Vol. LXXXVIII No. 6

The
Yale Literary Magazine

Conducted by the
Students of Yale University.

“Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque Yalenses

Cantabunt Soboles, unanimique Patres.”

March, 1923.

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THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE

Contents

MARCH, 1923

The Yale Literary Magazine

EDITORS

BUSINESS MANAGERS

Leader

“... being firmly persuaded that every time a man smiles,—but much more so, when he laughs that it adds something to this Fragment of Life.”—Dedication to Tristam Shandy.

There is, of course, the Campus and Osborn Hall. There is Mory’s. There is Yale Station. There is the Bowl. Enumeration is unnecessary. That will serve well enough at the twenty-fifth reunion. For the moment we are affluent in detail, and comprehend suggestion. We still remember a great deal about Yale.

But there is a wistfulness about even specific memories that hardly expresses our attitude. For we take with us something we are glad to have. The Comic Spirit has quietly insinuated its existence into our point of view. Undoubtedly we have found cherished mansions set on fire and destroyed, but in general we have discovered the delights of roast pig amidst their ruins. You will find the Senior more capable of laughing at the serious than the Freshman. He sees the humor abroad, and is more sensitive to the divine comedy.

Comedy particularizes, whereas tragedy deals in the general. When one laughs one is beginning to see things in detail. In Freshman year one contents oneself with the infinite, but in Senior year one becomes concerned with the finite. The Freshman poet will write about Death and Eternity, the Senior about life. After all the latter is merely more sincere.

For Yale does not influence one to become a golden mean, or to idealize a mens sana in corpore sano. It has a more brilliant bit of philosophy than that. It satirizes the affectations out of a man, so that he learns the proportion of the everyday and of the eternal, and adapts his decisions to that proportion. He is capable of rendering unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, because he has learned to recognize what things are Caesar’s. He has won his scales.

Seeing things in proportion is not materialism, any more than it is idealism. It is seeing with sincerity. Material things are not then idealized, and ideals are not made material. Each is treated in its own terms, the question of emphasis and relativity being left to the temperament. Shelley, for instance, in most of his writing, exemplifies a disproportioned point of view of life. It is not quite real, because it is not quite sincere. He died at the point where he was beginning to imagine balance. Chaucer lived long enough to find it and employ it in his art. He is the greater. For it is just as foolish to think that the soul is without a body, as to think that the body is without a soul; or to fancy a man as completely aetherial, when it is perfectly obvious that he walks with feet of clay.

I may seem to have maligned the Freshman, and the Freshman of feeling will be hurt. But I am using the sobriquet as generic. It really applies to most of the outside world. Experience there is a hard task-master, and only the exception finds mirth under her schooling. The majority there remain Freshmen always, lacking the knowledge of the comic. At Yale there are few who remain so. Ultimately they are laughed out of their position.

Yale has always fastened its banner to this criticism of life. For years it was “Harvard affectation” that Yale ridiculed. To-day freaks are not seriously condemned; it is the dilettante who plays into the hands of satire. Insincerity is the unpardonable sin. But the method of punishing is humor. The world crushes the apocryphal with an iron heel, but Yale kicks it deftly out of a college window. It is the intelligent method. And naturally. For common sense has become almost a Yale idiom.

Maxwell E. Foster.

A Drama for Two

“If men are dust, I do not understand

What women are. What language does she speak,

Who plays with me as children with the sand,

Who shapes me with a gesture of her hand,

And floods me in the crimson of her cheek?

Our fingers in our passion did entwine,

Like ivy growing in the lap of Spring:

A moment, and she was a deathless thing—

A woman? Nay, the spirit of the vine!”

“Ah, but I did not love to make him glad;

But, if I could, to make him more than wise.

I found, in the strange silence of his eyes,

The same unuttered fear that Dante had,

Lest Beatrice should die and he go mad!

And so I let him dream a paradise

Upon my lips; and with love’s quick disguise

Appeared in white robes and in roses clad.”

“I think that love is like a leaning sail

Swept toward a far horizon, swift in flight.

The seas are blue. But soon the wind must fail,

And all of Heaven’s will cannot avail

To keep the ship from drifting toward the night.

I am not sure of this: but yesterday

There was no eager passion in her lips;

And so I said, ‘My dear, we are but ships

Passing away in time—leaning away’.”

“How quickly do our blushes leave the cheek:

How like a withered ghost goes modesty!

I loved him not. The devil played with me,

And still plays on—instructing me to speak

In soft words—sounding truer in a shriek.

Would I had vanished into destiny!

Ah, God! When they pretend that love is free,

The women buy the freedom that they seek.”

“Of Beauty in immortal guise beware!—

For even women’s bodies are of dust.

I do not hate her, but I cannot bear

The subtle isolation of her stare,

As though she’d changed ‘I love’ into ‘I must’.

But in me there’s no sorrow or regret,

I am not by a jealousy distraught;

Love’s neither here nor there—for I have sought,

And found, and lost—and now I can forget.”

“Ah, when I told him everything, he said:

‘I love you still, but not as yesterday.

Life is a laughing art. Our passions play

So madly that it is in vain to wed.

I’m glad you feel the way I do,’ he said.

And had he washed my body quite away

In tears, I would not have had less to say.

I merely smiled, pretending I was dead.”

“Then where is Beauty, now that she had fled,

And where is Paradise without her arms?

Surely I did not know how much I said,

When I complained that the old love was dead:

’Tis thinking of to-morrow that disarms!

How her remembered hair makes sadness live,

And how her absent voice is young with power!

Yea, for the recollection of one hour

Turns the soul nightward, like a fugitive.”

“I find that being in the house alone

Is gruesome, for the worn and creaky floors,

The wind outside, the rain, the empty doors,

Sing with a wild and ghostly undertone—

Not quite articulate—but yet a moan.

Often I long for the white surf that roars,

Or for the rapture of the gull that soars,

Or for the splendor of a silent throne.”

RUSSELL W. DAVENPORT.

Five Sonnets

I.

Perplex me not with words I understand,

Nor gracefully demolish the unborn.

You tell me that my fantasies are torn,

But I have only written them on sand.

You answer with a gesture of your hand

Though I have asked not, I have only sworn.

Would you then burn green shoots with withered scorn?

My lady, you do waste your flaming brand.

I draw the pictures you desire to hide,

When you return such compliments for mine,

For love makes bitter poison into sweet.

And there’ll be memory, when our quick eyes meet,

To stir into a bubbling the gay wine.

—Which of us will have fallen in our pride?

II.

But is it pride that motivates the play,

Or brings the climax and the curtain call?

—I question the new lilies that are tall,

For wiser than a Solomon are they.

But they have only parables to say,

And only nod against the mossy wall,

Pale blossoms of the sacrifice and gall,—

They do not answer those who cannot pray?

Their quick renascence from the tragedy

We do not act. We play the witty parts,

And do not veil with curtains our decease.

It is a trifle of a comic piece?

We wear upon our sleeves our naked hearts?

—Pride is not on, for we are two, not three.

III.

But there’s the dialogue that must confuse.

It is not swift or brilliant otherwise.

We make a parody of paradise,

That it may fascinate, not to amuse.

I grant it’s a lost quaint, uncommon ruse.

But if it serves to open wide our eyes,

Would it be well to fancy or devise

New strange unheard of fables to abuse.

Love is a clever scene that you have set,

You the beginning, I will do the end.

—It is a bargain of an enemy?

Perhaps, but as a bargain let it be,

For it is fair I should not be your friend

—Now the dénouement of the cruel coquette.

IV.

You laugh again at this my imagery,

But I will turn your laughter from my soul,

Explain this love has humor as its goal,

That you are quainter than the simile.

You who have bound yourself so to be free,

You who will lose the part to keep the whole,

You who will quench with fire the living coal,—

O strange and unaccounted mystery.

Yes, I have flung you back your worn derision,

Cast to you all my precious, secret oaths.

Now as the curtain’s falling, take the applause.

Foolish to fight with bastard natural laws,

Even the ones that all of nature loathes.

Lady, you have the worth of their decision.

V.

Charming?—A little long-drawn out?—or dead?

It matters not. Open the exit doors,

And let them out, and sweep the theatre floors,

The dazzle of the footlights takes my head.

—Good-night, and I shall totter off to bed.

To-morrow’s play? God, how these lines are bores!

You say it’s just the thing the crowd adores?

—It likes the pretty ending where we’re wed?

Thank God for night that is not made with lights,

Stars that are quiet, unpainted, distant things,

Wind that is dustless, fresh, and water-cool.

—Some day I shall give over my new school,

Permit myself the luxury of wings,—

Yes, I can hear you: “And a pair of tights?”

MAXWELL E. FOSTER.

This Modern Generation

What is more exasperating, more insistent, and still more exasperating because of its insistence, than a telephone ringing beside one’s bed at two A. M.? There is indeed some doubt as to whether these modern appliances, together with the modern world which they purport to make happy, are not altogether out of place on this earth. In striving to be great, perhaps we mortals have obscured our immortality. At any rate, Mr. Harrow thought so, as he hurled his corpulent shape from the bed, crashed into the small table upon which the offensive instrument rested, swore, and put the receiver to his ear. A terrific buzzing ensued, and a vibration which was actually painful.

“Dammit,” he said, “hello, dammit.”

And now the reader will excuse us if we leave Mr. Harrow struggling with this all too mortal instrument, and proceed to an explanation of the causes of his disturbance; which task will require the remainder of the story for its consummation.

Betty Harrow lived with her father in this very modest house somewhere in New York City. The two of them were an affectionate pair, in spite of a large discrepancy in their characters. For, while the implacable gruffness of Mr. Harrow prevented him from understanding the youth and the beauty of his daughter’s emotions, still he was able to make allowances for what seemed to him too modern and dashing in her character. She filled a place in the old gentleman’s life which the death of his wife had left vacant. If Mr. Harrow had ever understood his wife, he was the only person that believed it. But there is a kind of understanding which arises from a tender and lasting affection, and which is really the main prerequisite to a happy married life. This Mr. Harrow possessed to a degree. He never tired of watching his wife manage the house, and never failed to kiss her tenderly, after an argument, even when his impatience had been aroused to the point of swearing at her. When she died, he felt strangely that it was a rebuke. He tried to compensate by increased tenderness toward his débutante daughter.

He found this especially easy because Betty was the image of her beautiful mother. Indeed if it had not been that she possessed one of those intrinsically virtuous characters, in whom moral principles are realized quite naturally without a struggle and without being mentally formulated—if she had not owed much to heredity—Betty would have been spoiled by her father’s attentions. As it was, however, she came out successfully, being one of the belles of that season; and had since lived with her father for three years. She was now just twenty-one.

Of course, Mr. Harrow was not one of those disagreeable early-Victorian fathers who force their daughters into undesirable marriages; but he had nevertheless a choice for Betty in the back of his mind, and allowed no opportunity to slip by without a sly hint concerning the desirability of this gentleman. The gentleman’s name was Conrad, and he had lately risen to a responsible position in one of the largest of the down-town brokerage houses. He was noted for his cleverness, his cool head, and for the astoundingly impersonal way in which he looked out at the world. He was one of those “objective” persons, who, if any criticism is to be made of them, regard life with too slight an emphasis upon the heart. Betty liked him well enough, though she did not perceive those same virtues in him which had attracted her father. But she was not yet prepared to sacrifice for a man already past thirty-five, her present life of laughter, young love, and gayety.

Do not let me give you a false impression of this young lady. If you had seen her in any one of a number of “scrapes” into which her gay life had led her, you would, I think, form a very high estimation of her character. Clandestine parties in automobiles, with silly young men who know little beyond the recent baseball scores, and who really do not know how to kiss a woman—these kinds of things she had no use for. They bored her, and did not tempt her. Romance, for her, was much more artistic than this, and much more fundamental.

She had, indeed, managed to scare up a real romance which served, for the present at least, as an added enjoyment to a life that was already a happy one. Betty was cruel in such affairs. She made it quite plain to her lovers that she was very much in love with them: but she never allowed them to approach her with anything more forceful than their eyes. And as her present favorite one day exclaimed to a confidential friend, “I might as well hang her picture on the wall and flirt with that.”

This exclamation was carried to Betty’s ears by the said friend, who, notwithstanding his vows of secrecy, was only human. A few days after the disclosure Betty sent the following note by way of consolation:

“Dearest Charles:

“Monty tells me that you want to look at my picture, but that you haven’t got one to hang on the wall. I’m sorry for this; I don’t wish to lose any opportunities, even if it only is with a picture; so I am sending you the very best photograph I have, hoping that you will not fail to make use of it.

“Yours for the winter,

“Betty.”

This note, and the photograph which followed it, astounded Charles, in spite of the fact that he was becoming used to Betty’s impetuosity. Yet, he reflected, he had only known her a few months and could be excused for his astonishment. He very dutifully placed the picture upon his dresser, and very dutifully made love to it. He liked to fill in the colors which the photograph did not reveal. There was nothing to distinguish them from other observations than a lover’s except possibly the hair, which was a strange mixture of brown and gold. The eyes were blue and large. And the nose had a peculiar curve of its own, which was extremely feminine. Charles sighed and decided that he would pay a visit to New York; for he was at that time occupied with journalism in Boston.

Now Betty was no more anxious to fall seriously in love with Charles than she was with Mr. Conrad. While the latter was somewhat uninteresting and unromantic, the former acquitted himself of those faults only at the expense of poverty and an unpretentious position on a Boston newspaper. Mr. Conrad could offer her everything that money could buy; Charles could only bring her those sacrifices which love often demands. She was no more willing to save her pennies for Charles than she was to forfeit her freedom to the middle age of Conrad. And although she did not reason this out, she decided that something ought to be done in the way of intimating her convictions to both lovers. The direct antithesis which they presented amused her and gave her an inspiration. She would pit them against one another and see what would happen. Perhaps it was the restless tendency of her generation which made her want to find out what would happen. Perhaps it was the skepticism of the age which had entered her heart and had led her to doubt which of the two goods wielded the greatest motive—romance or a life of ease. Perhaps, in the true spirit of the modern débutante, she preferred empirical methods. Or perhaps it was merely femininity.

At any rate, she invited them both to dinner on the same evening, and noted with satisfaction Mr. Conrad’s apparent uneasiness upon perceiving the attractive features and the youthful bearing of the new arrival. She laughed also to see that Charles merely regarded Mr. Conrad as an uncle or as an old family friend, and had not, as yet, a suspicion of the true nature of the case. So she devoted the evening to Charles.

They were discussing the last Yale Promenade—for Charles was a Yale man, having graduated only a year ago. Conrad, who had never gone to college, leaned over with his elbows on his knees, and tried to enter into the conversation, though puffing nervously his cigar. Mr. Harrow was getting out the chess board, for he was an enthusiastic player, and made it a habit to challenge Conrad for an evening bout—usually, we fear, to that gentleman’s annoyance, and always to his disgrace.

“Christy,” said the old man, having set up the chess-men and arranged the chairs, “what do you say to a game of chess?”

The question was asked in this identical manner every evening, and Christy, who had never yet found the method of avoiding such elaborate preparations, invariably answered in the affirmative. This evening he sat down even more reluctantly, since he had no sooner begun to play than Betty delicately suggested to Charles that they go into the parlor to see the family photograph albums.

“That old gentleman looks as if he needed a rest,” said Charles after they were seated side by side.

Betty gasped. “Do you mean Christy?”

“Christy?—Is that what you call him?”

“Christopher Conrad of Wall Street,” said Betty, puckering her lips and making a serious frown. Then she laughed. “The idea of your calling him an old gentleman! Why—why—he’s one of my best friends!”

“Oh.”

“And he’s just the kind of man to make a woman happy, don’t you think, Charlie? Plenty of money—and—a fortunate disposition.”

Charles flushed. This seemed something of a pickle. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t understand.”

Betty, having achieved that victory, sat back and opened a large album, which she presently spread out across her knees, and his, and leaned very close to him in order to point to the pictures of principal interest.

After many oh’s and ah’s, Charles noticed a distinguished individual and said: “There’s another man, I suppose, who could make a woman happy.”

“Why, yes,” said Betty, “that’s Uncle Alfred. But he’s the romantic type—like you. He hasn’t got a cent of money because he spends it as fast as he gets it. I’m sure Aunt Susan must have been very much in love with him before she married him.”

“Hm,” said Charles, “you seem to emphasize the economic side of things to-night.”

Betty looked at him quietly. “I always make a point of it when I’m with you,” she said; “but look here—that’s me when I was six.”

Charles leaned as far over toward her as possible, in order to get a clear view of the situation. She offered no objection. Presently they were talking very seriously about his future.

Suddenly Charles said: “I say, Betty, are you engaged to—that—that young gentleman?”

Betty eyed him. “Of course not,” she said. “Whatever put that into your head?”

“Oh nothing, except that you have been continually praising him all evening; and I thought perhaps you had some reason for it.”

“Well, I have,” she said. “I think you ought to profit by his example. He’s so industrious and calm and dignified. People all talk about him. We’ve sort of made a model out of him.”

Saying which, she lighted a second cigarette and sat back to look at Charles in a tantalizing way.

Meanwhile the chess players had been discussing very personal matters between moves. Conrad had suggested to Mr. Harrow, who knew his heart, that it was high time for a proposal of marriage to the young lady in the adjoining room. “Especially,” he said, “since she seemed to have her head turned by the attentions of this young man Charles what-do-you-call-him.”

“Saunders,” said Mr. Harrow.

“Yes, Saunders. He hasn’t a cent in the world, has he?”

“No,” said Mr. Harrow, “but you mustn’t be alarmed at that. If you had brought up a daughter, you wouldn’t be alarmed at that. Your move.”

“Precisely,” said Conrad, moving his bishop into a position of extreme peril, where it was promptly snatched up by the opponent’s queen. “But I believe, sir—and surely you must agree with me—that the better portion of a woman’s life is that which is devoted to the care of the home; and that your daughter—”

“Your move again,” said Mr. Harrow, who was now commencing the final drive of his attack.

“Certainly. That your daughter has seen enough of the world to realize the futility of flirtation with—”

“Hold on—that move puts you in check. Besides, Christy, it’s obvious that you ought to protect this rook here, if you want to break my attack.”

“Certainly. But don’t you agree with me?”

“Eh-what? Yes. But I’ll tell you what, Christy. This modern generation can’t be forced to do a damn thing. Haven’t I argued with her? Haven’t I told her she’d end up in a scandal? ’Pon my word, Christy, you’d better get a hustle on—check.”

Thus the party broke up, somewhat after ten o’clock, much to the dissatisfaction of both lovers, and much to Betty’s enjoyment. She was not surprised when Conrad called up the next day and wished to have tea with her that afternoon—alone, if possible. “Why, yes,” she said; “it would be delightful. But one can never tell who will drop in.”

It was easy enough, however, to arrange matters so that no one could drop in. This she did. She was knitting in the parlor when Conrad arrived. He was resplendent in gray spats and shiny shoes. She asked him to sit down beside her on the sofa, and poured him a cup of tea. After this was finished, he began, quite abruptly:

“Elizabeth, you must have noticed that even during your childhood I have looked upon you, not with the eyes of an elderly friend—which might, indeed, have been the case—but with those of a lover. I have never been entirely happy out of your sight, and never so supremely happy as when favored with a glance of your eyes” (here he looked at her), “or a touch of your hand” (here he took her hand, which she allowed him to retain). “I have, of course, understood, my dear, that your youth and extreme beauty entitled you to—ah—your little fling in—ah—society. I have for this reason stood aside, and have offered not the slightest objection, either to your—ah—modernism, or to your—ah—gayety. But I feel now that you have reached the age of full discretion. I regard you openly as a woman with whom I am in love. And I ask you, humbly, to become my wife.”

If Betty was laughing she did not show it. “Oh, Christy!” she exclaimed. “I—I hadn’t thought. I don’t know. It is such a step.”

“Why, dearest? How would it change you so very much?”

“Change? That’s just it. I’m afraid it wouldn’t change me at all. I would still love dances and parties and music and Harry Fisher (here Mr. Conrad started) and Charles Saunders (here he jumped perceptibly), and cabarets. These things you can’t give me, dear. I should have to be such a dutiful wife.”

She looked at him in a manner which simply denied the words she spoke. He thought to himself “This is feminine resistance,” and sought to embrace her. But she pushed him away gently.

“No, dear. Think it over; you will understand then.”

They talked on for some time—Conrad very ill at ease, Betty quite delighted with the situation. She felt no compassion for him. He was such a stupid man not to realize these things. After an hour or so he left, to think it over.

He had no sooner gone than Charles arrived, breathlessly, and wanted to know if Betty could go on a party that night.

She laughed at his young enthusiasm. “What kind of a party?” she asked.

“Oh, just you and I—down to Greenwich Village. We could go to the Green Wagon and dance and have a little punch—I know them down there.”

The temptation was almost overpowering. Ordinarily she might have gone. “Why, Charlie,” she exclaimed, “how perfectly absurd! How could I think of being seen in a place like that—alone—with you?”

Charles grinned, in spite of his disappointment, and said that she wasn’t likely to be “seen” by anybody she knew—“unless you are in the habit of going there,” he added.

“Well, I’m not! And I don’t think you ought to have asked me. I think it’s something of an insult.” Upon which she pouted her lips just a trifle and fingered one of the books on the table.

To Charles this seemed the extreme of perversity. He gazed at her for some time without knowing whether to become angry or humble. To most young lovers, the situation would have called for a certain amount of humility, inasmuch as the lady seemed to consider herself deeply insulted. We venture the opinion that the reader would have asked Betty’s pardon and offered his services in some other and more refined amusement. In other words, most of us with Charles’ meagre experience in matters of love, would have taken a healthy bite to the hook. But Charles was impetuous and possessed of a quick temper, which, while it never lasted for any length of time, often asserted itself in precarious situations. It had already ducked him into much hot water and had been the cause of a broken engagement with a young Boston girl, who, far from having Betty’s nice scruples, was too much devoid of them in the eyes of her lover. Meanwhile, we have left Charles and Betty standing there silent. And the former, being keenly disappointed (for he had come there to offer her nothing but the best intentions) suddenly looked up and said, “Well, I’m sorry you see it that way.—So long.” Whereupon he turned and left the house.

You may imagine Betty’s surprise, which soon turned into anger, for it seemed that one of the actors in her little play was growing recalcitrant. She was decidedly not the mistress of the situation, since Charles had done this most unexpected thing. It was really horrid of him to react in such a manner. She boiled over considerably.

On the other hand, Conrad rose immensely in her estimation, because he reacted precisely as she had intended. As if he had received written instructions, he announced his arrival as usual by telephone, had tea with her the following afternoon, and said that “he had thought the situation over with extreme care, and had come to the conclusion that, in spite of his more advanced age, he was perfectly capable of supplying Betty with that life of gayety, music, and dancing which she so loved: in proof of which he desired her to accompany him to Greenwich Village that very night.” Betty was so flattered at the success of her anticipations that she acquiesced somewhat too enthusiastically, although she had intended to go with him from the very beginning. By way of making her acceptance a trifle more lady-like, she urged him to pick some cabaret obscure enough so that they would not be seen.

Now, in case the reader should accuse me of relying too much upon Fate in the relation of this tale, I had better acquaint him before hand with certain facts: namely, that Conrad, having made his decision, found himself at a loss to know of an obscure and poorly frequented establishment in Greenwich Village, which should at the same time be fairly respectable; that he had an artist friend named Peter, to whom he went for advice; and that Peter, who owned an establishment himself which seemed to suit Conrad’s needs, was an intimate friend of Charles Saunders.

Charles, whatever may be said of his good qualities as a lover, was not the kind to deny himself pleasure on account of a perverse mistress. In fact, her very perversity aroused in him such a craving to forget her, such a desire to avoid what he considered a sickly and unmanly pining, that he was driven to indulge in those passions, which, without the proper settings, the world considers un-Christian. Charles would merely have called them unbeautiful. But it is a well-known fact that the loss of a very delicate and tender beauty, which we have coveted, leads us to madness, in a vain attempt to beautify anything which happens to be at hand. Thus it happened that Charles had been drunk twice since leaving Betty’s house (for that young lady had been too proud to relent), and had spent his evenings at his friend Peter’s establishment, called the Green Wagon, in company with Peter himself and a couple of not-too-respectable girls.

It is not surprising, therefore, that Charles had no sooner seated himself and ordered cocktails, than his gaze fell upon what appeared to him the most beautiful back in the room. He gazed at it steadily, doubting his own senses, which, however, insisted that the color of the lady’s hair was a strange mixture of brown and gold. He glanced at her partner, who was none other than the dignified Conrad, and who was leaning far over the edge of the table, tea-cup in hand, and talking with her earnestly. Charles thought that he could even perceive the reflection of her beautiful eyes in Conrad’s loathsome ones. Charles shuddered, and muttered to himself, and drank his liquor violently, ordering more.

Meanwhile, Betty and Conrad were enjoying themselves hugely. He had been very liberal, and she had taken rather more than she would ordinarily have considered prudent. Perhaps it was the fact that she was safe in the care of this old and reliable friend. Perhaps, too, she wished to compensate for the good time which she had denied herself with Charles.

“You know, my dear,” said Conrad, gazing at her intensely, “I have never enjoyed any experience in my life quite so much as this one. I must thank you for delivering me out of what was proving to be a monotonous routine. I could be happy forever, this way, with you.” Whereupon he took her hand, which she had placed carelessly on the table, and which she allowed him to hold. Indeed, she even gave his an affectionate squeeze, not realizing perhaps that even old family friends can be fools. We would, however, blush to set down on paper the thoughts which were now in Conrad’s mind. We fear he had attempted to transfer the cruel tactics of business into the affairs of love. For he saw plainly that there was only one way of winning Betty for his wife, and that he could never do so while she was in her more rational environment at home. And although Conrad was not an unscrupulous man, his present plan could be considered little less than diabolical.

“You have been such a good girl to come out with me to-night,” he said—“to give me this little pleasure which I have lacked all my life.”

Betty met his eyes. She could not see or hear things very distinctly. Yet she was conscious that he had said something kind. She really liked him a great deal. She squeezed his hand again, and asked him to light a cigarette for her.

“Dear Christy,” she said, “you have always been such a good friend to me.”

Soon after this the music started. They rose to dance, and Betty allowed his cheek to touch hers; for although she was not in the habit of doing this with everybody, she chose to make an exception to-night. She had her reasons to justify this. One was that she wanted to show Conrad how things were done; the other, she said, was that he was perfectly safe anyway. Whatever motive lay beneath this we will leave the reader to judge. At present she closed her eyes and felt rather happy and a trifle drowsy. She was a little surprised, however, in the middle of the dance, to feel him tighten his arm about her body and move his lips closer to hers. This was so unlike the Conrad she knew—the dignified Wall Street broker. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, and smiled.

Her glance had no sooner left Conrad’s eyes than it fell upon Charles, who was not far away, and who was watching her over the head of his partner, with a look of dismay, and, as it seemed to Betty, even disgust. Her first reaction was one of terror. What a frightfully compromising meeting. Then she remembered how she had refused Charles an invitation to this very establishment, without any reason for so doing. Whereupon she hated herself for the part which she was now playing. She next looked at Charles’ partner, whose lips and cheeks were painted, and hated Charles.

“Let’s sit down a moment,” she said to Conrad. “I’m tired.” She changed seats with him, saying that she wanted to see the dancers better. What was Charles doing down here, anyway, with a disreputable woman like that? And after professing to be in love with her! But he had never—yes, she knew he was in love with her! Well, she did not love Charles, so it did not matter; only she wished he had not seen her down here with Conrad; and especially after her refusal to go with him!

Oh, it all went in such hopeless circles; and here was Conrad trying to make her take another drink. “It will revive you, my dear,” he said, “and brace you up.”

She looked at him. “Thank you; I’ve had enough.”

What was to be done?

The dance ended. Charles took his partner to their table. He sat down, facing Betty. Suddenly Betty had an inspiration. She quite unexpectedly exclaimed, “Oh!” and waved her hand toward Charles, who, though surprised by this enthusiasm, responded with a laugh. He presently arose and walked over to their table, said hello to Conrad, and rallied Betty on the inconsistencies of Fortune, “Which,” he said, “will never allow the most secret conspiracies to pass unobserved by others.” Betty laughed and promised to take the next dance with him, “If Christy didn’t mind”; and Christy, scowling heavily, said he did not.

The next dance came, and Charles, realizing that Conrad’s eye was upon them, retired with her to a corner, where they danced in slow circles.

“Betty,” he exclaimed, “why did you come here with him—after refusing, the other day?”

She laughed. “Why, Charles, dear, how foolish. Were you offended at that? There’s quite a difference in your ages, you know. He is a very old friend of mine. And he’s such a nice, respectable man.”

“Hm. Well, to tell you quite frankly, I didn’t see anything very respectable going on during the last dance.”

Betty flushed and bit her lip, and would have been angry had not embarrassment overcome her.

Charles continued ruthlessly: “The woman I was with said, ‘There’s a happy party for you’, and I looked up—and saw—you.”

“Charles—” began Betty.

“Now wait a minute. Tell me one thing truthfully. Have you ever been out like this with him before?”

“Why?”

“Because—well, because I don’t believe you ever have.”

“No, I haven’t. But I don’t see that that has anything to do with it. I—”

“Just this. I don’t like his looks—that’s all. I judge men by their eyes, and I don’t like his eyes. They seem especially bad to me to-night. If you don’t believe me—”