"Am I? I suppose I am. I like him awfully."

XVII

I awoke the next morning with the feeling that something or other was impending. I had no idea what it might be, pleasant or unpleasant. I felt a little the way you feel just before a race on which you have bet altogether too much money, a little excited, a little nervous, equally ready for laughter or anger. I had also the feeling that I had a great many things to do, and could not possibly get them done in so short a s.p.a.ce of time as one day.

I hurried through breakfast. I hurried through the papers. And then I realized with a sense of anti-climax that until four o'clock, when I was to ride with Lucy, I had but one thing of any possible importance to do. And upon that business from first to last including the walk to the village and thence to the Club I spent no more than three-quarters of an hour. It had been an eccentric piece of business, and I was rather pleased with myself for having brought it to a satisfactory conclusion. But I wanted others to know what I had done and to be pleased with me for doing it; and to tell anyone was quite out of the question.

In the Club letter-box under "M," I saw a small gray envelope.

Instinct told me that it was for me, and that it was from Lucy. Then somehow all my feeling of restlessness and suspense melted away like a lump of sugar in hot tea. I felt at once serene and comfortable.

I carried the note to a writing-table, for I imagined that it would require an immediate answer, and then read it. Like all Lucy's notes it began without the conventional endearment, and ended with initials.

It contained also her usual half-dozen mistakes in spelling.

John says he has no money and can't get any. So we've got to close the house and go back north, and live very cheaply till better times. So I've got to begin packing. So I can't ride this afternoon. Isn't it all a beastly shame? But please drop in and say how-dy-do just the same, and don't mind if you have to sit on a trunk. And please be a little sorry because I'm going away and we can't have any more rides.

And please don't say anything about this; because John isn't just himself and maybe when we get all packed up he'll change his mind.

L. F.

Long before they were "all packed up," John did change his mind. I was present when he changed it. Lucy, Evelyn, and I were in the living-room helping each other to pack large silver-framed photographs into the tray of a trunk. It was slow work. During the winter none of us had looked at the photographs or commented on the originals, but now that they were to be swathed in tissue paper and put out of sight each one had to be approved or disapproved, and long excursions had to be made into the life histories and affairs of the friends who had sat for them.

Lucy had just taken a large photograph of Evelyn from the top of the low bookshelves that filled one end of the room when John came in from the garden with an open letter in his hand. He was smiling in a puzzled sort of way.

"What do you know about this!" he exclaimed rather than asked.

"Nothing," said Lucy, "_yet_." And she began to wrap Evelyn's photograph in many folds of tissue paper.

"Yesterday," said John, "I tried to get some money from the bank, but they turned me down. Now they write that upon reconsideration I can have anything I like."

Well, Lucy's expression at that moment was worth a great deal more than the few thousands which her husband would see fit to borrow from the bank, and I couldn't but feel that there are moments when it is really worth while to be alive and rich.

"Wonder what made 'em change their minds?" said John.

"There's one thing sure," said Lucy. "You are not to look a gift horse in the mouth."

She unwrapped the photograph of Evelyn and put it back in its old place on top of the bookshelves.

"This settles everything, does it?" asked John. "We don't go back to New York?"

"We do not," said Lucy firmly.

"Well," said John, "I'd better see the bank before it changes its mind again. Is the buggy outside?"

"No, but you can take Archie's or Evelyn's. Can't he? I sent Cornelius Twombly to do some ch.o.r.es."

"I'll drive you down," said Evelyn, "having a telegram to send."

"And I'll stay and help Lucy unpack," I said. "Lord, people, I'm glad you're not going!"

The moment we were alone Lucy said: "You did it."

"Did what?"

"Don't beat about the bush! Don't pretend that you are not a blessed angel in disguise!"

Her face was very grave and lovely.

"It's the kindest, tactfulest thing that anybody ever did."

"I couldn't bear the thought of your going back to the city when it's such fun here."

"What can I say or do to thank you?"

"Nothing, Lucy. Yes, you can. You can ride with me this afternoon."

She looked a little troubled. "Last night, after you had gone," she said, "John said, 'Aren't you seeing a good deal of Archie Mannering?'"

For a moment I felt distinctly chilled and uncomfortable. Then I said: "Oh, dear! Now Brutus himself is beginning to worry about us. How silly!"

"How silly!" echoed Lucy, and we stood staring at each other rather vapidly, finding nothing to say.

After a while I asked if John had said any more on the subject. "Did he embroider the theme at all?" I asked.

Lucy took a photograph out of the trunk tray and began to unwrap it.

"Yes," she said. "He did. He even held forth. He said that when a woman no longer cared for her husband, it was dangerous for her to see much of another man. He realized, he said, that ours was an exceptional case, but that soon people would guess about _him_ and me, and that then they'd begin to talk about _you_ and me. And he hates anything conspicuous, and so forth, and so forth."

"What did you say?"

She smiled up at me, but not very joyously. "I said, 'I'm not going to be rude to one of the best friends I've got, just for fun. If you forbid me to see him, why I suppose I'll obey you, but I'd have to explain to him, wouldn't I? I'd have to say, "John considers our friendship dangerous, so we're not to see each other any more!"' And of course he said that that was out of the question, and I agreed with him."

"Still you've said it."

And we smiled at each other.

"He didn't give me a good character," said Lucy dolefully. "He said I never think of yesterday or tomorrow, but only of the moment. He said I neglect the children, and Oh, I'd like to end it all! It's an impossible situation. I'd give my life gladly to feel about him the way I used to, but I can't--I can't ever."

She looked very tragic.

"Oh," she went on vehemently, "it's terrible. I'm all cold and dumb.

Every power of affection that I had has gone out like a candle. I _do_ neglect the children! It's because I can't look them in the face.

I've failed him, and I've failed them, and I ought to tie a stone round my neck and jump into the nearest millpond."

"It's a good three miles to the nearest millpond," I said. "And there isn't a stone in this part of South Carolina. You are all up in the air now, because the situation you are in is so new to you. But you'll get used to it."

"If I don't go mad first."