During 1913 the Palace of Peace at The Hague was dedicated. War and cholera swept the Balkans. The munition works prospered as Germany and France greatly increased their standing armies. Irish Home Rule agitators and militant suffragettes made life miserable for British statesmen. Forty million American church-goers gave four hundred million dollars to religious organizations. American junkers and the oil interests wanted armed intervention in Mexico. Pavlowa in a syndicated newspaper feature taught America the tango and other popular steps, while Aunt Prudence in her advice to the lovelorn sternly counseled "Anxious" against kissing any man but the one she intended to marry....

But to Peter Brailsford, enamored of woman, a trifle uncertain of his newly attained maturity, six feet tall, his muscles swelling toward the gigantic proportions of his father's, his chest deepening, and his mind exploring ever more distant horizons....

To this big healthy product of Southern Wisconsin the year's-end meant but one thing. He was invited to supper and a New Year's Eve celebration at Maxine Larabee's home, and he was determined to create the right impression in the household of Brailsford Junction's leading attorney.

There was little doubt that he was correctly attired, his table manners would pass muster—though he must remember not to tuck his napkin in his vest—and he had learned by rote what he was going to say when he spoke to Attorney Larabee about marrying Maxine.

Nevertheless the big fellow trembled as he was admitted into the magnificence of the Larabee home with its golden-oak mission furniture, its wilton carpets and its beaded portieres. Mrs. Larabee descended upon him plump, pink, and gushing. Maxine laughed musically as she gave him her hand, but Attorney Larabee merely grunted a hello from behind his paper and rolled his cigar into the other corner of his mouth.

Peter felt depressed.

Despite Maxine's rendition (at her mother's request) of "Too Much Mustard," and "I've Got a Pain in My Sawdust," with other instrumental and vocal numbers. Despite comic postcards showing vegetables the size of freight cars, Fords no larger than insects, and the romantic series by Harrison Fisher entitled "Six Periods in a Girl's Life." Despite such notable diversions as a Chinese puzzle and a set of views showing the Grand CaÑon in its actual colors—

Peter felt depressed.

Supper was served at last. After the blessing, soup was ladled from a tureen embossed with lilacs into soup bowls of the same design. And with the soup came the deluge:

"I understand you want to marry my daughter," boomed Mr. Larabee.

"Well, yes, sir," Peter admitted, looking into the green, viscous liquid in his bowl and feeling ill.

"Are you prepared to support her in the manner to which...."

"Now, Charles," said Mrs. Larabee, "you were as poor as a church mouse when you asked me."

"Mother!" said the stern head of the house, "I will take care of this."

Mrs. Larabee slipped back into the soft and matronly sea of pink chiffon from which she had momentarily arisen.

"I suppose you realize," said Attorney Larabee, "that Maxine comes from one of Brailsford Junction's first families...."

"They named the town after a Brailsford," blurted Peter. "My dad's the biggest stock breeder in Rock County. And I've got the best chance in the world to be a great inventor or something.... And, well, anyhow I love her," he finished weakly.

"Hmmm, hmmm," said Mr. Larabee. "I shall have to think about it."

Fuming, and scarcely touching his supper, Peter managed somehow to last out the eternity between soup and pie. He wished violently that he might forget for a moment that Mr. Larabee was Maxine's father so that he could give him the beating he so richly deserved. He wondered how it was possible that anyone so delightful as Maxine could be the daughter of such a conceited, bigoted old thundercloud as Attorney Larabee and his addle-pated wife.

At last the meal was over. Mrs. Larabee was remorseful, but announced that she and Mr. Larabee could not stay for the young folks' party. They could scarcely turn down the Billings who had invited them over for the evening.

Peter waited until the old folks were gone, then with rapidly beating heart went up the stairs and slipped into Maxine's bedroom where the girl was dressing for the party.

She was in bloomers and silk shirt and was pulling on her stockings.

"Go away, Peter," she said. "No, no ... I can't."

He sat on the edge of the bed watching her moodily as she dressed and primped before the mirror. She could turn his heart inside out with the least gesture of her lovely hands. The way she threw back her curls as she combed her hair, the way she tilted her chin as she looked at herself in the mirror! He was mad about her, and she was as cool as a cucumber.

It had been in this very room that they had been together that night. They had lain, listening to the wind scattering the leaves in a shower across the roof; hearing the distant clop, clop of horses' hooves. They had almost been caught when the Larabee automobile had turned in at the drive half an hour previous to their expectations. Peter had slipped out a side door not a minute too soon. He had been tying his tie when he was a block down the street.

"I guess you're getting tired of me," Peter said with a lump in his throat. "I guess you'll be making love to some other fellow one of these days."

"How dare you, Peter Brailsford!" she cried, taking the hairpins out of her mouth and turning to glare at him. "Suggesting that it might be any boy like that. What kind of a girl do you think I am?"

"I'm beginning to wonder," Peter admitted, shocked at his frankness.

"Don't be tiresome," said the pretty girl, giving a final pat to her hair. "Do you think anybody will notice if I don't wear a corset? I simply loathe corsets."

"I suppose I am tiresome," said Peter, gloomily.

"Oh, shush!" said Maxine. "I asked you a question."

"Wear whatever you please," Peter said.

"Why, Peter Brailsford," cried Maxine. "You're simply horrid. Now do be a good boy and help me with these hooks and eyes. I never can get them by myself."

2

When he could no longer stand the uncertainty, Peter Brailsford made his excuses to Milly Vincent,—she of the silly lisp and carrot-colored hair. He stalked from the room while the piano and violin played Strauss, ascended the dark stairs, and stood at the landing watching the clouds scudding across the face of the moon.

The sound of laughter and dancing feet floated up to the unhappy boy. He heard the Strauss waltz vaguely.

He said that he would go away to some other town where no one would know him. He would go to Chicago or even New York. He would go to the farthest ends of the earth and forget that there had ever been a town named Brailsford Junction or a girl named Maxine.

After a few moments he turned from the window and ascended quietly to the upper hall. Scarcely breathing, he put his ear to Maxine's bedroom door. All that he could hear was the throbbing of his own pulse in his ears.

Bud Spillman and Maxine had been drinking. He had seen them slip away together half an hour before, and they had not come back. If he found them together he knew that he would kill them and then himself.

There! The rustle of silk. And now their voices and quiet laughter.

Strangely, he was not angry now. All of his fury was suddenly drained away and he felt empty and shaken. He was amazed to find that the violin was still playing the Strauss waltz.