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"It's much easier to say yes than no," replied Irma, watching in the mirror of her dressing-

table while her maid put the last touches to her coiffure. "Uncle Jesse's not a bad sort, you

know."

"Where are the paintings?" asked the husband.

"I put them in the closet for the present. Don't delay now, or we'll be late."

"Let me have just a glance."

"I didn't buy them for art," insisted the other; "but I do like them, and maybe I'll hang them

in this room if they won't hurt your feelings."

Lanny got out the canvases and set them up against two chairs. They were the regular

product which Jesse Blackless turned out at the rate of one every fortnight whenever he chose.

One was a little gamin, and the other an old peddler of charcoal; both sentimental, because Uncle

Jesse really loved these рооr people and imagined things about them which fitted in with his

theories. Irma didn't have such feelings, but Lanny had taught her that she ought to, and

doubtless she was trying. "Are they really so bad?" she asked.

"They aren't any bargain," he answered.

"It's only eight hundred dollars, and he says he's broke on account of putting everything into

the campaign. You know, Lanny, it might not be such a bad thing to have your uncle a member

of the Chamber."

"But such a member, Irma! He'll make himself an international scandal. I ought to have

mentioned to you that he's gone into a working-class district and is running against a

Socialist."

"Well," said the young wife, amiably, "I'll help the Socialist, too, if you wish it."

"You'll take two horses, and hitch one to the front of your cart and one to the back, and drive

them as hard as you can in opposite directions."

Irma wasn't usually witty; but now she thought of Shore Acres, and said: "You know how it is,

I've been paying men right along to exercise my horses."

X

Alfred Pomeroy-Nielson the younger was at school in England; he came to Bienvenu for the

Easter vacation, and he and Marceline took up their life at the point where they had dropped it

on board the Bessie Budd, a year and a half ago. Meanwhile they had been getting ready for

each other, and at the same time making important discoveries about themselves.

The daughter of Marcel Detaze and Beauty Budd, not quite fourteen, was at that point

"where the brook and river meet, womanhood and childhood fleet." Like the diving-champion

on the end of a springboard, with every muscle taut, the body poised in the moment of swaying

forward, so she presented herself above the swimming-pool of fashion, pleasure, and so many

kinds of glory. She had gazed into it as a fascinated spectator and now was getting ready to

plunge—much sooner than any member of her family knew or desired. That was her secret;

that was the meaning of the fluttering heart, the flushed cheeks, the manner of excitement—she

couldn't wait to begin to live!

Marceline loved her mother, she adored her handsome and fashionable half-brother, she

looked with awe upon the blooming Juno who had come recently into her life, surrounded by

a golden aura, talked about by everybody, pictured in the newspapers—in short, a queen of

plutocracy, that monde which Marceline had been taught to consider beau, grand, haut, chic,

snob, elegant, et d'élite. She was going to show herself off in it, and no use trying to change

her mind. Men were beginning to look at her, and she was not failing to notice that or to know

what it meant. Hadn't it been in the conversation of all the smart ladies since she had begun to

understand the meaning of words? Those ladies were growing old, they were on the way out—

and Marceline was coming, it was her turn!

And now this English lad, of almost the same age as herself, and destined, in the family

conversation, to become her life partner. Maybe so, but first there were a few problems to be

settled; first it was necessary to determine who would be the boss in that family. Alfy was

serious, like his father; extremely conscientious, more reticent than seemed natural in one so

young, and tormented by a secret pride. Marceline, on the other hand, was impulsive, exuberant,

talkative, and just as proud in her own way. Each of these temperaments was in secret awe of

the other; the natural strangeness of a youth to a maid and of a maid to a youth accentuated

their differences and offended their self-esteem. Was he scorning her when he was silent? Was

she teasing him when she laughed? Exasperation was increased by arrogance on both sides.

It is the English custom, when two boys fall to pommeling each other, to form a ring and let

them fight it out. Now it appeared to be the same with the sex-war. Rick said: "They'd better

settle it now than later." He gave advice only when it was asked, and poor Alfy was proud even

with his father. It was up to a man to handle his own women!

Marceline, on the other hand, fled to her mother and had weeping-fits. Beauty tried to

explain to her the peculiar English temperament, which makes itself appear cold but really

isn't. The short vacation was passing, and Beauty advised her daughter to make it up quickly;

but Marceline exclaimed: "I think they are horrid people, and if he won't have better manners I

don't want to have anything more to do with him." The French and the English had been

fighting ever since the year 1066.

XI

Oddly enough, it was the man from Iowa who served as international mediator. Parsifal

Dingle never meddled in anybody's affairs, but talked about the love of God, and perhaps it was

a coincidence that he talked most eloquently when he knew that two persons were at odds. God

was all and God was love; God was alive and God was here; God knew what we were doing and

saying and thinking, and when what we did was not right, we were deliberately cutting

ourselves off from Him and destroying our own happiness. That was the spiritual law; God

didn't have to punish us, we punished ourselves; and if we humbled ourselves before Him, we

exalted ourselves before one another. So on through a series of mystical statements which came

like a message from a much better world.

All this would have been familiar doctrine to the forebears of either of these young people.

Perhaps ideas have to be forgotten in order to become real again; anyhow, to both Marceline

and Alfy this strange gentleman was the originator or discoverer of awe-inspiring doctrines. A

rosy-cheeked, cherubic gentleman with graying hair and the accent of the prairies. Once when

he wanted to bathe his hands on board the sailboat he had used what he called a "wawsh-dish,"

which Alfy thought was the funniest combination of words he had ever heard.

But apparently God didn't object to the Iowa accent, for God came to him and told him what

to do. And when you thought of God, not somewhere up in the sky on a throne, but living in

your heart, a part of yourself in some incomprehensible way, then suddenly it seemed silly to

be quarreling with somebody who was a friend of the family, even if not your future spouse!

Better to forget about it—at least to the extent of a game of tennis.

Beauty thought how very convenient, having a spiritual healer in the family! She thought: "I

am an unworthy woman, and I must try to be like him and love everybody, and value them for

their best qualities. I really ought to go to Lanny's school, and meet some of those poor people,

and try to find in them what he finds." She would think these thoughts while putting on a costly

evening-gown which Irma had given her after two or three wearings; she would be escorted to

a party at the home of the former Baroness de la Tourette, and would listen to gossip about a

circus-rider who had married an elderly millionaire and was cutting a swath on this Coast of

Pleasure. The ladies would tear her reputation to shreds, and Beauty would enjoy their cruel

cleverness and forget all about the fact that God was listening to every word. A complicated

world, so very hard to be good in!

BOOK THREE

Blow, Winds, and Crack Your Cheeks

11

Woman's Whole Existence

I

THE betrayal of the British labor movement had entered like a white-hot iron into the flesh of

Eric Vivian Pomeroy-Nielson. He had brooded over it and analyzed its causes; he had filled his

soul with images of it; and the result was to be a drama called The Dress-Suit Bribe. No literary

title, dignified and impartial, but a fighting title, a propaganda title.

The central figure was a miner's son who had escaped from the pits by becoming a secretary

of his union. He had a wife who had been a schoolteacher, somewhat above him in station. They

had no children, because the labor movement was to be their child. At the opening of the play

he was a newly elected member of Parliament. There were characters and episodes recalling his

early days of fervor and idealism, but now we saw him absorbed in the not very edifying details of

party politics, the maneuvers for power, the payment of past obligations in the hope of

incurring more.

The leisure-class woman in the story had no doubt been modeled on Rosemary, Countess of

Sandhaven, Lanny's old flame; one of those women touched by the feminist movement who

did not permit themselves to love deeply because it would interfere with their independence,

their enjoyment of prominence and applause. She was a political woman who liked to wield

power; she set out to seduce a labor leader, not because she wanted to further the interests of

her Tory group, but because she enjoyed playing with a man and subjecting him to her will.

She tried to teach him what she called common sense, not merely about love, but about

politics and all the affairs of the world they lived in. She didn't mind breaking the heart of a

wife whom she considered an inferior and superfluous person; if in the process she broke up a

labor union, that was an incidental gain.

It was a "fat" part for an actress, and at Lanny's suggestion Rick had endowed the woman

with an American mother; a common enough phenomenon in London society, this would make

the role possible for Phyllis Gracyn. Lanny's old friend and playmate had been starred in two

plays which had "flopped" on Broadway through no fault of her own; so she was in a humble

frame of mind, and when Lanny wrote her about Rick's play she cabled at once, begging to be

allowed to see the script. The part had been written for her— even to allowing for traces of an

American accent.

Lanny had become excited about the play, and had talked out every scene with his friend,

both before and after it was put down on paper. Irma and Beauty read it, and Emily and

Sophie, and of course Rick's wife; these ladies consulted together, and contributed suggestions

as to how members of the grand and beau and haut monde felt and behaved. So the play

became a sort of family affair, and there was small chance of anything's being wrong with its

atmosphere and local color. After Emily had read the entire script, she offered to put in five

thousand dollars on the same terms as the rest of them, and Sophie, the ex-baroness, was not

to be outdone.

The play would be costly to produce, on account of the money atmosphere. If you want actors