[Illustration: "'I will teach you to love me, ' he cried. "]

THE GRAIN OF DUST

_A NOVEL_

BY DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS

ILLUSTRATED BY A. B. WENZELL

1911

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"'I will teach you to love he, ' he cried"

"'You won't make an out-and-out idiot of yourself, will you Ursula?'"

"'Would you like to think I was marrying you for what you have?--or forany other reason whatever but for what you are?'"

"'It has killed me, ' he groaned. "

"She glanced complacently down at her softly glistening shoulders. "

"'Father . . . I have asked you not to interfere between Fred and me. '"

"Evidently she had been crying. "

"At Josephine's right sat a handsome young foreigner. "

THE GRAIN OF DUST

I

Into the offices of Lockyer, Sanders, Benchley, Lockyer & Norman, corporation lawyers, there drifted on a December afternoon a girl insearch of work at stenography and typewriting. The firm was about themost important and most famous--radical orators often said infamous--inNew York. The girl seemed, at a glance, about as unimportant and obscurean atom as the city hid in its vast ferment. She was blonde--tawny hair, fair skin, blue eyes. Aside from this hardly conclusive mark of identitythere was nothing positive, nothing definite, about her. She was neithertall nor short, neither fat nor thin, neither grave nor gay. She gavethe impression of a young person of the feminine gender--that, andnothing more. She was plainly dressed, like thousands of other girls, in darkish blue jacket and skirt and white shirt waist. Her boots andgloves were neat, her hair simply and well arranged. Perhaps in theserespects--in neatness and taste--she did excel the average, which isdepressingly low. But in a city where more or less strikingly prettywomen, bent upon being seen, are as plentiful as the blackberries ofKentucky's July--in New York no one would have given her a second look, this quiet young woman screened in an atmosphere of self-effacement. 

She applied to the head clerk. It so happened that need for anothertypewriter had just arisen. She got a trial, showed enough skill towarrant the modest wage of ten dollars a week; she became part of theoffice force of twenty or twenty-five young men and women similarlyemployed. As her lack of skill was compensated by industry andregularity, she would have a job so long as business did not slacken. When it did, she would be among the first to be let go. She shrank intoher obscure niche in the great firm, came and went in mouse-likefashion, said little, obtruded herself never, was all but forgotten. 

Nothing could have been more commonplace, more trivial than the wholeincident. The name of the girl was Hallowell--Miss Hallowell. On thechief clerk's pay roll appeared the additional information that herfirst name was Dorothea. The head office boy, in one of his occasionalspells of "freshness, " addressed her as Miss Dottie. She looked at himwith a puzzled expression; it presently changed to a slight, sweetsmile, and she went about her business. There was no rebuke in hermanner, she was far too self-effacing for anything so positive as themildest rebuke. But the head office boy blushed awkwardly--why he didnot know and could not discover, though he often cogitated upon it. Sheremained Miss Hallowell. 

Opposites suggest each other. The dimmest personality in those officeswas the girl whose name imaged to everyone little more than a pencil, notebook, and typewriting machine. The vividest personality wasFrederick Norman. In the list of names upon the outer doors of thefirm's vast labyrinthine suite, on the seventeenth floor of theSyndicate Building, his name came last--and, in the newest lettering, suggesting recentness of partnership. In age he was the youngest of thepartners. Lockyer was archaic, Sanders an antique; Benchley, actuallyonly about fifty-five, had the air of one born in the grandfather class. Lockyer the son dyed his hair and affected jauntiness, but was in factnot many years younger than Benchley and had the stiffening jerky legsof one paying for a lively youth. Norman was thirty-seven--at the agethe Greeks extolled as divine because it means all the best of youthcombined with all the best of manhood. Some people thought Normanyounger, almost boyish. Those knew him uptown only, where he hid the manof affairs beneath the man of the world-that-amuses-itself. Some peoplethought he looked, and was, older than the age with which thebiographical notices credited him. They knew him down town only--wherehe dominated by sheer force of intellect and will. 

As has been said, the firm ranked among the greatest in New York. It was a trusted counselor in large affairs--commercial, financial, political--in all parts of America, in all parts of the globe, for manyof its clients were international traffickers. Yet this young man, thisyoungest and most recent of the partners, had within the month forced areorganization of the firm--or, rather, of its profits--on a basis thatgave him no less than one half of the whole. 

His demand threw his four associates into paroxysms of rage andfear--the fear serving as a wholesome antidote to the rage. 

It certainly was infuriating that a youth, admitted to partnershipbarely three years ago, should thus maltreat his associates. Ingratewas precisely the epithet for him. At least, so they honestly thought, after the quaint human fashion; for, because they had given him thepartnership, they looked on themselves as his benefactors, and neglectedas unimportant detail the sole and entirely selfish reason for theirgraciousness. But enraged though these worthy gentlemen were, andeagerly though they longed to treat the "conceited and grasping upstart"as he richly deserved, they accepted his ultimatum. Even the venerableand venerated Lockyer--than whom a more convinced self-deceiver on thesubject of his own virtues never wore white whiskers, black garments, and the other badges of eminent respectability--even old Joseph Lockyercould not twist the acceptance into another manifestation of thebenevolence of himself and his associates. They had to stare thegrimacing truth straight in the face; they were yielding because theydared not refuse. To refuse would mean the departure of Norman with thefirm's most profitable business. It costs heavily to live in New York;the families of successful men are extravagant; so conduct unbecoming agentleman may not there be resented if to resent is to cut down one'sincome. The time was, as the dignified and nicely honorable Sandersobserved, when these and many similar low standards did not prevail inthe legal profession. But such is the frailty of human nature--or sosavage the pressure of the need of the material necessities of civilizedlife, let a profession become profitable or develop possibilities ofprofit--even the profession of statesman, even that of lawyer--ordoctor--or priest--or wife--and straightway it begins to tumble downtoward the brawl and stew of the market place. 

In a last effort to rouse the gentleman in Norman or to shame him intopretense of gentlemanliness, Lockyer expostulated with him like aprophet priest in full panoply of saintly virtue. And Lockyer waspassing good at that exalted gesture. He was a Websterian figure, with the venality of the great Daniel in all its pompous dignitymodernized--and correspondingly expanded. He abounded in those idealistsonorosities that are the stock-in-trade of all solemn old-fashionedfrauds. The young man listened with his wonted attentive courtesy untilthe dolorous appeal disguised as fatherly counsel came to an end. Thenin his blue-gray eyes appeared the gleam that revealed the tenacity andthe penetration of his mind. He said:

"Mr. Lockyer, you have been absent six years--except an occasional twoor three weeks--absent as American Ambassador to France. You have donenothing for the firm in that time. Yet you have not scorned to takeprofits you did not earn. Why should I scorn to take profits I do earn?"

Mr. Lockyer shook his picturesque head in sad remonstrance at thisvulgar, coarse, but latterly frequent retort of insurgent democracy uponindignant aristocracy. But he answered nothing. 

"Also, " proceeded the graceless youth in the clear and concise way thatwon the instant attention of juries and Judges, "also, our professionis no longer a profession but a business. " His humorous eyes twinkledmerrily. "It divides into two parts--teaching capitalists how to lootwithout being caught, and teaching them how to get off if by chancethey have been caught. There are other branches of the profession, butthey're not lucrative, so we do not practice them. Do I make myselfclear?"

Mr. Lockyer again shook his head and sighed. 

"I am not an Utopian, " continued young Norman. "Law and custompermit--not to say sanctify--our sort of business. So--I do my best. ButI shall not conceal from you that it's distasteful to me. I wish to getout of it. I shall get out as soon as I've made enough capital to assureme the income I have and need. Naturally, I wish to gather in thenecessary amount as speedily as possible. "

"Fred, my boy, I regret that you take such low views of our nobleprofession. "

"Yes--as a profession it is noble. But not as a practice. _My_ regret isthat it invites and compels such low views. "

"You will look at these things more--more mellowly when you are older. "

"I doubt if I'll ever rise very high in the art of self-deception, "replied Norman. "If I'd had any bent that way I'd not have got so far soquickly. "

It was a boastful remark--of a kind he, and other similar young men, have the habit of making. But from him it did not sound boastful--simplya frank and timely expression of an indisputable truth, which indeed itwas. Once more Mr. Lockyer sighed. "I see you are incorrigible, " saidhe. 

"I have not acted without reflection, " said Norman. 

And Lockyer knew that to persist was simply to endanger his dignity. "I am getting old, " said he. "Indeed, I am old. I have gotten into thehabit of leaning on you, my boy. I can't consent to your going, hardthough you make it for us to keep you. I shall try to persuade ourcolleagues to accept your terms. "

Norman showed neither appreciation nor triumph. He merely bowedslightly. And so the matter was settled. Instead of moving into thesuite of offices in the Mills Building on which he had taken an option, young Norman remained where he had been toiling for twelve years. 

After this specimen of Norman's quality, no one will be surprised tolearn that in figure he was one of those solidly built men of mediumheight who look as if they were made to sustain and to deliver shocks, to bear up easily under heavy burdens; or that his head thickly coveredwith fairish hair, was hatchet-shaped with the helve or face suggestingthat while it could and would cleave any obstacle, it would wear a merryif somewhat sardonic smile the while. No one had ever seen Norman angry, though a few persevering offenders against what he regarded as hisrights had felt the results of swift and powerful action of the samesort that is usually accompanied--and weakened--by outward show ofanger. Invariably good-humored, he was soon seen to be more dangerousthan the men of flaring temper. In most instances good humor ofthus unbreakable species issues from weakness, from a desire toconciliate--usually with a view to plucking the more easily. Norman'sgood humor arose from a sense of absolute security which in turn was theproduct of confidence in himself and amiable disdain for his fellow men. The masses he held in derision for permitting the classes to rule androb and spit upon them. The classes he scorned for caring to occupythemselves with so cheap and sordid a game as the ruling, robbing, andspitting aforesaid. Coming down to the specific, he despised men asindividuals because he had always found in each and everyone of them aweakness that made it easy for him to use them as he pleased. 

Not an altogether pleasant character, this. But not so unpleasant as itmay seem to those unable impartially to analyze human character, eventheir own--especially their own. And let anyone who is disposed tocondemn Norman first look within himself--in some less hypocritical andself-deceiving moment, if he have such moments--and let him note whatare the qualities he relies upon and uses in his own struggle to savehimself from being submerged and sunk. Further, there were in Normanmany agreeable qualities, important, but less fundamental, thereforeless deep-hidden--therefore generally regarded as the real man and asthe cause of his success in which they in fact had almost no part. Hewas, for example, of striking physical appearance, was attractivelydressed and mannered, was prodigally generous. Neither as lawyer nor asman did he practice justice. But while as lawyer he practiced injustice, as man he practiced mercy. Whenever a weakling appealed to him forprotection, he gave it--at times with splendid recklessness as to thecost to himself in antagonisms and enmities. Indeed, so great werethe generosities of his character that, had he not been arrogant, disdainful, self-confident, resolutely and single-heartedly ambitious, he must inevitably have ruined himself--if he had ever been able to risehigh enough to be worthy the dignity of catastrophe. 

Successful men are usually trying persons to know well. Lambs, asses, and chickens do not associate happily with lions, wolves, and hawks--nordo birds and beasts of prey get on well with one another. Norman wasregarded as "difficult" by his friends--by those of them who happened toget into the path of his ambition, in front of instead of behind him, and by those who fell into the not unnatural error of misunderstandinghis good nature and presuming upon it. His clients regarded him asinsolent. The big businesses, seeking the rich spoils of commerce, frequent highly perilous waters. They need skillful pilots. Usuallythese lawyer-pilots "know their place" and put on no airs upon thequarter-deck while they are temporarily in command. Not so Norman. Hetook the full rank, authority--and emoluments--of commander. And as hispower, fame, and income were swiftly growing, it is fair to assume thathe knew what he was about. 

He was admired--extravagantly admired--by young men with not too broad avein of envy. He was no woman hater--anything but that. Indeed, thosewho wished him ill had from time to time hoped to see him tumble down, through miscalculation in some of his audacities with women. No--he didnot hate women. But there were several women who hated him--or tried to;and if wounded vanity and baffled machination be admitted as just causesfor hatred, they had cause. He liked--but he did not wholly trust. Whenhe went to sleep, it was not where Delilah could wield the shears. Amost irritating prudence--irritating to friends and intimates of alldegrees and kinds, in a race of beings with a mania for being trustedimplicitly but with no balancing mania for deserving trust of theimplicit variety. 

And he ate hugely--and whatever he pleased. He could drink beyondbelief, all sorts of things, with no apparent ill effect upon eitherbody or brain. He had all the appetites developed abnormally, andabnormal capacity for gratifying them. Where there was one man whoenvied him his eminence, there were a dozen who envied him his physicalcapacities. We cannot live and act without doing mischief, as well asthat which most of us would rather do, provided that in the doing we arenot ourselves undone. Probably in no direction did Norman do so muchmischief as in unconsciously leading men of his sets down town and up toimitate his colossal dissipations--which were not dissipation for himwho was abnormal. 

Withal, he was a monster for work. There is not much truth in men'sunending talk of how hard they work or are worked. The ravages fromtheir indulgences in smoking, drinking, gallantry, eating too much andtoo fast and too often, have to be explained away creditably, tothemselves and to others--notably to the wives or mothers who nurse themand suffer from their diminishing incomes. Hence the wailing about work. But once in a while a real worker appears--a man with enormous ingenuityat devising difficult tasks for himself and with enormous persistence indoing them. Frederick Norman was one of these blue-moon prodigies. 

Obviously, such a man could not but be observed and talked about. Endless stories, some of them more or less true, most of themapocryphal, were told of him--stories of his shrewd, unexpected moves inbig cases, of his witty retorts, of his generosities, of hispeculiarities of dress, of eating and drinking; stories of hisadventures with women. Whatever he did, however trivial, took color andcharm from his personality, so easy yet so difficult, so simple yet socomplex, so baffling. Was he wholly selfish? Was he a friend to almostanybody or to nobody? Did he ever love? No one knew, not even himself, for life interested him too intensely and too incessantly to leave himtime for self-analysis. One thing he was certain of; he hated nobody, envied nobody. He was too successful for that. 

He did as he pleased. And, on the whole, he pleased to do far lessinconsiderately than his desires, his abilities, and his opportunitiestempted. Have not men been acclaimed good for less?

In the offices, where he was canvased daily by partners, clerks, everyone down to the cleaners whose labors he so often delayed, opinionvaried from day to day. They worshiped him; they hated him. They lovedhim; they feared him. They regarded him as more than human, as less thanhuman; but never as just human--though always as endowed with fine humanvirtues and even finer human weaknesses. Miss Tillotson, next to thehead clerk in rank and pay--and a pretty and pushing youngperson--dreamed of getting acquainted with him--really well acquainted. It was a vain dream. For him, between up town and down town a great gulfwas fixed. Also, he had no interest in or ammunition for sparrows. 

It was in December that Miss Hallowell--Miss Dorothea Hallowell--got hertemporary place at ten dollars a week--that obscure event, somewhat likea field mouse taking quarters in a horizon-bounded grain field. It wasnot until mid-February that she, the palest of personalities, came intodirect contact with Norman, about the most refulgent. This is how ithappened. 

Late in that February afternoon, an hour or more after the last of theoffice force should have left, Norman threw open the door of his privateoffice and glanced round at the rows on rows of desks. The lights in thebig room were on, apparently only because he was still within. With anexclamation of disappointment he turned to re-enter his office. He heardthe click of typewriter keys. Again he looked round, but could see noone. 

"Isn't there some one here?" he cried. "Don't I hear a typewriter?"

The noise stopped. There was a slight rustling from a far corner, beyondhis view, and presently he saw advancing a slim and shrinking slip of agirl with a face that impressed him only as small and insignificant. Ina quiet little voice she said, "Yes, sir. Do you wish anything?"

"Why, what are you doing here?" he asked. "I don't think I've ever seenyou before. "

"Yes. I took dictation from you several times, " replied she. 

He was instantly afraid he might have hurt her feelings, and he, who inthe days when he was far, far less than now, had often suffered fromthat commonplace form of brutality, was most careful not to commit it. "I never know what's going on round me when I'm thinking, " explained he, though he was saying to himself that the next time he would probablyagain be unable to remember one with nothing distinctive to fixidentity. "You are--Miss----?"

"Miss Hallowell. "

"How do you happen to be here? I've given particular instructions thatno one is ever to be detained after hours. "

A little color appeared in the pale, small face--and now he saw that shehad a singularly fair and smooth skin, singularly beautiful--and hewondered why he had not noticed it before. Being a close observer, hehad long ago noted and learned to appreciate the wonders of that mostamazing of tissues, the human skin; and he had come to be a connoisseur. "I'm staying of my own accord, " said she. 

"They ought not to give you so much work, " said he. "I'll speak aboutit. "

Into the small face came the look of the frightened child--a fascinatinglook. And suddenly he saw that she had lovely eyes, clear, expressive, innocent. "Please don't, " she pleaded, in the gentle quiet voice. "Itisn't overwork. I did a brief so badly that I was ashamed to hand it in. I'm doing it again. "

He laughed, and a fine frank laugh he had when he was in the mood. At once a smile lighted up her face, danced in her eyes, hoveredbewitchingly about her lips--and he wondered why he had not at firstglance noted how sweet and charmingly fresh her mouth was. "Why, she'sbeautiful, " he said to himself, the manly man's inevitable interestin feminine charm wide awake. "Really beautiful. If she had afigure--and were tall--" As he thought thus, he glanced at her figure. A figure? Tall? She certainly was tall--no, she wasn't--yes, shewas. No, not tall from head to foot, but with the most captivatinglong lines--long throat, long bust, long arms, long in body and inlegs--long and slender--yet somehow not tall. He--all this took but aninstant--returned his glance to her face. He was startled. The beautyhad fled, leaving not a trace behind. Before him wavered once more asmall insignificance. Even her skin now seemed commonplace. 

She was saying, "Did you wish me to do something?"

"Yes--a letter. Come in, " he said abruptly. 

Once more the business in hand took possession of his mind. He becameunconscious of her presence. He dictated slowly, carefully choosing hiswords, for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then he stopped and paced upand down, revolving a new idea, a new phase of the business, that hadflashed upon him. When he had his thoughts once more in form he turnedtoward the girl, the mere machine. He gazed at her in amazement. When hehad last looked, he had seen an uninteresting nonentity. But that wasnot this person, seated before him in the same garments and with thesame general blondness. That person had been a girl. This time thetransformation was not into the sweet innocence of lovely childhood, butinto something incredibly different. He was gazing now at a woman, abeautiful world-weary woman, one who had known the joys and then thesorrows of life and love. Heavy were the lids of the large eyes gazingmournfully into infinity--gazing upon the graves of a life, the long, long vista of buried joys. Never had he seen anything so sad or solovely as her mouth. The soft, smooth skin was not merely pale; itspallor was that of wakeful nights, of weeping until there were no moretears to drain away. 

"Miss Hallowell--" he began. 

She startled; and like the flight of an interrupted dream, the woman hehad been seeing vanished. There sat the commonplace young person he hadfirst seen. He said to himself: "I must be a little off my baseto-night, " and went on with the dictation. When he finished she withdrewto transcribe the letter on the typewriter. He seated himself at hisdesk and plunged into the masses of documents. He lost the sense of hissurroundings until she stood beside him holding the typewritten pages. He did not glance up, but seized the sheets to read and sign. 

"You may go, " said he. "I am very much obliged to you. " And hecontrived, as always, to put a suggestion of genuineness into thecustomary phrase. 

"I'm afraid it's not good work, " said she. "I'll wait to see if I am todo any of it over. "

"No, thank you, " said he. And he looked up--to find himself gazing atstill another person, wholly different from any he had seen before. Theothers had all been women--womanly women, full of the weakness, thedelicateness rather, that distinguishes the feminine. This woman he waslooking at now had a look of strength. He had thought her frail. He wasseeing a strong woman--a splendidly healthy body, with sinews of steelmost gracefully covered by that fair smooth skin of hers. And herfeatures, too--why, this girl was a person of character, of will. 

He glanced through the pages. "All right--thank you, " he said hastily. "Please don't stay any longer. Leave the other thing till to-morrow. "

"No--it has to be done to-night. "

"But I insist upon your going. "

She hesitated, said quietly, "Very well, " and turned to go. 

"And you mustn't do it at home, either. "

She made no reply, but waited respectfully until it was evident hewished to say no more, then went out. He bundled together his papers, sealed and stamped and addressed his letter, put on his overcoat and hatand crossed the outer office on his way to the door. It was empty; shewas gone. He descended in the elevator to the street, remembered that hehad not locked one of his private cases, returned. As he opened theouter door he heard the sound of typewriter keys. In the corner, theobscure, sheltered corner, sat the girl, bent with childlike gravityover her typewriter. It was an amusing and a touching sight--she lookedso young and so solemnly in earnest. 

"Didn't I tell you to go home?" he called out, with mock sternness. 

Up she sprang, her hand upon her heart. And once more she was beautiful, but once more it was in a way startlingly, unbelievably different fromany expression he had seen before. 

"Now, really. Miss--" He had forgotten her name. "You must not stay onhere. We aren't such slave drivers as all that. Go home, please. I'lltake the responsibility. "

She had recovered her equanimity. In her quiet, gentle voice--but it nolonger sounded weak or insignificant--she said, "You are very kind, Mr. Norman. But I must finish my work. "

"Haven't I said I'd take the blame?"

"But you can't, " replied she. "I work badly. I seem to learn slowly. IfI fall behind, I shall lose my place--sooner or later. It was that waywith the last place I had. If you interfered, you'd only injure me. I'vehad experience. And--I must not lose my place. "

One of the scrub women thrust her mussy head and ragged, shapeless bodyin at the door. With a start Norman awoke to the absurdity of hissituation--and to the fact that he was placing the girl in acompromising position. He shrugged his shoulders, went in and locked thecabinet, departed. 

"What a queer little insignificance she is!" thought he, and dismissedher from mind. 

II

Many and fantastic are the illusions the human animal, in its ignoranceand its optimism, devises to change life from a pleasant journey along aplain road into a fumbling and stumbling and struggling about in a fog. Of these hallucinations the most grotesque is that the weak can cometogether, can pass a law to curb the strong, can set one of their numberto enforce it, may then disperse with no occasion further to troubleabout the strong. Every line of every page of history tells how thestrong--the nimble-witted, the farsighted, the ambitious--have workedtheir will upon their feebler and less purposeful fellow men, regardlessof any and all precautions to the contrary. Conditions have improvedonly because the number of the strong has increased. With so many lionsat war with each other not a few rabbits contrive to avoid perishing inthe nest. 

Norman's genius lay in ability to take away from an adversary the legalweapons implicitly relied upon and to arm his client with them. No manunderstood better than he the abysmal distinction between law andjustice; no man knew better than he how to compel--or to assist--courtsto apply the law, so just in the general, to promoting injustice in theparticular. And whenever he permitted conscience a voice in his internaldebates--it was not often--he heard from it its usual servileapprobation: How can the reign of justice be more speedily brought aboutthan by making the reign of law--lawyer law--intolerable?

About a fortnight after the trifling incident related in the previouschapter, Norman had to devise a secret agreement among several of themost eminent of his clients. They wished to band together, to do a thingexpressly forbidden by the law; they wished to conspire to lower wagesand raise prices in several railway systems under their control. Butnone would trust the others; so there must be something in writing, laidaway in a secret safety deposit box along with sundry bundles ofsecurities put up as forfeit, all in the custody of Norman. When he hadworked out in his mind and in fragmentary notes the details of theiragreement, he was ready for some one to do the clerical work. The someone must be absolutely trustworthy, as the plain language of theagreement would make clear to the dullest mind dazzling opportunitiesfor profit--not only in stock jobbing but also in blackmail. He rang forTetlow, the head clerk. Tetlow--smooth and sly and smug, lacking onlycourageous initiative to make him a great lawyer, but, lacking that, lacking all--Tetlow entered and closed the door behind him. 

Norman leaned back in his desk chair and laced his fingers behind hishead. "One of your typewriters is a slight blonde girl--sits in thecorner to the far left--if she's still here. "

"Miss Hallowell, " said Tetlow. "We are letting her go at the end of thisweek. She's nice and ladylike, and willing--in fact, most anxious toplease. But the work's too difficult for her. She's rather--rather--well, not exactly stupid, but slow. "

"Um, " said Norman reflectively. "There's Miss Bostwick--perhaps she'lldo. "

"Miss Bostwick got married last week. "

Norman smiled. He remembered the girl because she was the oldest andhomeliest in the office. "There's somebody for everybody--eh, Tetlow?"

"He was a lighthouse keeper, " said Tetlow. "There's a story that headvertised for a wife. But that may be a joke. "

"Why not that Miss--Miss Halloway?" mused Norman. 

"Miss Hallowell, " corrected Tetlow. 

"Hallowell--yes. Is she--_very_ incompetent?

"Not exactly that. But business is slackening--and she's been onlytemporary--and----"

Norman cut him off with, "Send her in. "

"You don't wish her dismissed? I haven't told her yet. "

"Oh, I'm not interfering in your department. Do as you like. . . . No--in this case--let her stay on for the present. "

"I can use her, " said Tetlow. "And she gets only ten a week. "

Norman frowned. He did not like to _hear_ that an establishment in whichhe had control paid less than decent living wages--even if the marketprice did excuse--yes, compel it. "Send her in, " he repeated. Then, asTetlow was about to leave, "She is trustworthy?"

"All our force is. I see to that, Mr. Norman. "

"Has she a young man--steady company, I think they call it?"

"She has no friends at all. She's extremely shy--at least, reserved. Lives with her father, an old crank of an analytical chemist over inJersey City. She hasn't even a lady friend. "

"Well, send her in. "

A moment later Norman, looking up from his work, saw the dim slimnonentity before him. Again he leaned back and, as he talked with her, studied her face to make sure that his first judgment was correct. "Doyou stay late every night?" asked he smilingly. 

She colored a little, but enough to bring out the exquisite fineness ofher white skin. "Oh, I don't mind, " said she, and there was noembarrassment in her manner. "I've got to learn--and doing things overhelps. "

"Nothing equal to it, " declared Norman. "You've been to school?"

"Only six weeks, " confessed she. "I couldn't afford to stay longer. "

"I mean the other sort of school--not the typewriting. "

"Oh! Yes, " said she. And once more he saw that extraordinarytransformation. She became all in an instant delicately, deliciouslylovely, with the moving, in a way pathetic loveliness of sweet childrenand sweet flowers. Her look was mystery; but not a mystery of guile. Sheevidently did not wish to have her past brought to view; but it wasequally apparent that behind it lay hid nothing shameful, only the sad, perhaps the painful. Of all the periods of life youth is the best fittedto bear deep sorrows, for then the spirit has its full measure ofelasticity. Yet a shadow upon youth is always more moving than theshadows of maturer years--those shadows that do not lie upon the surfacebut are heavy and corroding stains. When Norman saw this shadow upon heryouth, so immature-looking, so helpless-looking, he felt the firstimpulse of genuine interest in her. Perhaps, had that shadow happened tofall when he was seeing her as the commonplace and colorless littlestruggler for bread, and seeming doomed speedily to be worsted in thestruggle--perhaps, he would have felt no interest, but only the briefqualm of pity that we dare not encourage in ourselves, on a journey sobeset with hopeless pitiful things as is the journey through life. 

But he had no impulse to question her. And with some surprise he notedthat his reason for refraining was not the usual reason--unwillingnessuselessly to add to one's own burdens by inviting the mournfulconfidences of another. No, he checked himself because in the manner ofthis frail and mouselike creature, dim though she once more was, thereappeared a dignity, a reserve, that made intrusion curiously impossible. With an apologetic note in his voice--a kind and friendly voice--hesaid:

"Please have your typewriter brought in here. I want you to do some workfor me--work that isn't to be spoken of--not even to Mr. Tetlow. " Helooked at her with grave penetrating eyes. "You will not speak of it?"

"No, " replied she, and nothing more. But she accompanied the simplenegative with a clear and honest sincerity of the eyes that set his mindcompletely at rest. He felt that this girl had never in her life told areal lie. 

One of the office boys installed the typewriter, and presently Normanand the quiet nebulous girl at whom no one would trouble to look asecond time were seated opposite each other with the broad table deskbetween, he leaning far back in his desk chair, fingers interlockedbehind his proud, strong-looking head, she holding sharpened pencilsuspended over the stenographic notebook. Long before she seated herselfhe had forgotten her except as machine. There followed a troubled hour, as he dictated, ordered erasure, redictated, ordered re-readings, skipped back and forth, in the effort to frame the secret agreement inthe fewest and simplest, and least startlingly unlawful, words. At lasthe leaned forward with the shine of triumph in his eyes. 

"Read straight through, " he commanded. 

She read, interrupted occasionally by a sharp order from him to correctsome mistake in her notes. 

"Again, " he commanded, when she translated the last of her notes. 

This time she was not interrupted once. When she ended, he exclaimed:"Good! I don't see how you did it so well. "

"Nor do I, " said she. 

"You say you are only a beginner. "

"I couldn't have done it so well for anyone else, " said she. "Youare--different. "

The remark was worded most flatteringly, but it did not sound so. He sawthat she did not herself understand what she meant by "different. " _He_understood, for he knew the difference between the confused andconfusing ordinary minds and such an intelligence as his own--simple, luminous, enlightening all minds, however dark, so long as they were inthe light-flooded region around it. 

"Have I made the meaning clear?" he asked. 

He hoped she would reply that he had not, though this would haveindicated a partial defeat in the object he had--to put the complexthing so plainly that no one could fail to understand. But she answered, "Yes. "

He congratulated himself that his overestimate of her ignorance ofaffairs had not lured him into giving her the names of the parties atinterest to transcribe. But did she really understand? To test her, hesaid:

"What do you think of it?"

"That it's wicked, " replied she, without hesitation and in her small, quiet voice. 

He laughed. In a way this girl, sitting there--this inconsequential andnegligible atom--typefied the masses of mankind against whom that secretagreement was directed. They, the feeble and powerless ones, with theirnecks ever bent under the yoke of the mighty and their feet everstumbling into the traps of the crafty--they, too, would utter animpotent "Wicked!" if they knew. His voice had the note of gentleraillery in it as he said:

"No--not wicked. Just business. "

She was looking down at her book, her face expressionless. A few momentsbefore he would have said it was an empty face. Now it seemed to himsphynxlike. 

"Just business, " he repeated. "It is going to take money from those whodon't know how to keep or to spend it and give it to those who do knowhow. The money will go for building up civilization, instead of for beerand for bargain-trough finery to make working men's wives and daughterslook cheap and nasty. "

She was silent. 

"Now, do you understand?"

"I understand what you said. " She looked at him as she spoke. Hewondered how he could have fancied those lack-luster eyes beautiful orcapable of expression. 

"You don't believe it?" he asked. 

"No, " said she. And suddenly in those eyes, gazing now into space, therecame the unutterably melancholy look--heavy-lidded from heartache, weary-wise from long, long and bitter, experiences. Yet she still lookedyoung--girlishly young--but it was the youthful look the classic Greeksculptors tried to give their young goddesses--the youth withoutbeginning or end--younger than a baby's, older than the oldest of thesons of men. He mocked himself for the fancies this queer creatureinspired in him; but she none the less made him uneasy. 

"You don't believe it?" he repeated. 

"No, " she answered again. "My father has taught me--some things. "

He drummed impatiently on the table. He resented her impertinence--for, like all men of clear and positive mind, he regarded contradiction as inone aspect impudent, in another aspect evidence of the folly of hiscontradictor. Then he gave a short laugh--the confessing laugh of theclever man who has tried to believe his own sophistries and has failed. "Well--neither do I believe it, " said he. "Now, to get the thingtypewritten. "

She seated herself at the machine and set to work. As his mind was fullof the agreement he could not concentrate on anything else. From time totime he glanced at her. Then he gave up trying to work and sat furtivelyobserving her. What a quaint little mystery it was! There was init--that is, in her--not the least charm for him. But, in all hisexperience with women, he could recall no woman with a comparabledevelopment of this curious quality of multiple personalities, showingand vanishing in swift succession. 

There had been a time when woman had interested him as a puzzle to beworked out, a maze to be explored, a temple to be penetrated--until onereached the place where the priests manipulated the machinery for thewonders and miracles to fool the devotees into awe. Some men never getto this stage, never realize that their own passions, working upon theuniversal human love of the mysterious, are wholly responsible for thecult of woman the sphynx and the sibyl. But Norman, beloved of women, had been let by them into their ultimate secret--the simple humanness ofwoman; the clap-trappery of the oracles, miracles, and wonders. He haddiscovered that her "divine intuitions" were mere shrewd guesses, wherethey had any meaning at all; that her eloquent silences were screens forignorance or boredom--and so on through the list of legends that propthe feminist cult. 

But this girl--this Miss Hallowell--here was a tangible mystery--amystery of physics, of chemistry. He sat watching her--watching thechanges as she bent to her work, or relaxed, or puzzled over the meaningof one of her own hesitating stenographic hieroglyphics--watched her asthe waning light of the afternoon varied its intensity upon her skin. Why, her very hair partook of this magical quality and altered its tint, its degree of vitality even, in harmony with the other changes. . . . Whatwas the explanation? By means of what rare mechanism did her nerve forceebb and flow from moment to moment, bringing about these fascinatingsurface changes in her body? Could anything, even any skin, be bettermade than that superb skin of hers--that master work of delicacy andstrength, of smoothness and color? How had it been possible for him tofail to notice it, when he was always looking for signs of a good skindown town--and up town, too--in these days of the ravages of pastry andcandy? . . . What long graceful fingers she had--yet what small hands!Certainly here was a peculiarity that persisted. No--absurd though itseemed, no! One way he looked at those hands, they were broad andstrong, another way narrow and gracefully weak. 

He said to himself: "The man who gets that girl will have Solomon'swives rolled into one. A harem at the price of a wife--or a--" He leftthe thought unfinished. It seemed an insult to this helpless littlecreature, the more rather than the less cowardly for being unspoken;for, no doubt her ideas of propriety were firmly conventional. 

"About done?" he asked impatiently. 

She glanced up. "In a moment. I'm sorry to be so slow. "

"You're not, " he assured her truthfully. "It's my impatience. Let me seethe pages you've finished. "

With them he was able to concentrate his mind. When she laid the lastpage beside his arm he was absorbed, did not look at her, did not thinkof her. "Take the machine away, " said he abruptly. 

He was leaving for the day when he remembered her again. He sent forher. "I forgot to thank you. It was good work. You will do well. All youneed is practice--and confidence. Especially confidence. " He looked ather. She seemed frail--touchingly frail. "You are not strong?"

She smiled, and in an instant the frailty seemed to have been meredelicacy of build--the delicacy that goes with the strength of steelwires, or rather of the spider's weaving thread which sustains weightsand shocks out of all proportion to its appearance. "I've never been illin my life, " said she. "Not a day. "

Again, because she was standing before him in full view, he noted thepeculiar construction of her frame--the beautiful lines of length sodextrously combined that her figure as a whole was not tall. He said, "Aworking woman--or man--needs health above all. Thank you again. " And henodded a somewhat curt dismissal. When she glided away and he was alonebehind the closed door, he reflected for a moment upon the extraordinaryamount of thinking--and the extraordinary kind of thinking--into whichthis poor little typewriter girl had beguiled him. He soon found theexplanation for this vagary into a realm so foreign to a man of his hightastes and ambitions. "It's because I'm so in love with Josephine, " hedecided. "I've fallen into the sentimental state of all lovers. Thewhole sex becomes novel and interesting and worth while. "

As he left the office, unusually late, he saw her still at work--nodoubt doing over again some bungled piece of copying. She had her normaland natural look and air--the atomic little typewriter, unattractive anduninteresting. With another smile for his romantic imaginings, he forgother. But when he reached the street he remembered her again. Thethreatened blizzard had changed into a heavy rain. The swift and suddencurrents of air, that have made of New York a cave of the winds sincethe coming of the skyscrapers, were darting round corners, turningumbrellas inside out, tossing women's skirts about their heads, reducingall who were abroad to the same level of drenched and sullenwretchedness. Norman's limousine was waiting at the curb. He, pausing inthe doorway, glanced up and down the street, had an impulse to returnand take the girl home. Then he smiled satirically at himself. Her lotcondemned her to be out in all weathers. It would not be a kindness butan exhibition of smug vanity to shelter her this one night; also, therewas the question of her reputation--and the possibility of turning herhead, perhaps just enough to cause her ruin. He sprang across thewind-swept, rain-swept sidewalk and into the limousine whose door wasbeing held open by an obsequious attendant. "Home, " he said, and thedoor slammed. 

Usually these journeys between office and home or club in the eveninggave Norman a chance for ten or fifteen minutes of sleep. He haddiscovered that this brief dropping of the thread of consciousness gavehim a wonderful fresh grip upon the day, enabled him to work or playuntil late into the night without fatigue. But that evening his mind waswide awake. Nor could he fix it upon business. It would interest itselfonly in the hurrying throngs of foot passengers and the ideas theysuggested: Here am I--so ran his thoughts--here am I, tucked awaycomfortably while all those poor creatures have to plod along in thestorm. I could afford to be sick. They can't. And what have I done todeserve this good fortune? Nothing. Worse than nothing. If I had made mycareer along the lines of what is honest and right and beneficial to myfellow men, I'd probably be plugging home under an umbrella--and to apretty poor excuse for a home. But I was too wise to do that. I've spentthis day, as I spend all my days, in helping the powerful rich to add totheir wealth and power, to add to the burdens those poor devils outthere in the rain must bear. And I'm rewarded with a limousine, and allthe rest of it. 

These thoughts neither came from nor produced a mood of penitence, or ofregret even. Norman was simply indulging in his favoritepastime--following without prejudice the leading of a chain of purelogic. He despised self-deceivers. He always kept himself free fromprejudice and all its wiles. He took life as he found it; but he did notexcuse it and himself with the familiar hypocrisies that make thecomfortable classes preen themselves on being the guardians and savioursof the ignorant, incapable masses. When old Lockyer said one day thatthis was the function of the "upper classes, " Norman retorted: "Perhaps. But, if so, how do they perform it? Like the brutal old-fashioned farmfamily that takes care of its insane member by keeping him chained infilth in the cellar. " And once at the Federal Club--By the way, Normanhad joined it, had compelled it to receive him just to show hisassociates how a strong man could break even such a firmly establishedtradition as that no one who amounted to anything could be elected to afashionable club in New York. Once at the Federal Club old Gallowayquoted with approval some essayist's remark that every clever humanbeing was looking after and holding above the waves at least fifteen ofhis weaker fellows. Norman smiled satirically round at the complacentlynodding circle of gray heads and white heads. "My observation has been, "said he, "that every clever chap is shrewd enough to compel at leastfifteen of his fellows to wait on him, to take care of him--do hischores--and his dirty work. " The nodding stopped. Scowls appeared, except on the face of old Galloway. He grinned. He was one of the fewexamples of a very rich man with a sense of humor. Norman always thoughtit was this slight incident that led to his getting the extremelyprofitable--and shady--Galloway business. 

No, Norman's mood, as he watched the miserable crowds afoot andreflected upon them, was neither remorseful nor triumphant. He simplynoted an interesting fact--a commonplace fact--of the methods of thatsardonic practical joker, Life. Because the scheme of things was unjustand stupid, because others, most others, were uncomfortable orworse--why should he make himself uncomfortable? It would be anabsurdity to get out of his limousine and trudge along in the wet andthe wind. It would be equally absurd to sit in his limousine and beunhappy about the misery of the world. "I didn't create it, and I can'trecreate it. And if I'm helping to make it worse, I'm also hastening thetime when it'll be better. The Great Ass must have brains and spiritkicked and cudgeled into it. "

At his house in Madison Avenue, just at the crest of Murray Hill, therewas an awning from front door to curb and a carpet beneath it. Hepassed, dry and comfortable, up the steps. A footman in quiet richlivery was waiting to receive him. From rising until bedtime, up townand down town, wherever he went and whatever he was about, everypossible menial detail of his life was done for him. He had nothing todo but think about his own work and keep himself in health. Rarely didhe have even to open or to close a door. He used a pen only in signinghis name or marking a passage in a law book for some secretary to make atypewritten copy. 

Upon most human beings this sort of luxury, carried beyond the ordinaryand familiar uses of menial service, has a speedily enervating effect. Thinking being the most onerous of all, they have it done, also. Theysink into silliness and moral and mental sloth. They pass the time atfoolish purposeless games indoors and out; or they wander aimlesslyabout the earth chattering with similar mental decrepits, much likemonkeys adrift in the boughs of a tropical forest. But Norman had thetenacity and strength to concentrate upon achievement all the powersemancipated by the use of menials wherever menials could be used. Heemployed to advantage the time saved in putting in shirt buttons andlacing shoes and carrying books to and from shelves. In this lay one ofthe important secrets of his success. "Never do for yourself what youcan get some one else to do for you as well. Save yourself for thethings only _you_ can do. "

In his household there were three persons, and sixteen servants to waitupon them. His sister--she and her husband, Clayton Fitzhugh, were theother two persons--his sister was always complaining that there were notenough servants, and Frederick, the most indulgent of brothers, wasalways letting her add to the number. It seemed to him that the morehelp there was, the less smoothly the household ran. But that did notconcern him; his mind was saved for more important matters. There was noreason why it should concern him; could he not compel the dollars toflood in faster than she could bail them out?

This brother and sister had come to New York fifteen years before, whenhe was twenty-two and she nineteen. They were from Albany, where theirfamily had possessed some wealth and much social position for manygenerations. There was the usual "queer streak" in the Norman family--anintermittent but fixed habit of some one of them making a "lowmarriage. " One view of this aberration might have been that there was inthe Norman blood a tenacious instinct of sturdy and self-respectingindependence that caused a Norman occasionally to do as he pleasedinstead of as he conventionally ought. Each time the thing occurredthere was a mighty and horrified hubbub throughout the connection. Butin the broad, as the custom is, the Normans were complacent about the"queer streak. " They thought it kept the family from rotting out andrunning to seed. "Nothing like an occasional infusion of common blood, "Aunt Ursula Van Bruyten (born Norman) used to say. For her Norman'ssister was named. 

Norman's father had developed the "queer streak. " Their mother was thedaughter of a small farmer and, when she met their father, waschambermaid in a Troy hotel, Troy then being a largish village. As soonas she found herself married and in a position with whose duties she wasunfamiliar, she set about fitting herself for them with the samediligence and thoroughness which she had shown in learning chamber workin a village hotel. She educated herself, selected not withoutshrewdness and carefully put on an assortment of genteel airs, finallycontrived to make a most creditable appearance--was more aristocratic intastes and in talk than the high mightiest of her relatives by marriage. But her son Fred was a Pinkey in character. In boyhood he was noted forhis rough and low associates. His bosom friends were the son of a Jewishjunk dealer, the son of a colored wash-woman, and the son of an Irishday laborer. Also, the commonness persisted as he grew up. Instead ofseeking aristocratic ease, he aspired to a career. He had choice ofseveral rich and well-born girls; but he developed a strong distaste formarriage of any sort and especially for a rich marriage. A fortune hewas resolved to have, but it should be one that belonged to him. When hewas about ready to enter a law office, his father and mother diedleaving less than ten thousand dollars in all for his sister andhimself. His sister hesitated, half inclined to marry a stupid secondcousin who had thirty thousand a year. 

"Don't do it, Ursula, " Fred advised. "If you must sell out, sell forsomething worth while. " He laughed in his frank, ironical way. "Fact is, we've both made up our minds to sell. Let's go to the best market--NewYork. If you don't like it, you can come back and marry that fat-wit anytime you please. "

Ursula inspected herself in the glass, saw a face and form exceedingfair to look upon; she decided to take her brother's advice. At twentyshe threw over a multi-millionaire and married Clayton Fitzhugh forlove--Clayton with only seventeen thousand a year. Of course, from thestandpoint of fashionable ambition, seventeen thousand a year in NewYork is but one remove from tenement house poverty. As Clayton had nomore ability at making money than had Ursula herself, there was nothingto do but live with Norman and "take care of him. " But for thisself-sacrifice of sisterly affection Norman would have been rich atthirty-seven. As he had to make her rich as well as himself, progresstoward luxurious independence was slower--and there was the house, costing nearly fifty thousand a year to keep up. 

There had been a time in Norman's career--a brief and very earlytime--when, with the maternal peasant blood hot in his veins, he hadentertained the quixotic idea of going into politics on the poor orpeople's side and fighting for glory only. The pressure of expensiveliving had soon driven this notion clean off. Norman had almostforgotten that he ever had it, was no longer aware how strong it hadbeen in the last year at law school. Young men of high intelligence andardent temperament always pass through this period. With some--afew--its glory lingers long after the fire has flickered out before thecool, steady breath of worldliness. 

All this time Norman has been dressing for dinner. He now leaves thethird floor and descends toward the library, as it still lacks twentyminutes of the dinner hour. 

As he walked along the hall of the second floor a woman's voice calledto him, "That you, Fred?"

He turned in at his sister's sitting room. She was standing at a tablesmoking a cigarette. Her tall, slim figure looked even taller andslimmer in the tight-fitting black satin evening dress. Her featuresfaintly suggested her relationship to Norman. She was a handsome woman, with a voluptuous discontented mouth. 

"What are you worried about, sis?" inquired he. 

"How did you know I was worried?" returned she. 

"You always are. "

"Oh!"

"But you're unusually worried to-night. "

"How did you know that?"

"You never smoke just before dinner unless your nerves are ragged. . . . What is it?"

"Money. "

"Of course. No one in New York worries about anything else. "

"But _this_ is serious, " protested she. "I've been thinking--about yourmarriage--and what'll become of Clayton and me?" She halted, red withembarrassment. 

Norman lit a cigarette himself. "I ought to have explained, " said he. "But I assumed you'd understand. "

"Fred, you know Clayton can't make anything. And when youmarry--why--what _will_ become of us!"

"I've been taking care of Clayton's money--and of yours. I'll continueto do it. I think you'll find you're not so badly of. You see, myposition enables me to compel a lot of the financiers to let me in onthe ground floor--and to warn me in good time before the house falls. You'll not miss me, Ursula. "

She showed her gratitude in her eyes, in a slight quiver of the lips, inan unsteadiness of tone as she said, "You're the real thing, Freddie. "

"You can go right on as you are now. Only--" He was looking at her withmeaning directness. 

She moved uneasily, refused to meet his gaze. "Well?" she said, with asuggestion of defiance. 

"It's all very natural to get tired of Clayton, " said her brother. "Iknew you would when you married him. But--Sis, I mind my own business. Still--Why make a fool of yourself?"

"You don't understand, " she exclaimed passionately. And the light in hereyes, the color in her cheeks, restored to her for the moment the beautyof her youth that was almost gone. 

"Understand what?" inquired he in a tone of gentle mockery. 

"Love. You are all ambition--all self control. You can beaffectionate--God knows, you have been to me, Fred. But love you knownothing about--nothing. "

His was the smile a man gives when in earnest and wishing to be thoughtjesting--or when in jest and wishing to be thought in earnest. 

"You mean Josephine? Oh, yes, I suppose you do care for her in a way--ina nice, conventional way. She is a fine handsome piece--just the sort tofill the position of wife to a man like you. She's sweet and charming, she appreciates, she flatters you. I'm sure she loves you as much as a_girl_ knows how to love. But it's all so conventional, so proper. Yourposition--her money. You two are of the regulation type even in thatyou're suited to each other in height and figure. Everybody'll say, 'What a fine couple--so well matched!'"

"Maybe _you_ don't understand, " said Norman. 

"If Josephine were poor and low-born--weren't one of us--and allthat--would you have her?"

"I'm sure I don't know, " was his prompt and amused answer. "I can onlysay that I know what I want, she being what she is. "

Ursula shook her head. "I have only to see you and her together to knowthat you at least don't understand love. "

"It might be well if _you_ didn't, " said Norman dryly. "You might be lessunhappy--and Clayton less uneasy. "

"Ah, but I can't help myself. Don't you see it in me, Fred? I'm not afool. Yet see what a fool I act. "

"Spoiled child--that's all. No self-control. "

"You despise everyone who isn't as strong as you. " She looked at himintently. "I wonder if you _are_ as self-controlled as you imagine. Sometimes I wish you'd get a lesson. Then you'd be more sympathetic. Butit isn't likely you will--not through a woman. Oh, they're suchpitifully easy game for a man like you. But then men are the same waywith you--quite as easy. You get anything you want. . . . You're reallygoing to stick to Josephine?"

He nodded. "It's time for me to settle down. "

"Yes--I think it is, " she went on thoughtfully. "I can hardly believeyou're to marry. Of course, she's the grand prize. Still--I neverimagined you'd come in and surrender. I guess you _do_ care for her. "

"Why else should I marry?" argued he. "She's got nothing I need--exceptherself, Ursula. "

"What _is_ it you see in her?"

"What you see--what everyone sees, " replied Fred, with quiet, convincingenthusiasm. "What no one could help seeing. As you say, she's the grandprize. "

"Yes, she is sweet and handsome--and intelligent--very superior, without making others feel that they're outclassed. Still--there'ssomething lacking--not in her perhaps, but in you. You have it forher--she's crazy about you. But she hasn't it for you. "

"What?"

"I can't tell you. It isn't a thing that can be put into words. "

"Then it doesn't exist. "

"Oh, yes it does, " cried Ursula. "If the engagement were to bebroken--or if anything were to happen to her--why, you'd get overit--would go on as if nothing had happened. If she didn't fit in withyour plans and ambitions, she'd be sacrificed so quick she'd not knowwhat had taken off her head. But if you felt what I mean--then you'dgive up everything--do the wildest, craziest things. "

"What nonsense!" scoffed Norman. "I can imagine myself making a foolof myself about a woman as easily as about anything else. But I can'timagine myself playing the fool for anything whatsoever. "

There was mysterious fire in Ursula's absent eyes. "You remember me as agirl--how mercenary I was--how near I came to marrying Cousin Jake?"

"I saved you from that. "

"Yes--and for what? I fell in love. "

"And out again. "

"I was deceived in Clayton--deceived myself--naturally. How is a womanto know, without experience?"

"Oh, I'm not criticising, " said the brother. 

"Besides, a love marriage that fails is different from a mercenarymarriage that fails. "

"Very--very, " agreed he. "Just the difference between an honorable and adishonorable bankruptcy. "

"Anyhow--it's bankrupt--my marriage. But I've learned what love is--thatthere is such a thing--and that it's valuable. Yes, Fred, I've got thetaste for that wine--the habit of it. Could I go back to water or milk?"

"Spoiled baby--that's the whole story. If you had a nursery full ofchildren--or did the heavy housework--you'd never think of thesefoolish moonshiny things. "

"Yet you say you love!"

"Clayton is as good as any you're likely to run across--is better than_some_ I've seen about. "

"How can _you_ say?" cried she. "It's for me to judge. "

"If you would only _judge_!"

Ursula sighed. "It's useless to talk to you. Let's go down. "

Norman, following her from the room, stopped her in the doorway to giveher a brotherly hug and kiss. "You won't make an out-and-out idiot ofyourself, will you, Ursula?" he said, in his winning manner. 

The expression of her eyes as she looked at him showed how strong washis influence over her. "You know I'll come to you for advice before Ido anything final, " said she. "Oh, I don't know what I want! I only knowwhat I don't want. I wish I were well balanced--as you are, Fred. "

[Illustration: "'You won't make an out-and-out idiot of yourself, willyou Ursula?'"]

III

The brother and sister dined alone. Clayton was, finding his club a morecomfortable place than his home, in those days of his wife'sdisillusionment and hesitation about the future. Many weak creatures arecuriously armed for the unequal conflict of existence--some withfleetness of foot, some with a pole-cat weapon of malignance, some withporcupine quills, some with a 'possumlike instinct for "playing dead. "Of these last was Fitzhugh. He knew when to be silent, when to keep outof the way, when to "sit tight" and wait. His wife had discovered thathe was a fool--that he perhaps owed more to his tailor than to any othersingle factor for the success of his splendid pose of the thoroughgentleman. Yet she did not realize what an utter fool he was, so cleverhad he been in the use of the art of discreet silence. Norman suspectedhim, but could not believe a human being capable of such fathomlessvacuity as he found whenever he tried to explore his brother-in-law'sbrain. 

After dinner Norman took Ursula to the opera, to join the Seldins, andafter the first act went to Josephine, who had come with only a deaf oldaunt. Josephine loved music, and to hear an opera from a box one must bealone. Norman entered as the lights went up. It always gave him afeeling of dilation, this spectacle of material splendor--the women, whose part it is throughout civilization to-day to wear for publicadmiration and envy the evidences of the prowess of the males to whomthey belong. A truer version of Dr. Holmes's aphorism would be that ittakes several generations in oil to make a deep-dyed snob--wholly todestroy a man's or a woman's point of view, sense of the kinship of allflesh, and to make him or her over into the genuine believer in casteand worshiper of it. For all his keenness of mind, of humor, Norman hadthe fast-dyed snobbishness of his family and friends. He knew that castewas silly, that such displays as this vulgar flaunting of jewels andcostly dresses were in atrocious bad taste. But it is one thing to know, another thing to feel; and his feeling was delight in the spectacle, pride in his own high rank in the aristocracy. 

His eyes rested with radiant pleasure on the girl he was to marry. Andshe was indeed a person to appeal to the passion of pride. Simply andmost expensively dressed in pearl satin, with only a little jewelry, shesat in the front of her parterre box, a queen by right of her father'swealth, her family's position, her own beauty. She was a largewoman--tall, a big frame but not ungainly. She had brilliant dark eyes, a small proud head set upon shoulders that were slenderly young now and, even when they should became matronly, would still be beautiful. She hadgood teeth, an exquisite smile, the gentle good humor of those who, comfortable themselves, would not have the slightest objection to allothers being equally so. Because she laughed appreciatively and repeatedamusingly she had great reputation for wit. Because she industriouslypicked up from men a plausible smatter of small talk about politics, religion, art and the like, she was renowned as clever verging onprofound. And she believed herself both witty and wise--as do thousands, male and female, with far less excuse. 

She had selected Norman for the same reason that he had selected her;each recognized the other as the "grand prize. " Pity is not nearly soclose kin to love as is the feeling that the other person satisfies tothe uttermost all one's pet vanities. It would have been next door toimpossible for two people so well matched not to find themselves drawnto each other and filled with sympathy and the sense of comradeship, sofar as there can be comradeship where two are driving luxuriously alongthe way of life, with not a serious cause for worry. People without halfthe general fitness of these two for each other have gone through to theend, regarding themselves and regarded as the most devoted of lovers. Indeed, they were lovers. Only one of those savage tests, to which inall probability they would never be exposed, would or could reveal justhow much, or how little, that vague, variable word lovers meant whenapplied to them. 

As their eyes met, into each pair leaped the fine, exalted light ofpride in possession. "This wonderful woman is mine!" his eyes said. Andher eyes answered, "And you--you most wonderful of men--you are mine!"It always gave each of them a thrill like intoxication to meet, after aday's separation. All the joy of their dazzling good fortune burst uponthem afresh. 

"I'll venture you haven't thought of me the whole day, " said she as hedropped to the chair behind her. 

It was a remark she often made--to give him the opportunity to say, "I've thought of little else, I'm sorry to say--I, who have a career tolook after. " He made the usual answer, and they smiled happily at eachother. "And you?" he said. 

"Oh, I? What else has a woman to think about?"

Her statement was as true as his was false. He was indeed all she had tothink about--all worth wasting the effort of thought upon. Buthe--though he did not realize it--had thought of her only in theincidental way in which an ambition-possessed man must force himself tothink of a woman. The best of his mind was commandeered to his career. An amiable but shakily founded theory that it was "our" career enabledhim to say without sense of lying that his chief thought had been she. 

"How those men down town would poke fun at you, " said she, "if they knewyou had me with you all the time, right beside you. "

This amused him. "Still, I suspect there are lots of men who'd beexposed in the same way if there were a general and complete show-down. "

"Sometimes I wish I really were with you--working with you--helping you. You have girls--a girl--to be your secretary--or whatever you callit--don't you?"

"You should have seen the one I had to-day. But there's always somethingpathetic about every girl who has to make her own living. "

"Pathetic!" protested Miss Burroughs. "Not at all. I think it's fine. "

"You wouldn't say that if you had tried it. "

"Indeed, I should, " she declared with spirit. "You men are entirely toosoft about women. You don't realize how strong they are. And, of course, women don't resist the temptation to use their sex when they see howeasy it is to fool men that way. The sad thing about it is that thewoman who gets along by using her sex and by appealing to thesoft-heartedness of men never learns to rely on herself. She's likely tocome to grief sooner or later. "

"There's truth in all that, " said Norman. "Enough to make it dangerouslyunjust. There's so much lying done about getting on that it's no wonderthose who've never tried to do for themselves get a wholly false notionof the situation. It is hard--bitterly hard--for a man to get on. Mostmen don't. Most men? All but a mere handful. And if those who do get onwere to tell the truth--the _whole_ truth--about how theysucceeded--well, it'd not make a pleasant story. "

"But _you've_ got on, " retorted the girl. 

"So I have. And how?" Norman smiled with humorous cynicism. "I'll nevertell--not all--only the parts that sound well. And those parts are theleast important. However, let's not talk about that. What I set out tosay was that, while it's hard for a man to make a decent living--unlesshe has luck--and harder still--much harder--for him to rise toindependence----"

"It wasn't so dreadfully hard for _you_, " interrupted Josephine, lookingat him with proud admiration. "But then, you had a wonderful brain. "

"That wasn't what did it, " replied he. "And, in spite of all myadvantages--friendships, education, enough money to tide me over thebeginnings--in spite of all that, I had a frightful time. Not the work. Of course, I had to work, but I like that. No, it was the--themaneuvering, let's call it--the hardening process. "

"You!" she exclaimed. 

"Everyone who succeeds--in active life. You don't understand the system, dear. It's a cutthroat game. It isn't at all what the successfulhypocrites describe in their talks to young men!" He laughed. "If I hadfollowed the 'guides to success, ' I'd not be here. Oh, yes, I've madeterrible sacrifices, but--" his look at her made her thrill withexaltation--"it was worth doing. . . . I understand and sympathize withthose who scorn to succeed. But I'm glad I happened not to be born withtheir temperament, at least not with enough of it to keep me down. "

"You're too hard on yourself, too generous to the failures. "

"Oh, I don't mean the men who were too lazy to do the work or toocowardly to dare the--the unpleasant things. And I'm not hard withmyself--only frank. But we were talking of the women. Poor things, whatchance have they got? You scorn them for using their sex. Wait tillyou're drowning, dear, before you criticise another for what he does tosave himself when he's sinking for the last time. I used everything Ihad in making my fight. If I could have got on better or quicker by theaid of my sex, I'd have used that. "

"Don't say those things, Fred, " cried Josephine, smiling but half inearnest. 

"Why not? Aren't you glad I'm here?"

She gave him a long look of passionate love and lowered her eyes. 

"At whatever cost?"

"Yes, " she said in a low voice. "But I'm _sure_ you exaggerate. "

"I've done nothing _you_ wouldn't approve of--or find excuses for. Butthat's because you--I--all of us in this class--and in most otherclasses--have been trained to false ideas--no, to perverted ideas--to asystem of morality that's twisted to suit the demands of practical life. On Sundays we go to a magnificent church to hear an expensive preacherand choir, go in expensive dress and in carriages, and we never laugh atourselves. Yet we are going in the name of One who was born in a stableand who said that we must give everything to the poor, and so on. "

"But I don't see what we could do about it--" she said hesitatingly. 

"We couldn't do anything. Only--don't you see my point?--the differencebetween theory and practice? Personally, I've no objection--no strongobjection--to the practice. All I object to is the lying and fakingabout it, to make it seem to fit the theory. But we were talking ofwomen--women who work. "

"I've no doubt you're right, " admitted she. "I suppose they aren't toblame for using their sex. I ought to be ashamed of myself, to sneer atthem. "

"As a matter of fact, their sex does few of them any good. The reverse. You see, an attractive woman--one who's attractive _as_ a woman--canskirmish round and find some one to support her. But most of the workingwomen--those who keep on at it--don't find the man. They're notattractive, not even at the start. After they've been at it a few yearsand lose the little bloom they ever had--why, they've got to take theirchances at the game, precisely like a man. Only, they're handicapped byalways hoping that they'll be able to quit and become married women. I'dlike to see how men would behave if they could find or could imagine anyalternative to 'root hog or die. '"

"What's the matter with you this evening, Fred? I never saw you in sucha bitter mood. "

"We never happened to get on this subject before. "

"Oh, yes, we have. And you always have scoffed at the men who fail. "

"And I still scoff at them--most of them. A lot of lazy cowards. Orelse, so bent on self-indulgence--petty self-indulgence--that theyrefuse to make the small sacrifice to-day for the sake of the largeadvantage day after to-morrow. Or else so stuffed with vanity that theynever see their own mistakes. However, why blame them? They were bornthat way, and can't change. A man who has the equipment of success andsucceeds has no more right to sneer at one less lucky than you wouldhave to laugh at a poor girl because she wasn't dressed as well as you. "

"What a mood! _Something_ must have happened. "

"Perhaps, " said he reflectively. "Possibly that girl set me off. "

"What girl?"

"The one I told you about. The unfortunate little creature who wastypewriting for me this afternoon. Not so very little, either. A curiousfigure she had. She was tall yet she wasn't. She seemed thin, and whenyou looked again, you saw that she was really only slender, andbeautifully shaped throughout. "

Miss Burroughs laughed. "She must have been attractive. "

"Not in the least. Absolutely without charm--and so homely--no, nothomely--commonplace. No, that's not right, either. She had a startlingway of fading and blazing out. One moment she seemed a blank--pale, lifeless, colorless, a nobody. The next minute she became--amazinglydifferent. Not the same thing every time, but different things. "

Frederick Norman was too experienced a dealer with women deliberately tomake the mistake--rather, to commit the breach of tact andcourtesy--involved in praising one woman to another. But in this case itnever occurred to him that he was talking to a woman of a woman. Josephine Burroughs was a lady; the other was a piece of officemachinery--and a very trivial piece at that. But he saw and instantlyunderstood the look in her eyes--the strained effort to keep thetelltale upper lip from giving its prompt and irrepressible signal ofinward agitation. 

"I'm very much interested, " said she. 

"Yes, she was a curiosity, " said he carelessly. 

"Has she been there--long?" inquired Josephine, with a feignedindifference that did not deceive him. 

"Several months, I believe. I never noticed her until a few days ago. And until to-day I had forgotten her. She's one of the kind it'sdifficult to remember. "

He fell to glancing round the house, pretending to be unconscious of thefurtive suspicion with which she was observing him. She said:

"She's your secretary now?"

"Merely a general office typewriter. "

The curtain went up for the second act. Josephine fixed her attention onthe stage--apparently undivided attention. But Norman felt rather thansaw that she was still worrying about the "curiosity. " He marveled atthis outcropping of jealousy. It seemed ridiculous--it _was_ ridiculous. He laughed to himself. If she could see the girl--the obscure, uninteresting cause of her agitation--how she would mock at herself!Then, too, there was the absurdity of thinking him capable of such astoop. A woman of their own class--or a woman of its correspondingclass, on the other side of the line--yes. No doubt she had heardthings that made her uneasy, or, at least, ready to be uneasy. But thispoorly dressed obscurity, with not a charm that could attract even a manof her own lowly class--It was such a good joke that he would haveteased Josephine about it but for his knowledge of the world--aknowledge in whose primer it was taught that teasing is both bad tasteand bad judgment. Also, it was beneath his dignity, it was offense tohis vanity, to couple his name with the name of one so beneath him thateven the matter of sex did not make the coupling less intolerable. 

When the curtain fell several people came into the box, and he went tomake a few calls round the parterre. He returned after the second act. They were again alone--the deaf old aunt did not count. At onceJosephine began upon the same subject. With studied indifference--howamusing for a woman of her inexperience to try to fool a man of hisexperience!--she said:

"Tell me some more about that typewriter girl. Women who work alwaysinterest me. "

"She wouldn't, " said Norman. The subject had been driven clean out ofhis mind, and he didn't wish to return to it. "Some day they willventure to make judicious long cuts in Wagner's operas, and then they'llbe interesting. It always amuses me, this reverence of little people forthe great ones--as if a great man were always great. No--he _is_ alwaysgreat. But often it's in a dull way. And the dull parts ought to beskipped. "

"I don't like the opera this evening, " said she. "What you said a whileago has set me to thinking. Is that girl a lady?"

"She works, " laughed he. 

"But she might have been a lady. "

"I'm sure I don't know. "

"Don't you know _anything_ about her?"

"Except that she's trustworthy--and insignificant and not too good ather business. "

"I shouldn't think you could afford to keep incompetent people, " saidthe girl shrewdly. 

"Perhaps they won't keep her, " parried Norman gracefully. "The headclerk looks after those things. "

"He probably likes her. "

"No, " said Norman, too indifferent to be cautious. "She has no'gentlemen friends. '"

"How do you know that?" said the girl, and she could not keep a certainsharpness out of her voice. 

"Tetlow, the head clerk, told me. I asked him a few questions about her. I had some confidential work to do and didn't want to trust her withoutbeing sure. "

He saw that she was now prey to her jealous suspicion. He was uncertainwhether to be amused or irritated. She had to pause long and withvisible effort collect herself before venturing:

"Oh, she does confidential work for you? I thought you said she wasincompetent. "

He, the expert cross-examiner, had to admire her skill at that highscience and art. "I felt sorry for her, " he said. "She seemed such aforlorn little creature. "

She laughed with a constrained attempt at raillery. "I never should havesuspected you of such weakness. To give confidential things to a forlornlittle incompetent, out of pity. "

He was irritated, distinctly. The whole thing was preposterous. Itreminded him of feats of his own before a jury. By clever questioning, Josephine had made about as trifling an incident as could be imaginedtake on really quite imposing proportions. There was annoyance in hissmile as he said:

"Shall I send her up to see you? You might find it amusing, and maybeyou could do something for her. "

Josephine debated. "Yes, " she finally said. "I wish you would sendher--" with a little sarcasm--"if you can spare her for an hour or so. "

"Don't make it longer than that, " laughed he. "Everything will stopwhile she's gone. "

It pleased him, in a way, this discovery that Josephine had such acommon, commonplace weakness as jealousy. But it also took awaysomething from his high esteem for her--an esteem born of the lover'sidealizings; for, while he was not of the kind of men who are on theirknees before women, he did have a deep respect for Josephine, incarnation of all the material things that dazzled him--a respect withsomething of the reverential in it, and something of awe--more than hewould have admitted to himself. To-day, as of old, the image-makers areas sincere worshipers as visit the shrines. In our prostrations andgenuflections in the temple we do not discriminate against the idols weourselves have manufactured; on the contrary, them we worship withpeculiar gusto. Norman knew his gods were frauds, that their divinequalities were of the earth earthy. But he served them, and what mostappealed to him in Josephine was that she incorporated about all theirdivine qualities. 

He and his sister went home together. Her first remark in the auto was:"What were you and Josie quarreling about?"

"Quarreling?" inquired he in honest surprise. 

"I looked at her through my glasses and saw that the was all upset--andyou, too. "

"This is too ridiculous, " cried he. 

"She looked--jealous. "

"Nonsense! What an imagination you have!"

"I saw what I saw, " Ursula maintained. "Well, I suppose she has heardsomething--something recent. I thought you had sworn off, Fred. But Imight have known. "

Norman was angry. He wondered at his own exasperation, out of allproportion to any apparent provoking cause. And it was most unusual forhim to feel temper, all but unprecedented for him to show it, no matterhow strong the temptation. 

"It's a good idea, to make her jealous, " pursued his sister. "Nothinglike jealousy to stimulate interest. "

"Josephine is not that sort of woman. "

"You know better. All women are that sort. All men, too. Of course, somemen and women grow angry and go away when they get jealous while othersstick closer. So one has to be judicious. "

"Josephine and I understand each other far too well for such pettiness. "

"Try her. No, you needn't. You have. "

"Didn't I tell you----"

"Then what was she questioning you about?"

"Just to show you how wrong you were, I'll tell you. She was asking meabout a poor little girl down at the office--one she wants to help. "

Ursula laughed. "To help out of your office, I guess. I thought you'dlived long enough, Fred, to learn that no woman trusts _any_ man about_any_ woman. Who is this 'poor little girl'?"

"I don't even know her name. One of the typewriters. "

"What made Josephine jealous of her?"

"Haven't I told you Josephine was not----"

"But I saw. Who is this girl?--pretty?"

Norman pretended to stifle a yawn. "Josephine bored me half to deathtalking about her. Now it's you. I never heard so much about so little. "

"Is there something up between you and the girl?" teased Ursula. 

"Now, that's an outrage!" cried Norman. "She's got nothing but herreputation, poor child. Do leave her that. "

"Is she very young?"

"How should I know?"

"Youth is a charm in itself. "

"What sort of rot is this!" exclaimed he. "Do you think I'd drop down toanything of that kind--in _any_ circumstances? A little working girl--andin my own office?"

"Why do you heat so, Fred?" teased the sister. "Really, I don't wonderJosephine was torn up. "

An auto almost ran into them--one of those innumerable hairbreadthescapes that make the streets of New York as exciting as a battle--andas dangerous. For a few minutes Ursula's mind was deflected. But afatality seemed to pursue the subject of the pale obscurity whose veryname he was uncertain whether he remembered aright. 

Said Ursula, as they entered the house, "A girl working in the officewith a man has a magnificent chance at him. It's lucky for the men thatwomen don't know their business, but are amateurs and too stuck onthemselves to set and bait their traps properly. Is that girl trying toget round you?"

"What possesses everybody to-night!" cried Norman. "I tell you thegirl's as uninteresting a specimen as you could find. "

"Then why are _you_ so interested in her?" teased the sister. 

Norman shrugged his shoulders, laughed with his normal easy good humorand went to his own floor. 

On top of the pile of letters beside his plate, next morning, lay a notefrom Josephine:

 "Don't forget your promise about that girl, dear. I've an hour before lunch, and could see her then. I was out of humor last night. I'm very penitent this morning. Please forgive me. Maybe I can do something for her. JOSEPHINE. "

Norman read with amused eyes. "Well!" soliloquized he, "I'm not likelyto forget that poor little creature again. What a fuss about nothing!"

IV

Many men, possibly a majority, have sufficient equipment for at least afair measure of success. Yet all but a few are downright failures, passing their lives in helpless dependence, glad to sell themselves fora small part of the value they create. For this there are two mainreasons. The first is, as Norman said, that only a few men have theself-restraint to resist the temptings of a small pleasure to-day inorder to gain a larger to-morrow or next day. The second is that few menpossess the power of continuous concentration. Most of us cannotconcentrate at all; any slight distraction suffices to disrupt anddestroy the whole train of thought. A good many can concentrate for afew hours, for a week or so, for two or three months. But there comes asmall achievement and it satisfies, or a small discouragement and itdisheartens. Only to the rare few is given the power to concentratesteadily, year in and year out, through good and evil event or report. 

As Norman stepped into his auto to go to the office--he had ridden ahorse in the park before breakfast until its hide was streaked withlather--the instant he entered his auto, he discharged his mind ofeverything but the business before him down town--or, rather, businessfilled his mind so completely that everything else poured out and away. A really fine mind--a perfect or approximately perfect instrument to thepurposes of its possessor--is a marvelous spectacle of order. It is likea vast public library constantly used by large numbers. There arealcoves, rows on rows, shelves on shelves, with the exactest systemeverywhere prevailing, with the attendants moving about in list-bottomedshoes, fulfilling without the least hesitation or mistake the multitudeof directions from the central desk. It is like an admirably drilledarmy, where there is the nice balance of freedom and discipline thatgives mobility without confusion; the divisions, down to files and evenunits, can be disposed along the line of battle wherever needed, or canbe marshaled in reserve for use at the proper moment. Such a mind may beused for good purpose or bad--or for mixed purposes, after the usualfashion in human action. But whatever the service to which it is put, itacts with equal energy and precision. Character--that is a thing apart. The character determines the morality of action; but only the intellectdetermines the skill of action. 

In the offices of that great law firm one of the keenest pleasures ofthe more intelligent of the staff was watching the workings of FrederickNorman's mind--its ease of movement, its quickness and accuracy, itsobedience to the code of mental habits he had fixed for himself. Inlarge part all this was born with the man; but it had been brought to astate of perfection by the most painful labor, by the severestdiscipline, by years of practice of the sacrifice of smalltemptations--temptations to waste time and strength on the littlepleasant things which result in such heavy bills--bills that bankrupt aman in middle life and send him in old age into the deserts of povertyand contempt. 

Such an unique and trivial request as that of Josephine Burroughs beingwholly out of his mental habit for down town, he forgot it along witheverything else having to do with uptown only--along with Josephineherself, to tell a truth which may pique the woman reader and may bewholly misunderstood by the sentimentalists. By merest accident he wasreminded. 

As the door of his private office opened to admit an important client hehappened to glance up. And between the edge of the door frame and hisclient's automobile-fattened and carefully dressed body, he caught aglimpse of the "poor little forlornness" who chanced to be crossing theouter office. A glint of sunlight on her hair changed it fromlifelessness to golden vital vividness; the same chance sunbeam touchedher pale skin with a soft yellow radiation--and her profile wasdelicately fine and regular. Thus Norman, who observed everything, sawa head of finely wrought gold--a startling cameo against the dead whiteof office wall. It was only with the second thought that he recognizedher. The episode of the night before came back and Josephine's penitentyet persistent note. 

He glanced at the clock. Said the client in the amusing tone of one whowould like to take offense if he only dared, "I'll not detain you long, Mr. Norman. And really the matter is extremely important. "

There are not many lawyers, even of the first rank, with whom their bigclients reverse the attitude of servant and master. Norman might wellhave been flattered. In that restrained tone from one used to servilityand fond of it and easily miffed by lack of it was the whole story ofNorman's long battle and splendid victory. But he was not in the mood tobe flattered; he was thinking of other things. And it presently annoyedhim that his usually docile mind refused to obey his will's order toconcentrate on the client and the business--said business being one ofthose huge schemes through which a big monster of a corporation isconstructed by lawyers out of materials supplied by great capitalistsand controllers of capital, is set to eating in enormous meals thesubstance of the people; at some obscure point in all the principalveins small but leechlike parasite corporations are attached, industriously to suck away the surplus blood so that the owners of thebeast may say, "It is eating almost nothing. See how lean it is, poorthing! Why, the bones fairly poke through its meager hide. "

An interesting and highly complicated enterprise is such a construction. It was of the kind in which Norman's mind especially delighted; Herculesis himself only in presence of an herculean labor. But on that day hecould not concentrate, and because of a trifle! He felt like a giantdisabled by a grain of dust in the eye--yes, a mere grain of dust! "Imust love Josephine even more than I realize, to be fretted by such apaltry thing, " thought he. And after patiently enduring the client forhalf an hour without being able to grasp the outlines of the project, herose abruptly and said: "I must get into my mind the points you've givenme before we can go further. So I'll not waste your time. "

This sounded very like "Clear out--you've bored me to my limit ofendurance. " But the motions of a mind such as he knew Norman had werebeyond and high above the client's mere cunning at dollar-trapping. Hefelt that it was the part of wisdom--also soothing to vanity--to assumethat Norman meant only what his words conveyed. When Norman was alone herang for an office boy and said:

"Please ask Miss Halliday to come here. "

The boy hesitated. "Miss Hallowell?" he suggested. 

"Hallowell--thanks--Hallowell, " said Norman. 

And it somehow pleased him that he had not remembered her name. Howsignificant it was of her insignificance that so accurate a memory ashis should make the slip. When she, impassive, colorless, nebulous, stood before him the feeling of pleasure was, queerly enough, mingledwith a sense of humiliation. What absurd vagaries his imagination hadindulged in! For it must have been sheer hallucination, his seeing thosewonders in her. How he would be laughed at if those pictures he had madeof her could be seen by any other eyes! "They must be right when theysay a man in love is touched in the head. Only, why the devil should Ihave happened to get these crazy notions about a person I've no interestin?" However, the main point--and most satisfactory--was that Josephinewould be at a glance convinced--convicted--made ashamed of her absurdattack. A mere grain of dust. 

"Just a moment, please, " he said to Miss Hallowell. "I want to give youa note of introduction. "

He wrote the note to Josephine Burroughs: "Here she is. I've told heryou wish to talk with her about doing some work for you. " When hefinished he looked up. She was standing at the window, gazing out uponthe tremendous panorama of skyscrapers that makes New York the mostastounding of the cities of men. He was about to speak. The words fellback unuttered. For once more the hallucination--or whatever itwas--laid hold of him. That figure by the window--that beautiful girl, with the great dreamy eyes and the soft and languorous nuances of goldenhaze over her hair, over the skin of perfectly rounded cheek andperfectly moulded chin curving with ideal grace into the whitest andfirmest of throats----

"Am I mad? or do I really see what I see?" he muttered. 

He turned away to clear his eyes for a second view, for an attempt tosettle it whether he saw or imagined. When he looked again, she wasobserving him--and once more she was the obscure, the cipherlike MissHallowell, ten-dollar-a-week typewriter and not worth it. Evidently shenoted his confusion and was vaguely alarmed by it. He recovered himselfas best he could and debated whether it was wise to send her toJosephine. Surely those transformations were not altogether his ownhallucinations; and Josephine might see, might humiliate him bysuspecting more strongly--. .. Ridiculous! He held out the letter. 

"The lady to whom this is addressed wishes to see you. Will you gothere, right away, please? It may be that you'll get the chance to makesome extra money. You've no objection, I suppose?"

She took the letter hesitatingly. 

"You will find her agreeable, I think, " continued he. "At any rate, thetrip can do no harm. "

She hesitated a moment longer, as if weighing what he had said. "No, itwill do no harm, " she finally said. Then, with a delightful color and aquick transformation into a vision of young shyness, "Thank you, Mr. Norman. Thank you so much. "

"Not at all--not in the least, " he stammered, the impulse strong to takethe note back and ask her to return to her desk. 

When the door closed behind her he rose and paced about the roomuneasily. He was filled with disquiet, with hazy apprehension. Hisnerves were unsteady, as if he were going through an exhausting strain. He sat and tried to force himself to work. Impossible. "What sort ofdamn fool attack is this?" he exclaimed, pacing about again. He searchedhis mind in vain for any cause adequate to explain his unprecedentedstate. "If I did not know that I was well--absolutely well--I'd think Iwas about to have an illness--something in the brain. "

He appealed to that friend in any trying hour, his sense of humor. Helaughed at himself; but his nerves refused to return to the normal. Herushed from his private office on various pretexts, each time lingeredin the general room, talking aimlessly with Tetlow--and watching thedoor. When she at last appeared, he guiltily withdrew, feeling thateveryone was observing his perturbation and was wondering at it andjesting about it. "And what the devil am I excited about?" he demandedof himself. What indeed? He seated himself, rang the bell. 

"If Miss Hallowell has got back, " he said to the office boy, "please askher to come in. "

"I think she's gone out to lunch, " said the boy. "I know she came in awhile ago. She passed along as you was talking to Mr. Tetlow. "

Norman felt himself flushing. "Any time will do, " he said, bending overthe papers spread out before him--the papers in the case of the GeneralTraction Company resisting the payment of its taxes. A noisome odorseemed to be rising from the typewritten sheets. He made a wry face andflung the papers aside with a gesture of disgust. "They never doanything honest, " he said to himself. "From the stock-jobbing ownersdown to the nickel-filching conductors they steal--steal--steal!" Andthen he wondered at, laughed at, his heat. What did it matter? An antpilfering from another ant and a sparrow stealing the crumb found byanother sparrow--a man robbing another man--all part of the universalscheme. Only a narrow-minded ignoramus would get himself wrought up overit; a philosopher would laugh--and take what he needed or happened tofancy. 

The door opened. Miss Hallowell entered, a small and demure hat upon hermasses of thick fair hair arranged by anything but unskillful fingers. "You wished to see me?" came in the quiet little voice, sweet and frankand shy. 

He roused himself from pretended abstraction. 

"Oh--it's you?" he said pleasantly. "They said you were out. "

"I was going to lunch. But if you've anything for me to do, I'll be gladto stay. "

"No--no. I simply wished to say that if Miss Burroughs wished to make anarrangement with you, we'd help you about carrying out your part of it. "

She was pale--so pale that it brought out strongly the smooth dead-whitepurity of her skin. Her small features wore an expression of pride, ofhaughtiness even. And in the eyes that regarded him steadily there shonea cold light--the light of a proud and lonely soul that repels intrusioneven as the Polar fastnesses push back without effort assault upon theirsolitudes. "We made no arrangement, " said she. 

"You are not more than eighteen, are you?" inquired he abruptly. 

The irrelevant question startled her. She looked as if she thought shehad not heard aright. "I am twenty, " she said. 

"You have a most--most unusual way of shifting to various ages andpersonalities, " explained he, with some embarrassment. 

She simply looked at him and waited. 

His embarrassment increased. It was a novel sensation to him, thisfeeling ill at ease with a woman--he who was at ease with everyone andput others at their ease or not as he pleased. "I'm sorry you and MissBurroughs didn't arrange something. I suppose she found the hoursdifficult. "

"She made me an offer, " replied the girl. "I refused it. "

"But, as I told you, we can let you off--anything within reason. "

"Thank you, but I do not care to do that kind of work. No doubt any kindof work for wages classes one as a servant. But those people upthere--they make one _feel_ it--feel menial. "

"Not Miss Burroughs, I assure you. "

A satirical smile hovered round the girl's lips. Her face was altogetherlovely now, and no lily ever rose more gracefully from its stem than didher small head from her slender form. "She meant to be kind, but she wasinsulting. Those people up there don't understand. They're vain andnarrow. Oh, I don't blame them. Only, I don't care to be brought intocontact with them. "

He looked at her in wonder. She talked of Josephine as if she wereJosephine's superior, and her expression and accent were such that theycontrived to convey an impression that she had the right to do it. Hegrew suddenly angry at her, at himself for listening to her. "I amsorry, " he said stiffly, and took up a pen to indicate that he wishedher to go. 

He rather expected that she would be alarmed. But if she was, she whollyconcealed it. She smiled slightly and moved toward the door. Lookingafter her, he relented. She seemed so young--was so young--and wasevidently poor. He said:

"It's all right to be proud, Miss Hallowell. But there is such a thingas supersensitiveness. You are earning your living. If you'll pardon mefor thrusting advice upon you, I think you've made a mistake. I'm sureMiss Burroughs meant well. If you had been less sensitive you'd soonhave realized it. "

"She patronized me, " replied the girl, not angrily, but with amusement. "It was all I could do not to laugh in her face. The idea of a woman whoprobably couldn't make five dollars a week fancying she was the superiorof any girl who makes her own living, no matter how poor a living itis. "

Norman laughed. It had often appealed to his own sense of humor, thedelusion that the tower one happened to be standing upon was part ofone's own stature. But he said: "You're a very foolish young person. You'll not get far in the world if you keep to that road. It windsthrough Poverty Swamps to the Poor House. "

"Oh, no, " replied she. "One can always die. "

Again he laughed. "But why die? Why not be sensible and live?"

"I don't know, " replied she. She was looking away dreamily, and her eyeswere wonderful to see. "There are many things I feel and do--and I don'tat all understand why. But--" An expression of startling resolutionflashed across her face. "But I do them, just the same. "

A brief silence; then, as she again moved toward the door, he said, "Youhave been working for some time?"

"Four years. "

"You support yourself?"

"I work to help out father's income. He makes almost enough, but notquite. "

Almost enough! The phrase struck upon Norman's fancy as both amusing andsad. Almost enough for what? For keeping body and soul together; forkeeping body barely decently clad. Yet she was content. He said:

"You like to work?"

"Not yet. But I think I shall when I learn this business. One feelssecure when one has a trade. "

"It doesn't impress me as an interesting life for a girl of your age, "he suggested. 

"Oh, I'm not unhappy. And at home, of evenings and Sundays, I'm happy. "

"Doing what?"

"Reading and talking with father and--doing the housework--and all therest of it. "

What a monotonous narrow little life! He wanted to pity her, but somehowhe could not. There was no suggestion in her manner that she was anobject of pity. "What did Miss Burroughs say to you--if I may ask?"

"Certainly. You sent me, and I'm much obliged to you. I realize it wasan opportunity--for another sort of girl. I half tried to accept becauseI knew refusing was only my--queerness. " She smiled charmingly. "You arenot offended because I couldn't make myself take it?"

"Not in the least. " And all at once he felt that it was true. This girlwould have been out of place in service. "What was the offer?"

Suddenly before him there appeared a clever, willful child, full of thechildish passion for imitation and mockery. And she proceeded to "takeoff" the grand Miss Burroughs--enough like Josephine to give the satirepoint and barb. He could see Josephine resolved to be affable and equal, to make this doubtless bedazzled stray from the "lower classes" feelcomfortable in those palatial surroundings. She imitated Josephine'swalk, her way of looking, her voice for the menials--gracious andcondescending. The exhibition was clever, free from malice, redolent ofhumor. Norman laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. 

"You ought to go on the stage, " said he. "How Josephine--Miss Burroughswould appreciate it! For she's got a keen sense of humor. "

"Not for the real jokes--like herself, " replied Miss Hallowell. 

"You're prejudiced. "

"No. I see her as she is. Probably everyone else--those around her--seeher money and her clothes and all that. But I saw--just her. "

He nodded thoughtfully. Then he looked penetratingly at her. "How didyou happen to learn to do that?" he asked. "To see people as they are?"

"Father taught me. " Her eyes lighted up, her whole expression changed. She became beautiful with the beauty of an intense and adoring love. "Father is a wonderful man--one of the most wonderful that ever lived. He----"

There was a knock at the door. She startled, he looked confused. Bothawakened to a sense of their forgotten surroundings, of who and whatthey were. She went and Mr. Sanders entered. But even in his confusionNorman marveled at the vanishing of the fascinating personality who hadbeen captivating him into forgetting everything else, at thereappearance of the blank, the pale and insignificant personalityattached to a typewriting machine at ten dollars a week. No, notinsignificant, not blank--never again that, for him. He saw now the fullreality--and also why he, everyone, was so misled. She made him think ofthe surface of the sea when the sky is gray and the air calm. It liessmooth and flat and expressionless--inert, monotonous. But let sunbeamstrike or breeze ever so faint start up, and what a commotion ofunending variety! He could never look at her again without beingreminded of those infinite latent possibilities, without wondering whatnew and perhaps more charming, more surprising varieties of look andtone and manner could be evoked. 

And while Sanders was talking--prosing on and on about things Normaneither already knew or did not wish to know--he was thinking of her. "Ifshe happens to meet a man with enough discernment to fall in love withher, " he said to himself, "he certainly will never weary. What a pitythat such a girl shouldn't have had a chance, should be wasted on someunappreciative chucklehead of her class! What a pity she hasn'tambition--or the quality, whatever it is--that makes those who have itget on, whether they wish or no. "

During the rest of the day he revolved from time to time indistinctideas of somehow giving this girl a chance. He wished Josephine wouldand could help, or perhaps his sister Ursula. It was not a matter thatcould be settled, or even taken up, in haste. No man of his mentalityand experience fails to learn how perilous it is in the least tointerfere in the destiny of anyone. And his notion involved not slightinterference with advice or suggestion or momentarily extended helpinghand, but radical change of the whole current of destiny. Also, heappreciated how difficult it is for a man to do anything for a youngwoman--anything that would not harm more than it would help. Only onething seemed clear to him--the "clever child" ought to have a chance. 

He went to see Josephine after dinner that night His own house, whilerichly and showily furnished, as became his means and station, seemed--and indeed was--merely an example of simple, old-fashioned"solid comfort" in comparison with the Burroughs palace. He had neverliked, but, being a true New Yorker, had greatly admired the splendor ofthat palace, its costly art junk, its rotten old tapestries, itsunlovely genuine antiques, its room after room of tastelessmagnificence, suggesting a museum, or rather the combination home andsalesroom of an art dealer. This evening he found himself curious, critical, disposed to license a long-suppressed sense of humor. Whilehe was waiting for Josephine to come down to the small salon into whichhe had been shown, her older sister drifted in, on the way to a latedinner and ball. She eyed him admiringly from head to foot. 

"You've _such_ an air, Fred, " said she. "You should hear the butler on thesubject of you. He says that of all the men who come to the house youare most the man of the world. He says he could tell it by the way youwalk in and take off your hat and coat and throw them at him. "

Norman laughed and said, "I didn't know. I must stop that. "

"Don't!" cried Mrs. Bellowes. "You'll break his heart. He adores it. Youknow, servants dearly love to be treated as servants. Anyone who thinksthe world loves equality knows very little about human nature. Mostpeople love to look up, just as most women love to be ruled. No, youmust continue to be the master, the man of the world, Fred. "

She was busy with her gorgeous and trailing wraps and with her cigaretteor she would have seen his confusion. He was recalling his scene withthe typewriter girl. Not much of the man of the world, then and there, certainly. What a grotesque performance for a man of his position, for aserious man of any kind! And how came he to permit such a person tomimic Josephine Burroughs, a lady, the woman to whom he was engaged? Inthese proud and pretentious surroundings he felt contemptiblyguilty--and dazed wonder at his own inexplicable folly and weakness. 

Mrs. Bellowes departed before Josephine came down. So there was norelief for his embarrassment. He saw that she too felt constrained. Instead of meeting him half way in embrace and kiss, as she usually did, she threw him a kiss and pretended to be busy lighting a cigarette andarranging the shades of the table lamp. "Well, I saw your 'poor littlecreature, '" she began. She was splendidly direct in all her dealings, after the manner of people who have never had to make their own way--tocajole or conciliate or dread the consequences of frankness. 

"I told you you'd not find her interesting. "

"Oh, she was a nice little girl, " replied Josephine with elaborategraciousness--and Norman, the "take off" fresh in his mind, was acutelycritical of her manner, of her mannerisms. "Of course, " she went on, "one does not expect much of people of that class. But I thought herunusually well-mannered--and quite clean. "

"Tetlow makes 'em clean up, " said Norman, a gleam of sarcasm in hiscareless glance and tone. And into his nostrils stole an odor offreshness and health and youth, the pure, sweet odor that is the base ofall the natural perfumes. It startled him, his vivid memory of a featureof her which he had not been until now aware that he had ever noted. 

"I offered her some work, " continued Josephine, "but I guess you keepher too busy down there for her to do anything else. "

"Probably, " said Norman. "Why do you sit on the other side of the room?"

"Oh, I don't know, " laughed Josephine. "I feel queer to-night. And itseems to me you're queer, too. "

"I? Perhaps rather tired, dear--that's all. "

"Did you and Miss Hallowell work hard to-day?"

"Oh, bother Miss Hallowell. Let's talk about ourselves. " And he drew herto the sofa at one end of the big fireplace. "I wish we hadn't set thewedding so far off. " And suddenly he found himself wondering whetherthat remark had been prompted by eagerness--a lover's eagerness--or byimpatience to have the business over and settled. 

"You don't act a bit natural to-night, Fred. You touch me as if I were astranger. "

"I like that!" mocked he. "A stranger hold your hand likethis?--and--kiss you--like this?"

She drew away, suddenly laid her hands on his shoulders, kissed him uponthe lips passionately, then looked into his eyes. "_Do_ you love me, Fred?--_really_?"

"Why so earnest?"

"You've had a great deal of experience?"

"More or less. "

"Have you ever loved any woman as you love me?"

"I've never loved any woman but you. I never before wanted to marry awoman. "

"But you may be doing it because--well, you might be tired and want tosettle down. "

"Do you believe that?"

"No, I don't. But I want to hear you say it isn't so. "

"Well--it isn't so. Are you satisfied?"

"I'm frightfully jealous of you, Fred. "

"What a waste of time!"

"I've got something to confess--something I'm ashamed of. "

"Don't confess, " cried he, laughing but showing that he meant it. "Just--don't be wicked again That's much better than confession. "

"But I must confess, " insisted she. "I had evil thoughts evil suspicionsabout you. I've had them all day--until you came. As soon as I saw you Ifelt bowed into the dust. A man like you, doing anything so vulgar as Isuspected you of--oh, dearest, I'm _so_ ashamed!"

He put his arms round her and drew her to his shoulder. And the scene ofmimicry in his office flashed into his mind, and the blood burned in hischeeks. But he had no such access of insanity as to entertain the ideaof confession. 

"It was that typewriter girl, " continued Josephine. She drew away againand once more searched his face. "You told me she was homely. "

"Not exactly that. "

"Insignificant then. "

"Isn't she?"

"Yes--in a way, " said Josephine, the condescending note in her voiceagain--and in his mind Miss Hallowell's clever burlesque of that note. "But, in another way--Men are different from women. Now I--a woman ofmy sort--couldn't stoop to a man of her class. But men seem not to feelthat way. "

"No, " said he, irritated. "They've the courage to take what they wantwherever they find it. A man will take gold out of the dirt, becausegold is always gold. But a woman waits until she can get it at afashionable jeweler's, and makes sure it's made up in a fashionable way. I don't like to hear _you_ say those things. "

Her eyes flashed. "Then you _do_ like that Hallowell girl!" she cried--andnever before had her voice jarred upon him. 

"That Hallowell girl has nothing to do with this, " he rejoined. "I liketo feel that you really love me--that you'd have taken me wherever youhappened to find me--and that you'd stick to me no matter how far Imight drop. "

"I would! I would!" she cried, tears in her eyes. "Oh, I didn't meanthat, Fred. You know I didn't--don't you?"

She tried to put her arms round his neck, but he took her hands and heldthem. "Would you like to think I was marrying you for what you have?--orfor any other reason whatever but for what you are?"

It being once more a question of her own sex, the obstinate lineappeared round her mouth. "But, Fred, I'd not be _me_, if I were--aworking girl, " she replied. 

"You might be something even better if you were, " retorted he coldly. "The only qualities I don't like about you are the surface qualitiesthat have been plated on in these surroundings. And if I thought it wasanything but just you that I was marrying, I'd lose no time aboutleaving you. I'd not let myself degrade myself. "

"Fred--that tone--and don't--please don't look at me like that!" shebegged. 

[Illustration: "'Would you like to think I was marrying you for what youhave?--or for any other reason whatever but for what you are?'"]

But his powerful glance searched on. He said, "Is it possible that youand I are deceiving ourselves--and that we'll marry and wake up--and bebored and dissatisfied--like so many of our friends?"

"No--no, " she cried, wildly agitated. "Fred, dear we love each other. You know we do. I don't use words as well as you do--and my mind worksin a queer way--Perhaps I didn't mean what I said. No matter. If mylove were put to the test--Fred, I don't ask anything more than thatyour love for me would stand the tests my love for you would stand. "

He caught her in his arms and kissed her with more passion than he hadever felt for her before. "I believe you, Jo, " he said. "I believe you. "

"I love you so--that I could be jealous even of her--of that little girlin your office. Fred, I didn't confess all the truth. It isn't true thatI thought her--a nobody. When she first came in here--it was in thisvery room--I thought she was as near nothing as any girl I'd ever seen. Then she began to change--as you said. And--oh, dearest, I can't helphating her! And when I tried to get her away from you, and she wouldn'tcome----"

"Away from me!" he cried, laughing. 

"I felt as if it were like that, " she pleaded. "And she wouldn'tcome--and treated me as if she were queen and I servant--only politely, I must say, for Heaven knows I don't want to injure her----"

"Shall I have her discharged?"

"Fred!" exclaimed she indignantly. "Do you think I could do such athing?"

"She'd easily get another job as good. Tetlow can find her one. Doesthat satisfy you?"

"No, " she confessed. "It makes me feel meaner than ever. "

"Now, Jo, let's drop this foolish seriousness about nothing at all. Let's drop it for good. "

"Nothing at all--that's exactly it. I can't understand, Fred. What isthere about her that makes her haunt me? That makes me afraid she'llhaunt you?"

Norman felt a sudden thrill. He tightened his hold upon her handsbecause his impulse had been to release them. "How absurd!" he said, rather noisily. 

"Isn't it, though?" echoed she. "Think of you and me almost quarrelingabout such a trivial person. " Her laugh died away. She shivered, cried, "Fred, I'm superstitious about her. I'm--I'm--_afraid_!" And she flungherself wildly into his arms. 

"She _is_ somewhat uncanny, " said he, with a lightness he was far fromfeeling. "But, dear--it isn't complimentary to me, is it?"

"Forgive me, dearest--I don't mean that. I couldn't mean that. But--I_love_ you so. Ever since I began to love you I've been looking round forsomething to be afraid of. And this is the first chance you've givenme. "

"_I've_ given you!" mocked he. 

She laughed hysterically. "I mean the first chance I've had. And I'mdoing the best I can with it. "

They were in good spirits now, and for the rest of the evening were asloverlike as always, the nearer together for the bit of rough sea theyhad weathered so nicely. Neither spoke of Miss Hallowell. Each hadprivately resolved never to speak of her to the other again. Josephinewas already regretting the frankness that had led her to expose a nottoo attractive part of herself--and to exaggerate in his eyes theimportance of a really insignificant chit of a typewriter. When he wentto bed that night he was resolved to have Tetlow find Miss Hallowell ajob in another office. 

"She certainly _is_ uncanny, " he said to himself. "I wonder why--I wonderwhat the secret of her is. She's the first woman I ever ran across whohad a real secret. _Is_ it real? I wonder. "

V

Toward noon the following day Norman, suddenly in need of astenographer, sent out for Miss Purdy, one of the three experts ateighteen dollars a week who did most of the important and veryconfidential work for the heads of the firm. When his door opened againhe saw not Miss Purdy but Miss Hallowell. 

"Miss Purdy is sick to-day, " said she. "Mr. Tetlow wishes to know if Iwould do. "

Norman shifted uneasily in his chair. "Just aswell--perfectly--certainly, " he stammered. He was not looking ather--seemed wholly occupied with the business he was preparing todispatch. 

She seated herself in the usual place, at the opposite side of the broadtable. With pencil poised she fixed her gaze upon the unmarred page ofher open notebook. Instead of abating, his confusion increased. He couldnot think of the subject about which he wished to dictate. First, henoted how long her lashes were--and darker than her hair, as were herwell-drawn eyebrows also. Never had he seen so white a skin or one sosmooth. She happened to be wearing a blouse with a Dutch neck that day. What a superb throat! What a line of beauty its gently swelling curvemade. Then his glance fell upon her lips, rosy-red, slightly pouted. Andwhat masses of dead gold hair--no, not gold, but of the white-gray ofwood ashes, and tinted with gold! No wonder it was difficult to telljust what color her hair was. Hair like that was ready to be of anycolor. And there were her arms, so symmetrical in her rather tightsleeves, and emerging into view in the most delicate wrists. What amarvelous skin!

"Have you ever posed?"

She startled and the color flamed in her cheeks. Her eyes shot a glanceof terror at him. "I--I, " she stammered. Then almost defiantly, "Yes, Idid--for a while. But I didn't suppose anyone knew. At the time weneeded the money badly. "

Norman felt deep disgust with himself for bursting out with such aquestion, and for having surprised her secret. "There's nothing to beashamed of, " he said gently. 

"Oh, I'm not ashamed, " she returned. Her agitation had subsided. "Theonly reason I quit was because the work was terribly hard and the paysmall and uncertain. I was confused because they discharged me at thelast place I had, when they found out I had been a model. It was achurch paper office. "

Again she poised her pencil and lowered her eyes. But he did not takethe hint. "Is there anything you would rather do than this sort ofwork?" he asked. 

"Nothing I could afford, " replied she. 

"If you had been kind to Miss Burroughs yesterday she would have helpedyou. "

"I couldn't afford to do that, " said the girl in her quiet, reticentway. 

"To do what?"

"To be nice to anyone for what I could get out of it. "

Norman smiled somewhat cynically. Probably the girl fancied she wastruthful; but human beings rarely knew anything about their real selves. "What would you like to do?"

She did not answer his question until she had shrunk completely withinherself and was again thickly veiled with the expression which madeeveryone think her insignificant. "Nothing I could afford to do, " saidshe. It was plain that she did not wish to be questioned further alongthat line. 

"The stage?" he persisted. 

"I hadn't thought of it, " was her answer. 

"What then?"

"I don't think about things I can't have. I never made any definiteplans. "

"But isn't it a good idea always to look ahead? As long as one has to bemoving, one might as well move in a definite direction. "

She was waiting with pencil poised. 

"There isn't much of a future at this business. "

She shrank slightly. He felt that she regarded his remark as preparationfor a kindly hint that she was not giving satisfaction. . . . Well, why notleave it that way? Perhaps she would quit of her own accord--would sparehim the trouble--and embarrassment--of arranging with Tetlow for anotherplace for her. He began to dictate--gave her a few sentences mockinglydifferent from his usual terse and clear statements--interrupted himselfwith:

"You misunderstood me a while ago. I didn't mean you weren't doing yourwork well. On the contrary, I think you'll soon be expert. But I thoughtperhaps I might be able to help you to something you'd like better. "

He listened to his own words in astonishment. What new freak of madnesswas this? Instead of clearing himself of this uncanny girl, he wasproposing things to her that would mean closer relations. And whatreason had he to think she was fitted for anything but just what she wasnow doing--doing indifferently well?

"Thank you, " she said, so quietly that it seemed coldly, "but I'msatisfied as I am. "

Her manner seemed to say with polite and restrained plainness that shewas not in the least appreciative of his interest or of himself. Butthis could not be. No girl in her position could fail to be grateful forhis interest. No woman, in all his life, had ever failed to respond tohis slightest advance. No, it simply could not be. She was merely shy, and had a peculiar way of showing it. He said:

"You have no ambition?"

"That's not for a woman. "

She was making her replies as brief as civility permitted. He observedher narrowly. She was not shy, not embarrassed. What kind of game wasthis? It could not be in sincere nature for a person in her positionthus to treat overtures, friendly and courteous overtures, from one inhis position. And never before--never--had a woman been thusunresponsive. Instead of feeling relief that she had disentangled himfrom the plight into which his impulsive offer had flung him, he waspiqued--angered--and his curiosity was inflamed as never before aboutany woman. 

The relations of the sexes are for the most part governed by traditionsof sex allurements and sex tricks so ancient that they have ceased to beconscious and have become instinctive. One of these venerable firstprinciples is that mystery is the arch provoker. Norman, an old andexpert student of the great game--the only game for which the staidestand most serious will abandon all else to follow its merry call--Normanknew this trick of mystery. The woman veils herself and makes believe tofly--an excellent trick, as good to-day as ever after five thousandyears of service. And he knew that in it lay the explanation for thesudden and high upflaming of his interest in this girl. "What an ass I'mmaking of myself!" reflected he. "When I care nothing about the girl, why should I care about the mystery of her? Of course, it's some poorlittle affair, a puzzle not worth puzzling out. "

All true and clear enough. Yet seeing it did not abate his interest aparticle. She had veiled herself; she was pretending--perhapshonestly--to fly. He rose and went to the window, stood with his back toher, resumed dictating. But the sentences would not come. He whirledabruptly. "I'm not ready to do the thing yet, " he said. "I'll send foryou later. "

Without a word or a glance she stood, took her book and went toward thedoor. He gazed after her. He could not refrain from speaking again. "I'mafraid you misunderstood my offer a while ago, " said he, neither curtnor friendly. "I forgot how such things from a man to a young womanmight be misinterpreted. "

"I never thought of that, " replied she unembarrassed. "It was simplythat I can't put myself under obligation to anyone. "

As she stood there, her full beauty flashed upon him--the exquisiteform, the subtly graceful poise of her body, of her head--the lovelinessof that golden-hued white skin--the charm of her small rosy mouth--thedelicate, sensitive, slightly tilted nose--and her eyes--above all, hereyes!--so clear, so sweet. Her voice had seemed thin and faint to him;its fineness now seemed the rarest delicacy--the exactly fitting kindfor so evasive and delicate a beauty as hers. He made a slight bow ofdismissal, turned abruptly away. Never in all his life, strewn withgallant experiences--never had a woman thus treated him, and never had awoman thus affected him. "I am mad--stark mad!" he muttered. "Aten-dollar-a-week typewriter, whom nobody on earth but myself would lookat a second time!" But something within him hurled back this scornfulfling. Though no one else on earth saw or appreciated--what of it? Sheaffected _him_ thus--and that was enough. "_I_ want her! . . . I _want_her! I have never wanted a woman before. "

He rushed into the dressing room attached to his office, plunged hisface into ice-cold water. This somewhat eased the burning sensation thatwas becoming intolerable. Many were the unaccountable incidents in hisacquaintance with this strange creature; the most preposterous was thissudden seizure. He realized now that his feeling for her had been likethe quiet, steady, imperceptible filling of a reservoir that suddenlyannounces itself by the thunder and roar of a mighty cascade over thedam. "This is madness--sheer madness! I am still master within myself. Iwill make short work of this rebellion. " And with an air of calmness soconvincing that he believed in it he addressed himself to the task ofsanity and wisdom lying plain before him. "A man of my position caughtby a girl like that! A man such as I am, caught by _any_ woman whatever!"It was grotesque. He opened his door to summon Tetlow. 

The gate in the outside railing was directly opposite, and about thirtyfeet away. Tetlow and Miss Hallowell were going out--evidently to lunchtogether. She was looking up at the chief clerk with laughing eyes--theyseemed coquettish to the infuriated Norman. And Tetlow--the serious andsquab young ass was gazing at her with the expression men of the stupidsquab sort put on when they wish to impress a woman. At this spectacle, at the vision of that slim young loveliness, that perfect form anddeliciously smooth soft skin, white beyond belief beneath its faintlygolden tint--the hot blood steamed up into Norman's brain, blinded hissight, reddened it with desire and jealousy. He drew back, closed hisdoor with a bang. 

"This is not I, " he muttered. "What has happened? Am I insane?"

 * * * * *

When Tetlow returned from lunch the office boy on duty at the gate toldhim that Mr. Norman wished to see him at once. Like all men trying toadvance along ways where their fellow men can help or hinder, the headclerk was full of more or less clever little tricks thought out with aview to making a good impression. One of them was to stamp upon allminds his virtue of promptness--of what use to be prompt unless youforced every one to feel how prompt you were? He went in to see Norman, with hat in hand and overcoat on his back and one glove off, the otherstill on. Norman was standing at a window, smoking a cigarette. Hisappearance--dress quite as much as manner--was the envy of hissubordinate--as, indeed, it was of hundreds of the young men strugglingto rise down town. It was so exactly what the appearance of a man ofvigor and power and high position should be. Tetlow practiced it by thequarter hour before his glass at home--not without progress in thedirection of a not unimpressive manner of his own. 

As Tetlow stood at attention, Norman turned and advanced toward him. "Mr. Tetlow, " he began, in his good-humored voice with the never whollysubmerged under-note of sharpness, "is it your habit to go out to lunchwith the young ladies employed here? If so, I wish to suggest--simply tosuggest--that it may be bad for discipline. "

Tetlow's jaw dropped a little. He looked at Norman, was astonished todiscover beneath a thin veneer of calm signs of greater agitation thanhe had ever seen in him. "To-day was the first time, sir, " he said. "AndI can't quite account for my doing it. Miss Hallowell has been hereseveral months. I never specially noticed her until the last fewdays--when the question of discharging her came up. You may remember itwas settled by you. " Norman flung his cigarette away and stalked to thewindow. 

"Mr. Norman, " pursued Tetlow, "you and I have been together many years. I esteem it my greatest honor that I am able--that you permit me--toclass you as my friend. So I'm going to give you a confidence--one thatreally startles me. I called on Miss Hallowell last night. "

Norman's back stiffened. 

"She is even more charming in her own home. And--" Tetlow blushed andtrembled--"I am going to make her my wife if I can. "

Norman turned, a mocking satirical smile unpleasantly sparkling in hiseyes and curling his mouth "Old man, " he said, "I think you've gonecrazy. "

Tetlow made a helpless gesture. "I think so myself. I didn't intend tomarry for ten years--and then--I had quite a different match in mind. "

"What's the matter with you, Billy?" inquired Norman, inspecting himwith smiling, cruelly unfriendly eyes. 

"I'm damned if I know, Norman, " said the head clerk, assuming that hisfriend was sympathetic and dropping into the informality of the old dayswhen they were clerks together in a small firm. "I'd have proposed toher last night if I hadn't been afraid I'd lose her by being in such ahurry. . . . You're in love yourself. "

Norman startled violently. 

"You're going to get married. Probably you can sympathize. You know howit is to meet the woman you want and must have. "

Norman turned away. 

"I've had--or thought I had--rather advanced ideas on the subject ofwomen. I've always had a horror of being married for a living or for ahome or as an experiment or a springboard. My notion's been that Iwouldn't trust a woman who wasn't independent. And theoretically I stillthink that's sound. But it doesn't work out in practice. A man has tohave been in love to be able to speak the last word on the sexquestion. "

Norman dropped heavily into his desk chair and rumpled his hair intodisorder. He muttered something--the head clerk thought it was an oath. 

"I'd marry her, " Tetlow went on, "if I knew she was simply using me inthe coldest, most calculating way. My only fear is that I shan't be ableto get her--that she won't marry me. "

Norman sneered. "That's not likely, " he said. 

"No, it isn't, " admitted Tetlow. "They--the Hallowells--are nicepeople--of as good family as there is. But they're poor--very poor. There's only her father and herself. The old man is a scientist--spendsmost of his time at things that won't pay a cent--utterly impractical. Agentleman--an able man, if a little cracked--at least he seemed so to mewho don't know much about scientific matters. But getting poorersteadily. So I think she will accept me. "

A gloomy, angry frown, like a black shadow, passed across Norman's faceand disappeared. "You'd marry her--on those terms?" he sneered. 

"Of course I _hope_ for better terms----"

Norman sprang up, strode to the window and turned his back. 

"But I'm prepared for the worst. The fact is, she treats me as if shedidn't care a rap for the honor of my showing her attention. "

"A trick, Billy. An old trick. "

"Maybe so. But--I really believe she doesn't realize. She's queer--hasbeen queerly brought up. Yes, I think she doesn't appreciate. Then, too, she's young and light--almost childish in some ways. . . . I don't blameyou for being disgusted with me, Fred. But--damn it, what's a man todo?"

"Cure himself!" exploded Norman, wheeling violently on his friend. "Youmust act like a man. Billy, such a marriage is ruin for you. How can wetake you into partnership next year? When you marry, you must marry inthe class you're moving toward, not in any of those you're leavingbehind. "

"Do you suppose I haven't thought of all that?" rejoined Tetlowbitterly. "But I can't help myself. It's useless for me to say I'll try. I shan't try. "

"Don't you want to get over this?" demanded Norman fiercely. 

"Of course--No--I don't. Fred, you'd think better of me if you knewher. You've never especially noticed her. She's beautiful. "

Norman dropped to his chair again. 

"Really--beautiful, " protested Tetlow, assuming that the gesture was oneof disgusted denial. "Take a good look at her, Norman, before youcondemn her. I never was so astonished as when I discovered howgood-looking she is. I don't quite know how it is, but I suppose nobodyever happened to see how--how lovely she is until I just chanced to seeit. " At a rudely abrupt gesture from Norman he hurried on, eagerlyapologetic, "And if you talk with her--She's very reserved. But she'sthe lady through and through--and has a good mind. . . . At least, Ithink she has. I'll admit a man in love is a poor judge of a woman'smind. But, anyhow, I _know_ she's lovely to look at. You'll see ityourself, now that I've called your attention to it. You can't fail tosee it. "

Norman threw himself back in his chair and clasped his hands behind hishead. "_Why_ do you want to marry her?" he inquired, in a tone hissensitive ear approved as judicial. 

"How can I tell?" replied the head clerk irritably. "Does a man everknow?"

"Always--when he's sensibly in love. "

"But when he's just in love? That's what ails me, " retorted Tetlow, witha sheepish look and laugh. 

"Billy, you've got to get over this. I can't let you make a fool ofyourself. "

Tetlow's fat, smooth, pasty face of the overfed, underexercisedprofessional man became a curious exhibit of alarm and obstinacy. 

"You've got to promise me you'll keep away from her--except at theoffice--for say, a week. Then--we'll see. "

Tetlow debated. 

"It's highly improbable that anyone else will discover theseirresistible charms. There's no one else hanging round?"

"No one, as I told you the other day, when you questioned me about her. "

Norman shifted, looked embarrassed. 

"I hope I didn't give you the impression I was ashamed of loving her orwould ever be ashamed of her anywhere?" continued Tetlow, a veryloverlike light in his usually unromantic eyes. "If I did, it wasn'twhat I meant--far from it. You'll see, when I marry her, Norman. You'llbe congratulating me. "

Norman sprang up again. "This is plain lunacy, Tetlow. I am amazed atyou--amazed!"

"Get acquainted with her, Mr. Norman, " pleaded the subordinate. "Do it, to oblige me. Don't condemn us----"

"I wish to hear nothing more!" cried Norman violently. "Another thing. You must find her a place in some other office--at once. "

"You're right, sir, " assented Tetlow. "I can readily do that. "

Norman scowled at him, made an imperious gesture of dismissal. Tetlow, chopfallen but obdurate, got himself speedily out of sight. 

Norman, with hands deep in his pockets, stared out among the skyscrapersand gave way to a fit of remorse. It was foreign to his nature to dopetty underhanded tricks. Grand strategy--yes. At that he was an adept, and not the shiftiest, craftiest schemes he had ever devised had givenhim a moment's uneasiness. But to be driving a ten-dollar-a-weektypewriter out of her job--to be maneuvering to deprive her of a forher brilliant marriage--to be lying to an old and loyal retainer who hadhelped Norman full as much and as often as Norman had helped him--thesesneaking bits of skullduggery made him feel that he had sunk indeed. Buthe ground his teeth together and his eyes gleamed wickedly. "He shan'thave her, damn him!" he muttered. "She's not for him. "

He summoned Tetlow, who was obviously low in mind as the result ofrevolving the things that had been said to him. "Billy, " he began in atone so amiable that he was ashamed for himself, "you'll not forget Ihave your promise?"

"What did I promise?" cried Tetlow, his voice shrill with alarm. 

"Not to see her, except at the office, for a week. "

"But I've promised her father I'd call this evening. He's going to showme some experiments. "

"You can easily make an excuse--business. "

"But I don't want to, " protested the head clerk. "What's the use? I'vegot my mind made up. Norman, I'd hang on after her if you fired me outof this office for it. And I can't rest--I'm fit for nothing--untilthis matter's settled. I came very near taking her aside and proposingto her, just after I went out of here a while ago. "

"You _damn_ fool!" cried Norman, losing all control of himself. "Take theafternoon express for Albany instead of Harcott and attend to thoseregistrations and arrange for those hearings. I'll do my best to saveyou. I'll bring the girl in here and keep her at work until you get outof the way. "

Tetlow glanced at his friend; then the tears came into his eyes. "You'rea hell of a friend!" he ejaculated. "And I thought you'd sympathizebecause you were in love. "

"I do sympathize, Billy, " Norman replied with an abrupt change toshamefaced apology. "I sympathize more than you know. I feel like a dog, doing this. But it can't result in any harm, and I want you to get alittle fresh air in that hot brain of yours before you commit yourself. Be reasonable, old man. Suppose you rushed ahead and proposed--and sheaccepted--and then, after a few days, you came to. What about her? Youmust act on the level, Tetlow. Do the fair thing by yourself and byher. "

Norman had often had occasion to feel proud of the ingenuity andresourcefulness of his brain. He had never been quite so proud as he waswhen he finished that speech. It pacified Tetlow; it lightened his ownsense of guilt; it gave him a respite. 

Tetlow rewarded Norman with the look that in New York is the equivalentof the handclasp friend seeks from friend in times of stress. "You'reright, Fred. I'm much obliged to you. I haven't been considering _her_side of it enough. A man ought always to think of that. The women--poorthings--have a hard enough time to get on, at best. "

Norman's smile was characteristically cynical. Sentimentality amusedhim. "I doubt if there are more female wrecks than male wrecks scatteredabout the earth, " rejoined he. "And I suspect the fact isn't due to thegentleness of man with woman, either. Don't fret for the ladies, Tetlow. They know how to take care of themselves. They know how to milk with asure and a steady hand. You may find it out by depressing experiencesome day. "

Tetlow saw the aim. His obstinate, wretched expression came back. "Idon't care. I've got----"

"You went over that ground, " interrupted Norman impatiently. "You'dbetter be catching the train. "

As Tetlow withdrew, he rang for an office boy and sent him to summonMiss Hallowell. 

Norman had been reasoning with himself--with the aid of the self thatwas both better and more worldly wise. He felt that his wrestlings hadnot been wholly futile. He believed he had got the strength to face thegirl with a respectful mind, with a mind resolute in duty--if notlove--toward Josephine Burroughs. "I _love_ Josephine, " he said tohimself. "My feeling for this girl is some sort of physical attraction. I certainly shall be able to control it enough to keep it within myself. And soon it will die out. No doubt I've felt much the same thing asstrongly before. But it didn't take hold because I was never boundbefore--never had the sense of the necessity for restraint. That senseis always highly dangerous for my sort of man. "

This sounded well. He eyed the entering girl coldly, said in a voicethat struck him as excellent indifference, "Bring your machine in here, Miss Hallowell, and recopy these papers. I've made some changes. If youspoil any sheets, don't throw them away, but return everything to me. "

"I'm always careful about the waste-paper baskets, " said she, "sincethey warned me that there are men who make a living searching the wastethrown out of offices. "

He made no reply. He could not have spoken if he had tried. Once morethe spell had seized him--the spell of her weird fascination for him. Asshe sat typewriting, with her back almost toward him, he sat watchingher and analyzing his own folly. He knew that diagnosing a disease doesnot cure it; but he found an acute pleasure in lingering upon all thedetails of the effect she had upon his nerves. He did not dare move fromhis desk, from the position that put a huge table and a revolving caseof reference books between them. He believed that if he went nearer hewould be unable to resist seizing her in his arms and pouring out thepassion that was playing along his nerves as the delicate, intense flameflits back and forth along the surface of burning alcohol. 

A knock at the door. He plunged into his papers. "Come!" he called. 

Tetlow thrust in his head. Miss Hallowell did not look up. "I'm off, "the head clerk said. His gaze was upon the unconscious girl--a gaze thatfilled Norman with longing to strangle him. 

"Telegraph me from Albany as soon as you get there, " said Norman. "Telegraph me at my club. "

Tetlow was gone. The machine tapped monotonously on. The barette whichheld the girl's hair at the back was so high that the full beauty of thenape of her neck was revealed. That wonderful white skin with the goldentint! How soft--yet how firm--her flesh looked! How slender yet howstrong was her build----

"How do you like Tetlow?" he asked, because speak to her he must. 

She glanced up, turned in her chair. He quivered before the gaze fromthose enchanting eyes of hers. "I beg pardon, " she said. "I didn'thear. "

"Tetlow--how do you like him?"

"He is very kind to me--to everyone. "

"How did your father like him?"

He confidently expected some sign of confusion, but there was no sign. "Father was delighted with him, " she said merrily. "He took an interestin the work father's doing--and that was enough. "

She was about to turn back to her task. He hastened to ask anotherquestion. "Couldn't I meet your father some time? What Tetlow told meinterested me greatly. "

"Father would be awfully pleased, " replied she. "But--unless you reallycare about--biology, I don't think you'd like coming. "

"I'm interested in everything interesting, " replied Norman dizzily. Whatwas he saying? What was he doing? What folly was his madness plunginghim into?

"You can come with Mr. Tetlow when he gets back. "

"I'd prefer to talk with him alone, " said Norman. "Perhaps I might seesome way to be of service to him. "

Her expression was vividly different from what it had been when heoffered to help _her_. She became radiant with happiness. "I do hopeyou'll come, " she said--her voice very low and sweet, in the effort shewas making to restrain yet express her feelings. 

"When? This evening?"

"He's always at home. "

"You'll be there?"

"I'm always there, too. We have no friends. It's not easy to makeacquaintances in the East--congenial acquaintances. "

"I'd want you to be there, " he explained with great care, "because youcould help him and me in getting acquainted. "

"Oh, he'll talk freely--to anyone. He talks only the one subject. Henever thinks of anything else. "

She was resting her crossed arms on the back of her chair and, with herchin upon them, was looking at him--a childlike pose and a childlikeexpression. He said: "You are _sure_ you are twenty?"

She smiled gayly. "Nearly twenty-one. "

"Old enough to be in love. "

She lifted her head and laughed. She had charming white teeth--small andsharp and with enough irregularity to carry out her general suggestionof variability. "Yes, I shall like that, when it comes, " she said; "Butthe chances are against it just now. "

"There's Tetlow. "

She was much amused. "Oh, he's far too old and serious. "

Norman felt depressed. "Why, he's only thirty-five. "

"But I'm not twenty-one, " she reminded him. "I'd want some one of my ownage. I'm tired of being so solemn. If I had love, I'd expect it tochange all that. "

Evidently a forlorn and foolish person--and doubtless thinking of him, two years the senior of Tetlow and far more serious, as an elderlyperson, in the same class with her father. "But you like biology?" hesaid. The way to a cure was to make her talk on. 

"I don't know anything about it, " said she, looking as frivolous as abutterfly or a breeze-bobbed blossom. "I listen to father, but it's allbeyond me. "

Yes--a light-weight. They could have nothing in common. She was a meresurface--a thrillingly beautiful surface, but not a full-fledged woman. So little did conversation with him interest her, she had takenadvantage of the short pause to resume her work. No, she had not thefaintest interest in him. It wasn't a trick of coquetry; it was genuine. He whom women had always bowed before was unable to arouse in her aspark of interest. She cared neither for what he had nor for what hewas, in himself. This offended and wounded him. He struggled sulkilywith his papers for half an hour. Then he fell to watching her againand----

"You must not neglect to give me your address, " he said. "Write it on aslip of paper after you finish. I might forget it. "

"Very well, " she replied, but did not turn round. 

"Why, do you think, did Tetlow come to see you?" he asked. He feltcheapened in his own eyes--he, the great man, the arrived man, thefiance of Josephine Burroughs, engaged in this halting and sneakingflirtation! But he could not restrain himself. 

She turned to answer. "Mr. Tetlow works very hard and has few friends. He had heard of my father and wanted to meet him--just like you. "

"Naturally, " murmured Norman, in confusion. "I thought--perhaps--he wasinterested in _you_. "

She laughed outright--and he had an entrancing view of the clean rosyinterior of her mouth. "In _me_?--Mr. Tetlow? Why, he's too serious andimportant for a girl like me. "

"Then he bored you?"

"Oh, no. I like him. He is a good man--thoroughly good. "

This pleased Norman immensely. It may be fine to be good, but to becalled good--that is somehow a different matter. It removes a man atonce from the jealousy-provoking class. "Good exactly describes him, "said Norman. "He wouldn't harm a fly. In love he'd be ridiculous. "

"Not with a woman of his own age and kind, " protested she. "But I'mneglecting my work. "

And she returned to it with a resolute manner that made him ashamed tointerrupt again--especially after the unconscious savage rebukes she hadadministered. He sat there fighting against the impulse to watchher--denouncing himself--appealing to pride, to shame, to prudence--tohis love for Josephine--to the sense of decency that restrains a hunterfrom aiming at a harmless tame song bird. But all in vain. Heconcentrated upon her at last, stared miserably at her, filled withlonging and dread and shame--and longing, and yet more longing. 

When she finished and stood at the other side of the desk, waiting forhim to pass upon her work, she must have thought he was in a profoundabstraction. He did not speak, made a slight motion with his hand toindicate that she was to go. Shut in alone, he buried his face in hisarms. "What madness!" he groaned. "If I loved her, there'd be someexcuse for me. But I don't. I couldn't. Yet I seem ready to ruineverything, merely to gratify a selfish whim--an insane whim. "

On top of the papers she had left he saw a separate slip. He drew ittoward him, spread it out before him. Her address. An unknown street inJersey City!

"I'll not go, " he said aloud, pushing the slip away. Go? Certainly not. He had never really meant to go. He would, of course, keep hisengagement with Josephine. "And I'll not come down town until she hastaken another job and has caught Tetlow. I'll stop this idiocy of tryingto make an impression on a person not worth impressing. What weakvanity--to be piqued by this girl's lack of interest!"

Nevertheless--he at six o'clock telephoned to the Burroughs' house thathe was detained down town. He sent away his motor, dined alone in thestation restaurant in Jersey City. And at half past seven he set out ina cab in search of--what? He did not dare answer that interrogation. 

VI

Life many another chance explorer from New York, Norman was surprised todiscover that, within a few minutes of leaving the railway station, hiscab was moving through a not unattractive city. He expected to find theHallowells in a tenement in some more or less squalid street overhungwith railway smoke and bedaubed with railway grime. He was delightedwhen the driver assured him that there was no mistake, that thecomfortable little cottage across the width of the sidewalk and a smallfront yard was the sought-for destination. 

"Wait, please, " he said to the cabman. "Or, if you like, you can go tothat corner saloon down there. I'll know where to find you. " And he gavehim half a dollar. 

The cabman hesitated between two theories of this conduct--whether itwas the generosity it seemed or was a ruse to "side step" payment. He--or his thirst--decided for the decency of human nature; he droveconfidingly away. Norman went up the tiny stoop and rang. The sound of apiano, in the room on the ground floor where there was light, abruptlyceased. The door opened and Miss Hallowell stood before him. She wasthroughout a different person from the girl of the office. She hadchanged to a tight-fitting pale-blue linen dress made all in one piece. Norman could now have not an instant's doubt about the genuineness, thebewitching actuality, of her beauty. The wonder was how she couldcontrive to conceal so much of it for the purposes of business. It was apeculiar kind of beauty--not the radiant kind, but that which shineswith a soft glow and gives him who sees it the delightful sense of beingits original and sole discoverer. An artistic eye--or an eye thatdiscriminates in and responds to feminine loveliness--would have beencaptivated, as it searched in vain for flaw. 

If Norman anticipated that she would be nervous before the task ofreceiving in her humbleness so distinguished a visitor, he must havebeen straightway disappointed. Whether from a natural lack of that senseof social differences which is developed to the most pitifulsnobbishness in New York or from her youth and inexperience, shereceived him as if he had been one of the neighbors dropping in aftersupper. And it was Norman who was ill at ease. Nothing is moredisconcerting to a man accustomed to be received with due respect to hisimportance than to find himself put upon the common human level andcompelled to "make good" all over again from the beginning. He felt--heknew--that he was an humble candidate for her favor--a candidate withthe chances perhaps against him. 

The tiny parlor had little in it beside the upright piano because therewas no space. But the paper, the carpet and curtains, the few pieces offurniture, showed no evidence of bad taste, of painful failure at theeffort to "make a front. " He was in the home of poor people, but theywere obviously people who made a highly satisfactory best of theirpoverty. And in the midst of it all the girl shone like the one eveningstar in the mystic opalescence of twilight. 

"We weren't sure you were coming, " said she. "I'll call father. . . . No, I'll take you back to his workshop. He's easier to get acquaintedwith there. "

"Won't you play something for me first? Or--perhaps you sing?"

"A very little, " she admitted. "Not worth hearing. "

"I'm sure I'd like it. I want to get used to my surroundings before Itackle the--the biology. "

Without either hesitation or shyness, she seated herself at the piano. "I'll sing the song I've just learned. " And she began. Norman moved tothe chair that gave him a view of her in profile. For the next fiveminutes he was witness to one of those rare, altogether charming visionsthat linger in the memory in freshness and fragrance until memory itselffades away. She sat very straight at the piano, and the position broughtout all the long lines of her figure--the long, round white neck andthroat, the long back and bosom, the long arms and legs--a series oflovely curves. It has been scientifically demonstrated that pale blue ispre-eminently the sex color. It certainly was pre-eminently _her_ color, setting off each and every one of her charms and suggesting theroundness and softness and whiteness her drapery concealed. She was oneof those rare beings whose every pose is instinct with grace. And hervoice--It was small, rather high, at times almost shrill. But in everynote of its register there sounded a mysterious, melancholy-sweet callto the responding nerves of man. 

Before she got halfway through the song Norman was fighting against thesame mad impulse that had all but overwhelmed him as he watched her inthe afternoon. And when her last note rose, swelled, slowly faded intosilence, it seemed to him that had she kept on for one note more hewould have disclosed to her amazed eyes the insanity raging within him. 

She turned on the piano stool, her hands dropped listlessly in her lap. "Aren't those words beautiful?" she said in a dreamy voice. She was notlooking at him. Evidently she was hardly aware of his presence. 

He had not heard a word. He was in no mood for mere words. "I've neverliked anything so well, " he said. And he lowered his eyes that she mightnot see what they must be revealing. 

She rose. He made a gesture of protest. "Won't you sing another?" heasked. 

"Not after that, " she said. "It's the best I know. It has put me out ofthe mood for the ordinary songs. "

"You are a dreamer--aren't you?"

"That's my real life, " replied she. "I go through the other part just toget to the dreams. "

"What do you dream?"

She laughed carelessly. "Oh, you'd not be interested. It would seemfoolish to you. "

"You're mistaken there, " cried he. "The only thing that ever hasinterested me in life is dreams--and making them come true. "

"But not _my_ kind of dreams. The only kind I like are the ones thatcouldn't possibly come true. "

"There isn't any dream that can't be made to come true. "

She looked at him eagerly. "You think so?"

"The wildest ones are often the easiest. " He had a moving voice himself, and it had been known to affect listening ears hypnotically when he wasdeeply in earnest, was possessed by one of those desires that conquermen of will and then make them irresistible instruments. "What is yourdream?--happiness? . . . Love?"

She gazed past him with swimming eyes, with a glance that seemed like abrave bright bird exploring infinity. "Yes, " she said under her breath. "But it could never--never come true. It's too perfect. "

"Don't doubt, " he said, in a tone that fitted her mood as the rhythm ofthe cradle fits the gentle breathing of the sleeping child. "Don't everdoubt. And the dream will come true. "

"You have been in love?" she said, under the spell of his look and tone. 

He nodded slowly. "I am, " he replied, and he was under the spell of herbeauty. 

"Is it--wonderful?"

"Like nothing else on earth. Everything else seems--poor andcheap--beside it. "

He drew a step nearer. "But you couldn't love--not yet, " he said. "Youhaven't had the experience. You will have to learn. "

"You don't know me, " she cried. "I have been teaching myself ever sinceI was a little girl. I've thought of nothing else most of the time. Oh--" she clasped her white hands against her small bosom--"if I everhave the chance, how much I shall give!"

"I know it! I know it!" he replied. "You will make some man happier thanever man was before. " His infatuation did not blind him to the fact thatshe cared nothing about him, looked on him in the most unpersonal way. But that knowledge seemed only to inflame him the more, to lash him onto the folly of an ill-timed declaration. "I have felt how much you willgive--how much you will love--I've felt it from the second time I sawyou--perhaps from the first. I've never seen any woman who interested meas you do--who drew me as you do--against my ambition--against my will. I--I----"

He had been fighting against the words that would come in spite of him. He halted now because the food of emotion suffocated speech. He stoodbefore her, ghastly pale and trembling. She did not draw back. Sheseemed compelled by his will, by the force of his passion, to stay whereshe was. But in her eyes was a fascinated terror--a fear of him--of thepassion that dominated him, a passion like the devils that made men gashthemselves and leap from precipices into the sea. To unaccustomed eyesthe first sight of passion is always terrifying and is usuallyrepellent. One must learn to adventure the big wave, the great hissing, towering billow that conceals behind its menace the wild rapture ofinfinite longing realized. 

"I have frightened you?" he said. 

"Yes, " was her whispered reply. 

"But it is your dream come true. "

She shrank back--not in aversion, but gently. "No--it isn't my dream, "she replied. 

"You don't realize it yet, but you will. "

She shook her head positively. "I couldn't ever think of you in thatway. "

He did not need to ask why. She had already explained when they weretalking of Tetlow. There was a finality in her tone that filled him withdespair. It was his turn to look at her in terror. What power this slimdelicate girl had over him! What a price she could exact if she butknew! Knew? Why, he had told her--was telling her in look and tone andgesture--was giving himself frankly into captivity--was prostrate, inviting her to trample. His only hope of escape lay in herinexperience--that she would not realize. In the insanities of passion, as in some other forms of dementia, there is always left a streak ofreason--of that craft which leads us to try to get what we want ascheaply as possible. Men, all but beside themselves with love, willbargain over the terms, if they be of the bargaining kind by nature. Norman was not a haggler. But common prudence was telling him how unwisehis conduct was, how he was inviting the defeat of his own purposes. 

He waved his hand impatiently. "We'll see, my dear, " he said with alight good-humored laugh. "I mustn't forget that I came to see yourfather. "

She looked at him doubtfully. She did not understand--did not quitelike--this abrupt change of mood. It suggested to her simplicity a lackof seriousness, of sincerity. "Do you really wish to see my father?" sheinquired. 

"Why else should I come away over to Jersey City? Couldn't I have talkedwith you at the office?"

This seemed convincing. She continued to study his face for light uponthe real character of this strange new sort of man. He regarded her witha friendly humorous twinkle in his eyes. "Then I'll take you to him, "she said at length. She was by no means satisfied, but she could notdiscover why she was dissatisfied. 

"I can't possibly do you any harm, " he urged, with raillery. 

"No, I think not, " replied she gravely. "But you mustn't say thosethings!"

"Why not?" Into his eyes came their strongest, most penetrating look. "Iwant you. And I don't intend to give you up. It isn't my habit to giveup. So, sooner or later I get what I go after. "

"You make me--afraid, " she said nervously. 

"Of what?" laughed he. "Not of me, certainly. Then it must be ofyourself. You are afraid you will end by wanting me to want you. "

"No--not that, " declared she, confused by his quick cleverness ofspeech. "I don't know what I'm afraid of. "

"Then let's go to your father. . . . You'll not tell Tetlow what I'vesaid?"

"No. " And once more her simple negation gave him a sense of her absolutetruthfulness. 

"Or that I've been here?"

She looked astonished. "Why not?"

"Oh--office reasons. It wouldn't do for the others to know. "

She reflected on this. "I don't understand, " was the result of herthinking. "But I'll do as you ask. Only, you must not come again. "

"Why not? If they knew at the office, they'd simply talk--unpleasantly. "

"Yes, " she admitted hesitatingly after reflecting. "So you mustn't comeagain. I don't like some kinds of secrets. "

"But your father will know, " he urged. "Isn't that enough for--forpropriety?"

"I can't explain. I don't understand, myself. I do a lot of things byinstinct. " She, standing with her hands behind her back and with clear, childlike eyes gravely upon him, looked puzzled but resolved. "And myinstinct tells me not to do anything secret about you. "

This answer made him wonder whether after all he might not be toopositive in his derisive disbelief in women's instincts. He laughed. "Well--now for your father. "

The workshop proved to be an annex to the rear, reached by a passageleading past a cosy little dining room and a kitchen where the order andthe shine of cleanness were notable even to masculine eyes. "You arewell taken care of, " he said to her--she was preceding him to show theway. 

"We take care of ourselves, " replied she. "I get breakfast before Ileave and supper after I come home. Father has a cold lunch in themiddle of the day, when he eats at all--which isn't often. And onSaturday afternoons and Sundays I do the heavy work. "

"You _are_ a busy lady!"

"Oh, not so very busy. Father is a crank about system and order. He hastaught me to plan everything and work by the plans. "

For the first time Norman had a glimmer of real interest in meeting herfather. For in those remarks of hers he recognized at once the raresuperior man--the man who works by plan, where the masses of mankindeither drift helplessly or are propelled by some superior force behindthem without which they would be, not the civilized beings they seem, but even as the savage in the dugout or as the beast of the field. Thegirl opened a door; a bright light streamed into the dim hallway. 

"Father!" she called. "Here's Mr. Norman. "

Norman saw, beyond the exquisite profile of the girl's head and figure, a lean tallish old man, dark and gray, whose expression proclaimed himat first glance no more in touch with the affairs of active life in theworld than had he been an inhabitant of Mars. 

Mr. Hallowell gave his caller a polite glance and handshake--evidence ofmerest surface interest in him, of amiable patience with an intruder. Norman saw in the neatness of his clothing and linen further proof ofthe girl's loving care. For no such abstracted personality as this wouldever bother about such things for himself. These details, however, detained Norman only for a moment. In the presence of Hallowell it wasimpossible not to concentrate upon him. 

As we grow older what we are inside, the kind of thoughts we admit asour intimates, appears ever more strongly in the countenance. This hadoften struck Norman, observing the men of importance about him, notinghow as they aged the look of respectability, of intellectualdistinction, became a thinner and ever thinner veneer over theselfishness and greediness, the vanity and sensuality and falsehood. Butnever before had he been so deeply impressed by its truth. EvidentlyHallowell during most of his fifty-five or sixty years had lived thepurely intellectual life. The result was a look of spiritual beauty, thelook of the soul living in the high mountain, with serenity and vastviews constantly before it. Such a face fills with awe the ordinaryfollower of the petty life of the world if he have the brains to know orto suspect the ultimate truth about existence. It filled Norman withawe. He hastily turned his eyes upon the girl--and once more into hisface came the resolute, intense, white-hot expression of a man doggedlyset upon an earthy purpose. 

There was an embarrassed silence. Then the girl said, "Show him theworms, father. "

Mr. Hallowell smiled. "My little girl thinks no one has seen that sortof thing, " said he. "I can't make her believe it is one of thecommonplaces. "

"You've never had anyone here more ignorant than I, sir, " said Norman. "The only claim on your courtesy I can make is that I'm interested andthat I perhaps know enough in a general way to appreciate. "

Hallowell waved his hand toward a row of large glass bottles on one ofthe many shelves built against the rough walls of the room. "Here theyare, " said he. "It's the familiar illustration of how life may becontrolled. "

"I don't understand, " said Norman, eying the bottled worms curiously. 

"Oh, it's simply the demonstration that life is a mere chemicalprocess----"

Norman had ceased to listen. The girl was moving toward the door bywhich they had entered--was in the doorway--was gone! He stood in anattitude of attention; Hallowell talked on and on, passing from onething to another, forgetting his caller and himself, thinking only ofthe subject, the beloved science, that has brought into the modern worlda type of men like those who haunted the deserts and mountain caves inthe days when Rome was falling to pieces. With those saintly hermits ofthe Dark Ages religion was the all-absorbing subject. And seeking theirown salvation was the goal upon which their ardent eyes were necessarilybent. With these modern devotees, science--the search for the truthabout the world in which they live--is their religion; and their goalis the redemption of the world. They are resolved--step by step, eachworker contributing his mite of discovery--to transform the world from ahell of discomfort and pain and death to a heaven where men and women, free and enlightened and perhaps immortal, shall live in happiness. Theyeven dream that perhaps this race of gods shall learn to construct themeans to take them to another and younger planet, when this Earth hasbecome too old and too cold and too nakedly clad in atmosphere properlyto sustain life. 

From time to time Norman caught a few words of what Hallowellsaid--words that made him respect the intelligence that had utteredthem. But he neither cared nor dared to listen. He refused to bedeflected from his one purpose. When he was as old as Hallowell, itwould be time to think of these matters. When he had snatched the thingshe needed, it would be time to take the generous, wide, philosopher viewof life. But not yet. He was still young; he could--and he would!--drinkof the sparkling heady life of the senses, typefied now for him in thisgirl. How her loveliness flamed in his blood--flamed as fiercely when hecould not see the actual, tangible charms as when they were radiatingtheir fire into his eyes and through his skin! First he must live thatglorious life of youth, of nerves aquiver with ecstasy. Also, he mustshut out the things of the intellect--must live in brain as well as inbody the animal life--in brain the life of cunning and strategy. For theintellectual life would make it impossible to pursue such ignoblethings. First, material success and material happiness. Then, in its owntime, this intellectual life to which such men as Hallowell ever beckon, from their heights, such men as Norman, deep in the wallow that seems tothem unworthy of them, even as they roll in it. 

As soon as there came a convenient pause in Hallowell's talk, Normansaid, "And you devote your whole life to these things?"

Hallowell's countenance lost its fine glow of enthusiasm. "I have tomake a living. I do chemical analyses for doctors and druggists. Thattakes most of my time. "

"But you can dispatch those things quickly. "

Hallowell shook his head. "There's only one way to do things. My clientstrust me. I can't shirk. "

Norman smiled. He admired this simplicity. But it amused him, too; in aworld of shirking and shuffling, not to speak of downright dishonesty, it struck the humorous note of the incongruous. He said:

"But if you could give all your time you would get on faster. "

"Yes--if I had the time--_and_ the money. To make the search exhaustivewould take money--five or six thousand a year, at the least. A greatdeal more than I shall ever have. "

"Have you tried to interest capitalists?"

Hallowell smiled ironically. "There is much talk about capitalists andcapital opening up things. But I have yet to learn of an instance oftheir touching anything until they were absolutely sure of largeprofits. Their failed enterprises are not miscarriage of noble purposebut mistaken judgment, judgment blinded by hope and greed. "

"I see that a philosopher can know life without living it, " said Norman. "But couldn't you put your scheme in such a way that some capitalistwould be led to hope?"

"I'd have to tell them the truth. Possibly I might discover somethingwith commercial value, but I couldn't promise. I don't think it islikely. "

Norman's eyes were on the door. His thoughts were reaching out to thedistant and faint sound of a piano. "Just what do you propose to searchfor?" inquired he. 

He tried to listen, because it was necessary that he have some knowledgeof Hallowell's plans. But he could not fix his attention. After a fewmoments he glanced at his watch, interrupted with, "I think I understandenough for the present. I've stayed longer than I intended. I must gonow. When I come again I may perhaps have some plan to propose. "

"Plan?" exclaimed Hallowell, his eyes lighting up. 

"I'm not sure--not at all sure, " hastily added Norman. "I don't wish togive you false hopes. The matter is extremely difficult. But I'll try. I've small hope of success, but I'll try. "

"My daughter didn't explain to me, " said the scientist. "She simply saidone of the gentlemen for whom she worked was coming to look at my place. I thought it was mere curiosity. "

"So it was, Mr. Hallowell, " said Norman. "But I have been interested. Idon't as yet see what can be done. I'm only saying that I'll think itover. "

"I understand, " said Hallowell. He was trying to seem calm andindifferent. But his voice had the tremulous note of excitement in itand his hands fumbled nervously, touching evidence of the agitatedgropings of his mind in the faint, perhaps illusory, light of anew-sprung hope. "Yes, I understand perfectly. Still--it is pleasant tothink about such a thing, even if there's no chance of it. I am veryfond of dreaming. That has been my life, you know. "

Norman colored, moved uneasily. The fineness of this man's charactermade him uncomfortable. He could pity Hallowell as a misguided failure. He could dilate himself as prosperous, successful, much the moreimposing and important figure in the contrast. Yet there was somehow apoint of view at which, if one looked carefully, his own sort of manshriveled and the Hallowell sort towered. 

"I _must_ be going, " Norman said. "No--don't come with me. I know the way. I've interrupted you long enough. " And he put out his hand and, by thoselittle clevernesses of manner which he understood so well, made itimpossible for Hallowell to go with him to Dorothy. 

He was glad when he shut the door between him and her father. He pausedin the hall to dispel the vague, self-debasing discomfort--and listeningto _her_ voice as she sang helped wonderfully. There is no more tryingtest of a personality than to be estimated by the voice alone. That testproduces many strange and startling results. Again and again itcompletely reverses our judgment of the personality, either destroys orenhances its charm. The voice of this girl, floating out upon the quietof the cottage--the voice, soft and sweet, full of the virginal passionof dreams unmarred by experience--It was while listening to her voice, as he stood there in the dimly lighted hall, that Frederick Normanpassed under the spell in all its potency. In taking an anaestheticthere is the stage when we reach out for its soothing effects; thencomes the stage when we half desire, half fear; then a stage in whichfear is dominant, and we struggle to retain our control of the senses. Last comes the stage when we feel the full power of the drug and relaxand yield or are beaten down into quiet. Her voice drew him into thefinal stage, was the blow of the overwhelming wave's crest that crushedhim into submission. 

She glanced toward the door. He was leaning there, an ominous calm inhis pale, resolute face. She gazed at him with widening eyes. And herlook was the look of helplessness before a force that may, indeed must, be struggled against, but with the foregone certainty of defeat. 

A gleam of triumph shone in his eyes. Then his expression changed to onemore conventional. "I stopped a moment to listen, on my way out, " saidhe. 

Her expression changed also. The instinctive, probably unconsciousresponse to his look faded into the sweet smile, serious rather thanmerry, that was her habitual greeting. "Mr. Tetlow didn't get away fromfather so soon. "

"I stayed longer than I intended. I found it even more interesting thanI had expected. . . . Would you be glad if your father could be free todo as he likes and not be worried about anything?"

"That is one of my dreams. "

"Well, it's certainly one that might come true. . . . And you--It's ashame that you should have to do so much drudgery--both here and in NewYork. "

"Oh, I don't mind about myself. It's all I'm fit for. I haven't anytalent--except for dreaming. "

"And for making--_some_ man's dreams come true. "

Her gaze dropped. And as she hid herself she looked once more almost asinsignificant and colorless as he had once believed her to be. 

"What are you thinking about?"

She shook her head slowly without raising her eyes or emerging from thedeep recess of her reserve. 

"You are a mystery to me. I can't decide whether you are very innocentor very--concealing. "

She glanced inquiringly at him. "I don't understand, " she said. 

He smiled. "No more do I. I've seen so much of faking--in women as wellas in men--that it's hard for me to believe anyone is genuine. "

"Do you think I am trying to deceive you? About what?"

He made an impatient gesture--impatience with his credulity where shewas concerned. "No matter. I want to make you happy--because I want youto make me happy. "

Her eyes became as grave as a wondering child's. "You are laughing atme, " she said. 

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I could not make you happy. "

"Why not?"

"What could a serious man like you find in me?"

His intense, burning gaze held hers. "Some time I will tell you. "

She shut herself within herself like a flower folding away its beautyand leaving exposed only the underside of its petals. It was impossibleto say whether she understood or was merely obeying an instinct. 

He watched her a moment in silence. Then he said:

"I am mad about you--mad. You _must_ understand. I can think only of you. I am insane with jealousy of you. I want you--I must have you. "

He would have seized her in his arms, but the look of sheer amazementshe gave him protected her where no protest or struggle would. "You?"she said. "Did you really mean it? I thought you were just talking. "

"Can't you see that I mean it?"

"Yes--you look as if you did. But I can't believe it. I could neverthink of you in that way. "

Once more that frank statement of indifference infuriated him. He _must_compel her to feel--he must give that indifference the lie--and at once!He caught her in his arms. He rained kisses upon her pale face. She madenot the least resistance, but seemed dazed. "I will teach you to loveme, " he cried, drunk now with the wine of her lips, with the perfume ofher exquisite youth. "I will make you happy. We shall be mad withhappiness. "

She gently freed herself. "I don't believe I could ever think of you inthat way. "

"Yes, darling--you will. You can't help loving where you are loved soutterly. "

She gazed at him wonderingly--the puzzled wonder of a child. "You--love--me?" she said slowly. 

"Call it what you like. I am mad about you. I have forgotteneverything--pride--position--things you can't imagine--and I care fornothing but you. "

And again he was kissing her with the soft fury of fire; and again shewas submitting with the passive, dazed expression that seemed to add tohis passion. To make her feel! To make her respond! He, whom so manywomen had loved--women of position, of fame for beauty, of socialdistinction or distinction as singers, players--women of society andwomen of talent all kinds of worth-while women--they had cared, had runafter him, had given freely all he had asked and more. And thisgirl--nobody at all--she had nothing for him. 

He held her away from him, cried angrily: "What is the matter with you?What is the matter with me?"

"I don't understand, " she said. "I wish you wouldn't kiss me so much. "

He released her, laughed satirically. "Oh--you are playing a game. Imight have known. "

"I don't understand, " said she. "A while ago you said you loved me. Nowyou act as if you didn't like me at all. " And she smiled gayly at him, pouting her lips a little. Once more her beauty was shining. It made hisnerves quiver to see the color in her pure white skin where he hadkissed her. 

"I don't care whether it is a game or not, " he cried. And he was aboutto seize her again, when she repulsed him. He crushed her resistance, held her tight in his arms. 

"You frighten me, " she murmured. "You--hurt me. "

He released her. "What do you want?" he cried. "Don't you care at all?"

"Oh, yes. I like you--very much. I have from the first time I saw you. But you seem older--and more serious. "

"Never mind about that. We are going to love each other--and I am goingto make you and your father happy. "

"If you make father happy I will do anything for you. I don't wantanything myself--but he is getting old and sometimes his despair isterrible. " There were tears in her voice--tears and the most touchingtenderness. "He has some great secret that he wants to discover, and heis afraid he will die without having had the chance. "

"You will love me if I make your father happy?"

He knew it was the question of a fool, but he so longed to hear from herlips some word to give him hope that he could not help asking it. Shesaid:

"Love you as--as you seem to love me? Not that same way. I don't feelthat way toward you. But I will love you in my own way. "

He observed her with penetrating eyes. Was this speech of hers innocenceor calculation? He could get no clue to the truth. He saw nothing butinnocence; the teaching of experience warned him to believe in nothingbut guile. He hid his doubt and chagrin behind a mocking smile. "As youplease, " said he. "I will do my part. Then--we'll see. . . . Do you careabout anyone else--in _my_ way of loving, I mean?"

It was again the question of an infatuated fool, and put in aninfatuated fool's way. For, if she were a "deep one, " how could he hopeto get the truth? But her answer reassured him. "No, " she said--hersimple, direct negation that had a convincing power he had never seenequaled. 

"If I ever knew of another man's touching you, " he said, "I'd feel likestrangling him. " He laughed at himself. "Not that I should strangle him. That sort of thing isn't done any more. But I'd do something devilish. "

"But I haven't promised not to kiss anyone else, " she said. "Why shouldI? I don't love you. "

He looked at her strangely. "But you're going to love me, " he said. 

She shrank within herself again. She looked at him with uneasy eyes. "You won't kiss me any more until I tell you that I do love you?" sheasked with the gravity and pathos and helplessness of a child. 

"Don't you want to learn to love me?--to learn to love?"

She was silent--a silence that maddened him. 

"Don't be afraid to speak, " he said irritably. "What are you thinking?"

"That I don't want you to kiss me--and that I do want father to behappy. "

Was this guile? Was it innocence? He put his arms round her. "Look atme, " he said. 

She gazed at him frankly. 

"You like me?"

"Yes. "

"Why don't you want me to kiss you?"

"I don't know. It makes me--dislike you. "

He released her. She laid her hand on his arm eagerly. "Please--" sheimplored. "I don't mean to hurt you. I wouldn't offend you for anything. Only--when you ask me a question--mustn't I tell you the truth?"

"Always, " he said, believing in her, in spite of the warnings of cynicalworldliness. "I don't know whether you are sincere or not--as yet. Sofor the present I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. " He stood backand looked at her from head to foot. "You are beautiful!--perfect, " hesaid in a low voice. He laughed. "I'll resist the temptation to kiss youagain. I must go now. About your father--I'll see what can be done. "

She stood with her hands behind her back, looking up at him with anexpression he could not fathom. Suddenly she advanced, put up her lipsand said gravely, "Won't you kiss me?"

He eyed her quizzically. "Oh--you've changed your mind?"

She shook her head. 

"Then why do you ask me to kiss you?"

"Because of what you said about father. "

He laughed and kissed her. And then she, too, laughed. He said, "Not formy own sake--not a little bit?"

"Oh, yes, " she cried, "when you kiss me that way. I like to be kissed. Iam very affectionate. "

He laughed again. "You _are_ a queer one. If it's a game, it's a good one. Is it a game?"

"I don't know, " said she gayly. "Good night. This is dreadfully late forme. "

"Good night, " he said, and they shook hands. "Do you like me better--orless?"

"Better, " was her prompt, apparently honest reply. 

"Curiously enough, I'm beginning to _like_ you, " said he. "Now don't askme what I mean by that. If you don't know already, you'll not find outfrom me. "

"Oh, but I do know, " cried she. "The way you kissed me--that was onething. The way you feel toward me now--that's a different thing. Isn'tit so?"

"Exactly. I see we are going to get on. "

"Yes, indeed. "

They shook hands again in friendliest fashion, and she opened the frontdoor for him. And her farewell smile was bright and happy. 

VII

In the cold clear open he proceeded to take the usual account ofstock--with dismal results. She had wound him round her fingers, hadmade him say only the things he should not have said, and leave unsaidthe things that might have furthered his purposes. He had conducted theaffair ridiculously--"just what is to be expected of an infatuatedfool. " However, there was no consolation in the discovery that he wasreduced, after all these years of experience, to the common level--manweak and credulous in his dealings with woman. He hoped that his disgustwith himself would lead on to disgust, or, rather, distaste for her. Itis the primal instinct of vanity to dislike and to shun those who havewitnessed its humiliation. 

"I believe I am coming to my senses, " he said. And he ventured to callher up before him for examination and criticism. This as he stood uponthe forward deck of the ferry with the magnificent panorama of New Yorkbefore him. New York! And he, of its strong men, of the few in all thatmultitude who had rank and power--he who had won as his promised wifethe daughter of one of the dozen mighty ones of the nation! What anill-timed, what an absurd, what a crazy step down this excursion ofhis! And for what? There he summoned her before him. And at the firstglance of his fancy at her fair sweet face and lovely figure, hequailed. He was hearing her voice again. He was feeling the yield of hersmooth, round form to his embrace, the yield of her smooth white cheekto his caress. In his nostrils was the fragrance of her youth, thematchless perfume of nature, beyond any of the distillations of art inits appeal to his normal and healthy nerves. And he burned with the fireonly she could quench. "I must--I must. --My God, I _must_!" he muttered. 

When he reached home, he asked whether his sister was in. The butlersaid that Mrs. Fitzhugh had just come from the theater. In search ofher, he went to the library, found her seated there with a book and acigarette, her wrap thrown back upon her chair. "Come out to supper withme, Ursula, " he said. "I'm starved and bored. "

"Why, you're not dressed!" exclaimed his sister. "I thought you were atthe Cameron dance with Josephine. "

"Had to cut it out, " replied he curtly. "Will you come?"

"I can't eat, but I'll drink. Yes, let's have a spree. It's been yearssince we had one--not since we were poor. Let's not go to a _deadly_respectable place. Let's go where there are some of the other kind, too. "

"But I must have food. Why not the Martin?"

"That'll do--though I'd prefer something a little farther up Broadway. "

"The Martin is gay enough. The truth is, there's nothing really gay anymore. There's too much money. Money suffocates gayety. "

To the Martin they went, and he ordered an enormous supper--one of thoseincredible meals for which he was famous. They dispatched a quart ofchampagne before the supper began to come, he drinking at least twothirds of it. He drank as much while he was eating--and called for athird bottle when the coffee was served. He had eaten half a dozen bigoysters, a whole guinea hen, a whole portion of salad, another ofBoniface cheese, with innumerable crackers. 

"If I could eat as you do!" sighed Ursula enviously. "Yet it's only oneof your accomplishments. "

"I'm not eating much nowadays, " said he gloomily. "I'm losing myappetite. " And he lit a long black cigar and swallowed half a largeglass of the champagne. "Nothing tastes good--not even champagne. "

"There _is_ something wrong with you, " said Ursula. "Did you ask me outfor confidences, or for advice--or for both?"

"None of them, " replied he. "Only for company. I knew I'd not be able tosleep for hours, and I wanted to put off the time when I'd be alone. "

"I wish I had as much influence with you as you have with me, " saidUrsula, by way of preparation for confidences. 

"Influence? Don't I do whatever you say?"

She laughed. "Nobody has influence over you, " she said. 

"Not even myself, " replied he morosely. 

"Well--that talking-to you gave me has had its effect, " proceeded Mrs. Fitzhugh. "It set me to thinking. There are other things besideslove--man and woman love. I've decided to--to behave myself and givepoor Clayton a chance to rest. " She smiled, a little maliciously. "He'shad a horrible fright. But it's over now. What a fine thing it is for awoman to have a sensible brother!"

Norman grunted, took another liberal draught of the champagne. 

"If I had a mind like yours!" pursued Ursula. "Now, you simply couldn'tmake a fool of yourself. "

He looked at her sharply. He felt as if she had somehow got wind of hiseccentric doings. 

"I've always resented your rather contemptuous attitude toward women, "she went on. "But you are right--really you are. We're none of us worththe excitement men make about us. "

"It isn't the woman who makes a fool of the man, " said Norman. "It's theman who makes a fool of himself. A match can cause a terrific explosionif it's in the right place--but not if it isn't. "

She nodded. "That's it. We're simply matches--and most of us of thepoor sputtering kind that burns with a bad odor and goes out right away. A very inferior quality of matches. "

"Yes, " repeated Norman, "it's the man who does the whole business. "

A mocking smile curled her lips. "I knew you weren't in love withJosephine. "

He stared gloomily at his cigar. 

"But you're going to marry her?"

"I'm in love with her, " he said angrily. "And I'm going to marry her. "

She eyed him shrewdly. "Fred--are you in love with some one else?"

He did not answer immediately. When he did it was with a "No" thatseemed the more emphatic for the delay. 

"Oh, just one of your little affairs. " And she began to poke fun at him. "I thought you had dropped that sort of thing for good and all. I hopeJosie won't hear of it. She'd not understand. Women never do--unlessthey don't care a rap about the man. . . . Is she on the stage? I knowyou'll not tell me, but I like to ask. "

Her brother looked at her rather wildly. "Let's go home, " he said. Hewas astounded and alarmed by the discovery that his infatuation hadwhirled him to the lunacy of longing to confide--and he feared lest, ifhe should stay on, he would blurt out his disgraceful secret. "Waiter, the bill. "

"Don't let's go yet, " urged his sister. "The most interesting people arebeginning to come. Besides, I want more champagne. "

He yielded. While she gazed round with the air of a visitor to a Zoothat is affected by fashionable people, and commented on the faces, figures, and clothes of the women, he stared at his plate and smoked anddrank. Finally she said, "I'd give anything to see you make a fool ofyourself, just once. "

He grinned. "Things are in the way to having your wish gratified, " hesaid. "It looks to me as if my time had come. "

She tried to conceal her anxiety. "Are you serious?" she asked. Thenadded: "Of course not. You simply couldn't. Especially now--whenJosephine might hear. I suppose you've noticed how Joe Culver is hanginground her?"

He nodded. 

"There's no danger--unless----"

"I shall marry Josephine. "

"Not if she hears. "

"She's not going to hear. "

"Don't be too sure. Women love to boast. It tickles their vanity to havea man. Yes, they pretend to be madly in love simply to give themselvesthe excuse for tattling. "

"She'll not hear. "

"You can't be sure. "

"I want you to help me out. I'm going to tell her I'm tremendously busythese few next days--or weeks. "

"Weeks!" Ursula Fitzhugh laughed. "My, it must be serious!"

"Weeks, " repeated her brother. "And I want you to say things that'llhelp out--and to see a good deal of her. " He flung down his cigar. "Youwomen don't understand how it is with a man. "

"Don't we though! Why, it's a very ordinary occurrence for a woman to bereally in love with several men at once. "

His eyes gleamed jealously. "I don't believe it, " he cried. 

"Not Josephine, " she said reassuringly. "She's one of thosesingle-hearted, untemperamental women. They concentrate. They have noimagination. "

"I wasn't thinking of Josephine, " said he sullenly. "To go back to whatI was saying, I am in love with Josephine and with no one else. I can'texplain to you how or why I'm entangled. But I'll get myself untangledall right--and very shortly. "

"I know that, Fred. You aren't the permanent damn-fool sort. "

"I should say not!" exclaimed he. "It's a hopeful sign that I knowexactly how big a fool I am. "

She shook her head in strong dissent. "On the contrary, " said she, "it's a bad sign. I didn't realize I was making a fool of myself untilyou pointed it out to me. That stopped me. If I had been doing it withmy eyes open, your jacking me up would only have made me go ahead. "

"A woman's different. It doesn't take much to stop a woman. She's abouthalf stopped when she begins. "

Ursula was thoroughly alarmed. "Fred, " she said earnestly, "you'rerunning bang into danger. The time to stop is right now. "

"Can't do it, " he said. "Let's not talk about it. "

"Can't? That word from _you_?"

"From me, " replied he. "Don't forget helping out with Josephine. Let'sgo. "

And he refused to be persuaded to stay on--or to be cajoled or baitedinto talking further of this secret his sister saw was weighing heavily. 

 * * * * *

He was down town half an hour earlier than usual the next morning. Butno one noted it because his habit had always been to arrive among thefirst--not to set an example but to give his prodigious industry thefullest swing. There was in Turkey a great poet of whom it is said thathe must have written twenty-five hours a day. Norman's accomplishmentbulked in that same way before his associates. He had not slept thewhole night. But, thanks to his enormous vitality, no trace of thisserious dissipation showed. The huge supper he had eaten--and drunk--thesleepless night and the giant breakfast of fruit and cereal and chopsand wheat cakes and coffee he had laid in to stay him until lunch time, would together have given pause to any but such a physical organizationas his. The only evidence of it was a certain slight irritability--butthis may have been due to his state of intense self-dissatisfaction. 

As he entered the main room his glance sought the corner where MissHallowell was ensconced. She happened to look up at that instant. With aradiant smile she bowed to him in friendliest fashion. He coloreddeeply, frowned with annoyance, bowed coldly and strode into his room. He fussed and fretted about with his papers for a few minutes, then rangthe bell. 

"Send in Miss Pritchard--no, Mr. Gowdy--no, Miss Hallowell, " he said tothe office boy. And then he looked sharply at the pert young face forpossible signs of secret cynical amusement. He saw none such, but wasnot convinced. He knew too well how by a sort of occult process theservants, all the subordinates, round a person like himself discover themost intimate secrets, almost get the news before anything has reallyoccurred. 

Miss Hallowell appeared, and very cold and reserved she looked as shestood waiting. 

"I sent for you because--" he began. He glanced at the door to make surethat it was closed--"because I wanted to hear your voice. " And helaughed boyishly. He was in high good humor now. 

"Why did you speak to me as you did when you came in?" said she. 

There was certainly novelty in this direct attack, this equal to equalcriticism of his manners. He was not pleased with the novelty; but atthe same time he felt a lack of the courage to answer her as shedeserved, even if she was playing a clever game. "It isn't necessarythat the whole office should know our private business, " said he. 

She seemed astonished. "What private business?"

"Last night, " said he, uncertain whether she was trifling with him orwas really the innocent she pretended to be. "If I were you, I'd notspeak as friendlily as you did this morning--not before people. "

"Why?" inquired she, her sweet young face still more perplexed. 

"This isn't a small town out West, " explained he. "It's New York. Peoplemisunderstand--or rather--" He gave her a laughing, mischievousglance--"or rather--they don't. "

"I can't see anything to make a mystery about, " declared the girl. "Why, you act as if there were something to be ashamed of in coming to seeme. "

He was observing her sharply. How could a girl live in the New Yorkatmosphere several years without getting a sensible point of view? Yet, so far as he could judge, this girl was perfectly honest in herignorance. "Don't be foolish, " said he. "Please accept the fact as Igive it to you. You mustn't let people see everything. "

She made no attempt to conceal her dislike for this. "I won't be mixedup in anything like that, " said she, quite gently and without asuggestion of pique or anger. "It makes me feel low--and it's horriblycommon. Either we are going to be friends or we aren't. And if we are, why, we're friends whenever we meet. I'm not ashamed of you. And if youare ashamed of me, you can cut me out altogether. "

His color deepened until his face was crimson. His eyes avoided hers. "Iwas thinking chiefly of you, " he said--and he honestly thought he wasspeaking the whole truth. 

"Then please don't do so any more, " said she, turning to go. "Iunderstand about New York snobbishness. I want nothing to do with it. "

He disregarded the danger of the door being opened at any moment. Herushed to her and took her reluctant hand. "You mustn't blame me for theways of the world. I can't change them. Do be sensible, dearest. You'reonly going to be here a few days longer. I've got that plan for you andyour father all thought out. I'll put it through at once. I don't wantthe office talking scandal about us--do you?"

She looked at him pityingly. His eyes fell before hers. "I know it's aweakness, " he said, giving up trying to deceive her and himself. "But Ican't help it. I was brought up that way. "

"Well--I wasn't. I see we can never be friends. "

What a mess he had made of this affair! This girl must be playing uponhim. In his folly he had let her see how completely he was in her power, and she was using that power to establish relations between them thatwere the very opposite of what he desired--and must have. He mustcontrol himself. "As you please, " he said coldly, dropping her hand. "I'm sorry, but unless you are reasonable I can do nothing for you. " Andhe went to his desk. 

She hesitated a moment; as her back was toward him, he could not see herexpression. Without looking round she went out of his office. It tookall his strength to let her go. "She's bluffing, " he muttered. "Andyet--perhaps she isn't. There may be people like that left in New York. "Whatever the truth, he simply must make a stand. He knew women; no womanhad the least respect for a man who let her rule--and this woman, relying upon his weakness for her, was bent upon ruling. If he did notmake a stand, she was lost to him. If he did make a stand, he could nomore than lose her. Lose her! That thought made him sick at heart. "Whata fool I am about her!" he cried. "I must hurry things up. I must getenough of her--must get through it and back to my sober senses. "

That was a time of heavy pressure of important affairs. He furiouslyattacked one task after another, only to abandon each in turn. His mind, which had always been his obedient, very humble servant, absolutelyrefused to obey. He turned everything over to his associates or tosubordinates, fighting all morning against the longing to send for her. At half past twelve he strode out of the office, putting on the air ofthe big man absorbed in big affairs. He descended to the street. Butinstead of going up town to keep an appointment at a business lunch hehung round the entrance to the opposite building. 

She did not appear until one o'clock. Then out she came--with the headoffice boy!--the good-looking, young head office boy. 

Norman's contempt for himself there reached its lowest ebb. For hisblood boiled with jealousy--jealousy of his head office boy!--and aboutan obscure little typewriter! He followed the two, keeping to the otherside of the street. Doubtless those who saw and recognized him fanciedhim deep in thought about some mighty problem of corporate law orpolicy, as he moved from and to some meeting with the great men whodictated to a nation of ninety millions what they should buy and howmuch they should pay for it. He saw the two enter a quick-lunchrestaurant--struggled with a crack-brained impulse to join them--draggedhimself away to his appointment. 

He was never too amiable in dealing with his clients, because he hadfound that, in self-protection, to avoid being misunderstood and largelyincreasing the difficulties of amicable intercourse, he must keep thefeel of iron very near the surface. That day he was for the first timeirascible. If the business his clients were engaged in had been lessperilous and his acute intelligence not indispensable, he would havecost the firm dear. But in business circles, where every considerationyields to that of material gain, the man with the brain may conducthimself as he pleases--and usually does so, when he has strength ofcharacter. 

All afternoon he wrestled with himself to keep away from the office. Hewon, but it was the sort of victory that gives the winner the chagrinand despondency of defeat. At home, late in the afternoon, he foundJosephine in the doorway, just leaving. "You'll walk home with me--won'tyou?" she said. And, taken unawares and intimidated by guilt, he couldthink of no excuse. 

Some one--probably a Frenchman--has said that there are always in aman's life three women--the one on the way out, the one that is, and theone that is to be. Norman--ever the industrious trafficker with thefeminine that the man of the intense vitality necessary to a greatcareer of action is apt to be--was by no means new to the situation inwhich he now found himself. But never before had the circumstances beenso difficult. Josephine in no way resembled any woman with whom he hadbeen involved; she was the first he had taken seriously. Nor did theother woman resemble the central figure in any of his affairs. He didnot know what she was like, how to classify her; but he did know thatshe was unlike any woman he had ever known and that his feeling for herwas different--appallingly different--from any emotion any other womanhad inspired in him. So--a walk alone with Josephine--a first talk withher after his secret treachery--was no light matter. "Deeper anddeeper, " he said to himself. "Where is this going to end?"

She began by sympathizing with him for having so much to do--"and fathersays you can get through more work than any man he ever knew, notexcluding himself. " She was full of tenderness and compliment, of a kindof love that made him feel as the dirt beneath his feet. She respectedhim so highly; she believed in him so entirely. The thought of herdiscovering the truth, or any part of it, gave him a sensation ofnausea. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Never had heseen her more statelily beautiful. If he should lose her! "I'mmad--_mad_!" he said to himself. 

"Josephine is as high above her as heaven above earth. What is there toher, anyhow? Not brains--nor taste--nor such miraculous beauty. Why doI make an ass of myself about her? I ought to go to my doctor. "

"I don't believe you're listening to what I'm saying, " laughedJosephine. 

"My head's in a terrible state, " replied he. "I can't think ofanything. "

"Don't try to talk or to listen, dearest, " said she in the sweet andsoothing tone that is neither sweet nor soothing to a man in a certainspecies of unresponsive mood. "This air will do you good. It doesn'tannoy you for me to talk to you, does it?"

The question was one of those which confidently expects, even demands, asincere and strenuous negative for answer. It fretted him, thismatter-of-course assumption of hers that she could not but be altogetherpleasing, not to say enchanting to him. Her position, her wealth, theattentions she had received, the flatteries--In her circumstances couldit be in human nature not to think extremely well of oneself? And headmitted that she had the right so to think. Still--For the first timeshe scraped upon his nerves. His reply, "Annoy me? The contrary, " wasdistinctly crisp. To an experienced ear there would have sounded thefaint warning under-note of sullenness. 

But she, believing in his love and in herself, saw nothing, suspectednothing. "We know each other so thoroughly, " she went on, "that we don'tneed to make any effort. How congenial we are! I always understand you. I feel such a sense of the perfect freedom and perfect frankness betweenus. Don't you?"

"You have wonderful intuitions, " said he. 

It was the time to alarm him by coldness, by capriciousness. But howcould she know it? And she was in love--really in love--not withherself, not with love, but with him. Thus, she made the mistake of alltrue lovers in those difficult moments. She let him see how absolutelyshe was his. Nor did the spectacle of her sincerity, of her belief inhis sincerity put him in any better humor with himself. 

The walk was a mere matter of a dozen blocks. He thought it would neverend. "You are sure you aren't ill?" she said, when they were at herdoor--a superb bronze door it was, opening into a house of the splendorthat for the acclimated New Yorker quite conceals and more thancompensates absence of individual taste. "You don't look ill. But youact queerly. "

"I'm often this way when they drive me too hard down town. "

She looked at him with fond admiration; he might have been betterpleased had there not been in the look a suggestion of the possessive. "How they do need you! Father says--But I mustn't make you any vainerthan you are. "

He usually loved compliment, could take it in its rawest form with finehuman gusto. Now, he did not care enough about that "father says" torise to her obvious bait. "I'm horribly tired, " he said. "Shall I seeyou to-morrow? No, I guess not--not for several days. You understand?"

"Perfectly, " replied she. "I'll miss you dreadfully, but my father hastrained me well. I know I mustn't be selfish--and tempt you to neglectthings. "

"Thank you, " said he. "I must be off. "

"You'll come in--just a moment?" Her eyes sparkled. "The butler willhave sense enough to go straight away--and the small reception room willbe quite empty as usual. "

He could not escape. A few seconds and he was alone with her in thelittle room--how often had he--they--been glad of its quiet andseclusion on such occasions! She laid her hand upon his shoulders, gazedat him proudly. "It was here, " said she, "that you first kissed me. Doyou remember?"

To take her gaze from his face and to avoid seeing her look of lovingtrust, he put his arms round her. "I don't deserve you, " he said--one ofthose empty pretenses of confession that yet give the human soul a senseof truthfulness. 

"You'd not say that if you knew how happy you make me, " murmured she. 

The welcome sound of a step in the hall give him his release. When hewas in the street, he wiped his hot face with his handkerchief. "And Ithought I had no moral sense left!" he reflected--not the first man, inthis climax day of the triumph of selfish philosophies, to be astonishedby the discovery that the dead hands of heredity and tradition have apower that can successfully defy reason. 

He started to walk back home, on impulse took a passing taxi and went tohis club. It was the Federal. They said of it that no man who amountedto anything in New York could be elected a member, because any man onhis way up could not but offend one or more of the important persons incontrol. Most of its members were nominated at birth or in childhood andelected as soon as they were twenty-one. Norman was elected after hebecame a man of consequence. He regarded it as one of the signaltriumphs of his career; and beyond question it was proof of his power, of the eagerness of important men, despite their jealousy, to please himand to be in a position to get the benefit of his brains should needarise. Norman's whole career, like every career great and small, in thearena of action, was a derision of the ancient moralities, ademonstration of the value of fear as an aid to success. Even hisfriends--and he had as many as he cared to have--had been drawn to himby the desire to placate him, to stand well where there was danger instanding ill. 

Until dinner time he stood at the club bar, drinking one cocktail afteranother with that supreme indifference to consequences to health whichmade his fellow men gape and wonder--and cost an occasional imitatorhealth, and perhaps life. Nor did the powerful liquor have the leasteffect upon him, apparently. Possibly he was in a better humor, but notnoticeably so. He dined at the club and spent the evening at bridge, winning several hundred dollars. He enjoyed the consideration hereceived at that club, for his fellow members being men of both socialand financial consequence, their conspicuous respect for him was aconcentrated essence of general adulation. He lingered on, eating agreat supper with real appetite. He went home in high good humor withhimself. He felt that he was a conqueror born, that such things of hisdesire as did not come could be forced to come. He no longer regardedhis passion for the nebulous girl of many personalities as a descentfrom dignity. Was he not king? Did not his favor give her whatever rankhe pleased? Might not a king pick and choose, according to his fancy?Let the smaller fry grow nervous about these matters of caste. They didwell to take care lest they should fall. But not he! He had won thus farby haughtiness, never by cringing. His mortal day would be that in whichhe should abandon his natural tactics for the modes of lesser men. True, only a strong head could remain steady in these giddy altitudes ofself-confidence. But was not his head strong?

And without hesitation he called up the vision that made himdelirious-and detained it and reveled in it until sleep came. 

VIII

The longer he thought of it the stronger grew his doubt that the littleHallowell girl could be so indifferent to him as she seemed. Not thatshe was a fraud--that is, a conscious fraud--even so much of a fraud asthe sincerest of the other women he had known. Simply that she wascarrying out a scheme of coquetry. Could it be in human nature, even inthe nature of the most indiscriminating of the specimens of youngfeminine ignorance and folly, not to be flattered by the favor of such aman as he? Common sense answered that it could not be--but neglected topoint out to him that almost any vagary might be expected of humannature, when it could produce such a deviation from the recognized typesas a man of his position agitated about such an unsought obscurity asMiss Hallowell. He continued to debate the state of her mind as if itwere an affair of mightiest moment--which, indeed, it was to him. Andpresently his doubt strengthened into conviction. She must be secretlypleased, flattered, responsive. She had been in the office long enoughto be impressed by his position. Yes, there must be more or lesspretense in her apparently complete indifference--more or less pretense, more or less coquetry, probably not a little timidity. 

She would come down from her high horse--with help and encouragementfrom him. He was impatient to get to the office and see just how shewould do it--what absurd, amusing attractive child's trick she wouldthink out, imagining she could fool him, as lesser intelligences areever fatuously imagining they can outwit greater. 

He rather thought she would come in to see him on some pretext, wouldmaneuver round like a bird pretending to flutter away from the trap ithas every intention of entering. But eleven o'clock of a wasted morningcame and she did not appear. He went out to see if she was there--shemust be sick; she could not be there or he would have heard from her. . . . Yes, she was at her desk, exactly as always. No, not exactly the same. She was obviously attractive now; the air of insignificance had gone, and not the dullest eyes in that office could fail to see at leastsomething of her beauty. And Tetlow was hanging over her, while thegirls and boys grinned and whispered. Clearly, the office was "on to"Tetlow. . . . Norman, erect and coldly infuriate, called out:

"Mr. Tetlow--one moment, please. "

He went back to his den, Tetlow startling and following like one on theway to the bar for sentence. "Mr. Tetlow, " he said, when they were shutin together, "you are making a fool of yourself before the wholeoffice. "

"Be a little patient with me, Mr. Norman, " said the head clerk humbly. "I've got another place for her. She's going to take it to-morrow. Then--there'll be no more trouble. "

Norman paled. "She wishes to leave?" he contrived to articulate. 

"She spoke to me about leaving before I told her I had found her anotherjob. "

Norman debated--but for only a moment. "I do not wish her to leave, " hesaid coldly. "I find her useful and most trustworthy. "

Tetlow's eyes were fixed strangely upon him. 

"What's the matter with you?" asked Norman, the under-note of danger butthinly covered. 

"Then she was right, " said Tetlow slowly. "I thought she was mistaken. Isee that she is right. "

"What do you mean?" said Norman--a mere inquiry, devoid of bluster orany other form of nervousness. 

"You know very well what I mean, Fred Norman, " said Tetlow. "And youought to be ashamed of yourself. "

"Don't stand there scowling and grimacing like an idiot, " said Normanwith an amused smile. "What do you mean?"

"She told me--about your coming to see her--about your offer to dosomething for her father--about your acting in a way that made heruneasy. "

For an instant Norman was panic-stricken. Then his estimate of herreassured him. "I took your advice, " said he. "I went to see for myself. How did I act that she was made uneasy?"

"She didn't say. But a woman can tell what a man has in the back of hishead--when it concerns her. And she is a good woman--so innocent thatyou ought to be ashamed of yourself for even thinking of her in thatway. God has given innocence instincts, and she felt what you wereabout. "

Norman laughed--a deliberate provocation. "Love has made a fool of you, old man, " he said. 

"I notice you don't deny, " retorted Tetlow shrewdly. 

"Deny what? There's nothing to deny. " He felt secure now that he knewshe had been reticent with Tetlow as to the happenings in the cottage. 

"Maybe I'm wronging you, " said Tetlow, but not in the tone of belief. "However that may be, I know you'll not refuse to listen to my appeal. Ilove her, Norman. I'm going to make her my wife if I can. And I askyou--for the sake of our old friendship--to let her alone. I've nodoubt you could dazzle her. You couldn't make a bad woman of her. Butyou could make her very miserable. "

Norman pushed about the papers before him. His face wore a cynicalsmile; but Tetlow, who knew him in all his moods, saw that he was deeplyagitated. 

"I don't know that I can win her, Fred, " he pleaded. "But I feel that Imight if I had a fair chance. "

"You think she'd refuse _you_?" said Norman. 

"Like a flash, unless I'd made her care for me. That's the kind she is. "

"That sounds absurd. Why, there isn't a woman in New York who wouldrefuse a chance to take a high jump up. "

"I'd have said so, too. But since I've gotten acquainted with her I'velearned better. She may be spoiled some day, but she hasn't been yet. God knows, I wish I could tempt her. But I can't. "

"You're entirely too credulous, old man. She'll make a fool of you. "

"I know better, " Tetlow stubbornly maintained. "Anyhow, I don't care. Ilove her, and I'd marry her, no matter what her reason for marrying mewas. "

What pitiful infatuation!--worse than his own. Poor Tetlow!--he deserveda better fate than to be drawn into this girl's trap--for, of course, she never could care for such a heavy citizen--heavy and homely--theloosely fat kind of homely that is admired by no one, not even by awoman with no eye at all for the physical points of the male. It wouldbe a real kindness to save worthy Tetlow. What a fool she'd make ofhim!--how she'd squander his money--and torment him with jealousy--andunfit him for his career. Poor Tetlow! If he could get what he wanted, he'd be well punished for his imprudence in wanting it. Really, couldfriendship do him a greater service than to save him?

Norman gave Tetlow a friendly, humorous glance. "You're a hopeless case, Billy, " he said. "But at least don't rush into trouble. Take your time. You can always get in, you know; and you may not get in quite so deep. "

"You promise to let her alone?" said Tetlow eagerly. 

Again his distinguished friend laughed. "Don't be an ass, old man. Whyimagine that, just because you've taken a fancy to a girl, everyonewants her?" He clapped him on the shoulder, gave him a push toward thedoor. "I've wasted enough time on this nonsense. "

Tetlow did not venture to disregard a hint so plain. He went with hisdoubt still unsolved--his doubt whether his jealousy was right or hishigh opinion of his hero friend whose series of ever-mounting successeshad filled him with adoration. He knew the way of success, knew no mancould tread it unless he had, or acquired, a certain hardness of heartthat made him an uncomfortable not to say dangerous associate. Heregretted his own inability to acquire that indispensable hardness, andenvied and admired it in Fred Norman. But, at the same time that headmired, he could not help distrusting. 

Norman battled with his insanity an hour, then sent for Miss Hallowell. 

The girl had lost her look of strength and vitality. She seemed frailand dim--so unimportant physically that he wondered why her charm forhim persisted. Yet it did persist. If he could take her in his arms, could make her drooping beauty revive!--through love for him ifpossible; if not, then through anger and hate! He must make her feel, must make her acknowledge, that he had power. It seemed to him anotherinstance of the resistless fascination which the unattainable, howeverunworthy, has ever had for the conqueror temperament. 

"You are leaving?" he said curtly, both a question and an affirmation. 

"Yes. "

"You are making a mistake--a serious mistake. "

She stood before him listlessly, as if she had no interest either inwhat he was saying or in him. That maddening indifference!

"It was a mistake to tattle your trouble to Tetlow. "

"I did not tattle, " said she quietly, colorlessly. "I said only enoughto make him help me. "

"And what did he say about me?"

"That I had misjudged you--that I must be mistaken. "

Norman laughed. "How seriously the little people of the world do takethemselves!"

She looked at him. His amused eyes met hers frankly. "You didn't meanit?" she said. 

He beamed on her. "Certainly I did. But I'm not a lunatic or a wildbeast. Do you think I would take advantage of a girl in your position?"

Her eyes seemed to grow large and weary, and an expression of experiencestole over her young face, giving it a strange appearance ofage-in-youth. "It has been done, " said she. 

How reconcile such a look with the theory of her childlike innocence?But then how reconcile any two of the many varied personalities he hadseen in her? He said: "Yes--it has been done. But not by me. I shalltake from you only what you gladly give. "

"You will get nothing else, " said she with quiet strength. 

"That being settled--" he went on, holding up a small package of papersbound together by an elastic--"Here are the proposed articles ofincorporation of the Chemical Research Company. How do you like thename?"

"What is it?"

"The company that is to back your father. Capital stock, twenty-fivethousand dollars, one half paid up. Your father to be employed asdirector of the laboratories at five thousand a year, with a fund of tenthousand to draw upon. You to be employed as secretary and treasurer atfifteen hundred a year. I will take the paid-up stock, and your fatherand you will have the privilege of buying it back at par within fiveyears. Do you follow me?"

"I think I understand, " was her unexpected reply. Her replies wereusually unexpected, like the expressions of her face and figure; she wascontinually comprehending where one would have said she would not, andnot comprehending where it seemed absurd that she should not. "Yes, Iunderstand. . . . What else?"

"Nothing else. "

She looked intently at him, and her eyes seemed to be reading his soulto the bottom. 

"Nothing else, " he repeated. 

"No obligation--for money--or--for anything?"

"No obligation. A hope perhaps. " He was smiling with the gayest goodhumor. "But not the kind of hope that ever becomes a disagreeable demandfor payment. "

She seated herself, her hands in her lap, her eyes down--a lovelypicture of pensive repose. He waited patiently, feasting his senses uponher delicate, aromatic loveliness. At last she said:

"I accept. "

He had anticipated an argument. This promptness took him by surprise. Hefelt called upon to explain, to excuse her acceptance. "I am taking alittle flyer--making a gamble, " said he. "Your father may turn upnothing of commercial value. Again the company may pay big----"

She gave him a long look through half-closed eyes, a queer smileflitting round her lips. "I understand perfectly why you are doing it, "she said. "Do you understand why I am accepting?"

"Why should you refuse?" rejoined he. "It is a good business prop----"

"You know very well why I should refuse. But--" She gave a quiet laughof experience; it made him feel that she was making a fool of him--"Ishall not refuse. I am able to take care of myself. And I want father tohave his chance. Of course, I shan't explain to him. " She gave him amischievous glance. "And I don't think _you_ will. "

He contrived to cover his anger, doubt, chagrin, general feeling ofhaving been outwitted. "No, I shan't tell him, " laughed he. "You aremaking a great fool of me. "

"Do you want to back out?"

What audacity! He hesitated--did not dare. Her indifference to him--herpersonal, her physical indifference gave her the mastery. His teethclenched and his passion blazed in his eyes as he said: "No--you witch!I'll see it through. "

She smiled lightly. "I suppose you'll come to the offices of thecompany--occasionally?" She drew nearer, stood at the corner of thedesk. Into her exquisite eyes came a look of tenderness. "And I shall beglad to see you. "

"You mean that?" he said, despising himself for his humble eagerness, and hating her even as he loved her. 

"Indeed I do. " She smiled bewitchingly. "You are a lot better man thanyou think. "

"I am an awful fool about you, " retorted he. "You see, I play my gamewith all my cards on the table. I wish I could say the same of you. "

"I am not playing a game, " replied she. "You make a mystery where thereisn't any. And--all your cards aren't on the table. " She laughedmockingly. "At least, you think there's one that isn't--though, really, it is. "

"Yes?"

"About your engagement. "

He covered superbly. "Oh, " said he in the most indifferent tone. "Tetlowtold you. "

"As soon as I heard that, " she went on, "I felt better about you. Iunderstand how it is with men--the passing fancies they have forwomen. "

"How did you learn?" demanded he. 

"Do you think a girl could spend several years knocking about down townin New York without getting experience?"

He smiled--a forced smile of raillery, hiding sudden fierce suspicionand jealousy. "I should say not. But you always pretend innocence. "

"I can't be held responsible for what you read into my looks and intowhat I say, " observed she with her air of a wise old infant. "But I wasso glad to find out that you were seriously in love with a nice girl uptown. "

He burst out laughing. She gazed at him in childlike surprise. "Why areyou laughing at me?" she asked. 

"Nothing--nothing, " he assured her. He would have found it difficult toexplain why he was so intensely amused at hearing the grand JosephineBurroughs called "a nice girl up town. "

"You are in love with her? You are engaged to her?" she inquired, hergrave eyes upon him with an irresistible appeal for truth in them. 

"Tetlow didn't lie to you, " evaded he. "You don't know it, but Tetlow isgoing to ask you to marry him. "

"Yes, I knew, " replied she indifferently. 

"How? Did he tell you?"

"No. Just as I knew you were not going to ask me to marry you. "

The mere phrase, even when stated as a negation, gave him a sensation ofice suddenly laid against the heart. 

"It's quite easy to tell the difference between the two kinds ofmen--those that care for me more than they care for themselves and thosethat care for themselves more than they care for me. "

"That's the way it looks to you--is it?"

"That's the way it is, " said she. 

"There are some things you don't understand. This is one of them. "

"Maybe I don't, " said she. "But I've my own idea--and I'm going to stickto it. "

This amused him. "You are a very opinionated and self-confident younglady, " said he. 

She laughed roguishly. "I'm taking up a lot of your time. "

"Don't think of it. You haven't asked when the new deal is to begin. "

"Oh, yes--and I shall have to tell Mr. Tetlow I'm not taking the placehe got for me. "

"Be careful what you say to him, " cautioned Norman. "You must see itwouldn't be well to tell him what you are going to do. There's no reasonon earth why he should know your business--is there?"

She did not reply; she was reflecting. 

"You are not thinking of marrying Tetlow--are you?"

"No, " she said. "I don't love him--and couldn't learn to. "

With a sincerely judicial air, now that he felt secure, he said: "Whynot? It would be a good match. "

"I don't love him, " she repeated, as if that were a sufficient andcomplete answer. And he was astonished to find that he so regarded it, also, in spite of every assault of all that his training had taught himto regard as common sense about human nature. 

"You can simply say to Tetlow that you've decided to stay at home andtake care of your father. The offices of the company will be at yourhouse. Your official duties practically amount to taking care of yourfather. So you'll be speaking the truth. "

"Oh, it isn't exactly lying, to keep something from somebody who has noright to know it. What you suggest isn't quite the truth. But it's nearenough, and I'll say it to him. "

His own view of lying was the same as that she had expressed. Also, hehad no squeamishness about saying what was in no sense true, if thefalsehood were necessary to his purposes. Yet her statement of her code, moral though he thought it and eminently sensible as well, lowered heronce more in his estimation. He was eager to find reason or plausibleexcuse for believing her morally other and less than she seemed to be. Immediately the prospects of his ultimate projects--whatever they mightprove to be--took on a more hopeful air. "And I'd advise you to haveTetlow keep away from you. We don't want him nosing round. "

"No, indeed, " said she. "He is a nice man, but tiresome. And if Iencouraged him ever so little, he'd be sentimental. The most tiresomething in the world to a girl is a man who talks that sort of thing whenshe doesn't want to hear it--from him. "

He laughed. "Meaning me?" he suggested. 

She nodded, much pleased. "Perhaps, " she replied. 

"Don't worry about that, " mocked he. 

"I shan't till I have to, " she assured him. "And I don't think I'll haveto. "

 * * * * *

On the Monday morning following, Tetlow came in to see Norman as soon ashe arrived. "I want a two weeks' leave, " he said. "I'm going to Bermudaor down there somewhere. "

"Why, what's the matter?" cried Norman. "You do look ill, old man. "

"I saw her last night, " replied the chief clerk, dropping an effort atconcealing his dejection. "She--she turned me down. "

"Really? You?" Norman's tone of sympathetic surprise would not havedeceived half attentive ears. But Tetlow was securely absorbed. "Why, Billy, she can't hope to make as good a match. "

"That's what I told her--when I saw the game was going against me. Butit was no use. "

Norman trifled nervously with the papers before him. Presently he said, "Is it some one else?"

Tetlow shook his head. 

"How do you know?"

"Because she said so, " replied the head clerk. 

"Oh--if she said so, that settles it, " said Norman with raillery. 

"She's given up work--thank God, " pursued Tetlow. "She's getting morebeautiful all the time--Norman, if you had seen her last night, you'dunderstand why I'm stark mad about her. "

Norman's eyes were down. His hands, the muscles of his jaw wereclinched. 

"But, I mustn't think of that, " Tetlow went on. "As I was about to say, if she were to stay on in the offices some one--some attractive man likeyou, only with the heart of a scoundrel----"

Norman laughed cynically. 

"Yes, a scoundrel!" reiterated the fat head-clerk. "Some scoundrel wouldtempt her beyond her power to resist. Money and clothes and luxury willdo anything. We all get to be harlots here in New York. Some of us knowit, and some don't. But we all look it and act it. And she'd go the wayof the rest--with or without marriage. It's just as well she didn'tmarry me. I know what'd have become of her. "

Norman nodded. 

Tetlow gave a weary sigh. "Anyhow, she's safe at home with her father. He's found a backer for his experiments. "

"That's good, " said Norman. 

"You can spare me for ten days, " Tetlow went on. "I'd be of no use if Istayed. "

There was a depth of misery in his kind gray eyes that moved Norman toget up and lay a friendly hand on his shoulder. "It's the best thing, old man. She wasn't for you. "

Tetlow dropped into a chair and sobbed. "It has killed me, " he groaned. "I don't mean I'll commit suicide or die. I mean I'm dead inside--dead. "

"Oh, come, Billy--where's your good sense?"

"I know what I'm talking about, " said he. "Norman, God help the man whomeets the woman he really wants--God help him if she doesn't want him. You don't understand. You'll never have the experience. Any woman youwanted would be sure to want you. "

Norman, his hand still on Tetlow's shoulder, was staring ahead with aterrible expression upon his strong features. 

"If she could see the inside of me--the part that's the real me--I thinkshe would love me--or learn to love me. But she can only see theoutside--this homely face and body of mine. It's horrible, Fred--to havea mind and a heart fit for love and for being loved, and an outside thatrepels it. And how many of us poor devils of that sort there are--menand women both!"

Norman was at the window now, his back to the room, to his friend. Aftera while Tetlow rose and made a feeble effort to straighten himself. "Isit all right about the vacation?" he asked. 

"Certainly, " said Norman, without turning. 

"Thank you, Fred. You're a good friend. "

"I'll see you before you go, " said Norman, still facing the window. "You'll come back all right. "

Tetlow did not answer. When Norman turned he was alone. 

IX

In no way was Norman's luck superior to most men's more splendidly thanin that his inborn tendency to arrogant and extravagant desires wasmatched by an inborn capacity to get the necessary money. His luxurioustastes were certainly not moderated by his associations--enormously richpeople who, while they could be stingy enough in some respects, at thesame time could and did fling away fortunes in gratifying selfishwhims--for silly showy houses, for retinues of wasteful servants, forgewgaws that accentuated the homeliness of their homely women andcoarsened and vulgarized their pretty women--or perhaps for a night'sgambling or entertaining, or for the forced smiles and contemptuouscaresses of some belle of the other world. Norman fortunately cared notat all for the hugely expensive pomp of the life of the rich; if he had, he would have hopelessly involved himself, as after all he was not amoney-grubber but a lawyer. But when there appeared anything for whichhe did care, he was ready to bid for it like the richest of the rich. 

Therefore the investment of a few thousand dollars seemed a small matterto him. He had many a time tossed away far more for far less. He did notdole out the sum he had agreed to provide. He paid it into the JerseyCity bank to the credit of the Chemical Research Company and informedits secretary and treasurer that she could draw freely against it. "Ifyou will read the by-laws of the company, " said he, "you will see thatyou've the right to spend exactly as you see fit. When the money runslow, let me know. "

"I'll be very careful, " said Dorothea Hallowell, secretary andtreasurer. 

"That's precisely what we don't want, " replied he. He glanced round thetiny parlor of the cottage. "We want everything to be run in first-classshape. That's the only way to get results. First of all, you must take aproper house--a good-sized one, with large grounds--room for buildingyour father a proper laboratory. "

Her dazed and dazzled expression delighted him. 

"And you must live better. You must keep at least two servants. "

"But we can't afford it. "

"Your father has five thousand a year. You have fifteen hundred. Thatmakes sixty-five hundred. The rent of the house and the wages and keepof the servants are a charge against the corporation. So, you can wellafford to make yourselves comfortable. "

"I haven't got used to the idea as yet, " said Dorothea. "Yes--we _are_better off than we were. "

"And you must live better. I want you to get some clothes--and things ofthat sort. "

She shrank within herself and sat quiet, her gaze fixed upon her handslying limp in her lap. 

"There is no reason why your father shouldn't be made absolutelycomfortable and happy. That's the way to get the best results from a manof his sort. "

She faded on toward the self-effacing blank he had first known. 

"Think it out, Dorothy, " he said in his frankest, kindliest way. "You'llsee I'm right. "

"No, " she said. 

"No? What does that mean?"

"I've an instinct against it, " replied she. "I'd rather father and Ikept on as we are. "

"But that's impossible. You've no right to live in this small, crampingway. You must broaden out and give _him_ room to grow. . . . Isn't thatsensible?"

"It sounds so, " she admitted. "But--" She gazed round helplessly--"I'mafraid!"

"Afraid of what?"

"I don't know. "

"Then don't bother about it. "

"I'll have to be very--careful, " she said thoughtfully. 

"As you please, " replied he. "Only, don't live and think on aten-dollar-a-week basis. That isn't the way to get on. "

He never again brought up the matter in direct form. But most of hisconversation was indirect and more or less subtle suggestions as to waysof branching out. She moved cautiously for a few days, then timidlybegan to spend money. 

There is a notion widely spread abroad that people who have little moneyknow more about the art of spending money and the science of economizingthan those who have much. It would be about as sensible to say that thebest swimmers are those who have never been near the water, or no nearerthan a bath tub. Anyone wishing to be convinced need only make anexcursion into the poor tenement district and observe the garbagebarrels overflowing with spoiled food--or the trashy goods exposed forsale in the shops and the markets. Those who have had money and havelost it are probably, as a rule, the wisest in thrift. Those who havenever had money are almost invariably prodigal--because they areignorant. When Dorothea Hallowell was a baby the family had had money. But never since she could remember had they been anything but poor. 

She did not know how to spend money. She did not know prices orvalues--being in that respect precisely like the mass of mankind--andwomankind--who imagine they are economical because they hunt so-calledbargains and haggle with merchants who have got doubly ready for them bylaying in inferior goods and by putting up prices in advance. She knewhow much ten dollars a week was, the meaning of the twenty to thirtydollars a week her father had made. But she had only a faint--andexaggeratedly mistaken--notion about sixty-five hundred a year--six anda half thousands. It seemed wealth to her, so vast that a hundredthousand a year would have seemed no more. As soon as she drifted awayfrom the known course--the thirty to forty dollars a week upon whichthey had been living--Dorothea Hallowell was in a trackless sea, with abroken compass and no chart whatever. A common enough experience inAmerica, the land of sudden changes of fortune, of rosiest hopes about"striking it rich, " of carelessness and ignorance as to values, of eagerand untrained appetite for luxury and novelty of any and every kind. 

At first any expenditure, however small, for the plainest comfort whichhad been beyond their means seemed a giddy extravagance. But a bankaccount--_and_ a check book--soon dissipated that nervousness. A fewcharge accounts, a little practice in the simple easy gesture of drawinga check, and she was almost at her ease. With people who have known onlysqualor or with those who have earned their better fortune by privationand slow accumulation, the spreading out process is usually slow--not soslow as it used to be when our merchants had not learned the art oftempting any and every kind of human nature, but still far from rapid. Apiece of money reminds them vividly and painfully of the toil put intoacquiring it; and they shy away from the pitfall of the facile check. With those born and bred as Dorothy was and elevated into what seems tothem affluence by no effort of their own, the spreading is a tropical, overnight affair. 

Counting all she spent and arranged to spend in those first few weeks, you had no great total. But it was great for a girl who had been makingten dollars a week. Also there were sown in her mind broadcast and thickthe seeds of desire for more luxurious comfort, of need for it, thatcould never be uprooted. 

Norman came over almost every evening. He got a new and youthful andyouth-restoring kind of pleasure out of this process of expansion. Heliked to hear each trifling detail, and he was always making suggestionsthat bore immediate fruit in further expenditure. When he again broughtup the subject of a larger house, she listened with only the faintestprotests. Her ideas of such a short time before seemed small, laughablysmall now. "Father was worrying only this morning because he is socramped, " she admitted. 

"We must remedy that at once, " said Norman. 

[Illustration: "'It has killed me, ' he groaned. "]

And on the following Sunday he and she went house hunting. They found asatisfactory place--peculiarly satisfactory to Norman because it wasnear the Hudson tunnel, and so only a few minutes from his office. ToDorothy it loomed a mansion, almost a palace. In fact it was a modestlyroomy old-fashioned brick house, with a brick stable at the side that, with a little changing, would make an admirable laboratory. 

"You haven't the time--or the experience--to fit this place up, " saidNorman. "I'll attend to it--that is, I'll have it attended to. " Seeingher uneasy expression, he added: "I can get much better terms. They'dcertainly overcharge you. There's no sense in wasting money--is there?"

"No, " she admitted, convinced. 

He gave the order to a firm of decorators. It was a moderate order, considering the amount of work that had to be done. But if the girl hadseen the estimates Norman indorsed, she would have been terrified. However, he saw to it that she did not see them; and she, ignorant ofvalues, believed him when he told her the general account of thecorporation must be charged with two thousand dollars. 

Her alarm took him by surprise. The sum seemed small to him--and it wasonly about one fifth what the alterations and improvements had cost. Cried she, "Why, that's more than our whole income for a year has been!"

"You are forgetting these improvements add to the value of the property. I've bought it. "

That quieted her. "You are sure you didn't pay those decorators andfurnishers too much?" said she. 

"You don't like their work?" inquired he, chagrined. 

"Oh, yes--yes, indeed, " she assured him. "I like plain, solid-lookingthings. But--two thousand dollars is a lot of money. "

Norman regretted that, as his whole object had been to please her, hehad not ordered the more showy cheaper stuff but had insisted upon thesimplest, plainest-looking appointments throughout. Even her bedroomfurniture, even her dressing table set, was of the kind that suggestscost only to the experienced, carefully and well educated in values andin taste. 

"But I'm sure it isn't fair to charge _all_ these things to the company, "she protested. "I can't allow it. Not the things for my personal use. "

"You _are_ a fierce watchdog of a treasurer, " said Norman, laughing at herbut noting and respecting the fine instinct of good breeding shown inher absence of greediness, of desire to get all she could. "But I'mletting the firm of decorators take over what you leave behind in theold house. I'll see what they'll allow for it. Maybe that will cover theexpense you object to. "

This contented her. Nor was she in the least suspicious when heannounced that the decorators had made such a liberal allowance that thedeficit was but three hundred dollars. "Those chaps, " he explained, "have a wide margin of profit. Besides, they're eager to get more andbigger work from me. "

A few weeks, and he was enjoying the sight of her ensconced with herfather in luxurious comfort--with two servants, with a well-run house, with pleasant gardens, with all that is at the command of an income ofsix thousand a year in a comparatively inexpensive city. Onlyoccasionally--and then not deeply--was he troubled by the reflectionthat he was still far from his goal--and had made apparently absurdlylittle progress toward it through all this maneuvering. The truth was, he preferred to linger when lingering gave him so many new kinds ofpleasure. Of those in the large and motley company that sit down to thebanquet of the senses, the most are crude, if not coarse, gluttons. Theyeat fast and furiously, having a raw appetite. Now and then there is onewho has some idea of the art of enjoyment--the art of prolonging andvarying both the joys of anticipation and the joys of realization. 

He turned his attention to tempting her to extravagance in dress. Ruthis success there was not all he could have wished. She wore betterclothes--much better. She no longer looked the poor working girl, struggling desperately to be neat and clean. She had almost immediatelytaken on the air of the comfortable classes. Rut everything she got forherself was inexpensive and she made dresses for herself, and trimmedall her hats. With the hats Norman found no fault. There her good tasteproduced about as satisfactory results as could have been got at thefashionable milliners--more satisfactory than are got by the women whogo there, with no taste of their own beyond a hazy idea that they want"something like what Mrs. So-and-So is wearing. " But homemade dresseswere a different matter. 

Norman longed to have her in toilettes that would bring out the fullbeauty of her marvelous figure. He, after the manner of the moreintelligent and worldly-wise New York men, had some knowledge ofwomen's clothes. His sister knew how to dress; Josephine knew how, though her taste was somewhat too sober to suit Norman--at least to suithim in Dorothy. He thought out and suggested dresses to Dorothy, andtold her where to get them. Dorothy tried to carry out at home such ofhis suggestions as pleased her--for, like all women, she believed sheknew how to dress herself. Her handiwork was creditable. It would havecontented a less exacting and less trained taste than Norman's. It wouldhave contented him had he not been infatuated with her beauty of faceand form. As it was, the improvement in her appearance only served tointensify his agitation. He now saw in her not only all that had firstconquered him, but also those unsuspected beauties and graces--andpossibilities of beauty and grace yet more entrancing, were she butdressed properly. 

"You don't begin to appreciate how beautiful you are, " said he. It hadever been one of his rules in dealing with women to feed their physicalvanity sparingly and cautiously, lest it should blaze up into one ofthose consuming flames that produce a very frenzy of conceit. But thisrule, like all the others, had gone by the board. He could not concealhis infatuation from her, not even when he saw that it was turning herhead and making his task harder and harder. "If you would only go overto New York to several dressmakers whose names I'll give you, I knowyou'd get clothes from them that you could touch up into somethinguncommon. "

"I can't afford it, " said she. "What I have is good enough--and costsmore than I've the right to pay. " And her tone silenced him; it was thetone of finality, and he had discovered that she had a will. 

 * * * * *

Never before had Frederick Norman let any important thing drift. Andwhen he started in with Dorothy he had no idea of changing that fixedpolicy. He would have scoffed if anyone had foretold to him that hewould permit the days and the weeks to go by with nothing definiteaccomplished toward any definite purpose. Yet that was what occurred. Every time he came he had in mind a fixed resolve to make distinctprogress with the girl. Every time he left he had a furious quarrel withhimself for his weakness. "She is making a fool of me, " he said tohimself. "She _must_ be laughing at me. " But he returned only to repeathis folly, to add one more to the lengthening, mocking series of lostopportunities. 

The truth lay deeper than he saw. He recognized only his own weakness ofthe infatuated lover's fatuous timidity. He did not realize how potenther charm for him was, how completely content she made him when he waswith her, just from the fact that they were together. After a time anunsatisfied passion often thus diffuses itself, ceases to be a narrowtorrent, becomes a broad river whose resistless force is hidden beneathan appearance of sparkling calm. Her ingenuousness amused him; herdeveloping taste and imagination interested him; her freshness, herfreedom from any sense of his importance in the world fascinated him, and there was a keener pleasure than he dreamed in the novel sensationof breathing the perfume of what he, the one time cynic, would havestaked his life on being unsullied purity. Their relations were to him adelightful variation upon the intimacy of master and pupil. Either hewas listening to her or was answering her questions--and the time flew. And there never was a moment when he could have introduced the subjectthat most concerned him when he was not with her. To have introduced itwould have been rudely to break the charm of a happy afternoon orevening. 

Was she leading him on and on nowhere deliberately? Or was it the sweetand innocent simplicity it seemed? He could not tell. He would havebroken the charm and put the matter to the test had he not been afraidof the consequences. What had he to fear? Was she not in his power? Wasshe not his, whenever he should stretch forth his hand and claim her?Yes--no doubt--not the slightest doubt. But--He was afraid to breakthe charm; it was such a satisfying charm. 

Then--there was her father. 

Men who arrive anywhere in any direction always have the habit ofignoring the nonessential more or less strongly developed. Onereason--perhaps the chief reason--why Norman had got up to the highplaces of material success at so early an age was that he had anunerring instinct for the essential and wasted no time or energy uponthe nonessential. In his present situation Dorothy's father, theabstracted man of science, was one of the factors that obviously fellinto the nonessential class. Norman knew little about him, and caredless. Also, he took care to avoid knowing him. Knowing the father wouldopen up possibilities of discomfort--But, being a wise young man, Norman gave this matter the least possible thought. 

Still, it was necessary that the two men see something of each other. Hallowell discovered nothing about Norman, not enough about his personalappearance to have recognized him in the street far enough away from thelaboratory to dissociate the two ideas. Human beings--except hisdaughter--did not interest Hallowell; and his feeling for her wassomewhat in the nature of an abstraction. Norman, on the other hand, wasintensely interested in human beings; indeed, he was interested inlittle else. He was always thrusting through surfaces, probing intominds and souls. He sought thoroughly to understand the living machineshe used in furthering his ambitions and desires. So it was not longbefore he learned much about old Newton Hallowell--and began to admirehim--and with a man of Norman's temperament to admire is to like. 

He had assumed at the outset that the scientist was more or less thecrank. He had not talked with him many times before he discovered that, far from being in any respect a crank, he was a most able andwell-balanced mentality--a genius. The day came when, Dorothy not havingreturned from a shopping tour, he lingered in the laboratory talkingwith the father, or, rather, listening while the man of great ideasunfolded to him conceptions of the world that set his imagination tosoaring. 

Most of us see but dimly beyond the ends of our noses, and visualizewhat lies within our range of sight most imperfectly. We know littleabout ourselves, less about others. We fancy that the world and thehuman race always have been about as they now are, and always will be. History reads to us like a fairy tale, to which we give conventionalacceptance as truth. As to the future, we can conceive nothing but thecontinuation of just what we see about us in the present. Norman, practical man though he was, living in and for the present, had yet animagination. He thought Hallowell a kind of fool for thinking only ofthe future and working only for it--but he soon came to think him ndivine fool. And through Hallowell's spectacles he was charmed for manyan hour with visions of the world that is to be when, in the slow butsteady processes of evolution, the human race will become intelligent, will conquer the universe with the weapons of science and will make itover. 

When he first stated his projects to Norman, the young man haddifficulty in restraining his amusement. A new idea, in any line ofthought with which we are not familiar, always strikes us as ridiculous. Norman had been educated in the ignorant conventional way still in highrepute among the vulgar and among those whose chief delight is to makethe vulgar gape in awe. He therefore had no science, that is, noknowledge--outside his profession--but only what is called learning, though tommyrot would be a fitter name for it. He had only the mostmeager acquaintance with that great fundamental of a sound and saneeducation, embryology. He knew nothing of what science had already doneto destroy all the still current notions about the mystery of life andbirth. He still laughed, as at a clever bit of legerdemain, whenHallowell showed him how far science had progressed toward mastery ofthe life of the lower forms of existence--how those "worms" could beartificially created, could be aged, made young again, made diseased anddecrepit, restored to perfect health, could be swung back and forth orsideways or sinuously along the span of existence--could even be killedand brought back to vigor. 

"We've been at this sort of thing only a few years, " said Hallowell. "Irather think it will not be many years now before we shall not even needthe initial germ of life to enable us to create but can do it by purechemical means, just as a taper is lighted by holding a match to it. "

Norman ceased to think of sleight-of-hand. 

"Life, " continued the juggler, transformed now into practical man, leader of men, "life has been demonstrated to be simply one of the formsof energy, or one of the consequences of energy. The final discovery isscientifically not far away. Then--" His eyes lighted up. 

"Then what?" asked Norman. 

"Then immortality--in the body. Eternal youth and health. A body that isrenewable much as any of our inanimate machines of the factory isrenewable. Why not? So far as we know, no living thing ever dies exceptby violence. Disease--old age--they are quite as much violence as theknife and the bullet. What science can now do with these 'worms, ' as mydaughter calls them--that it will be able to do with the higherorganisms. "

"And the world would soon be jammed to the last acre, " objected Norman. 

Hallowell shrugged his shoulders. "Not at all. There will be nonecessity to create new people, except to take the place of those whomay be accidentally obliterated. "

"But the world is dying--the earth, itself, I mean. "

"True. But science may learn how to arrest that cooling process--or toadapt man to it. Or, it may be that when the world ceases to beinhabitable we shall have learned how to cross the star spaces, as Ithink I've suggested before. Then--we should simply find a planet in itsyouth somewhere, and migrate to it, as a man now moves to a new housewhen the old ceases to please him. "

"That is a long flight of the fancy, " said Norman. 

"Long--but no stronger than the telegraph or the telephone. The troublewith us is that we have been long stupefied by the ignorant theologicalideas of the universe--ideas that have come down to us from thechildhood of the race. We haven't got used to the new era--thescientific era. And that is natural. Why, until less than threegenerations ago there was really no such thing as science. "

"I hadn't thought of that, " admitted Norman. "We certainly have got onvery fast in those three generations. "

"Rather fast. Not so fast, however, as we shall in the next three. Science--chemistry--is going speedily to change all the conditions oflife because it will turn topsy-turvy all the ways of producingthings--food, clothing, shelter. Less than two generations ago men livedmuch as they had for thousands of years. But it's very different to-day. It will be inconceivably different to-morrow. "

Norman could not get these ideas out of his brain. He began tounderstand why Hallowell cared nothing about the active life of theday--about its religion, politics, modes of labor, its habits of onecreature preying upon another. To-morrow, not religion, not politics, but chemistry, not priests nor politicians, but chemists, would changeall that--and change it by the only methods that compel. An abstractidea of liberty or justice can be rejected, evaded, nullified. But atelephone, a steam engine, a mode of prolonging life--those realizationsof ideas _compel_. 

When Dorothy came, Norman went into the garden with her in a frame ofmind so different from any he had ever before experienced that hescarcely recognized himself. As the influence of the father's glowingimagination of genius waned before the daughter's physical lovelinessand enchantment for him, he said to himself, "I'll keep away from him. "Why? He did not permit himself to go on to examine into his reasons. Buthe could not conceal them from himself quickly enough to hide theknowledge that they were moral. 

"What is the matter with you to-day?" said Dorothy. "You are not a bitinteresting. "

"Interested, you mean, " he said with a smile of raillery, for he hadlong since discovered that she was not without the feminine vanity thatcommands the centering of all interest in the woman herself and resentsany wandering of thought as a slur upon her own powers of fascination. 

"Well, interested then, " said she. "You are thinking about somethingelse. "

"Not now, " he assured her. 

But he left early. No sooner had he got away from the house than thescientific dreaming vanished and he wished himself back with heragain--back where every glance at her gave him the most exquisitesensations. And when he came the following day he apparently had oncemore restored her father to his proper place of a nonessential. All thatdefinitely remained of the day before's impression was a certainsatisfaction that he was aiding with his money an enterprise of greatervalue and of less questionable character than merely his own project. But the powerful influences upon our life and conduct are rarely directand definite. He, quite unconsciously, had a wholly different feelingabout Dorothy because of her father, because of what his new knowledgeof and respect for her father had revealed and would continue to revealto him as to the girl herself--her training, her inheritance, hercharacter that could not but be touched with the splendor of thefather's noble genius. And long afterward, when the father as a distinctpersonality had been almost forgotten, Norman was still, altogetherunconsciously, influenced by him--powerfully, perhaps decisivelyinfluenced. Norman had no notion of it, but ever after that talk in thelaboratory, Dorothy Hallowell was to him Newton Hallowell's daughter. 

When he came the following day, with his original purposes and plansonce more intact, as he thought, he found that she had made more of atoilet than usual, had devised a new way of doing her hair that enabledhim to hang a highly prized addition in his memory gallery of widelyvaried portraits of her. 

The afternoon was warm. They sat under a big old tree at the end of thegarden. He saw that she was much disturbed--and that it had to do withhim. From time to time she looked at him, studying his face when shethought herself unobserved. As he had learned that it is never wise toopen up the disagreeable, he waited. After making several futile effortsat conversation, she abruptly said:

"I saw Mr. Tetlow this morning--in Twenty-third Street. I was coming outof a chemical supplies store where father had sent me. "

She paused. But Norman did not help her. He continued to wait. 

"He--Mr. Tetlow--acted very strangely, " she went on. "I spoke to him. Hestared at me as if he weren't going to speak--as if I weren't fit tospeak to. "

"Oh!" said Norman. 

"Then he came hurrying after me. And he said, 'Do you know that Normanis to be married in two weeks?'"

"So!" said Norman. 

"And I said, 'What of it? How does that interest me?'"

"It didn't interest you?"

"I was surprised that you hadn't spoken of it, " replied she. "But I wasmore interested in Mr. Tetlow's manner. What do you think he said next?"

"I can't imagine, " said Norman. 

"Why--that I was even more shameless than he thought. He said: 'Oh, Iknow all about you. I found out by accident. I shan't tell anyone, for Ican't help loving you still. But it has killed my belief in woman tofind out that _you_ would sell yourself. '"

She was looking at Norman with eyes large and grave. "And what did yousay?" he inquired. 

"I didn't say anything. I looked at him as if he weren't there andstarted on. Then he said, 'When Norman abandons you, as he soon will, you can count on me, if you need a friend. '"

There was a pause. Then Norman said, "And that was all?"

"Yes, " replied she. 

Another pause. Norman said musingly: "Poor Tetlow! I've not seen himsince he went away to Bermuda--at least he said he was going there. Oneday he sent the firm a formal letter of resignation. . . . Poor Tetlow!Do you regret not having married him?"

"I couldn't marry a man I didn't love. " She looked at him with sweetfriendly eyes. "I couldn't even marry you, much as I like you. "

Norman laughed--a dismal attempt at ease and raillery. 

"When he told me about your marrying, " she went on, "I knew how I feltabout you. For I was not a bit jealous. Why haven't you ever saidanything about it?"

He disregarded this. He leaned forward and with curious deliberatenesstook her hand. She let it lie gently in his. He put his arm round herand drew her close to him. She did not resist. He kissed her upturnedface, kissed her upon the lips. She remained passive, looking at himwith calm eyes. 

"Kiss me, " he said. 

She kissed him--without hesitation and without warmth. 

"Why do you look at me so?" he demanded. 

"I can't understand. "

"Understand what?"

"Why you should wish to kiss me when you love another woman. What wouldshe say if she knew?"

"I'm sure I don't know. And I rather think I don't care. You are theonly person on earth that interests me. "

"Then why are you marrying?"

"Let's not talk about that. Let's talk about ourselves. " He clasped herpassionately, kissed her at first with self-restraint, then in a kind offrenzy. "How can you be so cruel!" he cried. "Are you utterly cold?"

"I do not love you, " she said. 

"Why not?"

"There's no reason. I--just don't. I've sometimes thought perhaps it wasbecause you don't love me. "

"Good God, Dorothy! What do you want me to say or do?"

"Nothing, " replied she calmly. "You asked me why I didn't love you, andI was trying to explain. I don't want anything more than I'm getting. Iam content--aren't you?"

"Content!" He laughed sardonically. "As well ask Tantalus if he iscontent, with the water always before his eyes and always out of reach. I want you--all you have to give. I couldn't be content with less. "

"You ought not to talk to me this way, " she reproved gently, "when youare engaged. "

He flung her hand into her lap. "You are making a fool of me. And Idon't wonder. I've invited it. Surely, never since man was created hasthere been such another ass as I. " He drew her to her feet, seized herroughly by the shoulders. "When are you coming to your senses?" hedemanded. 

"What do you mean?" she inquired, in her childlike puzzled way. 

He shook her, kissed her violently, held her at arm's length. "Do youthink it wise to trifle with me?" he asked. "Don't your good sense tellyou there's a limit even to such folly as mine?"

"What _is_ the matter?" she asked pathetically. "What do you want? I can'tgive you what I haven't got to give. "

"No, " he cried. "But I want what you _have_ got to give. "

She shook her head slowly. "Really, I haven't, Mr. Norman. "

He eyed her with cynical amused suspicion. "Why did you call me _Mr. _Norman just then? Usually you don't call me at all. It's been weekssince you have called me Mister. Was your doing it just then one ofthose subtle, adroit, timely tricks of yours?"

She was the picture of puzzled innocence. "I don't understand, " shesaid. 

"Well--perhaps you don't, " said he doubtfully. "At any rate, don't callme Mr. Norman. Call me Fred. "

"I can't. It isn't natural. You seem Mister to me. I always think of youas Mr. Norman. "

"That's it. And it must stop!"

She smiled with innocent gayety. "Very well--Fred. . . . Fred. . . . Nowthat I've said it, I don't find it strange. " She looked at him with anexpression between appeal and mockery. "If you'd only let me getacquainted with you. But you don't. You make me feel that I've got to becareful with you--that I must be on my guard. I don't know againstwhat--for you are certainly the very best friend that I've ever had--theonly real friend. "

He frowned and bit his lip--and felt uncomfortable, though he protestedto himself that he was simply irritated at her slyness. Yes, it must beslyness. 

"So, " she went on, "there's no _reason_ for being on guard. Still, I feelthat way. " She looked at him with sweet gravity. "Perhaps I shouldn't ifyou didn't talk about love to me and kiss me in a way I feel you've noright to. "

Again he laid his hands upon her shoulders. This time he gazed angrilyinto her eyes. "Are you a fool? Or are you making a fool of me?" hesaid. "I can't decide which. "

"I certainly am very foolish, " was her apologetic answer. "I don't knowa lot of things, like you and father. I'm only a girl. "

And he had the maddening sense of being baffled again--of having gotnowhere, of having demonstrated afresh to himself and to her his ownweakness where she was concerned. What unbelievable weakness! Had thereever been such another case? Yes, there must have been. How little hehad known of the possibilities of the relations of men and women--hewho had prided himself on knowing all!

She said, "You are going to marry?"

"I suppose so, " replied he sourly. 

"Are you worried about the expense? Is it costing you too much, thishelping father? Are you sorry you went into it?"

He was silent. 

"You are sorry?" she exclaimed. "You feel that you are wasting yourmoney?"

His generosity forbade him to keep up the pretense that might aid him inhis project. "No, " he said hastily. "No, indeed. This expense--it'snothing. " He flushed, hung his head in shame before his own weakness, ashe added, in complete surrender, "I'm very glad to be helping yourfather. "

"I knew you would be!" she cried triumphantly. "I knew it!" And sheflung her arms round his neck and kissed him. 

"That's better!" he said with a foolishly delighted laugh. "I believe weare beginning to get acquainted. "

"Yes, indeed. I feel quite different already. "

"I hoped so. You are coming to your senses?"

"Perhaps. Only--" She laid a beautiful white pleading hand upon hisshoulder and gazed earnestly into his eyes--"please don't frighten mewith that talk--and those other kisses. "

He looked at her uncertainly. "Come round in your own way, " he said atlast. "I don't want to hurry you. I suppose every bird has its own wayof dropping from a perch. "

"You don't like my way?" she inquired. 

It was said archly but also in the way that always made him vaguelyuneasy, made him feel like one facing a mystery which should be exploredcautiously. "It is graceful, " he admitted, with a smile since he couldnot venture to frown. "Graceful--but slow. "

She laughed--and he could not but feel that the greater laughter in hertoo innocent eyes was directed at him. She talked of other things--andhe let her--charmed, yet cursing his folly, his slavery, the while. 

X

Many a time he had pitied a woman for letting him get away from her, when she obviously wished to hold him and failed solely because she didnot understand her business. Like every other man, he no sooner began tobe attracted by a woman than he began to invest her with a mystery andawe which she either could dissipate by forcing him to see the truth ofher commonplaceness or could increase into a power that would enslavehim by keeping him agitated and interested and ever satisfied yet everbaffled. But no woman had shown this supreme skill in the art oflove--until Dorothy Hallowell. She exasperated him. She fascinated him. She kept him so restless that his professional work was all butneglected. Was it her skill? Was it her folly? Was she simply leadinghim on and on, guided blindly by woman's instinct to get as much as shecould and to give as little as she dared? Or was she protected by a realindifference to him--the strongest, indeed the only invulnerable armor awoman can wear? Was she protecting herself? Or was it merely that he, weakened by his infatuation, was doing the protecting for her?

Beside these distracting questions, the once all-important matter ofprofessional and worldly ambition seemed not worth troubling about. Theyeven so vexed him that he had become profoundly indifferent as toJosephine. He saw her rarely. When they were alone he either talkedneutral subjects or sat almost mute, hardly conscious of her presence. He received her efforts at the customary caressings with such stoliditythat she soon ceased to annoy him. They reduced their outward show ofaffection to a kiss when they met, another when they separated. He wastired--always tired--worn out--half sick--harassed by businessconcerns. He did not trouble himself about whether his listless excuseswould be accepted or not. He did not care what she thought--or mightthink--or might do. 

Josephine was typical of the women of the comfortable class. For themthe fundamentally vital matters of life--the profoundly harassingquestions of food, clothing, and shelter--are arranged and settled. Whatis there left to occupy their minds? Little but the idle emotions theymanufacture and spread foglike over their true natures to hide thebarrenness, the monotony. They fool with phrases about art or love orreligion or charity--for none of those things can be vivid realities tothose who are swathed and stupefied in a luxury they have not to takethe least thought to provide for themselves. Like all those women, Josephine fancied herself complex--fancied she was a person of varietyand of depth because she repeated with a slight change of wording thethings she read in clever books or heard from clever men. There seemedto Norman to be small enough originality, personality, to the ordinaryman of the comfortable class; but there was some, because his necessityof struggling with and against his fellow men in the several arenas ofactive life compelled him to be at least a little of a person. In thewomen there seemed nothing at all--not even in Josephine. When helistened to her, when he thought of her, now--he was calmly critical. Hejudged her as a human specimen--judged much as would have old NewtonHallowell to whom the whole world was mere laboratory. 

She bored him now--and he made no effort beyond bare politeness toconceal the fact from her. The situation was saved from becomingintolerable by that universal saver of intolerable situations, vanity. She had the ordinary human vanity. In addition, she had the peculiarvanity of woman, the creation of man's flatteries lavished upon the sexhe alternately serves and spurns. In further addition, she had thevanity of her class--the comfortable class that feels superior to themass of mankind in fortune, in intellect, in taste, in everythingdesirable. Heaped upon all these vanities was her vanity of high socialrank--and atop the whole her vanity of great wealth. None but thesweetest and simplest of human beings can stand up and remain humanunder such a weight as this. If we are at all fair in our judgments ofour fellow men, we marvel that the triumphant class--especially thewomen, whose point of view is never corrected by the experiences ofpractical life--are not more arrogant, more absurdly forgetful of theoneness and the feebleness of humanity. 

Josephine was by nature one of the sweet and simple souls. And her lovefor Norman, after the habit of genuine love, had destroyed all theinstinct of coquetry. The woman--or, the man--has to be indeedinteresting, indeed an individuality, to remain interesting whensincerely in love, and so elevated above the petty but potent sextrickeries. Josephine, deeply in love, was showing herself to Norman inher undisguised natural sweet simplicity--and monotony. But, while menadmire and reverence a sweet and simple feminine soul--and love her inplays and between the covers of a book and when she is talkinghighfaluting abstractions of morality--and wax wroth with any other manwho ignores or neglects her--they do not in their own persons becomeinfatuated with her. Passion is too much given to moods for that; it hasa morbid craving for variety, for the mysterious and the baffling. 

The only thing that saves the race from ruin through passion is therarity of those by nature or by art expert in using it. Norman felt thathe was paying the penalty for his persistent search for this rarity; oneof the basest tricks of destiny upon man is to give him what hewants--wealth, or fame, or power, or the woman who enslaves. Normanfelt that destiny had suddenly revealed its resolve to destroy him bygiving him not one of the things he wanted, but all. 

The marriage was not quite two weeks away. About the time that theordinary plausible excuses for Norman's neglect, his abstraction, hisseeming indifference were exhausted, Josephine's vanity came forward toexplain everything to her, all to her own glory. As the elysian hourapproached--so vanity assured her--the man who loved her as her complexsoul and many physical and social advantages deserved was overcome withthat shy terror of which she had read in the poets and the novelists. Alarge income, fashionable attire and surroundings, a carriage and amaid--these things gave a woman a subtle and superior intellect andsoul. How? Why? No one knew. But everyone admitted, indeed saw, thetruth. Further, these beings--these great ladies--according to all theaccredited poets, novelists, and other final authorities uponlife--always inspired the most awed and worshipful and diffidentfeelings in their lovers. Therefore, she--the great lady--was gettingbut her due. She would have liked something else--something common andhuman--much better. But, having always led her life as the conventionsdictated, never as the common human heart yearned, she had no keen senseof dissatisfaction to rouse her to revolt and to question. Also, she wasbreathlessly busy with trousseau and the other arrangements for thegrand wedding. 

One afternoon she telephoned Norman asking him to come on his way homethat evening. "I particularly wish to see you, " she said. He thought hervoice sounded rather queer, but he did not take sufficient interest tospeculate about it. When he was with her in the small drawing room onthe second floor, he noted that her eyes were regarding him strangely. He thought he understood why when she said:

"Aren't you going to kiss me, Fred?"

He put on his good-natured, slightly mocking smile. "I thought you weretoo busy for that sort of thing nowadays. " And he bent and kissed herwaiting lips. Then he lit a cigarette and seated himself on the sofabeside her--the sofa at right angles to the open fire. "Well?" he said. 

She gazed into the fire for full a minute before she said in a voice ofconstraint, "What became of that--that girl--the Miss Hallowell----"

She broke off abruptly. There was a pause choked with those dizzypulsations that fill moments of silence and strain. Then with a sob sheflung herself against his breast and buried her face in his shoulder. "Don't answer!" she cried. "I'm ashamed of myself. I'm ashamed--ashamed!"

He put his arm about her shoulders. "But why shouldn't I answer?" saidhe in the kindly gentle tone we can all assume when a matter thatagitates some one else is wholly indifferent to us. 

"Because--it was a--a trap, " she answered hysterically. "Fred--there wasa man here this afternoon--a man named Tetlow. He got in only becausehe said he came from you. "

Norman laughed quietly. "Poor Tetlow!" he said. "He used to be your headclerk--didn't he?"

"And one of my few friends. "

"He's not your friend, Fred!" she cried, sitting upright and speakingwith energy that quivered in her voice and flashed in her fine browneyes. "He's your enemy--a snake in the grass--a malicious, poisonous----"

Norman's quiet, even laugh interrupted. "Oh, no, " said he. "Tetlow's agood fellow. Anything he said would be what he honestlybelieved--anything he said about me. "

"He pleaded that he was doing it for your good, " she went on with scorn. "They always do--like the people that write father wicked anonymousletters. He--this man Tetlow--he said he wanted me for the sake of mylove for you to save you from yourself. "

Norman glanced at her with amused eyes. "Well, why don't you? But thenyou _are_ doing it. You're marrying me, aren't you?"

Again she put her head upon his shoulder. "Indeed I am!" she cried. "AndI'd be a poor sort if I let a sneak shake my confidence in you. "

He patted her shoulder, and there was laughter in his voice as he said, "But I never professed to be trustworthy. "

"Oh, I know you _used_ to--" She laughed and kissed his cheek. "Nevermind. I've heard. But while you were engaged to me--about to marryme--why, you simply couldn't!"

"Couldn't what?" inquired he. 

"Do you want me to tell you what he said?"

"I think I know. But do as you like. "

"Maybe I'd better tell you. I seem to want to get rid of it. "

"Then do. "

"It was about that girl. " She sat upright and looked at him forencouragement. He nodded. She went on: "He said that if I asked you, youwould not dare deny you were--were--giving her money. "

"Her and her father. "

She shrank, startled. Then her lips smiled bravely, and she said, "Hedidn't say anything about her father. "

"No. That was my own correction of his story. "

She looked at him with wonder and doubt. "You aren't--_doing_ it, Fred!"she exclaimed. 

He nodded. "Yes, indeed. " He looked at her placidly. "Why not?"

"You are _supporting_ her?"

"If you wish to put it that way, " said he carelessly. "My money pays thebills--all the bills. "

"Fred!"

"Yes? What is it? Why are you so agitated?" He studied her face, thenrose, took a final pull at the cigarette, tossed it in the fire. "I mustbe going, " he said, in a cool, even voice. 

She started up in a panic. "Fred! What do you mean? Are you angry withme?"

His calm regard met hers. "I do not like--this sort of thing, " he said. 

"But surely you'll explain. Surely I'm entitled to an explanation. "

"Why should I explain? You have evidently found an explanation thatsatisfies you. " He drew himself up in a quiet gesture of haughtiness. "Besides, it has never been my habit to allow myself to be questioned orto explain myself. "

Her eyes widened with terror. "Fred!" she gasped. "What _do_ you mean?"

"Precisely what I say, " said he, in the same cool, inevitable way. "Aman came to you with a story about me. You listened. A sufficient answerto the story was that I am marrying you. That answer apparently does notcontent you. Very well. I shall make no other. "

She gazed at him uncertainly. She felt him going--and going finally. She seized him with desperate fingers, cried: "I _am_ content. Oh, Fred--don't frighten me this way!"

He smiled satirically. "Are you afraid of the scandal--becauseeverything for the wedding has gone so far?"

"How can you think that!" cried she--perhaps too vigorously, a womanwould have thought. 

"What else is there for me to think? You certainly haven't shown anyconsideration for me. "

"But you told me yourself that you were false to me. "

"Really? When?"

She forgot her fear in a gush of rage rising from sudden realization ofwhat she was doing--of how leniently and weakly and without pride shewas dealing with this man. "Didn't you admit----"

"Pardon me, " said he, and his manner might well have calmed the wildesttempest of anger. "I did not admit. I never admit. I leave that topeople of the sort who explain and excuse and apologize. I simply toldyou I was paying the expenses of a family named Hallowell. "

"But _why_ should you do it, Fred?"

His smile was gently satirical. "I thought Tetlow told you why. "

"I don't believe him!"

"Then why this excitement?"

One could understand how the opposition witnesses dreaded facing him. "Idon't know just why, " she stammered. "It seemed to me you wereadmitting--I mean, you were confirming what that man accused you of. "

"And of what did he accuse me? I might say, of what do _you_ accuse me?"When she remained silent he went on: "I am trying to be reasonable, Josephine. I am trying to keep my temper. "

The look in her eyes--the fear, the timidity--was a startling revelationof character--of the cowardice with which love undermines the strongestnature. "I know I've been foolish and incoherent, Fred, " she pleaded. "But--I love you! And you remember how I always was afraid of thatgirl. "

"Just what do you wish to know?"

"Nothing, dear--nothing. I am not sillily jealous. I ought to beadmiring you for your generosity--your charity. "

"It's neither the one nor the other, " said he with exasperatingdeliberateness. 

She quivered. "Then _what_ is it?" she cried. "You are driving me crazywith your evasions. " Pleadingly, "You must admit they _are_ evasions. "

He buttoned his coat in tranquil preparation to depart. She instantlytook alarm. "I don't mean that. It's my fault, not asking you straightout. Fred, tell me--won't you? But if you are too cross with me, then--don't tell me. " She laughed nervously, hiding her submissionbeneath a seeming of mocking exaggeration of humility. "I'll be good. I'll behave. "

A man who admired her as a figure, a man who liked her, a man who had nofeeling for her beyond the general human feeling of wishing well prettynearly everybody--in brief, any man but one who had loved her and hadgotten over it would have deeply pitied and sympathized with her. FredNorman said, his look and his tone coolly calm:

"I am backing Mr. Hallowell in a company for which he is doing chemicalresearch work. We are hatching eggs, out of the shell, so to speak. Alsowe are aging and rejuvenating arthropods and the like. So far we havedeclared no dividends. But we have hopes. "

She gave a hysterical sob of relief. "Then it's only business--not thegirl at all!"

"Oh, yes, it's the girl, too, " replied he. "She's an officer of thecompany. In fact, it was to make a place for her that I went into theenterprise originally. " With an engaging air of frankness he inquired, "Anything more?"

She was gazing soberly, almost somberly, into the fire. "You'll not beoffended if I ask you one question?"

"Certainly not. "

"Is there anything between you and--her?"

"You mean, am I having an affair with her?"

She hung her head, but managed to make a slight nod of assent. 

He laughed. "No. " He laughed again. "No--not thus far, my dear. " Helaughed a third time, with still stronger and stranger mockery. "Shecongratulated me on my engagement with a sincerity that would havepiqued a man who was interested in her. "

"Will you forgive me?" Josephine said. "What I've just been feeling andsaying and putting you through--it's beneath both of us. I suppose awoman--no woman--can help being nasty where another woman isconcerned. "

With his satirical good-humored smile, "I don't in the least blame you. "

"And you'll not think less of me for giving way to a thing so vulgar?"

He kissed her with a carelessness that made her wince But she felt thatshe deserved it--and was grateful. He said: "Why don't you go over andsee for yourself? No doubt Tetlow gave you the address--and no doubtyou have remembered it. "

She colored and hastily turned her head. "Don't punish me, " she pleaded. 

"Punish you? What nonsense! . . . Do you want me to take you over? Thelaboratory would interest you--and Miss Hallowell is lovelier than ever. She has an easier life now. Office work wears on women terribly. "

Josephine looked at him with a beautiful smile of love and trust. "Youwish to be sure I'm cured. Well, can't you see that I am?"

"I don't see why you should be. I've said nothing one way or the other. "

She laughed gayly. "You can't tempt me. I'm really cured. I think theonly reason I had the attack was because Mr. Tetlow so evidentlybelieved he was speaking the truth. "

"No doubt he did think he was. I'm sure, in the same circumstances, I'dthink of anyone else just what he thinks of me. "

"Then why do you do it, Fred?" urged she with ill-concealed eagerness. "It isn't fair to the girl, is it?"

"No one but you and Tetlow knows I'm doing it. "

"You're mistaken there, dear. Tetlow says a great many people down townare talking about it--that they say you go almost every day to JerseyCity to see her. He accuses you of having ruined her reputation. He saysshe is quite innocent. He blames the whole thing upon you. "

Norman, standing with arms folded upon his broad chest, was gazingthoughtfully into the fire. 

"You don't mind my telling you these things?" she said anxiously. "Ofcourse, I know they are lies----"

"So everyone is talking about it, " interrupted he, so absorbed that hehad not heard her. 

"You don't realize how conspicuous you are. "

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it can't be helped. "

"You can't afford to be mixed up in a scandal, " she ventured, "or toinjure a poor little creature--I'm afraid you'll have to--to stop it. "

"Stop it. " His eyes gleamed with mirth and something else. "It isn't myhabit to heed gossip. "

"But think of _her_, Fred!"

He smiled ironically. "What a generous, thoughtful dear you are!" saidhe. 

She blushed. "I'll admit I don't like it. I'm not jealous--but I wishyou weren't doing it. "

"So do I!" he exclaimed, with sudden energy that astonished anddisquieted her. "So do I! But since it can't be helped I shall go on. "

Never had she respected him so profoundly. For the first time she hadmeasured strength with him and had been beaten and routed. She fanciedherself enormously proud; for she labored under the common delusionwhich mistakes for pride the silly vanity of class, or birth, or wealth, or position. She had imagined she would never lower that cherished prideof hers to any man. And she had lowered it into the dust. No wonderwomen had loved him, she said to herself; couldn't he do with them, eventhe haughtiest of them, precisely as he pleased? He had not tried tocalm, much less to end her jealousy; on the contrary, he had let itflame as high as it would, had urged it higher. And she did not dare askhim, even as a loving concession to her weakness, to give up an affairupon which everybody was putting the natural worst possibleconstruction! On the contrary, she had given him leave to go on--becauseshe feared--yes, knew--that if she tried to interfere he would take itas evidence that they could not get on together. What a man!

 * * * * *

But there was more to come that day. As he was finishing dressing fordinner his sister Ursula knocked. "May I come, Frederick?" she said. 

"Sure, " he cried. "I'm fixing my tie. "

Ursula, in a gown that displayed the last possible--many of thehomelier women said impossible--inch of her beautiful shoulders, camestrolling sinuously in and seated herself on the arm of the divan. Shewatched him, in his evening shirt, as he with much struggling did histie. "How young you do look, Fred!" said she. "Especially in just thatmuch clothes. Not a day over thirty. "

"I'm not exactly a nonogenarian, " retorted he. 

"But usually your face--in spite of its smoothness and no wrinkles--hasa kind of an old young--or do I mean young old?--look. You've led such aserious life. "

"Um. That's the devil of it. "

"You're looking particularly young to-night. "

"Same to you, Urse. "

"No, I'm not bad for thirty-four. People half believe me when I say I'mtwenty-nine. " She glanced complacently down at her softly glisteningshoulders. "I've still got my skin. "

"And a mighty good one it is. Best I ever saw--except one. "

She reflected a moment, then smiled. "I know it isn't Josephine's. Hersis good but not notable. Eyes and teeth are her strongholds. I supposeit's--the other lady's. "

"Exactly. "

"I mean the one in Jersey City. "

He went on brushing his hair with not a glance at the bomb she hadexploded under his very nose. 

"You're a cool one, " she said admiringly. 

"Cool?"

"I thought you'd jump. I'm sure you never dreamed I knew. "

He slid into his white waistcoat and began to button it. 

"Though you might know I'd find out, " she went on, "when everyone'stalking. "

"Everyone's always talking, " said he indifferently. 

"And they rattle on to beat the band when they get a chance at a manlike you. Do you know what they're saying?"

"Certainly. Loosen these straps in the back of my waistcoat--the upperones, won't you?"

[Illustration: "She glanced complacently down at her softly glisteningshoulders. "]

As she fussed with the buckles she said: "But you don't know that theysay you're going to pieces--neglecting your cases--keeping away fromyour office--wasting about half of your day with your lady love. Theysay that you have gone stark mad--that you are rushing to ruin. "

"A little looser. That's better. Thanks. "

"And everyone's wondering when Josephine will hear and go on therampage. She's so proud and so stuck on herself that they're bettingshe'll give you the bounce. "

"Well--" getting into his coat--"you'd delight in that. For you don'tlike her. "

"Oh--so--so, " replied Ursula. "She's all right, as women go. You know wewomen don't ever think any too well of each other. We're 'on. ' Now, I'mfrank to admit I'm not worth the powder to blow me up. I can't doanything worth doing. I don't know anything worth knowing--except how todress and make a fool of an occasional man. I'm not a good house-keeper, nor a good wife--and I'd as lief go to jail for two years as have ababy. But I admit I'm n. G. Most women are as poor excuses as I am, yetthey think they're _grand_!"

Norman, standing before his sister and smiling mysteriously, said: "Mydear Urse, let me give you a great truth in a sentence. The value ofanything is not its value to itself or in itself, but its value to someone else. A woman--even as incompetent a person as you----"

"Or Josephine. "

"--or Josephine--may seem to some man to be pricelessly valuable. And ifshe happens to seem so to him, why, she _is_ so. "

"Meaning--Jersey City?"

His eyes glittered curiously. "Meaning Jersey City, " he said. 

A long silence. Then Ursula: "But suppose Josephine hears?"

He stood beside the doorway, waiting for her to pass out. His faceexpressed nothing. "Let's go down. I'm hungry. We were talking about itthis afternoon. "

"You and Jo!"

"Josephine and I. "

"And it's all right?"

"Why not?"

"You fooled her?"

"I don't stoop to that sort of thing. "

"No, indeed, " she laughed. "You rise to heights of deception that wouldmake anyone else giddy. Oh, I'd give anything to have heard. "

"There's nothing to deceive about, " said he. 

She shook her head. "You can't put it over me, Fred. You've never beforemade a fool of yourself about a woman. I'd like to see her. I supposeI'd be amazed. I've observed that the women who do the mostextraordinary things with men are the most ordinary sort of women. "

"Not to the men, " said he bitterly. "Not while they're doing it. "

"Does _she_ seem extraordinary to _you_ still?"

He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. "What you heard is true. I'mletting everything slide--work--career--everything. I think of nothingelse. Ursula, I'm mad about her--mad!"

She threw back her head, looked at him admiringly. Never had she soutterly worshiped this wonderful, powerful brother of hers. He was inlove--really--madly in love--at last. So he was perfect! "How long doyou think it will hold, Fred?" she said, all sympathy. 

"God knows!"

"Yet--caring for her you can go on and marry another woman!"

He looked at his sister cynically. "You wouldn't have me marry _her_, would you?"

"Of course not, " protested she hastily. Her passion for romance did notcarry her to that idiocy. "You couldn't. She's a sort of workinggirl--isn't she?--anyhow, that class. No, you couldn't marry her. Buthow can you marry another woman?"

"How could I give up Josephine?--and give her up probably to BobCulver?"

Ursula nodded understandingly. "But--what are you going to do?"

"How should I know? Perhaps break it off when I marry--if you can callit breaking off, when there's nothing to break but--me. "

"You don't mean--" she cried, stopping when her tone had carried hermeaning. 

He laughed. "Yes--that's the kind of damn fool I've been. "

"You must have let her see how crazy you were about her. "

"Was anyone ever able to hide that sort of insanity?"

Ursula gazed wonderingly at him, drew a long breath. "You!" sheexclaimed. "Of all men--you!"

"Let's go down. "

"She must be a deep one--dangerous, " said Ursula, furious against thewoman who was daring to resist her matchless brother. "Fred, I'm wild tosee her. Maybe I'd see something that'd help cure you. "

"You keep out of it, " he replied, curtly but not with ill humor. 

"It can't last long. "

"It'd do for me, if it did. "

"The marriage will settle everything, " said Ursula with confidence. 

"It's got to, " said he grimly. 

XI

The next day or the next but one Dorothy telephoned him. He often calledher up on one pretext or another, or frankly for no reason at all beyondthe overwhelming desire to hear her voice. But she had never before"disturbed" him. He had again and again assured her that he would notregard himself as "disturbed, " no matter what he might be doing. Shewould not have it so. As he was always watching for some faint sign thatshe was really interested in him, this call gave him a thrill of hope--aspecimen of the minor absurdities of those days of extravagant folly. 

"Are you coming over to-day?" she asked. 

"Right away, if you wish. "

"Oh, no. Any time will do. "

"I'll come at once. I'm not busy. "

"No. Late this afternoon. Father asked me to call up and make sure. Hewants to see you. "

"Oh--not you?"

"I'm a business person, " retorted she. "I know better than to annoy you, as I've often said. "

He knew it was foolish, tiresome; yet he could not resist the impulse tosay, "Now that I've heard your voice I can't stay away. I'll come overto lunch. "

Her answering voice was irritated. "Please don't. I'm cleaning house. You'd be in the way. "

He shrank and quivered like a boy who has been publicly rebuked. "I'llcome when you say, " he replied. 

"Not a minute before four o'clock. "

"That's a long time--now you've made me crazy to see you. "

"Don't talk nonsense. I must go back to work. "

"What are you doing?" he asked, to detain her. 

"Dusting and polishing. Molly did the sweeping and is cleaning windowsnow. "

"What have you got on?"

"How silly you are!"

"No one knows that better than I. But I want to have a picture of you tolook at. "

"I've got on an old white skirt and an old shirt waist, both dirty, anda pair of tennis shoes that were white once but are gray now, where theyaren't black. And I've got a pink chiffon rag tied round my hair. "

"Pink is wonderful when you wear it. "

"I look a fright. And my face is streaked--and my arms. "

"Oh, you've got your sleeves rolled up. That's an important detail. "

"You're making fun of me. "

"No, I'm thinking of your arms. They are--ravishing. "

"That's quite enough. Good-by. "

And she rang off. He was used to her treating compliment and flatteryfrom him in that fashion. He could not--or was it would not?--understandwhy. He had learned that she was not at all the indifferent and unawareperson in the matter of her physical charms he had at first fancied her. On the contrary, she had more than her share of physical vanity--notmore than was her right, in view of her charms, but more than she couldcarry off well. With many a secret smile he had observed that shethought herself perfect physically. This did not repel him; it neverdoes repel a man--when and so long as he is under the enchantment of thecharms the woman more or less exaggerates. But, while he had often seenwomen with inordinate physical vanity, so often that he had come toregarding it as an essential part of feminine character, never beforehad he seen one so content with her own good opinion of herself that shewas indifferent to appreciation from others. 

He did not go back to the office after lunch. Several important matterswere coming up; if he got within reach they might conspire to make itimpossible for him to be with her on time. If his partners, his clientsknew! He the important man of affairs kneeling at the feet of anobody!--and why? Chiefly because he was unable to convince her that heamounted to anything. His folly nauseated him. He sat in a corner in thedining room of the Lawyers' Club and drank one whisky and soda afteranother and brooded over his follies and his unhappiness, mutteringmonotonously from time to time: "No wonder she makes a fool of me. Iinvite it, I beg for it, damned idiot that I am!" By three o'clock hehad drunk enough liquor to have dispatched the average man for severaldays. It had produced no effect upon him beyond possibly a slightaggravation of his moodiness. 

It took only twenty minutes to get from New York to her house. He setout at a few minutes after three; arrived at twenty minutes to four. Asexperience of her ways had taught him that she was much less friendlywhen he disobeyed her requests, he did not dare go to the house, but, after looking at it from a corner two blocks away, made a detour thatwould use up some of the time he had to waste. And as he wandered heindulged in his usual alternations between self-derision and passion. Heappeared at the house at five minutes to four. Patrick, who with Mollyhis wife looked after the domestic affairs, was at the front gate gazingdown the street in the direction from which he always came. At sight ofhim Pat came running. Norman quickened his pace, and every part of hisnervous system was in turmoil. 

"Mr. Hallowell--he's--_dead_, " gasped Pat. 

"Dead?" echoed Norman. 

"Three quarters of an hour ago, sir. He came from the lobatry, walked inthe sitting room where Miss Dorothy was oiling the furniture and I wasoiling the floor. And he sets down--and he looks at her--as cool andcalm as could be--and he says, 'Dorothy, my child, I'm dying. ' And shestands up straight and looks at him curious like--just curious like. Andhe says, 'Dorothy, good-by. ' And he shivers, and I jumps up just in timeto catch him from rolling to the floor. He was dead then--so the doctorsays. "

"Dead!" repeated Norman, looking round vaguely. 

He went on to the house, Pat walking beside him and chattering on andon--a stream of words Norman did not hear. As he entered the open frontdoor Dorothy came down the stairs. He had thought he knew how white herskin was. But he did not know until then. And from that ghostly pallorlooked the eyes of grief beyond tears. He advanced toward her. But sheseemed to be wrapped in an atmosphere of aloofness. He felt himself astranger and an alien. After a brief silence she said: "I don't realizeit. I've been upstairs where Pat carried him--but I don't realize it. Itsimply can't be. "

"Do you know what he wished to say to me?" he asked. 

"No. I guess he felt this coming. Probably it came quicker than heexpected. Now I can see that he hasn't been well for several days. Buthe would never let anything about illness be said. He thought talking ofthose things made them worse. "

"You have relatives--somebody you wish me to telegraph?"

She shook her head. "No one. Our relatives out West are second cousinsor further away. They care nothing about us. No, I'm all alone. "

The tears sprang to his eyes. But there were no tears in her eyes, noforlornness in her voice. She was simply stating a fact. He said: "I'lllook after everything. Don't give it a moment's thought. "

"No, I'll arrange, " replied she. "It'll give me something todo--something to do for him. You see, it's my last chance. " And sheturned to ascend the stairs. "Something to do, " she repeated dully. "Iwish I hadn't cleaned house this morning. That would be something moreto do. "

This jarred on him--then brought the tears to his eyes again. Howchildish she was!--and how desolate! "But you'll let me stay?" hepleaded. "You'll need me. At any rate, I want to feel that you do. "

"I'd rather you didn't stay, " she said, in the same calm, remote way. "I'd rather be alone with him, this last time. I'll go up and sit thereuntil they take him away. And then--in a few days I'll see what todo--I'll send for you. "

"I can't leave you at such a time, " he cried. "You haven't realized yet. When you do you will need some one. "

"You don't understand, " she interrupted. "He and I understood each otherin some ways. I know he'd not want--anyone round. "

At her slight hesitation before "anyone" he winced. 

"I must be alone with him, " she went on. "Thank you, but I want to gonow. "

"Not just yet, " he begged. Then, seeing the shadow of annoyance on herbeautiful white face, he rose and said: "I'm going. I only want to helpyou. " He extended his hand impulsively, drew it back before she had thechance to refuse it. For he felt that she would refuse it. He said, "Youknow you can rely on me. "

"But I don't need anybody, " replied she. "Good-by. "

"If I can do anything----"

"Pat will telephone. " She was already halfway upstairs. 

He found Pat in the front yard, and arranged with him to get news and tosend messages by way of the drug store at the corner, so that she wouldknow nothing about it. He went to a florist's in New York and sentmasses of flowers. And then--there was nothing more to do. He stopped inat the club and drank and gambled until far into the morning. He frettedgloomily about all the next day, riding alone in the Park, driving withhis sister, drinking and gambling at the club again and smilingcynically to himself at the covert glances his acquaintances exchanged. He was growing used to those glances. He cared not the flip of a pennyfor them. 

On the third day came the funeral, and he went. He did not let hiscabman turn in behind the one carriage that followed the hearse. At thegraveyard he stood afar off, watching her in her simple new black, noting her calm. She seemed thinner, but he thought it might be simplyher black dress. He could see no change in her face. As she was leavingthe grave, she looked in his direction but he was uncertain whether shehad seen him. Pat and Molly were in the big, gloomy looking carriagewith her. 

He ventured to go to the front gate an hour later. Pat came out. "It'sno use to go in, Mr. Norman, " he said. "She'll not see you. She's shutup in her own room. "

"Hasn't she cried yet, Pat?"

"Not yet. We're waiting for it, sir. We're afraid her mind will giveway. At least, Molly is. I don't think so. She's a queer young lady--asqueer as she looks--though at first you'd never think it. She's alwayslooking different. I never seen so many persons in one. "

"Can't Molly _make_ her cry?--by talking about him?"

"She's tried, sir. It wasn't no use. Why, Miss Dorothy talks about himjust as if he was still here. " Pat wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I've been in many a house of mourning, but never through such a strainas this. Somehow I feel as if I'd never before been round where therewas anyone that'd lost somebody they _really_ cared about. Weeping andmoaning don't amount to much beside what she's doing. "

Norman stayed round for an hour or more, then rushed away distracted. Hedrank like a madman--drank himself into a daze, and so got a few hoursof a kind of sleep. He was looking haggard and wild now, and everyoneavoided him, though in fact there was not the least danger of anoutburst of temper. His sister--Josephine--the office--several clientstelephoned for him. To all he sent the same refusal--that he was too illto see anyone. Not until the third day after the funeral did Dorothytelephone for him. 

He took an ice-cold bath, got himself together as well as he could, andreached the house in Jersey City about half past three in the afternoon. She came gliding into the room like a ghost, trailing a black negligeethat made the whiteness of her skin startling. Her eyelids were heavyand dark, but unreddened. She gazed at him with calm, clear melancholy, and his heart throbbed and ached for her. She seated herself, claspedher hands loosely in her lap, and said:

"I've sent for you so that I could settle things up. "

"Your father's affairs? Can't I do it better?"

"He had arranged everything. There are only the papers--his notes--andhe wrote out the addresses of the men they were to be sent to. No, Imean settle things up with you. "

"You mustn't bother about that, " said he. "Besides, there's nothing tosettle. "

"I shan't pretend I'm going to try to pay you back, " she went on, as ifhe had not spoken. "I never could do it. But you will get part at leastby selling this furniture and the things at the laboratory. "

"Dorothy--please, " he implored. "Don't you understand you're to stay onhere, just the same? What sort of man do you think I am? I did this foryou, and you know it. "

"But I did it for my father, " replied she, "and he's gone. " She wasresting her melancholy gaze upon him. "I couldn't take anything fromyou. You didn't think I was that kind?"

He was silent. 

"I cared nothing about the scandal--what people said--so long as I wasdoing it for him. . . . I'd have done _anything_ for him. Sometimes Ithought you were going to compel me to do things I'd have hated to do. Ihope I wronged you, but I feared you meant that. " She sat thinkingseveral minutes, sighed wearily. "It's all over now. It doesn't matter. I needn't bother about it any more. "

"Dorothy, let's not talk of these things now, " said Norman. "There's nohurry. I want you to wait until you are calm and have thought everythingover. Then I'm sure you'll see that you ought to stay on. "

"How could I?" she asked wonderingly. 

"Why not? Am I demanding anything of you? You know I'm not--and that Inever shall. "

"But there's no reason on earth why _you_ should support _me_. I can work. Why shouldn't I? And if I didn't, if I stayed on here, what sort ofwoman would I be?"

He was unable to find an answer. He was trying not to see a look in herface--or was it in her soul, revealed through her eyes?--a look thatmade him think for the first time of a resemblance between her and herfather. 

"You see yourself I've got to go. Any money I could earn wouldn't morethan pay for a room and board somewhere. "

"You can let me advance you money while you--" He hesitated, had an ideawhich he welcomed eagerly--"while you study for the stage. Yes, that'sthe sensible thing. You can learn to act. Then you will be able to makea decent living. "

She slowly shook her head. "I've no talent for it--and no liking. No, Mr. Norman, I must go back to work--and right away. "

"But at least wait until you've looked into the stage business, " heurged. "You may find that you like it and that you have talent for it. "

"I can't take any more from you, " she said. 

"You think I am not to be trusted. I'm not going to say now how I feeltoward you. But I can honestly say one thing. Now that you are all aloneand unprotected, you needn't have the least fear of me. "

She smiled faintly. "I see you don't believe me. Well, it doesn'tmatter. I've seen Mr. Tetlow and he has given me a place at twelve aweek in his office. "

Norman sank back in his chair. "He is in for himself now?"

"No. He's head clerk for Pitchley & Culver. "

"Culver!" exclaimed Norman. "I don't want you to go into Culver'soffice. He's a scoundrel. "

Again Dorothy smiled faintly. Norman colored. "I know he stands well--aswell as I do. But I can't trust you with him. That sounds ridiculousbut--it's true. "

"I think I can trust myself, " she said quietly. Her grave regard fixedhis. "Don't you?" she asked. 

His eyes lowered. "Yes, " he replied. "But--why shouldn't you come backwith us? I'll see that you get a much better position than Culver'sgiving you. "

Over her face crept one of those mysterious transformations that madeher so bafflingly fascinating to him. Behind that worldly-wise, satirical mask was she mocking at him? All she said was: "I couldn'twork there. I've settled it with Mr. Tetlow. I go to work to-morrow. "

"To-morrow!" he cried, starting up. 

"And I've found a place to live. Pat and Molly; will take care of thingsfor you here. "

"Dorothy! You don't _mean_ this? You're not going to break off?"

"I shan't see you again--except as we may meet by accident. "

"Do you realize what you're saying means to me?" he cried. "Don't youknow how I love you?" He advanced toward her. She stood and waitedpassively, looking at him. "Dorothy--my love--do you want to kill me?"

"When are you to be married?" she asked quietly. 

"You are playing with me!" he cried. "You are tormenting me. What have Iever done that you should treat me this way?" He caught her unresistinghands and kissed them. "Dear--my dear--don't you care for me at all?"

"No, " she said placidly. "I've always told you so. "

He seized her in his arms, kissed her with a frenzy that was savage, ferocious. "You will drive me mad. You _have_ driven me mad!" he muttered. And he added, unconscious that he was speaking his thoughts, sodistracted was he: "You _must_ love me--you _must_! No woman has everresisted me. You cannot. "

She drew herself away from him, stood before him like snow, like ice. "One thing I have never told you. I'll tell you now, " she saiddeliberately. "I despise you. "

He fell back a step and the chill of her coldness seemed to be freezingthe blood in his veins. 

"I've always despised you, " she went on, and he shivered before thatcontemptuous word--it seemed only the more contemptuous for hercalmness. "Sometimes I've despised you thoroughly--again only alittle--but always that feeling. "

For a moment he thought she had at last stung his pride into thesemblance of haughtiness. He was able to look at her with mocking eyesand to say, "I congratulate you on your cleverness in concealing yourfeelings. "

"It wasn't my cleverness, " she said wearily. "It was your blindness. Inever deceived you. "

"No, you never have, " he replied sincerely. "Perhaps I deserve to bedespised. Again, perhaps if you knew the world--the one I livein--better, you'd think less harshly of me. "

"I don't think harshly of you. How could I--after all you did for myfather?"

"Dorothy, if you'll stay here and study for the stage--or anything youchoose--I promise you I'll never speak of my feeling for you--or show itin any way--unless you yourself give me leave. "

She smiled with childlike pathos. "You ought not to tempt me. Do youwant me to keep on despising you? Can't you ever be fair with me?"

The sad, frank gentleness of the appeal swung his unhinged mind to theother extreme--from the savagery of passion to a frenzy of remorse. "Fair to _you_? No, " he cried, "because I love you. Oh, I'mashamed--bitterly ashamed. I'm capable of any baseness to get you. You're right. You can't trust me. In going you're saving me frommyself. " He hesitated, stared wildly, appalled at the words that werefighting for utterance--the words about marriage--about marrying her! Hesaid hoarsely: "I am mad--mad! I don't know what I'm saying. Good-by--For God's sake, don't think the worst of me, Dorothy. Good-by. I _will_ be a man again--I will!"

And he wrung her hand and, talking incoherently, he rushed from the roomand from the house. 

XII

He went straight home and sought his sister. She had that moment come infrom tea after a matinee. She talked about the play--how badly it wasacted--and about the women she had seen at tea--how badly dressed theywere. "It's hard to say which is the more dreadful--the ugly, misshapenhuman race without clothes or in the clothes it insists on wearing. Andthe talk at that tea! Does no one ever say a pleasant thing aboutanyone? Doesn't anyone ever do a pleasant thing that can be spokenabout? I read this morning Tolstoy's advice about resolving to think allday only nice thoughts and sticking to it. That sounded good to me, andI decided to try it. " Ursula laughed and squirmed about in hertight-fitting dress that made an enchanting display of her figure. "Whatis one to do? _I_ can't be a fraud, for one. And if I had stuck to myresolution I'd have spent the day in lying. What's the matter, Fred?"Now that her attention was attracted she observed more closely. "What_have_ you been doing? You look--frightful!"

"I've broken with her, " replied he. 

"With Jo?" she cried. "Why, Fred, you can't--you can't--with thewedding only five days away!"

"Not with Jo. "

Ursula breathed noisy relief. She said cheerfully: "Oh--with the other. Well, I'm glad it's over. "

"Over?" said he sardonically. "Over? It's only begun. "

"But you'll stick it out, Fred. You've made a fool of yourself longenough. What was the girl playing for? Marriage?"

He nodded. "I guess so. " He laughed curtly. "And she almost won. "

Ursula smiled with fine mockery. "Almost, but not quite. I know you men. Women do that sort of fool thing. But men--never--at least not theambitious, snobbish New York men. "

"She almost won, " he repeated. "At least, I almost did it. If I hadstayed a minute longer I'd have done it. "

"You like to think you would, " mocked Ursula. "But if you had tried tosay the words your lungs would have collapsed, your vocal chords snappedand your tongue shriveled. "

"I am not so damn sure I shan't do it yet, " he burst out fiercely. 

"But I am, " said Ursula, calm, brisk, practical. "What's she going todo?"

"Going to work. "

Ursula laughed joyously. "What a joke! A woman go to work when sheneedn't!"

"She is going to work. "

"To work another man. "

"She meant it. "

"How easily women fool men!--even the wise men like you. "

"She meant it. "

"She still hopes to marry you--or she has heard of your marriage----"

Norman lifted his head. Into his face came the cynical, suspiciousexpression. 

"And has fastened on some other man. Or perhaps she's found some goodprovider who's willing to marry her. "

Norman sprang up, his eyes blazing, his mouth working cruelly. "By God!"he cried. "If I thought that!"

His sister was alarmed. Such a man--in such a delirium--might commit anyabsurdity. He flung himself down in despair. "Urse, why can't I get ridof this thing? It's ruining me. It's killing me!"

"Your good sense tells you if you had her you'd be over it--" Shesnapped her fingers--"like that. "

"Yes--yes--I know it! But--" He groaned--"she has broken with me. "

Ursula went to him and kissed him and took his head in her arms. "What a_boy_-boy it is!" she said tenderly. "Oh, it must be dreadful to havealways had whatever one wanted and then to find something one can'thave. We women are used to it--and the usual sort of man. But not yoursort, Freddy--and I'm so sorry for you. "

"I want her, Urse--I want her, " he groaned, and he was almost sobbing. "My God, I _can't_ get on without her. "

"Now, Freddy dear, listen to me. You know she's 'way, 'way beneathyou--that she isn't at all what you've got in the habit of picturingher--that it's all delusion and nonsense----"

"I want her, " he repeated. "I want her. "

"You'd be ashamed if you had her as a wife--wouldn't you?"

He was silent. 

"She isn't a _lady_. "

"I don't know, " replied he. 

"She hasn't any sense. A low sort of cunning, yes. But not brains--notenough to hold you. "

"I don't know, " replied he. "She's got enough for a woman. And--I _want_her. "

"She isn't to be compared with Josephine. "

"But I don't want Josephine. I want _her_. "

"But which do you want to _marry_?--to bring forward as your wife?--tospend your life with?"

"I know. I'm a mad fool. But, Urse, I can't help it. " He stood upsuddenly. "I've used every weapon I've got. Even pride--and it skulkedaway. My sense of humor--and it weakened. My will--and it snapped. "

"Is she so wonderful?"

"She is so--elusive. I can't understand her--I can't touch her. I can'tfind her. She keeps me going like a man chasing an echo. "

"Like a man chasing an echo, " repeated Ursula reflectively. "Iunderstand. It is maddening. She must be clever--in her way. "

"Or very simple. God knows which; I don't--and sometimes I think shedoesn't, either. " He made a gesture of dismissal. "Well, it's finished. I must pull myself together--or try to. "

"You will, " said his sister confidently. "A fortnight from now you'll belaughing at yourself. "

"I am now. I have been all along. But--it does no good. "

She had to go and dress. But she could not leave until she had tried tomake him comfortable. He was drinking brandy and soda and staring at hisfeet which were stretched straight out toward the fire. "Where's yoursense of humor?" she demanded. "Throw yourself on your sense of humor. It's a friend that sticks when all others fail. "

"It's my only hope, " he said with a grim smile. "I can see myself. Nowonder she despises me. "

"Despises you?" scoffed Ursula. "A _woman_ despise _you_! She's crazyabout you, I'll bet anything you like. Before you're through with thisyou'll find out I'm right. And then--you'll have no use for her. "

"She despises me. "

"Well--what of it? Really, Fred, it irritates me to see you absolutelyunlike yourself. Why, you're as broken-spirited as a henpecked oldhusband. "

"Just that, " he admitted, rising and looking drearily about. "I don'tknow what the devil to do next. Everything seems to have stopped. "

"Going to see Josephine this evening?"

"I suppose so, " was his indifferent reply. 

"You'll have to dress after dinner. There's no time now. "

"Dress?" he inquired vaguely. "Why dress? Why do anything?"

She thought he would not go to Josephine but would hide in his club anddrink. But she was mistaken. Toward nine o'clock he, in evening dress, with the expression of a horse in a treadmill, rang the bell ofJosephine's house and passed in at the big bronze doors. The butler musthave particularly admired the way he tossed aside his coat and hat. Assoon as he was in the presence of his fiancee he saw that she was againin the throes of some violent agitation. 

She began at once: "I've just had the most frightful scene with father, "she said. "He's been hearing a lot of stuff about you down town and itset him wild. "

"Do you mind if I smoke a cigar?" said he, looking at her unseeinglywith haggard, cold eyes. "And may I have some whisky?"

She rang. "I hope the servants didn't hear him, " she said. Then, as astep sounded outside she put on an air of gayety, as if she were stilllaughing at some jest he had made. In the doorway appeared her fatherone of those big men who win half the battle in advance on personalappearance of unconquerable might. Burroughs was noted for hisgenerosity and for his violent temper. As a rule men of the largenessnecessary to handling large affairs are free from petty vindictiveness. They are too busy for hatred. They do not forgive; they are most carefulnot to forget; they simply stand ready at any moment to do whatever itis to their interest to do, regardless of friendships or animosities. Burroughs was an exception in that he got his highest pleasure out ofpursuing his enemies. He enjoyed this so keenly that several times--soit was said--he had sacrificed real money to satisfy a revenge. Butthese rumors may have wronged him. It is hardly probable that a man whowould let a weakness carry him to that pitch of folly could have escapeddestruction. For of all the follies revenge is the most dangerous--aswell as the most fatuous. 

Burroughs had a big face. Had he looked less powerful the bigness of hisfeatures, the spread of cheek and jowl, would have been grotesque. As itwas, the face was impressive, especially when one recalled how many, many millions he owned and how many more he controlled. The control wasbetter than the ownership. The millions he owned made him a coward--hewas afraid he might lose them. The millions he controlled, and of courseused for his own enrichment, made him brave, for if they were lost inthe daring ventures in which he freely staked them, why, the loss wasnot his, and he could shift the blame. Usually Norman treated him withgreat respect, for his business gave the firm nearly half its totalincome, and it was his daughter and his wealth, prestige and power, thatNorman was marrying. But this evening he looked at the great man with asuperciliousness that was peculiarly disrespectful from so young a manto one well advanced toward old age. Norman had been feeling relaxed, languid, exhausted. The signs of battle in that powerful face nervedhim, keyed him up at once. He waited with a joyful impatience while theservant was bringing cigars and whisky. The enormous quantities ofliquor he had drunk in the last few days had not been without effect. Alcohol, the general stimulant, inevitably brings out in strong relief aman's dominant qualities. The dominant quality of Norman was love ofcombat. 

"Josephine tells me you are in a blue fury, " said Norman pleasantly whenthe door was closed and the three were alone. "No--not a blue fury. Ablack fury. "

At the covert insolence of his tone Josephine became violently agitated. "Father, " she said, with the imperiousness of an only and indulgedchild, "I have asked you not to interfere between Fred and me. I thoughtI had your promise. "

"I said I'd think about it, " replied her father. He had a heavy voicethat now and then awoke some string of the lower octaves of the piano inthe corner to a dismal groan. "I've decided to speak out. "

"That's right, sir, " said Norman. "Is your quarrel with me?"

Josephine attempted an easy laugh. "It's that silly story we weretalking about the other day, Fred. "

"I supposed so, " said he. "You are not smoking, Mr. Burroughs--" Helaughed amiably--"at least not a cigar. "

"The doctor only allows me one, and I've had it, " replied Burroughs, hiseyes sparkling viciously at this flick of the whip. "What is the truthabout that business, Norman?"

Norman's amused glance encountered the savage glare mockingly. "Why doyou ask?" he inquired. 

"Because my daughter's happiness is at stake. Because I cannot butresent a low scandal about a man who wishes to marry my daughter. "

"Very proper, sir, " said Norman graciously. 

"My daughter, " continued Burroughs with accelerating anger, "tells meyou have denied the story. "

[Illustration: "'Father . .. I have asked you not to interfere betweenFred and me. '"]

Norman interrupted with an astonished look at Josephine. She colored, gazed at him imploringly. His face terrified her. When body and mind arein health and at rest the fullness of the face hides the character to agreat extent. But when a human being is sick or very tired theconcealing roundness goes and in the clearly marked features the truecharacter is revealed. In Norman's face, haggard by his wearingemotions, his character stood forth--the traits of strength, oftenacity, of inevitable purpose. And Josephine saw and dreaded. 

"But, " Burroughs went on, "I have it on the best authority that it istrue. "

Norman, looking into the fascinating face of danger, was thrilled. "Thenyou wish to break off the engagement?" he said in the gentlest, smoothest tone. 

Burroughs brought his fist down on the table--and Norman recognized thegesture of the bluffer. "I wish you to break off with that woman!" hecried. "I insist upon it--upon positive assurances from you. "

"Fred!" pleaded Josephine. "Don't listen to him. Remember, I have saidnothing. "

He had long been looking for a justifying grievance against her. It nowseemed to him that he had found it. "Why should you?" he said geniallybut with subtle irony, "since you are getting your father to speak foryou. "

There was just enough truth in this to entangle her and throw her intodisorder. She had been afraid of the consequences of her father'sinterfering with a man so spirited as Norman, but at the same time shehad longed to have some one put a check upon him. Norman's suave remarkmade her feel that he could see into her inmost soul--could see theanger, the jealousy, the doubt, the hatred-tinged love, thelove-saturated hate seething and warring there. 

Burroughs was saying: "If we had not committed ourselves so deeply, Ishould deal very differently with this matter. "

"Why should that deter you?" said Norman--and Josephine gave a piteousgasp. "If this goes much farther, I assure you I shall not be deterred. "

Burroughs, firmly planted in a big leather chair, looked at the youngman in puzzled amazement. "I see you think you have us in your power, "he said at last. "But you are mistaken. "

"On the contrary, " rejoined the young man, "I see you believe you haveme in your power. And in a sense you are _not_ mistaken. "

"Father, he is right, " cried Josephine agitatedly. "I shouldn't love andrespect him as I do if he would submit to this hectoring. "

"Hectoring!" exclaimed Burroughs. "Josephine, leave the room. I cannotdiscuss this matter properly before you. "

"I hope you will not leave, Josephine, " said Norman. "There is nothingto be said that you cannot and ought not to hear. "

"I'm not an infant, father, " said Josephine. "Besides, it is as Fredsays. He has done nothing--improper. "

"Then why does he not say so?" demanded Burroughs, seeing a chance torecede from his former too advanced position. "That's all I ask. "

"But I told you all about it, father, " said Josephine angrily. "They'vebeen distorting the truth, and the truth is to his credit. "

Norman avoided the glance she sent to him; it was only a glance andaway, for more formidably than ever his power was enthroned in hishaggard face. He stood with his back to the fire and it was plain thatthe muscles of his strong figure were braced to give and to receive ashock. "Mr. Burroughs, " he said, "your daughter is mistaken. Perhaps itis my fault--in having helped her to mislead herself. The plain truthis, I have become infatuated with a young woman. She cares nothing aboutme--has repulsed me. I have been and am making a fool of myself abouther. I've been hoping to cure myself. I still hope. But I am not cured. "

There was absolute silence in the room. Norman stole a glance atJosephine. She was sitting erect, a greenish pallor over her ghastlyface. 

He said: "If she will take me, now that she knows the truth, I shall begrateful--and I shall make what effort I can to do my best. "

He looked at her and she at him. And for an instant her eyes softened. There was the appeal of weak human heart to weak human heart in hisgaze. Her lip quivered. A brief struggle between vanity and love--andvanity, the stronger, the strongest force in her life, dominating itsince earliest babyhood and only seeming to give way to love when lovecame--it was vanity that won. She stiffened herself and her mouth curledwith proud scorn. She laughed--a sneer of jealous rage. "Father, " shesaid, "the lady in the case is a common typewriter in his office. "

But to men--especially to practical men--differences of rank andposition among women are not fundamentally impressive. Man is in thehabit of taking what he wants in the way of womankind wherever he findsit, and he understands that habit in other men. He was furious withNorman, but he did not sympathize with his daughter's extreme attitude. He said to Norman sharply:

"You say you have broken with the woman?"

"She has broken with me, " replied Norman. 

"At any rate, everything is broken off. "

"Apparently. "

"Then there is no reason why the marriage should not go on. " He turnedto his daughter. "If you understood men, you would attach no importanceto this matter. As you yourself said, the woman isn't a lady--isn't inour class. That sort of thing amounts to nothing. Norman has acted well. He has shown the highest kind of honesty--has been truthful where mostmen would have shifted and lied. Anyhow, things have gone too far. " Notwithout the soundest reasons had Burroughs accepted Norman as hisson-in-law; and he had no fancy for giving him up, when men of hispre-eminent fitness were so rare. 

There was another profound silence. Josephine looked at Norman. Had hereturned her gaze, the event might have been different; for within herthere was now going on a struggle between two nearly evenly matchedvanities--the vanity of her own outraged pride and the vanity of whatthe world would say and think, if the engagement were broken off at thattime and in those circumstances. But he did not look at her. He kept hiseyes fixed upon the opposite wall, and there was no sign of emotion ofany kind in his stony features. Josephine rose, suppressed a sob, lookedarrogant scorn from eyes shining with tears--tears of self-pity. "Sendhim away, father, " she said. "He has tried to degrade _me_! I am done withhim. " And she rushed from the room, her father half starting from hischair to detain her. 

He turned angrily on Norman. "A hell of a mess you've made!" he cried. 

"A hell of a mess, " replied the young man. 

"Of course she'll come round. But you've got to do your part. "

"It's settled, " said Norman. And he threw his cigar into the fireplace. "Good night. "

"Hold on!" cried Burroughs. "Before you go, you must see Josie alone andtalk with her. "

"It would be useless, " said Norman. "You know her. "

Burroughs laid his hand friendlily but heavily upon the young man'sshoulder. "This outburst of nonsense might cost you two young peopleyour happiness for life. This is no time for jealousy and false pride. Wait a moment. "

"Very well, " said Norman. "But it is useless. " He understood Josephinenow--he who had become a connoisseur of love. He knew that hervanity-founded love had vanished. 

Burroughs disappeared in the direction his daughter had taken. Normanwaited several minutes--long enough slowly to smoke a cigarette. Then hewent into the hall and put on his coat with deliberation. No oneappeared, not even a servant. He went out into the street. 

In the morning papers he found the announcement of the withdrawal of theinvitations--and from half a column to several columns of comment, muchof it extremely unflattering to him. 

XIII

When a "high life" engagement such as that of Norman and Miss Burroughs, collapses on the eve of the wedding, the gossip and the scandal, howevergreat, are but a small part of the mess. Doubtless many a marriage--andnot in high life alone, either--has been put through, although the oneparty or the other or both have discovered that disaster wasinevitable--solely because of the appalling muddle the sensible coursewould precipitate. In the case of the Norman-Burroughs fiasco, therewere--to note only a few big items--such difficulties as several carloads of presents from all parts of the earth to be returned, a housefurnished throughout and equipped to the last scullery maid and stableboy to be disposed of, the entire Burroughs domestic economy which hadbeen reconstructed to be put back upon its former basis. 

It is not surprising that, as Ursula Fitzhugh was credibly informed, Josephine almost decided to send for Bob Culver and marry him on the daybefore the day appointed for her marriage to Fred. The reason given forher not doing this sounded plausible. Culver, despairing of making thematch on which his ambition--and therefore his heart was set--andseeing a chance to get suddenly rich, had embarked for a career as ablackmailer of corporations. That is, he nosed about for a bigcorporation stealthily doing or arranging to do some unlawful but highlyprofitable acts; he bought a few shares of its stock, using a fakeclient as a blind; he then proceeded to threaten it with exposure, expensive hindrances and the like, unless it bought him off at a hugeprofit to himself. This business was regarded as most disreputableand--thanks to the power of the big corporations over the courts--hadresulted in the sending of several of its practisers to jail or on hastyjourneys to foreign climes. But Culver, almost if not quite as good alawyer as Norman, was too clever to be caught in that way. However, while he was getting very rich rapidly, he was as yet far from richenough to overcome the detestation of old Burroughs, and to be eligiblefor the daughter. 

So, Josephine sailed away to Europe, with the consolation that herfather was so chagrined by the fizzle that he had withdrawn his vetoupon the purchase of a foreign title--that veto having been the onlyreason she had looked at home for a husband. Strange indeed are the waysof love--never stranger than when it comes into contact with thevanities of wealth and social position and the other things that cause ahuman being to feel that he or she is lifted clear of and high above thehuman condition. Josephine had her consolation. For Norman the onlyconsolation was escape from a marriage which had become so irksome inanticipation that he did not dare think what it would be in the reality. Over against this consolation was set a long list of disasters. He foundhimself immediately shunned by all his friends. Their professed reasonwas that he had acted shabbily in the breaking of the engagement; for, while it was assumed that Josephine must have done the actual breaking, it was also assumed that he must have given her provocation and tospare. This virtuous indignation was in large part mere pretext, asvirtuous indignation in frail mortals toward frail mortals is apt to be. The real reason for shying off from Norman was his atmosphere ofimpending downfall. And certainly that atmosphere had eaten away anddissipated all his former charm. He looked dull and boresome--and hewas. 

But the chief disaster was material. As has been said, old Burroughs, inhis own person and in the enterprises he controlled, gave Norman's firmabout half its income. The day Josephine sailed, Lockyer, senior partnerof the firm, got an intimation that unless Norman left, Burroughs wouldtake his law business elsewhere, and would "advise" others of theirclients to follow his example. Lockyer no sooner heard than he began tobestir himself. He called into consultation the learned Benchley and theastute Sanders and the soft and sly Lockyer junior. There could be noquestion that Norman must be got rid of. The only point was, who shouldinform the lion that he had been deposed?

After several hours of anxious discussion, Lockyer, his inwardperturbations hid beneath that mask of smug and statesmanlikerespectability, entered the lion's den--a sick lion, sick unto deathprobably, but not a dead lion. "When you're ready to go uptown, Frederick, " said he in his gentlest, most patriarchal manner, "let meknow. I want to have a little talk with you. "

Norman, heavy eyed and listless, looked at the handsome old fraud. As helooked something of the piercing quality and something of the humorouscame back into his eyes. "Sit down and say it now, " said he. 

"I'd prefer to talk where we can be quiet. "

Norman rang his bell and when an office boy appeared, said "No one is todisturb me until I ring again. " Then as the boy withdrew he said toLockyer: "Now, sir, what is it?"

Lockyer strolled to the window, looked out as if searching for somethinghe failed to find, came back to the chair on the opposite side of thedesk from Norman, seated himself. "I don't know how to begin, " said he. "It is hard to say painful things to anyone I have such an affection foras I have for you. "

Norman pushed a sheet of letter paper across the desk toward hispartner. "Perhaps that will help you, " observed he carelessly. 

Lockyer put on his nose glasses with the gesture of grace and intellectthat was famous. He read--a brief demand for a release from thepartnership and a request for an immediate settlement. Lockyer blinkedoff his glasses with the gesture that was as famous and as admiringlyimitated by lesser legal lights as was his gesture of be-spectaclinghimself. "This is most astounding, my boy, " said he. "It ismost--most----"

"Gratifying?" suggested Norman with a sardonic grin. 

"Not in the least, Frederick. The very reverse--the exact reverse. "

Norman gave a shrug that said "Why do you persist in those frauds--andwith _me_?" But he did not speak. 

"I know, " pursued Lockyer, "that you would not have taken this stepwithout conclusive reasons. And I shall not venture the impertinence ofprying or of urging. "

"Thanks, " said Norman drily. "Now, as to the terms of settlement. "

Lockyer, from observation and from gossip, had a pretty shrewd notion ofthe state of his young partner's mind, and drew the not unwarrantedconclusion that he would be indifferent about terms--would be "easy. "With the suavity of Mr. Great-and-Good-Heart he said: "My dear boy, there can't be any question of money with us. We'll do the generouslyfair thing--for, we're not hucksterers but gentlemen. "

"That sounds terrifying, " observed the young man, with a faint ironicsmile. "I feel my shirt going and the cold winds whistling about my barebody. To save time, let _me_ state the terms. You want to be rid of me. Iwant to go. It's a whim with me. It's a necessity for you. "

Lockyer shifted uneasily at these evidences of unimpaired mentality andundaunted spirit. 

"Here are my terms, " proceeded Norman. "You are to pay me forty thousanda year for five years--unless I open an office or join another firm. Inthat case, payments are to cease from the date of my re-enteringpractice. "

Lockyer leaned back and laughed benignantly. "My dear Norman, " he saidwith a gently remonstrant shake of the head, "those terms areimpossible. Forty thousand a year! Why that is within ten thousand ofthe present share of any of us but you. It is the income of nearly threequarters of a million at six per cent--of a million at four per cent!"

"Very well, " said Norman, settling back in his chair. "Then I standpat. "

"Now, my dear Norman, permit me to propose terms that are fair toall----"

"When I said I stood pat I meant that I would stay on. " His eyes laughedat Lockyer. "I guess we can live without Burroughs and his dependents. Maybe they will find they can't live without us. " He slowly leanedforward until, with his forearms against the edge of his desk, he wasconcentrating a memorable gaze upon Lockyer. "Mr. Lockyer, " said he, "Ihave been exercising my privilege as a free man to make a damn fool ofmyself. I shall continue to exercise it so long as I feel disposed thatway. But let me tell you something. I can afford to do it. If a man'sasset is money, or character or position or relatives and friends orpopular favor or any other perishable article, he must take care how hetrifles with it. He may find himself irretrievably ruined. But my assethappens to be none of those things. It is one that can be lost ordamaged only by insanity or death. Do you follow me?"

The old man looked at him with the sincere and most flattering tributeof compelled admiration. "What a mind you've got, Frederick--and whatcourage!"

"You accept my terms?"

"If the others agree--and I think they will. "

"They will, " said Norman. 

The old man was regarding him with eyes that had genuine anxiety inthem. "Why _do_ you do it, Fred?" he said. 

"Because I wish to be free, " replied Norman. He would never have toldthe full truth to that incredulous old cynic of a time-server--the truththat he was resigning at the dictation of a pride which forbade him toinvolve others in the ruin he, in his madness, was bent upon. 

"I don't mean, why do you resign, " said Lockyer. "I mean theother--the--woman. "

Norman laughed harshly. 

"I've seen too much of the world not to understand, " continued Lockyer. "The measureless power of woman over man--especially--pardon me, my dearNorman--especially a bad woman!"

"The measureless power of a man's imagination over himself, " rejoinedNorman. "Did you ever see or hear of a man without imagination beingupset by a woman? It's in here, Mr. Lockyer"--he rapped hisforehead--"altogether in here. "

"You realize that. Yet you go on--and for such a--pardon me, my boy, for saying it--for such a trifling object. "

"What does 'trifling' mean, sir?" replied the young man. "What istrifling and what is important? It depends upon the point of view. WhatI want--that is vital. What I do not want--that is paltry. It's mynature to go for what I happen to want--to go for it with all there isin me. I will take nothing else--nothing else. "

There was in his eyes the glitter called insanity--the glitter thatreflects the state of mind of any strong man when possessed of one ofthose fixed ideas that are the idiosyncrasy of the strong. It would havebeen impossible for Lockyer to be possessed in that way; he had not thecourage nor the concentration nor the independence of soul; like mostmen, even able men, he dealt only in the conventional. Not in hiswildest youth could he have wrecked or injured himself for a woman;women, for him, occupied their conventional place in the scheme ofthings, and had no allure beyond the conventionally proper and theconventionally improper--for, be it remembered, vice has its beatentrack no less than virtue and most of the vicious are as tame andunimaginative as the plodders in the high roads of propriety. Still, Lockyer had associated with strong men, men of boundless desires; thus, he could in a measure sympathize with his young associate. What a pitythat these splendid powers should be perverted from the ordinary desiresof strong men!

Norman rose, to end the interview. "My address is my house. They willforward--if I go away. "

Lockyer gave him a hearty handclasp, made a few phrases about goodwishes and the like, left him alone. The general opinion was that Normanwas done for. But Lockyer could not see it. He had seen too many menfall only to rise out of lowest depths to greater heights than they hadfallen from. And Norman was only thirty-seven. Perhaps this would proveto be merely a dip in a securely brilliant career and not a fall at all. In that case--with such a brain, such a genius for the lawlessness ofthe law, what a laughing on the other side of the mouth there might yetbe among young Norman's enemies--and friends!

He spent most of the next few days--the lunch time, the late afternoon, finally the early morning hours--lurking about the Equitable Building, in which were the offices of Pytchley and Culver. As that building hadentrances on four streets, the best he could do was to walk round andround, with an occasional excursion through the corridors and past theelevators. He had written her, asking to see her; he had got no answer. He ceased to wait at the elevators after he had twice narrowly escapedbeing seen by Tetlow. He was indifferent to Tetlow, except as meetinghim might make it harder to see Dorothy. He drank hard. But drink neveraffected him except to make him more grimly tenacious in whatever he haddeliberately and soberly resolved. Drink did not explain--neither whollynor in any part--this conduct of his. It, and the more erratic vagariesto follow, will seem incredible conduct for a man of Norman's characterand position to feeble folk with their feeble desires, their dread ofcriticism and ridicule, their exaggerated and adoring notions of themaster men. In fact, it was the natural outcome of the man'snature--arrogant, contemptuous of his fellowmen and of their opinions, and, like all the master men, capable of such concentration upon adesire that he would adopt any means, high or low, dignified or thereverse, if only it promised to further his end. Fred Norman, at thesevulgar vigils, took the measure of his own self-abasement to a hair'sbreadth. But he kept on, with the fever of his infatuation burning likea delirium, burning higher and deeper with each baffled day. 

At noon, one day, as he swung into Broadway from Cedar street, he ranstraight into Tetlow. It was raining and his umbrella caught inTetlow's. It was a ludicrous situation, but there was no answering smilein his former friend's eyes. Tetlow glowered. 

"I've heard you were hanging about, " he said. "How low you have sunk!"

Norman laughed in his face. "Poor Tetlow, " he said. "I never expected tosee you develop into a crusader. And what a Don Quixote you look. Cheerup, old man. Don't take it so hard. "

"I warn you to keep away from her, " said Tetlow in subdued, tense tones, his fat face quivering with emotion. "Hasn't she shown you plainly thatshe'll have nothing to do with you?"

"I want only five minutes' talk with her, Tetlow, " said Norman, droppinginto an almost pleading tone. "And I guarantee I'll say nothing youwouldn't approve, if you heard. You are advising her badly. You aredoing her an injury. "

"I am protecting her from a scoundrel, " retorted Tetlow. 

"She'll not thank you for it, when she finds out the truth. "

"You can write to her. What a shallow liar you are!"

"I cannot write what I must say, " said Norman. It had never beendifficult for him, however provoked, to keep his temper--outwardly. Tetlow's insults were to him no more than the barkings of a watch dog, and one not at all dangerous, but only amusing. "I must see her. If youare her friend, and not merely a jealous, disappointed lover, you'lladvise her to see me. "

"You shall not see her, if I can help it, " cried his former friend. "Andif you persist in annoying her----"

"Don't make futile threats, Tetlow, " Norman interrupted. "You've done meall the mischief you can do. I see you hate me for the injuries you'vedone me. That's the way it always is. But I don't hate you. It was at mysuggestion that the Lockyer firm is trying to get you back as apartner. " Then, as Tetlow colored--"Oh, I see you're accepting theiroffer. "

"If I had thought----"

"Nonsense. You're not a fool. How does it matter whose the hand, if onlyit's a helping hand? And you may be sure they'd never have made you theoffer if they didn't need you badly. All the credit I claim is havingthe intelligence to enlighten their stupidity with the rightsuggestion. "

In spite of himself Tetlow was falling under the spell of Norman'spersonality, of the old and deep admiration the lesser man had for thegreater. 

"Norman, " he said, "how can you be such a combination of bigness andpetty deviltry? You are a monster of self-indulgence. It's a God's mercythere aren't more men with your selfishness and your desires. "

Norman laughed sardonically. "The difference between me and most men, "said he, "isn't in selfishness or in desires, but in courage. Courage, Billy--there's what most of you lack. And even in courage I'm not alone. My sort fill most of the high places. "

Tetlow looked dismal confession of a fear that Norman was right. 

"Yes, " pursued Norman, "in this country there are enough wolves toattend to pretty nearly all the sheep--though it's amazing how muchmutton there is. " With an abrupt shift from raillery, "You'll help mewith her, Billy?"

"Why don't you let her alone, Fred?" pleaded Tetlow. "It isn't worthy ofyou--a big man like you. Let her alone, Fred!--the poor child, trying toearn her own living in an honest way. "

"Let her alone? Tetlow, I shall never let her alone--as long as she andI are both alive. "

The fat man, with his premature wrinkles and his solemn air of law booksthat look venerable though fresh from the press, took on an addedpastiness. "Fred--for God's sake, can't you love her in a noble way--away worthy of you?"

Norman gave him a penetrating glance. "Is love--such love as mine--_and_yours--" There Tetlow flushed guiltily--"is it ever noble?--whateverthat means. No, it's human--human. But I'm not trying to harm her. Igive you my word. . . . Will you help me--and her?"

Tetlow hesitated. His heavy cheeks quivered. "I don't trust you, " hecried violently--the violence of a man fighting against an enemy within. "Don't ever speak to me again. " And he rushed away through the rain, knocking umbrellas this way and that. 

About noon two days later, as Norman was making one of his excursionspast the Equitable elevators, he saw Bob Culver at the news stand. It sohappened that as he recognized Culver, Culver cast in the direction ofthe elevators the sort of look that betrays a man waiting for a woman. Unseen by Culver, Norman stopped short. Into his face blazed the fury ofsuspicion, jealousy, and hate--one of the cyclones of passion that swepthim from time to time and revealed to his own appalled self the fullintensity of his feeling, the full power of the demon that possessedhim. Culver was of those glossy, black men who are beloved of women. Hewas much handsomer than Norman, who, indeed, was not handsome at all, but was regarded as handsome because he had the air of greatdistinction. Many times these two young men had been pitted against eachother in legal battles. Every time Norman had won. Twice they hadcontended for the favor of the same lady. Each had scored once. But asCulver's victory was merely for a very light and empty-headed lady ofthe stage while he had won Josephine Burroughs away from Culver, thebalance was certainly not against him. 

As Norman slipped back and into the cross corridor to avoid meetingCulver, Dorothy Hallowell hurried from a just descended elevator and, with a quick, frightened glance toward Culver, in profile, almost rantoward Norman. It was evident that she had only one thought--to escapebeing seen by her new employer. When she realized that some one wasstanding before her and moved to one side to pass, she looked up. "Oh!"she gasped, starting back. And then she stood there white and shaking. 

"Is that beast Culver hounding you?" demanded Norman. 

She recovered herself quickly. With flashing eyes, she cried: "How dareyou! How dare you!"

Norman, possessed by his rage against Culver, paid no attention. "If hedon't let you alone, " he said, "I'll thrash him into a hospital for sixmonths. You must leave his office at once. You'll not go back there. "

"You must be crazy, " replied she, calm again. "I've no complaint to makeof the way I'm being treated. I never was so well off in my life. AndMr. Culver is very kind and polite. "

"You know what that means, " said Norman harshly. 

"Everyone isn't like you, " retorted she. 

He was examining her from head to foot, as if to make sure that it wasshe with no charm missing. He noted that she was much less poorlydressed than when she worked for his firm. In those days she oftenlooked dowdy, showed plainly the girl who has to make a hasty toilet ina small bedroom, with tiny wash-stand and looking-glass, in the early, coldest hours of a cold morning. Now she looked well taken care ofphysically, not so well, not anything like so well as the womenuptown--the ladies with nothing to do but make toilettes; still, unusually well looked after for a working girl. At first glance afterthose famished and ravening days of longing for her and seeking her, shebefore him in rather dim reality of the obvious office-girl, seemeddisappointing. It could not be that this insignificance was the cause ofall his fever and turmoil. He began to hope that he was recovering, thatthe cloud of insane desire was clearing from his sky. But a secondglance killed that hope. For, once more he saw her mystery, her beautiesthat revealed their perfection and splendor only to the observant. 

While he looked she was regaining her balance, as the fading color inher white skin and the subsidence of the excitement in her eyesevidenced. "Let me pass, please, " she said coldly--for, she was againstthe wall with him standing before her in such a way that she could notgo until he moved aside. 

"We'll lunch together, " he said. "I want to talk with you. Did thatwell-meaning ass--Tetlow--tell you?"

"There is nothing you can say that I wish to hear, " was her quiet reply. 

"Your eyes--the edges of the lids are red. You have been crying?"

She lifted her glance to his and he had the sense of a veil drawingaside to reveal a desolation. "For my father, " she said. 

His face flushed. He looked steadily at her. "Now that he is gone, youhave no one to protect you. I am----"

"I need no one, " said she with a faintly contemptuous smile. 

"You do need some one--and I am going to undertake it. "

Her face lighted up. He thought it was because of what he had said. Butshe immediately undeceived him. She said in a tone of delighted relief, "Here comes Mr. Tetlow. You must excuse me. "

"Dorothy--listen!" he cried. "We are going to be married at once. "

The words exploded dizzily in his ears. He assumed they would have a farmore powerful effect upon her. But her expression did not change. "No, "she said hastily. "I must go with Mr. Tetlow. " Tetlow was now at hand, his heavy face almost formidable in its dark ferocity. She said to him:"I was waiting for you. Come on"

Norman turned eagerly to his former friend. He said: "Tetlow, I havejust asked Miss Hallowell to be my wife. "

Tetlow stared. Then pain and despair seemed to flood and ravage hiswhole body. 

"I told you the other day, " Norman went on, "that I was ready to do thefair thing. I have just been saying to Miss Hallowell that she must havesome one to protect her. You agree with me, don't you?"

Tetlow, fumbling vaguely with his watch chain, gazed straight ahead. "Yes, " he said with an effort. "Yes, you are right, Norman. An office isno place for an attractive girl as young as she is. "

"Has Culver been annoying her?" inquired Norman. 

Tetlow started. "Ah--she's told you--has she? I rather hoped she hadn'tnoticed or understood. "

Both men now looked at the girl. She had shrunk into herself until shewas almost as dim and unimpressive, as cipher-like as when Norman firstbeheld her. Also she seemed at least five years less than her twenty. "Dorothy, " said Norman, "you will let me take care of you--won't you?"

"No, " she said--and the word carried all the quiet force she was somehowable to put into her short, direct answers. 

Tetlow's pasty sallowness took on a dark red tinge. He looked at her insurprise. "You don't understand, Miss Dorothy, " he said. "He wants tomarry you. "

"I understand perfectly, " replied she, with the far-away look in herblue eyes. "But I'll not marry him. I despise him. He frightens me. Hesickens me. "

Norman clinched his hands and the muscles of his jaw in the effort tocontrol himself. "Dorothy, " he said, "I've not acted as I should. Tetlowwill tell you that there is good excuse for me. I know you don'tunderstand about those things--about the ways of the world----"

"I understand perfectly, " she interrupted. "It's you that don'tunderstand. I never saw anyone so conceited. Haven't I told you I don'tlove you, and don't want anything to do with you?"

Tetlow, lover though he was--or perhaps because he was lover, of thehopeless kind that loves generously--could not refrain from protest. The girl was flinging away a dazzling future. It wasn't fair to her tolet her do it when if she appreciated she would be overwhelmed with joyand gratitude. "I believe you ought to listen to Norman, Miss Dorothy, "he said pleadingly. "At any rate, think it over--don't answer rightaway. He is making you an honorable proposal--one that's advantageous inevery way----"

Dorothy regarded him with innocent eyes, wide and wondering. "I didn'tthink you could talk like that, Mr. Tetlow!" she exclaimed. "You heardwhat I said to him--about the way I felt. How could I be his wife? Hetried everything else--and, now, though he's ashamed of it, he's tryingto get me by marriage. Oh, I understand. I wish I didn't. I'd not feelso low. " She looked at Norman. "Can't you realize _ever_ that I don't wantany of the grand things you're so crazy about--that I want somethingvery different--something you could never give me--or get for me?"

"Isn't there anything I can do, Dorothy, to make you forget andforgive?" he cried, like a boy, an infatuated boy. "For God's sake, Tetlow, help me! Tell her I'm not so rotten as she thinks. I'll beanything you like, my darling--_anything_--if only you'll take me. For Imust have you. You're the only thing in the world I care for--and, without you, I've no interest in life--none--none!"

He was so impassioned that passersby began to observe them curiously. Tetlow became uneasy. But Norman and Dorothy were unconscious of whatwas going on around them. The energy of his passion compelled her, though the passion itself was unwelcome. "I'm sorry, " she said gently. "Though you would have hurt me, if you could, I don't want to hurtyou. . . . I'm sorry. I can't love you. . . . I'm sorry. Come on, Mr. Tetlow. "

Norman stood aside. She and Tetlow went on out of the building. Heremained in the same place, oblivious of the crowd streaming by, eachman or woman with a glance at his vacant stare. 

XIV

Than Fred Norman no man ever had better reason to feel securelyentrenched upon the heights of success. It was no silly vaunt ofoptimism for him to tell Lockyer that only loss of life or loss of mindcould dislodge him. And a few days after Dorothy had extinguished thelast spark of hope he got ready to pull himself together and show theworld that it was indulging too soon in its hypocritical headshakingsover his ruin. 

"I am going to open an office of my own at once, " he said to his sister. 

She did not wish to discourage him, but she could not altogether keepher thoughts from her face. She had, in a general way, a clear idea ofthe complete system of tollgates, duly equipped with strong barriers, which the mighty few have established across practically all thehighroads to material success. Also, she felt in her brother's mannerand tone a certain profound discouragement, a lack of the unconquerablespirit which had carried him so far so speedily. It is not a baselessnotion that the man who has never been beaten is often destroyed by hisfirst reverse. Ursula feared the spell of success had been broken forhim. 

"You mean, " she suggested, with apparent carelessness, "that you willgive up your forty thousand a year?"

He made a disdainful gesture. "I can make more than that, " said he. "It's a second rate lawyer who can't in this day. "

"Of course you can, " replied she tactfully. "But why not take a restfirst? Then there's old Burroughs--on the war path. Wouldn't it be wiseto wait till he calms down?"

"If Burroughs or any other man is necessary to me, " rejoined Fred, "thesooner I find it out the better. I ought to know just where I--Imyself--stand. "

"No one is necessary to you but yourself, " said Ursula, proudly andsincerely. "But, Fred--Are you yourself just now?"

"No, I'm not, " admitted he. "But the way to become so again isn't bywaiting but by working. " An expression of sheer wretchedness came intohis listless, heavy eyes. "Urse, I've got to conquer my weakness now, orgo under. "

She was eager to hold on to the secure forty thousand a year--for hissake no less than for her own. She argued with him with all theadroitness of a mind as good in its way as his own. But she could notshake his resolution. And she in prudence, desisted when he saidbitterly: "I see you've lost confidence in me. Well, I don't blameyou. . . . So have I. " Then after a moment, violently rather than strongly:"But I've got to get it back. If I don't I'm only putting off thesmash--a complete smash. "

"I don't see quite how it's to be arranged, " said she, red andhesitating. For, she feared he would think her altogether selfish in heranxiety. He certainly would have been justified in so thinking; he knewhow rarely generosity survived in the woman who leads the soft and idlelife. 

"How long can we keep on as we're living now--if there's nothing, orlittle, coming in?"

"I don't know, " confessed she. She was as poor at finance as he, and hadcertainly not been improved by his habit of giving her whatever shehappened to think was necessary. "I can't say. Perhaps a few months--Idon't know--Not long, I'm afraid. "

"Six months?"

"Oh, no. You see--the fact is--I've been rather careless about thebills. You're so generous, Fred--and one is so busy in New York. Iguess we owe a good deal--here and there and yonder. And--the last fewdays some of the tradespeople have been pressing for payment. "

"You see!" exclaimed he. "The report is going round that I'm ruined anddone for. I've simply got to make good. If you can't keep up a front, shut up the house and go abroad. You can stay till I've got my foot backon its neck. "

She believed in him, at bottom. She could not conceive how appearancesand her forebodings could be true. Such strength as his could not beoverwhelmed thus suddenly. And by so slight a thing!--by an unsatisfiedpassion for a woman, and an insignificant woman, at that. For, like allwomen, like all the world for that matter, she measured a passion by thewoman who was the object of it, instead of by the man who fabricated it. "Yes--I'll go abroad, " said she, hopefully. 

"Quietly arrange for a long stay, " he advised. "I _hope_ it won't be long. But I never plan on hope. "

Thus, with his sister and Fitzhugh out of the way and the heaviest ofhis burdens of expense greatly lightened, he set about rehabitatinghimself. He took an office, waited for clients. And clientscame--excellent clients. Came and precipitately left him. 

There were two reasons for it. The first--the one most often heard--wasthe story going round that he had been, and probably still was, out ofhis mind. No deadlier or crueler weapon can be used against a man thanthat same charge as to his sanity. It has been known to destroy, orseriously maim, brilliant and able men with no trace of any of theuntrustworthy kinds of insanity. Where the man's own conduct gives colorto the report, the attack is usually mortal. And Norman had acted thecrazy man. The second reason was the hostility of Burroughs, reinforcedby all the hatreds and jealousies Norman's not too respectful way ofdealing with his fellow men had been creating through fifteen years. 

The worst moment in the life of a man who has always proudly regardedhimself as above any need whatever from his fellow men is when hediscovers all in a flash, that the timid animal he spurned as it fawnedhas him upon his back, has its teeth and claws at his helpless throat. 

For four months he stood out against the isolation, the suspicion as tohis sanity, the patronizing pity of men who but a little while beforehad felt honored when he spoke to them. For four months he gave battleto unseen and silent foes compassing him on every side. He had no spiritfor the fight; his love of Dorothy Hallowell and his complete rout therehad taken the spirit out of him--and with it had gone that confidence inhimself and in his luck which had won him so many critical battles. Then--He had been keeping up a large suite of offices, a staff ofclerks and stenographers and all the paraphernalia of the great andsuccessful lawyer. He had been spreading out the little business he gotin a not unsuccessful effort to make it appear big and growing. He nowgave up these offices and the costly pride, pomp and circumstance--leftwith several thousand dollars owing. He took two small rooms in abuilding tenanted by beginners and cheap shysters. He continued to liveat his club, where even the servants were subtly insolent to him; hecould see the time approaching when he might have to let himself bedropped for failing to pay dues and bills. 

He stared at his ruin in stupid and dazed amazement. Usually, to hear orto read about such a catastrophe as this is to get a vague, ratherimpressive notion of something picturesque and romantic. Ruined, likeall the big fateful words, has a dignified sound. But the historians andnovelists and poets and other keepers of human records have a pleasant, but not very honest way, of omitting practically all the essentials fromtheir records and substituting glittering imaginings that delight thereader--and wofully mislead him as to the truth about life. What wonderthat we learn slowly--and improve slowly. How wofully we have been, andare, misled by all upon whom we have relied as teachers. 

Already one of these charming tales of majestic downfall was in processof manufacture, with Frederick Norman as the central figure. It was onlyawaiting his suicide or some other mode of complete submergence for itsfinal glose of glamor. In this manufacture, the truth, as usual, hadbeen almost omitted; such truth as was retained for this artisticversion of a human happening was so perverted that it was falser thanthe simon pure fictions with which it was interwoven. Just as theliteral truth about his success was far from being altogether to hiscredit, so the literal truth as to his fall gave him little of thevesture of the hero, and that little ill fitting, to cover his nakedhumanness. Let him who has risen to material success altogether bymethods approved by the idealists, let him who has fallen from on highwith graceful majesty, without hysterical clutchings and desperateattempts at self-salvation in disregard of the safety of others--leteither of these superhuman beings come forward with the first stone forNorman. 

Those at some distance from the falling man could afford to be romanticand piteous over his fate. Those in his dangerous neighborhood were toobusy getting out of the way. "Man falling--stand from under!" was thecry--how familiar it is!--and acquaintances and friends fled in madskedaddle. He would surely be asking favors--would be trying to borrowmoney. It is no peculiarity of rats to desert a sinking ship; it issimply an inevitable precaution in a social system modeled as yet uponnature's cruel law of the survival of the fittest. A falling man isfirst of all a warning to all other men high enough up to be able tofall--a warning to them to take care lest they fall also where footingis so insecure and precipices and steeps beset every path. 

Norman, falling, falling, gazed round him and up and down, in dazedwonder. He had seen many others fall. He had seen just where and justwhy they missed their footing. And he had been confident that with himno such misstep was possible. He could not believe; a little while, andluck would turn, and up he would go again--higher than before. Many alawyer--to look no farther than his own profession--had throughrecklessness or pride or inadvertence got the big men down on him. Butafter a time they had relented or had found an exact use for him; andfall had been succeeded by rise. Was there a single instance where a manof good brain had been permanently downed? No, not one. Stay--Some ofthese unfortunates had failed to reappear on the heights of success. Yes, thinking of the matter, he recalled several such. Had he beenaltogether right in assuming, in his days of confidence and success, that they stayed down because they belonged down? Perhaps he had judgedthem harshly? Yes, he was sure he had judged them harshly. There wassuch a thing as breaking a proud spirit--and he found within himselfapparent proof that precisely this calamity had befallen him. 

There came a time--and it came soon--when he had about exhausted hisdesperate ingenuity at cornering acquaintances and former friends and"sticking them up" for loans of five hundred, a hundred, fifty, twenty-five--Because these vulgar and repulsive facts are not found inthe usual records of the men who have dropped and come up again, do notimagine that only the hopeless and never-reappearing failures passthrough such experiences. On the contrary, they are part of the commonhuman lot, and few indeed are the men who have not had them--andworse--if they could but be brought to tell the truth. Destiny rarelypermits any one of us to go from cradle to grave without doing many athing shameful and universally condemned. How could it be otherwiseunder our social system? When Norman was about at the end of all hisresources Tetlow called on him--Tetlow, now a partner in the Lockyerfirm. 

He came with an air of stealth. "I don't want anyone to know I'm doingthis, " said he frankly. "If it got out, I'd be damaged and you'd notprofit. "

Rarely does anyone, however unworthy--and Fred Norman was far fromunworthy, as we humans go--rarely does anyone find himself absolutelywithout a friend. There is a saying that no man ever sunk so low, everbecame so vile and squalid in soul and body, but that if he were dying, and the fact were noised throughout the world, some woman somewherewould come--perhaps from a sense of duty, perhaps from love, perhaps forthe sake of a moment of happiness long past but never equaled, and sonever forgotten--but from whatever motive, she would come. In the samemanner, anyone in dire straits can be sure of some friend. There wereseveral others whom Norman had been expecting--men he had saved by hislegal ingenuity at turning points in their careers. None of these was soimprudent as uselessly to involve himself. It was Tetlow whocame--Tetlow, with whom his accounts were more than balanced, with thebalance against him. Tetlow, whom he did not expect. 

Norman did not welcome him effusively. He said at once: "How is--she?"

Tetlow shifted uneasily. "I don't know. She's not with us. I gave her aplace there--to get her away from Culver. But she didn't stay long. Nodoubt she's doing well. "

"I thought you cared about her, " said Norman, who in estimating Tetlow'spassion had measured it by his own, had neglected to consider that thedesires of most men soon grow short of breath and weary of leg. 

"Yes--so I did care for her, " said Tetlow, in the voice of a man who hasbeen ill but is now well. "But that's all over. Women aren't worthbothering about much. They're largely vanity. The way they soon take aman for granted if he's at all kind to them discourages any but thepoorest sort of fool. At least that's my opinion. "

"Then you don't come from her?" said Norman with complete loss ofinterest in his caller. 

"No. I've come--Fred, I hear you're in difficulties. "

Norman's now deep-set eyes gleamed humorously in his haggard andfailed-looking face. "_In_ difficulties? Not at all. I'm _under_them--drowned forty fathoms deep. "

"Then you'll not resent my coming straight to the point and asking if Ican help you?"

"That's a rash offer, Tetlow. I never suspected rashness was one of yourqualities. "

"I don't mean to offer you a loan or anything of that sort, " pursuedTetlow. "There's only one thing that can help a man in your position. Hemust either be saved outright or left to drown. I've come with somethingthat may save you. "

There was so much of the incongruous in a situation where _he_ waslistening to an offer of salvation from such a man as Billy Tetlow thatNorman smiled. 

"Well, what is it?" he said. 

"There's a chance that within six months or so--perhapssooner--Burroughs and Galloway may end their truce and declare war oneach other. If so, Galloway will win. Anyhow, the Galloway connectionwould be better than the Burroughs connection. "

Norman looked at Tetlow shrewdly. "How do you know this?" he asked. 

Tetlow's eyes shifted. "Can't tell you. But I know. "

"Galloway hates me. "

Tetlow nodded. "You were the one who forced him into a position where hehad to make peace with Burroughs. But Galloway's a big man, big enoughto admire ability wherever he sees it. He has admired you ever since. "

"And has given his business to another firm. "

"But if the break comes he'll need you. And he's the sort of man whodoesn't hesitate to take what he needs. "

"Too remote, " said Norman, and his despondent gesture showed how quicklyhope had lighted up. "Besides, Billy, I've lost my nerve. I'm no good. "

"But you've gotten over that--that attack of insanity. "

Norman shook his head. 

"I can't understand it, " ejaculated Tetlow. 

"Of course you can't, " said Norman. "But--there it is. "

"You haven't seen her lately?"

"Not since that day . .. Billy, she hasn't--" Norman stopped, andTetlow saw that his hands were trembling with agitation, and marveled. 

"Oh, no, " replied Tetlow. "So far as I know, she's still respectable. But--why don't you go to see her? I think you'd be cured. "

"Why do you say that?" demanded Norman, the veins in his foreheadbulging with the fury he was ready to release. 

"For no especial reason--on my honor, Fred, " replied Tetlow. "Simplybecause time works wonders in all sorts of ways, including infatuations. Also--well, the fact is, it didn't seem to me that young lady improvedon acquaintance. Maybe I got tired, or piqued--I don't know. If shehadn't been a silly little fool, would she have refused you? I know itsounds well--in a novel or a play--for a poor girl to refuse a goodoffer, just from sentiment. But, all the same, only a fool girl doesit--in life--eh? But go to see her. You'll understand what I mean, Ithink. I want you to brace up. That may help. "

"What's she doing?"

"I don't know. I'll send you her address. I can get it. AboutGalloway--If that break comes, I propose that we get his business--youand I. I want you for a partner. I always did. I think I know how to getwork out of you. I understand you better, than anyone else. That's whyI'm here. "

"It's useless, " said Norman. 

"I'm willing to take the risk. Now, here's what I propose. I'll stakeyou to the extent of a thousand dollars a month for the next six months, you to keep on as you are and not to tie yourself up to any otherlawyer, or to any client likely to hamper us if we get the Gallowaybusiness. "

"I've been borrowing right and left----"

"I know about that, " interrupted Tetlow. "I'm not interested. If you'llagree to my proposal, I'll take my chances. "

"You are throwing away six thousand dollars. "

"I owe you a position where I make five times that much. "

Norman shrugged his shoulders. "Very well. Can I have five hundred atonce?"

"I'll send you a check to-day. I'll send two checks a month--the firstand the fifteenth. "

"I am drinking a great deal. "

"You always did. "

"Not until recently. I never knew what drinking meant until these lastfew months. "

"Well, do as you like with the money. Drink it all, if you please. I'mmaking no conditions beyond the two I stated. "

"You will send me that address?"

"In the letter with the check. "

"Will she see me, do you think?"

"I haven't an idea, " replied Tetlow. 

"What's the mystery?" asked Norman. "Why do you speak of her soindifferently?"

"It's the way I feel. " Then, in answer to the unspoken suspicion oncemore appearing in Norman's eyes, he added: "She's a very nice, sweetgirl, Norman--so far as I know or believe. Beyond that--Go to seeher. "

It had been many a week since Norman had heard a friendly voice. Thevery sound of the human voice had become hateful to him, because he wasconstantly detecting the note of nervousness, the scarcely concealedfear of being entangled in his misfortunes. As Tetlow rose to go, Normantried to detain him. The sound of an unconstrained voice, the sight of abelieving face that did not express one or more of the shadings ofcontempt between pity and aversion--the sight and sound of this friendTetlow was acting upon him like one of those secret, unexpected, powerful tonics which nature at times suddenly injects into a dying manto confound the doctors and cheat death. 

"Tetlow, " said he, "I'm down--probably down for good. But if I ever getup again, I'll not make one mistake--the one that cost me this fall. Doyou know what that mistake was?"

"I suppose you mean Miss Hallowell?"

"No, " said Norman, to his surprise. "I mean my lack of money, ofcapital, of a large and secure income. I used to imagine that brainswere the best, the only sure asset. I was guilty of the stupidity ofovervaluing my own possessions. "

"Brains are a mighty good asset, Fred. "

"Yes--and necessary. But a man of action must have under his brainsanother asset--_must_ have it, Billy. The one secure asset is a bigcapital. Money rules this world. Some men have been lucky enough to riseand stay risen, without money. But not a man of all the men who havebeen knocked out could have been dislodged if he had been armed andarmored with money. My prodigality was my fatal mistake. I shan't makeit again--if I get the chance. You don't know, Tetlow, how hard it is toget money when you are tumbling and must have it. I never dreamed what afactor it is in calamities of _every_ sort. It's _the_ factor. "

"I don't like to hear you talk that way, Norman, " said Tetlow earnestly. "I've always most admired in you the fact that you weren't mercenary. "

"And I never shall be, " said Norman, with the patient smile of a swift, keen mind at one that is slow and hard to make understand. "It isn't mynature. But, if I'm resurrected, I'll seem to be mercenary until I get afull suit of the only armor that's invulnerable in this world. Why, Ibuilt my fort like a fool. It was impregnable except for one thing--oneobvious thing. It hadn't a supply of water. If I build again it'll beround a spring--an income big enough for my needs and beyond anybody'spower to cut off. "

Tetlow showed that he was much cheered by Norman's revived interest inlife. But he went away uneasy; for the last thing Norman said to himwas:

"Don't forget that address!"

XV

But it chanced that Norman met her in the street about an hour afterTetlow's call. 

He was on the way to lunch at the Lawyer's Club--one of those apparentluxuries that are the dire and pitiful necessities of men in New Yorkfighting to maintain the semblance and the reputation of prosperity. Itmust not be imagined by those who are here let into Norman's inmostsecrets that his appearance betrayed the depth to which he had fallen. At least to the casual eye he seemed the same rich and powerfulpersonage. An expert might have got at a good part of the truth from hissomber eyes and haggard face, from the subtle transformation of theformer look of serene pride into the bravado of pretense. And as, in ageneral way, the facts of his fall were known far and wide, all hisacquaintances understood that his seeming of undiminished success wassimply the familiar "bluff. " Its advantage to him with them lay in itsraising a doubt as to just what degree of disaster it hid--no smalladvantage. Nor was this "bluff" altogether for the benefit of theoutside world. It made his fall less hideously intolerable to himself. In the bottom of his heart he knew that when drink and no money shouldfinally force him to release his relaxing hold upon his fashionableclubs, upon luxurious attire and habits, he would suddenly and withaccelerated speed drop into the abyss--We have all caught glimpses ofthat abyss--frayed fine linen cheaply laundered, a tie of one timesmartness showing signs of too long wear, a suit from the best kind oftailor with shiny spot glistening here, patch peeping there, a queerunkemptness about the hair and skin--these the beginnings of a road thatleads straight and short to the barrel-house, the park bench, and thepolice station. Because, when a man strikes into that stretch of theroad to perdition, he ceases to be one of our friends, passes from viewentirely, we have the habit of _saying_ that such things rarely if everhappen. But we _know_ better. Many's the man now high who has had the sortof drop Norman was taking. We remember when he was making a bluff suchas Norman was making in those days; but we think now that we weremistaken in having suspected it of being bluff. 

Norman, dressed with more than ordinary care--how sensitive a manbecomes about those things when there is neither rustle nor jingle inhis pockets, and his smallest check would be returned with the big blackstamp "No Funds"--Norman, groomed to the last button, was in Broadwaynear Rector Street. Ahead of him he saw the figure of a girl--a trim, attractive figure, slim and charmingly long of line. A second glance, and he recognized her. What was the change that had prevented hisrecognizing her at once? He had not seen that particular lightish-bluedress before--nor the coquettish harmonizing hat. But that was not thereason. No, it was the coquetry in her toilet--the effort of the girlto draw attention to her charms by such small devices as are within thereach of extremely modest means. He did not like this change. Itoffended his taste; it alarmed his jealousy. 

He quickened his step, and when almost at her side spoke her name--"MissHallowell. "

She stopped, turned. As soon as she recognized him there came into herquiet, lovely face a delightful smile. He could not conceal hisamazement. She was glad to see him! Instantly, following the invariablehabit of an experienced analytical mind, he wondered for whatunflattering reason this young woman who did not like him was no longershowing it, was seeming more than a little pleased to see him. "Why, howd'ye do, Mr. Norman?" said she. And her friendliness and assurance ofmanner jarred upon him. There was not a suggestion of forwardness; buthe, used to her old-time extreme reserve, felt precisely as if she werebold and gaudy, after the fashion of so many of the working girls whowere popular with the men. 

This unfavorable impression disappeared--or, rather, retired to thebackground--even as it became definite. And once more he was seeing thecharms of physical loveliness, of physical--and moral, andmental--mystery that had a weird power over him. As they shook hands, aquiver shot through him as at the shock of a terrific stimulant; and hestood there longing to take her in his arms, to feel the delicate yetperfect and vividly vital life of that fascinating form--longing to kissthat sensitive, slightly pouted rosy mouth, to try to make those cleareyes grow soft and dreamy----

She was saying: "I've been wondering what had become of you. "

"I saw Tetlow, " he said. "He promised to send me your address. "

At Tetlow's name she frowned slightly; then a gleam of ridicule flittedinto her eyes. "Oh, that silly, squeamish old maid! How sick I got ofhim!"

Norman winced, and his jealousy stirred. "Why?" he asked. 

"Always warning me against everybody. Always giving me advice. It wastoo tiresome. And at last he began to criticize me--the way Idressed--the way I talked--said I was getting too free in my manner. Theimpudence of him!"

Norman tried to smile. 

"He'd have liked me to stay a silly little mouse forever. "

"So you've been--blossoming out?" said Norman. 

"In a quiet way, " replied she, with a smile of self-content, so lovelyas a smile that no one would have minded its frank egotism. "There isn'tmuch chance for fun--unless a girl goes too far. But at the same time Idon't intend life to be Sunday when it isn't work. I got very cross withhim--Mr. Tetlow, I mean. And I took another position. It didn't payquite so well--only fifteen a week. But I couldn't stand beingwatched--and guyed by all the other girls and boys for it. "

"Where are you working?"

"With an old lawyer named Branscombe. It's awful slow, as I'm the onlyone, and he's old and does everything in an old-fashioned way. But thehours are easy, and I don't have to get down till nine--which is nicewhen you've been out at a dance the night before. "

Norman kept his eyes down to hide from her the legion of devils ofjealousy. "You _have_ changed, " he said. 

"I'm growing up, " replied she with a charming toss of her smallhead--what beautiful effects the sunlight made in among those wavystrands and strays!

"And you're as lovely as ever--lovelier, " he said--and his eyes werethe eyes of the slave she had spurned. 

She did not spurn him now--and it inflamed his jealousy that she didnot. She said: "Oh, what's the good of looks? The town's full of prettygirls. And so many of them have money--which I haven't. To make a hit inNew York a girl's got to have both looks and dress. But I must be going. I've an engagement to lunch--" She gave a proud little smile--"at theAstor House. It's nice upstairs there. "

"With Bob Culver?"

She laughed. "I haven't seen him since I left his office. You know, Mr. Tetlow took me with him--back to your old firm. I didn't like Mr. Culver. I don't care for those black men. They are bad-tempered andtwo-faced. Anyhow, I'd not have anything to do with a man who wanted toslip round with me as if he were ashamed of me. "

She was looking at Norman pleasantly enough. He wasn't sure that the hitwas for him as well as for Culver, but he flushed deeply. "Will youlunch with me at the Astor House at one to-morrow?"

"I've got an engagement, " said she. "And I must be going. I'm awfullylate. " He had an instinct that her engagement on both days was with thesame man. "I'm glad to have seen you----"

"Won't you let me call on you?" he said imploringly, but with thesuggestion that he had no hope of being permitted to come. 

"Certainly, " responded she with friendly promptness. She opened theshopping bag swinging on her arm. "Here is one of my cards. "

"When? This evening?"

Her laugh showed the beautiful deep pink and dazzling white behind herlips. "No--I'm going to a party. "

"Let me take you. "

She shook her head. "You wouldn't like it. Only young people. "

"But I'm not so old. "

She looked at him critically. "No--you're not. It always puzzled me. Youaren't old--you look like a boy lots of the time. But you always _seem_old to me. "

"I'll try to do better. To-night?"

"Not to-night, " laughed she. "Let's see--to-morrow's Sunday. Cometo-morrow--about half past two. "

"Thank you, " he said so gratefully that he cursed himself for his follyas he heard his voice--the idiotic folly of so plainly betraying hisfeelings. No wonder she despised him! Beginning again--and beginning;wrong. 

"Good-by. " Her eyes, her smile flashed and he was alone, watching herslender grace glide through the throngs of lower Broadway. 

At his office again at three, he found a note from Tetlow inclosinganother of Dorothy's cards and also the promised check. Into his facecame the look that always comes into the faces of the prisoners ofdespair when the bolts slide back and the heavy door swings and hopestands on the threshold instead of the familiar grim figure of thejailer. "This looks like the turn of the road, " he muttered. Yes, a turnit certainly was--but was it _the_ turn? "I'll know more as to that, " saidhe with a glance at the clock, "about this time to-morrow. "

 * * * * *

It was a boarding house on the west side. And when the slovenly, smellymaid said, "Go right up to her room, " he knew it was--probablyrespectable, but not rigidly respectable. However, working girls mustreceive, and they cannot afford parlors and chaperons. Still--It was noplace for a lovely young girl, full of charm and of love of life--andnot brought up in the class where the women are trained from babyhood toprotect themselves. 

He ascended two flights, knocked at the door to the rear. "Come!" calleda voice, and he entered. It was a small neat room, arranged comfortablyand with some taste. He recognized at first glance many little thingsfrom her room in the Jersey City house--things he had provided for her. On the chimney piece was a large photograph of her father--Norman's eyeshastily shifted from that. The bed was folded away into a couch--forspace and for respectability. At first he did not see her. But when headvanced a step farther, she was disclosed in the doorway of a deepcloset that contained a stationary washstand. 

He had never seen her when she was not fully dressed. He was now seeingher in a kind of wrapper--of pale blue, clean but not fresh. It wasopen at the throat; its sleeves fell away from her arms. And, to cap theclimax of his agitation, her hair, her wonderful hair, was flowingloosely about her face and shoulders. 

"What's the matter with you?" she cried laughingly. Her eyes sparkledand danced; the waves of her hair, each hair standing out as if it werealive, sparkled and danced. It was a smile never to be forgotten. "Whyare you so embarrassed?"

He was embarrassed. He was thrilled. He was enraged--enraged because, ifshe would thus receive him whom she did not like, she would certainlythus receive any man. 

"I don't mind you, " she went on, mockingly. "I'd have to be careful ifit was one of the boys. "

"Do you receive the--boys--here?" demanded he glumly, his voice arrogantwith the possessive rights a man feels when he cares for a woman, whether she cares for him or not. 

"Why not?" scoffed she. "Where else would I see them? I don't makestreet corner dates, thank you. You're as bad as fat, foolish Mr. Tetlow. "

"I beg your pardon, " said he humbly. 

She straightway relented, saying: "Of course I'd not let one of the boyscome up when I was dressed like this. But I didn't mind _you_. " He wincedat this amiable, unconscious reminder of her always exasperating andtantalizing and humiliating indifference to him--"And as I'm going to agrand dance to-night I simply had to wash my hair. Does that satisfyyou, Mr. Primmey?"

He hid the torment of his reopened wound and seated himself at thecenter table. She returned to a chair in the window where the full forceof the afternoon sun would concentrate upon her hair. And he gazed spellbound. He had always known that her hair was fine. He had never dreamedit was like this. It was thick, it was fine and soft. In color, as thesunbeams streamed upon it, it was all the shades of gold and all theother beautiful shades between brown and red. It fell about her face, about her neck, about her shoulders in a gorgeous veil. And her purewhite skin--It was an even more wonderful white below the line of hercollar--where he had never seen it before. Such exquisitely modeledears--such a delicate nose--and the curve of her cheeks--and the gloryof her eyes! He clinched his teeth and his hands, sat dumb with his gazedown. 

"How do you like my room?" she chattered on. "It's not so bad--reallyquite comfortable--though I'm afraid I'll be cold when the weatherchanges. But it's the best I can do. As it is, I don't see how I'm goingto make ends meet. I pay twelve of my fifteen for this room and twomeals. The rest goes for lunch and car fare. As soon as I have to getclothes--" She broke off, laughing. 

"Well, " he said, "what then?"

"I'm sure I don't know, " replied she carelessly. "Perhaps old Mr. Branscombe'll give me a raise. Still, eighteen or twenty is the most Icould hope for--and that wouldn't mean enough for clothes. "

She shook her head vigorously and her hair stood out yet more vividlyand the sunbeams seemed to go mad with joy as they danced over and underand through it. He had ventured to glance up; again he hastily lookeddown. 

"You spoiled me, " she went on. "Those few months over there in JerseyCity. It made _such_ a change in me, though I didn't realize it at thetime. You see, I hadn't known since I was a tiny little girl what it wasto live really decently, and so I was able to get along quitecontentedly. I didn't know any better. " She made a wry face. "How Iloathe the canned and cold storage stuff I have to eat nowadays. And howI do miss the beautiful room I had in that big house over there! and howI miss Molly and Pat--and the garden--and doing as I pleased--and theclothes I had: I thought I was being careful and not spoiling myself. You may not believe it, but I was really conscientious about spendingmoney. " She laughed in a queer, absent way. "I had such a funny idea ofwhat I had a right to do and what I hadn't. And I didn't spend so verymuch on out-and-out luxury. But--enough to spoil me for this life. "

As Norman listened, as he noted--in her appearance, manner, way oftalking--the many meaning signs of the girl hesitating at the fork ofthe roads--he felt within him the twinges of fear, of jealousy--andthrough fear and jealousy, the twinges of conscience. She was tellingthe truth. He had undermined her ability to live in purity the life towhich her earning power assigned her. . . . _Why_ had she been so friendlyto him? Why had she received him in this informal, almost if not quiteinviting fashion?

"So you think I've changed?" she was saying. "Well--I have. Gracious, what a little fool I was!"

His eyes lifted with an agonized question in them. 

She flushed, glanced away, glanced at him again with the old, sweetexpression of childlike innocence which had so often made him wonderwhether it was merely a mannerism, or was a trick, or was indeed a beamfrom a pure soul. "I'm foolish still--in certain ways, " she saidsignificantly. 

"And you always intend to be?" suggested he with a forced smile. 

"Oh--yes, " replied she--positively enough, yet it somehow had not thefull force of her simple short statements in the former days. 

He believed her. Perhaps because he wished to believe, must believe, would have been driven quite mad by disbelief. Still, he believed. Asyet she was good. But it would not last much longer. With him--or withsome other. If with him, then certainly afterward with another--withothers. No matter how jealously he might guard her, she would go thatroad, if once she entered it. If he would have her for his very own hemust strengthen her, not weaken her, must keep her "foolish still--incertain ways. "

He said: "There's nothing in the other sort of life. "

"That's what they say, " replied she, with ominous irritation. "Still--some girls--_lots_ of girls seem to get on mighty well withoutbeing so terribly particular. "

"You ought to see them after a few years. "

"I'm only twenty-one, " laughed she. "I've got lots of time before I'mold. . . . You haven't--married?"

"No, " said he. 

"I thought I'd have heard, if you had. " She laughed queerly--again shookout her hair, and it shimmered round her face and over her head and outfrom her shoulders like flames. "You've got a kind of a--Mr. Tetlow wayof talking. It doesn't remind me of you as you were in Jersey City. "

She said nothing, she suggested nothing that had the least improprietyin it, or faintest hint of impropriety. It was nothing positive, nothingaggressive, but a certain vague negative something that gave him theimpression of innocence still innocent but looking or trying to looktolerantly where it should not. And he felt dizzy and sick, strickenwith shame and remorse and jealous fear. Yes--she was sliding slowly, gently, unconsciously down to the depth in which he had been lying, sickand shuddering--no, to deeper depths--to the depths where there is nolight, no trace of a return path. And he had started her down. He haddone it when he, in his pride and selfishness, had ignored what thesuccess of his project would mean for her. But he knew now; inbitterness and shame and degradation he had learned. "I was infamous!"he said to himself. 

She began to talk in a low, embarrassed voice:

"Sometimes I think of getting married. There's a young man--a younglawyer--he makes twenty-five a week, but it'll be years and years beforehe has a good living. A man doesn't get on fast in New York unless hehas pull. "

Norman, roused from his remorse, blazed inside. "You are in love withhim?"

She laughed, and he could not tell whether it was to tease him or toevade. 

"You'd not care about him long, " said Norman, "unless there were moremoney coming in than he'd be likely to get soon. Love without moneydoesn't go--at least, not in New York. "

"Do you suppose I don't know that?" said she with the irritation of onefaced by a hateful fact. "Still--I don't see what to do. "

Norman, biting his lip and fuming and observing her with jealous eyes, said in the best voice he could command, "How long have you been in lovewith him?"

"Did I say I was in love?" mocked she. 

"You didn't say you weren't. Who is he?"

"If you'll stay on about half an hour or so, you'll see him. No--youcan't. I've got to get dressed before I let him up. He has very strictideas--where I'm concerned. "

"Then why did you let _me_ come up?" Norman said, with a penetratingglance. 

She lowered her gaze and a faint flush stole into her cheeks. Was itconfession of the purpose he suspected? Or, was it merely embarrassment?

"I heard of a case once, " continued Norman, his gaze significantlydirect, "the case of a girl who was in love with a poor young fellow. She wanted money--luxury. Also, she wanted the poor young fellow. "

The color flamed into the girl's face, then left it pale. Her whitefingers fluttered with nervous grace into her masses of hair and back toher lap again, to rest there in timid quiet. 

"She knew another man, " pursued Norman, "one who was able to give herwhat she wanted in the way of comfort. So, she decided to make anarrangement with the man, and keep it hidden from her lover--and in thatway get along pleasantly until her lover was in better circumstances . "

Her gaze was upon her hands, listless in her lap. He felt that he hadspoken her unspoken, probably unformed thoughts. Yes, unformed. Men andwomen, especially women, habitually pursued these unacknowledgedand--even unformed purposes, in their conflicts of the desire to getwhat they wanted and their desire to appear well to themselves. 

"What would you think of an arrangement like that?" asked he, determinedto draw her secret heart into the open where he could see, where shecould see. 

She lifted frank, guileless eyes to his. "I suppose the girl was tryingto do the best she could. "

"What do you think of a girl who'd do that?"

"I don't judge anybody--any more. I've found out that this world isn'tat all as I thought--as I was taught. "

"Would _you_ do it?"

She smiled faintly. "No, " she replied uncertainly. Then she restored hiswavering belief in her essential honesty and truthfulness by adding:"That is to say, I don't think I would. "

She busied herself with her hair, feeling it to see whether it was notyet dry, spreading it out. He looked at her unseeingly. At last shesaid: "You must go. I've got to get dressed. "

"Yes--I must be going, " said he absently, rising and reaching for hishat on the center table. 

She stood up, put out her hand. "I'm glad you came. "

"Thank you, " said he, still in the same abstraction. He shook hands withher, moved hesitatingly toward the door. With his hand on the knob heturned and glanced keenly at her. He surprised in her face a look ofmystery--of seriousness, of sadness--was there anxiety in it, also? Andthen he saw a certain elusive reminder of her father--and it brought tohim with curious force the memory of how she had been brought up, ofwhat must be hers by inheritance and by training--she, the daughter of agreat and simple and noble man----

"You'll come again?" she said, and there was the note in her voice thatmade his nerves grow tense and vibrate. 

But he seemed not to have heard her question. Still at the unopeneddoor, he folded his arms upon his chest and said, speaking rapidly yetwith the deliberation of one who has thought out his words in advance:

"I don't know what kind of girl you are. I never have known. I've neverwanted to know. If you told me you were--what is called good, I'd doubtit. If you told me you weren't, I'd want to kill you and myself. Theysay there's a fatal woman for every man and a fatal man for every woman. I always laughed at the idea--until you. I don't know what to make ofmyself. "

She suddenly laid her finger on her lips. It irritated him, to discoverthat, as he talked, speaking the things that came from the very depthsof his soul, she had been giving him only part of her attention, hadbeen listening for a step on the stairs. He was hearing the ascendingstep now. He frowned. "Can't you send him away?" he asked. 

"I must, " said she in a low tone. "It wouldn't do for him to know youwere here. He has strict ideas--and is terribly jealous. "

A few seconds of silence, then a knock on the other side of the door. 

"Who's there?" she called. 

"I'm a little early, " came in an agreeable, young man's voice. "Aren'tyou ready?"

"Not nearly, " replied she, in a laughing, innocent voice. "You'll haveto go away for half an hour. "

"I'll wait out here on the steps. "

Her eyes were sparkling. A delicate color had mounted to her skin. Norman, watching her jealously, clinched his strong jaws. She said:"No--you must go clear away. I don't want to feel that I'm beinghurried. Don't come back until a quarter past four. "

"All right. I'm crazy to see you. " This in the voice of a lover. Shesmiled radiantly at Norman, as if she thought he would share in herhappiness at these evidences of her being well loved. The unseen youngman said: "Exactly a quarter past. What time does your clock say it isnow?"

"A quarter to, " replied she. 

"That's what my watch says. So there'll be no mistake. For half anhour--good-by!"

"Half an hour!" she called. 

She and Norman stood in silence until the footsteps died away. Then shesaid crossly to Norman: "You ought to have gone before. I don't like todo these things. "

"You do them well, " said he, with a savage gleam. 

She was prompt and sure with his punishment. She said, simply andsweetly: "I'd do anything to keep _his_ good opinion of me. "

Norman felt and looked cowed. "You don't know how it makes me suffer tosee you fond of another man, " he cried. 

She seemed not in the least interested, went to the mirror of the bureauand began to inspect her hair with a view to doing it up. "You can go infive minutes, " said she. "By that time he'll be well out of the way. Anyhow, if he saw you leaving the house he'd not know but what you hadbeen to see some one else. He knows you by reputation but not by sight. "

Norman went to her, took her by the shoulders gently but strongly. "Lookat me, " he said. 

She looked at him with an expression, or perhaps absence of expression, that was simple listening. 

"If you meant awhile ago some such thing as I hinted--I will havenothing to do with it. You must marry me--or it's nothing at all. "

Her gaze did not wander, but before his wondering eyes she seemed tofade, fade toward colorlessness insignificance. The light died fromher eyes, the flush of health from her white skin, the freshness fromher lips, the sparkle and vitality from her hair. A slow, gradualtransformation, which he watched with a frightened tightening at theheart. 

She said slowly: "You--want--me--to--_marry_--you?"

"I've always wanted it, though I didn't realize, " replied he. "How elsecould I be sure of you? Besides--" He flushed, added hurriedly, almostin an undertone--"I owe it to you. "

She seated herself deliberately. 

After he had waited in vain for her to speak, he went on: "If youmarried me, I know you'd play square. I could trust you absolutely. Idon't know--can't find out much about you--but at least I know that. "

"But I don't love you, " said she. 

"You needn't remind me of it, " rejoined he curtly. 

"I don't think so--so poorly of you as I used to, " she went on. "Iunderstand a lot of things better than I did. But I don't love you, andI feel that I never could. "

"I'll risk that, " said Norman. Through his clinched teeth, "I've got torisk it. "

"I'd be marrying you because I don't feel able to--to make my own way. "

"That's the reason most girls have for marrying, " said he. "Love comesafterward--if it comes. And it's the more likely to come for the girlnot having faked the man and herself beforehand. "

She glanced at the clock. He frowned. She started up. "You _must_ go, " shesaid. 

"What is your answer?"

"Oh, I couldn't decide so quickly. I must think. "

"You mean you must see your young man again--see whether there isn'tsome way of working it out with him. "

"That, too, " replied she simply. "But--it's nearly four o'clock----"

"I'll come back at seven for my answer. "

"No, I'll write you to-night. "

"I must know at once. This suspense has got to end. It unfits me foreverything. "

"I'll--I'll decide--to-night, " she said, with a queer catch in hervoice. "You'll get the letter in the morning mail. "

"Very well. " And he gave her his club address. 

She opened the door in her impatience to be rid of him. He went with ahasty "Good-by" which she echoed as she closed the door. 

When he left the house he saw standing on the curb before it a tall, good-looking young man--with a frank amiable face. He hesitated, glowering at the young man's profile. Then he went his way, suffocatingwith jealous anger, depressed, despondent, fit for nothing but to drinkand to brood in fatuous futility. 

XVI

Until very recently indeed psychology was not an ology at all but anindefinite something or other "up in the air, " the sport of the windsand fogs of transcendental tommy rot. Now, however, science has drawn itdown, has fitted it in its proper place as a branch of physiology. Andwe are beginning to have a clearer understanding of the thoughts and thethought-producing actions of ourselves and our fellow beings. Soon itwill be no longer possible for the historian and the novelist, thedramatist, the poet, the painter or sculptor to present in allseriousness as instances of sane human conduct, the aberrationsresulting from various forms of disease ranging from indigestion in itsmild, temper-breeding forms to acute homicidal or suicidal mania. Inthat day of greater enlightenment a large body of now much esteemed artwill become ridiculous. Practically all the literature of strenuouspassion will go by the board or will be relegated to the medical librarywhere it belongs; and it, and the annals of violence found in the dailynewspapers of our remote time will be cited as documentary proof of thelow economic and hygienic conditions prevailing in that almost barbarousperiod. For certain it is that the human animal when healthy and wellfed is invariably peaceable and kindly and tolerant--up to the limits ofselfishness, and even encroaching upon those limits. 

Of writing rubbish about love and passion there is no end--and will beno end until the venerable traditional nonsense about those interestingemotions shares the fate that should overtake all the cobwebs ofignorance thickly clogging the windows and walls of the human mind. Ofall the fiddle-faddle concerning passion probably none is moreshudderingly admired than the notion that one possessed of anoverwhelming desire for another longs to destroy that other. It is truethere is a form of murderous mania that involves practically all theemotions, including of course the passions--which are as readily subjectto derangement as any other part of the human organism. But passion initself--even when it is so powerful that it dominates the whole life, asin the case of Frederick Norman--passion in itself is not a form ofmental derangement in the medical sense. And it does not produce acuteselfishness, paranoiac egotism, but a generous and beautiful kind ofunselfishness. Not from the first moment of Fred Norman's possession didhe wish to injure or in any way to make unhappy the girl he loved. Helonged to be happy with her, to have her happy with and through him. Herepresented his plotting to himself as a plan to make her happier thanshe ever had been; as for ultimate consequences, he refused to considerthem. The most hardened rake, when passion possesses him, wishes allhappiness to the woman of his pursuit. Indifference, coldness--thenatural hard-heartedness of the normal man--returns only when theinspiration and elevation of passion disappear in satiety. The man orthe woman who continues to inspire passion continues to inspiretenderness and considerateness. 

So when Norman left Dorothy that Sunday afternoon, he, being a normal ifsore beset human being, was soon in the throes of an agonized remorse. There may have been some hypocrisy in it, some struggling to cover upthe baser elements in his infatuation for her. What human emotion ofupward tendency has not at least a little of the varnish of hypocrisy oncertain less presentable spots in it? But in the main it was acreditable, a manly remorse, and not altogether the writhings ofjealousy and jealous fear of losing her. 

He saw clearly that she was telling the truth, and telling it toogently, when she said he was responsible for her having standards ofliving which she could not unaided hope to attain. It is a dreadfulthing to interfere in the destiny of a fellow being. We do it all thetime; we do it lightly. Nevertheless, it is a dreadful thing--not onethat ought not to be done, but one that ought to be done only underimperative compulsion, and then with every precaution. He had interferedin Dorothy Hallowell's destiny. He had lifted her out of the dim obscureniche where she was ensconced in comparative contentment. He had liftedher up where she had seen and felt the pleasures of a life of luxury. 

"But for me, " he said to himself, "she would now be marrying this pooryoung lawyer, or some chap of the same sort, and would be lookingforward to a life of happiness in a little flat or suburban cottage. "

If she should refuse his offer--what then? Clearly he ought to do hisbest to help her to happiness with the other man. He smiled cynically atthe moral height to which his logic thus pointed the way. Nevertheless, he did not turn away but surveyed it--and there formed in his mind animpulse to make an effort to attempt that height, if Fate should ruleagainst him with her. "If I were a really decent man, " thought he, "I'dsit down now and write her that I would not marry her but would give heryoung man a friendly hand in the law if she wished to marry him. " But heknew that such utter generosity was far beyond him. "Only a hero coulddo it, " said he; he added with what a sentimentalist might have called areturn of his normal cynicism, "only a hero who really in the bottom ofhis heart didn't especially want the girl. " And a candid person ofexperience might possibly admit that there was more truth than cynicismin his look askance at the grand army of martyrs of renunciation, mostof whom have simply given up something they didn't really want. 

"If she accepts me, I'll make it impossible for her not to be happy, " hesaid to himself, in all the fine unselfishness of passion--not divineunselfishness but human--not the kind we read about and pretend tohave--and get a savage attack of bruised vanity if we are accused of nothaving it--no, but just the kind we have and show in our dailylives--the unselfishness of longing to make happy those whom it wouldmake us happier to see happy. "She may think she cares for this youngclerk--" so ran his thoughts--"but she doesn't know her own mind. Whenshe is mine, I'll take her in hand as a gardener does a delicate rareflower--and, by Heaven, how I shall make her blossom and bloom!"

It would hardly be possible for a human being to pass a stormier nightthan was that night of his. Alternations between hope anddespair--fantastic pictures of future with and without her, wildpleadings with her--those delirious transports to which our imaginationsgive way if we happen to be blessed and cursed with imaginations--in thesecurity of the darkness and aloneness of night and bed. And through itall he was tormented body and soul by her loveliness--her hair, herskin, her eyes, the shy, slender graces of her form--He tossed aboutuntil his bed was so wildly disheveled that he had to rise and remakeit. 

When day came and the first mail, there was her letter on the salver ofthe boy entering the room. He reached for it with eager, trembling arm, drew back. "Put it on the table, " he said. 

The boy left. He was alone. Leaning upon his elbow in the bed he staredat the letter with hollow, terrified eyes. It contained his destiny. Ifshe accepted, he would go up, for his soul sickness would be cured. Ifshe refused, he would cease to struggle. He rose, took from a lockeddrawer a bottle of rye whisky. He poured a tall glass--the kind called abar glass--half full, drank it straight down without a pause or aquiver. The shock brought him up standing. He looked and acted like hisformer self as he went to the table, took the letter, opened it, andread:

 "I am willing to marry you, if you really want me. I am so tired of struggling, and I don't see anything but dark ahead. --D. H. "

Norman struggled over to the bed, threw himself down, flat upon hisback, arms and legs extended wide and whole body relaxed. He felt theblood whirl up into his brain like the great red and black tongues offlame and smoke in a conflagration, and then he slept soundly untilnearly one o'clock. 

To an outsider there would have been a world of homely commonplacepathos in that little letter of the girl's if read aright, that is tosay, if read with what was between the lines supplied. It is impossibleto live in cities any length of time and with any sort of eyes withoutlearning the bitter unromantic truths about poverty--city poverty. Inquiet, desolate places one may be poor, very poor, without muchconscious suffering. There are no teasing contrasts, no torturingtemptations. But in a city, if one knows anything at all of thepossibilities of civilized life, of the joys and comforts of good food, clothing, and shelter, of theater and concert and excursion, ofentertaining and being entertained, poverty becomes a hell. In thecountry, in the quiet towns, the innocent people wonder at thegreediness of the more comfortable kinds of city people, at their loveof money, their incessant dwelling upon it, their reverence for thosewho have it, their panic-like flight from those who have it not. Theywonder how folk, apparently human, can be so inhuman. Let them becareful how they judge. If you discover any human being anywhere actingas you think a human being should not, investigate all thecircumstances, look thoroughly into all the causes of his or herconduct, before you condemn him or her as inhuman, unworthy of yourkinship and your sympathy. 

In her brief letter the girl showed that, young though she was and notwidely experienced in life, she yet had seen the horrors of citypoverty, how it poisons and kills all the fine emotions. She had seenmany a loving young couple start out confidently, with a few hundreddollars of debt for furniture--had seen the love fade and wither, shrivel, die--had seen appear peevishness and hatred and unfaithfulnessand all the huge, foul weeds that choke the flowers of married life. Sheknew what her lover's salary would buy--and what it would not buy--fortwo. She could imagine their fate if there should be three or more. Sheshowed frankly her selfishness of renunciation. But there could be readbetween the lines--concealed instead of vaunted--perhapsunsuspected--her unselfishness of renunciation for the sake of her loverand for the sake of the child or the children that might be. In our loveof moral sham and glitter, we overlook the real beauties of humanmorality; we even are so dim or vulgar sighted that we do not see themwhen they are shown to us. 

As Norman awakened, he reached for the telephone, said to the boy incharge of the club exchange: "Look in the book, find the number of alawyer named Branscombe, and connect me with his office. " After someconfusion and delay he got the right office, but Dorothy was out atlunch. He left a message that she was to call him up at the club as soonas she came in. He was shaving when the bell rang. 

He was at the receiver in a bound. "Is it you?" he said. 

"Yes, " came in her quiet, small voice. 

"Will you resign down there to-day? Will you marry me this afternoon?"

A brief silence, then--"Yes. "

Thus it came about that they met at the City Hall license bureau, gottheir license, and half an hour later were married at the house of aminister in East Thirty-third Street, within a block of the Subwaystation. He was feverish, gay, looked years younger than histhirty-seven. She was quiet, dim, passive, neither grave nor gay, butgoing through her part without hesitation, with much the same patient, plodding expression she habitually bore as she sat working at hermachine--as if she did not quite understand, but was doing her best andhoped to get through not so badly. 

"I've had nothing to eat, " said he as they came out of the parsonage. 

"Nor I, " said she. 

"We'll go to Delmonico's, " said he, and hailed a passing taxi. 

On the way, he sitting in one corner explained to her, shrunk into theother corner: "I can confess now that I married you under falsepretenses. I am not prosperous, as I used to be. To be brief and plain, I'm down and out, professionally. "

She did not move. Apparently she did not change expression. Yet he, speaking half banteringly, felt some frightful catastrophe within her. "You are--poor?" she said in her usual quiet way. 

"_We_ are poor, " corrected he. "I have at present only a thousand dollarsa month--a little more, but not enough to talk about. "

She did not move or change expression. Yet he felt that her heart, herblood were going on again. 

"Are you--angry?" he asked. 

"A thousand dollars a month seems an awful lot of money to me, " shesaid. 

"It's nothing--nothing to what we'll soon have. Trust me. " And back intohis eyes flashed their former look. "I've been sick. I'm well again. Ishall get what I want. If you want anything, you've only to ask for it. I'll get it. I know how. . . . I don't prey, myself--I've no fancy forthe brutal sports. But I teach lions how to prey, and I make them payfor the lessons. " He laughed with an effervescing of young vitality andself-confidence that made him look handsome and powerful. "In the futurethey'll have to pay still higher prices. "

She was looking at him with weary, wondering, pathetic eyes that gazedfrom the pallor of her dead-white face mysteriously. 

"What are you thinking?" he asked. 

"I was listening, " replied she. 

"Doesn't it make you happy--what you are going to have?"

"No, " replied she. "But it makes me content. "

With eyes suddenly suffused, he took her hand--so gently. "Dorothy, " hesaid, "you will try to love me?"

"I'll try, " said she. "You'll be kind to me?"

"I couldn't be anything else, " he cried. And in a gust of passion hecaught her to his breast and kissed her triumphantly. "I love you--andyou're mine--mine!"

She released herself with the faint insistent push that seemed weak, butalways accomplished its purpose. Her lip was trembling. "You said you'dbe kind, " she murmured. 

He gazed at her with a baffled expression. "Oh--I understand, " he said. "And I shall be kind. But I must teach you to love me. "

Her trembling lip steadied. "You must be careful or you may teach me tohate you, " said she. 

He studied her in a puzzled way, laughed. "What a mystery you are!" hecried with raillery. "Are you child or are you woman? No matter. Weshall be happy. "

The taxicab was swinging to the curb. In the restaurant he ordered anenormous meal. And he ate enormously, and drank in due proportion. Sheate and drank a good deal herself--a good deal for her. And the resultswere soon apparent in a return of the spirits that are normal totwenty-one years, regardless of what may be lurking in the heart, in adark corner, to come forth and torment when there is nothing to distractthe attention. 

"We shall have to live quietly for a while, " said he. "Of course youmust have clothes-at once. I'll take you shopping to-morrow. " He laughedgrimly. "Just at present we can get only what we pay cash for. Still, you won't need much. Later on I'll take you over to Paris. Does thatattract you?"

Her eyes shone. "How soon?" she asked. 

"I can tell you in a week or ten days. " He became abstracted for amoment. "I can't understand how I let them get me down so easily--thatis, I can't understand it now. I suppose it's just the differencebetween being weak with illness and strong with health. " His eyesconcentrated on her. "Is it really you?" he cried gaily. "And are youreally mine? No wonder I feel strong! It was always that way with me. Inever could leave a thing until I had conquered it. "

She gave him a sweet smile. "I'm not worth all the trouble you seem tohave taken about me, " said she. 

He laughed; for he knew the intense vanity so pleasantly hidden beneathher shy and modest exterior. "On the contrary, " said he good-humoredly, "you in your heart think yourself worth any amount of trouble. It's ahabit we men have got you women into. And you--One of the many thingsthat fascinate me in you is your supreme self-control. If the king wereto come down from his throne and fall at your feet, you'd take it as amatter of course. "

She gazed away dreamily. And he understood that her indifference tomatters of rank and wealth and power was not wholly vanity but was, inpart at least, due to a feeling that love was the only essential. Nordid he wonder how she was reconciling this belief of high and puresentiment with what she was doing in marrying him. He knew that humanbeings are not consistent, cannot be so in a universe that compels themto face directly opposite conditions often in the same moment. But justas all lines are parallel in infinity, so all actions are profoundlyconsistent when referred to the infinitely broad standard of thenecessity that every living thing shall look primarily to its own wellbeing. Disobedience to this fundamental carries with it inevitablepunishment of disintegration and death; and those catastrophes areserious matters when one has but the single chance at life, that will berepeated never again in all the eternities. 

After their late lunch or early dinner, they drove to her lodgings. Hewent up with her and helped her to pack--not a long process, as she hadfew belongings. He noted that the stockings and underclothes she tookfrom the bureau drawers were in anything but good condition, that thehalf dozen dresses she took from the closet and folded on the couch wereabout done for. Presently she said, cheerfully and with no trace offalse shame:

"You see, I'm pretty nearly in rags. "

"Oh, that's soon arranged, " replied he. "Why bother to take thesethings? Why not give them to the maid?"

She debated with herself. "I think you're right, " she decided. "Yes, I'll give them to Jennie. "

"The underclothes, too, " he urged. "And the hats. "

It ended in her having left barely enough loosely to fill the bottom ofa small trunk with two trays. 

They drove to the Knickerbocker Hotel, and he took a small suite, one ofthe smallest and least luxurious in the house, for with all his desireto make her feel the contrast of her change of circumstances sharply, hecould not forget how limited his income was, and how unwise it would beto have to move in a few days to humbler quarters. He hoped that therooms, englamoured by the hotel's general air of costly luxury, wouldsufficiently impress her. And while she gave no strong indication butaccepted everything in her wonted quiet, passive manner, he was shrewdenough to see that she was content. "To-morrow, " he said to himself, "after she has done some shopping, the last regret will leave her, andher memory of that clerk will begin to fade fast. I'll give her too muchelse to think about. "

 * * * * *

The following morning, when they faced each other at breakfast in theirsitting room, he glanced at her from time to time in wonder and terror. She looked not merely insignificant, but positively homely. Her skin hada sickly pallor; her hair seemed to be of many different anddisagreeable shades of uninteresting dead yellow. Her eyes suggestedfaded blue china dishes, with colorless lashes and reddened edges of thelids. Her lips had lost their rosy freshness, her teeth their sparklingwhiteness. 

His heavy heart seemed to be resting nauseously upon the pit of hisstomach. Was his infatuation sheer delusion, with no basis of charm inher at all? Was she, indeed, nothing but this unattractive, faded littlecommonplaceness?--a poor specimen of an inferior order of working girl?What an awakening! And she was his _wife_!--was his companion for the yetmore brilliant career he had resolved and was planning! He mustintroduce her everywhere, must see the not to be concealed amazement inthe faces of his acquaintances, must feel the cruel covert laughter andjeering at his weak folly! Was there ever in history or romance aparallel to such fatuity as his? Why, people would be right in thinkinghim a sham, a mere bluffer at the high and strong qualities he wasreputed to have. 

Had Norman been, in fact, the man of ice and iron the compulsions of acareer under the social system made him seem, the homely girl oppositehim that morning would speedily have had something to think about otherthan her unhappiness of the woman who has given her person to one manand her heart to another. Instead, the few words he addressed to herwere all gentleness and forbearance. Stronger than his chagrin was hispity for her--the poor, unconscious victim of his mad hallucination. If she thought about the matter at all, she assumed that he was stillthe slave of her charms--for, the florid enthusiasm of man's passioninevitably deludes the woman into fancying it objective instead ofwholly subjective; and, only the rare very wise woman, after muchexperience, learns to be suspicious of the validity of her own charmsand to concentrate upon keeping up the man's delusions. 

At last he rose and kissed her on the brow and let his hand rest gentlyon her shoulder--what a difference between those caresses and thecaresses that had made her beg him to be "kind" to her! Said he:

"Do you mind if I leave you alone for a while? I ought to go to the cluband have the rest of my things packed and sent. I'll not be gonelong--about an hour. "

"Very well, " said she lifelessly. 

"I'll telephone my office that I'll not be down to-day. "

With an effort she said, "There's no reason for doing that. I don't wantto interfere with your business. "

"I'm neglecting nothing. And that shopping must be done. "

She made no reply, but went to the window, and from the height lookeddown and out upon the mighty spread of the city. He observed her amoment with a dazed pitying expression, took his hat and departed. 

It was nearly two hours before he got together sufficient courage toreturn. He had been hoping--had been saying to himself with vigorouseffort at confidence--that he had simply seen one more of the manytransformations, each of which seemed to present her as a whollydifferent personality. When he should see her again, she would havewiped out the personality that had shocked and saddened him, wouldappear as some new variety of enchantress, perhaps even more potent overhis senses than ever before. But a glance as he entered demolished thathope. She was no different than when he left. Evidently she had beencrying, and spasms of that sort always accentuate every unloveliness. Hedid not try to nerve himself to kiss her, but said:

"It'll not take you long to get ready?"

She moved to rise from her languid rest upon the sofa. She sank back. "Perhaps we'd better not go to-day, " suggested she. 

"Don't you feel well?" he asked, and his tone was more sympathetic thanit would have been had his sympathy been genuine. 

"Not very, " replied she, with a faint deprecating smile. "And notvery--not very----"

"Not very what?" he said, in a tone of encouragement. 

"Not very happy, " she confessed. "I'm afraid I've made a--a dreadfulmistake. "

[Illustration: "Evidently she had been crying. "]

He looked at her in silence. She could have said nothing that would havecaused a livelier response within himself. His cynicism noted the factthat while he had mercifully concealed his discontent, she was thinkingonly of herself. But he did not blame her. It was only the familiarhabit of the sex, bred of man's assiduous cultivation of its egotism. Hesaid: "Oh, you'll feel differently about it later. Let's get some freshair and see what the shops have to offer. "

A pause, then she, timidly: "Would you mind very much if I--if Ididn't--go on?"

"You mean, if you left me?"

She nodded without looking at him. He could not understand himself, butas he sat observing her, so young, so inexperienced and so undesirable, a pity of which he would not have dreamed his nature capable welled upin him, choking his throat with sobs he could scarcely restrain andfilling his eyes with tears he had secretly to wipe away. And he felthimself seized of a sense of responsibility for her as strong in itssolemn, still way as any of the paroxysms of his passion had been. 

He said: "My dear--you mustn't decide anything so important to you in ahurry. "

A tremor passed over her, and he thought she was going to dissolve inhysterics. But she exhibited once more that marvelous and mysteriousself-control, whose secret had interested and baffled him. She said inher dim, quiet way:

"It seems to me I just can't stay on. "

"You can always go, you know. Why not try it a few days?"

He could feel the trend of her thoughts, and in the way things oftenamuse us without in the least moving us to wish to laugh, he was amusedby noting that she was trying to bring herself to stay on, out ofconsideration for _his_ feelings! He said with a kind of paternaltenderness:

"Whenever you want to go, I am willing to arrange things for you--sothat you needn't worry about money. But I feel that, as I am older thanyou, I ought to do all I can to keep you from making a mistake you mightsoon regret. "

She studied him dubiously. He saw that she--naturally enough--did notbelieve in his disinterestedness, that she hadn't a suspicion of hischange, or, rather collapse, of feeling. She said:

"If you ask it, I'll stay a while. But you must promise to--to be kindto me. "

There was only gentleness in his smile. But what a depth of satiricalself-mockery and amusement at her innocent young egotism it concealed!"You'll never have reason to speak of that again, my dear, " said he. 

"I--can--trust you?" she said. 

"Absolutely, " replied he. "I'll have another room opened into thissuite. Would you like that?"

"If you--if you don't mind. "

He stood up with sudden boyish buoyance. "Now--let's go shopping. Let'samuse ourselves. "

She rose with alacrity. She eyed him uncertainly, then flung her armsround his neck and kissed him. 

"You are _so_ good to me!" she cried. "And I'm not a bit nice. "

He did not try to detain her, but sent her to finish dressing, with anencouraging pat on the shoulder and a cheerful, "Don't worry aboutyourself--or me. "

XVII

About half an hour later the door into the bedroom opened and sheappeared on the threshold of the sitting room, ready for the street. Hestared at her in the dazed amazement of a man faced by the impossible, and uncertain whether it is sight or reason that is tricking him. Shehad gone into the bedroom not only homely but commonplace, not onlycommonplace but common, a dingy washed-out blonde girl whom it would bea humiliation to present as his wife. She was standing there, in themajesty of such proud pale beauty as poets delight to ascribe to asorrowful princess. Her wonderful skin was clear and translucent, givingher an ethereal look. Her hair reminded him again of what marvels he hadseen in the sunlight of Sunday afternoon. And looking at her form andthe small head so gracefully capping it, he could think only of thesimile that had always come to him in his moments of ecstasy--the lilyon its tall stem. 

And once more, like a torrent, the old infatuation sprang from its driedsources and came rushing and overwhelming through vein and nerve. "Am Imad now?--was I mad a few moments ago?--is it she or is it my owndisordered senses?"

She was drawing on her gloves, was unconscious of his confusion. Hecontrolled himself and said: "You have a most disconcerting way ofchanging your appearance. "

She glanced down at her costume. "No, it's the same dress. I've only theone, you know. "

He longed to take her in his arms, but could not trust himself. And thiswonder-girl, his very own, was talking of leaving him! And he--not anhour before--he, apparently in his right senses had been toleratingsuch preposterous talk! Give her up? Never! He must see to it that thesubject did not find excuse for intruding again. "I have frightenedher--have disgusted her. I must restrain myself. I must be patient--andteach her slowly--and win her gradually. "

They spent an interesting and even exciting afternoon, driving from shopto shop and selecting the first beginnings of her wardrobe. He had onlyabout three hundred dollars. Some of the things they ordered were readyfor delivery, and so had to be paid for at once. When they returned tothe hotel he had but fifty dollars left--and had contracted debts thatmade it necessary for him to raise at least a thousand dollars within aweek. He saw that his freedom with sums of money which terrified herfilled her with awe and admiration--and that he was already moresuccessful than he had expected to be, in increasing her hesitationabout leaving him. Among the things they had bought were a simple blackchiffon dress and a big plumed black hat to match. These needed noalterations and were delivered soon after they returned. Some silkstockings came also and a pair of slippers bought for the dinner toilet. 

"You can dress to-night, " said he, "and I'll take you to Sherry's, andto the theater afterwards. "

She was delighted. At last she was going to look like the women of whomshe had been dreaming these last few months. She set about dressingherself, he waiting in the sitting room in a state of acute nervousness. What would be the effect of such a toilet? Would she look like alady--or like--what she had suggested that morning? She was sochangeable, had such a wide range of variability that he dared not hope. When she finally appeared, he was ready to fall down and worship. He wasabout to take her where his world would see her, where every inch of herwould be subjected to the cruelest, most hostile criticism. One glanceat her, and he knew a triumph awaited him. No man and no woman wouldwonder that he had lost his head over such beauty as hers. Hat and dressseemed just what had been needed to bring out the full glory of hercharms. 

"You are incredibly beautiful, " he said in an awed tone. "I am proud ofyou. "

A little color came into her cheeks. She looked at herself in the mirrorwith her quiet intense secret, yet not covert vanity. He laughed inboyish pleasure. "This is only the small beginning, " said he. "Wait afew months. "

At dinner and in a box at the theater afterwards, he had the mostexquisite pleasure of his life. She had been seen by many of his formerfriends, and he was certain they knew who she was. He felt that he wouldhave no difficulty in putting her in the place his wife should occupy. Awoman with such beauty as hers was a sensation, one fashionable societywould not deny itself. She had good manners, an admirable manner. With alittle coaching she would be as much at home in grandeur as were thosewho had always had it. 

The last fear of losing her left him. On the way back to the hotel he, in a delirium of pride and passion, crushed her in his arms and caressedher with the frenzy that had always terrified her. She resisted onlyfaintly, was almost passive. "She is mine!" he said to himself, exultantly. "She is really mine!"

 * * * * *

When he awoke in the morning she was still asleep--looked like a tiredlovely child. Several times, while he was dressing, he went in to feasthis eyes upon her beauty. How could he possibly have thought her homely, in whatever moment of less beauty or charm she might have had? Thecrowning charm of infinite variety! She had a delightfully sweetdisposition. He was not sure how much or how little intelligence shehad--probably more than most women. But what did that matter? It wouldbe impossible ever to grow weary or to be anything but infatuated loverwhen she had such changeful beauty. 

He kissed her lightly on her thick braids, as he was about to go. Heleft a note explaining that he did not wish to disturb her and that itwas necessary for him to be at the office earlier. And that morning inall New York no man left his home for the day's struggle for dollarswith a freer or happier heart, or readier to play the game boldly, skillfully, with success. 

Certainly he needed all his courage and all his skill. 

To most of the people who live in New York and elsewhere throughout thecountry--or the world, for that matter--an income of a thousand dollarsa month seems extremely comfortable, to say the least of it. The averageAmerican family of five has to scrape along on about half that sum ayear. But among the comfortable classes in New York--and perhaps in oneor two other cities--a thousand dollars a month is literally genteelpoverty. To people accustomed to what is called luxury nowadays--peoplewith the habit of the private carriage, the private automobile, andseveral servants--to such people a thousand dollars a month is an absurdlittle sum. It would not pay for the food alone. It would not buy for aman and his wife, with no children, clothing enough to enable them tomake a decent appearance. 

Norman, living alone and living very quietly indeed, might have gotalong for a while on that sum, if he had taken much thought aboutexpenditures, had persisted in such severe economies as using streetcars instead of taxicabs and drinking whisky at dinner instead of hiscustomary quart of six-dollar champagne. Norman, the married man, couldnot escape disaster for a single month on an income so pitiful. 

Probably on the morning on which he set out for downtown in search ofmoney enough to enable him to live decently, not less than ten thousandmen on Manhattan Island left comfortable or luxurious homes faced withprecisely the same problem. And each and every one of them knew that onthat day or some day soon they must find the money demanded imperiouslyby their own and their families' tastes and necessities or beruined--flung out, trampled upon, derided as failures, hated by the"loved ones" they had caused to be humiliated. And every man of thatlegion had a fine, an unusually fine brain--resourceful, incessant, teeming with schemes for wresting from those who had dollars the dollarsthey dared not go home without. And those ten thousand quickest and mostenergetic brains, by their mode of thought and action, determined thethought and action of the entire country--gave the mercenary andunscrupulous cast to the whole social system. Themselves the victims ofconditions, they were the bellwethers to millions of victims compelledto follow their leadership. 

Norman, by the roundabout mode of communication he and Tetlow hadestablished, summoned his friend and backer to his office. "Tetlow, " hebegan straight off, "I've got to have more money. "

"How much?" said Tetlow. 

"More than you can afford to advance me. "

"How much?" repeated Tetlow. 

"Three thousand a month right away--at the least. "

"That's a big sum, " said Tetlow. 

"Yes, for a man used to dealing in small figures. But in reality it's amoderate income. "

"Few large families spend more. "

"Few large or small families in my part of New York pinch along on solittle. "

"What has happened to you?" said Tetlow, dropping into a chair andfolding his fat hands on his stomach. 

"Why?" asked Norman. 

"It's in your voice--in your face--in your cool demand for a bigincome. "

"Let's start right, old man, " said Norman. "Don't _call_ thirty-sixthousand a year big or you'll _think_ it big. And if you think it big, youwill stay little. "

Tetlow nodded. "I'm ready to grow, " said he. "Now what's happened toyou?"

"I've got married, " replied Norman. 

"I thought so. To Miss--Hallowell?"

"To Miss Hallowell. So my way's clear, and I'm going to resume themarch. "

"Yes?"

"I've two plans. Either will serve. The first is yours--the one youpartly revealed to me the other day. "

"Partly?" said Tetlow. 

"Partly, " repeated Norman, laughing. "I know you, Billy, and that meansI know you're absolutely incapable of plotting as big a scheme as yousuggested to me. It came either from Galloway or from some one of hisclique. "

"I said all I'm at liberty to say, Fred. "

"I don't wish you to break your promise. All I want to know is, can Iget the three thousand a month and assurance of its lasting and leadingto something bigger?"

"What is your other scheme?" said Tetlow, and it was plain to theshrewder young lawyer that the less shrewd young lawyer wished to gaintime. 

"Simple and sure, " replied Norman. "We will buy ten shares of UniversalFuel Company through a dummy and bring suit to dissolve it. I lookedinto the matter for Burroughs once when he was after the Fosdick-Langdongroup. Universal Fuel wouldn't dare defend the action I could bring. Wecould get what we pleased for our ten shares to let up on the suit. Themoment their lawyers saw the papers I'd draw, they'd advise it. "

Tetlow shook his large, impressively molded head. "Shady, " said he. "Shady. "

Norman smiled with good-natured patience. "You sound like Burroughs orGalloway when they are denouncing a man for trying to get rich by thesame methods they pursued. My dear Bill, don't be one of those lawyerswho will do the queer work for a client but not for themselves. There'sno sense, no morality, no intelligent hypocrisy even, in that. We didn'tcreate the commercial morality of the present day. For God's sake, let'snot be of the poor fools who practice it but get none of its benefits. "

Tetlow shifted uneasily. "I don't like to hear that sort of thing, " saidhe, apologetic and nervous. 

"Is it true?"

"Yes. But--damn it, I don't like to hear it. "

"That is to say, you're willing to pay the price of remaining small andobscure just for the pleasure of indulging in a wretched hypocrisy of aself-deception. Bill, come out of the small class. Whether you go inwith me or not, come out of the class of understrappers. What's thedifference between the big men and their little followers? Why, the bigmen _see_. They don't deceive themselves with the cant they pour out forthe benefit of the ignorant mob. "

Tetlow was listening like a pupil to a teacher. That was always hisattitude toward Norman. 

"The big men, " continued Norman, "know that canting is necessary--thatone must always profess high and disinterested motives, and so on, andso on. But they don't let their hypocritical talk influence theiractions. How is it with the little fellows? Why, they believe theflapdoodle the leaders talk. They go into the enterprise, do all thesmall dirty work, lie and cheat and steal, and hand over the proceeds tothe big fellows, for the sake of a pat on the back and a noisy 'Honestfellow! Here are a few crumbs for you. ' And crumbs are all that a weak, silly, hypocritical fool deserves. Can you deny it?"

"No doubt you're right, Fred, " conceded Tetlow. "But I'm afraid Ihaven't the nerve. "

"Come in behind me. I've got nerve for two--_now_!"

At that triumphant "now" Tetlow looked curiously at his friend. "Yes, _it_has changed you--changed you back to what you were. I don't understand. "

"It isn't necessary that you understand, " rejoined Norman. "

"Do you think you could really carry through that scheme you've justoutlined?"

"I see it fascinates you. "

"I've no objection to rising to the class of big men, " said Tetlow. "Butaren't you letting your confidence in yourself deceive you?"

"Did I ever let it deceive me?"

"No, " confessed Tetlow. "I've often watched you, and thought you'd fallthrough it, or stumble at least. But you never did. "

"And shall I tell you why? Because I use my self-confidence and myhopefulness and all my optimistic qualities only to create an atmosphereof success. But when it comes to planning a move of any kind, when Iassemble my lieutenants round the council board in my brain, I neverpermit a single cheerful one to speak, or even to enter. It's a serious, gloomy circle of faces, Bill. "

Tetlow nodded reminiscently. "Yes, you always were like that, Fred. "

"And the one who does the most talking at my council is the gloomiest ofall. He's Lieutenant Flawpicker. He can't see any hope for anything. He sees all the possibilities of failure. He sees all the chancesagainst success. And what's the result? Why, when the council rises ithas taken out of the plan every chance of mishap that my intelligencecould foresee and it has provided not one but several safe lines oforderly retreat in case success proves impossible. "

Tetlow gazed at Norman in worshipful admiration. "What a brain! Whata mind!" he ejaculated. "And to think that _you_ could be upset by a_woman_!"

Norman leaned back in his chair smiling broadly. "Not by a woman, " hecorrected. "By a girl--an inexperienced girl of twenty. "

"It seems incredible. "

"A grain of dust, dropped into a watch movement in just the rightplace--you know what happens. "

Tetlow nodded. Then, with a sharp, anxious look, "But it's all over?"

Norman hesitated. "I believe so, " he said. 

Tetlow rose and rubbed his thighs. He had been sitting long in the sameposition, and he was now stout enough to suffer from fat man's cramp. "Well, " said he, "we needn't bother about that Universal Fuel scheme atpresent. I can guarantee you the three thousand dollars, and the otherthings. "

Norman shook his head. "Not enough, " he said. 

"You want more money?"

"No. But I will not work, or rather, wait, in the dark. Tell yourprincipals that I must be let in. "

Tetlow hesitated, walking about the office. Finally he said, "Look here, Fred--you think I deceived you the other day--posed as your friend whenin reality I was simply acting as agent for people who wanted you. "

Norman gave Tetlow a look that made him redden with pleasure. "No, Idon't, old man, " said he. "I know you recommended me--and that they wereshy of me because of the way I've been acting--and that you stoodsponsor for me. Isn't that right?"

"Something like that, " admitted Tetlow. "But they were eager to get you. It was only a question of trusting you. I was able to do you a good turnthere. "

"And I'll make a rich man, and a famous one, of you, " said Norman. 

"Yes. I believe you will, " cried Tetlow, tears in his prominent studiouseyes. "I'll see those people in a day or two, and let you know. Do youneed money right away? Of course you do. " And down he sat and drew acheck for fifteen hundred dollars. 

Norman laughed as he glanced to see if it was correctly drawn. "I'd nothave dared return to my bride with empty pockets. That's what it meansto live in New York. "

Tetlow grinned. "A sentimental town, isn't it? Especially the women. "

"Oh, I don't blame them, " said Norman. "They need the money, and theonly way they've got of making it is out of sentiment. And you mustadmit they give a bully good quality, if the payment is all right. "

Tetlow shrugged his shoulders. "I'm glad I don't need them, " said he. "It gives me the creeps to see them gliding about with their beautifuldresses and their sweet, soft faces. "

He and Norman lunched together in an out-of-the way restaurant. After abusy and a happy afternoon, Norman returned early to the hotel. He hadcashed his check. He was in funds. He would give her another and morethrilling taste of the joy that was to be hers through him--and soon shewould be giving even as she got--for he would teach her not to fearlove, not to shrink from it, but to rejoice in it and to let it permeateand complete all her charms. 

He ascended to the apartment and knocked. There was no answer. Hesearched in vain for a chambermaid to let him in. He descended to theoffice. "Oh, Mr. Norman, " said one of the clerks. "Your wife left thisnote for you. "

Norman took it. "She went out?"

"About three o'clock--with a young gentleman who called on her. Theycame back a while ago and she left the note. "

"Thank you, " said Norman. He took his key, went up to the apartment. Notuntil he had closed and locked the door did he open the note. He read:

 "Last night you broke your promise. So I am going away. Don't look for me. It won't be any use. When I decide what to do I'll send you word. "

He was standing at the table. He tossed the note on the marble, threwopen the bedroom door. The black chiffon dress, the big plumed hat, andall the other articles they had bought were spread upon the bed, arranged with the obvious intention that he should see at a glance shehad taken nothing away with her. 

"Hell!" he said aloud. "Why didn't I let her go yesterday morning?"

XVIII

A few days later, Tetlow, having business with Norman, tried to reachhim by telephone. After several failures he went to the hotel, and inthe bar learned enough to enable him to guess that Norman was of on amad carouse. He had no difficulty in finding the trail or in followingit; the difficulty lay in catching up, for Norman was going fast. Notuntil late at night--that is, early in the morning--of the sixth dayfrom the beginning of his search did he get his man. 

He was prepared to find a wreck, haggard, wildly nervous anddisreputably disheveled; for, so far as he could ascertain Norman hadnot been to bed, but had gone on and on from one crowd of revelers toanother, in a city where it is easy to find companions in dissipation atany hour of the twenty-four. Tetlow was even calculating upon having toput off their business many weeks while the crazy man was pullingthrough delirium tremens or some other form of brain fever. 

An astonishing sight met his eyes in the Third Avenue oyster housebefore which the touring car Norman had been using was drawn up. At along table, eating oysters as fast as the opener could work, sat Normanand his friend Gaskill, a fellow member of the Federal Club, and about ascore of broken and battered tramps. The supper or breakfast was goingforward in admirable order. Gaskill, whom Norman had picked up a fewhours before, showed signs of having done some drinking. But not Norman. It is true his clothing might have looked fresher; but hardly the manhimself. 

"Just in time!" he cried out genially, at sight of Tetlow. "Sit downwith us. Waiter, a chair next to mine. Gentlemen, Mr. Tetlow. Mr. Tetlow, gentlemen. What'll you have, old man?"

Tetlow declined champagne, accepted half a dozen of the huge oysters. "I've been after you for nearly a week, " said he to Norman. 

"Pity you weren't _with_ me, " said Norman. "I've been getting acquaintedwith large numbers of my fellow citizens. "

"From the Bowery to Yonkers. "

"Exactly. Don't fall asleep, Gaskill. "

But Gaskill was snoring with his head on the back of his chair and histhroat presented as if for the as of the executioner. "He's all in, "said Tetlow. 

"That's the way it goes, " complained Norman. "I can't find anyone tokeep me company. "

Tetlow laughed. "You look as if you had just started out, " said he. "Tell me--_where_ have you slept?"

"I haven't had time to sleep as yet. "

"I dropped in to suggest that a little sleep wouldn't do any harm. "

"Not quite yet. Watch our friends eat. It gives me an appetite. Waiter, another dozen all round--and some more of this carbonated white wineyou've labeled champagne. "

As he called out this order, a grunt of satisfaction ran round the rowof human derelicts. Tetlow shuddered, yet was moved and thrilled, too, as he glanced from face to face--those hideous hairy countenances, begrimed and beslimed, each countenance expressing in its own repulsiveway the one emotion of gratified longing for food and drink. "Where didyou get 'em?" inquired he. 

"From the benches in Madison Square, " replied Norman. He laughedqueerly. "Recognize yourself in any of those mugs, Tetlow?" he asked. 

Tetlow shivered. "I should say not!" he exclaimed. 

Norman's eyes gleamed. "I see myself in all of 'em, " said he. 

"Poor wretches!" muttered Tetlow. 

"Pity wasted, " he rejoined. "You might feel sorry for a man on the wayto where they've got. But once arrived--as well pity a dead man sleepingquietly in his box with three feet of solid earth between him andworries of every kind. "

"Shake this crowd, " said Tetlow impatiently. "I want to talk with you. "

"All right, if it bores you. " He sent the waiter out for enoughlodging-house tickets to provide for all. He distributed them himself, to make sure that the proprietor of the restaurant did not attempt tograft. Then he roused Gaskill and bundled him into the car and sent itaway to his address. The tramps gathered round and gave Norman threecheers--they pressed close while four of them tried to pick his andTetlow's pockets. Norman knocked them away good-naturedly, and he andTetlow climbed into Tetlow's hansom. 

"To my place, " suggested Tetlow. 

"No, to mine--the Knickerbocker, " replied Norman. 

"I'd rather you went to my place first, " said Tetlow uneasily. 

"My wife isn't with me. She has left me, " said Norman calmly. 

Tetlow hesitated, extremely nervous, finally acquiesced. They drove awhile in silence, then Norman said, "What's the business?"

"Galloway wants to see you. "

"Tell him to come to my office to-morrow--that means to-day--at any timeafter eleven. "

"But that gives you no chance to pull yourself together, " objectedTetlow. 

Norman's face, seen in the light of the street lamp they happened to bepassing, showed ironic amusement. "Never mind about me, Billy. Tell himto come. "

Tetlow cleared his throat nervously. "Don't you think, old man, thatyou'd better go to see him? I'll arrange the appointment. "

Norman said quietly: "Tetlow, I've dropped pretty far. But not so farthat I go to my clients. The rule of calls is that the man seeking thefavor goes to the man who can grant it. "

"But it isn't the custom nowadays for a lawyer to deal that way with aman like Galloway. "

"And neither is it the custom for anyone to have any self-respect. DoesGalloway need my brains more than I need his money, or do I need hismoney more than he needs my brains? You know what the answer to that is, Billy. We are partners--you and I. I'm training you for the position. "

"Galloway won't come, " said Tetlow curtly. 

"So much the worse for him, " retorted Norman placidly. "No--I've notbeen drinking too much, old man--as your worried--old-maid looksuggests. Do a little thinking. If Galloway doesn't get me, whom will heget?"

"You know very well, Norman, there are scores of lawyers, good ones, who'd crawl at his feet for his business. Nowadays, most lawyers arealways looking round for a pair of rich man's boots to lick. "

"But I am not 'most lawyers, '" said Norman. "Of course, if Gallowaycould make me come to him, he'd be a fool to come to me. But when hefinds I'm not coming, why, he'll behave himself--if his business isimportant enough for me to bother with. "

"But if he doesn't come, Fred?"

"Then--my Universal Fuel scheme, or some other equally good. But youwill never see me limbering my knees in the anteroom of a rich man, whenhe needs me and I don't need him. "

"Well, we'll see, " said Tetlow, with the air of a sober man patient withone who is not sober. 

"By the way, " continued Norman, "if Galloway says he's too ill tocome--or anything of that sort--tell him I'd not care to undertake theaffairs of a man too old or too feeble to attend to business, as hemight die in the midst of it. "

Tetlow's face was such a wondrous exhibit of discomfiture that Normanlaughed outright. Evidently he had forestalled his fat friend in ascheme to get him to Galloway in spite of himself. "All right--allright, " said Tetlow fretfully. "We'll sleep on this. But I don't see whyyou're so opposed to going to see the man. It looks like snobbishness tome--false pride--silly false pride. "

"It _is_ snobbishness, " said Norman. "But you forget that snobbishnessrules the world. The way to rule fools is to make them respect you. Andthe way to make them respect you is by showing them that they are yourinferiors. I want Galloway's respect because I want his money. And I'llnot get his money--as much of it as belongs to me--except by showinghim my value. Not my value as a lawyer, for he knows that already, butmy value as a man. Do you see?"

"No, I don't, " snapped Tetlow. 

"That's what it means to be Tetlow. Now, I do see--and that's why I'mNorman. "

Tetlow looked at him doubtfully, uncertain whether he had been listeningto wisdom put in a jocose form of audacious egotism or to theeffervescings of intoxication. The hint of a smile lurking in thesobriety of the powerful features of his extraordinary friend onlyincreased his doubt. Was Norman mocking him, and himself as well? If so, was it the mockery of sober sense or of drunkenness?

"You seem to be puzzled, Billy, " said Norman, and Tetlow wondered how hehad seen. "Don't get your brains in a stew trying to understand me. I'macting the way I've always acted--except in one matter. You know that Iknow what I'm about?"

"I certainly do, " replied his admirer. 

"Then, let it go at that. If you could understand me--the sort of man Iam, the sort of thing I do--you'd not need me, but would be the wholeshow yourself--eh? That being true, don't show yourself a commonplacenobody by deriding and denying what your brain is unable to comprehend. Show yourself a somebody by seeing the limitations of your ability. Theworld is full of little people who criticise and judge and laugh at andmisunderstand the few real intelligences. And very tedious interruptionsof the scenery those little people are. Don't be one of them. . . . Didyou know my wife's father?"

Tetlow startled. "No--that is, yes, " he stammered. "That is, I met him afew times. "

"Often enough to find out that he was crazy?"

"Oh, yes. He explained some of his ideas to me. Yes--he was quite mad, poor fellow. "

Norman gave way to a fit of silent laughter. "I can imagine, " hepresently said, "what you'd have thought if Columbus or Alexander orNapoleon or Stevenson or even the chaps who doped out the telephone andthe telegraph--if they had talked to you before they arrived. Or evenafter they arrived, if they had been explaining some still newer andbigger idea not yet accomplished. "

"You don't think Mr. Hallowell was mad?"

"He was mad, assuming that you are the standard of sanity. Otherwise, hewas a great man. There'll be statues erected and pages of the book offame devoted to the men who carry out his ideas. "

"His death was certainly a great loss to his daughter, " said Tetlow inhis heaviest, most bourgeois manner. 

"I said he was a great man, " observed Norman. "I didn't say he was agreat father. A great man is never a great father. It takes a small manto be a great father. "

"At any rate, her having no parents or relatives doesn't matter, nowthat she has you, " said Tetlow, his manner at once forced andconstrained. 

"Um, " muttered Norman. 

Said Tetlow: "Perhaps you misunderstood why I--I acted as I did abouther, toward the last. "

"It was of no importance, " said Norman brusquely. "I wish to hearnothing about it. "

"But I must explain, Fred. She piqued me by showing so plainly that shedespised me. I must admit the truth, though I've got as much vanity asthe next man, and don't like to admit it. She despised me, and it mademe mad. "

An expression of grim satire passed over Norman's face. Said he: "Shedespised me, too. "

"Yes, she did, " said Tetlow. "And both of us were certainly greatly hersuperiors--in every substantial way. It seemed to me most--most----"

"Most impertinent of her?" suggested Norman. 

"Precisely. _Most_ impertinent. "

"Rather say, ignorant and small. My dear Tetlow, let me tell yousomething. Anybody, however insignificant, can be loved. To be lovedmeans nothing, except possibly a hallucination in the brain of thelover. But to _love_--that's another matter. Only a great soul is capableof a great love. "

"That is true, " murmured Tetlow sentimentally, preening in a quiet, gentle way. 

Said Norman sententiously: "_You_ stopped loving. It was _I_ that kepton. "

Tetlow looked uncomfortable. "Yes--yes, " he said. "But we were talkingof her--of her not appreciating the love she got. And I was about tosay--" Earnestly--"Fred, she's not to be blamed for her folly! She'svery, very young--and has all the weaknesses and vanities of youth----"

"Here we are, " interrupted Norman. 

The hansom had stopped in Forty-second Street before the deserted butstill brilliantly lighted entrances to the great hotel. Norman sprangout so lightly and surely that Tetlow wondered how it was possible forthis to be the man who had been racketing and roistering day after day, night after night for nearly a week. He helped the heavy and awkwardTetlow to descend, said:

"You'll have to pay, Bill. I've got less than a dollar left. And Itouched Gaskill for a hundred and fifty to-night. You can imagine howdrunk he was, to let me have it. How they've been shying off from _me_these last few months!"

"And you want _Galloway_ to come to _you_, " thrust Tetlow, as he countedout the money. 

"Don't go back and chew on that, " laughed Norman. "It's settled. " Hetook the money, gave it to the driver. "Thanks, " he said to Tetlow. "I'll pay you to-morrow--that is, later to-day--when you send me anothercheck. "

"Why should you pay for my cab?" rejoined Tetlow. 

"Because it's easier for me to make money than it is for you, " repliedNorman. "If you were in my position--the position I've been in formonths--would anybody on earth give you three thousand dollars a month?"

Tetlow looked sour. His good nature was rubbing thin in spots. 

"Don't lose your temper, " laughed Norman. "I'm pounding away at youabout my superiority, partly because I've been drinking, but chiefly foryour own good--so that you'll realize I'm right and not mess things withGalloway. "

They went up to Norman's suite. Norman tried to unlock the door, foundit already unlocked. He turned the knob, threw the door wide for Tetlowto enter first. Then, over Tetlow's shoulder he saw on the marble-toppedcenter table Dorothy's hat and jacket, the one she had worn away, theonly one she had. He stared at them, then at Tetlow. A confused look inthe fat, slow face made him say sharply:

"What does this mean, Tetlow?"

"Not so loud, Fred, " said Tetlow, closing the door into the public hall. "She's in the bedroom--probably asleep. She's been here sinceyesterday. "

"You brought her back?" demanded Norman. 

"She wanted to come. I simply----"

Norman made a silencing gesture. Tetlow's faltering voice stopped short. Norman stood near the table, his hands deep in his trousers' pockets, his gaze fixed upon the hat and jacket. When Tetlow's agitation couldbear the uncertainties of that silence no longer, he went on:

"Fred, you mustn't forget how young and inexperienced she is. She's beenfoolish, but nothing more. She's as pure as when she came into theworld. And it's the truth that she wanted to come back. I saw it as soonas I began to talk with her. "

"What are you chattering about?" said Norman fiercely. "Why did youmeddle in my affairs? Why did you bring her back?"

"I knew she needed you, " pleaded Tetlow. "Then, too--I was afraid--Iknew how you acted before, and I thought you'd not get your gait againuntil you had her. "

Norman gave a short sardonic laugh. "If you'd only stop trying tounderstand me!" he said. 

Tetlow was utterly confused. "But, Fred, you don't realize--not all, " hecried imploringly. "She discovered--she thinks, I believe--thatis--she--she--that probably--that in a few months you'll be somethingmore than a husband--and she something more than a wife--thatyou--that--you and she will be a father and a mother. "

Tetlow's meaning slowly dawned on Norman. He seated himself in hisfavorite attitude, legs sprawled, fingers interlaced behind his head. 

"Wasn't I right to bring her back--to tell her she needn't fear tocome?" pleaded Tetlow. 

Norman made no reply. After a brief silence he said: "Well, good night, old man. Come round to my office any time after ten. " He rose and gaveTetlow his hand. "And arrange for Galloway whenever you like. Goodnight. "

Tetlow hesitated. "Fred--you'll not be harsh to her?" he said. 

Norman smiled--a satirical smile, yet exquisitely gentle. "If you _only_wouldn't try to understand me, Bill, " he said. 

When he was alone he sat lost in thought. At last he rang for a bellboy. And when the boy came, he said: "That door there"--indicating onein the opposite wall of the sitting room--"what does it lead into?"

"Another bedroom, sir. "

"Unlock it, and tell them at the office I wish that room added to mysuite. "

As soon as the additional bedroom was at his disposal, he went in andbegan to undress. When he had taken off coat and waistcoat he paused totelephone to the office a call for eight o'clock. As he finished andhung up the receiver, a sound from the direction of the sitting roommade him glance in there. On the threshold of the other bedroom stoodhis wife. She was in her nightgown; her hair, done in a single thickbraid, hung down across her bosom. There was in the room and upon herchildish loveliness the strange commingling of lights and shadows thatfalls when the electricity is still on and the early morning light ispushing in at the windows. They looked at each other in silence for sometime. If she was frightened or in the least embarrassed she did not showit. She simply looked at him, while ever so slowly a smile dawned--agleam in the eyes, a flutter round the lips, growing merrier andmerrier. He did not smile. He continued to regard her gravely. 

"I heard you and Mr. Tetlow come in, " she said. "Then--you talked solong--I fell asleep again. I only this minute awakened. "

"Well, now you can go to sleep again, " said he. 

"But I'm not a bit sleepy. What are you doing in that room?"

She advanced toward his door. He stood aside. She peeped in. She was soclose to him that her nightgown brushed the bosom of his shirt. "Anotherbedroom!" she exclaimed. "Just like ours. "

"I didn't wish to disturb you, " said he, calm and grave. 

"But you wouldn't have been disturbing me, " protested she, leaningagainst the door frame, less than two feet away and directly facing him. 

"I'll stay on here, " said he. 

She gazed at him with great puzzled eyes. "Aren't you glad I'm back?"she asked. 

"Certainly, " said he with a polite smile. "But I must get some sleep. "And he moved away. 

"You must let me tell you how I happened to go and why I came----"

"Please, " he interrupted, looking at her with a piercing though not inthe least unfriendly expression that made her grow suddenly pale andthoughtful. "I do not wish to hear about it--not now--not ever. Tetlowtold me all that it's necessary for me to know. You have come to stay, Iassume?"

"Yes--if"--her lip quivered--"if you'll let me. "

"There can be no question of that, " said he with the same polite gravityhe had maintained throughout. 

"You want me to leave you alone?"

"Please. I need sleep badly--and I've only three hours. "

"You are--angry with me?"

He looked placidly into her lovely, swimming eyes. "Not in the least. "

"But how can you help being? I acted dreadfully. "

He smiled gently. "But you are back--and the incident is closed. "

She looked down at the carpet, her fingers playing with her braid, twisting and untwisting its strands. He stood waiting to close the door. She said, without lifting her eyes--said in a quiet, expressionless way, "I have killed your love?"

"I'll not trouble you any more, " evaded he. And he laid his handsignificantly upon the knob. 

"I don't understand, " she murmured. Then, with a quick apologetic glanceat him, "But I'm very inconsiderate. You want to sleep. Good night. "

"Good night, " said he, beginning to close the door. 

She impulsively stood close before him, lifted her small white face, asif for a kiss. "Do you forgive me?" she asked. "I was foolish. I didn'tunderstand--till I went back. Then--nothing was the same. And I knew Iwasn't fitted for that life--and didn't really care for him--and----"

He kissed her on the brow. "Don't agitate yourself, " said he. "And wewill never speak of this again. "

She shrank as if he had struck her. Her head drooped, and her shoulders. When she was clear of the door, he quietly closed it. 

XIX

It was not many minutes after ten when Tetlow hurried into Norman'soffice. "Galloway's coming at eleven!" said he, with an air of triumph. 

"So you mulled over what I said and decided that I was not altogetherdrunk?"

"I wasn't sure of that, " replied Tetlow. "But I was afraid you'd beoffended if I didn't try to get him. He gave me no trouble at all. Assoon as I told him you'd be glad to see him at your office, he astoundedme by saying he'd come. "

"He and I have had dealings, " said Norman. "He understood at once. Ialways know my way when I'm dealing with a big man. It's only the littlepeople that are muddled and complex. I hope you'll not forget thislesson, Billy. "

"I shan't, " promised Tetlow. 

"We are to be partners, " pursued Norman. "We shall be intimatelyassociated for years. You'll save me a vast amount of time and energyand yourself a vast amount of fuming and fretting, if you'll simplyaccept what I say, without discussion. When I want discussion I'll askyour advice. "

"I'm afraid you don't think it's worth much, " said Tetlow humbly, "and Iguess it isn't. "

"On the contrary, invaluable, " declared Norman with flattering emphasis. "Where you lack and I excel is in decision and action. I'll often getyou to tell me what ought to be done, and then I'll make you doit--which you'd never dare, by yourself. "

At eleven sharp Galloway came, looking as nearly like a dangerous oldeagle as a human being well could. Rapacious, merciless, tyrannical; afamous philanthropist. Stingy to pettiness; a giver away of millions. Rigidly honest, yet absolutely unscrupulous; faithful to the last letterof his given word, yet so treacherous where his sly mind could nose outa way to evade the spirit of his agreements that his name was a synonymfor unfaithfulness. An assiduous and groveling snob, yet so militantlydemocratic that, unless his interest compelled, he would not employ anymember of the "best families" in any important capacity. He seemed abundle of contradictions. In fact he was profoundly consistent. That isto say, he steadily pursued in every thought and act the gratificationof his two passions--wealth and power. He lost no seen opportunity, however shameful, to add to his fortune or to amuse himself with thehuman race, which he regarded with the unpitying contempt characteristicof every cold nature born or risen to success. 

His theory of life--and it is the theory that explains most greatfinancial successes, however they may pretend or believe--his theory oflife was that he did not need friends because the friends of a strongman weaken and rob him, but that he did need enemies because he couldgrow rich and powerful destroying and despoiling them. To him friendssuggested the birds living in a tree. They might make the tree moreromantic to the unthinking observer; but they in fact ate its buddingleaves and its fruit and rotted its bough joints with their filthynests. 

We Americans are probably nearest to children of any race incivilization. The peculiar conditions of life--their almost Arcadiansimplicity--up to a generation or so ago, gave us a false training inthe study of human nature. We believe what the good preacher, thenovelist and the poet, all as ignorant of life as nursery books, tell usabout the human heart. We fancy that in a social system modeled upon thecruel and immoral system of Nature, success is to the good and kind. Life is like the pious story in the Sunday-school library; evil is theexception and to practice the simple virtues is to tread with sure stepthe highway to riches and fame. This sort of ignorance is taught, isproclaimed, is apparently accepted throughout the world. Literature andthe drama, representing life as it is dreamed by humanity, life as itperhaps may be some day, create an impression which defies the plaindaily and hourly mockings of experience. Because weak and pettyoffenders are often punished, the universe is pictured as sternlyenforcing the criminal codes enacted by priests or lawyers. But, whileall the world half inclines to this agreeable mendacity about life, onlyin America of all civilization is the mendacity accepted as gospel, andsuspicion about it frowned upon as the heresy of cynicism. So theGalloways prosper and are in high moral repute. Some day we shall learnthat a social system which is merely a slavish copy of Nature'sbarbarous and wasteful sway of the survival of the toughest could be andought to be improved upon by the intelligence of the human race. Someday we shall put Nature in its proper place as kindergarten teacher, anddrop it from godship and erect enlightened human understanding instead. But that is a long way off. Meanwhile the Galloways will reign, and willassure us that they won their success by the Decalogue and the GoldenRule--and will be believed by all who seek to assure for themselves inadvance almost certain failure at material success in the arena ofaction. 

But they will not be believed by men of ambition, pushing resolutely forpower and wealth. So Frederick Norman knew precisely what he was facingwhen Galloway's tall gaunt figure and face of the bird of prey appearedbefore him. Galloway had triumphed and was triumphing not throughobedience to the Sunday sermons and the silly novels, poems, plays, andthe nonsense chattered by the obscure multitudes whom the mighty fewexploit, but through obedience to the conditions imposed by our socialsystem. If he raised wages a little, it was in order that he might haveexcuse for raising prices a great deal. If he gave away millions, it wasfor his fame, and usually to quiet the scandal over some particularlywicked wholesale robbery. No, Galloway was not a witness to the might ofaltruistic virtue as a means to triumph. Charity and all the other formsof chicanery by which the many are defrauded and fooled by the few--those"virtues" he understood and practiced. But justice--humanity's ages-longdream that at last seems to glitter as a hope in the horizon of thefuture--justice--not legal justice, nor moral justice, but humanjustice--that idea would have seemed to him ridiculous, Utopian, something for the women and the children and the socialists. 

Norman understood Galloway, and Galloway understood Norman. Galloway, with an old man's garrulity and a confirmed moral poseur's eagernessabout appearances, began to unfold his virtuous reasons for theimpending break with Burroughs--the industrial and financial war out ofwhich he expected to come doubly rich and all but supreme. Midway hestopped. 

"You are not listening, " said he sharply to the young man. 

Their eyes met. Norman's eyes were twinkling. "No, " said he, "I amwaiting. "

There was the suggestion of an answering gleam of sardonic humor inGalloway's cold gray eyes. "Waiting for what?"

"For you to finish with me as father confessor, to begin with me aslawyer. Pray don't hurry. My time is yours. " This with a fine air ofutmost suavity and respect. 

In fact, while Galloway was doddering on and on with his fakemoralities, Norman was thinking of his own affairs, was wondering at hisindifference about Dorothy. The night before--the few hours before--whenhe had dealt with her so calmly, he, even as he talked and listened andacted, had assumed that the enormous amount of liquor he had beenconsuming was in some way responsible. He had said to himself, "When Iam over this, when I have had sleep and return to the normal, I shallagain be the foolish slave of all these months. " But here he was, sober, having taken only enough whisky to prevent an abrupt let-down--here hewas viewing her in the same tranquil light. No longer all his life; nolonger even dominant; only a part of life--and he was by no meanscertain that she was an important part. 

How explain the mystery of the change? Because she had voluntarily comeback, did he feel that she was no longer baffling but was definitelyhis? Or had passion running madly on and on dropped--perhaps not dead, but almost dead--from sheer exhaustion?--was it weary of racing andcontent to saunter and to stroll? . . . He could not account for thechange. He only knew that he who had been quite mad was now quitesane. . . . Would he like to be rid of her? Did he regret that they weretied together? No, curiously enough. It was high time he got married;she would do as well as another. She had beauty, youth, amiability, physical charm for him. There was advantage in the fact that herinferiority to him, her dependence on him, would enable him to take asmuch or as little of her as he might feel disposed, to treat her as thewarrior must ever treat his entire domestic establishment from wife downto pet dog or cat or baby. . . . No, he did not regret Josephine. He couldsee now disadvantages greater than her advantages. All of value shewould have brought him he could get for himself, and she would have beentroublesome--exacting, disputing his sway, demanding full value or morein return for the love she was giving with such exalted notions of itsworth. 

"You are married?" Galloway suddenly said, interrupting his own speechand Norman's thought. 

"Yes, " said Norman. 

"Just married, I believe?"

"Just. "

Young and old, high and low, successful and failed, we are a race ofadvice-givers. As for Galloway, he was not one to neglect that showyform of inexpensive benevolence. "Have plenty of children, " said he. 

"And keep your family in the country till they grow up. Town's no placefor women. They go crazy. Women--and most men--have no initiative. Theythink only about whatever's thrust at them. In the country it'll betheir children and domestic things. In town it'll be getting andspending money. "

Norman was struck by this. "I think I'll take your advice, " said he. 

"A man's home ought to be a retreat, not an inn. We are humoring thewomen too much. They are forgetting who earns what they spend inexhibiting themselves. If a woman wants that sort of thing, let her getout and earn it. Why should she expect it from the man who hasundertaken her support because he wanted a wife to take care of hishouse and a mother for his children? If a woman doesn't like the job, all right. But if she takes it and accepts its pay, why, she should doits work. "

"Flawless logic, " said Norman. 

"When I hire a man to work, he doesn't expect to idle about showingother people how handsome he is in the clothes my money pays for. Notthat marriage is altogether a business--not at all. But, my dear sir--"And Galloway brought his cane down with the emphasis of one speakingfrom a heart full of bitter experience--"unless it is a business atbottom, organized and conducted on sound business principles, there's nosentiment either. We are human beings--and that means we are first ofall _business_ beings, engaged in getting food, clothing, shelter. Nosentiment--_no_ sentiment, sir, is worth while that isn't firmly grounded. It's a house without a foundation. It's a steeple without a church underit. "

Norman looked at the old man with calm penetrating eyes. "I shallconduct my married life on a sound, business basis, or not at all, " saidhe. 

"We'll see, " said Galloway. "That's what I said forty years ago--No, Ididn't. I had no sense about such matters then. In my youth the men knewnothing about the woman question. " He smiled grimly. "I see signs thatthey are learning. "

Then as abruptly as he had left the affairs he was there to discuss hereturned to them. His mind seemed to have freed itself of allirrelevancy and superfluity, as a stream often runs from a faucet withmuch spluttering and rather muddy at first, then steadies and clears. Norman gave him the attention one can get only from a good mind that isinterested in the subject and understands it thoroughly. Such attentionnot merely receives the words and ideas as they fall from the mouth ofhim who utters them, but also seems to draw them by a sort of suctionfaster and in greater abundance. It was this peculiar ability of givingattention, as much as any other one quality, that gave Norman's clientstheir confidence in him. Galloway, than whom no man was shrewder judgeof men, showed in his gratified eyes and voice, long before he hadfinished, how strongly his conviction of Norman's high ability wasconfirmed. 

When Galloway ended, Norman rapidly and in clear and simple sentencessummarized what Galloway had said. "That is right?" he asked. 

"Precisely, " said Galloway admiringly. "What a gift of clear statementyou have, young man!"

"It has won me my place, " said Norman. "As to your campaign, I can tellyou now that the legal part of it can be arranged. That is what the lawis for--to enable a man to do whatever he wants. The penalties are forthose who have the stupidity to try to do things in an unlawful way. "

Galloway laughed. "I had heard that they were for doing unlawfulthings. "

"Nothing is unlawful, " said Norman, "except in method. "

"That's an interesting view of courts of justice. "

"But we have no courts of justice. We have only courts of law. "

Galloway threw back his head and laughed till the tears rolled down hischeeks. "What a gift for clear statement!" he cried. 

Norman beamed appreciation of a compliment so flattering. But he wentback to business. "As I was saying, you can do what you want to do. Youwish me to show you how. In our modern way of doing things, the relationof lawyer and client has somewhat changed. To illustrate by this case, you are the bear with the taste for honey and the strength to rob thebees. I am the honey bird--that is, the modern lawyer--who can show youthe way to the hive. Most of the honey birds--as yet--are content with avery small share of the honey--whatever the bear happens to be unable tofind room for. But I--" Norman's eyes danced and his strong mouth curvedin a charming smile--"I am a honey bird with a bear appetite. "

Galloway was sitting up stiffly. "I don't quite follow you, sir, " hesaid. 

"Yet I am plain enough. My ability at clear statement has not desertedme. If I show you the way through the tangled forest of the law to thishive you scent--I must be a partner in the honey. "

Galloway rose. "Your conceptions of your profession--and of me, I maysay--are not attractive. I have always been, and am willing and anxiousto pay liberally--more liberally than anyone else--for legal advice. Butmy business, sir, is my own. "

Norman rose, his expression one of apology and polite disappointment. "Isee I misunderstood your purpose in coming to me, " said he. "Let us takeno more of each other's time. "

"And what did you think my object was in coming?" demanded Galloway. 

"To get from me what you realized you could get nowhere else--whichmeant, as an old experienced trader like you must have known, that youwere ready to pay my price. Of course, if you can get elsewhere theassistance you need, why, you would be most unwise to come to me. "

Galloway moved toward the door. "And you might have charged practicallyany fee you wished, " said he, laughing satirically. "Young man, you aremaking the mistake that is ruining this generation. You wish to get richall at once. You are not willing to be patient and to work and to buildyour fortune solidly and slowly. "

Norman smiled as at a good joke. "What an asset to you strong men hasbeen the vague hope in the minds of the masses that each poor devil ofthem will have his turn to loot and grow rich. I used to think ignorancekept the present system going. But I have discovered that it is thatsly, silly, corrupt hope. But, sir, it does not catch me. I shall notwork for you and the other strong men, and patiently wait my turn thatwould never come. My time is _now_. "

"You threaten me!" cried Galloway furiously. 

"Threaten you?" exclaimed Norman, amazed. 

"You think, because I have given you, my lawyer, my secrets, that youcan compel me----"

With an imperious gesture Norman stopped him. "Good day, sir, " he saidhaughtily. "Your secrets are safe with me. I am a lawyer, not afinancier. "

Galloway was disconcerted. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Norman, " he said. "Imisunderstood you. I thought I heard you say in effect that you purposedto be rich, and that you purposed to compel me to make you so. "

"So I did, " replied Norman. "But not by the methods you financiers areso adept at using. Not by high-class blackmail and blackjacking. I meantthat my abilities were such that you and your fellow masters of modernsociety would be compelled to employ me on my own terms. A few momentsago you outlined to me a plan. It may be you can find other lawyerscompetent to steer it through the channel of the law. I doubt it. I mayexaggerate my value. But--" He smiled pleasantly--"I don't think so. "

In this modern world of ours there is no more delicate or more importantbranch of the art of material success than learning to play one's owntune on the trumpets of fame. To those who watch careers intelligentlyand critically, and not merely with mouth agape and ears awag forwhatever sounds the winds of credulity bear, there is keen interest innoting how differently this high art is practiced by thefame-seekers--how well some modest heroes disguise themselves beforeessaying the trumpet, how timidly some play, how brazenly others. It isan art of infinite variety. How many there are who can echoShakespeare's sad lament, through Hamlet's lips--"I lack advancement!"Those are they who have wholly neglected, as did Shakespeare, thisessential part of the art of advancement--Shakespeare, who lived almostobscure and was all but forgotten for two centuries after his death. 

Norman, frankly seeking mere material success, and with the colossalegotism that disdains egotism and shrugs at the danger of being accusedof it--Norman did not hesitate to proclaim his own merits. He reasonedthat he had the wares, that crying them would attract attention to them, that he whose attention was attracted, if he were a judge of wares and aseeker of the best, would see that the Norman wares were indeed asNorman cried them. At first blush Galloway was amused by Norman's candidself-esteem. But he had often heard of Norman's conceit--and in a longand busy life he had not seen an able man who was unaware of hisability; any more than he had seen a pretty woman unaware of herprettiness. So, at second blush, Galloway was tempted by Norman's calmstrong blast upon his own trumpet to look again at the wares. 

"I always have had a high opinion of you, young man, " said he, withlaughing eyes. "Almost as high an opinion as you have of yourself. Thinkover the legal side of my plan. When you get your thoughts in order, letme know--and make me a proposition as to your own share. Does thatsatisfy you?"

"It's all I ask, " said Norman. 

And they parted on the friendliest terms--and Norman knew that hisfortune was assured, if Galloway lived another nine months. When he wasalone, the sweat burst out upon him and, trembling from head to foot, helocked his door and flung himself at full length upon the rug. It washalf an hour before the fit of silent hysterical reaction passedsufficiently to let him gather strength to rise. He tottered to his deskchair, and sat with his head buried in his arms upon the desk. After awhile the telephone at his side rang insistently. He took the receiverin a hand he could not steady. 

"Yes?" he called. 

"It's Tetlow. How'd you come out?"

"Oh--" He paused to stiffen his throat to attack the wordsnaturally--"all right. We go ahead. "

"With G. ?"

"Certainly. But keep quiet. Don't let him know you've heard, if you seehim or he sends for you. Remember, it's in my hands entirely. "

"Trust me. " Tetlow's voice, suppressed and jubilant, suggested a fat, hoarse rooster trying to finish a crow before a coming stone from a farmboy reaches him. "It seems natural and easy to you, old man. But I'mabout crazy with joy. I'll come right over. "

"No. I'm going home. "

"Can't I see you there?"

"No. I've other matters to attend to. Come about lunch timeto-morrow--to the office, here. "

"All right, " said Tetlow disappointedly, and Norman rang off. 

XX

In the faces of men who have dominion of whatever kind over their fellowmen--be it the brutal rule of the prize fighter over his gang or theapparently gentle sway of the apparently meek bishop over his lovingflock--in the faces of all men of power there is a dangerous look. Theymay never lose their tempers. They may never lift their voices. They maybe ever suave and civil. The dangerous look is there--and the dangerbehind it. And the sense of that look and of its cause has a certainrestraining effect upon all but the hopelessly impudent or solidlydense. Norman was one of the men without fits of temper. In his momentsof irritation, no one ever felt that a storm of violent language mightbe impending. But the danger signal flaunted from his face. Danger ofwhat? No one could have said. Most people would have laughed at the ideathat so even tempered a man, pleased with himself and with the world, could ever be dangerous. Yet everyone had instinctively respected thatdanger flag--until Dorothy. 

Perhaps it had struck for her--had really not been there when she lookedat him. Perhaps she had been too inexperienced, perhaps tooself-centered, to see it. Perhaps she had never before seen his face inan hour of weariness and relaxation--when the true character, thedominating and essential trait or traits, shows nakedly upon thesurface, making the weak man or woman look pitiful, the strong man orwoman formidable. 

However that may be, when he walked into the sitting room, greeted herplacidly and kissed her on the brow, she, glancing uncertainly up athim, saw that danger signal for the first time. She studied his face, her own face wearing her expression of the puzzled child. No, not quitethat expression as it always had been theretofore, but a modified formof it. To any self-centered, self-absorbed woman--there comes in hermarried life, unless she be married to a booby, a time, an hour, amoment even--for it can be narrowed down to a point--when she takes herfirst _seeing_ look at the man upon whom she is dependent for protection, whether spiritual or material, or both. In her egotism and vanity shehas been regarding him as her property. Suddenly, and usuallydisagreeably, it has been revealed to her that she is his property. Thathour had come for Dorothy Norman. And she was looking at her husband, was wondering who and what he was. 

"You've had your lunch?" he said. 

"No, " replied she. 

"You have been out for the air?"

"No. "

"Why not?"

"You didn't tell me what to do. "

He smiled good humoredly. "Oh, you had no money. "

"Yes--a little. But I--" She halted. 

"Yes?"

"You hadn't told me what to do, " she repeated, as if on mature thoughtthat sentence expressed the whole matter. 

He felt in his pockets, found a small roll of bills. He laid twenty-fivedollars on the table. "I'll keep thirty, " he said, "as I shan't have anymore till I see Tetlow to-morrow. Now, fly out and amuse yourself. I'mgoing to sleep. Don't wake me till you're ready for dinner. "

And he went into his bedroom and closed the door. When he awoke, he sawthat it was dark outside, and some note in the din of street noises fromfar below made him feel that it was late. He wrapped a bathrobe roundhim, opened the door into the sitting room. It was dark. 

"Dorothy!" he called. 

"Yes, " promptly responded the small quiet voice, so near that he startedback. 

"Oh!" he exclaimed, and switched on the light. "There you are--by thewindow. What were you doing, in the dark?"

She was dressed precisely as when he had last seen her. She was sittingwith her hands listless in her lap and her face a moving and beautifulexpression of melancholy dreams. On the table were the bills--where hehad laid them. "You've been out?" he said. 

"No, " she replied. 

"Why not?"

"I've been--waiting. "

"For what?" laughed he. 

"For--I don't know, " she replied. "Just waiting. "

"But there's nothing to wait for. "

She looked at him interrogatively. "No--I suppose not, " she said. 

He went back into his room and glanced at his watch. "Eleven o'clock!"he cried. "Why didn't you wake me? You must be nearly starved. "

"Yes, I am hungry, " said she. 

Her patient, passive resignation irritated him. "I'm ravenous, " he said. "I'll dress--and you dress, too. We'll go downstairs to supper. "

When he reappeared in the sitting room, in a dinner jacket, she wasagain seated near the window, hands listless in her lap and eyes gazingdreamily into vacancy. But she was now dressed in the black chiffon andthe big black hat. He laughed. "You are prompt and obedient, " said he. "Nothing like hunger to subdue. "

A faint flush tinged her lovely skin; the look of the child that hasbeen struck appeared in her eyes. 

He cast about in his mind for the explanation. Did she think he meant itwas need that had brought her meekly back to him? That was true enough, but he had not intended to hint it. In high good humor because he was sodelightfully hungry and was about to get food, he cried: "Do cheer up!There's nothing to be sad about--nothing. "

She lifted her large eyes and gazed at him timidly. "What are you goingto do with me?"

"Take you downstairs and feed you. "

"But I mean--afterward?"

"Bring--or send--you up here to go to bed. "

"Are you going away?"

"Where?"

"Away from me. "

He looked at her with amused eyes. She was exquisitely lovely; never hadhe seen her lovelier. It delighted him to note her charms--the charmsthat had enslaved him--not a single charm missing--and to feel that hewas no longer their slave, was his own master again. 

A strange look swept across her uncannily mobile face--a look of wonder, of awe, of fear, of dread. "You don't even like me any more, " she saidin her colorless way. 

"What have I done to make you think I dislike you?" said he pleasantly. 

She gazed down in silence. 

"You need have no fear, " said he. "You are my wife. You will be welltaken care of, and you will not be annoyed. What more can I say?"

"Thank you, " she murmured. 

He winced. She had made him feel like an unpleasant cross between analms-giver and a bully. "Now, " said he, with forced but resolutecheerfulness, "we will eat, drink and be merry. "

On the way down in the elevator he watched her out of the corner of hiseye. When they reached the hall leading to the supper room he touchedher arm and halted her. "My dear, " said he in the pleasant voice whichyet somehow never failed to secure attention and obedience, "there willbe some of my acquaintances in there at supper. I don't want them to seeyou with that whipped dog look. There's no occasion for it. "

Her lip trembled. "I'll do my best, " said she. 

"Let's see you smile, " laughed he. "You have often shown me that youknow the woman's trick of wearing what feelings you choose on theoutside. So don't pretend that you've got to look as if you were aboutto be hung for a crime you didn't commit. There!--that's better. "

And indeed to a casual glance she looked the happy bride trying--notvery successfully--to seem used to her husband and her new status. 

"Hold it!" he urged gayly. "I've no fancy for leading round a lovelymartyr in chains. Especially as you're about as healthy and well placeda person as I know. And you'll feel as well as you look when you've hadsomething to eat. "

Whether it was obedience or the result of a decision to drop anunprofitable pose he could not tell, but as soon as they were seated andshe had a bill of fare before her and was reading it, her expression ofhappiness lost its last suggestion of being forced. "Crab meat!" shesaid. "I love it!"

"Two portions of crab meat, " he said to the waiter with pad and pencilat attention. 

"Oh, I don't want that much, " she protested. 

"You forget that I am hungry, " rejoined he. "And when I am hungry, theprice of food begins to go up. " He addressed himself to the waiter:"After that a broiled grouse--with plenty of hominy--and grilled sweetpotatoes--and a salad of endive and hothouse tomatoes--and I know thedifference between hothouse tomatoes and the other kinds. Next--somecheese--Coullomieres--yes, you have it--I got the steward to get it--andtoasted crackers--the round kind, not the square--and not the hard onesthat unsettle the teeth--and--what kind of ice, my dear?--or would youprefer a fresh peach flambee?"

"Yes--I think so, " said Dorothy. 

"You hear, waiter?--and a bottle of--there's the head waiter--askhim--he knows the champagne I like. "

As Norman had talked, in the pleasant, insistent voice, the waiter hadroused from the air of mindless, mechanical sloth characteristic of theNew York waiter--unless and until a fee below his high expectation isoffered. When he said the final "very good, sir, " it was with the accentof real intelligence. 

Dorothy was smiling, with the amusement of youth and inexperience. "Whata lot of trouble you took about it, " said she. 

He shrugged his shoulders. "Anything worth doing at all is worth takingtrouble about. You will see. We shall get results. The supper will bethe best this house can put together. "

"You can have anything you want in this world, if you only can pay forit, " said she. 

"That's what most people think, " replied he. "But the truth is, thepaying is only a small part of the art of getting what one wants. "

She glanced nervously at him. "I'm beginning to realize that I'mdreadfully inexperienced, " said she. 

"There's nothing discouraging in that, " said he. "Lack of experience canbe remedied. But not lack of judgment. It takes the great gift ofjudgment to enable one to profit by mistakes, to decide what is the reallesson of an experience. "

"I'm afraid I haven't any judgment, either, " confessed she. 

"That remains to be seen. "

She hesitated--ventured: "What do you think is my worst fault?"

He shook his head laughingly. "We are going to have a happy supper. "

"Do you think I am very vain?" persisted she. 

"Who's been telling you so?"

"Mr. Tetlow. He gave me an awful talking to, just before I--" She pausedat the edge of the forbidden ground. "He didn't spare me, " she went on. "He said I was a vain, self-centered little fool. "

"And what did you say?"

"I was very angry. I told him he had no right to accuse me of that. Ireminded him that he had never heard me say a word about myself. "

"And did he say that the vainest people were just that way--neverspeaking of themselves, never thinking of anything else?"

"Oh, he told you what he said, " cried she. 

"No, " laughed he. 

She reddened. "_You_ think I'm vain?"

He made a good-humoredly satirical little bow. "I think you arecharming, " said he. "It would be a waste of time to look at or to thinkof anyone else when oneself is the most charming and interesting personin the world. Still--" He put into his face and voice a suggestion ofgravity that caught her utmost attention--"if one is to get anywhere, isto win consideration from others--and happiness for oneself--one simplymust do a little thinking about others--occasionally. "

Her eyes lowered. A faint color tinged her cheeks. 

"The reason most of us are so uncomfortable--downright unhappy most ofthe time--is that we never really take our thoughts off our preciousfascinating selves. The result is that some day we find that theliking--and friendship--and love--of those around us has limits--and weare left severely alone. Of course, if one has a great deal of money, one can buy excellent imitations of liking and friendship and evenlove--I ought to say, especially love----"

The color flamed in her face. 

"But, " he went on, "if one is in modest circumstances or poor, one hasto take care. "

"Or dependent, " she said, with one of those unexpected flashes of subtleintelligence that so complicated the study of her character. He had beentalking to amuse himself rather than with any idea of her understanding. Her sudden bright color and her two words--"or dependent"--roused him tosee that she thought he was deliberately giving her a savage lecturefrom the cover of general remarks. "With the vanity of the typicalwoman, " he said to himself, "she always imagines _she_ is the subject ofeveryone's thought and talk. "

"Or dependent, " said he to her, easily. "I wasn't thinking of you, butyours _is_ a case in point. Come, now--nothing to look blue about! Here'ssomething to eat. No, it's for the next table. "

"You won't let me explain, " she protested, between the prudence ofreproach and the candor of anger. 

"There's nothing to explain, " replied he. "Don't bother about themistakes of yesterday. Remember them--yes. If one has a good memory, toforget is impossible--not to say unwise. But there ought to be no moreheat or sting in the memory of past mistakes than in the memory of lastyear's mosquito bites. "

The first course of the supper arrived. Her nervousness vanished, and hegot far away from the neighborhood of the subjects that, even inremotest hint, could not but agitate her. And as the food and the wineasserted their pacific and beatific sway, she and he steadily moved intobetter and better humor with each other. Her beauty grew until it hadhim thinking that never, not in the most spiritual feminine conceptionsof the classic painters, had he seen a loveliness more ethereal. Herskin was so exquisite, the coloring of her hair and eyes and of her lipswas so delicately fine that it gave her the fragility of thingsbordering upon the supernal--of rare exotics, of sunset and moonbeameffects. No, he had been under no spell of illusion as to her beauty. Itwas a reality--the more fascinating because it waxed and waned not withregularity of period but capriciously. 

He began to look round furtively, to see what effect this wife of hiswas producing on others. These last few months, through prudence as muchas through pride, he had been cultivating the habit of ignoring hissurroundings; he would not invite cold salutations or obvious avoidanceof speaking. He now discovered many of his former associates--and hisvanity dilated as he noted how intensely they were interested in hiswife. 

Some men of ability have that purest form of egotism which makes oneprofoundly content with himself, genuinely indifferent to the approvalor the disapproval of others. Norman's vanity had a certain amount ofalloy. He genuinely disdained his fellow-men--their timidity, theirhypocrisy, their servility, their limited range of ideas. He wasindifferent to the verge of insensibility as to their adverse criticism. But at the same time it was necessary to his happiness that he get fromthem evidences of their admiration and envy. With that amusing hypocrisywhich tinges all human nature, he concealed from himself thesatisfaction, the joy even, he got out of the showy side of hisposition. And no feature of his infatuation for Dorothy surprised him somuch as the way it rode rough shod and reckless over his snobbishness. 

With the fading of infatuation had come many reflections upon thepractical aspects of what he had done. It pleased him with himself tofind that, in this first test, he had not the least regret, but on thecontrary a genuine pride in the courageous independence he hadshown--another and strong support to his conviction of his superiorityto his fellow-men. He might be somewhat snobbish--who was not?--who elsein his New York was less than supersaturated with snobbishness? Butsnobbishness, the determining quality in the natures of all the womenand most of the men he knew, had shown itself one of the incidentalqualities in his own nature. After all, reflected he, it took a man, agood deal of a man, to do what he had done, and not to regret it, evenin the hour of disillusionment. And it must be said for this egotisticself-approval of his that like all his judgments there was sound meritof truth in it. The vanity of the nincompoop is ridiculous. The vanityof the man of ability is amusing and no doubt due to a defective pointof view upon the proportions of the universe; but it is not withoutexcuse, and those who laugh might do well to discriminate even as theyguffaw. 

Looking discreetly about, Norman was suddenly confronted by the face ofJosephine Burroughs, only two tables away. 

Until their eyes squarely met he did not know she was there, or even inAmerica. Before he could make a beginning of glancing away, she gave himher sweetest smile and her friendliest bow. And Dorothy, looking to seeto whom he was speaking, was astonished to receive the same radiance ofcordiality. Norman was pleased at the way his wife dealt with thesituation. She returned both bow and smile in her own quiet, slightlyreserved way of gentle dignity. 

"Who was that, speaking?" asked she. 

"Miss Burroughs. You must remember her. "

He noted it as characteristic that she said, quite sincerely: "Oh, so itis. I didn't remember her. That is the girl you were engaged to. "

"Yes--'the nice girl uptown, '" said he. 

"I didn't like her, " said Dorothy, with evident small interest in thesubject. "She was vain. "

"You mean you didn't like her way of being vain, " suggested Norman. "Everyone is vain; so, if we disliked for vanity we should dislikeeveryone. "

"Yes, it was her way. And just now she spoke to us both, as if she weredoing us a favor. "

"Gracious, it's called, " said he. "What of it? It does us no harm andgives her about the only happiness she's got. "

[Illustration: "At Josephine's right sat a handsome young foreigner. "]

Norman, without seeming to do so, noted the rest of the Burroughs party. At Josephine's right sat a handsome young foreigner, and it took smallexperience of the world to discover that he was paying court to her, andthat she was pleased and flattered. Norman asked the waiter who he was, and learned that he came from the waiter's own province of France, wasthe Duc de Valdome. At first glance Norman had thought himdistinguished. Afterward he discriminated. There are several kinds ordegrees of distinction. There is distinction of race, of class, offamily, of dress, of person. As Frenchman, as aristocrat, as a scion ofthe ancient family of Valdome, as a specimen of tailoring and valeting, Miss Burroughs's young man was distinguished. But in his own properperson he was rather insignificant. The others at the table wereAmericans. Following Miss Burroughs's cue, they sought an opportunity tospeak friendlily to Norman--and he gave it them. His acknowledgment ofthose effusive salutations was polite but restrained. 

"They are friends of yours?" said Dorothy. 

"They were, " said he. "And they may be again--when they are friends of_ours_. "

"I'm not very good at making friends, " she warned him. "I don't likemany people. " This time her unconscious and profound egotism pleasedhim. Evidently it did not occur to her that she should be eager to befriends with those people on any terms, that the only question waswhether they would receive her. 

She asked: "Why was Miss--Miss Burroughs so friendly?"

"Why shouldn't she be?"

"But I thought you threw her over. "

He winced at this crude way of putting it. "On the contrary, she threwme over. "

Dorothy laughed incredulously. "I know better. Mr. Tetlow told me. "

"She threw me over, " repeated he coldly. "Tetlow was repeating maliciousand ignorant gossip. "

Dorothy laughed again--it was her second glass of champagne. "You saythat because it's the honorable thing to say. But I know. "

"I say it because it's true, " said he. 

He spoke quietly, but if she had drunk many more than two glasses of anunaccustomed and heady liquor she would have felt his intonation. Shepaled and shrank and her slim white fingers fluttered nervously at thecollar of her dress. "I was only joking, " she murmured. 

He laughed good-naturedly. "Don't look as if I had given you awhipping, " said he. "Surely you're not afraid of me. "

She glanced shyly at him, a smile dancing in her eyes and upon her lips. "Yes, " she said. And after a pause she added: "I didn't used to be. Butthat was because I didn't know you--or much of anything. " The smileirradiated her whole face. "You used to be afraid of me. But you aren't, any more. "

"No, " said he, looking straight at her. "No, I'm not. "

"I always told you you were mistaken in what you thought of me. I reallydon't amount to much. A man as serious and as important as you arecouldn't--couldn't care about me. "

"It's true you don't amount to much, as yet, " said he. "And if you neverdo amount to much, you'd be no less than most women and most men. ButI've an idea--at times--that you _could_ amount to something. "

He saw that he had wounded her vanity, that her protestations ofhumility were precisely what he had suspected. He laughed at her: "I seeyou thought I'd contradict you. But I can't afford to be so amiable now. And the first thing you've got to get rid of is the part of your vanitythat prevents you from growing. Vanity of belief in one's possibilitiesis fine. No one gets anywhere without it. But vanity of belief in one'spresent perfection--no one but a god could afford that luxury. "

Observing her closely he was amused--and pleased--to note that she wasstruggling to compose herself to endure his candors as a necessary partof the duties and obligations she had taken on herself when she gave upand returned to him. 

"What _you_ thought of _me_ used to be the important thing in ourrelations, " he went on, in his way of raillery that took all or nearlyall the sting out of what he said, but none of its strength. "Now, theimportant thing is what I think of you. You are much younger than I, especially in experience. You are going to school to life with me asteacher. You'll dislike the teacher for the severity of the school. Thatisn't just, but it's natural--perhaps inevitable. And please--my dear--whenyou are bitterest over what _you_ have to put up with from _me_--don'tforget what _I_ have to put up with from _you_. "

She was fighting bravely against angry tears. As for him, he hadsuddenly become indifferent to what the people around them might bethinking. With all his old arrogance come back in full flood, he wasfeeling that he would live his own life in his own way and that thosewho didn't approve--yes, including Dorothy--might do as they saw fit. She said:

"I don't blame you for regretting that you didn't marry Miss Burroughs. "

"But I don't regret it, " replied he. "On the contrary, I'm glad. "

She glanced hopefully at him. But the hopeful expression faded as hewent on:

"Whether or not I made a mistake in marrying you, I certainly had anescape from disaster when she decided she preferred a foreigner and atitle. There's a good sensible reason why so many girls of herclass--more and more all the time--marry abroad. They are not fit to bethe wives of hard-working American husbands. In fact I've about reachedthe conclusion that of the girls growing up nowdays very few in anyclass are fit to be American wives. They're not big enough. They're toocoarse and crude in their tastes. They're only fit for the shallow, showy sort of thing--and the European aristocracy is their hope--andtheir place. "

Her small face had a fascinating expression of achild trying to understand things far beyond its depth. He wasinterested in his own thoughts, however, and went on--for, if he hadbeen in the habit of stopping when his hearers failed to understand, orwhen they misunderstood, either he would have been silent most of thetime in company or his conversation would have been as petty and narrowand devoid of originality or imagination as is the mentality of mosthuman beings--as is the talk and reading that impress them asinteresting--and profound!

"The American man of the more ambitious sort, " he went on, "either hasto live practically if not physically apart from his wife or else has toeducate some not too difficult woman to be his wife. "

She understood that. "You are really going to educate me?" she said, with an arch smile. Now that Norman had her attention, now that she wascentering upon him instead of upon herself, she was interested in him, and in what he said, whether she understood it or not, whether itpleased her vanity or wounded it. The intellects of women work to anunsuspected extent only through the sex charm. Their appreciations ofbooks, of art, of men are dependant, often in the most curious indirectways, upon the fact that the author, the artist, the politician or whatnot is betrousered. Thus, Dorothy was patient, respectful, attentive, was not offended by Norman's didactic way of giving her the lessons inlife. Her smile was happy as well as coquettish, as she asked him toeducate her. 

He returned her smile. "That depends, " answered he. 

"You're not sure I'm worth the trouble?"

"You may put it that way, if you like. But I'd say, rather, I'm not sureI can spare the time--and you're not sure you care to fit yourself forthe place. "

"Oh, but I do!" cried she. 

"We'll see--in a few weeks or months, " replied he. 

The Burroughs party were rising. Josephine had choice of two ways to thedoor. She chose the one that took her past Norman and his bride. Sheadvanced, beaming. Norman rose, took her extended hand. Said she:

"So glad to see you. " Then, turning the radiant smile upon Dorothy, "Andis this your wife? Is this the pretty little typewriter girl?"

Dorothy nodded--a charming, ingenuous bend of the head. Norman felt athrill of pride in her, so beautifully unconscious of the treacherousattempt at insult. It particularly delighted him that she had not madethe mistake of rising to return Josephine's greeting but had remainedseated. Surely this wife of his had the right instincts that never failto cause right manners. For Josephine's benefit, he gazed down atDorothy with the proudest, fondest eyes. "Yes--this is she, " said he. "Can you blame me?"

Josephine paled and winced visibly, as if the blow she had aimed at himhad, after glancing off harmlessly, returned to crush her. She touchedDorothy's proffered hand, murmured a few stammering phrases of vaguecompliment, rejoined her friends. Said Dorothy, when she and Norman weresettled again:

"I shall never like her. Nor she me. "

"But you do like this cheese? Waiter, another bottle of that same. "

"Why did she put you in such a good humor?" inquired his wife. 

"It wasn't she. It was you!" replied he. But he refused to explain. 

XXI

Galloway accepted Norman's terms. He would probably have accepted termsfar less easy. But Norman as yet knew with the thoroughness which mustprecede intelligent plan and action only the legal side of financialoperations; he had been as indifferent to the commercial side as a pilotto the value of the cargo in the ship he engages to steer clear ofshoals and rocks. So with the prudence of the sagacious man's audacitieshe contented himself with a share of this first venture that wouldsimply make a comfortable foundation for the fortune he purposed tobuild. As the venture could not fail outright, even should Galloway die, he rented a largish place at Hempstead, with the privilege of purchase, and installed his wife and himself with a dozen servants and ahousekeeper. 

"This housekeeper, this Mrs. Lowell, " said he to Dorothy, "is a goodenough person as housekeepers go. But you will have to look sharplyafter her. "

Dorothy seemed to fade and shrink within herself, which was her way ofconfessing lack of courage and fitness to face a situation: "I don'tknow anything about those things, " she confessed. 

"I understand perfectly, " said he. "But you learned something at theplace in Jersey City--quite enough for the start. Really, all you needto know just now is whether the place is clean or not, and whether thefood comes on the table in proper condition. The rest you'll pick upgradually. "

"I hope so, " said she, looking doubtful and helpless; these newmagnitudes were appalling, especially now that she was beginning to geta point of view upon life. 

"At any rate, don't bother me for these few next months, " said he. "I'mgoing to be very busy--shall leave early in the morning and not be backuntil near dinner time--if I come at all. No, you'll not be annoyed byme. You'll be absolute mistress of your time. "

She tried to look as if this contented her. But he could not have failedto see how dissatisfied and disquieted she really was. He had the bestof reasons for thinking that she was living under the same roof with himonly because she preferred the roof he could provide to such a one asshe could provide for herself whether by her own earnings or by marryinga man more to her liking personally. Yet here she was, piqued anddepressed because of his indifference--because he was not thrusting uponher gallantries she would tolerate only through prudence!

"You will be lonely at times, I'm afraid, " said he. "But I can't providefriends or even acquaintances for you for several months--until myaffairs are in better order and my sister and her husband come back fromEurope. "

"Oh, I shan't be lonely, " cried she. "I've never cared for people. "

"You've your books, and your music--and riding--and shopping trips totown--and the house and grounds to look after. "

"Yes--and my dreams, " said she hopefully, her eyes suggesting the duskystar depths. 

"Oh--the dreams. You'll have little time for them, " said he drily. "Andlittle inclination, I imagine, as you wake up to the sense of how muchthere is to be learned. Dreaming is the pastime of people who haven'tthe intelligence or the energy to accomplish anything. If you wish toplease me--and you do--don't you?"

"Yes, " she murmured. She forced her rebellious lips to the laconicassent. She drooped the lids over her rebellious eyes, lest he shoulddetect her wounded feelings and her resentment. 

"I assumed so, " said he, with a secret smile. "Well, if you wish toplease me, you'll give your time to practical things--things that'llmake you more interesting and make us both more comfortable. It was allvery well to dream, while you had little to do and small opportunity. But now--Try to cut it out. "

It is painful to an American girl of any class to find that she has toearn her position as wife. The current theory, a tradition from an earlyand woman-revering day, is that the girl has done her share and morewhen she has consented to the suit of the ardent male and has intrustedher priceless charms to his exclusive keeping. According to that sametheory, it is the husband who must earn his position--must continue toearn it. He is a humble creature, honored by the presence of a wonderfulbeing, a cross between a queen and a goddess. He cannot do enough toshow his gratitude. Perhaps--but only perhaps--had Norman marriedJosephine Burroughs, he might have assented, after a fashion, to thisidea of the relations of the man and the woman. No doubt, had heremained under the spell of Dorothy's mystery and beauty, he would havefelt and acted the slave he had made of himself at the outset. But inthe circumstances he was looking at their prospective life together withsane eyes. And so she had, in addition to all her other reasons forheartache, a sense that she, the goddess-queen, the American woman, withthe birthright of dominion over the male, was being cheated, humbled, degraded. 

At first he saw that this sense of being wronged made it impossible forher to do anything at all toward educating herself for her position. Buttime brought about the change he had hoped for. A few weeks, and shebegan to cheer up, almost in spite of herself. What was the use insulking or sighing or in self-pitying, when it brought only unhappinessto oneself? The coarse and brutal male in the case was either unaware orindifferent. There was no one and no place to fly to--unless she wishedto be much worse off than her darkest mood of self-pity represented herto her sorrowing self. The housekeeper, Mrs. Lowell, was a "broken downgentlewoman" who had been chastened by misfortune into a wholesome stateof practical good sense about the relative values of the real and theromantic. Mrs. Lowell diagnosed the case of the young wife--as Normanhad shrewdly guessed she would--and was soon adroitly showing her themany advantages of her lot. Before they had been three months atHempstead, Dorothy had discovered that she, in fact, was without asingle ground for serious complaint. She had a husband who was generousabout money, and left her as absolutely alone as if he were mereoccasional visitor at the house. She had her living--and such aliving!--she had plenty of interesting occupation--she had not a singlesordid care--and perfect health. 

The dreams, too--It was curious about those dreams. She would now havefound it an intolerable bore to sit with hands idle in her lap and eyesupon vacancy, watching the dim, luminous shadows flit aimlessly by. Yetthat was the way she used to pass hours--entire days. She used to fightoff sleep at night the longer to enjoy her one source of pure happiness. There was no doubt about it, the fire of romance was burning low, andshe was becoming commonplace, practical, resigned. Well, why not? Wasnot life over for her?--that is, the life a girl's fancy longs for. Inplace of hope of romance, there was an uneasy feeling of a necessity ofpleasing this husband of hers--of making him comfortable. What wouldbefall her if she neglected trying to please him or if she, for all hertrying, failed? She did not look far in that direction. Her uneasinessremained indefinite--yet definite enough to keep her working from wakinguntil bedtime. And she dropped into the habit of watching his face withthe same anxiety with which a farmer watches the weather. When hehappened one day to make a careless, absent-minded remark in disapprovalof something in the domestic arrangements, she was thrown into such anervous flutter that he observed it. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"Nothing--nothing, " replied she in the hurried tone of one who is tryinghastily to cover his thoughts. 

He reflected, understood, burst into a fit of hearty laughter. "So, youare trying to make a bogey of me?"

She colored, protested faintly. 

"Don't you know I'm about the least tyrannical, least exacting person inthe world?"

"You've been very patient with me, " said she. 

"Now--now, " cried he in a tone of raillery, "you might as well dropthat. Don't you know there's no reason for being afraid of me?"

"Yes, I _know_ it, " replied she. "But I _feel_ afraid, just the same. Ican't help it. "

It was impossible for him to appreciate the effect of his personalityupon others--how, without his trying or even wishing, it made them dreada purely imaginary displeasure and its absurdly imaginary consequences. But this confession of hers was not the first time he had heard of theeffect of potential and latent danger he had upon those associated withhim. And, as it was most useful, he was not sorry that he had it. Hemade no further attempt to convince her that he was harmless. He knewthat he was harmless where she was concerned. Was it not just as wellthat she should not know it, when vaguely dreading him was producingexcellent results? As with a Christian the fear of the Lord was thebeginning of wisdom, so with a wife the fear of her husband was thebeginning of wisdom. In striving to please him, to fit herself for theposition of wife, she was using up the time she would otherwise havespent in making herself miserable with self-pity--that supreme curse ofthe idle both male and female, that most prolific of the breeders ofunhappy wives. Yes, wives were unhappy not because their husbandsneglected them, for busy people have no time to note whether they areneglected or not, but because they gave their own worthless, negligent, incapable selves too much attention. 

One evening, she, wearing the look of the timid but resolute intruder, came into his room while he was dressing for dinner and hung about withan air no man of his experience could fail to understand. 

"Something wrong about the house?" said he finally. "Need more money?"

"No--nothing, " she replied, with a slight flush. He saw that she wasmustering all her courage for some grand effort. He waited, only mildlycurious, as his mind was busy with some new business he and Tetlow hadundertaken. Presently she stood squarely before him, her hands behindher back and her face upturned. "Won't you kiss me?" she said. 

"Sure!" said he. And he kissed her on the cheek and resumed operationswith his military brushes. 

"I didn't mean that--that kind of a kiss, " said she dejectedly. 

He paused with a quick characteristic turn of the head, looked keenly ather, resumed his brushing. A quizzical smile played over his face. "Oh, I see, " said he. "You've been thinking about duty. And you've decided todo yours. . . . Eh?"

"I think--It seems to me--I don't think--" she stammered, then saiddesperately, "I've not been acting right by you. I want to--to dobetter. "

"That's good, " said he briskly, with a nod of approval--and never aglance in her direction. "You think you'll let me have a kiss now andthen--eh? All right, my dear. "

"Oh, you _won't_ understand me!" she cried, ready to weep with vexation. 

"You mean I won't misunderstand you, " replied he amiably, as he setabout fixing his tie. "You've been mulling things over in your mind. You've decided I'm secretly pining for you. You've resolved to be goodand kind and dutiful--generous--to feed old dog Tray a few crumbs nowand then. . . . That's nice and sweet of you--" He paused until thecrisis in tying was passed--"very nice and sweet of you--but--There'snothing in it. All I ask of you for myself is to see that I'mcomfortable--that Mrs. Lowell and the servants treat me right. If Idon't like anything, I'll speak out--never fear. "

"But--Fred--I want to be your wife--I really do, " she pleaded. 

He turned on her, and his eyes seemed to pierce into the chamber of herthoughts. "Drop it, my dear, " he said quietly. "Neither of us is in lovewith the other. So there's not the slightest reason for pretending. If Iever want to be free of you, I'll tell you so. If you ever want to getrid of me, all you have to do is to ask--and it'll be arranged. Meanwhile, let's enjoy ourselves. "

His good humor, obviously unfeigned, would have completely discouraged amore experienced woman, though as vain as Dorothy and with as muchground as he had given her for self-confidence where he was concerned. But Dorothy was depressed rather than profoundly discouraged. A fewmoments and she found courage to plead: "But you used to care for me. Don't I attract you any more?"

"You say that quite pathetically, " said he, in good-humored amusement. "I'm willing to do anything within reason for your happiness. Butreally--just to please your vanity I can't make myself over again intothe fool I used to be about you. You'd hate it yourself. Why, then, thispathetic air?"

"I feel so useless--and as if I were shirking, " she persisted. "And ifyou did care for me, it wouldn't offend me now as it used to. I've grownmuch wiser--more sensible. I understand things--and I look at themdifferently. And--I always did _like_ you. "

"Even when you despised me?" mocked he. It irritated him a littlevividly to recall what a consummate fool he had made of himself for her, even though he had every reason to be content with the event of hisfolly. 

"A girl always thinks she despises a man when she can do as she pleaseswith him, " replied she. "As Mr. Tetlow said, I was a fool. "

"_I_ was the fool, " said he. "Where did that man of mine lay thehandkerchief?"

"I, too, " cried she, eagerly. "You were foolish to bother about a littlesilly like me. But, oh, what a _fool_ I was not to realize----"

"You're not trying to tell me you're in love with me?" said he sharply. 

"Oh, no--no, indeed, " she protested in haste, alarmed by hisoverwhelming manner. "I'm not trying to deceive you in any way. "

"Never do, " said he. "It's the one thing I can't stand. "

"But I thought--it seemed to me--" she persisted, "that perhaps if wetried to--to care for each other, we'd maybe get to--to caring--more orless. Don't you think so?"

"Perhaps, " was his careless reply. He added, "But I, for one, am wellcontent with things as they are. I confess I don't look back with anysatisfaction on those months when I was making an ass of myself aboutyou. I was ruining my career. Now I'm happy, and everything is goingfine in my business. No experiments, if you please. " He shook his head, looking at her with smiling raillery. "It might turn out that I'd carefor you in the same crazy way again, and that you didn't like it. Againyou might get excited about me and I'd remain calm about you. That wouldgive me a handsome revenge, but I'm not looking for revenge. "

He finished his toilet, she standing quiet and thoughtful in an attitudeof unconscious grace. 

"No, my dear, " resumed he, as he prepared to descend for dinner, "let'shave a peaceful, cheerful married life, with no crazy excitements. Let's hang on to what we've got, and take no unnecessary risks. " Hepatted her on the shoulder. "Isn't that sensible?"

She looked at him with serious, appealing eyes. "You are _sure_ you aren'tunhappy?"

It was amusing to him--though he concealed it--to see how tenaciouslyher feminine egotism held to the idea that she was the important person. And, when women of experience thus deluded themselves, it was not at allstrange that this girl should be unable to grasp the essential truth asto the relations of men and women--that, while a woman who makes her sexher profession must give to a man, to some man, a dominant place in herlife, a man need give a woman--at least, any one woman--little or noplace. But he would not wantonly wound her harmless vanity. "Don't worryabout me, please, " said he in the kindest, friendliest way. "I amtelling you the truth. "

And they descended to the dining room. Usually he was preoccupied andshe did most of the talking--not a difficult matter for her, as she wasone of those who by nature have much to say, who talk on and on, givinglively, pleasant recitals of commonplace daily happenings. That eveningit was her turn to be abstracted, or, at least, silent. He talkedvolubly, torrentially, like a man of teeming mind in the highestspirits. And he was in high spirits. The Galloway enterprise haddeveloped into a huge success; also, it did not lessen his sense of thepleasantness of life to have learned that his wife was feeling about aswell disposed toward him as he cared to have her feel, had come round tothat state of mind which he, as a practical man, wise in the art oflife, regarded as ideal for a wife. 

A successful man, with a quiet and comfortable home, well enough lookedafter by an agreeable wife, exceeding good to look at and interestedonly in her home and her husband--what more could a man ask?

 * * * * *

What more could a man ask? Only one thing more--a baby. The months soonpassed and that rounding out of the home side of his life wasconsummated with no mishap. The baby was a girl, which contented him anddelighted Dorothy. He wished it to be named after her, she preferred hissister's name--Ursula. It was Ursula who decided the question. "Shelooks like you, Fred, " she declared, after an earnest scanning of theweird little face. "Why not call her Frederica?"

Norman thought this clumsy, but Dorothy instantly assented--and the babywas duly christened Frederica. 

Perhaps it was because he was having less pressing business in town, butwhatever the reason, he began to stay at home more--surprisingly more. And, being at home, he naturally fell into the habit of fussing with thebaby, he having the temperament that compels a man to be always atsomething, and the baby being convenient and in the nature of acuriosity. Ursula, who was stopping in the house, did not try to concealher amazement at this extraordinary development of her brother'scharacter. 

Said she: "I never before knew you to take the slightest interest in achild. "

Said he: "I never before saw a child worth taking the slightest interestin. "

"Oh, well, " said Ursula, "it won't last. You'll soon grow tired of yourplaything. "

"Perhaps you're right, " said Norman. "I hope you're wrong. " Hereflected, added: "In fact, I'm almost certain you're wrong. I'm tooselfish to let myself lose such a pleasure. If you had observed my lifeclosely, you'd have discovered that I have never given up a single thingI found a source of pleasure. That is good sense. That is why thesuperior sort of men and women retain something of the boy and the girlall their lives. I still like a lot of the games I played as a boy. Forsome years I've had no chance to indulge in them. I'll be glad when Ricais old enough to give me the chance again. "

She was much amused. "Who'd have suspected that _you_ were a born father!"

"Not I, for one, " confessed he. "We never know what there is in us untilcircumstances bring it out. "

"A devoted father and a doting husband, " pursued Ursula. "I must say Irather sympathize with you as a doting husband. Of course, I, a woman, can't see her as you do. I can't imagine a man--especially a man of yoursort--going stark mad about a mere woman. But, as women go, I'll admitshe is a good specimen. Not the marvel of intelligence and complexcharacter you imagine, but still a good specimen. And physically--" Shelaughed--"_That's_ what caught you. That's what holds you--and will holdyou as long as it lasts. "

"Was there ever a woman who didn't think that?--and didn't like tothink it, though I believe many of them make strong pretense at scorningthe physical. " Fred was regarding his sister with a quizzicalexpression. "You approve of her?" he said. 

"More than I'd have thought possible. And after I've taken her about inthe world a while she'll be perfect. "

"No doubt, " said Norman. "But, alas, she'll never be perfect. For, you're not going to take her about. "

"So she says when I talk of it to her, " replied Ursula. "But I knowyou'll insist. You needn't be uneasy as to how she'll be received. "

"I'm not, " said Norman dryly. 

"You've got back all you lost--and more. How we Americans do worshipsuccess!"

"Don't suggest to Dorothy anything further about society, " said Norman. "I've no time or taste for it, and I don't wish to be annoyed byintrusions into my home. "

"But you'll not be satisfied always with just her, " urged his sister. "Besides, you've got a position to maintain. "

Norman's smile was cynically patient. "I want my home and I want mycareer, " said he. "And I don't want any society nonsense. I had the goodluck to marry a woman who knows and cares nothing about it. I don'tpurpose to give up the greatest advantage of my marriage. "

Ursula was astounded. She knew the meaning of his various tones andmanners, and his way of rejecting her plans for Dorothy--and, incidentally, for her own amusement--convinced her that he was throughand through in earnest. "It will be dreadfully lonesome for her, Fred, "she pleaded. 

"We'll wait till that trouble faces us, " replied he, not a bitimpressed. "And don't forget--not a word of temptation to her from you. "This with an expression that warned her how well he knew her indirectways of accomplishing what she could not gain directly. 

"Oh, I shan't interfere, " said she in a tone that made it a bindingpromise. "But you can't expect me to sympathize with your plans for anold-fashioned domestic life. "

"Certainly not, " said Norman. "You don't understand. Women of your sortnever do. That's why you're not fit to be the wives of men worth while. A serious man and a society woman can't possibly hit it off together. For a serious man the outside world is a place to work, and home is aplace to rest. For a society woman, the world is a place to idle andhome is a work shop, an entertainment factory. It's impossible toreconcile those two opposite ideas. "

She saw his point at once, and it appealed to her intelligence. And shehad his own faculty for never permitting prejudice to influencejudgment. She said in a dubious tone, "Do you think Dorothy willsympathize with your scheme?"

"I'm sure I don't know, " replied he. 

"If she doesn't--" Ursula halted there. 

Her brother shrugged his shoulders. "If she proves to be the wrong sortof woman for me, she'll go her way and I mine. "

"Why, I thought you loved her!"

"What have I said that leads you to change your mind?" said he. 

"A man does not take the high hand with the woman he adores. "

"So?" said Norman tranquilly. 

"Well, " said his puzzled sister by way of conclusion, "if you persist inbeing the autocrat----"

"Autocrat?--I?" laughed he. "Am I trying to compel her to do anythingshe doesn't wish to do? Didn't I say she would be free to go if she weredissatisfied with me and my plan--if she didn't adopt it gladly as herown plan, also?"

"But you know very well she's dependent upon you, Fred. "

"Is that my fault? Does a man force a woman to become dependent? Andjust because she is dependent, should he therefore yield to her and lether make of his life a waste and a folly?"

"You're far too clever for me to argue with. Anyhow, as I was saying, ifyou persist in what I call tyranny----"

"When a woman cries tyranny, it means she's furious because she is notgetting _her_ autocratic way. "

"Maybe so, " admitted Ursula cheerfully. "At any rate, if youpersist--unless she loves you utterly, your life will be miserable. "

"She may make her own life miserable, but not mine, " replied he. "If Iwere the ordinary man--counting himself lucky to have induced any womanto marry him--afraid if he lost his woman he'd not be able to getanother--able to give his woman only an indifferent poor support, and soon--if I were one of those men, what you say might be true. But whatdeep and permanent mischief can a frail woman do a strong man?"

"There's instance after instance in history----"

"Of strong men wrecking _themselves_ through various kinds of madness, including sex madness. But, my dear Ursula, not an instance--notone--where the woman was responsible. If history were truth, instead oflies--you women might have less conceit. "

"You--talking this way!" mocked Ursula. 

"Meaning, I suppose, my late infatuation?" inquired he, unruffled. 

"I never saw or read of a worse case. "

"Am I ruined?"

"No. But why not? Because you got her. If you hadn't--" Ursula blew outa large cloud of cigarette smoke with a "Pouf!"

"If I hadn't got her, " said Norman, "I'd have got well, just the same, in due time. A sick _weak_ man goes down; a sick _strong_ man gets well. When a man who's reputed to be strong doesn't get well, it's because hemerely seemed strong but wasn't. The poets and novelists and thehistorians and the rest of the nature fakers fail to tell _all_ the facts, dear sister. All the facts would spoil a pretty story. "

Ursula thought a few minutes, suddenly burst out with, "Do you thinkDorothy loves you now?"

Norman rose to go out doors. "I don't think about such unprofitablethings, " said he. "As long as we suit each other and get alongpleasantly--why bother about a name for it?"

In the French window he paused, stood looking out with an expression sopeculiar that Ursula, curious, came to see the cause. A few yards away, under a big symmetrical maple in full leaf sat Dorothy with the baby onher lap. She was dressed very simply in white. There was a littlesunlight upon her hair, a sheen of gold over her skin. She was lookingdown at the baby. Her expression----

Said Ursula: "Several of the great painters have tried to catch thatexpression. But they've failed. "

Norman made no reply. He had not heard. All in an instant there had beenrevealed to him a whole new world--a view of man and woman--of woman--ofsex--its meaning so different from what he had believed and lived. 

"What're you thinking about, Fred?" inquired his sister. 

He shook his head, with a mysterious smile, and strolled away. 

XXII

The baby grew and thrived, as the habit is with healthy children welltaken care of. Mrs. Norman soon got back her strength, her figure, andperhaps more than her former beauty--as the habit is with healthy womenwell taken care of. Norman's career continued to prosper, likewiseaccording to the habit of all healthy things well taken care of. In aworld where nothing happens by chance, mischance, to be serious, musthave some grave fault as its hidden cause. We mortals, who love to liveat haphazard and to blame God or destiny or "bad luck" for ourcalamities, hate to take this modern and scientific view of the worldand life. But, whether we like it or not, it is the truth--and, as wecan't get round it, why not accept it cheerfully and, so appear a littleless ignorant and ridiculous?

During their first year at the Hempstead place the results in luxury andcomfort had at no time accounted for the money it cost and the servantsit employed--that is to say, paid. But Norman was neither unreasonablenor impatient. Also, in his years of experience with his sister'shousekeeping, and of observation of the other women, he had grownexceedingly moderate in his estimate of the ability of women and in hisexpectations from them. He had reached the conclusion that the women whowere sheltered and pampered by the men of the successful classes wereproficient only in those things that call for no skill or effort beyondthe wagging of the tongue. He saw that Dorothy was making honestendeavor to learn her business, and he knew that learning takestime--much time. 

He believed that in the end she would do better than any other wife ofhis acquaintance, at the business of wife and mother. 

Before the baby was two years old, his belief was rewarded. Things beganto run better--began to run well, even. Dorothy--a serious person, unhampered of a keen sense of humor, had taught herself the duties ofher new position in much the same slow plodding way in which she hadformerly made of herself a fair stenographer and a tolerable typewriter. Mrs. Lowell had helped--and Ursula, too--and Norman not a little. ButDorothy, her husband discovered, was one of those who thoroughlyassimilate what they take in--who make it over into part of themselves. So, her manner of keeping house, of arranging the gardens, of bringingup the baby, of dressing herself, was peculiarly her own. It was not byany means the best imaginable way. It was even what many energetic, systematic and highly competent persons would speak contemptuously of. But it satisfied Norman--and that was all Dorothy had in mind. 

If those who have had any considerable opportunity to observe marriedlife will forget what they have read in novels and will fix their mindson what they have observed at first hand, they will recognize the Normanmarriage, with the husband and wife living together yet apart as notpeculiar but of a rather common type. Neither Fred nor Dorothy had anyespecial reason on any given day to try to alter their relations; so thelaw of inertia asserted itself and matters continued as they had begun. It was, perhaps, a chance remark of Tetlow's that was the remote butefficient cause of a change, as the single small stone slipping high upon the mountain side results in a vast landslide into the valley milesbelow. Tetlow said one day, in connection with some estate they weresettling:

"I've always pitied the only child. It must be miserably lonesome. "

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he colored violently;for, he remembered that the Normans had but one child and he knew theprobable reason for it. Norman seemed not to have heard or seen. Tetlowhoped he hadn't, but, knowing the man, feared otherwise. And he wasright. 

In the press of other matters Norman forgot Tetlow's remark--rememberedit again a few days later when he was taking the baby out for an airingin the motor--forgot it again--finally, when he took a several days'rest at home, remembered it and kept it in mind. He began to think ofDorothy once more in a definite, personal way, began to observe her ashis wife, instead of as mere part of his establishment. An intellectualperson she certainly was not. She had a quaint individual way ofspeaking and of acting. She had the marvelous changeable beauty that hadonce caused him to take the bit in his teeth and run wild. But he wouldno more think of talking with her about the affairs that reallyinterested him than--well, than the other men of large career in hisacquaintance would think of talking those matters to their wives. 

But--He was astonished to discover that he liked this slim, quiet, unobtrusive little wife of his better than he liked anyone else in theworld, that he eagerly turned away from the clever and amusingcompanionship he might have at his clubs to come down to the country andbe with her and the baby--not the baby alone, but her also. Why? Hecould not find a satisfactory reason. He saw that she created at thatHempstead place an atmosphere of rest, of tranquility. But this merelythrust the mystery one step back. _How_ did she create thisatmosphere--and for a man of his varied and discriminating tastes? Tothat question he could work out no answer. She had for him now a charmas different from the infatuation of former days as calm sea is fromtempest-racked sea--utterly different, yet fully as potent. As heobserved her and wondered at these discoveries of his, the ghost of adelight he had thought forever dead stirred in his heart, in his fancy. Yes, it was a pleasure, a thrilling pleasure to watch her. There wasmusic in those quiet, graceful movements of hers, in that quiet, sweetvoice. Not the wild, blood-heating music of the former days, but a kindfar more melodious--tender, restful to nerves sorely tried by thetensions of ambition. He made some sort of an attempt to define hisfeeling for her, but could not. It seemed to fit into none of the usualclassifications. 

Then, he wondered--"What is _she_ thinking of _me_?"

To find out he resorted to various elaborate round about methods thatdid credit to the ingenuity of his mind. But he made at every cunningcast a barren water-haul. Either she was not thinking of him at all orwhat she thought swam too deep for any casts he knew how to make inthose hidden and unfamiliar waters. Or, perhaps she did not herself knowwhat she thought, being too busy with the baby and the household to havetime for such abstract and not pressing, perhaps not important, matters. He moved slowly in his inquiries into her state of mind because therewas all the time in the world and no occasion for haste. He movedcautiously because he wished to do nothing that might disturb thepresent serenity of their home life. Did she dislike him? Was sheindifferent? Had she developed a habit of having him about that was in away equivalent to liking?

These languid but delightful investigations--not unlike the pastimes onespins out when one has a long, long lovely summer day with hours onhours for luxurious happy idling--these investigations were abruptlysuspended by a suddenly compelled trip to Europe. He arranged forDorothy to send him a cable every day--"about yourself and thebaby"--and he sent an occasional cabled bulletin about himself in reply. But neither wrote to the other; their relationship was not of theletter-exchanging kind--and had no need of pretense at what it was not. 

In the third month of his absence, his sister Ursula came over fordresses, millinery and truly aristocratic society. She had little timefor him, or he for her, but they happened to lunch alone about a weekafter his arrival. 

"You're looking cross and unhappy, " said she. "What's the matter?Business?"

"No--everything's going well. "

"Same thing that's troubling Dorothy, then?"

"Is Dorothy ill?" inquired he, suddenly as alert as he had been absent. "She hasn't let me know anything about it. "

"Ill? Of course not, " reassured Ursula. "She's never ill. But--I've notanywhere or ever seen two people as crazy about each other as you andshe. "

"Really?" Norman had relapsed into interest in what he was eating. 

"You live all alone down there in the country. You treat anyone whocomes to see you as intruder. And as soon as darling husband goes away, darling wife wanders about like a damned soul. Honestly, it gave me theblues to look at her eyes. And I used to think she cared more about thebaby than about you. "

"She's probably worried about something else, " said Norman. "More salad?No? There's no dessert--at least I've ordered none. But if you'd likesome strawberries----"

"I thought of that, " replied Ursula, not to be deflected. "I mean of herbeing upset about something beside you. I'm slow to suspect anyone ofreally caring about any _one_ else. But, although she didn't confess, Isoon saw that it was your absence. And she wasn't putting on for mybenefit, either. My maid hears the same thing from all the servants. "

"This is pleasant, " said Norman in his mocking good-humored way. 

"And you're in the same state, " she charged with laughing butsympathetic eyes. "Why, Fred, you're as madly in love with her as ever. "

"I wonder, " said he reflectively. 

"Why didn't you bring her with you?"

He stared at his sister like a man who has just discovered that he, withincredible stupidity, had overlooked the obvious. "I didn't think I'dbe away long, " evaded he. 

He saw Ursula off for the Continent, half promised to join her in a fewweeks at Aix. A day or so after her departure he had a violent fit ofblues, was haunted by a vision of the baby and the comfortable, peacefulhouse on Long Island. He had expected to stay about two months longer. "I'm sick of England and of hotels, " he said, and closed up his businessand sailed the following week. 

 * * * * *

She and the baby were at the pier to meet him. He looked for signs ofthe mourning Ursula had described, but he looked in vain. Never had heseen her lovelier, or so sparkling. And how she did talk!--rattling onand on, with those interesting commonplaces of domestic event--the baby, the household, the garden, the baby--the horses, the dogs, thebaby--the servants, her new dresses, the baby--and so on, and so on--andthe baby. 

But when they got into the motor at Hempstead station for the drivehome, silence fell upon her--he had been almost silent from the start ofthe little journey. As the motor swung into the grounds, looking theirmost beautiful for his homecoming, an enormous wave of pure delightbegan to surge up in him, to swell, to rush, to break, dashing its sprayof tears into his eyes. He turned his head away to hide the too obviousdisplay of feeling. They went into the house, he carrying the baby. Hegave it to the nurse--and he and she were alone. 

"It certainly is good to be home again, " he said. 

The words were the tamest commonplace. We always speak in the oldstereotyped commonplaces when we speak directly from the heart. His tonemade her glance quickly at him. 

"Why, I believe you _are_ glad, " said she. 

He took her hand. They looked at each other. Suddenly she flung herselfwildly into his arms and clung to him in an agony of joy and fear. "Oh, I missed you so!" she sobbed. "I missed you so!"

"It was frightful, " said he. "It shall never happen again. "