Madcap

ith colors flying. She had struck hard, spent some ammunition and endangered her line of communications, but she had reached

ch led her down pleasant lanes of thought-which terminated, as they had begun, in quiet satisfaction. He neither lied to her nor flattered her; his speech had the simple directness of a child's, and while she frequently reproved him for his rusticity, in secret she adored it. She had been used all her life to the polish of Europe, satiated with its compliments, glutted with its hypocrisy, courted by men with manner and no manners, whom she had met with their own weapons. She had never known a real frien

ad hunted in all the covers of sportive Europe with an appetite which always ended with the chase. Markham had not been marked as game. H

reason why he should learn to care for her. The love of being loved was habit, ingrained, and she could not dismiss it with a w

g Markham at all hazards to her feet. It was no longer their friendship that she loved, but Markham. She loved fervently as coquettes will at last, placing in one ship the cargo that had fared forth

in dissimulation, but her heart had betrayed her. She had wept and Markham had seen her tears. Even a less sophisticated man than he would have known that women of her type only weep when they are stirred to the lees. Had she deceived him in the end? The doubt still assailed her. She had cut

not love her, but she knew, that had she wished, she could have made him think

inkles and cheekbones and her wrists were squarer than they used to be. Thirty!-a year old

mples. She was positively haggard to-night. It did not do for the woman of thirty to cry. Her hair-another gray one-she plucked it out viciously. She would not grow old. Age wa

m had decided to postpone the painting of Hermia's portrait. She wasn't quite certain about Hermia. It was never wise to be certain about any girl-especially if that girl was seven years younger than you were and quite as pretty. And what on earth did Hermia mean by scrubbing John Markham's floor? In her

r reconstruction, too, and Markham's anger was a more pleasant thought for contemplation than his repentance, apology or sentiment, all of which he would have offered as sops to her pride, and none of which co

obin" all doubts had been cleared from her mind. She woul

ad and Salignac were tinkering with the machines. She stopped and watched them

sorry, Olga-"

ut w

I have known that the

she said coolly. "Markham was making

owly, "a great pity-you're n

ugged ef

uld I ha

I should say. Why couldn't you let him

ht him to my knees, malice propense. I didn't. Mo

't plan the unexpected quite so

h Olga's dign

nued Hermia, "you've

e-Ro

me back," sai

u thin

cour

see," said

had made a mistake in judgment; for Mr. Markham did not return to "Wake-Robin." And when s

ceived a letter from him dated in New York,

ear

gether your fault or mine, and you served me quite properly in cutting my self-esteem to ribbons. But it hurt, Olga. You know the least of us mortals thinks he's a heart-breaker, if he tries to be. You've put me back upon my shelf among the cobwebs and there I shall remain. I'm hopeless material to work

and with this equipment I have all that the world can offer. I shall live upon the fat of the land at forty sous a day-ripaille-

ut I shall be many honest kilometers from a limou

ectionat

thf

.

mail was a n

Miss C

's why I've giving it to you. But it's hardly complete without the wrecked monoplane and the small person who came with it. Perhaps some day you'll "drop in" on me again somewhere and I can finish it. Meanwhile please think seriously about the portrait. I don't believe I'm just the man to do it. I can't seem to see you

of congratulation to Mr. Armistead and a word of thanks for her own

e that she liked him now. Of course, if he chose to make a fool of himself over Olga it was none of her affair, and she had been obliged to admit that her discovery had taken from him some of the charm of originality. She did not know what had passed between her guests before her abrupt descent through the pergola, but she was quite certain she had fallen into the middle of a psychological moment. Whose moment was it, Olga's or his? She couldn't h

g more money than he could afford to lose, now lacked the buoyant spirits which carried him so blithely along the crest of the social wave and scowled gloomily at his cards which persisted in favoring his opponents. Crosby Downs, whose waistband had again reached its full

ie's going out into the pouring rain and swearing that he would never come back. But he did come back just in time for dinner, through which he sat pretending that he was interested in Phyllis Van Vorst

alone in her room, came downstair

ther hour, Hermia. I'

re?" aske

Anywhere. New Yor

ueried Hermia

only