"Yes, Archie, honestly."

Halfway up the steps of the house she turned, and said a little wearily, "How many lives do you think _I_ have to live?"

"May it be long and happy."

On that we parted, and I heard the ghost of a cynical laugh as she let herself into the house.

And I hurried home, inexcusably late for dinner, and filled with shame and remorse. And ever at the back of my head was the image, not of Evelyn Gray, vague and illusive in the starlight, but of that other image that had stood forth dark and sharply defined against the light of the hall.

"Lucy Fulton," I said to myself, "you came in the nick of time. And you are my good angel."

VIII

On the following day I had no especial desire to see Evelyn. I thought that it might be embarra.s.sing for her, and I knew that it would be embarra.s.sing for me, so that it was not without trepidation that I presented myself at the Fultons' house to keep a riding engagement with Lucy.

But you never know what will embarra.s.s a woman and what won't. I remember when the Jocelyn house burned down, and nothing was saved but a piano (at which Peter Reddy seated himself and played the "Fire Music") and a scuttle of coal, how Mrs. Jocelyn, usually the shyest and most easily shocked person in the world, came down a ladder in nothing but a flimsy nightgown, and stood among us utterly unselfconscious and calmly making the best of things, until someone (it was a warm night and there were no overcoats in the crowd) tore down a veranda awning and wrapped her in it. And I remember a certain very rich and pushing Mrs. Edison from somewhere in New Jersey who worked herself almost into the top circle of society, and was then caught in a very serious and offensive lie, which ended her social career as suddenly as a sentence is ended by a period. I had been present when she told the lie, and I was present when it was brought home to her, and I felt almost as sick as if I had told it myself, and been caught. But she didn't turn a hair. She just laughed and said, "Yes. I made it up. What are you going to do about it?" Morgan Forbes, about whom the lie had been told, was trembling so with rage that he could hardly articulate. He said, "The next time you set foot in Newport you will be arrested and prosecuted for criminal libel." And she knew that he meant it and that her career was ended; still she didn't turn a hair. You couldn't help admiring her. Sometimes I can't help wondering what has become of her.

She looked like one of those Broken Pitcher girls that Greuze painted; and you'd no more have expected to find poison in her than in a humming-bird.

Nor did Evelyn show any embarra.s.sment whatever. She was sitting cross-legged on the big living-room lounge, reading a Peter Rabbit book to Jock and Hurry, and looking cool as a lily. She looked serene and aloof. I could not believe that only a few hours before she had felt that, having but one life to live, nothing mattered much one way or another. "At least," I thought, "she'll never wish to talk the thing over, and that's a blessing!"

Lucy, dressed for riding, was drumming on a window-pane, and looking out into the shady, over-grown garden. I thought her expression a little quizzical, her hand a little cool and casual, not altogether friendly. And I was surprised to find how great an effect of discomfort and dreariness this thought had upon me.

"Any news from the man of the house?" I asked.

"Be back Monday," she said. This was a day sooner than she had expected him, but she spoke without any show of enthusiasm. Indeed, she spoke a little wearily. I had never seen her face with so little color in it. Evelyn, after a friendly nod, and a "You mustn't interrupt," had gone on with her reading.

"Are we riding?" I said. "We don't seem to be wanted here."

"Yes," said Lucy. "Let's ride. I feel as if I hadn't exercised for a week." She led the way to the ponies, through the garden and round the house, almost brusquely. A Spanish bayonet p.r.i.c.ked her in the arm, and she made a monosyllabic exclamation in which there was more anger than pain. Usually so gay and chattersome, she seemed now a petulant and taciturn creature.

But she was no sooner astride her pony than the color returned to her cheeks, and the sparkle, if not the gayety, to her eyes. And at once, as if her taciturnity had been a vow, to be ended when she should touch leather, she began to talk. "I'm cross with you," she said.

"With _me_?"

"About last night. I thought--I don't know what I thought. But I've liked you so much. And all your thoughts about people are kind and generous, and I simply won't believe that it's all put on for effect, and----"

"What about last night? I didn't even see you. What have I done?"

"Evelyn saw you, didn't she? Well, I saw Evelyn right afterward. A child could have seen that she was upset, and I made her tell me all about everything. You don't care two straws about her, really. Do you?"

"Does she care two straws about me?"

"Was it just one of those things that happen when it's dark and romantic and two people feel lonely, and----"

"And have forgotten yesterday, and aren't considering tomorrow. But nothing did happen. You came out on the porch, and the courthouse bell sounded a shockingly late hour, and if we didn't remember yesterday or consider tomorrow, at least we thought of dinner."

"Evelyn," said Lucy, "was wild with anger and shame."

"I am sorry."

"You don't look a bit sorry."

"I don't believe a man is ever sorry unless he makes real trouble."

"Isn't losing faith in oneself real trouble?"

"And who has done that?"

"Why, Evelyn, of course. She thought that she was as unapproachable as an icicle, and now she says all sorts of wild things about herself.

Just before you came in the children asked her to read Peter Rabbit to them. She said she would, but that she didn't think she was _fit_ to."

I burst out laughing, and so did Lucy. "And still," she cried, "you don't look sorry."

"I'm looking at you," I said, "and I'm hanged if I can look at you and either feel sorry or half the time keep a straight face. And if I could, I wouldn't. As for Evelyn I'm glad she's found out that she isn't an icicle. Look here, I'll bet you a thousand dollars she's engaged or married within a year, beginning today."

"I couldn't pay if I lost," said Lucy. "But if you'll make it ten dollars, I'll take you ten times."

We shook hands, and then, as is usual, tried to prove that we had bet wisely.

"She's lonely," I said, "that's all that is the matter with her. She sees all her friends married and established, she has the perfectly ludicrous idea that she is not as young as she used to be. She feels like an ambitious thoroughbred that's been left at the post."

To this characterization of Evelyn Lucy took opposing views. Her friend, as a matter of fact, wasn't in the least lonely, but was excellent company for herself, and led a full life. She was not the marrying kind. If she liked men it was only because they played the games she liked to play better than women play them. "Imagine Evelyn,"

she said, "unable to eat, unable to sleep! Imagine her sitting at the window in her nightgown and looking pensively at the moon!"

"Funny," I said, "but that's just what I was imagining. All girls do it and some wives. It's as much a part of a girl as long hair, and the fear of spiders. If a girl didn't get her moon bath now and then, she'd just shrivel up and die."

"Well," said Lucy, and she pretended to sigh, "there may be something in it. But not for Evelyn."

A moment later.

"Listen," she said, "just to make me out wrong, and win my good money you wouldn't----"

"My word," I said, "you are suspicious. But I thought you were a born matchmaker. I thought you'd be pleased if you got Evelyn and me married!"

"It wouldn't do at all," she said.

"Why not?"

"Oh," she said, "if you must know, it's because I like you--both--better the way you are."

And from a walk she put her pony into a brisk gallop, and I followed suit, and caught up with her. And I was a little moved and troubled by what she had said. For it seemed to me as if she had said it of me alone, and that the inclusion of Evelyn in that delayed and hanging fire "both" of her phrase had been an afterthought.

After a pleasant uphill while of soft galloping, she signaled with her hand, and once more the ponies walked.

"Tell me truthfully," she said. "_Are_ you interested in Evelyn?"