Mrs. Allison and the three old ladies with whom Jane was to drink tea, were neighbors. Mrs. Allison lived alone, and the other three lived in the homes of their several sons and daughters. They played cards every Friday afternoon, and Jane always came over when Mrs. Allison entertained and helped her with the refreshments. They were very simple and pleasant old ladies with a nice sense of their own dignity. They resented deeply the fact of Mrs. Follette’s social condescensions. The lady of the manor spoke to them when she met them on the street or in church, but she never invited them to her house. She was, in effect, the chatelaine, while they were merely Smith and Brown and Robinson!

Well, at any rate, they had Jane. Some of the other young people scorned these elderly tea-parties, and if they came, were apt to show it in their manner. But Jane was never scornful. She always had the time of her life, and the old ladies felt particularly joyous and juvenile when she was one of them.

But this afternoon Jane was late. Tea was always served promptly at four. And it happened that there were popovers. So, of course, they couldn’t wait.

“I telephoned to Sophy,” said Mrs. Allison, “and Jane has gone to town. I suppose something has kept her. Anyhow we’ll start in.”

So the old ladies ate the popovers and drank hot sweet chocolate, and found them not as delectable as when Jane was there to share them.

Things were, indeed, a bit dull. They discussed Mrs. Follette, whose faults furnished a perpetual topic. Mrs. Allison told them that the young Baldwins had dined at Castle Manor on Thanksgiving. And that there had been other guests.

“How can she afford it,” was the unanimous opinion, “with that poor boy on her hands?”

“He’s hanging around now, waiting for Jane’s train,” said Mrs. Allison, bringing in hot supplies from the kitchen. “He met the noon train, too.”

The old ladies knew that Evans was in love with Jane. He showed it, unmistakably. But they hoped that Jane wouldn’t look at him. He was dear and good, and had been wonderful once upon a time. But that time had passed, and it was impossible to consider Mrs. Follette as Jane’s mother-in-law!

“He’s sitting up there on the terrace,” Mrs. Allison further informed them. “Do you think I’d better ask him to come over?”

They thought she might, but her hospitable purpose was never fulfilled, for as she stepped out on the porch, a long, low limousine stopped in front of the house, and out of it came Jane in all the glory of a great bunch of orchids, and with a man by her side, whose elegance measured up to the limousine and the lovely flowers.

They came up the path and Jane said, “Mrs. Allison, may I present Mr. Towne, and will you give him a cup of tea?”

“Indeed, I will,” Mrs. Allison seemed to rise on wings of gratification, “only it is chocolate and not tea.”

And Frederick said that he adored chocolate, and presently Mrs. Allison’s little living-room was all in a pleasant flutter; and over on Jane’s terrace, Evans Follette sat, a lonely sentinel, and pondered on the limousine, and the elegance of Jane’s escort.

Once old Sophy called to him, “You’ll ketch your death, Mr. Evans.”

He shook his head and smiled at her. A man who had lived through a winter in the trenches thought nothing of this. Physical cold was easy to endure. The cold that clutched at his heart was the thing that frightened him.

The early night came on. There were lights now in Mrs. Allison’s house, and within was warmth and laughter. The old ladies, excited and eager, told each other in flashing asides that Mr. Towne was the great Frederick Towne. The one whose name was so often in the papers, and his niece, Edith, had been deserted at the altar. “You know, my dear, the one who ran away.”

When Jane said that she must be getting home, they pressed around her, sniffing her flowers, saying pleasant things of her prettiness—hinting of Towne’s absorption in her.

She laughed and sparkled. It was a joyous experience. Mr. Towne had a way of making her feel important. And the adulation of the old ladies added to her elation.

As Frederick and Jane walked across the street towards the little house on the terrace, a gaunt figure rose from the top step and greeted them.

“Evans,” Jane scolded, “you need a guardian. Don’t you know that you shouldn’t sit out in such weather as this?”

“I’m not cold.”

She presented him to Frederick. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Towne?”

But he would not. He would call her up. Jane stood on the porch and watched him go down the steps. He waved to her when he reached his car.

“Oh, Evans,” she said, “I’ve had such a day.”

They went into the house together. Jane lighted the lamp. “Can’t you dine with us?”

“I hoped you might ask me. Mother is staying with a sick friend. If I go home, I shall sup on bread and milk.”“Sophy’s chops will be much better.” She held her flowers up to him. “Isn’t the fragrance heavenly?”

“Towne gave them to you?”

She nodded. “Oh, I’ve been very grand and gorgeous—lunch at the Chevy Chase club—a long drive afterward——” she broke off. “Evans, you look half-frozen. Sit here by the fire and get warm.”

“I met both trains.”

“Evans—why will you do such things?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“But you can see me any time——”

“I cannot. Not when you are lunching with fashionable gentlemen with gold-lined pocket-books.” He held out his hands to the blaze. “Do you like him?”

“Mr. Towne? Yes, and I like the things he does for me. I had to pinch myself to be sure it was true.”

“If what was true?”

“That I was really playing around with the great Frederick Towne.”

“You talk as if he were conferring a favor.”

She had her coat off now and her hat. She came and sat down in the chair opposite him. “Evans,” she said, “you’re jealous.” She was still vivid with the excitement of the afternoon, lighted up by it, her skin warmed into color by the swift flowing blood beneath.“Well, I am jealous,” he tried to smile at her, then went on with a touch of bitterness, “Do you know what I thought about as I sat watching the lights at Mrs. Allison’s? Well, as I came over to-day I passed a snowy field—and there was a scarecrow in the midst of it, fluttering his rags, a lonely thing, an ugly thing. Well, we’re two of a kind, Jane, that scarecrow and I.”

Her shocked glance stopped him. “Evans, you don’t know what you are saying.”

He went on recklessly. “Well, after all, Jane, the thing is this. It’s a man’s looks and his money that count. I’m the same man inside of me that I was when I went away. You know that. You might have loved me. The thing that is left you don’t love. Yet I am the same man——”

As he flung the words at her, her eyes met his steadily. “No,” she said, “you are not the same man.”

“Why not?”

“The man of yesterday did not think—dark thoughts——”

The light had gone out of her as if he had blown it with a breath. “Jane,” he said, unsteadily, “I am sorry——”

She melted at once and began to scold him, almost with tenderness. “What made you look at the scarecrow? Why didn’t you turn your back on him, or if you had to look, why didn’t you wave and say, ‘Cheer up, old chap, summer’s coming, and you’ll be on the job again’? To me there’s something debonair in a scarecrow in summer—he dances in the breeze and seems to fling defiance to the crows.”

He fell in with her mood. “But his defiance is all bluff.”

“How do you know? If he keeps away a crow, and adds an ear of corn to a farmer’s store—hasn’t he fulfilled his destiny?”

“Oh, if you want to put it that way. I suppose you are hinting that I can keep away a crow or two——”

“I’m not hinting, I am telling it straight out.”

They heard Baldy’s step in the hall. Jane, rising, gave Evans’ head a pat as she passed him. “You are thinking about yourself too much, old dear; stop it.”

Baldy, ramping in, demanded a detailed account of Jane’s adventure.

“And I took Briggs to market,” she told him gleefully, midway of her recital; “you should have seen him. He carried my parcels—and offered advice——”

Baldy had no ears for Briggs’ attractions. “Did you get the things Miss Towne wanted?”

“We did. We went to the house and I waited in the car while Mr. Towne had the bags packed. He wanted me to go in but I wouldn’t. We brought her bags out with us.”“Who’s we?”

“Mr. Towne and I, myself,” she added the spectacular details.

“Do you mean that you’ve been playing around with him all day?”

“Not all day, Baldy. Part of it.”

“I’m not sure that I like it.”

“Why not?”

“A man like that. He might fill your head with ideas.”

“I hope my head is filled with ideas, Baldy.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You mean that I might think he would fall in love with me. Well, I don’t. But he likes to play and so do I. I hope he’ll do it some more. And you and Evans are a pair of croakers. Here, I’ve been having the time of my life, and you’re both trying to take the joy out of it.”

They began to protest. She flung off their apologies. “Oh, let’s eat dinner. Between the two of you you’ve spoiled my day.”

But she was too light-hearted to hold resentment, and by the time the coffee came she was herself again. After dinner, Baldy telephoned Edith, and came back to set the victrola going to a most riotous tune and danced with Jane. It was an outlet for his emotions. Edith ... Edith ... Edith ... was the tune to which he danced.

Then he made Jane play his accompaniment and sang the passionate lines of a poet much derided by the moderns:

The waves of lovely sound rose higher and higher, seemed to break over and engulf them:

Evans, walking home an hour later, took the path which led beneath the pines. The old trees showed thin and black against the moon-bright sky. Beyond the pines was the field with the scarecrow. Evans might have avoided it by following the road, but he was drawn to it by a sort of sinister attraction, and by the memory of the things he had said to Jane.

Under the moon the scarecrow took on more than ever the semblance of a man. Lightly clad in straw hat and pajamas, it seemed to shiver and shake in the bleak and bitter night.

Evans leaned on a fence post and surveyed his fantastic prototype. The air was very still—no sound but the faint whistle of the wind.Then out of the stillness—clear as a bell—Jane’s husky voice. “The man of yesterday did not think dark thoughts.”

He seemed to answer her. “Why shouldn’t I think them? My dreams are dead. And oh, my dear, what have you to do with dead dreams?”

He had thought he would be satisfied just to have her near him. But he knew now that he would not be satisfied. He had known it from the moment he had seen her with Towne. Always hereafter there would be the fear that she might be taken from him. And it was Frederick Towne who might take her. He had everything to offer. Any girl’s head might be turned.

Towne’s infatuation was evident. And Jane was exquisite—in mind and soul as well as body. It wasn’t a thing for a man to miss.

He was chilled to the bone when at last he took leave of the ghostly figure in the straw hat. The old scarecrow seemed to lean towards him wistfully as he went away.... Oh, the thing was so human—he wanted to offer it shelter, a warm hearth.... He flung back at it as the best he could do, Jane’s words, “Cheer up, old chap, summer’s coming.”

When he reached home, Evans went at once to the library. Rusty was in his basket by the fire. He lifted himself stiffly and whined. Evans knelt beside the basket, and held up a saucer of milk that the old dog might drink. Then he took a book from the shelf and sat down to read. His mother had not returned. She had telephoned to him at Jane’s that she might be late.

But he could not read. He sat with his book in his hand, and looked up at the portrait of his grandfather, and at the photograph of himself. After a while he rose and took the photograph from the shelf, observing it at close range.

What a gallant young chap he had been, and what a pair he and Jane would have made! There was no vanity in that—he would have matched his youth with hers in those days. Oh, the man in the picture was a fit mate for Jane!

The man who held the picture in his hand was a mate for—nobody!

With a sudden furious gesture, he flung it from him—the glass broke against the wall when it struck.

Rusty whined in his basket, his nose over the edge of it. His master stood as still as a statue in the center of the hearth.

When Mrs. Follette returned, her son met her at the door. If he was pale, she did not speak of it. “I am half-frozen, Evans; we came in an open car.”

“Sit down by the fire, and I’ll get you some hot milk.”

“I wish you would. I must not risk a cold.”

It was a fact that she could not. She was up early every morning, directing the men who worked for her, and superintending the careful handling of the milk. Evans had offered, repeatedly, to help her, but she liked to do it herself. She was very competent, and she had built up her own business while her son was in the war. It seemed best to carry it on without him. She did not like to think of Evans as a milkman. A woman did not so easily lose caste—distinguished Englishwomen had gone into all kinds of occupations. The thing was to do it with an air. She had decided shrewdly that she must in some way differentiate her product from that of the ordinary dairyman, so she had called it Gold Seal milk, and each bottle was closed with a small gold seal bearing her family crest. Evans had laughed at her, but her shrewdness had been justified. She kept her cows in fine condition and sent her cards to doctors. The cards, too, bore the gold seal. And soon her reputation was established. Big cars stopped at her door, and people who came expecting to find a crude countrywoman were ushered into the old library with its portraits and an imposing background of books. There Mrs. Follette, in quiet black with white cuffs and collars, her gray hair high, received them. Her customers went away impressed and told others.

Outwardly calm on such occasions, Mrs. Follette was inwardly excited. She had a feeling that the situation smacked of Marie Antoinette at Little Trianon. She was glad she had thought of selling milk—it seemed to link her subtly with royalty.She had a royal air now as she sat before the fire. She always dressed for dinner. Her shabby black gown showed a round of white neck. She wore a string of jet beads and her satin slippers were adorned with jet buckles. She had pretty feet—and she surveyed them complacently. Then her eyes traveled beyond them to something that lay in a far corner.

She went over to it and picked it up. It was the photograph of Evans which had always stood on the mantel. The broken glass fell from it with a tinkling sound. She had it in her hand when Evans came in.

“How in the world did it happen?”

He set the small tray carefully on the table. “I threw it.”

“But—my dear boy, why?”

He stood looking at her. She saw his paleness. “Oh, well, for a moment I was a—fool.”

She was not an imaginative woman. But she knew what he meant. And her chin quivered. She was no longer royal. She was the mother of a hurt child. “I hoped things might—grow easier——”

“They grow harder——”

He sat down on the rug at her feet as he had sat through the years of little boyhood. Her left hand with its old-fashioned diamond rings hung by her side. He took it in his. “Don’t worry, Mumsie, I told you I was a—fool. And it was all over in a second——”She knew it was not over, but she drank her milk. Then she drew his head against her knees, and told him about her visit and her sick friend. Nothing more was said of the picture, but all through her recital he clung to her hand.