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III

"ONLY COUSIN NEVA"

Letty Morris—"Mrs. Joe"—was late for her Bohemian lunch. She called it Bohemian because she had asked a painter, a piano player and an actress, and was giving it in the restaurant of a studio building. As her auto rolled up to the curb, she saw at the entrance, just going away, a woman of whom her first thought was "What strange, fascinating eyes!" then, "Why, it's only Cousin Neva"; for, like most New Yorkers, she was exceedingly wary of out-of-town people, looking on them, with nothing to offer, as a waste of time and money. As it was, on one of those friendly impulses that are responsible for so much of the good, and so much of the evil, in this world, she cried, "Why, Genevieve Carlin! What are you doing here?" And she descended from her auto and rushed up to Neva.

"How d'ye do, Letty?" said Neva distantly. She had startled, had distinctly winced, at the sound of those affected accents and tones which the fashionable governesses and schools are rapidly making the natural language of "our set" and its fringes.

"Why haven't you let me know?" she reproached. As the words left her lips, up rose within herself an answer which she instantly assumed was the answer. The divorce, of course! She flushed with annoyance at her tactlessness. Her first sensation in thinking of divorce was always that it was scandalous, disgraceful, immoral, a stain upon the woman and her family; but quick upon that feeling, lingering remnant of discarded childhood training, always came the recollection that divorce was no longer unfashionable, was therefore no longer either immoral or disgraceful, was scandalous in a delightful, aristocratic way. "But," reflected she, "probably Neva still feels about that sort of thing as we all used to feel—at least, all the best people." She was confirmed in this view by her cousin's embarrassed expression. She hastened to her relief with "Joe and I talk of you often. Only the other day I started a note to you, asking you when you could visit us."

She did not believe, when Neva told the literal truth in replying: "I came to work. I thought I wouldn't disturb you."

"Disturb!" cried Mrs. Morris. "You are so queer. How long have you been here?"

"Several weeks. I—I've an apartment in this house."

"How delightful!" exclaimed Letty absently. She was herself again and was thinking rapidly. A new man, even from "the provinces," might be fitted in to advantage; but what could she do with another woman, one more where there were already too many for the men available for idling?

"You must let me see something of you," said she, calmer but still cordial. "You must come to dinner—Saturday night." That was Letty Morris's resting night—a brief and early dinner, early to bed for a sleep that would check the ravages of the New York season in a beauty that must be husbanded, since she had crossed the perilous line of thirty. "Yes—Saturday—at half-past seven. And here's one of my cards to remind you of the address. I must be going now. I'm horribly late." And with a handshake and brush of the lips on Neva's cheek, the small, brilliant, blonde cousin was gone.

"What a nuisance," she was saying to herself. "Why did I let myself be surprised into attracting her attention? Now, I'll have to do something for her—we're really under obligations to her father—I don't believe Joe has paid back the last of that loan yet. Well, I can use her occasionally to take Joe off my hands. She looks all right—really, it's amazing how she has improved in dress. She seems to know how to put on her clothes now. But she's too retiring to be dangerous. A woman who's presentable yet not dangerous is almost desirable, is as rare as an attractive man."

The delusion of our own importance is all but universal—and everywhere most happy; but for it, would not life's cynicism broaden from the half-hidden smirk into a disheartening sneer? Among fashionable people, narrow, and carefully educated only in class prejudice and pretentious ignorance, this delusion becomes an obsession. The whole hardworking, self-absorbed world is watching them—so they delight in imagining—is envying them, is imitating them. Letty assumed that Neva had kept away through awe, and that she would now take advantage of her politeness to cling to her and get about in society; as Mrs. Morris thought of nothing but society, she naturally felt that the whole world must be similarly occupied. She would have been astounded could she have seen into Neva's mind—seen the debate going on there as to how to entrench herself against annoyance from her cousin. "Shall I refuse her invitation?" thought Neva. "Or, is it better to go Saturday night, and have done with, since I must go to her house once?" She reluctantly decided for Saturday night. "And after that I can plead my work; and soon she'll forget all about me. It's ridiculous that people who wish to have nothing to do with each other should be forced by a stupid conventionality to irritate themselves and each other."

Saturday afternoon, each debated writing the other, postponing the engagement. Neva had a savage attack of the blues; at such times she shut herself in, certain she could not get from the outside the cheer she craved and too keen to be content with the cheer that would offer shallow, wordy sympathy, or, worse still, self-complacent pity. As for Letitia, she was quarreling with her husband—about money as usual. She was one of those doll-looking women who so often have serpentine craft and wills of steel. Morris adored her, after the habit of men with such women; she made him feel so big and strong and intellectually superior; and her childish, clinging ways were intoxicating, as she had great physical charm, she so cool and smooth and golden white and delicately perfumed. She always got her own way with everyone; usually her husband, her "master," yielded at the first onset. Once in a while—and this happened to be of those times—he held out for the pleasure of seeing her pout and weep and then, as he yielded, burst into a radiance like sunshine through summer rain. If she had had money of her own he might have got a sudden and even shocking insight into the internal machinery of that doll's head; as it was, his delusion about the relative intelligence and strength of himself and his Letty was intact.

Mrs. Joe did not share his enthusiasm for these "love-tilts"; she did not mind employing the "doll game" in her dealings with the world, but she would have liked to be her real self at home. This, however, was impossible if she was to get the largest results in the quickest and easiest way. So she wearily played on at the farce, and at times grew heartsick with envy of the comparatively few independent—which means financially independent—women of her set, and disliked her Joe when she was forced to think about him distinctly, which was not often. In marriages where the spirit has shriveled and died within the letter, habit soon hardens a wife to an amazing degree toward practical unconsciousness of the existence of her husband, even though he be uxorious. Letty's married life bored her; but she had no more sense of degradation in thus making herself a pander, and for hire, than had her husband, at the same business downtown. She saw so many of the "very best" women doing just as she did, using each the fittest form of cajolery and cozening to wheedle money for extravagances out of their husbands, that it seemed as much the proper and reputable thing as going to bullfights seems to Spaniards, or watching wild beasts devour men, women, and children seemed to the "very best" people of imperial Rome. For the same reason, her husband did not linger upon the real meaning of the phrase "legal adviser" whereunder the business of himself and his brother lawyers was so snugly and smugly masked—the business of helping respectable scoundrels glut bestial appetites for other people's property without fear of jail.

The quarrel had so far advanced that Saturday night was the logical time for the climax in sentimental reconciliation. However, Mrs. Morris decided to endure a twenty-four hours' delay and "get Neva over with." She repented the instant Neva appeared. "I had no idea she could be so good looking," thought she, in a panic at the prospect of rivalry, with desirable available men wofully scarce. She swept Neva with a searching, hostile glance. "She's really almost beautiful."

And, in fact, never before was Neva so good looking. Vanity is an air plant not at all dependent upon roots in realities for nourishment and growth. Thus, she, born with rather less than the normal physical vanity, had been unaffected by the charms she could not but have seen had she looked at herself with vanity's sprightly optimism. Nor was there any encouragement in the atmosphere of old-fashioned Battle Field, where the best people were still steeped in medieval disdain of "foolishness" and regarded the modern passion for the joy of life as sinful. Also, she was without that aggressive instinct to please by physical charm which even circumvents the regulations of a chapter of cloistered nuns.

Until she came to New York, she had given her personal appearance no attention whatever, beyond instinctively trying to be as unobtrusive as possible; and even in New York her concessions to what she regarded as waste of time were really not concessions at all, were merely the result of exercising in the most indifferent fashion her natural good taste, in choosing the best from New York's infinite variety as she had chosen the best from Battle Field's meager and commonplace stocks of goods for women. The dress she was wearing that evening was not especially grand, seemed quakerishly high in the neck in comparison with Letty's; for Letty had a good back and was not one to conceal a charm which it was permissible to display. But Neva, in soft silver-gray; with her hair, bright, yet neither gold nor red, but all the shades between, framing her long oval face in a pompadour that merged gracefully into a simple knot at the back of her small head; with her regular features shown to that advantage which regular features have only when shoulders and neck are bared; and with her complexion cleared of all sallowness and restored to its natural smooth pallor by the healthful air and life of New York—Neva, thus recreated, was more than distinguished looking, was beautiful. "Who'd have thought it?" reflected Letty crossly. "What a difference clothes do make!" But Neva was slender—"thin, painfully thin," thought Mrs. Morris, with swiftly recovering spirits. She herself was plump and therefore thought "scrawniness" hideous, though often, to draw attention to her rounded charms, she wailed piteously that she was getting "disgracefully fat."

Neither of the men—her husband and Boris Raphael, the painter—shared her poor opinion of Neva after the first glance. Morris did not care for thin women, but he thought Neva had a certain beauty—not the kind he admired, but a kind, nevertheless. Boris studied the young woman with an expression that made Mrs. Joe redden with jealousy. "You think my cousin pretty?" said she to him, as they went down to dinner far enough ahead of Neva and Morris to be able to talk freely.

"More than that," replied Boris, "I think her unusual."

"If you ever chance to see her in ordinary dress, you'll change your mind, I'm sorry to say," said Letty softly. "Poor Neva! Hers is a sad case. She's one of the ought-to-bes-but-aren'ts."

"It's my business to see things as they are," was the painter's exasperating reply. "And I'd not in any circumstances be blind to such a marvelous study in long lines as she."

"Marvelous!" Mrs. Morris laughed.

"Long face, long neck, long bust, long waist, long legs, long hands and feet," explained he. "It's the kind of beauty that has to be pointed out to ordinary eyes before they see it. I can imagine her passing for homely in a rude community, just as her expression of calm might pass for coldness."

Mrs. Morris revised her opinion of Boris. She had thought him a most tactful person; she knew the truth now. A man who would praise one woman to another could never be called tactful; to praise enthusiastically was worse than tactless, it was boorish. "How impossible it is," thought she, "for a man of low origin to rise wholly above it." She said, "I'm delighted that my cousin pleases you," as coldly as she could speak to a man after whom everyone was running.

"I must paint her," he said, noting Letty's anger, but indifferent to it. "If I succeed, everyone will see what I see. If that woman were to love and be loved, her face would become—divine! Divinely human, I mean—for she's flesh and blood. The fire's there—laid and ready for the match."

When he and Morris were alone after dinner he began on Neva again, unaffected by her seeming incapacity to respond to his efforts to interest her. "I could scarcely talk for watching her," he said. "She puzzles me. I should not have believed a girl—an unmarried woman—could have such an expression."

"She's not a girl," explained Morris. "She has taken her maiden name again. She was Mrs. Armstrong—was married until last summer to the chap that was made president of the O.A.D. last October."

"Never heard of him," said the artist.

"That shows how little you know about what's going on downtown. When Galloway died—you've heard of Galloway?"

"I painted him—an old eagle—or vulture."

"We'll say eagle, as he's dead. When he died, there was a split in the O.A.D., which he had dominated and used for years—and mighty little he let old Shotwell have, I understand, in return for doing the dirty work. Well, Fosdick finally cooked up that investigation, frightened everybody into fits, won out, beat down the Galloway crowd, threw out Shotwell and put in this young Western fellow."

"What is the O.A.D.?"

"You must have seen the building, the advertisements everywhere—knight in armor beating off specters of want. It's an insurance company."

"I thought insurance companies were to insure people."

"Not at all," replied Morris. "That's what people think they're for—just as they think steel companies are to make steel, and coal companies to mine coal, and railway companies to carry freight and passengers. But all that, my dear fellow, is simply incidental. They're really to mass big sums of money for our great financiers to scramble for."

"How interesting," said Raphael in an uninterested tone. "Some time I must try to learn about those things. Then your cousin has divorced her husband? That's the tragedy I saw in her face."

"Tragedy!" Morris laughed outright. "There you go again, Boris. You're always turning your imagination loose."

"To explore the mysteries my eyes find, my dear Joe," said Boris, unruffled. "You people—the great mass of the human race—go through the world blindfold—blindfolded by ignorance, by prejudice, by letting your stupid brain tell your eyes what they are seeing instead of letting your eyes tell your brain."

"I never heard there was much to Neva Carlin."

"Naturally," replied Boris. "Not all the people who have individuality, personality, mind and heart, beat a drum and march in the middle of the street to inform the world of the fact. As for emotions—real emotions—they don't shriek and weep; they hide and are dumb. I, who let my eyes see for themselves, look at this woman and see beauty barefoot on the hot plowshares. And you—do not look and, therefore, see nothing."

Morris made no reply, but his expression showed he was only silenced, not convinced. He knew his old friend Boris was a great painter—the prices he got for his portraits proved it; and the portraits themselves were certainly interesting, had the air that irradiates from every work of genius, whether one likes or appreciates the work or not. He knew that the basis of Raphael's genius was in his marvelous sight—"simply seeing where others will not" was Boris's own description of his gift. Yet when Boris reported to him what he saw, he was incredulous. "An artist's wild imagination," he said to himself. In the world of the blind, the dim-eyed man is king, not the seeing man; the seeing man—the "seer"—passes for mad, and the blind follow those with not enough sight to rouse the distrust of their flock.

When the painter returned to the drawing-room Neva was gone. As his sight did not fail him when he watched the motions of his bright, blond little friend, Mrs. Joe, he suspected her of having had a hand in Neva's early departure. And she thought she had herself. But, in fact, Neva left because she was too shy to face again the man whose work she had so long reverenced. She knew she ought to treat him as an ordinary human being, but she could not; and she yielded to the impulse to fly.

"You must take me to sec your cousin," said he, his chagrin plain.

"Whenever you like," agreed Letty, with that elaborate graciousness which raises a suspicion of insincerity in the most innocent mind.

"Thank you," said Boris. And to her surprise and relief he halted there, without attempting to pin her down to day and hour. "He asked simply to be polite," decided she, "and perhaps to irritate me a little. He's full of those feminine tricks."

IV

THE FOSDICK FAMILY

In each of America's great cities, East, West, South, Far West, a cliff of marble glistening down upon the thoroughfare where the most thousands would see it daily; armies of missionaries, so Fosdick liked to call them, moving everywhere among the people; other armies of officers and clerks, housed in the clifflike palaces and garnering the golden harvests reaped by the missionaries—such was the scene upon which Horace Armstrong looked out from his aerie in the vastest of the palaces o£ the O.A.D. And it inspired him.

Institutions, like individuals, have a magnetism, a power to attract and to hold, that is quite apart from any analyzable quality or characteristic. Armstrong had grown up in the O.A.D., had preached it as he rose in its service until he had preached belief in it into himself—a belief that was unshaken by the series of damning exposures of its Wall Street owners and users, and had survived his own discoveries, as the increasing importance of his successive positions had forced the "inside ring" to let him deeper and deeper into the secrets. He had not been long in the presidency before he saw that the whole system for gathering in more and more policy holders, however beneficent incidental results might be, had as its sole purpose the drawing of more and more money within reach of greedy, unclean hands. The fact lay upon the surface of the O.A.D. as plain as a great green serpent sprawled upon the ooze of a marsh. Why else would these multimillionaire money hunters interest themselves in insurance? And not a day passed without his having to condemn and deplore—in his own mind—acts of the Fosdick clique. But morals are to a great extent a matter of period and class; Armstrong, busy, unanalytic, "up-to-date" man of affairs, accepted without much question the current moral standards of and for the man of affairs. And when he saw the inside ring "going too far," here and there, now and then, he no more thought of denouncing it and abandoning his career than a preacher would think of resigning a bishopric because he found that his fellow bishops had not been made more than human by the laying on of hands.

Where he could, Armstrong ignored; where he could not ignore—he told himself that the end excused the means.

The busy days fled. He had the feeling of being caught in a revolving door that took him from bedtime to bedtime again without letting him out to accomplish anything; and he was soon so well accommodated to the atmosphere of high finance that he was breathing it with almost no sensation of strangeness. When old Shotwell died—of "heart failure"—Armstrong took out the undelivered speech.

The day after the "testimonial," he had decided that to read that speech would be dangerously near to the line between honor and dishonor; besides, it probably contained many things which, whether true or prejudiced, might affect his peace of mind, might inflict upon his conscience unnecessary discomforts. A wise man is careful not to admit to his valuable brain space matters which do not help him in the accomplishment of his purposes. Should he mail the manuscript to Shotwell? No. That might tempt the old man to a course of folly and disaster. Armstrong hid the "stick of dynamite" among his private papers. But now, Shotwell was dead; and—well, he still believed in the O.A.D.—in the main; but many things had happened in the months since he came on from the West, many and disquieting things. He felt that he owed it to himself, and to the O.A.D., to gather from any and every source information about the Fosdick ring. He unfolded the manuscript, spread it before him on the desk.

Eleven typewritten pages, setting forth in detail how Fosdick had slyly lured Shotwell into committing, apparently alone, certain "indiscretions" for which there happened to be legal penalties of one to ten years in the penitentiary at hard labor; how Shotwell, thus isolated, was trapped—though, as he proceeded to show, he had done nothing morally or legally worse than all the others had done, the Fosdick faction being careful to entangle in each misdeed enough of the Galloway faction to make itself secure. And all the offenses were those "mere technicalities" which high finance permits the law to condemn only because they, when committed in lower circles, cease to be justifiable exceptions to the rule and become those "grave infractions of social order and of property rights" which Chamber of Commerce dinners and bar associations of corporation lawyers so strenuously lecture the people about. And so, Shotwell had fallen.

Armstrong read the document four times—the first time, at a gallop; the second time, line by line; the third time, with a long, thoughtful pause after each paragraph; the fourth time, line by line again, with one hand supporting his brow while the index finger of the other traced under each separate word. Then he leaned back and gazed from peak to peak of the skyscrapers, stretching range on range toward harbor and river. He was not thinking now of the wrongs, the crimes against that mass of policy holders, so remote, so abstract. He was listening to a different, a more terrible sound than the vague wail of that vague mass; he was hearing the ticking of a death-watch. For he had discovered that Fosdick had him trapped in just the same way.

As a precaution? Or with the time of his downfall definitely fixed?

Armstrong began to pace the limits of his big private room. For a turn or so it surprised him to find that he could move freely about; for, with the thought that he was in another man's power, had come a physical sensation of actual chains and bolts and bars, of dungeon walls and dungeon air. In another man's power! In Fosdick's power! He, Horace Armstrong, proud, intensely alive and passionately fond of freedom, with inflexible ambition set upon being the master of men—he, a slave, dependent for his place, for his authority, for his very reputation. Dependent on the nod of a fellow man. He straightened himself, shook himself; he clenched his fists and his teeth until the powerful muscles of his arms and shoulders and jaws swelled to aching, until the blood beat in his skin like flame against furnace wall.

The door opened; he saw as he was turning that it was Josiah Fosdick; he wheeled back toward the window because he knew that if he should find himself full face to this master of his before he got self-control, he would spring at him and sink his fingers in his throat and wring the life out of him. The will to kill! To feel that creature under him, under his knees and fingers; to see eyes and tongue burst out; to know that the brain that dared conceive the thought of making a slave of him was dead for its insolence!

"Good morning, my boy!" Josiah was saying in that sonorous, cheery voice of his. He always wore his square-crowned hard hat or his top hat well back from his brow when he was under roof downtown; and he was always nervously chewing at a cigar, which sometimes was lighted and sometimes not. Just now it was not lighted and the odor of it was to Armstrong the sickening stench of the personality of his master.

"My master!" he muttered, and wiped the sweat from his forehead; with eyes down and the look of the lion cringing before the hot iron in its tamer's hand he muttered a response.

"I want you to put my son Hugo in as one of the fourth vice-presidents," continued the old man, seating himself and cocking his trim feet on a corner of the table. "He must be broken to the business, and I've told him he's got to start at the bottom of the ladder."

Armstrong contrived to force a smile at this ironic pleasantry of his master's. He instantly saw Josiah's scheme—to have the young man inducted into the business; presently to give him the dignity and honor of the presidency, ejecting Armstrong, perhaps in discredit to justify the change and to make it impossible for him to build up in another company.

"You'll do what you can to teach him the ropes?"

"Certainly," said Armstrong, at the window.

Fosdick came up close to him, put his hand affectionately on his shoulder. "You've grown into my heart, Horace. I feel as if you were another son of mine, as if Hugo were your younger brother. I want you to regard him as such. I'm old; I'll soon be off the boards. I like to think of you two young fellows working together in harmony. It may be that——"

Armstrong had himself well within the harness now. He looked calmly at Fosdick and saw a twinkle in those good-natured, wicked eyes of his, a warning that he had guessed Armstrong's suspicion and was about to counter with something he flattered himself was particularly shrewd.

"It may be I'll want your present place for the boy, after a few years. Perhaps it will be better not to put him there; again it may be a good thing. If I decide to do it, you'll have a better place—something where there'll be an even bigger swing for your talents. I'll see to that. I charge myself with your future."

Armstrong turned away, bringing his jaws together with a snap.

"You trust me, don't you?" said Fosdick, not quite certain that Armstrong had turned to hide an overmastering emotion of gratitude.

"I'd advise against making Hugo a vice-president just at present," said Armstrong.

"Why?" demanded Fosdick with a frown.

"I think such a step wouldn't be wise until after this new policy holders' committee has quieted down."

Fosdick laughed and waved his arm. "Those smelling committees! My boy, I'm used to them. Every big corporation has one or more of 'em on hand all the time. The little fellows are always getting jealous of the men who control, are always trying to scare them into paying larger interest—for that's what it amounts to. We men who run things practically borrow the public's money for use in our enterprises. You can call it stocks or bonds or mortgages or what not, but they're really lenders, though they think they're shareholders and expect bigger interest than mere money is worth. But we don't and won't give much above the market rate. We keep the rest of the profits—we're entitled to 'em. We'd play hob, wouldn't we, lying awake of nights thinking out schemes to enable John Jones and Tom Smith to earn thirty, forty, fifty per cent on their money?"

"But this committee—" There Armstrong halted, hesitating.

"Don't fret about it, young man. The chances are it'll quiet down of itself. If it doesn't, if it should have in it some sturdy beggar who persists, why, we'll hear from him sooner or later. When we get his figure, we can quiet him—put him on the pay roll or give him a whack at our appropriation for legal expenses."

"But this committee—" Armstrong stopped short—why should he warn Fosdick? Why go out of his way to be square with the man who had enslaved him? Had he not done his whole duty when he had refused to listen to the overtures of the new combination against Fosdick? Indeed, was it more than a mere suspicion that such a combination existed?

"This committee—what?"

"You feel perfectly safe about it?"

"It couldn't find out anything, if there was anything to find out. And if it did find out anything, what'd it do with it? No newspaper would publish it—our advertising department takes care of that. The State Government wouldn't notice it—our legal department takes care of them."

"Sometimes there's a slip-up. A few years ago——"

"Yes," interrupted Fosdick; "it's true, once in a while there's a big enough howl to frighten a few weak brothers. But not Josiah Fosdick, and not the O.A.D. We keep books better than we did before the big clean-up. A lot of good those clean-ups did! As if anybody could get up any scheme that would prevent the men with brains from running things as they damn please."

"You're right there," said Armstrong. He had thought out the beginnings of a new course. "Well, if you put Hugo in, I suggest you give him my place as chairman of the finance committee. My strong hold is executive work. Let those that know finance attend to taking care of the money. I want to devote myself exclusively to getting it in."

Armstrong saw this suggestion raised not the shadow of a suspicion in Fosdick's mind that he was trying to get rid of his share in the responsibility for the main part of the "technically illegal" doings of the controllers of the company. "You simply to retain your ex officio membership?" said he reflectively.

"That's it," assented Armstrong.

"If you urge it, I'll see that it is considered. Your time ought all to be given to raking in new business and holding on to the old. Yes, it's a good suggestion. Of course, I'll see that you get your share of the profits from our little side deals, just the same."

"Thank you," said Armstrong. He concealed his amusement. In the company there were rings within rings, and the profits increased as the center was approached. He knew that he himself had been put in a ring well toward the outside. His profits were larger than his salary, large though it was; but they were trifling in comparison with the "melons" reserved for the inner rings, were infinitesimal beside the big melon Josiah reserved for himself, as his own share in addition to a share in each ring's "rake off." The only ring Josiah didn't put himself in was the outermost ring of all—the ring of policy holders. There was another feature in which insurance surpassed railways and industrials. In them the controller sometimes had to lock up a large part of his own personal resources in carrying blocks of stock that paid a paltry four or five or six per cent interest, never more than seven or eight, often nothing at all. But in insurance, the controller played his game wholly with other people's money. Josiah, for instance, carried a policy of ten thousand dollars, and that was the full extent of his investment; he held his power over the millions of the masses simply because the proxies of the policy holders were made out in blank to his creatures, the general agents, whom he made and, at the slightest sign of flagging personal loyalty, deposed.

Fosdick was still emitting compliment and promise like a giant pinwheel's glittering shower when the boy brought Armstrong a card. He controlled his face better than he thought. "Your daughter," he said to Fosdick, carelessly showing him the card. "I suppose she's downtown to see you, and they told her you were in my office."

"Amy!" exclaimed Fosdick, forgetting his manners and snatching the card. "What the devil does she want downtown? I'll just see—it must be important."

He hurried out. In the second of Armstrong's suite of three offices, he saw her, seated comfortably—a fine exhibit of fashion, and not so unmindful of the impression her elegance was making upon the furtively glancing underlings as she seemed or imagined herself. At sight of her father she colored, then tossed her head defiantly. "What is it?" he demanded, with some anxiety. "What has brought you downtown to see me?"

"I didn't come to see you," she replied. "I sent my card to Mr. Armstrong."

"Well, what do you want of him?" said Josiah, regardless of the presence of Armstrong's three secretaries.

"I'll explain that to him."

"You'll do nothing of the sort. I can't have my children interrupting busy men. Come along with me."

"I came to see Mr. Armstrong, and I'm going to see him," she retorted imperiously.

Her father changed his tactics like the veteran strategist that he was. "All right, all right. Come in. Only, we're not going to stay long.

"I don't want you," she said, laughing. "I want him to show me over the building."

"Lord bless my soul!" exclaimed Fosdick, winking at the three smiling secretaries. "And he the president! Did anybody ever hear the like!" And he took her by the arm and led her in, saying as they came, "This young lady, finding time heavy on her hands uptown, has come to get you to show her over the building."

Armstrong had risen to bow coldly. "I'm sorry, but I really haven't time to-day," said he formally.

Fosdick's brow reddened and his eyes flashed. He had not expected Armstrong to offer to act as his daughter's guide; but neither had he expected this tone from an employee. "Don't be so serious, young man," said he, roughness putting on the manner of good nature. "Take my daughter round and bring her to my office when you are through."

To give Armstrong time and the opportunity to extricate himself from the impossible position into which he had rushed, Amy said, "What grand, beautiful offices these are! No wonder the men prefer it downtown to the fussy, freaky houses the women get together uptown. I haven't been here since the building was opened. Papa made a great ceremony of that, and we all came—I was nine. Now, Mr. Armstrong, you can count up, if you're depraved enough, and know exactly how old I am."

Armstrong had taken up his hat. "Whenever you're ready, we'll start," said he, having concluded that it would be impossible to refuse without seeming ridiculous.

When the two were in the elevator on their way to the view from the top of the building, Amy glanced mischievously up at him. "You see, I got my way," said she. "I always do."

Armstrong shrugged and smiled stolidly. "In trifles. Willful people are always winning—in trifles."

"Trifles are all that women deal in," rejoined she.

At the top, she sent one swift glance round the overwhelming panorama of peak and precipice and canon swept by icy January wind and ran back to the tower, drawing her furs still closer about her. "I didn't come to see this," she said. "I came to find out why you don't—why you have cut me off your visiting list. I've written you—I've tried to get you on the telephone. Never did I humiliate myself so abjectly—in fact, never before was I abject at all. It isn't like you, to be as good friends as you and I have been, and then, all at once, to act like this—unless there was a reason. I haven't many friends. I haven't any I like so well as you—that's frank, isn't it? I thought we were going to be such friends." This nervously, with an air of timidity that was the thin cover of perfect self-possession and self-confidence.

"So did I," said Armstrong, his eyes on hers with a steadiness she could not withstand, "until I got at your notion of friendship. You can have dogs and servants, hangers-on, but not friends."

"What did I do?" she asked innocently. "Gracious, how touchy you are."

In his eyes there was an amused refusal to accept her pretense. "You understand. Don't 'fake' with me. I'm too old a bird for that snare."

"If I did anything to offend you, it was unconscious."

"Perhaps it was—at the time. You've got the habit of ordering people about, of having everybody do just what you wish. But, in thinking things over, didn't you guess what discouraged me?"

She decided to admit what could not be denied. "Yes—I did," said she. "And that is why I've come to you. I forgot, and treated you like the others. I did it several times, and disregarded the danger signals you flew. Let's begin once more—will you?"

"Certainly," said Armstrong, but without enthusiasm.

"You aren't forgiving me," she exclaimed. "Or—was there—something else?"

His eyes shifted and he retreated a step. "You mustn't expect much from me, you know," said he, looking huge and unapproachable. "All my time is taken up with business. You've no real use for a man like me. What you want is somebody to idle about with you."

"That's just what I don't want," she cried, gazing admiringly up at him. And she was sad and reproachful as she pleaded. "You oughtn't to desert me. I know I can't do much for you, but— You found me idle and oh, so bored. Why, I used to spend hours in trying to think of trivial ways to pass the time. I'd run to see pictures I didn't in the least care about, and linger at the dressmakers' and the milliners' shops and the jewelers'. I'd dress myself as slowly as possible. You can't imagine—you who have to fight against being overwhelmed with things to do. You can't conceive what a time the women in our station have. And one suggestion you made—that I study architecture and fit myself to help in building our house—it changed my whole life."

"It was the obvious thing to do," said he, and she saw he was not in the least flattered by her flattery which she had thought would be irresistible.

"You forget," replied she, "that we women of the upper class are brought up not to put out our minds on anything for very long, but to fly from one thing to another. I'd never have had the persistence to keep at architecture until the hard part of the reading was finished. I'd have bought a lot of books, glanced at the pictures, read a few pages and then dropped the whole business. And it was really through you that I got father to introduce me to Narcisse Siersdorf. I've grown so fond of her! Why is it the women out West, out where you come from, are so much more capable than we are?"

"Because they're educated in much the same way as the men," replied he. "Also, I suppose the men out there aren't rich enough yet to tempt the women to become—odalisques. Here, every one of you is either an odalisque or trying to get hold of some man with money enough to make her one."

"What is an odalisque? It's some kind of a woman, isn't it?"

"Well—it's of that sex."

"You think I'm very worthless, don't you?"

"To a man like me. For a man with time for what they call the ornamental side of life, you'd be—just right."

"Was that why—the real reason why—you stopped coming?"

"Yes."

He was looking at her, she at the floor, gathering her courage to make a reply which instinct forbade and vanity and desire urged. Hugo's head appeared in the hatchway entrance to the tower room. As she was facing it, she saw him immediately. "Hello, brother," she cried, irritation in her voice.

He did not answer until he had emerged into the room. Then he said with great dignity, "Amy, father wants you. Come with me." This without a glance at Armstrong.

"Would you believe he is three years younger than I?" said she to Armstrong with a laugh. "Run along, Hugo, and tell papa we're coming."

Hugo turned on Armstrong. "Will you kindly descend?" he ordered, with the hauteur of a prince in a novel or play.

"Do as your sister bids, Hugo," said Armstrong, with a carelessness that bordered on contempt. He was in no very good humor with the Fosdick family and Hugo's impudence pushed him dangerously near to the line where a self-respecting man casts aside politeness and prudence.

Hugo drew himself up and stared coldly at the "employee." "You will please not address me as Hugo."

"What then?" said Armstrong, with no overt intent to offend. "Shall I whistle when I want you, or snap my fingers?"

Amy increased Hugo's fury by laughing at him. "You'd better behave, Hugo," she said. "Come along." And she pushed him, less reluctant than he seemed, toward the stairway.

The three descended in the elevator together, Amy talking incessantly, Armstrong tranquil, Hugo sullen. At the seventeenth floor, Armstrong had the elevator stopped. "Good-by," he said to Amy, without offering to shake hands.

"Good-by," responded she, extending her hand, insistently. "Remember, we are friends again."

With a slight noncommittal smile, he touched her gloved fingers and went his way.

There was no one in Fosdick's private room; so, Hugo was free to ease his mind. "What do you mean by coming down here and making a scandal?" he burst out. "It was bad enough for you to encourage the fellow's attentions uptown—to flirt with him. You—flirting with one of your father's employees!"

Amy's eyes sparkled angrily. "Horace Armstrong is my best friend," she said. "You must be careful what you say to me about him."

"The next thing, you'll be boasting you're in love with him," sneered her brother.

"I might do worse," retorted she. "I could hardly do better."

"What's the matter, children?" cried their father, entering suddenly by a door which had been ajar, and by which they had not expected him.

"Hugo has been making a fool of himself before Armstrong," said Amy. "Why did you send him after me?"

"I?" replied Fosdick. "I simply told him where you were."

"But I suspected," said Hugo. "And, sure enough, I found her flirting with him. I stopped it—that's all."

Fosdick laughed boisterously—an unnatural laugh, Amy thought. "Do light your cigar, father," she said irritably. "It smells horrid."

Fosdick threw it away. "Horace is a mighty attractive fellow," he said. "I don't blame you, Mimi." Then, with good-humored seriousness, "But you must be careful, girl, not to raise false hopes in him. Be friendly, but don't place yourself in an unpleasant position. You oughtn't to let him lose sight of the—the gulf between you."

"What gulf?"

"You know perfectly well he's not in our class," exclaimed Hugo, helping out his somewhat embarrassed father.

"What is our class?" inquired Amy in her most perverse mood.

"Shut up, Hugo!" commanded his father. "She understands."

"But I do not," protested Amy.

"Very well," replied her father, kissing her. "Be careful—that's all. Now, I'll put you in your carriage." On the way he said gravely, tenderly, "I'll trust you with a secret—a part of one. I know Armstrong better than you do. He's an adventurer, and I fear he has got into serious trouble, very serious. Keep this to yourself, Mimi. Trust your father's judgment—at least, for a few months. Be most polite to our fascinating friend, but keep him at a safe distance."

Fosdick could be wonderfully moving and impressive when he set himself to it; and he knew when to stop as well as what to say. Amy made no reply; in silence she let him tuck the robe about her and start her homeward.