The Eddy: A Novel of To-day

by Clarence Louis Cullen

  CHAPTER VII

  Jesse's car looming suddenly upon her, instantly dissolved Louise'shappy absorption and aroused within her the foreboding that she was uponthe threshold of something sinister; and the premonition caused her tobecome physically and mentally tense as she ascended the steps.

  The impact of the hall's stream of light slightly blinded and confusedher as she entered; but she very soon discerned Jesse and Judd standingbefore the wide, brassy fireplace. Both were in shaggy automobile coatsand plainly were about to leave the house. Judd, his burnished bald patemottledly rosy from the heat of the blazing logs, was standing with hisback to the fire, his hands thrust in the greatcoat pockets, his heavyunder-shot jaw working upon an imaginary cud. Jesse, towering over theother man, but his own increasing over-bulkiness made more manifest byhis bulging coat of fur, was the first to see Louise, who, with aninclination of the head, was for passing them to gain the stairs.Neither Jesse nor Judd intended that this should be. The two had dinedtogether. The blitheness of their humor, therefore, contained also aseasoning of carelessness.

  Without the least movement of his grotesquely-paunched body, Judd turnedhis head sidewise and viewed Louise quizzically through his sharp,red-rimmed, oddly small eyes.

  "Evening--er--daughter," he said to her in an experimental butsufficiently matter-of-fact tone.

  The greeting sounded so incredible that Louise, coming to a sudden halt,rested her hands on the back of a chair and stared curiously at himwithout a word. She felt very cold, in spite of the excessive heat ofthe hall; but she was amazed quite beyond the power of speech. Whilethus she stood, staring puzzledly at Judd, Jesse faced her, and,bringing his heels together with a click, made her a low bow accompaniedby a sweeping cross-wise gesture with his cap of fur. It is a dangerousthing for a man to attempt the grand manner unless he is very sure ofhis practice or at least of the indulgence of his gallery. Louise,startled as she was, could not fail to notice the inadequacy of hisattempt.

  "Glad I haven't missed you, after all, Lou--Miss Treharne," said Jesse,catching himself before he had quite finished addressing her by herfirst name. His tone was grossly familiar; and Louise, merely glancingat him, saw that the question that was always in his eyes when helooked at her now was made more searching and persistent by hispotations. "I've been dallying a-purpose. I came to offer you the use ofmy box for 'Pelleas and Melisande'--it's being done at the Manhattantonight for the first time here, of course you know. They're repeatingit Friday night, though. Mary Garden's a dream in it, they say--she's adream in any old thing--or hardly anything, when it comes to that," andhe laughed boldly at the suggestiveness of the remark. "The box is yoursfor Friday night. May I hope to join----"

  Louise, as he spoke, had been steadying herself to make reply. Now sheraised a hand for him to desist. The gesture was simple, but he obeyedthe implied command. Perhaps it was the picture that she made in heranger that warned him. She stood straight, shoulders back, head up, eyesgazing unflinchingly into his; a moving figure of womanly dauntlessness,had there been eyes there thus to appraise her attitude.

  "Mr. Jesse," she said in a clear tone, picking her words with a cuttingdeliberation, "you are not, I have heard, deficient in intelligence. Avery short time ago you had the hardihood to proffer me the use of oneof your cars. I declined for the same reason that I now repeat inrefusing your proffer of the use of your opera box. There is noimaginable reason why I should accept such favors at your hands. I toldyou that before. And you knew it before I told you. My acquaintanceshipwith you is merely casual. But, since you force me to it by disregardingwhat I said before, permit me to say now, explicitly and I hope finally,that I am not conscious of the least desire to become further acquaintedwith you."

  Judd choked on a gloatful cough. While Louise had been speaking he hadbeen grinning malevolently at Jesse, the grin saying, as plainly aswords: "Well, I was right, wasn't I? You're properly shrivelled, aren'tyou?"

  Jesse smiled chagrinedly and, as he imagined, conciliatingly. But heevaded her direct gaze, and his wholly unconvincing assumption of thegrand manner had quite departed. He was not, however, appreciablydisturbed. Jesse had a habit of discounting such setbacks in advance.The stock market and women required deft manipulation, he considered,and his fame as a manipulator was established. The citadel, finallyscaled, would be the more inviting for the difficulty of thebesiegement. He entertained no doubts as to the outcome. In the meantimeLouise could enjoy her schoolgirl heroics. He was not unfamiliar withthat sort of thing. But in time they all sensed the glamour of theadvantages he so well knew how to dangle before them. These thoughtsdanced agreeably before Jesse's mental vision even at the moment whenhe felt himself, with no sense of degradation, to be the target ofLouise's scorn.

  "Well, I am sorry, Miss Treharne, that you still seem to misunderstandme," said Jesse, attempting the tone of one whose sorrow overtops hismortification.

  "It is because I do understand you that I speak as I do," replied Louisewith perfect self-possession. Judd choked again in the gleefulness ofhis vindication and Jesse shot him a malignant glance. Then and thereJesse began to outline a little plan whereby, by means of "market"pressure, he calculated that he could promptly and effectually changeJudd's attitude.

  "I prefer to believe, Miss Treharne," said Jesse, "that you areindisposed and that upon reflection you will be sorry that----"

  "I am perfectly well," interposed Louise in a tone of cold finality,"and I shall not be sorry." Then she passed up the stairs to hermother's apartments.

  "Now will you be good!" broke out Judd, chuckling vindictively, when shehad gone. "Say, Jesse, I wonder if you feel so much like a clipped andtrimmed Lothario as you look?"

  Jesse, his mask off, growled something inarticulate by way of reply.Then: "Are you for the club?" he asked Judd. He decided that he mightas well test the strength of the screws upon Judd at once. They went outtogether.

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Treharne, dressed for a restaurant supper party that was toassemble at midnight, was reading, with the wistfulness of one debarred,the "society news" in a chattery and generally wrong weekly publicationwhen Louise entered her sitting room. She was wonderfully coiffured, andencased in a _decollette_ dress that somewhat too liberately exploitedthe chisellings of her still milky arms and shoulders. She stiffenedslightly in her chair at the sight of Louise; and the dimplings whichhad been creasing her plastic face in her enjoyment of the publication'smalevolent gossip gave way to the expression of peevishness with whichher daughter was becoming all too well acquainted.

  "Well, my dear," she started to say as Louise, in whose eyes the embersof the wrath Jesse's words had aroused still slumbered, "I must say thatyou have a cool way of walking off and----"

  "No reproaches just now, mother, please," interposed Louise, sinkingwearily into a chair. "I never had a happier day until, returninghere----"

  She paused, passing a hand before her eyes. She was loth to enter uponthe topic of Judd and Jesse with her mother. But Mrs. Treharne, lookingat her more closely, saw her perturbation.

  "Oh, you met Mr. Judd and Mr. Jesse as you came in?" she asked, a noteof slightly worried curiosity in her tone. "Were they----?" She brokeoff. "Men are men, my dear," she resumed, placatingly. "They had beendining--I noticed that. But of course they said nothing to----"

  "Your business adviser," said Louise--she could not bring herself tomention Judd's name--"greeted me as 'daughter.' I remember now that Iwas too much startled to tell him that he must not repeat that."

  "Tush, Louise--a slip of the tongue, of course," said Mrs. Treharne,appeasingly. Privately, however, she already began to contrive thethings she intended to say to Judd on the morrow. "And Mr. Jesse--didhe----"

  "Mr. Jesse," interposed Louise, "caught himself as he was about toaddress me as Louise. He offered me the use of his box at the opera.Several days ago--I was too chagrined to tell you--he insisted upon myaccepting the use of one of his automobiles. I hope I made it pl
ain tohim tonight--and I tried hard enough to make it plain to himbefore--that there is not the remotest chance that I shall ever accepthis sinister civilities."

  "Why 'sinister,' Louise?" put Mrs. Treharne, bridling. "How can youpossibly put such a construction upon it when one of my friendsgenerously extends to you courtesies that are commonly and with perfectpropriety accepted by----"

  Louise sighed wearily and held up a pleading hand.

  "Don't ask me such a question--please, mother," she entreated. "Youdon't know how the subject revolts me."

  "But, my dear," her mother persisted, "what is it that you have againstMr. Jesse? I am entitled to know."

  "I am not sufficiently interested in the man to have anything againsthim," replied Louise. "Is it not enough that I loathe him?"

  "No, Louise, it is not enough," pronounced her mother, plainly ready forargument on the subject. "You are too young a woman to be formingprejudices or leaping to conclusions. What do you know about Mr. Jessethat has caused you to form such an opinion of him?"

  Louise hesitated. Her intimacy with her mother had never been verygreat. There had never been any plain talk, or even mother-and-daughterconfidences, between them. The theme as she had said, was revolting toher. But her mother deliberately chose to remain on that ground. Therewas no path around the point her mother dwelt upon. Louise entertainedno thought of evading it.

  "Mother," she said, leaning forward in her earnestness, "it is naturalenough, I know, that you still regard me as a child. But, before Ianswer your question, are you willing to grant, at least for the time,that I am a woman?"

  "Don't be so unmitigatedly solemn about it, Louise," demurred hermother, evasively. "My question was simple enough."

  "Simple enough to put, but not so simple for me to answer," was Louise'squiet reply. "But I shall answer it nevertheless. The reason, then, whyI do not intend to have any further contact with Langdon Jesse is thathe is one of the most notorious libertines in New York; a man whoregards women from a single angle--as his prey. Everybody seems to knowthat, mother, except you: and you don't know it, do you?" There was apathos in the eagerness with which the girl asked the question; it spokeof a dim hope she yet had that perhaps, after all, her mother did notknow about Langdon Jesse. Her mother's harsh, dodging reply quicklydashed that hope.

  "Who has been telling you such scandalous things, child?" Mrs. Treharnedemanded. "Laura Stedham?"

  "You must not ask me that question," replied Louise, quietly firm. "Butif nobody had told me about Langdon Jesse--and I shall not deny that Iwas told--I am sure my instinct would have taught me to suspect him ofbeing--precisely what he is."

  Mrs. Treharne shook her head dismally.

  "It is exactly as I feared it would be, Louise," she said, sighingdrearily. "You are narrow, restricted, pent-in; you haven't even asymptom of bigness of view; your horizon is no wider than the room inwhich you happen to be. I always feared they would make a prude of you.Now I see that my forebodings were right."

  Louise, very much wrought upon, rose rather unsteadily and walked overto her mother's chair.

  "You repel me a little, mother," she said in a low tone. "It hurts me tosay that: but it is the truth. If I am a prude, then I am unconscious ofit. It may be that I don't know your definition of the word." She pausedand gazed about the room wearily. "If to be a prude," she resumed, "isto be conscious of the desire and the intention to be an honest woman,then, mother, I am a prude," her voice breaking a little. "And if onemust be a prude to recoil from the hideous advances of a man likeLangdon Jesse, then again I am a prude."

  She had been unfairly placed on the defensive. She had not meant towound. But, while her words cut her mother like the impact of thongs,they did not arouse within her a sense of the humiliation of herposition.

  "Louise," she asked, hoarsely, moistening her dry lips, "are you sayingthese--these stinging things with the deliberate purpose of reflectingupon your mother?"

  Addressed to anybody else but Louise, the question would have beenabsurd in the opening it afforded.

  "I should hate to have you think that," replied Louise, flushing hotlyand taking her mother's hands. "You don't think such a thing, do you?"

  "I don't know what to think," said her mother, taking the martyred tone,"when you say such horrid things. I never heard you say such--suchflaying things before. I can't think what is coming over you."

  "I am very lonesome, for one thing," said Louise, looking at her motherthrough suffused eyes. "I see so little of you. Perhaps I become moody.But I never mean, never meant, to say anything to hurt you, dear."

  "But you see enough, if not too much, of--of others, Louise," put in hermother, slightly mollified. "You have been with Laura ever since earlythis morning?"

  "Yes; with Laura--and another," replied Louise, unfailingly candid.

  "Another?" said Mrs. Treharne, querulously. "Whom do you mean?"

  "Mr. John Blythe," replied Louise, coloring.

  "John Blythe?" said her mother, wonderingly. "You were with Laura andJohn Blythe? So that is the direction of the wind? Laura is tryingto----" She broke off when she saw the expression of pain on herdaughter's face.

  "Please don't say that," said Louise, her face and forehead a vividcrimson. "I have often met Mr. Blythe at Laura's. I couldn't begin totell you how I esteem him. And, mother, he is to be my guardian." Shehad meant to tell her mother that at a more fitting time; but, sinceBlythe's name had come up, she discerned that there could be no excusefor a postponement of the revelation.

  Mrs. Treharne gazed at her daughter with mouth agape. When she finallyspoke her words were almost inarticulate.

  "Your guardian?" she gasped. "John Blythe is to be your guardian? Atwhose direction? Upon whose application?"

  "My father's, mother."

  "But are you sure that you are not being tricked--that----"

  "John Blythe is not the man to trick anybody, dear--everybody, ofcourse, knows that," said Louise, very prompt to a defense in thatquarter. "Moreover, I saw the letters from my father. One of them is tome. So there is no mistake about it."

  "What does your father say in his letter?" asked Mrs. Treharne,suspiciously. "Does he mention me? say anything to my detriment?"

  "Nothing of that sort, mother," replied Louise, disliking exceedinglythe drift of the conversation. "Mr. Blythe's guardianship is to belargely a matter of form. I--I am glad the arrangement has been made.There are times when I feel that I need guidance. You are so busy and Iso much dislike to worry you. Often, since I came home, I've foundmyself wishing that I had a brother." She stopped, her voice faltering.

  Mrs. Treharne started slightly, swept by the thought of how often shehad wished that Louise herself had been a son. Now, for the moment, sherepented that thought; the dignity and strength of her daughter weremaking their appeal to her. She had her periods of fairness, and shecould not throttle her consciousness of the wretchedness of Louise'sposition under that roof nor subdue the accusing inner voice that heldher solely responsible for it. She trembled with indignation when sheremembered that Judd had dared to address Louise as "daughter." Sheraged at herself for not possessing the strength to cast the Juddincubus from her once and forever. And she ended, as usual, by givingway to an effusion of dismal tears and by promising herself that "sometime--some day----"

  Louise went to bed with a disturbed mind. She was trying not to facethe indubitable fact that her mother was proving herself but a reed tolean upon. Then her drowsy thoughts wandered to the fire-lit dining-roomof the serene old house in the country in and around which she had spenta day marked by a sort of placid happiness which she could not quiteanalyze; and her last thought, before succumbing to unquiet dreams basedupon the events at the end of the day, were of a rugged, kindly-facedman quietly watching her as she read her father's letter by theflickering light of the droning logs.

  * * * * *

  Judd, still chuckling viciously, continued to taunt the rebuked but byno means cast-down Jes
se after the two had got into Jesse's car.

  "Not saying much, are you, old top?" he gurgled joyously as the carthrobbed away from the curb. "Well, I don't blame you. Not, of course,that I didn't give you fair warning. I told you you'd be frozen stiff ifyou tried on any of your Don Juanish airs and graces in that quarter.But don't take it to heart--don't grieve over it. You'll thaw out againin time. Right now I wouldn't dare take a chance on touching you forfear one of your arms or something'd drop off. But you'll thaw--you'llthaw," and he squirmed and wabbled around in his seat in the excess ofhis mirth.

  Jesse, gnawing on an unlighted cigar as was his wont when temporarilyeclipsed or engaged in blocking out a campaign, listened in silence.When it becomes the unfailing habit of a man to enjoy the last laugh helearns to pay little heed to the too-previous chirrupings of those overwhom he feels confident of eventually triumphing. So he permitted Juddto enjoy himself. When the chuckles of his companion gradually ceased,however, he said, drily enough:

  "To all intents and purposes she's a dependent of yours, isn't she?"

  Judd parried the question. He was indifferent enough as to what mighthappen to Louise Treharne: he regarded her as an interloper, and he wasdisgruntled over her studiously aloof treatment of him. But it hadbecome a habit with him to parry Jesse's questions since the occasionwhen his over-expansiveness in replying to a few seemingly innocent andunmeditated questions from Jesse had resulted in the sound "market"trouncing which his one-time pupil had inflicted upon him.

  "What the devil difference does it make?" was Judd's reply. "She hasyour number all right, and that's all you need to know, isn't it?" andhe chuckled again.

  Jesse waited again until Judd's glee had subsided, then resumed.

  "She has to look to you to make provision for her needs--clothes, hats,ribbons, furbelows, that sort of thing--doesn't she?" he inquired withthe coolness of one who does not mean to be rebuffed.

  "Oh, forget it," said Judd, a little grumpily now. "Don't try to pin me,Jesse. I don't spout about these things. She's living under one of myroofs, is a member of one of my households. And she regards youas--well, as a considerably-drowned water-bug. Why don't you let it goat that? There are more women in the world than there are red ants orrailroad ties. Can't you take your medicine--stand for the defeat?"

  "Not in this particular case," was Jesse's perfectly frank reply; hecould be frank when there was no possibility of a "come-back." "What'smore, I don't intend to. Just make up your mind to that, will you?"

  "Oho!" said Judd, struck by the intentional rawness which Jesse had putinto his last phrase. "That's the tune, is it?"

  "That house of yours on the Drive isn't the place for the young woman,"said Jesse. Judd knew that he wasn't assuming any virtuous strain, butmerely leading up to a point. "You ought to know that--as the father ofa family."

  "You're becoming confoundedly erect in your ideas, aren't you?" snortedJudd. "And I've told you before that I won't have you dabbling in myprivate affairs. Just cut out your harpings, in this connection, uponmy family and all of that sort of thing, understand?"

  "Damn your private affairs," said Jesse, quietly, but with a note ofmeaningfulness in his tone that caused Judd to sit up and take immediatenotice. "I am no more interested in your private affairs than I am inthe transactions of the Congo Missionary Society. But I repeat thatyour--er--that Mrs. Treharne's daughter doesn't belong under thatRiverside Drive roof. Do you understand me?"

  "No," said Judd, "I don't," nor did he. But he no longer chuckled.

  "I think you've told me several times," Jesse went on calmly, "that theyoung woman flaunts you?"

  Judd made some inarticulate reply which Jesse took for an affirmative.

  "That being the case," inquired Jesse, "why do you keep her around theplace?"

  "What's your idea--that I should turn her into the street?" asked Judd,gradually getting a hold on Jesse's thread.

  "Oh, she wouldn't be in the street very long," said Jesse withsignificant emphasis. "But, since on your own say-so she scarcely evennods to you, and you are paying the freight, what's the answer? Doesn'tshe know that she's dependent upon you?"

  "How the devil could she help knowing it?" broke out Judd impatiently."She has eyes and what belongs to her by way of brains, I suppose."

  "Well," said Jesse, "if she cuts in on your--your game, and is such anuisance to you, why don't you exert your authority--the authority ofthe provider--and----" He hesitated.

  "And what?" inquired Judd, proddingly.

  "Make provision for her--not necessarily luxurious provision--under someother roof?" said Jesse. "In a modest little apartment, for example,with just the necessaries and that sort of thing. That would alter herdemeanor toward you--and toward others. Once they've enjoyed the gewgawsof life the other thing is a come-down and they feel the sordid miseryof it."

  Judd studied.

  "You're a deep sort of a reprobate, Jesse," he said, musingly, after apause. "I don't profess to be able to plumb some features of yourscoundrelism, and yet I've never been accused of being uncommonly dense.How the devil would my planting the young woman in a miserable littlesix-by-eight flat help your case?"

  "That," coolly replied Jesse, "is my affair; but you exhibit yourdenseness, at that, in asking such a fool question. It wouldn't take herlong to begin to pine for the light and laughter and lavishness of lifeafter she'd had a taste of the miserable little six-by-eight flat asyou call it, would it?"

  "And when she did begin to pine that's where you'd come in, eh?" saidJudd. "Yes, it was pretty thick of me not to catch your drift, I'lladmit. But I guess I'll keep out of it. You can conduct your own damnedround-ups. You've got your nerve with you to ask me to figure in anysuch a dirty subtle scheme as that, haven't you?" He spoke more inresentment of Jesse's overbearing tone than from any profound sense ofthe contemptibleness of Jesse's suggestion.

  Jesse lit his cigar and said nothing for a while. Then, puffing hard sothat the glow of his cigar lit up his stolid waxy face, he said:

  "I hear you're carrying a pretty nifty line of cotton, Judd, and thatyou're still buying. Waiting for cotton to touch sixteen cents, eh?"

  Judd cocked his ears.

  "Well," he said, moistening his lips, "I haven't got anything on you.You're carrying ten bales when I'm only carrying one."

  "Is that so?" lied Jesse with perfect serenity. "Well, you're entitledto have your dream out, of course. But it so happens that I am notcarrying even one bale."

  Judd sat up straight in his seat.

  "Well?" he asked, huskily.

  "Well, what?" asked Jesse.

  "What are you shooting at?" inquired Judd. "Do you mean to say you'regoing to take the bear end of it?"

  "I don't mean to say anything of the sort," replied Jesse. "And youdon't suppose I'd go around placarding the fact if that was myintention, do you? I'm merely out of the market for the present, that'sall. But you're in, eh, and waiting for sixteen cent cotton?"

  The screws were working all right. Jesse saw that. It was chilly in theautomobile, but Judd was mopping a damp brow.

  "If I ever do break into that market," Jesse went on clinchingly but inthe same even tone he had been using, "you want to watch my smoke.That's all."

  Judd, in a cold tremor, resolved to unload his line of cotton as soon asthe market opened on the morrow. Also he decided that it wouldn't be anyimpolitic thing for him to placate Jesse in the immediate meanwhile.

  "Well, if I have been dense, I'm not now," he said, reflectively. "Iunderstand you all right."

  "I thought you would," said Jesse, tossing his cigar out of the carwindow.

  * * * * *

  Despite her natural reserve and the reticence, born of keen humiliation,which she maintained in respect of her mother's affairs, Louise,feeling the need of an experienced woman's counsel, gave to LauraStedham, her one woman friend in need, a somewhat guarded account of hermeeting with Jesse and Judd upon her return from the day in the country.La
ura listened to the story in a sort of silent rage. She was not awoman to rant, and even if she had been, the recital that Louise gaveher, with the wretched details which Laura could guess at, of hergradual hemming in at the Riverside Drive house, filled the other womanwith a sense of anger and disgust beyond the mere power of words. Louisehad not previously told Laura of Langdon's proffering her the use of anautomobile; she feared that Laura's wrath and alarm over that would bedirected against her mother for having made such a situation possible;and her loyalty to her mother never wavered.

  At the close of her story, which she gave to Laura in a quiet, ratherhopeless way that the older woman found pathetic to a degree, Louise, ina moment of inadvertence, let fall how Judd had greeted her as"daughter." Laura flared at that. But she held herself in, and she askedLouise, quietly enough:

  "My dear, there is one thing that I want to ask you. I hope you won'tthink me intrusive for asking it. It is this: Just why are you remainingat that house? You know the--the circumstances there. I am not trying toinfluence you. But I want you to tell me just why, since you cannotchange the conditions, you deem it necessary to go on living there?"

  Louise replied without hesitation.

  "I don't lose hope that I may be able to change the conditions sometime, dear," she replied. "There would be no use in my staying with mymother if I did not possess that hope."

  "But," asked Laura, not pressingly, but with a grave, interestedearnestness, "don't you think your chance to change the conditions isalmost negligible? Just how can you possibly expect such a change everto come about?"

  "I am hoping," Louise answered bravely, but coloring, "that, if I stayon with my mother, sooner or later she will become ash----"; she couldnot finish the word "ashamed;"----"she will come to a realization ofherself," she took up the thread, "of what the conditions in which shelives mean; of what, eventually, they must bring her to, and bring meto, also. Often I think that she doesn't view it as I do--as we do. Sheis drifting. She told me that she was. She has lost her moorings. I wantto bring her back. I am the only one who could bring her back, am I not?And I can't leave her as long as there is a chance to do that."

  "But your own life, dear?" interposed Laura. "You must consider that,you know. You are a very young woman. There is no reason why you shouldbe dragged down."

  "I shall not be," replied Louise. "And, if my mother is to be draggeddown, if she is to continue in this way, of what use would my life everbe to me? I never could be happy with her in such surroundings, could I?There is only one thing for me to do, dear; stay with her until she seesit all. I know that she will understand sooner or later. She can't helpit. She's bound to--to change. I want to help her. I don't ever sayanything to her, of course. It would be impossible for me to do that.But she isn't happy as she is now. My mother and I will have a dear,cosy, happy life together yet, Laura, never fear."

  Laura pretended that some pictures on a mantel needed straightening inorder to hide her suffused eyes.

  "All the same, Louise," she said, resuming her seat after a littlewhile, "Mr. Blythe is entitled to know these things that you have toldme. And you should have the benefit of his advice. He not only is yourguardian, but he is a man--a regular man--and your--oh, well, I do notneed to say that he is your friend, do I?" smiling.

  "I meant to tell him," replied Louise, turning to gaze out of thewindow.

  "Oh, you did, dear?" said Laura, teasingly. "Then my advising you totell him was superfluous, wasn't it? I wonder why you decided to tellhim, Louise?"

  "Because----" Louise started to reply. But she did not finish, for atthat instant John Blythe, in riding dress, walked into the room.