there will always be two schools of preventive hygiene for women. one would protect girls from themselves and their suitors by high walls, ignorance, seclusion, and a

guardian in attendance at every step. the other would protect them by encouraging high ideals through knowledge, self-respect, liberty, and industry.

neither school ever succeeded altogether, or ever will. the fault of the former is that what is forbidden becomes desirable; high walls are scalable, ignorance

dangerous, seclusion impossible, and guardians either corruptible or careless.

the fault of the latter is that emotions alter ideals and subdue them to their own color; that knowledge increases curiosity, self-respect may be overpowered or

undermined, and that liberty enlarges opportunity.

it always comes back to the individual occasion and the individual soul in conflict with it. there has been much viciousness in harems and in more sacred inclosures.

and there has been much virtue in dual solitudes, liberty is not salvation, but at least it encourages intelligence, it enforces responsibility, and it avoids the

infinite evils of tyranny. for that reason, while actresses and other women are not always so good as they might be, they are not often so bad as they might be.

sheila, the actress, was put upon her mettle. she had no duenna to play tricks upon. she had herself to take care of, her preciousness to waste or cherish. sometimes

women respond to these encounters with singular dignity: sometimes with singular indifference.

the town of clinton was almost all asleep. the very houses seemed tucked up in sheeted moonlight. and soon sheila and her cavalier—or engineer—were beyond the point

where the streets were subtly changed to roads. the last car on the suburban line growled and glittered past, lurching noisily on its squealing rails. and then they

were alone under the moony vastitude of sky, with the dream-drenched earth revolving around them in a huge, slow wheel.

the car purred with the contentment of a great house-cat and lapped up the glimmering road like a stream of milk.

sheila felt the spirit of the night, and felt that all the universe was in tender rapport with itself. she felt as never before the grace of love, the desire, the need

of love. for years she had been exerting herself for her ambition, and now her ambition was tired. the hour of womanhood was striking, almost silently, yet as

unmistakably as the distant town clock that published midnight, so far away as to be less overheard than felt in the slow throb of the air.

bret winfield’s response to the mood of the night was pagan. sheila was a mighty nice girl and darned pretty and she had consented to take a midnight spin with him.

but many darned pretty girls had done the same. a six-cylinder motor-car is a very winsome form of invitation.

in place of inviting a young man to a cozy corner in a parlor or a hammock on a piazza, the enterprising maiden of the day accepts his invitation—and seats herself in

a flying hammock. seclusion is secured and concealment attained by way of velocity.

a wonderful change had taken place in the world of lovers in the last ten years. for thousands of years before—ever since, indeed, the first man invented the taming

of the first horse and took his cave-girl buggy-riding on a pair of poles or in a square-wheeled cart—lovers had been kept to about the same pace. suddenly they were

given a buggy that can go sixty miles an hour or better; so fast, indeed, that it is veiled in its own speed and its own dust. even the naughty gods and the goddesses

of homer never knew any concealment like it.

winfield was an average young man who had known average young women averagely well. he had found that demoiselles either would not motor with him at all or, motoring

with him, expected to be paid certain gallant attentions. he always tried to live up to their expectations. they might struggle, but never fiercely enough to endanger

the steering-wheel. they might protest, but never loudly enough to drown the engine.

such was his experience with the laity. sheila was his first actress, not including a few encounters with those camp-followers of the theater who are only accepted as

“actresses” when they are arrested, and who have as much right to the name as washwomen for a convent have the right to be called “nuns,” when they drink too much.

but winfield had reasoned that if the generality of pretty girls who motored with men were prepared for dalliance, by so much more would an actress be. consequently,

when he reached a hilltop where there was a good excuse for pausing to admire the view of a moon-plated river laid along a dark valley, he shut off the power and slid

his left arm back of sheila.

she sat forward promptly and his heart began to chug.

making love is an old and foolish game, but strangely exciting at the time. winfield was more afraid to withdraw his arm than to complete the embrace.

sheila’s heart was spinning, too. she had thrilled to the love-croon of the night. the landscape before her and beneath her seemed to be filled with dreams. but she

was in love with love and not with bret winfield.

when she recognized that he was about to begin to initiate her by a familiar form of amorous hazing into the ancient society whose emblem is a spoon, she abruptly

decided that she did not want to belong. winfield became abruptly more of a stranger than ever.

sheila did not want to hate this nice young man. she did not want to quarrel with her chauffeur so far from home at so compromising an hour. she did not want to wreck

the heavenly night with idiotic combat. she hated the insincerity and perfunctoriness that must be the effect of any protest. she was actress enough to realize that

the lines the situation required of her had long ago lost their effectiveness and their very sincerity.

but she did not want to be hugged. she loathed the thought of being touched by this man’s arm. she felt herself as precious and her body as holy as the lofty emotion

of the night. still, how could she protest till he gave her cause? he gave her cause.

her very shoulder-blades winced as she felt winfield’s arm close about her; she shivered as his big hand folded over her shoulder.

sheila groped for appropriate words. winfield’s big handsome face with the two dim lenses over his eyes was brought nearer and nearer to her cheek. then, without

giving him even the help of resistance, she inquired, quite casually:

“is it true that they can send you to the penitentiary if you hit a man in the face when he’s wearing glasses?”

sheila was as astounded as winfield was at this most unexpected query. his lips paused at her very cheek to stammer:

“i don’t know. but why? what about it?”

“because if it is true i want you either to take your arm away or take your glasses off.”

“i don’t understand.”

“you don’t have to. all you have to understand is that i don’t want your arm around me. i’d rather go to the penitentiary than have you kiss me.”

“for the lord’s sake!” winfield gasped, relaxing his clutch.

sheila went on with that sarcasm which is cold poison to romance: “i don’t blame you for attempting it. i know it’s the usual thing on such occasions. but i don’t

like it, and that ought to be enough.”

winfield sighed with shame and regret. “it’s quite enough! i beg your pardon very humbly. shall we turn back now?”

“if you please.”

the very engine seemed to groan as winfield started it up again. it clucked reprovingly, “ts! ts! ts!”

winfield was more angry than sorry. he had made a fool of himself and she had made another fool of him. he was young enough to grumble a little, “are you in love with

that man eldon?”

“he’s very nice.”

“you love him, then?”

“not at all.”

“well, then, if you keep me at such a distance, why do you—how can you let him put his arms round you and kiss you twice a day before everybody?”

“he gets paid for it, and so do i.”

“that makes it worse.”

“you think so? well, i don’t. actors are like doctors. they have special privileges to do things that would be very wrong for other people.”

winfield laughed this to scorn. sheila was furious.

“if there weren’t any actors there wouldn’t be any shakespeare or any of the great plays. doctors save people from death and disease. actors save millions from

melancholy and from loneliness, and teach them sympathy and understanding. so it is perfectly proper for an actress to be kissed and hugged on the stage. acting is the

noblest profession in the world, the humanest and the most fascinating. and a woman can do just as much good and be just as good on the stage as she can anywhere else.

if you don’t think so, then you have no right to speak to an actress. and i don’t want you to speak to me again—ever! for you come with an insult in your heart. you

despise me and i despise you.”

winfield was in a panic. he had sought this girl out to square himself with her, and he had wounded her deeper than before.

“oh, please, miss kemble, i beg you!” he pleaded. “i don’t blame you for despising me, but i don’t despise you. i think you are wonderful. i’m simply crazy about

you. i never saw a girl i—i liked so much. i didn’t mean anything wrong, and i wouldn’t hurt you for the world. i just thought—”

sheila felt a little relentment. “i know what you thought, and i suppose i oughtn’t to blame you. actresses ought to get used to being misunderstood, just as trained

nurses are. but i hoped you were different. i know i am. i’ve had so much stage loving that it doesn’t mean anything to me. when i get the real i want it to be twice

as real as it would have to be for anybody else. just because i pretend so much i’d have to be awfully in love to love at all.”

“haven’t you ever loved anybody?” winfield asked, quite inanely.

she shook her head and answered, with a foolish solemnity. “i thought i was going to, once or twice, but i never did.”

“that’s just like me. i’ve never really loved anybody, either.”

there was such unqualified juvenility in their words that they recognized it themselves. sheila could not help laughing. he laughed, too, like a cub.

then sheila said, with the earnestness of a child playing doll’s house: “you’re too young to love anybody, and i haven’t time yet. i’ve got much too much work

ahead of me to waste any time on love.”

“i’ve got a lot of work ahead of me, too,” said winfield.

“you have?” said sheila. “what is your work—doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief?”

she was surprised to realize that she had come to know this man pretty well before she knew anything at all about him. she was discussing winfield’s future before she

had heard of his past. vickery’s introduction had been his only credentials, his only history. and yet she had already rested briefly in his arms. she was surprised

further when he said:

“i’m a— that is, my father is— we are winfield’s scales.”

she took this so blankly that he gasped, “good heavens! didn’t you ever hear of winfield’s scales?”

“i never did,” said sheila.

“i’ll bet you were weighed in one of ’em when you were born.”

“i couldn’t read when i was born,” said sheila.

“and you’ve never heard of them since?”

“not to my knowledge.”

winfield shook his head amiably over her childlike ignorance. but then, what information could one expect of theatrical people? he went on:

“well, anyway, my father is one of the biggest manufacturers of scales and weighing-machines and such things that there is. he’s about the only independent one left

out of the trust. haven’t you heard of the tremendous fight we’ve been putting up?”

sheila was less interested in the war than in the soldier.

“we?” she said.

“well, i’m not in the firm yet, but my father expects me to step in right away, so that he can step out. he’s not very well. that makes him rather cranky. he didn’

t want me to come down here, but i wanted to see vickery’s play and square myself with you. and i’ve made a mess of that.”

“oh no! we’re square now, i fancy,” said sheila.

“then i ought to be at home,” he sighed.

“instead of sowing wild oats with actresses,” said sheila.

“these oats are not very wild,” winfield grumbled, not quite cured of regret.

“rather tame, eh?” sheila laughed. “well, you’ll find that most actresses are. we’re such harness-broken, heart-broken hacks, most of us, there’s not much

excitement left in us. so you’re to be a scale manufacturer. you’re awfully rich, i suppose.”

“when the market’s good, dad makes a pile of money. when it’s bad—whew! and it’s expensive fighting the trust.”

“is it anything like the theatrical trust?”

“is there a theatrical trust?”

“good heavens! haven’t you read about the war?”

“was there a war?”

“for years. millions of dollars were involved.”

“is that so?”

“why, yes! and reben was right in the thick of it. both sides were trying to get him in.”

“who’s reben?” said winfield. “what does he manufacture?”

sheila laughed, shocked at his boundless ignorance. it was like asking, “what does st. peter do for a living?”

“you don’t know much about the theater, do you?”

“no,” he laughed, “and you don’t know much about weighing-machines.”

“no.”

“neither do i. i’ve got to learn.”

“then you’d better be hurrying home. i wouldn’t for worlds interfere with your career.”

she felt quite grandmotherly as she said it. she did not look it, though, and as he stole a glance at her beauty, all demure and moonlike in the moon, he sighed: “but

i can’t bear to leave you just as i’m beginning to—” he wanted to say “to love you,” but he had not prepared for the word, so he said, “to get acquainted with

you.”

she understood his unspoken phrase and it saddened her. but she continued to be very old and extremely sage. “it’s too bad; but we’ll meet again, perhaps.”

“that’s so, i suppose. well, all right, we’ll be sensible.”

and so, like two extremely good children, they put away temptation and closed the door of the jam-closet. who can be solemner than youth at this frivolous age? what

can solemnize solemnity like putting off till to-morrow the temptation of to-day?

the moment sheila and winfield sealed up love in a preserve-jar and labeled it, “not to be opened till christmas,” and shelved it, that love became unutterably

desirable.

nothing that they could have resolved, nothing that any one else could have advised them, could have mutually endeared them so instantly and so pathetically as their

earnest decision that they must not let themselves grow dear to each other.

they finished their ride back in silence, leaving behind them a moon that seemed to drag at their flying shoulders with silver grappling-hooks. the air was humming

forbidden music in their ears and the locked-up houses seemed to order them to remain abroad.

but he drew up at her little apartment-hotel and took her to the door, where a sleepy night-clerk-plus-elevator-boy opened the locked door for her and went back to

sleep.

sheila and winfield defied the counsel of the night by primly shaking hands. sheila spoke as if she were leaving a formal reception.

“thank you ever so much for the lovely ride. and—er— well, good night—or, rather good-by, for i suppose you’ll be leaving to-morrow.”

“i ought to,” he groaned, dubiously. “good night! good-by!”

he climbed in, waved his hat to her, and she her gloves at him. far down the street he turned again to stare back and to wave farewell again. he could not see her, but

she was there, mystically sorrowing at the lost opportunity of happiness, the unheeded advice of nature—in the mood of paul bourget’s elegy as debussy set it to

music:

“un conseil d’être heureux semble sortir des choses

?et monter vers le c?ur troublé,

?un conseil de go?ter le charme d’être au monde

?cependant qu’on est jeune et que le soir est beau;

?car nous nous en allons, comme s’en va cette onde—

?elle à la mer, nous au tombeau.”