Part 11

"So I have observed!" Burgoyne remarked. "The chap who invents a non-hiding stud will make his everlasting fortune. Of course, the reason for the seemingly peculiar is perfectly evident--it is the law of direction and applied force, that's all. I'll illustrate it on you, if you wish."

"It is not at all necessary!" said Pendleton. "Is every one here, I wonder."

"Yes--you're the laggard--you're generally the laggard.--Why didn't you ever marry, Pendleton?"

"Because I was too much occupied attending to my own business," Pendleton answered.

"I had never observed it!" the other grinned.

"There is nothing peculiar about that--you never observe anything but the ladies."

"Do you criticise my taste?"

"Far be it from me!" Pendleton laughed. "Who are here--do you know?"

"Dorothy Tazewell, Helen Burleston and Marcia Emerson, the men are Steuart Cameron and Warwick Devereux. We all came down on the same train. Stephanie Lorraine, I understand, came yesterday."

"Thank heaven, it is a congenial crowd! How is Miss Emerson--as fascinatingly pretty as ever?"

"More so!--More so!" exclaimed Burgoyne. "She is pushing Stephanie hard for first place," with a bland smile--which Pendleton saw but did not remark.

That he had admired Stephanie Mourraille was no secret, Pendleton knew; and that the admiration had not decreased since she had become Stephanie Lorraine, Society could very readily infer. For his part, he did not care what they inferred; and when he had intimated to Stephanie that he might be coming around her too much, she had put her hand on his shoulder--he could feel it there now--and had asked him, if _he_ objected? Her inference was too plain to miss and he said no more--at the time--though he felt a bit culpable for not doing it.

"How are you and Devereux hitting it?" he asked, to shift the talk.

"Not in time!" smiled Burgoyne,--"not at all in time. It's like a two-step and a schottische."

"Who's doing the schottische?"

"Both--at different periods. Miss Emerson is the only one who is always in step."

"Because she makes the step?" Pendleton laughed. "You rather like to dance, don't you, Burgoyne?"

"It isn't a question of like or dislike. It's a question of what the lady wants--and whom she wants. Devereux is a fool about her, and I think I'm getting dippy too. Nothing serious, Pendleton, nothing serious, I assure you; but she is a mighty attractive girl and we both know it. You understand."

"I understand!" Pendleton answered. "What did I tell you the first day you saw her--at the Club, wasn't it?"

"Yes--the same day that you met Stephanie Lorraine when she drove up alone--you remember?"

Pendleton nodded--finished knotting his tie, drew on his waist-coat and coat, picked up his gloves, and he and Burgoyne went down-stairs, just as the clock was striking eight.

Immediately dinner was announced, and they went in without partners, and found who they were when they got to the table.

Pendleton was not surprised to find he had Stephanie Lorraine on his right; in fact, he would have been a trifle disappointed had she not been there. It was becoming the rule among Stephanie's few (at present) friends always to include him in their invitations, and always to put them together when it could be done without making too much of a point of it. She was looking particularly fit this evening, in a dull green gown, with a collar of emeralds about her soft white throat and a copper-gold net binding her copper-red hair.

She met him with the familiar little nod that she reserved for him alone, and looked up at him with a bewitching glance as he placed her chair.

"I am surprised to see you!" she smiled.

"Here?" he asked.

"Anywhere!" she answered.

"Is it a pleasant surprise?"

"Of course."

"Anywhere?"

"Everywhere!"

"Everywhere is rather more comprehensive than anywhere!"

"Is it?" she inflected slyly.

"Did you mean it so?" he asked.

"Perhaps."

"You're doubtful?"

"Sometimes."

"When are the sometimes?"

"It depends--on the sometimes."

"Will there ever come a time when there won't be any sometimes?" he asked, bending toward her.

She looked at him--a dreamy, thoughtful light in her eyes.

"I wonder," she said--"what do you think, _mon ami_?"

"I don't think--I _hope_," he replied.

She smiled faintly, but with entrancing sweetness.

"Thank you, Montague," she said low--"I shall not forget--at present, I don't dare remember--you understand?"

"I understand," he answered--"more's the pity.--How is Lorraine?"

"Better--he sent for me yesterday."

His eyes sought her face questioningly.

"I went--and stayed a minute," she replied. "I hope I wasn't in too great hurry to get away. It was ghastly, however--perfectly ghastly! I trust he doesn't send for me again. Don't let us talk about it," and she gave a little shudder and reached for her sherry.

Burgoyne, on her left, caught her eye as she did so and raised his glass.

"How!" he said.

"When did you join the Army!" she asked, as the glasses were replaced.

"Whenever we drink a toast to a pretty woman!" he laughed. "It's better than the navy's 'sweethearts and wives.' Sometimes it is a trifle awkward to drink to them both, you know."

He did not realize how it would sound to her until he ended--then he tried to gasp it back.

But she only smiled.

"I don't mind from you, Sheldon," she said.

"I didn't mean it!" he protested. "I was only talking."

"Just keep on talking," she replied. "I know you didn't mean it _that_ way.--And it is true enough sometimes--and _sometimes_ one doesn't care to drink to either," and she smiled slightly. "How lovely Marcia Emerson is, this evening," she remarked.

"From another woman that is a compliment indeed--but you can well afford to be generous, Stephanie, you can give them all cards and spades and little casino--and the ace of hearts."

"So long as I retain the Jack of Hearts, _n'est ce pas_?"

"And since you retain all the other hearts--your own included," he replied.

"Consider yourself curtsyed to most profoundly!" she laughed. "Now let us return to Miss Emerson. Warwick Devereux seems to be making pretty fast going--can you overhaul him?"

"I?"

She nodded. "Yes, you--can you?"

"Why should _I_ try to overhaul him?" he asked.

"For divers reasons--too numerous to mention--the main one is across the table."

"I see."

"I hope so--and another reason is your disposition to be generous."

"As well as to annoy," he supplemented. "You mean I will try to annoy Dev?"

"I don't think the lady will be annoyed, if you were to try the overhauling act. You know Dev--and so does she, I assume. If she does want to land him, you'll be a relief. In either event, she'll be grateful--and a grateful woman can do much for the gratefulee, especially when he is a man."

"Where do I come in?" he smiled.

"That is for you to find out," she replied.

"You think it is worth trying?"

"Don't _you_ think so?"

"I don't know. I might overtake--and then not want the trick when I get it. Or I might want the trick--and then not be able to overtake."

"Certainly, you might--but you have to risk something in the game; and you're a good gambler, Sheldon--or you used to be. Have you lost your nerve?"

"I'm older!" he replied.

"Three years!" she smiled. "Moreover, I understood that the race is on."

"Not exactly--I'm just trailing--keeping the field in view."

"Rather full view, isn't it?"

"Well, I don't require a glass," he admitted.

"You're lying back until you're sure what you want, and see a chance to get it?" she said.

"That is too comprehensive," he replied. "At present I'm simply looking on--and being entertained."

"There is no possible doubt that you're being entertained!" she laughed. "How does Dev like it--is he being entertained also?"

"Sure--anything entertains him until he tires of it."

"He has not tired of Miss Emerson yet--and it has been a long time _for him_. In the normal run, he should have butter-flied away to half-a-dozen girls."

"He has never before had a Marcia Emerson to keep him on the jump," said Burgoyne. "He is used to having the girls go down before his money and birth like scuttle-pins. She is a new experience for him--and he's half tempted to become serious. If I press him too close he may become serious, and I don't want that to happen--just yet."

"Till you know if you want it to happen ever?" she laughed. "Do you fancy that Marcia Emerson doesn't know--or at least suspect?"

"I haven't thought," he admitted,--"except that she hasn't yet made up her mind about Devereux. If she concludes that she wants him she'll get him without the least difficulty, I'm sure."

"And if she concludes that she wants--someone else?"

"Meaning me?" he inquired blandly.

"Meaning you," she replied.

"If I'm too close she'll get _me_ easy--hence I'm riding far aback. Good term that--far aback!"

"Perfectly good term, Sheldon--but not true in point of fact. If Miss Emerson wants you she has only to beckon, and you'll burst a girth to come up. All you nice men are alike--at the mercy of a beautiful woman when she calls."

"The vampire!" he reflected. "'A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair!'"

"Maybe"--she reflected. "At any rate, I shall not dispute it. But men like vampires--_beautiful_ vampires."

"'Down to Gehenna and up to the Throne; He travels the fastest who travels alone.'"

he quoted.

"Again there is no possible doubt of that," she replied. "The difficulty is that he rarely travels _alone_. The vampire usually gets him, and he carries her too. We women are all more or less vampires--just as you men are more or less rogues."

"I reckon you're right," he admitted. "At the best, it is simply a matter of degree--and we notice it only when the particular man and woman aren't properly mated. Then she is a vampire or he is a rogue, as the case may be."

"Now you know what to look for. A vampire who will mate your rogue!" she laughed. "Is Miss Emerson the vampire?--that is what _you_ have to determine."

"Or am I her rogue!" he laughed back. "It's a pity we don't always match up, isn't it----" Once again he bit off the words and tried to catch them back.

And once again she smiled indulgently.

"You never can know how you're going to match up until after you've tried it--and then it's too late," she answered. "That is the pity of it, Sheldon, that is the pity of it."

"The pity of what?" asked Pendleton, who had happened to catch her last words.

"The pity of not knowing," she replied, dismissing Burgoyne with a significant smile and turning to Pendleton.

"Not knowing what?" he asked.

"Nothing absolutely."

"Rather heavy talk for a dinner," he observed.

"It wasn't heavy--Sheldon and I were discussing the vampire and the rogue."

"Heavens!" he ejaculated.

"And we agreed that every woman is more or less vampire and every man more or less rogue."

"A trifle cynical, to say the least," he remarked.

"Don't _you_ agree with us?"

"As a general proposition--with exceptions--I'll join the party."

"But we also agree that the exceptions are only a matter of degree."

"You mean there are no exceptions?"

"Exactly!"

"But there are infinitesimal degrees?"

"I--suppose so," she hesitated.

"Very well, I'll go along with _you_. What degree do you think I am?"

"We also were of a mind that no one knows until after marriage what degree the other is--that is the pity of it."

"In other words, marriage is an eye-opener!" he laughed. "Well we are unanimous on that point also. In fact, I'm ready to agree with you on anything, for anything, and at any time."

"Thank you, Montague--thank you, very much," she replied, with a quick glance through her long lashes. "I want you presently to agree with me--about something."

"It's done!" he replied. "What is it?"

"I cannot tell you here--wait until after dinner, when we are quite alone. I'll manage that--there will be time before Auction begins."

"If we're to be _quite_ alone," he said, "can't you manage that Auction doesn't begin?"

"Don't ask the impossible!" she smiled. "Moreover, Auction is an excellent game."

"When one isn't more agreeably employed," he added.

She shot him another glance.

"You say nice things to me, Montague," she remarked.

"I do more than say them--I _mean_ them."

"Nicer things even than you used to say," she mused.

"And I mean them even more--if that is possible."

"You are spoiling me with compliments."

"I want to spoil you."

"Why?" she asked, a bit startled.

"Because it pleases me to do it--and," leaning a little closer, "because you deserve to be spoiled in the proper way."

"I didn't deserve it--once," she answered.

"You're a different woman from what you were--once, Stephanie."

"People seem to think so!" she said, a trifle bitterly.

"I didn't mean _that_," he answered quietly. "I mean that there has been little enough in your life of late to spoil you, so I shall try to make it up to you. May I?"

For a moment she did not answer--bending her head lower over her plate. Then she turned and faced him--the adorable smile on her lips.

"You may spoil me, Montague,--if you think it wise," she said. "I'm a wilful creature, you know."

"I'll risk the wilfulness," he declared--"it is little enough to risk."

"Pendleton can tell us," came Cameron's voice--"if he will stop talking trash to Mrs. Lorraine long enough to answer."

"And talk trash to you instead, I presume," Pendleton remarked. "Certainly, what is it?"

"How long has Porshinger belonged to the Club?" asked Cameron.

"Longer than he ought," said Pendleton dryly.

"We know that!" the other laughed, in which the table joined. "But was it last year, or the year before--you were on the Board of Governors, weren't you?"

"Not when _he_ came in," Pendleton replied. "Consequently it must have been within the last two years; since my term expired. Sorry I can't help you out."

"Why is it that every Governor fights shy of having voted for Porshinger?" Cameron asked. "If you press them, they all side-step the responsibility. Porshinger isn't such a bad fellow as a whole."

"Taken as a whole!" exclaimed Devereux. "Lord save the mark! the dose is prohibitive--very little of him is more than sufficient for me."

"What is the matter with him--except that he's a bounder and all that?" Cameron asked.--"There are many in the same class, and some of them 'belong.'"

"True enough," Devereux agreed; "but we tolerate the belongers who belong, on account of their families--at least for a time. Those of Porshinger's stamp are just plain bounders; they have nothing to go on except themselves."

"Would you rather be a bounder with Porshinger's wealth and financial position, or a bounder with only a family behind you?" Cameron inquired.

"Me for Porshinger!" Burgoyne declared. "He has the money and may improve--the other chap is hopeless."

"He is at the next place--Woodside's, I understand," Miss Chamberlain broke in. "Suppose we ask him over and try our softening influence on him."

"Sample him before tasting," Cameron suggested.

"Shake well before taking," Devereux amended.

"We shall ask Pendleton to do the shaking--so it is thoroughly done!" Cameron laughed.

Burgoyne gave Pendleton an amused smile, which the latter returned. They were thinking of the episode on the Club-house piazza.

"You're not serious, Gladys?" cried Mrs. Burleston.

"It is for the table to say," Gladys submitted. "Vote, please--you begin, Dorothy."

"I vote for--that we have him over," said Miss Tazewell.

"So do I," said Mrs. Burleston.

"Marcia, how do you vote?" asked Gladys.

"With the others," Miss Emerson acquiesced--but she hesitated just a trifle before she said it.

"And Mrs. Lorraine?"

Stephanie did not understand the hostess' game, but she caught her significant look and acquiesced.

"I also will vote with the others," she replied.

"The gentlemen, of course, are of the same mind as the ladies so it will be unnecessary to ask them." Miss Chamberlain smiled. "Therefore it is unanimously resolved that Mr. Porshinger be invited to Criss-Cross and to make one of the party. We need another man anyway. I don't hear any objection so the resolution stands. I shall telephone him in the morning."

"And he will be bounder enough to come!" muttered Devereux.

"Of course he will," said Gladys--"it is just because he is a bounder that we're going to ask him. You don't suppose I would venture it on you, or any other gentleman--to take you from another house where you're a guest for the week-end!"

"Cameron, what possessed you to inquire about Porshinger? You're responsible for all this fool thing!" declared Devereux.

"It was a perfectly harmless inquiry," Cameron protested, "which turned out to be loaded. I beg your pardon, Devereux, I shall never do it again."

"Remember I shall expect you men to be civil to him," Miss Chamberlain cautioned.

"Do you _actually_ mean to ask him, Gladys?" said Burgoyne.

"I never was more serious in my life. Moreover it is the will of the table."

Burgoyne held up his hands.

"Oh Lord! Oh Lord!" he exclaimed.

"It isn't all bad," Cameron remarked. "If we treat him half decent maybe sometime we can all borrow an extra wad at the Tuscarora."

"Touching that matter," laughed Devereux, "I have known such things to happen."

"But not touching Porshinger," Cameron observed. "The man who touches him will be a fencer indeed."

"He'll be a burglar!" Devereux retorted. "Why are _you_ so quiet?" turning to Pendleton. "Why don't you say something?--join in, join in!"

"It's not up to me to say anything," Pendleton replied, as he sunk his fork into the asparagus salad.

"It's your funeral as much as anyone's!" Devereux exclaimed.

"Not at all--it is Miss Chamberlain's. She will have to bear the responsibility and the burden--and be nice to him in future. We are obligated to nothing except to be civil to him while we're at Criss-Cross. It is not worrying me in the least--moreover, I'm not in need of money."

"Now you have it, Devereux!" said Cameron. "Want any more?"

"Not at present, thank you!" Devereux laughed. "Meanwhile we have until to-morrow before the bounder arrives. I'm going to enjoy the time while it lasts--it is short enough as it is."

"How are you going to enjoy it?" asked Mrs. Burleston.

"Making love to you."

"Why should Mr. Porshinger's coming interfere with you making love to Helen?" Gladys inquired.

"'Oh, the fascinating widow!'" sang Devereux.

"Do be sensible, Dev," Mrs. Burleston exclaimed.

"Ask of him something possible!" Gladys laughed.

"Dear Lady, you speak with a cruel tongue----"

"But with a true tongue," she interjected.

"Perchance--yes! Verily I say unto you that unless you wear red hosiery in the autumn the truth isn't in you and you shall surely be damned."

"There is not the least doubt of _your_ being damned," remarked Cameron.

"You mistake the sex--I don't wear _hosiery_. I wear socks."

"I'm not so sure!" Cameron retorted.

"That could be taken as a reflection on me, but you naturally referred to the ladies. 'Twas a most ungallant speech, monsieur, a most ungallant speech! Remember it not against him, mademoiselles--he knows not what he does."

"What a clown Dev can be when he tries!" smiled Pendleton. "His facial expressions make funny what otherwise would be rotten."

"And it is so absurd in him, who is such a wonder in business," Stephanie added. "The man has a double nature, surely--and I can't say that I care for this side. It doesn't fit!"

"On the contrary, it seems to me it fits admirably. He is able to throw off his cares and forget them--and to make a boy of himself. That may be the reason he is so shrewd--he comes at business fresh every morning. I think it was a pretense at first, but it has become second nature now."

"I like a manly man, not a combination of a man and a harlequin," said Stephanie. "A man like Mr. Chamberlain or--you, Montague," with a tantalizing smile from under her lowered lids.

"Don't tempt me!" he warned.--"Don't tempt me!"

"It is perfectly safe to tempt you--_here_."

"It may not be on the piazza."

"The temptation _passes_ when we leave this room," she enjoined.

"I am not so sure," he threatened.

The hostess arose.

"Does it pass?" Stephanie asked.

He only smiled, and drew out her chair.

"Does it pass?" she repeated as she faced him.

His only answer was another smile.

"Very well, sir; I'll not go on the piazza with you until you acquiesce--and neither will I arrange that we are quite alone, as I had intended."

"You win!" he laughed. "The temptation passes--for to-night."

Half an hour later, the coffee finished, Mrs. Lorraine arose and went into the house. Presently a servant very quietly summoned Pendleton to the telephone. Stephanie was on the landing when he entered the hall, and she met him at the foot of the stairs.

"I'm the telephone," she remarked.

"I had hoped so," he smiled. "Where shall we go?"

"On the side piazza, where the lights are not burning."

He held back the portieres, and they went through the library and out into the star-light night, where the silver crescent of the moon was cutting its way toward the western horizon. All was still save for the faint hum of voices at the front and occasional laughter.

"It's a perfect night!" she breathed. "How much better the country is for one than the dirt and noise and bustle of the big town. The peace and calm--the _dolce far niente_ of it all--is very, very restful."

"It's the place for women who don't have to work--and the men who can afford not to," he said. "Everyone is gravitating toward the country--the pure air, the pure water--the simple life that is not quite so simple as it once was."

"But it's simpler than town life--heaps simpler," as she led the way to a remote corner, where two chairs stood apart.

She took one.--He drew the other close over, and sitting on the arm reached down and took her hand.

"You said the temptation passed," she admonished--while suffering it to remain.

"This isn't temptation--it's admiration, adoration----"

"Flirtation!" she laughed.

"Whatever it is, it _isn't_ flirtation," he said. "You know that, don't you, Stephanie?"

She gave him a fleeting look.

"Yes, Montague, I know that," she answered softly--and quietly withdrew her hand. "Now sit down and let me tell you what it is I want you to agree to--we haven't much time, you know. Devereux will be on our trail if we're absent too long."

He whirled the chair around and sat down--then calmly leaned forward and, in a masterful matter-of-fact way, took possession of both her hands.

"Will that make you more amenable?" she laughed softly, yielding them to him.

"I'll agree to anything you wish, _now_," he responded.

"But it's not exactly right, Montague," she protested.

"I know it isn't," he admitted; "when we want, we do a lot that isn't right. What is it you have to tell me?"

"It's about Porshinger--" she hesitated.

"You knew Gladys was going to ask him?" he said.

She shook her head. "No, I didn't--she did it on the spur of the moment, I'm sure, though she may have had this matter we are coming to in mind. You're puzzled--and I don't wonder. Tell me, Montague, did you ever have any trouble with Porshinger?"

"Not especially!" he said, trying to throw surprise into his voice. Who had told her?

"Not especially!" she repeated. "What does that mean?"

"Perhaps you would better tell me what _you_ mean," he said.

"Yes, I think I would," she replied, "and it's this: I lunched with Marcia Emerson yesterday at Partridge's--then I took her home in my car. On the way she told me that a few nights prior she was up at the Club until late, and while sitting alone on the piazza she had overheard Porshinger and Murchison--who were seated around the corner from her and evidently thought they had the place to themselves--discussing you. It was only a few words, but they were significant. Murchison asked if there was anything new in the _Lorraine_ affair.