In the days, or rather, the evenings, that followed, Baird came and went by the cedar avenue. Though as frequent a caller at Westmore as ever, he appeared to have a penchant for the short cut, and curiously enough he seemed also to prefer the longest way back to the club from the station, around by the County Road and through the Penniman place.

With the purpose of bringing Baird often to Westmore, and at the same time bridging the awkward interval of adjustment, Judith had asked Elizabeth Dickenson and Christine Carter for a fortnight's visit at Westmore. Judith had given much thought to what must be her attitude to Baird, a perfect friendliness and the best presentation of herself always; while Baird, who possessed in full the masculine capacity to forget an affair in which he had lost interest, had given the matter no thought at all. It was a thing finished, comfortably adjusted, disposed of. He liked Judith very much, occasionally he wondered how in the world he had ever mistaken liking for anything else, for in comparing her with Ann she appeared so unalluringly mature; he had simply been off his head for a time, that was all.

Baird was gallant to Judith without effort, and attentive to her guests, and glad, on the whole, that he rarely saw Judith alone. He went about to the Ridge gatherings with Judith and her guests, gave a dinner party at the club for them, taking care always that he should not be detained so late that he could not stop for a few minutes, at least, at the Penniman house.

He took a great deal of pains to secure that few moments with Ann, or an hour or more, if he could manage it. It would seem that Coats and Sue tacitly favored him, for simultaneously with his regular comings and goings they forsook the front porch. They had many calls to return, frequent evening drives to the village, and, when not actually off the place, they were not in evidence. Ben was always there, but he never obtruded.

Though Ann appeared to be too self-absorbed to pay any particular attention to him, Baird noticed that she looked annoyed when, not finding any one on the porch, he had the assurance to knock at the living-room entrance, forcing her to come down from her room. She always told him with frozen politeness that her father and Aunt Sue were out, and that he must keep quiet and not wake her grandfather. Baird knew that, in the evenings, Ann was always somewhere about the place, for Sue waited upon the old man during the day, and it had become Ann's duty to watch over him in the evenings. He always went to bed early now, and slept heavily; he had grown very deaf and feeble in the last few weeks.

With his usual assurance, Baird would beg Ann to come out to the porch, and often he stayed until late, using every art he knew to interest Ann. He talked on many subjects, and Ann listened; sometimes Baird was certain that she was not even listening.

He did not know what to make of her. She was utterly unlike the girl whom he had once roughly kissed; often so absent-minded that Baird vowed to himself in rage that it would be the last time he would try to talk to her. But there were the times when she aroused and was gravely thoughtful, and best of all were her occasional lapses into sweetness. Baird thought her irresistibly charming then, "divinely dear," as on the night when she had unconsciously solved his doubts for him. And she was so young; so utterly young that she made him feel vastly experienced.

Half a dozen times during the fortnight Baird decided that he would stop riding through the Penniman place, put temptation behind him, and as many times lapsed into an unsatisfactory investigation of Ann. Nobody knew what he was about; he'd like to make up his mind about Ann before the Ridge began to gossip about his devotion. He wondered, uncomfortably, what Judith would say if she knew how often he was at the Pennimans'. What would Edward think?

Judith already knew. The fortnight she had planned so carefully was not yet over when, one day, Hetty remarked: "Sam Jackson, he was tellin' me Mr. Baird is settin' up mos' every night with Ann Penniman. Sam says he don't go nor come no other way but through de Penniman place. I reckon Mr. Baird, he ain't been long enough on de Ridge to know jes' who is de right famb'lys 'roun' here."

Judith received the information in perfect silence, carried it about with her for a hotly jealous day, before she imparted it to Edward. Edward was the one person who could say an effective word to Baird.

Judith chose an opportunity when they were alone. "Hetty tells me that they are talking at the club about Mr. Baird's going so much to the Pennimans'—he seems to be taken with Ann." Judith was purposely abrupt; if Edward was startled, so much the better.

He was startled, more moved than she thought he could be; he rarely flushed, but the color grew in his face until he was crimson. "He might spend his time to worse advantage," he returned icily.

Judith's nerves were not under the best of control, for it had been a wretched two weeks, every day of which had assured her of Baird's complete withdrawal. A slight sneer crept into her even answer: "Ann is hardly the girl for Nickolas Baird to marry—for any one who considered social position to marry—is she?... Isn't it your duty to advise him a little?"

Edward changed from red to white. He rose from his chair and stood over his sister, looked at her as Judith had not seen him look since the day when he had defied her father and had left Westmore. "Ann would grace any position—I intend to help her to do so," he said, and left the room.

Judith sat in petrified silence.... So Edward loved the girl.... She had not suspected that.... A long vista opened before Judith Westmore: she was reminded that Edward owned Westmore; that he could make Ann mistress of Westmore if he chose; that his fortune was his to dispose of as he liked. She and Garvin were dependents upon him, nothing more. The shock of the thing stilled her. She was utterly helpless—she could do nothing.

By degrees, Baird also had come to the conclusion that Edward loved Ann Penniman, and that she loved him to the extent of being completely indifferent to every one else. From the way in which Baird sometimes paced his room after an evening at the Pennimans', his conclusions certainly disturbed him. Baird's powers of observation had been on the alert; he guessed that Edward saw Ann frequently. Edward came to the club almost every afternoon, dallied over a mint-julep, then went off down the Back Road, and Baird had discovered that often it was a full hour before he rode out of the woods again.

If Garvin had been up to that sort of thing, Baird would not have granted Ann much chance of happiness; but Edward was as straight a man as he had ever known. If he was making love to Ann, it was intended seriously. He couldn't come to her house; to meet her secretly was the only thing he could do; it was what he himself would do under the same circumstances.... And Edward had the right of way; he was in the field first and, more than that, Edward was his friend. He, Baird, had no right to be hanging about trying to interest Ann. What the devil was the matter with him, anyway, that he was determined to get into such messes! Here, he had just failed Judith, and now he was urged to get in Edward's way.... It would be wild folly for him to fall in love with Ann.

For four restless nights Baird kept away from Ann. He was too upset to go anywhere. Judith's guests had gone and he could not bring himself to go to Westmore; he did not want to see either Judith or Edward. The last night of the four Baird spent in the city, and came back the next day swearing to himself that he'd not do that again—he'd rather sit in his room and do nothing. Then, quite suddenly, he reached a characteristic decision; it did not take him long to get into the saddle and to the Penniman house.

Coats and Sue were not there, but neither was Ann, though Baird knocked an unreasonable time at the living-room door. He walked around the house then, and was rewarded by meeting Ann, who was hurrying up the spring-house path, breathless, as from a run.

To accomplish the momentous thing that had been weighing upon her, Ann had risked leaving her grandfather alone for a short time. During the last two weeks it had made little difference to Ann whether she sat on the porch listening to Baird, or lay on her bed thinking of the thing that loomed large before her. It had grown out of her two weeks of companionship with Edward. No matter what the hurt to Garvin, she must tell him the truth.

She had written her confession that day, spent hours and much paper over the short letter, and as soon as her father and Sue were safely away she had taken it to the woods. She was back now; the thing was done; she was panting as much from nervousness as from haste.

The sight of a man looming dimly in the path startled her and she stopped. She felt ill enough to be frightened by everything; a moment before a bird had fluttered in the grapevines and her heart had stood still.

"It's only I—don't be frightened," Baird's voice said.

Ann came on without answer.

"You've been running—where have you been?" Baird questioned. He felt jealously certain that Ann had been to the woods—to see Edward, of course.

Ann did not answer his question. "Were you at the house? Was grandpa all right?" she asked anxiously.

"I think so—everything was quiet.... Why don't you wait a minute and get your breath?... I want to ask you something, anyway, Ann?"

Ann did pause. "Well?" she asked indifferently.

Baird looked at her in silence for a moment. Even in the dim light he could see that she was white and tired. If she was in love with Edward, it did not seem to make her joyful. She had never looked really happy since the day he had seen her playing in the barn. He asked his question abruptly, "Ann, are you engaged to anybody?"

Ann simply stared at him.

Baird's face had grown hot. "Are you in love with any one, Ann?... I'd rather you told me frankly.... If you are, I'll stop coming around and bothering you. If you're not, I'm going to make you like me."

There was a long silence. Then Ann said, "I'd rather you stayed away."

"You're sure of that, Ann?"

"Yes."

Baird stood in uncertainty for a moment; it was hard for him to hold to his decision. He was carrying his riding-whip, and he slashed viciously at the Bouncing-Betsies that edged the path, his teeth set.

Then he straightened. "Well—I guess there's nothing I can do—so I'll be off."

They went up to the house in silence.