THE PRICE SHE PAID

by

David Graham Phillips

I

HENRY GOWER was dead at sixty-one--the end of a lifelong fraud whichnever had been suspected, and never would be. With the world, with hisacquaintances and neighbors, with his wife and son and daughter, hepassed as a generous, warm-hearted, good-natured man, ready at alltimes to do anything to help anybody, incapable of envy or hatred ormeanness. In fact, not once in all his days had he ever thought ordone a single thing except for his own comfort. Like all intenselyselfish people who are wise, he was cheerful and amiable, because thatwas the way to be healthy and happy and to have those around oneagreeable and in the mood to do what one wished them to do. He toldpeople, not the truth, not the unpleasant thing that might help them, but what they wished to hear. His family lived in luxurious comfortonly because he himself was fond of luxurious comfort. His wife and hisdaughter dressed fashionably and went about and entertained in thefashionable, expensive way only because that was the sort of life thatgratified his vanity. He lived to get what he wanted; he got it everyday and every hour of a life into which no rain ever fell; he died, honored, respected, beloved, and lamented. 

The clever trick he had played upon his fellow beings came very near todiscovery a few days after his death. His widow and her son anddaughter-in-law and daughter were in the living-room of the charminghouse at Hanging Rock, near New York, alternating between sorrowingsover the dead man and plannings for the future. Said the widow:

"If Henry had only thought what would become of us if he were takenaway!"

"If he had saved even a small part of what he made every year from thetime he was twenty-six--for he always made a big income, " said his son, Frank. 

"But he was so generous, so soft-hearted!" exclaimed the widow. "Hecould deny us nothing. "

"He couldn't bear seeing us with the slightest wish ungratified, " saidFrank. 

"He was the best father that ever lived!" cried the daughter, Mildred. 

And Mrs. Gower the elder and Mrs. Gower the younger wept; and Mildredturned away to hide the emotion distorting her face; and Frank staredgloomily at the carpet and sighed. The hideous secret of the life ofduplicity was safe, safe forever. 

In fact, Henry Gower had often thought of the fate of his family if heshould die. In the first year of his married life, at a time whenpassion for a beautiful bride was almost sweeping him into generousthought, he had listened for upward of an hour to the eloquence of alife insurance agent. Then the agent, misled by Gower's effusivelygenerous and unselfish expressions, had taken a false tack. He haddescanted upon the supreme satisfaction that would be felt by a dyingman as he reflected how his young widow would be left in affluence. Hemade a vivid picture; Gower saw--saw his bride happier after his deaththan she had been during his life, and attracting a swarm of admirersby her beauty, well set off in becoming black, and by her independentincome. The generous impulse then and there shriveled to its weak andshallow roots. With tears in his kind, clear eyes he thanked the agentand said:

"You have convinced me. You need say no more. I'll send for you in afew days. "

The agent never got into his presence again. Gower lived up to hisincome, secure in the knowledge that his ability as a lawyer made himcertain of plenty of money as long as he should live. But it wouldshow an utter lack of comprehension of his peculiar species ofcharacter to imagine that he let himself into the secret of his ownicy-heartedness by ceasing to think of the problem of his wife and twochildren without him to take care of them. On the contrary, he thoughtof it every day, and planned what he would do about it--to-morrow. Andfor his delay he had excellent convincing excuses. Did he not takecare of his naturally robust health? Would he not certainly outlivehis wife, who was always doctoring more or less? Frank would be able totake care of himself; anyhow, it was not well to bring a boy up toexpectations, because every man should be self-supporting andself-reliant. As for Mildred, why, with her beauty and her clevernessshe could not but make a brilliant marriage. Really, there was for himno problem of an orphaned family's future; there was no reason why heshould deny himself any comfort or luxury, or his vanity any of thetitillations that come from social display. 

That one of his calculations which was the most vital and seemed thesurest proved to be worthless. It is not the weaklings who die, afterinfancy and youth, but the strong, healthy men and women. Theweaklings have to look out for themselves, receive ample warning in thedisastrous obvious effects of the slightest imprudence. The robust, even the wariest of them, even the Henry Gowers, overestimate andovertax their strength. Gower's downfall was champagne. He could notresist a bottle of it for dinner every night. As so often happens, thecollapse of the kidneys came without any warning that a man of powerfulconstitution would deem worthy of notice. By the time the doctor beganto suspect the gravity of his trouble he was too far gone. 

Frank, candidly greedy and selfish--"Such a contrast to his father!"everyone said--was married to the prettiest girl in Hanging Rock andhad a satisfactory law practice in New York. His income was aboutfifteen thousand a year. But his wife had tastes as extravagant as hisown; and Hanging Rock is one of those suburbs of New York where gatherwell-to-do middle-class people to live luxuriously and to delude eachother and themselves with the notion that they are fashionable, richNew Yorkers who prefer to live in the country "like the English. " Thus, Henry Gower's widow and daughter could count on little help fromFrank--and they knew it. 

"You and Milly will have to move to some less expensive place thanHanging Rock, " said Frank--it was the living-room conference a few daysafter the funeral. 

Mildred flushed and her eyes flashed. She opened her lips tospeak--closed them again with the angry retort unuttered. After all, Frank was her mother's and her sole dependence. They could hope forlittle from him, but nothing must be said that would give him and hismean, selfish wife a chance to break with them and refuse to doanything whatever. 

"And Mildred must get married, " said Natalie. In Hanging Rock most ofthe girls and many of the boys had given names taken from Burke'sPeerage, the Almanac de Gotha, and fashionable novels. 

Again Mildred flushed; but her eyes did not flash, neither did she openher lips to speak. The little remark of her sister-in-law, apparentlyso harmless and sensible, was in fact a poisoned arrow. For Mildredwas twenty-three, had been "out" five years, and was not even in theway to become engaged. She and everyone had assumed from her lovelybabyhood that she would marry splendidly, would marry wealth and socialposition. How could it be otherwise? Had she not beauty? Had she notfamily and position? Had she not style and cleverness? Yet--fiveyears out and not a "serious" proposal. An impudent poor fellow withno prospects had asked her. An impudent rich man from fashionable NewYork had hung after her--and had presently abandoned whatever darkprojects he may have been concealing and had married in his own set, "as they always do, the miserable snobs, " raved Mrs. Gower, who hadbeen building high upon those lavish outpourings of candy, flowers, andautomobile rides. Mildred, however, had accepted the defection morephilosophically. She had had enough vanity to like the attentions ofthe rich and fashionable New Yorker, enough good sense to suspect, perhaps not definitely, what those attentions meant, but certainly whatthey did not mean. Also, in the back of her head had been an intentionto refuse Stanley Baird, if by chance he should ask her. Was there anysubstance to this intention, sprung from her disliking the conceited, self-assured snob as much as she liked his wealth and station? Perhapsnot. Who can say? At any rate, may we not claim credit for our goodintentions--so long as, even through lack of opportunity, we have notstultified them?

With every natural advantage apparently, Mildred's failure to catch ahusband seemed to be somehow her own fault. Other girls, less endowedthan she, were marrying, were marrying fairly well. Why, then, wasMildred lagging in the market?

There may have been other reasons, reasons of accident--for, in thehigher class matrimonial market, few are called and fewer chosen. Therewas one reason not accidental; Hanging Rock was no place for a girl sosuperior as was Mildred Gower to find a fitting husband. As has beenhinted, Hanging Rock was one of those upper-middle-class colonies wheresplurge and social ambition dominate the community life. In suchcolonies the young men are of two classes--those beneath such a girl asMildred, and those who had the looks, the manners, the intelligence, and the prospects to justify them in looking higher socially--inlooking among the very rich and really fashionable. In the HangingRock sort of community, having all the snobbishness of Fifth Avenue, Back Bay, and Rittenhouse Square, with the added torment of thesnobbishness being perpetually ungratified--in such communities, beneath a surface reeking culture and idealistic folderol, there is acoarse and brutal materialism, a passion for money, for luxury, fordisplay, that equals aristocratic societies at their worst. No one canlive for a winter, much less grow up, in such a place without becomingsaturated with sycophantry. Thus, only by some impossible combinationof chances could there have been at Hanging Rock a young man who wouldhave appreciated Mildred and have had the courage of his appreciation. This combination did not happen. In Mildred's generation and set therewere only the two classes of men noted above. The men of the one ofthem which could not have attracted her accepted their fate of matingwith second-choice females to whom they were themselves second choice. The men of the other class rarely appeared at Hanging Rock functions, hung about the rich people in New York, Newport, and on Long Island, and would as soon have thought of taking a Hanging Rock society girl towife as of exchanging hundred-dollar bills for twenty-five-cent pieces. Having attractions acceptable in the best markets, they took themthere. Hanging Rock denounced them as snobs, for Hanging Rock wasvirtuously eloquent on the subject of snobbishness--we human creaturesbeing never so effective as when assailing in others the vice orweakness we know from lifelong, intimate, internal association with it. But secretly the successfully ambitious spurners of that suburbansociety were approved, were envied. And Hanging Rock was most graciousto them whenever it got the chance. 

In her five years of social life Mildred had gone only with the variousclasses of fashionable people, had therefore known only the men who arefull of the poison of snobbishness. She had been born and bred in anenvironment as impregnated with that poison as the air of akitchen-garden with onions. She knew nothing else. The secretintention to refuse Stanley Baird, should he propose, was therefore themore astonishing--and the more significant. From time to time in anygiven environment you will find some isolated person, some personality, with a trait wholly foreign and out of place there. Now it is a softvoice and courteous manners in a slum; again it is a longing for a lifeof freedom and equality in a member of a royal family that has knownnothing but sordid slavery for centuries. Or, in the pettyconventionality of a prosperous middle- or upper-class community youcome upon one who dreams--perhaps vaguely but still longingly--of anexistence where love and ideas shall elevate and glorify life. Inspite of her training, in spite of the teaching and example of allabout her from the moment of her opening her eyes upon the world, Mildred Gower at twenty-three still retained something of these dreamflowers sown in the soil of her naturally good mind by some book orplay or perhaps by some casually read and soon forgotten article inmagazine or newspaper. We have the habit of thinking only weedsproduce seeds that penetrate and prosper everywhere and anywhere. Thetruth is that fine plants of all kinds, vegetable, fruit, and flower ofrarest color and perfume, have this same hardiness and fecundity. Pullaway at the weeds in your garden for a while, and see if this is notso. Though you may plant nothing, you will be amazed at the results ifyou but clear a little space of its weeds--which you have been plantingand cultivating. 

Mildred--woman fashion--regarded it as a reproach upon her that she hadnot yet succeeded in making the marriage everyone, including herself, predicted for her and expected of her. On the contrary, it was themost savage indictment possible of the marriageable and marrying menwho had met her--of their stupidity, of their short-sighted andmean-souled calculation, of their lack of courage--the courage to takewhat they, as men of flesh and blood wanted, instead of what theirsnobbishness ordered. And if Stanley Baird, the nearest to aflesh-and-blood man of any who had known her, had not been soprofoundly afraid of his fashionable mother and of his sister, theCountess of Waring-- But he was profoundly afraid of them; so, it isidle to speculate about him. 

What did men see when they looked at Mildred Gower? Usually, when menlook at a woman, they have a hazy, either pleasant or unpleasant, senseof something feminine. That, and nothing more. Afterward, throughsome whim or some thrust from chance they may see in her, or fancy theysee in her, the thing feminine that their souls--it is always"soul"--most yearns after. But just at first glance, so colorless orconventionally colored is the usual human being, the averagewoman--indeed every woman but she who is exceptional--creates upon manthe mere impression of pleasant or unpleasant petticoats. In theexceptional woman something obtrudes. She has astonishing hair, orextraordinary eyes, or a mouth that seems to draw a man like a magnet;or it is the allure of a peculiar smile or of a figure whosesinuosities as she moves seem to cause a corresponding wave-disturbancein masculine nerves. Further, the possession of one of these signalcharms usually causes all her charms to have more than ordinarypotency. The sight of the man is so bewitched by the one potent charmthat he sees the whole woman under a spell. 

Mildred Gower, of the medium height and of a slender and well-formedfigure, had a face of the kind that is called lovely; and her smile, sweet, dreamy, revealing white and even teeth, gave her lovelinessdelicate animation. She had an abundance of hair, neither light nordark; she had a fine clear skin. Her eyes, gray and rather serious andwell set under long straight brows, gave her a look of honesty andintelligence. But the charm that won men, her charm of charms, was hermouth--mobile, slightly pouted, not too narrow, of a wonderful, vividlyhealthy and vital red. She had beauty, she had intelligence. But itwas impossible for a man to think of either, once his glance had beencaught by those expressive, inviting lips of hers, so young, so fresh, with their ever-changing, ever-fascinating line expressing in athousand ways the passion and poetry of the kiss. 

Of all the men who had admired her and had edged away because theyfeared she would bewitch them into forgetting what the world calls"good common sense"--of all those men only one had suspected the realreason for her physical power over men. All but Stanley Baird hadthought themselves attracted because she was so pretty or so stylish orso clever and amusing to talk with. Baird had lived intelligentlyenough to learn that feminine charm is never general, is alwaysspecific. He knew it was Mildred Gower's lips that haunted, thatfrightened ambitious men away, that sent men who knew they hadn't aghost of a chance with her discontentedly back to the second-choicewomen who alone were available for them. Fortunately for Mildred, Stanley Baird, too wise to flatter a woman discriminatingly, did nottell her the secret of her fascination. If he had told her, she wouldno doubt have tried to train and to use it--and so would inevitablyhave lost it. 

To go on with that important conference in the sitting-room in thehandsome, roomy house of the Gowers at Hanging Rock, Frank Gowereagerly seized upon his wife's subtly nasty remark. "I don't see whyin thunder you haven't married, Milly, " said he. "You've had everychance, these last four or five years. "

"And it'll be harder now, " moaned her mother. "For it looks as thoughwe were going to be wretchedly poor. And poverty is so repulsive. "

"Do you think, " said Mildred, "that giving me the idea that I mustmarry right away will make it easier for me to marry? Everyone whoknows us knows our circumstances. " She looked significantly at Frank'swife, who had been wailing through Hanging Rock the woeful plight ofher dead father-in-law's family. The young Mrs. Gower blushed andglanced away. "And, " Mildred went on, "everyone is saying that I mustmarry at once--that there's nothing else for me to do. " She smiledbitterly. "When I go into the street again I shall see nothing butflying men. And no man would come to call unless he brought a chaperonand a witness with him. "

"How can you be so frivolous?" reproached her mother. 

Mildred was used to being misunderstood by her mother, who had longsince been made hopelessly dull by the suffocating life she led and bypain from her feet, which never left her at ease for a moment exceptwhen she had them soaking in cold water. Mrs. Gower had been born withordinary feet, neither ugly nor pretty and entirely fit for the usesfor which nature intended feet. She had spoiled them by wearing shoesto make them look smaller and slimmer than they were. In steady weathershe was plaintive; in changeable weather she varied between irritableand violent. 

Said Mildred to her brother: "How much--JUST how much is there?"

"I can't say exactly, " replied her brother, who had not yet solved tohis satisfaction the moral problem of how much of the estate he oughtto allow his mother and sister and how much he ought to claim forhimself--in such a way that the claim could not be disputed. 

Mildred looked fixedly at him. He showed his uneasiness not byglancing away, but by the appearance of a certain hard defiance in hiseyes. Said she:

"What is the very most we can hope for?"

A silence. Her mother broke it. "Mildred, how CAN you talk of thosethings--already?"

"I don't know, " replied Mildred. "Perhaps because it's got to be done. "

This seemed to them all--and to herself--a lame excuse for suchapparent hardness of heart. Her father had always beenSENDER-HEARTED--HAD NEVER SPOKEN OF MONEY, OR ENCOURAGED HIS FAMILY INSPEAKING OF IT. 

A LONG AND PAINFUL SILENCE. THEN, THE WIDOW ABRUPTLY:

"YOU'RE SURE, Frank, there's NO insurance?"

"Father always said that you disliked the idea, " replied her son; "thatyou thought insurance looked like your calculating on his death. "

Under her husband's adroit prompting Mrs. Gower had discovered such aview of insurance in her brain. She now recalled expressing it--andregretted. But she was silenced. She tried to take her mind of thesubject of money. But, like Mildred, she could not. The thought ofimminent poverty was nagging at them like toothache. "There'll beenough for a year or so?" she said, timidly interrogative. 

"I hope so, " said Frank. 

Mildred was eying him fixedly again. Said she: "Have you foundanything at all?"

"He had about eight thousand dollars in bank, " said Frank. "But mostof it will go for the pressing debts. "

"But how did HE expect to live?" urged Mildred. 

"Yes, there must have been SOMETHING, " said her mother. 

"Of course, there's his share of the unsettled and unfinished businessof the firm, " admitted Frank. 

"How much will that be?" persisted Mildred. 

"I can't tell, offhand, " said Frank, with virtuous reproach. "Mymind's been on--other things. "

Henry Gower's widow was not without her share of instinctiveshrewdness. Neither had she, unobservant though she was, been withinsight of her son's character for twenty-eight years without havingunconfessed, unformed misgivings concerning it. "You mustn't botherabout these things now, Frank dear, " said she. "I'll get my brother tolook into it. "

"That won't be necessary, " hastily said Frank. "I don't want any rivallawyer peeping into our firm's affairs. "

"My brother Wharton is the soul of honor, " said Mrs. Gower, the elder, with dignity. "You are too young to take all the responsibility ofsettling the estate. Yes, I'll send for Wharton to-morrow. "

"It'll look as though you didn't trust me, " said Frank sourly. 

"We mustn't do anything to start the gossips in this town, " said hiswife, assisting. 

"Then send for him yourself, Frank, " said Mildred, "and give him chargeof the whole matter. "

Frank eyed her furiously. "How ashamed father would be!" exclaimed he. 

But this solemn invoking of the dead man's spirit was uneffectual. Thespecter of poverty was too insistent, too terrible. Said the widow:

"I'm sure, in the circumstances, my dear dead husband would want me toget help from someone older and more experienced. "

And Frank, guilty of conscience and an expert in the ways ofconventional and highly moral rascality, ceased to resist. His wife, scenting danger to their getting the share that "rightfully belongs tothe son, especially when he has been the brains of the firm for severalyears, " made angry and indiscreet battle for no outside interference. The longer she talked the firmer the widow and the daughter became, notonly because she clarified suspicions that had been too hazy to takeform, but also because they disliked her intensely. The following dayWharton Conover became unofficial administrator. He had no difficultyin baffling Frank Gower's half-hearted and clumsy efforts to hide twolarge fees due the dead man's estate. He discovered clear assetsamounting in all to sixty-three thousand dollars, most of it availablewithin a few months. 

"As you have the good-will of the firm and as your mother and sisterhave only what can be realized in cash, " said he to Frank, "no doubtyou won't insist on your third. "

"I've got to consider my wife, " said Frank. "I can't do as I'd like. "

"You are going to insist on your third?" said Conover, with an accentthat made Frank quiver. 

"I can't do otherwise, " said he in a dogged, shamed way. 

"Um, " said Conover. "Then, on behalf of my sister and her daughterI'll have to insist on a more detailed accounting than you have beenwilling to give--and on the production of that small book bound in redleather which disappeared from my brother-in-law's desk the afternoonof his death. "

A wave of rage and fear surged up within Frank Gower and crashedagainst the seat of his life. For days thereafter he was from time totime seized with violent spasms of trembling; years afterward he wasattributing premature weaknesses of old age to the effects of thatmoment of horror. His uncle's words came as a sudden, high shot climaxto weeks of exasperating peeping and prying and questioning, of sneerand insinuation. Conover had been only moderately successful at thelaw, had lost clients to Frank's father, had been beaten when they wereon opposite sides. He hated the father with the secret, hypocriticalhatred of the highly moral and religious man. He despised the son. Itis not often that a Christian gentleman has such an opportunity tocombine justice and revenge, to feed to bursting an ancient grudge, thewhile conscious that he is but doing his duty. 

Said Frank, when he was able to speak: "You have been listening to thelies of some treacherous clerk here. "

"Don't destroy that little book, " proceeded Conover tranquilly. "Wecan prove that you took it. "

Young Gower rose. "I must decline to have anything further to say toyou, sir, " said he. "You will leave this office, and you will not beadmitted here again unless you come with proper papers asadministrator. "

Conover smiled with cold satisfaction and departed. There followed aseries of quarrels--between Frank and his sister, between Frank and hismother, between Frank's wife and his mother, between Mildred and hermother, between the mother and Conover. Mrs. Gower was suspicious ofher son; but she knew her brother for a pinchpenny, exacting the lastdrop of what he regarded as his own. And she discovered that, if sheauthorized him to act as administrator for her, he could--and beyondquestion would--take a large share of the estate. The upshot was thatFrank paid over to his mother and sister forty-seven thousand dollars, and his mother and her brother stopped speaking to each other. 

"I see that you have turned over all your money to mother, " said Frankto Mildred a few days after the settlement. 

"Of course, " said Mildred. She was in a mood of high scorn forsordidness--a mood induced by the spectacle of the shameful manners ofConover, Frank, and his wife. 

"Do you think that's wise?" suggested Frank. 

"I think it's decent, " said Mildred. 

"Well, I hope you'll not live to regret it, " said her brother. 

Neither Mrs. Gower nor her daughter had ever had any experience in thecare of money. To both forty-seven thousand dollars seemed afortune--forty-seven thousand dollars in cash in the bank, ready toissue forth and do their bidding at the mere writing of a few figuresand a signature on a piece of paper. In a sense they knew that formany years the family's annual expenses had ranged between forty andfifty thousand, but in the sense of actuality they knew nothing aboutit--a state of affairs common enough in families where the man is inabsolute control and spends all he makes. Money always had beenforthcoming; therefore money always would be forthcoming. 

The mourning and the loss of the person who had filled and employedtheir lives caused the widow and the daughter to live very quietlyduring the succeeding year. They spent only half of their capital. Forreasons of selfish and far-sighted prudence which need no detailingFrank moved away to New York within six months of his father's deathand reduced communication between himself and wife and his mother andsister to a frigid and rapidly congealing minimum. He calculated thatby the time their capital was consumed they would have left no feelingof claim upon him or he feeling of duty toward them. 

It was not until eighteen months after her father's death, when thetotal capital was sunk to less than fifteen thousand dollars, thatMildred awakened to the truth of their plight. A few months at most, and they would have to give up that beautiful house which had been herhome all her life. She tried to grasp the meaning of the facts as herintelligence presented them to her, but she could not. She had nopractical training whatever. She had been brought up as a rich man'schild, to be married to a rich man, and never to know anything of thematerial details of life beyond what was necessary in managing servantsafter the indifferent fashion of the usual American woman of thecomfortable classes. She had always had a maid; she could not evendress herself properly without the maid's assistance. Life without amaid was inconceivable; life without servants was impossible. 

She wandered through the house, through the grounds. She said toherself again and again: "We have got to give up all this, and bemiserably poor--with not a servant, with less than the tenement peoplehave. " But the words conveyed no meaning to her. She said to herselfagain and again: "I must rouse myself. I must do something. Imust--must--must!" But she did not rouse, because there was nothing torouse. So far as practical life was concerned she was as devoid ofideas as a new-born baby. 

There was but the one hope--marriage, a rich marriage. It is the habitof men who can take care of themselves and of women who are securelywell taken care of to scorn the woman or the helpless-bred man whomarries for money or even entertains that idea. How little imaginationthese scorners have! To marry for a mere living, hardly better thanone could make for oneself, assuredly does show a pitiful lack ofself-reliance, a melancholy lack of self-respect. But for men or womenall their lives used to luxury and with no ability whatever at earningmoney--for such persons to marry money in order to save themselves fromthe misery and shame that poverty means to them is the most natural, the most human action conceivable. The man or the woman who says he orshe would not do it, either is a hypocrite or is talking withoutthinking. You may in honesty criticize and condemn a social system thatsuffers men and women to be so crudely and criminally miseducated bybeing given luxury they did not earn. But to condemn the victims ofthat system for acting as its logic compels is sheer folly or sheerphariseeism. 

Would Mildred Gower have married for money? As the weeks fled, as thebank account dwindled, she would have grasped eagerly at any rich manwho might have offered himself--no matter how repellent he might havebeen. She did not want a bare living; she did not want what passeswith the mass of middle-class people for comfort. She wanted what shehad--the beautiful and spacious house, the costly and fashionableclothing, the servants, the carriages and motors, the thousand and onecomforts, luxuries, and vanities to which she had always been used. Inthe brain of a young woman of poor or only comfortably off family thethoughts that seethed in Mildred Gower's brain would have been so manyindications of depravity. In Mildred Gower's brain they were thenatural, the inevitable, thoughts. They indicated everything as to hertraining, nothing as to her character. So, when she, thinking only ofa rich marriage with no matter whom, and contrasting herself with thefine women portrayed in the novels and plays, condemned herself asshameless and degraded, she did herself grave injustice. 

But no rich man, whether attractive or repulsive, offered. Indeed, noman of any kind offered. Instead, it was her mother who married. 

A widower named James Presbury, elderly, with an income of five to sixthousand a year from inherited wealth, stumbled into Hanging Rock tolive, was impressed by the style the widow Gower maintained, believedthe rumor that her husband had left her better off than was generallythought, proposed, and was accepted. And two years and a month afterHenry Gower's death his widow became Mrs. James Presbury--and ceased toveil from her new husband the truth as to her affairs. 

Mildred had thought that, than the family quarrels incident to settlingher father's estate, human nature could no lower descend. She was nowto be disillusioned. When a young man or a young woman blunders into apoor marriage in trying to make a rich one, he or she is usuallywithheld from immediate and frank expression by the timidity of youth. Not so the elderly man or woman. As we grow older, no matter howtimidly conventional we are by nature, we become, through selfishnessor through indifference to the opinion of others or through impatienceof petty restraint, more and more outspoken. Old Presbury discoveredhow he had tricked himself four days after the wedding. He and hisbride were at the Waldorf in New York, a-honeymooning. 

The bride had never professed to be rich. She had simply continued inher lifelong way, had simply acted rich. She well knew the gaudydelusions her admirer was entertaining, and she saw to it that nothingwas said or done to disturb him. She inquired into his affairs, madesure of the substantiality of the comparatively small income hepossessed, decided to accept him as her best available chance to escapebecoming a charge upon her anything but eager and generous relatives. She awaited the explosion with serenity. She cared not a flip forPresbury, who was a soft and silly old fool, full of antiquatedcompliments and so drearily the inferior of Henry Gower, physically andmentally, that even she could appreciate the difference, the descent. She rather enjoyed the prospect of a combat with him, of the end ofdissimulating her contempt. She had thought out and had put in arsenalready for use a variety of sneers, jeers, and insults that suggestedthemselves to her as she listened and simpered and responded while hewas courting. 

Had the opportunity offered earlier than the fourth day she would haveseized it, but not until that fourth morning was she in just the rightmood. She had eaten too much dinner the night before, and had followedit after two hours in a stuffy theater with an indigestible supper. Heliked the bedroom windows open at night; she liked them closed. Aftershe fell into a heavy sleep, he slipped out of bed and opened thewindows wide--to teach her by the night's happy experience that she wasentirely mistaken as to the harmfulness of fresh winter air. Theresult was that she awakened with a frightful cold and a splittingheadache. And as the weather was about to change she had shootingpains like toothache through her toes the instant she thrust them intoher shoes. The elderly groom, believing he had a rich bride, was allsolicitude and infuriating attention. She waited until he had wroughther to the proper pitch of fury. Then she said--in reply to someremark of his:

"Yes, I shall rely upon you entirely. I want you to take absolutecharge of my affairs. "

The tears sprang to his eyes. His weak old mouth, rapidly falling topieces, twisted and twitched with emotion. "I'll try to deserve yourconfidence, darling, " said he. "I've had large business experience--inthe way of investing carefully, I mean. I don't think your affairswill suffer in my hands. "

"Oh, I'm sure they'll not trouble you, " said she in a sweet, sure toneas the pains shot through her feet and her head. "You'll hardly noticemy little mite in your property. " She pretended to reflect. "Let mesee--there's seven thousand left, but of course half of that isMillie's. "

"It must be very well invested, " said he. "Those seven thousand sharesmust be of the very best. "

"Shares?" said she, with a gentle little laugh. "I mean dollars. "

Presbury was about to lift a cup of cafe au lait to his lips. Instead, he turned it over into the platter of eggs and bacon. 

"We--Mildred and I, " pursued his bride, "were left with only forty-oddthousand between us. Of course, we had to live. So, naturally, there's very little left. "

Presbury was shaking so violently that his head and arms waggled like ajumping-jack's. He wrapped his elegant white fingers about the arms ofhis chair to steady himself. In a suffocated voice he said: "Do youmean to say that you have only seven thousand dollars in the world?"

"Only half that, " corrected she. "Oh, dear, how my head aches! Lessthan half that, for there are some debts. "

She was impatient for the explosion; the agony of her feet and headneeded outlet and relief. But he disappointed her. That was one ofthe situations in which one appeals in vain to the resources oflanguage. He shrank and sank back in his chair, his jaw dropped, andhe vented a strange, imbecile cackling laugh. It was not an expressionof philosophic mirth, of sense of the grotesqueness of an anti-climax. It was not an expression of any emotion whatever. It was simply asignal from a mind temporarily dethroned. 

"What are you laughing at?" she said sharply. 

His answer was a repetition of the idiotic sound. 

"What's the matter with you?" demanded she. "Please close your mouth. "

It was a timely piece of advice; for his upper and false teeth hadbecome partially dislodged and threatened to drop upon the shirt-bosomgayly showing between the lapels of his dark-blue silk house-coat. Heslowly closed his mouth, moving his teeth back into place with histongue--a gesture that made her face twitch with rage and disgust. 

"Seven thousand dollars, " he mumbled dazedly. 

"I said less than half that, " retorted she sharply. 

"And I--thought you were--rich. "

A peculiar rolling of the eyes and twisting of the lips gave her theidea that he was about to vent that repulsive sound again. "Don't youlaugh!" she cried. "I can't bear your laugh--even at its best. "

Suddenly he galvanized into fury. "This is an outrage!" he cried, waving his useless-looking white fists. "You have swindled me--SWINDLEDme!"

Her head stopped aching. The pains in her feet either ceased or sheforgot them. In a suspiciously calm voice she said: "What do youmean?"

"I mean that you are a swindler!" he shouted, banging one fist on thetable and waving the other. 

She acted as though his meaning were just dawning upon her. "Do youmean, " said she tranquilly, "that you married me for money?"

"I mean that I thought you a substantial woman, and that I find you arean adventuress. "

"Did you think, " inquired she, "that any woman who had money wouldmarry YOU?" She laughed very quietly. "You ARE a fool!"

He sat back to look at her. This mode of combat in such circumstancespuzzled him. 

"I knew that you were rich, " she went on, "or you would not have daredoffer yourself to me. All my friends were amazed at my stooping toaccept you. Your father was an Irish Tammany contractor, wasn't he?--asort of criminal? But I simply had to marry. So I gave you my familyand position and name in exchange for your wealth--a good bargain foryou, but a poor one for me. "

These references to HIS wealth were most disconcerting, especially asthey were accompanied by remarks about his origin, of which he was soashamed that he had changed the spelling of his name in the effort toclear himself of it. However, some retort was imperative. He looked ather and said:

"Swindler and adventuress!"

"Don't repeat that lie, " said she. "You are the adventurer--despitethe fact that you are very rich. "

"Don't say that again, " cried he. "I never said or pretended I wasrich. I have about five thousand a year--and you'll not get a cent ofit, madam!"

She knew his income, but no one would have suspected it from herexpression of horror. "What!" she gasped. "You dared to marry ME whenyou were a--beggar! Me--the widow of Henry Gower! You impudent oldwreck! Why, you haven't enough to pay my servants. What are we tolive on, pray?"

"I don't know what YOU'LL live on, " replied he. "_I_ shall live as Ialways have. "

"A beggar!" she exclaimed. "I--married to a beggar. " She burst intotears. "How men take advantage of a woman alone! If my son had beennear me! But there's surely some law to protect me. Yes, I'm surethere is. Oh, I'll punish you for having deceived me. " Her eyes driedas she looked at him. "How dare you sit there? How dare you face me, you miserable fraud!"

Early in her acquaintance with him she had discovered that determiningfactors in his character were sensitiveness about his origin andsensitiveness about his social position. On this knowledge of hisweaknesses was securely based her confidence that she could act as shepleased toward him. To ease her pains she proceeded to pour out herprivate opinion of him--all the disagreeable things, all the insultsshe had been storing up. 

She watched him as only a woman can watch a man. She saw that his ragewas not dangerous, that she was forcing him into a position where fearof her revenging herself by disgracing him would overcome anger at thecollapse of his fatuous dreams of wealth. She did not despise him themore deeply for sitting there, for not flying from the room or tryingto kill her or somehow compelling her to check that flow of insult. Shealready despised him utterly; also, she attached small importance toself-respect, having no knowledge of what that quality really is. 

When she grew tired, she became quiet. They sat there a long time insilence. At last he ran up the white flag of abject surrender bysaying:

"What'll we live on--that's what I'd like to know?"

An eavesdropper upon the preceding violence of upward of an hour wouldhave assumed that at its end this pair must separate, never to see eachother again voluntarily. But that idea, even as a possibility, had notentered the mind of either. They had lived a long time; they werepractical people. They knew from the outset that somehow they mustarrange to go on together. The alternative meant a mere pittance ofalimony for her; meant for him social ostracism and the small incomecut in half; meant for both scandal and confusion. 

Said she fretfully: "Oh, I suppose we'll get along, somehow. I don'tknow anything about those things. I've always been looked after--keptfrom contact with the sordid side of life. "

"That house you live in, " he went on, "does it belong to you?"

She gave him a contemptuous glance. "Of course, " said she. "What lowpeople you must have been used to!"

"I thought perhaps you had rented it for your bunco game, " retorted he. "The furniture, the horses, the motor--all those things--do they belongto you?"

"I shall leave the room if you insult me, " said she. 

"Did you include them in the seven thousand dollars?"

"The money is in the bank. It has nothing to do with our house and ourproperty. "

He reflected, presently said: "The horses and carriages must be soldat once--and all those servants dismissed except perhaps two. We canlive in the house. "

She grew purple with rage. "Sell MY carriages! Discharge MY servants!I'd like to see you try!"

"Who's to pay for keeping up that establishment?" demanded he. 

She was silent. She saw what he had in mind. 

"If you want to keep that house and live comfortably, " he went on, "you've got to cut expenses to the bone. You see that, don't you?"

"I can't live any way but the way I've been used to all my life, "wailed she. 

He eyed her disgustedly. Was there anything equal to a woman for folly?

"We've got to make the most of what little we have, " said he. 

"I tell you I don't know anything about those things, " repeated she. "You'll have to look after them. Mildred and I aren't like the womenyou've been used to. We are ladies. "

Presbury's rage boiled over again at the mention of Mildred. "Thatdaughter of yours!" he cried. "What's to be done about her? I've gotno money to waste on her. "

"You miserable Tammany THING!" exclaimed she. "Don't you dare SPEAK ofmy daughter except in the most respectful way. "

And once more she opened out upon him, wreaking upon him all her wrathagainst fate, all the pent-up fury of two years--fury which had beendenied such fury's usual and natural expression in denunciations of thedead bread-winner. The generous and ever-kind Henry Gower could not beto blame for her wretched plight; and, of course, she herself could notbe to blame for it. So, until now there had been no scapegoat. Presbury therefore received the whole burden. He, alarmed lest acreature apparently so irrational, should in wild rage drive him away, ruin him socially, perhaps induce a sympathetic court to award her alarge part of his income as alimony, said not a word in reply. He badehis wrath wait. Later on, when the peril was over, when he had a firmgrip upon the situation--then he would take his revenge. 

They gave up the expensive suite at the Waldorf that very day andreturned to Hanging Rock. They alternated between silence and thecoarsest, crudest quarrelings, for neither had the intelligence toquarrel wittily or the refinement to quarrel artistically. As soon asthey arrived at the Gower house, Mildred was dragged into the wrangle. 

"I married this terrible man for your sake, " was the burden of hermother's wail. "And he is a beggar--wants to sell off everything anddismiss the servants. "

"You are a pair of paupers, " cried the old man. "You are shamelesstricksters. Be careful how you goad me!"

Mildred had anticipated an unhappy ending to her mother's marriage, butshe had not knowledge enough of life or of human nature to anticipateany such horrors as now began. Every day, all day long the vulgarfight raged. Her mother and her stepfather withdrew from each other'spresence only to think up fresh insults to fling at each other. Assoon as they were armed they hastened to give battle again. Sheavoided Presbury. Her mother she could not avoid; and when her motherwas not in combat with him, she was weeping or wailing or railing toMildred. 

It was at Mildred's urging that her mother acquiesced in Presbury'splans for reducing expenses within income. At first the girl, evenmore ignorant than her mother of practical affairs, did not appreciatethe wisdom, not to say the necessity, of what he wished to do, but soonshe saw that he was right, that the servants must go, that the horsesand carriages and the motors must be sold. When she was convinced andhad convinced her mother, she still did not realize what the thingreally meant. Not until she no longer had a maid did she comprehend. To a woman who has never had a maid, or who has taken on a maid as aluxury, it will seem an exaggeration to say that Mildred felt ashelpless as a baby lying alone in a crib before it has learned tocrawl. Yet that is rather an understatement of her plight. The maidleft in the afternoon. Mildred, not without inconveniences that had inthe novelty their amusing side, contrived to dress that evening fordinner and to get to bed; but when she awakened in the morning and wasready to dress, the loss of Therese became a tragedy. It took the girlnearly four hours to get herself together presentably--and then, neverhad she looked so unkempt. With her hair, thick and soft, she could donothing. 

"What a wonderful person Therese was!" thought she. "And I alwaysregarded her as rather stupid. " Her mother, who had not had a maiduntil she was about thirty and had never become completely dependent, fared somewhat better, though, hearing her moans, you would havethought she was faring worse. 

Mildred's unhappiness increased from day to day, as her wardrobe fellinto confusion and disrepair. She felt that she must rise to thesituation, must teach herself, must save herself from impendingdowdiness and slovenliness. But her brain seemed to be paralyzed. Shedid not know how or where to begin to learn. She often in secret gaveway to the futility of tears. 

There were now only a cook and one housemaid and a man of all work--allthree newcomers, for Presbury insisted--most wisely--that none of theservants of the luxurious, wasteful days would be useful in the newcircumstances. He was one of those small, orderly men who have agenius for just such situations as the one he now proceeded to grapplewith and solve. In his pleasure at managing everything about thathouse, in distributing the work among the three servants, in marketing, and, in inspecting purchases and nosing into the garbage-barrel, inlooking for dust on picture-frames and table-tops and for neglectedweeds in the garden walks--in this multitude of engrossing delights heforgot his anger over the trick that had been played upon him. Hestill fought with his wife and denounced her and met insult withinsult. But that, too, was one of his pleasures. Also, he felt thaton the whole he had done well in marrying. He had been lonely as abachelor, had had no one to talk with, or to quarrel with, nothing todo. The marriage was not so expensive, as his wife had brought him ahouse--and it such a one as he had always regarded as the apogee ofelegance. Living was not dear in Hanging Rock, if one understoodmanaging and gave time to it. And socially he was at last established. 

Soon his wife was about as contented as she had ever been in her life. She hated and despised her husband, but quarreling with him and railingagainst him gave her occupation and aim--two valuable assets towardhappiness that she had theretofore lacked. Her living--shelter, food, clothing enough--was now secure. But the most important factor of allin her content was the one apparently too trivial to be worthy ofrecord. From girlhood she could not recall a single day in which shehad not suffered from her feet. And she had been ashamed to sayanything about it--had never let anyone, even her maid, see her feet, which were about the only unsightly part of her. None had guessed thecause of her chronic ill-temper until Presbury, that genius for thelittle, said within a week of their marriage:

"You talk and act like a woman with chronic corns. "

He did not dream of the effect this chance thrust had upon his wife. For the first time he had really "landed. " She concealed her frightand her shame as best she could and went on quarreling more viciouslythan ever. But he presently returned to the attack. Said he:

"Your feet hurt you. I'm sure they do. Now that I think of it, youwalk that way. "

"I suppose I deserve my fate, " said she. "When a woman marries beneathher she must expect insult and low conversation. "

"You must cure your feet, " said he. "I'll not live in the house with aperson who is made fiendish by corns. I think it's only corns. I seeno signs of bunions. "

"You brute!" cried his wife, rushing from the room. 

But when they met again, he at once resumed the subject, telling herjust how she could cure herself--and he kept on telling her, sheapparently ignoring but secretly acting on his advice. He knew what hewas about, and her feet grew better, grew well--and she was happierthan she had been since girlhood when she began ruining her feet withtight shoes. 

Six months after the marriage, Presbury and his wife were getting onabout as comfortably as it is given to average humanity to get on inthis world of incessant struggle between uncomfortable man and hisuncomfortable environment. But Mildred had become more and moreunhappy. Her mother, sometimes angrily, again reproachfully--and thatwas far harder to bear--blamed her for "my miserable marriage to thislow, quarrelsome brute. " Presbury let no day pass without telling heropenly that she was a beggar living off him, that she would bettermarry soon or he would take drastic steps to release himself of theburden. When he attacked her before her mother, there was a violentquarrel from which Mildred fled to hide in her room or in the remotestpart of the garden. When he hunted her out to insult her alone, shesat or stood with eyes down and face ghastly pale, mute, quivering. Shedid not interrupt, did not try to escape. She was like the chained andspiritless dog that crouches and takes the shower of blows from itscruel master. 

Where could she go? Nowhere. What could she do? Nothing. In thedays of prosperity she had regarded herself as proud and high spirited. She now wondered at herself! What had become of the pride? What of thespirit? She avoided looking at her image in the glass--that thin, pallid face, those circled eyes, the drawn, sick expression about themouth and nose. "I'm stunned, " she said to herself. "I've been stunnedever since father's death. I've never recovered--nor has mother. " Andshe gave way to tears--for her father, she fancied; in fact, from shameat her weakness and helplessness. She thought--hoped--that she wouldnot be thus feeble and cowardly, if she were not living at home, in thehouse she loved, the house where she had spent her whole life. Andsuch a house! Comfort and luxury and taste; every room, every cornerof the grounds, full of the tenderest and most beautiful associations. Also, there was her position in Hanging Rock. Everywhere else shewould be a stranger and would have either no position at all or oneworse than that of the utter outsider. There, she was of the fewlooked up to by the whole community. No one knew, or even suspected, how she was degraded by her step-father. Before the world he wascourteous and considerate toward her as toward everybody. Indeed, Presbury's natural instincts were gentle and kindly. His hatred ofMildred and his passion for humiliating her were the result of hisconviction that he had been tricked into the marriage and his inabilityto gratify his resentment upon his wife. He could not make the mothersuffer; but he could make the daughter suffer--and he did. Besides, she was of no use to him and would presently be an expense. 

"Your money will soon be gone, " he said to her. "If you paid your justshare of the expenses it would be gone now. When it is gone, what willyou do?"

She was silent. 

"Your mother has written to your brother about you. "

Mildred lifted her head, a gleam of her former spirit in her eyes. Thenshe remembered, and bent her gaze upon the ground. 

"But he, like the cur that he is, answered through a secretary that hewished to have nothing to do with either of you. "

Mildred guessed that Frank had made the marriage an excuse. 

"Surely some of your relatives will do something for you. I have myhands full, supporting your mother. I don't propose to have twostrapping, worthless women hanging from my neck. "

She bent her head lower, and remained silent. 

"I warn you to bestir yourself, " he went on. "I give you four months. After the first of the year you can't stay here unless you pay yourshare--your third. "

No answer. 

"You hear what I say, miss?" he demanded. 

"Yes, " replied she. 

"If you had any sense you wouldn't wait until your last cent was gone. You'd go to New York now and get something to do. "

"What?" she asked--all she could trust herself to speak. 

"How should _I_ know?" retorted he furiously. "You are a stranger tome. You've been educated, I assume. Surely there's something you cando. You've been out six years now, and have had no success, for you'reneither married nor engaged. You can't call it success to be flatteredand sought by people who wanted invitations to this house when it was asocial center. "

He paused for response from her. None came. 

"You admit you are a failure?" he said sharply. 

"Yes, " said she. 

"You must have realized it several years ago, " he went on. "Instead ofallowing your mother to keep on wasting money in entertaining lavishlyhere to give you a chance to marry, you should have been preparingyourself to earn a living. " A pause. "Isn't that true, miss?"

He had a way of pronouncing the word "miss" that made it an epithet, asneer at her unmarried and unmarriageable state. She colored, paled, murmured:

"Yes. "

"Then, better late than never. You'll do well to follow my advice andgo to New York and look about you. "

"I'll--I'll think of it, " stammered she. 

And she did think of it. But in all her life she had never consideredthe idea of money-making. That was something for men, and for themiddle and lower classes--while Hanging Rock was regarded as mostnoisomely middle class by fashionable people, it did not so regarditself. Money-making was not for ladies. Like all her class, she wasa constant and a severe critic of the women of the lower orders whoworked for her as milliners, dressmakers, shop-attendants, cooks, maids. But, as she now realized, it is one thing to pass upon the workof others; it is another thing to do work oneself. She-- There wasliterally nothing that she could do. Any occupation, even the mostmenial, was either beyond her skill or beyond her strength, or beyondboth. 

Suddenly she recalled that she could sing. Her prostrate spiritsuddenly leaped erect. Yes, she could sing! Her voice had been praisedby experts. Her singing had been in demand at charity entertainmentswhere amateurs had to compete with professionals. Then down shedropped again. She sang well enough to know how badly she sang--thelong and toilsome and expensive training that lay between her andoperatic or concert or even music-hall stage. Her voice was fine attimes. Again--most of the time--it was unreliable. No, she could nothope to get paying employment even as a church choir-singer. MissDresser who sang in the choir of the Good Shepherd for ten dollars aSunday, had not nearly so good a voice as she, but it was reliable. 

"There is nothing I can do--nothing!"

All at once, with no apparent bridge across the vast chasm, her heartwent out, not in pity but in human understanding and sisterly sympathy, to the women of the pariah class at whom, during her stops in New York, she had sometimes gazed in wonder and horror. "Why, we and they areonly a step apart, " she said to herself in amazement. "We and they aremuch nearer than my maid or the cook and they!"

And then her heart skipped a beat and her skin grew cold and a fogswirled over her brain. If she should be cast out--if she could findno work and no one to support her--would she-- "O my God!" she moaned. "I must be crazy, to think such thoughts. I never could! I'd diefirst--DIE!" But if anyone had pictured to her the kind of life shewas now leading--the humiliation and degradation she was meeklyenduring with no thought of flight, with an ever stronger desire tostay on, regardless of pride and self-respect--if anyone had picturedthis to her as what she would endure, what would she have said? Shecould see herself flashing scornful denial, saying that she wouldrather kill herself. Yet she was living--and was not evencontemplating suicide as a way out!

A few days after Presbury gave her warning, her mother took advantageof his absence for his religiously observed daily constitutional to sayto her:

"I hope you didn't think I was behind him in what he said to you aboutgoing away?"

Mildred had not thought so, but in her mother's guilty tone andguiltier eyes she now read that her mother wished her to go. 

"It'd be awful for me to be left here alone with him, " wailed hermother insincerely. "Of course we've got no money, and beggars can'tbe choosers. But it'd just about kill me to have you go. "

Mildred could not speak. 

"I don't know a thing about money, " Mrs. Presbury went on. "Yourfather always looked after everything. " She had fallen into the way ofspeaking of her first husband as part of some vague, remote past, which, indeed, he had become for her. "This man"--meaningPresbury--"has only about five thousand a year, as you know. I supposethat's as small as he says it is. I remember our bills for one monthused to be as much or more than that. " She waved her useless, prettyhands helplessly. "I don't see HOW we are to get on, Mildred!"

Her mother wished her to go! Her mother had fallen under the influenceof Presbury--her mother, woman-like, or rather, ladylike, was of kin tothe helpless, flabby things that float in the sea and attach themselvesto whatever they happen to lodge against. Her mother wished her to go!

"At the same time, " Mrs. Presbury went on, "I can't live withoutsomebody here to stand between me and him. I'd kill him or killmyself. "

Mildred muttered some excuse and fled from the room, to lock herself in. 

But when she came forth again to descend to dinner, she had resolvednothing, because there was nothing to resolve. When she was a childshe leaned from the nursery window one day and saw a stable-boydrowning a rat that was in a big, oval, wire cage with a wooden bottom. The boy pressed the cage slowly down in the vat of water. The rat, inthe very top of the cage, watched the floor sink, watched the waterrise. And as it watched it uttered a strange, shrill, feeble soundwhich she could still remember distinctly and terribly. It seemed toher now that if she were to utter any sound at all, it would be thatone. 

II

ON the Monday before Thanksgiving, Presbury went up to New York to lookafter one of the little speculations in Wall Street at which he was soclever. Throughout the civilized world nowadays, and especially in andnear the great capitals of finance, there is a class of men and womenof small capital and of a character in which are combined ironself-restraint, rabbit-like timidity, and great shrewdness, who makeoften a not inconsiderable income by gambling in stocks. They buy onlywhen the market is advancing strongly; they sell as soon as they havegained the scantest margin of profit. They never permit themselves tobe tempted by the most absolute certainty of larger gains. They willlet weeks, months even, go by without once risking a dollar. They waituntil they simply cannot lose. Tens of thousands every year try tojoin this class. All but the few soon succumb to the hourly dazzlingtemptations the big gamblers dangle before the eyes of the littlegamblers to lure them within reach of the merciless shears. 

Presbury had for many years added from one to ten thousand a year tohis income by this form of gambling, success at which is in itselfsufficient to stamp a man as infinitely little of soul. On that Mondayhe, venturing for the first time in six months, returned to HangingRock on the three-thirty train the richer by two hundred and fiftydollars--as large a "killing" as he had ever made in any single day, one large enough to elevate him to the rank of prince among the"sure-thing snides. " He said nothing about his luck to his family, butlet them attribute his unprecedented good humor to the news he broughtand announced at dinner. 

"I met an old friend in the street this afternoon, " said he. "He hasinvited us to take Thanksgiving dinner with him. And I think it willbe a dinner worth while--the food, I mean, and the wine. Not theguests; for there won't be any guests but us. General Siddall is astranger in New York. "

"There are Siddalls in New York, " said his wife; "very nice, refinedpeople--going in the best society. "

Presbury showed his false teeth in a genial smile; for theold-fashioned or plate kind of false teeth they were extraordinarilygood--when exactly in place. "But not my old friend Bill Siddall, "said he. "He's next door to an outlaw. I'd not have accepted hisinvitation if he had been asking us to dine in public. But this is tobe at his own house--his new house--and a very grand house it is, judging by the photos he showed me. A regular palace! He'll not be anoutlaw long, I guess. But we must wait and see how he comes outsocially before we commit ourselves. "

"Did you accept for me, too?" asked Mrs. Presbury. 

"Certainly, " said Presbury. "And for your daughter, too. "

"I can't go, " said Mildred. "I'm dining with the Fassetts. "

The family no longer had a servant in constant attendance in thedining-room. The maid of many functions also acted as butler and asfetch-and-carry between kitchen and butler's pantry. Before speaking, Presbury waited until this maid had withdrawn to bring the roast andthe vegetables. Then he said:

"You are going, too, miss. " This with the full infusion of insult intothe "miss. "

Mildred was silent. 

"Bill Siddall is looking for a wife, " proceeded Presbury. "And he hasHeaven knows how many millions. "

"Do you think there's a chance for Milly?" cried Mrs. Presbury, who wasfull of alternating hopes and fears, both wholly irrational. 

"She can have him--if she wants him, " replied Presbury. "But it's onlyfair to warn her that he's a stiff dose. "

"Is the money--CERTAIN?" inquired Mildred's mother with that shrewdnesswhose rare occasional displays laid her open to the unjust suspicion offeigning her habitual stupidity. 

"Yes, " said Presbury amiably. "It's nothing like yours was. He's sorich he doesn't know what to do with his income. He owns minesscattered all over the world. And if they all failed, he's got bundlesof railway stocks and bonds, and gilt-edged trust stocks, too. And he'sa comparatively young man--hardly fifty, I should say. He pretends tobe forty. "

"It's strange I never heard of him, " said Mrs. Presbury. 

"If you went to South America or South Africa or Alaska, you'd hear ofhim, " said Presbury. He laughed. "And I guess you'd hear some prettydreadful things. When I knew him twenty-five years ago he had just beenarrested for forging my father's name to a check. But he got out ofthat--and it's all past and gone. Probably he hasn't committed anyworse crimes than have most of our big rich men. Bill's handicap hasbeen that he hadn't much education or any swell relatives. But he's agenius at money-making. " Presbury looked at Mildred with a grin. "Andhe's just the husband for Mildred. She can't afford to be tooparticular. Somebody's got to support her. _I_ can't and won't, andshe can't support herself. "

"You'll go--won't you, Mildred?" said her mother. "He may not be sobad. "

"Yes, I'll go, " said Mildred. Her gaze was upon the untouched food onher plate. 

"Of course she'll go, " said Presbury. "And she'll marry him if shecan. Won't you, miss?"

He spoke in his amiably insulting way--as distinguished from the way ofsavagely sneering insult he usually took with her. He expected noreply. She surprised him. She lifted her tragic eyes and lookedfixedly at him. She said:

"Yes, I'll go. And I'll marry him if I can. "

"I told him he could have you, " said Presbury. "I explained to himthat you were a rare specimen of the perfect lady--just what hewanted--and that you, and all your family, would be grateful to anybodywho would undertake your support. "

Mrs. Presbury flushed angrily. "You've made it perfectly useless forher to go!" she cried. 

"Calm yourself, my love, " said her husband. "I know Bill Siddallthoroughly. I said what would help. I want to get rid of her as muchas you do--and that's saying a great deal. "

Mrs. Presbury flamed with the wrath of those who are justly accused. "If Mildred left, I should go, too, " cried she. 

"Go where?" inquired her husband. "To the poorhouse?"

By persistent rubbing in Presbury had succeeded in making the truthabout her poverty and dependence clear to his wife. She continued tofrown and to look unutterable contempt, but he had silenced her. Henoted this with a sort of satisfaction and went on:

"If Bill Siddall takes her, you certainly won't go there. He wouldn'thave you. He feels strongly on the subject of mothers-in-law. "

"Has he been married before?" asked Mrs. Presbury. 

"Twice, " replied her husband. "His first wife died. He divorced thesecond for unfaithfulness. "

Mildred saw in this painstaking recital of all the disagreeable andrepellent facts about Siddall an effort further to humiliate her bymaking it apparent how desperately off she was, how she could notrefuse any offer, revolting though it might be to her pride and to herwomanly instincts. Doubtless this was in part the explanation ofPresbury's malicious candor. But an element in that candor was aprudent preparing of the girl's mind for worse than the reality. Thathe was in earnest in his profession of a desire to bring about thematch showed when he proposed that they should take rooms at a hotel inNew York, to give her a chance to dress properly for the dinner. True, he hastened to say that the expense must be met altogether out of theremnant of Mildred's share of her father's estate, but the idea wouldnot have occurred to him had he not been really planning a marriage. 

Never had Mildred looked more beautiful or more attractive than whenthe three were ready to sally forth from the Manhattan Hotel on thatThanksgiving evening. At twenty-five, a soundly healthy and vigoroustwenty-five, it is impossible for mind and nerves, however wroughtupon, to make serious inroads upon surface charms. The hope ofemancipation from her hideous slavery had been acting upon the girllike a powerful tonic. She had gained several pounds in the threeintervening days; her face had filled out, color had come back in allits former beauty to her lips. Perhaps there was some slight aid fromart in the extraordinary brilliancy of her eyes. 

Presbury inventoried her with a succession of grunts of satisfaction. "Yes, he'll want you, " he said. "You'll strike him as just the showpiece he needs. And he's too shrewd not to be aware that his choice islimited. "

"You can't frighten me, " said Mildred, with a radiant, coquettishsmile--for practice. "Nothing could frighten me. "

"I'm not trying, " replied Presbury. "Nor will Siddall frighten you. Awoman who's after a bill-payer can stomach anything. "

"Or a man, " said Mildred. 

"Oh, your mother wasn't as bad as all that, " said Presbury, who neverlost an opportunity. 

Mrs. Presbury, seated beside her daughter in the cab, gave anexclamation of rage. "My own daughter insulting me!" she said. 

"Such a thought did not enter my head, " protested Mildred. "I wasn'tthinking of anyone in particular. "

"Let's not quarrel now, " said Presbury, with unprecedented amiability. "We must give Bill a spectacle of the happy family. "

The cab entered the porte-cochere of a huge palace of white stone justoff Fifth Avenue. The house was even grander than they hadanticipated. The wrought-iron fence around it had cost a smallfortune; the house itself, without reference to its contents, a largefortune. The massive outer doors were opened by two lackeys incherry-colored silk and velvet livery; a butler, looking like anEnglish gentleman, was waiting to receive them at the top of a shortflight of marble steps between the outer and the inner entrance doors. As Mildred ascended, she happened to note the sculpturing over theinner entrance--a reclining nude figure of a woman, Cupids withgarlands and hymeneal torches hovering about her. 

Mildred had been in many pretentious houses in and near New York, butthis far surpassed the grandest of them. Everything was brand new, seemed to have been only that moment placed, and was of thecostliest--statuary, carpets, armor, carved seats of stone and wood, marble staircase rising majestically, tapestries, pictures, drawing-room furniture. The hall was vast, but the drawing-room wasvaster. Empty, one would have said that it could not possibly befurnished. Yet it was not only full, but crowded-chairs and sofas, hassocks and tete-a-tetes, cabinets, tables, pictures, statues, busts, palms, flowers, a mighty fireplace in which, behind enormous and costlyandirons, crackled enormous and costly logs. There was danger inmoving about; one could not be sure of not upsetting something, and onefelt that the least damage that could be done there would be anappallingly expensive matter. 

Before that cavernous fireplace posed General Siddall. He was a tinymite of a man with a thin wiry body supporting the head of aprofessional barber. His black hair was glossy and most romanticallyarranged. His black mustache and imperial were waxed andbrilliantined. There was no mistaking the liberal use of dye, also. From the rather thin, very sharp face looked a pair of small, muddy, brown-green eyes--dull, crafty, cold, cruel. But the little man was soinsignificant and so bebarbered and betailored that one could not takehim seriously. Never had there been so new, so carefully pressed, soperfectly fitting evening clothes; never a shirt so expensively gottogether, or jeweled studs, waistcoat buttons and links so high priced. From every part of the room, from every part of the little man'sperfumed and groomed person, every individual article seemed to beshrieking, "The best is not too good for Bill Siddall!"

Mildred was agreeably surprised--she was looking with fiercedetermination for agreeable surprises--when the costly little manspoke, in a quiet, pleasant voice with an elusive, attractive foreignaccent. 

"My, but this is grand--grand, General Siddall!" said Presbury in thevoice of the noisy flatterer. "Princely! Royal!"

Mildred glanced nervously at Siddall. She feared that Presbury hadtaken the wrong tone. She saw in the unpleasant eyes a glance ofgratified vanity. Said he:

"Not so bad, not so bad. I saw the house in Paris, when I was taking awalk one day. I went to the American ambassador and asked for the bestarchitect in Paris. I went to him, told him about the house--and hereit is. "

"Decorations, furniture, and all!" exclaimed Presbury. 

"No, just the house. I picked up the interiors in different parts ofEurope--had everything reproduced where I couldn't buy outright. Iwant to enjoy my money while I'm still young. I didn't care what itcost to get the proper surroundings. As I said to my architect and tomy staff of artists, I expected to be cheated, but I wanted the goods. And I got the goods. I'll show you through the house after dinner. It's on this same scale throughout. And they're putting me together acountry place--same sort of thing. " He threw back his little shouldersand protruded his little chest. "And the joke of it is that the wholebusiness isn't costing me a cent. "

"Not a cent less than half a dozen or a dozen millions, " said Presbury. 

"Not so much as that--not quite, " protested the delightedly sparklinglittle general. "But what I meant was that, as fast as these fellowsspend, I go down-town and make. Fact is, I'm a little better off thanI was when I started in to build. "

"Well, you didn't get any of MY money, " laughed Presbury. "But Isuppose pretty much everybody else in the country must havecontributed. "

General Siddall smiled. Mildred wondered whether the points of hismustache and imperial would crack and break of, if he should touchthem. She noted that his hair was roached absurdly high above themiddle of his forehead and that he was wearing the tallest heels shehad ever seen. She calculated that, with his hair flat and his feet onthe ground, he would hardly come to her shoulder--and she was barely ofwoman's medium height. She caught sight of his hands--the square, stubby hands of a working man; the fingers permanently slightly curvedas by the handle of shovel and pick; the skin shriveled but white witha ghastly, sickening bleached white, the nails repulsively manicuredinto long white curves. "If he should touch me, I'd scream, " shethought. And then she looked at Presbury--and around her at theevidences of enormous wealth. 

The general--she wondered where he had got that title--led her motherin to dinner, Presbury gave her his arm. On the way he foundopportunity to mutter:

"Lay it on thick! Flatter the fool. You can't offend him. Tell himhe's divinely handsome--a Louis Fourteen, a Napoleon. Praiseeverything--napkins, tablecloth, dishes, food. Rave over the wine. "

But Mildred could not adopt this obviously excellent advice. She satsilent and cold, while Presbury and her mother raved and drew out thegeneral to talk of himself--the only subject in the whole world thatseemed to him thoroughly worth while. As Mildred listened andfurtively observed, it seemed to her that this tiny fool, so obviouslypleased by these coarse and insulting flatteries, could not possiblyhave had the brains to amass the vast fortune he apparently possessed. But presently she noted that behind the personality that was pleased bythis gross fawning and bootlicking there lay--lay in wait and onguard--another personality, one that despised these guests of his, estimating them at their true value and using them contemptuously forthe gratification of his coarse appetites. In the glimpse she caughtof that deeper and real personality, she liked it even less than sheliked the one upon the surface. 

It was evidence of superior acumen that she saw even vaguely the realBill Siddall, the money-maker, beneath the General William Siddall, rawand ignorant and vulgar--more vulgar in his refinement than the mostshocking bum at home and at ease in foul-smelling stew. Every man ofachievement hides beneath his surface--personality this second and realman, who makes the fortune, discovers the secret of chemistry, fightsthe battle, carries the election, paints the picture, commits thefrightful murder, evolves the divine sermon or poem or symphony. Thus, when we meet a man of achievement, we invariably have a sense ofdisappointment. "Why, that's not the man!" we exclaim. "There must besome mistake. " And it is, indeed, not the man. Him we are incapable ofseeing. We have only eyes for surfaces; and, not being doers ofextraordinary deeds, but mere plodders in the routines of existence, wecannot believe that there is any more to another than there is toourselves. The pleasant or unpleasant surface for the conventionalrelations of life is about all there is to us; therefore it is allthere is to human nature. Well, there's no help for it. In measuringour fellow beings we can use only the measurements of our own selves;we have no others, and if others are given to us we are as foozled asone knowing only feet and inches who has a tape marked off in metersand centimeters. 

It so happened that in her social excursions Mildred had never been inany of the numerous homes of the suddenly and vastly rich of humbleorigin. She was used to--and regarded as proper and elegant--theordinary ostentations and crudities of the rich of conventionalsociety. No more than you or I was she moved to ridicule or disdain bythe silliness and the tawdry vulgarity of the life of palace andliveried lackey and empty ceremonial, by the tedious entertainments, bythe displays of costly and poisonous food. But General Siddall'sestablishment presented a new phase to her--and she thought it uniquein dreadfulness and absurdity. 

The general had had a home life in his youth--in a coal-miner's cabinnear Wilkes-Barre. Ever since, he had lived in boarding-houses orhotels. As his shrewd and rapacious mind had gathered in more and morewealth, he had lived more and more luxuriously--but always at hotels. He had seen little of the private life of the rich. Thus he had beencompelled to get his ideas of luxury and of ceremonial altogether fromthe hotel-keepers and caterers who give the rich what the moreintelligent and informed of the rich are usually shamed by people oftaste from giving themselves at home. 

She thought the tablecloth, napkins, and gaudy gold and flowery cutglass a little overdone, but on the whole not so bad. She had seensuch almost as grand at a few New York houses. The lace in the clothand in the napkins was merely a little too magnificent. It made thetable lumpy, it made the napkins unfit for use. But the way the dinnerwas served! You would have said you were in a glorified palace-hotelrestaurant. You looked about for the cashier's desk; you were certain abill would be presented after the last course. 

The general, tinier and more grotesque than ever in the greathigh-backed, richly carved armchair, surveyed the progress of thebanquet with the air of a god performing miracles of creation andpassing them in review and giving them his divine endorsement. He waswell pleased with the enthusiastic praises Presbury and his wifelavished upon the food and drink. He would have been better pleasedhad they preceded and followed every mouthful with a eulogy. Hesupplemented their compliments with even more fulsome compliments, adding details as to the origin and the cost. 

"Darcy"--this to the butler--"tell the chef that this fish is the bestyet--really exquisite. " To Presbury: "I had it brought over fromFrance--alive, of course. We have many excellent fish, but I like achange now and then. So I have a standing order with Prunier--he's thebig oyster- and fish-man of Paris--to send me over some things everytwo weeks by special express. That way, an oyster costs about fiftycents and a fish about five or six dollars. "

To Mrs. Presbury: "I'll have Darcy make you and Miss Presbury--excuseme, Miss Gower--bouquets of the flowers afterward. Most of them comefrom New York--and very high really first-class flowers are. I pay twodollars apiece for my roses even at this season. And orchids--well, Ifeel really extravagant when I indulge in orchids as I have thisevening. Ten dollars apiece for those. But they're worth it. "

The dinner was interminably long--upward of twenty kinds of food, noless than five kinds of wine; enough served and spoiled to have fed andintoxicated a dozen people at least. And upon every item of food anddrink the general had some remarks to make. He impressed it upon hisguests that this dinner was very little better than the one served tohim every night, that the increase in expense and luxury was not intheir honor, but in his own--to show them what he could do when hewished to make a holiday. Finally the grand course was reached. Intothe dining-room, to the amazement of the guests, were rolled two greatrestaurant joint wagons. Instead of being made of silver-plated nickelor plain nickel they were of silver embossed with gold, and the largecarvers and serving-spoons and forks had gold-mounted silver handles. When the lackeys turned back the covers there were disclosed severaltruly wonderful young turkeys, fattened as if by painstaking andskillful hand and superbly browned. 

Up to that time the rich and costly food had been sadly medium--likethe wines. But these turkeys were a genuine triumph. Even Mildredgave them a look of interest and admiration. In a voice that madeGeneral Siddall ecstatic Presbury cried:

"GOD bless my soul! WHERE did you get those beauties, old man!"

"Paris, " said Siddall in a voice tremulous with pride andself-admiration. You would have thought that he had created not merelythe turkeys, but Paris, also. "Potin sends them over to me. Potin, youknow, is the finest dealer in groceries, fruit, game, and so on in theworld. I have a standing order with him for the best of--everythingthat comes in. I'd hate to tell you what my bill with Potin is everymonth--he only sends it to me once a year. Really, I think I ought tobe ashamed of myself, but I reason that, if a man can afford it, he's afool to put anything but the best into his stomach. "

"You're right there!" mumbled Presbury. His mouth was full of turkey. "You HAVE got a chef, General!"

"He ought to cook well. I pay him more than most bank-presidents get. What do you think of those joint wagons, Mrs. Presbury?"

"They're very--interesting, " replied she, a little nervous because shesuspected they were some sort of vulgar joke. 

"I knew you'd like them, " said the general. "My own idea entirely. Isaw them in several restaurants abroad--only of course those they hadwere just ordinary affairs, not fit to be introduced into a gentleman'sdining-room. But I took the idea and adapted it to my purposes--andthere you are!"

"Very original, old man, " said Presbury, who had been drinking toomuch. "I've never seen it before, and I don't think I ever shallagain. Got the idea patented?"

But Siddall in his soberest moment would have been slow to admit asuspicion that any of the human race, which he regarded as on its kneesbefore him, was venturing to poke fun at him. Drunk as he now was, theopenest sarcasm would have been accepted as a compliment. After agorgeous dessert which nobody more than touched--a molded mousse ofwhipped and frozen cream and strawberries--"specially sent on to mefrom Florida and costing me a dollar apiece, I guess"--after thiscostly wonder had disappeared fruit was served. General Siddall hadready a long oration upon this course. He delivered it in adisgustingly thick tone. The pineapple was an English hothouse product, the grapes were grown by a costly process under glass in Belgium. Asfor the peaches, Potin had sent those delicately blushing marvels, andthe charge for this would be "not less than a louis apiece, sir--alouis d'or--which, as you no doubt know, is about four dollars of UncleSam's money. "

The coffee--"the Queen of Holland may have it on her PRIVATEtable--MAY, I say--but I doubt if anyone else in the world gets a smellof it except me"--the coffee and the brandy came not a moment too soon. Presbury was becoming stupefied with indigestion; his wife was noddingand was wearing that vague, forced, pleasant smile which standspropriety-guard over a mind asleep; Mildred Gower felt that her nerveswould endure no more; and the general was falling into a besottedstate, spilling his wine, mumbling his words. The coffee and the brandyrevived them all somewhat. Mildred, lifting her eyes, saw by way of amirrored section of the enormous sideboard the English butler surveyingmaster and guests with slowly moving, sneering glance of ineffablecontempt. 

In the drawing-room again Mildred, requested by Siddall and ordered byPresbury, sang a little French song and then--at the urging ofSiddall--"Annie Laurie. " Siddall was wiping his eyes when she turnedaround. He said to Presbury:

"Take your wife into the conservatory to look at my orchids. I want tosay a word to your stepdaughter. "

Mildred started up nervously. She saw how drunk the general was, sawthe expression of his face that a woman has to be innocent indeed notto understand. She was afraid to be left alone with him. Presbury cameup to her, said rapidly, in a low tone:

"It's all right. He's got a high sense of what's due a respectablewoman of our class. He isn't as drunk as he looks and acts. "

Having said which, he took his wife by the arm and pushed her into theadjoining conservatory. Mildred reseated herself upon the inlaidpiano-bench. The little man, his face now shiny with the sweat ofdrink and emotion, drew up a chair in front of her. He sat--and he wasalmost as tall sitting as standing. He said graciously:

"Don't be afraid, my dear girl. I'm not that dangerous. "

She lifted her eyes and looked at him. She tried to conceal heraversion; she feared she was not succeeding. But she need not haveconcerned herself about that. General Siddall, after the manner of veryrich men, could not conceive of anyone being less impressed with hissuperiority in any way than he himself was. For years he had heardonly flatteries of himself--his own voice singing his praises, thefawning voices of those he hired and of those hoping to get somefinancial advantage. He could not have imagined a mere woman not beingoverwhelmed by the prospect of his courting her. Nor would it haveentered his head that his money would be the chief, much less the only, consideration with her. He had long since lost all point of view, andbelieved that the adulation paid his wealth was evoked by his charms ofperson, mind, and manner. Those who imagine this was evidence of follyand weak-mindedness and extraordinary vanity show how little they knowhuman nature. The strongest head could not remain steady, the mostaccurate eyes could not retain their measuring skill, in such anenvironment as always completely envelops wealth and power. And themuch-talked-of difference between those born to wealth and power andthose who rise to it from obscurity resolves itself to little more thanthe difference between those born mad and those who go insane. 

Looking at the little man with the disagreeable eyes, so dull yet soshrewd, Mildred saw that within the drunkard who could scarcely sitstraight upon the richly upholstered and carved gilt chair there wasanother person, coldly sober, calmly calculating. And she realizedthat it was this person with whom she was about to have the mostserious conversation of her life thus far. 

The drunkard smiled with a repulsive wiping and smacking of the thin, sensual lips. "I suppose you know why I had you brought here thisevening?" said he. 

Mildred looked and waited. 

"I didn't intend to say anything to-night. In fact, I didn't expect tofind in you what I've been looking for. I thought that old fool of astepfather of yours was cracking up his goods beyond their merits. Buthe wasn't. My dear, you suit me from the ground up. I've been lookingyou over carefully. You were made for the place I want to fill. "

Mildred had lowered her eyes. Her face had become deathly pale. "Ifeel faint, " she murmured. "It is very warm here. "

"You're not sickly?" inquired the general sharply. "You look like agood solid woman--thin but wiry. Ever been sick? I must look into yourhealth. That's a point on which I must be satisfied. "

A wave of anger swept through her, restoring her strength. She wasabout to speak--a rebuke to his colossal impudence that he would notsoon forget. Then she remembered, and bit her lips. 

"I don't ask you to decide to-night, " pursued he, hastening to explainthis concession by adding: "I don't intend to decide, myself. All Isay is that I am willing--if the goods are up to the sample. "

Mildred saw her stepfather and her mother watching from just within theconservatory door. A movement of the portiere at the door into thehall let her know that Darcy, the butler, was peeping and listeningthere. She stood up, clenched her hands, struck them together, struckthem against her temples, crossed the room swiftly, flung herself downupon a sofa, and burst into tears. Presbury and his wife entered. Siddall was standing, looking after Mildred with a grin. He winked atPresbury and said:

"I guess we gave her too much of that wine. It's all old and strongerthan you'd think. "

"My daughter hardly touched her glasses, " cried Mrs. Presbury. 

"I know that, ma'am, " replied Siddall. "I watched her. If she'd donemuch drinking, I'd have been done, then and there. "

"I suspect she's upset by what you've been saying, General, " saidPresbury. "Wasn't it enough to upset a girl? You don't realize howmagnificent you are--how magnificent everything is here. "

"I'm sorry if I upset her, " said the general, swelling and loftilycontrite. "I don t know why it is that people never seem to be able toact natural with me. " He hated those who did, regarding them assodden, unappreciative fools. 

Mrs. Presbury was quieting her daughter. Presbury and Siddall lightedcigars and went into the smoking--and billiard-room across the hall. Said Presbury:

"I didn't deceive you, did I, General?"

"She's entirely satisfactory, " replied Siddall. "I'm going to makecareful inquiries about her character and her health. If those thingsprove to be all right I'm ready to go ahead. "

"Then the thing's settled, " said Presbury. "She's all that a ladyshould be. And except a cold now and then she never has anything thematter with her. She comes of good healthy stock. "

"I can't stand a sickly, ailing woman, " said Siddall. "I wouldn't marryone, and if one I married turned out to be that kind, I'd make shortwork of her. When you get right down to facts, what is a woman? Why, a body. If she ain't pretty and well, she ain't nothing. While I'mlooking up her pedigree, so to speak, I want you to get her mother toexplain to her just what kind of a man I am. "

"Certainly, certainly, " said Presbury. 

"Have her told that I don't put up with foolishness. If she wants tolook at a man, let her look at me. "

"You'll have no trouble in that way, " said Presbury. 

"I DID have trouble in that way, " replied the general sourly. "Womenare fools--ALL women. But the principal trouble with the second Mrs. Siddall was that she wasn't a lady born. "

"That's why I say you'll have no trouble, " said Presbury. 

"Well, I want her mother to talk to her plainer than a gentleman cantalk to a young lady. I want her to understand that I am marrying sothat I can have a WIFE--cheerful, ready, and healthy. I'll not put upwith foolishness of any kind. "

"I understand, " said Presbury. "You'll find that she'll meet all yourconditions. "

"Explain to her that, while I'm the easiest, most liberal-spending manin the world when I'm getting what I want, I am just the opposite whenI'm not getting what I pay for. If I take her and if she acts right, she'll have more of everything that women want than any woman in theworld. I'd take a pride in my wife. There isn't anything I wouldn'tspend in showing her off to advantage. And I'm willing to be liberalwith her mother, too. "

Presbury had been hoping for this. His eyes sparkled. "You're aprince, General, " he said. "A genuine prince. You know how to dothings right. "

"I flatter myself I do, " said the general. "I've been up and down theworld, and I tell you most of the kings live cheap beside me. And whenI get a wife worth showing of, I'll do still better. I've gotwonderful creative ability. There isn't anything I can't and won'tbuy. "

Presbury noted uneasily how cold and straight, how obviously repelledand repelling the girl was as she yielded her fingers to Siddall at theleave-taking. He and her mother covered the silence and ice with hotand voluble sycophantry. They might have spared themselves theexertion. To Siddall Mildred was at her most fascinating when she wasthus "the lady and the queen. " The final impression she made upon himwas the most favorable of all. 

In the cab Mrs. Presbury talked out of the fullness of an overflowingheart. "What a remarkable man the general is!" said she. "You've onlyto look at him to realize that you're in the presence of a reallysuperior person. And what tact he has!--and how generous he is!--andhow beautifully he entertains! So much dignity--so much simplicity--somuch--"

"Fiddlesticks!" interrupted Presbury. "Your daughter isn't a damnfool, Mrs. Presbury. "

Mildred gave a short, dry laugh. 

Up flared her mother. "I mean every word I said!" cried she. "If Ihadn't admired and appreciated him, I'd certainly not have acted as Idid. _I_ couldn't stoop to such hypocrisy. "

"Fiddlesticks!" sneered Presbury. "Bill Siddall is a horror. Hishouse is a horror. His dinner was a horror. These loathsome richpeople! They're ruining the world--as they always have. They'remaking it impossible for anyone to get good service or good food orgood furniture or good clothing or good anything. They don't know goodthings, and they pay exorbitant prices for showy trash, for crudevulgar luxury. They corrupt taste. They make everyone round them ornear them sycophants and cheats. They substitute money forintelligence and discrimination. They degrade every fine thing in life. Civilization is built up by brains and hard work, and along come therich and rot and ruin it!"

Mildred and her mother were listening in astonishment. Said the mother:

"I'd be ashamed to confess myself such a hypocrite. "

"And I, madam, would be ashamed to be such a hypocrite without taking abath of confession afterward, " retorted Presbury. 

"At least you might have waited until Mildred wasn't in hearing, "snapped she. 

"I shall marry him if I can, " said Mildred. 

"And blissfully happy you'll be, " said Presbury. "Women, ladies--trueladies, like you and your mother--have no sensibilities. All you askis luxury. If Bill Siddall were a thousand times worse than he is, hismoney would buy him almost any refined, delicate lady anywhere inChristendom. "

Mrs. Presbury laughed angrily. "YOU, talking like this--you of allmen. Is there anything YOU wouldn't stoop to for money?"

"Do you think I laid myself open to that charge by marrying you?" saidPresbury, made cheerful despite his savage indigestion by theopportunity for effective insult she had given him and he had promptlyseized. "I am far too gallant to agree with you. But I'm also toogallant to contradict a lady. By the way, you must be careful indealing with Siddall. Rich people like to be fawned on, but not to beslobbered on. You went entirely too far. "

Mrs. Presbury, whom indigestion had rendered stupid, could think of noreply. So she burst into tears. "And my own daughter sitting silentwhile that man insults her mother!" she sobbed. 

Mildred sat stiff and cold. 

"It'll be a week before I recover from that dinner, " Presbury went onsourly. "What a dinner! What a villainous mess! These vulgar, showyrich! That champagne! He said it cost him six dollars a bottle, andno doubt it did. I doubt if it ever saw France. The dealers rarelywaste genuine wine on such cattle. The wine-cellars of fine houses theworld through are the laughing-stock of connoisseurs--like theirpicture-galleries and their other attempts to make money do the work oftaste. I forgot to put my pills in my bag. I'll have to hunt up anall-night drug-store. I'd not dare go to bed without taking anantidote for that poison. "

But Presbury had not been altogether improvident. He had hoped greatthings of Bill Siddall's wine-cellar--this despite an almost unbrokenseries of bitter disillusionments and disappointments in experiencewith those who had the wealth to buy, if they had had the taste toselect, the fine wines he loved. So, resolving to indulge himself, hehad put into his bag his pair of gout-boots. 

This was a device of his own inventing, on which he prided himself. Itconsisted of a pair of roomy doe-skin slippers reenforced with heavysoles and provided with a set of three thin insoles to be usedaccording as the state of his toes made advisable. The cost of thePresbury gout-boot had been, thanks to patient search for a cheapcobbler, something under four dollars--this, when men paid shoespecialists twenty, thirty, and even forty dollars a pair forgout-boots that gave less comfort. The morning after the dinner atwhich he had drunk to drown his chagrin and to give him courage andtongue for sycophantry, he put on the boots. Without them it would havebeen necessary to carry him from his room to a cab and from cab totrain. With them he was able to hobble to a street-car. He tried todistract his mind from his sufferings by lashing away without ceasingat his wife and his step-daughter. 

When they were once more at home, and the mother and daughter escapedfrom him, the mother said:

"I was glad to see that you put up with that wretch, and didn't answerhim back. "

"Of course, " said Mildred. "He's mad to be rid of me, but if Ioffended him he might snatch away this chance. "

"He would, " said Mrs. Presbury. "I'm sure he would. But--" shelaughed viciously--"once you're married you can revenge yourself--andme!"

"I wonder, " said Mildred thoughtfully. 

"Why not?" exclaimed her mother, irritated. 

"I can't make Mr. Presbury out, " replied the girl. "I understand whyhe's helping me to this chance, but I don't understand why he isn'tmaking friends with me, in the hope of getting something after I'mmarried. "

Her mother saw the point, and was instantly agitated. "Perhaps he'ssimply leading you on, intending to upset it all at the last minute. "She gritted her teeth. "Oh, what a wretch!"

Mildred was not heeding. "I must have General Siddall looked upcarefully, " she went on. "It may be that he isn't rich, or that he hasanother wife somewhere, or that there's some other awful reason whymarrying him would be even worse than it seems. "

"Worse than it seems!" cried her mother. "How CAN you talk so, Milly!The general seems to be an ideal husband--simply ideal! I wish _I_ hadyour chance. Any sensible woman could love him. "

A strange look came into the girl's face, and her mother could notwithstand her eyes. "Don't, mother, " she said quietly. "Either youtake me for a fool or you are trying to show me that you have noself-respect. I am not deceiving myself about what I'm doing. "

Mrs. Presbury opened her lips to remonstrate, changed her mind, drew adeep sigh. "It's frightful to be a woman, " she said. 

"To be a lady, Mr. Presbury would say, " suggested Mildred. 

After some discussion, they fixed upon Joseph Tilker as the bestavailable investigator of General Siddall. Tilker had been head clerkfor Henry Gower. He was now in for himself and had offered to lookafter any legal business Mrs. Presbury might have without charging her. He presently reported that there was not a doubt as to the wealth ofthe little general. "There are all sorts of ugly stories about how hemade his money, " said Tilker; "but all the great fortunes have ascandalous history, and I doubt if Siddall's is any worse than theothers. I don't see how it well could be. Siddall has the reputationof being a mean and cruel little tyrant. He is said to be pompous, vain, ignorant--"

"Indeed he's not, " cried Mrs. Presbury. "He's a rough diamond, but anatural gentleman. I've met him. "

"Well, he's rich enough, and that was all you asked me to find out, "said Tilker. "But I must warn you, Mrs. Presbury, not to have anybusiness or intimate personal relations with him. "

Mrs. Presbury congratulated herself on her wisdom in having come aloneto hear Tilker's report. She did not repeat any part of it to Mildredexcept what he had said about the wealth. That she enlarged upon untilMildred's patience gave out. She interrupted with a shrewd:

"Anything else, mamma? Anything about him personally?"

"We've got to judge him in that way for ourselves, " replied Mrs. Presbury. "You know how wickedly they lie about anyone who hasanything. "

"I should like to read a full account of General Siddall, " said Mildredreflectively; "just to satisfy my curiosity. "

Mrs. Presbury made no reply. 

Presbury had decided that it was best to make no advance, but to waituntil they heard from Siddall. He let a week, ten days, go by; thenhis impatience got the better of his shrewdness. He sought admittanceto the great man at the offices of the International Metals andMinerals Company in Cedar Street. After being subjected to variedindignities by sundry under-strappers, he received a message from thegeneral through a secretary: "The general says he'll let you know whenhe's ready to take up that matter. He says he hasn't got round to ityet. " Presbury apologized courteously for his intrusion and went away, cursing under his breath. You may be sure that he made his wife andhis stepdaughter suffer for what he had been through. Two weeks morepassed--three--a month. One morning in the mail there arrived thisnote--type-written upon business paper:

JAMES PRESBURY, Esqr. :

DEAR SIR:

General Siddall asks me to present his compliments and to say that hewill be pleased if you and your wife and the young lady will dine withhim at his house next Thursday the seventeenth at half-past seven sharp. 

ROBERT CHANDLESS, Secretary. 

The only words in longhand were the two forming the name of thesecretary. Presbury laughed and tossed the note across the breakfasttable to his wife. "You see what an ignorant creature he is, " said he. "He imagines he has done the thing up in grand style. He's the sort ofman that can't be taught manners because he thinks manners, theordinary civilities, are for the lower orders of people. Oh, he's ajoke, is Bill Siddall--a horrible joke. "

Mrs. Presbury read and passed the letter to Mildred. She simply glancedat it and returned it to her step-father. 

"I'm just about over that last dinner, " pursued Presbury. "I'll eatlittle Thursday and drink less. And I'd advise you to do the same, Mrs. Presbury. "

He always addressed her as "Mrs. Presbury" because he had discoveredthat when so addressed she always winced, and, if he put a certain toneinto his voice, she quivered. 

"That dinner aged you five years, " he went on. "Besides, you drank somuch that it went to your head and made you slather him with flatteriesthat irritated him. He thought you were a fool, and no one is stupidenough to like to be flattered by a fool. "

Mrs. Presbury bridled, swallowed hard, said mildly: "We'll have tospend the night in town again, I suppose. "

"You and your daughter may do as you like, " said Presbury. "I shallreturn here that night. I always catch cold in strange beds. "

"We might as well all return here, " said Mildred. "I shall not wearevening dress; that is, I'll wear a high-neck dress and a hat. "

She had just got a new hat that was peculiarly becoming to her. Shehad shown Siddall herself at the best in evening attire; another sortof costume would give him a different view of her looks, one which sheflattered herself was not less attractive. But Presbury interposed anemphatic veto. 

"You'll wear full evening dress, " said he. "Bare neck and arms for menlike Bill Siddall. They want to see what they're getting. "

Mildred flushed scarlet and her lips trembled as though she were aboutto cry. In fact, her emotion was altogether shame--a shame so poignantthat even Presbury was abashed, and mumbled something apologetic. Nevertheless she wore a low-neck dress on Thursday evening, one asdaring as the extremely daring fashions of that year permitted anunmarried woman to wear. It seemed to her that Siddall was still morecostly and elegant-looking than before, though this may have been dueto the fact that he always created an impression that in the retrospectof memory seemed exaggerated. It seemed impossible that anyone couldbe so clean, so polished and scoured, so groomed and tailored, sobedecked, so high-heeled and loftily coiffed. His mean littlecountenance with its grotesquely waxed mustache and imperial wore anexpression of gracious benignity that assured his guests they needanticipate no disagreeable news. 

"I owe you an apology for keeping you in suspense so long, " said he. "I'm a very busy man, with interests in all parts of the world. I keephouse--some of 'em bigger than this--open and going in sis differentplaces. I always like to be at home wherever my business takes me. "

Mrs. Presbury rolled her eyes. "Isn't that WONDERFUL!" she exclaimed. "What an interesting life you must lead!"

"Oh, so--so, " replied the general. "But I get awful lonesome. I'mnaturally a domestic man. I don't care for friends. They're expensiveand dangerous. A man in my position is like a king. He can't havefriends. So, if he hasn't got a family, he hasn't got noth--anything. "

"Nothing like home life, " said Presbury. 

"Yes, indeed, " cried Mrs. Presbury. 

The little general smiled upon Mildred, sitting pale and silent, witheyes downcast. "Well, I don't intend to be alone much longer, if I canhelp it, " said he. "And I may say that I can make a woman happy ifshe's the right sort--if she has sense enough to appreciate a goodhusband. " This last he said sternly, with more than a hint of his pastmatrimonial misfortunes in his frown and in his voice. "The troublewith a great many women is that they're fools--flighty, ungratefulfools. If I married a woman like that, I'd make short work of her. "

"And she'd deserve it, General, " said Mildred's mother earnestly. "Butyou'll have no trouble if you select a lady--a girl who's been wellbrought up and has respect for herself. "

"That's my opinion, ma'am, " said the general. "I'm convinced that whilea man can become a gentleman, a woman's got to be born a lady or shenever is one. "

"Very true, General, " cried Mrs. Presbury. "I never thought of itbefore, but it's the truest thing I ever heard. "

Presbury grinned at his plate. He stole a glance at Mildred. Theireyes met. She flushed faintly. 

"I've had a great deal of experience of women, " pursued the general. "In my boyhood days I was a ladies' man. And of course since I've hadmoney they've swarmed round me like bees in a clover-patch. "

"Oh, General, you're far too modest, " cried Mrs. Presbury. "A man likeyou wouldn't need to be afraid, if he hadn't a cent. "

"But not the kind of women I want, " replied he, firmly if complacently. "A lady needs money to keep up her position. She has to have it. Onthe other hand, a man of wealth and station needs a lady to assist himin the proper kind of life for men of his sort. So they need eachother. They've got to have each other. That's the practical, sensibleway to look at it. "

"Exactly, " said Presbury. 

"And I've made up my mind to marry, and marry right away. But we'llcome back to this later on. Presbury, you're neglecting that wine. "

"I'm drinking it slowly to enjoy it better, " said Presbury. 

The dinner was the same unending and expensive function that hadwearied them and upset their digestions on Thanksgiving Day. There wastoo much of everything, and it was all just wrong. The general was notquite so voluble as he had been before; his gaze was fixed most of thetime on Mildred--roving from her lovely face to her smooth, slendershoulders and back again. As he drank and ate his gesture of slightlysmacking his thin lips seemed to include an enjoyment of the girl'scharms. And a sensitive observer might have suspected that she was notunconscious of this and was suffering some such pain as if abhorrentand cruel lips and teeth were actually mouthing and mumbling her. Shesaid not a word from sitting down at table until they rose to go intothe library for coffee. 

"Do tell me about your early life, General, " Mrs. Presbury said. "Onlythe other day Millie was saying she wished she could read a biographyof your romantic career. "

"Yes, it has been rather--unusual, " conceded the general with swellingchest and gently waving dollar-and-a-half-apiece cigar. 

"I do so ADMIRE a man who carves out his own fortune, " Mrs. Presburywent on--she had not obeyed her husband's injunction as to thechampagne. "It seems so wonderful to me that a man could with his ownhands just dig a fortune out of the ground. "

"He couldn't, ma'am, " said the general, with gracious tolerance. "Itwasn't till I stopped the fool digging and hunting around for gold thatI began to get ahead. I threw away the pick and shovel and opened ahotel. " (There were two or three sleeping-rooms of a kind in that"hotel, " but it was rather a saloon of the species known as "doggery. ")"Yes, it was in the hotel that I got my start. The fellows that makethe money in mining countries ain't the prospectors and diggers, ma'am. "

"Really!" cried Mrs. Presbury breathlessly. "How interesting!"

"They're fools, they are, " proceeded the general. "No, the money's madeby the fellows that grub-stake the fools--give 'em supplies and send'em out to nose around in the mountains. Then them that find anythinghave to give half to the fellow that did the grub-staking. And helooks into the claim, and if there's anything in it, why, he buys thefool out. In mines, like everywhere else, ma'am, it ain't work, it'sbrains that makes the money. No miner ever made a mining fortune--notone. It's the brainy, foxy fellows that stay back in the camps. Iused to send out fifty and a hundred men a year. Maybe only two orthree'd turn up anything worth while. No, ma'am, I never got a dollarahead on my digging. All the gold I ever dug went right off forgrub--or a good time. "

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Mrs. Presbury. "I never heard of such a thing. "

"But we're not here to talk about mines, " said the general, his eyesupon Mildred. "I've been looking into matters--to get down tobusiness--and I've asked you here to let you know that I'm willing togo ahead. "

Profound silence. Mildred suddenly drew in her breath with a sound sosharp that the three others started and glanced hastily at her. Butshe made no further sign. She sat still and cold and pale. 

The general, perfectly at ease, broke the silence. "I think Miss Gowerand I would get on faster alone. "

Presbury at once stood up; his wife hesitated, her eyes uneasily uponher daughter. Presbury said: "Come on, Alice. " She rose and precededhim into the adjoining conservatory. The little general posed himselfbefore the huge open fire, one hand behind him, the other at the levelof his waistcoat, the big cigar between his first and second fingers. "Well, my dear?" said he. 

Mildred somewhat hesitatingly lifted her eyes; but, once she had themup, their gaze held steadily enough upon his--too steadily for hiscomfort. He addressed himself to his cigar:

"I'm not quite ready to say I'm willing to go the limit, " said he. "Wedon't exactly know each other sufficiently well as yet, do we?"

"No, " said Mildred. 

"I've been making inquiries, " he went on; "that is, I had my chiefsecretary make them--and he's a very thorough man, thanks to mytraining. He reports everything entirely all right. I admire dignityand reserve in a woman, and you have been very particular. Were youengaged to Stanley Baird?"

Mildred flushed, veiled her eyes to hide their resentful flash at thisimpertinence. She debated with herself, decided that any rebuke shortof one that would anger him would be wasted upon him. "No, " said she. 

"That agrees with Harding's report, " said the general. "It was a meregirlish flirtation--very dignified and proper, " he hastened to add. "Idon't mean to suggest that you were at all flighty. "

"Thank you, " said Mildred sweetly. 

"Are there any questions you would like to ask about me?" inquired he. 

"No, " said Mildred. 

"As I understand it--from my talk with Presbury--you are willing to goon?"

"Yes, " said Mildred. 

The general smiled genially. "I think I may say without conceit thatyou will like me as you know me better. I have no bad habits--I've toomuch regard for my health to over-indulge or run loose. In my boyhooddays I may have put in rather a heavy sowing of wild oats"--the generallaughed; Mildred conjured up the wintriest and faintest of echoingsmiles--"but that's all past, " he went on, "and there's nothing thatcould rise up to interfere with our happiness. You are fond ofchildren?"

A pause, then Mildred said quite evenly, "Yes. "

"Excellent, " said the general. "I'll expect you and your mother andfather to dinner Sunday night. Is that satisfactory?"

"Yes, " said Mildred. 

A longish pause. Then the general: "You seem to be a little--afraidof me. I don't know why it is that people are always that way withme. " A halt, to give her the opportunity to say the obvious flatteringthing. Mildred said nothing, gave no sign. He went on: "It will wearaway as we know each other better. I am a simple, plain man--kind andgenerous in my instincts. Of course I am dignified, and I do not likefamiliarity. But I do not mean to inspire fear and awe. "

A still longer pause. "Well, everything is settled, " said the general. "We understand each other clearly?--not an engagement, nothing bindingon either side--simply a--a--an option without forfeit. " And helaughed--his laugh was a ghoulish sound, not loud but explosive and aninstant check upon demonstration of mirth from anyone else. 

"I understand, " said Mildred with a glance toward the door throughwhich Presbury and his wife had disappeared. 

"Now, we'll join the others, and I'll show you the house"--again thelaugh--"what may be your future home--one of them. "

The four were soon started upon what was for three of them a wearifuljourney despite the elevator that spared them the ascents of thestairways. The house was an exaggerated reproduction of all theestablishments of the rich who confuse expenditure with luxury andcomfort. Bill Siddall had bought "the best of everything"; that is, the things into which the purveyors of costly furnishings have put themost excuses for charging. Of taste, of comfort, of discrimination, there were few traces and these obviously accidental. "I picked out themen acknowledged to be the best in their different lines, " said thegeneral, "and I gave them carte blanche. "

"I see that at a glance, " said Presbury. "You've done the grand thingon the grandest possible scale. "

"I've looked into the finest of the famous places on the other side, "said the general. "All I can say is, I've had no regrets. "

"I should say not, " cried Mrs. Presbury. 

With an affectation of modest hesitation--to show that he was agentleman with a gentleman's fine appreciation of the due of maidenmodesty--Siddall paused at the outer door of his own apartments. Butat one sentence of urging from Mrs. Presbury he opened the door andushered them in. And soon he was showing them everything--his Carraramarble bathroom and bathing-pool, his bed that had been used by severalFrench kings, his dressing-room with its appliances of gold andplatinum and precious stones, his clothing. They had to inspect a roomfull of suits, huge chiffoniers crowded with shirts and ties andunderclothes. He exhibited silk dressing-robes and pajamas, pointed outthe marks of the fashionable London and Paris makers, the monograms, the linings of ermine and sable. "I'm very particular about everythingthat touches me, " explained he. "It seems to me a gentleman can't betoo particular. " With a meaning glance at Mildred, "And I'd feel thesame way about my wife. "

"You hear that, Mildred?" said Presbury, with a nasty little laugh. Hehad been relieving the tedium of this sight-seeing tour byobserving--and from time to time aggravating--Mildred's sufferings. 

The general released his mirth-strangling goat laugh; Mrs. Presburyechoed it with a gale of rather wild hysterics. So well pleased wasthe general with the excursion and so far did he feel advanced towardintimacy that on the way down the majestic marble stairway he venturedto give Mildred's arm a gentle, playful squeeze. And at the parting hekissed her hand. Presbury had changed his mind about returning to thecountry. On the way to the hotel he girded at Mildred, reviewing allthat the little general had said and done, and sneering, jeering at it. Mildred made not a single retort until they were upstairs in the hotel. At the door to her room she said to Presbury--said it in a quiet, cold, terrible way:

"If you really want me to go through with this thing, you will stopinsulting him and me. If you do it again, I'll give up--and go on thestreets before I'll marry him. "

Presbury shrugged his shoulders and went on to the other room. But hedid not begin again the next day, and from that time forth avoidedreference to the general. In fact, there was an astonishing change inhis whole demeanor. He ceased to bait his wife, became polite, evenaffable. If he had conducted himself thus from the outset, he wouldhave got far less credit, would have made far less progress towardwinning the liking of his wife, and of her daughter, than he did in abrief two weeks of change from petty and malignant tyrant togood-natured, interestingly talkative old gentleman. After the mannerof human nature, Mildred and her mother, in their relief, in theirpleasure through this amazing sudden and wholly unexpected geniality, not merely forgave but forgot all they had suffered at his hands. Mildred was not without a suspicion of the truth that this change, inaugurated in his own good time, was fresh evidence of his contemptfor both of them--of his feeling that he could easily make reparationwith a little kindness and decency and put himself in the way ofgetting any possible benefits from the rich alliance. But though shepractically knew what was going on in his mind, she could not preventherself from softening toward him. 

Now followed a succession of dinners, of theater- and opera-goings, ofweek-ends at the general's new country palace in the fashionable regionof Long Island. All these festivities were of the same formal andtedious character. At all the general was the central sun with theothers dim and draggled satellites, hardly more important than theouter rim of satellite servants. He did most of the talking; he wasthe sole topic of conversation; for when he was not talking abouthimself he wished to be hearing about himself. If Mildred had not beenseeing more and more plainly that other and real personality of his, her contempt for him and for herself would have grown beyond control. But, with him or away from him, at every instant there was the sense ofthat other real William Siddall--a shadowy menace full of terror. Shedreamed of it--was startled from sleep by visions of a monstrous andmighty distortion of the little general's grotesque exterior. "I shallmarry him if I can, " she said to her self. "But--can I?" And shefeared and hoped that she could not, that courage would fail her, orwould come to her rescue, whichever it was, and that she would refusehim. Aside from the sense of her body that cannot but be with anywoman who is beautiful, she had never theretofore been especiallyphysical in thought. That side of life had remained vague, as she hadnever indulged in or even been strongly tempted with the things thatrouse it from its virginal sleep. But now she thought only of her body, because that it was, and that alone, that had drawn this prospectivepurchaser, and his eyes never let her forget it. She fell into thehabit of looking at herself in the glass--at her face, at hershoulders, at her whole person, not in vanity but in a kind of wonderor aversion. And in the visions, both the waking and the sleeping, shereached the climax of horror when the monster touched her--with clammy, creepy fingers, with munching lips, with the sharp ends of the mustacheor imperial. 

Said Mrs. Presbury to her husband, "I'm afraid the general will beirritated by Mildred's unresponsiveness. "

"Don't worry, " replied Presbury. "He's so crazy about himself that heimagines the whole world is in the same state. "

"Isn't it strange that he doesn't give her presents? Never anything butcandy and flowers. "

"And he never will, " said Presbury. 

"Not until they're married, I suppose. "

Presbury was silent. 

"I can't help thinking that if Milly were to rouse herself and showsome--some liking--or at least interest, it'd be wiser. "

"She's taking the best possible course, " said Presbury. "Unconsciouslyto both of them, she's leading him on. He thinks that's the way a ladyshould act--restrained, refined. "

Mildred's attitude was simple inertia. The most positive effort shemade was avoiding saying or doing anything to displease him--nodifficult matter, as she was silent and almost lifeless when he wasnear. Without any encouragement from her he gradually got a deeprespect for her--which meant that he became convinced of her coldnessand exclusiveness, of her absolute trustworthiness. Presbury was moreprofoundly right than he knew. The girl pursued the only course thatmade possible the success she longed for, yet dreaded and loathed. Forat the outset Siddall had not been nearly so strongly in earnest in hismatrimonial project as he had professed and had believed himself. Hewished to marry, wished to add to his possessions the admirableshow-piece and exhibition opportunity afforded by the right sort ofwife; but in the bottom of his heart he felt that such a woman as hedreamed of did not exist in all the foolish, fickle, and shallow femalesex. This girl--so cold, so proud, beautiful yet not eager to displayher charms or to have them praised--she was the rare bird he sought. 

In a month he asked her to marry him; that is, he said: "My dear, Ifind that I am ready to go the limit--if you are. " And she assented. He put his arm around her and kissed her cheek--and was delighted todiscover that the alluring embrace made no impression upon the ice ofher "purity and ladylike dignity. " Up to the very last moment of theformal courtship he held himself ready to withdraw should she reveal tohis watchfulness the slightest sign of having any "unladylike"tendencies or feelings. She revealed no such sign, but remained"ladylike"; and certainly, so the general reasoned, a woman who couldthus resist him, even in the license of the formal engagement, wouldresist anybody. 

As soon as the engagement was formally concluded, the general hurriedon the preparations for the wedding. He opened accounts at half a dozenshops in New York--dressmakers, milliners, dealers in fine andfashionable clothing of every kind--and gave them orders to executewhatever commands Miss Gower or her mother--for HER--might give them. When he told her of this munificence and magnificence and paused forthe outburst of gratitude, he listened in vain. Mildred colored to theroots of her hair and was silent, was seeking the courage to refuse. 

"I know that you and your people can't afford to do the thing as thingsrelated to me must be done, " he went on to say. "So I decided to juststart in a little early at what I've got to do anyhow. Not that Iblame you for your not having money, my dear. On the contrary, that'sone of your merits with me. I wouldn't marry a woman with money. Itputs the family life on a wrong basis. "

"I had planned a quiet wedding, " said Mildred. "I'd much prefer it. "

"Now you can be frank with me, my dear, " said the general. "I know youladies--how cheated you feel if you aren't married with all the frillsand fixings. So that's the way it shall be done. "

"Really, " protested Mildred, "I'm absolutely frank. I wish it to bequite quiet--in our drawing-room, with no guests. "

Siddall smiled, genial and tolerant. "Don't argue with me, my dear. Iknow what you want, and I'll see that you get it. Go ahead with theseshop-people I've put at your disposal--and go as far as you like. Thereisn't anything--ANYTHING--in the way of clothes that you can'thave--that you mustn't have. Mrs. General Siddall is going to be thebest-dressed woman in the world--as she is the prettiest. I haven'topened an account for you with Tiffany's or any of those people. I'lllook out for that part of the business, myself. "

"I don't care for jewelry, " said Mildred. 

"Naturally not for the kind that's been within your means heretofore, "replied he; "but you'll open your eyes when you see MY jewelry for MYwife. All in good time, my dear. You and your mother must start rightin with the shopping; and, a week or so before the wedding, I'll sendmy people down to transform the house. I may be wrong, but I ratherthink that the Siddall wedding will cause some talk. "

He was not wrong. Through his confidential secretary, Harding thethorough, the newspaper press was induced to take an interest in theincredible extravagance Siddall was perpetrating in arranging for afitting wedding for General William Siddall. For many days before theceremony there were daily columns about him and his romantic career andhis romantic wooing of the New Jersey girl of excellent family andsocial position but of comparatively modest means. The shopkeepers gaveinterviews on the trousseau. The decorators and caterers detailed thesplendors and the costliness of the preparations of which they hadcharge. From morning until dark a crowd hung round the house at HangingRock, and on the wedding day the streets leading to it wereblocked--chiefly with people come from a distance, many of them fromNew York. 

At the outset all this noise was deeply distasteful to Mildred, butafter a few days she recovered her normal point of view, forgot thekind of man she was marrying in the excitement and exultation over hersudden splendor and fame. So strongly did the delusion presentlybecome, that she was looking at the little general with anything butunfavorable eyes. He seemed to her a quaint, fascinating, benevolentnecromancer, having miraculous powers which he was exercising in herbehalf. She even reproached herself with ingratitude in not beingwildly in love with him. Would not any other girl, in her place, havefallen over ears in love with this marvelous man?

However, while she could not quite convince herself that she loved, shebecame convinced without effort that she was happy, that she was goingto be still happier. The excitement wrought her into a state ofexaltation and swept her through the wedding ceremony and the goingaway as radiant a bride as a man would care to have. 

There is much to be said against the noisy, showy wedding. Certainlylove has rarely been known to degrade himself to the point of attendingany such. But there is something to be said for that sort of marriedstart--for instance, where love is neither invited nor desired, aneffort must be made to cover the painful vacancy his absence alwayscauses. 

The little general's insistence on a "real wedding" was most happy forhim. It probably got him his bride. 

III

THE intoxication of that wedding held on long enough and stronglyenough to soften and blunt the disillusionments of the first few daysof the honeymoon. In the prospect that period had seemed, even toMildred's rather unsophisticated imagination, appalling beyond herpower to endure. In the fact--thanks in large part to thatintoxication--it was certainly not unendurable. A human being, even aninnocent young girl, can usually bear up under any experience to whicha human being can be subjected. The general in pajamas--of the finestsilk and of pigeon's-egg blue with a vast gorgeous monogram on thepocket--was more grotesque, rather than more repellent, than thegeneral in morning or evening attire. Also he--that is, his expertstaff of providers of luxury--had arranged for the bride a series ofthe most ravishing sensations in whisking her, like the heroine of anArabian Night's tale, from straitened circumstances to the veryparadise of luxury. 

The general's ideas on the subject of woman were old fashioned, of thehard-shell variety. Woman was made for luxury, and luxury was made forwoman. His woman must be the most divinely easeful of the luxurious. At all times she must be fit and ready for any and every sybaritic ideathat might enter her husband's head--and other purpose she had none. When she was not directly engaged in ministering to his joy she must bebusy preparing herself for his next call upon her. A woman was aluxury, was the luxury of luxuries, must have and must use to theiruttermost all capacities for gratifying his senses and his vanity. Alone with him, she must make him constantly feel how rich and rare andexpensive a prize he had captured. When others were about, she must beconstantly making them envy and admire him for having exclusive rightsin such wonderful preserves. All this with an inflexible devotion tothe loftiest ideals of chastity. 

But the first realizations of her husband's notions as to women werealtogether pleasant. As she entered the automobile in which they wentto the private car in the special train that took them to New York andthe steamer--as she entered that new and prodigally luxuriousautomobile, she had a first, keen sense of her changed position. Thenthere was the superb private car--her car, since she was his wife--andthere was the beautiful suite in the magnificent steamer. And at everyinstant menials thrusting attentions upon her, addressing her as if shewere a queen, revealing in their nervous tones and anxious eyes theireagerness to please, their fear of displeasing. And on the steamer, from New York to Cherbourg, she was never permitted to lose sight ofthe material splendors that were now hers. All the servants, all thepassengers, reminded her by their looks, their tones. At Paris, in thehotel, in the restaurants, in the shops--especially in the shops--thosesnobbish instincts that are latent in the sanest and the wisest of uswere fed and fattened and pampered until her head was quite turned. And the general began to buy jewels for her. Such jewels--ropes ofdiamonds and pearls and emeralds, rings such as she had never dreamedexisted! Those shopping excursions of theirs in the Rue de la Paixwould make such a tale as your ordinary simple citizen, ignorant of theworld's resources in luxury and therefore incredulous about them, wouldread with a laugh at the extravagance of the teller. 

Before the intoxication of the wedding had worn away it was re-enforcedby the intoxication of the honeymoon--not an intoxication of love'sproviding, but one exceeding potent in its influence upon our weakhuman brains and hearts, one from which the strongest of us, instead ofsneering at poor Mildred, would better be praying to be delivered. 

At her marriage she had a few hundred dollars left of herpatrimony--three hundred and fifty and odd, to be more exact. Shespent a little money of her own here and there--in tips, in buyingpresents for her mother, in picking up trifles for her own toilet. Theday came when she looked in her purse and found two one-franc pieces, afifty-franc note, and a few coppers. And suddenly she sat back andstared, her mouth open like her almost empty gold bag, which thegeneral had bought her on their first day in the Rue de la Paix. Aboutten dollars in all the world, and the general had forgotten tospeak--or to make any arrangement, at least any arrangement of whichshe was aware--about a further supply of money. 

They had been married nearly a month. He knew that she was poor. Whyhadn't he said something or, better still, DONE something? Doubtlesshe had simply forgotten. But since he had forgotten for a month, mighthe not continue to forget? True, he had himself been poor at one timein his life, very poor, and that for a long time. But it had been somany years ago that he had probably lost all sense of the meaning ofpoverty. She frowned at this evidence of his lack of the finersensibilities--by no means the first time that lack had beendisagreeably thrust upon her. Soon she would be without money--and shemust have money--not much, as all the serious expenses were lookedafter by the general, but still a little money. How could she get it?How could she remind him of his neglect without seeming to beindelicate? It was a difficult problem. She worked at it more andmore continuously, and irritably, and nervously, as the days went byand her fifty-two francs dwindled to five. 

She lay awake, planning long and elaborate conversations that wouldimperceptibly lead him up to where he must see what she needed withoutseeing that he had been led. She carried out these ingeniousconversations. She led him along, he docilely and unsuspectinglyfollowing. She brought him up to where it seemed to her impossible forany human being endowed with the ordinary faculties to fail to see whatwas so plainly in view. All in vain. General William Siddall gazedplacidly--and saw nothing. 

Several days of these failures, and with her funds reduced to afifty-centime piece and a two-sous copper she made a frontal attack. When they went forth for the day's shopping she left her gold bagbehind. After an hour or so she said:

"I've got to go to the Galleries Lafayette for some little things. Ishan't ask you to sacrifice yourself. I know you hate those stuffy, smelly big shops. "

"Very well, " said he. "I'll use the time in a call on my bankers. "

As they were about to separate, she taking the motor and he walking, she made a face of charming dismay and said: "How provoking! I'veleft my bag at the hotel. "

Instead of the expected prompt offer of money he said, "It'll only takeyou a minute or so to drive there. "

"But it's out of the way, " she replied. "I'll need only a hundredfrancs or so. "

Said he: "I've an account at the Bon Marche. Go there and have thethings charged. It's much the best big shop in Paris. "

"Very well, " was all she could trust herself to say. She concealed heranger beneath a careless smile and drove away. How dense he was! Couldanything be more exasperating--or more disagreeable? What SHOULD shedo? The situation was intolerable; yet how could it be ended, exceptby a humiliating direct request for money? She wondered how youngwives habitually dealt with this problem, when they happened to marryhusbands so negligent, not to say underbred, as to cause them theawkwardness and the shame. There followed several days during whichthe money idea was an obsession, nagging and grinning at her everyinstant. The sight of money gave her a peculiar itching sensation. When the little general paid for anything--always drawing out a greatsheaf of bank notes in doing it--she flushed hot and cold, her glancefell guiltily and sought the money furtively. At last her desperationgave birth to an inspiration. 

About her and the general, or, rather, about the general, revolved theusual rich man's small army of satellites of variousdegrees--secretaries, butlers, footmen, valets, other servants male andfemale, some of them supposed to be devoted entirely to her service, but all in fact looking ever to the little general. The members ofthis company, regardless of differences of rank and pay, were bandedtogether in a sort of democratic fellowship, talking freely with oneanother, on terms of perfect equality. She herself had, curiously, gotten on excellent terms with this motley fraternity and found nosmall relief from the strain of the general's formal dignity in talkingwith them with a freedom and ease she had never before felt in thesociety of underlings. The most conspicuous and most agreeable figurein this company was Harding, the general's factotum. Why not lay thecase before Harding? He was notably sensible, and sympathetic--anddiscreet. 

The following day she did so. Said she, blushing furiously: "Mr. Harding, I find myself in a very embarrassing position. I wonder ifyou can help me?"

Harding, a young man and of one of the best blond types, said: "Nodoubt I can--and I'll be glad to. "

"The fact is"-- Her voice was trembling with nervousness. She openedthe gold bag, took out the little silver pieces and the big copperpiece, extended her pink palm with them upon it--"there's all I've gotleft of the money I brought with me. "

Harding gazed at the exhibit tranquilly. He was chiefly remarkable forhis perfect self-possession. Said he: "Do you wish me to cash a checkfor you?"

The stupidity of men! Tears of vexation gathered in her eyes. Whenshe could speak she faltered:

"No. "

He was looking at her now--a grave, kind glance. 

She somehow felt encouraged and heartened. She went on: "I washoping--that--that the gen--that my husband had said something to youand that you perhaps had not thought to say anything to me. "

Their glances met, his movingly sympathetic and understanding, herspiteously forlorn--the look of a lovely girl, stranded and friendlessin a far strange land. Presently he said gently:

"Yes, he told me to say something to you--if you should speak to meabout this matter. " His tone caused in her heart a horrible stillnessof suspense. He went on: "He said--I give you his exact words: 'If mywife should ask you for money, tell her my ideas on the subject. '"

A pause. She started up, crimson, her glance darting nervously thisway and that to avoid his. "Never mind. Really, it's of noimportance. Thank you--I'll get on very well--I'm sorry to havetroubled you--"

"Pardon me, Mrs. Siddall, " he interposed, "but I think you'd best letme finish. "

She started to protest, she tried to move toward the door. Herstrength failed her, she sat down, waited, nervously clasping andunclasping the costly, jewel-embroidered bag. 

"He has explained to me, many times, " continued Harding, "that hebelieves women do not understand the value of money and ought not to betrusted with it. He proposes to provide everything for you, everycomfort and luxury--I am using his own language, Mrs. Siddall--and hehas open accounts at the principal shops in every city where you willgo--New York, Washington, Chicago, Denver, Paris, London, Rome. He saysyou are at liberty to get practically anything you please at theseshops, and he will pay the bills. He thus entirely spares you thenecessity of ever spending any money. Should you see anything you wishat some shop where he has no account, you can have it sent collect, andI or my assistant, Mr. Drawl, will settle for it. All he asks is thatyou use discretion in this freedom. He says it would be extremelypainful to him to have to withdraw it. "

Harding had pronounced this long speech in a dry monotonous voice, likeone reading mechanically from a dull book. As Mildred listened, herthoughts began to whirl about the central idea until she fell into akind of stupor. When he finished she was staring vacantly at the bagin her lap--the bag she was holding open wide. 

Harding continued: "He also instructed me to say something about hisformer--his experiences. The first Mrs. Siddall he married when he wasvery young and poor. As he grew rich, she became madly extravagant. And as they had started on a basis on which she had free access to hismoney he could not check her. The result, finally, was a succession ofbitter quarrels, and they were about to divorce when she died. He madethe second Mrs. Siddall an allowance, a liberal allowance. Her folliescompelled him to withdraw it. She resorted to underhanded means to getmoney from him without his knowing it. He detected the fraud. After aseries of disagreeable incidents she committed the indiscretion whichcaused him to divorce her. He says that these experiences haveconvinced him that--"

"The second Mrs. Siddall, " interrupted Mildred, "is she still alive?"

Harding hesitated. "Yes, " he said reluctantly. 

"Is she--poor?" asked Mildred. 

"I should prefer not to--"

"Did the general forbid you to tell me?"

"On the contrary, he instructed me-- But I'd rather not talk about it, Mrs. Siddall. "

"Is she poor?" repeated Mildred. 

"Yes. "

"What became of her?"

A long pause. Then Harding said: "She was a poor girl when thegeneral married her. After the divorce she lived for a while with theman. But he had nothing. They separated. She tried various kinds ofwork--and other things. Since she lost her looks-- She writes fromtime to time, asking for money. "

"Which she never gets?" said Mildred. 

"Which she never gets, " said Harding. "Lately she was cashier or headwaitress in a cheap restaurant in St. Louis. "

After a long silence Mildred said: "I understand. I understand. " Shedrew a long breath. "I shall understand better as time goes on, but Iunderstand fairly well now. "

"I need not tell you, Mrs. Siddall, " said Harding in his gentle, tranquil way, "that the general is the kindest and most generous ofmen, but he has his own methods--as who has not?"

Mildred had forgotten that he was there--not a difficult matter, whenhe had in its perfection the secretarial manner of completeself-effacement. Said she reflectively, like one puzzling out adifficult problem:

"He buys a woman, as he buys a dog or a horse. He does not give hisdog, his horse, pocket-money. Why should he give his womanpocket-money?"

"Will it help matters, Mrs. Siddall, to go to the other extreme and dohim a grave injustice?"

She did not hear. At the picture presented to her mind by her ownthoughts she gave a short satirical laugh. "How stupid of me not tohave understood from the outset, " said she. "Why, I've often heard ofthis very thing. "

"It is more and more the custom among men of large property, Ibelieve, " said Harding. "Perhaps, Mrs. Siddall, you would not blamethem if you were in their position. The rich men who arecareless--they ruin everybody about them, I assure you. I've seen itagain and again. "

But the young wife was absorbed in her own thoughts. Harding, feelingher mood, did not interrupt. After a while she said:

"I must ask you some questions. These jewels the general has beenbuying--"

Harding made a movement of embarrassment and protest. She smiledironically and went on:

"One moment, please. Every time I wish to wear any of them I have togo to him to get them. He asks me to return them when I am undressing. He says it is safer to keep everything in his strong box. I have beenassuming that that was the only reason. I begin to suspect-- Am Iright, Mr. Harding?"

"Really I can't say, Mrs. Siddall, " said Harding. "These are notmatters to discuss with me, if you will permit me to say so. "

"Oh, yes, they are, " replied she laughingly. "Aren't we all in the sameboat?--all employes of the general?"

Harding made no reply. 

Mildred was beside herself with a kind of rage that, because outlet wasnecessary and because raving against the little general would beabsolutely futile, found outlet in self-mockery and reckless sarcasm. 

"I understand about the jewels, too, " she went on. "They are not mine. Nothing is mine. Everything, including myself, belongs to him. If Igive satisfaction in the position for which I've been hired for myboard and clothes, I may continue to eat the general's food and sleepin the general's house and wear the general's jewels and dresses andride in the general's traps and be waited on by the general's servants. If I don't like my place or he doesn't like my way of filling it"--shelaughed merrily, mockingly--"out I go--into the streets--after thesecond Mrs. Siddall. And the general will hire a new--" She paused, cast about for a word in vain, appealed to the secretary, "What wouldyou call it, Mr. Harding?"

Harding rose, looking at her with a very soothing tranquillity. "If Iwere you, Mrs. Siddall, " said he, "I should get into the auto and gofor a long drive--out to the Bois--out to Versailles--a long, longdrive. I should be gone four or five hours at least, and I should lookat the thing from all sides. Especially, I'd look at it from HISstandpoint. "

Mildred, somewhat quieter, but still mocking, said: "If I should decideto quit, would my expenses be paid back to where I was engaged? Ifancy not. "

Harding looked grave. "If you had had money enough to pay your ownexpenses about, would you have married him?" said he. "Isn't hepaying--paying liberally, Mrs. Siddall--for ALL he gets?"

Mildred, stung, drew herself up haughtily, gave him a look thatreminded him who she was and who he was. But Harding was not impressed. 

"You said a moment ago--truly--that we are all in the same boat, "observed he. "I put those questions to you because I honestly wish tohelp you--because I wish you not to act foolishly, hastily. "

"Thank you, Mr. Harding, " said Mildred coldly. And with a slight nodshe went, angry and ashamed that she had so unaccountably opened up hersecret soul, bared its ugly wounds, before a man she knew so slightly, a man in a position but one remove from menial. However, she took hisadvice--not as to trying to view the matter from all sides, for she wasconvinced that there was only the one side, but as to calming herselfby a long drive alone in the woods and along quiet roads. When shereturned she was under control once more. 

She found the general impatiently awaiting her. Many packages hadcome--from the jewelers, from the furriers, from a shop whose specialtywas the thinnest and most delicate of hand-made underwear. The generalloved to open and inspect finery for her--loved it more than he lovedinspecting finery for himself, because feminine finery was far moreattractive than masculine. To whet his pleasure to the keenest shemust be there to admire with him, to try on, to exhibit. As sheentered the salon where the little man was fussing about among thepackages, their glances met. She saw that Harding had told him--atleast in discreet outline--of their conversation. She also saw that ifshe reopened the subject she would find herself straightway whirled outupon a stormy sea of danger that might easily overwhelm her flimsyboat. She silently and sullenly dropped into her place; she ministeredto the general's pleasure in packages of finery. But she did notexclaim, or admire, or respond in any way. The honeymoon was over. Herdream of wifehood was dissipated. 

She understood now the look she so often had seen on the faces of richmen's poor wives driving in state in Fifth Avenue. That night, as sheinspected herself in the glass while the general's maid for her brushedher long thick hair, she saw the beginnings of that look in her ownface. "I don't know just what I am, " she said to herself. "But I doknow what I am not. I am not a wife. "

She sent away the maid, and sat there in the dressing-room before themirror, waiting, her glance traveling about and noting the profuse andprodigal luxury. In the corner stood a circular rack loaded withdressing-gowns--more than a score of exquisite combinations of silk andlace or silk and chiffon. It so happened that there was nowhere insight a single article of her apparel or for her toilet that was notbought with the general's money. No, there were some hairpins that shehad paid for herself, and a comb with widely separated teeth that shehad chanced to see in a window when she was alone one day. Anythingelse? Yes, a two-franc box of pins. And that was all. Everything elsebelonged to the general. In the closets, in the trunks--all thegeneral's, part of the trousseau he had paid for. Not an undergarment;not an outer garment; not a hat or a pair of shoes, not a wrap, not apair of gloves. All, the general's. 

He was in the door of the dressing-room--the small wiry figure inrose-silk pajamas. The mustache and imperial were carefully waxed asalways, day and night. On the little feet were high-heeled slippers. Onthe head was a rose-silk Neapolitan nightcap with gay tassel. Thenightcap hid the bald spot from which the lofty toupee had beenremoved. A grotesque little figure, but not grotesque to her. Throughthe mask of the vain, boastful little face she saw the general watchingher, as she had seen him that afternoon when she came in--themysterious and terrible personality that had made the vast fortune, that had ridden ruthlessly over friend and foe, over man and woman andchild--to the goal of its desires. 

"It's late, my dear?" said the little man. "Come to bed. "

She rose to obey--she in the general's purchases of filmy nightgownunder a pale-pink silk dressing-gown. 

He smiled with that curious noiseless mumbling and smacking of the thinlips. She sat down again. 

"Don't keep me waiting. It's chilly, " he said, advancing toward her. 

"I shall sleep in here to-night--on the couch, " said she. She wastrembling with fright at her own audacity. She could see afifty-centime piece and a copper dancing before her eyes. She felthorribly alone and weak, but she had no desire to retract the wordswith which she had thrown down the gauntlet. 

The little general halted. The mask dropped; the man, the monster, looked at her. "What's the matter?" said he in an ominously quietvoice. 

"Mr. Harding delivered your message to-day, " said she, and her steadyvoice astonished her. "So I am going back home. "

He waited, looking steadily at her. 

"After he told me and I thought about it, I decided to submit, but justnow I saw that I couldn't. I don't know what possesses me. I don'tknow what I'm going to do, or how I'm going to do it. But it's allover between us. " She said this rapidly, fluently, in a decisive way, quite foreign to her character as she had thought it. 

"You are coming to bed, where you belong, " said he quietly. 

"No, " replied she, pressing herself against her chair as if force werebeing used to drag her from it. She cast about for something thatwould make yielding impossible. "You are--repulsive to me. "

He looked at her without change of countenance. Said he: "Come to bed. I ask you for the last time. "

There was no anger in his voice, no menace either open or covert;simply finality--the last word of the man who had made himself fearedand secure in the mining-camps where the equation of personal courageis straightway applied to every situation. Mildred shivered. Shelonged to yield, to stammer out some excuse and obey him. But shecould not; nor was she able to rise from her chair. She saw in hishard eyes a look of astonishment, of curiosity as to this unaccountabledefiance in one who had seemed docile, who had apparently noalternative but obedience. He was not so astonished at her as she wasat herself. "What is to become of me?" her terror-stricken soul wascrying. "I must do as he says--I must--yet I cannot!" And she looked athim and sat motionless. 

He turned away, moved slowly toward the door, halted at the thresholdto give her time, was gone. A fit of trembling seized her; she leanedforward and rested her arms upon the dressing-table or she would havefallen from the chair to the floor. Yet, even as her fear made hersick and weak, she knew that she would not yield. 

The cold drove her to the couch, to lie under half a dozen of thedressing-gowns and presently to fall into a sleep of exhaustion. Whenshe awoke after what she thought was a few minutes of unconsciousness, the clamor of traffic in the Rue de Rivoli startled her. She startedup, glanced at the clock on the chimneypiece. It was ten minutes pastnine! When, by all the rules governing the action of the nerves, sheought to have passed a wakeful night she had overslept more than anhour. Indeed, she had had the first sound and prolonged sleep that hadcome to her since the honeymoon began; for until then she had sleptalone all her life and the new order had almost given her chronicinsomnia. She rang for her maid and began to dress. The maid did notcome. She rang again and again; apparently the bell was broken. Shefinished dressing and went out into the huge, grandly and gaudilyfurnished salon. Harding was at a carved old-gold and lacquer desk, writing. As she entered he rose and bowed. 

"Won't you please call one of the servants?" said she. "I want mycoffee. I guess the bell in my room is broken. My maid doesn'tanswer. "

"No, the bell is not broken, " said Harding. 

She looked at him questioningly. 

"The general has issued an order that nothing is to be done in thisapartment, and nothing served, unless he personally authorizes it. "

Mildred paled, drew herself up in what seemed a gesture of haughtinessbut was an effort to muster her strength. To save herself from thehumiliation of a breakdown before him, she hastily retreated by the wayshe had come. After perhaps a quarter of an hour she reappeared in thesalon; she was now dressed for the street. Harding looked up from hiswriting, rose and bowed gravely. Said she:

"I am going out for a walk. I'll be back in an hour or so. "

"One moment, " said Harding, halting her as she was opening the doorinto the public hall. "The general has issued an order that if you goout, you are not to be allowed to return. "

Her hand fell from the knob. With flashing eyes she cried, "But thatis impossible!"

"It is his orders, " said Harding, in his usual quiet manner. "And ashe pays the bills he will be obeyed. "

She debated. Against her will, her trembling hand sought the knobagain. Against her will, her weak arm began to draw the door open. Harding came toward her, stood before her and looked directly into hereyes. His eyes had dread and entreaty in them, but his voice was asalways when he said:

"You know him, Mrs. Siddall. "

"Yes, " she said. 

"The reason he has got ALL he wanted--whatever he wanted--is that hewill go to any length. Every other human being, almost, has a limit, beyond which they will not go--a physical fear or a moral fear or afear of public opinion. But the general--he has no limit. "

"Yes, " she said. And deathly pale and almost staggering she drew openthe door and went out into the public hall. 

"For God's sake, Mrs. Siddall!" cried Harding, in great agitation. "Come in quickly. They are watching--they will tell him! Are you mad?"

"I think I must be, " said she. "I am sick with fear. I can hardly keepfrom dropping down here in a faint. Yet--" a strange look, a minglingof abject terror and passionate defiance, gave her an aspect quiteinsane--"I am going. Perhaps I, too, have no limit. "

And she went along the corridor, past a group of gaping and frightenedservants, down the stairway and out by the private entrance for thegrand apartments of the hotel in the Rue Raymond de l'Isle. Shecrossed the Rue de Rivoli and entered the Tuileries Gardens. It wasonly bracingly cool in the sunshine of that winter day. She seatedherself on a chair on the terrace to regain her ebbed strength. Hardlyhad she sat down when the woman collector came and stood waiting forthe two sous for the chair. Mildred opened her bag, found two coins. She gave the coppers to the woman. The other--all the money shehad--was the fifty-centime piece. 

"But the bag--I can get a good deal for that, " she said aloud. 

"I beg your pardon--I didn't catch that. "

She came back to a sense of her surroundings. Stanley Baird wasstanding a few feet away, smiling down at her. He was, if possible, even more attractively dressed than in the days when he hovered abouther, hoping vague things of which he was ashamed and trying to get thecourage to put down his snobbishness and marry her because she soexactly suited him. He was wearing a new kind of collar and tie, striking yet in excellent quiet taste. Also, his face and figure hadfilled out just enough--he had been too thin in the former days. Buthe was now entered upon that period of the fearsome forties when, unless a man amounts to something, he begins to look insignificant. Hedid not amount to anything; he was therefore paling and waning as apersonality. 

"Was I thinking aloud?" said Mildred, as she gave him her hand. 

"You said something about 'getting a good deal. '" He inspected her withthe freedom of an old friend and with the thoroughness of aconnoisseur. Women who took pains with themselves and were satisfiedwith the results liked Stanley Baird's knowing and appreciative way ofnoting the best points in their toilets. "You're looking fine, "declared he. "It must be a pleasure to them up in the Rue de la Paixto dress you. That's more than can be said for nine out of ten of thewomen who go there. Yes, you're looking fine--and in grand health, too. Why, you look younger than I ever saw you. Nothing like marriageto freshen a girl up. Well, I suppose waiting round for a husband whomay or may not turn up does wear a woman down. "

"It almost killed me, " laughed Mildred. "And you were largelyresponsible. "

"I?" said Baird. "You didn't want me. I was too old for you. "

"No, I didn't want you, " said Mildred. "But you spoiled me. Icouldn't endure the boys of my own age. "

Stanley was remembering that Mildred had married a man much older thanhe. With some notion of a careless sort of tact in mind he said, "Iwas betwixt and between--neither young enough nor old enough. "

"You've married, too, since we met. By the way, thank you again forthat charming remembrance. You always did have such good taste. Butwhy didn't you come to the wedding--you and your wife?"

He laughed. "We were busy busting up, " said he. "You hadn't heard?It's been in the papers. She's gone back to her people. Oh, nothingdisgraceful on either side. Simply that we bored each other to death. She was crazy about horses and dogs, and that set. I think thestable's the place for horses--don't care to have 'em parading throughthe house all the time, every room, every meal, sleeping and waking. And dogs--the infernal brutes always have fleas. Fleas only tickledher, but they bite me--raise welts and hills. There's your husbandnow, isn't it?"

Baird was looking up at the windows of the Continental, across thestreet. Mildred's glance slowly and carelessly followed his. At onewindow stood the little general, gazing abstractedly out over thegardens. At another window Mildred saw Harding; at a third, her maid;at a fourth, Harding's assistant, Drawl; at a fifth, three servants ofthe retinue. Except the general, all were looking at her. 

"You've married a very extraordinary man, " said Baird, in a correcttone of admiration. "One of the ablest and most interesting men we'vegot, _I_ think. "

"So you are free again?" said Mildred, looking at him with a queer, cold smile. 

"Yes, and no, " replied Stanley. "I hope to be entirely free. It's hermove next. I'm expecting it every day. But I'm thoroughlyrespectable. Won't you and the general dine with me?"

"Thanks, but I'm sailing for home to-morrow or next day. "

"That's interesting, " said Baird, with enthusiasm. "So am I. What shipdo you go on?"

"I don't know yet. I'm to decide this afternoon, after lunch. " Shelaughed. "I'm sitting here waiting for someone to ask me to lunch. I've not had even coffee yet. "

"Lunch with me!" cried Baird. "I'll go get the general--I know himslightly. "

"I didn't say anything about the general, " said Mildred. 

Stanley smiled apologetically. "It wouldn't do for you to go aboutwith me--not when my missus is looking for grounds for divorce. "

"Why not?" said Mildred. "So's my husband. "

"You busted up, too? Now, that's what _I_ call jolly. " And he cast apuzzled glance up at the abstracted general. "I say, Mildred, this isno place for either of us, is it?"

"I'd rather be where there's food, " confessed she. 

"You think it's a joke, but I assure you-- Oh, you WERE joking--aboutYOUR bust-up?"

"No, indeed, " she assured him. "I walked out a while ago, and Icouldn't go back if I would--and I don't think I would if I could. "

"That's foolish. Better go back, " advised he. He was preparinghastily to decamp from so perilous a neighborhood. "One marriage isabout like another, once you get through the surface. I'm sure you'llbe better off than--back with your stepfather. "

"I've no intention of going to his house, " she declared. "Oh, there'syour brother. I forgot. "

"So had I forgotten him. I'll not go there, either. In fact, I've notthought where I'll go. "

"You seem to have done mighty little thinking before you took a veryserious step for a woman. " He was uneasily eying the rigid, abstractedlittle figure a story up across the way. 

"Those things aren't a question of thinking, " said she absently. "Inever thought in my life--don't think I could if I tried. But when thetime came I--I walked out. " She came back to herself, laughed. "Idon't understand why I'm telling you all this, especially as you're madwith fright and wild to get away. Well, good-by, Stanley. "

He lifted his hat. "Good-by. We'll meet when we can do so without mygetting a scandal on you. " He walked a few paces, turned, and cameback. "By the way, I'm sailing on the Deutschland. I thought you'dlike to know--so that you and I wouldn't by any chance cross on thesame boat. "

"Thanks, " said she dryly. 

"What's the matter?" asked he, arrested, despite his anxiety to begone, by the sad, scornful look in her eyes. 

"Nothing. Why?"

"You had such a--such a queer look. "

"Really? Good-by. "

In fact, she had thought--had hoped for the sake of her liking forhim--that he had come back to make the glaringly omitted offer of helpthat should have come from any human being learning that a fellow beingwas in the precarious position in which she had told him she was. Notthat she would have accepted any such offer. Still, she would haveliked to have heard the kindly words. She sat watching his handsome, graceful figure, draped in the most artistically cut of long darkovercoats, until he disappeared in the crowd in the Rue de Castiglione. Then, without a glance up at the interested, not to say excited windowsof the general's splendid and spreading apartments, she strolled downthe gardens toward the Place Concorde. In Paris the beautiful, on abright and brisk day it is all but impossible to despair when one stillhas left youth and health. Mildred was not happy--far from it. Thefuture, the immediate future, pressed its terrors upon her. But inmitigation there was, perhaps born of youth and inexperience, a giddysense of relief. She had not realized how abhorrent the generalwas--married life with the general. She had been resigning herself toit, accepting it as the only thing possible, keeping it heavily drapedwith her vanities of wealth and luxury--until she discovered that thewealth and the luxury were in reality no more hers than they were hermaid's. And now she was free!

That word free did not have its full meaning for her. She had neverknown what real freedom was; women of the comfortable class--and men, too, for that matter--usually are born into the petty slavery ofconventions at least, and know nothing else their whole livesthrough--never know the joy of the thought and the act of a free mindand a free heart. Still, she was released from a bondage that seemedslavish even to her, and the release gave her a sensation akin to thejoy of freedom. A heavy hand that was crushing her very soul had beenlifted off--no, FLUNG off, and by herself. That thought, terrifyingthough it was, also gave her a certain new and exalting self-respect. After all, she was not a worm. She must have somewhere in her thegerms of something less contemptible than the essential character of somany of the eminently respectable women she knew. She could picturethem in the situation in which she had found herself. What would theyhave done? Why, what every instinct of her education impelled her todo; what some latent love of freedom, some unsuspected courage ofself-respect had forbidden her to do, had withheld her from doing. 

Her thoughts and the gorgeous sunshine and her youth and health put herin a steadily less cheerless mood as by a roundabout way she sought theshop of the jeweler who sold the general the gold bag she had selected. The proprietor himself was in the front part of the shop and received"Madame la Generale" with all the honors of her husband's wealth. Shebrought no experience and no natural trading talent to the enterpriseshe was about to undertake; so she went directly to the main point. 

"This bag, " said she, laying it upon the glass between them, "I boughtit here a short time ago. "

"I remember perfectly, madame. It is the handsomest, the mostartistic, we have sold this year. "

"I wish to sell it back to you, " said she. 

"You wish to get something else and include it as part payment, madame?"

"No, I wish to get the money for it. "

"Ah, but that is difficult. We do not often make those arrangements. Second-hand articles--"

"But the bag is quite new. Anyhow, it must have some value. Of courseI'd not expect the full price. "

The jeweler smiled. "The full price? Ah, madame, we should not thinkof offering it again as it is. We should--"

"No matter, " interrupted Mildred. The man's expression--the normallypleasant and agreeable countenance turned to repulsive by craft andlying--made her eager to be gone. "What is the most you will give me?"

"I shall have to consider--"

"I've only a few minutes. Please do not irritate me. "

The man was studying her countenance with a desperate look. Why wasshe, the bride of the monstrously rich American, why was she trying tosell the bag? Did it mean the end of her resources? Or, were therestill huge orders to be got from her? His shrewdness, trained bythirty years of dealing with all kinds of luxurious human beings, wentexploring in vain. He was alarmed by her frown. He began hesitatingly:

"The jewels and the gold are only a small part of the value. The chiefvalue is the unique design, so elegant yet so simple. For the jewelsand the gold, perhaps two thousand francs--"

"The purse was twelve thousand francs, " interrupted she. 

"Perfectly, madame. But--" "I am in great haste. How much will yougive me?"

"The most would be four thousand, I fear. I shall count up morecarefully, if madame will--"

"No, four thousand will do. "

"I will send the money to madame at her hotel. The Continental, is itnot?"

"No, I must have it at once. "

The jeweler hesitated. Mildred, flushing scarlet with shame--but heluckily thought it anger--took up the bag and moved toward the door. 

"Pardon, madame, but certainly. Do you wish some gold or all notes?"

"Notes, " answered she. "Fifty and hundred-franc notes. "

A moment later she was in the street with the notes in a small bundlein the bosom of her wrap. She went hurriedly up the street. As shewas about to turn the corner into the boulevard she on impulse glancedback. An automobile had just drawn up at the jeweler's door and GeneralSiddall--top-hat, sable-lined overcoat, waxed mustache and imperial, high-heeled boots, gold-mounted cane--was descending. And she knewthat he had awakened to his one oversight, and was on his way to repairit. But she did not know that the jeweler--old and wise in humanways--would hastily vanish with the bag and that an assistant wouldcome forward with assurances that madame had not been in the shop andthat, if she should come in, no business would be negotiated withoutthe general's express consent. She all but fainted at the narrownessof her escape and fled round into the boulevard. She entered a taxiand told the man to drive to Foyot's restaurant on the left bank--wherethe general would never think of looking for her. 

When she had breakfasted she strolled in the Luxembourg Gardens, ineven better humor with herself and with the world. There was stillthat horrid-faced future, but it was not leering into her very face. Itwas nearly four thousand francs away--"and if I hadn't been so stupid, I'd have got eight thousand, I'm sure, " she said. But she was ratherproud of a stupidity about money matters. And four thousand francs, eight hundred dollars--that was quite a good sum. 

She had an instinct that the general would do something disagreeableabout the French and English ports of departure for America. Butperhaps he would not think of the Italian ports. That night she setout for Genoa, and three days later, in a different dress and with herhair done as she never wore it, sailed as Miss Mary Stevens for Americaon a German Mediterranean boat. 

She had taken the whole of a cabin on the quieter deck below thepromenade, paying for it nearly half of what was left of the fourthousand francs. The first three days she kept to her cabin except atthe dinner-hour, when she ventured to the deck just outside and walkedup and down for exercise. Then followed four days of nasty weatherduring which she did not leave her bed. As the sea calmed, she, wretched and reckless, had a chair put for herself under her window andsat there, veiled and swathed and turning her face away whenever a rarewandering passenger happened to pass along. Toward noon a man pausedbefore her to light a cigarette. She, forgetting for the moment herprecautions, looked at him. It chanced that he looked at her atexactly the same instant. Their glances met. He started nervously, moved on a few steps, returned. Said she mockingly:

"You know you needn't speak if you don't want to, Stanley. "

"There isn't a soul on board that anybody ever knew or that ever knewanybody, " said he. "So why not?"

"And you look horribly bored. "

"Unspeakably, " replied Baird. "I've spoken to no one since I leftParis. "

"What are you doing on this ship?" inquired she. 

"To be perfectly honest, " said he, "I came this way to avoid you. Iwas afraid you'd take passage on my steamer just to amuse yourself withmy nervousness. And--here you are!"

"Amusing myself with your nervousness. "

"But I'm not nervous. There's no danger. Will you let me have a chairput beside yours?"

"It will be a charity on your part, " said she. 

When he was comfortably settled, he explained his uneasiness. "I seeI've got to tell you, " said he, "for I don't want you to think me ashouting ass. The fact is my wife wants to get a divorce from me andto soak me for big alimony. She's a woman who'll do anything to gainher end, and--well, for some reason she's always been jealous of you. Ididn't care to get into trouble, or to get you into trouble. "

"I'm traveling as Mary Stevens, " said Mildred. "No one knows I'maboard. "

"Oh, I'm sure we're quite safe. We can enjoy the rest of this voyage. "

A sea voyage not merely induces but compels a feeling of absolutedetachment from the world. To both Stanley and Mildred theiraffairs--the difficulties in which they were involved on terrafirma--ceased for the time to have any reality. The universe wasnothing but a vast stretch of water under a vast stretch of sky; theearth and the things thereof were a retrospect and a foreboding. Without analyzing it, both he and she felt that they were free--freefrom cares, from responsibilities--free to amuse themselves. And theyproceeded to enjoy themselves in the necessarily quiet and limited wayimposed by the littleness of their present world and the meagerness ofthe resources. 

As neither had the kind of mind that expands in abstractions, they weresoon talking in the most intimate and personal way aboutthemselves--were confessing things which neither would have breathed toanyone on land. It was the man who set the example of breaking throughthe barriers of conventional restraint--perhaps of delicacy, though itmust be said that human beings are rarely so fine in their reticencesas the theory of refinement would have us believe. Said Stanley, afterthe preliminaries of partial confidence and halting avowal that couldnot be omitted, even at sea, by a man of "gentlemanly instinct":

"I don't know why I shouldn't own up. I know you'll never tellanybody. Fact is, I and my wife were never in love with each other fora second. We married because we were in the same set and because ourincomes together gave us enough to do the thing rather well. " After asolemn pause. "I was in love with another woman--one I couldn't marry. But I'll not go into that. As for my wife, I don't think she was inlove with anyone. She's as cold as a stone. "

Mildred smiled ironically. 

Baird saw and flushed. "At least, she was to me. I was ready to make asort of bluff. You see, a man feels guilty in those circumstances anddoesn't want to humiliate a woman. But she--" he laughedunpleasantly--"she wasn't bothering about MY feelings. That's a nice, selfish little way you ladies have. "

"She probably saw through you and hated you for playing the hypocriteto her, " said Mildred. 

"You may be right, I never thought of that, " confessed he. "Shecertainly had a vicious way of hammering the other woman indirectly. Not that she ever admitted being jealous. I guess she knew. Everybodyusually knows everything. "

"And there was a great deal of talk about you and me, " said Mildredplacidly. 

"I didn't say it was you, " protested Stanley, reddening. 

"No matter, " said Mildred. "Don't bother about that. It's all pastand gone. "

"Well, at any rate, my marriage was the mistake of my life. I'mdetermined that she shan't trip me up and trim me for any alimony. Andas matters stand, she can't. She left me of her own accord. "

"Then, " said Mildred thoughtfully, "if the wife leaves of her ownaccord, she can't get alimony?"

"Certainly not--not a cent. "

"I supposed so, " said she. "I'm not sure I'd take it if I could getit. Still, I suppose I would. " She laughed. "What's the use of beinga hypocrite with oneself? I know I would. All I could get. "

"Then you had no LEGAL excuse for leaving?"

"No, " said she. "I--just bolted. I don't know what's to become of me. I seem not to care, at present, but no doubt I shall as soon as we seeland again. "

"You'll go back to him, " said Stanley. 

"No, " replied she, without emphasis or any accent whatever. 

"Sure you will, " rejoined he. "It's your living. What else can you do?"

"That's what I must find out. Surely there's something else for awoman besides such a married life as mine. I can't and won't go backto my husband. And I can't and won't go to the house at Hanging Rock. Those two things are settled. "

"You mean that?"

"Absolutely. And I've got--less than three hundred and fifty dollarsin the whole world. "

Baird was silent. He was roused from his abstraction by gradualconsciousness of an ironical smile on the face of the girl, for she didnot look like a married woman. "You are laughing at me. Why?"inquired he. 

"I was reading your thoughts. "

"You think you've frightened me?"

"Naturally. Isn't a confession such as I made enough to frighten aman? It sounded as though I were getting ready to ask alms. "

"So it did, " said he. "But I wasn't thinking of it in that way. YouWILL be in a frightful fix pretty soon, won't you?"

"It looks that way. But you need not be uneasy. "

"Oh, I want to help you. I'll do everything I can. I was trying tothink of something you could make money at. I was thinking of thestage, but I suppose you'd balk at that. I'll admit it isn't the lifefor a lady. But the same thing's true of whatever money can be madeat. If I were you, I'd go back. "

"If I were myself, I'd go back, " said Mildred. "But I'm not myself. "

"You will be again, as soon as you face the situation. "

"No, " said she slowly, "no, I shall never be myself again. "

"But you could have everything a woman wants. Except, ofcourse--perhaps-- But you never struck me as being especiallysentimental. "

"Sentiment has nothing to do with it, " rejoined she. "Do you think Icould get a place on the stage?"

"Oh, you'd have to study a while, I suppose. "

"But I can't afford that. If I could afford to study, I'd have myvoice trained. "

Baird's face lighted up with enthusiasm. "The very thing!" he cried. "You've got a voice, a grand-opera voice. I've heard lots of peoplesay so, and it sounded that way to me. You must cultivate your voice. "

Mildred laughed. "Don't talk nonsense. Even I know that's nonsense. The lessons alone would cost thousands of dollars. And how could Ilive for the four or five years?"

"You didn't let me finish, " said Baird. "I was going to say that whenyou get to New York you must go and have your voice passed on--by someimpartial person. If that person says it's worth cultivating, why, I'mwilling to back you--as a business proposition. I can afford to takethe risk. So, you see, it's all perfectly simple. "

He had spoken rapidly, with a covert suggestion of fear lest she wouldrebuke him sharply for what she might regard as an impertinent offer. She surprised him by looking at him calmly, reflectively, and saying:

"Yes, you could afford it, couldn't you?"

"I'm sure I could. And it's the sort of thing that's done every day. Of course, no one'd know that we had made this little businessarrangement. But that's easily managed. I'd be glad if you'd let medo it, Mildred. I'd like to feel that I was of some use in the world. And I'd like to do something for YOU. "

By way of exceedingly cautious experiment he ventured to put ever soslight an accent of tenderness upon the "you. " He observed herfurtively but nervously. He could not get a hint of what was in hermind. She gazed out toward the rising and falling horizon line. Presently she said:

"I'll think about it. "

"You must let me do it, Mildred. It's the sensible thing--and you knowme well enough to know that my friendship can be counted on. "

"I'll think about it, " was all she would concede. 

They discussed the singing career all that and the succeeding days--thepossibilities, the hopes, the dangers--but the hopes a great deal morethan the dangers. He became more and more interested in her and in theproject, as her beauty shone out with the tranquillizing sea and as herold charm of cleverness at saying things that amused him reasserteditself. She, dubious and lukewarm at first, soon was trying to curbher own excited optimism; but long before they sighted Sandy Hook shewas merely pretending to hang back. He felt discouraged by her parting!"If I decide to go on, I'll write you in a few days. " But he need nothave felt so. She had made up her mind to accept his offer. As forthe complications involved in such curiously intimate relations with aman of his temperament, habits, and inclinations, she saw them veryvaguely indeed--refused to permit herself to see them any less vaguely. Time enough to deal with complications when and as they arose; whyneedlessly and foolishly annoy herself and hamper herself? Said she toherself, "I must begin to be practical. "

IV

AT the pier Mildred sent her mother a telegram, giving the train bywhich she would arrive--that and nothing more. As she descended fromthe parlor-car there stood Mrs. Presbury upon the platform, facewreathed in the most joyous of welcoming smiles, not a surface trace ofthe curiosity and alarm storming within. After they had kissed andembraced with a genuine emotion which they did not try to hide, becauseboth suddenly became unconscious of that world whereof ordinarily theywere constantly mindful--after caresses and tears Mrs. Presbury said:

"It's all very well to dress plain, when everyone knows you can affordthe best. But don't you think you're overdoing it a little?"

Mildred laughed somewhat nervously. "Wait till we're safe at home, "said she. 

On the way up from the station in the carriage they chattered away inthe liveliest fashion, to make the proper impression upon any observingHanging-Rockers. "Luckily, Presbury's gone to town to-day, " said hiswife. "But really he's quite livable--hasn't gone back to his oldways. He doesn't know it, but he's rapidly growing deaf. He imaginesthat everyone is speaking more and more indistinctly, and he has lostinterest in conversation. Then, too, he has done well in Wall Street, and that has put him in a good humor. "

"He'll not be surprised to see me--alone, " said Mildred. 

"Wait till we're home, " said her mother nervously. 

At the house Mrs. Presbury carried on a foolish, false-soundingconversation for the benefit of the servants, and finally conductedMildred to her bedroom and shut doors and drew portieres and glancedinto closets before saying: "Now, what IS the matter, Millie? WHERE isyour husband?"

"In Paris, I suppose, " replied Mildred. "I have left him, and I shallnever go back. "

"Presbury said you would!" cried her mother. "But I didn't believe it. I don't believe it. I brought you up to do your duty, and I know youwill. "

This was Mildred's first opportunity for frank and plain speaking; andthat is highly conducive to frank and plain thinking. She now began tosee clearly why she had quit the general. Said she: "Mamma, to behonest and not mince words, I've left him because there's nothing init. "

"Isn't he rich?" inquired her mother. "I've always had a kind ofpresent--"

"Oh, he's rich, all right, " interrupted the girl. "But he saw to itthat I got no benefit from that. "

"But you wrote me how he was buying you everything!"

"So I thought. In fact he was buying ME nothing. " And she went on toexplain the general's system. 

Her mother listened impatiently. She would have interrupted the longand angry recital many times had not Mildred insisted on a full hearingof her grievances, of the outrages that had been heaped upon her. "And, " she ended, "I suppose he's got it so arranged that he could haveme arrested as a thief for taking the gold bag. "

"Yes, it's terrible and all that, " said her mother. "But I should havethought living with me here when Presbury was carrying on so dreadfullywould have taught you something. Your case isn't an exception, anymore than mine is. That's the sort of thing we women have to put upwith from men, when we're in their power. "

"Not I, " said Mildred loftily. 

"Yes, you, " retorted her mother. "ANY woman. EVERY woman. Unless wehave money of our own, we all have trouble with the men about money, sooner or later, in one way or another. And rich men!--why, it'snotorious that they're always more or less mean about money. A wife hasgot to use tact. Why, I even had to use some tact with your father, and he was as generous a man as ever lived. Tact--that's a woman'swhole life. You ought to have used tact. You'll go back to him and usetact. "

"You don't know him, mamma!" cried Mildred. "He's a monster. He isn'thuman. "

Mrs. Presbury drew a long face and said in a sad, soothing voice: "Yes, I know, dear. Men are very, very awful, in some ways, to a nicewoman--with refined, ladylike instincts. It's a great shock to apure--"

"Oh, gammon!" interrupted Mildred. "Don't be silly, mother. It isn'tworth while for one woman to talk that kind of thing to another. Ididn't fully know what I was doing when I married a man I didn'tlove--a man who was almost repulsive to me. But I knew enough. And Iwas getting along well enough, as any woman does, no matter what shemay say--yes, you needn't look shocked, for that's hypocrisy, and Iknow it now-- But, as I was saying, I didn't begin to HATE him untilhe tried to make a slave of me. A slave!" she shuddered. "He's amonster!"

"A little tact, and you can get everything you want, " insisted hermother. 

"I tell you, you don't know the man, " cried Mildred. "By tact I supposeyou mean I could have sold things behind his back--and all that. " Shelaughed. "He hasn't got any back. He had it so arranged that thosecold, wicked eyes of his were always watching me. His second wifetried 'tact. ' He caught her and drove her into the streets. I'd havehad no chance to get a cent, and if I had gotten it I'd not have daredspend it. Do you imagine I ran away from him without having THOUGHT?If there'd been any way of staying on, any way of making things evenendurable, I'd have stayed. "

"But you've got to go back, Milly, " cried her mother, in tears. 

"You mean that you can't support me?"

"And your brother Frank--" Mrs. Presbury's eyes flashed and her ratherstout cheeks quivered. "I never thought I'd tell anybody, but I'lltell you. I never liked your brother Frank, and he never liked me. That sounds dreadful, doesn't it?"

"No, mother dear, " said Mildred gently. "I've learned that life isn'tat all as--as everybody pretends. "

"Indeed it isn't, " said her mother. "Mothers always have favoritesamong their children, and very often a mother dislikes one of herchildren. Of course she hides her feeling and does her duty. But allthe same she can't help the feeling that is down in her heart. I had apresentiment before he was born that I wouldn't like him, and sureenough, I didn't. And he didn't like me, or his father, or any of us. "

"It would never occur to me to turn to him, " said Mildred. 

"Then you see that you've got to go back to the general. You can't geta divorce and alimony, for it was you that left him--and for no cause. He was within his rights. "

Mildred hesitated, confessed: "I had thought of going back to him andacting in such a way that he'd be glad to give me a divorce and anallowance. "

"Yes, you might do that, " said her mother. "A great many women do. And, after all, haven't they a right to? A lady has got to have propersupport, and is it just to ask her to live with a man she loathes?"

"I haven't thought of the right or wrong of it, " said Mildred. "Itlooks to me as though right and wrong have very little to do with lifeas it's lived. They're for hypocrites--and fools. "

"Mildred!" exclaimed her mother, deeply shocked. 

Mildred was not a little shocked at her own thoughts as she inspectedthem in the full light into which speech had dragged them. "Anyhow, "she went on, "I soon saw that such a plan was hopeless. He's not theman to be trifled with. Long before I could drive him to give me aliving and let me go he would have driven me to flight or suicide. "

Her mother had now had time to reflect upon Mildred's revelations. Aided by the impressions she herself had gotten of the little general, she began to understand why her daughter had fled and why she would notreturn. She felt that the situation was one which time alone couldsolve. Said she: "Well, the best thing is for you to stay on here andwait until he makes some move. "

"He'll have me watched--that's all he'll do, " said Mildred. "When hegets ready he'll divorce me for deserting him. "

Mrs. Presbury felt that she was right. But, concealing herdespondency, she said: "All we can do is to wait and see. You mustsend for your luggage. "

"I've nothing but a large bag, " said Mildred. "I checked it in theparcel-room of the New York station. "

Mrs. Presbury was overwhelmed. How account to Hanging Rock for thereappearance of a baggageless and husbandless bride? But she held upbravely. With a cheerfulness that did credit to her heart and showedhow well she loved her daughter she said: "We must do the best we can. We'll get up some story. "

"No, " said Mildred. "I'm going back to New York. You can tell peoplehere what you please--that I've gone to rejoin him or to wait forhim--any old thing. "

"At least you'll wait and talk with Presbury, " pleaded her mother. "Heis VERY sensible. "

"If he has anything to suggest, " said Mildred, "he can write it. I'llsend you my address. "

"Milly, " cried her mother, agitated to the depths, "where ARE yougoing? WHAT are you going to do? You look so strange--not at all likeyourself. "

"I'm going to a hotel to-night--probably to a boarding-houseto-morrow, " said Mildred. "In a few days I shall begin to--" shehesitated, decided against confidence--"begin to support myself atsomething or other. "

"You must be crazy!" cried her mother. "You wouldn't do anything--andyou couldn't. "

"Let's not discuss it, mamma, " said the girl tranquilly. 

The mother looked at her with eyes full of the suspicion one ladycannot but have as to the projects of another lady in suchcircumstances. 

"Mildred, " she said pleadingly, "you must be careful. You'll findyourself involved in a dreadful scandal. I know you wouldn't DOanything WRONG no matter how you were driven. But--"

"I'll not do anything FOOLISH, mamma, " interrupted the girl. "You arethinking about men, aren't you?"

"Men are always ready to destroy a woman, " said her mother. "You mustbe careful--"

Mildred was laughing. "Oh, mamma, " she cried, "do be sensible and dogive me credit for a little sense. I've got a very clear idea of whata woman ought to do about men, and I assure you I'm not going to beFOOLISH. And you know a woman who isn't foolish can be trusted where awoman who's only protected by her principles would yield to the firsttemptation--or hunt round for a temptation. "

"But you simply can't go to New York and live there all alone--and withnothing!"

"Can I stay here--for more than a few days?"

"But maybe, after a few days--" stammered her mother. 

"You see, I've got to begin, " said Mildred. "So why delay? I'd gainnothing. I'd simply start Hanging Rock to gossiping--and start Mr. Presbury to acting like a fiend again. "

Her mother refused to be convinced--was the firmer, perhaps, becauseshe saw that Mildred was unshakable in her resolve to leaveforthwith--the obviously sensible and less troublesome course. Theyemployed the rest of Mildred's three hours' stop in arguing--whenMildred was not raging against the little general. Her mother was morethan willing to assist her in this denunciation, but Mildred preferredto do it all herself. She had--perhaps by unconsciously absorbedtraining from her lawyer father--an unusual degree of ability to seeboth sides of a question. When she assailed her husband, she saw onlyher own side; but somehow when her mother railed and raved, she beganto see another side--and the sight was not agreeable. She wished tofeel that her husband was altogether in the wrong; she did not wish tohave intruded upon her such facts as that she had sold herself tohim--quite in the customary way of ladies, but nevertheless quiteshamelessly--or that in strict justice she had done nothing for him toentitle her to a liberal money allowance or any allowance at all. 

On the train, going back to New York, she admitted to herself that therepulsive little general had held strictly to the terms of thebargain--"but only a devil and one with not a single gentlemanlyinstinct would insist on such a bargain. " It took away much of theshame, and all of the sting, of despising herself to feel that she waslooking still lower when she turned to despising him. 

To edge out the little general she began to think of her mother, but asshe passed in review what her mother had said and how she had said itshe saw that for all the protests and arguings her mother was more thanresigned to her departure. Mildred felt no bitterness; ever since shecould remember her mother had been a shifter of responsibility. Still, to stare into the face of so disagreeable a fact as that one had noplace on earth to go to, no one on earth to turn to, not even one's ownmother--to stare on at that grimacing ugliness did not tend tocheerfulness. Mildred tried to think of the future--but how could shethink of something that was nothing? She knew that she would go on, somehow, in some direction, but by no effort of her imagination couldshe picture it. She was so impressed by the necessity of consideringthe future that, to rouse herself, she tried to frighten herself withpictures of poverty and misery, of herself a derelict in the vast andcold desert of New York--perhaps in rags, hungry, ill, but all in vain. She did not believe it. Always she had had plenty to wear and to eat, and comfortable surroundings. She could no more think of herself aswithout those things than a living person can imagine himself dead. 

"I'm a fool, " she said to herself. "I'm certain to get into all sortsof trouble. How can it be otherwise, when I've no money, no friends, no experience, no way of making a living--no honest way--perhaps no wayof the other kind, either?" There are many women who ecstasize theireasily tickled vanities by fancying that if they were so disposed theyneed only flutter an eyelid to have men by the legion striving fortheir favors, each man with a bag of gold. Mildred, inexperienced asshe was, had no such delusions. Her mind happened not to be of thatchastely licentious caste which continually revolves and fantasticallyexaggerates the things of the body. 

She could not understand her own indifference about the future. Shedid not realize that it was wholly due to Stanley Baird's offer. Shewas imagining she was regarding that offer as something she mightpossibly consider, but probably would not. She did not know that hersoul had seized upon it, had enfolded it and would on no account let itgo. It is the habit of our secret selves thus to make decisions andawait their own good time for making us acquainted with them. 

With her bag on the seat beside her she set out to find a temporarylodging. Not until several hotels had refused her admittance on thepretext that they were "full up" did she realize that a young womanalone is an object of suspicion in New York. When a fourth room-clerkexpressed his polite regrets she looked him straight in the eye andsaid:

"I understand. But I can't sleep in the street. You must tell mewhere I can go. "

"Well, there's the Ripon over in Seventh Avenue, " said he. 

"Is it respectable?" said she. 

"Oh, it's very clean and comfortable there, " said he. "They'll treatyou right. "

"Is it respectable?" said she. 

"Well, now, it doesn't LOOK queer, if that's what you mean, " repliedhe. "You'll do very nicely there. You can be just as quiet as youwant. "

She saw that hotel New York would not believe her respectable. So tothe Ripon she went, and was admitted without discussion. As the lastrespectable clerk had said, it did not LOOK queer. But it FELT queer;she resolved that she would go into a boarding-house the very next day. 

Here again what seemed simple proved difficult. No respectableboarding-house would have Miss Mary Stevens. She was confident thatnothing in her dress or manner hinted mystery. Yet those sharp-eyedlandladies seemed to know at once that there was something peculiarabout her. Most of them became rude the instant they set eyes uponher. A few--of the obviously less prosperous class--talked with her, seemed to be listening for something which her failing to say decidedthem upon all but ordering her out of the house. She, hindered by herinnocence, was slow in realizing that she could not hope for admissionto any select respectable circle, even of high-class salesladies andclerks, unless she gave a free and clear account of herself--whence shehad come, what she was doing, how she got her money. 

Toward the end of the second day's wearisome and humiliating search shefound a house that would admit her. It was a pretentious, well-furnished big house in Madison Avenue. The price--thirty-fivedollars a week for board, a bedroom with a folding bed in an alcove, and a bath, was more than double what she had counted on paying, butshe discovered that decent and clean lodgings and food fit to eat werenot to be had for less. "And I simply can't live pig-fashion, " saidshe. "I'd be so depressed that I could do nothing. I can't live likea wild animal, and I won't. " She had some vaguenotion--foreboding--that this was not the proper spirit with which toface life. "I suppose I'm horribly foolish, " reflected she, "but if Imust go down, I'll go down with my colors flying. " She did not knowprecisely what that phrase meant, but it sounded fine and brave andheartened her to take the expensive lodgings. 

The landlady was a Mrs. Belloc. Mildred had not talked with her twentyminutes before she had a feeling that this name was assumed. Theevening of her first day in the house she learned that her guess wascorrect--learned it from the landlady herself. After dinner Mrs. Belloc came into her room to cheer her up, to find out about her and totell her about herself. 

"Now that you've come, " said she, "the house is full up--except somelittle rooms at the top that I'd as lief not fill. The probabilitiesare that any ladies who would take them wouldn't be refined enough tosuit those I have. There are six, not counting me, every one with abath and two with private parlors. And as they're all handsome, sensible women, ladylike and steady, I think the prospects are thatthey'll pay promptly and that I won't have any trouble. "

Mildred reflected upon this curious statement. It sounded innocentenough, yet what a peculiar way to put a simple fact. 

"Of course it's none of my business how people live as long as theykeep up the respectabilities, " pursued Mrs. Belloc. "It don't do toinquire into people in New York. Most of 'em come here because theywant to live as they please. "

"No doubt, " said Mildred a little nervously, for she suspected herlandlady of hitting at her, and wondered if she had come tocross-examine her and, if the results were not satisfactory, to put herinto the street. 

"I know _I_ came for that reason, " pursued Mrs. Belloc. "I was aschool-teacher up in New England until about two years ago. Did youever teach school?"

"Not yet, " said Mildred. "And I don't think I ever shall. I don'tknow enough. "

"Oh, yes, you do. A teacher doesn't need to know much. The wages areso poor--at least up in New England--that they don't expect you to knowanything. It's all in the books. I left because I couldn't endure thelife. Lord! how dull those little towns are! Ever live in a littletown?"

"All my life, " said Mildred. 

"Well, you'll never go back. "

"I hope not. "

"You won't. Why should you? A sensible woman with looks--especiallyif she knows how to carry her clothes--can stay in New York as long asshe pleases, and live off the fat of the land. "

"That's good news, " said Mildred. She began to like the landlady--notfor what she said, but for the free and frank and friendly way of thesaying--a human way, a comradely way, a live-and-let-live way. 

"I didn't escape from New England without a struggle, " continued Mrs. Belloc, who was plainly showing that she had taken a great fancy to"Mary Stevens. "

"I suppose it was hard to save the money out of your salary, " saidMildred. 

Mrs. Belloc laughed. She was about thirty-five years old, though hereyes and her figure were younger than that. Her mouth was pleasantenough, but had lost some of its freshness. "Save money!" cried she. "I'd never have succeeded that way. I'd be there yet. I had nevermarried--had two or three chances, but all from poor sticks looking forsomeone to support them. I saw myself getting old. I was lookingyears older than I do now. Talk about sea air for freshening a womanup--it isn't in it with the air of New York. Here's the town wherewomen stay young. If I had come here five years ago I could almost tryfor the squab class. "

"Squab class?" queried Mildred. 

"Yes, squabs. Don't you see them around everywhere?--the women dressedlike girls of sixteen to eighteen--and some of them are that, andyounger. They go hopping and laughing about--and they seem to pleasethe men and to have no end of a good time. Especially the oldish men. Oh, yes, you know a squab on sight--tight skirt, low shoes and silkstockings, cute pretty face, always laughing, hat set on rakishly andhair done to match, and always a big purse or bag--with a yellow-backor so in it--as a kind of a hint, I guess. "

Mildred had seen squabs. "I've envied them--in a way, " said she. "Their parents seem to let them do about as they please. "

"Their parents don't know--or don't care. Sometimes it's one, sometimes the other. They travel in two sets. One is where they meetyoung fellows of their own class--the kind they'll probably marry, unless they happen to draw the capital prize. The other set theytravel in--well, it's the older men they meet round the swell hotelsand so on--the yellow-back men. "

"How queer!" exclaimed Mildred, before whose eyes a new world wasopening. "But how do they--these--squabs--account for the money?"

"How do a thousand and one women in this funny town account at home formoney and things?" retorted Mrs. Belloc. "Nothing's easier. Forinstance, often these squabs do--or pretend to do--a little somethingin the way of work--a little canvassing or artists' model or anythingyou please. That helps them to explain at home--and also to make eachof the yellow-back men think he's the only one and that he's beingalmost loved for himself alone. "

Mrs. Belloc laughed. Mildred was too astonished to laugh, and toointerested--and too startled or shocked. 

"But I was telling you how _I_ got down here, " continued the landlady. "Up in my town there was an old man--about seventy-five--close as thebark on a tree, and ugly and mean. " She paused to draw a long breathand to shake her head angrily yet triumphantly at some figure her fancyconjured up. "Oh, he WAS a pup!--and is! Well, anyhow, I decided thatI'd marry him. So I wrote home for fifty dollars. I borrowed anotherfifty here and there. I had seventy-five saved up against sickness. Iwent up to Boston and laid it all out in underclothes and housethings--not showy but fine and good to look at. Then one day, when theweather was fine and I knew the old man would be out in his buggydriving round--I dressed myself up to beat the band. I took hours toit--scrubbing, powdering, sacheting, perfuming, fixing the hair, fixingmy finger-nails, fixing up my feet, polishing every nail and makingthem look better than most hands. "

Mildred was so interested that she was excited. What strange freak wascoming?

"You never could guess, " pursued Mrs. Belloc, complacently. "I took mysunshade and went out, all got up to kill. And I walked along the roaduntil I saw the old man's buggy coming with him in it. Then I gave myankle a frightful wrench. My! How it hurt!"

"What a pity!" said Mildred sympathetically. "What a shame!"

"A pity? A shame?" cried Mrs. Belloc, laughing. "Why, my dear, I didit a-purpose. "

"On purpose!" exclaimed Mildred. 

"Certainly. That was my game. I screamed out with pain--and thescream was no fake, I can tell you. And I fell down by the roadside ona nice grassy spot where no dust would get on me. Well, up comes theold skinflint in his buggy. He climbed down and helped me get off myslipper and stocking. I knew I had him the minute I saw his old facelooking at that foot I had fixed up so beautifully. "

"How DID you ever think of it?" exclaimed Mildred. 

"Go and teach school for ten years in a dull little town, my dear--andlook in the glass every day and see your youth fading away--and you'llthink of most anything. Well, to make a long story short, the old mantook me in the buggy to his house where he lived with his deaf, half-blind old widowed daughter. I had to stay there three weeks. Imarried him the fourth week. And just two months to a day from theafternoon I sprained my ankle, he gave me fifty dollars a week--allsigned and sealed by a lawyer--to go away and leave him alone. I mighthave stood out for more, but I was too anxious to get to New York. Andhere I am!" She gazed about the well-furnished room, typical of thatalmost luxurious house, with an air of triumphant satisfaction. Saidshe: "I've no patience with a woman who says she can't get on. Where'sher brains?"

Mildred was silent. Perhaps it was a feeling of what was hazily in theyounger woman's mind and a desire to answer it that led Mrs. Belloc tosay further: "I suppose there's some that would criticize my way ofgetting there. But I want to know, don't all women get there byworking men? Only most of them are so stupid that they have to go onliving with the man. I think it's low to live with a man you hate. "

"Oh, I'm not criticizing anybody, " said Mildred. 

"I didn't think you were, " said Mrs. Belloc. "If I hadn't seen youweren't that kind, I'd not have been so confidential. Not that I'msecretive with anybody. I say and do what I please. Anyone who doesn'tlike my way or me can take the other side of the street. I didn't cometo New York to go in society. I came here to LIVE. "

Mildred looked at her admiringly. There were things about Mrs. Bellocthat she did not admire; other things--suspected rather than knownthings--that she knew she would shrink from, but she heartily admiredand profoundly envied her utter indifference to the opinion of others, her fine independent way of walking her own path at her own gait. 

"I took this boarding-house, " Mrs. Belloc went on, "because I didn'twant to be lonesome. I don't like all--or even most of--the ladiesthat live here. But they're all amusing to talk with--and don't put onairs except with their men friends. And one or two are the realthing--good-hearted, fond of a joke, without any meanness. I tell you, New York is a mighty fine place if you get 'in right. ' Of course, ifyou don't, it's h-e-l-l. " (Mrs. Belloc took off its unrefined edge byspelling it. ) "But what place isn't?" she added. 

"And your husband never bothers you?" inquired Mildred. 

"And never will, " replied Mrs. Belloc. "When he dies I'll come into alittle more--about a hundred and fifty a week in all. Not a fortune, but enough with what the boarding-house brings in. I'm a pretty fairbusiness woman. "

"I should say so!" exclaimed Mildred. 

"You said you were Miss Stevens, didn't you?" said Mrs. Belloc--andMildred knew that her turn had come. 

"Yes, " replied she. "But I am also a married woman. " She hesitated, reddened. "I didn't give you my married name. "

"That's your own business, " said Mrs. Belloc in her easiest manner. "Myright name isn't Belloc, either. But I've dropped that other life. Youneedn't feel a bit embarrassed in this house. Some of my boarders SEEMto be married. All that have regular-appearing husbands SAY they are. What do I care, so long as everything goes along smoothly? I don't getexcited about trifles. "

"Some day perhaps I'll tell you about myself, " said Mildred. "Just atpresent I--well, I seem not to be able to talk about things. "

"It's not a bad idea to keep your mouth shut, as long as your affairsare unsettled, " advised Mrs. Belloc. "I can see you've had littleexperience. But you'll come out all right. Just keep cool, and don'tfret about trifles. And don't let any man make a fool of you. That'swhere we women get left. We're afraid of men. We needn't be. We canmighty easily make them afraid of us. Use the soft hand till you gethim well in your grip. Then the firm hand. Nothing coarse or cruel ormean. But firm and self-respecting. "

Mildred was tempted to take Mrs. Belloc fully into her confidence andget the benefit of the advice of shrewdness and experience. So strongwas the temptation, she would have yielded to it had Mrs. Belloc askeda few tactful, penetrating questions. But Mrs. Belloc refrained, andMildred's timidity or delicacy induced her to postpone. The next dayshe wrote Stanley Baird, giving her address and her name and asking himto call "any afternoon at four or five. " She assumed that he wouldcome on the following day, but the letter happened to reach him withinan hour of her mailing it, and he came that very afternoon. 

When she went down to the drawing-room to receive him, she found himstanding in the middle of the room gazing about with a quizzicalexpression. As soon as the greetings were over he said:

"You must get out of here, Mildred. This won't do. "

"Indeed I shan't, " said she. "I've looked everywhere, and this is theonly comfortable place I could find--where the rates were reasonableand where the landlady didn't have her nose in everybody's business. "

"You don't understand, " said he. "This is a bird-cage. Highly gilded, but a bird-cage. "

She had never heard the phrase, but she understood--and instantly sheknew that he was right. She colored violently, sat down abruptly. Butin a moment she recovered herself, and with fine defiance said:

"I don't care. Mrs. Belloc is a kind-hearted woman, and it's as easyto be respectable here as anywhere. "

"Sure, " assented he. "But you've got to consider appearances to acertain extent. You won't be able to find the right sort of aboarding-house--one you'd be comfortable in. You've got to have a flatof your own. "

"I can't afford it, " said Mildred. "I can't afford this, even. But Isimply will not live in a shabby, mussy way. "

"That's right!" cried Stanley. "You can't do proper work in poorsurroundings. Some women could, but not your sort. But don't worry. I'm going to see you through. I'll find a place--right away. You wantto start in at once, don't you?"

"I've got to, " said Mildred. 

"Then leave it all to me. "

"But WHAT am I to do?"

"Sing, if you can. If not, then act. We'll have you on the stagewithin a year or so. I'm sure of it. And I'll get my money back, withinterest. "

"I don't see how I can accept it, " said Mildred very feebly. 

"You've got to, " said Stanley. "What alternative is there? None. Solet's bother no more about it. I'll consult with those who know, findout what the thing costs, and arrange everything. You're as helplessas a baby, and you know it. "

Yes, Mildred knew it. 

He looked at her with an amused smile. "Come, out with it!" he cried. "You've got something on your mind. Let's get everything straight--andkeep it that way. "

Mildred hung her head. 

"You're uneasy because I, a man, am doing this for you, a young woman?Is that it?"

"Yes, " she confessed. 

He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and spoke in a brisk, businesslike way. "In the first place, it's got to be done, hasn't it?And someone has got to do it? And there is no one offering but me? AmI right?"

She nodded. 

"Then _I_'ve got to do it, and you've GOT to let me. There's logic, ifever there was logic. A Philadelphia lawyer couldn't knock a hole init. You trust me, don't you?"

She was silent. 

"You don't trust me, then, " said he cheerfully. "Well, perhaps you'reright. But you trust yourself, don't you?"

She moved restlessly, but remained silent. 

"You are afraid I might put you in a difficult position?"

"Something like that, " she admitted, in a low, embarrassed voice. 

"You fear that I expect some return which you do not intend to give?"

She was silent. 

"Well, I don't, " said he bluntly. "So put your mind at rest. Some dayI'll tell you why I am doing this, but I want you to feel that I asknothing of you but my money back with interest, when you can afford topay. "

"I can't feel that, " said she. "You're putting me in your debt--soheavily that I'd feel I ought to pay anything you asked. But Icouldn't and wouldn't pay. "

"Unless you felt like it?" suggested he. 

"It's honest for me to warn you that I'm not likely to feel that way. "

"There is such a thing as winning a woman's love, isn't there?" said hejestingly. It was difficult to tell when Stanley Baird was jesting andwhen he was in earnest. 

"Is that what you expect?" said she gravely. 

"If I say yes?"

She lowered her eyes and laughed in an embarrassed way. 

He was frankly amused. "You see, you feel that you're in my power. Andyou are. So why not make the best of it?" A pause, then he saidabruptly and with a convincing manliness, "I think, Mildred, you cantrust me not to be a beast. "

She colored and looked at him with quick contrition. "I'm ashamed ofmyself, " said she. "Please forget that I said anything. I'll takewhat I must, and I'll pay it back as soon as I can. And--thank you, Stanley. " The tears were in her eyes. "If I had anything worth yourtaking I'd be glad to give it to you. What vain fools we women are!"

"Aren't you, though!" laughed he. "And now it's all settled--untilyou're on the stage, and free, and the money's paid back--WITHinterest. I shall charge you six per cent. "

When she first knew him she had not been in the least impressed by whatnow seemed to her his finest and rarest trait, for, in those days shehad been as ignorant of the realities of human nature as one who hasnever adventured his boat beyond the mouth of the peaceful land-lockedharbor is ignorant of the open sea. But in the hard years she had beenlearning--not only from Presbury and General Siddall, but from the cookand the housemaid, from every creditor, every tradesman, everyone whoseattitude socially toward her had been modified by her changedfortunes--and whose attitude had not been changed? Thus, she was nowable to appreciate--at least in some measure--Stanley Baird's delicacyand tact. No, not delicacy and tact, for that implied effort. Hisability to put this offer in such a way that she could accept withoutserious embarrassment arose from a genuine indifference to money asmoney, a habit of looking upon it simply as a means to an end. Heoffered her the money precisely as he would have offered her hissuperior strength if it had been necessary to cross a too deep andswift creek. She had the sense that he felt he was doing somethingeven less notable than he admitted, and that he talked of it as avaluable and rather unusual service simply because it was the habitthus to regard such matters. 

As they talked on of "the great career" her spirits went up and up. Itwas evident that he now had a new and keen interest in life, that shewas doing him a greater favor than he was doing her. He had always hadmoney, plenty of it, more than he could use. He now had more thanever--for, several rich relatives had died and, after the habit of therich, had left everything to him, the one of all the connections whoneeded it least. He had a very human aversion to spending money uponpeople or things he did not like. He would have fought to the lastcourt an attempt by his wife to get alimony. He had a reputation withthe "charity gang" of being stingy because he would not give them somuch as the price of a bazaar ticket. Also, the impecunious spongers athis clubs spread his fame as a "tight-wad" because he refused to letthem "stick him up" for even a round of drinks. Where many a reallystingy man yielded through weakness or fear of public opinion, he stoodfirm. His one notable surrender of any kind had been his marriage;that bitter experience had cured him of the surrendering habit for alltime. Thenceforth he did absolutely and in everything as he pleased. 

Mildred had heard that he was close about money. She had all butforgotten it, because her own experience with him had made such acharge seem ridiculous. She now assumed--so far as she thought about itat all--that he was extremely generous. She did not realize what afine discriminating generosity his was, or how striking an evidence ofhis belief in her as well as of his liking for her. 

As he rose to go he said: "You mustn't forget that our arrangement isa secret between us. Neither of us can afford to have anyone know it. "

"There isn't anyone in the world who wouldn't misunderstand it, " saidshe, without the least feeling of embarrassment. 

"Just so, " said he. "And I want you to live in such a way that I cancome to call. We must arrange things so that you will take your ownname--"

"I intend to use the name Mary Stevens in my work, " she interrupted. 

"But there mustn't be any concealment, any mystery to excite curiosityand scandal--"

This time the interruption was her expression. He turned to see whathad startled her, and saw in the doorway of the drawing-room thegrotesquely neat and stylish figure of the little general. Beforeeither could speak he said:

"How d'you do, Mr. Baird? You'll pardon me if I ask you to leave mealone with my WIFE. "

Stanley met the situation with perfect coolness. "How are you, General?" said he. "Certainly, I was just going. " He extended hishand to Mildred, said in a correct tone of conventional friendliness, "Then you'll let me know when you're settled?" He bowed, moved towardthe door, shook hands with the general, and passed out, giving fromstart to finish a model example of a man of the world extricatinghimself from an impossible situation and leaving it the better for hishaving been entangled. To a man of Siddall's incessant and clumsyself-consciousness such unaffected ease could not but be proof positiveof Mildred's innocence--unless he had overheard. And his first wordsconvinced her that he had not. Said he:

"So you sent for your old admirer?"

"I ran across him accidentally, " replied Mildred. 

"I know, " said the little general. "My men picked you up at the pierand haven't lost sight of you since. It's fortunate that I've keptmyself informed, or I might have misunderstood that chap's being here. "A queer, cloudy look came into his eyes. "I must give him a warningfor safety's sake. " He waved his hand in dismissal of such anunimportant trifle as the accidental Baird. He went on, his wickedeyes bent coldly and dully upon her: "Do you know what kind of a housethis is?"

"Stanley Baird urged me to leave, " replied she. "But I shall stay untilI find a better--and that's not easy. "

"Yes, my men have reported to me on the difficulties you've had. Itwas certainly fortunate for you that I had them look after you. Otherwise I'd never have understood your landing in this sort of ahouse. You are ready to come with me?"

"Your secretary explained that if I left the hotel it was the end. "

"He told you that by my orders. "

"So he explained, " said Mildred. She seated herself, overcome by asudden lassitude that was accompanied not by fear, but by indifference. "Won't you sit down? I am willing to hear what you have to say. "

The little general, about to sit, was so astonished that hestraightened and stiffened himself. "In consenting to overlook yourconduct and take you back I have gone farther than I ever intended. Ihave taken into consideration your youth and inexperience. "

"But I am not going back, " said Mildred. 

The little general slowly seated himself. "You have less than twohundred and fifty dollars left, " said he. 

"Really? Your spies know better than I. "

"I have seen Presbury. He assures me that in no circumstances will heand your mother take you back. "

"They will not have the chance to refuse, " said Mildred. 

"As for your brother--"

"I have no brother, " said she coldly. 

"Then you are coming back with me. "

"No, " said Mildred. "I should"--she cast about for an impressivealternative--"I should stay on here, rather. "

The little general--his neat varnished leather and be-spatted shoesjust touched the floor--examined his highly polished top-hat at severalangles. Finally he said: "You need not fear that your misconduct willbe remembered against you. I shall treat you in every way as my wife. I shall assume that your--your flight was an impulse that you regret. "

"I shan't go back, " said Mildred. "Nothing you could offer wouldchange me. "

"I cannot make any immediate concession on the--the matter that causedyou to go, " pursued he, as if she had not spoken, "but if I see thatyou have reliability and good sense, I'll agree to give you anallowance later. "

Mildred eyed him curiously. "Why are you making these offers, theseconcessions?" she said. "You think everyone in the world is a foolexcept yourself. You're greatly deceived. I know that you don't meanwhat you've been saying. I know that if you got me in your poweragain, you would do something frightful. I've seen through that maskyou wear. I know the kind of man you are. "

"If you know that, " said the general in his even slow way, monotonous, almost lifeless, "you know you'd better come with me than stand outagainst me. "

She did not let him see how this struck terror into her. She said: "Nomatter what you might do to me, when I'm away from you, it would beless than you'd do with me under your roof. At any rate, it'd seemless. "

The general reflected, decided to change to another point: "You made abargain with me. You've broken it. I never let anyone break a bargainwith me without making them regret it. I'm giving you a chance to keepyour bargain. "

She was tempted to discuss, but she could not find the words, or thestrength. Besides, how futile to discuss with such a man. She sankback in her chair wearily. "I shall never go back, " she said. 

He looked at her, his face devoid of expression, but she had a sense ofmalignance unutterable eying her from behind a screen. He said: "Isee you've misunderstood my generosity. You think I'm weak where youare concerned because I've come to you instead of doing as I said andmaking you come to me. " He rose. "Well, my offer to you is closed. Andonce more I say, you will come to me and ask to be taken back. I mayor may not take you back. It depends on how I'll feel at that time. "

Slowly, with his ludicrously pompous strut, he marched to thedrawing-room door. She had not felt like smiling, but if there hadbeen any such inclination it would have fled before the countenancethat turned upon her at the threshold. It was the lean, little facewith the funny toupee and needle-like mustache and imperial, but behindit lay a personality like the dull, cold, yellow eyes of the devil-fishambushed in the hazy mass of dun-colored formlessness of collapsed bodyand tentacles. He said:

"You'd best be careful how you conduct yourself. You'll be underconstant observation. And any friends you make--they'd do well toavoid you. "

He was gone. She sat without the power of motion, without the power ofthought. After a time--perhaps long, perhaps short, she did notknow--Mrs. Belloc came in and entered upon a voluble apology for themaid's having shown "the little gentleman" into the drawing-room whenanother was already there. "That maid's as green as spring corn, " saidshe. "Such a thing never happened in my house before. And it'll neverhappen again. I do hope it didn't cause trouble. "

"It was my husband, " said Mildred. "I had to see him some time. "

"He's certainly a very elegant little gentleman, " said Mrs. Belloc. "Irather like small men, myself. "

Mildred gazed at her vaguely and said, "Tell me--a rich man, a veryrich man--if he hates anyone, can he make trouble?"

"Money can do anything in this town, " replied Mrs. Belloc. "Butusually rich men are timid and stingy. If they weren't, they'd make usall cringe. As it is, I've heard some awful stories of how men andwomen who've got some powerful person down on them have been hounded. "

Mildred turned deathly sick. "I think I'll go to my room, " she said, rising uncertainly and forcing herself toward the door. 

Mrs. Belloc's curiosity could not restrain itself. "You're leaving?"she asked. "You're going back to your husband?"

She was startled when the girl abruptly turned on her and cried withflashing eyes and voice strong and vibrant with passion: "Never!Never! No matter what comes--NEVER!"

The rest of the day and that night she hid in her room and made noeffort to resist the terror that preyed upon her. Just as our strengthis often the source of weakness, so our weaknesses often give birth tostrength. Her terror of the little general, given full swing, shriekedand grimaced itself into absurdity. She was ashamed of her orgy, waslaughing at it as the sun and intoxicating air of a typical New Yorkmorning poured in upon her. She accepted Mrs. Belloc's invitation totake a turn through the park and up Riverside Drive in a taxicab, cameback restored to her normal state of blind confidence in the future. About noon Stanley Baird telephoned. 

"We must not see each other again for some time, " said he. "I rathersuspect that you--know--who may be having you watched. "

"I'm sure of it, " said she. "He warned me. "

"Don't let that disturb you, " pursued Stanley. "A man--a singingteacher--his name's Eugene Jennings--will call on you this afternoon atthree. Do exactly as he suggests. Let him do all the talking. "

She had intended to tell Baird frankly that she thought, indeed knew, that it was highly dangerous for him to enter into her affairs in anyway, and to urge him to draw off. She felt that it was only fair toact so toward one who had been unselfishly generous to her. But nowthat the time for speaking had come, she found herself unable to speak. Only by flatly refusing to have anything to do with his project couldshe prevail upon him. To say less than that she had completely andfinally changed her mind would sound, and would be, insincere. Andthat she could not say. She felt how noble it would be to say this, howselfish, and weak, too, it was to cling to him, possibly to involve himin disagreeable and even dangerous complications, but she had nostrength to do what she would have denounced another as base for notdoing. Instead of the lofty words that flow so freely from the lips ofstage and fiction heroines, instead of the words that any and everyreader of this history would doubtless have pronounced in the samecircumstances, she said:

"You're quite sure you want to go on?"

"Why not?" came instantly back over the wire. 

"He is a very, very relentless man, " replied she. 

"Did he try to frighten you?"

"I'm afraid he succeeded. "

"You're not going back on the career!" exclaimed he excitedly. "I'llcome down there and--"

"No, no, " cried she. "I was simply giving you a chance to freeyourself. " She felt sure of him now. She scrambled toward the heightsof moral grandeur. "I want you to stop. I've no right to ask you toinvolve yourself in my misfortunes. Stanley, you mustn't. I can'tallow it. "

"Oh, fudge!" laughed he. "Don't give me these scares. Don'tforget--Jennings at three. Good-by and good luck. "

And he rang off that she might have no chance on impulse to do herselfmischief with her generous thoughtfulness for him. She felt rathermean, but not nearly so mean as she would have felt had she let theopportunity go by with no generous word said. "And no doubt myaversion for that little wretch, " thought she, "makes me think him moreterrible than he is. After all, what can he do? Watch me--and discovernothing, because there'll be nothing to discover. "

Jennings came exactly at three--came with the air of a man who wastesno one's time and lets no one waste his time. He was a youngish man offorty or thereabouts, with a long sharp nose, a large tight mouth, andeyes that seemed to be looking restlessly about for money. That theyhad not looked in vain seemed to be indicated by such facts as that hecame in a private brougham and that he was most carefully dressed, apparently with the aid of a valet. 

"Miss Stevens, " he said with an abrupt bow, before Mildred had a chanceto speak, "you have come to New York to take singing lessons--toprepare yourself for the stage. And you wish a comfortable place tolive and to work. " He extended his gloved hand, shook hers frigidly, dropped it. "We shall get on--IF you work, but only if you work. I donot waste myself upon triflers. " He drew a card from his pocket. "Ifyou will go to see the lady whose name and address are written on thiscard, I think you will find the quarters you are looking for. "

"Thank you, " said Mildred. 

"Come to me--my address is on the card, also--at half-past ten onSaturday. We will then lay out your work. "

"If you find I have a voice worth while, " Mildred ventured. 

"That, of course, " said Mr. Jennings curtly. "Until half-past ten onSaturday, good day. "

Again he gave the abrupt foreign bow and, while Mildred was stillstruggling with her surprise and confusion, she saw him, through thewindow, driving rapidly away. Mrs. Belloc came drifting through theroom; she had the habit of looking about whenever there were newvisitors, and in her it was not irritating because her interest wasinnocent and sympathetic. Said Mildred:

"Did you see that man, Mrs. Belloc?"

"What an extraordinary nose he had, " replied she. 

"Yes, I noticed that, " said Mildred. "But it was the only thing I didnotice. He is a singing teacher--Mr. Jennings. "

"Eugene Jennings?"

"Yes, Eugene. "

"He's the best known singing teacher in New York. He gets fifteendollars a half-hour. "

"Then I simply can't take from him!" exclaimed Mildred, before shethought. "That's frightful!"

"Isn't it, though?" echoed Mrs. Belloc. "I've heard his income isfifty thousand a year, what with lessons and coaching and odds andends. There's a lot of them that do well, because so many fool womenwith nothing to do cultivate their voices--when they can't sing alittle bit. But he tops them all. I don't see how ANY teacher can putfifteen dollars of value into half an hour. But I suppose he does, orhe wouldn't get it. Still, his may be just another case of New Yorknerve. This is the biggest bluff town in the world, I do believe. Here, you can get away with anything, I don't care what it is, if onlyyou bluff hard enough. "

As there was no reason for delay and many reasons against it, Mildredwent at once to the address on the card Jennings had left. She foundMrs. Howell Brindley installed in a plain comfortable apartment inFifty-ninth Street, overlooking the park and high enough to make thenoise of the traffic endurable. A Swedish maid, prepossessingly whiteand clean, ushered her into the little drawing-room, which wasfurnished with more simplicity and individual taste than is usualanywhere in New York, cursed of the mania for useless and tastelessshowiness. There were no messy draperies, no fussy statuettes, vases, gilt boxes, and the like. Mildred awaited the entrance of Mrs. Brindleyhopefully. 

She was not disappointed. Presently in came a quietly-dressed, frank-looking woman of a young forty--a woman who had by no means losther physical freshness, but had gained charm of another and moreenduring kind. As she came forward with extended but not overeagerhand, she said:

"I was expecting you, Mrs. Siddall--that is, Miss Stevens. "

"Mr. Jennings did not say when I was to come. If I am disturbing you--"

Mrs. Brindley hastened to assure her that her visit was quiteconvenient. "I must have someone to share the expense of thisapartment with me, and I want the matter settled. Mr. Jennings hasexplained about you to me, and now that I've seen you--" here shesmiled charmingly--"I am ready to say that it is for you to say. "

Mildred did not know how to begin. She looked at Mrs. Brindley withappeal in her troubled young eyes. 

"You no doubt wish to know something about me, " said Mrs. Brindley. "Myhusband was a composer--a friend of Mr. Jennings. He died two yearsago. I am here in New York to teach the piano. What the lessons willbring, with my small income, will enable me to live--if I can findsomeone to help out at the expenses here. As I understand it, you arewilling to pay forty dollars a week, I to run the house, pay all thebills, and so on--all, of course, if you wish to come here. "

Mildred made a not very successful attempt to conceal her embarrassment. 

"Perhaps you would like to look at the apartment?" suggested Mrs. Brindley. 

"Thank you, yes, " said Mildred. 

The tour of the apartment--two bedrooms, dining-room, kitchen, sitting-room, large bath-room, drawing-room--took only a few minutes, but Mildred and Mrs. Brindley contrived to become much betteracquainted. Said Mildred, when they were in the drawing-room again:

"It's most attractive--just what I should like. What--how much did Mr. Jennings say?"

"Forty dollars a week. " She colored slightly and spoke with thenervousness of one not in the habit of discussing money matters. "I donot see how I could make it less. That is the fair share of the--"

"Oh, I think that is most reasonable, " interrupted Mildred. "And Iwish to come. "

Mrs. Brindley gave an almost childlike sigh of relief and smiledradiantly. "Then it's settled, " said she. "I've been so nervous aboutit. " She looked at Mildred with friendly understanding. "I think youand I are somewhat alike about practical things. You've not had muchexperience, either, have you? I judge so from the fact that Mr. Jennings is looking after everything for you. "

"I've had no experience at all, " said Mildred. "That is why I'mhesitating. I'm wondering if I can afford to pay so much. "

Mrs. Brindley laughed. "Mr. Jennings wished to fix it at sixty a week, but I insisted that forty was enough, " said she. 

Mildred colored high with embarrassment. How much did Mrs. Brindleyknow?--or how little? She stammered: "Well, if Mr. Jennings says itis all right, I'll come. "

"You'll let me know to-morrow? You can telephone Mr. Jennings. "

"Yes, I'll let you know to-morrow. I'm almost sure I'll come. Infact, I'm quite sure. And--I think we shall get on well together. "

"We can help each other, " said Mrs. Brindley. "I don't care foranything in the world but music. "

"I want to be that way, " said Mildred. "I shall be that way. "

"It's the only sure happiness--to care for something, for some THING, "said Mrs. Brindley. "People die, or disappoint one, or becomeestranged. But when one centers on some kind of work, it givespleasure always--more and more pleasure. "

"I am so afraid I haven't voice enough, or of the right kind, " saidMildred. "Mr. Jennings is going to try me on Saturday. Really I've noright to settle anything until he has given his opinion. "

Mrs. Brindley smiled with her eyes only, and Mildred wondered. 

"If he should say that I wouldn't do, " she went on, "I'd not know whichway to turn. "

"But he'll not say that, " said Mrs. Brindley. "You can sing, can'tyou? You have sung?"

"Oh, yes. "

"Then you'll be accepted by him. And it will take him a long time tofind out whether you'll do for a professional. "

"I'm afraid I sing very badly. "

"That will not matter. You'll sing better than at least half ofJennings's pupils. "

"Then he doesn't take only those worth while?"

Mrs. Brindley looked amused. "How would he live if he did that? It'sa teacher's business to teach. Learning--that's the pupil's lookout. Ifteachers taught only those who could and would learn, how would theylive?"

"Then I'll not know whether I'll do!" exclaimed Mildred. 

"You'll have to find out for yourself, " said Mrs. Brindley. "No onecan tell you. Anyone's opinion might be wrong. For example, I'veknown Jennings, who is a very good judge, to be wrong--both ways. "Hesitatingly: "Why not sing for me? I'd like to hear. "

"Would you tell me what you honestly thought?" said Mildred. 

Mrs. Brindley laughingly shook her head. Mildred liked her honesty. "Then it'd be useless to sing for you, " said she. "I'm not vain aboutmy voice. I'd simply like to make a living by it, if I could. I'lleven confess that there are many things I care for more than for music. Does that prove that I can never sing professionally?"

"No, indeed, " Mrs. Brindley assured her. "It'd be strange if a girl ofyour age cared exclusively for music. The passion comes with the work, with progress, success. And some of the greatest--that is, the mostfamous and best paid--singers never care much about music, except as avanity, and never understand it. A singer means a person born with acertain shape of mouth and throat, a certain kind of vocal chords. Therest may be natural or acquired. It's the instrument that makes thesinger, not brains or temperament. "

"Do let me sing for you, " said Mildred. "I think it will help me. "

Between them they chose a little French song--"Chanson d'Antonine"--andMrs. Brindley insisted on her playing her own accompaniment. "I wishto listen, " said she, "and I can't if I play. "

Mildred was surprised at her own freedom from nervousness. She sangneither better nor worse than usual--sang in the clear and pleasantsoprano which she flattered herself was not unmusical. When shefinished she said:

"That's about as I usually sing. What do you think?"

Mrs. Brindley reflected before she replied: "I BELIEVE it's worthtrying. If I were you, I should keep on trying, no matter what anyonesaid. "

Mildred was instantly depressed. "You think Mr. Jennings may rejectme?" she asked. 

"I KNOW he will not, " replied Mrs. Brindley. "Not as long as you canpay for the lessons. But I was thinking of the real thing--of whetheryou could win out as a singer. "

"And you don't think I can?" said Mildred. 

"On the contrary, I believe you can, " replied Mrs. Brindley. "A singermeans so much besides singing. The singing is the smallest part of it. You'll understand when you get to work. I couldn't explain now. But Ican say that you ought to go ahead. "

Mildred, who had her share of vanity, had hoped for some enthusiasm. Mrs. Brindley's judicial tone was a severe blow. She felt a littleresentful, began to cast about for vanity-consoling reasons for Mrs. Brindley's restraint. "She means well, " she said to herself, "butshe's probably just a tiny bit jealous. She's not so young as she oncewas, and she hasn't the faintest hope of ever being anything more thana piano-teacher. "

Mrs. Brindley showed that she had more than an inkling of Mildred'sframe of mind by going on to say in a gentle, candid way: "I want tohelp you. So I shall be careful not to encourage you to believe toomuch in what you have. That would prevent you from getting what youneed. You must remember, you are no longer a drawing-room singer, buta candidate for the profession. That's a very different thing. "

Mildred saw that she was mistaken, that Mrs. Brindley was honest andfrank and had doubtless told her the exact truth. But her vanityremained sore. Never before had anyone said any less of her singingthan that it was wonderful, marvelous, equal to a great deal thatpassed for fine in grand opera. She had known that this wasexaggeration, but she had not known how grossly exaggerated. Thus, this her first experience of the professional attitude was galling. Only her unusual good sense saved her from being angry with Mrs. Brindley. And it was that same good sense that moved her presently totry to laugh at herself. With a brave attempt to smile gayly she said:

"You don't realize how you've taken me down. I had no idea I was soconceited about my singing. I can't truthfully say I like yourfrankness, but there's a part of me that's grateful to you for it, andwhen I get over feeling hurt, I'll be grateful through and through. "

Mrs. Brindley's face lighted up beautifully. "You'll DO!" she cried. "I'm sure you'll do. I've been waiting and watching to see how youwould take my criticism. That's the test--how they take criticism. Ifthey don't take it at all, they'll not go very far, no matter howtalented they are. If they take it as you've taken it, there'shope--great hope. Now, I'm not afraid to tell you that you sangsplendidly for an amateur--that you surprised me. "

"Don't spoil it all, " said Mildred. "You were right; I can't sing. "

"Not for grand opera, not for comic opera even, " replied Mrs. Brindley. "But you will sing, and sing well, in one or the other, if you work. "

"You really mean that?" said Mildred. 

"If you work intelligently and persistently, " said Mrs. Brindley. "That's a big if--as you'll discover in a year or so. "

"You'll see, " said Mildred confidently. "Why, I've nothing else to do, and no other hope. "

Mrs. Brindley's smile had a certain sadness in it. She said:

"It's the biggest if in all this world. "

V

AT Mrs. Belloc's a telephone message from Jennings was awaiting her; hewould call at a quarter-past eight and would detain Miss Stevens only amoment. And at eight fifteen exactly he rang the bell. This timeMildred was prepared; she refused to be disconcerted by his abruptmanner and by his long sharp nose that seemed to warn away, to threatenaway, even to thrust away any glance seeking to investigate the rest ofhis face or his personality. She looked at him candidly, calmly, andseeingly. Seeingly. With eyes that saw as they had never seen before. Perhaps from the death of her father, certainly from the beginning ofSiddall's courtship, Mildred had been waking up. There is a part ofour nature--the active and aggressive part--that sleeps all our liveslong or becomes atrophied if we lead lives of ease and securedependence. It is the important part of us, too--the part thatdetermines character. The thing that completed the awakening ofMildred was her acquaintance with Mrs. Belloc. That positive andfinely-poised lady fascinated her, influenced her powerfully--gave herjust what she needed at the particular moment. The vital moments inlife are not the crises over which shallow people linger, but are themoments where we met and absorbed the ideas that enabled us to weatherthese crises. The acquaintance with Mrs. Belloc was one of those vitalmoments; for, Mrs. Belloc's personality--her look and manner, what shesaid and the way she said it--was a proffer to Mildred of invaluablelessons which her awakening character eagerly absorbed. She sawJennings as he was. She decided that he was of common origin, that hisvanity was colossal and aquiver throughout with sensitiveness; that hebelonged to the familiar type of New-Yorker who succeeds by bluffing. Also, she saw or felt a certain sexlessness or indifference to sex--andthis she later understood. Men whose occupation compels themconstantly to deal with women go to one extreme or the other--eitherbecome acutely sensitive to women as women or become utterlyindifferent, unless their highly discriminated taste is appealedto--which cannot happen often. Jennings, teaching only women becauseonly women spending money they had not earned and could not earn wouldtolerate his terms and his methods, had, as much through necessity asthrough inclination, gone to the extreme of lack of interest in allmatters of sex. One look at him and the woman who had come with theidea of offering herself in full or part payment for lessons drooped ininstinctive discouragement. 

Jennings hastened to explain to Mildred that she need not hesitateabout closing with Mrs. Brindley. "Your lessons are arranged for, "said he. "There has been put in the Plaza Trust Company to your creditthe sum of five thousand dollars. This gives you about a hundreddollars a week for your board and other personal expenses. If that isnot enough, you will let me know. But I estimated that it would beenough. I do not think it wise for young women entering upon thepreparation for a serious career to have too much money. "

"It is more than enough, " murmured the girl. "I know nothing aboutthose things, but it seems to me--"

"You can use as little of it as you like, " interrupted Jennings, rising. 

Mildred felt as though she had been caught and exposed in ahypocritical protest. Jennings was holding out something toward her. She took it, and he went on:

"That's your check-book. The bank will send you statements of youraccount, and will notify you when any further sums are added. Now, Ihave nothing more to do with your affairs--except, of course, theartistic side--your development as a singer. You've not forgotten yourappointment?"

"No, " said Mildred, like a primary school-child before a formidableteacher. 

"Be prompt, please. I make no reduction for lessons wholly or partlymissed. The half-hour I shall assign to you belongs to you. If you donot use it, that is your affair. At first you will probably be likeall women--careless about your appointments, coming with lessonsunprepared, telephoning excuses. But if you are serious you will soonfall into the routine. " "I shall try to be regular, " murmured Mildred. 

Jennings apparently did not hear. "I'm on my way to the opera-house, "said he. "One of my old pupils is appearing in a new role, and she isnervous. Good night. "

Once more that swift, quiet exit, followed almost instantaneously bythe sound of wheels rolling away. Never had she seen such rapidity ofmotion without loss of dignity. "Yes, he's a fraud, " she said toherself, "but he's a good one. "

The idea of a career had now become less indefinite. It was stillwithout any attraction--not because of the toil it involved, for thatmade small impression upon her who had never worked and had never seenanyone work, but because a career meant cutting herself off fromeverything she had been brought up to regard as fit and proper for alady. She was ashamed of this; she did not admit its existence even toherself, and in her talks with Baird about the career she had professedexactly the opposite view. Yet there it was--nor need she have beenashamed of a feeling that is instilled into women of her class frombabyhood as part of their ladylike education. The career had notbecome definite. She could not imagine herself out on a stage in somesort of a costume, with a painted face, singing before an audience. Still, the career was less indefinite than when it had no existencebeyond Stanley Baird's enthusiasm and her own whipped-up pretense ofenthusiasm. 

She shrank from the actual start, but at the same time was eager forit. Inaction began to fret her nerves, and she wished to be doingsomething to show her appreciation of Stanley Baird's generosity. Shetelephoned Mrs. Brindley that she would come in the morning, and thenshe told her landlady. 

Mrs. Belloc was more than regretful; she was distressed. Said she:"I've taken a tremendous fancy to you, and I hate to give you up. I'ddo most anything to keep you. "

Mildred explained that her work compelled her to go. 

"That's very interesting, " said Mrs. Belloc. "If I were a few yearsyounger, and hadn't spent all my energy in teaching school and puttingthrough that marriage, I'd try to get on the stage, myself. I don'twant to lose sight of you. "

"Oh, I'll come to see you from time to time. "

"No, you won't, " said Mrs. Belloc practically. "No more than I'd cometo see you. Our lives lie in different directions, and in New Yorkthat means we'll never have time to meet. But we may be throwntogether again, some time. As I've got a twenty years' lease on thishouse, I guess you'll have no trouble in finding me. I suppose I couldlook you up through Professor Jennings?"

"Yes, " said Mildred. Then impulsively, "Mrs. Belloc, there's a reasonwhy I'd like to change without anyone's knowing what has become ofme--I mean, anyone that might be--watching me. "

"I understand perfectly, " said Mrs. Belloc with a ready sympathy thatmade Mildred appreciate the advantages of the friendship ofunconventional, knock-about people. "Nothing could be easier. You'vegot no luggage but that bag. I'll take it up to the Grand CentralStation and check it, and bring the check back here. You can send forit when you please. "

"But what about me?" said Mildred. 

"I was coming to that. You walk out of here, say, about half an hourafter I go in the taxi. You walk through to the corner of LexingtonAvenue and Thirty-seventh Street--there aren't any cabs to be hadthere. I'll be waiting in the taxi, and we'll make a dash up the EastSide and I can drop you at some quiet place in the park and go on--andyou can walk to your new address. How does that strike you?"

Mildred expressed her admiration. The plan was carried out, as Mrs. Belloc--a born genius at all forms of intrigue--had evolved it inperfection on the spur of the moment. As they went up the far EastSide, Mrs. Belloc, looking back through the little rear window, saw ataxi a few blocks behind them. "We haven't given them the slip yet, "said she, "but we will in the park. " They entered the park at EastNinetieth Street, crossed to the West Drive. Acting on Mrs. Belloc'sinstructions, the motorman put on full speed--with due regard to theoccasional policeman. At a sharp turning near the Mall, when the taxicould be seen from neither direction, he abruptly stopped. Out sprangMildred and disappeared behind the bushes completely screening the walkfrom the drive. At once the taxi was under-way again. She, waitingwhere the screen of bushes was securely thick, saw the taxi that hadfollowed them in the East Side flash by--in pursuit of Mrs. Bellocalone. 

She was free--at least until some mischance uncovered her to the littlegeneral. At Mrs. Brindley's she found a note awaiting her--a note fromStanley Baird:

DEAR MILDRED:

I'm of for the Far West, and probably shall not be in town again untilthe early summer. The club forwards my mail and repeats telegrams asmarked. Go in and win, and don't hesitate to call on me if you needme. No false pride, PLEASE! I'm getting out of the way because it'sobviously best for the present. 

STANLEY. 

As she finished, her sense of freedom was complete. She had notrealized how uneasy she was feeling about Stanley. She did not doubthis generosity, did not doubt that he genuinely intended to leave herfree, and she believed that his delicacy was worthy of his generosity. Still, she was constantly fearing lest circumstances should thrust themboth--as much against his will as hers--into a position in which shewould have to choose between seeming, not to say being, ungrateful, andplaying the hypocrite, perhaps basely, with him. The little generaleluded, Stanley voluntarily removed; she was indeed free. Now shecould work with an untroubled mind, could show Mrs. Brindley thatintelligent and persistent work--her "biggest if in all the world"--wasin fact a very simple matter. 

She had not been settled at Mrs. Brindley's many hours before shediscovered that not only was she free from all hindrances, but was tohave a positive and great help. Mrs. Brindley's talent for puttingpeople at their ease was no mere drawing-room trick. 

She made Mildred feel immediately at home, as she had not felt at homesince her mother introduced James Presbury into their house at HangingRock. Mrs. Brindley was absolutely devoid of pretenses. When Mildredspoke to her of this quality in her she said:

"I owe that to my husband. I was brought up like everybody else--to bemore or less of a poser and a hypocrite. In fact, I think there wasalmost nothing genuine about me. My husband taught me to be myself, tobe afraid of nobody's opinion, to show myself just as I was and to letpeople seek or avoid me as they saw fit. He was that sort of manhimself. "

"He must have been a remarkable man, " said Mildred. 

"He was, " replied Mrs. Brindley. "But not attractive--at least not tome. Our marriage was a mistake. We quarreled whenever we were not atwork with the music. If he had not died, we should have beendivorced. " She smiled merrily. "Then he would have hired me as hismusical secretary, and we'd have got on beautifully. "

Mildred was still thinking of Mrs. Brindley's freedom from pretense. "I've never dared be myself, " confessed she. "I don't know what myselfreally is like. I was thinking the other day how for one reason andanother I've been a hypocrite all my life. You see, I've always been adependent--have always had to please someone in order to get what Iwanted. "

"You can never be yourself until you have an independent income, however small, " said Mrs. Brindley. "I've had that joy only since myhusband died. It's as well that I didn't have it sooner. One is thebetter for having served an apprenticeship at self-repression and atpretending to virtues one has not. Only those who earn their freedomknow how to use it. If I had had it ten or fifteen years ago I'd havebeen an intolerable tyrant, making everyone around me unhappy andtherefore myself. The ideal world would be one where everyone was bornfree and never knew anything else. Then, no one being afraid or havingto serve, everyone would have to be considerate in order to get himselftolerated. "

"I wonder if I really ever shall be able to earn a living?" sighedMildred. 

"You must decide that whatever you can make shall be for you a living, "said the older woman. "I have lived on my fixed income, which is undertwo thousand a year. And I am ready to do it again rather thantolerate anything or anybody that does not suit me. "

"I shall have to be extremely careful, " laughed Mildred. "I shall be adreadful hypocrite with you. "

Mrs. Brindley smiled; but underneath, Mildred saw--or perhapsfelt--that her new friend was indeed not one to be trifled with. Shesaid:

"You and I will get on. We'll let each other alone. We have to be moreor less intimate, but we'll never be familiar. "

After a time she discovered that Mrs. Brindley's first name wasCyrilla, but Mrs. Brindley and Miss Stevens they remained to each otherfor a long time--until circumstances changed their accidental intimacyinto enduring friendship. Not to anticipate, in the course of thatsame conversation Mildred said:

"If there is anything about me--about my life--that you wish me toexplain, I shall be glad to do so. "

"I know all I wish to know, " replied Cyrilla Brindley. "Your face andyour manner and your way of speaking tell me all the essentials. "

"Then you must not think it strange when I say I wish no one to knowanything about me. "

"It will be impossible for you entirely to avoid meeting people, " saidCyrilla. "You must have some simple explanation about yourself, or youwill attract attention and defeat your object. "

"Lead people to believe that I'm an orphan--perhaps of some obscurefamily--who is trying to get up in the world. That is practically thetruth. "

Mrs. Brindley laughed. "Quite enough for New York, " said she. "It isnot interested in facts. All the New-Yorker asks of you is, 'Can youpay your bills and help me pay mine?'"

Competent men are rare; but, thanks to the advantage of the male sex inhaving to make the struggle for a living, they are not so rare ascompetent women. Mrs. Brindley was the first competent woman Mildredhad ever known. She had spent but a few hours with her before shebegan to appreciate what a bad atmosphere she had always breathed--badfor a woman who has her way to make in the world, or indeed for anywoman not willing to be content as mere more or less shiftless, more orless hypocritical and pretentious, dependent and parasite. Mrs. Brindley--well bred and well educated--knew all the little matterswhich Mildred had been taught to regard as the whole of a lady'seducation. But Mildred saw that these trifles were but a triflingincident in Mrs. Brindley's knowledge. She knew real things, thiswoman who was a thorough-going housekeeper and who trebled her incomeby giving music lessons a few hours a day to such pupils as she thoughtworth the teaching. When she spoke, she always said something one ofthe first things noticed by Mildred, who, being too lazy to thinkexcept as her naturally good mind insisted on exercising itself, usually talked simply to kill time and without any idea of gettinganywhere. But while Cyrilla--without in the least intending it--rousedher to a painful sense of her own limitations, she did not discourageher. Mildred also began to feel that in this new atmosphere of ideas, of work, of accomplishment, she would rapidly develop into a differentsort of person. It was extremely fortunate for her, thought she, thatshe was living with such a person as Cyrilla Brindley. In the oldatmosphere, or with any taint of it, she would have been unable tobecome a serious person. She would simply have dawdled along, twaddling about "art" and seriousness and careers and sacrifice, content with the amateur's methods and the amateur's results--anddeluding herself that she was making progress. Now--It was asdifferent as public school from private school--public school where themind is rudely stimulated, private school where it is sedulouslymollycoddled. She had come out of the hothouse into the open. 

At first she thought that Jennings was to be as great a help to her asCyrilla Brindley. Certainly if ever there was a man with the air of aworker and a place with the air of a workshop, that man and that placewere Eugene Jennings and his studio in Carnegie Hall. When Mildredentered, on that Saturday morning, at exactly half-past ten, Jennings--in a plain if elegant house-suit--looked at her, looked atthe clock, stopped a girl in the midst of a burst of tremulous noisymelody. 

"That will do, Miss Bristow, " said he. "You have never sung it worse. You do not improve. Another lesson like this, and we shall go back andbegin all over again. "

The girl, a fattish, "temperamental" blonde, burst into tears. 

"Kindly take that out into the hall, " said Jennings coldly. "Your timeis up. We cannot waste Miss Stevens's time with your hysterics. "

Miss Bristow switched from tears to fury. "You brute! You beast!" sheshrieked, and flung herself out of the room, slamming the door afterher. Jennings took a book from a pile upon a table, opened it, and setit on a music-stand. Evidently Miss Bristow was forgotten--indeed, hadpassed out of his mind at half-past ten exactly, not to enter it againuntil she should appear at ten on Monday morning. He said to Mildred:

"Now, we'll see what you can do. Begin. "

"I'm a little nervous, " said Mildred with a shy laugh. "If you don'tmind, I'd like to wait till I've got used to my surroundings. "

Jennings looked at her. The long sharp nose seemed to be rapping heron the forehead like a woodpecker's beak on the bark of the tree. "Begin, " he said, pointing to the book. 

Mildred flushed angrily. "I shall not begin until I CAN begin, " saidshe. The time to show this man that he could not treat her brutallywas at the outset. 

Jennings opened the door into the hall. "Good day, Miss Stevens, " hesaid with his abrupt bow. 

Mildred looked at him; he looked at her. Her lip trembled, the hottears flooded and blinded her eyes. She went unsteadily to themusic-stand and tried to see the notes of the exercises. Jenningsclosed the door and seated himself at the far end of the room. Shebegan--a ridiculous attempt. She stopped, gritted her teeth, beganagain. Once more the result was absurd; but this time she was able tokeep on, not improving, but maintaining her initial off-key quavering. She stopped. 

"You see, " said she. "Shall I go on?"

"Don't stop again until I tell you to, please, " said he. 

She staggered and stumbled and somersaulted through two pages ofDO-RE-ME-FA-SOL-LA-SI. Then he held up his finger. 

"Enough, " said he. 

Silence, an awful silence. She recalled what Mrs. Belloc had told herabout him, what Mrs. Brindley had implied. But she got no consolation. She said timidly:

"Really, Mr. Jennings, I can do better than that. Won't you let me trya song?"

"God forbid!" said he. "You can't stand. You can't breathe. Youcan't open your mouth. Naturally, you can't sing. "

She dropped to a chair. 

"Take the book, and go over the same thing, sitting, " said he. 

She began to remove her wraps. 

"Just as you are, " he commanded. "Try to forget yourself. Try toforget me. Try to forget what a brute I am, and what a wonderfulsinger you are. Just open your mouth and throw the notes out. "

She was rosy with rage. She was reckless. She sang. At the end ofthree pages he stopped her with an enthusiastic hand-clapping. "Good!Good!" he cried. "I'll take you. I'll make a singer of you. Yes, yes, there's something to work on. "

The door opened. A tall, thin woman with many jewels and a superb furwrap came gliding in. Jennings looked at the clock. The hands pointedto eleven. Said he to Mildred:

"Take that book with you. Practice what you've done to-day. Learn tokeep your mouth open. We'll go into that further next time. " He washolding the door open for her. As she passed out, she heard him say:

"Ah, Mrs. Roswell. We'll go at that third song first. "

The door closed. Reviewing all that had occurred, Mildred decided thatshe must revise her opinion of Jennings. A money-maker he no doubtwas. And why not? Did he not have to live? But a teacher also, and agreat teacher. Had he not destroyed her vanity at one blow, demolishedit?--yet without discouraging her. And he went straight to the bottomof things--very different from any of the teachers she used to havewhen she was posing in drawing-rooms as a person with a voice equal tothe most difficult opera, if only she weren't a lady and therefore notforced to be a professional singing person. Yes, a great teacher--andin deadly earnest. He would permit no trifling! How she would have towork!

And she went to work with an energy she would not have believed shepossessed. He instructed her minutely in how to stand, in how tobreathe, in how to open her mouth and keep it open, in how to relax herthroat and leave it relaxed. He filled every second of her half-hour;she had never before realized how much time half an hour was, how usecould be made of every one of its eighteen hundred seconds. She wentto hear other teachers give lessons, and she understood why Jenningscould get such prices, could treat his pupils as he saw fit. Shebecame an extravagant admirer of him as a teacher, thought him agenius, felt confident that he would make a great singer of her. Withthe second lesson she began to progress rapidly. In a few weeks sheamazed herself. At last she was really singing. Not in a great way, but in the beginnings of a great way. Her voice had many times thepower of her drawing-room days. Her notes were full and round, andcame without an effort. Her former ideas of what constituted facialand vocal expression now seemed ridiculous to her. She was now singingwithout making those dreadful faces which she had once thought charmingand necessary. Her lower register, always her best, was almostperfect. Her middle register--the test part of a voice--was showingsigns of strength and steadiness and evenness. And she was fastgetting a real upper register, as distinguished from the forced andshrieky high notes that pass as an upper register with most singers, even opera singers. After a month of this marvelous forward march, shesang for Mrs. Brindley--sang the same song she had essayed at theirfirst meeting. When she finished, Mrs. Brindley said:

"Yes, you've done wonders. I've been noticing your improvement as youpracticed. You certainly have a very different voice and method fromthose you had a month ago, " and so on through about five minutes ofcritical and discriminating praise. 

Mildred listened, wondering why her dissatisfaction, her irritation, increased as Mrs. Brindley praised on and on. Beyond question Cyrillawas sincere, and was saying even more than Mildred had hoped she wouldsay. Yet-- Mildred sat moodily measuring off octaves on the keyboardof the piano. If she had been looking at her friend's face she wouldhave flared out in anger; for Cyrilla Brindley was taking advantage ofher abstraction to observe her with friendly sympathy and sadness. Presently she concealed this candid expression and said:

"You are satisfied with your progress, aren't you, Miss Stevens?"

Mildred flared up angrily. "Certainly!" replied she. "How could Ifail to be?"

Mrs. Brindley did not answer--perhaps because she thought no answer wasneeded or expected. But to Mildred her silence somehow seemed a denial. 

"If you can only keep what you've got--and go on, " said Mrs. Brindley. 

"Oh, I shall, never fear, " retorted Mildred. 

"But I do fear, " said Mrs. Brindley. "I think it's always well to fearuntil success is actually won. And then there's the awful fear of notbeing able to hold it. "

After a moment's silence Mildred, who could not hide away resentmentagainst one she liked, said: "Why aren't YOU satisfied, Mrs. Brindley?"

"But I am satisfied, " protested Cyrilla. "Only it makes me afraid tosee YOU so well satisfied. I've seen that often in people firststarting, and it's always dangerous. You see, my dear, you've got astraight-away hundred miles to walk. Can't you see that it would bepossible for you to become too much elated by the way you walked thefirst part of the first mile?"

"Why do you try to discourage me?" said Mildred. 

Mrs. Brindley colored. "I do it because I want to save you fromdespair a little later, " said she. "But that is foolish of me. Ishall only irritate you against me. I'll not do it again. And pleasedon't ask my opinion. If you do, I can't help showing exactly what Ithink. "

"Then you don't think I've done well?" cried Mildred. 

"Indeed you have, " replied Cyrilla warmly. 

"Then I don't understand. What DO you mean?"

"I'll tell you, and then I'll stop and you must not ask my opinionagain. We live too close together to be able to afford to criticizeeach other. What I meant was this: You have done well the first partof the great task that's before you. If you had done it any less well, it would have been folly for you to go on. "

"That is, what I've done doesn't amount to anything? Mr. Jenningsdoesn't agree with you. "

"Doubtless he's right, " said Mrs. Brindley. "At any rate, we all agreethat you have shown that you have a voice. "

She said this so simply and heartily that Mildred could not but bemollified. Mrs. Brindley changed the subject to the song Mildred hadsung, and Mildred stopped puzzling over the mystery of what she hadmeant by her apparently enthusiastic words, which had yet diffused achill atmosphere of doubt. 

She was doing her scales so well that she became impatient of such"tiresome child's play. " And presently Jennings gave her songs, anddid not discourage her when she talked of roles, of getting seriouslyat what, after all, she intended to do. Then there came a week of vileweather, and Mildred caught a cold. She neglected it. Her voice lefther. Her tonsils swelled. She had a bad attack of ulcerated sorethroat. For nearly three weeks she could not take a single one of thelessons, which were, nevertheless, paid for. Jennings rebuked hersharply. 

"A singer has no right to be sick, " said he. 

"You have a cold yourself, " retorted she. 

"But I am not a singer. I've nothing that interferes with my work. "

"It's impossible not to take cold, " said Mildred. "You are unreasonablewith me. "

He shrugged his shoulders. "Go get well, " he said. 

The sore throat finally yielded to the treatment of Dr. Hicks, thethroat-specialist. His bill was seventy-five dollars. But while theswelling in the tonsils subsided it did not depart. She could takelessons again. Some days she sang as well as ever, and on those daysJennings was charming. Other days she sang atrociously, and Jenningstreated her as if she were doing it deliberately. A third and worsestate was that of the days when she in the same half-hour alternatelysang well and badly. On those days Jennings acted like a lunatic. Heraved up and down the studio, all but swearing at her. At first shewas afraid of him--withered under his scorn, feared he would throw openhis door and order her out and forbid her ever to enter again. Butgradually she came to understand him--not enough to lose her fear ofhim altogether, but enough to lose the fear of his giving up soprofitable a pupil. 

The truth was that Jennings, like every man who succeeds at anything inthis world, operated upon a system to which he rigidly adhered. He wasa man of small talent and knowledge, but of great, persistence and nota little common sense. He had tried to be a singer, had failed becausehis voice was small and unreliable. He had adopted teaching singing asa means of getting a living. He had learned just enough about it toenable him to teach the technical elements--what is set down in thebooks. By observing other and older teachers he had got together ateaching system that was as good--and as bad--as any, and this hedubbed the Jennings Method and proceeded to exploit as the only oneworth while. When that method was worked out and perfected, he ceasedlearning, ceased to give a thought to the professional side of hisprofession, just as most professional men do. He would have resented asuggestion or a new idea as an attack upon the Jennings Method. Theoverwhelming majority of the human race--indeed, all but a smallhandful--have this passion for stagnation, this ferocity againstchange. It is in large part due to laziness; for a new idea means workin learning it and in unlearning the old ideas that have been trueuntil the unwelcome advent of the new. In part also this resistance tothe new idea arises from a fear that the new idea, if tolerated, willput one out of business, will set him adrift without any means ofsupport. The coachman hates the automobile, the hand-worker hates themachine, the orthodox preacher hates the heretic, the politician hatesthe reformer, the doctor hates the bacteriologist and the chemist, theold woman hates the new--all these in varying proportions according tothe degree in which the iconoclast attacks laziness or livelihood. Finally we all hate any and all new ideas because they seem to implythat we, who have held the old ideas, have been ignorant and stupid inso doing. A new idea is an attack upon the vanity of everyone who hasbeen a partisan of the old ideas and their established order. 

Jennings, thoroughly human in thus closing his mind to all ideas abouthis profession, was equally human in that he had his mind and hissenses opened full width to ideas on how to make more money. If therehad been money in new ideas about teaching singing Jennings would nothave closed to them. But the money was all in studying and learninghow better to handle the women--they were all women who came to him forinstruction. His common sense warned him at the outset that theobviously easygoing teacher would not long retain his pupils. On theother hand, he saw that the really severe teacher would not retain hispupils, either. 

Who were these pupils? In the first place, they were all ignorant, forpeople who already know do not go to school to learn. They had theuniversal delusion that a teacher can teach. The fact is that ateacher is a well. Some wells are full, others almost dry. Some areso arranged that water cannot be got from them, others have attachmentsof various kinds, making the drawing of water more or less easy. Butnot from the best well with the latest pump attachment can one get adrink unless one does the drinking oneself. A teacher is rarely awell. The pupil must not only draw the water, but also drink it, mustnot only teach himself, but also learn what he teaches. Now we are allof us born thirsty for knowledge, and nearly all of us are born bothcapable of teaching ourselves and capable of learning what we teach, that is, of retaining and assimilating it. There is such a thing asartificially feeding the mind, just as there is such a thing asartificially feeding the body; but while everyone knows that artificialfeeding of the body is a success only to a limited extent and for abrief period, everyone believes that the artificial feeding of the mindis not only the best method, but the only method. Nor does thediscovery that the mind is simply the brain, is simply a part of thebody, subject to the body's laws, seem materially to have lessened thisfatuous delusion. 

Some of Jennings's pupils--not more than two of the forty-odd were ingenuine earnest; that is, those two were educating themselves to beprofessional singers, were determined so to be, had limited time andmeans and endless capacity for work. Others of the forty--abouthalf-thought they were serious, though in fact the idea of a career wasmore or less hazy. They were simply taking lessons and toilingaimlessly along, not less aimlessly because they indulged in vague talkand vaguer thought about a career. The rest--the other half of theforty--were amusing themselves by taking singing lessons. It killedtime, it gave them a feeling of doing something, it gave them areputation of being serious people and not mere idlers, it gave them anexcuse for neglecting the domestic duties which they regarded asdegrading--probably because to do them well requires study and earnest, hard work. The Jennings singing lesson, at fifteen dollars ahalf-hour, was rather an expensive hypocrisy; but the women who used itas a cloak for idleness as utter as the mere yawners and bridgers andshoppers had rich husbands or fathers. 

Thus it appears that the Jennings School was a perfect microcosm, asthe scientists would say, of the human race--the serious very few, toiling more or less successfully toward a definite goal; the many, compelled to do something, and imagining themselves serious andpurposeful as they toiled along toward nothing in particular but thenext lesson--that is, the next day's appointed task; the utterly idle, fancying themselves busy and important when in truth they were simply afraud and an expense. 

Jennings got very little from the deeply and genuinely serious. One ofthem he taught free, taking promissory notes for the lessons. But heheld on to them because when they finally did teach themselves to singand arrived at fame, his would be part of the glory--and glory meantmore and more pupils of the paying kinds. His large income came fromthe other two kinds of pupils, the larger part of it from the kind thathad no seriousness in them. His problem was how to keep all thesepaying pupils and also keep his reputation as a teacher. In solvingthat problem he evolved a method that was the true Jennings's method. Not in all New York, filled as it is with people living and living wellupon the manipulation of the weaknesses of their fellow beings--not inall New York was there an adroiter manipulator than Eugene Jennings. Hewas harsh to brutality when he saw fit to be so--or, rather, when hedeemed it wise to be so. Yet never had he lost a paying pupil throughhis harshness. These were fashionable women--most delicate, sensitiveladies--at whom he swore. They wept, stayed on, advertised him as a"wonderful serious teacher who won't stand any nonsense and doesn'tcare a hang whether you stay or go--and he can teach absolutely anybodyto sing!" He knew how to be gentle without seeming to be so; he knewhow to flatter without uttering a single word that did not seem to bereluctant praise or savage criticism; he knew how to make a lady with alittle voice work enough to make a showing that would spur her to keepon and on with him; he knew how to encourage a rich woman with no moresong than a peacock until she would come to him three times a week formany years--and how he did make her pay for what he suffered inlistening to the hideous squawkings and yelpings she inflicted upon him!

Did Jennings think himself a fraud? No more than the next human beingwho lives by fraud. Is there any trade or profession whosepractitioners, in the bottom of their hearts, do not think they areliving excusably and perhaps creditably? The Jennings theory was thathe was a great teacher; that there were only a very few serious andworth-while seekers of the singing art; that in order to live and toteach these few, he had to receive the others; that, anyhow, singingwas a fine art for anyone to have and taking singing lessons made theworst voice a little less bad--or, at the least, singing was splendidfor the health. One of his favorite dicta was, "Every child should betaught singing--for its health, if for nothing else. " And perhaps hewas right! At any rate, he made his forty to fifty thousand ayear--and on days when he had a succession of the noisy, tunelesssquawkers, he felt that he more than earned every cent of it. 

Mildred did not penetrate far into the secret of the money-makingbranch of the Jennings method. It was crude enough, too. But are notall the frauds that fool the human race crude? Human beings bothcannot and will not look beneath surfaces. All Mildred learned wasthat Jennings did not give up paying pupils. She had not confidenceenough in this discovery to put it to the test. She did not daredisobey him or shirk--even when she was most disposed to do so. Butgradually she ceased from that intense application she had at firstbrought to her work. She kept up the forms. She learned her lessons. She did all that was asked. She seemed to be toiling as in thebeginning. In reality, she became by the middle of spring a merelesson-taker. Her interest in clothes and in going about revived. Shesaw in the newspapers that General Siddall had taken a party of friendson a yachting trip around the world, so she felt that she was no longerbeing searched for, at least not vigorously. She became acquaintedwith smart, rich West Side women, taking lessons at Jennings's. Sheamused herself going about with them and with the "musical" men theyattracted--amateur and semi-professional singers and players uponinstruments. She drew Mrs. Brindley into their society. They hadlittle parties at the flat in Fifty-ninth Street--the most delightfullittle parties imaginable--dinners and suppers, music, cleverconversations, flirtations of a harmless but fascinating kind. Ifanyone had accused Mildred of neglecting her work, of forgetting hercareer, she would have grown indignant, and if Mrs. Brindley hadoverheard, she would have been indignant for her. Mildred worked asmuch as ever. She was making excellent progress. She was doing allthat could be done. It takes time to develop a voice, to make anopera-singer. Forcing is dangerous, when it is not downright useless. 

In May--toward the end of the month--Stanley Baird returned. Mildred, who happened to be in unusually good voice that day, sang for him atthe Jennings studio, and he was enchanted. As the last note died awayhe cried out to Jennings:

"She's a wonder, isn't she?"

Jennings nodded. "She's got a voice, " said he. 

"She ought to go on next year. "

"Not quite that, " said Jennings. "We want to get that upper registerright first. And it's a young voice--she's very young for her age. Wemust be careful not to strain it. "

"Why, what's a voice for if not to sing with?" said Stanley. 

"A fine voice is a very delicate instrument, " replied the teacher. Headded coldly, "You must let me judge as to what shall be done. "

"Certainly, certainly, " said Stanley in haste. 

"She's had several colds this winter and spring, " pursued Jennings. "Those things are dangerous until the voice has its full growth. Sheshould have two months' complete rest. "

Jennings was going away for a two months' vacation. He was giving thisadvice to all his pupils. 

"You're right, " said Baird. "Did you hear, Mildred?"

"But I hate to stop work, " objected Mildred. "I want to be doingsomething. I'm very impatient of this long wait. "

And honest she was in this protest. She had no idea of the state ofher own mind. She fancied she was still as eager as ever for thecareer, as intensely interested as ever in her work. She did not dreamof the real meaning of her content with her voice as it was, of herlack of uneasiness over the appalling fact that such voice as she hadwas unreliable, came and went for no apparent reason. 

"Absolute rest for two months, " declared Jennings grimly. "Not a noteuntil I return in August. "

Mildred gave a resigned sigh. 

There is much inveighing against hypocrisy, a vice unsightly ratherthan desperately wicked. And in the excitement about it its dangerous, even deadly near kinsman, self-deception, escapes unassailed. Sevencardinal sins; but what of the eighth?--the parent of all the others, the one beside which the children seem almost white?

During the first few weeks Mildred had been careful about spendingmoney. Economy she did not understand; how could she, when she hadnever had a lesson in it or a valuable hint about it? So economy wasimpossible. The only way in which such people can keep order in theirfinances is by not spending any money at all. Mildred drew nothing, spent nothing. This, so long as she gave her whole mind to her work. But after the first great cold, so depressing, so subtly undermining, she began to go about, to think of, to need and to buy clothes, tospend money in a dozen necessary ways. After all, she was simplyborrowing the money. Presently, she would be making a career, would beearning large sums. She would pay back everything, with interest. Stanley meant for her to use the money. Really, she ought to use it. How would her career be helped by her going about looking a dowd and afrump? She had always been used to the comforts of life. If shedeprived herself of them, she would surely get into a frame of mindwhere her work would suffer. No, she must lead the normal life of awoman of her class. To work all the time--why, as Jennings said, thattook away all the freshness, made one stale and unfit. A littledistraction--always, of course, with musical people, people who talkedand thought and did music--that sort of distraction was quite as much apart of her education as the singing lessons. Mrs. Brindley, certainlya sensible and serious woman if ever there was one--Mrs. Brindleybelieved so, and it must be so. 

After that illness and before she began to go about, she had falleninto several fits of hideous blues, had been in despair as to thefuture. As soon as she saw something of people--always the valuable, musical sort of people--her spirits improved. And when she got a fewnew dresses--very simple and inexpensive, but stylish and charming--andthe hats, too, were successful--as soon as she was freshly arrayed shewas singing better and was talking hopefully of the career again. Yes, it was really necessary that she live as she had always been used toliving. 

When Stanley came back her account was drawn up to the last cent of theproportionate amount. In fact, it might have been a few dollars--ahundred or so--overdrawn. She was not sure. Still, that was a smallmatter. During the summer she would spend less, and by fall she wouldbe far ahead again--and ready to buy fall clothes. One day he said:

"You must be needing more money. "

"No indeed, " cried she. "I've been living within the hundred aweek--or nearly. I'm afraid I'm frightfully extravagant, and--"

"Extravagant?" laughed he. "You are afraid to borrow! Why, three orfour nights of singing will pay back all you've borrowed. "

"I suppose I WILL make a lot of money, " said she. "They all tell me so. But it doesn't seem real to me. " She hastily added: "I don't mean thecareer. That seems real enough. I can hardly wait to begin at theroles. I mean the money part. You see, I never earned any money andnever really had any money of my own. "

"Well, you'll have plenty of it in two or three years, " said Stanley, confidently. "And you mustn't try to live like girls who've beenbrought up to hardship. It isn't necessary, and it would only unfityou for your work. "

"I think that's true, " said she. "But I've enough--more than enough. "She gave him a nervous, shy, almost agonized look. "Please don't tryto put me under any heavier obligations than I have to be. "

"Please don't talk nonsense about obligation, " retorted he. "Let's getaway from this subject. You don't seem to realize that you're doing mea favor, that it's a privilege to be allowed to help develop such amarvelous voice as yours. Scores of people would jump at the chance. "

"That doesn't lessen my obligation, " said she. And she thought shemeant it, though, in fact, his generous and plausible statement of thecase had immediately lessened not a little her sense of obligation. 

On the whole, however, she was not sorry she had this chance to talk ofobligation. Slowly, as they saw each other from time to time, oftenalone, Stanley had begun--perhaps in spite of himself andunconsciously--to show his feeling for her. Sometimes his handaccidentally touched hers, and he did not draw it away as quickly as hemight. And she--it was impossible for her to make any gesture, muchless say anything, that suggested sensitiveness on her part. It wouldput him in an awkward position, would humiliate him most unjustly. Hefell into the habit of holding her hand longer than was necessary atgreeting or parting, of touching her caressingly, of looking at herwith the eyes of a lover instead of a friend. She did not like thesethings. For some mysterious reason--from sheer perversity, shethought--she had taken a strong physical dislike to him. Perfectlyabsurd, for there was nothing intrinsically repellent about thishandsome, clean, most attractively dressed man, of the best type ofAmerican and New-Yorker. No, only perversity could explain such a sillynotion. She was always afraid he would try to take advantage of herdelicate position--always afraid she would have to yield something, some trifle; yet the idea of giving anything from a sense of obligationwas galling to her. His very refraining made her more nervous, themore shrinking. If he would only commit some overt act--seize her, kissher, make outrageous demands--but this refraining, these touches thatmight be accidental and again might be stealthy approach-- She hatedto have him shake hands with her, would have liked to draw away whenhis clothing chanced to brush against hers. 

So she was glad of the talk about obligation. It set him at adistance, immediately. He ceased to look lovingly, to indulge in thenerve-rasping little caresses. He became carefully formal. He wasevidently eager to prove the sincerity of his protestations--too eagerperhaps, her perverse mind suggested. Still, sincere or not, he heldto all the forms of sincerity. 

Some friends of Mrs. Brindley's who were going abroad offered her theircottage on the New Jersey coast near Seabright, and a big newtouring-car and chauffeur. She and Mildred at once gave up the planfor a summer in the Adirondacks, the more readily as several of the menand women they saw the most of lived within easy distance of them atDeal Beach and Elberon. When Mildred went shopping she was lured intobuying a lot of summer things she would not have needed in theAdirondacks--a mere matter of two hundred and fifty dollars orthereabouts. A little additional economy in the fall would soon makeup for such a trifle, and if there is one time more than another when awoman wishes to look well and must look well, that time issummer--especially by the sea. 

When her monthly statement from the bank came on the first of July shefound that five thousand dollars had been deposited to her credit. Shewas moved by this discovery to devote several hours--very depressedhours they were--to her finances. She had spent a great deal moremoney than she had thought; indeed, since March she had been living atthe rate of fifteen thousand a year. She tried to account for thisamazing extravagance. But she could recall no expenditure that was notreally almost, if not quite, necessary. It took a frightful lot ofmoney to live in New York. How DID people with small incomes manage toget along? Whatever would have become of her if she had not had thegood luck to be able to borrow from Stanley? What would become of herif, before she was succeeding on the stage, Stanley should die or losefaith in her or interest in her? What would become of her! She hadbeen living these last few months among people who had wide-open eyesand knew everything that was going on--and did some "going-on"themselves, as she was now more than suspecting. There were manywomen, thousands of them--among the attractive, costily dressed throngsshe saw in the carriages and autos and cabs--who would not like to haveit published how they contrived to live so luxuriously. No, they wouldnot like to have it published, though they cared not a fig for itsbeing whispered; New York too thoroughly understood how necessaryluxurious living was, and was too completely divested of the follies ofthe old-fashioned, straight-laced morality, to mind little shabbydetails of queer conduct in striving to keep up with the procession. Even the married women, using their husbands--and letting theirhusbands use them--did not frown on the irregularities of their sistersless fortunately married or not able to find a permanent "leg to pull. "As for the girls--Mildred had observed strange things in the lives ofthe girls she knew more or less well nowadays. In fact, all the women, of all classes and conditions, were engaged in the same mad struggle toget hold of money to spend upon fun and finery--a struggle matching inrecklessness and resoluteness the struggle of the men down-town formoney for the same purposes. It was curious, this double mania of themen and the women--the mania to get money, no matter how; the instantlysucceeding mania to get rid of it, no matter how. Looking about her, Mildred felt that she was peculiar and apart from nearly all the womenshe knew. SHE got her money honorably. SHE did not degrade herself, did not sell herself, did not wheedle or cajole or pretend in the leastdegree. She had grown more liberal as her outlook on life had widenedwith contact with the New York mind--no, with the mind of the wholeeasy-going, luxury-mad, morality-scorning modern world. She still kepther standard for herself high, and believed in a purity for herselfwhich she did not exact or expect in her friends. In this respect sheand Cyrilla Brindley were sympathetically alike. No, Mildred wasconfident that in no circumstances, in NO circumstances, would sherelax her ideas of what she personally could do and could not do. Notthat she blamed, or judged at all, women who did as she would not; butshe could not, simply could not, however hard she might be driven, dothose things--though she could easily understand how other women didthem in preference to sinking down into the working class or eking outa frowsy existence in some poor boarding-house. The temptation wouldbe great. Thank Heaven, it was not teasing her. She would resist it, of course. But--

What if Stanley Baird should lose interest? What if, after he lostinterest, she should find herself without money, worse of than she hadbeen when she sold herself into slavery--highly moral andconventionally correct slavery, but still slavery--to the littlegeneral with the peaked pink-silk nightcap hiding the absence of theremoved toupee--and with the wonderful pink-silk pajamas, gorgeouslymonogramed in violet--and the tiny feet and ugly hands--and thoseloathsome needle-pointed mustaches and the hideous habit of mumblinghis tongue and smacking his lips? What if, moneyless, she should notbe able to find another Stanley or a man of the class gentleman willingto help her generously even on ANY terms? What then?

She was looking out over the sea, her bank-book and statements andcanceled checks in her lap. Their cottage was at the very edge of thestrand; its veranda was often damp from spray after a storm. It wasnot storming as she sat there, "taking stock"; under a blue sky analmost tranquil sea was crooning softly in the sunlight, innocent andhappy and playful as a child. She, dressed in a charming negligee andlooking forward to a merry day in the auto, with lunch and dinner atattractive, luxurious places farther down the coast--she was strickenwith a horrible sadness, with a terror that made her heart beat wildly. 

"I must be crazy!" she said, half aloud. "I've never earned a dollarwith my voice. And for two months it has been unreliable. I'm actinglike a crazy person. What WILL become of me?"

Just then Stanley Baird came through the pretty little house, seekingher. "There you are!" he cried. "Do go get dressed. "

Hastily she flung a scarf over the book and papers in her lap. She hadintended to speak to him about that fresh deposit of five thousanddollars--to refuse it, to rebuke him. Now she did not dare. 

"What's the matter?" he went on. "Headache?"

"It was the wine at dinner last night, " explained she. "I ought neverto touch red wine. It disagrees with me horribly. "

"That was filthy stuff, " said he. "You must take some champagne atlunch. That'll set you right. "

She stealthily wound the scarf about the papers. When she felt that allwere secure she rose. She was looking sweet and sad and peculiarlybeautiful. There was an exquisite sheen on her skin. She had washedher hair that morning, and it was straying fascinatingly about her browand ears and neck. Baird looked at her, lowered his eyes and colored. 

"I'll not be long, " she said hurriedly. 

She had to pass him in the rather narrow doorway. From her garmentsshook a delicious perfume. He caught her in his arms. The blood hadflushed into his face in a torrent, swelling out the veins, giving hima distorted and wild expression. 

"Mildred!" he cried. "Say that you love me a little! I'm so lonelyfor you--so hungry for you!"

She grew cold with fear and with repulsion. She neither yielded to hisembrace nor shook it off. She simply stood, her round smooth body hardthough corsetless. He kissed her on the throat, kissed the lace overher bosom, crying out inarticulately. In the frenzy of his passion hedid not for a while realize her lack of response. As he felt it, hisarms relaxed, dropped away from her, fell at his side. He hung hishead. He was breathing so heavily that she glanced into the houseapprehensively, fearing someone else might hear. 

"I beg pardon, " he muttered. "You were too much for me this morning. It was your fault. You are maddening!"

She moved on into the house. 

"Wait a minute!" he called after her. 

She halted, hesitating. 

"Come back, " he said. "I've got something to say to you. "

She turned and went back to the veranda, he retreating before her andhis eyes sinking before the cold, clear blue of hers. 

"You're going up, not to come down again, " he said. "You think I'veinsulted you--think I've acted outrageously. "

How glad she was that he had so misread her thoughts--had notdiscovered the fear, the weakness, the sudden collapse of all herboasted confidence in her strength of character. 

"You'll never feel the same toward me again, " he went fatuously on. "You think I'm a fraud. Well, I'll admit that I am in love withyou--have been ever since the steamer--always was crazy about thatmouth of yours--and your figure, and the sound of your voice. I'lladmit I'm an utter fool about you--respect you and trust you as I neverused to think any woman deserved to be respected and trusted. I'lleven admit that I've been hoping--all sorts of things. I knew a womanlike you wouldn't let a man help her unless she loved him. "

At this her heart beat wildly and a blush of shame poured over her faceand neck. He did not see. He had not the courage to look at her--toface that expression of the violated goddess he felt confident her facewas wearing. In love, he reasoned and felt about her like aninexperienced boy, all his experience going for nothing. He went on:

"I understand we can never be anything to each other until you're onthe stage and arrived. I'd not have it otherwise, if I could. For Iwant YOU, and I'd never believe I had you unless you were free. "

The color was fading from her cheeks. At this it flushed deeper thanbefore. She must speak. Not to speak was to lie, was to play thehypocrite. Yet speak she dared not. At least Stanley Baird was betterthan Siddall. Anyhow, who was she, that had been the wife of Siddall, to be so finicky?

"You don't believe me?" he said miserably. "You think I'll forgetmyself sometime again?"

"I hope not, " she said gently. "I believe not. I trust you, Stanley. "

And she went into the house. He looked after her, in admiration of thesweet and pure calm of this quiet rebuke. She tried to take the sameexalted view of it herself, but she could not fool herself just thenwith the familiar "good woman" fake. She knew that she had struck theflag of self-respect. She knew what she would really have done had hebeen less delicate, less in love, and more "practical. " And she founda small and poor consolation in reflecting, "I wonder how many womenthere are who take high ground because it costs nothing. " We are proneto suspect everybody of any weakness we find in ourselves--and perhapswe are not so far wrong as are those who accept without question thenoisy protestations of a world of self-deceivers. 

Thenceforth she and Stanley got on better than ever--apparently. Butthough she ignored it, she knew the truth--knew her new and deepcontent was due to her not having challenged his assertion that sheloved him. He, believing her honest and high minded, assumed that thefailure to challenge was a good woman's way of admitting. But with theday of reckoning--not only with him but also with her ownself-respect--put off until that vague and remote time when she shouldbe a successful prima donna, she gave herself up to enjoyment. Thatwas a summer of rarely fine weather, particularly fine along the Jerseycoast. They--always in gay parties--motored up and down the coast andinland. Several of the "musical" men--notably Richardson ofElberon--had plenty of money; Stanley, stopping with his cousins, theFrasers, on the Rumson Road, brought several of his friends, all richand more or less free. As every moment of Mildred's day was full andas it was impossible not to sleep and sleep well in that ocean air, with the surf soothing the nerves as the lullaby of a nurse soothes ababy, she was able to put everything unpleasant out of mind. She wasresting her voice, was building up her health; therefore the career wasbeing steadily advanced and no time was being wasted. She felt sorryfor those who had to do unpleasant or disagreeable things in makingtheir careers. She told herself that she did not deserve her goodfortune in being able to advance to a brilliant career not throughhardship but over the most delightful road imaginable--amusing herself, wearing charming and satisfactory clothes, swimming and dancing, motoring and feasting. Without realizing it, she was strongly underthe delusion that she was herself already rich--the inevitable delusionwith a woman when she moves easily and freely and luxuriously about, never bothered for money, always in the company of rich people. Therich are fated to demoralize those around them. The stingy rich filltheir satellites with envy and hatred. The generous rich fill themwith the feeling that the light by which they shine and the heat withwhich they are warm are not reflected light and heat but their own. 

Never had she been so happy. She even did not especially mind DonaldKeith, a friend of Stanley's and of Mrs. Brindley's, who, much toooften to suit her, made one of the party. She had tried in vain todiscover what there was in Keith that inspired such intense liking intwo people so widely different as expansive and emotional Stanley Bairdand reserved and distinctly cold Cyrilla Brindley. Keith talkedlittle, not only seemed not to listen well, but showed plainly, even intete-a-tete conversations, that his thoughts had been elsewhere. Hemade no pretense of being other than he was--an indifferent man whocame because it did not especially matter to him where he was. Sometimes his silence and his indifference annoyed Mildred;again--thanks to her profound and reckless contentment--she was able toforget that he was along. He seemed to be and probably was about fortyyears old. His head was beautifully shaped, the line of itsprofile--front, top, and back--being perfect in intellectuality, strength and symmetry. He was rather under the medium height, aboutthe same height as Mildred herself. He was extremely thin and looselybuilt, and his clothes seemed to hang awry, giving him an air ofslovenliness which became surprising when one noted how scrupulouslyneat and clean he was. His brown hair, considerably tinged with rustygray, grew thinly upon that beautiful head. His skin was dry andsmooth and dead white. This, taken with the classic regularity of hisfeatures, gave him an air of lifelessness, of one burnt out by the fireof too much living; but whether the living had been done by Keithhimself or by his immediate ancestors appearances did not disclose. This look of passionless, motionless repose, like classic sculpture, was sharply and startlingly belied by a pair of really wonderfuleyes--deeply and intensely blue, brilliant, all seeing, allcomprehending, eyes that seemed never to sleep, seemed the ceaselesslyindustrious servants of a brain that busied itself without pause. Thecontrast between the dead white calm of his face, the listlessness ofhis relaxed figure, and these vivid eyes, so intensely alive, gave toDonald Keith's personality an uncanniness that was most disagreeable toMildred. 

"That's what fascinates me, " said Cyrilla, when they were discussinghim one day. 

"Fascinates!" exclaimed Mildred. "He's tiresome--when he isn't rude. "

"Rude?"

"Not actively rude but, worse still, passively rude. "

"He is the only man I've ever seen with whom I could imagine myselffalling in love, " said Mrs. Brindley. 

Mildred laughed in derision. "Why, he's a dead man!" cried she. 

"You don't understand, " said Cyrilla. "You've never lived with a man. "She forgot completely, as did Mildred herself, so completely had Mrs. Siddall returned to the modes and thoughts of a girl. "At home--tolive with--you want only reposeful things. That is why the Greeks, whose instincts were unerring, had so much reposeful statuary. Onegrows weary of agitating objects. They soon seem hysterical andshallow. The same thing's true of persons. For permanent love andfriendship you want reposeful men--calm, strong, silent. The otherkind either wear you out or wear themselves out with you. "

"You forget his eyes, " put in Stanley. "Did you ever see such eyes!"

"Yes, those eyes of his!" cried Mildred. "You certainly can't callthem reposeful, Mrs. Brindley. "

Mrs. Brindley did not seize the opportunity to convict her ofinconsistency. Said she:

"I admit the eyes. They're the eyes of the kind of man a woman wants, or another man wants in his friend. When Keith looks at you, you feelthat you are seeing the rarest being in the world--an absolutelyreliable person. When I think of him I think of reliable, just as whenyou think of the sun you think of brightness. "

"I had no idea it was so serious as this, " teased Stanley. 

"Nor had I, " returned Cyrilla easily, "until I began to talk about him. Don't tell him, Mr. Baird, or he might take advantage of me. "

The idea amused Stanley. "He doesn't care a rap about women, " said he. "I hear he has let a few care about him from time to time, but he soonceased to be good-natured. He hates to be bored. "

As he came just then, they had to find another subject. Mildredobserved him with more interest. She had learned to have respect forMrs. Brindley's judgments. But she soon gave over watching him. Thatprofound calm, those eyes concentrating all the life of the man like aburning glass-- She had a disagreeable sense of being seen through, even to her secretest thought, of being understood and measured andweighed--and found wanting. It occurred to her for the first time thatpart of the reason for her not liking him was the best of reasons--thathe did not like her. 

The first time she was left alone with him, after this discovery, shehappened to be in an audacious and talkative mood, and his lack ofresponse finally goaded her into saying: "WHY don't you like me?" Shecared nothing about it; she simply wished to hear what he would say--ifhe could be roused into saying anything. He was sitting on the stepsleading from the veranda to the sea--was smoking a cigarette and gazingout over the waves like a graven image, as if he had always been posedthere and always would be there, the embodiment of repose gazing inineffable indifference upon the embodiment of its opposite. He made noanswer. 

"I asked you why you do not like me, " said she. "Did you hear?"

"Yes, " replied he. 

She waited; nothing further from him. Said she:

"Well, give me one of your cigarettes. "

He rose, extended his case, then a light. He was never remiss in thosekinds of politeness. When she was smoking, he seated himself again anddropped into the former attitude. She eyed him, wondering how it couldbe possible that he had endured the incredible fatigues and hardshipsStanley Baird had related of him--hunting and exploring expeditionsinto tropics and into frozen regions, mountain climbs, wild sea voyagesin small boats, all with no sign of being able to stand anything, yetalso with no sign of being any more disturbed than now in this seasidelaziness. Stanley had showed them a picture of him taken twenty yearsand more ago when he was in college; he had looked almost the samethen--perhaps a little older. 

"Well, I am waiting, " persisted she. 

She thought he was about to look at her--a thing he had never done, toher knowledge, since they had known each other. She nerved herself toreceive the shock, with a certain flutter of expectancy, of excitementeven. But instead of looking, he settled himself in a slightlydifferent position and fixed his gaze upon another point in thehorizon. She noted that he had splendid hands--ideal hands for a man, with the same suggestion of intense vitality and aliveness that flashedfrom his eyes. She had not noted this before. Next she saw that hehad good feet, and that his boots were his only article of apparel thatfitted him, or rather, that looked as if made for him. 

She tossed her cigarette over the rail to the sand. He startled her byspeaking, in his unemotional way. He said:

"Now, I like you better. "

"I don't understand, " said she. 

No answer from him. The cigarette depending listlessly from his lipsseemed--as usual--uncertain whether it would stay or fall. She watchedthis uncertainty with a curious, nervous interest. She was alwaysthinking that cigarette would fall, but it never did. Said she:

"Why did you say you liked me less?"

"Better, " corrected he. 

"We used to have a pump in our back yard at home, " laughed she. "Onetoiled away at the handle, but nothing ever came. And it was apromising-looking pump, too. "

He smiled--a slow, reluctant smile, but undeniably attractive. Said he:

"Because you threw away your cigarette. "

"You object to women smoking?"

"No, " said he. His tone made her feel how absurd it was to suspect himof such provincialism. 

"You object to MY smoking?" suggested she; laughing, "Pump! Pump!"

"No, " said he. 

"Then your remark meant nothing at all?"

He was silent. 

"You are rude, " said she coldly, rising to go into the house. 

He said something, what she did not hear, in her agitation. She pausedand inquired:

"What did you say?"

"I said, I am not rude but kind, " replied he. 

"That is detestable!" cried she. "I have not liked you, but I havebeen polite to you because of Stanley and Mrs. Brindley. Why shouldyou be insulting to me?"

"What have I done?" inquired he, unmoved. He had risen as she rose, but instead of facing her he was leaning against the post of theveranda, bent upon his seaward vigil. 

"You have insinuated that your reasons for not liking me were areflection on me. "

"You insisted, " said he. 

"You mean that they are?" demanded she furiously. She was amazed at herwild, unaccountable rage. 

He slowly turned his head and looked at her--a glance without anyemotion whatever, simply a look that, like the beam of a powerfulsearchlight, seemed to thrust through fog and darkness and to light upeverything in its path. Said he:

"Do you wish me to tell you why I don't like you?"

"No!" she cried hysterically. "Never mind--I don't know what I'msaying. " And she went hastily into the house. A moment later, in herown room upstairs, she was wondering at herself. Why had she becomeconfused? What did he mean? What had she seen--or half seen--in thedarkness and fog within herself when he looked at her? In a passionshe cried:

"If he would only stay away!"

VI

BUT he did not stay away. He owned and lived in a small house up onthe Rumson Road. While the house was little more than a bungalow andhad a simplicity that completely hid its rare good taste from theaverage observer, its grounds were the most spacious in thatneighborhood of costly, showy houses set in grounds not much moreextensive than a city building lot. The grounds had been cleared anddrained to drive out and to keep out the obnoxious insect life, but hadbeen left a forest, concealing the house from the roads. Stanley Bairdwas now stopping with Keith, and brought him along to the cottage bythe sea every day. 

The parties narrowed to the same four persons. Mrs. Brindley seemednever to tire of talking to Keith--or to tire of talking about him whenthe two men had left, late each night. As for Stanley, he referredeverything to Keith--the weather prospects, where they should go forthe day, what should be eaten and drunk, any point about politics orfashion, life or literature or what not, that happened to be discussed. And he looked upon Donald's monosyllabic reply to his inquiry as afinal judgment, ending all possibility of argument. Mildred held outlong. Then, in spite of herself, she began to yield, ceased to dislikehim, found a kind of pleasure--or, perhaps, fascinated interest--in thenervousness his silent and indifferent presence caused her. She likedto watch that immobile, perfect profile, neither young nor old, indeednot suggesting age in any degree, but only experience andknowledge--and an infinite capacity for emotion, for passion even. Thedead-white color declared it had already been lived; the brilliant, usually averted or veiled eyes asserted present vitality, pulsing undera calm surface. 

One day when Stanley, in the manner of one who wishes a thing settledand settled right, said he would ask Donald Keith about it, Mildred, alittle piqued, a little amused, retorted:

"And what will he answer? Why, simply yes or no. "

"That's all, " assented Stanley. "And that's quite enough, isn't it?"

"But how do you know he's as wise as he pretends?"

"He doesn't pretend to be anything or to know anything. That'sprecisely it. "

Mildred suddenly began to like Keith. She had never thought of thisbefore. Yes, it was true, he did not pretend. Not in the least, notabout anything. When you saw him, you saw at once the worst there wasto see. It was afterward that you discovered he was not slovenly, butclean and neat, not badly but well dressed, not homely but handsome, not sickly but soundly well, not physically weak but strong, not dullbut vividly alive, not a tiresome void but an unfathomable mystery. 

"What does he do?" she asked Mrs. Brindley. 

Cyrilla's usually positive gray eyes looked vague. She smiled. "Inever asked, " said she. "I've known him nearly three years, and itnever occurred to me to ask, or to wonder. Isn't that strange? Usuallyabout the first inquiry we make is what a man does. "

"I'll ask Stanley, " said Mildred. And she did about an hour later, when they were in the surf together, with the other two out of earshot. Said Stanley:

"He's a lawyer, of course. Also, he's written a novel or two and abook of poems. I've never read them. Somehow, I never get around toreading. "

"Oh, he's a lawyer? That's the way he makes his living. "

"A queer kind of lawyer. He never goes to court, and his clients arealmost all other lawyers. They go to him to get him to tell them whatto do, and what not to do. He's got a big reputation among lawyers, Fred Norman tells me, but makes comparatively little, as he eithercan't or won't charge what he ought. I told him what Norman said, andhe only smiled in that queer way he has. I said: 'You make twenty orthirty thousand a year. You ought to make ten times that. '"

"And what did he answer?" asked Mildred. "Nothing?"

"He said: 'I make all I want. If I took in more, I'd be botheredgetting rid of it or investing it. I can always make all I'llwant--unless I go crazy. And what could a crazy man do with money? Itdoesn't cost anything to live in a lunatic asylum. '"

Several items of interest to add to those she had collected. He couldtalk brilliantly, but he preferred silence. He could make himselfattractive to women and to men, but he preferred to be detached. Hecould be a great lawyer, but he preferred the quiet of obscurity. Hecould be a rich man, but he preferred to be comparatively poor. 

Said Mildred: "I suppose some woman--some disappointment in love--haskilled ambition, and everything like that. "

"I don't think so, " replied Baird. "The men who knew him as a boy sayhe was always as he is now. He lived in the Arabian desert for twoyears. "

"Why didn't he stay?" laughed Mildred. "That life would exactly suithim. "

"It did, " said Stanley. "But his father died, and he had to come homeand support his mother--until she died. That's the way his whole lifehas been. He drifts in the current of circumstances. He might lethimself be blown away to-morrow to the other end of the earth and stayaway years--or never come back. "

"But how would he live?"

"On his wits. And as well or as poorly as he cared. He's the sort ofman everyone instinctively asks advice of--me, you, his valet, thefarmer who meets him at a boundary fence, the fellow who sits nest himin a train--anyone. "

Mildred did not merely cease to dislike him; she went farther, andrapidly. She began to like him, to circle round that tantalizing, indolent mystery as a deer about a queer bit of brush in theundergrowth. She liked to watch him. She was alternately afraid totalk before him and recklessly confidential--all with no response orsign of interest from him. If she was silent, when they were alonetogether, he was silent, too. If she talked, still he was silent. WhatWAS he thinking about? What did he think of her?--that especially. 

"What ARE you thinking?" she interrupted herself to say one afternoonas they sat together on the strand under a big sunshade. She had beentalking on and on about her career--talking conceitedly, as her subjectintoxicated her--telling him what triumphs awaited her as soon as sheshould be ready to debut. As he did not answer, she repeated herquestion, adding:

"I knew you weren't listening to me, or I shouldn't have had thecourage to say the foolish things I did. "

"No, I wasn't, " admitted he. 

"Why not?"

"For the reason you gave. "

"That what I said was--just talk?"

"Yes. "

"You don't believe I'll do those things?"

"Do you?"

"I've GOT to believe it, " said she. "If I didn't--" She came to a fullstop. 

"If you didn't, then what?" It was the first time he had everflattered her with interest enough to ask her a question about herself. 

"If I didn't believe I was going to succeed--and succeed big--" shebegan. After a pause, she added, "I'd not dare say it. "

"Or think it, " said he. 

She colored. "What do you mean?" she asked. 

He did not reply. 

"What do you mean, Mr. Keith?" she urged. 

"You are always asking me questions to which you already know theanswer, " said he. 

"You're referring to a week or so ago, when I asked you why youdisliked me?"

No answer. No sign of having heard. No outward sign of interest inanything, even in the cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. 

"Wasn't that it?" she insisted. 

"You are always asking me questions to which you already know theanswer, " repeated he. 

"I am annoying you?"

No answer. 

She laughed. "Do you want me to go away and leave you in peace withthat--law case--or whatever it is?"

"I don't like to be alone. "

"But anyone would do?--a dog?"

No reply. 

"You mean, a dog would be better because it doesn't ask questions towhich it knows the answer. "

No reply. 

"Well, I have a pleasant-sounding voice. As I'm saying nothing, it maybe soothing--like the sound of the waves. I've learned to take you asyou are. I rather like your pose. "

No reply. No sign that he was even tempted to rise to this bait andprotest. 

"But you don't like mine, " she went on. "Yes, it is a pose. But I'vegot to keep it up, and to pretend to myself that it isn't. And itisn't altogether. I shall be a successful singer. "

"When?" said he. Actually he was listening!

She answered: "In--about two years, I think. "

No comment. 

"You don't believe it?"

"Do you?" A pause. "Why ask these questions you've already answeredyourself?"

"I'll tell you why, " replied she, her face suddenly flushed withearnestness. "Because I want you to help me. You help everyone else. Why not me?"

"You never asked me, " said he. 

"I didn't know I wanted it until just now--as I said it. But YOU musthave known, because you are so much more experienced than I--andunderstand people--what's going on in their minds, deeper than they cansee. " Her tone became indignant, reproachful. "Yes, you must haveknown I needed your help. And you ought to have helped me, even if youdid dislike me. You've no right to dislike anyone as young as I. "

He was looking at her now, the intensely alive blue eyes sympathetic, penetrating, understanding. It was frightful to be so thoroughlyunderstood--all one's weaknesses laid bare--yet it was a relief and ajoy, too--like the cruel healing knife of the surgeon. Said he:

"I do not like kept women. "

She gasped, grew ghastly. It was a frightful insult, one for which shewas wholly unprepared. "You--believe--that?" she said slowly. 

"Another of those questions, " he said. And he looked calmly away, outover the sea, as if his interest in the conversation were at an end. 

What should she say? How deny--how convince him? For convince him shemust, and then go away and never permit him to speak to her again untilhe had apologized. She said quietly: "Mr. Keith, you have insultedme. "

"I do not like kept women, either with or without a license, " said hein the same even, indifferent way. "When you ceased to be a kept woman, I would help you, if I could. But no one can help a kept woman. "

There was nothing to do but to rise and go away. She rose and wenttoward the house. At the veranda she paused. He had not moved. Shereturned. He was still inspecting the horizon, the cigarette dependingfrom his lips--how DID he keep it alight? She said:

"Mr. Keith, I am sure you did not mean to insult me. What did you mean?"

"Another of those questions, " said he. 

"Honestly, I do not understand. "

"Then think. And when you have thought, you will understand. "

"But I have thought. I do not understand. "

"Then it would be useless to explain, " said he. "That is one of thosevital things which, if one cannot understand them for oneself, one ishopeless--is beyond helping. "

"You mean I am not in earnest about my career?"

"Another of those questions. If you had not seen clearly what I meant, you would have been really offended. You'd have gone away and not comeback. "

She saw that this was true. And, seeing, she wondered how she couldhave been so stupid as not to have seen it at once. She had yet tolearn that overlooking the obvious is a universal human failing andthat seeing the obvious is the talent and the use of the superior ofearth--the few who dominate and determine the race. 

"You reproach me for not having helped you, " he went on. "How does ithappen that you are uneasy in mind--so uneasy that you are quarrelingat me?"

A light broke upon her. "You have been drawing me on, from thebeginning, " she cried. "You have been helping me--making me see that Ineeded help. "

"No, " said he. "I've been waiting to see whether you would rouse fromyour dream of grandeur. "

"YOU have been rousing me. "

"No, " he said. "You've roused yourself. So you may be worth helpingor, rather, worth encouraging, for no one can HELP you but yourself. "

She looked at him pathetically. "But what shall I do?" she asked. "I've got no money, no experience, no sense. I'm a vain, luxury-lovingfool, cursed with a--with a--is it a conscience?"

"I hope it's something more substantial. I hope it's common sense. "

"But I have been working--honestly I have. "

"Don't begin lying to yourself again. "

"Don't be harsh with me. "

He drew in his legs, in preparation for rising--no doubt to go away. 

"I don't mean that, " she cried testily. "You are not harsh with me. It's the truth that's harsh--the truth I'm beginning to see--and feel. I am afraid--afraid. I haven't the courage to face it. "

"Why whine?" said he. "There's nothing in that. "

"Do you think there's any hope for me?"

"That depends, " said he. 

"On what?"

"On what you want. "

"I want to be a singer, a great singer. "

"No, there's no hope. "

She grew cold with despair. He had a way of saying a thing that gaveit the full weight of a verdict from which there was no appeal. 

"Now, if you wanted to make a living, " he went on, "and if you weredetermined to learn to sing as well as you could, with the idea thatyou might be able to make a living--why, then there might be hope. "

"You think I can sing?"

"I never heard you. Can you?"

"They say I can. "

"What do YOU say?"

"I don't know, " she confessed. "I've never been able to judge. Sometimes I think I'm singing well, and I find out afterward that I'vesung badly. Again, it's the other way. "

"Then, obviously, what's the first thing to do?"

"To learn to judge myself, " said she. "I never thought of itbefore--how important that is. Do you know Jennings--Eugene Jennings?"

"The singing teacher? No. "

"Is he a good teacher?"

"No. "

"Why not?"

"Because he has not taught you that you will never sing until you areyour own teacher. Because he has not taught you that singing is asmall and minor part of a career as a singer. "

"But it isn't, " protested she. 

A long silence. Looking at him, she felt that he had dismissed her andher affairs from his mind. 

"Is it?" she said, to bring him back. 

"What?" asked he vaguely. 

"You said that a singer didn't have to be able to sing. "

"Did I?" He glanced down the shore toward the house. "It feels likelunch-time. " He rose. 

"What did you mean by what you said?"

"When you have thought about your case a while longer, we'll talk of itagain--if you wish. But until you've thought, talking is a waste oftime. "

She rose, stood staring out to sea. He was observing her, a faintsmile about his lips. He said:

"Why bother about a career? After all, kept woman is a thoroughlyrespectable occupation--or can be made so by any preacher or justice ofthe peace. It's followed by many of our best women--those who pridethemselves on their high characters--and on their pride. "

"I could not belong to a man unless I cared for him, " said she. "Itried it once. I shall never do it again. "

"That sounds fine, " said he. "Let's go to lunch. "

"You don't believe me?"

"Do you?"

She sank down upon the sand and burst into a wild passion of sobs andtears. When her fight for self-control was over and she looked up toapologize for her pitiful exhibition of weakness--and to note whethershe had made an impression upon his sympathies--she saw him justentering the house, a quarter of a mile away. To anger succeeded amood of desperate forlornness. She fell upon herself with gloomyferocity. She could not sing. She had no brains. She was takingmoney--a disgracefully large amount of money--from Stanley Baird underfalse pretenses. How could she hope to sing when her voice could notbe relied upon? Was not her throat at that very moment slightly sore?Was it not always going queer? She--sing! Absurd. Did Stanley Bairdsuspect? Was he waiting for the time when she would gladly accept whatshe must have from him, on his own terms? No, not on his terms, but onthe terms she herself would arrange--the only terms she could make. No, Stanley believed in her absolutely--believed in her career. When hediscovered the truth, he would lose interest in her, would regard heras a poor, worthless creature, would be eager to rid himself of her. Instead of returning to the house, she went in the opposite direction, made a circuit and buried herself in the woods beyond the Shrewsbury. She was mad to get away from her own company; but the only company shecould fly to was more depressing than the solitude and the taunt andsneer and lash of her own thoughts. It was late in the afternoonbefore she nerved herself to go home. She hoped the others would havegone off somewhere; but they were waiting for her, Stanley anxious andCyrilla Brindley irritated. Her eyes sought Keith. He was, as usual, the indifferent spectator. 

"Where have you been?" cried Stanley. 

"Making up my mind, " said she in the tone that forewarns of a storm. 

A brief pause. She struggled in vain against an impulse to look atKeith. When her eyes turned in his direction he, not looking at her, moved in his listless way toward the door. Said he:

"The auto's waiting. Come on. "

She vacillated, yielded, began to put on the wraps Stanley wascollecting for her. It was a big touring-car, and they sat two andtwo, with the chauffeur alone. Keith was beside Mildred. When theywere under way, she said:

"Why did you stop me? Perhaps I'll never have the courage again. "

"Courage for what?" asked he. 

"To take your advice, and break off. "

"MY advice?"

"Yes, your advice. "

"You have to clutch at and cling to somebody, don't you? You can'tbear the idea of standing up by your own strength. "

"You think I'm trying to fasten to you?" she said, with an angry laugh. 

"I know it. You admitted it. You are not satisfied with the waythings are going. You have doubts about your career. You shrink fromyour only comfortable alternative, if the career winks out. You ask memy opinion about yourself and about careers. I give it. Now, I findyou asked only that you might have someone to lean on, to accuse ofhaving got you into a mess, if doing what you think you ought to doturns out as badly as you fear. "

It was the longest speech she had heard him make. She had noinclination to dispute his analysis of her motives. "I did not realizeit, " said she, "but that is probably so. But--remember how I wasbrought up. "

"There's only one thing for you to do. "

"Go back to my husband? You know--about me--don't you?"

"Yes"

"I can't go back to him. "

"No. "

"Then--what?" she asked. 

"Go on, as now, " replied he. 

"You despise me, don't you?"

"No. "

"But you said you did. "

"Dislike and despise are not at all the same. "

"You admit that you dislike me, " cried she triumphantly. He did notanswer. 

"You think me a weak, clinging creature, not able to do anything butmake pretenses. "

No answer. 

"Don't you?" she persisted. 

"Probably I have about the same opinion of you that you have ofyourself. "

"What WILL become of me?" she said. Her face lighted up with anexpression of reckless beauty. "If I could only get started I'd go tothe devil, laughing and dancing--and taking a train with me. "

"You ARE started, " said he, with an amiable smile. "Keep on. But Idoubt if you'll be so well amused as you may imagine. Going to thedevil isn't as it's painted in novels by homely old maids and by mentoo timid to go out of nights. A few steps farther, and yourdisillusionment will begin. But there'll be no turning back. Already, you are almost too old to make a career. "

"I'm only twenty-four. I flattered myself I looked still younger. "

"It's worse than I thought, " said he. "Most of the singers, even thesecond-rate ones, began at fifteen--began seriously. And you haven'tbegun yet. "

"That's unjust, " she protested. "I've done a little. Many great peoplewould think it a great deal. "

"You haven't begun yet, " repeated he calmly. "You have spent a lot ofmoney, and have done a lot of dreaming and talking and listening tocompliments, and have taken a lot of lessons of an expensive charlatan. But what have those things to do with a career?"

"You've never heard me sing. "

"I do not care for singing. "

"Oh!" said she in a tone of relief. "Then you know nothing about allthis. "

"On the contrary, I know everything about a career. And we were talkingof careers, not of singing. "

"You mean that my voice is worthless because I haven't the otherelements?"

"What else could I have meant?" said he. "You haven't the strength. You haven't the health. "

She laughed as she straightened herself. "Do I look weak and sickly?"cried she. 

"For the purposes of a career as a female you are strong and well, "said he. "For the purpose of a career as a singer--" He smiled andshook his head. "A singer must have muscles like wire ropes, like ablacksmith or a washerwoman. The other day we were climbing a hill--anot very steep hill. You stopped five times for breath, and twice yousat down to rest. "

She was literally hanging her head with shame. "I wasn't very wellthat day, " she murmured. 

"Don't deceive yourself, " said he. "Don't indulge in the fatal follyof self-excuse. "

"Go on, " she said humbly. "I want to hear it all. "

"Is your throat sore to-day?" pursued he. 

She colored. "It's better, " she murmured. 

"A singer with sore throat!" mocked he. "You've had a slight fogginessof the voice all summer. "

"It's this sea air, " she eagerly protested. "It affects everyone. "

"No self-excuse, please, " interrupted he. "Cigarettes, champagne, allkinds of foolish food, an impaired digestion--that's the truth, and youknow it. "

"I've got splendid digestion! I can eat anything!" she cried. "Oh, you don't know the first thing about singing. You don't know abouttemperament, about art, about all the things that singing really means. "

"We were talking of careers, " said he. "A career means a person whocan be relied upon to do what is demanded of him. A singer's careermeans a powerful body, perfect health, a sound digestion. Withoutthem, the voice will not be reliable. What you need is not singingteachers, but teachers of athletics and of hygiene. To hear you talkabout a career is like listening to a child. You think you can becomea professional singer by paying money to a teacher. There are lawyersand doctors and business men in all lines who think that way abouttheir professions--that learning a little routine of technicalknowledge makes a lawyer or a doctor or a merchant or a financier. "

"Tell me--WHAT ought I to learn?"

"Learn to think--and to persist. Learn to concentrate. Learn to makesacrifices. Learn to handle yourself as a great painter handles hisbrush and colors. Then perhaps you'll make a career as a singer. Ifnot, it'll be a career as something or other. "

She was watching him with a wistful, puzzled expression. "Could I everdo all that?"

"Anyone could, by working away at it every day. If you gain only oneinch a day, in a year you'll have gained three hundred and sixty-fiveinches. And if you gain an inch a day for a while and hold it, yousoon begin to gain a foot a day. But there's no need to worry aboutthat. " He was gazing at her now with an expression of animation thatshowed how feverishly alive he was behind that mask of calmness. "Theday's work--that's the story of success. Do the day's workpersistently, thoroughly, intelligently. Never mind about to-morrow. Thinking of it means dreaming or despairing--both futilities. Just theday's work. "

"I begin to understand, " she said thoughtfully. "You are right. I'vedone nothing. Oh, I've been a fool--more foolish even than I thought. "

A long silence, then she said, somewhat embarrassed and in a low voice, though there was no danger of those in front of them hearing:

"I want you to know that there has been nothing wrong--between Stanleyand me. "

"Do you wish me to put that to your credit or to your discredit?"inquired he. 

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you've just told me that you haven't given Stanley anything atall for his money--that you've cheated him outright. The thing itselfis discreditable, but your tone suggests that you think I'll admire youfor it. "

"Do you mean to say that you'd think more highly of me if I were--whatmost women would be in the same circumstances?"

"I mean to say that I think the whole business is discreditable to bothof you--to his intelligence, to your character. "

"You are frank, " said she, trying to hide her anger. 

"I am frank, " replied he, undisturbed. He looked at her. "Why shouldI not be?"

"You know that I need you, that I don't dare resent, " said she. "Soisn't it--a little cowardly?"

"Why do you need me? Not for money, for you know you'll not get that. "

"I don't want it, " cried she, agitated. "I never thought of it. "

"Yes, you've probably thought of it, " replied he coolly. "But you willnot get it. "

"Well, that's settled--I'll not get it. "

"Then why do you need me? Of what use can I be to you? Only one usein the world. To tell you the truth--the exact truth. Is not that so?"

"Yes, " she said. "That is what I want from you--what I can't get fromanyone else. No one else knows the truth--not even Mrs. Brindley, though she's intelligent. I take back what I said about your beingcowardly. Oh, you do stab my vanity so! You mustn't mind my cryingout. I can't help it--at least, not till I get used to you. "

"Cry out, " said he. "It does no harm. "

"How wonderfully you understand me!" exclaimed she. "That's why I letyou say to me anything you please. "

He was smiling peculiarly--a smile that somehow made her feeluncomfortable. She nerved herself for some still deeper stab into hervanity. He said, his gaze upon her and ironical:

"I'm sorry I can't return the compliment. "

"What compliment?" asked she. 

"Can't say that you understand me. Why do you think I am doing this?"

She colored. "Oh, no indeed, Mr. Keith, " she protested, "I don't thinkyou are in love with me--or anything of that sort. Indeed, I do not. Iknow you better than that. "

"Really?" said he, amused. "Then you are not human. "

"How can you think me so vain?" she protested. 

"Because you are so, " replied he. "You are as vain--no more so, butjust as much so--as the average pretty and attractive woman brought upas you have been. You are not obsessed by the notion that yourphysical charms are all-powerful, and in that fact there is hope foryou. But you attach entirely too much importance to them. You willfind them a hindrance for a long time before they begin to be a help toyou in your career. And they will always be a temptation to you totake the easy, stupid way of making a living--the only way open to mostwomen that is not positively repulsive. "

"I think it is the most repulsive, " said Mildred. 

"Don't cant, " replied he, unimpressed. "It's not so repulsive to yoursort of woman as manual labor--or as any kind of work that means noleisure, no luxury and small pay. "

"I wonder, " said Mildred. "I--I'm afraid you're right. But I WON'Tadmit it. I don't dare. "

"That's the finest, truest thing I've ever heard you say, " said Keith. 

Mildred was pleased out of all proportion to the compliment. Said shewith frank eagerness, "Then I'm not altogether hopeless?"

"As a character, no indeed, " replied he. "But as a career-- I wasabout to say, you may set your mind at rest. I shall never try tocollect for my services. I am doing all this solely out of obstinacy. "

"Obstinacy?" asked the puzzled girl. 

"The impossible attracts me. That's why I've never been interested tomake a career in law or politics or those things. I care only for thething that can't be done. When I saw you and studied you, as I studyevery new thing, I decided that you could not possibly make a career. "

"Why have you changed your mind?" she interrupted eagerly. 

"I haven't, " replied he. "If I had, I should have lost interest inyou. Just as soon as you show signs of making a career, I shall loseinterest in you. I have a friend, a doctor, who will take only caseswhere cure is impossible. Looking at you, it occurred to me that herewas a chance to make an experiment more interesting than any of his. And as I have no other impossible task inviting me at present, Idecided to undertake you--if you were willing. "

"Why do you tell me this?" she asked. "To discourage me?"

"No. Your vanity will prevent that. "

"Then why?"

"To clear myself of all responsibility for you. You understand--I bindmyself to nothing. I am free to stop or to go on at any time. "

"And I?" said Mildred. 

"You must do exactly as I tell you. "

"But that is not fair, " cried she. 

"Why not?" inquired he. "Without me you have no hope--none whatever. "

"I don't believe that, " declared she. "It is not true. "

"Very well. Then we'll drop the business, " said he tranquilly. "Ifthe time comes when you see that I'm your only hope, and if then I'm inmy present humor, we will go on. "

And he lapsed into silence from which she soon gave over trying torouse him. She thought of what he had said, studied him, but couldmake nothing of it. She let four days go by, days of increasing unrestand unhappiness. She could not account for herself. Donald Keithseemed to have cast a spell over her--an evil spell. Her throat gaveher more and more trouble. She tried her voice, found that it hadvanished. She examined herself in the glass, and saw or fancied thather looks were going--not so that others would note it, but in thesubtle ways that give the first alarm to a woman who has beauty worthtaking care of and thinks about it intelligently. She thought Mrs. Brindley was beginning to doubt her, suspected a covert uneasiness inStanley. Her foundations, such as they were, seemed tottering andready to disintegrate. She saw her own past with clear vision for thefirst time--saw how futile she had been, and why Keith believed therewas no hope for her. She made desperate efforts to stop thinking aboutpast and future, to absorb herself in present comfort and luxury andopportunities for enjoyment. But Keith was always there--and to seehim was to lose all capacity for enjoyment. She was curt, almost rudeto him--had some vague idea of forcing him to stay away. Yet everytime she lost sight of him, she was in terror until she saw him again. 

She was alone on the small veranda facing the high-road. She happenedto glance toward the station; her gaze became fixed, her body rigid, for, coming leisurely and pompously toward the house, was GeneralSiddall, in the full panoply of his wonderful tailoring andhaberdashery. She thought of flight, but instantly knew that flightwas useless; the little general was not there by accident. She waited, her rigidity giving her a deceptive seeming of calm and even ease. Heentered the little yard, taking off his glossy hat and exposing therampant toupee. He smiled at her so slightly that the angle of theneedle-pointed mustaches and imperial was not changed. The cold, expressionless, fishy eyes simply looked at her. 

"A delightful little house, " said he, with a patronizing glance around. "May I sit down?"

She inclined her head. 

"And you are looking well, charming, " he went on, and he seated himselfand carefully planted his neat boots side by side. "For the summerthere's nothing equal to the seashore. You are surprised to see me?"

"I thought you were abroad, " said Mildred. 

"So I was--until yesterday. I came back because my men had found you. And I'm here because I venture to hope that you have had enough of thisfoolish escapade. I hope we can come to an understanding. I've lost mytaste for wandering about. I wish to settle down--to have a home andto stay in it. By that I mean, of course, two or three--or possiblyfour--houses, according to the season. " Mildred sent her glancedarting about. The little general saw and began to talk more rapidly. "I've given considerable thought to our--our misunderstanding. I feelthat I gave too much importance to your--your-- I did not take youryouth and inexperience of the world and of married life sufficientlyinto account. Also the first Mrs. Siddall was not a lady--nor thesecond. A lady, a young lady, was a new experience to me. I am agenerous man. So I say frankly that I ought to have been more patient. "

"You said you would never see me again until I came to you, " saidMildred. As he was not looking at her, she watched his face. She nowsaw a change--behind the mask. But he went on in an unchanged voice:

"Were you aware that Mrs. Baird is about to sue her husband for aseparation--not for a divorce but for a separation--and name you?"

Mildred dropped limply back in her chair. 

"That means scandal, " continued Siddall, "scandal touching my name--myhonor. I may say, I do not believe what Mrs. Baird charges. My menhave had you under observation for several weeks. Also, Mrs. Brindleyis, I learn, a woman of the highest character. But the thing looksbad--you hiding from your husband, living under an assumed name, receiving the visits of a former admirer. "

"You are mistaken, " said Mildred. "Mrs. Baird would not bring such afalse, wicked charge. "

"You are innocent, my dear, " said the general. 

"You don't realize how your conduct looks. She intends to charge thather husband has been supporting you. "

Mildred, quivering, started up, sank weakly back again. 

"But, " he went on, "you will easily prove that your money is yourinheritance from your father. I assured myself of that before Iconsented to come here. "

"Consented?" said Mildred. "At whose request?"

"That of my own generosity, " replied he. "But my honor had to bereassured. When I was satisfied that you were innocent, and simplyflighty and foolish, I came. If there had been any taint upon you, ofcourse I could not have taken you back. As it is, I am willing--I maysay, more than willing. Mrs. Baird can be bought off and frightenedoff. When she finds you have me to protect you, she will move verycautiously, you may be sure. "

As the little man talked, Mildred saw and felt behind the mask thethoughts, the longings of his physical infatuation for her coiling anduncoiling and reaching tremulously out toward her like unclean, horrible tentacles. She was drawn as far as could be back into herchair, and her soul was shrinking within her body. 

"I am willing to make you a proper allowance, and to give you allproper freedom, " he went on. He showed his sharp white teeth in agracious smile. "I realize I must concede something of myold-fashioned ideas to the modern spirit. I never thought I would, butI didn't appreciate how fond I was of you, my dear. " He mumbled histongue and noiselessly smacked his thin lips. "Yes, you are worthconcessions and sacrifices. "

"I am not going back, " said Mildred. "Nothing you could offer me wouldmake any difference. " She felt suddenly calm and strong. She stood. "Please consider this final. "

"But, my dear, " said the general softly, though there was a wickedgleam behind the mask, "you forget the scandal--"

"I forget nothing, " interrupted she. "I shall not go back. "

Before he could attempt further to detain her she opened the screendoor and entered. It closed on the spring and on the spring lock. 

Donald Keith, coming in from the sea-front veranda, was just in time tosave her from falling. She pushed him fiercely away and sank down onthe sofa just within the pretty little drawing-room. She said:

"Thank you. I didn't mean to be rude. I was only angry with myself. I'm getting to be one of those absurd females who blubber and keelover. "

"You're white and limp, " said he. "What's the matter?"

"General Siddall is out there. "

"Um--he's come back, has he?" said Keith. 

"And I am afraid of him--horribly afraid of him. "

"In some places and circumstances he would be a dangerous proposition, "said Keith. "But not here in the East--and not to you. "

"He would do ANYTHING. I don't know what he can do, but I am sure itwill be frightful--will destroy me. "

"You are going with him?"

She laughed. "I loathe him. I thought I left him through fear andanger. I was mistaken. It was loathing. And my fear of him--it'sloathing, too. "

"You mean that?" said Keith, observing her intently. "You wish to berid of him?"

"What a poor opinion you have of me, " said she. "Really, I don'tdeserve quite that. "

"Then come with me. "

The look of terror and shrinking returned. "Where? To see him?"

"For the last time, " said Keith. "There'll be no scene. "

It was the supreme test of her confidence in him. Without hesitation, she rose, preceded him into the hall, and advanced firmly toward thescreen door through which the little general could be seen. He wasstanding at the top step, his back to them. At the sound of theopening door he turned. 

"This is Mr. Donald Keith, " said Mildred. "He wishes to speak to you. "

The general bowed; Keith bent his head. They eyed each other with themeasuring glance. Keith said in his dry, terse way: "I asked MissGower to come with me because I wish her to hear what I have to say toyou. "

"You mean my wife, " said the general with a gracious smile. 

"I mean Miss Gower, " returned Keith. "As you know, she is not yourwife. "

Mildred uttered a cry; but the two men continued to look each at theother, with impassive countenances. 

"Your only wife is the woman who has been in the private insane asylumof Doctor Rivers at Pueblo, Colorado, for the past eleven years. Forabout twenty years before that she was in the Delavan private asylumnear Denver. You could not divorce her under the laws of Colorado. Thedivorce you got in Nevada was fraudulent. "

"That's a lie, " said the general coldly. 

Keith went on, as if he had not heard: "You will not annoy this ladyagain. And you will stop bribing Stanley Baird's wife to make a foolof herself. And you will stop buying houses in the blocks where Bairdowns real estate, and moving colored families into them. "

"I tell you that about my divorce is a lie, " replied Siddall. 

"I can prove it, " said Keith. "And I can prove that you knew it beforeyou married your second wife. "

For the first time Siddall betrayed at the surface a hint of how hardhe was hit. His skin grew bright yellow; wrinkles round his eyes andround the base of his nose sprang into sudden prominence. 

"I see you know what I mean--that attempt to falsify the record atCarson City, " said Keith. He opened the screen door for Mildred topass in. He followed her, and the door closed behind them. They wentinto the drawing-room. He dropped into an easy chair, crossed hislegs, leaned his head back indolently--a favorite attitude of his. 

"How long have you known?" said she. Her cheeks were flushed withexcitement. 

"Oh, a good many years, " replied he. "It was one of those accidentalbits of information a man runs across in knocking about. As soon asBaird told me about you, I had the thing looked up, quietly. I wasgoing up to see him to-morrow--about the negroes and Mrs. Baird's suit. "

"Does Stanley know?" inquired she. 

"No, " said Keith. "Not necessary. Never will be. If you like, youcan have the marriage annulled without notoriety. But that's notnecessary, either. "

After a long silence, she said: "What does this make out of me?"

"You mean, what would be thought of you, if it were known?" inquiredhe. "Well, it probably wouldn't improve your social position. "

"I am disgraced, " said she, curiously rather than emotionally. 

"Would be, if it were known, " corrected he, "and if you are nothing buta woman without money looking for a husband. If you happened to be asinger or an actress, it would add to your reputation--make you moretalked about. "

"But I am not an actress or a singer. "

"On the other hand, I should say you didn't amount to much socially. Except in Hanging Rock, of course--if there is still a Hanging Rock. Don't worry about your reputation. Fussing and fretting about yoursocial position doesn't help toward a career. "

"Naturally, you take it coolly. But you can hardly expect me to, "cried she. 

"You are taking it coolly, " said he. "Then why try to work yourself upinto a fit of hysterics? The thing is of no importance--except thatyou're free now--will never be bothered by Siddall again. You ought tothank me, and forget it. Don't be one of the little people who areforever agitating about trifles. "

Trifles! To speak of such things as trifles! And yet-- Well, whatdid they actually amount to in her life? "Yes, I AM free, " she saidthoughtfully. "I've got what I wanted--got it in the easiest waypossible. "

"That's better, " said he approvingly. 

"And I've burnt my bridges behind me, " pursued she. "There's nothingfor me now but to go ahead. "

"Which road?" inquired he carelessly. 

"The career, " cried she. "There's no other for me. Of course I COULDmarry Stanley, when he's free, as he would be before very long, if Isuggested it. Yes, I could marry him. "

"Could you?" observed he. 

"Doesn't he love me?"

"Undoubtedly. "

"Then why do you say he would not marry me?" demanded she. 

"Did I say that?"

"You insinuated it. You suggested that there was a doubt. "

"Then, there is no doubt?"

"Yes, there is, " she cried angrily. "You won't let me enjoy the leastbit of a delusion. He might marry me if I were famous. But as I amnow-- He's an inbred snob. He can't help it. He simply couldn'tmarry a woman in my position. But you're overlooking one thing--that_I_ would not marry HIM. "

"That's unimportant, if true, " said Keith. 

"You don't believe it?"

"I don't care anything about it, my dear lady, " said Keith. "Have yougot time to waste in thinking about how much I am in love with you?What a womanly woman you are, to be sure. Your true woman, you know, never thinks of anything but love--not how much she loves, but how muchshe is loved. "

"Be careful!" she warned. "Some day you'll go too far in sayingoutrageous things to me. "

"And then?" said he smilingly. 

"You care nothing for our friendship?"

"The experiment is the only interest I have in you, " replied he. 

"That is not true, " said she. "You have always liked me. That's whyyou looked up my hus-- General Siddall and got ready for him. That'swhy you saved me to-day. You are a very tender-hearted and generousman--and you hide it as you do everything else about yourself. "

He was looking off into space from the depths of the easy chair, amocking smile on his classical, impassive face. 

"What puzzles me, " she went on, "is why you interest yourself in asvain and shallow and vacillating a woman as I am. You don't care formy looks--and that's all there is to me. "

"Don't pause to be contradicted, " said he. 

She was in a fine humor now. "You might at least have said I was up tothe female average, for I am. What have they got to offer a man buttheir looks? Do you know why I despise men?"

"Do you?"

"I do. And it's because they put up with women as much as theydo--spend so much money on them, listen to their chatter, admire theirridiculous clothes. Oh, I understand why. I've learned that. And Ican imagine myself putting up with anything in some one man I happenedto fancy strongly. But men are foolish about the whole sex--or all ofthem that have a shadow of a claim to good looks. "

"Yes, the men make fools of themselves, " admitted he. "But I noticethat the men manage somehow to make the careers, and hold on to themoney and the power, while the women have to wheedle and fawn andsubmit in order to get what they want from the men. There's nothing tobe said for your sex. It's been hopelessly corrupted by mine. For allthe talk about the influence of woman, what impression has your sexmade upon mine? And your sex--it has been made by mine into exactlywhat we wished it to be. Take my advice, get out of your sex. Abandonit, and make a career. "

After a while she recalled with a start the events of less than an hourago--events that ought to have seemed wildly exciting, arousing thedeepest and strongest emotions. Yet they had made no impression uponher. Absolutely none. She had no horror in the thought that she hadbeen the victim of a bigamist; she had no elation over her release intofreedom and safety. She wondered whether this arose from utterfrivolousness or from indifference to the trifles of conventional joys, sorrows, agitations, excitements which are the whole life of mostpeople--that indifference which is the cause of the general opinionthat men and women who make careers are usually hardened in the process. 

As she lay awake that night--she had got a very bad habit of lyingawake hour after hour--she suddenly came to a decision. But she didnot tell Keith for several days. She did it in this way:

"Don't you think I'm looking better?" she asked. 

"You're sleeping again, " said he. 

"Do you know why? Because my mind's at rest. I've decided to acceptyour offer. "

"And my terms?" said he, apparently not interested by her announcement. 

"And your terms, " assented she. "You are free to stop whenever thewhim strikes you; I must do exactly as you bid. What do you wish me todo?"

"Nothing at present, " replied he. "I will let you know. "

She was disappointed. She had assumed that something--something newand interesting, probably irritating, perhaps enraging, would occur atonce. His indifference, his putting off to a future time, which hismanner made seem most hazily indefinite, gave her the foolish andcollapsing sense of having broken through an open door. 

VII

THE first of September they went up to town. Stanley left at once forhis annual shooting trip; Donald Keith disappeared, saying--as was hishabit--neither what he was about nor when he would be seen again. Mrs. Brindley summoned her pupils and her musical friends. Mildred resumedthe lessons with Jennings. There was no doubt about it, she hadastonishingly improved during the summer. There had come--or, rather, had come back--into her voice the birdlike quality, free, joyous, spontaneous, that had not been there since her father's death and thefamily's downfall. She was glad that her arrangement with Donald Keithwas of such a nature that she was really not bound to go on with it--ifhe should ever come back and remind her of what she had said. Now thatJennings was enthusiastic--giving just and deserved praise, as her ownear and Mrs. Brindley assured her, she was angry at herself for havingtolerated Keith's frankness, his insolence, his insulting andcontemptuous denials of her ability. She was impatient to see him, that she might put him down. She said to Jennings:

"You think I can make a career?"

"There isn't a doubt in my mind now, " replied he. "You ought to be oneof the few great lyric sopranos within five years. "

"A man, this summer--a really unusual man in some ways--told me therewas no hope for me. "

"A singing teacher?"

"No, a lawyer. A Mr. Keith--Donald Keith. "

"I've heard of him, " said Jennings. "His mother was Rivi, the famouscoloratura of twenty years ago. "

Mildred was astounded. "He must know something about music. "

"Probably, " replied Jennings. "He lived with her in Italy, I believe, until he was almost grown. Then she died. You sang for him?"

"No, " Mildred said it hesitatingly. 

"Oh!" said Jennings, and his expression--interested, disturbed, puzzled--made Mildred understand why she had been so reluctant toconfess. Jennings did not pursue the subject, but abruptly began thelesson. That day and several days thereafter he put her to tests hehad never used before. She saw that he was searching forsomething--for the flaw implied in the adverse verdict of the son ofLucia Rivi. She was enormously relieved when he gave over the searchwithout having found the flaw. She felt that Donald Keith's verdicthad been proved false or at least faulty. Yet she was not whollyreassured, and from time to time she suspected that Jennings had notbeen, either. 

Soon the gayety of the preceding winter and spring was in full swingagain. Keith did not return, did not write, and Cyrilla Brindleyinquired and telephoned in vain. Mildred worked with enthusiasm, withhope, presently with confidence. She hoped every day that Keith wouldcome; she would make him listen to her, force him to admit. She caughta slight cold, neglected it, tried to sing it away. Her voice left herabruptly. She went to Jennings as usual the day she found herself ableto do nothing more musical than squeak. She told him her plight. Saidhe:

"Begin! Let's hear. "

She made a few dismal attempts, stopped short, and, half laughing, halfashamed, faced him for the lecture she knew would be forthcoming. Now, it so happened that Jennings was in a frightful humor that day--one ofthose humors in which the most prudent lose their self-control. He hadbeen listening to a succession of new pupils--women with money and novoice, women who screeched and screamed and thoroughly enjoyedthemselves and angled confidently for compliments. As Jennings had anacute musical ear, his sufferings had been frightful. He was used tothese torments, had the habit of turning the fury into which they puthim into excellent financial or disciplinary account. But on thisparticular day his nerves went to pieces, and it was with Mildred thatthe explosion came. When she looked at him, she was horrified to see aface distorted and discolored by sheer rage. 

"You fool!" he shouted, storming up and down. "You fool! You can'tsing! Keith was right. You wouldn't do even for a church choir. Youcan't be relied on. There's nothing behind your voice--no strength, noendurance, no brains. No brains! Do you hear?--no brains, I say!"

Mildred was terrified. She had seen him in tantrums before, but alwaysthere had been a judicious reserving of part of the truth. Instead ofresenting, instead of flashing eye or quivering lips, Mildred sat downand with white face and dazed eyes stared straight before her. Jenningsraved and roared himself out. As he came to his senses from thisdebauch of truth-telling his first thought was how expensive it mightbe. Thus, long before there was any outward sign that the storm hadpassed, the ravings, the insults were shrewdly tempered withqualifyings. If she kept on catching these colds, if she did not obeyhis instructions, she might put off her debut for years--for threeyears, for two years at least. And she would always be rowing withmanagers and irritating the public--and so on and on. But the mischiefhad been done. The girl did not rouse. 

"No use to go on to-day, " he said gruffly--the pretense at lastrumblings of an expiring storm. 

"Nor any other day, " said Mildred. 

She stood and straightened herself. Her face was beautiful rather thanlovely. Its pallor, its strong lines, the melancholy intensity of theeyes, made her seem more the woman fully developed, less, far less, thematuring girl. 

"Nonsense!" scolded Jennings. "But no more colds like that. Theyimpair the quality of the voice. "

"I have no voice, " said the girl. "I see the truth. "

Jennings was inwardly cursing his insane temper. In about the kindliesttone he had ever used with her, he said: "My dear Miss Stevens, youare in no condition to judge to-day. Come back to-morrow. Dosomething for that cold to-night. Clear out the throat--and come backto-morrow. You will see. "

"Yes, I know those tricks, " said she, with a sad little smile. "Youcan make a crow seem to sing. But you told me the truth. "

"To-morrow, " he cried pleasantly, giving her an encouraging pat on theshoulder. He knew the folly of talking too much, the danger ofconfirming her fears by pretending to make light of them. "A goodsleep, and to-morrow things will look brighter. "

He did not like her expression. It was not the one he was used toseeing in those vain, "temperamental" pupils of his--the downcastvanity that will be up again in a few hours. It was rather theexpression of one who has been finally and forever disillusioned. 

On her way home she stopped to send Keith a telegram: "I must see youat once. "

There were several at the apartment for tea, among them Cullan, anamateur violinist and critic on music whom she especially liked. For, instead of the dreamy, romantic character his large brown eyes andsensitive features suggested, he revealed in talk and actions a boyishgayety--free, be it said, from boyish silliness--that was mostinfectious. His was one of those souls that put us in the mood tolaugh at all seriousness, to forget all else in the supreme fact of thereality of existence. He made her forget that day--forget untilKeith's answering telegram interrupted: "Next Monday afternoon. "

A week less a day away! She shrank and trembled at the prospect ofrelying upon herself alone for six long days. Every prop had beentaken away from her. Even the dubious prop of the strange, unsatisfactory Keith. For had he not failed her? She had said, "must"and "at once"; and he had responded with three words of curt refusal. 

After dinner Stanley unexpectedly appeared. He hardly waited for thenecessary formalities of the greeting before he said to Mrs. Brindley:"I want to see Mildred alone. I know you won't mind, Mrs. Brindley. It's very important. " He laughed nervously but cheerfully. "And in afew minutes I'll call you in. I think I'll have something interestingto tell you. "

Mrs. Brindley laughed. With her cigarette in one hand and her cup ofafter-dinner coffee in the other, she moved toward the door, sayinggayly to Mildred:

"I'll be in the next room. If you scream I shall hear. So don't bealarmed. "

Stanley closed the door, turned beaming upon Mildred. Said he: "Here'smy news. My missus has got her divorce. "

Mildred started up. 

"Yes, the real thing, " he assured her. "Of course I knew what wasdoing. But I kept mum--didn't want to say anything to you till I couldsay everything. Mildred, I'm free. We can be married to-morrow, if youwill. "

"Then you know about me?" said she, confused. 

"On the way I stopped in to see Keith. He told me about thatskunk--told me you were free, too. "

Mildred slowly sat down. Her elbows rested upon the table. There washer bare forearm, slender and round, and her long, graceful fingers layagainst her cheek. The light from above reflected charmingly from thesoft waves and curves of her hair. "You're lovely--simply lovely!"cried Stanley. "Mildred--darling--you WILL marry me, won't you? Youcan go right on with the career, if you like. In fact, I'd rather youwould, for I'm frightfully proud of your voice. And I've changed a lotsince I became sincerely interested in you. The other sort of life andpeople don't amuse me any more. Mildred, say you'll marry me. I'llmake you as happy as the days are long. "

She moved slightly. Her hand dropped to the table. 

"I guess I came down on you too suddenly, " said he. "You look a bitdazed. "

"No, I'm not dazed, " replied she. 

"I'll call Mrs. Brindley in, and we'll all three talk it over. "

"Please don't, " said she. "I've got to think it out for myself. "

"I know there isn't anyone else, " he went on. "So, I'm sure--deadsure, Mildred, that I can teach you to love me. "

She looked at him pleadingly. "I don't have to answer right away?"

"Certainly not, " laughed he. "But why shouldn't you? What is thereagainst our getting married? Nothing. And everything for it. Ourmarriage will straighten out all the--the little difficulties, and youcan go ahead with the singing and not bother about money, or whatpeople might say, or any of those things. "

"I--I've got to think about it, Stanley, " she said gently. "I want todo the decent thing by you and by myself. "

"You're afraid I'll interfere in the career--won't want you to go on?Mildred, I swear I'm--"

"It isn't that, " she interrupted, her color high. "The truth is--" shefaltered, came to a full stop--cried, "Oh, I can't talk about itto-night. "

"To-morrow?" he suggested. 

"I--don't know, " she stammered. "Perhaps to-morrow. But it may be twoor three days. "

Stanley looked crestfallen. "That hurts, Mildred, " he said. "I was SOfull of it, so anxious to be entirely happy, and I thought you'd fallright in with it. Something to do with money? You're horriblysensitive about money, dear. I like that in you, of course. Not manywomen would have been as square, would have taken as little--and workedhard--and thought and cared about nothing but making good-- By Jove, it's no wonder I'm stark crazy about YOU!"

She was flushed and trembling. "Don't, " she pleaded. "You're beatingme down into the dust. I--I'm--" She started up. "I can't talkto-night. I might say things I'd be-- I can't talk about it. I must--"

She pressed her lips together and fled through the hall to her ownroom, to shut and lock herself in. He stared in amazement. When heheard the distant sound of the turning key he dropped to a chair againand laughed. Certainly women were queer creatures--always doing whatone didn't expect. Still, in the end--well, a sensible woman knew agood chance to marry and took it. There was no doubt a good deal ofpretense in Mildred's delicacy as to money matters--but a devilishcreditable sort of pretense. He liked the ladylike, "nice" pretenses, of women of the right sort--liked them when they fooled him, liked themwhen they only half fooled him. 

Presently he knocked on the door of the little library, opened it whenpermission came in Cyrilla's voice. She was reading the eveningpaper--he did not see the glasses she hastily thrust into a drawer. Inthat soft light she looked a scant thirty, handsome, but for his tastetoo intellectual of type to be attractive--except as a friend. 

"Well, " said he, as he lit a cigarette and dropped the match into thebig copper ash-bowl, "I'll bet you can't guess what I've been up to. "

"Making love to Miss Stevens, " replied she. "And very foolish it is ofyou. She's got a steady head in that way. "

"You're mighty right, " said he heartily. "And I admire her for thatmore than for anything else. I'd trust her anywhere. "

"You're paying yourself a high compliment, " laughed Cyrilla. 

"How's that?" inquired he. "You're too subtle for me. I'm a bit slow. "

Mrs. Brindley decided against explaining. It was not wise to riskraising an unjust doubt in the mind of a man who fancied that a womanwho resisted him would be adamant to every other man. "Then I've gotto guess again?" said she. 

"I've been asking her to marry me, " said Stanley, who could contain itno longer. "Mrs. B. Was released from me to-day by the court inProvidence. "

"But SHE'S not free, " said Cyrilla, a little severely. 

Stanley looked confused, finally said: "Yes, she is. It's a queerstory. Don't say anything. I can't explain. I know I can trust youto keep a close mouth. "

"Minding my own business is my one supreme talent, " said Cyrilla. 

"She hasn't accepted me--in so many words, " pursued Baird, "but I'vehopes that it'll come out all right. "

"Naturally, " commented Cyrilla dryly. 

"I know I'm not--not objectionable to her. And how I do love her!" Hesettled himself at his ease. "I can't believe it's really me. I neverthought I'd marry--just for love. Did you?"

"You're very self-indulgent, " said Cyrilla. 

"You mean I'm marrying her because I can't get her any other way. There's where you're wrong, Mrs. Brindley. I'm marrying her because Idon't want her any other way. That's why I know it's love. I didn'tthink I was capable of it. Of course, I've been rather strong afterthe ladies all my life. You know how it is with men. "

"I do, " said Mrs. Brindley. 

"No, you don't either, " retorted he. "You're one of those cold, stand-me-off women who can't comprehend the nature of man. "

"As you please, " said she. In her eyes there was a gleam that morethan suggested a possibility of some man--some man she mightfancy--seeing an amazingly different Cyrilla Brindley. 

"I may say I was daft about pretty women, " continued Baird. "I neverread an item about a pretty woman in the papers, or saw a picture of apretty woman that I didn't wish I knew her--well. Can you imaginethat?" laughed he. 

"Commonplace, " said Cyrilla. "All men are so. That's why the papersalways describe the woman as pretty and why the pictures are published. "

"Really? Yes, I suppose so. " Baird looked chagrined. "Anyhow, here Iam, all for one woman. And why? I can't explain it to myself. She'spretty, lovely, entrancing sometimes. She has charm, grace, sweetness. She dresses well and carries herself with a kind of sweet haughtiness. She looks as if she knew a lot--and nothing bad. Do you know, I can'timagine her having been married to that beast! I've tried to imagineit. I simply can't. "

"I shouldn't try if I were you, " said Mrs. Brindley. 

"But I was talking about why I love her. Does this bore you?"

"A little, " laughed Cyrilla. "I'd rather hear some man talking aboutMY charms. But go on. You are amusing, in a way. "

"I'll wager I am. You never thought I'd be caught? I believed I wasimmune--vaccinated against it. I thought I knew all the tricks andturns of the sex. Yet here I am!"

"What do you think caught you?"

"That's the mystery. It's simply that I can't do without her. Everything she looks and says and does interests me more than anythingelse in the world. And when I'm not with her I'm wishing I were andwondering how she's looking or what she's saying or doing. You don'tthink she'll refuse me?" This last with real anxiety. 

"I haven't an idea, " replied Mrs. Brindley. "She's--peculiar. In somemoods she would. In others, she couldn't. And I've never been able tosettle to my satisfaction which kind of mood was the real Mary Stevens. "

"She IS queer, isn't she?" said Stanley thoughtfully. "But I've toldher she'd be free to go on with the career. Fact is, I want her to doit. "

Mrs. Brindley's eyes twinkled. "You think it would justify you to yourset in marrying her, if she made a great hit?"

Stanley blushed ingenuously. "I'll not deny that has something to dowith it, " he admitted. "And why not?"

"Why not, indeed?" said she. "But, after she had made the hit, you'dwant her to quit the stage and take her place in society. Isn't thatso?"

"You ARE a keen one, " exclaimed he admiringly. "But I didn't say thatto her. And you won't, will you?"

"It's hardly necessary to ask that, " said Mrs. Brindley. "Now, suppose-- You don't mind my talking about this?"

"What I want, " replied he. "I can't talk or think anything but her. "

"Now, suppose she shouldn't make a hit. Suppose she shouldfail--should not develop reliable voice enough?"

Stanley looked frightened. "But she can't fail, " he cried withover-energy. "There's no question about her voice. "

"I understand, " Mrs. Brindley hastened to say. "I was simply makingconversation with her as the subject. "

"Oh, I see. " Stanley settled back. 

"Suppose she should prove not to be a great artist--what then?"persisted Cyrilla, who was deeply interested in the intricate obscureproblem of what people really thought as distinguished from what theyprofessed and also from what they imagined they thought. 

"The fact that she's a great artist--that's part of her, " said Baird. "If she weren't a great singer, she wouldn't be she--don't you see?"

"Yes, I see, " said Mrs. Brindley with an ironic sadness which sheindulged openly because there was no danger of his understanding. 

"I don't exactly love her because she amounts to a lot--or is sure to, "pursued he, vaguely dissatisfied with himself. "It's just as shedoesn't care for me because I've got the means to take care of herright, yet that's part of me--and she'd not be able to marry me if Ihadn't. Don't you see?"

"Yes, I see, " said Mrs. Brindley with more irony and less sadness. "There's always SOME reason beside love. "

"I'd say there's always some reason FOR love, " said Baird, and he feltthat he had said something brilliant--as is the habit of people ofsluggish mentality when they say a thing they do not themselvesunderstand. "You don't doubt that I love her?" he went on. "Why shouldI ask her to marry me if I didn't?"

"I suppose that settles it, " said Cyrilla. 

"Of course it does, " declared he. 

For an hour he sat there, talking on, most of it a pretty dull kind ofdrivel. Mrs. Brindley listened patiently, because she liked him andbecause she had nothing else to do until bedtime. At last he rose witha long sigh and said:

"I guess I might as well be going. "

"She'll not come in to-night again, " said Cyrilla slyly. 

He laughed. "You are a good one. I'll own up, I've been staying onpartly in the hope that she'd come back. But it's been a great joy totalk to you about her. I know you love her, too. "

"Yes, I'm extremely fond of her, " said she. "I've not known manywomen--many people without petty mean tricks. She's one. "

"Isn't she, though?" exclaimed he. 

"I don't mean she's perfect, " said Mrs. Brindley. "I don't even meanthat she's as angelic as you think her. I'd not like her, if she were. But she's a superior kind of human. "

She was tired of him now, and got him out speedily. As she closed thefront door upon him, Mildred's door, down the hall, opened. Her headappeared, an inquiring look upon her face. Mrs. Brindley nodded. Mildred, her hair done close to her head, a dressing-robe over hernightgown and her bare feet in little slippers, came down the hall. Shecoiled herself up in a big chair in the library and lit a cigarette. She looked like a handsome young boy. 

"He told you?" she said to Mrs. Brindley. 

"Yes, " replied Cyrilla. 

Silence. In all their intimate acquaintance there had never been anapproach to the confidential on either side. It was Cyrilla's notionthat confidences were a mistake, and that the more closely people werethrown together the more resolutely they ought to keep certain barriersbetween them. She and Mildred got on too admirably, liked each othertoo well, for there to be any trifling with their relations--andover-intimacy inevitably led to trifling. Mildred had restrainedherself because Mrs. Brindley had compelled it by rigid example. Oftenshe had longed to talk things over, to ask advice; but she had neverventured further than generalities, and Mrs. Brindley had neverproffered advice, had never accepted opportunities to give it except inthe vaguest way. She had taught Mildred a great deal, but always byexample, by doing, never by saying what ought or ought not to be done. Thus, such development of Mildred's character as there had been wasnatural and permanent. 

"He has put me in a peculiar position, " said Mildred. "Or, rather, Ihave let myself drift into a peculiar position. For I think you'reright in saying that oneself is always to blame. Won't you let me talkabout it to you, please? I know you hate confidences. But I've gotto--to talk. I'd like you to advise me, if you can. But even if youdon't, it'll do me good to say things aloud. "

"Often one sees more clearly, " was Cyrilla's reply--noncommittal, yetnot discouraging. 

"I'm free to marry him, " Mildred went on. "That is, I'm not married. I'd rather not explain--"

"Don't, " said Mrs. Brindley. "It's unnecessary. "

"You know that it's Stanley who has been lending me the money to liveon while I study. Well, from the beginning I've been afraid I'd findmyself in a difficult position. "

"Naturally, " said Mrs. Brindley, as she paused. 

"But I've always expected it to come in another way--not aboutmarriage, but--"

"I understand, " said Mrs. Brindley. "You feared you'd be called on topay in the way women usually pay debts to men. "

Mildred nodded. "But this is worse than I expected--much worse. "

"I hadn't thought of that, " said Cyrilla. "Yes, you're right. If hehad hinted the other thing, you could have pretended not to understand. If he had suggested it, you could have made him feel cheap and mean. "

"I did, " said Mildred. "He has been--really wonderful--better thanalmost any man would have been--more considerate than I deserved. AndI took advantage of it. "

"A woman has to, " said Cyrilla. "The fight between men and women is sounequal. "

"I took advantage of him, " repeated Mildred. "And he apologized, andI--I went on taking the money. I didn't know what else to do. Isn'tthat dreadful?"

"Nothing to be proud of, " said Cyrilla. "But a very usual transaction. "

"And then, " pursued Mildred, "I discovered that I--that I'd not be ableto make a career. But still I kept on, though I've been trying toforce myself to--to show some pride and self-respect. I discovered itonly a short time ago, and it wasn't really until to-day that I wasabsolutely sure. "

"You ARE sure?"

"There's hardly a doubt, " replied Mildred. "But never mind that now. I've got to make a living at something, and while I'm learning whateverit is, I've got to have money to live on. And I can get it only fromhim. Now, he asks me to marry him. He wouldn't ask me if he didn'tthink I was going to be a great singer. He doesn't know it, but I do. "

Mrs. Brindley smiled sweetly. 

"And he thinks that I love him, also. If I accept him, it will beunder doubly false pretenses. If I refuse him I've got to stop takingthe money. "

A long silence; then Mrs. Brindley said: "Women--the good ones, too--often feel that they've a right to treat men as men treat them. Ithink almost any woman would feel justified in putting off the crisis. "

"You mean, I might tell him I'd give him my answer when I wasindependent and had paid back. "

Cyrilla nodded. Mildred relit her cigarette, which she had let go out. "I had thought of that, " said she. "But--I doubt if he'd tolerate it. Also"--she laughed with the peculiar intonation that accompanies thelifting of the veil over a deeply and carefully hidden corner of one'ssecret self--"I am afraid. If I don't marry him, in a few weeks, ormonths at most, he'll probably find out that I shall never be a greatsinger, and then I'd not be able to marry him if I wished to. "

"He IS a temptation, " said Cyrilla. "That is, his money is--and hepersonally is very nice. "

"I married a man I didn't care for, " pursued Mildred. "I don't wantever to do that again. It is--even in the best circumstances--notagreeable, not as simple as it looks to the inexperienced girls who arealways doing it. "

"Still, a woman can endure that sort of thing, " said Mrs. Brindley, "unless she happens to be in love with another man. " She was observingthe unconscious Mildred narrowly, a state of inward tension andexcitement hinted in her face, but not in her voice. 

"That's just it?" said Mildred, her face carefully averted. "I--Ihappen to be in love with another man. "

A spasm of pain crossed Cyrilla's face. 

"A man who cares nothing about me--and never will. He's just afriend--so much the friend that he couldn't possibly think of me as--asa woman, needing him and wanting him"--her eyes were on fire now, and asoft glow had come into her cheeks--"and never daring to show itbecause if I did he would fly and never let me see him again. "

Cyrilla Brindley's face was tragic as she looked at the beautiful girl, so gracefully adjusted to the big chair. She sighed covertly. "Youare lovely, " she said, "and young--above all, young. "

"This man is peculiar, " replied Mildred forlornly. "Anyhow, he doesn'twant ME. He knows me for the futile, weak, worthless creature I am. Hesaw through my bluff, even before I saw through it myself. If itweren't for him, I could go ahead--do the sensible thing--do as womenusually do. But--" She came to a full stop. 

"Love is a woman's sense of honor, " said Cyrilla softly. "We'remerciless and unscrupulous--anything--everything--where we don't love. But where we do love, we'll go farther for honor than the mosthonorable man. That's why we're both worse and better than men--andseem to be so contradictory and puzzling. "

"I'd do anything for him, " said Mildred. She smiled drearily. "And hewants nothing. "

She had nothing more to say. She had talked herself out about Stanley, and her mind was now filled with thoughts that could not be spoken. Asshe rose to go to bed, she looked appealingly at Cyrilla. Then, with asudden and shy rush she flung her arms round her and kissed her. "Thankyou--so much, " she said. "You've done me a world of good. Saying it allout loud before YOU has made me see. I know my own mind, now. "

She did not note the pathetic tenderness of Cyrilla's face as she said, "Good night, Mildred. " But she did note the use of her first name--andher own right first name--for the first time since they had known eachother. She embraced and kissed her again. "Good night, Cyrilla, " shesaid gratefully. 

As she entered Jennings's studio the next day he looked at her; andwhen Jennings looked, he saw--as must anyone who lives well by playingupon human nature. He did not like her expression. She did nothabitually smile; her light-heartedness, her optimism, did not showthemselves in that inane way. But this seriousness of hers was of anew kind, of the kind that bespeaks sobriety and saneness of soul. Andthat kind of seriousness--the deep, inward gravity of a person whosedays of trifling with themselves and with the facts of life, and ofbeing trifled with, are over--would have impressed Jennings equally hadshe come in laughing, had her every word been a jest. 

"No, I didn't come for a lesson--at least not the usual kind, " said she. 

He was not one to yield without a struggle. Also he wished to feel hisway to the meaning of this new mood. He put her music on the rack. "We'll begin where we--"

"This half-hour of your time is mine, is it not?" said she quietly. "Let's not waste any of it. Yesterday you told me that I could nothope to make a career because my voice is unreliable. Why is itunreliable?"

"Because you have a delicate throat, " replied he, yielding at oncewhere he instinctively knew he could not win. 

"Then why can I sing so well sometimes?"

"Because your throat is in good condition some days--in perfectcondition. "

"It's the colds then--and the slight attacks of colds?"

"Certainly. "

"If I did not catch colds--if I kept perfectly well--could I rely on myvoice?"

"But that's impossible, " said he. 

"Why?"

"You're not strong enough. "

"Then I haven't the physical strength for a career?"

"That--and also you are lacking in muscular development. But afterseveral years of lessons--"

"If I developed my muscles--if I became strong--"

"Most of the great singers come from the lower classes--from people whodo manual labor. They did manual labor in their youth. You girls ofthe better class have to overcome that handicap. "

"But so many of the great singers are fat. "

"Yes, and under that fat you'll find great ropes of muscle--like ablacksmith. "

"What Keith meant, " she said. "I wonder-- Why do I catch cold soeasily? Why do I almost always have a slight catch in the throat? Haveyou noticed that I nearly always have to clear my throat just a little?"

Her expression held him. He hesitated, tried to evade, gave it up. "Until that passes, you can never hope to be a thoroughly reliablesinger, " said he. 

"That is, I can't hope to make a career?"

His silence was assent. 

"But I have the voice?"

"You have the voice. "

"An unusual voice?"

"Yes, but not so unusual as might be thought. As a matter of fact, there are thousands of fine voices. The trouble is in reliability. Onlya few are reliable. "

She nodded slowly and thoughtfully. "I begin to understand what Mr. Keith meant, " she said. "I begin to see what I have to do, andhow--how impossible it is. "

"By no means, " declared Jennings. "If I did not think otherwise, I'dnot be giving my time to you. "

She looked at him gravely. His eyes shifted, then returned defiantly, aggressively. She said:

"You can't help me to what I want. So this is my last lesson--for thepresent. I may come back some day--when I am ready for what you haveto give. "

"You are going to give up?"

"Oh, no--oh, dear me, no, " replied she. "I realize that you'relaughing in your sleeve as I say so, because you think I'll never getanywhere. But you--and Mr. Keith--may be mistaken. " She drew from hermuff a piece of music--the "Batti Batti, " from "Don Giovanni. " "If youplease, " said she, "we'll spend the rest of my time in going over this. I want to be able to sing it as well as possible. "

He looked searchingly at her. "If you wish, " said he. "But I doubt ifyou'll be able to sing at all. "

"On the contrary, my cold's entirely gone, " replied she. "I had anexciting evening, I doctored myself before I went to bed, and three orfour times in the night. I found, this morning, that I could sing. "

And it was so. Never had she sung better. "Like a true artist!" hedeclared with an enthusiasm that had a foundation of sincerity. "Youknow, Miss Stevens, you came very near to having that rarest of allgifts--a naturally placed voice. If you hadn't had singing teachers asa girl to make you self-conscious and to teach you wrong, you'd havebeen a wonder. "

"I may get it back, " said Mildred. 

"That never happens, " replied he. "But I can almost do it. "

He coached her for half an hour straight ahead, sending the next pupilinto the adjoining room--an unprecedented transgression of routine. Heshowed her for the first time what a teacher he could be, when hewished. There was an astonishing difference between her first singingof the song and her sixth and last--for they went through it carefullyfive times. She thanked him and then put out her hand, saying:

"This is a long good-by. "

"To-morrow, " replied he, ignoring her hand. 

"No. My money is all gone. Besides, I have no time for amateurtrifling. "

"Your lessons are paid for until the end of the month. This is onlythe nineteenth. "

"Then you are so much in. " Again she put out her hand. 

He took it. "You owe me an explanation. "

She smiled mockingly. "As a friend of mine says, don't ask questionsto which you already know the answer. "

And she departed, the smile still on her charming face, but the newseriousness beneath it. As she had anticipated, she found StanleyBaird waiting for her in the drawing-room of the apartment. Being byhabit much interested in his own emotions and not at all in theemotions of others, he saw only the healthful radiance the sharpOctober air had put into her cheeks and eyes. Certainly, to look atMildred Gower was to get no impression of lack of health and strength. Her glance wavered a little at sight of him, then the expression offirmness came back. 

"You look like that picture you gave me a long time ago, " said he. "Doyou remember it?"

She did not. 

"It has a--different expression, " he went on. "I don't think I'd havenoticed it but for Keith. I happened to show it to him one day, and hestared at it in that way he has--you know?"

"Yes, I know, " said Mildred. She was seeing those uncanny, brilliant, penetrating eyes, in such startling contrast to the calm, lifelesscoloring and classic chiseling of features. 

"And after a while he said, 'So, THAT'S Miss Stevens!' And I asked himwhat he meant, and he took one of your later photos and put the twoside by side. To my notion the later was a lot the more attractive, forthe face was rounder and softer and didn't have a certain kindof--well, hardness, as if you had a will and could ride rough shod. Notthat you look so frightfully unattractive. "

"I remember the picture, " interrupted Mildred. "It was taken when Iwas twenty--just after an illness. "

"The face WAS thin, " said Stanley. "Keith called it a 'give away. '"

"I'd like to see it, " said Mildred. 

"I'll try to find it. But I'm afraid I can't. I haven't seen it sinceI showed it to Keith, and when I hunted for it the other day, it didn'tturn up. I've changed valets several times in the last six months--"

But Mildred had ceased listening. Keith had seen the picture, hadcalled it a "give away, " had been interested in it--and the picture haddisappeared. She laughed at her own folly, yet she was glad Stanleyhad given her this chance to make up a silly day-dream. She waiteduntil he had exhausted himself on the subject of valets, theirdrunkenness, their thievish habits, their incompetence, then she said:

"I took my last lesson from Jennings to-day. "

"What's the matter? Do you want to change? You didn't say anythingabout it? Isn't he good?"

"Good enough. But I've discovered that my voice isn't reliable, andunless one has a reliable voice there's no chance for a grand-operacareer--or for comic opera, either. "

Stanley was straightway all agitation and protest. "Who put that notionin your head? There's nothing in it, Mildred. Jennings is crazy aboutyour voice, and he knows. "

"Jennings is after the money, " replied Mildred. "What I'm saying is thetruth. Stanley, our beautiful dream of a career has winked out. "

His expression was most revealing. 

"And, " she went on, "I'm not going to take any more of your money--and, of course, I'll pay back what I've borrowed when I can"--shesmiled--"which may not be very soon. "

"What's all this about, anyhow?" demanded he. "I don't see any sign ofit in your face. You wouldn't take it so coolly if it were so. "

"I don't understand why I'm not wringing my hands and weeping, " repliedshe. "Every few minutes I tell myself that I ought to be. But I stayquite calm. I suppose I'm--sort of stupefied. "

"Do you really mean that you've given up?" cried he. 

"It's no use to waste the money, Stanley. I've got the voice, andthat's what deceived us all. But there's nothing BEHIND the voice. With a great singer the greatness is in what's behind the voice, not inthe voice itself. "

"I don't believe a word of it, " cried he violently. "You've beendiscouraged by a little cold. Everybody has colds. Why, in thisclimate the colds are always getting the Metropolitan singers down. "

"But they've got strong throats, and my throat's delicate. "

"You must go to a better climate. You ought to be abroad, anyhow. Thatwas part of my plan--for us to go abroad--" He stopped in confusion, reddened, went bravely on--"and you to study there and make your debut. "

Mildred shook her head. "That's all over, " said she. "I've got tochange my plans entirely. "

"You're a little depressed, that's all. For a minute you almostconvinced me. What a turn you did give me! I forgot how your voicesounded the last time I heard it. No, you'd not be so calm, if youdidn't know everything was all right. "

Her eyes lit up with sly humor. "Perhaps I'm calm because I feel thatmy future's secure as your wife. What more could a woman ask?"

He forced an uncomfortable laugh. "Of course--of course, " he said witha painful effort to be easy and jocose. 

"I knew you'd marry me, even if I couldn't sing a note. I knew yourbelief in my career had nothing to do with it. "

He hesitated, blurted out the truth. "Speaking seriously, that isn'tquite so, " said he. "I've got my heart set on your making a greattear--and I know you'll do it. "

"And if you knew I wouldn't, you'd not want to marry me?"

"I don't say that, " protested he. "How can I say how I'd feel if youwere different?"

She nodded. "That's sensible, and it's candid, " she said. She laidher hand impulsively on his arm. "I DO like you, Stanley. You havegot such a lot of good qualities. Don't worry. I'm not going toinsist on your marrying me. "

"You don't have to do that, Mildred, " said he. "I'm staring, ravingcrazy about you, though I'm a damn fool to let you know it. "

"Yes, it is foolish, " said she. "If you'd kept me worrying-- Still, Iguess not. But it doesn't matter. You can protest and urge all youplease, quite safely. I'm not going to marry you. Now let's talkbusiness. "

"Let's talk marriage, " said he. "I want this thing settled. You knowyou intend to marry me, Mildred. Why not say so? Why keep me gaspingon the hook?"

They heard the front door open, and the rustling of skirts down thehall. Mildred called:

"Mrs. Brindley! Cyrilla!"

An instant and Cyrilla appeared in the doorway. When she and Baird hadshaken hands, Mildred said:

"Cyrilla, I want you to tell the exact, honest truth. Is there any hopefor a woman with a delicate throat to make a grand-opera career?"

Cyrilla paled, looked pleadingly at Mildred. 

"Tell him, " commanded Mildred. 

"Very little, " said Mrs. Brindley. "But--"

"Don't try to soften it, " interrupted Mildred. "The truth, the plaintruth. "

"You've no right to draw me into this, " cried Cyrilla indignantly, andshe started to leave the room. 

"I want him to know, " said Mildred. "And he wants to know. "

"I refuse to be drawn into it, " Cyrilla said, and disappeared. 

But Mildred saw that Stanley had been shaken. She proceeded to explainto him at length what a singer's career meant--the hardships, thedrafts on health and strength, the absolute necessity of beingreliable, of singing true, of not disappointing audiences--what adelicate throat meant--how delicate her throat was--how deficient shewas in the kind of physical strength needed--muscular power withendurance back of it. When she finished he understood. 

"I'd always thought of it as an art, " he said ruefully. "Why, it'smostly health and muscles and things that have nothing to do withmusic. " He was dazed and offended by this uncovering of the mechanismof the art--by the discovery of the coarse and painful toil, thegrossly physical basis, of what had seemed to him all idealism. He hadbeen full of the delusions of spontaneity and inspiration, like alllaymen, and all artists, too, except those of the higher ranks--thosewho have fought their way up to the heights and, so, have learned thatone does not achieve them by being caught up to them gloriously in afiery cloud, but by doggedly and dirtily and sweatily toiling overevery inch of the cruel climb. 

He sat silent when she had finished. She waited, then said:

"Now, you see. I release you, and I'll take no more money to waste. "

He looked at her with dumb misery that smote her heart. Then hisexpression changed--to the shining, hungry eyes, the swollen veins, thereddened countenance, the watering lips of desire. He seized her inhis arms, and in a voice trembling with passion, he cried: "You mustmarry me, anyhow! I've GOT to have you, Mildred. "

If she had loved him, his expression, his impassioned voice would havethrilled her. But she did not love him. It took all her liking forhim, and the memory of all she owed him--that unpaid debt!--to enableher to push him away gently and to say without any show of therepulsion she felt:

"Stanley, you mustn't do that. And it's useless to talk of marriage. You're generous, so you are taking pity on me. But believe me, I'llget along somehow. "

"Pity? I tell you I love you, " he cried, catching desperately at herhands and holding them in a grip she could not break. "You've no rightto treat me like this. "

It was one of those veiled and stealthy reminders of obligationhabitually indulged in by delicate people seeking repayment of thedebt, but shunning the coarseness of direct demand. Mildred saw heropportunity. Said she quietly:

"You mean you want me to give myself to you in payment, or partpayment, for the money you've loaned me?"

He released her hands and sprang up. He had meant just that, but hehad not had the courage, or the meanness, or both, to admit boldly hisown secret wish. She had calculated on this--had calculated well. "Mildred!" he cried in a shocked voice. "YOU so lacking in delicacy asto say such a thing!"

"If you didn't mean that, Stanley, what DID you mean?"

"I was appealing to our friendship--our--our love for each other. "

"Then you should have waited until I was free. "

"Good God!" he cried, "don't you see that's hopeless? Mildred, besensible--be merciful. "

"I shall never marry a man when he could justly suspect I did it tolive off him. "

"What an idea! It's a man's place to support a woman!"

"I was speaking only of myself. _I_ can't do it. And it's absurd foryou and me to be talking about love and marriage when anyone can seeI'd be marrying you only because I was afraid to face poverty and astruggle. "

Her manner calmed him somewhat. "Of course it's obvious that you'vegot to have money, " said he, "and that the only way you can get it isby marriage. But there's something else, too, and in my opinion it'sthe principal thing--we care for each other. Why not be sensible, Mildred? Why not thank God that as long as you have to marry, you canmarry someone you care for. "

"Could you feel that I cared for you, if I married you now?" inquiredshe. 

"Why not? I'm not so entirely lacking in self-esteem. I feel that Imust count for something. "

Mildred sat silently wondering at this phenomenon so astounding, yet acommonplace of masculine egotism. She had no conception of this vanitywhich causes the man, at whom the street woman smiles, to feelflattered, though he knows full well what she is and her direnecessity. She could not doubt that he was speaking the truth, yet shecould not believe that conceit could so befog common sense in a manwho, for all his slowness and shallowness, was more than ordinarilyshrewd. 

"Even if I thought I loved you, " said she, "I couldn't be sure in thesecircumstances that I wasn't after your money. "

"Don't worry about that, " replied he. "I understand you better thanyou understand yourself. "

"Let's stop talking about it, " said she impatiently. "I want to explainto you the business side of this. " She took her purse from the table. "Here are the papers. " She handed him a check and a note. "I madethem out at the bank this morning. The note is for what I owe you--anddraws interest at four per cent. The check is for all the money I haveleft except about four hundred dollars. I've some bills I must pay, and also I didn't dare quite strip myself. The note may not be worththe paper it's written on, but I hope--"

Before she could prevent him he took the two papers, and, holding themout of her reach, tore them to bits. 

Her eyes gleamed angrily. "I see you despise me--as much as I'veinvited. But, I'll make them out again and mail them to you. "

"You're a silly child, " said he gruffly. "We're going to be married. "

She eyed him with amused exasperation. "It's too absurd!" she cried. "And if I yielded, you'd be trying to get out of it. " She hesitatedwhether to tell him frankly just how she felt toward him. She decidedagainst it, not through consideration--for a woman feels noconsideration for a man she does not love, if he has irritated her--butthrough being ashamed to say harsh things to one whom she owed so much. "It's useless for you to pretend and to plead, " she went on. "I shallnot yield. You'll have to wait until I'm free and independent. "

"You'll marry me then?"

"No, " replied she, laughing. "But I'll be able to refuse you in such away that you'll believe. "

"But you've got to marry, Mildred, and right away. " A suspicion enteredhis mind and instantly gleamed in his eyes. "Are you in love withsomeone else?"

She smiled mockingly. 

"It looks as if you were, " he went on, arguing with himself aloud. "Forif you weren't you'd marry me, even though you didn't like me. A womanin your fix simply couldn't keep herself from it. Is THAT why you'reso calm?"

"I'm not marrying anybody, " said she. 

"Then what are you going to do?"

"You'll see. "

Once more the passionate side of his nature showed--not merelygrotesque, unattractive, repellent, as in the mood of longing, buthideous. Among men Stanley Baird passed for a man of rather arrogantand violent temper, but that man who had seen him at his most violentwould have been amazed. The temper men show toward men bears smallresemblance either in kind or in degree to the temper of jealouspassion they show toward the woman who baffles them or arouses theirsuspicions; and no man would recognize his most intimate man friend--orhimself--when in that paroxysm. Mildred had seen this mood, gleaming ather through a mask, in General Siddall. It had made her sick with fearand repulsion. In Stanley Baird it first astounded her, then filledher with hate. 

"Stanley!" she gasped. 

"WHO is it?" he ground out between his teeth. And he seized hersavagely. 

"If you don't release me at once, " said she calmly, "I shall call Mrs. Brindley, and have you put out of the house. No matter if I do owe youall that money. "

"Stop!" he cried, releasing her. "You're very clever, aren'tyou?--turning that against me and making me powerless. "

"But for that, would you dare presume to touch me, to question me?"said she. 

He lowered his gaze, stood panting with the effort to subdue his fury. 

She went back to her own room. A few hours later came a letter ofapology from him. She answered it friendlily, said she would let himknow when she could see him again, and enclosed a note and a check. 

VIII

MILDRED went to bed that night proud of her strength of character. Werethere many women--was there any other woman she knew or knew about--whoin her desperate circumstances would have done what she had done? Shecould have married a man who would have given her wealth and the verybest social position. She had refused him. She could have continuedto "borrow" from him the wherewithal to keep her in luxurious comfortwhile she looked about at her ease for a position that meantindependence. She had thrust the temptation from her. All this frompurely high-minded motives; for other motive there could be none. Shewent to sleep, confident that on the morrow she would continue to treadthe path of self-respect with unfaltering feet. But when morning cameher throat was once more slightly off--enough to make it wise topostpone the excursion in search of a trial for musical comedy. Theexcitement or the reaction from excitement--it must be the one or theother--had resulted in weakness showing itself, naturally, at herweakest point--that delicate throat. When life was calm and orderly, and her mind was at peace, the trouble would pass, and she could get aposition of some kind. Not the career she had dreamed; that wasimpossible. But she had voice enough for a little part, where a livingcould be made; and perhaps she would presently fathom the secret of thecause of her delicate throat and would be able to go far--possibly asfar as she had dreamed. 

The delay of a few days was irritating. She would have preferred topush straight on, while her courage was taut. Still, the delay had oneadvantage--she could prepare the details of her plan. So, instead ofgoing to the office of the theatrical manager--Crossley, the mostsuccessful producer of light, musical pieces of all kinds--she went tocall on several of the girls she knew who were more or less in touchwith matters theatrical. And she found out just how to proceed towardaccomplishing a purpose which ought not to be difficult for one withsuch a voice as hers and with physical charms peculiarly fitted forstage exhibition. 

Not until Saturday was her voice at its best again. She, naturally, decided not to go to the theatrical office on Monday, but to wait untilshe had seen and talked with Keith. One more day did not matter, andKeith might be stimulating, might even have some useful suggestions tooffer. She received him with a manner that was a version, and a mostcharming version, of his own tranquil indifference. But his firstremark threw her into a panic. Said he:

"I've only a few minutes. No, thanks, I'll not sit. "

"You needn't have bothered to come, " said she coldly. 

"I always keep my engagements. Baird tells me you have given up thearrangement you had with him. You'll probably be moving from here, asyou'll not have the money to stay on. Send me your new address, please. " He took a paper from his pocket and gave it to her. "Youwill find this useful--if you are in earnest, " said he. "Good-by, andgood luck. I'll hope to see you in a few weeks. "

Before she had recovered herself in the least, she was standing therealone, the paper in her hand, her stupefied gaze upon the door throughwhich he had disappeared. All his movements and his speech had been ofhis customary, his invariable, deliberateness; but she had theimpression of whirling and rushing haste. With a long gasping sigh shefell to trembling all over. She sped to her room, got its door safelyclosed just in time. Down she sank upon the bed, to give way to anattack of hysterics. 

We are constantly finding ourselves putting forth the lovely flowersand fruit of the virtues whereof the heroes and heroines of romance areso prolific. Usually nothing occurs to disillusion us about ourselves. But now and then fate, in unusually brutal ironic mood, forces us tosee the real reason why we did this or that virtuous, self-sacrificingaction, or blossomed forth in this or that nobility of character. Mildred was destined now to suffer one of these savage blows ofdisillusionment about self that thrust us down from the exalted moralheights where we have been preening into humble kinship with the weakand frail human race. She saw why she had refused Stanley, why she hadstopped "borrowing, " why she had put off going to the theatricalmanagers, why she had delayed moving into quarters within herdiminished and rapidly diminishing means. She had been counting onDonald Keith. She had convinced herself that he loved her even as sheloved him. He would fling away his cold reserve, would burst intoraptures over her virtue and her courage, would ask her to marry him. Or, if he should put off that, he would at least undertake theresponsibility of getting her started in her career. Well! He hadcome; he had shown that Stanley had told him all or practically all;and he had gone, without asking a sympathetic question or making anencouraging remark. As indifferent as he seemed. Burnt out, cold, heartless. She had leaned upon him; he had slipped away, leaving her tofall painfully, and ludicrously, to the ground. She had been boastingto herself that she was strong, that she would of her own strengthestablish herself in independence. She had not dreamed that she wouldbe called upon to "make good. " She raved against Keith, againstherself, against fate. And above the chaos and the wreck within her, round and round, hither and yon, flapped and shied the black thought, "What SHALL I do?"

When she sat up and dried her eyes, she chanced to see the paper Keithhad left; with wonder at her having forgotten it and with a throb ofhope she opened and began to read his small, difficult writing:

A career means self-denial. Not occasional, intermittent, but steady, constant, daily, hourly--a purpose that never relaxes. 

A career as a singer means not only the routine, the patient tediouswork, the cutting out of time-wasting people and time-wasting pleasuresthat are necessary to any and all careers. It means in addition--forsuch a person--sacrifices far beyond a character so undisciplined andso corrupted by conventional life as is yours. The basis of a singingcareer is health and strength. You must have great physical strengthto be able to sing operas. You must have perfect health. 

Diet and exercise. A routine life, its routine rigidly adhered to, dayin and day out, month after month, year after year. Small anduninteresting and monotonous food, nothing to drink, and, of course, nocigarettes. Such is the secret of a reliable voice for you who have a"delicate throat"--which is the silly, shallow, and misleading way ofsaying a delicate digestion, for sore throat always means indigestion, never means anything else. To sing, the instrument, the absolutelymaterial machine, must be in perfect order. The rest is easy. 

Some singers can commit indiscretions of diet and of lack of exercise. But not you, because you lack this natural strength. Do not bedeceived and misled by their example. 

Exercise. You must make your body strong, powerful. You have not themuscles by nature. You must acquire them. 

The following routine of diet and exercise made one of the greatsingers, and kept her great for a quarter of a century. If you adoptit, without variation, you can make a career. If you do not, you neednot hope for anything but failure and humiliation. Within my knowledgesixty-eight young men and young women have started in on this system. Not one had the character to persist to success. This may suggest why, except two who are at the very top, all of the great singers are menand women whom nature has made powerful of body and of digestion--sopowerful that their indiscretions only occasionally make themunreliable. 

There Mildred stopped and flung the paper aside. She did not care evento glance at the exercises prescribed or at the diet and the routine ofdaily work. How dull and uninspired! How grossly material! Stomach!Chewing! Exercising machines! Plodding dreary miles daily, rain orshine! What could such things have to do with the free and gloriouscareer of an inspired singer? Keith was laughing at her as he hastenedaway, abandoning her to her fate. 

She examined herself in the glass to make sure that the ravages of herattack of rage and grief and despair could be effaced within a fewhours, then she wrote a note--formal yet friendly--to Stanley Baird, informing him that she would receive him that evening. He came whileCyrilla and Mildred were having their after, dinner coffee andcigarettes. He was a man who took great pains with his clothes, andgot them where pains was not in vain. That evening he had arrayedhimself with unusual care, and the result was a fine, manly figure ofthe well-bred New-Yorker type. Certainly Stanley had ground for hisfeeling that he deserved and got liking for himself. The three sat inthe library for perhaps half an hour, then Mrs. Brindley rose to leavethe other two alone. Mildred urged her to stay--Mildred who had beenimpatient of her presence when Stanley was announced. Urged her tostay in such a tone that Cyrilla could not persist, but had to sit downagain. As the three talked on and on, Mildred continued to picture lifewith Stanley--continued the vivid picturing she had begun within tenminutes of Stanley's entering, the picturing that had caused her toinsist on Cyrilla's remaining as chaperon. A young girl can do no suchpicturing as Mildred could not avoid doing. To the young girl marriedlife, its tete-a-tetes, its intimacies, its routine, are all a blank. Any attempt she makes to fill in details goes far astray. But Mildred, with Stanley there before her, could see her life as it would be. 

Toward half-past ten, Stanley said, shame-faced and pleading, "Mildred, I should like to see you alone for just a minute before I go. "

Mildred said to Cyrilla: "No, don't move. We'll go into thedrawing-room. "

He followed her there, and when the sound of Mrs. Brindley's step inthe hall had died away, he began: "I think I understand you a littlenow. I shan't insult you by returning or destroying that note or thecheck. I accept your decision--unless you wish to change it. " Helooked at her with eager appeal. His heart was trembling, was sickwith apprehension, with the sense of weakness, of danger and gloomahead. "Why shouldn't I help you, at least, Mildred?" he urged. 

Whence the courage came she knew not, but through her choking throatshe forced a positive, "No. "

"And, " he went on, "I meant what I said. I love you. I'm wretchedwithout you. I want you to marry me, career or no career. "

Her fears were clamorous, but she forced herself to say, "I can'tchange. "

"I hoped--a little--that you sent me the note to-day because you-- Youdidn't?"

"No, " said Mildred. "I want us to be friends. But you must keep away. "

He bent his head. "Then I'll go 'way off somewhere. I can't bear beinghere in New York and not seeing you. And when I've been away a year orso, perhaps I'll get control of myself again. "

Going away!--to try to forget!--no doubt, to succeed in forgetting!Then this was her last chance. 

"Must I go, Mildred? Won't you relent?"

"I don't love you--and I never can. " She was deathly white andtrembling. She lifted her eyes to begin a retreat, for her courage hadquite oozed away. He was looking at her, his face distorted with amingling of the passion of desire and the passion of jealousy. Sheshrank, caught at the back of a chair for support, felt suddenly strongand defiant. To be this man's plaything, to submit to his moods, tohis jealousies, to his caprices--to be his to fumble and caress, his tohave the fury of his passion wreak itself upon her with no responsefrom her but only repulsion and loathing--and the long dreary hours anddays and years alone with him, listening to his commonplaces, often sotedious, forced to try to amuse him and to keep him in a good humorbecause he held the purse-strings--

"Please go, " she said. 

She was still very young, still had years and years of youth unspent. Surely she could find something better than this. Surely life mustmean something more than this. At least it was worth a trial. 

He held out his hand. She gave him her reluctant and cold fingers. Hesaid something, what she did not hear, for the blood was roaring in herears as the room swam round. He was gone, and the next thing shedefinitely knew she was at the threshold of Cyrilla's room. Cyrillagave her a tenderly sympathetic glance. She saw herself in a mirror andknew why; her face was gray and drawn, and her eyes lay dully deepwithin dark circles. 

"I couldn't do it, " she said. "I sent for him to marry him. But Icouldn't. "

"I'm glad, " said Cyrilla. "Marriage without love is a last resort. Andyou're a long way from last resorts. "

"You don't think I'm crazy?"

"I think you've won a great victory. "

"Victory!" And Mildred laughed dolefully. "If this is victory, I hopeI'll never know defeat. "

Why did Mildred refuse Stanley Baird and cut herself off from him, evenafter her hopes of Donald Keith died through lack of food, real orimaginary? It would be gratifying to offer this as a case of purecourage and high principle, untainted of the motives which governordinary human actions. But unluckily this is a biography, not aromance, a history and not a eulogy. And Mildred Gower is a humanbeing, even as you and I, not a galvanized embodiment of superhumanvirtues such as you and I are pretending to be, perhaps even toourselves. The explanation of her strange aberration, which will bedoubted or secretly condemned by every woman of the sheltered classeswho loves her dependence and seeks to disguise it as something sweetand fine and "womanly"--the explanation of her almost insane act ofrenunciation of all that a lady holds most dear is simple enough, puzzling though she found it. Ignorance, which accounts for so much ofthe squalid failure in human life, accounts also for much if not allthe most splendid audacious achievement. Very often--very, veryoften--the impossibilities are achieved by those who in their ignoranceadvance not boldly but unconcernedly where a wiser man or woman wouldshrink and retreat. Fortunate indeed is he or she who in a crisis isby chance equipped with neither too little nor too much knowledge--whoknows enough to enable him to advance, but does not know enough toappreciate how perilous, how foolhardy, how harsh and cruel, advancewill be. Mildred was in this instance thus fortunate--unfortunate, shewas presently to think it. She knew enough about loveless marriage toshrink from it. She did not know enough about what poverty, moneylessness, and friendlessness mean in the actuality to a woman bredas she had been. She imagined she knew--and sick at heart her notionof poverty made her. But imagination was only faintest foreshadowingof actuality. If she had known, she would have yielded to thetemptation that was almost too strong for her. And if she hadyielded--what then? Not such a repulsive lot, as our comfortableclasses look at it. Plenty to eat and drink and to wear, servants andequipages and fine houses and fine society, the envy of her gapingkind--a comfortable life for the body, a comfortable death for mind andheart, slowly and softly suffocated in luxury. Partly throughknowledge that strongly affected her character, which was on the wholeaspiring and sensitive beyond the average to the true and thebeautiful, partly through ignorance that veiled the future from hernone too valorous and hardy heart, she did not yield to the temptation. And thus, instead of dying, she began to live, for what is life butgrowth in experience, in strength and knowledge and capability?

A baby enters the world screaming with pain. The first sensations ofliving are agonizing. It is the same with the birth of souls, for asoul is not really born until that day when it is offered choicebetween life and death and chooses life. In Mildred Gower's case thisbirth was an agony. She awoke the following morning with a dullheadache, a fainting heart, and a throat so sore that she felt apainful catch whenever she tried to swallow. She used the spray; shemassaged her throat and neck vigorously. In vain; it was folly tothink of going where she might have to risk a trial of her voice thatday. The sun was brilliant and the air sharp without being humid ortoo cold. She dressed, breakfasted, went out for a walk. The throatgrew worse, then better. She returned for luncheon, and afterwardbegan to think of packing, not that she had chosen a new place, butbecause she wished to have some sort of a sense of action. But herunhappiness drove her out again--to the park where the air was fine andshe could walk in comparative solitude. 

"What a silly fool I am!" thought she. "Why did I do this in theworst, the hardest possible way? I should have held on to Stanleyuntil I had a position. No, I'm such a poor creature that I could neverhave done it in that way. I'd simply have kept on bluffing, foolingmyself, putting off and putting of. I had to jump into the water withnobody near to help me, or I'd never have begun to learn to swim. Ihaven't begun yet. I may never learn to swim. I may drown. Yes, Iprobably shall drown. "

She wandered aimlessly on--around the upper reservoir where the strongbreeze freshened her through and through and made her feel less forlornin spite of her chicken heart. She crossed the bridge at the lower endand came down toward the East Drive. A taxicab rushed by, not so fast, however, that she failed to recognize Donald Keith and CyrillaBrindley. They were talking so earnestly--Keith was talking, for awonder, and Mrs. Brindley listening--that they did not see her. Shewent straight home. But as she was afoot, the journey took about halfan hour. Cyrilla was already there, in a negligee, looking as if shehad not been out of the little library for hours. She was writing aletter. Mildred strolled in and seated herself. Cyrilla went onwriting. Mildred watched her impatiently. She wished to talk, to betalked to, to be consoled and cheered, to hear about Donald Keith. Would that letter never be finished? At last it was, and Cyrilla tooka book and settled herself to reading. There was a vague something inher manner--a change, an attitude toward Mildred--that disturbedMildred. Or, was that notion of a change merely the offspring of herown somber mood? Seeing that Mrs. Brindley would not begin, she brokethe silence herself. Said she awkwardly:

"I've decided to move. In fact, I've got to move. "

Cyrilla laid down the book and regarded her tranquilly. "Of course, "said she. "I've already begun to arrange for someone else. "

Mildred choked, and the tears welled into her eyes. She had not beenmistaken; Cyrilla had changed toward her. Now that she had noprospects for a brilliant career, now that her money was gone, Cyrillahad begun to--to be human. No doubt, in the course of that drive, Cyrilla had discovered that Keith had no interest in her either. Mildred beat down her emotion and was soon able to say in a voice asunconcerned as Cyrilla's:

"I'll find a place to-morrow or next day, and go at once. "

"I'll be sorry to lose you, " said Mrs. Brindley, "but I agree with youthat you can't get settled any too soon. "

"You don't happen to know of any cheap, good place?" said Mildred. 

"If it's cheap, I don't think it's likely to be good--in New York, "replied Cyrilla. "You'll have to put up with inconveniences--andworse. I'd offer to help you find a place, but I think everythingself-reliant one does helps one to learn. Don't you?"

"Yes, indeed, " assented Mildred. The thing was self-evidently true;still she began to hate Cyrilla. This cold-hearted New York! How shewould grind down her heel when she got it on the neck of New York!Friendship, love, helpfulness--what did New York and New-Yorkers knowof these things? "Or Hanging Rock, either, " reflected she. What acold and lonely world!

"Have you been to see about a position?" inquired Cyrilla. 

Mildred was thrown into confusion. "I can't go--for a--day or so, " shestammered. "The changeable weather has rather upset my throat. Nothingserious, but I want to be at my best. "

"Certainly, " said Mrs. Brindley. Her direct gaze made Mildreduncomfortable. She went on: "You're sure it's the weather?"

"What else could it be?" demanded Mildred with a latent resentmentwhose interesting origin she did not pause to inquire into. 

"Well, salad, or sauces, or desserts, or cafe au lait in the morning, or candy, or tea, " said Cyrilla. "Or it might be cigarettes, or allthose things--and thin stockings and low shoes--mightn't it?"

Never before had she known Cyrilla to say anything meddlesome orcattish. Said Mildred with a faint sneer, "That sounds like Mr. Keith's crankiness. "

"It is, " replied Cyrilla. "I used to think he was a crank on thesubject of singing and stomachs, and singing and ankles. But I've beenconvinced, partly by him, mostly by what I've observed. "

Mildred maintained an icy silence. 

"I see you are resenting what I said, " observed Cyrilla. 

"Not at all, " said Mildred. "No doubt you meant well. "

"You will please remember that you asked me a question. "

So she had. But the discovery that she was clearly in the wrong, thatshe had invited the disguised lecture, only aggravated her sense ofresentment against Mrs. Brindley. She spent the rest of the afternoonin sorting and packing her belongings--and in crying. She came uponthe paper Donald Keith had left. She read it through carefully, thoughtfully, read it to the last direction as to exercise with themachine, the last arrangement for a daily routine of life, the lastsuggestion as to diet. 

"Fortunately all that isn't necessary, " said she to herself, when shehad finished. "If it were, I could never make a career. I'm notstupid enough to be able to lead that kind of life. Why, I'd not careto make a career, at that price. Slavery--plain slavery. "

When she went in to dinner, she saw instantly that Cyrilla too had beencrying. Cyrilla did not look old, anything but that, indeed was notold and would not begin to be for many a year. Still, afterthirty-five or forty a woman cannot indulge a good cry without itsleaving serious traces that will show hours afterward. At sight of theevidences of Cyrilla's grief Mildred straightway forgot her resentment. There must have been some other cause for Cyrilla's peculiar conduct. No matter what, since it was not hardness of heart. 

It was a sad, even a gloomy dinner. But the two women were once morein perfect sympathy. And afterward Mildred brought the Keith paper andasked Cyrilla's opinion. Cyrilla read slowly and without comment. Atlast she said:

"He got this from his mother, Lucia Rivi. Have you read her life?"

"No. I've heard almost nothing about her, except that she was famous. "

"She was more than that, " said Mrs. Brindley. "She was great, a greatpersonality. She was an almost sickly child and girl. Her firstattempts on the stage were humiliating failures. She had no health, noendurance, nothing but a small voice of rare quality. " Cyrilla held upthe paper. "This tells how she became one of the surest and mostpowerful dramatic sopranos that ever lived. "

"She must have been a dull person to have been able to lead the kind oflife that's described there, " said Mildred. 

"Only two kinds of persons could do it, " replied Cyrilla--"a dullperson--a plodder--and a genius. Middling people--they're the kind thatfill the world, they're you and I, my dear--middling people have tofuss with the trifles that must be sacrificed if one is to do anythingbig. You call those trifles your freedom, but they're your slavery. And by sacrificing them the Lucia Rivis buy their freedom. " Cyrillalooked at the paper with a heavy sigh. "Ah, I wish I had seen thiswhen I was your age. Now, it's too late. "

Said Mildred: "Would you seriously advise me to try that?"

Cyrilla came and sat beside her and put an arm around her. "Mildred, "she said, "I've never thrust advice on you. I only dare do it nowbecause you ask me, and because I love you. You must try it. It'syour one chance. If you do not, you will fail. You don't believe me?"

In a tone that was admission, Mildred said: "I don't know. "

"Keith has given you there the secret of a successful career. You'llnever read it in any book, or get it from any teacher, or from anysinger or manager or doctor. You must live like that, you must dothose things or you will fail even in musical comedy. You would faileven as an actress, if you tried that, when you found out that thesinging was out of the question. "

Mildred was impressed. Perhaps she would have been more impressed hadshe not seen Keith and Mrs. Brindley in the taxi, Keith talkingearnestly and Mrs. Brindley listening as if to an oracle. Said she:"Perhaps I'll adopt some of the suggestions. "

Cyrilla shook her head. "It's a route to success. You must go thewhole route or not at all. "

"Don't forget that there have been other singers besides Rivi. "

"Not any that I recall who weren't naturally powerful in every way. Andhow many of them break down? Mildred, please do put the silly nonsenseabout nerves and temperament and inspiration and overwork and weatherand climate--put all that out of your head. Build your temple of acareer as high and graceful and delicate as you like, but build it onthe coarse, hard, solid rock, dear!"

Mildred tried to laugh lightly. "How Mr. Keith does hypnotize people!"cried she. 

Mrs. Brindley's cheeks burned, and her eyes lowered in acuteembarrassment. "He has a way of being splendidly and sensibly right, "said she. "And the truth is wonderfully convincing--once one sees it. "She changed the subject, and it did not come up--or, perhaps, come OUTagain--before they went to bed. The next day Mildred began thedepressing, hopeless search for a place to live that would be clean, comfortable, and cheap. Those three adjectives describe the ideallodging; but it will be noted that all these are relative. In fact, none of the three means exactly the same thing to any two members ofthe human family. Mildred's notion of clean--like her notion ofcomfortable--on account of her bringing up implied a large element ofluxury. As for the word "cheap, " it really meant nothing at all toher. From one standpoint everything seemed cheap; from another, everything seemed dear; that is, too dear for a young woman with lessthan five hundred dollars in the world and no substantial prospect ofgetting a single dollar more--unless by hook and crook, both of whichmeans she was resolved not to employ. 

Never having earned so much as a single penny, the idea of anyone'sgiving her anything for what she might be able to do was disturbinglyvague and unreal. On the other hand, looking about her, she saw scoresof men and women, personally known to her to be dull of conversation, and not well mannered or well dressed or well anything, who were makinglivings without overwhelming difficulty. Why not Mildred Gower? Inthis view the outlook was not discouraging. "I'll no doubt go throughsome discomfort, getting myself placed. But somewhere and somehow Ishall be placed--and how I shall revenge myself on Donald Keith!" Hisfascination for her had not been destroyed by his humiliating lack ofbelief in her, nor by his cold-hearted desertion at just the criticalmoment. But his conduct had given her the incentive of rage, of stungvanity--or wounded pride, if you prefer. She would get him back; shewould force him to admit; she would win him, if she could--and thatought not to be difficult when she should be successful. Having wonhim, then-- What then? Something superb in the way of revenge; shewould decide what, when the hour of triumph came. Meanwhile she mustsearch for lodgings. 

In her journeyings under the guidance of attractive advertisements and"carefully selected" agents' lists, she found herself in front of herfirst lodgings in New York--the house of Mrs. Belloc. She had oftenthought of the New England school-teacher, arrived by such strangepaths at such a strange position in New York. She had started to callon her many times, but each time had been turned aside; New York makesit more than difficult to find time to do anything that does not haveto be done at a definite time and for a definite reason. She was wornout with her futile trampings up and down streets, up and down stairs. Up the stone steps she went and rang the bell. 

Yes, Mrs. Belloc was in, and would be glad to see her, if Miss Stevenswould wait in the drawing-room a few minutes. She had not seatedherself when down the stairs came the fresh, pleasantly countrifiedvoice of Mrs. Belloc, inviting her to ascend. As Mildred started up, she saw at the head of the stairs the frank and cheerful face of thelady herself. She was holding together at the neck a thin silk wrapperwhose lines strongly suggested that it was the only garment she had on. 

"Why should old friends stand on ceremony?" said Mrs. Belloc. "Comeright up. I've been taking a bath. My masseuse has just gone. " Mrs. Belloc enclosed her in a delightfully perfumed embrace, and they kissedwith enthusiasm. 

"I AM glad to see you, " said Mildred, feeling all at once a thrillingsense of at-homeness. "I didn't realize how glad I'd be till I sawyou. "

"It'd be a pretty stiff sort that wouldn't feel at home with me, "observed Mrs. Belloc. "New York usually stiffens people up. It's hadthe opposite effect on me. Though I must say, I have learned to stiffenwith people I don't like--and I'll have to admit that I like fewer andfewer. People don't wear well, do they? What IS the matter with them?Why can't they be natural and not make themselves into rubbishy, oldscrap-bags full of fakes and pretenses? You're looking at my hair. "

They were in Mrs. Belloc's comfortable sitting-room now, and she wassmoking a cigarette and regarding Mildred with an expression of delightthat was most flattering. Said Mildred:

"Your hair does look well. It's thicker--isn't it?"

"Think so?" said Mrs. Belloc. "It ought to be, with all the time andmoney I've spent on it. My, how New York does set a woman to repairingand fixing up. Nothing artificial goes here. It mustn't be paint andplumpers and pads, but the real teeth. Why, I've had four real teethset in as if they were rooted--and my hips toned down. You mayremember what heavy legs I had--piano-legs. Look at 'em now. " Mrs. Belloc drew the wrapper to her knee and exposed in a pale-blue silkstocking a thin and comely calf. 

"You HAVE been busy!" said Mildred. 

"That's only a little part. I started to tell you about the hair. Itwas getting gray--not in a nice, pretty way, all over, but in spots andstreaks. Nothing else makes a woman look so ragged and dingy and oldas spotted, streaky gray hair. So I had the hair-woman touch it up. She vows it won't make my face hard. That's the trouble with dyed ortouched hair, you know. But this is a new process. "

"It's certainly a success, " said Mildred. And in fact it was, andthanks to it and the other improvements Mrs. Belloc was an attractiveand even a pretty woman, years younger than when Mildred saw her. 

"Yes, I think I've improved, " said Mrs. Belloc. "Nothing to screamabout--but worth while. That's what we're alive for--to improve--isn'tit? I've no patience with people who slide back, or don't geton--people who get less and less as they grow older. The trouble withthem is they're vain, satisfied with themselves as they are, and lazy. Most women are too lazy to live. They'll only fix up to catch a man. "

Mildred had grown sober and thoughtful. 

"To catch a man, " continued Mrs. Belloc. "And not much even for that. I'll warrant YOU'RE getting on. Tell me about it. "

"Tell me about yourself, first, " said Mildred. 

"WHY all this excitement about improving?" And she smiled significantly. 

"No, you'll have to guess again, " said Mrs. Belloc. "Not a man. Youremember, I used to be crazy about gay life in New York--going out, andmen, theaters, and lobster-palaces--everything I didn't get in my hometown, everything the city means to the jays. Well, I've gotten over allthat. I'm improving, mind and body, just to keep myself interested inlife, to keep myself young and cheerful. I'm interested in myself, inmy house and in woman's suffrage. Not that the women are fit to vote. They aren't, any more than the men. But what MAKES people? Why, responsibility. That old scamp I married--he's dead. And I've got themoney, and everything's very comfortable with me. Just think, I didn'thave any luck till I was an old maid far gone. I'm not telling my age. All my life it had rained bad luck--pitchforks, tines down. And why?"

"Yes, why?" said Mildred. She did not understand how it was, but Mrs. Belloc seemed to be saying the exact things she needed to hear. 

"I'll tell you why. Because I didn't work. Drudging along isn't workany more than dawdling along. Work means purpose, means head. And myluck began just as anybody's does--when I rose up and got busy. Youmay say it wasn't very creditable, the way I began; but it was the best_I_ could do. I know it isn't good morals, but I'm willing to bet thatmany a man has laid the foundations of a big fine career by doingsomething that wasn't at all nice or right. He had to do it, to 'getthrough. ' If he hadn't done it, he'd never have 'got through. ' Anyhow, whether that's so or not, everyone's got to make a fight to break intothe part of the world where living's really worth living. But I needn'ttell YOU that. You're doing it. "

"No, I'm not, " replied Mildred. "I'm ashamed to say so, but I'm not. I've been bluffing--and wasting time. "

"That's bad, that's bad, " said Mrs. Belloc. "Especially, as you've gotit in you to get there. What's been the trouble? The wrong kind ofassociations?"

"Partly, " said Mildred. 

Mrs. Belloc, watching her interestedly, suddenly lighted up. "Why notcome back here to live?" said she. "Now, please don't refuse till Iexplain. You remember what kind of people I had here?"

Mildred smiled. "Rather--unconventional?"

"That's polite. Well, I've cleared 'em out. Not that I minded theirunconventionality; I liked it. It was so different from thestraight-jackets and the hypocrisy I'd been living among and hating. But I soon found out that--well, Miss Stevens, the average human beingought to be pretty conventional in his morals of a certain kind. Ifhe--or SHE--isn't, they begin to get unconventional in every way--aboutpaying their bills, for instance, and about drinking. I got sick andtired of those people. So, I put 'em all out--made a sweep. And nowI've become quite as respectable as I care to be--or as is necessary. The couples in the house are married, and they're nice people of goodfamilies. It was Mrs. Dyckman--she's got the whole second floor front, she and her husband and the daughter--it was Mrs. Dyckman whointerested me in the suffrage movement. You must hear her speak. Andthe daughter does well at it, too--and keeps a fashionablemillinery-shop--and she's only twenty-four. Then there's Nora Blond. "

"The actress?"

"The actress. She's the quietest, hardest-working person here. She'sgot the whole first floor front. Nobody ever comes to see her, excepton Sunday afternoon. She leads the queerest life. "

"Tell me about that, " said Mildred. 

"I don't know much about it, " confessed Mrs. Belloc. "She's regular asa clock--does everything on time, and at the same time. Two meals aday--one of them a dry little breakfast she gets herself. Walks, fencing, athletics, study. "

"What slavery!"

"She's the happiest person I ever saw, " retorted Mrs. Belloc. "Why, she's got her work, her career. You don't look at it right, MissStevens. You don't look happy. What's the matter? Isn't it becauseyou haven't been working right--because you've been doing these allegedpleasant things that leave a bad taste in your mouth and weaken you?I'll bet, if you had been working hard, you'd not be unhappy now. Better come here to live. "

"Will you let me tell you about myself?"

"Go right ahead. May I ask questions, where I want to know more? I dohate to get things halfway. "

Mildred freely gave her leave, then proceeded to tell her whole story, omitting nothing that was essential to an understanding. In conclusionshe said: "I'd like to come. You see, I've very little money. Whenit's gone, I'll go, unless I make some more. "

"Yes, you must come. That Mrs. Brindley seems to be a nice woman, amighty nice woman. But her house, and the people that come there--theyaren't the right sort for a girl that's making a start. I can give youa room on the top floor--in front. The young lady next to you is aclerk in an architect's office, and a fine girl she is. "

"How much does she pay?" said Mildred. 

"Your room won't be quite as nice as hers. I put you at the topbecause you can sing up there, part of the mornings and part of theafternoons, without disturbing anybody. I don't have a general tableany more. You can take your meals in your room or at the restaurant inthe apartment-house next door. It's good and quite reasonable. "

"How much for the room?" persisted Mildred, laughing. 

"Seven dollars a week, and the use of the bath. "

Mildred finally wrung from her that the right price was twelve dollarsa week, and insisted on paying that--"until my money gets low. "

"Don't worry about that, " said Mrs. Belloc. 

"You mustn't weaken me, " cried Mildred. "You mustn't encourage me tobe a coward and to shirk. That's why I'm coming here. "

"I understand, " said Mrs. Belloc. "I've got the New England streak ofhardness in me, though I believe that masseuse has almost ironed it outof my face. Do I look like a New England schoolmarm?"

Mildred could truthfully answer that there wasn't a trace of it. 

When she returned to Mrs. Brindley's--already she had ceased to thinkof it as home--she announced her new plans. Mrs. Brindley saidnothing, but Mildred understood the quick tightening of the lines roundher mouth and the shifting of the eyes. She hastened to explain thatMrs. Belloc was no longer the sort of woman or the sort of landlady shehad been a few months before. Mrs. Brindley of the older New York, could neither understand nor believe in the people of the new and realNew York whom it molds for better or for worse so rapidly--and evenremolds again and again. But Mildred was able to satisfy her that thehouse was at least not suspicious. 

"It doesn't matter where you're going, " said Mrs. Brindley. "It's thatyou are going. I can't bear giving you up. I had hoped that our liveswould flow on and on together. " She was with difficulty controllingher emotions. "It's these separations that age one, that take one'slife. I almost wish I hadn't met you. "

Mildred was moved, herself. Not so much as Mrs. Brindley because shehad the necessities of her career gripping her and claiming thestrongest feelings there were in her. Also, she was much the younger, not merely in years but in experience. And separations have no realpoignancy in them for youth. 

"Yes, I know you love me, " said Cyrilla, "but love doesn't mean to youwhat it means to me. I'm in that middle period of life whereeverything has its fullest meaning. In youth we're easily consoled anddistracted because life seems so full of possibilities, and we can'tbelieve friendship and love are rare, and still more rarely worthwhile. In old age, when the arteries harden and the blood flows slowand cold, we become indifferent. But between thirty-five and fifty-fivehow the heart can ache!" She smiled, with trembling lips. "And how itcan rejoice!" she cried bravely. "I must not forget to mention that. Ah, my dear, you must learn to live intensely. If I had had yourchance!"

"Ridiculous!" laughed Mildred. "You talk like an old woman. And Inever think of you as older than myself. "

"I AM an old woman, " said Cyrilla. And, with a tightening at the heartMildred saw, deep in the depths of her eyes, the look of old age. "I'vefound that I'm too old for love--for man-and-woman love--and that meansI'm an old woman. "

Mildred felt that there was only a thin barrier of reserve between herand some sad secret of this strange, shy, loving woman's--a barrier sothin that she could almost hear the stifled moan of a broken heart. Butthe barrier remained; it would have been impossible for CyrillaBrindley to talk frankly about herself. 

When Mildred came out of her room the next morning, Cyrilla had gone, leaving a note:

I can't bear good-bys. Besides, we'll see each other very soon. Forgive me for shrinking, but really I can't. 

Before night Mildred was settled in the new place and the new room, with no sense of strangeness. She was reproaching herself forhardness, for not caring about Cyrilla, the best and truest friend shehad ever had. But the truth lay in quite a different direction. Thehouse, the surroundings, where she had lived luxuriously, dreaming herfoolish and fatuous dreams, was not the place for such a struggle aswas now upon her. And for that struggle she preferred, to sensitive, sober, refined, impractical Cyrilla Brindley, the companionship and thesympathy, the practical sympathy, of Agnes Belloc. No one need beashamed or nervous before Agnes Belloc about being poor or unsuccessfulor having to resort to shabby makeshifts or having to endure coarsecontacts. Cyrilla represented refinement, appreciation of the finishedwork--luxurious and sterile appreciation and enjoyment. Agnesrepresented the workshop--where all the doers of all that is done liveand work. Mildred was descending from the heights where live those whohave graduated from the lot of the human race and have lost all thatsuperficial or casual resemblance to that race. She was going down tolive with the race, to share in its lot. She was glad Agnes Belloc wasto be there. 

Generalizing about such a haphazard conglomerate as human nature ishighly unsatisfactory, but it may be cautiously ventured that in NewEngland, as in old England, there is a curiously contradictory way ofdealing with conventionality. Nowhere is conventionality more inreverence; yet when a New-Englander, man or woman, happens to elect tobreak with it, nowhere is the break so utter and so defiant. If AgnesBelloc, cut loose from the conventions that had bound her fromchildhood to well into middle life, had remained at home, no doubt shewould have spent a large part of her nights in thinking out ways ofemploying her days in outraging the conventionalities before herhorrified and infuriated neighbors. But of what use in New York tocuff and spit upon deities revered by only an insignificant class--andonly officially revered by that class? Agnes had soon seen that therewas no amusement or interest whatever in an enterprise which in her NewEngland home would have filled her life to the brim with excitement. Also, she saw that she was well into that time of life where theabsence of reputation in a woman endangers her comfort, makes herliable to be left alone--not despised and denounced, but simply avoidedand ignored. So she was telling Mildred the exact truth. She had laiddown the arms she had taken up against the social system, and had comein--and was fighting it from the safer and wiser inside. She stillinsisted that a woman had the same rights as a man; but she took careto make it clear that she claimed those rights only for others, thatshe neither exercised them nor cared for them for herself. And to makeher propaganda the more effective, she was not only circumspectherself, but was exceedingly careful to be surrounded by circumspectpeople. No one could cite her case as proof that woman would expandliberty into license. In theory there was nothing lively that she didnot look upon at least with tolerance; in practice, more and more shedisliked seeing one of her sex do anything that might cause the worldto say "woman would abuse liberty if she had it. " "Sensible people, "she now said, "do as they like. But they don't give fools a chance totitter and chatter. "

Agnes Belloc was typical--certainly of a large and growing class inthis day--of the decay of ancient temples and the decline of theold-fashioned idealism that made men fancy they lived nobly becausethey professed and believed nobly. She had no ethical standards. Shesimply met each situation as it arose and dealt with it as common senseseemed in that particular instance to dictate. For a thousand yearsgenius has been striving with the human race to induce it to abandonits superstitions and hypocrisies and to defy common sense, soadaptable, so tolerant, so conducive to long and healthy and happylife. Grossly materialistic, but alluringly comfortable. Whether forgood or for evil or for both good and evil, the geniuses seem in a fairway at last to prevail over the idealists, religious and political. AndMrs. Belloc, without in the least realizing it, was a most significantsign of the times. 

"Your throat seems to be better to-day, " said she to Mildred atbreakfast. "Those simple house-remedies I tried on you last night seemto have done some good. Nothing like heat--hot water--and no eating. The main thing was doing without dinner last night. "

"My nerves are quieter, " advanced Mildred as the likelier explanationof the return of the soul of music to its seat. "And my mind's atrest. "

"Yes, that's good, " said plain Agnes Belloc. "But getting the stomachstraight and keeping it straight's the main thing. My old grandmothercould eat anything and do anything. I've seen her put in a glass ofmilk or a saucer of ice-cream on top of a tomato-salad. The way shekept well was, whenever she began to feel the least bit off, shestopped eating. Not a bite would she touch till she felt well again. "

Mildred, moved by an impulse stronger than her inclination, producedthe Keith paper. "I wish you'd read this, and tell me what you thinkof it. You've got so much common sense. "

Agnes read it through to the end, began at the beginning and read itthrough again. "That sounds good to me, " said she. "I want to thinkit over. If you don't mind I'd like to show it to Miss Blond. Sheknows a lot about those things. I suppose you're going to see Mr. Crossley to-day?--that's the musical manager's name, isn't it?"

"I'm going at eleven. That isn't too early, is it?"

"If I were you, I'd go as soon as I was dressed for the street. And ifyou don't get to see him, wait till you do. Don't talk tounder-staffers. Always go straight for the head man. You've gotsomething that's worth his while. How did he get to be head man?Because he knows a good thing the minute he sees it. The under fellowsare usually under because they are so taken up with themselves and withimpressing people how grand they are that they don't see anything else. So, when you talk to them, you wear yourself out and waste your time. "

"There's only one thing that makes me nervous, " said Mildred. "EveryoneI've ever talked with about going on the stage--everyone who has talkedcandidly--has said--"

"Yes, I know, " said Mrs. Belloc, as Mildred paused to search forsmooth-sounding words in which to dress, without disguising, adistinctly ugly idea. "I've heard that, too. I don't know whetherthere's anything in it or not. " She looked admiringly at Mildred, whothat morning was certainly lovely enough to tempt any man. "If there isanything in it, why, I reckon YOU'D be up against it. That's the worstof having men at the top in any trade and profession. A woman's got toget her chance through some man, and if he don't choose to let her haveit, she's likely to fail. "

Mildred showed how this depressed her. 

"But don't you fret about that till you have to, " advised Mrs. Belloc. "I've a notion that, even if it's true, it may not apply to you. Wherea woman offers for a place that she can fill about as well as a hundredother women, she's at the man's mercy; but if she knows that she's farand away the best for the place, I don't think a man's going to standin his own light. Let him see that he can make money through YOU, money he won't make if he don't get you. Then, I don't think you'llhave any trouble. "

But Mildred's depression did not decrease. "If my voice could only berelied on!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it exasperating that I've got adelicate throat!"

"It's always something, " said Mrs. Belloc. "One thing's about as badas another, and anything can be overcome. "

"No, not in my case, " said Mildred. "The peculiar quality of myvoice--what makes it unusual--is due to the delicateness of my throat. "

"Maybe so, " said Mrs. Belloc. 

"Of course, I can always sing--after a fashion, " continued Mildred. "But to be really valuable on the stage you've got to be able always tosing at your best. So I'm afraid I'm in the class of those who'll suit, one about as well as another. "

"You've got to get out of that class, " said Mrs. Belloc. "The men inthat class, and the women, have to do any dirty work the boss sees fitto give 'em--and not much pay, either. Let me tell you one thing, MissStevens. If you can't get among the few at the top in the singinggame, you must look round for some game where you can hope to be amongthe few. No matter WHAT it is. By using your brains and working hard, there's something you can do better than pretty nearly anybody else canor will do it. You find that. "

The words sank in, sank deep. Mildred, sense of her surroundings lost, was gazing straight ahead with an expression that gave Mrs. Belloc hopeand even a certain amount of confidence. There was a distinct advance;for, after she reflected upon all that Mildred had told her, little ofher former opinion of Mildred's chances for success had remained but ahope detained not without difficulty. Mrs. Belloc knew the human raceunusually well for a woman--unusually well for a human being ofwhatever sex or experience. She had discovered how rare is thetemperament, the combination of intelligence and tenacity, that makesfor success. She had learned that most people, judged by any standard, were almost total failures, that most of the more or less successfulwere so merely because the world had an enormous amount of importantwork to be done, even though half-way, and had no one but thosehalf-competents to do it. As incompetence in a man would be toleratedwhere it would not be in a woman, obviously a woman, to get on, musthave the real temperament of success. 

She now knew enough about Mildred to be able to "place" her in the"lady" class--those brought up not only knowing how to do nothing witha money value (except lawful or unlawful man-trapping), but alsotrained to a sensitiveness and refinement and false shame about workthat made it exceedingly difficult if not impossible for them to learnusefulness. She knew all Mildred's handicaps, both those the girl wasconscious of and those far heavier ones which she fatuously regarded asadvantages. How was Mildred ever to learn to dismiss and disregardherself as the pretty woman of good social position, an object ofadmiration and consideration? Mildred, in the bottom of her heart, wasregarding herself as already successful--successful at the highest awoman can achieve or ought to aspire to achieve--was regarding hercareer, however she might talk or might fancy she believed, as a merelivelihood, a side issue. She would be perhaps more than a littleashamed of her stage connections, should she make any, until she shouldbe at the very top--and how get to the top when one is working underthe handicap of shame? Above all, how was this indulgently andshelteredly reared lady to become a working woman, living a routinelife, toiling away day in and day out, with no let up, permitting noone and nothing to break her routine? "Really, " thought Agnes Belloc, "she ought to have married that Baird man--or stayed on with the nastygeneral. I wonder why she didn't! That's the only thing that gives mehope. There must be something in her--something that don'tappear--something she doesn't know about, herself. What is it? Maybeit was only vanity and vacillation. Again, I don't know. "

The difficulty Mrs. Belloc labored under in her attempt to explore andmap Mildred Gower was a difficulty we all labor under in those sameenterprises. We cannot convince ourselves--in spite of experienceafter experience--that a human character is never consistent andhomogeneous, is always conglomerate, that there are no two traits, however naturally exclusive, which cannot coexist in the samepersonality, that circumstance is the dominating factor in human actionand brings forward as dominant characteristics now one trait or set oftraits, consistent or inconsistent, and now another. The Alexander whowas Aristotle's model pupil was the same Alexander as the drunkendebaucher. Indeed, may it not be that the characters which play thelarge parts in the comedy of life are naturally those that offer to theshifting winds of circumstances the greatest variety of stronglydeveloped and contradictory qualities? For example, if it wasMildred's latent courage rescued her from Siddall, was it not herstrong tendency to vacillation that saved her from a loveless andmercenary marriage to Stanley Baird? Perhaps the deep underlying truthis that all unusual people have in common the character that centers apowerful aversion to stagnation; thus, now by their strong qualities, now by their weaknesses, they are swept inevitably on and on and everon. Good to-day, bad to-morrow, good again the day after, weak in thisinstance, strong in that, now brave and now cowardly, soft at one time, hard at another, generous and the reverse by turns, they are consistentonly in that they are never at rest, but incessantly and inevitably go. 

Mildred reluctantly rose, moved toward the door with lingering step. "Iguess I'd better make a start, " said she. 

"That's the talk, " said Mrs. Belloc heartily. But the affectionateglance she sent after the girl was dubious--even pitying. 

IX

TWO minutes' walk through to Broadway, and she was at her destination. There, on the other side of the way, stood the Gayety Theater, with theoffices of Mr. Clarence Crossley overlooking the intersection of thetwo streets. Crossley was intrenched in the remotest of a series ofrooms, each tenanted by under-staffers of diminishing importance as youdrew way from the great man. It was next to impossible to get athim--a cause of much sneering and dissatisfaction in theatricalcircles. Crossley, they said, was exclusive, had the swollen head, hadforgotten that only a few years before he had been a cheap littleticket-seller grateful for a bow from any actor who had ever had hisname up. Crossley insisted that he was not a victim of folie degrandeur, that, on the contrary, he had become less vain as he hadrisen, where he could see how trivial a thing rising was and howaccidental. Said he:

"Why do I shut myself in? Because I'm what I am--a good thing, easyfruit. You say that men a hundred times bigger than I'll ever be don'tshut themselves up. You say that Mountain, the biggest financier inthe country, sits right out where anybody can go up to him. Yes, butwho'd dare go up to him? It's generally known that he's a cannibal, that he kills his own food and eats it warm and raw. So he can affordto sit in the open. If I did that, all my time and all my money wouldgo to the cheap-skates with hard-luck tales. I don't hide because I'mhaughty, but because I'm weak and soft. "

In appearance Mr. Crossley did not suggest his name. He was a tallish, powerful-looking person with a smooth, handsome, audacious face, withfine, laughing, but somehow untrustworthy eyes--at least untrustworthyfor women, though women had never profited by the warning. He dressedin excellent taste, almost conspicuously, and the gay and expensivedetails of his toilet suggested a man given over to liveliness. As amatter of fact, this liveliness was potential rather than actual. Mr. Crossley was always intending to resume the giddy ways of the yearsbefore he became a great man, but was always so far behind in theimportant things to be done and done at once that he was forced to putoff. However, his neckties and his shirts and his flirtations, untrustworthy eyes kept him a reputation for being one of the worstcases in Broadway. In vain did his achievements show that he could notpossibly have time or strength for anything but work. He looked like arounder; he was in a business that gave endless dazzling opportunitiesfor the lively life; a rounder he was, therefore. 

He was about forty. At first glance, so vivid and energetic was he, helooked like thirty-five, but at second glance one saw the lines, theunderlying melancholy signs of strain, the heavy price he had paid forphenomenal success won by a series of the sort of risks that make thehair fall as autumn leaves on a windy day and make such hairs as stickturn rapidly gray. Thus, there were many who thought Crossley wasthrough vanity shy of the truth by five or six years when he said forty. 

In ordinary circumstances Mildred would never have got at Crossley. This was the first business call of her life where she had come as anunknown and unsupported suitor. Her reception would have been such atthe hands of Crossley's insolent and ill-mannered underlings that shewould have fled in shame and confusion. It is even well within thepossibilities that she would have given up all idea of a career, wouldhave sent for Baird, and so on. And not one of those who, timid andinexperienced, have suffered rude rebuff at their first advance, wouldhave condemned her. But it so chanced--whether by good fortune or byill the event was to tell--that she did not have to face a singleunderling. The hall door was open. She entered. It happened thatwhile she was coming up in the elevator a quarrel between a motormanand a driver had heated into a fight, into a small riot. All theunderlings had rushed out on a balcony that commanded a superb view ofthe battle. The connecting doors were open; Mildred advanced from roomto room, seeking someone who would take her card to Mr. Crossley. Whenshe at last faced a closed door she knocked. 

"Come!" cried a pleasant voice. 

And in she went, to face Crossley himself--Crossley, the "weak andsoft, " caught behind his last entrenchment with no chance to escape. Had Mildred looked the usual sort who come looking for jobs in musicalcomedy, Mr. Crossley would not have risen--not because he was snobbish, but because, being a sensitive, high-strung person, he instinctivelyadopted the manner that would put the person before him at ease. Heglanced at Mildred, rose, and thrust back forthwith the slangy, offhandpersonality that was perhaps the most natural--or was it merely themost used?--of his many personalities. It was Crossley the man of theworld, the man of the artistic world, who delighted Mildred with acourteous bow and offer of a chair, as he said:

"You wished to see me?"

"If you are Mr. Crossley, " said Mildred. 

"I should be tempted to say I was, if I wasn't, " said he, and hismanner made it a mere pleasantry to put her at ease. 

"There was no one in the outside room, so I walked on and on until yourdoor stopped me. "

"You'll never know how lucky you were, " said he. "They tell me thosefellows out there have shocking manners. "

"Have you time to see me now? I've come to apply for a position inmusical comedy. "

"You have not been on the stage, Miss--"

"Gower. Mildred Gower. I've decided to use my own name. "

"I know you have not been on the stage. "

"Except as an amateur--and not even that for several years. But I'vebeen working at my voice. "

Crossley was studying her, as she stood talking--she had refused thechair. He was more than favorably impressed. But the deciding elementwas not Mildred's excellent figure or her charm of manner or her sweetand lovely face. It was superstition. Just at that time Crossley hadbeen abruptly deserted by Estelle Howard; instead of going on with therehearsals of "The Full Moon, " in which she was to be starred, she hadrushed away to Europe with a violinist with whom she had fallen in loveat the first rehearsal. Crossley was looking about for someone to takeher place. He had been entrenched in those offices for nearly fiveyears; in all that time not a single soul of the desperate crowds thatdogged him had broken through his guard. Crossley was as superstitiousas was everyone else who has to do with the stage. 

"What kind of a voice?" asked he. 

"Lyric soprano. "

"You have music there. What?"

"'Batti Batti' and a little song in English--'The Rose and the Bee. '"

Crossley forgot his manners, turned his back squarely upon her, thrusthis hands deep into his trousers pockets, and stared out through thewindow. He presently wheeled round. She would not have thought hiseyes could be so keen. Said he: "You were studying for grand opera?"

"Yes. "

"Why do you drop it and take up this?"

"No money, " replied she. "I've got to make my living at once. "

"Well, let's see. Come with me, please. "

They went out by a door into the hall, went back to the rear of thebuilding, in at an iron door, down a flight of steep iron skeletonsteps dimly lighted. Mildred had often been behind the scenes in heramateur theatrical days; but even if she had not, she would have knownwhere she was. Crossley called, "Moldini! Moldini!"

The name was caught up by other voices and repeated again and again, more and more remotely. A moment, and a small dark man with asuperabundance of greasy dark hair appeared. "Miss Gower, " saidCrossley, "this is Signor Moldini. He will play your accompaniments. "Then to the little Italian, "Piano on the stage?"

"Yes, sir. "

To Mildred with a smile, "Will you try?"

She bent her head. She had no voice--not for song, not for speech, noteven for a monosyllable. 

Crossley took Moldini aside where Mildred could not hear. "Mollie, "said he, "this girl crept up on me, and I've got to give her a trial. As you see, she's a lady, and you know what they are. "

"Punk, " said Moldini. 

Crossley nodded. "She seems a nice sort, so I want to let her downeasy. I'll sit back in the house, in the dark. Run her through that'Batti Batti' thing she's got with her. If she's plainly on the fritz, I'll light a cigarette. If I don't light up, try the other song shehas. If I still don't light up make her go through that 'Ah, were youhere, love, ' from the piece. But if I light up, it means that I'mgoing to light out, and that you're to get rid of her--tell her we'lllet her know if she'll leave her address. You understand?"

"Perfectly. "

Far from being thrilled and inspired, her surroundings made her sick atheart--the chill, the dampness, the bare walls, the dim, dreary lights, the coarsely-painted flats-- At last she was on the threshold of herchosen profession. What a profession for such a person as she hadalways been! She stood beside Moldini, seated at the piano. She gazedat the darkness, somewhere in whose depths Crossley was hidden. Afterseveral false starts she sang the "Batti Batti" through, sang itatrociously--not like a poor professional, but like a pretentiousamateur, a reversion to a manner of singing she had once had, but hadlong since got rid of. She paused at the end, appalled by the silence, by the awfulness of her own performance. 

From the darkness a slight click. If she had known!--for, it wasCrossley's match-safe. 

The sound, slight yet so clear, startled her, roused her. She calledout: "Mr. Crossley, won't you please be patient enough to let me trythat again?"

A brief hesitation, then: "Certainly. "

Once more she began. But this time there was no hesitation. Fromfirst to last she did it as Jennings had coached her, did it with allthe beauty and energy of her really lovely voice. As she ended, Moldini said in a quiet but intense undertone: "Bravo! Bravo! Freshas a bird on a bright spring morning. " And from the darkness came:"Ah--that's better, Miss Gower. That was professional work. Now forthe other. "

Thus encouraged and with her voice well warmed, she could not but makea success of the song that was nearer to what would be expected of herin musical comedy. Crossley called out: "Now, the sight singing, Moldini. I don't expect you to do this well, Miss Gower. I simply wishto get an idea of how you'd do a piece we have in rehearsal. "

"You'll have no trouble with this, " said Moldini, as he opened thecomedy song upon the rack with a contemptuous whirl. "It's the easyshowy stuff that suits the tired business man and his laced-in wife. Goat it and yell. "

Mildred glanced through it. There was a subtle something in theatmosphere now that put her at her ease. She read the words aloud, laughing at their silly sentimentality, she and Moldini and Crossleymaking jokes about it. Soon she said: "I'm ready. "

She sang it well. She asked them to let her try it again. And thesecond time, with the words in her mind and the simple melody, she wasable to put expression into it and to indicate, with restraint, theaction. Crossley came down the aisle. 

"What do you think, Mollie?" he said to Moldini. 

"We might test her at a few rehearsals. "

Crossley meekly accepted the salutary check on his enthusiasm. "Do youwish to try, Miss Gower?"

Mildred was silent. She knew now the sort of piece in which she was toappear. She had seen a few of them, those cheap and vulgar farces withtheir thin music, their more than dubious-looking people. What acome-down! What a degradation! It was as bad in its way as being thewife of General Siddall. And she was to do this, in preference tomarrying Stanley Baird. 

"You will be paid, of course, during rehearsal; that is, as long as weare taking your time. Fifty dollars a week is about as much as we canafford. " Crossley was watching her shrewdly, was advancing theseremarks in response to the hesitation he saw so plainly. "Of course itisn't grand opera, " he went on. "In fact, it's pretty low--almost aslow as the public taste. You see, we aren't subsidized by millionaireswho want people to think they're artistic, so we have to hustle toseparate the public from its money. But if you make a hit, you canearn enough to put you into grand opera in fine style. "

"I never heard of anyone's graduating from here into grand opera, " saidMildred. 

"Because our stars make so much money and make it so easily. It'll beyour own fault if you don't. "

"Can't I come to just one rehearsal--to see whether I can--can do it?"pleaded Mildred. 

Crossley, made the more eager and the more superstitious by thisunprecedented reluctance, shook his head. 

"No. You must agree to stay as long as we want you, " said he. "Wecan't allow ourselves to be trifled with. "

"Very well, " said Mildred resignedly. "I will rehearse as long as youwant me. "

"And will stay for the run of the piece, if we want that?" saidCrossley. "You to get a hundred a week if you are put in the cast. More, of course, if you make a hit. "

"You mean I'm to sign a contract?" cried Mildred in dismay. 

"Exactly, " said Crossley. A truly amazing performance. Moldini wasnot astonished, however, for he had heard the songs, and he knewCrossley's difficulties through Estelle Howard's flight. Also, he knewCrossley--never so "weak and soft" that he trifled with unlikelycandidates for his productions. Crossley had got up because he knewwhat to do and when to do it. 

Mildred acquiesced. Before she was free to go into the street again, she had signed a paper that bound her to rehearse for three weeks atfifty dollars a week and to stay on at a hundred dollars a week forforty weeks or the run of "The Full Moon, " if Crossley so desired; ifhe did not, she was free at the end of the rehearsals. A shrewdlyone-sided contract. But Crossley told himself he would correct it, ifshe should by some remote chance be good enough for the part and shouldmake a hit in it. This was no mere salve to conscience, by the way. Crossley would not be foolish enough to give a successful star justcause for disliking and distrusting him and at the earliest opportunityleaving him to make money for some rival manager. 

Mrs. Belloc had not gone out, had been waiting in a fever of anxiety. When Mildred came into her sitting-room with a gloomy face and droppedto a chair as if her last hope had abandoned her, it was all AgnesBelloc could do to restrain her tears. Said she:

"Don't be foolish, my dear. You couldn't expect anything to come ofyour first attempt. "

"That isn't it, " said Mildred. "I think I'll give it up--do somethingelse. Grand opera's bad enough. There were a lot of things about itthat I was fighting my distaste for. "

"I know, " said Agnes. "And you'd better fight them hard. They'reunworthy of you. "

"But--musical comedy! It's--frightful!"

"It's an honest way of making a living, and that's more than can besaid of--of some things. I suppose you're afraid you'll have to weartights--or some nonsense like that. "

"No, no. It's doing it at all. Such rotten music--and what aloathsome mess!"

Mrs. Belloc's eyes flashed. "I'm losing all patience!" she cried. "Iknow you've been brought up like a fool and always surrounded by fools. I suppose you'd rather sell yourself to some man. Do you know what'sthe matter with you, at bottom? Why, you're lazy and you're a coward. Too lazy to work. And afraid of what a lot of cheap women'llsay--women earning their board and clothes in about the lowest way sucha thing can be done. Haven't you got any self-respect?"

Mildred rose. "Mrs. Belloc, " she said angrily, "I can't permit evenyou to say such things to me. "

"The shoe seems to fit, " retorted Mrs. Belloc. "I never yet saw alady, a real, silk-and-diamonds, sit-in-the-parlor lady, who had anyself-respect. If I had my way they wouldn't get a mouthful to eat tillthey had earned it. That'd be a sure cure for the lady disease. I'mashamed of you, Miss Stevens! And you're ashamed of yourself. "

"Yes, I am, " said Mildred, with a sudden change of mood. 

"The best thing you can do is to rest till lunch-time. Then start outafter lunch and hunt a job. I'll go with you. "

"But I've got a job, " said Mildred. "That's what's the matter. "

Agnes Belloc's jaw dropped and her rather heavy eyebrows shot up towardthe low sweeping line of her auburn hair. She made such a ludicrousface that Mildred laughed outright. Said she:

"It's quite time. Fifty a week, for three weeks of rehearsal. Nodoubt _I_ can go on if I like. Nothing could be easier. "

"Crossley?"

"Yes. He was very nice--heard me sing three pieces--and it was allsettled. I'm to begin to-morrow. "

The color rose in Agnes Belloc's face until she looked apoplectic. Sheabruptly retreated to her bedroom. After a few minutes she came back, her normal complexion restored. "I couldn't trust myself to speak, "said she. "That was the worst case of ingratitude I ever met up with. You, getting a place at fifty dollars a week--and on your firsttrial--and you come in looking as if you'd lost your money and yourreputation. What kind of a girl are you, anyway?"

"I don't know, " said Mildred. "I wish I did. "

"Well, I'm sorry you got it so easy. Now you'll have a false notionfrom the start. It's always better to have a hard time getting things. Then you appreciate them, and have learned how to hold on. "

"No trouble about holding on to this, " said Mildred carelessly. 

"Please don't talk that way, child, " pleaded Agnes, almost tearful. "It's frightful to me, who've had experience, to hear you invite afall-down. "

Mildred disdainfully fluttered the typewritten copy of the musicalcomedy. "This is child's play, " said she. "The lines are beneathcontempt. As for the songs, you never heard such slop. "

"The stars in those pieces get four and five hundred, and more, aweek, " said Mrs. Belloc. "Believe me, those managers don't pay out anysuch sums for child's play. You look out. You're going at this wrong. "

"I shan't care if I do fail, " said Mildred. 

"Do you mean that?" demanded Mrs. Belloc. 

"No, I don't, " said Mildred. "Oh, I don't know what I mean. "

"I guess you're just talking, " said Mrs. Belloc after a reflectivesilence. "I guess a girl who goes and gets a good job, first crack outof the box, must have a streak of shrewdness. "

"I hope so, " said Mildred doubtfully. 

"I guess you'll work hard, all right. After you went out this morning, I took that paper down to Miss Blond. She's crazy about it. She wantsto make a copy of it. I told her I'd ask you. "

"Certainly, " said Mildred. "She says she'll return it the same day. "

"Tell her she can keep it as long as she likes. "

Mrs. Belloc eyed her gravely, started to speak, checked herself. Instead, she said, "No, I shan't do that. I'll have it back in yourroom by this evening. You might change your mind, and want to use it. "

"Very well, " said Mildred, pointedly uninterested and ignoring Mrs. Belloc's delicate but distinct emphasis upon "might. "

Mrs. Belloc kept a suspicious eye upon her--an eye that was not easilydeceived. The more she thought about Mildred's state of depression anddisdain the more tolerant she became. That mood was the natural andnecessary result of the girl's bringing up and mode of life. Theimportant thing--and the wonderful thing--was her being able toovercome it. After a week of rehearsal she said: "I'm making the bestof it. But I don't like it, and never shall. "

"I should hope not, " replied Mrs. Belloc. "You're going to the top. I'd hate to see you contented at the bottom. Aren't you learning agood deal that'll be useful later on?"

"That's why I'm reconciled to it, " said she. "The stage director, Mr. Ransdell, is teaching me everything--even how to sing. He knows hisbusiness. "

Ransdell not only knew, but also took endless pains with her. He was atall, thin, dark man, strikingly handsome in the distinguished way. Sodistinguished looking was he that to meet him was to wonder why he hadnot made a great name for himself. An extraordinary mind he certainlyhad, and an insight into the reasons for things that is given only togenius. He had failed as a composer, failed as a playwright, failed asa singer, failed as an actor. He had been forced to take up theprofession of putting on dramatic and musical plays, a profession thatrequired vast knowledge and high talents and paid for them in niggardlyfashion both in money and in fame. Crossley owed to him more than toany other single element the series of successes that had made himrich; yet the ten thousand a year Crossley paid him was regarded asevidence of Crossley's lavish generosity and was so. It would havebeen difficult to say why a man so splendidly endowed by nature and sotireless in improving himself was thus unsuccessful. Probably helacked judgment; indeed, that lack must have been the cause. He couldjudge for Crossley; but not for himself, not when he had the feeling ofultimate responsibility. 

Mildred had anticipated the most repulsive associations--men and womenof low origin and of vulgar tastes and of vulgarly loose lives. Shefound herself surrounded by simple, pleasant people, undoubtedlyerratic for the most part in all their habits, but without viciousness. And they were hard workers, all. Ransdell--for Crossley--tolerated nononsense. His people could live as they pleased, away from thetheater, but there they must be prompt and fit. The discipline was assevere as that of a monastery. She saw many signs that all sorts ofthings of the sort with which she wished to have no contact were goingon about her; but as she held slightly--but not at allhaughtily--aloof, she would have had to go out of her way to see enoughto scandalize her. She soon suspected that she was being treated withextraordinary consideration. This was by Crossley's orders. But thecarrying out of their spirit as well as their letter was due toRansdell. Before the end of that first week she knew that there wasthe personal element behind his admiration for her voice and her talentfor acting, behind his concentrating most of his attention upon herpart. He looked his love boldly whenever they were alone; he wasalways trying to touch her--never in a way that she could haveresented, or felt like resenting. He was not unattractive to her, andshe was eager to learn all he had to teach, and saw no harm in helpingherself by letting him love. 

Toward the middle of the second week, when they were alone in herdressing-room, he--with the ingenious lack of abruptness of theexperienced man at the game--took her hand, and before she was ready, kissed her. He did not accompany these advances with an outburst ofpassionate words or with any fiery lighting up of the eyes, but calmly, smilingly, as if it were what she was expecting him to do, what he hada right to do. 

She did not know quite how to meet this novel attack. She drew her handaway, went on talking about the part--the changes he had suggested inher entrance, as she sang her best solo. He discussed this with heruntil they rose to leave the theater. He looked smilingly down on her, and said with the flattering air of the satisfied connoisseur:

"Yes, you are charming, Mildred. I can make a great artist and a greatsuccess out of you. We need each other. "

"I certainly need you, " said she gratefully. "How much you've done forme. "

"Only the beginning, " replied he. "Ah, I have such plans for you--suchplans. Crossley doesn't realize how far you can be made to go--withthe right training. Without it--" He shook his head laughingly. "Butyou shall have it, my dear. " And he laid his hands lightly andcaressingly upon her shoulders. 

The gesture was apparently a friendly familiarity. To resent it, evento draw away, would put her in the attitude of the woman absurdlyexercised about the desirability and sacredness of her own charms. 

Still smiling, in that friendly, assured way, he went on: "You've beenvery cold and reserved with me, my dear. Very unappreciative. "

Mildred, red and trembling, hung her head in confusion. 

"I've been at the business ten years, " he went on, "and you're thefirst woman I've been more than casually interested in. The prettyones were bores. The homely ones--I can't interest myself in a homelywoman, no matter how much talent she has. A woman must first of allsatisfy the eye. And you--" He seated himself and drew her towardhim. She, cold all over and confused in mind and almost stupefied, resisted with all her strength; but her strength seemed to be oozingaway. She said:

"You must not do this. You must not do this. I'm horriblydisappointed in you. "

He drew her to his lap and held her there without any apparent tax uponhis strength. He kissed her, laughingly pushing away the arms withwhich she tried to shield her face. Suddenly she found strength towrench herself free and stood at a distance from him. She was panting alittle, was pale, was looking at him with cold anger. 

"You will please leave this room, " said she. 

He lit a cigarette, crossed his legs comfortably, and looked at herwith laughing eyes. "Don't do that, " he said genially. "Surely mylessons in acting haven't been in vain. That's too obviously a pose. "

She went to the mirror, arranged her hat, and moved toward the door. Herose and barred the way. 

"You are as sensible as you are sweet and lovely, " said he. "Whyshould you insist on our being bad friends?"

"If you don't stand aside, I'll call out to the watchman. "

"I'd never have thought you were dishonest. In fact, I don't believeit yet. You don't look like one of those ladies who wish to takeeverything and give nothing. " His tone and manner were mostattractive. Besides, she could not forget all he had done for her--andall he could do for her. Said she:

"Mr. Ransdell, if I've done anything to cause you to misunderstand, itwas unconscious. And I'm sorry. But I--"

"Be honest, " interrupted he. "Haven't I made it plain that I wasfascinated by you?"

She could not deny it. 

"Haven't I been showing you that I was willing to do everything I couldfor you?"

"I thought you were concerned only about the success of the piece. "

"The piece be jiggered, " said he. "You don't imagine YOU are necessaryto its success, do you? You, a raw, untrained girl. Don't your goodsense tell you I could find a dozen who would do, let us say, ALMOST aswell?"

"I understand that, " murmured she. 

"Perhaps you do, but I doubt it, " rejoined he. "Vanity's a fast growingweed. However, I rather expected that you would remain sane andreasonably humble until you'd had a real success. But it seems not. Now tell me, why should I give my time and my talent to trainingyou--to putting you in the way of quick and big success?"

She was silent. 

"What did you count on giving me in return? Your thanks?"

She colored, hung her head. 

"Wasn't I doing for you something worth while? And what had you to givein return?" He laughed with gentle mockery. "Really, you should havebeen grateful that I was willing to do so much for so little, for whatI wanted ought--if you are a sensible woman--to seem to you a trifle incomparison with what I was doing for you. It was my part, not yours, to think the complimentary things about you. How shallow and vain youwomen are! Can't you see that the value of your charms is not in them, but in the imagination of some man?"

"I can't answer you, " said she. "You've put it all wrong. Yououghtn't to ask payment for a favor beyond price. "

"No, I oughtn't to HAVE to ask, " corrected he, in the same pleasantlyironic way. "You ought to have been more than glad to give freely. But, curiously, while we've been talking, I've changed my mind aboutthose precious jewels of yours. We'll say they're pearls, and that mytaste has suddenly changed to diamonds. " He bowed mockingly. "So, dear lady, keep your pearls. "

And he stood aside, opening the door for her. She hesitated, dazedthat she was leaving, with the feeling of the conquered, a field onwhich, by all the precedents, she ought to have been victor. Shepassed a troubled night, debated whether to relate her queer experienceto Mrs. Belloc, decided for silence. It drafted into service all herreserve of courage to walk into the theater the next day and to appearon the stage among the assembled company with her usual air. Ransdellgreeted her with his customary friendly courtesy and gave her hisattention, as always. By the time they had got through the first act, in which her part was one of four of about equal importance, she hadrecovered herself and was in the way to forget the strange stagedirector's strange attack and even stranger retreat. But the situationchanged with the second act, in which she was on the stage all the timeand had the whole burden. The act as originally written had been lessgenerous to her; but Ransdell had taken one thing after another awayfrom the others and had given it to her. She made her first entranceprecisely as he had trained her to make it and began. A few seconds, and he stopped her. 

"Please try again, Miss Gower, " said he. "I'm afraid that won't do. "

She tried again; again he stopped her. She tried a third time. Hismanner was all courtesy and consideration, not the shade of a change. But she began to feel a latent hostility. Instinctively she knew thathe would no longer help her, that he would leave her to her ownresources, and judge her by how she acquitted herself. She made ablunder of her third trial. 

"Really, Miss Gower, that will never do, " said he mildly. "Let me showyou how you did it. "

He gave an imitation of her--a slight caricature. A titter ran throughthe chorus. He sternly rebuked them and requested her to try again. Her fourth attempt was her worst. He shook his head in gentleremonstrance. "Not quite right yet, " said he regretfully. "But we'llgo on. "

Not far, however. He stopped her again. Again the courteous, kindlycriticism. And so on, through the entire act. By the end of it, Mildred's nerves were unstrung. She saw the whole game, and realizedhow helpless she was. Before the end of that rehearsal, Mildred hadslipped back from promising professional into clumsy amateur, tolerableonly because of the beautiful freshness of her voice--and it was aquestion whether voice alone would save her. Yet no one but Mildredherself suspected that Ransdell had done it, had revenged himself, hadserved notice on her that since she felt strong enough to stand aloneshe was to have every opportunity to do so. He had said nothingdisagreeable; on the contrary, he had been most courteous, mostforbearing. 

In the third act she was worse than in the second. At the end of therehearsal the others, theretofore flattering and encouraging, turnedaway to talk among themselves and avoided her. Ransdell, about toleave, said:

"Don't look so down-hearted, Miss Gower. You'll be all rightto-morrow. An off day's nothing. "

He said it loudly enough for the others to hear. Mildred's face grewred with white streaks across it, like the prints of a lash. Thesubtlest feature of his malevolence had been that, whereas on otherdays he had taken her aside to criticize her, on this day he had spokenout--gently, deprecatingly, but frankly--before the whole company. Never had Mildred Gower been so sad and so blue as she was that day andthat night. She came to the rehearsal the following day with a sorethroat. She sang, but her voice cracked on the high notes. It was apainful exhibition. Her fellow principals, who had been rather glad ofher set-back the day before, were full of pity and sympathy. They didnot express it; they were too kind for that. But their looks, theirdrawing away from her--Mildred could have borne sneers and jeersbetter. And Ransdell was SO forbearing, SO gentle. 

Her voice got better, got worse. Her acting remained mediocre to bad. At the fifth rehearsal after the break with the stage-director, Mildredsaw Crossley seated far back in the dusk of the empty theater. It washis first appearance at rehearsals since the middle of the first week. As soon as he had satisfied himself that all was going well, he hadgiven his attention to other matters where things were not going well. Mildred knew why he was there--and she acted and sang atrociously. Ransdell aggravated her nervousness by ostentatiously trying to helpher, by making seemingly adroit attempts to cover hermistakes--attempts apparently thwarted and exposed only because she washopelessly bad. 

In the pause between the second and third acts Ransdell went down andsat with Crossley, and they engaged in earnest conversation. Thewhile, the members of the company wandered restlessly about the stage, making feeble attempts to lift the gloom with affected cheerfulness. Ransdell returned to the stage, went up to Mildred, who was sittingidly turning the leaves of a part-book. 

"Miss Gower, " said he, and never had his voice been so friendly as inthese regretful accents, "don't try to go on to-day. You're evidentlynot yourself. Go home and rest for a few days. We'll get along withyour understudy, Miss Esmond. When Mr. Crossley wants to put you inagain, he'll send for you. You mustn't be discouraged. I know howbeginners take these things to heart. Don't fret about it. You can'tfail to succeed. "

Mildred rose and, how she never knew, crossed the stage. She stumbledinto the flats, fumbled her way to the passageway, to herdressing-room. She felt that she must escape from that theaterquickly, or she would give way to some sort of wild attack of nerves. She fairly ran through the streets to Mrs. Belloc's, shut herself inher room. But instead of the relief of a storm of tears, there came ablack, hideous depression. Hour after hour she sat, almost withoutmotion. The afternoon waned; the early darkness came. Still she didnot move--could not move. At eight o'clock Mrs. Belloc knocked. Mildred did not answer. Her door opened--she had forgotten to lock it. In came Mrs. Belloc. 

"Isn't that you, sitting by the window?" she said. 

"Yes, " replied Mildred. 

"I recognized the outline of your hat. Besides, who else could it bebut you? I've saved some dinner for you. I thought you were stillout. "

Mildred did not answer. 

"What's the matter?" said Agnes? "Ill? bad news?"

"I've lost my position, " said Mildred. 

A pause. Then Mrs. Belloc felt her way across the room until she wastouching the girl. "Tell me about it, dear, " said she. 

In a monotonous, lifeless way Mildred told the story. It was some timeafter she finished when Agnes said:

"That's bad--bad, but it might be worse. You must go to see themanager, Crossley. "

"Why?" said Mildred. 

"Tell him what you told me. "

Mildred's silence was dissent. 

"It can't do any harm, " urged Agnes. 

"It can't do any good, " replied Mildred. 

"That isn't the way to look at it. "

A long pause. Then Mildred said: "If I got a place somewhere else, I'd meet the same thing in another form. "

"You've got to risk that. "

"Besides, I'd never have had a chance of succeeding if Mr. Ransdellhadn't taught me and stood behind me. "

It was many minutes before Agnes Belloc said in a hesitating, restrained voice: "They say that success--any kind of success--has itsprice, and that one has to be ready to pay that price or fail. "

Again the profound silence. Into it gradually penetrated the soft, insistent sound of the distant roar of New York--a cruel, clamorous, devouring sound like a demand for that price of success. Said Agnestimidly:

"Why not go to see Mr. Ransdell. "

"He wouldn't make it up, " said Mildred. "And I--I couldn't. I triedto marry Stanley Baird for money--and I couldn't. It would be the sameway now--only more so. "

"But you've got to do something. "

"Yes, and I will. " Mildred had risen abruptly, was standing at thewindow. Agnes Belloc could feel her soul rearing defiantly at the cityinto which she was gazing. "I will!" she replied. 

"It sounds as if you'd been pushed to where you'd turn and make afight, " said Agnes. 

"I hope so, " said Mildred. "It's high time. "

She thought out several more or less ingenious indirect routes into Mr. Crossley's stronghold, for use in case frontal attack failed. But shedid not need them. Still, the hours she spent in planning them were byno means wasted. No time is wasted that is spent in desperate, concentrated thinking about any of the practical problems of life. AndMildred Gower, as much as any other woman of her training--or lack oftraining--was deficient in ability to use her mind purposefully. Mostof us let our minds act like a sheep in a pasture--go wandering hitherand yon, nibbling at whatever happens to offer. Only the superior fewdeliberately select a pasture, select a line of procedure in thatpasture and keep to it, concentrating upon what is useful to us, andthat alone. So it was excellent experience for Mildred to sit down andthink connectedly and with wholly absorbed mind upon the phase of hercareer most important at the moment. When she had worked out all theplans that had promise in them she went tranquilly to sleep, a strongerand a more determined person, for she had said with the energy thatcounts: "I shall see him, somehow. If none of these schemes works, I'll work out others. He's got to see me. "

But it was no occult "bearing down" that led him to order her admittedthe instant her card came. He liked her; he wished to see her again;he felt that it was the decent thing, and somehow not difficult gentlybut clearly to convey to her the truth. On her side she, who hadlooked forward to the interview with some nervousness, was at her easethe moment she faced him alone in that inner office. He hadextraordinary personal charm--more than Ransdell, though Ransdell hadthe charm invariably found in a handsome human being with themany-sided intellect that gives lightness of mind. Crossley was notintellectual, not in the least. One had only to glance at him to seethat he was one of those men who reserve all their intelligence for thepractical sides of the practical thing that forms the basis of theirmaterial career. He knew something of many things, had a wonderfulassortment of talents--could sing, could play piano or violin, couldcompose, could act, could do mystifying card tricks, could orderwomen's clothes as discriminatingly as he could order his own--allthese things a little, but nothing much except making a success ofmusical comedy and comic opera. He had an ambition, carefullyrestrained in a closet of his mind, where it could not issue forth andinterfere with his business. This ambition was to be a giver of grandopera on a superb scale. He regarded himself as a meremoney-maker--was not ashamed of this, but neither was he proud of it. His ambition then represented a dream of a rise to something more thanbusiness man, to friend and encourager and wet nurse to art. 

Mildred Gower had happened to set his imagination to working. Thediscovery that she was one of those whose personalities rouse highexpectations only to mock them had been a severe blow to his confidencein his own judgment. Though he pretended to believe, and had the habitof saying that he was "weak and soft, " was always being misled by hisgood nature, he really believed himself an unerring judge of humanbeings, and, as his success evidenced, he was not far wrong. Thus, though convinced that Mildred was a "false alarm, " his secret vanitywould not let him release his original idea. He had the tenacity thatis an important element in all successes; and tenacity become a fixedhabit has even been known to ruin in the end the very careers it hasmade. 

Said Mildred, in a manner which was astonishingly unemotional andbusinesslike: "I've not come to tattle and to whine, Mr. Crossley. I've hesitated about coming at all, partly because I've an instinctit's useless, partly because what I have to say isn't easy. "

Crossley's expression hardened. The old story!--excuses, excuses, self-excuse--somebody else to blame. 

"If it hadn't been for Mr. Ransdell--the trouble he took with me, thecoaching he gave me--I'd have been a ridiculous failure at the veryfirst rehearsal. But--it is to Mr. Ransdell that my failure is due. "

"My dear Miss Gower, " said Crossley, polite but cold, "I regret hearingyou say that. The fact is very different. Not until you had doneso--so unacceptably at several rehearsals that news of it reached me byanother way--not until I myself went to Mr. Ransdell about you did headmit that there could be a possibility of a doubt of your succeeding. I had to go to rehearsal myself and directly order him to restore MissEsmond and lay you off. "

Mildred was not unprepared. She received this tranquilly. "Mr. Ransdell is a very clever man, " said she with perfect good humor. "I'veno hope of convincing you, but I must tell my side. "

And clearly and simply, with no concealments through fear of disturbinghis high ideal of her ladylike delicacy, she told him the story. Helistened, seated well back in his tilted desk-chair, his gaze upon theceiling. When she finished he held his pose a moment, then got up andpaced the length of the office several times, his hands in his pockets. He paused, looked keenly at her, a good-humored smile in those eyes ofhis so fascinating to women because of their frank wavering of aninconstancy it would indeed be a triumph to seize and hold. Said he:

"And your bad throat? Did Ransdell give you a germ?"

She colored. He had gone straight at the weak point. 

"If you'd been able to sing, " he went on, "nobody could have done youup. "

She could not gather herself together for speech. 

"Didn't you know your voice wasn't reliable when you came to me?"

"Yes, " she admitted. 

"And wasn't that the REAL reason you had given up grand opera?" pursuedhe mercilessly. 

"The reason was what I told you--lack of money, " replied she. "I didnot go into the reason why I lacked money. Why should I when, even onmy worst days, I could get through all my part in a musicalcomedy--except songs that could be cut down or cut out? If I couldhave made good at acting, would you have given me up on account of myvoice?"

"Not if you had been good enough, " he admitted. 

"Then I did not get my engagement on false pretenses?"

"No. You are right. Still, your fall-down as a singer is theimportant fact. Don't lose sight of it. "

"I shan't, " said she tersely. 

His eyes were frankly laughing. "As to Ransdell--what a clever trick!He's a remarkable man. If he weren't so shrewd in those little ways, he might have been a great man. Same old story--just a little toosmart, and so always doing the little thing and missing the big thing. Yes, he went gunning for you--and got you. " He dropped into his chair. He thought a moment, laughed aloud, went on: "No doubt he has workedthat same trick many a time. I've suspected it once or twice, but thistime he fooled me. He got you, Miss Gower, and I can do nothing. Youmust see that I can't look after details. And I can't give up asinvaluable a man as Ransdell. If I put you back, he'd put youout--would make the piece fail rather than let you succeed. "

Mildred was gazing somberly at the floor. 

"It's hard lines--devilish hard lines, " he went on sympathetically. "But what can I do?"

"What can I do?" said Mildred. 

"Do as all people do who succeed--meet the conditions. "

"I'm not prepared to go as far as that, at least not yet, " said shewith bitter sarcasm. "Perhaps when I'm actually starving and in rags--"

"A very distressing future, " interrupted Crossley. "But--I didn't makethe world. Don't berate me. Be sensible--and be honest, Miss Gower, and tell me--how could I possibly protect you and continue to givesuccessful shows? If you can suggest any feasible way, I'll take it. "

"No, there isn't any way, " replied she, rising to go. 

He rose to escort her to the hall door. "Personally, the Ransdell sortof thing is--distasteful to me. Perhaps if I were not so busy I mightbe forced by my own giddy misconduct to take less high ground. I'veobserved that the best that can be said for human nature at its best isthat it is as well behaved as its real temptations permit. He wasmaking you, you know. You've admitted it. "

"There's no doubt about that, " said Mildred. 

"Mind you, I'm not excusing him. I'm simply explaining him. If yourvoice had been all right--if you could have stood to any degree thetest he put you to, the test of standing alone--you'd have defeatedhim. He wouldn't have dared go on. He's too shrewd to think a realtalent can be beaten. "

The strong lines, the latent character, in Mildred's face were sostrongly in evidence that looking at her then no one would have thoughtof her beauty or even of her sex, but only of the force that resistsall and overcomes all. "Yes--the voice, " said she. "The voice. "

"If it's ever reliable, come to see me. Until then--" He put out hishand. When she gave him hers, he held it in a way that gave her noimpulse to draw back. "You know the conditions of success now. Youmust prepare to meet them. If you put yourself at the mercy of theRansdells--or any other of the petty intriguers that beset every avenueof success--you must take the consequences, you must conciliate them asbest you can. If you don't wish to be at their mercy, you must do yourpart. "

She nodded. He released her hand, opened the hall door. He said:

"Forgive my little lecture. But I like you, and I can't help havinghope of you. " He smiled charmingly, his keen, inconstant eyes dimming. "Perhaps I hope because you're young and extremely lovely and I ampitifully susceptible. You see, you'd better go. Every man's aRansdell at heart where pretty women are concerned. "

She did not leave the building. She went to the elevator and asked theboy where she could find Signor Moldini. His office was the big roomon the third floor where voice candidates were usually tried out, threedays in the week. At the moment he was engaged. Mildred, seated inthe tiny anteroom, heard through the glass door a girl singing, ortrying to sing. It was a distressing performance, and Mildred wonderedthat Moldini could be so tolerant as to hear her through. He came tothe door with her, thanked her profusely, told her he would let herknow whenever there was an opening "suited to your talents. " As heobserved Mildred, he was still sighing and shaking his head over thedeparted candidate. 

"Ugly and ignorant!" he groaned. "Poor creature! Poor, poor creature. She makes three dollars a week--in a factory owned by a greatphilanthropist. Three dollars a week. And she has no way to make acent more. Miss Gower, they talk about the sad, naughty girls who sellthemselves in the street to piece out their wages. But think, dearyoung lady, how infinitely better of they are than the ugly ones whocan't piece out their wages. "

There he looked directly at her for the first time. Before she couldgrasp the tragic sadness of his idea, he, with the mobility of candidand highly sensitized natures, shifted from melancholy to gay, for inlooking at her he had caught only the charm of dress, of face, ofarrangement of hair. "What a pleasure!" he exclaimed, bursting intosmiles and seizing and kissing her gloved hands. "Voice like a bird, face like an angel--only not TOO good, no, not TOO good. But it is sorare--to look as one sings, to sing as one looks. "

For once, compliment, sincere compliment from one whose opinion wasworth while, gave Mildred pain. She burst out with her news: "SignorMoldini, I've lost my place in the company. My voice has gone back onme. "

Usually Moldini abounded in the consideration of fine natures that havesuffered deeply from lack of consideration. But he was so astoundedthat he could only stare stupidly at her, smoothing his long greasyhair with his thin brown hand. 

"It's all my fault; I don't take care of myself, " she went on. "Idon't take care of my health. At least, I hope that's it. "

"Hope!" he said, suddenly angry. 

"Hope so, because if it isn't that, then I've no chance for a career, "explained she. 

He looked at her feet, pointed an uncannily long forefinger at them. "The crossings and sidewalks are slush--and you, a singer, withoutovershoes! Lunacy! Lunacy!"

"I've never worn overshoes?" said Mildred apologetically. 

"Don't tell me! I wish not to hear. It makes me--like madness here. "He struck his low sloping brow with his palm. "What vanity! That thefeet may look well to the passing stranger, no overshoes! Rheumatism, sore throat, colds, pneumonia. Is it not disgusting. If you were aman I should swear in all the languages I know--which are five, including Hungarian, and when one swears in Hungarian it is 'goingsome, ' as you say in America. Yes, it is going quite some. "

"I shall wear overshoes, " said Mildred. 

"And indigestion--you have that?"

"A little, I guess. "

"Much--much, I tell you!" cried Moldini, shaking the long finger ather. "You Americans! You eat too fast and you eat too much. That iswhy you are always sick, and consulting the doctors who give themedicines that make worse, not better. Yes, you Americans are likechildren. You know nothing. Sing? Americans cannot sing until theylearn that a stomach isn't a waste-basket, to toss everything into. Youhave been to that throat specialist, Hicks?"

"Ah, yes, " said Mildred brightening. "He said there was nothingorganically wrong. "

"He is an ass, and a criminal. He ruins throats. He likes to cut, andhe likes to spray. He sprays those poisons that relieve colds andparalyze the throat and cords. Americans sing? It is to laugh! Theyhave too many doctors; they take too many pills. Do you know what yournational emblem should be? A dollar-sign--yes. But that for allnations. No, a pill--a pill, I tell you. You take pills?"

"Now and then, " said Mildred, laughing. "I admit I have several kindsalways on hand. "

"You see!" cried he triumphantly. "No, it is not mere art that Americaneeds, but more sense about eating--and to keep away from the doctors. People full of pills, they cannot make poems and pictures, and writeoperas and sing them. Throw away those pills, dear young lady, Iimplore you. "

"Signor Moldini, I've come to ask you to help me. "

Instantly the Italian cleared his face of its half-humorous, half-querulous expression. In its place came a grave and courteouseagerness to serve her that was a pleasure, even if it was notaltogether sincere. And Mildred could not believe it sincere. Whyshould he care what became of her, or be willing to put himself out forher?

"You told me one day that you had at one time taught singing, "continued she. 

"Until I was starved out?" replied he. "I told people the truth. Ifthey could not sing I said so. If they sang badly I told them why, andit was always the upset stomach, the foolish food, and people will nottake care about food. They will eat what they please, and they sayeating is good for them, and that anyone who opposes them is a crank. So most of my pupils left, except those I taught for nothing--and theydid not heed me, and came to nothing. "

"You showed me in ten minutes one day how to cure my worst fault. I'vesung better, more naturally ever since. "

"You could sing like the birds. You do--almost. You could be taught tosing as freely and sweetly and naturally as a flower gives perfume. That is YOUR divine gift, young lady song as pure and fresh as a bird'ssong raining down through the leaves from the tree-top. "

"I have no money. I've got to get it, and I shall get it, " continuedMildred. "I want you to teach me--at any hour that you are free. AndI want to know how much you will charge, so that I shall know how muchto get. "

"Two dollars a lesson. Or, if you take six lessons a week, tendollars. Those were my terms. I could not take less. "

"It is too little, " said Mildred. "The poorest kinds of teachers getfive dollars an hour--and teach nothing. "

"Two dollars, ten dollars a week, " replied he. "It is the most I evercould get. I will not take more from you. "

"It is too little, " said she. "But I'll not insist--for obviousreasons. Now, if you'll give me your home address, I'll go. When Iget the money, I'll write to you. "

"But wait!" cried he, as she rose to depart. "Why so hurried? Let ussee. Take of the wrap. Step behind the screen and loosen your corset. Perhaps even you could take it off?"

"Not without undressing, " said Mildred. "But I can do that if it'snecessary. " She laughed queerly. "From this time on I'll do ANYTHINGthat's necessary. "

"No, --never mind. The dress of woman--of your kind of women. It isnot serious. " He laughed grimly. "As for the other kind, their dressis the only serious thing about them. It is a mistake to think thatwomen who dress badly are serious. My experience has been that theyare the most foolish of all. Fashionable dress--it is part of awoman's tools. It shows that she is good at her business. The womenwho try to dress like men, they are good neither at men's business norat women's. "

This, while Mildred was behind the screen, loosening hercorset--though, in fact, she wore it so loose at all times that sheinconvenienced herself simply to show her willingness to do as she wastold. When she came out, Moldini put her through a rigid physicalexamination--made her breathe while he held one hand on her stomach, the other on her back, listened at her heart, opened wide her throatand peered down, thrust his long strong fingers deep into the musclesof her arms, her throat, her chest, until she had difficulty in notcrying out with pain. 

"The foundation is there, " was his verdict. "You have a good body, good muscles, but flabby--a lady's muscles, not an opera singer's. Andyou are stiff--not so stiff as when you first came here, but stiff fora professional. Ah, we must go at this scientifically, thoroughly. "

"You will teach me to breathe--and how to produce my voice naturally?"

"I will teach you nothing, " replied he. "I will tell you what to do, and you will teach yourself. You must get strong--strong in the suppleway--and then you will sing as God intended. The way to sing, dearyoung lady, is to sing. Not to breathe artificially, and make faces, and fuss with your throat, but simply to drop your mouth and throatopen and let it out!"

Mildred produced from her hand-bag the Keith paper. "What do YOU thinkof that?" she asked. 

Presently he looked up from his reading. "This part I have seenbefore, " said he. "It is Lucia Rivi's. Her cousin, Lotta Drusini, showed it to me--she was a great singer also. "

"You approve of it?"

"If you will follow that for two years, faithfully, you will besecurely great, and then you will follow it all your singing life--andit will be long. But remember, dear young lady, I said IF you followit, and I said faithfully. I do not believe you can. "

"Why not?" said Mildred. 

"Because that means self-denial, colossal self-denial. You love thingsto eat--yes?"

Mildred nodded. 

"We all do, " said Moldini. "And we hate routine, and we like foolish, aimless little pleasures of all kinds. "

"And it will be two years before I can try grand opera--can make myliving?" said Mildred slowly. 

"I did not say that. I said, before you would be great. No, you cansing, I think, in--wait. "

Moldini flung rapidly through an enormous mass of music on a largetable. "Ah, here!" he cried, and he showed her a manuscript of scales. "Those two papers. It does not look much? Well, I have made it up, myself. And when you can sing those two papers perfectly, you will bea greater singer than any that ever lived. " He laughed delightedly. "Yes, it is all there--in two pages. But do not weep, dear lady, because you will never sing them perfectly. You will do very well if--Always that if, remember! Now, let us see. Take this, sit in thechair, and begin. Don't bother about me. I expect nothing. Just dothe best you can. "

Desperation, when it falls short of despair, is the best word forachievement. Mildred's voice, especially at the outset, was far fromperfect condition. Her high notes, which had never been developedproperly, were almost bad. But she acquitted herself admirably fromthe standpoint of showing what her possibilities were. And Moldini, unkempt, almost unclean, but as natural and simple and human a soul asever paid the penalties of poverty and obscurity and friendlessness forbeing natural and simple and human, exactly suited her peculiartemperament. She knew that he liked her, that he believed in her; sheknew that he was as sympathetic toward her as her own self, that therewas no meanness anywhere in him. So she sang like a bird--a bird thatwas not too well in soul or in body, but still a bird out in thesunshine, with the airs of spring cheering his breast and its foliagegladdening his eyes. He kept her at it for nearly an hour. She sawthat he was pleased, that he had thought out some plan and was burstingto tell her, but had forbidden himself to speak of it. He said:

"You say you have no money?"

"No, but I shall get it. "

"You may have to pay high for it--yes?"

She colored, but did not flinch. "At worst, it will be--unpleasant, but that's all. "

"Wait one--two days--until you hear from me. I may--I do not say will, but may--get it. Yes, I who have nothing. " He laughed gayly. "Andwe--you and I--we will divide the spoils. " Gravely. "Do notmisunderstand. That was my little joke. If I get the money for you itwill be quite honorable and businesslike. So--wait, dear young lady. "

As she was going, she could not resist saying:

"You are SURE I can sing?--IF, of course--always the if. "

"It is not to be doubted. "

"How well, do you think?"

"You mean how many dollars a night well? You mean as well as thisgreat singer or that? I do not know. And you are not to compareyourself with anyone but yourself. You will sing as well as MildredGower at her best. "

For some reason her blood went tingling through her veins. If she haddared she would have kissed him. 

X

THAT same afternoon Donald Keith, arrived at the top of Mrs. Belloc'ssteps, met Mildred coming out. Seeing their greeting, one would havethought they had seen each other but a few minutes before or werecasual acquaintances. Said she:

"I'm going for a walk. "

"Let's take the taxi, " said he. 

There it stood invitingly at the curb. She felt tired. She dislikedwalking. She wished to sit beside him and be whirled away--out of thenoisy part of the city, up where the air was clean and where there wereno crowds. But she had begun the regimen of Lucia Rivi. She hesitated. What matter if she began now or put off beginning until after this onelast drive?

"No, we will walk, " said she. 

"But the streets are in frightful condition. "

She thrust out a foot covered with a new and shiny storm-rubber. 

"Let's drive to the park then. We'll walk there. "

"No. If I get into the taxi, I'll not get out. Send it away. "

When they were moving afoot up Madison Avenue, he said: "What's thematter? This isn't like you. "

"I've come to my senses, " replied she. "It may be too late, but I'mgoing to see. "

"When I called on Mrs. Brindley the other day, " said he, "she had yournote, saying that you were going into musical comedy with Crossley. "

"That's over, " said she. "I lost my voice, and I lost my job. "

"So I heard, " said he. "I know Crossley. I dropped in to see him thismorning, and he told me about a foolish, fashionable girl who made abluff at going on the stage--he said she had a good voice and was aswell looker, but proved to be a regular 'four-flusher. ' I recognizedyou. "

"Thanks, " said she dryly. 

"So, I came to see you. "

She inquired about Mrs. Brindley and then about Stanley Baird. Findingthat he was in Italy, she inquired: "Do you happen to know hisaddress?"

"I'll get it and send it to you. He has taken a house at Monte Carlofor the winter. "

"And you?"

"I shall stay here--I think. "

"You may join him?"

"It depends"--he looked at her--"upon you. "

He could put a wonderful amount of meaning into a slight inflection. She struggled--not in vain--to keep from changing expression. 

"You realize now that the career is quite hopeless?" said he. 

She did not answer. 

"You do not like the stage life?"

"No. "

"And the stage life does not like you?"

"No. "

"Your voice lacks both strength and stability?"

"Yes. "

"And you have found the one way by which you could get on--and youdon't like it?"

"Crossley told you?" said she, the color flaring. 

"Your name was not mentioned. You may not believe it, but Crossley isa gentleman. "

She walked on in silence. 

"I did not expect your failure to come so soon--or in quite that way, "he went on. "I got Mrs. Brindley to exact a promise from you thatyou'd let her know about yourself. I called on Mrs. Belloc one daywhen you were out, and gave her my confidence and got hers--and assuredmyself that you were in good hands. Crossley's tale gave me--a shock. I came at once. "

"Then you didn't abandon me to my fate, as I thought?"

He smiled in his strange way. "I?--when I loved you? Hardly. "

"Then you did interest yourself in me because you cared--precisely as Isaid, " laughed she. 

"And I should have given you up if you had succeeded--precisely as Isaid, " replied he. 

"You wished me to fail?"

"I wished you to fail. I did everything I could to help you tosucceed. I even left you absolutely alone, set you in the rightway--the only way in which anyone can win success. "

"Yes, you made me throw away the crutches and try to walk. "

"It was hard to do that. Those strains are very wearing at my time oflife. "

"You never were any younger, and you'll never be any older, " laughedshe. "That's your charm--one of them. "

"Mildred, do you still care?"

"How did you know?" inquired she mockingly. 

"You didn't try to conceal it. I'd not have ventured to say and do thethings I said and did if I hadn't felt that we cared for each other. But, so long as you were leading that fatuous life and dreaming thosefoolish dreams, I knew we could never be happy. "

"That is true--oh, SO true, " replied she. 

"But now--you have tried, and that has made a woman of you. And youhave failed, and that has made you ready to be a wife--to be happy inthe quiet, private ways. "

She was silent. 

"I can make enough for us both--as much as we will need or want--asmuch as you please, if you aren't too extravagant. And I can do iteasily. It's making little sums--a small income--that's hard in thisridiculous world. Let's marry, go to California or Europe for severalmonths, then come back here and live like human beings. "

She was silent. Block after block they walked along, as if neither hadanything especial in mind, anything worth the trouble of speech. Finally he said:

"Well?"

"I can't answer--yet, " said she. "Not to-day--not till I've thought. "

She glanced quickly at him. Over his impassive face, so beautifullyregular and, to her, so fascinating, there passed a quick dark shadow, and she knew that he was suffering. He laughed quietly, his oldcareless, indifferent laugh. 

"Oh, yes, you can answer, " said he. "You have answered. "

She drew in her breath sharply. 

"You have refused. "

"Why do you say that, Donald?" she pleaded. 

"To hesitate over a proposal is to refuse, " said he with gentleraillery. "A man is a fool who does not understand and sheer off whena woman asks for time. "

"You know that I love you, " she cried. 

"I also know that you love something else more. But it's finished. Let's talk about something else. "

"Won't you let me tell you why I hesitate?" begged she. 

"It doesn't matter. "

"But it does. Yes, I do refuse, Donald. I'll never marry you until Iam independent. You said a while ago that what I've been through hadmade a woman of me. Not yet. I'm only beginning. I'm stillweak--still a coward. Donald, I must and will be free. "

He looked full at her, with a strange smile in his brilliant eyes. Saidhe, with obvious intent to change the subject: "Mrs. Brindley's veryunhappy that you haven't been to see her. "

"When you asked me to marry you, the only reason I almost accepted wasbecause I want someone to support me. I love you--yes. But it is asone loves before one has given oneself and has lived the same life withanother. In the ordinary sense, it's love that I feel. But--do youunderstand me, dearest?--in another sense, it's only the hope of love, the belief that love will come. "

He stopped short and looked at her, his eyes alive with the stimulus ofa new and startling idea. 

"If you and I had been everything to each other, and you were saying'Let us go on living the one life' and I were hesitating, then you'd beright. And I couldn't hesitate, Donald. If you were mine, nothingcould make me give you up, but when it's only the hope of having you, then pride and self-respect have a chance to be heard. "

He was ready to move on. "There's something in that, " said he, lapsedinto his usual seeming of impassiveness. "But not much. "

"I never before knew you to fail to understand. "

"I understand perfectly. You care, but you don't care enough to suitme. I haven't waited all these years before giving a woman my love, tobe content with a love seated quietly and demurely between pride andself-respect. "

"You wouldn't marry me until I had failed, " said she shrewdly. "Nowyou attack me for refusing to marry you until I've succeeded. "

A slight shrug. "Proposal withdrawn, " said he. "Now let's talk aboutyour career, your plans. "

"I'm beginning to understand myself a little, " said she. "I supposeyou think that sort of personal talk is very silly and vain--andtrivial. "

"On the contrary, " replied he, "it isn't absolutely necessary tounderstand oneself. One is swept on in the same general direction, anyhow. But understanding helps one to go faster and steadier. "

"It began, away back, when I was a girl--this idea of a career. Ienvied men and despised women, the sort of women I knew and met with. Ididn't realize why, then. But it was because a man had a chance to besomebody in himself and to do something, while a woman was just a--amore or less ornamental belonging of some man's--what you want me tobecome now. "

"As far as possible from my idea. "

"Don't you want me to belong to you?"

"As I belong to you. "

"That sounds well, but it isn't what could happen. The fact is, Donald, that I want to belong to you--want to be owned by you and to losemyself in you. And it's that I'm fighting. "

She felt the look he was bending upon her, and glowed and colored underit, but did not dare to turn her eyes to meet it. Said he: "Why fightit? Why not be happy?"

"Ah, but that's just it, " cried she. "I shouldn't be happy. And Ishould make you miserable. The idea of a career--the idea that'srooted deep in me and can't ever be got out, Donald; it would tormentme. You couldn't kill it, no matter how much you loved me. I'd yieldfor the time. Then, I'd go back--or, if I didn't, I'd be wretched andmake you wish you'd never seen me. "

"I understand, " said he. "I don't believe it, but I understand. "

"You think I'm deceiving myself, because you saw me wasting my life, playing the idler and the fool, pretending I was working toward acareer when I was really making myself fit for nothing but to beStanley Baird's mistress. "

"And you're still deceiving yourself. You won't see the truth. "

"No matter, " said she. "I must go on and make a career--some kind of acareer. "

"At what?"

"At grand opera. "

"How'll you get the money?"

"Of Stanley, if necessary. That's why I asked his address. I shan'task for much. He'll not refuse. "

"A few minutes ago you were talking of self-respect. "

"As something I hoped to get. It comes with independence. I'll payany price to get it. "

"Any price?" said he, and never before had she seen his self-control indanger. 

"I shan't ask Stanley until my other plans have failed. "

"What other plans?"

"I am going to ask Mrs. Belloc for the money. She could afford togive--to lend--the little I'd want. I'm going to ask her in such a waythat it will be as hard as possible for her to refuse. That isn'tladylike, but--I've dropped out of the lady class. "

"And if she refuses?"

"Then I'll go one after another to several very rich men I know, andask them as a business proposition. "

"Go in person, " advised he with an undisguised sneer. 

"I'll raise no false hopes in them, " she said. "If they choose todelude themselves, I'll not go out of my way to undeceive them--until Ihave to. "

"So THIS is Mildred Gower?"

"You made that remark before. "

"Really?"

"When Stanley showed you a certain photograph of me. "

"I remember. This is the same woman. "

"It's me, " laughed she. "The real me. You'd not care to be married toher?"

"No, " said he. Then, after a brief silence: "Yet, curiously, it wasthat woman with whom I fell in love. No, not exactly in love, for I'vebeen thinking about what you said as to the difference between love inposse and love in esse, to put it scientifically--between love as aprospect and love as a reality. "

"And I was right, " said she. "It explains why marriages go to piecesand affairs come to grief. Those lovers mistook love's promise to comefor fulfillment. Love doesn't die. It simply fails to come--doesn'tredeem its promise. "

"That's the way it might be with us, " said he. "That's the way it wouldbe with us, " rejoined she. 

He did not answer. When they spoke again it was of indifferentmatters. An hour and a half after they started, they were at Mrs. Belloc's again. She asked him to have tea in the restaurant next door. He declined. He went up the steps with her, said:

"Well, I wish you luck. Moldini is the best teacher in America. "

"How did you know Moldini was to teach me?" exclaimed she. 

He smiled, put out his hand in farewell. "Crossley told me. Good-by. "

"He told Crossley! I wonder why. " She was so interested in this newphase that she did not see his outstretched hand, or the look of bitterirony that came into his eyes at this proof of the subordinate placelove and he had in her thoughts. 

"I'm nervous and anxious, " she said apologetically. "Moldini told me hehad some scheme about getting the money. If he only could! But nosuch luck for me, " she added sadly. 

Keith hesitated, debated with himself, said: "You needn't worry. Moldini got it--from Crossley. Fifty dollars a week for a year. "

"You got Crossley to do it?"

"No. He had done it before I saw him. He had just promised Moldiniand was cursing himself as 'weak and soft. ' But that means nothing. You may be sure he did it because Moldini convinced him it was a goodspeculation. "

She was radiant. She had not vanity enough where he was concerned tobelieve that he deeply cared, that her joy would give him pain becauseit meant forgetfulness of him. Nor was she much impressed by theexpression of his eyes. And even as she hurt him, she made him loveher the more; for he appreciated how rare was the woman who, in suchcircumstances, does not feed her vanity with pity for the poor mansuffering so horribly because he is not to get her precious self. 

It flashed upon her why he had not offered to help her. "There isn'tanybody like you, " said she, with no explanation of her apparentirrelevancy. 

"Don't let Moldini see that you know, " said he, with characteristicfine thoughtfulness for others in the midst of his own unhappiness. "Itwould deprive him of a great pleasure. "

He was about to go. Suddenly her eyes filled and, opening the outerdoor, she drew him in. "Donald, " she said, "I love you. Take me inyour arms and make me behave. "

He looked past her; his arms hung at his sides. Said he: "Andto-night I'd get a note by messenger saying that you had taken it allback. No, the girl in the photograph--that was you. She wasn't madeto be MY wife. Or I to be her husband. I love you because you arewhat you are. I should not love you if you were the ordinary woman, the sort who marries and merges. But I'm old enough to sparemyself--and you--the consequences of what it would mean if we wereanything but strangers to each other. "

"Yes, you must keep away--altogether. If you didn't, I'd be neitherthe one thing nor the other, but just a poor failure. "

"You'll not fail, " said he. "I know it. It's written in your face. "He looked at her. She was not looking at him, but with eyes gazingstraight ahead was revealing that latent, inexplicable power which, when it appeared at the surface, so strongly dominated and subordinatedher beauty and her sex. He shut his teeth together hard and glancedaway. 

"You will not fail, " he repeated bitterly. "And that's the worst ofit. "

Without another word, without a handshake, he went. And she knew that, except by chance, he would never see her again--or she him. 

Moldini, disheveled and hysterical with delight and suspense, was inthe drawing-room--had been there half an hour. At first she couldhardly force her mind to listen; but as he talked on and on, hecaptured her attention and held it. 

The next day she began with Moldini, and put the Lucia Rivi system intoforce in all its more than conventual rigors. And for about a monthshe worked like a devouring flame. Never had there been such energy, such enthusiasm. Mrs. Belloc was alarmed for her health, but the Rivisystem took care of that; and presently Mrs. Belloc was moved to say, "Well, I've often heard that hard work never harmed anyone, but I neverbelieved it. Now I know the truth. "

Then Mildred went to Hanging Rock to spend Saturday to Monday with hermother. Presbury, reduced now by various infirmities--by absolutedeafness, by dimness of sight, by difficulty in walking--to whereeating was his sole remaining pleasure, or, indeed, distraction, spentall his time in concocting dishes for himself. Mildred could notresist--and who can when seated at table with the dish before one'seyes and under one's nose. The Rivi regimen was suspended for thevisit. Mildred, back in New York and at work again, found that she wasapparently none the worse for her holiday, was in fact better. So shedrifted into the way of suspending the regimen for an evening now andthen--when she dined with Mrs. Brindley, or when Agnes Belloc hadsomething particularly good. All went well for a time. Then--a cold. She neglected it, feeling sure it could not stay with one so soundlyhealthy through and through. But it did stay; it grew worse. Shedecided that she ought to take medicine for it. True, starvation wasthe cure prescribed by the regimen, but Mildred could not bring herselfto two or three days of discomfort. Also, many people told her thatsuch a cure was foolish and even dangerous. The cold got better, gotworse, got better. But her throat became queer, and at last her voiceleft her. She was ashamed to go to Moldini in such a condition. Shedropped in upon Hicks, the throat specialist. He "fixed her up"beautifully with a few sprayings. A week--and her voice left heragain, and Hicks could not bring it back. As she left his office, itwas raining--an icy, dreary drizzle. She splashed her way home, inabout the lowest spirits she had ever known. She locked her door andseated herself at the window and stared out, while the storm ragedwithin her. After an hour or two she wrote and sent Moldini a note: "Ihave been making a fool of myself. I'll not come again until I am allright. Be patient with me. I don't think this will occur again. " Shefirst wrote "happen. " She scratched it out and put "occur" in itsplace. Not that Moldini would have noted the slip; simply that shewould not permit herself the satisfaction of the false andself-excusing "happen. " It had not been a "happen. " It had been adeliberate folly, a lapse to the Mildred she had buried the day shesent Donald Keith away. When the note was on its way, she threw outall her medicines, and broke the new spraying apparatus Hicks hadinstructed her to buy. 

She went back to the Rivi regime. A week passed, and she was littlebetter. Two weeks, and she began to mend. But it was six weeks beforethe last traces of her folly disappeared. Moldini said not a word, gave no sign. Once more her life went on in uneventful, unbrokenroutine--diet, exercise, singing--singing, exercise, diet--nodistractions except an occasional visit to the opera with Moldini, andshe was hating opera now. All her enthusiasm was gone. She simplyworked doggedly, drudged, slaved. 

When the days began to grow warm, Mrs. Belloc said: "I suppose you'llsoon be off to the country? Are you going to visit Mrs. Brindley?"

"No, " said Mildred. 

"Then come with me. "

"Thank you, but I can't do it. "

"But you've got to rest somewhere. "

"Rest?" said Mildred. "Why should I rest?"

Mrs. Belloc started to protest, then abruptly changed. "Come to thinkof it, why should you? You're in perfect health, and it'll be timeenough to rest when you 'get there. '"

"I'm tired through and through, " said Mildred, "but it isn't the kindof tired that could be rested except by throwing up this frightfulnightmare of a career. "

"And you can't do that. "

"I won't, " said Mildred, her lips compressed and her eyes narrowed. 

She and Moldini--and fat, funny little Mrs. Moldini--went to themountains. And she worked on. She would listen to none of thesuggestions about the dangers of keeping too steadily at it, aboutworking oneself into a state of staleness, about the imperative demandsof the artistic temperament for rest, change, variety. "It may be so, "she said to Mrs. Brindley. "But I've gone mad. I can no more drop thisroutine than--than you could take it up and keep to it for a week. "

"I'll admit I couldn't, " said Cyrilla. "And Mildred, you're making amistake. "

"Then I'll have to suffer for it. I must do what seems best to me. "

"But I'm sure you're wrong. I never knew anyone to act as you'reacting. Everyone rests and freshens up. "

Mildred lost patience, almost lost her temper. "You're trying to temptme to ruin myself, " she said. "Please stop it. You say you never knewanyone to do as I'm doing. Very well. But how many girls have youknown who have succeeded?"

Cyrilla hesitatingly confessed that she had known none. 

"Yet you've known scores who've tried. "

"But they didn't fail because they didn't work enough. Many of themworked too much. "

Mildred laughed. "How do you know why they failed?" said she. "Youhaven't thought about it as I have. You haven't LIVED it. Cyrilla, Iserved my apprenticeship at listening to nonsense about careers. I wantto have nothing to do with inspiration, and artistic temperament, andspontaneous genius, and all the rest of the lies. Moldini and I knowwhat we are about. So I'm living as those who have succeeded lived andnot as those who have failed. "

Cyrilla was silenced, but not convinced. The amazing improvement inMildred's health, the splendid slim strength and suppleness of herbody, the new and stable glories of her voice--all these she knewabout, but they did not convince her. She believed in work, in hardwork, but to her work meant the music itself. She felt that the Rivisystem and the dirty, obscure little Moldini between them weredestroying Mildred by destroying all "temperament" in her. 

It was the old, old criticism of talent upon genius. Genius has alwayswon in its own time and generation all the world except talent. Totalent contemporaneous genius, genius seen at its patient, ploddingtoil, seems coarse and obvious and lacking altogether in inspiration. Talent cannot comprehend that creation is necessarily in travail and inall manner of unloveliness. 

Mildred toiled on like a slave under the lash, and Moldini and the Rivisystem were her twin relentless drivers. She learned to rule herselfwith an iron hand. She discovered the full measure of her owndeficiencies, and she determined to make herself a competent lyricsoprano, perhaps something of a dramatic soprano. She dismissed fromher mind all the "high" thoughts, all the dreams wherewith the littlepeople, even the little people who achieve a certain success, beguilethe tedium of their journey along the hard road. She was not workingto "interpret the thought of the great master" or to "advance thesinging art yet higher" or even to win fame and applause. She had oneobject--to earn her living on the grand opera stage, and to earn it asa prima donna because that meant the best living. She frankly toldCyrilla that this was her object, when Cyrilla forced her one day totalk about her aims. Cyrilla looked pained, broke a melancholy silenceto say:

"I know you don't mean that. You are too intelligent. You sing toowell. "

"Yes, I mean just that, " said Mildred. "A living. "

"At any rate, don't say it. You give such a false impression. "

"To whom? Not to Crossley, and not to Moldini, and why should I carewhat any others think? They are not paying my expenses. Andregardless of what they think now, they'll be at my feet if I succeed, and they'll put me under theirs if I don't. "

"How hard you have grown, " cried Cyrilla. 

"How sensible, you mean. I've merely stopped being a self-deceiver anda sentimentalist. "

"Believe me, my dear, you are sacrificing your character to yourambition. "

"I never had any real character until ambition came, " replied Mildred. "The soft, vacillating, sweet and weak thing I used to have wasn'tcharacter. "

"But, dear, you can't think it superior character to center one's wholelife about a sordid ambition. "

"Sordid?"

"Merely to make a living. "

Mildred laughed merrily and mockingly. "You call that sordid? Thenfor heaven's sake what is high? You had left you money enough to liveon, if you have to. No one left me an income. So, I'm fighting forindependence--and that means for self-respect. Is self-respect sordid, Cyrilla!"

And then Cyrilla understood--in part, not altogether. She lived in theordinary environment of flap-doodle and sweet hypocrisy andsentimentality; and none such can more than vaguely glimpse therealities. 

Toward the end of the summer Moldini said:

"It's over. You have won. "

Mildred looked at him in puzzled surprise. 

"You have learned it all. You will succeed. The rest is detail. "

"But I've learned nothing as yet, " protested she. 

"You have learned to teach yourself, " replied the Italian. "You atlast can hear yourself sing, and you know when you sing right and whenyou sing wrong, and you know how to sing right. The rest is easy. Ah, my dear Miss Gower, you will work NOW!"

Mildred did not understand. She was even daunted by that "You willwork NOW!" She had been thinking that to work harder was impossible. What did he expect of her? Something she feared she could not realize. But soon she understood--when he gave her songs, then began to teachher a role, the part of Madame Butterfly herself. "I can help you onlya little there, " he said. "You will have to go to my friend Ferrerifor roles. But we can make a beginning. "

She had indeed won. She had passed from the stage where a career isall drudgery--the stage through which only the strong can pass withoutgiving up and accepting failure or small success. She had passed tothe stage where there is added pleasure to the drudgery, for, thedrudgery never ceases. And what was the pleasure? Why, morework--always work--bringing into use not merely the routine parts ofthe mind, but also the imaginative and creative faculties. She hadlearned her trade--not well enough, for no superior man or woman everfeels that he or she knows the trade well enough--but well enough tobegin to use it. 

Said Moldini: "When the great one, who has achieved and arrived, isasked for advice by the sweet, enthusiastic young beginner, what is theanswer? Always the same: 'My dear child, don't! Go back home, andmarry and have babies. ' You know why now?"

And Mildred, looking back over the dreary drudgery that had been, andlooking forward to the drudgery yet to come, dreary enough for all theprospects of a few flowers and a little sun--Mildred said: "Indeed Ido, maestro. "

"They think it means what you Americans call morals--as if that wereall of morality! But it doesn't mean morals; not at all. Sex and thegame of sex is all through life everywhere--in the home no less than inthe theater. In town and country, indoors and out, sunlight, moonlight, and rain--always it goes on. And the temptations and thestruggles are no more and no less on the stage than off. No, there istoo much talk about 'morals. ' The reason the great one says 'don't' isthe work. " He shook his head sadly. "They do not realize, those eageryoung beginners. They read the story-books and the lives of the greatsuccesses and they hear the foolish chatter of common-placepeople--those imbecile 'cultured' people who know nothing! And theythink a career is a triumphal march. What think you, Miss Gower--eh?"

"If I had known I'd not have had the courage, or the vanity, to begin, "said she. "And if I could realize what's before me, I probablyshouldn't have the courage to go on. "

"But why not? Haven't you also learned that it's just the day's work, doing every day the best you can?"

"Oh, I shall go on, " rejoined she. 

"Yes, " said he, looking at her with awed admiration. "It is in yourface. I saw it there, the day you came--after you sang the 'BattiBatti' the first time and failed. "

"There was nothing to me then. "

"The seed, " replied he. "And I saw it was an acorn, not the seed ofone of those weak plants that spring up overnight and wither at noon. Yes, you will win. " He laughed gayly, rolled his eyes and kissed hisfingers. "And then you can afford to take a little holiday, and fall inlove. Love! Ah, it is a joyous pastime--for a holiday. Only for aholiday, mind you. I shall be there and I shall seize you and take youback to your art. "

In the following winter and summer Crossley disclosed why he had beensufficiently interested in grand opera to begin to back undevelopedvoices. Crossley was one of those men who are never so practical aswhen they profess to be, and fancy themselves, impractical. He became agrand-opera manager and organized for a season that would surpass ininterest any New York had known. Thus it came about that on a Marchnight Mildred made her debut. 

The opera was "Faust. " As the three principal men singers were allexpensive--the tenor alone, twelve hundred a night--Crossley put in acomparatively modestly salaried Marguerite. She was seized with a coldat the last moment, and Crossley ventured to substitute Mildred Gower. The Rivi system was still in force. She was ready--indeed, she wasalways ready, as Rivi herself had been. And within ten minutes of hercoming forth from the wings, Mildred Gower had leaped from obscurityinto fame. It happens so, often in the story books, the newlygloriously arrived one having been wholly unprepared, achieving bysheer force of genius. It occurs so, occasionally, in life--never whenthere is lack of preparation, never by force of unassisted genius, never by accident. Mildred succeeded because she had got ready tosucceed. How could she have failed?

Perhaps you read the stories in the newspapers--how she had discoveredherself possessed of a marvelous voice, how she had decided to use itin public, how she had coached for a part, had appeared, had become oneof the world's few hundred great singers all in a single act of anopera. You read nothing about what she went through in developing ahopelessly uncertain and far from strong voice into one which, whilenot nearly so good as thousands of voices that are tried and castaside, yet sufficed, with her will and her concentration back of it, tocarry her to fame--and wealth. 

That birdlike voice! So sweet and spontaneous, so true, so like thebird that "sings of summer in full throated ease!" No wonder theaudience welcomed it with cheers on cheers. Greater voices they hadheard, but none more natural--and that was Moldini. 

He came to her dressing-room at the intermission. He stretched out hisarms, but emotion overcame him, and he dropped to a chair and sobbedand cried and laughed. She came and put her arms round him and kissedhim. She was almost calm. The GREAT fear had seized her--Can I keepwhat I have won?

"I am a fool, " cried Moldini. "I will agitate you. "

"Don't be afraid of that, " said she. "I am nervous, yes, horriblynervous. But you have taught me so that I could sing, no matter whatwas happening. " It was true. And her body was like iron to the touch. 

He looked at her, and though he knew her and had seen her train herselfand had helped in it, he marveled. "You are happy?" he said eagerly. "Surely--yes, you MUST be happy. "

"More than that, " answered she. "You'll have to find another word thanhappiness--something bigger and stronger and deeper. "

"Now you can have your holiday, " laughed he. "But"--with mocksternness--"in moderation! He must be an incident only. With thosewho win the high places, sex is an incident--a charming, necessaryincident, but only an incident. He must not spoil your career. If youallowed that you would be like a mother who deserts her children for alover. He must not touch your career!"

Mildred, giving the last touches to her costume before the glass, glanced merrily at Moldini by way of it. "If he did touch it, " saidshe, "how long do you think he would last with me?"

Moldini paused half-way in his nod of approval, was stricken withsilence and sadness. It would have been natural and proper for a manthus to put sex beneath the career. It was necessary for anyone whodeveloped the strong character that compels success and holds it. But--The Italian could not get away from tradition; woman was made for thepleasure of one man, not for herself and the world. 

"You don't like that, maestro?" said she, still observing him in theglass. 

"No man would, " said he, with returning cheerfulness. "It hurts man'svanity. And no woman would, either; you rebuke their laziness andtheir dependence!"

She laughed and rushed away to fresh triumphs.