But Selwyn had lighted a cigar, and was again unfolding his evening paper; so his brother-in-law moved ponderously away, yawning frightfully at every heavy stride, and the younger man settled back in his chair, a fragrant cigar balanced between his strong, slim fingers, one leg dropped loosely over the other. After a while the newspaper fell to the floor.
He sat there without moving for a long time; his cigar, burning close, had gone out. The reading-lamp spread a circle of soft light over the floor; on the edge of it lay Kit-Ki, placid, staring at him. After a while he noticed her. "You?" he said absently; "you hid so they couldn't put you out."
At the sound of his voice she began to purr.
"Oh, it's all very well," he nodded; "but it's against the law. However," he added, "I'm rather tired of rules and regulations myself. Besides, the world outside is very cold to-night. Purr away, old lady; I'm going to bed."
But he did not stir.
A little later, the fire having burned low, he rose, laid a pair of heavy logs across the coals, dragged his chair to the hearth, and settled down in it deeply. Then he lifted the cat to his knees. Kit-Ki sang blissfully, spreading and relaxing her claws at intervals as she gazed at the mounting blaze.
"I'm going to bed, Kit-Ki," he repeated absently, "because that's a pretty good place for me . . . far better than sitting up here with you—and conscience."
But he only lay back deeper in the velvet chair and lighted another cigar.
"Kit-Ki," he said, "the words men utter count in the reckoning; but not as heavily as the words men leave unuttered; and what a man does scores deeply; but—alas for the scars of the deeds he has left undone."
The logs were now wrapped in flame, and their low mellow roaring mingled to a monotone with the droning of the cat on his knees.
Long after his cigar burnt bitter, he sat with eyes fixed on the blaze. When the flames at last began to flicker and subside, his lids fluttered, then drooped; but he had lost all reckoning of time when he opened them again to find Miss Erroll in furs and ball-gown kneeling on the hearth and heaping kindling on the coals, and her pretty little Alsatian maid beside her, laying a log across the andirons.
"Upon my word!" he murmured, confused; then rising quickly, "Is that you, Miss Erroll? What time is it?"
"Four o'clock in the morning, Captain Selwyn," she said, straightening up to her full height. "This room is icy; are you frozen?"
Chilled through, he stood looking about in a dazed way, incredulous of the hour and of his own slumber.
"I was conversing with Kit-Ki a moment ago," he protested, in such a tone of deep reproach that Eileen laughed while her maid relieved her of furs and scarf.
"Susanne, just unhook those two that I can't manage; light the fire in my bedroom; et merci bien, ma petite!"
The little maid vanished; Kit-Ki, who had been unceremoniously spilled from Selwyn's knees, sat yawning, then rose and walked noiselessly to the hearth.
"I don't know how I happened to do it," he muttered, still abashed by his plight.
"We rekindled the fire for your benefit," she said; "you had better use it before you retire." And she seated herself in the arm-chair, stretching out her ungloved hands to the blaze—smooth, innocent hands, so soft, so amazingly fresh and white.
He moved a step forward into the warmth, stood a moment, then reached forward for a chair and drew it up beside hers.
"Do you mean to say you are not sleepy?" he asked.
"I? No, not in the least. I will be to-morrow, though."
"Did you have a good time?"
"Yes—rather."
"Wasn't it gay?"
"Gay? Oh, very."
Her replies were unusually short—almost preoccupied. She was generally more communicative.
"You danced a lot, I dare say," he ventured.
"Yes—a lot," studying the floor.
"Decent partners?"
"Oh, yes."
"Who was there?"
She looked up at him. "You were not there," she said, smiling.
"No; I cut it. But I did not know you were going; you said nothing about it."
"Of course, you would have stayed if you had known, Captain Selwyn?" She was still smiling.
"Of course," he replied.
"Would you really?"
"Why, yes."
There was something not perfectly familiar to him in the girl's bright brevity, in her direct personal inquiry; for between them, hitherto, the gaily impersonal had ruled except in moments of lightest badinage.
"Was it an amusing dinner?" she asked, in her turn.
"Rather." Then he looked up at her, but she had stretched her slim silk-shod feet to the fender, and her head was bent aside, so that he could see only the curve of the cheek and the little close-set ear under its ruddy mass of gold.
"Who was there?" she asked, too, carelessly.
For a moment he did not speak; under his bronzed cheek the flat muscles stirred. Had some meddling, malicious fool ventured to whisper an unfit jest to this young girl? Had a word—or a smile and a phrase cut in two—awakened her to a sorry wisdom at his expense? Something had happened; and the idea stirred him to wrath—as when a child is wantonly frightened or a dumb creature misused.
"What did you ask me?" he inquired gently.
"I asked you who was there, Captain Selwyn."
He recalled some names, and laughingly mentioned his dinner partner's preference for Harmon. She listened absently, her chin nestling in her palm, only the close-set, perfect ear turned toward him.
"Who led the cotillion?" he asked.
"Jack Ruthven—dancing with Rosamund Fane."
She drew her feet from the fender and crossed them, still turned away from him; and so they remained in silence until again she shifted her position, almost impatiently.
"You are very tired," he said.
"No; wide awake."
"Don't you think it best for you to go to bed?"
"No. But you may go."
And, as he did not stir: "I mean that you are not to sit here because I do." And she looked around at him.
"What has gone wrong, Eileen?" he said quietly.
He had never before used her given name, and she flushed up.
"There is nothing the matter, Captain Selwyn. Why do you ask?"
"Yes, there is," he said.
"There is not, I tell you—"
"—And, if it is something you cannot understand," he continued pleasantly, "perhaps it might be well to ask Nina to explain it to you."
"There is nothing to explain."
"—Because," he went on, very gently, "one is sometimes led by malicious suggestion to draw false and unpleasant inferences from harmless facts—"
"Captain Selwyn—"
"Yes, Eileen."
But she could not go on; speech and thought itself remained sealed; only a confused consciousness of being hurt remained—somehow to be remedied by something he might say—might deny. Yet how could it help her for him to deny what she herself refused to believe?—refused through sheer instinct while ignorant of its meaning.
Even if he had done what she heard Rosamund Fane say he had done, it had remained meaningless to her save for the manner of the telling. But now—but now! Why had they laughed—why had their attitudes and manner and the disconnected phrases in French left her flushed and rigid among the idle group at supper? Why had they suddenly seemed to remember her presence—and express their abrupt consciousness of it in such furtive signals and silence?
It was false, anyway—whatever it meant. And, anyway, it was false that he had driven away in Mrs. Ruthven's brougham. But, oh, if he had only stayed—if he had only remained!—this friend of hers who had been so nice to her from the moment he came into her life—so generous, so considerate, so lovely to her—and to Gerald!
For a moment the glow remained, then a chill doubt crept in; would he have remained had he known she was to be there? Where did he go after the dinner? As for what they said, it was absurd. And yet—and yet—
He sat, savagely intent upon the waning fire; she turned restlessly again, elbows close together on her knees, face framed in her hands.
"You ask me if I am tired," she said. "I am—of the froth of life."
His face changed instantly. "What?" he exclaimed, laughing.
But she, very young and seriously intent, was now wrestling with the mighty platitudes of youth. First of all she desired to know what meaning life held for humanity. Then she expressed a doubt as to the necessity for human happiness; duty being her discovery as sufficient substitute.
But he heard in her childish babble the minor murmur of an undercurrent quickening for the first time; and he listened patiently and answered gravely, touched by her irremediable loneliness.
For Nina must remain but a substitute at best; what was wanting must remain wanting; and race and blood must interpret for itself the subtler and unasked questions of an innocence slowly awaking to a wisdom which makes us all less wise.
So when she said that she was tired of gaiety, that she would like to study, he said that he would take up anything she chose with her. And when she spoke vaguely of a life devoted to good works—of the wiser charity, of being morally equipped to aid those who required material aid, he was very serious, but ventured to suggest that she dance her first season through as a sort of flesh-mortifying penance preliminary to her spiritual novitiate.
"Yes," she admitted thoughtfully; "you are right. Nina would feel dreadfully if I did not go on—or if she imagined I cared so little for it all. But one season is enough to waste. Don't you think so?"
"Quite enough," he assured her.
"—And—why should I ever marry?" she demanded, lifting her clear, sweet eyes to his.
"Why indeed?" he repeated with conviction. "I can see no reason."
"I am glad you understand me," she said. "I am not a marrying woman."
"Not at all," he assured her.
"No, I am not; and Nina—the darling—doesn't understand. Why, what do you suppose!—but would it be a breach of confidence to anybody if I told you?"
"I doubt it," he said; "what is it you have to tell me?"
"Only—it's very, very silly—only several men—and one nice enough to know better—Sudbury Gray—"
"Asked you to marry them?" he finished, nodding his head at the cat.
"Yes," she admitted, frankly astonished; "but how did you know?"
"Inferred it. Go on."
"There is nothing more," she said, without embarrassment. "I told Nina each time; but she confused me by asking for details; and the details were too foolish and too annoying to repeat. . . . I do not wish to marry anybody. I think I made that very plain to—everybody."
"Right as usual," he said cheerfully; "you are too intelligent to consider that sort of thing just now."
"You do understand me, don't you?" she said gratefully. "There are so many serious things in life to learn and to think of, and that is the very last thing I should ever consider. . . . I am very, very glad I had this talk with you. Now I am rested and I shall retire for a good long sleep."
With which paradox she stood up, stifling a tiny yawn, and looked smilingly at him, all the old sweet confidence in her eyes. Then, suddenly mocking:
"Who suggested that you call me by my first name?" she asked.
"Some good angel or other. May I?"
"If you please; I rather like it. But I couldn't very well call you anything except 'Captain Selwyn.'"
"On account of my age?"
"Your age!"—contemptuous in her confident equality.
"Oh, my wisdom, then? You probably reverence me too deeply."
"Probably not. I don't know; I couldn't do it—somehow—"
"Try it—unless you're afraid."
"I'm not afraid!"
"Yes, you are, if you don't take a dare."
"You dare me?"
"I do."
"Philip," she said, hesitating, adorable in her embarrassment. "No! No! No! I can't do it that way in cold blood. It's got to be 'Captain Selwyn'. . . for a while, anyway. . . . Good-night."
He took her outstretched hand, laughing; the usual little friendly shake followed; then she turned gaily away, leaving him standing before the whitening ashes.
He thought the fire was dead; but when he turned out the lamp an hour later, under the ashes embers glowed in the darkness of the winter morning.
CHAPTER IV
MID-LENT
"Mid-Lent, and the Enemy grins," remarked Selwyn as he started for church with Nina and the children. Austin, knee-deep in a dozen Sunday supplements, refused to stir; poor little Eileen was now convalescent from grippe, but still unsteady on her legs; her maid had taken the grippe, and now moaned all day: "Mon dieu! Mon dieu! Che fais mourir!"
Boots Lansing called to see Eileen, but she wouldn't come down, saying her nose was too pink. Drina entertained Boots, and then Selwyn returned and talked army talk with him until tea was served. Drina poured tea very prettily; Nina had driven Austin to vespers. The family dined at seven so Drina could sit up; special treat on account of Boots's presence at table. Gerald was expected, but did not come.
The next morning, Selwyn went downtown at the usual hour and found Gerald, pale and shaky, hanging over his desk and trying to dictate letters to an uncomfortable stenographer.
So he dismissed the abashed girl for the moment, closed the door, and sat down beside the young man.
"Go home, Gerald" he said with decision; "when Neergard comes in I'll tell him you are not well. And, old fellow, don't ever come near the office again when you're in this condition."
"I'm a perfect fool," faltered the boy, his voice trembling; "I don't really care for that sort of thing, either; but you know how it is in that set—"
"What set?"
"Oh, the Fanes—the Ruthv—" He stammered himself into silence.
"I see. What happened last night?"
"The usual; two tables full of it. There was a wheel, too. . . . I had no intention—but you know yourself how it parches your throat—the jollying and laughing and excitement. . . . I forgot all about what you—what we talked over. . . . I'm ashamed and sorry; but I can stay here and attend to things, of course—"
"I don't want Neergard to see you," repeated Selwyn.
"W-why," stammered the boy, "do I look as rocky as that?"
"Yes. See here, you are not afraid of me, are you?"
"No—"
"You don't think I'm one of those long-faced, blue-nosed butters-in, do you? You have confidence in me, haven't you? You know I'm an average and normally sinful man who has made plenty of mistakes and who understands how others make them—you know that, don't you, old chap?"
"Y-es."
"Then you will listen, won't you, Gerald?"
The boy laid his arms on the desk and hid his face in them. Then he nodded.
For ten minutes Selwyn talked to him with all the terse and colloquial confidence of a comradeship founded upon respect for mutual fallibility. No instruction, no admonition, no blame, no reproach—only an affectionately logical review of matters as they stood—and as they threatened to stand.
The boy, fortunately, was still pliable and susceptible, still unalarmed and frank. It seemed that he had lost money again—this time to Jack Ruthven; and Selwyn's teeth remained sternly interlocked as, bit by bit, the story came out. But in the telling the boy was not quite as frank as he might have been; and Selwyn supposed he was able to stand his loss without seeking aid.
"Anyway," said Gerald in a muffled voice, "I've learned one lesson—that a business man can't acquire the habits and keep the infernal hours that suit people who can take all day to sleep it off."
"Right," said Selwyn.
"Besides, my income can't stand it," added Gerald naïvely.
"Neither could mine, old fellow. And, Gerald, cut out this card business; it's the final refuge of the feebleminded. . . . You like it? Oh, well, if you've got to play—if you've no better resource for leisure, and if non-participation isolates you too completely from other idiots—play the imbecile gentleman's game; which means a game where nobody need worry over the stakes."
"But—they'd laugh at me!"
"I know; but Boots Lansing wouldn't—and you have considerable respect for him."
Gerald nodded; he had immediately succumbed to Lansing like everybody else.
"And one thing more," said Selwyn; "don't play for stakes—no matter how insignificant—where women sit in the game. Fashionable or not, it is rotten sport—whatever the ethics may be. And, Gerald, tainted sport and a clean record can't take the same fence together."
The boy looked up, flushed and perplexed. "Why, every woman in town—"
"Oh, no. How about your sister and mine?"
"Of course not; they are different. Only—well, you approve of Rosamund Fane and—Gladys Orchil—don't you?"
"Gerald, men don't ask each other such questions—except as you ask, without expecting or desiring an answer from me, and merely to be saying something nice about two pretty women."
The reproof went home, deeply, but without a pang; and the boy sat silent, studying the blotter between his elbows.
A little later he started for home at Selwyn's advice. But the memory of his card losses frightened him, and he stopped on the way to see what money Austin would advance him.
Julius Neergard came up from Long Island, arriving at the office about noon. The weather was evidently cold on Long Island; he had the complexion of a raw ham, but the thick, fat hand, with its bitten nails, which he offered Selwyn as he entered his office, was unpleasantly hot, and, on the thin nose which split the broad expanse of face, a bead or two of sweat usually glistened, winter and summer.
"Where's Gerald?" he asked as an office-boy relieved him of his heavy box coat and brought his mail to him.
"I advised Gerald to go home," observed Selwyn carelessly; "he is not perfectly well."
Neergard's tiny mouse-like eyes, set close together, stole brightly in Selwyn's direction; but they usually looked just a little past a man, seldom at him.
"Grippe?" he asked.
"I don't think so," said Selwyn.
"Lots of grippe 'round town," observed Neergard, as though satisfied that Gerald had it. Then he sat down and rubbed his large, membranous ears.
"Captain Selwyn," he began, "I'm satisfied that it's a devilish good thing."
"Are you?"
"Emphatically. I've mastered the details—virtually all of 'em. Here's the situation in a grain of wheat!—the Siowitha Club owns a thousand or so acres of oak scrub, pine scrub, sand and weeds, and controls four thousand more; that is to say—the club pays the farmers' rents and fixes their fences and awards them odd jobs and prizes for the farm sustaining the biggest number of bevies. Also the club pays them to maintain the millet and buckwheat patches and to act as wardens. In return the farmers post their four thousand acres for the exclusive benefit of the club. Is that plain?"
"Perfectly."
"Very well, then. Now the Siowitha is largely composed of very rich men—among them Bradley Harmon, Jack Ruthven, George Fane, Sanxon Orchil, the Hon. Delmour-Carnes—that crowd—rich and stingy. That's why they are contented with a yearly agreement with the farmers instead of buying the four thousand acres. Why put a lot of good money out of commission when they can draw interest on it and toss an insignificant fraction of that interest as a sop to the farmers? Do you see? That's your millionaire method—and it's what makes 'em in the first place."
He drew a large fancy handkerchief from his pistol-pocket and wiped the beads from the bridge of his limber nose. But they reappeared again.
"Now," he said, "I am satisfied that, working very carefully, we can secure options on every acre of the four thousand. There is money in it either way and any way we work it; we get it coming and going. First of all, if the Siowitha people find that they really cannot get on without controlling these acres—why"—and he snickered so that his nose curved into a thin, ruddy beak—"why, Captain, I suppose we could let them have the land. Eh? Oh, yes—if they must have it!"
Selwyn frowned slightly.
"But the point is," continued Neergard, "that it borders the railroad on the north; and where the land is not wavy it's flat as a pancake, and"—he sank his husky voice—"it's fairly riddled with water. I paid a thousand dollars for six tests."
"Water!" repeated Selwyn wonderingly; "why, it's dry as a desert!"
"Underground water!—only about forty feet on the average. Why, man, I can hit a well flowing three thousand gallons almost anywhere. It's a gold mine. I don't care what you do with the acreage—split it up into lots and advertise, or club the Siowitha people into submission—it's all the same; it's a gold mine—to be swiped and developed. Now there remains the title searching and the damnable job of financing it—because we've got to move cautiously, and knock softly at the doors of the money vaults, or we'll be waking up some Wall Street relatives or secret business associates of the yellow crowd; and if anybody bawls for help we'll be up in the air next New Year's, and still hiking skyward."
He stood up, gathering together the mail matter which his secretary had already opened for his attention. "There's plenty of time yet; their leases were renewed the first of this year, and they'll run the year out. But it's something to think about. Will you talk to Gerald, or shall I?"
"You," said Selwyn. "I'll think the matter over and give you my opinion. May I speak to my brother-in-law about it?"
Neergard turned in his tracks and looked almost at him.
"Do you think there's any chance of his financing the thing?"
"I haven't the slightest idea of what he might do. Especially"—he hesitated—"as you never have had any loans from his people—I understand—"
"No," said Neergard; "I haven't."
"It's rather out of their usual, I believe—"
"So they say. But Long Island acreage needn't beg favours now. That's all over, Captain Selwyn. Fane, Harmon & Co. know that; Mr. Gerard ought to know it, too."
Selwyn looked troubled. "Shall I consult Mr. Gerard?" he repeated. "I should like to if you have no objection."
Neergard's small, close-set eyes were focused on a spot just beyond Selwyn's left shoulder.
"Suppose you sound him," he suggested, "in strictest—"
"Naturally," cut in Selwyn dryly; and turning to his littered desk, opened the first letter his hand encountered. Now that his head was turned, Neergard looked full at the back of his neck for a long minute, then went out silently.
That night Selwyn stopped at his sister's house before going to his own rooms, and, finding Austin alone in the library, laid the matter before him exactly as Neergard had put it.
"You see," he added, "that I'm a sort of an ass about business methods. What I like—what I understand, is to use good judgment, go in and boldly buy a piece of property, wait until it becomes more valuable, either through improvements or the natural enhancement of good value, then take a legitimate profit, and repeat the process. That, in outline, is what I understand. But, Austin, this furtive pouncing on a thing and clubbing other people's money out of them with it—this slyly acquiring land that is necessary to an unsuspecting neighbour and then holding him up—I don't like. There's always something of this sort that prevents my cordial co-operation with Neergard—always something in the schemes which hints of—of squeezing—of something underground—"
"Like the water which he's going to squeeze out of the wells?"
Selwyn laughed.
"Phil," said his brother-in-law, "if you think anybody can do a profitable business except at other people's expense, you are an ass."
"Am I?" asked Selwyn, still laughing frankly.
"Certainly. The land is there, plain enough for anybody to see. It's always been there; it's likely to remain for a few æons, I fancy.
"Now, along comes Meynheer Julius Neergard—the only man who seems to have brains enough to see the present value of that parcel to the Siowitha people. Everybody else had the same chance; nobody except Neergard knew enough to take it. Why shouldn't he profit by it?"
"Yes—but if he'd be satisfied to cut it up into lots and do what is fair—"
"Cut it up into nothing! Man alive, do you suppose the Siowitha people would let him? They've only a few thousand acres; they've got to control that land. What good is their club without it? Do you imagine they'd let a town grow up on three sides of their precious game-preserve? And, besides, I'll bet you that half of their streams and lakes take rise on other people's property—and that Neergard knows it—the Dutch fox!"
"That sort of—of business—that kind of coercion, does not appeal to me," said Selwyn gravely.
"Then you'd better go into something besides business in this town," observed Austin, turning red. "Good Lord, man, where would my Loan and Trust Company be if we never foreclosed, never swallowed a good thing when we see it?"
"But you don't threaten people."
Austin turned redder. "If people or corporations stand in our way and block progress, of course we threaten. Threaten? Isn't the threat of punishment the very basis of law and order itself? What are laws for? And we have laws, too—laws, under the law—"
"Of the State of New Jersey," said Selwyn, laughing. "Don't flare up, Austin; I'm probably not cut out for a business career, as you point out—otherwise I would not have consulted you. I know some laws—including 'The Survival of the Fittest,' and the 'Chain-of-Destruction'; and I have read the poem beginning
"That's all right, too; but speaking of laws, I'm always trying to formulate one for my particular self-government; and you don't mind, do you?"
"No," said Gerard, much amused, "I don't mind. Only when you talk ethics—talk sense at the same time."
"I wish I knew how," he said.
They discussed Neergard's scheme for a little while longer; Austin, shrewd and cautious, declined any personal part in the financing of the deal, although he admitted the probability of prospective profits.
"Our investments and our loans are of a different character," he explained, "but I have no doubt that Fane, Harmon & Co.—"
"Why, both Fane and Harmon are members of the club!" laughed Selwyn. "You don't expect Neergard to go to them?"
A peculiar expression flickered in Gerard's heavy features; perhaps he thought that Fane and Harmon and Jack Ruthven were not above exploiting their own club under certain circumstances. But whatever his opinion, he said nothing further; and, suggesting that Selwyn remain to dine, went off to dress.
A few moments later he returned, crestfallen and conciliatory:
"I forgot, Nina and I are dining at the Orchils. Come up a moment; she wants to speak to you."
So they took the rose-tinted rococo elevator; Austin went away to his own quarters, and Selwyn tapped at Nina's boudoir.
"Is that you, Phil? One minute; Watson is finishing my hair. . . . Come in, now; and kindly keep your distance, my friend. Do you suppose I want Rosamund to know what brand of war-paint I use?"
"Rosamund," he repeated, with a good-humoured shrug; "it's likely—isn't it?"
"Certainly it's likely. You'd never know you were telling her anything—but she'd extract every detail in ten seconds. . . . I understand she adores you, Phil. What have you done to her?"
"That's likely, too," he remarked, remembering his savagely polite rebuke to that young matron after the Minster dinner.
"Well, she does; you've probably piqued her; that's the sort of man she likes. . . . Look at my hair—how bright and wavy it is, Phil. Tell me, do I appear fairly pretty to-night?"
"You're all right, Nina; I mean it," he said. "How are the kids? How is Eileen?"
"That's why I sent for you. Eileen is furious at being left here all alone; she's practically well and she's to dine with Drina in the library. Would you be good enough to dine there with them? Eileen, poor child, is heartily sick of her imprisonment; it would be a mercy, Phil."
"Why, yes, I'll do it, of course; only I've some matters at home—"
"Home! You call those stuffy, smoky, impossible, half-furnished rooms home! Phil, when are you ever going to get some pretty furniture and art things? Eileen and I have been talking it over, and we've decided to go there and see what you need and then order it, whether you like it or not."
"Thanks," he said, laughing; "it's just what I've tried to avoid. I've got things where I want them now—but I knew it was too comfortable to last. Boots said that some woman would be sure to be good to me with an art-nouveau rocking-chair."
"A perfect sample of man's gratitude," said Nina, exasperated; "for I've ordered two beautiful art-nouveau rocking-chairs, one for you and one for Mr. Lansing. Now you can go and humiliate poor little Eileen, who took so much pleasure in planning with me for your comfort. As for your friend Boots, he's unspeakable—with my compliments."
Selwyn stayed until he made peace with his sister, then he mounted to the nursery to "lean over" the younger children and preside at prayers. This being accomplished, he descended to the library, where Eileen Erroll in a filmy, lace-clouded gown, full of turquoise tints, reclined with her arm around Drina amid heaps of cushions, watching the waitress prepare a table for two.
He took the fresh, cool hand she extended and sat down on the edge of her couch.
"All O.K. again?" he inquired, retaining Eileen's hand in his.
"Thank you—quite. Are you really going to dine with us? Are you sure you want to? Oh, I know you've given up some very gay dinner somewhere—"
"I was going to dine with Boots when Nina rescued me. Poor Boots!—I think I'll telephone—"
"Telephone him to come here!" begged Drina. "Would he come? Oh, please—I'd love to have him."
"I wish you would ask him," said Eileen; "it's been so lonely and stupid to lie in bed with a red nose and fishy eyes and pains in one's back and limbs. Please do let us have a party."
So Selwyn went to the telephone, and presently returned, saying that Boots was overwhelmed and would be present at the festivities; and Drina, enraptured, ordered flowers to be brought from the dining-room and a large table set for four, with particular pomp and circumstance.
Mr. Archibald Lansing arrived very promptly—a short, stocky young man of clean and powerful build, with dark, keen eyes always alert, and humorous lips ever on the edge of laughter under his dark moustache.
His manner with Drina was always delightful—a mixture of self-repressed idolatry and busily naïve belief in a thorough understanding between them to exclude Selwyn from their company.
"This Selwyn fellow here!" he exclaimed. "I warned him over the 'phone we'd not tolerate him, Drina. I explained to him very carefully that you and I were dining together in strictest privacy—"
"He begged so hard," said Eileen. "Will somebody place an extra pillow for Drina?"
They seized the same pillow fiercely, confronting each other; massacre appeared imminent.
"Two pillows," said Drina sweetly; and extermination was averted. The child laughed happily, covering one of Boots's hands with both of hers.
"So you've left the service, Mr. Lansing?" began Eileen, lying back and looking smilingly at Boots.
"Had to, Miss Erroll. Seven millionaires ran into my quarters and chased me out and down Broadway into the offices of the Westchester Air Line Company. Then these seven merciless multi-millionaires in buckram bound and gagged me, stuffed my pockets full of salary, and forced me to typewrite a fearful and secret oath to serve them for five long, weary years. That's a sample of how the wealthy grind the noses of the poor, isn't it, Drina?"
The child slipped her hand from his, smiling uncertainly.
"You don't mean all that, do you?"
"Indeed I do, sweetheart."
"Are you not a soldier lieutenant any more, then?" she inquired, horribly disappointed.
"Only a private in the workman's battalion, Drina."
"I don't care," retorted the child obstinately; "I like you just as much."
"Have you really done it?" asked Selwyn as the first course was served.
"I? No. They? Yes. We'll probably lose the Philippines now," he added gloomily; "but it's my thankless country's fault; you all had a chance to make me dictator, you know. Miss Erroll, do you want a second-hand sword? Of course there are great dents in it—"
"I'd rather have those celebrated boots," she replied demurely; and Mr. Lansing groaned.
"How tall you're growing, Drina," remarked Selwyn.
"Probably the early spring weather," added Boots. "You're twelve, aren't you?"
"Thirteen," said Drina gravely.
"Almost time to elope with me," nodded Boots.
"I'll do it now," she said—"as soon as my new gowns are made—if you'll take me to Manila. Will you? I believe my Aunt Alixe is there—"
She caught Eileen's eye and stopped short. "I forgot," she murmured; "I beg your pardon, Uncle Philip—"
Boots was talking very fast and laughing a great deal; Eileen's plate claimed her undivided attention; Selwyn quietly finished his claret; the child looked at them all.
"By the way," said Boots abruptly, "what's the matter with Gerald? He came in before noon looking very seedy—" Selwyn glanced up quietly.
"Wasn't he at the office?" asked Eileen anxiously.
"Oh, yes," replied Selwyn; "he felt a trifle under the weather, so I sent him home."
"Is it the grippe?"
"N-no, I believe not—"
"Do you think he had better have a doctor? Where is he?"
"He was here," observed Drina composedly, "and father was angry with him."
"What?" exclaimed Eileen. "When?"
"This morning, before father went downtown."
Both Selwyn and Lansing cut in coolly, dismissing the matter with a careless word or two; and coffee was served—cambric tea in Drina's case.
"Come on," said Boots, slipping a bride-rose into Drina's curls; "I'm ready for confidences."
"Confidences" had become an established custom with Drina and Boots; it meant that every time they saw one another they were pledged to tell each other everything that had occurred in their lives since their last meeting.
So Drina, excitedly requesting to be excused, jumped up and, taking Lansing's hand in hers, led him to a sofa in a distant corner, where they immediately installed themselves and began an earnest and whispered exchange of confidences, punctuated by little whirlwinds of laughter from the child.
Eileen settled deeper among her pillows as the table was removed, and Selwyn drew his chair forward.
"Suppose," she said, looking thoughtfully at him, "that you and I make a vow to exchange confidences? Shall we, Captain Selwyn?"
"Good heavens," he protested; "I—confess to you! You'd faint dead away, Eileen."
"Perhaps. . . . But will you?"
He gaily evaded an answer, and after a while he fancied she had forgotten. They spoke of other things, of her convalescence, of the engagements she had been obliged to cancel, of the stupid hours in her room—doubly stupid, as the doctor had not permitted her to read or sew.
"And every day violets from you," she said; "it was certainly nice of you. And—do you know that somehow—just because you have never yet failed me—I thought perhaps—when I asked your confidence a moment ago—"
He looked up quickly.
"What is the matter with Gerald?" she asked. "Could you tell me?"
"Nothing serious is the matter, Eileen."
"Is he not ill?"
"Not very."
She lay still a moment, then with the slightest gesture: "Come here."
He seated himself near her; she laid her hand fearlessly on his arm.
"Tell me," she demanded. And, as he remained silent: "Once," she said, "I came suddenly into the library. Austin and Gerald were there; Austin seemed to be very angry with my brother. I heard him say something that worried me; and I slipped out before they saw me."
Selwyn remained silent.
"Was that it?"
"I—don't know what you heard."
"Don't you understand me?"
"Not exactly."
"Well, then"—she crimsoned—"has Gerald m-misbehaved again?"
"What did you hear Austin say?" he demanded.
"I heard—something about dissipation. He was very angry with Gerald. It is not the best way, I think, to become angry with either of us—either me or Gerald—because then we are usually inclined to do it again—whatever it is. . . . I do not mean for one moment to be disloyal to Austin; you know that. . . . But I am so thankful that Gerald is fond of you. . . . You like him, too, don't you?"
"I am very fond of him."
"Well, then," she said, "you will talk to him pleasantly—won't you? He is such a boy; and he adores you. It is easy to influence a boy like that, you know—easy to shame him out of the silly things he does. . . . That is all the confidence I wanted, Captain Selwyn. And you haven't told me a word, you see—and I have not fainted—have I?"
They laughed a little; her fingers, which had tightened on his arm, relaxed; her hand fell away, and she straightened up, sitting Turk fashion, and smoothing her hair which contact with the pillows had disarranged so that it threatened to come tumbling over eyes and cheeks.
"Oh, hair, hair!" she murmured, "you're Nina's despair and my endless punishment. I'd twist and pin you tight if I dared—some day I will, too. . . . What are you looking at so curiously, Captain Selwyn? My mop?"
"It's about the most stunningly beautiful thing I ever saw," he said, still curious.
She nodded gaily, both hands still busy with the lustrous strands. "It is nice; but I never supposed you noticed it. It falls to my waist; I'll show it to you some time. . . . But I had no idea you noticed such things," she repeated, as though to herself.
"Oh, I'm apt to notice all sorts of things," he said, looking so provokingly wise that she dropped her hair and clapped both hands over her eyes.
"Now," she said, "if you are so observing, you'll know the colour of my eyes. What are they?"
"Blue—with a sort of violet tint," he said promptly.
She laughed and lowered her hands.
"All that personal attention paid to me!" she exclaimed. "You are turning my head, Captain Selwyn. Besides, you are astonishing me, because you never seem to know what women wear or what they resemble when I ask you to describe the girls with whom you have been dining or dancing."
It was a new note in their cordial intimacy—this nascent intrusion of the personal. To her it merely meant his very charming recognition of her maturity—she was fast becoming a woman like other women, to be looked at and remembered as an individual, and no longer classed vaguely as one among hundreds of the newly emerged whose soft, unexpanded personalities all resembled one another.
For some time, now, she had cherished this tiny grudge in her heart—that he had never seemed to notice anything in particular about her except when he tried to be agreeable concerning some new gown. The contrast had become the sharper, too, since she had awakened to the admiration of other men. And the awakening was only a half-convinced happiness mingled with shy surprise that the wise world should really deem her so lovely.
"A red-headed girl," she said teasingly; "I thought you had better taste than—than—"
"Than to think you a raving beauty?"
"Oh," she said, "you don't think that!"
As a matter of fact he himself had become aware of it so suddenly that he had no time to think very much about it. It was rather strange, too, that he had not always been aware of it; or was it partly the mellow light from the lamp tinting her till she glowed and shimmered like a young sorceress, sitting so straight there in her turquoise silk and misty lace?
Delicate luminous shadow banded her eyes; her hair, partly in shadow, too, became a sombre mystery in rose-gold.
"Whatever are you staring at?" she laughed. "Me? I don't believe it! Never have you so honoured me with your fixed attention, Captain Selwyn. You really glare at me as though I were interesting. And I know you don't consider me that; do you?"
"How old are you, anyway?" he asked curiously.
"Thank you, I'll be delighted to inform you when I'm twenty."
"You look like a mixture of fifteen and twenty-five to-night," he said deliberately; "and the answer is more and less than nineteen."
"And you," she said, "talk like a frivolous sage, and your wisdom is as weighty as the years you carry. And what is the answer to that? Do you know, Captain Selwyn, that when you talk to me this way you look about as inexperienced as Gerald?"
"And do you know," he said, "that I feel as inexperienced—when I talk to you this way?"
She nodded. "It's probably good for us both; I age, you renew the frivolous days of youth when you were young enough to notice the colour of a girl's hair and eyes. Besides, I'm very grateful to you. Hereafter you won't dare sit about and cross your knees and look like the picture of an inattentive young man by Gibson. You've admitted that you like two of my features, and I shall expect you to notice and admit that you notice the rest."
"I admit it now," he said, laughing.
"You mustn't; I won't let you. Two kinds of dessert are sufficient at a time. But to-morrow—or perhaps the day after, you may confess to me your approbation of one more feature—only one, remember!—just one more agreeable feature. In that way I shall be able to hold out for quite a while, you see—counting my fingers as separate features! Oh, you've given me a taste of it; it's your own fault, Captain Selwyn, and now I desire more if you please—in semi-weekly lingering doses—"
A perfect gale of laughter from the sofa cut her short.
"Drina!" she exclaimed; "it's after eight!—and I completely forgot."
"Oh, dear!" protested the child, "he's being so funny about the war in Samar. Couldn't I stay up—just five more minutes, Eileen? Besides, I haven't told him about Jessie Orchil's party—"
"Drina, dear, you know I can't let you. Say good-night, now—if you want Mr. Lansing and your Uncle Philip to come to another party."
"I'll just whisper one more confidence very fast," she said to Boots. He inclined his head; she placed both hands on his shoulders, and, kneeling on the sofa, laid her lips close to his ear. Eileen and Selwyn waited.
When the child had ended and had taken leave of all, Boots also took his leave; and Selwyn rose, too, a troubled, careworn expression replacing the careless gaiety which had made him seem so young in Miss Erroll's youthful eyes.
"Wait, Boots," he said; "I'm going home with you." And, to Eileen, almost absently: "Good-night; I'm so very glad you are well again."
"Good-night," she said, looking up at him. The faintest sense of disappointment came over her—at what, she did not know. Was it because, in his completely altered face she realised the instant and easy detachment from herself, and what concerned her?—was it because other people, like Mr. Lansing—other interests—like those which so plainly, in his face, betrayed his preoccupation—had so easily replaced an intimacy which had seemed to grow newer and more delightful with every meeting?
What was it, then, that he found more interesting, more important, than their friendship, their companionship? Was she never to grow old enough, or wise enough, or experienced enough to exact—without exacting—his paramount consideration and interest? Was there no common level of mental equality where they could meet?—where termination of interviews might be mutual—might be fairer to her?
Now he went away, utterly detached from her and what concerned her—to seek other interests of which she knew nothing; absorbed in them to her utter exclusion, leaving her here with the long evening before her and nothing to do—because her eyes were not yet strong enough to use for reading.
Lansing was saying: "I'll drive as far as the club with you, and then you can drop me and come back later."
"Right, my son; I'll finish a letter and then come back—"
"Can't you write it at the club?"
"Not that letter," he replied in a low voice; and, turning to Eileen, smiled his absent, detached smile, offering his hand.
But she lay back, looking straight up at him.
"Are you going?"
"Yes; I have several—"
"Stay with me," she said in a low voice.
For a moment the words meant nothing; then blank surprise silenced him, followed by curiosity.
"Is there something you wished to tell me?" he asked.
"N-no."
His perplexity and surprise grew. "Wait a second, Boots," he said; and Mr. Lansing, being a fairly intelligent young man, went out and down the stairway.
"Now," he said, too kindly, too soothingly, "what is it, Eileen?"
"Nothing. I thought—but I don't care. Please go, Captain Selwyn."
"No, I shall not until you tell me what troubles you."
"I can't."
"Try, Eileen."
"Why, it is nothing; truly it is nothing. . . . Only I was—it is so early—only a quarter past eight—"
He stood there looking down at her, striving to understand.
"That is all," she said, flushing a trifle; "I can't read and I can't sew and there's nobody here. . . . I don't mean to bother you—"
"Child," he exclaimed, "do you want me to stay?"
"Yes," she said; "will you?"
He walked swiftly to the landing outside and looked down.
"Boots!" he called in a low voice, "I'm not going home yet. Don't wait for me at the Lenox."
"All right," returned Mr. Lansing cheerfully. A moment later the front door closed below. Then Selwyn came back into the library.
For an hour he sat there telling her the gayest stories and talking the most delightful nonsense, alternating with interesting incisions into serious subjects: which it enchanted her to dissect under his confident guidance.
Alert, intelligent, all aquiver between laughter and absorption, she had sat up among her silken pillows, resting her weight on one rounded arm, her splendid young eyes fixed on him to detect and follow and interpret every change in his expression personal to the subject and to her share in it.
His old self again! What could be more welcome? Not one shadow in his pleasant eyes, not a trace of pallor, of care, of that gray aloofness. How jolly, how young he was after all!
They discussed, or laughed at, or mentioned and dismissed with a gesture a thousand matters of common interest in that swift hour—incredibly swift, unless the hall clock's deadened chimes were mocking Time itself with mischievous effrontery.
She heard them, the enchantment still in her eyes; he nodded, listening, meeting her gaze with his smile undisturbed. When the last chime had sounded she lay back among her cushions.
"Thank you for staying," she said quite happily.
"Am I to go?"
Smilingly thoughtful she considered him from her pillows:
"Where were you going when I—spoiled it all? For you were going somewhere—out there"—with a gesture toward the darkness outside—"somewhere where men go to have the good times they always seem to have. . . . Was it to your club? What do men do there? Is it very gay at men's clubs? . . . It must be interesting to go where men have such jolly times—where men gather to talk that mysterious man-talk which we so often wonder at—and pretend we are indifferent. But we are very curious, nevertheless—even about the boys of Gerald's age—whom we laugh at and torment; and we can't help wondering how they talk to each other—what they say that is so interesting; for they somehow manage to convey that impression to us—even against our will. . . . If you stay, I shall never have done with chattering. When you sit there with one lazy knee so leisurely draped over the other, and your eyes laughing at me through your cigar-smoke, about a million ideas flash up in me which I desire to discuss with you. . . . So you had better go."
"I am happier here," he said, watching her.
"Really?"
"Really."
"Then—then—am I, also, one of the 'good times' a man can have?—when he is at liberty to reflect and choose as he idles over his coffee?"
"A man is fortunate if you permit that choice."
"Are you serious? I mean a man, not a boy—not a dance or dinner partner, or one of the men one meets about—everywhere from pillar to post. Do you think me interesting to real men?—like you and Boots?"
"Yes," he said deliberately, "I do. I don't know how interesting, because—I never quite realised how—how you had matured. . . . That was my stupidity."
"Captain Selwyn!" in confused triumph; "you never gave me a chance; I mean, you always were nice in—in the same way you are to Drina. . . . I liked it—don't please misunderstand—only I knew there was something else to me—something more nearly your own age. It was jolly to know you were really fond of me—but youthful sisters grow faster than you imagine. . . . And now, when you come, I shall venture to believe it is not wholly to do me a kindness—but—a little—to do yourself one, too. Is that not the basis of friendship?"
"Yes."
"Community and equality of interests?—isn't it?"
"Yes."
"—And—in which the—the charity of superior experience and the inattention of intellectual preoccupation and the amused concession to ignorance must steadily, if gradually, disappear? Is that it, too?"
Astonishment and chagrin at his misconception of her gave place to outright laughter at his own expense.
"Where on earth did you—I mean that I am quite overwhelmed under your cutting indictment of me. Old duffers of my age—"
"Don't say that," she said; "that is pleading guilty to the indictment, and reverting to the old footing. I shall not permit you to go back."
"I don't want to, Eileen—"
"I am wondering," she said airily, "about that 'Eileen.' I'm not sure but that easy and fluent 'Eileen' is part of the indictment. What do you call Gladys Orchil, for example?"
"What do I care what I call anybody?" he retorted, laughing, "as long as they