She recovered herself instantly—and took Pendleton's outstretched hand.

It was a lifeless hand she gave him, however. It said plainly to him that it was offered out of respect to the conventionalities and nothing more. And her smile was as purely formal as the handshake. There was no warmth in either.

"I did not mean to intrude," she remarked.

"Intrude!" marvelled Gladys.—"Why what an idea, Stephanie! Montague and I are not—now if I were someone else, it might be apropos. This tea is cold—let me order another pot."

Pendleton went over and pushed the bell.

"I don't care for any tea, thank you," said Stephanie.—"I'm going to town in a moment."

"I'll ride with you, if you wait a few minutes until I telephone," offered Gladys. "I may be able to hasten it if I call up at once. Excuse me a moment!" and she hurried into the house.

Pendleton repressed a smile and bowed.

"Won't you sit down, Mrs. Lorraine?" he suggested.

She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly, and took the chair he offered her.

"This is an awkward situation, Mr. Pendleton," she observed, "but it will last but a moment—and if you will bear with me, I'll see that it doesn't happen again."

"Suppose I want it to happen again—many times," he said, leaning forward.

Another shrug of the shapely shoulders.

"You're asking me to believe impossibilities," she returned.

"I'll make them very real, if you will promise to try to believe them."

A third time the shoulders did duty.

"I suppose Miss Chamberlain has been made aware of the state of affairs and is trying to give you a chance to apologize," she remarked.

"And I take the chance.—I apologize, Stephanie! most sincerely and humbly apologize."

"For what?"

"For anything I did or said that I shouldn't."

"That you shouldn't," she repeated.—"Who is to be the judge of what you shouldn't have done or said? That was just the point on which we split—you thought you should and I thought you shouldn't."

"I am willing to let you be the judge," he replied.

"Then you confess that you went beyond all bounds?"

"I will."

"And were arbitrary and dictatorial?"

"I will."

"And unkind in your inferences and conclusions?"

"Even that I will confess.—You know that I had no intention of being either unkind, nor arbitrary, nor dictatorial."

"I know only what you said at the time, Mr. Pendleton; from it there was no other conclusion to draw. However, it won't profit us to discuss it now—you've apologized; I accept the apology on the condition that you don't offend again."

"But I'm going to offend again. At least, I'm going to speak frankly about a matter, in the hope that you'll not be offended—but that if you are offended you'll be warned nevertheless—and heed the warning. Shall I proceed?"

"You may use your own judgment," she returned.

"First, I want to ask if you received my letter, written from Boston the day after our—quarrel?"

"I did not."

The servant came with the tea and toast, and placed them on the table.

"How many lumps, Mrs. Lorraine?" the man asked, sugar tongs poised.

"I'll serve it—you may go!" said Stephanie. Then she looked at Pendleton. "Did you write me a letter?"

"I most assuredly did!" he replied.

"Do you care to tell me what was in it?"

"It was mainly an apology for what had occurred the previous evening."

"What else was in it?"

He smiled—"Nothing much—just a word or two of—regard."

She poured the tea, and broke off a bit of toast.

"I think," she remarked, examining the toast critically, yet watching Pendleton the while furtively from under the long lashes, "I think that letter alters the proposition somewhat. You did the decent thing promptly—and I'm sorry I didn't know it. I too said things that I didn't mean—and if you'll forgive me, Montague," holding out her hand to him, with a bewitching smile, "we will start afresh."

"If I'll forgive you, sweetheart!" he exclaimed.

She withdrew her hand and held up a warning finger—though the smile still lingered undimmed—then she nodded ever so slightly.

"My dear Stephanie, I'll forgive you anything when you look at me like that!" he breathed.

"I'm always ready to look at you like that, if you won't find fault with me when I've been abominable," she whispered.—"No, stay where you are—you forget we're on the Club-house piazza."

He made a motion of resignation and sank back in his chair.

"I should not have said it if we hadn't been there—and broad day besides," she observed.

He smiled his answer.

"Moreover, Montague, you know that all such little demonstrations are strictly forbidden," she warned.

"When will they be permitted?" he demanded, leaning close to her.

"Who knows?" she answered. "Who can read the future—such a future as mine, my friend."

"I will essay it," he replied.

She laughed softly.

"You, Montague!" she said.

"Yes—may I try it?"

She shook her head. "It wouldn't be wise. It might raise false hopes; and a football of fate hasn't any right to hopes—they are too expensive of disappointment."

"How do you know what I shall read?" he asked.

"You wouldn't venture to read anything that wasn't nice."

"I'll read what I see," said he;—"and the first thing I see is far from nice."

She regarded him a moment thoughtfully—and he waited.

"What is it?" she asked finally.

"It is—Porshinger!" he answered—and braced himself for the explosion.

And it came—though not in the way he had anticipated.

"Porshinger! Porshinger!" she cried tensely—her sensitive nostrils aquiver, her eyes flashing, her cheeks suddenly aflame. "I hate him!—I hate him! He's a beast, Montague, a beast!"

"There isn't a doubt of it, sweetheart," he said soothingly. "I rejoice that you have found him out at last."

"I always knew it—but I didn't think he would dare try his ways with me."

"What did he do, dear?" Pendleton asked—"was it at the Croydens' last night?"

"Yes—in the conservatory.—He—kissed me by force—and repeated it at least half a dozen times before he released me.—I did nothing to tempt him, Montague—absolutely nothing!"

"Except to be nice to him," Pendleton added quietly—"which he isn't able to understand."

"Isn't able to understand in Stephanie Lorraine—with her past!" she said bitterly.

"That is the bounder in him," he explained.

"He thought, because I went wrong with Amherst, that every man could be an Amherst—if he only had the opportunity!" she exclaimed.

"Did he say that?"

"He laughed and said: 'Why struggle so—no one sees us?'"

"He is a beast!" Pendleton gritted.

"And when I did break from him, he caught me back again, saying: 'You didn't struggle so the other night with Pendleton,' and kissed me again and again, whispering:—'aren't mine just as sweet and worth as much as his?'"

"My God!" cried Pendleton.—"Did he see me that night at Criss-Cross?"

"I think so—at least the day after, when he came there to dine, he let me infer from what he said that he had seen—I never told you, because I might have been wrong—and I didn't want to worry you."

For a brief space Pendleton did not trust himself to answer, if indeed he had the power, so overcome was he by shame and anger, and the rush of hatred that well nigh choked him. Then it passed, and he was cool and calm—preternaturally so, indeed—though the intensity of his feelings was betrayed by the flashing of his eyes. His first words were a confession of his own atrocious error.

"My poor Stephanie! I am shamed beyond words—to have brought this thing upon you by my folly."

"You are not responsible—it's myself," she said evenly. "Do you think that he would have dared it but for the Amherst affair?"

"I gave him courage—I am guilty too," he objected.

"You don't know the man. He thinks everything must bow before him—thinks he can buy anyone if he but have a chance—thinks every woman has her price—and that I am openly for sale. He can't understand that what a woman may do once, she would burn at the stake rather than do again. He's a beast! Montague, a beast!"

"A human beast unfortunately—whom one can't kill with impunity," Pendleton reflected. "Moreover, I doubt if it would be wise to kill him."

"Good Heavens! No!" she cried.

"Neither do I know just how the matter ought to be handled. Of course, you will ignore him in the future——"

"I shall never see him!" she declared.

"But if he sees you—forces himself upon you——"

"He would not dare."

"He would dare! He is vile enough to dare anything—to do anything. He has no notion of decency nor of right when it crosses his purposes. He has neither conscience nor shame. He is what you styled him: a beast—a vicious beast, I should add."

"What would you do with a vicious beast of his kind who forces himself upon you?" she asked.

"I should take care to have some one always with me," he replied slowly—"and I should appeal instantly for protection, if he made the slightest attempt to intrude."

"And suffer him to circulate some horrible tale about me?"

"You have to chance that," Pendleton answered. "If he does, your friends will then be in a position to make such a protest as he will be apt to remember."

"Meanwhile, the harm will be done," she replied.

"If he can harm you," he observed. "You're a trifle too sensitive of your position, dear. It is not what it was—when you returned. Surely your word is equal to Porshinger's."

"Many will be glad to believe his story—whatever it is," she protested. "You see, I was friendly with him—and my past is—not in my favor."

"Those who believe it, you won't any longer want to know; nor need you care for them—you will be well rid of them. And your past is past; don't let it worry you, sweetheart. You're obsessed by it."

"I'm afraid I don't know just what obsessed means, Montague," she said, with a wan little smile.

"You attach undue importance to it; you've—got it on the brain, so to speak," he explained.

"I see," she said slowly. "Maybe I have it on the brain—but it's very natural under all the circumstances—and when I'm trying to live down my past. It's dreadfully hard, Montague, dreadfully hard for a woman to live down her past. You men can never know how hard it is—you have no past."

"You make it harder than it is, Stephanie," he said, "though I think that no one knows it except me—you conceal your feelings marvellously well."

"Thank you, Montague—I have tried to hide them from this cold and heartless world we call Society. And I have been indiscreet, I know. Striving to appear indifferent, I overdid the part. It was foolish of me to encourage Porshinger, even a little. I ought to have realized what a dangerous man he is—I ought to have been warned by you, instead of showing anger at your well meant and entirely justifiable protest. I have only myself to blame—which makes it all the harder."

"Nonsense! dear.—You did what you thought was right, and because you thought it was right—and because you feared lest Porshinger would injure me. Now we are going to stand together—and let Lorraine help you, if he will—without any obligation on your part," he added, as she made a vehement gesture of protest. "We shall see whether he has sufficient manhood to defend his wife if Porshinger starts his slanderous tales."

"Suppose his first tale is of—us—and what he saw on the Criss-Cross piazza?" she remarked.

"I will deny it."

"And what—shall I do?"

"You need do nothing—except preserve the dignity of silence."

"But if my husband hearkens to the story, and demands an explanation from us both?"

"Still the same course for us," Pendleton replied:—"You indignant silence—me denial."

"And have Society in general laugh knowingly and believe—and even our friends accept the denial hesitatingly."

"What other course can you suggest?" he asked.

"There is but one other course—tell the truth," she said.

"And raise a greater scandal—and put you in Porshinger's power?" he objected. "If you admit his tale as to me, won't you practically admit whatever he may choose to say regarding his own experience with you?"

"You may be right!" she said wearily. "I do not know—whatever you think best I shall do."

"I've got you into this miserable difficulty and I shall——"

"My dear Montague, dismiss that idea. I got myself in it by my own insane actions with Amherst."

"And I gave Porshinger the occasion he needed by the fight here and the kiss at Criss-Cross. I tell you I'm more to blame than are you." He leaned over close. "If Lorraine would only divorce you, dear—and you would marry me you wouldn't need care for Porshinger's tales. They would have lost their point, and no one worth while would ever give them a thought."

"My dear friend," she exclaimed, looking at him with a serious smile, "it is not for such as I to think of marriage. I have made too fearful a mess of the one that still binds me."

"That it still binds you is the material point—nothing else matters to me."

She sighed and leaned back.

"What if Lorraine does not believe your denial?" she suggested.

"I think he will believe it," Pendleton replied. "He asked me at the Hospital—it was the day I returned from Criss-Cross—to look out for you—to protect you from yourself."

"You never told me," she interrupted.

"No—I never told you—and I proceeded almost immediately to quarrel with you like a little boy."

"Because of his request?" she smiled.

"Forgetful of his request," he said contritely. "I've been a poor sort of friend to you, Stephanie. I never was Lorraine's friend and I think he knew it; I fancy that was why he asked me to look out for you—but I've done it atrociously. I'm a miserable——"

"You are the best friend I have, Montague!" she exclaimed, leaning forward and putting her hand on his arm,—"the best friend a woman ever had—you believe in me still, after I've done everything to forfeit your trust."

"I do—I'm only too glad to believe in you, sweetheart."

"You mustn't call me sweetheart, dear—I mean," with a rush of color to her cheeks, "I mean, you must not now.—It is unwise—and some one may overhear."

"And when we're where no one can overhear?" he whispered.

The entrancing smile flashed for an instant across her face.

"Wait until then," she answered. "We have more serious matters confronting us. What shall we do in event of Porshinger effecting anything against me, directly or by his tales? I'm fearfully afraid, Montague, fearfully afraid!"

"Don't be afraid, Stephanie, don't be afraid!" he counselled. "Let us do as I suggested—it is the best plan.—Here comes Gladys; does she know about Porshinger?"

"No—I've not told her yet," she said hastily.—"Yes, it was a very gorgeous affair—we're discussing the Croyden Ball, my dear"—as Miss Chamberlain came up, "but then all their affairs are gorgeous and in exquisite taste."

"They are, indeed," assented Gladys; "but I thought that last night they surpassed themselves. I never saw anything so charming as the conservatory. You know how huge it is, and there wasn't a light visible, yet the illumination was so subtly subdued that you seemed to see all about you, and yet you didn't—you know what I mean, Montague. I'm a bit vague——"

"Precisely!" said Pendleton. "You couldn't trust yourself to believe anything that you thought you saw"—and he shot a glance at Stephanie.

"You have it exactly, just the idea I intended to convey!" she laughed. "You are a very satisfactory man—isn't he, Stephanie?"

"I'm not committing myself by any rash admissions," Stephanie smiled—and Gladys knew that the quarrel was ended.

Just then a motor car, driven at reckless speed, dashed over the hill and up to the Club-house—and Harry Lorraine sprang out.

Gladys glanced swiftly at Stephanie and around to Pendleton.

"I see him," said Stephanie quietly.

"He seems to be in a bit of a hurry," Pendleton remarked, as Lorraine hastily crossed the piazza and said a word to the doorman.

The latter saluted and replied.

Lorraine turned quickly in their direction—then hurried over.

"He is coming here!" said Gladys wonderingly; while Stephanie frowned slightly, and Pendleton began to drum lightly on one knee.

"I hope you will pardon me if I'm intruding," Lorraine apologized as he came up, "but I've a matter that won't bear delay—at least it won't bear delay according to my view.—May I sit down?"

He looked at Stephanie, and she, with a glance at the others, answered indifferently.

"If you wish."

"I telephoned to your house, Stephanie," Lorraine went on, "and they said you were here, so I came straight back—and I'm fortunate to find Gladys and Pendleton with you, for they are your friends and they will stand by you, I know."

He was greatly agitated; his tones were high-pitched, his words bitten off short, and his hands trembled with nervousness or with the tension of his feelings.

"We will stand by Stephanie you may be sure," said Pendleton—"as we have stood by her in the past."

"And as I haven't!" Lorraine exclaimed. "You're right, I haven't—but I'm trying to stand by her now. Do you know what I overheard Billy Dolittle telling old Baringdale this morning?—It was this—he said that in the conservatory at the Croydens' last night he saw my wife in that cad Porshinger's arms. I knocked him down with my stick—drove the end of it straight into his stomach—it is an old fencing trick, you know, Pendleton. When he got up I gave him another in the same place. It put him out. Then I went on the hunt of Stephanie—to know how she's going to meet the slander. It can't be the truth—at least, not the way he told it—Porshinger must have used violence. Didn't he?" he demanded.

"He did," Stephanie answered instantly. "He kissed me by force."

"I knew it!—I knew it!" Lorraine cried. "Well, I'll fix him—Porshinger, I mean. There is only one way to handle such as he—I'll prosecute him."

"You will what!" Stephanie exclaimed.

"I'll prosecute him—for assault and battery on my wife. I'll show the dirty scoundrel something he wasn't looking for."

"You're wild, Lorraine!" interposed Pendleton quietly. "You won't help Stephanie by any such proceeding—making her testify in a magistrate's office and then in court before a gaping crowd—subjecting her to all the shame of publicity. Why don't you—" he leaned a bit forward and spoke persuasively, "why don't you try the end of your cane on Porshinger also?—It would be a lot more satisfaction to you—and so much quicker."

"It wouldn't accomplish the same result—it wouldn't put him in jail," Lorraine objected.

"It will put him in a hospital if you thrust hard enough," said Pendleton. "That ought to satisfy you."

"And put me in jail, if he prosecute."

"He will not prosecute, never fear."

Lorraine shook his head.

"It won't do!" he declared. "Stephanie has nothing to lose and everything to gain by my prosecuting him. The tale is going—what Dolittle knows will be public property in a day. The way to meet it is to have Porshinger arrested at once. Show that Stephanie is not afraid to face the issue. If she remain quiet under the story she tacitly admits its truth."

"But my dear Lorraine,"—Pendleton began.

"I'm not to be deterred, Montague—I didn't protect my wife from Amherst, but I will protect her this time." He arose. "You'll hear of Porshinger's arrest before night.—It will take him a little by surprise, I imagine," he flung over his shoulder as he strode away.

Pendleton sprang up and overtook him.

"Look here, Lorraine!" he said, curtly. "Don't be a fool—you think that Porshinger will bear the brunt of this, but you're grievously in error—it will be Stephanie who catches all the recoil. Be sensible," he urged, his hands itching to shake Lorraine. "Think of the defence that Porshinger will make if he is disposed to fight—and if you arrest him he is sure to fight—that is the cad in him."

"What will he say?" Lorraine demanded.

"That what he did was with Stephanie's permission."

Lorraine laughed shortly. "Just so—and a jury won't hesitate long when it's a question of veracity between a pretty woman and a mere man. Silence might be the wiser course, if no one knew, but that is not the case—everyone knows it now, or will by night. You know Dolittle quite as well as I—don't you believe Stephanie?" he suddenly demanded.

"Of course I believe her," Pendleton answered impatiently. "She told me about Porshinger's conduct just before you came up, and we were discussing what to do——"

"But you didn't know that it had been overseen?" Lorraine interrupted.

"No—we——"

"Exactly!—And Dolittle's story puts another aspect on it. We've got to fight, and fight at once." He signalled his motor with his stick, and it rolled up to the doorway. "I'll telephone you as soon as the warrant is issued," he said, and flashed away.

Pendleton looked thoughtfully after the receding car, then he came slowly back to his place.

"I don't know that the fool isn't right," he muttered.—"But why the devil didn't he act as promptly in the Amherst affair?... I couldn't stop him," he said, in answer to Stephanie's inquiring look. "He has gone to have Porshinger arrested."

"It doesn't much signify!" Stephanie shrugged. "Since Billy Dolittle saw it, the tale will be spread broadcast. He doesn't like me, you know, so that will be an additional animus—and Harry's stick didn't make him feel any the more lenient!" She laughed shortly. "I think I should like to have seen those thrusts—they're about all the satisfaction I can get out of the miserable affair. However, I'm pretty well hardened by this time—one more nasty story won't matter."

"And it all comes back to me," said Gladys.—"If I had not invited Porshinger to Criss-Cross, this wouldn't have happened."

"Nonsense!" Stephanie interrupted—"you're not to blame."

"No—I'm the guilty party," interrupted Pendleton. "I started the trouble when I had the dispute with Porshinger over the cut of his coat."

"But you wouldn't have had that dispute if Porshinger hadn't spoken slightingly of Stephanie," Gladys remarked.

"And Porshinger would not have had occasion to speak slightingly of me if I hadn't gone off with Amherst," Stephanie concluded. "So the primary guilt is mine—together with the further humiliation of having misjudged Porshinger. On the whole, I've succeeded in making about as complete a muddle of things as can well be imagined."

"I confess that I'm puzzled what to do," Pendleton reflected—"whether to block Lorraine or to let him go on—and we must act quickly if we're to block him. It resolves itself, of course, into which will occasion the less talk—and I'm free to admit I don't know. It looks to me like a case of 'you'll be damned if you do and you'll be damned if you don't.' What do you think, Gladys?"

"I think there isn't much choice. We're in a split stick. One way we face Porshinger's story and meet it with a passive denial, the other way we take the bull by the horns—that is, Lorraine forces us to—and tell the truth in court. As there can't be any question of blackmail, the latter may be the better—it has the merit of sincerity, of faith in the facts. On the whole, I think that it will damn less than the passive denial of Dolittle's story."

"I agree with Gladys:—we haven't much choice in the matter," remarked Stephanie hopelessly. "Lorraine is forcing the issue.—We simply have to meet it. I'm smirched anyway, but I shall be smirched less, it seems to me, by assuming the offensive."