"I think it must have been the cravat," I laughed.

"It _was_ a good guess," he said rather sheepishly (I suppose because he hadn't said anything to me about her).

"She was tired of town. She's opening Briar Hills for a week or so.

Awfully nice girl, Roger. You've got to meet her right away."

"I shall be delighted," I remarked.

"She knows all about you. Oh, she's clever. You'll like her. Reads pretty deep sort of stuff and can talk about anything."

"An intellectual attraction!" I commented. "Very interesting, and of course rare."

"Very. We don't agree, you know, on a lot of things. She's way beyond me in the modern philosophies. She's an artist, too--understands color and its uses and all that sort of thing. She's very fine, Roger, and good. Fond of nature. She wants to see my specimens. I'm going to have her over soon. We could have a little dinner, couldn't we? She has a companion, Miss Gore, sort of a poor relation. She's not very pretty, and doesn't like men, but she's cheerful when she's expected to be.

You sha'n't care, shall you?"

"Yes, I shall care," I growled, "but I'll do it if you don't mind my not dressing. I haven't a black suit to my name."

"Oh, that doesn't matter. Very informal, you know."

The motor was already buzzing in the driveway and he wasted little time over his eggs.

"Fix it for tomorrow night, will you, Roger?" he flung at me from the doorway as he slipped into his great coat. "Nothing elaborate, you know; just a sound soup, entree, roast, salad and dessert. And for wines, the simplest, say sherry, champagne and perhaps some port."

"Shall you be back to luncheon?" I inquired.

"No; dinner, perhaps. G'by!" And he was down the steps and in the machine, which went roaring down the drive, cut-out wide, making the fair winter morning hideous with sound. I stood in the doorway watching, until only a cloud of blue vapor where the road went through into the trees remained to mark the exit of the Perfect Man.

I turned indoors with a sigh, habit directing me to the door of the study, where I paused, reminded of Jerry's final admonitions.

Dinner--"nothing elaborate," with an entree, salad, and wines to be got for two women, Jerry's beautiful decadent who loved nature and ornithology, and the "not very pretty" poor relation who didn't like men but could be "cheerful when she was expected to be." d.a.m.n her cheerfulness! It was inconsiderate of Jerry to set me to squiring middle-aged dames while he spooned with his Freudian miracle in the conservatory. Strindberg indeed! Schnitzler, too, in all probability!

While I invented mid-Victorian plat.i.tudes for the prosaic, "not very pretty" Miss Gore--Bore! Bore--Gore! Bah!

I gave the necessary orders and went in to my work. I merely sat and stared at the half-written sheet of foolscap on the desk, unable to concentrate my thoughts. I am a most moderate man, a philosopher, I hope, and yet today I felt possessed, it seemed, of an insensate desire to burst forth into profanity--a fine att.i.tude of mind for a contemplative morning! My whole world was turned suddenly upside down.

But out of chaos cosmos returned. I had given up the thought of work, but at last found satisfaction in a quiet a.n.a.lysis of Jerry's narration of the night before. What did one female or two or a dozen matter if Jerry was fundamentally sound? Sophistry might shake, blandishment bend, s.e.x-affinity blight, but Jerry would stand like an oak, its young leaves among the stars, its roots deep in mother earth.

Marcia Van Wyck, her black damask boudoirs, her tinted finger tips, her Freud, Strindberg and all the rest of her modern trash--there would come a day when Jerry would laugh at them!

I think I must have dozed in my chair, for I seemed to hear voices, and, opening my eyes, beheld Jerry in my Soorway, a laughing group in the hall behind him.

"'Even the worthy Homer sometimes nods,'" he was quoting gayly. "Wake up, Roger. Visitors!"

I started to my feet in much embarra.s.sment. "Miss Van Wyck, Miss Gore--Mr. Canby," said Jerry, and I found myself bowing to a very handsome young person, dressed in an outdoor suit of a vivid, cherry color. I had no time to study her carefully at the moment, but took the hand she thrust forward and muttered something.

"I feel very guilty," she was saying. "It's all my fault, Mr. Canby.

I've been simply wild for years to see what was inside the wall."

"I hope it will not disappoint you," I said urbanely.

"It's very wonderful. I don't wonder Jerry never wanted to leave. I shouldn't have gone--ever. A wall around one's own particular Paradise! Could anything be more rapturous?"

("Jerry!" They were progressing.)

The tone was thin, gentle and studiously sweet, and her face, I am forced to admit, was comely. Its contour was oval, slightly accented at the cheek bones, and its skin was white and very smooth. Her lips were sensitive and scarlet, like an open wound. Her eyes, relics, like the cheek bones, of a distant Slav progenitor, were set very slightly at an angle and were very dark, of what color I couldn't at the moment decide, but I was sure that their expression was remarkable. They were cool, appraising, omniscient and took me in with a casual politeness which neglected nothing that might have been significant. I am not one of those who find mystery and enigma in women's reticences, which are too often merely the evasions of ignorance or duplicity. But I admit that this girl Marcia puzzled me. Her characteristics clashed--cool eyes with sensual lips, clear voice with languid gestures, a pagan--that was how she impressed me then, a pagan chained by convention.

As I had foreseen, when she and Jerry went off to the Museum, I was left to the poor relation. She was tall, had a Roman nose, black hair, folded straight over her ears, and wore gla.s.ses. When I approached she was examining a volume on the library table, a small volume, a thin study of modern women that I had picked up at a book store in town.

Miss Gore smiled as she put the volume down, essaying, I suppose, that air of cheerfulness of which Jerry had boasted.

"'Modern Woman,'" she said in a slow and rather deep voice, and then turning calmly, "I was led to, understand, Mr. Canby, that you weren't interested in trifles."

"I'm not," I replied, "but I can't deny their existence."

"You can. Here at Horsham Manor."

"_Could_, Miss Gore," I corrected. "The Golden Age has pa.s.sed."

I didn't feel like being polite. Nothing is so maddening to me as cheerfulness in others when I have suddenly been awakened. Her smile faded at once."

"I didn't come of my own volition," she said icily. "And I will not bother you if you want to go to sleep again."

"Oh, thanks," I replied. "It doesn't matter."

She had turned her back on me and walked to the window.

"Would you like to see the English Garden?" I asked, suddenly aware of my inhospitality.

"Yes, if you'll permit me to visit it alone."

That wasn't to be thought of. After all she was only obeying orders. I followed her out of doors, hastening to join her.

"I owe you an apology. I'm not much used to the society of women. They annoy me exceedingly."

She looked around at me quizzically, very much amused.

"You consider that an apology?" she asked.

"I intended it to be one," I replied. "I have been rude. I hope you'll forgive me."

"You _are_ a philosopher, I see," she said with a smile. "I am sorry to annoy you."

"Y--you don't, I think. You seem to be a sensible sort of a person."

She smiled again most cheerfully.

"Don't bother, Mr. Canby. We're well met. I'm not fond of meaningless personalities--or the authors of them."

She really was a proper sort of a person. Her conversation had no frills or fal-lals, and she wasn't afraid to say what she thought.

Presently we began speaking the same language. We talked of the country, the wonderful weather and of Jerry, to whom it seemed she had taken a fancy.

"You've created something, Mr. Canby--a rare thing in this age--" she looked off into the distance, her eyes narrowing slightly. "But he can't remain as he is."