As the season hurried toward the Christmas holidays, there came to Philip Hayn the impression that he was being seen so much in public with Lucia, never against that young lady’s inclination, that perhaps some people were believing him engaged to her, or sure to be. This impression became more distinct when some of his new business-acquaintances rallied or complimented him, and when he occasionally declined an invitation, given viva voce, by explaining that he had promised to escort Miss Tramlay somewhere that evening. If this explanation were made to a lady, as was usually the case, a knowing smile, or at least a significant look, was almost sure to follow: it began to seem to Phil that the faces of the young women of New York said a great deal more than their tongues, and said it in a way that could not be answered, which was quite annoying. If he was to seem engaged, he would prefer that appearances might not be deceitful. Again and again he was on the point of asking the question which he little doubted would be favorably answered, but he always restrained himself by the reminder that he was only a clerk on a salary that could not support a wife, bred like Lucia, in New York, and that villa plots at Haynton Bay were not selling as rapidly as they should if he were to become well-to-do; indeed, they scarcely were selling at all. Who could be expected to become interested in building-sites on the sea-shore when even in the sheltered streets of the city the wind was piercing the thickest overcoats? And who could propose to a girl while another man, even were he that stick Marge, was offering her numerous attentions, all of which she accepted?—confound Marge and his money!

That Marge also was jealous was inevitable. Highly as he valued himself, he knew womankind well enough to imagine that a handsome young fellow just past his majority might be more gratifying to the eye, at least, than a man who had reached—well, who had not mentioned his age since he passed his thirty-fifth birthday. He had in his favor all the prestige of a good record in society, of large acquaintance and aristocratic extraction, but he could not blind himself to the fact that the young women who were most estimable did not greet him as effusively and confidentially as they did Phil. His hair was provokingly thin on the top of his head, and farther back there was a tell-tale spot that resembled a tonsure; he could not quickly enter, like Phil, into the spirit of some silly, innocent frolic, and although he insisted that his horses were as good as Phil’s, he could not bring himself to extending an invitation for a morning dash through the Park, as Phil did once or twice a week. So he frequently said to himself, Confound the country habit of early rising, which his rival had evidently mastered.

As for Lucia, except for the few happy hours she spent with Phil, and the rather more numerous hours devoted to day-dreams regarding her youthful swain, she was really miserable in her uncertain condition. Other girls were getting engaged, on shorter acquaintance, and ten times as many girls were tormenting her with questions as to which of the two was to be the happy man. She devoutly wished that Phil would speak quickly, and finally, after a long and serious consultation with Margie, she determined to adopt toward Phil the tactics which only two or three months before she had tried on Marge: she would encourage his rival. With Marge it had had the unexpected effect of making her yield her heart to Phil; on the other hand, it had perceptibly quickened Marge’s interest in her: would not a reversal of the factors have a corresponding result?

She had but one fear, but that was growing intense. Agnes Dinon continued to be fond of Phil; there was no other man to whom she ever saw Agnes appear so cheerful and unconstrained. Could it be that the heiress was playing a deep game for the prize that to Lucia seemed the only one in view? She had seen wonderful successes made by girls as old as Agnes, when they had any money as a reserve force, and she trembled as she thought of the possibilities. Agnes was old,—dreadfully old,—it seemed to Lucia, but she was undeniably handsome, her manners were charming, and she was smart beyond compare. She had declared that her interest in Phil was only in his position as Lucia’s admirer; but—people did not always tell the truth when they were in love. Lucia herself had told a number of lies—the very whitest of white lies—about her own regard for Phil: suppose Agnes were doing likewise? If she were—— Lucia’s little finger-nails made deep prints on the palms of her hands as she thought of it.

She told herself, in her calmer moments, that such a thought was unworthy of her and insulting to Agnes, who really had been friendly and even affectionate to her. In wakeful hours at night, however, or in some idle hours during the day, she fell into jealousy, and each successive tumble made her thraldom the more hopeless. She tried to escape by rallying Phil about Agnes, but the young man, supposing her to be merely playful in her teasing, did his best to continue the joke, and was utterly blind to the results.

At last there came an explosion. At a party which was to Lucia unspeakably stupid, there being no dancing, Miss Dinon monopolized Phil for a full hour,—a thousand hours, it seemed to Lucia,—and they sat on a sofa, too, that was far retired, in an end of a room which once had been a conservatory. Lucia watched for an opportunity to demand an explanation: it seemed it never would come, but finally an old lady who was the head and front of a small local missionary effort in the South called the young man aside. In an instant Lucia seated herself beside Agnes Dinon, saying, as she gave her fan a vicious twitch,—

“You seem to find Mr. Hayn very entertaining?”

“Indeed I do,” said Miss Dinon, “I haven’t spent so pleasant an hour this season, until this evening.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Lucia, and the unoffending fan flew into two pieces.

“My dear girl!” exclaimed Agnes, picking up one of the fragments. “It’s really wicked to be so careless.”

“Thank you,” said Lucia, with a grand air—for so small a woman. “I thought it was about time for an apology.”

Miss Dinon looked sidewise in amazement.

“The subject of conversation must have been delightful,” Lucia continued.

“Indeed it was,” said Agnes.

Lucia looked up quickly. Fortunately for Miss Dinon, the artificial light about them was dim.

“You told me once,” said Lucia, collecting her strength for a grand effort, “that——”

“Yes?”

“That—that——”

“You dear little thing,” said Agnes, suddenly putting her arm about Lucia and pressing her closely as a mother might seize a baby, “what we were talking of was you. Can’t you understand, now, why I enjoyed it so much?”

There was a tremor and a convulsive movement within the older woman’s arm, and Lucia seemed to be crying.

“Darling little girl,” murmured Agnes, kissing the top of Lucia’s head; “I ought to be killed for teasing you, even for a moment, but how could you be jealous of me? Your lover has been a great deal more appreciative: he has done me the honor to make me his confidante, and again I say it was delightful.”

“I’m awfully mean,” sobbed Lucia.

“Stop crying—at once,” whispered Agnes. “How will your eyes look? Oh, Lu, what a lucky girl you are!”

“For crying?” said Lucia, after a little choke.

“For having such a man to adore you. Why, he thinks no such woman ever walked the earth before. He worships the floor you tread, the air you breathe, the rustle of your dress, the bend of your little finger, the——”

The list of adorable qualities might have been prolonged had not a little arm suddenly encircled Miss Dinon’s waist so tightly that further utterance was suspended. Then Lucia murmured,—

“The silly fellow! I’m not half good enough for him.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Indeed I do; I do, really.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say so,” said the older girl, “for, honestly, Lu, Mr. Hayn has so much head and heart that he deserves the best woman alive.”

“It’s such a comfort to be told so!” murmured the younger girl.

“One would suppose you had doubted it, and needed to be assured,” said Agnes, with a quizzical smile.

“Oh, no! ’twasn’t that,” said Lucia, hurriedly. “How could you think of such a thing? But—— Oh, Agnes, you can’t understand, not having been in love yourself.”

Miss Dinon looked grave for an instant, but was quickly herself again, and replied, with a laugh, and a pinch bestowed upon the tip of Lucia’s little ear,—

“True; true. What depths of ignorance we poor old maids are obliged to grope in!”

“Now, Agnes!” pleaded Lucia. “You know I didn’t mean to be offensive. All I meant was that you—that I—— Oh, I think he’s all goodness and sense and brightness and everything that’s nice, but—and so, I mean, I like to hear about it from everybody. I want to hear him talked of all the while; and you won’t think me silly for it, will you? Because he really deserves it. I don’t believe there’s his equal on the face of the earth!”

“I’ve heard other girls talk that way about their lovers,” said Agnes, “and I’ve been obliged to hope their eyes might never be opened; but about the young man who is so fond of you I don’t differ with you in the least. He ought to marry the very best woman alive.”

“Don’t say that, or I shall become jealous again. He ought to find some one like you; while I’m nothing in the world but a well-meaning little goose.”

“The daughter of your parents can’t be anything so dreadful, even if she tries; and all young girls seem to try, you know. But you really aren’t going to be satisfied to marry Philip Hayn and be nothing but a plaything and a pretty little tease to him, are you? It’s so easy to stop at that; so many girls whom I know have ceased to grow or improve in any way after marriage. They’ve been so anxious to be cunning little things that they’ve never become even women. It makes one almost able to forgive the ancients for polygamy, to see——”

“Agnes Dinon! How can you be so dreadful?”

“To see wives go on year after year, persisting in being as childish as before they were married, while their husbands are acquiring better sense and taste every year.”

Lucia was sober and silent for a moment; then she said,—

“Do you know, Agnes,—I wouldn’t dare to say it to any other girl,—do you know there are times when I’m positively afraid of Phil? He does know so much. I find him delightful company,—stop smiling in that astonished way, you dear old hypocrite!—I mean I find him delightful company even when he’s talking to me about things I never was much interested in. And what else is there for him to talk about? He’s never proposed, you know, and, though I can’t help seeing he is very fond of me, he doesn’t even talk about love. But it is when he and papa get together and talk about what is going on in the world that I get frightened; for he does know so much. It isn’t only I that think so, you know: papa himself says so: he says he finds it pays better to chat with Phil than to read the newspapers. Now, you know, the idea of marrying a—a sort of condensed newspaper would be just too dreadful.”

“Husbands who love their wives are not likely to be condensed newspapers,—not while they are at home: but do train yourself to be able to talk to your husband of something besides the petty affairs of all of your mutual acquaintances. I have met some persons of the masculine persuasion who were so redolent of the affairs of the day as to be dreadful bores: if they wearied me in half an hour, what must their poor wives endure? But don’t imagine that men are the only sinners in this respect. There isn’t in existence a more detestable, unendurable, condensed newspaper—thank you for the expression—than the young wife who in calling and receiving calls absorbs all the small gossip and scandal of a large circle, and unloads it at night upon a husband who is too courteous to protest and too loyal, or perhaps merely too weary, to run away. I don’t wonder that a great many married men frequently spend evenings at the clubs: even the Southern slaves used to have two half-holidays a week, besides Sunday.”

“Agnes Dinon! To hear you talk, one would suppose you were going to cut off your hair and write dreadful novels under a mannish name.”

“On the contrary, I’m very proud of my long hair and of everything else womanly, especially in sweet girls who are in love. As for writing novels, I’m afraid, from the way I’ve been going on for the past few moments, that sermonizing, or perhaps lecturing, would be more in the line of my gifts. And the company are going down to the dining-room: there’s a march playing, and I see Phil struggling toward you. You’re a dear little thing to listen to me so patiently, but you’ll be dearer yet if you’ll remember all I’ve said. You’re going to have a noble husband; do prepare yourself to be his companion and equal, so he may never tire of you. Hosts of husbands weary of wives who are nothing but sweet. Even girls can’t exist on candy alone, you know.”