Chapter V: Part 5

"I don't see why you should care--since I don't object to Bent. Mrs. Cheyne is a friend of mine. She's investing in my company----"

"Evidently," with scorn. "No doubt you make it profitable to her."

"We won't talk about Mrs. Cheyne. You don't like her. I do. You like Cort Bent. I don't. And there we are. We understand each other. It's the first time in our lives we ever have. I don't question you, and you're not to question me. All I ask is that you hide your trail, as I'll hide mine. I have some big interests at stake, and I don't want any scandal hanging around my name--or yours. I'm giving you into the hands of my enemies. The father wants to ruin my business, the son to ruin my wife. I'll fight General Bent with his own weapons. The son----"

"You're insulting," she broke in. "Will you go?"

He turned at the door--his face pale with fury.

"Yes, I'll go. And I won't bother you again. These rooms are yours. When I'm here, mine are there. Some day when I'm ready I'll get you a divorce. Then you can marry as you please. As for me," he finished passionately, "I'm done with marriage--done with it--you understand?"

And the door crashed between them.

Camilla stood for a moment, tense and breathless, staring wide-eyed at the pitiless door. Then the room went whirling and she caught at the chair at her desk and sank into it helplessly, one hand pressed against her breast. For a moment she could not think, could not see even. The brutality of his insults had driven her out of her bearings. Why he had not struck her she could not imagine, for it was in the character of the part he was playing. He had not given her a chance. He must have seen that she was trying to repair past damages and begin anew. A throb of self-pity that was almost a sob came into her throat. Tears gathered in her eyes and pattered on the desk before her. She did not notice them until she heard them fall, and then she dried her eyes abruptly as though in shame for a weakness. He did not want to begin anew. She could see it all clearly now. He was tired of her and caught at the easiest way to be rid of her, by putting her in the wrong. Her strength came quickly as she found the explanation, and she sat up rigidly in her chair, her face hot with shame and resentment. She deserved something better from him than this. All that was worst in her clamored for utterance.

With a quick movement of decision she reached forward for a pen and paper and wrote rapidly a scrawl, then rang the bell for her maid.

"Have this note mailed at once."

It was addressed to Cortland Bent.

*CHAPTER XII*

*TEA CUPS AND MUSIC*

Dropping in on Jack Perot meant being shot skyward for twelve stories in a Louis Sixteenth elevator operated by a magnificent person in white gloves and the uniform of a Prussian lieutenant. Perot's panelled door was no different from others in the corridor upstairs, except for its quaint bronze knocker, but the appearance of a man-servant in livery and the glimpse of soft tapestries and rare and curious furniture which one had on entering the small reception room gave notice that a person of more than ordinary culture and taste dwelt within. The studio of the painter itself was lofty, the great north window extending the full height of two stories of the building, while the apartment beyond, a library and dining room with steps leading above to the bedrooms, contained all the luxuries that the most exacting bachelor might require.

To arrive at the distinction of being a fashionable portrait painter one must have many qualifications. In the schools one must know how to draw and to paint from the model. In the fashionable studio one must know how to draw and paint--then discover how not to do either. If the nose of one's sitter is too long, one must know how to chop it off at the end; if the mouth is too wide, one must approximate it to the Greek proportions; eyes that squint must be made squintless and colorful; protruding ears must be reduced. Indeed, there is nothing that the beauty doctor professes to accomplish that the fashionable portrait painter must not do with his magic brush. He must make the lean spinster stout and the stout dowager lean; the freckled, spotless; the vulgar, elegant; the anaemic, rosy; his whole metier is to select agreeable characteristics and to present them so forcibly that the unpleasant ones may be forgotten, to paint people as they ought to be rather than as they are, to put women in silk who were meant for shoddy, and men in tailored coats who have grown up in shirt-sleeves.

In addition to these purely technical attainments, he must be an infallible judge of character, a diplomat, a sophist; he must have a silver tea-service, to say nothing of excellent Scotch and cigarettes. He must be able to write a sonnet or mix a salad, discuss the Book of Job or the plays of Bernard Shaw, follow the quotations of the stock market, the news of the day, and the fashions in women's hats. He must laugh when he feels dejected and look dejected when he feels like laughing. Indeed, there is nothing the fashionable portrait painter must not be able to do, except perhaps really--to paint.

Jack Perot could even do that, too, when he wanted to. The sketch of the Baroness Charny on his easel was really sincere--an honest bit of painting done with the freedom his other work lacked. Perhaps this was because it was not a commission, but just one of those happy interludes which sometimes occur amid the dreariest of measures. It pleased him, at any rate, and he stood off from it squinting delightedly through his monocle while the Baroness poured the tea.

"Really, madame, it's too bad it's finished. I was almost ready to believe myself back in Paris again," he said in French. "If one could only live one's life backward!"

"Oh, that wouldn't do--in a little while perhaps you would be quite poor."

"Yes," he sighed, "but think how much better I would paint." He stopped before the sketch and sighed again. "I think it's you, Baroness. You bring an echo of my vanished youth. Besides, I didn't paint you for money. That is the difference."

"You are going to paint that handsome Madame Wray?"

"Yes. She's coming in for tea to-day."

"They are wonderful, those people. He is so original--so _farouche_."

"He's too fond of talking about himself," he growled. "These people represent the Western type so common in New York--climbers--but New York will forgive much in the husband of Mrs. Wray."

"He doesn't care whether he's forgiven or not, does he?"

"That's a pose. All Westerners adopt it. To consent to be like other people would be to confess a weakness."

"I like him; but then"--the Baroness yawned politely--"all Americans are attractive. Mrs. Wray I find less interesting."

"Naturally, madame. You are a woman." Then, after a pause, "It is a pity she's getting herself talked about."

"Really? That's encouraging--with Monsieur Bent?"

"Oh, yes--they met in the West--the phenix of an old romance."

"How delightful! Monsieur Jeff doesn't care?"

"Oh, no," significantly. "He has his reasons."

The door-knocker clanged, and Mrs. Rumsen entered, escorting two debutantes, who paused on the threshold of the studio gurglingly, their eyes round with timidity and a precocious hopefulness of imminent deviltries.

"_So_ kind of you, Mrs. Rumsen. Good morning, Miss Van Alstyne--Miss Champney" (with Jack Perot it was always morning until six of the afternoon). "You've met the Baroness?"

"How too thweetly perfect!"

"How fearfully interesting!"

The newcomers fluttered palpitantly from canvas to canvas and only subsided when Mrs. Cheyne entered.

"Am I welcome?" she drawled. "This is your day, isn't it, Jack? Oh, how charming!" She paused before the sketch of the Baroness. "Why didn't you paint _me_ like that? I'll never forgive you. You were painting me for Cheyne, I know it. My portrait fairly exudes the early Victorian."

Perot kissed the tips of his fingers and wafted them toward her. "Quite correct, dear Rita. Cheyne was paying the bill. Now if you gave me another commission----"

"I won't--you're the most mercenary creature. Besides, I'm too hard up. One must really have billions nowadays." She sank on the couch beside the Baroness. "It's really very exhausting--trying to live on one's income. I'm very much afraid I shall have to marry again."

"You need a manager. May I offer----"

"No, thanks. I shall be in the poor-house soon enough."

"Get Mr. Wray to help," laughed the painter mischievously. "They say he has a way of making dollars bloom from sage-brush."

She glanced at him swiftly, but took her cup of tea from the Baroness and held her peace.

The knocker clanged again, and Mrs. Wray, Miss Janney, Larry Berkely, and Cortland Bent came in.

"This is really jolly, Gretchen. Hello! Cort, Berkely--Mrs. Wray, I've been pining to see your hair against my old tapestry. Oh! shades of Titian! Can I ever dare?"

Camilla colored softly, aware of Mrs. Cheyne's sleepy eyes in the shadow below the skylight. She nodded in their general direction and then took Mrs. Rumsen's proffered hand--and the seat beside her.

"I was so sorry to have missed you this morning," she said. "I'm always out, it seems, when the people I want to see come in."

"I should have 'phoned," said the lady. "I had something particular to speak to you about. Is your husband coming here?"

"I--I really don't know," Camilla stammered. "He has been away and very busy."

"He'll be back for my dance, won't he?"

"I think so--but he's never certain. He's going West very soon."

"He was telling me something about his early life. You ought to be very proud of him."

"I can't tell just what it is, but to me your husband seems like an echo of something, an incarnation of some memory of my youth--perhaps only a long-forgotten dream. But it persists--it persists. I can't seem to lose it."

"How very curious."

"It is the kind of personality one isn't likely to forget. Has he any memory of his father or--of his mother?"

"No. His mother died when he was born. His father--he doesn't remember his father at all."

Mrs. Rumsen smiled. "Forgive me, won't you? I suppose you'll think me a meddlesome old busybody. But I'm not, really. I want to be friendly. You're a stranger in New York, and it occurred to me that perhaps you might crave a little mothering once in a while. It is so easy to make mistakes here, and there are so many people who are willing to take advantage of them."

"You're very kind, Mrs. Rumsen. I'm glad you think us worth while."

"I do. So much worth while that I want to lay particular stress upon it. Perhaps I ought to tell you what I mean. Last night my brother dined with us. He was in a very disagreeable mood--and spoke very bitterly of your husband. I suppose he may even go so far as to carry his business antagonism into his social relations with you both."

"How very unfortunate!" in genuine dismay.

"That is his way. He's rather used to lording it over people here. And people stand it just because he's Cornelius Bent. I suppose Mr. Wray knows what he is about. At any rate, I honor him for his independence. I told my brother so--and we're not on speaking terms."

As Camilla protested she laughed. "Oh, don't be alarmed, dear; we have been that way most of our lives. You see we're really very much alike. But I wanted you to understand that my brother's attitude, whatever it is, will make no possible difference to me."

"I shouldn't dare to be a cause of any disagreement----"

"Not a word, child. I'm not going to permit Wall Street to tell me who my friends shall be. There is too much politics in society already. That is why I want you to dine with me before my ball, and receive with me afterward, if you will."

Camilla's eyes brightened with pleasure. "Of course, I'm very much honored, Mrs. Rumsen. I will come gladly, if you don't think I'll add fuel to the flame."

"I don't really care. Why should you?"

"There are reasons. The General was most kind to us both----"

"Because he had something to get out of you," she sniffed. "I could have told you that before."

"But it was through General Bent that we met everybody--people who have entertained us--the Janneys, the McIntyres, and yourself, Mrs. Rumsen."

"He was the ill-wind that blew us the good," she finished graciously. "Say no more about it. I have a great many friends in New York, my child--some who are not stockholders in the Amalgamated Reduction Company."

* * * * *

In another corner of the studio--a dark one behind a screen--Miss Janney had impounded Larry Berkely.

"Have you seen 'Man and Super-man'?" she was asking.

"I've read it."

"Well, do you believe in it? Don't you think it breeds a false philosophy? Can you imagine a girl so brazen as to pursue a man whether he wanted her or not?"

"No. It was very un-human," said Larry.

"Or a man so helpless, saying such dreadful things--thinking such dreadful things about a girl and then marrying her?"

"It was absurd--quite ridiculous in fact. No one ever meets that kind of people in real life. I never could stand a girl of that sort."

"Oh, I'm so glad you agree with me. Do you know, Larry, I really believe that you and I have exactly the same way of thinking about most things. It's really remarkable. I'm so glad. It's a great comfort to me, too, because ever since I first met you I hoped we'd learn to understand each other better."

"How curious! I've been hoping the same sort of thing--fearing it, too," he added dolefully.

"Fearing it? What do you mean? Tell me at once."

"Oh, nothing," he murmured.

"I insist on knowing."

"I wanted you to like me--and yet I dreaded it, too."

"Don't say that again," she whispered. "I can't stand it, Larry. I do care for you--more and more every time I see you. But it makes me terribly unhappy to feel that anything is bothering you."

"It needn't bother _you_."

"Yes, it does--if it makes _you_ miserable. What is it? Won't you tell me?"

"I--I don't think we ought to be too friendly."

"Why not?" in surprise.

"Because it wouldn't be good for you--for either of us."

"That's no answer at all. I refuse to listen. What do I mind if it's good for me or not--if I care for you enough to--to--what is it, Larry? Answer me."

"Well, you know I'm all right now, but when I went West my bellows--my breathing apparatus--oh, hang it all! The reason I went West was on account of my health. My lungs, you know----"

"You silly boy. I've known that for ever so long. That's one of the reasons why I fell in love with----"

She stopped, the color suddenly rushing to her cheeks as she realized what she had been saying. But Larry's fingers had found hers in the corner, and she looked up into his eyes and went on resolutely. "I do love you, Larry. I think I always have. Are you glad?"

Then Larry kissed her.

* * * * *

On the other side of the screen, to her own accompaniment on the piano, the Baroness Charny began singing:

"Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux
Qui voltigent fous sur mes levres,
Ils y versent l'oubli des fievres
Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux,
Aussi legers que des roseaux,
Foules par les pieds blancs des chevres
Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux
Qui voltigent fous, sur mes levres."

Amid the chorus of approval, as the Baroness paused, a thin little lisping voice was heard.

"Oh, how too utterly thweetly exthquithite! I never thought of kitheth being like the flight of little birdth. Are they, Mr. Bent? I thought they lathted longer."

Bent shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "How should _I_ know, Miss Champney? _I've_ never been married."

"Married? How thilly! Of courthe not! It would be thtupid to kith _then_--tho unneth-eth--unneth-eth--oh, you know what I mean, don't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't. I'd be tempted not to understand, just to hear you say 'unnecessary' again."

"Now you're making fun of me. You're perfectly horrid. _Ithn't_ he, Mr. Perot?"

"He's a brute, Miss Champney--an utter brute; that's because he's never been kissed."

"Oh, how very interethting! Haven't you really, Mr. Bent? Oh, you're really quite hopeleth."

Mrs. Cheyne sipped her tea quite fastidiously and listened, bored to the point of extinction. Nor did her expression change when, some moments later, Jeff Wray was announced. Camilla's face was the only one in the room which showed surprise. She had not seen her husband for several days, and she noticed, as he came over and spoke to Mrs. Rumsen, that he looked more than ordinarily tired and worried. With Camilla he exchanged a careless greeting and then passed her on his way to the others. The servant brought the decanter and soda bottle, and he sank on the divan by the side of Rita Cheyne. It surprised him a little when she began talking quite through him to their host and the Baroness, whom they were asking to sing again.

It was a _Chanson Galante_ of Bemberg

"A la cour
A la cour
Aimer est un badinage
Et l'amour
Et l'amour
N'est dangereux qu'au village
Un berger
Un berger
Si la bergere n'est tendre
Sait se prendre
Sait se prendre
Mais il ne saurait changer.
Et parmi nous quand les belles
Sont legeres ou cruelles,
Loin d'en mourir de depit
On en rit, on en rit,
Et l'on change aussi-tot qu'elles."

Jeff listened composedly and joined perfunctorily in the applause. Rita Cheyne laughed.

"Charming, Baroness. I'm so in sympathy with the sentiment, too. It's delightfully French."

"What is the sentiment?" asked Jeff vaguely of any one.

Mrs. Cheyne undertook to explain.

"That love is only dangerous to the villager, Mr. Wray. In the city it's a joke--it amuses and helps to pass the time."

"Oh!" said Jeff, subsiding, conscious, that the question and reply had been given for the benefit of the entire company.

"Rather dainty rubbish, I should say," said Perot, with a sense of saving a situation (and a client). "Love is less majestic in the village--that's all, but perhaps a little sweeter. Ah, Baroness!"--he sighed tumultuously--"Why should you recall--these memories?"

The conversation became general again, and Wray finished his glass and set it down on the edge of the transom.

"What is the matter, Mrs. Cheyne?" he asked. "Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Why should I be?" coolly.

"I don't know. I thought you might be. I stopped at your house. They told me you were here, so I came right down."

"You're very kind--but I didn't leave any instructions."

"No, but they told me. I wanted to see you." "You didn't want to see me the other night."

"I couldn't--I 'phoned you."

"Don't you think it would have been in better taste if you had come yourself?"

"I left in the morning for Washington. I've just returned. I'm sorry you didn't understand."

"I did. You had other fish to fry. Did you know I came all the way in from the country to see you? No woman cares to throw herself at the head of a man. Personally I prefer an insult to a slight, Mr. Wray."

"Good Lord! I hope you don't think I could do that. I certainly have never showed you anything but friendship. I've been worried over--over business matters."

"That's a man's excuse. It lacks originality. I'm not accustomed to rebuffs, Mr. Wray. I made the mistake of showing that I liked you. That's always fatal, I thought you were different. I know better now. There's no depth too great for the woman who cheapens herself--I'm glad I learned that in time."

"Don't talk like that. I tell you I've been away," he protested.

"Really! Why didn't you write to me then?"

"Write?"

"Or send me some roses?"

"I'll send you a wagon-load."

"It's too late," she sighed. "It was the thought I wanted."

Wray rubbed his chin pensively. It occurred to him that there were still many things with which he was unfamiliar.

"I did think of you."

"Why didn't you tell me so then?"

"I'm telling you now."

She leaned toward him with a familiar gesture of renewed confidences.

"There are a thousand ways of telling a woman you're thinking of her, Mr. Wray. The only way not to tell her is to _say_ that you are. What a man says is obvious and unimportant. A woman always judges a man by the things that he ought to have done--and the things he ought not to have done."

"I don't suppose I'll ever learn----"

"Not unless some woman teaches you."

"Won't you try me again?"

"I'll think about it." And then with one of her sudden transitions, she added in a lower tone, "I am at home to-night. It is your last chance to redeem yourself."

"I'll take it. I can't lose you, Mrs. Cheyne."

"No--not if I can help it," she whispered.

A general movement among Perot's visitors brought the conversation to a pause. Mrs. Rumsen, after a final word with Camilla, departed with her small brood. Cortland Bent, with a mischievous intention of supplying evidence of the inefficacy of the parental will, removed one wing of the screen which sheltered Berkely and his own ex-fiancee. But Miss Janney was not in the least disconcerted, only turning her head over her shoulder to throw at him:

"Please go away, Cort. I'm extremely busy."

Camilla smiled, but was serious again when Bent whispered at her ear, "_My_ refuge!" he said. "_Yours_ is yonder."

She followed his glance toward Wray and Rita Cheyne, who were so wrapped in each other's conversation that they were unconscious of what went on around them.

"Come," said Camilla, her head in the air, "let us go."

*CHAPTER XIII*

*GOOD FISHING*

A clock struck the hour of nine. Mrs. Cheyne lowered the volume of Shaw's plays, the pages of which she had made a pretence of reading, and frowned at the corner of the rug. She now wore a house gown of clinging material whose colors changed from bronze to purple in the shadow of the lamps. It fitted her slim figure closely like chain-mail and shimmered softly like the skin of a dusky chameleon. Mrs. Cheyne was fond of uncertain colors in a low key, and her hour was in the dim of twilight, which lent illusions, stimulated the imagination to a perception of the meaning of shadows--softened shadows which hung around her eyes and mouth, which by day were merely lines--a little bitter, a little hard, a little cynical. Mrs. Cheyne's effects were all planned with exquisite care; the amber-colored shades, the warmish rug and scarlet table cover, the Chinese mandarin's robe on her piano, the azaleas in the yellow pots, all were a part of a color scheme upon which she had spent much thought. Her great wealth had not spoiled her taste for simplicity. The objects upon her table and mantel-shelf were few but choice, and their arrangement, each with reference to the other, showed an artistry which had learned something from Japan. She hated ugliness. Beauty was her fetich. The one great sorrow of her life was the knowledge that her own face was merely pretty; but the slight irregularity of her features somewhat condoned for this misfortune, and she had at last succeeded in convincing herself that the essence of beauty lies rather in what it suggests than in what it reveals. Nature, by way of atoning for not making each feature perfect, had endowed them all with a kind of Protean mobility, and her mind with a genius for suggestion, which she had brought to a high degree of usefulness. Without, therefore, being beautiful at all, she gave the impression of beauty, and she rejoiced in the reputation which she possessed of being marked "Dangerous."

She had rejoiced in it, moreover, because she had been aware that, no matter how dangerous she might prove to be with others, with herself she had not been dangerous. The kind of romance, the kind of sentiment, in which she indulged she had come to regard as highly specialized art in which she was Past Grand Mistress. She loved them for their own sake. She was a fisher of men, but fished only for the love of fishing, and it was her pleasure while her victims still writhed to unhook them as tenderly as might be and let them flap ungracefully back into their own element. Her fly-book was a curiosity and of infinite variety. Izaak Walton advances the suggestion that trout bite "not for hunger, but wantonness." Rita Cheyne was of the opinion that men bit for a similar reason; and so she whipped the social streams ruthlessly for the mere joy of the game, matching her skill to the indifference of her quarry, her artistry to their vehemence.

And now she suddenly discovered that she must throw her fly-book away--she had tried them all--the "silver-doctor," the "white moth," the "brown hackle"--and all to no purpose. Her fish had risen, but he would not bite. She was fishing in unfamiliar waters, deeper waters, where there were hidden currents she could not understand. The tackle she had used when fishing for others would not serve for Jeff Wray.

It provoked her that her subtlety was of no avail, for she had the true fisher's contempt for heavy tackle. And yet she realized that it was only heavy tackle which would land him. He was the only man who had really interested her in years, and his conquest was a matter of pride with her. She had other reasons, too. His wife was beautiful. Rita Cheyne was merely artistic. Victory meant that Beauty was only an incident--that Art, after all, was immortal. The theory of a whole lifetime needed vindication.

When Wray entered she was deep in "You Never Can Tell," but looked up at her visitor slowly and extended a languid hand.

"Aren't you early?" she asked, slipping a marker in the pages of her book and closing it slowly.

"No, I don't think so. I thought I was late. I was detained."

She held up a hand in protest.

"I was really hoping you might not come. I've been really so amused--and when one is really amused nowadays one should expect nothing more of the gods."

Wray got up hurriedly. "I won't 'butt in' then. I don't want to disturb----"

"Oh, sit down--do. You make me nervous. Have a cigarette--I'll take one, too. Now tell me what on earth is the matter with you."

"The matter? Nothing. I'm all right."

"You've changed somehow. When I met you at the Bents' I thought you the most wonderful person I had ever met--with great--very great possibilities. Even at the Janneys' the illusion still remained. Something has happened to change you. You do nothing but scowl and say the wrong thing. There's no excuse for any man to do that."

"I'm worried. There's been a slight tangle in my plans. I--but I'm not going to trouble you with----"

"I want to hear--of course. You went to Washington?"

"Yes--to see some of our congressmen. I have the law on my side in this fight, and I'm trying to make things copperlined--so there can't be a leak anywhere. Those fellows down there are afraid of their own lives. They act as though they were on the lookout for somebody to stab them in the back. Washington is too near New York. A fellow goes there from the West and in about six months he's a changed man. He forgets that he ever came from God's country, and learns to bow and scrape and lick boots. I reckon that's the way to get what you want here in the East--but it goes against my grain."

"Weren't you successful?"

"Oh, yes, I found out what I wanted to know. It's only a question of money. They'll fall in line when I'm ready. But it's going to take cash--more than I thought it would."

"Are you going to have enough?"

"My credit's good, and I'm paying eight per cent."

"Eight? Why, I only get four!"

"I know. Eight is the legal rate in my state. Business is done on that basis."

"I wish I could help. You know I'm horribly rich. I'd like to look into the matter. Will you let me?"

"Yes, but there's a risk--you see, I'm honest with you. I'll give stock as security and a share in the profits--but my stock isn't exactly like government bonds. Who is your lawyer? I'll put it up to him if you like."

"Stephen Gillis. But he'll do what I say."

"I'd rather you consulted him."

"Oh, yes, I shall. But I have faith in you, Jeff Wray. It seems like a good speculation. I'd like you to send me all the data. I'll really look into it seriously." She stopped and examined his face in some concern. In the lamplight she saw the lines that worry had drawn there. "But not to-night. You've had enough of business. You're tired--in your mind"--she paused again that he might the better understand her meaning--"but you're more tired in your heart. Business is the least of your worries. Am I right?"

"Yes," he said sullenly.

"I'm very sorry. Is there any way in which I can help?"

"No."

The decision in his tone was not encouraging, but she persevered.

"You don't want help?"

"It isn't a matter I can speak about."

"Oh!"

Her big fish was sulking in the deeps? It was a case for shark-bait and a "dipsy" lead.

"You won't tell me? Very well. Frankness is a privilege of friendship. I'll use it. Your wife is in love with my cousin Cortland."

Wray started violently.

"How do you know?"

She smiled. "Oh, I don't know. I guessed. It's true, though." She paused and examined him curiously. He had subsided in his chair, his head on his breast, his brows lowering.

"Are you unhappy?" she asked.

"No," he muttered at last. "It's time we understood each other."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Do? Nothing," he said with a short laugh. "There's nothing to do. I'm a good deal of a fool, but I know that putting trouble in a woman's way never made her quit going after what she'd set her mind on. If I licked Cort Bent she'd make me out a brute; if I shot him, she'd make _him_ out a martyr. Any way, I'm a loser. I'm going my own way and she----" He got up and strode the length of the room and back, and then spoke constrainedly: "I'm not going to speak of this matter to you or to any one else."

He dropped into his chair beside her again and glared at the window curtain. Mrs. Cheyne leaned one elbow on the arm of her chair which was nearest him and sighed deeply.

"Why is it that we always marry the wrong people? If life wasn't so much of a joke, I'd be tempted to cry over the fallibility of human nature. The love of one's teens is the only love that is undiluted with other motives--the only love that's really what love was meant to be. It's perfectly heavenly, but of course it's entirely unpractical. Marrying one's first love is iconoclasm--it's a sacrilege--a profanation--and ought to be prohibited by law. First love was meant for memory only--to sweeten other memories later on--but it was never meant for domestication. Rose petals amid cabbage leaves! Incense amid the smells of an apartment kitchen!"

She sank back in her chair again and mused dreamily, her eyes on the open fire.

"It's a pretty madness," she sighed. "Romance thrives on unrealities. What has it in common with the butcher? You know"--she paused and gave a quick little laugh--"you know, Cheyne and I fell in love at first sight. He was an adorable boy and he made love like an angel. He had a lot of money, too--almost as much as I had--but he didn't let that spoil him--not then. He used to work quite hard before we were married, and was really a useful citizen.

"Matrimony ruined him. It does some men. He got to be so comfortable and contented in his new condition that he forgot that there was anything else in the world but comfort and content--even me. He began to get fat and bald. Don't you hate bald-headed men with beards? He was so sleek, shiny, and respectable that he got on my nerves. He didn't want to go anywhere but to symphony concerts and the opera. Sometimes he played quite dolefully on the 'cello--even insisted on doing so when we had people in to dinner. It was really very inconsiderate of him when every one wanted to be jolly. He began making a collection of 'cellos, too, which stood around the walls of the music room in black cases like coffins. Imagine a taste like that! The thing I had once mistaken for poetry, for sentiment, had degenerated into a kind of flabby sentimentality which extended to all of the commonplaces of existence. I found that it wasn't really me that he loved at all. It was _love_ that he loved. I had made a similar mistake. We discovered it quite casually one evening after dinner."

She broke off with a sigh. "What's the use? I suppose you'll think I'm selfish--talking of myself. Mine is an old story. Time has mellowed it agreeably. Yours is newer----"

"I'm very sorry for you. But you know that I'm sorry. I've told you so before. I think I understand you better now."

"And I you," and then softly, "Mrs. Wray was your first love?"

"No," he muttered, "she was my last."

Mrs. Cheyne's lids dropped, and she looked away from him. Had Wray been watching her he would have discovered that the ends of her lips were flickering on the verge of a smile, but Wray's gaze was on the andirons.

They sat there in silence for some moments, but Wray, who first spoke, restored her self-complacency.

"You're very kind to me," he said slowly. "You say you like me because I'm different from other fellows here. I suppose I am. I was born different and I guess I grew up different. If you think I'm worth while, then I'm glad I grew up the way I did." He got up and walked slowly the length of the room. She watched him doubtfully, wondering what was passing in his mind. She learned in a moment; for when he approached her again he leaned over her chair and, without the slightest warning, had put his arms around her and kissed her again and again on the lips.

She did not struggle or resist. It seemed impossible to do so, and she was too bewildered for a moment to do anything but sit and stare blankly before her. He was a strange fish--a most extraordinary fish which rose only when one had stopped fishing. It was the way he did it that appalled her--he was so brutal, so cold-blooded. When he released her she rose abruptly, her face pale and her lips trembling.

"How could you?" she said. "How could you?" And then, with more composure, she turned and pointed toward the door.

"I wish you'd please go--at once."

But as he stood staring at her she was obliged to repeat: "Don't you hear me? I want you to go and not to come back. Isn't that plain? Or would you prefer to have me ring for a servant?"

"No, I don't prefer either," he said with a smile; "I don't want to go. I want to stay here with you. That's what I came for."

She walked over to the door and stood by the bell. "Do you wish me to ring?"

"Of course not."

"Will you go?"

"No."

She raised her hand toward the bell, but halted it in midair. Wray noticed her hesitation.

"Wait a moment. Don't be foolish, Rita. I have something to say to you. It wouldn't reflect much credit on either of us for you to send me out. I thought we understood each other. I'm sorry. You said once that you liked me because I was plain-spoken and because I said and did just what came into my head, but you haven't been fair with me."

"What do you mean?"

"Just this: You and I were to speak to each other freely of ourselves and of each other. You said you needed me, and I knew I needed you. We decided it was good to be friends. That was our agreement. You broke it wilfully. You have acted with me precisely as you have acted with a dozen other men. It was lucky I discovered my danger in time. I don't think any woman in the world could do as much with me as you could--if you wanted to. When I like anybody I try to show them that I do. If you were a man I'd give you my hand, or loan you money, or help you in business. I can't do that with you. You're a woman and meant to be kissed. So I kissed you."

She dropped her hands. "Yes, you kissed me, brutally, shamelessly----"

"Shamelessly?"

"You've insulted me. I'll never forgive you. Don't you think a woman can tell? There are other ways of judging a man. I've interested you, yes, because you've never known any real woman before," contemptuously. "I suppose you're interested still. You ought to be. But you can never care for any woman until you forget to be interested in yourself. For you the sun rises and sets in Jeff Wray, and you want other people to think so, too."

"I'm sorry you think so badly of me."

"Oh, no, I don't think badly of you. From the present moment I sha'n't think of you at all. I--I dislike you--intensely. I want to be alone. Will you please go?"

Wray gave her his blandest stare, and then shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the door.

"You're willing to have me go like this?"

"Yes."

"I'm going West to-morrow."

"It makes no difference to me where you are going."

"Won't you forgive me?"

"No."

As he passed her, he offered his hand in one last appeal, but she turned away from him, her hands behind her, and in a moment he was gone.

Rita Cheyne heard the hall door close behind him and then sank into the chair before the open fire, her eyes staring before her at the tiny flame which still played fitfully above the gray log. Her fish had risen at last with such wanton viciousness that he had taken hook, line, reel, and rod. Only her creel remained to her--her empty creel.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*FATHER AND SON*

Father and son had dined together alone, and for most of the time in silence. Cornelius Bent had brought his business mien uptown with him, and Cortland, with a discretion borrowed of experience, made only the most perfunctory attempts at a conversation. Since the "Lone Tree" affair there had happened a change in their relations which each of them had come to understand. Cortland Bent's successive failures in various employments had at last convinced his father that his son was not born of the stuff of which Captains of Industry are made. The loss of the mine had been the culminating stroke in Cortland's ill-fortune, and since his return to New York he had been aware of a loss of caste in the old man's eyes. General Bent had a habit of weighing men by their business performances and their utility in the financial enterprises which were controlled from the offices of Bent & Company. It was not his custom to make allowances for differences in temperament in his employees, or even to consider their social relationships except in so far as they contributed to his own financial well-being. He had accustomed himself for many years to regard the men under him as integral parts of the complicated machinery of his office, each with its own duty, upon the successful performance of which the whole fabric depended. He had figured the coefficient of human frailty to a decimal point, and was noted for the strength of his business organization.

To such a man an only son with incipient leanings toward literature, music, and the arts was something in the nature of a reproach upon the father himself. Cort had left college with an appreciation of AEschylus and Euripides and a track record of ten-seconds flat. So far as Bent Senior could see, these accomplishments were his only equipment for his eventual control of the great business of the firm of which his father was the founder. The Greek poets were Greek, indeed, to the General, but the track record was less discouraging, so Cortland began the business of life at twenty-three as a "runner" for the bank, rising in time to the dignity of a post inside a brass cage, figuring discounts, where for a time he was singularly contented, following the routine with a cheerfulness born of desperation. As assistant to the cashier he was less successful, and when his father took him into his own office later and made him a seller of bonds, Cortland was quite sure that at last he had come into his own. For the selling of bonds, it seemed, required only tireless legs and tireless imagination--both of which he possessed. Only after a month he was convinced that bond sellers are born--not made.

The General, still hoping against hope, had now taken him back into his office on a salary and an interest in business secured, and thus made his son more or less dependent upon his own efforts for the means to enjoy his leisure. Father and son existed now as they had always done, on a basis of mutual tolerance--a hazardous relation which often threatened to lead and often did lead to open rupture. To-night Cortland was aware that a discussion of more than usual importance was impending, and, when dinner was over, the General ordered the coffee served in the smoking room, the door of which, after the departure of the butler, he firmly closed.

General Bent lit his cigar with some deliberation, while Cortland watched him, studying the hard familiar features, the aquiline nose, the thin lips, the deeply indented chin, wondering, as he had often wondered before, how a father and son could be so dissimilar. It was a freak of heredity, Nature's little joke--at Cornelius Bent's expense. The General sank into his armchair, thoughtfully contemplating his legs and emitting a cloud of smoke as though seeking in the common rite of tobacco some ground of understanding between his son and himself.

"I want to speak to you about the Wrays," he said at last.

Cortland's gaze found the fire and remained on it.

"You are aware that a situation has arisen within the past few weeks which has made it impossible for Bent & Company or myself personally to have any further relations, either financial or social, with Jeff Wray? He has taken a stand in regard to his holdings in Saguache Valley which I consider neither proper nor justifiable. To make short of a long matter, I thought it best some weeks ago to forget the matter of the mine and make Wray an offer for his entire interests in the Saguache Valley. It was a generous offer, one that no man in his position had a right to refuse. But he did refuse it in such terms that further negotiations on the subject were impossible."

"Yes, sir, I know," put in his son.

"Wray's rise is one of those remarkable combinations of luck and ability--I'll concede him that--which are to be found in every community once in a decade. From obscure beginnings--God knows what the fellow sprang from--he has worked his way up in a period of three years to a position of commanding influence. He owns the biggest independent smelter in the West--built it, we now believe, with the intention of underbidding the Amalgamated. He has not done so yet because he hasn't been sure enough of himself. But he's rapidly acquiring a notion that nothing Jeff Wray can do will fail. That is his weak point--as it is with every beggar on horseback. You are familiar with all of these facts. You've had some occasion," bitterly, "to form your own judgment of the man. When you came East I was under the impression that, aside from business, there were other reasons, why you disliked him."

"That is correct, sir," muttered Cortland, "there were."

The General eyed his son sharply before he spoke again.

"Am I to understand that those reasons still exist? Or----"

"One moment, sir. I'd like to know just where this conversation is drifting. My relations with Wray have never been pleasant. He isn't the type of man I've ever cared much about. No conditions that I'm aware of could ever make us friendly, and, aside from his personality, which I don't admire, I'm not likely to forget the 'Lone Tree' matter very soon."

"H--m! That still rankles, does it? It does with me--with all of us. Oh, I'm not blaming you, Cort. If you had been a little sharper you might have made one last investigation before you signed those papers. But you didn't, and that's the end of that part of the matter. What I want to know now is just what your relations with the Wray family are at the present moment. You hate Wray, and yet most of your leisure moments are spent in the company of his wife. Am I to understand----?"

"Wait a moment, sir----" Cortland had risen and moved uneasily to the fireplace. "I'd prefer that Mrs. Wray's name be kept out of the discussion. I can't see how my relations with her can have any bearing----"

"They have," the General interrupted suavely. "If Mrs. Wray is to receive your confidences I can't give you mine."

"Thank you," bitterly. "I didn't know I had ever done anything to warrant such an attitude as this."

"Tut! tut! Don't misunderstand me. Whatever your sins, they've always been those of omission. I don't believe you'd betray me wilfully. But intimacies with pretty women are dangerous, especially intimacies with the wives of one's financial enemies; unless, of course, there's some method in one's madness."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry I don't make my intention clear. If your friendship with Mrs. Wray can be useful to Bent & Company I see no reason why it shouldn't continue. But if it jeopardizes my business plans in any way, it's time it stopped. In my office you are in a position and will, I hope, in the near future be in a further position to learn all the business plans of the Amalgamated and other companies. Of course, I don't know how far Mrs. Wray enjoys the business confidences of-her husband. But it is safe to assume that, being a woman, she knows much more than her husband thinks she does. I don't intend that you should be placed in an embarrassing position with respect to her or with respect to me. I'm on the point of starting the machinery of my office on a big financial operation for the Amalgamated Reduction Company--the exact nature of which until the present moment has remained a secret. Your part in this deal has been mapped out with some care, and the responsibilities I have selected for you should give you a sense of my renewed faith in your capabilities. But you can't carry water on both shoulders----"

"You're very flattering, sir. I've never carried much water on either shoulder; and my relations with Mrs. Wray hardly warrant----"

"I can't see that," impatiently. "You're so often together that people are talking about you. Curtis Janney has spoken to me about it. Of course, your affair with Gretchen is one that you must work out for yourselves, but I'll confess I'm surprised that she stands for your rather obvious attentions to a married woman."

Cortland Bent smiled at the ash of his cigar. His father saw it and lost his temper.

"I'm tired of this shilly-shallying," he snapped. "You seem to make a practice in life of skating along the edge of important issues. I'm not going to tolerate it any longer, and I've got to know just where you stand."

"Well, dad," calmly, "where shall we begin? With Gretchen? Very well. Gretchen and I have decided that we're not going to be married."

"What?"

"We have no intention of marrying next year or at any other time."

"Well, of all the----! Curtis Janney doesn't know this."

"He should. Gretchen is in love with somebody else, and I----"

"_You_! I understand. You are, too. You're in love with Jeff Wray's wife."

He paused, but his son made no reply, though the old man watched his face curiously for a sign. The General knocked his cigar-ash into the fire.

"Is that true?"

"Under the circumstances I should prefer not to discuss the matter."

"Why? You and I haven't always been in sympathy, but the fact remains that I'm your father." The old man's long fingers clutched the chair arm, and he looked straight before him, speaking slowly. "I suppose you've got to have your fling. I did. Every man does. But you're almost old enough to be through that period now. There was never a woman in the world worth the pains and anxieties of an affair of this kind. A woman who plays loose with one man will do it with another. The fashion of making love to other men's wives did not exist when I was young."

Cortland turned to the fire, his lips compressed, and with the tongs replaced a fallen log.

"When I was young," the old man went on, "a man's claim upon his wife was never questioned. Society managed things better in those days. Ostracism was the fate of the careless woman; and men of your age who sought married women by preference were denied the houses of the young girls of their own condition. If a fellow of your type had oats to sow, he sowed them with a decent privacy instead of bringing his mother, his sister, into contact----"

Cortland straightened up, the tongs in his hand, his face pale with fury, saying in stifled tones:

"For God's sake, stop, or I'll strike you as you sit."

The General moved forward in his chair almost imperceptibly, and the cigar slipped from his fingers and rolled on the hearth. For a long moment the two men looked into each other's eyes, the elder conscious that for the first time in his life he had seen his son really aroused. There was no fear in the father's look, only surprise and a kind of reluctant admiration for a side of Cortland's character he had never seen. He sank back into his chair and looked into the fire.

"Oh!" he muttered.

"You had no right to speak of Mrs. Wray in those terms," said Cortland, his voice still quivering.

"I'm sorry. I did not know."

Cortland set down the fire tongs, his hands trembling, and put both elbows on the mantel-shelf.

"Perhaps, since you know so much," he said in a suppressed voice, "I had better add that I would have married her if Wray hadn't."

"Really? You surprise me."

There was a moment of silence which proved to both men the futility of further discussion.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather we didn't speak of this. Mrs. Wray would understand your viewpoint less clearly than I do. She is not familiar with vice, and she does not return my feeling for her. If she did, I should be the last person in the world she would see----"

"I can't believe you."

"It is the truth. Strange as it may seem to you and to me, she loves her husband."

"She married him for his money."

Cortland was silent. Memory suddenly pictured the schoolroom at Mesa City where he had won Camilla and lost her in the same unfortunate hour--his hour of mistakes, spiritual and material--a crucial hour in his life which he had met mistily, a slave of the caste which had bred him, a trifler in the sight of the only woman he could love, just as he had been a trifler before the world in letters and in business.

"No," he replied. "She did not marry him for money. She married him--for other reasons. She found those reasons sufficient then--she finds them sufficient now." He dropped heavily, with the air of a broken man, into an armchair, and put a hand over his eyes as though the light hurt them. "Don't try to influence me, sir. Let me think this out in my own way. Perhaps, after what you've told me about the Amalgamated, I ought to let you know."