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 CHAPTER

III

THe party was a Bingo. Before midnight that had been settled to the satisfaction of everyone. The music, good at the outset, soon become irresistible. (A drink all around every seven numbers was the Fentriss prescription for the musicians; expensive but worth it.) The punch was very special. Several of its masculine devotees had already faded, and one girl had been quietly spirited to an upper room, there to be disrobed and despirited. ‘There was much drifting in and out of the French windows to the darkness of the lawn, and plaintive inquiries for missing partners were prevalent. Lovely, flushed, youthful, regnant in her own special queendom, Mona Fentriss sat in the midst of a circle of the older men, bandying stories with them in voices which were discreetly lowered when any cf the youngsters drew near. It was the top of the time. Upstairs in her remote bed Patricia sat with her pillows banked behind her, her knees propping her chin, her angry eyes staring into the dark. The strong rhythms of

the

music,

barbaric,

excitant,

harshly

sensuous,

throbbed upward, stirring her to dim and uninterpretable hungers. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” she whispered in shivering wrath. She had been banished from even the earliest part of the festivities. It was mean. It was rotten. It was stinkin’ rotten. Why should she. be treated so? She wasn’t a baby. She wouldn’t stand it! B9

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text: Manual of the New Zealand Flora/Lentibularieæ

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text: Index:Mortimer J. Adler - Dialectic.pdf

title: Index:Mortimer J. Adler - Dialectic.pdf


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 Ararat, and Job stayed below to paw a toad. The little white rose followed me all over the lattice, and seemed to creep after me; it has a golden heart, and such a scent as I cannot describe; it is the kind of sweetness that makes you not want to talk about it. The electric light in the street was out, for this suburb, being of an economical turn of mind, never competes with the moon. There was moon enough—oh, there was enough, I think, for the whole world! For, when that happened which did happen, it seemed to me as if the whole world were looking at me.

As I sat, quite by myself, in Ararat, behind the vines, all flecked with leaf-shadows and flower-shadows (and thinking how pretty shadows are on white dresses and on bare hands and a little bit of your arm), I heard Job's tail hit the foot of the tree-house steps. And as I looked, it began to wag in the most unpardonable manner. Then I knew what had happened, and my heart leaped in my body like a live creature that had been caught in a trap. My lips moved, but they were as dry as a dead, red maple-leaf; my words refused me, and there could n't have been a rose in the garden as red as my cheeks, for I felt as if I could have died of fear and joy, and of shame because I felt joy. There is something


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 terrible about joy. It does n't seem to mind any of the other emotions.

"Do not be frightened," he said quite gently. "It is only I."

It was only he. It was only the only person in the world who could have frightened me, out there in Ararat in my father's garden, at more than half-past eleven by the June moon.

He came up the tree-house steps, tramping steadily, and he made no more apology for his behavior than the moon did, or the west wind, which, by now, had begun to stir and rise.

"You intrude, Mr. Herwin," I said. "Since you do, I must go into the house."

"Presently," he said serenely. But I looked up into his eyes, and I saw that he was not serene. And he stood between me and the treehouse steps. And I said:

"Let me pass, sir!"

"In a minute, Marna."

"Let me pass this minute!"

"My beautiful!"

"You presume, Mr. Herwin, and take a liberty."

"Perhaps I do. I beg your pardon. Go into the house, if you will."

He stepped back. I moved to go down the tree-house steps, but I tripped over something


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 »

FLAMING YOUTH

from: bal She ran to ber tumbled clathes,

begar

This was gress Widlatien of the Bw of the heehee Bet Pat was desmeratan.

~Seketing a pik Ghaer dees

rather Wigh<nt for Dea, she bed BR agaiest ber bal

Gerelopged bady, Geeided that Etweeld da, ran back with _ ber beaty te ber own dea. Potting 3 en befere the glass she became uxplkasantiy camscieas af several pimples en ber fam. She was abrays having pimples! The ethers — weer had them. She wandered why, reentioli. Shed — she pick the ome at the sdk ef her mae? Or wood that ©

enly make & the mere emightiy?

She deeded fer the

berere method, performed a chomey egeratien SRA a Pla, and perceived at ence thet she must hare some powder This time B was Comek’s ream that se invaded, and

wine she was abeat & she found and added a teeck of ealenr. Jt was by me means the height of artistry, bat Pat apprered § as emimentiy satisfactery, She Gi zat whelly appreve Dee's dresx. Tiere was tee mack of RB ta Impertant spets She meditated padding, bet did net Knew how Rowas dem. Qr—dared ste ge back and get &@ scanter freck? Contemplating ber bepish ceatears she realicdl that 2 woekd aot da “Fist Mie a heard.” she metiered Gaparagiagin.

“Ba

danched all in th wren placea™ That the cown which Gtted Dee's cender strength te

perfection showld oppress Pat acress her reand tile stomach, streck her as an unjest infictien of fata, instead ef the proper pemalty of chetteay, which Ro was The maltreated pimple—another Sgn and symbol of her ez restrain appetite still Ned a tile and was ebrieadly angry. She staenched Et impatientiy. The others, de

Gecded, woukd de as they wera Nod unsbilifelip che

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 it was Job; for Job had forgotten his toad, and he had come up into Ararat, wiggling and waggling at the secretary, and he took my dress in his teeth to shake it the way he does, and that tripped me, and I fell.

I should have gone clear down the tree-house steps, the whole length, but he caught me. And when he had caught me he did not let me go.

"I will not take it," he said, between his teeth. And he went as white as the moon. "You shall give it to me."

"I will never give it to you!" I cried.

"What if I held you here until you did?"

"I should hate and abhor you."

"You could n't hate me."

"When you speak like that, I despise you."

"No, you don't; you love me."

"I wish you a very good evening, Mr. Herwin."

"I wish you to be my wife, Miss Trent."

"I must decline the honor, sir."

"But I decline the declination You love me!"

"Do you think it is proper—keeping a girl out here at midnight, this way?"

"We will make it proper. We will tell the whole world to-morrow morning. I will wake your father up and tell him now, if you say so."


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3]

touched the area around them with little dabs of Mme. Lablanche’s Rose-skin. “I’m going to have one dance,” she decided, “if they send me to jail.” The back stairs and a side window gave her unobserved exit to the odorous shelter of a syringa. “Til wait until I can catch Bobs,” she ruminated.

“He’ll

dance with me—old bear! But first I'll do a little scouting.” She peeked into the big living room where most of the dancing was in progress. As was invariably the rule at Holiday Knoll, men held the superiority of numbers, and therefore, girls that of position. Every girl had a partner. To the ungrown waif outside of fairyland the dancers seemed ethereal beings, moving in a radiant and unattainable world. How beautifully the girls were dressed! How attractive the men looked! “I wish I was pretty,” mourned Pat. She thought forlornly of her blotchy skin. “I never will be, though.” Then she recalled the deep, eager lustre of her eyes as seen in the glass, and how one of the boys at school had once made awkward and admiring phrases about them. She had not liked that particular boy, but she was grateful for the phrases. Maybe if she paid more attention to herself she might come to be attractive like her lovely mother. No; that was too much to hope; never like her mother, nor like Constance, who was just then whirled

by in the arms of one of the New York guests, all aglow with languorous triumph, easily the beauty of the party. Perhaps like Dee. Lots of men were crazy about Dee. Would any man ever be crazy about her, wondered Pat. . . . Wouldn’t she look a smear if she did venture on the floor among all those human flowers? She left her window to prow! further.

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The glass door of the breakfast room gave her a view of the proceedings within. Sprawled upon the tiles five of the youthful local element were intent upon the dice which one of them had just rolled toward a central heap of silver and bills. “Seven! I lose again,” said the thrower cheerily. “Who'll stand for hiking the limit to a dollar?” Opposite Pat’s vantage point sprawled Selden Thorpe, son of the local rector. Pat knew they had not much means and, marking the pale, strained face of the boy, wished with misgivings that he wouldn’t. The misgivings vanished when she heard him say: “T’m an easy hundred ahead so I can’t kick. Let ’er go.”

She stepped back into the darkness to round the conservatory wing and brushed the mudguard of a lightless limousine. <A girl’s voice strained, tremulous, and laughing lent caution to her retreating steps; but she stopped within listening distance. “Don’t, Freddie! Till have to go in if you ? “Oh, come, Ada!

Be a sport.”

“Do behave yourself. Get me another drink.” “All right.” As the man stepped out, Pat shrank behind the car. She had recognized the girl’s voice as that of Ada Clare, who had the reputation of being an indiscriminate “necker.” Pat passed on. But that whisper from within the limousine, with its defensive, nervous,

eager, stimu-

lated effect, troubled the eavesdropper with strange, disturbing surmises. She wanted, yet feared to return and wait until Fred Browning, a man of thirty, well-liked in the neighbourhood, not the less perhaps because of his reputation as a “goer,” came back with the desired drink. What would be the next step in the unseen drama? A little stir of fear drove Pat onward. She stopped

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33

abruptly at the end of the conservatory as she heard her mother’s voice within. “Oh, Sid, dear! I almost wish I hadn’t told you.” Sid!

That was Sidney Rathbone, a Baltimorean, much

given to running over for week-ends. To Pat’s mind he was stricken in years, being nearly forty, but the most distinguished looking (thus her mentally italicised characterisation) person she had ever seen and distantly adored. Furthermore there was a quietly knightly devotion in his attitude toward the beautiful Mrs. Fentriss which enlisted the submerged romanticism of the child’s mind. Now she hardly recognised the usually smooth and gentle tones characteristic of him as he replied: “My God, Mona! I can’t believe it. I won’t believe “Poor boy! It’s true, though.” “What does Osterhout know about it! He’s no diagnostician. You must come to Baltimore and see Finney or EKarle——” “It’s no use.” What Rathbone next said the listener could not make out, but Mona answered very gently: “No, Sid, dear. Notagain. That’s allover. I couldn’t now. You understand.” And then the man’s broken

voice: “Yes;

I understand, dearest.

But

if

“Qh, Sid! Please don’t cry. I can’t bear it.” Pat blundered on into the darkness, rather appalled. What in the name of bewilderment did that mean? Mr. Rathbone crying! And her mother’s voice was so sad. Though she did not care much for her mother beyond a lively admiration of her charm and beauty, Pat experienced a distinct chill. It was followed by a surge of exultation; she was certainly seeing life to-night! And then came the climax. A blithe voice at her elbow said:

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“Hello! Who are you?” “Sh—sh-sh-sh!* she warned in startled sibilance. “Shush goes if you say so. Not dancing?”

“No.

They wouldn’t let me,” said Pat mournfully.

“Who wouldn*t?” “The family.”

“Snoutrage,” declared the stranger “You're one of the family, are you?” “Yes. I'm the kid. I hate it.”

economically

“Cinderella; yes? The lovely but wicked sisters— they’re peaches, too.” He spoke clearly but a little dis jointedly. “But you're not rigged for the part. You've got your regal rags on.” “They’re not mine. They're my sister's. I sneaked Sem.

“Snappy child! he laughed. “Let’s have a look.* He moved closer to her. A wsle of ight fell across his face. He was short and fair with a winsome, laughing mouth, and candid eyes.

Drooping her chin Pst studied

him covertly and decided that he was a winner.

She her

self was in the shadow; he could see little but contour.

But the rich hoarseness of the voice pleased him. “Pm glad I found you,” he murmured. Thrilling to his tone, all that she could find te say was: “Don’t speak so loud.” Naturally he took this as an invitation, and, moving still closer, felt for her hand in the darkness. Her fingers twined willingly within his. Instead of alarming her, his touch gave her confidence. “What are you doing out here?” she asked.

“Cooling off. The family brew’s got quite a kick in it.” “Has it? Get me some.” “You're too young.” “Den*t be hateful.”

AS

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 "I don't say anything—not anything, you understand."

"You have said everything, Dear," he answered in another tone, and he spoke so reverently and so solemnly that my spirit died within me, and I felt, suddenly and strangely, less like a girl in love than like a girl at prayer. And the tears came to me, I don't know why, from some depth in me that I had never known or felt in all my life; and they began to roll down my cheeks, and I trembled, for I was more afraid of my own tears than I was of him, or of his love.

"God forgive me!" he said. "What have I done? I have made you cry!" And he took my face between his hands.

Oh, Mother, Mother! My dead Mother! The man took my face between his hands, and he kissed me on the lips.—Mother, Mother, Mother!

is two o'clock. I cannot sleep. I am sitting up straight here in my night-dress. I think I shall never sleep again. The night grows cruelly bright and brighter all the time. I wish the moon could be put out. I feel as if my eyelids had been burned off, as if my eyes would never feel any softness or darkness again. I wonder if there are people in the world who would not


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35

It was the first spur that her instinct of conscious seductiveness had ever known. She replied instantly: “Anything.” “You’re on. Wait for me right there.” While he was gone, a long time as it seemed to her, she
 * What’ll you give me for it?” he teased.

stood surging with an exultant inner turmoil. A man and a girl passed close to her, unseeing in the bar of light. The girl’s eyes wore a strange, sleepy expression as if the lids were almost too heavy to hold open. The man’s shoulder was pressed close upon her. They disappeared. Strange scents of the night crept into Pat’s brain; made her remember things she had never known. The music, softened through intervening walls, was pleading sensuously, urging upon her something mysterious and desirable. She felt her nerves like strung wires already tingling with electric forces but awaiting the supreme shock. “Drink, pretty creature!” The gay, insinuating, mirthful voice was close to her.

“You've only half filied it,” she complained, taking the glass. “Must have spilled some. In such a hurry to get back ‘“There’s plenty more where it to you,” he explained. came from if you like it.” “J don’t,” she gasped. The liquid, of which she had She taken a generous swallow, stung in her throat. said she “Here,” ground. the poured the rest out upon holding out the glass to him. His fingers met hers again. The glass fell and crunched

beneath his foot as he stepped to her. She was hardly cognisant of his arm drawing her. Rather what she felt was some irresistible power compelling her to itself. ‘The

faee of the youth, still gay with laughter, drew down

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upon hers, closer, closer, changed, seemed to become dimly

luminous. Her arms, without volition, crept upward to his shoulders. She was incongruously and painfully conscious of something pressing into her bosom, one of his pearl shirt-studs, and drew away from it slightly. He bent his head after her. And then, as their lips met and merged—the shock! She went limp under it. After a long, long minute in which were blended the pulsations of the music, the undermining odours of the night, the look of the passing girl’s eyes (how heavy were her own now!), the memory of that broken whisper overheard in the limousine, and the surge of the blood in her veins, she heard him say: “Let’s go.” “Where?” “T’ve got my car here.” She was silent, deeply, passively acquiescent to his will. Misconstruing her speechlessness, he urged: “Come on, sweetie! We'll take a fifty-mile-an-hour dip into the landscape. The little boat can go some.” “Pll have to get a wrap.” “Take my coat.” His arm tightened, guiding her. She lifted a hungry face. He bent again when a door opened shedding a broad ray of light upon them. Against the glaring background moved Constance, a vision of witchery in her filmy gown, followed by Emslie Selfridge. “Pat!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” Before the confused girl could reply, her escort came briskly to her rescue. “I caught it peeking behind a bush,” he explained, “and it wasn’t a bur-gu-lar after all.

So I’m taking it in to see what it is and whether it can dance.”

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37

“It’s my kid sister,” said Constance.

‘Mother will be

_ pleased !”

“Are you going to tell her?” demanded Pat. “I certainly am.” “Then I may as well have my dance before you find her,” declared the culprit calmly. “The fourteenth, a foxy little trot;

with Mr. Warren

Graves,” put in her escort cheerily. He drew her arm through his own where it nestled gratefully. Armoured though he was in the careless self-confidence of youth, young Mr. Graves winced as his partner stood revealed under the full glare of the lights. She looked so awfully and awkwardly young! Her hair was so awry, her gown so ill-fitted, her skin so splotchy. But there was magic in the long, slanted, shy, trustful eyes looking into his own, and the tingling excitation of her kiss was still in his blood. Moreover he had had a steady succession of drinks. “How old are you?” he asked in her ear as her cheek pressed close to his. “Seventeen,” she lied glibly. “Sub-deb stuff,” he laughed. “I love ’em young. You can dance, too.

Can I have the next?”

“There won’t be “Oh, Lord!”
 * Here’s Mother.”

any

next,”

said Warren

said

Graves.

Pat

tragically.

“Let me

do the

talking.” But no talking was called for. Mona Fentriss swept down upon her truant daughter, caught her in a laughing embrace, slapped one hot cheek, kissed the other, and delivered her verdict! “Back to bed with you! Quick! How did you ever get out?”

“Can’t I have just one more turn,” pleaded Pat.

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 feel as unhappy if they had committed a great sin as I feel about that kiss?

The music over at the Curtises' has but just stopped. Somebody has been serenading one of the Curtis girls—a college crowd, I think. They sang a thing I do not know. But the German words came over quite distinctly:

My cheeks blaze till they smart and ache. I feel as if the whole world knew. I feel as if the climbing rose told, and the iris, the June lilies, and even the poor gray toad that Job tormented; as if every sweet, loving, gracious thing and every little, common, unpopular thing in nature conspired against me; and as if the moon sided with them, and the warm west wind drove them on.

And the moths—now I have it! It was the moths. They who delight in dying, and die of delight—they would be the first to tell of me. They would see me led to delight and death, and not be sorry for me at all. Nobody would be sorry for me.

And yet I do not wish or mean to marry this man—nor any man; no, not any man. That is my nature.


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“Not a step. Where did this roost-robber”—-she indicated Graves—“find you?” “T was looking on and wanting in,” replied the dismal and thwarted Pat. “Wait three years, until you’re seventeen. Away!” “Let me escort you to your—er—baby-carriage,” said the youth with an elaborate bow. The feeble witticism, meant only to cover his own sense of being at a loss, stabbed Pat. She averted her angry and tearful eyes as they crossed the floor together. “IT hate you,” she muttered. “Y’m crazy about you,” he retorted close to her ear. Instantly she was radiant again. “Good-night,” she said softly and ran up the stairs. The turn of the landing hid her from view. But, after a moment’s struggle with herself against doubt, she stopped and leaned out over the rail. There he stood with the blithe expectancy of his face upturned. Queer looking, unkempt, ill-dressed she might be, and hardly more than a child at that, but the glamour of her youth and her passion held him. “Don’t forget me,” he pleaded under his breath. She nodded. Forget him! With the fervent assurance of the neophyte she was sure that she never would, never could forget him and the moment which he had deified for her. And herein her inexperience was a true mentor. For, whatever else may pass from her crowded memories, a girl does not forget her first kiss. Pat had been mulcted of that dance which she had rebelliously promised herself. But there was compensation in overflowing measure. She had had her taste of life,

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 CHAPTER

IV

Vacrant airs from the window of the small library playfully stirred the bright tendrils on Constance Fentriss’s neck. The girl was a picture of unconscious grace and delight as she sat, with her great, heavy-lashed eyes fixed in speculation, her curving lips a little drawn down, her gracious, girlish figure relaxed in the deep chair. Across the room Mary Delia was skimming hopefully the pages of Town Topics for scandals about people she knew. She lifted her head and asked carelessly: “What doing, Con?” “Figuring out a letter.” “Who to?” (Mary Delia’s higher education, inclusive of “correct” English, had cost something more than ten thousand dollars.) “A certain party.” This was formula, current in their set and deemed to possess a mildly satiric flavour. “Oh, verra well!” (Meaning “Don’t tell if you don’t want to.”’) “Tt?s to Warren Graves, if you want to know.” “Your Princeton paragon? Have you got something

going there?” ~ “I’m going to give him hell.” “What for? I thought he was one of your best bets.” “For acting like a Mick Saturday night.” “What did he pull? <A pickle?” “A petting party with Pat.” “No! Did he?” Dee cast aside the professional organ of scandal in favour of a more immediate interest. ~‘Hor, do you know?” 39

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“Trapped ’em. He put up a good front. Acted like he expected to get away with it.” (Constance’s school, also

highly expensive, had specialised in “finish of speech and manner.”’) Dee laughed. “That bratling! He must have been lit.” “Emslie said so. He was with me when we walked into em.” “As per usual. What was his view?” “He said the Scrub ought to be spanked and sent to

bed.” “Some job!” opined her sister. “She’s starting in early. When did you have your first real flutter, Con?” “Not at that age,” returned the elder. “And not with that kind of a face.” Dee reflected shrewdly that Connie was a little sore over the young man’s defection. “It must have been dark for Graves to take her on,” she agreed. “It was, till we opened the door on *em. They were clinched all right. Dam?’ little fool!” “Better go easy with the letter,” advised Dee carelessly. “Not from what I’m going to give him. He tried the half-nelson on me earlier in the evening and got turned down.” “Well, I had to tell him the strangle hold was barred, myself,” remarked Dee. “He must have had a busy evening.” “Thinks
 * He’ll think it’s green-eyed stuff.”

he’s a boa-constrictor, does he??? commented

the beauty viciously. “He'll think he’s an apple-worm when he reads my few well-chosen words.” “Cordially invited not to come back?” “Something of that sort.” “That was a pretty husky punch, though,” mused Dee. “Con, you don’t suppose he fed the Scrub any of it?”

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“Yes, he did.”

“Dirty work!” Lighting a cigarette Dee took a few puffs, but without inhaling. “Going to tell Mona?” The two older girls habitually spoke of their mother and sometimes to her by her given name. “TI don’t know. What do you think?” “T think she’d laugh.” “Dad wouldn’t.” as jazz.” “Dad may be old but it hasn’t slowed him up so much, yet. He was the life of the party.”
 * Dad’s old. Mona’s one of our kind. She’s as modern

“Oh, Dad’s all right. I’m for him, myself. But he’s all for Pat. There might be fireworks if he knew she was starting in this early.” “There were never any about Mona.” “Meaning?”

“Well, Sid Rathbone. others.”

And Tom Merrill.

And a few

“She doesn’t interfere with his little amusements, either,

if you come to that. Have you noticed anything about her lately?” “Yes. She looks like a ghost in the mornings.” “Bobs has been trying to get her to put on the brakes.” “Funny old Bobs! He’s pippy on you, isn’t he, Dee?” “Me! Ishould say not. It’s Mona.” “Can you blame him? With her war paint on she’s got us both faded.” “Sometimes when I catch him looking at her with that poodle dog expression of his, I wonder whether there’s something really wrong with her.” “Probably it’s just the pace. What’ll we be like at her age, if we last that long?” Constance’s soft mouth hardened as she seated herself at the desk and scratched

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The Herald-News/1957/Ralph Kohlman, 73, Electrotyper Dies

Ralph Kohlman, 73, Electrotyper Dies. Rutherford, New Jersey. Ralph Kohlman, 73, of 60 Crane Street formerly of Jersey City, died yesterday morning in Hasbrouck Heights Hospital of a heart ailment. He was admitted Saturday. Born in Hoboken he had lived here 14 years. Mr. Kohlman was proprietor of an electrotyping company in New York City. He was a member of Rising Star Lodge, F. and A. M, Jersey City. He was the husband of the late Augusta Freudenberg. Survivors include one brother, Wolfe, and two sisters, Mrs. Sadie Casper and Mrs. Pauline Franklin.


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off the letter which she had been meditating. “There® she observed at the close. “That will tell Mr. Warren Graves where he gets off.” “What about Pat?

Someone ought to tell her where

she gets off.” “J don’t know why they keep her around anyway,” said Constance discontentedly. “She ought te have been sent away to school last year.”

“God help the school! She'll give it an education.” “Going to the club to-night?” asked the elder after a pause.

“J thought you had a date with Jimmy James for all the Saturday dances.” “So did he,” rephed Dee calmly. “He was getting teo proprietary. So I turned him down.” “War

is hell,” observed her sister with apparent ir

relevance. “Besides, de Severin is coming over from Washington for an early round of golf.”

“So that’s it. Paul de Severin could give me quite a thrill if he went at it right.” “Not me.

J've never seen the man that could, either.

Something must have been left out of my makeup when I was built.” “Sometimes I wish it had been left out of mine,” said

the beauty. “And other times,” she added gaily, “I don’t. By the way, I'm likely to be in pretty late. So don't let Dad lock me out, will you?”

“I thought they still pulled the midnight rule for the Saturday night dances.” “So they do. But the Grants are having a small-andearly afterward. Somebody slipped Will Grant a case

—

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4S

of Bacardi.” She sealed her letter with a thump and tossed it into a silver-wicker basket. “Keep your rum,” said Dee with an effect of disdainful connoisseurship. “It gets me nothing but perspiration and a bum eye next day! Not even the right kind of kick. . . . So your Princeton laddie fed Pat some of the party fluid. Did it make her sick?” “No;

it didn’t make her sick,” answered

a resentful

voice, all on one level tone. Pat entered by the rear door. “Been listening in?” inquired Constance amiably. “T have not. Wouldn’t waste my time,” declared the infant of the family. She cast an eye upon the journal which her sister had laid aside. ‘“What’s in T.T. this week? Anything rich?”

“Rapidly growing to womanhood,” observed Constance to Dee in a tone of mock admiration. “Talk-party, I suppose,” said the intruder. ‘Don’t let me interrupt.” She strolled purposelessly over to the desk, glanced in the letter box and picked up the letter. “What are you writing to Warren Graves about?” she demanded. “Put that letter back,” said Constance.

“I’m going to look,” declared Pat uncertainly. Her statement was followed by a yell of pain. The letter fell, inviolate, to the floor as Dee, who had leapt upon her with the swiftness and precision of a young panther, tortured her arms backward. “If you try to kick V’ll break you in two,” muttered the athlete. “Let go!

I won’t,” wailed Pat, who knew and dreaded

the other’s strength. Released, she massaged her aching elbows.

“Dirty you,

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text: Confessions of a Wife/Chapter 2

title: Confessions of a Wife/Chapter 2


text:
Talk:Pratt Portraits

Short stories
This is actually a short story collection, which I didn't fully realize the extent of when I published this, so it needs to be reworked. I haven't gotten around to it yet. PseudoSkull (talk) 08:13, 19 January 2024 (UTC)

title: Talk:Pratt Portraits


text:
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 anything that might be mentioned, except that one dreadful thing. I am afraid I did say "wife." No; now I think of it, it was he who said that. All I said was "Yes," and, on the whole, sometime, perhaps, I would; and all I did was not to turn him out of the room after I had said it. That is n't strictly true, either. It was n't quite all I did. As for him, he did so many things that I don't dare to think of them, because, if I do, the Wilderness Girl in me comes up, and I feel as if I could call out my whole tribe and have them kill him on the spot—I do indeed.

But the perfectly ridiculous thing about that is that if I saw so much as a woodpecker nipping at him, I should kill the woodpecker! And if I saw anybody really trying to do him any harm, all the tomahawks of colonial history would have to hit me first. I think I should feel a positive ecstasy in a tomahawk that was meant for him.

This seems to me a pitiable state of mind for a girl to be in. I don't respect it; really, I don't. There 's a part of me that stands off and looks on at myself, and keeps quite collected and sane, and says, "What a lunatic that girl is!" But the Wilderness Girl does n't mind the other girl a bit, and this is what mortifies me so.


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though!” she said, scowling at Constance. “Sneaking a letter off to him that way.” “I suppose you’d like to censor it,” taunted the writer. “Well, if you want to know what’s in it, I told him just how old you are and what kind of a silly little ass. I don’t think he’ll come back for any more baby-kisses.” At this Pat grinned inwardly. Whatever else it may have been, that was no baby-kiss that had passed between them. With her equanimity quite restored she remarked:

You lie.” “Tasty manners!” commented Dee.

“I don’t know what you’ve got to say Pat venomously. “I noticed a sedan with pulled down just after you disappeared with Jimmy James.” This was a random

about it,” said all the curtains from the house shot. It went

wide of the target. “Cut it, Scrubby! Cut it! admonished her sister calmly. “I don’t put on any snuggling sketches where everybody can see me.” “Don’t call me Scrubby!” choked the girl. “Look at yourself,” suggested Constance, “and see what

else you can expect to be called. Did you brush your teeth this morning?” “Oh, mind your business.” “Then go and brush them now,” said Mona’s voice from the stairway in its clear and singing cadence. Whatever Mona said took on the sound and form of music. Pat’s hoarse and unformed speech had an echo of the same

seductive

sweetness.

‘The mother

entered,

adjusting her hat. “I’m lunching in town, kiddies. — What’s the row?” Pat cast a sullenly appealing glance at Constance. In vain.

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45

“The Scrub’s been doing a hug with Warren Graves,” announced the elder sister. “T have not.” Mona regarded the flaming face with amused pity. She did not take the news seriously. “Did you like him, Bambina?” she asked with careless sympathy. A quick, half-suppressed sob answered and surprised her. ‘He fed her up on the punch,” began Constance. “And then és “A very enterprising young man,” broke in Mrs. Fentriss. “I don’t think we'll urge him to repeat his visit, Connie.” “Exactly what I’m writing to tell him.” “Because I pinched him from you,” declared Pat in a vicious undertone. Constance laughed, but not without annoyance. “It’s likely, isn’t it!” “I made him give me the punch,” continued the accused one. “I hated it. I only took one swallow. It wasn’t his fault. He told me to go easy on it.” The defence of her possession by the girl moved Mona: it was so naively, primitively feminine. At the same time the look in the childish eyes, dreamy, remembering, unconsciously sensuous, stirred misgivings in the mother’s mind.

Conscious womanhood was perhaps going to burst upon the child explosively; was already in process of realisation, very likely. Mona recalled certain developments of her own roused and startled emotions twenty years before. Could it be as long ago as that? How vivid to her memory it still was! “Never mind,” she said in her equable tones. “I dare say the punch was too strong. And the Graves boy had more than one swallow. He didn’t hate it.”

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7

“J wrote to him,” said Pat suddenly.

“You did?”

The three incredulous voices blended.

“Yes, I did. He wrote to me. He was terribly sorry.” “Sorry for what?” asked Dee.

-

He asked me te answer,

“For—for acting that way. He seemed to think he'd hurt my feelings or something. I teld him it was just as much my fault as his.” “Did you, little Pat?* look

into

the

queer,

Her mother leaned forward to defiant,

chivalrous

Hittle

face.

“Perhaps you're older than I thought. But I shouldn't write any more, if I were you.” “T won't.” Mona went out, followed by her youngest. In the hallway, Pat gave her mother a light, familiar, shy pat on the shoulder. “Thanks for standing by me,” she said awkwardly. “Did I stand by you?” returned Mona. “I wonder if [{ stand by you enough.” Inside the room, Dee mused with a thoughtful, frowning face. “Think of the Scrub! she muttered. “What of her?” asked Constance. “Feeling that way. Already.“ There was a hint of unconscious envy in her manner. “About a man!” She sighed and shook her head incredulously. “It gets me,” she confessed. “Don’t you like to have a man you like Kiss you?” inquired Constance curiously. Dee meditated. “I don*t mind it,” she answered. “But I'd rather run down a long putt, any day.” To Dr. Robert Osterhout, whom she sought out after

her return from luncheon (with Stevens Selfridge) Mona detailed the conversation with and about Pat.

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Index talk:Confessions of a wife (IA confessionsofwif00adamiala).pdf

Apostrophes
The use of the apostrophe in this work is more precise (and accurate) than in current common usage. For example, "was n't" rather than "wasn't" (for was not as opposed to wasnot), or "There 's" rather than "There's" (for There is or There was). The style of the work as printed has been followed. Chrisguise (talk) 08:24, 19 January 2024 (UTC)


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Ay

“Yes; I know,” said he. “How could you know?” “Pat told me about young Graves.” “What! The whole thing?” “So far as I could judge, she didn’t leave out much.” “Why did she tell you? Confession? Remorse?” “Not in the least. She enjoyed the telling. She’s very feminine, that child. And very curious about herself.” “I hope to God she isn’t developing my temperament,” reflected the downright Mona after a pause. “It would be a dismal joke if the ugly duckling of the flock had that wished on her. Poor, pimply little gnome.” “Ugly? I wouldn’t be too sure. “The fairy prince from Princeton seems to have been quite captivated with her.” “And she with him.” “That of course. It was a very awakening kiss fox her.” “Does she realise——” “She said, ‘Bobs, it made me go weak ali over. Is chloroform like that?” ‘“Diverting notion! What did you tell her?” “T told her that it wasn’t, precisely. Then she said,

‘What does it mean?? And I said that it might mean danger.” “She wouldn’t understand that. I’ve never talked to her.” Mona, like many women of broad and easy attitude toward sex relations in so far as went her own life, had

a reticence in discussing them with other women. “Yes; “Yes;

she would. Pat’s over twelve, you know.” I know. But does she?”

“Perfectly.” “Why? She didn’t say anything 2? “No; she didn’t go into the physico-psycho-analysis

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 pom

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ti os<anh

of her emotions, if that’s what you mean, Mona. I shouldn’t have let her. There’s a touch of the morbid in © her, anyway. That’s the Irish strain from her father. But there’s a lot of your saving grace, teo—your most saving grace.” “And what may that be?” “The habit of facing facts squarely; even facts about oneself.” “Ts that a gift or a detriment, Bob?” “It’s a saving grace, I tell you. Little Pat is going © to look right clean through the petty illusions of life, clear-eyed.” “But illusions are the bloom and happiness of life,” said Mona wistfully. “To play with;

not to trust in.

Oh, she'll have her

illusions about others; she’s begun already. She’s a romantic, as you are not. But her dreams about herself will all be subject to her own detached scrutiny. If ever she comes to dream about a man——”

“Well?

You’re being

very

subtle

and

analytical,

Doctor.” ““_-she’ll make heaven or hell for him.” “Bob! Men aren’t going to waste time over her with pretty Dee and lovely Connie around.” “Aren’t they! Ask young Graves. She'll make *em dream. Wait and see.” “Just what I can’t do,” said Mona quietly. “Ah, I didn’t mean to say that, Bob,” she added quickly, catch-

ing the contraction of pain that altered his face. “Well,” she mused, brushing her hair back from her broad brow, “T can’t quite see it in Pat myself. But perhaps you're

right.

You ought to know.

You’re a man.”

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 CHAPTER

V

Dawn was tinting the high clouds when Mary Delia awoke. She had the gift of coming forth from sleep in full and instant possession of her faculties. Now she felt that something was

amiss;

something insistent and

troublesome going on below her window. She jumped from bed, crossed the room, and looked out upon the shrubbery-encircled driveway. Voices came up to her, restrained

and cautious, a man’s

and a woman’s.

She

recognised the latter. “Hush, you two!” she called, low but imperiously. The man stepped into view. To her surprise it was not Emslie Selfridge but Fred Browning. He was in evening dress, a little wilted, and his eyes looked hot and anxious; but he retained evident command of himself.

“That you, Dee?” he whispered loudly, peering up. “Yes. What’s the matter? Anything wrong?” “No. Connie can’t get in.” Dee smothered an exclamation. With dismay she recalled her sister’s request that she leave the door unlocked. But she had not dreamed that the party at the Grants’

would last as late as this. “T'll be right down,” she promised.

Turning the dim corner from the stairway she stumbled upon a smoking-stand and overturned it with a din which made her heart stand still. Expectant and fearful she halted, poised and listening. No sound or stir came from above. Cautiously she felt her way forward and unlecked the door. Constance was standing at the corner of the porch.

Her hair was dishevelled and luminous, 49

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her eyes softly heavy. There was a stain across the bodice of her evening dress. As the door opened she was releasing her lips from the man’s kiss. “Take care of her, Dee,” said Browning, and was gone. “And what do you think of that?” challenged Constance as she paused by the threshold. Dee’s answer might have seemed inconsecutive. “You —

are a beautiful thing, Con.”

4

“Am I? Perhaps it’s just as well that Iam.” There Was a grimness in the sweet voice. “Why that?” “Td be out of luck if I weren’t.” “The Grants’ party must have been a hurrah.” “Not so much. It got too slow for me before two o’clock.” ‘Did it? Where have you been all night?” “Motoring.” “You don’t look very dusty,” observed the shrewd Dee. “Perhaps you think I’m not telling you the truth.” “It’s no affair of mine,” returned Dee easily. “Well, Pm not,” continued the elder sister.

“Come into

the conservatory.” She led the way across the living room, dragging her feet a little as she walked. “Now,

if you want to know,” she continued defiantly, “I'll tell you. I've been in Fred Browning’s rooms.” “That’s nice!” observed Dee. “What’s the idea?” “T had to go somewhere. I couldn*t come home.” “Drunk?” Dee shot out the monosyllable with a sharp-

ness which made the other

wince.

But

she

answered

promptly:

“Iwas that.

And I wasn’t the only one.

rum is hell.” “Who was with you?” “Nobody.”

That Bacardi

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YOUTH

‘Si

Alone?

“Ves,”

“Conl” “I know. But I was so sick.” “At the party?” “No. I wasn’t any worse than the rest. Everyone was going strong. Emslie had a wonder!” “What will he think?” much with Freddie at the club, and after we got to the Grants’ he wouldn’t pay any attention to anything but the punch. Not that I cared. I was enjoying life with Freddie.
 * Fe’s done his thinking,” returned the beauty obstinately. “He pulled a rotten grouch because I danced too

So we decided to pull out at two o’clock.”

“Yes; but if you were all right then “I was until we got into his car. Then the punch hit me. It was the change into the air, I suppose. I went all to pieces, just as we were passing his apartment. So he took me in there. It wasn’t his fault. I was terribly sick and then awfully sleepy, and when I woke up——” “Woke up?” “Yes. Fred was bathing my face and telling me that I had to pull myself together and go home. . . . What are you looking at me that way for, Dee?” she concluded plaintively.

“Con, did anything happen?” “Anything happen?” repeated the other in a dreamy voice. “I—I—don’t know.” “You don’t know! You must know.” “Yes: I would, wouldn’t 1? Though I was completely sunk. Anything might have happened,” said she, slowly _ nodding her lovely hair-beclouded head. “Con! Think!” urged Dee with impatient anxiety.

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“J wouldn’t care,” declared the beauty recklessly. crazy about Freddie.

. . . But it didn’t;

“I’m

no, I’m sure

of that now. Freddie’s an awfully decent sort, Dee.” “He hasn’t too pious a reputation. And when did you take on this sudden hunch for him? I thought it was Emslic.” “So did I. Until—Dee, did you ever have a man that you’ve always known suddenly look different to you?” “No. Not enough different, anyway, to make any difference.” “It’s hard to explain. Something in the way he affects you changes and all the world changes with it. That’s how it was with Fred, and, I suppose the same way about me with him. Theugh he claims he’s been mad about me for months.” ‘Suppose you were seen going into his place?” “We weren’t.” “So far as you know.” “Tf we should have been, it’s a sweet little scandal for the cats, isn’t it!”
 * “That’s a blessing, considering,” remarked Dee grimly.

“In that case it’s up to Freddie. anyway.”

It’s up to Freddie

“If he hadn’t been—Dee, when I came to, I told him I
 * Freddie’s all right,” declared Connie with conviction.

didn’t want to go home.” “You wanted to stay?” said the sister slowly. Constance nodded. “I wasn’t quite sobered up. But anyway I did want to stay. You can’t understand that, can you.?” “No; I can’t.”

“Because you’re & cold-blooded little fish. I’m still feeling that dam’ Bacardi or I wouldn’t be talking to you this way.”

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53

“Was Fred feeling it, too?” “Tf he was, he had a grip on himself all right. He’s a lot squarer man than people give him credit for, Dee.” “Lucky for you he is.” “Oh, I don’t know.

What’s the difference!’ retorted

Connie perversely. “I guess those sort of things happen a lot more often than any of us know about.” “What sort of things?” interpolated a voice new to the parley. The two sisters whirled about. Just outside the door stood Patricia in her tousled nightgown, hot-eyed with curiosity. ‘What sort of things?” she repeated. “How long have you been there?” demanded Mary Delia. “Long enough to hear a lot,” answered the unperturbed Patricia. ‘Since before you asked Con did anything happen, and she said first she didn’t know and afterward that it didn’t. What did you mean? What didn’t happen?” With a sudden pounce the lithe Dee was upon her and held her, half-choked against the wall. “If you breathe a word of this, Scrubs, I'll half kill you.” “T.eh—heh-heh—me alone!”? whimpered Pat. “I’m not | going to tell anybody.” “See that you don’t, then.”

“You told on me about Warren Graves.” “That was different.” “How, different?”

‘You’re only a child. You’ve no business playing silly tricks like that.” “Wasn't it a silly trick of Con to——” “Go back to bed,” ordered Dee with a powerful shake which seemed to the unfortunate victim to loosen her eyes in their sockets.

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She crept away but paused at the door to say wistfully and sullenly: “Just the same, I think you might tell me what didn’t happen.” Late the next afternoon Fred Browning came to the house, having called up Constance at noon. Dee came down to him. “Is everything all right, Dee?” he asked anxiously. The girl nodded. “Yes. The family didn’t wake up. Ill send Con down right away.” But before

Constance

arrived, little Pat entered

side room where he was nervously waiting. at him solemnly, entreatingly, hesitatingly,

the

She looked then burst

out:

“Mr. Browning, will you tell me something?” Her earnestness amused him. “Why, of course,” he said, quite unsuspecting. “I always like to help the young to knowledge. But don’t make it too hard.” “What was it that might have happened to Con last night, that the girls wouldn’t tell me about?” He stared at her, completely aghast. “You young devil!” he breathed. Constance’s quick footsteps sounded on the stairs, and the inquirer was fain to flee, unsated of her curiosity. But she peered back, and her breath came quicker as she saw her pretty sister walk straight, eager, and unashamed into the man’s waiting arms. Pat deemed it the part of prudence to keep herself aloof the rest of the day. Later Fred Browning had a cocktail with Mr. Fentriss and a brief talk on the subject of Constance.

And so they were married.

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 CHAPTER

VI

Mor#-trxz, Patricia hovered around the mystic radiance of Constance’s wedding festivities. They had let her come home from school for the occasion. Reckoned too young for a bridesmaid and too old for a flower-girl she occupied an anomalous and unofficial position in the party. Dee, who, as maid of honour, had opportunity to exercise her executive faculties in managing the details, found her irritatingly in the way. “Under your feet all the time,” said she to the bride. “The kid is crazy with curiosity. I never heard so many guestions.” “Yes,” assented Constance fretfully. “She keeps asking me how I feel and staring at me as if I were going to die or have an operation or something.” Dee laughed. “She got hold of-Fred yesterday and put him through a catechism while he was waiting for you to come down. He actually looked rattled.” “She’s a pest, that child! School doesn’t seem to have toned her down a bit.” - “At least it’s taken the slump out of her shoulders. She’s got a kind of boyish swagger that isn’t bad. For her kind of style, I mean.” “Oh, style!” repeated the elder sister contemptuously. “‘She’ll never have any more style than a kitten. I wish you’d keep her out of my way.” To accomplish

this, however, would

have entailed an

almost continuous vigilance. The elaborate ceremonial of marriage and giving in marriage with its trappings and appurtenances, its geen! snegestions of sexual-sacri-

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ficial import, its underlying and provocative symbolism had stirred in the youngest member of the family an imagination as inflammable as it was unself-comprehending. Constance’s matter-of-fact mind could not interpret the eager and searching scrutiny of her sister, though it made her restless and uneasy and vaguely shamed her. The afternoon before the wedding, Pat tiptoed in upon her

as she was resting on Mona’s sleeping-porch. “Connie,” she half whispered. “Well?” returned the bride crossly. “Where are you going?” “Going? I’m tryia o rest.” “Where are you goiug after you’re married? To a hotel?” “What do you want to know for?” demanded the elder sister, raising herself on her elbow to look at the younger. “Nothing. I just wanted to know.” “Well, you won’t. Not from me.” “Oh, verra-well! You needn’t get all fussed up about it.” “Oh, don’t be hateful, Pat.

I want to rests

“Pll go in just a minute. But The bride sighed, a martyrized “What is it?” “When you get back—when I will you tell me?” “What is the child getting at! “Everything.” “T don’t know what you mean,” “Yes, youdo. You know.”

Con?”

sigh.

get back from school, Tell you what?”

fended Constance.

The older girl flushed a slow pink, then laughed. “You're a funny little monkey! Why should you want to know?” “Well,

I've got to go

through

haven’t I?” reasoned the girl.

it sometime,

myself,

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YOUTH

57

Well, you can find out then.”

“T think you’re mean. You’d tell Dee if she asked you.” “I wouldn’t tell anyone. It’s disgusting to be so—se prying. Where do you get such ideas?” Pat reflected before answering. “Don’t all girls have ?em Pp?

“If they do, they don’t talk about them.” “Oh, that’s all bunk,” declared the cheerful Pat.

“if

you’ve got the idea inside you, you might as well spit it out. ... Dll bet men tell.” The bride looked at the clever, eager, childish face with sudden panic. “If I thought they did,” she began, but immediately broke off, taking a plaintive, invalidish tone. “Do go away, Scrubs! You’re making my head ache. And for heaven’s sake, don’t stare at me to-morrow like

you have to-day. It gives me the creeps.” “Tt gives me the thrills,” returned the alarmingly outspoken ingénue, as she danced out. Throughout the ceremony of the following day, Pat’s interest was divided between the bride and an equally absorbing prepossession. She had, so she told herself, fallen desperately in love with one of the ushers, a Boston man named Vincent. To her infatuated eyes he was adorably handsome, and so romantic looking, though quite old. Probably thirty! On the previous evening he had chatted casually with her for five minutes, finding the odd, eager child with the sombre eyes and the effortful affectation of grown-up-ness mildly amusing. Going up the aisle he had made her heart leap by giving her a little friendly nod. During the ceremony she brooded on him, building up the airiest of vague and roseate sentimentalities for the far future, and for the near, nursing

the belief that he would surely seek her out as soon as

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possible at the reception. When she saw him, later, quite forgetful of her in his interest in Virginia Platt, a slight, flashing brunette ‘of the wedding party, she was both chilled and infuriated.

He did not even ask her to dance,

though once he crossed the floor toward her, only to turn aside at the last, hopeful moment. It was terrible to be young and queer looking, though she had done her careful best for her elfish little face and immature figure. Others came for dances, however; Selden Thorpe, the

rector’s son, the most often. Him she deemed “interesting looking,” with his pale face, bristly hair, and hard, grey eyes, typical of the unconscious egotist. Though he danced well, here Pat could overmatch him, for she had

the passion of rhythmic movement in her blood. “You’ve got the fairy foot all right, little one,” said he, investing the epithet with his conscious sophomoric superiority.

Pat felt offended. She wanted so Sach to be grown-up that evening. But she feared to alienate her escort’s budding interest if she showed any resentment. “Anyone can dance with as good a dancer as you are,”

she replied sweetly. He gave her an appreciative glance.

“Can they?

I

guess we could enter for a prize all right.” “We

could make some of ’em hustle to beat us,” she

declared gaily. “Could you make a getaway some evening, and eed slip over and try it out at one of the big places?” “Would you take me?” she cried, delighted. But her face fell. ‘There won’t be time. I’m going back to school.” The talk languished after this disappointment. The number was over and they were seated in a remote corner

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of the little conservatory.

59

Thorpe wondered what he

could find to talk to this kid about. “Engine completely stalled,” he thought ruefully. On her part, Patricia experienced a sense of dismal vacancy. What was there in her mental repertoire to interest this worldly collegian? The memory of the party at which she had seen him gambling came to mind as a hopeful bridge over the widening conversational chasm. “Been winning much lately?” she asked brightly. “Winning?” He looked puzzled. “At what?” “Craps. I heard you stung the crowd for a hundred dollars at our party.” He was flattered and lofty. “Oh, I did pretty well. Where’d you hear about it? You weren’t at the party.” “Not

for long,”

confessed

Pat.

“But

I was

among

those present for a little while.” Connection of ideas recalled to her Warren Graves and his light-hearted allure. She wished he were beside her on the settee instead of Selden. She could almost hear his voice, bantering and tender, “Sweetie,”

and feel the

warm pressure of his arm. With him there would have been no anxious necessity of searching for topics of conversation, whereas with Selden Why not experiment a little, she thought, daringly. She let her hand slip carelessly from her lap to her side. It came into touch with

his.

The contact gave her a shock as unexpected as it

was painful.

She had failed to notice that he held a

lighted cigarette. “Ouch!”

said

Pat,

and

licked

the wounded

knuckle

with a sharp, pink tongue like a young animal’s. “Let’s see,” said the youth. He took her hand, glanced at it, and set his lips to the reddened skin cavalierly enough. “That better?” he asked.

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Pat nodded. She stared intently at the solaced spot wondering what the progress of the game would be. In Thorpe’s inured mind there was no room for surmise. To him this was all formula, the parliamentary procedure of casual love-making. He drew the yielding fingers into his left hand and slipped his right arm across the slim, girlish shoulders. She leaned back a little from his embrace. ““Well?”? he questioned, an easy laugh on his lips. “Well, what?” she whispered. He bent and kissed her. It was a quick kiss, adventurous and playful. Not so had Warren Graves’s eager and searching lips closed down upon hers. Pat was both disappointed of her expected thrill, and unaccountably relieved and reassured. <A queer, inward fluttering which had unbalanced her thoughts for the moment when the appropriative arm encircled her, was stilled. Suddenly — she felt quite mistress of herself and the situation. She — proceeded now according to a formula which she was improvising, and which millions of girls had improvised before her. “What did you do that for?” she murmured. “Didn’t you want me to?” Pat abandoned her formula before it was fairly under «ay. “I suppose I did,” she admitted. Expectant of the usual “No,” he was startled, amused, and a little roused. ‘Did you?” he said. He drew her closer, bent his mouth to hers again, felt a swift stir at the sweet, soft pressure, followed by a sensible chilling as she turned away to say thoughtfully: “IT wonder why I did.” “You’re a queer kid,” he observed genuinely. “But there’s something mighty sweet about you.” “Is there?” she cried, charmed with the direct flattery.

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Gx

“J suppose you wanted me to because you like me,”

he pursued.

“Wasn’t that it?”

“I don’t know. I like being petted.” “Gh! Do you? By any-old-body?”

“IT don’t know,” she repeated. once before.”

“I’ve never been but

“Did you like that better than this?” “It was different.” “Different?” His interest and curiosity were piqued: his vanity, too. “Well, I can make it different, too.” “No,” choked Pat in sudden panic as she felt his lean,

_ sinewy arms encircle her crushingly. “Don’t, Sel!” She twitched her face away from his. Immediately her alarm gave place to a stimulus of sheer delight. She had distinctly felt him tremble. An epochal discovery! For she was, herself, quite cool. She possessed then the mysterious power to arouse men out of themselves, while remaining self-possessed, to affect them in this strange manner more than she herself was moved. Pat, dear !”? whispered the youth, avid and insistent. _ He had ceased to seem formidably old to her now; she was his superior. She kissed him again, but lightly and pushed him back. “Bad bunny!” she mocked. “We ought not to, Sel.” “Oh, what’s the harm?”

“Someone might come in.” Come

outside, then.”

“Oh, let’s go back and dance. I’m afraid of you.” She gave him a sidelong glance with this gratuitous lie, Come,

I love this trot.”

They danced it out, he holding her closer than before. she letting her cheek press his from time to time. She yearned to the feeling of his young strength, yet was quite content for the time, with the experience of the

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evening as far as it had gone. When they the conservatory again, she made him sit in a site to her. His sophomoric assurance was pered down; the unformed child whom he had condescendingly and as a kindness earlier in

returned te chair oppoquite temdanced with the evening, He chafed at

was become imperatively desirable now. her aloof attitude. “I’m coming to see you,” he said with an attempt at masterfulness in his tone, “I'll come to-morrow. Keep the evening open.” She shook her head. “I’m going back to school.” “Are you?” He looked dispirited. “Will you write to me, Pat?”

SCan't.”

““Well—you’ll be home for vacation, won’t you?” “Of course.” “Soll I. I was going to a house party on Staten Island. But if you'll be here I’m coming back.” “Will you?” Her tone was almost indifferent, though she was aflame with triumph, inwardly. “That’s nice of you.” “I will if you’ll be glad to see me.” “Of course I will.” “Awfully glad?” he pressed. “Oh, I don’t know coquette.

about all that,” replied Pat, the

“You’re going to kiss me good-bye?” he pleaded “Perhaps. Just a little one.” When she had slipped from his embrace, her gaze was far away. “What are you thinking of now?” he asked jealously. “Of Connie.” “What of her?”

“I wonder where they are now.

I was thinking,” she

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 to hear him, protesting that he had no evil designs; that he had been but a short time in England, and only waited the return of a Lady from the country, to quit it for ever."

Madame Duval changed colour, and listened with the utmost attention.

"Now, though I by no means approve of so many foreigners continually flocking into our country," added he, addressing himself to the Captain, "yet I could not help pitying the poor wretch, because he did not know enough of English to make his defence: however, I found it impossible to assist him, for the mob would not suffer me to interfere. In truth, I am afraid he was but roughly handled."

"Why, did they duck him?" said the Captain.

"Something of that sort," answered he.

"So much the better! so much the better!" cried the Captain, "an impudent French puppy!—I'll bet you what you will he was a rascal. I only wish all his countrymen were served the same."

"I wish you had been in his place, with all my soul!" cried Madame Duval, warmly;—"but pray, Sir, did n't nobody know who this poor gentleman was?"

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 "Why I did hear his name spoke," answered Sir Clement, "but I cannot recollect it."

"It was n't,—it was n't—Du Bois?" stammered out Madame Duval.

"The very name!" answered he, "yes, Du Bois, I remember it now."

Madame Duval's cup fell from her hand, as she repeated "Du Bois! Monsieur Du Bois, did you say?"

"Du Bois! why that's my friend," cried the Captain, "that's Monsieur Slippery, i'n't it? Why he's plaguy fond of sousing work; howsomever, I'll be sworn they gave him his fill of it."

"And I'll be sworn," cried Madame Duval, "that you're a—but I don't believe nothing about it, so you need n't be so overjoyed, for I dare say it was no more Monsieur Du Bois than I am."

"I thought at the time," said Sir Clement, very gravely, "that I had seen the gentleman before, and now I recollect, I think it was in company with you, Madam."

"With me, Sir!" cried Madame Duval.

"Say you so!" said the Captain, "why then, it must be he, as sure as you're alive!—Well but, my good friend, what will they do with poor Monsieur?"

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 came up to us, with a world of frankness; and having a horn snuff-box in his hand, he presented it open to me—You shall taste mine—said I, pulling out my box (which was a small tortoise one); and putting it into his hand—'Tis most excellent, said the monk; Then do me the favour, I replied, to accept of the box and all, and when you take a pinch out of it, sometimes recollect it was the peace-offering of a man who once used you unkindly, but not from his heart.

The poor monk blush'd as red as scarlet. Mon Dieu! said he, pressing his hands together—you never used me unkindly.—I should think, said the lady, he is not likely. I blush'd in my turn; but from what movements, I leave to the few who feel to analyse—Excuse me, Madam, replied I—I treated him most unkindly; and from no provocations—'Tis impossible, said the lady.—My God! cried the monk with a warmth of asseveration which seemed not to belong to him—the fault was in me, and in the indiscretion of my zeal—The lady opposed it, and I joined with her in maintaining it was impossible, that a spirit so regulated as his, could give offence to any.

I knew not that contention could be rendered so sweet and pleasurable a thing to the nerves as I then felt it.—We remained silent, without any sensation of that foolish pain which takes place, when in such a circle you look for ten minutes in one another's faces without saying a word. Whilst this lasted, the monk rubb'd his horn box upon the sleeve of his tunic; and as soon as it had acquired a little air of brightness by the friction—he made a low bow, and said, 'twas too late to say whether it was the weakness or goodness of our tempers which had involved us in this contest—but be it as it would—he begg'd we might exchange boxes. In saying this, he presented his to me with one


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 hand, as he took mine from me in the other; and having kiss'd it—with a stream of good nature in his eyes, he put it into his bosom—and took his leave.

I guard this box as I would the instrumental parts of my religion, to help my mind on to something better: in truth I seldom go abroad without it; and oft and many a time have I called up by it the courteous spirit of its owner, to regulate my own, in the justlings of the world; they had found full employment for his, as I learnt from his story, till about the forty-fifth year of his age, when upon some military services ill requited, and meeting at the same time with a disappointment in the tenderest of passions, he abandon'd the sword and the sex together, and took sanctuary, not so much in his convent, as in himself.

I feel a damp upon my spirits, as I am going to add, that in my last return through Calais, upon enquiring after Father Lorenzo, I heard he had been dead near three months, and was buried, not in his convent, but according to his desire, in a little cimetiery belonging to it, about two leagues off: I had a strong desire to see where they had laid him,—when, upon pulling out his little horn box, as I sat by his grave, and plucking up a nettle or two at the head of it, which had no business to grow there, they all struck together so forcibly upon my affections, that I burst into a flood of tears—but I am as weak as a woman; and I beg the world not to smile, but pity me.


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 It has now been shown that the question whether in the cross-bred zygotes in general the characters blend or are mutually exclusive is an entirely subordinate one, and distinctions with regard to the essential nature of heredity based on these circumstances become irrelevant.

In the case of a population presenting continuous variation in regard to say, stature, it is easy to see how purity of the gametes in respect of any intensities of that character might not in ordinary circumstances be capable of detection. There are doubtless more than two pure gametic forms of this character, but there may quite conceivably be six or eight. When it is remembered that each heterozygous combination of any two may have its own appropriate stature, and that such a character is distinctly dependent on external conditions, the mere fact that the observed curves of stature give "chance distributions" is not surprising and may still be compatible with purity of gametes in respect of certain pure types. In peas (P. sativum), for example, from Mendel's work we know that the tall forms and the extreme dwarf forms exhibit gametic purity. I have seen at Messrs Sutton's strong evidence of the same nature in the case of the tall Sweet Pea (Lathyrus odoratus) and the dwarf or procumbent "Cupid" form.

But in the case of the Sweet Pea we know at least one pure form of definitely intermediate height, and in the case of P. sativum there are many. When the extreme types breed together it will be remembered the heterozygote commonly exceeds the taller in height. In the next generation, since there is, in the case of extremes, so much margin between the types of the two pure forms, the return of the offspring to the three forms of which two are homozygous and one heterozygous is clearly perceptible.


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 If however instead of pure extreme varieties we were to take a pair of varieties differing normally by only a foot or two, we might, owing to the masking effects of conditions, &c., have great difficulty in distinguishing the three forms. in the second generation. There would besides be twice as many heterozygous individuals as homozygous individuals of each kind, giving a symmetrical distribution of heights, and who might not—in pre-Mendelian days—have accepted such evidence—made still less clear by influence of conditions—as proof of Continuous Variation both of zygotes and gametes?

Suppose, then, that instead of two pure types, we had six or eight breeding together, each pair forming their own heterozygote, there would be a very remote chance of such purity or fixity of type whether of gamete or zygote being detected.

Dominance, as we have seen, is merely a phenomenon incidental to specific cases, between which no other common property has yet been perceived. In the phenomena of blended inheritance we clearly have no dominance. In the cases of alternative inheritance studied by Galton and Pearson there is evidently no universal dominance. From the tables of Basset hound pedigrees there is clearly no definite dominance of either of the coat-colours. In the case of eye-colour the published tables do not, so far as I have discovered, furnish the material for a decision, though it is scarcely possible the phenomenon, even if only occasional, could have been overlooked. We must take it, then, there is no sensible dominance in these cases; but whether there is or is not sensible gametic purity is an altogether different question, which, so far as I can judge, is as yet untouched. It may perfectly well be that we shall be compelled to recognize that in many cases there is no such purity, and


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 that the characters may be carried by the gametes in any proportion from zero to totality, just as some substances may be carried in a solution in any proportion from zero to saturation without discontinuous change of properties. That this will be found true in some cases is, on any hypothesis, certain; but to prove the fact for any given case will be an exceedingly difficult operation, and I scarcely think it has been yet carried through in such a way as to leave no room for doubt.

Conversely, the absolute and universal purity of the gametes has certainly not yet been determined for any case; not even in those cases where it looks most likely that such universal purity exists. Impairment of such purity we may conceive either to occur in the form of mosaic gametes, or of gametes with blended properties. On analogy and from direct evidence we have every right to believe that gametes of both these classes may occur in rare and exceptional cases, of as yet unexplored nature, but such a phenomenon will not diminish the significance of observed purity.

We have now seen the essential nature of the Mendelian principles and are able to appreciate the exact relation in which they stand to the group of cases included in the Law of Ancestral Heredity. In seeking any general indication as to the common properties of the phenomena which are already known to obey Mendelian principles we can as yet point to none, and whether some such common features exist or not is unknown.

There is however one group of cases, definite though as yet not numerous, where we know that the Mendelian


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63

tontinued as if speaking to herself, “that I’d like to see her to-morrow morning.” “Why to-morrow morning?” asked Thorpe. He was a youth of slow imagination, but he was not stupid. Suddenly he laughed. “Oh!” he cried. “So that’s the idea! You little devil!” “No; it isn’t,” denied Pat, her cheeks flaming, and ran

back to the ballroom. At the entrance she collided with Scott Vincent, who

was looking for a vanished partner. “Pardon!” he said, cleverly saving her from a recoil against the door! “Oh; it’s the infanta!” He looked into her vivid face with appreciative amusement. ‘Don’t you want to give me this dance?” he asked. Her hot cheeks cooled. She considered him appraisingly though her heart beat quicker. He was so very good to look at! “No; I don’t,” she replied. “No?” he laughed. ‘“You’re frank, at least. Perhaps you'll be franker and tell me why.” “Because you didn’t ask me earlier.” “Indeed! But I hadn’t seen you,” he protested, surprised at himself at being put upon the defensive by this child. “T don’t like not being seen,” retorted Pat, with a calm-

ness worthy of an experienced flirt. “Well, I’m damned!” said Vincent breath.

softly, under his

He began to be interested in this quaint /pecimen.

“Oh! come! Give me a chance to make amends. How about a little supper?” “No,” answered Pat with perverse satisfaction. “I’m going to bed. Good-night, Mr. Too-late.” ' She darted away from him, triumphantly satisfied of

having left a barb behind her.

He wouldn’t forget her

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soon, she’d bet! At the turn of the stairs she peeped down expectantly. Sure enough! there he stood staring after her, his comely face clouded with perplexity and disappointment. It gave Pat a sudden heating of the blood; but this was the thrill of satisfaction, of something achieved, quite different from the unsated yet

delicious longing experienced when she had looked down before from that same vantage point upon Warren Graves. Even more than before she was aware of a power within herself, perhaps greater than herself, to allure men. And subtly, profoundly, she felt that the touchstone of that power was denial. Scott Vincent would remember her, Selden Thorpe would think of her with longing, because she had denied them both. Pat slept happily that night, the sleep of a little Venus Victrix.

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 CHAPTER

VII

Ir was to her second daughter that Mona Fentriss made, after due thought, disclosure of her condition.

was tion had and

Dee

shocked and incredulous. She had no profound affecfor her mother. None of the girls had. But Mona always been bonne camarade with them in her casual light-hearted way. And she had made, as few women

make, the atmosphere of her home.

Without her the house

was almost unthinkable; it would not be the same place; not only sadder and duller, but essentially different. In this way chiefly would she be missed. “You'll have to be the one to carry on the housekeeping job, Dee.”

“I?” said Mary Delia. ‘Mother, I don’t know the first thing about it.” “You'll learn. You’re clever.” “Besides, I can’t believe that you’re going to—that you’re right about yourself.” “Ask Dr. Bob.” “He’s been hinting at something. But he seemed afraid _ to come out with it when I tried to follow up. Is that the reason why you wanted me to marry Bobs?” maeartly.”” “T can’t seem to think of him in that way. But then, I can’t seem to think of any man in that way.” “Not even Jimmy James?” “Not even Jimmy, much as I like him.” ‘When we talked about this before you said———” “Yes; I know. Probably I'll marry him one of these days. But when he tries to make love to me, I curl up a little.

Am I abnormal, Mona?” 65

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“TI don’t know,” answered Mona reflectively. “We women are queer machines, Dee. Perhaps it’s just that Jimmy isn’t the right man.” “Then I haven’t met the right man yet. It would be pretty weird if he came along afterward, wouldn’t it? So perhaps I’d better wait.” “No; I think perhaps you’d better not, if you really like Jimmy. There might not be any right man for you, in that sense. Some of us are made that way.” “Yes; I suppose so. But why choose me to run the house? Con would do it better, wouldn’t she?” “Possibly. But if she’s to do it, I'd have to tell her what [ve just told you. And I don’t want to break in on her happiness.” “Qh, happiness,” murmured Dee in a curious tone. “You don’t think she’s happy?” queried the mother. “Or perhaps you don’t believe in that kind of happiness. Cynicism at your age is a pose.” “It isn’t that. But I don’t believe Con and Freddie are going too well together.” “Why not?” “Freddie’s hitting the booze quite a bit. Besides, he hasn’t as much money as Con thought. Not nearly. And she’s a high-speed little spender, you know.” “Yes; she’s certainly that,” agreed Mona, bethinking herself of the monthly bills which came in after the eldest sister’s allowance had been expended in a variety of manners for which the spender was cheerfully unable to account.

“Doing fifty thousand sand dollar income won’t ness,” opined the shrewd if she doesn’t pull up.” “TDoesn’t she care for

dollar things on a fifteen thouspeed ’em up the Road to HappiDee. “She’ll make a hash of it, Fred, do you think?”

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“In one way she’s crazy about him.” Dee’s curled lip suggested the way; also that she neither comprehended nor sympathised with it. But Mona laughed, relieved. “Well; that’s rather essential, you know, in marriage.

Ill talk to Connie about extravagance when I come back.” ‘As a preacher on that text,” began Dee wickedly; then bent over to give her mother’s hand an awkward and remorseful pat. “T’ll do the best I can, of course. And don’t think I’m not—not feeling pretty rotten over this,” she continued, huskily and a little shamefully, like a boy caught in a display of emotion... . “You say, when you come back. Going away?” “Oh, just a run over to Philadelphia to spend a couple of days with the Barhams,” replied Mona carelessly. “You and I will have to do a little figuring about the housekeeping, too, on my return. And you can pass it on to Pat when you get married.” “Pat! She'll be a grand little housekeeper when her turn comes. I pity poor Dad.” “She and your father understand each other, though, in a way,” mused Mona. Having meditated over this conversation with dubious feelings, Dee, who had a sane instinct for facts, went to

call on Dr. Osterhout at the little laboratory attached to his bungalow. This was on a Tuesday. Her mother had left the previous noon. Osterhout emerged from rapt contemplation of a test tube to find the girl standing over him. “Hullo,” he said. “What are you invading a bachelor’s

quarters at this hour for?” “Afraid of being compromised, Bobs?” she retorted. “Hadn’t thought of it. Why put such alarming ideas into my head? But my reputation will stand it if yours

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will, Besides, a physician is immune. One of the perquisites of the profession.” “It’s as a physician that I want to talk to you.” His face changed ; became grave and solicitous, “What’s wrong?” “T want to know about Mona.”

“Has she told you anything?” V'es,??

“I’ve wanted her to for some time.” “Then it’s true.” “Yes: it’s true.”

“How long, Bobs?” “Uncertain. It isn’t progressing as fast as I feared. But—not very long, Dee.” He spoke with effort. “A year?” “Perhaps. If she’s careful.” “But she isn’t careful. You know Mona.” “No. She isn’t. It isn’t in her to be.” “Ought she to be running off on trips?” “Of course not. But I can’t stop her.” A note of weariness, of defeat had come into his brusque voice. “Poor old Bobs!” The girl went to him and set a hand on his shoulder, brushing his cheek with her fingers as she did so. There was nothing repellent to her sensitive ness in contact with him, nothing of the revulsion which she experienced under the eager touch of men, tentatively love-making. Bobs wasn’t like a man to her so much as like a faithful and noble-spirited dog. “It’s hard on you, isn’t it?” she murmured.

His eyes pathy. “Tt isn’t “T won’t is it quite

thanked her for her understanding and symeasy,” he confessed. hurt you any more. hopeless?”

But just one question;

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“I can’t see any chance of cure.” “Poor old Bobs!” she said again, this time in a whisper. “If I were a man I’m sure I should be wild about Mona. I can see that even if she is my mother. She’s so lovely; and she’s so young; and she’s”—Dee smiled—‘“she’s such a bad child.” “No; she’s not,” he defended doggedly. ‘“She’s just a little spoiled because life has always petted her. And now the petting is almost over.” “Yes.

That’s hard to believe, isn’t it? Of Mona!

She’s

always had her own way with everyone and everything. But she’s got courage. She won’t flinch. Bobs, do you remember a talk we three had, months ago?” S6¥

os5,??

“I’d like to do something for her before—something that she wanted. And for you, too. It wouldn’t do any good, would it,” she asked wistfully, “if I were to marry you?” “Not a bit.” She smiled, awry, but withal, relieved. “What a bear you are! Isn’t that your phone ringing?” “Let it ring. This isn’t office hours.” “A hint for me? Having proposed and been rejected, I’m off.” She brushed his cheek again. “Old boy,” she said, “it is going to be tough going for you. Worse than for any of us. Good-bye.” Concentration upon his work being dissipated by this disturbing visit, Osterhout threw himself on the settee and dropped out of the world into a chasm of dark musings. If Mona had ever really cared for him, he mused—if he had been her lover—might he have been her lover, as she had hinted?—-had she lovers? Or were the other men merely playthings of her wayward moods, of her craving for excitement, for adulation, for the sunlit warmth

of

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being loved?

At least he had not been a plaything; her

regard for and trust in him were true and sincere. Better these, perhaps, than the turmoil and uncertainty of Yet, that temptation that she had held out to him; was it just an instance of her wickeder bent of coquetry?... Or could he have made her care? . . . Damn that telephone! He roused himself with a wrench and went into the next room where the intrusive mechanism was thrilling. Long-distance had been trying to get him... Wait a moment. . . A man’s voice, low, cager and strained came to his ear over the wire. “Dr. Osterhout ?” “Ves,”

“Can you come to Trenton immediately? By the next train?” ‘Who is speaking?” “It’s very important,” went on the nervous and insistent voice. “It’s a—a very important case. Critical.” ‘Who are your” “Ts that necessary?” queried the voice, after a pause, “Certainly. Do you suppose that I am going out on any wild-goose, anonymous call?” “Then I was to say,” said the voice, “that Mona needs you.” “Mona! Is she ill?” SSViesic>
 * “Where?”

“Here, in Trenton.” ‘Where in Trenton?”

“At the Marcus Groot Hotel. You’ll be met at the train. For God’s sake say you'll come.”

“T can get the one o’clock,” said Osterhout. bye.”

“Good-

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"1

Going over on the train he had time for scalding meditations. Monain Trenton! At the Marcus Groot Hotel. When she was supposedly visiting the Barhams at their Philadelphia apartment. And all this atmosphere of secrecy thrown about it by the unknown man. But was he unknown? The voice had seemed dimly familiar to Osterhout. Surely, he had heard it before. Feverishly he mustered in his mind Mona’s admirers, canvassed them over, vacillated between this and that one, and shook with a jealous and amazed rage which horrified while it tore at him, as Sidney Rathbone hurried up the platform to

meet him. But in a moment he had mastered himself. “Thank God, you’re here!” “How is she?” “A good deal easier. She’s been terribly ill.” “Heart?” “Yes. She wouldn’t let me call any local physician.” “When was she taken?” inquired Osterhout as he stepped into the waiting taxi. “This morning. About eight o’clock.” In his anxiety Rathbone was beyond any considerations of concealment; the revelation was absolute when, at the

hotel, he took Osterhout directly to the suite of rooms, as one having the right. Mona greeted the newcomer with a smile, grateful, pleading, pitiful. Mutely it said: “Don’t be too harsh in your judgment of me.”

Hardening himself to his professional state of mind,

Osterhout made his swift, assured, detailed examination.

“What’s the verdict?” whispered Mona. “You'll be all right,” he He nodded encouragingly. said reassuringly. From his case he produced some pel~

lets.

“Not an opiate?” she asked rebelliously.

talk to you.”

“I want to

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“No.

It’s a stimulant.

YOUTH

But I think you’d better not

try to talk for a while.” “T must ... Sid, dear, go into the other room, won’t you?”

Rathbone nodded, speechless for the moment. His hollowed eyes were full of the slow tears of relief. He bent over the sick woman’s face for a moment and was gone, obediently. “JT want to tell you,” said Mona, as soon as the door had closed, “about this.”

“There isn’t any need,” returned Osterhout. “No. There isn’t,” agreed Mona. “The situation explains itself, doesn’t it??? She smiled at him, equably but without hardihood. “It does.” “Are you being my wise doctor or my reproachful friend? Are you thinking to yourself: ‘Mona, I wouldn’t have thought it of you!) Because, if you are——” ‘You mean that you would have thought it of me. How dare you, Bobs!” she demanded elfishly. He did not respond to her raillery, which he recognised for the expression of tortured nerves. “I wish you wouldn’t talk,” he said.
 * “T’m not.”

“T will,” she retorted mutinously. “It won’t hurt me. At worst, it won’t hurt me nearly as much as to hold in what I want to say. Bobs, was this attack brought on by —by my foolishness?” “Very possibly. It certainly didn’t help any,” he replied grimly. “Suppose I’d died here,” she mused. “I very nearly did.” “So I should judge.” “What a scandal there’d have been! And what a tezt

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for the pious!

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“The wages of sin is death.’

13

D’you believe

that, Bobs?”

“It’s a usefut bogey to scare people who are more timid than they are wicked.” “I’m not timid,” she proclaimed. “And I don’t feel particularly wicked. Only anxious over how this is going to turn out.” “What did you do it for, Mona?” he burst out painfully. She gave him a sidelong glance. “Oh, I don’t know. Boredom. And he begged me so. Poor Sid! He does love me.” “The dirty scoundrel! If he loved you, would he——” “Of course he would!” she broke in, with impatient contempt. “Don’t indulge in cheap melodrama. It’s because people are in love that they take risks like this.” “Then you love him,” said Osterhout dolorously. “T don’t know. He sways me. But—I don’t think ’m in love with him, as you mean it.” “Yet you id “Yet I came here with him. Does that seem so terrible to you?” She spoke in a tone of half-tender mockery. “TI can’t understand it, except on the ground that you love him.” “Because you don’t understand me. And there are twenty-one different definitions of love.” “Do you understand yourself?” “Yes; I do,” she asserted thoughtfully and boldly. “And I’m not afraid to accept myself as I am. I don’t shut my eyes to the picture just because it’s my own, I’m not a sneak.” “No. You’re not that.” “And if I take the chances I’m ready to face the conse-

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quences,” she said without defiance, but as one who enun-

ciates a principle of life. “The consequences? Of this?”

“If necessary. shrank, tritely.

It isn’t the first time.”?

He winced and

“Ah, I’m sorry if that hurt you!” she cried con-

“Never mind. There are others than me to be thought of.” “You do the thinking, Bobs. I’m not up to it.” “T will.” “That’s like you,” she murmured gratefully. ‘Where are you supposed to be staying?” “At the Barhams’, on Walnut Street. Only Sue is at home.” “Can you arrange it with her?” “To back up my lies? Yes; Sue will stand by.” It was characteristic of Mona Fentriss that she should use the short, ugly, and veracious word. “Then I shall take you to a Philadelphia hospital.” “Am I as bad as that?” “Tt’s the simplest way to cover the trail. You were taken ill at the Barhams’;

you

wired

for me

to avoid

alarming the family, and I had you transferred to the hospital. But there’s a risk.” “Of being trapped?” “Not that so much. Of bringing on another attack.” “You'll be with me, won’t you?” “Yes. We'll get a car and take you over.” “Then

I’m not afraid,” she said trustfully.

“But—

‘we’; do you mean that Sid is going along?” “T supposed you’d want him.” TI -don’t.”

Wise though he was in human nature, Mona was always surprising Osterhout.

He made no comment, but went

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into the front room. Rathbone, his finely cut face mottled and livid, lurched heavily out of his chair. “Is she going to die?” he asked, looking pitifully unlike the traditional villain of such a drama. “Perhaps,” returned the physician shortly. “Because of—was it this that brought on the attack?” Osterhout eyed him with grim distaste. “It didn’t help any,” he answered, as he had answered Mona. “Good God! If she dies through my fault & “You should have thought of that before.” “I love her so!” groaned the man. His face changed. “T’ll know what to do,” he muttered in quiet, self-centred determination. ‘And what’s that?” demanded the physician. “Nothing,” replied the other, startled and sullen. Osterhout reached him in three steps. “Suicide, perhaps,” he said.

“That’s my business.” “Tt is. If you’re a low, dirty coward.” Rathbone straightened. “I won’t take that from any man.” © “Lower your voice, you fool! And listen to me. If she dies and you kill yourself, do you realize what that would mean? It would be advertising this situation to the world. Scandal and shame for the family. Oh, it’s an easy way out for you. But can’t you be man enough to think of others a little?” “Isn't it scandal and shame anyway?” “No. It isn’t,” returned the doctor energetically. “I’m going to get her out of it. All you have to do is to obey orders.”

“T’]] do that,” said Rathbone eagerly and brokenly. “T’]l do anything you say.

you

”

And if ever I can

repay

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“Tf you try to thank me I'll kill you!” retorted Osterhout, snarling and livid, suddenly losing control of himself in his jealous anguish of soul. The other stared in his face, amazed

but unalarmed

by the outbreak. “Ah! he breathed. “So that’s the way it is with you. Well—God help you! Imsorry. ButI know now you'll do your best for her. That’s all I care about.” He turned toward the door of the room. For the moment Osterhout started forward to intercept him, then drew back with a face in which shone the bitterness of yielding to a superior right. When Rathbone returned, both men had recovered their self-command. “Get your things together; send for a maid to pack hers; settle your bill, and get the easiest riding car you can find to go to Philadelphia,” were the physician’s brief directions. “Where are you going to take her?” “To a hospital.” “When can I see her?” “That is for her to say.”

“Then you don’t think she’s going to—that there is any immediate danger?” said the lover hopefully.

“T think she’ll pull through this time, though there is still danger.” “T’m glad you’re with her,” said Rathbone simply, and went,

Quite as much time was devoted by Dr. Osterhout in the days immediately following to covering the devious trail of his patient as to treating her medically. After a consultation with Mrs. Barham, in which each solemnly

pretended that the other entertained no suspicion of Mona’s slip, he wrote a heedfully worded letter of misinformation and assurance to Ralph Fentriss, explaining

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that his wife had been taken to the hospital after a mild attack, more for rest than anything else; that no member of the family was to come over, and that she would be in condition to return home in a few days. This latter was true, for Mona’s recuperative powers were great. None of the family came. But to Osterhout’s surprise, he ran upon Patricia while walking down Broad Street on Sunday. She was with a pretty and smartly dressed girl a little older than herself. “What are you doing here, Pat?” he demanded.

amusing in one so young she indicated her companion. “She’s my b.f. at school. Cissie, this is Dr. Bobs. You know about him.” “Yes, indeed.
 * Week-ending with Cissie Parmenter.” With an aplomb

How d’you do, Dr. Osterhout.”

“And what manner of creature is a b.f.?” asked he quizzically, taking the extended hand which was ornamented with a valuable ruby. “Best friend, of course, stupid Bobs,” returned Pat. “What kind of a bat are you on down here?” “Your mother’s been ill. She’s in hospital here,” he answered and immediately wondered whether he had not spoken unwisely. “Hospital?” Pat opened wide eyes. “Is it dangerous?” “No. She’s coming along very well.” “Take me to see her.” She turned to Cissie. “I’m plunged, Ciss, but the luncheon’s off for me. ‘Tell the boys. You may have my c.t. See you this afternoon.” “J don’t know that you ought—” began Osterhout, but was cut short by a quick: “Then she’s worse than you pretend.” “No; but I don’t want her excited. However, you may see her,” he decided. He took her to the hospital and left her there with her mother. On his return for his evening’s visit he asked:

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“How long did the bambina stay?” “We had a long talk. Bob, did you notice any change in Pat?” “No; I don’t think I did.

I wasn’t thinking about her.”

Mona’s beautiful eyes grew pensive. “But you were right about her; what you said before.” “As to what?” “She is going to be attractive to men in her own queer style. There’s something about her, a femininity—no, a sheer femaleness that’s going to make trouble.” “For her or for others?”

“For her possibly, because of its effect on others. She understands it a little herself, already, for she’s very precocious. And she’s proud of it. But she’s afraid of it, too.

Such a talk as we’ve had!

She’s a frank little

beast. Your respectable hairs would have stood on end. I’ve been frank with her, too. I had to be; there may not

be much time.

Moritwri te—what’s the silly Latin, Bob?

. « » Oh, don’t look like that, my dear!

I didn*t mean te

hurt you. And I’ve hurt you so much, haven*t I?” “Tt doesn’t matter.” “Because you’re so good to me. So it does matter. Why are you so good to me, Bob?” “You know, Mona.”

“But I want to hear you say it. ... No; I don’t! That’s my badness coming out again. And I’m going to be good now in the time remaining to me. Can’t you see me, with a saintly expression of face and piously folded hands, waiting submissively like—like somebody on a sampler? Somebody very woolly?” In spite of his pain he smiled. “That’s better,” she cried gaily. “Cheer up. I want you in good mood because I’ve something to ask you. There’s something I want you awfully to do, and yor won’t want to do it.”

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