -<p> -"You most certainly will." John's voice was hard and set. -</p> -<p> -"What?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Why—John, I can't." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Aren't you coming? Do I have to go alone?" "I'll be down—in just a -minute." -</p> -<p> -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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="ABSOLUTION">ABSOLUTION</a></h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Your mouth is trembling," said Father Schwartz, in a haggard voice. -</p> -<p> -The little boy covered his quivering mouth with his hand. -</p> -<p> -"Are you in trouble?" asked Father Schwartz, sharply. "Take your hand -away from your mouth and tell me what's the matter." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Father Schwartz—I've committed a terrible sin." -</p> -<p> -"A sin against purity?" -</p> -<p> -"No, Father ... worse." -</p> -<p> -Father Schwartz's body jerked sharply. -</p> -<p> -"Have you killed somebody?" -</p> -<p> -"No—but I'm afraid—" the voice rose to a shrill whimper. -</p> -<p> -"Do you want to go to confession?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Tell me what you've done," said his new soft voice. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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.'..." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<h4>"<i>On Saturday, Three Days Ago.</i>"</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>had</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -Again Father Schwartz's voice became audible. -</p> -<p> -"And for your——" -</p> -<p> -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.... -</p> -<p> -"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...." -</p> -<p> -This was an easy sin. His curses had been but bravado—telling of them -was little less than a brag. -</p> -<p> -"... of being mean to an old lady." -</p> -<p> -The wan shadow moved a little on the latticed slat. -</p> -<p> -"How, my child?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Go on, my child." -</p> -<p> -"Of—of not believing I was the son of my parents." -</p> -<p> -"What?" The interrogation was distinctly startled. -</p> -<p> -"Of not believing that I was the son of my parents." -</p> -<p> -"Why not?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, just pride," answered the penitent airily. -</p> -<p> -"You mean you thought you were too good to be the son of your parents?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Father." On a less jubilant note. -</p> -<p> -"Go on." -</p> -<p> -"Of being disobedient and calling my mother names. Of slandering people -behind my back. Of smoking——" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Of dirty words and immodest thoughts and desires," he whispered very -low. -</p> -<p> -"How often?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't know." -</p> -<p> -"Once a week? Twice a week?" -</p> -<p> -"Twice a week." -</p> -<p> -"Did you yield to these desires?" -</p> -<p> -"No, Father." -</p> -<p> -"Were you alone when you had them?" -</p> -<p> -"No, Father. I was with two boys and a girl." -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"In a barn in back of——" -</p> -<p> -"I don't want to hear any names," interrupted the priest sharply. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"You should have gone—you should have told the girl to go." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Have you anything else to tell me?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't think so, Father." -</p> -<p> -Rudolph felt a great relief. Perspiration had broken out under his -tight-pressed fingers. -</p> -<p> -"Have you told any lies?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no, Father, I never tell lies." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -In automatic response to Father Schwartz's "Make an act of contrition," -he began to repeat aloud meaninglessly: -</p> -<p> -"Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee...." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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!" -</p> -<p> -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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"What are you doing?" -</p> -<p> -"I got awful thirsty, so I thought I'd just come down and -get——" -</p> -<p> -"I thought you were going to communion." -</p> -<p> -A look of vehement astonishment spread over his son's face. -</p> -<p> -"I forgot all about it." -</p> -<p> -"Have you drunk any water?" -</p> -<p> -"No——" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Pour it out," commanded his father, "that water!" -</p> -<p> -Rudolph despairingly inverted the tumbler. -</p> -<p> -"What's the matter with you, anyways?" demanded Miller angrily. -</p> -<p> -"Nothing." -</p> -<p> -"Did you go to confession yesterday?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"Then why were you going to drink water?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't know—I forgot." -</p> -<p> -"Maybe you care more about being a little bit thirsty than you do about -your religion." -</p> -<p> -"I forgot." Rudolph could feel the tears straining in his eyes. -</p> -<p> -"That's no answer." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I did." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Rudolph filled a sharp pause with: -</p> -<p> -"I can remember it all right." -</p> -<p> -"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 <i>next</i> thing is the <i>reform</i> school!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Put on your clothes!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -His father stopped decisively at the door of the church. -</p> -<p> -"I've decided you'd better go to confession again. Go in and tell Father -Schwartz what you did and ask God's pardon." -</p> -<p> -"You lost your temper, too!" said Rudolph quickly. -</p> -<p> -Carl Miller took a step toward his son, who moved cautiously backward. -</p> -<p> -"All right, I'll go." -</p> -<p> -"Are you going to do what I say?" cried his father in a hoarse whisper. -</p> -<p> -"All right." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I accuse myself of missing my morning prayers." -</p> -<p> -"Is that all?" -</p> -<p> -"That's all." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Domini, non sum dignus; ut interes sub tectum meum; sed tantum dic -verbo, et sanabitur anima mea....</i>" -</p> -<p> -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: -</p> -<p> -"<i>Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam meam in vitam -æternam.</i>" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam meam in vitam -æternam.</i>" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<h4>"<i>Sagitta Volante in Dei</i>"</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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: -</p> -<p> -"When a lot of people get together in the best places things go -glimmering." -</p> -<p> -Rudolph started and looked quickly at Father Schwartz's face. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Father," agreed Rudolph, feeling a little frightened. -</p> -<p> -"What are you going to be when you grow up?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Again the priest stared at him. -</p> -<p> -"I see <i>exactly</i> what you mean," he said, with a fierce air. -</p> -<p> -Rudolph had not meant anything in particular, and at the implication -that he had, he became more uneasy. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"You look as if things went glimmering," cried Father Schwartz wildly. -"Did you ever go to a party?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Father." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"I've been to a lot of parties," said Rudolph, rather relieved that the -conversation had taken this turn. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Rudolph found himself thinking of Blatchford Sarnemington. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"No, Father." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Father Schwartz frowned as he suddenly thought of something. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, my God!" he cried out, in a strange voice, and wilted to the floor. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="RAGS">RAGS MARTIN-JONES AND THE PR-NCE OF<br /> -W-LES</a></h4> - -<p> -The <i>Majestic</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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 -<i>Majestic</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Rags Martin-Jones, after five years in the capitals of Europe, was -returning to her native land! -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>Titanic</i> 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." -</p> -<p> -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 <i>American Magazine</i>, 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Rags," he began, "Rags——" -</p> -<p> -"John M. Chestnut?" she inquired, inspecting him with great interest. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I've got a lot of junk to declare," she remarked absently. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -She stopped him with a groan. -</p> -<p> -"Please! There were some young Americans on the boat. The subject has -become a bore." -</p> -<p> -"My God!" cried Chestnut, "do you mean to say that you class <i>my</i> love -with what was said to you on a <i>boat</i>?" -</p> -<p> -His voice had risen, and several people in the vicinity turned to hear. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -But John M. Chestnut seemed unable to control his voice. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"But, Rags!" he protested hoarsely. "Listen to me. Five years -ago——" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I'll be in at half past four," she cried. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"You look better," she said, raising herself from her pillows and -staring at him appraisingly. "It gave you a color." -</p> -<p> -He thanked her coldly for the compliment. -</p> -<p> -"You ought to go in every morning." And then she added irrelevantly: -"I'm going back to Paris to-morrow." -</p> -<p> -John Chestnut gasped. -</p> -<p> -"I wrote you that I didn't intend to stay more than a week anyhow," she -added. -</p> -<p> -"But, Rags——" -</p> -<p> -"Why should I? There isn't an amusing man in New York." -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Do you mean you want me to express myself entirely in pantomime?" -</p> -<p> -Rags uttered a disgusted sigh. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Don't you care for me at all any more?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -She began to twist herself down among the cushions until she almost -disappeared from view. -</p> -<p> -"I've lost my monocle," she explained. -</p> -<p> -After an unsuccessful search in the silken depths she discovered the -illusive glass hanging down the back of her neck. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Don't talk that rubbish!" cried John, sinking his face into his hands. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"Not as rich as you." -</p> -<p> -"There you are. What have you to offer me?" -</p> -<p> -"Love." -</p> -<p> -"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-<i>oo</i>-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." -</p> -<p> -John Chestnut rose despairingly to his feet and took a step toward the -window. -</p> -<p> -"Don't throw yourself out," Rags exclaimed quickly. -</p> -<p> -"All right." He tossed his cigarette down into Madison Avenue. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Well, just for a rest you come out with me to-night," he said doggedly. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"I'll take you to the most highly-strung place in the city." -</p> -<p> -"What'll happen? You've got to tell me what'll happen." -</p> -<p> -John Chestnut suddenly drew a long breath and looked cautiously around -as if he were afraid of being overheard. -</p> -<p> -"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 <i>me</i>." -</p> -<p> -She sat upright and the pillows tumbled about her like leaves. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"For the last time—will you come along with me to-night and see what -you will see?" -</p> -<p> -"See what? See who? Is there anything in this country worth seeing?" -</p> -<p> -"Well," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "for one thing you'll see the -Prince of Wales." -</p> -<p> -"What?" She left the chaise-longue at a bound. "Is he back in New York?" -</p> -<p> -"He will be to-night. Would you care to see him?" -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Rags gave a sharp ecstatic cry: -</p> -<p> -"Dominic! Louise! Germaine!" -</p> -<p> -The three maids came running. The room filled suddenly with vibrations -of wild, startled light. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -She was fumbling at the buttons of her dress—and as John turned -quickly to go, it was already sliding from her shoulders. -</p> -<p> -"Orchids!" she called after him, "orchids, for the love of heaven! Four -dozen, so I can choose four." -</p> -<p> -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!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Gentlemen," announced John Chestnut, "I fear that Miss Martin-Jones is -much too weary from her trip to talk to you this afternoon." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -"This place, for no particular reason, is called the Hole in the Sky." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"What makes it so warm?" she whispered as they moved toward a table. -</p> -<p> -"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—" -</p> -<p> -"Where's the Prince of Wales?" she demanded tensely. -</p> -<p> -John looked around. -</p> -<p> -"He hasn't arrived yet. He won't be here for about half an hour." -</p> -<p> -She sighed profoundly. -</p> -<p> -"It's the first time I've been excited in four years." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Who's that?" She pointed suddenly to a handsome Latin at a table over -the way. -</p> -<p> -"That's Roderigo Minerlino, the movie and face-cream star. Perhaps he'll -dance after a while." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"The orchestra's on another roof," explained John. "It's a new idea— -Look, the entertainment's beginning." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Hello!" ejaculated John. "There's his majesty now." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Sit still!" John was whispering across the table. "He picks somebody -out for this every night." -</p> -<p> -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 -<i>him</i>, 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. -</p> -<p> -The moment was over, the comedian left the floor, and the far-away music -began. John leaned toward her. -</p> -<p> -"I'm sorry. There really wasn't anything to do. You were wonderful." -</p> -<p> -She dismissed the incident with a casual laugh—then she started, -there were now only two men sitting at the table across the floor. -</p> -<p> -"He's gone!" she exclaimed in quick distress. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Why has he got to be careful?" -</p> -<p> -"Because he's not supposed to be in New York. He's even under one of his -second-string names." -</p> -<p> -The lights dimmed again, and almost immediately a tall man appeared out -of the darkness and approached their table. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -John nodded. -</p> -<p> -"That is between ourselves, you understand." -</p> -<p> -"Of course." -</p> -<p> -Rags groped on the table for her untouched champagne, and tipped the -glassful down her throat. -</p> -<p> -"Baron Marchbanks requests that your companion will join his party -during this number." -</p> -<p> -Both men looked at Rags. There was a moment's pause. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -John looked at her moodily. -</p> -<p> -"Well, what did he say?" -</p> -<p> -"He was very quiet." -</p> -<p> -"Didn't he say a word?" -</p> -<p> -Her hand trembled as she took up her glass of champagne. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Is he leaving New York to-night?" -</p> -<p> -"In half an hour. He and his aides have a car outside, and they expect -to be over the border before dawn." -</p> -<p> -"Did you find him—fascinating?" -</p> -<p> -She hesitated and then slowly nodded her head. -</p> -<p> -"That's what everybody says," admitted John glumly. "Do they expect you -back there?" -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"Monte!" exclaimed John, starting up so suddenly that he upset his -champagne. "What is it? What's the matter?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"John! What's the matter?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Are you sick?" -</p> -<p> -"Rags," he said unsteadily, "I'm all through." -</p> -<p> -"What do you mean?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm all through, I tell you." He managed a sickly smile. "There's been -a warrant out for me for over an hour." -</p> -<p> -"What have you done?" she demanded in a frightened voice. "What's the -warrant for?" -</p> -<p> -The lights went out for the next number, and he collapsed suddenly over -the table. -</p> -<p> -"What is it?" she insisted, with rising apprehension. She leaned -forward—his answer was barely audible. -</p> -<p> -"Murder?" She could feel her body grow cold as ice. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Is it true? Have they got proof?" -</p> -<p> -Again he nodded drunkenly. -</p> -<p> -"Then you've got to get out of the country now! Do you understand, John? -You've got to get out <i>now</i>, before they come looking for you here!" -</p> -<p> -He loosed a wild glance of terror toward the entrance. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"If I arrange it, will you go to Canada to-night?" -</p> -<p> -"How?" -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -A minute later she had crossed the room under cover of the darkness. -</p> -<p> -"Baron Marchbanks," she whispered softly, standing just behind his -chair. -</p> -<p> -He motioned her to sit down. -</p> -<p> -"Have you room in your car for two more passengers to-night?" -</p> -<p> -One of the aides turned around abruptly. -</p> -<p> -"His lordship's car is full," he said shortly. -</p> -<p> -"It's terribly urgent." Her voice was trembling. -</p> -<p> -"Well," said the prince hesitantly, "I don't know." -</p> -<p> -Lord Charles Este looked at the prince and shook his head. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -The prince frowned. -</p> -<p> -"This isn't a complication," he objected. -</p> -<p> -Este turned frankly to Rags. -</p> -<p> -"Why is it urgent?" -</p> -<p> -Rags hesitated. -</p> -<p> -"Why"—she flushed suddenly—"it's a runaway marriage." -</p> -<p> -The prince laughed. -</p> -<p> -"Good!" he exclaimed. "That settles it. Este is just being official. -Bring him over right away. We're leaving shortly, what?" -</p> -<p> -Este looked at his watch. -</p> -<p> -"Right now!" -</p> -<p> -Rags rushed away. She wanted to move the whole party from the roof while -the lights were still down. -</p> -<p> -"Hurry!" she cried in John's ear. "We're going over the border—with -the Prince of Wales. You'll be safe by morning." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"We'd better start," said Este, looking impatiently at his watch. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -Este looked sharply at Rags and then at John, who shrank back behind the -palms. -</p> -<p> -"Is that one of your revenue fellas out there?" demanded Este. -</p> -<p> -"No," whispered Rags. "There's going to be trouble. Can't we get out -this entrance?" -</p> -<p> -The prince with rising impatience sat down again in his chair. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Then suddenly the lights went up. The plain-clothes man whirled around -quickly and sprang to the middle of the cabaret floor. -</p> -<p> -"Nobody try to leave this room!" he shouted. "Sit down, that party -behind the palms! Is John M. Chestnut in this room?" -</p> -<p> -Rags gave a short involuntary cry. -</p> -<p> -"Here!" cried the detective to the policeman behind him. "Take a look at -that funny bunch across over there. Hands up, you men!" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -He took a step toward the side entrance. -</p> -<p> -"Hands up, there!" shouted the plain-clothes man. "And when I say hands -up I mean it! Which one of you's Chestnut?" -</p> -<p> -"You're mad!" cried Este. "We're British subjects. We're not involved in -this affair in any way!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Stop that music!" bellowed the plain-clothes man. "And get some -earrings on that whole bunch—quick!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -Still there was silence—Rags knew it was the silence of awe—the -strain of guilt had driven John Chestnut insane. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Wasn't it wonderful?" he cried. -</p> -<p> -Rags felt a faintness stealing over her. She groped backward with her -hand toward a chair. -</p> -<p> -"What was it?" she cried dazedly. "Am I dreaming?" -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Mr. Chestnut wants to know if you'll come right in to his private -office." -</p> -<p> -Obediently her slim feet moved along the carpet into a high, cool -chamber overlooking the harbor and the wide sea. -</p> -<p> -John Chestnut sat at his desk, waiting, and Rags walked to him and put -her arms around his shoulder. -</p> -<p> -"Are you sure <i>you're</i> real?" she asked anxiously. "Are you absolutely -<i>sure</i>?" -</p> -<p> -"You only wrote me a week before you came," he protested modestly, "or I -could have arranged a revolution." -</p> -<p> -"Was the whole thing just <i>mine</i>?" she demanded. "Was it a perfectly -useless, gorgeous thing, just for me?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -He looked at his watch. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -He rang off, turned to the startled cosmopolite with a laugh. -</p> -<p> -"The next stop is the City Hall. Then, if you like, we'll run over to -Paris." -</p> -<p> -"John," she asked him intently, "who was the Prince of Wales?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Not so fast, Cedric. This lady isn't used to falls from high places." -</p> -<p> -The elevator-boy turned around, smiled. His face was pale, oval, framed -in yellow hair. Rags blushed like fire. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Rags took the monocle from around her neck and threw the ribbon over -Cedric's head. -</p> -<p> -"Thank you," she said simply, "for the second greatest thrill of my -life." -</p> -<p> -John Chestnut began rubbing his hands together in a commercial gesture. -</p> -<p> -"Patronize this place, lady," he besought her. "Best bazaar in the -city!" -</p> -<p> -"What have you got for sale?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, m'selle, to-day we have some perfectly bee-<i>oo</i>-tiful love." -</p> -<p> -"Wrap it up, Mr. Merchant," cried Rags Martin-Jones. "It looks like a -bargain to me." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="ADJUSTER">THE ADJUSTER</a></h4> - -<p> -At five o'clock the sombre egg-shaped room at the Ritz ripens to a -subtle melody—the light <i>clat-clat</i> of one lump, two lumps, -into the cup, and the <i>ding</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Shall I tell you something outrageous?" -</p> -<p> -"Try," said Mrs. Karr cheerfully. -</p> -<p> -"Even my baby bores me. That sounds unnatural, Ede, but it's true. He -doesn't <i>begin</i> 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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"It may be because you don't love Charles," ventured Mrs. Karr, unmoved. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"And what is the trouble?" Ede inquired. -</p> -<p> -"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 <i>Hausfrau</i> unless they -have to?" -</p> -<p> -"Go on," said Ede non-committally. "Tell me more." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"I don't suppose Charles likes that." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -A waiter stepped near and laid a folded paper on the table, and Mrs. -Karr reached for it. -</p> -<p> -"No, you mustn't," murmured Luella brokenly. "No, I invited <i>you</i>! -I've got the money right here." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>The Ladies' Home -Journal</i> 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.... -</p> -<p> -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 <i>salon</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Luella tossed her gloves and purse abruptly on the table. Hearing the -faint sound, her husband looked out toward the hall. -</p> -<p> -"Is that you, dear?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, dear." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I've brought some one home to dinner." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"This is Doctor Moon—this is my wife." -</p> -<p> -A man a little older than her husband, with a round, pale, slightly -lined face, came forward to meet her. -</p> -<p> -"Good evening, Mrs. Hemple," he said. "I hope I'm not interfering with -any arrangement of yours." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no," Luella cried quickly. "I'm delighted that you're coming to -dinner. We're quite alone." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Has he been good?" she demanded as he crawled enthusiastically into her -arms. -</p> -<p> -"Very good," said the governess. "We went for a long walk over by -Central Park." -</p> -<p> -"Well, aren't you a smart boy!" She kissed him ecstatically. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"That's right. Here, wait a minute, <i>Chuck</i>!" 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?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Such a nice house, Mrs. Hemple," said Doctor Moon impersonally; "and -let me congratulate you on your fine little boy." -</p> -<p> -"Thanks. Coming from a doctor, that's a nice compliment." She hesitated. -"Do you specialize in children?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm not a specialist at all," he said. "I'm about the last of my -kind—a general practitioner." -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"In fact," he said unexpectedly, "I've invited Doctor Moon here because -I wanted you to have a talk with him to-night." -</p> -<p> -Luella sat up straight in her chair. -</p> -<p> -"A talk with <i>me</i>?" -</p> -<p> -"Doctor Moon's an old friend of mine, and I think he can tell you a few -things, Luella, that you ought to know." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Doctor Moon looked at Charles, asking permission to speak. Charles -nodded, and his hand went up automatically to his face. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Luella's face was burning. -</p> -<p> -"I have no particular faith in psychoanalysis," she said coldly, "and I -scarcely consider myself a subject for it." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -For a moment Luella considered leaving the room. But the effrontery of -the suggestion aroused her curiosity too. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -But when they did leave the dining-room, it was Charles who, in a quick, -unarguable way, vanished. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -Angry and confused, Luella poured the coffee and sank into a corner of -the couch, looking intently at the fire. -</p> -<p> -"Don't be afraid, Mrs. Hemple," said Doctor Moon suddenly. "This was -forced upon me. I do not act as a free agent——" -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"I see." Doctor Moon's round face nodded. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"I see." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"You're not going out," he said after a moment; "I'm quite sure you're -not going out." -</p> -<p> -Luella laughed. -</p> -<p> -"I <i>am</i> going out." -</p> -<p> -He disregarded this. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -Light steps came down the corridor, and the maid, with a frightened -expression on her face, tiptoed into the room. -</p> -<p> -"Mrs. Hemple——" -</p> -<p> -Startled at the interruption, Luella turned quickly. -</p> -<p> -"Yes?" -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -Suddenly Luella heard his voice. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Luella!" He would lurch up in bed. "Luella! Where <i>are</i> you?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm right here, Charles, beside you." She tried to make her voice -cheerful and warm. -</p> -<p> -"If you want to go, Luella, you'd better go. I don't seem to be enough -for you any more." -</p> -<p> -She denied this soothingly. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -His humility annoyed her most; he was a reserved man, and she had never -guessed at the extent of his devotion before. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"You'll come back?" he persisted. -</p> -<p> -"In just a little while. There—lie quiet." -</p> -<p> -She raised his head and plumped his pillow into freshness. A new trained -nurse would arrive to-morrow. -</p> -<p> -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.... -</p> -<p> -"Mrs. Hemple." He came forward, holding out his hand, and Luella touched -it, lightly and uneasily. -</p> -<p> -"You seem well," he said. -</p> -<p> -"I am well, thank you." -</p> -<p> -"I congratulate you on the way you've taken hold of things." -</p> -<p> -"But I haven't taken hold of things at all," she said coldly. "I do what -I have to——" -</p> -<p> -"That's just it." -</p> -<p> -Her impatience mounted rapidly. -</p> -<p> -"I do what I have to, and nothing more," she continued; "and with no -particular good-will." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -"Would you mind telling me how you found out the nurse didn't know her -business?" -</p> -<p> -"You find out various unpleasant things when you're forced to stay -around the house." -</p> -<p> -He nodded, his weary face turning here and there about the room. -</p> -<p> -"I feel somewhat encouraged," he said slowly. "As I told you, I promise -nothing; I only do the best I can." -</p> -<p> -Luella looked up at him, startled. -</p> -<p> -"What do you mean?" she protested. "You've done nothing for -me—nothing at all!" -</p> -<p> -"Nothing much—yet," he said heavily. "It takes time, Mrs. Hemple." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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.——" -</p> -<p> -"Mrs. Danski is my name." -</p> -<p> -"What's the matter?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"But I've counted on you." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Danski smiled politely. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -"If you'd pay me for my time, I'd go," said Mrs. Danski calmly. -</p> -<p> -"I won't pay you a cent unless you'll stay!" -</p> -<p> -She was immediately sorry she had said this, but she was too proud to -withdraw the threat. -</p> -<p> -"You will so pay me!" -</p> -<p> -"You go out that door!" -</p> -<p> -"I'll go when I get my money," asserted Mrs. Danski indignantly. "I got -my children to think of." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Luella went to the phone and, calling up the agency, explained that the -woman had left. -</p> -<p> -"Can you send me some one right away? My husband is sick and the baby's -sick——" -</p> -<p> -"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hemple; there's no one in the office now. It's after -four o'clock." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"How's baby?" she asked abstractedly. -</p> -<p> -"Ninety-nine one," whispered the nurse, holding the thermometer to the -light. "I just took it." -</p> -<p> -"Is that much?" asked Luella, frowning. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -She turned to the nurse. -</p> -<p> -"Do you know how to cook?" -</p> -<p> -"Why—I'm not a good cook." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes, I can do the baby's food." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, this is Mrs. Hemple speaking." -</p> -<p> -"Why, the woman we sent to you has returned here with the claim that you -refused to pay her for her time." -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I'll pay, I'll pay!" she cried. -</p> -<p> -"Of course we like to keep on good terms with our clients——" -</p> -<p> -"Yes—yes!" -</p> -<p> -"So if you'll send her money around to-morrow? It's seventy-five cents -an hour." -</p> -<p> -"But how about to-night?" she exclaimed. "I've got to have some one -to-night." -</p> -<p> -"Why—it's pretty late now. I was just going home myself." -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"And women do this every day," she thought. "Thousands of women. Cook -and take care of sick people—and go out to work too." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Fainted, that's all," he said, taking the girl's head into his lap. The -eyes fluttered. "Yep, she fainted, that's all." -</p> -<p> -"Everybody's sick!" cried Luella with a sort of despairing humor. -"Everybody's sick but me, doctor." -</p> -<p> -"This one's not sick," he said after a moment. "Her heart is normal -already. She just fainted." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly Luella began to scream. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -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? -</p> -<p> -"Mrs. Hemple." -</p> -<p> -She looked up. The weary, shabby figure of Doctor Moon stood in the -door. -</p> -<p> -"You go away," Luella said dully. -</p> -<p> -"Your husband needs you." -</p> -<p> -"I don't care." -</p> -<p> -Doctor Moon came a little way into the room. -</p> -<p> -"I don't think you understand, Mrs. Hemple. He's been calling for you. -You haven't any one now except him." -</p> -<p> -"I hate you," she said suddenly. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Luella sprang to her feet. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"All right," she said wearily. "My baby is gone. What shall I do now?" -</p> -<p> -"Your husband is much better. All he needs is rest and kindness. But you -must go to him and tell him what's happened." -</p> -<p> -"I suppose you think you made him better," said Luella bitterly. -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps. He's nearly well." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I'll go to him in a minute," Luella said in a far-away voice. "Please -leave me alone." -</p> -<p> -Doctor Moon's unwelcome shadow melted into the darkness of the hall. -</p> -<p> -"I can go away," Luella whispered to herself. "Life has given me back -freedom, in place of what it took away from me." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"The baby is sick?" he asked in his own natural voice. -</p> -<p> -She nodded. -</p> -<p> -He hesitated, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he asked: -</p> -<p> -"The baby is dead?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I knew the baby was dead." -</p> -<p> -After another long wait, the nurse spoke: -</p> -<p> -"The doctor said he could be taken out for a drive to-day while there -was still sunshine. He needs a little change." -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"I thought"—the nurse hesitated—"I thought perhaps it would do -you both good, Mrs. Hemple, if you took him instead of me." -</p> -<p> -Luella shook her head hastily. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no," she said. "I don't feel able to, to-day." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I thought you'd gone," she wailed. "I told you to go away." -</p> -<p> -"I'm going soon," said Doctor Moon, "but I don't want you to make an old -mistake." -</p> -<p> -"I'm not making a mistake—I'm leaving my mistakes behind." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"But I've got to go away," she insisted wildly. "Out of this house of -death and failure!" -</p> -<p> -"You haven't failed yet. You've only begun." She stood up. -</p> -<p> -"Let me pass." -</p> -<p> -"No." -</p> -<p> -Abruptly she gave way, as she always did when he talked to her. She -covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. -</p> -<p> -"Go back into that room and tell the nurse you'll take your husband for -a drive," he suggested. -</p> -<p> -"I can't." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Then, one afternoon, Doctor Moon told her suddenly that he was going -away. -</p> -<p> -"Do you mean for good?" she demanded with a touch of panic. -</p> -<p> -"For good." -</p> -<p> -For a strange moment she wasn't sure whether she was glad or sorry. -</p> -<p> -"You don't need me any more," he said quietly. "You don't realize it, -but you've grown up." -</p> -<p> -He came over and, sitting on the couch beside her, took her hand. -</p> -<p> -Luella sat silent and tense—listening. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Things will still be warm." -</p> -<p> -"How?" -</p> -<p> -"Things will warm themselves from you." -</p> -<p> -Luella looked at him, startled. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -He broke off suddenly. -</p> -<p> -"Get up," he said, "and go to that mirror and tell me what you see." -</p> -<p> -Obediently Luella got up and went close to a purchase of her honeymoon, -a Venetian pier-glass on the wall. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Do you care?" -</p> -<p> -She turned quickly. "No," she said. -</p> -<p> -"Do you realize that Chuck is gone? That you'll never see him any more?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." She passed her hands slowly over her eyes. "But that all seems so -vague and far away." -</p> -<p> -"Vague and far away," he repeated; and then: "And are you afraid of me -now?" -</p> -<p> -"Not any longer," she said, and she added frankly, "now that you're -going away." -</p> -<p> -He moved toward the door. He seemed particularly weary to-night, as -though he could hardly move about at all. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Won't you sit down a moment longer?" Luella ventured. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -He opened the door. She must find out now what she most wanted to know, -before it was too late. -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"Who am I?" he repeated; "I am five years." The door closed. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"I'd like to go." -</p> -<p> -She looked at him. -</p> -<p> -"You wouldn't." -</p> -<p> -"I really would." -</p> -<p> -"We'll see how you feel after dinner." -</p> -<p> -He put his arm around her waist. Together they walked into the nursery -where the two children were waiting up to say good night. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="HOT">HOT AND COLD BLOOD</a></h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -A moment later he came out, passing her with a somewhat embarrassed "How -do you do?" She walked into her husband's office. -</p> -<p> -"What was Ed Bronson doing here?" she demanded curiously, and at once. -</p> -<p> -Jim Mather smiled at her, half shutting his gray eyes, and drew her -quietly to a sitting position on his desk. -</p> -<p> -"He just dropped in for a minute," he answered easily. "How's everything -at home?" -</p> -<p> -"All right." She looked at him with curiosity. "What did he want?" she -insisted. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, he just wanted to see me about something." -</p> -<p> -"What?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, just something. Business." -</p> -<p> -"Why were his eyes red?" -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"You might as well tell me," she announced cheerfully, "because I'm -going to stay right here till you do." -</p> -<p> -"Well—" he hesitated, frowning. "He wanted me to do him a little -favor." -</p> -<p> -Then Jaqueline understood, or rather her mind leaped half accidentally -to the truth. -</p> -<p> -"Oh." Her voice tightened a little. "You've been lending him some -money." -</p> -<p> -"Only a little." -</p> -<p> -"How much?" -</p> -<p> -"Only three hundred." -</p> -<p> -"<i>Only</i> three hundred." The voice was of the texture of Bessemer -cooled. "How much do we spend a month, Jim?" -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -"And he knows you're famous for being an easy mark, so he comes to you," -interrupted Jaqueline. -</p> -<p> -"No." He denied this formally. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -The lingering smile faded from Mather's face. He went over and shut the -door to the outer office. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Jaqueline gave her shoulders a twist as if to shake off this reasoning. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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— -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -When they left the car at last Jaqueline exploded. -</p> -<p> -"You big <i>fool</i>!" she cried wildly. "Did you see that horrible -woman you gave your seat to? Why don't you consider <i>me</i> -occasionally instead of every fat selfish washwoman you meet?" -</p> -<p> -"How should I know——" -</p> -<p> -But Jaqueline was as angry at him as she had ever been—it was unusual -for any one to get angry at him. -</p> -<p> -"You didn't see any of those men getting up for <i>me</i>, 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 <i>wash</i>woman -that's strong as an ox and <i>likes</i> to stand up!" -</p> -<p> -They were walking along the slushy street stepping wildly into great -pools of water. Confused and distressed, Mather could utter neither -apology nor defense. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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: -</p> -<p> -"What do you think of it? Just got it this morning." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Jim," she began breathlessly, "did Bronson ever pay you that three -hundred?" -</p> -<p> -"Why—no," he answered hesitantly, "not yet. He was in here last week -and he explained that he was a little bit hard up." -</p> -<p> -Her eyes gleamed with angry triumph. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, he did?" she snapped. "Well, he's just bought a new sport roadster -that must have cost anyhow twenty-five hundred dollars." -</p> -<p> -He shook his head, unbelieving. -</p> -<p> -"I saw it," she insisted. "I heard him say he'd just bought it." -</p> -<p> -"He <i>told</i> me he was hard up," repeated Mather helplessly. -</p> -<p> -Jaqueline audibly gave up by heaving a profound noise, a sort of -groanish sigh. -</p> -<p> -"He was <i>u</i>sing you! He knew you were easy and he was <i>u</i>sing you. -Can't you see? He wanted <i>you</i> to buy him the car and you <i>did</i>!" -She laughed bitterly. "He's probably roaring his sides out to think how -easily he worked you." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no," protested Mather with a shocked expression, "you must have -mistaken somebody for him——" -</p> -<p> -"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 -<i>hogs</i>, and come home too dead tired to even <i>move</i>. 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 <i>used</i>! 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!" -</p> -<p> -As she finished her invective Jaqueline reeled suddenly and sank into a -chair—nervously exhausted. -</p> -<p> -"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 <i>every</i> one, it's spread <i>so</i> thin when it -reaches me——" -</p> -<p> -He knelt by her side, moving her tired young head until it lay against -his shoulder. -</p> -<p> -"I'm sorry, Jaqueline," he said humbly, "I'll be more careful. I didn't -realize what I was doing." -</p> -<p> -"You're the dearest person in the world," murmured Jaqueline huskily, -"but I want all of you and the best of you for me." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I beg your pardon." -</p> -<p> -"What is it?" -</p> -<p> -"A boy's here with some boxes. It's C.O.D." -</p> -<p> -Mather rose and followed Miss Clancy into the outer office. -</p> -<p> -"It's fifty dollars." -</p> -<p> -He searched his wallet—he had omitted to go to the bank that morning. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"Morning, Fred," said Mather. -</p> -<p> -Drake, a little man of thirty with pince-nez and bald head, rose and -shook hands. -</p> -<p> -"Morning, Jim. What can I do for you?" -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -Drake looked closely at Mather. Then, slowly and startlingly, he shook -his head—not up and down but from side to side. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"What?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"All right, Jack," he said slowly, "I guess you're right about most -things, and I'm wrong as hell." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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? -</p> -<p> -She came to his door now, and he looked up faintly frowning. -</p> -<p> -"Mr. Edward Lacy." -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"Good afternoon, Mr. Mather." -</p> -<p> -A little, solemn, gray-haired man stood on the threshold. Mather rose -and greeted him politely. -</p> -<p> -"Are you busy, Mr. Mather?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, not so <i>very</i>." He stressed the qualifying word slightly. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Mather nodded. -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Mr. Lacy paused. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I'm now an old man, Mr. Mather," the cracked voice went on. "I've made -a failure—I <i>am</i> 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." -</p> -<p> -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.... -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I'm sorry, Mr. Lacy," he interrupted as gently as possible, "but I -can't lend you that money." -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -Mather fixed his eyes determinately upon his blotter. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -His voice sank to a sort of mumble. He found himself saying -platitudinously that business was bad—saying it with revolting -facility. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Girl fainted up here!" -</p> -<p> -"Too hot for her!" -</p> -<p> -"Just keeled right over!" -</p> -<p> -"Get back there! Gangway, you!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Get her out all right?" -</p> -<p> -"Say, did you see that?" -</p> -<p> -"This damn' company ought to——" -</p> -<p> -"Did you see the man that carried her out? He was pale as a ghost, too." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, but did you hear——?" -</p> -<p> -"What?" -</p> -<p> -"That fella. That pale fella that carried her out. He was sittin' beside -her—he says she's his wife!" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I think I'll go to bed now. I'm so tired. Will you help me up?" -</p> -<p> -He lifted her and then laid her back among the pillows. -</p> -<p> -"I'll be with you in a minute," he said gently. "Can you wait for just a -minute?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Hello, is Mr. Lacy there? Why—yes, it <i>is</i> pretty -important—if he hasn't gone to sleep." -</p> -<p> -A pause. Jaqueline could hear restless sparrows splattering through the -leaves of the magnolia over the way. Then her husband at the telephone: -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="SENSIBLE">"THE SENSIBLE THING"</a></h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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 ... -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I want to see you, Mr. Chambers," he announced breathlessly. -</p> -<p> -"Well?" Two eyes, eyes like winter windows, glared at him with ruthless -impersonality. -</p> -<p> -"I want to get four days' vacation." -</p> -<p> -"Why, you had a vacation just two weeks ago!" said Mr. Chambers in -surprise. -</p> -<p> -"That's true," admitted the distraught young man, "but now I've got to -have another." -</p> -<p> -"Where'd you go last time? To your home?" -</p> -<p> -"No, I went to—a place in Tennessee." -</p> -<p> -"Well, where do you want to go this time?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, this time I want to go to—a place in Tennessee." -</p> -<p> -"You're consistent, anyhow," said the manager dryly. "But I didn't -realize you were employed here as a travelling salesman." -</p> -<p> -"I'm not," cried George desperately, "but I've got to go." -</p> -<p> -"All right," agreed Mr. Chambers, "but you don't have to come back. So -don't!" -</p> -<p> -"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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"This is Mr. Craddock and Mr. Holt," she announced cheerfully. "You met -them when you were here before." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Is this street on the way to your house?" he whispered. "I don't -recognize it." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Everything's going fine," he told them with enthusiasm. "I've been -promoted—better salary." -</p> -<p> -He was miserable as he said this—but they were all <i>so</i> glad. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"I told them they had to," explained George hastily; "I told them if -they didn't I wouldn't work for them any more." -</p> -<p> -"But you ought to save your money," Mrs. Cary reproached him gently. -"Not spend it all on this expensive trip." -</p> -<p> -Dinner was over—he and Jonquil were alone and she came back into his -arms. -</p> -<p> -"So glad you're here," she sighed. "Wish you never were going away -again, darling." -</p> -<p> -"Do you miss me?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, so much, so much." -</p> -<p> -"Do you—do other men come to see you often? Like those two kids?" -</p> -<p> -The question surprised her. The dark velvet eyes stared at him. -</p> -<p> -"Why, of course they do. All the time. Why—I've told you in letters -that they did, dearest." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"What do you mean?" he blurted out in a panic. "Do you mean you think -I'll never have enough money to marry you?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, don't jump at conclusions so, George." -</p> -<p> -"I'm not jumping at conclusions. That's what you said." -</p> -<p> -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: -</p> -<p> -"It's hot. I'm going to get the electric fan." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"When will you marry me?" -</p> -<p> -"Are you ready for me to marry you?" -</p> -<p> -All at once his nerves gave way, and he sprang to his feet. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -To prove that he wasn't nervous he left the couch and plumped himself -into a rocking-chair across the room. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -"You don't have to come if you don't want to." -</p> -<p> -"But I <i>do</i> want to!" insisted George. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"There's no use going on," she said miserably, "you know you hate the -insurance business, and you'll never do well in it." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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: -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -He made wild accusations—there was some one else—she was -keeping something from him! -</p> -<p> -"No, there's no one else." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -For a while she was sorry, then for another while she was merely kind. -</p> -<p> -"You'd better go now," she cried at last, so loud that Mrs. Cary came -down-stairs in alarm. -</p> -<p> -"Is something the matter?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm going away, Mrs. Cary," said George brokenly. Jonquil had left the -room. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -"Please don't talk," he cried. "Please don't say anything to me now!" -</p> -<p> -Jonquil came into the room again, her sorrow and her nervousness alike -tucked under powder and rouge and hat. -</p> -<p> -"I've ordered a taxicab," she said impersonally. "We can drive around -until your train leaves." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I'll come back," he told her. -</p> -<p> -"I know you will," she answered, trying to put a cheery faith into her -voice. "And we'll write each other—sometimes." -</p> -<p> -"No," he said, "we won't write. I couldn't stand that. Some day I'll -come back." -</p> -<p> -"I'll never forget you, George." -</p> -<p> -They reached the station, and she went with him while he bought his -ticket.... -</p> -<p> -"Why, George O'Kelly and Jonquil Cary!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Good-by, George," she was saying, "I hope you have a pleasant trip. -</p> -<p> -"Good-by, George. Come back and see us all again." -</p> -<p> -Dumb, almost blind with pain, he seized his suitcase, and in some dazed -way got himself aboard the train. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Is Miss Jonquil in?" -</p> -<p> -"This is she." -</p> -<p> -"Oh—" His voice after overcoming a faint tendency to waver went on -with friendly formality. -</p> -<p> -"This is George Rollins. Did you get my letter?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes. I thought you'd be in to-day." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I haven't seen you for—a long time." He succeeded in making this -sound offhand. "Over a year." -</p> -<p> -He knew how long it had been—to the day. -</p> -<p> -"It'll be awfully nice to talk to you again." -</p> -<p> -"I'll be there in about an hour." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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 -<i>not</i> be met at the station. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"You've come back," she said, and he answered just as tritely: "I wanted -to stop in and see you as I came through." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"This is ridiculous," he broke out in sudden embarrassment. "I don't -know exactly what to do. Does my being here bother you?" -</p> -<p> -"No." The answer was both reticent and impersonally sad. It depressed -him. -</p> -<p> -"Are you engaged?" he demanded. -</p> -<p> -"No." -</p> -<p> -"Are you in love with some one?" -</p> -<p> -She shook her head. -</p> -<p> -"Oh." He leaned back in his chair. Another subject seemed -exhausted—the interview was not taking the course he had intended. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -She made no comment, sat without moving, her eyes fixed on him with an -expression that might have meant everything or nothing. -</p> -<p> -"You don't love me any more, do you?" he asked her in a level voice. -</p> -<p> -"No." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"You won't marry me, will you?" he said quietly. -</p> -<p> -Jonquil shook her dark head. -</p> -<p> -"I'm never going to marry," she answered. -</p> -<p> -He nodded. -</p> -<p> -"I'm going on to Washington in the morning," he said. -</p> -<p> -"Oh——" -</p> -<p> -"I have to go. I've got to be in New York by the first, and meanwhile I -want to stop off in Washington." -</p> -<p> -"Business!" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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—— -</p> -<p> -"A chance for anybody but a fool?" she interrupted innocently. -</p> -<p> -"Even for a fool," he continued. "It was wonderful. Well, I wired New -York——" -</p> -<p> -"And so," she interrupted again, "they wired that you ought to take a -chance?" -</p> -<p> -"Ought to!" he exclaimed, still leaning back. "That I <i>had</i> to. There -was no time to lose——" -</p> -<p> -"Not a minute?" -</p> -<p> -"Not a minute." -</p> -<p> -"Not even time for—" she paused. -</p> -<p> -"For what?" -</p> -<p> -"Look." -</p> -<p> -He bent his head forward suddenly, and she drew herself to him in the -same moment, her lips half open like a flower. -</p> -<p> -"Yes," he whispered into her lips. "There's all the time in the -world...." -</p> -<p> -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.... -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="GRETCHENS">GRETCHEN'S FORTY WINKS</a></h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>goes</i>!" punctuated by wild threats and vague bumpings and the -recurrent sound of small, venturing feet. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Gretchen!" -</p> -<p> -"Hello, dear." Her voice was full of laughter. "Come see baby." -</p> -<p> -He swore softly. -</p> -<p> -"I can't see baby now," he said aloud. "How long 'fore you'll be down?" -</p> -<p> -There was a mysterious pause, and then a succession of "Don'ts" and -"Look outs, Maxy" evidently meant to avert some threatened catastrophe. -</p> -<p> -"How long 'fore you'll be down?" repeated Roger, slightly irritated. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I'll be right down." -</p> -<p> -"How soon?" he shouted. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Come in here," he said abruptly. "I want to talk to you." -</p> -<p> -His wife, a bright-colored, Titian-haired girl, vivid as a French rag -doll, followed him into the living-room. -</p> -<p> -"Listen, Gretchen"—he sat down at the end of the -sofa—"beginning with to-night I'm going to—What's the -matter?" -</p> -<p> -"Nothing. I'm just looking for a cigarette. Go on." -</p> -<p> -She tiptoed breathlessly back to the sofa and settled at the other end. -</p> -<p> -"Gretchen—" Again he broke off. Her hand, palm upward, was extended -toward him. "Well, what is it?" he asked wildly. -</p> -<p> -"Matches." -</p> -<p> -"What?" -</p> -<p> -In his impatience it seemed incredible that she should ask for matches, -but he fumbled automatically in his pocket. -</p> -<p> -"Thank you," she whispered. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. Go on." -</p> -<p> -"Gretch——" -</p> -<p> -Scratch! The match flared. They exchanged a tense look. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"When you've got time to listen," he said crossly, "you might be -interested in discussing the poorhouse question with me." -</p> -<p> -"What poorhouse?" Her eyes were wide, startled; she sat quiet as a -mouse. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Six months ago I left the New York Lithographic Company," announced -Roger, "and went in the advertising business for myself." -</p> -<p> -"I know," interrupted Gretchen resentfully; "and now instead of getting -six hundred a month sure, we're living on a risky five hundred." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -"Don't worry about me," he interrupted; "I'm all right. But you're going -to be bored to death sitting here every evening." -</p> -<p> -"No, I won't," she said without conviction—"except to-night." -</p> -<p> -"What about to-night?" -</p> -<p> -"George Tompkins asked us to dinner." -</p> -<p> -"Did you accept?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"When I go to a nicer neighborhood I want to go for good," he said -grimly. -</p> -<p> -"Well, can we go?" -</p> -<p> -"I suppose we'll have to if you've accepted." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"We ought to see each other more," he told Roger to-night. "You ought to -go out more often, old boy. Cocktail?" -</p> -<p> -"No, thanks." -</p> -<p> -"No? Well, your fair wife will—won't you, Gretchen?" -</p> -<p> -"I love this house," she exclaimed, taking the glass and looking -admiringly at ship models, Colonial whiskey bottles, and other -fashionable débris of 1925. -</p> -<p> -"I like it," said Tompkins with satisfaction. "I did it to please -myself, and I succeeded." -</p> -<p> -Roger stared moodily around the stiff, plain room, wondering if they -could have blundered into the kitchen by mistake. -</p> -<p> -"You look like the devil, Roger," said his host. "Have a cocktail and -cheer up." -</p> -<p> -"Have one," urged Gretchen. -</p> -<p> -"What?" Roger turned around absently. "Oh, no, thanks. I've got to work -after I get home." -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"That's what I tell him," said Gretchen. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Roger laughed shortly. -</p> -<p> -"You've been going to the movies too much," he said dryly. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"What's that?" demanded Roger. -</p> -<p> -"Well"—he hesitated—"probably the best way to tell you would be -to describe my own day. Would that seem horribly egotistic?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no!" Gretchen looked at him with interest. "I'd love to hear about -it." -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"No," admitted Roger, "I take a hot bath in the evening three or four -times a week." -</p> -<p> -A horrified silence fell. Tompkins and Gretchen exchanged a glance as if -something obscene had been said. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Tompkins gave a prolonged sigh. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"It must be wonderful," said Gretchen enthusiastically. "I wish we lived -like that." -</p> -<p> -Tompkins bent forward earnestly over the table. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -He broke off. Roger had perceptibly yawned. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -Tompkins shook his head sadly. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"I don't mind," protested Gretchen loyally. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Your ideas on women are about twenty years out of date," said Tompkins -pityingly. "Women won't sit down and wait any more." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Let's not talk about it," said Gretchen impatiently. "Please, Roger, -let's have a good time just this once." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I can make more money than he can," he said tensely. "And I'll be doing -it in just forty days." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Why don't you, honey? Just take forty winks, and when you wake up -everything'll be fine." -</p> -<p> -She was silent for a moment. -</p> -<p> -"Roger," she asked thoughtfully, "do you think George meant what he said -about taking me horseback riding on Sunday?" -</p> -<p> -Roger frowned. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -With their arms about each other, they started up the walk to the house. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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—— -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"What's the matter?" -</p> -<p> -She nodded at the bills. He ran through them, his brow wrinkling in a -frown. -</p> -<p> -"Gosh!" -</p> -<p> -"I can't help it," she burst out suddenly. "They're terrible." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -She regarded him coldly. -</p> -<p> -"You talk as if I were a child." -</p> -<p> -"I have to," he said with sudden irritation. -</p> -<p> -"Well, at least I'm not a piece of bric-à-brac that you can just put -somewhere and forget." -</p> -<p> -He knelt down by her quickly, and took her arms in his hands. -</p> -<p> -"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!" -</p> -<p> -"You know I love you." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Roger," she protested, "I thought you didn't have to work -to-night." -</p> -<p> -"I didn't think I'd have to, but something came up." -</p> -<p> -"I've invited George Tompkins over." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, gosh!" he exclaimed. "Well, I'm sorry, honey, but you'll have to -phone him not to come." -</p> -<p> -"He's left," she said. "He's coming straight from town. He'll be here -any minute now." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -George Tompkins arrived breezily at eight o'clock. -</p> -<p> -"Aha!" he cried reprovingly, coming into the room. "Still at it." -</p> -<p> -Roger agreed coolly that he was. -</p> -<p> -"Better quit—better quit before you have to." -</p> -<p> -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!" -</p> -<p> -"If you'll excuse me"—Roger made his voice as polite as -possible—"I'm going up-stairs and finish this work." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, hello!" cried Gretchen, rather unnecessarily, he thought. "We were -just discussing you." -</p> -<p> -"Thank you," he answered ironically. "What particular part of my anatomy -was under the scalpel?" -</p> -<p> -"Your health," said Tompkins jovially. -</p> -<p> -"My health's all right," answered Roger shortly. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Are you implying that my work is useless?" demanded Tompkins -incredulously. -</p> -<p> -"No; not if it brings happiness to some poor sucker of a pants -manufacturer who doesn't know how to spend his money." -</p> -<p> -Tompkins and Gretchen exchanged a glance. -</p> -<p> -"Oh-h-h!" exclaimed Tompkins ironically. "I didn't realize that all -these years I've just been wasting my time." -</p> -<p> -"You're a loafer," said Roger rudely. -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -Both men were angry now, and their voices had risen, though on -Tompkins's face there still remained the semblance of a smile. -</p> -<p> -"What I object to," said Roger steadily, "is that for the last six weeks -you seem to have done all your playing around here." -</p> -<p> -"Roger!" cried Gretchen. "What do you mean by talking like that?" -</p> -<p> -"Just what I said." -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -"You get out of here!" cried Roger fiercely. "You get out of here right -now—before I throw you out!" -</p> -<p> -Tompkins got angrily to his feet. -</p> -<p> -"You—you throw me out?" he cried incredulously. -</p> -<p> -They were actually moving toward each other when Gretchen stepped -between them, and grabbing Tompkins's arm urged him toward the door. -</p> -<p> -"He's acting like a fool, George, but you better get out," she cried, -groping in the hall for his hat. -</p> -<p> -"He insulted me!" shouted Tompkins. "He threatened to throw me out!" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -She opened the door. -</p> -<p> -"You won't see him at ten o'clock to-morrow," said Roger steadily. "He's -not coming to this house any more." -</p> -<p> -Tompkins turned to Gretchen. -</p> -<p> -"It's his house," he suggested. "Perhaps we'd better meet at mine." -</p> -<p> -Then he was gone, and Gretchen had shut the door behind him. Her eyes -were full of angry tears. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -She threw herself on the sofa and began to cry passionately into the -pillows. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"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?" -</p> -<p> -"Gretchen," he said coldly, "get up and put on your hat and coat and go -out that door and never come back!" -</p> -<p> -Her mouth fell slightly ajar. -</p> -<p> -"But I don't want to get out," she said dazedly. -</p> -<p> -"Well, then, behave yourself." And he added in a gentler voice: "I -thought you were going to sleep for this forty days." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -She looked at him with rage in her eyes. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I've got to sleep," he whispered to himself tensely. "Otherwise I'm -going crazy." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Stop! Stop! Stop!" the clock said. "Stop! Stop! Stop!" -</p> -<p> -"I can't stop," he answered aloud. "I can't afford to stop." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Is Mr. Kingsley down yet?" -</p> -<p> -The druggist's head appeared around the corner of the prescription-room. -</p> -<p> -"I wonder if I can talk to you alone." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"I don't want any breakfast," she said coldly, and his heart sank, -"except some coffee." -</p> -<p> -"No breakfast?" Roger's voice expressed disappointment. -</p> -<p> -"I said I'd take some coffee." -</p> -<p> -Roger discreetly deposited the tray on a table beside the bed and -returned quickly to the kitchen. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Mr. Golden, the superintendent of the building, to see you." -</p> -<p> -Roger turned around dazedly. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, how do?" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Going on a trip?" he asked pointedly. -</p> -<p> -"What? Oh, no. That's just some clothes." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Help yourself." -</p> -<p> -Mr. Golden picked it up with a deprecatory gesture. -</p> -<p> -"Just a matter of form," he remarked. -</p> -<p> -"I understand," said Roger, swinging around to his desk. "Good -afternoon." -</p> -<p> -Mr. Golden seemed to feel that the conversation should close on a softer -key. -</p> -<p> -"And don't work too hard, Mr. Halsey. You don't want to have a nervous -break——" -</p> -<p> -"No," shouted Roger, "I don't. But I will if you don't leave me alone." -</p> -<p> -As the door closed behind Mr. Golden, Roger's stenographer turned -sympathetically around. -</p> -<p> -"You shouldn't have let him get away with that," she said. "What's in -there? Clothes?" -</p> -<p> -"No," answered Roger absently. "Just all my wife's shoes." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"Hello." -</p> -<p> -"Is this the Halsey agency?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, this is Mr. Halsey speaking." -</p> -<p> -"This is Mr. H. G. Garrod." -</p> -<p> -Roger's heart stopped beating. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, God!" cried Roger into the transmitter. -</p> -<p> -"What?" Mr. H. G. Garrod was considerably startled. "Say, wait a minute -there!" -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"What time is it?" she demanded. -</p> -<p> -He looked at his watch. -</p> -<p> -"Twelve o'clock." -</p> -<p> -Suddenly she began to cry. -</p> -<p> -"Roger," she said brokenly, "I'm sorry I was so bad last night." -</p> -<p> -He nodded coolly. -</p> -<p> -"Everything's all right now," he answered. Then, after a pause: "I've -got the account—the biggest one." -</p> -<p> -She turned toward him quickly. -</p> -<p> -"You have?" Then, after a minute's silence: "Can I get a new dress?" -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -She looked at him, startled. -</p> -<p> -"Forty thousand a year!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"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'." -</p> -<p> -"I don't want an interior-decoration shop." -</p> -<p> -"Forty thousand a year!" she repeated again, and then added softly: -"Oh, Roger——" -</p> -<p> -"Yes?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm not going out with George Tompkins." -</p> -<p> -"I wouldn't let you, even if you wanted to," he said shortly. -</p> -<p> -She made a show of indignation. -</p> -<p> -"Why, I've had a date with him for this Thursday for weeks." -</p> -<p> -"It isn't Thursday." -</p> -<p> -"It is." -</p> -<p> -"It's Friday." -</p> -<p> -"Why, Roger, you must be crazy! Don't you think I know what day it is?" -</p> -<p> -"It isn't Thursday," he said stubbornly. "Look!" And he held out the -morning paper. -</p> -<p> -"Friday!" she exclaimed. "Why, this is a mistake! This must be last -week's paper. To-day's Thursday." -</p> -<p> -She closed her eyes and thought for a moment. -</p> -<p> -"Yesterday was Wednesday," she said decisively. "The laundress came -yesterday. I guess I know." -</p> -<p> -"Well," he said smugly, "look at the paper. There isn't any question -about it." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -"What's the matter?" he inquired, putting his head around the corner of -the bathroom. -</p> -<p> -"I'm scared," she said in a trembling voice. "I think my nerves are -giving away. I can't find any of my shoes." -</p> -<p> -"Your shoes? Why, the closet's full of them." -</p> -<p> -"I know, but I can't see one." Her face was pale with fear. "Oh, Roger!" -</p> -<p> -Roger came to her bedside and put his arm around her. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Roger," she cried, "what's the matter with me? First that -newspaper, and now all my shoes. Take care of me, Roger." -</p> -<p> -"I'll get the doctor," he said. -</p> -<p> -He walked remorselessly to the telephone and took up the receiver. -</p> -<p> -"Phone seems to be out of order," he remarked after a minute; "I'll send -Bebé." -</p> -<p> -The doctor arrived in ten minutes. -</p> -<p> -"I think I'm on the verge of a collapse," Gretchen told him in a -strained voice. -</p> -<p> -Doctor Gregory sat down on the edge of the bed and took her wrist in his -hand. -</p> -<p> -"It seems to be in the air this morning." -</p> -<p> -"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——" -</p> -<p> -"What?" exclaimed the doctor in surprise. Then he laughed. -</p> -<p> -"George Tompkins won't go riding with any one for many days to come." -</p> -<p> -"Has he gone away?" asked Gretchen curiously. -</p> -<p> -"He's going West." -</p> -<p> -"Why?" demanded Roger. "Is he running away with somebody's wife?" -</p> -<p> -"No," said Doctor Gregory. "He 's had a nervous breakdown." -</p> -<p> -"What?" they exclaimed in unison. -</p> -<p> -"He just collapsed like an opera-hat in his cold shower." -</p> -<p> -"But he was always talking about his—his balanced life," gasped -Gretchen. "He had it on his mind." -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"At what?" demanded Roger in bewilderment. -</p> -<p> -"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." -</p> -<p> -"Doctor," exclaimed Roger hoarsely, "don't you think I'd better have a -rest or something? I've been working pretty hard lately." -</p> -<p> -"You!" Doctor Gregory laughed, slapped him violently on the back. "My -boy, I never saw you looking better in your life." -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'> -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THE SAD YOUNG MEN ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. -</div> - -<div style='margin-top:1em; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE</div> -<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE</div> -<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person -or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the -Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when -you share it without charge with others. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work -on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the -phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: -</div> - -<blockquote> - <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most - other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions - whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms - of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online - at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you - are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws - of the country where you are located before using this eBook. - </div> -</blockquote> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg™ License. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format -other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain -Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -provided that: -</div> - -<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation.” - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ - works. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. - </div> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right -of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread -public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state -visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. -</div> - -</div> -</body> - -</html> diff --git a/old/68229-h/images/young_cover.jpg b/old/68229-h/images/young_cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 1ca726b..0000000 --- a/old/68229-h/images/young_cover.jpg +++ /dev/null |
