George started for the door.

"Don't fret, Lambert," he advised. "Money will go a long way with him.

If I might, I'd like to know what the two of you settle. I mean, if you want to keep it away from your father and mother, my money's available.

I haven't much use for it any more----"

He broke off. What had he just meant to say: that since he had held Sylvia in his arms all that had marked the progress of his ambition had become without value? He would have to find that out. Now he waited at the door, interested only in Dalrymple's response to his bald proposal.

Dalrymple thrust his hands in his pockets, commenced to pace the room, but all he said was:

"Teach you all not to make a fool of Dolly."

"Remember," George said. "What she wants. And undesired scandals can be paid for in various ways."

He glanced at Lambert. Evidently Sylvia's brother on that ground would meet him as an ally. So he left the house and walked slowly through the eastern fringe of the park, wishing to avoid even the few people scattered along the pavements of the avenue, for the touch of Sylvia's lips was still warm on his mouth. He felt himself apart. He wanted to remain apart as long as possible with that absorbing memory.

Her angry responses in the past to his few daring gestures were submerged in the great, scarcely comprehensible fact that she had not rebuked him when he had tumbled over every barrier to take her in his arms; nor had she, when cornered by Dalrymple and Lambert, a.s.sumed her logical defence. Had that meant an awakening of a sort?

He smiled a little, thinking of her lips.

Their touch had sent to his brain flashes of pure illumination in which his once great fondness for Betty had stood stripped of the capacity for any such avid, confused emotions as Sylvia had compelled; flashes that had exposed also his apparent hatred of the girl Sylvia as an obstinate love, which, unable to express itself according to a common-place pattern, had shifted its violent desires to conceptions of wrongs and penalties. Blinded by that great light, he asked himself if his ambition, his strength, and his will had merely been expressions of his necessity for her.

Of her words and actions immediately afterward he didn't pretend to understand anything beyond their a.s.surance that Dalrymple's romance was at an end. Not a doubt crept into his strange and pa.s.sionate exaltation.

He was surprised to find himself at his destination. When he reached his apartment he got out the old photograph and the broken riding crop, and with them in his hands sat before the fire, dreaming of the long road over which they had consistently aided him. He compared Sylvia as he had just seen her with the girlish and intolerant Sylvia of the photograph, and he found he could still imagine the curved lips moving to form the words:

"You'll not forget."

He lowered his hands, and took a deep breath like one who has completed a journey. To-night, in a sense, he had reached the heights most carefully guarded of all.

XVIII

He heard the ringing of the door bell. His servant slipped in.

"Mr. Lambert Planter, sir."

George started, placed the crop and the photograph in a drawer, and looked at the man with an air of surprise.

"Of course, I should like to see him. And bring me something on a tray, here in front of the fire."

Lambert walked in.

"Don't mind my coming this way, George?"

"I'm glad I'm no longer 'Morton'," George said, dryly. "Sit down. I'm going to have a bite to eat."

He glanced at his watch.

"Good Lord! It's after ten o'clock."

"Yes," Lambert said, choosing a chair, "there was a lot to talk about."

Little of the trouble had left Lambert's face, but George fancied Sylvia's brother looked at him with curiosity, with a form of respect.

"I'm glad you've come," George said, "but I don't intend to apologize for what I did this evening. I think we all, no matter what our inheritance, fight without thought of affectations for our happiness.

That's what I did. I love your sister, Lambert. Never dreamed how much until to-night. Not a great deal to say, but it's enormous beyond definition to think. You have Betty, so perhaps you can understand."

Lambert smiled in a superior fashion.

"I'm a little confused," he said. "She's led me to believe all along she's disliked you; has kept you away from Oakmont; has made it difficult from the start. Then I find her, whether willingly or not--at least not crying out for help--in your arms."

"I had to open her eyes to what she had done," George answered. "I wasn't exactly accountable, but I honestly believe I took the only possible means. I don't know whether I succeeded."

"I fancy you succeeded," Lambert muttered.

George stretched out his hand, looked at Lambert appealingly.

"She didn't say so--she----"

Lambert shook his head.

"She wouldn't talk about you at all."

He waited while the servant entered and arranged George's tray.

"Of course you've dined?"

"After a fashion," Lambert answered. "Not hungry. You might give me a drink."

"I feel apologetic about eating," George said when they were alone again. "Don't see why I should have an appet.i.te."

Lambert fingered his gla.s.s.

"Do you know why she didn't have you drawn and quartered?"

"No. Don't try to create happiness, Lambert, where there mayn't be any."

"I'm creating nothing. I'm asking a question, in an effort to understand why she won't, as I say, mention your name; why she can't bear to have it mentioned."

"If you were right, if things could be straightened out," George said, "you--you could put up with it?"

"Easily," Lambert answered, "and I'll confess I couldn't if it were Corporal John Smith. I've been fond of you for a long time, George, and I owe you a great deal, but that doesn't figure. You're worthy even of Sylvia; but I don't say I'm right. You can't count on Sylvia. And even if I were, I don't see any way to straighten things out."

George returned to his meal.

"If you had taken the proper att.i.tude," he scolded, "you could have handled Dalrymple. He's weak, avaricious, cowardly."

"Oh, Dalrymple! I can handle him. It's Sylvia," Lambert said. "In the long run Dolly agreed to about everything. Of course he wanted money, and he'll have to have it; but heaven knows there's plenty of money.

Trouble is, the wedding can't be hushed up. That's plain. It will be in every paper to-morrow. We arranged that Dolly was to live in the house for a time. They would have been together in public, and Dolly agreed eventually to let her go and get a quiet divorce--at a price. It sounds revolting, but to me it seemed the only way."