Palla presided, always a trifle frightened to find herself facing any audience, but ashamed to avoid the delegated responsibility.

Among others on the platform around her were Ilse and Marya and Questa Terrett and the birth-control lady—Miss Thane—neat and placid and precise as usual, and wearing long-distance spectacles for a more minute inspection of the audience.

Palla opened the proceedings in a voice which was clear, and always became steadier under heckling.

Her favourite proposition—the Law of Love and Service—she offered with such winning candour that the interruption of derisive laughter, prepared by several of Kastner's friends, was postponed; and Terry Hogan, I. W. W., said to Jerry Smith, I. W. W.:

"God love her, she's but a baby. Lave her chatter."

However, a conscientious objector got up and asked her whether she considered that the American army abroad had conformed to her Law of Love and Service, and when she answered emphatically that every soldier in the United States army was fulfilling to the highest degree his obligations to that law, both pacifists and conscientious objectors dissented noisily, and a student from Columbia College got up and began to harangue the audience.

Order was finally obtained: Palla added a word or two and retired; and Ilse Westgard came forward.

Somebody in the audience called out: "Say, just because you're a good-looker it don't mean you got a brain!"

Ilse threw back her golden head and her healthy laughter rang uncontrolled.

"Comrade," she said, "we all have to do the best we can with what brain we have, don't we?"

"Sure!" came from her grinning heckler, who seemed quite won over by her good humour.

So, an armistice established, Ilse plunged vigorously into her theme:

"Let me tell you something which you all know in your hearts: any class revolution based on violence and terrorism is doomed to failure."

"Don't be too sure of that!" shouted a man.

"I am sure of it. And you will never see any reign of terror in America."

"But you may see Bolshevism here—Bolshevist propaganda—Bolshevist ideas penetrating. You may see these ideas accepted by Labor. You may see strikes—the most senseless and obsolete weapon ever wielded by thinking men; you may see panics, tie-ups, stagnation, misery. But you never shall see Bolshevism triumphant here, or permanently triumphant anywhere.

"Because Bolshevism is autocracy!"

"The hell it is!" yelled an I. W. W.

"Yes," said Ilse cheerfully, "as you have said it is hell. And hell is an end, not a means, not a remedy.

"Because it is the negation of all socialism; the death of civilisation. And civilisation has an immortal destiny; and that destiny is socialism!"

A man interrupted, but she asked him so sweetly for a few moments more that he reseated himself.

"Comrades," she said, "I know something about Bolshevism and revolution. I was a soldier of Russia. I carried a rifle and full pack. I was part of what is history. And I learned to be tolerant in the trenches; and I learned to love this unhappy human race of ours. And I learned what is Bolshevism.

"It is one of many protests against the exploitation of men by men. It is one of the many reactions against intolerable wrong. It is not a policy; it is an outburst against injustice; against the stupidity of present conditions, where the few monopolise the wealth created by the many; and the many remain poor.

"And Bolshevism is the remedy proposed—the violent superimposition of a brand new autocracy upon the ruins of the old!

"It does not work. It never can work, because it imposes the will of one class upon all other classes. It excludes all parties excepting its own from government. It is, therefore, not democratic. It is a tyranny, imposing upon capital and labour alike its will.

"And I tell you that Labour has just won the greatest of all wars. Do you suppose Labour will endure the autocracy of the Bolsheviki? The time is here when a more decent division is going to be made between the employer and the labourer.

"I don't care what sort of production it may be, the producer is going to receive a much larger share; the employer a much smaller. And the producer is going to enjoy a better standard of living, opportunities for leisure and self-cultivation; and the three spectres that haunt him from childhood to grave—lack of money to make a beginning; fear for a family left on its own resources by his death; terror of poverty in old age—shall vanish.

"Against these three evil ghosts that haunt his bedside when the long day is done, there are going to be guarantees. Because those who won for us this righteous war, whether abroad or at home, are going to have something to say about it.

"And it will be they, not the Bolsheviki—it will be labourer and employer, not incendiary and assassin, who shall determine what is to be the policy of this Republic toward those to whom it owes its salvation!"

A man stood up waving his arms: "All right! All right! The question is whether the sort of government we have is worth saving. You talk very flip about the Bolsheviki, but I'll tell you they'll run this country yet, and every other too, and run 'em to suit themselves! It's our turn; you've had your inning. Now, you'll get a dose of what you hand to us if we have to ram it down with a gun barrel!"

There was wild cheering from Kastner's men scattered about the hall; cries of "That's the stuff! Take away their dough! Kick 'em out of their Fifth Avenue castles and set 'em to digging subways!"

Ilse said calmly: "Thank you very much for proving my contention for all these people who have been so kind as to listen to me.

"I said to you that Bolshevism is merely a new and more immoral autocracy which wishes to confiscate all property, annihilate all culture and set up in the public places a new god—the god of Ignorance!

"You have been good enough to corroborate me. And I and my audience now know that Bolshevism is on its way to America, and that its agents are already here.

"It is in view of such a danger that this Combat Club has been organised. And it was time to organise it.

"It is evident, too, that the newspapers agree with us. Let us read you what one of them has to say:

"'We fully realise the atrocity of the Bolshevik propaganda, which is really the doctrine of communism and anarchy. We realise the perilous ferment which endangers civilisation. But in the countries which have held fast to moral standards during the war we believe the factors of safety are sufficiently great, the forces of sanity are far stronger than those of chaos——'"

Here, those whose role it was to interrupt with derisive laughter, broke out at a preconcerted signal. But Ilse read on:

"'In a word, as a mere matter of self-interest and common sense, we can only see the people, as a whole, in any country, as opposed to anarchy in any form. In our own land, even granted that there are a hundred thousand "red" agitators, or say a quarter of a million—and we have no real belief that this is so—what are these in a population of one hundred and five millions? Are the ninety and nine sane, moral, law abiding men and women going to allow themselves to be stampeded into ruin by a handful of criminals and lunatics?

"'We do not for a moment believe it. These agitators and incendiaries have a sort of maniacal impetus that fills the air with dust and noise and alarms the credulous. Perhaps it may be wise to counteract this with a little quiet promotion of ideas of safety and prosperity, based on order and law. It may be well to calm the nerves of the timorous and it can do no harm to set in motion a counter wave of horror and repulsion against those who are planning to lead the world back to conditions of tribal savagery. Educational work is always beneficent. Let us have much of that but no panic. The power of truth and reason is in calm confidence.'"

And now a bushy-headed man got on his feet and levelled his forefinger at Ilse: "Take shame for your-selluf!" he shouted. "I know you! You fought mit Korniloff! You took orders from Kerensky, from aristocrats, from cadets!"

Ilse said pleasantly. "I fought for Russia, my friend. And when the robbers and despoilers of Russia became the stronger, I took a vacation."

Some people laughed, but a harsh voice cried: "We know what you did. You rescued the friend of the Romanoffs—that Carmelite nun up there on the platform behind you, who calls herself Miss Dumont!"

And from the other side of the hall another man bawled out: "You and the White Nun have done enough mischief. And you and your club had better get out of here while the going is good!"

Estridge, who was standing in the rear of the hall with Shotwell, came down along the aisle. Jim followed.

"Who said that?" he demanded, scanning the faces on that side while Shotwell looked among the seats beyond.

Nobody said anything, for John Estridge stood over six feet and Jim looked physically very fit.

Estridge, standing in the aisle, said in his cool, penetrating voice:

"This club is a forum for discussion. All are free to argue any point. Only swine would threaten violence.

"Now go on and argue. Say what you like. But the next man who threatens these ladies or this club with violence will have to leave the hall."

"Who'll put him out?" piped an unidentified voice.

Then the two young men laughed; and their mirth was not reassuring to the violently inclined.

* * * * *

There were disturbances during the evening, but no violence, and only a few threats—those that made them remaining in prudent incognito.

Miss Thane made a serene, precise and perfectly logical address upon birth control.

Somebody yelled that the millionaires didn't have to resort to it, being already sufficiently sterile to assure the dwindling of their class.

A woman rose and said she had always done what she pleased in the matter, law or no law, but that if it were true the Bolsheviki in America were but a quarter of a million to a hundred million of the bourgeoisie, then it was time to breed and breed to the limit.

"And let the kids starve?" cried another woman—a mere girl. "That isn't the way. The way to do is to even things with a hundred million hand grenades!"

Instantly the place was in an uproar; but Palla came forward and said that the meeting was over, and Estridge and Shotwell and two policemen kept the aisles fairly clear while the wrangling audience made their way to the street.

"Aw, it's all lollipop!" said a man. "What d' yeh expect from a bunch of women?"

"The Red Flag Club is better," rejoined another. "Say, bo! There's somethin' doin' when Sondheim hands it out!"

* * * * *

Ilse went away with Estridge. Palla came along among the other women, and turned aside to offer her hand to Jim.

"Did you expect to take me home?" she asked demurely.

"Didn't you expect me to?" he inquired uneasily.

"I? Why should I?" She slipped her arm into his with a little nestling gesture. "And it's a very odd thing, Jim, that they left the chafing dish on the table. And that before she went to bed my waitress laid covers for two."



CHAPTER XVI

"Are you worried about this Dumont girl?" asked Shotwell Senior abruptly.

His wife did not look up from her book. After an interval:

"Yes," she said, "I am."

Her husband watched her over the top of his newspaper.

"I can't believe there's anything in it," he said. "But it's a shame that Jim should worry you so."

"He doesn't mean to."

"Probably he doesn't, but what's the difference? You're unhappy and he's the reason of it. And it isn't as though he were a cub any longer, either. He's old enough to know what he's about. He's no Willy Baxter."

"That is what makes me anxious," said Helen Shotwell. "Do you know, dear, that he hasn't dined here once this week, yet he seems to go nowhere else—nowhere except to her."

"What sort of woman is she?" he demanded, wiping his eyeglasses as though preparing to take a long-distance look at Palla.

"I know her only at the Red Cross."

"Well, is she at all common?"

"No.... That is why it is difficult for me to talk to Jim about her. There's nothing of that sort to criticise."

"No social objections to the girl?"

"None. She's an unusual girl."

"Attractive?"

"Unfortunately."

"Well, then——"

"Oh, James, I want him to marry Elorn! And if he's going to make himself conspicuous over this Dumont girl, I don't think I can bear it!"

"What is the objection to the girl, Helen?" he asked, flinging his paper onto a table and drawing nearer the fire.

"She isn't at all our kind, James——"

"But you just said——"

"I don't mean socially. And still, as far as that goes, she seems to care nothing whatever for position or social duties or obligations."

"That's not so unusual in these days," he remarked. "Lots of nice girls are fed up on the social aspects of life."

"Well, for example, she has not made the slightest effort to know anybody worth knowing. Janet Speedwell left cards and then asked her to dinner, and received an amiable regret for her pains. No girl can afford to decline invitations from Janet, even if her excuse is a club meeting.

"And two or three other women at the Red Cross have asked her to lunch at the Colony Club, and have made advances to her on Leila Vance's account, but she hasn't responded. Now, you know a girl isn't going to get on by politely ignoring the advances of such women. But she doesn't even appear to be aware of their importance."

"Why don't you ask her to something?" suggested her husband.

"I did," she said, a little sharply. "I asked her and Leila Vance to dine with us. I intended to ask Elorn, too, and let Jim realise the difference if he isn't already too blind to see."

"Did she decline?"

"She did," said Helen curtly.

"Why?"

"It happened that she had asked somebody to dine with her that evening. And I have a horrid suspicion it was Jim. If it was, she could have postponed it. Of course it was a valid excuse, but it annoyed me to have her decline. That's what I tell you, James, she has a most disturbing habit of declining overtures from everybody—even from——"

Helen checked herself, looked at her husband with an odd smile, in which there was no mirth; then:

"You probably are not aware of it, dear, but that girl has also declined Jim's overtures."

"Jim's what?"

"Invitation."

"Invitation to do what?"

"Marry him."

Shotwell Senior turned very red.

"The devil she did! How do you know?"

"Jim told me."

"That she turned him down?"

"She declined to marry him."

Her husband seemed unable to grasp such a fact. Never had it occurred to Shotwell Senior that any living, human girl could decline such an invitation from his only son.

After a painful silence: "Well," he said in a perplexed and mortified voice, "she certainly seems to be, as you say, a most unusual girl.... But—if it's settled—why do you continue to worry, Helen?"

"Because Jim is very deeply in love with her.... And I'm sore at heart."

"Hard hit, is he?"

"Very unhappy."

Shotwell Senior reddened again: "He'll have to face it," he said.... "But that girl seems to be a fool!"

"I—wonder."

"What do you mean?"

"A girl may change her mind." She lifted her head and looked with sad humour at her husband, whom she also had kept dangling for a while. Then:

"James, dear, our son is as fine as we think him. But he's just a splendid, wholesome, everyday, unimaginative New York business man. And he's fallen in love with his absolute antithesis. Because this girl is all ardent imagination, full of extravagant impulses, very lovely to look at, but a perfectly illogical fanatic!

"Mrs. Vance has told me all about her. She really belongs in some exotic romance, not in New York. She's entirely irresponsible, perfectly unstable. There is in her a generous sort of recklessness which is quite likely to drive her headlong into any extreme. And what sort of mate would such a girl be for a young man whose ambition is to make good in the real estate business, marry a nice girl, have a pleasant home and agreeable children, and otherwise conform to the ordinary conventions of civilisation?"

"I think," remarked her husband grimly, "that she'd keep him guessing."

"She would indeed! And that's not all, James. For I've got to tell you that the girl entertains some rather weird and dreadful socialistic notions. She talks socialism—a mild variety—from public platforms. She admits very frankly that she entertains no respect for accepted conventions. And while I have no reason to doubt her purity of mind and personal chastity, the unpleasant and startling fact remains that she proposes that humanity should dispense with the marriage ceremony and discard it and any orthodox religion as obsolete superstitions."

Her husband stared at her.

"For heaven's sake," he began, then got frightfully red in the face once more. "What that girl needs is a plain spanking!" he said bluntly. "I'd like to see her or any other girl try to come into this family on any such ridiculous terms!"

"She doesn't seem to want to come in on any terms," said Helen.

"Then what are you worrying about?"

"I am worrying about what might happen if she ever changed her mind."

"But you say she doesn't believe in marriage!"

"She doesn't."

"Well, that boy of ours isn't crazy," insisted Shotwell Senior.

But his mother remained silent in her deep misgiving concerning the sanity of the simpler sex, when mentally upset by love. For it seemed very difficult to understand what to do—if, indeed, there was anything for her to do in the matter.

To express disapproval of Palla to Jim or to the girl herself—to show any opposition at all—would, she feared, merely defeat its own purpose and alienate her son's confidence.

The situation was certainly a most disturbing one, though not at present perilous.

And Helen would not permit herself to believe that it could ever really become an impossible situation—that this young girl would deliberately slap civilisation in the face; or that her only son would add a kick to the silly assault and take the ruinous consequences of social ostracism.

* * * * *

The young girl in question was at that moment seated before her piano, her charming head uplifted, singing in the silvery voice of an immaculate angel, to her own accompaniment, the heavenly Mass of Saint Hilde:

"Love me, Adorable Mother! Mary, I worship no other. Save me, O, graciously save me I pray! Let my Darkness be turned into Day By the Light of Thy Grace And Thy Face, I pray!"

She continued the exquisite refrain on the keys for a while, then slowly turned to the man beside her.

"The one Mass I still love," she murmured absently, "—memories of childhood, I suppose—when the Sisters made me sing the solo—I was only ten years old." ... She shrugged her shoulders: "You know, in those days, I was a little devil," she said seriously.

He smiled.

"I really was, Jim,—all over everything and wild as a swallow. I led the pack; Shadow Hill held us in horror. I remember I fought our butcher's boy once—right in the middle of the street——"

"Why?"

"He did something to a cat which I couldn't stand."

"Did you whip him?"

"Oh, Jim, it was horrid. We both were dreadfully battered. And the constable caught us both, and I shall never, never forget my mother's face!——"

She gazed down at the keys of the piano, touched them pensively.

"The very deuce was in me," she sighed. "Even now, unless I'm occupied with all my might, something begins—to simmer in me——"

She turned and looked at him: "—A sort of enchanted madness that makes me wild to seize the whole world and set it right!—take it into my arms and defend it—die for it—or slay it and end its pain."

"Too much of an armful," he said with great gravity. "The thing to do is to select an individual and take him to your heart."

"And slay him?" she inquired gaily.

"Certainly—like the feminine mantis—if you find you don't like him. Individual suitors must take their chances of being either eaten or adored."

"Jim, you're so funny."

She swung her stool, rested her elbow on the piano, and gazed at him interrogatively, the odd, half-smile edging her lips and eyes. And, after a little duetto of silence:

"Do you suppose I shall ever come to care for you—imprudently?" she asked.

"I wouldn't let you."

"How could you help it? And, as far as that goes, how could I, if it happened?"

"If you ever come to care at all," he said, "you'll care enough."

"That is the trouble with you," she retorted, "you don't care enough."

A slight flush stained his cheek-bones: "Sometimes," he said, "I almost wish I cared less. And that would be what you call enough."

Colour came into her face, too:

"Do you know, Jim, I really don't know how much I do care for you? It sounds rather silly, doesn't it?"

"Do you care more than you did at first?"

"Yes."

"Much more?"

"I told you I don't know how much."

"Not enough to marry me?"

"Must we discuss that again?"

He got up, went out to the hall, pulled a book from his overcoat pocket, and returned.

"Would you care to hear what the greatest American says on the subject, Palla?"

"On the subject of marriage?"

"No; he takes the marriage for granted. It's what he has to say concerning the obligations involved."

"Proceed, dear," she said, laughingly.

He read, eliminating what was not necessary to make his point:

"'A race is worthless and contemptible if its men cease to work hard and, at need, to fight hard; and if its women cease to breed freely. If the best classes do not reproduce themselves the nation will, of course, go down.

"'When the ordinary decent man does not understand that to marry the woman he loves, as early as he can, is the most desirable of all goals; when the ordinary woman does not understand that all other forms of life are but makeshift substitutes for the life of the wife, the mother of healthy children; then the State is rotten at heart.

"'The woman who shrinks from motherhood is as low a creature as a man of the professional pacifist, or poltroon, type, who shirks his duty as a soldier.

"'The only full life for man or woman is led by those men and women who together, with hearts both gentle and valiant, face lives of love and duty, who see their children rise up to call them blessed, and who leave behind them their seed to inherit the earth.

"'No celibate life approaches such a life in usefulness. The mother comes ahead of the nun.

"'But if the average woman does not marry and become the mother of enough healthy children to permit the increase of the race; and if the average man does not marry in times of peace and do his full duty in war if need arises, then the race is decadent and should be swept aside to make room for a better one.

"'Only that nation has a future whose sons and daughters recognise and obey the primary laws of their racial being!'"

He closed the book and laid it on the piano.

"Now," he said, "either we're really a rotten and decadent race, and might as well behave like one, or we're sound and sane."

Something unusual in his voice—in the sudden grim whiteness of his face—disturbed Palla.

"I want you to marry me," he said. "You care for no other man. And if you don't love me enough to do it, you'll learn to afterward."

"Jim," she said gently, and now rather white herself, "that is an outrageous thing to say to me. Don't you realise it?"

"I'm sorry. But I love you—I need you so that I'm fit for nothing else. I can't keep my mind on my work; I can't think of anybody—anything but you.... If you didn't care for me more or less I wouldn't come whining to you. I wouldn't come now until I'd entirely won your heart—except that—if I did—and if you refused me marriage and offered the other thing—I'd be about through with everything! And I'd know damned well that the nation wasn't worth the powder to blow it to hell if such women as you betray it!"

The girl flushed furiously; but her voice seemed fairly under control.

"Hadn't you better go, Jim, before you say anything more?"

"Will you marry me?"

"No."

He stood up very straight, unstirring, for a long time, not looking at her.

Then he said "good-bye," in a low voice, and went out leaving her quite pale again and rather badly scared.

As the lower door closed, she sprang to the landing and called his name in a frightened voice that had no carrying power.

* * * * *

Later she telephoned to his several clubs. At eleven she called each club again; and finally telephoned to his house.

At midnight he had not telephoned in reply to the messages she had left requesting him to call her.

Her anxiety had changed to a vague bewilderment. Her dismayed resentment at what he had said to her was giving place to a strange and unaccustomed sense of loneliness.

Suddenly an overwhelming desire to be with Ilse seized her, and she would have called a taxi and started immediately, except for the dread that Jim might telephone in her absence.

Yet, she didn't know what it was that she wanted of him, except to protest at his attitude toward her. Such a protest was due them both—an appeal in behalf of the friendship which meant so much to her—which, she had abruptly discovered, meant far more to her than she supposed.

At midnight she telephoned to Ilse. A sleepy maid replied that Miss Westgard had not yet returned.

So Palla called a taxi, pinned on her hat and struggled into her fur coat, and, taking her latch-key, started for Ilse's apartment, feeling need of her in a blind sort of way—desiring to listen to her friendly voice, touch her, hear her clear, sane laughter.

A yawning maid admitted her. Miss Westgard had dined out with Mr. Estridge, but had not yet returned.

So Palla, wondering a little, laid aside her coat and went into the pretty living room.

There were books and magazines enough, but after a while she gave up trying to read and sat staring absently at a photograph of Estridge in uniform, which stood on the table at her elbow.

Across it was an inscription, dated only a few days back: "To Ilse from Jack, on the road to Asgard."

Then, as she gazed at the man's handsome features, for the first time a vague sense of uneasiness invaded her.

Of a gradually growing comradeship between these two she had been tranquilly aware. And yet, now, it surprised her to realise that their comradeship had drifted into intimacy.

Lying back in her armchair, her thoughts hovered about these two; and she went back in her mind to recollect something of the beginning of this intimacy;—and remembered various little incidents which, at the time, seemed of no portent.

And, reflecting, she recollected now what Ilse had said to her after the last party she had given—and which Palla had not understood.

What had Ilse meant by asking her to "wait"? Wait for what?... Where was Ilse, now? Why did she remain out so late with John Estridge? It was after one o'clock.

Of course they must be dancing somewhere or other. There were plenty of dances to go to.

Palla stirred restlessly in her chair. Evidently Ilse had not told her maid that she meant to be out late, for the girl seemed to have expected her an hour ago.

Palla's increasing restlessness finally drove her to the windows, where she pulled aside the shades and stood looking out into the silent night.

The night was cold and clear and very still. Rarely a footfarer passed; seldom a car. And the stillness of the dark city increased her nervousness.

New York has rare phases of uncanny silence, when, for a space, no sound disturbs the weird stillness.

The clang of trains, the feathery whirr of motors, the echo of footsteps, the immense, indefinable breathing vibration of the iron monster, drowsing on its rock between three rivers and the sea, ceases utterly. And a vast stillness reigns, mournful, ominous, unutterably sad.

Palla looked down into the empty street. The dark chill of it seemed to rise and touch her; and she shivered unconsciously and turned back into the lighted room.

* * * * *

It was two o'clock. Her eyes were heavy, her heart heavier. Why should everything suddenly happen to her in that way? Where had Jim gone when he left her? And who was it answered the telephone at his house when she had called up and asked to speak to him? It was a woman's voice—a maid, no doubt—yet, for an instant, she had fancied that the voice resembled his mother's.

But it couldn't have been, for Palla had given her name, and Mrs. Shotwell would have spoken to her—unless—perhaps his mother—disapproved of something—of her calling Jim at such an hour.... Or of something ... perhaps of their friendship ... of herself, perhaps——

She heard the clock strike and looked across at the mantel.

What was Ilse doing at half-past two in the morning? Where could she be?

Palla involuntarily turned her head and looked at the photograph. Of course Ilse was safe with a man like John Estridge.... That is to say ...

Without warning, her face grew hot and the crimson tide mounted to the roots of her hair, dyeing throat and temples.

A sort of stunning reaction followed as the tide ebbed; she found herself stupidly repeating the word "safe," as though to interpret what it meant.

Safe? Yes, Ilse was safe. She knew how to take care of herself ... unless....

Again the crimson tide invaded her skin to the temples.... A sudden and haunting fear came creeping after it had ebbed once more, leaving her gazing fixedly into space through the tumult of her thoughts. And always in dull, unmeaning repetition the word "safe" throbbed in her ears.

Safe? Safe from what? From the creed they both professed? From their common belief? From the consequences of living up to it?

At the thought, Palla sprang to her feet and stood quivering all over, both hands pressed to her throat, which was quivering too.

Where was Ilse? What had happened? Had she suddenly come face to face with that creed of theirs—that shadowy creed which they believed in, perhaps because it seemed so unreal!—because the ordeal by fire seemed so vague, so far away in that ghostly bourne which is called the future, and which remains always so inconceivably distant to the young—star-distant, remote as inter-stellar dust—aloof as death.

It was three o'clock. There were velvet-dark smears under Palla's eyes, little colour in her lips. The weight of fatigue lay heavily on her young shoulders; on her mind, too, partly stupefied by the violence of her emotions.

Once she had risen heavily, had gone into the maid's room and had told her to go to bed, adding that she herself would wait for Miss Westgard.

That, already, was nearly an hour ago, and the gilt hands of the clock were already creeping around the gilded dial toward the half hour.

As it struck on the clear French bell, a key turned in the outside door; then the door closed; and Palla rose trembling from her chair as Ilse entered, her golden hair in lovely disorder, the evening cloak partly flung from her shoulders.

There was a moment's utter silence. Then Ilse stepped swiftly forward and took Palla in her arms.

"My darling! What has happened?" she asked. "Why are you here at this hour? You look dreadfully ill!——"

Palla's head dropped on her breast.

"What is it?" whispered Ilse. "Darling—darling—you did—you did wait—didn't you?"

Palla's voice was scarcely audible: "I don't know what you mean.... I was only frightened about you.... I've been so unhappy.... And Jim said—good-bye—and I can't—find him——"

"I want you to answer me! Are you in love with him?"

"No.... I don't—think so——"

Ilse drew a deep breath.

"It's all right, then," she said.

Then, suddenly, Palla seemed to understand what Ilse had meant when she had said, "Wait!"

And she lifted her head and looked blindly into the sea-blue eyes—blindly, desperately, striving to see through those clear soul-windows what it might be that was looking out at her.

And, gazing, she knew that she dared not ask Ilse where she had been.

The latter smiled; but her voice was very tender when she spoke.

"We'll telephone your maid in the morning. You must go to bed, Palla."

"Alone?"

Ilse turned carelessly and laid her cloak across a chair. There was a second chamber beyond her own. She went into it, turned down the bed and called Palla, who came slowly after her.

They kissed each other in silence. Then Ilse went back to her own room.



CHAPTER XVII

"Jim," said his mother, "Miss Dumont called you on the telephone at an unusual hour last night. You had gone to your room, and on the chance that you were asleep I did not speak to you."

That was all—sufficient explanation to discount any reproach from her son incident on his comparing notes with the girl in question. Also just enough in her action to convey to the girl a polite hint that the Shotwell family was not at home to people who telephoned at that unconventional hour.

On his way to business that morning, Jim telephoned to Palla, but, learning she was not at home, let the matter rest.

In his sullen and resentful mood he no longer cared—or thought he didn't, which resulted in the same thing—the accumulation of increasing bitterness during a dull, rainy working day at the office, and a dogged determination to keep clear of this woman until effort to remain away from her was no longer necessary.

For the thing was utterly hopeless; he'd had enough. And in his bruised heart and outraged common sense he was boyishly framing an indictment of modern womanhood—lumping it all and cursing it out—swearing internally at the entire enfranchised pack which the war had set afoot and had licensed to swarm all over everything and raise hell with the ancient and established order of things.

The stormy dark came early; and in this frame of mind when he left the office he sulkily avoided the club.

He very rarely drank anything; but, not knowing what to do, he drifted into the Biltmore bar.

He met a man or two he knew, but declined all suggestions for the evening, turned up his overcoat collar, and started through the hotel toward the northern exit.

And met Marya Lanois face to face.

She was coming from the tea-room with two or three other people, but turned immediately on seeing him and came toward him with hand extended.

"Dear me," she said, "you look very wet. And you don't look particularly well. Have you arrived all alone for tea?"

"I had my tea in the bar," he said. "How are you, Marya?—but I musn't detain you—" he glanced at the distant group of people who seemed to be awaiting her.

"You are not detaining me," she said sweetly.

"Your people seem to be waiting——"

"They may go to the deuce. Are you quite alone?"

"I—yes——"

"Shall we have tea together?"

He laughed. "But you've had yours——"

"Well, you know there are other things that one sometimes drinks."

There seemed no way out of it. They went into the tea-room together and seated themselves.

"How is Vanya?" he inquired.

"Vanya gives a concert to-night in Baltimore."

"And you didn't go!"

"No. It was rainy. Besides, I hear Vanya play when I desire to hear him."

Their order was served.

"So you wouldn't go to Baltimore," said Jim smilingly. "It strikes me, Marya, that you can be a coldblooded girl when you wish to be."

"After all, what do you know about me?"

He laughed: "Oh, I don't mean that I've got your number——"

"No. Because I have many numbers. I am a complicated combination," she added, smiling; "—yet after all, a combination only. And quite simple when one discovers the key to me."

"I think I know what it is," he said.

"What is it?"

"Mischief."

They laughed. Marya, particularly, was intensely amused. She was extremely fetching in her bicorne toque and narrow gown of light turquoise, and her golden beaver scarf and muff.

"Mischief," she repeated. "I should say not. There seems to be already sufficient mischief loose in the world, with the red tide rising everywhere—in Russia, in Germany, Austria, Italy, England—yes, and here also the crimson tide of Bolshevism begins to move.... Tell me; you are coming to the club to-morrow evening, I hope."

"No."

"Oh. Why?"

"No," he repeated, almost sullenly. "I've had enough of queerness for a while——"

"Jim! Do you dare include me?"

He had to laugh at her pretence of fury: "No, Marya, you're just a pretty mischief-maker, I suppose——"

"Then what do you mean by 'queerness'? Don't you think it's sensible to combat Bolshevism and fight it with argument and debate on its own selected camping ground? Don't you think it is high time somebody faced this crimson tide—that somebody started to build a dyke against this threatened inundation?"

"The best dykes have machine guns behind them, not orators," he said bluntly.

"My friend, I have seen that, also. And to what have machine guns led us in Petrograd, in Moscow, in Poland, Finland, Courland—" She shrugged her pretty shoulders. "No. I have seen enough blood."

He said: "I have seen a little myself."

"Yes, I know. But a soldier is always a soldier, as a hound is always a hound. The blood of the quarry is what their instinct follows. Your goal is death; we only seek to tame."

"The proper way to check Bolshevism in America is to police the country properly, and kick out the outrageous gang of domestic Bolsheviki who have exploited us, tricked us, lied to us, taxed us unfairly, and in spite of whom we have managed to help our allies win this war.

"Then, when this petty, wretched, crooked bunch has been swept out, and the nation aired and disinfected, and when the burden of taxation is properly distributed, and business dares lift its head again, then start your debates and propaganda and try to educate your enemies if you like. But keep your machine guns oiled."

"You speak in an uncomplimentary fashion of government," said the girl, smiling.

"I am all for government. That does not mean that I am for the particular incumbents in office under the present Government. I have no use for them. Know that this war was won, not through them but in spite of them.

"Yet I place loyalty first of all—loyalty to the true ideals of that Government which some of the present incumbents so grotesquely misrepresent.

"That means, stand by the ship and the flag she flies, no matter who steers or what crew capers about her decks.

"That means, watch out for all pirates;—open fire on anything that flies a hostile flag, red or any other colour.

"And that's my creed, Marya!"

"To shoot; not to debate?"

"An inquest is safer."

"We shall never agree," said the girl, laughing. "And I'm rather glad."

"Why?"

"Because disagreements are more amusing than any entente cordiale, mon ami. It is the opposing forces that never bore each other. In life, too—I mean among human beings. Once they agree, interest lessens."

"Nonsense," he said, smiling.

"Oh, it is quite true. Behold us. We don't agree. But I am interested," she added with pretty audacity; "so please take me to dinner somewhere."

"You mean now, as we are?"

"Parbleu! Did you wish to go home and dress?"

"I don't care if you don't," he said.

"Suppose," she suggested, "we dine where there is something to see."

"A Broadway joint?" he asked, amused.

"A joint?" she repeated, smilingly perplexed. "Is that a place where we may dine and see a spectacle too and afterward dance?"

"Something of that sort," he admitted, laughing. But under his careless gaiety an ugly determination had been hardening; he meant to go no more to Palla; he meant to welcome any distraction of the moment to help tide him over the long, grey interval that loomed ahead—welcome any draught that might mitigate the bitter waters he was tasting—and was destined to drain to their revolting dregs.

* * * * *

They went to the Palace of Mirrors and were lucky enough to secure a box.

The food was excellent; the show a gay one.

Between intermissions he took Marya to the floor for a dance or two. The place was uncomfortably crowded: uniforms were everywhere, too; and Jim nodded to many men he knew, and to a few women.

And, in the vast, brilliant place, there was not a man who saw Marya and failed to turn and follow her with his eyes. For Marya had been fashioned to trouble man. And that primitively constructed and obviously-minded sex never failed to become troubled.

"We'd better enjoy our champagne," remarked Marya. "We'll be a wineless nation before long, I suppose."

"It seems rather a pity," he remarked, "that a man shouldn't be free to enjoy a glass of claret. But if the unbaked and the half-baked, and the unwashed and the half-washed can't be trusted to practise moderation, we others ought to abstain, I suppose. Because what is best for the majority ought to be the law for all."

"If it were left to me," said the girl, "I'd let the submerged drink themselves to death."

"What on earth are you talking about?" he said. "I thought you were a socialist!"

"I am. I desire no law except that of individual inclination."

"Why, that's Bolshevism!"

Her laughter rang out unrestrained: "I believe in Bolshevism—for myself—but not for anybody else. In other words, I'd like to be autocrat of the world. If I were, I'd let everybody alone unless they interfered with me."

"And in that event?" he asked, laughing, as the lights all over the house faded to a golden glimmer in preparation for the second part of the spectacle. He could no longer see her clearly across the little table. "What would you do if people interfered with you?" he repeated.

Marya smiled. The last ray of light smouldered in her tiger-red hair; the warm, fragrant, breathing youth of her grew vaguer, merging with the shadows; only the beryl-tinted eyes, which slanted slightly, remained distinct.

Her voice came to him through the music: "If I were autocrat, any man who dared oppose me would have his choice."

"What choice?"

The music swelled toward a breathless crescendo.

She said: "Oppose me and you shall learn!——"

The house burst into a dazzling flood of moon-tinted light, all thronged with slim shapes whirling in an enchanted dance. Then clouds seemed to gather; the moon slid behind them, leaving a frosty demi-darkness through which, presently, snow began to fall.

The girl leaned toward him, watching the spectacle in silence. Perhaps unconsciously her left hand, satin-smooth, slipped over his—as though the contact were a symbol of enjoyment shared.

Light broke the next moment, revealing the spectacle on stage and floor in all its tinsel magnificence—snow-nymphs, polar-bears, all capering madly until an unearthly shriek heralded the coming of a favorite clown, who tumbled all the way down the stage steps and continued hysterically turning flip-flaps, cart-wheels, and somersaults until he landed with a crash at the foot of the steps again.

* * * * *

A large, highly coloured and over-glossy man, passing under their box during a dancing intermission, bowed rather extravagantly to Jim. He recognised Angelo Puma, with contemptuous amusement at his impudence.

It was evident, too, that Puma was quite ready to linger if encouraged—anxious, in fact, to extend his hand.

But his impudence had already ceased to amuse Jim, and he said carelessly to Marya, in a voice perfectly audible to Puma:

"There goes a man who, in collusion with a squinting partner of his, once beat me out of a commission."

Puma's heavy, burning face turned abruptly from Marya, whom he had been looking at; and he continued on across the floor. And Jim forgot him.

* * * * *

They remained until the place closed. Then he took her home.

It was an apartment overlooking the park from Fifty-ninth Street—a big studio and apparently many comfortable rooms—a large, still place where no servants were in evidence and where thick velvety carpets from Ushak and Sultanabad muffled every footfall.

She had insisted on his entering for a moment. He stood looking about him in the great studio, where Vanya's concert-grand loomed up, a sprawling, shadowy shape under the dim drop-light which once had been a mosque-lamp in Samarcand.

The girl flung stole and muff from her, rolled up her gloves and took a shot at the piano, then, laughing, unpinned her hat and sent it scaling away into the golden dusk somewhere.

"Are you sleepy, Jim?"

A sudden vision of his trouble in the long, long night to face—trouble, insomnia, and the bitterness welling ever fresher with the interminable thoughts he could not suppress, could not control——

"I'm not sleepy," he said. "But don't you want to turn in?"

She went over to the piano, and, accompanying herself on deadened pedal where she stood, sang in a low voice the "Snow-Tiger," with its uncanny refrain:

"Tiger-eyes Tiger-eyes, What do you see Far in the dark Over the snow? Far in the dark Over the snow, Slowly the ghosts of dead men go,— Horses and riders under the moon Trample along to the dead men's rune, Slava! Slava! Over the snow."

"That's too hilarious a song," said Jim, laughing. "May I suggest a little rag to properly subdue us?"

"You don't like Tiger-eyes?"

"I've heard more cheerful ditties."

"When I'm excited by pleasure," said the girl, "I sing Tiger-eyes."

"Does it subdue you?"

She looked at him. "No."

Still standing, she looked down at the keys, struck the muffled chords softly.

"Tiger-eyes Tiger-eyes, Where do they go, Far in the dark Over the snow? Into the dark, Over the snow, Only the ghosts of the dead men know Where they have come from, whither they go, Riding at night by the corpse-light glow, Slava! Slava! Over the snow."

"Well, for the love of Mike——"

Marya's laughter pealed.

"So you don't like Tiger-eyes?" she demanded, coming from behind the piano.

"I sure don't," he admitted.

"The real Russian name of the song is 'Words! Words!' And that's all the song is—all that any song is—all that anything amounts to—words! words!—" She dropped onto the long couch,—"Anything except—love."

"You may include that, too," he said, lighting a cigarette for her; and she blew a ring of smoke at him, saying:

"I may—but I won't. For goodness sake leave me the last one of my delusions!"

They both laughed and he said she was welcome to her remaining delusion.

"Won't you share it with me?" she said, her smile innocent enough, save for the audacity of the red mouth.

"Share your delusion?"

"Yes, that too."

This wouldn't do. He lighted a cigarette for himself and sauntered over to the piano.

"I hope Vanya's concert is a success," he said. "He's such a charming fellow, Vanya—so considerate, so gentle—" He turned and looked at Marya, and his eyes added: "Why the devil don't you marry him and have a lot of jolly children?"

There seemed to be in his clear eyes enough for the girl to comprehend something of the question they flung at her.

"I don't love Vanya," she said.

"Of course you do!"

"As I might love a child—yes."

After a silence: "It strikes me," he said, "that you're passionately in love."

"I am."

"With yourself," he added, smiling.

"With you."

This wouldn't do any longer. The place slightly stifled him with its stillness, rugs—the odours that came from lacquered shapes, looming dimly, flowered and golden in the dusk—the aromatic scent of her cigarette——

"Hell!" he muttered under his breath. "This is no place for a white man." But aloud he said pleasantly: "My very best wishes for Vanya to-night. Tell him so when he returns—" He put on his overcoat and picked up hat and stick.

"It's infernally late," he added, "and I've been a beast to keep you up. It was awfully nice of you."

She rose from the lounge and walked with him to the door.

"Good night," he said cheerily; but she retained his hand, added her other to it, and put up her face.

"Look here," he said, smilingly, "I can't do that, Marya."

"Why can't you?"

Her soft breath was on his face; the mouth too near—too near——

"No, I can't!" he said curtly, but his voice trembled a little.

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because—there's Vanya. No, I won't do it!"

"Is that the reason?"

"It's a reason."

"I don't love Vanya. I do love you."

"Please remember——"

"No! No! I have nothing to remember—unless you give me something——"

"You had better try to remember that Vanya loves you. You and I can't do a thing like that to Vanya—"

"Are there no other reasons?"

He reddened to the temples: "No, there are not—now. There is no other reason—except myself."

"Yourself?"

"Yes, damn it, myself! That's all that remains now to keep me straight. And I've been so. That may be news to you. Perhaps you don't believe it."

"Is it so, Jim?" she asked in a voice scarcely audible.

"Yes, it is. And so I shall keep on, and play the game that way—play it squarely with Vanya, too——"

He had lost his heavy colour; he stood looking at her with a white, strained, grim expression that tightened the jaw muscles; and she felt his powerful hand clenching between hers.

"It's no use," he said between his set lips, "I've got to go on—see it through in my own fashion—this rotten thing called life. I'm sorry, Marya, that I'm not a better sport——"

A wave of colour swept her face and her hands suddenly crushed his between them.

"You're wonderful," she said. "I do love you."

But the tense, grey look had come back into his face. Looking at her in silence, presently his gaze seemed to become remote, his absent eyes fixed on something beyond her.

"I've a rotten time ahead of me," he said, not knowing he had spoken. When his eyes reverted to her, his features remained expressionless, but his voice was almost tender as he said good night once more.

Her hands fell away; he opened the door and went out without looking back.

He found a taxi at the Plaza. He was swearing when he got into it. And all the way home he kept repeating to himself: "I'm one of those cursed, creeping Josephs; that's what I am,—one of those pepless, sanctimonious, creeping Josephs.... And I always loathed that poor fish, too!"



CHAPTER XVIII

Shotwell Junior discovered in due course of time the memoranda of the repeated messages which Palla had telephoned to his several clubs, asking him to call her up immediately.

It was rather late to do that now, but his pulses began to quicken again in the old, hopeless way; and he went to the telephone booth and called the number which seemed burnt into his brain forever.

A maid answered; Palla came presently; and he thought her voice seemed colourless and unfamiliar.

"Yes, I'm perfectly well," she replied to his inquiry; "where in the world did you go that night? I simply couldn't find you anywhere."

"What had you wished to say to me?"

"Nothing—except—that I was afraid you were angry when you left, and I didn't wish you to part with me on such terms. Were you annoyed?"

"No."

"You say it very curtly, Jim."

"Is that all you desired to say to me?"

"Yes.... I was a little troubled.... Something else went wrong, too;—everything seemed to go wrong that night.... I thought perhaps—if I could hear your voice—if you'd say something kind——"

"Had you nothing else to tell me, Palla?"

"No.... What?"

"Then you haven't changed your attitude?"

"Toward you? I don't expect to——"

"You know what I mean!"

"Oh. But, Jim, we can't discuss that over the telephone."

"I suppose not.... Is anything wrong with you, Palla? Your voice sounds so tired——"

"Does it? I don't know why. Tell me, please, what did you do that unhappy night?"

"I went home."

"Directly?"

"Yes."

"I telephoned your house about twelve, and was informed you were not at home."

"They thought I was asleep. I'm sorry, Palla——"

"I shouldn't have telephoned so late," she interrupted, "I'm afraid that it was your mother who answered; and if it was, I received the snub I deserved!"

"Nonsense! It wasn't meant that way——"

"I'm afraid it was, Jim. It's quite all right, though. I won't do it again.... Am I to see you soon?"

"No, not for a while——"

"Are you so busy?"

"There's no use in my going to you, Palla."

"Why?"

"Because I'm in love with you," he said bluntly, "and I'm trying to get over it."

"I thought we were friends, too."

After a lengthy silence: "You're right," he said, "we are."

She heard his quick, deep breath like a sigh. "Shall I come to-night?"

"I'm expecting some people, Jim—women who desire to establish a Combat Club in Chicago, and they have come on here to consult me."

"To-morrow night, then?"

"Please."

"Will you be alone?"

"I expect to be."

Once more he said: "Palla, is anything worrying you? Are you ill? Is Ilse all right?"

There was a pause, then Palla's voice, resolutely tranquil. "Everything is all right in the world as long as you are kind to me, Jim. When you're not, things darken and become queer——"

"Palla!"

"Yes."

"Listen! This is to serve notice on you. I'm going to make a fight for you."

After a silence, he heard her sweet, uncertain laughter.

"Jim?"

"Yes, dear."

"I suppose it would shock you if I made a fight for—you!"

He took it as a jest and laughed at her perverse humour. But what she had meant she herself scarcely realised; and she turned away from the telephone, conscious of a vague excitement invading her and of a vaguer consternation, too. For behind the humorous audacity of her words, she seemed to realise there remained something hidden—something she was on the verge of discovering—something indefinable, menacing, grave enough to dismay her and drive from her lips the last traces of the smile which her audacious jest had left there.

The ladies from Chicago were to dine with her; her maid had hooked her gown; orchids from Jim had just arrived, and she was still pinning them to her waist—still happily thrilled by this lovely symbol of their renewed accord, when the bell rang.

It was much too early to expect anybody: she fastened her orchids and started to descend the stairs for a last glance at the table, when, to her astonishment, she saw Angelo Puma in the hall in the act of depositing his card upon the salver extended by the maid.

He looked up and saw her before she could retreat: she made the best of it and continued on down, greeting him with inquiring amiability:

"Miss Dumont, a thousand excuses for this so bold intrusion," he began, bowing extravagantly at every word. "Only the urgent importance of my errand could possibly atone for a presumption like there never has been in all——"

"Please step into the drawing room, Mr. Puma, if you have something of importance to say."

He followed her on tiptoe, flashing his magnificent eyes about the place, still wearing over his evening dress the seal overcoat with its gardenia, which was already making him famous on Broadway.

Palla seated herself, wondering a little at the perfumed splendour of her landlord. He sat on the extreme edge of an arm chair, his glossy hat on his knee.

"Miss Dumont," he said, laying one white-gloved paw across his shirt-front, "you shall behold in me a desolate man!"

"I'm sorry." She looked at him in utter perplexity.

"What shall you say to me?" he cried. "What just reproaches shall you address to me, Miss Dumont!"

"I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Puma," she said, inclined to laugh, "—until you tell me what is your errand."

"Miss Dumont, I am most unhappy and embarrass. Because you have pay me in advance for that which I am unable to offer you."

"I don't think I understand."

"Alas! You have pay to me by cheque for six months more rent of my hall."

"Yes."

"I have given to you a lease for six months more, and with it an option for a year of renewal."

"Yes."

"Miss Dumont, behold me desolate."

"But why?"

"Because I am force by circumstance over which I have no control to cancel this lease and option, and ask you most respectfully to be so kind as to secure other quarters for your club."

"But we can't do that!" exclaimed Palla in dismay.

"I am so very sorry——"

"We can't do it," added Palla with decision. "It's utterly impossible, Mr. Puma. All our meetings are arranged for months in advance; all the details are completed. We could not disarrange the programme adopted. From all over the United States people are invited to come on certain fixed dates. All arrangements have been made; you have my cheque and I have your signed lease. No, we are obliged to hold you to your contract, and I'm very sorry if it inconveniences you."

Puma's brilliant eyes became tenderly apprehensive.

"Miss Dumont," he said in a hushed and confidential voice, "believe me when I venture to say to you that your club should leave for reasons most grave, most serious."

"What reasons?"

"The others—the Red Flag Club. Who knows what such crazy people might do in anger? They are very angry already. They complain that your club has interfere with them——"

"That is exactly why we're there, Mr. Puma—to interfere with them, neutralise their propaganda, try to draw the same people who listen to their violent tirades. That is why we're there, and why we refuse to leave. Ours is a crusade of education. We chose that hall because we desired to make the fight in the very camp of the enemy. And I must tell you plainly that we shall not give up our lease, and that we shall hold you to it."

The dark blood flooded his heavy features:

"I do not desire to take it to the courts," he said. "I am willing to offer compensation."

"We couldn't accept. Don't you understand, Mr. Puma? We simply must have that particular hall for the Combat Club."

Puma remained perfectly silent for a few moments. There was still, on his thick lips, the suave smile which had been stamped there since his appearance in her house.

But in this man's mind and heart there was growing a sort of dull and ferocious fear—fear of elements already gathering and combining to menace his increasing prosperity.

Sullenly he was aware that this hard-won prosperity was threatened. Always its conditions had been unstable at best, but now the atmospheric pressure was slowly growing, and his sky of promise was not as clear.

Some way, somehow, he must manage to evict these women. Twice Sondheim had warned him. And that evening Sondheim had sent him an ultimatum by Kastner.

And Puma was perfectly aware that Karl Kastner knew enough about him to utterly ruin him in the great Republic which was now giving him a fortune and which had never discovered that his own treacherous mission here was the accomplishment of her ruin.

* * * * *

Puma stood up, heavily, cradling his glossy hat. But his urbane smile became brilliant again and he made Palla an extravagant bow.

"It shall be arrange," he said cheerfully. "I consult my partner—your friend, Mr. Skidder! Yes! So shall we arrive at entente."

His large womanish eyes swept the room. Suddenly they were arrested by a photograph of Shotwell Junior—in a silver frame—the only ornament, as yet, in the little drawing room.

And instantly, within Angelo Puma, the venomous instinct was aroused to do injury where it might be done safely and without suspicion of intent.

"Ah," he exclaimed gaily, "my friend, Mr. Shotwell! It is from him, Miss Dumont, you have purchase this so beautiful residence!"

He bent to salute with a fanciful inclination the photograph of the man who had spoken so contemptuously of him the evening previous.

"Mr. Shotwell also adores gaiety," he said laughingly. "Last night I beheld him at the Palace of Mirrors—and with an attractive young lady of your club, Miss Dumont—the charming young Russian lady with whom you came once to pay me the rent—" He kissed his hand in an ecstasy of recollection. "So beautiful a young lady! So gay were they in their box! Ah, youth! youth! Ah, the happiness and folly when laughter bubbles in our wine!—the magic wine of youth!"

He took his leave, moving lightly to the door, almost grotesque in his elaborate evolutions and adieux.

Palla went slowly upstairs.

The evening paper lay on a table in the living room. She unfolded it mechanically; looked at it but saw no print, merely an unsteady haze of greyish tint on which she could not seem to concentrate.

Marya and Jim ... together.... That was the night he went away angry.... The night he told her he had gone directly home.... But it couldn't have been.... He couldn't have lied....

She strove to recollect as she sat there staring at the newspaper.... What was it that beast had said about it?... Of course—last night!... Marya and Jim had been together last night.... But where was Vanya?... Oh, yes.... Last night Vanya was away ... in Baltimore.

The paper dropped to her lap; she sat looking straight ahead of her.

What had so shocked her then about Jim and Marya being together? True, she had not supposed them to be on such terms—had not even thought about it....

Yes, she had thought about it, scarcely conscious of her own indefinable uneasiness—a memory, perhaps, of that evening when the Russian girl had been at little pains to disguise her interest in this man. And Palla had noticed it—noticed that Marya was seated too near him—noticed that, and the subtle attitude of provocation, and the stealthy evolution of that occult sorcery which one woman instantly divines in another and finds slightly revolting.

Was it merely that memory which had been evoked when Puma's laughing revelation so oddly chilled her?—the suspected and discovered predilection of this Russian girl for Jim? Or was it something else, something deeper, some sudden and more profound illumination which revealed to her that, in the depths of her, she was afraid?

Afraid? Afraid of what?

Her charming young head sank; the brown eyes stared at the floor.

She was beginning to understand what had chilled her, what she had unconsciously been afraid of—her own creed!—when applied to another woman.

And this was the second time that this creed of hers had risen to confront her, and the second time she had gazed at it, chilled by fear: once, when she had waited for Ilse to return; and now once again.

For now she began to comprehend how ruthless that creed could become when professed by such a girl as Marya Lanois.

* * * * *

She was still seated there when Marya came in, her tiger-red hair in fascinating disorder from the wind, her skin fairly breathing the warm fragrance of exotic youth.

"My Palla! How pale you seem!" she exclaimed, embracing her. "You are quite well? Really? Then I am reassured!"

She went to the mirror and tucked in a burnished strand or two of hair.

"These Chicago ladies—they have not arrived, I see. Am I then so early? For I see that Ilse is not yet here——"

"It is only a quarter to eight," said Palla, smiling; but the brown eyes were calmly measuring this lithe and warm and lovely thing with green eyes—measuring it intently—taking its measure—taking, for the first time in her life, her measure of any woman.

"Was Vanya's concert a great success?" she asked.

"Vanya has not yet returned." She shrugged. "There was nothing in New York papers."

"I suppose you were very nervous last night," said Palla.

For a moment Marya continued to arrange her hair by the aid of the mantel mirror, then she turned very lithely and let her green gaze rest full on Palla's face.

What she might possibly have divined was hidden behind the steady brown eyes that met hers may have determined her attitude and words; for she laughed with frank carelessness and plunged into it all:

"Fancy, Palla, my encountering Jim Shotwell in the Biltmore, and dining with him at that noisy Palace of Mirrors last night! Did he tell you?"

"I haven't seen him."

"—Over the telephone, perhaps?"

"No, he did not mention it."

"Well, it was most amusing. It is the unpremeditated that is delightful. And can you see us in that dreadful place, as gay as a pair of school children? And we must laugh at nothing and find it enchanting—and we must dance amid the hoi polloi and clap our hands for the encore too!——"

A light peal of laughter floated from her lips at the recollections evoked:

"And after! Can you see us, Palla, in Vanya's studio, too wide awake to go our ways!—and the song I sang at that unearthly hour—the song I sing always when happily excited——"

The bell rang; the first guest had arrived.



CHAPTER XIX

Vanya's concert had been enough of a success to attract the attention of genuine music-lovers and an impecunious impresario—an irresponsible promoter celebrated for rushing headlong into things and being kicked headlong out of them.

All promising virtuosi had cut their wisdom teeth on him; all had acquired experience and its accompanying toothache; none had acquired wealth until free of this ubiquitous impresario.

His name was Wilding: he seized upon Vanya; and that gentle and disconcerted dreamer offered no resistance.

So Wilding began to haunt Vanya's apartment at all hours of the day, rushing in with characteristic enthusiasm to discuss the vast campaign of nation-wide concerts which in his mind's eye were already materialising.

Marya had no faith in him and was becoming very tired of his noise and bustle in the stillness and subdued light which meant home to her, and which this loud, excitable, untidy man was eternally invading.

Always he was shouting at Vanya: "It's a knock-out! It will go big! big! big! We got 'em started in Baltimore!"—a fact, but none of his doing! "We'll play Philadelphia next; I'm fixin' it for you. All you gotta do is go there and the yelling starts. Well, I guess. Some riot, believe me!"

Wilding had no money in the beginning. After a while, Vanya had none, or very little; but the impresario wore a new fur coat and spats. And Broadway winked wearily and said: "He's got another!"—doubtless deeming specification mere redundancy.

Yet, somehow, Wilding did manage to book Vanya in Philadelphia—at a somewhat distant date, it is true—but it was something with which to begin the promised "nation-wide tour" under the auspices of Dawson B. Wilding.

Marya had money of her own, but trusted none of it in Wilding's schemes. In fact, she had come to detest him thoroughly, and whenever he was announced she would rise like some beautiful, disgusted feline, which something has disturbed in her dim and favourite corner, and move lithely away to another room. And it almost seemed as though her little, warm, closely-chiselled ears actually flattened with bored annoyance as the din of Wilding's vociferous greeting to Vanya arose behind her.

* * * * *

One day toward Christmas time, she said to Vanya, in her level, satin-smooth voice:

"You know, mon ami, I am tiring rapidly of this great fool who comes shouting and tramping into our home. And when I am annoyed beyond my nerve capacity, I am likely to leave."

Vanya said gently that he was sorry that he had entered into financial relations with a man who annoyed her, but that it could scarcely be helped now.

He was seated at his piano, not playing, but scoring. And he resumed his composition after he had spoken, his grave, delicate head bent over the ruled sheets, a gold pencil held between his long fingers.

Marya lounged near, watched him. Not for the first time, now, did his sweet temper and gentleness vaguely irritate her—string her nerves a little tighter until they began to vibrate with an indefinable longing to say something to arouse this man—startle him—awaken him to a physical tensity and strength.... Such as Shotwell's for example....

"Vanya?"

He looked up absently, the beauty of dreams still clouding his eyes.

And suddenly, to her own astonishment, her endurance came to its end. She had never expected to say what she was now going to say to him. She had never dreamed of confession—of enlightening him. And now, all at once, she knew she was going to do it, and that it was a needless and cruel and insane and useless thing to do, for it led her nowhere, and it would leave him in helpless pain.

"Vanya," she said, "I am in love with Jim Shotwell."

After a few moments, she turned and slowly crossed the studio. Her hat and coat lay on a chair. She put them on and walked out.

* * * * *

The following morning, Palla, arriving to consult Marya on a matter of the Club's business, discovered Vanya alone in the studio.

He was lying on the lounge when she entered, and he looked ill, but he rose with all his characteristic grace and charm and led her to a chair, saluting her hand as he seated her.

"Marya has not yet arrived?" she inquired.

His delicate features became very grave and still.

"I thought," added Palla, "that Marya usually breakfasted at eleven——"

Something in his expression checked her; and she fell silent, fascinated by the deathly whiteness of his face.

"I am sorry to tell you," he said, in a pleasant and steady voice, "that Marya has not returned."

"Why—why, I didn't know she was away——"

"Yesterday she decided. Later she was good enough to telephone from the Hotel Rajah, where, for the present, she expects to remain."

"Oh, Vanya!" Palla's involuntary exclamation brought a trace of colour into his cheeks.

He said: "It is not her fault. She was loyal and truthful. One may not control one's heart.... And if she is in love—well, is she not free to love him?"

"Who—is—it?" asked Palla faintly.

"Mr. Shotwell, it appears."

In the dead silence, Vanya passed his hand slowly across his temples; let it drop on his knee.

"Freedom above all else," he said, "—freedom to love, freedom to cease loving, freedom to love anew.... Well ... it is curious—the scheme of things.... Love must remain inexplicable. For there is no analysis. I think there never could be any man who cared as I have cared, as I do care for her...."

He rose, and to Palla he seemed already a trifle stooped;—it may have been his studio coat, which fitted badly.

"But, Vanya dear—" Palla looked at him miserably, conscious of her own keen fears as well as of his sorrow. "Don't you think she'll come back? Do you suppose it is really so serious—what she thinks about—Mr. Shotwell?"

He shook his head: "I don't know.... If it is so, it is so. Freedom is of first importance. Our creed is our creed. We must abide by what we teach and believe."

"Yes."

He nodded absently, staring palely into space.

Perhaps his lost gaze evoked the warm-skinned, sunny-haired girl who had gone out of the semi-light of this still place, leaving the void unutterably vast around him. For this had been the lithe thing's silken lair—the slim and supple thing with beryl eyes—here where thick-piled carpets of the East deadened every human movement—where no sound stirred, nor any air—where dull shapes loomed, lacquered and indistinct, and an odour of Chinese lacquer and nard haunted the tinted dusk.

* * * * *

Like one of those lazy, golden, jewelled sea-creatures of irresponsible freedom brought seemed to fill the girl cooler currents arouses a restlessness infernal, Marya's first long breath of freedom subtly excited her.

She had no definite ideas, no plans. She was merely tired of Vanya.

Perhaps her fresh, wholesome contact with Jim had started it—the sense of a clean vitality which had seemed to envelop her like the delicious, half-resented chill of a spring-pool plunge. For the exhilaration possessed her still; and the sudden stimulation which the sense of irresponsible freedom brought seemed to fill the girl with a new vigour.

Foot-loose, heart-loose, her green eyes on the open world where it stretched away into infinite horizons, she paced her new nest in the Hotel Rajah, tingling with subdued excitement, innocent of the faintest regret for what had been.

For a week she lived alone, enjoying the sensation of being hidden, languidly savouring the warm comfort of isolation.

She had not sent for her belongings. She purchased new personal effects, enchanted to be rid of familiar things.

There was no snow. She walked a great deal, moving in unaccustomed sections of the city at all hours, skirting in the early winter dusk the glitter of Christmas preparations along avenues and squares, lunching where she was unlikely to encounter anybody she knew, dining, too, at hazard in unwonted places—restaurants she had never heard of, tea-rooms, odd corners.

Vanya wrote her. She tossed his letters aside, scarcely read. Ilse and Palla wrote her, and telephoned her. She paid them no attention.

The metropolitan jungle fascinated her. She adored her liberty, and looked out of beryl-green eyes across the border of license, where ghosts of the half-world swarmed in no-man's-land.

Conscious that she had been fashioned to trouble man, the knowledge merely left her indefinitely contented, save when she remembered Jim. But that he had checked her drift toward him merely excited her; for she knew she had been made to trouble such as he; and she had seen his face that night....

* * * * *

Ilse, on her way home to dress—for she was going out somewhere with Estridge—stopped for tea at Palla's house, and found her a little disturbed over an anonymous letter just delivered—a typewritten sheet bluntly telling her to take her friends and get out of the hall where the Combat Club held its public sessions; and warning her of serious trouble if she did not heed this "friendly" advice.

"Pouf!" exclaimed Ilse contemptuously, "I get those, too, and tear them up. People who talk never strike. Are you anxious, darling?"

Palla smiled: "Not a bit—only such cowardice saddens me.... And the days are grey enough...."

"Why do you say that? I think it is a wonderful winter—a beautiful year!"

Palla lifted her brown eyes and let them dwell on the beauty of this clear-skinned, golden-haired girl who had discovered beauty in the aftermath of the world's great tragedy.

Ilse smiled: "Life is good," she said. "This world is all to be done over in the right way. We have it all before us, you and I, Palla, and those who love and understand."

"I am wondering," said Palla, "who understands us. I'm not discouraged, but—there seems to be so much indifference in the world."

"Of course. That is our battle to overcome it."

"Yes. But, dear, there seems to be so much hatred, too, in the world. I thought the war had ended, but everywhere men are still in battle—everywhere men are dying of this fierce hatred that seems to flame up anew across the world; everywhere men fight and slay to gain advantage. None yields, none renounces, none gives. It is as though love were dead on earth."

"Love is being reborn," said Ilse cheerfully. "Birth means pain, always——"

Without warning, a hot flush flooded her face; she averted it as the tea-tray was brought and set on a table before Palla. When her face cooled, she leaned back in her chair, cup in hand, a sort of confused sweetness in her blue eyes.

Palla's heart was beating heavily as she leaned on the table, her cup untasted, her idle fingers crumbing the morsel of biscuit between them.

After a moment she said: "So you have concluded that you care for John Estridge?"

"Yes, I care," said Ilse absently, the same odd, sweet smile curving her cheeks.

"That is—wonderful," said Palla, not looking at her.

Ilse remained silent, her blue gaze aloof.

A maid came and turned up the lamps, and went away again.

Palla said in a low voice: "Are you—afraid?"

"No."

They both remained silent until she rose to go. Palla, walking with her to the head of the stairs, holding one of her hands imprisoned, said with an effort: "I am frightened, dear.... I can't help it.... You will be certain, first, won't you?——"

"It is as certain as death," said Ilse in a low, still voice.

Palla shivered; she passed one arm around her; and they stood so for a while. Then Ilse's arm tightened, and the old gaiety glinted in her sea-blue eyes:

"Is your house in order too, Palla?" she asked. "Turn around, little enigma! There; I can look into those brown eyes now. And I see nothing in them to answer me my question."

"Do you mean Jim?"

"I do."

"I haven't seen him."

"For how long?"

"Weeks. I don't know how long it has been——"

"Have you quarrelled?"

"Yes. We seem to. This is quite the most serious one yet."

"You are not in love with him."

"Oh, Ilse, I don't know. He simply can't understand me. I feel so bruised and tired after a controversy with him. He seems to be so merciless to my opinions—so violent——"

"You poor child.... After all, Palla, freedom also means the liberty to change one's mind.... If you should care to change yours——"

"I can't change my inmost convictions."

"Those—no."

"I have not changed them. I almost wish I could. But I've got to be honest.... And he can't understand me."

Ilse smiled and kissed her: "That is scarcely to be wondered at, as you don't seem to know your own mind. Perhaps when you do he, also, may understand you. Good-bye! I must run——"

Palla watched her to the foot of the stairs; the door closed; the engine of a taxi began to hum.

Her telephone was ringing when she returned to the living room, and the quick leap of her heart averted her of the hope revived.

But it was a strange voice on the wire,—a man's voice, clear, sinister, tainted with a German accent:

"Iss this Miss Dumont? Yess? Then this I haff to say to you: You shall find yourself in serious trouble if you do not move your foolish club of vimmen out of the vicinity of which you know. We giff you one more chance. So shall you take it or you shall take some consequences! Goot-night!"

The instrument clicked in her ear as the unknown threatener hung up, leaving her seated there, astonished, hurt, bewildered.

* * * * *

The man who "hung up on her" stepped out of a saloon on Eighth Avenue and joined two other men on the corner.

The man was Karl Kastner; the other two were Sondheim and Bromberg.

"Get her?" growled the latter, as all three started east.

"Yess. And now we shall see what we shall see. We start the finish now already. All foolishness shall be ended. Now we fix Puma."

They continued on across the street, clumping along with their overcoat collars turned up, for it had turned bitter cold and the wind was rising.

"You don't think it's a plant?" inquired Sondheim, for the third time.

Bromberg blew his red nose on a dirty red handkerchief.

"We'll plant Puma if he tries any of that," he said thickly.

Kastner added that he feared investigation more than they did because he had more at stake.

"Dot guy he iss rich like a millionaire," he added. "Ve make him pay some dammach, too."

"How's he going to fire that bunch of women if they got a lease?" demanded Bromberg.

"Who the hell cares how he does it?" grunted Sondheim.

"Sure," added Kastner; "let him dig up. You buy anybody if you haff sufficient coin. Effery time! Yess. Also! Let him dig down into his pants once. So shall he pay them, these vimmen, to go avay und shut up mit their mischief what they make for us already!"

Sondheim was still muttering about "plants" in the depths of his soiled overcoat-collar, when they arrived at the hall and presented themselves at the door of Puma's outer office.

A girl took their message. After a while she returned and piloted them out, and up a wide flight of stairs to a door marked, "No admittance." Here she knocked, and Puma's voice bade them enter.

Angelo Puma was standing by a desk when they trooped in, keeping their hats on. The room was ventilated and illumined in the daytime only by a very dirty transom giving on a shaft. Otherwise, there were no windows, no outlet to any outer light and air.

Two gas jets caged in wire—obsolete stage dressing-room effects—lighted the room and glimmered on Puma's polished top-hat and the gold knob of his walking-stick.

As for Puma himself, he glanced up stealthily from the scenario he was reading as he stood by the big desk, but dropped his eyes again, and, opening a drawer, laid away the typed manuscript. Then he pulled out the revolving desk chair and sat down.

"Well?" he inquired, lighting a cigar.

There was an ominous silence among the three men for another moment. Then Puma looked up, puffing his cigar, and Sondheim stepped forward from the group and shook his finger in his face.

"What yah got planted around here for us? Hey?" he demanded in a low, hoarse voice. "Come on now, Puma! What yeh think yeh got on us?" And to Kastner and Bromberg: "Go ahead, boys, look for a dictaphone and them kind of things. And if this wop hollers I'll do him."

A ruddy light flickered in Puma's eyes, but the cool smile lay smoothly on his lips, and he did not even turn his head to watch them as they passed along the walls, sounding, peering, prying, and jerking open the door of the cupboard—the only furniture there except the desk and the chair on which Puma sat.

"What the hell's the matter with yeh?" snarled Sondheim, suddenly stooping to catch Puma's eye, which had wandered as though bored by the proceedings.

"Nothing," said Puma, coolly; "what's the matter with you, Max?"

Kastner came around beside him and said in his thin, sinister tone:

"You know it vat I got on you, Angelo?"

"I do."

"So? Also! Vas iss it you do about doze vimmen?"

"They won't go."

In Bromberg's voice sounded an ominous roar: "Don't hand us nothing like that! You hear what I'm telling you?"

Puma shrugged: "I hand you what I have to hand you. They have the lease. What is there for me to do?"

"Buy 'em off!"

"I try. They will not."

"You offer 'em enough and they'll quit!"

"No. They will not. They say they are here to fight you. They laugh at my money. What shall I do?"

"I'll tell you one thing you'll do, and do it damn quick!" roared Bromberg. "Hand over that money we need!"

"If you bellow in so loud a manner," said Puma, "they could hear you in the studio.... How much do you ask for?"

"Two thousand."

"No."

"What yeh mean by 'No'?"

"What I say to you, that I have not two thousand."

"You lying greaser——"

"I do not lie. I have paid my people and there remains but six hundred dollars in my bank."

"When do we get the rest?" asked Sondheim, as Puma tossed the packet of bills onto the desk.

"When I make it," replied Puma tranquilly. "You will understand my receipts are my capital at present. What else I have is engaged already in my new theatre. If you will be patient you shall have what I can spare."

Bromberg rested both hairy fists on the desk and glared down at Puma.

"Who's this new guy you got to go in with you? What's the matter with our getting a jag of his coin?"

"You mean Mr. Pawling?"

"Yeh. Who the hell is that duck what inks his whiskers?"

"A partner."

"Well, let him shove us ours then."

"You wish to ruin me?" inquired Puma placidly.

"Not while you're milkin'," said Sondheim, showing every yellow fang in a grin.

"Then do not frighten Mr. Pawling out. Already you have scared my other partner, Mr. Skidder, like there never was any rabbits scared. You are foolish. If you are reasonable, I shall make money and you shall have your share. If you are not, then there is no money to give you."

Sondheim said: "Take a slant at them yellow-backs, Karl." And Kastner screwed a powerful jeweller's glass into his eye and began a minute examination of the orange-coloured treasury notes, to find out whether they were marked bills.

Bromberg said heavily: "See here, Angelo, you gotta quit this damned stalling! You gotta get them women out, and do it quick or we'll blow your dirty barracks into the North River!"

Sondheim began to wag his soiled forefinger again.

"Yeh quit us cold when things was on the fritz. Now, yeh gotta pay. If you wasn't nothing but a wop skunk yeh'd stand in with us. The way you're fixed would help us all. But now yeh makin' money and yeh scared o' yeh shadow!——"

Bromberg cut in: "And you'll be outside when the band starts playing. Look what's doing all over the world! Every country is starting something! You watch Berlin and Rosa Luxemburg and her bunch. Keep your eye peeled, Angy, and see what we and the I. W. W. start in every city of the country!"

Kastner, having satisfied himself that the bills had not been marked, and pocketed his jeweller's glass, pushed back his lank blond hair.

"Yess," he said in his icy, incisive voice, "yoost vatch out already! Dot crimson tide it iss rising the vorld all ofer! It shall drown effery aristocrat, effery bourgeois, effery intellectual. It shall be but a red flood ofer all the vorld vere noddings shall live only our peoble off the proletariat!"

"And where the hell will you be then, Angelo?" sneered Bromberg. "By God, we won't have to ask you for our share of your money then!"

Again Sondheim leaned over him and wagged his nicotine-dyed finger:

"You get the rest of our money! Understand? And you get them women out!—or I tell you we'll blow you and your joint to Hoboken! Get that?"

"I have understood," said Puma quietly; but his heavy face was a muddy red now, and he choked a little when he spoke.

"Give us a date and stick to it," added Bromberg. "Set it yourself. And after that we won't bother to do any more jawin'. We'll just attend to business—your business, Puma!"

After a long silence, Puma said calmly: "How much you want?"

"Ten thousand," said Sondheim.

"And them women out of this," added Bromberg.

"Or ve get you," ended Kastner in his deadly voice.

Puma lifted his head and looked intently at each one of them in turn. And seemed presently to come to some conclusion.

Kastner forestalled him: "You try it some monkey trick and you try it no more effer again."

"What's your date for the cash?" insisted Sondheim.

"February first," replied Puma quietly.

Kastner wrote it on the back of an envelope.

"Und dese vimmen?" he inquired.

"I'll get a lawyer——"

"The hell with that stuff!" roared Bromberg. "Get 'em out! Scare 'em out! Jesus Christ! how long d'yeh think we're going to stand for being hammered by that bunch o' skirts? They got a lot o' people sore on us now. The crowd what uster come around is gettin' leery. And who are these damned women? One of 'em was a White Nun, when they did the business for the Romanoffs. One of 'em fired on the Bolsheviki—that big blond girl with yellow hair, I mean! Wasn't she one of those damned girl-soldiers? And look what she's up to now—comin' over here to talk us off the platform!—the dirty foreigner!"