She was so distractingly pretty, so confidently negligent of convention—or perhaps disdainful of it—that he already was regretting that he had not met her at the beginning of the voyage instead of at the end.

She had now begun to button up her ulster, as though preliminary to resuming her deck promenade. And he wanted to walk with her. But because she had chosen to be informal with him did not deceive him into thinking that she was likely to tolerate further informality on his part. And yet he had a vague notion that her inclinations were friendly.

"I'm sorry," he said rather stupidly, "that I didn't meet you in the beginning."

The slightest inclination of her head indicated that although possibly she might be sorry too, regrets were now useless. Then she turned up the collar of her ulster. The face it framed was disturbingly lovely. And he took a last chance.

"And so," he ventured politely, "you have really been on board the Elsinore all this time!"

She turned her charming head toward him, considered him a moment; then she smiled.

"Yes," she said; "I've been on board all the time. I didn't crawl aboard in mid-ocean, you know."

The girl was frankly amused by the streak of boyishness in him—the perfectly transparent desire of this young man to detain her in conversation. And, still amused, she leaned back against the rail. If he wanted to talk to her she would let him—even help him. Why not?

"Is that a wound chevron?" she inquired, looking at the sleeve of his tunic.

"No," he replied gratefully, "it's a service stripe."

"And what does the little cord around your shoulder signify?"

"That my regiment was cited."

"For bravery?"

"Well—that was the idea, I believe."

"Then you've been in action."

"Yes."

"Over the top?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"Several. Recently it's been more open work, you know."

"And you were not hit?"

"No."

She regarded him smilingly: "You are like all soldiers have faced death," she said. "You are not communicative."

At that he reddened. "Well, everybody else was facing it, too, you know. We all had the same experience."

"Not all," she said, watching him. "Some died."

"Oh, of course."

The girl's face flushed and she nodded emphatically: "Of course! And that is our Yankee secret;—embodied in those two words—'of course.' That is exactly why the boche runs away from our men. The boche doesn't know why he runs, but it is because you all say, 'of course!—of course we're here to kill and get killed. What of it? It's in the rules of the game, isn't it? Very well; we're playing the game!'

"But the rules of the hun game are different. According to their rules, machine guns are not charged on. That is not according to plan. Oh, no! But it is in your rules of the game. So after the boche has killed a number of you, and you say, 'of course,' and you keep coming on, it first bewilders the boche, then terrifies him. And the next time he sees you coming he takes to his heels."

Shotwell, amused, fascinated, and entirely surprised, began to laugh.

"You seem to know the game pretty well yourself," he said. "You are quite right. That is the idea."

"It's a wonderful game," she mused. "I can understand why you are not pleased at being ordered home."

"It's rather rotten luck when the outfit had just been cited," he explained.

"Oh. I should think you would hate to come back!" exclaimed the girl, with frank sympathy.

"Well, I was glad at first, but I'm sorry now. I'm missing a lot, you see."

"Why did they send you back?"

"To instruct rookies!" he said with a grimace. "Rather inglorious, isn't it? But I'm hoping I'll have time to weather this detail and get back again before we reach the Rhine."

"I want to get back again, too," she reflected aloud, biting her lip and letting her dark eyes rest on the foggy statue of Liberty, towering up ahead.

"What was your branch?" he inquired.

"Oh, I didn't do anything," she exclaimed, flushing. "I've been in Russia. And now I must find out at once what I can do to be sent to France."

"The war caught you over there, I suppose," he hazarded.

"Yes.... I've been there since I was twenty. I'm twenty-four. I had a year's travel and study and then I became the American companion of the little Russian Grand Duchess Marie."

"They all were murdered, weren't they?" he asked, much interested.

"Yes.... I'm trying to forget——"

"I beg your pardon——"

"It's quite all right. I, myself, mentioned it first; but I can't talk about it yet. It's too personal——" She turned and looked at the monstrous city.

After a silence: "It's been a rotten voyage, hasn't it?" he remarked.

"Perfectly rotten. I was so ill I could scarcely keep my place during life-drill.... I didn't see you there," she added with a faint smile, "but I'm sure you were aboard, even if you seem to doubt that I was."

And then, perhaps considering that she had been sufficiently amiable to him, she gave him his conge with a pleasant little nod.

"Could I help you—do anything—" he began. But she thanked him with friendly finality.

They sauntered in opposite directions; and he did not see her again to speak to her.

Later, jolting toward home in a taxi, it occurred to him that it might have been agreeable to see such an attractively informal girl again. Any man likes informality in women, except among the women of his own household, where he would promptly brand it as indiscretion.

He thought of her for a while, recollecting details of the episode and realising that he didn't even know her name. Which piqued him.

"Serves me right," he said aloud with a shrug of finality. "I had more enterprise once."

Then he looked out into the sunlit streets of Manhattan, all brilliant with flags and posters and swarming with prosperous looking people—his own people. But to his war-enlightened and disillusioned eyes his own people seemed almost like aliens; he vaguely resented their too evident prosperity, their irresponsible immunity, their heedless preoccupation with the petty things of life. The acres of bright flags fluttering above them, the posters that made a gay back-ground for the scene, the sheltered, undisturbed routine of peace seemed to annoy him.

An odd irritation invaded him; he had a sudden impulse to stop his taxi and shout, "Fat-heads! Get into the game! Don't you know the world's on fire? Don't you know what a hun really is? You'd better look out and get busy!"

Fifth Avenue irritated him—shops, hotels, clubs, motors, the well-dressed throngs began to exasperate him.

On a side street he caught a glimpse of his own place of business; and it almost nauseated him to remember old man Sharrow, and the walls hung with plans of streets and sewers and surveys and photographs; and his own yellow oak desk——

"Good Lord!" he thought. "If the war ends, have I got to go back to that!——"

The family were at breakfast when he walked in on them—only two—his father and mother.

In his mother's arms he suddenly felt very young and subdued, and very glad to be there.

"Where the devil did you come from, Jim?" repeated his father, with twitching features and a grip on his son's strong hand that he could not bring himself to loosen.

Yes, it was pretty good to get home, after all— ... And he might not have come back at all. He realised it, now, in his mother's arms, feeling very humble and secure.

His mother had realised it, too, in every waking hour since the day her only son had sailed at night—that had been the hardest!—at night—and at an unnamed hour of an unnamed day!—her only son—gone in the darkness——

On his way upstairs, he noticed a red service flag bearing a single star hanging in his mother's window.

He went into his own room, looked soberly around, sat down on the lounge, suddenly tired.

He had three days' leave before reporting for duty. It seemed a miserly allowance. Instinctively he glanced at his wrist-watch. An hour had fled already.

"The dickens!" he muttered. But he still sat there. After a while he smiled to himself and rose leisurely to make his toilet.

"Such an attractively informal girl," he thought regretfully.

"I'm sorry I didn't learn her name. Why didn't I?"

Philosophy might have answered: "But to what purpose? No young man expects to pick up a girl of his own kind. And he has no business with other kinds."

But Shotwell was no philosopher.

* * * * *

The "attractively informal girl," on whom young Shotwell was condescending to bestow a passing regret while changing his linen, had, however, quite forgotten him by this time. There is more philosophy in women.

Her train was now nearing Shadow Hill; she already could see the village in its early winter nakedness—the stone bridge, the old-time houses of the well-to-do, Main Street full of automobiles and farmers' wagons, a crowded trolley-car starting for Deepdale, the county seat.

After four years the crudity of it all astonished her—the stark vulgarity of Main Street in the sunshine, every mean, flimsy architectural detail revealed—the dingy trolley poles, the telegraph poles loaded with unlovely wires and battered little electric light fixtures—the uncompromising, unrelieved ugliness of street and people, of shop and vehicle, of treeless sidewalks, brick pavement, car rails, hydrants, and rusty gasoline pumps.

Here was a people ignorant of civic pride, knowing no necessity for beauty, having no standards, no aspirations, conscious of nothing but the grosser material needs.

The hopelessness of this American town—and there were thousands like it—its architectural squalor, its animal unconsciousness, shocked her after four years in lands where colour, symmetry and good taste are indigenous and beauty as necessary as bread.

And the girl had been born here, too; had known no other home except when at boarding school or on shopping trips to New York.

Painfully depressed, she descended at the station, where she climbed into one of the familiar omnibuses and gave her luggage check to the lively young driver.

Several drummers also got in, and finally a farmer whom she recognised but who had evidently forgotten her.

The driver, a talkative young man whom she remembered as an obnoxious boy who delivered newspapers, came from the express office with her trunk, flung it on top of the bus, gossiped with several station idlers, then leisurely mounted his seat and gathered up the reins.

Rattling along the main street she became aware of changes—a brand new yellow brick clothing store—a dreadful Quick Lunch—a moving picture theatre—other monstrosities. And she saw familiar faces on the street.

The drummers got out with their sample cases at the Bolton House—Charles H. Bolton, proprietor. The farmer descended at the "Par Excellence Market," where, as he informed the driver, he expected to dispose of a bull calf which he had finally decided "to veal."

"Which way, ma'am?" inquired the driver, looking in at her through the door and chewing gum very fast.

"To Miss Dumont's on Shadow Street."

"Oh!..." Then, suddenly he knew her. "Say, wasn't you her niece?" he demanded.

"I am Miss Dumont's niece," replied Palla, smiling.

"Sure! I didn't reckonise you. Used to leave the Star on your doorstep! Been away, ain't you? Home looks kinda good to you, even if it's kinda lonesome—" He checked himself as though recollecting something else. "Sure! You been over in Rooshia livin' with the Queen! There was a piece in the Star about it. Gee!" he added affably. "That was pretty soft! Some life, I bet!"

And he grinned a genial grin and climbed into his seat, chewing rapidly.

"He means to be friendly," thought the heart-sick girl, with a shudder.

When Palla got out she spoke pleasantly to him as she paid him, and inquired about his father—a shiftless old gaffer who used, sometimes, to do garden work for her aunt.

But the driver, obsessed by the fact that she had lived with the "Queen of Rooshia," merely grinned and repeated, "Pretty soft," and, shouldering her trunk, walked to the front door, chewing furiously.

Martha opened the door, stared through her spectacles.

"Land o' mercy!" she gasped. "It's Palla!" Which, in Shadow Hill, is the manner and speech of the "hired girl," whose "folks" are "neighbours" and not inferiors.

"How do you do, Martha," said the girl smilingly; and offered her gloved hand.

"Well, I'm so's to be 'round—" She wheeled on the man with the trunk: "Here, you! Don't go-a-trackin' mud all over my carpet like that! Wipe your feet like as if you was brought up respectful!"

"Ain't I wipin' em?" retorted the driver, in an injured voice. "Now then, Marthy, where does this here trunk go to?"

"Big room front—wait, young fellow; you just follow me and be careful don't bang the banisters——"

Half way up she called back over her shoulder: "Your room's all ready, Palla—" and suddenly remembered something else and stood aside on the landing until the young man with the trunk had passed her; then waited for him to return and get himself out of the house. Then, when he had gone out, banging the door, she came slowly back down the stairs and met Palla ascending.

"Where is my aunt?" asked Palla.

And, as Martha remained silent, gazing oddly down at her through her glasses:

"My aunt isn't ill, is she?"

"No, she ain't ill. H'ain't you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Didn't you get my letter?"

"Your letter? Why did you write? What is the matter? Where is my aunt?" asked the disturbed girl.

"I wrote you last month."

"What did you write?"

"You never got it?"

"No, I didn't! What has happened to my aunt?"

"She had a stroke, Palla."

"What! Is—is she dead!"

"Six weeks ago come Sunday."

The girl's knees weakened and she sat down suddenly on the stairs.

"Dead? My Aunt Emeline?"

"She had a stroke a year ago. It made her a little stiff in one leg. But she wouldn't tell you—wouldn't bother you. She was that proud of you living as you did with all those kings and queens. 'No,' sez she to me, 'no, Martha, I ain't a-goin' to worry Palla. She and the Queen have got their hands full, what with the wicked way those Rooshian people are behaving. No,' sez she, 'I'll git well by the time she comes home for a visit after the war——'"

Martha's spectacles became dim. She seated herself on the stairs and wiped them on her apron.

"It came in the night," she said, peering blindly at Palla.... "I wondered why she was late to breakfast. When I went up she was lying there with her eyes open—just as natural——"

Palla's head dropped and she covered her face with both hands.



CHAPTER IV

There remained, now, nothing to keep Palla in Shadow Hill.

She had never intended to stay there, anyway; she had meant to go to France.

But already there appeared to be no chance for that in the scheme of things. For the boche had begun to squeal for mercy; the frightened swine was squirting life-blood as he rushed headlong for the home sty across the Rhine; his death-stench sickened the world.

Thicker, ranker, reeked the bloody abomination in the nostrils of civilisation, where Justice strode ahead through hell's own devastation, kicking the boche to death, kicking him through Belgium, through France, out of Light back into Darkness, back, back to his stinking sty.

The rushing sequence of events in Europe since Palla's arrival in America bewildered the girl and held in abeyance any plan she had hoped to make.

The whole world waited, too, astounded, incredulous as yet of the cataclysmic debacle, slowly realising that the super-swine were but swine—maddened swine, devil driven. And that the Sea was very near.

No romance ever written approached in wild extravagance the story of doom now unfolding in the daily papers.

Palla read and strove to comprehend—read, laid aside her paper, and went about her own business, which alone seemed dully real.

And these new personal responsibilities—now that her aunt was dead—must have postponed any hope of an immediate departure for France.

Her inheritance under her aunt's will, the legal details, the inventory of scattered acreage and real estate, plans for their proper administration, consultations with an attorney, conferences with Mr. Pawling, president of the local bank—such things had occupied and involved her almost from the moment of her arrival home.

At first the endless petty details exasperated her—a girl fresh from the tremendous tragedy of things where, one after another, empires were crashing amid the conflagration of a continent. And she could not now keep her mind on such wretched little personal matters while her heart battered passionately at her breast, sounding the exciting summons to active service.

To concentrate her thoughts on mortgages and deeds when she was burning to be on her way to France—to confer power of attorney, audit bills for taxes, for up-keep of line fences, when she was mad to go to New York and find out how quickly she could be sent to France—such things seemed more than a girl could endure.

In Shadow Hill there was scarcely anything to remind her that the fate of the world was being settled for all time.

Only for red service flags here and there, here and there a burly figure in olive-drab swaggering along Main Street, nothing except war-bread, the shortage of coal and sugar, and outrageous prices reminded her that the terrific drama was still being played beyond the ocean to the diapason of an orchestra thundering from England to Asia and from Africa to the Arctic.

But already the eternal signs were pointing to the end. She read the Republican in the morning, the Star at night. Gradually it became apparent to the girl that the great conflagration was slowly dying down beyond the seas; that there was to be no chance of her returning; that there was to be no need of her services even if she were already equipped to render any, and now, certainly, no time for her to learn anything which might once have admitted her to comradeship in the gigantic conflict between man and Satan. She was too late. The world's tragedy was almost over.

With the signing of the armistice, all dreams of service ended definitely for her.

False news of the suspension of hostilities should have, in a measure, prepared her. Yet, the ultimately truthful news that the war was over made her almost physically ill. For the girl's ardent religious fervour had consumed her emotional energy during the incessant excitement of the past three years. But now, for this natural ardour, there was no further employment. There was no outlet for mind or heart so lately on fire with spiritual fervour. God was no more; her friend was dead. And now the war had ended. And nobody in the world had any need of her—any need of this woman who needed the world—and love—spiritual perhaps, perhaps profane.

The false peace demonstration, which set the bells of Shadow Hill clanging in the wintry air and the mill whistles blowing from distant villages, left her tired, dazed, indifferent. The later celebration, based on official news, stirred her spiritually even less. And she felt ill.

There was a noisy night celebration on Main Street, but she had no desire to see it. She remained indoors reading the Star in the sitting room with Max, the cat. She ate no dinner. She cried herself to sleep.

However, now that the worst had come—as she naively informed the shocked Martha next morning—she began to feel relieved in a restless, feverish way.

A healthful girl accumulates much bodily energy over night; Palla's passionate little heart and her active mind completed a storage battery very quickly charged—and very soon over-charged—and an outlet was imperative.

Always, so far in her brief career, she had had adequate outlets. As a child she found satisfaction in violent exercises; in flinging herself headlong into every outdoor game, every diversion among the urchins of her circle. As a school girl her school sports and her studies, and whatever social pleasures were offered, had left the safety valve open.

Later, mistress of her mother's modest fortune, and grown to restless, intelligent womanhood, Palla had gone abroad with a married school-friend, Leila Vance. Under her auspices she had met nice people and had seen charming homes in England—Colonel Vance being somebody in the county and even somebody in London—a diffident, reticent, agriculturally inclined land owner and colonel of yeomanry. And long ago dead in Flanders. And his wife a nurse somewhere in France.

But before the war a year's travel and study had furnished the necessary outlet to Palla Dumont. And then—at a charity bazaar—a passionate friendship had flashed into sacred flame—a friendship born at sight between her and the little Grand Duchess Marie.

War was beginning; Colonel Vance was dead; but imperial inquiry located Leila. And imperial inquiry was satisfied. And Palla became the American companion and friend of the youthful Grand Duchess Marie. For three years that blind devotion had been her outlet—that and their mutual inclination for a life to be dedicated to God.

What was to be her outlet now?—now that the little Grand Duchess was dead—now that God, as she had conceived him, had ceased to exist for her—now that the war was ended, and nobody needed that warm young heart of hers—that ardent little heart so easily set throbbing with the passionate desire to give.

The wintry sunlight flooded the familiar sitting room, setting potted geraniums ablaze, gilding the leather backs of old books, staining prisms on the crystal chandelier with rainbow tints, and causing Max, the family cat, to blink until the vertical pupils of his amber eyes seemed to disappear entirely.

There was some snow outside—not very much—a wild bird or two among the naked apple trees; green edges, still, where snowy lawn and flower border met.

And there was colour in the leafless shrubbery, too—wine-red stems of dogwood, ash-blue berry-canes, and the tangled green and gold of willows. And over all a pale cobalt sky, and a snow-covered hill, where, in the woods, crows sat cawing on the taller trees, and a slow goshawk sailed.

A rich land, this, even under ice and snow—a rich, rolling land hinting of fat furrows and heavy grain; and of spicy, old-time gardens where the evenings were heavy with the scent of phlox and lilies.

Palla, her hands behind her back, seeming very childish and slim in her black gown, stood searching absently among the books for something to distract her—something in harmony with the restless glow of hidden fires hot in her restless heart.

But war is too completely the great destroyer, killing even the serener pleasures of the mind, corrupting normal appetite, dulling all interest except in what pertains to war.

War is the great vandal, too, obliterating even that interest in the classic past which is born of respect for tradition. War slays all yesterdays, so that human interest lives only in the fierce and present moment, or blazes anew at thought of what may be to-morrow.

Only the chronicles of the burning hour can hold human attention where war is. For last week is already a decade ago; and last year a dead century; but to-day is vital and to-morrow is immortal.

It was so with Palla. Her listless eyes swept the ranks of handsome, old-time books—old favourites bound in gold and leather, masters of English prose and poetry gathered and garnered by her grand-parents when books were rare in Shadow Hill.

Not even the modern masters appealed to her—masters of fiction acclaimed but yesterday; virile thinkers in philosophy, in science; enfranchised poets who had stridden out upon Olympus only yesterday to defy the old god's lightning with unshackled strophes—and sometimes unbuttoned themes.

But it was with Palla as with others; she drifted back to the morning paper, wherein lay the interest of the hour. And nothing else interested her or the world.

Martha announced lunch. Max accompanied her on her retreat to the kitchen. Palla loitered, not hungry, nervous and unquiet under the increasing need of occupation for that hot heart of hers.

After a while she went out to the dining room, ate enough, endured Martha to the verge, and retreated to await the evening paper.

Her attorney, Mr. Tiddley, came at three. They discussed quit-claims, mortgages, deeds, surveys, and reported encroachments incident to the decay of ancient landmarks. And the conversation maddened her.

At four she put on a smart mourning hat and her black furs, and walked down to see the bank president, Mr. Pawling. The subject of their conversation was investments; and it bored her. At five she returned to the house to receive a certain Mr. Skidder—known in her childhood as Blinky Skidder, in frank recognition of an ocular peculiarity—a dingy but jaunty young man with a sheep's nose, a shrewd upper lip, and snapping red-brown eyes, who came breezily in and said: "Hello, Palla! How's the girl?" And took off his faded mackinaw uninvited.

Mr. Skidder's business had once been the exploitation of farmers and acreage; his specialty the persuasion of Slovak emigrants into the acquisition of doubtful land. But since the war, emigrants were few; and, as honest men must live, Mr. Skidder had branched out into improved real estate and city lots. But the pickings, even here, were scanty, and loans hard to obtain.

"I've changed my mind," said Palla. "I'm not going to sell this house, Blinky."

"Well, for heaven's sake—ain't you going to New York?" he insisted, taken aback.

"Yes, I am. But I've decided to keep my house."

"That," said Mr. Skidder, snapping his eyes, "is silly sentiment, not business. But please yourself Palla. I ain't saying a word. I ain't trying to tell you I can get a lot more for you than your house is worth—what with values falling and houses empty and the mills letting men go because there ain't going to be any more war orders!—but please yourself, Palla. I ain't saying a word to urge you."

"You've said several," she remarked, smilingly. "But I think I'll keep the house for the present, and I'm sorry that I wasted your time."

"Please yourself, Palla," he repeated. "I guess you can afford to from all I hear. I guess you can do as you've a mind to, now.... So you're fixing to locate in New York, eh?"

"I think so."

"Live in a flat?"

"I don't know."

"What are you going to do in New York?" he asked curiously.

"I'm sure I don't know. There'll be plenty to do, I suppose."

"You bet," he said, blinking rapidly, "there's always something doing in that little old town." He slapped his knee: "Palla," he said, "I'm thinking of going into the movie business."

"Really?"

"Yes, I'm considering it. Slovaks and bum farms are played out. There's no money in Shadow Hill—or if there is, it's locked up—or the income tax has paralysed it. No, I'm through. There's nothing doing in land; no commissions. And I'm considering a quick getaway."

"Where do you expect to go?"

"Say, Palla, when you kiss your old home good-bye, there's only one place to go. Get me?"

"New York?" she inquired, amused.

"That's me! There's a guy down there I used to correspond with—a feller named Puma—Angelo Puma—not a regular wop, as you might say, but there's some wop in him, judging by his map—or Mex—or kike, maybe—or something. Anyway, he's in the moving picture business—The Ultra-Fillum Company. I guess there's a mint o' money in fillums."

She nodded, a trifle bored.

"I got a chance to go in with Angelo Puma," he said, snapping his eyes.

"Really?"

"You know, Palla, I've made a little money, too, since you been over there living with the Queen of Russia."

"I'm very glad, Blinky."

"Oh, it ain't much. And," he added shrewdly, "it ain't so paltry, neither. Thank the Lord, I made hay while the Slovaks lasted.... So," he added, getting up from his chair, "maybe I'll see you down there in New York, some day——"

He hesitated, his blinking eyes redly intent on her as she rose to her slim height.

"Say, Palla."

She looked at him inquiringly.

"Ever thought of the movies?"

"As an investment?"

"Well—that, too. There's big money in it. But I meant—I mean—it strikes me you'd make a bird of a movie queen."

The suggestion mildly amused her.

"I mean it," he insisted. "Grab it from me, Palla, you've got the shape, and you got the looks and you got the walk and the ways and the education. You got something peculiar—like you had been born a rich swell—I mean you kinda naturally act that way—kinda cocksure of yourself. Maybe you got it living with that Queen——"

Palla laughed outright.

"So you think because I've seen a queen I ought to know how to act like a movie queen?"

"Well," he said, picking up his hat, "maybe if I go in with Angelo Puma some day I'll see you again and we'll talk it over."

She shook hands with him.

"Be good," he called back as she closed the front door behind him.

The early winter night had fallen over Shadow Hill. Palla turned on the electric light, stood for a while looking sombrely at the framed photographs of her father and mother, then, feeling lonely, went into the kitchen where Martha was busy with preparations for dinner.

"Martha," she said, "I'm going to New York."

"Well, for the land's sake——"

"Yes, and I'm going day after to-morrow."

"What on earth makes you act like a gypsy, Palla?" she demanded querulously, seasoning the soup and tasting it. "Your pa and ma wasn't like that. They was satisfied to set and rest a mite after being away. But you've been gone four years 'n more, and now you're up and off again, hippity-skip! clippity-clip!——"

"I'm just going to run down to New York and look about. I want to look around and see what——"

"That's you, Palla! That's what you allus was doing as a child—allus looking about you with your wide brown eyes, to see what you could see in the world!... You know what curiosity did to the cat?"

"What?"

"Pinched her paw in the mouse-trap."

"I'll be careful," said the girl, laughing.



CHAPTER V

In touch with his unexciting business again, after many months of glorious absence, and seated once more at his abhorred yellow-oak desk, young Shotwell discovered it was anything except agreeable for him to gather up the ravelled thrums of civilian life after the thrilling taste of service over seas.

For him, so long accustomed to excitement, the zest of living seemed to die with the signing of the armistice.

In fact, since the Argonne drive, all luck seemed to have deserted him; for in the very middle of operations he had been sent back to the United States as instructor; and there the armistice had now caught him. Furthermore, then, before he realised what dreadful thing was happening to him, he had been politely assigned to that vague limbo supposedly inhabited by a mythical organisation known as The Officers' Reserve Corps, and had been given indefinite leave of absence preliminary to being mustered out of the service of the United States.

To part from his uniform was agonising, and he berated the fate that pried him loose from tunic and puttees. So disgusted was he that, although the Government allowed three months longer before discarding uniforms, he shed his in disgust for "cits."

But James Shotwell, Jr., was not the only man bewildered and annoyed by the rapidity of events which followed the first days of demobilisation. Half a dozen other young fellows in the big real estate offices of Clarence Sharrow & Co. found themselves yanked out of uniform and seated once more at their familiar, uninviting desks of yellow oak—very young men, mostly, assigned to various camps of special three-month instruction; and now cruelly interrupted while scrambling frantically after commissions in machine-gun companies, field artillery, flying units, and tank corps.

And there they were, back again at the old grind before they could realise their horrid predicament—the majority already glum and restless under the reaction, and hating Shotwell, who, among them all, had been the only man to cross the sea.

This war-worn and envied veteran of a few months, perfectly aware that his military career had ended, was now trying to accept the situation and habituate himself to the loathly technique of commerce.

Out of uniform, out of humour, out of touch with the arts of peace; still, at times, all a-quiver with the nervous shock of his experience, it was very hard for him to speak respectfully to Mr. Sharrow.

As instructor to rookie aspirants he would have been somebody: he had already been somebody as a lieutenant of infantry in the thunderous scheme of things in the Argonne.

But in the offices of Clarence Sharrow & Co. he was merely a rather nice-looking civilian subordinate, whose duties were to aid clients in the selection and purchase of residences, advise them, consult with them, make appointments to show them dwelling houses, vacant or still tenanted, and in every stage of repair or decrepitude.

On the wall beside his desk hung a tinted map of the metropolis. Upon a table at his elbow were piled ponderous tomes depicting the Bronx in all its beauty, and giving details of suburban sewers. Other volumes contained maps of the fashionable residential district, showing every consecrated block and the exact location as well as the linear dimensions of every awesome residence and back yard from Washington Square to Yorkville.

By referring to a note-book which he carried in his breast pocket, young Shotwell could inform any grand lady or any pompous or fussy gentleman what was the "asking price" of any particular residence marked for sale upon the diagrams of the ponderous tomes.

Also—which is why Sharrow selected him for that particular job—clients liked his good manners and his engaging ways.

The average client buys a freshly painted house in preference to a well-built one, but otherwise clamours always for a bargain. The richer the client the louder the clamour. And to such demands Shotwell was always sympathetic—always willing to inquire whether or not the outrageous price asked for a dwelling might possibly be "shaded" a little.

It always could be shaded; but few clients knew that; and the majority, much flattered at their own business acumen, entertained kind feelings toward Sharrow & Co. and sentiments almost cordial toward young Shotwell when the "shading" process had proved to be successful.

But the black-eye dealt the residential district long ago had not yet cleared up. Real property of that sort was still dull and inactive except for a flare-up now and then along Park Avenue and Fifth.

War, naturally, had not improved matters; and, as far as the residential part of their business was concerned, Sharrow & Co. transacted the bulk of it in leasing apartments and, now and then, a private house, usually on the West Side.

That morning, in the offices of Sharrow & Co., a few clients sat beside the desks of the various men who specialised in the particular brand of real estate desired: several neat young girls performed diligently upon typewriters; old man Sharrow stood at the door of his private office twirling his eyeglasses by the gold chain and urbanely getting rid of an undesirable visitor—one Angelo Puma, who wanted some land for a moving picture studio, but was persuasively unwilling to pay for it.

He was a big man, too heavy, youngish, with plump olive skin, black hair, lips too full and too red under a silky moustache, and eyes that would have been magnificent in a woman—a Spanish dancer, for example—rich, dark eyes, softly brilliant under curling lashes.

He seemed to covet the land and the ramshackle stables on it, but he wanted somebody to take back a staggering mortgage on the property. And Mr. Sharrow shook his head gently, and twirled his eyeglasses.

"For me," insisted Puma, "I do not care. It is good property. I would pay cash if I had it. But I have not. No. My capital at the moment is tied up in production; my daily expenses, at present, require what cash I have. If your client is at all reasonable——"

"He isn't," said Sharrow. "He's a Connecticut Yankee."

For a moment Angelo Puma seemed crestfallen, then his brilliant smile flashed from every perfect tooth:

"That is very bad for me," he said, buttoning-his showy overcoat. "Pardon me; I waste your time—" pulling on his gloves. "However, if your client should ever care to change his mind——"

"One moment," said Sharrow, whose time Mr. Puma had indeed wasted at intervals during the past year, and who heartily desired to be rid of property and client: "Suppose you deal directly with the owner. We are not particularly anxious to carry the property; it's a little out of our sphere. Suppose I put you in direct communication with the owner."

"Delighted," said Puma, flashing his smile and bowing from the waist; and perfectly aware that his badgering had bored this gentleman to the limit.

"I'll write out his address for you," said Sharrow, "—one moment, please——"

Angelo Puma waited, his glossy hat in one hand, his silver-headed stick and folded suede gloves in the other.

Like darkly brilliant searchlights his magnificent eyes swept the offices of Sharrow & Co.; at a glance he appraised the self-conscious typists, surmised possibilities in a blond one; then, as a woman entered from the street, he rested his gaze upon her. And he kept it there.

Even when Sharrow came out of his private office with the slip of paper, Angelo Puma's eyes still remained fastened upon the young girl who had spoken to a clerk and then seated herself in a chair beside the desk of James Shotwell, Jr.

"The man's name," repeated Sharrow patiently, "is Elmer Skidder. His address is Shadow Hill, Connecticut."

Puma turned to him as though confused, thanked him effusively, took the slip of paper, pulled on his gloves in a preoccupied way, and very slowly walked toward the street door, his eyes fixed on the girl who was now in animated conversation with young Shotwell.

As he passed her she was laughing at something the young man had just said, and Puma deliberately turned and looked at her again—looked her full in the face.

She was aware of him and of his bold scrutiny, of course—noticed his brilliant eyes, no doubt—but paid no heed to him—was otherwise preoccupied with this young man beside her, whom she had neither seen nor thought about since the day she had landed in New York from the rusty little Danish steamer Elsinore.

And now, although he had meant nothing at all to her except an episode already forgotten, to meet him again had instantly meant something to her.

For this man now represented to her a link with the exciting past—this young soldier who had been fresh from the furnace when she had met him on deck as the Elsinore passed in between the forts in the grey of early morning.

The encounter was exciting her a little, too, over-emphasising its importance.

"Fancy!" she repeated, "my encountering you here and in civilian dress! Were you dreadfully disappointed by the armistice?"

"I'm ashamed to say I took it hard," he admitted.

"So did I. I had hoped so to go to France. And you—oh, I am sorry for you. You were so disgusted at being detailed from the fighting line to Camp Upton! And now the war is over. What a void!"

"You're very frank," he said. "We're supposed to rejoice, you know."

"Oh, of course. I really do rejoice——"

They both laughed.

"I mean it," she insisted. "In my sober senses I am glad the war is over. I'd be a monster if I were not glad. But—what is going to take its place? Because we must have something, you know. One can't endure a perfect void, can one?"

Again they laughed.

"It was such a tremendous thing," she explained. "I did want to be part of it before it ended. But of course peace is a tremendous thing, too——"

And they both laughed once more.

"Anybody overhearing us," she confided to him, "would think us mere beasts. Of course you are glad the war is ended: that's why you fought. And I'm glad, too. And I'm going to rent a house in New York and find something to occupy this void I speak of. But isn't it nice that I should come to you about it?"

"Jolly," he said. "And now at last I'm going to learn your name."

"Oh. Don't you know it?"

"I wanted to ask you, but there seemed to be no proper opportunity——"

"Of course. I remember. There seemed to be no reason."

"I was sorry afterward," he ventured.

That amused her. "You weren't really sorry, were you?"

"I really was. I thought of you——"

"Do you mean to say you remembered me after the ship docked?"

"Yes. But I'm very sure you instantly forgot me."

"I certainly did!" she admitted, still much amused at the idea. "One doesn't remember everybody one sees, you know," she went on frankly,"—particularly after a horrid voyage and when one's head is full of exciting plans. Alas! those wonderful plans of mine!—the stuff that dreams are made of. And here I am asking you kindly to find me a modest house with a modest rental.... And by the way," she added demurely, "my name is Palla Dumont."

"Thank you," he said smilingly. "Do you care to know mine?"

"I know it. When I came in and told the clerk what I wanted, he said I should see Mr. Shotwell."

"James Shotwell, Jr.," he said gravely.

"That is amiable. You don't treasure malice, do you? I might merely have known you as Mr. Shotwell. And you generously reveal all from James to Junior."

They were laughing again. Mr. Sharrow noticed them from his private office and congratulated himself on having Shotwell in his employment.

"When may I see a house?" inquired Palla, settling her black-gloved hands in her black fox muff.

"Immediately, if you like."

"How wonderful!"

He took out his note-book, glanced through several pages, asked her carelessly what rent she cared to pay, made a note of it, and resumed his study of the note-book.

"The East Side?" he inquired, glancing at her with curiosity not entirely professional.

"I prefer it."

From his note-book he read to her the descriptions and situations of several twenty-foot houses in the zone between Fifth and Third Avenues.

"Shall we go to see some of them, Mr. Shotwell? Have you, perhaps, time this morning?"

"I'm delighted," he said. Which, far from straining truth, perhaps restrained it.

So he got his hat and overcoat, and they went out together into the winter sunshine.

Angelo Puma, seated in a taxi across the street, observed them. He wore a gardenia in his lapel. He might have followed Palla had she emerged alone from the offices of Sharrow & Co.

Shotwell Junior had a jolly morning of it. And, if the routine proved a trifle monotonous, Palla, too, appeared to amuse herself.

She inspected various types of houses, expensive and inexpensive, modern and out of date, well built and well kept and "jerry-built" and dirty.

Prices and rents painfully surprised her, and she gave up any idea of renting a furnished house, and so informed Shotwell.

So they restricted their inspection to three-story unfurnished and untenanted houses, where the neighbourhood was less pretentious and there was a better light in the rear.

But they all were dirty, neglected, out of repair, destitute of decent plumbing and electricity.

On the second floor of one of these Palla stood, discouraged, perplexed, gazing absently out, across a filthy back yard full of seedling ailanthus trees and rubbish, at the rear fire escapes on the tenements beyond.

Shotwell, exploring the closely written pages of his note-book, could discover nothing desirable within the terms she was willing to make.

"There's one house on our books," he said at last, "which came in only yesterday. I haven't had time to look at it. I don't even know where the keys are. But if you're not too tired——"

Palla gave him one of her characteristic direct looks:

"I'm not too tired, but I'm starved. I could go after lunch."

"Fine!" he said. "I'm hungry, too! Shall we go to Delmonico's?"

The girl seemed a trifle nonplussed. She had not supposed that luncheon with clients was included in a real estate transaction.

She was not embarrassed, nor did the suggestion seem impertinent. But she said:

"I had expected to lunch at the hotel."

He reddened a little. Guilt shows its colors.

"Had you rather?" he asked.

"Why, no. I'd rather lunch with you at Delmonico's and talk houses." And, a little amused at this young man's transparent guile, she added: "I think it would be very agreeable for us to lunch together."

* * * * *

She came from the dressing-room fresh and flushed as a slightly chilled rose, rejoining him in the lobby, and presently they were seated in the palm room with a discreet and hidden orchestra playing, "Oh! How I Hate To Get Up in the Morning," and rather busy with a golden Casaba melon between them.

"Isn't this jolly!" he said, expanding easily, as do all young men in the warmth of the informal.

"Very. What an agreeable business yours seems to be, Mr. Shotwell."

"In what way?" he asked innocently.

"Why, part of it is lunching with feminine clients, isn't it?"

His close-set ears burned. She glanced up with mischief brilliant in her brown eyes. But he was busy with his melon. And, not looking at her:

"Don't you want to know me?" he asked so clumsily that she hesitated to snub so defenceless a male.

"I don't know whether I wish to," she replied, smiling slightly. "I hadn't aspired to it; I hadn't really considered it. I was thinking about renting a house."

He said nothing, but, as the painful colour remained in his face, the girl decided to be a little kinder.

"Anyway," she said, "I'm enjoying myself. And I hope you are."

He said he was. But his voice and manner were so subdued that she laughed.

"Fancy asking a girl such a question," she said. "You shouldn't ask a woman whether she doesn't want to know you. It would be irregular enough, under the circumstances, to say that you wanted to know her."

"That's what I meant," he replied, wincing. "Would you consider it?"

She could not disguise her amusement.

"Yes; I'll consider it, Mr. Shotwell. I'll give it my careful attention. I owe you something, anyway."

"What?" he asked uncertainly, prepared for further squelching.

"I don't know exactly what. But when a man remembers a woman, and the woman forgets the man, isn't something due him?"

"I think there is," he said so naively that Palla was unable to restrain her gaiety.

"This is a silly conversation," she said, "—as silly as though I had accepted the cocktail you so thoughtfully suggested. We're both enjoying each other and we know it."

"Really!" he exclaimed, brightening.

His boyish relief—everything that this young man said to her—seemed to excite the girl to mirth. Perhaps she had been starved for laughter longer than is good for anybody. Besides, her heart was naturally responsive—opened easily—was easily engaged.

"Of course I'm inclined to like you," she said, "or I wouldn't be here lunching with you and talking nonsense instead of houses——"

"We'll talk houses!"

"No; we'll look at them—later.... Do you know it's a long, long time since I have laughed with a really untroubled heart?"

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, it isn't good for a girl. Sadness is a sickness—a physical disorganisation that infects the mind. It makes a strange emotion of love, too, perverting it to that mysticism we call religion—and wasting it.... I suppose you're rather shocked," she said smilingly.

"No.... But have you no religion?"

"Have you?"

"Well—yes."

"Which?"

"Protestant.... Are you Catholic?"

The girl rested her cheek on her hand and dabbed absently at her orange ice.

"I was once," she said. "I was very religious—in the accepted sense of the term.... It came rather suddenly;—it seemed to be born as part of a sudden and close friendship with a girl—began with that friendship, I think.... And died with it."

She sat quite silent for a while, then a tremulous smile edged her lips:

"I had meant to take the veil," she said. "I did begin my novitiate."

"Here?"

"No, in Russia. There are a few foreign cloistered orders there.... But I had a tragic awakening...." She bent her head and quoted softly, "'For the former things have passed away.'"

The orange ice was melting; she stirred it idly, watching it dissolve.

"No," she said, "I had utterly misunderstood the scheme of things. Divinity is not a sad, a solemn, a solitary autocrat demanding selfish tribute, blind allegiance, inexorable self-abasement. It is not an insecure tyrant offering bribery for the cringing, frightened servitude demanded."

She looked up smilingly at the man: "Nor, within us, is there any soul in the accepted meaning,—no satellite released at death to revolve around or merge into some super-divinity. No!

"For I believe,—I know—that the body—every one's body—is inhabited by a complete god, immortal, retaining its divine entity, beholden to no other deity save only itself, and destined to encounter in a divine democracy and through endless futures, unnumbered brother gods—the countless divinities which have possessed and shall possess those tenements of mankind which we call our bodies.... You do not, of course, subscribe to such a faith," she added, meeting his gaze.

"Well——" He hesitated. She said:

"Autocracy in heaven is as unthinkable, as unbelievable, and as obnoxious to me as is autocracy on earth. There is no such thing as divine right, here or elsewhere,—no divine prerogatives for tyranny, for punishment, for cruelty."

"How did you happen to embrace such a faith?" he asked, bewildered.

"I was sick of the scheme of things. Suffering, cruelty, death outraged my common sense. It is not in me to say, 'Thy will be done,' to any autocrat, heavenly or earthly. It is not in me to fawn on the hand that strikes me—or that strikes any helpless thing! No! And the scheme of things sickened me, and I nearly died of it——"

She clenched her hand where it rested on the table, and he saw her face flushed and altered by the fire within. Then she smiled and leaned back in her chair.

"In you," she said gaily, "dwells a god. In me a goddess,—a joyous one,—a divine thing that laughs,—a complete and free divinity that is gay and tender, that is incapable of tyranny, that loves all things both, great and small, that exists to serve—freely, not for reward—that owes allegiance and obedience only to the divine and eternal law within its own godhead. And that law is the law of love.... And that is my substitute for the scheme of things. Could you subscribe?"

After a silence he quoted: "Could you and I with Him conspire——"

She nodded: "'To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire——' But there is no 'Him.' It's you and I.... Both divine.... Suppose we grasp it and 'shatter it to bits.' Shall we?"

"'And then remould it nearer to the heart's desire?'"

"Remould it nearer to the logic of common sense."

Neither spoke for a few moments. Then she drew a swift, smiling breath.

"We're getting on rather rapidly, aren't we?" she said. "Did you expect to lunch with such a friendly, human girl? And will you now take her to inspect this modest house which you hope may suit her, and which, she most devoutly hopes may suit her, too?"

"This has been a perfectly delightful day," he said as they rose.

"Do you want me to corroborate you?"

"Could you?"

"I've had a wonderful time," she said lightly.



CHAPTER VI

John Estridge, out of a job—as were a million odd others now arriving from France by every transport—met James Shotwell, Junior, one wintry day as the latter was leaving the real estate offices of Sharrow & Co.

"The devil," exclaimed Estridge; "I supposed you, at least, were safe in the service, Jim! Isn't your regiment in Germany?"

"It is," replied Shotwell wrathfully, shaking hands. "Where do you come from, Jack?"

"From hell—via Copenhagen. In milder but misleading metaphor, I come from Holy Russia."

"Did the Red Cross fire you?"

"No, but they told me to run along home like a good boy and get my degree. I'm not an M.D., you know. And there's a shortage. So I had to come."

"Same here; I had to come." And Shotwell, for Estridge's enlightenment, held a post-mortem over the premature decease of his promising military career.

"Too bad," commented the latter. "It sure was exciting while it lasted—our mixing it in the great game. There's pandemonium to pay in Russia, now;—I rather hated to leave.... But it was either leave or be shot up. The Bolsheviki are impossible.... Are you walking up town?"

They fell into step together.

"You'll go back to the P. & S., I suppose," ventured Shotwell.

"Yes. And you?"

"Oh, I'm already nailed down to the old oaken desk. Sharrow's my boss, if you remember?"

"It must seem dull," said Estridge sympathetically.

"Rotten dull."

"You don't mean business too, do you?"

"Yes, that's also on the bum.... I did contrive to sell a small house the other day—and blew myself to this overcoat."

"Is that so unusual?" asked Estridge, smiling,"—to sell a house in town?"

"Yes, it's a miracle in these days. Tell me, Jack, how did you get on in Russia?"

"Too many Reds. We couldn't do much. They've got it in for everybody except themselves."

"The socialists?"

"Not the social revolutionists. I'm talking about the Reds."

"Didn't they make the revolution?"

"They did not."

"Well, who are the Reds, and what is it they want?"

"They want to set the world on fire. Then they want to murder and rob everybody with any education. Then they plan to start things from the stone age again. They want loot and blood. That's really all they want. Their object is to annihilate civilisation by exterminating the civilised. They desire to start all over from first principles—without possessing any—and turn the murderous survivors of the human massacre into one vast, international pack of wolves. And they're beginning to do it in Russia."

"A pleasant programme," remarked Shotwell. "No wonder you beat it, Jack. I recently met a woman who had just arrived from Russia. They murdered her best friend—one of the little Grand Duchesses. She simply can't talk about it."

"That was a beastly business," nodded Estridge. "I happen to know a little about it."

"Were you in that district?"

"Well, no,—not when that thing happened. But some little time before the Bolsheviki murdered the Imperial family I had occasion to escort an American girl to the convent where they were held under detention.... An exceedingly pretty girl," he added absently. "She was once companion to one of the murdered Imperial children."

Shotwell glanced up quickly: "Her name, by any chance, doesn't happen to be Palla Dumont?"

"Why, yes. Do you know her?"

"I sold her that house I was telling you about. Do you know her well, Jack?"

Estridge smiled. "Yes and no. Perhaps I know her better than she suspects."

Shotwell laughed, recollecting his friend's inclination for analysing character and his belief in his ability to do so.

"Same old scientific vivisectionist!" he said. "So you've been dissecting Palla Dumont, have you?"

"Certainly. She's a type."

"A charming one," added Shotwell.

"Oh, very."

"But you don't know her well—outside of having mentally vivisected her?"

Estridge laughed: "Palla Dumont and I have been through some rather hair-raising scrapes together. And I'll admit right now that she possesses all kinds of courage—perhaps too many kinds."

"How do you mean?"

"She has the courage of her convictions and her convictions, sometimes, don't amount to much."

"Go on and cut her up," said Shotwell, sarcastically.

"That's the only fault I find with Palla Dumont," explained the other.

"I thought you said she was a type?"

"She is,—the type of unmarried woman who continually develops too much pep for her brain to properly take care of."

"You mean you consider Palla Dumont neurotic?"

"No. Nothing abnormal. Perhaps super-normal—pathologically speaking. Bodily health is fine. But over-secretion of ardent energy sometimes disturbs one's mental equilibrium. The result, in a crisis, is likely to result in extravagant behavior. Martyrs are made of such stuff, for example."

"You think her a visionary?"

"Well, her reason and her emotions sometimes become rather badly entangled, I fancy."

"Don't everybody's?"

"At intervals. Then the thing to do is to keep perfectly cool till the fit is over."

"So you think her impulsive?"

"Well, I should say so!" smiled Estridge. "Of course I mean nicely impulsive—even nobly impulsive.... But that won't help her. Impulse never helped anybody. It's a spoke in the wheel—a stumbling block—a stick to trip anybody.... Particularly a girl.... And Palla Dumont mistakes impulse for logic. She honestly thinks that she reasons." He smiled to himself: "A disturbingly pretty girl," he murmured, "with a tender heart ... which seems to do all her thinking for her.... How well do you know her, Jim?"

"Not well. But I'm going to, I hope."

Estridge glanced up interrogatively, suddenly remembering all the uncontradicted gossip concerning a tacit understanding between Shotwell, Jr., and Elorn Sharrow. It is true that no engagement had been announced; but none had been denied, either. And Miss Sharrow had inherited her mother's fortune. And Shotwell, Jr., made only a young man's living.

"You ought to be rather careful with such a girl," he remarked carelessly.

"How, careful?"

"Well, she's rather perilously attractive, isn't she?" insisted Estridge smilingly.

"She's extremely interesting."

"She certainly is. She's rather an amazing girl in her way. More amazing than perhaps you imagine."

"Amazing?"

"Yes, even astounding."

"For example?"

"I'll give you an example. When the Reds invaded that convent and seized the Czarina and her children, Palla Dumont, then a novice of six weeks, attempted martyrdom by pretending that she herself was the little Grand Duchess Marie. And when the Reds refused to believe her, she demanded the privilege of dying beside her little friend. She even insulted the Reds, defied them, taunted them until they swore to return and cut her throat as soon as they finished with the Imperial family. And then this same Palla Dumont, to whom you sold a house in New York the other day, flew into an ungovernable passion; tried to batter her way into the cellar; shattered half a dozen chapel chairs against the oak door of the crypt behind which preparations for the assassination were taking place; then, helpless, called on God to interfere and put a stop to it. And, when deity, as usual, didn't interfere with the scheme of things, this girl tore the white veil from her face and the habit from her body and denounced as nonexistent any alleged deity that permitted such things to be."

Shotwell gazed at Estridge in blank astonishment.

"Where on earth did you hear all that dope?" he demanded incredulously.

Estridge smiled: "It's all quite true, Jim. And Palla Dumont escaped having her slender throat slit open only because a sotnia of Kaladines' Cossacks cantered up, discovered what the Reds were up to in the cellar, and beat it with Palla and another girl just in the nick of time."

"Who handed you this cinema stuff?"

"The other girl."

"You believe her?"

"You can judge for yourself. This other girl was a young Swedish soldier who had served in the Battalion of Death. It's really cinema stuff, as you say. But Russia, to-day, is just one hell after another in an endless and bloody drama. Such picturesque incidents,—the wildest episodes, the craziest coincidences—are occurring by thousands every day of the year in Russia.... And, Jim, it was due to one of those daily and crazy coincidences that my sleigh, in which I was beating it for Helsingfors, was held up by that same sotnia of the Wild Division on a bitter day, near the borders of a pine forest.

"And that's where I encountered Palla Dumont again. And that's where I heard—not from her, but from her soldier comrade, Ilse Westgard—the story I have just told you."

For a while they continued to walk up and down in silence.

Finally Estridge said: "There was a girl for you!"

"Palla Dumont!" nodded Shotwell, still too astonished to talk.

"No, the other.... An amazing girl.... Nearly six feet; physically perfect;—what the human girl ought to be and seldom is;—symmetrical, flawless, healthy—a super-girl ... like some young daughter of the northern gods!... Ilse Westgard."

"One of those women soldiers, you say?" inquired Shotwell, mildly curious.

"Yes. There were all kinds of women in that Death Battalion. We saw them,—your friend Palla Dumont and I,—saw them halted and standing at ease in a birch wood; saw them marching into fire.... And there were all sorts of women, Jim; peasant, bourgeoise and aristocrat;—there were dressmakers, telephone operators, servant-girls, students, Red Cross nurses, actresses from the Marinsky, Jewesses from the Pale, sisters of the Yellow Ticket, Japanese girls, Chinese, Cossack, English, Finnish, French.... And they went over the top cheering for Russia!... They went over to shame the army which had begun to run from the hun.... Pretty fine, wasn't it?"

"Fine!"

"You bet!... After this war—after what women have done the world over—I wonder whether there are any asses left who desire to restrict woman to a 'sphere'?... I'd like to see Ilse Westgard again," he added absently.

"Was she a peasant girl?"

"No. A daughter of well-to-do people. Quite the better sort, I should say. And she was more thoroughly educated than the average girl of our own sort.... A brave and cheerful soldier in the Battalion of Death.... Ilse Westgard.... Amazing, isn't it?"

After another brief silence Shotwell ventured: "I suppose you'd find it agreeable to meet Palla Dumont again, wouldn't you?"

"Why, yes, of course," replied the other pleasantly.

"Then, if you like, she'll ask us to tea some day—after her new house is in shape."

"You seem to be very sure about what Palla Dumont is likely to do," said Estridge, smiling.

"Indeed, I'm not!" retorted Shotwell, with emphasis. "Palla Dumont has a mind of her own,—although you don't seem to think so,——"

"I think she has a will of her own," interrupted the other, amused.

"Glad you concede her some mental attribute."

"I do indeed! I never intimated that she is weak-willed. She isn't. Other and stronger wills don't dominate hers. Perhaps it would be better if they did sometimes....

"But no; Palla Dumont arrives headlong at her own red-hot decisions. It is not the will of others that influences her; it is their indecision, their lack of willpower, their very weakness that seems to stimulate and vitally influence such a character as Palla Dumont's—"

"—Such a character?" repeated Shotwell. "What sort of character do you suppose hers to be, anyway? Between you and your psychological and pathological surmises you don't seem to leave her any character at all."

"I'm telling you," said Estridge, "that the girl is influenced not by the will or desire of others, but by their necessities, their distress, their needs.... Or what she believes to be their needs.... And you may decide for yourself how valuable are the conclusions of an impulsive, wilful, fearless, generous girl whose heart regulates her thinking apparatus."

"According to you, then, she is practically mindless," remarked Shotwell, ironically. "You medically minded gentlemen are wonders!—all of you."

"You don't get me. The girl is clever and intelligent when her accumulated emotions let her brain alone. When they interfere, her logic goes to smash and she does exaggerated things—like trying to sacrifice herself for her friend in the convent there—like tearing off the white garments of her novitiate and denouncing deity!—like embracing an extravagant pantheistic religion of her own manufacture and proclaiming that the Law of Love is the only law!

"I've heard the young lady on the subject, Jim. And, medically minded or not, I'm medically on to her."

They walked on together in silence for nearly a whole block; then Estridge said bluntly:

"She'd be better balanced if she were married and had a few children. Such types usually are."

Shotwell made no comment. Presently the other spoke again:

"The Law of Love! What rot! That's sheer hysteria. Follow that law and you become a saint, perhaps, perhaps a devil. Love sacred, love profane—both, when exaggerated, arise from the same physical condition—too much pep for the mind to distribute.

"What happens? Exaggerations. Extravagances. Hallucinations. Mysticisms.

"What results? Nuns. Hermits. Yogis. Exhorters. Fanatics. Cranks. Sometimes. For, from the same chrysalis, Jim, may emerge either a vestal, or one of those tragic characters who, swayed by this same remarkable Law of Love, may give ... and burn on—slowly—from the first lover to the next. And so, into darkness."

He added, smiling: "The only law of love subscribed to by sane people is framed by a balanced brain and interpreted by common sense. Those who obey any other code go a-glimmering, saint and sinner, novice and Magdalene alike.... This is your street, I believe."

They shook hands cordially.

* * * * *

After dining en famille, Shotwell Junior considered the various diversions offered to young business men after a day of labour.

There were theatres; there was the Club de Vingt and similar agreeable asylums; there was also a telephone to ring, and unpremeditated suggestions to make to friends, either masculine or feminine.

Or he could read and improve his mind. Or go to Carnegie Hall with his father and mother and listen to music of sorts.... Or—he could call up Elorn Sharrow.

He couldn't decide; and his parents presently derided him and departed music-ward without him. He read an evening paper, discarded it, poked the fire, stood before it, jingled a few coins and keys in his pocket, still undecided, still rather disinclined to any exertion, even as far as the club.

"I wonder," he thought, "what that girl is doing now. I've a mind to call her up."

He seemed to know whom he meant by "that girl." Also, it was evident that he did not mean Elorn Sharrow; for it was not her number he called and presently got.

"Miss Dumont?"

"Yes? Who is it?"

"It's a mere nobody. It's only your broker——"

"What!!"

"Your real-estate broker——"

"Mr. Shotwell! How absurd of you!"

"Why absurd?"

"Because I don't think of you merely as a real-estate broker."

"Then you do sometimes think of me?"

"What power of deduction! What logic! You seem to be in a particularly frivolous frame of mind. Are you?"

"No; I'm in a bad one."

"Why?"

"Because I haven't a bally thing to do this evening."

"That's silly!—with the entire town outside.... I'm glad you called me up, anyway. I'm tired and bored and exceedingly cross."

"What are you doing, Miss Dumont?"

"Absolutely and idiotically nothing. I'm merely sitting here on the only chair in this scantily furnished house, and trying to plan what sort of carpets, draperies and furniture to buy. Can you imagine the scene?"

"I thought you had some things."

"I haven't anything! Not even a decent mirror. I stand on the slippery edge of a bath tub to get a complete view of myself. And then it's only by sections."

"That's tragic. Have you a cook?"

"I have. But no dining room table. I eat from a tray on a packing case."

"Have you a waitress?"

"Yes, and a maid. They're comfortable. I bought their furniture immediately and also the batterie-de-cuisine. It's only I who slink about like a perplexed cat, from one empty room to another, in search of familiar comforts.... But I bought a sofa to-day.

"It's a wonderful sofa. It's here, now. It's an antique. But I can't make up my mind how to upholster it."

"Would you care for a suggestion?"

"Please!"

"Well, I'd have to see it——"

"I thought you'd say that. Really, Mr. Shotwell, I'd like most awfully to see you, but this place is too uncomfortable. I told you I'd ask you to tea some day."

"Won't you let me come down for a few moments this evening——"

"No!"

"—And pay you a formal little call——"

"No.... Would you really like to?"

"I would."

"You wouldn't after you got here. There's nothing for you to sit on."

"What about the floor?"

"It's dusty."

"What about that antique sofa?"

"It's not upholstered."

"What do I care! May I come?"

"Do you really wish to?"

"I do."

"How soon?"

"As fast as I can get there."

He heard her laughing. Then: "I'll be perfectly delighted to see you," she said. "I was actually thinking of taking to my bed out of sheer boredom. Are you coming in a taxi?"

"Why?"

He heard her laughing again.

"Nothing," she answered, "—only I thought that might be the quickest way—" Her laughter interrupted her, "—to bring me the evening papers. I haven't a thing to read."

"That's why you want me to take a taxi!"

"It is. News is a necessity to me, and I'm famishing.... What other reason could there be for a taxi? Did you suppose I was in a hurry to see you?"

He listened to her laughter for a moment:

"All right," he said, "I'll take a taxi and bring a book for myself."

"And please don't forget my evening papers or I shall have to requisition your book.... Or possibly share it with you on the upholstered sofa.... And I read very rapidly and don't like being kept waiting for slower people to turn the page.... Mr. Shotwell?"

"Yes."

"This is a wonderful floor. Could you bring some roller skates?"

"No," he said, "but I'll bring a music box and we'll dance."

"You're not serious——"

"I am. Wait and see."

"Don't do such a thing. My servants would think me crazy. I'm mortally afraid of them, too."

* * * * *

He found a toy-shop on Third Avenue still open, and purchased a solemn little music-box that played ting-a-ling tunes.

Then, in his taxi, he veered over to Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street, where he bought roses and a spray of orchids. Then, adding to his purchases a huge box of bon-bons, he set his course for the three story and basement house which he had sold to Palla Dumont.



CHAPTER VII

Shotwell Senior and his wife were dining out that evening.

Shotwell Junior had no plans—or admitted none, even to himself. He got into a bath and later into a dinner jacket, in an absent-minded way, and finally sauntered into the library wearing a vague scowl.

The weather had turned colder, and there was an open fire there, and a convenient armchair and the evening papers.

Perhaps the young gentleman had read them down town, for he shoved them aside. Then he dropped an elbow on the table, rested his chin against his knuckles, and gazed fiercely at the inoffensive Evening Post.

Before any open fire any young man ought to be able to make up whatever mind he chances to possess. Yet, what to do with a winter evening all his own seemed to him a problem unfathomable.

Perhaps his difficulty lay only in selection—there are so many agreeable things for a young man to do in Gotham Town on a winter's evening.

But, oddly enough, young Shotwell was trying to persuade himself that he had no choice of occupation for the evening; that he really didn't care. Yet, always two intrusive alternatives continually presented themselves. The one was to change his coat for a spike-tail, his black tie for a white one, and go to the Metropolitan Opera. The other and more attractive alternative was not to go.

Elorn Sharrow would be at the opera. To appear, now and then, in the Sharrow family's box was expected of him. He hadn't done it recently.

* * * * *

He dropped one lean leg over the other and gazed gravely at the fire. He was still trying to convince himself that he had no particular plan for the evening—that it was quite likely he might go to the opera or to the club—or, in fact, almost anywhere his fancy suggested.

In his effort to believe himself the scowl came back, denting his eyebrows. Presently he forced a yawn, unsuccessfully.

Yes, he thought he'd better go to the opera, after all. He ought to go.... It seemed to be rather expected of him.

Besides, he had nothing else to do—that is, nothing in particular—unless, of course——

But that would scarcely do. He'd been there so often recently.... No, that wouldn't do.... Besides it was becoming almost a habit with him. He'd been drifting there so frequently of late!... In fact, he'd scarcely been anywhere at all, recently, except—except where he certainly was not going that evening. And that settled it!... So he might as well go to the opera.

* * * * *

His mother, in scarf and evening wrap, passing the library door on her way down, paused in the hall and looked intently at her only son.

Recently she had been observing him rather closely and with a vague uneasiness born of that inexplicable sixth sense inherent in mothers.

Perhaps what her son had faced in France accounted for the change in him;—for it was being said that no man could come back from such scenes unchanged;—none could ever again be the same. And it was being said, too, that old beliefs and ideals had altered; that everything familiar was ending;—and that the former things had already passed away under the glimmering dawn of a new heaven and a new earth.

Perhaps all this was so—though she doubted it. Perhaps this son she had borne in agony might become to her somebody less familiar than the baby she had nursed at her own breast.

But so far, to her, he continued to remain the same familiar baby she had always known—the same and utterly vital part of her soul and body. No sudden fulfilment of an apocalypse had yet wrought any occult metamorphosis in this boy of hers.

And if he now seemed changed it was from that simple and familiar cause instinctively understood by mothers,—trouble!—the most ancient plague of all and the only malady which none escapes.

She was a rather startlingly pretty woman, with the delicate features and colour and the snow-white hair of an 18th century belle. She stood, now, drawing on her gloves and watching her son out of dark-fringed deep blue eyes, until he glanced around uneasily. Then he rose at once, looking at her with fire-dazzled eyes.

"Don't rise, dear," she said; "the car is here and your father is fussing and fuming in the drawing-room, and I've got to run.... Have you any plans for the evening?"

"None, mother."

"You're dining at home?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you go to the opera to-night? It's the Sharrows' night."

He came toward her irresolutely. "Perhaps I shall," he said. And instantly she knew he did not intend to go.

"I had tea at the Sharrows'," she said, carelessly, still buttoning her gloves. "Elorn told me that she hadn't laid eyes on you for ages."

"It's happened so.... I've had a lot of things to do——"

"You and she still agree, don't you, Jim?"

"Why, yes—as usual. We always get on together."

Helen Shotwell's ermine wrap slipped; he caught it and fastened it for her, and she took hold of both his hands and drew his arms tightly around her pretty shoulders.

"What troubles you, darling?" she asked smilingly.

"Why, nothing, mother——"

"Tell me!"

"Really, there is nothing, dear——"

"Tell me when you are ready, then," she laughed and released him.

"But there isn't anything," he insisted.

"Yes, Jim, there is. Do you suppose I don't know you after all these years?"

She considered him with clear, amused eyes: "Don't forget," she added, "that I was only seventeen when you arrived, my son; and I have grown up with you ever since——"

"For heaven's sake, Helen!—" protested Sharrow Senior plaintively from the front hall below. "Can't you gossip with Jim some other time?"

"I'm on my way, James," she announced calmly. "Put your overcoat on." And, to her son: "Go to the opera. Elorn will cheer you up. Isn't that a good idea?"

"That's—certainly—an idea.... I'll think it over.... And, mother, if I seem solemn at times, please try to remember how rotten every fellow feels about being out of the service——"

Her gay, derisive laughter checked him, warning him that he was not imposing on her credulity. She said smilingly:

"You have neglected Elorn Sharrow, and you know it, and it's on your conscience—whatever else may be on it, too. And that's partly why you feel blue. So keep out of mischief, darling, and stop neglecting Elorn—that is, if you ever really expect to marry her——"

"I've told you that I have never asked her; and I never intend to ask her until I am making a decent living," he said impatiently.

"Isn't there an understanding between you?"

"Why—I don't think so. There couldn't be. We've never spoken of that sort of thing in our lives!"

"I think she expects you to ask her some day. Everybody else does, anyway."

"Well, that is the one thing I won't do," he said, "—go about with the seat out of my pants and ask an heiress to sew on the patch for me——"

"Darling! You can be so common when you try!"

"Well, it amounts to that—doesn't it, mother? I don't care what busy gossips say or idle people expect me to do! There's no engagement, no understanding between Elorn and me. And I don't care a hang what anybody——"

His mother framed his slightly flushed face between her gloved hands and inspected him humorously.

"Very well, dear," she said; "but you need not be so emphatically excited about it——"

"I'm not excited—but it irritates me to be expected to do anything because it's expected of me—" He shrugged his shoulders:

"After all," he added, "if I ever should fall in love with anybody it's my own business. And whatever I choose to do about it will be my own affair. And I shall keep my own counsel in any event."

His mother stepped forward, letting both her hands fall into his.

"Wouldn't you tell me about it, Jim?"

"I'd tell you before I'd tell anybody else—if it ever became serious."

"If what became serious?"

"Well—anything of that sort," he replied. But a bright colour stained his features and made him wince under her intent scrutiny.

She was worried, now, though her pretty, humorous smile still challenged him with its raillery.

But it was becoming very evident to her that if this boy of hers were growing sentimental over any woman the woman was not Elorn Sharrow.

So far she had held her son's confidence. She must do nothing to disturb it. Yet, as she looked at him with the amused smile still edging her lips, she began for the first time in her life to be afraid.

They kissed each other in silence.

* * * * *

In the limousine, seated beside her husband, she said presently: "I wish Jim would marry Elorn Sharrow."

"He's likely to some day, isn't he?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, there's no hurry," remarked her husband. "He ought not to marry anybody until he's thirty, and he's only twenty-four. I'm glad enough to have him remain at home with us."

"But that's what worries me; he doesn't!"

"Doesn't what?"

"Doesn't remain at home."

Her husband laughed: "Well, I meant it merely in a figurative sense. Of course Jim goes out——"

"Where?"

"Why, everywhere, I suppose," said her husband, a little surprised at her tone.

She said calmly: "I hear things—pick up bits of gossip—as all women do.... And at a tea the other day a man asked me why Jim never goes to his clubs any more. So you see he doesn't go to any of his clubs when he goes 'out' in the evenings.... And he's been to no dances—judging from what is said to me.... And he doesn't go to see Elorn Sharrow any more. She told me that herself. So—where does he go?"

"Well, but——"

"Where does he go—every evening?"

"I'm sure I couldn't answer——"

"Every evening!" she repeated absently.

"Good heavens, Helen——"

"And what is on that boy's mind? There's something on it."

"His business, let us hope——"

She shook her head: "I know my son," she remarked.

"So do I. What is particularly troubling you, dear? There's something you haven't told me."

"I'm merely wondering who that girl was who lunched with him at Delmonico's—three times—last week," mused his wife.

"Why—she's probably all right, Helen. A man doesn't take the other sort there."

"So I've heard," she said drily.

"Well, then?"

"Nothing.... She's very pretty, I understand.... And wears mourning."

"What of it?" he asked, amused. She smiled at him, but there was a trace of annoyance in her voice.

"Don't you think it very natural that I should wonder who any girl is who lunches with my son three times in one week?... And is remarkably pretty, besides?"

* * * * *

The girl in question looked remarkably pretty at that very moment, where she sat at her desk, the telephone transmitter tilted toward her, the receiver at her ear, and her dark eyes full of gayest malice.

"Miss Dumont, please?" came a distant and familiar voice over the wire. The girl laughed aloud; and he heard her.

"You said you were not going to call me up."

"Is it you, Palla?"

"How subtle of you!"

He said anxiously. "Are you doing anything this evening—by any unhappy chance——"

"I am."

"Oh, hang it! What are you doing?"

"How impertinent!"

"You know I don't mean it that way——"

"I'm not sure. However, I'll be kind enough to tell you what I'm doing. I'm sitting here at my desk, listening to an irritable young man——"

"That's wonderful luck!" he exclaimed joyously.

"Wonderful luck for a girl to sit at a desk and listen to an irritable young man?"

"If you'll stop talking bally nonsense for a moment——"

"If you bully me, I shall stop talking altogether!"

"For heaven's sake——"

"I hear you, kind sir; you need not shout!"

He said humbly: "Palla, would you let me drop in——"

"Drop into what? Into poetry? Please do!"

"For the love of——"

"Jim! You told me last evening that you expected to be at the opera to-night."

"I'm not going."

"—So I didn't expect you to call me!"

"Can't I see you?" he asked.

"I'm sorry——"

"The deuce!"

"I'm expecting some people, Jim. It's your own fault; I didn't expect a tete-a-tete with you this evening."

"Is it a party you're giving?"

"Two or three people. But my place is full of flowers and as pretty as a garden. Too bad you can't see it."

"Couldn't I come to your garden-party?" he asked humbly.

"You mean just to see my garden for a moment?"

"Yes; let me come around for a moment, anyway—if you're dressed. Are you?"

"Certainly I'm dressed. Did you think it was to be a garden-of-Eden party?"

Her gay, mischievous laughter came distinctly to him over the wire. Then her mood changed abruptly:

"You funny boy," she said, "don't you understand that I want you to come?"

"You enchanting girl!" he exclaimed. "Do you really mean it?"

"Of course! And if you come at once we'll have nearly an hour together before anybody arrives."

She had that sweet, unguarded way with her at moments, and it always sent a faint shock of surprise and delight through him.

* * * * *

Her smiling maid admitted him and took his hat, coat and stick as though accustomed to these particular articles.

Palla was alone in the living-room when he was announced, and as soon as the maid disappeared she gave him both hands in swift welcome—an impulsive, unconsidered greeting entirely new to them both.

"You didn't mind my tormenting you. Did you, Jim? I was so happy that you did call me up, after all. Because you know you did tell me yesterday that you were going to the opera to-night. But all the same, when the 'phone rang, somehow I knew it was you—I knew it—somehow——"

She loosened one hand from his and swung him with the other toward the piano: "Do you like my flower garden? Isn't the room attractive?"

"Charming," he said. "And you are distractingly pretty to-night!"

"In this dull, black gown? But, merci, anyway! See how effective your roses are!—the ones you sent yesterday and the day before! They're all opening. And I went out and bought a lot more, and all that fluffy green camouflage——"

She withdrew her other hand from his without embarrassment and went over to rearrange a sheaf of deep red carnations, spreading the clustered stems to wider circumference.

"What is this party you're giving, anyway?" he asked, following her across the room and leaning beside her on the piano, where she still remained very busily engaged with her decorations.

"An impromptu party," she exclaimed. "I was shopping this morning—in fact I was buying pots and pans for the cook—when somebody spoke to me. And I recognised a university student whom I had known in Petrograd after the first revolution—Marya Lanois, her name is——"

She moved aside and began to fuss with a huge bowl of crimson roses, loosening the blossoms, freeing the foliage, and talking happily all the while:

"Marya Lanois," she repeated, "—an interesting girl. And with her was a man I had met—a pianist—Vanya Tchernov. They told me that another friend of mine—a girl named Ilse Westgard—is now living in New York. They couldn't dine with me, but they're coming to supper. So I also called up Ilse Westgard, she's coming, too;—and I also asked your friend, Mr. Estridge. So you see, Monsieur, we shall have a little music and much valuable conversation, and then I shall give them some supper——"

She stepped back from the piano, surveyed her handiwork critically, then looked around at him for his opinion.

"Fine," he said. "How jolly your new house is"—glancing about the room at the few well chosen pieces of antique furniture, the harmonious hangings and comfortably upholstered modern pieces.

"It really is beginning to be livable; isn't it, Jim?" she ventured. "Of course there are many things yet to buy——"

They leisurely made the tour of the white-panelled room, looking with approval at the delicate Georgian furniture; the mezzotints; the damask curtains of that beautiful red which has rose-tints in it, too; the charming old French clock and its lovely gilded garniture; the deep-toned ash-grey carpet under foot.

Before the mantel, with its wood fire blazing, they paused.

"It's so enchantingly homelike," she exclaimed. "I already love it all. When I come in from shopping I just stand here with my hat and furs on, and gaze about and adore everything!"

"Do you adore me, too?" he asked, laughing at her warmth. "You see I'm becoming one of your fixtures here, also."

In her brown eyes the familiar irresponsible gaiety began to glimmer:

"I do adore you," she said, "but I've no business to."

"Why not?"

She seated herself on the sofa and cast a veiled glance at him, enchantingly malicious.

"Do you think you know me well enough to adore me?" she inquired with misleading gravity.

"Indeed I do——"

"Am I as easy to know as that? Jim, you humiliate me."

"I didn't say that you are easy to know——"

"You meant it!" she insisted reproachfully. "You think so, too—just because I let myself be picked up—by a perfectly strange man——"

"Good heavens, Palla—" he began nervously; but caught the glimmer in her lowered eyes—saw her child's mouth tremulous with mirth controlled.

"Oh, Jim!" she said, still laughing, "do you think I care how we met? How absurd of you to let me torment you. You're altogether too boyish, too self-conscious. You're loaded down with all the silly traditions which I've thrown away. I don't care how we met. I'm glad we know each other."

She opened a silver box on a little table at her elbow, chose a cigarette, lighted it, and offered it to him.

"I rather like the taste of them now," she remarked, making room for him on the sofa beside her.

When he was seated, she reached up to a jar of flowers on the piano, selected a white carnation, broke it short, and then drew the stem through his lapel, patting the blossom daintily into a pom-pon.

"Now," she said gaily, "if you'll let me, I'll straighten your tie. Shall I?"

He turned toward her; she accomplished that deftly, then glanced across at the clock.

"We've only half an hour longer to ourselves," she exclaimed, with that unconscious candour which always thrilled him. Then, turning to him, she said laughingly: "Does it really matter how two people meet when time races with us like that?"

"And do you realise," he said in a low, tense voice, "that since I met you every racing minute has been sweeping me headlong toward you?"

She was so totally unprepared for the deeper emotion in his voice and bearing—so utterly surprised—that she merely gazed at him.

"Haven't you been aware of it, Palla?" he said, looking her in the eyes.

"Jim!" she protested, "you are disconcerting! You never before have taken such a tone toward me."

She rose, walked over to the clock, examined it minutely for a few moments. Then she turned, cast a swift, perplexed glance at him, and came slowly back to resume her place on the sofa.

"Men should be very, very careful what they say to me." As she lifted her eyes he saw them beginning to glimmer again with that irresponsible humour he knew so well.

"Be careful," she said, her brown gaze gay with warning; "—I'm godless and quite lawless, and I'm a very dangerous companion for any well-behaved and orthodox young man who ventures to tell me that I'm adorable. Why, you might as safely venture to adore Diana of the Ephesians! And you know what she did to her admirers."

"She was really Aphrodite, wasn't she?" he said, laughing.

"Aphrodite, Venus, Isis, Lada—and the Ephesian Diana—I'm afraid they all were hussies. But I'm a hussy, too, Jim! If you doubt it, ask any well brought up girl you know and tell her how we met and how we've behaved ever since, and what obnoxious ideas I entertain toward all things conventional and orthodox!"

"Palla, are you really serious?—I'm never entirely sure what is under your badinage."

"Why, of course I am serious. I don't believe in any of the things that you believe in. I've often told you so, though you don't believe me——"

"Nonsense!"

"I don't, I tell you. I did once. But I'm awake. No 'threats of hell or hopes of any sugary paradise' influence me. Nor does custom and convention. Nor do the laws and teachings of our present civilisation matter one straw to me. I'd break every law if it suited me."

He laughed and lifted her hand from her lap: "You funny child," he said, "you wouldn't steal, for example—would you?"

"I don't desire to."

"Would you commit perjury?"

"No!"

"Murder?"

"I have a law of my own, kind sir. It doesn't happen to permit murder, arson, forgery, piracy, smuggling——"

Their irresponsible laughter interrupted her.

"What else wouldn't you do?" he managed to ask.

"I wouldn't do anything mean, deceitful, dishonest, cruel. But it's not your antiquated laws—it's my own and original law that governs my conduct."

"You always conform to it?"

"I do. But you don't conform to yours. So I'll try to help you remember the petty but always sacred conventions of our own accepted code——"

And, with unfeigned malice, she began to disengage her hand from his—loosened the slim fingers one by one, all the while watching him sideways with prim lips pursed and lifted eyebrows.

"Try always to remember," she said, "that, according to your code, any demonstration of affection toward a comparative stranger is exceedingly bad form."

However, he picked up her hand again, which she had carelessly left lying on the sofa near his, and again she freed it, leisurely.

They conversed animatedly, as always, discussing matters of common interest, yet faintly in her ears sounded the unfamiliar echo of passion.

It haunted her mind, too—an indefinable undertone delicately persistent—until at last she sat mute, absent-minded, while he continued speaking.

Her stillness—her remote gaze, perhaps—presently silenced him. And after a little while she turned her charming head and looked at him with that unintentional provocation born of virginal curiosity.

What had moved him so unexpectedly to deeper emotion? Had she? Had she, then, that power? And without effort?—For she had been conscious of none.... But—if she tried.... Had she the power to move him again?

Naive instinct—the emotionless curiosity of total inexperience—everything embryonic and innocently ruthless in her was now in the ascendant.

She lifted her eyes and considered him with the speculative candour of a child. She wished to hear once more that unfamiliar something in his voice—see it in his features——

And she did not know how to evoke it.

"Of what are you thinking, Palla?"

"Of you," she answered candidly, without other intention than the truth. And saw, instantly, the indefinable something born again into his eyes.