"You might, very easily."
"I couldn't; I do care what you think of me. Probably what I meant was
that I--dare say things to you; that I've a sort of instinct that I can
come to you in an emergency----"
"In other words, that I'll stand anything from you?" she said, smiling.
"I don't know about that, my friend."
He looked at her curiously. "I believe you'll stand a good deal from
me--and still like me. I, somehow, count on it."
She met his gaze directly, unsmiling now.
"A hair divides my sentiments concerning you," she said. "Extremes lie
on either side."
"Extremes?"
"I think so. It would take very little to fix definitely my opinion of
you."
Sobered, but still curious, he sat his saddle more firmly while the
horses paced forward, shoulder against shoulder, along the forest road.
"I didn't suppose you had any very violent opinions concerning me one
way or another," he said lightly.
"I haven't--yet."
"Or would ever develop them, either," he added, laughing.
"I probably never shall."
He said, after another silence: "What was it about a hair dividing your
sentiments, and that extremes lay on either side?"
"I said that, Jim."
"Extremes of what?"
"Dislike--friendship--I suppose.... I'm a person addicted to extremes."
"Hatred is one extreme. Did you mean that, Japonette?"
"It is conceivable, fair sir."
"And--the other extreme?"
"Which?"
"The opposite extreme to hate.... Is that conceivable, too?"
"Do you mean love?" she asked coolly.
"Yes, love, for example."
"Well, for example, ask yourself how likely I am to entertain that
sentimental extreme in your regard."
"Oh," he said; "then all you threaten me with is hatred!"
"Absolutely all, cousin James."
"Hobson's choice for mine. No matter how agreeable I may be, placid
friendship is my only reward; and if I'm not agreeable, hatred. Is that
it?"
"Are you not satisfied?" she asked, lifting her prettily shaped eyes.
He made no reply.
Yet, he had been satisfied, except at intervals during the first flush
of their unconventional friendship, when she was still a fascinating
novelty to him, when the charming memory of the surprise was still
vivid.
But since then, recently in fact, other matters, somehow, had
intervened--the dawning distaste for his own position, the apparent
absence of any future prospect, the gradual conviction that he had no
real capacity for decently earning a living, no ability--perhaps no
character.
His silence seemed to be her answer now; she spurred forward, accepting
it. He put his horse to a canter, to a gallop, and they raced away
through the woods until they came in sight of the others. Colonel
Curmew joined her; Edgerton rode forward with Christine Rivett.
That afternoon there was some tennis played; a number of commonplace and
very rich people departed, leaving as residue the original house party
which Edgerton and his cousins had found there on their arrival, and who
now knew one another well enough to separate into sympathetic groups.
Thus, Judge Wicklow, Mrs. Rivett, and Mrs. Lorrimore played Chinese Kahn
under the terrace awning; Colonel Follis Curmew, who had been rash
enough to discard his coat and reveal an unlooked-for excess of abdomen,
played tennis with Silvette against Jack Rivett and Mrs. Wemyss; Mr.
Rivett and Mr. Snaith indulged in laborious clock golf and talked of
oil; and Christine and Edgerton, down by the river's edge, continued a
conversation begun the evening previous, and which was near enough to
meaning something to stimulate their attention.
From his clock golf on the lawn above, Mr. Rivett turned his convex
glasses on them occasionally; from one card table on the terrace, her
mother, drawing the white wool shawl closer around her slight shoulders,
watched her daughter from moment to moment.
Later, the game ended, Mrs. Lorrimore victorious, and his honor
unusually peevish. Mrs. Rivett rose and, advancing to the terrace edge,
gazed down at the river bank, where her daughter and Edgerton still sat
in the floating canoe, holding it inshore by grasping willow branches
overhead.
For a few moments the little old lady watched them, one hand gathering
the fleece shawl over the magnificent sapphire at her breast; then she
turned quietly away into the house, wandering through it from one
gorgeous room to another, until at last she came to the high organ.
Here her husband found her in the semi-dusk, sitting motionless and
silent under the tall pipes, hands folded in her lap.
"Well, mother?" he said in a voice which nobody else ever had the
privilege of listening to.
She lifted her head, smiled, and laid one hand over his as he seated
himself beside her in the demi-twilight.
"Are you happy?" he asked, patting the worn fingers.
"Yes, Jacob--when you and the children are."
"Does that damn Sims bother you?"
No, the housekeeper did not bother her; neither did Noonan, general
superintendent.
"Are you sure you are feeling perfectly well?"
"Yes, dear."
"And you are enjoying the people?"
"Yes.... The Tennant girls are so kind to me."
"Why the devil shouldn't they be?" he said harshly. "They never met a
better woman!"
"Jacob, dear, don't speak that way."
"Well, then--don't be so eternally surprised if people are nice to you,
mother. They'd better be!"
She smiled. "I am a rather plain and unattractive old woman to young
people--to most people. I have little to say, but Diana Tennant and her
sister are very sweet to me. Poor, motherless girls! I wonder--it
troubles me--sometimes--a great deal----"
"What?" he asked grimly.
"Their being so entirely alone, and so unusually attractive.... And
they're _good_ girls, Jacob."
"I assume that they are," he said dryly.
"They _are_; a woman knows at once.... They've made everybody--all our
guests--enjoy their visits so much. Don't you think so?"
"They've earned their salaries.... People seem to like 'em.... I'm
wondering how much Jack likes the younger one--Silvette."
"Have _you_ thought so, too?"
"I'm asking you, Sarah."
There was a silence; then she said timidly:
"Do you know anything more about them?"
"They're rather learned," he said grimly. "One, I understand, is
entitled to practice medicine--the other law.... They scarcely look
it."
"Those babies!"
"Certainly. Snaith was at Keno on business last winter; he heard of 'em
there. Also--I've inquired."
"You have learned nothing to their discredit, I am sure," she said
confidently.
"No; as the fast world wags, they're respectable enough----"
"Fast! Jacob!"
"Oh, Sarah, I didn't mean it in any sinister sense.... They're merely
rather gay--into everything everywhere--dancing all night, riding,
motoring all over the shop.... They're pretty girls, and good ones, too,
I guess.... But the world has gone by us, mother. It's developed
speed. That's what I mean by fast."
"If it were not for the children's sake, I would be glad to be left
behind," she said, smiling.
"So would I. Damn this gim-crack fol-de-rol!"
"Jacob!"
"Excuse me.... We'll do what we ought to; the children want New York,
and I'm going to give it to them if I can.... So I guess you'd better
caution Jack about that girl."
"About Miss Tennant?"
"Silvette; yes. Tell him to keep away."
"But she is Mr. Edgerton's cousin."
"It's too far off to count; besides, it's not a good enough gamble. As
far as that goes, I'm not satisfied that Jim Edgerton is good enough."
"Oh, Jacob! You _said_----"
"If I'd stuck to all I've said, you'd still be doing the family cooking,
dear. Jim Edgerton does, or did, go everywhere in New York.... I
wonder how far he could take our daughter with him? ... Wait, Sarah--I'm
not reflecting on Christine; I'm only speculating. How do I know about
the customs and habits of the New York fauna? I want to go slow. I
don't care how little money he has, or even how much he might have had;
_I'll_ do that part. But, first, I want to know exactly where he can
take Christine. The knot hole may be too big for her."
"They sent you a report from New York, dear. You have a full list of
all his relatives."
"I know--I know. If he had none, I wouldn't be afraid. It's a man's
relatives who act nasty, not his friends.... Does Christine seem to
like him?"
"The child is frankly devoted to him.... I don't know if it means
anything more than friendship. Christine is a strange girl. There was
young Inwood----"
"Everybody's beau! Glad she shipped him.... But to return to
Jack--what's your opinion?"
"I don't know. He is with Silvette so much; he is such a dear boy----"
"Tell him plainly we don't want her. I like her myself, but there's
better material.... Other things aside, I don't want my boy to marry a
girl who plays cards the way she does."
"Jacob! You don't mean----"
"No, no! She's as square as a die; but she wins too much, stakes too
much--smokes too much, drinks too many cocktails--she and her sister,
too. Why, they've won steadily at cards from the beginning. They've a
genius for it. _I_ never saw such playing. Poor cards don't worry
them; and they never take the shadow of advantage, never whine, never
ask questions; there's never an impatient word, a look of protest--and
the judge and the colonel are beasts to play with!--and if there ever
seems to be the slightest doubt or indication of a dispute over any
point, those girls instantly concede it--cheerfully, too! They're
clean-cut sports--thoroughbred.... But, by God! I don't want Jack to
marry a gambler!"
He stood up, his glasses glistening, his little burned eyes fixed on
space.
"No," he said; "I've done all the gambling that will be done in this
family. I'll do a little more--enough to put the bits on one or two men
in New York whose wives could make it easy for my children, if they
cared to. Then I'm done, mother."
She bent her head, and her lips moved.
"What?" he said, hand to his ear.
"I was only thinking, Jacob, that I would be happy when you have
finished with--business."
"Don't worry, dear." He put one arm around her--a thin arm in its loose
coat sleeve, thin as a tempered steel rod. She laid her faded face
against it, comforted by its inflexibility.
"Some day," she said, "when the children are happy--with their
families----"
"Yes, yes," he nodded; "a smaller house for you and me--just a little
one." He smiled; few people ever had seen him smile. "Just a little
house for two little old people," he said; "only one horse to take us
about, one servant to feed us--eh, Sarah?"
She looked around her, smiling vaguely at the magnificence.
"I like to dust," she said, coloring up prettily, "and to make jelly....
I've wanted to a long while."
"You shall do it; I swear you shall. By God! I'll be glad when that
chef is fired!"
"You know, Jacob," she said timidly, "with knitting and dusting and--and
a little kitchen work--and you--the day passes very nicely."
"Some day you'll make some more of those crullers!" he predicted; "mark
my words!"
"And the cinnamon shells," she added, slightly excited.
"Oh, Lord! Why can't that fool of a chef make 'em!" he burst out.
"Well, I'll wait.... It gives us something more to wait for, doesn't
it?"
He laughed. Only his wife had ever heard the dry cackle which was his
manifestation of mirth.
Contented, she lifted her face, and he kissed her.
He went to New York that evening to remain over Wednesday as usual.
In the small company remaining at Adriutha a certain intimacy had
developed, enough to make any effort at entertainment superfluous.
There was now a decided inclination to laziness in the evening, and a
preference for the billiard room and its easy informality.
It was a big room with open fires and the inevitable trophies of
somebody else's chase--the heads of big game mounted, staring at nothing
out of their glass eyes; weapons of a vanished age on the oaken
wainscoting, modern guns in racks as well as cues, and leather lounges
and seats and wide-armed chairs everywhere.
Hither Mrs. Rivett now brought her embroidery or knitting; and around
her, within a radius more or less distant, the others gathered or
circled in temporary orbits, and games were played and music made and
youth flirted and age gossiped much as they did when she was a young
girl in Mills Corners, and her husband taught in the red schoolhouse
next door.
Sometimes Diana came and sat beside her and knitted a tie destined, she
admitted, for nobody in particular; sometimes Edgerton drew his chair
beside hers and told her of student life in Paris--watching always for
her delightfully timid smile, the shy laugh that she sometimes ventured,
the curiously pretty flush that came at times into her cheeks, making
them and the faded eyes almost beautiful.
Once or twice it happened that Christine settled herself on a footstool
on the other side of her mother to listen, too; and the little old lady
experienced a furtive content with the situation as Edgerton and her
daughter exchanged pleasantries and volleys of gay badinage across her
knitting.
But listen as demurely as she might, feign inattention and
unconsciousness as she might, she could detect in neither her daughter
nor in Edgerton any hint of a subtler understanding, any omen of
anything for the future beyond a frank camaraderie and the undisguised
pleasure in it.
And she sighed sometimes--not understanding, not venturing even to admit
to herself the desire that was beginning to establish itself in her
gentle breast.
As for Edgerton and Christine, they were now on terms of intimacy almost
careless. With Diana he was different.
The day of his bitter outbreak when riding with Diana, Edgerton,
terribly ashamed of himself, had gone once more to her and admitted that
her rebuke was a just one; that he was an ungrateful dog, disloyal to
the hand that fed him, and not worthy of Diana's regard.
And the girl had forgiven him very sweetly, not with much enthusiasm,
for his rapidly advancing intimacy with Christine had begun to perplex
her, nor could she exactly understand his apparently happy acquiescence
in conditions lately so irritating.
Not that he neglected her; in his amiable way he was charming to her and
to Silvette; was often with them; drove, rode, walked with them; and
often, when the opportunity happened, met them in family conclave to
discuss future prospects for business.
But his intimacy with Christine advanced very swiftly; so rapidly that
Diana became fully aware of it only when it was already in complete
flower.... And she wondered a little--and, looking at the girl,
wondered less. Also, knowing Edgerton less than she supposed she did,
the wonder as to his motive began to trouble her.
Whatever Diana really thought of Edgerton, she did not think him
unusually strong in character; was not absolutely convinced of his
sincerity--was not any too sure of his motives. Yet, to doubt him always
hurt her, and to question his sincerity now made her ashamed of herself.
But Christine Rivett was very, very rich, and the only thing she did not
have was a name like Edgerton's to insure her future for all time.
Thinking of this, the girl was ashamed to think it, and put it
resolutely from her mind; but it returned at intervals, even when he was
most charming to her sister and herself.
Meanwhile a silent but decisive little duel had been fought in her
vicinity, and Jack Rivett definitely replaced Colonel Follis Curmew at
Silvette's side; and that warrior, being unfamiliar with the fortunes of
war, first sulked, then began to appear frequently in Diana's
vicinity--sending out, as it were, pickets of observation and foraging
parties, and finally appearing in superb force with warlike intentions
not to be misunderstood, although Diana contrived entirely to
misunderstand them.
"Do you know," she said to Silvette one night as they were preparing for
bed, "I believe that he is actually falling in love with me."
He was; but, nevertheless, Diana entirely misunderstood him.
And so the early summer days passed at Adriutha, and Edgerton, always
prone to accommodate himself to circumstances, found it easier and
easier to keep his pact with Mr. Rivett.
Perhaps he was too easily colored by his surroundings; for this place
and these people--toward whom, under other circumstances, his instinct
would have been antagonistic--were becoming very agreeable to him, and
he had handy no standards of comparison from his own world--merely
memories, which are always inadequate.
He never became entirely reconciled to the architecture of Adriutha, but
the interior magnificence disturbed him less and less; besides, he had
very little real love for decoration, and knew little about its
harmonies. All the art that was in him consisted in a cleverness and
facility for expressing what was actually of slight importance.
So he became amiably reconciled to his surroundings, to his own
position. Probably the lack of responsibility and the pleasant idleness
had much to do with it.
Still, he really liked Jack Rivett and Christine. In prosperous days
the chances would have been against his ever giving himself the
opportunity of liking them. But chance had taken charge of his career
for the moment; he had met them, and liked them--was inclined to like
Rivett senior, too, and began to experience a certain tenderness toward
his frail little hostess--something he had never noticed in himself
since his mother's death many years ago.
For the others he had no particular feelings. He knew, without troubling
himself to think about it, that Colonel Curmew was what his own friends
would call a bounder; and the remaining guests were of no greater
importance to him than strangers inclined to be civil.
As for Silvette and Diana, they were not only kindred, and so to be
automatically cherished, but they also were very charming and delightful
young girls; and Diana aroused his curiosity.
During the first days of their acquaintance, the circumstances of his
encounter with Diana had inclined him to sentiment. Now that had been
merged into a nice friendship--a friendship so frank and pleasant that,
in his idea, it permitted privileges of an intimacy which at first
perplexed and disturbed Diana, and which, presently, she began to
silently resent without exactly knowing why.
What her ideas concerning Edgerton really were, she herself had not
entirely decided. She had been as vividly conscious of the charm of
their first encounter as had he; being a woman, she still remembered it
vividly, whereas, with him, it had dissolved into the mistiest of
dream-tinted memories--charming, but vague.
Too, she remembered his attitude toward her in those first three days in
the studio--the golden magic of them, the little roof garden, the
starlings, the sunset beyond the river. Under such circumstances, the
things men say and look, men usually forget; but women remember longer.
Then she remembered, too, the first days of their arrival at
Adriutha.... There was nothing in particular to recall--a note or two
from her to him, from him to her.... Perhaps a something in his voice
and eyes which, somehow, had died out since.... Yet, _had_ it been
anything in particular? And, granting that it had, what had she done to
encourage it?
She had fallen into the habit of thinking about these things in her
bedroom while preparing for the night. She often thought, too, about
this new friendship of his for Christine Rivett. It perplexed her,
saddened, irritated her by turns, and it distressed her to even question
his motives.
But Silvette said one evening, after they had undressed and the maid had
left:
"Wouldn't it be odd if Jim married that girl?"
[Illustration: "'Wouldn't it be odd if Jim married that girl?'"]
"Married--_her_?" repeated Diana, startled out of a reverie not entirely
happy.
"He's becoming very attentive to her. She is pretty, of course,"
Silvette smiled.
"Why shouldn't he marry her if he finds that he cares for her?" asked
Diana with some heat.
"I was merely surprised that he should care for her in that way. She is
not his sort."
"Sort! sort! What does that matter!" said Diana hotly. "It never
stopped a thoroughbred from mating. He can afford to love where he
chooses, I fancy."
"Or marry what he chooses, anyway."
"Silvie! Do you imagine he'd do a thing like that--not loving her!"
"I don't know," said Silvette coolly; "he's a dear boy, and nice to us,
but I don't credit him with superhuman qualities.... And _she_ inherits
millions."
"It isn't in him to do it.... And there are plenty of his own sort who
would be glad enough----"
"Why do you become so animated, Di? Have you noticed any particular
strength of character in Jim Edgerton?"
"Yes.... He is as true as steel, underneath the amiable exterior of a
drifter and dilettante.... He has ideals.... I am not one of them--I
know that."
"Do you care particularly?"
"No.... I don't know whether I do or not.... I never seem to know what
to say to him these days. We talk together like two men. I'd like to
know what he thinks about me--the kind of woman I am, compared to others
in his own set.... I'd like to know what he thinks about my gambling
and cocktails and cigarettes, which you and I have got to stop! What he
_really_ thinks of our position in this house--in the world! I don't
believe he thinks much of it."
"Does his position differ from ours?" asked Silvette gently; "why are
you so excited, little sister?"
"I'm not excited.... Things--various matters have occurred to
me--recently; and I've made up my mind that I don't like to see him
here. This is no place for him, no position. He is capable of doing
better things, more important things, nobler things. He slips into a
life like this too easily; he is too easily reconciled, too quickly
content."
Silvette seated herself on a rocking chair and, leaning back, sat
rocking and inspecting her sister, who stood by the bed, her brown locks
clustering against her cheeks.
"There _is_ something to Jim," she insisted. "He _can_ do
things--respectable, dignified things--and make his living. It
humiliates me to see him here in such a capacity----"
"As ours?" added Silvette, smiling.
"Yes, as ours. He is a man, and it does not become him."
"We are respectively physician and lawyer, but our talents and fortunes
lie in this profession."
Diana flushed. "If we were anything except the frivolous, ease-loving,
and pleasure-craving little beasts that we are, we wouldn't be here."
"No; we'd starve, respectably, in our several offices. Do you want Jim
to starve?"
"I don't know," said Diana, almost fiercely; "I'd rather see him in
want, I think, than doing this kind of thing."
"I don't believe he will do it very long--on a salary," laughed
Silvette. "Christine evidently adores him."
Diana was silent; her sister laughed, and rose, putting one arm around
her.
"Don't be sentimental over Jim Edgerton," she said; "he is a
lightweight, Di."
"You are wrong; and I am not sentimental."
"Well, I believe you did get over it; but you're a loyal and generous
little thing, Di, and you're worrying over a man who is entirely capable
of looking out for himself."
"That's what I want him to do."
"He's doing it, very gracefully. Later, with equal and fetching grace
he'll let some wealthy girl do it for him."
"That would be contemptible; he isn't."
"Now, does the world so consider an advantageous marriage, little
sister? Besides, that is exactly what we have planned for ourselves,
isn't it?"
"We? What are we, anyway, compared to a man who can count in the
world!" flashed out Diana, surprised at her own vehemence, aware that
her sister was even more astonished and chagrined.
"What on earth are you saying?" she exclaimed. "Are you in love with
that man?"
"No."
"One might infer as much."
"You may infer it if you choose."
"Di!"
"What?"
"Why do you speak to me that way?"
"Because--I don't--know."
She turned and moved toward the bed, encountered the soft, open arms of
her sister. They closed around her; she laid her head on Silvette's
shoulder.
"Darling! Little Di!" whispered Silvette in sorrowful consternation.
"Has this really happened to you?"
"I don't know--I don't know.... I am not happy; I don't understand....
At moments I cannot believe it.... He is not my ideal of a man; I am
stronger in many ways--I am wiser than he. He is only a boy,
Silvie--careless, ease loving, with nothing but smatterings--nothing but
the social experience of a man of his class behind him. Nothing real
has ever happened to him in life.... And, somehow, I know--I _know_ that
if it only did, he would become a man--a real man. I _know_ it; I can't
bear to see him waste his life--fall into easy ways of thinking--make no
effort.... I want him to strive; I want him to fight life.... He ought
to. The making of him is in a battle with circumstances. This life is
ruin to him--this house, these people, any people who will employ him in
such a capacity!"
She caught her breath, almost in a sob.
"I _have_ cared for him--a little--from the very first.... I am
not--fitted for him--in many ways."
"Di!"
"I am _not_! I care for him unselfishly. I don't know why I should,
but I do; and he ought not to marry me even if he--ever--wished to."
"You are talking wildly, darling! _You_--not good enough for _him_!
What a silly----"
"Not good enough, I tell you!" repeated the girl fiercely. "I care too
much for what he finds agreeable--all this ease and relaxation.... I
wish I were different. I wish I could arouse him; I'd do it. I'd do it
somehow--I'd do it now if I could----"
She caught her breath, stood perfectly motionless a moment, then
Silvette felt her tremble slightly.
After a while she lifted her head from her sister's shoulder.
"I _am_ going to do what I can for him," she said excitedly. "I am
going to see what can be done to arouse the man in him. All he needs is
the initial shock--a--a stinging one."
"What do you mean? If there was anything in him, the shock of the
firm's failure would have brought it out."
"It was not enough. It was only the loss of money! There are worse
things----"
"Di! What are you going to do?"
Suddenly the girl's face grew radiant.
"I know now," she said breathlessly.
"What?"
But Diana only kissed her sister, laughing, flushed, excited, and,
extending her arm, turned off the light, plunging the room and her
brilliant cheeks in darkness.
*CHAPTER VII*
*FLOS VENERIS*
Edgerton and Christine, ensconced in the corners of a window seat, and
partly visible through the leaded panes, were too deeply absorbed in
each other to be aware of the curious glances shot toward them from the
tennis court outside, where Silvette, Colonel Curmew, Mrs. Lorrimore,
and Jack Rivett were playing, while Diana, perched aloft with her
knitting in the umpire's seat, resolutely ignored the spectacle in the
window, which was plainer to her than to anybody else.
Perfectly oblivious to any extraneous interest they aroused, sitting
almost nose to nose and knee to knee in the deep recess, Christine and
Edgerton remained in close consultation, preoccupied, possibly
indifferent, to view or comment. Christine bent forward, and drew a
carnation through his buttonhole, saying:
"Anyway, you are a perfect dear, Jim Edgerton. Somehow or other, I
haven't any blushes for what I've taken so many weeks to tell you. I
never thought I could know anybody well enough to say such a thing to,
but you _are_ different; there's nobody like you, Jim. Do you wonder I
adore you?"
"You sweet little thing, I've a mind to kiss you for that!"
"I may let you at the psychological moment. _Do_ you think me
absolutely shameless?--but I've asked you that before about a dozen
times.... You _don't_ think so, do you?"
"If other women displayed the common honesty and common sense that you
display, there'd be a good deal less unhappiness in the world."
"But how _can_ other women, when there is only one Jim Edgerton! Oh, I
liked you so much--as soon as I saw you; and before I had known you a
week, I was ready to tell you anything--and now I've done it!"
"It took several weeks before you came to the point," he said, laughing.
"I know, but, oh! it was such a terrible thing to do!--I don't even now
understand how I ever came to tell you."
"You didn't; I extracted it, seeing that you were in pain."
She blushed.
"Yes, it was pain.... Not one of my own family suspected it. Father
doesn't dream of such a thing; Jack doesn't, of course. As for dear
little mother, you know what she thinks about you and me."
Edgerton smiled almost tenderly.
"She is very nice to me," he said. "I almost wish I could verify her
charming theory."
"Concerning _us_?"
"Certainly.... As it is, I believe I'm more than half in love with you,
anyway, Christine."
She blushed again, looking at him with her pretty, frank, brown eyes;
and they both laughed happily.
"It's the first time in all my life that I've been of any use in the
world," he said.
"You _did_ ask father?" she inquired, still charmingly flushed; "didn't
you?"
"I certainly did. He said: 'Is young Inwood such a particular friend of
yours?' I said: 'He is!' He said: 'All right; ask my wife.' So I
asked your mother, and she said: 'Oh, please, Mr. Edgerton, invite
anybody you wish to.' So I wrote Billy Inwood, and your bully little
mother inclosed my letter in the sweetest note of her own; and now he
has telegraphed----"
"Telegraphed?"
"I've just received the message."
He fished it out of his coat pocket, and handed it to her, and she read:
"On my way!
"BILL."
"Is _that_ all?" she asked, half laughing, half excited.
"He telegraphed your mother the substance of a moderate-sized letter.
She's probably in her room now, reading it. She showed it to me in
amazement, but I didn't have time to follow all his polite and grateful
meanderings."
"I wish to see it!" said the girl excitedly.
"Go ahead; your mother has it. I was anxious to let you know how
matters had turned out, first."
"You're a dear!" she repeated, and her voice was not any too steady. "I
am happy; I am happier than I've been for--" She checked herself, and
bent her head for a moment; he pretended to reread the telegram.
"It will be all right now," he observed.
"I wish I knew," she said under her breath.
"Don't you?"
She lifted her honest eyes to his. "How can I know, Jim? I don't know
how men are. It all happened over a year ago.... I was no wiser than a
schoolgirl. What experience had I--with such episodes--such
conditions--or with anything?"
"You did act like a schoolgirl--to send him about his business," said
Edgerton with a shrug.
"I wouldn't have if I hadn't--hadn't----"
"Cared for him?"
"Loved him," she said steadily.
"You're a corker, Christine!" he said in genuine admiration.
"Am I? Thank you, Jim."
"Yes, you are; and so is Billy Inwood--the real Billy. Young men like
to chase about with married women. They love to delude themselves into
the pleasing belief that they are sad dogs----"
"There was more to it than that," said the girl; "he went to Keno to see
her. That is what confounded me."
"While she was getting her divorce?"
"Yes."
"Then you can bet that there was nothing in it, you little goose....
Who was she, anyway?"
"A Mrs. Atherstane. Do you know her?"
"No," said Edgerton; "and you certainly did act like a schoolgirl."
"I know I did, and I was twenty.... I asked him to come, to Hot
Springs; she requested him to go to Keno. He took his choice; he had a
perfect right to.... And then I wrote him that letter, dismissing him."
"Ought never to have done it, sweetness," said Edgerton gravely. "There
are no fetters to hold a man like absolute freedom. He was probably
bound to her in various ways, innocently enough, of course; but she was
probably lonely and in trouble--and--noblesse oblige. I tell you a
young man has to pay for sympathizing with an unhappily married woman!
And she usually sees that he does."
Christine sat back, nursing her knees, eyes downcast.
"He was right," she said. "She was his friend."
"Perhaps he was more right than you realize, Christine. When a man's
man friend is battered and used up, the man still clings to him--anyway,
until he borrows money; but when his woman friend becomes slightly the
worse for wear, he is inclined to discard her as naively as he would a
worn-out coat. That is the rule--romance to the contrary.... Inwood
proved the exception, that's all."
"Yes," said the girl in a low voice.
"He proved the exception to me, too," said Edgerton, smiling.
"To you, Jim?"
"Certainly; wanted to lend me money when I arrived in town on my
uppers."
The girl smiled.
"Oh, he's all right," said Edgerton; "I've known him since he was six
and I twelve."
"He--is--all--right," repeated Christine slowly; "but--am I, Jim?"
"You know you are--kleine Fischerin!"
"But I wrote him that wretched letter. If it hurt him as it hurt me--"
She ceased abruptly, and turned her face toward the window.
"You were years younger, then."
"One year," tremulously.
"_Years_, sweetness.... Do you think your father will ever stand for
him?"
"He scarcely knows him. He did not understand why Mr. Inwood never came
to Hot Springs, or why I never again saw him. Probably he supposes I
lost interest."
"So your father believes that you are all over that affair, doesn't he?"
"Yes; but he probably remembers that Mr. Inwood was to have come to Hot
Springs, and didn't. Fathers usually remember such things, and
sometimes ask why."
"Well, Christine," he said, smiling, "you'll have to fix it with your
father; and I think you can."
"Why do you think so?"
"Because there is much of your father in you--steel under the velvet
skin of that pretty figure, or I miss my guess."
The girl said thoughtfully: "I am, perhaps, more like father than Jack
is.... That is not really what concerns me.... Has Mr. Inwood
changed--in appearance?"
"Within a year? No! Nor otherwise, I'll wager."
"Do you--think----"
"I don't know; I don't know, little girl. Men are protean creatures; God
knows what incarnation they'll assume next! ... But if a woman really
cares for a man, and if he isn't in love with anybody else, it _ought_
to be a cinch--even if he had as many incarnations as Albert
Chevallier!"
"Jim!"
"Well, I know my sex," he said; "the cleverest of them are boobs in the
hands of yours----"
"Jim! You are becoming horrid!"
"That means I'm becoming truthful. Hooray! I see Bill's happy finish."
He picked up her soft little hand and kissed it. "Velvet and steel," he
said--"the hand that rocks the world! Yes? No? Good-by, you little
wretch! I'm going canoeing with my cousin Diana."
"Did you say that mother has that telegram?" she asked naively, sliding
from the window-sill to the floor.
"Yes; and it's a mile long--a bally serial, Christine--to be continued
this evening, I expect."
They clasped hands at the threshold; then she ran upstairs, and he
sauntered out to the tennis court, where Diana still sat on her high
perch knitting the silken tie, although below her the game had ended and
the players had gone to the terrace for iced tea.
"Well, of all pretty monuments!" he exclaimed. "You have the other one
on the Madison Square tower beaten to a froth!"
"Beware of my arrows," she said, smiling, as the wind blew her scarf
into a silvery arc from her shoulders.
"Arrows? No, I'm wrong; you look like the Angel of the Central Park
Fountain."
"I feel like the dickens," she said, folding her knitting and descending
the steps.
"Headache?"
"No; I merely sat up too late, and I'm sleepy. It's perfectly horrid
that you can't stop when you're winning.... What did you wish me to do,
Jim--canoe with you?"
"I thought you wanted to."
"Is _that_ why you asked me?"
"I wanted to, also. Why do you always put me in wrong, Diana?"
"Jim, _do_ I put you in wrong, as you call it?"
"Sometimes."
"Well, it's horrid of me. Forgive me. I do try to be such good friends
with you, and somehow I don't succeed."
"You--we _are_ good friends," he said; "you know perfectly well how I
feel about you."
They had walked as far as the river's edge, where several green-hulled
canvas canoes lay on the grass.
"Suppose we walk," she said; "shall we? I'm too lazy to paddle. I'm
sleepy, Jim. A walk ought to wake me up."
"I know a ledge where you can take a cat nap," he said. "Accept forty
winks from me, and we'll paddle afterwards."
So they strolled along the river path, fragrant with mint and vine and
blossom; and presently the cool green of the woods enveloped them, and
their feet pressed the moist, springy leaves of a forest path that led
over little brooks and up a slope of young growth, all checkered with
sun spots, to a vast overhanging ledge of rocks.
"Just look at that moss!" exclaimed Diana. "I believe I'll sit down on
it this minute. Jim, do sit down. It's like velvet, and there's miles
of it; and here is the most enchanting silver birch tree for my back to
rest on, and some wood lilies to look at.... Isn't this heavenly!"
"Out of sight," he said lazily, stretching himself at her feet and
glancing up at her. "Go ahead with your cat nap. I'll time you half an
hour."
After a moment he laughed, and her eyebrows went up in a silent
question.