Porshinger played Auction until he had just time to change his clothes and catch the train back to town. The game at his table had been rather stupid—a very colorless lot of hands, no large penalties—and had ended with the score about even.

Pendleton had no opportunity for a quiet word with Stephanie—possibly by her intention—and she went off upstairs with a nod and a backward glance from the landing. Her glance, however, could say much when she was so minded.

"Come in, girls, and gossip a bit," said Gladys, as the four of them were passing her door.... "What did you think of Porshinger, Helen?"

"As an Auction player he is pretty fair," Mrs. Burleston replied. "I didn't form any opinion of him otherwise. It wasn't necessary."

"There is a certain set to his jaw that I don't care for," Miss Tazewell remarked. "He has a trick of dropping it, and then gathering it up and pushing his upper lip back with it. He makes me nervous."

"Did it interfere with your play?" laughed Gladys.

"It disconcerted me. I couldn't keep my eyes off him when he did it—which was about all the time."

"Maybe that is the reason he did it!" Stephanie smiled. "I never observed the peculiarity."

"Perhaps he reserves it for the card table and other weighty affairs of life," Mrs. Burleston suggested.

"Didn't you notice it?" demanded Dorothy.

"Not particularly—though since you mention it I do recall something of the sort."

"You must have been blind, Helen."

"I wasn't looking in Mr. Porshinger's face, my dear," retorted Mrs. Burleston sweetly.

At which Miss Tazewell laughed.

"You could infer that I was," she replied good-naturedly; "but I hope you won't!"

"I thought Porshinger wasn't so bad," Gladys remarked. "He handled himself very well at dinner, and was most polite,"—with a glance at Stephanie.

"He seemed to talk enough," said Mrs. Burleston. "Didn't I overhear him discussing business with you, Stephanie?"

"He didn't discuss much else," Mrs. Lorraine replied.

"I wonder if he was an oil well shooter originally?" remarked Dorothy. "I've heard so."

"I've heard so, too," Mrs. Burleston replied. "It's interesting because he has survived. They all are killed in the course of a few years—about five is the outside limit for them, I'm told."

"I reckon he got his own well before the limit expired," Dorothy commented; "and he also got about everyone else's wells in course of time—including the gas wells. Then he became a financier and proceeded to get suckers."

"Whom did you hear say that?" laughed Gladys.

"Warwick Devereux, of course—whom else?"

"Why is it the men have such a contempt for Porshinger?" Mrs. Burleston reflected. "They all seem to despise him."

"A man's judgment of a man is rarely at fault," observed Miss Tazewell, from behind a cloud of cigarette smoke.

"Except when the man is a rival in business or love," Gladys remarked. "Then he is apt to be a bit biased."

"Which would include about everyone," was the answer.

"I've never heard of Porshinger being in love."

"You've heard of him being in business," Dorothy smiled.

"Something of it!" Gladys replied.

"Do you like him?"

"That is what I'm trying to find out—by asking him here."

"Have you succeeded in finding out?"

"Isn't that rather a leading question?" Miss Chamberlain asked.

"Why did you want to find out?" Miss Tazewell persisted.

"I wanted to anticipate the crowd," Gladys explained. "In a year everyone will be trying—and most of them will be finding him very agreeable."

"Mainly because you started it. You entertained him—the mob will follow like sheep."

"You rate me quite too high, my dear," said Gladys.

"Do I? We shall see."

"Unless you all join in with me," Gladys added.

"I prefer to wish you a false prophet—and that Porshinger won't be taken up. He hasn't a single thing about him that is attractive—except his money."

"And the fact that he is not married—and wants to get in," adjected Gladys. "Why don't one of you three marry him?"

"Why not all of us marry him?" said Dorothy over her shoulder, as she went out.

"I haven't a doubt he would be entirely willing—if you can arrange it together, and be peaceable!" laughed Gladys.

"You might submit it to him!" Dorothy laughed back.

* * * * * * *

"Well, what did you make of him?" Gladys asked, when the others had gone.

"Not much—but enough to know that he is dangerous," replied Stephanie, holding out one silken ankle and inspecting it critically.

"It seems to me you've made out very considerable. Is he too wild to be permitted with our tame animals?"

"He is pretty savage, Gladys, pretty savage. I don't know that I care to see him except in a crowd. To be perfectly candid, I'm afraid of him."

"Afraid of him!" her hostess marvelled. "Mercy upon us, what has happened? What did he do to-night in the few minutes you were alone—kiss you?"

Stephanie shook her head. "No—he didn't kiss me."

"Tried?"

"No—he didn't try—he didn't even so much as touch my gown, to my knowledge."

"Was it his talk?"

"Yes—and no. It was his manner, which was strictly proper and yet most indicative of what he was capable. I tell you, I am afraid of him!"

"You mean that his talk was suggestive?" asked Gladys.

"No—not in that way—yet it was suggestive of what he could do if he had the opportunity." She laughed a little consciously. "You see, last evening on the side piazza—when Montague and I were alone—he did something a trifle beyond the conventional. Just as he did it, some one turned on the light in the billiard room directly behind—and Porshinger saw us."

"Where was he?"

"I don't know."

"How do you know he saw you?"

"He told me."

"What! baldly told you?" Gladys exclaimed.

"Not that he had seen—it, but that he had seen us. He told the balance with his look and his smile—and what he didn't say."

"What ailed Montague that he got unconventional—or rather what ailed you that you let him?"

"The evening, I reckon, did for us both—and the miserable lights did the rest. I'm inclined to hold you responsible, my dear, for our being seen."

"But not for your being—unconventional. I reckon Montague is alone responsible for that, while you, with your fascinating beauty, are responsible for nothing at all but the impulse.—Are you going to quit him—Porshinger, I mean?"

"That is the question—and I don't know the answer. If I quit him, he will be revenged on Montague; if I don't quit him, I shall have to fight him for my reputation—or so much of it as is left."

"Is he so bad as all that?" Gladys exclaimed.

"He is. His one vulnerable point is his overweening desire to get into society. That fact may make him controllable. I'm between his Satanic Majesty and the deep water. What to do, Gladys, what to do?"

"Do nothing," counselled her friend. "Be amiably polite, and refuse to see anything that you don't want to see or to infer anything that you don't want to infer."

"Suppose he doesn't leave it to inference?"

Gladys raised her eyebrows. "In that event, you tell Montague—and leave the rest to him. I rather fancy he will beat the life out of Porshinger; and I rather fancy he will enjoy doing it—very much enjoy it, indeed."

"The difficulty is, you can't beat the life out of a man—even figuratively speaking—without creating a sensation, getting yourself talked about and, like enough, into the law's clutches."

"If you would be left out of the sensation and the talk, I reckon Montague wouldn't mind in the least," Gladys remarked.

"No, I fancy he wouldn't—but I should mightily. He isn't my husband."

"Not yet, unfortunately—you'll have to endure Harry Lorraine a bit longer. Pray that the longer may be very short—Oh! I'm not wishing him a corpse, Stephanie—before his time; but I would not prolong the time."

Stephanie smiled a little wanly. "Unfortunately you are not the ultimate one. He must go his course to the end, and so must I—alone—and yet together, unless he reconsiders. That, however, does not particularly interest me now—or rather this matter of Porshinger interests me much more. I'm going to have trouble with that man, Gladys, I'm sure of it."

"Aren't you anticipating, my dear?" asked Miss Chamberlain.

"Certainly, I'm anticipating what I'm convinced is in future for me. If it shouldn't happen, I'm fortunate to have escaped."

"And if it never threatens, you're unfortunate in having anticipated."

"I'm unfortunate anyway, so a little more or less won't matter," Stephanie answered.

"You unfortunate? A woman with your face and figure and presence—with true friends, both male and female—and Montague Pendleton. Oh, no! my dear, oh, no!—Oh, you may shrug those pretty shoulders. I know what you mean—but that is past and passing. You've had an experience, a wonderful experience, and you're the better for it, I think—and as you yourself know. It hasn't hurt you; it's only made you appreciate who are your friends and proven the extent of their regard."

"Was it just to my friends to have their regard for me put to such a severe test?"

"Why not? It didn't hurt them. Either they did or they didn't at the pinch—when you returned and looked for countenance. Some were timid about granting it, but granted it; others granted it straightway."

"Like you and Montague and Burgoyne!" Stephanie exclaimed.

"The others were only a bit shy, my dear. They all believed in you, you may be certain of that. Most of them didn't feel sure how their overtures would be received—and you didn't give them much help. You were as hard as flint and as cold as an iceberg."

"Because I thought everyone would pass me by. My experience at the Club that first afternoon didn't augur well for me—except with Montague and Burgoyne. Then you were—just the same, and the skies brightened."

"And now you're clouding them again by this foolish fear of Porshinger," said Gladys. "Let alone! Don't you know the old maxim: 'Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.'"

"My dear Gladys, don't you think that I have troubled trouble sufficiently to want a brief intermission?"

"Of course you have!" sympathized Gladys.

"And to be entitled to it?"

"I should say so."

"Then why should I borrow trouble unless I had a presentiment of it impending? However, it hasn't cast me down, and it's not going to cast me down. Neither shall I refer to it to anyone, not even to Montague—until I must—and I hope that I shall never must."

She kissed Gladys good-night and walked to the door.

"Maybe my dinner didn't quite agree with me!" she laughed—"though I'm not usually troubled that way."

"Wouldn't you better consider telling Montague?" Gladys urged.

"No—well, I'll think over it to-night. Sleep is a great clarifier."

"If you can sleep there isn't much the matter with your digestion, nor with your Porshinger worry," Gladys called after her as the door closed.

Stephanie did not take her walk the next morning. It was raining heavily, and when the men drove off she waved a farewell to Pendleton, who had glanced up at her window, and went back to bed.

Pendleton caught the flash of a white arm and raised his hat; but when the others followed his look there were only the closed curtains to greet them.

"I wish you wouldn't do that, Monte," said Devereux.

"What?" Pendleton asked.

"Take to yourself what isn't meant for you—that farewell was for me."

"Go back, Dev, and get it—or another," recommended Burgoyne.

"I'll do it——"

"You'll go to the station first," interposed Cameron. "We have no mind to miss our train."

"Oh, very well!" said Devereux, sinking back. "As you will, Malvolio—I'll return anon, or next week."

"If you're asked!" smiled Pendleton.

"A timely provision, monsieur—we may none of us be asked—particularly as we weren't much pleased with having Porshinger rung in on us."

"Oh, damn Porshinger!" said Cameron quietly. "What got into Gladys, do you suppose?"

"We will delegate you to investigate, Dev," remarked Burgoyne. "You want an excuse for returning."

"I don't need any excuse, thank you, dear," Devereux replied.

"Well, tackle her without one and feel yourself laid out in a cold bath."

"I likely would!" Devereux laughed. Then he became serious. "What the devil was her idea in having Porshinger? Gladys Chamberlain is the last one to be inoculated with the money madness that seems to have afflicted the rest of the social world."

"Yes," said Cameron, "if she had been any of a score of women, I should say that she was fascinated by his wealth, but I'll not believe it of Gladys."

"She has no need," observed Burgoyne. "Old Chamberlain's got enough, the Lord knows!"

"What do you think, Pendleton?" demanded Devereux.

"I don't think."

"Merely negative, or do you mean you don't want to think?"

"A little of both, thank you," said Pendleton.

"I believe you have been confided in by the lady!" Devereux exclaimed.

"Then if that be the case——"

"Sure thing—you daren't babble!" admitted Devereux. "However, she has a reason, and I'm damn curious to know what it is—though I bet it is a woman's reason, which is no reason at all."

But Pendleton did not enlighten him by so much as a look, and the next moment the car drew up at the station.

That afternoon, when he was about to leave his office, Pendleton had a telephone call from the Hospital. Lorraine wanted to see him, the resident physician said, and would he come around before dinner; something seemed to be on Lorraine's mind, to be worrying and exciting him. He was much better and it would do him no harm to see Pendleton a short while.

"I'll come at once," said Pendleton.

Lorraine was sitting up in a pillowed chair when he entered.

"How are you, Pendleton?" he said somewhat weakly, and holding out his hand. "I hope I'm not too much of a bother to you."

"Not a bit," replied Montague. "I'm glad to see you so far on the mend. I feared that you were pretty much all in, from the newspaper accounts of the accident."

"I thought so myself—or rather I didn't think until later. However, I'm not so much battered up as they had thought, and I'll be out in a week; a trifle bruised and cut and sore, possibly, but nothing serious. My head is all right—the injury was only temporary, thank the Lord!"

"That's a great comfort to know," Pendleton answered heartily. "If one's head is right, the rest will soon come around."

"Yes—yes," said Lorraine. "I'll be out of this in a week." He glanced impatiently toward the nurse, who was standing in the window. "I'll be out in a week," he repeated.—"Miss Sayles, will you excuse Mr. Pendleton and me a moment—I'll call you when we're through.—It will take only a very short time."

"I'll be in the corridor," the nurse smiled—with a glance at Pendleton, which he understood as a warning not to stay too long.

Lorraine waited until Miss Sayles had gone out and closed the door quietly behind her, then he said:—

"I haven't much time, nor have you any to waste, so I'll not beat around the bush, Pendleton—we'll cut the preliminaries and come down to the facts——"

He paused, and Pendleton wondered what was coming. Was he about to make a scene because of anything he had heard in regard to Stephanie?

"It's this way," Lorraine went on:—"I don't know whether you know it or not, but I fancy you do.—I've made an infernal damn fool of myself in the way I've treated Stephanie. I see it all now. I've been lying here and thinking, and thinking, with nothing else to do, and it's perfectly plain, perfectly plain. It was all my fault originally. I had her—and I lost her—and I've no one but myself to blame in the first instance. If I'd been careful of her—had appreciated her—she would have had no occasion to make a mistake. Amherst wouldn't have had a chance to work his smooth way with her. Damn Amherst! I could choke the life out of him—damn him! damn him!"

"Don't excite yourself, Lorraine," Pendleton cautioned. "Why not leave this matter until you are better and able to be about?"

"No—I must say it now. It will do me good to say it. I'll try not to get excited. I'm not excited now—see?" He held up an unsteady hand. "At least, not much. We'll let Amherst rest, for the moment. I'll handle him when I'm quite fit—if I can ever find him. Do you think I'll find him, Pendleton?"

"Certainly you will find him," Montague answered soothingly. "And now you wait and tell me all this some other time—to-morrow."

"No—now—to-day," persisted the sick man. "Listen! You were Stephanie's best friend before the wedding. You've always been a friend—until she went away. I want you to be her friend still, Pendleton. She needs a friend who is trustworthy—who is dependable—who won't be misunderstood by the world. She won't have me—I tried—I offered to take her back—to let the past be buried—to forget and forgive—to be all to her that I should have been. But she declines. I went to her house and offered—plead with her—besought her—without avail. She visited me the other day, at my request—but she hasn't softened toward me. I don't know that she will ever soften. I'm afraid she won't. Yet I mean to try, Pendleton—I mean to try; and though it takes a year, or ten years, I shan't give up. I shall never give up, Pendleton, I shall never give up!—Will you help me—will you be her friend?—Stand by her at this crisis—when she won't have her husband, yet needs him more than she ever needed him? Won't you try to take my place toward her—you understand, old man; guard her—protect her—sympathize with her? You were fond of her once—you still are fond of her. She may let you—she wouldn't let me.—Save her, Pendleton—save her from herself, if need be.—You will, won't you, you will?" he ended, his voice sinking to a mere whisper.

"My dear Lorraine, I'll do anything in my power for Stephanie," said Pendleton. "But I think that you are unduly apprehensive. She is not without friends—she has plenty of friends, and they are staunch friends. Gladys Chamberlain, Helen Burleston, Dorothy Tazewell, Marcia Emerson, Burgoyne, Devereux, Cameron—they all are for her. We have just come from spending the week-end at the Chamberlains. In a few months the Amherst episode will be forgotten, even by the Queen P's. Don't worry, old man, it will only retard your recovery. As for you and Stephanie, you two must work that out alone. But you can depend on us being for Stephanie always." He reached down and took Lorraine's hand. "You know that, don't you? We all will stand by her to the final call."

"I thought you would, Montague, and it's mighty good to know of Gladys and the rest. A woman can do much at such times."

"And you mustn't think of it until you're out of this place," Pendleton urged. "Your business is to get well; we'll look after Stephanie, you may depend on it."

He moved toward the door, and Miss Sayles appeared at the same moment.

"Here is the nurse to send me away!" he smiled. "Good-bye—and we'll look for you at the Club in a week."

"Good-bye, Pendleton, old man," said Lorraine faintly.

He sank back among the pillows and closed his eyes. He could see it, though the other had tried hard to hide it. Pendleton had no interest whatever in him—he had forfeited all claims for sympathy by his vacillating course. All the men had lost patience with him. They might feel for him as a victim of bodily pain, and try to make it easy for him because thereof, but he knew—he knew. He had been a fool—he was still a fool maybe in trying to make it up with Stephanie—yet it was the only decent thing to do—the only thing he wanted to do. He made a gesture of despair—and the nurse came over and spoke to him.

But he did not hear, or did not answer—and after a moment she went back and sat down. She understood in part. Everyone in town was aware of the Lorraines' troubles—and she knew, also, of Stephanie's visit to her husband and how it had terminated.

As for Pendleton, he went to the Club dissatisfied with himself and with what he had done. He had no patience with Lorraine's conduct and Lorraine knew it—at least he had never been at any pains to conceal it—and now he was constrained, by regard for an injured man, to appear to help him, when he hoped for nothing so much as Stephanie's divorce. She was committed to his care—to him, who was the last man Lorraine should have selected to trust.... And maybe Lorraine also knew it—and chose him because of that very fact, tied his hands by trusting him, with full confidence that he not only would not violate the trust, but that he would be vigilant to see that no one else trespassed. He had not credited Lorraine with so much foresight and knowledge of specific human nature. It might be he erred in the credit, but nevertheless it bound him.—Noblesse oblige.