"I don't know how I happened to do it," he muttered, still abashed by his plight.
"We rekindled the fire for your benefit," she said; "you had better use it before you retire." And she seated herself in the arm-chair, stretching out her ungloved hands to the blazesmooth, innocent hands, so soft, so amazingly fresh and white.
He moved a step forward into the warmth, stood a moment, then reached forward for a chair and drew it up beside hers.
"Do you mean to say you are not sleepy?" he asked.
"I? No, not in the least. I will be to-morrow, though."
"Did you have a good time?"
"Yesrather."
"Wasn't it gay?"
"Gay? Oh, very."
Her replies were unusually shortalmost preoccupied. She was generally more communicative.
"You danced a lot, I dare say," he ventured.
"Yesa lot," studying the floor.
"Decent partners?"
"Oh, yes."
"Who was there?"
She looked up at him. "You were not there," she said, smiling.
"No; I cut it. But I did not know you were going; you said nothing about it."
"Of course, you would have stayed if you had known, Captain Selwyn?" She was still smiling.
"Of course," he replied.
"Would you really?"
"Why, yes."
There was something not perfectly familiar to him in the girl's bright brevity, in her direct personal inquiry; for between them, hitherto, the gaily impersonal had ruled except in moments of lightest badinage.
"Was it an amusing dinner?" she asked, in her turn.
"Rather." Then he looked up at her, but she had stretched her slim silk-shod feet to the fender, and her head was bent aside, so that he could see only the curve of the cheek and the little close-set ear under its ruddy mass of gold.
"Who was there?" she asked, too, carelessly.
For a moment he did not speak; under his bronzed cheek the flat muscles stirred. Had some meddling, malicious fool ventured to whisper an unfit jest to this young girl? Had a wordor a smile and a phrase cut in twoawakened her to a sorry wisdom at his expense? Something had happened; and the idea stirred him to wrathas when a child is wantonly frightened or a dumb creature misused.
"What did you ask me?" he inquired gently.
"I asked you who was there, Captain Selwyn."
He recalled some names, and laughingly mentioned his dinner partner's preference for Harmon. She listened absently, her chin nestling in her palm, only the close-set, perfect ear turned toward him.
"Who led the cotillion?" he asked.
"Jack Ruthvendancing with Rosamund Fane."
She drew her feet from the fender and crossed them, still turned away from him; and so they remained in silence until again she shifted her position, almost impatiently.
"You are very tired," he said.
"No; wide awake."
"Don't you think it best for you to go to bed?"
"No. But you may go."
And, as he did not stir: "I mean that you are not to sit here because I do." And she looked around at him.
"What has gone wrong, Eileen?" he said quietly.
He had never before used her given name, and she flushed up.
"There is nothing the matter, Captain Selwyn. Why do you ask?"
"Yes, there is," he said.
"There is not, I tell you"
"And, if it is something you cannot understand," he continued pleasantly, "perhaps it might be well to ask Nina to explain it to you."
"There is nothing to explain."
"Because," he went on, very gently, "one is sometimes led by malicious suggestion to draw false and unpleasant inferences from harmless facts"
"Captain Selwyn"
"Yes, Eileen."
But she could not go on; speech and thought itself remained sealed; only a confused consciousness of being hurt remainedsomehow to be remedied by something he might saymight deny. Yet how could it help her for him to deny what she herself refused to believe?refused through sheer instinct while ignorant of its meaning.
Even if he had done what she heard Rosamund Fane say he had done, it had remained meaningless to her save for the manner of the telling. But nowbut now! Why had they laughedwhy had their attitudes and manner and the disconnected phrases in French left her flushed and rigid among the idle group at supper? Why had they suddenly seemed to remember her presenceand express their abrupt consciousness of it in such furtive signals and silence?
It was false, anywaywhatever it meant. And, anyway, it was false that he had driven away in Mrs. Ruthven's brougham. But, oh, if he had only stayedif he had only remained!this friend of hers who had been so nice to her from the moment he came into her lifeso generous, so considerate, so lovely to herand to Gerald!
For a moment the glow remained, then a chill doubt crept in; would he have remained had he known she was to be there? Where did he go after the dinner? As for what they said, it was absurd. And yetand yet
He sat, savagely intent upon the waning fire; she turned restlessly again, elbows close together on her knees, face framed in her hands.
"You ask me if I am tired," she said. "I amof the froth of life."
His face changed instantly. "What?" he exclaimed, laughing.
But she, very young and seriously intent, was now wrestling with the mighty platitudes of youth. First of all she desired to know what meaning life held for humanity. Then she expressed a doubt as to the necessity for human happiness; duty being her discovery as sufficient substitute.
But he heard in her childish babble the minor murmur of an undercurrent quickening for the first time; and he listened patiently and answered gravely, touched by her irremediable loneliness.
For Nina must remain but a substitute at best; what was wanting must remain wanting; and race and blood must interpret for itself the subtler and unasked questions of an innocence slowly awaking to a wisdom which makes us all less wise.
So when she said that she was tired of gaiety, that she would like to study, he said that he would take up anything she chose with her. And when she spoke vaguely of a life devoted to good worksof the wiser charity, of being morally equipped to aid those who required material aid, he was very serious, but ventured to suggest that she dance her first season through as a sort of flesh-mortifying penance preliminary to her spiritual novitiate.
"Yes," she admitted thoughtfully; "you are right. Nina would feel dreadfully if I did not go onor if she imagined I cared so little for it all. But one season is enough to waste. Don't you think so?"
"Quite enough," he assured her.
"Andwhy should I ever marry?" she demanded, lifting her clear, sweet eyes to his.
"Why indeed?" he repeated with conviction. "I can see no reason."
"I am glad you understand me," she said. "I am not a marrying woman."
"Not at all," he assured her.
"No, I am not; and Ninathe darlingdoesn't understand. Why, what do you suppose!but would it be a breach of confidence to anybody if I told you?"
"I doubt it," he said; "what is it you have to tell me?"
"Onlyit's very, very sillyonly several menand one nice enough to know betterSudbury Gray"
"Asked you to marry them?" he finished, nodding his head at the cat.
"Yes," she admitted, frankly astonished; "but how did you know?"
"Inferred it. Go on."
"There is nothing more," she said, without embarrassment. "I told Nina each time; but she confused me by asking for details; and the details were too foolish and too annoying to repeat. . . . I do not wish to marry anybody. I think I made that very plain toeverybody."
"Right as usual," he said cheerfully; "you are too intelligent to consider that sort of thing just now."
"Right as usual," he said cheerfully; "you are too intelligent to consider that sort of thing just now."
"You do understand me, don't you?" she said gratefully. "There are so many serious things in life to learn and to think of, and that is the very last thing I should ever consider. . . . I am very, very glad I had this talk with you. Now I am rested and I shall retire for a good long sleep."
With which paradox she stood up, stifling a tiny yawn, and looked smilingly at him, all the old sweet confidence in her eyes. Then, suddenly mocking:
"Who suggested that you call me by my first name?" she asked.
"Some good angel or other. May I?"
"If you please; I rather like it. But I couldn't very well call you anything except 'Captain Selwyn.'"
"On account of my age?"
"Your age!"contemptuous in her confident equality.
"Oh, my wisdom, then? You probably reverence me too deeply."
"Probably not. I don't know; I couldn't do itsomehow"
"Try itunless you're afraid."
"I'm not afraid!"
"Yes, you are, if you don't take a dare."
"You dare me?"
"I do."
"Philip," she said, hesitating, adorable in her embarrassment. "No! No! No! I can't do it that way in cold blood. It's got to be 'Captain Selwyn'. . . for a while, anyway. . . . Good-night."
He took her outstretched hand, laughing; the usual little friendly shake followed; then she turned gaily away, leaving him standing before the whitening ashes.
He thought the fire was dead; but when he turned out the lamp an hour later, under the ashes embers glowed in the darkness of the winter morning.
CHAPTER IV
MID-LENT
"Mid-Lent, and the Enemy grins," remarked Selwyn as he started for church with Nina and the children. Austin, knee-deep in a dozen Sunday supplements, refused to stir; poor little Eileen was now convalescent from grippe, but still unsteady on her legs; her maid had taken the grippe, and now moaned all day: "Mon dieu! Mon dieu! Che fais mourir!"
Boots Lansing called to see Eileen, but she wouldn't come down, saying her nose was too pink. Drina entertained Boots, and then Selwyn returned and talked army talk with him until tea was served. Drina poured tea very prettily; Nina had driven Austin to vespers. The family dined at seven so Drina could sit up; special treat on account of Boots's presence at table. Gerald was expected, but did not come.
The next morning, Selwyn went downtown at the usual hour and found Gerald, pale and shaky, hanging over his desk and trying to dictate letters to an uncomfortable stenographer.
So he dismissed the abashed girl for the moment, closed the door, and sat down beside the young man.
"Go home, Gerald" he said with decision; "when Neergard comes in I'll tell him you are not well. And, old fellow, don't ever come near the office again when you're in this condition."
"I'm a perfect fool," faltered the boy, his voice trembling; "I don't really care for that sort of thing, either; but you know how it is in that set"
"What set?"
"Oh, the Fanesthe Ruthv" He stammered himself into silence.
"I see. What happened last night?"
"The usual; two tables full of it. There was a wheel, too. . . . I had no intentionbut you know yourself how it parches your throatthe jollying and laughing and excitement. . . . I forgot all about what youwhat we talked over. . . . I'm ashamed and sorry; but I can stay here and attend to things, of course"
"I don't want Neergard to see you," repeated Selwyn.
"W-why," stammered the boy, "do I look as rocky as that?"
"Yes. See here, you are not afraid of me, are you?"
"No"
"You don't think I'm one of those long-faced, blue-nosed butters-in, do you? You have confidence in me, haven't you? You know I'm an average and normally sinful man who has made plenty of mistakes and who understands how others make themyou know that, don't you, old chap?"
"Y-es."
"Then you will listen, won't you, Gerald?"
The boy laid his arms on the desk and hid his face in them. Then he nodded.
For ten minutes Selwyn talked to him with all the terse and colloquial confidence of a comradeship founded upon respect for mutual fallibility. No instruction, no admonition, no blame, no reproachonly an affectionately logical review of matters as they stoodand as they threatened to stand.
The boy, fortunately, was still pliable and susceptible, still unalarmed and frank. It seemed that he had lost money againthis time to Jack Ruthven; and Selwyn's teeth remained sternly interlocked as, bit by bit, the story came out. But in the telling the boy was not quite as frank as he might have been; and Selwyn supposed he was able to stand his loss without seeking aid.
"Anyway," said Gerald in a muffled voice, "I've learned one lessonthat a business man can't acquire the habits and keep the infernal hours that suit people who can take all day to sleep it off."
"Right," said Selwyn.
"Besides, my income can't stand it," added Gerald naïvely.
"Neither could mine, old fellow. And, Gerald, cut out this card business; it's the final refuge of the feebleminded. . . . You like it? Oh, well, if you've got to playif you've no better resource for leisure, and if non-participation isolates you too completely from other idiotsplay the imbecile gentleman's game; which means a game where nobody need worry over the stakes."
"Butthey'd laugh at me!"
"I know; but Boots Lansing wouldn'tand you have considerable respect for him."
Gerald nodded; he had immediately succumbed to Lansing like everybody else.
"And one thing more," said Selwyn; "don't play for stakesno matter how insignificantwhere women sit in the game. Fashionable or not, it is rotten sportwhatever the ethics may be. And, Gerald, tainted sport and a clean record can't take the same fence together."
The boy looked up, flushed and perplexed. "Why, every woman in town"
"Oh, no. How about your sister and mine?"
"Of course not; they are different. Onlywell, you approve of Rosamund Fane andGladys Orchildon't you?"
"Gerald, men don't ask each other such questionsexcept as you ask, without expecting or desiring an answer from me, and merely to be saying something nice about two pretty women."
The reproof went home, deeply, but without a pang; and the boy sat silent, studying the blotter between his elbows.
A little later he started for home at Selwyn's advice. But the memory of his card losses frightened him, and he stopped on the way to see what money Austin would advance him.
Julius Neergard came up from Long Island, arriving at the office about noon. The weather was evidently cold on Long Island; he had the complexion of a raw ham, but the thick, fat hand, with its bitten nails, which he offered Selwyn as he entered his office, was unpleasantly hot, and, on the thin nose which split the broad expanse of face, a bead or two of sweat usually glistened, winter and summer.
"Where's Gerald?" he asked as an office-boy relieved him of his heavy box coat and brought his mail to him.
"I advised Gerald to go home," observed Selwyn carelessly; "he is not perfectly well."
Neergard's tiny mouse-like eyes, set close together, stole brightly in Selwyn's direction; but they usually looked just a little past a man, seldom at him.
"Grippe?" he asked.
"I don't think so," said Selwyn.
"Lots of grippe 'round town," observed Neergard, as though satisfied that Gerald had it. Then he sat down and rubbed his large, membranous ears.
"Captain Selwyn," he began, "I'm satisfied that it's a devilish good thing."