Front matter (continued 2)

As has before been said, Lynn occupied a rather exceptional position in Montreal. The average girl who teaches in the public schools makes up her mind, sooner or later, to be a teacher, only. Her position is not considered in the light of a disgrace, but, on the other hand, she occupies a slightly lower grade than does the girl who remains at home. The latter, provided she has the social connections and the time, may go into any society she pleases. She may be unable to return any hospitality except in a very simple fashion, but she may still figure as a "society girl" and receive and accept invitations in the most exclusive houses.

Probably no other girl but Lynn, however, was ever successful in combining the duties of a public school teacher and of a society girl. Both her father and mother had been so well-to-do, so well-known in Montreal; both had had so many rich friends, so many influential connections, that their daughter was of necessity a figure of interest. Then, too, she was connected with the nobility; and, what was more important, her aunts on both sides of the family, who lived in Montreal, received and returned visits from the most exclusive Butchers, Bakers and Candlestick-Makers, and were generally accepted as "fixtures" in society. Therefore Lynn had invitations of all kinds, not only from people of gentle breeding, aristocratic birth and good character, but also from that far more important section of "society" who lived in big houses and got their clothes from Paquin. She never "came out," much to her aunt's grief; but she "went out," which was more to the point and which many girls who "come out" never succeed in doing. She was so popular, so generally liked, that her obstinate determination to spend her days in teaching was both admired and extolled.

Meanwhile, what of her brother?

On Mrs. Allardi's death Lynn had secured from his father, who appeared supremely indifferent to the child and to his fate, a promise that she was to have full control of him, on condition of paying for his board and education. Lynn, after considerable thought, made arrangements for him at a good but unfashionable school in the country, as far as possible removed from his father. She was struck by the attitude of father and son to one another. Allardi seemed to regard his small son as an amusing kind of dog, to be patted on the head if he were in a good humour, kicked out of the way if he were not; he was proud of him, in a way, devoted to him; yet, apparently, never thought anything of his present wants or of his future needs. He was quite capable of leaving the child alone for days while he sought distraction elsewhere, and of loading him with bonbons and caresses on his return.

He felt that if this queer, silent step-daughter of his chose to supplement a small allowance which Mr. Thayer had promised to make the boy, he would be very foolish to stand in the way. He could make any promise she chose to exact and break it with alacrity as soon as the keeping of it became inconvenient. Therefore the readiness with which he promised to see practically nothing of the boy in the future sprang really from a defective sense of the value of a promise, rather than from the total heartlessness with which Lynn credited him. He was really fond of Lionel—in his way; and fully intended to see all that he wished of him, whenever necessary.

So the child went to school and Lynn returned to Montreal and worked steadily for the extra sums which were needed for Lionel's maintenance. The next few years were comparatively restful and pleasant ones. The reports which she received of Lionel were not good, yet he seemed to be progressing fairly well, and Lynn, remembering her mother's dying words, tried not to expect too much in the beginning. When Lionel was fourteen, however, he ran away and joined his father in New York.

Lynn did not even know his whereabouts and had no way of discovering them. The boy did not assuage her anxiety by writing, feeling that his hiding-place might be ascertained if he gave any clue to it and that he would then be compelled to return. However, Allardi wrote to Lynn after a time, telling her that the boy was with him and asking that she would not withdraw her help as Lionel already needed much that he could not give him.

Lynn exhausted entreaties, reproofs, and even threats. Allardi was the boy's natural guardian in the eyes of the law; his will was absolute and he refused to send the boy from him unless well paid for so doing. This was out of the question. Lynn had already earned the reputation of a miser for the scantiness and plainness of the wardrobe which Mrs. Thayer felt herself constantly obliged to supplement. Naturally Mrs. Thayer could not see why a girl with fifty dollars a month to spend on herself alone—as she supposed—should lack for anything in reason.

Here the inconvenience and absurdity of the oath which Mrs. Allardi had made Lynn swear began to show itself most unpleasantly. The truth was so simple, the secrecy made the whole matter so difficult. Lynn had dreaded inquiries anent the boy when she first returned after her mother's death, but none had been forthcoming. Mr. Thayer had expected that Lynn would ask him to have an eye to the boy and see that the small allowance he had promised to make him was fairly spent; when nothing was said on the matter he assumed that Lynn disliked the child as she did the father and preferred never to think or speak of them, now that the one link between them and her was broken. Mr. Thayer was glad to forget the existence of his sister-in-law's other child. He had never even seen the father or the son; he had been intensely indignant at the second marriage contracted while Clara was visiting friends in the States; and, subsequent events having justified his indignation, he had sedulously avoided meeting any of the people concerned. His offer to adopt Lynn had been made by letter; he had sent money for the journey when that offer was accepted, and settled the amount agreed upon his sister-in-law; and had then endeavoured to drive the whole affair from his mind. However, upon Lynn's return from New York, he did make some gruff inquiries as to the child's whereabouts; and, on her replying that the boy was at a cheap but highly respectable boarding-school in the country, he had, with a feeling of relief, dismissed the whole matter from his mind, thinking that "that Italian blackguard" had some sense of decency after all.

There seemed little that Lynn could do, now that Lionel had taken matters into his own hands and openly declared his intention of remaining with his father. Of course the rational thing was to break her promise and take her relatives into her confidence. Only the most scrupulous moralist could hold her bound by an oath which her mother, could she have looked into the future, would have surely wished her to break. Ah, if only logic ruled life, how simple life would be. Unfortunately it does not.

Lynn had inherited from both father and mother an overstrained sense of honour and, though she had done her best to refrain from making the unfair and ridiculous promise, the possibility of breaking it when made never occurred to her.

The Roman Catholic system of confession has its advantages after all. Had Lynn gone to any confessional and asked for permission to break her oath, and absolution for the sin of so doing, what sensible man, priest or layman, would have refused to sanction such a procedure? Lynn, under the circumstances, had no confidant, no adviser, no one to show her the needlessness of her various sacrifices.

Besides, it is to be feared that Lynn's sense of honour was so deeply ingrained that it could not, under any conditions, have yielded to the dictates of common sense. She would probably have done, in any circumstances, just what she proceeded to do; kept the foolish oath in its entirety, continued to help the ungrateful boy, in spite of the fact that he, in defiance of her expressed wishes, continued to live in New York with his father, and generally have conducted herself as over-fond and irrational women do, under such circumstances.

When Lionel was sixteen, however, his father died of consumption in a tragic and horrible manner; and Lionel, temporarily sobered by the occurrence, suddenly "turned over a new leaf," as he expressed it, and wrote Lynn to that effect, declaring his intention of taking up literary work and "making his name in it." Although his manner of supporting himself did not seem very practicable to his sister, she hailed with joy this indication that her work and care had at last borne fruit.

And, for a short time, Lionel was a source of unmitigated joy and pride to her. There are but a few poets in the world and he was one of them. His work earned him instant recognition among a certain set and, although his earnings were paltry, he, at all events, did earn something and bade fair to earn more. All literary workers know how frequently a certain amount of fame may be gained with very small pecuniary success to back it.

Then Lionel decided to live in Montreal. He was ill; New York did not agree with him; he wanted new experiences and realized that Lynn could give him one thing that he had never known—the society of rich and fashionable people; and, more important than all, he knew well that he could wheedle every penny of her earnings from her, provided he lived in the same town. The boy was a degenerate, totally without gentle feeling of any kind, his only approach to it being a sort of sympathetic and artistic understanding of other people's emotions. His sister was, to him, merely a cow to be milked dry. He was, to his sister, a demi-god to be sacrificed to; she laid before him in the dust the burnt ashes of her heart and life—and received the fitting and inevitable reward of such folly.

By reason of the oath sworn by Lynn and also because Lionel had won fame under the name of Leo Ricossia, this was the name by which he chose to be known in Montreal. As Leo Ricossia he was received with open arms. He had secured letters of introduction to certain influential Montrealers and soon contrived to be formally presented to his sister at the home of one of these. His literary fame had preceded him, and this, in conjunction with his extraordinary beauty, his extreme youth, and the fact that he, already, lay under sentence of death made him, for the time being, "the rage." No social gathering was complete without him; all the debutantes cut out his poems, pasted them in albums, and entreated his signature on the opening page; all the older women of fashion petted, indulged and ran after him.

It is extraordinary how rapidly and completely a certain person may become "the rage" and still more extraordinary how rapidly and completely this person may sink out of sight and be practically forgotten in the space of a few months. For about a year Ricossia's popularity was at fever height; then—murmurs of disapprobation, shruggings of shoulders, a few hints here, a few direct words of condemnation there—and, by the end of another year, Society knew Ricossia no more. He had overstepped the limit of indulgence; much is excused to a young and handsome man with charming manners and lung disease; but not everything. In Ricossia's case, unfortunately, there was everything to excuse and people finally and positively refused to excuse it. Ricossia, who had tired very quickly of comparative respectability, hastened the climax with a certain gay recklessness, and abandoned himself with entire satisfaction to all that he had vowed to relinquish when he came to Montreal. Taking up his abode in the disreputable old studio building before-mentioned, he proceeded to follow very literally the words of the Episcopal prayer-book, doing everything that he ought not to do, leaving undone all that he ought to do.

Now, it will be supposed, Lynn's patience failed, utterly. Now, at last she abandoned the wretched boy who was bound to her only by blood and who had voluntarily relinquished every claim on her regard? Ah, no. Again let us repeat, if only logic ruled life, how simple life would be. As logic does not rule life, Lynn continued to support her half-brother, denying herself everything that she could go without, refusing all invitations that entailed expensive clothes, immolating herself on the altar of self-sacrifice with most-admired indiscretion. Nor was this all. As it was clearly impossible that the disgraced and ostracized Ricossia should visit her in the respectable home of her irreproachable relatives; as it was equally impossible that she should go by daylight to the somewhat disreputable quarter of the town where he lived; as everything within her denied the possibility of leaving him to die in poverty, illness and loneliness; for all these reasons and for fifty others equally excellent, Lynn hit on the brilliant plan of visiting him by stealth, Nicodemus-fashion, of going ostensibly to dine with some friend or friends, and of leaving early and driving to the Chatham in order to see for herself whether the worthless life was still extant and whether the cold heart craved anything that she could give it. A fool? Oh yes, a very great and undoubted fool.

Unfortunately the vast mass of humanity is composed of fools, and the people apparently free from any trace of such folly are not just the people whom we most admire and love. Casabianca, standing flame-encircled on the sinking ship; Joan of Arc leading a handful of peasants against the flower of the English army; Charlotte Corday giving her life on the guillotine for the pleasure of making a martyr of an inhuman hound; all these and all the other divine fools of history make a curious appeal to humanity. Why? That is difficult to answer. Perhaps because, deep in our hearts, we know ourselves to be fools and are not, in moments of depression, quite convinced that we are even divine fools.

Be that as it may, Lynn Thayer qualified herself, as will be admitted, for a high place in the picture gallery of fools; risking her reputation, beggaring her life, breaking her heart, all for the sake of a boy who had done nothing from childhood but grieve, torment and disappoint her. Ah, but he had done a little more than this. He had filled her life with his image; he had afforded her an object on which to squander the treasures of her mind and heart. And what more does the average fool want, whether she be an historical, or, as in this case, an ultra-modern fool?

Ricossia had hit on a way by which Lynn was enabled to supplement her teacher's salary and provide for him more comfortably. Struck by the humour and style of a little sketch which she had written for his amusement, he made a few alterations in it and sent it to an editor with whom he was personally acquainted, under his own name. It was accepted and paid for; and, from that time on, Ricossia was known for his pungent and witty society skits. Lynn was only too grateful for the addition to her much-strained purse and delighted that her brother was pleased to approve of her work. Had it not been for this new method of earning, she would have found it increasingly difficult to account for the way in which her money went, bringing her no apparent return.

In her spare moments, therefore, she wrote, busily, and, moreover, assumed the duty of amanuensis to her brother, who seemed more and more indifferent, as his health declined and his energy waned, as to the disposal of his brain-wares. Provided he could carouse all night and sleep all day he seemed content; only varying this routine by complaints if Lynn either came at inopportune times or failed to come when she might have been of use.

He absolutely refused all medical aid and scoffed at the idea of going to a sanitarium. He knew that he must die and he wanted to die, happy. And, if Lynn had but known it, this, under the circumstances, was about the greatest kindness he could have done society in general and his sister in particular.

CHAPTER VIII

"PUNCHINELLO"

"He laughed ... as gaily,

Dancing, joking every night,

'He's the maddest, merriest fellow,'

Cried the people with delight.

Bravo, bravo! Punchinello!

Bravo, Punchinello!"

—Old Song.

Mr. Zangwell, in his clever "Serio-Comic Governess," has shown us a young lady leading two very different lives at one and the same time. In the day-time she is a highly respectable and decorous governess, at night, a music-hall artiste. In both lines she is a success.

Now this success is probably owing to the fact that this particular young lady is gratifying her curiosity and her desire to lead a conventional existence at one and the same time. She is, in short, doing that which she wishes to do.

There are many such "serio-comic governesses" in real life. Perhaps you, who read, may be one; perhaps, unknown to you, the dear friend from whom you have no secrets and who, you fondly believe, has none from you, may have a personality which you have never even guessed at.

In the case of our "serio-comic governess," however, we must draw a distinction. Lynn Thayer liked neither of her lives, which clashed horribly both with one another and with her sense of right. Since she saw no way in which she could avoid it, however, she continued to lead them to the best of her ability, sustained, if not comforted, by the thought that one of them was bound to terminate with the death of the one being whom she most loved.

We have seen our "serio-comic governess" in one role; now we see her in another. We have seen Punchinello with the mask off and the grin absent; now we see him as he appears daily in the theatre of life.

Lynn had returned from the school where she taught and sat in her aunt's sitting-room, engaged on a shirtwaist and in conversation. If we listen we shall be able to form a fair idea of the progress of the conversation, if not of that of the shirtwaist. Mrs. Thayer was employed in embroidering a collar and impressed the casual observer as doing the exact thing for which Nature had fitted her. She was one of those pretty, faded, querulous women with worthy hearts but limited intellects of whom one almost instinctively speaks as "poor thing"; why, it is hard to say, except that something in their appearance calls forth the expression. No one ever called Lynn Thayer "poor thing," nor would, whatever griefs or difficulties she might labour under.

Mrs. Thayer was speaking.

"Now, Lynn, why is he not coming here, to-night?"

"For one thing, because I don't want him; and, for another, because he is changing his hotel. You know he is staying at the 'Hastings' while his house is in the hands of the painters."

"And he is moving from the 'Hastings.' Why?"

"Oh, I think he said it was 'tough' and that he would have to leave it. I tried hard not to compliment him upon the altruism of his action. Certainly if one thing more than another is calculated to 'raise the tone' of a hotel, it is his leaving it."

"Lynn! you didn't tell him so?" shrieked her aunt.

"No," returned her niece, rather sorrowfully. "I didn't. I wish I had."

"Lynn!"

"I don't often neglect anything calculated to render me unpopular with him," continued Miss Thayer, composedly, "and when I do I'm always sorry for it, afterwards. You know that, Aunt Lucy?"

"Lynn, dear, don't use all those long words," adjured her aunt, piteously. "They do sound so clever. And men do so hate clever women. I don't mean that you are clever, you understand, dear," she continued, apologetically, "only that you appear so, sometimes."

"I wonder whether Mr. Lighton would dislike it if he thought I were clever!" queried Lynn with sudden interest.

"I don't know. I am afraid—"

"How I would scintillate if I only thought it would annoy him," Lynn said in a low voice.

Mrs. Thayer started, indignantly.

"I am thankful," she reflected in loud and severe accents, "that I was never afflicted with a desire to make myself unpleasant to estimable young men."

"Estimable! Aunt Lucy!"

"It is true," said Mrs. Thayer, putting two diminutive stitches in the collar which she was embroidering, "it is undeniably true, Lynn, that the poor boy has been a little wild. But he wants to settle down."

"If he wants to settle down with me, Aunt Lucy, he can want."

"Lynn, is that the remark of a lady?"

"It is; and, furthermore, it is the remark of a lady who knows her own mind."

Mrs. Thayer raised a tiny handkerchief to her eyes and deposited two tinier tears, thereupon. Long practice had made her an adept in the gentle art of weeping, by which art she had succeeded in establishing an absolute monarchy in her own home.

"Oh, Lynn, what a way to talk," she wept, gently, "when the poor boy is so fond of you and has such a good salary and a house of his own, besides. How few young men have houses of their own that you can walk right into as soon as you marry them! What are you laughing at? And anyway he is much too good for you and besides Eva Holt would jump at him."

"Let her jump."

"Ah, Lynn, you have no natural, womanly instincts."

"I am afraid I am lacking in some."

"Such a nice house as it is, too," sighed her aunt, "and all being done over—new plumbing, electric light and everything! Electric light is so nice to read by. How fortunate it is that his uncle di—that is to say, how fortunate it is that his uncle left it to him."

"Yes, indeed. There's something very attractive about electric lights," returned her niece, gravely.

Mrs. Thayer looked slightly puzzled and changed the subject.

"Mr. Lighton is really in many ways a very nice young man," she ventured, timidly. "And not a bit worse than lots of others."

"Not a bit!" assented the other. Her voice was still cheerful but her face had clouded a little. "The trouble is," she went on, rather absently, after a moment's pause, "the trouble is, he's worse-looking. Vice, pure and simple, one might tolerate; but vice, in conjunction with a vermilion nose"—

"Lynn!" interrupted her aunt with righteous indignation. "Mr. Lighton is as the Lord made him."

"The Lord! Brandy and soda!"

Mrs. Thayer had her answer ready in her pocket; she drew it out and deposited three more tears upon its snowy surface. Lynn hesitated; she had a truly masculine aversion to tears, an aversion which had cost her many a domestic battle.

"Please don't cry, Aunt Lucy," she burst forth at length. "I don't see why you are so very anxious to get me married. I thought you liked having me in the house. If you don't"—

"Of course I like having you," said the older woman, reproachfully. "But I must confess that it makes me feel dreadfully to think of having you, always—that is, I mean that it makes me feel dreadfully to see you throw away such good chances. For you know, Lynn, you are not in the least pretty."

"Dear Aunt Lucy, you have told me that so often," returned her niece, patiently. "But I cannot for the life of me see why the fact of my not possessing a Greek profile should make me want to marry Mr. Lighton."

"That is just where you are so incomprehensible. And, besides, he has such a lovely horse."

"His horse is certainly a dream. Unfortunately, though, it was not his horse who proposed. If I could marry the horse and lock the gentleman up in the stable, I'd do it with pleasure. O dear, why will you talk about it and make me say such horrid things. The plain truth of the matter is that I do not like the man and I hate talking about the whole affair. It irritates me, someway. I hate to see anything wasted."

"Then why do you"—

"Oh, Aunt Lucy, don't start it, again! after all I've said."

"I perceive at last," said Mrs. Thayer with dignity, "that I may as well let the matter drop."

"You might have seen that at first, if you had wished to," thought Lynn.

"I only hope you may never regret this."

"I hope so, too. By the way, I am going to drop in at Estelle's for tea at five. A lot of the girls are going there. Have you any message?"

"None, whatever; but, as you are going there, I trust that you will talk this matter over with her. You could not have a better confidante. Talk it over with her, won't you?"

"I don't think it is necessary to promise that," replied Lynn, wearily, "for she is quite certain to talk it over with me, which comes to the same thing in the end."

Mrs. Thayer compressed her lips and continued to embroider. Lynn departed to make some change in her toilet and, that being concluded, left the house. Once on the street her face changed and contracted a little, making her look curiously older.

"There are times," she said slowly, regarding the little terrier which gambolled joyfully at her side, "there are times, Bob, when I find the society of the four-legged portion of humanity infinitely more congenial than that of the two-legged. This is one of them. How I wish sometimes that Aunt Lucy were dumb or I deaf! How thankful I am that you can't talk reason with me or advise me for my good or do any other unpleasant thing of the kind, Bob. If they only knew what they were talking about! if they only knew why I can't marry Lighton or—or anyone else"—She broke off, abruptly, biting her lip as though in pain. "What's the use of thinking?" she went on, presently. "I've got to face Del and twenty other women nearly as sharp in five minutes' time and I can't show my feelings here in this horrible street, either. Oh, to get away from it all!—here, don't be a fool! You have about two minutes to pull yourself together in, you weak, whining—I'll put it out of my mind, entirely. Whom has Del asked, I wonder. If it's one of those vile functions where you're wedged tightly between layers of fat, stupid women who gabble inanely and continuously and spill ice-cream and coffee over your good clothes, I'll never forgive her. No, she said distinctly that it was just a few of the girls and she always tells the truth to me, if she doesn't to anyone else. Oh, Del, Del! I wonder if you are the right person to go by. I wonder what you would say if I were to tell you of all this miserable coil of deception and misery. Of course I know what you would say; you would say that I was a fool and so I am; that wouldn't help matters, much. What could you, or anyone suggest? Nothing, nothing that would be of any use; anyway, if I were dying for advice, I am not free to obtain it. If I had an unfailing fund of common sense and a heart of stone what would I do, I wonder? God knows. Being myself I'll do what I'm doing—and God grant it can't last forever." She set her lips firmly and walked along until she reached Pine Avenue.

Pine Avenue lies at the foot of Mount Royal and, in fact, is built upon its slope. It is a broad, fine street and some of the handsomest residences in Montreal are situated upon, or, rather, directly above it. At all seasons of the year it is largely frequented and, in winter, is a favourite haunt of snowshoers and "skiers." At the present hour, however, it was practically deserted; and Lynn drew a long breath of relief as, leaving the crowded city streets behind, she sought its solitude. For some little time she walked on in silence.

The golden January sun turned Mount Royal into a mass of shining marble, flecked with skeleton-like maples and crowned with dark green pines. Beyond—behind its towering whiteness—lay the dead of Montreal. Lynn winced at the thought of them and fiercely refused to let her thought dwell on their impenetrable peace.

"I'm going to an At Home, Bob," she said, half-aloud, trying to laugh. "There will be about twenty other women there—and, in all probability, half of them are wearing veils over their faces like the minister in Hawthorne's story. 'I look around me and lo! on every visage a black veil.' Only people don't go in for black veils unless they're cowards; they go in for scarlet and gold, which makes a far better disguise and renders life more cheerful. What's the use of making a fuss? Anyway, whatever happens, whatever nasty knocks Fate may hand me, there is one thing she can't do—she can't make me whine." She threw her head back and laughed; then called the dog to her side and smiled as he licked her gloved hand.

"Del doesn't like you, old boy," she said, fondly. "But I'll hide you, somewhere, and I won't stay any longer than I can help. Ah! there's the house, already. It's just as well. I don't feel like being alone, to-day, more than I can help. I wonder why it is that things seem so much worse at some times than they do at others."

CHAPTER IX

"JUST A FEW OF THE GIRLS"

"'I must be my own Mamma,' said Becky."—Thackeray.

"She was clever, witty, brilliant and sparkling beyond most of her kind but possessed of many devils of malice and mischievousness. She could be nice, though, even to her own sex. But that is another story."—Kipling.

Mrs. Hadwell's home, whither her friend, Miss Thayer, was bound, contrived to be both home-like and imposing. Situated on a slope of the "mountain," as all loyal Montrealers call Mount Royal, it commanded an unsurpassed view of the city and harbour and was surrounded by a picturesque garden, unspoilt by overcultivation. In summer it assumed an appearance of fairy-like charm: and even when, as now, devoid of verdant ornament and encompassed only by the sighing branches of bare trees, it had an appearance of creature comfort, oddly at variance with the bleak, snow-crowned hills that rose behind it. Mount Royal, the pride of every Montrealer, boasts many another such home; but few combine dignity and cosiness in the measure which Mrs. Hadwell's did.

"Del's house is really awfully like her in many ways," Lynn Thayer reflected as she rang the bell. "It is so expensive and in such good taste and so comfortable and so cold—is Mrs. Hadwell in, Ella? Yes, I know she is, but see here! can you smuggle Bob somewhere where he won't be in the way of the girls? You know Mrs. Hadwell doesn't like dogs."

She divested herself of some of her wraps and crossed the hall. The perfume of roses pervaded the air and the soft strain of violins was faintly heard beneath the hubbub of voices as she made her way toward the large old-fashioned drawing-room whence the sounds of festivity proceeded. This room, hung with crimson velvet and panelled in dark oak, was almost sumptuous in its comfort. Beautifully carved Turkish lamps hung from the ceiling: a splendid wood fire burned on the hearth: great vases of dark red roses and carnations were disposed wherever opportunity offered: and, at the further end of the room, one caught a delicious glimpse of cool green ferns and various-coloured blooms. The room was filled with daintily dressed girls and young women: and behind a superlatively dainty tea table sat the hostess who hastily pushed aside a cream jug and rushed in the direction of her latest guest.

"Help yourselves, girls," she exclaimed. "I want to speak to Lynn. Why are you so late, child? and where have you been, lately? I haven't seen you for an age."

"Which, being interpreted, means four days," said Lynn, laughing and returning her hostess' kiss. "How lovely the rooms look, Del! and what a sweet frock that is! I do like you in mauve."

"I think it is rather successful," said Mrs. Hadwell, contentedly: and both women laughed. In their girlhood days they had entered into a compact which had ever since been observed faithfully; namely, to tell no useless lies to one another. "Only don't let us forget to tell them to other people, Lynn," Mrs. Hadwell had remarked, solemnly. "Don't let it get us into bad habits." It had never got her into bad habits: she had lied her way successfully into public esteem, riches and an old man's heart; and, even on reaching the giddy pinnacle of social success where rudeness is frequently condoned, she had faithfully followed the policy of telling the truth only to her one intimate friend, Lynn Thayer.

"Edie, do pour Lynn some tea," she cried, now, turning to a pretty brown-eyed girl who hovered near, watching her adoringly. "And put piles and piles of cream in it and five lumps or so of sugar—that's the way she likes it, the incomprehensible creature! ... Another of those sickening debutantes," she observed in a confidential undertone, turning to Lynn and gently propelling her in the direction of a couch, "simply worships me, you know! follows me around like a dog and—that's right, dear! how sweet of you to save me the trouble! now get her an Italian cream and a nice cake, will you? like an angel!—I don't know what I shall do if it keeps up: you know I can't bear bread and butter misses and she actually asked me for a lock of my hair the other day. I felt like telling her that I paid eighty dollars for my switch in New York and that my own hair was too precious to—oh, thank you, dear! Lynn, this is the sweetest girl; she saves me all sorts of trouble and her name is Miss Roland; Edie, this is my friend, Miss Thayer, of whom you have often heard me speak—oh, dear! there are all the girls coming up to speak to you, Lynn, and anyway I ought to go and pour out some more tea. When you have done the polite, do come and keep me company at the tea-table."

"Little Mrs. Hadwell," as her friends usually called her, fled, casting a bewitching smile at the group of girls who were clustering about Lynn. Estelle Hadwell's teeth were her strong point, a fact which she never, for an instant, lost sight of. She had no complexion worth terming such, her features were irregular and her figure decidedly angular. Yet she contrived to be considered a beauty, as any woman can who has time and money to devote to her appearance.

Lynn watched her curiously as she settled herself at the tea-table with a coquettish little flirt of her silken skirts, and marvelled anew at the unconscious dramatic instinct which enabled this tiny creature to play the role of a beauty with such unfailing success. As "Little Mrs. Hadwell" sat pouring the tea with one pretty arm gracefully raised, she was a vision for an artist. Her mauve gown fell about her petite form in folds that were almost statuesque in their grace: her beautiful hair—which looked just as beautiful as though it had not grown on an Irish housemaid's head—was arranged with such taste as to make her small head a thing of beauty: her really pretty neck and arms were set off by a fichu and falling cuffs of rich yellow lace. A cluster of violets was carelessly tucked in the front of her fichu: and a long chain of amethysts outlined her slender waist—which had hardly been so slender, had it not been for the skill and strength of her French maid. Altogether, as she sat there, Lynn recognized for the fiftieth time—and with precisely the same sense of wonder—that, in spite of Estelle's entire lack of beauty, she was the daintiest and most fascinating thing, imaginable.

Among the girls who surrounded Lynn were several whose beauty was sufficiently apparent to make them noticeable, anywhere. Edith Roland, the adoring debutante, had big, brown eyes, a pretty colour and a figure whose slenderness and grace owed nothing to artificial aid; yet, beside her diminutive hostess she sank into insignificance. Erma Reed was a beautiful girl, tall, splendidly proportioned with the features of a Greek statue and the air of a grand dame; but, after the first admiration which her almost flawless pulchritude provoked, one's eyes wandered instinctively to the sinuous figure and piquante, appealing face of Mrs. Hadwell. "Magnetism—that is the only word for it, I suppose," thought Lynn. "Yet she didn't always have it as she has it now. Can that sort of thing be cultivated, I wonder?"

"Lynn, we never see you, now," declared Joan Cadding, one of her friends. "What's the reason?"

"Old age, laziness and lots to do. At twenty-eight one can't be always gadding. Besides, a teacher must keep early hours."

"Oh, aged one, it is not so many years since a certain teacher was out every night in the week until one or two o'clock and absolutely refused even to lie down for half an hour when she left school at three. Mrs. Thayer used to say to mother, 'Really, Lynn must have the constitution of a horse; she comes home from school, skates for an hour, rushes into calling costume and drops into a dozen things before dinner: then, as soon as that is over, prepares for a dance or a tobogganing party.'"

"As you say, I was a few years younger, Joan."

"But why have you given everything up so? You can't complain of being shelved. Why, at the only dance where I've met you this winter your card was filled to overflowing before you had been in the room five minutes. You certainly can't worry about lack of attention."

"No, I have no beauty to fade and no youthful fascinations to take wing, so the people who liked me ten years ago are just as apt to like me, now."

"Then why do you slip out of things so? Even Del says she never sees you."

"Del means that I don't live here as I used to. I see her three or four times a week: any one but Del would be sick of me. But, seriously, girls, this idea of combining public school teacher and society girl isn't the best in the world. As far as I know, I am the only woman who has ever done it successfully for years and I'm getting tired of it. And that reminds me! Do you want to hear a good story? I went to a man-tea at Mrs. Dean-Everill's the other day—you see I'm not altogether a hermit yet—and I met a Mrs. Howden there—a very common woman with money. No one else wanted to talk to her and she seemed a good-natured soul and anxious to be affable, so I sacrificed myself as usual. She simply beamed on me—till, in the course of conversation, it transpired that I taught from nine to three five days out of the seven. Then she froze: suddenly and completely did she freeze: and took the earliest opportunity of sidling away from my contaminating presence. A little later on I was talking to some of the other people when Dick Ashe, who has just returned from Europe, you know, rushed up to me and said in his usual boisterous way, 'Oh, Miss Thayer, you should see the lovely pin that your cousin, Lord Haviland, has entrusted to me for you.' I caught sight of the woman's face; she looked like a devotee who had unwittingly slapped a seraph. I felt so sorry for her that I hastened to murmur, 'Oh, Harry's only my third cousin, you know!' but even that didn't seem to wipe the tortured look from her fat face. Think what it must be to a social climber to have snubbed an earl's third cousin."

In the burst of laughter and talk which followed this, only Mrs. Hadwell noticed that Lynn had made a definite effort to turn the course of conversation from discussion of herself.

"Well," said Agatha Ladilaw in her flute-like voice, "I don't see what is amusing you all so. It couldn't have been very pleasant for Mrs. What's-her-name to think that she had been rude to an earl's third cousin: and, on the other hand, if Lynn were an ordinary teacher you couldn't expect her to be treated in the same way."

"Why not?" asked some one. Lynn merely laughed and looked at the first speaker with covert yet kindly mirth.

"I don't see why you laugh," said Agatha, with soft stubbornness.

"Why, you see, Agatha," said Lynn, looking at her thoughtfully, "this Mrs. Howden liked me till she found I was a teacher. Then she couldn't endure my society till it transpired that I was related to an earl. Then she loved me once more."

"And why shouldn't she?" asked Agatha, lifting her lovely lashes. "Earls are not so common."

"Not so common as snobs, no. Still having an earl for a cousin is no reason why people should like one."

"But you see, Lynn, it is a reason. You say, yourself, that she liked you as soon as she found it out."

Lynn abandoned argument.

"She liked me in the first place, too," she said, laughing.

"Oh, but then she didn't know you were a teacher," Agatha explained, very sensibly.

"She liked me until I was found out, in other words."

"Exactly," said Agatha, pleased to find that her logic had penetrated. "It often happens so. Look at that young Italian with the lovely eyes who wrote the magnificent poetry that you weren't allowed to read! and had to smuggle into the dormitory at night after the lights were out! Now everybody raved about him until they found that he took opium and drank."

"And then they promptly dropped him: just as this Mrs. Howden did Lynn, when she found that she taught. It's an exactly parallel case," agreed Mrs. Hadwell, looking straight at Lynn with a perfectly innocent face and inwardly wondering how her friend could preserve such a stony impenetrability of countenance.

"Certainly it is," said Agatha, triumphantly, "except that of course it's wicked to drink and it's quite respectable to teach. But it comes to the same thing in the end."

"So many things do," said Lynn with a little laugh. "Still, Agatha, it's not necessarily wickedness that makes people drink. Some people drink in the same way that they breathe—because to stop would be to die or to go mad."

"What unpleasant people," said Agatha, virtuously. "I'm glad I'm not like that. Still, even if I were I'm sure that I could stop it—I can't understand people being so weak. And, speaking of that Ricossia—whatever became of him? He was so wicked and he did look so nice in evening clothes. I used to be awfully gone on him and so were all the girls in the Sixth. It wasn't because he was wicked, you know," she added hastily.

"No, indeed; the wickedness of Beelzebub would have availed him nothing if he hadn't also been decorative in evening clothes. Agatha, don't you want this little chocolate cake with the nut in the top?"

Agatha did: and she also wanted some information on the subject of Ricossia.

"Why are you so determined not to talk about him? He was your protégé from the start. You took him up—you and Mr. Amherst—I don't believe he would ever have been so popular and run after if you hadn't started it."

"Yes, what has become of that boy?" queried Mrs. Hadwell with sudden interest. "Of course he has gone to the dogs, we all know that: but what particular dogs and where?"

"I am not his keeper," answered Lynn, lightly. "Do you know that it's about time I left, Del?"

"Oh, no!" cried Mrs. Hadwell, starting up. "You mustn't. Why, you don't even know why I asked you to come here, this afternoon: you simply must stay long enough to hear that."

"Well, I'll stay five minutes"—

"Very well, five minutes!" returned Mrs. Hadwell, who knew quite well how long a period of time five minutes can cover. "Now, girls, attend! You knew that Henry's brother Carl settled in the States and that he has a grown-up family. Well, the third child is twins—I mean the third children are twins—well, never mind! what's the use of explaining when you all know what I mean, anyway. The point is that I've invited them one and all to visit me, every year: but they've consistently refused because the brother is indignant at Henry's marrying a young wife, just when they had quite come to count on getting his money. These twins, however, seem to have a mind between them—they're only nineteen, too, I believe—very young to have a mind, even if it is only half a one—and they have written with gusto, accepting my invitation and telling me that they're dying to see something of the Canadian sports. Now, as you know, I've no taste for sports and I thought some of you might help me out. They are only going to be here for a week or so, as they both go to college, and I want to give them what our American friends call 'a real good time.' I have thought of several of the ordinary things—a tea for the girls and a bridge the night after they arrive: and a little later on, I am going to give a fancy dress ball—yes, consider yourselves all invited—but I thought it would be nice if I got a few of you girls together and organized some parties for tobogganing and ice-boating and so on."

"Don't forget the Conquerors-Wales hockey match."

"No, detestable thing! they'll want to see that, I suppose. I can't stand hockey. Lynn, you're not going?"

"I must. It's getting very late."

"Oh, nonsense!" cried Mrs. Hadwell, piteously: and at that moment, the clang of the doorbell, followed by the advent of a fresh visitor, seemed to give the lie to Miss Thayer's assertion.

"Mrs. Langham-Greene! Lynn, forgive me. I swear I didn't ask her," murmured the hostess: then glided forward eagerly.

"So glad to see you. What good genius prompted you to drop in this particular afternoon? All the girls have done the same. (And if that doesn't pacify her," reflected the ingenuous hostess, "nothing will.")

The newcomer laughed, a pretty, soft, disagreeable laugh, and glanced about her.

"So I see," she rejoined, smoothly. "We old married women will have to entertain one another. These young girls," her glance wandered from Lynn Thayer to two or three others and she smiled thoughtfully, "these young girls have their own topics of conversation."

"Now that," said Mrs. Hadwell to herself with unwilling admiration, "is neat, distinctly neat. Insult to me, insult to my best friend and insult to half a dozen of my guests and all in one short breath. Lynn, you're not going?" she added, aloud.

"I am indeed. Bob will be wondering what's become of me."

"Bob! You didn't bring him here?"

"I did, Del. You know I'm away all day and Aunt Lucy never takes him out. Poor little fellow! it's pathetic, the way he greets me when I get home."

"Miss Thayer is such an attractive person, isn't she?" murmured Mrs. Langham-Greene with a peculiar gleam in her lazy cat-like eyes. "She has such a fascination—for dogs and cats."

"You, Mrs. Langham-Greene," returned Lynn with equal sweetness, "can have no idea how nice it is to be able to fascinate something."

With that, she left. Mrs. Hadwell was delighted with the Parthian shot and indignant at Mrs. Langham-Greene's impudence in classing herself with her hostess under the title of "old married women." She therefore launched forth into a eulogy of her absent friend which, judging from appearances, went far to spoil the elegant widow's enjoyment of her cup of tea.

"Lynn is such a favourite with men, too," she concluded.

"Really," rejoined the green-eyed siren, carelessly. "But girls who teach do age so rapidly, don't you think so, Mrs. Hadwell? and they are apt to become soured and to mistake rudeness for repartee."

"A mistake that is frequently made," said Mrs. Hadwell, inwardly furious. "But, when one has such a clever tongue as Lynn, don't you think one is apt to take advantage of duller people than one's self?" Agatha broke in.

"Isn't it funny, Mrs. Hadwell, how Lynn never will talk about Mr. Ricossia? She used to like him so much. And I am sure she must know what has become of him."

"Dreadful creature!" purred Mrs. Langham-Greene, arching her delicate eyebrows. "Your friend wasn't really infatuated with him, was she, Mrs. Hadwell? People do talk so."

"Don't they?" assented Mrs. Hadwell, looking grieved. "I daresay even you and I don't escape. Poor Lynn presumed on her twenty-eight years and her plain face to take a sisterly interest in an eccentric genius, little more than a child in years; and people immediately assume that she must be in love with him. So absurd! As if a girl who—oh, they are all going! what a shame! How I wish you had dropped in a little sooner, Mrs. Langham-Greene. We've had a delightful chat but such a short one!"

CHAPTER X

"A FIN-DE-SIECLE PAIR"

"I have seen Hayes argue with a tough horse—I have seen a tonga driver coerce a stubborn pony—I have seen a riotous setter broken to gun by a hard keeper—but the breaking-in of Pluffles ... was beyond all these."—Kipling.

"But, Henry, you should be glad to see your brother's children."

"I don't see why. A pair of young ragamuffins who'll pull the house about my ears."

"My dear Henry! They're nineteen."

"Worse and worse! The boy will be certain to fall in love with you."

"Do you think so?" asked Mrs. Hadwell, eagerly.

"I think it won't be your fault if he doesn't," responded her husband with acerbity.

"Well, at all events the girl won't fall in love with you," said Mrs. Hadwell with a twinkle in her eye.

Her spouse grunted something unintelligible.

"Not if she sees you with that expression on your face," went on Mrs. Hadwell, rather sadly. "It always seems so strange to me that a man of your experience and charm—a finished man of the world, in other words—should give way to these useless moods."

Mr. Hadwell's brow slightly cleared in spite of his efforts to hide the fact.

"If I had seen when I first met you," went on Mrs. Hadwell in chastened accents, "that, beneath the mask of courtly politeness and delicate flattery, you concealed the nature of a gloomy tyrant."

"Da—I mean, confound it all!" said Mr. Hadwell, much affected, "what on earth do you want, Estelle?"

"Why, I'm afraid I don't quite understand you," said Mrs. Hadwell, raising her pretty eyebrows in pained surprise.

"My dear little girl, you know I am not a tyrant," said Mr. Hadwell, miserable at the thought of being so misunderstood, yet, at the same time, secretly delighted at the reference to his "courtly politeness." His delight was natural when one considers the fact that, at no time of his life, had his manners surpassed those of an average groom.

"No—perhaps not," said Mrs. Hadwell, softly. "Yet, Henry, there are times when—when—"

"When what, darling?" inquired Mr. Hadwell, abjectly.

"When," said Mrs. Hadwell with sorrowful dignity, "when, Henry, I am actually afraid to ask you for the little extra money which will provide for the entertainment of your brother's children."

"Must they be so much entertained?" asked Mr. Hadwell, humbly yet uneasily. He was a kind old man, but the prospect of parting with a dollar never failed to cause him acute agony.

"They need not be entertained," responded Mrs. Hadwell with feeling. "Those unfortunate children may come here and stay with us three weeks and return to Ohio to tell their father and mother that the woman who has deprived them of their uncle's fortune, grudges them a ball or a"— She wept: and Mr. Hadwell writhed in agony. There were only two things in life that he really loved: his big income and his small wife. Of the two, he really preferred his wife: and after a few moments' silent struggle, he succumbed to her tears and her fascinations and drew out his cheque book.

"How much?" he inquired, hardily.

Little Mrs. Hadwell dried her eyes.

"How much?" she inquired, innocently. "How mu—oh, Henry! were you thinking of giving me some money?"

Mr. Hadwell regarded her with perplexity.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" he inquired looking puzzled.

Mrs. Hadwell buried her eighty-dollar head in her pretty hands.

"I wanted you to show some interest in these children—your own brother's children!" she wept. "And you—offer—me—money!"

Mr. Hadwell groaned, feeling that he was a tactless brute yet not quite seeing why. Suddenly a bright thought struck him: he tore out a blank cheque, signed it and tossed it playfully to his wife.

"There, there!" he observed, soothingly. "Don't cry any more, Estelle. Of course these children must be entertained—of course I am pleased about their coming. But, you see, we business men have so much to worry us."

Mr. Hadwell's business consisted in driving to his office every morning, receiving the obsequious greetings of his manager—and drawing his handsome income. Mrs. Hadwell knew this as well—better than he did—therefore——

"Of course," she cooed, drying her eyes and regarding her spouse with mingled awe and wonder. "Of course, dear. You must forgive me if I seem a little unreasonable, sometimes; but it did hurt me so when you seemed to think that all I wanted from you was money"——

"Of course—of course!" said her husband, hastily. "Now I must be off. What are you going to do, to-day?"

"Well, let me see! Lynn is coming to dinner and we are going for a drive first."

"Ah!" said Mr. Hadwell, looking pleased. He heartily approved of Lynn and took great pleasure in the thought that this exceptionally "nice" young woman was his wife's best friend; feeling that Estelle's evident devotion to Lynn overbalanced her quite as evident love of flattery and attention. Mr. Hadwell never forgot that Lynn insisted on teaching in the public schools rather than allow her uncle to support her, wholly: a piece of unselfishness that went straight to his heart. Needless to say, he did not know that Estelle had talked him over with Lynn from every point of view, both before and after his marriage to the former.

Estelle Harding had been the granddaughter of a wealthy man who had died when she was sixteen, leaving her penniless. For the next five years she had lived with different relatives, positively refusing to follow the example of her friend, Lynn Thayer, who was preparing at the High and Normal schools, to earn her living as a teacher. Being tremendously popular both with girls and boys, she was deluged with invitations and love affairs; but at twenty-one, she met Mr. Hadwell, a wealthy and retiring bachelor of sixty-three, and, from that time on, she paid assiduous and tactful court to him. The net result of this campaign was that, in six months from the time she had first met him, Mr. Hadwell was a married man. It speaks well for our small heroine's tactics that her husband, to his dying day, believed that he had fallen madly in love with her when he saw her first and that nothing but his overpowering fascinations had induced the shy damsel to become his wife. "You were the first man who had ever cared for me," Estelle would say to him, sometimes. "The others—oh, they were just boys! I couldn't look up to them, dear: they were on a level with myself." This was a particularly tactful lie on Mrs. Hadwell's part: she knew well that among her admirers had been young men whose intellect and strength of character had far surpassed her husband's. But tactful lying was Mrs. Hadwell's forte.

Many and varied were the comments on Miss Harding's engagement. "Little cat! how clever she is," said some. The majority, however, murmured feelingly, "So glad that sweet girl will have her reward."

"That sweet girl" had had her reward. All that she cared for in life—money, social position, unlimited flattery and envy were hers without stint. And, much as I hate to grieve the moralists, Estelle Hadwell was a supremely happy and contented woman. If she had been childless it is possible that her lot might, at times, have palled on her: but two pretty, healthy children occupied what little heart she had. Her husband, though in a vague way proud of his children's beauty and brightness, cared little for them: what heart he had was occupied by his wife who played upon his affections with the hand of a practised artist.

She let the cheque lie by her plate, now, as she rose and kissed her better half, affectionately.

"What a delightful visit those dear twins will have, thanks to your generosity," she said, smiling at him, affectionately.

Mr. Hadwell waved a patronizing disclaimer.

"Oh, I shall be glad to do what I can for Carl's children," he said, magnificently.

"That is so like you, dear," returned his simple little wife, gently.

She was giggling softly to herself over this conversation in the afternoon as she pinned an expensive little hat over her still more expensive tresses. "I really do think I am cleverer than most women," she mused. "I get just what I want and I never hurt the dear old thing's feelings." She was really fond of her husband whose absorption in her satisfied her vanity and whose jealousy served to render life interesting. When Lynn Thayer arrived she entered into a long and detailed account of her morning's work, ending by triumphantly displaying the cheque. Lynn laughed, unwillingly.

"I do hate that sort of thing, Estelle," she said. "I know you're awfully clever at getting your own way, but I can never understand why you don't get Mr. Hadwell to allow you a certain sum, monthly. Then you wouldn't have to stoop to this sort of thing."

"Oh, but I like stooping," said Estelle, placidly. "And, besides, if I knew just how much I was going to get every month it would be awfully tame. You haven't a bit of the gambler in you, Lynn."

"Not a particle."

"Then there's another side to the question. If Henry had to make me an allowance he would only allow for necessities. For instance, if I wanted to run down to New York for a week or two it would have to come out of my dress allowance. That would be horrid. Oh, I had such a time getting a few hundred dollars out of him the last time I went. He wrangled over every detail—actually wanted me to stay in the suburbs because hotels were cheaper there, quite forgetting that my fare in and out would amount to something. As I said to him, 'I suppose I could walk to the ferry—it's only twenty miles or so each way and exercise is good for one—but I really couldn't walk across the water; I'm not quite divine yet!'"

"You absurd child! What did he say to that?"

"Oh, he mumbled something to the effect that I ought to be a Christian Scientist. That was meant as a joke. He always jokes when he feels ashamed. So I said, 'Yes, if I were a Christian Scientist I could walk over anything, yourself included; but because I am only your poor, stupid, little wife, I must humbly beg you for money for this little trip.' Then he tried to be pompous, the way he always does when I pretend to knuckle down. He said, 'If I don't want you to go to New York, that ought to be enough for any well-regulated wife.' And I said, 'You dear old stupid! I'm not a well-regulated wife. Don't be so ridiculous. Anyone would think I was a watch to hear you talk!' Then I looked cute and rolled my eyes at him and he caved right in. Dear me, Lynn, what a pity it is I can't bestow some of my superfluous cleverness on you. Your aunt tells me that you are positively discouraging Mr. Lighton. You must be mad."

"I am mad—thoroughly mad about the whole business. Why in the world should I marry this man simply because he asks me? Really, I have been so advised and dictated to and badgered about him that now the very thought of his face makes me feel angry."

"Then why do you think of his face?" inquired Mrs. Hadwell, opening her grey eyes, innocently. "Why don't you forget about his face and think about his figure at the bank? That is what any sensible girl would do."

Lynn groaned. "I'm not a sensible girl, unfortunately," she said. "Now, Del, if you're going for a drive before dinner you had better hurry."

"Very well. I'm ready. Dear me! I must just see Mrs. Waite before we go and tell her to have dinner at seven. Oh, Lynn! that woman is such a comfort to me. She's a regular automaton, knows how everything in the house should be done—and does it! Of course she is absolutely heartless, but—what are you giggling at? Oh, my dear, I may not be particularly intense or passionate, but I assure you I am a volcano beside Mrs. Waite. She doesn't care for the children, she doesn't even care for me. Now you know there must be something radically wrong with any one who doesn't care for me—I may have my faults, but no one can deny that I am the most fascinating person!—and in her case it is the stranger as she is a decayed gentlewoman and I have gone out of my way to show her kindness. Why, I even asked her to dine with Henry and me once when we had people who knew her coming to dinner: and she looked at me with her Medusa-like countenance and refused. But as a housekeeper she is a jewel and, as long as she runs my house like clockwork, I can excuse her lack of geniality. Here she is. Oh, Mrs. Waite, will you tell Sarah to put off dinner till eight. I am going out with Miss Thayer. By the way, you don't know Miss Thayer, do you? Miss Thayer, Mrs. Waite. Don't forget about dinner.

"There, isn't she a Gorgon, Lynn? She is always just like that—neat, accurate, frigid, freezing. Ugh! What a lovely day for a drive, isn't it? I'm going to Mr. Amherst's to take a look at my portrait. It is going to be so nice and I want you to see it. I am sure it will be hung in the Art Gallery at the Spring Exhibition. What a nice man he is, isn't he? By the way, speaking of Mrs. Waite, I am going to tell you why I always make a point of introducing her to all my friends and having things just as pleasant for her as possible. It's because she's like that much-talked-of 'skeleton at the feast'; she's a perpetual reminder to me of how lucky I am. I wish you would compare us and take a lesson, my friend. I'm the bright example, she's the awful warning. I might have been just where she is to-day if I hadn't had my wits about me. She might be where I am if she had made the most of her opportunities. Don't waste time telling me that she's plain and uninteresting. I would be plain if I didn't dress properly and eat good food and take good care of myself; and, as for 'interesting,' every woman is interesting to a man if she impresses him as being sensible and womanly—that is, if she enjoys his conversation and tells him that she likes dusting. Every man likes a woman who is fond of dusting. I don't know why. And, as for sweeping, there is no surer passport to a man's affections than to tell him that you sweep out your own room every morning. It never fails to have the desired effect. It doesn't matter if the man is a multi-millionaire with an army of housemaids and footmen; he still thinks it is womanly and domestic to sweep. If I ever found my hold on Henry's affections becoming a trifle slack, I should immediately start sweeping."

"Del, I don't think I ever met anyone who could talk more nonsense than you, in a given space of time."

"Nonsense! Oh, Lynn, if I could only get you to understand that what I am saying, although delivered as if it were the merest airy persiflage, is the soundest common sense. If you want to be admired and respected by the male sex—sweep! Or, if you don't like sweeping, don't sweep; but talk about sweeping as if it were the one thing that you doted on; convey the impression that you would rather sweep than go motoring any day. The man in question may have thought you a charming girl before, but, after that, his feelings will take a deeper tinge; you will advance in his mind to the status of a womanly woman. Delicious! Instead of these lectures girls are always attending at Y.W.C.A.'s and colleges, about Browning and the Pyramids and the condition of the poor and the prevalence of frivolity, what a pity it is they can't attend lectures given by some past-master in the art of flirting—such as I, for instance! Wouldn't those lectures be crowded, though; that is, if girls knew what was good for them. And here you have all the advantages of a private course of instruction and you won't take the trouble to learn the first rules of the game. Ah, the golden words of wisdom wasted! the opportunities lost. Ah me!"

"Del, I strongly object to your speaking as though I had no opportunities. Haven't I always at least one person who wants to marry me? even though I do tell the truth occasionally?"

"You have. But that's by good luck, not by management. You might have twenty if you exerted yourself properly."

"You make me feel as though I were a sort of derelict. It's a horrid feeling."

"If I succeed in making you feel a derelict I have succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. Don't you know, my dear child, that you are experiencing in a faint degree what you will experience all your life if you don't hurry up and settle yourself. Don't you know that for the next fifty years you will, not only feel, but be a derelict if you don't accept Lighton and marry him before he changes his mind."

"Thank goodness, this drive can't last forever," exclaimed Lynn, laughing. "Otherwise I should be compelled to get out and walk. You are perfectly unendurable sometimes, Del, and this is certainly one of the times."

"I'm going to be unendurable again and to better purpose, I hope, a little later on," said Mrs. Hadwell, darkly. "But now I suppose we'll have to descend—or ascend, if you like it better—from practical life to pictures. Mr. Amherst paints well, doesn't he? And what a nice man he is. I don't know anyone who doesn't like him, do you?"

"No, I don't think I do. He's nice and very popular."

"And a great friend of yours too, isn't he? I haven't heard you speak of him, lately. I thought at one time"—

"Oh, Del, do think of something else!" exclaimed Lynn a little crossly. "Men, men, men—and marriage, marriage, marriage! Do let us think and talk of something else."

"Very well, my dear, we'll talk of myself. I wanted to get up a flirtation with Mr. Amherst this winter and he didn't seem to respond at all. So I immediately thought that he must be interested in someone else and, as he was always calling on you, naturally I thought"—

"Men again!"

"Not men but a man. Don't you perceive the delicate distinction? Well, as I was saying, Mr. Amherst didn't seem a bit interested in me, charming though I am and was—what a mercy old Tom is stone deaf!—and I was extremely puzzled. I didn't like to be too pointed in my attentions"—

"I do wish, Del, that you wouldn't talk in that way. It sets my teeth on edge to hear a married woman speak in the way you do. Why don't you"—

"Stay at home and attend to my house and children? So I do; but not being altogether a fossil yet I want to do something else at times. Isn't that natural at my age?"

"Quite natural at your age, and there is just the weak point of a marriage like yours. If you had married somebody you really cared about, other men wouldn't interest you."

"Not for the first year or so, no. After that, they would. I might not like them so well as I did my husband, but I should like them and want them to like me. Yes, and I should want them to fall in love with me, too, so long as they didn't tell me about it and insist on making unpleasant scenes. Of course, in that case, they would go, just as they do, now. You know that, Lynn."

"Yes, I know that. You are very careful, Del. I suppose it is all right and quite harmless in its way, but I can't say that I approve of it. What is the sense of having two or three men always sighing around because they can't marry you?"

"What's the sense of music or flowers or strawberry tarts? I like them and they agree with me. You know there is a lot of misconception with regard to the real tastes of a young woman after she marries. If she is a person who grows and develops she must, of necessity, like many things besides her husband and children. Now here is a case in point. Because I am devoted to my own children is that any reason why I should not be fond of other people's children? As a matter of fact, I don't care much for any children but my own; but, if I did, wouldn't that be blameless and even praiseworthy? So with men. I should always like them all even if I were eighty and had been married all my life."

"It's a funny thing, Del, but some way you never seem married, to me."

"I was married, I assure you. I remember it very distinctly. White is not becoming to me, so I wore a dark blue cashmere dress and a stunning black toque with little feathers—you remember? And Henry thought I was so sensible and so above feminine frivolities."

"It is awfully hard to know what is right and wrong, I must say. You certainly make Mr. Hadwell perfectly happy and you are an ideal mother. Perhaps you are more in the right than I think."

"My dear, I have read somewhere that there are certain plants which die just as soon as they have propagated. That is all they exist for; just to reproduce their own life and then die. Now there are a good many women in the world who are like these plants. They are not half as good mothers, not half as satisfactory wives as I am; but they are devoid of all possibility of offending because, to all intents and purposes, they died with the birth of their first child. Henceforth they exist in a modified form. They are no longer individuals but vegetables. All the young plant needs is air and light; but, as the young human needs food, clothes, exercise and various other things, they exist solely for the purpose of furnishing it with those things. They are incapable of holding an opinion or formulating a thought; they all think exactly alike on all subjects—which means, practically, that they do not think at all—their education, intellectually, stopped when they graduated from school, their education, emotionally, when they married. Are they more commendable than I? What do they do that I don't? Only I do other things in addition. I am a living woman, not a maternal cipher. I have a heart and a mind and a life of my own and these develop side by side with the development of my children. Of course the mere fact of life existing means that there are possibilities of mistakes being made, faults being committed; but isn't it better to live than to die? Lynn, I didn't know I was so clever! Aren't you proud of me?"

"Proud of you, all round, Del, except that I still wish you didn't flirt. Even if you are not in love with your husband it is bad form to publish the fact. And the very fact that you are still alive—very much alive—and capable of leading a life apart from your children makes your way of acting dangerous. I am always afraid that some day you will"—

"That some day I shall fall in love and make a fool of myself? Don't worry. Some women are dominated by one of the great primal instincts, some by another. I am a mother, first and last and always. Men are only things to play with, but my children are necessities. I could never do anything that would cause them a moment's anxiety or difficulty in the future. No, my dear! When little Aileen is enjoying her first season her mother will be the same irreproachable, if frivolous, matron that she is at present. What a serious conversation we have drifted into, haven't we? I don't like it—seriousness! Dear me, Lynn, what in the world should I do if anything were to happen to you? You're the only person whom I dare to be myself with. Catch me trusting another woman. What makes you so unlike other women, Lynn?"

"Possibly the lack of sense for which you were upbraiding me so heartily a little while ago," said Lynn, slyly. "By the way, Del, that name, 'Waite,' is strangely familiar to me. Oh, of course! I know, now. I had a little pupil, once"—

"Oh, Lynn, please don't start to talk about those ragamuffins of yours. I should think you would be glad to put them out of your mind for a few hours."

"He was a most unfortunate child," pursued Lynn, unheeding. "He was plain and stupid and he knew it: and he came from a different social class from most of the others, which seemed to put the final touch to his isolation. I was glad when he died, poor little chap! He was devoted to me and I made a great pet of him because he seemed so lonely. I wonder if"—

"Oh, a Gorgon-faced, icebergy automaton like Mrs. Waite never had a child in her life, I'm sure. Here we are at last."

CHAPTER XI

VISITORS AND DISCLOSURES

"Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers."—Tennyson.

"I would that you were all to me.

You that are just so much, no more,

Nor yours, nor mine, not slave nor free!

Where does the fault lie? What the core

O' the wound, since wound must be."

—Browning.

"I love studios," announced Mrs. Hadwell with effusion, "and I love artists. Not you, only, Mr. Amherst, but all artists. They're so interesting."

"Don't, please don't, Mrs. Hadwell," implored Amherst, laughing. "I have always hoped that my habit of keeping my head closely cropped and my face carefully shaved would save me from being thought 'interesting.' You have no idea what visions that word 'interesting' conjures up in the mind of the average man. Dinky velvet coats, unkempt beards, dirty hands, soulful eyes—don't, whatever else you do, call me 'interesting.' You might as well call a spoilt beauty a 'nice, sensible girl.'"

"That is something that no one ever called me," said Mrs. Hadwell thoughtfully, tugging at her gloves. "You needn't look at me, Mr. Amherst; I feel like staying here a while and I'm going to stay, no matter how busy you are—there, don't apologize or waste time in saying you'll be glad to see me and have me stay. Of course you will—a sensible man like you! What were we saying when you interrupted me—I mean, when I interrupted myself? Oh, yes! I was saying that no one had ever called me a 'nice, sensible girl.'"

"The reason is obvious," declared Amherst, laughing.

"Why—oh, I see! Thank you. You mean that I don't look sensible. No, I should hope I didn't. I should hate to!"

"I don't know whether I look sensible," said Lynn, wheeling suddenly round from the contemplation of a picture, "but people must think I do, for I so often hear myself referred to as 'that nice, sensible girl.' Is it an insult? I never thought of it in that light."

"Not an insult, dear," said Mrs. Hadwell, composedly, "but an undoubted lie. Of all people who lack the first elements of sense you certainly head the list. Doesn't she, Mr. Amherst? But no, of course, you wouldn't think so, naturally. You're a man, and anyway, you don't know her."

"I should have said I knew Miss Thayer pretty well," said Amherst, looking surprised, "and I should certainly have thought that she was very sensible. I don't see what you mean."

"Of course you don't. As I previously remarked, you're a man. You think she's sensible and I have little doubt but that, in your heart of hearts, you think I'm a foolish little thing. Yet there's more sense in my little finger than there is in all of Lynn's tall body. I know."

"What you call sense I call lying and cheating," returned Lynn, composedly.

Amherst burst out laughing.

"You and Miss Thayer are certainly the most candid pair I have ever run across," he cried. "Do you always give and return these insults in perfect good faith? or does one or the other sometimes get annoyed?"

"Never," replied Lynn. "I can't imagine anything happening to make Del and me quarrel. In fact, I don't believe we could quarrel. I don't know what other people fight about, anyway. Do you, Del?"

"Why, yes," said Mrs. Hadwell. "They fight because one has a better hat than the other or because one likes red and the other likes blue, but, generally, because they both want the same man. Isn't that so, Mr. Amherst? But, you see, in this case, Lynn and I never like the same man, so we don't clash."

"But even if we did," said Lynn, emphatically, "I can't imagine either of us doing anything so vulgar as to quarrel, Del. I'm sure if the man preferred you, you could have him; and, if he preferred me, I'd give him up to you without a moment's hesitation."

"I wonder!" said her friend, teasingly. "Suppose I had taken a fancy to that absurd boy with the black eyes and the unpronounceable Italian name—would you have given him up to me, Lynn? I doubt it. Do you remember him, Mr. Amherst? Wasn't it funny, the way our dear sensible Lynn bowed down before him? I think it must have been her attentions that drove him to drink, don't you? he probably thought that he was in imminent danger of being dragged to the altar."

Lynn smiled a little but stirred restlessly and did not make any comment on this.

"What has become of that boy?" cried Mrs. Hadwell, suddenly. "There, now! I'm so glad I thought to ask you. You ought to know if anyone would; you were quite pals, weren't you, Mr. Amherst? Is the boy dead?"

"Unfortunately, no," returned Amherst, dryly.

"Then what's become of him?"

"Are you, too, interested in his fate, Miss Thayer?" asked Amherst, turning to where she stood looking intently at him, as though something hung on his answer. "You used to be very good to him, as Mrs. Hadwell says. Would you like to know where he is, now?"

"Yes—no—yes, I should like to very much," said Lynn in a low voice.

"Well, he is within a few minutes' walk of this place."

"You don't say so! And what is he doing?" asked Mrs. Hadwell with much excitement.

"Going to the devil as fast as he possibly can."

"How? Why? Wherefore? Lynn, I shall shake you in another minute if you don't show a little more interest. This is positively the most exciting thing. Think of it! Ricossia!—going to the Devil with a big D!—within a few minutes' walk of this place. What's his address, Mr. Amherst?"

"I—I don't feel at liberty to tell you that," responded Amherst, after a slight hesitation. "I don't think he would like to have it known."

"Oh, he must be a terribly shady character," said Mrs. Hadwell with a delighted chuckle. "I think all this is thrilling. Do tell me his address. I won't hurt him. I only want to see for myself what he is doing and how he is. I'll—I'd like to take him a glass of jelly and some grapes. What's the matter, Mr. Amherst?"

"Excuse me. The idea of Ricossia in conjunction with the glass of jelly and the grapes upset me for the moment, that is all."

"I'd take him some champagne if Lynn wasn't with me. In my most abandoned moments I never forget that I am a chaperon so I'm afraid the champagne will have to be left behind. But I will go and see him—Mr. Amherst, do tell me."

Amherst smilingly shook his head.

"He wouldn't like it, I know."

"You're quite right," said Lynn, regarding the speaker, gratefully. "I'm sure he wouldn't like it. I wouldn't, in his place. Do—do you ever see him, Mr. Amherst?"

"Often. I frequently run over and just have an eye to him. I always expect to find him frozen or burnt to death or something of that sort. But Providence always looks after people of that kind. He'll die in his bed, no fear—the little brute!"

Lynn started and flushed.

"I thought you liked him," she said with involuntary reproach in her tone.

"Well—fact is, I don't. What's more, I don't know anyone who does. The boy's unfit to live and about equally unfit to die—poor little chap! It's wonderful, though, the way he lasts. He's a living example of a theory I've always held, namely, that consumption doesn't really kill, no matter what the hardships may be, until the consumptive loses interest in life and living. Then, he goes very quickly."

"You may be right," said Lynn, tonelessly.

"Now, while Mrs. Hadwell is absorbed in the bald man with the red nose who is hanging at the other end of the room," said Amherst, hastily, "I want to ask you something. How is it that I never see you, now? It must be a month since I last had a real talk with you. What's the matter?"

"The matter? Why, nothing."

"You're not offended with me about anything?"

"Why, no."

"In the last few weeks I must have rung you up a dozen times, but you have always been out or engaged. You must lead a busy life."

"I do," said Lynn, smiling faintly. "But I am sorry you thought I didn't want to see you. It wasn't that."

"Wasn't it?"

Amherst's voice changed.

"Do you know that you have avoided me ever since that night at the Burns'?"

"I—I hadn't thought about it."

"Is that the truth?"

Lynn was silent: then—

"Not exactly," she said with a faint effort.

"I tried to say something to you that evening—you remember?"

"Yes."

"Why wouldn't you let me say it?"

"I thought you had better not," said Lynn in a low voice.

"Don't say that; not unless you mean me to understand that"—

"Mr. Amherst," broke in Mrs. Hadwell, imperatively, "you are a horrid man! First you refuse to give me Ricossia's address, next you stand and talk to Miss Thayer in a low voice without giving me a chance to show her my portrait. She's dying to see it, aren't you, Lynn? and it's getting so dark. Can't you drive back with me and take dinner? then you can talk to Lynn as much as ever you want and Mr. Hadwell and I will sit by like deaf-mutes and play propriety. Won't you?"

"Awfully sorry!" said Amherst with genuine regret in his voice. "I have an engagement of long standing, so it's impossible. But if you'll only repeat the invitation, I'd love to come. Will you?"

"I will," responded Mrs. Hadwell. "I'll look up my engagement book and see if we can find an evening when we shall all be free. In the meantime, let me ask you what this means, this little wrinkle in my brow? I've puzzled over it for at least ten minutes and I demand to have it explained. If it is copied from life, you must simply paint it out, that's all!"

CHAPTER XII

THE VIEWS OF TWO WOMEN

"Is it your moral of Life?

Such a web, simple and subtle,

Weave we on earth here in impotent strife,

Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle,

Death ending all with a knife."

—Browning.

"The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things," quoted Mrs. Hadwell, settling back in her easy-chair with intense satisfaction. If, as the poet asserts, "a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things" certainly a joy's crown of joy may be remembering unhappier things. One principal reason for Mrs. Hadwell's calm and unlimited enjoyment of her life lay in the fact that her youth had been spent in other people's easy-chairs. It is noteworthy that it had been spent in easychairs; women of her type always do spend their lives in easy-chairs, metaphorical and literal; but an easy-chair bestowed upon one by a doting husband, and an easy-chair occupied by sufferance in other people's homes are, as will readily be perceived, two very different pieces of furniture.

"What do you want to talk about in particular?" Lynn asked, regarding her hostess lazily. Dinner was over; Mr. Hadwell had betaken himself to his club; and the two sat at their ease in a softly shaded luxurious library, filled with unread books in half-calf. Polished mahogany, heavy damask curtains, thick, soft carpets, scent of mignonette and roses, all added to its comfort.

"I want to talk about all sorts of things," returned Estelle, in answer to her friend's question. "Interesting things—things that matter—yourself for instance! I wonder why it is that so few people talk interestingly about ordinary things! I believe it must be because they simply will not tell the truth about them; they stick to platitudes for fear of blundering on some thought they feel they oughtn't to have. Don't you think that is it? Now we always look things right in the face and say just what we think about them; and that is why we're so queer—and so nice—and so interesting to one another. And this is such a good opportunity for a talk. We've had such a lovely dinner—wasn't that soup delicious? and, as for that muscatel! Don't you simply dote on things to eat? I do. I never agree with that man—Solomon, wasn't it?—who said that he would rather have a dinner of herbs and peace than a stalled ox and strife therewith. Let him have the herbs! and give me the stalled ox every time. If it were nicely served and properly cooked I wouldn't care if there were seven bad-tempered married couples and sixteen cross cats and twenty squalling parrots all rowing together at my elbow. That's what it is to be practical. Give me things to eat and a good appetite and I don't care much what happens. There's something about a dinner which appeals to me in a way that sunsets and sonatas don't. And yet some one described me the other day as being 'spirituelle.' Fancy!"

"Some one who didn't know you very well, evidently."

"Some one who has called me 'Estelle' all his life except the four years of it when I wasn't born; but, as you say, some one who doesn't know me very well because he happens to be a man and a man who used to be in love with me. Poor thing! And yet he's happy in his way and I'm happy in mine. He has his ideals and I have my dinners. The only really happy people are the people who have the sense to prefer dinners to ideals and who steadily set to work to get them."

"I suppose you are happy. If dinners could make anyone happy you ought to be. But, tell me, Del, do you never want anything else?"

"Oh, yes. I want silk dresses and diamond brooches and the feeling that every snob in town will kow-tow as soon as my snub nose appears. And I've got them all—thank goodness! I very easily might not have, you know. There are so many others looking out for just the opportunity I seized. And every one said that Henry wasn't a marrying man. Ridiculous! As if every one wasn't a marrying man as soon as the right woman came along; the woman who made love to him unremittingly and tactfully without letting him see that she was doing it. It was an awful bore, sometimes, to make love to Henry. It had to be done so carefully. O dear, he was so surly and snubby and so scared of being hooked. But it didn't do any good: I intended to marry him and I married him—and so could you if you had any gumption!" she exclaimed, veering around and fixing Lynn with a look of intense determination.

"What? Marry Henry?"

"Not my Henry, no; but some other Henry. There are plenty of them and if you don't take them somebody else will. They all like to be admired and courted. And oh, lucky girl! Fate has dropped an ideal Henry right in your lap."

"Don't, Del! My poor lap! And as for 'ideal,' why, he has green teeth and goggly eyes."

"I am sure you are not so good-looking, yourself."

"Now, Del! Have I goggly eyes and green teeth? Let us be accurate before we are aggravating. Besides, it was horrid of me to speak of his appearance. Only his appearance is so exactly like him that it grates on me, some way."

"He is a great deal too good for you," said her friend, indignantly.

"So every one has already told me. Anything is too good for an old, ugly school-teacher, I dare say; but I don't want him, even if he is too good for me."

"Now, Lynn, we'll talk this over. I want to have the whole thing out with you."

"As you please."

"Very well, then. We will assume that you are quite determined not to marry Lighton. Two other courses are open to you; the first, to go on teaching all your life; the second, to marry some one else. We will examine these two alternatives—with your permission."

"Or without it!"

"Or, as you say, without it. Let us begin then. We will suppose that you stay as you are and go on teaching. You are not at all young, now—you needn't grin. I know I am two years older, but that has nothing to do with it; I'm married. You are not, I repeat, young. Every year you become a little older and a little older."

"The truth of your remarks is only equalled by their unpleasantness."

"I don't care. You go on getting older and older. Your aunt, who has been good to you and of whom you are fond, will be very much disappointed in you. She feels that it is disgraceful not to marry and criminal not to marry Lighton, and I am strongly inclined to agree with her. So, as the years go by and you get older and plainer and less desirable your aunt will grow less and less fond of you. You are not a great favourite with your uncle; to be sure, he has only one supreme favourite in the universe and I needn't say who that is!—and your aunt will probably die in time. What a happy home you will have, then! Suppose on the other hand, that he should die. You wouldn't have money enough to live in that big house and you would have to be cooped up in a flat and come home, after teaching all day, to listen to your aunt's lamentations about the nice establishment you might have had"—

"Thank fortune there are always the poison and the dagger."

"There are; but they're the refuge of the coward, and ordinary respectable people don't commit suicide, however much they want to. Now, having fully disposed of that alternative, let us turn to the other—that you marry some one else. Who else is there? You are a general favourite and lots of men like to talk to you; but who, besides Lighton, is in love with you? I mean of course, that is in a position to marry. We will suppose, though, that you have several other proposals in the next few years—what then? Whom would you rather marry?"

Lynn said nothing and turned her head away.

"The fact is that there is no one you would rather marry and there are very few who could offer you what he does. The trouble with you is that you don't face things. You know that, if you don't marry him, you have nothing in life to look forward to; yet, because it isn't an ideal arrangement, you refuse to consider it. Surely you have outgrown the silly, pretty, childish idea of marrying for love? Look at the people who do marry for love! How many of them are as happy as I am? I, who deliberately angled to catch the richest man of my acquaintance and did it. You could not have managed matters for yourself in the way that I did; and then, Fate, instead of punishing you for being stupid, offers you a prize—and you throw it away. Why?"

"It is a little hard to explain why, Del," returned her friend, slowly. "I don't know whether I could make you understand."

"I don't know that I have much heart, Lynn, but I have a mind. Try me."