Mrs. Quincy, in her solitary confinement, unloved and complaining, might be considered a figure either repulsive or pathetic, according to the onlooker’s point of view. Fortunately there are always a few big enough at heart to turn towards the world a face of affection rather than of criticism, to whom woe appeals more than vulgarity.

So, once in a while in her busy life, Mrs. Lenox found time to drop in as the bearer of a cheerful word and a friendly look to the ugly little apartment where Mrs. Quincy lived in the third story height of domestic felicity.

On an April afternoon she came, like a dark-eyed Flora, her hands loaded with daffodils that might bring a glow of the beauty of spring even to an inartistic spirit. The front door stood open, and a flat has an unrelenting way of laying bare all the skeletons that find no closet room. Mrs. Lenox surprised a scene of domestic economy in the tiny parlor. The curtains had been taken down for fear they would fade, and a large piece of newspaper lay where the sunlight struck the carpet. In the middle of the room sat Mrs. Quincy, and before her on a kitchen chair stood a little tub of foamy soap-suds. A maid was stationed at hand with a bar of soap and a bottle of ammonia, and the steam of homely cleanliness filled the air.

“Good gracious, I declare!” ejaculated Mrs. Quincy, “if it ain’t Mrs. Lenox! Come right in. I’m just washin’ out my under-flannels and my stockin’s. I can’t bear the slovenly ways of servants, and it’s only myself as can do ’em to suit myself. There, Sarah, you take the things away, and I’ll let you rinse ’em out this once. And mind you do it good. Be sure to use four rinsin’s. And soft water, mind. And hand me a towel to wipe off my hands. It’s real good of you to come and see a forlorn old woman, that I know can’t be much pleasure to you, Mrs. Lenox. There ain’t many that takes the trouble. And yet time was when I was considered as good-lookin’ as that ungrateful daughter of mine, that I slaved for for years. Put them flowers in water, Sarah. I guess a butter jar’s the only thing I got that’s big enough to hold them.”

Mrs. Lenox sat down, wondering if time and life could ever transform the smooth beauty of Lena’s features to this semblance of failure which they so closely resembled. Mrs. Quincy’s face was like a grain field over which the storms had swept, changing what was its glory to a horror.

The scarlet-faced Sarah hustled tub and chair and dripping garments kitchen-ward. The visitor took up her task of cheerfulness, and Mrs. Quincy cackled and grumbled to her heart’s content.

“Lena’d be ’shamed to death if she knew you’d caught me doin’ my wash,” she whined. “I hope you won’t tell her. She can come down on me pretty hard sometimes, I tell you.”

“Oh, I won’t tell,” Mrs. Lenox laughed. “I only wish you had let me help. I was thinking what fun it must be—with a maid to hold the soap. It took me back to nursery days. I used to love to wash dolls’ clothes.”

“I don’t do it for fun,” Mrs. Quincy snapped. “But I ain’t provided with a servant that’s worth her salt. If anybody’s dependent, like I am, on a whipper-snapper son-inlaw, that ain’t got affection enough for me to spend an hour a week with me—why, I guess I have to pinch and scrape wherever I can. No knowin’ when I’ll git more. I’ve worked hard all my life for other folks, Mrs. Lenox. You can see by my hands how I’ve worked. And what do I get for it? A stranger like you is kinder to me than my own flesh and blood. And I know well enough that if Richard Percival throws me a crust, it’s only because he would be ashamed to have folks say his mother-in-law was starving. Oh, I let him know that I see through him whenever he comes near me—which ain’t very often. And Lena goes days and days and never comes to see me.” Her voice and her garrulity were rising, but here a sob gave pause, and Mrs. Lenox rushed in, repressing an impulse to say a word on the elementary laws of give and take in love.

“Well, I think you are very sensible to do the washing. One must have some occupation to fill the days, mustn’t one? And there aren’t many things, when one is tied to the house. If to-morrow is warm, I wonder if you would feel up to a little drive in the afternoon?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if I would.”

“And do you care for reading? I’ve brought you a rather clever little story. I see you have all the magazines.”

“Yes, Lena sends ’em. She thinks they’ll occupy me and save her the trouble of comin’ herself. But, good land, I don’t care for ’em beyond lookin’ at the pictures and the advertisements—except the Ladies’ Home Companion. That has good recipes in it; only Sarah can’t make nothin’ that’s fit to eat. But I did read that thing in the Chatterer about Miss Elton. You’ve seen it, of course!”—and she laughed with cheerful malice and licked her lips like a cat.

“About Miss Elton? In the Chatterer? I haven’t the least idea of what you are talking,” said Mrs. Lenox in a dazed way.

“It’s over there,” returned the lady, with a comprehensive wave of the thumb. “You can read it. Lena said it couldn’t be anybody else.” Mrs. Lenox rose and took the magazine from the table. She walked over to the window and deliberately turned her back on her hostess. Her hands shook a little as she turned page after page till her eyes fell on this little paragraph.

“In a certain western city which is famous for its flour and lumber interests, there lives a bachelor who has made it still more illustrious in the realms of art and literature. It is a standing insult to feminine humanity that a man both famous and wealthy should remain single, but, so far, all attacks upon the citadel of his heart have proved futile. Rumor now has it that a capitulation is imminent, but the besieging force has been driven to unusual measures to secure it. A college training gives a girl the advantage over her fellows, both in expedients and in determination. Not content with the extraordinary attractions conferred on her by her own beauty, the young lady who is ahead in the race for the gay bachelor’s heart has been carrying the war into Egypt. Gossip saith that there are quiet hours spent by these two in the seclusion of the bachelor’s stately home, when, doubtless, his masculine heart melteth within him, and the bonds of his servitude are tightened. Still, it is a dangerous game for a supposedly reputable girl to play, isn’t it? and a little—well, let us call it unconventional.”

Mrs. Lenox shut the magazine and her own teeth.

“It is inconceivable that such stuff should be printed, and that people should buy it,” she said. “But you see it is so vague that it might refer to any one at any place, and even if we knew who was meant, it is too insignificant a piece of small malice to receive anything but contempt. And now good-by, Mrs. Quincy. I hope these coming spring days are going to help you to better health.”

“Good-by. I always appreciate your visits,” whined Mrs. Quincy. “I’m sure, with all you have to do, I don’t wonder you don’t come oftener. I know there’s nothin’ to draw you.”

Mrs. Lenox went away with a deep breath and a longing for fresh air. She shook her head at the waiting coachman and said, “I am going to walk, Emil.”

She moved along in a cloud of conjectures, not that the small paragraph seemed to her very important, but she was a little sickened by the sudden glimpse of petty minds, who, being rich, stay by preference in the slums.

“Mrs. Quincy, like Mrs. Percival, makes me feel that life is not a big thing to be lived for some big reason, but an affair to be scrambled through day by day, grabbing everything you can, and hating those who have grabbed more. What a way to worry through seventy or eighty years!” she groaned to herself.

Almost at her own door she met Ram Juna, who turned with her to make one of his ponderous calls, while she sat and talked with him of emptiness and philosophy, with that vivacious patience that becomes a habit with women of the world; but when the door opened and her husband appeared, accompanied by Dick Percival and Ellery Norris she heaved a distinct sigh of relief.

“We know that the dinner hour is looming on the horizon, and we’re not going to stay,” said Dick. “But your husband has some civic reform monographs that I thought I would borrow while he was in the lending mood.”

“You needn’t apologize, Dick,” she laughed. “You are more than tolerated in this house.”

There came a sharp noise, and Madeline Elton, with pale face and eyes big, stood in the doorway. Every one knew that something had happened, and Mrs. Lenox, who saw the rolled magazine in the nervous hand, guessed its purport in a flash.

“My dear girl!” she cried, running forward, “you are not going to let such a pin-prick hurt you!”

“Oh, Vera,” exclaimed the girl, putting her face down on her friend’s shoulder, “you know! It does hurt. I can’t help it,” and she sobbed.

The three men looked on in puzzled helpless masculinity, and the Swami surveyed the scene as the two women clung to each other.

“Vera,” said Mr. Lenox, “are we permitted to know what this means?” Mrs. Lenox kept her arm around Madeline’s shoulder as she turned.

“It’s only an ugly little fling in the Chatterer, Frank,” she said, “and it sounds as though it might refer to Madeline. It is nothing, but I dare say my dear girl does not enjoy a bit of dirt even on her outer garment. And, Madeline, very likely it is not meant for you.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” cried the girl. “Some one sent me this marked copy. And I went there once when I thought he had invited a crowd to see some tapestries. There was no one else there. There is just so much truth in it.”

“Would you rather that we should not see it?” asked Mr. Lenox.

“I’m afraid every one will see it,” said Madeline shamefacedly, as she held out the guilty pages. The three men leaned their heads over the table with a curiosity that would have done credit to women, while Ram Juna still looked on.

“I have already beheld the writing,” he said suavely. “Mr. Early gave way to unwonted anger when he saw. The lady must have an enemy.”

“That is it,” cried Madeline, turning upon him swiftly. “I think I am not so much hurt by the scandal—every one who knows me will believe better of me—but what cuts is that there should be some one who wants to hurt me. I—I’ve always thought of the world as a friendly place. Who is it that hates me?”

“Bah, it is a very small enemy who seeks small revenge,” said the Swami, whose own heart was filled with contempt and irritation. This was not according to his plan. “In India, we do not so revenge.”

Mr. Lenox stepped back to the fireplace, from which point a man always surveys the world at an advantage.

“It isn’t worth an extra heart-beat, Miss Elton,” he said. “Ignore it and your world will promptly forget it.”

“But, Mr. Lenox, you do not understand. It is not the question of the truth or falsehood of the story that shakes me. As you say, that is too absurd. But I shall always wonder who is my enemy, and why.”

Norris was looking at her with awakened terror. With the intuition of love, he had read the processes of her self-conquest at the time of Dick’s marriage. But here was a new possibility. Could it be that this fair and delicate creature was now to be enwoofed by Sebastian Early, whom at this juncture Ellery characterized to himself as a “fat toad”? He made up his mind that it would not do to trust, as he had been doing, to time to stand his friend. He must also bestir himself.

“I wonder,” he said aloud, “I wonder if Miss Huntress knows anything about it. I have a dim idea that some one told me that she wrote things for the Chatterer. Our society editor, you know.”

“But even if she did dislike me—and I don’t know her from Adam—how could she know?” said Madeline, turning on him. “You see I was alone with Mr. Early, and I am sure, for certain reasons,” here Ellery was horrified to see a little flush creeping over her face, “that he would not be guilty of any attempt to besmirch me. And no one else knew that I was there—except—” A sudden startled look came over her face and she looked involuntarily at Dick. “Except—” she said, and her voice trailed off.

“Besides, these small acts are those of women,” said the Swami placidly. Dick had caught Madeline’s look of astonished comprehension and he turned pale as he saw. Now, with Ram Juna’s words, conviction flashed upon him. He remembered Lena’s dislike for Madeline, of which he had made light; he remembered the little insignificant woman whom he had met in his wife’s boudoir; the fact that he was Mr. Early’s nearest neighbor clapped assurance on suspicion, and his muddled mind was capable of only one idea. No one else, least of all, Madeline, must suspect her little meanness.

“Dick, you have an inkling,” said Mr. Lenox abruptly, but in all innocence.

“Not in the least,” said Dick hurriedly. “I assure you that if I had the slightest reason to suspect any one, I would be the first to speak. I—you know I think everything of you, Madeline.” He went toward her in a futile way, with outstretched hand, but Madeline’s eyes were down, and apparently she did not see the friendly overture. His face looked pale, strained and old as he stood for a moment before her, and the others surveyed them in silence.

“As you say,” said Dick, in sprightly fashion, “the best thing is to forget the whole incident. Lenox, if you will give me those papers, I must be off.”

“Our lines lie parallel,” said the Swami. “Will you permit that I walk with you?”

The four who remained stood awkwardly during the departure, and with the closing of the door, Mr. Lenox gave an inarticulate ejaculation.

“Miss Elton,” he said, “I think your problem is solved.”

“You mean it was Mrs. Percival?”

“You are as sure as I.”

“And Dick knew,” said Ellery. He blushed as he spoke.

“Oh no, Mr. Norris!” cried Madeline in sharp distress. “That would he unendurable. And besides, he said he didn’t.”

“Dick lied,” Ellery stated calmly.

“I will never believe that Dick would lie.”

“He certainly lied,” Ellery persisted. “Any man would lie to protect the woman he loves.”

“Never!” exploded Mrs. Lenox. “Frank, you would not lie for me!”

“Assuredly I would,” her husband answered quietly, “if you needed lying for.”

She looked at him with speechless dismay.

“Therefore,” Ellery went on, “it behooves a man to love a woman who demands truth and not untruth as her reasonable service. The responsibility rests with you women. You can not only make men lie, but you can make them believe that there is no such thing as truth in the universe. Isn’t it so, Lenox?”

Mr. Lenox smiled and nodded, Jove-like.

“Oh, yes, they pull some strings,” he said; “but don’t cocker them up too much. Don’t make them think we are nothing but clay in their hands.”

“You couldn’t, because, to our sorrow, we know better,” retorted his wife.

“Nevertheless, you’ve unsettled everything,” said Madeline dejectedly.

“But, Miss Elton,” Norris put in, “you must not think that I believe that a man is without responsibility for the kind of woman he loves. That is where the first turning up or down comes in. He’s no right to give his soul to the thing that is mean or base. He has the right to choose his road, but after he’s chosen, he has to travel wherever the road leads. Dick’s disintegration began from the moment that he met Miss Quincy. I’ve known it for a long time.”

“Poor little thing!” said Madeline. “She is so small. I hope she will grow to be something like a mate for Dick.”

“Do not flatter yourself with wishes,” cried Mrs. Lenox. “There’s only one soil in which the soul can grow, and that is love. Unless I misread her, there is no room in her for anything but Lena Quincy Percival.”

“And yet,” objected Ellery, “she is certainly not a person weighted with intellect. I should say she is all impulse and emotion.”

“Anomalous but by no means uncommon, Mr. Norris,” she rejoined. “All emotion, yet without emotion of the heart. In her little world, self lies at the equator, and every one else is pushed off to the frozen poles.”

The others looked at her doubtfully.

“Don’t you think I have studied her? She has been a bald revelation to me of things I have only half understood in better-bred women. She’s like a weed transplanted from her lean ground to a garden and grown more luxuriant in her weediness. Do you know what I think? I believe that when the last judgment shall strip her of her sweet pink flesh, there will be nothing found inside but a little dry kernel, too hard to bite, and labeled ‘self’.”

“You are positively vicious, Vera,” said her husband gravely.

The tears came to her eyes as she turned to him.

“I really loved Dick, and she has stung him.”

“But all this does not explain her hatred for Madeline.”

“Do you not understand that even petty people can see how dreary and stupid their lives are when a person like Madeline comes along? So they hate her.”

“It’s good of you to consider my feelings how they grow, and to try to bolster them up,” Madeline smiled. “But I am fearfully tired. I must go home. I hope that my father and mother will never hear of this.”

“Why should they?” said Mr. Lenox. “It’s only a trifle after all, though, to be true to her nature, Vera must needs philosophize about it. It’s only a trifle.”

“Except for Dick,” Ellery exploded.

“Except for Dick,” Mr. Lenox echoed.

“It’s a great pity,” Mrs. Lenox meditated, “that Dick can’t knock her down and then they could start again on a proper basis.”

“It is a disadvantage to be a gentleman,” laughed her husband.

“Vera,” said Madeline impulsively, “you won’t let this make any difference between us and Mrs. Percival? If she is a little twisted, poor child, she has had a cruel training; and she needs decent women all the more. I—I really have quite got over my anger with her—and don’t let us lose Dick. Dick is like my brother. I mustn’t break with him. We must all be good to him.”

“I do not know that I feel any large philanthropy,” answered Mrs. Lenox, with something between a laugh and a wry face. “But as I have invited them as well as you to spend Easter with us in the country, I suppose the ordinary laws of society will require me to behave myself.” The older woman kissed Madeline warmly, and Ellery moved out with her. He had so entirely made up his mind to walk home with her that he quite forgot to ask her permission.

He began to talk to her about himself, for almost the first time in his reticent intimacy, and she forgot her own affairs, as he meant she should, in listening.

Afterward she could not remember his words because parallel with them she was reading her own interpretation. Already in a vague way she understood him, but his little story gave her the crystallized impression.

She had a picture of a lonely childhood, fatherless and motherless and pervaded with a longing for love that early learned to keep silence. That had been the first step in his self-possession. Education had been hard to get, and yet he had got what to the sons of rich men comes easily, and because to him it meant struggle, it had been the more treasured. Knowledge came hard because his mind worked slowly and painfully; therefore his grip was the tighter, and the habits of thought wrought out by exercise were now giving him a facility that cleverer men might envy. He could not know how the simple history gave her an impression of slow irresistible manhood, always, without drifting, moving toward its chosen end.

When they halted at her door, she had a feeling that she could not let him go, just yet.

“You’ll come in and dine with us, will you not?” she asked impulsively.

“I wish I might,” he answered with that longing tone one falls into when surveying an impossible and alluring temptation. “I simply have to work to-night. I’m already late for my engagement. May I come sometime soon?”

“I wish you would. Father is really very fond of you,” she went on, defending her warmth. “He likes young men. He has a sneaking longing for them that no mere girl satisfies. Dick used to be a great deal to him, but—Dick has drifted away. You have not been to see us for a long time.”

“Not since the day that Dick’s engagement was announced,” he answered, looking her boldly in the face. “I couldn’t. You made me feel then that you despised me.”

“I despised you?” she spoke with bland innocence but rising color.

“Yes.”

Madeline hesitated and looked down. She was scarlet.

“I’m not going to pretend to misunderstand you,” she said, and turned laughing eyes toward him. “I knew all the time that it was Dick who had done some shabby thing, and you were trying to shield him.”

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew.”

“But you told me I ought to get a mask,” Ellery fumbled.

“I meant when you try to tell lies. You don’t do it with the grace and conviction of an accomplished hand. Pooh, I can read you like an open book.”

“I am very glad you can,” he said deliberately. “I thank God you can, because on every page you will read the truth—that I love you—I love you. I’m wanting you to read it in your own way, but some time I am going to let the passion of it loosen this slow tongue of mine and tell you in my own fashion how much it is.”

He turned and strode abruptly away. Madeline went in to the firelight of home.

“Why, you look as bright as though you’d heard good news,” exclaimed Mr. Elton, peering over his newspaper in welcome.

“Do I, father?” Madeline stooped to rub her cheek softly against his and laughed to herself. “Why, I believe I have. That shows what a whirligig I am. I went out thinking life was a tragedy, and I come back thinking it—”

“What, little girl?”

“A divine comedy,” said Madeline and laughed again. “Just see what a walk in the open air will do for a body.”