"'ALICE ADAMS\n\nBy Booth Tarkington\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nThe patient, an old-fashioned man, thought the nurse made a mistake in\nkeeping both of the windows open, and her sprightly disregard of his\nprotests added something to his hatred of her. Every evening he told her\nthat anybody with ordinary gumption ought to realize that night air was\nbad for the human frame. \"The human frame won\'t stand everything,\nMiss Perry,\" he warned her, resentfully. \"Even a child, if it had just\nordinary gumption, ought to know enough not to let the night air blow on\nsick people yes, nor well people, either! \'Keep out of the night air, no\nmatter how well you feel.\' That\'s what my mother used to tell me when I\nwas a boy. \'Keep out of the night air, Virgil,\' she\'d say. \'Keep out of\nthe night air.\'\"\n\n\"I expect probably her mother told her the same thing,\" the nurse\nsuggested.\n\n\"Of course she did. My grandmother----\"\n\n\"Oh, I guess your GRANDmother thought so, Mr. Adams! That was when all\nthis flat central country was swampish and hadn\'t been drained off yet.\nI guess the truth must been the swamp mosquitoes bit people and gave \'em\nmalaria, especially before they began to put screens in their windows.\nWell, we got screens in these windows, and no mosquitoes are goin\' to\nbite us; so just you be a good boy and rest your mind and go to sleep\nlike you need to.\"\n\n\"Sleep?\" he said. \"Likely!\"\n\nHe thought the night air worst of all in April; he hadn\'t a doubt it\nwould kill him, he declared. \"It\'s miraculous what the human frame WILL\nsurvive,\" he admitted on the last evening of that month. \"But you and\nthe doctor ought to both be taught it won\'t stand too dang much! You\npoison a man and poison and poison him with this April night air----\"\n\n\"Can\'t poison you with much more of it,\" Miss Perry interrupted him,\nindulgently. \"To-morrow it\'ll be May night air, and I expect that\'ll be\na lot better for you, don\'t you? Now let\'s just sober down and be a good\nboy and get some nice sound sleep.\"\n\nShe gave him his medicine, and, having set the glass upon the center\ntable, returned to her cot, where, after a still interval, she snored\nfaintly. Upon this, his expression became that of a man goaded out of\noverpowering weariness into irony.\n\n\"Sleep? Oh, CERTAINLY, thank you!\"\n\nHowever, he did sleep intermittently, drowsed between times, and even\ndreamed; but, forgetting his dreams before he opened his eyes, and\nhaving some part of him all the while aware of his discomfort, he\nbelieved, as usual, that he lay awake the whole night long. He was\nconscious of the city as of some single great creature resting fitfully\nin the dark outside his windows. It lay all round about, in the damp\ncover of its night cloud of smoke, and tried to keep quiet for a few\nhours after midnight, but was too powerful a growing thing ever to\nlie altogether still. Even while it strove to sleep it muttered with\ndigestions of the day before, and these already merged with rumblings\nof the morrow. \"Owl\" cars, bringing in last passengers over distant\ntrolley-lines, now and then howled on a curve; faraway metallic\nstirrings could be heard from factories in the sooty suburbs on the\nplain outside the city; east, west, and south, switch-engines chugged\nand snorted on sidings; and everywhere in the air there seemed to be\na faint, voluminous hum as of innumerable wires trembling overhead to\nvibration of machinery underground.\n\nIn his youth Adams might have been less resentful of sounds such as\nthese when they interfered with his night\'s sleep: even during\nan illness he might have taken some pride in them as proof of his\ncitizenship in a \"live town\"; but at fifty-five he merely hated them\nbecause they kept him awake. They \"pressed on his nerves,\" as he put it;\nand so did almost everything else, for that matter.\n\nHe heard the milk-wagon drive into the cross-street beneath his windows\nand stop at each house. The milkman carried his jars round to the \"back\nporch,\" while the horse moved slowly ahead to the gate of the next\ncustomer and waited there. \"He\'s gone into Pollocks\',\" Adams thought,\nfollowing this progress. \"I hope it\'ll sour on \'em before breakfast.\nDelivered the Andersons\'. Now he\'s getting out ours. Listen to the darn\nbrute! What\'s HE care who wants to sleep!\" His complaint was of the\nhorse, who casually shifted weight with a clink of steel shoes on the\nworn brick pavement of the street, and then heartily shook himself in\nhis harness, perhaps to dislodge a fly far ahead of its season. Light\nhad just filmed the windows; and with that the first sparrow woke,\nchirped instantly, and roused neighbours in the trees of the small yard,\nincluding a loud-voiced robin. Vociferations began irregularly, but were\nsoon unanimous.\n\n\"Sleep? Dang likely now, ain\'t it!\"\n\nNight sounds were becoming day sounds; the far-away hooting of\nfreight-engines seemed brisker than an hour ago in the dark. A cheerful\nwhistler passed the house, even more careless of sleepers than the\nmilkman\'s horse had been; then a group of coloured workmen came by, and\nalthough it was impossible to be sure whether they were homeward bound\nfrom night-work or on their way to day-work, at least it was certain\nthat they were jocose. Loose, aboriginal laughter preceded them afar,\nand beat on the air long after they had gone by.\n\nThe sick-room night-light, shielded from his eyes by a newspaper propped\nagainst a water-pitcher, still showed a thin glimmering that had grown\noffensive to Adams. In his wandering and enfeebled thoughts, which\nwere much more often imaginings than reasonings, the attempt of the\nnight-light to resist the dawn reminded him of something unpleasant,\nthough he could not discover just what the unpleasant thing was. Here\nwas a puzzle that irritated him the more because he could not solve it,\nyet always seemed just on the point of a solution. However, he may have\nlost nothing cheerful by remaining in the dark upon the matter; for\nif he had been a little sharper in this introspection he might have\nconcluded that the squalor of the night-light, in its seeming effort\nto show against the forerunning of the sun itself, had stimulated some\nhalf-buried perception within him to sketch the painful little synopsis\nof an autobiography.\n\nIn spite of noises without, he drowsed again, not knowing that he did;\nand when he opened his eyes the nurse was just rising from her cot. He\ntook no pleasure in the sight, it may be said. She exhibited to him a\nface mismodelled by sleep, and set like a clay face left on its cheek in\na hot and dry studio. She was still only in part awake, however, and by\nthe time she had extinguished the night-light and given her patient his\ntonic, she had recovered enough plasticity. \"Well, isn\'t that grand!\nWe\'ve had another good night,\" she said as she departed to dress in the\nbathroom.\n\n\"Yes, you had another!\" he retorted, though not until after she had\nclosed the door.\n\nPresently he heard his daughter moving about in her room across the\nnarrow hall, and so knew that she had risen. He hoped she would come\nin to see him soon, for she was the one thing that didn\'t press on his\nnerves, he felt; though the thought of her hurt him, as, indeed, every\nthought hurt him. But it was his wife who came first.\n\nShe wore a lank cotton wrapper, and a crescent of gray hair escaped to\none temple from beneath the handkerchief she had worn upon her head for\nthe night and still retained; but she did everything possible to make\nher expression cheering.\n\n\"Oh, you\'re better again! I can see that, as soon as I look at you,\" she\nsaid. \"Miss Perry tells me you\'ve had another splendid night.\"\n\nHe made a sound of irony, which seemed to dispose unfavourably of Miss\nPerry, and then, in order to be more certainly intelligible, he added,\n\"She slept well, as usual!\"\n\nBut his wife\'s smile persisted. \"It\'s a good sign to be cross; it means\nyou\'re practically convalescent right now.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am, am I?\"\n\n\"No doubt in the world!\" she exclaimed. \"Why, you\'re practically a well\nman, Virgil--all except getting your strength back, of course, and that\nisn\'t going to take long. You\'ll be right on your feet in a couple of\nweeks from now.\"\n\n\"Oh, I will?\"\n\n\"Of course you will!\" She laughed briskly, and, going to the table in\nthe center of the room, moved his glass of medicine an inch or two,\nturned a book over so that it lay upon its other side, and for a few\nmoments occupied herself with similar futilities, having taken on the\nair of a person who makes things neat, though she produced no such\nactual effect upon them. \"Of course you will,\" she repeated, absently.\n\"You\'ll be as strong as you ever were; maybe stronger.\" She paused for a\nmoment, not looking at him, then added, cheerfully, \"So that you can fly\naround and find something really good to get into.\"\n\nSomething important between them came near the surface here, for though\nshe spoke with what seemed but a casual cheerfulness, there was a\nlittle betraying break in her voice, a trembling just perceptible in the\nutterance of the final word. And she still kept up the affectation of\nbeing helpfully preoccupied with the table, and did not look at her\nhusband--perhaps because they had been married so many years that\nwithout looking she knew just what his expression would be, and\npreferred to avoid the actual sight of it as long as possible.\nMeanwhile, he stared hard at her, his lips beginning to move with little\ndistortions not lacking in the pathos of a sick man\'s agitation.\n\n\"So that\'s it,\" he said. \"That\'s what you\'re hinting at.\"\n\n\"\'Hinting?\'\" Mrs. Adams looked surprised and indulgent. \"Why, I\'m not\ndoing any hinting, Virgil.\"\n\n\"What did you say about my finding \'something good to get into?\'\" he\nasked, sharply. \"Don\'t you call that hinting?\"\n\nMrs. Adams turned toward him now; she came to the bedside and would have\ntaken his hand, but he quickly moved it away from her.\n\n\"You mustn\'t let yourself get nervous,\" she said. \"But of course when\nyou get well there\'s only one thing to do. You mustn\'t go back to that\nold hole again.\"\n\n\"\'Old hole?\' That\'s what you call it, is it?\" In spite of his weakness,\nanger made his voice strident, and upon this stimulation she spoke more\nurgently.\n\n\"You just mustn\'t go back to it, Virgil. It\'s not fair to any of us, and\nyou know it isn\'t.\"\n\n\"Don\'t tell me what I know, please!\"\n\nShe clasped her hands, suddenly carrying her urgency to plaintive\nentreaty. \"Virgil, you WON\'T go back to that hole?\"\n\n\"That\'s a nice word to use to me!\" he said. \"Call a man\'s business a\nhole!\"\n\n\"Virgil, if you don\'t owe it to me to look for something different,\ndon\'t you owe it to your children? Don\'t tell me you won\'t do what we\nall want you to, and what you know in your heart you ought to! And if\nyou HAVE got into one of your stubborn fits and are bound to go back\nthere for no other reason except to have your own way, don\'t tell me so,\nfor I can\'t bear it!\"\n\nHe looked up at her fiercely. \"You\'ve got a fine way to cure a sick\nman!\" he said; but she had concluded her appeal--for that time--and\ninstead of making any more words in the matter, let him see that there\nwere tears in her eyes, shook her head, and left the room.\n\nAlone, he lay breathing rapidly, his emaciated chest proving itself\nequal to the demands his emotion put upon it. \"Fine!\" he repeated, with\nhusky indignation. \"Fine way to cure a sick man! Fine!\" Then, after a\nsilence, he gave forth whispering sounds as of laughter, his expression\nthe while remaining sore and far from humour.\n\n\"And give us our daily bread!\" he added, meaning that his wife\'s little\nperformance was no novelty.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nIn fact, the agitation of Mrs. Adams was genuine, but so well under her\ncontrol that its traces vanished during the three short steps she\ntook to cross the narrow hall between her husband\'s door and the one\nopposite. Her expression was matter-of-course, rather than pathetic, as\nshe entered the pretty room where her daughter, half dressed, sat before\na dressing-table and played with the reflections of a three-leafed\nmirror framed in blue enamel. That is, just before the moment of\nher mother\'s entrance, Alice had been playing with the mirror\'s\nreflections--posturing her arms and her expressions, clasping her hands\nbehind her neck, and tilting back her head to foreshorten the face in a\ntableau conceived to represent sauciness, then one of smiling weariness,\nthen one of scornful toleration, and all very piquant; but as the door\nopened she hurriedly resumed the practical, and occupied her hands in\nthe arrangement of her plentiful brownish hair.\n\nThey were pretty hands, of a shapeliness delicate and fine. \"The best\nthings she\'s got!\" a cold-blooded girl friend said of them, and meant\nto include Alice\'s mind and character in the implied list of possessions\nsurpassed by the notable hands. However that may have been, the rest\nof her was well enough. She was often called \"a right pretty\ngirl\"--temperate praise meaning a girl rather pretty than otherwise,\nand this she deserved, to say the least. Even in repose she deserved\nit, though repose was anything but her habit, being seldom seen upon\nher except at home. On exhibition she led a life of gestures, the unkind\nsaid to make her lovely hands more memorable; but all of her usually\naccompanied the gestures of the hands, the shoulders ever giving them\ntheir impulses first, and even her feet being called upon, at the same\ntime, for eloquence.\n\nSo much liveliness took proper place as only accessory to that of the\nface, where her vivacity reached its climax; and it was unfortunate that\nan ungifted young man, new in the town, should have attempted to define\nthe effect upon him of all this generosity of emphasis. He said that\n\"the way she used her cute hazel eyes and the wonderful glow of her\nfacial expression gave her a mighty spiritual quality.\" His actual\nrendition of the word was \"spirichul\"; but it was not his pronunciation\nthat embalmed this outburst in the perennial laughter of Alice\'s girl\nfriends; they made the misfortune far less his than hers.\n\nHer mother comforted her too heartily, insisting that Alice had \"plenty\nenough spiritual qualities,\" certainly more than possessed by the other\ngirls who flung the phrase at her, wooden things, jealous of everything\nthey were incapable of themselves; and then Alice, getting more\nchampionship than she sought, grew uneasy lest Mrs. Adams should repeat\nsuch defenses \"outside the family\"; and Mrs. Adams ended by weeping\nbecause the daughter so distrusted her intelligence. Alice frequently\nthought it necessary to instruct her mother.\n\nHer morning greeting was an instruction to-day; or, rather, it was\nan admonition in the style of an entreaty, the more petulant as Alice\nthought that Mrs. Adams might have had a glimpse of the posturings to\nthe mirror. This was a needless worry; the mother had caught a thousand\nsuch glimpses, with Alice unaware, and she thought nothing of the one\njust flitted.\n\n\"For heaven\'s sake, mama, come clear inside the room and shut the door!\nPLEASE don\'t leave it open for everybody to look at me!\"\n\n\"There isn\'t anybody to see you,\" Mrs. Adams explained, obeying. \"Miss\nPerry\'s gone downstairs, and----\"\n\n\"Mama, I heard you in papa\'s room,\" Alice said, not dropping the note of\ncomplaint. \"I could hear both of you, and I don\'t think you ought to get\npoor old papa so upset--not in his present condition, anyhow.\"\n\nMrs. Adams seated herself on the edge of the bed. \"He\'s better all the\ntime,\" she said, not disturbed. \"He\'s almost well. The doctor says so\nand Miss Perry says so; and if we don\'t get him into the right frame\nof mind now we never will. The first day he\'s outdoors he\'ll go back to\nthat old hole--you\'ll see! And if he once does that, he\'ll settle down\nthere and it\'ll be too late and we\'ll never get him out.\"\n\n\"Well, anyhow, I think you could use a little more tact with him.\"\n\n\"I do try to,\" the mother sighed. \"It never was much use with him. I\ndon\'t think you understand him as well as I do, Alice.\"\n\n\"There\'s one thing I don\'t understand about either of you,\" Alice\nreturned, crisply. \"Before people get married they can do anything they\nwant to with each other. Why can\'t they do the same thing after they\'re\nmarried? When you and papa were young people and engaged, he\'d have done\nanything you wanted him to. That must have been because you knew how to\nmanage him then. Why can\'t you go at him the same way now?\"\n\nMrs. Adams sighed again, and laughed a little, making no other response;\nbut Alice persisted. \"Well, WHY can\'t you? Why can\'t you ask him to do\nthings the way you used to ask him when you were just in love with each\nother? Why don\'t you anyhow try it, mama, instead of ding-donging at\nhim?\"\n\n\"\'Ding-donging at him,\' Alice?\" Mrs. Adams said, with a pathos somewhat\nemphasized. \"Is that how my trying to do what I can for you strikes\nyou?\"\n\n\"Never mind that; it\'s nothing to hurt your feelings.\" Alice disposed of\nthe pathos briskly. \"Why don\'t you answer my question? What\'s the matter\nwith using a little more tact on papa? Why can\'t you treat him the way\nyou probably did when you were young people, before you were married? I\nnever have understood why people can\'t do that.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you WILL understand some day,\" her mother said, gently. \"Maybe\nyou will when you\'ve been married twenty-five years.\"\n\n\"You keep evading. Why don\'t you answer my question right straight out?\"\n\n\"There are questions you can\'t answer to young people, Alice.\"\n\n\"You mean because we\'re too young to understand the answer? I don\'t see\nthat at all. At twenty-two a girl\'s supposed to have some intelligence,\nisn\'t she? And intelligence is the ability to understand, isn\'t it?\nWhy do I have to wait till I\'ve lived with a man twenty-five years to\nunderstand why you can\'t be tactful with papa?\"\n\n\"You may understand some things before that,\" Mrs. Adams said,\ntremulously. \"You may understand how you hurt me sometimes. Youth\ncan\'t know everything by being intelligent, and by the time you could\nunderstand the answer you\'re asking for you\'d know it, and wouldn\'t need\nto ask. You don\'t understand your father, Alice; you don\'t know what it\ntakes to change him when he\'s made up his mind to be stubborn.\"\n\nAlice rose and began to get herself into a skirt. \"Well, I don\'t think\nmaking scenes ever changes anybody,\" she grumbled. \"I think a little\njolly persuasion goes twice as far, myself.\"\n\n\"\'A little jolly persuasion!\'\" Her mother turned the echo of this phrase\ninto an ironic lament. \"Yes, there was a time when I thought that, too!\nIt didn\'t work; that\'s all.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you left the \'jolly\' part of it out, mama.\"\n\nFor the second time that morning--it was now a little after seven\no\'clock--tears seemed about to offer their solace to Mrs. Adams. \"I\nmight have expected you to say that, Alice; you never do miss a chance,\"\nshe said, gently. \"It seems queer you don\'t some time miss just ONE\nchance!\"\n\nBut Alice, progressing with her toilet, appeared to be little concerned.\n\"Oh, well, I think there are better ways of managing a man than just\nhammering at him.\"\n\nMrs. Adams uttered a little cry of pain. \"\'Hammering,\' Alice?\"\n\n\"If you\'d left it entirely to me,\" her daughter went on, briskly, \"I\nbelieve papa\'d already be willing to do anything we want him to.\"\n\n\"That\'s it; tell me I spoil everything. Well, I won\'t interfere from now\non, you can be sure of it.\"\n\n\"Please don\'t talk like that,\" Alice said, quickly. \"I\'m old enough to\nrealize that papa may need pressure of all sorts; I only think it makes\nhim more obstinate to get him cross. You probably do understand him\nbetter, but that\'s one thing I\'ve found out and you haven\'t. There!\"\nShe gave her mother a friendly tap on the shoulder and went to the door.\n\"I\'ll hop in and say hello to him now.\"\n\nAs she went, she continued the fastening of her blouse, and appeared in\nher father\'s room with one hand still thus engaged, but she patted his\nforehead with the other.\n\n\"Poor old papa-daddy!\" she said, gaily. \"Every time he\'s better somebody\ntalks him into getting so mad he has a relapse. It\'s a shame!\"\n\nHer father\'s eyes, beneath their melancholy brows, looked up at her\nwistfully. \"I suppose you heard your mother going for me,\" he said.\n\n\"I heard you going for her, too!\" Alice laughed. \"What was it all\nabout?\"\n\n\"Oh, the same danged old story!\"\n\n\"You mean she wants you to try something new when you get well?\" Alice\nasked, with cheerful innocence. \"So we could all have a lot more money?\"\n\nAt this his sorrowful forehead was more sorrowful than ever. The deep\nhorizontal lines moved upward to a pattern of suffering so familiar to\nhis daughter that it meant nothing to her; but he spoke quietly. \"Yes;\nso we wouldn\'t have any money at all, most likely.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" she laughed, and, finishing with her blouse, patted his cheeks\nwith both hands. \"Just think how many grand openings there must be for\na man that knows as much as you do! I always did believe you could get\nrich if you only cared to, papa.\"\n\nBut upon his forehead the painful pattern still deepened. \"Don\'t you\nthink we\'ve always had enough, the way things are, Alice?\"\n\n\"Not the way things ARE!\" She patted his cheeks again; laughed again.\n\"It used to be enough, maybe anyway we did skimp along on it--but the\nway things are now I expect mama\'s really pretty practical in her ideas,\nthough, I think it\'s a shame for her to bother you about it while you\'re\nso weak. Don\'t you worry about it, though; just think about other things\ntill you get strong.\"\n\n\"You know,\" he said; \"you know it isn\'t exactly the easiest thing in the\nworld for a man of my age to find these grand openings you speak of. And\nwhen you\'ve passed half-way from fifty to sixty you\'re apt to see some\nrisk in giving up what you know how to do and trying something new.\"\n\n\"My, what a frown!\" she cried, blithely. \"Didn\'t I tell you to stop\nthinking about it till you get ALL well?\" She bent over him, giving\nhim a gay little kiss on the bridge of his nose. \"There! I must run to\nbreakfast. Cheer up now! Au \'voir!\" And with her pretty hand she waved\nfurther encouragement from the closing door as she departed.\n\nLightsomely descending the narrow stairway, she whistled as she went,\nher fingers drumming time on the rail; and, still whistling, she came\ninto the dining-room, where her mother and her brother were already at\nthe table. The brother, a thin and sallow boy of twenty, greeted her\nwithout much approval as she took her place.\n\n\"Nothing seems to trouble you!\" he said.\n\n\"No; nothing much,\" she made airy response. \"What\'s troubling yourself,\nWalter?\"\n\n\"Don\'t let that worry you!\" he returned, seeming to consider this to be\nrepartee of an effective sort; for he furnished a short laugh to go\nwith it, and turned to his coffee with the manner of one who has\nsatisfactorily closed an episode.\n\n\"Walter always seems to have so many secrets!\" Alice said, studying\nhim shrewdly, but with a friendly enough amusement in her scrutiny.\n\"Everything he does or says seems to be acted for the benefit of some\nmysterious audience inside himself, and he always gets its applause.\nTake what he said just now: he seems to think it means something, but\nif it does, why, that\'s just another secret between him and the secret\naudience inside of him! We don\'t really know anything about Walter at\nall, do we, mama?\"\n\nWalter laughed again, in a manner that sustained her theory well enough;\nthen after finishing his coffee, he took from his pocket a flattened\npacket in glazed blue paper; extracted with stained fingers a bent and\nwrinkled little cigarette, lighted it, hitched up his belted trousers\nwith the air of a person who turns from trifles to things better worth\nhis attention, and left the room.\n\nAlice laughed as the door closed. \"He\'s ALL secrets,\" she said. \"Don\'t\nyou think you really ought to know more about him, mama?\"\n\n\"I\'m sure he\'s a good boy,\" Mrs. Adams returned, thoughtfully. \"He\'s\nbeen very brave about not being able to have the advantages that are\nenjoyed by the boys he\'s grown up with. I\'ve never heard a word of\ncomplaint from him.\"\n\n\"About his not being sent to college?\" Alice cried. \"I should think you\nwouldn\'t! He didn\'t even have enough ambition to finish high school!\"\n\nMrs. Adams sighed. \"It seemed to me Walter lost his ambition when nearly\nall the boys he\'d grown up with went to Eastern schools to prepare for\ncollege, and we couldn\'t afford to send him. If only your father would\nhave listened----\"\n\nAlice interrupted: \"What nonsense! Walter hated books and studying, and\nathletics, too, for that matter. He doesn\'t care for anything nice that\nI ever heard of. What do you suppose he does like, mama? He must like\nsomething or other somewhere, but what do you suppose it is? What does\nhe do with his time?\"\n\n\"Why, the poor boy\'s at Lamb and Company\'s all day. He doesn\'t get\nthrough until five in the afternoon; he doesn\'t HAVE much time.\"\n\n\"Well, we never have dinner until about seven, and he\'s always late for\ndinner, and goes out, heaven knows where, right afterward!\" Alice shook\nher head. \"He used to go with our friends\' boys, but I don\'t think he\ndoes now.\"\n\n\"Why, how could he?\" Mrs. Adams protested. \"That isn\'t his fault, poor\nchild! The boys he knew when he was younger are nearly all away at\ncollege.\"\n\n\"Yes, but he doesn\'t see anything of \'em when they\'re here at\nholiday-time or vacation. None of \'em come to the house any more.\"\n\n\"I suppose he\'s made other friends. It\'s natural for him to want\ncompanions, at his age.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Alice said, with disapproving emphasis. \"But who are they? I\'ve\ngot an idea he plays pool at some rough place down-town.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; I\'m sure he\'s a steady boy,\" Mrs. Adams protested, but her tone\nwas not that of thoroughgoing conviction, and she added, \"Life might\nbe a very different thing for him if only your father can be brought to\nsee----\"\n\n\"Never mind, mama! It isn\'t me that has to be convinced, you know; and\nwe can do a lot more with papa if we just let him alone about it for a\nday or two. Promise me you won\'t say any more to him until--well, until\nhe\'s able to come downstairs to table. Will you?\"\n\nMrs. Adams bit her lip, which had begun to tremble. \"I think you can\ntrust me to know a FEW things, Alice,\" she said. \"I\'m a little older\nthan you, you know.\"\n\n\"That\'s a good girl!\" Alice jumped up, laughing. \"Don\'t forget it\'s the\nsame as a promise, and do just cheer him up a little. I\'ll say good-bye\nto him before I go out.\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Oh, I\'ve got lots to do. I thought I\'d run out to Mildred\'s to see what\nshe\'s going to wear to-night, and then I want to go down and buy a\nyard of chiffon and some narrow ribbon to make new bows for my\nslippers--you\'ll have to give me some money----\"\n\n\"If he\'ll give it to me!\" her mother lamented, as they went toward the\nfront stairs together; but an hour later she came into Alice\'s room with\na bill in her hand.\n\n\"He has some money in his bureau drawer,\" she said. \"He finally told me\nwhere it was.\"\n\nThere were traces of emotion in her voice, and Alice, looking shrewdly\nat her, saw moisture in her eyes.\n\n\"Mama!\" she cried. \"You didn\'t do what you promised me you wouldn\'t, did\nyou--NOT before Miss Perry!\"\n\n\"Miss Perry\'s getting him some broth,\" Mrs. Adams returned, calmly.\n\"Besides, you\'re mistaken in saying I promised you anything; I said I\nthought you could trust me to know what is right.\"\n\n\"So you did bring it up again!\" And Alice swung away from her, strode\nto her father\'s door, flung it open, went to him, and put a light hand\nsoothingly over his unrelaxed forehead.\n\n\"Poor old papa!\" she said. \"It\'s a shame how everybody wants to trouble\nhim. He shan\'t be bothered any more at all! He doesn\'t need to have\neverybody telling him how to get away from that old hole he\'s worked in\nso long and begin to make us all nice and rich. HE knows how!\"\n\nThereupon she kissed him a consoling good-bye, and made another gay\ndeparture, the charming hand again fluttering like a white butterfly in\nthe shadow of the closing door.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nMrs. Adams had remained in Alice\'s room, but her mood seemed to have\nchanged, during her daughter\'s little more than momentary absence.\n\n\"What did he SAY?\" she asked, quickly, and her tone was hopeful.\n\n\"\'Say?\'\" Alice repeated, impatiently. \"Why, nothing. I didn\'t let him.\nReally, mama, I think the best thing for you to do would be to just keep\nout of his room, because I don\'t believe you can go in there and not\ntalk to him about it, and if you do talk we\'ll never get him to do the\nright thing. Never!\"\n\nThe mother\'s response was a grieving silence; she turned from her\ndaughter and walked to the door.\n\n\"Now, for goodness\' sake!\" Alice cried. \"Don\'t go making tragedy out of\nmy offering you a little practical advice!\"\n\n\"I\'m not,\" Mrs. Adams gulped, halting. \"I\'m just--just going to dust the\ndownstairs, Alice.\" And with her face still averted, she went out into\nthe little hallway, closing the door behind her. A moment later she\ncould be heard descending the stairs, the sound of her footsteps\ncarrying somehow an effect of resignation.\n\nAlice listened, sighed, and, breathing the words, \"Oh, murder!\" turned\nto cheerier matters. She put on a little apple-green turban with a dim\ngold band round it, and then, having shrouded the turban in a white\nveil, which she kept pushed up above her forehead, she got herself into\na tan coat of soft cloth fashioned with rakish severity. After that,\nhaving studied herself gravely in a long glass, she took from one of\nthe drawers of her dressing-table a black leather card-case cornered in\nsilver filigree, but found it empty.\n\nShe opened another drawer wherein were two white pasteboard boxes of\ncards, the one set showing simply \"Miss Adams,\" the other engraved in\nGothic characters, \"Miss Alys Tuttle Adams.\" The latter belonged to\nAlice\'s \"Alys\" period--most girls go through it; and Alice must have\nfelt that she had graduated, for, after frowning thoughtfully at the\nexhibit this morning, she took the box with its contents, and let the\nwhite shower fall from her fingers into the waste-basket beside her\nsmall desk. She replenished the card-case from the \"Miss Adams\"\nbox; then, having found a pair of fresh white gloves, she tucked an\nivory-topped Malacca walking-stick under her arm and set forth.\n\nShe went down the stairs, buttoning her gloves and still wearing\nthe frown with which she had put \"Alys\" finally out of her life. She\ndescended slowly, and paused on the lowest step, looking about her with\nan expression that needed but a slight deepening to betoken bitterness.\nIts connection with her dropping \"Alys\" forever was slight, however.\n\nThe small frame house, about fifteen years old, was already inclining\nto become a new Colonial relic. The Adamses had built it, moving into it\nfrom the \"Queen Anne\" house they had rented until they took this step in\nfashion. But fifteen years is a long time to stand still in the midland\ncountry, even for a house, and this one was lightly made, though the\nAdamses had not realized how flimsily until they had lived in it for\nsome time. \"Solid, compact, and convenient\" were the instructions to the\narchitect, and he had made it compact successfully. Alice, pausing\nat the foot of the stairway, was at the same time fairly in the\n\"living-room,\" for the only separation between the \"living room\" and the\nhall was a demarcation suggested to willing imaginations by a pair of\nwooden columns painted white. These columns, pine under the paint,\nwere bruised and chipped at the base; one of them showed a crack that\nthreatened to become a split; the \"hard-wood\" floor had become uneven;\nand in a corner the walls apparently failed of solidity, where the\nwall-paper had declined to accompany some staggerings of the plaster\nbeneath it.\n\nThe furniture was in great part an accumulation begun with the wedding\ngifts; though some of it was older, two large patent rocking-chairs and\na footstool having belonged to Mrs. Adams\'s mother in the days of hard\nbrown plush and veneer. For decoration there were pictures and vases.\nMrs. Adams had always been fond of vases, she said, and every year\nher husband\'s Christmas present to her was a vase of one sort or\nanother--whatever the clerk showed him, marked at about twelve or\nfourteen dollars. The pictures were some of them etchings framed in\ngilt: Rheims, Canterbury, schooners grouped against a wharf; and Alice\ncould remember how, in her childhood, her father sometimes pointed out\nthe watery reflections in this last as very fine. But it was a long time\nsince he had shown interest in such things--\"or in anything much,\" as\nshe thought.\n\nOther pictures were two water-colours in baroque frames; one being the\nAmalfi monk on a pergola wall, while the second was a yard-wide display\nof iris blossoms, painted by Alice herself at fourteen, as a birthday\ngift to her mother. Alice\'s glance paused upon it now with no great\npride, but showed more approval of an enormous photograph of the\nColosseum. This she thought of as \"the only good thing in the room\";\nit possessed and bestowed distinction, she felt; and she did not regret\nhaving won her struggle to get it hung in its conspicuous place of\nhonour over the mantelpiece. Formerly that place had been held for\nyears by a steel-engraving, an accurate representation of the Suspension\nBridge at Niagara Falls. It was almost as large as its successor, the\n\"Colosseum,\" and it had been presented to Mr. Adams by colleagues in\nhis department at Lamb and Company\'s. Adams had shown some feeling when\nAlice began to urge its removal to obscurity in the \"upstairs hall\"; he\neven resisted for several days after she had the \"Colosseum\" charged\nto him, framed in oak, and sent to the house. She cheered him up, of\ncourse, when he gave way; and her heart never misgave her that there\nmight be a doubt which of the two pictures was the more dismaying.\n\nOver the pictures, the vases, the old brown plush rocking-chairs and\nthe stool, over the three gilt chairs, over the new chintz-covered easy\nchair and the gray velure sofa--over everything everywhere, was the\nfamiliar coating of smoke grime. It had worked into every fibre of\nthe lace curtains, dingying them to an unpleasant gray; it lay on\nthe window-sills and it dimmed the glass panes; it covered the walls,\ncovered the ceiling, and was smeared darker and thicker in all corners.\nYet here was no fault of housewifery; the curse could not be lifted, as\nthe ingrained smudges permanent on the once white woodwork proved. The\ngrime was perpetually renewed; scrubbing only ground it in.\n\nThis particular ugliness was small part of Alice\'s discontent, for\nthough the coating grew a little deeper each year she was used to it.\nMoreover, she knew that she was not likely to find anything better in\na thousand miles, so long as she kept to cities, and that none of\nher friends, however opulent, had any advantage of her here. Indeed,\nthroughout all the great soft-coal country, people who consider\nthemselves comparatively poor may find this consolation: cleanliness has\nbeen added to the virtues and beatitudes that money can not buy.\n\nAlice brightened a little as she went forward to the front door, and\nshe brightened more when the spring breeze met her there. Then all\ndepression left her as she walked down the short brick path to the\nsidewalk, looked up and down the street, and saw how bravely the maple\nshade-trees, in spite of the black powder they breathed, were flinging\nout their thousands of young green particles overhead.\n\nShe turned north, treading the new little shadows on the pavement\nbriskly, and, having finished buttoning her gloves, swung down her\nMalacca stick from under her arm to let it tap a more leisurely\naccompaniment to her quick, short step. She had to step quickly if she\nwas to get anywhere; for the closeness of her skirt, in spite of its\nlittle length, permitted no natural stride; but she was pleased to be\nimpeded, these brevities forming part of her show of fashion.\n\nOther pedestrians found them not without charm, though approval may have\nbeen lacking here and there, and at the first crossing Alice suffered\nwhat she might have accounted an actual injury, had she allowed herself\nto be so sensitive. An elderly woman in fussy black silk stood there,\nwaiting for a streetcar; she was all of a globular modelling, with\na face patterned like a frost-bitten peach; and that the approaching\ngracefulness was uncongenial she naively made too evident. Her round,\nwan eyes seemed roused to bitter life as they rose from the curved high\nheels of the buckled slippers to the tight little skirt, and thence with\nstartled ferocity to the Malacca cane, which plainly appeared to her as\na decoration not more astounding than it was insulting.\n\nPerceiving that the girl was bowing to her, the globular lady hurriedly\nmade shift to alter her injurious expression. \"Good morning, Mrs.\nDowling,\" Alice said, gravely. Mrs. Dowling returned the salutation with\na smile as convincingly benevolent as the ghastly smile upon a Santa\nClaus face; and then, while Alice passed on, exploded toward her a\nsingle compacted breath through tightened lips.\n\nThe sound was eloquently audible, though Mrs. Dowling remained unaware\nthat in this or any manner whatever she had shed a light upon her\nthoughts; for it was her lifelong innocent conviction that other people\nsaw her only as she wished to be seen, and heard from her only what she\nintended to be heard. At home it was always her husband who pulled down\nthe shades of their bedroom window.\n\nAlice looked serious for a few moments after the little encounter, then\nfound some consolation in the behaviour of a gentleman of forty or\nso who was coming toward her. Like Mrs. Dowling, he had begun to show\nconsciousness of Alice\'s approach while she was yet afar off; but his\ntokens were of a kind pleasanter to her. He was like Mrs. Dowling again,\nhowever, in his conception that Alice would not realize the significance\nof what he did. He passed his hand over his neck-scarf to see that it\nlay neatly to his collar, smoothed a lapel of his coat, and adjusted\nhis hat, seeming to be preoccupied the while with problems that kept\nhis eyes to the pavement; then, as he came within a few feet of her,\nhe looked up, as in a surprised recognition almost dramatic, smiled\nwinningly, lifted his hat decisively, and carried it to the full arm\'s\nlength.\n\nAlice\'s response was all he could have asked. The cane in her right\nhand stopped short in its swing, while her left hand moved in a pretty\ngesture as if an impulse carried it toward the heart; and she smiled,\nwith her under lip caught suddenly between her teeth. Months ago she had\nseen an actress use this smile in a play, and it came perfectly to Alice\nnow, without conscious direction, it had been so well acquired; but the\npretty hand\'s little impulse toward the heart was an original bit all\nher own, on the spur of the moment.\n\nThe gentleman went on, passing from her forward vision as he replaced\nhis hat. Of himself he was nothing to Alice, except for the gracious\ncircumstance that he had shown strong consciousness of a pretty girl. He\nwas middle-aged, substantial, a family man, securely married; and\nAlice had with him one of those long acquaintances that never become\nemphasized by so much as five minutes of talk; yet for this inconsequent\nmeeting she had enacted a little part like a fragment in a pantomime of\nSpanish wooing.\n\nIt was not for him--not even to impress him, except as a messenger.\nAlice was herself almost unaware of her thought, which was one of the\nrunning thousands of her thoughts that took no deliberate form in words.\nNevertheless, she had it, and it was the impulse of all her pretty\nbits of pantomime when she met other acquaintances who made their\nappreciation visible, as this substantial gentleman did. In Alice\'s\nunworded thought, he was to be thus encouraged as in some measure a\nchampion to speak well of her to the world; but more than this: he was\nto tell some magnificent unknown bachelor how wonderful, how mysterious,\nshe was.\n\nShe hastened on gravely, a little stirred reciprocally with the\nsupposed stirrings in the breast of that shadowy ducal mate, who must be\nsomewhere \"waiting,\" or perhaps already seeking her; for she more often\nthought of herself as \"waiting\" while he sought her; and sometimes this\nview of things became so definite that it shaped into a murmur on her\nlips. \"Waiting. Just waiting.\" And she might add, \"For him!\" Then, being\ntwenty-two, she was apt to conclude the mystic interview by laughing at\nherself, though not without a continued wistfulness.\n\nShe came to a group of small coloured children playing waywardly in a\npuddle at the mouth of a muddy alley; and at sight of her they gave over\ntheir pastime in order to stare. She smiled brilliantly upon them, but\nthey were too struck with wonder to comprehend that the manifestation\nwas friendly; and as Alice picked her way in a little detour to keep\nfrom the mud, she heard one of them say, \"Lady got cane! Jeez\'!\"\n\nShe knew that many coloured children use impieties familiarly, and she\nwas not startled. She was disturbed, however, by an unfavourable hint in\nthe speaker\'s tone. He was six, probably, but the sting of a criticism\nis not necessarily allayed by knowledge of its ignoble source, and\nAlice had already begun to feel a slight uneasiness about her cane. Mrs.\nDowling\'s stare had been strikingly projected at it; other women more\nthan merely glanced, their brows and lips contracting impulsively; and\nAlice was aware that one or two of them frankly halted as soon as she\nhad passed.\n\nShe had seen in several magazines pictures of ladies with canes, and on\nthat account she had bought this one, never questioning that fashion is\nrecognized, even in the provinces, as soon as beheld. On the contrary,\nthese staring women obviously failed to realize that what they were\nbeing shown was not an eccentric outburst, but the bright harbinger of\nan illustrious mode. Alice had applied a bit of artificial pigment to\nher lips and cheeks before she set forth this morning; she did not\nneed it, having a ready colour of her own, which now mounted high with\nannoyance.\n\nThen a splendidly shining closed black automobile, with windows of\npolished glass, came silently down the street toward her. Within it, as\nin a luxurious little apartment, three comely ladies in mourning sat\nand gossiped; but when they saw Alice they clutched one another. They\ninstantly recovered, bowing to her solemnly as they were borne by, yet\nwere not gone from her sight so swiftly but the edge of her side glance\ncaught a flash of teeth in mouths suddenly opened, and the dark glisten\nof black gloves again clutching to share mirth.\n\nThe colour that outdid the rouge on Alice\'s cheek extended its area and\ngrew warmer as she realized how all too cordial had been her nod and\nsmile to these humorous ladies. But in their identity lay a significance\ncausing her a sharper smart, for they were of the family of that Lamb,\nchief of Lamb and Company, who had employed her father since before she\nwas born.\n\n\"And know his salary! They\'d be SURE to find out about that!\" was her\nthought, coupled with another bitter one to the effect that they had\nprobably made instantaneous financial estimates of what she wore though\ncertainly her walking-stick had most fed their hilarity.\n\nShe tucked it under her arm, not swinging it again; and her breath\nbecame quick and irregular as emotion beset her. She had been enjoying\nher walk, but within the space of the few blocks she had gone since she\nmet the substantial gentleman, she found that more than the walk was\nspoiled: suddenly her life seemed to be spoiled, too; though she did not\nview the ruin with complaisance. These Lamb women thought her and her\ncane ridiculous, did they? she said to herself. That was their parvenu\nblood: to think because a girl\'s father worked for their grandfather\nshe had no right to be rather striking in style, especially when the\nstriking WAS her style. Probably all the other girls and women would\nagree with them and would laugh at her when they got together, and,\nwhat might be fatal, would try to make all the men think her a silly\npretender. Men were just like sheep, and nothing was easier than for\nwomen to set up as shepherds and pen them in a fold. \"To keep out\noutsiders,\" Alice thought. \"And make \'em believe I AM an outsider.\nWhat\'s the use of living?\"\n\nAll seemed lost when a trim young man appeared, striding out of a\ncross-street not far before her, and, turning at the corner, came\ntoward her. Visibly, he slackened his gait to lengthen the time of his\napproach, and, as he was a stranger to her, no motive could be ascribed\nto him other than a wish to have a longer time to look at her.\n\nShe lifted a pretty hand to a pin at her throat, bit her lip--not with\nthe smile, but mysteriously--and at the last instant before her shadow\ntouched the stranger, let her eyes gravely meet his. A moment later,\nhaving arrived before the house which was her destination, she halted\nat the entrance to a driveway leading through fine lawns to the\nintentionally important mansion. It was a pleasant and impressive\nplace to be seen entering, but Alice did not enter at once. She paused,\nexamining a tiny bit of mortar which the masons had forgotten to scrape\nfrom a brick in one of the massive gate-posts. She frowned at this tiny\ndefacement, and with an air of annoyance scraped it away, using the\nferrule of her cane an act of fastidious proprietorship. If any one had\nlooked back over his shoulder he would not have doubted that she lived\nthere.\n\nAlice did not turn to see whether anything of the sort happened or not,\nbut she may have surmised that it did. At all events, it was with\nan invigorated step that she left the gateway behind her and went\ncheerfully up the drive to the house of her friend Mildred.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nAdams had a restless morning, and toward noon he asked Miss Perry to\ncall his daughter; he wished to say something to her.\n\n\"I thought I heard her leaving the house a couple of hours ago--maybe\nlonger,\" the nurse told him. \"I\'ll go see.\" And she returned from the\nbrief errand, her impression confirmed by information from Mrs. Adams.\n\"Yes. She went up to Miss Mildred Palmer\'s to see what she\'s going to\nwear to-night.\"\n\nAdams looked at Miss Perry wearily, but remained passive, making no\ninquiries; for he was long accustomed to what seemed to him a kind of\njargon among ladies, which became the more incomprehensible when they\ntried to explain it. A man\'s best course, he had found, was just to let\nit go as so much sound. His sorrowful eyes followed the nurse as she\nwent back to her rocking-chair by the window, and her placidity showed\nhim that there was no mystery for her in the fact that Alice walked\ntwo miles to ask so simple a question when there was a telephone in\nthe house. Obviously Miss Perry also comprehended why Alice thought it\nimportant to know what Mildred meant to wear. Adams understood why Alice\nshould be concerned with what she herself wore \"to look neat and tidy\nand at her best, why, of course she\'d want to,\" he thought--but he\nrealized that it was forever beyond him to understand why the clothing\nof other people had long since become an absorbing part of her life.\n\nHer excursion this morning was no novelty; she was continually going to\nsee what Mildred meant to wear, or what some other girl meant to wear;\nand when Alice came home from wherever other girls or women had been\ngathered, she always hurried to her mother with earnest descriptions of\nthe clothing she had seen. At such times, if Adams was present, he might\nrecognize \"organdie,\" or \"taffeta,\" or \"chiffon,\" as words defining\ncertain textiles, but the rest was too technical for him, and he\nwas like a dismal boy at a sermon, just waiting for it to get itself\nfinished. Not the least of the mystery was his wife\'s interest: she was\nalmost indifferent about her own clothes, and when she consulted Alice\nabout them spoke hurriedly and with an air of apology; but when Alice\ndescribed other people\'s clothes, Mrs. Adams listened as eagerly as the\ndaughter talked.\n\n\"There they go!\" he muttered to-day, a moment after he heard the front\ndoor closing, a sound recognizable throughout most of the thinly built\nhouse. Alice had just returned, and Mrs. Adams called to her from the\nupper hallway, not far from Adams\'s door.\n\n\"What did she SAY?\"\n\n\"She was sort of snippy about it,\" Alice returned, ascending the stairs.\n\"She gets that way sometimes, and pretended she hadn\'t made up her mind,\nbut I\'m pretty sure it\'ll be the maize Georgette with Malines flounces.\"\n\n\"Didn\'t you say she wore that at the Pattersons\'?\" Mrs. Adams inquired,\nas Alice arrived at the top of the stairs. \"And didn\'t you tell me she\nwore it again at the----\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" Alice interrupted, rather petulantly. \"She\'s never worn\nit but once, and of course she wouldn\'t want to wear anything to-night\nthat people have seen her in a lot.\"\n\nMiss Perry opened the door of Adams\'s room and stepped out. \"Your father\nwants to know if you\'ll come and see him a minute, Miss Adams.\"\n\n\"Poor old thing! Of course!\" Alice exclaimed, and went quickly into the\nroom, Miss Perry remaining outside. \"What\'s the matter, papa? Getting\nawful sick of lying on his tired old back, I expect.\"\n\n\"I\'ve had kind of a poor morning,\" Adams said, as she patted his hand\ncomfortingly. \"I been thinking----\"\n\n\"Didn\'t I tell you not to?\" she cried, gaily. \"Of course you\'ll have\npoor times when you go and do just exactly what I say you mustn\'t. You\nstop thinking this very minute!\"\n\nHe smiled ruefully, closing his eyes; was silent for a moment, then\nasked her to sit beside the bed. \"I been thinking of something I wanted\nto say,\" he added.\n\n\"What like, papa?\"\n\n\"Well, it\'s nothing--much,\" he said, with something deprecatory in his\ntone, as if he felt vague impulses toward both humour and apology. \"I\njust thought maybe I ought to\'ve said more to you some time or other\nabout--well, about the way things ARE, down at Lamb and Company\'s, for\ninstance.\"\n\n\"Now, papa!\" She leaned forward in the chair she had taken, and\npretended to slap his hand crossly. \"Isn\'t that exactly what I said you\ncouldn\'t think one single think about till you get ALL well?\"\n\n\"Well----\" he said, and went on slowly, not looking at her, but at the\nceiling. \"I just thought maybe it wouldn\'t been any harm if some time or\nother I told you something about the way they sort of depend on me down\nthere.\"\n\n\"Why don\'t they show it, then?\" she asked, quickly. \"That\'s just what\nmama and I have been feeling so much; they don\'t appreciate you.\"\n\n\"Why, yes, they do,\" he said. \"Yes, they do. They began h\'isting my\nsalary the second year I went in there, and they\'ve h\'isted it a little\nevery two years all the time I\'ve worked for \'em. I\'ve been head of the\nsundries department for seven years now, and I could hardly have more\nauthority in that department unless I was a member of the firm itself.\"\n\n\"Well, why don\'t they make you a member of the firm? That\'s what they\nought to\'ve done! Yes, and long ago!\"\n\nAdams laughed, but sighed with more heartiness than he had laughed.\n\"They call me their \'oldest stand-by\' down there.\" He laughed again,\napologetically, as if to excuse himself for taking a little pride in\nthis title. \"Yes, sir; they say I\'m their \'oldest stand-by\'; and I guess\nthey know they can count on my department\'s turning in as good a report\nas they look for, at the end of every month; but they don\'t have to take\na man into the firm to get him to do my work, dearie.\"\n\n\"But you said they depended on you, papa.\"\n\n\"So they do; but of course not so\'s they couldn\'t get along without me.\"\nHe paused, reflecting. \"I don\'t just seem to know how to put it--I\nmean how to put what I started out to say. I kind of wanted to tell\nyou--well, it seems funny to me, these last few years, the way your\nmother\'s taken to feeling about it. I\'d like to see a better\nestablished wholesale drug business than Lamb and Company this side the\nAlleghanies--I don\'t say bigger, I say better established--and it\'s kind\nof funny for a man that\'s been with a business like that as long as\nI have to hear it called a \'hole.\' It\'s kind of funny when you think,\nyourself, you\'ve done pretty fairly well in a business like that, and\nthe men at the head of it seem to think so, too, and put your salary\njust about as high as anybody could consider customary--well, what I\nmean, Alice, it\'s kind of funny to have your mother think it\'s mostly\njust--mostly just a failure, so to speak.\"\n\nHis voice had become tremulous in spite of him; and this sign of\nweakness and emotion had sufficient effect upon Alice. She bent over him\nsuddenly, with her arm about him and her cheek against his. \"Poor papa!\"\nshe murmured. \"Poor papa!\"\n\n\"No, no,\" he said. \"I didn\'t mean anything to trouble you. I just\nthought----\" He hesitated. \"I just wondered--I thought maybe it wouldn\'t\nbe any harm if I said something about how things ARE down there. I\ngot to thinking maybe you didn\'t understand it\'s a pretty good place.\nThey\'re fine people to work for; and they\'ve always seemed to think\nsomething of me;--the way they took Walter on, for instance, soon as I\nasked \'em, last year. Don\'t you think that looked a good deal as if they\nthought something of me, Alice?\"\n\n\"Yes, papa,\" she said, not moving.\n\n\"And the work\'s right pleasant,\" he went on. \"Mighty nice boys in our\ndepartment, Alice. Well, they are in all the departments, for that\nmatter. We have a good deal of fun down there some days.\"\n\nShe lifted her head. \"More than you do at home \'some days,\' I expect,\npapa!\" she said.\n\nHe protested feebly. \"Now, I didn\'t mean that--I didn\'t want to trouble\nyou----\"\n\nShe looked at him through winking eyelashes. \"I\'m sorry I called it a\n\'hole,\' papa.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" he protested, gently. \"It was your mother said that.\"\n\n\"No. I did, too.\"\n\n\"Well, if you did, it was only because you\'d heard her.\"\n\nShe shook her head, then kissed him. \"I\'m going to talk to her,\" she\nsaid, and rose decisively.\n\nBut at this, her father\'s troubled voice became quickly louder: \"You\nbetter let her alone. I just wanted to have a little talk with you. I\ndidn\'t mean to start any--your mother won\'t----\"\n\n\"Now, papa!\" Alice spoke cheerfully again, and smiled upon him. \"I want\nyou to quit worrying! Everything\'s going to be all right and nobody\'s\ngoing to bother you any more about anything. You\'ll see!\"\n\nShe carried her smile out into the hall, but after she had closed the\ndoor her face was all pity; and her mother, waiting for her in the\nopposite room, spoke sympathetically.\n\n\"What\'s the matter, Alice? What did he say that\'s upset you?\"\n\n\"Wait a minute, mama.\" Alice found a handkerchief, used it for eyes and\nsuffused nose, gulped, then suddenly and desolately sat upon the bed.\n\"Poor, poor, POOR papa!\" she whispered.\n\n\"Why?\" Mrs. Adams inquired, mildly. \"What\'s the matter with him?\nSometimes you act as if he weren\'t getting well. What\'s he been talking\nabout?\"\n\n\"Mama--well, I think I\'m pretty selfish. Oh, I do!\"\n\n\"Did he say you were?\"\n\n\"Papa? No, indeed! What I mean is, maybe we\'re both a little selfish to\ntry to make him go out and hunt around for something new.\"\n\nMrs. Adams looked thoughtful. \"Oh, that\'s what he was up to!\"\n\n\"Mama, I think we ought to give it up. I didn\'t dream it had really hurt\nhim.\"\n\n\"Well, doesn\'t he hurt us?\"\n\n\"Never that I know of, mama.\"\n\n\"I don\'t mean by SAYING things,\" Mrs. Adams explained, impatiently.\n\"There are more ways than that of hurting people. When a man sticks to a\nsalary that doesn\'t provide for his family, isn\'t that hurting them?\"\n\n\"Oh, it \'provides\' for us well enough, mama. We have what we need--if I\nweren\'t so extravagant. Oh, _I_ know I am!\"\n\nBut at this admission her mother cried out sharply. \"\'Extravagant!\'\nYou haven\'t one tenth of what the other girls you go with have. And\nyou CAN\'T have what you ought to as long as he doesn\'t get out of that\nhorrible place. It provides bare food and shelter for us, but what\'s\nthat?\"\n\n\"I don\'t think we ought to try any more to change him.\"\n\n\"You don\'t?\" Mrs. Adams came and stood before her. \"Listen, Alice: your\nfather\'s asleep; that\'s his trouble, and he\'s got to be waked up. He\ndoesn\'t know that things have changed. When you and Walter were little\nchildren we did have enough--at least it seemed to be about as much\nas most of the people we knew. But the town isn\'t what it was in those\ndays, and times aren\'t what they were then, and these fearful PRICES\naren\'t the old prices. Everything else but your father has changed, and\nall the time he\'s stood still. He doesn\'t know it; he thinks because\nthey\'ve given him a hundred dollars more every two years he\'s quite a\nprosperous man! And he thinks that because his children cost him more\nthan he and I cost our parents he gives them--enough!\"\n\n\"But Walter----\" Alice faltered. \"Walter doesn\'t cost him anything at\nall any more.\" And she concluded, in a stricken voice, \"It\'s all--me!\"\n\n\"Why shouldn\'t it be?\" her mother cried. \"You\'re young--you\'re just at\nthe time when your life should be fullest of good things and happiness.\nYet what do you get?\"\n\nAlice\'s lip quivered; she was not unsusceptible to such an appeal, but\nshe contrived the semblance of a protest. \"I don\'t have such a bad time\nnot a good DEAL of the time, anyhow. I\'ve got a good MANY of the things\nother girls have----\"\n\n\"You have?\" Mrs. Adams was piteously satirical. \"I suppose you\'ve got\na limousine to go to that dance to-night? I suppose you\'ve only got\nto call a florist and tell him to send you some orchids? I suppose\nyou\'ve----\"\n\nBut Alice interrupted this list. Apparently in a single instant all\nemotion left her, and she became businesslike, as one in the midst of\ntrifles reminded of really serious matters. She got up from the bed\nand went to the door of the closet where she kept her dresses. \"Oh, see\nhere,\" she said, briskly. \"I\'ve decided to wear my white organdie if you\ncould put in a new lining for me. I\'m afraid it\'ll take you nearly all\nafternoon.\"\n\nShe brought forth the dress, displayed it upon the bed, and Mrs. Adams\nexamined it attentively.\n\n\"Do you think you could get it done, mama?\"\n\n\"I don\'t see why not,\" Mrs. Adams answered, passing a thoughtful hand\nover the fabric. \"It oughtn\'t to take more than four or five hours.\"\n\n\"It\'s a shame to have you sit at the machine that long,\" Alice said,\nabsently, adding, \"And I\'m sure we ought to let papa alone. Let\'s just\ngive it up, mama.\"\n\nMrs. Adams continued her thoughtful examination of the dress. \"Did you\nbuy the chiffon and ribbon, Alice?\"\n\n\"Yes. I\'m sure we oughtn\'t to talk to him about it any more, mama.\"\n\n\"Well, we\'ll see.\"\n\n\"Let\'s both agree that we\'ll NEVER say another single word to him about\nit,\" said Alice. \"It\'ll be a great deal better if we just let him make\nup his mind for himself.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nWith this, having more immediately practical questions before them, they\ndropped the subject, to bend their entire attention upon the dress; and\nwhen the lunch-gong sounded downstairs Alice was still sketching repairs\nand alterations. She continued to sketch them, not heeding the summons.\n\n\"I suppose we\'d better go down to lunch,\" Mrs. Adams said, absently.\n\"She\'s at the gong again.\" \"In a minute, mama. Now about the\nsleeves----\" And she went on with her planning. Unfortunately the\ngong was inexpressive of the mood of the person who beat upon it. It\nconsisted of three little metal bowls upon a string; they were unequal\nin size, and, upon being tapped with a padded stick, gave forth\nvibrations almost musically pleasant. It was Alice who had substituted\nthis contrivance for the brass \"dinner-bell\" in use throughout her\nchildhood; and neither she nor the others of her family realized that\nthe substitution of sweeter sounds had made the life of that household\nmore difficult. In spite of dismaying increases in wages, the Adamses\nstill strove to keep a cook; and, as they were unable to pay the higher\nrates demanded by a good one, what they usually had was a whimsical\ncoloured woman of nomadic impulses. In the hands of such a person the\nold-fashioned \"dinner-bell\" was satisfying; life could instantly be\nmade intolerable for any one dawdling on his way to a meal; the bell was\ncapable of every desirable profanity and left nothing bottled up in the\nbreast of the ringer. But the chamois-covered stick might whack upon\nAlice\'s little Chinese bowls for a considerable length of time and\nproduce no great effect of urgency upon a hearer, nor any other effect,\nexcept fury in the cook. The ironical impossibility of expressing\nindignation otherwise than by sounds of gentle harmony proved\nexasperating; the cook was apt to become surcharged, so that explosive\nresignations, never rare, were somewhat more frequent after the\nintroduction of the gong.\n\nMrs. Adams took this increased frequency to be only another\nmanifestation of the inexplicable new difficulties that beset all\nhousekeeping. You paid a cook double what you had paid one a few years\nbefore; and the cook knew half as much of cookery, and had no gratitude.\nThe more you gave these people, it seemed, the worse they behaved--a\ncondition not to be remedied by simply giving them less, because you\ncouldn\'t even get the worst unless you paid her what she demanded.\nNevertheless, Mrs. Adams remained fitfully an optimist in the matter.\nBrought up by her mother to speak of a female cook as \"the girl,\" she\nhad been instructed by Alice to drop that definition in favour of one\nnot an improvement in accuracy: \"the maid.\" Almost always, during\nthe first day or so after every cook came, Mrs. Adams would say, at\nintervals, with an air of triumph: \"I believe--of course it\'s a little\nsoon to be sure--but I do really believe this new maid is the treasure\nwe\'ve been looking for so long!\" Much in the same way that Alice dreamed\nof a mysterious perfect mate for whom she \"waited,\" her mother had\na fairy theory that hidden somewhere in the universe there was the\ntreasure, the perfect \"maid,\" who would come and cook in the Adamses\'\nkitchen, not four days or four weeks, but forever.\n\nThe present incumbent was not she. Alice, profoundly interested herself,\nkept her mother likewise so preoccupied with the dress that they were\nbut vaguely conscious of the gong\'s soft warnings, though these were\nrepeated and protracted unusually. Finally the sound of a hearty voice,\nindependent and enraged, reached the pair. It came from the hall below.\n\n\"I says goo\'-BYE!\" it called. \"Da\'ss all!\"\n\nThen the front door slammed.\n\n\"Why, what----\" Mrs. Adams began.\n\nThey went down hurriedly to find out. Miss Perry informed them.\n\n\"I couldn\'t make her listen to reason,\" she said. \"She rang the gong\nfour or five times and got to talking to herself; and then she went up\nto her room and packed her bag. I told her she had no business to go out\nthe front door, anyhow.\"\n\nMrs. Adams took the news philosophically. \"I thought she had something\nlike that in her eye when I paid her this morning, and I\'m not\nsurprised. Well, we won\'t let Mr. Adams know anything\'s the matter till\nI get a new one.\"\n\nThey lunched upon what the late incumbent had left chilling on the\ntable, and then Mrs. Adams prepared to wash the dishes; she would \"have\nthem done in a jiffy,\" she said, cheerfully. But it was Alice who washed\nthe dishes.\n\n\"I DON\'T like to have you do that, Alice,\" her mother protested,\nfollowing her into the kitchen. \"It roughens the hands, and when a girl\nhas hands like yours----\"\n\n\"I know, mama.\" Alice looked troubled, but shook her head. \"It can\'t be\nhelped this time; you\'ll need every minute to get that dress done.\"\n\nMrs. Adams went away lamenting, while Alice, no expert, began to splash\nthe plates and cups and saucers in the warm water. After a while, as\nshe worked, her eyes grew dreamy: she was making little gay-coloured\npictures of herself, unfounded prophecies of how she would look and what\nwould happen to her that evening. She saw herself, charming and demure,\nwearing a fluffy idealization of the dress her mother now determinedly\nstruggled with upstairs; she saw herself framed in a garlanded archway,\nthe entrance to a ballroom, and saw the people on the shining floor\nturning dramatically to look at her; then from all points a rush of\nyoung men shouting for dances with her; and she constructed a superb\nstranger, tall, dark, masterfully smiling, who swung her out of the\nclamouring group as the music began. She saw herself dancing with him,\nsaw the half-troubled smile she would give him; and she accurately\nsmiled that smile as she rinsed the knives and forks.\n\nThese hopeful fragments of drama were not to be realized, she knew; but\nshe played that they were true, and went on creating them. In all of\nthem she wore or carried flowers--her mother\'s sorrow for her in this\ndetail but made it the more important--and she saw herself glamorous\nwith orchids; discarded these for an armful of long-stemmed, heavy\nroses; tossed them away for a great bouquet of white camellias; and\nso wandered down a lengthening hothouse gallery of floral beauty, all\ncostly and beyond her reach except in such a wistful day-dream. And upon\nher present whole horizon, though she searched it earnestly, she could\ndiscover no figure of a sender of flowers.\n\nOut of her fancies the desire for flowers to wear that night emerged\ndefinitely and became poignant; she began to feel that it might be\nparticularly important to have them. \"This might be the night!\" She was\nstill at the age to dream that the night of any dance may be the vital\npoint in destiny. No matter how commonplace or disappointing other\ndance nights have been this one may bring the great meeting. The unknown\nmagnifico may be there.\n\nAlice was almost unaware of her own reveries in which this being\nappeared--reveries often so transitory that they developed and passed in\na few seconds. And in some of them the being was not wholly a stranger;\nthere were moments when he seemed to be composed of recognizable\nfragments of young men she knew--a smile she had liked, from one; the\nfigure of another, the hair of another--and sometimes she thought\nhe might be concealed, so to say, within the person of an actual\nacquaintance, someone she had never suspected of being the right seeker\nfor her, someone who had never suspected that it was she who \"waited\"\nfor him. Anything might reveal them to each other: a look, a turn of the\nhead, a singular word--perhaps some flowers upon her breast or in her\nhand.\n\nShe wiped the dishes slowly, concluding the operation by dropping a\nsaucer upon the floor and dreamily sweeping the fragments under the\nstove. She sighed and replaced the broom near a window, letting her\nglance wander over the small yard outside. The grass, repulsively\nbesooted to the colour of coal-smoke all winter, had lately come to life\nagain and now sparkled with green, in the midst of which a tiny shot of\nblue suddenly fixed her absent eyes. They remained upon it for several\nmoments, becoming less absent.\n\nIt was a violet.\n\nAlice ran upstairs, put on her hat, went outdoors and began to search\nout the violets. She found twenty-two, a bright omen--since the number\nwas that of her years--but not enough violets. There were no more; she\nhad ransacked every foot of the yard.\n\nShe looked dubiously at the little bunch in her hand, glanced at\nthe lawn next door, which offered no favourable prospect; then went\nthoughtfully into the house, left her twenty-two violets in a bowl\nof water, and came quickly out again, her brow marked with a frown of\ndecision. She went to a trolley-line and took a car to the outskirts of\nthe city where a new park had been opened.\n\nHere she resumed her search, but it was not an easily rewarded one,\nand for an hour after her arrival she found no violets. She walked\nconscientiously over the whole stretch of meadow, her eyes roving\ndiscontentedly; there was never a blue dot in the groomed expanse; but\nat last, as she came near the borders of an old grove of trees, left\nuntouched by the municipal landscapers, the little flowers appeared, and\nshe began to gather them. She picked them carefully, loosening the earth\nround each tiny plant, so as to bring the roots up with it, that it\nmight live the longer; and she had brought a napkin, which she\ndrenched at a hydrant, and kept loosely wrapped about the stems of her\ncollection.\n\nThe turf was too damp for her to kneel; she worked patiently, stooping\nfrom the waist; and when she got home in a drizzle of rain at five\no\'clock her knees were tremulous with strain, her back ached, and she\nwas tired all over, but she had three hundred violets. Her mother moaned\nwhen Alice showed them to her, fragrant in a basin of water.\n\n\"Oh, you POOR child! To think of your having to: work so hard to get\nthings that other girls only need; lift their little fingers for!\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Alice, huskily. \"I\'ve got \'em and I AM going to have\na good time to-night!\"\n\n\"You\'ve just got to!\" Mrs. Adams agreed, intensely sympathetic. \"The\nLord knows you deserve to, after picking all these violets, poor thing,\nand He wouldn\'t be mean enough to keep you from it. I may have to get\ndinner before I finish the dress, but I can get it done in a few minutes\nafterward, and it\'s going to look right pretty. Don\'t you worry about\nTHAT! And with all these lovely violets----\"\n\n\"I wonder----\" Alice began, paused, then went on, fragmentarily: \"I\nsuppose--well, I wonder--do you suppose it would have been better policy\nto have told Walter before----\"\n\n\"No,\" said her mother. \"It would only have given him longer to grumble.\"\n\n\"But he might----\"\n\n\"Don\'t worry,\" Mrs. Adams reassured her. \"He\'ll be a little cross, but\nhe won\'t be stubborn; just let me talk to him and don\'t you say anything\nat all, no matter what HE says.\"\n\nThese references to Walter concerned some necessary manoeuvres which\ntook place at dinner, and were conducted by the mother, Alice having\naccepted her advice to sit in silence. Mrs. Adams began by laughing\ncheerfully. \"I wonder how much longer it took me to cook this dinner\nthan it does Walter to eat it?\" she said. \"Don\'t gobble, child! There\'s\nno hurry.\"\n\nIn contact with his own family Walter was no squanderer of words.\n\n\"Is for me,\" he said. \"Got date.\"\n\n\"I know you have, but there\'s plenty of time.\"\n\nHe smiled in benevolent pity. \"YOU know, do you? If you made any\ncoffee--don\'t bother if you didn\'t. Get some down-town.\" He seemed\nabout to rise and depart; whereupon Alice, biting her lip, sent a\npanic-stricken glance at her mother.\n\nBut Mrs. Adams seemed not at all disturbed; and laughed again. \"Why,\nwhat nonsense, Walter! I\'ll bring your coffee in a few minutes, but\nwe\'re going to have dessert first.\"\n\n\"What sort?\"\n\n\"Some lovely peaches.\"\n\n\"Doe\' want \'ny canned peaches,\" said the frank Walter, moving back his\nchair. \"G\'-night.\"\n\n\"Walter! It doesn\'t begin till about nine o\'clock at the earliest.\"\n\nHe paused, mystified. \"What doesn\'t?\"\n\n\"The dance.\"\n\n\"What dance?\"\n\n\"Why, Mildred Palmer\'s dance, of course.\"\n\nWalter laughed briefly. \"What\'s that to me?\"\n\n\"Why, you haven\'t forgotten it\'s TO-NIGHT, have you?\" Mrs. Adams cried.\n\"What a boy!\"\n\n\"I told you a week ago I wasn\'t going to that ole dance,\" he returned,\nfrowning. \"You heard me.\"\n\n\"Walter!\" she exclaimed. \"Of COURSE you\'re going. I got your clothes all\nout this afternoon, and brushed them for you. They\'ll look very nice,\nand----\"\n\n\"They won\'t look nice on ME,\" he interrupted. \"Got date down-town, I\ntell you.\"\n\n\"But of course you\'ll----\"\n\n\"See here!\" Walter said, decisively. \"Don\'t get any wrong ideas in your\nhead. I\'m just as liable to go up to that ole dance at the Palmers\' as I\nam to eat a couple of barrels of broken glass.\"\n\n\"But, Walter----\"\n\nWalter was beginning to be seriously annoyed. \"Don\'t \'Walter\' me! I\'m no\ns\'ciety snake. I wouldn\'t jazz with that Palmer crowd if they coaxed me\nwith diamonds.\"\n\n\"Walter----\"\n\n\"Didn\'t I tell you it\'s no use to \'Walter\' me?\" he demanded.\n\n\"My dear child----\"\n\n\"Oh, Glory!\"\n\nAt this Mrs. Adams abandoned her air of amusement, looked hurt, and\nglanced at the demure Miss Perry across the table. \"I\'m afraid Miss\nPerry won\'t think you have very good manners, Walter.\"\n\n\"You\'re right she won\'t,\" he agreed, grimly. \"Not if I haf to hear any\nmore about me goin\' to----\"\n\nBut his mother interrupted him with some asperity: \"It seems very\nstrange that you always object to going anywhere among OUR friends,\nWalter.\"\n\n\"YOUR friends!\" he said, and, rising from his chair, gave utterance to\nan ironical laugh strictly monosyllabic. \"Your friends!\" he repeated,\ngoing to the door. \"Oh, yes! Certainly! Good-NIGHT!\"\n\nAnd looking back over his shoulder to offer a final brief view of his\nderisive face, he took himself out of the room.\n\nAlice gasped: \"Mama----\"\n\n\"I\'ll stop him!\" her mother responded, sharply; and hurried after the\ntruant, catching him at the front door with his hat and raincoat on.\n\n\"Walter----\"\n\n\"Told you had a date down-town,\" he said, gruffly, and would have opened\nthe door, but she caught his arm and detained him.\n\n\"Walter, please come back and finish your dinner. When I take all the\ntrouble to cook it for you, I think you might at least----\"\n\n\"Now, now!\" he said. \"That isn\'t what you\'re up to. You don\'t want to\nmake me eat; you want to make me listen.\"\n\n\"Well, you MUST listen!\" She retained her grasp upon his arm, and\nmade it tighter. \"Walter, please!\" she entreated, her voice becoming\ntremulous. \"PLEASE don\'t make me so much trouble!\"\n\nHe drew back from her as far as her hold upon him permitted, and looked\nat her sharply. \"Look here!\" he said. \"I get you, all right! What\'s the\nmatter of Alice GOIN\' to that party by herself?\"\n\n\"She just CAN\'T!\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"It makes things too MEAN for her, Walter. All the other girls have\nsomebody to depend on after they get there.\"\n\n\"Well, why doesn\'t she have somebody?\" he asked, testily. \"Somebody\nbesides ME, I mean! Why hasn\'t somebody asked her to go? She ought to be\nTHAT popular, anyhow, I sh\'d think--she TRIES enough!\"\n\n\"I don\'t understand how you can be so hard,\" his mother wailed, huskily.\n\"You know why they don\'t run after her the way they do the other girls\nshe goes with, Walter. It\'s because we\'re poor, and she hasn\'t got any\nbackground.\n\n\"\'Background?\'\" Walter repeated. \"\'Background?\' What kind of talk is\nthat?\"\n\n\"You WILL go with her to-night, Walter?\" his mother pleaded, not\nstopping to enlighten him. \"You don\'t understand how hard things are for\nher and how brave she is about them, or you COULDN\'T be so selfish! It\'d\nbe more than I can bear to see her disappointed to-night! She went clear\nout to Belleview Park this afternoon, Walter, and spent hours and hours\npicking violets to wear. You WILL----\"\n\nWalter\'s heart was not iron, and the episode of the violets may have\nreached it. \"Oh, BLUB!\" he said, and flung his soft hat violently at the\nwall.\n\nHis mother beamed with delight. \"THAT\'S a good boy, darling! You\'ll\nnever be sorry you----\"\n\n\"Cut it out,\" he requested. \"If I take her, will you pay for a taxi?\"\n\n\"Oh, Walter!\" And again Mrs. Adams showed distress. \"Couldn\'t you?\"\n\n\"No, I couldn\'t; I\'m not goin\' to throw away my good money like that,\nand you can\'t tell what time o\' night it\'ll be before she\'s willin\' to\ncome home. What\'s the matter you payin\' for one?\"\n\n\"I haven\'t any money.\"\n\n\"Well, father----\"\n\nShe shook her head dolefully. \"I got some from him this morning, and\nI can\'t bother him for any more; it upsets him. He\'s ALWAYS been so\nterribly close with money----\"\n\n\"I guess he couldn\'t help that,\" Walter observed. \"We\'re liable to go to\nthe poorhouse the way it is. Well, what\'s the matter our walkin\' to this\nrotten party?\"\n\n\"In the rain, Walter?\"\n\n\"Well, it\'s only a drizzle and we can take a streetcar to within a block\nof the house.\"\n\nAgain his mother shook her head. \"It wouldn\'t do.\"\n\n\"Well, darn the luck, all right!\" he consented, explosively. \"I\'ll get\nher something to ride in. It means seventy-five cents.\"\n\n\"Why, Walter!\" Mrs. Adams cried, much pleased. \"Do you know how to get a\ncab for that little? How splendid!\"\n\n\"Tain\'t a cab,\" Walter informed her crossly. \"It\'s a tin Lizzie, but you\ndon\'t haf\' to tell her what it is till I get her into it, do you?\"\n\nMrs. Adams agreed that she didn\'t.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nAlice was busy with herself for two hours after dinner; but a little\nbefore nine o\'clock she stood in front of her long mirror, completed,\nbright-eyed and solemn. Her hair, exquisitely arranged, gave all she\nasked of it; what artificialities in colour she had used upon her face\nwere only bits of emphasis that made her prettiness the more distinct;\nand the dress, not rumpled by her mother\'s careful hours of work, was a\nwhite cloud of loveliness. Finally there were two triumphant bouquets\nof violets, each with the stems wrapped in tin-foil shrouded by a bow of\npurple chiffon; and one bouquet she wore at her waist and the other she\ncarried in her hand.\n\nMiss Perry, called in by a rapturous mother for the free treat of a look\nat this radiance, insisted that Alice was a vision. \"Purely and simply\na vision!\" she said, meaning that no other definition whatever would\nsatisfy her. \"I never saw anybody look a vision if she don\'t look one\nto-night,\" the admiring nurse declared. \"Her papa\'ll think the same I do\nabout it. You see if he doesn\'t say she\'s purely and simply a vision.\"\n\nAdams did not fulfil the prediction quite literally when Alice paid a\nbrief visit to his room to \"show\" him and bid him good-night; but he\nchuckled feebly. \"Well, well, well!\" he said.\n\n\"You look mighty fine--MIGHTY fine!\" And he waggled a bony finger at her\ntwo bouquets. \"Why, Alice, who\'s your beau?\"\n\n\"Never you mind!\" she laughed, archly brushing his nose with the violets\nin her hand. \"He treats me pretty well, doesn\'t he?\"\n\n\"Must like to throw his money around! These violets smell mighty sweet,\nand they ought to, if they\'re going to a party with YOU. Have a good\ntime, dearie.\"\n\n\"I mean to!\" she cried; and she repeated this gaily, but with an\nemphasis expressing sharp determination as she left him. \"I MEAN to!\"\n\n\"What was he talking about?\" her mother inquired, smoothing the rather\nworn and old evening wrap she had placed on Alice\'s bed. \"What were you\ntelling him you \'mean to?\'\"\n\nAlice went back to her triple mirror for the last time, then stood\nbefore the long one. \"That I mean to have a good time to-night,\" she\nsaid; and as she turned from her reflection to the wrap Mrs. Adams held\nup for her, \"It looks as though I COULD, don\'t you think so?\"\n\n\"You\'ll just be a queen to-night,\" her mother whispered in fond emotion.\n\"You mustn\'t doubt yourself.\"\n\n\"Well, there\'s one thing,\" said Alice. \"I think I do look nice enough to\nget along without having to dance with that Frank Dowling! All I ask is\nfor it to happen just once; and if he comes near me to-night I\'m going\nto treat him the way the other girls do. Do you suppose Walter\'s got the\ntaxi out in front?\"\n\n\"He--he\'s waiting down in the hall,\" Mrs. Adams answered, nervously; and\nshe held up another garment to go over the wrap.\n\nAlice frowned at it. \"What\'s that, mama?\"\n\n\"It\'s--it\'s your father\'s raincoat. I thought you\'d put it on over----\"\n\n\"But I won\'t need it in a taxicab.\"\n\n\"You will to get in and out, and you needn\'t take it into the Palmers\'.\nYou can leave it in the--in the--It\'s drizzling, and you\'ll need it.\"\n\n\"Oh, well,\" Alice consented; and a few minutes later, as with Walter\'s\nassistance she climbed into the vehicle he had provided, she better\nunderstood her mother\'s solicitude.\n\n\"What on earth IS this, Walter?\" she asked.\n\n\"Never mind; it\'ll keep you dry enough with the top up,\" he returned,\ntaking his seat beside her. Then for a time, as they went rather jerkily\nup the street, she was silent; but finally she repeated her question:\n\"What IS it, Walter?\"\n\n\"What\'s what?\"\n\n\"This--this CAR?\"\n\n\"It\'s a ottomobile.\"\n\n\"I mean--what kind is it?\"\n\n\"Haven\'t you got eyes?\"\n\n\"It\'s too dark.\"\n\n\"It\'s a second-hand tin Lizzie,\" said Walter. \"D\'you know what that\nmeans? It means a flivver.\"\n\n\"Yes, Walter.\"\n\n\"Got \'ny \'bjections?\"\n\n\"Why, no, dear,\" she said, placatively. \"Is it yours, Walter? Have you\nbought it?\"\n\n\"Me?\" he laughed. \"_I_ couldn\'t buy a used wheelbarrow. I rent this\nsometimes when I\'m goin\' out among \'em. Costs me seventy-five cents and\nthe price o\' the gas.\"\n\n\"That seems very moderate.\"\n\n\"I guess it is! The feller owes me some money, and this is the only way\nI\'d ever get it off him.\"\n\n\"Is he a garage-keeper?\"\n\n\"Not exactly!\" Walter uttered husky sounds of amusement. \"You\'ll be just\nas happy, I guess, if you don\'t know who he is,\" he said.\n\nHis tone misgave her; and she said truthfully that she was content not\nto know who owned the car. \"I joke sometimes about how you keep things\nto yourself,\" she added, \"but I really never do pry in your affairs,\nWalter.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, you don\'t!\"\n\n\"Indeed, I don\'t.\"\n\n\"Yes, you\'re mighty nice and cooing when you got me where you want me,\"\nhe jeered. \"Well, _I_ just as soon tell you where I get this car.\"\n\n\"I\'d just as soon you wouldn\'t, Walter,\" she said, hurriedly. \"Please\ndon\'t.\"\n\nBut Walter meant to tell her. \"Why, there\'s nothin\' exactly CRIMINAL\nabout it,\" he said. \"It belongs to old J. A. Lamb himself. He keeps it\nfor their coon chauffeur. I rent it from him.\"\n\n\"From Mr. LAMB?\"\n\n\"No; from the coon chauffeur.\"\n\n\"Walter!\" she gasped.\n\n\"Sure I do! I can get it any night when the coon isn\'t goin\' to use it\nhimself. He\'s drivin\' their limousine to-night--that little Henrietta\nLamb\'s goin\' to the party, no matter if her father HAS only been dead\nless\'n a year!\" He paused, then inquired: \"Well, how d\'you like it?\"\n\nShe did not speak, and he began to be remorseful for having imparted\nso much information, though his way of expressing regret was his own.\n\"Well, you WILL make the folks make me take you to parties!\" he said. \"I\ngot to do it the best way I CAN, don\'t I?\"\n\nThen as she made no response, \"Oh, the car\'s CLEAN enough,\" he said.\n\"This coon, he\'s as particular as any white man; you needn\'t worry about\nthat.\" And as she still said nothing, he added gruffly, \"I\'d of had a\nbetter car if I could afforded it. You needn\'t get so upset about it.\"\n\n\"I don\'t understand--\" she said in a low voice--\"I don\'t understand how\nyou know such people.\"\n\n\"Such people as who?\"\n\n\"As--coloured chauffeurs.\"\n\n\"Oh, look here, now!\" he protested, loudly. \"Don\'t you know this is a\ndemocratic country?\"\n\n\"Not quite that democratic, is it, Walter?\"\n\n\"The trouble with you,\" he retorted, \"you don\'t know there\'s anybody in\ntown except just this silk-shirt crowd.\" He paused, seeming to await\na refutation; but as none came, he expressed himself definitely: \"They\nmake me sick.\"\n\nThey were coming near their destination, and the glow of the big,\nbrightly lighted house was seen before them in the wet night. Other\ncars, not like theirs, were approaching this center of brilliance; long\ntriangles of light near the ground swept through the fine drizzle; small\nred tail-lights gleamed again from the moist pavement of the street;\nand, through the myriads of little glistening leaves along the curving\ndriveway, glimpses were caught of lively colours moving in a white glare\nas the limousines released their occupants under the shelter of the\nporte-cochere.\n\nAlice clutched Walter\'s arm in a panic; they were just at the driveway\nentrance. \"Walter, we mustn\'t go in there.\"\n\n\"What\'s the matter?\"\n\n\"Leave this awful car outside.\"\n\n\"Why, I----\"\n\n\"Stop!\" she insisted, vehemently. \"You\'ve got to! Go back!\"\n\n\"Oh, Glory!\"\n\nThe little car was between the entrance posts; but Walter backed it out,\navoiding a collision with an impressive machine which swerved away\nfrom them and passed on toward the porte-cochere, showing a man\'s face\ngrinning at the window as it went by. \"Flivver runabout got the wrong\nnumber!\" he said.\n\n\"Did he SEE us?\" Alice cried.\n\n\"Did who see us?\"\n\n\"Harvey Malone--in that foreign coupe.\"\n\n\"No; he couldn\'t tell who we were under this top,\" Walter assured her as\nhe brought the little car to a standstill beside the curbstone, out in\nthe street. \"What\'s it matter if he did, the big fish?\"\n\nAlice responded with a loud sigh, and sat still.\n\n\"Well, want to go on back?\" Walter inquired. \"You bet I\'m willing!\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, then, what\'s the matter our drivin\' on up to the porte-cochere?\nThere\'s room for me to park just the other side of it.\"\n\n\"No, NO!\"\n\n\"What you expect to do? Sit HERE all night?\"\n\n\"No, leave the car here.\"\n\n\"_I_ don\'t care where we leave it,\" he said. \"Sit still till I lock her,\nso none o\' these millionaires around here\'ll run off with her.\" He got\nout with a padlock and chain; and, having put these in place, offered\nAlice his hand. \"Come on, if you\'re ready.\"\n\n\"Wait,\" she said, and, divesting herself of the raincoat, handed it to\nWalter. \"Please leave this with your things in the men\'s dressing-room,\nas if it were an extra one of your own, Walter.\"\n\nHe nodded; she jumped out; and they scurried through the drizzle.\n\nAs they reached the porte-cochere she began to laugh airily, and spoke\nto the impassive man in livery who stood there. \"Joke on us!\" she\nsaid, hurrying by him toward the door of the house. \"Our car broke down\noutside the gate.\"\n\nThe man remained impassive, though he responded with a faint gleam\nas Walter, looking back at him, produced for his benefit a cynical\ndistortion of countenance which offered little confirmation of Alice\'s\naccount of things. Then the door was swiftly opened to the brother and\nsister; and they came into a marble-floored hall, where a dozen sleeked\nyoung men lounged, smoked cigarettes and fastened their gloves, as they\nwaited for their ladies. Alice nodded to one or another of these, and\nwent quickly on, her face uplifted and smiling; but Walter detained her\nat the door to which she hastened.\n\n\"Listen here,\" he said. \"I suppose you want me to dance the first dance\nwith you----\"\n\n\"If you please, Walter,\" she said, meekly.\n\n\"How long you goin\' to hang around fixin\' up in that dressin\'-room?\"\n\n\"I\'ll be out before you\'re ready yourself,\" she promised him; and kept\nher word, she was so eager for her good time to begin. When he came\nfor her, they went down the hall to a corridor opening upon three great\nrooms which had been thrown open together, with the furniture removed\nand the broad floors waxed. At one end of the corridor musicians sat in\na green grove, and Walter, with some interest, turned toward these; but\nhis sister, pressing his arm, impelled him in the opposite direction.\n\n\"What\'s the matter now?\" he asked. \"That\'s Jazz Louie and his half-breed\nbunch--three white and four mulatto. Let\'s----?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" she whispered. \"We must speak to Mildred and Mr. and Mrs.\nPalmer.\"\n\n\"\'Speak\' to \'em? I haven\'t got a thing to say to THOSE berries!\"\n\n\"Walter, won\'t you PLEASE behave?\"\n\nHe seemed to consent, for the moment, at least, and suffered her to take\nhim down the corridor toward a floral bower where the hostess stood with\nher father and mother. Other couples and groups were moving in the\nsame direction, carrying with them a hubbub of laughter and fragmentary\nchatterings; and Alice, smiling all the time, greeted people on\nevery side of her eagerly--a little more eagerly than most of them\nresponded--while Walter nodded in a noncommittal manner to one or two,\nsaid nothing, and yawned audibly, the last resource of a person who\nfinds himself nervous in a false situation. He repeated his yawn and\nwas beginning another when a convulsive pressure upon his arm made him\nunderstand that he must abandon this method of reassuring himself. They\nwere close upon the floral bower.\n\nMildred was giving her hand to one and another of her guests as rapidly\nas she could, passing them on to her father and mother, and at the\nsame time resisting the efforts of three or four detached bachelors who\nbesought her to give over her duty in favour of the dance-music just\nbeginning to blare.\n\nShe was a large, fair girl, with a kindness of eye somewhat withheld by\nan expression of fastidiousness; at first sight of her it was clear that\nshe would never in her life do anything \"incorrect,\" or wear anything\n\"incorrect.\" But her correctness was of the finer sort, and had no air\nof being studied or achieved; conduct would never offer her a problem to\nbe settled from a book of rules, for the rules were so deep within her\nthat she was unconscious of them. And behind this perfection there was\nan even ampler perfection of what Mrs. Adams called \"background.\" The\nbig, rich, simple house was part of it, and Mildred\'s father and mother\nwere part of it. They stood beside her, large, serene people, murmuring\ngraciously and gently inclining their handsome heads as they gave their\nhands to the guests; and even the youngest and most ebullient of these\ntook on a hushed mannerliness with a closer approach to the bower.\n\nWhen the opportunity came for Alice and Walter to pass within this\nprecinct, Alice, going first, leaned forward and whispered in Mildred\'s\near. \"You DIDN\'T wear the maize georgette! That\'s what I thought you\nwere going to. But you look simply DARLING! And those pearls----\"\n\nOthers were crowding decorously forward, anxious to be done with\nceremony and get to the dancing; and Mildred did not prolong the\nintimacy of Alice\'s enthusiastic whispering. With a faint accession of\ncolour and a smile tending somewhat in the direction of rigidity, she\ncarried Alice\'s hand immediately onward to Mrs. Palmer\'s. Alice\'s own\ncolour showed a little heightening as she accepted the suggestion thus\nimplied; nor was that emotional tint in any wise decreased, a moment\nlater, by an impression that Walter, in concluding the brief exchange\nof courtesies between himself and the stately Mr. Palmer, had again\nreassured himself with a yawn.\n\nBut she did not speak of it to Walter; she preferred not to confirm the\nimpression and to leave in her mind a possible doubt that he had done\nit. He followed her out upon the waxed floor, said resignedly: \"Well,\ncome on,\" put his arm about her, and they began to dance.\n\nAlice danced gracefully and well, but not so well as Walter. Of all the\nsteps and runs, of all the whimsical turns and twirlings, of all the\nrhythmic swayings and dips commanded that season by such blarings as\nwere the barbaric product, loud and wild, of the Jazz Louies and their\nhalf-breed bunches, the thin and sallow youth was a master. Upon his\nface could be seen contempt of the easy marvels he performed as he\nmoved in swift precision from one smooth agility to another; and if some\ntoo-dainty or jealous cavalier complained that to be so much a stylist\nin dancing was \"not quite like a gentleman,\" at least Walter\'s style was\nwhat the music called for. No other dancer in the room could be thought\ncomparable to him. Alice told him so.\n\n\"It\'s wonderful!\" she said. \"And the mystery is, where you ever learned\nto DO it! You never went to dancing-school, but there isn\'t a man in the\nroom who can dance half so well. I don\'t see why, when you dance like\nthis, you always make such a fuss about coming to parties.\"\n\nHe sounded his brief laugh, a jeering bark out of one side of the mouth,\nand swung her miraculously through a closing space between two other\ncouples. \"You know a lot about what goes on, don\'t you? You prob\'ly\nthink there\'s no other place to dance in this town except these\nfrozen-face joints.\"\n\n\"\'Frozen face?\'\" she echoed, laughing. \"Why, everybody\'s having a\nsplendid time. Look at them.\"\n\n\"Oh, they holler loud enough,\" he said. \"They do it to make each other\nthink they\'re havin\' a good time. You don\'t call that Palmer family\nfrozen-face berries, I s\'pose. No?\"\n\n\"Certainly not. They\'re just dignified and----\"\n\n\"Yeuh!\" said Walter. \"They\'re dignified, \'specially when you tried to\nwhisper to Mildred to show how IN with her you were, and she moved you\non that way. SHE\'S a hot friend, isn\'t she!\"\n\n\"She didn\'t mean anything by it. She----\"\n\n\"Ole Palmer\'s a hearty, slap you-on-the-back ole berry,\" Walter\ninterrupted; adding in a casual tone, \"All I\'d like, I\'d like to hit\nhim.\"\n\n\"Walter! By the way, you mustn\'t forget to ask Mildred for a dance\nbefore the evening is over.\"\n\n\"Me?\" He produced the lop-sided appearance of his laugh, but without\nmaking it vocal. \"You watch me do it!\"\n\n\"She probably won\'t have one left, but you must ask her, anyway.\"\n\n\"Why must I?\"\n\n\"Because, in the first place, you\'re supposed to, and, in the second\nplace, she\'s my most intimate friend.\"\n\n\"Yeuh? Is she? I\'ve heard you pull that \'most-intimate-friend\' stuff\noften enough about her. What\'s SHE ever do to show she is?\"\n\n\"Never mind. You really must ask her, Walter. I want you to; and I want\nyou to ask several other girls afterwhile; I\'ll tell you who.\"\n\n\"Keep on wanting; it\'ll do you good.\"\n\n\"Oh, but you really----\"\n\n\"Listen!\" he said. \"I\'m just as liable to dance with any of these\nfairies as I am to buy a bucket o\' rusty tacks and eat \'em. Forget it!\nSoon as I get rid of you I\'m goin\' back to that room where I left my hat\nand overcoat and smoke myself to death.\"\n\n\"Well,\" she said, a little ruefully, as the frenzy of Jazz Louie and his\nhalf-breeds was suddenly abated to silence, \"you mustn\'t--you mustn\'t\nget rid of me TOO soon, Walter.\"\n\nThey stood near one of the wide doorways, remaining where they had\nstopped. Other couples, everywhere, joined one another, forming\nvivacious clusters, but none of these groups adopted the brother and\nsister, nor did any one appear to be hurrying in Alice\'s direction to\nask her for the next dance. She looked about her, still maintaining that\njubilance of look and manner she felt so necessary--for it is to the\ngirls who are \"having a good time\" that partners are attracted--and, in\norder to lend greater colour to her impersonation of a lively belle,\nshe began to chatter loudly, bringing into play an accompaniment of\nfrolicsome gesture. She brushed Walter\'s nose saucily with the bunch\nof violets in her hand, tapped him on the shoulder, shook her pretty\nforefinger in his face, flourished her arms, kept her shoulders moving,\nand laughed continuously as she spoke.\n\n\"You NAUGHTY old Walter!\" she cried. \"AREN\'T you ashamed to be such a\nwonderful dancer and then only dance with your own little sister! You\ncould dance on the stage if you wanted to. Why, you could made your\nFORTUNE that way! Why don\'t you? Wouldn\'t it be just lovely to have all\nthe rows and rows of people clapping their hands and shouting, \'Hurrah!\nHurrah, for Walter Adams! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!\"\n\nHe stood looking at her in stolid pity.\n\n\"Cut it out,\" he said. \"You better be givin\' some of these berries the\neye so they\'ll ask you to dance.\"\n\nShe was not to be so easily checked, and laughed loudly, flourishing her\nviolets in his face again. \"You WOULD like it; you know you would; you\nneedn\'t pretend! Just think! A whole big audience shouting, \'Hurrah!\nHURRAH! HUR----\'\"\n\n\"The place\'ll be pulled if you get any noisier,\" he interrupted, not\nungently. \"Besides, I\'m no muley cow.\"\n\n\"A \'COW?\'\" she laughed. \"What on earth----\"\n\n\"I can\'t eat dead violets,\" he explained. \"So don\'t keep tryin\' to make\nme do it.\"\n\nThis had the effect he desired, and subdued her; she abandoned her\nunsisterly coquetries, and looked beamingly about her, but her smile was\nmore mechanical than it had been at first.\n\nAt home she had seemed beautiful; but here, where the other girls\ncompeted, things were not as they had been there, with only her mother\nand Miss Perry to give contrast. These crowds of other girls had all\ndone their best, also, to look beautiful, though not one of them had\nworked so hard for such a consummation as Alice had. They did not need\nto; they did not need to get their mothers to make old dresses over;\nthey did not need to hunt violets in the rain.\n\nAt home her dress had seemed beautiful; but that was different,\ntoo, where there were dozens of brilliant fabrics, fashioned in new\nways--some of these new ways startling, which only made the wearers\ncenters of interest and shocked no one. And Alice remembered that she\nhad heard a girl say, not long before, \"Oh, ORGANDIE! Nobody wears\norgandie for evening gowns except in midsummer.\" Alice had thought\nlittle of this; but as she looked about her and saw no organdie except\nher own, she found greater difficulty in keeping her smile as arch and\nspontaneous as she wished it. In fact, it was beginning to make her face\nache a little.\n\nMildred came in from the corridor, heavily attended. She carried a great\nbouquet of violets laced with lilies of-the-valley; and the violets were\nlusty, big purple things, their stems wrapped in cloth of gold, with\nsilken cords dependent, ending in long tassels. She and her convoy\npassed near the two young Adamses; and it appeared that one of the\nconvoy besought his hostess to permit \"cutting in\"; they were \"doing it\nother places\" of late, he urged; but he was denied and told to console\nhimself by holding the bouquet, at intervals, until his third of the\nsixteenth dance should come. Alice looked dubiously at her own bouquet.\n\nSuddenly she felt that the violets betrayed her; that any one who looked\nat them could see how rustic, how innocent of any florist\'s craft they\nwere \"I can\'t eat dead violets,\" Walter said. The little wild flowers,\ndying indeed in the warm air, were drooping in a forlorn mass; and it\nseemed to her that whoever noticed them would guess that she had picked\nthem herself. She decided to get rid of them.\n\nWalter was becoming restive. \"Look here!\" he said. \"Can\'t you flag one\no\' these long-tailed birds to take you on for the next dance? You came\nto have a good time; why don\'t you get busy and have it? I want to get\nout and smoke.\"\n\n\"You MUSTN\'T leave me, Walter,\" she whispered, hastily. \"Somebody\'ll\ncome for me before long, but until they do----\"\n\n\"Well, couldn\'t you sit somewhere?\"\n\n\"No, no! There isn\'t any one I could sit with.\"\n\n\"Well, why not? Look at those ole dames in the corners. What\'s the\nmatter your tyin\' up with some o\' them for a while?\"\n\n\"PLEASE, Walter; no!\"\n\nIn fact, that indomitable smile of hers was the more difficult to\nmaintain because of these very elders to whom Walter referred. They\nwere mothers of girls among the dancers, and they were there to fend and\ncontrive for their offspring; to keep them in countenance through any\ntrial; to lend them diplomacy in the carrying out of all enterprises;\nto be \"background\" for them; and in these essentially biological\nfunctionings to imitate their own matings and renew the excitement of\ntheir nuptial periods. Older men, husbands of these ladies and fathers\nof eligible girls, were also to be seen, most of them with Mr. Palmer\nin a billiard-room across the corridor. Mr. and Mrs. Adams had not been\ninvited. \"Of course papa and mama just barely know Mildred Palmer,\"\nAlice thought, \"and most of the other girls\' fathers and mothers are old\nfriends of Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, but I do think she might have ASKED papa\nand mama, anyway--she needn\'t have been afraid just to ask them;\nshe knew they couldn\'t come.\" And her smiling lip twitched a little\nthreateningly, as she concluded the silent monologue. \"I suppose she\nthinks I ought to be glad enough she asked Walter!\"\n\nWalter was, in fact, rather noticeable. He was not Mildred\'s only guest\nto wear a short coat and to appear without gloves; but he was singular\n(at least in his present surroundings) on account of a kind of\ncoiffuring he favoured, his hair having been shaped after what seemed\na Mongol inspiration. Only upon the top of the head was actual hair\nperceived, the rest appearing to be nudity. And even more than by any\ndifference in mode he was set apart by his look and manner, in which\nthere seemed to be a brooding, secretive and jeering superiority and\nthis was most vividly expressed when he felt called upon for his loud,\nshort, lop-sided laugh. Whenever he uttered it Alice laughed, too, as\nloudly as she could, to cover it.\n\n\"Well,\" he said. \"How long we goin\' to stand here? My feet are sproutin\'\nroots.\"\n\nAlice took his arm, and they began to walk aimlessly through the rooms,\nthough she tried to look as if they had a definite destination, keeping\nher eyes eager and her lips parted;--people had called jovially to them\nfrom the distance, she meant to imply, and they were going to join these\nmerry friends. She was still upon this ghostly errand when a furious\noutbreak of drums and saxophones sounded a prelude for the second dance.\n\nWalter danced with her again, but he gave her a warning. \"I don\'t want\nto leave you high and dry,\" he told her, \"but I can\'t stand it. I got to\nget somewhere I don\'t haf\' to hurt my eyes with these berries; I\'ll go\nblind if I got to look at any more of \'em. I\'m goin\' out to smoke as\nsoon as the music begins the next time, and you better get fixed for\nit.\"\n\nAlice tried to get fixed for it. As they danced she nodded sunnily to\nevery man whose eye she caught, smiled her smile with the under\nlip caught between her teeth; but it was not until the end of the\nintermission after the dance that she saw help coming.\n\nAcross the room sat the globular lady she had encountered that morning,\nand beside the globular lady sat a round-headed, round-bodied girl;\nher daughter, at first glance. The family contour was also as evident\na characteristic of the short young man who stood in front of Mrs.\nDowling, engaged with her in a discussion which was not without\nevidences of an earnestness almost impassioned. Like Walter, he was\ndeclining to dance a third time with sister; he wished to go elsewhere.\n\nAlice from a sidelong eye watched the controversy: she saw the globular\nyoung man glance toward her, over his shoulder; whereupon Mrs. Dowling,\nfollowing this glance, gave Alice a look of open fury, became much more\nvehement in the argument, and even struck her knee with a round, fat\nfist for emphasis.\n\n\"I\'m on my way,\" said Walter. \"There\'s the music startin\' up again, and\nI told you----\"\n\nShe nodded gratefully. \"It\'s all right--but come back before long,\nWalter.\"\n\nThe globular young man, red with annoyance, had torn himself from\nhis family and was hastening across the room to her. \"C\'n I have this\ndance?\"\n\n\"Why, you nice Frank Dowling!\" Alice cried. \"How lovely!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nThey danced. Mr. Dowling should have found other forms of exercise and\npastime.\n\nNature has not designed everyone for dancing, though sometimes those\nshe has denied are the last to discover her niggardliness. But the round\nyoung man was at least vigorous enough--too much so, when his knees\ncollided with Alice\'s--and he was too sturdy to be thrown off his feet,\nhimself, or to allow his partner to fall when he tripped her. He held\nher up valiantly, and continued to beat a path through the crowd of\nother dancers by main force.\n\nHe paid no attention to anything suggested by the efforts of the\nmusicians, and appeared to be unaware that there should have been some\nconnection between what they were doing and what he was doing; but he\nmay have listened to other music of his own, for his expression was of\nhigh content; he seemed to feel no doubt whatever that he was dancing.\nAlice kept as far away from him as under the circumstances she could;\nand when they stopped she glanced down, and found the execution of\nunseen manoeuvres, within the protection of her skirt, helpful to one of\nher insteps and to the toes of both of her slippers.\n\nHer cheery partner was paddling his rosy brows with a fine handkerchief.\n\"That was great!\" he said. \"Let\'s go out and sit in the corridor;\nthey\'ve got some comfortable chairs out there.\"\n\n\"Well--let\'s not,\" she returned. \"I believe I\'d rather stay in here and\nlook at the crowd.\"\n\n\"No; that isn\'t it,\" he said, chiding her with a waggish forefinger.\n\"You think if you go out there you\'ll miss a chance of someone else\nasking you for the next dance, and so you\'ll have to give it to me.\"\n\n\"How absurd!\" Then, after a look about her that revealed nothing\nencouraging, she added graciously, \"You can have the next if you want\nit.\"\n\n\"Great!\" he exclaimed, mechanically. \"Now let\'s get out of here--out of\nTHIS room, anyhow.\"\n\n\"Why? What\'s the matter with----\"\n\n\"My mother,\" Mr. Dowling explained. \"But don\'t look at her. She keeps\nmotioning me to come and see after Ella, and I\'m simply NOT going to do\nit, you see!\"\n\nAlice laughed. \"I don\'t believe it\'s so much that,\" she said, and\nconsented to walk with him to a point in the next room from which Mrs.\nDowling\'s continuous signalling could not be seen. \"Your mother hates\nme.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; I wouldn\'t say that. No, she don\'t,\" he protested, innocently.\n\"She don\'t know you more than just to speak to, you see. So how could\nshe?\"\n\n\"Well, she does. I can tell.\"\n\nA frown appeared upon his rounded brow. \"No; I\'ll tell you the way she\nfeels. It\'s like this: Ella isn\'t TOO popular, you know--it\'s hard to\nsee why, because she\'s a right nice girl, in her way--and mother thinks\nI ought to look after her, you see. She thinks I ought to dance a whole\nlot with her myself, and stir up other fellows to dance with her--it\'s\nsimply impossible to make mother understand you CAN\'T do that, you see.\nAnd then about me, you see, if she had her way I wouldn\'t get to dance\nwith anybody at all except girls like Mildred Palmer and Henrietta Lamb.\nMother wants to run my whole programme for me, you understand, but the\ntrouble of it is--about girls like that, you see well, I couldn\'t do\nwhat she wants, even if I wanted to myself, because you take those\ngirls, and by the time I get Ella off my hands for a minute, why, their\ndances are always every last one taken, and where do I come in?\"\n\nAlice nodded, her amiability undamaged. \"I see. So that\'s why you dance\nwith me.\"\n\n\"No, I like to,\" he protested. \"I rather dance with you than I do with\nthose girls.\" And he added with a retrospective determination which\nshowed that he had been through quite an experience with Mrs. Dowling in\nthis matter. \"I TOLD mother I would, too!\"\n\n\"Did it take all your courage, Frank?\"\n\nHe looked at her shrewdly. \"Now you\'re trying to tease me,\" he said. \"I\ndon\'t care; I WOULD rather dance with you! In the first place, you\'re\na perfectly beautiful dancer, you see, and in the second, a man feels a\nlot more comfortable with you than he does with them. Of course I know\nalmost all the other fellows get along with those girls all right; but\nI don\'t waste any time on \'em I don\'t have to. _I_ like people that are\nalways cordial to everybody, you see--the way you are.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said, thoughtfully.\n\n\"Oh, I MEAN it,\" he insisted. \"There goes the band again. Shall we?\"\n\n\"Suppose we sit it out?\" she suggested. \"I believe I\'d like to go out in\nthe corridor, after all--it\'s pretty warm in here.\"\n\nAssenting cheerfully, Dowling conducted her to a pair of easy-chairs\nwithin a secluding grove of box-trees, and when they came to this\nretreat they found Mildred Palmer just departing, under escort of a\nwell-favoured gentleman about thirty. As these two walked slowly away,\nin the direction of the dancing-floor, they left it not to be doubted\nthat they were on excellent terms with each other; Mildred was evidently\nwilling to make their progress even slower, for she halted momentarily,\nonce or twice; and her upward glances to her tall companion\'s face were\nof a gentle, almost blushing deference. Never before had Alice seen\nanything like this in her friend\'s manner.\n\n\"How queer!\" she murmured.\n\n\"What\'s queer?\" Dowling inquired as they sat down.\n\n\"Who was that man?\"\n\n\"Haven\'t you met him?\"\n\n\"I never saw him before. Who is he?\"\n\n\"Why, it\'s this Arthur Russell.\"\n\n\"What Arthur Russell? I never heard of him.\" Mr. Dowling was puzzled.\n\"Why, THAT\'S funny! Only the last time I saw you, you were telling me\nhow awfully well you knew Mildred Palmer.\"\n\n\"Why, certainly I do,\" Alice informed him. \"She\'s my most intimate\nfriend.\"\n\n\"That\'s what makes it seem so funny you haven\'t heard anything about\nthis Russell, because everybody says even if she isn\'t engaged to him\nright now, she most likely will be before very long. I must say it looks\na good deal that way to me, myself.\"\n\n\"What nonsense!\" Alice exclaimed. \"She\'s never even mentioned him to\nme.\"\n\nThe young man glanced at her dubiously and passed a finger over the tiny\nprong that dashingly composed the whole substance of his moustache.\n\n\"Well, you see, Mildred IS pretty reserved,\" he remarked. \"This Russell\nis some kind of cousin of the Palmer family, I understand.\"\n\n\"He is?\"\n\n\"Yes--second or third or something, the girls say. You see, my sister\nElla hasn\'t got much to do at home, and don\'t read anything, or sew, or\nplay solitaire, you see; and she hears about pretty much everything that\ngoes on, you see. Well, Ella says a lot of the girls have been talking\nabout Mildred and this Arthur Russell for quite a while back, you see.\nThey were all wondering what he was going to look like, you see; because\nhe only got here yesterday; and that proves she must have been talking\nto some of \'em, or else how----\"\n\nAlice laughed airily, but the pretty sound ended abruptly with an\naudible intake of breath. \"Of course, while Mildred IS my most intimate\nfriend,\" she said, \"I don\'t mean she tells me everything--and naturally\nshe has other friends besides. What else did your sister say she told\nthem about this Mr. Russell?\"\n\n\"Well, it seems he\'s VERY well off; at least Henrietta Lamb told Ella he\nwas. Ella says----\"\n\nAlice interrupted again, with an increased irritability. \"Oh, never\nmind what Ella says! Let\'s find something better to talk about than Mr.\nRussell!\"\n\n\"Well, I\'M willing,\" Mr. Dowling assented, ruefully. \"What you want to\ntalk about?\"\n\nBut this liberal offer found her unresponsive; she sat leaning back,\nsilent, her arms along the arms of her chair, and her eyes, moist and\nbright, fixed upon a wide doorway where the dancers fluctuated. She was\ndisquieted by more than Mildred\'s reserve, though reserve so marked had\ncertainly the significance of a warning that Alice\'s definition, \"my\nmost intimate friend,\" lacked sanction. Indirect notice to this effect\ncould not well have been more emphatic, but the sting of it was left\nfor a later moment. Something else preoccupied Alice: she had just\nbeen surprised by an odd experience. At first sight of this Mr. Arthur\nRussell, she had said to herself instantly, in words as definite as if\nshe spoke them aloud, though they seemed more like words spoken to her\nby some unknown person within her: \"There! That\'s exactly the kind of\nlooking man I\'d like to marry!\"\n\nIn the eyes of the restless and the longing, Providence often appears to\nbe worse than inscrutable: an unreliable Omnipotence given to haphazard\nwhimsies in dealing with its own creatures, choosing at random some\namong them to be rent with tragic deprivations and others to be petted\nwith blessing upon blessing.\n\nIn Alice\'s eyes, Mildred had been blessed enough; something ought to\nbe left over, by this time, for another girl. The final touch to the\nheaping perfection of Christmas-in-everything for Mildred was that this\nMr. Arthur Russell, good-looking, kind-looking, graceful, the perfect\nfiance, should be also \"VERY well off.\" Of course! These rich always\nmarried one another. And while the Mildreds danced with their Arthur\nRussells the best an outsider could do for herself was to sit with Frank\nDowling--the one last course left her that was better than dancing with\nhim.\n\n\"Well, what DO you want to talk about?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Nothing,\" she said. \"Suppose we just sit, Frank.\" But a moment later\nshe remembered something, and, with a sudden animation, began to\nprattle. She pointed to the musicians down the corridor. \"Oh, look at\nthem! Look at the leader! Aren\'t they FUNNY? Someone told me they\'re\ncalled \'Jazz Louie and his half-breed bunch.\' Isn\'t that just crazy?\nDon\'t you love it? Do watch them, Frank.\"\n\nShe continued to chatter, and, while thus keeping his glance away from\nherself, she detached the forlorn bouquet of dead violets from her dress\nand laid it gently beside the one she had carried.\n\nThe latter already reposed in the obscurity selected for it at the base\nof one of the box-trees.\n\nThen she was abruptly silent.\n\n\"You certainly are a funny girl,\" Dowling remarked. \"You say you don\'t\nwant to talk about anything at all, and all of a sudden you break\nout and talk a blue streak; and just about the time I begin to get\ninterested in what you\'re saying you shut off! What\'s the matter with\ngirls, anyhow, when they do things like that?\"\n\n\"I don\'t know; we\'re just queer, I guess.\"\n\n\"I say so! Well, what\'ll we do NOW? Talk, or just sit?\"\n\n\"Suppose we just sit some more.\"\n\n\"Anything to oblige,\" he assented. \"I\'m willing to sit as long as you\nlike.\"\n\nBut even as he made his amiability clear in this matter, the peace was\nthreatened--his mother came down the corridor like a rolling, ominous\ncloud. She was looking about her on all sides, in a fidget of annoyance,\nsearching for him, and to his dismay she saw him. She immediately made a\nhorrible face at his companion, beckoned to him imperiously with a dumpy\narm, and shook her head reprovingly. The unfortunate young man tried to\nrepulse her with an icy stare, but this effort having obtained little to\nencourage his feeble hope of driving her away, he shifted his chair\nso that his back was toward her discomfiting pantomime. He should\nhave known better, the instant result was Mrs. Dowling in motion at an\nimpetuous waddle.\n\nShe entered the box-tree seclusion with the lower rotundities of her\nface hastily modelled into the resemblance of an over-benevolent smile\na contortion which neglected to spread its intended geniality upward to\nthe exasperated eyes and anxious forehead.\n\n\"I think your mother wants to speak to you, Frank,\" Alice said, upon\nthis advent.\n\nMrs. Dowling nodded to her. \"Good evening, Miss Adams,\" she said. \"I\njust thought as you and Frank weren\'t dancing you wouldn\'t mind my\ndisturbing you----\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" Alice murmured.\n\nMr. Dowling seemed of a different mind. \"Well, what DO you want?\" he\ninquired, whereupon his mother struck him roguishly with her fan.\n\n\"Bad fellow!\" She turned to Alice. \"I\'m sure you won\'t mind excusing him\nto let him do something for his old mother, Miss Adams.\"\n\n\"What DO you want?\" the son repeated.\n\n\"Two very nice things,\" Mrs. Dowling informed him. \"Everybody is so\nanxious for Henrietta Lamb to have a pleasant evening, because it\'s the\nvery first time she\'s been anywhere since her father\'s death, and of\ncourse her dear grandfather\'s an old friend of ours, and----\"\n\n\"Well, well!\" her son interrupted. \"Miss Adams isn\'t interested in all\nthis, mother.\"\n\n\"But Henrietta came to speak to Ella and me, and I told her you were so\nanxious to dance with her----\"\n\n\"Here!\" he cried. \"Look here! I\'d rather do my own----\"\n\n\"Yes; that\'s just it,\" Mrs. Dowling explained. \"I just thought it was\nsuch a good opportunity; and Henrietta said she had most of her dances\ntaken, but she\'d give you one if you asked her before they were all\ngone. So I thought you\'d better see her as soon as possible.\"\n\nDowling\'s face had become rosy. \"I refuse to do anything of the kind.\"\n\n\"Bad fellow!\" said his mother, gaily. \"I thought this would be the best\ntime for you to see Henrietta, because it won\'t be long till all her\ndances are gone, and you\'ve promised on your WORD to dance the next with\nElla, and you mightn\'t have a chance to do it then. I\'m sure Miss Adams\nwon\'t mind if you----\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" Alice said.\n\n\"Well, _I_ mind!\" he said. \"I wish you COULD understand that when I\nwant to dance with any girl I don\'t need my mother to ask her for me. I\nreally AM more than six years old!\"\n\nHe spoke with too much vehemence, and Mrs. Dowling at once saw how\nto have her way. As with husbands and wives, so with many fathers and\ndaughters, and so with some sons and mothers: the man will himself be\ncross in public and think nothing of it, nor will he greatly mind a\nlittle crossness on the part of the woman; but let her show agitation\nbefore any spectator, he is instantly reduced to a coward\'s slavery.\nWomen understand that ancient weakness, of course; for it is one of\ntheir most important means of defense, but can be used ignobly.\n\nMrs. Dowling permitted a tremulousness to become audible in her voice.\n\"It isn\'t very--very pleasant--to be talked to like that by your own\nson--before strangers!\"\n\n\"Oh, my! Look here!\" the stricken Dowling protested. \"_I_ didn\'t\nsay anything, mother. I was just joking about how you never get over\nthinking I\'m a little boy. I only----\"\n\nMrs. Dowling continued: \"I just thought I was doing you a little favour.\nI didn\'t think it would make you so angry.\"\n\n\"Mother, for goodness\' sake! Miss Adams\'ll think----\"\n\n\"I suppose,\" Mrs. Dowling interrupted, piteously, \"I suppose it doesn\'t\nmatter what _I_ think!\"\n\n\"Oh, gracious!\"\n\nAlice interfered; she perceived that the ruthless Mrs. Dowling meant to\nhave her way. \"I think you\'d better go, Frank. Really.\"\n\n\"There!\" his mother cried. \"Miss Adams says so, herself! What more do\nyou want?\"\n\n\"Oh, gracious!\" he lamented again, and, with a sick look over his\nshoulder at Alice, permitted his mother to take his arm and propel him\naway. Mrs. Dowling\'s spirits had strikingly recovered even before the\npair passed from the corridor: she moved almost bouncingly beside her\nembittered son, and her eyes and all the convolutions of her abundant\nface were blithe.\n\nAlice went in search of Walter, but without much hope of finding him.\nWhat he did with himself at frozen-face dances was one of his most\nsuccessful mysteries, and her present excursion gave her no clue leading\nto its solution. When the musicians again lowered their instruments\nfor an interval she had returned, alone, to her former seat within the\npartial shelter of the box-trees.\n\nShe had now to practice an art that affords but a limited variety of\nmethods, even to the expert: the art of seeming to have an escort or\npartner when there is none. The practitioner must imply, merely by\nexpression and attitude, that the supposed companion has left her for\nonly a few moments, that she herself has sent him upon an errand; and,\nif possible, the minds of observers must be directed toward a conclusion\nthat this errand of her devising is an amusing one; at all events, she\nis alone temporarily and of choice, not deserted. She awaits a devoted\nman who may return at any instant.\n\nOther people desired to sit in Alice\'s nook, but discovered her in\noccupancy. She had moved the vacant chair closer to her own, and she\nsat with her arm extended so that her hand, holding her lace kerchief,\nrested upon the back of this second chair, claiming it. Such\na preemption, like that of a traveller\'s bag in the rack, was\nunquestionable; and, for additional evidence, sitting with her knees\ncrossed, she kept one foot continuously moving a little, in cadence with\nthe other, which tapped the floor. Moreover, she added a fine detail:\nher half-smile, with the under lip caught, seemed to struggle against\nrepression, as if she found the service engaging her absent companion\neven more amusing than she would let him see when he returned: there was\njovial intrigue of some sort afoot, evidently. Her eyes, beaming with\nsecret fun, were averted from intruders, but sometimes, when couples\napproached, seeking possession of the nook, her thoughts about the\nabsentee appeared to threaten her with outright laughter; and though\none or two girls looked at her skeptically, as they turned away, their\nescorts felt no such doubts, and merely wondered what importantly funny\naffair Alice Adams was engaged in. She had learned to do it perfectly.\n\nShe had learned it during the last two years; she was twenty when for\nthe first time she had the shock of finding herself without an applicant\nfor one of her dances. When she was sixteen \"all the nice boys in town,\"\nas her mother said, crowded the Adamses\' small veranda and steps, or sat\nnear by, cross-legged on the lawn, on summer evenings; and at eighteen\nshe had replaced the boys with \"the older men.\" By this time most of\n\"the other girls,\" her contemporaries, were away at school or college,\nand when they came home to stay, they \"came out\"--that feeble revival\nof an ancient custom offering the maiden to the ceremonial inspection of\nthe tribe. Alice neither went away nor \"came out,\" and, in contrast with\nthose who did, she may have seemed to lack freshness of lustre--jewels\nare richest when revealed all new in a white velvet box. And Alice may\nhave been too eager to secure new retainers, too kind in her efforts to\nkeep the old ones. She had been a belle too soon.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nThe device of the absentee partner has the defect that it cannot be\nemployed for longer than ten or fifteen minutes at a time, and it may\nnot be repeated more than twice in one evening: a single repetition,\nindeed, is weak, and may prove a betrayal. Alice knew that her present\nperformance could be effective during only this interval between\ndances; and though her eyes were guarded, she anxiously counted over the\npartnerless young men who lounged together in the doorways within her\nview. Every one of them ought to have asked her for dances, she thought,\nand although she might have been put to it to give a reason why any of\nthem \"ought,\" her heart was hot with resentment against them.\n\nFor a girl who has been a belle, it is harder to live through these bad\ntimes than it is for one who has never known anything better. Like a\nfigure of painted and brightly varnished wood, Ella Dowling sat against\nthe wall through dance after dance with glassy imperturbability; it was\neasier to be wooden, Alice thought, if you had your mother with you, as\nElla had. You were left with at least the shred of a pretense that you\ncame to sit with your mother as a spectator, and not to offer yourself\nto be danced with by men who looked you over and rejected you--not for\nthe first time. \"Not for the first time\": there lay a sting! Why had you\nthought this time might be different from the other times? Why had you\nbroken your back picking those hundreds of violets?\n\nHating the fatuous young men in the doorways more bitterly for every\ninstant that she had to maintain her tableau, the smiling Alice knew\nfierce impulses to spring to her feet and shout at them, \"You IDIOTS!\"\nHands in pockets, they lounged against the pilasters, or faced one\nanother, laughing vaguely, each one of them seeming to Alice no more\nthan so much mean beef in clothes. She wanted to tell them they were no\nbetter than that; and it seemed a cruel thing of heaven to let them go\non believing themselves young lords. They were doing nothing, killing\ntime. Wasn\'t she at her lowest value at least a means of killing time?\nEvidently the mean beeves thought not. And when one of them finally\nlounged across the corridor and spoke to her, he was the very one to\nwhom she preferred her loneliness.\n\n\"Waiting for somebody, Lady Alicia?\" he asked, negligently; and his easy\nburlesque of her name was like the familiarity of the rest of him. He\nwas one of those full-bodied, grossly handsome men who are powerful and\nactive, but never submit themselves to the rigour of becoming athletes,\nthough they shoot and fish from expensive camps. Gloss is the most\nshining outward mark of the type. Nowadays these men no longer use\nbrilliantine on their moustaches, but they have gloss bought from\nmanicure-girls, from masseurs, and from automobile-makers; and their\neyes, usually large, are glossy. None of this is allowed to interfere\nwith business; these are \"good business men,\" and often make large\nfortunes. They are men of imagination about two things--women and money,\nand, combining their imaginings about both, usually make a wise first\nmarriage. Later, however, they are apt to imagine too much about some\nlittle woman without whom life seems duller than need be. They run away,\nleaving the first wife well enough dowered. They are never intentionally\nunkind to women, and in the end they usually make the mistake of\nthinking they have had their money\'s worth of life. Here was Mr. Harvey\nMalone, a young specimen in an earlier stage of development, trying to\nmarry Henrietta Lamb, and now sauntering over to speak to Alice, as a\ntime-killer before his next dance with Henrietta.\n\nAlice made no response to his question, and he dropped lazily into the\nvacant chair, from which she sharply withdrew her hand. \"I might as well\nuse his chair till he comes, don\'t you think? You don\'t MIND, do you,\nold girl?\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" Alice said. \"It doesn\'t matter one way or the other. Please\ndon\'t call me that.\"\n\n\"So that\'s how you feel?\" Mr. Malone laughed indulgently, without much\ninterest. \"I\'ve been meaning to come to see you for a long time honestly\nI have--because I wanted to have a good talk with you about old times. I\nknow you think it was funny, after the way I used to come to your house\ntwo or three times a week, and sometimes oftener--well, I don\'t blame\nyou for being hurt, the way I stopped without explaining or anything.\nThe truth is there wasn\'t any reason: I just happened to have a lot of\nimportant things to do and couldn\'t find the time. But I AM going to\ncall on you some evening--honestly I am. I don\'t wonder you think----\"\n\n\"You\'re mistaken,\" Alice said. \"I\'ve never thought anything about it at\nall.\"\n\n\"Well, well!\" he said, and looked at her languidly. \"What\'s the use of\nbeing cross with this old man? He always means well.\" And, extending his\narm, he would have given her a friendly pat upon the shoulder but she\nevaded it. \"Well, well!\" he said. \"Seems to me you\'re getting awful\ntetchy! Don\'t you like your old friends any more?\"\n\n\"Not all of them.\"\n\n\"Who\'s the new one?\" he asked, teasingly. \"Come on and tell us, Alice.\nWho is it you were holding this chair for?\"\n\n\"Never mind.\"\n\n\"Well, all I\'ve got to do is to sit here till he comes back; then I\'ll\nsee who it is.\"\n\n\"He may not come back before you have to go.\"\n\n\"Guess you got me THAT time,\" Malone admitted, laughing as he rose.\n\"They\'re tuning up, and I\'ve got this dance. I AM coming around to\nsee you some evening.\" He moved away, calling back over his shoulder,\n\"Honestly, I am!\"\n\nAlice did not look at him.\n\nShe had held her tableau as long as she could; it was time for her to\nabandon the box-trees; and she stepped forth frowning, as if a little\nannoyed with the absentee for being such a time upon her errand;\nwhereupon the two chairs were instantly seized by a coquetting pair\nwho intended to \"sit out\" the dance. She walked quickly down the broad\ncorridor, turned into the broader hall, and hurriedly entered the\ndressing-room where she had left her wraps.\n\nShe stayed here as long as she could, pretending to arrange her hair\nat a mirror, then fidgeting with one of her slipper-buckles; but the\nintelligent elderly woman in charge of the room made an indefinite\nsojourn impracticable. \"Perhaps I could help you with that buckle,\nMiss,\" she suggested, approaching. \"Has it come loose?\" Alice wrenched\ndesperately; then it was loose. The competent woman, producing needle\nand thread, deftly made the buckle fast; and there was nothing for Alice\nto do but to express her gratitude and go.\n\nShe went to the door of the cloak-room opposite, where a coloured man\nstood watchfully in the doorway. \"I wonder if you know which of the\ngentlemen is my brother, Mr. Walter Adams,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes\'m; I know him.\"\n\n\"Could you tell me where he is?\"\n\n\"No\'m; I couldn\'t say.\"\n\n\"Well, if you see him, would you please tell him that his sister, Miss\nAdams, is looking for him and very anxious to speak to him?\"\n\n\"Yes\'m. Sho\'ly, sho\'ly!\"\n\nAs she went away he stared after her and seemed to swell with some\nbursting emotion. In fact, it was too much for him, and he suddenly\nretired within the room, releasing strangulated laughter.\n\nWalter remonstrated. Behind an excellent screen of coats and hats, in a\nremote part of the room, he was kneeling on the floor, engaged in a game\nof chance with a second coloured attendant; and the laughter became\nso vehement that it not only interfered with the pastime in hand, but\nthreatened to attract frozen-face attention.\n\n\"I cain\' he\'p it, man,\" the laughter explained. \"I cain\' he\'p it! You\nsut\'n\'y the beatin\'es\' white boy \'n \'is city!\"\n\nThe dancers were swinging into an \"encore\" as Alice halted for an\nirresolute moment in a doorway. Across the room, a cluster of matrons\nsat chatting absently, their eyes on their dancing daughters; and Alice,\nfinding a refugee\'s courage, dodged through the scurrying couples,\nseated herself in a chair on the outskirts of this colony of elders,\nand began to talk eagerly to the matron nearest her. The matron seemed\nunaccustomed to so much vivacity, and responded but dryly, whereupon\nAlice was more vivacious than ever; for she meant now to present the\npicture of a jolly girl too much interested in these wise older women to\nbother about every foolish young man who asked her for a dance.\n\nHer matron was constrained to go so far as to supply a tolerant nod, now\nand then, in complement to the girl\'s animation, and Alice was grateful\nfor the nods. In this fashion she supplemented the exhausted resources\nof the dressing-room and the box-tree nook; and lived through two more\ndances, when again Mr. Frank Dowling presented himself as a partner.\n\nShe needed no pretense to seek the dressing-room for repairs after that\nnumber; this time they were necessary and genuine. Dowling waited for\nher, and when she came out he explained for the fourth or fifth time how\nthe accident had happened. \"It was entirely those other people\'s fault,\"\nhe said. \"They got me in a kind of a corner, because neither of those\nfellows knows the least thing about guiding; they just jam ahead and\nexpect everybody to get out of their way. It was Charlotte Thom\'s\ndiamond crescent pin that got caught on your dress in the back and made\nsuch a----\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" Alice said in a tired voice. \"The maid fixed it so that\nshe says it isn\'t very noticeable.\"\n\n\"Well, it isn\'t,\" he returned. \"You could hardly tell there\'d been\nanything the matter. Where do you want to go? Mother\'s been interfering\nin my affairs some more and I\'ve got the next taken.\"\n\n\"I was sitting with Mrs. George Dresser. You might take me back there.\"\n\nHe left her with the matron, and Alice returned to her picture-making,\nso that once more, while two numbers passed, whoever cared to look was\noffered the sketch of a jolly, clever girl preoccupied with her elders.\nThen she found her friend Mildred standing before her, presenting Mr.\nArthur Russell, who asked her to dance with him.\n\nAlice looked uncertain, as though not sure what her engagements were;\nbut her perplexity cleared; she nodded, and swung rhythmically away with\nthe tall applicant. She was not grateful to her hostess for this alms.\nWhat a young hostess does with a fiance, Alice thought, is to make him\ndance with the unpopular girls. She supposed that Mr. Arthur Russell had\nalready danced with Ella Dowling.\n\nThe loan of a lover, under these circumstances, may be painful to the\nlessee, and Alice, smiling never more brightly, found nothing to say to\nMr. Russell, though she thought he might have found something to say to\nher. \"I wonder what Mildred told him,\" she thought. \"Probably she said,\n\'Dearest, there\'s one more girl you\'ve got to help me out with. You\nwouldn\'t like her much, but she dances well enough and she\'s having a\nrotten time. Nobody ever goes near her any more.\'\"\n\nWhen the music stopped, Russell added his applause to the hand-clapping\nthat encouraged the uproarious instruments to continue, and as they\nrenewed the tumult, he said heartily, \"That\'s splendid!\"\n\nAlice gave him a glance, necessarily at short range, and found his eyes\nkindly and pleased. Here was a friendly soul, it appeared, who probably\n\"liked everybody.\" No doubt he had applauded for an \"encore\" when he\ndanced with Ella Dowling, gave Ella the same genial look, and said,\n\"That\'s splendid!\"\n\nWhen the \"encore\" was over, Alice spoke to him for the first time.\n\n\"Mildred will be looking for you,\" she said. \"I think you\'d better take\nme back to where you found me.\"\n\nHe looked surprised. \"Oh, if you----\"\n\n\"I\'m sure Mildred will be needing you,\" Alice said, and as she took his\narm and they walked toward Mrs. Dresser, she thought it might be just\npossible to make a further use of the loan. \"Oh, I wonder if you----\"\nshe began.\n\n\"Yes?\" he said, quickly.\n\n\"You don\'t know my brother, Walter Adams,\" she said. \"But he\'s somewhere\nI think possibly he\'s in a smoking-room or some place where girls aren\'t\nexpected, and if you wouldn\'t think it too much trouble to inquire----\"\n\n\"I\'ll find him,\" Russell said, promptly. \"Thank you so much for that\ndance. I\'ll bring your brother in a moment.\"\n\nIt was to be a long moment, Alice decided, presently. Mrs. Dresser had\ngrown restive; and her nods and vague responses to her young dependent\'s\ngaieties were as meager as they could well be. Evidently the matron had\nno intention of appearing to her world in the light of a chaperone for\nAlice Adams; and she finally made this clear. With a word or two of\nexcuse, breaking into something Alice was saying, she rose and went to\nsit next to Mildred\'s mother, who had become the nucleus of the cluster.\nSo Alice was left very much against the wall, with short stretches\nof vacant chairs on each side of her. She had come to the end of her\npicture-making, and could only pretend that there was something amusing\nthe matter with the arm of her chair.\n\nShe supposed that Mildred\'s Mr. Russell had forgotten Walter by this\ntime. \"I\'m not even an intimate enough friend of Mildred\'s for him to\nhave thought he ought to bother to tell me he couldn\'t find him,\" she\nthought. And then she saw Russell coming across the room toward her,\nwith Walter beside him. She jumped up gaily.\n\n\"Oh, thank you!\" she cried. \"I know this naughty boy must have been\nterribly hard to find. Mildred\'ll NEVER forgive me! I\'ve put you to so\nmuch----\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" he said, amiably, and went away, leaving the brother and\nsister together.\n\n\"Walter, let\'s dance just once more,\" Alice said, touching his arm\nplacatively. \"I thought--well, perhaps we might go home then.\"\n\nBut Walter\'s expression was that of a person upon whom an outrage has\njust been perpetrated. \"No,\" he said. \"We\'ve stayed THIS long, I\'m goin\'\nto wait and see what they got to eat. And you look here!\" He turned upon\nher angrily. \"Don\'t you ever do that again!\"\n\n\"Do what?\"\n\n\"Send somebody after me that pokes his nose into every corner of the\nhouse till he finds me! \'Are you Mr. Walter Adams?\' he says. I guess he\nmust asked everybody in the place if they were Mr. Walter Adams! Well,\nI\'ll bet a few iron men you wouldn\'t send anybody to hunt for me again\nif you knew where he found me!\"\n\n\"Where was it?\"\n\nWalter decided that her fit punishment was to know. \"I was shootin\' dice\nwith those coons in the cloak-room.\"\n\n\"And he saw you?\"\n\n\"Unless he was blind!\" said Walter. \"Come on, I\'ll dance this one more\ndance with you. Supper comes after that, and THEN we\'ll go home.\"\n\n\nMrs. Adams heard Alice\'s key turning in the front door and hurried down\nthe stairs to meet her.\n\n\"Did you get wet coming in, darling?\" she asked. \"Did you have a good\ntime?\"\n\n\"Just lovely!\" Alice said, cheerily, and after she had arranged the\nlatch for Walter, who had gone to return the little car, she followed\nher mother upstairs and hummed a dance-tune on the way.\n\n\"Oh, I\'m so glad you had a nice time,\" Mrs. Adams said, as they reached\nthe door of her daughter\'s room together. \"You DESERVED to, and it\'s\nlovely to think----\"\n\nBut at this, without warning, Alice threw herself into her mother\'s\narms, sobbing so loudly that in his room, close by, her father, half\ndrowsing through the night, started to full wakefulness.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nOn a morning, a week after this collapse of festal hopes, Mrs. Adams\nand her daughter were concluding a three-days\' disturbance, the \"Spring\nhouse-cleaning\"--postponed until now by Adams\'s long illness--and Alice,\non her knees before a chest of drawers, in her mother\'s room, paused\nthoughtfully after dusting a packet of letters wrapped in worn muslin.\nShe called to her mother, who was scrubbing the floor of the hallway\njust beyond the open door,\n\n\"These old letters you had in the bottom drawer, weren\'t they some papa\nwrote you before you were married?\"\n\nMrs. Adams laughed and said, \"Yes. Just put \'em back where they were--or\nelse up in the attic--anywhere you want to.\"\n\n\"Do you mind if I read one, mama?\"\n\nMrs. Adams laughed again. \"Oh, I guess you can if you want to. I expect\nthey\'re pretty funny!\"\n\nAlice laughed in response, and chose the topmost letter of the packet.\n\"My dear, beautiful girl,\" it began; and she stared at these singular\nwords. They gave her a shock like that caused by overhearing some\nbewildering impropriety; and, having read them over to herself several\ntimes, she went on to experience other shocks.\n\n\nMY DEAR, BEAUTIFUL GIRL:\n\n\nThis time yesterday I had a mighty bad case of blues because I had not\nhad a word from you in two whole long days and when I do not hear from\nyou every day things look mighty down in the mouth to me. Now it is all\nso different because your letter has arrived and besides I have got a\npiece of news I believe you will think as fine as I do. Darling, you\nwill be surprised, so get ready to hear about a big effect on our\nfuture. It is this way. I had sort of a suspicion the head of the firm\nkind of took a fancy to me from the first when I went in there, and\nliked the way I attended to my work and so when he took me on this\nbusiness trip with him I felt pretty sure of it and now it turns out\nI was about right. In return I guess I have got about the best boss in\nthis world and I believe you will think so too. Yes, sweetheart, after\nthe talk I have just had with him if J. A. Lamb asked me to cut my hand\noff for him I guess I would come pretty near doing it because what he\nsays means the end of our waiting to be together. From New Years on he\nis going to put me in entire charge of the sundries dept. and what do\nyou think is going to be my salary? Eleven hundred cool dollars a year\n($1,100.00). That\'s all! Just only a cool eleven hundred per annum!\nWell, I guess that will show your mother whether I can take care of you\nor not. And oh how I would like to see your dear, beautiful, loving face\nwhen you get this news.\n\nI would like to go out on the public streets and just dance and shout\nand it is all I can do to help doing it, especially when I know we will\nbe talking it all over together this time next week, and oh my darling,\nnow that your folks have no excuse for putting it off any longer we\nmight be in our own little home before Xmas.\n\nWould you be glad?\n\nWell, darling, this settles everything and makes our future just about\nas smooth for us as anybody could ask. I can hardly realize after all\nthis waiting life\'s troubles are over for you and me and we have nothing\nto do but to enjoy the happiness granted us by this wonderful, beautiful\nthing we call life. I know I am not any poet and the one I tried to\nwrite about you the day of the picnic was fearful but the way I THINK\nabout you is a poem.\n\nWrite me what you think of the news. I know but write me anyhow.\n\nI\'ll get it before we start home and I can be reading it over all the\ntime on the tram.\n\n\nYour always loving\n\nVIRGIL.\n\n\n\nThe sound of her mother\'s diligent scrubbing in the hall came back\nslowly to Alice\'s hearing, as she restored the letter to the packet,\nwrapped the packet in its muslin covering, and returned it to the\ndrawer. She had remained upon her knees while she read the letter; now\nshe sank backward, sitting upon the floor with her hands behind her, an\nunconscious relaxing for better ease to think. Upon her face there had\nfallen a look of wonder.\n\nFor the first time she was vaguely perceiving that life is everlasting\nmovement. Youth really believes what is running water to be a permanent\ncrystallization and sees time fixed to a point: some people have dark\nhair, some people have blond hair, some people have gray hair. Until\nthis moment, Alice had no conviction that there was a universe before\nshe came into it. She had always thought of it as the background of\nherself: the moon was something to make her prettier on a summer night.\n\nBut this old letter, through which she saw still flickering an ancient\nstarlight of young love, astounded her. Faintly before her it revealed\nthe whole lives of her father and mother, who had been young, after\nall--they REALLY had--and their youth was now so utterly passed from\nthem that the picture of it, in the letter, was like a burlesque of\nthem. And so she, herself, must pass to such changes, too, and all that\nnow seemed vital to her would be nothing.\n\nWhen her work was finished, that afternoon, she went into her father\'s\nroom. His recovery had progressed well enough to permit the departure\nof Miss Perry; and Adams, wearing one of Mrs. Adams\'s wrappers over his\nnight-gown, sat in a high-backed chair by a closed window. The weather\nwas warm, but the closed window and the flannel wrapper had not sufficed\nhim: round his shoulders he had an old crocheted scarf of Alice\'s; his\nlegs were wrapped in a heavy comfort; and, with these swathings about\nhim, and his eyes closed, his thin and grizzled head making but a slight\nindentation in the pillow supporting it, he looked old and little and\nqueer.\n\nAlice would have gone out softly, but without opening his eyes, he spoke\nto her: \"Don\'t go, dearie. Come sit with the old man a little while.\"\n\nShe brought a chair near his. \"I thought you were napping.\"\n\n\"No. I don\'t hardly ever do that. I just drift a little sometimes.\"\n\n\"How do you mean you drift, papa?\"\n\nHe looked at her vaguely. \"Oh, I don\'t know. Kind of pictures. They get\na little mixed up--old times with times still ahead, like planning what\nto do, you know. That\'s as near a nap as I get--when the pictures mix up\nsome. I suppose it\'s sort of drowsing.\"\n\nShe took one of his hands and stroked it. \"What do you mean when you say\nyou have pictures like \'planning what to do\'?\" she asked.\n\n\"I mean planning what to do when I get out and able to go to work\nagain.\"\n\n\"But that doesn\'t need any planning,\" Alice said, quickly. \"You\'re going\nback to your old place at Lamb\'s, of course.\"\n\nAdams closed his eyes again, sighing heavily, but made no other\nresponse.\n\n\"Why, of COURSE you are!\" she cried. \"What are you talking about?\"\n\nHis head turned slowly toward her, revealing the eyes, open in a haggard\nstare. \"I heard you the other night when you came from the party,\" he\nsaid. \"I know what was the matter.\"\n\n\"Indeed, you don\'t,\" she assured him. \"You don\'t know anything about it,\nbecause there wasn\'t anything the matter at all.\"\n\n\"Don\'t you suppose I heard you crying? What\'d you cry for if there\nwasn\'t anything the matter?\"\n\n\"Just nerves, papa. It wasn\'t anything else in the world.\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" he said. \"Your mother told me.\"\n\n\"She promised me not to!\"\n\nAt that Adams laughed mournfully. \"It wouldn\'t be very likely I\'d hear\nyou so upset and not ask about it, even if she didn\'t come and tell me\non her own hook. You needn\'t try to fool me; I tell you I know what was\nthe matter.\"\n\n\"The only matter was I had a silly fit,\" Alice protested. \"It did me\ngood, too.\"\n\n\"How\'s that?\"\n\n\"Because I\'ve decided to do something about it, papa.\"\n\n\"That isn\'t the way your mother looks at it,\" Adams said, ruefully. \"She\nthinks it\'s our place to do something about it. Well, I don\'t know--I\ndon\'t know; everything seems so changed these days. You\'ve always been\na good daughter, Alice, and you ought to have as much as any of these\ngirls you go with; she\'s convinced me she\'s right about THAT. The\ntrouble is----\" He faltered, apologetically, then went on, \"I mean the\nquestion is--how to get it for you.\"\n\n\"No!\" she cried. \"I had no business to make such a fuss just because a\nlot of idiots didn\'t break their necks to get dances with me and because\nI got mortified about Walter--Walter WAS pretty terrible----\"\n\n\"Oh, me, my!\" Adams lamented. \"I guess that\'s something we just have\nto leave work out itself. What you going to do with a boy nineteen or\ntwenty years old that makes his own living? Can\'t whip him. Can\'t keep\nhim locked up in the house. Just got to hope he\'ll learn better, I\nsuppose.\"\n\n\"Of course he didn\'t want to go to the Palmers\',\" Alice explained,\ntolerantly--\"and as mama and I made him take me, and he thought that was\npretty selfish in me, why, he felt he had a right to amuse himself any\nway he could. Of course it was awful that this--that this Mr. Russell\nshould----\" In spite of her, the recollection choked her.\n\n\"Yes, it was awful,\" Adams agreed. \"Just awful. Oh, me, my!\"\n\nBut Alice recovered herself at once, and showed him a cheerful face.\n\"Well, just a few years from now I probably won\'t even remember it! I\nbelieve hardly anything amounts to as much as we think it does at the\ntime.\"\n\n\"Well--sometimes it don\'t.\"\n\n\"What I\'ve been thinking, papa: it seems to me I ought to DO something.\"\n\n\"What like?\"\n\nShe looked dreamy, but was obviously serious as she told him: \"Well,\nI mean I ought to be something besides just a kind of nobody. I ought\nto----\" She paused.\n\n\"What, dearie?\"\n\n\"Well--there\'s one thing I\'d like to do. I\'m sure I COULD do it, too.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I want to go on the stage: I know I could act.\" At this, her father\nabruptly gave utterance to a feeble cackling of laughter; and when\nAlice, surprised and a little offended, pressed him for his reason, he\ntried to evade, saying, \"Nothing, dearie. I just thought of something.\"\nBut she persisted until he had to explain.\n\n\"It made me think of your mother\'s sister, your Aunt Flora, that died\nwhen you were little,\" he said. \"She was always telling how she was\ngoing on the stage, and talking about how she was certain she\'d make a\ngreat actress, and all so on; and one day your mother broke out and said\nshe ought \'a\' gone on the stage, herself, because she always knew she\nhad the talent for it--and, well, they got into kind of a spat about\nwhich one\'d make the best actress. I had to go out in the hall to\nlaugh!\"\n\n\"Maybe you were wrong,\" Alice said, gravely. \"If they both felt it, why\nwouldn\'t that look as if there was talent in the family? I\'ve ALWAYS\nthought----\"\n\n\"No, dearie,\" he said, with a final chuckle. \"Your mother and Flora\nweren\'t different from a good many others. I expect ninety per cent. of\nall the women I ever knew were just sure they\'d be mighty fine actresses\nif they ever got the chance. Well, I guess it\'s a good thing; they enjoy\nthinking about it and it don\'t do anybody any harm.\"\n\nAlice was piqued. For several days she had thought almost continuously\nof a career to be won by her own genius. Not that she planned details,\nor concerned herself with first steps; her picturings overleaped all\nthat. Principally, she saw her name great on all the bill-boards of that\nunkind city, and herself, unchanged in age but glamorous with fame and\nParis clothes, returning in a private car. No doubt the pleasantest\ndevelopment of her vision was a dialogue with Mildred; and this became\nso real that, as she projected it, Alice assumed the proper expressions\nfor both parties to it, formed words with her lips, and even spoke some\nof them aloud. \"No, I haven\'t forgotten you, Mrs. Russell. I remember\nyou quite pleasantly, in fact. You were a Miss Palmer, I recall, in\nthose funny old days. Very kind of you, I\'m shaw. I appreciate your\neagerness to do something for me in your own little home. As you say, a\nreception WOULD renew my acquaintanceship with many old friends--but I\'m\nshaw you won\'t mind my mentioning that I don\'t find much inspiration in\nthese provincials. I really must ask you not to press me. An artist\'s\ntime is not her own, though of course I could hardly expect you to\nunderstand----\"\n\nThus Alice illuminated the dull time; but she retired from the interview\nwith her father still manfully displaying an outward cheerfulness, while\ndepression grew heavier within, as if she had eaten soggy cake. Her\nfather knew nothing whatever of the stage, and she was aware of his\nignorance, yet for some reason his innocently skeptical amusement\nreduced her bright project almost to nothing. Something like this always\nhappened, it seemed; she was continually making these illuminations, all\ngay with gildings and colourings; and then as soon as anybody else so\nmuch as glanced at them--even her father, who loved her--the pretty\ndesigns were stricken with a desolating pallor. \"Is this LIFE?\" Alice\nwondered, not doubting that the question was original and all her own.\n\"Is it life to spend your time imagining things that aren\'t so, and\nnever will be? Beautiful things happen to other people; why should I be\nthe only one they never CAN happen to?\"\n\nThe mood lasted overnight; and was still upon her the next afternoon\nwhen an errand for her father took her down-town. Adams had decided\nto begin smoking again, and Alice felt rather degraded, as well as\nembarrassed, when she went into the large shop her father had named, and\nasked for the cheap tobacco he used in his pipe. She fell back upon an\nair of amused indulgence, hoping thus to suggest that her purchase\nwas made for some faithful old retainer, now infirm; and although the\ncalmness of the clerk who served her called for no such elaboration of\nher sketch, she ornamented it with a little laugh and with the remark,\nas she dropped the package into her coat-pocket, \"I\'m sure it\'ll please\nhim; they tell me it\'s the kind he likes.\"\n\nStill playing Lady Bountiful, smiling to herself in anticipation of the\njoy she was bringing to the simple old negro or Irish follower of the\nfamily, she left the shop; but as she came out upon the crowded pavement\nher smile vanished quickly.\n\nNext to the door of the tobacco-shop, there was the open entrance to a\nstairway, and, above this rather bleak and dark aperture, a sign-board\ndisplayed in begrimed gilt letters the information that Frincke\'s\nBusiness College occupied the upper floors of the building. Furthermore,\nFrincke here publicly offered \"personal instruction and training in\npractical mathematics, bookkeeping, and all branches of the business\nlife, including stenography, typewriting, etc.\"\n\nAlice halted for a moment, frowning at this signboard as though it were\nsomething surprising and distasteful which she had never seen before.\nYet it was conspicuous in a busy quarter; she almost always passed it\nwhen she came down-town, and never without noticing it. Nor was this the\nfirst time she had paused to lift toward it that same glance of vague\nmisgiving.\n\nThe building was not what the changeful city defined as a modern one,\nand the dusty wooden stairway, as seen from the pavement, disappeared\nupward into a smoky darkness. So would the footsteps of a girl ascending\nthere lead to a hideous obscurity, Alice thought; an obscurity as dreary\nand as permanent as death. And like dry leaves falling about her she saw\nher wintry imaginings in the May air: pretty girls turning into\nwithered creatures as they worked at typing-machines; old maids \"taking\ndictation\" from men with double chins; Alice saw old maids of a dozen\ndifferent kinds \"taking dictation.\" Her mind\'s eye was crowded with\nthem, as it always was when she passed that stairway entrance; and\nthough they were all different from one another, all of them looked a\nlittle like herself.\n\nShe hated the place, and yet she seldom hurried by it or averted\nher eyes. It had an unpleasant fascination for her, and a mysterious\nreproach, which she did not seek to fathom. She walked on thoughtfully\nto-day; and when, at the next corner, she turned into the street that\nled toward home, she was given a surprise. Arthur Russell came rapidly\nfrom behind her, lifting his hat as she saw him.\n\n\"Are you walking north, Miss Adams?\" he asked. \"Do you mind if I walk\nwith you?\"\n\nShe was not delighted, but seemed so. \"How charming!\" she cried, giving\nhim a little flourish of the shapely hands; and then, because she\nwondered if he had seen her coming out of the tobacco-shop, she laughed\nand added, \"I\'ve just been on the most ridiculous errand!\"\n\n\"What was that?\"\n\n\"To order some cigars for my father. He\'s been quite ill, poor man, and\nhe\'s so particular--but what in the world do _I_ know about cigars?\"\n\nRussell laughed. \"Well, what DO you know about \'em? Did you select by\nthe price?\"\n\n\"Mercy, no!\" she exclaimed, and added, with an afterthought, \"Of course\nhe wrote down the name of the kind he wanted and I gave it to the\nshopman. I could never have pronounced it.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nIn her pocket as she spoke her hand rested upon the little sack of\ntobacco, which responded accusingly to the touch of her restless\nfingers; and she found time to wonder why she was building up this\nfiction for Mr. Arthur Russell. His discovery of Walter\'s device for\nwhiling away the dull evening had shamed and distressed her; but she\nwould have suffered no less if almost any other had been the discoverer.\nIn this gentleman, after hearing that he was Mildred\'s Mr. Arthur\nRussell, Alice felt not the slightest \"personal interest\"; and there was\nyet to develop in her life such a thing as an interest not personal. At\ntwenty-two this state of affairs is not unique.\n\nSo far as Alice was concerned Russell might have worn a placard,\n\"Engaged.\" She looked upon him as diners entering a restaurant look upon\ntables marked \"Reserved\": the glance, slightly discontented, passes on\nat once. Or so the eye of a prospector wanders querulously over staked\nand established claims on the mountainside, and seeks the virgin land\nbeyond; unless, indeed, the prospector be dishonest. But Alice was no\nclaim-jumper--so long as the notice of ownership was plainly posted.\n\nThough she was indifferent now, habit ruled her: and, at the very time\nshe wondered why she created fictitious cigars for her father, she\nwas also regretting that she had not boldly carried her Malacca stick\ndown-town with her. Her vivacity increased automatically.\n\n\"Perhaps the clerk thought you wanted the cigars for yourself,\" Russell\nsuggested. \"He may have taken you for a Spanish countess.\"\n\n\"I\'m sure he did!\" Alice agreed, gaily; and she hummed a bar or two of\n\"LaPaloma,\" snapping her fingers as castanets, and swaying her body a\nlittle, to suggest the accepted stencil of a \"Spanish Dancer.\" \"Would\nyou have taken me for one, Mr. Russell?\" she asked, as she concluded the\nimpersonation.\n\n\"I? Why, yes,\" he said. \"I\'D take you for anything you wanted me to.\"\n\n\"Why, what a speech!\" she cried, and, laughing, gave him a quick glance\nin which there glimmered some real surprise. He was looking at\nher quizzically, but with the liveliest appreciation. Her surprise\nincreased; and she was glad that he had joined her.\n\nTo be seen walking with such a companion added to her pleasure. She\nwould have described him as \"altogether quite stunning-looking\"; and she\nliked his tall, dark thinness, his gray clothes, his soft hat, and his\nclean brown shoes; she liked his easy swing of the stick he carried.\n\n\"Shouldn\'t I have said it?\" he asked. \"Would you rather not be taken for\na Spanish countess?\"\n\n\"That isn\'t it,\" she explained. \"You said----\"\n\n\"I said I\'d take you for whatever you wanted me to. Isn\'t that all\nright?\"\n\n\"It would all depend, wouldn\'t it?\"\n\n\"Of course it would depend on what you wanted.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" she laughed. \"It might depend on a lot of things.\"\n\n\"Such as?\"\n\n\"Well----\" She hesitated, having the mischievous impulse to say, \"Such\nas Mildred!\" But she decided to omit this reference, and became serious,\nremembering Russell\'s service to her at Mildred\'s house. \"Speaking of\nwhat I want to be taken for,\" she said;--\"I\'ve been wondering ever since\nthe other night what you did take me for! You must have taken me for the\nsister of a professional gambler, I\'m afraid!\"\n\nRussell\'s look of kindness was the truth about him, she was to discover;\nand he reassured her now by the promptness of his friendly chuckle.\n\"Then your young brother told you where I found him, did he? I kept my\nface straight at the time, but I laughed afterward--to myself. It\nstruck me as original, to say the least: his amusing himself with those\ndarkies.\"\n\n\"Walter IS original,\" Alice said; and, having adopted this new view of\nher brother\'s eccentricities, she impulsively went on to make it more\nplausible. \"He\'s a very odd boy, and I was afraid you\'d misunderstand.\nHe tells wonderful \'darky stories,\' and he\'ll do anything to draw\ncoloured people out and make them talk; and that\'s what he was doing at\nMildred\'s when you found him for me--he says he wins their confidence\nby playing dice with them. In the family we think he\'ll probably write\nabout them some day. He\'s rather literary.\"\n\n\"Are you?\" Russell asked, smiling.\n\n\"I? Oh----\" She paused, lifting both hands in a charming gesture of\nhelplessness. \"Oh, I\'m just--me!\"\n\nHis glance followed the lightly waved hands with keen approval, then\nrose to the lively and colourful face, with its hazel eyes, its small\nand pretty nose, and the lip-caught smile which seemed the climax of\nher decorative transition. Never had he seen a creature so plastic or so\nwistful.\n\nHere was a contrast to his cousin Mildred, who was not wistful, and\ncontrolled any impulses toward plasticity, if she had them. \"By George!\"\nhe said. \"But you ARE different!\"\n\nWith that, there leaped in her such an impulse of roguish gallantry\nas she could never resist. She turned her head, and, laughing and\nbright-eyed, looked him full in the face.\n\n\"From whom?\" she cried.\n\n\"From--everybody!\" he said. \"Are you a mind-reader?\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"How did you know I was thinking you were different from my cousin,\nMildred Palmer?\"\n\n\"What makes you think I DID know it?\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" he said. \"You knew what I was thinking and I knew you knew.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said with cool humour. \"How intimate that seems to make us\nall at once!\"\n\nRussell left no doubt that he was delighted with these gaieties of hers.\n\"By George!\" he exclaimed again. \"I thought you were this sort of girl\nthe first moment I saw you!\"\n\n\"What sort of girl? Didn\'t Mildred tell you what sort of girl I am when\nshe asked you to dance with me?\"\n\n\"She didn\'t ask me to dance with you--I\'d been looking at you. You were\ntalking to some old ladies, and I asked Mildred who you were.\"\n\n\"Oh, so Mildred DIDN\'T----\" Alice checked herself. \"Who did she tell you\nI was?\"\n\n\"She just said you were a Miss Adams, so I----\"\n\n\"\'A\' Miss Adams?\" Alice interrupted.\n\n\"Yes. Then I said I\'d like to meet you.\"\n\n\"I see. You thought you\'d save me from the old ladies.\"\n\n\"No. I thought I\'d save myself from some of the girls Mildred was\ngetting me to dance with. There was a Miss Dowling----\"\n\n\"Poor man!\" Alice said, gently, and her impulsive thought was that\nMildred had taken few chances, and that as a matter of self-defense her\ncarefulness might have been well founded. This Mr. Arthur Russell was a\nmuch more responsive person than one had supposed.\n\n\"So, Mr. Russell, you don\'t know anything about me except what you\nthought when you first saw me?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know I was right when I thought it.\"\n\n\"You haven\'t told me what you thought.\"\n\n\"I thought you were like what you ARE like.\"\n\n\"Not very definite, is it? I\'m afraid you shed more light a minute or\nso ago, when you said how different from Mildred you thought I was. That\nWAS definite, unfortunately!\"\n\n\"I didn\'t say it,\" Russell explained. \"I thought it, and you read my\nmind. That\'s the sort of girl I thought you were--one that could read a\nman\'s mind. Why do you say \'unfortunately\' you\'re not like Mildred?\"\n\nAlice\'s smooth gesture seemed to sketch Mildred. \"Because she\'s\nperfect--why, she\'s PERFECTLY perfect! She never makes a mistake, and\neverybody looks up to her--oh, yes, we all fairly adore her! She\'s like\nsome big, noble, cold statue--\'way above the rest of us--and she hardly\never does anything mean or treacherous. Of all the girls I know I\nbelieve she\'s played the fewest really petty tricks. She\'s----\"\n\nRussell interrupted; he looked perplexed. \"You say she\'s perfectly\nperfect, but that she does play SOME----\"\n\nAlice laughed, as if at his sweet innocence. \"Men are so funny!\" she\ninformed him. \"Of course girls ALL do mean things sometimes. My own\ncareer\'s just one long brazen smirch of \'em! What I mean is, Mildred\'s\nperfectly perfect compared to the rest of us.\"\n\n\"I see,\" he said, and seemed to need a moment or two of thoughtfulness.\nThen he inquired, \"What sort of treacherous things do YOU do?\"\n\n\"I? Oh, the very worst kind! Most people bore me particularly the men in\nthis town--and I show it.\"\n\n\"But I shouldn\'t call that treacherous, exactly.\"\n\n\"Well, THEY do,\" Alice laughed. \"It\'s made me a terribly unpopular\ncharacter! I do a lot of things they hate. For instance, at a dance I\'d\na lot rather find some clever old woman and talk to her than dance with\nnine-tenths of these nonentities. I usually do it, too.\"\n\n\"But you danced as if you liked it. You danced better than any other\ngirl I----\"\n\n\"This flattery of yours doesn\'t quite turn my head, Mr. Russell,\" Alice\ninterrupted. \"Particularly since Mildred only gave you Ella Dowling to\ncompare with me!\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" he insisted. \"There were others--and of course Mildred,\nherself.\"\n\n\"Oh, of course, yes. I forgot that. Well----\" She paused, then added, \"I\ncertainly OUGHT to dance well.\"\n\n\"Why is it so much a duty?\"\n\n\"When I think of the dancing-teachers and the expense to papa! All sorts\nof fancy instructors--I suppose that\'s what daughters have fathers for,\nthough, isn\'t it? To throw money away on them?\"\n\n\"You don\'t----\" Russell began, and his look was one of alarm. \"You\nhaven\'t taken up----\"\n\nShe understood his apprehension and responded merrily, \"Oh, murder, no!\nYou mean you\'re afraid I break out sometimes in a piece of cheesecloth\nand run around a fountain thirty times, and then, for an encore, show\nhow much like snakes I can make my arms look.\"\n\n\"I SAID you were a mind-reader!\" he exclaimed. \"That\'s exactly what I\nwas pretending to be afraid you might do.\"\n\n\"\'Pretending?\' That\'s nicer of you. No; it\'s not my mania.\"\n\n\"What is?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing in particular that I know of just now. Of course I\'ve had\nthe usual one: the one that every girl goes through.\"\n\n\"What\'s that?\"\n\n\"Good heavens, Mr. Russell, you can\'t expect me to believe you\'re really\na man of the world if you don\'t know that every girl has a time in her\nlife when she\'s positive she\'s divinely talented for the stage! It\'s the\nonly universal rule about women that hasn\'t got an exception. I don\'t\nmean we all want to go on the stage, but we all think we\'d be wonderful\nif we did. Even Mildred. Oh, she wouldn\'t confess it to you: you\'d have\nto know her a great deal better than any man can ever know her to find\nout.\"\n\n\"I see,\" he said. \"Girls are always telling us we can\'t know them. I\nwonder if you----\"\n\nShe took up his thought before he expressed it, and again he was\nfascinated by her quickness, which indeed seemed to him almost\ntelepathic. \"Oh, but DON\'T we know one another, though!\" she cried.\n\n\"Such things we have to keep secret--things that go on right before YOUR\neyes!\"\n\n\"Why don\'t some of you tell us?\" he asked.\n\n\"We can\'t tell you.\"\n\n\"Too much honour?\"\n\n\"No. Not even too much honour among thieves, Mr. Russell. We don\'t tell\nyou about our tricks against one another because we know it wouldn\'t\nmake any impression on you. The tricks aren\'t played against you, and\nyou have a soft side for cats with lovely manners!\"\n\n\"What about your tricks against us?\"\n\n\"Oh, those!\" Alice laughed. \"We think they\'re rather cute!\"\n\n\"Bravo!\" he cried, and hammered the ferrule of his stick upon the\npavement.\n\n\"What\'s the applause for?\"\n\n\"For you. What you said was like running up the black flag to the\nmasthead.\"\n\n\"Oh, no. It was just a modest little sign in a pretty flower-bed:\n\'Gentlemen, beware!\'\"\n\n\"I see I must,\" he said, gallantly.\n\n\"Thanks! But I mean, beware of the whole bloomin\' garden!\" Then, picking\nup a thread that had almost disappeared: \"You needn\'t think you\'ll ever\nfind out whether I\'m right about Mildred\'s not being an exception by\nasking her,\" she said. \"She won\'t tell you: she\'s not the sort that ever\nmakes a confession.\"\n\nBut Russell had not followed her shift to the former topic. \"\'Mildred\'s\nnot being an exception?\'\" he said, vaguely. \"I don\'t----\"\n\n\"An exception about thinking she could be a wonderful thing on the stage\nif she only cared to. If you asked her I\'m pretty sure she\'d say, \'What\nnonsense!\' Mildred\'s the dearest, finest thing anywhere, but you won\'t\nfind out many things about her by asking her.\"\n\nRussell\'s expression became more serious, as it did whenever his cousin\nwas made their topic. \"You think not?\" he said. \"You think she\'s----\"\n\n\"No. But it\'s not because she isn\'t sincere exactly. It\'s only because\nshe has such a lot to live up to. She has to live up to being a girl\non the grand style to herself, I mean, of course.\" And without pausing\nAlice rippled on, \"You ought to have seen ME when I had the stage-fever!\nI used to play \'Juliet\' all alone in my room.\' She lifted her arms in\ngraceful entreaty, pleading musically,\n\n \"O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,\n That monthly changes in her circled orb,\n Lest thy love prove----\"\n\n\nShe broke off abruptly with a little flourish, snapping thumb and finger\nof each outstretched hand, then laughed and said, \"Papa used to make\nsuch fun of me! Thank heaven, I was only fifteen; I was all over it by\nthe next year.\"\n\n\"No wonder you had the fever,\" Russell observed. \"You do it beautifully.\nWhy didn\'t you finish the line?\"\n\n\"Which one? \'Lest thy love prove likewise variable\'? Juliet was saying\nit to a MAN, you know. She seems to have been ready to worry about his\nconstancy pretty early in their affair!\"\n\nHer companion was again thoughtful. \"Yes,\" he said, seeming to be rather\nirksomely impressed with Alice\'s suggestion. \"Yes; it does appear so.\"\n\nAlice glanced at his serious face, and yielded to an audacious\ntemptation. \"You mustn\'t take it so hard,\" she said, flippantly.\n\n\"It isn\'t about you: it\'s only about Romeo and Juliet.\"\n\n\"See here!\" he exclaimed. \"You aren\'t at your mind-reading again, are\nyou? There are times when it won\'t do, you know!\"\n\nShe leaned toward him a little, as if companionably: they were walking\nslowly, and this geniality of hers brought her shoulder in light contact\nwith his for a moment. \"Do you dislike my mind-reading?\" she asked, and,\nacross their two just touching shoulders, gave him her sudden look of\nsmiling wistfulness. \"Do you hate it?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"No, I don\'t,\" he said, gravely. \"It\'s quite\npleasant. But I think it says, \'Gentlemen, beware!\'\"\n\nShe instantly moved away from him, with the lawless and frank laugh of\none who is delighted to be caught in a piece of hypocrisy. \"How lovely!\"\nshe cried. Then she pointed ahead. \"Our walk is nearly over. We\'re\ncoming to the foolish little house where I live. It\'s a queer little\nplace, but my father\'s so attached to it the family have about given up\nhope of getting him to build a real house farther out. He doesn\'t mind\nour being extravagant about anything else, but he won\'t let us alter one\nsingle thing about his precious little old house. Well!\" She halted, and\ngave him her hand. \"Adieu!\"\n\n\"I couldn\'t,\" he began; hesitated, then asked: \"I couldn\'t come in with\nyou for a little while?\"\n\n\"Not now,\" she said, quickly. \"You can come----\" She paused.\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"Almost any time.\" She turned and walked slowly up the path, but he\nwaited. \"You can come in the evening if you like,\" she called back to\nhim over her shoulder.\n\n\"Soon?\"\n\n\"As soon as you like!\" She waved her hand; then ran indoors and watched\nhim from a window as he went up the street. He walked rapidly, a fine,\neasy figure, swinging his stick in a way that suggested exhilaration.\nAlice, staring after him through the irregular apertures of a lace\ncurtain, showed no similar buoyancy. Upon the instant she closed\nthe door all sparkle left her: she had become at once the simple and\nsometimes troubled girl her family knew.\n\n\"What is going on out there?\" her mother asked, approaching from the\ndining-room.\n\n\"Oh, nothing,\" Alice said, indifferently, as she turned away. \"That Mr.\nRussell met me downtown and walked up with me.\"\n\n\"Mr. Russell? Oh, the one that\'s engaged to Mildred?\"\n\n\"Well--I don\'t know for certain. He didn\'t seem so much like an engaged\nman to me.\" And she added, in the tone of thoughtful preoccupation:\n\"Anyhow--not so terribly!\"\n\nThen she ran upstairs, gave her father his tobacco, filled his pipe for\nhim, and petted him as he lighted it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nAfter that, she went to her room and sat down before her three-leaved\nmirror. There was where she nearly always sat when she came into her\nroom, if she had nothing in mind to do. She went to that chair as\nnaturally as a dog goes to his corner.\n\nShe leaned forward, observing her profile; gravity seemed to be her\nmood. But after a long, almost motionless scrutiny, she began to produce\ndramatic sketches upon that ever-ready stage, her countenance: she\nshowed gaiety, satire, doubt, gentleness, appreciation of a companion\nand love-in-hiding--all studied in profile first, then repeated for a\n\"three-quarter view.\" Subsequently she ran through them, facing herself\nin full.\n\nIn this manner she outlined a playful scenario for her next interview\nwith Arthur Russell; but grew solemn again, thinking of the impression\nshe had already sought to give him. She had no twinges for any\nunderminings of her \"most intimate friend\"--in fact, she felt that her\nwork on a new portrait of Mildred for Mr.\n\nRussell had been honest and accurate. But why had it been her instinct\nto show him an Alice Adams who didn\'t exist?\n\nAlmost everything she had said to him was upon spontaneous impulse,\nspringing to her lips on the instant; yet it all seemed to have been\nfounded upon a careful design, as if some hidden self kept such designs\nin stock and handed them up to her, ready-made, to be used for its own\npurpose. What appeared to be the desired result was a false-coloured\nimage in Russell\'s mind; but if he liked that image he wouldn\'t be\nliking Alice Adams; nor would anything he thought about the image be a\nthought about her.\n\nNevertheless, she knew she would go on with her false, fancy colourings\nof this nothing as soon as she saw him again; she had just been\npracticing them. \"What\'s the idea?\" she wondered. \"What makes me tell\nsuch lies? Why shouldn\'t I be just myself?\" And then she thought, \"But\nwhich one is myself?\"\n\nHer eyes dwelt on the solemn eyes in the mirror; and her lips,\ndisquieted by a deepening wonder, parted to whisper:\n\n\"Who in the world are you?\"\n\nThe apparition before her had obeyed her like an alert slave, but now,\nas she subsided to a complete stillness, that aspect changed to the\nold mockery with which mirrors avenge their wrongs. The nucleus of some\nqueer thing seemed to gather and shape itself behind the nothingness of\nthe reflected eyes until it became almost an actual strange presence.\nIf it could be identified, perhaps the presence was that of the hidden\ndesigner who handed up the false, ready-made pictures, and, for unknown\npurposes, made Alice exhibit them; but whatever it was, she suddenly\nfound it monkey-like and terrifying. In a flutter she jumped up and went\nto another part of the room.\n\nA moment or two later she was whistling softly as she hung her light\ncoat over a wooden triangle in her closet, and her musing now was\nquainter than the experience that led to it; for what she thought was\nthis, \"I certainly am a queer girl!\" She took a little pride in so much\noriginality, believing herself probably the only person in the world to\nhave such thoughts as had been hers since she entered the room, and the\nfirst to be disturbed by a strange presence in the mirror. In fact, the\neffect of the tiny episode became apparent in that look of preoccupied\ncomplacency to be seen for a time upon any girl who has found reason to\nsuspect that she is a being without counterpart.\n\nThis slight glow, still faintly radiant, was observed across the\ndinner-table by Walter, but he misinterpreted it. \"What YOU lookin\' so\nself-satisfied about?\" he inquired, and added in his knowing way, \"I saw\nyou, all right, cutie!\"\n\n\"Where\'d you see me?\"\n\n\"Down-town.\"\n\n\"This afternoon, you mean, Walter?\"\n\n\"Yes, \'this afternoon, I mean, Walter,\'\" he returned, burlesquing\nher voice at least happily enough to please himself; for he laughed\napplausively. \"Oh, you never saw me! I passed you close enough to pull\na tooth, but you were awful busy. I never did see anybody as busy as\nyou get, Alice, when you\'re towin\' a barge. My, but you keep your hands\ngoin\'! Looked like the air was full of \'em! That\'s why I\'m onto why you\nlook so tickled this evening; I saw you with that big fish.\"\n\nMrs. Adams laughed benevolently; she was not displeased with this\nrallying. \"Well, what of it, Walter?\" she asked. \"If you happen to see\nyour sister on the street when some nice young man is being attentive to\nher----\"\n\nWalter barked and then cackled. \"Whoa, Sal!\" he said. \"You got the parts\nmixed. It\'s little Alice that was \'being attentive.\' I know the big fish\nshe was attentive to, all right, too.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" his sister retorted, quietly. \"I should think you might have\nrecognized him, Walter.\"\n\nWalter looked annoyed. \"Still harpin\' on THAT!\" he complained. \"The kind\nof women I like, if they get sore they just hit you somewhere on the\nface and then they\'re through. By the way, I heard this Russell was\nsupposed to be your dear, old, sweet friend Mildred\'s steady. What you\ndoin\' walkin\' as close to him as all that?\"\n\nMrs. Adams addressed her son in gentle reproof, \"Why Walter!\"\n\n\"Oh, never mind, mama,\" Alice said. \"To the horrid all things are\nhorrid.\"\n\n\"Get out!\" Walter protested, carelessly. \"I heard all about this Russell\ndown at the shop. Young Joe Lamb\'s such a talker I wonder he don\'t ruin\nhis grandfather\'s business; he keeps all us cheap help standin\' round\nlistening to him nine-tenths of our time. Well, Joe told me this\nRussell\'s some kin or other to the Palmer family, and he\'s got some\nlittle money of his own, and he\'s puttin\' it into ole Palmer\'s trust\ncompany and Palmer\'s goin\' to make him a vice-president of the company.\nSort of a keep-the-money-in-the-family arrangement, Joe Lamb says.\"\n\nMrs. Adams looked thoughtful. \"I don\'t see----\" she began.\n\n\"Why, this Russell\'s supposed to be tied up to Mildred,\" her son\nexplained. \"When ole Palmer dies this Russell will be his son-in-law,\nand all he\'ll haf\' to do\'ll be to barely lift his feet and step into\nthe ole man\'s shoes. It\'s certainly a mighty fat hand-me-out for this\nRussell! You better lay off o\' there, Alice. Pick somebody that\'s got\nless to lose and you\'ll make better showing.\"\n\nMrs. Adams\'s air of thoughtfulness had not departed. \"But you say this\nMr. Russell is well off on his own account, Walter.\"\n\n\"Oh, Joe Lamb says he\'s got some little of his own. Didn\'t know how\nmuch.\"\n\n\"Well, then----\"\n\nWalter laughed his laugh. \"Cut it out,\" he bade her. \"Alice wouldn\'t run\nin fourth place.\"\n\nAlice had been looking at him in a detached way, as though estimating\nthe value of a specimen in a collection not her own. \"Yes,\" she said,\nindifferently. \"You REALLY are vulgar, Walter.\"\n\nHe had finished his meal; and, rising, he came round the table to her\nand patted her good-naturedly on the shoulder. \"Good ole Allie!\" he\nsaid. \"HONEST, you wouldn\'t run in fourth place. If I was you I\'d never\neven start in the class. That frozen-face gang will rule you off the\ntrack soon as they see your colours.\"\n\n\"Walter!\" his mother said again.\n\n\"Well, ain\'t I her brother?\" he returned, seeming to be entirely serious\nand direct, for the moment, at least. \"_I_ like the ole girl all right.\nFact is, sometimes I\'m kind of sorry for her.\"\n\n\"But what\'s it all ABOUT?\" Alice cried. \"Simply because you met me\ndown-town with a man I never saw but once before and just barely know!\nWhy all this palaver?\"\n\n\"\'Why?\'\" he repeated, grinning. \"Well, I\'ve seen you start before, you\nknow!\" He went to the door, and paused. \"I got no date to-night. Take\nyou to the movies, you care to go.\"\n\nShe declined crisply. \"No, thanks!\"\n\n\"Come on,\" he said, as pleasantly as he knew how.\n\n\"Give me a chance to show you a better time than we had up at that\nfrozen-face joint. I\'ll get you some chop suey afterward.\"\n\n\"No, thanks!\"\n\n\"All right,\" he responded and waved a flippant adieu. \"As the barber\nsays, \'The better the advice, the worse it\'s wasted!\' Good-night!\"\n\nAlice shrugged her shoulders; but a moment or two later, as the jar of\nthe carelessly slammed front door went through the house, she shook her\nhead, reconsidering. \"Perhaps I ought to have gone with him. It might\nhave kept him away from whatever dreadful people are his friends--at\nleast for one night.\"\n\n\"Oh, I\'m sure Walter\'s a GOOD boy,\" Mrs. Adams said, soothingly; and\nthis was what she almost always said when either her husband or Alice\nexpressed such misgivings. \"He\'s odd, and he\'s picked up right queer\nmanners; but that\'s only because we haven\'t given him advantages like\nthe other young men. But I\'m sure he\'s a GOOD boy.\"\n\nShe reverted to the subject a little later, while she washed the dishes\nand Alice wiped them. \"Of course Walter could take his place with the\nother nice boys of the town even yet,\" she said. \"I mean, if we could\nafford to help him financially. They all belong to the country clubs and\nhave cars and----\"\n\n\"Let\'s don\'t go into that any more, mama,\" the daughter begged her.\n\"What\'s the use?\"\n\n\"It COULD be of use,\" Mrs. Adams insisted. \"It could if your father----\"\n\n\"But papa CAN\'T.\"\n\n\"Yes, he can.\"\n\n\"But how can he? He told me a man of his age CAN\'T give up a business\nhe\'s been in practically all his life, and just go groping about for\nsomething that might never turn up at all. I think he\'s right about it,\ntoo, of course!\"\n\nMrs. Adams splashed among the plates with a new vigour heightened by an\nold bitterness. \"Oh, yes,\" she said. \"He talks that way; but he knows\nbetter.\"\n\n\"How could he \'know better,\' mama?\"\n\n\"HE knows how!\"\n\n\"But what does he know?\"\n\nMrs. Adams tossed her head. \"You don\'t suppose I\'m such a fool I\'d\nbe urging him to give up something for nothing, do you, Alice? Do you\nsuppose I\'d want him to just go \'groping around\' like he was telling\nyou? That would be crazy, of course. Little as his work at Lamb\'s brings\nin, I wouldn\'t be so silly as to ask him to give it up just on a CHANCE\nhe could find something else. Good gracious, Alice, you must give me\ncredit for a little intelligence once in a while!\"\n\nAlice was puzzled. \"But what else could there be except a chance? I\ndon\'t see----\"\n\n\"Well, I do,\" her mother interrupted, decisively. \"That man could make\nus all well off right now if he wanted to. We could have been rich long\nago if he\'d ever really felt as he ought to about his family.\"\n\n\"What! Why, how could----\"\n\n\"You know how as well as I do,\" Mrs. Adams said, crossly. \"I guess you\nhaven\'t forgotten how he treated me about it the Sunday before he got\nsick.\"\n\nShe went on with her work, putting into it a sudden violence inspired by\nthe recollection; but Alice, enlightened, gave utterance to a laugh\nof lugubrious derision. \"Oh, the GLUE factory again!\" she cried. \"How\nsilly!\" And she renewed her laughter.\n\nSo often do the great projects of parents appear ignominious to their\nchildren. Mrs. Adams\'s conception of a glue factory as a fairy godmother\nof this family was an absurd old story which Alice had never taken\nseriously. She remembered that when she was about fifteen her mother\nbegan now and then to say something to Adams about a \"glue factory,\"\nrather timidly, and as a vague suggestion, but never without irritating\nhim. Then, for years, the preposterous subject had not been mentioned;\npossibly because of some explosion on the part of Adams, when his\ndaughter had not been present. But during the last year Mrs. Adams had\nquietly gone back to these old hints, reviving them at intervals and\nalso reviving her husband\'s irritation. Alice\'s bored impression was\nthat her mother wanted him to found, or buy, or do something, or\nother, about a glue factory; and that he considered the proposal so\nimpracticable as to be insulting. The parental conversations took place\nwhen neither Alice nor Walter was at hand, but sometimes Alice had come\nin upon the conclusion of one, to find her father in a shouting mood,\nand shocking the air behind him with profane monosyllables as he\ndeparted. Mrs. Adams would be left quiet and troubled; and when Alice,\nsympathizing with the goaded man, inquired of her mother why these\ntiresome bickerings had been renewed, she always got the brooding and\ncryptic answer, \"He COULD do it--if he wanted to.\" Alice failed to\ncomprehend the desirability of a glue factory--to her mind a father\nengaged in a glue factory lacked impressiveness; had no advantage over\na father employed by Lamb and Company; and she supposed that Adams knew\nbetter than her mother whether such an enterprise would be profitable\nor not. Emphatically, he thought it would not, for she had heard him\nshouting at the end of one of these painful interviews, \"You can keep up\nyour dang talk till YOU die and _I_ die, but I\'ll never make one God\'s\ncent that way!\"\n\nThere had been a culmination. Returning from church on the Sunday\npreceding the collapse with which Adams\'s illness had begun, Alice\nfound her mother downstairs, weeping and intimidated, while her father\'s\nstamping footsteps were loudly audible as he strode up and down his room\noverhead. So were his endless repetitions of invective loudly audible:\n\"That woman! Oh, that woman; Oh, that danged woman!\"\n\nMrs. Adams admitted to her daughter that it was \"the old glue factory\"\nand that her husband\'s wildness had frightened her into a \"solemn\npromise\" never to mention the subject again so long as she had breath.\nAlice laughed. The \"glue factory\" idea was not only a bore, but\nridiculous, and her mother\'s evident seriousness about it one of those\ninexplicable vagaries we sometimes discover in the people we know best.\nBut this Sunday rampage appeared to be the end of it, and when Adams\ncame down to dinner, an hour later, he was unusually cheerful. Alice\nwas glad he had gone wild enough to settle the glue factory once and for\nall; and she had ceased to think of the episode long before Friday of\nthat week, when Adams was brought home in the middle of the afternoon by\nhis old employer, the \"great J. A. Lamb,\" in the latter\'s car.\n\nDuring the long illness the \"glue factory\" was completely forgotten, by\nAlice at least; and her laugh was rueful as well as derisive now, in the\nkitchen, when she realized that her mother\'s mind again dwelt upon this\nabandoned nuisance. \"I thought you\'d got over all that nonsense, mama,\"\nshe said.\n\nMrs. Adams smiled, pathetically. \"Of course you think it\'s nonsense,\ndearie. Young people think everything\'s nonsense that they don\'t know\nanything about.\"\n\n\"Good gracious!\" Alice cried. \"I should think I used to hear enough\nabout that horrible old glue factory to know something about it!\"\n\n\"No,\" her mother returned patiently. \"You\'ve never heard anything about\nit at all.\"\n\n\"I haven\'t?\"\n\n\"No. Your father and I didn\'t discuss it before you children. All you\never heard was when he\'d get in such a rage, after we\'d been speaking of\nit, that he couldn\'t control himself when you came in. Wasn\'t _I_ always\nquiet? Did _I_ ever go on talking about it?\"\n\n\"No; perhaps not. But you\'re talking about it now, mama, after you\npromised never to mention it again.\"\n\n\"I promised not to mention it to your father,\" said Mrs. Adams, gently.\n\"I haven\'t mentioned it to him, have I?\"\n\n\"Ah, but if you mention it to me I\'m afraid you WILL mention it to him.\nYou always do speak of things that you have on your mind, and you\nmight get papa all stirred up again about--\" Alice paused, a light of\ndivination flickering in her eyes. \"Oh!\" she cried. \"I SEE!\"\n\n\"What do you see?\"\n\n\"You HAVE been at him about it!\"\n\n\"Not one single word!\"\n\n\"No!\" Alice cried. \"Not a WORD, but that\'s what you\'ve meant all along!\nYou haven\'t spoken the words to him, but all this urging him to change,\nto \'find something better to go into\'--it\'s all been about nothing on\nearth but your foolish old glue factory that you know upsets him, and\nyou gave your solemn word never to speak to him about again! You didn\'t\nsay it, but you meant it--and he KNOWS that\'s what you meant! Oh, mama!\"\n\nMrs. Adams, with her hands still automatically at work in the flooded\ndishpan, turned to face her daughter. \"Alice,\" she said, tremulously,\n\"what do I ask for myself?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I say, What do I ask for myself? Do you suppose _I_ want anything?\nDon\'t you know I\'d be perfectly content on your father\'s present income\nif I were the only person to be considered? What do I care about any\npleasure for myself? I\'d be willing never to have a maid again; _I_\ndon\'t mind doing the work. If we didn\'t have any children I\'d be glad to\ndo your father\'s cooking and the housework and the washing and ironing,\ntoo, for the rest of my life. I wouldn\'t care. I\'m a poor cook and a\npoor housekeeper; I don\'t do anything well; but it would be good enough\nfor just him and me. I wouldn\'t ever utter one word of com----\"\n\n\"Oh, goodness!\" Alice lamented. \"What IS it all about?\"\n\n\"It\'s about this,\" said Mrs. Adams, swallowing. \"You and Walter are a\nnew generation and you ought to have the same as the rest of the new\ngeneration get. Poor Walter--asking you to go to the movies and a\nChinese restaurant: the best he had to offer! Don\'t you suppose _I_ see\nhow the poor boy is deteriorating? Don\'t you suppose I know what YOU\nhave to go through, Alice? And when I think of that man upstairs----\"\nThe agitated voice grew louder. \"When I think of him and know that\nnothing in the world but his STUBBORNNESS keeps my children from having\nall they want and what they OUGHT to have, do you suppose I\'m going to\nhold myself bound to keep to the absolute letter of a silly promise he\ngot from me by behaving like a crazy man? I can\'t! I can\'t do it! No\nmother could sit by and see him lock up a horn of plenty like that in\nhis closet when the children were starving!\"\n\n\"Oh, goodness, goodness me!\" Alice protested. \"We aren\'t precisely\n\'starving,\' are we?\"\n\nMrs. Adams began to weep. \"It\'s just the same. Didn\'t I see how flushed\nand pretty you looked, this afternoon, after you\'d been walking with\nthis young man that\'s come here? Do you suppose he\'d LOOK at a girl like\nMildred Palmer if you had what you ought to have? Do you suppose he\'d be\ngoing into business with her father if YOUR father----\"\n\n\"Good heavens, mama; you\'re worse than Walter: I just barely know the\nman! DON\'T be so absurd!\"\n\n\"Yes, I\'m always \'absurd,\'\" Mrs. Adams moaned. \"All I can do is cry,\nwhile your father sits upstairs, and his horn of plenty----\"\n\nBut Alice interrupted with a peal of desperate laughter. \"Oh, that\n\'horn of plenty!\' Do come down to earth, mama. How can you call a GLUE\nfactory, that doesn\'t exist except in your mind, a \'horn of plenty\'? Do\nlet\'s be a little rational!\"\n\n\"It COULD be a horn of plenty,\" the tearful Mrs. Adams insisted. \"It\ncould! You don\'t understand a thing about it.\"\n\n\"Well, I\'m willing,\" Alice said, with tired skepticism. \"Make me\nunderstand, then. Where\'d you ever get the idea?\"\n\nMrs. Adams withdrew her hands from the water, dried them on a towel,\nand then wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. \"Your father could make a\nfortune if he wanted to,\" she said, quietly. \"At least, I don\'t say a\nfortune, but anyhow a great deal more than he does make.\"\n\n\"Yes, I\'ve heard that before, mama, and you think he could make it out\nof a glue factory. What I\'m asking is: How?\"\n\n\"How? Why, by making glue and selling it. Don\'t you know how bad most\nglue is when you try to mend anything? A good glue is one of the rarest\nthings there is; and it would just sell itself, once it got started.\nWell, your father knows how to make as good a glue as there is in the\nworld.\"\n\nAlice was not interested. \"What of it? I suppose probably anybody could\nmake it if they wanted to.\"\n\n\"I SAID you didn\'t know anything about it. Nobody else could make it.\nYour father knows a formula for making it.\"\n\n\"What of that?\"\n\n\"It\'s a secret formula. It isn\'t even down on paper. It\'s worth any\namount of money.\"\n\n\"\'Any amount?\'\" Alice said, remaining incredulous. \"Why hasn\'t papa sold\nit then?\"\n\n\"Just because he\'s too stubborn to do anything with it at all!\"\n\n\"How did papa get it?\"\n\n\"He got it before you were born, just after we were married. I didn\'t\nthink much about it then: it wasn\'t till you were growing up and I saw\nhow much we needed money that I----\"\n\n\"Yes, but how did papa get it?\" Alice began to feel a little more\ncurious about this possible buried treasure. \"Did he invent it?\"\n\n\"Partly,\" Mrs. Adams said, looking somewhat preoccupied. \"He and another\nman invented it.\"\n\n\"Then maybe the other man----\"\n\n\"He\'s dead.\"\n\n\"Then his family----\"\n\n\"I don\'t think he left any family,\" Mrs. Adams said. \"Anyhow, it belongs\nto your father. At least it belongs to him as much as it does to any one\nelse. He\'s got an absolutely perfect right to do anything he wants to\nwith it, and it would make us all comfortable if he\'d do what I want him\nto--and he KNOWS it would, too!\"\n\nAlice shook her head pityingly. \"Poor mama!\" she said. \"Of course he\nknows it wouldn\'t do anything of the kind, or else he\'d have done it\nlong ago.\"\n\n\"He would, you say?\" her mother cried. \"That only shows how little you\nknow him!\"\n\n\"Poor mama!\" Alice said again, soothingly. \"If papa were like what you\nsay he is, he\'d be--why, he\'d be crazy!\"\n\nMrs. Adams agreed with a vehemence near passion. \"You\'re right about him\nfor once: that\'s just what he is! He sits up there in his stubbornness\nand lets us slave here in the kitchen when if he wanted to--if he\'d so\nmuch as lift his little finger----\"\n\n\"Oh, come, now!\" Alice laughed. \"You can\'t build even a glue factory\nwith just one little finger.\"\n\nMrs. Adams seemed about to reply that finding fault with a figure\nof speech was beside the point; but a ringing of the front door bell\nforestalled the retort. \"Now, who do you suppose that is?\" she wondered\naloud, then her face brightened. \"Ah--did Mr. Russell ask if he\ncould----\"\n\n\"No, he wouldn\'t be coming this evening,\" Alice said. \"Probably it\'s the\ngreat J. A. Lamb: he usually stops for a minute on Thursdays to ask how\npapa\'s getting along. I\'ll go.\"\n\nShe tossed her apron off, and as she went through the house her\nexpression was thoughtful. She was thinking vaguely about the glue\nfactory and wondering if there might be \"something in it\" after all. If\nher mother was right about the rich possibilities of Adams\'s secret--but\nthat was as far as Alice\'s speculations upon the matter went at this\ntime: they were checked, partly by the thought that her father probably\nhadn\'t enough money for such an enterprise, and partly by the fact that\nshe had arrived at the front door.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nThe fine old gentleman revealed when she opened the door was probably\nthe last great merchant in America to wear the chin beard. White as\nwhite frost, it was trimmed short with exquisite precision, while his\nupper lip and the lower expanses of his cheeks were clean and rosy from\nfresh shaving. With this trim white chin beard, the white waistcoat,\nthe white tie, the suit of fine gray cloth, the broad and brilliantly\npolished black shoes, and the wide-brimmed gray felt hat, here was a\nman who had found his style in the seventies of the last century, and\nthenceforth kept it. Files of old magazines of that period might show\nhim, in woodcut, as, \"Type of Boston Merchant\"; Nast might have drawn\nhim as an honest statesman. He was eighty, hale and sturdy, not aged;\nand his quick blue eyes, still unflecked, and as brisk as a boy\'s, saw\neverything.\n\n\"Well, well, well!\" he said, heartily. \"You haven\'t lost any of your\ngood looks since last week, I see, Miss Alice, so I guess I\'m to take\nit you haven\'t been worrying over your daddy. The young feller\'s getting\nalong all right, is he?\"\n\n\"He\'s much better; he\'s sitting up, Mr. Lamb. Won\'t you come in?\"\n\n\"Well, I don\'t know but I might.\" He turned to call toward twin disks of\nlight at the curb, \"Be out in a minute, Billy\"; and the silhouette of a\nchauffeur standing beside a car could be seen to salute in response, as\nthe old gentleman stepped into the hall. \"You don\'t suppose your daddy\'s\nreceiving callers yet, is he?\"\n\n\"He\'s a good deal stronger than he was when you were here last week, but\nI\'m afraid he\'s not very presentable, though.\"\n\n\"\'Presentable?\'\" The old man echoed her jovially. \"Pshaw! I\'ve seen lots\nof sick folks. _I_ know what they look like and how they love to kind of\nnest in among a pile of old blankets and wrappers. Don\'t you worry about\nTHAT, Miss Alice, if you think he\'d like to see me.\"\n\n\"Of course he would--if----\" Alice hesitated; then said quickly, \"Of\ncourse he\'d love to see you and he\'s quite able to, if you care to come\nup.\"\n\nShe ran up the stairs ahead of him, and had time to snatch the crocheted\nwrap from her father\'s shoulders. Swathed as usual, he was sitting\nbeside a table, reading the evening paper; but when his employer\nappeared in the doorway he half rose as if to come forward in greeting.\n\n\"Sit still!\" the old gentleman shouted. \"What do you mean? Don\'t you\nknow you\'re weak as a cat? D\'you think a man can be sick as long as you\nhave and NOT be weak as a cat? What you trying to do the polite with ME\nfor?\"\n\nAdams gratefully protracted the handshake that accompanied these\ninquiries. \"This is certainly mighty fine of you, Mr. Lamb,\" he said.\n\"I guess Alice has told you how much our whole family appreciate your\ncoming here so regularly to see how this old bag o\' bones was getting\nalong. Haven\'t you, Alice?\"\n\n\"Yes, papa,\" she said; and turned to go out, but Lamb checked her.\n\n\"Stay right here, Miss Alice; I\'m not even going to sit down. I know\nhow it upsets sick folks when people outside the family come in for the\nfirst time.\"\n\n\"You don\'t upset me,\" Adams said. \"I\'ll feel a lot better for getting a\nglimpse of you, Mr. Lamb.\"\n\nThe visitor\'s laugh was husky, but hearty and re-assuring, like his\nvoice in speaking. \"That\'s the way all my boys blarney me, Miss Alice,\"\nhe said. \"They think I\'ll make the work lighter on \'em if they can\nget me kind of flattered up. You just tell your daddy it\'s no use; he\ndoesn\'t get on MY soft side, pretending he likes to see me even when\nhe\'s sick.\"\n\n\"Oh, I\'m not so sick any more,\" Adams said. \"I expect to be back in my\nplace ten days from now at the longest.\"\n\n\"Well, now, don\'t hurry it, Virgil; don\'t hurry it. You take your time;\ntake your time.\"\n\nThis brought to Adams\'s lips a feeble smile not lacking in a kind of\nvanity, as feeble. \"Why?\" he asked. \"I suppose you think my department\nruns itself down there, do you?\"\n\nHis employer\'s response was another husky laugh. \"Well, well, well!\" he\ncried, and patted Adams\'s shoulder with a strong pink hand. \"Listen to\nthis young feller, Miss Alice, will you! He thinks we can\'t get along\nwithout him a minute! Yes, sir, this daddy of yours believes the whole\nworks \'ll just take and run down if he isn\'t there to keep \'em wound up.\nI always suspected he thought a good deal of himself, and now I know he\ndoes!\"\n\nAdams looked troubled. \"Well, I don\'t like to feel that my salary\'s\ngoing on with me not earning it.\"\n\n\"Listen to him, Miss Alice! Wouldn\'t you think, now, he\'d let me be the\none to worry about that? Why, on my word, if your daddy had his way, _I_\nwouldn\'t be anywhere. He\'d take all my worrying and everything else off\nmy shoulders and shove me right out of Lamb and Company! He would!\"\n\n\"It seems to me I\'ve been soldiering on you a pretty long while, Mr.\nLamb,\" the convalescent said, querulously. \"I don\'t feel right about it;\nbut I\'ll be back in ten days. You\'ll see.\"\n\nThe old man took his hand in parting. \"All right; we\'ll see, Virgil. Of\ncourse we do need you, seriously speaking; but we don\'t need you so bad\nwe\'ll let you come down there before you\'re fully fit and able.\" He went\nto the door. \"You hear, Miss Alice? That\'s what I wanted to make the old\nfeller understand, and what I want you to kind of enforce on him. The\nold place is there waiting for him, and it\'d wait ten years if it took\nhim that long to get good and well. You see that he remembers it, Miss\nAlice!\"\n\nShe went down the stairs with him, and he continued to impress this upon\nher until he had gone out of the front door. And even after that, the\nhusky voice called back from the darkness, as he went to his car, \"Don\'t\nforget, Miss Alice; let him take his own time. We always want him, but\nwe want him to get good and well first. Good-night, good-night, young\nlady!\"\n\nWhen she closed the door her mother came from the farther end of the\n\"living-room,\" where there was no light; and Alice turned to her.\n\n\"I can\'t help liking that old man, mama,\" she said. \"He always sounds\nso--well, so solid and honest and friendly! I do like him.\"\n\nBut Mrs. Adams failed in sympathy upon this point. \"He didn\'t say\nanything about raising your father\'s salary, did he?\" she asked, dryly.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No. I thought not.\"\n\nShe would have said more, but Alice, indisposed to listen, began to\nwhistle, ran up the stairs, and went to sit with her father. She found\nhim bright-eyed with the excitement a first caller brings into a slow\nconvalescence: his cheeks showed actual hints of colour; and he was\nsmiling tremulously as he filled and lit his pipe. She brought the\ncrocheted scarf and put it about his shoulders again, then took a chair\nnear him.\n\n\"I believe seeing Mr. Lamb did do you good, papa,\" she said. \"I sort of\nthought it might, and that\'s why I let him come up. You really look a\nlittle like your old self again.\"\n\nAdams exhaled a breathy \"Ha!\" with the smoke from his pipe as he waved\nthe match to extinguish it. \"That\'s fine,\" he said. \"The smoke I had\nbefore dinner didn\'t taste the way it used to, and I kind of wondered if\nI\'d lost my liking for tobacco, but this one seems to be all right. You\nbet it did me good to see J. A. Lamb! He\'s the biggest man that\'s ever\nlived in this town or ever will live here; and you can take all the\nGovernors and Senators or anything they\'ve raised here, and put \'em in\na pot with him, and they won\'t come out one-two-three alongside o\' him!\nAnd to think as big a man as that, with all his interests and everything\nhe\'s got on his mind--to think he\'d never let anything prevent him from\ncoming here once every week to ask how I was getting along, and then\nwalk right upstairs and kind of CALL on me, as it were well, it makes\nme sort of feel as if I wasn\'t so much of a nobody, so to speak, as your\nmother seems to like to make out sometimes.\"\n\n\"How foolish, papa! Of COURSE you\'re not \'a nobody.\'\"\n\nAdams chuckled faintly upon his pipe-stem, what vanity he had seeming to\nbe further stimulated by his daughter\'s applause. \"I guess there aren\'t\na whole lot of people in this town that could claim J. A. showed that\nmuch interest in \'em,\" he said. \"Of course I don\'t set up to believe\nit\'s all because of merit, or anything like that. He\'d do the same for\nanybody else that\'d been with the company as long as I have, but still\nit IS something to be with the company that long and have him show he\nappreciates it.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, it is, papa.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" Adams said, reflectively. \"Yes, sir, I guess that\'s so. And\nbesides, it all goes to show the kind of a man he is. Simon pure, that\'s\nwhat that man is, Alice. Simon pure! There\'s never been anybody work\nfor him that didn\'t respect him more than they did any other man in the\nworld, I guess. And when you work for him you know he respects you,\ntoo. Right from the start you get the feeling that J. A. puts absolute\nconfidence in you; and that\'s mighty stimulating: it makes you want to\nshow him he hasn\'t misplaced it. There\'s great big moral values to the\nway a man like him gets you to feeling about your relations with the\nbusiness: it ain\'t all just dollars and cents--not by any means!\"\n\nHe was silent for a time, then returned with increasing enthusiasm to\nthis theme, and Alice was glad to see so much renewal of life in him; he\nhad not spoken with a like cheerful vigour since before his illness. The\nvisit of his idolized great man had indeed been good for him, putting\nnew spirit into him; and liveliness of the body followed that of the\nspirit. His improvement carried over the night: he slept well and\nawoke late, declaring that he was \"pretty near a well man and ready for\nbusiness right now.\" Moreover, having slept again in the afternoon,\nhe dressed and went down to dinner, leaning but lightly on Alice, who\nconducted him.\n\n\"My! but you and your mother have been at it with your scrubbing and\ndusting!\" he said, as they came through the \"living-room.\" \"I don\'t know\nI ever did see the house so spick and span before!\" His glance fell upon\na few carnations in a vase, and he chuckled admiringly. \"Flowers, too!\nSo THAT\'S what you coaxed that dollar and a half out o \'me for, this\nmorning!\"\n\nOther embellishments brought forth his comment when he had taken his old\nseat at the head of the small dinner-table. \"Why, I declare, Alice!\" he\nexclaimed. \"I been so busy looking at all the spick-and-spanishness\nafter the house-cleaning, and the flowers out in the parlour--\'living\nroom\' I suppose you want me to call it, if I just GOT to be\nfashionable--I been so busy studying over all this so-and-so, I declare\nI never noticed YOU till this minute! My, but you ARE all dressed up!\nWhat\'s goin\' on? What\'s it about: you so all dressed up, and flowers in\nthe parlour and everything?\"\n\n\"Don\'t you see, papa? It\'s in honour of your coming downstairs again, of\ncourse.\"\n\n\"Oh, so that\'s it,\" he said. \"I never would \'a\' thought of that, I\nguess.\"\n\nBut Walter looked sidelong at his father, and gave forth his sly and\nknowing laugh. \"Neither would I!\" he said.\n\nAdams lifted his eyebrows jocosely. \"You\'re jealous, are you, sonny? You\ndon\'t want the old man to think our young lady\'d make so much fuss over\nhim, do you?\"\n\n\"Go on thinkin\' it\'s over you,\" Walter retorted, amused. \"Go on and\nthink it. It\'ll do you good.\"\n\n\"Of course I\'ll think it,\" Adams said. \"It isn\'t anybody\'s birthday.\nCertainly the decorations are on account of me coming downstairs. Didn\'t\nyou hear Alice say so?\"\n\n\"Sure, I heard her say so.\"\n\n\"Well, then----\"\n\nWalter interrupted him with a little music. Looking shrewdly at Alice,\nhe sang:\n\n \"I was walkin\' out on Monday with my sweet thing.\n She\'s my neat thing,\n My sweet thing:\n I\'ll go round on Tuesday night to see her.\n Oh, how we\'ll spoon----\"\n\n\n\"Walter!\" his mother cried. \"WHERE do you learn such vulgar songs?\"\nHowever, she seemed not greatly displeased with him, and laughed as she\nspoke.\n\n\"So that\'s it, Alice!\" said Adams. \"Playing the hypocrite with your old\nman, are you? It\'s some new beau, is it?\"\n\n\"I only wish it were,\" she said, calmly. \"No. It\'s just what I said:\nit\'s all for you, dear.\"\n\n\"Don\'t let her con you,\" Walter advised his father. \"She\'s got\nexpectations. You hang around downstairs a while after dinner and you\'ll\nsee.\"\n\nBut the prophecy failed, though Adams went to his own room without\nwaiting to test it. No one came.\n\nAlice stayed in the \"living-room\" until half-past nine, when she went\nslowly upstairs. Her mother, almost tearful, met her at the top, and\nwhispered, \"You mustn\'t mind, dearie.\"\n\n\"Mustn\'t mind what?\" Alice asked, and then, as she went on her way,\nlaughed scornfully. \"What utter nonsense!\" she said.\n\nNext day she cut the stems of the rather scant show of carnations and\nrefreshed them with new water. At dinner, her father, still in high\nspirits, observed that she had again \"dressed up\" in honour of his\nsecond descent of the stairs; and Walter repeated his fragment of\nobjectionable song; but these jocularities were rendered pointless by\nthe eventless evening that followed; and in the morning the carnations\nbegan to appear tarnished and flaccid.\n\nAlice gave them a long look, then threw them away; and neither Walter\nnor her father was inspired to any rallying by her plain costume for\nthat evening. Mrs. Adams was visibly depressed.\n\nWhen Alice finished helping her mother with the dishes, she went\noutdoors and sat upon the steps of the little front veranda. The night,\ngentle with warm air from the south, surrounded her pleasantly, and the\nperpetual smoke was thinner. Now that the furnaces of dwelling-houses\nwere no longer fired, life in that city had begun to be less like life\nin a railway tunnel; people were aware of summer in the air, and in\nthe thickened foliage of the shade-trees, and in the sky. Stars were\nunveiled by the passing of the denser smoke fogs, and to-night they\ncould be seen clearly; they looked warm and near. Other girls sat upon\nverandas and stoops in Alice\'s street, cheerful as young fishermen along\nthe banks of a stream.\n\nAlice could hear them from time to time; thin sopranos persistent in\nlaughter that fell dismally upon her ears. She had set no lines or nets\nherself, and what she had of \"expectations,\" as Walter called them, were\nvanished. For Alice was experienced; and one of the conclusions she drew\nfrom her experience was that when a man says, \"I\'d take you for anything\nyou wanted me to,\" he may mean it or, he may not; but, if he does, he\nwill not postpone the first opportunity to say something more. Little\naffairs, once begun, must be warmed quickly; for if they cool they are\ndead.\n\nBut Alice was not thinking of Arthur Russell. When she tossed away the\ncarnations she likewise tossed away her thoughts of that young man. She\nhad been like a boy who sees upon the street, some distance before him,\na bit of something round and glittering, a possible dime. He hopes it is\na dime, and, until he comes near enough to make sure, he plays that it\nis a dime. In his mind he has an adventure with it: he buys something\ndelightful. If he picks it up, discovering only some tin-foil which has\nhappened upon a round shape, he feels a sinking. A dulness falls upon\nhim.\n\nSo Alice was dull with the loss of an adventure; and when the laughter\nof other girls reached her, intermittently, she had not sprightliness\nenough left in her to be envious of their gaiety. Besides, these\nneighbours were ineligible even for her envy, being of another caste;\nthey could never know a dance at the Palmers\', except remotely, through\na newspaper. Their laughter was for the encouragement of snappy young\nmen of the stores and offices down-town, clerks, bookkeepers, what\nnot--some of them probably graduates of Frincke\'s Business College.\n\nThen, as she recalled that dark portal, with its dusty stairway mounting\nbetween close walls to disappear in the upper shadows, her mind drew\nback as from a doorway to Purgatory. Nevertheless, it was a picture\noften in her reverie; and sometimes it came suddenly, without sequence,\ninto the midst of her other thoughts, as if it leaped up among them from\na lower darkness; and when it arrived it wanted to stay. So a traveller,\nstill roaming the world afar, sometimes broods without apparent reason\nupon his family burial lot: \"I wonder if I shall end there.\"\n\nThe foreboding passed abruptly, with a jerk of her breath, as the\nstreet-lamp revealed a tall and easy figure approaching from the north,\nswinging a stick in time to its stride. She had given Russell up--and he\ncame.\n\n\"What luck for me!\" he exclaimed. \"To find you alone!\"\n\nAlice gave him her hand for an instant, not otherwise moving. \"I\'m glad\nit happened so,\" she said. \"Let\'s stay out here, shall we? Do you think\nit\'s too provincial to sit on a girl\'s front steps with her?\"\n\n\"\'Provincial?\' Why, it\'s the very best of our institutions,\" he\nreturned, taking his place beside her. \"At least, I think so to-night.\"\n\n\"Thanks! Is that practice for other nights somewhere else?\"\n\n\"No,\" he laughed. \"The practicing all led up to this. Did I come too\nsoon?\"\n\n\"No,\" she replied, gravely. \"Just in time!\"\n\n\"I\'m glad to be so accurate; I\'ve spent two evenings wanting to come,\nMiss Adams, instead of doing what I was doing.\"\n\n\"What was that?\"\n\n\"Dinners. Large and long dinners. Your fellow-citizens are immensely\nhospitable to a newcomer.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" Alice said. \"We don\'t do it for everybody. Didn\'t you find\nyourself charmed?\"\n\n\"One was a men\'s dinner,\" he explained. \"Mr. Palmer seemed to think I\nought to be shown to the principal business men.\"\n\n\"What was the other dinner?\"\n\n\"My cousin Mildred gave it.\"\n\n\"Oh, DID she!\" Alice said, sharply, but she recovered herself in the\nsame instant, and laughed. \"She wanted to show you to the principal\nbusiness women, I suppose.\"\n\n\"I don\'t know. At all events, I shouldn\'t give myself out to be so much\nfeted by your \'fellow-citizens,\' after all, seeing these were both done\nby my relatives, the Palmers. However, there are others to follow, I\'m\nafraid. I was wondering--I hoped maybe you\'d be coming to some of them.\nAren\'t you?\"\n\n\"I rather doubt it,\" Alice said, slowly. \"Mildred\'s dance was almost the\nonly evening I\'ve gone out since my father\'s illness began. He seemed\nbetter that day; so I went. He was better the other day when he wanted\nthose cigars. He\'s very much up and down.\" She paused. \"I\'d almost\nforgotten that Mildred is your cousin.\"\n\n\"Not a very near one,\" he explained. \"Mr. Palmer\'s father was my\ngreat-uncle.\"\n\n\"Still, of course you are related.\"\n\n\"Yes; that distantly.\"\n\nAlice said placidly, \"It\'s quite an advantage.\"\n\nHe agreed. \"Yes. It is.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, in the same placid tone. \"I mean for Mildred.\"\n\n\"I don\'t see----\"\n\nShe laughed. \"No. You wouldn\'t. I mean it\'s an advantage over the rest\nof us who might like to compete for some of your time; and the worst of\nit is we can\'t accuse her of being unfair about it. We can\'t prove she\nshowed any trickiness in having you for a cousin. Whatever else she\nmight plan to do with you, she didn\'t plan that. So the rest of us must\njust bear it!\"\n\n\"The \'rest of you!\'\" he laughed. \"It\'s going to mean a great deal of\nsuffering!\"\n\nAlice resumed her placid tone. \"You\'re staying at the Palmers\', aren\'t\nyou?\"\n\n\"No, not now. I\'ve taken an apartment. I\'m going to live here; I\'m\npermanent. Didn\'t I tell you?\"\n\n\"I think I\'d heard somewhere that you were,\" she said. \"Do you think\nyou\'ll like living here?\"\n\n\"How can one tell?\"\n\n\"If I were in your place I think I should be able to tell, Mr. Russell.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Why, good gracious!\" she cried. \"Haven\'t you got the most perfect\ncreature in town for your--your cousin? SHE expects to make you like\nliving here, doesn\'t she? How could you keep from liking it, even if you\ntried not to, under the circumstances?\"\n\n\"Well, you see, there\'s such a lot of circumstances,\" he explained; \"I\'m\nnot sure I\'ll like getting back into a business again. I suppose most\nof the men of my age in the country have been going through the same\nexperience: the War left us with a considerable restlessness of spirit.\"\n\n\"You were in the War?\" she asked, quickly, and as quickly answered\nherself, \"Of course you were!\"\n\n\"I was a left-over; they only let me out about four months ago,\" he\nsaid. \"It\'s quite a shake-up trying to settle down again.\"\n\n\"You were in France, then?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; but I didn\'t get up to the front much--only two or three\ntimes, and then just for a day or so. I was in the transportation\nservice.\"\n\n\"You were an officer, of course.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"They let me play I was a major.\"\n\n\"I guessed a major,\" she said. \"You\'d always be pretty grand, of\ncourse.\"\n\nRussell was amused. \"Well, you see,\" he informed her, \"as it happened,\nwe had at least several other majors in our army. Why would I always be\nsomething \'pretty grand?\'\"\n\n\"You\'re related to the Palmers. Don\'t you notice they always affect the\npretty grand?\"\n\n\"Then you think I\'m only one of their affectations, I take it.\"\n\n\"Yes, you seem to be the most successful one they\'ve got!\" Alice said,\nlightly. \"You certainly do belong to them.\" And she laughed as if at\nsomething hidden from him. \"Don\'t you?\"\n\n\"But you\'ve just excused me for that,\" he protested. \"You said nobody\ncould be blamed for my being their third cousin. What a contradictory\ngirl you are!\"\n\nAlice shook her head. \"Let\'s keep away from the kind of girl I am.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"That\'s just what I came here to talk about.\"\n\nShe shook her head again. \"Let\'s keep first to the kind of man you are.\nI\'m glad you were in the War.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don\'t know.\" She was quiet a moment, for she was thinking that\nhere she spoke the truth: his service put about him a little glamour\nthat helped to please her with him. She had been pleased with him during\ntheir walk; pleased with him on his own account; and now that pleasure\nwas growing keener. She looked at him, and though the light in which\nshe saw him was little more than starlight, she saw that he was looking\nsteadily at her with a kindly and smiling seriousness. All at once it\nseemed to her that the night air was sweeter to breathe, as if a distant\nfragrance of new blossoms had been blown to her. She smiled back to him,\nand said, \"Well, what kind of man are you?\"\n\n\"I don\'t know; I\'ve often wondered,\" he replied. \"What kind of girl are\nyou?\"\n\n\"Don\'t you remember? I told you the other day. I\'m just me!\"\n\n\"But who is that?\"\n\n\"You forget everything;\" said Alice. \"You told me what kind of a girl\nI am. You seemed to think you\'d taken quite a fancy to me from the very\nfirst.\"\n\n\"So I did,\" he agreed, heartily.\n\n\"But how quickly you forgot it!\"\n\n\"Oh, no. I only want YOU to say what kind of a girl you are.\"\n\nShe mocked him. \"\'I don\'t know; I\'ve often wondered!\' What kind of a\ngirl does Mildred tell you I am? What has she said about me since she\ntold you I was \'a Miss Adams?\'\"\n\n\"I don\'t know; I haven\'t asked her.\"\n\n\"Then DON\'T ask her,\" Alice said, quickly.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because she\'s such a perfect creature and I\'m such an imperfect one.\nPerfect creatures have the most perfect way of ruining the imperfect\nones.\"\n\n\"But then they wouldn\'t be perfect. Not if they----\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, they remain perfectly perfect,\" she assured him. \"That\'s\nbecause they never go into details. They\'re not so vulgar as to come\nright out and TELL that you\'ve been in jail for stealing chickens.\nThey just look absent-minded and say in a low voice, \'Oh, very; but I\nscarcely think you\'d like her particularly\'; and then begin to talk of\nsomething else right away.\"\n\nHis smile had disappeared. \"Yes,\" he said, somewhat ruefully. \"That\ndoes sound like Mildred. You certainly do seem to know her! Do you know\neverybody as well as that?\"\n\n\"Not myself,\" Alice said. \"I don\'t know myself at all. I got to\nwondering about that--about who I was--the other day after you walked\nhome with me.\"\n\nHe uttered an exclamation, and added, explaining it, \"You do give a man\na chance to be fatuous, though! As if it were walking home with me that\nmade you wonder about yourself!\"\n\n\"It was,\" Alice informed him, coolly. \"I was wondering what I wanted to\nmake you think of me, in case I should ever happen to see you again.\"\n\nThis audacity appeared to take his breath. \"By George!\" he cried.\n\n\"You mustn\'t be astonished,\" she said. \"What I decided then was that I\nwould probably never dare to be just myself with you--not if I cared\nto have you want to see me again--and yet here I am, just being myself\nafter all!\"\n\n\"You ARE the cheeriest series of shocks,\" Russell exclaimed, whereupon\nAlice added to the series.\n\n\"Tell me: Is it a good policy for me to follow with you?\" she asked, and\nhe found the mockery in her voice delightful. \"Would you advise me to\noffer you shocks as a sort of vacation from suavity?\"\n\n\"Suavity\" was yet another sketch of Mildred; a recognizable one, or it\nwould not have been humorous. In Alice\'s hands, so dexterous in this\nwork, her statuesque friend was becoming as ridiculous as a fine figure\nof wax left to the mercies of a satirist.\n\nBut the lively young sculptress knew better than to overdo: what she did\nmust appear to spring all from mirth; so she laughed as if unwillingly,\nand said, \"I MUSTN\'T laugh at Mildred! In the first place, she\'s\nyour--your cousin. And in the second place, she\'s not meant to be funny;\nit isn\'t right to laugh at really splendid people who take themselves\nseriously. In the third place, you won\'t come again if I do.\"\n\n\"Don\'t be sure of that,\" Russell said, \"whatever you do.\"\n\n\"\'Whatever I do?\'\" she echoed. \"That sounds as if you thought I COULD be\nterrific! Be careful; there\'s one thing I could do that would keep you\naway.\"\n\n\"What\'s that?\"\n\n\"I could tell you not to come,\" she said. \"I wonder if I ought to.\"\n\n\"Why do you wonder if you \'ought to?\'\"\n\n\"Don\'t you guess?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then let\'s both be mysteries to each other,\" she suggested. \"I mystify\nyou because I wonder, and you mystify me because you don\'t guess why I\nwonder. We\'ll let it go at that, shall we?\"\n\n\"Very well; so long as it\'s certain that you DON\'T tell me not to come\nagain.\"\n\n\"I\'ll not tell you that--yet,\" she said. \"In fact----\" She paused,\nreflecting, with her head to one side. \"In fact, I won\'t tell you not\nto come, probably, until I see that\'s what you want me to tell you.\nI\'ll let you out easily--and I\'ll be sure to see it. Even before you do,\nperhaps.\"\n\n\"That arrangement suits me,\" Russell returned, and his voice held no\ntrace of jocularity: he had become serious. \"It suits me better if\nyou\'re enough in earnest to mean that I can come--oh, not whenever I\nwant to; I don\'t expect so much!--but if you mean that I can see you\npretty often.\"\n\n\"Of course I\'m in earnest,\" she said. \"But before I say you can come\n\'pretty often,\' I\'d like to know how much of my time you\'d need if you\ndid come \'whenever you want to\'; and of course you wouldn\'t dare\nmake any answer to that question except one. Wouldn\'t you let me have\nThursdays out?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" he protested. \"I want to know. Will you let me come pretty\noften?\"\n\n\"Lean toward me a little,\" Alice said. \"I want you to understand.\" And\nas he obediently bent his head near hers, she inclined toward him as if\nto whisper; then, in a half-shout, she cried,\n\n\"YES!\"\n\nHe clapped his hands. \"By George!\" he said. \"What a girl you are!\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Well, for the first reason, because you have such gaieties as that one.\nI should think your father would actually like being ill, just to be in\nthe house with you all the time.\"\n\n\"You mean by that,\" Alice inquired, \"I keep my family cheerful with my\namusing little ways?\"\n\n\"Yes. Don\'t you?\"\n\n\"There were only boys in your family, weren\'t there, Mr. Russell?\"\n\n\"I was an only child, unfortunately.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"I see you hadn\'t any sisters.\"\n\nFor a moment he puzzled over her meaning, then saw it, and was more\ndelighted with her than ever. \"I can answer a question of yours, now,\nthat I couldn\'t a while ago.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know,\" she returned, quietly.\n\n\"But how could you know?\"\n\n\"It\'s the question I asked you about whether you were going to like\nliving here,\" she said. \"You\'re about to tell me that now you know you\nWILL like it.\"\n\n\"More telepathy!\" he exclaimed. \"Yes, that was it, precisely. I suppose\nthe same thing\'s been said to you so many times that you----\"\n\n\"No, it hasn\'t,\" Alice said, a little confused for the moment. \"Not at\nall. I meant----\" She paused, then asked in a gentle voice, \"Would you\nreally like to know?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I was only afraid you didn\'t mean it.\"\n\n\"See here,\" he said. \"I did mean it. I told you it was being pretty\ndifficult for me to settle down to things again. Well, it\'s more\ndifficult than you know, but I think I can pull through in fair spirits\nif I can see a girl like you \'pretty often.\'\"\n\n\"All right,\" she said, in a business-like tone. \"I\'ve told you that you\ncan if you want to.\"\n\n\"I do want to,\" he assured her. \"I do, indeed!\"\n\n\"How often is \'pretty often,\' Mr. Russell?\"\n\n\"Would you walk with me sometimes? To-morrow?\"\n\n\"Sometimes. Not to-morrow. The day after.\"\n\n\"That\'s splendid!\" he said. \"You\'ll walk with me day after to-morrow,\nand the night after that I\'ll see you at Miss Lamb\'s dance, won\'t I?\"\n\nBut this fell rather chillingly upon Alice. \"Miss Lamb\'s dance? Which\nMiss Lamb?\" she asked.\n\n\"I don\'t know--it\'s the one that\'s just coming out of mourning.\"\n\n\"Oh, Henrietta--yes. Is her dance so soon? I\'d forgotten.\"\n\n\"You\'ll be there, won\'t you?\" he asked. \"Please say you\'re going.\"\n\nAlice did not respond at once, and he urged her again: \"Please do\npromise you\'ll be there.\"\n\n\"No, I can\'t promise anything,\" she said, slowly. \"You see, for one\nthing, papa might not be well enough.\"\n\n\"But if he is?\" said Russell. \"If he is you\'ll surely come, won\'t you?\nOr, perhaps----\" He hesitated, then went on quickly, \"I don\'t know the\nrules in this place yet, and different places have different rules; but\ndo you have to have a chaperone, or don\'t girls just go to dances with\nthe men sometimes? If they do, would you--would you let me take you?\"\n\nAlice was startled. \"Good gracious!\"\n\n\"What\'s the matter?\"\n\n\"Don\'t you think your relatives----Aren\'t you expected to go with\nMildred--and Mrs. Palmer?\"\n\n\"Not necessarily. It doesn\'t matter what I might be expected to do,\" he\nsaid. \"Will you go with me?\"\n\n\"I----No; I couldn\'t.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I can\'t. I\'m not going.\"\n\n\"But why?\"\n\n\"Papa\'s not really any better,\" Alice said, huskily. \"I\'m too worried\nabout him to go to a dance.\" Her voice sounded emotional, genuinely\nenough; there was something almost like a sob in it. \"Let\'s talk of\nother things, please.\"\n\nHe acquiesced gently; but Mrs. Adams, who had been listening to the\nconversation at the open window, just overhead, did not hear him. She\nhad correctly interpreted the sob in Alice\'s voice, and, trembling\nwith sudden anger, she rose from her knees, and went fiercely to her\nhusband\'s room.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nHe had not undressed, and he sat beside the table, smoking his pipe and\nreading his newspaper. Upon his forehead the lines in that old pattern,\nthe historical map of his troubles, had grown a little vaguer lately;\nrelaxed by the complacency of a man who not only finds his health\nrestored, but sees the days before him promising once more a familiar\nroutine that he has always liked to follow.\n\nAs his wife came in, closing the door behind her, he looked up\ncheerfully, \"Well, mother,\" he said, \"what\'s the news downstairs?\"\n\n\"That\'s what I came to tell you,\" she informed him, grimly.\n\nAdams lowered his newspaper to his knee and peered over his spectacles\nat her. She had remained by the door, standing, and the great greenish\nshadow of the small lamp-shade upon his table revealed her but\ndubiously. \"Isn\'t everything all right?\" he asked. \"What\'s the matter?\"\n\n\"Don\'t worry: I\'m going to tell you,\" she said, her grimness not\nrelaxed. \"There\'s matter enough, Virgil Adams. Matter enough to make me\nsick of being alive!\"\n\nWith that, the markings on his brows began to emerge again in all their\nsharpness; the old pattern reappeared. \"Oh, my, my!\" he lamented. \"I\nthought maybe we were all going to settle down to a little peace for a\nwhile. What\'s it about now?\"\n\n\"It\'s about Alice. Did you think it was about ME or anything for\nMYSELF?\"\n\nLike some ready old machine, always in order, his irritability responded\nimmediately and automatically to her emotion. \"How in thunder could I\nthink what it\'s about, or who it\'s for? SAY it, and get it over!\"\n\n\"Oh, I\'ll \'say\' it,\" she promised, ominously. \"What I\'ve come to ask you\nis, How much longer do you expect me to put up with that old man and his\ndoings?\"\n\n\"Whose doings? What old man?\"\n\nShe came at him, fiercely accusing. \"You know well enough what old man,\nVirgil Adams! That old man who was here the other night.\"\n\n\"Mr. Lamb?\"\n\n\"Yes; \'Mister Lamb!\'\" She mocked his voice. \"What other old man would I\nbe likely to mean except J. A. Lamb?\"\n\n\"What\'s he been doing now?\" her husband inquired, satirically. \"Where\'d\nyou get something new against him since the last time you----\"\n\n\"Just this!\" she cried. \"The other night when that man was here, if I\'d\nknown how he was going to make my child suffer, I\'d never have let him\nset his foot in my house.\"\n\nAdams leaned back in his chair as though her absurdity had eased his\nmind. \"Oh, I see,\" he said. \"You\'ve just gone plain crazy. That\'s the\nonly explanation of such talk, and it suits the case.\"\n\n\"Hasn\'t that man made us all suffer every day of our lives?\" she\ndemanded. \"I\'d like to know why it is that my life and my children\'s\nlives have to be sacrificed to him?\"\n\n\"How are they \'sacrificed\' to him?\"\n\n\"Because you keep on working for him! Because you keep on letting him\nhand out whatever miserable little pittance he chooses to give you;\nthat\'s why! It\'s as if he were some horrible old Juggernaut and I had to\nsee my children\'s own father throwing them under the wheels to keep him\nsatisfied.\"\n\n\"I won\'t hear any more such stuff!\" Lifting his paper, Adams affected to\nread.\n\n\"You\'d better listen to me,\" she admonished him. \"You might be sorry\nyou didn\'t, in case he ever tried to set foot in my house again! I might\ntell him to his face what I think of him.\"\n\nAt this, Adams slapped the newspaper down upon his knee. \"Oh, the devil!\nWhat\'s it matter what you think of him?\"\n\n\"It had better matter to you!\" she cried. \"Do you suppose I\'m going\nto submit forever to him and his family and what they\'re doing to my\nchild?\"\n\n\"What are he and his family doing to \'your child?\'\"\n\nMrs. Adams came out with it. \"That snippy little Henrietta Lamb has\nalways snubbed Alice every time she\'s ever had the chance. She\'s\nfollowed the lead of the other girls; they\'ve always all of \'em been\njealous of Alice because she dared to try and be happy, and because\nshe\'s showier and better-looking than they are, even though you do give\nher only about thirty-five cents a year to do it on! They\'ve all done\neverything on earth they could to drive the young men away from her\nand belittle her to \'em; and this mean little Henrietta Lamb\'s been the\nworst of the whole crowd to Alice, every time she could see a chance.\"\n\n\"What for?\" Adams asked, incredulously. \"Why should she or anybody else\npick on Alice?\"\n\n\"\'Why?\' \'What for?\'\" his wife repeated with a greater vehemence. \"Do YOU\nask me such a thing as that? Do you really want to know?\"\n\n\"Yes; I\'d want to know--I would if I believed it.\"\n\n\"Then I\'ll tell you,\" she said in a cold fury. \"It\'s on account of you,\nVirgil, and nothing else in the world.\"\n\nHe hooted at her. \"Oh, yes! These girls don\'t like ME, so they pick on\nAlice.\"\n\n\"Quit your palavering and evading,\" she said. \"A crowd of girls like\nthat, when they get a pretty girl like Alice among them, they act just\nlike wild beasts. They\'ll tear her to pieces, or else they\'ll chase\nher and run her out, because they know if she had half a chance she\'d\noutshine \'em. They can\'t do that to a girl like Mildred Palmer because\nshe\'s got money and family to back her. Now you listen to me, Virgil\nAdams: the way the world is now, money IS family. Alice would have just\nas much \'family\' as any of \'em every single bit--if you hadn\'t fallen\nbehind in the race.\"\n\n\"How did I----\"\n\n\"Yes, you did!\" she cried. \"Twenty-five years ago when we were starting\nand this town was smaller, you and I could have gone with any of \'em\nif we\'d tried hard enough. Look at the people we knew then that do hold\ntheir heads up alongside of anybody in this town! WHY can they? Because\nthe men of those families made money and gave their children everything\nthat makes life worth living! Why can\'t we hold our heads up? Because\nthose men passed you in the race. They went up the ladder, and\nyou--you\'re still a clerk down at that old hole!\"\n\n\"You leave that out, please,\" he said. \"I thought you were going to tell\nme something Henrietta Lamb had done to our Alice.\"\n\n\"You BET I\'m going to tell you,\" she assured him, vehemently. \"But first\nI\'m telling WHY she does it. It\'s because you\'ve never given Alice any\nbacking nor any background, and they all know they can do anything they\nlike to her with perfect impunity. If she had the hundredth part of what\nTHEY have to fall back on she\'d have made \'em sing a mighty different\nsong long ago!\"\n\n\"How would she?\"\n\n\"Oh, my heavens, but you\'re slow!\" Mrs. Adams moaned. \"Look here! You\nremember how practically all the nicest boys in this town used to come\nhere a few years ago. Why, they were all crazy over her; and the girls\nHAD to be nice to her then. Look at the difference now! There\'ll be a\nwhole month go by and not a young man come to call on her, let alone\nsend her candy or flowers, or ever think of TAKING her any place and\nyet she\'s prettier and brighter than she was when they used to come. It\nisn\'t the child\'s fault she couldn\'t hold \'em, is it? Poor thing, SHE\ntried hard enough! I suppose you\'d say it was her fault, though.\"\n\n\"No; I wouldn\'t.\"\n\n\"Then whose fault is it?\"\n\n\"Oh, mine, mine,\" he said, wearily. \"I drove the young men away, of\ncourse.\"\n\n\"You might as well have driven \'em, Virgil. It amounts to just the same\nthing.\"\n\n\"How does it?\"\n\n\"Because as they got older a good many of \'em began to think more about\nmoney; that\'s one thing. Money\'s at the bottom of it all, for that\nmatter. Look at these country clubs and all such things: the other\ngirls\' families belong and we don\'t, and Alice don\'t; and she can\'t go\nunless somebody takes her, and nobody does any more. Look at the other\ngirls\' houses, and then look at our house, so shabby and old-fashioned\nshe\'d be pretty near ashamed to ask anybody to come in and sit down\nnowadays! Look at her clothes--oh, yes; you think you shelled out a lot\nfor that little coat of hers and the hat and skirt she got last March;\nbut it\'s nothing. Some of these girls nowadays spend more than your\nwhole salary on their clothes. And what jewellery has she got? A plated\nwatch and two or three little pins and rings of the kind people\'s maids\nwouldn\'t wear now. Good Lord, Virgil Adams, wake up! Don\'t sit there and\ntell me you don\'t know things like this mean SUFFERING for the child!\"\n\nHe had begun to rub his hands wretchedly back and forth over his bony\nknees, as if in that way he somewhat alleviated the tedium caused by her\nracking voice. \"Oh, my, my!\" he muttered. \"OH, my, my!\"\n\n\"Yes, I should think you WOULD say \'Oh, my, my!\'\" she took him up,\nloudly. \"That doesn\'t help things much! If you ever wanted to DO\nanything about it, the poor child might see some gleam of hope in her\nlife. You don\'t CARE for her, that\'s the trouble; you don\'t care a\nsingle thing about her.\"\n\n\"I don\'t?\"\n\n\"No; you don\'t. Why, even with your miserable little salary you could\nhave given her more than you have. You\'re the closest man I ever knew:\nit\'s like pulling teeth to get a dollar out of you for her, now and\nthen, and yet you hide some away, every month or so, in some wretched\nlittle investment or other. You----\"\n\n\"Look here, now,\" he interrupted, angrily. \"You look here! If I didn\'t\nput a little by whenever I could, in a bond or something, where would\nyou be if anything happened to me? The insurance doctors never passed\nme; YOU know that. Haven\'t we got to have SOMETHING to fall back on?\"\n\n\"Yes, we have!\" she cried. \"We ought to have something to go on with\nright now, too, when we need it. Do you suppose these snippets would\ntreat Alice the way they do if she could afford to ENTERTAIN? They leave\nher out of their dinners and dances simply because they know she can\'t\ngive any dinners and dances to leave them out of! They know she can\'t\nget EVEN, and that\'s the whole story! That\'s why Henrietta Lamb\'s done\nthis thing to her now.\"\n\nAdams had gone back to his rubbing of his knees. \"Oh, my, my!\" he said.\n\"WHAT thing?\"\n\nShe told him. \"Your dear, grand, old Mister Lamb\'s Henrietta has sent\nout invitations for a large party--a LARGE one. Everybody that is\nanybody in this town is asked, you can be sure. There\'s a very fine\nyoung man, a Mr. Russell, has just come to town, and he\'s interested\nin Alice, and he\'s asked her to go to this dance with him. Well, Alice\ncan\'t accept. She can\'t go with him, though she\'d give anything in\nthe world to do it. Do you understand? The reason she can\'t is because\nHenrietta Lamb hasn\'t invited her. Do you want to know why Henrietta\nhasn\'t invited her? It\'s because she knows Alice can\'t get even, and\nbecause she thinks Alice ought to be snubbed like this on account of\nonly being the daughter of one of her grandfather\'s clerks. I HOPE you\nunderstand!\"\n\n\"Oh, my, my!\" he said. \"OH, my, my!\"\n\n\"That\'s your sweet old employer,\" his wife cried, tauntingly. \"That\'s\nyour dear, kind, grand old Mister Lamb! Alice has been left out of a\ngood many smaller things, like big dinners and little dances, but this\nis just the same as serving her notice that she\'s out of everything! And\nit\'s all done by your dear, grand old----\"\n\n\"Look here!\" Adams exclaimed. \"I don\'t want to hear any more of that!\nYou can\'t hold him responsible for everything his grandchildren do, I\nguess! He probably doesn\'t know a thing about it. You don\'t suppose he\'s\ntroubling HIS head over----\"\n\nBut she burst out at him passionately. \"Suppose you trouble YOUR head\nabout it! You\'d better, Virgil Adams! You\'d better, unless you want to\nsee your child just dry up into a miserable old maid! She\'s still young\nand she has a chance for happiness, if she had a father that didn\'t\nbring a millstone to hang around her neck, instead of what he ought to\ngive her! You just wait till you die and God asks you what you had in\nyour breast instead of a heart!\"\n\n\"Oh, my, my!\" he groaned. \"What\'s my heart got to do with it?\"\n\n\"Nothing! You haven\'t got one or you\'d give her what she needed. Am I\nasking anything you CAN\'T do? You know better; you know I\'m not!\"\n\nAt this he sat suddenly rigid, his troubled hands ceasing to rub his\nknees; and he looked at her fixedly. \"Now, tell me,\" he said, slowly.\n\"Just what ARE you asking?\"\n\n\"You know!\" she sobbed.\n\n\"You mean you\'ve broken your word never to speak of THAT to me again?\"\n\n\"What do _I_ care for my word?\" she cried, and, sinking to the floor at\nhis feet, rocked herself back and forth there. \"Do you suppose I\'ll\nlet my \'word\' keep me from struggling for a little happiness for my\nchildren? It won\'t, I tell you; it won\'t! I\'ll struggle for that till I\ndie! I will, till I die till I die!\"\n\nHe rubbed his head now instead of his knees, and, shaking all over, he\ngot up and began with uncertain steps to pace the floor.\n\n\"Hell, hell, hell!\" he said. \"I\'ve got to go through THAT again!\"\n\n\"Yes, you have!\" she sobbed. \"Till I die.\"\n\n\"Yes; that\'s what you been after all the time I was getting well.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have, and I\'ll keep on till I die!\"\n\n\"A fine wife for a man,\" he said. \"Beggin\' a man to be a dirty dog!\"\n\n\"No! To be a MAN--and I\'ll keep on till I die!\"\n\nAdams again fell back upon his last solace: he walked, half staggering,\nup and down the room, swearing in a rhythmic repetition.\n\nHis wife had repetitions of her own, and she kept at them in a voice\nthat rose to a higher and higher pitch, like the sound of an old\nwell-pump. \"Till I die! Till I die! Till I DIE!\"\n\nShe ended in a scream; and Alice, coming up the stairs, thanked heaven\nthat Russell had gone. She ran to her father\'s door and went in.\n\nAdams looked at her, and gesticulated shakily at the convulsive figure\non the floor. \"Can you get her out of here?\"\n\nAlice helped Mrs. Adams to her feet; and the stricken woman threw her\narms passionately about her daughter.\n\n\"Get her out!\" Adams said, harshly; then cried, \"Wait!\"\n\nAlice, moving toward the door, halted, and looked at him blankly, over\nher mother\'s shoulder. \"What is it, papa?\"\n\nHe stretched out his arm and pointed at her. \"She says--she says you\nhave a mean life, Alice.\"\n\n\"No, papa.\"\n\nMrs. Adams turned in her daughter\'s arms. \"Do you hear her lie? Couldn\'t\nyou be as brave as she is, Virgil?\"\n\n\"Are you lying, Alice?\" he asked. \"Do you have a mean time?\"\n\n\"No, papa.\"\n\nHe came toward her. \"Look at me!\" he said. \"Things like this dance\nnow--is that so hard to bear?\"\n\nAlice tried to say, \"No, papa,\" again, but she couldn\'t. Suddenly and in\nspite of herself she began to cry.\n\n\"Do you hear her?\" his wife sobbed. \"Now do you----\"\n\nHe waved at them fiercely. \"Get out of here!\" he said. \"Both of you! Get\nout of here!\"\n\nAs they went, he dropped in his chair and bent far forward, so that his\nhaggard face was concealed from them. Then, as Alice closed the door, he\nbegan to rub his knees again, muttering, \"Oh, my, my! OH, my, my!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nThere shone a jovial sun overhead on the appointed \"day after\nto-morrow\"; a day not cool yet of a temperature friendly to walkers; and\nthe air, powdered with sunshine, had so much life in it that it seemed\nto sparkle. To Arthur Russell this was a day like a gay companion who\npleased him well; but the gay companion at his side pleased him even\nbetter. She looked her prettiest, chattered her wittiest, smiled her\nwistfulest, and delighted him with all together.\n\n\"You look so happy it\'s easy to see your father\'s taken a good turn,\" he\ntold her.\n\n\"Yes; he has this afternoon, at least,\" she said. \"I might have other\nreasons for looking cheerful, though.\"\n\n\"For instance?\"\n\n\"Exactly!\" she said, giving him a sweet look just enough mocked by her\nlaughter. \"For instance!\"\n\n\"Well, go on,\" he begged.\n\n\"Isn\'t it expected?\" she asked.\n\n\"Of you, you mean?\"\n\n\"No,\" she returned. \"For you, I mean!\"\n\nIn this style, which uses a word for any meaning that quick look and\ncolourful gesture care to endow it with, she was an expert; and she\ncarried it merrily on, leaving him at liberty (one of the great values\nof the style) to choose as he would how much or how little she meant. He\nwas content to supply mere cues, for although he had little coquetry of\nhis own, he had lately begun to find that the only interesting moments\nin his life were those during which Alice Adams coquetted with him.\nHappily, these obliging moments extended themselves to cover all\nthe time he spent with her. However serious she might seem, whatever\nappeared to be her topic, all was thou-and-I.\n\nHe planned for more of it, seeing otherwise a dull evening ahead; and\nreverted, afterwhile, to a forbidden subject. \"About that dance at Miss\nLamb\'s--since your father\'s so much better----\"\n\nShe flushed a little. \"Now, now!\" she chided him. \"We agreed not to say\nany more about that.\"\n\n\"Yes, but since he IS better----\"\n\nAlice shook her head. \"He won\'t be better to-morrow. He always has a bad\nday after a good one especially after such a good one as this is.\"\n\n\"But if this time it should be different,\" Russell persisted; \"wouldn\'t\nyou be willing to come if he\'s better by to-morrow evening? Why not wait\nand decide at the last minute?\"\n\nShe waved her hands airily. \"What a pother!\" she cried. \"What does it\nmatter whether poor little Alice Adams goes to a dance or not?\"\n\n\"Well, I thought I\'d made it clear that it looks fairly bleak to me if\nyou don\'t go.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" she jeered.\n\n\"It\'s the simple truth,\" he insisted. \"I don\'t care a great deal about\ndances these days; and if you aren\'t going to be there----\"\n\n\"You could stay away,\" she suggested. \"You wouldn\'t!\"\n\n\"Unfortunately, I can\'t. I\'m afraid I\'m supposed to be the excuse. Miss\nLamb, in her capacity as a friend of my relatives----\"\n\n\"Oh, she\'s giving it for YOU! I see! On Mildred\'s account you mean?\"\n\nAt that his face showed an increase of colour. \"I suppose just on\naccount of my being a cousin of Mildred\'s and of----\"\n\n\"Of course! You\'ll have a beautiful time, too. Henrietta\'ll see that you\nhave somebody to dance with besides Miss Dowling, poor man!\"\n\n\"But what I want somebody to see is that I dance with you! And perhaps\nyour father----\"\n\n\"Wait!\" she said, frowning as if she debated whether or not to tell him\nsomething of import; then, seeming to decide affirmatively, she asked:\n\"Would you really like to know the truth about it?\"\n\n\"If it isn\'t too unflattering.\"\n\n\"It hasn\'t anything to do with you at all,\" she said. \"Of course I\'d\nlike to go with you and to dance with you--though you don\'t seem to\nrealize that you wouldn\'t be permitted much time with me.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I----\"\n\n\"Never mind!\" she laughed. \"Of course you wouldn\'t. But even if papa\nshould be better to-morrow, I doubt if I\'d go. In fact, I know I\nwouldn\'t. There\'s another reason besides papa.\"\n\n\"Is there?\"\n\n\"Yes. The truth is, I don\'t get on with Henrietta Lamb. As a matter of\nfact, I dislike her, and of course that means she dislikes me. I should\nnever think of asking her to anything I gave, and I really wonder she\nasks me to things SHE gives.\" This was a new inspiration; and Alice,\nbeginning to see her way out of a perplexity, wished that she had\nthought of it earlier: she should have told him from the first that she\nand Henrietta had a feud, and consequently exchanged no invitations.\nMoreover, there was another thing to beset her with little anxieties:\nshe might better not have told him from the first, as she had indeed\ntold him by intimation, that she was the pampered daughter of an\nindulgent father, presumably able to indulge her; for now she must\nelaborately keep to the part. Veracity is usually simple; and its\nopposite, to be successful, should be as simple; but practitioners of\nthe opposite are most often impulsive, like Alice; and, like her, they\nbecome enmeshed in elaborations.\n\n\"It wouldn\'t be very nice for me to go to her house,\" Alice went on,\n\"when I wouldn\'t want her in mine. I\'ve never admired her. I\'ve always\nthought she was lacking in some things most people are supposed to be\nequipped with--for instance, a certain feeling about the death of a\nfather who was always pretty decent to his daughter. Henrietta\'s father\ndied just, eleven months and twenty-seven days before your cousin\'s\ndance, but she couldn\'t stick out those few last days and make it a\nyear; she was there.\"\n\nAlice stopped, then laughed ruefully, exclaiming, \"But this is dreadful\nof me!\"\n\n\"Is it?\"\n\n\"Blackguarding her to you when she\'s giving a big party for you! Just\nthe way Henrietta would blackguard me to you--heaven knows what she\nWOULDN\'T say if she talked about me to you! It would be fair, of course,\nbut--well, I\'d rather she didn\'t!\" And with that, Alice let her pretty\nhand, in its white glove, rest upon his arm for a moment; and he looked\ndown at it, not unmoved to see it there. \"I want to be unfair about\njust this,\" she said, letting a troubled laughter tremble through\nher appealing voice as she spoke. \"I won\'t take advantage of her with\nanybody, except just--you! I\'d a little rather you didn\'t hear anybody\nblackguard me, and, if you don\'t mind--could you promise not to give\nHenrietta the chance?\"\n\nIt was charmingly done, with a humorous, faint pathos altogether\ngenuine; and Russell found himself suddenly wanting to shout at her,\n\"Oh, you DEAR!\" Nothing else seemed adequate; but he controlled the\nimpulse in favour of something more conservative.\n\n\"Imagine any one speaking unkindly of you--not praising you!\"\n\n\"Who HAS praised me to you?\" she asked, quickly.\n\n\"I haven\'t talked about you with any one; but if I did, I know\nthey\'d----\"\n\n\"No, no!\" she cried, and went on, again accompanying her words with\nlittle tremulous runs of laughter. \"You don\'t understand this town yet.\nYou\'ll be surprised when you do; we\'re different. We talk about one\nanother fearfully! Haven\'t I just proved it, the way I\'ve been going for\nHenrietta? Of course I didn\'t say anything really very terrible about\nher, but that\'s only because I don\'t follow that practice the way most\nof the others do. They don\'t stop with the worst of the truth they can\nfind: they make UP things--yes, they really do! And, oh, I\'d RATHER they\ndidn\'t make up things about me--to you!\"\n\n\"What difference would it make if they did?\" he inquired, cheerfully.\n\"I\'d know they weren\'t true.\"\n\n\"Even if you did know that, they\'d make a difference,\" she said. \"Oh,\nyes, they would! It\'s too bad, but we don\'t like anything quite so well\nthat\'s had specks on it, even if we\'ve wiped the specks off;--it\'s just\nthat much spoiled, and some things are all spoiled the instant they\'re\nthe least bit spoiled. What a man thinks about a girl, for instance. Do\nyou want to have what you think about me spoiled, Mr. Russell?\"\n\n\"Oh, but that\'s already far beyond reach,\" he said, lightly.\n\n\"But it can\'t be!\" she protested.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because it never can be. Men don\'t change their minds about one another\noften: they make it quite an event when they do, and talk about it as\nif something important had happened. But a girl only has to go down-town\nwith a shoe-string unfastened, and every man who sees her will change\nhis mind about her. Don\'t you know that\'s true?\"\n\n\"Not of myself, I think.\"\n\n\"There!\" she cried. \"That\'s precisely what every man in the world would\nsay!\"\n\n\"So you wouldn\'t trust me?\"\n\n\"Well--I\'ll be awfully worried if you give \'em a chance to tell you that\nI\'m too lazy to tie my shoe-strings!\"\n\nHe laughed delightedly. \"Is that what they do say?\" he asked.\n\n\"Just about! Whatever they hope will get results.\" She shook her head\nwisely. \"Oh, yes; we do that here!\"\n\n\"But I don\'t mind loose shoe-strings,\" he said. \"Not if they\'re yours.\"\n\n\"They\'ll find out what you do mind.\"\n\n\"But suppose,\" he said, looking at her whimsically; \"suppose I wouldn\'t\nmind anything--so long as it\'s yours?\"\n\nShe courtesied. \"Oh, pretty enough! But a girl who\'s talked about has a\nweakness that\'s often a fatal one.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"It\'s this: when she\'s talked about she isn\'t THERE. That\'s how they\nkill her.\"\n\n\"I\'m afraid I don\'t follow you.\"\n\n\"Don\'t you see? If Henrietta--or Mildred--or any of \'em--or some of\ntheir mothers--oh, we ALL do it! Well, if any of \'em told you I didn\'t\ntie my shoe-strings, and if I were there, so that you could see me,\nyou\'d know it wasn\'t true. Even if I were sitting so that you couldn\'t\nsee my feet, and couldn\'t tell whether the strings were tied or not just\nthen, still you could look at me, and see that I wasn\'t the sort of girl\nto neglect my shoe-strings. But that isn\'t the way it happens: they\'ll\nget at you when I\'m nowhere around and can\'t remind you of the sort of\ngirl I really am.\"\n\n\"But you don\'t do that,\" he complained. \"You don\'t remind me you don\'t\neven tell me--the sort of girl you really are! I\'d like to know.\"\n\n\"Let\'s be serious then,\" she said, and looked serious enough herself.\n\"Would you honestly like to know?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, then, you must be careful.\"\n\n\"\'Careful?\'\" The word amused him.\n\n\"I mean careful not to get me mixed up,\" she said. \"Careful not to mix\nup the girl you might hear somebody talking about with the me I honestly\ntry to make you see. If you do get those two mixed up--well, the whole\nshow\'ll be spoiled!\"\n\n\"What makes you think so?\"\n\n\"Because it\'s----\" She checked herself, having begun to speak too\nimpulsively; and she was disturbed, realizing in what tricky stuff she\ndealt. What had been on her lips to say was, \"Because it\'s\nhappened before!\" She changed to, \"Because it\'s so easy to spoil\nanything--easiest of all to spoil anything that\'s pleasant.\"\n\n\"That might depend.\"\n\n\"No; it\'s so. And if you care at all about--about knowing a girl who\'d\nlike someone to know her----\"\n\n\"Just \'someone?\' That\'s disappointing.\"\n\n\"Well--you,\" she said.\n\n\"Tell me how \'careful\' you want me to be, then!\"\n\n\"Well, don\'t you think it would be nice if you didn\'t give anybody the\nchance to talk about me the way--the way I\'ve just been talking about\nHenrietta Lamb?\"\n\nWith that they laughed together, and he said, \"You may be cutting me off\nfrom a great deal of information, you know.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Alice admitted. \"Somebody might begin to praise me to you, too;\nso it\'s dangerous to ask you to change the subject if I ever happen to\nbe mentioned. But after all----\" She paused.\n\n\"\'After all\' isn\'t the end of a thought, is it?\"\n\n\"Sometimes it is of a girl\'s thought; I suppose men are neater about\ntheir thoughts, and always finish \'em. It isn\'t the end of the thought I\nhad then, though.\"\n\n\"What is the end of it?\"\n\nShe looked at him impulsively. \"Oh, it\'s foolish,\" she said, and she\nlaughed as laughs one who proposes something probably impossible. \"But,\nWOULDN\'T it be pleasant if two people could ever just keep themselves\nTO themselves, so far as they two were concerned? I mean, if they could\njust manage to be friends without people talking about it, or talking to\nTHEM about it?\"\n\n\"I suppose that might be rather difficult,\" he said, more amused than\nimpressed by her idea.\n\n\"I don\'t know: it might be done,\" she returned, hopefully. \"Especially\nin a town of this size; it\'s grown so it\'s quite a huge place these\ndays. People can keep themselves to themselves in a big place better,\nyou know. For instance, nobody knows that you and I are taking a walk\ntogether today.\"\n\n\"How absurd, when here we are on exhibition!\"\n\n\"No; we aren\'t.\"\n\n\"We aren\'t?\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it!\" she laughed. \"We were the other day, when you walked\nhome with me, but anybody could tell that had just happened by chance,\non account of your overtaking me; people can always see things like\nthat. But we\'re not on exhibition now. Look where I\'ve led you!\"\n\nAmused and a little bewildered, he looked up and down the street,\nwhich was one of gaunt-faced apartment-houses, old, sooty, frame\nboarding-houses, small groceries and drug-stores, laundries and one-room\nplumbers\' shops, with the sign of a clairvoyant here and there.\n\n\"You see?\" she said. \"I\'ve been leading you without your knowing it. Of\ncourse that\'s because you\'re new to the town, and you give yourself up\nto the guidance of an old citizen.\"\n\n\"I\'m not so sure, Miss Adams. It might mean that I don\'t care where I\nfollow so long as I follow you.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" she said. \"I\'d like you to keep on following me at least\nlong enough for me to show you that there\'s something nicer ahead of us\nthan this dingy street.\"\n\n\"Is that figurative?\" he asked.\n\n\"Might be!\" she returned, gaily. \"There\'s a pretty little park at the\nend, but it\'s very proletarian, and nobody you and I know will be more\nlikely to see us there than on this street.\"\n\n\"What an imagination you have!\" he exclaimed. \"You turn our proper\nlittle walk into a Parisian adventure.\"\n\nShe looked at him in what seemed to be a momentary grave puzzlement.\n\"Perhaps you feel that a Parisian adventure mightn\'t please your--your\nrelatives?\"\n\n\"Why, no,\" he returned. \"You seem to think of them oftener than I do.\"\n\nThis appeared to amuse Alice, or at least to please her, for she\nlaughed. \"Then I can afford to quit thinking of them, I suppose. It\'s\nonly that I used to be quite a friend of Mildred\'s--but there! we\nneedn\'t to go into that. I\'ve never been a friend of Henrietta Lamb\'s,\nthough, and I almost wish she weren\'t taking such pains to be a friend\nof yours.\"\n\n\"Oh, but she\'s not. It\'s all on account of----\"\n\n\"On Mildred\'s account,\" Alice finished this for him, coolly. \"Yes, of\ncourse.\"\n\n\"It\'s on account of the two families,\" he was at pains to explain, a\nlittle awkwardly. \"It\'s because I\'m a relative of the Palmers, and the\nPalmers and the Lambs seem to be old family friends.\"\n\n\"Something the Adamses certainly are not,\" Alice said. \"Not with either\nof \'em; particularly not with the Lambs!\" And here, scarce aware of what\nimpelled her, she returned to her former elaborations and colourings.\n\"You see, the differences between Henrietta and me aren\'t entirely\npersonal: I couldn\'t go to her house even if I liked her. The Lambs and\nAdamses don\'t get on with each other, and we\'ve just about come to the\nbreaking-point as it happens.\"\n\n\"I hope it\'s nothing to bother you.\"\n\n\"Why? A lot of things bother me.\"\n\n\"I\'m sorry they do,\" he said, and seemed simply to mean it.\n\nShe nodded gratefully. \"That\'s nice of you, Mr. Russell. It helps. The\nbreak between the Adamses and the Lambs is a pretty bothersome thing.\nIt\'s been coming on a long time.\" She sighed deeply, and the sigh\nwas half genuine; this half being for her father, but the other half\nprobably belonged to her instinctive rendering of Juliet Capulet,\ndaughter to a warring house. \"I hate it all so!\" she added.\n\n\"Of course you must.\"\n\n\"I suppose most quarrels between families are on account of business,\"\nshe said. \"That\'s why they\'re so sordid. Certainly the Lambs seem a\nsordid lot to me, though of course I\'m biased.\" And with that she began\nto sketch a history of the commercial antagonism that had risen between\nthe Adamses and the Lambs.\n\nThe sketching was spontaneous and dramatic. Mathematics had no part in\nit; nor was there accurate definition of Mr. Adams\'s relation to the\ninstitution of Lamb and Company. The point was clouded, in fact; though\nthat might easily be set down to the general haziness of young ladies\nconfronted with the mysteries of trade or commerce. Mr. Adams either had\nbeen a vague sort of junior member of the firm, it appeared, or else\nhe should have been made some such thing; at all events, he was an old\nmainstay of the business; and he, as much as any Lamb, had helped to\nbuild up the prosperity of the company. But at last, tired of providing\nso much intelligence and energy for which other people took profit\ngreater than his own, he had decided to leave the company and found a\nbusiness entirely for himself. The Lambs were going to be enraged when\nthey learned what was afoot.\n\nSuch was the impression, a little misted, wrought by Alice\'s quick\nnarrative. But there was dolorous fact behind it: Adams had succumbed.\n\nHis wife, grave and nervous, rather than triumphant, in success, had\ntold their daughter that the great J. A. would be furious and possibly\nvindictive. Adams was afraid of him, she said.\n\n\"But what for, mama?\" Alice asked, since this seemed a turn of affairs\nout of reason. \"What in the world has Mr. Lamb to do with papa\'s leaving\nthe company to set up for himself? What right has he to be angry about\nit? If he\'s such a friend as he claims to be, I should think he\'d be\nglad--that is, if the glue factory turns out well. What will he be angry\nfor?\"\n\nMrs. Adams gave Alice an uneasy glance, hesitated, and then explained\nthat a resignation from Lamb\'s had always been looked upon, especially\nby \"that old man,\" as treachery. You were supposed to die in the\nservice, she said bitterly, and her daughter, a little mystified,\naccepted this explanation. Adams had not spoken to her of his surrender;\nhe seemed not inclined to speak to her at all, or to any one.\n\nAlice was not serious too long, and she began to laugh as she came\nto the end of her decorative sketch. \"After all, the whole thing is\nperfectly ridiculous,\" she said. \"In fact, it\'s FUNNY! That\'s on account\nof what papa\'s going to throw over the Lamb business FOR! To save your\nlife you couldn\'t imagine what he\'s going to do!\"\n\n\"I won\'t try, then,\" Russell assented.\n\n\"It takes all the romance out of ME,\" she laughed. \"You\'ll never go for\na Parisian walk with me again, after I tell you what I\'ll be heiress\nto.\" They had come to the entrance of the little park; and, as Alice had\nsaid, it was a pretty place, especially on a day so radiant. Trees of\nthe oldest forest stood there, hale and serene over the trim, bright\ngrass; and the proletarians had not come from their factories at this\nhour; only a few mothers and their babies were to be seen, here and\nthere, in the shade. \"I think I\'ll postpone telling you about it till we\nget nearly home again,\" Alice said, as they began to saunter down one of\nthe gravelled paths. \"There\'s a bench beside a spring farther on; we\ncan sit there and talk about a lot of things--things not so sticky as my\ndowry\'s going to be.\"\n\n\"\'Sticky?\'\" he echoed. \"What in the world----\" She laughed despairingly.\n\n\"A glue factory!\"\n\nThen he laughed, too, as much from friendliness as from amusement; and\nshe remembered to tell him that the project of a glue factory was still\n\"an Adams secret.\" It would be known soon, however, she added; and the\nwhole Lamb connection would probably begin saying all sorts of things,\nheaven knew what!\n\nThus Alice built her walls of flimsy, working always gaily, or with at\nleast the air of gaiety; and even as she rattled on, there was somewhere\nin her mind a constant little wonder. Everything she said seemed to be\nnecessary to support something else she had said. How had it happened?\nShe found herself telling him that since her father had decided on\nmaking so great a change in his ways, she and her mother hoped at last\nto persuade him to give up that \"foolish little house\" he had been so\nobstinate about; and she checked herself abruptly on this declivity just\nas she was about to slide into a remark concerning her own preference\nfor a \"country place.\" Discretion caught her in time; and something\nelse, in company with discretion, caught her, for she stopped short in\nher talk and blushed.\n\nThey had taken possession of the bench beside the spring, by this time;\nand Russell, his elbow on the back of the bench and his chin on his\nhand, the better to look at her, had no guess at the cause of the blush,\nbut was content to find it lovely. At his first sight of Alice she had\nseemed pretty in the particular way of being pretty that he happened\nto like best; and, with every moment he spent with her, this prettiness\nappeared to increase. He felt that he could not look at her enough: his\ngaze followed the fluttering of the graceful hands in almost continual\ngesture as she talked; then lifted happily to the vivacious face again.\nShe charmed him.\n\nAfter her abrupt pause, she sighed, then looked at him with her eyebrows\nlifted in a comedy appeal. \"You haven\'t said you wouldn\'t give Henrietta\nthe chance,\" she said, in the softest voice that can still have a little\nlaugh running in it.\n\nHe was puzzled. \"Give Henrietta the chance?\"\n\n\"YOU know! You\'ll let me keep on being unfair, won\'t you? Not give the\nother girls a chance to get even?\"\n\nHe promised, heartily.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nAlice had said that no one who knew either Russell or herself would be\nlikely to see them in the park or upon the dingy street; but although\nthey returned by that same ungenteel thoroughfare they were seen by\na person who knew them both. Also, with some surprise on the part of\nRussell, and something more poignant than surprise for Alice, they saw\nthis person.\n\nAll of the dingy street was ugly, but the greater part of it appeared to\nbe honest. The two pedestrians came upon a block or two, however, where\nit offered suggestions of a less upright character, like a steady enough\nworkingman with a naughty book sticking out of his pocket. Three or four\ndim shops, a single story in height, exhibited foul signboards, yet fair\nenough so far as the wording went; one proclaiming a tobacconist, one\na junk-dealer, one a dispenser of \"soft drinks and cigars.\" The most\ncredulous would have doubted these signboards; for the craft of the\nmodern tradesman is exerted to lure indoors the passing glance, since if\nthe glance is pleased the feet may follow; but this alleged tobacconist\nand his neighbours had long been fond of dust on their windows,\nevidently, and shades were pulled far down on the glass of their doors.\nThus the public eye, small of pupil in the light of the open street, was\nintentionally not invited to the dusky interiors. Something different\nfrom mere lack of enterprise was apparent; and the signboards might have\nbeen omitted; they were pains thrown away, since it was plain to the\nworld that the business parts of these shops were the brighter back\nrooms implied by the dark front rooms; and that the commerce there was\nin perilous new liquors and in dice and rough girls.\n\nNothing could have been more innocent than the serenity with which these\nwicked little places revealed themselves for what they were; and, bound\nby this final tie of guilelessness, they stood together in a row which\nended with a companionable barbershop, much like them. Beyond was a\nseries of soot-harried frame two-story houses, once part of a cheerful\nneighbourhood when the town was middle-aged and settled, and not old and\ngrowing. These houses, all carrying the label. \"Rooms,\" had the worried\nlook of vacancy that houses have when they are too full of everybody\nwithout being anybody\'s home; and there was, too, a surreptitious\nair about them, as if, like the false little shops, they advertised\nsomething by concealing it.\n\nOne of them--the one next to the barber-shop--had across its front an\nample, jig-sawed veranda, where aforetime, no doubt, the father of a\nfamily had fanned himself with a palm-leaf fan on Sunday afternoons,\nwatching the surreys go by, and where his daughter listened to mandolins\nand badinage on starlit evenings; but, although youth still held the\nveranda, both the youth and the veranda were in decay. The four or five\nyoung men who lounged there this afternoon were of a type known to shady\npool-parlours. Hats found no favour with them; all of them wore caps;\nand their tight clothes, apparently from a common source, showed\na vivacious fancy for oblique pockets, false belts, and Easter-egg\ncolourings. Another thing common to the group was the expression of\neye and mouth; and Alice, in the midst of her other thoughts, had a\ndistasteful thought about this.\n\nThe veranda was within a dozen feet of the sidewalk, and as she and her\nescort came nearer, she took note of the young men, her face hardening\na little, even before she suspected there might be a resemblance between\nthem and any one she knew. Then she observed that each of these loungers\nwore not for the occasion, but as of habit, a look of furtively\namused contempt; the mouth smiled to one side as if not to dislodge a\ncigarette, while the eyes kept languidly superior. All at once Alice was\nreminded of Walter; and the slight frown caused by this idea had just\nbegun to darken her forehead when Walter himself stepped out of the open\ndoor of the house and appeared upon the veranda. Upon his head was a new\nstraw hat, and in his hand was a Malacca stick with an ivory top, for\nAlice had finally decided against it for herself and had given it to\nhim. His mood was lively: he twirled the stick through his fingers like\na drum-major\'s baton, and whistled loudly.\n\nMoreover, he was indeed accompanied. With him was a thin girl who had\nmade a violent black-and-white poster of herself: black dress, black\nflimsy boa, black stockings, white slippers, great black hat down upon\nthe black eyes; and beneath the hat a curve of cheek and chin made white\nas whitewash, and in strong bilateral motion with gum.\n\nThe loungers on the veranda were familiars of the pair; hailed them with\ncacklings; and one began to sing, in a voice all tin:\n\n \"Then my skirt, Sal, and me did go\n Right straight to the moving-pitcher show.\n OH, you bashful vamp!\"\n\n\nThe girl laughed airily. \"God, but you guys are wise!\" she said.\n\n\"Come on, Wallie.\"\n\nWalter stared at his sister; then grinned faintly, and nodded at Russell\nas the latter lifted his hat in salutation. Alice uttered an incoherent\nsyllable of exclamation, and, as she began to walk faster, she bit her\nlip hard, not in order to look wistful, this time, but to help her keep\ntears of anger from her eyes.\n\nRussell laughed cheerfully. \"Your brother certainly seems to have found\nthe place for \'colour\' today,\" he said. \"That girl\'s talk must be full\nof it.\"\n\nBut Alice had forgotten the colour she herself had used in accounting\nfor Walter\'s peculiarities, and she did not understand. \"What?\" she\nsaid, huskily.\n\n\"Don\'t you remember telling me about him? How he was going to write,\nprobably, and would go anywhere to pick up types and get them to talk?\"\n\nShe kept her eyes ahead, and said sharply, \"I think his literary tastes\nscarcely cover this case!\"\n\n\"Don\'t be too sure. He didn\'t look at all disconcerted. He didn\'t seem\nto mind your seeing him.\"\n\n\"That\'s all the worse, isn\'t it?\"\n\n\"Why, no,\" her friend said, genially. \"It means he didn\'t consider\nthat he was engaged in anything out of the way. You can\'t expect to\nunderstand everything boys do at his age; they do all sorts of queer\nthings, and outgrow them. Your brother evidently has a taste for queer\npeople, and very likely he\'s been at least half sincere when he\'s made\nyou believe he had a literary motive behind it. We all go through----\"\n\n\"Thanks, Mr. Russell,\" she interrupted. \"Let\'s don\'t say any more.\"\n\nHe looked at her flushed face and enlarged eyes; and he liked her all\nthe better for her indignation: this was how good sisters ought to feel,\nhe thought, failing to understand that most of what she felt was not\nabout Walter. He ventured only a word more. \"Try not to mind it so much;\nit really doesn\'t amount to anything.\"\n\nShe shook her head, and they went on in silence; she did not look at him\nagain until they stopped before her own house. Then she gave him only\none glimpse of her eyes before she looked down. \"It\'s spoiled, isn\'t\nit?\" she said, in a low voice.\n\n\"What\'s \'spoiled?\'\"\n\n\"Our walk--well, everything. Somehow it always--is.\"\n\n\"\'Always is\' what?\" he asked.\n\n\"Spoiled,\" she said.\n\nHe laughed at that; but without looking at him she suddenly offered him\nher hand, and, as he took it, he felt a hurried, violent pressure upon\nhis fingers, as if she meant to thank him almost passionately for being\nkind. She was gone before he could speak to her again.\n\n\nIn her room, with the door locked, she did not go to her mirror, but to\nher bed, flinging herself face down, not caring how far the pillows\nput her hat awry. Sheer grief had followed her anger; grief for\nthe calamitous end of her bright afternoon, grief for the \"end of\neverything,\" as she thought then. Nevertheless, she gradually grew more\ncomposed, and, when her mother tapped on the door presently, let her in.\nMrs. Adams looked at her with quick apprehension.\n\n\"Oh, poor child! Wasn\'t he----\"\n\nAlice told her. \"You see how it--how it made me look, mama,\" she\nquavered, having concluded her narrative. \"I\'d tried to cover up\nWalter\'s awfulness at the dance with that story about his being\n\'literary,\' but no story was big enough to cover this up--and oh! it\nmust make him think I tell stories about other things!\"\n\n\"No, no, no!\" Mrs. Adams protested. \"Don\'t you see? At the worst, all HE\ncould think is that Walter told stories to you about why he likes to be\nwith such dreadful people, and you believed them. That\'s all HE\'D think;\ndon\'t you see?\"\n\nAlice\'s wet eyes began to show a little hopefulness. \"You honestly think\nit might be that way, mama?\"\n\n\"Why, from what you\'ve told me he said, I KNOW it\'s that way. Didn\'t he\nsay he wanted to come again?\"\n\n\"N-no,\" Alice said, uncertainly. \"But I think he will. At least I begin\nto think so now. He----\" She stopped.\n\n\"From all you tell me, he seems to be a very desirable young man,\" Mrs.\nAdams said, primly.\n\nHer daughter was silent for several moments; then new tears gathered\nupon her downcast lashes. \"He\'s just--dear!\" she faltered.\n\nMrs. Adams nodded. \"He\'s told you he isn\'t engaged, hasn\'t he?\"\n\n\"No. But I know he isn\'t. Maybe when he first came here he was near it,\nbut I know he\'s not.\"\n\n\"I guess Mildred Palmer would LIKE him to be, all right!\" Mrs. Adams\nwas frank enough to say, rather triumphantly; and Alice, with a lowered\nhead, murmured:\n\n\"Anybody--would.\"\n\nThe words were all but inaudible.\n\n\"Don\'t you worry,\" her mother said, and patted her on the shoulder.\n\"Everything will come out all right; don\'t you fear, Alice. Can\'t you\nsee that beside any other girl in town you\'re just a perfect QUEEN? Do\nyou think any young man that wasn\'t prejudiced, or something, would need\nmore than just one look to----\"\n\nBut Alice moved away from the caressing hand. \"Never mind, mama. I\nwonder he looks at me at all. And if he does again, after seeing my\nbrother with those horrible people----\"\n\n\"Now, now!\" Mrs. Adams interrupted, expostulating mournfully. \"I\'m sure\nWalter\'s a GOOD boy----\"\n\n\"You are?\" Alice cried, with a sudden vigour. \"You ARE?\"\n\n\"I\'m sure he\'s GOOD, yes--and if he isn\'t, it\'s not his fault. It\'s\nmine.\"\n\n\"What nonsense!\"\n\n\"No, it\'s true,\" Mrs. Adams lamented. \"I tried to bring him up to be\ngood, God knows; and when he was little he was the best boy I ever saw.\nWhen he came from Sunday-school he\'d always run to me and we\'d go over\nthe lesson together; and he let me come in his room at night to hear his\nprayers almost until he was sixteen. Most boys won\'t do that with\ntheir mothers--not nearly that long. I tried so hard to bring him up\nright--but if anything\'s gone wrong it\'s my fault.\"\n\n\"How could it be? You\'ve just said----\"\n\n\"It\'s because I didn\'t make your father this--this new step earlier.\nThen Walter might have had all the advantages that other----\"\n\n\"Oh, mama, PLEASE!\" Alice begged her. \"Let\'s don\'t go over all that\nagain. Isn\'t it more important to think what\'s to be done about him? Is\nhe going to be allowed to go on disgracing us as he does?\"\n\nMrs. Adams sighed profoundly. \"I don\'t know what to do,\" she confessed,\nunhappily. \"Your father\'s so upset about--about this new step he\'s\ntaking--I don\'t feel as if we ought to----\"\n\n\"No, no!\" Alice cried. \"Papa mustn\'t be distressed with this, on top of\neverything else. But SOMETHING\'S got to be done about Walter.\"\n\n\"What can be?\" her mother asked, helplessly. \"What can be?\"\n\nAlice admitted that she didn\'t know.\n\n\nAt dinner, an hour later, Walter\'s habitually veiled glance lifted,\nnow and then, to touch her furtively;--he was waiting, as he would have\nsaid, for her to \"spring it\"; and he had prepared a brief and sincere\ndefense to the effect that he made his own living, and would like\nto inquire whose business it was to offer intrusive comment upon his\nprivate conduct. But she said nothing, while his father and mother were\nas silent as she. Walter concluded that there was to be no attack, but\nchanged his mind when his father, who ate only a little, and broodingly\nat that, rose to leave the table and spoke to him.\n\n\"Walter,\" he said, \"when you\'ve finished I wish you\'d come up to my\nroom. I got something I want to say to you.\"\n\nWalter shot a hard look at his apathetic sister, then turned to his\nfather. \"Make it to-morrow,\" he said. \"This is Satad\'y night and I got a\ndate.\"\n\n\"No,\" Adams said, frowning. \"You come up before you go out. It\'s\nimportant.\"\n\n\"All right; I\'ve had all I want to eat,\" Walter returned. \"I got a few\nminutes. Make it quick.\"\n\nHe followed his father upstairs, and when they were in the room together\nAdams shut the door, sat down, and began to rub his knees.\n\n\"Rheumatism?\" the boy inquired, slyly. \"That what you want to talk to me\nabout?\"\n\n\"No.\" But Adams did not go on; he seemed to be in difficulties for\nwords, and Walter decided to help him.\n\n\"Hop ahead and spring it,\" he said. \"Get it off your mind: I\'ll tell the\nworld _I_ should worry! You aren\'t goin\' to bother ME any, so why bother\nyourself? Alice hopped home and told you she saw me playin\' around with\nsome pretty gay-lookin\' berries and you----\"\n\n\"Alice?\" his father said, obviously surprised. \"It\'s nothing about\nAlice.\"\n\n\"Didn\'t she tell you----\"\n\n\"I haven\'t talked with her all day.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see,\" Walter said. \"She told mother and mother told you.\"\n\n\"No, neither of \'em have told me anything. What was there to tell?\"\n\nWalter laughed. \"Oh, it\'s nothin\',\" he said. \"I was just startin\' out\nto buy a girl friend o\' mine a rhinestone buckle I lost to her on a bet,\nthis afternoon, and Alice came along with that big Russell fish; and I\nthought she looked sore. She expects me to like the kind she likes, and\nI don\'t like \'em. I thought she\'d prob\'ly got you all stirred up about\nit.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" his father said, peevishly. \"I don\'t know anything about it,\nand I don\'t care to know anything about it. I want to talk to you about\nsomething important.\"\n\nThen, as he was again silent, Walter said, \"Well, TALK about it; I\'m\nlistening.\"\n\n\"It\'s this,\" Adams began, heavily. \"It\'s about me going into this glue\nbusiness. Your mother\'s told you, hasn\'t she?\"\n\n\"She said you were goin\' to leave the old place down-town and start a\nglue factory. That\'s all I know about it; I got my own affairs to \'tend\nto.\"\n\n\"Well, this is your affair,\" his father said, frowning. \"You can\'t stay\nwith Lamb and Company.\"\n\nWalter looked a little startled. \"What you mean, I can\'t? Why not?\"\n\n\"You\'ve got to help me,\" Adams explained slowly; and he frowned more\ndeeply, as if the interview were growing increasingly laborious for him.\n\"It\'s going to be a big pull to get this business on its feet.\"\n\n\"Yes!\" Walter exclaimed with a sharp skepticism. \"I should say it was!\"\nHe stared at his father incredulously. \"Look here; aren\'t you just a\nlittle bit sudden, the way you\'re goin\' about things? You\'ve let mother\nshove you a little too fast, haven\'t you? Do you know anything about\nwhat it means to set up a new business these days?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know all about it,\" Adams said. \"About this business, I do.\"\n\n\"How do you?\"\n\n\"Because I made a long study of it. I\'m not afraid of going about it the\nwrong way; but it\'s a hard job and you\'ll have to put in all whatever\nsense and strength you\'ve got.\"\n\nWalter began to breathe quickly, and his lips were agitated; then he set\nthem obstinately. \"Oh; I will,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, you will,\" Adams returned, not noticing that his son\'s inflection\nwas satiric. \"It\'s going to take every bit of energy in your body, and\nall the energy I got left in mine, and every cent of the little I\'ve\nsaved, besides something I\'ll have to raise on this house. I\'m going\nright at it, now I\'ve got to; and you\'ll have to quit Lamb\'s by the end\nof next week.\"\n\n\"Oh, I will?\" Walter\'s voice grew louder, and there was a shrillness\nin it. \"I got to quit Lamb\'s the end of next week, have I?\" He stepped\nforward, angrily. \"Listen!\" he said. \"I\'m not walkin\' out o\' Lamb\'s,\nsee? I\'m not quittin\' down there: I stay with \'em, see?\"\n\nAdams looked up at him, astonished. \"You\'ll leave there next Saturday,\"\nhe said. \"I\'ve got to have you.\"\n\n\"You don\'t anything o\' the kind,\" Walter told him, sharply. \"Do you\nexpect to pay me anything?\"\n\n\"I\'d pay you about what you been getting down there.\"\n\n\"Then pay somebody else; _I_ don\'t know anything about glue. You get\nsomebody else.\"\n\n\"No. You\'ve got to---\"\n\nWalter cut him off with the utmost vehemence. \"Don\'t tell me what I got\nto do! I know what I got to do better\'n you, I guess! I stay at Lamb\'s,\nsee?\"\n\nAdams rose angrily. \"You\'ll do what I tell you. You can\'t stay down\nthere.\"\n\n\"Why can\'t I?\"\n\n\"Because I won\'t let you.\"\n\n\"Listen! Keep on not lettin\' me: I\'ll be there just the same.\"\n\nAt that his father broke into a sour laughter. \"THEY won\'t let you,\nWalter! They won\'t have you down there after they find out I\'m going.\"\n\n\"Why won\'t they? You don\'t think they\'re goin\' to be all shot to pieces\nover losin\' YOU, do you?\"\n\n\"I tell you they won\'t let you stay,\" his father insisted, loudly.\n\n\"Why, what do they care whether you go or not?\"\n\n\"They\'ll care enough to fire YOU, my boy!\"\n\n\"Look here, then; show me why.\"\n\n\"They\'ll do it!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Walter jeered; \"you keep sayin\' they will, but when I ask you to\nshow me why, you keep sayin\' they will! That makes little headway with\nME, I can tell you!\"\n\nAdams groaned, and, rubbing his head, began to pace the floor. Walter\'s\nrefusal was something he had not anticipated; and he felt the weakness\nof his own attempt to meet it: he seemed powerless to do anything but\nutter angry words, which, as Walter said, made little headway. \"Oh, my,\nmy!\" he muttered, \"OH, my, my!\"\n\nWalter, usually sallow, had grown pale: he watched his father narrowly,\nand now took a sudden resolution. \"Look here,\" he said. \"When you say\nLamb\'s is likely to fire me because you\'re goin\' to quit, you talk like\nthe people that have to be locked up. I don\'t know where you get such\nthings in your head; Lamb and Company won\'t know you\'re gone. Listen: I\ncan stay there long as I want to. But I\'ll tell you what I\'ll do: make\nit worth my while and I\'ll hook up with your old glue factory, after\nall.\"\n\nAdams stopped his pacing abruptly, and stared at him. \"\'Make it worth\nyour while?\' What you mean?\"\n\n\"I got a good use for three hundred dollars right now,\" Walter said.\n\"Let me have it and I\'ll quit Lamb\'s to work for you. Don\'t let me have\nit and I SWEAR I won\'t!\"\n\n\"Are you crazy?\"\n\n\"Is everybody crazy that needs three hundred dollars?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Adams said. \"They are if they ask ME for it, when I got to\nstretch every cent I can lay my hands on to make it look like a dollar!\"\n\n\"You won\'t do it?\"\n\nAdams burst out at him. \"You little fool! If I had three hundred dollars\nto throw away, besides the pay I expected to give you, haven\'t you got\nsense enough to see I could hire a man worth three hundred dollars\nmore to me than you\'d be? It\'s a FINE time to ask me for three hundred\ndollars, isn\'t it! What FOR? Rhinestone buckles to throw around on your\n\'girl friends?\' Shame on you! Ask me to BRIBE you to help yourself and\nyour own family!\"\n\n\"I\'ll give you a last chance,\" Walter said. \"Either you do what I want,\nor I won\'t do what you want. Don\'t ask me again after this, because----\"\n\nAdams interrupted him fiercely. \"\'Ask you again!\' Don\'t worry about\nthat, my boy! All I ask you is to get out o\' my room.\"\n\n\"Look here,\" Walter said, quietly; and his lopsided smile distorted his\nlivid cheek. \"Look here: I expect YOU wouldn\'t give me three hundred\ndollars to save my life, would you?\"\n\n\"You make me sick,\" Adams said, in his bitterness. \"Get out of here.\"\n\nWalter went out, whistling; and Adams drooped into his old chair again\nas the door closed. \"OH, my, my!\" he groaned. \"Oh, Lordy, Lordy! The way\nof the transgressor----\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nHe meant his own transgression and his own way; for Walter\'s stubborn\nrefusal appeared to Adams just then as one of the inexplicable but\nrighteous besettings he must encounter in following that way. \"Oh,\nLordy, Lord!\" he groaned, and then, as resentment moved him--\"That dang\nboy! Dang idiot\" Yet he knew himself for a greater idiot because he had\nnot been able to tell Walter the truth. He could not bring himself to do\nit, nor even to state his case in its best terms; and that was because\nhe felt that even in its best terms the case was a bad one.\n\nOf all his regrets the greatest was that in a moment of vanity and\ntenderness, twenty-five years ago, he had told his young wife a business\nsecret. He had wanted to show how important her husband was becoming,\nand how much the head of the universe, J. A. Lamb, trusted to his\nintegrity and ability. The great man had an idea: he thought of\n\"branching out a little,\" he told Adams confidentially, and there were\npossibilities of profit in glue.\n\nWhat he wanted was a liquid glue to be put into little bottles and sold\ncheaply. \"The kind of thing that sells itself,\" he said; \"the kind of\nthing that pays its own small way as it goes along, until it has profits\nenough to begin advertising it right. Everybody has to use glue, and if\nI make mine convenient and cheap, everybody\'ll buy mine. But it\'s got\nto be glue that\'ll STICK; it\'s got to be the best; and if we find how\nto make it we\'ve got to keep it a big secret, of course, or anybody can\nsteal it from us. There was a man here last month; he knew a formula\nhe wanted to sell me, \'sight unseen\'; but he was in such a hurry I got\nsuspicious, and I found he\'d managed to steal it, working for the big\npackers in their glue-works. We\'ve got to find a better glue than that,\nanyhow. I\'m going to set you and Campbell at it. You\'re a practical,\nwide-awake young feller, and Campbell\'s a mighty good chemist; I guess\nyou two boys ought to make something happen.\"\n\nHis guess was shrewd enough. Working in a shed a little way outside the\ntown, where their cheery employer visited them sometimes to study their\nmalodorous stews, the two young men found what Lamb had set them to\nfind. But Campbell was thoughtful over the discovery. \"Look here,\" he\nsaid. \"Why ain\'t this just about yours and mine? After all, it may be\nLamb\'s money that\'s paid for the stuff we\'ve used, but it hasn\'t cost\nmuch.\"\n\n\"But he pays US,\" Adams remonstrated, horrified by his companion\'s idea.\n\"He paid us to do it. It belongs absolutely to him.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know he THINKS it does,\" Campbell admitted, plaintively. \"I\nsuppose we\'ve got to let him take it. It\'s not patentable, and he\'ll\nhave to do pretty well by us when he starts his factory, because he\'s\ngot to depend on us to run the making of the stuff so that the workmen\ncan\'t get onto the process. You better ask him the same salary I do, and\nmine\'s going to be high.\"\n\nBut the high salary, thus pleasantly imagined, was never paid. Campbell\ndied of typhoid fever, that summer, leaving Adams and his employer the\nonly possessors of the formula, an unwritten one; and Adams, pleased to\nthink himself more important to the great man than ever, told his wife\nthat there could be little doubt of his being put in sole charge of\nthe prospective glue-works. Unfortunately, the enterprise remained\nprospective.\n\nIts projector had already become \"inveigled into another side-line,\"\nas he told Adams. One of his sons had persuaded him to take up a\n\"cough-lozenge,\" to be called the \"Jalamb Balm Trochee\"; and the lozenge\ndid well enough to amuse Mr. Lamb and occupy his spare time, which was\nreally about all he had asked of the glue project. He had \"all the MONEY\nanybody ought to want,\" he said, when Adams urged him; and he could\n\"start up this little glue side-line\" at any time; the formula was safe\nin their two heads.\n\nAt intervals Adams would seek opportunity to speak of \"the little glue\nside-line\" to his patron, and to suggest that the years were passing;\nbut Lamb, petting other hobbies, had lost interest. \"Oh, I\'ll start it\nup some day, maybe. If I don\'t, I may turn it over to my heirs: it\'s\nalways an asset, worth something or other, of course. We\'ll probably\ntake it up some day, though, you and I.\"\n\nThe sun persistently declined to rise on that day, and, as time went\non, Adams saw that his rather timid urgings bored his employer, and he\nceased to bring up the subject. Lamb apparently forgot all about glue,\nbut Adams discovered that unfortunately there was someone else who\nremembered it.\n\n\"It\'s really YOURS,\" she argued, that painful day when for the first\ntime she suggested his using his knowledge for the benefit of himself\nand his family. \"Mr. Campbell might have had a right to part of it, but\nhe died and didn\'t leave any kin, so it belongs to you.\"\n\n\"Suppose J. A. Lamb hired me to saw some wood,\" Adams said. \"Would the\nsticks belong to me?\"\n\n\"He hasn\'t got any right to take your invention and bury it,\" she\nprotested. \"What good is it doing him if he doesn\'t DO anything with it?\nWhat good is it doing ANYBODY? None in the world! And what harm would\nit do him if you went ahead and did this for yourself and for your\nchildren? None in the world! And what could he do to you if he WAS old\npig enough to get angry with you for doing it? He couldn\'t do a single\nthing, and you\'ve admitted he couldn\'t, yourself. So what\'s your reason\nfor depriving your children and your wife of the benefits you know you\ncould give \'em?\"\n\n\"Nothing but decency,\" he answered; and she had her reply ready for\nthat. It seemed to him that, strive as he would, he could not reach her\nmind with even the plainest language; while everything that she said to\nhim, with such vehemence, sounded like so much obstinate gibberish.\nOver and over he pressed her with the same illustration, on the point of\nownership, though he thought he was varying it.\n\n\"Suppose he hired me to build him a house: would that be MY house?\"\n\n\"He didn\'t hire you to build him a house. You and Campbell invented----\"\n\n\"Look here: suppose you give a cook a soup-bone and some vegetables, and\npay her to make you a soup: has she got a right to take and sell it? You\nknow better!\"\n\n\"I know ONE thing: if that old man tried to keep your own invention from\nyou he\'s no better than a robber!\"\n\nThey never found any point of contact in all their passionate\ndiscussions of this ethical question; and the question was no more\nsettled between them, now that Adams had succumbed, than it had ever\nbeen. But at least the wrangling about it was over: they were grave\ntogether, almost silent, and an uneasiness prevailed with her as much as\nwith him.\n\nHe had already been out of the house, to walk about the small green\nyard; and on Monday afternoon he sent for a taxicab and went down-town,\nbut kept a long way from the \"wholesale section,\" where stood the\nformidable old oblong pile of Lamb and Company. He arranged for the\nsale of the bonds he had laid away, and for placing a mortgage upon his\nhouse; and on his way home, after five o\'clock, he went to see an old\nfriend, a man whose term of service with Lamb and Company was even a\nlittle longer than his own.\n\nThis veteran, returned from the day\'s work, was sitting in front of the\napartment house where he lived, but when the cab stopped at the curb he\nrose and came forward, offering a jocular greeting. \"Well, well, Virgil\nAdams! I always thought you had a sporty streak in you. Travel in\nyour own hired private automobile nowadays, do you? Pamperin\' yourself\nbecause you\'re still layin\' off sick, I expect.\"\n\n\"Oh, I\'m well enough again, Charley Lohr,\" Adams said, as he got out and\nshook hands. Then, telling the driver to wait, he took his friend\'s arm,\nwalked to the bench with him, and sat down. \"I been practically well for\nsome time,\" he said. \"I\'m fixin\' to get into harness again.\"\n\n\"Bein\' sick has certainly produced a change of heart in you,\" his\nfriend laughed. \"You\'re the last man I ever expected to see blowin\'\nyourself--or anybody else to a taxicab! For that matter, I never heard\nof you bein\' in ANY kind of a cab, \'less\'n it might be when you been\npall-bearer for somebody. What\'s come over you?\"\n\n\"Well, I got to turn over a new leaf, and that\'s a fact,\" Adams said. \"I\ngot a lot to do, and the only way to accomplish it, it\'s got to be done\nsoon, or I won\'t have anything to live on while I\'m doing it.\"\n\n\"What you talkin\' about? What you got to do except to get strong enough\nto come back to the old place?\"\n\n\"Well----\" Adams paused, then coughed, and said slowly, \"Fact is,\nCharley Lohr, I been thinking likely I wouldn\'t come back.\"\n\n\"What! What you talkin\' about?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Adams. \"I been thinking I might likely kind of branch out on\nmy own account.\"\n\n\"Well, I\'ll be doggoned!\" Old Charley Lohr was amazed; he ruffled up\nhis gray moustache with thumb and forefinger, leaving his mouth open\nbeneath, like a dark cave under a tangled wintry thicket. \"Why, that\'s\nthe doggonedest thing I ever heard!\" he said. \"I already am the oldest\ninhabitant down there, but if you go, there won\'t be anybody else of the\nold generation at all. What on earth you thinkin\' of goin\' into?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Adams, \"I rather you didn\'t mention it till I get started\nof course anybody\'ll know what it is by then--but I HAVE been kind of\nplanning to put a liquid glue on the market.\"\n\nHis friend, still ruffling the gray moustache upward, stared at him in\nfrowning perplexity. \"Glue?\" he said. \"GLUE!\"\n\n\"Yes. I been sort of milling over the idea of taking up something like\nthat.\"\n\n\"Handlin\' it for some firm, you mean?\"\n\n\"No. Making it. Sort of a glue-works likely.\"\n\nLohr continued to frown. \"Let me think,\" he said. \"Didn\'t the ole man\nhave some such idea once, himself?\"\n\nAdams leaned forward, rubbing his knees; and he coughed again before he\nspoke. \"Well, yes. Fact is, he did. That is to say, a mighty long while\nago he did.\"\n\n\"I remember,\" said Lohr. \"He never said anything about it that I know\nof; but seems to me I recollect we had sort of a rumour around the place\nhow you and that man--le\'s see, wasn\'t his name Campbell, that died of\ntyphoid fever? Yes, that was it, Campbell. Didn\'t the ole man have you\nand Campbell workin\' sort of private on some glue proposition or other?\"\n\n\"Yes, he did.\" Adams nodded. \"I found out a good deal about glue then,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Been workin\' on it since, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes. Kept it in my mind and studied out new things about it.\"\n\nLohr looked serious. \"Well, but see here,\" he said. \"I hope it ain\'t\nanything the ole man\'ll think might infringe on whatever he had you\ndoin\' for HIM. You know how he is: broad-minded, liberal, free-handed\nman as walks this earth, and if he thought he owed you a cent he\'d sell\nhis right hand for a pork-chop to pay it, if that was the only way; but\nif he got the idea anybody was tryin\' to get the better of him, he\'d\nsell BOTH his hands, if he had to, to keep \'em from doin\' it. Yes, at\neighty, he would! Not that I mean I think you might be tryin\' to get the\nbetter of him, Virg. You\'re a mighty close ole codger, but such a thing\nain\'t in you. What I mean: I hope there ain\'t any chance for the ole man\nto THINK you might be----\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" Adams interrupted. \"As a matter of fact, I don\'t believe he\'ll\never think about it at all, and if he did he wouldn\'t have any real\nright to feel offended at me: the process I\'m going to use is one I\nexpect to change and improve a lot different from the one Campbell and I\nworked on for him.\"\n\n\"Well, that\'s good,\" said Lohr. \"Of course you know what you\'re up to:\nyou\'re old enough, God knows!\" He laughed ruefully. \"My, but it will\nseem funny to me--down there with you gone! I expect you and I both\nbeen gettin\' to be pretty much dead-wood in the place, the way the young\nfellows look at it, and the only one that\'d miss either of us would be\nthe other one! Have you told the ole man yet?\"\n\n\"Well----\" Adams spoke laboriously. \"No. No, I haven\'t. I thought--well,\nthat\'s what I wanted to see you about.\"\n\n\"What can I do?\"\n\n\"I thought I\'d write him a letter and get you to hand it to him for me.\"\n\n\"My soul!\" his friend exclaimed. \"Why on earth don\'t you just go down\nthere and tell him?\"\n\nAdams became pitiably embarrassed. He stammered, coughed, stammered\nagain, wrinkling his face so deeply he seemed about to weep; but finally\nhe contrived to utter an apologetic laugh. \"I ought to do that, of\ncourse; but in some way or other I just don\'t seem to be able to--to\nmanage it.\"\n\n\"Why in the world not?\" the mystified Lohr inquired.\n\n\"I could hardly tell you--\'less\'n it is to say that when you been with\none boss all your life it\'s so--so kind of embarrassing--to quit him, I\njust can\'t make up my mind to go and speak to him about it. No; I got it\nin my head a letter\'s the only satisfactory way to do it, and I thought\nI\'d ask you to hand it to him.\"\n\n\"Well, of course I don\'t mind doin\' that for you,\" Lohr said, mildly.\n\"But why in the world don\'t you just mail it to him?\"\n\n\"Well, I\'ll tell you,\" Adams returned. \"You know, like that, it\'d have\nto go through a clerk and that secretary of his, and I don\'t know who\nall. There\'s a couple of kind of delicate points I want to put in it:\nfor instance, I want to explain to him how much improvement and so on\nI\'m going to introduce on the old process I helped to work out with\nCampbell when we were working for him, so\'t he\'ll understand it\'s a\ndifferent article and no infringement at all. Then there\'s another\nthing: you see all during while I was sick he had my salary paid to\nme it amounts to considerable, I was on my back so long. Under the\ncircumstances, because I\'m quitting, I don\'t feel as if I ought to\naccept it, and so I\'ll have a check for him in the letter to cover it,\nand I want to be sure he knows it, and gets it personally. If it had to\ngo through a lot of other people, the way it would if I put it in the\nmail, why, you can\'t tell. So what I thought: if you\'d hand it to him\nfor me, and maybe if he happened to read it right then, or anything,\nit might be you\'d notice whatever he\'d happen to say about it--and you\ncould tell me afterward.\"\n\n\"All right,\" Lohr said. \"Certainly if you\'d rather do it that way, I\'ll\nhand it to him and tell you what he says; that is, if he says anything\nand I hear him. Got it written?\"\n\n\"No; I\'ll send it around to you last of the week.\" Adams moved\ntoward his taxicab. \"Don\'t say anything to anybody about it, Charley,\nespecially till after that.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\n\"And, Charley, I\'ll be mighty obliged to you,\" Adams said, and came back\nto shake hands in farewell. \"There\'s one thing more you might do--if\nyou\'d ever happen to feel like it.\" He kept his eyes rather vaguely\nfixed on a point above his friend\'s head as he spoke, and his voice was\nnot well controlled. \"I been--I been down there a good many years and\nI may not \'a\' been so much use lately as I was at first, but I always\ntried to do my best for the old firm. If anything turned out so\'s they\nDID kind of take offense with me, down there, why, just say a good word\nfor me--if you\'d happen to feel like it, maybe.\"\n\nOld Charley Lohr assured him that he would speak a good word if\nopportunity became available; then, after the cab had driven away,\nhe went up to his small apartment on the third floor and muttered\nruminatively until his wife inquired what he was talking to himself\nabout.\n\n\"Ole Virg Adams,\" he told her. \"He\'s out again after his long spell of\nsickness, and the way it looks to me he\'d better stayed in bed.\"\n\n\"You mean he still looks too bad to be out?\"\n\n\"Oh, I expect he\'s gettin\' his HEALTH back,\" Lohr said, frowning.\n\n\"Then what\'s the matter with him? You mean he\'s lost his mind?\"\n\n\"My goodness, but women do jump at conclusions!\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Lohr, \"what other conclusion did you leave me to jump\nat?\"\n\nHer husband explained with a little heat: \"People can have a sickness\nthat AFFECTS their mind, can\'t they? Their mind can get some affected\nwithout bein\' LOST, can\'t it?\"\n\n\"Then you mean the poor man\'s mind does seem affected?\"\n\n\"Why, no; I\'d scarcely go as far as that,\" Lohr said, inconsistently,\nand declined to be more definite.\n\n\nAdams devoted the latter part of that evening to the composition of his\nletter--a disquieting task not completed when, at eleven o\'clock, he\nheard his daughter coming up the stairs. She was singing to herself in a\nlow, sweet voice, and Adams paused to listen incredulously, with his\npen lifted and his mouth open, as if he heard the strangest sound in the\nworld. Then he set down the pen upon a blotter, went to his door, and\nopened it, looking out at her as she came.\n\n\"Well, dearie, you seem to be feeling pretty good,\" he said. \"What you\nbeen doing?\"\n\n\"Just sitting out on the front steps, papa.\"\n\n\"All alone, I suppose.\"\n\n\"No. Mr. Russell called.\"\n\n\"Oh, he did?\" Adams pretended to be surprised. \"What all could you and\nhe find to talk about till this hour o\' the night?\"\n\nShe laughed gaily. \"You don\'t know me, papa!\"\n\n\"How\'s that?\"\n\n\"You\'ve never found out that I always do all the talking.\"\n\n\"Didn\'t you let him get a word in all evening?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; every now and then.\"\n\nAdams took her hand and petted it. \"Well, what did he say?\"\n\nAlice gave him a radiant look and kissed him. \"Not what you think!\" she\nlaughed; then slapped his cheek with saucy affection, pirouetted across\nthe narrow hall and into her own room, and curtsied to him as she closed\nher door.\n\nAdams went back to his writing with a lighter heart; for since Alice\nwas born she had been to him the apple of his eye, his own phrase in\nthinking of her; and what he was doing now was for her.\n\nHe smiled as he picked up his pen to begin a new draft of the painful\nletter; but presently he looked puzzled. After all, she could be happy\njust as things were, it seemed. Then why had he taken what his wife\ncalled \"this new step,\" which he had so long resisted?\n\nHe could only sigh and wonder. \"Life works out pretty peculiarly,\" he\nthought; for he couldn\'t go back now, though the reason he couldn\'t was\nnot clearly apparent. He had to go ahead.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nHe was out in his taxicab again the next morning, and by noon he had\nsecured what he wanted.\n\nIt was curiously significant that he worked so quickly. All the years\nduring which his wife had pressed him toward his present shift he had\nsworn to himself, as well as to her, that he would never yield; and yet\nwhen he did yield he had no plans to make, because he found them\nalready prepared and worked out in detail in his mind; as if he had long\ncontemplated the \"step\" he believed himself incapable of taking.\n\nSometimes he had thought of improving his income by exchanging his\nlittle collection of bonds for a \"small rental property,\" if he could\nfind \"a good buy\"; and he had spent many of his spare hours rambling\nover the enormously spreading city and its purlieus, looking for the\nideal \"buy.\" It remained unattainable, so far as he was concerned; but\nhe found other things.\n\nNot twice a crow\'s mile from his own house there was a dismal and\nslummish quarter, a decayed \"industrial district\" of earlier days. Most\nof the industries were small; some of them died, perishing of bankruptcy\nor fire; and a few had moved, leaving their shells. Of the relics, the\nbest was a brick building which had been the largest and most important\nfactory in the quarter: it had been injured by a long vacancy almost\nas serious as a fire, in effect, and Adams had often guessed at the sum\nneeded to put it in repair.\n\nWhen he passed it, he would look at it with an interest which he\nsupposed detached and idly speculative. \"That\'d be just the thing,\" he\nthought. \"If a fellow had money enough, and took a notion to set up some\nnew business on a big scale, this would be a pretty good place--to make\nglue, for instance, if that wasn\'t out of the question, of course.\nIt would take a lot of money, though; a great deal too much for me to\nexpect to handle--even if I\'d ever dream of doing such a thing.\"\n\nOpposite the dismantled factory was a muddy, open lot of two acres\nor so, and near the middle of the lot, a long brick shed stood in\na desolate abandonment, not happily decorated by old coatings of\ntheatrical and medicinal advertisements. But the brick shed had two\nwooden ells, and, though both shed and ells were of a single story, here\nwas empty space enough for a modest enterprise--\"space enough for almost\nanything, to start with,\" Adams thought, as he walked through the low\nbuildings, one day, when he was prospecting in that section. \"Yes, I\nsuppose I COULD swing this,\" he thought. \"If the process belonged to\nme, say, instead of being out of the question because it isn\'t my\nproperty--or if I was the kind of man to do such a thing anyhow, here\nwould be something I could probably get hold of pretty cheap. They\'d\nwant a lot of money for a lease on that big building over the way--but\nthis, why, I should think it\'d be practically nothing at all.\"\n\nThen, by chance, meeting an agent he knew, he made inquiries--merely to\nsatisfy a casual curiosity, he thought--and he found matters much as he\nhad supposed, except that the owners of the big building did not wish\nto let, but to sell it, and this at a price so exorbitant that Adams\nlaughed. But the long brick shed in the great muddy lot was for sale or\nto let, or \"pretty near to be given away,\" he learned, if anybody would\ntake it.\n\nAdams took it now, though without seeing that he had been destined\nto take it, and that some dreary wizard in the back of his head had\nforeseen all along that he would take it, and planned to be ready. He\ndrove in his taxicab to look the place over again, then down-town to\narrange for a lease; and came home to lunch with his wife and daughter.\nThings were \"moving,\" he told them.\n\nHe boasted a little of having acted so decisively, and said that since\nthe dang thing had to be done, it was \"going to be done RIGHT!\" He was\nalmost cheerful, in a feverish way, and when the cab came for him again,\nsoon after lunch, he explained that he intended not only to get things\ndone right, but also to \"get \'em done quick!\" Alice, following him to\nthe front door, looked at him anxiously and asked if she couldn\'t help.\nHe laughed at her grimly.\n\n\"Then let me go along with you in the cab,\" she begged. \"You don\'t look\nable to start in so hard, papa, just when you\'re barely beginning to get\nyour strength back. Do let me go with you and see if I can\'t help--or at\nleast take care of you if you should get to feeling badly.\"\n\nHe declined, but upon pressure let her put a tiny bottle of spirits of\nammonia in his pocket, and promised to make use of it if he \"felt faint\nor anything.\" Then he was off again; and the next morning had men at\nwork in his sheds, though the wages he had to pay frightened him.\n\nHe directed the workmen in every detail, hurrying them by example and\nexhortations, and receiving, in consequence, several declarations of\nindependence, as well as one resignation, which took effect immediately.\n\"Yous capitalusts seem to think a man\'s got nothin\' to do but break his\nback p\'doosin\' wealth fer yous to squander,\" the resigning person loudly\ncomplained. \"You look out: the toiler\'s day is a-comin\', and it ain\'t so\nfur off, neither!\" But the capitalist was already out of hearing, gone\nto find a man to take this orator\'s place.\n\nBy the end of the week, Adams felt that he had moved satisfactorily\nforward in his preparations for the simple equipment he needed; but\nhe hated the pause of Sunday. He didn\'t WANT any rest, he told Alice\nimpatiently, when she suggested that the idle day might be good for him.\n\nLate that afternoon he walked over to the apartment house where old\nCharley Lohr lived, and gave his friend the letter he wanted the head\nof Lamb and Company to receive \"personally.\" \"I\'ll take it as a mighty\ngreat favour in you to hand it to him personally, Charley,\" he said, in\nparting. \"And you won\'t forget, in case he says anything about it--and\nremember if you ever do get a chance to put in a good word for me later,\nyou know----\"\n\nOld Charley promised to remember, and, when Mrs. Lohr came out of the\n\"kitchenette,\" after the door closed, he said thoughtfully, \"Just skin\nand bones.\"\n\n\"You mean Mr. Adams is?\" Mrs. Lohr inquired.\n\n\"Who\'d you think I meant?\" he returned. \"One o\' these partridges in the\nwall-paper?\"\n\n\"Did he look so badly?\"\n\n\"Looked kind of distracted to me,\" her husband replied. \"These little\nthin fellers can stand a heap sometimes, though. He\'ll be over here\nagain Monday.\"\n\n\"Did he say he would?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Lohr. \"But he will. You\'ll see. He\'ll be over to find out\nwhat the big boss says when I give him this letter. Expect I\'d be kind\nof anxious, myself, if I was him.\"\n\n\"Why would you? What\'s Mr. Adams doing to be so anxious about?\"\n\nLohr\'s expression became one of reserve, the look of a man who has\nfound that when he speaks his inner thoughts his wife jumps too far to\nconclusions. \"Oh, nothing,\" he said. \"Of course any man starting up a\nnew business is bound to be pretty nervous a while. He\'ll be over here\nto-morrow evening, all right; you\'ll see.\"\n\nThe prediction was fulfilled: Adams arrived just after Mrs. Lohr had\nremoved the dinner dishes to her \"kitchenette\"; but Lohr had little\ninformation to give his caller.\n\n\"He didn\'t say a word, Virgil; nary a word. I took it into his office\nand handed it to him, and he just sat and read it; that\'s all. I kind of\nstood around as long as I could, but he was sittin\' at his desk with his\nside to me, and he never turned around full toward me, as it were, so I\ncouldn\'t hardly even tell anything. All I know: he just read it.\"\n\n\"Well, but see here,\" Adams began, nervously. \"Well----\"\n\n\"Well what, Virg?\"\n\n\"Well, but what did he say when he DID speak?\"\n\n\"He didn\'t speak. Not so long I was in there, anyhow. He just sat there\nand read it. Read kind of slow. Then, when he came to the end, he turned\nback and started to read it all over again. By that time there was three\nor four other men standin\' around in the office waitin\' to speak to him,\nand I had to go.\"\n\nAdams sighed, and stared at the floor, irresolute. \"Well, I\'ll be\ngetting along back home then, I guess, Charley. So you\'re sure you\ncouldn\'t tell anything what he might have thought about it, then?\"\n\n\"Not a thing in the world. I\'ve told you all I know, Virg.\"\n\n\"I guess so, I guess so,\" Adams said, mournfully. \"I feel mighty\nobliged to you, Charley Lohr; mighty obliged. Good-night to you.\" And he\ndeparted, sighing in perplexity.\n\nOn his way home, preoccupied with many thoughts, he walked so slowly\nthat once or twice he stopped and stood motionless for a few moments,\nwithout being aware of it; and when he reached the juncture of the\nsidewalk with the short brick path that led to his own front door, he\nstopped again, and stood for more than a minute. \"Ah, I wish I knew,\" he\nwhispered, plaintively. \"I do wish I knew what he thought about it.\"\n\nHe was roused by a laugh that came lightly from the little veranda near\nby. \"Papa!\" Alice called gaily. \"What are you standing there muttering\nto yourself about?\"\n\n\"Oh, are you there, dearie?\" he said, and came up the path. A tall\nfigure rose from a chair on the veranda.\n\n\"Papa, this is Mr. Russell.\"\n\nThe two men shook hands, Adams saying, \"Pleased to make your\nacquaintance,\" as they looked at each other in the faint light diffused\nthrough the opaque glass in the upper part of the door. Adams\'s\nimpression was of a strong and tall young man, fashionable but gentle;\nand Russell\'s was of a dried, little old business man with a grizzled\nmoustache, worried bright eyes, shapeless dark clothes, and a homely\nmanner.\n\n\"Nice evening,\" Adams said further, as their hands parted. \"Nice time o\'\nyear it is, but we don\'t always have as good weather as this; that\'s\nthe trouble of it. Well----\" He went to the door. \"Well--I bid you good\nevening,\" he said, and retired within the house.\n\nAlice laughed. \"He\'s the old-fashionedest man in town, I suppose and\nfrightfully impressed with you, I could see!\"\n\n\"What nonsense!\" said Russell. \"How could anybody be impressed with me?\"\n\n\"Why not? Because you\'re quiet? Good gracious! Don\'t you know that\nyou\'re the most impressive sort? We chatterers spend all our time\nplaying to you quiet people.\"\n\n\"Yes; we\'re only the audience.\"\n\n\"\'Only!\'\" she echoed. \"Why, we live for you, and we can\'t live without\nyou.\"\n\n\"I wish you couldn\'t,\" said Russell. \"That would be a new experience for\nboth of us, wouldn\'t it?\"\n\n\"It might be a rather bleak one for me,\" she answered, lightly. \"I\'m\nafraid I\'ll miss these summer evenings with you when they\'re over. I\'ll\nmiss them enough, thanks!\"\n\n\"Do they have to be over some time?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, everything\'s over some time, isn\'t it?\"\n\nRussell laughed at her. \"Don\'t let\'s look so far ahead as that,\" he\nsaid. \"We don\'t need to be already thinking of the cemetery, do we?\"\n\n\"I didn\'t,\" she said, shaking her head. \"Our summer evenings will be\nover before then, Mr. Russell.\"\n\n\"Why?\" he asked.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" she said. \"THERE\'S laconic eloquence: almost a proposal\nin a single word! Never mind, I shan\'t hold you to it. But to answer\nyou: well, I\'m always looking ahead, and somehow I usually see about how\nthings are coming out.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"I suppose most of us do; at least it seems as if we\ndid, because we so seldom feel surprised by the way they do come out.\nBut maybe that\'s only because life isn\'t like a play in a theatre, and\nmost things come about so gradually we get used to them.\"\n\n\"No, I\'m sure I can see quite a long way ahead,\" she insisted, gravely.\n\"And it doesn\'t seem to me as if our summer evenings could last very\nlong. Something\'ll interfere--somebody will, I mean--they\'ll SAY\nsomething----\"\n\n\"What if they do?\"\n\nShe moved her shoulders in a little apprehensive shiver. \"It\'ll change\nyou,\" she said. \"I\'m just sure something spiteful\'s going to happen to\nme. You\'ll feel differently about--things.\"\n\n\"Now, isn\'t that an idea!\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"It will,\" she insisted. \"I know something spiteful\'s going to happen!\"\n\n\"You seem possessed by a notion not a bit flattering to me,\" he\nremarked.\n\n\"Oh, but isn\'t it? That\'s just what it is! Why isn\'t it?\"\n\n\"Because it implies that I\'m made of such soft material the slightest\nbreeze will mess me all up. I\'m not so like that as I evidently appear;\nand if it\'s true that we\'re afraid other people will do the things we\'d\nbe most likely to do ourselves, it seems to me that I ought to be the\none to be afraid. I ought to be afraid that somebody may say something\nabout me to you that will make you believe I\'m a professional forger.\"\n\n\"No. We both know they won\'t,\" she said. \"We both know you\'re the sort\nof person everybody in the world says nice things about.\" She lifted\nher hand to silence him as he laughed at this. \"Oh, of course you are! I\nthink perhaps you\'re a little flirtatious--most quiet men have that one\nsly way with \'em--oh, yes, they do! But you happen to be the kind of\nman everybody loves to praise. And if you weren\'t, _I_ shouldn\'t hear\nanything terrible about you. I told you I was unpopular: I don\'t see\nanybody at all any more. The only man except you who\'s been to see me in\na month is that fearful little fat Frank Dowling, and I sent word to HIM\nI wasn\'t home. Nobody\'d tell me of your wickedness, you see.\"\n\n\"Then let me break some news to you,\" Russell said. \"Nobody would tell\nme of yours, either. Nobody\'s even mentioned you to me.\"\n\nShe burlesqued a cry of anguish. \"That IS obscurity! I suppose I\'m\ntoo apt to forget that they say the population\'s about half a million\nnowadays. There ARE other people to talk about, you feel, then?\"\n\n\"None that I want to,\" he said. \"But I should think the size of the\nplace might relieve your mind of what seems to insist on burdening it.\nBesides, I\'d rather you thought me a better man than you do.\"\n\n\"What kind of a man do I think you are?\"\n\n\"The kind affected by what\'s said about people instead of by what they\ndo themselves.\"\n\n\"Aren\'t you?\"\n\n\"No, I\'m not,\" he said. \"If you want our summer evenings to be over\nyou\'ll have to drive me away yourself.\"\n\n\"Nobody else could?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nShe was silent, leaning forward, with her elbows on her knees and her\nclasped hands against her lips. Then, not moving, she said softly:\n\n\"Well--I won\'t!\"\n\nShe was silent again, and he said nothing, but looked at her, seeming\nto be content with looking. Her attitude was one only a graceful person\nshould assume, but she was graceful; and, in the wan light, which made\na prettily shaped mist of her, she had beauty. Perhaps it was beauty of\nthe hour, and of the love scene almost made into form by what they had\nboth just said, but she had it; and though beauty of the hour passes, he\nwho sees it will long remember it and the hour when it came.\n\n\"What are you thinking of?\" he asked.\n\nShe leaned back in her chair and did not answer at once. Then she said:\n\n\"I don\'t know; I doubt if I was thinking of anything. It seems to me I\nwasn\'t. I think I was just being sort of sadly happy just then.\"\n\n\"Were you? Was it \'sadly,\' too?\"\n\n\"Don\'t you know?\" she said. \"It seems to me that only little children\ncan be just happily happy. I think when we get older our happiest\nmoments are like the one I had just then: it\'s as if we heard strains of\nminor music running through them--oh, so sweet, but oh, so sad!\"\n\n\"But what makes it sad for YOU?\"\n\n\"I don\'t know,\" she said, in a lighter tone. \"Perhaps it\'s a kind of\nuseless foreboding I seem to have pretty often. It may be that--or it\nmay be poor papa.\"\n\n\"You ARE a funny, delightful girl, though!\" Russell laughed. \"When your\nfather\'s so well again that he goes out walking in the evenings!\"\n\n\"He does too much walking,\" Alice said. \"Too much altogether, over at\nhis new plant. But there isn\'t any stopping him.\" She laughed and shook\nher head. \"When a man gets an ambition to be a multi-millionaire his\nfamily don\'t appear to have much weight with him. He\'ll walk all he\nwants to, in spite of them.\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" Russell said, absently; then he leaned forward. \"I wish\nI could understand better why you were \'sadly\' happy.\"\n\nMeanwhile, as Alice shed what further light she could on this point, the\nman ambitious to be a \"multi-millionaire\" was indeed walking too much\nfor his own good. He had gone to bed, hoping to sleep well and rise\nearly for a long day\'s work, but he could not rest, and now, in his\nnightgown and slippers, he was pacing the floor of his room.\n\n\"I wish I DID know,\" he thought, over and over. \"I DO wish I knew how he\nfeels about it.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nThat was a thought almost continuously in his mind, even when he was\nhardest at work; and, as the days went on and he could not free himself,\nhe became querulous about it. \"I guess I\'m the biggest dang fool alive,\"\nhe told his wife as they sat together one evening. \"I got plenty else\nto bother me, without worrying my head off about what HE thinks. I\ncan\'t help what he thinks; it\'s too late for that. So why should I keep\npestering myself about it?\"\n\n\"It\'ll wear off, Virgil,\" Mrs. Adams said, reassuringly. She was gentle\nand sympathetic with him, and for the first time in many years he would\ncome to sit with her and talk, when he had finished his day\'s work. He\nhad told her, evading her eye, \"Oh, I don\'t blame you. You didn\'t get\nafter me to do this on your own account; you couldn\'t help it.\"\n\n\"Yes; but it don\'t wear off,\" he complained. \"This afternoon I was\nshowing the men how I wanted my vats to go, and I caught my fool self\nstanding there saying to my fool self, \'It\'s funny I don\'t hear how he\nfeels about it from SOMEbody.\' I was saying it aloud, almost--and it IS\nfunny I don\'t hear anything!\"\n\n\"Well, you see what it means, don\'t you, Virgil? It only means he hasn\'t\nsaid anything to anybody about it. Don\'t you think you\'re getting kind\nof morbid over it?\"\n\n\"Maybe, maybe,\" he muttered.\n\n\"Why, yes,\" she said, briskly. \"You don\'t realize what a little bit of\na thing all this is to him. It\'s been a long, long while since the\nlast time you even mentioned glue to him, and he\'s probably forgotten\neverything about it.\"\n\n\"You\'re off your base; it isn\'t like him to forget things,\" Adams\nreturned, peevishly. \"He may seem to forget \'em, but he don\'t.\"\n\n\"But he\'s not thinking about this, or you\'d have heard from him before\nnow.\"\n\nHer husband shook his head. \"Ah, that\'s just it!\" he said. \"Why HAVEN\'T\nI heard from him?\"\n\n\"It\'s all your morbidness, Virgil. Look at Walter: if Mr. Lamb held this\nup against you, would he still let Walter stay there? Wouldn\'t he have\ndischarged Walter if he felt angry with you?\"\n\n\"That dang boy!\" Adams said. \"If he WANTED to come with me now, I\nwouldn\'t hardly let him, What do you suppose makes him so bull-headed?\"\n\n\"But hasn\'t he a right to choose for himself?\" she asked. \"I suppose\nhe feels he ought to stick to what he thinks is sure pay. As soon as he\nsees that you\'re going to succeed with the glue-works he\'ll want to be\nwith you quick enough.\"\n\n\"Well, he better get a little sense in his head,\" Adams returned,\ncrossly. \"He wanted me to pay him a three-hundred-dollar bonus in\nadvance, when anybody with a grain of common sense knows I need every\npenny I can lay my hands on!\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" she said. \"He\'ll come around later and be glad of the\nchance.\"\n\n\"He\'ll have to beg for it then! _I_ won\'t ask him again.\"\n\n\"Oh, Walter will come out all right; you needn\'t worry. And don\'t you\nsee that Mr. Lamb\'s not discharging him means there\'s no hard feeling\nagainst you, Virgil?\"\n\n\"I can\'t make it out at all,\" he said, frowning. \"The only thing I can\nTHINK it means is that J. A. Lamb is so fair-minded--and of course he\nIS one of the fair-mindedest men alive I suppose that\'s the reason he\nhasn\'t fired Walter. He may know,\" Adams concluded, morosely--\"he may\nknow that\'s just another thing to make me feel all the meaner: keeping\nmy boy there on a salary after I\'ve done him an injury.\"\n\n\"Now, now!\" she said, trying to comfort him. \"You couldn\'t do anybody an\ninjury to save your life, and everybody knows it.\"\n\n\"Well, anybody ought to know I wouldn\'t WANT to do an injury, but\nthis world isn\'t built so\'t we can do just what we want.\" He paused,\nreflecting. \"Of course there may be one explanation of why Walter\'s\nstill there: J. A. maybe hasn\'t noticed that he IS there. There\'s so\nmany I expect he hardly knows him by sight.\"\n\n\"Well, just do quit thinking about it,\" she urged him. \"It only bothers\nyou without doing any good. Don\'t you know that?\"\n\n\"Don\'t I, though!\" he laughed, feebly. \"I know it better\'n anybody! How\nfunny that is: when you know thinking about a thing only pesters you\nwithout helping anything at all, and yet you keep right on pestering\nyourself with it!\"\n\n\"But WHY?\" she said. \"What\'s the use when you know you haven\'t done\nanything wrong, Virgil? You said yourself you were going to improve the\nprocess so much it would be different from the old one, and you\'d REALLY\nhave a right to it.\"\n\nAdams had persuaded himself of this when he yielded; he had found it\nnecessary to persuade himself of it--though there was a part of him, of\ncourse, that remained unpersuaded; and this discomfiting part of him was\nwhat made his present trouble. \"Yes, I know,\" he said. \"That\'s true, but\nI can\'t quite seem to get away from the fact that the principle of the\nprocess is a good deal the same--well, it\'s more\'n that; it\'s just about\nthe same as the one he hired Campbell and me to work out for him. Truth\nis, nobody could tell the difference, and I don\'t know as there IS\nany difference except in these improvements I\'m making. Of course, the\nimprovements do give me pretty near a perfect right to it, as a person\nmight say; and that\'s one of the things I thought of putting in my\nletter to him; but I was afraid he\'d just think I was trying to make up\nexcuses, so I left it out. I kind of worried all the time I was writing\nthat letter, because if he thought I WAS just making up excuses, why, it\nmight set him just so much more against me.\"\n\nEver since Mrs. Adams had found that she was to have her way, the depths\nof her eyes had been troubled by a continuous uneasiness; and, although\nshe knew it was there, and sometimes veiled it by keeping the revealing\neyes averted from her husband and children, she could not always cover\nit under that assumption of absent-mindedness. The uneasy look became\nvivid, and her voice was slightly tremulous now, as she said, \"But\nwhat if he SHOULD be against you--although I don\'t believe he is, of\ncourse--you told me he couldn\'t DO anything to you, Virgil.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, slowly. \"I can\'t see how he could do anything. It was\njust a secret, not a patent; the thing ain\'t patentable. I\'ve tried to\nthink what he could do--supposing he was to want to--but I can\'t figure\nout anything at all that would be any harm to me. There isn\'t any way in\nthe world it could be made a question of law. Only thing he could do\'d\nbe to TELL people his side of it, and set \'em against me. I been kind of\nwaiting for that to happen, all along.\"\n\nShe looked somewhat relieved. \"So did I expect it,\" she said. \"I was\ndreading it most on Alice\'s account: it might have--well, young men are\nso easily influenced and all. But so far as the business is concerned,\nwhat if Mr. Lamb did talk? That wouldn\'t amount to much. It wouldn\'t\naffect the business; not to hurt. And, besides, he isn\'t even doing\nthat.\"\n\n\"No; anyhow not yet, it seems.\" And Adams sighed again, wistfully. \"But\nI WOULD give a good deal to know what he thinks!\"\n\nBefore his surrender he had always supposed that if he did such an\nunthinkable thing as to seize upon the glue process for himself, what he\nwould feel must be an overpowering shame. But shame is the rarest thing\nin the world: what he felt was this unremittent curiosity about his old\nemployer\'s thoughts. It was an obsession, yet he did not want to hear\nwhat Lamb \"thought\" from Lamb himself, for Adams had a second obsession,\nand this was his dread of meeting the old man face to face. Such an\nencounter could happen only by chance and unexpectedly; since Adams\nwould have avoided any deliberate meeting, so long as his legs had\nstrength to carry him, even if Lamb came to the house to see him.\n\nBut people do meet unexpectedly; and when Adams had to be down-town he\nkept away from the \"wholesale district.\" One day he did see Lamb, as the\nlatter went by in his car, impassive, going home to lunch; and Adams,\nin the crowd at a corner, knew that the old man had not seen him.\nNevertheless, in a street car, on the way back to his sheds, an hour\nlater, he was still subject to little shivering seizures of horror.\n\nHe worked unceasingly, seeming to keep at it even in his sleep, for he\nalways woke in the midst of a planning and estimating that must have\nbeen going on in his mind before consciousness of himself returned.\nMoreover, the work, thus urged, went rapidly, in spite of the high wages\nhe had to pay his labourers for their short hours. \"It eats money,\" he\ncomplained, and, in fact, by the time his vats and boilers were in\nplace it had eaten almost all he could supply; but in addition to his\nequipment he now owned a stock of \"raw material,\" raw indeed; and when\noperations should be a little further along he was confident his banker\nwould be willing to \"carry\" him.\n\nSix weeks from the day he had obtained his lease he began his\nglue-making. The terrible smells came out of the sheds and went writhing\nlike snakes all through that quarter of the town. A smiling man,\nstrolling and breathing the air with satisfaction, would turn a corner\nand smile no more, but hurry. However, coloured people had almost all\nthe dwellings of this old section to themselves; and although even they\nwere troubled, there was recompense for them. Being philosophic about\nwhat appeared to them as in the order of nature, they sought neither\nescape nor redress, and soon learned to bear what the wind brought them.\nThey even made use of it to enrich those figures of speech with which\nthe native impulses of coloured people decorate their communications:\nthey flavoured metaphor, simile, and invective with it; and thus may be\nsaid to have enjoyed it. But the man who produced it took a hot bath\nas soon as he reached his home the evening of that first day when his\nmanufacturing began. Then he put on fresh clothes; but after dinner he\nseemed to be haunted, and asked his wife if she \"noticed anything.\"\n\nShe laughed and inquired what he meant.\n\n\"Seems to me as if that glue-works smell hadn\'t quit hanging to me,\" he\nexplained. \"Don\'t you notice it?\"\n\n\"No! What an idea!\"\n\nHe laughed, too, but uneasily; and told her he was sure \"the dang glue\nsmell\" was somehow sticking to him. Later, he went outdoors and walked\nup and down the small yard in the dusk; but now and then he stood still,\nwith his head lifted, and sniffed the air suspiciously. \"Can YOU smell\nit?\" he called to Alice, who sat upon the veranda, prettily dressed and\nwaiting in a reverie.\n\n\"Smell what, papa?\"\n\n\"That dang glue-works.\"\n\nShe did the same thing her mother had done: laughed, and said, \"No! How\nfoolish! Why, papa, it\'s over two miles from here!\"\n\n\"You don\'t get it at all?\" he insisted.\n\n\"The idea! The air is lovely to-night, papa.\"\n\nThe air did not seem lovely to him, for he was positive that he detected\nthe taint. He wondered how far it carried, and if J. A. Lamb would smell\nit, too, out on his own lawn a mile to the north; and if he did, would\nhe guess what it was? Then Adams laughed at himself for such nonsense;\nbut could not rid his nostrils of their disgust. To him the whole town\nseemed to smell of his glue-works.\n\nNevertheless, the glue was making, and his sheds were busy. \"Guess\nwe\'re stirrin\' up this ole neighbourhood with more than the smell,\" his\nforeman remarked one morning.\n\n\"How\'s that?\" Adams inquired.\n\n\"That great big, enormous ole dead butterine factory across the street\nfrom our lot,\" the man said. \"Nothin\' like settin\' an example to bring\nreal estate to life. That place is full o\' carpenters startin\' in to\nmake a regular buildin\' of it again. Guess you ought to have the\ncredit of it, because you was the first man in ten years to see any\npossibilities in this neighbourhood.\"\n\nAdams was pleased, and, going out to see for himself, heard a great\nhammering and sawing from within the building; while carpenters were\njust emerging gingerly upon the dangerous roof. He walked out over the\ndried mud of his deep lot, crossed the street, and spoke genially to\na workman who was removing the broken glass of a window on the ground\nfloor.\n\n\"Here! What\'s all this howdy-do over here?\"\n\n\"Goin\' to fix her all up, I guess,\" the workman said. \"Big job it is,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Sh\' think it would be.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; a pretty big job--a pretty big job. Got men at it on all four\nfloors and on the roof. They\'re doin\' it RIGHT.\"\n\n\"Who\'s doing it?\"\n\n\"Lord! I d\' know. Some o\' these here big manufacturing corporations, I\nguess.\"\n\n\"What\'s it going to be?\"\n\n\"They tell ME,\" the workman answered--\"they tell ME she\'s goin\' to be a\nbutterine factory again. Anyways, I hope she won\'t be anything to smell\nlike that glue-works you got over there not while I\'m workin\' around\nher, anyways!\"\n\n\"That smell\'s all right,\" Adams said. \"You soon get used to it.\"\n\n\"You do?\" The man appeared incredulous. \"Listen! I was over in France:\nit\'s a good thing them Dutchmen never thought of it; we\'d of had to\nquit!\"\n\nAdams laughed, and went back to his sheds. \"I guess my foreman was\nright,\" he told his wife, that evening, with a little satisfaction.\n\"As soon as one man shows enterprise enough to found an industry in a\nbroken-down neighbourhood, somebody else is sure to follow. I kind of\nlike the look of it: it\'ll help make our place seem sort of more busy\nand prosperous when it comes to getting a loan from the bank--and I got\nto get one mighty soon, too. I did think some that if things go as well\nas there\'s every reason to think they OUGHT to, I might want to spread\nout and maybe get hold of that old factory myself; but I hardly expected\nto be able to handle a proposition of that size before two or three\nyears from now, and anyhow there\'s room enough on the lot I got, if we\nneed more buildings some day. Things are going about as fine as I could\nask: I hired some girls to-day to do the bottling--coloured girls along\nabout sixteen to twenty years old. Afterwhile, I expect to get a machine\nto put the stuff in the little bottles, when we begin to get good\nreturns; but half a dozen of these coloured girls can do it all right\nnow, by hand. We\'re getting to have really quite a little plant over\nthere: yes, sir, quite a regular little plant!\"\n\nHe chuckled, and at this cheerful sound, of a kind his wife had almost\nforgotten he was capable of producing, she ventured to put her hand upon\nhis arm. They had gone outdoors, after dinner, taking two chairs with\nthem, and were sitting through the late twilight together, keeping well\naway from the \"front porch,\" which was not yet occupied, however Alice\nwas in her room changing her dress.\n\n\"Well, honey,\" Mrs. Adams said, taking confidence not only to put her\nhand upon his arm, but to revive this disused endearment;--\"it\'s grand\nto have you so optimistic. Maybe some time you\'ll admit I was right,\nafter all. Everything\'s going so well, it seems a pity you didn\'t take\nthis--this step--long ago. Don\'t you think maybe so, Virgil?\"\n\n\"Well--if I was ever going to, I don\'t know but I might as well of.\nI got to admit the proposition begins to look pretty good: I know the\nstuff\'ll sell, and I can\'t see a thing in the world to stop it. It does\nlook good, and if--if----\" He paused.\n\n\"If what?\" she said, suddenly anxious.\n\nHe laughed plaintively, as if confessing a superstition. \"It\'s\nfunny--well, it\'s mighty funny about that smell. I\'ve got so used to it\nat the plant I never seem to notice it at all over there. It\'s only when\nI get away. Honestly, can\'t you notice----?\"\n\n\"Virgil!\" She lifted her hand to strike his arm chidingly. \"Do quit\nharping on that nonsense!\"\n\n\"Oh, of course it don\'t amount to anything,\" he said. \"A person can\nstand a good deal of just smell. It don\'t WORRY me any.\"\n\n\"I should think not especially as there isn\'t any.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I feel pretty fair over the whole thing--a lot\nbetter\'n I ever expected to, anyhow. I don\'t know as there\'s any reason\nI shouldn\'t tell you so.\"\n\nShe was deeply pleased with this acknowledgment, and her voice had\ntenderness in it as she responded: \"There, honey! Didn\'t I always say\nyou\'d be glad if you did it?\"\n\nEmbarrassed, he coughed loudly, then filled his pipe and lit it. \"Well,\"\nhe said, slowly, \"it\'s a puzzle. Yes, sir, it\'s a puzzle.\"\n\n\"What is?\"\n\n\"Pretty much everything, I guess.\"\n\nAs he spoke, a song came to them from a lighted window over their heads.\nThen the window darkened abruptly, but the song continued as Alice went\ndown through the house to wait on the little veranda. \"Mi chiamo Mimi,\"\nshe sang, and in her voice throbbed something almost startling in its\nsweetness. Her father and mother listened, not speaking until the song\nstopped with the click of the wire screen at the front door as Alice\ncame out.\n\n\"My!\" said her father. \"How sweet she does sing! I don\'t know as I ever\nheard her voice sound nicer than it did just then.\"\n\n\"There\'s something that makes it sound that way,\" his wife told him.\n\n\"I suppose so,\" he said, sighing. \"I suppose so. You think----\"\n\n\"She\'s just terribly in love with him!\"\n\n\"I expect that\'s the way it ought to be,\" he said, then drew upon\nhis pipe for reflection, and became murmurous with the symptoms of\nmelancholy laughter. \"It don\'t make things less of a puzzle, though,\ndoes it?\"\n\n\"In what way, Virgil?\"\n\n\"Why, here,\" he said--\"here we go through all this muck and moil to help\nfix things nicer for her at home, and what\'s it all amount to? Seems\nlike she\'s just gone ahead the way she\'d \'a\' gone anyhow; and now, I\nsuppose, getting ready to up and leave us! Ain\'t that a puzzle to you?\nIt is to me.\"\n\n\"Oh, but things haven\'t gone that far yet.\"\n\n\"Why, you just said----\"\n\nShe gave a little cry of protest. \"Oh, they aren\'t ENGAGED yet. Of\ncourse they WILL be; he\'s just as much interested in her as she is in\nhim, but----\"\n\n\"Well, what\'s the trouble then?\"\n\n\"You ARE a simple old fellow!\" his wife exclaimed, and then rose from\nher chair. \"That reminds me,\" she said.\n\n\"What of?\" he asked. \"What\'s my being simple remind you of?\"\n\n\"Nothing!\" she laughed. \"It wasn\'t you that reminded me. It was just\nsomething that\'s been on my mind. I don\'t believe he\'s actually ever\nbeen inside our house!\"\n\n\"Hasn\'t he?\"\n\n\"I actually don\'t believe he ever has,\" she said. \"Of course we\nmust----\" She paused, debating.\n\n\"We must what?\"\n\n\"I guess I better talk to Alice about it right now,\" she said. \"He don\'t\nusually come for about half an hour yet; I guess I\'ve got time.\" And\nwith that she walked away, leaving him to his puzzles.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nAlice was softly crooning to herself as her mother turned the corner of\nthe house and approached through the dusk.\n\n\"Isn\'t it the most BEAUTIFUL evening!\" the daughter said. \"WHY can\'t\nsummer last all year? Did you ever know a lovelier twilight than this,\nmama?\"\n\nMrs. Adams laughed, and answered, \"Not since I was your age, I expect.\"\n\nAlice was wistful at once. \"Don\'t they stay beautiful after my age?\"\n\n\"Well, it\'s not the same thing.\"\n\n\"Isn\'t it? Not ever?\"\n\n\"You may have a different kind from mine,\" the mother said, a little\nsadly. \"I think you will, Alice. You deserve----\"\n\n\"No, I don\'t. I don\'t deserve anything, and I know it. But I\'m getting\na great deal these days--more than I ever dreamed COULD come to me.\nI\'m--I\'m pretty happy, mama!\"\n\n\"Dearie!\" Her mother would have kissed her, but Alice drew away.\n\n\"Oh, I don\'t mean----\" She laughed nervously. \"I wasn\'t meaning to\ntell you I\'m ENGAGED, mama. We\'re not. I mean--oh! things seem pretty\nbeautiful in spite of all I\'ve done to spoil \'em.\"\n\n\"You?\" Mrs. Adams cried, incredulously. \"What have you done to spoil\nanything?\"\n\n\"Little things,\" Alice said. \"A thousand little silly--oh, what\'s\nthe use? He\'s so honestly what he is--just simple and good and\nintelligent--I feel a tricky mess beside him! I don\'t see why he likes\nme; and sometimes I\'m afraid he wouldn\'t if he knew me.\"\n\n\"He\'d just worship you,\" said the fond mother. \"And the more he knew\nyou, the more he\'d worship you.\"\n\nAlice shook her head. \"He\'s not the worshiping kind. Not like that at\nall. He\'s more----\"\n\nBut Mrs. Adams was not interested in this analysis, and she interrupted\nbriskly, \"Of course it\'s time your father and I showed some interest in\nhim. I was just saying I actually don\'t believe he\'s ever been inside\nthe house.\"\n\n\"No,\" Alice said, musingly; \"that\'s true: I don\'t believe he has. Except\nwhen we\'ve walked in the evening we\'ve always sat out here, even those\ntwo times when it was drizzly. It\'s so much nicer.\"\n\n\"We\'ll have to do SOMETHING or other, of course,\" her mother said.\n\n\"What like?\"\n\n\"I was thinking----\" Mrs. Adams paused. \"Well, of course we could hardly\nput off asking him to dinner, or something, much longer.\"\n\nAlice was not enthusiastic; so far from it, indeed, that there was a\nmelancholy alarm in her voice. \"Oh, mama, must we? Do you think so?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do. I really do.\"\n\n\"Couldn\'t we--well, couldn\'t we wait?\"\n\n\"It looks queer,\" Mrs. Adams said. \"It isn\'t the thing at all for a\nyoung man to come as much as he does, and never more than just barely\nmeet your father and mother. No. We ought to do something.\"\n\n\"But a dinner!\" Alice objected. \"In the first place, there isn\'t anybody\nI want to ask. There isn\'t anybody I WOULD ask.\"\n\n\"I didn\'t mean trying to give a big dinner,\" her mother explained. \"I\njust mean having him to dinner. That mulatto woman, Malena Burns, goes\nout by the day, and she could bring a waitress. We can get some flowers\nfor the table and some to put in the living-room. We might just as well\ngo ahead and do it to-morrow as any other time; because your father\'s in\na fine mood, and I saw Malena this afternoon and told her I might want\nher soon. She said she didn\'t have any engagements this week, and I can\nlet her know to-night. Suppose when he comes you ask him for to-morrow,\nAlice. Everything\'ll be very nice, I\'m sure. Don\'t worry about it.\"\n\n\"Well--but----\" Alice was uncertain.\n\n\"But don\'t you see, it looks so queer, not to do SOMETHING?\" her mother\nurged. \"It looks so kind of poverty-stricken. We really oughtn\'t to wait\nany longer.\"\n\nAlice assented, though not with a good heart. \"Very well, I\'ll ask him,\nif you think we\'ve got to.\"\n\n\"That matter\'s settled then,\" Mrs. Adams said. \"I\'ll go telephone\nMalena, and then I\'ll tell your father about it.\"\n\nBut when she went back to her husband, she found him in an excited\nstate of mind, and Walter standing before him in the darkness. Adams was\nalmost shouting, so great was his vehemence.\n\n\"Hush, hush!\" his wife implored, as she came near them. \"They\'ll hear\nyou out on the front porch!\"\n\n\"I don\'t care who hears me,\" Adams said, harshly, though he tempered his\nloudness. \"Do you want to know what this boy\'s asking me for? I thought\nhe\'d maybe come to tell me he\'d got a little sense in his head at last,\nand a little decency about what\'s due his family! I thought he was\ngoing to ask me to take him into my plant. No, ma\'am; THAT\'S not what he\nwants!\"\n\n\"No, it isn\'t,\" Walter said. In the darkness his face could not be seen;\nhe stood motionless, in what seemed an apathetic attitude; and he spoke\nquietly, \"No,\" he repeated. \"That isn\'t what I want.\"\n\n\"You stay down at that place,\" Adams went on, hotly, \"instead of trying\nto be a little use to your family; and the only reason you\'re ALLOWED to\nstay there is because Mr. Lamb\'s never happened to notice you ARE still\nthere! You just wait----\"\n\n\"You\'re off,\" Walter said, in the same quiet way. \"He knows I\'m there.\nHe spoke to me yesterday: he asked me how I was getting along with my\nwork.\"\n\n\"He did?\" Adams said, seeming not to believe him.\n\n\"Yes. He did.\"\n\n\"What else did he say, Walter?\" Mrs. Adams asked quickly.\n\n\"Nothin\'. Just walked on.\"\n\n\"I don\'t believe he knew who you were,\" Adams declared.\n\n\"Think not? He called me \'Walter Adams.\'\"\n\nAt this Adams was silent; and Walter, after waiting a moment, said:\n\n\"Well, are you going to do anything about me? About what I told you I\ngot to have?\"\n\n\"What is it, Walter?\" his mother asked, since Adams did not speak.\n\nWalter cleared his throat, and replied in a tone as quiet as that he\nhad used before, though with a slight huskiness, \"I got to have three\nhundred and fifty dollars. You better get him to give it to me if you\ncan.\"\n\nAdams found his voice. \"Yes,\" he said, bitterly. \"That\'s all he asks!\nHe won\'t do anything I ask HIM to, and in return he asks me for three\nhundred and fifty dollars! That\'s all!\"\n\n\"What in the world!\" Mrs. Adams exclaimed. \"What FOR, Walter?\"\n\n\"I got to have it,\" Walter said.\n\n\"But what FOR?\"\n\nHis quiet huskiness did not alter. \"I got to have it.\"\n\n\"But can\'t you tell us----\"\n\n\"I got to have it.\"\n\n\"That\'s all you can get out of him,\" Adams said. \"He seems to think\nit\'ll bring him in three hundred and fifty dollars!\"\n\nA faint tremulousness became evident in the husky voice. \"Haven\'t you\ngot it?\"\n\n\"NO, I haven\'t got it!\" his father answered. \"And I\'ve got to go to a\nbank for more than my pay-roll next week. Do you think I\'m a mint?\"\n\n\"I don\'t understand what you mean, Walter,\" Mrs. Adams interposed,\nperplexed and distressed. \"If your father had the money, of course\nhe\'d need every cent of it, especially just now, and, anyhow, you could\nscarcely expect him to give it to you, unless you told us what you want\nwith it. But he hasn\'t got it.\"\n\n\"All right,\" Walter said; and after standing a moment more, in silence,\nhe added, impersonally, \"I don\'t see as you ever did anything much for\nme, anyhow either of you.\"\n\nThen, as if this were his valedictory, he turned his back upon them,\nwalked away quickly, and was at once lost to their sight in the\ndarkness.\n\n\"There\'s a fine boy to\'ve had the trouble of raising!\" Adams grumbled.\n\"Just crazy, that\'s all.\"\n\n\"What in the world do you suppose he wants all that money for?\" his\nwife said, wonderingly. \"I can\'t imagine what he could DO with it. I\nwonder----\" She paused. \"I wonder if he----\"\n\n\"If he what?\" Adams prompted her irritably.\n\n\"If he COULD have bad--associates.\"\n\n\"God knows!\" said Adams. \"_I_ don\'t! It just looks to me like he had\nsomething in him I don\'t understand. You can\'t keep your eye on a boy\nall the time in a city this size, not a boy Walter\'s age. You got a girl\npretty much in the house, but a boy\'ll follow his nature. _I_ don\'t know\nwhat to do with him!\"\n\nMrs. Adams brightened a little. \"He\'ll come out all right,\" she said.\n\"I\'m sure he will. I\'m sure he\'d never be anything really bad: and he\'ll\ncome around all right about the glue-works, too; you\'ll see. Of course\nevery young man wants money--it doesn\'t prove he\'s doing anything wrong\njust because he asks you for it.\"\n\n\"No. All it proves to me is that he hasn\'t got good sense asking me for\nthree hundred and fifty dollars, when he knows as well as you do the\nposition I\'m in! If I wanted to, I couldn\'t hardly let him have three\nhundred and fifty cents, let alone dollars!\"\n\n\"I\'m afraid you\'ll have to let ME have that much--and maybe a little\nmore,\" she ventured, timidly; and she told him of her plans for the\nmorrow. He objected vehemently.\n\n\"Oh, but Alice has probably asked him by this time,\" Mrs. Adams said.\n\"It really must be done, Virgil: you don\'t want him to think she\'s\nashamed of us, do you?\"\n\n\"Well, go ahead, but just let me stay away,\" he begged. \"Of course I\nexpect to undergo a kind of talk with him, when he gets ready to say\nsomething to us about Alice, but I do hate to have to sit through a\nfashionable dinner.\"\n\n\"Why, it isn\'t going to bother you,\" she said; \"just one young man as a\nguest.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know; but you want to have all this fancy cookin\'; and I see\nwell enough you\'re going to get that old dress suit out of the cedar\nchest in the attic, and try to make me put it on me.\"\n\n\"I do think you better, Virgil.\"\n\n\"I hope the moths have got in it,\" he said. \"Last time I wore it was to\nthe banquet, and it was pretty old then. Of course I didn\'t mind wearing\nit to the banquet so much, because that was what you might call quite an\noccasion.\" He spoke with some reminiscent complacency; \"the banquet,\"\nan affair now five years past, having provided the one time in his\nlife when he had been so distinguished among his fellow-citizens as to\nreceive an invitation to be present, with some seven hundred others, at\nthe annual eating and speech-making of the city\'s Chamber of Commerce.\n\"Anyhow, as you say, I think it would look foolish of me to wear a dress\nsuit for just one young man,\" he went on protesting, feebly. \"What\'s the\nuse of all so much howdy-do, anyway? You don\'t expect him to believe we\nput on all that style every night, do you? Is that what you\'re after?\"\n\n\"Well, we want him to think we live nicely,\" she admitted.\n\n\"So that\'s it!\" he said, querulously. \"You want him to think that\'s our\nregular gait, do you? Well, he\'ll know better about me, no matter how\nyou fix me up, because he saw me in my regular suit the evening she\nintroduced me to him, and he could tell anyway I\'m not one of these\nmoving-picture sporting-men that\'s always got a dress suit on. Besides,\nyou and Alice certainly have some idea he\'ll come AGAIN, haven\'t you?\nIf they get things settled between \'em he\'ll be around the house and to\nmeals most any time, won\'t he? You don\'t hardly expect to put on style\nall the time, I guess. Well, he\'ll see then that this kind of thing was\nall show-off, and bluff, won\'t he? What about it?\"\n\n\"Oh, well, by THAT time----\" She left the sentence unfinished, as if\nabsently. \"You could let us have a little money for to-morrow, couldn\'t\nyou, honey?\"\n\n\"Oh, I reckon, I reckon,\" he mumbled. \"A girl like Alice is some\ncomfort: she don\'t come around acting as if she\'d commit suicide if she\ndidn\'t get three hundred and fifty dollars in the next five minutes. I\nexpect I can spare five or six dollars for your show-off if I got to.\"\n\nHowever, she finally obtained fifteen before his bedtime; and the next\nmorning \"went to market\" after breakfast, leaving Alice to make the\nbeds. Walter had not yet come downstairs. \"You had better call him,\"\nMrs. Adams said, as she departed with a big basket on her arm. \"I expect\nhe\'s pretty sleepy; he was out so late last night I didn\'t hear him come\nin, though I kept awake till after midnight, listening for him. Tell him\nhe\'ll be late to work if he doesn\'t hurry; and see that he drinks his\ncoffee, even if he hasn\'t time for anything else. And when Malena comes,\nget her started in the kitchen: show her where everything is.\" She\nwaved her hand, as she set out for a corner where the cars stopped.\n\"Everything\'ll be lovely. Don\'t forget about Walter.\"\n\nNevertheless, Alice forgot about Walter for a few minutes. She closed\nthe door, went into the \"living-room\" absently, and stared vaguely at\none of the old brown-plush rocking-chairs there. Upon her forehead\nwere the little shadows of an apprehensive reverie, and her thoughts\noverlapped one another in a fretful jumble. \"What will he think? These\nold chairs--they\'re hideous. I\'ll scrub those soot-streaks on\nthe columns: it won\'t do any good, though. That long crack in the\ncolumn--nothing can help it. What will he think of papa? I hope\nmama won\'t talk too much. When he thinks of Mildred\'s house, or of\nHenrietta\'s, or any of \'em, beside this--She said she\'d buy plenty\nof roses; that ought to help some. Nothing could be done about these\nhorrible chairs: can\'t take \'em up in the attic--a room\'s got to have\nchairs! Might have rented some. No; if he ever comes again he\'d see they\nweren\'t here. \'If he ever comes again\'--oh, it won\'t be THAT bad! But\nit won\'t be what he expects. I\'m responsible for what he expects: he\nexpects just what the airs I\'ve put on have made him expect. What did I\nwant to pose so to him for--as if papa were a wealthy man and all that?\nWhat WILL he think? The photograph of the Colosseum\'s a rather good\nthing, though. It helps some--as if we\'d bought it in Rome perhaps. I\nhope he\'ll think so; he believes I\'ve been abroad, of course. The\nother night he said, \'You remember the feeling you get in the\nSainte-Chapelle\'.--There\'s another lie of mine, not saying I didn\'t\nremember because I\'d never been there. What makes me do it? Papa MUST\nwear his evening clothes. But Walter----\"\n\nWith that she recalled her mother\'s admonition, and went upstairs to\nWalter\'s door. She tapped upon it with her fingers.\n\n\"Time to get up, Walter. The rest of us had breakfast over half an hour\nago, and it\'s nearly eight o\'clock. You\'ll be late. Hurry down and I\'ll\nhave some coffee and toast ready for you.\" There came no sound from\nwithin the room, so she rapped louder.\n\n\"Wake up, Walter!\"\n\nShe called and rapped again, without getting any response, and then,\nfinding that the door yielded to her, opened it and went in. Walter was\nnot there.\n\nHe had been there, however; had slept upon the bed, though not inside\nthe covers; and Alice supposed he must have come home so late that he\nhad been too sleepy to take off his clothes. Near the foot of the bed\nwas a shallow closet where he kept his \"other suit\" and his evening\nclothes; and the door stood open, showing a bare wall. Nothing whatever\nwas in the closet, and Alice was rather surprised at this for a moment.\n\"That\'s queer,\" she murmured; and then she decided that when he woke he\nfound the clothes he had slept in \"so mussy\" he had put on his \"other\nsuit,\" and had gone out before breakfast with the mussed clothes to have\nthem pressed, taking his evening things with them. Satisfied with this\nexplanation, and failing to observe that it did not account for the\nabsence of shoes from the closet floor, she nodded absently, \"Yes, that\nmust be it\"; and, when her mother returned, told her that Walter had\nprobably breakfasted down-town. They did not delay over this; the\ncoloured woman had arrived, and the basket\'s disclosures were important.\n\n\"I stopped at Worlig\'s on the way back,\" said Mrs. Adams, flushed with\nhurry and excitement. \"I bought a can of caviar there. I thought we\'d\nhave little sandwiches brought into the \'living-room\' before dinner, the\nway you said they did when you went to that dinner at the----\"\n\n\"But I think that was to go with cocktails, mama, and of course we\nhaven\'t----\"\n\n\"No,\" Mrs. Adams said. \"Still, I think it would be nice. We can make\nthem look very dainty, on a tray, and the waitress can bring them in. I\nthought we\'d have the soup already on the table; and we can walk right\nout as soon as we have the sandwiches, so it won\'t get cold. Then, after\nthe soup, Malena says she can make sweetbread pates with mushrooms: and\nfor the meat course we\'ll have larded fillet. Malena\'s really a\nfancy cook, you know, and she says she can do anything like that to\nperfection. We\'ll have peas with the fillet, and potato balls and\nBrussels sprouts. Brussels sprouts are fashionable now, they told me\nat market. Then will come the chicken salad, and after that the\nice-cream--she\'s going to make an angel-food cake to go with it--and\nthen coffee and crackers and a new kind of cheese I got at Worlig\'s, he\nsays is very fine.\"\n\nAlice was alarmed. \"Don\'t you think perhaps it\'s too much, mama?\"\n\n\"It\'s better to have too much than too little,\" her mother said,\ncheerfully. \"We don\'t want him to think we\'re the kind that skimp. Lord\nknows we have to enough, though, most of the time! Get the flowers in\nwater, child. I bought \'em at market because they\'re so much cheaper\nthere, but they\'ll keep fresh and nice. You fix \'em any way you want.\nHurry! It\'s got to be a busy day.\"\n\nShe had bought three dozen little roses. Alice took them and began to\narrange them in vases, keeping the stems separated as far as possible so\nthat the clumps would look larger. She put half a dozen in each of three\nvases in the \"living-room,\" placing one vase on the table in the center\nof the room, and one at each end of the mantelpiece. Then she took the\nrest of the roses to the dining-room; but she postponed the arrangement\nof them until the table should be set, just before dinner. She was\nthoughtful; planning to dry the stems and lay them on the tablecloth\nlike a vine of roses running in a delicate design, if she found that the\ndozen and a half she had left were enough for that. If they weren\'t she\nwould arrange them in a vase.\n\nShe looked a long time at the little roses in the basin of water, where\nshe had put them; then she sighed, and went away to heavier tasks,\nwhile her mother worked in the kitchen with Malena. Alice dusted the\n\"living-room\" and the dining-room vigorously, though all the time with a\nlook that grew more and more pensive; and having dusted everything, she\nwiped the furniture; rubbed it hard. After that, she washed the floors\nand the woodwork.\n\nEmerging from the kitchen at noon, Mrs. Adams found her daughter on\nhands and knees, scrubbing the bases of the columns between the hall and\nthe \"living-room.\"\n\n\"Now, dearie,\" she said, \"you mustn\'t tire yourself out, and you\'d\nbetter come and eat something. Your father said he\'d get a bite\ndown-town to-day--he was going down to the bank--and Walter eats\ndown-town all the time lately, so I thought we wouldn\'t bother to set\nthe table for lunch. Come on and we\'ll have something in the kitchen.\"\n\n\"No,\" Alice said, dully, as she went on with the work. \"I don\'t want\nanything.\"\n\nHer mother came closer to her. \"Why, what\'s the matter?\" she asked,\nbriskly. \"You seem kind of pale, to me; and you don\'t look--you don\'t\nlook HAPPY.\"\n\n\"Well----\" Alice began, uncertainly, but said no more.\n\n\"See here!\" Mrs. Adams exclaimed. \"This is all just for you! You ought\nto be ENJOYING it. Why, it\'s the first time we\'ve--we\'ve entertained\nin I don\'t know how long! I guess it\'s almost since we had that little\nparty when you were eighteen. What\'s the matter with you?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I don\'t know.\"\n\n\"But, dearie, aren\'t you looking FORWARD to this evening?\"\n\nThe girl looked up, showing a pallid and solemn face. \"Oh, yes, of\ncourse,\" she said, and tried to smile. \"Of course we had to do it--I do\nthink it\'ll be nice. Of course I\'m looking forward to it.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nShe was indeed \"looking forward\" to that evening, but in a cloud of\napprehension; and, although she could never have guessed it, this was\nthe simultaneous condition of another person--none other than the guest\nfor whose pleasure so much cooking and scrubbing seemed to be necessary.\nMoreover, Mr. Arthur Russell\'s premonitions were no product of mere\ncoincidence; neither had any magical sympathy produced them. His state\nof mind was rather the result of rougher undercurrents which had all the\ntime been running beneath the surface of a romantic friendship.\n\nNever shrewder than when she analyzed the gentlemen, Alice did not\nlibel him when she said he was one of those quiet men who are a bit\nflirtatious, by which she meant that he was a bit \"susceptible,\" the\nsame thing--and he had proved himself susceptible to Alice upon his\nfirst sight of her. \"There!\" he said to himself. \"Who\'s that?\" And in\nthe crowd of girls at his cousin\'s dance, all strangers to him, she was\nthe one he wanted to know.\n\nSince then, his summer evenings with her had been as secluded as if, for\nthree hours after the falling of dusk, they two had drawn apart from\nthe world to some dear bower of their own. The little veranda was that\nglamorous nook, with a faint golden light falling through the glass of\nthe closed door upon Alice, and darkness elsewhere, except for the one\nround globe of the street lamp at the corner. The people who passed\nalong the sidewalk, now and then, were only shadows with voices, moving\nvaguely under the maple trees that loomed in obscure contours against\nthe stars. So, as the two sat together, the back of the world was the\nwall and closed door behind them; and Russell, when he was away from\nAlice, always thought of her as sitting there before the closed door. A\nglamour was about her thus, and a spell upon him; but he had a formless\nanxiety never put into words: all the pictures of her in his mind\nstopped at the closed door.\n\nHe had another anxiety; and, for the greater part, this was of her own\ncreating. She had too often asked him (no matter how gaily) what he\nheard about her, too often begged him not to hear anything. Then, hoping\nto forestall whatever he might hear, she had been at too great pains to\naccount for it, to discredit and mock it; and, though he laughed at her\nfor this, telling her truthfully he did not even hear her mentioned, the\neverlasting irony that deals with all such human forefendings prevailed.\n\nLately, he had half confessed to her what a nervousness she had\nproduced. \"You make me dread the day when I\'ll hear somebody speaking of\nyou. You\'re getting me so upset about it that if I ever hear anybody so\nmuch as say the name \'Alice Adams,\' I\'ll run!\" The confession was but\nhalf of one because he laughed; and she took it for an assurance of\nloyalty in the form of burlesque.\n\nShe misunderstood: he laughed, but his nervousness was genuine.\n\nAfter any stroke of events, whether a happy one or a catastrophe, we\nsee that the materials for it were a long time gathering, and the only\nmarvel is that the stroke was not prophesied. What bore the air of fatal\ncoincidence may remain fatal indeed, to this later view; but, with the\nhaphazard aspect dispelled, there is left for scrutiny the same ancient\nhint from the Infinite to the effect that since events have never yet\nfailed to be law-abiding, perhaps it were well for us to deduce that\nthey will continue to be so until further notice.\n\n. . . On the day that was to open the closed door in the background of\nhis pictures of Alice, Russell lunched with his relatives. There were\nbut the four people, Russell and Mildred and her mother and father, in\nthe great, cool dining-room. Arched French windows, shaded by awnings,\nadmitted a mellow light and looked out upon a green lawn ending in a\nlong conservatory, which revealed through its glass panes a carnival of\nplants in luxuriant blossom. From his seat at the table, Russell\nglanced out at this pretty display, and informed his cousins that he\nwas surprised. \"You have such a glorious spread of flowers all over the\nhouse,\" he said, \"I didn\'t suppose you\'d have any left out yonder. In\nfact, I didn\'t know there were so many splendid flowers in the world.\"\n\nMrs. Palmer, large, calm, fair, like her daughter, responded with a mild\nreproach: \"That\'s because you haven\'t been cousinly enough to get used\nto them, Arthur. You\'ve almost taught us to forget what you look like.\"\n\nIn defense Russell waved a hand toward her husband. \"You see, he\'s begun\nto keep me so hard at work----\"\n\nBut Mr. Palmer declined the responsibility. \"Up to four or five in the\nafternoon, perhaps,\" he said. \"After that, the young gentleman is as\nmuch a stranger to me as he is to my family. I\'ve been wondering who she\ncould be.\"\n\n\"When a man\'s preoccupied there must be a lady then?\" Russell inquired.\n\n\"That seems to be the view of your sex,\" Mrs. Palmer suggested. \"It was\nmy husband who said it, not Mildred or I.\"\n\nMildred smiled faintly. \"Papa may be singular in his ideas; they may\ncome entirely from his own experience, and have nothing to do with\nArthur.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mildred,\" her cousin said, bowing to her gratefully. \"You\nseem to understand my character--and your father\'s quite as well!\"\n\nHowever, Mildred remained grave in the face of this customary\npleasantry, not because the old jest, worn round, like what preceded it,\nrolled in an old groove, but because of some preoccupation of her own.\nHer faint smile had disappeared, and, as her cousin\'s glance met hers,\nshe looked down; yet not before he had seen in her eyes the flicker of\nsomething like a question--a question both poignant and dismayed. He may\nhave understood it; for his own smile vanished at once in favour of a\nreciprocal solemnity.\n\n\"You see, Arthur,\" Mrs. Palmer said, \"Mildred is always a good cousin.\nShe and I stand by you, even if you do stay away from us for weeks and\nweeks.\" Then, observing that he appeared to be so occupied with a bunch\nof iced grapes upon his plate that he had not heard her, she began to\ntalk to her husband, asking him what was \"going on down-town.\"\n\nArthur continued to eat his grapes, but he ventured to look again at\nMildred after a few moments. She, also, appeared to be occupied with\na bunch of grapes though she ate none, and only pulled them from their\nstems. She sat straight, her features as composed and pure as those of\na new marble saint in a cathedral niche; yet her downcast eyes seemed to\nconceal many thoughts; and her cousin, against his will, was more aware\nof what these thoughts might be than of the leisurely conversation\nbetween her father and mother. All at once, however, he heard something\nthat startled him, and he listened--and here was the effect of all\nAlice\'s forefendings; he listened from the first with a sinking heart.\n\nMr. Palmer, mildly amused by what he was telling his wife, had just\nspoken the words, \"this Virgil Adams.\" What he had said was, \"this\nVirgil Adams--that\'s the man\'s name. Queer case.\"\n\n\"Who told you?\" Mrs. Palmer inquired, not much interested.\n\n\"Alfred Lamb,\" her husband answered. \"He was laughing about his father,\nat the club. You see the old gentleman takes a great pride in his\njudgment of men, and always boasted to his sons that he\'d never in his\nlife made a mistake in trusting the wrong man. Now Alfred and James\nAlbert, Junior, think they have a great joke on him; and they\'ve twitted\nhim so much about it he\'ll scarcely speak to them. From the first,\nAlfred says, the old chap\'s only repartee was, \'You wait and you\'ll\nsee!\' And they\'ve asked him so often to show them what they\'re going to\nsee that he won\'t say anything at all!\"\n\n\"He\'s a funny old fellow,\" Mrs. Palmer observed. \"But he\'s so shrewd I\ncan\'t imagine his being deceived for such a long time. Twenty years, you\nsaid?\"\n\n\"Yes, longer than that, I understand. It appears when this man--this\nAdams--was a young clerk, the old gentleman trusted him with one of his\nbusiness secrets, a glue process that Mr. Lamb had spent some money to\nget hold of. The old chap thought this Adams was going to have quite\na future with the Lamb concern, and of course never dreamed he was\ndishonest. Alfred says this Adams hasn\'t been of any real use for years,\nand they should have let him go as dead wood, but the old gentleman\nwouldn\'t hear of it, and insisted on his being kept on the payroll; so\nthey just decided to look on it as a sort of pension. Well, one morning\nlast March the man had an attack of some sort down there, and Mr. Lamb\ngot his own car out and went home with him, himself, and worried about\nhim and went to see him no end, all the time he was ill.\"\n\n\"He would,\" Mrs. Palmer said, approvingly. \"He\'s a kind-hearted\ncreature, that old man.\"\n\nHer husband laughed. \"Alfred says he thinks his kind-heartedness\nis about cured! It seems that as soon as the man got well again he\ndeliberately walked off with the old gentleman\'s glue secret. Just\ncalmly stole it! Alfred says he believes that if he had a stroke in the\noffice now, himself, his father wouldn\'t lift a finger to help him!\"\n\nMrs. Palmer repeated the name to herself thoughtfully. \"\'Adams\'--\'Virgil\nAdams.\' You said his name was Virgil Adams?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nShe looked at her daughter. \"Why, you know who that is, Mildred,\" she\nsaid, casually. \"It\'s that Alice Adams\'s father, isn\'t it? Wasn\'t his\nname Virgil Adams?\"\n\n\"I think it is,\" Mildred said.\n\nMrs. Palmer turned toward her husband. \"You\'ve seen this Alice Adams\nhere. Mr. Lamb\'s pet swindler must be her father.\"\n\nMr. Palmer passed a smooth hand over his neat gray hair, which was not\ndisturbed by this effort to stimulate recollection. \"Oh, yes,\" he said.\n\"Of course--certainly. Quite a good-looking girl--one of Mildred\'s\nfriends. How queer!\"\n\nMildred looked up, as if in a little alarm, but did not speak. Her\nmother set matters straight. \"Fathers ARE amusing,\" she said smilingly\nto Russell, who was looking at her, though how fixedly she did not\nnotice; for she turned from him at once to enlighten her husband. \"Every\ngirl who meets Mildred, and tries to push the acquaintance by coming\nhere until the poor child has to hide, isn\'t a FRIEND of hers, my dear!\"\n\nMildred\'s eyes were downcast again, and a faint colour rose in her\ncheeks. \"Oh, I shouldn\'t put it quite that way about Alice Adams,\" she\nsaid, in a low voice. \"I saw something of her for a time. She\'s not\nunattractive in a way.\"\n\nMrs. Palmer settled the whole case of Alice carelessly. \"A pushing sort\nof girl,\" she said. \"A very pushing little person.\"\n\n\"I----\" Mildred began; and, after hesitating, concluded, \"I rather\ndropped her.\"\n\n\"Fortunate you\'ve done so,\" her father remarked, cheerfully. \"Especially\nsince various members of the Lamb connection are here frequently. They\nmightn\'t think you\'d show great tact in having her about the place.\" He\nlaughed, and turned to his cousin. \"All this isn\'t very interesting to\npoor Arthur. How terrible people are with a newcomer in a town; they\ntalk as if he knew all about everybody!\"\n\n\"But we don\'t know anything about these queer people, ourselves,\" said\nMrs. Palmer. \"We know something about the girl, of course--she used to\nbe a bit too conspicuous, in fact! However, as you say, we might find a\nsubject more interesting for Arthur.\"\n\nShe smiled whimsically upon the young man. \"Tell the truth,\" she said.\n\"Don\'t you fairly detest going into business with that tyrant yonder?\"\n\n\"What? Yes--I beg your pardon!\" he stammered.\n\n\"You were right,\" Mrs. Palmer said to her husband. \"You\'ve bored him so,\ntalking about thievish clerks, he can\'t even answer an honest question.\"\n\nBut Russell was beginning to recover his outward composure. \"Try me\nagain,\" he said. \"I\'m afraid I was thinking of something else.\"\n\nThis was the best he found to say. There was a part of him that wanted\nto protest and deny, but he had not heat enough, in the chill that had\ncome upon him. Here was the first \"mention\" of Alice, and with it the\nreason why it was the first: Mr. Palmer had difficulty in recalling her,\nand she happened to be spoken of, only because her father\'s betrayal of\na benefactor\'s trust had been so peculiarly atrocious that, in the view\nof the benefactor\'s family, it contained enough of the element of humour\nto warrant a mild laugh at a club. There was the deadliness of the\nstory: its lack of malice, even of resentment. Deadlier still were\nMrs. Palmer\'s phrases: \"a pushing sort of girl,\" \"a very pushing little\nperson,\" and \"used to be a bit TOO conspicuous, in fact.\" But she spoke\nplacidly and by chance; being as obviously without unkindly motive as\nMr. Palmer was when he related the cause of Alfred Lamb\'s amusement.\nHer opinion of the obscure young lady momentarily her topic had been\nexpressed, moreover, to her husband, and at her own table. She sat\nthere, large, kind, serene--a protest might astonish but could\nnot change her; and Russell, crumpling in his strained fingers the\nlace-edged little web of a napkin on his knee, found heart enough to\ngrow red, but not enough to challenge her.\n\nShe noticed his colour, and attributed it to the embarrassment of a\nscrupulously gallant gentleman caught in a lapse of attention to a lady.\n\"Don\'t be disturbed,\" she said, benevolently. \"People aren\'t expected to\nlisten all the time to their relatives. A high colour\'s very becoming\nto you, Arthur; but it really isn\'t necessary between cousins. You can\nalways be informal enough with us to listen only when you care to.\"\n\nHis complexion continued to be ruddier than usual, however, throughout\nthe meal, and was still somewhat tinted when Mrs. Palmer rose. \"The\nman\'s bringing you cigarettes here,\" she said, nodding to the two\ngentlemen. \"We\'ll give you a chance to do the sordid kind of talking we\nknow you really like. Afterwhile, Mildred will show you what\'s in bloom\nin the hothouse, if you wish, Arthur.\"\n\nMildred followed her, and, when they were alone in another of the\nspacious rooms, went to a window and looked out, while her mother seated\nherself near the center of the room in a gilt armchair, mellowed with\nold Aubusson tapestry. Mrs. Palmer looked thoughtfully at her daughter\'s\nback, but did not speak to her until coffee had been brought for them.\n\n\"Thanks,\" Mildred said, not turning, \"I don\'t care for any coffee, I\nbelieve.\"\n\n\"No?\" Mrs. Palmer said, gently. \"I\'m afraid our good-looking cousin\nwon\'t think you\'re very talkative, Mildred. You spoke only about twice\nat lunch. I shouldn\'t care for him to get the idea you\'re piqued because\nhe\'s come here so little lately, should you?\"\n\n\"No, I shouldn\'t,\" Mildred answered in a low voice, and with that she\nturned quickly, and came to sit near her mother. \"But it\'s what I am\nafraid of! Mama, did you notice how red he got?\"\n\n\"You mean when he was caught not listening to a question of mine? Yes;\nit\'s very becoming to him.\"\n\n\"Mama, I don\'t think that was the reason. I don\'t think it was because\nhe wasn\'t listening, I mean.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"I think his colour and his not listening came from the same reason,\"\nMildred said, and although she had come to sit near her mother, she\ndid not look at her. \"I think it happened because you and papa----\" She\nstopped.\n\n\"Yes?\" Mrs. Palmer said, good-naturedly, to prompt her. \"Your father and\nI did something embarrassing?\"\n\n\"Mama, it was because of those things that came out about Alice Adams.\"\n\n\"How could that bother Arthur? Does he know her?\"\n\n\"Don\'t you remember?\" the daughter asked. \"The day after my dance I\nmentioned how odd I thought it was in him--I was a little disappointed\nin him. I\'d been seeing that he met everybody, of course, but she was\nthe only girl HE asked to meet; and he did it as soon as he noticed her.\nI hadn\'t meant to have him meet her--in fact, I was rather sorry I\'d\nfelt I had to ask her, because she oh, well, she\'s the sort that \'tries\nfor the new man,\' if she has half a chance; and sometimes they seem\nquite fascinated--for a time, that is. I thought Arthur was above\nall that; or at the very least I gave him credit for being too\nsophisticated.\"\n\n\"I see,\" Mrs. Palmer said, thoughtfully. \"I remember now that you spoke\nof it. You said it seemed a little peculiar, but of course it really\nwasn\'t: a \'new man\' has nothing to go by, except his own first\nimpressions. You can\'t blame poor Arthur--she\'s quite a piquant looking\nlittle person. You think he\'s seen something of her since then?\"\n\nMildred nodded slowly. \"I never dreamed such a thing till yesterday,\nand even then I rather doubted it--till he got so red, just now! I was\nsurprised when he asked to meet her, but he just danced with her once\nand didn\'t mention her afterward; I forgot all about it--in fact, I\nvirtually forgot all about HER. I\'d seen quite a little of her----\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Palmer. \"She did keep coming here!\"\n\n\"But I\'d just about decided that it really wouldn\'t do,\" Mildred went\non. \"She isn\'t--well, I didn\'t admire her.\"\n\n\"No,\" her mother assented, and evidently followed a direct connection\nof thought in a speech apparently irrelevant. \"I understand the young\nMalone wants to marry Henrietta. I hope she won\'t; he seems rather a\ngross type of person.\"\n\n\"Oh, he\'s just one,\" Mildred said. \"I don\'t know that he and Alice Adams\nwere ever engaged--she never told me so. She may not have been engaged\nto any of them; she was just enough among the other girls to get talked\nabout--and one of the reasons I felt a little inclined to be nice to\nher was that they seemed to be rather edging her out of the circle. It\nwasn\'t long before I saw they were right, though. I happened to mention\nI was going to give a dance and she pretended to take it as a matter\nof course that I meant to invite her brother--at least, I thought she\npretended; she may have really believed it. At any rate, I had to send\nhim a card; but I didn\'t intend to be let in for that sort of thing\nagain, of course. She\'s what you said, \'pushing\'; though I\'m awfully\nsorry you said it.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn\'t I have said it, my dear?\"\n\n\"Of course I didn\'t say \'shouldn\'t.\'\" Mildred explained, gravely. \"I\nmeant only that I\'m sorry it happened.\"\n\n\"Yes; but why?\"\n\n\"Mama\"--Mildred turned to her, leaning forward and speaking in a lowered\nvoice--\"Mama, at first the change was so little it seemed as if Arthur\nhardly knew it himself. He\'d been lovely to me always, and he was still\nlovely to me but--oh, well, you\'ve understood--after my dance it was\nmore as if it was just his nature and his training to be lovely to me,\nas he would be to everyone a kind of politeness. He\'d never said he\nCARED for me, but after that I could see he didn\'t. It was clear--after\nthat. I didn\'t know what had happened; I couldn\'t think of anything I\'d\ndone. Mama--it was Alice Adams.\"\n\nMrs. Palmer set her little coffee-cup upon the table beside her, calmly\nfollowing her own motion with her eyes, and not seeming to realize with\nwhat serious entreaty her daughter\'s gaze was fixed upon her. Mildred\nrepeated the last sentence of her revelation, and introduced a stress of\ninsistence.\n\n\"Mama, it WAS Alice Adams!\"\n\nBut Mrs. Palmer declined to be greatly impressed, so far as her\nappearance went, at least; and to emphasize her refusal, she smiled\nindulgently. \"What makes you think so?\"\n\n\"Henrietta told me yesterday.\"\n\nAt this Mrs. Palmer permitted herself to laugh softly aloud. \"Good\nheavens! Is Henrietta a soothsayer? Or is she Arthur\'s particular\nconfidante?\"\n\n\"No. Ella Dowling told her.\"\n\nMrs. Palmer\'s laughter continued. \"Now we have it!\" she exclaimed. \"It\'s\na game of gossip: Arthur tells Ella, Ella tells Henrietta, and Henrietta\ntells----\"\n\n\"Don\'t laugh, please, mama,\" Mildred begged. \"Of course Arthur didn\'t\ntell anybody. It\'s roundabout enough, but it\'s true. I know it! I\nhadn\'t quite believed it, but I knew it was true when he got so red. He\nlooked--oh, for a second or so he looked--stricken! He thought I didn\'t\nnotice it. Mama, he\'s been to see her almost every evening lately. They\ntake long walks together. That\'s why he hasn\'t been here.\"\n\nOf Mrs. Palmer\'s laughter there was left only her indulgent smile, which\nshe had not allowed to vanish. \"Well, what of it?\" she said.\n\n\"Mama!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Palmer. \"What of it?\"\n\n\"But don\'t you see?\" Mildred\'s well-tutored voice, though modulated and\nrepressed even in her present emotion, nevertheless had a tendency to\nquaver. \"It\'s true. Frank Dowling was going to see her one evening and\nhe saw Arthur sitting on the stoop with her, and didn\'t go in. And Ella\nused to go to school with a girl who lives across the street from here.\nShe told Ella----\"\n\n\"Oh, I understand,\" Mrs. Palmer interrupted. \"Suppose he does go there.\nMy dear, I said, \'What of it?\'\"\n\n\"I don\'t see what you mean, mama. I\'m so afraid he might think we knew\nabout it, and that you and papa said those things about her and her\nfather on that account--as if we abused them because he goes there\ninstead of coming here.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" Mrs. Palmer rose, went to a window, and, turning there,\nstood with her back to it, facing her daughter and looking at her\ncheerfully. \"Nonsense, my dear! It was perfectly clear that she was\nmentioned by accident, and so was her father. What an extraordinary man!\nIf Arthur makes friends with people like that, he certainly knows better\nthan to expect to hear favourable opinions of them. Besides, it\'s only a\nlittle passing thing with him.\"\n\n\"Mama! When he goes there almost every----\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Mrs. Palmer said, dryly. \"It seems to me I\'ve heard somewhere\nthat other young men have gone there \'almost every!\' She doesn\'t\nlast, apparently. Arthur\'s gallant, and he\'s impressionable--but\nhe\'s fastidious, and fastidiousness is always the check on\nimpressionableness. A girl belongs to her family, too--and this one does\nespecially, it strikes me! Arthur\'s very sensible; he sees more than\nyou\'d think.\"\n\nMildred looked at her hopefully. \"Then you don\'t believe he\'s likely to\nimagine we said those things of her in any meaning way?\"\n\nAt this, Mrs. Palmer laughed again. \"There\'s one thing you seem not to\nhave noticed, Mildred.\"\n\n\"What\'s that?\"\n\n\"It seems to have escaped your attention that he never said a word.\"\n\n\"Mightn\'t that mean----?\" Mildred began, but she stopped.\n\n\"No, it mightn\'t,\" her mother replied, comprehending easily. \"On the\ncontrary, it might mean that instead of his feeling it too deeply to\nspeak, he was getting a little illumination.\"\n\nMildred rose and came to her. \"WHY do you suppose he never told us he\nwent there? Do you think he\'s--do you think he\'s pleased with her, and\nyet ashamed of it? WHY do you suppose he\'s never spoken of it?\"\n\n\"Ah, that,\" Mrs. Palmer said,--\"that might possibly be her own doing.\nIf it is, she\'s well paid by what your father and I said, because we\nwouldn\'t have said it if we\'d known that Arthur----\" She checked herself\nquickly. Looking over her daughter\'s shoulder, she saw the two gentlemen\ncoming from the corridor toward the wide doorway of the room; and she\ngreeted them cheerfully. \"If you\'ve finished with each other for a\nwhile,\" she added, \"Arthur may find it a relief to put his thoughts on\nsomething prettier than a trust company--and more fragrant.\"\n\nArthur came to Mildred.\n\n\"Your mother said at lunch that perhaps you\'d----\"\n\n\"I didn\'t say \'perhaps,\' Arthur,\" Mrs. Palmer interrupted, to correct\nhim. \"I said she would. If you care to see and smell those lovely things\nout yonder, she\'ll show them to you. Run along, children!\"\n\n\nHalf an hour later, glancing from a window, she saw them come from\nthe hothouses and slowly cross the lawn. Arthur had a fine rose in his\nbuttonhole and looked profoundly thoughtful.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nThat morning and noon had been warm, though the stirrings of a feeble\nbreeze made weather not flagrantly intemperate; but at about three\no\'clock in the afternoon there came out of the southwest a heat like an\naffliction sent upon an accursed people, and the air was soon dead of\nit. Dripping negro ditch-diggers whooped with satires praising hell and\nhot weather, as the tossing shovels flickered up to the street level,\nwhere sluggish male pedestrians carried coats upon hot arms, and\nfanned themselves with straw hats, or, remaining covered, wore soaked\nhandkerchiefs between scalp and straw. Clerks drooped in silent, big\ndepartment stores, stenographers in offices kept as close to electric\nfans as the intervening bulk of their employers would let them; guests\nin hotels left the lobbies and went to lie unclad upon their beds; while\nin hospitals the patients murmured querulously against the heat, and\nperhaps against some noisy motorist who strove to feel the air by\nsplitting it, not troubled by any foreboding that he, too, that hour\nnext week, might need quiet near a hospital. The \"hot spell\" was a\ntrue spell, one upon men\'s spirits; for it was so hot that, in suburban\noutskirts, golfers crept slowly back over the low undulations of their\nclub lands, abandoning their matches and returning to shelter.\n\nEven on such a day, sizzling work had to be done, as in winter. There\nwere glowing furnaces to be stoked, liquid metals to be poured; but such\ntasks found seasoned men standing to them; and in all the city probably\nno brave soul challenged the heat more gamely than Mrs. Adams did, when,\nin a corner of her small and fiery kitchen, where all day long her\nhired African immune cooked fiercely, she pressed her husband\'s evening\nclothes with a hot iron. No doubt she risked her life, but she risked\nit cheerfully in so good and necessary a service for him. She would have\ngiven her life for him at any time, and both his and her own for her\nchildren.\n\nUnconscious of her own heroism, she was surprised to find herself rather\nfaint when she finished her ironing. However, she took heart to believe\nthat the clothes looked better, in spite of one or two scorched places;\nand she carried them upstairs to her husband\'s room before increasing\nblindness forced her to grope for the nearest chair. Then, trying to\nrise and walk, without having sufficiently recovered, she had to sit\ndown again; but after a little while she was able to get upon her feet;\nand, keeping her hand against the wall, moved successfully to the door\nof her own room. Here she wavered; might have gone down, had she not\nbeen stimulated by the thought of how much depended upon her;--she made\na final great effort, and floundered across the room to her bureau,\nwhere she kept some simple restoratives. They served her need, or her\nfaith in them did; and she returned to her work.\n\nShe went down the stairs, keeping a still tremulous hand upon the rail;\nbut she smiled brightly when Alice looked up from below, where the\nwoodwork was again being tormented with superfluous attentions.\n\n\"Alice, DON\'T!\" her mother said, commiseratingly. \"You did all that this\nmorning and it looks lovely. What\'s the use of wearing yourself out on\nit? You ought to be lying down, so\'s to look fresh for to-night.\"\n\n\"Hadn\'t you better lie down yourself?\" the daughter returned. \"Are you\nill, mama?\"\n\n\"Certainly not. What in the world makes you think so?\"\n\n\"You look pretty pale,\" Alice said, and sighed heavily. \"It makes me\nashamed, having you work so hard--for me.\"\n\n\"How foolish! I think it\'s fun, getting ready to entertain a little\nagain, like this. I only wish it hadn\'t turned so hot: I\'m afraid your\npoor father\'ll suffer--his things are pretty heavy, I noticed. Well,\nit\'ll do him good to bear something for style\'s sake this once, anyhow!\"\nShe laughed, and coming to Alice, bent down and kissed her. \"Dearie,\"\nshe said, tenderly, \"wouldn\'t you please slip upstairs now and take just\na little teeny nap to please your mother?\"\n\nBut Alice responded only by moving her head slowly, in token of refusal.\n\n\"Do!\" Mrs. Adams urged. \"You don\'t want to look worn out, do you?\"\n\n\"I\'ll LOOK all right,\" Alice said, huskily. \"Do you like the way I\'ve\narranged the furniture now? I\'ve tried all the different ways it\'ll go.\"\n\n\"It\'s lovely,\" her mother said, admiringly. \"I thought the last way you\nhad it was pretty, too. But you know best; I never knew anybody with so\nmuch taste. If you\'d only just quit now, and take a little rest----\"\n\n\"There\'d hardly be time, even if I wanted to; it\'s after five but I\ncouldn\'t; really, I couldn\'t. How do you think we can manage about\nWalter--to see that he wears his evening things, I mean?\"\n\nMrs. Adams pondered. \"I\'m afraid he\'ll make a lot of objections, on\naccount of the weather and everything. I wish we\'d had a chance to\ntell him last night or this morning. I\'d have telephoned to him this\nafternoon except--well, I scarcely like to call him up at that place,\nsince your father----\"\n\n\"No, of course not, mama.\"\n\n\"If Walter gets home late,\" Mrs. Adams went on, \"I\'ll just slip out and\nspeak to him, in case Mr. Russell\'s here before he comes. I\'ll just tell\nhim he\'s got to hurry and get his things on.\"\n\n\"Maybe he won\'t come home to dinner,\" Alice suggested, rather hopefully.\n\"Sometimes he doesn\'t.\"\n\n\"No; I think he\'ll be here. When he doesn\'t come he usually telephones\nby this time to say not to wait for him; he\'s very thoughtful about\nthat. Well, it really is getting late: I must go and tell her she ought\nto be preparing her fillet. Dearie, DO rest a little.\"\n\n\"You\'d much better do that yourself,\" Alice called after her, but Mrs.\nAdams shook her head cheerily, not pausing on her way to the fiery\nkitchen.\n\nAlice continued her useless labours for a time; then carried her bucket\nto the head of the cellar stairway, where she left it upon the top step;\nand, closing the door, returned to the \"living-room;\" Again she changed\nthe positions of the old plush rocking-chairs, moving them into the\ncorners where she thought they might be least noticeable; and while\nthus engaged she was startled by a loud ringing of the door-bell. For\na moment her face was panic-stricken, and she stood staring, then\nshe realized that Russell would not arrive for another hour, at the\nearliest, and recovering her equipoise, went to the door.\n\nWaiting there, in a languid attitude, was a young coloured woman, with\na small bundle under her arm and something malleable in her mouth.\n\"Listen,\" she said. \"You folks expectin\' a coloured lady?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Alice. \"Especially not at the front door.\"\n\n\"Listen,\" the coloured woman said again. \"Listen. Say, listen. Ain\'t\nthey another coloured lady awready here by the day? Listen. Ain\'t Miz\nMalena Burns here by the day this evenin\'? Say, listen. This the number\nhouse she give ME.\"\n\n\"Are you the waitress?\" Alice asked, dismally.\n\n\"Yes\'m, if Malena here.\"\n\n\"Malena is here,\" Alice said, and hesitated; but she decided not to\nsend the waitress to the back door; it might be a risk. She let her in.\n\"What\'s your name?\"\n\n\"Me? I\'m name\' Gertrude. Miss Gertrude Collamus.\"\n\n\"Did you bring a cap and apron?\"\n\nGertrude took the little bundle from under her arm. \"Yes\'m. I\'m all\nfix\'.\"\n\n\"I\'ve already set the table,\" Alice said. \"I\'ll show you what we want\ndone.\"\n\nShe led the way to the dining-room, and, after offering some instruction\nthere, received by Gertrude with languor and a slowly moving jaw, she\ntook her into the kitchen, where the cap and apron were put on. The\neffect was not fortunate; Gertrude\'s eyes were noticeably bloodshot,\nan affliction made more apparent by the white cap; and Alice drew her\nmother apart, whispering anxiously,\n\n\"Do you suppose it\'s too late to get someone else?\"\n\n\"I\'m afraid it is,\" Mrs. Adams said. \"Malena says it was hard enough to\nget HER! You have to pay them so much that they only work when they feel\nlike it.\"\n\n\"Mama, could you ask her to wear her cap straighter? Every time she\nmoves her head she gets it on one side, and her skirt\'s too long behind\nand too short in front--and oh, I\'ve NEVER seen such FEET!\" Alice\nlaughed desolately. \"And she MUST quit that terrible chewing!\"\n\n\"Never mind; I\'ll get to work with her. I\'ll straighten her out all I\ncan, dearie; don\'t worry.\" Mrs. Adams patted her daughter\'s shoulder\nencouragingly. \"Now YOU can\'t do another thing, and if you don\'t run and\nbegin dressing you won\'t be ready. It\'ll only take me a minute to dress,\nmyself, and I\'ll be down long before you will. Run, darling! I\'ll look\nafter everything.\"\n\nAlice nodded vaguely, went up to her room, and, after only a moment with\nher mirror, brought from her closet the dress of white organdie she\nhad worn the night when she met Russell for the first time. She laid it\ncarefully upon her bed, and began to make ready to put it on. Her mother\ncame in, half an hour later, to \"fasten\" her.\n\n\"I\'M all dressed,\" Mrs. Adams said, briskly. \"Of course it doesn\'t\nmatter. He won\'t know what the rest of us even look like: How could he?\nI know I\'m an old SIGHT, but all I want is to look respectable. Do I?\"\n\n\"You look like the best woman in the world; that\'s all!\" Alice said,\nwith a little gulp.\n\nHer mother laughed and gave her a final scrutiny. \"You might use just\na tiny bit more colour, dearie--I\'m afraid the excitement\'s made you a\nlittle pale. And you MUST brighten up! There\'s sort of a look in your\neyes as if you\'d got in a trance and couldn\'t get out. You\'ve had it all\nday. I must run: your father wants me to help him with his studs. Walter\nhasn\'t come yet, but I\'ll look after him; don\'t worry, And you better\nHURRY, dearie, if you\'re going to take any time fixing the flowers on\nthe table.\"\n\nShe departed, while Alice sat at the mirror again, to follow her advice\nconcerning a \"tiny bit more colour.\" Before she had finished, her father\nknocked at the door, and, when she responded, came in. He was dressed\nin the clothes his wife had pressed; but he had lost substantially in\nweight since they were made for him; no one would have thought that they\nhad been pressed. They hung from him voluminously, seeming to be the\nclothes of a larger man.\n\n\"Your mother\'s gone downstairs,\" he said, in a voice of distress.\n\n\"One of the buttonholes in my shirt is too large and I can\'t keep the\ndang thing fastened. _I_ don\'t know what to do about it! I only got one\nother white shirt, and it\'s kind of ruined: I tried it before I did this\none. Do you s\'pose you could do anything?\"\n\n\"I\'ll see,\" she said.\n\n\"My collar\'s got a frayed edge,\" he complained, as she examined his\ntroublesome shirt. \"It\'s a good deal like wearing a saw; but I expect\nit\'ll wilt down flat pretty soon, and not bother me long. I\'m liable to\nwilt down flat, myself, I expect; I don\'t know as I remember any such\nhot night in the last ten or twelve years.\" He lifted his head and\nsniffed the flaccid air, which was laden with a heavy odour. \"My, but\nthat smell is pretty strong!\" he said.\n\n\"Stand still, please, papa,\" Alice begged him. \"I can\'t see what\'s the\nmatter if you move around. How absurd you are about your old glue smell,\npapa! There isn\'t a vestige of it, of course.\"\n\n\"I didn\'t mean glue,\" he informed her. \"I mean cabbage. Is that\nfashionable now, to have cabbage when there\'s company for dinner?\"\n\n\"That isn\'t cabbage, papa. It\'s Brussels sprouts.\"\n\n\"Oh, is it? I don\'t mind it much, because it keeps that glue smell off\nme, but it\'s fairly strong. I expect you don\'t notice it so much because\nyou been in the house with it all along, and got used to it while it was\ngrowing.\"\n\n\"It is pretty dreadful,\" Alice said. \"Are all the windows open\ndownstairs?\"\n\n\"I\'ll go down and see, if you\'ll just fix that hole up for me.\"\n\n\"I\'m afraid I can\'t,\" she said. \"Not unless you take your shirt off and\nbring it to me. I\'ll have to sew the hole smaller.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, I\'ll go ask your mother to----\"\n\n\"No,\" said Alice. \"She\'s got everything on her hands. Run and take it\noff. Hurry, papa; I\'ve got to arrange the flowers on the table before he\ncomes.\"\n\nHe went away, and came back presently, half undressed, bringing the\nshirt. \"There\'s ONE comfort,\" he remarked, pensively, as she worked.\n\"I\'ve got that collar off--for a while, anyway. I wish I could go to\ntable like this; I could stand it a good deal better. Do you seem to be\nmaking any headway with the dang thing?\"\n\n\"I think probably I can----\"\n\nDownstairs the door-bell rang, and Alice\'s arms jerked with the shock.\n\n\"Golly!\" her father said. \"Did you stick your finger with that fool\nneedle?\"\n\nShe gave him a blank stare. \"He\'s come!\"\n\nShe was not mistaken, for, upon the little veranda, Russell stood facing\nthe closed door at last. However, it remained closed for a considerable\ntime after he rang. Inside the house the warning summons of the bell was\nimmediately followed by another sound, audible to Alice and her father\nas a crash preceding a series of muffled falls. Then came a distant\nvoice, bitter in complaint.\n\n\"Oh, Lord!\" said Adams. \"What\'s that?\"\n\nAlice went to the top of the front stairs, and her mother appeared in\nthe hall below.\n\n\"Mama!\"\n\nMrs. Adams looked up. \"It\'s all right,\" she said, in a loud whisper.\n\"Gertrude fell down the cellar stairs. Somebody left a bucket there,\nand----\" She was interrupted by a gasp from Alice, and hastened to\nreassure her. \"Don\'t worry, dearie. She may limp a little, but----\"\n\nAdams leaned over the banisters. \"Did she break anything?\" he asked.\n\n\"Hush!\" his wife whispered. \"No. She seems upset and angry about it,\nmore than anything else; but she\'s rubbing herself, and she\'ll be all\nright in time to bring in the little sandwiches. Alice! Those flowers!\"\n\n\"I know, mama. But----\"\n\n\"Hurry!\" Mrs. Adams warned her. \"Both of you hurry! I MUST let him in!\"\n\nShe turned to the door, smiling cordially, even before she opened it.\n\"Do come right in, Mr. Russell,\" she said, loudly, lifting her voice\nfor additional warning to those above. \"I\'m SO glad to receive you\ninformally, this way, in our own little home. There\'s a hat-rack here\nunder the stairway,\" she continued, as Russell, murmuring some response,\ncame into the hall. \"I\'m afraid you\'ll think it\'s almost TOO informal,\nmy coming to the door, but unfortunately our housemaid\'s just had a\nlittle accident--oh, nothing to mention! I just thought we better\nnot keep you waiting any longer. Will you step into our living-room,\nplease?\"\n\nShe led the way between the two small columns, and seated herself in one\nof the plush rocking-chairs, selecting it because Alice had once pointed\nout that the chairs, themselves, were less noticeable when they had\npeople sitting in them. \"Do sit down, Mr. Russell; it\'s so very warm\nit\'s really quite a trial just to stand up!\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" he said, as he took a seat. \"Yes. It is quite warm.\" And\nthis seemed to be the extent of his responsiveness for the moment.\nHe was grave, rather pale; and Mrs. Adams\'s impression of him, as\nshe formed it then, was of \"a distinguished-looking young man, really\nelegant in the best sense of the word, but timid and formal when he\nfirst meets you.\" She beamed upon him, and used with everything she said\na continuous accompaniment of laughter, meaningless except that it was\nmeant to convey cordiality. \"Of course we DO have a great deal of warm\nweather,\" she informed him. \"I\'m glad it\'s so much cooler in the house\nthan it is outdoors.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"It is pleasanter indoors.\" And, stopping with this\nsingle untruth, he permitted himself the briefest glance about the room;\nthen his eyes returned to his smiling hostess.\n\n\"Most people make a great fuss about hot weather,\" she said. \"The only\nperson I know who doesn\'t mind the heat the way other people do is\nAlice. She always seems as cool as if we had a breeze blowing, no matter\nhow hot it is. But then she\'s so amiable she never minds anything. It\'s\njust her character. She\'s always been that way since she was a little\nchild; always the same to everybody, high and low. I think character\'s\nthe most important thing in the world, after all, don\'t you, Mr.\nRussell?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, solemnly; and touched his bedewed white forehead with a\nhandkerchief.\n\n\"Indeed it is,\" she agreed with herself, never failing to continue her\nmurmur of laughter. \"That\'s what I\'ve always told Alice; but she never\nsees anything good in herself, and she just laughs at me when I praise\nher. She sees good in everybody ELSE in the world, no matter how\nunworthy they are, or how they behave toward HER; but she always\nunderestimates herself. From the time she was a little child she was\nalways that way. When some other little girl would behave selfishly or\nmeanly toward her, do you think she\'d come and tell me? Never a word\nto anybody! The little thing was too proud! She was the same way about\nschool. The teachers had to tell me when she took a prize; she\'d bring\nit home and keep it in her room without a word about it to her father\nand mother. Now, Walter was just the other way. Walter would----\" But\nhere Mrs. Adams checked herself, though she increased the volume of\nher laughter. \"How silly of me!\" she exclaimed. \"I expect you know how\nmothers ARE, though, Mr. Russell. Give us a chance and we\'ll talk about\nour children forever! Alice would feel terribly if she knew how I\'ve\nbeen going on about her to you.\"\n\nIn this Mrs. Adams was right, though she did not herself suspect it,\nand upon an almost inaudible word or two from him she went on with her\ntopic. \"Of course my excuse is that few mothers have a daughter like\nAlice. I suppose we all think the same way about our children, but SOME\nof us must be right when we feel we\'ve got the best. Don\'t you think\nso?\"\n\n\"Yes. Yes, indeed.\"\n\n\"I\'m sure _I_ am!\" she laughed. \"I\'ll let the others speak for\nthemselves.\" She paused reflectively. \"No; I think a mother knows\nwhen she\'s got a treasure in her family. If she HASN\'T got one, she\'ll\npretend she has, maybe; but if she has, she knows it. I certainly\nknow _I_ have. She\'s always been what people call \'the joy of the\nhousehold\'--always cheerful, no matter what went wrong, and always ready\nto smooth things over with some bright, witty saying. You must be sure\nnot to TELL we\'ve had this little chat about her--she\'d just be furious\nwith me--but she IS such a dear child! You won\'t tell her, will you?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, and again applied the handkerchief to his forehead for an\ninstant. \"No, I\'ll----\" He paused, and finished lamely: \"I\'ll--not tell\nher.\"\n\nThus reassured, Mrs. Adams set before him some details of her daughter\'s\npopularity at sixteen, dwelling upon Alice\'s impartiality among her\nyoung suitors: \"She never could BEAR to hurt their feelings, and always\ntreated all of them just alike. About half a dozen of them were just\nBOUND to marry her! Naturally, her father and I considered any such idea\nridiculous; she was too young, of course.\"\n\nThus the mother went on with her biographical sketches, while the pale\nyoung man sat facing her under the hard overhead light of a white globe,\nset to the ceiling; and listened without interrupting. She was glad to\nhave the chance to tell him a few things about Alice he might not\nhave guessed for himself, and, indeed, she had planned to find such an\nopportunity, if she could; but this was getting to be altogether too\nmuch of one, she felt. As time passed, she was like an actor who must\nimprovise to keep the audience from perceiving that his fellow-players\nhave missed their cues; but her anxiety was not betrayed to the still\nlistener; she had a valiant soul.\n\nAlice, meanwhile, had arranged her little roses on the table in as many\nways, probably, as there were blossoms; and she was still at it when\nher father arrived in the dining-room by way of the back stairs and the\nkitchen.\n\n\"It\'s pulled out again,\" he said. \"But I guess there\'s no help for it\nnow; it\'s too late, and anyway it lets some air into me when it bulges.\nI can sit so\'s it won\'t be noticed much, I expect. Isn\'t it time you\nquit bothering about the looks of the table? Your mother\'s been talking\nto him about half an hour now, and I had the idea he came on your\naccount, not hers. Hadn\'t you better go and----\"\n\n\"Just a minute.\" Alice said, piteously. \"Do YOU think it looks all\nright?\"\n\n\"The flowers? Fine! Hadn\'t you better leave \'em the way they are,\nthough?\"\n\n\"Just a minute,\" she begged again. \"Just ONE minute, papa!\" And she\nexchanged a rose in front of Russell\'s plate for one that seemed to her\na little larger.\n\n\"You better come on,\" Adams said, moving to the door.\n\n\"Just ONE more second, papa.\" She shook her head, lamenting. \"Oh, I wish\nwe\'d rented some silver!\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because so much of the plating has rubbed off a lot of it. JUST a\nsecond, papa.\" And as she spoke she hastily went round the table,\ngathering the knives and forks and spoons that she thought had their\nplating best preserved, and exchanging them for more damaged pieces at\nRussell\'s place. \"There!\" she sighed, finally.\n\n\"Now I\'ll come.\" But at the door she paused to look back dubiously, over\nher shoulder.\n\n\"What\'s the matter now?\"\n\n\"The roses. I believe after all I shouldn\'t have tried that vine effect;\nI ought to have kept them in water, in the vase. It\'s so hot, they\nalready begin to look a little wilted, out on the dry tablecloth like\nthat. I believe I\'ll----\"\n\n\"Why, look here, Alice!\" he remonstrated, as she seemed disposed to turn\nback. \"Everything\'ll burn up on the stove if you keep on----\"\n\n\"Oh, well,\" she said, \"the vase was terribly ugly; I can\'t do any\nbetter. We\'ll go in.\" But with her hand on the door-knob she paused.\n\"No, papa. We mustn\'t go in by this door. It might look as if----\"\n\n\"As if what?\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" she said. \"Let\'s go the other way.\"\n\n\"I don\'t see what difference it makes,\" he grumbled, but nevertheless\nfollowed her through the kitchen, and up the back stairs then through\nthe upper hallway. At the top of the front stairs she paused for a\nmoment, drawing a deep breath; and then, before her father\'s puzzled\neyes, a transformation came upon her.\n\nHer shoulders, like her eyelids, had been drooping, but now she threw\nher head back: the shoulders straightened, and the lashes lifted over\nsparkling eyes; vivacity came to her whole body in a flash; and she\ntripped down the steps, with her pretty hands rising in time to the\nlilting little tune she had begun to hum.\n\nAt the foot of the stairs, one of those pretty hands extended itself at\nfull arm\'s length toward Russell, and continued to be extended until it\nreached his own hand as he came to meet her. \"How terrible of me!\" she\nexclaimed. \"To be so late coming down! And papa, too--I think you know\neach other.\"\n\nHer father was advancing toward the young man, expecting to shake hands\nwith him, but Alice stood between them, and Russell, a little flushed,\nbowed to him gravely over her shoulder, without looking at him;\nwhereupon Adams, slightly disconcerted, put his hands in his pockets and\nturned to his wife.\n\n\"I guess dinner\'s more\'n ready,\" he said. \"We better go sit down.\"\n\nBut she shook her head at him fiercely, \"Wait!\" she whispered.\n\n\"What for? For Walter?\"\n\n\"No; he can\'t be coming,\" she returned, hurriedly, and again warned him\nby a shake of her head. \"Be quiet!\"\n\n\"Oh, well----\" he muttered.\n\n\"Sit down!\"\n\nHe was thoroughly mystified, but obeyed her gesture and went to the\nrocking-chair in the opposite corner, where he sat down, and, with an\nexpression of meek inquiry, awaited events.\n\nMeanwhile, Alice prattled on: \"It\'s really not a fault of mine,\nbeing tardy. The shameful truth is I was trying to hurry papa. He\'s\nincorrigible: he stays so late at his terrible old factory--terrible new\nfactory, I should say. I hope you don\'t HATE us for making you dine with\nus in such fearful weather! I\'m nearly dying of the heat, myself, so you\nhave a fellow-sufferer, if that pleases you. Why is it we always bear\nthings better if we think other people have to stand them, too?\" And she\nadded, with an excited laugh: \"SILLY of us, don\'t you think?\"\n\nGertrude had just made her entrance from the dining-room, bearing a\ntray. She came slowly, with an air of resentment; and her skirt still\nneeded adjusting, while her lower jaw moved at intervals, though not\nnow upon any substance, but reminiscently, of habit. She halted before\nAdams, facing him.\n\nHe looked plaintive. \"What you want o\' me?\" he asked.\n\nFor response, she extended the tray toward him with a gesture of\nindifference; but he still appeared to be puzzled. \"What in the\nworld----?\" he began, then caught his wife\'s eye, and had presence of\nmind enough to take a damp and plastic sandwich from the tray. \"Well,\nI\'ll TRY one,\" he said, but a moment later, as he fulfilled this\npromise, an expression of intense dislike came upon his features, and\nhe would have returned the sandwich to Gertrude. However, as she\nhad crossed the room to Mrs. Adams he checked the gesture, and sat\nhelplessly, with the sandwich in his hand. He made another effort to\nget rid of it as the waitress passed him, on her way back to the\ndining-room, but she appeared not to observe him, and he continued to be\ntroubled by it.\n\nAlice was a loyal daughter. \"These are delicious, mama,\" she said; and\nturning to Russell, \"You missed it; you should have taken one. Too\nbad we couldn\'t have offered you what ought to go with it, of course,\nbut----\"\n\nShe was interrupted by the second entrance of Gertrude, who announced,\n\"Dinner serve\',\" and retired from view.\n\n\"Well, well!\" Adams said, rising from his chair, with relief. \"That\'s\ngood! Let\'s go see if we can eat it.\" And as the little group moved\ntoward the open door of the dining-room he disposed of his sandwich by\ndropping it in the empty fireplace.\n\nAlice, glancing back over her shoulder, was the only one who saw him,\nand she shuddered in spite of herself. Then, seeing that he looked at\nher entreatingly, as if he wanted to explain that he was doing the best\nhe could, she smiled upon him sunnily, and began to chatter to Russell\nagain.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nAlice kept her sprightly chatter going when they sat down, though the\ntemperature of the room and the sight of hot soup might have discouraged\na less determined gayety. Moreover, there were details as unpropitious\nas the heat: the expiring roses expressed not beauty but pathos, and\nwhat faint odour they exhaled was no rival to the lusty emanations of\nthe Brussels sprouts; at the head of the table, Adams, sitting low in\nhis chair, appeared to be unable to flatten the uprising wave of\nhis starched bosom; and Gertrude\'s manner and expression were of a\nrecognizable hostility during the long period of vain waiting for the\ncups of soup to be emptied. Only Mrs. Adams made any progress in this\ndirection; the others merely feinting, now and then lifting their spoons\nas if they intended to do something with them.\n\nAlice\'s talk was little more than cheerful sound, but, to fill a\ndesolate interval, served its purpose; and her mother supported her\nwith ever-faithful cooings of applausive laughter. \"What a funny thing\nweather is!\" the girl ran on. \"Yesterday it was cool--angels had charge\nof it--and to-day they had an engagement somewhere else, so the devil\nsaw his chance and started to move the equator to the North Pole; but by\nthe time he got half-way, he thought of something else he wanted to do,\nand went off; and left the equator here, right on top of US! I wish he\'d\ncome back and get it!\"\n\n\"Why, Alice dear!\" her mother cried, fondly. \"What an imagination! Not\na very pious one, I\'m afraid Mr. Russell might think, though!\" Here she\ngave Gertrude a hidden signal to remove the soup; but, as there was\nno response, she had to make the signal more conspicuous. Gertrude was\nleaning against the wall, her chin moving like a slow pendulum, her\nstreaked eyes fixed mutinously upon Russell. Mrs. Adams nodded several\ntimes, increasing the emphasis of her gesture, while Alice talked\nbriskly; but the brooding waitress continued to brood. A faint snap of\nthe fingers failed to disturb her; nor was a covert hissing whisper of\navail, and Mrs. Adams was beginning to show signs of strain when her\ndaughter relieved her.\n\n\"Imagine our trying to eat anything so hot as soup on a night like\nthis!\" Alice laughed. \"What COULD have been in the cook\'s mind not to\ngive us something iced and jellied instead? Of course it\'s because she\'s\nequatorial, herself, originally, and only feels at home when Mr. Satan\nmoves it north.\" She looked round at Gertrude, who stood behind her. \"Do\ntake this dreadful soup away!\"\n\nThus directly addressed, Gertrude yielded her attention, though\nunwillingly, and as if she decided only by a hair\'s weight not to\nrevolt, instead. However, she finally set herself in slow motion; but\noverlooked the supposed head of the table, seeming to be unaware of\nthe sweltering little man who sat there. As she disappeared toward\nthe kitchen with but three of the cups upon her tray he turned to look\nplaintively after her, and ventured an attempt to recall her.\n\n\"Here!\" he said, in a low voice. \"Here, you!\"\n\n\"What is it, Virgil?\" his wife asked.\n\n\"What\'s her name?\"\n\nMrs. Adams gave him a glance of sudden panic, and, seeing that the\nguest of the evening was not looking at her, but down at the white cloth\nbefore him, she frowned hard, and shook her head.\n\nUnfortunately Alice was not observing her mother, and asked, innocently:\n\"What\'s whose name, papa?\"\n\n\"Why, this young darky woman,\" he explained. \"She left mine.\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" Alice laughed. \"There\'s hope for you, papa. She hasn\'t\ngone forever!\"\n\n\"I don\'t know about that,\" he said, not content with this impulsive\nassurance. \"She LOOKED like she is.\" And his remark, considered as a\nprediction, had begun to seem warranted before Gertrude\'s return with\nchina preliminary to the next stage of the banquet.\n\nAlice proved herself equal to the long gap, and rattled on through it\nwith a spirit richly justifying her mother\'s praise of her as \"always\nready to smooth things over\"; for here was more than long delay to be\nsmoothed over. She smoothed over her father and mother for Russell; and\nshe smoothed over him for them, though he did not know it, and remained\nunaware of what he owed her. With all this, throughout her prattlings,\nthe girl\'s bright eyes kept seeking his with an eager gayety, which but\nlittle veiled both interrogation and entreaty--as if she asked: \"Is it\ntoo much for you? Can\'t you bear it? Won\'t you PLEASE bear it? I would\nfor you. Won\'t you give me a sign that it\'s all right?\"\n\nHe looked at her but fleetingly, and seemed to suffer from the heat, in\nspite of every manly effort not to wipe his brow too often. His colour,\nafter rising when he greeted Alice and her father, had departed, leaving\nhim again moistly pallid; a condition arising from discomfort, no doubt,\nbut, considered as a decoration, almost poetically becoming to him.\nNot less becoming was the faint, kindly smile, which showed his wish to\nexpress amusement and approval; and yet it was a smile rather strained\nand plaintive, as if he, like Adams, could only do the best he could.\n\nHe pleased Adams, who thought him a fine young man, and decidedly\nthe quietest that Alice had ever shown to her family. In her father\'s\nopinion this was no small merit; and it was to Russell\'s credit, too,\nthat he showed embarrassment upon this first intimate presentation; here\nwas an applicant with both reserve and modesty. \"So far, he seems to be\nfirst rate a mighty fine young man,\" Adams thought; and, prompted by no\nwish to part from Alice but by reminiscences of apparent candidates less\npleasing, he added, \"At last!\"\n\nAlice\'s liveliness never flagged. Her smoothing over of things was an\nalmost continuous performance, and had to be. Yet, while she chattered\nthrough the hot and heavy courses, the questions she asked herself\nwere as continuous as the performance, and as poignant as what her eyes\nseemed to be asking Russell. Why had she not prevailed over her mother\'s\nfear of being \"skimpy?\" Had she been, indeed, as her mother said she\nlooked, \"in a trance?\" But above all: What was the matter with HIM? What\nhad happened? For she told herself with painful humour that something\neven worse than this dinner must be \"the matter with him.\"\n\nThe small room, suffocated with the odour of boiled sprouts, grew hotter\nand hotter as more and more food appeared, slowly borne in, between\ndeathly long waits, by the resentful, loud-breathing Gertrude. And while\nAlice still sought Russell\'s glance, and read the look upon his face\na dozen different ways, fearing all of them; and while the straggling\nlittle flowers died upon the stained cloth, she felt her heart grow as\nheavy as the food, and wondered that it did not die like the roses.\n\nWith the arrival of coffee, the host bestirred himself to make known a\nhospitable regret, \"By George!\" he said. \"I meant to buy some cigars.\"\nHe addressed himself apologetically to the guest. \"I don\'t know what I\nwas thinking about, to forget to bring some home with me. I don\'t use\n\'em myself--unless somebody hands me one, you might say. I\'ve always\nbeen a pipe-smoker, pure and simple, but I ought to remembered for kind\nof an occasion like this.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" Russell said. \"I\'m not smoking at all lately; but when I\ndo, I\'m like you, and smoke a pipe.\"\n\nAlice started, remembering what she had told him when he overtook her on\nher way from the tobacconist\'s; but, after a moment, looking at him,\nshe decided that he must have forgotten it. If he had remembered, she\nthought, he could not have helped glancing at her. On the contrary, he\nseemed more at ease, just then, than he had since they sat down, for he\nwas favouring her father with a thoughtful attention as Adams responded\nto the introduction of a man\'s topic into the conversation at last.\n\"Well, Mr. Russell, I guess you\'re right, at that. I don\'t say but what\ncigars may be all right for a man that can afford \'em, if he likes \'em\nbetter than a pipe, but you take a good old pipe now----\"\n\nHe continued, and was getting well into the eulogium customarily\nprovoked by this theme, when there came an interruption: the door-bell\nrang, and he paused inquiringly, rather surprised.\n\nMrs. Adams spoke to Gertrude in an undertone:\n\n\"Just say, \'Not at home.\'\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"If it\'s callers, just say we\'re not at home.\"\n\nGertrude spoke out freely: \"You mean you astin\' me to \'tend you\' front\ndo\' fer you?\"\n\nShe seemed both incredulous and affronted, but Mrs. Adams persisted,\nthough somewhat apprehensively. \"Yes. Hurry--uh--please. Just say we\'re\nnot at home if you please.\"\n\nAgain Gertrude obviously hesitated between compliance and revolt, and\nagain the meeker course fortunately prevailed with her. She gave Mrs.\nAdams a stare, grimly derisive, then departed. When she came back she\nsaid:\n\n\"He say he wait.\"\n\n\"But I told you to tell anybody we were not at home,\" Mrs Adams\nreturned. \"Who is it?\"\n\n\"Say he name Mr. Law.\"\n\n\"We don\'t know any Mr. Law.\"\n\n\"Yes\'m; he know you. Say he anxious to speak Mr. Adams. Say he wait.\"\n\n\"Tell him Mr. Adams is engaged.\"\n\n\"Hold on a minute,\" Adams intervened. \"Law? No. I don\'t know any Mr.\nLaw. You sure you got the name right?\"\n\n\"Say he name Law,\" Gertrude replied, looking at the ceiling to express\nher fatigue. \"Law. \'S all he tell me; \'s all I know.\"\n\nAdams frowned. \"Law,\" he said. \"Wasn\'t it maybe \'Lohr?\'\"\n\n\"Law,\" Gertrude repeated. \"\'S all he tell me; \'s all I know.\"\n\n\"What\'s he look like?\"\n\n\"He ain\'t much,\" she said. \"\'Bout you\' age; got brustly white moustache,\nnice eye-glasses.\"\n\n\"It\'s Charley Lohr!\" Adams exclaimed. \"I\'ll go see what he wants.\"\n\n\"But, Virgil,\" his wife remonstrated, \"do finish your coffee; he might\nstay all evening. Maybe he\'s come to call.\"\n\nAdams laughed. \"He isn\'t much of a caller, I expect. Don\'t worry: I\'ll\ntake him up to my room.\" And turning toward Russell, \"Ah--if you\'ll just\nexcuse me,\" he said; and went out to his visitor.\n\nWhen he had gone, Mrs. Adams finished her coffee, and, having glanced\nintelligently from her guest to her daughter, she rose. \"I think perhaps\nI ought to go and shake hands with Mr. Lohr, myself,\" she said, adding\nin explanation to Russell, as she reached the door, \"He\'s an old friend\nof my husband\'s and it\'s a very long time since he\'s been here.\"\n\nAlice nodded and smiled to her brightly, but upon the closing of the\ndoor, the smile vanished; all her liveliness disappeared; and with this\nchange of expression her complexion itself appeared to change, so that\nher rouge became obvious, for she was pale beneath it. However, Russell\ndid not see the alteration, for he did not look at her; and it was but\na momentary lapse the vacation of a tired girl, who for ten seconds lets\nherself look as she feels. Then she shot her vivacity back into place as\nby some powerful spring.\n\n\"Penny for your thoughts!\" she cried, and tossed one of the wilted\nroses at him, across the table. \"I\'ll bid more than a penny; I\'ll bid\ntuppence--no, a poor little dead rose a rose for your thoughts, Mr.\nArthur Russell! What are they?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"I\'m afraid I haven\'t any.\"\n\n\"No, of course not,\" she said. \"Who could have thoughts in weather like\nthis? Will you EVER forgive us?\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"Making you eat such a heavy dinner--I mean LOOK at such a heavy dinner,\nbecause you certainly didn\'t do more than look at it--on such a night!\nBut the crime draws to a close, and you can begin to cheer up!\" She\nlaughed gaily, and, rising, moved to the door. \"Let\'s go in the other\nroom; your fearful duty is almost done, and you can run home as soon as\nyou want to. That\'s what you\'re dying to do.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" he said in a voice so feeble that she laughed aloud.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" she cried. \"I hadn\'t realized it was THAT bad!\"\n\nFor this, though he contrived to laugh, he seemed to have no verbal\nretort whatever; but followed her into the \"living-room,\" where she\nstopped and turned, facing him.\n\n\"Has it really been so frightful?\" she asked.\n\n\"Why, of course not. Not at all.\"\n\n\"Of course yes, though, you mean!\"\n\n\"Not at all. It\'s been most kind of your mother and father and you.\"\n\n\"Do you know,\" she said, \"you\'ve never once looked at me for more than a\nsecond at a time the whole evening? And it seemed to me I looked rather\nnice to-night, too!\"\n\n\"You always do,\" he murmured.\n\n\"I don\'t see how you know,\" she returned; and then stepping closer\nto him, spoke with gentle solicitude: \"Tell me: you\'re really feeling\nwretchedly, aren\'t you? I know you\'ve got a fearful headache, or\nsomething. Tell me!\"\n\n\"Not at all.\"\n\n\"You are ill--I\'m sure of it.\"\n\n\"Not at all.\"\n\n\"On your word?\"\n\n\"I\'m really quite all right.\"\n\n\"But if you are----\" she began; and then, looking at him with a\ndesperate sweetness, as if this were her last resource to rouse him,\n\"What\'s the matter, little boy?\" she said with lisping tenderness. \"Tell\nauntie!\"\n\nIt was a mistake, for he seemed to flinch, and to lean backward,\nhowever, slightly. She turned away instantly, with a flippant lift and\ndrop of both hands. \"Oh, my dear!\" she laughed. \"I won\'t eat you!\"\n\nAnd as the discomfited young man watched her, seeming able to lift\nhis eyes, now that her back was turned, she went to the front door and\npushed open the screen. \"Let\'s go out on the porch,\" she said. \"Where we\nbelong!\"\n\nThen, when he had followed her out, and they were seated, \"Isn\'t this\nbetter?\" she asked. \"Don\'t you feel more like yourself out here?\"\n\nHe began a murmur: \"Not at----\"\n\nBut she cut him off sharply: \"Please don\'t say \'Not at all\' again!\"\n\n\"I\'m sorry.\"\n\n\"You do seem sorry about something,\" she said. \"What is it? Isn\'t it\ntime you were telling me what\'s the matter?\"\n\n\"Nothing. Indeed nothing\'s the matter. Of course one IS rather affected\nby such weather as this. It may make one a little quieter than usual, of\ncourse.\"\n\nShe sighed, and let the tired muscles of her face rest. Under the hard\nlights, indoors, they had served her until they ached, and it was a\nluxury to feel that in the darkness no grimacings need call upon them.\n\n\"Of course, if you won\'t tell me----\" she said.\n\n\"I can only assure you there\'s nothing to tell.\"\n\n\"I know what an ugly little house it is,\" she said. \"Maybe it was the\nfurniture--or mama\'s vases that upset you. Or was it mama herself--or\npapa?\"\n\n\"Nothing \'upset\' me.\"\n\nAt that she uttered a monosyllable of doubting laughter. \"I wonder why\nyou say that.\"\n\n\"Because it\'s so.\"\n\n\"No. It\'s because you\'re too kind, or too conscientious, or too\nembarrassed--anyhow too something--to tell me.\" She leaned forward,\nelbows on knees and chin in hands, in the reflective attitude she knew\nhow to make graceful. \"I have a feeling that you\'re not going to tell\nme,\" she said, slowly. \"Yes--even that you\'re never going to tell me. I\nwonder--I wonder----\"\n\n\"Yes? What do you wonder?\"\n\n\"I was just thinking--I wonder if they haven\'t done it, after all.\"\n\n\"I don\'t understand.\"\n\n\"I wonder,\" she went on, still slowly, and in a voice of reflection, \"I\nwonder who HAS been talking about me to you, after all? Isn\'t that it?\"\n\n\"Not at----\" he began, but checked himself and substituted another form\nof denial. \"Nothing is \'it.\'\"\n\n\"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"Why, yes.\"\n\n\"How curious!\" she said.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because all evening you\'ve been so utterly different.\"\n\n\"But in this weather----\"\n\n\"No. That wouldn\'t make you afraid to look at me all evening!\"\n\n\"But I did look at you. Often.\"\n\n\"No. Not really a LOOK.\"\n\n\"But I\'m looking at you now.\"\n\n\"Yes--in the dark!\" she said. \"No--the weather might make you even\nquieter than usual, but it wouldn\'t strike you so nearly dumb. No--and\nit wouldn\'t make you seem to be under such a strain--as if you thought\nonly of escape!\"\n\n\"But I haven\'t----\"\n\n\"You shouldn\'t,\" she interrupted, gently. \"There\'s nothing you have to\nescape from, you know. You aren\'t committed to--to this friendship.\"\n\n\"I\'m sorry you think----\" he began, but did not complete the fragment.\n\nShe took it up. \"You\'re sorry I think you\'re so different, you mean to\nsay, don\'t you? Never mind: that\'s what you did mean to say, but you\ncouldn\'t finish it because you\'re not good at deceiving.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" he protested, feebly. \"I\'m not deceiving. I\'m----\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" she said again. \"You\'re sorry I think you\'re so\ndifferent--and all in one day--since last night. Yes, your voice SOUNDS\nsorry, too. It sounds sorrier than it would just because of my thinking\nsomething you could change my mind about in a minute so it means you\'re\nsorry you ARE different.\"\n\n\"No--I----\"\n\nBut disregarding the faint denial, \"Never mind,\" she said. \"Do you\nremember one night when you told me that nothing anybody else could do\nwould ever keep you from coming here? That if you--if you left me it\nwould be because I drove you away myself?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, huskily. \"It was true.\"\n\n\"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"Indeed I am,\" he answered in a low voice, but with conviction.\n\n\"Then----\" She paused. \"Well--but I haven\'t driven you away.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And yet you\'ve gone,\" she said, quietly.\n\n\"Do I seem so stupid as all that?\"\n\n\"You know what I mean.\" She leaned back in her chair again, and her\nhands, inactive for once, lay motionless in her lap. When she spoke it\nwas in a rueful whisper:\n\n\"I wonder if I HAVE driven you away?\"\n\n\"You\'ve done nothing--nothing at all,\" he said.\n\n\"I wonder----\" she said once more, but she stopped. In her mind she was\ngoing back over their time together since the first meeting--fragments\nof talk, moments of silence, little things of no importance, little\nthings that might be important; moonshine, sunshine, starlight; and her\nthoughts zigzagged among the jumbling memories; but, as if she made for\nherself a picture of all these fragments, throwing them upon the canvas\nhaphazard, she saw them all just touched with the one tainting quality\nthat gave them coherence, the faint, false haze she had put over this\nfriendship by her own pretendings. And, if this terrible dinner, or\nanything, or everything, had shown that saffron tint in its true colour\nto the man at her side, last night almost a lover, then she had indeed\nof herself driven him away, and might well feel that she was lost.\n\n\"Do you know?\" she said, suddenly, in a clear, loud voice. \"I have the\nstrangest feeling. I feel as if I were going to be with you only about\nfive minutes more in all the rest of my life!\"\n\n\"Why, no,\" he said. \"Of course I\'m coming to see you--often. I----\"\n\n\"No,\" she interrupted. \"I\'ve never had a feeling like this before.\nIt\'s--it\'s just SO; that\'s all! You\'re GOING--why, you\'re never coming\nhere again!\" She stood up, abruptly, beginning to tremble all over.\n\"Why, it\'s FINISHED, isn\'t it?\" she said, and her trembling was manifest\nnow in her voice. \"Why, it\'s all OVER, isn\'t it? Why, yes!\"\n\nHe had risen as she did. \"I\'m afraid you\'re awfully tired and nervous,\"\nhe said. \"I really ought to be going.\"\n\n\"Yes, of COURSE you ought,\" she cried, despairingly. \"There\'s nothing\nelse for you to do. When anything\'s spoiled, people CAN\'T do anything\nbut run away from it. So good-bye!\"\n\n\"At least,\" he returned, huskily, \"we\'ll only--only say good-night.\"\n\nThen, as moving to go, he stumbled upon the veranda steps, \"Your HAT!\"\nshe cried. \"I\'d like to keep it for a souvenir, but I\'m afraid you need\nit!\"\n\nShe ran into the hall and brought his straw hat from the chair where he\nhad left it. \"You poor thing!\" she said, with quavering laughter. \"Don\'t\nyou know you can\'t go without your hat?\"\n\nThen, as they faced each other for the short moment which both of them\nknew would be the last of all their veranda moments, Alice\'s broken\nlaughter grew louder. \"What a thing to say!\" she cried. \"What a romantic\nparting--talking about HATS!\"\n\nHer laughter continued as he turned away, but other sounds came from\nwithin the house, clearly audible with the opening of a door upstairs--a\nlong and wailing cry of lamentation in the voice of Mrs. Adams. Russell\npaused at the steps, uncertain, but Alice waved to him to go on.\n\n\"Oh, don\'t bother,\" she said. \"We have lots of that in this funny little\nold house! Good-bye!\"\n\nAnd as he went down the steps, she ran back into the house and closed\nthe door heavily behind her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nHer mother\'s wailing could still be heard from overhead, though more\nfaintly; and old Charley Lohr was coming down the stairs alone.\n\nHe looked at Alice compassionately. \"I was just comin\' to suggest maybe\nyou\'d excuse yourself from your company,\" he said. \"Your mother was\nbound not to disturb you, and tried her best to keep you from hearin\'\nhow she\'s takin\' on, but I thought probably you better see to her.\"\n\n\"Yes, I\'ll come. What\'s the matter?\"\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"_I_ only stepped over to offer my sympathy and\nservices, as it were. _I_ thought of course you folks knew all about it.\nFact is, it was in the evening paper--just a little bit of an item on\nthe back page, of course.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\nHe coughed. \"Well, it ain\'t anything so terrible,\" he said. \"Fact is,\nyour brother Walter\'s got in a little trouble--well, I suppose you might\ncall it quite a good deal of trouble. Fact is, he\'s quite considerable\nshort in his accounts down at Lamb and Company.\"\n\nAlice ran up the stairs and into her father\'s room, where Mrs. Adams\nthrew herself into her daughter\'s arms. \"Is he gone?\" she sobbed. \"He\ndidn\'t hear me, did he? I tried so hard----\"\n\nAlice patted the heaving shoulders her arms enclosed. \"No, no,\" she\nsaid. \"He didn\'t hear you--it wouldn\'t have mattered--he doesn\'t matter\nanyway.\"\n\n\"Oh, POOR Walter!\" The mother cried. \"Oh, the POOR boy! Poor, poor\nWalter! Poor, poor, poor, POOR----\"\n\n\"Hush, dear, hush!\" Alice tried to soothe her, but the lament could\nnot be abated, and from the other side of the room a repetition in\na different spirit was as continuous. Adams paced furiously there,\npounding his fist into his left palm as he strode. \"The dang boy!\" he\nsaid. \"Dang little fool! Dang idiot! Dang fool! Whyn\'t he TELL me, the\ndang little fool?\"\n\n\"He DID!\" Mrs. Adams sobbed. \"He DID tell you, and you wouldn\'t GIVE it\nto him.\"\n\n\"He DID, did he?\" Adams shouted at her. \"What he begged me for was money\nto run away with! He never dreamed of putting back what he took. What\nthe dangnation you talking about--accusing me!\"\n\n\"He NEEDED it,\" she said. \"He needed it to run away with! How could he\nexpect to LIVE, after he got away, if he didn\'t have a little money? Oh,\npoor, poor, POOR Walter! Poor, poor, poor----\"\n\nShe went back to this repetition; and Adams went back to his own, then\npaused, seeing his old friend standing in the hallway outside the open\ndoor.\n\n\"Ah--I\'ll just be goin\', I guess, Virgil,\" Lohr said. \"I don\'t see as\nthere\'s any use my tryin\' to say any more. I\'ll do anything you want me\nto, you understand.\"\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" Adams said, and, groaning, came and went down the\nstairs with him. \"You say you didn\'t see the old man at all?\"\n\n\"No, I don\'t know a thing about what he\'s going to do,\" Lohr said, as\nthey reached the lower floor. \"Not a thing. But look here, Virgil,\nI don\'t see as this calls for you and your wife to take on so hard\nabout--anyhow not as hard as the way you\'ve started.\"\n\n\"No,\" Adams gulped. \"It always seems that way to the other party that\'s\nonly looking on!\"\n\n\"Oh, well, I know that, of course,\" old Charley returned, soothingly.\n\"But look here, Virgil: they may not catch the boy; they didn\'t even\nseem to be sure what train he made, and if they do get him, why, the ole\nman might decide not to prosecute if----\"\n\n\"HIM?\" Adams cried, interrupting. \"Him not prosecute? Why, that\'s what\nhe\'s been waiting for, all along! He thinks my boy and me both cheated\nhim! Why, he was just letting Walter walk into a trap! Didn\'t you say\nthey\'d been suspecting him for some time back? Didn\'t you say they\'d\nbeen watching him and were just about fixing to arrest him?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know,\" said Lohr; \"but you can\'t tell, especially if you raise\nthe money and pay it back.\"\n\n\"Every cent!\" Adams vociferated. \"Every last penny! I can raise it--I\nGOT to raise it! I\'m going to put a loan on my factory to-morrow. Oh,\nI\'ll get it for him, you tell him! Every last penny!\"\n\n\"Well, ole feller, you just try and get quieted down some now.\" Charley\nheld out his hand in parting. \"You and your wife just quiet down some.\nYou AIN\'T the healthiest man in the world, you know, and you already\nbeen under quite some strain before this happened. You want to take\ncare of yourself for the sake of your wife and that sweet little girl\nupstairs, you know. Now, good-night,\" he finished, stepping out upon the\nveranda. \"You send for me if there\'s anything I can do.\"\n\n\"Do?\" Adams echoed. \"There ain\'t anything ANYBODY can do!\" And then, as\nhis old friend went down the path to the sidewalk, he called after him,\n\"You tell him I\'ll pay him every last cent! Every last, dang, dirty\nPENNY!\"\n\nHe slammed the door and went rapidly up the stairs, talking loudly to\nhimself. \"Every dang, last, dirty penny! Thinks EVERYBODY in this family\nwants to steal from him, does he? Thinks we\'re ALL yellow, does he?\nI\'ll show him!\" And he came into his own room vociferating, \"Every last,\ndang, dirty penny!\"\n\nMrs. Adams had collapsed, and Alice had put her upon his bed, where she\nlay tossing convulsively and sobbing, \"Oh, POOR Walter!\" over and\nover, but after a time she varied the sorry tune. \"Oh, poor Alice!\" she\nmoaned, clinging to her daughter\'s hand. \"Oh, poor, POOR Alice to have\nTHIS come on the night of your dinner--just when everything seemed to be\ngoing so well--at last--oh, poor, poor, POOR----\"\n\n\"Hush!\" Alice said, sharply. \"Don\'t say \'poor Alice!\' I\'m all right.\"\n\n\"You MUST be!\" her mother cried, clutching her. \"You\'ve just GOT to be!\nONE of us has got to be all right--surely God wouldn\'t mind just ONE of\nus being all right--that wouldn\'t hurt Him----\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, mother! Hush!\"\n\nBut Mrs. Adams only clutched her the more tightly. \"He seemed SUCH a\nnice young man, dearie! He may not see this in the paper--Mr. Lohr said\nit was just a little bit of an item--he MAY not see it, dearie----\"\n\nThen her anguish went back to Walter again; and to his needs as a\nfugitive--she had meant to repair his underwear, but had postponed doing\nso, and her neglect now appeared to be a detail as lamentable as the\ncalamity itself. She could neither be stilled upon it, nor herself\nexhaust its urgings to self-reproach, though she finally took up another\ntheme temporarily. Upon an unusually violent outbreak of her husband\'s,\nin denunciation of the runaway, she cried out faintly that he was cruel;\nand further wearied her broken voice with details of Walter\'s beauty as\na baby, and of his bedtime pieties throughout his infancy.\n\nSo the hot night wore on. Three had struck before Mrs. Adams was got to\nbed; and Alice, returning to her own room, could hear her father\'s bare\nfeet thudding back and forth after that. \"Poor papa!\" she whispered in\nhelpless imitation of her mother. \"Poor papa! Poor mama! Poor Walter!\nPoor all of us!\"\n\nShe fell asleep, after a time, while from across the hall the bare\nfeet still thudded over their changeless route; and she woke at seven,\nhearing Adams pass her door, shod. In her wrapper she ran out into the\nhallway and found him descending the stairs.\n\n\"Papa!\"\n\n\"Hush,\" he said, and looked up at her with reddened eyes. \"Don\'t wake\nyour mother.\"\n\n\"I won\'t,\" she whispered. \"How about you? You haven\'t slept any at all!\"\n\n\"Yes, I did. I got some sleep. I\'m going over to the works now. I got\nto throw some figures together to show the bank. Don\'t worry: I\'ll get\nthings fixed up. You go back to bed. Good-bye.\"\n\n\"Wait!\" she bade him sharply.\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"You\'ve got to have some breakfast.\"\n\n\"Don\'t want \'ny.\"\n\n\"You wait!\" she said, imperiously, and disappeared to return almost at\nonce. \"I can cook in my bedroom slippers,\" she explained, \"but I don\'t\nbelieve I could in my bare feet!\"\n\nDescending softly, she made him wait in the dining-room until she\nbrought him toast and eggs and coffee. \"Eat!\" she said. \"And I\'m going\nto telephone for a taxicab to take you, if you think you\'ve really got\nto go.\"\n\n\"No, I\'m going to walk--I WANT to walk.\"\n\nShe shook her head anxiously. \"You don\'t look able. You\'ve walked all\nnight.\"\n\n\"No, I didn\'t,\" he returned. \"I tell you I got some sleep. I got all I\nwanted anyhow.\"\n\n\"But, papa----\"\n\n\"Here!\" he interrupted, looking up at her suddenly and setting down his\ncup of coffee. \"Look here! What about this Mr. Russell? I forgot all\nabout him. What about him?\"\n\nHer lip trembled a little, but she controlled it before she spoke.\n\"Well, what about him, papa?\" she asked, calmly enough.\n\n\"Well, we could hardly----\" Adams paused, frowning heavily. \"We could\nhardly expect he wouldn\'t hear something about all this.\"\n\n\"Yes; of course he\'ll hear it, papa.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Well, what?\" she asked, gently.\n\n\"You don\'t think he\'d be the--the cheap kind it\'d make a difference\nwith, of course.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; he isn\'t cheap. It won\'t make any difference with him.\"\n\nAdams suffered a profound sigh to escape him. \"Well--I\'m glad of that,\nanyway.\"\n\n\"The difference,\" she explained--\"the difference was made without his\nhearing anything about Walter. He doesn\'t know about THAT yet.\"\n\n\"Well, what does he know about?\"\n\n\"Only,\" she said, \"about me.\"\n\n\"What you mean by that, Alice?\" he asked, helplessly.\n\n\"Never mind,\" she said. \"It\'s nothing beside the real trouble we\'re\nin--I\'ll tell you some time. You eat your eggs and toast; you can\'t keep\ngoing on just coffee.\"\n\n\"I can\'t eat any eggs and toast,\" he objected, rising. \"I can\'t.\"\n\n\"Then wait till I can bring you something else.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, irritably. \"I won\'t do it! I don\'t want any dang food!\nAnd look here\"--he spoke sharply to stop her, as she went toward the\ntelephone--\"I don\'t want any dang taxi, either! You look after your\nmother when she wakes up. I got to be at WORK!\"\n\nAnd though she followed him to the front door, entreating, he could not\nbe stayed or hindered. He went through the quiet morning streets at\na rickety, rapid gait, swinging his old straw hat in his hands, and\nwhispering angrily to himself as he went. His grizzled hair, not trimmed\nfor a month, blew back from his damp forehead in the warm breeze; his\nreddened eyes stared hard at nothing from under blinking lids; and one\nside of his face twitched startlingly from time to time;--children might\nhave run from him, or mocked him.\n\nWhen he had come into that fallen quarter his industry had partly\nrevived and wholly made odorous, a negro woman, leaning upon her\nwhitewashed gate, gazed after him and chuckled for the benefit of a\ngossiping friend in the next tiny yard. \"Oh, good Satan! Wha\'ssa matter\nthat ole glue man?\"\n\n\"Who? Him?\" the neighbour inquired. \"What he do now?\"\n\n\"Talkin\' to his ole se\'f!\" the first explained, joyously. \"Look like\ngone distracted--ole glue man!\"\n\nAdams\'s legs had grown more uncertain with his hard walk, and he\nstumbled heavily as he crossed the baked mud of his broad lot, but cared\nlittle for that, was almost unaware of it, in fact. Thus his eyes saw\nas little as his body felt, and so he failed to observe something that\nwould have given him additional light upon an old phrase that already\nmeant quite enough for him.\n\nThere are in the wide world people who have never learned its meaning;\nbut most are either young or beautifully unobservant who remain\nwholly unaware of the inner poignancies the words convey: \"a rain of\nmisfortunes.\" It is a boiling rain, seemingly whimsical in its choice of\nspots whereon to fall; and, so far as mortal eye can tell, neither the\njust nor the unjust may hope to avoid it, or need worry themselves by\nexpecting it. It had selected the Adams family for its scaldings; no\nquestion.\n\nThe glue-works foreman, standing in the doorway of the brick shed,\nobserved his employer\'s eccentric approach, and doubtfully stroked a\nwhiskered chin.\n\n\"Well, they ain\'t no putticular use gettin\' so upset over it,\" he said,\nas Adams came up. \"When a thing happens, why, it happens, and that\'s all\nthere is to it. When a thing\'s so, why, it\'s so. All you can do about it\nis think if there\'s anything you CAN do; and that\'s what you better be\ndoin\' with this case.\"\n\nAdams halted, and seemed to gape at him. \"What--case?\" he said, with\ndifficulty. \"Was it in the morning papers, too?\"\n\n\"No, it ain\'t in no morning papers. My land! It don\'t need to be in no\npapers; look at the SIZE of it!\"\n\n\"The size of what?\"\n\n\"Why, great God!\" the foreman exclaimed. \"He ain\'t even seen it. Look!\nLook yonder!\"\n\nAdams stared vaguely at the man\'s outstretched hand and pointing\nforefinger, then turned and saw a great sign upon the facade of the big\nfactory building across the street. The letters were large enough to be\nread two blocks away.\n\n \"AFTER THE FIFTEENTH OF NEXT MONTH\n THIS BUILDING WILL BE OCCUPIED BY\n THE J. A. LAMB LIQUID GLUE CO. INC.\"\n\n\nA gray touring-car had just come to rest before the principal entrance\nof the building, and J. A. Lamb himself descended from it. He glanced\nover toward the humble rival of his projected great industry, saw his\nold clerk, and immediately walked across the street and the lot to speak\nto him.\n\n\"Well, Adams,\" he said, in his husky, cheerful voice, \"how\'s your\nglue-works?\"\n\nAdams uttered an inarticulate sound, and lifted the hand that held his\nhat as if to make a protective gesture, but failed to carry it out; and\nhis arm sank limp at his side. The foreman, however, seemed to feel that\nsomething ought to be said.\n\n\"Our glue-works, hell!\" he remarked. \"I guess we won\'t HAVE no\nglue-works over here not very long, if we got to compete with the sized\nthing you got over there!\"\n\nLamb chuckled. \"I kind of had some such notion,\" he said. \"You see,\nVirgil, I couldn\'t exactly let you walk off with it like swallering a\npat o\' butter, now, could I? It didn\'t look exactly reasonable to expect\nme to let go like that, now, did it?\"\n\nAdams found a half-choked voice somewhere in his throat. \"Do you--would\nyou step into my office a minute, Mr. Lamb?\"\n\n\"Why, certainly I\'m willing to have a little talk with you,\" the old\ngentleman said, as he followed his former employee indoors, and he\nadded, \"I feel a lot more like it than I did before I got THAT up, over\nyonder, Virgil!\"\n\nAdams threw open the door of the rough room he called his office, having\nas justification for this title little more than the fact that he had a\ntelephone there and a deal table that served as a desk. \"Just step into\nthe office, please,\" he said.\n\nLamb glanced at the desk, at the kitchen chair before it, at the\ntelephone, and at the partition walls built of old boards, some covered\nwith ancient paint and some merely weatherbeaten, the salvage of a\nhouse-wrecker; and he smiled broadly. \"So these are your offices, are\nthey?\" he asked. \"You expect to do quite a business here, I guess, don\'t\nyou, Virgil?\"\n\nAdams turned upon him a stricken and tortured face. \"Have you seen\nCharley Lohr since last night, Mr. Lamb?\"\n\n\"No; I haven\'t seen Charley.\"\n\n\"Well, I told him to tell you,\" Adams began;--\"I told him I\'d pay\nyou----\"\n\n\"Pay me what you expect to make out o\' glue, you mean, Virgil?\"\n\n\"No,\" Adams said, swallowing. \"I mean what my boy owes you. That\'s what\nI told Charley to tell you. I told him to tell you I\'d pay you every\nlast----\"\n\n\"Well, well!\" the old gentleman interrupted, testily. \"I don\'t know\nanything about that.\"\n\n\"I\'m expecting to pay you,\" Adams went on, swallowing again, painfully.\n\"I was expecting to do it out of a loan I thought I could get on my\nglue-works.\"\n\nThe old gentleman lifted his frosted eyebrows. \"Oh, out o\' the\nGLUE-works? You expected to raise money on the glue-works, did you?\"\n\nAt that, Adams\'s agitation increased prodigiously. \"How\'d you THINK I\nexpected to pay you?\" he said. \"Did you think I expected to get money on\nmy own old bones?\" He slapped himself harshly upon the chest and legs.\n\"Do you think a bank\'ll lend money on a man\'s ribs and his broken-down\nold knee-bones? They won\'t do it! You got to have some BUSINESS\nprospects to show \'em, if you haven\'t got any property nor securities;\nand what business prospects have I got now, with that sign of yours up\nover yonder? Why, you don\'t need to make an OUNCE o\' glue; your sign\'s\nfixed ME without your doing another lick! THAT\'S all you had to do; just\nput your sign up! You needn\'t to----\"\n\n\"Just let me tell you something, Virgil Adams,\" the old man interrupted,\nharshly. \"I got just one right important thing to tell you before we\ntalk any further business; and that\'s this: there\'s some few men in this\ntown made their money in off-colour ways, but there aren\'t many; and\nthose there are have had to be a darn sight slicker than you know how to\nbe, or ever WILL know how to be! Yes, sir, and they none of them had the\nlittle gumption to try to make it out of a man that had the spirit not\nto let \'em, and the STRENGTH not to let \'em! I know what you thought.\n\'Here,\' you said to yourself, \'here\'s this ole fool J. A. Lamb; he\'s\nkind of worn out and in his second childhood like; I can put it over on\nhim, without his ever----\'\"\n\n\"I did not!\" Adams shouted. \"A great deal YOU know about my feelings\nand all what I said to myself! There\'s one thing I want to tell YOU,\nand that\'s what I\'m saying to myself NOW, and what my feelings are this\nMINUTE!\"\n\nHe struck the table a great blow with his thin fist, and shook the\ndamaged knuckles in the air. \"I just want to tell you, whatever I did\nfeel, I don\'t feel MEAN any more; not to-day, I don\'t. There\'s a meaner\nman in this world than _I_ am, Mr. Lamb!\"\n\n\"Oh, so you feel better about yourself to-day, do you, Virgil?\"\n\n\"You bet I do! You worked till you got me where you want me; and\nI wouldn\'t do that to another man, no matter what he did to me! I\nwouldn\'t----\"\n\n\"What you talkin\' about! How\'ve I \'got you where I want you?\'\"\n\n\"Ain\'t it plain enough?\" Adams cried. \"You even got me where I can\'t\nraise the money to pay back what my boy owes you! Do you suppose\nanybody\'s fool enough to let me have a cent on this business after one\nlook at what you got over there across the road?\"\n\n\"No, I don\'t.\"\n\n\"No, you don\'t,\" Adams echoed, hoarsely. \"What\'s more, you knew my house\nwas mortgaged, and my----\"\n\n\"I did not,\" Lamb interrupted, angrily. \"What do _I_ care about your\nhouse?\"\n\n\"What\'s the use your talking like that?\" Adams cried. \"You got me where\nI can\'t even raise the money to pay what my boy owes the company, so\'t\nI can\'t show any reason to stop the prosecution and keep him out the\npenitentiary. That\'s where you worked till you got ME!\"\n\n\"What!\" Lamb shouted. \"You accuse me of----\"\n\n\"\'Accuse you?\' What am I telling you? Do you think I got no EYES?\" And\nAdams hammered the table again. \"Why, you knew the boy was weak----\"\n\n\"I did not!\"\n\n\"Listen: you kept him there after you got mad at my leaving the way\nI did. You kept him there after you suspected him; and you had him\nwatched; you let him go on; just waited to catch him and ruin him!\"\n\n\"You\'re crazy!\" the old man bellowed. \"I didn\'t know there was anything\nagainst the boy till last night. You\'re CRAZY, I say!\"\n\nAdams looked it. With his hair disordered over his haggard forehead and\nbloodshot eyes; with his bruised hands pounding the table and flying in\na hundred wild and absurd gestures, while his feet shuffled constantly\nto preserve his balance upon staggering legs, he was the picture of a\nman with a mind gone to rags.\n\n\"Maybe I AM crazy!\" he cried, his voice breaking and quavering. \"Maybe\nI am, but I wouldn\'t stand there and taunt a man with it if I\'d done to\nhim what you\'ve done to me! Just look at me: I worked all my life for\nyou, and what I did when I quit never harmed you--it didn\'t make two\ncents\' worth o\' difference in your life and it looked like it\'d mean all\nthe difference in the world to my family--and now look what you\'ve DONE\nto me for it! I tell you, Mr. Lamb, there never was a man looked up to\nanother man the way I looked up to you the whole o\' my life, but I don\'t\nlook up to you any more! You think you got a fine day of it now, riding\nup in your automobile to look at that sign--and then over here at my\npoor little works that you\'ve ruined. But listen to me just this\none last time!\" The cracking voice broke into falsetto, and the\ngesticulating hands fluttered uncontrollably. \"Just you listen!\" he\npanted. \"You think I did you a bad turn, and now you got me ruined for\nit, and you got my works ruined, and my family ruined; and if anybody\'d\n\'a\' told me this time last year I\'d ever say such a thing to you I\'d\ncalled him a dang liar, but I DO say it: I say you\'ve acted toward me\nlike--like a--a doggone mean--man!\"\n\nHis voice, exhausted, like his body, was just able to do him this final\nservice; then he sank, crumpled, into the chair by the table, his chin\ndown hard upon his chest.\n\n\"I tell you, you\'re crazy!\" Lamb said again. \"I never in the world----\"\nBut he checked himself, staring in sudden perplexity at his accuser.\n\"Look here!\" he said. \"What\'s the matter of you? Have you got another of\nthose----?\" He put his hand upon Adams\'s shoulder, which jerked feebly\nunder the touch.\n\nThe old man went to the door and called to the foreman.\n\n\"Here!\" he said. \"Run and tell my chauffeur to bring my car over here.\nTell him to drive right up over the sidewalk and across the lot. Tell\nhim to hurry!\"\n\nSo, it happened, the great J. A. Lamb a second time brought his former\nclerk home, stricken and almost inanimate.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nAbout five o\'clock that afternoon, the old gentleman came back to\nAdams\'s house; and when Alice opened the door, he nodded, walked\ninto the \"living-room\" without speaking; then stood frowning as if he\nhesitated to decide some perplexing question.\n\n\"Well, how is he now?\" he asked, finally.\n\n\"The doctor was here again a little while ago; he thinks papa\'s coming\nthrough it. He\'s pretty sure he will.\"\n\n\"Something like the way it was last spring?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of sense to it!\" Lamb said, gruffly. \"When he was getting\nwell the other time the doctor told me it wasn\'t a regular stroke, so to\nspeak--this \'cerebral effusion\' thing. Said there wasn\'t any particular\nreason for your father to expect he\'d ever have another attack, if he\'d\ntake a little care of himself. Said he could consider himself well as\nanybody else long as he did that.\"\n\n\"Yes. But he didn\'t do it!\"\n\nLamb nodded, sighed aloud, and crossed the room to a chair. \"I\nguess not,\" he said, as he sat down. \"Bustin\' his health up over his\nglue-works, I expect.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I guess so; I guess so.\" Then he looked up at her with a glimmer of\nanxiety in his eyes. \"Has he came to yet?\"\n\n\"Yes. He\'s talked a little. His mind\'s clear; he spoke to mama and me\nand to Miss Perry.\" Alice laughed sadly. \"We were lucky enough to get\nher back, but papa didn\'t seem to think it was lucky. When he recognized\nher he said, \'Oh, my goodness, \'tisn\'t YOU, is it!\'\"\n\n\"Well, that\'s a good sign, if he\'s getting a little cross. Did he--did\nhe happen to say anything--for instance, about me?\"\n\nThis question, awkwardly delivered, had the effect of removing the\ngirl\'s pallor; rosy tints came quickly upon her cheeks. \"He--yes, he\ndid,\" she said. \"Naturally, he\'s troubled about--about----\" She stopped.\n\n\"About your brother, maybe?\"\n\n\"Yes, about making up the----\"\n\n\"Here, now,\" Lamb said, uncomfortably, as she stopped again. \"Listen,\nyoung lady; let\'s don\'t talk about that just yet. I want to ask you: you\nunderstand all about this glue business, I expect, don\'t you?\"\n\n\"I\'m not sure. I only know----\"\n\n\"Let me tell you,\" he interrupted, impatiently. \"I\'ll tell you all about\nit in two words. The process belonged to me, and your father up and\nwalked off with it; there\'s no getting around THAT much, anyhow.\"\n\n\"Isn\'t there?\" Alice stared at him. \"I think you\'re mistaken, Mr. Lamb.\nDidn\'t papa improve it so that it virtually belonged to him?\"\n\nThere was a spark in the old blue eyes at this. \"What?\" he cried. \"Is\nthat the way he got around it? Why, in all my life I never heard of such\na----\" But he left the sentence unfinished; the testiness went out of\nhis husky voice and the anger out of his eyes. \"Well, I expect maybe\nthat was the way of it,\" he said. \"Anyhow, it\'s right for you to stand\nup for your father; and if you think he had a right to it----\"\n\n\"But he did!\" she cried.\n\n\"I expect so,\" the old man returned, pacifically. \"I expect so,\nprobably. Anyhow, it\'s a question that\'s neither here nor there, right\nnow. What I was thinking of saying--well, did your father happen to let\nout that he and I had words this morning?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, we did.\" He sighed and shook his head. \"Your father--well, he\nused some pretty hard expressions toward me, young lady. They weren\'t\nSO, I\'m glad to say, but he used \'em to me, and the worst of it was he\nbelieved \'em. Well, I been thinking it over, and I thought I\'d just have\na kind of little talk with you to set matters straight, so to speak.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Lamb.\"\n\n\"For instance,\" he said, \"it\'s like this. Now, I hope you won\'t think I\nmean any indelicacy, but you take your brother\'s case, since we got to\nmention it, why, your father had the whole thing worked out in his mind\nabout as wrong as anybody ever got anything. If I\'d acted the way your\nfather thought I did about that, why, somebody just ought to take me out\nand shoot me! Do YOU know what that man thought?\"\n\n\"I\'m not sure.\"\n\nHe frowned at her, and asked, \"Well, what do you think about it?\"\n\n\"I don\'t know,\" she said. \"I don\'t believe I think anything at all about\nanything to-day.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" he returned; \"I expect not; I expect not. You kind of look\nto me as if you ought to be in bed yourself, young lady.\"\n\n\"Oh, no.\"\n\n\"I guess you mean \'Oh, yes\'; and I won\'t keep you long, but there\'s\nsomething we got to get fixed up, and I\'d rather talk to you than I\nwould to your mother, because you\'re a smart girl and always friendly;\nand I want to be sure I\'m understood. Now, listen.\"\n\n\"I will,\" Alice promised, smiling faintly.\n\n\"I never even hardly noticed your brother was still working for me,\" he\nexplained, earnestly. \"I never thought anything about it. My sons sort\nof tried to tease me about the way your father--about his taking up this\nglue business, so to speak--and one day Albert, Junior, asked me if I\nfelt all right about your brother\'s staying there after that, and I told\nhim--well, I just asked him to shut up. If the boy wanted to stay there,\nI didn\'t consider it my business to send him away on account of\nany feeling I had toward his father; not as long as he did his work\nright--and the report showed he did. Well, as it happens, it looks now\nas if he stayed because he HAD to; he couldn\'t quit because he\'d \'a\'\nbeen found out if he did. Well, he\'d been covering up his shortage for a\nconsiderable time--and do you know what your father practically charged\nme with about that?\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Lamb.\"\n\nIn his resentment, the old gentleman\'s ruddy face became ruddier and his\nhusky voice huskier. \"Thinks I kept the boy there because I suspected\nhim! Thinks I did it to get even with HIM! Do I look to YOU like a man\nthat\'d do such a thing?\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, gently. \"I don\'t think you would.\"\n\n\"No!\" he exclaimed. \"Nor HE wouldn\'t think so if he was himself; he\'s\nknown me too long. But he must been sort of brooding over this whole\nbusiness--I mean before Walter\'s trouble he must been taking it to heart\npretty hard for some time back. He thought I didn\'t think much of\nhim any more--and I expect he maybe wondered some what I was going\nto DO--and there\'s nothing worse\'n that state of mind to make a man\nsuspicious of all kinds of meanness. Well, he practically stood up there\nand accused me to my face of fixing things so\'t he couldn\'t ever raise\nthe money to settle for Walter and ask us not to prosecute. That\'s the\nstate of mind your father\'s brooding got him into, young lady--charging\nme with a trick like that!\"\n\n\"I\'m sorry,\" she said. \"I know you\'d never----\"\n\nThe old man slapped his sturdy knee, angrily. \"Why, that dang fool of a\nVirgil Adams!\" he exclaimed. \"He wouldn\'t even give me a chance to talk;\nand he got me so mad I couldn\'t hardly talk, anyway! He might \'a\' known\nfrom the first I wasn\'t going to let him walk in and beat me out of my\nown--that is, he might \'a\' known I wouldn\'t let him get ahead of me in\na business matter--not with my boys twitting me about it every few\nminutes! But to talk to me the way he did this morning--well, he was out\nof his head; that\'s all! Now, wait just a minute,\" he interposed, as she\nseemed about to speak. \"In the first place, we aren\'t going to push this\ncase against your brother. I believe in the law, all right, and\nbusiness men got to protect themselves; but in a case like this, where\nrestitution\'s made by the family, why, I expect it\'s just as well\nsometimes to use a little influence and let matters drop. Of course your\nbrother\'ll have to keep out o\' this state; that\'s all.\"\n\n\"But--you said----\" she faltered.\n\n\"Yes. What\'d I say?\"\n\n\"You said, \'where restitution\'s made by the family.\' That\'s what seemed\nto trouble papa so terribly, because--because restitution couldn\'t----\"\n\n\"Why, yes, it could. That\'s what I\'m here to talk to you about.\"\n\n\"I don\'t see----\"\n\n\"I\'m going to TELL you, ain\'t I?\" he said, gruffly. \"Just hold your\nhorses a minute, please.\" He coughed, rose from his chair, walked up and\ndown the room, then halted before her. \"It\'s like this,\" he said. \"After\nI brought your father home, this morning, there was one of the things he\ntold me, when he was going for me, over yonder--it kind of stuck in\nmy craw. It was something about all this glue controversy not meaning\nanything to me in particular, and meaning a whole heap to him and his\nfamily. Well, he was wrong about that two ways. The first one was,\nit did mean a good deal to me to have him go back on me after so many\nyears. I don\'t need to say any more about it, except just to tell you it\nmeant quite a little more to me than you\'d think, maybe. The other way\nhe was wrong is, that how much a thing means to one man and how little\nit means to another ain\'t the right way to look at a business matter.\"\n\n\"I suppose it isn\'t, Mr. Lamb.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"It isn\'t. It\'s not the right way to look at anything.\nYes, and your father knows it as well as I do, when he\'s in his right\nmind; and I expect that\'s one of the reasons he got so mad at me--but\nanyhow, I couldn\'t help thinking about how much all this thing HAD maybe\nmeant to him;--as I say, it kind of stuck in my craw. I want you to tell\nhim something from me, and I want you to go and tell him right off, if\nhe\'s able and willing to listen. You tell him I got kind of a notion\nhe was pushed into this thing by circumstances, and tell him I\'ve lived\nlong enough to know that circumstances can beat the best of us--you tell\nhim I said \'the BEST of us.\' Tell him I haven\'t got a bit of feeling\nagainst him--not any more--and tell him I came here to ask him not to\nhave any against me.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Lamb.\"\n\n\"Tell him I said----\" The old man paused abruptly and Alice was\nsurprised, in a dull and tired way, when she saw that his lips had begun\nto twitch and his eyelids to blink; but he recovered himself almost\nat once, and continued: \"I want him to remember, \'Forgive us our\ntransgressions, as we forgive those that transgress against us\'; and if\nhe and I been transgressing against each other, why, tell him I think\nit\'s time we QUIT such foolishness!\"\n\nHe coughed again, smiled heartily upon her, and walked toward the door;\nthen turned back to her with an exclamation: \"Well, if I ain\'t an old\nfool!\"\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked.\n\n\"Why, I forgot what we were just talking about! Your father wants to\nsettle for Walter\'s deficit. Tell him we\'ll be glad to accept it; but\nof course we don\'t expect him to clean the matter up until he\'s able to\ntalk business again.\"\n\nAlice stared at him blankly enough for him to perceive that further\nexplanations were necessary. \"It\'s like this,\" he said. \"You see, if\nyour father decided to keep his works going over yonder, I don\'t say but\nhe might give us some little competition for a time, \'specially as he\'s\ngot the start on us and about ready for the market. Then I was figuring\nwe could use his plant--it\'s small, but it\'d be to our benefit to have\nthe use of it--and he\'s got a lease on that big lot; it may come in\nhandy for us if we want to expand some. Well, I\'d prefer to make a deal\nwith him as quietly as possible---no good in every Tom, Dick and Harry\nhearing about things like this--but I figured he could sell out to me\nfor a little something more\'n enough to cover the mortgage he put on\nthis house, and Walter\'s deficit, too--THAT don\'t amount to much\nin dollars and cents. The way I figure it, I could offer him about\nninety-three hundred dollars as a total--or say ninety-three hundred and\nfifty--and if he feels like accepting, why, I\'ll send a confidential man\nup here with the papers soon\'s your father\'s able to look \'em over. You\ntell him, will you, and ask him if he sees his way to accepting that\nfigure?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Alice said; and now her own lips twitched, while her eyes filled\nso that she saw but a blurred image of the old man, who held out his\nhand in parting. \"I\'ll tell him. Thank you.\"\n\nHe shook her hand hastily. \"Well, let\'s just keep it kind of quiet,\"\nhe said, at the door. \"No good in every Tom, Dick and Harry knowing all\nwhat goes on in town! You telephone me when your papa\'s ready to go over\nthe papers--and call me up at my house to-night, will you? Let me hear\nhow he\'s feeling?\"\n\n\"I will,\" she said, and through her grateful tears gave him a smile\nalmost radiant. \"He\'ll be better, Mr. Lamb. We all will.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nOne morning, that autumn, Mrs. Adams came into Alice\'s room, and found\nher completing a sober toilet for the street; moreover, the expression\nrevealed in her mirror was harmonious with the business-like severity\nof her attire. \"What makes you look so cross, dearie?\" the mother asked.\n\"Couldn\'t you find anything nicer to wear than that plain old dark\ndress?\"\n\n\"I don\'t believe I\'m cross,\" the girl said, absently. \"I believe I\'m\njust thinking. Isn\'t it about time?\"\n\n\"Time for what?\"\n\n\"Time for thinking--for me, I mean?\"\n\nDisregarding this, Mrs. Adams looked her over thoughtfully. \"I can\'t see\nwhy you don\'t wear more colour,\" she said. \"At your age it\'s becoming\nand proper, too. Anyhow, when you\'re going on the street, I think you\nought to look just as gay and lively as you can manage. You want to show\n\'em you\'ve got some spunk!\"\n\n\"How do you mean, mama?\"\n\n\"I mean about Walter\'s running away and the mess your father made of his\nbusiness. It would help to show \'em you\'re holding up your head just the\nsame.\"\n\n\"Show whom!\"\n\n\"All these other girls that----\"\n\n\"Not I!\" Alice laughed shortly, shaking her head. \"I\'ve quit dressing at\nthem, and if they saw me they wouldn\'t think what you want \'em to. It\'s\nfunny; but we don\'t often make people think what we want \'em to, mama.\nYou do thus and so; and you tell yourself, \'Now, seeing me do thus and\nso, people will naturally think this and that\'; but they don\'t. They\nthink something else--usually just what you DON\'T want \'em to. I suppose\nabout the only good in pretending is the fun we get out of fooling\nourselves that we fool somebody.\"\n\n\"Well, but it wouldn\'t be pretending. You ought to let people see you\'re\nstill holding your head up because you ARE. You wouldn\'t want that\nMildred Palmer to think you\'re cast down about--well, you know you\nwouldn\'t want HER not to think you\'re holding your head up, would you?\"\n\n\"She wouldn\'t know whether I am or not, mama.\" Alice bit her lip, then\nsmiled faintly as she said:\n\n\"Anyhow, I\'m not thinking about my head in that way--not this morning,\nI\'m not.\"\n\nMrs. Adams dropped the subject casually. \"Are you going down-town?\" she\ninquired.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"Just something I want to see about. I\'ll tell you when I come back.\nAnything you want me to do?\"\n\n\"No; I guess not to-day. I thought you might look for a rug, but I\'d\nrather go with you to select it. We\'ll have to get a new rug for your\nfather\'s room, I expect.\"\n\n\"I\'m glad you think so, mama. I don\'t suppose he\'s ever even noticed it,\nbut that old rug of his--well, really!\"\n\n\"I didn\'t mean for him,\" her mother explained, thoughtfully. \"No; he\ndon\'t mind it, and he\'d likely make a fuss if we changed it on his\naccount. No; what I meant--we\'ll have to put your father in Walter\'s\nroom. He won\'t mind, I don\'t expect--not much.\"\n\n\"No, I suppose not,\" Alice agreed, rather sadly. \"I heard the bell\nawhile ago. Was it somebody about that?\"\n\n\"Yes; just before I came upstairs. Mrs. Lohr gave him a note to me, and\nhe was really a very pleasant-looking young man. A VERY pleasant-looking\nyoung man,\" Mrs. Adams repeated with increased animation and a\nthoughtful glance at her daughter. \"He\'s a Mr. Will Dickson; he has a\nfirst-rate position with the gas works, Mrs. Lohr says, and he\'s fully\nable to afford a nice room. So if you and I double up in here, then\nwith that young married couple in my room, and this Mr. Dickson in your\nfather\'s, we\'ll just about have things settled. I thought maybe I could\nmake one more place at table, too, so that with the other people from\noutside we\'d be serving eleven altogether. You see if I have to pay this\ncook twelve dollars a week--it can\'t be helped, I guess--well, one more\nwould certainly help toward a profit. Of course it\'s a terribly worrying\nthing to see how we WILL come out. Don\'t you suppose we could squeeze in\none more?\"\n\n\"I suppose it COULD be managed; yes.\"\n\nMrs. Adams brightened. \"I\'m sure it\'ll be pleasant having that young\nmarried couple in the house and especially this Mr. Will Dickson. He\nseemed very much of a gentleman, and anxious to get settled in good\nsurroundings. I was very favourably impressed with him in every way; and\nhe explained to me about his name; it seems it isn\'t William, it\'s just\n\'Will\'; his parents had him christened that way. It\'s curious.\" She\npaused, and then, with an effort to seem casual, which veiled nothing\nfrom her daughter: \"It\'s QUITE curious,\" she said again. \"But it\'s\nrather attractive and different, don\'t you think?\"\n\n\"Poor mama!\" Alice laughed compassionately. \"Poor mama!\"\n\n\"He is, though,\" Mrs. Adams maintained. \"He\'s very much of a gentleman,\nunless I\'m no judge of appearances; and it\'ll really be nice to have him\nin the house.\"\n\n\"No doubt,\" Alice said, as she opened her door to depart. \"I don\'t\nsuppose we\'ll mind having any of \'em as much as we thought we would.\nGood-bye.\"\n\nBut her mother detained her, catching her by the arm. \"Alice, you do\nhate it, don\'t you!\"\n\n\"No,\" the girl said, quickly. \"There wasn\'t anything else to do.\"\n\nMrs. Adams became emotional at once: her face cried tragedy, and her\nvoice misfortune. \"There MIGHT have been something else to do! Oh,\nAlice, you gave your father bad advice when you upheld him in taking a\nmiserable little ninety-three hundred and fifty from that old wretch! If\nyour father\'d just had the gumption to hold out, they\'d have had to pay\nhim anything he asked. If he\'d just had the gumption and a little manly\nCOURAGE----\"\n\n\"Hush!\" Alice whispered, for her mother\'s voice grew louder. \"Hush!\nHe\'ll hear you, mama.\"\n\n\"Could he hear me too often?\" the embittered lady asked. \"If he\'d\nlistened to me at the right time, would we have to be taking in boarders\nand sinking DOWN in the scale at the end of our lives, instead of going\nUP? You were both wrong; we didn\'t need to be so panicky--that was just\nwhat that old man wanted: to scare us and buy us out for nothing! If\nyour father\'d just listened to me then, or if for once in his life he\'d\njust been half a MAN----\"\n\nAlice put her hand over her mother\'s mouth. \"You mustn\'t! He WILL hear\nyou!\"\n\nBut from the other side of Adams\'s closed door his voice came\nquerulously. \"Oh, I HEAR her, all right!\"\n\n\"You see, mama?\" Alice said, and, as Mrs. Adams turned away, weeping,\nthe daughter sighed; then went in to speak to her father.\n\nHe was in his old chair by the table, with a pillow behind his head,\nbut the crocheted scarf and Mrs. Adams\'s wrapper swathed him no more;\nhe wore a dressing-gown his wife had bought for him, and was smoking his\npipe. \"The old story, is it?\" he said, as Alice came in. \"The same, same\nold story! Well, well! Has she gone?\"\n\n\"Yes, papa.\"\n\n\"Got your hat on,\" he said. \"Where you going?\"\n\n\"I\'m going down-town on an errand of my own. Is there anything you want,\npapa?\"\n\n\"Yes, there is.\" He smiled at her. \"I wish you\'d sit down a while and\ntalk to me unless your errand----\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, taking a chair near him. \"I was just going down to see\nabout some arrangements I was making for myself. There\'s no hurry.\"\n\n\"What arrangements for yourself, dearie?\"\n\n\"I\'ll tell you afterwards--after I find out something about \'em myself.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he said, indulgently. \"Keep your secrets; keep your\nsecrets.\" He paused, drew musingly upon his pipe, and shook his head.\n\"Funny--the way your mother looks at things! For the matter o\' that,\neverything\'s pretty funny, I expect, if you stop to think about it. For\ninstance, let her say all she likes, but we were pushed right spang to\nthe wall, if J. A. Lamb hadn\'t taken it into his head to make that\noffer for the works; and there\'s one of the things I been thinking about\nlately, Alice: thinking about how funny they work out.\"\n\n\"What did you think about it, papa!\"\n\n\"Well, I\'ve seen it happen in other people\'s lives, time and time again;\nand now it\'s happened in ours. You think you\'re going to be pushed right\nup against the wall; you can\'t see any way out, or any hope at all; you\nthink you\'re GONE--and then something you never counted on turns up;\nand, while maybe you never do get back to where you used to be, yet\nsomehow you kind of squirm out of being right SPANG against the wall.\nYou keep on going--maybe you can\'t go much, but you do go a little. See\nwhat I mean?\"\n\n\"Yes. I understand, dear.\"\n\n\"Yes, I\'m afraid you do,\" he said. \"Too bad! You oughtn\'t to understand\nit at your age. It seems to me a good deal as if the Lord really meant\nfor the young people to have the good times, and for the old to have\nthe troubles; and when anybody as young as you has trouble there\'s a big\nmistake somewhere.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" she protested.\n\nBut he persisted whimsically in this view of divine error: \"Yes, it\ndoes look a good deal that way. But of course we can\'t tell; we\'re never\ncertain about anything--not about anything at all. Sometimes I look at\nit another way, though. Sometimes it looks to me as if a body\'s troubles\ncame on him mainly because he hadn\'t had sense enough to know how not to\nhave any--as if his troubles were kind of like a boy\'s getting kept in\nafter school by the teacher, to give him discipline, or something or\nother. But, my, my! We don\'t learn easy!\" He chuckled mournfully. \"Not\nto learn how to live till we\'re about ready to die, it certainly seems\nto me dang tough!\"\n\n\"Then I wouldn\'t brood on such a notion, papa,\" she said.\n\n\"\'Brood?\' No!\" he returned. \"I just kind o\' mull it over.\" He chuckled\nagain, sighed, and then, not looking at her, he said, \"That Mr.\nRussell--your mother tells me he hasn\'t been here again--not since----\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, quietly, as Adams paused. \"He never came again.\"\n\n\"Well, but maybe----\"\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"There isn\'t any \'maybe.\' I told him good-bye that\nnight, papa. It was before he knew about Walter--I told you.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" Adams said. \"Young people are entitled to their own\nprivacy; I don\'t want to pry.\" He emptied his pipe into a chipped saucer\non the table beside him, laid the pipe aside, and reverted to a former\ntopic. \"Speaking of dying----\"\n\n\"Well, but we weren\'t!\" Alice protested.\n\n\"Yes, about not knowing how to live till you\'re through living--and THEN\nmaybe not!\" he said, chuckling at his own determined pessimism. \"I see\nI\'m pretty old because I talk this way--I remember my grandmother saying\nthings a good deal like all what I\'m saying now; I used to hear her\nat it when I was a young fellow--she was a right gloomy old lady, I\nremember. Well, anyhow, it reminds me: I want to get on my feet again as\nsoon as I can; I got to look around and find something to go into.\"\n\nAlice shook her head gently. \"But, papa, he told you----\"\n\n\"Never mind throwing that dang doctor up at me!\" Adams interrupted,\npeevishly. \"He said I\'d be good for SOME kind of light job--if I could\nfind just the right thing. \'Where there wouldn\'t be either any physical\nor mental strain,\' he said. Well, I got to find something like that.\nAnyway, I\'ll feel better if I can just get out LOOKING for it.\"\n\n\"But, papa, I\'m afraid you won\'t find it, and you\'ll be disappointed.\"\n\n\"Well, I want to hunt around and SEE, anyhow.\"\n\nAlice patted his hand. \"You must just be contented, papa. Everything\'s\ngoing to be all right, and you mustn\'t get to worrying about doing\nanything. We own this house it\'s all clear--and you\'ve taken care of\nmama and me all our lives; now it\'s our turn.\"\n\n\"No, sir!\" he said, querulously. \"I don\'t like the idea of being the\nlandlady\'s husband around a boarding-house; it goes against my gizzard.\n_I_ know: makes out the bills for his wife Sunday mornings--works with\na screw-driver on somebody\'s bureau drawer sometimes--\'tends the furnace\nmaybe--one the boarders gives him a cigar now and then. That\'s a FINE\nlife to look forward to! No, sir; I don\'t want to finish as a landlady\'s\nhusband!\"\n\nAlice looked grave; for she knew the sketch was but too accurately\nprophetic in every probability. \"But, papa,\" she said, to console him,\n\"don\'t you think maybe there isn\'t such a thing as a \'finish,\' after\nall! You say perhaps we don\'t learn to live till we die but maybe that\'s\nhow it is AFTER we die, too--just learning some more, the way we do\nhere, and maybe through trouble again, even after that.\"\n\n\"Oh, it might be,\" he sighed. \"I expect so.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" she said, \"what\'s the use of talking about a \'finish?\' We\ndo keep looking ahead to things as if they\'d finish something, but when\nwe get TO them, they don\'t finish anything. They\'re just part of going\non. I\'ll tell you--I looked ahead all summer to something I was afraid\nof, and I said to myself, \'Well, if that happens, I\'m finished!\' But it\nwasn\'t so, papa. It did happen, and nothing\'s finished; I\'m going on,\njust the same only----\" She stopped and blushed.\n\n\"Only what?\" he asked.\n\n\"Well----\" She blushed more deeply, then jumped up, and, standing before\nhim, caught both his hands in hers. \"Well, don\'t you think, since we do\nhave to go on, we ought at least to have learned some sense about how to\ndo it?\"\n\nHe looked up at her adoringly.\n\n\"What _I_ think,\" he said, and his voice trembled;--\"I think you\'re\nthe smartest girl in the world! I wouldn\'t trade you for the whole\nkit-and-boodle of \'em!\"\n\nBut as this folly of his threatened to make her tearful, she kissed him\nhastily, and went forth upon her errand.\n\nSince the night of the tragic-comic dinner she had not seen Russell, nor\ncaught even the remotest chance glimpse of him; and it was curious that\nshe should encounter him as she went upon such an errand as now engaged\nher. At a corner, not far from that tobacconist\'s shop she had just left\nwhen he overtook her and walked with her for the first time, she met him\nto-day. He turned the corner, coming toward her, and they were face to\nface; whereupon that engaging face of Russell\'s was instantly reddened,\nbut Alice\'s remained serene.\n\nShe stopped short, though; and so did he; then she smiled brightly as\nshe put out her hand.\n\n\"Why, Mr. Russell!\"\n\n\"I\'m so--I\'m so glad to have this--this chance,\" he stammered. \"I\'ve\nwanted to tell you--it\'s just that going into a new undertaking--this\nbusiness life--one doesn\'t get to do a great many things he\'d like to. I\nhope you\'ll let me call again some time, if I can.\"\n\n\"Yes, do!\" she said, cordially, and then, with a quick nod, went briskly\non.\n\nShe breathed more rapidly, but knew that he could not have detected it,\nand she took some pride in herself for the way she had met this little\ncrisis. But to have met it with such easy courage meant to her something\nmore reassuring than a momentary pride in the serenity she had shown.\nFor she found that what she had resolved in her inmost heart was now\nreally true: she was \"through with all that!\"\n\nShe walked on, but more slowly, for the tobacconist\'s shop was not far\nfrom her now--and, beyond it, that portal of doom, Frincke\'s Business\nCollege. Already Alice could read the begrimed gilt letters of the\nsign; and although they had spelled destiny never with a more painful\nimminence than just then, an old habit of dramatizing herself still\nprevailed with her.\n\nThere came into her mind a whimsical comparison of her fate with that\nof the heroine in a French romance she had read long ago and remembered\nwell, for she had cried over it. The story ended with the heroine\'s\ntaking the veil after a death blow to love; and the final scene again\nbecame vivid to Alice, for a moment. Again, as when she had read\nand wept, she seemed herself to stand among the great shadows in the\ncathedral nave; smelled the smoky incense on the enclosed air, and heard\nthe solemn pulses of the organ. She remembered how the novice\'s father\nknelt, trembling, beside a pillar of gray stone; how the faithless lover\nwatched and shivered behind the statue of a saint; how stifled sobs and\noutcries were heard when the novice came to the altar; and how a shaft\nof light struck through the rose-window, enveloping her in an amber\nglow.\n\nIt was the vision of a moment only, and for no longer than a moment did\nAlice tell herself that the romance provided a prettier way of taking\nthe veil than she had chosen, and that a faithless lover, shaking with\nremorse behind a saint\'s statue, was a greater solace than one left on a\nstreet corner protesting that he\'d like to call some time--if he could!\nHer pity for herself vanished more reluctantly; but she shook it off and\ntried to smile at it, and at her romantic recollections--at all of them.\nShe had something important to think of.\n\nShe passed the tobacconist\'s, and before her was that dark entrance to\nthe wooden stairway leading up to Frincke\'s Business College--the very\ndoorway she had always looked upon as the end of youth and the end of\nhope.\n\nHow often she had gone by here, hating the dreary obscurity of that\nstairway; how often she had thought of this obscurity as something lying\nin wait to obliterate the footsteps of any girl who should ascend into\nthe smoky darkness above! Never had she passed without those ominous\nimaginings of hers: pretty girls turning into old maids \"taking\ndictation\"--old maids of a dozen different types, yet all looking a\nlittle like herself.\n\nWell, she was here at last! She looked up and down the street quickly,\nand then, with a little heave of the shoulders, she went bravely in,\nunder the sign, and began to climb the wooden steps. Half-way up the\nshadows were heaviest, but after that the place began to seem brighter.\nThere was an open window overhead somewhere, she found; and the steps at\nthe top were gay with sunshine.'"