once more the washington papers had headlines that spoke of delafield simms. he had married a stenographer in frederick towne’s office. and it was towne’s niece that he had deserted at the altar.

and most remarkable of all, edith towne had been at the wedding. it was eloise harper who told the reporters.

“they were married at the old inn below alexandria this morning, by the local methodist clergyman. miss logan is a methodist—fancy. and edith was bridesmaid.”

but eloise did not know that lucy had worn the wedding dress and veil that edith had given her and looked lovely in them. and that after the ceremony, delafield had wrung edith’s hand and had said, “i shall never know how to thank you for what you have been to lucy.”

edith’s candid eyes had met his squarely. “you know you are not half good enough for her, del,” and he had said, humbly, “i’m not and that’s the truth. but i am going to do my darndest to be what she thinks i am.”

[269]martha and her husband had served a delicious breakfast in the big empty dining-room. only edith and baldy were there besides the bride and groom. lucy had very sensibly refused to have any fuss and feathers. “if it is quiet, people won’t have so much to say about it.”

delafield’s manner to lucy was perfect. “what do you think she has made me do?” he asked edith. “buy a farm in virginia. we are going to raise pigs—black berkshires, because lucy likes the slant of their ears and the curl of their tails. she has been reading books about them, and we are going to spend our honeymoon motoring around the country and buying stock.”

oh, bravo, bravo, little lucy, not to risk boring this fashionable young husband with a conventional honeymoon! edith wanted to clap her hands. but she made no sign, except to meet lucy’s quiet glance with a lift of the eyebrows.

edith and baldy lingered after the bride and groom had driven off in a great gray car—bound for the virginia country place which delafield had bought, and made ready for the occupancy in the twinkling of an eye.

“gee, but you’re superlative,” baldy told her as they walked in the garden.

“am i?”

“yes. and the way you carried it off.”

“i didn’t carry it off. it carried itself.”

“are you sure it didn’t hurt?”

[270]she smiled at him from beneath her big hat. “not a bit.”

the box hedges in the garden were showing a hint of new green. there was a plum tree blooming prematurely. the sun made brown shadows along the river’s edge, and the wash of the waves from passing steamers went lip-lapping among the reeds and rushes.

the moment was ripe for romance. but baldy almost feverishly kept the conversation away from serious things. they had talked seriously enough, god knew, the other night by edith’s fire. he had seen her lonely in the thought of her future.

“when uncle fred marries i won’t stay here.”

he had yearned to take her in his arms, to tell her that against his heart she should never again know loneliness. but he had not dared. what had he to offer? a boy’s love. against her gold.

he told himself with some bitterness that one fortune was enough in a family. jane’s engagement had changed things for her brother. the antagonism which baldy had always felt for frederick was intensified. the thought of towne’s money weighed heavily upon him. jane had already placed herself under insuperable obligations. even if she wished, she could not now shake herself free.

and edith’s money? he and jane living on the towne millions? he wouldn’t have it.

[271]so he talked of jane. “she doesn’t want her engagement announced until she gets back. i think she’s right.”

“i don’t,” edith said lazily. “if i loved a man i’d want to shout it to the world.”

they were sitting on a rustic bench under the blossoming plum tree. edith’s hands were clasped behind her head, and the winged sleeves of her gown fell back and showed her bare arms. baldy wanted to unclasp those hands, crush them to his lips—but instead he stood up, looking over the river.

“do you see the ducks out there? wild ones at that. it’s a sign of spring.”

she rose and stood beside him. “and you can talk of—ducks—on a day like this?”

“yes,” he did not look at her, “ducks are—safe.”

he heard her low laugh. “silly boy.”

he turned, his gray eyes filled with limpid light. “perhaps i am. but i should be a fool if i told you how i love you. worship you. you know it, of course. but nothing can come of it, even if i were presumptuous enough to think that you—care.”

she swept out her hands in an appealing gesture. “say it. i want to hear.”

she was adorable. but he drew back a little. “we’ve gone too far and too fast. it is my fault, of course, for being a romantic fool.”

[272]“i’m afraid we’re a pair of romantic fools, baldy.”

he turned and put his hands on her shoulders. “edith, i—mustn’t.”

“why not?”

“not until i have something to offer you——”

“you have something to offer——”

“oh, i know what you mean. but—i won’t. somehow this affair of jane’s with your uncle has made me see——”

“see what?”

“oh, how the world would look at it. how he’d look at it.”

“uncle frederick? he hasn’t anything to do with it. i’m my own mistress.”

“i know. but—— oh, i can’t analyze it, edith. i love you—no end. more than—anything. but i won’t ask you to marry me.”

“do you know how selfish you are?”

“i know how wise i am.”

she made an impatient gesture. “you’re not thinking of me in the least. you are thinking of your pride.”

he caught her hand in his. “i am thinking of my pride. do you suppose it is easy for me to let jane—take money from him? to feel that there is no man in our family who can pay the bills? i am proud. and i’m glad of it. edith—i want you to be glad that i won’t take—alms.”

her wise eyes studied him for a moment. “you[273] blessed boy. you blessed poet,” she sighed, “i am proud of you, but my heart aches—for myself.”

he caught her almost roughly in his arms and in a moment released her. “i’m right, dearest?”

“no, you’re not right. if we married, we’d sail to italy and have a villa by the sea. and you would paint masterpieces. do you think my money counts beside your talent? well, i don’t.”

“my dear, let me prove my talent first. as things are now, i couldn’t pay our passage to the other side.”

“you could. my money would be yours—your talent mine. a fair exchange.”

he stuck obstinately to his point of view. “i won’t tie you to any promise until i’ve proved myself.”

“and we’ll lose all these shining years.”

“we won’t lose a moment. i’m going to work for you.”

he was, she perceived, on the heights. but she knew the weariness of the climb.

coming out of the garden in the late afternoon, they were aware of other arrivals at the inn.

“adelaide and uncle fred, by all the gods,” said edith, as they peered into the dining-room from the dimness of the hall. “oh, don’t let them see us. adelaide’s such a bromide.”

they crept out, found baldy’s car and sped towards the city. “i should say,” baldy proclaimed[274] sternly, “that for a man who is engaged, a thing like that is unspeakable.”

“oh, uncle fred and adelaide,” said edith, easily; “she probably asked him. and she was plaintive. a plaintive woman always gets her way.”

adelaide had been plaintive. and she had hinted for the ride. “why not an afternoon ride, ricky? it would rest you.”

“sorry. but i’m tied up.”

“i haven’t seen you for ages, ricky.”

“i know, old girl. i’ve had a thousand things.”

“i’ve—missed you.”

it wasn’t easy for frederick to ignore that. adelaide was an attractive woman.

“oh, well. i can get away at four. we’ll have tea at the old inn.”

“heavenly. ricky, i have a new blue hat.”

“you could always wear blue.” he decided that he might as well make things pleasant. there was a shock in store for her. of course he’d have to tell her about jane.

so adelaide in the new blue hat—with a wrap that matched—with that porcelain white and pink of her complexion—with her soft voice, and appealing manner, had frederick for three whole hours to herself.

she told him all the spicy gossip. frederick, like most men, ostensibly scorned scandal, but lent a willing ear. what eloise had said, what benny[275] had said, what all the world was saying about del’s marriage.

“and they were married here to-day. i didn’t dream it until eloise called me up just before lunch. edith had told her.”

“edith was here?”

“yes, and young barnes.”

she stopped there and poured the tea. she did it gracefully, but frederick’s thoughts swept back to jane behind her battlements of silver.

“four lumps, ricky?”

“um—yes.”

“a penny for your thoughts.”

“they’re not worth a penny, adelaide. lots of lemon, please. and no cakes. i am trying to keep my lovely figure.”

“oh, why worry? i like big men.”

“that’s nice of you.”

martha’s little sponge cakes were light as a feather. adelaide broke one and ate daintily. then she said, “how’s little jane barnes?”

frederick was immediately self-conscious. “she’s still in chicago.”

“sister better?”

“much.”

“when is she coming back?”

“jane? as soon as mrs. heming can be brought home. in a few weeks, i hope.”

adelaide drank a cup of tea almost at a draught. she was aware of an impending disclosure. when[276] the blow came, she took it without the flicker of an eyelash.

“i am going to marry jane barnes, adelaide. the engagement isn’t to be announced until she returns to washington. but i want my friends to know.”

she put her elbows on the table, clasped her hands and rested her chin on them looking at him with steady eyes. “so that’s the end of it, ricky?”

“the end of what?”

“our friendship.”

“why should it be?”

“oh, do you think that your little jane is going to let you philander?”

“i shan’t want to philander. if that’s the way you put it.”

“so you think you’re in—love with her.”

“i know i am,” the red came up in his cheeks, but he stuck to it manfully. “it’s different from anything—ever that i’ve felt before.”

“they all say that, don’t they, every time?”

“don’t be so—cynical.”

she shrugged her shoulders. “i’m not. well, i shall miss you, ricky, dear.”

that was all, just that plaintive note. but adelaide’s plaintiveness was always effective.

so after tea they walked in the garden, and sat under the plum tree, and looked out upon the river—where the shadows were rose-red in the setting[277] sun, and adelaide said, “my life is like that—my sun has set.”

frederick reached out a sympathetic hand. “don’t say that, old girl.”

adelaide lifted his hand to her cheek. “this is really ‘good-bye,’ isn’t it, ricky? it seems rather queer to be saying it.”