That evening at dusk, when Mostyn reached Mitchell's house, he found the old gentleman smoking on the veranda.

"I looked for you earlier," he said, turning his cigar between his lips and smiling cordially as he extended his hand. "You used to be more prompt than this. We won't stand formality from you, young man."

"I had a lot of work to do," Mostyn said. "Saunders let it pile up on me while I was away."

"I see." Mitchell stroked his gray beard. "He is getting to be a great lover of nature, isn't he? I went in to see him about something the other day, and I could hardly get his attention. He has just bought a new microscope and wanted to show me how it worked. He had put a drop of stagnant water on a glass slide and declared he could see all sorts of sharks, whales, and sea-serpents in it. I tried, but I couldn't see anything. There are plenty of big affairs for fellows like you and me to choke and throttle without hunting for things too small for the naked eye."

A flash of light from behind fell upon them. A maid was lighting the gas in the drawing-room. Mostyn saw the cut-glass pendants of the crystal chandelier blaze in prismatic splendor. His mind was far from the lined countenance before him. He was heavy with indecision. His sister's confident derision clung to him like a menace from some infinite source.

"A man never marries his ideal." He remembered the words spoken by a college-mate who was contemplating marriage. Mostyn shuddered even as he smiled. It was doubtlessly true, and yet he had gone too far with Dolly to desert her now. He couldn't bear to have her know him for the weakling that he was. The next moment even Dolly was snatched from his reflections, sharp irritation and anger taking her place, for Mitchell was speaking of Delbridge and his recent good fortune.

"You two are a wonderful pair to live in the same town," Mitchell chuckled. "I have been in his office several times since we got home. Not having you to loaf with, I turned to him for pastime. He certainly is a cool hand in a deal. He doesn't get excited in a crisis, as you do, and when he wins big stakes he hardly seems to notice it. Ten minutes after he got the wire on his good luck the other day he could talk of nothing better than a new golf-course he is planning."

"He is nothing more nor less than a gambler," Mostyn said, with irritation. "He is on top now, but he may drop like a load of bricks any minute. Who can tell?"

"Oh, you needn't be jealous of him," Mitchell began, blandly. "He can't crow over you."

"Jealous of him!" Mostyn smirked. "I am not jealous of any one, much less Delbridge."

"Of course not, of course not," and the old man laid a caressing hand on Mostyn's shoulder. "You don't play second fiddle to any man in Georgia in my opinion. I know your ability well enough. If I didn't I wouldn't trust you as I do. Lord, I've told you everything. We are going to work together, my boy; I have some big plans. Of course, Saunders told you of my land deal?"

"Yes, that was fine," Mostyn said. "A big thing."

"I owe it all to you, and wanted to ask your advice before closing out"—Mitchell glowed with contentment—"but as you were not here, I went it alone. The parties seemed to be in a hurry, and I was afraid they might accidentally change their minds, so I took them up."

Throwing his cigar into the grass, Mitchell led the way into the drawing-room. His hand was now on Mostyn's arm. In the hall they met Jincy, the maid. "Tell my daughter to order dinner," he said, curtly, "and ask her to come down."

The two men stood near the big screened fireplace and plain white marble mantelpiece. There was a rustling sound on the stair in the hall, and Irene came in. She was beautifully attired in a gown Mostyn had not yet seen. It was most becoming. How strange! There seemed, somehow, to-night more about her to admire than on any former occasion. Was it due to his return to his proper social plane? Was the other life sheer delusion? What exquisite poise! What easy, erect grace! Her whole being was stamped with luxurious self-confidence. How soft was the feel of her delicate fingers as they touched his! Why had he clasped them so warmly? How charming the gentle and seductive glance of her eyes! He caught himself staring at her in a sort of reluctant pride of personal ownership. He thought of Dolly Drake, and a glaring contrast rose darkly before him. He fancied himself confessing his intentions to Irene and shuddering under her incredulous stare. How could he explain? And yet, of course, she must be told—her father must be told. All his friends must know. And talk—how they would chatter and—laugh!

"You certainly look improved," Irene cried, as she surveyed him admiringly. "You are quite tanned. Fishing or hunting every day, I suppose."

"Nearly," he answered.

"Cousin Kitty Langley is here to spend the night," Irene went on. "But I can't persuade her to come down to dinner. She is not hungry and is buried in a novel. She was at a tea this afternoon and ate too many sandwiches."

"Humph!" Mitchell sniffed, playfully. "You know that wasn't it. She asked Jincy to bring something up to her. She told me she simply would not break in on you two this first evening."

"Father is getting to be a great tease, Dick," Irene smiled. "The money he has made lately has fairly turned his head. Please don't notice him." The colored butler had come to the door, and stood waiting silently to catch her eye. Seeing him, she asked:

"Is everything ready, Jasper?"

He bowed. He looked the ideal servant in his dark-blue suit, high collar, and stiff white waistcoat. A wave of revulsion passed over Mostyn. He was thinking of the crude dining-room in the mountains; Drake, without his coat, his hair unkempt; Mrs. Drake in her soiled print dress and fire-flushed face, nervously waving the peacock fly-brush over the coarse dishes; Ann and George, as presentable as Dolly could make them, prodding and kicking each other beneath the table when they thought themselves unobserved; John Webb, with his splotched face in his plate; and Dolly—the sweetest, prettiest, bravest, most patient little woman Time had ever produced, and yet, what had that to do with the grim demands of social life? Was his sister right? Was his interest in the girl grounded only in a subtle form of restrained passion? Would he tire of her; would he be ashamed of her, here amid these surroundings? In fancy he saw Mitchell staring contemptuously at the little interloper. After all, had any man the right to inflict an ordeal of that sort upon an unsuspecting child? Plainly, no; and there would be no alternative but for him to renounce city life and live with her in the mountains. But could he possibly do such a thing? Had he the requisite moral strength for a procedure so foreign from his nature? Was his desire for reformation as strong as he had once thought it? Perhaps his release from Marie Winship's threatening toils had something to do with his present relapse from good intentions. He remembered how he had been stirred by the impassioned words of the mystic tramp preacher. How clear the way had seemed at that sunlit moment; how intricate and difficult now!

Mitchell led the way out to dinner, Irene's calm hand on the arm of the guest. What a superb figure she made at the head of the splendid table under the pink lights of the candle-shades! How gracefully she ordered this away, and that brought, even while she laughed and chatted so delightfully. And she—she—that superb woman of birth, manners, and position—could be had for the asking. Not only that, but the whole horrible indecision which lay on him like a nightmare could in that way be brushed aside. He felt the blood of shame rush to his face, but it ran back to its source in a moment. Dolly would soon forget him. She would marry some mountaineer, perhaps the teacher, Warren Wilks, and in that case the man would take her into his arms, and—No, Mostyn's blood boiled and beat in his brain with the sudden passionate fury of a primitive man; that would be unbearable. She had said she had kissed no other man and never would. Yes, she was his; her whole wonderful, warm, throbbing being was his; and yet—and yet how could it be?

"You seem preoccupied." Irene smiled on him. "Are you already worried over business?"

"I'm afraid I always have more or less to bother me," he answered, evasively. "Then, too, a hot, dusty bank is rather depressing after pure open mountain air."

"I had exactly that feeling when we returned," she smiled. "We certainly had a glorious time. We had quite an Atlanta group with us, you know, and we kept together. The others said we were clannish and stuck-up, but we didn't care. We played all sorts of pranks after father went to bed."

"You would have thought so if you had heard them, Dick," the old man said, dryly. "They stayed up till three one morning and raised such a row that the other guests of the hotel threatened to call in the police."

"It was the greatest lark I ever was in," Irene declared, with a hearty laugh. "That night Cousin Kitty put on a suit of Andy Buckton's clothes. In the dark we all took her for a boy. She was the most comical thing you ever saw. I laughed till I was sick."

Dinner over, they went out to the veranda. The lawn stretched green and luscious down to the white pavement under the swinging arc light over the street. Mitchell left them seated in a hammock and sauntered down to the side fence, where he stood talking to a neighbor who was sprinkling his lawn with a hose and nozzle.

At eleven o'clock Irene went up to her cousin, finding the young lady still reading her novel under the green shade of a drop-light. Miss Langley was a good-looking girl, slender, small of limb, active in movement, and a blonde.

"Well," she said, closing her book and looking up, sleepily, "I wanted to see what is coming to this pair of sweethearts, but they can wait. I am anxious to know what is going on in real life. I am tired of the poky way you and Dick Mostyn are courting. I want to be a swell bridesmaid, I do."

"Oh, you do?" Irene sat down in an easy-chair, and, locking her hands behind her head, she leaned back and sighed.

"Yes, I do. You were sure he would propose to-night. Well, did he—did he? That is what I want to know."

"Oh yes, it is settled." Irene transferred her linked hands to her knee, and leaned forward. "Kitty, I may be making a big mistake, but the die is cast. There was nothing else to do. You know how silly father is. You know, too, that poor Andy was out of the question."

"Yes, he was," Miss Langley agreed. "From every possible point of view. He adores you—he will no doubt suffer some, but you could not have married him."

"No, it wouldn't have done," Irene sighed, deeply. "I'm afraid I'll never feel right about it, but the poor boy understands. The way father bore with him and snubbed him on that trip was humiliating."

"So Dick declared himself?" Miss Langley smiled. "I wonder how he led up to it—he is a blooming mystery to me."

Irene tittered. "The truth is, I helped him out. Do you know, he is more sensitive than most persons think, and that side of him was uppermost to-night. I really felt sorry for him. He spoke frankly of having serious faults and being heartily ashamed of his past life. I think I know what he was hinting at. You know we have both heard certain reports."

"Not any more of him than any other man we know," Kitty said, with a shrug. "Andy Buckton, with his Presbyterian bringing-up, may be an exception, but he is about the only one in our crowd. They are all bad, I tell you, and a woman may as well make up her mind to it and hope marriage will cure the brute."

"I liked the way Dick talked to-night very, very much," Irene resumed, reflectively. "He declared he was unworthy of me. Do you know he is sensitive over a certain thing, and I admire it in him."

"What is that?" the other asked.

"Why, out on the steps to-night, after father had gone in, Dick seemed very much depressed. He was worried about something, and I determined to discover what it was. What do you think? The silly fellow was really upset by the money father has recently made; he never has liked the idea of marrying an heiress, and, you see, I am more of one now than I was a month ago."

"Somehow, I don't read him that way," Miss Langley mused, "but I may be wrong. So it is really settled?"

"Yes, it is settled. It was the common-sense thing to do. I am going to put Andy out of my mind. Poor boy! he is lovely, isn't he? What do you think he will do about it, Kitty?"

"Mope around like a sick cat for a month," the girl answered; "then he will marry some one else, and wonder what on earth he ever saw in you to be daft about."

"I don't believe it," Irene said, firmly. "Kitty, that boy will never marry; he will never love any other woman. If I thought he would—" Irene hesitated, a deepening stare in her eyes.

"You'd not marry Dick—Poof! Wouldn't you be a pretty idiot? If you read as many novels as I do you'd know that sentimental, puppy love is a delusion and a snare. Let it alone. You and Dick Mostyn are doing the only rational thing. You will be an ideal couple. Gosh, I wish I had some of the money you will have!"