The Silent Battle

Jane was still speaking when Nina interrupted, as though through all that she had heard, one train of thought had persisted.

“What did you mean, Nellie, about Phil Gallatin being ineligible?” she asked. “And I know you don’t think him stupid. And why shouldn’t Jane Loring like him? I don’t think I understand?”

Nellie Pennington smiled. She had made a mistake. Hide and seek as a game depends for its success upon the elimination of the bystander.

“I am afraid, of course, that Jane would be falling in love with him,” she said lightly. And then, “That would have been a pity. Don’t you think so, Nina?”

“There’s hardly a danger of that,” laughed Jane, “seeing that I’ve just—just been introduced to the man. You needn’t be at all afraid, Nina.”

“I’m not. Besides he’s awfully gone on a wood-nymph. You saw him blush when I spoke of it at dinner here—didn’t you, Jane?”

“Yes, I did,” said Jane, now quite rosy herself.

“Phil wouldn’t have blushed you know,” said Nina confidently, “unless he was terribly rattled. He was rattled. That’s what I can’t understand. Suppose he did find a girl who was lost in the woods. What of it? It’s nobody’s business but his own and the girl’s. I’d be furious if people talked about me the way they’re talking about Phil and that girl. I was lost once in the Adirondacks. You were, too, in Canada only last summer, Jane. You told me so down in Virginia and–”

Jane Loring had struggled hard to control her emotion, and bent her head forward to conceal her discomposure, but Nina’s eyes caught the rising color which had flowed to the very tips of her ears.

“Jane!” cried Nina in sharp accents of amazed discovery. “It was you!”

The game of hide and seek had terminated disastrously for Jane, and her system of signals, useful to deceive as well as reveal had betrayed her. It was clearly to be seen that further dissimulation would be futile, so she raised her head slowly, the color gone from her cheeks.

“Yes, it was I,” she said with admirable coolness. “Meeting Mr. Gallatin here the other night reminded me of it. That was one of the things I came to tell Mrs. Pennington this morning. But I don’t suppose there’s any reason why you shouldn’t know it, too, Nina. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Gallatin I know I should have died. You see, I had slipped and wrenched my ankle and, of course, couldn’t move–”

“It must have been terrible!” put in Nellie Pennington in dire distress. “You poor child!”

“I haven’t spoken of it,” Jane went on hurriedly, “because there wasn’t any reason why I should. But now, of course, that this story is going the rounds, it’s just as well that people knew. It wasn’t necessary to tell Mr. Gallatin my name up there, and until he met me in New York he did not know who I was. That, of course, is why the whole thing has seemed so mysterious.” She paused and smiled rather obtrusively at her companions. “It’s really a very trivial matter to make such a fuss about, isn’t it?”

“Absurd!” said Mrs. Pennington, with enthusiasm. “I wouldn’t worry about it in the least.”

“It does sound rather romantic, though,” laughed Jane uneasily, “but it wasn’t a bit. We nearly starved and poor Mr. Gallatin was almost dead with fatigue—when they found us.”

“Who found you?” asked Miss Jaffray.

“The guides, of course.”

“Oh!” said Nina.

Nellie Pennington put down her embroidery and rose. This wouldn’t do.

“Jane,” she said laughing. “You make me wild with envy. You’re a person to whom all sorts of interesting things are always happening. And now I hear you’re engaged to Coleman Van Duyn. Come, child, sit here and tell me all about it.”

“It’s not true. I’m very flattered, of course, but–”

“You’d better admit it. Nina won’t tell, will you, Nina?”

But Miss Jaffray had risen and was drawing on her gloves.

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t tell. Besides—you know I don’t believe it.” She glanced at the clock, and brushed a speck from her sleeve.

“I think I’ll be going on,” she said. “Good-by, Jane. Nellie, I’ll see you at the ‘Pot and Kettle,’ won’t I?” and went out of the room.

Mrs. Pennington followed her to the upper landing and when she had gone, returned thoughtfully to the room.

XVI
BEHIND THE ENEMY’S BACK

As she turned and came into the room again, Jane Loring met her in the middle of the rug, seized her in her arms, kissed her rapturously on both cheeks, and confessed, though not without some hesitation, the object of her visit. Nellie Pennington led her to a divan near the window, and seated there holding one of her visitor’s hands in both of hers, listened enchanted to the full tale of Jane’s romance. Her delight was undisguised, for Nina Jaffray’s rather frigid exit had already been forgotten by them both.

“Oh, Nellie, I’m so happy. I simply had to tell somebody. I wanted to come here yesterday, but I couldn’t muster up the courage.”

“And I’m not really ‘odious’?” asked Mrs. Pennington.

“No, no,” laughed Jane. “You’re a sister to the angels. I hated him, Nellie, that night. I would have died rather than let him know I cared for him—and yet—I did let him know it–”

“Love and hate are first cousins. Love hates because it’s afraid, Jane.”

“Yes, that’s true. I was afraid of myself—of him–”

“Not now?”

“No,” proudly. “Not even of Fate itself. We’ll face whatever is to come—together. I believe in him—utterly.”

Nellie Pennington kissed her.

“So do I, Jane. I always have—and in you. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you have told me all this. Flattered, too, child. I’m rather worldly wise, perhaps, even more so than your mother–”

“I haven’t told mother,” Jane put in with sudden demureness.

“Take my advice and do so immediately. Omit nothing. Your mother must put a stop to this story by telling the truth.”

“Mother, you know, had hoped that I would marry Coleman Van Duyn. She doesn’t approve of Phil, and father—” Jane paused as she remembered her father’s estimate of Phil Gallatin—“and neither does my father,” she finished thoughtfully.

“Oh, it will work out some way; such things do. But tell them at once.”

“I think I had already decided that. But it isn’t going to be easy. With me—with mother, my father is the soul of kindness, but with men–” She paused.

“Phil must take his chance.”

“Yes, but father must respect him.”

“Phil must earn his respect.”

Jane was silent for a moment.

“My father has a sharp tongue at times,” she went on. “He has mentioned Phil Gallatin’s name—unpleasantly. I couldn’t stand hearing him spoken about in that way. I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t tolerate it—even from my father. I have made a decision and father must abide by it. He must accept Phil as I have accepted him. I am satisfied. A man’s past is his own. He can only give a girl his future. I used to think differently, but I’m content with that. Phil’s future is mine, and I’ll take my half of it, whatever it is.”

At the mention of her father, Jane had risen and walked restlessly about, but as she finished speaking she turned and faced her companion squarely. Nellie Pennington rose and took her again in her arms.

“You’ll do, Jane. I’m not afraid for you—for either of you. Let me help you. I want to. I don’t think I could be happier if I were in love myself. He’s worthy of you. I’m sure of it. Shall you marry him soon, dear?”

Jane colored adorably.

“No—not soon, I think. We have not spoken of that. Phil wants time—to prove—to show—everybody–”

She paused and Nellie Pennington breathed a sigh of relief. Her responsibilities had oppressed her.

“Let him, Jane,” she urged quickly. “It’s better so. You’re very young. There’s plenty of time. A year or two and then–”

“I’ll marry him when he asks me to,” Jane finished simply.

Nellie Pennington pressed her hands warmly, and they sat for a long time side by side while Jane told of all that had happened in the woods, including the sudden and unpleasant termination of her idyl. Nellie Pennington listened soberly, and learned more of the definiteness with which fate had placed the steps of these two young people upon the same pathway into the future. Love dwelt in Jane’s eyes and confidence, a trust and belief in Phil Gallatin that put Nellie Pennington’s rather assertive indorsement of him to the blush. She realized now that below Jane Loring’s placid exterior, there was a depth of feeling, a quiet strength and resolution of which she had never even dreamed; for she, too, had thought Jane a “nice little thing”—a pretty, amiable, cheerful soul without prejudices, who would add much to her own joy of life, and to the intimate circle of young people she chose to gather around her. Some of the girl’s faith found its way into her own heart and she saw Phil now, as she had always hoped to see him, taking his place among the workers of the world, using the brains God had given him, and accomplishing the great things that she knew had always been within his power to accomplish.

When Jane rose to go, Mrs. Pennington detained her a moment longer.

“How well do you know Nina Jaffray?” she asked slowly.

“Oh, we’ve always got along admirably, because we’ve never interfered with each other, I think. But I don’t understand her—nor does she me. Why do you ask?”

“Oh—I don’t know–”

“I thought you liked her, Nellie.”

“I do. I like everybody who doesn’t bore me. Nina amuses me because she keeps me in a continual state of surprise. That’s all very well so long as her surprises are pleasant ones; but when she wishes to be annoying, I assure you she can be amazingly disagreeable.”

“I imagine so. But I don’t think we’ll have differences—at least I hope–”

“Don’t be too intimate—that’s all. Understand?”

They kissed; after which Jane departed, and on the way uptown found herself wondering from time to time whether Nellie Pennington could have meant something more than Jane thought she did. But in her state of exaltation nothing could long avail to divert her spirit from its joyous flight among the enchanted realms that had been discovered to her. That afternoon late, it was only going to be very late in the afternoon she now remembered, Phil Gallatin was to walk home with her from somebody’s tea, to-morrow they were to dine at the Dorsey-Martin’s, and late in the week there was the party at the “Pot and Kettle.” After that—but what did it matter what happened after that? Each day, she knew, was to be more wonderful than the one that had gone before and it was not well to question the future too insistently. Sufficient unto the day was the good thereof, and Solomon indeed was not arrayed—inwardly at least—as Jane was.

Taking Mrs. Pennington’s advice, as soon as she reached home she sought her mother’s room. Mrs. Loring was reclining at full length on a portable wooden table which had been set up in the middle of her large apartment, and an osteopath was busy manipulating her small body. There wasn’t really anything the matter with her except social fag, but she chose this method of rehabilitating her tired nerves instead of active exercise which she abhorred. It was almost with a feeling of pity that Jane sat beside her mother when the practitioner had departed, for she knew that a scene would follow her confidences. And she was not mistaken; for when half an hour later, Jane went to her own room, her mother was in a state of collapse upon her bed, and Jane’s nerves were singing like taut wires, while on her mind were unpleasantly impressed the final words of maternal recrimination. But Jane knew that in spite of the violence of her mother’s opposition, she was very much less to be dreaded than her father, and that by to-morrow she would be reconciled to her daughter’s point of view and even might be reckoned upon as an ally. Nor would she speak to Mr. Loring without her daughter’s acquiescence. This Jane had no intention of giving, for she was sure that a meeting of her father and Phil, which must, of course, ensue at once, was not to be looked forward to with pleasurable expectation.

It was therefore in no very happy mood that Jane met Phil Gallatin late that afternoon at the Suydams’ tea whence he went home with her. She had said nothing of her interview with her mother, and was relieved to learn at the house that Mrs. Loring had gone out.

She led Phil back into the library and they sat before the open fire.

“What is it, Jane?” he asked. “Are you regretting–?”

“No,” she smiled. “There isn’t room in my heart for regret. It’s full of—other things.”

“I’m very dense. Can you prove it?”

“I’ll try.”

The davenport was huge, but only one end of it complained of their weight.

“Phil, are you sure there is no mistake?”

“Positive.”

“And you never cared for any one else?”

“Never.”

“Not Nina Jaffray?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“She once told me you had a boy-and-girl affair.”

“Oh, that! She used to tease me and I would wash her face in the snow. That’s Nina’s idea of mutual affection.”

“It isn’t her idea now, is it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Larry Kane.”

“And you don’t ever think about her?”

“No—except with vague alarm for the safety of the species.”

Jane laughed. “I don’t want you to be unkind,” she said, but was not displeased.

There was a silence in which Gallatin peered around the great room and his eyes smiled as they sought her face again.

“What are you thinking of?” she asked.

“Of this shelter—and another.”

“Up among the pine trees? Oh, how white and cold it must be there now! It’s ours though, Phil, so personal–”

“I’ll build another—here in New York.”

“Not like this?”

“No—hardly—” he smiled.

“I’m glad of that. This house oppresses me. It’s so big—so silent and yet so noisy with the money that has been spent on it. I don’t like money, Phil.”

“That’s because you’ve never felt the need of it. I’m glad you don’t, though. You know I’m not very well off.”

“I don’t suppose Daddy would ever let me starve,” she laughed.

His expression changed and he chose his words deliberately, his face turned toward the fire.

“It isn’t my intention to place you in any such position,” he said with curious precision. “I don’t think you understand. It isn’t possible for me to accept anything from your father, except yourself, Jane. I’ll take you empty-handed as I first found you—or not at all.”

“But even then you know it was my saucepan–”

But he shook his head. “It isn’t a question of saucepans now.”

“You’re not fair, Phil,” she murmured soberly. “Is it my fault that father has become what he is? Why shouldn’t I help? I have something of my own—some stock in–”

He closed her lips with a kiss.

“I’ve got to have my own way. Can’t you understand?” he whispered earnestly. “It’s my sanity I’m fighting for—sanity of body and mind, and the medicines are toil—drudgery—responsibility. I’ve never known what work really meant. One doesn’t learn that sort of thing in the crowd I’ve been brought up with. It’s only the money a fellow makes himself that does him any good. I’ve seen other fellows raised as I was—losing their hold on life—slipping into the quagmire. I always thought I could pull up when I liked—when I got ready. But when I tried—I found I couldn’t.”

He paused and Jane pressed his hand in both of hers. But he went on decisively, “Desperate illnesses need desperate remedies, Jane. I learned that—up there with you. I’ve been ill, but I’ve found the cure and I’m taking it already. Downtown I’ve cut myself off from all financial support. I shan’t have a dollar that I cannot make. I’m driven to the wall—and I’m going to fight.”

He paused and then turned and looked into her eyes. “That’s why it is that I want you to come to me empty-handed. I want to remember every hour of the day that on my efforts alone your happiness depends—your peace of mind, your future.”

“Yes, I understand—but it might be made easier–”

“There isn’t any easy way. And, whatever my other sins, I wouldn’t climb to fortune on a woman’s shoulders. I’ve nothing to offer you but my love–”

“It’s enough.”

“No, I came into your life a pauper—a derelict—an idler—a dr–”

“Don’t, Phil,” she whispered, her fingers on his lips.

“I shall come to you sane and whole or I shall not come to you. I ask nothing of you. You must make me no promises.”

“I don’t see how you can prevent that,” she smiled. “I shall make them anyway.”

“No, you’re not promised to me.”

“I am.”

“No.”

“I don’t see how you can prevent my promising. I promise to love, honor and obey–”

“Then obey at once and stop promising.”

“I won’t–”

“Then what validity has a promise, broken the moment it’s made?” His logic was inevitable.

“Cherish, then,” she evaded.

He held her away from him, looked into her eyes and laughed. “If it establishes no precedent—er—you may cherish me at once.”

“What does cherish mean?”

He showed her.

“I’m afraid the precedent is already established, Phil,” she sighed. She sank back in his arms and he kissed her tenderly.

“I can’t stop seeing you, Jane,” he whispered at her ear. “You renew me, give me new faith in myself, new hope for the future. I know that I oughtn’t to have the right, but I can’t give you up. I need you. When I’m with you, I wonder how there could ever be any sin in the world. Your eyes are so clear, dear, like the pool—our pool in the woods and my image in them is as clear as they are. Whatever I’ve said I don’t want that image to go out of them. Keep it there, Jane, no matter what happens, and believe in me.”

“I will,” she whispered, “whatever happens.”

“I’ll come for you some day, dear,—soon perhaps. I’m working on a big case, one that involves large issues. All of me that isn’t yours, I’m giving to that—and that’s yours, too.”

“You’ll win, Phil.”

“Yes, I’ll win. I must win,” he finished. “I must.”

“Oh, Phil, dear,” she murmured. “It doesn’t matter. What should I care whether you win or lose? Whatever you have been, whatever you are or hope to be, you’ve kissed me and I’m yours—until the end. What does it matter what I promise—or what I fail to promise? I’ll wait for you because you wish it, but I would tell the world to-morrow if you’d let me.”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not yet. I want to look my Enemy in the eyes, Jane, for—for a long while. I’ll stare him down until he slinks away—not into the shadows behind me—but away—far off—so far that he shall not find me again—or I him—ever.”

“Is the Enemy here—now?” she questioned anxiously.

“No,” he smiled. “Not here. I drove away from him in an enchanted brougham.”

Jane straightened and looked into the fire.

“Phil.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve told Nellie Pennington and—and mother.”

He folded his arms and gazed steadily into the fire.

“What did they say?”

“Nellie Pennington was pleased; mother was not,” she said frankly.

“I’m sorry to hear that. But I could hardly have expected–”

“It doesn’t matter,” she went on hastily. “I thought you ought to know.”

“I shall see Mr. Loring,” he said, his brows tangling.

“Is it necessary—at once?”

“I think so. There mustn’t be any false positions. I hope I can make him understand. Obviously I can’t visit the house of a man who doesn’t want me there.”

Jane couldn’t reply at once. And when she did her face was as serious as his own.

“Won’t you leave that to me, Phil?” she said gently.

XVII
“THE POT AND KETTLE”

The “Pot and Kettle” was up in the hills near Tuxedo, within motoring distance of the city and near enough to a station to be convenient to those who were forced to depend upon the railroad. It was a gabled farmhouse of an early period converted by the young men of Colonel Broadhurst’s generation into its latter-day uses as a club for dilettante cooks, where the elect might come in small parties on snowy winter nights, or balmy summer ones, and concoct with their own hands the glasses and dishes most to their liking. Its membership was limited and its fellows clannish. Most of the younger members of the Club had been proposed on the day of their birth, and accession at the age of twenty-one to its rights and privileges had always been the signal for a celebration with an intent both gastronomic and bibulous. On club nights every one contributed his share to the evening’s entertainment, and the right to mix cocktails, make the salad dressing, or grill the bird was transmitted by solemn act in writing from those of the older generation to those of the new, who could not be dispossessed of their respective offices without a proper delegation of authority or the unanimous vote of those present.

A member of the “Pot and Kettle” had the privilege of giving private entertainments to a select few, provided due notice was given in advance, and upon that occasion the Club was his own and all other members were warned to keep off the premises. This gave the “Pot and Kettle” affairs a privacy like that which the member enjoyed in his own home, for it was the unwritten law of the Club that whatever passed within its doors was not to be spoken of elsewhere.

Egerton Savage had long ago discovered that no preparation was necessary to make entertainments successful at the “Pot and Kettle.” The number of a party given, to the steward and his wife, all a host had to do was to put on his white apron and await the arrival of his guests. But to give an added zest to this occasion the fortunate ones had been advised that the party was “for children only.”

And as children they came. Ogden Spencer, Larry Kane and Coley Van Duyn in a motor direct from the Cosmos Club arrived first and hurried upstairs with their packages from the costumers to dress; the Perrines and Betty Tremaine followed; then Mrs. Pennington, the chaperon, and a limousine full of débutantes; Jane Loring with Honora Ledyard and Bibby Worthington; and Dirwell De Lancey with Clifford Benson, and Freddy Sackett. Nina Jaffray had driven out alone. Most of the girls had dressed at home and arrived ready for the fray, and after a few finishing touches in the ladies’ dressing-room upstairs were ready to greet their host, at the foot of the stairs. Egerton Savage, his thin legs emerging from velvet knee breeches, as Little Boy Blue, met Little Miss Muffett, Old King Cole, Old Mother Hubbard, Peter Piper, Margery Daw, Bobby Shafto, Jack Spratt, Solomon Grundy, and all of the rest of the nursery crew. Nellie Pennington’s débutantes scattered about the building like a pack of inquisitive terriers, investigating every nook and cranny, peering into cupboards and closets and punctuating the clatter of arrival with pleasant little yelps of delight.

As they all assembled at last in the kitchen, large white aprons, which covered their costumes from neck to foot, were handed out and the real business of the evening was begun. Egerton Savage, chief-cook and arbiter, with a shrewd knowledge of the capabilities of débutantes, handed each of the young ladies a loaf of bread and a long toasting fork, their mission being to provide the toast, as well as the toasts of the night; and presently an odor of scorching bread pervaded the place.

Jane rebelled.

“I simply won’t be subjected to such an indignity, Mr. Savage,” she laughed. “I can cook—really I can.”

He eyed her askant and laughed.

“You must be Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary, aren’t you?”

“I am, and I won’t cook toast.”

At last he commissioned her to poach the eggs.

Larry Kane, a club member, as the Infant Bacchus, in fleshlings and cheesecloth with a garland of grape-leaves on his head, had already begun the concoction known as the “Pot and Kettle punch,” an amber-colored fluid with a fragrant odor of spices, and a taste that was mildness itself, but in which there lurked the potent spell of the wassail of many lands. It was against this punch that Nellie Pennington had taken pains on the way out in the machine, to warn her small brood; and some of those young ladies who had already retired from the fire, stood beside the mixer of ingredients, sniffing at the uncorked bottles, making pretty faces and lisping in childish disapproval.

Coleman Van Duyn, as Little Jack Horner, his scarlet face rising like a winter sunset from his white apron, was superintending the broiling of the lobsters; Dirwell De Lancey, who proclaimed himself Simple Simon, was carving cold turkey, Freddy Sackett was making the salad-dressing; while Betty Tremaine, a very comely Bo-Peep, was drying the lettuce leaves and crushing them to the proper consistency between her slender pink fingers; Yates Rowland stewed the terrapin; Percy Endicott made the coffee; and Sam Purviance, with Nina Jaffray’s help, made the cocktails.

The festivities of supper were well under way before Phil Gallatin arrived. It had been late before he could leave the office, and so he had been obliged to come out by train. After getting into costume he sought the room eagerly for Jane and their eyes met in wireless telegraphy across the table. The chairs beside her were occupied by Worthington and Van Duyn, so he dropped into a chair Savage offered him between Mrs. Pennington and Miss Tremaine. His host thrust a cocktail in front of him on the table, and Phil thanked him over his shoulder, but when Savage had gone, he pushed it away. Nellie Pennington realized that he looked a little tired and serious, but made no comment. Gallatin had been working hard all day and until the present moment had forgotten that he had had no lunch. Food revived him and it was not long before he could enter into the gay spirit of the company. They were children, indeed. The cooking finished, their white aprons had been discarded and loud was the joy at the appearance of the men and eager the compliments for the ladies. The babel of baby rattles and tin whistles, discontinued for a time, arose again and the table rang from end to end with joke and laughter. Bibby Worthington’s wig of Bobby Shafto got askew and at an unfortunate moment was jostled off into the salad-bowl, upon which his bald head received baptism in fizz at the hands of the Infant Bacchus. Freddy Perrine, who had had more than his share of punch, was shooting butter-balls from the prongs of a fork at Kent Beylard’s white shirt-front, for Beylard hadn’t had time to go to the costumer. Dirwell De Lancey insisted upon singing “The Low-Backed Car,” but was prevented from doing so by the vehemence of his chorus which advised him to get a limousine. Sam Purviance began telling a story which seemed to be leading toward Montmartre when Nellie Pennington rose from the table, and followed by her buds, adjourned to another room. Here the sound of a piano was immediately heard and the tireless feet of the younger set took up the Turkey Trot where they had left off at three o’clock the night before.

No word had passed between Phil Gallatin and Jane, and he had just gotten to his feet in pursuit of her when Nina Jaffray stood in his way.

“Hello, Phil,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to see you.”

“Me? I’m glad of that, Nina. You’re certainly a corker in that get-up. What are you?”

“I’m Jill. Won’t you help me fetch a pail of water?”

“And have my crown broken? No, thanks. Besides I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be in the part. You see I’m–

 
“‘Tommy Trot, the man of law,
Who sold his bed to lay on straw.’”
 

“Are you? It isn’t true, is it, Phil? I heard you were going out of the firm.”

“Oh, no. I’ve been working, Nina. Sounds queer, doesn’t it? Fact, though.”

“There’s something I want to see you about, Phil. I’ve been on the point of looking you up at the office.”

“You! What is it?” he laughed. “Breach of promise or alienation of the affections?”

“Neither,” slowly. “Seriously—there’s something I want to say to you.” Gallatin looked at her and she met his eye fairly. “I’d like to talk to you here—now—if you don’t mind.”

“Oh—er—of course. But if it’s anything of a serious nature—perhaps–”

“I can speak here—will you follow me?”

Gallatin glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the room into which Jane had disappeared, but there was nothing left but to follow, so he helped the girl find a quiet spot on the back stairway where Nina settled herself and motioned to him to a place at her feet. Gallatin sat trying to conceal his impatience in the smoke of a cigarette, and wondering how soon Nina would let him go to Jane.

“Phil, you and I have known each other a good many years. We’ve always got along pretty well, haven’t we?”

“Of course,” he nodded.

“You’ve never cared much for girls and I’ve never thought much about men—sentimentally I mean—but we always understood each other and—well—we’re pretty good friends, aren’t we?”

“I’d be very sorry if I thought anything else,” he said politely.

She paused and examined his profile steadily.

“You know, Phil, I’m interested in you. I think I’ve always been interested—but I never told you so because—because it seemed unnecessary. I thought if you ever needed my friendship you’d come and ask me for it.”

“I would—I mean, I do,” he stammered.

“Something has been bothering me,” she went on slowly. “The other morning at Nellie Pennington’s, Jane Loring told us the truth about the Dryad story.”

“Yes.”

“And, of course, even though friendship doesn’t give me the privilege of your confidence unless you offer it voluntarily, I thought you might be willing to tell me something–”

“What, Nina?”

“You’re not in love with—you’re not going to marry Jane Loring, are you?”

Gallatin smiled.

“I’m hardly the sort of person any girl could afford to marry,” he said slowly.

“Does Jane Loring think so?” she persisted.

“She has every reason to think so,” he muttered.

“You’re not engaged?” she protested quickly.

“No,” he said promptly.

She gave a sigh of relief.

“Oh—that’s all I wanted to know.”

Something unfamiliar in the tones of her voice caused him to look at his companion.

“What did you want to know for, Nina?” he questioned.

“Because if you were engaged—if you really were in love with Jane, I wouldn’t care—I wouldn’t have the right to speak to you in confidence.” She hesitated, looking straight at the bare wall before her, but she smiled her devil-may-care smile and went on with a touch of her old manner. “I doubt if you really know me very well after all. I don’t think anybody does. I’ve got a name for playing the game wide open and riding roughshod over all the dearest conventions of the dodos. But I’m straight as a string, Phil, and there isn’t a man or woman in the Cedarcroft or out that can deny it.”