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MRS. GILBERT was a highly strung, sensitive woman. She was frail and she had suffered from more than the average number of physical ills; it is quite likely that her life with Henry Gilbert would have made her an invalid had it not been for a considerable reserve supply of nervous force. During the past year, however, she had failed perceptibly, not so much in appearance as in spirit. She had always been sunny, gay, possessed of a thousand charming, birdlike ways that were a delight to her daughter, but of late she had suffered periods of intense depression and the latter was frankly worried over her. On occasion she was irritable; again she was moody and manifested reasonless likes and dislikes to people and to things; several times she had become hysterical over nothing. The family physician assured Edith that the metamorphosis through which the elder woman was going was quite natural and need cause no serious apprehensions, and that about all anyone could do was to help banish the “blue” spells and to treat her with the utmost tenderness and consideration.

One of these black periods of depression followed her scene with her husband; she suffered from some repressed excitement; more than once she protested wildly that Edith must never leave her. Gradually, from words dropped now and then, the girl learned pretty accurately what had brought on this condition, and naturally she was aghast. She was offended at her father’s criticism of her own conduct, but this feeling was lost in indignation over his proposal to send her away. It seemed incredible that any man could be so thoughtless or so unfeeling as to harrow the sensibilities of a woman in her mother’s nervous condition by even suggesting such a thing. She said as much. Mrs. Gilbert neither admitted nor denied that her husband had made that proposal, but she did say:

“Your father is a fortunate man—he has never suffered.”

“He’d be the last one to acknowledge that,” Edith protested. “Why, Mims dear, he’s in constant anguish at the wickedness all around him.”

“He hasn’t a nerve. He never had a sick day. How can he feel sympathy—?”

“I know. And he’s never had a moral ache, or a pain in his conscience, either.”

“Everything was made to order for him. He was never lost, bewildered; his road was always straight and smooth. The only impulsive thing he ever did was to marry me, and I’m quite sure he often regrets it.”

“Nonsense! Why, that would indicate that he was made of common mortal clay. He’s too perfectly well satisfied with himself to regret anything he ever did. The fact that he did it proves that it was right.”

“You’re bitter, my dear.”

“Yes, bitter! I used to admire him. I was proud of him. I’m old enough now to think for myself and I’m finding it harder every day even to respect him.”

“Edith!”

“Oh, I’m truthful with you! Selfishness is the most despicable sin there is and he’s thoroughly selfish. Not in money matters, of course, but in important things. Some people may be selfish in the small, material things and still be generous in the big ones that really count. I—I wish he were a broad, tolerant, weak, impulsive, affectionate, bad man. I’d adore him.”

Mrs. Gilbert was surprised one day when her husband announced that he was leaving that afternoon for New York.

“Will you be back in time for Edith’s birthday?” she inquired.

“When is it?”

“The fifteenth.”

“Yes, yes! Of course. But the fifteenth—” Gilbert consulted a pocket date book. “That’s the last day of the convention of the State Betterment League. I’m afraid I’ll have to be in Owensburg; we have some important reform measures coming up.”

“Can’t you get back for the party?”

“Party? To be sure, you’re giving her a party. I’m afraid not. However”—the speaker smiled acidly—”I dare say my absence will not prove to be an unrelieved misfortune. The young people Edith associates with will hardly miss me.”

Wistfully the wife said: “You could make them miss you, Henry. They’re nice youngsters and we’ve seen most of them grow up. They’re a little bit afraid of you, that’s all.”

“Conscience makes cowards of us all.”

“I’m sorry you are going to be away. I won’t be here for many more of Edith’s birthdays.”

Gilbert glanced sharply at his wife. “Why do you feel that way?”

The woman shrugged and smiled faintly. “I don’t know. Imagination; a premonition perhaps.”

“Imagination, no doubt. Make it a nice party. See that everything is well done. I can’t afford to have Edith’s parties look cheap.”

He left without kissing her.

On his way to the office that morning Gilbert did an impulsive thing: he stopped in at a florist’s, bought an expensive box of roses, and had it sent to Miss Galloway. In the box he enclosed a brief note. It was the first time he had ever done anything of the sort and later he asked himself what had prompted him today. It was years since he had bought flowers for anything except a funeral. But it was a graceful thing to do, and he had felt impelled to tell her that he was going away. He hoped she would not consider him forward.

Evidently she did not, for she phoned him promptly; she was effusive in her thanks. She was, in fact, quite flustered.

“Do you like them?” he inquired in a warm voice.

Of course Miss Galloway liked them, but what completely overwhelmed her was to realize that he had thought of her, had thought to tell her good-by. One thing only could have added to her pleasure; if he himself had brought the flowers.

“What an amiable speech,” Gilbert purred. “Didn’t I say you were spoiling me with flattery? Do you know, Belle, those are the first flowers I’ve sent to a woman in—I don’t know how long. I feel quite self-conscious.”

There was a pause, then she said: “I wish you could see how cheerful they make my rooms. You’ve—never been here, have you?”

“No.”

“I— It would be lovely if you would drop in some afternoon. I have so many things to talk about. I need your advice so badly. My place is very simple, of course, and I have no callers. Advice about our work, I mean. We could have a cup of tea. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind the simple way I live.” The speaker laughed without reason and Gilbert realized that she was quite agitated. This, and the fact that a mile or more of copper wire separated them, induced him to say, promptly:

“You have only to ask me. A cup of tea from your hands, and a cozy chat! I’m enchanted at the prospect.”

So much can be conveyed by a tone.

“I was thinking—this afternoon—your train doesn’t leave until five thirty.”

“Splendid! I’ll stop by about four, if that is convenient.” Gilbert experienced a moment of trepidation, a panicky feeling of guilt, when he hung up. This he dismissed. Belle Galloway was in the habit of calling upon him whenever it became necessary for them to see each other. Why should he feel as if he were doing something clandestine in going to see her? Absurd. It was merely because he had never done it before. As if there could be anything between them, beyond sincere respect and mutual admiration! Why, she was the most rigidly decorous young woman he had ever known. . . . He smiled as he recalled her agitation when she invited him; no wonder she had faltered, for she was an obscure person and he was the biggest man in Hopewell. Knowing her as he did, he suspected that he would be about the first masculine caller she had ever entertained. . . . Her “plumed knight!” There was a pretty sentiment about that. . . . To have discovered that Belle Galloway was at heart sentimental was indeed a tribute to his shrewdness.

In spite of the anticipation with which he had looked forward to four o’clock, the hour he spent in Miss Galloway’s little flat turned out to be intensely uncomfortable. Uncomfortable for both him and her. He could not entirely shake off a feeling of impropriety and he had to talk over it, to smother it with words. As a result he babbled. He was beautifully at ease; his voice was unctuous; his laughter was low and mellow; nevertheless, there were times when he experienced difficulty in co-ordinating his thoughts and his tongue and he talked as incoherently as a parrot.

As for the woman, she was in a painful flutter. At one moment she was pale and silent, at the next she was flushed and garrulous. She hung upon his every word with flattering deference; an absorbed, unblinking interest that merely masked a complete mental turmoil. For all she knew he might have been talking Volapuk. She was intensely aware of him, but conscious only of herself; and had a sudden knock come at the door she probably would have smothered a scream. Her impulse would have been to hide him in a closet.

They talked about the Lord’s Day League and the effect of Sunday golf; juvenile delinquency; corruption in public office, and the campaign for funds for the new Anti-nicotine Society. It was all wretchedly stupid and impersonal, but it left both of them profoundly stirred and intensely excited.

* * * * * * * * *

Arriving in New York, Henry Gilbert made an appointment with the head of a well-known detective agency and when they met outlined a proposal to him that caused the latter to shake his head doubtfully and say:

“That’s a pretty tough job. How do you expect us to go back twenty years and dig up anything against a woman?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I have no acquaintance with this line of work, but I assumed you detectives could do the impossible. Especially if the—er—inducements were sufficient.” The manager shot a quick glance at his caller, but the latter went on, “Perhaps that comes from reading detective stories in my youth. I’ve had no actual experience, outside of certain investigations made necessary by our local reform movements and—”

“I don’t say it’s impossible, but why go back so far? Why not look into her recent life?”

“That would be useless. She has conducted herself with rigorous propriety. She is very well thought of, quite respectable, I assure you.”

“Then why be a grave-robber? If she has run straight for twenty years, the old stuff is outlawed anyhow.” These words were spoken with some heat. “It’s not my business to ask what yours is, but the thing doesn’t look kosher. It sounds too much like spite work or—blackmail. We leave that sort of thing to our competitors.”

Mr. Gilbert was shocked, pained. “I—I see I shall have to speak plainly. May I have your assurance that what I tell you will be held in strictest confidence?”

“You have that assurance.”

“The lady is—Mrs. Gilbert, my wife.”

“So?” There was a pause. “You understand, of course, that it’s not probable we could uncover anything that would help you get a divorce; not after you’ve lived together for—”

“I have no desire to divorce Mrs. Gilbert. I could not do so, even if I wished, on account of my position. I stand for all that is best in my community, all that is respectable and conservative. No, no! It is true that I married hastily, and perhaps unwisely, but I have no serious complaint against my wife as such. I make no accusations; I find no fault with her, except in one particular. As a mother she has failed. Her influence upon our daughter is not what it should be. I have told her so; she denies it. I have argued that the welfare of our beloved child should be placed in my sister’s hands; she refuses to consent. I wish to confront her with the positive proof—evidence, at least—that she is inherently unfit to act as a moral teacher, a spiritual guide, to a young, innocent, impulsive girl.”

“Hm—m!” The listener gazed curiously into Gilbert’s ruddy, handsome face. “You think if you can show that she was wild, made a slip before she married you, she isn’t fit to look after her child? Isn’t that stretching it a bit thin?”

“It is a matter which will lie between her and me. My daughter’s well-being is at stake; it is all I have to live for.”

“All right! I don’t see how you’re going to help matters, but I’m not here to turn business away. Was there ever any scandal, any publicity?”

“Yes. There was one matter—a divorce case. I think the newspapers at the time had a good deal to say about it.”

“That’s something to begin on. I’ll put the best man I have at the case, but you’ll have to help him a lot, Mr. Gilbert. You know what you want; you’re familiar with the facts; you probably know the friends and associates your wife had before you married her.”

“I thank you. My heart yearns over my daughter; it cries out in her name for aid. Whatever the cost of your assistance may be, I shall evidence my appreciation by sending you a check for double the amount.”

Gilbert spent more time in New York than he had anticipated; he returned home barely in time to clear his desk before leaving for the convention of the State Betterment League in Owensburg. Meanwhile, Edith and her mother had been enthusiastically engaged in preparing for the former’s birthday party— an event which Mrs. Gilbert had always invested with great sentimental importance.

Now Hopewell was an ordinary town, peopled with average families who lived in conformity to the average standard of social conduct, and the younger set was as irresponsible and as pleasure-loving as most younger sets. They were jealous of their freedom and intolerant of old-fashioned ideas, hence it was not an easy task to entertain them under the Gilbert roof, where dancing was taboo and where anything like ordinary youthful abandon and high spirits was apt to meet with the owner’s disapproval. To succeed, without tolerating an actual trespass upon her husband’s prejudices, had often tasked Mrs. Gilbert’s ingenuity. This time she had hit upon the idea of having a “child’s party.” This made of it a costume affair, but, at the same time, was assurance that none of the costumes would be of a sort to offend even Gilbert’s narrow-gauged ideas of propriety.

There was nothing startlingly original about the idea; nevertheless, it was sufficiently “different” to be welcomed.

It was during her first fitting that Edith had an inspiration. Without saying anything to her mother she instructed the dressmaker to prepare another costume for the elder woman, prettier even than her own; then she bought little spring-heeled shoes, short stockings, an adorable child’s bonnet, and other accessories to match. When she finally told her mother what she had done Mrs. Gilbert at first protested that she was too old to appear in such a masquerade, but Edith was insistent and finally won her over.

On the night of the party the guests were astonished and delighted when they were received not by one, but by two hostesses dressed as much alike as two tiny twin sisters. With one accord they agreed that Mrs. Gilbert made the sweetest child present and promptly began to treat her as one of themselves, instead of as a mother or a chaperon.

The dinner was a lot of fun, for the juvenile idea had been carried out. The dining-room had been transformed into a nursery; the diners sat in high chairs and wore bibs; they were supplied with mugs and food pushers, rattles and teething rings and toys with which to amuse themselves. A hired quartette played and sang several songs written by Mrs. Gilbert and set to nursery tunes—verses topical enough and sophisticated enough to excite genuine laughter. The writer was voted a “peach,” a “thoroughbred,” a “good sport.”

She it was who really sounded the note of animation and sustained it during the evening. Once she had set the pace, youthful spirits did the rest, for the girls made mischievous babies and the boys were amusing young clowns. They became almost riotous when, with the aid of an old-fashioned magic lantern, photographs which had been gathered at considerable effort were flashed upon a screen showing those present as they actually had been when they were children. Never had the Gilbert house echoed to louder laughter than then.

The party was an unusual success until Henry Gilbert arrived.

In order to explain the reason for his unexpected return and the frame of mind in which he came, it will be necessary to go back a bit. With him on his way home from New York he had brought a typewritten report from that detective agency, and this he read several times. He read it again on his way to Owensburg.

Arrived there, he plunged immediately into the business of the convention, and for the next three days he had leisure to think of nothing else. These conventions, by the way, were a joy to him; they were his principal hobby, for they brought him into contact with kindred spirits and what he had to say was reverently listened to. Being an earnest, restless-minded man, to whom the welfare of others was a matter of grave concern, he had more to say than anybody. Then, too, he was an ideal committee man, for he loved the work and hence he was always the most important figure at these affairs.

It was late on the afternoon of the fifteenth, the last day of the assembly, that he met Miss Galloway in the lobby of his hotel, he had seen her at a distance, but this was his first opportunity for a word alone with her. She confided to him that she had stopped in for tea: he suggested that they sit down together.

The main dining-room was empty, cheerless, but an orchestra was playing in the Palm Room and thither the two were shown.

Miss Galloway paused on the threshold when she saw several couples fox-trotting. “Why, it’s a dancing place!” she faltered. “Everybody knows you. Do you think we’d better go in?”

Gilbert shrugged. “There’s no other place to go. All the better-class places allow dancing at this time of day.”

“I never can seem to get used to it,” the woman said as she and her companion seated themselves at a table as far removed as possible from the center of contamination. “I always feel as if I were in contact with something lewd, something evil.”

“Tut, tut! You’re narrow-minded, my dear.” Gilbert smiled amiably. “Wrong-doing is largely a question of intent. These people are no doubt innocent enough; they’re merely blind. It is our task to lead them. What a blessed relief to enjoy a restful half hour with you, after these last three days.” He sighed wearily. “Sometimes I stagger; the spirit weakens, Belle.”

Instantly Miss Galloway became motherly, in a manner of speaking she began to hover her companion. It was a shame; he was working too hard. Better for him to spare himself than in risk a breakdown. There must be many who could attend to the exhausting detail of these conventions, whereas there was but one Henry Gilbert, one “plumed knight.”

Alas, no! Mr. Gilbert shook his head. People were like sheep—they were lost without a leader. He wondered if anyone would really care if he did break down. Perhaps the work of reform would go on just as well, or better, if he dropped out.

Such words, Miss Galloway made him understand, were heretical, wicked. He was merely tired and blue, poor man.

Gradually the conversation became almost entirely personal: Miss Galloway found herself paying a tribute to Gilbert not as the peerless champion of a great cause—of many great causes— but as a man and a friend. He made bold to express for the first time his keen appreciation of her admirable qualities as a woman.

It turned out to be an agreeable tête-à-tête: confidences were exchanged which were ennobling as well as informative. Upon the occasion of their last meeting each had been painfully self-conscious; today each was greedily aware of the other and their minds met, explored each other. A certain boldness took possession of them; inhibitions were ignored; they spoke obscurely and yet with a meaning which each believed the other comprehended. As a matter of fact, neither did fully comprehend, and both were too diffident to pretend entire comprehension for fear of error.

It was a timid reconnaissance, a mental holding of hands that were clammy with dread. Emotionally, they were in a fever; physically, they were in a cold sweat. For once repression was not a pose, but a stern necessity; they played with their emotions, deliberately excited them, until they refused further to react. It was chaste but indecent.

Gilbert finally spoke about the festivities scheduled for his house that evening and expressed a hypocritical regret at missing them. His daughter’s birthday, a festival of youth and spirits, in which he was denied a part! Heigh-ho! The life of a crusader was not all beer and skittles.

Of course, he meant near-beer.

Miss Galloway knew all about Edith’s party, as she knew all about everything in Hopewell, and she agreed that it was indeed a pity.

“But what a novel idea to make it a children’s party,” she exclaimed, enthusiastically. “Our younger set is pretty wild, I’m afraid, but Mrs. Gilbert can hold them in check if anybody can. She’s a wonderful woman.”

“Yes. Yes, indeed.”

“And it is so lovely of her to take an active part in the affair. How many mothers would go that far?”

“Quite so,” Gilbert acknowledged.

“As a matter of fact, not many women of her age could go that far.” Miss Galloway emitted a dry rustle of laughter. “They haven’t the high spirits nor—the figures. I envy her; I really do. She’s so youthful and vivacious. Why, the dressmaker said she didn’t look a day over sixteen in her costume.”

“Costume?”

“It was the sweetest thing—for anyone who could wear that sort of thing, I mean. But she’s so clever at playing parts and of course she learned how to make up her face on the stage.”

“I don’t understand. You must have seen Edith’s costume.”

“I saw both. Edith’s is pink, hers is light blue, even to the shoes and the little socks.”

“Socks?” ejaculated the husband.

“Why, of course. Didn’t you know? A complete French doll’s outfit. Low neck, bare arms and legs. It’s very chic and—” The speaker paused. She was swept by a sudden agitation which deepened into panic at the incredulity in Gilbert’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she gasped. “I supposed of course—”

There was a moment of silence, then Miss Galloway fluttered breathlessly to the defense of her sister. “I hope I haven’t given a wrong impression. I never dreamed she didn’t want you to know. Perhaps the costume isn’t as daring as I thought. It’s all in the way such things are worn, you know. She’s petite, of course, and she has a pretty neck and limbs. Then, too, it’s only a lark and all the others are going to wear something of the sort.”

“Hm—m!” Gilbert pursed his lips, frowned. “Her intentions are all right, that I admit—but for the wife of a man in my position— I’m glad you told me, Belle.”

His companion evidently felt that she had seriously blundered, and in a nervous effort to cover her dismay she clumsily drew on her gloves. She rose and mumbled something about having to go. Gilbert went with her to the main entrance.

He stood there for a while in meditation, then he looked at his watch. There was no train for Hopewell for several hours, so he ordered a car and a driver at the desk, then he went to his room and flung his things into his bag.

Bare arms and legs! Socks! Skirts to the knees! A woman of her age. Outrageous! It was time to settle this matter once and for all.

It was nearly midnight when Henry Gilbert arrived home. Instead of entering his place by the front gate, he pushed through the hedge and stole across the lawn, hoping to peek through a window and thoroughly satisfy himself that he had reason to be indignant.

The house was lighted from top to bottom; his ears told him that a high-jinks was going on. There was a hammock swung in the darkest corner of the piazza and in it Gilbert made out two human forms. His worst suspicions were at once verified.

Here was a “cuddling party”—he had heard this phrase from Edith—two young people secretly spooning!

He saw something else that shocked him; a group of fantastically garbed people were sitting on the front steps and they were smoking. Girls as well as men! They profaned their lips with tobacco! On his front steps! No doubt they had been drinking, or would indulge their appetites if he gave them a chance. He waited and watched, but in this he was disappointed, for after a few moments the smokers flung away their cigarettes and romped back into the house.

He followed them.

An astonishing spectacle was revealed when he looked into the living-room; it seemed to him that the place was crowded full of bare arms and legs. He had been prepared by Miss Galloway to expect some sort of a revel, but nothing quite so undignified as this. Mature young men were clad in waists and knickerbockers, in sailor suits, in Boy Scout uniforms and in “shorts” which showed their bony knees. One burly six-footer wore a wig of yellow curls and an enormous two-year-old baby’s dress. He was playing the piano loudly and inaccurately and he was singing. He reminded Gilbert vaguely of the infant Gargantua pounding upon his mugs and pannikins.

As for the young women, most of them were garbed in a manner that Gilbert considered positively indecent.

To the discordant notes of the piano some sort of a game was going on—“musical chairs” he believed it was called—but at his appearance the laughter ceased; the pianist suddenly stopped playing. Then, for the first time, Gilbert saw his wife. He gasped. No words of description on Miss Galloway’s part could have fortified him against the shock he experienced. Alice was indeed a French doll. Bare arms and neck, bare knees beneath the lacy ruffles of a child’s party dress, her blond hair in fluffy curls about her face! And she a respectable, married woman of forty-five. She was blindfolded and she was groping toward him. Yonder was Edith, enough like her mother to be her twin.

Warned of something amiss, Mrs. Gilbert removed the blindfold and found herself facing the accusing gaze of her husband. The bitter quality of his disapproval was instantly obvious to her; nevertheless, she ignored it and exclaimed:

“Why, Henry! How nice of you to come back!”

“I’m glad I did.” He allowed his gaze to rove over the startled guests. “I’m sorry I didn’t arrive earlier.”

“Father!” Edith ran forward, her face white with sudden apprehension. “Let me take your things. You mustn’t interrupt the fun. Go ahead, folks, we’ll be back in a minute.” She tried to lead her father back into the hall, but he drew himself away.

“First, you had better tell your friends good night,” he said, acidly.

At this there was a nervous titter from some of the guests who suspected this to be some sort of a joke—some further prank arranged for their surprise. But Gilbert’s face did not soften; he appeared to be quite in earnest. There was a rustle, a movement of indecision; it was a sick, uncomfortable moment.

A pathetic, stricken look had come into the daughter’s eyes. Mrs. Gilbert was murmuring something to her husband, but he ignored both women and to the others he said:

“I am afraid I must bid you good night on behalf of my wife and daughter. My ideas of decorum are not the same as theirs and it strikes me that this affair has gone quite far enough. I am chagrined at what I have seen. I shall take it upon myself to talk to your parents about it. No apologies, please! Let us spare each other as much embarrassment as possible.”

Consternation, confusion followed. As the last of the guests fled from the house they heard Henry Gilbert frigidly order his wife and his daughter to their rooms.