LITMIR.BIZ

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with the spirit of the times. Quite accidentally he discovered that the tall, dark Southern youth was Calhoun Bennett. This then seemed to him a remarkable coincidence.

      "Why, I have a letter of introduction to you!" he said.

      Again and again he recurred to this point, insisting on telling everybody how extraordinary the situation was.

      "Here I've been talking to him for three hours," he exclaimed, "and never knew who he was, and all the time I had a letter of introduction to him!"

      This and a warm irresponsible glow of comradeship were the sole indications of the drinks he had had. Keith possessed a strong head. Some of the others were not so fortunate. Little Rowlee was frankly verging on drunkenness.

      The afternoon wind was beginning to die, and the wisps of high fog that had, since two o'clock, been flying before it, now paused and forgathered to veil the sky. Dusk was falling.

      "Look here," suggested Rowlee suddenly; "let's go to Allen's Branch and have a good dinner, and then drift around to Belle's place and see if there's any excitement to be had thereabouts."

      "Belle—our local Aspasia, sah," breathed a very elaborate, pompous, elderly Southerner, who had been introduced as Major Marmaduke Miles.

      But this suggestion brought to Keith a sudden realization of the lateness of the hour, the duration of his absence, and the fact that, not only had he not yet settled his wife in rooms of her own, but had left her on the hands of strangers. For the first time he noticed that Sherwood was not of the party.

      "When did Sherwood leave?" he cried.

      "Oh, a right sma't time ago," said Bennett.

      Keith started to his feet.

      "I should like to join you," said he, "but it is impossible now."

      A chorus of expostulation went up at this.

      "But I haven't settled down yet!" persisted Keith. "I don't know even whether my baggage is at the hotel."

      They waived aside his objections; but finding him obdurate, perhaps a little panicky over the situation, they gave over urging the point.

      "But you must join us later in the evening," said they.

      The idea grew.

      "I tell you what," said Rowlee, with half-drunken gravity; "he's got to come back. We can't afford to lose him this early. And he can't afford to lose us. The best life of this glorious commonwealth is as yet a sealed book to him. It is our sacred duty, gentlemen, to break those seals. What does he know of our temples of Terpsichore? Our altars to the gods of chance? Our bowers of the Cyprians?"

      He would have gone on at length, but Keith, laughingly protesting, trying to disengage himself from the detaining hands, broke in with a promise to return. But little Rowlee was not satisfied.

      "I think we should take no chances," he stated. "How would it be to appoint a committee to 'company him and see that he gets back?"

      Keith's head was clear enough to realize with dismay that this brilliant idea was about to take. But Ben Sansome, seizing the situation, locked his arm firmly in Keith's.

      "I'll see personally that he gets back," said he.

V

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      "That was mighty good of you; you saved my life!" said Keith to him, gratefully, as they walked up the street.

      "You couldn't have that tribe of wild Indians descending on your wife," said Sansome. He had kept pace with, the others, but showed it not at all. Sansome was a slender, languid, bored, quiet sort of person, exceedingly well dressed in the height of fashion, speaking with a slight, well-bred drawl, given to looking rather superciliously from beneath his fine eyelashes, almost too good looking. He liked, or pretended he liked, to view life from the discriminating spectator's standpoint; and remained unstirred by stirring events. He prided himself on the delicacy of his social tact. In the natural course of evolution he would probably never marry, and would become in time an "old beau," haunting ballrooms with reminiscences of old-time belles.

      Keith, meeting the open air, began to feel his exhilaration.

      "What I need is my head under a pump for about ten seconds," he told

       Sansome frankly. "Lord! It was just about time I got away."

      Arrived at the hotel, Sansome said good-bye, but Keith would have none of it.

      "No, no!" he cried. "You must come in, now you've come so far! I want you to meet my wife; she'll be delighted!"

      And Sansome, whose celebrated social tact had been slightly obscured by his potations, finally consented. Truth to tell, it would have been a little difficult for him to have got away. Poising his light stick and gloves in his left hand, giving his drooping moustache a last twirl, and settling his heavy cravat in place, he followed Keith down the little hall to the Sherwoods' apartments.

      At the knock Keith was at once invited to enter. The men threw open the door. Sansome stared with all his might.

      Nan Keith had made the usual miraculous recovery from seasickness once she felt the solid ground beneath, her. The beautiful baby-textured skin had come alive with soft colour, her dark, wide, liquid eyes had brightened. She had assumed a soft, silken, wrapperlike garment with, a wide sash, borrowed from Mrs. Sherwood; and at the moment was seated in an enveloping armchair beneath a wide-shaded lamp. The firm, soft lines of her figure, uncorseted in this negligée, were suggested beneath the silk. Sansome stopped short, staring, his eyes kindling with, interest. Here was something not only new but different—a distinct addition. Sansome, like most dilettantes, was something of a phrase maker, and prided himself on the apt word. He found it here, to his own satisfaction, at least.

      "Her beauty is positively creamy!" he murmured to himself.

      At sight of her Keith crossed directly to her, full of a sudden, engaging, tender solicitude.

      "How are you feeling now, honey?" he inquired. "Quite recovered? All right now?"

      But Nan was inclined to be a little vexed and reproachful. She had been left alone, with strangers, altogether too long. Keith excused himself volubly and convincingly—she had been asleep—she was much better off not being disturbed—that this was true was proven by results—she was blooming, positively blooming—as fresh as a rose leaf—of course it was rather an imposition on the Sherwoods, but the baggage hadn't come up yet, and they were kind people, our sort, the sort for whom the word obligation did not exist—he, personally, had not intended being gone so long, but by the rarest of chances he had run across some of the men to whom, he had introductions, and they had been most kind in making him acquainted—nothing was more important to a young lawyer than to "establish connections"—it did not do to overlook a chance.

      He urged all this, and more, with all his usual, vital, enthusiastic force. In spite of herself, she was overborne to a reproachful forgiveness.

      In the meantime Mrs. Sherwood had gone over to where Ben Sansome was still standing by the door. Sansome did not like Mrs. Sherwood. He considered that she had no social tact at all. This was mainly—though he did not analyze it—because she was quite apt to speak the direct and literal truth to him; because she had a disquieting self-confidence and competence in place of appropriate, graceful, feminine dependence; but especially because she had never and would never play up to his game.

      "Are you making a formal afternoon call, Ben?" she asked in her cool, mocking voice. "Aren't you really a little de trop?"

      "I did not come of my own volition at this time, I assure you," he replied a trifle stiffly. The thought that he was suspected of a blunder in social custom stung him; as, in a rather lazily amused way, she knew it would.

      At this reply she glanced keenly toward Keith, then nodded;

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