"You see, Miss Wynrod, I'm as sound as a nut. I can gambol like a lamb. I am ready again to dance to the world's piping."

It was just six weeks to a day after his introduction to her that Good made this announcement, and executed a lumbering step of his own devising, to prove its truth.

"It's now the season of the sere and yellow leaf. There's work to be done. I must be about it," he added more seriously.

"If you work as you gambol, I shouldn't think you'd be much in demand," laughed Judith.

"Quite so," admitted Good, blithely. "But if my feet are clumsy my wits are nimble. I guess I can find someone to hire them at twelve dollars per week."

"Twelve dollars a week! You don't mean to say...."

Good raised his eyebrows. "Why, surely. Does that surprise you? Of course," he added half apologetically, "that doesn't represent my own valuation, by any means. But The World is a poor paper for poor people. It couldn't pay much."

"That's all very well," she cried, "but why did you work for it?"

"It needed me," he said simply, and she was silenced. There were stranger things in this man revealed at every conversation. She had never known anyone before who toiled because someone "needed" him. She was shamed by her own amazement.

"I guess I'll go on the 10.46," he said.

"No," she cried. "You won't."

He looked up at her in some surprise.

"That is, you won't," she added more mildly, "if you care to do me a favour."

"What an absurd 'if.' Give your orders."

"Well, I have some people coming to dinner on Wednesday. I—I—want them to know you."

"What a treat!" he said sarcastically.

"I want you to know them, too. You see, they're all rich people. And you've hated them without knowing what very ordinary human beings they really are. I think you owe it to your own sense of fairness to see some of the oppressors of the poor in the flesh."

"It's quite impossible," he declared firmly.

She chose to ignore the finality of his tone.

"It isn't quite just, is it, to write articles about the feelings and the motives of people you don't really know?"

He strove to divert the argument. "There's something in perspective, you know."

"Before chance threw us together you thought me distinctly wicked. You don't think that now, do you?"

"I told the paper I was in the camps of the Persians," he said sententiously. "They fired me then. Why tarry with the flesh-pots further?"

"I've often heard you say that men couldn't preach heaven until they knew life."

He threw up his hands in exasperation. "It isn't fair for a woman to be logical—it takes a man unawares."

"Then you admit I am logical?"

"Even if I wanted to stay, I couldn't."

"Why not?"

His head drooped and a faint colour showed under the bronze of his skin. But he remained silent.

"What's lacking?"

His discomfort was apparent. "I'd like to fix up a bit—get a hair-cut—and things," he stammered.

"Well, why don't you? You've got two whole days."

Suddenly he straightened, and a smile broke over his reddened features, "There's no use being silly about it, I guess. The fact is—I'm broke."

"Oh, is that all. Well, that's easily fixed. Why didn't you say so before?" she said with a smile. "You ought to take lessons from my brother."

"I don't need all this," he stammered, fingering the bill she held out to him.

"It's the smallest I have. But why didn't you tell me?"

"One doesn't like to beg."

"You're hardly consistent, are you?"

"No, I'm too human."

"Will you be human enough to forsake your principles and come to my party?"

"I'd rather not."

"That's understood. It makes the favour greater. But you will come?"

"If I must."

"I'll be very grateful."

"Then I will." The words came from him with such obvious reluctance that she could not resist a smile.

"Do be back in plenty of time."

"I'd rather break my leg again," he said gloomily. Then declining her offer of the motor-car to take him to the station, he left her.

"You're stealing my class-consciousness from me," he called from the gate way.

She laughed, not quite understanding what he meant, and watched his ungainly figure until it was out of sight. Would he return? Or had she seen the last of Brent Good? Finally she shrugged her shoulders and tried to dismiss him from her mind.

But when Wednesday came, and no Good, nor word from him, she was more keenly disappointed than she cared to admit. The two o'clock train brought a party which had arranged for some golf with Roger.

"Anyone come out with you?" she asked, as if the question were of no consequence.

"Only Joe Faxon," said one of the men. "He was bound for the Warings'."

At three Molly Wolcott came, only to disappear promptly in the direction of the golf course. At five-thirty all had arrived with the exception of Della Baker, her taciturn husband,—and Good. But on the next train, which was the last, the first two came. She greeted them as gaily as she could, with studied carelessness inquiring if anyone had been left at the station, and when they assured her that no one had, she abandoned hope definitely.

"You have the darkest, lonesomest woods out here I ever saw," cried Della. "I had all sorts of thrills. Every time I saw a man my heart came up in my mouth!"

"That," said her husband cryptically, "is quite as usual."

But Judith heard him only vaguely. She had caught sight of a familiarly angular figure striding briskly up the drive way, looming grotesquely tall in the dusk. She did not follow the others as they went into the house. She remained on the porch, a prey to conflicting emotions. It was with some difficulty that she restrained the laugh which sprang to her lips as Good came into the light from the hall. His hair had been trimmed, his face was newly shaven, and his finger-nails, she noted, as he held out his hand, were cleaner than she had ever seen them. That was enough to amaze her. But when he flung back his long rain-coat, worn in spite of the continued drought of days, and revealed evening dress—her head swam. He was quite conscious of the effect he had made. Indeed, though she made a strong effort, she could not possibly conceal it. But it did not appear to displease him. He smiled like a child, and turned around twice for her inspection.

"Some rags, eh?" he cried, smoothing out the wrinkles. "Sorry the coat doesn't match, but it was the best I could get."

Almost tearfully she joined in his enthusiasm. She shut her eyes to the antiquated cut of the garment, its unmistakable shininess at the elbows, and what must have been apparent even to himself, the fact that it fitted him only, as one might say, intermittently. But he was too pleased to care, if he had noticed such trifles.

"That's really what I needed the money for," he explained. "I wanted to bloom like a green bay tree before your friends. Pretty cute, eh?" He turned around again, and catching sight of himself in the mirror, stood preening like a peacock. "Makes me feel half dressed, though," he admitted somewhat ruefully. "This open-work front ... I've been trying to hook it together all the way out—but there aren't any hooks! First time I ever wore one of these. Look at the buttons on the vest. Ever seen anything glitter so? I tell you, Solomon in all his glory had nothing on me!"

She had not dressed Roger for nothing, and her keen eye did not miss the numerous minute lapses from perfection in Good's attire. The general effect just missed being what it should be. But his naÏve pride was contagious. She found herself forgetting the essential absurdity of his costume in his own unqualified delight.

His collar was prodigiously high, and being so much taller than she, it was impossible for their eyes to meet. He looked for all the world like some grotesque bird, fitted with a more or less painful and wholly unaccustomed harness.

She dropped her handkerchief and as he stooped to pick it up a subdued groan came from him.

"I wonder what maniac ever devised such a shirt," he grumbled. "It's correct—the man told me so—showed me pictures to prove it ... but it proves that civilisation isn't civilised. Catch a savage in a straight jacket like this—I guess not."

There was a dreadful pause as she entered the library with Good. For a fleeting instant which seemed minutes to her, everyone stared at the newcomer. Then breeding reasserted itself and Judith was able to go through the introductions without further embarrassment. Good stumbled cheerfully over ladies' trains, shook hands vigorously, was uniformly "pleased to meet" everyone, and appeared quite unconscious of the interested, not to say amused gazes which followed him. But Judith could see plainly that he was not sorry when the process of acquainting him with the other guests was over and he could slip out of the conversational maelstrom into the quiet backwaters formed by the space between the piano and the wall, to stand alone in a contemplative and awkward silence. She was relieved, too, when dinner was announced.

She had been in doubt as to just where to place him at the table, but had finally decided on Molly Wolcott. She was a very animated girl, if the companion and the topic interested her, and extraordinarily taciturn if they did not. Her range of interests was not large, being chiefly concerned with the various ramifications of sport. She had once been known to turn with deliberation from a distinguished British novelist, to a callow youth whose sole claim to distinction lay in having kicked a winning goal.

Judith felt confident that Good would prove quite without attraction for her. But she would, for that very reason, leave him severely alone, and she could, herself, take care of him. With that in view, she had left her own avenues open, by seating at her left a young man whose concerns were almost exclusively gastronomic.

But, as usual, Good surprised her. Molly began, as was to be expected, by giving her partner a cursory examination, and then plunging unceremoniously into a heated discussion of the afternoon's golf, with Roger who sat across the table.

"That was the most inexcusable putt I ever hope to see," she declared.

"I was afraid of it," confessed Roger dejectedly. "That hole looked like the eye of a needle."

"You can't hole short putts without confidence," observed Ned Alder, who was a notoriously bad golfer. "Now I always...."

"Why don't you take a course of lessons in confidence?" asked Molly rudely.

"Putting," began Good interrogatively, when the laugh at the allusion to the extent and fruitlessness of Alder's golf education had subsided, "is...."

"The act of putting the ball in the hole," said Molly with a mixture of surprise and impatience in her tone. A sudden silence fell around the board as the entire company listened. The tall stranger, such an object of curiosity to all of them, had spoken for the first time.

"And you call that 'holing,' I believe?" he went on imperturbably.

"Yes," said Roger, sympathetic with Good's isolation.

"And you have to have confidence to do it successfully?"

"Lord, yes," said Alder, under his breath.

"Golf must be a very ancient game," mused Good seriously. The painful silence continued. Judith ached to say something that would rescue him from the clumsy predicament into which he had thrust himself, and she wanted to slap Molly for the expression of supercilious disdain on her face. But no words came for the one and she was not quite atavistic enough for the other.

"Yes, it's mentioned in Scripture," continued Good finally, when the pause had become almost unbearable. "You recall the injunction—something like this—'have faith and it will make thee—hole'?"

The atrocious pun was uttered amid a silence which needed only a little less tact on the part of those present to make it derisive, and with the speaker looking down at his plate, seemingly oblivious to all his surroundings. For a moment even the quiet noises of service seemed to be stilled. Then, with first a half-intimated gasp of amazement, there was a burst of almost hysteric laughter.

It was a gay and intimate gathering, and Good's contribution to the wit of the evening, served to make him, temporarily at least, part of it. Molly Wolcott's coolness quite deserted her, and with characteristic animation she turned her attention to this curious-looking individual who had the audacity to make bad jokes.

Nor was it a temporary interest. With increasing frequency she laughed aloud. The man on her right joined her. Judith was amazed. She studied Good constantly, not overlooking the fact that his cocktail was untasted. She strained her ears to catch something of what he was saying, but his voice was low, and he seemed to be talking to Molly almost confidentially. Finally, at a particularly uproarious bit of hilarity, she gave way to her curiosity.

"What on earth are you talking about?" she demanded, when a lull in the conversation enabled her to be heard.

"Oh," he said, "I was just telling Miss Wolcott about a ball game I pitched in the Philippines. We were playing the 17th Infantry and they got me full of nepal. I did some curious things," he added reflectively.

"Were you ever in the army?" she asked in amazement.

"Seven years," he answered. "Enough to be a corporal."

Then he turned back to Molly, and Judith was silent. Would she ever get to the end of his life and the things into which it had led him? She wanted to ask him more, but he was too obviously engrossed in his companion, and as the duties of her own position required attention, she had no further conversation with him.

But as the meal progressed, and the sherry followed the cocktails, and the claret followed the sherry, and the champagne followed the claret, the conversation began to centre more and more around Good. It became almost a monologue, as he talked and they listened.

Judith was mostly silent, in sheer amazement, although occasionally she could not resist a smile at his drolleries. And when he told stories, she laughed with the rest. He possessed a remarkable faculty for imitation, and the characters in his stories required no "he said" to identify them. His voice and manner changed for each one.

Once, in a pause, she interrupted him.

"You ought to be on the stage," she cried admiringly.

"Never again," he said shortly, leaving her once more in dumfounded silence.

Never had she sensed this social side to her strange guest. Her interest in him had been primarily intellectual. He had seemed all serious. She had never forgotten the guise in which he had first appeared to her. But this was so utterly different. She found it impossible to understand.

As she scanned the laughing faces about the board, another curious thing struck her. The array of glasses in front of Good was quite untouched. But the same phenomenon was to be observed in front of her brother. It was the first time she had ever seen that, and as she rejoiced, she marvelled.

It was an unusually effective party, she reflected, as they rose, leaving the men to their cigars and coffee, and the cause of its success was plain. She smiled to herself at the fears with which she had decided upon his presence. She wondered if he guessed how surprised she was.

But later, when the gathering began to disintegrate into little groups of two's and three's, Good became strangely silent. The sparkle had gone out of his eyes, she thought, and with it, the sparkle from his mind. The bursts of laughter became less frequent, and finally ceased altogether. The lines of his face appeared to droop, as she had rarely seen them, and he stood to one side, rather moodily, as if in contemplation of his companions. His behaviour was singular. But the others appeared to notice nothing untoward. Indeed, many of them had ceased to notice him at all. He was a novelty, and like all novelties and new sensations, with them, he had begun to pall. If he was acting deliberately, she reflected, he was acting not unwisely. He was withdrawing at the apex of his hour.

Very quickly conversation flagged, as she knew it inevitably must. These friends of hers had little to say, she knew, nor said that little long. Bridge was proposed and accepted. Tables were quickly formed, and in a very few moments everyone was engrossed in the play. That is, every one but Della Baker, who had disappeared, pleading a headache, and her silent husband, who loathed cards; and Good, who did not play. Judith saw the two men stroll silently together out onto the terrace; and then, a moment later, through a door on the other side of the room, Molly Wolcott and Roger.

It must be something momentous she reflected, that could entice Molly Wolcott from a game of any sort—particularly if the stakes were likely to be high. And it was.

The momentum in this case was furnished by Roger with his determined insistence that she have a word with him.

They strolled silently through the garden until they came to one of the stone benches by the tennis courts. Roger made a gallant pretence of dusting it off with his handkerchief. Then he sat down beside her.

"Well," she said, after waiting for him to speak. "What do you want to tell me about?"

Roger lit a cigarette and threw the match away with a truculent gesture.

"You don't need to be so cold-blooded about it," he said irritably.

"About what?" she asked calmly.

"Oh, you know."

"I haven't an idea," she said artlessly.

"Oh, about everything," he stumbled helplessly.

"Everything?" There was an excellent imitation of astonishment in her voice. It brought him sharply to his feet, and he thrust his hands into his pockets with a snort of impatience.

"Yes, of course, my loving you—and all that."

"Oh...." Her noncommittal intonation was perfectly calculated.

"Well, I want an answer," he demanded belligerently. "You haven't any right to keep me dangling this way."

"But I gave you an answer."

"Not a definite one."

"I don't know how to make it any more definite. I told you I ... liked you better than anybody else, and some day, perhaps—"

"Well, that's not definite. Why don't you like me well enough to marry me?"

"Oh, but I do," she insisted warmly.

"You do...?" He was nonplussed by that example of logic.

"Yes, indeed I do."

"Well, why don't you?" There was more than a hint of exasperation in his voice. He was fast losing his temper.

"Because...."

"Because why? For goodness' sake, can't you give me a real reason ... something I can use my teeth on?"

He was striding rapidly up and down in front of her, and his growing wrath was so ill concealed under a very obvious effort at patience, that she could not resist a faint chuckle. He caught it and stopped short.

"You're laughing at me?" he declared, half interrogatively.

"Oh, Roger," she cried, "how could you think that."

"You were ... I heard you."

"I wasn't."

"Now what's the use of saying that?" he demanded.

"Don't you dare talk to me like that!" She was bolt upright herself, and wrath flamed in her own eyes. "Don't you ever dare use that tone to me, Roger Wynrod."

"I'm sorry," he said humbly, as if he really had committed a crime of incredible enormity. Then with one last gasp of justification, he added a timid "But you did...."

She would not allow him to finish. Quite illogically, but quite completely, she had changed the positions. From being the defence she had managed to make herself the prosecution, and Roger, being thoroughly masculine, was utterly dumfounded at the shift. And she, being as equally feminine, took up her new position with renewed vigour. Her voice was full of a most righteous scorn when she spoke.

"I didn't laugh at you. But suppose I did. I'd be justified. Why should I want to marry you? You're not even a man yet. You're just a boy. You've never done anything a man should. You even let that kid Jenkins beat you this afternoon. You're just a good-for-nothing lazybones, that's what you are, and you want me to marry you."

Roger tried unsuccessfully to interrupt her, each time she paused for breath, but it only seemed to intensify the flow of her condemnation. He grew more and more uncomfortable, because part, at least, of what she said, he knew to be true.

"I didn't mean to start anything like this," he put in mournfully. "I don't know how it ever started."

She did not know either, but she managed to convey to him the conviction that it was most deliberate. And that, as she knew it would, only made him more mournful still. It was in a very chastened voice and manner that he acquiesced in her suggestion that they return to the house.

He would have been astonished, as they walked silently in, had he known the very intense desire that consumed her, to kiss him.

From the funereal aspect of Roger's countenance, and the contented cheerfulness of Molly's, as they entered the room, Judith was able to surmise very shrewdly something of what had taken place. She ached to tell her doleful brother what, with true masculine obtuseness, he never in the world would guess.

Indoors, the evening dragged along, uneventful to the point of stupidity. There was a little excitement, not unmixed with acerbity, when Ned Alder, contrary to his usual habit, proved clever enough with the cards to add a not inconsiderable sum to his already swollen fortune. But his amazed joy was more than offset by Roger's patent depression and Molly's inexplicable apathy. Altogether it was not as successful a party, as it had given promise of being, and it broke up early.

As the adieus were being said, Judith realised that Good was missing. In the early part of the evening, he had wandered in and out, now watching the play, now chatting momentarily with someone who was free; but had finally disappeared. She could not believe that his unceremonious absence was permanent, although she knew that that was not impossible. So as soon as she could, after attending to the comfort of those who were to spend the night with her, she went in search of him.

But while she dallied, Tragedy was stalking in the Wynrod gardens, where only Comedy was meant to play.

Good, after those restless efforts to behave as a gentleman should behave, which Judith had noted, had betaken himself with his musings to the peaceful solitude of the garden. What was a commonplace to the others still bore a singular charm for him. He was content to smoke and dream and watch the shadows at their endless dance. He was vaguely tired, and it was very quiet.

But his peace was short. The sound of whispering voices came to him through the trees. At first he thought it only the rustling of the leaves. Then the sudden, strangled cry of a woman brought him to his feet, his heart pounding. For a moment he stood listening, every muscle in a tremble. The voices could be heard more clearly now, and they seemed to come from a small summer-house just behind him. He moved slowly toward it.

"I think we'll end this right here." He recognised the voice as Baker's, though unbelievably changed. The words seemed to come through clenched teeth. Another voice—a man's—made some reply, but the chatter of the crickets and the plashing of a fountain prevented him from catching what it was. He relaxed and was about to turn around, when that same agonised choking call smote his ears again. He hesitated no longer.

As he plunged into the little building a branch swayed in the breeze and the moonlight broke through. It revealed two men facing each other. One was Baker. His fist was raised and clenched. The other he could not place for a moment. Then it flashed upon him. He had seen him once before. It was Faxon.

"Now then—" Good's lean wrist shot forward. "Wait a bit." Baker struggled momentarily but futilely. Good was a powerful man when he chose to exert himself.

"Fine business, this," said Good as coolly as if he were inspecting a company on dress parade. "What's the excitement?" As he spoke he was conscious that there was a third person in the shelter, beside the two men—a woman. Then a gleam of light entered momentarily and he realised that it was Baker's wife. With a low whistle he turned to Faxon.

"I guess you'd better scoot," he said calmly, more as an order than as a suggestion. With a not very successful effort at nonchalance Faxon shrugged his shoulders and went out. As he passed Baker the latter moved convulsively, but Good's hand tightened on his arm. When Faxon had gone and was out of earshot, Good released his hold and sat down. Baker stood staring stonily at the figure disappearing in the hydrangeas. His wife, looking very frail and pitiful, had collapsed on the bench, her face buried in her arms. There was complete silence, save for her slow, painful sobbing.

"Well—" began Good hesitatingly. The other man turned sharply at the sound, his face a curious compound of wrath and weariness.

"Right on the job, aren't you?" he said, quietly enough, though his manner was coldly insulting. And when Good made no reply, he added, with a brutal sneer, "You ought to make a hit with this. Scandal in high life—with all the details. I suppose it'll be what you call a 'scoop,' won't it?"

"You think I'm that sort, do you?"

"Why shouldn't you? It's your business. I suppose you'd like my photograph and a signed statement?"

"Let it go at that," sighed Good. "That's my business. But to-night I'm off duty. I'm one of your fellow guests. I'm playing gentleman. Give me credit for being a good actor. I'll stay in the part."

"Have you anything else to say?" The question was put icily.

"Oh, cut the tragedy," said Good with a wave of his long hand. "I'm told you're a scrapper, my friend. Well, you're not going to show the yellow now, are you? It looks to me as if you had a first-class scrap on your hands now. What are you going to do—snivel—or get sore—or lie down—or ... what?"

When Baker made no answer, Good rose and stood looking thoughtfully at the pair, almost obliterated in the shadows, only the high-lights showing.

"I guess I'll go now," he said quietly. "This doesn't seem to be my party."

Then he laughed cheerfully. "Lucky my being here, wasn't it? You were staging great drama when I came in."

He turned from the doorway and looked back. A smile crept over his craggy features, tender, a little wistful. With a shrug he straightened his shoulders, and he was whistling as he walked away, his jerky movements casting grotesque shadows on the grass.

III

Judith did not press her search for Good very rapidly. The night, with the soft and pungent haze of Indian summer filling the air, and the drowsy moon bathing the gardens in argent mystery, cast their spell about her, and she lingered frequently. The crickets chirped like mad, snatches of distant music came faintly to her ears, and the gentle fragrance of the flowers filled her nostrils. It was on such a night, she reflected, that Imrie....

She found Good finally, more by accident than design, in a distant corner of the garden. He was hunched forward in his seat, and his head was on his chest. At first she thought him asleep. Then she heard him scratch a match. The momentary glow showed his brows drawn close together. It was a way he had, she knew, when his thoughts were troublesome.

"It's late, Mr. Good," she said.

"Hello," he cried, with a start. Then he recognised her. "Oh—everybody gone?"

"Yes—and sorry to miss you."

"Poppycock," he said succinctly.

"Don't you believe they were?"

His only reply was a short laugh—not pleasant. She changed the subject quickly.

"I never dreamed you could be so entertaining. You were the life of the party."

"A parakeet could do as well," he snapped. "This is a rather old pipe—mind it?"

"Of course not." His abrupt manner, so different from his former amiability, kept her silent. Nor did he make any effort to speak. He managed to make her feel that she was intruding. He seemed to want to be alone. That annoyed her.

"Mr. Good," she said sharply. "Just what is the matter with you?"

He made no attempt to deny or evade. That was not like him. But his reply was a little disconcerting, none the less.

"There's nothing the matter with me," he said slowly. "It's you—and they—and the whole darned system of things."

"I don't understand."

"I didn't think you would," he said ungraciously. "If you did you wouldn't wonder why I was out here with my old pipe."

"Won't you explain it to me then?" she asked gently. She realised that he was greatly perturbed about something. His very ungraciousness—so unlike him—betrayed him.

"I can't explain it. I don't think anybody can."

"Won't you try ... please?"

He smoked furiously for a moment, without replying. Then, with a sudden gesture, he emptied the ashes, with a sharp knock on his heel.

"Oh, don't bother about me, Miss Wynrod," he said, more softly. "I'm just sore because I ... oh, I should never have come out to-night."

"But you were so clever—you made such a hit...." She tried hard to follow him, but found it difficult.

"That isn't the point. You see, I didn't fit in. I was an outsider. I thought I was a picture when I left the city in—this." She noticed for the first time that his collar was unbuttoned, and his waistcoat thrown open. "But when I saw myself beside those other fellows... And then, the things at table. I was scared to death—all the time. You people can eat with a dozen forks and enjoy it. I can't. I'm not used to it. I...."

"But those things aren't important. You've told me so yourself."

"That's just it," he cried hotly. "They're not. But you—"

"I?"

"Oh, I don't mean you, personally—you—your class, your friends—make me feel as if they were important. Why should such little things make such a part of life? You and I are miles apart because of trifles. The big things, the real things, where are they? I'm your inferior because—because—I can't use an oyster fork. And yet I'm your equal in things that matter. I'm beneath—those—emptyheads, your friends. I used words they couldn't understand ... but I'm 'common.' They made me hate them—those nice people—hate the ground they tread...."

She was amazed at the intensity with which he spoke. She wanted to say something to calm him, but there seemed nothing to say. He sucked moodily for a moment on his empty pipe. Then his voice softened again.

"I oughtn't to talk this way about your friends—but it's hard for me not to be candid ... with you," he said quietly. "I've said my mind to you so uniformly, you know."

"Please do—always," she said seriously.

"I don't want you to feel that I'm bitter against these people personally—it's all for what they signify. Why should they be handsome and strong and well dressed and—have good manners ... and I have none of those things? They've had everything, and I—usually I'm a philosopher ... funny, isn't it, that a perfectly sound philosophy should get drowned in such a little thing as a finger-bowl."

"Why should we have all those things?" she asked thoughtfully, more to herself than to him. He turned around at that, and studied her.

"I've often wondered if you'd ever say that?" he said.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I've said it often—lately."

"And what is the answer?"

"I don't know."

"And that's the right one. Nobody does."

"It is unjust and wrong. I can't get away from that. But what to do—I don't know that."

"Go sell what thou hast ... and come follow me," said Good slowly, as if merely repeating a formula, and not caring whether she heard or not. It struck her as curious that that should have been the text of the first sermon she had ever heard Imrie preach.

"Suppose I did—give up all?" she asked.

He refilled and lighted his pipe before he replied.

"I've never wondered much about the young man who went away sad because he had great possessions," he said gently. "But I've wondered a lot what he did—afterwards. The book doesn't tell us that."

"I don't understand."

"It isn't being rich that counts, Miss Wynrod," he said with a passionate earnestness that she seldom saw in him, "it's what you do with your riches. That's the question you've got to ask yourself."

"Don't most rich people do that?" she asked.

"Some—yes. Most? Umm—I'm inclined to think—not."

"You think even those that do, get the wrong answer, don't you?"

"Mostly—yes."

His assurance vaguely irritated her. She put her question rather sharply.

"Mr. Good, if you were wealthy—oh, very wealthy—what would you do?"

"You think I've never thought of that?" he asked quizzically.

"Have you?"

"Indeed, yes. All my life, I guess. But am I suddenly made rich—or born with it?"

"Suddenly? No. You've had it always—and your father had it before you."

"Then I'd build fine homes and have many servants. I'd have automobiles and yachts and pictures and first editions. I'd contribute to political campaign funds, and give scholarships to my college, and build libraries and hospitals, and install rest rooms and gymnasiums and summer camps in my stores and factories. I'd be generous and upright, and when I died I would be very much respected and not a little loved."

There was an indefinable feeling of banter in his tone, which she found hard to explain. But she went on, hoping that he would explain it himself.

"And if it came to you suddenly?"

"I wouldn't give a cent to charity nor to hospitals nor libraries. And I'd lose all my friends, and probably be shot like a mad dog."

She was stunned with the vehemence of his curious words. But before she could speak he added suddenly, even more fervently.

"I'd live and die hated by those closest to me. But I'd buy the greatest jewel in the world, and I'd leave it to those who wouldn't possibly appreciate it."

"And what is that?" she asked in amazement.

"The truth," he said simply.

For a little while he sat smoking moodily, gazing off into space, busy with his dream. She sensed that she had struck the major chord in his heart, and she was silent too, out of a curious feeling of awe, as if she were in some innermost sanctuary. It was a moment vibrant with emotion. Then, with a rush, but in a tone that was very firm and business-like, he began to pour out his soul to her.

"What the world needs, Miss Wynrod, is not charity, not the kind of altruism that polishes off effects, but a force that will remove and eliminate causes. Money causes most of the evil in the world. Money can cure it. But it won't do to fill stomachs or even heads. When they die the job has to be done all over again. We've got to sweep the old world off the boards, and build a new one in its place. And the new world must be for all. The people must rule and be ruled. There are lots of panaceas on the market. There's the single tax—giving the land back to its owners—the people. That will help. But it's not enough. Then there's Socialism. I worked for a Socialist paper, but I wasn't a Socialist. Socialism isn't enough. It's too narrow, too material, too bigoted. It isn't spiritual enough. It isn't elastic enough. We don't want dogma, we want light. We don't want to stop exploitation. We want to tell the people how they're exploited. They'll stop it for themselves, when they know—when they know their own power. They've got to know what is going on in the world. Germs can't live in sunlight and oxygen. And the germs that cause poverty and disease and misery of all kinds can't live in the sunlight and the oxygen of publicity. Publicity, publicity, what magic would it wreak!" There was almost ecstasy in his voice, in the flicker of his eyes, fixed in space.

"But don't we have publicity—now?" she asked timidly, not wholly grasping the significance of his talk.

"Of a sort, yes," he admitted, "but not the kind I mean. Most of the avenues of publicity are the avenues for special pleaders. The owners of newspapers and magazines have axes to grind, they have policies—some good, some bad—always policies. They present what happens so as to bolster up some preconceived theory. That's not truth—it's propaganda."

"Is the press all dishonest?" she asked in surprise, somewhat tinged with irritation at what seemed like a crude generality.

"Not dishonest, no. The average newspaper would rather be honest than not. And those who wouldn't, find that honesty pays better than dishonesty. But they're honest about things that don't matter and silent about those that do."

"For instance—"

"Well, you remember our first meeting—how I came to interview you about the Algoma mine trouble?"

"I'm not likely to forget it," she said a little sadly.

"Well, what do you know about the situation there?"

"There was a little in the papers a month or so ago."

"And—"

"And?"

"Yes, isn't there something else?"

"Oh, you mean the letters from the directors?"

"Exactly. Your sources of information are first from those interested only in a 'story,' without much regard for getting to the disagreeable bottom, and second from those interested in getting a verdict for their own side."

"Is there any other source?"

"There is. Congress sent a special investigating committee out there—"

"What did it find?"

"The question proves my point. The findings of that committee are buried away in bulky volumes that nobody sees, while the world is fed half on fiction and half on lies."

"Why don't the newspapers tell us what's in those bulky volumes?"

"Because," he said, with ineffable dejection, as if trying to answer a question that he knew he could not answer, "it wouldn't be interesting—and it wouldn't pay."

"Must everything in a newspaper pay?" she demanded.

"That's what newspapers are run for," he said sadly. "They've got to pay—pay—always to pay...."

His voice trailed off into a whisper, and he sat silent. She tried to win him back to the theme upon which he had talked so earnestly, and which had stirred her more than she realised. But as if fearful that he had not been understood, he proved obdurate. Finally he rose and held out his hand.

"I must say good night and good-bye, Miss Wynrod. I will not see you in the morning. I must take the early train. It was good of you to ask me out to-night. I'm sorry I couldn't seem more—more—appreciative."

A thought flashed across her mind as they walked slowly back to the house.

"You will come and see me—occasionally?" she asked, as they stood on the terrace.

"Why should you want me to?" he said quizzically, looking at her in a curiously searching way.

"Because—because—well...." she floundered, unable to put in words precisely what she felt.

"Because I tell you things?" he put in for her. That clarified her answer.

"No," she said thoughtfully. "Because you say things I've only thought. You see, I've read more than most people give me credit for," she added somewhat irrelevantly.

He studied her from beneath his heavy eyebrows.

"Keep on, my friend," he said very slowly. "Keep on thinking. And then ... act. There are great deeds before you—noble, shining deeds ... if you'll only do them. Yes, some day I shall come again, and we shall talk further upon these matters ... and then—perhaps—who knows what may come of it?" He finished dreamily.

As he took her hand and held it, she sensed a tender smile upon his lips, and a half uttered question in his eyes. But he said no word. He was almost out of sight in the darkness when a thought flashed across her mind. She called him back.

"Mr. Good ... why didn't Roger drink anything to-night? Have you any idea?"

"Yes," he said simply. "I told him ... what it did to me."