"Forget it, then." Roberts turned back to his desk abruptly. "Pardon me if I go on working. I've simply got to clear this desk before I go." He waited in silence until the other man started to leave; just as Armstrong reached the door he wheeled about.

"You'll be with me at eleven-fifty sure, won't you?" he asked directly.

Armstrong hesitated, his eyes averted.

"Yes," he said at last.

"Good. I'll attend to the reservations for both of us. Travel East is light now and we'll have things practically to ourselves. There are a number of other things I wish to talk with you about--and we'll have all night to do it in. I suppose you'll see Elice this evening?"

Again Armstrong colored. "Yes," he repeated uncertainly.

"Tell her, please, for me that I'll be out of town for about three weeks.

Meanwhile the car is subject to her order. I left directions at the garage. If it's convenient for you to happen around this way about train time there'll be a cab waiting. Good-bye until then."

For two hours thereafter Roberts worked steadily--until every sc.r.a.p of correspondence on the desk had been answered or bore memoranda for the instruction of the stenographer on the morrow. At last he took down the 'phone.

"Randall? There'll be a carriage call for my baggage shortly. It's all ready. Thanks. By the way, have you that ma.n.u.script handy I spoke to you once about? All right. Tuck it in somewhere while you think of it, please. You're still of the same opinion, that it's good; at least worth a hearing? Very well. It'll be published then. I'm accepting your judgment. Never mind how. This is between you and me absolutely. I'm not to figure--ever. If it goes flat he'll have had his chance. That's all any of us can have. By the way, again. I'm sorry to miss Mrs. Randall's dinner-party. I'm not often honored in that way. Anyway, though, perhaps it's as well. I'm impossible socially; and, fortunately, I know just enough to realize it. Yes; that's all. Good-night."

Thereafter he waited until he got "Central" on the wire.

"Call me at eleven-thirty," he requested. "I'll be asleep, so ring me long and loud. Eleven-thirty sharp, remember, please."

He hung up the instrument with a gesture of relief and leaned back in his chair, his great bushy head against the bare oak, his big hands loose in his lap. A half-minute perhaps he sat so--until the eyes slowly closed and, true to his word, and swiftly as a child at close of day, he fell asleep.

At eleven o'clock the watchman of the building, noticing the light, came to investigate. A moment he stood in the open door, an appreciative observer. On tiptoe he moved away.

"Some one's paying good and plenty for this," he commented _sotto voce_ and with a knowing wag of the head. "The old man's all in--and he isn't doing it for his health alone, you bet!"

CHAPTER VII

TRAVESTY

Out in the street, in front of the Gleason cottage, the red car glistened in the moonlight. In the shade of the familiar veranda Roberts tossed his gauntlets and cap on the floor and drew forth two wicker rocking-chairs where they would catch the slight midsummer night wind.

"Hottest night of the season, I fancy," he commented, as he helped his companion remove her dust coat and waited thereafter until she was seated before he took the place by her side. "Old Reliable number two certainly did us a good turn this evening. Runs like an advertis.e.m.e.nt, doesn't it?"

It was a minute before the girl answered. "Yes. It sounds cheap to say so, but at times, like to-night, it almost seems to me Paradise. It makes one forget, temporarily, the things one wishes to forget."

"Yes," said her companion.

"I suppose people who have been accustomed to luxuries all their lives don't think of it at all; but others--" She was silent.

"Yes," said Roberts again, "I think I understand. It's the one compensation for being hungry a long time, I suppose; the added enjoyment of the delayed meal when at last it is served. At least that's what those who never went hungry say. I hope you'll get a lot of pleasure out of the machine this Summer."

The girl looked at him quickly.

"I? Are you going away again?"

"Yes. I start West to-morrow. Things are moving faster than I expected."

"And you won't take the car with you?"

"No, I shan't play again for a time. I always had a theory that a man should know a business he conducts, not take some one else's word for it.

I'm going to put on my corduroys and live with that mine until it grows up. I don't even know how long that will be. In a way to-night is good-bye."

The girl said nothing this time.

"I meant what I said, though, in regard to the car," returned Roberts. "I shall be disappointed if you don't use it a lot. I've always felt as though it sort of belonged to us together, we've had such a lot of pleasure out of it in common. They tell me at the garage that while I was away last time it wasn't out at all. Didn't Steve deliver my message?"

"Yes."

"Won't you promise to do differently the rest of the season?"

Again the girl paused before she answered.

"No," she said then. "You understand why?"

"Not if I request otherwise?"

"Don't request it, please," swiftly, "as a favor. I repeat, you understand."

"Understand, certainly, what you mean to imply." The big hands on the man's knees drooped a little wearily. "You don't trust me wholly, even yet, do you, Elice?" he added abruptly.

"Trust you! That's a bit cruel."

The man shifted in his seat unconsciously.

"If it was I beg your pardon," he said gently. "I didn't intend it so. I suppose I'm wrong; but what others, mere observers, say seems to me so trivial. The gossip of people who'd knife you without compunction the instant your back was turned for their own gratification or gain--to let them judge and sentence--pardon me once more. I shan't mention the matter again."

The girl looked steadily out into the night, almost as though its peace were hers. "Yes," she returned, "you are wrong--but in a different way than you intimated. It isn't what others would say at all that prevents my accepting, but my own judgment of myself. You've done so many things for me; and I in return--I'm never able to do anything whatever. It's a matter of self-respect wholly. One can't accept, and accept, and accept always--in the certainty of remaining permanently in debt."

The man looked at her oddly. Then he glanced away.

"No; I suppose not," he acquiesced.

"If there were anything I could do for you in turn to make up even partially; but you're so big and independent and self-sufficient--"

"Self-sufficient!" Roberts caught the dominant word and dwelt on it meditatively. "I suppose I am that way. It never occurred to me before."

The big hands tightened suddenly, their weariness gone. "But let's forget it," he digressed energetically. "This is the last time I'll see you for a long time, months at least; and a lot can happen in months sometimes.

The future is the Lord's, but the present is ours. Let's enjoy it while we may. What, by the way, are you going to do the remainder of the Summer?"

"Do?" The girl laughed shortly. "What I'm doing now, I fancy, mostly.

Father will be away the first week in September. I promised Margery I'd stay with her during that time; otherwise--" A gesture completed the sentence.