The ensuing fortnight brought the expected changes in the household. James Brood, to the surprise of not only himself, but others, lapsed into a curious state of adolescence. His infatuation was complete. The once dominant influence of the man seemed to slink away from him as the passing days brought up the new problems of life. Where he had lived to command he now was content to serve.

His friends, his son, his servants viewed the transformation with wonder, not to say apprehension. It was not difficult to understand his infatuation for the—shall we say enchantress? He was not the only one there to fall under the spell. But it was almost unbelievable that he should submit to thraldom with the complacency of a weakling.

Love, which had been lying bruised and unconscious within him for twenty years and more, arose from its stupor and became a thing to play with, as one would play with a child. The old, ugly vistas melted into dreamy, adolescent contemplations of a paradise in which he could walk hand-in-hand with the future and find that the ghosts of the past no longer attended him along the once weary way.

It would not be true to say that the remarkable personality of the man had suffered. He was still the man of steel, but re-tempered. The rigid broadsword was made over into the fine, flexible blade of Toledo. He could be bent but not broken.

It pleased him to submit to Yvonne's commands,

Not that they were arduous or peremptory; on the contrary, they were suggestions in which his own comfort and pleasure appeared to be the inspiration. He found something like delight in being rather amiably convinced of his own shortcomings; in learning from her that his life up to this hour had been a sadly mismanaged affair; that there were soft, fertile spots in his heart where things would grow in spite of him. He enjoyed the unique spectacle of himself in the process of being made over to fit ideals that he would have scorned a few months before.

She was too wise to demand, too clever to resort to cajolery. She was a Latin. Diplomacy was hers as a birthright. Complaints, appeals, sulks would have gained nothing from James Brood. It would not have occurred to her to employ these methods. From the day she entered the house she was its mistress. She was sure of her ground, sure of herself, fettered by no sense of doubt as to her position there, bound by no feminine notion of gratitude to man, as many women are who find themselves married. It might almost be said of her that she ruled without making a business of it.

To begin with, she miraculously transferred the sleeping quarters of Messrs Dawes and Riggs from the second floor front to the third floor back without arousing the slightest sign of antagonism on the part of the crusty old gentlemen who had occupied one of the choice rooms in the house with uninterrupted security for a matter of nine or ten years. This was a feat that James Brood himself would never have tried to accomplish. They had selected this room at the first instant of occupation, because it provided something of a view up and down the street from the big bow window, and they wouldn't evacuate.

Mrs Brood explained the situation to them so graciously, so convincingly, that they even assisted the servants in moving their heterogeneous belongings to the small, remote room on the third floor, and applauded her plan to make a large sitting-room of the chamber they were deserting. It did not occur to them for at least three days that they had been imposed upon, cheated, maltreated, insulted, and then it was too late. The decorators were in the big room on the second floor.

Perhaps they would not have arrived at a sense of realisation even then if it had not come out in the course of conversation that it was not to be a general sitting-room, but one with reservations. The discovery of what they secretly were pleased to call duplicity brought an abrupt end to the period of abstemiousness that had lasted since the day of her arrival, when, out of courtesy to the bride, they had turned their backs upon the tipple.

Now, however, the situation was desperate. She had tricked them with her wily politeness. They had been betrayed by the wife of their bosom friend. Is it small cause for wonder, then, that the poor gentlemen as manfully turned back to the tipple and got gloriously, garrulously drunk in the middle of the afternoon and also in the middle of the library, where tea was to have been served to a few friends asked in to meet the bride?

The next morning a fresh edict was issued. It came from James Brood, and it was so staggering that the poor gentlemen were loath to believe their ears. As a result of this new command they began to speak of Mrs Brood in the privacy of their own room as “that woman.” Of course, it was entirely due to her mischievous, malevolent influence that a spineless husband put forth the order that they were to have nothing more to drink while they remained in his house.

This command was modified to a slight extent later on. Brood felt sorry for the victims. He loved them, and he knew that their pride was injured a great deal more than their appetite. In its modified form the edict allowed them a small drink in the morning and another at bedtime, but the doses (as they sarcastically called them) were to be administered by Jones the butler, who held the key to the situation and—the sideboard.

“Is this a dispensary?” wailed Mr Dawes in weak horror. “Are we to stand in line and solicit the common necessities of life? Answer me, Riggs! Confound you, don't stand there like a wax figure! Say something!”

Mr Riggs shook his head bleakly.

“Poor Jim,” was all that he said, and rolled his eyes heavenward.

Mr Dawes reflected. After many minutes the tears started down his rubicund cheeks. “Poor old Jim,” he sighed. And after that they looked upon Mrs Brood as the common enemy of all three.

The case of Mrs John Desmond was disposed of in a summary but tactful manner.

“If Mrs Desmond is willing to remain, James, as housekeeper instead of friend, all well and good,” said Mrs Brood, discussing the matter in the seclusion of her boudoir. “I doubt, however, whether she can descend to that. You have spoiled her, my dear.”

Brood was manifestly pained and uncomfortable.

“She was the wife of my best friend, Yvonne. I have never permitted her to feel——”

“Ah,” she interrupted, “the wives of best friends! Nearly every man has the wife of a best friend somewhere in his life's history.” She shook her head at him with mock mournfulness.

He flushed. “I trust you do not mean to imply that——”

“I know what you would say. No, I do not mean anything of the sort. Still, you now have a wife of your own. Is it advisable to have also the wife of a best friend?”

“Really, Yvonne, all this sounds very suspicious and—unpleasant. Mrs Desmond is the soul of——”

“My dear man, why should you defend her? I am not accusing her. I am merely going into the ethics of the situation. If you can forget that Mrs Desmond is the wife of your friend and come to regard her as a servant in your establishment, no one will be more happy than I to have her about the place. She is fine, she is competent, she is a lady. But she is not my equal here. Can't you understand?”

He was thoughtful for a moment.

“I dare say you are right. The conditions are peculiar. I can't go to her and say that she must consider herself as—oh, no, that would be impossible.”

“I should like to have Mrs Desmond as my friend, not as my housekeeper,” said his wife simply.

“By Jove, and that's just what I should like,” he cried.

“There is but one way, you know.”

“She must be one or the other, eh?”

“Precisely,” she said with firmness. “In my country, James, the wives of best friends haven't the same moral standing that they appear to have in yours. Oh, don't scowl so! Shall I tell you again that I do not mean to reflect on Mrs Desmond's virtue—or discretion? Far from it. If she is to be my friend, she cannot be your housekeeper. That's the point. Has she any means of her own? Can she——”

“She has a small income, and an annuity which I took out for her soon after her poor husband's death. We were the closest of friends——”

“I understand, James. You are very generous and very loyal. I quite understand. Losing her position here, then, will not be a hardship?”

“No,” said he soberly.

“I am quite competent, James,” she said brightly. “You will not miss her, I am sure.”

“It isn't that, Yvonne,” he sighed. “Mrs Desmond and Lydia have been factors in my life for so long that—— But, of course, that is neither here nor there. I will explain the situation to her to-morrow. She will understand.”

“Thank you, James. You are really quite reasonable.”

“Are you laughing at me, darling?”

She gave him one of her searching, unfathomable glances, and she smiled with roguish mirth.

“Isn't it your mission in life to amuse and entertain me?”

“I love you, Yvonne. Good God, how I love you!” he cried abruptly.

His eyes burned with a sudden flame of passion as he bent over her. His face quivered; his whole being tingled with the fierce spasm of an uncontrollable desire to crush the warm, adorable body to his breast in the supreme ecstasy of possession.

She surrendered herself to his passionate embrace. A little later she withdrew herself from his arms, her lips still quivering with the fierceness of his kisses. Her eyes, dark with wonder and perplexity, regarded his transfigured face for a long, tense moment.

“Is this love, James?” she whispered. “Is this the real, true love?”

“What else, in Heaven's name, can it be?” he cried. He was sitting upon the arm of her chair, looking down at the strangely pallid face.

“But should love have the power to frighten me?”

“Frighten, my darling?”

“Oh, it is not you who are frightened,” she cried. “You are the man. But I—ah, I am only the woman.”

He stared. “What an odd way to put it, dear.”

Then he drew back, struck by the curious gleam of mockery in her eyes.

“Was it like this twenty-five years ago?” she asked.

“Yvonne!”

“Did you love her—like this?”

He managed to smile. “Are you jealous?”

“Tell me about her.”

His face hardened. “Some other time, not now.”

“But you loved her, didn't you?”

“Don't be silly, dear.”

“And she loved you. If you loved her as you love me, she could not have helped——”

“Please, please, Yvonne!” he exclaimed, a dull red setting in his cheek.

“You have never told me her name——”

He faced her, his eyes as cold as steel. “I may as well tell you now, Yvonne, that her name is never mentioned in this house.”

She seemed to shrink down farther in the chair.

“Why?” she asked, an insistent note in her voice.

“It isn't necessary to explain.” He walked away from her to the window and stood looking out over the bleak little courtyard. Neither spoke for many minutes, and yet he knew that her questioning gaze was upon him and that when he turned to her again she would ask still another question. He tried to think of something to say that would turn her away from this hated subject.

“Isn't it time for you to dress, dearest? The Gunnings live pretty far up north and the going will be bad with Fifth Avenue piled up with snow——”

“Doesn't Frederic ever mention his mother's name?” came the question that he feared before it was uttered.

“I am not certain that he knows her name,” said he levelly. The knuckles of his hands, clenched tightly behind his back, were white. “He has never heard me utter it.”

She looked at him darkly. There was something in her eyes that caused him to shift his own steady gaze uncomfortably. He could not have explained what it was, but it gave him a curiously uneasy feeling, as of impending peril. It was not unlike the queer, inexplicable, though definite, sensing of danger that more than once he had experienced in the silent, tranquil depths of great forests.

“But you loved her just the same, James, up to the time you met me. Is not that true?”

“No!” he exclaimed loudly. “It is not true.”

“I wonder what could have happened to make you so bitter toward her,” she went on, still watching him through half-closed eyes. “Was she unfaithful to you? Was——”

“Good God, Yvonne!” he cried, an angry light jumping into his eyes—the eyes that so recently had been ablaze with love.

“Don't be angry, dearest,” she cried plaintively. “We Europeans speak of such things as if they were mere incidents. I forget that you Americans take them seriously, as tragedies.”

He controlled himself with an effort. The pallor in his face would have alarmed anyone but her.

“We must never speak of—of that again, Yvonne,” he said, a queer note of hoarseness in his voice. “Never, do you understand?” He was very much shaken.

“Forgive me,” she pleaded, stretching out her hand to him. “I am foolish, but I did not dream that I was being cruel or unkind. Perhaps, dear, it is because I am—jealous.”

“There is no one—nothing to be jealous of,” he said, passing a hand over his moist brow. Then he drew nearer and took her hand in his. It was as cold as ice.

“Your hand is cold, darling,” he cried.

“And yours, too,” she said, looking down at their clasped hands, a faint smile on her lips. Suddenly she withdrew her fingers from his strong grip. A slight shiver ran over her frame. “Ugh! I don't like cold hands!”

He laughed rather desolately. “Suppose that I were to say the same to you?”

“I am temperamental; you are not,” she replied coolly. “Sit down, dear. Let us be warm again.”

“Shall I have the fire replenished——”

“No,” she said with her slow smile, “you don't understand.”

He lounged again on the arm of her chair. She leaned back and sighed contentedly, the smile on her red lips growing sweeter with each breath that she took. He felt his blood warming once more.

For a long time they sat thus, looking into each other's eyes without speaking. He was trying to fathom the mystery that lurked at the bottom of those smiling wells; she, on the other hand, deluded herself with the idea that she was reading his innermost thought.

“I have been considering the advisability of sending Frederic abroad for a year or two,” said he at last.

She started. She had been far from right in her reading.

“Now? This winter?”

“Yes. He has never been abroad.”

“Indeed? And he is half European, too. It seems—forgive me, James. Really, you know, I cannot always keep my thoughts from slipping out. You shouldn't expect it, dear.”

“How did you know that his—his mother was a European?” he inquired abruptly.

“Dear me! What manner of woman do you think I am? Without curiosity? I should be a freak. I have inquired of Mrs Desmond. There was no harm in that.”

“What did she tell you? But no! It doesn't matter. We shan't discuss it. We——”

“She told me little or nothing,” she broke in quickly. “You may rest quite easy, James.”

“Upon my word, Yvonne, I don't understand——”

“Let us speak of Frederic.”

“I suppose it is only natural that you should inquire,” he said resignedly.

“Of my servants,” she added pointedly.

He flushed slightly. “I dare say I deserve the rebuke. It will not be necessary to pursue that line of inquiry, however. I shall tell you the story myself some day, Yvonne. Will you not bear with me?”

She met the earnest appeal in his eyes with a slight frown of annoyance.

“Who is to tell me the wife's side of the story?”

The question was like a blow to him. He stared at her as if he had not heard aright. Before he could speak she went on coolly.

“I dare say there are two sides to it, James. It's usually the case.”

He winced. “There is but one side to this one,” he said, a harsh note in his voice.

“That is why I began my inquiries with Mrs Desmond,” she said enigmatically. “But I shan't pursue them any farther. You love me; that is all I care to know—or that I require.”

“I do love you,” he said, almost imploringly. She stroked his gaunt cheek. “Then we may let the other woman—go hang, eh?”

He felt the cold sweat start on his brow. Her callous remark slashed his finer sensibilities like the thrust of a dagger. He tried to laugh, but only succeeded in producing a painful grimace.

“And now,” she went on, as if the matter were fully disposed of, “we will discuss something tangible, eh? Frederic.”

“Yes,” said he, rather dazedly. “Frederic.”

“I am very, very fond of your son, James,” she said. “How proud you must be to have such a son.”

He eyed her narrowly. How much of the horrid story did she know? How much of it had John Desmond told to his wife?

“I am surprised at your liking him, Yvonne. He is what I'd call a difficult young man.”

“I haven't found him difficult.”

“Morbid and unresponsive.”

“Not by nature, however. There is a joyousness, a light-heartedness in his character that has never got beyond the surface until now, James.”

“Until now?”

“Yes. And you talk of sending him away. Why?”

“He has wanted to go abroad for years. This is a convenient time for him to go.”

“But I am quite sure he will not care to go at present—not for a while, at least.”

“And why not, may I ask?”

“Because he is in love.”

“In love!” he exclaimed, his jaw setting hard.

“He is in love with Lydia.”

“I'll put a stop to that!”

“And why, may I ask?” she mimicked.

“Because—why——” he burst out, but instantly collected himself. “He is not in a position to marry, that's all.”

“Financially?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Poof!” she exclaimed, dismissing the obstacle with a wave of her slim hand. “A cigarette, please. There is another reason why he shouldn't go—an excellent one.”

“The reason you've already given is sufficient to convince me that he ought to go at once. What is the other one, pray?”

She lighted a cigarette from the match he held. “What would you say if I were to tell you that I object to his going away—at present?”

“I should ask the very obvious question.”

“Because I like him, I want him to like me, and I shall be very lonely without him,” she answered calmly.

“You are frank, to say the least,” said he, laughing.

“And serious. I don't want him to go away at present. Later on, yes; but not now. I shall need him, James.”

“You will be lonely, you say.”

“Certainly. You forget that I am young.”

“I see,” said he, a sudden pain in his heart. “Perhaps it would be more to the point if you were to say that I forget that I am old.”

She laughed. It was a soft, musical laugh that strangely stilled the tumult in his breast.

“You are younger than Frederic,” she said. “Unless we do something to prevent it, your son will be an old man before he is thirty. Don't send him away now, James. Let me have him for a while. I mean it, dear. He is a lonely boy, and I know what it is to be lonely.”

“You?” he cried. “Why, you've never known anything but——”

“One can be lonely even in the heart of a throng,” she said cryptically. “No, James, I will not have him sent away.”

He resented the imputation. “Why do you say that I am sending him away?”

“Because you are,” she replied boldly.

He was silent for a moment. “We will leave it to Frederic,” he said.

Her face brightened. “That is all I ask. He will stay.”

There was another pause. “You two have become very good friends, Yvonne.”

“He is devoted to me.”

“Don't spoil him in making him over,” he said dryly.

She blew cigarette—smoke in his face and laughed. There was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” she called.

Frederic entered.