It was with joy that Lena stood, on Saturday night, with Mrs. Lenox and Miss Elton on the veranda, and hailed the advent of a large red automobile, which disgorged, besides Mr. Lenox, two dress-suit cases and two young men. Mr. Percival had liked her in her natural state and with him she would not need to “put on style”. He was to her the shadow of a great rock in a desperately thirsty land. The only kind of pretense that he demanded was that she should be a dear innocent little girl, and that rÔle came easily. She smiled and blushed and saw that there was a difference in his eyes when he greeted her from the look he bent on the other two ladies. It was balm to her spirit to think that this man, who admired her, was himself admired by the people whom she suspected of despising her; and that they did admire him was evident. They were hardly seated at dinner before Mrs. Lenox began:

“Dick, I have just been reading your last night’s speech at the Municipal Club and I’m quite effervescing with it. I want to put you up on a pedestal and call the attention of Mr. Frank Lenox to you. He is one of the innumerable excellent gentlemen, over the length and breadth of the land, who are so busy running everything else that they let city politics go to the place that I’m not allowed to mention. It does my heart good to see you taking it up in earnest.”

“It was a good speech, all right. I’ve read it, too,” said Mr. Lenox. “And I’m all the wretch my wife calls me. I wish I’d heard you in your frenzy, Percival, though I have less faith in speeches and principles than she has. Reform is only a seed, you know, and most seeds never come to maturity or bear fruit. So most people justly doubt the reformer.”

“Do you think we’re thin sound-waves who do nothing but vibrate?” said Dick.

“Not at all; but I mean there are no such things in the world as abstractions. There are only men and women. Thoughts don’t seethe; men and women seethe. Principles don’t reform or corrupt; men and women do the reforming and corrupting. If you want to do things, don’t begin by making the air resound with denunciations of wickedness; but make people believe in you and despise the other fellow. When they like you they’ll begin to think about your ideas.”

“I don’t know any better way to make people believe in me than to stand up for what I think to be right,” said Dick sharply.

“Stand up all you like,” Lenox answered. “But the trouble with most good people is that they are contented to stand up. To arrive anywhere you’ve got to get right down and scrap.”

“Oh, I’m only trying my muscle a bit,” Dick answered laughingly. “I do not intend to do much generalizing except in the way of advertisement. I’m planning to put a spoke in the wheels of a few particular wrongs.”

“That’s what I hope. It’s easier to fulminate than to fight.”

“Then you’ll be glad to know that Dick has already been answerable for galvanizing the Municipal Club into new life,” Ellery put in. “It has been, as you know, a delightfully scholarly affair, any of whose members were quite capable of writing a text-book on civics; but Dick has roped in a lot of new men and stirred up the old ones.”

“To what end?”

“Well, for two things; we have appointed committees to keep close tab on all of the proceedings of the council—to attend every meeting—and others to work up the ward organizations so that we shall be prepared to work intelligently and together by the next election. We want to get some clean business man, who is well known, to stand for mayor. There’s a chance for you, Lenox.”

Lenox laughed. “You’ve caught me there, haven’t you? I am condemned for being still in the stage where I am content to mention things with indignation. However, if you have really gone so far, I’m more than willing to trail after you. I’ll at least back you with a few facts, such as every business man knows, and I’m good for a substantial contribution toward any campaign you may undertake. And what I do there are others who will do, too.”

“I’ll not forget your promise,” said Dick.

As usual, when men talk public affairs, the women had been content to listen, but Madeline’s temperament was too strong for her restraint.

“It’s all very well for you to put your hand in your pocket, Mr. Lenox,” she cried, “but I don’t want to hear you trying to undermine Dick’s idealism. If he does not have the comfort of some purpose higher than the daily fight, how can he endure it? Don’t persuade him to run through life on all fours and never look at the stars.”

Mr. Lenox looked at her warmly.

“Thank the Lord for you women,” he said. “You do not forget that there are stars and sky above the city smoke. If it were not for you and your kind, I’m afraid most of the world would be tied to the ground like serfs.”

“Oh, I fancy nature has liberated a few of you, and I am glad to believe that Dick is among the free,” she said.

She sat beside Dick, but she turned from him and spoke to Mr. Lenox. When Percival, softened by her words and the tone of belief in which they were spoken, looked up, he saw, not her eyes, but, across the table, those of Lena, big and sympathetic. As he gazed into them he saw all of Madeline’s confidence in him, all of Madeline’s ideals, but the more spiritual, the more feminine, because they were unspoken. Lena’s eyes were eloquent even if she was silent; internally she was really resenting Madeline’s tone, which seemed to her to assume that Dick was somehow Miss Elton’s particular property. “Perhaps you needn’t be so sure, missy,” she thought.

After dinner, when the three men found their way to the drawing-room, Mrs. Lenox had started Madeline on a career of song. She was already in the midst of a curious weird Roumanian thing, and Norris made straight for the piano. Lena, ethereal in pale blue, was sympathetically listening to perfection. She had lost her look of incongruity with her surroundings. The dreamy eyes and the transparent skin found their setting in her filmy gown and the rich soft light. Dick drew in his breath. He seemed never to get used to her. Naturally he found a seat near her. She was his protÉgÉe.

“Don’t you sing, Miss Quincy?” was his inevitable query.

And she replied with inward anguish, “Not at all.”

“But I’m sure you do. You look like incarnate song,” he persisted. “You’re playing modest.”

Lena cast down her eyes and said, “I am a very truthful little girl.”

“Have you had a good time here?”

Then she looked up with kindling face. “Oh, so good! You can’t know how I thank you, Mr. Percival. I know I owe it to you. I feel as though I were breathing the air I belong in, at last. It’s so different from—but you know all about my life,” said Lena brokenly. “And Mrs. Lenox is so sweet and kind, I just love her!”

“And Miss Elton?”

Lena stiffened and made no reply for an instant.

“Miss Elton is quite as clever as you men, isn’t she?” Lena asked, in quite another tone of voice.

“Infinitely more so,” said Dick cordially.

“Do you like it?” she asked in a breathless way.

“Why, yes, in Madeline,” he answered. “She isn’t a bit priggish, you know, but just naturally interested in everything good. Why? Don’t you and she get on?”

Lena gave an uneasy little twist as though she did not enjoy the question, and she sighed.

“Why, frankly, I don’t wholly. It’s my own stupid little fault, of course. I’m not clever. She’s very charming; but she gets a little tiresome to me.”

“Does she?” said Dick ponderingly.

“It’s very hateful of me to say such things about your particular friend,” said Lena contritely. “Besides, I don’t mean—what do I mean? I never thought it out. But it’s so easy to tell you everything, Mr. Percival. And I think it’s rather nice for a girl to be more silly and inconsequential part of the time.” She laughed in a gurgling little fashion.

“I believe it is,” said Dick speculatively, as he looked at her. “But Madeline’s awfully jolly, you know. I’ve had more good times with her than with any other girl I know. No nonsense about her.”

“That’s it,—no nonsense,” said Lena, and this time her laugh was not so pleasant; and Dick glanced across at Madeline with a kind of resentment. “It isn’t like Madeline to go back on a fellow that way,” he said to himself. “Of course she’s had all kinds of advantages over this poor little thing; but it’s small of her not to forget them. I trusted her to make things sweet; and for the first time she has disappointed me.” He looked at Madeline with a distinct feeling of irritation as she rose from the piano. Mr. Lenox came and absorbed Lena, whom he was teaching to answer him saucily. Lena enjoyed this process, and it had inspired her to a really clever device, namely, to say vulgar little things in a whimsical way, as though she knew better all the time but wanted to be humorous. A good many other people have had the same brilliant idea, but it was none the less original to Lena, and it saved a lot of trouble and pretense. Norris and Miss Elton were hobnobbing and laughing at the other end of the room, and Dick followed them.

“Have you been out of town, Dick?” Madeline asked as he came up. “I tried to get you over the telephone a day or two ago, and they told me you were away.”

“Yes.” He laughed exultantly as he sat down. “I ran down to the penitentiary at Easton, just to make sure that I wasn’t mistaken in a fact or two.”

“What now?” asked Norris.

“I’ve been told that Barry—the lord of St. Etienne, Madeline—is at last tired of his humble but powerful place, and intends to show himself the master that he really is by running himself for our next mayor. Now even this docile city would hardly exalt a man whom it knew to be a criminal with a record of two years in the pen,—under another name, of course.”

“Is it possible that Barry—”

“I’ve verified my facts. There is only one man in the city besides myself that knows this, and he’s Barry’s closest friend. There’ll be a jolly old sensation in the bunch, when I spring my mine.”

“If nobody knows it, how did you happen to find out?” asked Madeline impulsively.

There was just a moment’s silence, and in that instant Norris had a flash of memory. He seemed to see Dick eying a letter addressed to William Barry, Esquire. Even while he remembered, he hated himself for daring to suspect that Dick would be capable of anything really shabby or dishonorable. Yet he did suspect—nay, more—he was sure; and the pause, the look of innocent inquiry on Madeline’s face grew intolerable. If Dick would say nothing, he, Norris, must.

“We newspaper men,” he rushed in gaily, “get hold of a vast amount of information that people flatter themselves is secret.”

Percival looked at him and grinned. The girl turned slowly from her amused survey of Dick to study Ellery’s face, which showed his discomfort in its flush. If a girl so gentle could feel scorn, Ellery would have thought he detected a touch of it. Certainly there was a hint of grieved surprise as she spoke, with her eyes still fixed on Norris.

“I’m very sorry, Dick,” she said humbly. “I didn’t mean to be prying. I’ve grown so used to asking you about everything. Mr. Norris ought to get a better mask.”

She laughed lightly, but Ellery’s face grew hotter. He wondered if she suspected him of some underhand trickery, and Dick realized it, yet kept amused silence. For an instant he hated Dick, and felt a wild impulse to defend himself; but second thoughts came quickly. She loved Dick and was therefore slow to impute evil to him. Dick loved her, and if he had for once played the petty knave, it was the place of a friend to protect her against that knowledge. That had been the instinctive reason for Norris’ words, and he was not going back on them now. Yet Ellery’s brain whirled to think how swiftly and by what simple means he might have toppled her slowly-ripening friendship into the mire. Ellery’s imagination piled superlatives on every act and expression of his lady. If she looked light disapproval, it was worse than another’s scorn. And Dick—for whom he had thrown away the thing he most valued in the world—Dick exclaimed gaily:

“Don’t be suspicious, Madeline. Are all secrets disgraceful? Can’t you trust your old friends?”

“Of course I’m not suspicious,” she answered indignantly. “I only mean to beg your pardon, Dick, and I assure you again that I’m not curious, even. I asked this question as I have asked a thousand others, and that would have been the end of it——except for Mr. Norris’ face.”

She smiled as she turned away, and Dick lifted his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders as much as to say, “What difference does it make, anyway? What difference!” Dick didn’t care whether she despised Ellery or not—he didn’t care enough to speak an honorable word of explanation.

Mrs. Lenox came up crying, “Come, my triple alliance, Frank has carried Miss Quincy off to the billiard-room to give her a lesson. Let us go, too, to see that they do not get into mischief.”

Dick hurried away to usurp Mr. Lenox’s place, Madeline tucked her arm through that of Mrs. Lenox, and Norris was left to follow in outer darkness.

When bedtime came, Norris detained Percival.

“Come out for a smoke and a turn,” he said. “The night is frosty, and you’ll sleep all the better for a sniff of fresh air.”

“What are you so glum about?” he asked, as Dick tramped in silence.

He was moody and enraged himself, but too proud to let his anger be seen.

“Not mad, most noble Norris, only thinking.”

“Unfold your thoughts.”

“I was thinking about Madeline,” answered Dick, and Norris’ heart thumped, for he too was thinking about Madeline. “I wonder if the kind of training that she and all girls of her class get is the thing, after all. I’m not talking about knowledge, you understand. I’m not such a cad as to grudge a girl the best there is in the world. But there’s something else. It’s the electric feminine, I suppose, that makes them the powers behind every throne. Fate is always represented in petticoats, you know. It sometimes seems as though the better-trained girls had all that side of them kept out of sight and polished into nothingness. Why are they taught to ignore the biggest power that’s in them? Why, even that untrained little Miss Quincy is vivid with some sex-fascination that the more fortunate girls do not often have.”

“Oh, she is only a colored light. The sunlight has all other colors latent in itself. How do you dare to make any comparison between Miss Quincy and your lovely Miss Elton?”

“Great Scott! Don’t say ‘my Miss Elton’!” Dick exclaimed. “Madeline doesn’t belong to me.” And he added politely, “Worse luck! She and I have always been like brother and sister. That’s all there is to it.”

“Are you sure?” demanded Ellery, with hot thrusts of mingled anguish and exultation stabbing through his bosom.

“Sure!” said Dick equably. “Why, even if I loved her, my dear fellow, I should know, from her unruffled serenity, that there was no hope for me. But Madeline isn’t a very emotional creature, Ellery. She has too much brains for that,—a girl to cheer but not inebriate.”

“I don’t want a girl to make me drunk,” ejaculated Norris.

“Well, I do,” rejoined Dick.

“And though Miss Elton’s emotions do not lie on the surface, I’ll warrant they are there,” Ellery went on as though letting off pent-up steam. “They are like her voice—like all her motions—neither loud nor faint, but exquisitely modulated. She seems to me like the embodiment of innocence,—not the innocence of ignorance, but the untaintedness of a mind that goes through the world selecting the best, as the bee takes honey and leaves the rest. There’s no subject, so far as I can see, on which she is afraid to think; but I can not imagine that any subject would leave a deposit of mire in her mind.”

“Gee whizz!” scoffed Dick. “How fluent your year of journalism has made you! What a great thing it is to be a serious-minded young man with eye-glasses, engaged, while yet in youth, in molding public opinion through the mighty agent of the press! And Madeline is another of the same kind.”

“I wish I were of her kind,” said Ellery stiffly. “You may poke fun at me as much as you like, Dick, but it’s beneath you to jeer at her.”

“You old duffer, aren’t you two the best friends I have in the world? I like the clear and frosty mountain peaks.”

“How did you find out about Barry?” Ellery asked abruptly.

“I do not have to tell you any more than Madeline.” Seeing the grim look on Norris’ face, Dick went on, “Let’s go in and to bed. We seem to rub each other the wrong way to-night. If we don’t separate soon we shall be having a French duel.”