Katharine had expected to spend a quiet evening with Ralston. She had counted upon Mrs. Bright’s sleepiness, which was overpowering when it suddenly came upon her, and upon Hamilton Bright’s tact. She thought that he would very probably go out soon after dinner and not appear again. But she was very much mistaken in her calculations.

When she came down to dinner she found Bright already in the library. He was bending over a low table and looking at a new book when she entered, and she saw a broad, flat expanse of black shoulders, just surmounted by a round, flaxen head. As he heard her step behind him he straightened himself and turned round to meet her. He put out his hand. She seemed a little surprised at this, since they had exchanged all the usual greetings when she had come, but she took it with her left, with an unconscious awkwardness which touched him. She laughed a little.

“It’s not easy with my left,” she said. “It doesn’t come right—besides, we’ve shaken hands before.”

“I know,” he answered. “But it doesn’t do any harm to do it again, you know.”

It gave him pleasure to touch even the tips of her fingers.

“You have a sort of classic look,” he said, glancing at her dress. “Toga—you know—that sort of thing.”

“I don’t know how I’m dressed, I’m sure,” she answered. “It’s such a bore to have one’s arm in a sling.”

She wore black. Her left side was fitted closely by the soft material, and she had a certain little silver pin at her throat, which had associations for her. She had worn it on the morning of her marriage with John Ralston, and seldom appeared without it, though it was a most insignificant little ornament. Over her right shoulder and arm she had draped a piece of black silk and some lace. Mrs. Bright had come to her room and arranged it for her with unerring skill and taste. It fell gracefully almost to her feet, whence Bright’s remark about the toga.

“I should think it would be rather worse than a bore,” he said. “It must hurt all the time. I wonder you keep up at all. But I’m glad you’ve come down before my mother. I wanted to say something to you about all that’s happened. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Why should I mind?” asked Katharine, smiling at the little timidity which had checked him with its question.

“Well—you know—it’s about the will. There may be trouble about it. Your father may wish to break it if he can. It’s not unnatural. But of course, if he does, there’s going to be a most terrific row all round. We shall all be raging furiously together like the heathen in about a week, if he attacks the will. The Thirty Years’ War wouldn’t be in it, with the row there’s going to be.”

“You take a cheerful view, cousin Ham,” said Katharine, with a smile. “Who’s going to fight whom?”

“You and I are going to be on opposite sides,” answered Bright, gravely, and fixing his clear blue eyes on her face.

“Well—what difference does that make?” she asked. “I mean, what personal difference? We shall be just as good friends, shan’t we?”

“Ah—that’s it! Shall we?” He continued to watch her earnestly.

“Why not?” she asked, returning his gaze quietly. “What earthly difference can it make to me? Of course, I hope papa won’t do anything of the kind. We shall all have such heaps of money that I can’t see why we should fight about a little, more or less—”

“No—but if he breaks the will, my mother and Hester and I shall get nothing at all, and of course I shall fight it like anything. You understand that, don’t you? It’s rather a big thing, you know—it’s forty millions or nothing, because we’re not next of kin. You’ll understand why I shall fight it, won’t you?”

He asked the last question very anxiously, and in his broad face there was a curious struggle between the fighting instinct, expressed in the setting of the firm jaw, and the painful fear of being misunderstood, which showed itself in the entreating glance of the eyes.

“I understand perfectly,” answered Katharine. “It’s your duty to fight it—of course.”

“I’m so glad you look at it in that way,” he said. “Because if you didn’t—” He paused in the middle of the sentence.

“If I didn’t, I should be very stupid,” observed Katharine.

“No, no! I mean—if I thought you couldn’t understand it—well, I’ll be hanged if I wouldn’t pretty nearly let the millions go, rather than displease you!”

He blurted out the last words bluntly, as such men say wild but sincerely meant things. Katharine understood.

“Please don’t say such foolish things, cousin Ham. You know it’s perfectly absurd to talk of sacrificing a fortune in that way. Besides, you’d have no right not to fight your best. Two-thirds of what you’ll get will go to your mother and sister. You haven’t the slightest right even to think of the possibility of sacrificing aunt Maggie and Hester.”

“No. I suppose I’ve not. And I know that it isn’t as though you weren’t to have a big fortune anyway, however it turns out. Perhaps I’m a fool, but I simply can’t bear to think of being opposed to you in anything. That’s the plain fact, in two words.”

Katharine heard a sort of unsteadiness in the tone, and looked at him for a moment in silence.

“Thank you, cousin Ham,” she said. “You’re a good friend. Thank you.” She laid her hand upon his arm for an instant.

“That’s better than millions,” answered Bright, in an undertone, for his mother was just entering the room.

Mrs. Bright might well be pardoned if she did not assume a lugubrious and funereal expression that evening. To her, Robert Lauderdale had been a distant relation of enormous wealth, from whom she had little or nothing to expect, and whom she rarely saw. She had never needed his help, and though he had occasionally remembered her and sent her a jewel at Christmas, neither she nor her son had ever felt very much indebted to him. The surprise was therefore overwhelming, and the rejoicing inevitable and natural. Knowing, however, how dearly the old man had loved Katharine, and that she had been with him at the time of his death and had been really fond of him, Mrs. Bright avoided the subject altogether during dinner. It would not keep out of her face, however, nor out of her manner. Once or twice she and her son exchanged glances, and both suppressed a happy smile. Katharine saw, understood, and felt sad. The conversation turned upon generalities and was not very amusing.

Katharine could not help thinking of what Bright had said to her just before dinner. At the moment, he had undoubtedly meant that he would sacrifice the vast inheritance rather than incur her momentary displeasure. Of course, she said to herself, when the case arose he would not really have done so, but she could not but appreciate the reckless generosity of the thought, and wonder at the possible strength of the love that had prompted it. He had spoken so earnestly and there had been such a perceptible tremor in his voice, that she had been glad when Mrs. Bright’s appearance had cut short the interview. While she talked indifferently during dinner, her thoughts dwelt on what Ralston had said about Bright’s feelings and then went back to Ralston himself, who was almost always present in her reflections. She felt that she should not have felt any surprise if he had spoken as Bright had done. It would have been quite natural. She might even have thought of accepting the sacrifice.

Just then, after a little pause in the conversation, Mrs. Bright suddenly asked her son whether he meant to go out in the evening.

“No,” he answered, promptly. “Not to-night. I wouldn’t go anywhere except to the club, and even there—well, everybody would be talking and asking questions, and that sort of thing. Besides,” he added, “cousin Katharine’s here.”

The change of tone as he spoke of Katharine was so apparent that Mrs. Bright smiled a little sadly. Her woman’s instinct had told her long ago that her son had very little chance.

The three had not been long in the library when a servant brought a card to Mrs. Bright. She glanced at it, somewhat surprised by the coming of an unexpected visitor, in these days when evening visits have disappeared from New York’s changeable civilization.

“It’s Archie Wingfield,” she said. “Funny!” she exclaimed. “Show Mr. Wingfield in,” she said to the servant.

A moment later Archibald Wingfield entered the room. In spite of himself, he paused a moment as he caught sight of Katharine.

“Oh!” he ejaculated, awkwardly, in a low voice.

Then he came forward, resolutely keeping his bold black eyes on Mrs. Bright’s face as he went up to her and shook hands. Katharine had understood the exclamation of astonishment, and felt the awkwardness of the situation. But as she had given up all hope of seeing Ralston alone that evening, she thought it was as well, on the whole, that some one else should have come to help the general conversation. Nevertheless, she would have chosen almost any one rather than her last rejected suitor.

Both she and Hamilton Bright watched the young fellow with involuntary admiration as he crossed the room and stood exchanging first words with Mrs. Bright. There is a fascination about physical superiority when it far outdoes all its surroundings and is altogether beyond competition which, perhaps, no other attraction exercises in the same degree at first sight.

Wingfield came to Katharine next. The rich blood rose in his brown cheeks.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said, simply.

“Excuse my left hand,” she answered, quietly, as she extended it. “I’ve had a little accident.”

Wingfield started perceptibly. The expression in his black eyes changed to one of the deepest anxiety, and the blush slowly ebbed from his face.

“An accident?” he stammered.

“Oh—nothing serious,” she answered, touched by the evident strength of his feeling. “It’s only the small bone of my right arm. I fell down yesterday and broke it. It’s in splints, of course, so I have to use my left.”

“And you’re—you’re not taking care of yourself? With a broken arm?” He seemed amazed, not having had much experience of broken limbs—his own were solid. “But you ought to be at home—”

Katharine laughed a little.

“I’m staying here with aunt Maggie,” she answered. “I could scarcely have any better care, could I?”

“Oh—I see. Yes.” But he did not seem satisfied.

He turned to Bright, shook hands, and then sat down.

“You must think it awfully funny—my dropping in, in this way,” he said, recovering the self-possession which naturally belonged to his character. “The fact is, I was going to dine out, and at the last minute the people sent to tell me not to come, because they’ve had a little fire in the dining-room, and everything’s flooded and uncomfortable, and they were going to picnic somewhere—or something. So I dined at the club, and I’m going to see the last act of that play with the horses in it, you know—so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I asked leave to spend half an hour with you on the way.”

“Why, of course not!” cried Mrs. Bright. “I’m delighted. You must help us to amuse Katharine. She’s rather gloomy, poor child—with her arm, and all she’s been through. She was staying with poor Mr. Lauderdale when he died so suddenly.”

“Yes—it’s awfully sad,” answered Wingfield, with appropriate solemnity, and wondering whether he should congratulate the Brights upon the inheritance. “As for amusing Miss Lauderdale,” he continued, “I wish I could. But I’m not a very amusing person—not a bit.”

“Perhaps we can amuse you, instead,” suggested Katharine, by way of saying something.

“Oh, no—thanks—you’re very kind,” answered the young man, confusedly. “You know my brothers always call me the family idiot. They’re always chaffing me because I don’t know languages and things. I say, Bright—you’re clever—do you know a lot of languages?”

“I? No, indeed!” answered Bright, with a short laugh. “I don’t know anything particular—except about cattle and horses, and something about banking. I’ve had a modern education! How should I know anything?”

“Oh, hang it all—I mean—I beg your pardon—but what a thing to say!”

“It’s mere nonsense,” observed Mrs. Bright. “Ham knows everything in a useful way. But he’s always railing at modern education, and telling me that it’s ruined his mind. He’s not sensible about that. Really you’re not, Ham,” she added, with emphasis.

“Education’s meant for the common herd, mother,” answered Bright. “Fools are better without it, bankers don’t need it, and geniuses can do better.”

“That’s rather good,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “With which do you class yourself?” she asked, with a laugh.

“Well—being neither a genius nor a fool, I have to be content with being a banker.”

“I say—are lawyers part of the common herd, Bright?” enquired Wingfield.

“Not if you’re going to be one, my dear boy,” answered the elder man. “But I hope you’re not going to nail me out on my statement like an owl over a stable door. It’s not kind. It’s much nicer to be misunderstood in a friendly way than to have all one’s friends up on their hind legs trying to understand one, when one hasn’t meant anything particular. By Jove! There goes the bell again! I wonder who it is?”

“What ears you have!” exclaimed Mrs. Bright. “I didn’t hear anything. But it must be Jack Ralston. He’d come early, you know.”

Katharine glanced surreptitiously at the two men, leaning back in her chair with half-closed eyes. Bright’s expression became a little more set, and he moved one foot uneasily. Wingfield looked at Mrs. Bright as she spoke, and then straight at Katharine. Ralston entered in a dead silence, glanced quickly at Wingfield, greeted every one in turn, in the quiet, easy way peculiar to him, which was quite different from Bright’s slow and rather heavy manner, and from Archibald Wingfield’s physical style, so to say, which showed itself in long, swift, powerful movements, like the great stride of a magnificent hunter going along in the open.

“You’ll be tired of the sight of me to-day,” said Ralston, smiling as he sat down near Mrs. Bright.

“No fear of that, Jack,” answered Bright, anxious to show Katharine that he was not displeased at Ralston’s coming. “My mother always looks upon you as a sort of second son.”

“The prodigal son,” suggested John.

“Is that a hint to produce the fatted calf?” asked Bright. “Or have you dined? You don’t look as though you had.”

“Why? What’s the matter with me? I’ve just come from dinner. I dined at home with my mother.”

“You’re rather lean for a man who dines every day,” laughed Bright. “That’s all. I believe you starve in secret. You’re afraid of getting fat, Jack—that’s the truth. Confess it! You think it wouldn’t be romantic.”

“I wish you would get a little fatter, Jack,” said Katharine. “You’d be much nicer, I’m sure.”

The remark might have been natural enough between two cousins, both young. But there was a subtle suggestion of proprietorship, or at least of belonging to one another, in the tone of her voice, which jarred on Wingfield’s ear. He was by no means dull nor slow of perception, in spite of what he had said of himself. As an athlete, however, he took up the question.

“You’d be stronger if you were a little heavier, Ralston,” he said. “Do you go in for oatmeal when you train?”

“Oh—I haven’t trained since I was at college. I never bothered much. But I don’t like stodgy things like porridge. I was a running man, you know. I don’t believe it makes a particle of difference what one eats.”

“Oh, I do!” Katharine exclaimed, anxious to make the conversation move. “I like some things and I don’t like others.”

“What, for instance?” asked Bright. “What do you like best to eat—and then afterwards, what other things do you like best in the world? That’s interesting. If you’ll tell us, we’ll get them for you right off.”

“I should think you could, between you,” said Mrs. Bright, glancing round at the three goodly men, and wondering whether Wingfield was as much in love with Katharine as the other two.

“What I like?—let me see,” said Katharine. “I like simple things to eat. I hate peppermints, for instance. My mother lives on them. I like plain things, generally—fish and game. Truffles—that’s another thing I detest. Aunt Maggie never can understand why. She says there’s something mysterious in a truffle, that appeals to her.”

“They’re so good!” exclaimed Mrs. Bright. “Big black ones in a napkin with fresh butter. But it’s quite true. There’s a sort of mystery in a truffle. It’s like love, you know.”

Everybody laughed at what seemed the fantastic irrelevancy of the comparison—Bright laughing louder than the rest.

“How do you make that out?” he asked. “It would be rather a grimy, earthy sort of love, I should think.”

“Explain, aunt Maggie!” laughed Katharine.

“A truffle’s a cryptogam,” said Bright. “Nobody has ever explained about cryptogams.”

“What is a cryptogam?” asked Katharine. “I’ve always wanted to know.”

“Cryptogam means secret marriage, or something of the sort,” said Wingfield.

Katharine started a little and glanced at John Ralston.

“Yes,” said the latter. “It’s equivalent to saying that nobody knows how they grow. But that doesn’t at all explain what aunt Maggie means by what she said. Come, aunt Maggie, we’re all waiting for you to tell us.”

“Oh—I’m getting so sleepy, my dears, don’t ask me to explain things! You know I’m always sleepy in the evening. It’s taking an unfair advantage of me! Why is love like a truffle? Why, exactly for that reason—because nobody can possibly tell when it begins, or how, or why—or anything about it. Only, when you find it, you’ve found something worth having. As for secret marriages—wasn’t it you who mentioned them just now, Mr. Wingfield? Yes—well, they’re very romantic and unpractical and pretty, but I should think the people would find it a great nuisance. It’s much better to run away, and be done with it.”

Ralston’s eyes met Katharine’s, and he suppressed a smile, but in her pale face the colour was rising slowly. Again the door opened, and two men entered the room unannounced. The servant had taken it for granted that as two visitors had been admitted, he might admit as many more as came. Paul Griggs, the author, and Walter Crowdie, the artist, came forward into the bright light. Crowdie has been already described. Griggs was a lean, strong, grey-haired, plain-featured man of fifty, a gaunt, bony, weather-beaten man, who had lived in many countries and had seen many interesting sights—but none so interesting, people had been saying lately, as Katharine Lauderdale’s face. It was commonly said that he was in love with the girl, and people added that at his age it was ridiculous, and that he was making a fool of himself.

Crowdie, as the son-in-law of the house, and one of the numerous persons who called Mrs. Bright ‘aunt,’ came forward first, to shake hands and explain the visit.

“I was going to make an apology for coming in without warning, aunt Maggie,” he said. “Griggs dined with us, and we’re going to see the last act of that play with the horses in it—you know—and as it’s too early, we thought we’d ring the bell and call. But as you’ve got a party, I suppose you accept the apology. At least, I hope you will.”

“You’re very welcome, Walter—glad to see you, Mr. Griggs.” Mrs. Bright beamed. “It is a party—isn’t it? Why, there are five men in the room. Let’s all go and see the last act of the play with the horses, and come back to supper! Oh—I forgot—and Katharine, too, with her broken arm. But Mr. Wingfield’s going to it by and by.”

“Yes,” said Wingfield. “I’m going. We’ll walk up together.”

Both Griggs and Crowdie had already heard of Katharine’s accident and were asking her about it, before Mrs. Bright had finished speaking. Presently the new-comers got seats, and the circle widened to admit them as they sat down.

“I’m sure we interrupted some delightful conversation,” said Griggs, breaking the momentary silence. “Won’t you go on?”

“My mother was explaining her views upon secret marriages,” said Bright. “She’d just been comparing love to a truffle.”

“Truffle—cryptogam—secret marriage—love,” said Griggs, gravely. “Very natural sequence of ideas. The interesting link is the secret marriage.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” assented young Wingfield. “What do you think about it, Mr. Griggs?”

“What were you saying about it?” asked the man of letters, cautiously.

“No—what do you think about it?” insisted Mrs. Bright. “We hadn’t said anything especial.”

“Is anybody present secretly married?” enquired Griggs, with a pleasant laugh. “No—exactly—then I shouldn’t advise any of you to try it. I did once—”

“You!” exclaimed two or three voices at once, and in surprise.

“Yes—on paper, in a book, with my paper dolls. I never want to do it again. It had awful consequences.”

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Mrs. Bright.

“Oh—nothing! I fell in love with the heroine myself from writing about her, killed the hero out of jealousy, and blew out my brains in the end because she wouldn’t have me. I suppose it was natural, considering what I’d done, but I took my revenge. I put her into a convent of Carmelite nuns. It was so awkward afterwards. I wanted her in another book—because I was in love with her—but as she was a Carmelite, she couldn’t get out respectably, so she’s there still. It’s an awful bore.”

Even Katharine, who had felt the blood rising again in her cheeks, laughed at the simple, natural regret expressed in Griggs’ face as he spoke.

“Yes,” said Bright. “That’s all very well in a novel. But in real life it’s quite different. I think a man who does that kind of thing is a cad, myself.”

“So do I,” said Archibald Wingfield, impetuously. “A howling cad, you know.”

“It’s an unnecessary piece of presumption to suppose that the world cares what one does,” said Crowdie, who had not spoken yet. “And it complicates things abominably to be married and not married at the same time. Shouldn’t you think so, Miss Lauderdale?” he asked, turning his head towards Katharine as he spoke.

“I? Oh—I’ve no opinion in the matter,” answered Katharine, looking away, and feeling very uncomfortable.

“I don’t agree with either of you,” said Ralston, slowly. “It depends entirely on circumstances. There are cases where it’s the only thing to do, if people really love each other. I don’t think any one has a right to say that a man’s a cad simply because he’s married his wife secretly. A man’s a much worse cad who marries a girl for her money, and doesn’t care for her, than any man who gets secretly married for real love—and you all know it.”

Ralston could not help speaking rather aggressively.

“Look out for the family temper!” laughed Walter Crowdie, in his exquisitely musical voice.

“We’re all more or less of the family here,” answered Ralston, “except Mr. Griggs and Wingfield. Not that we’re likely to get angry about such a question,” he added, with an attempt at indifference. “What I say is that it’s a monstrous injustice to call a man a cad on such grounds.”

“Oh—all right, Jack!” cried Bright. “If ever you get secretly married, we won’t say you’re a cad. But in most cases—well, I’d rather hear Griggs talk about it than talk myself. He’s an expert in love affairs—on paper, as he says. Say what you really think, Griggs. Wingfield and I can hold Ralston between us if he shows signs of being dangerous.”

“I think I could help myself, in a modest way,” said Mr. Griggs, with a quiet smile. “I used to be pretty strong once.”

He made the remark merely in the hope of turning the conversation. Wingfield, as an athlete and a young Hercules, could not hear any allusion made to physical strength without taking it up and discussing it.

“Were you a boating man, Mr. Griggs?” he enquired, with sudden interest.

“No. I never pulled in a race.”

“I suppose you went in for long distance running, then. You’re made for it,” he added, rather patronizingly and glancing at the man’s sinewy figure.

“No. I never ran in a race,” answered the literary man.

“Oh—I supposed, when you spoke, that you’d gone in for athletics—formerly,” said Wingfield, disappointed.

“No—I wasn’t educated in places where athletics were the fashion at that time. I was strong—that’s all. I could do things with my hands that other people couldn’t.”

“Could you?” Katharine saw that the original subject was dropping, and encouraged the dull conversation which had taken its place. “What could you do with your hands?” she asked, with an air of interest. “They look strong. Could you roll up silver plates into holders for bouquets, like Count Orloff?”

“I think I could do it,” Griggs answered, quietly. “But nobody ever wanted to waste a silver plate on me.”

“It’s not easy, I should think,” said young Wingfield. “I know I couldn’t do it.”

“I’m sure you could,” said Katharine, turning to him. “You must be tremendously strong. But can’t you do something else with your hands, Mr. Griggs? I like to see those things. They amuse me.”

Griggs was the last man in the world to wish to show off his qualities, physical or mental, but on the present occasion he could not resist the temptation. He never knew afterwards why he had yielded, and attributed his weakness to the inborn desire to excel in the eyes of women, which is in every man.

“Have you a pack of cards?” he asked, turning to Bright. “If you have, I’ll show you something that may amuse you.”

Bright was a whist player, and immediately brought a pack from a remote corner of the room and put it into Griggs’ hands.

“Now—there’s no deception, as the conjurers say,” he began, with a laugh, looking first at Katharine, and then at Wingfield, as the strong man of the party. “Perhaps you can do it, Mr. Wingfield?” he added.

“What? Tricks with cards? No—I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

“Well—it isn’t exactly a trick. I’m going to tear the pack in two. Did you ever see it done?”

“No,” answered Wingfield, incredulously. “I’ve heard of it—but I don’t believe it’s possible, if you tear it fairly.”

“Is this fair? Have I got a fair hold on them?”

“Yes—that’s all right. I don’t believe anybody can do it that way.”

“Well—look.”

Griggs set his teeth a little as he made the effort, and the furrows in the weather-beaten face deepened a little, but that was all. The sinews stood out on the backs of his hands for a few seconds, and his hands moved, the one downwards, the other up. The pack was torn clean in two.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Bright. “I never saw that done.”

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” said Wingfield. “I’ve often tried. It’s perfectly magnificent!”

“I’ll avoid you in a fight,” observed Ralston, laughing.

Crowdie had looked on with curiosity, but he had watched Griggs’ face rather than his hands, comparing it with a picture of Samson pulling down the pillars, which rose in his memory. He came to the conclusion that the man who had painted the picture had never seen a great feat of strength.

“It looks so easy,” said Katharine. “But it must be awfully hard.”

“There’s a good story the peasants tell in Russia about Peter the Great,” said Griggs. “He was hunting. His horse lost a shoe, and he stopped at a wayside smith’s. The smith made a shoe while Peter waited. Peter took it, tried it in his hands, broke it and threw it into a corner, saying it was bad. The smith made another, and the Czar broke it again, and so on. But he could not break the tenth. The blacksmith asked a rouble for the shoe. Peter gave him one. He broke it in two and threw it into a corner, saying it was bad—and so he broke as many roubles as the Czar had broken shoes, and said that the tenth was good. Peter was so much pleased that he made the man a general—or something.”

“I suppose you could do that, too, couldn’t you?” asked Katharine, looking at the gaunt, grey man with a strong admiration.

“Oh, yes—I’ve done it. But it’s a strange thing, isn’t it, when you think that it’s all an illusion?”

“An illusion!” cried Wingfield, in disappointment. “What do you mean? It isn’t a trick, surely!”

“Oh, no! I don’t mean that. But all matter is an illusion, isn’t it? Nothing’s real that isn’t permanent.”

“But if matter isn’t permanent, what is?” asked Bright. “But I know—you have the most extraordinary ideas about those things.”

“I don’t think they’re extraordinary. If matter were permanent in the sense you mean, then life would be permanent in the same sense, because we’re matter, and we shouldn’t die.”