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 one was going to throw out Regency beds or Louis XIV tables that had belonged to one's mother because one happened to live in the time of Louis XV. Campaspe held another theory to the effect that all the comfortable furniture of any period was speedily worn out and discarded; only the ball-room chairs, the heavy, carved settles, and other like cheerless lumber, survived the hard usage of one age in sufficiently good condition to pass on to another. As time passed, even the semi-comfortable pieces began to decay, so that, if you were determined to furnish your house in the style of an epoch two or three centuries back you were obliged to rely on solid, stiff-backed chairs, and cupboards and beds, built, apparently, for eternity. In regard to the particular style chosen for the decoration of this particular house, possibly for patriotic reasons, for Mrs. Pollanger was loud in her praise of everything American, but more conceivably because it was fashionable at present and therefore expensive, Campaspe was repelled by its obvious incongruity. The grand piano and the modern, brightly hued dresses of the women, were assuredly ridiculous in this milieu. Perfect taste demanded that this setting should be occupied by men and women dressed in a sober, Puritan fashion, but it demanded in vain.

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 doorway, as she became aware that the standing group within was listening to a contralto of imposing, but finely moulded, proportions, singing La Chevelure. Her eye aimed its way across the room to where the woman stood, tall, handsome, massive, her blue-black hair, knotted in the back and bit by a coral comb, drawn severely away from her white face, slit by magenta lips. The singer, Campaspe next observed, wore a black velvet gown, short in front, but trailing behind, thickly embroidered in a design of bursting pomegranates, fashioned of seedpearls and rose tourmalines. This, she reflected, was no time or place to sing this song, certainly not with the shameless effrontery with which this woman sang it. A mood of embarrassment, a cold reaction, beset the room.

Campaspe's eye roved, although her ear was still attentive: standing on the dais near the performer, she saw Isabel Pollanger, elaborately enveloped in white satin, with, Campaspe thought, a good deal of the air of a superdreadnought in attendance on a masquerade garden-party. Across the floor, in the grateful vicinity of a lady with pale goldengreen hair, almost the shade of sea-foam, Paul hovered. She caught a glimpse of Hubert Miles and his wife, and of the Duquesa de Azul, who was said to be déclassée, but who went everywhere in spite of her noisome reputation. The Duquesa, Campaspe reflected, had chien. Nearer at hand were the towering blond, Frederic Richards, who

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 was holding an exhibition at Knoedler's, and Florizel Hammond, whose chief claim to attention was the fact that he had constituted himself a species of walking gazette. Watching him stroke his feeble moustache, Campaspe noted that it was characteristic of him that he should wear an evening suit of dark blue, the trousers of which were copiously pleated near the waist-line.

The song was over, and after the applause subsided, the buzz of conversation began again.

Mystical, drawled Lalla, damned mystical, what?

Where's the old girl stow her whisky? Jack demanded.

Campaspe wondered if they both meant the same thing. She also marvelled that she had come at all. In this languid, disinterested mood, she listened to Florizel Hammond relating to a friend the extraordinary details of a new and celebrated divorce case.

She caught him very neatly, the youth was remarking. Gene came home one night, after an absence that needed explaining, and told her that he had dined with Bud Wetmore. Gertie called Bud up immediately and asked if he had served asparagus for dinner. Armed with Bud's negative response, she forced a confession from Gene.

At the end of the tale the spinner caught Campaspe's eye.

Hello, 'paspe, he said. How did you like the singing?

It made me a little nervous, she replied.


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The deposition in the above matter was held in Room 4480, O'Neill House Office


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 What I say is why sing that tripe at all? Girls are going abroad now to learn to sing Wagner and Debussy and Verdi, while the rest of the world has stopped listening to these birds. Why don't they stay at home and learn to sing George Gershwin—if they can? There's a career in that.

Bravo, Florio! Lalla applauded him, striking him on the back with her fan of rude hawk feathers.

Mrs. Pollanger was bearing down on the group.

Campaspe, she wheezed, like an asthmatic walrus, I am delighted! I was afraid you wouldn't come. And Lalla, too!

We dined together tonight, Campaspe explained, and Jack didn't get enough whisky.

There are barrels in the library.

Catching the last word, Jack disappeared. Campaspe permitted her mind to wander while Isabel chattered. From the ball-room the strains of the Limehouse Blues drifted down. Campaspe recognized the band as Paul Whiteman's. Florizel bubbled on—how did he find out so much?

It's her first novel. Have you read it? Well, it's as rotten as you'd expect. Agarista sent it to a publisher who owned a dog and the dog chewed up the manuscript before anybody had a chance to look it over. The publisher was forced to write her, of course, that he would accept her beautiful prose. Naturally, the story was too good to keep, and later it leaked out. Now she says that when she has written another masterpiece, she will urge


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 her publisher to please refer it to his mastiff again.

Campaspe was aware of Laura, making her delicate way across the room in her direction. In W. H. Mallock's The New Republic, it will be recalled, Mr. Rose carried a scrap of artistic cretonne in his pocket when he visited an ugly house, as a kind of esthetic smelling-salts. To serve a similar requirement of her own nature, Laura, when she permitted herself to attend a function that she considered in any sense vulgar, always wore an unbecoming dress. It gave her, no doubt, a feeling of security even in the midst of a presumably smirched, social atmosphere.

O, Campaspe, I'm so glad you're here, Laura cried. George would come—he says it's as good as a trip to Montmartre—and so I came too, but I'm. ..

Again Campaspe was finding it impossible to listen. It was a comparatively simple matter to talk to Laura by interjecting a monosyllable now and then, and at the same time overhear what her neighbours were saying.

Arabella Munson is coming back to America, Florizel announced to Lalla. If she dances here with as few clothes as formerly I propose for the motto across the façade of the theatre where she appears, The old lady shows her medals.

A few feet in front of her, his back towards her, stood a tall, distinguished man, held in the merciless grip of Isabel Pollanger's concentrated attention.


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2 Building, commencing at 10:00 a.m.


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 How do you go about constructing your plots, situations, and characters, Mr. Johns?

So it was the guest of honour. Campaspe heard his response, suave enough in tone: I don't know that I go about it at all.

I mean, his hostess persevered, do you develop the atmosphere of your books consciously or unconsciously?

If you want to know whether I work when I am awake, the answer is that I do.

Isabel persisted: O, now do tell me, do you believe in working regularly so many hours each day or do you wait until the spirit moves you?

If I waited for anything, I'd still be waiting.

Do you work fast or slowly?

Fast and slowly.

Is it hard or easy?

Hard and easy.

Does it help you to talk over your ideas before you write them?

I have never tried it.

Do you like to meet other noted authors or do you prefer not to?

There are so few of us that it's not much use protesting.

What kind of writing do you think is the most fun?

Writing cheques.

What has proved the most popular with your public?


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 At this point an overwhelming sense of pity surged into the breast of Campaspe Lorillard. She turned away from Laura.

Isabel, she broke in, will you introduce me to Mr. Johns?

His eyes thanked her and then travelled caressingly down her rose and grey splendour until they met her satined feet. At the same time she took him in: thick, white hair, an interesting and sympathetic expression, behind which lurked a suggestion of bitterness and even cruelty.

My wife, Mrs. Lorillard, he explained, rather than introduced, a little woman in blue beside him whom Campaspe noticed for the first time. She had the air of a person eager to run errands, desirous only of serving as a buffer between her handsome and talented husband and the aggressive world.

I think you need a drink. Campaspe smiled at him.

Do you know where there is one?

In the lib—Mrs. Pollanger began to recite.

Excuse us, then, for a moment. They spoke in unison.

Mrs. Pollanger waved her fan. Come back, you clever man and tell me all about your new book!

What a woman! Gareth exclaimed. She looks like a footbath on wheels. Did you see all those diamonds on her. . . ? As though Queen Mary had belted the gas-works with her royal stomacher!

In the corridor stood the singer of La Chevelure,


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 the nervous prey of Augusta Illinois, the celebrated soprano.

You're too fat, Claire, the Illinois proclaimed, to sing in public.

Claire Madrilena met her tormentor's eye. I've needed my body so little in my career, she retorted.

Pretty good. The ubiquitous Florizel Hammond was nudging Campaspe. Pretty fair. The Illinois has ostermoored her way into four opera houses, but no one has ever before expressed the fact so neatly.

Hello, 'paspe, Jack Draycott hailed them as they entered the library. Hello! You've trapped the lion!

He was thirsty, too.

I've got a bottle of fine old brandy, 1804, somewhere, Mr. Humphry Pollanger was explaining. Would you care to sample it?

Would we care to? Jack echoed mockingly. Bring it forth, old chap.

As his host departed on his mission of cheer, Jack demanded, who was that fellow, 'paspe?

Mrs. Lorillard did not reply. Fascinated, she was listening again to the indefatigable Florizel Hammond.

Speaking of brandy, that one was saying, Eddie Blue has got it cached all over his place down at Montauk Point, brandy and Burgundy and everything you can think of, all the best years, too. He was the only man in America to take prohibition


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 seriously. Two months before the amendment went into effect he put a fortune into booze. Immediately thereafter he was confronted with the difficulty of discovering a place where he might store it safely. He solved the problem by hiring workmen to dig twelve hours into the earth on selected and charted spots on his estate. He figured, if it took a man twelve hours to dig a hole, that, after it was filled up, it would take a thief just as long and, as there are not twelve hours of darkness in any day, it was not likely that he could dig without being observed. He instituted further schemes for protection. He caused some of the caves to be filled with poison-gas and he stationed two men in the tower which caps his house to cover the prospect with machine-guns. Of course, any one can buy all the stuff he wants now, but if you want vintages and assured purity you have to drink at Eddie's. He won't even sell a bottle, although he possesses enough to keep three generations of his family stewed the year round.

I witnessed a most curious form of drinking the other night, Gareth Johns remarked. A mother nursed her child during Aguglia's performance of The Daughter of Jorio at the Thalia. I watched the baby, sucking, prattling, cooing, patting her mother's cheek during the tragic scenes. The mother's eyes dilated with horror. Would the child, I wondered, drink in some of her mother's emotion with the milk?


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 Florizel added a variation to the theme. D'Annunzio, he announced, advises his disciples to drink gallons of black coffee to keep them awake. He tells them that if they go to sleep they may miss something.

Campaspe asked herself again why she had come to this house. She dispatched Florizel on an errand. Invite Madame Madrilena to join us.

Will you wait for the 1804 brandy? she demanded of the author by her side, or. . . ? She waved her arm in the direction of the table, covered with an embroidered Italian linen cloth, on which liqueur bottles were ranged in the form of a rainbow, while champagne, whisky, a bowl of military punch, bottles of soda, and glasses and goblets of every description kept them company. Two men in uniform were constantly employed behind this improvised bar.

Gareth smiled. I'll wait for the brandy, he replied.

Florizel reappeared with the contralto in tow.

Do secure for me, she urged her escort after the presentations, one of those evil buns. You have such expressive feet, Mrs. Lorillard, she went on.

I'm admiring your sables, Campaspe countered.

This cloak was of a splendour before it wore out in the direction of the sit-upon. Now, it resembles a rabbit who has had an extensive career. Ah! thank you! She nibbled the bun. After singing I am pantophagous.


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 Do you think it's a moral act to take off so many vocal clothes?

Madame Madrilena rolled her eyes. It's good for these people, she explained. They're so middle-class. Look at those flowers—she pointed to the epergne on the table—even the flowers are middle-class. Utterly lacking in passion. I think I'd like to sing for them, too. They need a dash of sex!

I should think you are the one to give it to them, Gareth suggested.

I wish I might. I have only men to experiment on. Why were men made for women? They understand them so little.

I have heard of substitutes, Florizel muttered.

Mr. Humphry Pollanger had returned, carefully bearing a carafe half-full of an amber fluid. Here it is! he cried.

Don't crow too loud, old rooster, Jack counselled. There won't be enough for the crowd, you know.

He's pouring it out in the largest goblets, thank God! Florizel noted. That's the way to serve good brandy, just a little in the bottom so that the fumes fill the glass with an exquisite bouquet, but no one in this country seems to know it.

There isn't any good brandy in this country, unless this is it, declared Paul, who had joined them.

Silent now, each with glass to his nose, they savoured the rich aroma.

Great stuff, old fellow! Jack's was the first appreciation. Napoleonic, you said?


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 Yes, I think so. Mr. Humphry Pollanger's face was the façade of his delight. No one had ever before paid him so much attention.

They all took a sip.

Um.

Um.

Um.

Um.

George, come here.

Laura's husband attached himself to the group.

Marvellous.

Delicious.

Exquise.

An expression of doubt shadowed the face of Mr. Humphry Pollanger. He held the carafe at arm's length between his eyes and a lamp. Then he sniffed at the unstopped neck. I'm not so sure. . . he explained hesitantly. There were two carafes on the shelf. One of them certainly contains 1804 brandy. The other holds some whisky left over from our bootlegger's latest call.

Don't worry, old chap. Jack gave his unrecognized host a slap on the shoulder. Can't you tell brandy when you drink it? Cognac, fine champagne, that's what it is!

I'm not so sure. . . I think this is the whisky!

Of course, this is brandy, George asserted.

Paul executed a few steps of the Charleston while Mr. Pollanger made another hurried journey to his store of supplies. Presently he returned with a


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 second carafe. He held the two to the light together, comparing them one with the other. Precisely the same colour, he muttered in despair.

Well, just to convince you, I'll try a little of the other, was Jack's handsome offer. He extended his empty goblet. This time he did not wait to enjoy the bouquet. He swallowed the contents in one gulp. Whisky! he sputtered. The first was brandy.

I think, Mr. Pollanger put forward timidly, after sampling a drink from the new bottle, that this is the brandy.

Whisky!

Brandy!

Let me try the first carafe again, Jack urged.

Madame Madrilena was working on the second. I think this is the brandy, she averred.

Let me try the new kind, George suggested. Who is that man? he whispered interrogatively to Campaspe.

Campaspe was experimenting with the second bottle. Why, they're both the same! she announced.

I think I can tell cognac when I drink it, Jack insisted hotly. The first was cognac, the second Scotch.

What's the row? Lalla, arriving, demanded.

Don't tell her, Paul urged, before we get her unbiased opinion. He offered her a drink from the first carafe.


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 What is it? Florizel inquired eagerly.

What's what?

What you're drinking.

Scotch, of course, Lalla replied.

Why, Lalla, can't you tell brandy when you drink it?

Brandy! Nonsense, Jack! You're so squiffy you'd call absinthe brandy.

Give her a taste of the other stuff.

Scotch, Lalla announced, even more firmly than before.

Madame Madrilena was occupied. I think they're both cognac, was her new decision.

Campaspe smiled. Whatever they are, she repeated, they're both the same.

The second carafe contains the cognac, Mr. Pollanger persisted, almost as if some one had hurt him.

Who is that man? Lalla demanded of George in a whisper.

The first is cognac. I, ought to be able to know cognac, Jack cried. Napoleonic cognac, at that.

Don't be an ass, Jack. They're both Scotch.

I think they're both fine champagne, Madame Madrilena insisted.

I've an idea, Campaspe suggested. Let Jack select them blindfold.

Splendid!

Great!

Just the thing!

Jack, bursting with pride over his capacity for


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 distinguishing tastes, assented to this test willingly enough. Lalla bound the scarf around his eyes, and saw to it that it was efficacious in limiting his vision.

Brandy! Jack cried, after his first sip.

But, Paul expostulated, that's from the second carafe.

Jack tore off the bandage. You've mixed them up, he swore. That's from the first.

Don't be an ass, Jack, Lalla implored him. They're both Scotch.

One of 'em is brandy. . . . Poor Mr. Pollanger was ready to weep. . . . I'm certain one of 'em is brandy.

I've got it! cried George. We'll ask the barkeeps. They're sure to know.

Great! Paul encouraged the idea.

Though it won't make the least difference what they say, because both carafes contain Scotch, Lalla inserted.

One of 'em is brandy. I think it's the second, Mr. Pollanger politely demurred. Even in the throes of anguish over being contradicted, he recalled with some pleasure that never before had he carried on so extended a conversation with any of his wife's guests.

Who is that man? Madame Madrilena demanded feverishly, and then muttered sullenly, Cognac!

The servants readily agreed to decide the matter, but when George handed them the carafes it was discovered that both were empty.


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 A quarter of an hour later, Gareth and Campaspe were sitting in a small reception-room, which they occupied alone, on a curly maple settle, more picturesque than comfortable. In the distance, Paul Whiteman's band was playing Mama Loves Papa. The castenets snarled, the saxophone scolded, the banjos barked. Campaspe had thrown off her cloak of flamingo feathers, and was fingering the choker of moonstones that encircled her throat.

We haven't discussed your books yet, she remarked, not without malice.

Don't! he groaned. Everybody upstairs talked about them. If only they'd say something. He brightened. Maybe you would!

Campaspe's smile was sardonic. I haven't read them, she began, but I can ask you questions. Do you believe in working regularly so many hours each day or do you wait until the spirit moves you?

Devil! Madrilena was right. You have expressive feet. I'd like to write a book about your feet. He was examining the objects of his interest.

Smooth-shod.

What a title! May I borrow it?

Campaspe yawned. At this juncture Frederic Richards, accompanied by the girl with sea-foam hair, passed through the room.

Have you seen his drawings?

Whose drawings?

That was Frederic Richards.


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 You don't say. And the girl with the green hair?

I don't know her.

And where do you buy your gowns?

I have a little woman who comes in.

Chéruit or Jenny's her name, I suppose.

How do you go about constructing your plots, situations, and characters?

By spending as much of this evening as possible with you!

I was convinced you drew from the life. Do you work fast or slow?

Fast. I hope some day you will give me the opportunity to be unfaithful to you.

Laura, an anxious expression distorting her features, now hovered in the doorway. She brightened when she observed Campaspe.

O, Campaspe, have you seen George? I want to go home.

Saw him half-an-hour ago in the library. Have you met Mr. Johns?

O, Mr. Johns, I'm so glad! There is a question I want to ask you. I hope you will understand. I read Two on the Seine and I appreciate the style and the way you have drawn the characters and the art of it all, but why do you devote your genius to such sordid subjects?

My subjects choose me, Gareth replied. I have nothing to do with the selection.

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 cocoonery. But I don't see. . . she went on. If you would seek out subjects that would please people. ..

Probably then, Campaspe finished the sentence for her, his books would stop selling.

I think, Laura announced with dignity, that I shall look up George in the library.

Have you been to supper yet?

I don't want any supper. I want to go home.

Bestowing a frigid bow on the novelist, she wandered off.

Well, I do, Campaspe, rising, averred.

Do what?

Want supper. Come along and feed me.

Like the lady, Gareth protested, I'm in no mood for supper.

I suppose, Campaspe suggested gravely, the question Laura asked you is the one you hear most frequently.

She was amazed by the suddenness with which he threw off his mask of irony. Pricked in his vanity, he became as garrulous as a school-girl.

Every day! Every hour! Letters! Letters! All inquiring why I don't write about something else. I write about what I know, in the way I feel about it. It doesn't seem to occur to the crowd that it is possible for an author to believe that life is largely without excuse, that if there is a God he conducts the show aimlessly, if not, indeed, maliciously, that men and women run around auto-


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 matically seeking escapes from their troubles and outlets for their lusts. The crowd is still more incensed when an author who believes these things refuses to write about them seriously.

Recently, in a London music hall, I saw an act which enthralled me. The curtain rose to disclose a house in process of construction. Three workmen were on the job. They did not speak a word. They indicated the symbols by pantomime. Their every action was ridiculously futile, ending in disaster. If a carpenter ascended a scaffold, the scaffold broke, giving him a hard fall of ten feet and undoing all the labour accomplished by his comrades; when one of the fellows began to plaster, he presently dropped into the mixing vat. So it went on, and whenever a man met with an accident his predicament was ignored by his companions. He was forced to extricate himself. As the curtain descended, the house, far from being in a further state of construction, was nearly demolished. The audience characteristically shrieked with laughter at this act, but I, for the same reason that they laughed, was on the verge of tears. This performance seemed to me exactly like life as we live it.

Don't you find it rather absurd to write books about the futility of life? Campaspe demanded.

Gareth grinned. Not at all, he replied. I write my books to prove how futile life is in a vain effort to forget how futile it is!

Campaspe studied the novelist's face with more


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 interest. You do not appear to have many illusions, she volunteered.

Illusions! It would be pleasant if nobody had any. Only the thoroughly disillusioned expect nothing from others. They make life slightly more human. But all of us have illusions, or sentimental moods, which amount to the same thing. . . . My God! he went on, tossing his thick hair back with one hand, have you ever observed that after a few cocktails you can listen to a banal waltz played in a dimly lighted theatre and feel as sweet or good or true or noble as the most fatuous moron ever felt? I always become sentimental after I drink cocktails and music aggravates the sensation.

Have you written a book about that? If you have I'll read it.

It's damned difficult to get any intangible thought into a book. Anything subtle is almost impossible to get into a book. Yet that is the only thing I want todo. My reward is that after I get it in—or at least think I get it in—nobody knows it's there, unless I tell them. An old English actor, one George Bartley, said of the British theatre-going public: You must first tell them that you are going to do so and so; you must then tell them that you are doing it, and then that you have done it; and then, by God, perhaps they will understand you! Well, the same thing is true of the novel-reading public, but I don't tell them, and they don't under


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 stand, but they read me anyway. Perhaps I should be satisfied.

Campaspe was silent, but it was obvious that she was listening, and after a moment he went on: The incoherence of life has always interested me, the appalling disconnection. We wander around alone, each with his own thoughts, his own ideas. We connect only in flashes.

Only in flashes?

Yes. It usually happens in this way: abruptly, quite unreasonably, one individual unconsciously—it's always unconsciously—produces an effect, a chemical change, let us call it, in another person with whom he comes in contact. This phenomenon in itself creates enough energy so that presently still others are affected. Wider and wider sweep the circles, like the circles created by the tossing of a pebble into a lake, until at last they dissipate, and the lake becomes placid again.

Campaspe regarded him with an interrogative eye.

Or, to put it figuratively in another fashion, he continued, you must think of a group of people in terms of a packet of firecrackers. You ignite the first cracker and the flash fires the fuse of the second, and so on, until, after a series of crackling detonations, the whole bunch has exploded, and nothing survives but a few torn and scattered bits of paper, blackened with powder. On the other


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 hand, if you fail to apply the match, the bunch remains a collection of separate entities, having no connection one with any other. Explosions which create relationships are sporadic and terminating, but if you avoid the explosions you perdurably avoid intercourse. And now, he said, I think I'm hungry.

At this moment, Mrs. Johns appeared in the doorway. Gareth glared at her.

Gareth dear, she urged, you know that you have so much to do tomorrow.

Can't you see that I'm taking Mrs. Lorillard to supper? was the great author's impatient rejoinder.

That man from the Saturday Evening Post is coming at nine o'clock, she reminded him.

To hell with him!

Why don't you come to supper with us, Campaspe suggested, and then take your husband home?

Before this invitation, Gareth immediately became more reasonable. There, Bella, he cajoled her, I'll be with you shortly. I've something more to say to Mrs. Lorillard.

You won't be too long, dear, the little woman pleaded before she awkwardly retired.

Always trying to make me go home, Gareth grumbled.

She probably knows what's good for you.

Good Lord, yes, but I don't want to do what's good for me.

In the supper-room upstairs, they were joined


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 by Florizel Hammond who, at evening entertainments, invariably divided his time between the rooms where food and drink were served.

You author chaps must get the low-down on all of us at these bull-fights, he opened up on Gareth.

We'd like to, Gareth replied.

Well, God knows, there's enough. Take a few notes. What do you want, 'paspe, a lobster sandwich or some Smithfield ham?

Both, Campaspe replied.

I thought I was taking you to supper, Gareth grumbled, as Florizel wandered away to execute his commission.

I asked you to, Campaspe smiled at him, but you were so long in accepting my invitation that I thought I might starve if I waited for you to fill my plate. Why don't you share supper with Florizel and me?

The large room was pleasantly full. Some, holding their plates, ate standing. Others sat, while they rested their plates on the arms of their chairs. In the centre of the room, on a great round table, heaped with dishes, food steamed in casseroles. A number of waiters in uniform, bearing trays laden with glasses of champagne, solemnly passed from guest to guest. The odour of Vague Souvenir soared above the confusion of other aromas.

Have you heard about Dennis Cahill? Florizel, returning with heaped plates, demanded, and without waiting for a reply went on, Well, you know, be-


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 fore he was married he was all mixed up in his subconscious—and every other way, too, but he wasn't aware of that yet, although his friends had their suspicions. So he went to Dr. Leonard and was psyched and all his suppressed desires were pulled out into the open, but when he married he discovered that these released desires weren't strong enough to see him through, and so he resorted to goat glands.

And lived happily ever after? Gareth queried.

My dear, you're wrong. They won't last six months. He'll be taking the Steinach treatment before the year's out. There's a tragic anecdote for you, Johns.

Too tragic, I fear. The public demands pleasant stories, I'm learning.

The group was interrupted by a dark beauty in flaming velvet who verbally assaulted the author without the formality of an introduction.

I just loved Two on the Seine, she avowed. I love all your books. What was that other one? O, yes, Black Oxen.

That is my own favourite, Gareth remarked.

Florizel, who is the girl? Campaspe inquired, as soon as the novelist's admirer was out of ear-shot.

That's Mahalah Wiggins, the actress.

Where does she act?

In an old-fashioned piece of furniture with four posts. Have you heard. . . Florizel continued without pause. . . about Isabel in Venice, the city


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 where men fiddle while women burn? She embarked in a gondola, tossed a ring into the Grand Canal, and announced, Now, I am a dogaressa!

Campaspe again was not listening. Her nerves were playing her odd tricks. She had the impression of a presence in the room, a presence that was affecting her emotions in some disturbing way. Like a lone hunter, in the depths of the jungle, suddenly instinctively conscious that somewhere nearby, behind the screen of green that obstructs his vision, a man-eating tiger lies crouched for a spring, she awaited, not without trepidation, the moment when the unknown force should choose to become visible. Waited, icy cold, and alone.. . . Presently, she saw the other. Straight across the room, in uniform, like the rest of the servants, bearing a tray, he was moving, as yet unaware, directly towards her. Unaware, and yet uneasy. Silver, silver, the faint tinkling of bells, and a sickening, unfamiliar odour, an overpowering scent. Dizzy, she closed her eyes, and took two uncertain steps. Forcing herself, with every particle of will at her command to open them again, she stared ahead of her. And now, at last, he too saw her, and the secret she read in his eyes provided her with a new torment. Before, however, she was able to move forward or to speak, Gunnar averted his gaze, pivoted on his heel, and hurled the laden platter through a window, shattering the pane from sash to


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 sill. Without hesitating a second, in one prodigiously agile leap, he followed the missile into the outside blackness.

Instantly, she regained her poise, resaw her companions, but now the appearance of the crowd was altered almost beyond recognition. The ladies screamed. Two men rushed to the aperture. Good God! Thirty feet! There's a perfectly good window gone! Mrs. Pollanger, a tragic barrel, held the centre of the floor and raised her hand. Tell them to stop the music! she cried hoarsely. Tell them to stop the music!


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Miss Pinchon was a woman with a practical turn of mind. During the limited period in which she had been going out as governess she had put aside major sums from her modest wages, certainly with no definite plan in view, but just as certainly with an ideal, however abstract. Still comparatively young, she cherished the steadfast intention of maintaining herself, in the near future, on a more independent level. The exact date of departure, until recently, had remained hazy and unfixed. Only the week before, indeed, she had not yet determined upon the precise hour she should choose to embark on a more personal enterprise, nor had she selected the enterprise, but the crossing of her trail by the Brothers Steel and a casual remark dropped by Campaspe Lorillard had sown the seed of reflection in her mind, seed that found fertilization in the basic desire that already impregnated her brain. One night the little governess lay awake for, hours, at intervals repeating aloud to herself, Why not? Why not? and figuratively snapping her fingers.

The following afternoon, as soon as she was free


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 from the lessons she was engaged to impart to Consuelo, Miss Pinchon paid a visit to the Public Library where she devoted herself to a more or less extensive examination of curious works by Ouspensky and Arthur E. Waite. Further, she drew up a list from the catalogue of volumes on Hindu philosophy and noted down the titles of pamphlets dealing with Gurdjieff, Jaques-Dalcroze, and Einstein. A few of these she later purchased for home study. Within a week, a week of intensive research, she had evolved, with plagiarism here and there, and a limited use of the imagination, a philosophy of acrobatics which would suit her purpose and which, she was convinced, not unjustifiably, would make her fortune. Deep breathing while standing on the head during the simultaneous consideration of the ultimate oneness of God with humankind, the essential co-ordination of the waving left arm with the soul, and the identity of the somersault with the freedom of the will were a few of the attractive determining principles in this new mental-physical science which she dubbed, following the fashion of previous innovators along these lines, Pinchon's Prophylactic Plan. Having established thoroughly in her own mind the essential tenets of this novel cult, having, indeed, entrusted them to the pages of a large note-book, the contents of which at some day in the future she intended to commit to print, Miss Pinchon took a second step. At the


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 close of one of Consuelo's lessons with the Brothers Steel, she astonished the mountebanks with a request for an interview. This, naturally, was granted, however radical they may have regarded such conduct on the part of a lady whose manner hitherto had been completely self-effacing.

Miss Pinchon, confronted with the task of converting pagans, made no futile attempt during this interview to explain the lights and shades of her system. She did not read aloud the statement of her principles. She did not, indeed, avow openly that she had a system. She began by mentioning a salary which, as the number of pupils enrolled increased, might be advanced accordingly. Then she sketched lightly the advantages of muscular training for the young, combined with—and here she drew her descriptive picture with the faintest line—certain mental and spiritual exercises. Lastly, she suggested that her position and its corresponding influence—as she felt this section of her discourse to be the most telling, she exaggerated its effect, drawing upon her imagination for salient details—would be the magnet which would attract the pupils.

While Miss Pinchon explained her plan, the twins, in identical postures, left hand on hip, right hand stroking moustache, sat quietly agape on their bench, their eyes popping from the sockets. It remained for Mrs. Hugo, who had listened with a


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 more sympathetic absorption, to welcome the idea with enthusiasm, and to speak the first word after Miss Pinchon had spoken her last.

I say, do it, she urged flatly.

I dunno. Could we? queried Robin.

That's it, was Hugo's dubious contribution.

It beats vaudeville. . . . Mrs. Hugo's excitement was contagious. . . . You're always fussin', about bookin', always wonderin' who's goin' to crib your act, and you're always out of town eatin' punk food in rotten boardin'-houses. When Miss Consuelo first come here I said it was a chance. Here's your chance, boys, was my words. Well, here it is. Take it.

It looks like it, mother, Robin put forward feebly.

It looks all right, Hugo remarked doubtfully.

It is all right, Miss Pinchon asseverated warmly. You leave it to me and you'll see.

Having secured the consent of the brothers, none the less binding because it was somewhat unhearty—the governess belonged to that group of persons who believe that one should take immediate advantage of a permission, even when it is given with bad grace, lest it may be withdrawn—Miss Pinchon secured the lease of a hall on East Fiftieth Street, and left an order with a painter on First Avenue, whose ordinary occupation was the decoration of Jacobean chests and Queen Anne tables in the


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 Chinese style, for certain charts on which figures were to be drawn, the arms and legs in certain attitudes she had observed the brothers assume during the course of their evolutions, accompanied by quotations from the Cabala and the Upanishads. Next, she called on George Everest at his office.

George felt regret at losing Miss Pinchon's services as governess for Consuelo and Eugenia, but he reflected that the unpleasant duty of discovering a substitute would devolve upon Laura, and he was so amused by the initiative displayed by the little woman in front of him and by the nature of her plan that he not only gave her permission to use his name in her circulars—had not, indeed, the course of instruction, even shorn of the further mental and spiritual attachments, proved of immense benefit to his daughter?—but also presented her with a cheque for one thousand dollars, averring that he desired to invest in the scheme himself, at least to the degree to which this small amount would entitle him.

Miss Pinchon was now fully fortified to experiment with her plan in a practical manner. She resigned from her position, after a most disagreeable scene with Mrs. Everest, during which Laura had implied—she had not exactly said—that the governess must be mad, established herself in her new quarters, and issued cards which read as follows:


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Two days after the cards had been sent out she received three replies. Interviews followed. When the school opened she found herself with nine class and three private pupils. Hiram Mason's son, Ira Barber's little girl, and Maida Sonsconsett were all included in the list of registrants. It was not long before Lalla Draycott sent her eight-year old son. It began to appear fairly certain that the next generation of New York society would be able to form pyramids to equal the best that could be created by travelling troupes of wild Arabs. Mrs. Pollanger talked of giving a Pinchon evening for the demonstration of the new method, and the New York Times devoted a full page in its Sunday Magazine to an analysis of it.


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 the Book of the Dead many illustrations of the great importance attached to sepulchral offerings may he obtained. In Chapter I. the deceased beseeches the gods “who give cakes and beer to the perfect souls” to give him cakes and beer at the “two seasons,” i.e. morning and evening, daily. In Chapter LII. he prays that he may not be made to eat what is an abomination to him. “Filth is an abomination unto me, and let me not be obliged to eat of it instead of the funerary cakes which the Kau (or, Doubles) eat. Let it not touch my body, let me be not obliged to take it in my hands, and let me not be obliged to walk thereon.” And in answer to a question as to what he would live upon before the gods, he replies, “Let me live on the seven loaves and cakes which are brought before Horus and Thoth, and let me eat my food under the sycamore tree of Hathor. Give me authority over my own fields in Ṭaṭṭu, and over my own crops in Ȧnnu. Let me eat bread made of white barley, and drink beer made from red grain.” In another place he says, “I live upon what the gods live upon, and I eat of the cakes which are in the hall of the lord of sepulchral offerings” (Chap. LIII.).

In the Papyrus of Nebseni, Chapter CLXXVIII., is a version of a text to which reference has already been made, but in its later form it is so instructive that one or two passages may well be quoted from it. In it Nebseni is made to say: “The Eye of Horus hath been presented unto thee, and it feedeth


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 Meanwhile Consuelo continued her private education with the Brothers Steel at their own gymnasium, accompanied now by Miss Elizabeth Graves, the new governess, an Englishwoman whom Laura had selected primarily because she did not appear to be the possessor of an inventive mind. Laura thought she might be able to keep her at least until she found time to discover a house on the far-east side, a project suggested to her by a casual remark of Campaspe.

Consuelo nourished reasons of her own for not desiring to join the new school, although, in an impersonal way, she admired Miss Pinchon and was sufficiently appreciative of her spirit of aggressive determination. It was not difficult for her to persuade her father to permit her to please herself in this respect, as George had long ago decided to allow Consuelo to do anything she wanted to do within reason. She seems, he explained to Laura, not entirely to his wife's satisfaction, to know so much better what to do and how to do it than the rest of us.

To Consuelo, however, the lesson-hours brought no pleasure. They constituted, rather, a severe penance, a means to an end which was not too apparent either to her parents or to her professors. Occasionally, a certain laxity and lassitude betrayed itself in her actions, even while she was in the gymnasium. Ordinarily, on the contrary, she displayed an energy, a grim intensity, which soon


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 carried her beyond the elements of the art, to gain the technique of which she was unswerving in her desire. Two considerations accounted for her relentless perseverance, her consistent attention to her masters' schooling: one, her long-since, selfconfessed adoration for Gunnar, to whom, in imagination, at any rate, she always felt near when she: stood in the room where he had lived and worked, and whom, if she did not expect, she certainly hoped to see return one day, to reappear in this spot which in a sense was sacred to his memory; the other, her ambition to do what he did as well as he did it.

One day her audible sighs caught and held the attention of the sympathetic and motherly Mrs. Hugo, who was beginning to feel for this child more than an ordinary amount of affection, now that she had been the means of introducing the brothers to an occupation which apparently would feed and clothe and house them indefinitely, for while the vaudeville world demanded fresh talent, young and agile limbs, every new decade, the academic world, the philosophical and scientific world, appeared to be open to them so long as they were able to indicate, however feebly, the proper gestures leading to the acquirement of this long and difficult art.

What is it, dearie? the good woman inquired.

Nothing, Consuelo replied, but she sighed again.


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 She was sitting, half-reclining, on the bench so often occupied by the brothers. She still retained the costume of her practice-hour and her usually pale face was flushed from exertion on the parallel bars. Outside, the day was bright and cold, and the sunlight invaded the great chamber, together with the chill, but Consuelo was oblivious to the sensations created by either.

When, she demanded plaintively, after a pause, will he come back?

Who, dearie?

Why, Gunnar, of course?

Hush, dear. We don't know where he is no more'n you do. He's gone away. He may never come back.

This adjuration reminded Consuelo unpleasantly of a similar remark that her mother had made, perhaps more naïvely, when she had asked news of a favourite uncle. Later, she had learned that the uncle was dead. Somehow, she did not feel at all convinced that Gunnar was dead, although certainly, this was the impression that Mrs. Hugo, however involuntarily, had conveyed. If Gunnar were dead, she assured herself on the testimony of her day-dreams, he would return to her in a vision, as a knight in silver armour, a spirit in mother-of-pearl mail, driving a chariot of fire. No, she could not but hold the unshakable belief that Gunnar would come back alive, come back, moreover, to this spot.


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 Nevertheless, she sighed again, remarking only. He will return.

At home, too, her melancholy was the occasion for comment. Laura was really more than usually anxious about the child, ascribing this new condition to the influence of those terrible acrobats.

Nonsense, George disagreed. They are doing her good. Consuelo never had colour before. She hasn't been seen reading a book for weeks. Something else must be the trouble. Perhaps she misses Emmeline Pinchon, or perhaps you are not feeding her properly, or perhaps it's the growing pains of adolescence.

Laura metaphorically threw up her hands and began to talk about a new house she had discovered in the proper district.

Never in the habit of confiding in her parents, Consuelo made no exception in this instance. They, on their part, refrained from asking her direct questions. They were, even George was, a little afraid of this prodigy that they called their daughter, a little alarmed by the burning mentality which seemed to consume her and keep her alive at the same time. Consuelo loved Eugenia after her fashion, but with her, too, she preserved a dignified silence. To her sister, indeed, Eugenia was only a child whose sympathy would be of small avail.

Once or twice she considered the advisability of a visit to Campaspe, but for some reason which she could not make clear even to herself she distrusted


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 Campaspe in this matter. Her instinct even told her that Campaspe had in some way been responsible for Gunnar's disappearance. She had heard, not without bitter astonishment and a deep feeling of resentment that she had not been present to beg him to stay, of Gunnar's sudden leap from the window of the supper-room at Mrs. Pollanger's, and it had not escaped her attention that some one had mentioned Campaspe's presence in the room at the time the evacuation occurred. No, she decided, it was better to struggle alone than to confide in Campaspe at this difficult juncture.

The child then was leading two lives, one in which she strengthened her muscles and acquired agility at the gymnasium of the Brothers Steel, another, in which she dreamed, fully awake, of her effulgent hero. She often fancied him coming for her, lifting her tenderly from her seat in the window and bearing her down a ladder of silken ropes to his waiting car, in which he whirled her swiftly away to an eternity of happiness. A second vision pictured his approach in an aeroplane, which skimmed near enough the earth to enable him to snatch her up to him for a journey of fierce joy through the skies.

And always these fantasies ended with the same self-assuring hope. He will return, and she would spread her arms wide, and whisper to the clouds that passed her window, Come back, Gunnar. I am waiting for you.


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As time passed, Paul fell so completely under the spell of the charm of the world of affairs that he seriously began to consider the advisability of following the general custom of taking on a mistress.

I mustn't be too marked, he averred to George Everest from the rich brown leather of a couch at the Moloch Club. Everybody else down here is keeping somebody and I seem to be out of it. John Armstrong warns me against stenographers. What do you say?

Well, old man, George roared back at him, what do you say?

Paul grinned. For the moment he was not prepared to say anything more. The idea, although it had been revolving vaguely in his head, had just assumed formal expression. The next day, however, he did not lunch at the club as usual, and a little later in the afternoon, Florizel Hammond reported that he had squinted at Paul in the company of a cutie at Fraunces' Tavern. Thereafter, Paul and his cutie became the subjects for a good deal of ribald gibing around Wall Street. They had been observed dining at Voisin's and the Crillon; they had been seen motoring on the Boston Post Road


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 at a late hour. Paul, indeed, it was beginning to be recognized, had at last become a regular business man.

Entering the Moloch Club one day, alone, he was greeted with applause.

Aren't you going to introduce us?

How's Delilah?

Growing up, eh? was Jack Draycott's interrogative comment, while Florizel Hammond burst into song:

The crowd took up the refrain. Even George Everest, busy at the ticker, managed to get in with

while one white-bearded old fellow whose paunch and buttocks occupied fully two-thirds of a broad couch, giving him the appearance of a prosperous Easter egg, bawled out in a deep bass that drowned all the others:

Paul received this bantering with disarming good-nature. It added, indeed, to his happiness, caus-


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 ing him to wonder whether it was business or his brunette which he preferred. One, assuredly, gave edge to the other; even his relations with Vera were now sufficiently oblique to interest him.

I hope it isn't a stenographer, Paul, John Armstrong hinted darkly. You know what I told you.

What does she do, anyway, Paul? Jack Draycott demanded.

Yes, what does she do? the crowd inquired in chorus.

Paul grinned. She paints, he replied.

Paints! Good God, they all do! Florizel howled. Paints! That's a good one! Another song had occurred to him:

Wintergreen Waterbury was not actually a painter. To be sure, she cherished ambitions, based on no known talents, to wield the brush, but her career, up to date, had been that of artists' model. She had frequently been heard to remark, however, while Harrison Fisher or Rolf Armstrong was engaged in making a replica of her pretty face, I could do that if I wanted to, or You'll have to get a new model soon, I'm going to open a studio of my own. A curious


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 fact was that, although her fresh, innocuous face, her even, white teeth, her saccharine smile, and her dark hair had graced the covers of half the popular magazines half-a-dozen times each, a state of affairs which convinced her that she was as celebrated in her own sphere as Gloria Swanson in hers, not one of the men in the Moloch Club had recognized her, notwithstanding the fact that her portrait had appeared on the very periodicals they were most in the habit of reading.

Born in a small Michigan town, the daughter of a local druggist, she owed her queer Christian name to the pungent, red berries which dot the moss-covered soil in the great pine-forests of that state. Her mother had always nourished a desire for these miniature fruits and, during the period of her daughter's gestation, she had cried out for them incessantly. In the last hours of her confinement she had screamed Wintergreen so lustily that it seemed predestined that the child should bear the name.

The mother had died in childbirth, and from that time on the father had neglected his profitable drug-business in order to indulge a secret conviction that he was a great inventor. Silas Waterbury's fantastic inventions—it will suffice to state that one of them was an extraordinary formula for metamorphosing grass into milk without the aid of a cow—came to nothing, and when the improvident druggist died, the heavy mortgages on such property as he apparently still possessed—he had borrowed


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 money right and left to provide funds whereby he might carry out his preposterous schemes—were immediately foreclosed, and Wintergreen found herself penniless. Without any discernible ability—she had never even learned how to cook properly—the girl, nevertheless, had her dreams. She had watched with envy the rapidly ascending star of an old school-friend, Lottie Coulter, much less favoured in the matter of looks than Wintergreen herself. Only two years previously Lottie had gone on the stage in New York, and already she had acted two parts with the Provincetown Players, had been invited to become a member of the Actors' Equity Association, and had had her picture published twice in the New York Morning Telegraph. It was at Lottie's behest, with Lottie's encouragement, that Wintergreen determined that she, too, would go to New York. To accomplish this purpose, she wrote to Lottie for money, and received a cheque for seventy-five dollars by return mail.

The re-encounter of the two friends was a trifle strained. Wintergreen discovered that her old schoolmate had changed considerably. Her manner was more easy, her conversation—so sprinkled was it with the current argot of Broadway—well-nigh incomprehensible. Lottie, on her part, wondered exactly what she could do with the fresh, green country girl who stood before her. For the moment she could do nothing less than invite her to share her apartment. This apartment, on West


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 Forty-ninth Street, offered abundant evidence of prosperity. Lottie explained to Wintergreen that she had furnished it with the profits of her two engagements with the Provincetown Players and, for the moment, until some of the greenness had worn away, Lottie considered it advisable to treat her old friend with circumspection, permitting her only such glimpses of her personal life as it seemed possible to surround with the requisite glamour of respectability. She need have made no exceptional effort in this direction. Wintergreen saw nothing irregular in the visits and conduct of the many young men who swarmed in and out of the place. For the rest, Lottie had warned them that they must keep their hands off the milkmaid.

For the moment, however, until she could be broken in, it was more convenient for Lottie to have Wintergreen out of the place a good part of the day, and she ransacked her brains and pestered her friends for a job for the druggist's daughter. It was difficult to arrive at a decision regarding the nature of this occupation, because, as has been stated, there was nothing that Wintergreen could do. Fortuitously, it was Wintergreen herself who solved the troublous problem. Thoroughly discouraged one day, she was a listless passenger on a Fifth Avenue bus. A man on the seat opposite her interrupted her confused reverie by accosting her politely and demanding if she were a model. At the moment she had not any very precise picture in


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 her mind of what a model really was. The gentleman—she could see that he was a gentleman, because he was so polite—persisted in his attentions, inviting her to visit his studio, suggesting that he would offer her the customary stipend in exchange for the artistic use of her body. In desperation, she agreed to accept his proposition, not, however, without certain misgivings. To compensate for these she forced herself to consider her employment merely in the light of a makeshift, something to do until she might discover a more suitable profession. What this might be she had never previously been able to decide, but posing gave her an inspiration: she would become a painter.

From the beginning, she refused point-blank to pose nude, but her face was so pretty, so completely free from expressiveness of any kind, her features so even and unintelligent, that she made a superb model for the girl's head which plays so important a rôle on the cover of the American magazine, and soon she was in great demand. It cannot be denied that her beauty also won her other compliments. Artists, and brokers she met in their studios, besieged her with their unwelcome attentions, but one after another soon tired of the quest and dropped her, although she continued to give satisfaction in her professional capacity. They dropped her for the best of all reasons, because, apparently, she was impossible to possess.

Paul met her one afternoon at Jerry Trude's


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 studio, whither he had repaired for cocktails. Struck at once by her dazzling appearance, he asked her to dine with him. Now, aside from her ruling passion, Wintergreen observed one other rule of conduct: she never refused food in whatever form it was offered. She had, therefore, been lunching or dining with Paul ever since, and had even consented to motor with him. She still, however, preserved her virginity, in every literal, physiological sense.

For Paul, her innate stupidity was part of her charm. It seemed to him that he had never before encountered any one who was stupid on so magnificent a scale. Even Amy and Vera would have lost the silver cup in any competition with this damsel. Paul held a theory about his peculiar taste for this sort of thing. He believed that he preferred to know women like Campaspe—was there, however, another?—as friends, but for a comfortable life with a wife or a mistress he invariably picked a moron.

One evening, after they had been acquainted for about a week, Paul determined to persuade this pretty lass to put herself to a more practical use on his account. He began the attack by ordering cocktails, doubles, moreover.

Wintergreen stared at him, wide-eyed, when the waiter set the brimming glasses before them.

You know I never drink, she expostulated.

Just one, tonight, he pleaded.

You wouldn't ask me to do that if you really re-


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 spected me, she whimpered. It seemed probable that she was about to cry. Wintergreen had the instinct of tears. Where other women were compelled to act their grief, it came quite naturally to this simple child of Michigan. If any untoward incident occurred, especially anything directed at the validity of that vague condition which she was pleased to define as the respect due her from men, her eyes immediately were flooded. Pressed, she began to moan. If matters went further, she bawled. This was the protection the good God had given her for the virtue she held most dear. There was something about the spectacle of Wintergreen Waterbury in noisy sorrow which corroded the lust in strong men's hearts. Hardened roues had backed away from a demonstration of it in disgust; half-hearted swains turned and ran away from it for half-a-mile or so before they summoned enough courage to look over their shoulders. Paul was aware of this idiosyncrasy and of its habitual effect on others. It was obvious that it might easily cause the permanent destruction of his own desire, and so he did not press the point of cocktails.

I ordered them both for myself, dear, he explained.

Wintergreen's gloom lifted at once. She did not appear to have the faintest notion that alcohol in another person foreboded any danger to herself. It is doubtful, indeed, if she were aware when a man


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 was drunk in her presence. Her stubborn theory in regard to liquor was limited to one axiom: drink, when consumed by young girls, invariably effected their downfall: Whether she had read this somewhere, or had been told, is not known. However that may be, she held the belief firmly.

Paul, who was patience itself when he had an object in view, did not relinquish the siege. Ona later occasion he ordered champagne. This beverage, curiously enough, she imbibed willingly, apparently under the impression that it was a variety of ginger ale—Paul had selected a particularly sweet brand. Nevertheless, she still remained recalcitrant. There seemed to exist in her some blind, preservative instinct which continued to protect her, even after the small quantity of wine she had swallowed began to make its effect. She permitted Paul to hold her in his arms, to kiss her respectfully; she even went so far as to call him Dearie once or twice, but she baulked when he experimented tentatively in more significant directions. Their relationship resembled a game, which, indeed, so far as Paul was concerned, was as amusing as, possibly more amusing than, any consummation could possibly be. Apparently, in Wall Street, he was known as the possessor of a highly desirable mistress; in artistic circles, where the girl's reputation for the maintenance of strict behaviour was celebrated, it was supposed that he had been successful where all others had failed. Paul was aware of these mis-


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 conceptions, and they added to the zest with which he pursued this unamorous phantom.

Wintergreen, on her side, was beginning to feel the need of a guide and confidante. So far, Lottie had not appealed to her as a sufficiently sympathetic listener, but there was no one else, and at last, one day, Wintergreen was inspired to recount to her some of the attentions Paul had paid her, concluding with. He's going to marry me.

Lottie, reclining on the bed, abruptly sat upright. Paul Moody! she exclaimed. Has he said so?

Why, no man would ever go so far with a girl as he has gone with me unless he wanted to marry her, would he? He loves me.

In your hat and over your ear! Has he said so?

Why, I kissed him!

You poor heel, you, was Lottie's comment. I don't know where you get 'em, if any.

Get what?

Brains, kid, brains. The tall blond can't marry you even if he wants to. He's married.

Married? Why didn't you tell me before? Wintergreen began to wail.

Well, for one thing, nitwit, because you only just this minute loosened up on his name.

But he'll divorce her to marry me!

Ha!

He will. You'll see! The girl was defiant. She had even stopped crying.


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 Has he said so?

No-o.

You poor, simple heel, you, how do you get that way? Somebody oughta crown you. Maybe that'd help.

Wintergreen began whimpering again. Why, what do you mean? she demanded.

I mean you gotta get wise. This ain't a boilermaker. These Wall Street johns can be trimmed.

Why, what do you mean? Wintergreen repeated.

Make him say something or do something.

I'm as pure as you are, Lottie Coulter! How dare you!

Snap it off, kid, snap it off. If you're as pure as I am you've got to go some. Don't you read the papers?

The papers? What papers? Wintergreen looked bewildered.

No papers, doll-baby, but the world knows the worst. My life's an open sewer.

Lottie!

I've reformed in a way, Lottie went on, rubbing the burning end of the stump of her cigarette against a plate which had held crackers, as she reflected that the hour for frankness had arrived. I've quit the hop for the junk.

The. . . ?

I've cut out lying on my hip and taken to inhaling the snow. . . . Waving away the demand for further explanation she foresaw would be forth-


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 coming, she hurried on, Well, let's leave that. Ancient history ain't any more important than the parsley on fish, but open your eyes, kid, open your eyes.

Wintergreen obeyed her literally.

We've got to get something on this guy, something juicy. Lottie lighted a new cigarette and puffed away thoughtfully. After a little, she continued. Then we'll have grounds for a breach of promise suit.

Wintergreen was incensed by this suggestion. He'll marry me, you'll see, she insisted.

May your children be acrobats! He'll marry Aunt Lottie sooner. But we'll prove that he wanted to marry you. To begin with you might scramble off that chaste lounge, and snatch a look at my pink taffeta. Do you know anything that'll take spots out? I spilled a whole dish of soup on it last night?

I've heard that ether. . ..

Snap it off, kid. If I had any ether I'd drink it.

In the Moloch Club at this moment, Florizel Hammond, who had a fancy for old English ditties, was singing:


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In the days following Mrs. Pollanger's party, Campaspe fell prey to a mood which she uncharacteristically found impossible to shake off. She was thinking, more passionately than ever before, about herself, and her thoughts were black. Gunnar had leaped from the window to avoid her, of that there could be no reasonable doubt, and equally beyond question was the fact that this act bound her inextricably to him until they met again. His escape could not serve to free her; on the contrary, she was imprisoned by it. Looking back, she was reminded that it was the first time in her life she had experienced this unpleasant sensation. However that might be, she was experiencing it now—was no one ever secure, she was beginning to wonder?—and it was extremely disagreeable. She foresaw, indeed, a long period of revolting, and entirely uncustomary, perturbation ahead of her, unless she re-encountered Gunnar. And after? Well, whatever happened then, she readily admitted to herself, depended, precariously, on circumstances. She no longer felt any power within herself strong enough to protect her under certain conditions. With her brain she assured herself that she could still hold


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 herself aloof from him, as she had succeeded, without any conscious effort, in holding herself aloof from other men, but her instinctive desire was so fervid that she did not know what she might do if she met him; she could not know. An unreasoning passion controlled her: her will was crumbling. At present, she was fully aware, she half-belonged to some one else, a state of affairs which she did not condone—rather, she loathed it—but over which, in the circumstances, she held no sway, nor could she anticipate any hope of recovery from this abhorrent emotional ailment save through a providential coincidence that would bring Gunnar before her eyes again. He had obviously run away. A man who would jump out of a window to evade a danger, at best only potential, was perfectly capable of jumping into a river or an ocean to conclusively end his panic. The simpler expedient of putting an ocean between him and the object of his fright might also have occurred to him. The consequence of the situation was that Campaspe hovered between a state of rude impatience and a feeling of impotence that possessed her with a tormenting rage. That her happiness should rest thus, even temporarily, in another's keeping was sufficient cause to infuriate her. She coveted then, with an eager ardour, this opportunity for one more meeting which—and on this point she was firmly determined—should ultimately settle the terms of their relationship.

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 her greatest solace through passing her time with Lalla Draycott. Lalla was as free from emotions, she took life as nonchalantly, as a grue in a French farce. Lalla's one interest centred in out-door sports. Every morning, accompanied by her bloodhound, Anubis, she rode in the park on a black stallion called Murder. At the proper seasons, in localities where the sport was possible and fashionable, she indulged in fox-hunting. She attended football and baseball games, and race-meets, and played golf and tennis. She knew the names of every celebrity mentioned in the sporting-pages of the newspapers. She could talk about Paavo Nurmi, Georges Carpentier, Jack Dempsey, Vincent Richards, or Epinard for an entire day without stopping, if any one would listen, whereas it is doubtful if she knew whether Anatole France was President of the Swiss Republic or a member of the Irish Parliament. She went to all the prize-fights and wrestling-matches in Madison Square Garden, usually occupying ringside seats. She enjoyed a bowing acquaintance with Tex Rickard. No horseor dog-show ever opened without her presence. She wore mannish suits and smoked little cigars especially made for her.

Jack Draycott, thoroughly sympathetic with his wife's tastes, was her constant companion. Now, Campaspe had assumed the habit of going along too. She revived her long-forgotten custom of riding in the park. She again took up ice-skating,


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 a smart diversion in New York this winter, at which she had once been an adept. The names of Gene Tunney, Abe Goldstein, Luis Angel Firpo, Tiger Flowers, Harry Wills, and Joe Lynch rolled easily off her tongue. She plunged whole-heartedly into this, to her, unfamiliar milieu in an effort the sooner to forget something she was finding it annoyingly difficult to forget. There was, however, another and even better reason for her avaricious adoption of the sporting life. She had the feeling that if she found Gunnar anywhere it would be in this environment. She never entered the ice-palace without anxiously scanning the faces of the instructors and the star-skaters. She never settled back to watch a prize-fight until she had assured herself that she was unacquainted with the features of the pugilists.

One morning—she had attended one of these bouts with Jack and Lalla the night before and gone out to supper afterwards—waking late, she was informed at once by Frederika that several pressing messages on the part of the Countess Nattatorrini had been delivered over the telephone. Campaspe immediately communicated with the Ritz. A strange voice explained that a nurse was speaking. The Countess was extremely ill; she had expressed a desire to see Mrs. Lorillard. Could she come at once? Mrs. Lorillard affirmed that she would be at the bedside as soon as she could dress, say in three-quarters of an hour.


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 Opening the door of the Countess's apartment at the appointed time, the nurse drew it nearly closed behind her and stepped out into the corridor.

I am so glad that you could come, Mrs. Lorillard, she began. The Countess is dying. The doctor, who has just gone, informs me that there is no hope. Last night she seemed better and we thought there might be a chance, but that faded away at dawn. The Countess is very much concerned because the priest has not arrived. I have telephoned for him twice, and was told, the second time, that he had not yet left the house. I thought if you would sit with her for a few moments I would go to fetch him. Her maid left several days ago, fearing infection. You know how cowardly French maids are. The Countess's malady is not infectious. There is nothing to do but just sit with her. Perhaps she may ask for something. Give her anything she wants. It doesn't matter now: nothing can hurt her any longer. She is conscious, but slightly delirious: she suffers from curious delusions. You will not, I hope, she concluded, gazing searchingly at Campaspe, find it too horrible.

Shaking her head, Campaspe quickly agreed to substitute for the nurse at the bedside of the dying woman, and as Miss Cottrell adjusted a blue cloak over her white uniform, Campaspe passed on through the salon into the sick-chamber. An overpowering scent harassed her nostrils, a nauseating confusion of some disinfectant with two floral


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 odours which she detested. Clusters of white violets and stalks of tuberoses filled vases which stood on every available flat surface. The Countess, wasted by age and disease, lay on the bed. Her hair, usually so carefully arranged by the hairdresser, was combed straight back and bound loosely. Her eyes now stared unseeingly, now burned with a fierce and penetrating concentration on the object towards which they were directed. Her false teeth had been removed and, as a consequence, her cheeks were sunken hollows. When she saw Compaspe the old woman burst into tears. The nurse was right: it was horrible!

Why didn't you let me know that you were ill? Campaspe demanded.

I didn't want to bother you, Campaspe, the dying woman gasped. At first it was difficult to comprehend her, as her articulation was much affected by her lack of teeth. I didn't believe I was very sick, and I didn't want to bother you. . . . One long, bony claw clutched convulsively at the bed-covering. . . . Now I am no worse, no worse. . . Her voice rose to a shrill shriek which indicated that she would brook no denial. . . but I am so lonely, so lonely. . . . She was whimpering. . . I want a priest, and where is my sister Lou?

Shall I send for her, Ella? Campaspe inquired.

Has no one sent for her, my sister Lou?

Seated before the desk, Campaspe removed a


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 bowl of white violets, and sought a telegraph form. What is her address? she queried.

The Countess gave her this information, and while Campaspe indited the message, lay back gasping. After the boy had called to take it, she mumbled, May I have a glass of water, Campaspe? Where is Miss Cottrell?

She's gone on anerrand. She'll be back directly'll get the water for you.

Why isn't she here? She should be here. I don't like to ask you to wait on me. The Countess was querulous.

Campaspe handed her the water. I'm only too glad to wait on you, dear Ella. I'll do anything you want done.

The bony claw continued to pluck the coverlet. A writhing shudder shook the skeleton lying under the bed-clothes. A hideous, glassy stare came into the eyes of the old woman, and she began to mutter, her lips gradually forming words, until, as she went on, eventually they gushed forth in a torrent. Wicked. . . Yes. . . Wicked. . . I have been. . . a very wicked. . . woman, Campaspe. Will God. . . Will God. . . forgive me, I wonder? How will he punish me? Yet, I meant. . . I meant it. . . to be all right. I was searching. . . searching. . . searching. I had a lantern, and they put it out. I lighted a candle and it was extinguished. They took it away


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 from me. They took everything away from me. . . She sat upright. Campaspe, on the bed beside her, supported the poor, feeble frame. The Countess was for the moment, apparently, unaware of her presence. . . . Cyril! she cried. You here! You've come back to me! You're sorry you left me? You won't go away again, will you? You'll stay with me now and make me happy! Tony, too! . . . Terror coloured the old woman's tones. . . You've all returned! she shrieked, trying to cover her face with her palms, but lacking the strength to lift her arms. All! Albert! Fernand! Gareth! Edgar! You're all here! Tell them to go away, Campaspe! Tell them to go away!

There, there, dear, be quiet. There's nobody here but me. Campaspe smoothed the sallow, fevered brow. The Countess, exhausted, sank back, her head once more cradled in the pillow. The tears flowed down her cheeks. I tried so hard to be happy, she sobbed. I wanted so much to be happy, only happy. I never did any one harm. But they all went away and left me alone. I cannot bear to be alone. Do you think God will forgive me for desiring just a little happiness?

I'm sure he will, dear. Campaspe continued to stroke the calid forehead.

My God, why have you made me suffer so much? Why have you denied me the happiness that others


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 enjoy? Why have you made me a wanderer on the face of the earth, searching, for ever searching? Thy rod and thy staff did not comfort me. My cup was always empty. My days were numbered. . . . Fierce anger dominated her now. . . . I've had nothing, nothing. . . . The bony claw convulsively clutched, clutched.

Her manner suddenly changed. Campaspe, she cajoled, open the drawer of that desk.

Campaspe obeyed her.

The photograph! The photograph! Her impatience was almost obscene.

In a Russian leather case Campaspe found the picture, taken in Nice, of a blond boy of radiant beauty, playing tennis. He reminded her of Hadrian's Bithynian Antinoüs, a classic Greek lad in white flannels.

Give it to me! Give it to me! the Countess screamed, snatching the case from Campaspe's proffering hand as soon as she could reach it.

Luigi! Luigi! she cried, kissing the photograph. I loved you! I love you still. How could you leave me, like all the others? Why were you, too, unfaithful to my dream? Did God take you away from me? I hate God! I hate God! I hate God!

Her words once more became an indistinguishable muttering; the photograph slipped from her fingers and lay, face downwards, on the coverlet. At last, the Countess was silent.


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 Presently, in a weaker voice, she inquired, Where is the priest?

He's coming in a moment, dear. Try to be patient.

I've been patient so long. I've waited and waited. I've not been so very wicked, after all, Campaspe. All I wanted was a little happiness, just once, that's all, just once. It was so little to ask, and yet God wouldn't give it to me. Will he forgive me, Campaspe? Where is the priest?

Coming, coming, dear.

Suddenly the expression in the senile, worn-out features altered. Weary lassitude gave way to a grisly leer. How do I know, she pondered aloud, but that this may be God's kindness? Perhaps he has held it in reserve until now. The priest is coming. Perhaps he. ..

The Countess, with her sunken cheeks, her staring eyes, the balls covered with a film, her clutching claws, was very terrible now. Campaspe grasped the arms of her chair tightly.

Campaspe, my teeth! I must have my teeth!

Campaspe discovered them in a tumbler of water on the ledge of the wash-basin in the bathroom. She carried the plates to the bedside.

My teeth! Campaspe, quick! The priest is coming. My teeth! My teeth!

Campaspe adjusted the plates in the vacant jaw.

My make-up, Campaspe! My lipstick! My


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 rouge! My powder! Be quick! The priest is coming. Hasten!

Campaspe found the cosmetics in a dresserdrawer. Again she approached the bedside, but this time she faltered.

Make me up, Campaspe! Make me up! God is sending me a priest, a young, beautiful priest! Make me up!

Campaspe applied the rouge and powder to the wasted cheeks. She touched the brows and lashes with a blue pencil. She painted the lips a deep carmine.

My hair, Campaspe! My hair!

Campaspe combed the thin, white hair, and attempted to arrange it more becomingly.

Flowers, Campaspe! Strew the bed with flowers!

Campaspe cast stalks of fragrant tuberoses on the coverlet. Raising great clusters of white violets in her two hands, she scattered them on the bed.

My mirror! My mirror! With an amazing amount of energy, the Countess sat up again and regarded her reflection in the glass with obvious satisfaction. I am young again, she cried. Am I not young again, Campaspe?

You are marvellous, Campaspe assured her, but after one glance at the wreck before her, gruesome in this ghastly make-up, horrible in its wild expression of forlorn and ungratified lust, she turned her head away.


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 The outer door was heard to open. The aged woman gazed expectantly in the direction from which the caller must approach. The mirror she permitted to drop from her relaxed fingers to the floor, where it splintered into a thousand fragments.

The nurse entered, followed by the holy father. Even in dying, the Countess Ella Nattatorrini was doomed to disappointment. The priest was an old man.


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The end of April found New York still cold and bleak. The buds on the trees were bursting and the birds were returning from the south because it seemed the proper season for these changes to take place, not because the buds and birds had received any encouragement from the elements. The sun refused to show his face for whole days and frosty winds blew chill rains up and down the streets. The result was that New Yorkers, who usually at this time of year began to suffer nostalgia for Europe or Maine, withdrew into their houses and huddled before active fireplaces, while they considered the advisability of another trip to Palm Beach or Havana.

To Campaspe, who seldom travelled in any direction, the weather was not a matter of any great moment. Her harassed state of mind was due to another cause. It seemed incredible to her that a man could destroy her habitual tranquillity, even temporarily, by leaping from a window, and yet it was patent that he had done so. There was, it would seem, sufficient diversion in the human scene to occupy her attention this spring, more, apparently, than usual, but every effort she made to direct


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 her thoughts into more objective thoroughfares in some way or other led back to Gunnar. It was a good deal like taking a stroll in Venice: in whichever direction you sauntered, no matter how many corners you turned, or how careful you were to walk directly away from it, invariably, sooner or later, you turned up in the Piazza San Marco.

Paul, for instance, and his adventure in Wall Street, which had led him into the arms of a girl with the extraordinary name of Wintergreen Waterbury, obviously would repay investigation. Under ordinary circumstances Campaspe would have requested her friend to bring the model to tea so that she might examine her at closer range. Now she felt listless, uninterested, in the matter, save for her holding the curious, subconscious belief that it was through Gunnar that Paul had met Wintergreen. Gareth had reminded her that one pebble tossed into a still pool would create an ever-widening series of circles. Well, here the phenomenon was being enacted before her eyes. Other strange results of the maddening young man's peculiarly magnetic influence were to be noted in Consuelo's passion for instruction in the realm of acrobatics and in the successful launching of Miss Pinchon's amazing school. Of these, too, at the moment, it was impossible for Campaspe to reflect without pain. Only by a sort of double feat of mental ingenuity was she able to realize with what amusement she might regard this experiment on the part of the governess had it come


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 about otherwise. In her present uncomfortably agitated mood she could derive no pleasure from a consideration of it, although it was obvious that contemplation of the project offered the most vital elements for cynical enjoyment. Pinchon's Prophylactic Plan, indeed, had assumed an international significance. Prospective pupils were arriving from Europe, Indiana, and California by every ship and train, each nourishing the practical intention of winning a diploma by means of which they might carry the secrets of the Plan into their own particular camps. A very celebrated philosophical writer had manifested his interest in the institution by introducing encomiastic references to it in his lectures. It was rumoured that Havelock Ellis had written a letter of query in regard to it. In the pleasant breeze created by this spreading fan of recognition Miss Pinchon had been obliged to provide larger quarters and to engage new professors both for the philosophical and physical departments. George Everest, it appeared, would probably earn large dividends from his initial investment of one thousand dollars.

One afternoon, returning from a drive to Great Neck with Lalla, who had gone out with the purpose of inspecting some English sheep-dogs in a kennel there, Campaspe, seated before the fireplace in her drawing-room, considered these matters. She had not changed her dress since she had come in and still wore a dark-green velvet suit, cut in a severe tailored


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 fashion, with a small, moss-coloured straw cloche, devoid of ornament. Attempting to apply her mind to the inspection of these topics which would have interested her so much at any other time, it seemed to her that the logs in the fire were assuming the attitudes of acrobats about to undertake some difficult feat. In her imagination the andirons metamorphosed themselves into the supporting bases for a taut wire, and the clock on the mantelpiece ticked, without cessation, Gun-nar! Gun-nar! Gun-nar!

With a great effort of the will she induced her mind to consider another incident, that of the death of Ella Nattatorrini. How difficult it had proved to invent, without preparation, a history which might be retailed safely to Lou Poore! She had in no adequate manner sensed in advance what this sister would be like; somehow she hadn't thought about it at all, but when she saw the poor, simple, frail, old lady standing before her, she was cognizant at once of the fact that this wgs the kind of person who must be regaled with a suitably sympathetic deathbed story. Campaspe had risen magnificently to the occasion, had described the Countess calling to have the windows opened so that she might believe she were in Iowaeonce more, had recounted how, propped up against the pillows, Ella had imagined she stood once again in the fields of waving corn; then, how she had uttered her father's name twice, and had asked for her sister just before she expired. The poor old lady had thanked her,


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 weeping softly, and had departed happy, or as happy as any one could be made by a deathbed story. Campaspe wondered, indeed, if the death of the Countess under these glamorous conditions were not calculated to make Lou happier even than she had been while her sister lived. Lou must always instinctively have resented the living Ella. Sympathetically, as well as geographically, they must have dwelt thousands of leagues apart. It was only in death, as a matter of fact, that Lou possessed Ella once more as a sister. Now, probably, she would create for herself a legend of a great love. The real scene, what had actually occurred, on the other hand, belonged to Campaspe alone, and was inextricably complicated and confused in her mind with the thought of her own great desire.

She lifted another log from the copper sugarkettle which held the supply and laid it on the fire almost reverently, as though she were offering a sacrifice to the gods. Outside, she was aware, the clouds were breaking and the drizzle had ceased. The creaking and rattling of the casements, however, gave evidence that a high wind was blowing.

The clock in the process of striking five was interrupted by the faint, far-away tinkle of the doorbell. Presently, Campaspe heard Frederika softly making her way along the hallway towards the street entrance. She did not wish to see anybody, but her lassitude was so complete that she lacked the force to warn Frederika that she was not at


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 home. She remained, therefore, quietly gazing into the fire, as she listened to the opening and closing of the door. Now she sensed a presence in the room, but even so she did not yet turn her head. There followed a considerable pause before her visitor spoke.

I have come back, she heard a breaking voice announce.

Still she did not turn her head. How thankful she was that she had not turned it before! She waited, perhaps ten seconds, employing all the will at her command in a supreme effort to regain her composure. Then she spoke—and how hollow and unreal her voice sounded to her!

Yes. How do you do? At last, she risked a glance. How pitiful he was, with agony sketched across his features! The glance performed the miracle she had been praying for. She might have known that she could count on that. Confronted by his distress, her own peace of mind returned in some degree. She even rose, advanced towards him, and clasped his hand.

Please. . . sit down, she invited.

He did not accept her invitation. He remained standing; he was not, she observed, even looking in her direction.

I have fought like ten million devils, he stammered, but it's no good. I love you. He made this announcement in a tone of the deepest despair.

I think I love you, too, Gunnar, Campaspe re-


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 sponded. Then she celebrated an astonishing ceremony. Pressing his temples between her palms, she kissed him on the forehead. Cluttering into an arm-chair, the young man held his hands before his eyes and wept.

I think, Campaspe continued, softly, that you will have a good deal to tell me. . . . With her hand she touched him gently on the shoulder, but she did not try to comfort him with words. . . . This is scarcely the place. At this hour we may be interrupted. Later I have people coming to dinner. If you don't mind we'll go out.

Gunnar nodded a weary acquiescence. Campaspe rang.

Frederika, she ordered, telephone Ambrose to bring the car around immediately. Mr. and Mrs. Draycott and Mr. Hammond are coming to dine at eight. If I have not returned, ask them to sit down without me. Explain to them that I have been detained.

Yes, madame. What dress shall I lay out?

It doesn't matter. Campaspe was impatient. Then an inspiration came to her. The silver, Frederika, she said.

Heavy, purple clouds again masked the sky and shut the light from the New York streets. The room was in almost total darkness save for the glow from the fire. The two sat in absolute silence. Not a word was spoken, not a glance exchanged, during the ten minutes they waited for the car.


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 When, at last, Ambrose was announced, Campaspe said quietly, Come, and Gunnar rose and followed her.

She whispered a direction to the chauffeur before she settled back into her seat. As Ambrose started the car, she peered at Gunnar. His face, still preserving somehow that inexplicable effulgent aureole which seemed mystically to illuminate his countenance, wore, she thought, the most utterly despondent expression she had ever observed on human features. And quite suddenly, she began to breathe naturally again, aware that by some magic accident she was released, free once more, at any rate her own, and no one else's, able to deal with the situation, with any situation, able again to lead her own special, personal life. On and on they drove in the closed car, Ambrose directing it straight ahead towards their mysterious destination. Now and again, she patted Gunnar's hand, but still no word was spoken. Presently, the purple clouds burst and whips of rain lashed the windows. At last, on a side street off Riverside Drive, the automobile drew up before a frame house of modest size, set back some distance on a broad lawn. Ambrose raised an umbrella to protect the pair from the downpour as he escorted them through the gate up the walk to the house. On the porch, Campaspe inserted a key in the lock, opened the door, and led Gunnar into a dark hallway. Pressing a button she caused a red globe, which depended on a chain from


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 the ceiling, to glow with light. The pair ascended the stairs. On the second storey she took a turn down the corridor, passing several closed doors, until she selected one which she opened. Again she pressed a button.

They stood in a bedroom, furnished neatly, simply. The wall-paper was the shade of ivory, spattered symmetrically with sprigs of blue flowers. Curtains of dotted swiss hung before the windows. The bed, covered with a white counterpane, embroidered in blue and rose, the reniform dresser, laid out with all necessary toilet articles, the chest of drawers, and the chairs were all of birds'-eye maple.

Sit down, Gunnar, Campaspe urged.

He accepted a chair. There was another formidable pause. Campaspe had seated herself on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. She extracted a cigarette from her case and struck a match.

Now, she said, exhaling a whiff of smoke of the hue of the moonstone, tell me why you have come back, and why you went away.

You know the answer to both those questions, Gunnar replied.

It would be better, perhaps, if you began at the beginning, Campaspe suggested.

Gunnar supported his head in his interlocked hands against the back of his chair. Once more Campaspe sensed an eerie impression of a halo. After he began to speak she scarcely once removed


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 her direct gaze from his face. Gunnar's eyes, on the contrary, shifted away from this close scrutiny. At first, his speech was halting and low, but as his feeling for his narrative grew warmer, he spoke faster and louder.

Well then, he said, I must begin before I was born. My father, John Aloysius O'Grady is an Irishman and a most remarkable man. He married Beata Fuchs, an Austrian Jewess, who is an equally remarkable woman. Neither relinquished their religion. My father has remained a Catholic to this day, and my mother continues to observe the faith of her race in the synagogue. Singularly enough, in the face of this friendly disagreement in regard to their religious beliefs, they were able to agree on a much more difficult question, the rearing of their offspring.

My father had long since made the acute observation that whether children were brought up strictly or leniently by their parents the gods were ironically indifferent. One boy, prepared for all the pitfalls of life, fell into all the snares and traps he had been so carefully warned to avoid; another boy, reared in precisely the same manner, heeded the warning. Or, in the opposite instance, a lad, whose parents neglected to acquaint him with any of the perils of life, somehow managed, quite unconsciously, to walk around the danger spots and remain innocent until the day he died, while another, with an exactly similar background, spent his youth with


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 loose women, drank to excess, dabbled in drugs, and at fifty suddenly collapsed in the street and was carried off to a hospital. Life, indeed, certainly so far as the raising of children was concerned, appeared to be a vicious circle. My father passed a good many of his early years in communion with the philosophers, a pernicious habit in which, two decades later, I futilely followed him. They taught him nothing. At the end of this period, however, through a long process of reasoning which I shall not detail to you, he became convinced that parents, through the very personal nature of their interest, were entirely unfitted to bring up their own children. Shortly after he had arrived at this radical conclusion he invented his extraordinary plan which offered the further advantage of removing any possibility of argument in regard to the religious faith in which his children were to be reared. When the plan was broached to my mother she immediately consented to its adoption. This agreement was reached when my eldest sister Dagmar was two years old.

Three years later, when Dagmar was five, an age at which she could walk and talk and think and was about to begin her quest of worldly knowledge, my father gave her in charge to a sterile couple who had long desired to possess a child. These foster-parents were only selected after a great deal of preliminary study—many excellent offers were rejected. The investigations, however, were conducted


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 through the medium of a third person. An ineluctable rule of my father's system stipulated that foster-parents and actual parents should never meet. A clause was inserted, however, to the effect that the contract should come to an end when Dagmar attained her twenty-first year, that is, she should then be informed of the state of affairs and should choose for herself whether to live with one or the other couple, or both, at intervals, or neither. This plan was followed in every detail, without variation, with four more children.

Five years ago, when I reached my majority, I was invited to join my parents and learn the facts that I have just related to you in abbreviated form. My sister Dagmar, now one of the foremost scientists of Germany—you doubtless are acquainted with her book dealing with the spiritual identity of the circle and the square—learned them two years before me. As for my brothers and sisters who still remain in ignorance of their paternity, it may be said that they, too, have already in a measure justified the experiment. Cécile has made her début as a violinist and her hand has been sought in marriage by a French gentleman of the highest social standing. Giuseppe is one of the leaders of the Fascisti—you may have observed his name in the papers. As for Zimbule. ..

Zimbule! Campaspe echoed, stupefied. Zimbule O'Grady!

Yes, the actress whom the New York dramatic