The Redemption of Anthony

Front matter

By

MARJORIE BENTON COOKE

INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL CO. PUBLISHERS

Chapter 1

THE REDEMPTION OF ANTHONY

CHAPTER I

I FEEL that this night has witnessed Venus presiding over the feast of Lucullus, while at her right hand sparkled the wit of æschylus—he was a wit, wasn't he?"

Mr. Peter Schuyler bent low over Mrs. Kaley Martin's hand.

"Good gracious, Peter, you're getting awfully complicated!"

"Well, in words of one syllable, what I wish to say is that you look your loveliest, Tony was great, and I've had a splendid time."

"For all of which I am exceedingly grateful. You off, too, Nan?"

"I am. Peter, move on, so I can say my 'day-day.' I've had a very nice time, Louise, and lost my heart to The Parson."

"Good! Isn't he a dear? But I warn you, Nan, that you're to let him alone. He's much too nice for you to play with."

"My dear, he's actually clever! Think of anything in the church being clever! And he never said one word about my sins!"

"He knew there was no time—at a dinner."

"Au contraire, he thinks I'm a sort of worldly angel. See if he doesn't—here he comes." Mrs. Crompton nodded gaily at the handsome man approaching his hostess, and went on.

"I have to thank you, my dear Mrs. Martin, for a very pleasant evening," The Parson said. "Such a delightful woman—Mrs. Crompton—real spiritual quality."

"Spiritual, did you say, Parson?" Mrs. Martin laughed. "I should never have thought of that adjective for Mrs. Crompton."

"No? She seemed so to me. When does the little girl arrive, Mrs. Martin?"

"Priscilla? She comes to-morrow at five."

"Good! I shall come soon to see her, if I may. Good night."

"Good night."

He passed on toward the dressing-room, and a voice behind her said: "Well?" She turned, to face Mrs. Crompton's laughing eyes.

"He thinks you have 'spiritual quality'—them's his words," she gibed.

"Dear old soul!" Mrs. Crompton said.

"I remembered that hundred and fifty I won last week at bridge, and promised him an altar-cloth. Spiritual quality—that's great!"

She disappeared, laughing, and one by one the guests departed, until the door finally closed upon the last, and Mrs. Martin turned, with a sigh of relief, to the man who stood waiting.

"Shall I go?" he asked.

"Oh, no—smoke here."

He rolled an armchair toward the fire, and when she was comfortably ensconced he turned off the electric lights and came and stood before her in the firelight, looking down at her.

"Well?" said she, looking up at him.

"Well," he replied, lighting a cigar.

"Aren't you going to say anything pleasant, Tony?"

"It was a great success."

"Oh, the dinner—yes; but—"

"But what?"

"Tony, you're so unsatisfactory! Why can't you say that I never looked better in my life; that I made an exceptionally difficult dinner go by sheer force of will; that you think I'm the eighth wonder of the world, and a few comfy things like that?"

He blew smoke leisurely before he answered. "What's the use? I think it, and you know it, so what's the use of babbling about it?"

"How like a man! It's the babbling that counts; not the truth."

"What nonsense!"

"It's not nonsense. If you think agreeable things, it's your Christian duty to say them. It helps more than anything in the world."

"Well, everybody else has done his Christian duty to-night, so can't you let me off?"

"No—for you're the only one who counts."

"I don't know, you know. I always put my foot in it when I try."

Mrs. Martin sighed and smiled. "No matter—it's really too hard work to extract it. You were great at the table. I should never have swung it without you."

"Ground out a few ancient tales—that's all I did. You were the whole thing."

"I had a splendid time. I felt as if it were my last fling."

"Your last fling?"

"Yes. To-morrow, you know—"

"To-morrow? Well, what happens tomorrow?"

"Priscilla comes home."

"Priscilla? Oh, yes, the girl. Well, what's the difference?"

"Mrs. Kaley Martin, the mother of a débutante, is not the same person as this Mrs. Kaley Martin."

"What difference can she make in your life?"

"I don't know—she may make none; and yet I have a feeling, a foreboding, that she is going to make a great deal."

"What sort of a girl is this daughter of yours, anyhow?"

"I don't know—really, I don't. I've never gotten at her much. You see, she's been away to school for so long, and before that there were governesses—" She leaned toward him impulsively. "Tony, do you think it's a horrible thing for me not to want this strange young woman to come here and interfere with my whole scheme of life?"

"She'll probably marry."

"I don't know—perhaps. She's rather pretty, I think; but she is not clever."

"That won't hurt her chances any. Most men prefer the other kind—at home."

Mrs. Martin looked at him fixedly a moment. "I wonder what she'll think of you, Tony?"

He flicked his ashes into the grate. "I assure you it's a matter of total indifference to me. I don't like girls."

"I suppose she'll think it's shocking for an old lady like me to have a beau."

"Am I a beau?"

"Aren't you?"

"No; I'm your creature—a thing you made with your own hands."

"Don't. I only helped you use what the gods gave you."

"You only saved what I was determined to destroy. Don't think I don't know what you've done, Louise."

"Tony, if you should thank me, I'd hate you!" she flung out at him.

"Even I couldn't be so altogether banal as that."

The silence grew heavy.

"Perhaps the girl is going to bring you a new interest."

"Perhaps"—indifferently.

"She may prove a great comfort to you. You must be lonely sometimes—"

"Tony, you talk like an old woman. Go home—do!"

"You deny that you're lonely?"

"I never think of it. I haven't thought of myself for three years."

"What have you been thinking of?"

"Your success."

"My success! Well, I suppose most people would say that it had come."

She looked at him quizzically. "Most people! What was the sale of the last book? Three editions in—how long was it?"

"Editions? You don't measure success by editions. Do you think I've succeeded?"

"Splendidly."

"You're sure?"

"Quite sure. To me you succeeded from that day you came to me and said: 'From this day I'll never touch a drop to drink.'"

"Lord, what a drunken sot I was! What on earth ever gave you the hint that there was a spark in me worth saving, Louise?"

"You haven't forgotten that night we met at the Carltons'? How delightfully you talked about your work and your ideals—"

Drake broke in crisply. "And then drank too much champagne and blubbered my failures, I remember only too well, unfortunately. The question is, why did you send for me later?"

"Because I thought it might prove worth while to redeem you."

He laughed. "I remember I tossed up to see whether or not I'd come in answer to your note."

"You were a perfect bear at first; determined not to be patronized, nor made friends with."

"What a brute I must have been, dear!"

She winced, and smiled up at him. "You were an uncouth creature those days, Tony. I feel quite proud of you now when I think back to them."

"How you lugged me up, didn't you?—step by step! Why, I don't think I ever knew a lady until I knew you."

"Nonsense!"

"Don't belittle any of it. You shamed me into being a decent creature, and what I am I owe to you. I've worked like a slave these three years just to prove to you that you weren't mistaken—that there was something to save, perhaps—and now, as far as the world goes, I'm a successful man."

"Why do you say, 'as far as the world goes'? Don't you consider yourself successful?"

"No, there's no such thing. I write books and they sell, and so some little men who call themselves critics say I'm the hope of the future, and such rot. Does that make me a big man? Does it make me a happy man? Does it make my life rounded, complete?"

He walked to and fro, out of the light into the shadow and back again, Mrs. Martin watching him.

"What you need is change. Why not go away for awhile? Why not go abroad?"

"I can't. I must work."

"Take your work along."

"Will you go, too?"

"I? I can not. There's Priscilla—"

"Then I can't go. I can't work without you"—impatiently.

"You haven't tried."

"There's no use trying. I know. Your judgment, your taste—I must have them until I'm bigger, surer of myself."

"And then?",

He stopped as if she had interrupted a train of thought. "What?"

"Nothing—nothing."

"Do you think it's been worth your while?"

"Eminently."

"And what have you gotten out of it—except a little vicarious joy?"

"I'm essential to you in your work—you've just said it—that is my reward."

He drew a chair up beside her and took her hand. "And now, what next?" he said.

She rose and walked away from him, breathing heavily. "I'm too tired to-night to talk of—that."

"What a selfish brute I am not to remember that! I'll go."

"Yes, please do."

She came to him and gave him both her hands, and he held them closely a minute, looking at her. Suddenly and for the first time he took her in his arms and kissed her lips; then without a word he went out, and Mrs. Martin hid her face in her hands for joy, and—wept.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II

EVERYTHING in order, Mary?" asked Mrs. Martin, entering the room intended for Priscilla and looking about casually.

"Yes, madame; I think so."

"Have some flowers on the dressing-table."

"Very well, Mrs. Martin. Are you driving to the station to meet Miss Priscilla?" she continued, with the privilege of an old servant.

"No, oh, no! I've sent James for her. We'll have tea in my dressing-room when she comes, Mary."

"Very well."

Mrs. Martin wandered about aimlessly, rearranging things absent-mindedly, and finally went back to her own part of the house. She was restless; the absurd real- ization began to dawn upon her that she dreaded her daughter's home-coming, dreaded the first half-hour and the first weeks of adjustment. She even blamed herself a bit that she knew so little of the girl's real self. Her physical needs and habits she had always considered religiously, but farther than that she had never gone.

Mr. Kaley Martin's death, ten years before, had been a distinct relief, and she had wilfully set aside all reminders of him—and Priscilla came under that head.

Mrs. Martin threw herself into a comfortable chair, and gave herself up to a consideration of the evidence at hand in regard to Priscilla. She recalled the rather prim little miss of fifteen who had spent the summer vacation at home two years before (that was the last real visit, for the girl had been abroad all the time since); she recalled the stiff letters, sometimes so childish in their outlook upon life as to be pathetic. She realized that she had no idea of the girl's tastes or thoughts, and she got up petulantly.

"I suppose good mothers are born, not made; it's evidently not my forte. The truth remains, Priscilla is a trial."

The door behind her opened swiftly, and she turned. The girl stood there a moment, motionless, while mother and daughter measured each other. Mrs. Martin's first impression was half pleasure, half dismay—the girl was a beauty, there was no doubt of that.

"Mother!" she said, in a little, half-choked voice. "Mother!"

She put her arms about her mother's neck and clung tightly, so tightly that Mrs. Martin could feel the beating of her heart. She almost resented the passion of the embrace.

"How do you do, Priscilla?" she said, releasing her gently. "My dear, how you've grown! Let's have a look at you." She held her off and took an inventory of gold hair, hazel eyes wet with tears, mouth quiv- ering with emotion, slight, straight young figure.

"Mother, are you glad? Oh, I suppose you couldn't be as glad to have me home as I am to be home!"

"You wanted to come, then?" Mrs. Martin inquired.

"Wanted to? It's been my dream for years—to belong at home. This last year I've marked off each day and night that brought me nearer."

Mrs. Martin turned and rang for tea.

"Take off your things, Priscilla. Didn't you like it at school?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose I did," she answered, putting her things aside. "It was all very well, but, of course, it wasn't home."

"No, I suppose not. Put the things here, please, Mary."

Priscilla flew at the maid. "Oh, Mary, I'm so glad to see you! How are you? And how's the cook, and Hannah, and all of them?"

"They're well, thank ye, Miss Prissy, and we're all delighted to have ye home fur good."

"Thanks—it's just heavenly to be here."

Mrs. Martin watched Mary's pleased exit and the girl's flush of pleasure. "I thought you were going to kiss her, Priscilla," she said, in amused sarcasm.

The girl flushed. "Was I too enthusiastic? You see, I just love Mary; she means home to me—she and Hannah and the cook. They were so good to me that last time I was here—I was hardly ever lonesome."

"Indeed?" said Mrs. Martin, with a flash of anger at something the unconsidered speech implied. "How do you take your tea?"

"Lemon and two lumps, please."

Priscilla drew her chair opposite her mother's and fixed her eyes on her steadily.

"Isn't this sweet for us to be sitting here having tea together, mother?"

"Yes, isn't it nice? Now tell me about your two years of Europe."

"Oh, don't let's! Some other day for Europe—now let's talk about things that count—about you and me. Mother, have you wanted me ever?"

Mrs. Martin moved uneasily. "Don't let us be emotional, Priscilla; it is too great a strain. Let us just stick to the facts. We've lived our lives practically apart, and now we're going to try to live together in peace and happiness, but we mustn't demand too much of each other all at once."

"So—you haven't," Priscilla concluded simply, and her eyes never wandered from her mother's face. "Of course I don't see why you should, but I hoped—I think I don't care for any more tea." She got up and wandered to the window.

Mrs. Martin felt uncomfortable, futile. She was not handling the situation in her usual brilliant way. "I hope you are going to be very happy here. We'll have parties and dinners and balls, and amuse ourselves splendidly. I've planned a cotillion for you in a couple of weeks, and you're to lead it with Peter Schuyler, the most popular youth in town. Oh, we'll amuse you, my dear!"

"Thank you, mother," the girl said, turning to her.

Mrs. Martin continued to fight for time.

"Then we'll induce Tony to have a house-party for you down in the country. You'll enjoy Tony—Mr. Anthony Drake, you know."

"Drake? The Drake who wrote The Soul of Ignace?"

"Yes; you know about him, then?"

"He's wonderful, isn't he?"

"You haven't read The Soul of Ignace?" demanded Mrs. Martin, in astonishment.

"Oh, yes; several times."

"Good gracious! didn't they choose your books for you?"

"I've read all his things."

"He's an interesting man—he's here a great deal."

"Here—in this house? Then, I shall meet him!"

"Doubtless"—smiling.

A knock at the door interrupted them, and the man brought in a card.

"He's here now. Run down and talk to him until I get into another gown."

Priscilla actually turned white. "I? Go and talk to him? Oh, I couldn't!"

"Nonsense! Run along."

"Mother, I'd be frightened to death. I couldn't!"

"Don't be silly, Priscilla; he's nothing but a man. I'll be down in a minute."

She disappeared into her bedroom, and Priscilla watched her go with frightened eyes.

"She wants me to go," she whispered, and turned and walked down-stairs.

Mr. Anthony Drake was pacing to and fro in the drawing-room, his thoughts upon the coming half-hour. The developments of the night before seemed to him to demand immediate readjustment of his relations to Mrs. Martin. He had spent the night going over the past and interrogating the future, and had arrived at the obvious con- clusion that they could not go on for ever in the halcyon camaraderie of the last three years, especially now that the daughter was arriving to complicate the situation. He turned at the step on the stair, and faced Priscilla, who stood between the curtains, transfixed with fear in the presence of the great man. He stared silently.

"I am Priscilla," she said, in a faint voice.

"I am Priscilla Martin—"

She advanced and held out her hand, and Drake recalled himself with difficulty.

"Oh, yes, to be sure!" he said. "How do you do?"

She eyed him gravely, noting his evident irritation. "I shouldn't have come at all—I shouldn't have dreamed of coming down—but my mother wished me to talk to you for ten minutes until she is dressed. Will you sit down?"

"Thanks. I—I suppose you're glad to get home?" he said uncomfortably, looking across at her.

"Oh, yes, very."

"We've heard a good deal about you lately."

She leaned toward him impulsively.

"Have you? Has my mother talked of me?"

"Yes. She's been wondering what she's going to do with you."

"Oh!"

So long a pause ensued that Priscilla finally hurled herself into the breach.

"You're the first great person I've ever met, so I don't know what to say to you."

"I? I'm not a great person. If I were, I'd know what to say to you. I don't get on with girls—they frighten me."

"Are you frightened now? If you're half as frightened as I am, don't you think I might go tell mother that we couldn't talk?"

He looked at her and laughed. "I'd hate to confess to your mother that I was afraid of anything."

"Oh, you're that way, too, are you?"

"Your mother isn't afraid of anything."

"No, I suppose not."

"She'd laugh at us."

"Yes, she always laughs at things."

Again he glanced at her. "I suppose you liked it at school?"

"No."

"Oh, is that so? Why didn't you?"

"It would take four years really to tell you."

He laughed. "We'd better postpone it, then, for it's rather near dinner-time."

"Besides, I couldn't tell you, anyhow—you wouldn't understand."

"You don't think much of my intellect, then?"

"Oh, I think you're very great, but I don't think you could understand just a plain girl—like me."

Mrs. Martin came in, and he went to meet her, half-way across the room.

"Why, what's the matter?" he asked of her.

"Mother, may I be excused? I'm a little tired—I—"

"By all means, Priscilla. Dinner at seven-thirty."

"Yes, mother. Good afternoon, Mr. Drake."

He bowed silently, then turned to Mrs. Kaley Martin.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked again.

"Don't ask me. I've been through the hardest half-hour of my life."

"You mean?"

"Did you ever hear of people being transformed in an hour? That's what's happened to me. What did you think of her? Is she a beauty?"

"I don't know—I didn't notice. But never mind her—let us talk of you. What is this change you talk about? What did she do to you?"

"She swamped me in a sea of emotions; she tugged me hither and thither, where I didn't want to go; she put her hands ruthlessly on old wounds and opened them up again; she arraigned me before the past, and, worst of all, she loves me."

"What a strange woman you are, Louise! Didn't you want her to love you?"

"I wanted her to be fond of me; but love—there are such terrible obligations in being loved!"

"I've come to talk to you about love, myself."

"Don't—I can't bear anything more to-night. You are to stay to dinner, Tony, and protect me. You must keep that child's unblinking eyes off me, you must be the safety-valve, or I shall do something insane."

"Very well," he said quietly, "my case can wait, and to-night we'll attend to the case of Priscilla—that's her name, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's her name—Priscilla. And to think that we counted on the chance that her coming would make no difference!"

"Possibly you exaggerate your problem just now."

"Tony, it takes the most finished diplomat years to prepare himself to face a situation of half the vitalness of this one of mine; and I've thrown away all my years of preparation!"

Chapter 3

CHAPTER III

WELL, Priscilla, how have you put in the morning?" asked Mrs, Martin, kissing her daughter's cheek as she sat down to the luncheon-table.

"Pretty well—but it's been rather long," the girl admitted. "I've arranged all the flowers, and settled my things in my room, but it didn't take quite all the time. Couldn't I have some regular morning things to do, mother, so I'd feel more settled here?"

"My dear, your regular morning thing to do will be to sleep, as soon as you get started socially. We must look over your clothes and get Madame Sonci started on some new gowns, and that will take time. We'll keep you busy enough, never fear."

"Thanks. You see, I'm used to being busy. At school we had things to do every hour of the day, so it's pretty hard to drift."

"Yes, I suppose you'll miss it—the routine life, and your friends, and all. We might ask some of the girls to visit you—would you like that? Who was your best friend?"

Priscilla hesitated. "Well, I don't know that I really had one. I didn't go about with the other girls very much; I always had my—I always spent my time with—"

"Well, with whom?"

"I'd rather not tell you, if you don't mind."

"You'd rather not tell? Why, what do you mean, Priscilla? Who was this mysterious companion?"

"Please don't laugh, mother—it was just somebody I pretended."

"Your best friend was somebody you pretended?" repeated Mrs. Martin curiously.

Priscilla nodded.

"What a strange child you are! Didn't you like the girls?"

"Oh, yes—some of them. But if you just pretend your best friend, she's always with you, and she never says mean, spiteful things, nor hurts your feelings, nor laughs at you—"

Mrs. Martin smiled—but it was a winning smile, instead of her habitual satiric one. "It has obvious advantages—you could shut her out when she bored you."

"Oh, but she never bored me!"

"Really? She must have been pretended. I shall ask Mr. Drake to take you in hand—we may make a great novelist of you."

"I liked him. I wasn't a bit afraid, after the first."

"I told you he was harmless. Did he talk to you?"

"At first he was annoyed at my being there, but I told him I only came because I was sent, so then he talked to me, just to be polite."

"He doesn't usually take the trouble."

"I wished he wouldn't. I liked him better when he was quiet. It wasn't stupid quiet; it was just quiet quiet."

"My conscience, Priscilla! I'm almost afraid you're clever!" said Mrs. Martin, rising.

"Oh, no, I'm not. I'm sorry if I've talked too much."

"Nonsense! You've quite amused me, and I've been bored to death all morning."

"Oh, I'm glad!"

"Now, what do you want to do this afternoon? I'm going to drive to town to do some errands, and I've asked a few people in to tea at five to meet you. Now, will you come with me, or do you want to amuse yourself until five?"

"If you don't mind, I'll take Mary and go to the park and skate."

"Skate? Mercy! Isn't it too cold?"

"It's just right. You don't mind, then?"

"Of course not—only, be back at five."

"All right, Madame Mother," she called, as she flew up-stairs.

Five o'clock found Peter, Mrs. Crompton and The Parson gathered at the tea-table.

"Peter," said Mrs. Martin, looking at him sternly, "I relied on your tact and judgment, and they have played me false."

"Say not so, fair lady; what shall the owner do to redeem them?"

Mrs. Martin shook her head. "I knew it would come, and I hoped it wouldn't. I am relegated to the position of the mother of my daughter. The Parson, here, comes to my tea-party, and even while he inquires for my health, his eye wanders and he says: 'Where is she?' Nan, here, blows in upon us and ignores us all, demanding: 'Where's your girl?' And now you—my erstwhile slave of the lamp—find me inadequate!"

"Stuff, Louise!" broke in Mrs. Crompton.

"You asked us here for a private exhibition of your latest, and we want to see whether it is a signed proof or a copy."

"We hope it is a copy," said The Parson gallantly.

"Well, my exhibit has gone skating, under strict orders to return at five, and, my dears, it is an original, not a copy."

"Humph! I don't care much for girls myself. Boys are more my style," quoth Mrs. Crompton,

"Thanks," said Peter, offering her tea.

"Oh, you! Peter, you're a perennial youth, like Cupid. You've been the boy wonder of society for ten years."

"Spare me!" cried the victim, on his knees at once, hands raised.

"Pick on some one your own age, Nan," interposed Mrs, Martin.

"I can't—they're all dead."

"In the person of old age, I offer myself as victim, Mrs. Crompton," said The Parson, sitting down beside her.

Peter returned to Mrs. Martin and the tea-table. "Where's Tony?" he asked.

"I don't know—he'll probably turn up later, but I never depend on him."

"Idiosyncrasies of genius, I suppose."

"No, just a Tonyism. It is one of the things that make him interesting."

"Ah, do you mind if I jot that down? Be unreliable and you will be interesting. If any man could be all that the world thinks Tony to be, he'd be the only living world-wonder in captivity."

"You're jealous, Peter."

"I am. I think the whole world runs mad on celebrities. When every third man is a celebrity, why isn't it a distinction to be a commonplace man, like me?"

"You're not commonplace enough; you're—Peter."

The door opened at this juncture, and Priscilla entered. "Oh, mother, I'm so sorry to be late!" she began impulsively, and then stopped.

"Great Jupiter!" said Peter, and they all sat and looked at her.

She certainly was a charming vision, this red-cheeked, bright-eyed Priscilla, in her close-fitting blue velvet skating-suit, setting off her slimness, and Mrs. Martin admitted, with unexpected pride, that this was Priscilla at her best.

"Come in, wicked one," she said, holding out her hand to the girl, suddenly very shy. "This is Priscilla, everybody. This is Mrs. Crompton, this is The Parson, and this is—Peter."

"Last but not least—Peter," reiterated that gentleman, bowing.

"How do you do?" said Priscilla gravely.

"Mercy, Louise! why didn't you tell us she was a beauty? You've no right to spring it on us like this."

Mrs. Martin smiled down at the girl.

"Priscilla, Mrs. Crompton thinks you're a beauty," she said, in experiment.

"I'm afraid she's making fun of us, mother," the girl answered simply, and turned away.

"Pour yourself some tea, dear, and talk to Peter. But be careful—Peter's very young."

Priscilla obediently took her seat at the table and poured her tea.

"I hope you won't think me too young to be noticed, Miss Martin," said Peter, watching her.

"Are you so very young?" she asked, looking at him directly. "You don't look it."

He laughed. "Thanks—I'm not, really. But I live under that constant curse of eternal youth, due to pink cheeks and curly hair."

"Oh, I see."

"But in spite of it I'm a very nice sort of a chap, and I hope you'll like me."

"I hope so."

"Your mother and Mrs. Crompton will recommend me, I'm sure."

"What's that, Peter? I heard my name. What scandal are you telling that child about me?"

"Miss Martin, I appeal to you—was it a scandal?"

"It may be—he says you recommend him."

This shot was greeted with much laughter, and Mrs. Martin inspected her daughter with surprise. What a combination of naïveté and ease!

"Don't let him mislead you, my dear," Mrs. Crompton said; "he's a whited sepulcher, and there are people who think he uses rouge."

"I think poor Schuyler has been punished enough this afternoon," said The Parson, coming over to Priscilla.

"Poor Peterkin! Come over here and sit on my lap," said Mrs. Martin.

Peter and The Parson exchanged places.

"We're very glad to welcome you home, Miss Priscilla," said The Parson, in his genial way.

"Thank you, I'm glad to be home," she answered.

"I suppose it is quite a marked change from the schoolroom to such an atmosphere as this."

"Yes, it is, and I don't know what they're talking about at all; do you?"

He looked at her smilingly. "Not always. You see, their idea is to talk in such a manner as to hide what they really think, and you and I regard conversation as a means of expressing our thoughts."

"I suppose that's it. I hope I'll get used to it, but it makes me afraid just now."

"You needn't be. If the thoughts are worth revealing, I think our way is the best. What shall you do with yourself?"

"Mother is going to introduce me soon."

"Dear, dear! What a pity! Now, that's the old-fashioned part of me, and the new-fashioned part says: 'What a fine time you'll have.' But I always regret that that mother of yours wastes her brain on social frippery; but there—she's made Drake, and that will stand as her epitaph."