Criss-Cross, the Chamberlain country place, was two hours out by a fast train. Mrs. Chamberlain had been dead a number of years and Gladys presided over her father's establishment with the ease of careful training and the assurance of an only child.

She met Stephanie at the station when the latter arrived late that afternoon, and they drove back to Criss-Cross by a round-about way that stretched the two miles into twenty—during which Gladys learned all the happenings of the last week in town, particularly the present attitude of the Queen P's and their followers, resultant from Lorraine's accident and Stephanie's behaviour incident thereto with the prospect of their reconciliation.

"Marcia Emerson seems to be an exceedingly nice girl," Stephanie observed. "Two years have done wonders for her."

Gladys nodded.

"Marcia is a dear!" she replied. "She's a good sport in everything, and she is something to look at besides. The two years that you were away have made her. I don't blame the men for being crazy about her. The only drawback she has is her mother. She's a pusher. She thinks she's put Marcia in society, whereas Marcia has come in naturally, and the old lady rides on her train, so to speak. I can't abide Mrs. Emerson! To me she has about every obnoxious fault of her class. Old Emerson is not half so bad; he is honest and amusing—and the men like him, I understand. I've asked Marcia down to-morrow, for the week-end—you don't mind, I hope."

"Not in the least—if she doesn't mind me," said Stephanie.

"She knows you are to be here. Mrs. Emerson, however, may throw a fit when she knows it!" Gladys laughed.

"Is any one else coming?" Stephanie asked.

"Just a few—your friends, of course: Dorothy Tazewell, and Helen Burleston, with Montague Pendleton, Sheldon Burgoyne, Warwick Devereux and Steuart Cameron. Two tables of Auction, you know—and plenty of go to the crowd."

"Mayn't I be a wet blanket?" Stephanie suggested.

"Why?" was the astonished query.

"Do they also know I'm coming? They may not care to be housed up with me for two days."

"Sure they know. You're too timid, my dear—when did it come on you?"

"Abroad, I reckon," Stephanie replied. "I appear cold and calm enough, but it's all bluff, Gladys. The truth is, I'm scared to death."

"I shouldn't care to pick you for a dead one!" Gladys laughed. "You have a way about you, my dear, that is rather chilling when you choose to make it so. You know what we used to call you—The Disconcerter."

"That was before I——" she paused. "Now I'm the one who is disconcerted—inwardly at least."

"Assuredly it's not outwardly," Gladys declared.

"I hope it isn't—but you never can tell when I shall fail to carry it off. I am always thinking—whenever I'm talking to anyone or walking the street—what must be in the other's mind: Amherst and me."

"Forget it, Stephanie—forget it!" Gladys exclaimed.

"I only wish I could."

"Don't think of it."

"I don't believe it's possible."

"Make it possible."

"How?"

"By making yourself interested in some one else—and some one else interested in you."

Stephanie looked at her friend with an incredulous smile.

"The latter ought not to be especially difficult," Gladys went on—"as to the former, it depends upon yourself."

"Would you suggest a married man?" Stephanie asked.

"Married or single, it makes no difference; though the single man is unattached and easier to make obey orders."

"And what of Lorraine?"

"Lorraine isn't worth considering—he doesn't count."

"I grant you that, but——"

"Oh, I know, you're tied by law—but you're free in fact."

"Perhaps!" reflected Stephanie.

"Moreover, there is no earthly reason why you should let Lorraine interfere with your enjoyment of life," Gladys went on. "I assume that you don't intend to repeat the—other experiment—so why shouldn't you do as you please, so long as that pleasure doesn't transgress the proprieties."

"You know I was at the Hospital?" said Stephanie.

"Yes—the night of the accident."

"And again to-day."

"I call it very considerate in you," Gladys declared.

"Maybe you don't know that Harry has offered to take me back."

"I didn't know it—but I'm not surprised. He always is doing things too late. You're not going back?"

Stephanie shook her head.

"No—I'm not going back—ever," said she.

"Have you told him?"

"Yes—before the accident, not since."

"He is just silly enough to fancy that his mishap and your visits to the Hospital have changed your decision," Gladys remarked.

"Not likely. My visits were very brief and—calm."

"The Disconcerter!" Gladys laughed.

"I tried to be—distant," Stephanie confessed.

"Then you succeeded—I can't imagine anyone presuming after that."

"The difficulty is you are not Mr. Lorraine."

"To my mind the whole difficulty is Lorraine himself," Gladys declared. "If he were half a man your trouble never would have started. You were about as well fitted for each other as—pardon me—an eagle and a chicken. The only thing surprising is the length of time you hung together. Of course, it's a pity you didn't select some other way out—but I don't know that it's not the natural way, after all. Only——"

"Why did I choose Amherst, you mean?" remarked Stephanie quietly. "I don't exactly know. Propinquity, opportunity—perversity—especially the last."

"But more especially because he is a slick-tongued scoundrel with the odor of eminent respectability and a perfectly fascinating way with women," said Gladys.

They were mounting a steep hill. Near the crest, she threw quickly into second; and when they were over it went back again into high.

"What started us on this subject anyway?" she exclaimed. "I beg your pardon, dear—I never thought what I was saying."

"Nonsense!" smiled Stephanie. "I don't mind in the least—with you. Truth is, I rather like it. Harry Lorraine is nothing to me—and never can be. I'm not sensitive because he happens to be my husband. My poor judgment in making him such is too apparent for me to deny that I was a fool—neither can I deny that I took the worst possible way out of a bad bargain by running away with Amherst. I admit I've been headstrong and willful and everything else idiotic. That possibly is my saving grace—my readiness to admit it—after it is too late. I suppose Society will consider him marvellously magnanimous in offering to take me back, and me a stupendously silly woman in declining. In fact, it won't believe that such a thing is possible. It already assumes that a reconciliation is to be effected. Mrs. Postlewaite was willing to speak to me to-day, and Mrs. Porterfield actually did bow."

"You are coming along!" Gladys laughed. "The Queen P's having indicated—it is for their followers to do likewise."

"What will they do, however, when they know the truth?" Stephanie inquired.

"Stampede—if they haven't committed themselves too far."

"They haven't—it was a tentative recognition only."

"It's perfectly absurd for two old women to set themselves up as the absolute arbiters of who shall be in it, and what shall be done to stay in—and for Society as a class to follow them abjectly," Gladys declared. "They are the high priestesses of the Conventional; and it's the fear of transgressing and being cast into outer darkness that holds every one to their narrow-minded ritual. I'm ashamed for my sex—they're so like sheep. They follow blindly after the leaders who in turn follow their fetish, the Customary; and it's useless to hope for a change. We've always done it; I reckon we always will do it—and those of us who aren't tractable and won't submit are viewed with suspicion, and may be driven without the fold if we transgress too far. I'm thinking of starting a society of my own, in which the members will attend to their own business so long as they don't interfere with property rights. I'm inclined to think it would be mighty popular—especially among the younger set."

"There isn't a doubt of it," Stephanie agreed, with an amused smile. "Suppose we suggest it to the rest—the Order of Do as You Please—we will call it."

"You don't need suggest it to the men—they belong already. No one controls them. I wish I were a man!"

"You do quite well as you are—and are a lot more worth while," said Stephanie. "You can get a dozen men, my dear. Which one have you picked out for yourself, in the present instance?"

"I hadn't thought!" she laughed. "Pendleton is for you, of course—that is all I know now."

"Why of course?" said Stephanie.

"You can answer that better than I."

"Not your reasons, my dear."

"Do you object to Montague being allotted to you?" Gladys asked, with a sly smile.

"Not in the least——"

"And do you fancy he will have the slightest objection?"

"You will have to ask him."

"I'm asking for your opinion, not for his."

"Montague is very adaptable," Stephanie remarked.

"Adaptable!" cried Gladys. "He may be now—he hasn't been in the recent past. Your influence has evidently been softening—I shouldn't have thought of asking him if it hadn't been for you."

"Thank Heaven, I've a softening influence on some one," said Stephanie.

"Without a doubt—yes."

They were starting down a long, steep and winding grade. She cut off the spark, threw into second and opening the throttle let the gas shoot into the cylinders to cool the engine.

"My recommendation that you get some one interested in you is rather unnecessary under the circumstances, don't you think?" she remarked.

"How about my getting interested in some one?" Stephanie inquired.

"On second thought, it is not necessary—and it is better that you shouldn't. You can handle Pendleton much more easily if your affections are not engaged—except in a rational way."

"You might explain what you would call a 'rational way'!"

"I can't be specific!" Gladys laughed; "rationality depends on the circumstances of every case—and the individual view."

"Which is a trifle difficult to analyze," Stephanie remarked.

"Don't you wish to have Montague assigned to you?" the other demanded. "I'll give him to Dorothy, if you don't—she will be content."

"Won't you have some trouble in giving Montague to anybody—unless he's entirely willing to be given?" Stephanie smiled. "He isn't one to stay put, I fancy—whose place is this?" she ended, indicating a garish country-house, some little distance back from the road. "It is new, isn't it?"

"As new as the people who own it," Gladys answered. "The Woodsides live there. They belong to the Pushers Clique—and they are trying to pry their way through the outer portals. I don't like them."

"So I should infer," said Stephanie. "Who are their friends?"

"They haven't any—yet. They're trying to get in—nobody has any friends until they're in, my dear—and not many after they're in. They're pirates until the second generation."

"Do they belong to the Club?"

"Yes—that's no recommendation now."

"I think I don't know them!" Stephanie reflected.

"Of course you don't. They came up from the weeds recently—along with Porshinger and Murchison and Berryman and their ilk."

"Who are Porshinger and Murchison?" Stephanie asked.

"Bounders. Plenty of money and an unlimited supply of brass. You know the sort. They are friends of the Woodsides and are down here very often. You may be afforded a view of them to-morrow."

"I saw them to-day—they spoke to Marcia Emerson as we were leaving Partridge's."

"Well, did you see much?" remarked Gladys.

"I saw two men—well groomed and superficially presentable."

"You saw it all then—you won't care to go deeper."

"You say they have money?"

"Great wads of it."

"What is their business?"

"Capitalists and professional directors," Gladys replied. "They are on about every important Board in town—including the Tuscarora Trust Company."

"Where did they make it?"

"Oil—principally and first. Afterward they made it everywhere. I think they must coin it, to tell you the truth. If you sold them a piece of swamp and scrub oak, gold would be discovered on it the next day. They're buying their way into Society; already they seem to regard it as an asset to be realized on. It is only a matter of time until they capitalize it, issue bonds on it, and have the stock for their own profit—you understand?"

"Not exactly!" laughed Stephanie, "but I catch your idea: They are exceedingly objectionable and offensively rich."

"Exactly!—and not a lot more beside. They are worse than bounders, they're muckers. That is about the meanest, most contemptible thing one man can call another, isn't it?"

It was easy to see that Gladys reflected her father's opinion of Porshinger and Murchison, and it disturbed Stephanie. If one of Mr. Chamberlain's disposition so considered them, then, beyond question, they were a bad lot and she must warn Montague at the earliest moment. She could not understand how Pendleton and she had offended—when she had not even so much as a recollection of ever having seen them before to-day. And it was a joint offence, at least she was joined in it someway, for they had distinctly mentioned her name and included her in their meditated revenge—that is, Porshinger had included her, Murchison, as she remembered, had been against it.

"This Mr. Porshinger," she said—"is he particularly vindictive?"

"Vindictive?" was Gladys' puzzled interrogation.

"That is a bit strong, maybe. Unforgiving—unrelenting, is better."

"Why do you ask?" the other inquired.

"I just wanted to know."

"So one would naturally suppose," said Gladys. "However, I did hear a man, whom I consider thoroughly discriminating, say one day recently that he regarded Porshinger as vindictive as an Apache and as cruel, without conscience and without mercy. Is that sufficiently definite?"

"Appallingly so!" Stephanie replied.

"Do you mind telling me who has fallen under his displeasure?"

"I have."

"You!" cried Gladys. "Why you said you didn't even know him—that you had never seen him before to-day."

"Precisely!"

"Then will you tell me what you mean?"

"I will tell you what I was told—you can help me guess what it means," she answered.

And she told her.

"It surely is astonishing!" was Gladys' comment when she had heard Stephanie's tale. "It's true to the worst they say about him—to strike at a man through a woman! or rather to strike at you because somehow you are involved in the injury which Montague appears to have done him. Tell Montague at once—he will know what it means and he should be warned. Can't you imagine what it is?"

"I haven't an idea," said Stephanie.

"Strange!" reflected Gladys, with a serious shake of her head. "You are intimately concerned, it seems, and yet you haven't done a thing. Well, we shall have to wait for Montague to solve the riddle."

She surmised that it had something to do with Stephanie's return—that she was the casus belli—but she did not suggest it. And Stephanie, while thinking the same, did not voice it; it seemed too far fetched. Moreover, it was predicated on Pendleton's voluntary defense of her in her absence. And the latter, she thought, would be assuming much more than the circumstances warranted, and would make her appear exceedingly well satisfied of his regard.

"You're very fortunate to have been warned thus early," Gladys continued. "Montague will have time to prepare—at least, he won't be taken completely unawares. Father knows Porshinger in business, and he says that if a man gets the best of him to the extent of a nickel, he will square off though it takes a year. Of course I know that a man's method in business isn't necessarily carried into his private life, but Porshinger does not come under that class."

"How about Murchison?" Stephanie asked.

"Not quite so bad—he is rather better mannered and has more feeling. The conversation that Marcia detailed illustrates the difference between the men, I should say. Murchison was for letting well enough alone—which only seemed to make Porshinger the more determined."

"On the whole, Porshinger must be a very pleasant fellow to have camping on one's trail!" smiled Stephanie. "I'm curious to hear Montague's opinion."

"I'd rather hear him express it to a man—it would likely be a trifle more picturesque!" Gladys laughed.

"What can Porshinger do?" Stephanie asked.

"What can't he do with all his money and financial influence! God is on the side of the heaviest bank account."

"All things being equal, I grant it; but there is a wide difference between Montague Pendleton and Charles Porshinger as men—and I've faith in the blood. It will win, Gladys, it will win."

"Blood doesn't count for much in these automobile pace days," Gladys responded. "It is the money that talks."

"Blood counts for much in such a contest."

"Not where money is the basis of everything except eligibility to hereditary societies of the self-glorification stripe."

"You're too pessimistic!" laughed Stephanie.

"My dear, you haven't a father who is an officer in the Tuscarora Trust Company—and you haven't seen the men who visit him. It's a sad commentary on what we are coming to—and the elevation of the parvenu. Let's change the subject. I'm becoming excited; the next thing I'll ditch the car, or run into a telegraph pole."

"Heaven forefend!" exclaimed Stephanie.

A little later, as they spun down the macadam near the Criss-Cross gates, they passed a station-wagon drawn by a spanking pair of bays.

The man in it took off his hat and bowed.

"There is Porshinger now!" said Stephanie.

Gladys nodded. "He has come out to spend the night at the Woodsides', I reckon—it's their conveyance."