quick, buoyant step so characteristic of a spirit ever undaunted, saluting the others on the terrace with high-lifted racquet.
"Nobody won," she said. "Come on, Alice, if you're going to scrub before luncheon. Thank you, Louis; I've had a splendid game—" She stretched out a frank hand to him, going, and the tips of her fingers just brushed his.
His sister gave him a tragic look, which he ignored, and a little later luncheon was on and Cameron garrulous, and Querida his own gentle, expressive, fascinating self, devotedly receptive to any woman who was inclined to talk to him or to listen.
That evening Neville said to his sister: "There's a train at midnight; I don't think I'll stay over—"
"Why?"
"I want to be in town early."
"Why?"
"The early light is the best."
"I thought you'd stopped painting for a while."
"I have, practically. There's one thing I keep on with, in a desultory sort of way—"
"What is it?"
"Oh, nothing of importance—" he hesitated—"that Is, it may be important. I can't be sure, yet."
"Will you tell me what it is?"
"Why, yes. It's a portrait—a study—"
"Of whom, dear?"
"Oh, of nobody you know—"
"Is it a portrait of Valerie West?"
"Yes," he said, carelessly.
There was a silence; in the starlight his shadowy face was not clearly visible to his sister.
"Are you leaving just to continue that portrait?"
"Yes. I'm interested in it."
"Don't go," she said, in a low voice.
"Don't be silly," he returned shortly.
"Dear, I am not silly, but I suspect you are beginning to be. And over a model!"
"Lily, you little idiot," he laughed, exasperated; "what in the world is worrying you?"
"Your taking that girl to the St. Regis. It isn't like you."
"Good Lord! How many girls do you suppose I've taken to various places?"
"Not many," she said, smiling at him. "Your reputation for gallantries is not alarming."
Ho reddened. "You're perfectly right. That sort of thing never appealed to me."
"Then why does it appeal to you now?"
"It doesn't. Can't you understand that this girl is entirely different—"
"Yes, I understand. And that is what worries me."
"It needn't. It's precisely like taking any girl you know and like—"
"Then let me know her—if you mean to decorate-public places with her."
They looked at one another steadily.
"Louis," she said, "this pretty Valerie is not your sister's sort, or you wouldn't hesitate."
"I—hesitate—yes, certainly I do. It's absurd on the face of it. She's too fine a nature to be patronised—too inexperienced in the things of your world—too ignorant of petty conventions and formalities—too free and fearless and confident and independent to appeal to the world you live in."
"Isn't that a rather scornful indictment against my world, dear?"
"No. Your world is all right in its way. You and I were brought up in it. I got out of it. There are other worlds. The one I now inhabit is more interesting to me. It's purely a matter of personal taste, dear. Valerie West inhabits a world that suits her."
"Has she had any choice in the matter?"
"I—yes. She's had the sense and the courage to keep out of the various unsafe planets where electric light furnishes the principal illumination."
"But has she had a chance for choosing a better planet than the one you say she prefers? Your choice was free. Was hers?"
"Look here, Lily! Why on earth are you so significant about a girl you never saw—scarcely ever heard of—"
"Dear, I have not told you everything. I have heard of her—of her charm, her beauty, her apparent innocence—yes, her audacity, her popularity with men…. Such things are not unobserved and unreported between your new planet and mine. Harry Annan is frankly crazy about her, and his sister Alice is scared to death. Mr. Ogilvy, Mr. Burleson, Clive Gail, dozens of men I know are quite mad about her…. If it was she whom you used as model for the figures in the Byzantine decorations, she is divine—the loveliest creature to look at! And I don't care, Louis; I don't care a straw one way or the other except that I know you have never bothered with the more or less Innocently irregular gaieties which attract many men of your age and temperament. And so—when I hear that you are frequently seen—"
"Frequently?"
"Is that St. Regis affair the only one?"
"No, of course not. But, as for my being with her frequently—"
"Well?"
He was silent for a moment, then, looking up with a laugh:
"I like her immensely. Until this moment I didn't realise how much I do like her—how pleasant it is to be with a girl who is absolutely fearless, clever, witty, intelligent, and unspoiled."
"Are there no girls in your own set who conform to this standard?"
"Plenty. But their very environment and conventional traditions kill them—make them a nuisance."
"Louis!"
"That's more plain truth, which no woman likes. Will you tell me what girl in your world, who approaches the qualitative standard set by Valerie West, would go about by day or evening with any man except her brother? Valerie does. What girl would be fearless enough to ignore the cast-iron fetters of her caste? Valerie West is a law unto herself—a law as sweet and good and excellent and as inflexible as any law made by men to restrain women's liberty, arouse them to unhappy self-consciousness and infect them with suspicion. Every one of you are the terrified slaves of custom, and you know it. Most men like it. I don't. I'm no tea drinker, no cruncher of macaroons, no gabbler at receptions, no top-hatted haunter of weddings, no social graduate of the Ecole Turvydrop. And these places—if I want to find companionship in any girl of your world—must frequent. And I won't. And so there you are."
His sister came up to him and placed her arms around his neck.
"Such—a—wrong-headed—illogical—boy," she sighed, kissing him leisurely to punctuate her words. '"If you marry a girl you love you can have all the roaming and unrestrained companionship you want. Did that ever occur to you?"
"At that price," he said, laughing, "I'll do without it."
"Wrong head, handsome head! I'm in despair about you. Why in the world cannot artists conform to the recognised customs of a perfectly pleasant and respectable world? Don't answer me! You'll make me very unhappy…. Now go and talk to Stephanie. The child won't understand your going to-night, but make the best of it to her."
"Good Lord, Lily! I haven't a string tied to me. It doesn't matter to Stephanie what I do—why I go or remain. You're all wrong. Stephanie and I understand each other."
"I'll see that she understands you" said his sister, sorrowfully.
He laughed and kissed her again, impatient. But why he was impatient he himself did not know. Certainly it was not to find Stephanie, for whom he started to look—and, on the way, glanced at his watch, determined not to miss the train that would bring him into town in time to talk to Valerie West over the telephone.
Passing the lighted and open windows, he saw Querida and Alice absorbed in a tête-à-tête, ensconced in a corner of the big living room; saw Gordon playing with Heinz, the dog—named Heinz because of the celebrated "57 varieties" of dog in his pedigree—saw Miss Aulne at solitaire, exchanging lively civilities with Sandy Cameron at the piano between charming