Mrs. Lister was relieved in mind when, from day to day, Richard said no more about the choice of a profession. What he was to be was not as important as what he was not to be. Having given up so easily his own plans, he would, she was certain, agree with whatever plans might be made for him. He had never disobeyed in his life and he would not disobey now. She thought with comfort of his acquiescent years.

It was true that he seemed to be taking a little time to recover from the defeat of his plans, but that was only natural. He went quietly about the house, spending most of the day in his own room. When he was away for a whole afternoon, he was of course with Thomasina. His mother determined not even to ask where he had been. She smoothed his bed with the tenderest of touches, she fetched and carried, she consulted with 'Manda about the viands which he liked best.

The summer took on once more its normal character. The Waltonville ladies gave their little parties and Mrs. Scott discovered or invented new devices for the showing-up of their ignorance. She had always been tiresome to Mrs. Lister and this summer she became intolerable. She patterned her conversation after that of Utterly, happy to give rein to an inborn tendency to gossip and to make the most of the small foibles of her acquaintances, a tendency which association with Thomasina and Mrs. Lister had somewhat curbed.

Never had Mrs. Lister had to endure so much of her society. She "ran in" in the mornings; she called with a quiet Cora in the afternoons, and with a still more silent Dr. Scott in the evenings. Always she inquired for Richard. Sometimes she asked outright; again she pretended to see him just vanishing round the corner of the hall. She thought he was not well; she was afraid that he practiced too much and took too little physical exercise; she wondered what he meant to do with himself in the fall. Walter, she was thankful to say, had had no difficulty in deciding upon a life-work.

Presently Mrs. Lister invited Cora to supper and Cora came gladly, prettily dressed and ready with her little fund of small talk. It seemed as though all the pleasant characteristics which had been left out of Mrs. Scott's nature had been given her daughter. Mrs. Lister thought that she had never seen her so sweet.

That Richard was quite unlike himself was clear to every one. He answered in monosyllables; he did not address Cora except in general conversation; he teased no one, not even 'Manda who waited for some comment upon her biscuit; and after supper, rising suddenly, he pleaded an engagement and went away. His mother was stricken numb and dumb, his father looked astonished, and Cora's eyes expressed not so much amazement as cruel pain.

"Why, Richard!" cried Mrs. Lister.

But Richard was gone.

It was Cora who recovered most quickly. Dr. Lister blinked for a second before answering the question which she promptly put to him, first with amazement at Richard, then in sympathy with her evident astonishment and pain, then at her question. She inquired about the politics of modern Italy, and in a second, he answered her as carefully as he would have answered her father. Was she interested in modern Italy? Cora even managed a little laugh as she answered that it was the interesting look of Italy on the map which had always attracted her. She paid Dr. Lister a pretty compliment about his teaching at which he flushed with pleasure and carried her off to the library. If poor Cora wilted a little after her first instinctive flash in her own defense, he did not observe, so absorbed was he in showing her his books.

Both Dr. and Mrs. Lister walked across the campus with her when it was time to go home, her little figure proceeding straight and slender between them. She now talked about nothing, though she spoke steadily in a high, clear voice. When they reached the porch, she did not invite them to come in.

From her sitting-room Mrs. Scott asked where Richard was.

"He's—"for an instant little Cora meant to say, "Richard didn't come in"; then she proceeded composedly into the bright light.

"Dr. and Mrs. Lister brought me home."

"Where was Richard?"

"He had an engagement."

"An engagement! Do you mean to say that he wasn't at supper?"

"Yes, he was at supper."

"An engagement with whom?"

"I didn't ask. Perhaps—" Cora's voice failed her for a second. With whom in Waltonville could Richard have an engagement when he might have been with her?—"perhaps with Miss Thomasina."

"An engagement with Thomasina! When you were there to supper!" Mrs. Scott's ferret eyes seemed to pierce to Cora's soul. "When did this engagement begin?"

"About an hour ago."

"Thomasina is a fool," declared Mrs. Scott. Then she repeated, "a fool."

"Oh, no, mother!" said Cora lightly. "Good-night."

She went up the stairs with an even, steady step. At the top, where all sound was lost in the thick carpet, she stood still, her hand on the banister.

"Nothing dreadful has happened," said she to herself. "He might easily have gone to Miss Thomasina's, he's so crazy about music." After a while she said again, "Nothing dreadful"; then she went into her room and closed the door, and all dressed in her best as she was, lay down and hid her face in her pillow.

When Richard came home at eleven o'clock, his father and mother had gone to bed. He heard them talking, and they heard him come in. He saw his mother standing in her white gown at her door as he came up the stairs. She had determined to be patient even with this vagary.

"Good-night, Richard," said she. "Good-night, darling."

"Good-night," said Richard.

He went into his room, and for the first time in his life turned the key in the lock, stealthily, slowly, and noiselessly. When, with a shaking hand, he had lit his lamp, he sat down at his desk and wrote a note and pinned it to a newspaper clipping and fastened them both to his pincushion. Then, his hands still shaking, he undressed and blew out his light and lay down upon his bed. His cheeks were scarlet, his hands cold; he lay motionless. At this moment the world revolved that Richard might be happy, stars shone to light his way, flowers bloomed to make his path sweet, streams ran to make music for him. Last night he had been unhappy, worried, uncertain of everything. Now everything was different, everything was glorified. No one had ever been so happy, it was doubtful whether any one could ever have known what happiness was before this transfigured moment.

He had not meant to be rude to Cora; he had scarcely realized even yet that he had been rude, and still less had he meant to give his mother pain. He had read in the morning paper, his eye falling accidentally upon it as it lay on the arm of his father's chair, that Henry Faversham was to be in Baltimore the next day, and he had to tell Thomasina—that was all, at first. His mother would not have accepted this excuse for leaving and the only course was to leave without excuse. He had so little to say to Cora and she had so little to say to any one, that time spent with her was wasted unless they could play, and playing was impossible upon the aged Lister piano. If he waited until she was ready to go home, Thomasina might have gone to bed, or if she went home early, Mrs. Scott would entrap him in her spidery way. He had to see Thomasina, so he rose and went.

When, excited and elated, he left Thomasina, he did not go home. He had a letter to Henry Faversham; he had certain compositions of his own which she had selected; he had the recollection of a smooth hand on either cheek and a light kiss on his forehead.

"Why, Miss Thomasina is young!" said Richard.

He did not go home, because he was afraid that he might find Cora still there, or his mother might be waiting to reprove him. He was determined to endure no more reproof, to take part in no more argument. Argument was undignified and worse than useless. It left opponents with opinions unchanged, but deeply offended with one another; it prevented one from working for a whole day; it numbed one's mind and paralyzed one's hand and blinded one's eyes.

So, to avoid an encounter that night, Richard went to see Eleanor Bent. He had to see Eleanor as he had had to see Thomasina. It was after nine o'clock and he was suddenly frightened lest she might have gone to bed, and he took a short cut down a lane and ran.

Eleanor came promptly to the door and then out to the porch in the soft dark night, and sat down on the upper step. All day she and her mother had avoided each other's eyes. She was forlorn and deeply troubled.

"No, I wasn't thinking of bed. I have always hated to go to bed."

She bent forward and the light from the doorway shone on her dark hair and made her bright eyes gleam, and the little breeze which blew across her to Richard brought the faint scent of perfume. Her voice seemed to have deepened overnight and she spoke with a little tremolo as though she were not quite in command of it.

Richard told his story, at once calmed and further excited. When one has found in one human being both stimulation and peace, a die is cast. He was going to-morrow to Baltimore to see Faversham and arrange for his winter's work. He was going to play for him, to show him his compositions. It was already late and he could not stay. He merely wanted her to know, to think of him.

Eleanor leaned a little toward him.

"Oh, don't go yet," said she, her voice trembling. This, it seemed to her, was the beginning of the end.

"I must," said Richard.

"When will you come again?" Would he ever come, or would he leave her to watch for him, day after day, to do nothing but watch for him? He had already risen; it was possible that he might never come back. She was filled with nameless terror. Her mother—

"You look sorry," said Richard. His voice was not like hers, but high and clear. Thomasina did not guess what her kiss had done for Richard. He held out his hand and Eleanor took it and rose.

"I am sorry because you are going away. I haven't any plans except to stay here. I am not sure that I can write any more and the winter looks very long. I ought to go away, but I don't know just how. I—I wish you were going to be here to play with me and read with me sometimes. I—"

"Miss Thomasina is here," said Richard lightly. "She will play with you."

Eleanor smiled, but she seemed to shrink within herself.

Then Richard laughed and crossed the lane of light which separated them and put his arm round her shoulders and drew her back into the deep shadows. He laid his hand beneath her chin and tipped her head back against his breast.

"Do you love me?" asked Richard.

Eleanor yielded slowly to his arm. She felt his lips on her cheek, her hair, her eyes, at first lightly. Then he laughed and kissed her on the mouth.

"Well?" said he. "Have you nothing to say?"

Eleanor lifted her hand to his cheek.

"Nothing," said she.

In a second a sound from within doors drove them apart. Eleanor knew that her mother would not appear, but already Richard stood on the steps. He would bring her music, he said, when he could come at a less unearthly hour. This evening he had come out for a walk after they had had company. He hoped that Mrs. Bent was well. It was strange that all of yesterday's rain had not cleared the air. His mother prophesied a day of storms to-morrow and his mother always knew.

Now Richard lay wide-eyed upon his bed. The soft breeze fanned his cheek and wafted the curtains like waving arms into the room. Toward morning the breeze quickened to a gale. It lifted his note and newspaper clipping from the pincushion and carried them across to the farthest corner under the bookcase. By this time he was asleep.