Commencement

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By Ernest Brace

Publishers

HARPER & BROTHERS

NEW YORK AND LONDON MDCCCCXXIV

V

Copyright, 1924 By Harper & Brothers Printed in the U. S. A.

First Edition

G-Y

TO

Chapter One

Long drawn out, quavering, a minor saxo¬ phone note cut through the restlessness of the campus trees. The note fell, absorbed in the blare of a comet and the monotony of drums. For another college class the four years of mental and athletic endeavor were at an end. The rite was being celebrated. Sam Kugler’s jazz band and a crescent moon assisted. To¬ morrow, two hundred young men were, as one speaker had fervently expressed it, “going out to add another tier to the walls of that vast edifice, civilization.” But to-night the class swayed under the sensuous promptings of Sam Kugler and his saxophone; or, beneath the campus trees, whisperingly discussed the vague future charged with ideals.

“Suppose we take a walk around outside, Leonora.”

“It is awfully warm in here, isn’t it?”

They walked across the gymnasium and down the stone steps to the gravel pathway. Here, without discussion, they turned and set off across the grass toward a group of tall elms.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” Gregory Thrumm was looking at Leonora’s profile as he spoke. He found pleasure in studying the thick coils of dark hair which were drawn across her forehead and over her ears.

“It is lovely.”

“Let’s sit on that bench over there. He led Leonora in the direction he had indicated. He held her arm gently and studied the ground ahead of them.

“Are you enjoying the dance?” He sat beside her, but nearer the opposite end of the bench.

‘'Oh, yes, a lot.’’

Gregory lit a cigarette and sat staring at a yellow Chinese lantern swinging behind a black tangle of shrubbery. “Well,” he said, finally, “it’s all over now—college, I mean.”

“Are you sorry*?”

“I don’t know, hardly. I don’t think so. I wonder what my job will be like.”

“You were awfully fortunate, I think, to find one so soon.”

“Yes, I suppose I was. I can’t help dread¬ ing it. I don’t want to become a machine. Even though a man has to work hard, it seems as if he ought to be able to keep alive—not to be just a machine.” He rubbed his hands to¬ gether nervously. He wondered whether his words sounded as puerile to Leonora as they did to him. It was annoying that a sentiment as sincere as this one should become grotesque when expressed. He looked at her. The crescent moon was pointing up behind her hair.

He recalled descriptions of Diana—Diana the chaste—the huntress. ‘‘Somehow most every¬ one seems to go under,” he continued, deprecatingly. “You know what I mean. That’s one thing I won’t do. . . . It’s funny, isn’t it? I wonder how graduation came to be called commencement? It’s a beginning and an end combined.”

“It’s really a beginning, though, isn’t it? All the rest, everything before that, is more preparation than anything else.”

“But not merely a preparation for business. It’s a preparation for life, and business should be only one phase of that. If life were only

making money-” He spread his hands out

before him.

A faint breeze stirred the leaves above them. Somewhere, the other side of the trees, a girl laughed. Gregory’s eyes followed the sweep of Leonora’s cheek.

“Leonora, I-” he jerked his hand toward

hers and clutched her fingers—“I love you. I

love you. I-” He swept his arms about

her and found her lips. . . . “You haven’t

told me you love me, yet. Tell me-

please,” he begged.

Leonora spoke the words shyly, and again Gregory drew her into his arms.

“We may have to wait awhile. We will. I’m only starting in business, but I don’t think it ’ll take awfully long.”

“Fm sure you’ll succeed quickly. You did so well here in college.”

‘‘I know, but still that’s different.”

“But you mustn’t get discouraged now.” She studied the toe of her slipper.

“I do love you so much! I—oh, I don’t know what to say, except that. I shan’t mind starting in work right away now.”

Leonora smiled appreciatively and permitted Gregory once more to demonstrate his affec¬ tion.

From a high, piercing shriek, the saxophone swooped slowly down upon a quavering, minor note.

Gregory Thrumm plodded up the steps be¬ fore a square, forbidding stone house. On the central panel of the door was a shield embla¬ zoned with three Greek letters in gold. Gregory paused and studied the letters. It was a long time since he had been told that it would be his duty as a freshman to polish that shield every morning. How quickly the glamor of those days had paled. The mystery had been pierced and observed dispassionately. The gods, the loyalties of the past four years had dropped silently to the limbo of Mother Gnose and Santa Claus. They had not collapsed sud¬ denly; their passing had been as silent, as in¬ appreciable as the movement of a clock hand. There would be new ones.

It was characteristic of Gregory that, at the peak of an achievement, instead of relishing his success, he should moodily contemplate the path ahead, the next ascent. The previous night, after his easy conquest of Leonora’s af¬ fections, he had left the dance and trudged across the campus and back. He had felt the soft warmth of the night. He had observed the cleanly cut crescent of moon. But even as he walked in romance, there had fallen upon him the faint chill of threatening responsibility. He had returned quickly to the dance, his hands plunged into his trouser pockets, a slight groove between his eyebrows.

When Gregory entered the long, low-ceilinged drawing-room of the fraternity house, he found James Seffem there alone reading a mag¬ azine.

“Hello, Jimmy!”

“Hello, Greg! When are you leaving^?”

“To-morrow.” Gregory dropped in one chair and stretched his feet out upon another.

Jimmy yawned and threw his magazine on the table beside him. “Well, Greg, the big bluff is over. We can’t be supported any longer while we store our young minds with knowledge.”

“I’ve got a job.”

“When did that happen?”

“Got a letter yesterday morning.”

“What sort of office are you going to dust?”

“Advertising. Fm going to write advertise¬ ments to start.”

“To start. I know what that means.” Jimmy pinched the crease in his trousers. “The world is yours if you report bright and early every morning and work till you can’t stand up. How much are they going to give you—to start?”

“Twenty-five a week.”

“Not bad. At the end of ten years’ faithful service you’ll probably get thirty—or fired.”

“Have you got anything better to do?”

“No, nothing at all. I’m going to look around a bit first—let whoever hires me feel he’s found a priceless possession.”

“Well, I’m satisfied.”

“Yes, it’s all right for you. You’ll probably make good at it. I shouldn’t care to be tied up at a desk all day long.” Jimmy yawned and stretched. “That’s not my sort of work. You always liked literary stuff, anyway.”

Gregory found the trend of the conversation distasteful. “What time did you come in last night, Jimmy? I didn’t hear you.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. I got here safely, that’s all. My cup of grief was so full it had to be emptied, so I went out and did it. Look at me. You’ve got honors, a job, a glori¬ ous future telling people what to buy. I haven’t any means of even earning my living.

And—oh, well, I have another reason for being desperate. Suicide is all that’s left.

“/ got them phoneyy Ever las tin* groany^

Inescapable bloooooesT

Jimmy sang the description of his mood in a soft tenor voice, at the same time swaying lithely from side to side. With his lightness, there was apparent in his tone and the pucker of his black eyebrows a certain self-satisfying sadness.

“What reason have you got for being gloomyasked Gregory, skeptically.

“I’ve just told you a half a dozen good ones.”

“But you spoke of another.”

“Well, if I must bare my soul, I’ve had my worthlessness thrown in my face, and just when I was filled with good resolutions and youthful ambitions, too. If only Fd been born a few years sooner I might have got shot in the war and proved I wasn’t so bad, after all. Why, I might even have become the unknown soldier. Greg, if you want to know how I feel, fall desperately in love with a girl some time who thinks you’re a damn fool. I told her I loved her madly, and she asked me if I knew any more funny stories.”

“Did she really ask you that?”

"‘Words to that effect. Oh, I know she was right! That’s the worst part of it. No girl who must live on food and wear clothes could trust herself to my support. It was last night at the dance^—during the eighth. I sat that out with her and then left.”

“I wondered where you went to. I was look¬ ing all over for you. I had something I wanted to tell you. I—I sat out the tenth. I’m en¬ gaged.”

Their hands met in a firm clasp.

“Congratulations, Greg. A job, honors, and now this. You seem to be all set for a glorious career.” Jimmy paused and knitted his brows. “Why—why, I wonder—I— Well, I’ll be damned! Who the devil is it?”

“Leonora, of course.”

Jimmy whistled a bar of minor notes and reached into his pocket. “Here, have a cigar¬ ette. And the good shall conquer the earth— oris it the meek? Well, well! Congratula¬ tions again—three or four times. I— She’s a conquest to be proud of, Greg. She wouldn’t take just anybody. I know. She has a great many ideals. Gosh!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh, haven’t you guessed?”

“Guessed what?”

“Why, I told you I’d proposed to some one last night. I thought probably-

“Not Leonora!”

‘Why not?”

“I didn’t have any idea that you-”

“That I wanted to marry her? I didn’t, myself, till last night. It came over me all of a sudden. You know the result. Cheer up, Greg. I’m not angry. You’ll make her hap¬ pier than I ever could. I guess I’m not the marrying kind. I’m not the dependable, steady husband.” He gazed wistfully at his shoes.

“What makes you think I am?” asked Gregory, with some asperity.

“Oh, you got honors and a job and-”

“Oh, shut up!”

Gregory! Oh, well.” He rose and crossed the room to the piano.

Love's fleeting fantasy.

Commingled ecstasy.

Lips' sweetness, not your lips -^

These I desire—sips From the brew and not The raisin in the potT

When Jimmy had first composed this song Gregory had admired it. Now, the soft, wan thread of melody rasped his nerves; the words were a taunt. Still, he said nothing.

“Is Leonora still here?” asked Jimmy.

“No. She went this morning on the same train with my family.”

“Ah, they will be able to congratulate her all the way to New York.”

lO

‘‘They don’t know about it.”

Jimmy clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “Have you ever met her mother and father, Greg^”

“Neither have I. Did you know her brother well when he was here?”

“Oh, it’s better that you won her. Imagine me asking her father for his daughter’s hand. ‘Have you any income, young man?’ ‘No, sir, not a cent.’ ‘What are you going to do to earn a living?’ ‘I don’t know, sir.’ ‘Young man, get the hell out of here.’ ” Jimmy performed a strenuous pantomime of his being shoved through a door and kicked down stairs. “Greg, the next time I ask anyone to marry me, she’s going to have money and lots of it—real honest-to-God money—a wad that would choke a horse.”

Gregory withd^-^w his feet from the chair and stood up.

“Where are you going, Greg?”

“I ought to do a little packing,” he said, vaguely. He quickly left the room and climbed the stairs to the top floor. There he entered his own room and closed the door behind him. He stretched out on his bed and lay staring up at tlie ceiling. Somewhat later, footsteps and voices sounded through the hall. It was lunch time, but he did not move. There was no reason for not going down—^no real reason, except that he did not want to talk. He smoked two cigarettes and threw each of them away before it was half finished. He sat up and scratched his head. Perhaps Jimmy was telling them all about the engagement now. They would be laughing, waiting for him to come down so that they could boisterously congratulate him. Some one was playing the piano. He heard a bleating, sonorous voice. It was one of the alumni back to renew youthful associations.

Strike up that tune, boys.

Lift your glasses high.

Though parting-days are drawing nigh.

To-night each one enjoys

The strong, firm clasp of brother*s hand.

And friendship in our loyal band.

So let us give a rousing cheer.

First for our alma mater dear.

Then for our fraternity.**

Gregory shuddered. The words jarred upon him. The voice sawed across his nerves. It seemed such a long, eventful time since he had first heard that stanchly sentimental melody. Then he had just emerged from the awful im¬ pressiveness of a long ritual. The song, he remembered, had thrilled him, had forced the blood tingling up his spine and the back of his head.

The tune changed. He half opened the door and listened. Jimmy was playing. There was no one else in the house who could play like that—and sing.

*When I walk through the pahk at nighty My honey bahy^ then Fm, oh^ so blue,

^Cause why? ^Cause Ym pantin' fo' you.

Except fo' Mistah Moonman, hon, they ain't no light,

I can't see no one^ but —

I heahs some kissin'

An' if I lissen I heahs a sigh,

A lovin' cry.

That, hon, is why -

Gregory danced back and forth across his room, singing the chorus and swaying from side to side.

Vm feelin' grumpy.

An' somethin' lumpy's Climbin' my throat,

1 feel like Vd taken Mistah Humpty Dumpty's Fall, an' through my mind theah drifts a minak note,

A moanin' tune.

From a loony, loony night in June,

A weepin', creepin', heatin', neat an' sweet an' fleetin* Jazz‘time melody,"

Gregory was smiling. After all, Jimmy was lots of fun. Gregory wished he were like Jimmy; that he took things less seriously. He always wished that, whenever he was depressed. He walked to the mirror above his dresser, straightened his necktie, and brushed his hair. He would go down and get Jimmy. They would go out somewhere together that after¬ noon. To-morrow was still a long way off.

As Gregory settled himself in the New York bound train the next afternoon, his mind was heavy with loneliness and uncertainty. He fully sensed his abrupt detachment from the solid facts and the accustomed grooves of col¬ lege life. He seemed to hang precariously be¬ tween two eccentrically whirling worlds.

He took a copy of Hardy’s The Dynasts from his bag. He followed the fore scene with concentrated interest, until a passage, uttered by the Spirit of the Pities, arrested his atten¬ tion.

Amid this scene of bodies substantive Strange waves I sight like winds grown visible, Which bear men’s forms on their innumerous coils, Twining and serpentining round and through.

Except in being irresistible—

Which complicate with some, and balance all.

Gregory looked out of the window. A ‘‘body substantive” crawling ant-like about this business of existing, driven here and there by irresistible forces. It was immersion in these

‘"strange waves” that was more dreadful than any other catastrophe which life might offer. It was this same dread which had spurred him on in his quest for academic honors; and it was this, too, which had prompted him to defend opinions which had given him a college-wide reputation as a radical. Destiny, he chose to believe, was in himself, and not in some blind, mystic force.

The flowing panorama outside the car win¬ dow subtly drew Gregory’s speculations away from the demands which the future might make upon his “body substantive.” The marbled green of the fields and woods that sped by re¬ called the college campus, and that, in turn, faded into a background for the firm, slim figure of Leonora. It was to her secure, prac¬ tical idealism that he must trust himself in re¬ sisting the dead weight of his clay. Her cool, finely cut lips, her low, sure voice as she planned the security of their future—surely these would withhold him from the stupor of ordinary existence.

“Tickets, please.”

Off through the trees a tiny red house stood forth vividly against the green. He turned from the window, keeping the impression of the house and its setting before him. He and Leonora might go off to some such place and live their lives as they chose. Living expenses, plumbing, children—these details were for the moment swept from his consideration. He saw Leonora, dressed in white, leaning out of the gable window and waving her hand at him as he came across the fresh, springy fields.

A gaunt, gray scaffolding bearing the name of an infallible panacea flashed by the window. Of course things must be sold. Why had Jimmy made that fatuous remark about liter¬ ary ambitions? Before anything else, one must earn a living. It ought not to be difficult. Probably the only reason he dreaded the test of his ability was that he was facing something un¬ known. But he would not go under; nor would he become a machine. It was his duty to sup¬ port himself—and Leonora—but merely a duty—something to be done to prevent future trouble—like brushing one’s teeth. “Bodies substantive,”

Chapter Two

“Well, Gregory, I’m proud of you.” Mr. Thrumm spread his napkin in his lap and rubbed his hands together zestfully. He was a lean, long-jawed man who gave the impres¬ sion of being ever mentally alert. “Your mother and I have been talking things over, and weVe decided you’re the right sort of a son to have.”

Gregory looked at his mother. She was smil¬ ing with repressed amusement. She dropped her eyes and adjusted her pince-nez. He turned to his sister, sitting opposite. There was contempt, a little jealousy, perhaps, in her blue eyes. If she had spoken, he thought, she would have said something about his being a lucky dog. There was a surprise in store for him. He remembered birthdays, when the imminence of presents had produced the same pleasant con¬ straint. He reached to pick up his soup spoon. There, half covered by his plate, reposed an envelope. He picked it up and read his name, written in his father’s scrawling back-hand. Within the envelope he found a check to his order for one thousand dollars.

“Not a bad little world, is it, Greg^?”

He smiled across the table at his sister.

l6

“Why”—^he turned to his father—“it’s an awful lot. Thank you very, very much, father.”

“It is a lot, my boy—now, but I hope in a few years you’ll be able to think slightingly of such an amount. It’s a nest egg.”

“You sit on it, Greg, and watch it hatch lit¬ tle percentages.”

“Gregory”—Mrs. Thrumm smiled so broadly that the wrinkles in her ponderous chin were doubled—“your father and I want you to have a good start in life.” The folds in her face rolled into one mass of flesh. “We want you to have something to build on—a solid founda¬ tion. We’re very proud of you,” she added, with decision.

“When do you start work, son?”

“Monday morning.”

“So soon as that?” Rupert Thrumm raised his eyebrows. “Well, I guess it won’t hurt you any. I’d sort of expected you’d want to take a little vacation first, but it doesn’t do a man any harm to keep in the harness. Hard work is the best medicine for anybody.”

“You’d better spend your time between now and Monday morning learning Kipling’s If by heart, Greg,” observed Catherine. She was a slim, blond-haired girl who, except when she spoke, seemed almost doll-like. Her voice was husky and rough.

“Why so cynical, Kate^ Been disappointed in love or something*?”

“No, Fm still single.”

“You ought to get married. A little dish¬ washing is what you need.”

“I really can’t imagine what’s got into Catherine,” observed Mrs. Thrumm to no one in particular.

“You see, Greg, Fm interesting, anyway. Nobody can figure me out.”

“Why’d you get your hair bobbed? To save time doing it?”

Catherine laughed. “Has some girl been telling you she got her hair bobbed to save time? Do you suppose these curls twist up themselves?”

Gregory silently observed the fluff of kinky blond curls.

“I wish you’d let it grow out again. Kitten,” observed Mr. Thrumm, smiling almost wist¬ fully at her. “You had such long golden hair.” He reached across to pat her head.

“Yellow, dad,” she replied, drawing away impatiently. “How much money are you going to make, Greg?”

“Twenty-five a week.”

“You’ll save twenty, I suppose.”

“You must save something,” interposed Mr. Thrumm. ‘It’s a good habit to get into. Until you’re well started, Fll supply the bed and board, so you ought to be able to save a substantial amount. Don’t let a week go by with¬ out putting something aside.”

"‘I fully intend to.” Gregory recalled that this was exactly as he and Leonora had planned. He noticed, as he spoke, that Catherine was looking at him contemptuously. It was dif¬ ficult to understand Catherine. She compared very unfavorably with Leonora.

“I have something I want you and Catherine to do to-night,” said Mrs. Thrumm.

Gregory looked apprehensively at his mother.

“I can’t,” said Catherine, firmly. “I’ve al¬ ready got something to do.”

“But can’t you put it off ^ This is Gregory’s first night home. I shouldn’t think you’d go and make other plans. You’ve always got something else to do whenever I want you to do something for me.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, you’ll do it, anyway, won’t you Gregory? I want you to call on Aunt Annie.”

“I’m awfully sorry, mother. I—I made an engagement for this evening.”

“But you ought to go to see her. She thinks a lot of you, Gregory, and she gave you that beautiful emerald scarf pin for a graduation present.”

“I’ll go, but I really can’t do it to-night, mother.”

“Better go, Greg. It ’ll be easy sailing for you. As near as I can figure, she hasn’t anyone else to leave her money to. She’s off me since I told her I wasn’t thrilled by the sloppy books she forced me to read.”

“It’s not the money, Gregory. She’s done a lot for you, and it’s only common decency to be nice to her,” said Mrs. Thrumm.

“I’ll give you a lesson in what to say and what not to say before you go. I’ve learned by experience,” said Catherine.

“Why do you talk as though you were so worldly. Kittenasked Mr. Thrumm in his best paternal manner. “I know you’re not, but I don’t like to hear you say such things.”

“You will go soon, won’t you, Gregory?”

“Yes. I’d go to-night, only I made this en¬ gagement several days ago.” Gregory turned silently and uncomfortably to his meal, for he had noticed a gleam of suspicion in his mother’s eyes. He preferred that, for the present at least, his relationship to Leonora should re¬ main a secret. He knew instinctively that his family would not perceive the romantic aspects of his engagement.

“Engaged or something, Greg?”

His eyes narrowed as he watched Catherine speak the words. He half realized that the flash of temper in his glance must be apparent to anyone looking at him. He jabbed with his fork at the food on his plate. What should he say? A denial was on his lips. Perhaps his mother would ignore the question and his ob¬ vious resentment.

‘‘Gregory, you’re not engaged, are you?” Mrs. Thrumm leaned anxiously toward him.

“Yes.” His eyes were upon his plate. His anger ebbed, and he felt a pleasurable sense of relief. The flood of protestation would come, but there would be no compromise.

“Is it that girl who came back with us on the train yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I was afraid there might be something like that. She seemed a nice enough girl,

but-Why, Gregory, you’re so young to tie

yourself down. What are her people like?”

“I haven’t met them.”

“What!”

“Gregory, I think you’re foolish.” Mr. Thrumm spoke decidedly. “I’ve determined not to interfere with you. You’ve always been pretty level-headed, and—well, it’s your head and nobody else’s that’s got to carry you through. But I do think you’re foolish. My advice—and I feel this very strongly—is that you wait—stay engaged if you must—till you can support a wife without spoiling your own life. I’m thinking of you, Gregory. Romance and all that is to be expected, but don’t let it ruin you.”

“Gregory,” said his mother, with a sigh, “this is a great disappointment to me.”

“Oh, why worry about it?” interrupted Catherine. “He’ll probably be engaged a dozen times before the final leap. College boys always get engaged. It’s part of sowing one s wild oats. I’ve been engaged several times, myself.”

“Anyone engaged to you would get engaged again,” said Gregory, pointedly.

“Of course. That proves they like it.”

Gregory started to reply, but instead turned his attention to his dinner.

“You will wait awhile, won’t you, Gregory?”

“I expect so.”

“Take father’s and mother’s advice, Greg. They’ve been married a long time, and they know what it means.”

“Catherine”— her father smiled indulgently at her—“you ought to think of getting married.”

^‘All she thinks of,” said Mrs. Thrumm, bit¬ terly, ‘‘is how much money she can squeeze out of us. She’ll marry for money.”

“Oh, Catherine ’ll be all right. She’s young yet.” Her father patted her head.

Mrs. Thrumm sighed. “Oh, I hope things will work out for the best.”

“Or, in other words, all wrong from your point of view, Greg.”

Gregory hurried across the city toward Leonora’s home. He felt a great need of sym¬ pathy, of reassurance. Remembering the check, he paused and reached in his pocket. Yes, it was safe. That amount of money would pay only one month’s rent of his father’s apart¬ ment on Riverside Drive. Oh, well! . . .

A large blue automobile slipped noiselessly by. It seemed an endless struggle to attempt to earn things like that. Four or five years of his present salary. But he must stop thinking of money. There were other things. Of course, money was necessary, but only as a means. A small place in the country—cozy, well furnished, clean, tidy, tucked in a corner of green trees. Money enough to live there comfortably, to buy books, to make life sub* stantially pleasant. An automobile, perhaps^— later. There was no reason for misgivings.

Leonora would restore his confidence through her own. He must justify her faith in himself. She would be the spur to his success—no, not the spur—the goal, rather. It was because of her that he was nervous and apprehensive. It might be rather fun to fight and struggle, while Leonora watched and encouraged him.

He passed down a street between two cheer¬ less walls of apartment houses. Halfway, he paused and gazed up a precipice of dun stone. Behind one of the rows of windows lived Leonora. The strident tones of a phonograph struggled against the restless petulance of a baby. Here, he reflected, the check would pay far more than a year’s rent. He sighed and entered the building.

“Leonora!”

“You do love me, don’t you, Gregory^” she pleaded, as they ended their kiss. “Oh, I for¬ got to take off my apron. I was so excited when I heard the door bell ring.” As she led Gregory through the long, dark hallway in the direction of an oblong of light, she untied the apron. They entered a small living room. Gregory noticed with relief that it was unoccu¬ pied.

“Lll be right back, Gregory. I want to hang my apron in the kitchen, and I’ll bring mother. We were just finishing the dishes. Sit down, won’t you*?”

Gregory did not sit down. He crossed to the window, glanced far down into the noisy, dusty street, and then turned to survey the room. To¬ gether with his father, he had laughed at his mother when she insisted upon hiring an in¬ terior decorator to furnish their apartment. Now he wondered whether, after all, she had not been wise. But of course it wasn’t the Frails’ fault; these things were obviously the best they could afford. Poor Leonora! No wonder she was so insistent upon comforts. He wound his way through an agglomeration of gilt chairs and what-nots to a large and substantial-looking seat. As he settled himself in it he heard an ominous snapping somewhere in the bowels of the chair. He crossed to the Morris chair and tested it with his fist. It seemed safe. Leonora’s father must be a worthless old soul. She had said he was queer and not at all prac¬ tical—lazy and good-for-nothing was probably nearer the truth. He stared at the gilt chande¬ lier. What would his mother ....

“Mother, I want to introduce you to Gregory Thrumm.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Frail.” Gregory low¬ ered his eyes and retained in his memory an im¬ pression of an angular, square-jawed woman with thin, nervous lips. She was younger than he had expected her to be.