Strelsa remained South longer than she had expected to remain, and at
the end of the third week Quarren wrote her.
"DEAR MRS. LEEDS:
"Will you accept from me a copy of Karl's new book? And are you
ever coming back? You are missing an unusually diverting winter;
the opera is exceptional, there are some really interesting plays
in town and several new and amusing people--Prince and Princess
Sarnoff for example; and the Earl of Dankmere, an anxious, and
perplexed little man, sadly hard up, and simple-minded enough to
say so; which amuses everybody immensely.
"He's pathetically original; plebeian on his mother's side; very
good-natured; nothing at all of a sportsman; and painfully short of
both intellect and cash--a funny, harmless, distracted little man
who runs about asking everybody the best and quickest methods of
amassing a comfortable fortune in America. And I must say that
people have jollied him rather cruelly.
"The Sarnoffs on the other hand are modest and nice people--the
Prince is a yellow, dried-up Asiatic who is making a collection of
parasites--a shrewd, kindly, and clever little scientist. His wife
is a charming girl, intellectual but deliciously feminine. She was
Cynthia Challis before her marriage, and always a most attractive
and engaging personality. They dined with us at the Legation on
Thursday.
"Afterward there was a dance at Mrs. Sprowl's. I led from one end,
Lester Caldera from the other. One or two newspapers criticised the
decorations and favours as vulgarly expensive; spoke of a 'monkey
figure'--purely imaginary--which they said I introduced into the
cotillion, and that the favours were marmosets!--who probably were
the intellectual peers of anybody present.
"The old lady is in a terrific temper. I'm afraid some poor
scribblers are going to catch it. I thought it very funny.
"Speaking of scribblers and temper reminds me that Karl Westguard's
new book is stirring up a toy tempest. He has succeeded in
offending a dozen people who pretend to recognise themselves or
their relatives among the various characters. I don't know whether
the novel is really any good, or not. We, who know Karl so
intimately, find it hard to realise that perhaps he may be a writer
of some importance.
"There appears to be considerable excitement about this new book.
People seem inclined to discuss it at dinners; Karl's publishers
are delighted. Karl, on the contrary, is not at all flattered by
the kind of a success that menaces him. He is mad all through, but
not as mad as his redoubtable aunt, who tells everybody that he's a
scribbling lunatic who doesn't know what he's writing, and that she
washes her fat and gem-laden hands of him henceforth.
"Poor Karl! He's already thirty-seven; he's written fifteen books,
no one of which, he tells me, ever before stirred up anybody's
interest. But this newest novel, 'The Real Thing,' has already gone
into three editions in two weeks--whatever that actually means--and
still the re-orders are pouring in, and his publishers are madly
booming it, and several indignant people are threatening Karl with
the law of libel, and Karl is partly furious, partly amused, and
entirely astonished at the whole affair.
"Because you see, the people who think they recognise portraits of
themselves or their friends in several of the unattractive
characters in the story--are as usual, in error. Karl's people are
always purely and synthetically composite. Besides everybody who
knows Karl Westguard ought to know that he's too decent a fellow,
and too good a workman to use models stupidly. Anybody can copy;
anybody can reproduce the obvious. Even photographers are artists
in these days. Good work is a synthesis founded on truth, and
carried logically to a conclusion.
"But it's useless to try to convince the Philistines. Once
possessed with the idea that they or their friends are 'meant,' as
they say, Archimedes's lever could not pry them loose from their
agreeably painful obsession.
"Then there are other sorts of humans who are already bothering
Karl. This species recognise in every 'hero' or 'heroine' a minute
mental and physical analysis of themselves and their own
particular, specific, and petty emotions. Proud, happy, flattered,
they permit nobody to mistake the supposed tribute which they are
entirely self-persuaded that the novelist has offered to them.
"And these phases of 'The Real Thing' are fretting and mortifying
Karl to the verge of distraction. He awakes to find himself not
famous but notorious--not criticised for his workmanship, good or
bad, but gabbled about because some ludicrous old Uncle Foozle
pretends to discover a similarity between Karl's episodes and
characters and certain doings of which Uncle F. is personally
cognisant.
"The great resource of stupidity is and has always been the
anagram; and as stupidity is almost invariably suspicious, the hunt
for hidden meanings preoccupies the majority of mankind.
* * * * *
"Because I have ventured to send you Karl's new book is no reason
why I also should have presumed to write you a treatise in several
volumes.
"But I miss you, oddly enough--miss everything I never had of
you--your opinions on what interests us both; the delightful
discussions of things important, which have never taken place
between us. It's odd, isn't it, Mrs. Leeds, that I miss, long for,
and even remember so much that has never been?
"Molly Wycherly wrote to Mrs. Lannis that you were having a gay
time in Florida; that Sir Charles Mallison had joined your party;
that you'd had luncheons and dinners given you at the Club, at the
Inlet, at the Wiers's place, 'Coquina Castle'; and that Jim and Sir
Charles had bravely slain many ducks. Which is certainly glory
enough to go round. In a friendly little note to me you were good
enough to ask what I am doing, and to emphasise your request for an
answer by underlining your request.
"Proud and flattered by your generous interest I hasten to inform
you that I am leading the same useful, serious, profitable,
purposeful, ambitious, and ennobling life which I was leading when
I first met you. Such a laudable existence makes for one's
self-respect; and, happy in that consciousness, undisturbed by
journalistic accusations concerning marmosets and vulgarity, I
concentrate my entire intellectual efforts upon keeping my job,
which is to remain deaf, dumb, and blind, and at the same time be
ornamental, resourceful, good-tempered, and amusing to those who
are not invariably all of these things at the same time.
"Is it too much to expect another note from you?
"Sincerely yours,
"RICHARD STANLEY QUARREN."
She answered him on the fourth week of her absence.
"MY DEAR MR. QUARREN:
"Your letter interested me, but there was all through it an
undertone of cynicism which rang false--almost a dissonance to an
ear which has heard you strike a truer chord.
"I do not like what you say of yourself, or of your life. I have
talked very seriously with Molly, who adores you; and she evidently
thinks you capable of achieving anything you care to undertake.
Which is my own opinion--based on twenty-four hours of
acquaintance.
"I have read Mr. Westguard's novel. Everybody here is reading it.
I'd like to talk to you about it, some day. Mr. Westguard's intense
bitterness confuses me a little, and seems almost to paralyse any
critical judgment I may possess. A crusade in fiction has always
seemed to me but a sterile effort. To do a thing is fine; to talk
about it in fiction a far less admirable performance--like the
small boy, safe in the window, who defies his enemy with out-thrust
tongue.
"When I was young--a somewhat lonely child, with only a very few
books to companion me--I pored over Carlyle's 'French Revolution,'
and hated Philip Egalité. But that youthful hatred was a little
modified because Egalité did actually become personally active. If
he had only talked, my hatred would have become contempt for a
renegade who did not possess the courage of his convictions. But he
voted death to his own caste, facing the tribunal. He talked, but
he also acted.
"I do not mean this as a parallel between Mr. Westguard and the
sanguinary French iconoclast. Mr. Westguard, also, has the courage
of his convictions; he lives, I understand, the life which he
considers a proper one. It is the life which he preaches in 'The
Real Thing'--a somewhat solemn, self-respecting, self-supporting
existence, devoted to self-development; a life of upright thinking,
and the fulfilment of duty, civil and religious, incident to
dignified citizenship. Such a life may be a blameless one; I don't
know.
"Also it might even be admirable within its limits if Mr. Westguard
did not also appoint himself critic, disciplinarian, and prophet of
that particular section of society into which accident of birth has
dumped him.
"Probably there is no section of human society that does not need a
wholesome scourging now and then, but somehow, it seems to me, that
it could be done less bitterly and with better grace than Mr.
Westguard does it in his book. The lash, swung from within, and
applied with judgment and discrimination, ought to do a more
thorough and convincing piece of work than a knout allied with the
clubs of the proletariat, hitting at every head in sight.
"Let the prophets and sybils, the augurs and oracles of the _Hoi
polloi_ address themselves to them; and let ours talk to us, not
_about_ us to the world at large.
"A renegade from either side makes an unholy alliance, and, with
his first shout from the public pulpit, tightens the master knot
which he is trying to untie to the glory of God and for the sake of
peace and good will on earth. And the result is Donnybrook Fair.
"I hate to speak this way to you of your friend, and about a man I
like and, in a measure, really respect. But this is what I think.
And my inclination is to tell you the truth, always.
"Concerning the artistic value of Mr. Westguard's literary
performance, I know little. The simplicity of his language
recommends the pages to me. The book is easy to read. Perhaps
therein lies his art; I do not know.
"Now, as I am in an unaccountably serious mood amid all the
frivolity of this semi-tropical place, may I not say to you
something about yourself? How are you going to silence me?
"Well, then; you seem to reason illogically. You make little of
yourself, yet you offer me your friendship, by implication, every
time you write to me. You seek my society mentally. Do you really
believe that my mind is so easily satisfied with intellectual
rubbish, or that I am flattered by letters from a nobody?
"What do you suppose there is attractive about you, Mr. Quarren--if
you really do amount to as little as you pretend? I've seen
handsomer men, monsieur, wealthier men, more intelligent men; men
more experienced, men of far greater talents and attainments.
"Why do you suppose that I sit here in the Southern sunshine
writing to you when there are dozens of men perfectly ready to
amuse me?--and qualified to do it, too!
"For the sake of your _beaux-yeux_? _Non pas!_
"But there is a _something_ which the world recognises as a subtle
and nameless sympathy. And it stretches an invisible filament
between you and the girl who is writing to you.
"That tie is not founded on sentiment; I think you know that. And,
of things spiritual, you and I have never yet spoken.
"Therefore I conclude that the tie must be purely intellectual;
that mind calls to mind and finds contentment in the far response.
"So, when you pretend to me that you are of no intellectual
account, you pay me a scurvy compliment. _Quod erat demonstrandum._
"With this gentle reproof I seal my long, long letter, and go where
the jasmine twineth and the orchestra playeth; for it is tea-time,
my friend, and the Park of Peacocks is all a-glitter with plumage.
Soft eyes look wealth to eyes that ask again; and all is brazen as
a dinner bell!
"O friend! do you know that since I have been here I might have
attained to fortune, had I cared to select any one of several
generous gentlemen who have been good enough to thrust that
commodity at me?
"To be asked to marry a man no longer distresses me. I am all over
the romantic idea of being sorry for wealthy amateurs who make me a
plain business proposition, offering to invest a fortune in my
good looks. To amateurs, connoisseurs, and collectors, there is no
such thing as a fixed market value to anything. An object of art is
worth what it can be bought for. I don't yet know how much I am
worth. I may yet find out.
"There are nice men here, odious men, harmless men, colourless men,
worthy men, and the ever-present fool. He is really the happiest, I
suppose.
"Then, all in a class by himself, is an Englishman, one Sir Charles
Mallison. I don't know what to tell you about him except that I
feel exceedingly safe and comfortable when I am with him.
"He says very little; I say even less. But it is agreeable to be
with him.
"He is middle-aged, and, I imagine, very wise. Perhaps his
reticence makes me think so. He and Mr. Wycherly shoot ducks on the
lagoon--and politics into each other.
"I must go. You are not here to persuade me to stay and talk
nonsense to you against my better judgment. You're quite helpless,
you see. So I'm off.
"Will you write to me again?
"STRELSA LEEDS."
A week after Quarren had answered her letter O'Hara called his attention
to a paragraph in a morning paper which hinted at an engagement between
Sir Charles Mallison and Mrs. Leeds.
Next day's paper denied it on excellent authority; so, naturally, the
world at large believed the contrary.
Southern news also revealed the interesting item that the yacht,
_Yulan_, belonging to Mrs. Sprowl's hatchet-faced nephew, Langly Sprowl,
had sailed from Miami for the West Indies with the owner and Mrs. Leeds
and Sir Charles Mallison among the guests.
The _Yulan_ had not as fragrant a reputation as its exotic name might
signify, respectable parties being in the minority aboard her, but
Langly Sprowl was Langly Sprowl, and few people declined any invitation
of his.
He was rather a remarkable young man, thin as a blade, with a voracious
appetite and no morals. Nor did he care whether anybody else had any.
What he wanted he went after with a cold and unsensitive directness that
no newspapers had been courageous enough to characterise. He wouldn't
have cared if they had.
Among other things that he had wanted, recently, was another man's wife.
The other man being of his own caste made no difference to him; he
simply forced him to let his wife divorce him; which, it was understood,
that pretty young matron was now doing as rapidly as the laws of Nevada
allowed.
Meanwhile Langly Sprowl had met Strelsa Leeds.
* * * * *
The sailing of the _Yulan_ for the West Indies became the topic of
dinner and dance gossip; and Quarren heard every interpretation that
curiosity and malice could put upon the episode.
He had been feeling rather cheerful that day; a misguided man from
Jersey City had suddenly developed a mania for a country home. Quarren
personally conducted him all over Tappan-Zee Park on the Hudson, through
mud and slush in a skidding touring car, with the result that the man
had become a pioneer and had promised to purchase a building site.
So Quarren came back to the Legation that afternoon feeling almost
buoyant, and discovered Westguard in all kinds of temper, smoking a huge
faïence pipe which he always did when angry, and which had become known
as "The Weather-breeder."
[Illustration: "'I write,' said Westguard, furious, 'because I have a
message to deliv--'"]
"Jetzt geht das Wetter los!" quoted Quarren, dropping into a seat by the
fire. "Where is this particular area of low depression centred, Karl?"
"Over my damn book. The papers insist it's a _livre-à-clef_; and I am
certain the thing is selling on that account! I tell you it's
humiliating. I've done my best as honestly as I know how, and not one
critic even mentions the philosophy of the thing; all they notice is the
mere story and the supposed resemblance between my characters and living
people! I'm cursed if I ever----"
"Oh, shut up!" said Quarren tranquilly. "If you're a novelist you write
to amuse people, and you ought to be thankful that you've succeeded."
"Confound it!" roared Westguard, "I write to _instruct_ people! not to
keep 'em from yawning!"
"Then you've made a jolly fluke of it, that's all--because you have
accidentally written a corking good story--good enough and interesting
enough to make people stand for the cold chunks of philosophical
admonition with which you've spread your sandwich--thinly, Heaven be
praised!"
"I write," said Westguard, furious, "because I've a message to
deliv----"
"Help!" moaned Quarren. "You write because it's in you to do it; because
you've nothing more interesting to do; and because it enables you to
make a decent and honourable living!"
"Do those reasons prevent my having a message to deliver?" roared
Westguard.
"No, they exist in spite of it. You'd write anyway, whether or not you
believed you had a message to deliver. You've written some fifteen
novels, and fifteen times you have smothered your story with your
message. This time, by accident, the story got its second breath, and
romped home, with 'Message' a bad second, and that selling plater,
'Philosophy,' left at the post----"
"Go on!--you irreverent tout!" growled Westguard; "I want my novels
read, of course. Any author does. But I wish to Heaven somebody would
try to interpret the important lessons which I----"
"Oh, preciousness and splash! Tell your story as well as you can, and if
it's well done there'll be latent lessons enough in it."
"Are you perhaps instructing me in my own profession?" asked the other,
smiling.
"Heaven knows I'm not venturing----"
"Heaven knows you _are_! Also there is something In what you say--" He
sat smoking, thoughtfully, eyes narrowing in the fire--"if I only
_could_ manage that!--to arrest the public's attention by the rather
cheap medium of the story, and then, cleverly, shoot a few moral pills
into 'em.... That's one way, of course----"
"Like the drums of the Salvation Army."
Westguard looked around at him, suspiciously, but Quarren seemed to be
serious enough.
"I suppose it doesn't matter much how a fellow collects an audience, so
that he does collect one."
"Exactly," nodded Quarren. "Get your people, then keep 'em interested
and unsuspecting while you inject 'em full of thinks."
Westguard smoked and pondered; but presently his lips became stern and
compressed.
"I don't intend to trifle with my convictions or make any truce or any
compromise with 'em," he announced. "I'm afraid that this last story of
mine ran away with me."
"It sure did, old Ironsides. Heaven protected her own this time. And in
'The Real Thing' you have ridden farther out among the people with your
Bible and your Sword than you ever have penetrated by brandishing both
from the immemorial but immobile battlements of righteousness. Truth
_is_ a citadel, old fellow; but its garrison should be raiders, not
defenders. And they should ride far afield to carry its message. For few
journey to that far citadel; you must go to them. And does it make any
difference what vehicle you employ in the cause of Truth--so that the
message arrives somewhere before your vehicle breaks down of its own
heaviness? Novel or poem, sermon or holy writ--it's all one, Karl, so
that they get there with their burden."
Westguard sat silent a moment, then thumped the table, emphatically.
"If I had your wasted talents," he said, "I could write anything!"
"Rot!"
"As you please. You use your ability rottenly--that's true enough."
"My ability," mimicked Quarren.
"Yes, your many, many talents, Rix. God knows why He gave them to you; I
don't--for you use them ignobly, when you do not utterly neglect
them----"
"I've a light and superficial talent for entertaining people; I've
nimble legs, and possess a low order of intelligence known as 'tact.'
What more have I?"
"You're the best amateur actor in New York, for example."
"An _amateur_," sneered Quarren. "That is to say, a man who has the
inclinations, but neither the courage, the self-respect, nor the
ambition of the professional.... Well, I admit that. I lack
something--courage, I think. I prefer what is easy. And I'm doing it."
"What's your reward?" said Westguard bluntly.
"Reward? Oh, I don't know. The inner temple. I have the run of the
premises. People like me, trust me, depend upon me more or less. The
intrigues and politics of my little world amuse me; now and then I act
as ambassador, as envoy of peace, as herald, as secret diplomatic
agent.... Reward? Oh, yes--you didn't suppose that my real-estate
operations clothed and fed me, did you, Karl?"
"What does?"
"Diplomacy," explained Quarren gaily. "A successful embassy is rewarded.
How? Why, now and then a pretty woman's husband makes an investment for
me at his own risk; now and then, when my office is successfully
accomplished, I have my fee as social attorney or arbiter
elegantiarum.... There are, perhaps, fewer separations and divorces on
account of me; fewer scandals.
"I am sometimes called into consultation, _in extremis_; I listen, I
advise--sometimes I plan and execute; even take the initiative and
interfere--as when a foolish boy at the Cataract Club, last week, locked
himself into the bath-room with an automatic revolver and a case of
half-drunken fright. I had to be very careful; I expected to hear that
drumming fusillade at any moment.
"But I talked to him, through the keyhole: and at last he opened the
door--to take a shot at me, first."
Quarren shrugged and lighted a cigarette.
"Of course," he added, "his father was only too glad to pay his debts.
But boys don't always see things in their true proportions. Neither do
women."
Westguard, silent, scowling, pulled at his pipe for a while, then:
"Why should you play surgeon and nurse in such a loathsome hospital?"
"Somebody must. I seem better fitted to do it than the next man."
"Yes," said Westguard with a wry face, "I fancy somebody must do
unpleasant things--even among the lepers of Molokai. But I'd prefer real
lepers."
"The social sort are sometimes sicker," laughed Quarren.
"I don't agree with you.... By the way, it's all off between my aunt and
me."
"I'm sorry, Karl----"
"I'm not! I don't want her money. She told me to go to the devil, and I
said something similar. Do you know what she wants me to do?" he added
angrily. "Give up writing, live on an allowance from her, and marry
Chrysos Lacy! What do you think of that for a cold-blooded and
impertinent proposition! We had a fearful family row," he continued with
satisfaction--"my aunt bellowing so that her footmen actually fled, and
I doing the cool and haughty, and letting her bellow her bally head
off."
"You and she have exchanged civilities before," said Quarren, smiling.
"Yes, but this is really serious. I'm damned if I give up writing."
"Or marry Chrysos Lacy?"
"Or that, either. Do you think I want a red-headed wife? And I've never
spoken a dozen words to her, either. And I'll pick out my own wife. What
does my aunt think I am? I wish I were in love with somebody's
parlour-maid. B'jinks! I'd marry her, just to see my aunt's
expression----"
"Oh, stop your fulminations," said Quarren, laughing. "That's the way
with you artistic people; you're a passionate pack of pups!"
"I'm not as passionate as my aunt!" retorted Westguard wrathfully. "Do
you consider her artistic? She's a meddlesome, malicious, domineering,
insolent, evil old woman, and I told her so."
Quarren managed to stifle his laughter for a moment, but his sense of
the ludicrous was keen, and the scene his fancy evoked sent him off into
mirth uncontrollable.
Westguard eyed him gloomily; ominous clouds poured from "The
Weather-breeder."
"Perhaps it's funny," he said, "but she and I cannot stand each other,
and this time it's all off for keeps. I told her if she sent me another
check I'd send it back. That settles it, doesn't it?"
"You're foolish, Karl----"
"Never mind. If I can't keep myself alive in an untrammelled and
self-respecting exercise of my profession--" His voice ended in a
gurgling growl. Then, as though the recollections of his injuries at the
hands of his aunt still stung him, he reared up in his chair:
"Chrysos Lacy," he roared, "is a sweet, innocent girl--not a bale of
fashionable merchandise! Besides," he added in a modified tone, "I was
rather taken by--by Mrs. Leeds."
Quarren slowly raised his eyes.
"I was," insisted Westguard sulkily; "and I proved myself an ass by
saying so to my aunt. Why in Heaven's name I was idiot enough to go and
tell her, I don't know. Perhaps I had a vague idea that she would be so
delighted that she'd give me several tons of helpful advice."
"Did she?"
"_Did_ she! She came back at me with Chrysos Lacy, I tell you! And when
I merely smiled and attempted to waive away the suggestion, she flew
into a passion, called me down, cursed me out--you know her language
isn't always in good taste--and then she ordered me to keep away from
Mrs. Leeds--as though I ever hung around any woman's skirts! I'm no
Squire of Dames. I tell you, Rix, I was mad clear through. So I told her
that I'd marry Mrs. Leeds the first chance I got----"
"Don't talk about her that way," remonstrated Quarren pleasantly.
"About who? My aunt?"
"I didn't mean your aunt?"
"Oh. About Mrs. Leeds. Why not? She's the most attractive woman I ever
met----"
"Very well. But don't talk about marrying her--as though you had merely
to suggest it to her. You know, after all, Mrs. Leeds may have ideas of
her own."
"Probably she has," admitted Westguard, sulkily. "I don't imagine she'd
care for a man of my sort. Why do you suppose she went off on that
cruise with Langly Sprowl?"
Quarren said, gravely: "I have no idea what reasons Mrs. Leeds has for
doing anything."
"You correspond."
"Who said so?"
"My aunt."
Quarren flushed up, but said nothing.
Westguard, oblivious of his annoyance, and enveloped in a spreading
cloud of tobacco, went on:
"Of course if _you_ don't know, _I_ don't. But, by the same token, my
aunt was in a towering rage when she heard that Langly had Mrs. Leeds
aboard the _Yulan_."
"What!" said the other, sharply.
"She swore like a trooper, and called Langly all kinds of impolite
names. Said she'd trim him if he ever tried any of his tricks around
Mrs. Leeds----"
"What tricks? What does she mean by tricks?"
"Oh, I suppose she meant any of his blackguardly philandering. There
isn't a woman living on whom he is afraid to try his hatchet-faced
blandishments."
Quarren dropped back into the depths of his arm-chair. Presently his
rigid muscles relaxed. He said coolly:
"I don't think Langly Sprowl is likely to misunderstand Mrs. Leeds."
"That depends," said Westguard. "He's a rotten specimen, even if he is
my cousin. And he knows I think so."
A few minutes later O'Hara sauntered in. He had been riding in the Park
and his boots and spurs were shockingly muddy.
"Who is this Sir Charles Mallison, anyway?" he asked, using the decanter
and then squirting his glass full of carbonic. "Is it true that he's
goin' to marry that charmin' Mrs. Leeds? I'll break his bally Sassenach
head for him! I'll----"
"The rumour was contradicted in this morning's paper," said Quarren
coldly.
O'Hara drank pensively: "I see that Langly Sprowl is messin' about, too.
Mrs. Ledwith had better hurry up out there in Reno--or wherever she's
gettin' her divorce. I saw Chet Ledwith ridin' in the Park. Dankmere was
with him. Funny he doesn't seem to lose any caste by sellin' his wife to
Sprowl."
"The whole thing is a filthy mess," growled Westguard; "let it alone."
"Why don't you make a novel about it?" inquired O'Hara.
"Because, you dub! I don't use real episodes or living people!" roared
Westguard; "newspapers and a few chumps to the contrary!"
"So!--so-o!" said O'Hara, soothingly--"whoa--steady, boy!" And he
pretended to rub down Westguard, hissing the while as do grooms when
currying.
"Anybody who tells the truth about social conditions in any section of
human society is always regarded as a liar," said Westguard. "Not that I
have any desire to do it, but if I _should_ ever write a novel dealing
with social conditions in any fashionable set, I'd be disbelieved."
"You would be if you devoted your attention to fashionable scandals
only," said Quarren.
"Why? Aren't there plenty of scandalous----"
"Plenty. But no more than in any other set or coterie; not as many as
there are among more ignorant people. Virtue far outbalances vice among
us: a novel, properly proportioned, ought to show that. If it doesn't,
it's misleading."
"Supposing," said Westguard, "that I were indecent enough to show up my
aunt in fiction. Nobody would believe her possible."
"I sometimes doubt her even now," observed O'Hara, grinning.
Quarren said: "Count up the unpleasant characters in your own social
vicinity, Karl--just to prove to yourself that there are really very
few."
"There is Langly--and my aunt--and the Lester Calderas--and the
Ledwiths----"
"Go on!"
Westguard laughed: "I guess that ends the list," he said.
"It does. Also I dispute the list," said Quarren.
"Cyrille Caldera is a pippin," remarked O'Hara, sentimentally.
"What about Mary Ledwith? Is anybody here inclined to sit in judgment?"
"I," said Westguard grimly.
"Why?"
"Divorce is a dirty business."
"Oh. You'd rather she put up with Chester?--the sort of man who was weak
enough to let her go?"
"Yes!"
"Get out, you old Roundhead!" said Quarren, laughing. He rose, laid his
hand lightly on Westguard's shoulder in passing, and went upstairs to
his room, where he wrote a long letter to Strelsa; and then destroyed
it. Then he lay down, covering his boyish head with his arms.
When Lacy came in he saw him lying on the bed, and thought he was
asleep.