"I should think this is a matter of sufficient interest to the family to be discussed seriously," retorted Mrs. Hardy, who had an unfortunate habit of becoming exasperated by her husband's good humour. She had none of his philosophy, and she mistook his even temper for indifference. "Irene is our only child, and before your very eyes you see her--you see her--" Mrs. Hardy's fears were too nebulous to enable her to complete the sentence.

"Yes, I see her," the doctor admitted. "That is, I did see her at dinner. There is nothing alarming about that." Then, relenting, "But, seriously, what reason have you for uneasiness about the child?"

"Reason enough. She behaves so strangely. Do you know, I begin--I really do begin to suspect that she's in love."

It was Dr. Hardy's turn to sit upright. "Nonsense," he said. "Why should she be in love?" It is the unfortunate limitation of the philosopher that he so often leaves irrational behaviour out of the reckoning. "She is only a child."

"She will be eighteen presently. And why shouldn't she be in love?

And the question is--who? That is for you to answer. Whom did she meet?"

"If you would find a Hamlet at the root of this melancholy you must ask our Ophelia. She met no one with me. My accident left me to enjoy my holiday as best I could at a ranch deep in the foothills, and Reenie stayed with me there. There was no one else--"

"No one? No ranch men, cowboys,--cow punchers--I think I have heard,"--with nice disdain.

"No. Only young Elden--"

"_Only_? Who is this young Elden?"

"But he is just a boy. Just the son of the old rancher of whom I have told you."

"Exactly. And Irene is just a girl. Dr. Hardy, you are all very well with your fevers and your chills, but you can't diagnose a love case worth a cent. An epidemic would break out under your very eyes and you blissfully unconscious. What about this young Elden? Did Irene see much of him?"

The doctor spread his hands. "Do you realize that there were four of us at that ranch--four, only, and no one else for miles? How could she help seeing him?",

"And you permitted it?"

"I was on my back with a broken leg. We were guests at their home.

They were good Samaritans to us. I couldn't chaperon her. And besides, they don't do things that way in that country. You don't understand. It's altogether different."

"Andrew," said Mrs. Hardy, leaning forward, and the word was ominous, for she used his Christian name only in moments of crisis,--"was Irene ever, with this young man--alone?"

The doctor arose to his feet and trod heavily upon the rich carpetings.

"I told you you don't understand," he protested. "The West is not the East. Everything is different--"

"I suppose human nature is different," she interrupted, meaningly.

Then her head fell upon the table and her hands went up about her hair.

It had been brown hair once, but was now thin and streaked with grey.

"Oh, Andrew," she wept. "We are ruined. That we should ever have come to this!"

It was now Dr. Hardy's turn to be exasperated. There was one thing his philosophy could not endure. That was a person who was not, and would not be, philosophical. Mrs. Hardy was not, and would not be, philosophical. She was an absolutist. With Mrs. Hardy things were right or things were wrong. Moreover, that which was done according to rule was right, and that which was not done according to rule was wrong. It was apparent that the acquaintanceship of Irene and Dave Elden had not been according to rule.

"This is all nonsense," said the doctor, impatiently. "There is nothing to it, anyway. The girl had to have some company. What if they did ride together? What--"

"They rode together? Alone?"

"They had their horses along," said the doctor, whose impatience had made way for sarcasm.

"Through the forest, I suppose," said Mrs. Hardy, with an air of one whose humiliation is complete.

"Oh, yes, through the forests, across the foothills, up the canyons, hours of it, days of it, weeks of it--"

"Stop! You are mocking me. In this hour of shame you are making jests. Call Irene."

The girl was summoned. Her fine face had lost some of its brownness, and the eyes seemed deeper and slower, but she was still a vision of grace and beauty as she stood in response to their call framed in the curtains of an archway. Her quick sense caught the tense atmosphere, and she came forward with parted lips and extended fingers. There was the glint of light on her white teeth. "Yes?" she said. "What is wrong? Can I help?"

"Your father has confessed," said Mrs. Hardy, trying hard to speak with judicial calm. "Now tell us about your relations with this young Elden, this cow _puncher_. Let us know the worst."

Irene's startled eyes flew from her mother to her father's face. And there they caught something that restored their calm.

"There was no worst," she said, with a ripple of laughter. "But there was a good deal of best. Shall I tell you the best?"

"Irene," said her mother, severely, "Did you permit that young man to make love to you?"

"I did not give him permission, if that answers you, because--he didn't ask it."

Mrs. Hardy had risen, "Andrew, you hear that? She confesses. And you, blind, blind, couldn't see it!"

"Is it very dreadful?" asked Irene.

"Yes, you mock me, too. Of course it's dreadful. Horrible. What will everybody say?"

"No worse than you have said, I'll be bound," put in the doctor.

"Yes, take her part. What care you for the family name?"

"I have a right to speak for the family name," said the doctor firmly.

"It was mine before it was yours. And I sometimes think, if we lived under more liberal laws, it might be mine after it had ceased to be yours. . . . I cannot see that the family name has been compromised in the slightest degree. This is Irene's first adventure. It will pa.s.s away. And even if it does not--he is a manly boy."

Mrs. Hardy surveyed her husband hopelessly, then turned to Irene.

"Have you made any promises?"

"Only that I wouldn't make any promises until he had his chance. That seemed fair."

"I suppose you are receiving letters from him?"

"No."

"None at all?"

"None at all."

"Why doesn't he write?"

For the first time Irene's eyes fell, and the colour mounted richer in her cheeks. She had to confess now, not for herself, but for him.

"He can't write," she said.

"Merciful Heavens!" exclaimed Mrs. Hardy, collapsing into a chair.

"Andrew, bring me a stimulant."