The Grain of Dust: A Novel

  II

  Many and fantastic are the illusions the human animal, in its ignoranceand its optimism, devises to change life from a pleasant journey along aplain road into a fumbling and stumbling and struggling about in a fog.Of these hallucinations the most grotesque is that the weak can cometogether, can pass a law to curb the strong, can set one of their numberto enforce it, may then disperse with no occasion further to troubleabout the strong. Every line of every page of history tells how thestrong--the nimble-witted, the farsighted, the ambitious--have workedtheir will upon their feebler and less purposeful fellow men, regardlessof any and all precautions to the contrary. Conditions have improvedonly because the number of the strong has increased. With so many lionsat war with each other not a few rabbits contrive to avoid perishing inthe nest.

  Norman's genius lay in ability to take away from an adversary the legalweapons implicitly relied upon and to arm his client with them. No manunderstood better than he the abysmal distinction between law andjustice; no man knew better than he how to compel--or to assist--courtsto apply the law, so just in the general, to promoting injustice in theparticular. And whenever he permitted conscience a voice in his internaldebates--it was not often--he heard from it its usual servileapprobation: How can the reign of justice be more speedily brought aboutthan by making the reign of law--lawyer law--intolerable?

  About a fortnight after the trifling incident related in the previouschapter, Norman had to devise a secret agreement among several of themost eminent of his clients. They wished to band together, to do a thingexpressly forbidden by the law; they wished to conspire to lower wagesand raise prices in several railway systems under their control. Butnone would trust the others; so there must be something in writing, laidaway in a secret safety deposit box along with sundry bundles ofsecurities put up as forfeit, all in the custody of Norman. When he hadworked out in his mind and in fragmentary notes the details of theiragreement, he was ready for some one to do the clerical work. The someone must be absolutely trustworthy, as the plain language of theagreement would make clear to the dullest mind dazzling opportunitiesfor profit--not only in stock jobbing but also in blackmail. He rang forTetlow, the head clerk. Tetlow--smooth and sly and smug, lacking onlycourageous initiative to make him a great lawyer, but, lacking that,lacking all--Tetlow entered and closed the door behind him.

  Norman leaned back in his desk chair and laced his fingers behind hishead. "One of your typewriters is a slight blonde girl--sits in thecorner to the far left--if she's still here."

  "Miss Hallowell," said Tetlow. "We are letting her go at the end of thisweek. She's nice and ladylike, and willing--in fact, most anxious toplease. But the work's too difficult for her. She's rather--rather--well,not exactly stupid, but slow."

  "Um," said Norman reflectively. "There's Miss Bostwick--perhaps she'lldo."

  "Miss Bostwick got married last week."

  Norman smiled. He remembered the girl because she was the oldest andhomeliest in the office. "There's somebody for everybody--eh, Tetlow?"

  "He was a lighthouse keeper," said Tetlow. "There's a story that headvertised for a wife. But that may be a joke."

  "Why not that Miss--Miss Halloway?" mused Norman.

  "Miss Hallowell," corrected Tetlow.

  "Hallowell--yes. Is she--_very_ incompetent?

  "Not exactly that. But business is slackening--and she's been onlytemporary--and----"

  Norman cut him off with, "Send her in."

  "You don't wish her dismissed? I haven't told her yet."

  "Oh, I'm not interfering in your department. Do as you like. . . .No--in this case--let her stay on for the present."

  "I can use her," said Tetlow. "And she gets only ten a week."

  Norman frowned. He did not like to _hear_ that an establishment in whichhe had control paid less than decent living wages--even if the marketprice did excuse--yes, compel it. "Send her in," he repeated. Then, asTetlow was about to leave, "She is trustworthy?"

  "All our force is. I see to that, Mr. Norman."

  "Has she a young man--steady company, I think they call it?"

  "She has no friends at all. She's extremely shy--at least, reserved.Lives with her father, an old crank of an analytical chemist over inJersey City. She hasn't even a lady friend."

  "Well, send her in."

  A moment later Norman, looking up from his work, saw the dim slimnonentity before him. Again he leaned back and, as he talked with her,studied her face to make sure that his first judgment was correct. "Doyou stay late every night?" asked he smilingly.

  She colored a little, but enough to bring out the exquisite fineness ofher white skin. "Oh, I don't mind," said she, and there was noembarrassment in her manner. "I've got to learn--and doing things overhelps."

  "Nothing equal to it," declared Norman. "You've been to school?"

  "Only six weeks," confessed she. "I couldn't afford to stay longer."

  "I mean the other sort of school--not the typewriting."

  "Oh! Yes," said she. And once more he saw that extraordinarytransformation. She became all in an instant delicately, deliciouslylovely, with the moving, in a way pathetic loveliness of sweet childrenand sweet flowers. Her look was mystery; but not a mystery of guile. Sheevidently did not wish to have her past brought to view; but it wasequally apparent that behind it lay hid nothing shameful, only the sad,perhaps the painful. Of all the periods of life youth is the best fittedto bear deep sorrows, for then the spirit has its full measure ofelasticity. Yet a shadow upon youth is always more moving than theshadows of maturer years--those shadows that do not lie upon the surfacebut are heavy and corroding stains. When Norman saw this shadow upon heryouth, so immature-looking, so helpless-looking, he felt the firstimpulse of genuine interest in her. Perhaps, had that shadow happened tofall when he was seeing her as the commonplace and colorless littlestruggler for bread, and seeming doomed speedily to be worsted in thestruggle--perhaps, he would have felt no interest, but only the briefqualm of pity that we dare not encourage in ourselves, on a journey sobeset with hopeless pitiful things as is the journey through life.

  But he had no impulse to question her. And with some surprise he notedthat his reason for refraining was not the usual reason--unwillingnessuselessly to add to one's own burdens by inviting the mournfulconfidences of another. No, he checked himself because in the manner ofthis frail and mouselike creature, dim though she once more was, thereappeared a dignity, a reserve, that made intrusion curiously impossible.With an apologetic note in his voice--a kind and friendly voice--hesaid:

  "Please have your typewriter brought in here. I want you to do some workfor me--work that isn't to be spoken of--not even to Mr. Tetlow." Helooked at her with grave penetrating eyes. "You will not speak of it?"

  "No," replied she, and nothing more. But she accompanied the simplenegative with a clear and honest sincerity of the eyes that set his mindcompletely at rest. He felt that this girl had never in her life told areal lie.

  One of the office boys installed the typewriter, and presently Normanand the quiet nebulous girl at whom no one would trouble to look asecond time were seated opposite each other with the broad table deskbetween, he leaning far back in his desk chair, fingers interlockedbehind his proud, strong-looking head, she holding sharpened pencilsuspended over the stenographic notebook. Long before she seated herselfhe had forgotten her except as machine. There followed a troubled hour,as he dictated, ordered erasure, redictated, ordered re-readings,skipped back and forth, in the effort to frame the secret agreement inthe fewest and simplest, and least startlingly unlawful, words. At lasthe leaned forward with the shine of triumph in his eyes.

  "Read straight through," he commanded.

  She read, interrupted occasionally by a sharp order from him to correctsome mistake in her notes.

  "Again," he commanded, when she translated the last of her notes.

  This time she was not interrupted once. When she ended, he exclaimed:"Good! I don't see how you did it so well."


  "Nor do I," said she.

  "You say you are only a beginner."

  "I couldn't have done it so well for anyone else," said she. "Youare--different."

  The remark was worded most flatteringly, but it did not sound so. He sawthat she did not herself understand what she meant by "different." _He_understood, for he knew the difference between the confused andconfusing ordinary minds and such an intelligence as his own--simple,luminous, enlightening all minds, however dark, so long as they were inthe light-flooded region around it.

  "Have I made the meaning clear?" he asked.

  He hoped she would reply that he had not, though this would haveindicated a partial defeat in the object he had--to put the complexthing so plainly that no one could fail to understand. But she answered,"Yes."

  He congratulated himself that his overestimate of her ignorance ofaffairs had not lured him into giving her the names of the parties atinterest to transcribe. But did she really understand? To test her, hesaid:

  "What do you think of it?"

  "That it's wicked," replied she, without hesitation and in her small,quiet voice.

  He laughed. In a way this girl, sitting there--this inconsequential andnegligible atom--typefied the masses of mankind against whom that secretagreement was directed. They, the feeble and powerless ones, with theirnecks ever bent under the yoke of the mighty and their feet everstumbling into the traps of the crafty--they, too, would utter animpotent "Wicked!" if they knew. His voice had the note of gentleraillery in it as he said:

  "No--not wicked. Just business."

  She was looking down at her book, her face expressionless. A few momentsbefore he would have said it was an empty face. Now it seemed to himsphynxlike.

  "Just business," he repeated. "It is going to take money from those whodon't know how to keep or to spend it and give it to those who do knowhow. The money will go for building up civilization, instead of for beerand for bargain-trough finery to make working men's wives and daughterslook cheap and nasty."

  She was silent.

  "Now, do you understand?"

  "I understand what you said." She looked at him as she spoke. Hewondered how he could have fancied those lack-luster eyes beautiful orcapable of expression.

  "You don't believe it?" he asked.

  "No," said she. And suddenly in those eyes, gazing now into space, therecame the unutterably melancholy look--heavy-lidded from heartache,weary-wise from long, long and bitter, experiences. Yet she still lookedyoung--girlishly young--but it was the youthful look the classic Greeksculptors tried to give their young goddesses--the youth withoutbeginning or end--younger than a baby's, older than the oldest of thesons of men. He mocked himself for the fancies this queer creatureinspired in him; but she none the less made him uneasy.

  "You don't believe it?" he repeated.

  "No," she answered again. "My father has taught me--some things."

  He drummed impatiently on the table. He resented her impertinence--for,like all men of clear and positive mind, he regarded contradiction as inone aspect impudent, in another aspect evidence of the folly of hiscontradictor. Then he gave a short laugh--the confessing laugh of theclever man who has tried to believe his own sophistries and has failed."Well--neither do I believe it," said he. "Now, to get the thingtypewritten."

  She seated herself at the machine and set to work. As his mind was fullof the agreement he could not concentrate on anything else. From time totime he glanced at her. Then he gave up trying to work and sat furtivelyobserving her. What a quaint little mystery it was! There was init--that is, in her--not the least charm for him. But, in all hisexperience with women, he could recall no woman with a comparabledevelopment of this curious quality of multiple personalities, showingand vanishing in swift succession.

  There had been a time when woman had interested him as a puzzle to beworked out, a maze to be explored, a temple to be penetrated--until onereached the place where the priests manipulated the machinery for thewonders and miracles to fool the devotees into awe. Some men never getto this stage, never realize that their own passions, working upon theuniversal human love of the mysterious, are wholly responsible for thecult of woman the sphynx and the sibyl. But Norman, beloved of women,had been let by them into their ultimate secret--the simple humanness ofwoman; the clap-trappery of the oracles, miracles, and wonders. He haddiscovered that her "divine intuitions" were mere shrewd guesses, wherethey had any meaning at all; that her eloquent silences were screens forignorance or boredom--and so on through the list of legends that propthe feminist cult.

  But this girl--this Miss Hallowell--here was a tangible mystery--amystery of physics, of chemistry. He sat watching her--watching thechanges as she bent to her work, or relaxed, or puzzled over the meaningof one of her own hesitating stenographic hieroglyphics--watched her asthe waning light of the afternoon varied its intensity upon her skin.Why, her very hair partook of this magical quality and altered its tint,its degree of vitality even, in harmony with the other changes. . . . Whatwas the explanation? By means of what rare mechanism did her nerve forceebb and flow from moment to moment, bringing about these fascinatingsurface changes in her body? Could anything, even any skin, be bettermade than that superb skin of hers--that master work of delicacy andstrength, of smoothness and color? How had it been possible for him tofail to notice it, when he was always looking for signs of a good skindown town--and up town, too--in these days of the ravages of pastry andcandy? . . . What long graceful fingers she had--yet what small hands!Certainly here was a peculiarity that persisted. No--absurd though itseemed, no! One way he looked at those hands, they were broad andstrong, another way narrow and gracefully weak.

  He said to himself: "The man who gets that girl will have Solomon'swives rolled into one. A harem at the price of a wife--or a--" He leftthe thought unfinished. It seemed an insult to this helpless littlecreature, the more rather than the less cowardly for being unspoken;for, no doubt her ideas of propriety were firmly conventional.

  "About done?" he asked impatiently.

  She glanced up. "In a moment. I'm sorry to be so slow."

  "You're not," he assured her truthfully. "It's my impatience. Let me seethe pages you've finished."

  With them he was able to concentrate his mind. When she laid the lastpage beside his arm he was absorbed, did not look at her, did not thinkof her. "Take the machine away," said he abruptly.

  He was leaving for the day when he remembered her again. He sent forher. "I forgot to thank you. It was good work. You will do well. All youneed is practice--and confidence. Especially confidence." He looked ather. She seemed frail--touchingly frail. "You are not strong?"

  She smiled, and in an instant the frailty seemed to have been meredelicacy of build--the delicacy that goes with the strength of steelwires, or rather of the spider's weaving thread which sustains weightsand shocks out of all proportion to its appearance. "I've never been illin my life," said she. "Not a day."

  Again, because she was standing before him in full view, he noted thepeculiar construction of her frame--the beautiful lines of length sodextrously combined that her figure as a whole was not tall. He said, "Aworking woman--or man--needs health above all. Thank you again." And henodded a somewhat curt dismissal. When she glided away and he was alonebehind the closed door, he reflected for a moment upon the extraordinaryamount of thinking--and the extraordinary kind of thinking--into whichthis poor little typewriter girl had beguiled him. He soon found theexplanation for this vagary into a realm so foreign to a man of his hightastes and ambitions. "It's because I'm so in love with Josephine," hedecided. "I've fallen into the sentimental state of all lovers. Thewhole sex becomes novel and interesting and worth while."

  As he left the office, unusually late, he saw her still at work--nodoubt doing over again some bungled piece of copying. She had her normaland natural look and air--the atomic little typewriter, unattractive anduninteresting. With another smile for his romantic imaginings, he forgother. But when he reached the street he remem
bered her again. Thethreatened blizzard had changed into a heavy rain. The swift and suddencurrents of air, that have made of New York a cave of the winds sincethe coming of the skyscrapers, were darting round corners, turningumbrellas inside out, tossing women's skirts about their heads, reducingall who were abroad to the same level of drenched and sullenwretchedness. Norman's limousine was waiting at the curb. He, pausing inthe doorway, glanced up and down the street, had an impulse to returnand take the girl home. Then he smiled satirically at himself. Her lotcondemned her to be out in all weathers. It would not be a kindness butan exhibition of smug vanity to shelter her this one night; also, therewas the question of her reputation--and the possibility of turning herhead, perhaps just enough to cause her ruin. He sprang across thewind-swept, rain-swept sidewalk and into the limousine whose door wasbeing held open by an obsequious attendant. "Home," he said, and thedoor slammed.

  Usually these journeys between office and home or club in the eveninggave Norman a chance for ten or fifteen minutes of sleep. He haddiscovered that this brief dropping of the thread of consciousness gavehim a wonderful fresh grip upon the day, enabled him to work or playuntil late into the night without fatigue. But that evening his mind waswide awake. Nor could he fix it upon business. It would interest itselfonly in the hurrying throngs of foot passengers and the ideas theysuggested: Here am I--so ran his thoughts--here am I, tucked awaycomfortably while all those poor creatures have to plod along in thestorm. I could afford to be sick. They can't. And what have I done todeserve this good fortune? Nothing. Worse than nothing. If I had made mycareer along the lines of what is honest and right and beneficial to myfellow men, I'd probably be plugging home under an umbrella--and to apretty poor excuse for a home. But I was too wise to do that. I've spentthis day, as I spend all my days, in helping the powerful rich to add totheir wealth and power, to add to the burdens those poor devils outthere in the rain must bear. And I'm rewarded with a limousine, and allthe rest of it.

  These thoughts neither came from nor produced a mood of penitence, or ofregret even. Norman was simply indulging in his favoritepastime--following without prejudice the leading of a chain of purelogic. He despised self-deceivers. He always kept himself free fromprejudice and all its wiles. He took life as he found it; but he did notexcuse it and himself with the familiar hypocrisies that make thecomfortable classes preen themselves on being the guardians and savioursof the ignorant, incapable masses. When old Lockyer said one day thatthis was the function of the "upper classes," Norman retorted: "Perhaps.But, if so, how do they perform it? Like the brutal old-fashioned farmfamily that takes care of its insane member by keeping him chained infilth in the cellar." And once at the Federal Club--By the way, Normanhad joined it, had compelled it to receive him just to show hisassociates how a strong man could break even such a firmly establishedtradition as that no one who amounted to anything could be elected to afashionable club in New York. Once at the Federal Club old Gallowayquoted with approval some essayist's remark that every clever humanbeing was looking after and holding above the waves at least fifteen ofhis weaker fellows. Norman smiled satirically round at the complacentlynodding circle of gray heads and white heads. "My observation has been,"said he, "that every clever chap is shrewd enough to compel at leastfifteen of his fellows to wait on him, to take care of him--do hischores--and his dirty work." The nodding stopped. Scowls appeared,except on the face of old Galloway. He grinned. He was one of the fewexamples of a very rich man with a sense of humor. Norman always thoughtit was this slight incident that led to his getting the extremelyprofitable--and shady--Galloway business.

  No, Norman's mood, as he watched the miserable crowds afoot andreflected upon them, was neither remorseful nor triumphant. He simplynoted an interesting fact--a commonplace fact--of the methods of thatsardonic practical joker, Life. Because the scheme of things was unjustand stupid, because others, most others, were uncomfortable orworse--why should he make himself uncomfortable? It would be anabsurdity to get out of his limousine and trudge along in the wet andthe wind. It would be equally absurd to sit in his limousine and beunhappy about the misery of the world. "I didn't create it, and I can'trecreate it. And if I'm helping to make it worse, I'm also hastening thetime when it'll be better. The Great Ass must have brains and spiritkicked and cudgeled into it."

  At his house in Madison Avenue, just at the crest of Murray Hill, therewas an awning from front door to curb and a carpet beneath it. Hepassed, dry and comfortable, up the steps. A footman in quiet richlivery was waiting to receive him. From rising until bedtime, up townand down town, wherever he went and whatever he was about, everypossible menial detail of his life was done for him. He had nothing todo but think about his own work and keep himself in health. Rarely didhe have even to open or to close a door. He used a pen only in signinghis name or marking a passage in a law book for some secretary to make atypewritten copy.

  Upon most human beings this sort of luxury, carried beyond the ordinaryand familiar uses of menial service, has a speedily enervating effect.Thinking being the most onerous of all, they have it done, also. Theysink into silliness and moral and mental sloth. They pass the time atfoolish purposeless games indoors and out; or they wander aimlesslyabout the earth chattering with similar mental decrepits, much likemonkeys adrift in the boughs of a tropical forest. But Norman had thetenacity and strength to concentrate upon achievement all the powersemancipated by the use of menials wherever menials could be used. Heemployed to advantage the time saved in putting in shirt buttons andlacing shoes and carrying books to and from shelves. In this lay one ofthe important secrets of his success. "Never do for yourself what youcan get some one else to do for you as well. Save yourself for thethings only _you_ can do."

  In his household there were three persons, and sixteen servants to waitupon them. His sister--she and her husband, Clayton Fitzhugh, were theother two persons--his sister was always complaining that there were notenough servants, and Frederick, the most indulgent of brothers, wasalways letting her add to the number. It seemed to him that the morehelp there was, the less smoothly the household ran. But that did notconcern him; his mind was saved for more important matters. There was noreason why it should concern him; could he not compel the dollars toflood in faster than she could bail them out?

  This brother and sister had come to New York fifteen years before, whenhe was twenty-two and she nineteen. They were from Albany, where theirfamily had possessed some wealth and much social position for manygenerations. There was the usual "queer streak" in the Norman family--anintermittent but fixed habit of some one of them making a "lowmarriage." One view of this aberration might have been that there was inthe Norman blood a tenacious instinct of sturdy and self-respectingindependence that caused a Norman occasionally to do as he pleasedinstead of as he conventionally ought. Each time the thing occurredthere was a mighty and horrified hubbub throughout the connection. Butin the broad, as the custom is, the Normans were complacent about the"queer streak." They thought it kept the family from rotting out andrunning to seed. "Nothing like an occasional infusion of common blood,"Aunt Ursula Van Bruyten (born Norman) used to say. For her Norman'ssister was named.

  Norman's father had developed the "queer streak." Their mother was thedaughter of a small farmer and, when she met their father, waschambermaid in a Troy hotel, Troy then being a largish village. As soonas she found herself married and in a position with whose duties she wasunfamiliar, she set about fitting herself for them with the samediligence and thoroughness which she had shown in learning chamber workin a village hotel. She educated herself, selected not withoutshrewdness and carefully put on an assortment of genteel airs, finallycontrived to make a most creditable appearance--was more aristocratic intastes and in talk than the high mightiest of her relatives by marriage.But her son Fred was a Pinkey in character. In boyhood he was noted forhis rough and low associates. His bosom friends were the son of a Jewishjunk dealer, the son of a colored wash-woman, and the son of an Irishday laborer. Also, the commonnes
s persisted as he grew up. Instead ofseeking aristocratic ease, he aspired to a career. He had choice ofseveral rich and well-born girls; but he developed a strong distaste formarriage of any sort and especially for a rich marriage. A fortune hewas resolved to have, but it should be one that belonged to him. When hewas about ready to enter a law office, his father and mother diedleaving less than ten thousand dollars in all for his sister andhimself. His sister hesitated, half inclined to marry a stupid secondcousin who had thirty thousand a year.

  "Don't do it, Ursula," Fred advised. "If you must sell out, sell forsomething worth while." He laughed in his frank, ironical way. "Fact is,we've both made up our minds to sell. Let's go to the best market--NewYork. If you don't like it, you can come back and marry that fat-wit anytime you please."

  Ursula inspected herself in the glass, saw a face and form exceedingfair to look upon; she decided to take her brother's advice. At twentyshe threw over a multi-millionaire and married Clayton Fitzhugh forlove--Clayton with only seventeen thousand a year. Of course, from thestandpoint of fashionable ambition, seventeen thousand a year in NewYork is but one remove from tenement house poverty. As Clayton had nomore ability at making money than had Ursula herself, there was nothingto do but live with Norman and "take care of him." But for thisself-sacrifice of sisterly affection Norman would have been rich atthirty-seven. As he had to make her rich as well as himself, progresstoward luxurious independence was slower--and there was the house,costing nearly fifty thousand a year to keep up.

  There had been a time in Norman's career--a brief and very earlytime--when, with the maternal peasant blood hot in his veins, he hadentertained the quixotic idea of going into politics on the poor orpeople's side and fighting for glory only. The pressure of expensiveliving had soon driven this notion clean off. Norman had almostforgotten that he ever had it, was no longer aware how strong it hadbeen in the last year at law school. Young men of high intelligence andardent temperament always pass through this period. With some--afew--its glory lingers long after the fire has flickered out before thecool, steady breath of worldliness.

  All this time Norman has been dressing for dinner. He now leaves thethird floor and descends toward the library, as it still lacks twentyminutes of the dinner hour.

  As he walked along the hall of the second floor a woman's voice calledto him, "That you, Fred?"

  He turned in at his sister's sitting room. She was standing at a tablesmoking a cigarette. Her tall, slim figure looked even taller andslimmer in the tight-fitting black satin evening dress. Her featuresfaintly suggested her relationship to Norman. She was a handsome woman,with a voluptuous discontented mouth.

  "What are you worried about, sis?" inquired he.

  "How did you know I was worried?" returned she.

  "You always are."

  "Oh!"

  "But you're unusually worried to-night."

  "How did you know that?"

  "You never smoke just before dinner unless your nerves are ragged. . . .What is it?"

  "Money."

  "Of course. No one in New York worries about anything else."

  "But _this_ is serious," protested she. "I've been thinking--about yourmarriage--and what'll become of Clayton and me?" She halted, red withembarrassment.

  Norman lit a cigarette himself. "I ought to have explained," said he."But I assumed you'd understand."

  "Fred, you know Clayton can't make anything. And when youmarry--why--what _will_ become of us!"

  "I've been taking care of Clayton's money--and of yours. I'll continueto do it. I think you'll find you're not so badly of. You see, myposition enables me to compel a lot of the financiers to let me in onthe ground floor--and to warn me in good time before the house falls.You'll not miss me, Ursula."

  She showed her gratitude in her eyes, in a slight quiver of the lips, inan unsteadiness of tone as she said, "You're the real thing, Freddie."

  "You can go right on as you are now. Only--" He was looking at her withmeaning directness.

  She moved uneasily, refused to meet his gaze. "Well?" she said, with asuggestion of defiance.

  "It's all very natural to get tired of Clayton," said her brother. "Iknew you would when you married him. But--Sis, I mind my own business.Still--Why make a fool of yourself?"

  "You don't understand," she exclaimed passionately. And the light in hereyes, the color in her cheeks, restored to her for the moment the beautyof her youth that was almost gone.

  "Understand what?" inquired he in a tone of gentle mockery.

  "Love. You are all ambition--all self control. You can beaffectionate--God knows, you have been to me, Fred. But love you knownothing about--nothing."

  His was the smile a man gives when in earnest and wishing to be thoughtjesting--or when in jest and wishing to be thought in earnest.

  "You mean Josephine? Oh, yes, I suppose you do care for her in a way--ina nice, conventional way. She is a fine handsome piece--just the sort tofill the position of wife to a man like you. She's sweet and charming,she appreciates, she flatters you. I'm sure she loves you as much as a_girl_ knows how to love. But it's all so conventional, so proper. Yourposition--her money. You two are of the regulation type even in thatyou're suited to each other in height and figure. Everybody'll say,'What a fine couple--so well matched!'"

  "Maybe _you_ don't understand," said Norman.

  "If Josephine were poor and low-born--weren't one of us--and allthat--would you have her?"

  "I'm sure I don't know," was his prompt and amused answer. "I can onlysay that I know what I want, she being what she is."

  Ursula shook her head. "I have only to see you and her together to knowthat you at least don't understand love."

  "It might be well if _you_ didn't," said Norman dryly. "You might be lessunhappy--and Clayton less uneasy."

  "Ah, but I can't help myself. Don't you see it in me, Fred? I'm not afool. Yet see what a fool I act."

  "Spoiled child--that's all. No self-control."

  "You despise everyone who isn't as strong as you." She looked at himintently. "I wonder if you _are_ as self-controlled as you imagine.Sometimes I wish you'd get a lesson. Then you'd be more sympathetic. Butit isn't likely you will--not through a woman. Oh, they're suchpitifully easy game for a man like you. But then men are the same waywith you--quite as easy. You get anything you want. . . . You're reallygoing to stick to Josephine?"

  He nodded. "It's time for me to settle down."

  "Yes--I think it is," she went on thoughtfully. "I can hardly believeyou're to marry. Of course, she's the grand prize. Still--I neverimagined you'd come in and surrender. I guess you _do_ care for her."

  "Why else should I marry?" argued he. "She's got nothing I need--exceptherself, Ursula."

  "What _is_ it you see in her?"

  "What you see--what everyone sees," replied Fred, with quiet, convincingenthusiasm. "What no one could help seeing. As you say, she's the grandprize."

  "Yes, she is sweet and handsome--and intelligent--very superior,without making others feel that they're outclassed. Still--there'ssomething lacking--not in her perhaps, but in you. You have it forher--she's crazy about you. But she hasn't it for you."

  "What?"

  "I can't tell you. It isn't a thing that can be put into words."

  "Then it doesn't exist."

  "Oh, yes it does," cried Ursula. "If the engagement were to bebroken--or if anything were to happen to her--why, you'd get overit--would go on as if nothing had happened. If she didn't fit in withyour plans and ambitions, she'd be sacrificed so quick she'd not knowwhat had taken off her head. But if you felt what I mean--then you'dgive up everything--do the wildest, craziest things."

  "What nonsense!" scoffed Norman. "I can imagine myself making a foolof myself about a woman as easily as about anything else. But I can'timagine myself playing the fool for anything whatsoever."

  There was mysterious fire in Ursula's absent eyes. "You remember me as agirl--how mercenary I was--how near I came to marrying Cousin Jake?"
br />   "I saved you from that."

  "Yes--and for what? I fell in love."

  "And out again."

  "I was deceived in Clayton--deceived myself--naturally. How is a womanto know, without experience?"

  "Oh, I'm not criticising," said the brother.

  "Besides, a love marriage that fails is different from a mercenarymarriage that fails."

  "Very--very," agreed he. "Just the difference between an honorable and adishonorable bankruptcy."

  "Anyhow--it's bankrupt--my marriage. But I've learned what love is--thatthere is such a thing--and that it's valuable. Yes, Fred, I've got thetaste for that wine--the habit of it. Could I go back to water or milk?"

  "Spoiled baby--that's the whole story. If you had a nursery full ofchildren--or did the heavy housework--you'd never think of thesefoolish moonshiny things."

  "Yet you say you love!"

  "Clayton is as good as any you're likely to run across--is better than_some_ I've seen about."

  "How can _you_ say?" cried she. "It's for me to judge."

  "If you would only _judge_!"

  Ursula sighed. "It's useless to talk to you. Let's go down."

  Norman, following her from the room, stopped her in the doorway to giveher a brotherly hug and kiss. "You won't make an out-and-out idiot ofyourself, will you, Ursula?" he said, in his winning manner.

  The expression of her eyes as she looked at him showed how strong washis influence over her. "You know I'll come to you for advice before Ido anything final," said she. "Oh, I don't know what I want! I only knowwhat I don't want. I wish I were well balanced--as you are, Fred."

  "'You won't make an out-and-out idiot of yourself, willyou Ursula?'"]