After four years of this régime Mrs. Lockhart died, and Nannie was left

in “Cousin Minnie’s” house with no one upon whom she could persuade

herself she had the semblance of a claim. “Cousin Minnie” herself, on

whom seemed to have descended Mrs. Lockhart’s mantle of decision, soon

banished any doubts that Nannie may have had regarding her status in

the “big house.”

“When are you going to marry Professor Walsh?” she asked Nannie

abruptly one day not long after Mrs. Lockhart’s death.

“Why--I never said I was going to marry him,” responded Nannie with a

demurely girlish giggle.

“Well, everybody has been expecting you to for the last three or four

years, and if you don’t intend to you will please not give people

further reason to gossip about you while you are in my house. The best

people have dropped you for it and I don’t care to be included.”

“Why, Cousin Minnie----” began Nannie, tearful in an instant. “Where do

you get so many good clothes?” “Cousin Minnie” interrupted.

“Why--why----” Nannie faltered. But “Cousin Minnie” did not remain to

discuss the matter.

This, and a number of similar happenings, led Nannie to consider her

position seriously, and she made a surreptitious pilgrimage to consult

her oracle, Professor Walsh, regarding her future.

“We can not marry for another year, at least, Anna,” said he

didactically. Nannie’s eyes opened wide at this.

“Of course, Edward,” she acquiesced dutifully.

“Could you not visit your daughter for a while?” he suggested. “As a

rule it is not best to remain too long with one relative.”

Nannie swallowed hard, as the recollection of her letter on the

occasion of Lucy’s marriage came over her.

“But, Edward, I’ve told you how matters are between Lucy and me. You

know how Mother took her going away and marrying a stranger afterward.”

“Just a minute, Anna. Don’t become so excited. Remember what I have

told you so often, that ‘stillness of form and steadiness of feature

are signal marks of good breeding.’ I was just about to say that now

your mother is dead, it is a good time to write your daughter and

renew your old relations with her. She will be most useful to us, and

besides, a mother and daughter should not be separated.”

“I’m sure I have no hard feelings toward Lucy,” admitted Nannie,

somewhat uneasily.

“Quite so, quite so. A letter properly written would in all probability

readjust matters satisfactorily to all. You might advert to the fact

that your mother persisted in a hostile attitude and that you were

dependent on her. Also you had best adopt a generous tone.”

“Very well, Edward,” agreed Nannie.

“Good. Now that is settled. You had better write at once, my dear. And

you might let me see the letter before sending it.”

Nannie wrote that night.

The letter began vaguely. Mrs. Lockhart’s memory was invoked.

Forgiveness was offered, though for what was not specified, a

reconciliation was taken for granted, and a visit to Lucy proposed in

terms that were difficult to ignore or refuse.

Nannie pathetically reminded Lucy that Arthur paid no alimony, and

recounted indignantly the heartlessness of the Sheldons. The letter

contained no mention of Professor Walsh. “I am thrown on the world,”

concluded the epistle. “Your father has deserted me and my own

relatives have threatened to put me in the street.”

In a few days came Lucy’s reply. It was an invitation to pass an

indefinite time at Rosedene.

X

Nearly a week had passed since Mrs. Merwent’s arrival at Rosedene and

Jim had not visited the Winter home. This was an unprecedented length

of time for him to stay away.

“How is Mr. Sprague, your partner?” Nannie queried one evening at

dinner.

“Oh, he’s all right,” responded John, and then added, “Why he’s not

been out since the day you came! I’ll ask him out to dinner tomorrow

night. He’s no extra trouble.”

Lucy was silent.

“I’d like to get acquainted with him,” pursued Mrs. Merwent. “Of course

if it’s too much work for Lucy----”

“Why no,” answered John. “Lucy never has anything extra for Jim. Do

you, Lucy? I want you to know him, Nannie. You’ll like him fine.”

“Lucy hasn’t said anything,” persisted Nannie. “I think she’d rather

not have anybody.”

“No, it’s all right,” agreed Lucy. “Jim’s no extra trouble, ever.”

The next morning John told Jim.

“Nannie and Lucy want you for dinner,” John said. “You didn’t use to

have to be asked. Why didn’t you come out before?”

“I’ve been going over the books,” explained Jim. “We must raise our

prices on those small houses. We don’t make anything on them at present

figures.”

That evening they took the train out to Rosedene together.

When they arrived Lucy was in the kitchen and Mrs. Merwent met them at

the door.

“Are you tired?” she murmured solicitously as she kissed John’s cheek,

then, smiling and extending her hand to Jim, “How do you do, Mr.

Sprague? You’re quite a stranger. Lucy thought you had deserted us.”

“No, I’ve been busy,” he replied, taking her hand and smiling in turn.

When the three entered the dining room, Mrs. Merwent picked up two

_boutonnières_ from the table and pinned first one on Jim’s coat lapel,

and then the other on John’s.

“Thank you, Mrs. Merwent,” said Jim.

John patted her shoulder.

“Why, how sweet of you, Nannie!” he exclaimed.

At this juncture Dimmie rushed in and, throwing himself headlong into

Jim’s outstretched arms, yelled delightedly, “Uncle Jim, Uncle Jim, the

cat’s got kittens!”

“Why how boisterous you are, Jimmie.” Mrs. Merwent spoke reprovingly.

(She never called him “Dimmie.”)

“Yes,” said John. “You make too much noise, Dimmie.”

“He’s all right. I’m used to him,” put in Jim. He realized as he spoke

that never before had he interfered in the child’s training.

“Well, if you like it.” Mrs. Merwent smiled. “I’m afraid you spoil him,

Mr. Sprague,” she added.

Jim lifted Dimmie to his shoulder and went off to inspect the kittens.

On the way they passed through the kitchen.

“Hello, Lucy.” Jim held out his hand. “Heard you thought I’d deserted

you.”

“I can’t shake hands with you. My hands are all over flour,” she

explained. “You know I never thought any such thing!”

“Yes, I know,” he answered.

Dimmie grew impatient.

“It’ll get dark and you can’t see the kittens,” he complained.

After Jim and Dimmie had left the dining room, Nannie, who was standing

by the table, began to look about as if in search of something.

“Why, Lucy must have forgotten to order it,” she observed, as if to

herself. Then she turned to her son-in-law, placing her hand on his arm.

“John,” she asked, smiling, “would you do Nannie a favor?”

“Sure,” he consented. “What is it?”

“I wish you would get me a little fruit to keep in my room. I like to

eat a little before going to bed.” “Of course. I’ll have some sent

around in the morning.”

“I meant tonight--if you didn’t mind.”

“All right. Jim and I’ll go and get it after dinner.”

“You cruel boy! You want to advertise my weakness to the world. I

didn’t want anybody to know.”

“Good. I’ll just pop out and get it right away. How’s that?”

“You’re a dear boy. I’m afraid Lucy wouldn’t approve of spoiling me

this way.” Mrs. Merwent walked into the hall where John followed her.

“Well, we won’t tell anybody,” declared John. He took his hat from the

rack and went out the front door, closing it gently after him.

Jim and Dimmie came back from the kitten inspecting expedition and,

entering the living room, found Mrs. Merwent alone.

“Mother was asking for you a minute ago, Jimmie,” she told the little

boy.

Dimmie ran to the kitchen.

Jim sat down by the fire place.

“Everybody has left me to amuse myself, Mr. Sprague.” Nannie looked up

at him challengingly from the depths of the Morris chair in which she

was reclining.

“Why where’s John?” he asked.

“He’s gone out some place for a few minutes. I don’t know where,” she

said. “Wouldn’t you like to smoke?” She rose. “I’ll get some of John’s

cigarettes.”

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke cigarettes. I’ll fill my pipe if you

don’t mind.”

“I smoke cigarettes sometimes, when I’m quite alone,” she confided,

laughing slightly.

“Yes?”

“I suppose you don’t approve of ladies smoking, do you?” she insisted.

“If they want to.”

“Does Lucy smoke?”

“No.”

Mrs. Merwent laughed again.

“I didn’t know,” she declared. Jim gazed at her steadily. The front

door clicked and she started.

“Was that John?” she asked.

Jim rose and glanced through the window.

“No,” he responded. “It was Dimmie. He threw his ball into the street.

Did you want anything, Mrs. Merwent?”

“Oh, no,” she assured him. “I just wondered. He said he was coming

right back. Well, we don’t need a chaperone, do we?”

“Hardly,” replied Jim.

Mrs. Merwent dropped a marquise ring she had been pulling on and off

her finger. Jim picked it up and handed it to her.

“Thank you. I shouldn’t be wearing rings with this old gown. I just put

it on from force of habit.”

“Which?” asked Jim, smiling.

“The ring, of course, you sarcastic thing,” she retorted, striking his

knee with the lace handkerchief in her hand.

“The dress is charming, Mrs. Merwent.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re going to be nice after all. Well, I was quite

prepared to find you so. Lucy and John can’t say enough good things

about you.”

“I’m much obliged to them,” he remarked, smiling again. “I can say the

same of them.”

“How lovely! I do think real friendship is the grandest thing--and so

rare.”

“No doubt about that, Mrs. Merwent.” Jim smiled once more.

“Now I believe you’re making fun of me, Mr. Sprague.”

“I can assure you I’m not, Mrs. Merwent.”

“I envy them, you know. I’ve been so lonely since my--trouble.”

“I can quite imagine,” said Jim sympathetically. “But now you are with

your children and----”

“Yes,” she interrupted hastily, “and isn’t John just the dearest

fellow! I do so regret our misunderstanding. Though I was not to blame

for it,” she added.

“John’s a good sort,” Jim agreed. “And Lucy,” Mrs. Merwent now smiled.

“You haven’t said anything about Lucy.”

“We weren’t talking about her.”

“Well, she’s a dear girl, although--why I’ve burnt my slipper!” she

broke off. “Do you know, Mr. Sprague, that I have the hardest time to

get shoes narrow enough. It seems that most women, especially here

in the North, have big feet. Lucy takes after her father. He was a

Northern man.”

Jim seemed amused, and Mrs. Merwent concluded hastily.

“But here I am chattering on about _me_,” she said, “and you haven’t

told me anything about yourself.”

“There isn’t much to tell, Mrs. Merwent.”

“Well, if you could hear Lucy and John talk about you you wouldn’t be

so modest.”

“Neither of them has much critical acumen in matters of friendship.”

“But you are their only intimate friend.”

Jim laughed.

“That’s just it,” he asserted.

“You cynical thing!” she reproved banteringly. “I know you men with no

illusions. I declare I’m afraid of you.”

“Not dangerous--believe me, Mrs. Merwent.”

“No. You despise us women too much to take us seriously.”

“Some of the biggest individuals I have met have been women,” Jim

answered gravely.

“Lucy, for instance.”

“Yes, Lucy,” agreed Jim.

“Well, I’m not much like her. Do you think so?”

“Our acquaintance is pretty brief to justify a fundamental judgment of

that sort.”

“Oh, I’m not at all intellectual or deep. I can’t talk about Bergson

and books like _Jean Christophe_ that Lucy reads. I’m afraid you won’t

like poor little me much.”

“There are lots of people I don’t like who talk about philosophy and

musical novels.” His tone was pleasant.

“Well, I have a feeling already that you don’t like me very well.” “I

don’t think I could help liking Lucy’s mother,” Jim answered without

conviction.

“Thanks! I don’t know that I care to be liked because I’m Lucy’s

mother,” she replied, laughing nervously. “Your liking seems to

be confined to Lucy and things belonging to her. That’s not very

complimentary to the rest of us.”

Jim, who had been staring at the empty grate, glanced up and met Mrs.

Merwent’s eyes. Her gaze dropped.

“Yes, I do like Lucy, and the people she likes,” he acknowledged

frankly, “and if anybody liked me on the same recommendation I should

feel honored. She is a person any man or woman must feel it a great

privilege to know.”

Mrs. Merwent arched her brows.

“Of course I think just as you do about Lucy, Mr. Sprague, but if

I were John I might” (she smiled again) “object the tiniest bit to

your--enthusiasm.”

“Object?” Jim looked blank.

“Maybe that is the wrong word.” Nannie’s smile grew more meaning. “It

isn’t every man who enjoys having his wife admired _too_ much.”

“If John objects he only needs to say so. I don’t think you quite

understand the atmosphere of this household yet, Mrs. Merwent.”

“This household?”

“Your daughter then.”

“Well, I certainly think I ought to know her.”

“You ought, but the most charitable thing is to believe you don’t.”

There was decided asperity in Jim’s tone.

Mrs. Merwent’s manner changed. She rose haughtily.

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Sprague!” she exclaimed.

Jim rose also, and the two scrutinized each other in silence for a

moment.

“No offense intended,” he protested, turning and knocking his pipe out

on the mantel shelf.

Nannie was still injured.

“I don’t see how such innocent remarks can be so misinterpreted,” she

insisted, crumpling her handkerchief.

Jim did not answer at once. When he spoke his manner was authoritative.

“Don’t you think it would be wise to drop this topic, Mrs. Merwent?”

She preserved her air of dignity, but her uneasiness was obvious.

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Sprague. I certainly will not be stopped

from doing my duty in protecting Lucy no matter if you do misunderstand

me.”

“Protecting Lucy?” Jim’s eyes hardened.

Mrs. Merwent twisted her handkerchief nervously.

“Do you think Lucy needs to be protected from me, Mrs. Merwent?” he

went on inexorably.

Lucy’s voice was heard calling Dimmie. Nannie backed toward the hallway.

Jim heard Lucy too.

“I think Lucy needs protecting from her own ignorance and

inexperience,” explained Nannie defensively. “I’ve suffered enough from

public opinion even though I was innocent, Mr. Sprague, and I can’t be

expected to welcome the same thing for her.”

Jim seemed nonplussed.

“I confess you have the best of me, Mrs. Merwent.”

Nannie was mollified by seeing how disturbed he looked.

“I knew you would consider Lucy’s welfare just as I do.” Then she

seemed to dismiss the discussion. “There she is now. She does spoil

Jimmie so!”

“It has begun to rain, Dimmie. You mustn’t stay out in the rain.

Where’s Papa?” Lucy was heard saying.

“Dear me! It _is_ raining. I left a coat suit airing in the window. I’m

packing away my winter things. You will excuse me while I go and take

it in, Mr. Sprague?” Mrs. Merwent was smiling now, though she continued

to regard Jim with apprehension.

Jim turned to face her suddenly.

“Hold on, Mrs. Merwent!” he began in an odd tone, his voice not quite

under his control.

Nannie continued to smile impersonally but in spite of herself she

hesitated.

“You will please tell me now just what you mean about Lucy and myself,”

he demanded rather than asked. “Maybe Uncle Jim knows where Papa is.”

Lucy came toward the living room door.

Nannie raised her brows again and nodded at Jim significantly.

“Ahem--I really don’t think we had better----” she murmured.

Jim shrugged his shoulders with a baffled air and began to refill his

pipe. At the same moment Lucy appeared in the doorway behind her mother.

“Where’s John?” Lucy asked, entering the room with Dimmie and glancing

about inquiringly.

“Why he went out for a few minutes. I must run upstairs and take my

clothes out of the rain,” Mrs. Merwent murmured, brushing past her

daughter into the hallway.

“Whatever made John run away just when dinner was ready? And it’s begun

to rain too!” Lucy walked over to the fireplace and placed a screen in

front of it.

“Tell me a story, Uncle Jim,” Dimmie begged, pulling Jim’s coat tails

and indicating the Morris chair which Nannie had quitted.

“It’s too near dinner time,” Lucy remonstrated, noticing how abstracted

Jim appeared. She looked at the clock on the writing desk. “Is it as

late as that?” she asked in surprise.

Jim took out his watch.

“Seven fifteen,” he informed her, replacing his time-piece, and walking

over to the darkened window he remained, with his back to her, gazing

into the faintly lit street.

She scrutinised his half averted face.

“Are you bothered about something, Jim?”

He started slightly.

“Why, no, not particularly. I was figuring out what would be the

cheapest material we could put into that new row of houses,” he lied.

“I’ve got to send in the final estimates tomorrow.” He moved away from

the window and seated himself in the Morris chair with Dimmie in his

lap.

“I can’t imagine what keeps John,” Lucy remarked again.

Jim slid Dimmie to the floor.

“Don’t you want me to go and hunt him up?” “Why--no-o. I----” Lucy

demurred. “I don’t think----”

Just then there was the sound of a key turning in a latch and Dimmie

darted forward into the hall shouting, “There’s Papa! There’s Papa!”

John left a parcel on the stand with his hat and overcoat and entered

the living room.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you intended going out, John? I wouldn’t

have taken dinner up. I’m afraid it is spoiled,” Lucy said good

naturedly as she came forward to meet him.

“Oh, you know I--well----” John explained running his fingers through

his hair with an embarrassed gesture.

“What in the world did you have to buy that couldn’t wait until after

dinner?” Lucy walked into the hall and picked up the package which lay

beside his hat.

“Why, it’s some fruit. I thought it might be nice to have some,” he

said lamely, following her to the hat stand.

“But there’s plenty of fruit in the house.”

Nannie appeared on the stairs.

“Why, where have you been, John? We were all looking for you,” she

called rather uneasily.

XI

John and Nannie entered the dining room together. Jim followed with

Lucy and Dimmie.

“Did Nannie give you those flowers, Uncle Jim?” Dimmie asked as they

went through the hall. He reached for the _boutonnière_ which Jim was

wearing.

“Yes. Do you want some?” Jim answered, taking the sprig of blossoms

from his button hole and halting to decorate Dimmie’s blouse with it.

In the dining room there was a little confusion as John pulled out a

chair for Nannie and she seated herself with a rustle. She began to

serve the soup. Jim observed Lucy stealthily.

When the plates were distributed Nannie noticed Dimmie’s adornment.

“Why, you’ve lost your flowers, Mr. Sprague!” she exclaimed, without

looking at Jim.

“I gave them to Dimmie,” he answered quickly.

“Oh,” said Nannie.

John regarded Jim with an expression of surprise but lowered his eyes

as Jim met his gaze.

“I don’t believe Mr. Sprague likes flowers, does he, Lucy?” inquired

Mrs. Merwent sweetly.

“Of course he does, Mamma,” Lucy declared patiently. There was a brief

silence.

“Now we’ll have one of the good old evenings!” cried John, rubbing his

hands. “By the way, you two are too formal, Nannie. Why don’t you call

each other by your names?”

“Mr. Sprague doesn’t approve of getting acquainted too rapidly,”

retorted Nannie.

“I see by the paper that some rich guy has loaned a lot of Corots to

the Field Museum. That ought to interest you, John,” remarked Jim,

changing the subject. “Do you know, I was thinking of Corot today,”

responded John enthusiastically. “His art is a fairy art. He gives you

the poetry of Nature without being irritatingly subjective.”

“I just love Corot,” put in Mrs. Merwent ecstatically.

“Don’t you!” pursued John eagerly. “I tell you, Nannie, that lots

of greatly admired things make me sick, jammed full of Christian

sentiment, or reminding one of literary illustrations. Why can’t

artists stick to their purpose! What was that you said the other

evening, Jim, about Botticelli’s _Spring_--that it was both pagan and

subtle, wasn’t it?”

“Forgotten,” said Jim, who was helping Dimmie to potatoes.

“That was it.” Lucy smiled approvingly. “Won’t you have another

croquette, Mamma?”

“I believe I will, thank you,” assented Mrs. Merwent, even as she spoke

accepting the helping. “There! There! That’s more than plenty, Lucy.

You’ll have Mr. Sprague thinking I’m a gourmand.”

“Good stuff, Lucy,” declared Jim, taking a second croquette himself.

“Wouldn’t blame your mother if she were.”

“But really, Mr. Sprague, as a rule----”

She was interrupted by John.

“Jim, why on earth can’t you call Nannie by her name! One would think

she was a perfect stranger.”

“She is, nearly,” said Lucy, smiling again.

“Well, we’re all starting over now,” returned John in a tone of mild

reprimand, “and she won’t be in the future, so let’s not be so formal.”

An uncomfortable pause followed.

“You’ve dropped your flower, John.” As Nannie spoke at last, she picked

up the _boutonnière_ from the table and replaced it in the lapel of his

coat. “What was that you were saying about art?”

“Oh! Well you know, Nannie, I was just going to say that I don’t have

any more use for these new movements in art than for the moralizing and

story telling things of the last century. These cubist and futuristic

cranks forget the same thing the others do. That is that the artist’s

purpose is to create beauty. Why can’t they give us the beauty they see

and let us judge of it, instead of trying to tell us something about it

we aren’t interested in. Now take Inness, for instance----”

“I just love him! Aren’t his things fine!” Nannie chimed in.

John rumpled his hair.

“Yes, an Inness,” he repeated. “Doesn’t it give you enough? Can’t you

look at it and hear the wind in the trees? It isn’t only atmosphere,

it’s the beauty of nature in its simplicity, and that’s what we want in

art--simplicity.” He looked around the table.

“You’ve thought a lot about such things,” exclaimed Mrs. Merwent

admiringly.

“It isn’t so much an intellectual conception as a feeling for the true

thing that counts in art, Nannie,” replied John.

“That’s what I mean,” she explained.

“Your dinner’ll get cold, dear,” interrupted Lucy.

John began to eat again and silence reigned for some moments.

Lucy turned to Jim.

“The croquettes aren’t all gone yet. Have another?” she invited.

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll take one, Lucy, if you don’t mind,” interposed Nannie. Lucy

passed the dish hastily.

“Why of course, Mamma.”

Silence descended again on the group.

“We seem to be a quiet family,” Mrs. Merwent observed after a few

moments.

John looked up from his plate.

“What’s the matter with you, Jim? And you too, Lucy?” he inquired,

glancing from one of them to the other. “It seems as though a funeral

had struck the place. Neither of you have a word to say tonight.”

“Seems to me I’m talking as much as usual,” said Jim defensively,

laughing a little. “The trouble is that you’ve quit talking. We always

listen to you.”

“Rot!” retorted John. “You haven’t said half a dozen words.” “I thought

you all discussed the most abstruse things,” put in Nannie.

“We do,” avowed John. “I can’t understand what’s come over them.”

“Do talk about something profound, Mr. Sprague. I love to listen even

if I can’t join in the discussion,” she urged.

“You’re really mistaken, Mrs. Merwent. I talk very little,” Jim

protested. “John’s joking.”

“I suppose it depends on the company you’re in,” she parried.

“I talked a lot to you before dinner.” Jim turned his eyes on her.

Nannie avoided his gaze.

“My friend Professor Walsh, who is head of the school at home, has a

better opinion of me than some other people,” she declared after a

pause, ignoring Jim’s remark and speaking to the table at large.

“What nonsense, Mamma!” Lucy interrupted gently. “Whoever made any

comparison!”

“Comparisons can be made by inference,” Mrs. Merwent insisted with

dignity. “Professor Walsh knows all kinds of erudite things and _he_

never considers it any condescension to talk to poor little me!” she

finished.

“Neither do we! What’s got into you, Nannie?” John exclaimed, slightly

irritated, but laughing.

“I know _you_ don’t, John.” Nannie smiled at him.

Lucy rose.

“Help me bring in the dessert, Jim,” she invited.

“Lucy does need a servant,” Nannie declared when she and John were

alone together.

* * * * *

After dinner the men remained in their places to smoke as was their

custom, and a little later they all drew their chairs back and the

conversation became more animated as John related at length some of his

experiences at the art school. Then Lucy began to clear the table.

Jim glanced once or twice at Mrs. Merwent who was listening to John and

asking questions about various girls mentioned by him in the course of

his narrative. “Let me help you with the dishes, Lucy,” Jim lowered his

voice slightly.

“Why of course, Jim. I thought you had forgotten your job,” Lucy

agreed, at the same time regarding her mother, who seemed much amused

by something John had just said and entirely oblivious to her daughter.

Jim removed his coat and he and Lucy carried the dishes to the kitchen,

Dimmie assisting with invaluable efforts and advice.

While the dish washing was in progress Mrs. Merwent appeared in the

kitchen doorway, and surveyed the scene of activity: Jim, coatless

and aproned, Lucy with her sleeves rolled up, and Dimmie in general

administrative charge.

“Why, Lucy, I didn’t know you were washing the dishes! Do let me help!”

Nannie begged rather weakly.

Lucy replied pleasantly.

“No, thank you, Mamma. We’ll be through in a minute.”

Nannie went back to the dining room.

“They don’t seem to need us out there,” she informed John. “Do tell me

some more about that Miss Stimpson at the Art School--the one with the

red hair. I think she’s so interesting.”

Soon Lucy and Jim returned to the dining room. Dimmie was hanging to

his mother’s skirt and rubbing his eyes. She looked down at the child.

“I think I know a little boy who wants to go to sleepy town.” She

smiled at him and took his hand. “Kiss Papa and Uncle Jim,” she

continued, leading him up to John.

“And Nannie! Would you forget poor Nannie?” complained Mrs. Merwent,

presenting her cheek which Dimmie dutifully kissed.

“Good night, Dimmie,” Jim called after the child.

“You’re quite domestic, Mr. Sprague,” Nannie commented after Lucy and

Dimmie had gone upstairs.

“Lucy turns old Jim into a regular hired girl when he’s here.” John

grinned at his friend.

Jim was lighting his pipe and did not show that he had heard Nannie’s

remark. When he spoke it was to John.

Dimmie fell asleep in the midst of the first bedtime story, and Lucy

soon left him. When she came into the dining room her mother was moving

about as though searching for something.

“What is it, Mamma?” inquired Lucy.

“Why a piece of sheet music I put here on the bookcase doesn’t seem to

be here. Jimmie must have moved it.”

“Let me help you find it,” offered John, jumping to his feet.

“Perhaps it’s on the piano where you were practicing this afternoon,”

suggested Lucy.

Mrs. Merwent disappeared into the living room, followed by John, and a

moment later the strains of Massenet’s _Ouvrez tes Yeux_ floated in to

the dining room.

“Sit down, Jim,” Lucy bade Sprague, who was standing with his hands in

his coat pockets.

He seated himself a little distance from her.

“Well, Jim, Mamma and I are not much alike, are we?” Lucy remarked,

smiling with a tired expression.

“Wait till I pinch myself,” Jim answered.

There was a brief pause.

“We’ll just have to do the best we can with things,” Lucy said, rising

and averting her face as she spoke. She walked over to the mantel and

arranged some flowers in a vase.

“I’m outclassed,” Jim admitted.

“Maybe it’s not for always.” She spoke consolingly, looking at the

floor and continuing to smile determinedly. “When people see things

clearly there’s always a way, so let’s not get panicky.”

“The trouble is we don’t all see through things.” Jim shrugged his

shoulders uncomfortably.

The music ceased abruptly but almost immediately began again and Nannie

sang, _Vous Dansez, Marquise_.

“Give John a little time, Jim. He’ll see more than the rest of us

before long,” Lucy went on, as though defending her husband from an

unspoken accusation.

Jim smoked fiercely.

“I hope so,” he said at last, “but, as a rule, meeting a problem on the

installment plan is pretty poor spiritual economy.”

“Lucy,” he resumed after a pause, “your mother and I had a talk before

dinner.” “I thought so.”

“Well, unless I’m greatly mistaken----” Jim hesitated.

The music had stopped.

“Lucy, why don’t you and Jim come in and listen?” John stood in the

doorway.

Mrs. Merwent’s laugh tinkled from the other room.

“John, you dear silly boy!” she called. “You should allow people to

enjoy themselves in their own way.”

“I was just going back to town,” announced Jim, standing up. Lucy

stared at him with a surprised expression.

At this juncture Nannie appeared in the doorway behind John. Both

entered the dining room.

“Why what do you mean, Jim?” John inquired.

“I’ve got to get to the office early tomorrow.”

“I thought Mr. Sprague _always_ spent the night,” remarked Nannie.

“Lucy showed me his room.”

“He does,” declared John, and turned to Jim. “You’ll have plenty of

time in the morning. We’ll take the six forty.”

“I must look over the specifications for those houses, and they’re in

my room.”

“Well, if you must, you must,” John agreed, “but why didn’t you say so

before?”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Merwent,” Jim said, ignoring John’s question. “Good

night, Lucy.” They shook hands.

“I’ll go to the station with you,” John offered.

“No,” declined Jim. “No need. I’ve just time to catch the nine five.

Good night.” He went into the hall and seized his hat from the rack.

“Good night,” called John. “See you in the morning.”

Dimmie, awakened by the noise in the hall, cried out, “Mamma!”

Lucy went to him.

An hour later she heard John and her mother tip-toeing up the stairs,

trying to avoid disturbing her.

* * * * *

John had breakfast early the succeeding morning as he wished to reach

the office simultaneously with Jim. When Mrs. Merwent came downstairs

it was already close to the lunch hour and she asked to have her

breakfast in the kitchen so that she might talk to Lucy who was at work

there.

“Your friend, Mr. Sprague, doesn’t like me,” Mrs. Merwent began as she

buttered her toast contemplatively.

“Why, Mamma, I don’t see what makes you say that.” Lucy measured some

flour.

“Do you mean you didn’t notice what he said after dinner about parents

being in secret competition with their children?”

“Yes, I heard that, but he was speaking generally. He was probably not

thinking about you at all.”

“No, he doesn’t consider me intellectual enough to be worth thinking

about. Professor Walsh is a great deal better educated than Mr.

Sprague, so I guess I can console myself with the fact that he _does_

find me worth talking to.”

Lucy referred again to her recipe book.

“Really, Mamma, you have no reason to feel this way. I’m sure Jim was

as attentive to you as you let him be.”

“Well, it was mere politeness. He wasn’t at all interested in anything

I said.”

“I’m sure I don’t know how you know. He listened to everything you said

to him. Of course he doesn’t know any of the people you talked about,

and he isn’t good at small talk, and besides you talked almost entirely

to John, but I thought he was very nice.”

“Very patronizing, you mean, Lucy. I can see very plainly that he has a

low opinion of women--except you, of course. He seemed anxious enough

to talk to you.”

“Mamma, I wish you wouldn’t speak that way.”

“Speak what way?”

Lucy paused in her task and gazed steadily at her mother.

“You know perfectly well, Mamma. The reason he talked to me was that

you wished it, and besides I ask you not to talk about Jim in that

tone.”

“Well, anyone could see that he was crazy to be with you,” Nannie began

angrily.

“Mamma!” Lucy was indignant.

Her mother’s eyes filled with tears.

“Why, Lucy, I don’t see how you can twist my words so. I didn’t mean

there was anything between you.” Lucy gasped.

“Who said you did?” she ejaculated, articulating with difficulty. “I

only meant that you were unjust to Jim.”

Mrs. Merwent continued to regard her daughter reproachfully.

“You don’t know him, Mamma. He’s the very best kind of a man,” Lucy

went on more gently.

“Yes! I suppose I am incapable of appreciating him. Well, _you_ seem to

at any rate,” Nannie taunted.

Lucy paused ominously.

“Well, Mamma, if you don’t like him, I can’t help it,” she resumed

at last in an odd strained voice. “He’s our friend, but I’m not

responsible for him or his opinions. You’ll just have to like him or

dislike him for yourself.”

“I never said I disliked him,” retorted Nannie. “I said he disliked me.

Any one would think to hear you talk that he was----”

“Suppose we don’t discuss it any longer, Mamma,” Lucy interrupted

shortly.

“Oh, very well. If I had known you couldn’t bear to have the slightest

hint of criticism of him I’d have kept still.”

Lucy said no more.

XII

The friendship between John and Jim was of the sort that has its

roots deep in the past. They had been playmates and chums since early

childhood.

Jim was two years the elder and one of his first memories was of

wishing he had a mother like John’s. His own mother had died when he

was an infant and Mrs. Winter gave the lonely child many a happy hour

mothering him along with her own child.

Jim’s father, a dry minded man who owned a hardware store, was

mystified by the boy’s quaint fancies.

“Are the flowers lonesome at night?” the child asked Mr. Sprague one

day. And once when it was raining he said, “The sky is crying and the

trees are sorry,” as the latter bent in the wind.

His father always laughed at such speeches and advised him not to be

a fool. At first Jim would slip from the room and weep, but later he

learned to conceal his hurt feelings as his father whipped him if he

found him crying. So the child gradually acquired the habit of keeping

his thoughts to himself.

Though Jim’s faith in things mystical had in early childhood been the

most eager and ardent, he was the first of the two boys to become a

sceptic. Mr. Sprague in his hardware store had a business which seemed

to be an appropriate emblem of his nature, and he had never attempted

to meet his imaginative son half way; but it was Jim’s own habit of

inquiry regarding the world around him, rather than the fault of his

unsympathetic parent, which brought about a change in his childish

outlook.

“I don’t believe in Santa Claus any more, John,” he confessed the first

Christmas after his faith had forsaken him.

“Well _I_ do!” John answered indignantly. “He’s going to bring me a new

sled too. You’re jealous because he’s not going to bring you one.” And

John ran away out of earshot of heresy.

Jim went home and threw himself face downward on the bed in the bare

room where he and his father slept. While he lay there he admitted

to himself that he was jealous of John but that did not alter his

painfully won conviction.

Jim loved companionship with animals. A tailless cat, a lame gosling,

chickens, and anything else that needed care, shared his affection. If

one of these outcasts became ill he ministered to it as though it were

a baby. One Sunday he sat for three hours holding a dying puppy in his

lap.

Mr. Sprague did not like pets and was often cruel to Jim’s charges,

refusing food for them. Then Jim would deny himself and save the

food from his plate for his protégés. His father grew angry at this,

regarding it as disobedience to the spirit of his commands, and one day

ordered Jim to turn the pets loose, in his rage kicking a little puppy.

Jim rebelled and, as was usual on such occasions, was whipped. As soon

as his father released him Jim gathered up the hurt puppy tenderly.

After this he tried to keep his pets out of his father’s sight.

At school John was, as a rule, the head of his class, but Jim always

had to help him with his mathematical problems. Jim never obtained more

than fair marks except in mental arithmetic, in which study he rapidly

became the pride of all his teachers.

Although Jim took the initiative and led in all their games and

expeditions it was tacitly understood that John was, in some way,

the superior of the two. This tradition dated from their earliest

memories. It was not founded solely on the fact that John had a mother,

for John’s father, too, was a cultured man and wrote for a religious

review, while Jim’s only sold hardware. Even in later years when Jim

faced life and weighed values this attitude never quite left him.

During their high school days John fell in love with Gertie Pierce, who

had red cheeks and yellow hair. This lifted him still higher in Jim’s

opinion. John wrote poetry about Gertie, which he read to Jim. In these

poems he called her a “dryad,” explaining to Jim what the word meant,

and pointing out how beautifully it rhymed with “sad.”

As a rule Jim paid scant attention to his girl acquaintances and

schoolmates. They made him uneasy with their giggling and whispering,

and he always imagined that they were talking about him and making fun

of him.

After his graduation from high school Jim entered his father’s store.

It had been decided that John was to go to college and he left the

following autumn. Jim, robbed of the old companionship, felt his

isolation more than ever before in his life. He wanted something, he

hardly knew what. It seemed to him that life was cheating him, but he

looked in vain for understanding from the boys and girls with whom

he had grown up. Occasional enthusiastic letters from John in which

college life was described to the stay-at-home, not without a note of

condescension, added to Jim’s dissatisfaction and unrest.

* * * * *

One day, about a month after John’s departure to attend college, a

young widow of the town, Mrs. Johnson, whom Jim had often seen on

the street and admired for her brilliant coloring and dashing though

somewhat overdressed appearance, came into Mr. Sprague’s hardware

store. She wished to order some gas fittings for her house, which was

being remodeled. Jim had heard laughing references to her powers as a

siren and these remarks were of a nature that reflected rather darkly

on her moral conduct, so when he went forward to wait on her it was

with some inward trepidation.

He advised her to choose plain square brass brackets which he thought

much prettier than the ornate scrolled gilt ones which she seemed to

prefer. She hesitated and then looked up at him.

“Well, if _you_ think these are prettier, I’ll take them. Please have

them sent around to the house this afternoon, for the plumbers are

coming tomorrow.”

Jim, put at his ease by her deference to his taste, promised, and

carried over the fixtures himself about three o’clock. Mrs. Johnson met

him at the door. Jim, remembering the very stylish street costume she

had worn that morning, was somewhat taken back by the sight of her none

too clean wrapper, run over slippers, and hair loose down her back.

“Come in,” she invited, smiling and showing extremely pretty teeth. “If

I’d known it was you who were coming I’d have fixed myself up. Take a

seat,” she continued volubly, laughing as she removed some sewing from

a chair. “I’m all alone.”

Jim deposited his hat and bundle on a table in the center of the room

and seated himself. She drew another chair for herself very close to

his.

“I expect I look the limit!” she exclaimed, leaning her head back and

shaking her hair out in a rippling cascade over her shoulders. “I’ve

been washing my hair.”

Jim glanced timidly at her wide opened pale blue eyes, smooth fair

skin, pink cheeks, and the rounded arm which was displayed to advantage

as she modestly held her wrapper together over a salient bosom. The

sunlight fell on her blond hair which was really exquisite.

“I think you look beautiful,” said Jim impulsively, turning very red at

his own temerity.

“I could almost kiss you for that,” she answered with another laugh.

“Wait till I get you some beer to pay you for your compliment,” and she

rose and went toward the kitchen, humming a tune as she disappeared.

Jim’s gaze followed her. Delia Johnson made a pleasant picture and Jim

had missed the shallowness, indolence, and sensuality in her face and

the incipient heaviness in her figure. As her yellow hair was lost to

view through the doorway he gave a sigh.

She returned in a few minutes with a bottle of beer and two glasses.

“Good luck,” she chattered, laughing once more as she poured a glass

for him and another for herself.

They clinked glasses and drank, Jim, who did not like the taste of

beer, being careful not to make a wry face.

“Don’t you smoke, Mr. Sprague?” she asked when they had finished the

beer.

Jim did not smoke, but in view of Delia’s eyes and the “Mr.” he

answered, “Yes,” adding, “but I haven’t any cigars with me.”

“I’ll get you some cigarettes,” she offered, opening a drawer in the

table. “I’ll have one too,” she went on with her inevitable laugh, as

she removed a cigarette from the package before handing it to him.

They smoked a moment in silence, Delia inhaling her cigarette with

evident pleasure.

“Are you a partner in your father’s business?” she inquired, at length,

knocking the ash from her cigarette.

“No,” returned Jim hastily, “I’m only clerking for him. I’ve just

finished high school.”

“How much does he pay you?” she pursued.

She was smiling at him bewitchingly and Jim put aside the crudeness of

her questions.

“He don’t pay me anything,” he admitted honestly.

“That’s better,” she declared. “It shows that he intends to give you a

share in the concern.”

Jim shook his head dubiously.

“I don’t know about that.”

“You’re his only child, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course he will,” she affirmed with emphasis, “and in time you’ll

have it all. He’s rich, isn’t he?”

“Why, no,” began Jim.

“Pretty well fixed, anyway,” she put in laughing. “Well, there’s many

that would like to be in your shoes, Mr. Sprague.”

Jim placed his half finished cigarette on the ash tray.

“Have some more beer?” she queried.

“No, thank you.”

“What’s your given name?” she demanded suddenly.

“James.” He was smiling now.

“Do they call you Jimmie?”

“No, Jim,” he replied, glancing at her hair.

“Then I’m going to call you Jim too.”

“All right, Mrs. Johnson, I’m----”

“You mean thing!” she interrupted. “I don’t believe you like me a bit!”

Jim looked surprised.

“Do you?” she insisted.

“Why, yes.” He studied her a moment, then, with increasing emphasis,

“Of course I do. I like you fine.”

She reached over and touched his cheek lightly.

“Then you must call me Delia,” she stipulated, and added, “I like you,

too, Jim, awfully well.”

He blushed and trembled a little at the caress.

“I--I must go,” he stammered, rising.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” she pleaded. “Let’s talk a minute.”

Jim hesitated and then reseated himself. Delia moved her chair a little

farther from him.

“Wasn’t that awful in the morning’s paper about their killing the

strikers in Chicago?” She spoke in a more impersonal tone.

Jim drew a long breath.

“I think it’s terrible!” he exclaimed. “Those men have no other way of

protesting against injustice than by striking.”

“The paper says they’re trying to wreck business.”

“They’re not any such thing!” he insisted. “They’re most of them

fathers of families and dependent on their wages. It’s nonsense to

suggest such things. What they want is enough to live on.”

“You aren’t an anarchist, are you?”

“No,” he disclaimed, “but I hate lies and hypocrisy, and that sheet”

(pointing to the paper lying on the floor where Delia had dropped it)

“is in the pay of the capitalists, and people read it and swallow any

dope they hand out. This country will never progress till labor is

represented in the capital at Washington and--and until things are

reorganized on a basis of justice and equality,” he concluded rather

lamely.

He was flushed and seemed somewhat startled by his own outburst.

“My, but you think a lot!” Delia applauded admiringly.

“It’s time men began to think,” resumed Jim, encouraged. “It’s the duty

of citizens to think and act. The good men stay away from the polls and

let things slide, and the bad element gets in its dirty work, and the

poor suffer. When I’m old enough to vote I’m never going to miss----”

“Why, aren’t you twenty-one yet?” put in Delia.

Jim was abashed.

“I’m only seventeen past,” he admitted reluctantly.

“You look at least twenty-two or three,” she insisted.

Jim was pleased and grateful.

“And you understand things so well. I like to hear you explain them,

but I can’t talk--only about women’s things.” Delia looked demure.

Jim, who as a rule talked little on any subject, was uncomfortable over

having expressed himself so freely. Delia changed the subject again.

“Have you seen Will Bennett since his wife died?” she inquired.

“No,” replied Jim, relieved.

“I saw him yesterday on the street,” said she. “Did you go to the

funeral?”

“No,” answered Jim again.

“He looked as chipper as a sparrow. That’s the way men are. The funeral

was beautiful,” and Delia launched into a minute description of the

obsequies, Jim listening attentively.

“I really must go,” he declared, at last, rising once more as she

concluded, and extending his hand.

“Well, you must drop in again to see me,” she invited, holding his hand

as she spoke. “I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”

“Thank you. So have I,” returned Jim.

She released him as he took his hat from the table, and followed him to

the door.

“Don’t forget,” she smiled.

“I’ll not forget,” he smiled back.

When Jim returned to the store Mr. Sprague looked up from his ledger.

“It took you a long time to deliver those fixtures,” he grumbled.

“I--I didn’t come right back,” stammered Jim.

Mr. Sprague scrutinized his son’s flushed face.

“I should think you didn’t. Well, next time you come right back! Do you

hear?” Jim passed behind the counter without replying.

Jim remembered his promise to Delia. He thought of her almost

constantly during his waking hours. The day following his visit he

walked past her house. The plumbers were laying gas pipe from the

street through the yard. He did not see Delia and went on.

“It’s too soon yet,” he said to himself.

The next day he passed the house again. The window shutters were all

closed and he did not ring the bell, telling himself that Delia was

not at home. He continued to pass the house once or twice every day,

without asking for admittance, wondering each time if she were there,

or if some one else were with her, or if she really meant that she

wanted him to come again. He was amazed that such a beautiful woman had

remained without remarrying. He had decided that the slurs cast on her

reputation were unjust. She was too innocent-hearted and Bohemian. The

narrow minded people who made up the population of the town could not

understand her. Jim found her like the heroine of a French novel he had

been reading. He dreamed about her at night.

* * * * *

About three o’clock in the afternoon, a week after his first visit, he

passed her house as usual and saw no sign of life. He proceeded down

the street and walked a block or two. Then he retraced his steps.

As he came by the house again he heard someone call his name. Before

he could decide what to do the curtains in a window were parted and

Delia’s smiling face confronted him.

“Why don’t you come in, Jim?” she called.

He hesitated.

“Wait, and I’ll unlock the door,” she added, and, with a final smile,

left the window.

Jim entered the gate, and had not crossed the small lawn when the door

was opened.

“You mean thing! You wouldn’t have come in at all if I hadn’t called to

you!” was her greeting.

“I thought you weren’t at home,” he explained.

“Well, let’s not talk about it,” she said, shutting the door. “You’re

here anyway. I’ve been wondering what had become of you. I thought

you had gone out of town. Sit down and tell me about yourself,” she

invited, leading the way to the sitting room he remembered so well.

“Here! Give me your hat. You’re at home here.”

Jim was surprised to feel himself suddenly at ease.

Delia chatted volubly, smiling and laughing, without giving him an

opportunity to talk about himself. She produced a flattering atmosphere

of dependence and admiration that led Jim unconsciously to assume the

part of the conquering male.

“You didn’t really forget me, did you?” she asked, her ingratiating

manner anticipating his reply.

“Not quite,” Jim told her with new-found assurance.

Delia gazed into his eyes a moment and came over to his chair and,

bending down, put her cheek against his.

“You didn’t, did you, Jim?” she repeated in a whisper.

He drew her to him and kissed her on the mouth.

Delia was in a fresh wrapper, with her beautiful hair becomingly

arranged, and a scent of violets clung about her. Jim was considerably

surprised at his own passion.

“You naughty boy!” she cried, laughing. Then she sat on his knees and

pulled his hair. Jim kissed her again.

This was the beginning of frequent visits which soon became daily.

“I see you’re hanging around that Johnson woman,” Jim’s father remarked

one evening at supper.

Jim turned pale, then red, and poured himself some more tea without

replying.

“You stay away from there. Do you hear?” the elder Sprague went on.

“I hear, but I’ll do as I see fit,” retorted Jim.

“You’ll do as _I_ see fit, or I’ll know the reason why,” snapped his

father.

“Father,” began Jim, “I’m old enough to----”

“Old enough be damned!” Mr. Sprague fairly roared. “You’re old enough

to do what I tell you until you’re twenty-one years old, and that ain’t

all--you’ll _do_ what you’re told, if you expect to stay in _my_ house!”

Jim rose and seized his hat.

“I don’t intend to have you running around with a bitch like that at

your age,” continued the older man, as though closing the discussion.

“You have no right to call her that!” Jim’s eyes flamed as he faced his

father excitedly.

“How do you know what right I’ve got?” asked Sprague unmoved.

“Be careful what you say,” Jim was pale with anger, his fists clenching.

Mr. Sprague looked at his son with interest. Jim felt very young and at

a disadvantage. He turned to go.

“Just see that you remember what I said,” Sprague commanded, as the boy

reached the door.

Jim went out without a word. He went straight to Delia’s house.

“Who is it?” a voice demanded, as he knocked, forgetting to ring the

bell.

“It’s Jim,” he replied.

The sound of bare feet in the hall was heard, and Delia, unlocking the

door, pulled at his sleeve.

“Come in, Jim,” she whispered.

Jim began to explain his errand as soon as they reached the sitting

room.

“Delia, we must be married at once,” he announced.

She was yawning, but stopped to gaze at him curiously. Jim returned her

regard steadily. He was in deadly earnest. Her eyes avoided him but he

continued to observe her hungrily. Her wrapper had fallen open at the

neck and the swell of her full white breasts showed. Her hair was in

two long braids.

“Why, Jim, what’s the matter? We’re all right as we are.” She yawned

again.

“Something has happened, Delia. I owe it--that is, it is best for us

to be----” He fell back on his first declaration. “We must be married

right away.”

Delia went up to him and put her arms around his neck. Her loose

sleeves slid back. As he looked down on her he could see only her white

arms and bosom.

“People know. I’ve got you talked about,” he said as she kissed him.

Delia laughed.

“I don’t care about that,” she assured him.

Jim was puzzled.

“Come and sit down, dearie,” she added, pushing him into a chair and

seating herself on his knees.

“But, Delia----”

“We can’t get married now, Jim,” she said. “You haven’t anything to

support us and if I marry I’ll lose all the money Johnson left me.”

Jim’s face showed his revulsion of feeling. Delia saw the change and

clung to him.

“Let’s just love each other, Jim, and everything will come out all

right.”

“But, Delia, I want to do what’s right and----”

She kissed him passionately. Jim felt a curious sense of drifting.

“Come on, dearie,” she whispered.

It was late when Jim left the house.

* * * * *

Mr. Sprague said nothing more to Jim on the subject of Delia, which

circumstance disconcerted and worried the boy more than he was willing

to admit to himself.

He tried to consider the matter calmly but his thoughts seemed to

dissolve in a mist of beautiful hair, wide opened blue eyes, and white

arms and bosom.

“She is right,” he told himself. “We can’t marry now, and we love each

other so much that we must be all in all to each other.”

However, his conscience made him very miserable. He felt that one who

had no religion should be morally strong. With all this he continued to

go to Delia’s house.

He did not understand why she designated certain evenings for his

visits and forbade him to come on others. One evening, rather late,

feeling very lonely and very much in love, he turned his steps toward

her house, notwithstanding the fact that it was a proscribed day.

He had nearly reached the gate when a man emerged from the doorway, and

Jim, halting beneath one of the large trees that shaded the sidewalk,

recognized his father. His first feeling was of anger that he was

being spied upon, but this turned to amazement and cold rage as Delia

called Sprague back and, through the half closed door, kissed him,

straightening his hat which she had knocked awry, calling, “Good night,

dearie,” as he went off.

Jim watched his father disappear, and, after a moment’s hesitation,

walked away with rapid strides. He sought his home when it was daybreak.

The old standards by which Jim had measured values were of no more use

to him.

XIII

Jim came to look at the world and people with clearer eyes. He saw that

his father kept him in the store to save clerk hire and not with any

intention of giving him a share in the business. He realized that he

had no home or career in his native town. He thought matters out very

carefully and fully.

One morning at breakfast, after reading a letter just received from

John, the complacent tone of which threw his own forlornness into

relief, he announced to his father that he was going away to college.

“You’re going to stay right where you are,” responded Mr. Sprague from

his side of the table.

“No, I’m going,” repeated Jim quietly.

“Well, you won’t get a cent from me,” exclaimed his father with the air

of saying the last word in an argument. “I suppose this is another of

the fool notions you’ve got from that Winter boy.”

“I didn’t expect anything from you,” explained Jim.

Mr. Sprague passed one hand over his stubbly chin and regarded his

son with cold curiosity. The elder Sprague was burly and inclined to

stoop. He wore reading glasses and now he peered through them with as

much detachment as an entomologist who has a mildly interesting insect

under the microscope. He was, as usual, in his shirt sleeves, and his

deliberate untidiness of dress seemed the aggressively flaunted signal

of that coarseness of spirit which was a matter of pride with him.

“Don’t fool yourself into thinkin’ I don’t mean what I say,” he

remarked.

A month after this incident Jim informed his father that he was leaving

for college.

“Well, remember, you needn’t come back,” Mr. Sprague told him. Jim

went to the station alone, carrying a small bundle under his arm, and

climbed on the car unnoticed. As the train pulled out of the place

he looked back on the little town. This was his last glimpse of his

childhood home.

He arrived at college with one suit of clothes, a few extra shirts and

other accessories, and three dollars in his pocket, having borrowed the

money from Dr. Winter, John’s father, to pay for his ticket. His first

act was to hunt up John who received him with his old affection.

“Gee, but I’m glad to see you!” John exclaimed boisterously, slapping

Jim on the back.

He insisted that Jim share his room and allowance, but Jim had no

intention of being dependent on anyone. He shoveled snow, cared for the

furnaces in the college dormitory, sawed wood and split kindling for

the families near the campus, and by working early and late managed to

remain in the college and even won the scholarship in mathematics. The

first money he earned above his living expenses was sent back to pay

the debt he had incurred for his journey.

He and John now shared room and funds on equal terms and Jim, by

imperceptible degrees, assumed his old responsibility for John’s

welfare and progress.

* * * * *

John had never really decided what his profession or occupation should

be. Jim brought the question up by declaring that he did not intend

to follow a stated college course but planned to fit himself to be an

architect. John believed himself a born artist and talked of studies in

Rome and Paris after his course in college was ended. One day he rushed

into the room and flung his cap into a corner.

“Jim!” he cried enthusiastically, “I’ve decided to be an architect

too!” He went on to talk of the opportunities of the true artist in

a profession that had lured the greatest masters from the Greeks to

Michelangelo.

“But modern architecture is more of a science than an art,” Jim pointed

out. “The calculations of stresses and strength of materials has more

to do with it than the ‘visions of a dream in marble’ you are talking

about.”

However, John was not to be dissuaded and the two boys were soon

entered in the special courses marked in the institution’s catalogue as

leading to proficiency in architectural science.

John’s difficulty with mathematics was a handicap in most of these

courses, and Jim had to help him in his work as in the days of their

early boyhood. Notwithstanding this aid, John (who always took high

marks in more general courses) found it hard to keep pace with his

fellows, and, after the end of the first semester, decided to abandon

their plan. It was only Jim’s initiative and generous giving of time to

help him that decided John on the continuation of their design.

John always went home for the holidays and vacations, while Jim stayed

on alone in the almost empty dormitory, working and studying.

The characteristics of the two boys became more evident as they

approached majority. John conceived confidence in anybody who pleased

him, each new acquaintance possessing, for the time being, all the

perfections. Jim developed an almost uncanny insight into the motives

of those around him, and was slow to form friendships.

“Never mind what people say,” he would tell John. “Fix your attention

on finding out why they say it. That’s the way to get at things.”

When they graduated, or rather, completed their courses, for neither

received his degree, Jim began work at once in an architect’s office

in the college town, and settled down with his customary methodical

perseverance to make a place for himself. John returned home for a few

months and then persuaded his parents to send him to the Art School

in Chicago to study what he felt to be the higher aspects of his

profession.

Soon after his entrance into the School of Art he returned to painting,

and left designing to study oils and water color work. The former

companions were separated but exchanged frequent letters and remained

as close friends as ever. John always thought of Jim as “good old Jim.”

Jim never quite analyzed his feelings for John, much as he loved to

evaluate the motives of others. He had always needed and would always

need some one to care for, and John was in his life. He did not go

further than this.

A year after their separation, Jim’s employer gave him a share in

the small business, and, dying a few months later, left Jim in full

charge of his affairs. Jim, whose success and promise had been noticed

by many, easily borrowed enough capital to buy the business outright

from the heirs, and in a brief period had paid his debt and won the

independent opportunity of which he had dreamed for years.

It was not many months after this that John, in one of his letters,

interested his friend by announcing that he had fallen in love, and by

raving in a school boy fashion over the object of his devotion. Jim

for some time had considered the wisdom of transferring his business

to Chicago. It seemed to have reached the limit of development in

the little college town, and he was anxious for a field that put no

restrictions on his ability. John’s letter spurred him to a decision as

to the future and he replied with the news that he was coming to the

city himself, and asked John to meet him at the station. At their first

sight of each other they renewed the old familiar relation.

John discussed everything with all his former frankness and enthusiasm

and Jim, listening, felt more than ever that John was his to care for

and watch over.

“But what are you going to do to support a wife?” was Jim’s first

question.

“Jim, I’m through with experiments. I’m going to work,” replied John

earnestly.

“Where?” asked Jim.

“I’ve got a place as a draughtsman with Layard’s, a big building supply

firm here,” the younger man explained. “Life is serious now and I’m

going to do something.”

Jim said no more.

The following day John took him to call on Lucy Merwent.

* * * * *

The two young men went into partnership a few weeks before John and

Lucy were married and it was not many months before it was evident

that the business venture was succeeding on a fairly safe basis. Nora

Stimpson, the red-haired art student of Miss Storms’ first party,

called on Lucy after the wedding. She also came to the office several

times to see John, and each time the two talked and laughed like old

friends. She smiled on Jim in a most friendly manner. He managed to

be in the office whenever she was there but, as his air was far from

cordial, she finally ceased visiting them.

The business developed but never became important. John did the

draughting and Jim attended to the practical details of specifications

and dealt with contractors.

When Lucy’s baby was born it was christened James Sprague Winter.

The second year after their marriage John paid a flying visit to his

parents; and on one occasion Dr. Winter attended a church convention

in Chicago and stayed a week with his son and daughter-in-law. He

questioned Lucy regarding her soundness in doctrine and was aghast

at her honest replies. Nevertheless he liked her and carried back to

Dimmie’s grandmother a favorable report of “John’s wife.”

Jim matured and developed during the years after John’s marriage, but

he who had long ago learned to understand others never quite came to

understand himself. Lucy did not puzzle him, but it was only after

knowing her that he realized the idealism and emotionalism of John. The

realization did not cool his affection. He only smiled to himself when

his friend allowed enthusiasm to blind discretion, and said, “John has

his rose-colored spectacles on again.”

While his old idolatry of John was thus tempered by ripening judgment,

it was an incident of brief duration and apparently trivial consequence

that caused, as Jim thought, the scales to fall from his eyes and

forced him entirely to turn, with a feeling of slight bitterness, to

Lucy rather than her husband for the expression of the hidden things in

his nature.

The involuntary arbiter of Jim’s spiritual destiny, according to his

own interpretation, was a pretty Irish girl, Miss Brennan, whom he

and John had employed as their accountant and stenographer. She was

a silly, sentimentally-inclined young woman who accepted admiration

indiscriminately from all sources. She had troubles, the chief of which

were a drunken father and a cross-grained mother. Under the influence

of John’s expansive sympathy, which she soon appraised, her secrets

were unfolded to him and he, with constant ardency, accepted the rôle

of father confessor. She did not like Jim, whose disapproval she felt,

and most of her interviews with John were reserved for hours when

the two were almost certain not to be interrupted. She was a devout

Roman Catholic and John, under her tutelage, began to evince a sudden

interest in Catholicism.

“You know that little Miss Brennan, she’s so beautifully simple,” he

told Jim one day at luncheon. “I happened to be passing her church

when she was going in the other day and just for curiosity I went in

with her. Catholicism is the only religion left for an artist anyway.

You don’t know how much it affected me when I saw how in earnest she

was with her beads and genuflections. The whole thing reminded me

of a mediæval picture. It’s about the only naïve thing left in our

sophisticated age.”

“Catholics may be naïve but not the Catholic Church,” remarked Jim

unsympathetically. He was not thinking of questions of religious

feeling however as he studied John’s face. John was irritated by this

scrutiny.

“You seem to have lost all your temperamental appreciation of things,

Jim,” he observed in a vexed tone.

The first confirmation which Jim’s unadmitted suspicions received came

when John insisted on raising Miss Brennan’s salary.

“She’s almost the only dependence of her family, and the things she has

to put up with to keep things going are pitiful,” he declared.

“How much do you think we ought to give her?” asked Jim.

John hesitated, and, glancing away as he spoke, named the sum Miss

Brennan had suggested, which almost doubled the amount she was

receiving.

There was a brief pause.

“We can’t afford to turn the business into a philanthropic enterprise,”

Jim answered laconically.

It was the next day that Jim, entering the office at an unanticipated

moment, surprised Miss Brennan in tears and John soothing her with

unconventional tenderness. Jim passed on into the draughting room, not

seeming to observe the confusion of the pair, and it was John himself

who, with a guilty air, referred to the subject an hour later when the

stenographer was out for luncheon.

“I guess you were surprised when you came in and found Miss Brennan

crying like that?” he suggested.

“Not particularly.” Jim looked out the window as he spoke.

“But Miss Brennan--Jim, she’s got the most wonderful lot of grit! It

makes a fellow spiritually sick to see a woman young and pretty as she

is up against such an awful proposition!” And he launched into a eulogy

of Miss Brennan which embraced all of the adjectives which Jim, on

other occasions, had heard him apply to Lucy.

The day following Jim waited until John had gone around the corner

to Layard’s to get some prices on furnishing lumber, and he and Miss

Brennan were the sole occupants of the office.

“Miss Brennan,” he announced, “I want to tell you that your services

are not required any longer. Your salary will be paid until the end of

the month.”

Miss Brennan opened her lips to speak. She looked into Jim’s eyes. Her

small mouth quivered.

“Why I don’t know what you mean! Mr. Winter----” She hesitated,

eyeing Jim an instant with fear and bewilderment. Then a confused

understanding dawned in her face.

“I was never so insulted in my life, Mr. Sprague!” she exclaimed

indignantly, a catch in her voice.

Jim did not answer, and two large tears rolled down her cheeks as she

moved away from him.

When John returned to the office Jim was walking up and down the inner

draughting room, smoking. His tall shadow, as he paced back and forth,

moved across the ground glass partition. Miss Brennan outside had on

her hat and coat.

Jim heard John’s exclamation and knew that she was breaking the news to

him. In a few moments sobs were audible. John opened the inner door.

His face was crimson. He and Jim stared at one another like strangers.

“What the hell does this mean, Jim?” John demanded, his voice shaking

with suppressed feeling and his manner almost threatening.

“I think you know about as well as I do, John.”

“The devil I do! I won’t have it, that’s all! It’s a shame!” He seemed

ready for battle as he spoke.

“All right, John,” answered Jim quietly.

John went out into the office again, slamming the door behind him.

Miss Brennan was close to the corridor entrance.

“I think I’d better go, Mr. Winter. You are so good to me, but I

couldn’t stay in Mr. Sprague’s employ,” she answered, when John

insisted on her remaining.

So she went away, and whether she and John met again was a mystery

which Jim did not try to solve, but he felt that he had at least kept

the affair from reaching a development which would come to Lucy’s ears.

The partners tacitly avoided employing a successor to Miss Brennan,

going across the hall of their office building to a public

stenographer, when a stenographer was necessary, while Jim posted and

cast their accounts in his room each evening after his day’s work.

The incident caused a passing coolness between them. Indeed there were

some weeks during which John scarcely spoke to Jim. The clouds were

dispelled however. John showed a sudden warmth and simultaneously came

an invitation to dinner from Lucy.

Jim did not question the impulse or try to guess whether it had

originated with John or his wife. He was too anxious to accept any

terms which allowed him to go to the Winter home as before and enjoy

the companionship of Lucy who treated him like a good friend and a

brother.

* * * * *

John told himself, after the incident of the stenographer, that he

was a little disappointed in Jim, who lacked the qualifications for

comprehending the finer feelings, but the change in John’s regard did

not appear on the surface.

Jim remained the counselor for the family in all practical matters,

and was looked upon by the expansive Dimmie as almost the equal of

his father. Jim paid frequent visits to the house at Rosedene, often

remaining from Saturday until Monday. A bedroom which Lucy had referred

to as “Jim’s room” when the house was under construction, was always

at his disposal, and when he was present Lucy accepted him with a

naturalness and lack of ceremony which he found more flattering than

the most exaggerated attention.

After his return from Rosedene on the night of his first _tête-à-tête_

with Mrs. Merwent, who had rather taken his breath away by her display

of mingled clumsiness and cunning, he sat and smoked in silence in his

room until very late. An amazing new factor had entered his world. As

he finally grew sleepy and prepared himself for bed, he decided that

his first problem was to help Lucy in her immediate predicament.

“Poor child,” he murmured as he knocked out his last pipe and lay down.

XIV

It was eight o’clock in the morning and Rosedene was looking its best.

The late spring weather was perfect and the flower beds and shrubs

about the Winters’ home were faintly misted with bloom.

Lucy was weeding a border of violets and Dimmie assisted her. She wore

a clean gingham dress and the customary wide apron. An old hat tied

on with a black silk ribbon, and worn gloves of John’s completed her

costume. There was a light wind and her skirts billowed out as she bent

over the flowers and the ribbon under her chin fluttered.

“Don’t sit down in the mud. You’ll take cold, Dimmie,” Lucy admonished,

observing the clayey tint on the seat of Dimmie’s rompers as, panting

and perspiring with his exertions, he laboriously replanted an uprooted

violet.

Nannie came in from the street. She had been seeing John off to his

train and was in a simple but charming morning costume.

“I met the postman on the way,” she observed as she stood removing her

gloves.

“Were there any letters for us?” Lucy asked.

“None for you. I got one.” Nannie hesitated. “It was from Professor

Walsh,” she added, laughing rather uneasily.

“So you’ve read it already, have you?” Lucy smiled as she spoke but did

not look up from her work.

“Now, Lucy, you are trying to make game of me!”

“Indeed I’m not, Mamma. I always like to see what’s in a letter as soon

as I get one.”

“I didn’t have to think very hard to guess what would be in this one.

The poor man is so alone in Russellville. You know yourself how in a

small place there are so few really cultured people.” Mrs. Merwent

smoothed out the fingers of the gloves she held. “I thought you always

stood up for Russellville, Mamma,” Lucy said.

“Now, Lucy, I didn’t mean of course that there were _no_ really well

bred people in Russellville. There are few enough here in the North,

heaven knows, but Professor Walsh is an unusually well educated man.”

“Yes. There are few enough anywhere,” Lucy continued, ignoring Mrs.

Merwent’s last allusion.

“But you and John lead such an isolated life,” Nannie went on. “I don’t

see how you can judge. Don’t you know any of your neighbors, Lucy?”

“Well, we haven’t any neighbors in the sense we used to have in

Russellville, but there are a few really pleasant people near by.

There are the Hamiltons just back of us. She is the one who sent the

jellied chicken for our luncheon the day you came. Don’t put so much

water on the flowers, dear.” (This last remark was addressed to Dimmie.)

Dimmie began to drum on the tin sprinkler with a trowel.

“Jimmie, for heaven’s sake stop that noise,” exclaimed Nannie. “You’ll

split my head. I can’t hear myself talk.”

Dimmie ceased drumming and ran off to swing.

“Of course I know you don’t have neighbors like in small towns,” Nannie

pursued, speaking to Lucy again, “but I don’t mean people like the

Hamiltons. I meant your social circle. Don’t you know any smart people?”

“I think the Hamiltons are very nice,” said Lucy slowly. “We’re very

small potatoes here, Mamma.”

“Well, at home children of the first families move in the best society,

even if they are poor.”

“We don’t belong to the first families.” As Lucy talked she was pulling

weeds from among some clumps of jonquils.

“Well, _you_ certainly do, and John has told me that his father is a

distinguished clergyman, and his mother is one of the Montgomerys of

Virginia.”

“We only know a few people and those slightly,” explained Lucy, still

intent on her task. “We don’t go out much and when we do we only go to

a theatre or concert with Jim.”

“That’s just it, Lucy! You make no attempt to get out into the world.

All these years you’ve done nothing at all. If you’d started at once,

by now you would be at least on the outskirts of good society, and as

fast as John made more money you could get into more select things.

It’s a woman’s duty to advance herself all she can.”

“We none of us care for society, Mamma, even if we could afford it.”

“‘We’--who do you mean by ‘we,’ Lucy?”

“Why John and Jim and me, of course,” replied Lucy with some surprise.

“That’s just it, Lucy! It’s Mr. Sprague who doesn’t like to have you

go out. John is as fond of society as anyone could be. I’ll tell

you candidly, I think you are making a great mistake in letting an

outsider----”

Lucy had paused in her weeding.

“I thought we had decided not to discuss Mr. Sprague,” she put in with

an approach to irritation.

“Oh, dear me! Now I’ve done it again! I declare, Lucy, you are

certainly abnormally sensitive on the subject of Mr. Sprague,” Nannie

complained, hastening on to prevent a reply, “but it’s certainly dull

never seeing _anybody_ from one day’s end to another. I don’t mean

for myself. It makes no difference about me. But for your own sake

you ought to go out occasionally, and have a few friends in once in a

while.”

Lucy returned to her jonquils.

“I expect it does seem rather quiet to you, Mamma. I’ve gotten so used

to it I don’t notice it. We’ll have to take in a theatre some evening

this week. I’ll have John get tickets.”

“You needn’t do it on my account, but I really think it would do you

good. You are stuck here in the house night and day. Doesn’t anyone

besides Mrs. Hamilton ever call on you?”

“Yes. At least a number did call, but I’m not very good at keeping up

formal acquaintances, and most of them have stopped. Miss Storms used

to come here often, but she’s so busy, and I’ve gotten into the habit

of dropping in on her when I go down----”

“Lucy, I should think you’d have at least consideration enough not to

mention that woman in my presence!” “Well, Mamma, we won’t discuss her

either then,” responded Lucy quietly.

“Well, of course people will call on me, now that I’m here.”

“I doubt if anybody knows it except those in the next houses, and we

only know them by sight.”

“You oughtn’t to let yourself be forgotten like this, Lucy. If you

don’t push yourself a little nobody will notice you.”

Lucy straightened up from her work. She was thinking.

“I’ll invite a few women acquaintances out to meet you, Mamma. Maybe

you’ll like some of them, and it will give you a chance to get out a

little afterwards.”

“I don’t like to think of your going to trouble and expense for me.”

“It won’t be much trouble or expense.”

“You could have a little tea, couldn’t you? You make such darling

little cakes and sandwiches.”

“Al right, we’ll do it.”

“Now you’re sure it’s not too much for you, Lucy?”

“Quite sure,” affirmed Lucy, smiling.

“I’m sure it’s very nice of you. I’ll help decorate the table. I must

look through my trunks and fix up something to wear.”

Lucy bent over her plants.

* * * * *

John that night approved the plan for the tea.

“You can get some things from the caterer’s,” he suggested.

Lucy, however, counting the money on hand, decided to prepare the

refreshments herself. She asked two young girls who lived near to help

her serve, and the simple affair was conducted without a hitch.

Nannie’s toilette, made by herself, was the admiration of all, and

she referred to her home and friends in Russellville in a way that

made several of the ladies wish they might see her in such lovely

surroundings.

One of the guests was a Miss Powell, a voluptuous and very smartly

dressed brunette. She was evidently impressed with Nannie.

“I suppose you will find it hard to stay long away from Russellville,

even to be with your daughter,” remarked the new acquaintance. “Oh,

I hope to stay a _little_ while yet, Miss Powell,” returned Nannie

laughing. “It’s been so long since we could arrange it to be together

and we are both enjoying it,” she declared, becoming serious.

When the guests had gone, Lucy bravely attacked the huge pile of dishes

in the kitchen sink.

“Are there any sandwiches left, Lucy?” Mrs. Merwent inquired, entering

the room where Lucy was in the midst of her work.

Lucy indicated a plate which had been set aside with the idea that it

might contribute to the morrow’s luncheon.

“We’ve been in such a rush all day that I’ve hardly had time to eat

anything,” Nannie explained as she helped herself to the largest

sandwich. “I wish you would leave all those things until I get back. I

promised to meet John,” she went on as she selected her second sandwich.

“I must finish up and put dinner on,” Lucy informed her mother somewhat

irritably.

Mrs. Merwent halted in the kitchen doorway.

“I hope you aren’t displeased because I promised to meet John,” she

challenged resentfully.

“Oh, Mamma, please don’t start any argument now!” Lucy exclaimed.

Nannie gave her daughter a reproachful glance and turned away without

speaking, even the set of her shoulders as she left the room expressing

offended virtue.

She changed her frock and went to meet John’s train as she had been

in the habit of doing. When he alighted from the car it was not yet

dusk. Nannie stepped out of the crowd to greet him. They smiled at each

other, and a few moments later were walking back to the house together,

their arms linked.

“Keep step, Nannie.” John, amused by the shortness of her stride,

admonished her gaily. Mrs. Merwent looked up at him and they both

laughed.

“You have to work so hard, yet no matter how tired you are you are so

cheerful, John,” she said. “It ought to make Lucy and me ashamed of

ourselves.”

“What’s the matter with you and Lucy?” John asked, the cheerful note

dying out of his voice. Nannie gave him a quick side look.

“Why, nothing, John, except that Lucy is upset by her day, I suppose.

She’s irritable now and then, you know, but I certainly don’t hold it

against her.”

There was silence for a moment.

“John,” Nannie continued diffidently, “Lucy misunderstands so many

things----I’ve been wanting to ask you a favor and I didn’t dare do it!”

John glanced down at her.

“I’m not afraid of Lucy if you are, Nannie,” he protested, smiling, but

with his brows still fretfully corrugated.

“I want you to cash a check for me. It--it--Professor Walsh was the

only person I could go to for help, John, and he has been kind enough

to take charge of my financial affairs. I know so little of such

things. The check is from him,” she finished apologetically.

“I don’t see why you have to depend on Professor Walsh while I’m here!”

John answered, dropping her arm.

“But remember, John, I didn’t know until I got here----” She stopped

speaking, then added, “it is hard not to treasure it up against Lucy

when I think how long her siding with her father against me kept us

from knowing each other, John.”

John did not reply at once.

“I understand, Nannie,” he said after a minute.

“Here is the check. It’s already endorsed. I knew you would realize in

what a position I was placed--without a person in the world to call

on!” Mrs. Merwent’s voice broke.

John took the check and put it in his inside pocket.

“Lucy is not as charitable as she might be, John,” Nannie sighed,

taking his arm again.

They walked on in silence.

“I wish Professor Walsh would choke!” John ejaculated in a savage

undertone, as they entered the gate at their destination.

Nannie laughed and pressed his arm.

“You are a dear boy, John,” she whispered.

Lucy heard them come in laughing and talking. Dimmie did not run to

meet them. “Is dinner ready?” John called as they entered the dining

room.

“No,” responded Lucy.

“Whew!” he exclaimed with mock chagrin. “Got a grouch on, Lucy?”

Busied in placing on the table those of the dishes which she had washed

to use for the evening meal, she did not reply. Dimmie appeared behind

his mother.

“Hello, son! You sore too? Why didn’t you come with Nannie to meet me?”

John inquired breezily.

“I did want to,” acknowledged Dimmie, “but Nannie said I couldn’t.”

“Why, Jimmie!” Mrs. Merwent cried. “What an awful story!” She turned

to John. “Did you ever see such a child! Lucy had changed his clothes

after the ladies left and I only said to him that his mother was too

tired to change him again just to go out for a few moments.”

“What do you mean by telling an untruth, Dimmie?” demanded John.

Dimmie began to cry. Lucy took the child’s hand.

“I don’t see any untruthfulness,” she contended. “Mamma didn’t want him

and her exact wording doesn’t matter.”

“Why, Lucy,” said John reproachfully, “you surely don’t think your

mother would----”

Nannie laid her hand on his arm.

“Don’t, John,” she urged. “Lucy is tired, and it’s really only a

trifle. Let’s talk about something pleasant.”

“All right, but I must say you’re awfully good natured, Nannie!”

“I saw you carrying a roll of something. Did you get my music?” she

asked.

“Yes. It’s in the hall with my hat. Do you want to try it now?”

“Why, if there’s time before supper. Is there, Lucy?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, and John and Nannie started toward the living room.

That night when John came whistling to bed, he found Lucy by the window

staring out.

“Why, Lucy, aren’t you in bed yet?” he asked cheerfully. “John, I

wish you’d mow the lawn again,” she said, as though not hearing his

question. “It’s been over two weeks since you did and it looks ragged.

You used to keep it so beautifully.”

* * * * *

The next morning Lucy was dusting the dining room furniture. Mrs.

Merwent had just finished her usual tardy breakfast.

“Who was that woman with her hat stuck on the back of her head who came

so early yesterday?” she asked, pushing her chair away from the table.

Lucy frowned slightly.

“I suppose you mean Mrs. Hamilton. I never noticed how she wore her hat

but she was the one who came earliest. I told you she was our neighbor

when I introduced you. I like her the best of all those who were here,”

Lucy returned with antagonistic emphasis.

“Well, I could never like a woman who wore her hat like that,” Nannie

asserted. “Now that Miss Powell was the smartest one present at your

tea. The way she put her hat on had real dash to it. She studies

herself and dresses to bring out her points to the best advantage. I

think that it’s a woman’s duty to look as well as she can.”

“I never cared for Miss Powell,” said Lucy stubbornly. “She always

seemed so selfish to me.”

“Well, I thought she was nice,” persisted Nannie injuredly. “Her

brother is William J. Powell of Powell and Powell. John knows the firm.

She’s going to call on me soon and before the season’s over we’re going

to a matinée together. I tell you, Lucy, you’re making a mistake,

living by yourself. You owe it to John to make friends. A woman can

advance her husband in lots of ways if she’s clever about it.”

Lucy opened her lips to speak but restrained the impulse before she had

put her reply into words.

“Now one thing we could do to extend your acquaintance would be to have

nice teas on Sundays,” Nannie resumed. “Then you could have friends in,

and in time keep sort of open house Sunday evenings.” “We can’t afford

extra things, Mamma. Our means won’t allow it.”

“But, Lucy, it wouldn’t cost hardly anything. You are so clever about

making things. Why your biscuits and fricasseed chicken the other day

were the best things I ever tasted. Let’s try it next Sunday.”

“But whom shall we invite, Mamma?”

“Let’s invite your friend, Mr. Sprague,” suggested Nannie smiling.

“He’s not my friend any more than he is John’s, and not as much,” said

Lucy coldly.

“Why, Lucy, who said he was! I meant yours and John’s both. I only

wanted to please you. I declare, we can’t mention Mr. Sprague’s name

without your getting offended.”

Lucy changed the subject and did not refer to it again, but Nannie

brought up her suggestion when John came home, and he seconded the plan

heartily.

“Yes. Let’s have Jim out Sunday!” he cried. “He’s moping around these

days like he’d lost his grandmother. It’ll do him good.”

“All right,” suddenly agreed Lucy. “We will.”

Nannie seemed surprised at her ready acquiescence.

XV

Jim appeared punctually at the appointed hour on Sunday evening. It

had been a brilliant spring day. The late sunshine was now mellowed by

shadows that fell thick on the front of the Winter house and made it

look cool and inviting. As he came up the walk he saw Mrs. Merwent on

the front porch.

She wore an elaborate white _lingérie_ dress with a wide lavender sash.

She had just cut some lilacs from the bush under the dining room window

and as she mounted the steps she held them out for him to admire.

“I won’t offer you any more flowers, Mr. Sprague,” she began, referring

to the incident of the _boutonnière_ on the occasion of his first visit.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Merwent. They are certainly pretty,” Jim answered

without returning her smile.

“They would go well with your grey suit too,” she persisted teasingly.

Jim was very careful of his attire but shy of personalities of any

nature. He ignored Mrs. Merwent’s remark and turned to John who had

just emerged from the house.

“Hello, John,” he called. “Where’s Lucy?”

“In the kitchen as usual.” John laughed. “She seems to have adopted

cooking as her life work lately. It’s a good thing I have Nannie to

console me.”

Jim scrutinized John but did not speak. The three made their way to the

living room.

“Hello, Uncle Jim! The cookies are made in stars!” Dimmie cried,

rushing up to Jim and embracing his knees.

“Everything seems to be in gala array,” Jim observed, looking around

the room and noticing a bowl of violets and narcissi, and two or three

bunches of lilacs on the piano and mantel shelf.

“Nannie is a real artist at arranging flowers, Jim,” John declared

admiringly. Mrs. Merwent smiled.

“With John’s pictures the house hardly needs any other decoration,” she

began. “I think they’re----”

“Come and see Mamma, Uncle Jim,” Dimmie begged, tugging at Jim’s

trouser leg.

“Did she tell you to call him, Jimmie?” Nannie inquired quickly.

“Come on, Uncle Jim,” Dimmie begged, not heeding his grandmother.

“Answer Nannie, Dimmie,” commanded John sternly.

“She won’t say my name,” protested Dimmie.

“Do what I tell you. Answer Nannie.”

“Now, John, I’m sure Jimmie doesn’t mean to be rude.”

“Well, he’s got to learn not to be.”

“I want to go back to Mamma,” wailed Dimmie.

“Come along, kid,” Jim said, as though he were oblivious to the

discussion between John and Nannie. He lifted the child to his

shoulder and the two left the room.

“Of course he has to go to Lucy as soon as he gets here. There are few

men as big souled as you, John, who wouldn’t resent such devotion to

their wives.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Nannie.” John looked at Mrs. Merwent in a

worried, perplexed way.

“Of course you don’t, you great-hearted fellow! Suppose we go out on

the veranda until tea is ready.”

Not long after Lucy sent Dimmie to call them in.

Nannie and John praised the hot biscuit and fricasseed chicken. When

tea was over they returned to the living room leaving Jim and Lucy

still at the table.

“I’m going to sing the new song John brought me,” Nannie explained as

she went out.

“Let’s go too so we can hear better,” said Lucy to Jim.

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were unusually bright. She and Jim

seated themselves near the piano, Dimmie perched on Jim’s knee, while

John stood by Nannie and turned the music for her.

“I think it’s pretty. Don’t you, Jim?” Lucy commented when the last

notes died away.

“Very,” agreed Jim. “‘Pretty’ isn’t the word,” put in John. “It’s a

beautiful little gem. And how well Nannie sings it! Don’t you think her

expression is perfect?”

“You’ll make me blush if you don’t stop, John,” protested Nannie with

her silveriest laugh.

“Well, I want you to be appreciated,” insisted John warmly.

“Don’t you think we appreciate Mamma’s singing?” asked Lucy.

“You don’t either of you seem much moved by it,” answered John.

“Now, John,” interrupted Nannie soothingly, smiling up at him.

“Sing that other one, the one I got last week,” urged John. “Here it

is,” and he laid a piece of music open on the rack.

“Now wait a minute! Let me rest,” Nannie objected.

There was a pause.

“Let’s not sing any more now. You forget that perhaps everybody isn’t

as fond of music as you are, John,” she began after an awkward moment.

“Do sing it, please,” pleaded Lucy. “Jim and I both love music, and Jim

hasn’t heard it.”

“No, I’m not in very good voice tonight. It’s a mistake to sing when

you’re not feeling like it. You lose your reputation.”

“Please,” Lucy begged again.

“I should like very much to hear it,” Jim joined in.

“Thank you, but you’ll have to excuse me this time,” said Nannie.

Again silence descended on the little group.

“Singing makes me thirsty,” announced Nannie at length, rising and

moving toward the dining room.

“Let me get you a drink,” offered John, following her. “Don’t you want

some lemonade? I’ll get the ice for you.”

“Let’s you and I make lemonade for everybody,” proposed Nannie as they

entered the dining room.

“All right,” acceded John gleefully. Then, raising his voice, “You two

stay in there. Nannie and I are fixing a surprise for you.”

“Good,” said Jim grimly. For a moment Lucy sat looking at Jim without a

word. The voices of John and Nannie and the tinkling of glasses and ice

came faintly from the other room.

“You can’t make a square into a circle, Lucy,” Jim began very soberly,

breaking the silence.

Lucy’s lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears.

“Thank you for understanding, Jim,” she replied unsteadily.

Jim glanced at her.

“I’m going to smoke,” he decided sourly.

Lucy smiled.

“I wish you would, Jim. I must take Dimmie up to bed. I’ll be right

down.”

She led the child away, but in a short time rejoined Jim in the living

room. He was walking up and down. His pipe was still in his mouth but

it had gone out.

“I feel better,” she informed him. “Dimmie is the sweetest thing after

he gets into bed at night.”

“He’s a great kid,” Jim growled approvingly.

John appeared with one of Nannie’s dainty tea aprons around him,

carrying a tray on which were two glasses. Nannie followed him with the

pitcher of lemonade.

“Mrs. Winter.” She stopped in front of Lucy and made a curtsey. “Hold

the tray straight, John,” and she poured one of the glasses full.

Lucy took it.

“Do you think the mistress is pleased with us, John?” Mrs. Merwent

murmured, with mock humility.

“Give Jim some too, Mamma,” Lucy interrupted gently.

“Wait a minute! I’m going as fast as I can, Lucy!” Nannie exclaimed

with some irritation.

She led John over to Jim.

“Mr. Sprague,” she said with another curtsey.

“Aren’t you going to have any, Mrs. Merwent?” asked Jim.

“Oh, Mr. Sprague, the mistress wouldn’t like us to drink with the

gentlefolk,” she answered coquettishly. “We’ll have ours later in the

dining room.”

“That’s right, Mary. I’m glad to see you know your place. I’m strong

for the proprieties myself,” Jim responded, drinking the lemonade. “You

needn’t wait, either of you,” he added, returning the glass to the

tray. “When we want you we’ll ring for you.” Jim was gazing straight

into Nannie’s eyes and she tittered uneasily.

John laughed extravagantly.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “Come on, Nannie,” and he departed, followed

by Mrs. Merwent, who glanced back covertly at Jim as she passed him.

“Don’t you see, John!” Nannie exclaimed as soon as they reached the

dining room. “They had rather be alone. Lucy don’t want us.”

“It was only Jim’s way of joking. He didn’t mean anything,” John

explained soothingly, looking worried in spite of himself, as he

remembered Nannie’s enigmatic remark earlier in the evening.

“Yes, he did. You didn’t see the hostile look he gave me. Lucy and he

always manage to make us seem foolish!”

“Now, Nannie, you’re imagining,” said John soothingly. Lucy didn’t say

anything.

“That’s just it!” retorted Mrs. Merwent. “She never does but she always

sees to it that she and Mr. Sprague----” Nannie’s eyes and mouth opened

for, chancing to turn, she saw Lucy in the doorway.

“Lucy, you’re spying on us! I didn’t think you’d stoop to do a thing

like that!” she cried excitedly, recovering from her surprise.

“No, I wasn’t, Mamma, I came to ask you and John to come into the

sitting room,” replied Lucy, eyeing her mother squarely.

“I won’t stand it!” cried Nannie hysterically, and as she spoke she

almost ran into the hall, and seizing a scarf as she passed the hat and

umbrella stand, went out, slamming the front door behind her.

John stood undecided and uneasy by the dining table.

“Lucy, you oughtn’t to have come in like this without saying a

word----” he faltered.

“Why not?” demanded Lucy.

“Because--because--Nannie wasn’t saying anything,” he stammered. Lucy

turned to leave the room.

“Where do you think she’s gone?” he asked nervously.

“I don’t know,” replied Lucy.

“Shall I go and look for her?” he continued.

“I don’t know,” she repeated, and disappeared into the sitting room.

As Lucy entered the room where Jim was the front door clicked after

John. She seated herself in a chair near Jim.

“Don’t you think I’d better go home, Lucy?” queried Jim in a low voice.

“Please don’t go,” she begged, laying a hand on his sleeve. “Let’s

talk.”

“What about?” he asked with a grimace.

“Tell me about when you were a little boy, Jim. Don’t you wish we never

had to grow up!”

“No,” replied Jim. “But I’ll tell you about my first day in school,”

he added with a slight smile.

“All right.” Lucy smiled back at him and settled herself comfortably in

her chair.

She wore a dress of blue and white striped voile that was deeply open

at the throat, and Lucy’s throat was youthfully lovely. To Jim she

appeared more girlish than he had ever seen her.

“The teacher whipped a little girl and I bit him in the leg to make him

stop,” began Jim.

“Tell me all about it,” begged Lucy, drawing her chair closer.

* * * * *

It was nearly an hour before John and Nannie returned.

“What do you suppose is keeping John and Mrs. Merwent?” Jim had

repeated uncomfortably more than once before the time had elapsed.

“I don’t know, Jim. Go on with what you were telling,” Lucy always

answered.

Jim had frowned but resumed his narrative.

All the while Lucy showed no perturbation whatever at the continued

absence of her mother and husband. Jim told story after story of his

boyhood experiences, she asking questions and adding comments at which

they both laughed. When John and Mrs. Merwent entered the house they

came through the hall straight into the living room.

“We’ve been for a walk,” John announced breezily. “It’s a great night.

Did you people see the moonlight?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” said Jim.

Nannie’s eyes showed traces of tears and her voice was subdued.

“You two look cosy in here,” she remarked as if in search of something

to say.

“We have been,” Lucy told her.

“Well, I must go.” Jim rose.

“Hadn’t you better stay till morning?” John suggested.

“No.”

Lucy was silent.

After good nights were exchanged Jim left the house.

“I’m going to bed.” Nannie did not speak to any one in particular.

“Good night,” responded John and Lucy, and Mrs. Merwent ascended the

stairs.

“I could hardly get her to come back,” John told Lucy after they had

gone to their room. “She’s so sensitive, Lucy. She talked about the way

you felt toward her. She doesn’t think you have ever gotten over your

old hard feelings.”

“It wasn’t _my_ hard feelings, John.” Lucy spoke in an emotionless tone.

“Now, Lucy,” John remonstrated, “anyone would think that you and I were

perfect and nobody but Nannie was ever to blame for anything.” Lucy was

silent and he went on. “She was so upset she talked about going home

and marrying that Professor Walsh. I must say I think things are pretty

bad when your own mother feels as though she was so little at home in

her daughter’s house that she has to turn to a man like that----” He

stopped.

“It’s your house, too, John,” put in Lucy, her lip quivering.

“Well, heaven knows, I don’t want to run her out of it!” he answered

pettishly.

Lucy lay down on the bed, her face turned away from him. No more words

passed between them and soon John, at least, was sleeping.

XVI

The morning following Jim’s visit it was raining. Dismal little rivers

trickled along the eaves of the houses and Dimmie, kneeling in an arm

chair by the dining room window, flattened his nose against the glass

and regarded disconsolately the damp length of the rope swing that

trailed from the elm tree. It swayed gently in the wind and its motion

suggested many tantalizing possibilities to the small prisoner.

“Don’t mash your nose like that! You’ll get it all out of shape,”

Nannie called to him, She had been eating her breakfast in mournful

solitude. It was late and John had long ago gone to catch his train and

Lucy was busy in the kitchen.

“Are you still angry with me, Lucy?” Mrs. Merwent questioned when Lucy

came into the room for a moment.

“No,” said Lucy in a matter-of-fact voice. “I’m going shopping this

afternoon if it clears off. Don’t you want to go? Mrs. Hamilton is

going to look after Dimmie.”

“I suppose you despise me too much to be angry,” persisted Nannie.

“Let’s think of something else, Mamma.”

“How can I think of anything else when the only person I have in the

world feels hard towards me?”

“But I don’t feel hard toward you, Mamma.”

“No! You can take a lofty attitude, Lucy. I was the one who was put in

a humiliating position.”

“I didn’t suppose you were saying nasty and untrue things behind my

back, Mamma, or I wouldn’t have come into the dining room.”

“You are so unjust, Lucy!” Nannie was in tears now. “You overhear a

playful and joking word or two and immediately jump to the conclusion

that I was backbiting you. Anybody can take a single phrase without the

context and twist it into something mean.” “I heard plenty, Mamma, to

know just the sort of situation you were trying to create. But nothing

is gained by talking about what’s past, so let’s try and forget it.”

“Oh, Lucy, I don’t see how you can be so cruel! There is absolutely no

generous spirit in you. I have overlooked everything and never refer to

it.”

“I didn’t refer to this, Mamma.”

Nannie sobbed violently.

“I see that you will never, never forgive me, Lucy.”

“I have forgiven you, Mamma.”

“Well, you wouldn’t say so. You would rather let me suffer.”

“No, Mamma. I don’t want you to suffer. It is I who have suffered

about this matter.”

“That sounds a lot like you had forgiven me.”

“Well, I have,” repeated Lucy in a gentler tone.

Mrs. Merwent went to her daughter and put her arms around Lucy’s neck.

“Kiss me, Lucy,” she implored. “I can’t bear to have you not love me

and respect me. I hate to be forgiven by my own child!”

Lucy softened suddenly and returned Nannie’s kiss, but without speaking.

* * * * *

The sky cleared later in the day, and when Dimmie was dispatched to

Mrs. Hamilton’s house with a note Lucy and Nannie took the train to the

city.

Mrs. Merwent wore a black tailored suit and a black and white hat. Her

heavily figured veil was very becoming.

As they were leaving the station Miss Storms in her car called out:

“Lucy! Are you going to give me the dead cut, dear child? How are you?”

and she descended from the automobile.

“You’re looking fagged, dear,” she observed as she kissed Lucy. Then

her eye caught Nannie’s.

“This is my mother, Mrs. Merwent, Miss Storms,” Lucy explained.

Nannie bowed stiffly, ignoring Miss Storms’ smile and half extended

hand. Lucy showed that she was disturbed. Miss Storms stood very

straight, drew herself up to her tallest, and kept one hand on the open

door of her limousine.

“How are John and dear little Dimmie?” she inquired. “And Jim Sprague

too? I haven’t seen him for a month.”

“Oh, we’re all well, thank you,” replied Lucy. “I would have been in to

see you but I’ve been very busy since Mamma came.”

“I can imagine so.” Miss Storms smiled impersonally. “I’m sure you are

enjoying your mother’s visit.” Then, including Nannie, “How do you like

Chicago, Mrs. Merwent?”

“Very much indeed,” stated Nannie with great dignity.

“By the way, Lucy, I’ve been wanting to see you, but I’ll call you up

on the ’phone in a day or two.” Miss Storms then spoke in a general

tone. “Can I take you two anywhere?”

“No, thank you,” answered Lucy.

“Well, good-bye, dear. Don’t work too hard,” and she pinched Lucy’s

cheek. Again in the impersonal tone she had used a moment before,

“Good-bye, Mrs. Merwent,” and Miss Storms returned to her seat in the

car and snapped the door to, scarcely waiting to hear Nannie’s response.

As the machine whirred away Miss Storms waved her hand to Lucy, who

waved back with a smile.

“Shall we walk, Mamma, or had you rather take a street car?” asked Lucy.

“Lucy,” said Nannie, her voice trembling, “I shouldn’t think you’d have

the face to introduce that woman to me!”

“What could I do, Mamma?” retorted Lucy.

“You could have ignored her. I should think that your mother would come

before a mere acquaintance.”

“But, Mamma, she’s not a mere acquaintance.”

“Well, I should think a woman who was your mother’s enemy would hardly

be the one to make an intimate of.”

“She’s been very good to me, Mamma.”

“Of course that excuses all she has done to me, Lucy. All you know is

that she hates me and that is sufficient to make you idolize her.”

“But, Mamma, I know lots about her. She is one of Papa’s friends

and----”

“Yes! That’s it! Anybody _he_ picks up on the street is good enough for

you. Don’t think of _me_ or my feelings, I beg of you, Lucy. Anybody,

no matter what her reputation----”

“Mamma, Miss Storms is one of the most distinguished women in the

United States. Here in Chicago her influence is greater than almost any

man’s in public life. The whole city is proud of her.”

“How do _you_ know all this?”

“Why you only have to read the newspapers. Everybody knows it.”

“Is she rich, Lucy?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I think she must be, she gives so much away.”

“Was that her machine?”

“Why, yes. She has an electric too, and her flat is the most beautiful

thing you ever saw.”

“She certainly dresses elegantly,” admitted Nannie, “doesn’t she!”

“Yes,” agreed Lucy.

“Does she entertain much?”

“No, Mamma. She’s too busy.”

“I suppose she doesn’t go into society, then?” pursued Nannie

interrogatively.

“Why, yes indeed, Mamma. Her name is always among those who were at the

biggest functions. The McCullochs, the Porters, the Flemwells, and all

the other social leaders try to get her. I’ve seen the invitations.

Mrs. Porter used to come to the flat to persuade her to give up a board

meeting of some committee, to help receive at her things.”

“She has a very aristocratic manner,” acknowledged Nannie. “Shall we

take a car?”

“All right,” agreed Lucy. In a few minutes the two were in the big

department store.

“Let’s go to a matinée,” suggested Nannie when they had made their

purchases. “We’ll be just in time if we hurry through our lunch.”

“Let’s see if we’ve money enough for the tickets,” considered Lucy,

searching through her purse. “All right,” she decided. “What play do

you want to see?”

“Why it makes no difference to me, Lucy. You choose.” “Nazimova is

playing _Hedda Gabler_ at the Standard. This is the end of the season

and just about our last chance,” said Lucy. “I’ve been wanting to see

the play ever since I read it at Miss Storms’. Shall we go there?”

“Aren’t there any musical comedies playing now?” inquired Nannie. “They

have such beautiful costumes in them.”

“We can see as we are eating,” planned Lucy, leading the way into a

small restaurant and tea room. “We’ll look at a paper.”

“What a cheap looking place!” commented Mrs. Merwent, staring around

as they sat down.

“If we go to a dear one we’ll have to give up the matinée,” retorted

Lucy rather wearily.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that I mind,” returned Nannie quickly. “You always

try to twist everything I say into something mean, Lucy,” she added

petulantly.

“Mamma, please let’s not quarrel again,” pleaded Lucy. “I’m so tired.”

“I’m sure _I’ve_ not been trying to quarrel. I’ve been as nice as I

knew how to be all day. You’re the one who always seems to want to

quarrel.”

The waitress came up with a menu.

Lucy scrutinized her mother in silence. Then, turning to the waitress

who had come back to the table, she gave an order and asked for a

morning paper.

Nannie preserved an injured silence until the food was placed before

her, but she could not resist its expansive effect.

Lucy picked up the paper and scanned it.

“There are no musical comedies playing near here, Mamma,” she

announced. “The only other theatre near enough is giving a revival of

_As You Like It_. The rest are too far away for us to get there before

the curtain goes up.”

“Well, let’s see Nazimova then,” conceded Mrs. Merwent. “These

sandwiches are so good I could eat a dozen!”

Lucy had ended her meal.

“We’ll be late if you do!” she said warningly. “It’s half past one.”

“Wait a minute, Lucy. You hurry me so I hardly know what I’m eating,”

Nannie protested. Only the highest priced seats were left when they

reached the theatre, and, by the time they were in their places, the

curtain had risen and the first act was in progress.

“If I’d known we were going to be late I wouldn’t have come,” grumbled

Nannie. “I hate to come in after a piece is started. It’s so hard to

get the threads of the plot.”

During the progress of the play Mrs. Merwent insisted on whispering

personal remarks regarding the actors and actresses, until Lucy could

no longer endure it with equanimity.

“Please, Mamma, do wait till after the act is over!” she requested

irritably.

“I never saw any one in my life who was so hard to get along with as

you,” murmured Nannie in a savage undertone. After this she preserved

an injured silence, not speaking again until they had reached home.

Here Lucy changed into her house dress and apron and began dinner, and

Nannie went to her room.

At the end of an hour Mrs. Merwent appeared in a pretty light green

demi-toilette. On Dimmie’s return from the Hamiltons’ Lucy had changed

his clothes and he too was spotless.

As John’s step was heard, Nannie ran to the door. Dimmie followed

rather timidly. When John entered the dining room it was with one hand

on Nannie’s arm, while Dimmie clung to his other hand.

“How’s everybody?” John asked. “You look like a débutante, Nannie.”

“Everybody’s well,” she replied. “We’ve been to a matinée.”

“I didn’t go,” volunteered Dimmie. “I stayed with Mrs. Hamilton.”

At this juncture Lucy came in with a dish from the kitchen.

“_You_ look like you’d been to a funeral,” said John, regarding her.

“What’s the matter?”

“I have a slight headache, but it’s nothing. Let’s have dinner.”

When they were seated at the table she began to talk with determined

agreeableness.

“We went to see Nazimova as Hedda Gabler. She’s wonderful.” “And that

dress she wore in the last act!” interrupted Nannie. “Did you get a

good look at it, Lucy? It was black silk with tiny pink rosebuds.”

“But didn’t you think her portrayal of Hedda was splendid?” persisted

Lucy.

“I didn’t like the piece,” returned Mrs. Merwent. “I don’t enjoy sad

things.”

“She certainly has a marvellous temperament. Don’t you think so, John?”

pursued Lucy.

“Yes. I admired her as Nora very much.”

“She’s a brunette,” observed Nannie. “Now what are you laughing at,

Lucy? You ridicule everything I say! I’m sure I don’t see anything

funny in what I said. And John is laughing too!”

“We weren’t ridiculing you, Mamma,” said Lucy.

“No! I think it was cute!” supplemented John warmly. “I like naïveté.

People are generally so sophisticated.”