"No--but he had to take payment if it came when the mortgage matured."

"It is n't due for six weeks yet."

"He did n't mind being paid sooner, when he found all hope of the chance of foreclosing was gone."

"He would n't sell for the face of it?"

"I 'm not familiar with business terms," urged Shirley.

"Not? A girl who holds a position with Townsend & Company! Tell me, Shirley--you did n't get that mortgage six weeks before it was due, for the face value of it?"

"Not quite."

"How much did you pay?"

"Not more than it was worth."

"Please tell me _how much more_ you paid."

"I think that's my affair," said Shirley, with her head up. But her eyes were down.

There was a silence. Peter put his hand to his mouth with intent to cover a sudden urgent and unwonted necessity to steady his lips. He encountered the beard, tore it off, and cast the wig beside it upon the floor. A young man with a face of mingled light and shadow emerged from the disguise of the elderly one.

"If I didn't know that, with this farm as security, you 'd made a safe investment, I could n't stand this." he said, in a low tone. "But I know that making a safe investment was the last thing you cared about.

You wanted to stand by in a time of need--and you 've done it."

"You mustn't think," said Shirley, looking up eagerly, "that you 're under the least obligation to me. It's just as you say. The farm itself is more than security. It's merely a matter of business. You know, I 'm learning to manage my little affairs. Father thought it would be good for me. And a change of investment like this is great fun."

Peter looked at her steadily. "Oh, no, we 're not under the least obligation to you!" he answered. "It's very easy to find people to take a mortgage at terms that will induce a man to sell it who 's looking for a chance to foreclose--that's why I have n't done any worrying about the matter! Shirley--you 're----" he seized her hand. "You're----"

"It 's all right," said Shirley, turning her head away with a sudden access of shyness. There was no knowing what terms Peter might be going to use, when his voice dropped to that vibrating note.

But she did not escape. Peter was ordinarily a self-controlled young man, with a cool head not likely to be carried away by sudden emotion.

But he had a warm heart, none the less, and the girl's friendly act had touched him deeply. Besides, he was, as has been admitted before, entirely human, and Shirley, in her gray and scarlet, with her brilliant cheeks and drooping eyes, was a very captivating figure. Tightening his grasp upon her hand he ended his impulsive speech half under his breath with--"You 're the--dearest--girl in the world!"

What he would have said--or done--next can only be conjectured, for upon this unexpected and most disconcerting demonstration Shirley pulled her hand away and ran--somewhere--anywhere--she did not just know where. In this indefinite region she remained for fully half an hour. In the end she had to come back to the living-room, but when she did it was not to look at Peter.

As for Peter himself, when he had got rid of his Santa Claus costume and put himself in order again, he also came back to the living-room. His face had been put in order as well as his dress, and n.o.body noticed anything odd about him. But there _was_ something odd about him--very odd. He felt like a railway locomotive off the track, obliged to convey to the beholders, by its steadiness of gait, the impression that it was still on!

CHAPTER IX

A RED GLARE

"By all that's astonishing, are you actually idling? And may I come and idle, too?"

Shirley looked up from the depths of one of the capacious willow chairs, which, well stocked with cushions, were favourite lounging-places upon the great side porch of the Townsend house, and from which one could look out over a long and charming stretch of lawn toward the tennis-court.

It was a warm evening in late May. Everybody else was away, and Shirley had settled herself for one of the rare hours of rest and solitude which she so much enjoyed when her work was done. But she answered Brant Hille cordially:

"Of course you may, if you will be nice and soothing. These first warm days make me feel a trifle lazy."

"Not strange, when you spend them in a stuffy office." Brant accepted the cushions she tossed to him, and disposed himself comfortably upon them on the top step near her feet.

"The office is n't stuffy. I 've sat by a wide-open window all day.

Besides, the first thing Murray did when he went in with father was to overhaul our whole system of ventilation. So the office is never stuffy, even in winter."

"Don't be belligerent, or I 'll not be responsible for the soothing effects of my society. What can I do to lull you to repose? You don't like banjo music, or I 'd have brought my banjo over. It's just the evening for that."

"If you had, you'd have gone home again."

"You _are_ in a sweet mood!" Brant spoke with the familiarity of old acquaintance. "Would you object to telling me what's gone wrong with your ladyship?"

"I can't find out the French for certain phrases it's necessary to use in the correspondence we have on hand just now. There are no equivalents for the idioms that I can discover as yet, and it's most important that I get them right. I 've practically had to make a phrase-book for myself so far, because the dictionaries and hand-books don't give the terms I want. I got hold of some old correspondence last week that helped me immensely, but to-day I was completely baffled. I suppose it has got on my nerves, and made me fractious."

Yet she did not look particularly nerve-worn, lying there in the low chair, in her thin white frock, her round arms resting upon the arms of the chair, her head thrown back, as she regarded her visitor from under low-sweeping lashes. Neither did she look in the least like the young woman of business she had become.

Brant was always trying to convince himself that her work was spoiling her--it would be a comforting realisation if he could think it. But as often as he had succeeded in making himself half believe that some other girl, whose ways of living were such as he approved, was nearly as attractive as Shirley Townsend, just so often did the sight of Shirley in some unbusinesslike surroundings upset his convictions. To-night she looked particularly feminine and alluring, in spite of her avowed fractiousness and her explanation of the cause.

"All baffling things wear on one," he answered, with an air of being sympathetic. "I know how it is, from experience. I 'd like a dictionary or a phrase-book myself--one that would tell me what to say to you when you want to be 'soothed.' Shall I go in and get a book of verse and read aloud to you?"

"Please don't."

"Fiction, then?

"Worse and worse."

"History? Philosophy? Science? Travel?--Or humour?"

"None of them. I don't like to be read to--as a duty."

"Duty! I'd be delighted."

"I should n't, then."

"What _do_ you want?"

"Silence, I think," said the girl in the chair, with a mischievous look at the back of her companion's head. Her face was demure again, however, when he turned. "Don't you like just to sit and gaze off into s.p.a.ce on a languid night like this, and say nothing at all?"

"If you prefer to have me go home----"

"Not in the least. I 'd like to know you were there on call--if you would n't talk."

A silence of some length ensued. Brant stared moodily off over the darkening lawn, watching distant electric lights twinkle into existence along the rows of tree-tops which outlined the streets. Shirley closed her eyes. She really was more weary than she knew. It had been a busy winter in the office, and she had worked hard to be able to fill the place she held. Her achievements in the matter of the technical French correspondence had proved of considerable importance to the firm, and her satisfaction at becoming so useful had led her to spend much of her spare time in making herself proficient.