"Well--well, he said everyone else said the same thing."

"Did he say more than that?"

"No, but that was enough, wasn't it. Besides, the rest was plain. I could see it myself. He is calling here about every night in the week, and--and being around everywhere with you and--and--Oh, anyone can see!"

Helen's usually placid temper was beginning to ruffle.

"Very well," she said, "then they may see. Why shouldn't he call here if he wishes--and I wish? Why shouldn't I be 'around with him,' as you say?

Why not?"

"Well, because I don't like it. It isn't the right thing for you to do.

You ought to be more careful of--of what people say."

He realized, almost as soon as this last sentence was blurted out, the absolute tactlessness of it. The quiet gleam of humor he had so often noticed in Helen's eyes was succeeded now by a look he had never before seen there.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he added, hastily. "I beg your pardon, Helen. I didn't mean to say that. Forgive me, will you?"

She did not answer immediately. Then she said, "I don't know whether I shall or not. I think I shall have to think it over. And perhaps you had better go now."

"But I'M sorry, Helen. It was a fool thing to say. I don't know why I was such an idiot. Do forgive me; come!"

She slowly shook her head. "I can't--yet," she said. "And this you must understand: If Ed Raymond, or anyone else, calls on me and I choose to permit it, or if I choose to go out with him anywhere at any time, that is my affair and not 'everyone else's'--which includes Issachar Price.

And my FRIENDS--my real friends--will not listen to mean, ridiculous gossip. Good night."

So that was the end of that attempt at a.s.serting the Divine Right by the South Harniss king of hearts. Albert was more miserable than ever, angrier than ever--not only at Raymond and Helen, but at himself--and his newly-discovered jealousy burned with a brighter and greener flame.

The idea of throwing everything overboard, going to Canada and enlisting in the Canadian Army--an idea which had had a strong and alluring appeal ever since the war broke out--came back with redoubled force. But there was the agreement with his grandfather. He had given his word; how could he break it? Besides, to go away and leave his rival with a clear field did not appeal to him, either.

On a Wednesday evening in the middle of September the final social event of the South Harniss summer season was to take place. The Society for the Relief of the French Wounded was to give a dance in the ballroom of the hotel, the proceeds from the sale of tickets to be devoted to the purpose defined by the name of this organization. Every last member of the summer colony was to attend, of course, and all those of the permanent residents who aspired to social distinction and cared to pay the high price of admission.

Albert was going, naturally. That is, he had at first planned to go, then--after the disastrous call at the parsonage--decided that he would go under no circ.u.mstances, and at the last changed his mind once more to the affirmative. Miss Madeline Fosd.i.c.k, Jane Kelsey's friend, was responsible for the final change. She it was who had sold him his ticket and urged him to be present. He and she had met several times since the first meeting at the post-office. Usually when they met they talked concerning poetry and kindred lofty topics. Albert liked Miss Fosd.i.c.k.

It is hard not to like a pretty, attractive young lady who takes such a flattering interest in one's aspirations and literary efforts. The "high brow chit-chats"--quoting Miss Kelsey again--were pleasant in many ways; for instance, they were in the nature of a tonic for weakened self-esteem, and the Speranza self-esteem was suffering just at this time, from shock.

Albert had, when he first heard that the dance was to take place, intended inviting Helen to accompany him. He had taken her acceptance for granted, he having acted as her escort to so many dances and social affairs. So he neglected inviting her and then came Issy's mischief-making remarks and the trouble which followed. So, as inviting her was out of the question, he resolved not to attend, himself. But Miss Fosd.i.c.k urged so prettily that he bought his ticket and promised to be among those present.

"Provided, of course," he ventured, being in a reckless mood, "that you save me at least four dances." She raised her brows in mock dismay.

"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed. "I'm afraid I couldn't do that. Four is much too many. One I will promise, but no more."

However, as he persisted, she yielded another. He was to have two dances and, possibly an "extra."

"And you are a lucky young man," declared Jane Kelsey, who had also promised two. "If you knew how many fellows have begged for just one.

But, of course," she added, "THEY were not poets, second editions of Tennyson and Keats and all that. It is Keats who was the poet, isn't it, Madeline?" she added, turning to her friend. "Oh, I'm so glad I got it right the first time. I'm always mixing him up with Watts, the man who invented the hymns and wrote the steam-engine--or something."

The Wednesday evening in the middle of September was a beautiful one and the hotel was crowded. The Item, in its account the following week, enumerating those present, spoke of "Our new residents, Mrs. Fletcher Story Fosd.i.c.k and Miss Madeline Fosd.i.c.k, who are to occupy the magnificent residence now about being built on the Inlet Hill by their husband and father, respectively, Fletcher Story Fosd.i.c.k, Esquire, the well-known New York banker." The phrasing of this news note caused much joy in South Harniss, and the Item gained several new and hopeful subscribers.

But when the gushing reporter responsible for this added that "Miss Fosd.i.c.k was a dream of loveliness on this occasion" he was stating only the truth. She was very beautiful indeed and a certain young man who stepped up to claim his first dance realized the fact. The said young man was outwardly cool, but red-hot within, the internal rise in temperature being caused by the sight of Helen Kendall crossing the floor arm in arm with Edwin Raymond. Albert's face was white with anger, except for two red spots on his cheeks, and his black eyes flashed.

Consequently he, too, was considered quite worth the looking at and feminine glances followed him.

"Who is that handsome, foreign-looking fellow your friend is dancing with?" whispered one young lady, a guest at the hotel, to Miss Kelsey.

Jane told her.

"But he isn't a foreigner," she added. "He lives here in South Harniss all the year. He is a poet, I believe, and Madeline, who knows about such things--inherits it from her mother, I suppose--says his poetry is beautiful."

Her companion watched the subject of their conversation as, with Miss Fosd.i.c.k, he moved lightly and surely through the crowd on the floor.

"He LOOKS like a poet," she said, slowly. "He is wonderfully handsome, so distinguished, and SUCH a dancer! But why should a poet live here--all the year? Is that all he does for a living--write poetry?"

Jane pretended not to hear her and, a masculine friend coming to claim his dance, seized the opportunity to escape. However, another "sitter out" supplied the information.

"He is a sort of a.s.sistant bookkeeper at the lumber yard by the railroad station," said this person. "His grandfather owns the place, I believe.

One would never guess it to look at him now... . Humph! I wonder if Mrs. Fosd.i.c.k knows. They say she is--well, not democratically inclined, to say the least."

Albert had his two promised dances with Madeline Fosd.i.c.k, but the "extra" he did not obtain. Mrs. Fosd.i.c.k, the ever watchful, had seen and made inquiries. Then she called her daughter to her and issued an ultimatum.

"I am SO sorry," said the young lady, in refusing the plea for the "extra." "I should like to, but I--but Mother has asked me to dance with a friend of ours from home. I--I AM sorry, really."

She looked as if she meant it. Albert was sorry, too. This had been a strange evening, another combination of sweet and sour. He glanced across the floor and saw Helen and the inevitable Raymond emerge together from the room where the refreshments were served. Raging jealousy seized him at the sight. Helen had not been near him, had scarcely spoken to him since his arrival. He forgot that he had not been near nor spoken to her.

He danced twice or thrice more with acquaintances, "summer" or permanent, and then decided to go home. Madeline Fosd.i.c.k he saw at the other end of the room surrounded by a group of young masculinity.

Helen he could not see at the moment. He moved in the direction of the coatroom. Just as he reached the door he was surprised to see Ed Raymond stride by him, head down and looking anything but joyful. He watched and was still more astonished to see the young man get his coat and hat from the attendant and walk out of the hotel. He saw him stride away along the drive and down the moonlit road. He was, apparently, going home--going home alone.

He got his own coat and hat and, before putting them on, stepped back for a final look at the ballroom. As he stood by the cloakroom door someone touched his arm. Turning he saw Helen.

"Why--why, Helen!" he exclaimed, in surprise.

"Are you going home?" she asked, in a low tone.

"Yes, I--"

"And you are going alone?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind--would it trouble you too much to walk with me as far as our house?"

"Why--why of course not. I shall be delighted. But I thought you--I thought Ed Raymond--"

"No, I'm alone. Wait here; I will be ready in just a minute."

She hurried away. He gazed after her in bewilderment. She and he had scarcely exchanged a word during the evening, and now, when the evening was almost over, she came and asked him to be her escort. What in the wide world--?

The minute she had specified had hardly elapsed when she reappeared, ready for out of doors. She took his arm and they walked down the steps of the hotel, past the group of lights at the head of the drive and along the road, with the moon shining down upon it and the damp, salt breeze from the ocean blowing across it. They walked for the first few minutes in silence. There were a dozen questions he would have liked to ask, but his jealous resentment had not entirely vanished and his pride forbade. It was she who spoke first.

"Albert," she said, "you must think this very odd."

He knew what she meant, but he did not choose to admit it.

"What?" he asked.