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other fact that girls--all of them--were obviously stubborn and

self-preservative, always setting themselves apart from and even

above the average man and so wishing to compel him to do a lot of

things for them without their wishing to do anything in return.

And had not Ratterer always told him that in so far as girls were

concerned he was more or less of a fool--too easy--too eager to

show his hand and let them know that he was struck on them.

Whereas, as Ratterer had explained, Clyde possessed the looks--the

"goods"--and why should he always be trailing after girls unless

they wanted him very much. And this thought and compliment had

impressed him very much at that time. Only because of the fiascos

in connection with Hortense and Rita he was more earnest now. Yet

here he was again in danger of repeating or bringing upon himself

what had befallen him in the case of Hortense and Rita.

At the same time he was not without the self-incriminating thought

that in seeking this, most distinctly he was driving toward a

relationship which was not legitimate and that would prove

dangerous in the future. For, as he now darkly and vaguely

thought, if he sought a relationship which her prejudices and her

training would not permit her to look upon as anything but evil,

was he not thereby establishing in some form a claim on her part to

some consideration from him in the future which it might not be so

easy for him to ignore? For after all he was the aggressor--not

she. And because of this, and whatever might follow in connection

with it, might not she be in a position to demand more from him

than he might be willing to give? For was it his intention to

marry her? In the back of his mind there lurked something which

even now assured him that he would never desire to marry her--could

not in the face of his high family connections here. Therefore

should he proceed to demand--or should he not? And if he did,

could he avoid that which would preclude any claim in the future?

He did not thus so distinctly voice his inmost feelings to himself,

but relatively of such was their nature. Yet so great was the

temperamental and physical enticement of Roberta that in spite of a

warning nudge or mood that seemed to hint that it was dangerous for

him to persist in his demand, he kept saying to himself that unless

she would permit him to her room, he would not have anything more

to do with her, the desire for her being all but overpowering.

This contest which every primary union between the sexes, whether

with or without marriage implies, was fought out the next day in

the factory. And yet without a word on either side. For Clyde,

although he considered himself to be deeply in love with Roberta,

was still not so deeply involved but that a naturally selfish and

ambitious and seeking disposition would in this instance stand its

ground and master any impulse. And he was determined to take the

attitude of one who had been injured and was determined not to be

friends any more or yield in any way unless some concession on her

part, such as would appease him, was made.

And in consequence he came into the stamping department that

morning with the face and air of one who was vastly preoccupied

with matters which had little, if anything, to do with what had

occurred the night before. Yet, being far from certain that this

attitude on his part was likely to lead to anything but defeat, he

was inwardly depressed and awry. For, after all, the sight of

Roberta, freshly arrived, and although pale and distrait, as

charming and energetic as ever, was not calculated to assure him of

any immediate or even ultimate victory. And knowing her as well as

he thought he did, by now, he was but weakly sustained by the

thought that she might yield.

He looked at her repeatedly when she was not looking. And when in

turn she looked at him repeatedly, but only at first when he was

not looking, later when she felt satisfied that his eyes, whether

directly bent on her or not, must be encompassing her, still no

trace of recognition could she extract. And now to her bitter

disappointment, not only did he choose to ignore her, but quite for

the first time since they had been so interested in each other, he

professed to pay, if not exactly conspicuous at least noticeable

and intentional attention to those other girls who were always so

interested in him and who always, as she had been constantly

imagining, were but waiting for any slight overture on his part, to

yield themselves to him in any way that he might dictate.

Now he was looking over the shoulder of Ruza Nikoforitch, her plump

face with its snub nose and weak chin turned engagingly toward him,

and he commenting on something not particularly connected with the

work in hand apparently, for both were idly smiling. Again, in a

little while, he was by the side of Martha Bordaloue, her plump

French shoulders and arms bare to the pits next to his. And for

all her fleshy solidity and decidedly foreign flavor, there was

still enough about her which most men would like. And with her

Clyde was attempting to jest, too.

And later it was Flora Brandt, the very sensuous and not unpleasing

American girl whom Roberta had seen Clyde cultivating from time to

time. Yet, even so, she had never been willing to believe that he

might become interested in any of these. Not Clyde, surely.

And yet he could not see her at all now--could not find time to say

a single word, although all these pleasant words and gay looks for

all these others. Oh, how bitter! Oh, how cruel! And how utterly

she despised those other girls with their oglings and their open

attempts to take him from her. Oh, how terrible. Surely he must

be very opposed to her now--otherwise he could not do this, and

especially after all that had been between them--the love--the

kisses.

The hours dragged for both, and with as much poignance for Clyde as

for Roberta. For his was a feverish, urgent disposition where

his dreams were concerned, and could ill brook the delay or

disappointments that are the chief and outstanding characteristics

of the ambitions of men, whatever their nature. He was tortured

hourly by the thought that he was to lose Roberta or that to win her

back he would have to succumb to her wishes.

And on her part she was torn, not so much by the question as to

whether she would have to yield in this matter (for by now that was

almost the least of her worries), but whether, once so yielding,

Clyde would be satisfied with just some form of guarded social

contact in the room--or not. And so continue on the strength of

that to be friends with her. For more than this she would not

grant--never. And yet--this suspense. The misery of his

indifference. She could scarcely endure it from minute to minute,

let alone from hour to hour, and finally in an agony of

dissatisfaction with herself at having brought all this on herself,

she retired to the rest room at about three in the afternoon and

there with the aid of a piece of paper found on the floor and a

small bit of pencil which she had, she composed a brief note:

"Please, Clyde, don't be mad at me, will you? Please don't.

Please look at me and speak to me, won't you? I'm so sorry about

last night, really I am--terribly. And I must see you to-night at

the end of Elm Street at 8:30 if you can, will you? I have

something to tell you. Please do come. And please do look at me

and tell me you will, even though you are angry. You won't be

sorry. I love you so. You know I do.

"Your sorrowful,

"ROBERTA."

And in the spirit of one who is in agonized search for an opiate,

she folded up the paper and returning to the room, drew close to

Clyde's desk. He was before it at the time, bent over some slips.

And quickly as she passed she dropped the paper between his hands.

He looked up instantly, his dark eyes still hard at the moment with

the mingled pain and unrest and dissatisfaction and determination

that had been upon him all day, and noting Roberta's retreating

figure as well as the note, he at once relaxed, a wave of puzzled

satisfaction as well as delight instantly filled him. He opened it

and read. And as instantly his body was suffused with a warm and

yet very weakening ray.

And Roberta in turn, having reached her table and paused to note if

by any chance any one had observed her, now looked cautiously

about, a strained and nervous look in her eyes. But seeing Clyde

looking directly at her, his eyes filled with a conquering and yet

yielding light and a smile upon his lips, and his head nodding a

happy assent, she as suddenly experienced a dizzying sensation, as

though her hitherto constricted blood, detained by a constricted

heart and constricted nerves, were as suddenly set free. And all

the dry marshes and cracked and parched banks of her soul--the dry

rivulets and streams and lakes of misery that seemed to dot her

being--were as instantly flooded with this rich upwelling force of

life and love.

He would meet her. They would meet to-night. He would put his

arms around her and kiss her as before. She would be able to look

in his eyes. They would not quarrel any more--oh, never if she

could help it.

Chapter 22

The wonder and, delight of a new and more intimate form of contact,

of protest gainsaid, of scruples overcome! Days, when both, having

struggled in vain against the greater intimacy which each knew that

the other was desirous of yielding to, and eventually so yielding,

looked forward to the approaching night with an eagerness which was

as a fever embodying a fear. For with what qualms--what protests

on the part of Roberta; what determination, yet not without a sense

of evil--seduction--betrayal, on the part of Clyde. Yet the thing

once done, a wild convulsive pleasure motivating both. Yet, not

without, before all this, an exaction on the part of Roberta to the

effect that never--come what might (the natural consequences of so

wild an intimacy strong in her thoughts) would he desert her, since

without his aid she would be helpless. Yet, with no direct

statement as to marriage. And he, so completely overcome and

swayed by his desire, thoughtlessly protesting that he never would--

never. She might depend on that, at least, although even then

there was no thought in his mind of marriage. He would not do

that. Yet nights and nights--all scruples for the time being

abandoned, and however much by day Roberta might brood and condemn

herself--when each yielded to the other completely. And dreamed

thereafter, recklessly and wildly, of the joy of it--wishing from

day to day for the time being that the long day might end--that the

concealing, rewarding feverish night were at hand.

And Clyde feeling, and not unlike Roberta, who was firmly and even

painfully convinced of it, that this was sin--deadly, mortal--since

both his mother and father had so often emphasized that--the

seducer--adulterer--who preys outside the sacred precincts of

marriage. And Roberta, peering nervously into the blank future,

wondering what--how, in any case, by any chance, Clyde should

change, or fail her. Yet the night returning, her mood once more

veering, and she as well as he hurrying to meet somewhere--only

later, in the silence of the middle night, to slip into this

unlighted room which was proving so much more of a Paradise than

either might ever know again--so wild and unrecapturable is the

fever of youth.

And--at times--and despite all his other doubts and fears, Clyde,

because of this sudden abandonment by Roberta of herself to his

desires, feeling for the first time, really, in all his feverish

years, that at last he was a man of the world--one who was truly

beginning to know women. And so taking to himself an air or manner

that said as plainly as might have any words--"Behold I am no

longer the inexperienced, neglected simpleton of but a few weeks

ago, but an individual of import now--some one who knows something

about life. What have any of these strutting young men, and gay,

coaxing, flirting girls all about me, that I have not? And if I

chose--were less loyal than I am--what might I not do?" And this

was proving to him that the notion which Hortense Briggs, to say

nothing of the more recent fiasco in connection with Rita had

tended to build up in his mind, i.e.,--that he was either

unsuccessful or ill-fated where girls were concerned was false. He

was after all and despite various failures and inhibitions a youth

of the Don Juan or Lothario stripe.

And if now Roberta was obviously willing to sacrifice herself for

him in this fashion, must there not be others?

And this, in spite of the present indifference of the Griffiths,

caused him to walk with even more of an air than had hitherto

characterized him. Even though neither they nor any of those

connected with them recognized him, still he looked at himself in

his mirror from time to time with an assurance and admiration which

before this he had never possessed. For now Roberta, feeling that

her future was really dependent on his will and whim, had set

herself to flatter him almost constantly, to be as obliging and

convenient to him as possible. Indeed, according to her notion of

the proper order of life, she was now his and his only, as much as

any wife is ever to a husband, to do with as he wished.

And for a time therefore, Clyde forgot his rather neglected state

here and was content to devote himself to her without thinking much

of the future. The one thing that did trouble him at times was the

thought that possibly, in connection with the original fear she had

expressed to him, something might go wrong, which, considering her

exclusive devotion to him, might prove embarrassing. At the same

time he did not trouble to speculate too deeply as to that. He had

Roberta now. These relations, in so far as either of them could

see, or guess, were a dark secret. The pleasures of this left-

handed honeymoon were at full tide. And the remaining brisk and

often sunshiny and warm November and first December days passed--as

in a dream, really--an ecstatic paradise of sorts in the very

center of a humdrum conventional and petty and underpaid work-a-day

world.

In the meantime the Griffiths had been away from the city since the

middle of June and ever since their departure Clyde had been

meditating upon them and all they represented in his life and that

of the city. Their great house closed and silent, except for

gardeners and an occasional chauffeur or servant visible as he

walked from time to time past the place, was the same as a shrine

to him, nearly--the symbol of that height to which by some turn of

fate he might still hope to attain. For he had never quite been

able to expel from his mind the thought that his future must in

some way be identified with the grandeur that was here laid out

before him.

Yet so far as the movements of the Griffiths family and their

social peers outside Lycurgus were concerned, he knew little other

than that which from time to time he had read in the society

columns of the two local papers which almost obsequiously pictured

the comings and goings of all those who were connected with the

more important families of the city. At times, after reading these

accounts he had pictured to himself, even when he was off somewhere

with Roberta at some unheralded resort, Gilbert Griffiths racing in

his big car, Bella, Bertine and Sandra dancing, canoeing in the

moonlight, playing tennis, riding at some of the smart resorts

where they were reported to be. The thing had had a bite and ache

for him that was almost unendurable and had lit up for him at times

and with overwhelming clarity this connection of his with Roberta.

For after all, who was she? A factory girl! The daughter of

parents who lived and worked on a farm and one who was compelled to

work for her own living. Whereas he--he--if fortune would but

favor him a little--! Was this to be the end of all his dreams in

connection with his perspective superior life here?

So it was that at moments and in his darker moods, and especially

after she had abandoned herself to him, his thoughts ran. She was

not of his station, really--at least not of that of the Griffiths

to which still he most eagerly aspired. Yet at the same time,

whatever the mood generated by such items as he read in The Star,

he would still return to Roberta, picturing her, since the other

mood which had drawn him to her had by no means palled as yet, as

delightful, precious, exceedingly worthwhile from the point of view

of beauty, pleasure, sweetness--the attributes and charms which

best identify any object of delight.

But the Griffiths and their friends having returned to the city,

and Lycurgus once more taken on that brisk, industrial and social

mood which invariably characterized it for at least seven months in

the year, he was again, and even more vigorously than before,

intrigued by it. The beauty of the various houses along Wykeagy

Avenue and its immediate tributaries! The unusual and intriguing

sense of movement and life there so much in evidence. Oh, if he

were but of it!

Chapter 23

And then, one November evening as Clyde was walking along Wykeagy

Avenue, just west of Central, a portion of the locally celebrated

avenue which, ever since he had moved to Mrs. Peyton's he was

accustomed to traverse to and from his work, one thing did occur

which in so far as he and the Griffiths were concerned was destined

to bring about a chain of events which none of them could possibly

have foreseen. At the time there was in his heart and mind that

singing which is the inheritance of youth and ambition and which

the dying of the old year, instead of depressing, seemed but to

emphasize. He had a good position. He was respected here. Over

and above his room and board he had not less than fifteen dollars a

week to spend on himself and Roberta, an income which, while it did

not parallel that which had been derived from the Green-Davidson or

the Union League, was still not so involved with family miseries in

the one place or personal loneliness in the other. And he had

Roberta secretly devoted to him. And the Griffiths, thank

goodness, did not and should not know anything of that, though just

how in case of a difficulty it was to be avoided, he was not even

troubling to think. His was a disposition which did not tend to

load itself with more than the most immediate cares.

And although the Griffiths and their friends had not chosen to

recognize him socially, still more and more all others who were not

connected with local society and who knew of him, did. Only this

very day, because the spring before he had been made a room-chief,

perhaps, and Samuel Griffiths had recently paused and talked with

him, no less an important personage than Mr. Rudolph Smillie, one

of the several active vice-presidents, had asked him most cordially

and casually whether he played golf, and if so, when spring came

again, whether he might not be interested to join the Amoskeag, one

of the two really important golf clubs within a half dozen miles of

the city. Now, what could that mean, if not that Mr. Smillie was

beginning to see him as a social possibility, and that he as well

as many others about the factory, were becoming aware of him as

some one who was of some importance to the Griffiths, if not the

factory.

This thought, together with one other--that once more after dinner

he was to see Roberta and in her room as early as eleven o'clock or

even earlier--cheered him and caused him to step along most briskly

and gayly. For, since having indulged in this secret adventure so

many times, both were unconsciously becoming bolder. Not having

been detected to date, they were of the notion that it was possible

they might not be. Or if they were Clyde might be introduced as

her brother or cousin for the moment, anyhow, in order to avoid

immediate scandal. Later, to avoid danger of comment or subsequent

detection, as both had agreed after some discussion, Roberta might

have to move to some other place where the same routine was to be

repeated. But that would be easy, or at least better than no

freedom of contact. And with that Roberta had been compelled to

agree.

However, on this occasion there came a contact and an interruption

which set his thoughts careening in an entirely different

direction. Reaching the first of the more important houses of

Wykeagy Avenue, although he had not the slightest idea who lived

there, he was gazing interestedly at the high wrought-iron fence,

as well as the kempt lawn within, dimly illuminated by street

lamps, and upon the surface of which he could detect many heaps of

freshly fallen brown leaves being shaken and rolled by a winnowing

and gamboling wind. It was all so starkly severe, placid,

reserved, beautiful, as he saw it, that he was quite stirred by the

dignity and richness of it. And as he neared the central gate,

above which two lights were burning, making a circle of light about

it, a closed car of great size and solidity stopped directly in

front of it. And the chauffeur stepping down and opening the door,

Clyde instantly recognized Sondra Finchley leaning forward in the

car.

"Go around to the side entrance, David, and tell Miriam that I

can't wait for her because I'm going over to the Trumbulls for

dinner, but that I'll be back by nine. If she's not there, leave

this note and hurry, will you?" The voice and manner were of that

imperious and yet pleasing mode which had so intrigued him the

spring before.

At the same time seeing, as she thought, Gilbert Griffiths

approaching along the sidewalk, she called, "Oh, hello. Walking

to-night? If you want to wait a minute, you can ride out with me.

I've just sent David in with a note. He won't be long."

Now Sondra Finchley, despite the fact that she was interested in

Bella and the Griffiths' wealth and prestige in general was by no

means as well pleased with Gilbert. He had been indifferent to her

in the beginning when she had tried to cultivate him and he had

remained so. He had wounded her pride. And to her, who was

overflowing with vanity and self-conceit, this was the last

offense, and she could not forgive him. She could not and would

not brook the slightest trace of ego in another, and most

especially the vain, cold, self-centered person of Bella's brother.

He had too fine an opinion of himself, as she saw it, was one who

was too bursting with vanity to be of service to anyone. "Hmp!

That stick." It was so that she invariably thought of him. "Who

does he think he is anyhow? He certainly does think he's a lot

around here. You'd think he was a Rockefeller or a Morgan. And

for my part I can't see where he's a bit interesting--any more. I

like Bella. I think she's lovely. But that smarty. I guess he

would like to have a girl wait on him. Well, not for me." Such in

the main were the comments made by Sondra upon such reported acts

and words of Gilbert as were brought to her by others.

And for his part, Gilbert, hearing of the gyrations, airs, and

aspirations of Sondra from Bella from time to time, was accustomed

to remark: "What, that little snip! Who does she think she is

anyhow? If ever there was a conceited little nut!..."

However, so tightly were the social lines of Lycurgus drawn, so few

the truly eligibles, that it was almost necessary and compulsory

upon those "in" to make the best of such others as were "in." And

so it was that she now greeted Gilbert as she thought. And as she

moved over slightly from the door to make room for him, Clyde

almost petrified by this unexpected recognition, and quite shaken

out of his pose and self-contemplation, not being sure whether he

had heard aright, now approached, his manner the epitome almost of

a self-ingratiating and somewhat affectionate and wistful dog of

high breeding and fine temperament.

"Oh, good evening," he exclaimed, removing his cap and bowing.

"How are you?" while his mind was registering that this truly was

the beautiful, the exquisite Sondra whom months before he had met

at his uncle's, and concerning whose social activities during the

preceding summer he had been reading in the papers. And now here

she was as lovely as ever, seated in this beautiful car and

addressing him, apparently. However, Sondra on the instant

realizing that she had made a mistake and that it was not Gilbert,

was quite embarrassed and uncertain for the moment just how to

extricate herself from a situation which was a bit ticklish, to say

the least.

"Oh, pardon me, you're Mr. Clyde Griffiths, I see now. It's my

mistake. I thought you were Gilbert. I couldn't quite make you

out in the light." She had for the moment an embarrassed and

fidgety and halting manner, which Clyde noticed and which he saw

implied that she had made a mistake that was not entirely

flattering to him nor satisfactory to her. And this in turn caused

him to become confused and anxious to retire.

"Oh, pardon me. But that's all right. I didn't mean to intrude.

I thought..." He flushed and stepped back really troubled.

But now Sondra, seeing at once that Clyde was if anything much more

attractive than his cousin and far more diffident, and obviously

greatly impressed by her charms as well as her social state, unbent

sufficiently to say with a charming smile: "But that's all right.

Won't you get in, please, and let me take you where you are going.

Oh, I wish you would. I will be so glad to take you."

For there was that in Clyde's manner the instant he learned that it

was due to a mistake that he had been recognized which caused even

her to understand that he was hurt, abashed and disappointed. His

eyes took on a hurt look and there was a wavering, apologetic,

sorrowful smile playing about his lips.

"Why, yes, of course," he said jerkily, "that is, if you want me

to. I understand how it was. That's all right. But you needn't

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