Wandering into the drawing-room on one of her infrequent and languid tours of inspection, Constance was astonished to find Mary Delia contemplating herself in the full-length mirror. She was clad in a new and modish bathing suit.

"What do you think of it?" she asked her elder sister, turning slowly about.

"There's certainly plenty of it," was the disparaging reply. "Where are you going in it; to church?"

"To the Dangerfields' round-robin tennis."

"Going to play that way?"

"Yeppy. We're going to fool the hot spell. After the tennis we christen the new swimming pool. It's the biggest private tank in captivity."

"I thought Wally Dangerfield was that. I don't see why you want to mix up with that set, Dee."

"What set? They're the same set as the rest of us. What's the matter with Wally and Sally?"

"Nothing much except their pace and the way they get talked about. You know there have been half a dozen near-scandals at their place already."

"Not near me," returned Dee cheerfully. "I can take care of myself."

"I grant you that. But won't Jimmy be awfully sore? He doesn't like the Dangerfields."

"Jimmy is sore," was the indifferent response.

Indeed, Mr. Jameson James, an insistent formalist in his ideas for women though not at all in his ideas of men, had most unwisely essayed a veto upon Dee's attendance, only to be reminded by that untamed virgin that they were not yet engaged, and that, even if they were, it was by no means certain that she would meekly take orders from him. She spoke with unruffled good humour. Mr. James had departed in great ill humour.

"I like Jimmy when he's furious," remarked Dee. "He's so much more human."

"You'll lose him yet," warned Constance. "Who's your partner for the tennis?"

"Paul de Severin was to have been but he's held up in Washington. I thought I'd borrow Cary Scott if you don't mind."

"Why should I mind?" returned the other moodily. "He isn't my property."

"Had a scrap?"

"No." Constance brooded for a moment, then made one of those disclosures characteristic of the peculiarly frank relations existing between all three of the sisters. "Dee, Freddie's been borrowing money from Cary."

Dee whirled and stared. "The devil!" she ejaculated. "He'll never pay it back."

"I don't suppose Cary expects it back."

"What does he expect, then?"

"I don't know," answered Constance slowly.

"Humph! I do. Are you going to pay, Connie?"

"If I did pay—that way—would I be half as rotten as Freddie?" demanded the wife savagely.

"That depends. Are you in love with Cary?"

"I don't know," muttered the beauty. "I thought I was. Then I found out about Freddie and it sickened me so that I don't know where I stand."

Dee ruminated. "Perhaps that's why Freddie did it. He's no fool."

"He's a drunkard. That's worse."

"Poor old Con! I wonder what Cary thinks of it all."

"That's what I'm afraid to think about."

"Then you are in love with him. See here, Con; have you been borrowing from him, too?"

Constance's exquisite, self-indulgent face was set and hard as she stared past her sister. "He's paid a bill or two. I didn't dare take them to father."

A soft whistle on a single, low note issued from Dee's lips. "That's not in the book of rules."

"I know it. But he was so wonderful about it. You'd think that I was the one conferring the favour by taking his"—Constance gulped—"his money."

"Yes. Cary's a thoroughbred. Whatever happens I can't see that Freddie has any kick coming. Maquereau!"

"What's that?"

"Tasty French slang. The English is shorter and uglier. Con, how much are you in for?"

"Too much.... You marry money, Dee," counselled Constance fiercely. "It lasts. The other thing doesn't."

"With me it doesn't even begin. Then I can take Cary?"

"Of course. I almost wish you'd never bring him back."

"It might be safer," agreed the other. "I'll go and wire him."

Dorrisdale knew the elaborate establishment of the Dangerfields, built out of war profits at the back of the golf course, as "The Private Athletic Club." Everything about it was based upon sports, and the clique which frequented it was linked in a common bond of physical fitness, a willingness to bet any amount on anything, and capacity for hard drinking. It boasted expensive stables, an indoor and two outdoor tennis courts, a squash and racquets building, and, in the middle, the sixty-foot swimming tank just completed. Sally Dangerfield, a big-eyed, softly rounded brunette whose air of rather amorous languor concealed a feline vitality and strength, had a penchant for small parties, many in a season. This opening tennis party of the season included but eight couples. Walter Dangerfield, robust, hairy, loud-voiced and generous of hospitality, announced to the arriving guests that there would be first and second prizes worth striving for, also that, while it was a long time between sets, it would be a shorter period between drinks, in proof of which he indicated tubs of ice housing bottles of the famous Dangerfield punch.

The intense, unseasonable heat bred an immediate thirst, appeasement of which enhanced the joyousness of the occasion if not the quality of the tennis. Thanks to a quality of comparative abstemiousness on the part of both, Dee and her partner won against a pair who were normally their betters. The prize was a magnum of champagne apiece, and that they should celebrate by opening it immediately was, of course, de rigueur in the Private Athletic Club. The swim which followed was signalised by the appearance, upon a specially constructed raft, of a "submarine cocktail" invented by the host for the occasion. By dinner time the party had accumulated what was universally regarded as a highly satisfactory start.

Over the luxurious repast the heat settled like a steamy blanket. It was too hot to talk, it was too hot to sing (though several ambitious souls tried to pretend that it wasn't), it was too hot to dance between courses, it was too hot to do anything but drink. There was a gasp of relief when the hostess announced that coffee would be served outside, and a groan of disappointment when a splash of lukewarm rain heralded a thunderstorm which came booming and belching up from the west. Pent within the stagnant house the guests established themselves in the big living-room and offered various suggestions for amusement, each of which was promptly rejected as calling for too much effort.

Wally Dangerfield was just saying, "The time has now arrived, children, for a new and spine-tickling drink which—" when the crash came.

It seemed to precede rather than follow the blinding stab of radiance which ripped through the outer darkness, dimming the electric lights to futile sparks for the thousandth of a second before they went out. The great, stone structure rocked with the concussion. One thin, high shriek sounded. Then silence. Wally Dangerfield's voice boomed through the blackness:

"Anyone hurt?"

"I'm alive." "Present." "Battered but in the ring." "Missed me." "Whose hair is that singeing?" "Kamerad! Call off the Big Bertha." The replies came, shaky, flippant, with forced laughter, with bravado. It beseemed good sports to show a front under fire, and they did it.

Matches were struck. Servants came with two feeble candles. The entire electrical establishment of the house was out of commission. The host promptly dispatched a car to the local plant with instructions to bring back an expert if it was necessary to kidnap him.

With that one terrific discharge the storm had spent its greatest fury. It retired, leaving the steaming world immersed in humid heat, and the air full of rotted electricity. The guests tingled to it; it thrilled in their senses as well as their nerves. After the sobering sense of peril escaped, there followed a relaxing reaction of solvent ties and conventions, of sudden and reckless audacities. A warm puff of wind doused one of the feeble candles; the other was only sufficient to produce a provocative twilight. A silence significant and languorous, broken only by murmurs and snatches of soft, protesting laughter settled upon the dim room. Even Dee's nerves of iron responded. Leaning back on her divan to catch a wandering breath of air she felt a man's hand pressing upon her shoulder, a man's breath soft upon her neck. With her ready young strength, she pushed back the wooer.

"Not for me," she said quietly.

"Oh, don't be a prude," implored a straining whisper. "Everything goes to-night." She thought it was Harry Mercer's voice.

Evading him she got to her feet, made her way toward the door, and stumbled upon a chaise longue occupied by two close-clasped figures.

"Beg your pardon," she said nonchalantly; but she was vaguely stirred by all this suggestion, not to disgust, which would have been her normal retroaction, but to a wistful wonderment. What did they see in it? What was it that she was missing out of life? Was she abnormal? Or just fastidious? Across the room she could discern the sumptuous outlines of Sally Dangerfield's figure, dark against the background of a flannelled figure.

"Why not start something, Sally?" she suggested.

The hostess laughed. "It's starting itself, isn't it? Haven't you got your self-starter working? But I guess you're right. Help me find some more lights."

"Why lights?" murmured a sleepy-toned protestant. "It's more comfortable as it is."

"Who said 'comfortable'?" growled another. "It's hotter than ever."

"Wish I were back in the pool," said a woman.

"Grand little idea!" boomed Dangerfield. "Let's all go in!"

"What! In our wet things?" objected young Mrs. Redfern. "I wouldn't put my clammy stockings on again for a million swims."

"Why wear stockings?"

"Why wear any thing?" cried someone in a tone of inspiration.

"That's an idea" shouted Dangerfield. "A swimming party, À la Adam-and-Eve in the warranted respectable darkness. Who's on?"

"Come off it, Wally!" said a woman's voice. "You've got only one pool."

"We'll splice two tennis nets together and run them down the middle for a barrier."

"Why not?" cried the high-pitched, excited voice of Mrs. Carson. "We're all married here."

"Not that I know of," remarked Dee.

"Not that anybody knows of for me," added Emslie Selfridge in a voice of mincing propriety. "Wanted, a chaperon."

"You two can stand on the bank and be policemen," suggested the hostess. "One on each side."

"Not on your life," objected one of the men. "One go, all go!"

The popping of a champagne cork expressed the explosive quality of the neurotic atmosphere. "Come on, Dee," whispered Sally Dangerfield. "If you quit now it will gum a good game."

"Oh, well, you can't bluff me," returned Dee aloud. "I hate bathing suits anyway."

There was a shout of acclaim. The party organised and moved forward across the dripping courtyard under the guidance of a pair of lights. The men rigged the nets while the women retired to the squash court, designated as their dressing room. There they disrobed with feverish laughter and jerky bits of talk. This adventure had given a fillip to even their sated appetite for sensation.

"Who'll go first?" asked one in the gloom.

"Match for it," came the answering suggestion.

"Oh, piffle and likewise pish!" cut in Viccy Carson's shrill giggle. "I'll be the goat. Put a dimmer on that light, someone."

A moment later Dee heard her call at the end of the passage: "Anybody present in case I fall in?"

Several male voices answered: "Stout sport!" "Who's the pioneer?" "Sally." "No; it's little Viccy."

"Shinny-on-your-own-side!" called Mrs. Carson. "Listen for the splash. Come on, you girls!"

"We're coming." Two splashes almost simultaneous echoed sharply against the bare walls, followed by others mingled with shrieks, laughter, chokings and gurglings. Dee, reluctant, found herself alone in the passage way.

Like many women of unaroused temperament she preserved a sort of remote and proud consciousness of her body, a physical reticence. The gross implications of contact, the prurient stimulus to the imagination in what was going on in the pool, held her back. Yet she was conscious of some participation in the excitement, too; the lewd mob-psychology of that mixed group spurred her while it revolted her finer instincts. But it was her sportsmanship that finally urged her forward. After all, she had agreed to join. Backing out now would be pretty yellow. Her hand was fumbling along the open door when another burst of merriment checked her.

"I've caught me a mermaid over the net."

"Reel her in, Bill."

"So've I. Mine's got a bathing cap on."

"No fair, bathing caps. This is the Garden of Eden."

"No; it's the fountain of Eternal Youth. Steady on the net, there!"

"Students! Students!" cried Sally Dangerfield in a voice of chiding laughter. "Care beful!"

"Who's who in this part of America? Call the roll."

The roll! Dee's hesitations were resolved. She must go forward now. She stretched out a groping hand and held it, stiffened in mid-air. Footsteps were close behind her; heavy, shod footsteps.

"Who's there?" she challenged sharply.

No answer. She turned, angry and uncertain. The footsteps had stopped. She had gathered her forces to call when the appalling thing happened.

Over her burst a great flood of light. Every globe in the passageway and the court back of it was sending out its pitiless rays upon her nakedness. A bisected bar of radiance shot forth into the tank-room, illuminating it from end to end. Pandemonium broke out; shrieks, flounderings, catcalls, and above it all the thundering profanity of Wally Dangerfield calling down vengeance upon the fool who had played the trick. With the trained athlete's readiness of action in a crisis, Dee turned, leapt backward, tore the heavy door loose from the clamp which held it open, and slammed it.

"Saved!" yelled a gleeful voice outside.

Dee heard a short, deep, dismayed exclamation behind her. She bent forward against the closed door, her proud little head bowed against her wrists. With a click the darkness shut down again. The footsteps came toward her, but she was no longer afraid, for she had seen; she was only bitterly ashamed. Folds, cool and light, enveloped her shoulders; she smelt the odor of wet rubber and gratefully drew the long raincoat about her.

"Turn on the light, please," she directed quietly.

It flashed, intolerable to her eyes. When her vision could bear the strain she looked up and saw the man standing a few paces away with his kitbag of implements beside him, dressed in working garb. His face was pallid, amazed, and beautiful.

"I never thought to see you again," he said breathlessly.

"You've seen all there is of me to see," giggled Dee with the inanity of sheer nerve-shock, and could have killed herself for hatred and fury at her untoward response.

He made no comment upon this; only looked at her with incredulous pain.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Repairing the electric plant. I'm a workman. As I told you."

"I thought it was a joke."

"No." He listened to the confused sounds from beyond the door. "I seem to have been inopportune," he remarked with quiet grimness. "A swimming party, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"More or less informal, I judge."

Dee felt a hot wave submerging her. "You could see for yourself."

"Quite so. You were on your way to join it?"

"Yes, I was," she retorted defiantly but with an incredible inclination to weep.

"Pray don't let me detain you."

"Please," whispered Dee.

His face changed. He took a step toward her, and stopped.

A shriek, too authentic in its terror to be misinterpreted, penetrated the heavy door, followed by a babel.

"Turn on that light!" "Open the door." "No! No!" "She's drowned, I tell you." "Damn it, where's that switch?"

The electrician threw the door open, made a quick movement along the wall, and every detail of the scene leapt forth into bold significance. The women were huddled along the side of the pool, all except plump Mrs. Grant who was absurdly striving to draw an end of the net about her, and Sally Dangerfield who was bending above the slim, motionless nudity of Viccy Carson, stretched along the stairs.

"I stepped on her," wailed Sally. "She was lying on the bottom."

Half of the men had scattered for their clothes. The others stood, shamed and uncertain, except Cary Scott. In the face of reality in this calamitous form he had remembered an early emergency regimen, thrown himself down beside the woman, and with lips pressed to her inanimate mouth was striving to stimulate her flaccid lungs to induce breathing. Desisting for a moment he called:

"She's alive, I think. Get a doctor."

"Phone for Osterhout, somebody," shouted Dangerfield.

"Wire's down," groaned Grant.

"Then get a car and go like hell!"

"My car is outside," said the electrician. "Where am I to go?"

"I'll show you," said Dee. "Quick!"

Together they darted into the night. Crossing the pebbled courtyard, Dee involuntarily cried out.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"My foot. I forgot I had no shoes. It doesn't matter. Go on."

He swung her strongly into his arms and did not set her down until he had reached the car, when he lifted her to the seat. It was as well that he had. Such was the yielding of her body in every nerve and muscle as he took her that she could not have stood upright.

A light in Dr. Osterhout's laboratory showed him at work over some test tubes.

"Bobs!" called Dee. "Come out. There's been an accident. We've got a car."

In less than a minute they were retracing their course at wild speed, the electrician driving with consummate control while Dee acquainted Osterhout with the main facts. As they came to a stop in the yard Dee turned to the volunteer chauffeur.

"Will you wait for me?" she asked in a tone that made Osterhout turn to look at her.

"Yes."

Within they found the victim violently ill in the midst of a half-dressed and vastly relieved group.

"None the worse for it," Osterhout reported to Dee after attending the victim. "A little too much water for comfort. And something besides water, wasn't there?"

"Yes."

"A good deal of it?"

"Plenty for all hands."

"A rough party?"

"About the usual, at this house."

"Don't you think you're out of place in that gallery, Dee?"

"Oh, don't lecture me, Bobs," said the girl wearily. "I'm through." But it was another, not Bobs, who was the inspiration of that resolve.

To the other, patient in the sighing darkness, she returned. "She's all right," she informed him. "But it was a close call."

"Scott saved her, I expect," he replied absently. "He knew the method."

"Do you know Cary Scott?" she asked, startled.

He hesitated. "I did once. I should hardly have expected to find him at this kind of an orgy."

"It isn't as bad as it looks," she defended weakly.

"You told me, didn't you, that you were going into the pool with the others?"

"Yes. But you don't understand. Will you wait until I go in and get my clothes on?"

"I—don't—think—so," he said with palpable effort.

She gathered all her resolution. "Aren't you going to take me home?"

Through the darkness came the sound of a deep-drawn breath.

"No," said his voice, both hard and sad. Only the sadness remained as he continued. "You see, I had idealised you."

"You needn't have," she retorted bitterly. "I'm just like other girls."

"So I see. I wish to God I'd never seen you!"

"There's no reason why you should ever see me again," she answered with rising spirit.

"Not the slightest," he agreed dolorously. "Good-bye."

She turned and went into the building.

As Dr. Osterhout had no car, Scott and Dee drove him back to his place.

"Who was your friend in the service car, Dee?" asked the physician.

"His name is Wollaston."

Cary Scott gave a start. "Wollaston! You know, I thought I caught a glimpse—— Then I supposed that my eyes had gone wrong in the sudden light. He was in working clothes, wasn't he?"

"Yes. He was the electrician from the plant."

"Stanley Wollaston? Electrician? It can't be the same."

"It is. He recognised you and said that he used to know you."

"Know me! Good God! I should say so! We were in hospital together for weeks in the war. Afterwards I visited him at their place in Hertfordshire. He was a poet and a dreamer then. I remember now. I heard that his branch of the family went broke."

"Where did you know him, Dee?" asked Osterhout.

"Oh, it's a long story, Bobs," said the girl lightly.

Herein she said what was not true. It was a short story; short and vivid and bewildering. In the darkness she ran over the whole scope of it, every detail as clear as if it had not occurred nearly a year before: the breakdown of her motor car in the open country near Rahway; the stranger on the bank of a stream who had put down his rod and come to her aid, a roughly dressed stranger with questing eyes and a quaint turn of speech; the long and patient tinkering, with the mechanism, ending in a second collapse; the luncheon offered and shared, the talk that followed, a long, long talk such as Dee had never before known, running through luminous hours, touching all the realms of fancy until the incredulous sun turned his face from them and went down; the drive back to the village where she left him; his final words, "I am resisting an intolerable temptation when I say no more than good-bye and thank you," and then nothing until now.

Scott's voice broke in upon her meditations. "I must find out where he is."

"I don't believe I would, Cary," she advised after Osterhout had bidden them good-night.

"What? Not look up old Stanley? Why not?"

"I think he's cut himself off from all the old life. He—he's a queer person."

Until the car drew in at Holiday Knoll Scott thought that over in silence. Then he laid a friendly hand over Dee's. "Old girl," he said gently, "you seem to know a lot about him."

"So I do. You can learn a lot in an afternoon."

"There's a lot to learn. He's a wonderful person. Pretty tough to find him like this.... Are you really interested in him, Dee?"

"Who? Me? I should say not!" returned Dee hardily. "I'm going to marry Jimmie James."