Harry Osgood was a man whose life was devoted to sport, and as he had inherited a large fortune, he was able to indulge his tastes to the fullest extent. Some one of his friends had said facetiously, that he was fond of horses, hounds, and his wife, in the order named, and no one who knew him well would deny that more of his life was spent in his stables and kennels than in his home. He had passed many years in England, and most of his time there was spent in a hard riding country, where everyone, including the parson, followed the hounds. To Osgood, therefore, there was no sport like hunting, and no music like the inspiriting cry of the pack. He had been brought up on the "pigskin" and felt a supreme contempt for many of the men about New York who went in for sport, not for the love of it, but as a pose which enabled them to wear the pink and talk the slang of the shires. He had seen so many chaps of that description come an ignominious "cropper" at the first fence, that he paid little attention to the talk of the clubs, and never passed his opinion on a would-be sportsman until he saw him in the hunting field. In his opinion it took something more than a pink coat to make a hunting man, so he endeavored to collect around him, in New Jersey, a few of as hard riders as ever followed hounds.

The Essex Hunt had become famous for its long runs, and as few men not born to the saddle cared to risk their necks over the rolling country about Morristown, this hunt was decidedly unpopular with the drawing-room sportsmen. However, if the field was small at the meet, it diminished little at the finish. For years Harry Osgood had been M. F. M. of the Essex Hunt, and the pack could not have been in better hands, as he had a capital huntsman of long experience with the Quorn Hunt, and he devoted his own time, during the hunting season, entirely to the sport. Osgood had this peculiarity, however, he must have sport all the year round; so he was as much at home on the box seat, or at the tiller, as in the saddle. There is a popular impression that a man cannot be both a horseman and a sailor, but Harry Osgood had often refuted it. In the summer months, when there was no hunting, and it was too hot for driving, he went to sea, and his schooner, "Persephone," was one of the crack flyers of the N. Y. Y. C. fleet, while her owner was a qualified navigator who had taken an English Board of Trade yachtsman's certificate.

It is, therefore, not surprising that Helen Osgood entered little into her husband's life, for, except when frost was in the ground, he had no time to devote to his wife. Helen, however, heartily approved of his neglect, and, except for the fact that he compelled her to reside so much of the time in the country, was perfectly satisfied with her husband. She always managed to have at least one amusing man in the house who did not go in for hunting, and as she never interfered with Harry's sport, theirs was a mÉnage where husband and wife were both contented and amused. The world had been surprised at Harry Osgood's marriage, but probably no one was more astonished than himself. A country house, a rare day's sport, a good dinner, a cozy corner, a pair of bewitching blue-black eyes, a hasty word, and his fate was sealed before he had had time fully to realize the situation; but, having been "landed," as he expressed it, he made up his mind to bear it like a man and make the best of a hasty bargain. The marriage was, however, no surprise to Helen. She had carefully arranged it in her mind several months before, and Harry Osgood's proposal was but the consummation of her plans. He was precisely the kind of man that she considered an attractive, poor girl ought to marry, and women like Helen seem to possess a faculty for adjusting their lives according to their desires. She was the only woman whom Duncan Grahame had ever asked to be his wife, and perhaps for the reason that she had refused him, she continued to occupy the most central cell of his somewhat honeycombed heart. She had declined to marry Duncan because, at that time, he was poor, and she knew that he possessed too quick a perception, and too arbitrary a disposition, to be a suitable husband for a woman of her ambitions. She had, however, since her marriage, granted Duncan the privileges of a somewhat equivocal friendship, which, owing to a general misconception of Helen Osgood's character, the world often misapprehended. Her acquaintances fancied her unhappy in her home life, but she was perfectly contented. Her friends believed she was a woman of strong feelings and sympathies, but she was subtle and calculating. The world thought her friendship for Duncan must be of a serious nature, while, in reality, it was scarcely more than a passe temps. Though not harassed by any scruples, she was too cold really to love, and too clever actually to compromise herself. But she was, however, sufficiently selfish to receive without giving, and sufficiently vain to enjoy the continued admiration of so scarred and complex a heart as Duncan's. She had been gifted with a peculiar insight into human character, and having studied the nature of man as a scientist might that of a mollusk, she felt that she understood every masculine vagary. Prompted mostly by curiosity, she singled out Duncan as the specimen best calculated to demand the full exercise of her powers. If she had, at times, permitted certain familiarities which the world might not entirely approve, she had been careful to define the boundaries beyond which they must not pass; and the fact that his actions were governed in a manner so contrary to his wishes kept Duncan in a continuous state of irritation, and served at the same time to produce a continuity of affection quite unusual in his other experiences.

For nearly four years this peculiar friendship, so galling to Duncan, so gratifying to Helen, had continued intermittently; and though many ruptures had occurred, they had all ended in Duncan's suing for peace. The long continuance of so unnatural a relation was rendered possible only by the fact that Helen Osgood had, so far, been incapable of experiencing the feelings of other women, and seeing no reason to transgress where there was no temptation, she contented herself with inspiring a love where others excited a passing fancy. Other women might amuse Duncan, but she would control him; other women might love him, but she would study him; other women might lose him, but she would remain his master. That was her analysis of the affair, and, so far, she felt that it had been correct. It is true she had not seen Duncan since the quarrel in January, and she knew that he must, in the meantime, have been intimate with other women; but she felt confident that he would come back to her and plead again for the love she had so often refused him. She did not believe that Duncan's passion was of a lofty nature. On the contrary, she doubted his sincerity just as she doubted the sincerity of every man of the world. She knew perfectly well the view of life held by the men about her, and she often said that were she a man she would be a freebooter too, and capture the hearts that came in her way. She thought that if a woman was weak enough to be trapped into taking a false step, she got her deserts. She, for one, would go armed, not because her conscience troubled her, but because she did not consider the game worth the risk.

The unexpected return of Duncan had been somewhat of a surprise to Helen; but, in order to impress upon him that it was a matter of indifference to her, she avoided him as much as possible during the evening of his arrival at Oakhurst. The house party spent the evening playing pool in the billiard-room, and in that atmosphere of whiskey, soda, and smoke, where the conversation was hilarious and general, and often interspersed with familiar repartee and laughter, it was not difficult for Helen to keep Duncan at a convenient distance, while, however much he might chafe under the restraint, he was unable to free himself from his unpleasant position. There is nothing so exasperating to a man of Duncan's disposition and experience as to feel that he is being made a fool of by a woman. Though nothing had been said, Duncan realized the galling fact that Helen Osgood was playing with him. After the women had gone to bed he sat in the smoking-room, sulking over his "night-cap," and though Osgood and Howard-Jones carried on a heated discussion about the merits of perch bits, he paid not the slightest attention to what was being said. Waterman and Van Vort occasionally tried to chaff him, but he was so snappish in his manner that they wisely decided to let him alone. Meanwhile Duncan was thinking of the time, at Newport, when, jogging home after a day with the hounds, he had asked Helen Osgood to marry him. He had felt confident that she would do so, but instead, he got laughed at for his sincerity, and he had been laughed at ever since. He had often brought himself to the point of believing that he did not care for her, but the next time he was brought under her subtle influence he was compelled to acknowledge that he was still under her spell. Other women had surrendered to him with a facility that destroyed the pleasure of an exciting contest, but other women were not Helen Osgood.

The next morning none of the house party put in an appearance before eleven o'clock, and it was not until luncheon that they all met together. Some of the men had, it is true, been out to the kennels, and Osgood and Howard-Jones had taken out a tandem—much to the horror of neighboring Sabbath-keepers—but Mrs. Osgood and the girls managed to keep secluded until the luncheon-hour. Dinner was the only formal meal at Oakhurst, and there was a freedom about the life that made it very attractive to the men. Any sort of lounging costume was permissible during the daytime, and the guests straggled in at luncheon without regard for promptness. No one waited for the others, and the last to come was the last to be served. The conversation was chiefly about horses and dogs, with social gossip for a relish, but no topic more intellectual than the last French novel or the latest comedy at Daly's was permissible. In fact, any one bold enough to inaugurate a literary or political discussion would have been greeted with a stare of mingled pity and astonishment. If any of the guests were acquainted with matters literary or artistic, they were usually discreet enough to remain silent out of deference to the host; but on one occasion a school friend of Helen's, from Boston, hearing some remarks about the last story of Bourget, took the opportunity to start a discussion upon the poetic psychology of Sully-Prudhomme, which was greeted in a manner that made the poor girl fancy she had said something very indiscreet. At the first favorable opportunity, however, Helen reassured her, but advised her not to talk about books, if she wanted to get on with the Essex Hunt.

On the present occasion the conversation was confined to the stables, and after luncheon the house party sought amusement for the afternoon. Osgood suggested a drive, so a team was put to the drag, and the afternoon, until tea-time, was spent behind three chestnuts and a piebald "tooled" by the host.

Meanwhile Duncan chafed under the discipline to which he felt he was being carefully subjected, but it was not until after an elaborately prepared dinner, served by the late butler of His Grace, the Duke of Northampton, and two footmen, that he was permitted a word alone with Helen. The other guests had gone into the drawing-room, at Helen's suggestion, to listen to Van Vort's latest comic song, and feeling that they would be off her hands for a while, she detained Duncan in the passage-way leading to the library. Between the two doors was a broad lounge, which had been placed there to offer an opportunity for a quiet talk, and Helen took the initiative by seating herself and motioning Duncan to a place beside her. He sat down sulkily, and remained silent for a while, trying to drive off the peculiarly helpless feeling which a man invariably experiences in the presence of a woman whose personality is stronger than his own. Duncan plunged his hands into his pockets and sank into a corner of the lounge, mentally deciding that he was an ass, and trying to bring his reason to control his feelings. He looked at Helen a moment, but when he met her glance, he winced and turned his eyes away, and she felt that she had not been wrong in her confidence that he would come back to her unchanged.

"You are solemn enough for a croque-mort," said Helen, after a few moments of silence. "Aren't you going to amuse me?"

"No," grunted Duncan peevishly, "you brought me here."

"I didn't bring you here to sulk. I hope, for your own sake, you haven't been behaving this way for the past six months. I understand you, but strangers might not appreciate such manners." She said this in the indifferent manner she invariably assumed when Duncan indulged in a display of temper, and it was this indifference which always made his outbursts so abortive.

"There is no need to behave so with strangers," he replied, trying to assume a sarcastic manner, and feeling, inwardly, that it was not successful. "They are usually civil to me."

"O, indeed! and pray how do I treat you?"

"Like a dog," he sneered gruffly.

"Like a pet poodle," she replied, "whom I allow to lie about the house in the snuggest corners; like a pet poodle whom I fondle when he is agreeable, and humor when he is snappish; but take care how you behave or I may think you are only a puppy."

Duncan jumped to his feet. "I won't be blackguarded," he muttered angrily.

Helen leaned forward and caught his hand.

"Come, Duncan, dear," she said, drawing him gently toward her, "you must sit down and tell me who it was that commenced this quarrel."

Duncan permitted himself to be drawn to the seat beside her. His heart was consumed with conflicting sentiments, but he felt that the courage which had made the quarrel in January possible was failing, and that he would be compelled to sue for peace. "I am not a child," he said, as though to expostulate against her manner.

"Yes, you are," answered Helen softly, "but a big, lovable child of whom I am very fond."

Duncan looked into her eyes to see if he could read behind her words, but he only felt the deep, mysterious power which had brought him under her influence that day in Newport. Then he had felt a hopeful, honest love, for a moment, but it had been crushed out by her laughter. Before that he had been a thoughtless boy, taking life as only a holiday frolic. Had she given him her love, he felt that to him life would have been different; but that laughter had chilled his heart, and the hopeful, honest love had gone out forever. She had married and he had loved her again, but it was a feeling of a different sort, for the man who speaks of love to a married woman casts out honesty from his heart. He loved her with a heated longing which her coldness fanned. He wanted to possess her for his own, yet felt that he was balked by his stupidity and cowardice. In her presence he was a shrinking child with the yearning of a man. "Helen," he said, after a moment, "I will not be played with; I am too much in earnest."

"You frighten me by your seriousness," she said, with a roguish tone in her voice. "I like you better when you are angry. It suits you."

"I will not be trifled with, Helen," he said; "you have no right to treat me so."

"I have the right of a billigerent," she laughed. "You declared war, you remember."

"Then I sue for peace."

"And I grant it," she replied softly, putting out her hand. "Come, let us be friends."

Duncan took her hand and pressed it to his lips. He looked up into her tantalizing eyes and felt again the warm impulse of the old love burning in his heart. "I cannot be your friend, Helen," he said passionately, "for I love you."

She drew her hand away quickly and patted his cheek disapprovingly, as she might have patted a child's; then with a little, playful laugh, she said: "don't be silly, you know I don't like it."

Man of the world as he was, without scruples and usually reckless, he felt cowed. For a moment he sat moving his hands nervously; then he looked up and asked in a serious tone: "Why didn't you marry me?"

"Because I liked you too well."

"That is no answer."

"Because I wanted to keep your love."

"That is not true."

"Well, because marriage is a business partnership, which, to be successful, requires a person of experience and a person of money. You had too much experience and I had no money, le voila."

"You are a heartless flirt," Duncan said, slowly and earnestly.

"That's what a man always says of a woman when he fails to make her love him."

"You are a heartless flirt, I repeat," he answered. "You stole the best love in my heart; you crushed it and threw it aside like a flower which no longer pleased you."

"Nonsense, Duncan, such poetic similes are ridiculous. Better say that love, to a man, is an apple of Sodom, fair to behold; but when he has it in his grasp it crumbles to sickening ashes."

"You stole my love, Helen; a man never loves but once."

"And in revenge, to use your metaphor, you have plucked and trampled under foot every flower within your reach. I know you, Duncan. It is only because I was stronger than the rest that I still bloom fair in your eyes."

Duncan looked full into Helen's face with an injured expression in his eyes. "Helen," he said finally, "'tis women like you who make us men distrust your sex; who make us what we are."

Helen returned his glance, and replied scornfully: "No; it is men like you who drag us down. We women must go through life armed, like travelers of old, against the attacks of you highwaymen. If we are weak, we are robbed of our best possessions, and left helpless by the way; if we are strong and ward off your attacks, you take your revenge on those who fall into your unscrupulous hands. But that is moralizing, and I am no moralist; I take the world as it is."

"Then why not take the pleasure in it?" said Duncan insinuatingly.

"Because it doesn't amuse me," she answered coldly. "I am not like other women, I suppose; at least, what you call pleasure disgusts me."

"Then why have you let me be your friend so long?"

"Because you amuse me," she replied carelessly. "I like to see you bluster and go away, and then come back to me. Other women pander to you, but I don't; other women love you, but I don't."

As Duncan listened to these words, a blush of anger came to his cheek. He thought of how strong had been his influence over other women, and how weak he had always been in Helen's hands. "After all, love is a game of strength," he mused. He had been no better than a ball to be tossed about at pleasure, but he would throw off the spell of this woman, which had bound him so fast—he who thought he knew the world so well. An expression of firmness came into his face, and he said: "I loved you once, Helen, but I hate you now."

"I am glad," she answered; "now there is a chance that your passion will be returned."

Duncan did not reply. He left his seat beside her and walked slowly into the next room. Helen's eyes followed him. "Silly boy," she thought, "I hope he will hate me; I might love him then."

Long after the lights in the smoking-room had gone out, long after the laughter had ceased, Duncan slowly paced his room. His hands were deep in his pockets and he held a briar pipe between his lips. Occasionally he would take a draw at the pipe, and then watch the blue smoke curl gently upward and fade away in long, thin streaks; but all the time he was thinking over the part Helen Osgood had played in his life. "She is right," he said, half aloud; "I do bluster and go away, and come back to her, and I will do it again. No, by Jove! I won't. A man can't forget that he has been played fast and loose with, and I would not be a man if I went back to that woman. I hate her. I hate her," he repeated. "She might have made a different man of me. I was young and might have taken life better, but she laughed me into the selfish brute I am. O, well," he sighed, as he thought of his past, "I suppose I am no worse than those around me. We all worry over what might have been, but we don't take the pleasure that comes to us. A man's an ass to break his neck for any woman. There are others in the world, good looking ones, too, who will love for the asking." He returned his pipe to its case and closed it with a loud snap. "I have been in the garden before," he continued, "and I will go there again and pluck the flowers that come in my path. I will hold them for a minute; then I will crush them and cast them aside, and I will laugh, too."