"My offer to include Porshinger in the party rather met with opposition!" Gladys laughed, as she and Stephanie sat alone together in the farmer's boudoir that night. She balanced her slipper on one silken toe and surveyed it critically. "I thought Sheldon Burgoyne would choke and that Warwick Devereux would have a fit. As for Montague Pendleton, one never can tell from his manner whether he is sitting on a red hot stove, a piece of ice—or an easy chair. Though my private opinion is that he liked it the least of any of them."

"No, you never can tell by Montague's manner," Stephanie agreed. "It is always severely indifferent outwardly, and no one ever gets behind the scenes—with him."

"No one—but Stephanie Lorraine!" Gladys smiled, "and she won't tell. In fact, you two are much alike in temperament—the calmly placid sort on the surface, and the devil knows how turbulent underneath."

"You flatter me indeed," Stephanie replied, drawing one gleaming coppery braid slowly through her fingers. "I consider it a very great compliment to be likened to Montague, even in a little thing."

The other looked at her speculatively a bit, drumming the while with slow fingers on the dressing table in front of her. Stephanie, with a dreamy, absent air, continued drawing the braid back and forth against her cheek.

"It's a pity!" reflected Gladys thoughtfully.

Stephanie continued to toy with her braid and did not seem to hear.

"It's a pity," Gladys repeated.—"A grievous pity that you didn't marry Montague Pendleton—instead of Harry Lorraine."

"It's more than a pity—it's a calamity," replied Stephanie imperturbably.

"Why don't you marry him now?" Gladys demanded.

"Simply because it's contrary to the law of the land for a woman to have two husbands at the same time. Harry Lorraine happens still to be alive."

"Why don't you get a divorce?"

"I haven't any cause—and he hasn't any pluck."

"You can go to Reno," Gladys suggested.

"What will Reno accomplish—if he opposes it! Moreover, I don't want a Reno divorce. I should never feel that I was divorced."

Gladys smiled and was silent.

"It is better than Amherst and six months in Europe, you are thinking," Stephanie added. "And you're quite right; that was hell—perfect hell."

Gladys picked up her hand-glass and studied her face in an impersonal way—as though it were the face of a stranger.

"And you think," she said presently, "it would be a heaven with Pendleton?"

"By comparison, yes—a perfect heaven," was the answer.

"You would be willing to risk it?"

Stephanie ceased playing with her braid, and leaning forward took a cigarette from the case on the table.

"Yes, I should be willing to risk it," she replied,—"if he were to ask me—and Lorraine were out of the way."

"I think," said Gladys, laying aside the mirror and drawing her slender feet up under her, "I think he will ask you, if Lorraine gets out of the way in a reasonable time. But you mustn't expect him to wait forever—a man is a fickle beast at best, you know."

"Beast is an appropriate term for most men!" Stephanie exclaimed.—"But it doesn't apply to Montague."

"Possibly it doesn't—you never can tell, however, until you've lived with a man and tried him."

"Montague is a dear!" Stephanie declared.

"Of course he is a dear, a perfect dear," her friend agreed—"and you are not taking much of a chance, but there is a chance."

"He would be taking an infinitely greater chance," said Stephanie.

"He would be taking no chance whatever."

"With my past?"

"Your past is what warrants you—you have been tried in the fire and all the dross fused out of you. I would rather trust you now than—myself."

"You think that all the bad is out?"

"I do, indeed!"

"I wish I were so sure of it," Stephanie mused.

Gladys laughed softly.

"You are sure of it, dear. Montague Pendleton himself couldn't drag you out of the straight and narrow—and that even though you were to love him madly." She got up and going over perched herself on the other's chair-arm. "Forget the past—your friends have forgotten it. Be thankful that it is the past—and that once more the sun is shining. You have those who are devoted to you, and you have—Montague."

Stephanie drew the other down and kissed her.

"Maybe I have him!" she smiled. "You said that I have him for a reasonable time—that man is a fickle beast at best."

"The reasonable time varies with the man!" Gladys smiled back. "With Montague Pendleton it is likely to be forever. He loved you, I think, before your marriage—he loves you still. Isn't that an assurance of the future?—Now let us get back to the Porshinger matter. I didn't telephone—I wanted to discuss the invitation with you. I know that Mrs. Woodside is absent and he's simply down with Woodside, so we could ask him well enough. And, on the whole, I think it would not be a bad scheme. You're afraid of him for Montague, as well as for yourself. He is a climber, with enormous wealth and power—and he's coming over the wall, so why not assist him? He will be grateful and it may cause him to relent. He will know that if he injures Montague he will injure his chances for Society. Moreover, the sooner we start to draw his fangs the better it will be for you two."

"I don't think Montague will approve," said Stephanie. "I told him Marcia Emerson's story, and he laughed at my fears—though admitting there had been a difficulty and that I had to do with it. Then I also told him of the walk with Porshinger and of Overton's bull; and while he didn't say much, I could see that he didn't like it."

"All of which goes to prove his affection for you—if you doubt it," Gladys remarked.

Stephanie smiled an answer but did not voice it—and Gladys put her arm around her friend's neck and was silent also for a moment.

Presently she said:

"Was Montague actually averse to Porshinger's being asked to Criss-Cross?"

"In a mild sort of way, yes—but nothing vehement, I assure you."

"It isn't Montague's way to be vehement," Gladys observed. "At any rate, I think we'll try the experiment. I'll ask him over to-morrow in time for tea, explaining that we need another man—and so boost him up the wall a bit. We can size up the situation—his amenability to kind treatment principally—and if it's not promising we need go no further with him. But I'm inclined to the notion that being nice to him will be exceedingly effective. He impressed you as well-mannered and fairly agreeable, didn't he?"

Stephanie nodded. "So far as I could judge superficially he is no different from the men we've known always. I found him very pleasant and courteous. Whether it was natural with him or only company manners I didn't try to find out."

"Naturally not.—Well, we'll turn the wild animal loose among the tame ones and see what happens. We can at least enjoy the fun.—You don't object, my dear?"

"Not in the least!" Stephanie laughed.

* * * * * * *

The following morning Woodside came out on his piazza, a queer look on his face.

"You're wanted on the telephone," said he to Porshinger, who was sitting looking out over the valley.

"Mr. Porshinger, this is Miss Chamberlain," said a particularly sweet voice, when he had answered.

"Yes, Miss Chamberlain, how do you do?" said he.

"I want to know if you won't come over to Criss-Cross this afternoon and join us at tea, and stay for dinner and the night? Mr. Woodside has been exceedingly nice and says he will excuse you—now you be equally nice and come, won't you?"

"Why certainly, certainly—I shall be delighted," Porshinger responded; "but I can't stay the night. I'm going back to town on the midnight train. I must be there early in the morning."

"That's very good of you—we shall be glad to have you for the evening—at five o'clock then—good bye, Mr. Porshinger!"

Porshinger hung up the receiver and went slowly out to Woodside, who was smoking like a chimney.

The latter glanced at him with a shrewd smile.

"Getting on, aren't you?" he remarked.

"I don't know whether I'm getting on or getting under," Porshinger replied.

"You're getting both, I should say. It won't be long until they have you under hack with the rest of the men."

"You think so?"

"I'm perfectly sure of it—you'll be so satisfied to be in that you'll eat out of their hands. You may be the devil in business and the stock market—also adamant—but you'll be an innocent little lamb and a wax baby in the women's game. They won't pick your pockets—oh no! you'll hand out everything you have and hustle for more to give them—and do it cheerfully."

"You seem to be wise!" Porshinger retorted.

"I am wiser than you, at any rate. You've been too absorbed in acquiring money to give any time to the petticoats—except those of a certain kind, and you don't learn anything from them but bargain and sale. You have a new experience coming, old man, a new experience! These people don't care a damn for your money——"

"Then why am I asked?" Porshinger interrupted.

"Because you're wanted—for some other reason."

"Hum!" said Porshinger. "Maybe I'm wanted to play the clown."

"It is entirely possible!" laughed Woodside: "though a likelier guess would be that they want to inspect you—to size you up, and to try you out, and to play Auction with you. However, you've got two of them at an advantage—that kiss on the piazza last night ought to be good for something."

Porshinger blew a cloud of smoke high in the air and watched it whirl away on the morning breeze.

"It ought to make the fair widow—Mrs. Lorraine, I mean; I'm always thinking of her as a widow—more—obliging," his host commented.

"You're a bit of a beast, Woodside!" Porshinger observed.

"Oh, I don't know!" was the response. "When it comes to that there isn't much choice between us, Charlie, old boy. You know perfectly well it's her face and figure that's the attraction."

"Well, do you blame me?"

"Hell, no!—I rather envy you the chance."

"The chance of what?" asked Porshinger.

"The chance to improve on acquaintance. You have accepted, I presume?"

Porshinger nodded. "If you will excuse me."

"Sure—delighted to facilitate your campaign."

There was just a suspicion of mockery in the words—and Porshinger detected it.

"So you think it is a campaign when one tries to know new people?" he inquired.

"I wouldn't put it just that way!" was the laughing reply.

"What?"

"I shouldn't call the Chamberlains and their house-party new people."

"Don't be absurd; you know what I meant. There are circles within circles in Society, and——"

"We are in one of the outer circles and aiming to climb into the inner ones, I understand. Miss Chamberlain's invitation is a big boost for you—if you make good. If you don't make good, you are in for a nasty tumble. Query:—Are you invited that you may tumble, or are you invited that you may climb—in plain words, are they making sport of you or are they not?"

"I scarcely think that they will make sport of me!" Porshinger laughed. "I'm not accustomed to being used that way. Moreover, they are too well bred. Our intimates might do it, Woodside, but not these people. That is why I'm for climbing the fence—understand?"

"Pooh!" Woodside scoffed. "They are no different from other people, except that they think they're more exclusive."

"And think it so successfully that every one who is outside wants inside—yourself among them, my friend, yourself among them."

"I don't give a damn for them!" Woodside declared.

"Maybe you don't—but Mrs. Woodside does—and you do too, if you'd be honest. Everyone does, Josh, everyone does. It's a humanly universal failing. Let some set themselves up as particularly exclusive and the rest are wild to get in with them."

"Hell!" muttered Woodside.

The two men smoked a while in silence—then Woodside spoke.

"It's mighty queer," he said, "and altogether lucky for you."

Porshinger raised his eyes and waited inquiringly.

"Altogether lucky!" the other repeated. "You back out of a 'happen in' yesterday, and receive a 'come-in' to-day. Can you explain it?"

"I can't explain it—unless it is the result of my walk with Mrs. Lorraine, yesterday morning. However, I'm frank to say that I didn't play a particularly heroic part in the bull episode; so unless I made an impression otherwise I reckon that isn't it."

"Has Miss Chamberlain been especially friendly before this?" Woodside asked.

"Not at all."

"How about the others at Criss-Cross?"

Porshinger shook his head.

"Might it be old Chamberlain?"

"Possibly—but I think not. He never allows business to dictate his friends, I understand."

"Good thing when you can afford it!—Well, there must be some reason for asking you."

"A particularly sage observation. Button! button! who has the button?"

"Butt in! butt in! you're the butt in!" amended Woodside.

"Get out!" laughed Porshinger, flinging a magazine at him. "I haven't an idea what is the reason, but I'm perfectly sure it won't be declared this trip, and possibly never. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Josh."

"Better be sure it is a gift horse," was the answer. "However, you for it, my friend—it's your funeral, not mine."

"I'm going to it a pretty live corpse."

"You'll need to be very much alive, I take it. I should be afraid of that gang. They're so damn dignified and unobtrusive in their self-assurance. You can't tell what they are playing for nor how. As I said before, you're a wonder for business but you're in the novice class in this woman's game. You have my best wishes, my friend—also my prayers. You don't care for the prayers? Oh, very well."

At the same hour on the piazza of Criss-Cross, Gladys Chamberlain confided to her guests that Porshinger was coming to them at five o'clock.

"Any objections?" she inquired, looking at Devereux.

"Plenty of them!" he answered; "but I'll save them for an exclusively masculine audience."

"How about you, Steuart?" she asked.

"Same here!" replied Cameron.

She turned to Burgoyne. "And you?"

"Ditto!" said he.

"Really I am overcome by such gratifying unanimity!" she laughed. "You too, Montague, I suppose?"

"Not at all," Pendleton answered. "I'm in the hands of my hostess."

"Which is exceedingly polite but means nothing," Cameron explained.

"It was meant to mean nothing," Devereux interrupted.

"Was it, Montague?" Gladys asked.

"It was meant to mean whatever you wish," said Pendleton. "Whatever is agreeable to you is my desire. If you wish Porshinger what have we to say or to do—except to be agreeable?"

"Oh, certainly—Miss Chamberlain knows that we'll be agreeable!" Devereux exclaimed—"also that we do object to Porshinger. What is the use of spoiling a particularly congenial crowd by having a bounder run in on us?—However—orders are orders. We'll turn out the guard to receive him and do him full reverence for your dear sake, Gladys." He tossed his cigarette away and arose, "Miss Emerson, I have the honor to ask you to go for a stroll—wilt come, sweetheart, wilt come?"

"Coming, dearest, coming!" laughed Marcia. "Tarry only until I get a sunshade."

"At the foot of the steps, I will await you. Haste, little one, haste, I pray."

"You will be back for luncheon, I presume?" Gladys called after them, as they went down the walk.

"Not if I can persuade the beauteous lady to elope with me," replied Devereux. "Otherwise, we shall be back—and hungry."

"What is the reason for this unusual tack of Gladys?" Burgoyne asked Pendleton in an undertone.

"You mean as to Porshinger?"

"Of course."

"Friendship and interest, I presume," Pendleton answered.

"Bosh!" said Burgoyne. "What is it—do you know?"

"I told you: friendship and interest—in Mrs. Lorraine?—and incidentally in your humble servant."

"Good enough! but just where does it come in, please—what does it consist in?"

"In drawing his fangs—Porshinger's fangs."

Burgoyne looked puzzled.

"You remember our little fracas with Porshinger and Murchison up at the Club some time ago?" said Pendleton.

"Sure—that is what makes his coming here embarrassing—though they both have utterly ignored it since."

"Only outwardly. Porshinger has threatened vengeance on Stephanie and me, it seems. The women heard of it—Gladys and Stephanie, that is—and have a scheme to propitiate him, the first course of which is this invitation to Criss-Cross. Subsequent courses will depend on how this one goes down with all concerned. It's nonsense, certainly, but as he can injure Stephanie, if he sets himself to do it, I don't feel justified in opposing it."

"The infernal scoundrel!" Burgoyne exclaimed. "Do you actually think he contemplates taking his revenge on a woman?"

"To be quite candid, I don't know. However, judging from his business methods, he is mean enough for anything."

"Can he reach you?"

"If he should try, yes—he has sufficient power, with his enormous wealth and its ramifications, to reach almost any one in some way or by some means."

"He is a good hater, I've always understood," said Burgoyne.

"I'm not alarmed," Pendleton answered.

"Doesn't he include me in his revenge?"

"In the story Stephanie told me your name was not mentioned. Moreover, you'll remember that you trimmed Murchison, while I did for Porshinger."

"I don't like it—I mean this invitation. The women are lending themselves to—placate the rotten beast."

"Nor I," Pendleton returned; "but just because Stephanie is involved, I dare not protest. Gladys says Porshinger is going to get in anyway—it is only a matter of a short time, and that the end justifies the means. I made light to Stephanie of their apprehension, but nevertheless it is serious. It was a grievous blunder to begin that fight—and Porshinger knows he can even up with us best, and hurt us most, by injuring Stephanie. If he can knife me also, so much the better."

"I don't like it!" Burgoyne reiterated.

"On the other hand," Pendleton continued, "Stephanie says, and Gladys supports her in it, that if she is nice to him, in an ordinary acquaintance way, he may get a change of heart."

"I doubt it."

"So do I—but she has the right to her opinion and to act on it."

"More than likely she will only injure herself by being nice to the cur," said Burgoyne. "Are you sure she isn't doing this on your account, Pendleton?"

"No, I'm not sure," he answered. "I've tried to disabuse her mind of the notion that he can hurt me, but I don't know how successful I've been."

"Hum!" Burgoyne thought. "You never can tell what fool ideas a woman has—when she cares for a man."

* * * * * * *

At five o'clock Porshinger drove up to Criss-Cross in the Woodsides' car. A servant took his bag, and another showed him up to the west piazza, where tea was being served.

"I'm so glad to see you, Mr. Porshinger!" exclaimed Gladys, with a welcoming smile that fell on fruitful soil. "You know every one, I believe."

Porshinger did not know everyone, but everyone greeted him as though he did. The women smiled and nodded, the men "how-are-you-Porshingered" him in the careless fashion of their kind, and went on with their talk and high-balls.

"Rye or Scotch—or will you have some tea?" asked Miss Chamberlain, pointing to a vacant chair beside her.

"I'll have some rye, if I may," Porshinger answered.

"Help yourself—they're on the side-table there."

He helped himself and returned to her. She met him with just the word needed to start the conversation and the moment was relieved of embarrassment. Then she picked out a topic mutually negative and sufficiently interesting, and they tossed it lightly back and forth.

Presently Cameron glanced over and broke in.

"Possibly Mr. Porshinger can tell us," he said—"Do you know whether Betheson has sailed yet for China to take up those railroad concessions he has succeeded in financing?"

"I'm not sure," Porshinger answered. "I think he was to sail this week—I understand that he arranged for the money in New York and started at once."

"The Tuscarora didn't get aboard then?"

"No—we were offered the underwriting but we didn't fancy going so far away. It looked like a good thing, however."

"So Betheson thought!" Devereux smiled.

"He will likely make a pot of money out of it," Burgoyne chimed in.

"If he doesn't spend two pots in the attempt," added Pendleton.

"Which is altogether possible—and has been known to happen!" Porshinger laughed.

And so, the ice being broken, the talk became general.

The men, for courtesy's sake, tried to treat Porshinger as one of them—and succeeded in making him feel reasonably easy. They could not quite make him forget the fact that he was not one of them, but that was something beyond their power. Politeness can do much, but it cannot reach far enough to make one feel an insider, who knows that he is an outsider. However, they did their best, which was very considerable; and Porshinger realized it—which was to his credit.

After a while the women went off to dress, and presently the men threw away their cigars and betook themselves to their rooms.

Porshinger having bathed and shaved, got leisurely into his evening clothes, and then drew a chair close beside the window.

Woodside's place was visible a mile away—perched on the side of a hill among the huge forest trees. It looked calm and quiet and peaceful, and he wondered if he would not be better there than where he was: among strangers—an uncongenial interloper to them, a conscious intruder to himself. They had been very courteous, very kind, very considerate. Miss Chamberlain had been particularly hospitable. Mrs. Lorraine—he smiled in contemplation—Mrs. Lorraine was entrancing—Mrs. Lorraine would bear cultivating—Mrs. Lorraine would—he shook himself and sat up. Mrs. Lorraine was occupying too much of his thoughts. His was a campaign for social recognition first—and if Pendleton and Burgoyne were well disposed and inclined to forget the past, he might be willing also to forget.... Mrs. Lorraine looked particularly well this afternoon!—never had he realized what a superb figure was hers!—how exquisitely proportioned!—how winning her face behind its cold loveliness!—what a charming foot and ankle! She—he got up sharply. What was the matter with him? Was he actually getting interested in this coming divorcÉe—did she appeal only to his senses? Then, like a flash, came the recollection of the scene on the piazza the night before—and he laughed a little mockingly. He would be but one of them. The fruit had been already tasted by Amherst and Pendleton—and the Lord knows how many others. At present it was Pendleton—next month it might be he—or another!... She was marvellously good to look at. Never had he seen one who was her equal, who even approached her.... Well, he would try his hand—try to be one of them—and then to be the only one, if she still held his fancy. Of course it would have to be done discreetly—so that none would know but those he had displaced. He smiled! It might be that she was honest now—since the Amherst affair—but it was most unlikely, most unlikely. His own eyes had seen what would convict her of being dishonest. Mrs. Lorraine still—her husband helpless in a hospital—and her lover with her here!—No, it was not in the range of the possible. She was bad all through—with the badness that allures men because it is garbed in the robe of inherent respectability and high social position.... He lit a cigar, and as he smoked he considered the question—its bearing on himself socially and his prospects. He saw that it meant he must overlook the fracas with Pendleton—must lay aside his resentment and turn the other cheek toward Mrs. Lorraine if he were to have any hope of success. Then he smiled again. It would be but another sort of revenge on Pendleton; to take her from him—a more refined revenge than to injure Pendleton in his bank account or to have some thug beat him up. Here was a new view of the matter; made so by the incident he had overseen the previous evening.... Yes, on the whole it was the best way—decidedly the best way. He would get Mrs. Lorraine, and his revenge on Pendleton at the same time.... Of course she might not be obtainable. She might hold to Pendleton—it was an old attachment, he had heard, and she might be faithful to him. But he could offer inducements that were likely to be particularly appealing, and of the sort that usually won. If she were not to be lured from Pendleton, then he could take up the other matter. There was no haste; he was a good waiter as well as a good hater—and a generous lover. With Mrs. Lorraine he would be more, much more than generous.... Well, he would see how the adventure promised....

In the gathering shadows of the evening, he saw Mrs. Lorraine and Pendleton come out on the open piazza below him. They stood leaning on the stone balustrade, and though he could hear the murmur of their voices the words were not distinguishable.

THEY STOOD LEANING ON THE STONE BALUSTRADE

She laughed softly, infectiously, intimately; and Pendleton's mellow tones joined in....

Porshinger's eyes glowed.... Yes, she was good indeed to look at. Good indeed! The call of the woman came up to him—and he yielded. So far as he was concerned, the game was on. Pendleton was an obstacle, of course—but it would be a positive pleasure to overcome him. He was rather accustomed to obstacles, indeed they were just enough of a deterrent to add zest to the conquest.

He came down-stairs a moment before dinner was announced, to find that he was to take his hostess in.

"I am greatly honored," he said, as he gave her his arm.

"Not at all, Mr. Porshinger; you quite deserve it," she replied.

"Why should I deserve it?" he asked.

"Didn't you save my guest from the Overton bull?"

"I most assuredly did not. She saved herself by beating him to the fence and over it."

"You helped. You delayed the animal long enough for her to get a start—and moreover you tried to attract him to yourself, you know, so the end justifies the reward, I think."

"A large reward for a trifling service," he remarked.

"The trifling and the large—depend on the respective points of view!" she smiled as he placed her chair.

When he turned to take his own, he saw that Mrs. Lorraine was upon his right.

"Your reward is out of all proportion even from your point of view," he said, with a significant glance at Stephanie.

"Do you object?" Gladys asked.

"Does a thirsty man refuse drink?"

"Not if he is thirsty—and not always if he isn't."

"I trust I shall always be thirsty—and deserving."

"It is up to yourself, Mr. Porshinger," she said.

And he understood. He was being given his chance to make good—to make friends—to make himself popular. If he failed, he would have only himself to blame. His look wandered around the table. Pendleton was just across between Mrs. Burleston and Miss Tazewell. Cameron was Mrs. Lorraine's partner.

Presently she turned and greeted him with a smile.

"I hope you suffered no ill effects from the unfortunate experience of yesterday," he said.

"None whatever!" she laughed. "Not even a bruise. I might fancy I flew over the fence, if I didn't know otherwise. However, I avoided the Overton path this morning."

"You walked this morning?" he asked.

"I walk every morning, when I'm in the country."

"I wish I had known—though doubtless you had company."

"The more the merrier," she returned, with her spoon poised critically over the grape fruit.

"I shouldn't take the rest to be early risers," he reflected, running his eyes around the table. "Come, tell me—didn't you go alone?"

"Which would be tantamount to saying that the others are not early risers."

"Would they object?"

"No—I don't imagine they would—Did you walk this morning?"

"I wasn't an early riser, either!" he smiled. "You see, I didn't know you had the habit."

He saw that she had avoided his question—doubtless Pendleton had been with her.

As a matter of fact, she had walked alone.

"We shall have to try it some other Sunday morning," he suggested.

"Is your walking confined to Sunday mornings?" she asked.

"My visiting at country houses is confined to week-ends—more's the pity."

"Don't you ever take a vacation—a long vacation, that is?"

"I've never found time."

"You've been abroad?" she asked.

"On business—never for pleasure—and I come home the minute the business is finished, sometimes before."

"Don't you expect ever to take a vacation?" she inquired.

"Certainly—when I get the opportunity."

"You mean when you're dead."

"Possibly!" he laughed.

"You ought to have enough. You could stop this instant and be the wealthiest in the State—one of the very wealthiest in the Nation."

"What are a few millions!" he minimized.

"A few! Do you call thirty few?"

"Who said I am worth thirty millions?" he asked.

There was just a trace of pride in his voice—and she detected it.

"Aren't you?" she smiled.

"To be candid, I don't know. I can't tell from day to day—values fluctuate, you know. I may be a million poorer one day and a million richer the next—and not have changed a single investment."

"The bounder!" she thought. "Though it is really my fault—I led him on."

For an instant Pendleton caught her eye; and she knew that he had heard, though he was seemingly occupied with Mrs. Burleston's chatter.

As for Porshinger, having found that Mrs. Lorraine was interested in his money, he thought to appeal to her by an intimate little talk; he was doing this and that and the other, he was considering thus and so; he had done mighty things (which was true enough), and he promised to do more. He confided it all to her in an indefinite, impersonal way—and flattered himself that he was making a deep impression.

And he was—though not in quite the way he assumed.

Presently he turned back to Miss Chamberlain, and Stephanie looked at Cameron and smiled.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asked, amused.

"Some of it," she answered.

"You see now what Gladys has done?"

"She has but anticipated the inevitable."

"And made us in a way responsible."

"No one is responsible for the inevitable, Steuart—except the man himself and the power of his money. The combination is irresistible."

"In these days, yes," he replied. "As a people, we have become utterly commercialized—we have put everything on the basis of dollars, our social life along with the rest. It is pitiable but it is true. We have no traditions left—or rather we have only traditions left. In some of the towns in the South, they still honor their traditions by living up to them—dollars won't buy a way in, you have to belong. But with us—" he ended with a shrug. "Look on your other hand, if you doubt it."

"What are we going to do about it?" she asked smilingly—"accept the inevitable, or be exclusive all by our lonesome?"

"We wouldn't be alone if we would pull together," he commented.

"United we stand, divided we fall. It's the same everywhere," she replied. "We're not united because the old spirit of class has departed. It's every one for himself now—and no quarter given nor expected."

"Well, I can stand it if you women can," he remarked.

"Don't you think that it is woman who is commercializing society, so to speak—who is accepting money, if you please, to let the outsiders in. She wants a rich husband—if he happens to be her social equal, well and good, but it's the money that moves her."

"That may be true so far as it goes—but it doesn't go far enough," he replied. "We men also are to blame. Daughters marry where their parents let them. It may be indifference in our sex and premeditation in the women, but both are about equally culpable. There is small choice between us. We have got far away from our old moorings of respectability and conservatism."

"And we're drifting toward liberality and opportunity for everyone—which is the better, think you?"

"Yonder is an instance of it," he said, meaning Porshinger.

"Why is it you men are so hostile?" she asked.

"Because he doesn't belong—as you know quite well. You can't make me believe for an instant that you want him in—or Gladys either. There is something behind this prank of our hostess. She is using Porshinger to subserve some purpose. What is it?"

"You must ask Gladys—I'm not a mind reader!" Stephanie laughed.

"Possibly I should make more progress if I asked Porshinger," he retorted.

"You doubtless would make more of a sensation," she returned.

"Who would make more of a sensation, Mrs. Lorraine?" Devereux asked across the table.

"You!" said Stephanie.

"A perfectly self-evident fact," agreed Devereux. "I can always be relied upon to do the unexpected—it's the way of all original men."

"And idiots!" Cameron added, in a perfectly audible aside.

"What kind and courteous things my friends think of me!" Devereux remarked.

"You should be very grateful!" observed Gladys.

"Grateful? I'm positively prostrated with gratitude, my dear girl. So much so that I'm afraid I have not strength to play Auction later. Moreover, Mr. Porshinger may not play on Sundays."

"Don't worry about me!" Porshinger laughed.

"I'm not worrying about you a bit—I'm worrying about our hostess. She is so thoughtless at times. An awful failing, Mr. Porshinger, an awful failing, particularly in one's hostess.—Yes—I knew you would agree with me."

"My dear man," Porshinger began, "I——"

"Don't mind him, Mr. Porshinger," Gladys interrupted. "He is a bit wild in his talk, at times—nothing dangerous, however. He just can't help it."

They all left the table together and went outside—where the coffee was served. Porshinger found himself, by intention, beside Mrs. Lorraine.

"I think I owe the pleasure of dining at Criss-Cross to you," he remarked presently.

"Did Miss Chamberlain tell you so?" she inquired.

"Not expressly—but by inference."

"Which is not at all," she smiled. "The hostess is always responsible for what guests she asks. You were convenient, we needed another man, and you consented to come, which was exceedingly kind of you. If I am at variance with what you have been told, you can take your choice."

"I was rather glad to be obligated to you—along with Miss Chamberlain," he replied. "It's a new sensation in me to be obligated to anyone—it is always the other way."

"You have many men coming to seek favors?" she said, turning the conversation to him and away from herself.

"Many men!" he laughed—"hundreds of them indeed. It's one of the penalties of wealth, I suppose."

"And one of the privileges also, it seems to me," she replied.

"That depends on the applicants—the larger number are without the least claim of merit; simply barnacles that one has to hew away. I leave it to my secretary—he does it for me and gets quit of them."

"It must be a very pleasant feeling to help the deserving and needy," she reflected.

"The modern business man hasn't much time either for the deserving or the needy, Mrs. Lorraine," he answered. "He's not an eleemosynary institution—he's a hustler. If he isn't a hustler, he's not for long—in the way the game is played now-a-days."

"I suppose not," she said slowly—"and it seems a pity."

"Why?" he asked. "Why does it seem a pity? It's the natural way—to kill off the drones and incompetents."

"That doesn't make it any the less cruel—and not every one who is killed off is a drone or an incompetent."

"Then he is not fitted—which is the same thing in the end."

"No, it is not the same thing—there is a wide difference. A man may be a poor financier but an admirable musician—or a poor musician and an adroit financier—and all that ails him is that he was started wrong."

They were passing the angle where she and Pendleton had sat the prior evening, and he looked at her thoughtfully. He could see it all again, as clearly as if it were occurring now:—her upturned face and enchanting smile, Pendleton bending over her with the air of entire possession. Surely this could not be the same woman who walked beside him—so calm, so dignified, so thoroughly sure of herself. It was incredible! And yet his eyes had seen.... And was Pendleton the only one?—were there others also?—might he be one, too?... He did not quite feel so sure of himself, nor of her, as he did before dinner, up in his room alone with his intentions. With some women, the sort whom he knew by experience, his question would have been sharp and to the point. But Stephanie Lorraine was—different. He could not bring himself to it—his courage was weak——

Suddenly he realized he was staring at her—and that she was looking at him questioningly.

"I—beg your pardon," he stammered.

"For what?"

"For my bad manners—I forgot myself."

"You mean that you were staring at me?"

"Yes—too long—at one time, I fear."

"I don't feel any ill effects!" she smiled. "A woman gets used to being stared at, especially in these days of tight skirts—and scanty other things."

"You would be stared at if you wore crinoline and hoops," he answered, with an attempt to be gallant.

"I undoubtedly should—as a perfect sight!" she laughed.

"And a mask also," he added.

"I should then be mysterious:—'Who is it?' they would ask."

"You would have individuality and beauty, whatever you wore," he averred.

"You did better that time," she remarked.

"I am exceedingly glad. It encourages me to hope that in the end I may not be such a—duffer."

She raised her eyebrows and gave just the slightest shrug of her bare shoulders.

"Whatever I should call you, Mr. Porshinger, I shouldn't call you a duffer."

"I scarcely know whether that is complimentary or not," he said.

"What do you think it is?"

"I don't think—I don't know what to think. At the best, I take it to be—negative."

"Which is safe—and exceedingly sane. You will never err by being too optimistic, Mr. Porshinger."

"So one learns in business!" he laughed.

She suppressed a smile. It was always business with him. Apparently he could not get away from it even at a dinner party or for an evening. The men called him a bounder—and not without reason. But she was going to be nice to him, if he would let her, and see what would come of it, whether she could manage him without his being the wiser. She had learned a lot about him from himself, yesterday morning and again this evening; and while it was not of the pleasantest, yet she would play her part without any excessive repugnance. Some women could have liked him for his money—a great many women, indeed—and tried to get him into the family either directly or indirectly, but none of it for hers.... Of course, there was the chance that she was playing with fire, that Porshinger, being familiar with the past, would try to presume on it, and—she must be prepared for that contingency, if she were unable to control the situation. He was a masterful sort of man, but masterful men are easy to manage if taken the right way and handled with tact and finesse.

Which is true enough with the men of Mrs. Lorraine's own class—but she did not know the Porshinger kind.

She lost his words for a moment. When she caught them again he was ending:

"So you see, as I said, it is the way of the business man."

"Yes—of course," she answered vaguely—"it's a good way, as the world goes I dare say."

"None better—none so good!" he declared. "That is why we are at the top of the heap to-day. We are a hundred years ahead of our fathers, so to speak."

"And our sons will be a hundred years ahead of us?" she asked.

"Likely enough, if they don't go asleep on our achievements."

They were passing again the angle of the piazza.

"Didn't I see you here last night with Pendleton?" he asked abruptly.

"I really don't know," she replied. "Perhaps, I was—I don't remember."

"I'm sure of it," said he—"the light flared out suddenly from this window and showered you with its brightness."

He looked at her with a reminiscent smile—and she understood. He had seen Pendleton kiss her—and he meant to kiss her himself. Well, at least, she knew now how to handle him.

"It was not I," she replied carelessly, as she turned into the house, "I was not on this end of the piazza last evening."

He smiled again, tolerantly.

"Perhaps I was mistaken," he answered.