The first evening at the Bogarts' was a trying one for Minga. Her life, the restless, high-strung, half-bred and wholly careless life of her age, had kept her taut as a little bowstring for sensation. It was a life formed, not so much on its own desires, as on highly colored superficial presentments in the moving pictures and theatre posters, also on those remarkably insinuating sheets, the "Society" Fashion Magazines, where the cut of one's coat and the number of one's pockets are prophesied between photographs of the important Mrs. So-and-So, or the gossiping and not too scrupulous Madame X.

The rather uninspired family dinner ended amid the soft perfunctory observances of Miss Aurelia, punctuating the indifferent curt ejaculations of the young people and the moody silence of the Judge; then Minga took a hand. She sat at the table humming a little air. "Know that?" she inquired of Dunstan; "that's 'Don't take off another thing, Polly, my dear.' Piggy Purse-proud sings it in 'The Other Pair of Stockings.'"

These statements were received in silence. Sard and Dunstan, mindful of the Judge's preferences in dinner conversation, looked askance at each other, but Minga glanced brightly around the table. To this young person there were no inhibitions, no reserves; above all, she was no respecter of persons. A man who had just completed a new up-to-date garage or aeroplane would win her casual interest, but a mere upholder of the laws of the country seemed to her hardly to have outline. Curiously enough, however, her insouciance and matter-of-fact pertness sometimes reached to that buried stream of human sensation that underlay the granite of Bogart's surface. As he looked at the little figure, now rising from the table, he noted the color of her dress and spoke of it.

"Let me see, that's rose color, isn't it?" remarked the Judge, stiffly. His wrinkled square-nailed hand was on the back of the chair, and his eyes, gooseberry and hard, yet had the sort of deference a man gives some charming face and figure that refreshes him. Minga's head, bent back, looked coolly up into his face.

"That color, Judgie"—it was her absurd intimate title for him—"that color is called 'Sauce Box.'"

"Well named." The Judge had for a second a glint in his eyes.

"Isn't it?" asked Minga. She turned her bobbed head with the lively shake of a young animal and asked suavely: "Now what, for instance, is the name of the cloth of your coat?"

"Ha!" ... Dunstan, prowling about, looking for cigarettes, upset a pile of books and arrested a plundering hand. He winked at Sard over Minga's unconscious head, saying meanwhile plaintively, "Why can't I find any matches? This family sinks lower every day!" Dunstan watched to see how his father was taking Minga's innocent question.

"What kind of cloth does a Chief Justice wear, anyhow; something impenetrable, I suppose, calculated to endure, impervious to shouts and howls and woman's tears," he ventured.

Miss Aurelia, waving the maid with the coffee service out on the western veranda, looked at her nephew approvingly. "That's a very interesting idea of yours, Dunstan." The timid lady, intent on keeping the conversation in a calm backwater, went on to supply that as nearly as she could remember there was no mention of "the cloth" judicially, but only for the clergy, and when one thought of it, went on the rising muffled voice, serenely unconscious—"The coats of the clergy were blacker and smoother and—er—more dignified than anyone's else—I've often been struck by it at weddings—and—er—funerals," said Miss Aurelia.

"I shall look for it at the next—er—execution," said Dunstan as he rolled his eyes at Minga.

"Now Bishop Cravanette while dining here wore a velvet Oxford coat, I remember," Miss Aurelia thrilled to her topic, "he dined here—it was at the time of the laying of the corner-stone of the—er—church—they—he——"

Dunstan, winding a long arm around Sard's neck, another around Minga's shoulders, reeled the two girls out of the room. "She's off, Bishop Cravanette!" he murmured. "That means the rest of the evening; all on your account, Minga, unless somebody chokes her. Bishop Cravanette," Dunstan's mouth modeled on Miss Aurelia's pursy one, too full of its white teeth. "Seems to me the most ideal man for his—er—very high calling. His wife less so. The qualifications of a bishop's wife should be—er—she—he, I remember they—er—I had an aunt——"

Sard put her hand over his mouth, but the boy murmured through his sister's punishing fingers, "Minga, get Aunt Reely to tell the story of Sard's name to-night. Then that will be over!"

Sard took his cigarette case out of his pocket. "That will do for you," she lovingly tweaked his ear; "now light up, put up, shut up; you're getting facetious at your own vulgarity, as Father says."

But Dunstan, imitating Miss Aurelia's fussy ways, was dusting off his chair preparatory to sitting down. In spite of his long, awkward, muscular form this imitation of soft settling and sighing was ludicrously exact. Dora, bringing in the coffee tray, put an end to it, however, and the Judge and Miss Reely joined the young people. Sard rose till her aunt and father were seated, but Minga and Dunstan coolly sat, the former smoking until the waitress disappeared. Then Minga, behind her curved hand, grew confidential. She leaned toward Judge Bogart like a woman of the world.

"Tell me about that new murderer of yours," she begged. She had forgotten Sard's instructions "don't you start the subject."

Miss Aurelia interrupted nervously. She waved the sugar tongs.

"Two lumps, Minga, dear?"

"I don't take coffee, thank you," returned Minga imperturbably. She put her hand on the august knee of Sard's father. "Tell me all about that murderer, Dora's brother."

It was an unwritten law in the Bogarts' household that the affairs of his judicial calling should never be mentioned to the Judge. He took his cigar from his mouth and slowly turned his head; the hard old eyes, the mouth set in two gray lines under the crisply trimmed mustache, revealed the iron rigors of the human face set to the inexorable, for it was through the inexorable power of decision that the Judge had risen to his fame locally and abroad. These things suddenly confronted with that most amazing audacity, that marvelous magnet, the unwitting bold, clear-eyed face of woman-youth, softened perceptibly. The two gray lines of lip moved slightly. Minga's little pink cheeks, curly hair, her rosy dress, the little inconsequent hand on the Judge's knee, these things had a flavor and power, the depth of which the girl could not possibly guess. Yet Minga did most things very deliberately. Now she naughtily twisted her mouth at Sard.

"Ah, come on now, Judgie," turning her quizzical head to one side. "You can't have all the fun of jugging bad boys. After all, you only represent the people—that's us—let us in on it!"

Dunstan, blowing smoke in the air, almost held his breath. Sard, staring, put down her coffee cup. They both saw the queer gleam come into the concentrated eyes. A big hand steely with golf came down hard on Minga's indolent little fist. "Young lady!" said Judge Bogart, slowly and decisively, "you ought to be spanked."

"Oh, brother," purred Miss Reely, "I don't think—it doesn't seem——" Then to Minga, "Why, I am sure you didn't mean—why, George—I don't think you ever said a thing like that. I feel that Minga was only asking for information." Sard and Dunstan quivered with silent laughter; but the Judge rose in quick displeasure. Minga passed her hand slowly down his sleeve. "Ah, Judgie, dear," she pouted, "I didn't mean anything. I didn't know that judges took the Hippocratic oath and everything." One would have thought that there were tears of vexation and embarrassment in the girl's voice, but she turned a naughty stare on Dunstan. "Well, your father is a crab, a perfect crab!" Minga's tone somehow had nothing that could be modernly recognized as rudeness. It was merely spoiled privilege that made her snap her fingers decisively and look revengefully at the retreating judicial back—perhaps Judge Bogart felt what is true of the Mingas of this world, that they have an amazing power of removing the solemn humbug of prestige from its intrenchment and are therefore dangerous. The Judge heard the petulant, "I'll get even with you," but he did not smile or turn the disapproving back, so the little guest turned rather drearily to Miss Aurelia. This sort of evening for Minga was incredibly dull; it must be enlivened in some way. Stifling a yawn, not too cleverly, Minga remarked: "Dunstan says maybe you'll tell us how Sard got her queer name."

Sard, herself, had followed her father into the library to put records on his talking machine. The Judge's favorite way of spending a spring evening was to deny all callers and to sit by the window in front of the square refrigerator-looking instrument while Sard, like a slave, drew forth and deposited the records of his choice. Through the windows of the unlighted room showed squares of black sky with one or two stars hanging. A young vine tapped against the wire netting or beckoned with leaf fingers. The Judge never looked at his daughter standing straight and ready for his signal of approval or displeasure. She chose the more sentimental and romantic of airs and sometimes when they pleased him, he softened; his eyes closed at the finale of La Sonnambula or Donna e Mobile; he would sometimes snort, clear his throat and say, "Very pretty, very pretty." Sard would smile a little, looking rather wistfully at him. Perhaps when her father heard this music he wandered down the paths of youth, paths of wistfulness and wanting to do right, paths such as hers must be: what had been his laws? What had at last made him this curt, severe, unapproachable man? "What were your laws, Father?" the girl almost whispered. "Did you always live under the law?"

"Very pretty—very pretty," snapped the Judge. "The best machines are accurate, that's the idea, accurate; no banging, tinpanning; accuracy, that's the test of music."

The girl, gravely obedient to him, listened to those comments. At college Sard had heard all the New Testament in modern music, the superb ranges, the exquisite far countries of sound and rhythm. For her the Russian compositions had spelled the awful darkness of a dark land, through which in splendid bursts came the hope of full golden wheat fields, the piteous tragic faces of a people longing to rise and walk from the shackles of years into their own souls' birthright. The Spanish gravity and witchery as of dancing lights in the mountains, the French stringing of water pearls and culling of moonlit flowers; the exquisite question of modern unresolved chords, or the striding rhythms and deep chests of the masculine Bach fugues. Frolicking rural joy of the old gigues and morrices and the sombre human pathos of old folk songs—the girl harking back over those rich immemorial afternoons and evenings of the music at college, wondered at herself, putting on the records, setting the needles, half shrinking from the automatic preliminary whir. "The heart bowed down with weight of woe," she looked at the grizzled head of the man whose name she bore. Was his heart "bowed down with weight of woe," was there some sore spot in his heart where, if she might win, she might see him as he was in the old days of youth and his love; had he ever agonized, cared about the tragic injustices of life? Or, did he just coddle a sense of personal loss and woe?

"We love Foddie, don't we, little Sard, we aren't afraid of him? He won't put us in prison," the curious little sweet-smelling whispers came back to Sard; she felt the soft touch of curls on her face, all the flummery and subtle trappings of the lacy little mother. These people were Sard's parents and yet they were lost to her, as remote as if they had both died! Over and over the longing had come to Sard to put her arms around her father's neck and say, "Are you thinking of her too—these days?" but she could as soon have put her arms around the kitchen chimney.

On the east veranda as the moon rose the soft voice of Miss Aurelia was placidly relating:

"Yes, Sard's name is strange. Her father, however, has allowed her to keep it—we—your mother, Dunstan—they, well, it was thought that your father preferred a boy, but afterward you—er—came, Dunstan, and that, of course——"

"Yes, of course," drawled Minga. "You—er—came, Dunstan." The girl was delicately smoking, enjoying Miss Aurelia's horror and considering the diamond on her engagement finger. It flickered in the moonlight like a wicked eye. Miss Aurelia somewhat stiffly continued:

"Sardonyx was your mother's favorite stone—she—er—wore the Sardonyx signet ring of an ancestor."

"By Jove! you don't say," ejaculated Dunstan. He stuck his heels higher on the rail and struck a match; he leaned over the terrace to flick some ashes into a jardiniÈre. "And so I suppose—at that time—because of that—she—he—I—er——"

"Stop it, you demon, stop it," murmured Minga; "you'll spoil the whole thing; it's wonderful, it's like knitting, knit two, purl two, turn——"

"So that Mrs. Bogart," recommenced Miss Aurelia with dignity, but being plunged into the enormous detail of her story, she floundered, helpless. "So that after little Sard, the—er—baby, you know—er—came—Mrs. Bogart believing—that is—or rather having been told—er—no—well, having expected a boy—got the idea of not being able to choose an appropriate name for a girl—and in consequence—afterward you understand."

Dunstan and Minga helpfully nodded—"afterward" they prompted!

"That is, when Sard was three days old, Mrs. Bogart suddenly said, that is, I have always understood that she said it suddenly—my brother would know accurately—she said, 'She's to be called Sardonyx'—'Sardonyx' like that."

"Really," drawled Minga.

"But Sardonyx was—er—quite masculine, as you see," continued Miss Aurelia with zest; the narrator turned her face somewhat eagerly and the pursy mouth, too full of teeth, continued: "This feminization of it was Mrs. Bogart's own—quite original, we thought. She made it Sardonice, very clever, everyone said—there was no opposition. I remember," added Miss Aurelia, "that at that time, for certain reasons, they were anxious not to have the—er—brain—too active—and we—er—tried in every way to distract her thought—but that is how Sard got her name 'Sardonice'—most unusual," concluded Miss Aurelia a trifle apologetically.

"Why, she could have been named Jezebel, under the circumstances," remarked Dunstan. "But—er—as it is—we—er—call her 'Sardine' for short." The lad, lazily smoking, rolled one eye 'round on Minga.

"Dunstan——" reproved Miss Aurelia.

"Really?" Minga drawled the easy little word again, then with some recollection of the archaic thing called "manners," "Thanks ever so much, Miss Aurelia—I'm sure it was awfully clever of Mrs. Bogart; I always wondered how Sard got her name. Wouldn't it be fun to have a lot of girls with names like that—Emerald, Diamond, Sapphire, Jade—I could have been the Jade," remarked Minga with a demure chuckle.

"You've got your wish," observed Dunstan with emphasis. "A little red Jade, what?" He finished his cigarette, lingeringly pinned down the butt, extinguished it, then rose, stretching. "Well," with a look of sweet seriousness, "I'm off to have a whack at those old conditions."

"You mean you're off to bed because you're bored," said Minga scornfully. "You mean you're going to work out poker hands."

"Good-night, Polly Prunella," the lad bent over and kissed the top fluff of curls. The girl reached out a punishing hand and he drew back, chuckling. "You used to let me last year," he explained.

"Say," Minga demanded, boyishly, "what do you think I am? You do that again and see what will happen." "Bing" with a heavy slap, the little rose-frocked figure pushed him backward. "My jiu jitsu," explained Minga modestly to the horrified Miss Aurelia. "I took Self-Defense all last year—I could tackle any New York gunman with that special undercut."

"Dunstan!" said Miss Aurelia, severely, to her nephew—"how ungentlemanly. Never—never let me see you do such a thing again."

"I won't," said Dunstan, penitently. He was looking at Minga with liking, friendly boyish eyes. "I shan't want to do it again, not just there. Hey, Minga, I'll kiss you better next time, what?"

"Go to bed, you big Swede," retorted that lady, but the little figure in rose-color now leaned over and patted Miss Aurelia's hand. "Do I seem awful?" she asked anxiously. "Mother says I do; I don't want you to dislike me—you don't like my smoking? The Persian hates it!"

"Oh, my dear," breathed kind Miss Aurelia, "I dislike you? But aren't the girls nowadays very lacking in manners, smoking and all?"

Minga consoled her. "We have to act like this nowadays, you know; that's why we don't need chaperones but, of course, there is a good deal of rough stuff if a boy doesn't know you're nice, and of course some girls aren't. Now you take any stag line at any dance; sometimes the fellows get silly and, well, they drink sometimes and, believe me, that needs some handling." Minga, head down, considered her slippers gravely.

Miss Aurelia stared...."The—er—stag line—why, Sard never——"

"Oh—well," Minga leaned her head back against the wall, her little feet beating time to the music within, "Sard doesn't go in so much for that kind of thing, all the boys really want to dance with her and she knows it and doesn't hit it up and she won't allow cut-ins and that kind of thing—but most of us like the excitement, the being grabbed, you know, and so the boys like to show each other what cavemen they are, and, well, they do get silly and rough-house and you have to handle them like a mother—I've grown old," said Minga, in a burst of confidence, "I've grown old just keeping some of these lads where they belong." The girl rose and pecked at Miss Aurelia's sagging cheek. "Isn't your hair lovely," she observed, "and what pretty feet you've got. Why don't you get married?"

"My—dear"—Miss Aurelia kept hold of the little brown hand and gasped, her eyes were wide with astonishment—"at—er—my age?"

"Sure," said Minga with conviction—"you're feminine and all that, you know—a lot of men stand for that still—take some old blasÉ clubman and stuff him into a husband."

Miss Aurelia, stunned, let go of the hand; she was as one paralyzed.

"Nighty night," said Minga lightly. "Do you care if I steal an orange? I shan't say good-night to Judgie, I've committed him to bread and water for three days." The girl laughed. "What's that thing they're playing?" She hesitated, nodding her head toward the music-room.

Miss Aurelia thought it must be Dvorak's "New World. The Largo...."

Minga, curly head to one side, listened a moment, then she shivered. "A little too weird and woozy for me," she announced. "I hate Sard's taste in music; I want everything calcium-colored—Fizz," said Minga explanatorily, "and jazz and dizz!" She stood there, a little undetermined, listening and staring at the white moonlight on the water of the river stretched far out below the terrace.

Then Minga looked solemnly at Miss Aurelia. "Do you believe that love is divine?" she asked casually.

"Why," said Miss Aurelia, "why, my dear child, of course I do—it's—I always thought—I—we—sometimes—it is said to be."

But Minga, with a queer little self-conscious laugh, broke away from the gentle detaining hand. She walked up-stairs, whistling; as she passed Dunstan's door, she gave it a decided thump.

Later Sard slowly climbed the stairs to the tower room. The moonlight shone in patches and blocks of shimmering glamor on the floor and across the white bed. The girl stood looking out. She stared strangely with a look of concealed curiosity out to the seat under the enormous shadow of the great flowering horse-chestnut outside of the room where the music had been. All that evening Sard, soberly putting on records, had been conscious of a tall gaunt figure sitting on the rustic seat under the horse-chestnut, its head buried in its arms. Now the seat was empty, but Sard could see a man standing out on the lawn amid a ring of Norway spruce spreading on the sky. It was Colter.