"Will you send me some?" she asked eagerly.

"I will not," he said decidedly. "But if you care for verse--" he hesitated.

"What? You write poetry, too?" Jacqueline clasped her hands. "Recite some for me at once!"

He chose one of his less erotic sonnets, and spoke it well and simply, with the diffidence which occasionally besets the most confident of authors with regard to their own performances.

Jacqueline listened dreamily. At last she said, "That's very musical.

I'd like to sing it."

The comment pleased him exceedingly, musical phrases being his specialty. "You shall," he said. "I'll set it to music for you."

Her eyes opened wide. "You don't mean to say you're a composer as well as an author and a poet, Mr. Charming? That's _too_ much! It isn't fair."

He blushed quite boyishly. It is a curious fact that people are often more avid of praise for the thing they cannot do, than for the thing they can. Channing, who had met with no small success as a novelist, secretly yearned to win impossible laurels as a composer of parlor music. "Talents usually go in pairs," he said modestly.

She commanded an instant performance, which he refused, explaining that his songs were never written for men's voices. "They have no thrill, no appeal. Who wants to hear a bull bellowing?"

"Or a cow lowing, for that matter?" she laughed.

"But that is very different. A cow lowing makes one think of twilight and the home pastures, of little stumbling, nosing calves, of the loveliest thing in life, maternity--"

She smiled, drawing the sleeping Kitty close. "You can say things like that, and yet you wonder why I want to keep this baby! You're a fraud, Mr. Channing!"

"A poet--The same thing," he murmured cynically. "We wear our sentiments on our sleeves for publishers to peck at." (he made a mental note of this epigram for future use.) "I've an idea! Suppose you run home with me now and try over some of my songs, will you? There's a lot of stuff that might interest you. I've got one of Farwell's machines down in the road."

"Go over to Holiday Hill in an automobile?" Her eyes sparkled. "But could I take the baby?"

His face fell. "Why--er--won't it have to be fed or something? I'm afraid Farwell's bachelor establishment, complete as it is, offers no facilities for the feeding of infants."

"Oh, it's a bottle baby," she said casually. "But perhaps you're right--I'll take her up to the house.--No, if I do that, Jemmy'll want to know where I'm going, and stop me."

"Don't tell her."

"You don't know Jemmy!--I have it. Lige shall come and get the baby."

Cupping her hands about her mouth she let out a peculiar, clear yodel that promptly brought an answering call from the top of the ravine. In response to Jacqueline's peremptory, "Come here!" her faithful lieutenant descended with manifest reluctance.

Ten yards from the cabin he halted. "I da.s.sent come no furder, Miss Jacky, not for n.o.body," he pleaded.

"Don't be a coward! The ha'nts won't hurt you. I come here every day, and they never hurt me."

"No 'm, reck'n dey knows dere place--Dey's culled ha'nts," explained Lige, and stayed where he was.

But as Jacqueline put the child in his arms, he suddenly let out a frightened yell. "I sees smoke--oh, my Lawd! I sees smoke an' fire an'

brimstone comin' out'n dat cabin!" he gasped, and fled, clutching the placid Kitty.

Jacqueline chuckled. "He saw the smoke from your cigarette," she explained to Channing. "Naturally he thought that it was a little manifestation from h.e.l.l for his benefit. He's got religion, you see. So much the better. Now we'll never be disturbed here!"

The "we" amused Channing. It was evident that he was expected to call again at the Ruin.

CHAPTER XVIII

It was an epoch-making afternoon for Jacqueline, and not the least part of the enchantment was her first experience of automobiling. The wheezing, coughing little equipage known to Professor Thorpe's friends as the Ark had induced in her the belief that automobiles were a very poor subst.i.tute for horses, and she scorned to enter it. But this powerful, silent car of Farwell's, capable of such incredible speed and yet controlled by a lever or a b.u.t.ton quite as easily as she herself could have handled a horse--it gave her the feeling that she was riding a tamed whirlwind.

"Nice car, isn't it? I like it best of all Farwell's machines. It is to be mine while I'm here," said Channing.

"Do you mean to say Mr. Farwell owns more than one of them?" asked Jacqueline, awed. "How in the world did he ever get to be so rich? He's an artist, isn't he? And I thought artists were never rich."

"It depends upon the kind of art. Farwell gives the people what they want, which always pays."

"He must sell a lot of pictures to buy a machine like this!"

"Pictures!" He turned and stared at her. "Why, I don't believe you know who he is!" He chuckled. "What a blow for Morty! I must tell him that there's actually a girl in America who doesn't recognise him on sight.

He is _the_ Farwell--Mortimer Farwell himself, my dear."

Jacqueline looked blank.

"What, never even heard of him? Mortimer Farwell is--or was--the most popular matinee idol on the stage. He's resting on his laurels at present, but I don't think he will rest long. Between you and me, he misses the footlights."

"On the stage! You mean he's an actor? And I'm going to his house! What _will_ Jemmy say when she hears of this?" Jacqueline looked rather alarmed.

Channing said, much amused, "Actors don't bite, my dear child. Farwell's a gentleman. And I am here to protect you."

She still felt uneasy. Her experience of actors had been confined to the barn-stormers who occasionally drifted into the nearest town and out again as speedily as possible. Though the theatres of Frankfort and Lexington were only a few hours away, they belonged to the life Mrs.

Kildare shunned.

"At least he's married," murmured Jacqueline with some relief. "Is she on the stage, too? Will I like her?"

"His wife? Oh, Mrs. Farwell never comes here, you know. It's a bachelor place. That's why he calls it Holiday Hill."

"Dear me!" she said, puzzled. "Don't they like each other, then?"

"Very much, I believe. It's an extremely comfortable arrangement. She makes her engagements, he makes his; all very friendly and no questions asked. Quite the ideal match."

Jacqueline looked doubtful. "But what about the children?"

"Oh, there aren't any children, of course. Fancy May Farwell with children!"

"But if people are going to live that way, what is the use of getting married?"

"There is none," said Channing, earnestly. "Believe me, there is none.

Many have made that discovery. I mean to profit by their example."