XAMY SWEET AND AMY SOURNow that Fosdick saw how he could clear himself, and more, of those he had been variously describing as pryers, peepers, ingrates, traitors and blackmailers, he was chagrined that he had been so near to panic. He couldn't understand it, so he assured himself; with nothing to conceal, with hands absolutely clean, with not an act on the record that was not legitimate, such as the most respectable men in the most respectable circles not only approved but did—with these the conditions, how had he been so upset?"I suppose," he reflected, "as a man gets older, he becomes foolishly sensitive about his reputation. Then, too, the world is eager to twist evil into everything—and I have so many in my own class who are jealous of me, of my standing."The silliest thing he had done, he decided, was that talk with the Siersdorfs. Why, if they were at all evil-minded, they might suspect he was using those construction accounts for swindling purposes, instead of making a perfectly legitimate convenience of them to adjust the bookkeeping to the impossible requirements of law and public opinion. "It's an outrage," he thought, "that we can't have the laws fixed so it would be possible to carry on business without having to do things liable to misconstruction, if made generally public. But we can't. As it is, look at the swindlers who have taken advantage of the laws we absolutely had to have the legislature make." Yes, it was a blunder to take the Siersdorfs into his confidence—though the young man did show that he had brains enough to understand the elements of large affairs. Still, he might some time make improper use of the knowledge—unless——Fosdick decided that thereafter the vouchers should pass through Siersdorf's hands, should have Siersdorfs O.K. "Then, if any question arises, it will be to his interest to treat confidential matters confidentially. Or, if he should turn against me, he'd be unable to throw mud without miring himself."And now Fosdick saw why he had instantly jumped for the Siersdorfs. They alone were not personally involved in any of the "private business" of the O.A.D. All the directors, all the officials, all the important agents, were involved, and therefore would not dare turn traitor if they should be vile enough to contemplate it. But the Siersdorfs were independent, yet perilously in possession of the means to make trouble."I must fix them," said Fosdick. "I must clinch them."Thus it came about that within a week Alois was helping the directors of the O.A.D. to keep their accounts "adjusted"—was signing vouchers for many times the amounts that were being actually expended upon the building. He hesitated before writing the firm name upon the first of these documents. On the face of it, the act did look—peculiar. True, it was a simple matter of bookkeeping; still, he'd rather not be involved. There seemed no way out of it, however. To refuse was to insult Fosdick—and that when Fosdick was showing his confidence in and affection for him. Also, it meant putting in jeopardy three big orders in hand—the two office buildings and Overlook."It'd break Narcisse's heart to have to give up doing Overlook," he said to himself. Yes, he would sign the vouchers; now that he felt he was acting, at least in large part, for his dear sister's sake, he had no qualms. Having passed the line, he looked back with amusement. He debating as a moral question a matter of business routine! A matter approved by such a character, such a figure as Josiah Fosdick!Some of these "technically inaccurate" vouchers were before him when Narcisse happened into his office. Though there was "nothing wrong with them—nothing whatever," and though she would not have known it if there had been, he instinctively slipped the blotting pad over them."What are you hiding there?" she teased innocently. "A love letter?"He frowned. "You've got that on the brain," he retorted, with a constrained smile. "What do you want—now?""Amy's here. Have you time to go over the plans?""Yes—right away," said he, with quick complete change of manner.She winced. So sensitive had she become on the subject of her brother and her friend that she was hurt by the most casual suggestion from either of interest in the other. Regarding her brother as irresistible, she assumed that, should he ask Amy, he would be snapped in, like fly by frog. "Yet," said she to herself, "they're utterly unsuited. He'd realize it as soon as he was married to her. Why can't a man ever see through a woman until he's had an affair with her and gotten over her?""Shall we look at the plans here or in your room?" he asked."I'll send her here.... It won't be necessary for me to come, will it?""No. We'll hardly get round to your part to-day," said Alois. And Amy went in alone, and spent the entire afternoon with Alois. And most attractive he made himself to Amy. In his profession, he had many elements of strength; he hated shams, had a natural sense of the beautiful, unspoiled by the conventionalities that reduce most architects to slavish copyists. He did not think things fine simply because they were old; neither did he think them ugly or stale for that reason. He knew how to judge on merit alone; and he had educated Amy Fosdick to the point where she at least appreciated his views and ideas. When a man gets a woman trained to that point, he thinks her a marvel of independent intellect, with germs of genius—if she is at all attractive to him physically. He forgot that, until Amy had "taken up" the Siersdorfs, she had been as enthusiastic about the barren and conventional Whitbridge as she now was about them. Appreciation is one of the most deceptive qualities in the world, where it is genuine. Through it we are all constantly disguising from ourselves and from others our own mental poverty.Usually appreciation is little more than a liking for the person whose ideas we think we understand and share. In Amy's case, there was a good deal of real understanding. She had much natural good taste, enough to learn to share in the amusement of Narcisse and Alois at the silly imitations of old-world palaces her acquaintances were hastening to house themselves in—palaces built for a forever departed era of the human race, for a past people of a past and gone social order; she also saw, when Alois pointed it out to her, the silliness of the mania for antiques which in our day is doing so much to suffocate originality and even good taste. She learned to loathe the musty, fusty rags and worm-eaten woods the crafty European dealers manufacture, "plant," and work off on those Americans who are bent upon the same snobbishness in art education that they are determined to have in the other forms of education. Encouraged by Narcisse and Alois, she came boldly out against that which she had long in secret doubted and disliked. She was more than willing that they should build her a house suitable as a habitation for a human being in the twentieth century—a house that was ventilated and convenient and scientific. And she was giving Alois a free hand in planning surroundings of spontaneous beauty rather than of the kind that pleased the narrower and more precise fancy of a narrower age, to which the idea of freedom of any sort was unknown.[image]"She was giving Alois a free hand in planning surroundings.""Gracious! It's after half past four!" she exclaimed, as if she had just become conscious of the fact, when in truth she had been impatiently watching the clock by way of a mirror for nearly an hour."So it is!" said Alois, immensely flattered by her unconsciousness of time."I want to take these plans with me—to show them to some one."Alois felt that the "some one" was a man, and a very particular friend—else, she would have spoken the name. "Very well," he said, faintly sullen."Don't be disturbed," was her absent reply. "I'll take good care of them." She saw the change in him; but, not thinking of him as a man, but as an intelligence only, she did not grasp the cause. "Thank you so much," she went on, "for being so patient with me. How splendid it must be to have always with one a mind like yours—or Narcisse's. Well, until to-morrow, or next day." And, looking as charming as only a pretty woman with a fortune can look to a man who wants both her and her fortune, she left him desolate.The "some one" was indeed a man. But he—Armstrong—did not arrive until half an hour after the appointed time. She came into the small salon into which he had been shown, her gloves, hat and wraps on and the big roll of plans under her arm; and no one would have suspected that she had been waiting for him since ten minutes before five and had spent most of the time in primping. "I'm all blown to pieces," she apologized, as she entered. "Have I kept you waiting? I really couldn't help it.""I just got here," said Armstrong. "I, too, was late—business, as always." Which was true enough; but the whole truth would have been that he forgot the appointment until its very hour. "I'll not keep you long," he continued. "I've got to dress for an early dinner."She was so disappointed that she did not dare speak, lest she should show her ill humor—and she knew Armstrong detested a bad disposition in a woman. She rang for tea; when the servants had brought it and were gone, she began fussing with her coat. He, preoccupied, did not see her hinted signals until she said, "Please, do help me."As he drew off the coat there floated to him a delightful perfume, a mingling of feminine and flowers, of freshness and delicacy, a stimulating suggestion of the sensuous refinements which a woman with taste and the means can employ as powerful allies in her siege of man. She looked up at him—her eyes were, save her teeth, her best feature. She just brushed his arm in one of those seemingly unconscious, affectionate-friendly gestures which are intended to be encouraging without being "unwomanly." "How is my friend to-day?" she inquired."So-so," replied he, taking her advances at their face value."You never come here unless I send for you, and you always have some excuse for going soon."He smiled good-natured raillery. "How sure of yourself you feel!""Why do you say that?""Your remark. You are always making that kind of remarks. They're never made except by women who feel sure.""But I don't," protested she. "On the contrary, I'm very humble—where you're concerned." She gave him a long look. "And you know that's true."He laughed at her with his eyes. "No. I shan't do it. You'll have only your trouble for your pains."She colored. "Whatdoyou mean?""That I won't propose to you. You've been trying to inveigle me into it for nearly a year now. But you'll have to do without my scalp."The big Westerner's jesting manner carried his remark, despite its almost insolent frankness. Besides, what with Amy's content with herself and partiality for him, it would have been difficult for him to offend her. Never before had she been able to lure him so near to the one subject she wished to discuss with him. "What conceit," cried she, all smiles. "You fancy I've been flirting with you. I might have known! Men always misunderstand a woman's friendship. I suppose you imagine I'm in love with you.""Not in the least. No more than I with you."She looked crestfallen at this. Whether a woman has much or little to give a man, whether she wants his love or not, she always wishes to feel that it is there waiting for her. "Why do you imagine I wish you to ask me to marry you?" she asked, swiftly recovering and not believing him.He did not answer that. Instead he said: "You came very near to getting your way about a year ago. I had about made up my mind to marry you.""To marry me," she echoed ironically."To marry you," he repeated in his attractive, downright fashion."Well—why didn't you?""I decided I didn't need you," said he, most matter-of-fact. "I saw I'd be repeating the blunder I made when I married before. When I got out of college, I was so discouraged by the prospect, I felt so weak without money or influence, that I let myself drift into a great folly—for it is a folly to imagine that money or influence are of any value in making a career. They're the results of a career, not its cause. Once more, when I faced the big battle here in New York, I was fooled for a while in spite of myself by the same old delusion. I saw that the successful men all had great wealth, and I made the same old shallow mistake of supposing their wealth gave them their success. But I got back to the sensible point of view very quickly.""And so—I—escaped.""Escaped is the word for it.""You are flattering—to-day.""That sarcasm because I did not so much as speak of your charms, I suppose?""You might have said I was personally a little of a temptation.""Why go into that?" rejoined he, with an intonation that gave her a chance to be flattered, if she chose. "Of course, if I had decided I needed you in my career, I'd have flung myself over ears into love. As it was, don't you think my keeping away from you complimentary?"This was the nearest he had ever come to an admission that she was attractive to him; she straightway exaggerated it into a declaration of love. Very few women make or even understand a man's clear distinction between physical attraction and love; Amy thought them one and the same."You are so hard!" said she. "I wonder at myself for liking you." As she spoke, she rapidly thought it out with the aid of her vanity; men and women, in their relations with each other, always end by taking counsel of vanity. He wanted her; he had taken this subtle means to get within her defenses and, without running the risk of a refusal, find out whether he could get her, whether a woman of her wealth and position would condescend to him. It was with her sweetest, candidest smile that she went on, "Now it is all settled. You don't want to marry me; you aren't in love with me. I need not be afraid of any designs, mercenary or otherwise. At last, we can be real friends."He reflected, then said with a judicial, impersonal air, "No matter how well a man plays the game of man and man, he usually plays the game of man and woman badly. Why? Because he thinks the conditions are different. He is deceived by woman's air of guilelessness into imagining he has the game all his own way.""What has that got to do with what I said to you?" asked she, her color a confession that the question was unnecessary.He again laughed at her with his eyes. "Why did you think it had?"She pouted. "You are in a horrible mood to-day."He rose. "Thanks for the hint."She began to unroll the plans."Now,there'sthe man for you," said he, with a gesture toward her bundle of blue prints."Who?""Siersdorf.""If I had to choose, I'd prefer—even you.""Siersdorf is adaptable and appreciative. He's good to look at, has a good all-round mind, is extraordinary in his specialty. You couldn't do better.""I don't want him," she cried impatiently. "I prefer to suit myself in marrying." She stood before him, her hands behind her, the pretty face tilted daringly upward. "Are you trying to make me dislike you?"He looked down at her; there was not a hint in his expression that her dare was a temptation. "I must be going," said he.Tears gathered in her eyes, made them brilliant, took away much of their natural hardness. "Won't you be friends?" she appealed.He continued to look straight into her eyes until her expression told him she knew he was not deceived by her maneuverings and strategies. Then he said, "No," with terse directness of manner as well as of speech. "No, because you do not want friends. You want victims."In sudden anger she flung off her mask. "I am a good hater," she warned. "You don't want me to turn against you, do you?"His face became sad and somewhat bitter. There had been a time when such a menace from a source so near his career would have alarmed him, would have set him to debating conciliation. But his self-confidence had developed beyond that stage, had reached the point where a man feels that, if any force from without can injure him, the sooner he finds it out, the more quickly he will be able to make a career founded upon the only unshakable ground, his own single strength."I've taken a great deal off you," she went on in a menacing tone, a tone intended to remind him that he was an employee. "You ought to be more careful. I'm not all sweetness. I can be hard and unforgiving when I cease to like."He laughed unpleasantly as vanity thus easily divested itself of its mask of love. "And to cross you is all that's necessary to rouse your dislike.""That's all," said she. And now she looked like her father in his rare exhibitions of his true self. She had never deceived Armstrong altogether. But he was too masculine not to have lingerings of the universal male delusion that feminine always and necessarily means at least something of sweetness and tenderness."Shall we be friends?" she demanded sharply, imperiously. At bottom, she could not believe anyone would stand against the power that gave her a scepter—the power of wealth. "Friends, or—not?""As you please," replied he, bowing coldly. And he went, his last look altogether calm, not without a tinge of contempt. He realized that he had come there to put an end to his flirtation with her, to assert his own independence, to free himself from the entanglement which his temporary weakness of the first days in overwhelming New York had led him into. The swimmer, used only to pond or narrow river, is unnerved for a moment when he finds himself in the sea; but if he knows his art, he is soon reassured, because he discovers that no more skill is needed for sea than for pond, only a little more self-confidence.He was not clear of the house when she was saying to herself, "Hugo is right about him. Father must take him in hand. He shall be taught his place."XIAT MRS. TRAFFORD'SArmstrong felt that he had regained his liberty.The principal feature of every adequate defense is vigorous attack; and, so long as Amy was pretending to be and was thinking herself his friend, was in fact as much his friend as it was possible for one to be who had been bred to self-worship, Armstrong could take only lame, passive measures against Fosdick. But now— In the oncoming struggle in which he would get no quarter, he need give none. Several times, as he was dressing for dinner, a cynical smile played over his features. What a queer game life was! In other circumstances, that might easily have come about, he and Amy would have plunged into a romantic love affair; they would have been standing by each other against all the world, the stronger in their love and devotion for the opposition. A few words, and off flies her mask of sweetness, so deceptive that it almost deceived herself, and away goes her pretense of friendship; the friends become enemies, liking becomes hate. No real change in either of them; each just as likable as before; yet, what a difference! It amused him. It saddened him. "Probably at this very moment she's edging her father on to destroy me," he thought. But that disturbed him not at all. He had no fear of enemies; he knew that they fling themselves against the gates in vain, unless there are traitors within.This break with Amy was most opportune. He was dining at the Traffords that evening; he could tell Trafford he would accept without any reservations the long-standing invitation to enter the Atwater-Trafford plot to seize the O.A.D.Trafford was one of the rising stars in finance. He originated in a village in southern New Jersey where he was first a school teacher, then a lawyer. He spent many years in studying the problem of success—success, of course, meaning the getting of a vast fortune. He discovered that there were two ways to enormous wealth—by seizing an accumulation amassed by some one else; by devising a trap that would deceive or compel a multitude of people to contribute each his mite of a few dimes or dollars. The first way was the quicker, of course; but Trafford saw that the number of multi-millionaires incapable of defending at least the bulk of their wealth was extremely limited, and that, of them, few indeed kept their wealth together so that one swoop could scoop it all. His mind turned to the other way. After carefully examining the various forms of trap, he was delighted to discover that the one that was easiest to use was also the best. Insurance! To get several hundred thousand people to make you absolute trustee of their savings, asking no real accounting; and all you had to do was to keep a certain part of the money safely invested so that, when anybody died, you could pay his heirs about what he had paid you, with simple interest, or less, added. Trafford studied the life insurance tables, and he was amazed that nobody had ever taken the trouble to expose the business. He stood astounded before the revelation that the companies must be earning, on "risks" alone, from ten to thirty per cent, this in addition to what clever fellows on the inside must be doing in the way of speculation; that policy holders got back in so-called dividends less than five, usually less than four, often less than three per cent!Trafford's fingers twitched. Rich? Why, he would be worth millions!He made choice among the different kinds of insurance. The object was to get a company that would draw in the greatest number of "beneficiaries" and would have to pay the smallest proportion of "benefits." The greatest number were obviously the very poor; and, by happy coincidence, the very poor could also be exploited more easily and more thoroughly and with less outcry than any other class. So, Trafford made burial insurance his "graft." He would play upon the horror the poor have of Potter's Field.He began in a small way in Trenton; he presently had several thousand policy holders, each paying ten cents a week to his agent-collectors. As soon as a policy of this kind has run for several months, it is to the advantage of both agent and company for it to lapse. Thus, Trafford's policies, obscurely worded, unintelligible to any but a lawyer, read that the weekly payments must be made at the office of the company; that an omission promptly to pay a single month's dues made the policy lapse; that a lapsed policy had no surrender value. He was too greedy at first, and Trenton was too small a place. When it became "too hot to hold him," he went to New York—New York with its vast, ignorant, careless tenement population, with its corrupt government, with its superb opportunities for floating and expanding a respectable grafting scheme.If he had stayed in Trenton, he would probably have gone to the penitentiary. But in New York he became ever richer, ever more respectable; he attracted about him a group of eminently respectable sustainers of church and society, always eager to get their noses into a large, new trough of swill. The Home and Hearth Mutual Defense Company soon dwelt in a palace, built at a cost of many millions, every penny of it picked from the pockets of ragged trousers and skirts; Trafford himself dwelt in another and even more costly palace farther uptown, built with the same kind of money. He was a vestryman in the fashionable Church of the Holy Family, a subscriber to all the fashionable charities, an authority on the fashionable theories as to the tenement house question and other sociological problems relating to the slums. And he thought as well of himself as did his neighbors. Was ithisbusiness if the company's collectors forgot to be accommodating and to relieve the poor of the necessity of making their payments at the offices? Was ithisbusiness if policies lapsed by the thousands, by the tens of thousands, through the carelessness or ignorance of the policy holders? Look at the hundreds of thousands whose funeral expenses were provided by the Home and Hearth! Look at the charities he subscribed to; listen to the speeches in behalf of charity and philanthropy he made! Did he not give the policy holders all that was legally theirs?—at least, all that wasrightfullytheirs under the accepted business code; certainly, more than the law would have allowed them, if laws could be made so that the good could carry on "practical" business and yet the wicked not get undue license. Trafford had never been a moral theorist. He had accepted the code known as legal morals—"the world's working compromise with utopianism," he sonorously called it. As he expanded financially, he expanded morally; by the time he became a high financier, he was ready for the broader code known as financial morals—wherein allowances are made for all those moral difficulties which the legal code, being of necessity of wider application, cannot take into account.A fine man was Trafford, with a face that the women and the clergy called "sweet" and "spiritual," with a full gray beard, young eyes, bright blue and smiling, iron-gray hair that waved a little, and the dress of the substantial citizen.His home life was beautiful.He had made his first and false start with a school teacher—she had had the first grade in the school where he taught the sixth grade. She was of about his own age, and indolent, and had never heard that a married woman ought to keep herself up to the mark; she was, therefore, old at thirty-two, and he still a mere boy in looks and in feeling. She said rather severe things when he so narrowly escaped disgrace during his apprenticeship at Trenton; they quarreled, they separated.In the boarding house where he first stopped in New York there was a serious, shrewd, pretty girl, the daughter of the landlady and the niece of one of the high dignitaries of the church. Trafford induced his wife to divorce him—before she discovered how swiftly and luxuriantly he was putting forth bough and leaf in congenial New York. He married the niece of the church dignitary in the parlor of the boarding house; a "most elegant function" it was pronounced by the boarders—and, as they read all the "fashionable intelligence" and claimed kinship with various fashionable people, they ought to have known. The wedding was like the bright dawn of a bright day—a somewhat cool, even frosty day, but brilliant. Neither Trafford nor the second Mrs. Trafford had much affection in them. Who knows, perhaps the marriage was the more cloudless for that. Instead of exploiting each other, as loving couples too often do, they exploited their fellow beings, he downtown, she up. As he grew, she grew. As he became rich, she became fashionable; ten years after that wedding, hardy indeed would have been the person who would have dared remind her that she had once lived in a boarding house.Conventionally, it is man's chief business to get rich, woman's chief business to keep young looking; the Traffords were nothing if not conventional. Mrs. Trafford appreciated that she lived in a land where beauty in a woman counts more than seventy-five points in the hundred, that she lived in a city where it counts at least ninety points in the hundred. She had no use for her charms beyond mere show—show, the sole purpose of all she did and thought and was. She took herself in hand, after the true New York fashion, at Time's first sign of malice. She had herself cared for from top to toe, and that intelligently—no credulous prey to fake beautifiers was Lily Trafford. When Trafford was fifty-two, though he did not look so much by half a dozen years, his wife was thirty-eight, and looked less than thirty.Nor had she neglected her other duties as woman and wife. Her husband was rich; she had learned how to spend money. The theory among those who have no money "to speak of," and never had, is that everyone is born with the knowledge how to spend money. In fact, there are thousands who know how to make money where there are ten who know how to spend it. The whole mercantile class fattens on the ignorance of this neglected science—fattens by selling at high prices to those who do not know what they want or how much they should pay. Mrs. Trafford knew exactly what she wanted—she wanted to be fashionable. She had fashion as an instinct, as a passion. She wanted the "latest thing" in mental and material furnishings. She cared nothing for knowledge; she was determined to have culture, because culture was fashionable. She had no ideas of her own, and wanted none; she followed the accepted standards. It was the fashion to go to church; she went to church. It was the fashion to be a little skeptical; she was cautiously skeptical. It was the fashion to live in a palace; in a palace she lived. She went to the fashionable dressmakers and art stores and book stores. She filled her house with things recommended by the fashionable architects. She had the plainest personal tastes in food, but she ate three fashionable meals a day; and, though she loved coffee with cream, took it with hot milk in the mornings and black after lunch and dinner, because cream was unfashionable. Yes, Mrs. Trafford knew how to spend money. The science of spending money is getting what you want at as low a price as anybody can get it. Mrs. Trafford got exactly what she wanted, and got it with no more waste than is inevitable in spending large sums with people who lie awake of nights plotting to get more than they are entitled to.As Armstrong looked round the salon into which he was shown, it seemed to him he had never seen anything so magnificent or so stiff. Trafford was housed exactly like a king—and, like a king, he had the air of being a temporary tenant of the magnificence about him. It was the typical great house—a crude, barbaric structure, an exhibition of wealth with no individuality, no originality, ludicrous to the natural eye, yet melancholy; for, from every exhibit of how little wealth buys there protrudes the suggestion of how much it has deprived how many. In such displays the absence of price marks is a doubtful concession to canons of taste which in no wise apply; the price mark would at once answer the only question that forms in the mind as the glance roams. The Traffords, however, were as content as royalty in their uncomfortable and unsightly surroundings; they had attained the upper class heaven."So glad you could come," said Mrs. Trafford graciously to Armstrong. Her toilet was the extreme of the fashion, and without a glimmer of individual taste. "This is my small daughter." And she smiled up at the thin, pretty young woman beside her in diaphanous white over palest yellow. "We are to be six this evening," she went on. "And Boris is coming—you know Boris Raphael?""Never heard of him," said Armstrong.Miss Trafford smiled broadly. Mrs. Trafford was pained, and showed it—not at her daughter's smile, for it she did not see, but at Armstrong's ignorance of so important a fact in the current fashionable fund of information. Ignorance of literature, science, art, politics, of everything of importance in the great world, would not have disturbed Mrs. Trafford; but ignorance of any of the trivialities it was fashionable to know—what vulgarity, what humiliation! "He isthepainter of portraits," she explained. "Everyone has him. He gets really fabulous prices.""An American?" inquired Armstrong."I believe he was born here. But, of course, he has spent his life abroad. We are so commercial. No artist could develop here.""Is there any place on earth where they don't take all they can get?" asked Armstrong. "Does Raphael refuse 'fabulous prices'?"Miss Trafford laughed. Mrs. Trafford looked pained again. "Oh—but the spirit is different over there," she replied vaguely."Where the men won't marry unless the girl brings a dowry?""The customs are different from ours," said Mrs. Trafford, patiently and pleasantly. "Raphael has done me a great honor. He has asked to paint me.""Naturally, he's on the lookout for all the jobs he can get," said Armstrong, his mind really on his impending treaty with her husband—arranging the articles, what he would give, what demand in exchange. The instant the words were out he realized their inexcusable rudeness. He reddened and looked awkwardly big and piteously apologetic.Trafford, who had been stroking the huge deerhound on the tiger skin before the fire, now burst in. "What's that about Raphael? Did my wife tell you she has at last persuaded him to paint her picture?"A miserable silence. Miss Trafford had to turn away to restrain her laughter. Mrs. Trafford became white, then scarlet, then white again."The airs he's putting on!" continued Trafford, unconscious. "Why, they tell me his father was a banana peddler and——""Mr. Raphael," announced the butler, holding aside one of the ten-thousand-dollar portières."Oh—Raphael!" exclaimed Trafford, with enthusiasm."So glad you could come," said Mrs. Trafford, gracious and sweet."Miss Carlin," announced the butler.Armstrong, studying Raphael's face, which instantly attracted him, wheeled toward the door at the sound of this name as if he had been shot at from that direction. He might not have been noted, had he not straightway got a far greater shock. In abandon of sheer amazement he stared at the figure in the doorway—Neva, completely transformed in the two years since he saw her. The revolution in her whole mode of life and thought had produced results as striking inwardly as outwardly.In America, transformations usually cause, at most, only momentary surprise; for almost everyone above the grade of day laborer, and not a few there, changes his environment completely, not once but several times in the lifetime, readjusting himself to his better or worse circumstances. After an interval one sees the man or the woman he has known as poor and obscure; success has come in that interval, and with it all the external and internal results of success. Or, failure has come, and with it that general sloughing away and decay which is the inevitable consequence of profound discouragement; the American, most adaptable of human beings, accepts defeat as facilely as victory.In Neva's case, however, the phenomenon was somewhat different. It is not often that circumstance drags an obstinately retiring person into activity, breaks the shell and compels that which was hidden to become open, to develop, to dominate. The transformation of Neva seemed somewhat as if a violet had become a tall-stemmed rose; it was, in fact, no miracle of transubstantiation, but one of those perfectly natural marvels, like the metamorphosis of grub into butterfly. Armstrong had seen the chrysalis, all unsuspicious of its true nature; now, with no knowledge of the stages between, he was seeing the ethereal beauty the chrysalis had so securely concealed. It must be said, however, that Boris, though he had seen the day-to-day change, the gradual unfolding of wing and color and grace, was almost as startled as the big, matter-of-fact Westerner. In the evolution of every living thing, there comes a definite moment when the old vanishes and the new bursts forth in full splendor—when bud ceases to be bud and is in a twinkling leaf or bloom, when awkward boy or girl is all at once graceful youth, full panoplied. Neva, knowing she was to see Armstrong that night, had put forth the last crucial effort, had for the first time spread wide to the light her new plumage of body and soul. And there stood in the doorway of Trafford's salon the woman grown, radiant in that luminous envelope which crowns certain kinds of beauty with the supreme charm of mystery.She paused an instant before Armstrong's stare, which was disconcerting the whole company. In spite of her forewarned self-control, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed; that stare of his was the triumph of which she had dreamed. She came on to her hostess and extended her hand. Mrs. Trafford, who prided herself on being the "complete hostess," equal to any emergency, for once almost lost her head; something in Armstrong's face, in his eyes, raised in her the dread of a scene, and she showed it. But Neva restored her—Neva, tranquil and graceful, a "study in lengths" to delight the least observant eye now, her faintly shimmering evening dress of pale gray leaving bare her beautiful arms and shoulders and neck, and giving full opportunity to the poise of her small head with its bright brown crown of thick, vital hair; and her eyes, gleaming from the long, narrow lids, seemed at once to offer and refuse the delights such words as youth and passion conjure."I don't wonder you can't keep from staring," said Miss Trafford in an undertone to Armstrong, with intent to recall him to himself.With that, he did contrive to get himself together; Mrs. Trafford introduced him to Neva, not without a nervous flutter in her voice. Neva put her hand out to him. "How d'ye do, Horace?" she said, with a faint smile, neither friendly nor cold.Armstrong took her hand without being able to speak. Mrs. Trafford was about to say, "You have met before," when it occurred to her that this might precipitate the scene. Dinner was announced; she paired her guests—Lona with Armstrong, Neva with Trafford, she herself taking Boris."Did you see him stare at her?" she asked, on the way to the dining room.Boris laughed unpleasantly. "And so should I, in the circumstance," replied he."What circumstance?""Seeing such a beautiful woman so suddenly," he said, after just an instant's hesitation.Mrs. Trafford looked shrewdly at him. "Is it a scandal?" she asked, at the same time sending a beaming glance at Armstrong who was entering the door at the other end of the room with her daughter on his arm."Not at all," replied Boris.The dinner went placidly enough. Raphael had been almost as startled as Armstrong when Neva appeared in the door of the salon, though he did not show it. Expert in women's ways, he knew it was for some specific reason that she had thus taken unprecedented pains with her toilet. Why had she striven to outshine herself? Obviously because she wished to punish the man who had so stupidly failed to appreciate her. A perfectly natural desire, a perfectly natural seizing of a not to be neglected opportunity for revenge. Still—Boris could not but wish she had shown some such desire to dazzle him; he would have preferred that she had been absolutely indifferent to the man of whom he often thought with twinges of rakish jealousy. He affected high spirits, was never more brilliant, and helped Neva to shine by giving her every encouragement and chance to talk and talk well.In contrast to them, Armstrong was morosely silent; occasionally he ventured a glance across the table at Neva, and each time into his face came the expression that suggested he was suspecting his eyes or his mind of playing him a wildly fantastic trick. So far as he could judge, Neva was not at all disturbed by his presence. Raphael went upstairs soon after the women; he refused to be bored with the business conversation into which Trafford had drawn Armstrong."Well," said Trafford, the moment Boris was out of the way, "what have you decided to do?""I'll go in with you," said Armstrong.Trafford rubbed his hands and his eyes sparkled—like a hungry circuit rider at sight of the heaping platter of fried chicken. "Good! Splendid!" he exclaimed. He glanced at butler and waiters busy clearing the sideboard; but they took no hints that would delay their freedom, and Trafford did not dare give an order that would put them out of humor and the domestic machinery out of gear. "No matter," said he. "This isn't the time to talk business. We'll arrange the details to-morrow. Or, shall we adjourn to my study?""I'll come to you in a few days when I have my plans formed," said Armstrong. "Wait till you hear from me." He tossed his cigar into a plate. "Let's go upstairs. I must leave soon."Meanwhile, Raphael, in the salon, had bent over Neva and had said in an undertone, "You would like to leave? You can have my cab—it's waiting. I'll take yours when it comes.""Thanks, no," answered Neva. "I'm not the least in a hurry."Her tone ruffled him. His ears had been sentinels and his eyes scouts from the instant he knew who Armstrong was and with one expert glance took his measure mentally and physically. He appreciated that the female method in judging men is not at all like the male method, is wholly beyond the comprehension of a man; still, he could not believe that any man of the material, commercial type would attract a sincerely artistic, delicate, spiritual woman like Neva Carlin. He could not, as an expert in mankind, deny to Armstrong a certain charm of the force that in repose is like the mountain and in action is like the river. "But," reasoned he, "she knows him through and through, knows him as he is. For her, he's a commonplace tale that is told."As Armstrong entered, his glance darted for Neva. It had first to meet Raphael smiling friendlily and suggesting anything but the man on guard, every nerve alert. Armstrong frowned frank dislike. He felt at a disadvantage before this superelegantly dressed and delicately perfumed personage. While he was not without experience with women, he had known only those who had sought him; his expertness was, thus, wholly in receiving advances and turning them to such advantage as suited his fancy, not at all in making overtures or laying siege. He saw at once that Boris was a master at the entire game of man and woman; he recalled Neva's passion for things artistic, her reverence for those great in artistic achievement; despite his prejudice against Boris, he measured him as a man of distinction and force. It seemed to him that this handsome master-painter, so masculine in feature and figure, so effeminately dandified in dress and manner, this fascinating specimen of the artistic sex that is the quintessence of both sexes, must have hypnotized his wife. Yes, his wife! For, now that Neva's revealed personality inspired in him wonder, awe, desire, he began to think of her as his property. He had quit title under a misapprehension; he had been cheated, none the less because the cheater happened to be himself.Boris, ignoring his unfriendliness, advanced, engaged him, drew in Lona Trafford. Before he could contrive a move toward Neva, Boris had him securely trapped in a far corner of the salon with Lona as his watchful keeper, and was himself retreated in triumph to sit beside Neva. So thoroughly had Boris executed the maneuver, Armstrong was seated at such an angle that he could not even see Neva without rudely twisting away from Miss Trafford. He did not appreciate that he was the victim of a deliberate strategy. But Miss Trafford did; and when she found herself unable to fix his attention, she took a vengeful pleasure in keeping him trapped, enjoying his futile struggles, his ill-concealed wrath, his unconcealed jealousy.That was a miserable half hour he passed; Lona talked of the painter and Neva—"his latest flame—you know, he's very inconstant—has the most dreadful reputation. Mamma wouldn't let him speak half a dozen words to me, unless she was there. They do say that Miss Carlin is making a saint of him—though, no doubt it's a disguise that'll be thrown off as soon as— I don't admire that sort of man, do you, Mr. Armstrong? I like a simple, honest man—" This with a look that said she regarded Armstrong as such—"a man that doesn't understand feminine tricks and the ways to circumvent women." There her cynical eyes smiled amusement at Armstrong's ruddy, lip-biting jealousy."It's rather cold, so far from the fire," said Armstrong, rising.Lona rose also; she saw that Neva was about to go. "Just a minute," said she. "Miss Carlin is leaving. You can take the sofa as soon as she's out of the way."Armstrong wheeled, left Miss Trafford precipitately. He was barely in time to intercept Neva, on her way to the door with Trafford. "Good night, Horace," she said. He could only stand and stare. For the first time she looked directly at him, her eyes full upon his. He remembered that in the old days, when their eyes occasionally met thus, hers had made him vaguely uncomfortable; he understood why, now. What was the meaning of this look she was giving him—this look from long, narrow lids, this look that searched him out, thrilled him with longing and with fear? He could not fathom it; he only knew that never before in his entire singly intent, ambitious life had the thought occurred to him that there might be some other worth while game than the big green tables of finance, some other use for human beings than as pawns in that game. She drew her hand away from his confused, detaining grasp, and was gone, leaving him an embarrassed, depressed, ludicrous figure, to be later the jeer of his own sense of humor.Before Trafford had time to return from escorting her to her cab, Armstrong took leave. A brief silence in the salon; then Mrs. Trafford said to Raphael, "There is some mystery here, which I feel compelled to ask you to explain. You introduced Miss Carlin to me." She noted her daughter listening eagerly. "Lona, you would better go. Good night, my child."Boris looked the amusement this affectation roused in him. "Don't send her away, Mrs. Trafford. The mystery is quite respectable. Miss Carlin used to be Mrs. Armstrong. As there were no children, she took her own name, when it became once more the only name she was entitled to.""He divorced her!" exclaimed Mrs. Trafford, rearing. "And you brought her tomyhouse!" She held it axiomatic that no woman would divorce a well-appearing breadwinner of the highest efficiency."Shedivorcedhim," corrected Raphael."I can't believe it," replied Mrs. Trafford. "If she did, he let her, to avoid scandal.""Not at all," protested Boris. "They come from a state which has queer, sentimental divorce laws, made for honest people instead of for hypocrites. They didn't get on well; so, the law let them go their separate ways—since God had obviously not joined them.""I must look into it," said Mrs. Trafford, with a frown at Raphael and a significant side glance toward Lona. "People in our position can't afford to——""I have the honor to wish you good evening," said Boris with a formal bow. And before she could recover herself, he was gone."Youhavemade a mess, mamma!" exclaimed Lona.Mrs. Trafford seemed on the verge of hysterics. "Was thereevera more unfortunate evening!" she cried. Then: "But he'd not have been so touchy, if there wasn't something wrong."Trafford came sauntering in and she explained the situation to him. He flamed in alarm and anger, impatiently cut off her explanations with, "You've got to straighten this, Lily. If Armstrong should hear of it, and be offended, it'd cost me—I can't tell you how much!"Mrs. Trafford looked as miserable as she felt. "I'll send off a note apologizing to Raphael this very night," she said. "And in the morning I'll ask her to the opera. Why didn't you warn me?""Warn!" exclaimed Trafford, bustling up and down, and plucking at his neat little beard. "How was I to know? But I supposed you'd understand that we never have anybody—any man—here unless he's of use. It's all very well to be strict, Lily; but——""Let's not talk about it," wailed his wife. "I'll do my best to straighten it. I shan't sleep a wink to-night."Lona—"the child"—slipped away, a smile on her lips—a cynical smile which testified that the lesson in life as it is lived in the full stench of "respectability," had not failed to impress her.
X
AMY SWEET AND AMY SOUR
Now that Fosdick saw how he could clear himself, and more, of those he had been variously describing as pryers, peepers, ingrates, traitors and blackmailers, he was chagrined that he had been so near to panic. He couldn't understand it, so he assured himself; with nothing to conceal, with hands absolutely clean, with not an act on the record that was not legitimate, such as the most respectable men in the most respectable circles not only approved but did—with these the conditions, how had he been so upset?
"I suppose," he reflected, "as a man gets older, he becomes foolishly sensitive about his reputation. Then, too, the world is eager to twist evil into everything—and I have so many in my own class who are jealous of me, of my standing."
The silliest thing he had done, he decided, was that talk with the Siersdorfs. Why, if they were at all evil-minded, they might suspect he was using those construction accounts for swindling purposes, instead of making a perfectly legitimate convenience of them to adjust the bookkeeping to the impossible requirements of law and public opinion. "It's an outrage," he thought, "that we can't have the laws fixed so it would be possible to carry on business without having to do things liable to misconstruction, if made generally public. But we can't. As it is, look at the swindlers who have taken advantage of the laws we absolutely had to have the legislature make." Yes, it was a blunder to take the Siersdorfs into his confidence—though the young man did show that he had brains enough to understand the elements of large affairs. Still, he might some time make improper use of the knowledge—unless——
Fosdick decided that thereafter the vouchers should pass through Siersdorf's hands, should have Siersdorfs O.K. "Then, if any question arises, it will be to his interest to treat confidential matters confidentially. Or, if he should turn against me, he'd be unable to throw mud without miring himself."
And now Fosdick saw why he had instantly jumped for the Siersdorfs. They alone were not personally involved in any of the "private business" of the O.A.D. All the directors, all the officials, all the important agents, were involved, and therefore would not dare turn traitor if they should be vile enough to contemplate it. But the Siersdorfs were independent, yet perilously in possession of the means to make trouble.
"I must fix them," said Fosdick. "I must clinch them."
Thus it came about that within a week Alois was helping the directors of the O.A.D. to keep their accounts "adjusted"—was signing vouchers for many times the amounts that were being actually expended upon the building. He hesitated before writing the firm name upon the first of these documents. On the face of it, the act did look—peculiar. True, it was a simple matter of bookkeeping; still, he'd rather not be involved. There seemed no way out of it, however. To refuse was to insult Fosdick—and that when Fosdick was showing his confidence in and affection for him. Also, it meant putting in jeopardy three big orders in hand—the two office buildings and Overlook.
"It'd break Narcisse's heart to have to give up doing Overlook," he said to himself. Yes, he would sign the vouchers; now that he felt he was acting, at least in large part, for his dear sister's sake, he had no qualms. Having passed the line, he looked back with amusement. He debating as a moral question a matter of business routine! A matter approved by such a character, such a figure as Josiah Fosdick!
Some of these "technically inaccurate" vouchers were before him when Narcisse happened into his office. Though there was "nothing wrong with them—nothing whatever," and though she would not have known it if there had been, he instinctively slipped the blotting pad over them.
"What are you hiding there?" she teased innocently. "A love letter?"
He frowned. "You've got that on the brain," he retorted, with a constrained smile. "What do you want—now?"
"Amy's here. Have you time to go over the plans?"
"Yes—right away," said he, with quick complete change of manner.
She winced. So sensitive had she become on the subject of her brother and her friend that she was hurt by the most casual suggestion from either of interest in the other. Regarding her brother as irresistible, she assumed that, should he ask Amy, he would be snapped in, like fly by frog. "Yet," said she to herself, "they're utterly unsuited. He'd realize it as soon as he was married to her. Why can't a man ever see through a woman until he's had an affair with her and gotten over her?"
"Shall we look at the plans here or in your room?" he asked.
"I'll send her here.... It won't be necessary for me to come, will it?"
"No. We'll hardly get round to your part to-day," said Alois. And Amy went in alone, and spent the entire afternoon with Alois. And most attractive he made himself to Amy. In his profession, he had many elements of strength; he hated shams, had a natural sense of the beautiful, unspoiled by the conventionalities that reduce most architects to slavish copyists. He did not think things fine simply because they were old; neither did he think them ugly or stale for that reason. He knew how to judge on merit alone; and he had educated Amy Fosdick to the point where she at least appreciated his views and ideas. When a man gets a woman trained to that point, he thinks her a marvel of independent intellect, with germs of genius—if she is at all attractive to him physically. He forgot that, until Amy had "taken up" the Siersdorfs, she had been as enthusiastic about the barren and conventional Whitbridge as she now was about them. Appreciation is one of the most deceptive qualities in the world, where it is genuine. Through it we are all constantly disguising from ourselves and from others our own mental poverty.
Usually appreciation is little more than a liking for the person whose ideas we think we understand and share. In Amy's case, there was a good deal of real understanding. She had much natural good taste, enough to learn to share in the amusement of Narcisse and Alois at the silly imitations of old-world palaces her acquaintances were hastening to house themselves in—palaces built for a forever departed era of the human race, for a past people of a past and gone social order; she also saw, when Alois pointed it out to her, the silliness of the mania for antiques which in our day is doing so much to suffocate originality and even good taste. She learned to loathe the musty, fusty rags and worm-eaten woods the crafty European dealers manufacture, "plant," and work off on those Americans who are bent upon the same snobbishness in art education that they are determined to have in the other forms of education. Encouraged by Narcisse and Alois, she came boldly out against that which she had long in secret doubted and disliked. She was more than willing that they should build her a house suitable as a habitation for a human being in the twentieth century—a house that was ventilated and convenient and scientific. And she was giving Alois a free hand in planning surroundings of spontaneous beauty rather than of the kind that pleased the narrower and more precise fancy of a narrower age, to which the idea of freedom of any sort was unknown.
[image]"She was giving Alois a free hand in planning surroundings."
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"She was giving Alois a free hand in planning surroundings."
"Gracious! It's after half past four!" she exclaimed, as if she had just become conscious of the fact, when in truth she had been impatiently watching the clock by way of a mirror for nearly an hour.
"So it is!" said Alois, immensely flattered by her unconsciousness of time.
"I want to take these plans with me—to show them to some one."
Alois felt that the "some one" was a man, and a very particular friend—else, she would have spoken the name. "Very well," he said, faintly sullen.
"Don't be disturbed," was her absent reply. "I'll take good care of them." She saw the change in him; but, not thinking of him as a man, but as an intelligence only, she did not grasp the cause. "Thank you so much," she went on, "for being so patient with me. How splendid it must be to have always with one a mind like yours—or Narcisse's. Well, until to-morrow, or next day." And, looking as charming as only a pretty woman with a fortune can look to a man who wants both her and her fortune, she left him desolate.
The "some one" was indeed a man. But he—Armstrong—did not arrive until half an hour after the appointed time. She came into the small salon into which he had been shown, her gloves, hat and wraps on and the big roll of plans under her arm; and no one would have suspected that she had been waiting for him since ten minutes before five and had spent most of the time in primping. "I'm all blown to pieces," she apologized, as she entered. "Have I kept you waiting? I really couldn't help it."
"I just got here," said Armstrong. "I, too, was late—business, as always." Which was true enough; but the whole truth would have been that he forgot the appointment until its very hour. "I'll not keep you long," he continued. "I've got to dress for an early dinner."
She was so disappointed that she did not dare speak, lest she should show her ill humor—and she knew Armstrong detested a bad disposition in a woman. She rang for tea; when the servants had brought it and were gone, she began fussing with her coat. He, preoccupied, did not see her hinted signals until she said, "Please, do help me."
As he drew off the coat there floated to him a delightful perfume, a mingling of feminine and flowers, of freshness and delicacy, a stimulating suggestion of the sensuous refinements which a woman with taste and the means can employ as powerful allies in her siege of man. She looked up at him—her eyes were, save her teeth, her best feature. She just brushed his arm in one of those seemingly unconscious, affectionate-friendly gestures which are intended to be encouraging without being "unwomanly." "How is my friend to-day?" she inquired.
"So-so," replied he, taking her advances at their face value.
"You never come here unless I send for you, and you always have some excuse for going soon."
He smiled good-natured raillery. "How sure of yourself you feel!"
"Why do you say that?"
"Your remark. You are always making that kind of remarks. They're never made except by women who feel sure."
"But I don't," protested she. "On the contrary, I'm very humble—where you're concerned." She gave him a long look. "And you know that's true."
He laughed at her with his eyes. "No. I shan't do it. You'll have only your trouble for your pains."
She colored. "Whatdoyou mean?"
"That I won't propose to you. You've been trying to inveigle me into it for nearly a year now. But you'll have to do without my scalp."
The big Westerner's jesting manner carried his remark, despite its almost insolent frankness. Besides, what with Amy's content with herself and partiality for him, it would have been difficult for him to offend her. Never before had she been able to lure him so near to the one subject she wished to discuss with him. "What conceit," cried she, all smiles. "You fancy I've been flirting with you. I might have known! Men always misunderstand a woman's friendship. I suppose you imagine I'm in love with you."
"Not in the least. No more than I with you."
She looked crestfallen at this. Whether a woman has much or little to give a man, whether she wants his love or not, she always wishes to feel that it is there waiting for her. "Why do you imagine I wish you to ask me to marry you?" she asked, swiftly recovering and not believing him.
He did not answer that. Instead he said: "You came very near to getting your way about a year ago. I had about made up my mind to marry you."
"To marry me," she echoed ironically.
"To marry you," he repeated in his attractive, downright fashion.
"Well—why didn't you?"
"I decided I didn't need you," said he, most matter-of-fact. "I saw I'd be repeating the blunder I made when I married before. When I got out of college, I was so discouraged by the prospect, I felt so weak without money or influence, that I let myself drift into a great folly—for it is a folly to imagine that money or influence are of any value in making a career. They're the results of a career, not its cause. Once more, when I faced the big battle here in New York, I was fooled for a while in spite of myself by the same old delusion. I saw that the successful men all had great wealth, and I made the same old shallow mistake of supposing their wealth gave them their success. But I got back to the sensible point of view very quickly."
"And so—I—escaped."
"Escaped is the word for it."
"You are flattering—to-day."
"That sarcasm because I did not so much as speak of your charms, I suppose?"
"You might have said I was personally a little of a temptation."
"Why go into that?" rejoined he, with an intonation that gave her a chance to be flattered, if she chose. "Of course, if I had decided I needed you in my career, I'd have flung myself over ears into love. As it was, don't you think my keeping away from you complimentary?"
This was the nearest he had ever come to an admission that she was attractive to him; she straightway exaggerated it into a declaration of love. Very few women make or even understand a man's clear distinction between physical attraction and love; Amy thought them one and the same.
"You are so hard!" said she. "I wonder at myself for liking you." As she spoke, she rapidly thought it out with the aid of her vanity; men and women, in their relations with each other, always end by taking counsel of vanity. He wanted her; he had taken this subtle means to get within her defenses and, without running the risk of a refusal, find out whether he could get her, whether a woman of her wealth and position would condescend to him. It was with her sweetest, candidest smile that she went on, "Now it is all settled. You don't want to marry me; you aren't in love with me. I need not be afraid of any designs, mercenary or otherwise. At last, we can be real friends."
He reflected, then said with a judicial, impersonal air, "No matter how well a man plays the game of man and man, he usually plays the game of man and woman badly. Why? Because he thinks the conditions are different. He is deceived by woman's air of guilelessness into imagining he has the game all his own way."
"What has that got to do with what I said to you?" asked she, her color a confession that the question was unnecessary.
He again laughed at her with his eyes. "Why did you think it had?"
She pouted. "You are in a horrible mood to-day."
He rose. "Thanks for the hint."
She began to unroll the plans.
"Now,there'sthe man for you," said he, with a gesture toward her bundle of blue prints.
"Who?"
"Siersdorf."
"If I had to choose, I'd prefer—even you."
"Siersdorf is adaptable and appreciative. He's good to look at, has a good all-round mind, is extraordinary in his specialty. You couldn't do better."
"I don't want him," she cried impatiently. "I prefer to suit myself in marrying." She stood before him, her hands behind her, the pretty face tilted daringly upward. "Are you trying to make me dislike you?"
He looked down at her; there was not a hint in his expression that her dare was a temptation. "I must be going," said he.
Tears gathered in her eyes, made them brilliant, took away much of their natural hardness. "Won't you be friends?" she appealed.
He continued to look straight into her eyes until her expression told him she knew he was not deceived by her maneuverings and strategies. Then he said, "No," with terse directness of manner as well as of speech. "No, because you do not want friends. You want victims."
In sudden anger she flung off her mask. "I am a good hater," she warned. "You don't want me to turn against you, do you?"
His face became sad and somewhat bitter. There had been a time when such a menace from a source so near his career would have alarmed him, would have set him to debating conciliation. But his self-confidence had developed beyond that stage, had reached the point where a man feels that, if any force from without can injure him, the sooner he finds it out, the more quickly he will be able to make a career founded upon the only unshakable ground, his own single strength.
"I've taken a great deal off you," she went on in a menacing tone, a tone intended to remind him that he was an employee. "You ought to be more careful. I'm not all sweetness. I can be hard and unforgiving when I cease to like."
He laughed unpleasantly as vanity thus easily divested itself of its mask of love. "And to cross you is all that's necessary to rouse your dislike."
"That's all," said she. And now she looked like her father in his rare exhibitions of his true self. She had never deceived Armstrong altogether. But he was too masculine not to have lingerings of the universal male delusion that feminine always and necessarily means at least something of sweetness and tenderness.
"Shall we be friends?" she demanded sharply, imperiously. At bottom, she could not believe anyone would stand against the power that gave her a scepter—the power of wealth. "Friends, or—not?"
"As you please," replied he, bowing coldly. And he went, his last look altogether calm, not without a tinge of contempt. He realized that he had come there to put an end to his flirtation with her, to assert his own independence, to free himself from the entanglement which his temporary weakness of the first days in overwhelming New York had led him into. The swimmer, used only to pond or narrow river, is unnerved for a moment when he finds himself in the sea; but if he knows his art, he is soon reassured, because he discovers that no more skill is needed for sea than for pond, only a little more self-confidence.
He was not clear of the house when she was saying to herself, "Hugo is right about him. Father must take him in hand. He shall be taught his place."
XI
AT MRS. TRAFFORD'S
Armstrong felt that he had regained his liberty.
The principal feature of every adequate defense is vigorous attack; and, so long as Amy was pretending to be and was thinking herself his friend, was in fact as much his friend as it was possible for one to be who had been bred to self-worship, Armstrong could take only lame, passive measures against Fosdick. But now— In the oncoming struggle in which he would get no quarter, he need give none. Several times, as he was dressing for dinner, a cynical smile played over his features. What a queer game life was! In other circumstances, that might easily have come about, he and Amy would have plunged into a romantic love affair; they would have been standing by each other against all the world, the stronger in their love and devotion for the opposition. A few words, and off flies her mask of sweetness, so deceptive that it almost deceived herself, and away goes her pretense of friendship; the friends become enemies, liking becomes hate. No real change in either of them; each just as likable as before; yet, what a difference! It amused him. It saddened him. "Probably at this very moment she's edging her father on to destroy me," he thought. But that disturbed him not at all. He had no fear of enemies; he knew that they fling themselves against the gates in vain, unless there are traitors within.
This break with Amy was most opportune. He was dining at the Traffords that evening; he could tell Trafford he would accept without any reservations the long-standing invitation to enter the Atwater-Trafford plot to seize the O.A.D.
Trafford was one of the rising stars in finance. He originated in a village in southern New Jersey where he was first a school teacher, then a lawyer. He spent many years in studying the problem of success—success, of course, meaning the getting of a vast fortune. He discovered that there were two ways to enormous wealth—by seizing an accumulation amassed by some one else; by devising a trap that would deceive or compel a multitude of people to contribute each his mite of a few dimes or dollars. The first way was the quicker, of course; but Trafford saw that the number of multi-millionaires incapable of defending at least the bulk of their wealth was extremely limited, and that, of them, few indeed kept their wealth together so that one swoop could scoop it all. His mind turned to the other way. After carefully examining the various forms of trap, he was delighted to discover that the one that was easiest to use was also the best. Insurance! To get several hundred thousand people to make you absolute trustee of their savings, asking no real accounting; and all you had to do was to keep a certain part of the money safely invested so that, when anybody died, you could pay his heirs about what he had paid you, with simple interest, or less, added. Trafford studied the life insurance tables, and he was amazed that nobody had ever taken the trouble to expose the business. He stood astounded before the revelation that the companies must be earning, on "risks" alone, from ten to thirty per cent, this in addition to what clever fellows on the inside must be doing in the way of speculation; that policy holders got back in so-called dividends less than five, usually less than four, often less than three per cent!
Trafford's fingers twitched. Rich? Why, he would be worth millions!
He made choice among the different kinds of insurance. The object was to get a company that would draw in the greatest number of "beneficiaries" and would have to pay the smallest proportion of "benefits." The greatest number were obviously the very poor; and, by happy coincidence, the very poor could also be exploited more easily and more thoroughly and with less outcry than any other class. So, Trafford made burial insurance his "graft." He would play upon the horror the poor have of Potter's Field.
He began in a small way in Trenton; he presently had several thousand policy holders, each paying ten cents a week to his agent-collectors. As soon as a policy of this kind has run for several months, it is to the advantage of both agent and company for it to lapse. Thus, Trafford's policies, obscurely worded, unintelligible to any but a lawyer, read that the weekly payments must be made at the office of the company; that an omission promptly to pay a single month's dues made the policy lapse; that a lapsed policy had no surrender value. He was too greedy at first, and Trenton was too small a place. When it became "too hot to hold him," he went to New York—New York with its vast, ignorant, careless tenement population, with its corrupt government, with its superb opportunities for floating and expanding a respectable grafting scheme.
If he had stayed in Trenton, he would probably have gone to the penitentiary. But in New York he became ever richer, ever more respectable; he attracted about him a group of eminently respectable sustainers of church and society, always eager to get their noses into a large, new trough of swill. The Home and Hearth Mutual Defense Company soon dwelt in a palace, built at a cost of many millions, every penny of it picked from the pockets of ragged trousers and skirts; Trafford himself dwelt in another and even more costly palace farther uptown, built with the same kind of money. He was a vestryman in the fashionable Church of the Holy Family, a subscriber to all the fashionable charities, an authority on the fashionable theories as to the tenement house question and other sociological problems relating to the slums. And he thought as well of himself as did his neighbors. Was ithisbusiness if the company's collectors forgot to be accommodating and to relieve the poor of the necessity of making their payments at the offices? Was ithisbusiness if policies lapsed by the thousands, by the tens of thousands, through the carelessness or ignorance of the policy holders? Look at the hundreds of thousands whose funeral expenses were provided by the Home and Hearth! Look at the charities he subscribed to; listen to the speeches in behalf of charity and philanthropy he made! Did he not give the policy holders all that was legally theirs?—at least, all that wasrightfullytheirs under the accepted business code; certainly, more than the law would have allowed them, if laws could be made so that the good could carry on "practical" business and yet the wicked not get undue license. Trafford had never been a moral theorist. He had accepted the code known as legal morals—"the world's working compromise with utopianism," he sonorously called it. As he expanded financially, he expanded morally; by the time he became a high financier, he was ready for the broader code known as financial morals—wherein allowances are made for all those moral difficulties which the legal code, being of necessity of wider application, cannot take into account.
A fine man was Trafford, with a face that the women and the clergy called "sweet" and "spiritual," with a full gray beard, young eyes, bright blue and smiling, iron-gray hair that waved a little, and the dress of the substantial citizen.
His home life was beautiful.
He had made his first and false start with a school teacher—she had had the first grade in the school where he taught the sixth grade. She was of about his own age, and indolent, and had never heard that a married woman ought to keep herself up to the mark; she was, therefore, old at thirty-two, and he still a mere boy in looks and in feeling. She said rather severe things when he so narrowly escaped disgrace during his apprenticeship at Trenton; they quarreled, they separated.
In the boarding house where he first stopped in New York there was a serious, shrewd, pretty girl, the daughter of the landlady and the niece of one of the high dignitaries of the church. Trafford induced his wife to divorce him—before she discovered how swiftly and luxuriantly he was putting forth bough and leaf in congenial New York. He married the niece of the church dignitary in the parlor of the boarding house; a "most elegant function" it was pronounced by the boarders—and, as they read all the "fashionable intelligence" and claimed kinship with various fashionable people, they ought to have known. The wedding was like the bright dawn of a bright day—a somewhat cool, even frosty day, but brilliant. Neither Trafford nor the second Mrs. Trafford had much affection in them. Who knows, perhaps the marriage was the more cloudless for that. Instead of exploiting each other, as loving couples too often do, they exploited their fellow beings, he downtown, she up. As he grew, she grew. As he became rich, she became fashionable; ten years after that wedding, hardy indeed would have been the person who would have dared remind her that she had once lived in a boarding house.
Conventionally, it is man's chief business to get rich, woman's chief business to keep young looking; the Traffords were nothing if not conventional. Mrs. Trafford appreciated that she lived in a land where beauty in a woman counts more than seventy-five points in the hundred, that she lived in a city where it counts at least ninety points in the hundred. She had no use for her charms beyond mere show—show, the sole purpose of all she did and thought and was. She took herself in hand, after the true New York fashion, at Time's first sign of malice. She had herself cared for from top to toe, and that intelligently—no credulous prey to fake beautifiers was Lily Trafford. When Trafford was fifty-two, though he did not look so much by half a dozen years, his wife was thirty-eight, and looked less than thirty.
Nor had she neglected her other duties as woman and wife. Her husband was rich; she had learned how to spend money. The theory among those who have no money "to speak of," and never had, is that everyone is born with the knowledge how to spend money. In fact, there are thousands who know how to make money where there are ten who know how to spend it. The whole mercantile class fattens on the ignorance of this neglected science—fattens by selling at high prices to those who do not know what they want or how much they should pay. Mrs. Trafford knew exactly what she wanted—she wanted to be fashionable. She had fashion as an instinct, as a passion. She wanted the "latest thing" in mental and material furnishings. She cared nothing for knowledge; she was determined to have culture, because culture was fashionable. She had no ideas of her own, and wanted none; she followed the accepted standards. It was the fashion to go to church; she went to church. It was the fashion to be a little skeptical; she was cautiously skeptical. It was the fashion to live in a palace; in a palace she lived. She went to the fashionable dressmakers and art stores and book stores. She filled her house with things recommended by the fashionable architects. She had the plainest personal tastes in food, but she ate three fashionable meals a day; and, though she loved coffee with cream, took it with hot milk in the mornings and black after lunch and dinner, because cream was unfashionable. Yes, Mrs. Trafford knew how to spend money. The science of spending money is getting what you want at as low a price as anybody can get it. Mrs. Trafford got exactly what she wanted, and got it with no more waste than is inevitable in spending large sums with people who lie awake of nights plotting to get more than they are entitled to.
As Armstrong looked round the salon into which he was shown, it seemed to him he had never seen anything so magnificent or so stiff. Trafford was housed exactly like a king—and, like a king, he had the air of being a temporary tenant of the magnificence about him. It was the typical great house—a crude, barbaric structure, an exhibition of wealth with no individuality, no originality, ludicrous to the natural eye, yet melancholy; for, from every exhibit of how little wealth buys there protrudes the suggestion of how much it has deprived how many. In such displays the absence of price marks is a doubtful concession to canons of taste which in no wise apply; the price mark would at once answer the only question that forms in the mind as the glance roams. The Traffords, however, were as content as royalty in their uncomfortable and unsightly surroundings; they had attained the upper class heaven.
"So glad you could come," said Mrs. Trafford graciously to Armstrong. Her toilet was the extreme of the fashion, and without a glimmer of individual taste. "This is my small daughter." And she smiled up at the thin, pretty young woman beside her in diaphanous white over palest yellow. "We are to be six this evening," she went on. "And Boris is coming—you know Boris Raphael?"
"Never heard of him," said Armstrong.
Miss Trafford smiled broadly. Mrs. Trafford was pained, and showed it—not at her daughter's smile, for it she did not see, but at Armstrong's ignorance of so important a fact in the current fashionable fund of information. Ignorance of literature, science, art, politics, of everything of importance in the great world, would not have disturbed Mrs. Trafford; but ignorance of any of the trivialities it was fashionable to know—what vulgarity, what humiliation! "He isthepainter of portraits," she explained. "Everyone has him. He gets really fabulous prices."
"An American?" inquired Armstrong.
"I believe he was born here. But, of course, he has spent his life abroad. We are so commercial. No artist could develop here."
"Is there any place on earth where they don't take all they can get?" asked Armstrong. "Does Raphael refuse 'fabulous prices'?"
Miss Trafford laughed. Mrs. Trafford looked pained again. "Oh—but the spirit is different over there," she replied vaguely.
"Where the men won't marry unless the girl brings a dowry?"
"The customs are different from ours," said Mrs. Trafford, patiently and pleasantly. "Raphael has done me a great honor. He has asked to paint me."
"Naturally, he's on the lookout for all the jobs he can get," said Armstrong, his mind really on his impending treaty with her husband—arranging the articles, what he would give, what demand in exchange. The instant the words were out he realized their inexcusable rudeness. He reddened and looked awkwardly big and piteously apologetic.
Trafford, who had been stroking the huge deerhound on the tiger skin before the fire, now burst in. "What's that about Raphael? Did my wife tell you she has at last persuaded him to paint her picture?"
A miserable silence. Miss Trafford had to turn away to restrain her laughter. Mrs. Trafford became white, then scarlet, then white again.
"The airs he's putting on!" continued Trafford, unconscious. "Why, they tell me his father was a banana peddler and——"
"Mr. Raphael," announced the butler, holding aside one of the ten-thousand-dollar portières.
"Oh—Raphael!" exclaimed Trafford, with enthusiasm.
"So glad you could come," said Mrs. Trafford, gracious and sweet.
"Miss Carlin," announced the butler.
Armstrong, studying Raphael's face, which instantly attracted him, wheeled toward the door at the sound of this name as if he had been shot at from that direction. He might not have been noted, had he not straightway got a far greater shock. In abandon of sheer amazement he stared at the figure in the doorway—Neva, completely transformed in the two years since he saw her. The revolution in her whole mode of life and thought had produced results as striking inwardly as outwardly.
In America, transformations usually cause, at most, only momentary surprise; for almost everyone above the grade of day laborer, and not a few there, changes his environment completely, not once but several times in the lifetime, readjusting himself to his better or worse circumstances. After an interval one sees the man or the woman he has known as poor and obscure; success has come in that interval, and with it all the external and internal results of success. Or, failure has come, and with it that general sloughing away and decay which is the inevitable consequence of profound discouragement; the American, most adaptable of human beings, accepts defeat as facilely as victory.
In Neva's case, however, the phenomenon was somewhat different. It is not often that circumstance drags an obstinately retiring person into activity, breaks the shell and compels that which was hidden to become open, to develop, to dominate. The transformation of Neva seemed somewhat as if a violet had become a tall-stemmed rose; it was, in fact, no miracle of transubstantiation, but one of those perfectly natural marvels, like the metamorphosis of grub into butterfly. Armstrong had seen the chrysalis, all unsuspicious of its true nature; now, with no knowledge of the stages between, he was seeing the ethereal beauty the chrysalis had so securely concealed. It must be said, however, that Boris, though he had seen the day-to-day change, the gradual unfolding of wing and color and grace, was almost as startled as the big, matter-of-fact Westerner. In the evolution of every living thing, there comes a definite moment when the old vanishes and the new bursts forth in full splendor—when bud ceases to be bud and is in a twinkling leaf or bloom, when awkward boy or girl is all at once graceful youth, full panoplied. Neva, knowing she was to see Armstrong that night, had put forth the last crucial effort, had for the first time spread wide to the light her new plumage of body and soul. And there stood in the doorway of Trafford's salon the woman grown, radiant in that luminous envelope which crowns certain kinds of beauty with the supreme charm of mystery.
She paused an instant before Armstrong's stare, which was disconcerting the whole company. In spite of her forewarned self-control, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed; that stare of his was the triumph of which she had dreamed. She came on to her hostess and extended her hand. Mrs. Trafford, who prided herself on being the "complete hostess," equal to any emergency, for once almost lost her head; something in Armstrong's face, in his eyes, raised in her the dread of a scene, and she showed it. But Neva restored her—Neva, tranquil and graceful, a "study in lengths" to delight the least observant eye now, her faintly shimmering evening dress of pale gray leaving bare her beautiful arms and shoulders and neck, and giving full opportunity to the poise of her small head with its bright brown crown of thick, vital hair; and her eyes, gleaming from the long, narrow lids, seemed at once to offer and refuse the delights such words as youth and passion conjure.
"I don't wonder you can't keep from staring," said Miss Trafford in an undertone to Armstrong, with intent to recall him to himself.
With that, he did contrive to get himself together; Mrs. Trafford introduced him to Neva, not without a nervous flutter in her voice. Neva put her hand out to him. "How d'ye do, Horace?" she said, with a faint smile, neither friendly nor cold.
Armstrong took her hand without being able to speak. Mrs. Trafford was about to say, "You have met before," when it occurred to her that this might precipitate the scene. Dinner was announced; she paired her guests—Lona with Armstrong, Neva with Trafford, she herself taking Boris.
"Did you see him stare at her?" she asked, on the way to the dining room.
Boris laughed unpleasantly. "And so should I, in the circumstance," replied he.
"What circumstance?"
"Seeing such a beautiful woman so suddenly," he said, after just an instant's hesitation.
Mrs. Trafford looked shrewdly at him. "Is it a scandal?" she asked, at the same time sending a beaming glance at Armstrong who was entering the door at the other end of the room with her daughter on his arm.
"Not at all," replied Boris.
The dinner went placidly enough. Raphael had been almost as startled as Armstrong when Neva appeared in the door of the salon, though he did not show it. Expert in women's ways, he knew it was for some specific reason that she had thus taken unprecedented pains with her toilet. Why had she striven to outshine herself? Obviously because she wished to punish the man who had so stupidly failed to appreciate her. A perfectly natural desire, a perfectly natural seizing of a not to be neglected opportunity for revenge. Still—Boris could not but wish she had shown some such desire to dazzle him; he would have preferred that she had been absolutely indifferent to the man of whom he often thought with twinges of rakish jealousy. He affected high spirits, was never more brilliant, and helped Neva to shine by giving her every encouragement and chance to talk and talk well.
In contrast to them, Armstrong was morosely silent; occasionally he ventured a glance across the table at Neva, and each time into his face came the expression that suggested he was suspecting his eyes or his mind of playing him a wildly fantastic trick. So far as he could judge, Neva was not at all disturbed by his presence. Raphael went upstairs soon after the women; he refused to be bored with the business conversation into which Trafford had drawn Armstrong.
"Well," said Trafford, the moment Boris was out of the way, "what have you decided to do?"
"I'll go in with you," said Armstrong.
Trafford rubbed his hands and his eyes sparkled—like a hungry circuit rider at sight of the heaping platter of fried chicken. "Good! Splendid!" he exclaimed. He glanced at butler and waiters busy clearing the sideboard; but they took no hints that would delay their freedom, and Trafford did not dare give an order that would put them out of humor and the domestic machinery out of gear. "No matter," said he. "This isn't the time to talk business. We'll arrange the details to-morrow. Or, shall we adjourn to my study?"
"I'll come to you in a few days when I have my plans formed," said Armstrong. "Wait till you hear from me." He tossed his cigar into a plate. "Let's go upstairs. I must leave soon."
Meanwhile, Raphael, in the salon, had bent over Neva and had said in an undertone, "You would like to leave? You can have my cab—it's waiting. I'll take yours when it comes."
"Thanks, no," answered Neva. "I'm not the least in a hurry."
Her tone ruffled him. His ears had been sentinels and his eyes scouts from the instant he knew who Armstrong was and with one expert glance took his measure mentally and physically. He appreciated that the female method in judging men is not at all like the male method, is wholly beyond the comprehension of a man; still, he could not believe that any man of the material, commercial type would attract a sincerely artistic, delicate, spiritual woman like Neva Carlin. He could not, as an expert in mankind, deny to Armstrong a certain charm of the force that in repose is like the mountain and in action is like the river. "But," reasoned he, "she knows him through and through, knows him as he is. For her, he's a commonplace tale that is told."
As Armstrong entered, his glance darted for Neva. It had first to meet Raphael smiling friendlily and suggesting anything but the man on guard, every nerve alert. Armstrong frowned frank dislike. He felt at a disadvantage before this superelegantly dressed and delicately perfumed personage. While he was not without experience with women, he had known only those who had sought him; his expertness was, thus, wholly in receiving advances and turning them to such advantage as suited his fancy, not at all in making overtures or laying siege. He saw at once that Boris was a master at the entire game of man and woman; he recalled Neva's passion for things artistic, her reverence for those great in artistic achievement; despite his prejudice against Boris, he measured him as a man of distinction and force. It seemed to him that this handsome master-painter, so masculine in feature and figure, so effeminately dandified in dress and manner, this fascinating specimen of the artistic sex that is the quintessence of both sexes, must have hypnotized his wife. Yes, his wife! For, now that Neva's revealed personality inspired in him wonder, awe, desire, he began to think of her as his property. He had quit title under a misapprehension; he had been cheated, none the less because the cheater happened to be himself.
Boris, ignoring his unfriendliness, advanced, engaged him, drew in Lona Trafford. Before he could contrive a move toward Neva, Boris had him securely trapped in a far corner of the salon with Lona as his watchful keeper, and was himself retreated in triumph to sit beside Neva. So thoroughly had Boris executed the maneuver, Armstrong was seated at such an angle that he could not even see Neva without rudely twisting away from Miss Trafford. He did not appreciate that he was the victim of a deliberate strategy. But Miss Trafford did; and when she found herself unable to fix his attention, she took a vengeful pleasure in keeping him trapped, enjoying his futile struggles, his ill-concealed wrath, his unconcealed jealousy.
That was a miserable half hour he passed; Lona talked of the painter and Neva—"his latest flame—you know, he's very inconstant—has the most dreadful reputation. Mamma wouldn't let him speak half a dozen words to me, unless she was there. They do say that Miss Carlin is making a saint of him—though, no doubt it's a disguise that'll be thrown off as soon as— I don't admire that sort of man, do you, Mr. Armstrong? I like a simple, honest man—" This with a look that said she regarded Armstrong as such—"a man that doesn't understand feminine tricks and the ways to circumvent women." There her cynical eyes smiled amusement at Armstrong's ruddy, lip-biting jealousy.
"It's rather cold, so far from the fire," said Armstrong, rising.
Lona rose also; she saw that Neva was about to go. "Just a minute," said she. "Miss Carlin is leaving. You can take the sofa as soon as she's out of the way."
Armstrong wheeled, left Miss Trafford precipitately. He was barely in time to intercept Neva, on her way to the door with Trafford. "Good night, Horace," she said. He could only stand and stare. For the first time she looked directly at him, her eyes full upon his. He remembered that in the old days, when their eyes occasionally met thus, hers had made him vaguely uncomfortable; he understood why, now. What was the meaning of this look she was giving him—this look from long, narrow lids, this look that searched him out, thrilled him with longing and with fear? He could not fathom it; he only knew that never before in his entire singly intent, ambitious life had the thought occurred to him that there might be some other worth while game than the big green tables of finance, some other use for human beings than as pawns in that game. She drew her hand away from his confused, detaining grasp, and was gone, leaving him an embarrassed, depressed, ludicrous figure, to be later the jeer of his own sense of humor.
Before Trafford had time to return from escorting her to her cab, Armstrong took leave. A brief silence in the salon; then Mrs. Trafford said to Raphael, "There is some mystery here, which I feel compelled to ask you to explain. You introduced Miss Carlin to me." She noted her daughter listening eagerly. "Lona, you would better go. Good night, my child."
Boris looked the amusement this affectation roused in him. "Don't send her away, Mrs. Trafford. The mystery is quite respectable. Miss Carlin used to be Mrs. Armstrong. As there were no children, she took her own name, when it became once more the only name she was entitled to."
"He divorced her!" exclaimed Mrs. Trafford, rearing. "And you brought her tomyhouse!" She held it axiomatic that no woman would divorce a well-appearing breadwinner of the highest efficiency.
"Shedivorcedhim," corrected Raphael.
"I can't believe it," replied Mrs. Trafford. "If she did, he let her, to avoid scandal."
"Not at all," protested Boris. "They come from a state which has queer, sentimental divorce laws, made for honest people instead of for hypocrites. They didn't get on well; so, the law let them go their separate ways—since God had obviously not joined them."
"I must look into it," said Mrs. Trafford, with a frown at Raphael and a significant side glance toward Lona. "People in our position can't afford to——"
"I have the honor to wish you good evening," said Boris with a formal bow. And before she could recover herself, he was gone.
"Youhavemade a mess, mamma!" exclaimed Lona.
Mrs. Trafford seemed on the verge of hysterics. "Was thereevera more unfortunate evening!" she cried. Then: "But he'd not have been so touchy, if there wasn't something wrong."
Trafford came sauntering in and she explained the situation to him. He flamed in alarm and anger, impatiently cut off her explanations with, "You've got to straighten this, Lily. If Armstrong should hear of it, and be offended, it'd cost me—I can't tell you how much!"
Mrs. Trafford looked as miserable as she felt. "I'll send off a note apologizing to Raphael this very night," she said. "And in the morning I'll ask her to the opera. Why didn't you warn me?"
"Warn!" exclaimed Trafford, bustling up and down, and plucking at his neat little beard. "How was I to know? But I supposed you'd understand that we never have anybody—any man—here unless he's of use. It's all very well to be strict, Lily; but——"
"Let's not talk about it," wailed his wife. "I'll do my best to straighten it. I shan't sleep a wink to-night."
Lona—"the child"—slipped away, a smile on her lips—a cynical smile which testified that the lesson in life as it is lived in the full stench of "respectability," had not failed to impress her.