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 ^ND THE 
 
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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3505.O64C7 
 
 Cecily and the wide world a novel of Ame 
 
 3 1924 022 341 519 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022341519 
 
CECILY AND THE WIDE 
 WORLD 
 
 A Novel of American Life Today 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH F. CORBETT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 1916 
 
COPYKIGHT, igi6 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 Published August, igi6 
 
 THE QUINN A BOOEN CO. PRESB 
 KAHWAY, N. J, 
 
TO MY MOTHER 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. The Avery Fairchilds Spend a Quiet Evening 
 
 at Home i 
 
 II. Avery Makes an Acquaintance ..... 14 
 
 III. Avery's Friend Mrs. Butler 24 
 
 IV. Duet 34 
 
 V. A Question of Cecily's Likes 42 
 
 VI. The Battle Cry of Freedom 51 
 
 VII. Contains a Reference to Ibsen 61 
 
 VIII. Avery Enters His Novitiate 69 
 
 IX. Novice's Progress 82 
 
 X. The End of Penelope 92 
 
 XI. Lois and Cecily 108 
 
 XII. The World Receives 120 
 
 XIII. And Even Compliments 131 
 
 XIV. And Avery Goes Marching On 139 
 
 XV. The Princess in the Tower 150 
 
 XVI. A Luncheon Party 158 
 
 XVII. And a Morning Call 164 
 
 XVIII. Deals with an Office Person 177 
 
 XIX. Deals with Ceasing to Be an Office Person . 193 
 
 XX. Avery's Little Affair 204 
 
 XXI. Progress of Avery's Little Affair .j . 212 
 
 XXII. Morley Has Something to Say 222 
 
 XXIII. Episode 230 
 
 XXIV. Avery Pays a Visit 242 
 
 XXV. Diversions of a Fiance 257 
 
 XXVI. And of a Fiancee 274 
 
 XXVII. Inferences from a Successful Marriage . . 286 
 
 XXVIII. The Gleam 29s 
 
 XXIX. Those Tedious Preliminaries 307 
 
 XXX. The God from the Machine 317 
 
 XXXI. " I Made a Second Marriage in My House " . . 327 
 
 XXXII. The Last Word 339 
 
CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 THE AVERY FAIRCHILDS SPEND A QUIET 
 EVENING AT HOME 
 
 It was what in his own mind Dr. Fairchild always called 
 " the hour between " : that pleasant twilit interval when, the 
 work of the afternoon being over, and dinner and the duties 
 and diversions of the evening yet to come, one may pause 
 to savor life. It is a time to walk city streets, if you are of 
 an observant turn of mind, mingling with the crowds, and 
 watching the lights come on; or, if yours be the domestic 
 turn of mind, to sit a few minutes with your wife before 
 your own lights are turned on, and hear what the bairns 
 have been about today. 
 
 Either of these ways of passing the hour would have 
 suited Avery, who was an observer by nature, and domes- 
 tic by circumstances; but as he had been up most of the 
 night before, he had hardly energy enough to stroll, and 
 as Cecily was at one of her innumerable afternoon parties, 
 he could not talk family matters with her. So he lay on 
 a couch in the dim living-room, hearing vague sounds 
 from above-stairs of his children being put to bed, and 
 conscious of the fact that mutton roasted in the kitchen. 
 He was tranquil, and rather happy; he would have liked 
 to lie there indefinitely, with his home life thus vaguely 
 presented to him. 
 
 Presently, however, the front door opened and closed, 
 quick footsteps crossed the hall and mounted the stairs, 
 
2 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 and he heard a question put in a clear staccato voice. 
 Then the house was as quiet as before, but somehow 
 tranquillity had fled. Fairchild got up and turned on the 
 light, aggrievedly conscious of hunger and headache. He 
 was ambushed behind a newspaper when the disturber of 
 his peace descended the stairs and entered the living-room. 
 " Oh, good-evening, Cecily," he said in response to her 
 greeting. 
 
 Unshaded electric lights seemed rather appropriate for 
 Cecily Fairchild, or at least appropriate to that voice of 
 hers; but to any one who saw her only after hearing that 
 rather hard voice, she must come as a delightful surprise: 
 so pretty was she, so becomingly dressed, such a little 
 miracle of effectiveness. For the rest, a cool, competent 
 woman of twenty-six, prone at times to wistfulness, but 
 much oftener to cynicism; a perfect wife for an ambitious 
 man. 
 
 " Are you ready for dinner, Avery ? " she asked, pick- 
 ing up some embroidery from the table. 
 
 " More than ready, so far as hunger goes, but perhaps 
 I'd better brush up a bit." 
 
 In his turn Avery ascended the stairs, and returned a 
 few minutes later, very sleek and presentable, in spite of 
 his evident fatigue. He was a handsome dour man, big 
 and dark, with thick hair brushed until it shone like black 
 satin. He and Cecily, facing each other across their 
 well-appointed dining-table, looked like a couple to be 
 envied. 
 
 " Both the children were asleep when I came in," said 
 Cecily as her soup was set before her. 
 
 " They went very quietly tonight," answered Avery. 
 " Junior can be broken of his naughtiness, if we're only 
 firm with him." 
 
 "Junior's wilful, like his mother," said Cecily, smiling. 
 " None of his father's family are afflicted that way." 
 
A QUIET EVENING AT HOME 3 
 
 " The baby is more like me," said Avery, smiling back 
 at her. 
 
 " Yes. And isn't it awful to see one's faults repeated 
 in one's child? One has so much more patience with them 
 in oneself." 
 
 Avery laughed shortly. "You're feeling witty, aren't 
 you ? " he asked. 
 
 " No. Conversational. I'm not hungry, so I have to 
 talk while you eat." 
 
 " Have you been eating this afternoon ? " asked Avery. 
 
 " Yes, Dr. Fairchild. Horrible sweet things, that took 
 away my appetite. I don't let my children eat unwhole- 
 some things, but it's different with their mother." 
 
 " Was it a card or a sewing party ? " 
 
 " Card. Everything is cards nowadays. Absolute silence 
 while you play, then redoubled gabble to make up for lost 
 time. These afternoon parties, women only, are an awful 
 bore." 
 
 "Why go to them, then?" 
 
 " Oh, one must go somewhere." 
 
 The tone of both their voices suggested that they had 
 been over this ground before. Cecily ate a stalk of celery, 
 and helped herself to another; then her eyes brightened as 
 she said, " There was one real bit of news going the rounds 
 today. Walter Butler is married." 
 
 " Walter Butler! Is that so? " ejaculated Fairchild. 
 
 " Yes. It's rather a joke on the cats who have been 
 trying to get him ever since he was out of knee-breeches, 
 either for themselves or for their daughters. It was a 
 surprise to everybody. By the way, we didn't get an an- 
 nouncement, did we ? " 
 
 " I haven't seen one. There's no reason why we should 
 have an announcement; we've never been at all intimate 
 with Walter Butler." 
 
 " No, but you always liked him." 
 
4 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " He's quite the best of the young bloods here — not that 
 he's very young, either. He must be thirty-five, I should 
 think." 
 
 " Aren't the Butlers the people in Jefferson ? " asked 
 Cecily. 
 
 " If you ask the Butlers, they are. According to the 
 Gregorys, the Gregorys are; and if you ask the Owens, no 
 claims are valid but the Owens' claims." 
 
 "At least, Walter Butler was a catch," said Cecily. 
 " Now he's caught, and by no one here." 
 
 " He married a girl from out of town ? " 
 
 " Yes. Keith, her name was — Lois Keith. She is some 
 sort of social worker, I believe — at least, some one this 
 afternoon seemed to think so." 
 
 " There is a very distinguished social worker of that 
 name," said Avery. " I wonder if it's she ? She's the 
 greatest authority on housing in the United States; she 
 has made wonderful surveys of the housing conditions in 
 many cities." 
 
 " I dare say it's the same lady." 
 
 " It can't be, though," Avery decided. " No woman like 
 that would marry Butler, nice fellow though he is." 
 
 " We can soon find out when she comes here," said 
 Cecily. " I wonder when that will be ? " 
 
 " I wonder what she'll make of us when she sees us, if 
 this really is the Lois Keith." Avery still hung between 
 two hypotheses. 
 
 "I wonder if she'll make a survey of us?" suggested 
 Cecily. 
 
 " Perhaps it would not be without interest if she did," 
 said Fairchild. She ignored the remark. 
 
 " You're going to be at home this evening, aren't you? " 
 asked Cecily after a pause. 
 
 " Yes, so far as I know. I have no evening office hours 
 today, thank fortune." 
 
A QUIET EVENING AT HOME 5 
 
 " I've asked Mr. and Mrs. Wallace in for a little while," 
 said Cecily. 
 
 " To play cards, when you're bored with cards al- 
 ready?" 
 
 " I sacrifice my own inclinations," said Cecily smoothly. 
 " You need the practice, Avery, you play such a shocking 
 bad hand. It's really good of the Wallaces to be willing 
 to play with you." 
 
 " I dare say it is," rejoined Fairchild. " But I thought 
 just you and I would be together for an evening ; and we'd 
 have an open fire, maybe, and just sit beside it and talk." 
 
 " After which you'd go to sleep behind a newspaper, and 
 Mrs. Fairchild could talk to herself for the rest of the 
 evening." 
 
 Avery grinned sheepishly. "You must remember, 
 dear, how many women I have to talk to during the day." 
 
 " Listen to, I think you mean. I suppose some of them 
 are sillier than I, too." 
 
 " All of them are, Cecily." 
 
 As they left the table and went into the living-room, 
 Avery smiled down at her. " You know no other woman 
 can come up to you, Cecily, you wretch. You know that 
 I'm irritable only because I'm never alone with you any 
 more, and don't get half enough of you." 
 
 He slipped his arm around her, and kissed her. Her 
 delightful supple body yielded to him, her cheek was smooth 
 and cool beneath his kiss; but he had a quick, uneasy 
 feeling that day by day Cecily's spirit was growing more 
 aloof from his, more critical and unsatisfied. Yet when 
 she lifted her head it was to say, " It's too bad we can't al- 
 ways be lovers, isn't it, Avery ? " 
 
 "Can't we?" demanded Avery. "Why can't we?" 
 
 " With a house and a practice, and two children to bring 
 up, and a social position to maintain? That doesn't leave 
 much time for lovering, does it?" 
 
6 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " No, it doesn't. Let's give the kids to an orphan asylum, 
 and let the practice go hang, and go gypsying in a van." 
 
 "Will you wear a red kerchief on your hair?" asked 
 Cecily, raising her hand to stroke that satiny hair of his. 
 "Your hair was the first thing I ever noticed about you. 
 If you'll wear a red kerchief, I'll go with you." 
 
 " And you'll wear a blue blouse," romanced Avery, " and 
 strings of blue and yellow beads. We'll cook in the open, 
 and sleep under the stars, and know no bounds but the 
 ends of the earth. I can fairly see you, Cecily, stirring 
 things in a pot slung on three sticks over a fire built beside 
 the wagon." 
 
 " No. If I've got to cook, I'd sooner cook on a gas 
 stove," said Cecily disappointingly ; and she sat down again 
 to her embroidery. 
 
 She was working at it as if her life or at least her living 
 demanded that she finish that piece of embroidery, and 
 Avery had unfolded his newspaper and was getting drowsy, 
 when the door-bell rang. " Here comes our social position 
 now," he said, rousing himself. 
 
 " Or our practice," said Cecily. 
 
 It was the social position that entered, in the persons of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Wallace. Wallace owned one of the largest 
 factories in town, and his wife came of an excellent eastern 
 family. For reasons of policy Cecily endured them; they 
 could open doors to her. Fairchild despised them both: 
 the woman was a chattering flirtatious fool, in his estima- 
 tion, the man a dissipated idler, who but for inherited money 
 would have been classed simply as what he was, one of the 
 chronic unemployed. Avery retreated into himself, and 
 looked his dourest ; he was actually glad of the cards, which 
 kept him from having to talk to his guests. 
 
 Cecily kept things pleasant with that little manner of 
 hers, at once so smooth and so piquant. Cecily was a ris- 
 ing woman, Fairchild thought ; and if in leading this chosen 
 
A QUIET EVENING AT HOME 7 
 
 life of hers she was fulfilling her destiny, he, who profited 
 by it, had no right to complain. Avery admired the way she 
 put Wallace at his ease and yet made him keep his dis- 
 tance ; she was a clever girl, and if a man could keep from 
 wishing to wring Wallace's neck, it was amusing to watch 
 her. 
 
 In watching her, to be sure, Avery lost track of the cards, 
 and played worse than usual. They were very good- 
 tempered in their corrections; but in virtue of their better 
 playing the three of them formed a circle, with him out- 
 side. When about nine o'clock he was summoned to the 
 telephone, he could only hope that it was an urgent call. 
 
 A woman's voice came over the wire, a plaintive under- 
 bred voice, with a slight German accent. Lena Schulz was 
 talking, and her mother wished to see him. 
 
 " Is your mother worse, Lena ? " asked Avery. 
 
 " No. It isn't about herself she wants to see you. There 
 isn't any hurry; tomorrow will do," the voice assured 
 him. 
 
 Avery hesitated. There was a general laugh about the 
 card- table just at that moment, and something in the laugh- 
 ter decided him. " I'll be over this evening, Lena," he said. 
 " In twenty minutes or so, you may look for me." 
 
 He went back to the group about the card-table. " Cecily, 
 my dear," he said, " I shall have to ask you to excuse 
 me. 
 
 "You see what a doctor's life is," Cecily said to Wal- 
 lace, " and the life of a doctor's wife. I hope it's a person 
 with lots of money who's sick, Avery." 
 
 " I always hope that," said Avery. " This isn't, however." 
 
 " No ? Well, get home as soon as you can. Let me see — 
 we can play with a permanent dummy." 
 
 "You can, and not be able to tell it from me," said 
 Avery. Which, for Avery, was a sally. 
 
 Ten minutes later Avery's little two-passenger car drew 
 
8 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 up before a row of tiny cottages, all built alike, all out- 
 wardly ugly and miserable. Apparently, however, they did 
 not daunt Avery; his bearing was alert and his eyes bright 
 as he knocked at the corner house. 
 
 The door was opened by a stout, shy German girl, the 
 Lena of the telephone. Behind her was a lamp-lit sitting- 
 room, very small, very neat, and, in its furnishings and 
 fittings, very German. Close to the lamp sat an elderly 
 woman in a wheeled chair ; the hands that held her knitting 
 were crippled with rheumatism. Both the women beamed 
 on Avery, who seated himself and smiled back at them — 
 no one who had seen Avery at the card-table half an hour 
 before would have believed him capable of such a smile. 
 It was evident that he was a welcome guest, and that he 
 liked to be here. 
 
 "What are you making?" he asked, and admired the 
 green and purple shawl Mrs. Schulz was knitting, and the 
 sofa-pillow on which Lena painstakingly embroidered pop- 
 pies and a sentiment dealing with sleep. Then he heard 
 all about their Christmas plans, and sampled their Christ- 
 mas cookies, made a month beforehand and aged in jars, in 
 true German style. Mrs. Schulz's rheumatism, and Lena's 
 vicissitudes as a saleswoman in a department store, were 
 then discussed. Finally, but without any undue haste in 
 coming to the point, Avery asked why he had been sent 
 for that evening. 
 
 " It's the family next door," Mrs. Schulz explained, with 
 her broad German accent. 
 
 "Annoying neighbors?" asked Avery, smiling. 
 
 " Ach, we get on with our neighbors ! " said Mrs. Schulz. 
 "But sick, and poor. The father dead, as in this house. 
 The mother, left with three small children, has gonsump- 
 tion ; a sister of the mother's works where Lena does. They 
 are poor, fery poor. They call no doctor — they cannot 
 pay. You will go to them? " 
 
A QUIET EVENING AT HOME 9 
 
 "I surely will," said Avery, getting to his feet. "Any 
 time you hear of a case like that, let me know." 
 
 " I always do," said Mrs. Schulz. 
 
 " That's right." Avery produced a handful of change, 
 and counted out the nickels on the table. " Use these for 
 telephone calls," he said. 
 
 " We can pay for them," objected Lena, embarrassed. 
 
 " I know it, but you're not going to. You're doing me 
 a favor when you let me know about such cases. Do you 
 suppose," he asked, " that I like to doctor people who have 
 nothing the matter with them except that they eat too much, 
 and know all the time that really sick people are going 
 without a doctor because they can't afford to pay one ? No, 
 indeed," said Avery heartily. " No doctor likes that kind 
 of thing, Lena." 
 
 At least, he reflected as he knocked at the house next 
 door, he could speak for himself ; and he liked the hand-to- 
 hand encounter with disease and poverty. It was, indeed, 
 what had attracted him to medicine in the first place, and 
 had kept his rather unscientific mind to it all through the 
 years of preparation. He had never dreamed in those days 
 that he would come to have a society practice. 
 
 The girl who answered his knock was a sullen, over- 
 dressed young person, who did not look in the least like 
 the backbone of a family. " I'm Dr. Fairchild," said Avery 
 briskly. " I was at Mrs. Schulz's, and she thought I might 
 see Mrs. Fisher. Are you Mrs. Fisher's sister?" 
 
 The girl nodded and drew back to let him in. The room 
 in which the door opened corresponded to the Schulz's 
 sitting-room; but it was dirty, exceedingly untidy, and so 
 close that Fairchild 'almost choked. A bed had been set 
 up against one wall, and in it lay propped a woman in 
 an advanced stage of tuberculosis. Two small children 
 crawled and tumbled about on the bed, and a third had 
 fallen asleep on the floor. 
 
io CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Let's have a few of the children out of the way first," 
 said Avery, possessing himself of the smaller child on the 
 bed, who had scuttled close to his mother on the doctor's 
 approach. " Here, you rascal, where's your bed ? And your 
 nighty ? " 
 
 " They sleep in the bedroom, back there. They — haven't 
 any nightgowns," their mother said. 
 
 " Then off come their dresses, and in they pop," said 
 Avery. " Let's see which can get there the fastest. All 
 three together?" 
 
 He bundled the three of them into the larger of the two 
 beds in the bedroom, covered them with all the bedclothes 
 he could find, opened the window, and closed the door. 
 The mother was smiling as he sat down, a little short- 
 breathed with his struggles. 
 
 " You didn't think I could manage them, did you ? " he 
 asked. " I have two of my own, a boy and a girl, three 
 and one. The girl is nothing but a baby, of course, but the 
 boy's a handful already." 
 
 Mrs. Fisher took an immediate interest in his children. 
 " What are their names ? " she asked. 
 
 " Avery, Junior and Margaret," said Fairchild. 
 
 " Mine are Mercedes, Clarence and Hildegarde," said 
 Mrs. Fisher. 
 
 " What very nice names," said Avery without a tremor. 
 " They're very nice children. You ought to put them to 
 bed earlier, you know; and you really ought not to have 
 them playing on the bed when you're sick." 
 
 She looked at him sadly. " I like to have them around 
 me," she said. 
 
 " Of course you do. But children of that age ought to be 
 outdoors most of the day, and in bed by seven every night. 
 You will see that they are, when you realize it's for their 
 own good. A mother can always make a sacrifice, when 
 it's for the sake of her children." 
 
A QUIET EVENING AT HOME u 
 
 He saw Mrs. Fisher's face brighten; the idealism to 
 which he was appealing so shamelessly certainly existed in 
 her nature. But her sister struck in at that moment, 
 " Suppose they do go outdoors, where are they to play ? 
 On the four feet of cinders we call back-yard, or in the 
 street?" 
 
 " Now you're asking something," said Avery cheerfully. 
 " I should say on the cinders. Now, Mrs. Fisher, if you'll 
 smoke this thermometer for a few minutes, your sister and I 
 will talk." 
 
 He found, however, that although he might talk to the 
 sister, getting into conversation with her was not so easy. 
 After her one savage speech she lapsed into her former 
 sullen silence, and the most he could get from her was 
 " Yes " and " No." He wondered how valuable as a sales- 
 woman she was to Lena's employers. 
 
 When he was ready to leave he beckoned her, and she 
 followed him outside. " Your sister ought to be in a hos- 
 pital," he said. " There's no hospital in Jefferson, though, 
 that will take cases like hers, so we must see what we can 
 do. I'll leave orders tomorrow for milk and eggs to be 
 sent here. You're to see that she gets them ; and you must 
 keep a window open all the time in that room where your 
 sister is. Do you understand ? " 
 
 She stood on the steps above him, her arms hanging 
 limp at her sides, and stared off dully into the distance. 
 " It would be better if she died," she said slowly. " If she 
 died, and the kids went to an asylum, and gave me a chance." 
 
 " Don't say that," said Avery. " This is hard on you, I 
 know, but you'll be sorry some day if you say things like 
 that." 
 
 He seized her hand, and shook it swiftly; it lay limp in 
 his. " If anything happens," he said, " telephone for me, 
 or ask Lena Schulz to do it. I'll be around again in a few 
 days, anyway." 
 
12 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 She did not answer, and as he cranked his car he heard 
 her slam the door. " There's so much to be done for people 
 like that," he said to himself as he drove home. " Those 
 children ought to have proper care, and a decent place to 
 play. That woman ought to be taken to a sanitarium. The 
 girl should have that load of responsibility off her shoul- 
 ders, and get a little pleasure in her youth. That whole 
 row of wretched little buildings ought to come down. By 
 George ! " said Avery ; " I only wish that I had the time 
 and the money to do what ought to be done." 
 
 It was half-past ten when he reached home. The house 
 smelled most invitingly of percolating coffee, and the cards 
 had been replaced by a chafing-dish, over which Wallace 
 presided. After the sights and smells he had come from, 
 Avery's senses were gratified by the warm, sweet air, and 
 the tasteful, softly-lighted room, with its clean, prosperous 
 occupants. Prosperous people were more agreeable than 
 his poor; he had to say that for them. 
 
 "Just in time for the eats," Wallace sang out at 
 him. 
 
 "Did you get a big fee?" asked Mrs. Wallace. 
 
 " Did you get any fee at all? " asked the more penetrating 
 Cecily. 
 
 Avery smiled. "You don't any of you ask about the 
 case," he said. 
 
 " I never know anything about Avery's cases," Cecily 
 explained to Mrs. Wallace. "If any one asks me about 
 them, I'd rather not know." 
 
 " You could know, and say you didn't," suggested Mrs. 
 Wallace. " This way of doing is hard on the doctor, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 The look on Avery's face when he heard that embar- 
 rassed Cecily ; she turned out the light under the percolator, 
 and busied herself with the coffee. 
 
A QUIET EVENING AT HOME 13 
 
 " This is done," announced Wallace. " Here, all of you 
 — spoils it to stand." 
 
 Avery supplied Mrs. Wallace, and sat down beside her. 
 He liked her better than usual the rest of that evening : she 
 had had one of her gleams of intelligence. 
 
II 
 
 AVERY MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE 
 
 Cecily Fairchild might know nothing about the par- 
 ticulars of her husband's cases; but that next week she 
 knew that there were many of them. In the wake of bad 
 weather, grippe had become epidemic in Jefferson, and 
 it was followed in many cases by pneumonia. Fairchild 
 was busy night and day: all his meals were lunches, and 
 sleep was chiefly a memory. Cecily was a vague figure on 
 the horizon ; his children he scarcely saw. 
 
 In a way he enjoyed the tension: he liked the sharp 
 struggle with disease and death, the feeling of vital service 
 rendered. When conditions became more nearly normal, 
 and he had only his usual patients, he began to chafe. He 
 was, half in spite of himself, building up a " society " prac- 
 tice: idle, overfed women flocked to him, because he was 
 handsome and could say agreeable things. He often longed 
 to say disagreeable ones; but that class of patients paid 
 well, and he had heavy expenses to meet. It was with all 
 the greater relief that he went back to his poor, although 
 he was often stung by his own inadequacy in the face of 
 their problems — there was so much more than sickness that 
 needed help here. 
 
 He came home one afternoon from a visit to the con- 
 sumptive Mrs. Fisher. His patient was holding her own 
 now, and the children, thanks to Fairchild's attentions, were 
 better cared for than they had been. Only the sister proved 
 impossible of approach, growing more sullen and defiant 
 every time he saw her. He had not seen her that after- 
 noon, as it was too early for her return from work, and 
 
 14 
 
AVERY MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE 15 
 
 in a way he was rather glad he had not : she seemed to him 
 the ungracious victim of the whole situation. 
 
 With his mind running on that family, Avery rushed 
 upstairs toward his own room. In the upper hall he came 
 full upon Cecily, clad in her dressing-gown. Cecily in her 
 dressing-gown in the day-time was breath-taking, for she 
 was possessed of a neatness that went fully dressed from 
 morning until night, and of an activity that disdained naps. 
 "What's the matter?" he asked hastily. "Are you 
 sick?" 
 
 " No. I'm going to lie down a little while. You are, 
 too, aren't you ? " 
 
 " Are we going out tonight ? " 
 
 " Why, Avery, you know we are ! " 
 
 " No, I don't ; or, at least, I've forgotten. What is the 
 occasion ? " 
 
 " The Charity Ball, of course." 
 
 "The Charity Ball!" Fairchild exploded. "I haven't 
 any patience with the Charity Ball! If frivolous people 
 want to give a big party, that's all right ; but how they have 
 the impudence to dance and flirt because other people are 
 poor and miserable, is more than I can see. The things 
 that are done in the name of philanthropy ! " 
 
 Cecily sighed faintly. She had embroidered for a month 
 on her dress, and had had only the bare making done by a 
 dressmaker ; the dress was lovely, and she was looking for- 
 ward to wearing it. Avery's harangues were rather dis- 
 turbing at times. 
 
 Avery heard the sigh. "That needn't spoil our good 
 time, Cecily," he said. " Run along and get your nap, and 
 I'll nap too." 
 
 " It will be lovely," she said. " We haven't been out to- 
 gether in so long, Avery — these last few weeks " 
 
 She vanished into her room. Avery went to his own, 
 and threw himself on his bed. He lay there with his eyes 
 
16 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 closed, and wondered why disgust with things in general 
 was growing upon him. He had an increasing practice — 
 no doctor could choose his patients, if you came to that ; his 
 house was pretty and comfortable, his children charming; 
 and Cecily alone ought to be enough to reconcile him to 
 life. He had overborne all opposition to get Cecily, who 
 had had ambitions above him, and a fixed habit of getting 
 what she wanted. He was not exactly unhappy; at times 
 he was very happy indeed. If he had remained single he 
 might have lived his life rather differently ; but that meant 
 if he had never met Cecily. From the moment that his 
 eyes first lighted upon her, a crisp, self-confident girl of 
 twenty, he had bent every effort to marrying her. What a 
 chase she had led him, the clever, saucy little thing ! Fair- 
 child grinned as he remembered how he had been put 
 through his paces. Well, housekeeping and babies must 
 seem dull to a girl with a disposition like that; it was un- 
 generous of him to grudge Cecily any amusement she could 
 get, even Charity Balls. And Avery, quieted by reflection 
 and restored by his nap, appeared in good humor at dinner, 
 waited patiently while Cecily finished with her dressing, 
 and complimented her on her appearance. 
 
 The Charity Ball was the social event of the year in 
 Jefferson. It was given in the largest dancing-hall in town, 
 which was elaborately decorated for the evening. Every- 
 body who had any social pretensions whatever went to it; 
 but the inner circle kept itself to itself. The inner circle in 
 Jefferson was very exclusive; the town was old, for the 
 middle west, and its aristocracy was well established. The 
 Fairchilds had gone to the Charity Ball every year since 
 they settled in Jefferson as bride and groom; both the 
 babies had arrived so opportunely as not to interfere with 
 their parents' attendance at that function. It amused 
 Avery to watch from year to year the progress that he and 
 Cecily made socially, or rather the progress that Cecily 
 
AVERY MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE 17 
 
 made for them both. At first they had been rank outsiders 
 at the Charity Ball; now they were in the inner circle, 
 and in the course of a few more balls they would be of that 
 circle, if he knew the wife of his bosom. 
 
 The dancing had begun when the Fairchilds arrived. 
 Cecily was not in sight when Avery came out of the cloak- 
 room, but as he stood in the end of the ballroom he made 
 her out among a knot of people at the farther end. " I won- 
 der whom she's meeting now ? " he thought. " Somebody 
 who's exactly the right person to meet, I have no doubt." 
 Mrs. Wallace spied Avery, and descended upon him. 
 " Who do you think is here ? " she demanded. " Walter 
 Butler and his bride! Do come and meet them. She's 
 lovely, and he's so proud of her — it's pretty to see them. 
 It's a surprise to everybody, their being here; they only 
 arrived in town this afternoon, and nobody had any idea 
 that they had arrived." 
 
 She began to pilot him along the wall, toward the group 
 of which Cecily made one. " As I suspected ! " thought 
 Avery. 
 
 He and Mrs. Wallace were half-way to the end of the 
 room when the music stopped, the dancers began to walk 
 toward seats, and the group toward which they were walk- 
 ing shifted. Across the intervening space Fairchild's eyes 
 met those of a tall and lovely woman; she held his eyes in 
 smiling scrutiny for a moment, and then looked away. 
 Fairchild drew in his breath sharply. 
 
 " That's she ! " said Mrs. Wallace. " That's Mrs. Butler." 
 
 "That, she!" 
 
 " Yes. Are you surprised ? " 
 
 " No. She looks the sort of woman you would expect 
 Walter Butler to marry." 
 
 But not, he might have added, the sort of woman who 
 conducted surveys of housing conditions. Unconsciously he 
 had formed a picture of Lois Butler, as a wan, overdriven 
 
1 8 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 woman, with patient, weary eyes. This handsome, eager, 
 colorful person, who, in spite of a certain air of the public 
 platform, looked very much like any season's prettiest 
 bride at the season's biggest party, thrilled him for a mo- 
 ment : here was something beyond his previous experience. 
 The next instant he thought, " It's probably not the same 
 Lois Keith; that's the explanation." His heart sank. 
 
 Cecily was talking to Walter Butler, handsome, good- 
 tempered Walter Butler, one of those people who live 
 through the day's business in order to reach the evening's 
 pleasure. Butler seized Avery's hand, and introduced him. 
 " I want you to meet my wife," he said. " I want you to 
 dance with her. I want to dance with your wife ; I haven't 
 forgotten Mrs. Fairchild's dancing." 
 
 " Shall we say the fifteenth ? " asked Cecily. She and 
 Butler laid their heads together over their dance programs, 
 and Avery turned to Mrs. Butler. 
 
 " Such a pretty party ! " she said, looking down at the 
 smooth floor, and then up at the lights wreathed in greenery. 
 
 " I'm so glad you got here for it," said Avery. " You'll 
 meet all Jefferson society at once, in its best clothes and 
 its best manners." 
 
 " And have it over with, your tone suggests," said Mrs. 
 Butler. 
 
 " I didn't mean that at all," said Avery, coloring. " It's 
 nice to meet people at their best." 
 
 " I think so too. But I'm afraid that I shan't know 
 people when I see them in their street clothes, and shall 
 cut them." 
 
 " I dare say you will," said Avery. " Now, to me, all 
 the women look pretty at a dance, and that's very confus- 
 ing." 
 
 "Take the sixteenth dance with Mrs. Butler, Avery," 
 said Cecily, lifting her head from her study of the two 
 programs. " I'll have it with Mr. Butler." 
 
AVERY MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE 19 
 
 The music began again. " Come on, Cecily," said Fair- 
 child. " Let's scandalize the town by the spectacle of a 
 husband and wife dancing together." 
 
 They danced that dance together; but when Avery tried 
 to persuade her to a second, Cecily laughed, and proceeded 
 to fill up her program. Her partners were on the whole 
 higher in the social scale than they had been the year be- 
 fore; her progress was going on, as scheduled. 
 
 As to Avery, a partner was a partner with him. If she 
 danced very well, he enjoyed himself; if not so well, he 
 was glad to get through the dance without disaster, and 
 pass on to the next. On the whole his partners were good 
 that evening, and the lights and rhythm appealed to him. 
 He was hypnotized into a dreamy mood; through it all he 
 saw by flashes two women who passed him on the dancing- 
 floor: Cecily, a perfect dancer, not missing a moment of 
 the music, and chattering like a magpie between numbers, 
 and Mrs. Butler. 
 
 His own dance with Mrs. Butler was the second after 
 supper. Walter Butler had put his arm about Cecily and 
 whirled her away on the floor, beaming as her step fell 
 in with his. Avery and Mrs. Butler followed. She danced 
 well, with a free movement quite her own; but when after 
 discreet applause an encore was begun, Fairchild said, 
 " Let's sit down, shan't we ? " 
 
 They walked to a little seat half-hidden by plants. 
 " Pretty ! " said Mrs. Butler, watching the dancers. " How 
 well your wife dances ! " 
 
 " Yes, doesn't she ? " After a moment's pause, Avery 
 burst out, " Mrs. Butler, there's something I'd like to know. 
 Are you the Lois Keith ? " 
 
 " The Lois Keith ? I'm the only Lois Keith I know of, 
 Dr. Fairchild." 
 
 " Thank you, that's what I wanted to know," said Avery. 
 " You see, your reputation has preceded you." 
 
20 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 "I see. I'm alarmed." She smiled, but she kept her 
 eyes on the dancers. " This, I think you said a while back, 
 is Jefferson at its best?" 
 
 " Or Jefferson looking its best," he answered. " Look 
 hard in your turn, and get the pleasantest sort of first im- 
 pression." 
 
 She looked at him instead; gave him an instant of that 
 smiling, searching gaze of hers, and began to beat time to 
 the music. " Tell me about the rest," she said. " What's 
 the complement to all this ? " 
 
 " Well, we have a city of forty thousand," said Avery. 
 " There are the aristocrats : factory owners, bankers and 
 professional people; the middle class, butchers, bakers and 
 candlestick makers; and the factory hands. We have no 
 organized charities ; relief is still a matter of private philan- 
 thropy. It's considered quite sociological to serve on the 
 Hospital or the Public Library Board." 
 
 " Do all the factory owners live here ? " asked Mrs. Butler. 
 
 " Yes. Jefferson is a pretty city ; at least along the 
 river bank, where the factory owners live, it's pretty." 
 
 " You're something of a sociologist, I see," said Mrs. 
 Butler. " Have you ever worked along that line, Dr. Fair- 
 child?" 
 
 " I'm a common, ordinary, practicing physician," said 
 Avery. "A G. P., nothing more. But I've lived here four 
 years, and I can't help seeing things." 
 
 " If you've lived here only four years, perhaps that's why 
 you've seen so much. Walter has lived here all his life, 
 and I couldn't elicit anything from him except that it was a - 
 nice enough place to live, and that you could always get 
 out of town when you were bored." 
 
 Avery wanted to laugh, that speech hit off Butler's 
 limitations so well ; but he confined himself to saying, " Then 
 this is something of an adventure for you, marrying and 
 coming to live in a perfectly strange place." 
 
AVERY MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE 21 
 
 " It is an adventure. But then there are plenty of adven- 
 tures in the world nowadays, Dr. Fairchild. I don't mean 
 magazine fiction adventures, but true trials of valor and 
 endurance. Even these nice, comfortable people who bore 
 you so aren't exempt." 
 
 " When any Jeffersonian goes in pursuit of spiritual 
 adventure, may I be there to see ! " said Avery. 
 
 " I hope you may," said Mrs. Butler gravely. It was not 
 until long afterward that Fairchild appreciated the signifi- 
 cance of that remark. 
 
 The encore ended then, and Walter Butler brought Cecily 
 up to them. " You look as if you were having a jolly 
 time back here," he remarked. "Getting acquainted?" 
 
 " We are acquainted," said Mrs. Butler. " We must 
 have another talk soon, Dr. Fairchild." 
 
 Cecily looked after the Butlers as they walked away to- 
 gether; but it was not until she and Avery were on their 
 way home that she spoke of them. " Did you like Mrs. 
 Butler ? " she asked then. " She's very good-looking, isn't 
 she?" 
 
 "Yes; she's good-looking. She's interesting, too," said 
 Avery. 
 
 " How old should you think she was ? " asked Cecily. 
 
 " How old ? I hadn't thought about her age." 
 
 " I don't know that I should have, only I heard it dis- 
 cussed several times this evening. I shouldn't be sur- 
 prised if she were a year or two older than he." 
 
 They were silent the rest of the way, leaning back in 
 their corners of the carriage. Cecily leaned against him 
 as Avery helped her out at their doorstep. "Why, girl, 
 how tired you are ! " he said. " You ought not to get your- 
 self done up like this." 
 
 " I'm glad to have a good time, even at the cost of being 
 tired," she returned icily. 
 
22 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Of course you are, but you ought not to try to 
 do so many things." He was letting them in as he said 
 that. 
 
 " I'd like to know where we should be if I didn't do so 
 many things," answered Cecily. 
 
 Cecily was a last word woman ; Avery desisted from argu- 
 ment. But he followed her into her room, got her dressing- 
 gown and slippers for her, and hung up her cloak and dress. 
 " You'd better sleep late in the morning," he said as he left 
 her room. 
 
 He knew his advice was wasted. He had insisted on 
 separate rooms when they were married, in order that his 
 night calls and early risings might not disturb Cecily. But 
 Cecily had proved no lie-abed wife; she was always stir- 
 ring before he was, and she always faced him across the 
 breakfast-table. When he began his daily round she began 
 hers: keeping house, sewing, looking after the children, 
 parties, calls, bazaars and benefits. The Fairchilds kept 
 two servants, but Cecily would have found occupation if 
 they had kept a dozen; the Fairchild children were dressed 
 as prettily as any in town, and Avery's meals were punc- 
 tual and perfect. 
 
 She had looked very tired that night. There was great 
 nervous energy in her slim body, but Avery thought she 
 often taxed it too far. He hoped she was not going to be 
 sick. He saw enough sick women every day; a sick wife 
 would be the dickens. There was one thing certain : Cecily 
 ought to have had money. " I wish," Avery thought, sit- 
 ting on the edge of his bed, " I wish I had Butler's money. 
 I don't believe that new wife of his needs it particularly — 
 a woman who has always looked after herself. If I had 
 
 money, I'd Well, I don't know what I would do. It 
 
 would be nice for Cecily, but I suppose I should still keep 
 on doing the same old things. Lois Butler must have had 
 an interesting life. I wonder if she'll keep up her work 
 
AVERY MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE 23 
 
 now that she's married. It seems as if to a modern woman 
 marriage was pretty much like death." 
 
 Having reached that remarkable conclusion, Avery be- 
 came suddenly aware that it was four o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, and the room was cold. He got into bed. " I hope 
 we'll be on top some day," was his conclusion. " Do I 
 really hope that? I don't know." 
 
Ill 
 
 AVERY'S FRIEND MRS. BUTLER 
 
 If Cecily did not care to hear about Avery's cases, Avery 
 in his turn was deaf to the gossip in which Jefferson was 
 so fruitful. Cecily, who had a sly touch with comment 
 upon her neighbors' conduct and characters, would perhaps 
 have liked to have him listen; indeed she sometimes found 
 a topic which appealed to him sufficiently so that he would 
 at least hear her out before he returned to his book. 
 
 She discovered soon enough that she had such a topic 
 in Lois Butler. After their meeting at the Charity Ball 
 that lady often recurred in her conversation. " I met Mrs. 
 Butler shopping today," Cecily would remark. " She has 
 very pretty clothes; but she looks as if she entered them 
 rather hastily." Or, " I saw the Butlers today in a brand- 
 new motor-car. She was driving; she does all those 
 athletic things, I suspect." Again, " The stately Lois 
 was at the card party this afternoon. She plays badly; I 
 should think she had never played before. Do you know, 
 Avery, I think she has a system? She goes to some affair 
 of every clique in this town, but she hasn't identified her- 
 self with any clique." 
 
 To all this Avery listened, usually without comment. 
 Once Cecily alluded to her subject as "your friend Mrs. 
 Butler," and then Avery was stung into replying, " I don't 
 know why you say my friend. I haven't seen her since 
 that first evening." 
 
 Cecily smiled amiably at that, and Fairchild ignored her 
 smile. He had, indeed, more or less irrationally expected 
 
 24 
 
AVERY'S FRIEND MRS. BUTLER 25 
 
 to see Lois Butler, sometime or somewhere; and as she 
 rather interested him, he was more or less excusably dis- 
 appointed at not having been favored with even a chance 
 meeting. But Christmas came and went without his laying 
 eyes on "the stately Lois." 
 
 One afternoon in January, as he waited for the elevator 
 to take him up to his office, Avery Fairchild heard him- 
 self hailed by name. He turned to greet Walter Butler, 
 who was wearing a fur-lined overcoat and smoking an 
 opulent cigar. Butler beamed on him and extended his 
 hand. " What luck to meet you down here ! " he said. " I 
 though I'd have to wait an hour or so in your office, star- 
 ing at a row of doleful old women. And all on an errand 
 of my missus's." 
 
 " Is Mrs. Butler sick ? " asked Avery. 
 
 " No, indeed. She was never better. She wants to see 
 you only semi-professionally." 
 
 " Semi-professionally ? " 
 
 " Yes. She has schemes — vast schemes. What is more, 
 she puts them into practice. She thinks you may help her 
 on some points — doctorial points; or should I say physi- 
 cianly?" Butler stood leaning against a door-jamb, and 
 beamed more than ever. 
 
 " When does Mrs. Butler wish to see me ? " 
 
 " At your convenience," answered Butler. 
 
 " Now you puzzle me," said Avery. " If this were a 
 professional call, I should go to your house this afternoon, 
 or this evening at latest. As it's only semi-professional " 
 
 " Go this afternoon, anyway, if you can take the time," 
 said Butler. " The sooner the better, so far as Lois is 
 concerned. I'll be home myself about half-past five, to 
 extend the welcoming hand of hospitality." 
 
 " This afternoon, then," agreed Avery. 
 
 Butler nodded, smiled afresh, and was gone, good-look- 
 ing, insouciant, incorrigibly gay. " His money aids her 
 
26 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 philanthropic schemes," thought Avery. " I begin to see — 
 lots of things." 
 
 Demands upon him were fewer than usual that after- 
 noon ; the " row of doleful old women " was not so long. 
 Before five o'clock Avery presented himself at the Butlers' 
 door. They lived in a huge old house, all spreading wings 
 and French windows, built on the bluffs overlooking the 
 river; Walter Butler's grandfather had built it as a wed- 
 ding present to Walter's father. 
 
 " Mrs. Butler is expecting you," said the maid when he 
 gave his name. " Will you wait in the conservatory ? " 
 
 Why in the conservatory, Avery wondered. The rooms 
 he passed through, following the maid, had been little 
 altered by either Butler or his new wife; they were Vic- 
 torian, but so frankly Victorian and so decently aged that 
 they commanded a certain respect. Any one of them would 
 have served to receive a chance visitor in; why then the 
 conservatory ? 
 
 He knew when he reached it. The large glazed apart- 
 ment, built on the side toward the river, had been dis- 
 used altogether during Walter's bachelorhood. Lois Butler, 
 enchanted by the view and the sunshine, had adopted it as 
 a sort of private sitting-room. Green curtains, the. height 
 of a man's head, hung all around it ; overhead, sliding white 
 shades like a photographer's admitted or excluded the sun 
 at will. Deep wicker chairs and little wicker tables piled 
 with books and magazines stood about; a wicker couch 
 was heaped with green cushions ; a luxurious bunch of red 
 roses lightened one corner, and a typewriter on a heavy 
 square desk stood austerely in another. 
 
 Avery had pushed aside one of the green curtains and 
 was looking at the river when Mrs. Butler came in. She 
 wore a dark silk blouse, open at the neck, with wide sleeves 
 that fell back from her round arms. " This is good of you," 
 she said. "Walter telephoned that you would be up this 
 
AVERY'S FRIEND MRS. BUTLER 27 
 
 afternoon, and I appreciate your promptness. I hope you 
 haven't put yourself to inconvenience." 
 
 " My work was light today," said Avery. " And perhaps 
 curiosity had as much to do as goodness with bringing me 
 here." 
 
 " Sit down," said Mrs. Butler, motioning to a chair near 
 her own. " My reason for calling you in isn't at all excit- 
 ing; yet I hope you will be interested when you find out 
 about it. It's a question of sleeping-porches." 
 
 " Of sleeping-porches ? " 
 
 She nodded. At that moment the same maid who had 
 admitted Avery appeared in the door with a tea-cart. " I 
 hope you like tea," said Mrs. Butler. " I've become quite 
 devoted to it since I came to Jefferson." 
 
 " That's only natural," said Avery, accepting a cup. " I 
 suppose that you get it wherever you go, and that you go 
 incessantly." 
 
 " By no means incessantly," said Mrs. Butler. " I de^- 
 cline all invitations that I can't see any good reason for 
 accepting. That's a splendid plan — saves so much time. 
 Did you ever try it ? " 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Butler," said Avery, " in America social 
 engagements are made by the women for the family, as you 
 very well know." 
 
 Mrs. Butler laughed. " I see the pretty maker of your 
 engagements often," she said. " I judge she hasn't tried 
 my plan. How is she ? " 
 
 " She was well at lunch time. I have no reason to sup- 
 pose that disaster has befallen her since." 
 
 " Will you have a cake ? " asked Mrs. Butler. 
 
 "Thank you. One." 
 
 There was silence for a moment. Mrs. Butler finished 
 her tea and set down the cup. " Now about my sleeping- 
 porches," she said. " We're going to do quite a little build- 
 ing here in town. The psychological moment hasn't come 
 
28 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 for making our plans public, but I may tell you that Butler 
 and Company is to put up two sorts of dwellings for its 
 employees, bungalows that they may buy on the installment 
 plan, and model tenements to rent." 
 
 " And you are planning them ? " 
 
 " You guess well. Fortunately, as you may know, Butler 
 and Company is practically just Walter Butler. That 
 simplifies things." 
 
 " It must," said Avery. " It also explains tenements with 
 sleeping-porches." 
 
 "Ah, but I don't wish to be extravagant! I want my 
 bungalows to sell at very little more than cost, but the 
 tenements should pay a small return on the investment. 
 Not so much by a good deal as ' company real estate ' usu- 
 ally pays, but two or three per cent. In order to do that, I 
 have to plan carefully." 
 
 " By George, that's a new form of philanthropy ! " said 
 Avery. " Philanthropy at three per cent." 
 
 She laughed again ; it was evident that she liked not be- 
 ing taken too seriously. But she was serious for a moment 
 to say, " I don't call this philanthropy, Dr. Fairchild — just 
 common decency." 
 
 She fetched a roll of paper and blue-prints, and put it 
 down on the nearest of the small tables. " Draw up your 
 chair," she said. " I'm half an architect, just from looking 
 into houses, and I've had great fun with these. Most peo- 
 ple like to plan houses, don't you think? It sets your 
 imagination " 
 
 " To playing house ? " he suggested. 
 
 " I don't know but it does, something like that. Now, on 
 a bungalow like this — you see the bungalows are all dif- 
 ferent " 
 
 An hour later Walter Butler found them over the plans, 
 talking, gesticulating, drawing lines. " I was going to 
 apologize for my tardiness," he said, " but I should judge 
 
AVERY'S FRIEND MRS. BUTLER 29 
 
 from appearances that I've come too soon. What have 
 the two of you cooked up ? " 
 
 Mrs. Butler looked up radiantly. " We haven't finished," 
 she said, " but I'm getting just what I wanted. Dr. Fair- 
 child knows all about sleeping-porches, and we are working 
 out a model porch at a minimum cost." 
 
 " Didn't I tell you she was full of schemes ? " Butler 
 asked Fairchild. As he leaned on his wife's chair-back, 
 and looked at her drawings, his hand fell on her shoulder; 
 her hand stole up to meet it. At this bit of sweethearting 
 Fairchild felt both surprised and paternal. 
 
 The three of them talked together for a while, so that 
 it was nearly seven o'clock when Fairchild unlocked his own 
 front door. His dinner hour was half-past six, but no 
 Cecily greeted him with uplifted eyebrows that deprecated 
 his tardiness ; and the baby, who was usually in bed at this 
 hour, lay in her carriage in the deserted front hall. Avery 
 did not know whether such disorganization demanded pro- 
 test or heralded calamity; vaguely disturbed he lifted the 
 baby and carried her upstairs. 
 
 Lights were blazing in Cecily's room, and he heard her 
 voice questioning and another answering. From the door- 
 way he beheld a scene of confusion: open drawers, half- 
 packed valises, and Cecily on her knees in the midst of 
 things, folding garments and giving directions to the wor- 
 ried " second girl." 
 
 " Anna, take this baby and put her to bed," said Avery. 
 "I'll help Mrs. Fairchild. What's the matter, Cecily?" 
 
 Cecily watched the departure of the baby for bed, and 
 then lifted red-rimmed eyes to his. " Cecily, my dear, 
 what's the matter ? " he cried, this time in real concern. 
 
 " It's mother," said Cecily. " She's dead. I got a tele- 
 gram about an hour ago." 
 
 "So suddenly? You hadn't any warning, had you?" 
 
 " No, I hadn't any warning." 
 
30 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 "What was the trouble?" 
 
 "The telegram didn't say," answered Cecily. 
 
 Fairchild drew a long breath. He had never been on 
 the most cordial terms with his mother-in-law, who had 
 not considered him a brilliant enough match for Cecily. 
 "When shall we leave?" he asked. 
 
 Cecily's eyes thanked him for his heroism; but she 
 only said, " I'm going tonight, but that wouldn't give you 
 much time to get ready. You ought to have at least an- 
 other day, with your patients and all, oughtn't you? It 
 will be all right if you start tomorrow night; the funeral 
 will be the day after tomorrow, I think." 
 
 " Let's have dinner now, and finish your packing after- 
 ward," said Avery. " Have you 'phoned for your berth ? " 
 
 Twice during dinner he was about to tell her of his visit 
 to the Butlers' ; both times he was interrupted. After that 
 he let the matter rest: it was not so important that he 
 needed to make a point of telling her. He put her on the 
 train at ten o'clock, charging her not to wear herself out, 
 and to telegraph if she wanted anything. Then he drove 
 about for an hour, glad of the keen, cold air that blew 
 against his face. The events of the preceding three hours 
 had damped his spirits, but they recovered now ; and it was 
 in holiday mood that he finished his drive and entered his 
 own house again. He reproved himself, recalling Cecily's 
 anxiety and probable fatigue; but it was pleasant to be 
 master in his own house. 
 
 He foraged in the ice-box, and carried a lunch up to his 
 room with him; when he had eaten it and smoked two or 
 three cigars, he found to his surprise that it was almost 
 one o'clock. He stole in his slippers to the nursery, to 
 see if the children were covered. They were both sound 
 asleep in their little white beds; the nursery lamp showed 
 them to him in the charm and abandon of their sleep. As 
 he bent over them, the thought occurred to Fairchild that 
 
AVERY'S FRIEND MRS. BUTLER 31 
 
 they would grow up some day, and marry, and their mar- 
 riages might not be more agreeable to Cecily and to him 
 than Cecily's had been to her mother, and their spouses 
 might come to his funeral or Cecily's with the decently 
 veiled indifference which he would carry to his mother- 
 in-law's. 
 
 Avery smiled at his own absurdity; if he wanted some- 
 thing to worry about, he might much better worry about 
 his children's chances of getting measles than about the 
 distant day of their marriages. But he had them in the 
 room with him at breakfast the next day, and played with 
 them afterward, as if to enjoy their charm now, while 
 they were wholly and unquestionably his. 
 
 He worked hard that day and forewent luncheon: he 
 would be out of town all the day after, and beside, he was 
 due at the Butlers' at four o'clock, to help finish the plans 
 for the sleeping-porches. He thought of telephoning that 
 he could not come; but while he was still debating the 
 matter it was a quarter of four, and he went anyway. 
 
 He made the interview brief and business-like, as was 
 suitable for a busy man whose wife was out of town by 
 reason of bereavement. He mentioned his wife's absence, 
 and Lois Butler was properly sympathetic. It was easier, 
 some way, to talk of Cecily to Lois than of Lois to 
 Cecily. 
 
 Perhaps he overtired himself ; for in his berth that night 
 Avery could not sleep. His thoughts flew back to Lois 
 Butler and her plans, and ahead to Cecily waiting for him ; 
 and then increasingly to his own past life. Avery com- 
 posed himself to rest; he resolutely tried to make his mind 
 a blank. He saw his eager youthful dreaming self, set on 
 accomplishing great things : a young man who studied and 
 read and thought, and walked endless miles for the good of 
 his health and to give his mind free play. He recalled 
 his first meeting with Cecily, who had fascinated and baf- 
 
32 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 fled him, and made herself the subject of those dreams of 
 his, the invisible companion of his long walks. His third 
 meeting with her would have disillusioned him if anything 
 could, for it was then that he met Cecily's parents, her 
 weakly romantic father, now dead some years, her weakly 
 mercenary mother. But the infatuated youth saw only 
 Cecily, Cecily springing from such parents as a tamarack 
 springs from the marsh. 
 
 Only weeks had elapsed after their meeting when Avery 
 had decided to marry her, had discarded every ambition 
 that might conflict with marriage, was bending every energy 
 to make it possible. It had been Cecily who held off, 
 poor puzzled Cecily, trained by her father to expect " the 
 right man," kept by her mother from facing the problem 
 of what to do when the right man chanced to have the 
 wrong income. Her love had overborne her in the end, 
 and her mother had never afterward looked at her without 
 reproach; a girl with Cecily's brains and looks could have 
 done so much better for herself. 
 
 The day of his marriage Avery had tasted such happi- 
 ness as he had never supposed possible. But after you 
 were married you had to go on living, just as you had 
 lived before. Marriage and paternity had not stifled in him 
 either the discomforts or the aspirations of his youth, and 
 it was those discomforts and aspirations that found an 
 echo in his talk with Lois Butler. Avery could not be 
 tranquil in the face of injustice and misery; whereas 
 Cecily would calmly have gone on embroidering pretty 
 clothes for her children while countless thousands starved 
 at her doors, always provided, of course, that the countless 
 thousands did not have the bad taste to clamor as they 
 starved. 
 
 In the gray dawn Avery pushed up the shade and looked 
 out. A few hours separated him and Cecily ; he found him- 
 self wondering whether she would meet him at the station, 
 
AVERY'S FRIEND MRS. BUTLER 33 
 
 and whether she was very tired indeed. " We do love each 
 other," he said to himself. " We never quarrel — not what 
 could really be called quarreling. And I'm mighty anxious 
 to see her." Having found the right note at last, he dwelt 
 lingeringly on his genuine anxiety to see her. 
 
IV 
 
 DUET 
 
 As they were in mourning during the rest of that winter 
 and through the spring, the Avery Fairchilds spent Avery's 
 free evenings at home. In one corner of their living-room 
 was an electric lamp with a yellow silk shade; on opposite 
 sides of this lamp Avery and Cecily would establish them- 
 selves after dinner. Cecily sewed while Avery read; occa- 
 sionally he read aloud to her. He would have done so 
 oftener, but his own reading had lately become markedly 
 economic and sociological; so that if he read what really 
 interested him, Cecily was deaf to it. She was rather 
 petulant at times: her mother's death had brought home 
 to her her own lack of devotion to that thoroughly unin- 
 teresting woman. But for the most part Cecily was ami- 
 able, if a bit bored; and Avery enjoyed those slippered 
 lamp-lit evenings, when he was not thinking about some- 
 thing else. 
 
 One evening Avery sat with two solid volumes before 
 him, and read the newspaper. He was approaching the 
 point where the news was exhausted, and the solid volumes 
 were beginning to reproach him, when Cecily spoke. 
 " Avery," she said, without lifting her eyes from her em- 
 broidery, " Avery ! Did you know that Mrs. Walter Butler 
 is going to have a baby ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Avery from behind his newspaper. " I 
 wish you wouldn't use that euphemism, Cecily; it's in bad 
 taste." 
 
 " If you knew, why didn't you tell me? " asked Cecily. 
 
 34 
 
DUET 35 
 
 " You know you never care to hear about my cases," 
 said Avery. 
 
 " Is this your case ? " 
 
 " No," said Avery, looking somewhat foolish. " I only 
 know the fact as any one might." 
 
 " Well, why don't you share a bit of gossip with your 
 wife ? " asked Cecily. 
 
 " There isn't any why not. I simply didn't happen to 
 think of it." 
 
 " Perhaps you would have, if I hadn't spoken first," said 
 Cecily. " I rather rely on you for my news about the 
 Butlers ; you know them so well that " 
 
 " I don't know them very well," said Avery shortly. He 
 had, somewhat tardily to be sure, mentioned to his wife 
 the affair of the sleeping-porches ; half a dozen subsequent 
 consultations on similar matters had gone unrevealed. 
 
 " Oh, I thought you knew them quite well ! " said Cecily, 
 threading her needle and looking at him candidly. 
 
 " Mrs. Butler has consulted me occasionally about con- 
 ditions among the factory hands. She has some plans for 
 bettering things, and of course she has to get all the in- 
 formation she can. I didn't know that those things inter- 
 ested you." 
 
 " They don't particularly. I hope she isn't going to 
 give a bazaar for the hands; I'm sure I'd be in demand 
 for that." 
 
 They both smiled at the idea of Mrs. Butler's giving a 
 bazaar for the factory people; Avery felt relieved, having 
 escaped from the situation of husband explaining. Cecily 
 held up her work to examine it. " I wonder," she said, 
 half to herself, " I wonder if Mrs. Butler will go on with 
 all her plans when she has children ? " 
 
 The remark stabbed Avery. He let the conversation 
 drop, and tried to become attentive to his book; but be- 
 tween him and the printed page came the words, in Cecily's 
 
36 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 clear staccato accents, " I wonder whether she will go on 
 with all her plans when she has children ? " He must have 
 grown more interested in those schemes of Lois Butler's 
 than he had realized. And children were likely to make a 
 great difference in a woman, and in her interests. To be 
 sure, a husband had evidently not changed Lois Butler; 
 but then she had a very amenable husband. But for that 
 bright star of a woman to be quenched in a sea of maternity 
 was an appalling prospect. 
 
 Avery looked at his wife, embroidering meticulous white 
 sprigs on a dress for little Margaret. He thought of her 
 as a girl, when bird-notes seemed to follow her as she went, 
 and the very spirit of youth and spring looked out of the 
 eyes she now strained so mercilessly. Avery walked around 
 the yellow-shaded lamp, and sat down on the arm of her 
 chair. " I declare, it's too bad, Cecily," he said, stooping 
 over her. 
 
 Cecily kissed him absent-mindedly. " What's too bad ? " 
 she demanded. 
 
 " That a bright girl like you should spend the evening 
 drawing a needle through cloth, and leave her husband to 
 books he finds he doesn't care to read." 
 
 "Well, I'll play cribbage with you, if you can find the 
 board," said Cecily. " Or double Canfield, if you like." 
 
 "Thank you. I think double Canfield is about my in- 
 tellectual level," said Avery. He found the cards, and 
 they did indeed finish the evening at double Canfield, not 
 without concealed yawns on both sides. 
 
 The next afternoon he made a call in one of the poorest 
 sections of the city. It was spring down by the river, 
 spring out in the country, spring along the street where 
 Avery himself lived; and even here, where the soot from 
 factory chimneys reduced street, buildings, and people to a 
 uniform hue of dirty gray, something in the aspect of the 
 swarming children told one that it was spring. 
 
DUET 37 
 
 As Avery stepped off the curb to crank his car, he saw 
 a couple approaching on foot, a tall, handsome, beaming 
 man, a tall, handsome, cheerful woman : they were radiant 
 against the surrounding dinginess. They both saw him at 
 the same moment; simultaneously they beamed upon him. 
 
 " We've just been down to see them break ground for 
 a tenement," Butler called to him. 
 
 " And two of our bungalows are under way," said Mrs. 
 Butler. 
 
 They stopped beside his car. " Most married couples 
 think it fun to plan one house," said Butler. "Think of 
 the houses we've had the fun of planning." 
 
 " You helped us so much, Dr. Fairchild," said Mrs. But- 
 ler. " I'll tell you, come up to the house when you've fin- 
 ished with your visits, and drink tea with us on the fruition 
 of our plans." 
 
 " Yes, do," chimed in Butler. " It's a long time since 
 we've seen you." 
 
 It was not a long time since Lois had seen him ; but Butler 
 had not happened in on the latest of their interviews. " I 
 have been at your house quite recently," said Avery with 
 determined frankness. 
 
 " Well, establish the habit," said Butler. 
 
 "Yes, do," chimed in Mrs. Butler. 
 
 " I may be late," said Avery. " I have several places 
 still to call." 
 
 " Everybody sick ? The more the merrier — for you," 
 said Butler. 
 
 " Any hour will suit us, Dr. Fairchild," said Mrs. Butler. 
 " We're going to reach home in half an hour, and we'll be 
 there the rest of the day." 
 
 Avery found them together in the quondam conserva- 
 tory: Lois was writing letters on the typewriter, and But- 
 ler, sunk into the deepest of the chairs, smoked and looked 
 over foreign weeklies. 
 
38 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 The husband's was the social end in this family, as the 
 wife's is in so many: Butler talked to Avery, while Lois 
 finished her letters. On their completion she sent for tea, 
 and then she and her husband took up the conversation. 
 When they were together like this, they had a way of 
 talking in duet, he supplementing her statements and she 
 his ; the word " we " in all its inflectional forms recurred 
 constantly in their talk. 
 
 " Our houses are to be model houses, you know," she 
 said. " But that isn't all." 
 
 " No, that isn't all," said Butler. " We're going to ram 
 some housing ordinances through the City Council, and then 
 see that somebody enforces them." 
 
 " Getting them enforced will probably mean having a new 
 office created," said Mrs. Butler. " And that may mean 
 going to the legislature." 
 
 " We don't know yet, but it may," said Butler. " We 
 haven't home rule in Jefferson. Are you a home-ruler, Dr. 
 Fairchild?" 
 
 " It won't be the first time I have been before a legisla- 
 ture, if we do have to go," said Mrs. Butler. "I shan't 
 mind doing it. It will break up next winter." 
 
 " The .first time I ever saw my wife she was before a 
 legislature," said Butler. "I had just strayed in there; I 
 was in the town on business, and in those beastly little state 
 capitals there is never anything to do in the evening. I 
 saw lights in the Capitol, and went in, not expecting to 
 see any women, far less a woman like the one now under 
 discussion. There she was, standing up at the speaker's 
 table in an evening gown, and those old boys were all 
 listening to her, and swayed by every word she said." 
 
 " I have a disturbing recollection that I didn't say much 
 that evening which was worth listening to," said Lois 
 Butler. " I was paving the way for another speaker, and I 
 was trying to be funny. But it wasn't a regular legislative 
 
DUET 39 
 
 session, you understand, Dr. Fairchild — hence the evening 
 gown that appealed to Walter. We had borrowed the 
 Assembly Chamber for an evening meeting, to rouse sym- 
 pathy for a bill we wanted to put through." 
 
 " I never went to anything like that before," said Butler. 
 " I just strayed in there." 
 
 " Yes," said Avery. " Suppose you hadn't ! " 
 
 " I absolutely decline to suppose that," said Butler. 
 
 " There's one thing I'm surely going to do next winter, 
 legislature or no legislature," said Mrs. Butler. " I'm go- 
 ing to have some parties for the wives of our working- 
 men." 
 
 " We'll buy a phonograph to entertain them," suggested 
 Walter. " My father never would have one in the house." 
 
 " Yes, we'll buy a phonograph ; a phonograph will help. 
 And we'll just get together and have a good time," said 
 Mrs. Butler, with a gesture of her fine hands. 
 
 "But will you?" objected Fairchild. "Won't there be 
 a certain constraint on their side, and — forgive me — a little 
 condescension on yours?" 
 
 "Why should there be?" asked Lois Butler. "My 
 grandfather was a workingman. He was one of the sav- 
 ing, God-fearing, educate-your-children workingmen, and 
 my father was a lawyer ; still, I'm a thoroughly democratic 
 product, brought up in the west and co-educated. If any of 
 Walter's family were alive now, they wouldn't exactly ap- 
 prove of me." 
 
 " They would adore you," said Butler, who obviously 
 could not bear to have some things said even in fun. 
 
 "And, Dr. Fairchild," Mrs. Butler went on, "you've 
 seen a good deal of the workingman yourself. Don't you 
 at the bottom of your heart think he's in many ways a most 
 enjoyable person?" 
 
 " Indeed I do," said Fairchild. " I think that's why he is 
 so conspicuously the pet of sociologists. The average 
 
40 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 workingman isn't any worse off than — well, than the aver- 
 age clergyman; but he's more interesting." 
 
 "Then you would at least incline to think that Mrs. 
 Butler's experience may be interesting ? " asked Butler. 
 
 " Mrs. Butler, I believe, intends to deal, not with the 
 workingman, but with the workingman's wife," said Fair- 
 child. 
 
 Butler threw back his head and laughed. " I think he 
 has you there, Lois," he said. 
 
 Lois smiled broadly. " We shall see," she said. " It 
 won't be easy, I know that." 
 
 The long spring twilight was settling toward actual dark- 
 ness. Lois lighted a lamp on a little table — no electric 
 deception this, but a veritable lamp which had belonged 
 to Walter's mother. The light was reflected from the 
 white shade high over their heads; the glass above the 
 green curtains was dark as an emerald. The three of them 
 sat on, and talked on; sometimes they would all three fall 
 silent, and then some one would think of something, and 
 they would talk again. Fairchild felt himself strangely 
 drawn to these two, this thrilling significant woman, and 
 the agreeable, inconsequential man who incorporated him- 
 self so thoroughly with her as to seem part of her signifi- 
 cance. 
 
 At length Fairchild rose to go. Mrs. Butler shook hands 
 with him in the conservatory, but Butler followed him to 
 the hall and held his overcoat. " Oh, wouldn't you like 
 that book we were speaking of ? " he said as Fairchild was 
 drawing on his gloves. " It's right here,, and you're wel- 
 come to it." 
 
 Fairchild went with him into the high, dim library. The 
 walls were lined with tall black walnut cases, from the 
 tops of which peered down ghostly busts of the immortals. 
 It was a room so respectable, and so frigid, that Fairchild 
 would not have dared to read there ; it was also singularly 
 
DUET 41 
 
 suggestive of Walter's father and mother, that devoted late 
 Victorian couple who had worshiped God most Episco- 
 palianly, and had together set their faces against all radical- 
 ism, including phonographs and electric lighting. What 
 they would have thought of the proposal to entertain 
 workingmen's wives in these stately rooms was more than 
 Fairchild could conjecture. 
 
 " Here's the book," said Butler. " I hope you'll like it." 
 
 " Thank you," answered Avery. " I hope I shall." 
 
 He would have turned and gone out at once, but Butler 
 seemed in no hurry to leave the room ; he seemed indeed to 
 have something he wished to say. Avery stood paging 
 over the book; presently he looked up, and at his look 
 Butler took courage. " You know about us, don't you ? " 
 he said impulsively. " About Lois ? " Avery nodded. 
 "It's wonderful, isn't it?" 
 
 Avery was touched ; he was also a little superior, as be- 
 came one so much older in experience. " Yes, it's all won- 
 derful," he conceded. 
 
 " The most wonderful part is what women will do for 
 us men," said Butler. " Even make fathers of us." 
 
 Butler was five or six years older than Fairchild; but at 
 that remark Avery felt not only comparatively but posi- 
 tively older. " I hope," he said abruptly and almost fiercely, 
 " that you will never be less happy than you are now." 
 
 "Now?" Butler was puzzled. 
 
 " Now," Avery repeated. 
 
 They went back to the hall after that, and Butler opened 
 the heavy front door; he stood with one hand resting on 
 the knob, and held out the other. Avery seized it in his. 
 " Good luck to you, Walter Butler," he said. 
 
V 
 
 A QUESTION OF CECILY'S LIKES 
 
 To all outward appearance Avery's life was as diversified 
 as a busy professional man's could be, and was chiefly regu- 
 lated by the demands his profession made upon it. It 
 seemed to Avery maddeningly alike from month to month : 
 so many sick people, for a considerable proportion of whom 
 little could be done, so many other people who thought 
 they were sick, so much amusement, so much reading. And 
 that life was actually regulated, not by professional de- 
 mands nor by personal aspirations, but by the woman 
 Cecily. 
 
 Opposite her Avery ate the meals that Cecily had ordered. 
 He saw her dressing his children exquisitely, and moulding 
 their minds and manners according to approved standards. 
 She was building up his social position, and drawing him 
 steadily toward a more remunerative class of patients. 
 When he read late at night, partitions and closed doors 
 could not keep the fact from her, and she would come 
 reminding him of the hour. He was not even sure that 
 she sleeping did not feel through the very walls how he 
 slept. Yet she had properly speaking no system of wifely 
 espionage; Cecily was a rather incurious woman. Some- 
 times indeed she was downright indifferent; she would 
 present a smooth cheek to his eager kiss, and contrive to 
 make him feel that she was interested, not in him or his 
 kiss, but in something, say, just over his shoulder. He 
 could not accuse her of intrusiveness ; it was simply that 
 she was always so maddeningly there. 
 
 With the coming of warm weather Cecily mourned sea- 
 
 43 
 
A QUESTION OF CECILY'S LIKES 43 
 
 sonably in white, and enlarged her daily program to include 
 golf, and more frequently than not luncheon at the Coun- 
 try Club. Once or twice Avery went with her. She played 
 well enough, but not too well; she won or lost with equal 
 good temper, and she looked her best in sport costume. 
 On the links or resting on the clubhouse veranda, Avery 
 found her adorable. If life had been one continuous Coun- 
 try Club, he thought, Cecily Fairchild would have been 
 an artist in life. 
 
 In August she took the children and went on a round of 
 visits. She wrote to him frequently, short, pungent let- 
 ters, rather impersonal in tone. In September she came 
 back, somewhat worn, and plunged into the problems of 
 a fall wardrobe. Thus Avery measured the months by her. 
 For the rest, he worked, and mused, and fretted in his 
 secret soul. As a sign of how time was passing, his son, 
 now approaching four years of age, most impudently ceased 
 to be merely a baby, and began to develop a personality 
 of his own. He was a quick, restless child, who adored 
 and resembled his mother; he and Avery were not on inti- 
 mate terms. 
 
 In October Cecily inaugurated a season of rigid economy. 
 She had, intermittently, a laudable desire to be square 
 with the world; and one could economize so nicely during 
 a period of mourning. Avery was always preaching about 
 paying bills promptly; he had, apparently, no notion of 
 the great principle that modern business is run on credit. 
 Naturally, Cecily looked to him for approval of this sea- 
 son of meat loaves and darned stockings. Just at that 
 time, however, Avery ceased temporarily to know what 
 he ate or what went on at home. Outside the orbit domi- 
 nated by Cecily there occurred two events, unconnected with 
 each other and but distantly connected with Avery, which 
 yet seemed to him profoundly if vaguely significant. On 
 these two he mused. In her little cottage next to Mrs. 
 
44 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 Schulz's the consumptive Mrs. Fisher died, leaving her 
 three children to a county institution, and her tired, sullen 
 sister to her own devices, free at last of responsibility or of 
 check. And in the big Victorian house that looked down 
 on the river, Lois Butler's son was born. 
 
 Walter Butler, debonair as ever, met Avery one day 
 and took him home to see the fortnight-old baby. The 
 baby, in the arms of a miraculous nurse, looked much like 
 any other baby. " A fine, healthy child," said Avery. 
 
 " And pretty, isn't he ? " asked Butler, eying his child. 
 " I never thought such a little baby could be pretty, but 
 this one certainly is." Glancing up he caught a flicker of 
 a smile on Avery's face. Butler smiled back, but not in 
 the least in deprecation of his own enthusiasm. " Now 
 that you've seen the baby, come and see the mother," he 
 said. "That's proper, isn't it?" 
 
 He led the way into a great, lofty bedroom overlooking 
 the river; a light, airy room, solidly furnished. In a chaise 
 longue near the windows Mrs. Butler lounged among yel- 
 low cushions; an open book lay on her knees, a new pub- 
 lication on " Poverty and Relief." 
 
 When the baby had been complimented Butler bethought 
 himself of some telephoning he wished to do, and went into 
 the next room. Left alone with Avery, Mrs. Butler began 
 to talk, not about the baby, but about the possibility of 
 organizing an association of the private charities in Jeffer- 
 son. " So much overlapping," she said. " Of course, that's 
 easy enough to demonstrate to them ; but when you come to 
 doing anything, you're blocked by so much jealousy." 
 
 Avery felt his old fear that maternity would absorb 
 Lois yielding to a fear that it would bore her. She was not 
 unwilling to be a mother; but was it possible that she was 
 uninterested ? 
 
 As he sat listening to Lois, and Butler lingered over 
 his telephoning, the miraculous nurse passed the door with 
 
A QUESTION OF CECILY'S LIKES 45 
 
 the baby in her arms. Lois turned her head and called to 
 her. The nurse approached the chaise longue, and as she ap- 
 proached Lois leaned forward ; when she was near enough, 
 she reached up and snatched the baby. " Leave him here 
 with me a few minutes," she demanded. " When he needs 
 you, I'll call you." And the nurse's immaculate alien pres- 
 ence faded from the room. 
 
 " Isn't he sweet ? " Lois demanded of Avery as she cud- 
 dled the baby. " I was afraid I might not like him — just 
 at first, you know ; but I do — I do — I do." She kissed the 
 top of the baby's head; then she smiled over it at Avery. 
 " You don't mind my acting silly over my baby ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " I rather like to see it," said Avery. 
 
 " Oh, of course ! You have children of your own," said 
 Lois Butler. " Bring Mrs. Fairchild up to see my baby, 
 won't you? She hasn't ever come to see me, but I'm sure 
 she will come now." She lowered the baby to the bend 
 of her arm, and held it as expertly as if she had never done 
 anything else. Walter Butler, coming in just then, walked 
 abruptly to a window and stood with his back to them for 
 a few moments. In those days life seemed to the excellent 
 Walter almost too good to last. 
 
 When Mrs. Butler's invitation was delivered to her Cecily 
 Teplied that she would go tb see her, with pleasure, any 
 day that Avery could go too. The two of them accord- 
 ingly set out one Sunday afternoon; and as the weather 
 was fine they walked. Avery, who had had a nap after 
 his dinner, was in uncommonly good temper ; striding along 
 in the bright autumn weather, he was pleasantly con- 
 scious of his own health and sleekness, his wife's grace and 
 style, and the way their steps synchronized. No wonder 
 plain people were satisfied, if all their bourgeois enjoy- 
 ments were like this Sunday afternoon walking! 
 
 Cecily enjoyed things too. Her eyes sparkled through 
 
46 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 her little veil, and color came into her cheeks ; her lips kept 
 twisting toward a smile. She commented gaily on people 
 they met, never missing a grotesquely turned-out woman, or 
 a stumbling urchin, or a brisk, thin little girl, "all legs," 
 as she observed with delight. 
 
 It came to him, therefore, as rather a sickening surprise 
 when throughout the interview with the Butlers Cecily was 
 as frostily bright as a January morning. She thawed only 
 slightly toward the baby; she made none of those amusing 
 tart comments that she so well knew how to make; and 
 when Mrs. Butler, who was cordiality itself, proposed an 
 informal little supper, Cecily, who usually loved informal 
 little suppers, pleaded another engagement. 
 
 " Well, it's done for," Avery thought gloomily on his 
 way home, " it " signifying any possibility of neighborly 
 intimacy between the Fairchilds and the Butlers. It did 
 indeed seem improbable that Mrs. Butler would make fur- 
 ther overtures after such a rebuff ; yet two weeks later she 
 drove over to call on Cecily. Then she asked the Fairchilds 
 to a big dinner, and Cecily to luncheon; and after that she 
 called again. The attention was curiously one-sided; 
 Cecily had declined both the invitations, and had not re- 
 turned her first call. Yet Lois Butler persisted. Why did 
 she persist, Avery wondered, and why did Cecily cold- 
 shoulder what was obviously such a social opportunity? 
 
 He dared finally to ask Lois. Perhaps it was significant 
 that he sought enlightenment from her rather than from 
 Cecily; but possibly it was because opportunity offered in 
 the one case. The Butlers had kept to their family physician 
 until now; he had been a friend of Walter's father, and 
 descended to the younger man like the house and the busi- 
 ness. One morning, however, one of the servants was 
 sick, and asked that Dr. Fairchild be called. On his way 
 out of the house Avery stopped to see Mrs. Butler. She 
 was in the dining-room, opening some boxes of little cakes 
 
A QUESTION OF CECILY'S LIKES 47 
 
 that had come by express from the city, and sampling them 
 as she opened. " Aren't these good ? " she demanded, hand- 
 ing two to Avery. 
 
 Avery munched and nodded. " Are you having a 
 party ? " he asked. 
 
 " One of the parties I threatened — for workingmen's 
 wives. I telephoned to the Health Department, and they 
 said there wasn't any contagious disease in town, so I felt 
 quite safe about the baby." 
 
 Avery laughed. " You telephoned to the Health Depart- 
 ment ? The modern mother ! " 
 
 " I wasn't going to take any risks with Jerry," said Mrs. 
 Butler, smiling. " Old people like me would do well to be 
 careful of their children." 
 
 " It's as well to be careful of them anyway," said Avery. 
 
 " I suppose even Dr. Fairchild is careful of his, isn't 
 he ? " she asked. " How are the children, and how is Mrs. 
 Fairchild?" 
 
 " They're all well, thank you." 
 
 " Won't you have another cake ? " she asked. 
 
 " No, thank you, no more." 
 
 Mrs. Butler selected a fresh cake for herself, and bit into 
 it. " She doesn't like me," she announced calmly. 
 
 " Who doesn't ? " stammered Avery. 
 
 " Mrs. Fairchild. Oh, don't let my remark embarrass 
 you ! Lots of people don't like me, you know. But I think 
 it's too bad that she doesn't, because I like her very 
 much." 
 
 "Well, lots of people do like Cecily," said Avery. 
 
 " She interests me," said Lois Butler. 
 
 " That is rather more surprising," said Avery. " Cecily 
 is pretty, witty, a good housekeeper, clever with people; 
 she's my wife, and I'm fond of her. But why should she 
 interest you ? " 
 
 " Partly, I think, because she's so very modern." 
 
48 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 "Modern?" exclaimed Avery. "Why, her type is as 
 old as civilization itself." 
 
 " That's just where you're wrong ! " Lois slammed the 
 cover on the nearest box, with a sort of burlesque emphasis. 
 " Cecily Fairchild is a modern woman. Do you think I 
 don't know a modern woman when I see one? Do you 
 think I don't know modern women, anyway?" 
 
 " Any one ought to. There's enough written about them," 
 said Avery. 
 
 The discussion had been only half in earnest — that was 
 its excuse. Now Lois Butler laughed outright, and dropped 
 the matter. " How did you find my maid ? " she asked. 
 
 " It's nothing but grippe. I left directions with one of 
 the other servants, and a prescription as well. I say " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Keep the baby way from your grippy servants. There 
 is lots of grippe in town, and it's a thing that isn't reported 
 to the Health Department." 
 
 Lois looked worried. " The baby's nurse " she 
 
 said. 
 
 " She'll take all due precautions, I have no doubt," said 
 Avery. " She seems a flawless person." 
 
 " Do you mean a trying person ? " asked Mrs. Butler. 
 
 " Oh, Jerry isn't old enough to have any nerves, and if 
 she doesn't get on yours " 
 
 " People seldom get on my nerves," she said. 
 
 " Lucky woman ! " Avery started toward the door. 
 
 Mrs. Butler followed him into the hall. " Come over 
 soon to see us," she said. " I hardly ever meet you, of 
 course, on my visits to your wife. If I ask you to dinner, 
 will you both come ? " 
 
 " Don't do it yet. We don't emerge from mourning for 
 my wife's mother until some time after Christmas." 
 
 " I had forgotten about that. Perhaps I've done some- 
 thing I ought not to in intruding on " 
 
A QUESTION OF CECILY'S LIKES 49 
 
 " On a couple mourning with the full rigor of custom ? 
 And you have dared to call us modern ! " said Avery. 
 
 She had always a smile for any idiotic remark of his; 
 she smiled now. A random ray of morning sunlight, find- 
 ing its way into the dull old hall, brought out golden flecks 
 in her friendly brown eyes. She was so cordial and frank, 
 she so obviously meant all kindness toward the Fairchilds, 
 that she increased Avery's bewilderment at Cecily's be- 
 havior. For a moment to be sure, as he took leave of Mrs. 
 Butler, Avery was thinking chiefly about her gracious self ; 
 but as soon as he was in the outer air he was confronted 
 mentally with his problematical wife. 
 
 He thought about Cecily's attitude as if it were, not a 
 matter on which farther events might cast fresh light, but 
 a thing that could be thought out to a satisfactory con- 
 clusion. It occurred to him that Cecily might be jealous, 
 but he dismissed that idea at once. It was inconceivable 
 that Lois Butler should be flirting with Avery; and even 
 if she had been, discovery of the fact would not have caused 
 rage or sullenness on Cecily's part. If any woman wanted 
 to take Cecily's husband from her, she was welcome to 
 try. From the time she was sixteen until she married, 
 Cecily had been surrounded with men, youths and maturer 
 beaux as well, the band of candidates from whom her 
 mother thought she ought to have selected better; and no 
 woman ever had got one of her swains away from her. 
 Each in turn had had to be dismissed, and each had been 
 loath to go. Doubtless her dislike of Mrs. Butler was 
 only a whim; but how particularly unfortunate that she 
 should seize this situation in which to be whimsical ! 
 
 Lois Butler had not despaired of conquering Cecily. In- 
 asmuch as that protracted " mourning " barred formal social 
 intercourse, she and Butler "dropped in" at the Fair- 
 childs' one Sunday afternoon. They were a radiant pair; 
 to Avery the contagion of their happiness seemed irre- 
 
50 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 sistible. Cecily was as polite as she had to be, but she was 
 very cool, and she did not warm as the visit progressed. 
 She drew the line very cleverly, though; she did and said 
 nothing on which Avery could take her up. 
 
 To take her up r however, he was determined. When 
 after the Butlers' departure he was called professionally, 
 he asked her to go with him in the car, for the express 
 purpose of taking her up. She went with him readily; 
 she was even rather sweetly and touchingly glad to be riding 
 with him through the crisp air of the late autumn after- 
 noon. But Avery was in no mood to be touched. Now or 
 never was the time for frankness, he thought; the most 
 stimulating friendship that had ever been offered him was 
 at stake. 
 
 Cecily chattered to him gaily as they drove; and her 
 gay chatter gave him the opening he desired. " You're 
 an amusing talker, Cecily," he said. " Why don't you talk 
 more to Mrs. Butler?" 
 
 " She overwhelms me," said Cecily shortly. As if that 
 subject were disposed of, she went back to her amusing 
 trivialities. 
 
 Avery subsided; he couldn't get anything out of Cecily 
 unless she chose to give it. He ought to have known bet- 
 ter. But he drove home past a row of the Butler bunga- 
 lows, many of them already occupied, and, down another 
 street well out of his way, past the Butler model tenement, 
 now nearing completion. 
 
VI 
 
 THE BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM 
 
 It was the combination in Lois that made her so singu- 
 larly effective. A gracious and lovely mother, dividing 
 her attention between her adored first-born and " Poverty 
 and Relief," had him on every side at once. Perhaps that 
 was what irked Cecily — that and the perception of her own 
 deficiencies as one of the socially conscious. 
 
 For Avery preferred to believe that Cecily was irked, and 
 retaliated upon him. He refused to admit that a gulf was 
 opening between them: that he and Cecily spent progres- 
 sively less and less of their time in each other's company, 
 and had less and less to say when they were together. 
 Wasn't she his wife? Didn't he indubitably love her? 
 Avery held hard to those two facts, and refused to admit 
 to himself that anything dreadful or even unsightly could 
 be true in spite of such facts. 
 
 If he had acknowledged in the tribunal of his own con- 
 science that he was at outs with Cecily, he must have made 
 a whole series of minor admissions. Instead, for instance, 
 of saving things to tell Cecily, he now saved them to tell 
 Lois Butler. As his interviews with that lady were often 
 weeks and sometimes months apart, things piled up; and 
 when opportunity at last afforded itself, he was most 
 abominably confiding, most uncharacteristically talkative. 
 
 Returning from a significant expedition out of town, 
 and thirsting to tell Mrs. Butler about it, he drove to the 
 Butlers' one morning immediately after breakfast. Just as 
 he entered the hall, admitted by the maid who had once 
 called him to minister to her grippe, Walter Butler de- 
 
 51 
 
52 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 scended the stairs. " Hello! " he called to Avery. " Have 
 you had breakfast? Oh, you're earlier than I am. I was 
 hoping you hadn't had it; then you could breakfast with 
 me. 
 
 He drew nearer, and continued confidentially, " Lois usu- 
 ally breakfasts with me, but this morning she isn't down 
 yet. She rose betimes, too. And what do you think the ris- 
 ing betimes and the late to breakfast is all about? She 
 wanted to bathe the baby ! I thought the nurse did it well 
 enough. Lois thought so too, but she said she wanted 
 to know how — wanted the experience. I think it's Jerry 
 who's getting the experience. She's been washing and 
 washing, and she doesn't seem to get him clean." 
 
 " Does Jerry like it ? " asked Avery. 
 
 " He howled at first," answered Jerry's father, " but he 
 gave that up long ago. Jerry's a child of discernment, and 
 he knows that his mother is a determined woman." 
 
 " Do I hear myself discussed ? " called a clear voice from 
 above them. " Come up and see for yourselves." 
 
 "A sharp-eared woman," said Butler, seizing Avery's 
 arm. " Come on ! Let's take her at her word." 
 
 The big square upper hall of the Victorian house had 
 been furnished and to some extent used as a sitting-room. 
 It is doubtful whether in the decorous days of Walter's 
 parents it had ever been used as a bathroom. Here, how- 
 ever, attracted by the solid coal fire that glowed in the old- 
 fashioned grate — a fire that was actually necessary if the 
 huge unmodern house were to be kept sufficiently warm — 
 here Lois Butler had elected to bathe her baby. She 
 had just completed the protracted bath when she invited 
 the two men to come upstairs ; and as they came she rolled 
 down her sleeves, dropped her towels, and rose with the 
 baby in her arms. A long soft yellow robe swirled about 
 her; and as she held out the beautiful naked baby for 
 their inspection she made a picture almost achingly lovely. 
 
THE BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM 53 
 
 " All clean," she announced. " Washed and rubbed and 
 powdered. Isn't he darling ? " 
 
 " Are you going to dress him ? " asked Butler. 
 
 " No. I'm going to let the nurse do that. At my rate of 
 speed, he would hardly be dressed by noon. Go down to 
 your breakfast, Walter; I'll be with you soon. Keep Dr. 
 Fairchild; I want to talk with him." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not going ! " said Fairchild. " I came on pur- 
 pose, you know, to talk with you." 
 
 " That's fine," said Mrs. Butler. " I won't be long." She 
 wrapped the baby in a blanket, and disappeared into her 
 own room. 
 
 " It's just like Lois," said Butler, grinning, " to pull even 
 the baby's bath to a triumphant conclusion before we get 
 there." 
 
 " Thereby depriving you of your legal right to gloat over 
 her," said Avery. " Isn't it a trial to you to live with an 
 impeccable woman ? " 
 
 " Lois isn't ever a trial," answered Butler, touched at 
 once in that sensitive spot of his. " And she's not impec- 
 cable — she wouldn't be Lois if she were. I don't like that 
 word impeccable. But she is triumphant. All her life she 
 has passed from one triumph to another, in small things as 
 in great. Well, never mind that now. Come along to 
 breakfast ; breakfast is a great idea." 
 
 The iconoclastic young Butlers, who sat in the conserva- 
 tory and bathed the baby in the hall, were not of course satis- 
 fied to breakfast in any room that an older generation had 
 devoted to that purpose. The house did not indeed provide 
 a separate breakfast-room ; and Walter's father and mother 
 had always breakfasted solemnly in the dining-room, at 
 opposite ends of the long table, and talked solemnly or been 
 seriously silent across shining yards of damask. Even now 
 Walter Butler shuddered at the remembrance of those 
 breakfasts at which he had assisted in his youth. Lois and 
 
54 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 he had seized upon a small room used by Walter's father 
 as an office, and called " the study." Here, beside the. open 
 fire in winter and the open windows in summer, their 
 breakfasts were set forth on a small mahogany table cov- 
 ered with a square of printed Oriental cotton. 
 
 Avery accepted a cup of coffee, and Butler helped him- 
 self generously to whatever was before him. " What 
 should we ever do without food, I wonder ? " he specu- 
 lated. " Eating is such a resource. When I feel bad I eat 
 for consolation, and when I feel good I eat to celebrate. 
 And at all times I eat just for amusement." 
 
 " Obesity threatens," Avery warned him. 
 
 " That sounds like George Meredith," said Butler. " All 
 I have to say to George is, Let it threaten." 
 
 Mrs. Butler came in at that moment, having changed her 
 flowing yellow robe for one of her open-necked blouses. 
 With the blouse she seemed to have put on some sharp 
 executive quality; at her entrance both men sat straighter 
 in their chairs. Butler's eyes beamed as they rested on 
 her. " We have bacon this morning, Lois," he said. 
 
 " That's good. I'm hungry." She looked at Avery as she 
 poured her coffee. " You've been out of town, haven't you, 
 Dr. Fairchild?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes. I've been at the convention of the state medical 
 association," said Avery. " How did you know it ? " 
 
 " She read it in the paper, of course," said Butler. " In 
 the great and glorious Jefferson Clarion. Where else ? " 
 
 " The Clarion said you were to give a paper before the 
 association," said Mrs. Butler. 
 
 " Yes. I was allowed to choose my own subject, and I 
 talked on education for health." 
 
 " Are you very much interested in that ? " she asked. 
 
 " Very much." 
 
 " It's rather a new field," said Lois, sipping her coffee. 
 " I think, though, that it's going to be a big one." 
 
THE BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM 55 
 
 " A big field ? " Avery wondered. 
 
 " Yes. If you have any type of education, it takes people 
 to disseminate that education, doesn't it?" 
 
 " Why don't you go into that field, Dr. Fairchild ? " asked 
 Butler. " If it's new, and interests you " 
 
 "Yes. Why don't you go into it?" Lois echoed. 
 
 " For a very good reason," said Avery shortly. " I have 
 my living to make." 
 
 " Oh, one can make a living at anything ! " said Lois 
 with a laugh. " If you can't get a state or a municipality 
 to adopt yourself and your ideas, organize a society and get 
 yourself made secretary with a salary." 
 
 Both men laughed at that. " Lois, you're an unprin- 
 cipled woman," said Butler. 
 
 " No, I'm not. But I didn't always have a factory be- 
 hind me; I had to do for myself." 
 
 Butler rose, walked around the table, and put his arm 
 about his wife. " Poor girl ! " he said. " Well, you've got 
 the factory now, and I think I'd better run along to it. If 
 I don't give it some attention, we may not always have it." 
 
 " What is the nature of your duties at that factory of 
 yours ? " asked Avery. 
 
 On this point Butler was not sensitive. " Oh, I sign 
 papers," he said with a wave of the hand. " Letters — and 
 checks." 
 
 A moment later the door closed behind him. " Isn't it 
 considerate of him to go," said Avery, " when he saw that 
 I could talk more freely to you alone ? " 
 
 "Oh, he is considerate," said Mrs. Butler. "And he 
 really has to go to the factory sometimes, you know." 
 
 She set down her empty cup, and rang for the breakfast 
 things to be taken away. Then from a drawer she pro- 
 duced a package of cigarettes. She gave one to Avery, and 
 lighted one herself. Now Lois was, as Avery knew, but a 
 half-hearted smoker; left to herself, she would never have 
 
56 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 smoked thus early in the day. He realized that this was 
 a significant, even a symbolical cigarette; that as Cecily 
 often took to her embroidery to erect a barrier around 
 her, so Lois Butler was smoking to show him that he might 
 freely confess himself. 
 
 He looked at her steadily; she turned to him with just 
 a shade of the quizzical in her glance. " Promise me," said 
 Avery, " promise me not to think me a fool." 
 
 " You rouse my curiosity," said Mrs. Butler. " What 
 have you been doing or thinking of that requires that pre- 
 amble ? Have you had an inspiration ? " 
 
 " Something like that," said Avery eagerly. " Call it a 
 vision, if you like." 
 
 " Has it anything to do with medical associations — and 
 papers read — and education for health ? " 
 
 " It has a great deal to do with just that," answered 
 Avery. " Butler suggested a few minutes since that I might 
 go in for health education. I don't believe he spoke seri- 
 ously, but when I was working on my paper, and more or 
 less all the time since then, I — I've thought I might." 
 
 " Splendid ! " said Mrs. Butler. " Splendid ! " 
 
 " I don't know how to go about it," said Avery. " But I 
 should love it, and I don't like to practice medicine. I've 
 always seen the need for such a work as this we speak of ; 
 the novel part, the inspiration, is simply the idea that I 
 myself was the one to do the work." 
 
 Lois leaned toward him. " And you're going — you're 
 going to do it." 
 
 " That's just what I don't know. There are difficulties," 
 said Avery. " Doubtless a living could be made at this 
 work ; but the financial aspect of it bothers me. I'm a mar- 
 ried man, you know." 
 
 " Are you the sort of married man who takes shelter be- 
 hind the petticoats of his wife ? " 
 
 " I hope not ; I do indeed hope not. But the woman has 
 
THE BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM 57 
 
 to be considered first. Our whole domestic system was 
 built up in view of that." 
 
 " If it was built up for any such end, our whole domestic 
 system is a ghastly failure," said Mrs. Butler quickly. Then 
 her face grew at once graver and brighter as she went on, 
 " Let's talk for a moment about a particular woman, a spe- 
 cial case. That's better than trying to deal with a whole set 
 of social institutions, and perhaps saying things about them 
 that we don't mean." 
 
 "A special case," repeated Avery. "My special case?" 
 
 " Yours. Are you actually sacrificing to her happiness, 
 in living as you do now? And is your sacrifice rewarded? 
 Is she happy ? " 
 
 " In a way, I think she is," said Avery. 
 
 " Is she fulfilling all her possibilities ? Has she that kind 
 of happiness? And is she — forgive me — is she growing 
 more interesting every year? She should, you know." 
 
 " I'm afraid she isn't fulfilling all her possibilities. Isn't 
 domestic life always to some extent anaesthetic ? " 
 
 " Oh, it mustn't be ! " she cried. " I can't presume to 
 advise you ; no one could. But you have courage enough to 
 face the situation. If you sacrifice yourself to your wife, 
 you may be at the same time sacrificing her to society, and 
 you may end as a stultified and disappointed couple." 
 
 " I am not to think myself a hero when I'm merely a 
 coward ? " 
 
 " You're not a coward. You're least of all a cow- 
 ard." 
 
 " I can see all that," said Avery. " Indeed most of it is 
 true, truer than you can know. But what haunts me and 
 distresses me is this : If I go, go out to preach health to the 
 people, you know, I go less because people need me than 
 
 because Oh, hang it all ! " he brought out in anguish ; 
 
 " because I want to go to them. Because, don't you see, I 
 shall like itl" 
 
58 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 Lois Butler laughed. " You inimitable Puritan ! " she 
 said. " Of course that's why you go ; because you like it, 
 because, indeed, you can't help yourself. That's why we all 
 go. Don't you suppose that even the martyr realizes him- 
 self better at the stake than he would in a life of ease 
 and compromise ? " 
 
 Avery stared at her. " Even we who aren't martyrs," 
 she went on, " we cheerful workers for the social cause — 
 don't you suppose that we would rather do what we do than 
 something easier, or nothing at all ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," stammered Avery. 
 
 " I know so. Since the field of my own endeavors has 
 changed I am sure that the endeavors have been made in 
 freedom of spirit. I get a better perspective now on all that 
 time, you see; and I find too that when the chance is of- 
 fered me I don't care permanently to quit the field of my 
 early interests. Before I came to Jefferson, I didn't haggle 
 with city councils and poke about slums and bother land- 
 lords because I was resolved to make a martyr of myself, 
 and to be superior to girls who did fancy-work and waited 
 for some man to come along and marry them. I preferred 
 poking about slums to fancy-work, and activity to waiting. 
 It's a question of the way one is made." 
 
 " That sounds Nietzschean," said Avery. " It's a gospel 
 of social reform for highly individualistic reasons." 
 
 " Oh, you'll find a Nietzsche somewhere about the house, 
 though I doubt if you will find what I am telling you in 
 Nietzsche," said Mrs. Butler. " But this is only secondarily 
 a gospel of individualism." 
 
 " And primarily ? " he asked. 
 
 " Primarily it's a gospel of looking things in the 
 face." 
 
 " Suppose I did," said Avery. " Suppose I looked things 
 in the face, and decided to make of myself a voice crying in 
 this wilderness — though I really think in this instance it's 
 
THE BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM 59 
 
 a case of the wilderness crying. Suppose I made the de- 
 cision, how would I begin to work ? " 
 
 " If you ask me for suggestions," said Mrs. Butler, " I 
 can refer you to a man who knows more about the subject 
 than any one else in the country. He was at one time virtu- 
 ally in your position. It's Dr. Grosvenor, Adam Grosvenor. 
 You've heard of him?" 
 
 " He's a pioneer and pathfinder in this kind of work, isn't 
 he? Didn't he found an anti-tuberculosis association in 
 New York?" 
 
 " Indeed he did. It's the only one in the country so far, 
 but it won't be the only one forever." 
 
 " You think that I ought to sit at his feet ? " asked Avery. 
 " You think that he'd have me? " 
 
 " He'd be glad enough to get you. And if you really care 
 to sit at his feet, as you put it, and learn what he has to teach 
 you about his own work, I'll give you a letter to him. 
 He's a personal friend of mine." 
 
 " It seems — it is practicable," mused Avery. 
 
 " Practicable? Man, once you set your hand to it, it's as 
 good as done ! " she cried. 
 
 " You have confidence," said Avery. 
 
 " So would you have, if you could see what I see. I get 
 the whole picture, you know, including you. And this is so 
 exactly the complement to you. What you have been doing 
 in Jefferson," said Mrs. Butler succinctly, " is not. It 
 never has been." 
 
 She had drawn him to the point of a determination. Now, 
 little by little, she hardened him in that determination, and 
 Avery let her do it. Why else, indeed, had he come here, 
 except to have her do this very thing? She planned the 
 undertaking for him in detail, clearing away some difficul- 
 ties, making the whole thing seem luminous and practicable, 
 and near — so awfully near. An hour they lingered in talk, 
 and then another hour. For Avery it was like breathing a 
 
60 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 clearer air and feeling a warmer sun; so pleasant are the 
 rare occasions when the ego dances to the piping of con- 
 science. 
 
 When at length he rose to go, Dr. Grosvenor's address 
 was in his pocket, and Lois had undertaken definitely to 
 write to the great man as well. Avery set off on his rounds 
 like a man doing hastily something he had been in the habit 
 of doing, but was soon to quit. 
 
 Mrs. Butler had bade him good-by with that wonderful, 
 heartening confidence. " I know you can do it. I believe 
 you will," she said as they shook hands. 
 
 " I believe I can. I know I will," said Avery, relinquish- 
 ing her firm, generous hand. 
 
 Her image, not so much glorified as glorifying, stayed 
 with him all day, during his visits and a hasty lunch 
 snatched at a restaurant. He did not care to go home for 
 lunch that day; he wished to get this thing firmly fixed in 
 his mind before he exposed it to the domestic atmosphere. 
 When along toward dinner-time he reached home, he felt 
 that he had made the idea so thoroughly his, had reviewed 
 his determination so from every point of view, that he was 
 invincible. He had possessed himself of a new life; all 
 that remained was to announce his possession. " Now," he 
 said to himself as he applied his key to the latch, " now for 
 Cecily!" 
 
VII 
 CONTAINS A REFERENCE TO IBSEN 
 
 Cecily was seated beside a low table in the living-room. 
 On her lap the sleepy baby half sat, half lay, with her 
 adorable round limbs sprawling. Cecily was not looking 
 at the baby; indeed she was staring at the opposite wall. 
 She looked listless, quite unlike herself; but when she saw 
 him her eyes brightened. " I'm glad you've come, Avery," 
 she said. " I've been dull as ditch-water all day. I've 
 been wishing for an hour that you would come in and talk 
 to me. How have things been going?" 
 
 What possessed her, Avery wondered, to make such an 
 appeal this day of all days? She always listened to any- 
 thing he had to say, politely if somewhat absent-mindedly; 
 but he did not recall her ever having asked him to talk to 
 her before. He sat down near her, and talked obediently. 
 He had come in full of something that must be said to her, 
 but it could hardly be said in this connection. Avery made 
 conversation for her as flagrantly as he ever did for his lady- 
 patients. 
 
 That happened to be one of the evenings when he had 
 office hours. He left the house soon after dinner, and it 
 was late when he returned. The lower floor was in dark- 
 ness; Cecily had gone to bed. 
 
 The door that led from her room into the hall was open, 
 and Avery stood for a moment in the doorway. He could 
 see her in the light that shone in from behind him. She 
 was fast asleep, and sleeping more soundly than usual; 
 under the bedclothes her slim body looked as small as a 
 
 61 
 
62 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 child's. Avery could not wake her up to talk to her ; he went 
 on to his own room. 
 
 If any slight strangeness in her behavior could hold in 
 check for a day that fine new determination of his, Avery 
 was bound hand and foot by the familiarity of her usual 
 demeanor as he beheld it next morning. His home and his 
 children, expressed in and through this woman Cecily — 
 these things were the very stuff of his life, whether he 
 liked it or not. These things loomed heroic size in his 
 mind, and all the delicious possibilities which his interview 
 with Lois Butler had brought so near receded until they 
 were pigmies. 
 
 Not that he ever changed his mind about the situation. 
 He wrote to Dr. Grosvenor, and began to consider the sale 
 of his practice; he got from Mrs. Butler, and studied dili- 
 gently, some publications of Dr. Grosvenor's society. But 
 he found no opening to tell his wife what she must be told. 
 For a week he hesitated and evaded, and was moody and 
 absent-minded. Meanwhile Cecily went on attending to her 
 own business, and attending to it most efficiently. 
 
 Then one afternoon he met her at his own front steps, 
 approaching from one direction as he approached from the 
 other. She advanced with her nervous, restrained stride, 
 that was yet somehow so graceful; between her dark furs 
 and her dark hat her vivid little face glowed; the tints of 
 her lips and cheeks were repeated in a rose pinned among 
 the fur, a visible sign that she had ceased officially to grieve 
 for her mother. How full of life she was, he thought ; and 
 how happy she always seemed in the open air. Perhaps she 
 was only half domesticated, after all ; he hoped it was barely 
 half. 
 
 She smiled a little as they met. " Aren't you a little late 
 today, Avery ? " she asked. 
 
 " Perhaps I am, a little. Have you had a pleasant after- 
 noon ? " He followed her up the steps and into the house. 
 
CONTAINS A REFERENCE TO IBSEN 63 
 
 " A pleasant afternoon ? " she repeated over her shoul- 
 der. " Oh, yes ! Pleasant enough." She looked for mail, 
 and found three or four letters. " One for you, Avery ; the 
 rest for Cecily," she said. 
 
 Avery saw with a leap of the heart that his letter came 
 from Dr. Grosvenor. Holding it unopened in his hand, he 
 followed her into the living-room. Still in her wraps, 
 Cecily perched on the arm of a chair to read her letters; 
 she always had a liking for chair-arms. With a hand that 
 shook a little, Avery opened his letter. Dr. Grosvenor had 
 heard from him, and from his friend Mrs. Butler about him. 
 He was always glad to have new and enthusiastic workers ; 
 at any time when Dr. Fairchild could come to New York, 
 he could find work for him with the Association. 
 
 It was all that Avery had dared to hope. He read the 
 letter twice, to make sure that it was really quite all right; 
 then he looked up, to find Cecily's eyes upon him. " Well, 
 Avery ? " she said. 
 
 " Well, Cecily ? " he countered, stuffing the letter into his 
 pocket. 
 
 " Did your letter please you ? " she asked. 
 
 " It did. Did yours please you, Cecily ? " 
 
 " Mine were negligible," she said. Perching there on the 
 arm of the chair, swinging one foot, she scrutinized Avery. 
 He met her look as well as he could. Presently she smiled, 
 but her eyes continued to hold his. Avery turned uneasily, 
 and walked across the room. Her voice followed him, her 
 imperative staccato voice. " Out with it, Avery," she said. 
 
 " Out with what ? " asked Avery with his back turned. 
 
 " With whatever you've been trying to tell me for the 
 last few days.'' 
 
 At this specimen of wifely second sight Avery was at once 
 relieved and perplexed. It opened up the subject, but it 
 seemed to warn him away from the opening. He was silent, 
 and Cecily went on: 
 
64 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " I don't care what it is, Avery, I would rather you spoke 
 of it than tried to ignore it. You've been walking around 
 with your head in the clouds for ever so long. In fact 
 I should notice it if your head weren't in the clouds. But 
 this past week you've been beginning things, and then drop- 
 ping them and looking self-conscious, until it's fairly made 
 me nervous. It was amusing at first, but the amusement 
 soon wore off. Indeed, I'd rather you made a row about 
 the bills than kept this up any longer. Is it the bills ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, it isn't the bills. During the last few months 
 we have lived more nearly within our income than at any 
 other time since we were married. The fact is, Cecily, I 
 have thought of making some changes." 
 
 Cecily's foot swung wider ; she smiled sweetly. " Why 
 not? I like changes." 
 
 " The fact is," said Avery, " I don't like to practice medi- 
 cine." 
 
 " Carry a hod, if that suits you better," suggested Cecily. 
 
 " Yes, I know you think I'll take it out in not liking. But 
 that," said Avery firmly, " is exactly what I purpose not 
 to do." 
 
 " May I ask what you purpose to do ? " Cecily's foot had 
 stopped swinging. 
 
 " I think of going to New York to work for a man there, 
 Dr. Adam Grosvenor. I heard from him today that he can 
 find work for me." 
 
 " Where did you hear of him ? " asked Cecily. 
 
 " From Mrs. Butler." Avery had nothing to conceal. 
 
 " Oh, from Mrs. Butler ! And what is the nature of the 
 work that is so superior to what you are leaving?" 
 
 " Dr. Grosvenor is Director of the State Anti-Tuberculosis 
 Association. I have called the field, into which I may go 
 permanently if I'm successful with this beginning — I have 
 called the field health education." 
 
 " Health education ! How interesting ! " said Cecily. 
 
CONTAINS A REFERENCE TO IBSEN 65 
 
 " Perhaps that isn't a very good name for it. Publicity and 
 propaganda for hygiene — that's what it amounts to. Teach- 
 ing people to take care of themselves, so they won't get 
 sick, you know." 
 
 " Aiming eventually to drive the doctors out of business 
 and thus avenge Avery on the hated medical profession ? " 
 
 "Hardly that." 
 
 " You seem to have it all fairly well worked out in your 
 mind," she said. 
 
 " You think I should have told you earlier." 
 
 " I don't know what difference that would have made. 
 What are your plans for me, Avery ? Am I to pack up the 
 children and come too ? " 
 
 " I had thought not. That would be troublesome and 
 expensive ; and after it was all done we might have to move 
 back here again. Nothing is settled, Cecily; and I don't 
 wish to base too much action on what may, after all, turn 
 out to be a mistake." 
 
 " Then I'm to stay here. I'm to be a good little wife, 
 and keep up appearances." 
 
 " Would you — would you like to come with me ? " asked 
 Avery with sudden eagerness. 
 
 " I don't know that I particularly care about it. Health 
 education is scarcely in my line." 
 
 "But wouldn't you like to come — just for the lark? 
 Aren't you tired of Jefferson ? " 
 
 " I might like a lark, if the children were grown. I'm 
 not any tireder of Jefferson than I have been for several 
 years." 
 
 " This may mean everything to me," pleaded Avery, 
 drawing a step nearer to her. 
 
 " Am I hindering you ? " asked Cecily. 
 
 " No. But I'd go with so much more light-heartedness 
 if I thought you approved." 
 
 "Very well. I approve," said Cecily. 
 
66 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " That's mighty fine of you, Cecily." 
 
 " Oh, mighty ! " said Cecily. " Only one thing irks my 
 nobility." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " I'm wondering how I shall run the house without your 
 fees." 
 
 " I was coming to that, of course," said Avery. " I have 
 some money on certificate of deposit; it's what my father 
 left, you know. I had thought of putting it into a little 
 place some time, but perhaps it would be better to use it 
 now." 
 
 "Yes. The little place would be so very little, and real 
 estate is so high in New York." 
 
 Avery ignored her jibe. " There is some money in my 
 checking account. After I've taken out my traveling ex- 
 penses, you may have the rest of that to use first." 
 
 " I'll have the money from Mother's estate soon," said 
 Cecily. 
 
 In life Cecily's mother's name had seemed never to appear 
 except in troublous connections. Now that Cecily's first 
 natural grief had worn off, Avery shuddered at the men- 
 tion of her mother ; it was a gloomy augury. " It won't be 
 necessary for you to touch that money," he said quickly. 
 " This experimental part won't take so very long, and when 
 it's over I shall either be a man with a new profession, or 
 else I shall be satisfied to go back to the old." 
 
 "You think, then, that it's better all around?" 
 
 " I do," he affirmed stoutly. " You'll come to see that it 
 is, I'm sure. And for the present, I think it's wise of you 
 to decide to remain here." 
 
 She made no answer to that, but still in her outdoor gar- 
 ments she continued to sit on the arm of the great chair, 
 as if her being here were somehow only provisional. Sud- 
 denly her pose struck Avery as almost uncannily significant. 
 She had been there in his life for so long, and yet he had 
 
CONTAINS A REFERENCE TO IBSEN 67 
 
 never exactly got to look upon her as a permanency. Suppose 
 she shouldn't always be there? Suppose this present fair- 
 seeming project of his should have such a result as to 
 eliminate Cecily from his life ? 
 
 Avery stifled the question as he had so many others: 
 he went up to her and kissed her. Then, as she seemed to 
 have nothing more to say, he closed the discussion by leav- 
 ing the room. In the doorway he paused and looked back. 
 Cecily's eyes were on the floor; with a gloved forefinger she 
 was slowly rubbing her cheek where he had kissed it. 
 
 Left to herself, Cecily sat still a few minutes longer. 
 Then she slipped off the chair, and began to walk about the 
 room. It was an aimless walk, from the mantel to the win- 
 dows, from the windows to the book-cases, from the book- 
 cases to the center table. Presently she stood still, and 
 looked around her. She had fitted up this room with care : 
 some of her wedding presents were here; and the rest of 
 the things she and Avery had got from year to year, as 
 they could afford them. Cecily's taste was excellent, and 
 the room was lovely in the twilight, with the corners full 
 of dusk, and high lights on bits of metal : samovar, candle- 
 sticks, a tall silver vase that always held a single rose. As 
 she stood there drinking in this softened aspect of the room's 
 familiar charm, Cecily's vivid face was gloomy, and even a 
 trifle hard. 
 
 Meanwhile Avery, feeling some compunction, but on the 
 whole immensely relieved, had gone upstairs to his own 
 room, and written to Dr. Grosvenor. With the letter ac- 
 cepting that gentleman's offer in his hand, he descended 
 the stairs, and walked down the hall to the front door. 
 Cecily heard his quick, decisive step — he had not always 
 walked that way; then the heavy front door closed behind 
 him. 
 
 Its reverberation startled Cecily. She had heard that 
 door close thousands of times before, though not always 
 
68 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 with such a bang; but this time it suggested something to 
 her. She stood frowning, trying to recall just exactly 
 what it was that was suggested. Suddenly she smiled her 
 impish smile ; she had recollected. " Nora," she said aloud. 
 " Leaving his doll's house." 
 
VIII 
 
 AVERY ENTERS HIS NOVITIATE 
 
 Now that he was so close to his Promised Land, Avery 
 regretted every hour that separated him from it. Fortu- 
 nately his practice was easy to dispose of; it was such a 
 good practice, among such a " paying " class of people. 
 It went to a brother physician whom Avery thoroughly re- 
 spected, a kindly, honest fellow, intelligent enough in his 
 profession, and not in the least at the mercy of vagrant 
 ideas. Dr. Davis, indeed, considered Avery a visionary, 
 and this adventure of his a piece of pure Quixoticism; but 
 he liked Avery immensely for all that, and he admitted to 
 himself that the Quixotic temper, backed by certain other 
 qualities, made friends for itself. The extent of the prac- 
 tice that Avery was throwing away so lightly rather awed 
 the other doctor. 
 
 The day after he had told Cecily that he was leaving for 
 New York, Avery began to pack. In the event most of the 
 packing was done by his wife; Cecily had a provoking 
 ability to stow away two articles where Avery could stow 
 but one, and she gave him at the same time the benefit of 
 this talent and the contempt that one of the endowed may 
 properly feel for the untalented. She was not sulky, how- 
 ever — Cecily never was ; but when she was not packing for 
 him he saw little of her. She was off on one of her rounds 
 of gaiety: a monotonous enough gaiety, it seemed to him. 
 When she dined out he of course accompanied her ; for the 
 rest he witnessed her comings and goings on the round of 
 daylight and feminine entertainment of which a " city " 
 like Jefferson affords so much. She lunched, played cards, 
 
 69 
 
70 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 entered fervently if not feverishly into everything that 
 offered itself; she even organized a bazaar, for some ob- 
 scure philanthropic purpose in which Avery did not believe 
 that she was interested. 
 
 When they were both at home, and by chance alone, 
 Cecily made her husband feel as if her back were perpetu- 
 ally turned to him. That was just as well, thought Avery 
 whimsically, for Cecily had an exceedingly graceful back, 
 but an all-inquiring gaze. It never occurred to him that in 
 a matter like this every woman has eyes in the back of her 
 head; he went on to the end feeling that his domestic 
 espionage had vanished. 
 
 The afternoon before he left Avery spent in a round of 
 farewell visits. He and Cecily were to have a little dinner 
 that night ; a " little dinner " meant about ten people for 
 whom neither of them cared a particle, but whom Cecily 
 considered it correct to invite. She had not invited the 
 Butlers, so Avery went to their house immediately after 
 lunch. They were both at home, and they both shook hands 
 with him warmly and wished him " all sorts of luck." 
 " I'm sure you won't ever regret the change you are mak- 
 ing," Lois Butler said. As he was leaving she added, " Do 
 write to us. We shall both be so interested in hearing from 
 you." 
 
 From the Butlers' Avery went to Dr. Davis's office ; after 
 that he walked to Mrs. Schulz's. She wept at his departure, 
 and presented him with a knitted muffler. " You will leave 
 many down this way who regret you. There is no one to 
 take your place," she said wistfully. 
 
 "There are plenty of doctors left in Jefferson," said 
 Avery. " And you must make the people you know feel 
 that most doctors are willing to take care even of those 
 who can't pay." 
 
 " I will do that," she said. " It is not the doctor though 
 whose place no one can take. It is the friend." 
 
AVERY ENTERS HIS NOVITIATE 71 
 
 Looking into her humble, patient old face, Avery doubted 
 for a moment the wisdom of his decision. Then he re- 
 membered that he was going to work for the poor and 
 humble, and he must not let his judgment be unbalanced 
 by the fact that one of them was so near him. " Don't for- 
 get me," he said. " I don't want you to forget me, Mrs. 
 Schulz. And remember that you'll see me again some 
 time. What is it you Germans say when you leave each 
 other?" 
 
 When he left her Avery went to see others of his poor. 
 They were all sorry to see him go; and in his valedictory 
 mood Avery realized that there was not a house among 
 those he now entered in which he had not done some good. 
 Recognition of what he had done down here in the shabby, 
 sooty cabins led him naturally to think of what he had 
 failed to do; and there came into his mind the completely 
 baffling case of the late Mrs. Fisher's sister. He had never 
 got into actual touch with her, poor sullen rebellious girl. 
 Avery thought impulsively that he should like to see her 
 once more ; and his impulse carried him to the " store " 
 where she worked. She was not in her department, how- 
 ever; and as Avery had no idea where she now lived, and 
 had never learned her name, this last chance slipped away 
 from him. 
 
 The dinner that evening was as little consonant with 
 Avery's mood as he had expected it to be ; but he reflected 
 thrillingly that it was the last. Tomorrow was the day 
 that would emancipate him ; and the nearer he drew to the 
 actual time, the more firmly Avery was convinced of the 
 appropriateness and the permanence of the change he was 
 making. 
 
 He was to leave Jefferson on the afternoon train. Cecily, 
 who had slept late, came into his room in the morning in 
 time to pack his suitcase. " You can bid the children good- 
 
72 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 by here at the house, can't you ? " she asked. " We needn't 
 take them to the station with us." 
 
 " You're going to the station ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course. We're going down in the car, aren't 
 we?" 
 
 They went, indeed, in Avery's car ; but Cecily would have 
 to drive it back. It was strange to Avery to think that he 
 would not be beside her when she did so, strange to think 
 that he would not return tonight to Cecily. He stole a 
 glance at her. She was looking straight ahead, and her 
 color was high. Avery felt a stab of desire, regret, com- 
 punction. Everything would be so different if she were 
 going with him, or even if he felt that she actually wished 
 to go. He might have tried harder to persuade her; but 
 what good would that have done when on some subjects her 
 mind and his were a world apart ? 
 
 " Don't tire yourself too much, dear," he said. " You 
 often put yourself under too great a strain," 
 
 " I'll try to be good," she answered. " Write when you 
 can. 
 
 " Indeed, I shall. I'll write oftener than you do, I know," 
 said Avery. 
 
 " I'm a poor correspondent. Don't expect much," she 
 said. 
 
 She was silent then until they reached the station; and 
 Avery, occupied with his racing thoughts, was silent too. 
 At the station she got out with him, and walked back and 
 forth on the platform while he saw to his ticket and lug- 
 gage. She had halted at the very end when he emerged, 
 and the graceful back was now indeed toward him. The 
 wind whipped her skirt and fluttered her veil — " they," the 
 mysterious arbiters of fashion, were wearing loose veils 
 that year, so Cecily's was the sort of veil that flutters. She 
 was an appealing, a provoking figure as she stood there. 
 Avery strode up behind her. " Cecily," he said chokingly. 
 
AVERY ENTERS HIS NOVITIATE 73 
 
 She turned, and he felt her critical gaze; she raised a 
 flushed, hard face to his, and lifted her veil for a perfunctory- 
 kiss. It was not until minutes later, when he was on the 
 moving train, that Avery remembered how she had clung 
 with both hands to his lapels as she had said the last inane 
 things, which must be said some time. Avery, sunk deep 
 into his seat, feeling the train thunder and thump as it bore 
 him away from her, felt even more plainly those nervous, 
 revealing hands. Why hadn't he, when she clung to him, 
 simply lifted her aboard the' train ? Or why hadn't he at 
 least made her promise to follow him, tomorrow, in a week, 
 in a month ? What was misunderstanding, or even flat lack 
 of understanding, compared to little, clinging hands, like 
 a wistful child's? 
 
 At first Avery decided to telegraph; then as his tempest 
 of feeling subsided he realized that that was absurd. He 
 would write. Yet what could he say if he did write ? How 
 had the situation changed ? What had the grasp of Cecily's 
 hands revealed that he ought not to have known all along? 
 He had a fatal vision of Cecily's ironic smile if he wrote 
 her, now and in the present situation, a letter that she could 
 interpret as sentimental. When two or three days later he 
 actually did write to his wife, it was a letter full of prac- 
 tical details; no symbolism of clinging hands survived 
 in it. 
 
 Cecily did not go straight home from the station. There 
 was a tea that afternoon, a large affair at which " every- 
 body " in Jefferson was present ; and Cecily was glad to meet 
 that collective feminine everybody. Let them find out, if 
 they could, the state of affairs between herself and her hus- 
 band ; in the face of her smile that afternoon she knew that 
 only an absolutely feminine everybody could insinuate that 
 she was a deserted wife, or at any rate that she was not glad 
 to be deserted. In her excitement she liked to feel the col- 
 
74 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 lective eye upon her ; building up her attitude for it strength- 
 ened her attitude for herself. 
 
 " Come home for dinner with me, Cecily," said Mrs. Wal- 
 lace as they were leaving. " Pot luck, you know." 
 
 " Thank you," said Cecily. " I shall be glad even of pot 
 luck; you know in houses where there isn't a man there 
 never is anything fit to eat. I dare say we shan't have a 
 real meal until Avery comes back. There ! " she thought. 
 " Let her make what she wants to of that." 
 
 Cecily stayed until eleven o'clock, and Wallace took her 
 home in his car. Wallace admired Cecily; he would have 
 been gallant to her, if he had not been afraid to be. He 
 was rather sorry for her tonight. He knew that his wife 
 was curious about her, and that all " the cats " would have 
 their say about her soon. " The cats and the hounds," he 
 said to himself. "And she's so game. Funny Fairchild 
 doesn't appreciate what a good thing he has." 
 
 Anna, her "second girl" and the children's nurse, was 
 waiting for Cecily. "I've opened your bed, Mrs. Fair- 
 child," she said. " Is there anything else I can do for 
 you?" 
 
 "You shouldn't have stayed up," said Cecily. "Didn't 
 I say when I 'phoned that I was spending the evening? 
 You never need wait for me, Anna, when I'm out late." 
 
 "I thought perhaps there was something I could do," 
 persisted Anna. 
 
 " Well, there isn't," said Cecily. " I'm not sick, and not 
 in the least in need of attention." 
 
 Anna still lingered. "The children went to bed very 
 nicely," she said. " Can't I take your things, Mrs. Fair- 
 child?" 
 
 "Oh, very well!" Cecily submitted with an amused 
 smile. "You're a tyrant, Anna." 
 
 Without answering, Anna took the pins from Cecily's 
 hair, and began to brush it. " I am tired," said Cecily a 
 
AVERY ENTERS HIS NOVITIATE 75 
 
 moment later. "I hadn't realized it, but I am. On the 
 whole, Anna, I'm glad that you're a tyrant." 
 
 Cecily emerged in the morning her crisp, imperturbable 
 self. Her first act was to close the door of Avery's room, 
 and she got into the habit of going by it with averted eyes ; 
 but below-stairs and out in the world she did not betray 
 grief or anxiety by so much as a glance. She bought some 
 new clothes, and remodeled some old ones; she accepted 
 every invitation that came to her; when there was nothing 
 else to do, she embroidered ceaselessly. 
 
 " If Fairchild has actually left his wife," said Wallace to 
 Mrs. Wallace, " it's because she sent him away." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " she retorted. 
 
 " Oh, yes she did ! " he insisted. " If I had been in his 
 place, I shouldn't have gone." 
 
 " Do you mean if I had sent you away ? " asked Mrs. 
 Wallace. 
 
 That was not in the least what he meant ; but like a wise 
 man Wallace changed the subject. 
 
 Cecily was sustained at first by a mighty conviction of the 
 unreality of the situation. She knew that Avery had made 
 a great change in his life, a change that might lead to any- 
 thing; but she could not believe that he had. She felt that 
 he might come in at any time after one of his temporary, 
 trumpery absences ; she continued to feel it until his letters 
 began to arrive regularly. 
 
 Those letters of his were so different from the kind he 
 meant to write; they were brief, stereotyped communica- 
 tions, telling her that he was well and hoped the children 
 were "all right"; the "dear Cecily" to whom they were 
 addressed might have been any sort of acquaintance. " If 
 he would only rage at me," Cecily thought, " or forget alto- 
 gether to write! Anything but these forced, conscientious 
 letters ! " 
 
 At the end of the first month Avery enclosed a check for 
 
76 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 twenty dollars. " It is all I can send just now," he wrote. 
 " I am getting only seventy dollars a month. I should get 
 nothing at all, as I'm a rank novice, and it takes the time of 
 experienced workers to teach me; but as I'm giving up a 
 practice for this work, Grosvenor thinks it only decent to 
 pay me." 
 
 Cecily was touched for a moment. If Avery was living 
 on fifty dollars a month, Avery was certainly practicing 
 iron-clad economy; and to scrimp oneself for such a piti- 
 ful result as a saving of twenty dollars seemed to her quite 
 pathetic. But when she reflected that Avery was now mak- 
 ing in a day what he had formerly made in one visit, she 
 checked an impulse to write, " You fool ! Come home." 
 
 Instead she left his letter unanswered for a week, and 
 Avery wrote again, in some anxiety. She answered then, 
 and the one thing in her letter that was not utterly flat and 
 empty was the pertinent query, " Shall I sell the car ? 
 It's eating its head off in the garage; I very seldom 
 use it." 
 
 " Perhaps you would better sell it, since you can make so 
 little use of it," Avery replied. " If I come back to Jefferson 
 I will get a new car." 
 
 " He has already ceased to say, ' When I come back,' " 
 was her comment on that. " He doesn't intend to come 
 back, of course — he never did ; and he likes his new work 
 and his new surroundings so well that he's afraid to tell 
 me how well." 
 
 Yet she hardly knew whether it was then, or earlier or 
 later, that the idea of actual rupture with Avery first came 
 to her. She seemed to wake suddenly in full possession 
 of that idea; and it was that which made her go on her 
 way numb and stiff with anger and rebellion, and con- 
 scious of curious eyes everywhere fixed upon her. She felt 
 bitterly at this time the need of a friend, some kind, serene 
 soul whose mere presence and unspoken understanding 
 
AVERY ENTERS HIS NOVITIATE 77 
 
 would make things easier for her. But she felt that no one 
 in Jefferson answered to her need. In her sensitive state she 
 could fairly hear the jibes of her neighbors; and as she 
 was cleverer than most of them, she heard jibes more pene- 
 trating than were ever uttered about her. 
 
 Such of her ingenuity as she did not use to torture her- 
 self she used for defense against the public, who should 
 never see beneath her gaiety the horrible burning and 
 stiffening that was going on inside her; and there was still 
 a residuum to be applied in writing to Avery. Cecily's let- 
 ters were even briefer and colder than his ; either they were 
 soddenly domestic, or else they turned on the wonderful 
 " good times " she was having without him. Avery, to be 
 sure, was naturally impersonal on paper; and he was far- 
 ther constrained now by feeling that Cecily had no interest 
 in these things that so constantly and so passionately inter- 
 ested him. But Cecily struck deliberately; she was in spite 
 of appearances suffering intensely just now, and she did not 
 intend to suffer alone. 
 
 One fine March day Cecily walked to the post-office to 
 mail one of those letters to Avery. At the door she en- 
 countered Dr. Davis. He drew back to let her pass ; and 
 as he acknowledged her quick nod he looked at her steadily 
 and sympathetically. For some reason Cecily was not dis- 
 pleased: this stalwart, honest person wouldn't wish her 
 any evil, wouldn't even take a zestful interest in evil when 
 it happened to her. Cecily smiled at him, and stepped 
 aside; Dr. Davis, emboldened by the smile, placed himself 
 in front of her. " How are the babies, Mrs. Fairchild ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Growing and flourishing," said Cecily. " How is Mrs. 
 Davis?" 
 
 " She is well." 
 
 Cecily tried to remember whether the Davises had any 
 children ; failing in the attempt, she remarked, " My hus- 
 
78 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 band writes me that he's having a fine time. He likes his 
 new work." 
 
 " I'm glad he does. Personally, though, I don't see how 
 he could ever bring himself to leave the old. But I'm a 
 plodding sort of man, and never make any change that 
 I'm not obliged to make." 
 
 " Both sorts are needed in this world, I suppose," said 
 Cecily. She started to pass him, murmuring half in excuse, 
 " Don't you feel restless today ? I think everybody is rest- 
 less in the spring." 
 
 " Yes, but the feeling doesn't last long." He turned and 
 accompanied her into the post-office. 
 
 This short and quite unoriginal dialogue came as a God- 
 send to Cecily. Dr. Davis was a simple man, rigidly faith- 
 ful to his uninteresting wife ; but he recognized that Cecily 
 was not at all the same sort of woman as his wife. Cecily 
 was not only a woman to be faithful to : she was a woman 
 to adore. The mere idea that she might be neglected and 
 unhappy jarred on him; and today, when he felt that she 
 actually was so, his admiration was heightened by his dis- 
 turbance and perplexity. 
 
 Just at this moment any admiration would have been 
 grateful to Cecily; and the simple, unimaginative goodness, 
 which in other days might have neutralized the admiration, 
 now only made it more welcome. Dr. Davis walked to 
 the window with her while she posted her letter, offered to 
 take her in his car wherever she was going, and when she 
 informed him that she was simply walking for exercise, 
 lingered a few minutes longer in talk with her. When he 
 left her, Cecily was in a rare mood of sweet solemnity. 
 
 She took this welcome peace with her down to the river, 
 and there unfortunately another encounter disturbed it. 
 Walking smartly along the bluff, with the wind in her face, 
 she felt an arm slide under hers, and looked up to see Lois 
 Butler, who had fallen into step with her. " Isn't it lovely 
 
AVERY ENTERS HIS NOVITIATE 79 
 
 here ? " asked Mrs. Butler. " You look as if you were 
 thoroughly enjoying yourself." 
 
 " Oh, I am," said Cecily. " I always enjoy walking in a 
 wind. Then, too, this is my day for meeting people. I 
 remember that on a day when she had met many persons 
 by chance my mother always said she had had a profitable 
 day." 
 
 " It would be, in one way of looking at it," said Lois 
 easily. " And I'm very glad that today I am one of the 
 people. I haven't seen you in such a long time." 
 
 " Not since you took my husband away from me," thought 
 Cecily. Aloud she said, " Yes, it has been a long time, 
 hasn't it?" 
 
 " Dr. Fairchild is getting on wonderfully in his new 
 work," remarked Mrs. Butler. 
 
 " Yes, so everybody says." 
 
 " Oh, I have it on high authority," Mrs. Butler assured 
 her. " Dr. Grosvenor has written to thank me for putting 
 him in touch with Dr. Fairchild. He says that Dr. Fair- 
 child has a great future, that he is a born leader." 
 
 " Isn't that nice ! " said Cecily. 
 
 " I imagine that he hasn't told this to Dr. Fairchild him- 
 self; that is why I am telling you. It seems like poetic 
 justice, doesn't it, to have Dr. Fairchild fit at once into his 
 chosen work, when he has given up an assured position for 
 what he hoped would be a life of greater usefulness ? I am 
 sure now that it will be. Of course, one can't say that 
 such a man would be totally lost in private life ; but so much 
 of him would be lost. And waste of talent is one of the 
 worst forms of social waste." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said Cecily. 
 
 The swift walk and strong arm of her companion bore her 
 along; when she lifted her eyes, it was to look into that 
 handsome, smiling, self-confident face. Except by jerking 
 her arm away and taking to her heels Cecily could not 
 
80 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 escape this preachment. She made a determined effort, how- 
 ever, to change the subject ; and Mrs. Butler slipped easily 
 to talk of books, of the prospect of an early spring, of some 
 political changes in the town. Cecily assented, politely if 
 icily, to everything she said. She thought it best to con- 
 fine herself to monosyllables, for fear some part of what 
 she was so intensely thinking should pass her lips. 
 
 " I wouldn't mind her taking him," ran the current of her 
 thought, " I wouldn't mind her taking him if she wanted 
 him herself. But she doesn't. She doesn't want him at all. 
 She's taking him for lofty reasons. That is what I can't 
 endure. It's the same as taking him for sheer love of mis- 
 chief. If she wanted him herself it would be different. 
 But she doesn't want him. She wouldn't have him. That's 
 what I resent: she wouldn't have him." 
 
 At her own door Mrs. Butler halted, and asked Cecily to 
 come in for tea. Cecily declined, saying that she hadn't 
 walked long enough. As a matter of fact she was very 
 tired; but now that she was once more alone she kept on 
 walking, trying to regain her lost serenity. Head in the 
 air and eyes sparkling, she was a fine, dauntless figure; 
 every line of her body, every detail of her beautiful fawn- 
 colored clothes, was gracious, confident, the expression of 
 a conquering nature. So one must appear to the common 
 eye ; it was the only way to avoid making one's griefs and 
 anxieties common property. 
 
 Presently Cecily found herself , in a crowd. Looking up, 
 she saw that she was passing the Jefferson Commercial 
 College, and that it was the hour of dismissal. Youths and 
 maidens were pouring out of the red-brick building; there 
 were more maidens than youths, and it was at them that 
 Cecily looked. Some few of them had the look of quiet 
 capability, more were frowsy, noisy, over-dressed; but 
 from Cecily's point of view they were all worth looking at, 
 because they all had something definite, however modest, 
 
AVERY ENTERS HIS NOVITIATE 81 
 
 ahead of them. " The time may come," thought Cecily 
 whimsically, " when I shall want a ten-dollar-a-week posi- 
 tion. But what can I do for which any one would pay me 
 ten dollars a week ? " 
 
 At the edge of the crowd Cecily particularly noticed one 
 girl, perhaps because the girl looked very hard at her. She 
 was a shabby, sullen, underbred creature ; but there was in 
 her thin face a look of dawning power. " I believe she's a 
 self-improver," thought Cecily. " Perhaps if I knew her I 
 might respect her, even if her blouse is dirty." 
 
 Junior Fairchild was watching for Cecily's return, and 
 ran to meet her in the hall. Cecily felt a sudden warmth 
 at her heart as she stooped to put her arms around him. 
 " Mother's very glad to see her little boy," she said. " You 
 were watching for Mother, weren't you? Where's little 
 sister?" 
 
 " Will you eat your supper with us tonight ? " asked the 
 boy. He spoke quite plainly, and constructed his sentences 
 well; he was a highly intelligent child, and as affectionate 
 as he was headstrong. 
 
 "I will, Boysie. And I'll read to you afterward," she 
 answered. 
 
 Her rage had spent itself, and she was now ripe for dis- 
 traction. It was in a mood of rather sleepy magnanimity 
 that she left the nursery after the children were abed. 
 " I think that life will still go on," she reflected, " in spite 
 of Dr. Fairchild and his decisions." 
 
IX 
 
 NOVICE'S PROGRESS 
 
 The reports of Avery that drifted back to Jefferson were 
 true enough in a dry way, but not one of them conveyed any 
 idea of the actual austere glory in which he was living. At 
 bottom he belonged surely to the order of the simple-minded 
 and saintly. So long as he could see a great end looming 
 hazily in the distance, he did not resent drudgery or petty 
 discouragements ; while his eyes feasted on the distant vision 
 he was not incommoded by, say, the barking of his shins. 
 
 It had been the lack, as he viewed it, of any such in- 
 spiring end, that had sickened him of the practice of 
 medicine, in spite of its much more tangible results. The 
 merely tangible had no hold on Avery: indeed Cecily had 
 sometimes felt that he loved the idea of marriage and 
 parenthood more than he did her and the children. In so 
 feeling she had done him a wrong; but in matters only a 
 degree more abstract, in things that came home rather to 
 his business than to his bosom, his vision was, perhaps, 
 hypermetropic. 
 
 In pursuit of his distant end, however, he did not shrink 
 from details. Nothing that he was asked to do was too 
 unimportant or too tiresome. He would present a case 
 fervently to the most unresponsive City Council or Board 
 of Supervisors, exert his every fiber in a speech before a 
 woman's club, fraternize furiously with capitalists, report- 
 ers, any one who might be of service to his cause. Dr. 
 Grosvenor, seeing the dark, dour young man attack things 
 so valiantly, wondered how much of his zeal was simply 
 a condition of his newness. 
 
 82 
 
NOVICE'S PROGRESS 83 
 
 As the months rolled on Avery grew quieter, indeed, but 
 it was with the quietness of one who has settled to his 
 work. The lamp of his faith was lighted for good now, and 
 he spent all of his time before it. When he was on the 
 road, preaching the gospel of health in the rural districts, 
 as he was for weeks together, scientific volumes traveled 
 with him, and he devoted his leisure to mastering them. 
 When he was in New York he haunted hospitals and labora- 
 tories as his recreation. With his El Dorado shining before 
 his eyes he loved medicine; not writing prescriptions — he 
 never could love that — but the aspect of it which he now 
 saw. 
 
 He had a profound respect and admiration for Grosvenor, 
 a man who put his visions into practice, for whom ob- 
 stacles simply didn't exist. It is significant of Avery's 
 state of mind at the time that in spite of this admiration 
 he rather shrank from seeing Grosvenor outside of working 
 hours, and declined several invitations to his home. Gros- 
 venor, however, persisted in inviting him ; and there came a 
 time when Avery could no longer refuse without offense. 
 
 One May evening, therefore, he abandoned his fascinat- 
 ing studies and walked to Grosvenor's apartment. The 
 whole family was at home to receive him: Grosvenor, his 
 amiable wife and his pretty half-grown daughter. The 
 apartment itself was not quite what Avery had expected: 
 it ran to wicker furniture and cretonne, cheerful but im- 
 permanent. Grosvenor too was different, as Avery had 
 dreaded that he would be: sunk in one of the cretonne- 
 covered chairs, he smoked and gossiped, and played with a 
 ridiculous little dog that seemed to be the pride of the 
 family. 
 
 The women-folk withdrew presently, and Avery plunged 
 at once into things that he thought better worth saying 
 than what had gone before. Grosvenor listened in silence 
 for a time, stroking his dog; he was thinking how hand- 
 
84 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 some Avery looked, in the light of a lamp that strongly 
 illumined his face and hands, and left most of his figure in 
 the shadow. Avery had fine hands, smooth, strong and 
 supple, and they had not changed; but since the day that 
 Grosvenor first saw him his face had taken on an ascetic 
 look. " A young monk of science," thought Grosvenor. 
 " He is hardly the man I should have selected for the part, 
 either." Aloud he said, " This is all very well, Fairchild ; 
 but you mustn't take your work, or your mission, too seri- 
 ously." 
 
 " It's my work," said Avery. " I don't go so far as to call 
 it a mission. I prefer to take it seriously; the more seri- 
 ously the better." 
 
 " That's beautifully young," remarked Grosvenor. " So 
 young that I hesitate to spoil it. Rejoice, young man, in 
 thy youth." 
 
 " I'm not so very young," objected Avery. 
 
 " You're young enough to feel piqued when you're called 
 young; that shows more than the mere count of years 
 would. You're not old enough to have perceived a thing 
 that lots of people you would consider far below your level 
 have learned." 
 
 "That is ?" 
 
 " To restrict business to business hours." 
 
 " But I don't care," said Avery, " to fence off my leisure, 
 or to treat my work as if it were a trespasser." 
 
 " Yet that is exactly what, in the interest of self-preser- 
 vation, you should do." Seeing Avery's look of dissent, 
 Grosvenor added, smiling, " Women will persist in doing 
 business at all hours, even the best of them.. That's my 
 greatest objection to them in public life." 
 
 " I hadn't ever noticed that," said Avery stiffly. 
 
 " Then it's because you weren't noticing. Doesn't Lois 
 Butler do it?" 
 
 " Perhaps, to some extent." 
 
NOVICE'S PROGRESS 85 
 
 " She used to, to any extent. I always told her that it 
 was a survival of the housekeeping habit of mind, living 
 with your job twenty-four hours a day — woman's work is 
 never done, that idea, you know. Perhaps her marriage 
 has altered her. I haven't seen her since then, but I used 
 to know her mighty well. She and I were pioneers in the 
 sociological field when it was very new, when, indeed, our 
 two furrows were almost the only ones on its virgin ex- 
 panse. Many is the lengthy session I've had with her. 
 She's a fine woman, Lois is. I don't see how any man 
 would have the courage to marry her." 
 
 " Walter Butler is a very happy man," said Avery drily. 
 
 " I can believe that. Don't for a moment think that I'm 
 disparaging Lois; it's only that I prefer something softer 
 in the domestic sphere." 
 
 " There's nothing criminal in that," said Avery. 
 
 " I should think not. It's a great thing, the domestic 
 sphere. Domesticity is a hobby of mine. Perhaps it's 
 mean of me to talk to you about it, when your own wife 
 isn't here. I dare say if she was, you wouldn't have that 
 monastic look." 
 
 " It wasn't worth while to transport the family here for 
 a few months. I have two children, you know." 
 
 " Boy and girl ? " asked Grosvenor. 
 
 " Boy and girl." 
 
 " Do you carry their pictures with you ? " 
 
 " In my pocket, do you mean ? Why, no. I have some 
 at my room." 
 
 " Oh, I thought perhaps you would have them with you. 
 I thought you might be one of the sentimental dads. I'll 
 wager your wife carries their pictures all the time." 
 
 " I don't think she does," said Avery. 
 
 " Isn't she one of the soft sort ? " 
 
 " No. There's nothing soft about Cecily." 
 
 " Cecily ! That's a pretty name. Is she pretty? " 
 
86 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Distinctly pretty. No, I don't carry her picture in my 
 pocket, either, so you needn't ask for it." 
 
 " You won't feed my passion for domestic sentiment ? " 
 said Grosvenor, smiling. " Well, perhaps I shall see the 
 two of you together some day." 
 
 " I don't see how, if I take up work in the middle west." 
 
 " After we have taught you all we know, aren't you ever 
 coming to see us again ? " 
 
 " I shan't have any money, you know," said Avery. 
 " Not any money to take trips with." 
 
 Mrs. Grosvenor, who had been hovering in the distance, 
 came in again. " Did I hear you speak of Lois Keith ? " 
 she asked. " I think my husband mentioned that you know 
 her?" 
 
 " Yes. I know her, and we were speaking of her," said 
 Avery. 
 
 "How is she?" 
 
 "Very well, very useful, very happy." 
 
 " I should like to see her again, she's so wonderful. It 
 must be splendid to live a life like hers." Mrs. Grosvenor 
 sighed a little, and an expression that hinted of envy flitted 
 across her pretty, pleasant face. 
 
 " Oh, you'll see her again some time," said Grosvenor, 
 with a smile that was like a pat on his wife's hand. " She 
 has been honeymooning, you must remember, and then too 
 she has a small child. When home ties cease to be quite 
 so binding we shall see her again." 
 
 Avery stayed an hour longer; but nothing in the last 
 hour's conversation struck him as significant. What was 
 significant, he reflected as he walked home, was Mrs. Gros- 
 venor's suppressed envy of a woman who was not " soft," 
 as her husband put it, and Grosvenor's critical attitude 
 toward his old friend. They were both regrettable facts, 
 if not hard to understand; but the one that Avery found 
 it easier to forgive Grosvenor was his dread of the domestic 
 
NOVICE'S PROGRESS 87 
 
 qualities of a woman whom his imagination pictured as 
 terrible as an army with banners. " He hasn't any idea of 
 how gracious she has become," thought Avery. " Even he 
 would like such graciousness better than that fluttering 
 softness." 
 
 He had not thought much about Lois Butler lately; but 
 in the sweet May ' evening he began to think about her. 
 Perhaps he was prompted by images of her graciousness; 
 perhaps some deep unconscious view of the whole situation 
 was working itself toward the surface. At any rate, when 
 he reached his room he sat down to write to Cecily, and 
 wrote instead to Mrs. Butler. 
 
 He had drawn the paper to him and written " My 
 
 dear " with every intention of going on " Cecily " ; but 
 
 the other name somehow got itself written instead. Then 
 suddenly his pen began to fly ; he covered sheet after sheet 
 with a detailed description of his work. He hardly drew 
 breath until he had finished it; when he re-read it the 
 letter seemed rather interesting. " I think I'll send it, now 
 that I've written it," he said to himself. " If Mrs. Butler 
 doesn't care to read all this, she can put it in the fire. If I 
 could only write to Cecily about these same things, I should 
 write with the same ease ; but Cecily isn't interested in my 
 work. I really ought to write her at least a few lines, 
 though." But on looking at his watch he discovered that it 
 was midnight; and the letter to Mrs. Butler went off the 
 next morning alone. 
 
 It was the first of many letters. The mere fact that 
 Lois was written to and Cecily was not seemed to Avery a 
 possible injustice to Cecily; but was it his fault that the 
 sum of things in which he was interested and Cecily was not 
 kept mounting? His letters to Lois went unanswered 
 oftener than not ; sometimes Butler answered them, and he 
 probably read them all. When Lois wrote, it was in terms 
 of committees and bills and influencing public opinion. Her 
 
88 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 answers were not more impersonal than the letters; indeed 
 those letters of Avery's went, a few years later, into . a 
 book on " Social Workers' Experiences," substantially with- 
 out change. The informality of such a book added greatly 
 to its vividness, discerning readers said. 
 
 But all this was not patent to Cecily Fairchild, conscious 
 of her husband's increasing neglect, and conscious too, be- 
 neath all her perplexity and pain, of the fact that even if 
 by some miracle Avery became the most attentive and affec- 
 tionate of husbands, she would not be a happy nor even 
 a satisfied wife. 
 
 Her perception would come to a head, as it were, in the 
 evening after she had gone to her own room. It was an 
 exquisite room, all ivory white and dull blue and green, with 
 low lights that shone through silk shades; Cecily's excel- 
 lent taste came to its finest flower in this little room of 
 hers. The domestic touch was given by a small but excel- 
 lent photograph of Avery which stood on the dressing-table 
 and a large picture of Cecily and the two children which 
 hung near it. Cecily came up here early now, on the even- 
 ings when she was at home and alone. She had come to 
 love the solitary evening hour at home, now that there was 
 no Avery to come in later, tired and possibly ill-tempered. 
 When the children were in bed, and everything snug for 
 the night, it was so pleasant to be all by oneself, with the 
 curtains drawn and all the lights on. Cecily had fallen 
 victim to her husband's habit of reading in bed; she had 
 even begun to read French books, surreptitiously and 
 apologetically, she who had always had a smile for women 
 who " kept up " their languages. But after an hour or two 
 alone in the stillness it was sometimes hard to keep from 
 thinking. 
 
 One particular evening she had gone to bed early, and 
 had opened " Pecheur d'Islande " in the expectation of a 
 long, comfortable " read." Yet she had not finished a page 
 
NOVICE'S PROGRESS 89 
 
 when she had lowered the book and was thinking of her 
 own situation. Resolutely she turned her attention to her 
 book; she had heard of its charm, and was determined to 
 forget herself therein. She read for ten minutes, and real- 
 ized that she did not know a word she had read. Perhaps 
 she was not up to a foreign language tonight. She picked 
 up an English novel, the significance of which was so great 
 that " everybody " was talking about it. Cecily would be 
 unable to talk on the strength of this evening's acquaintance, 
 for it held her attention no better than had the Iceland fisher- 
 man. She found herself staring at the ceiling; and there 
 came to her one of those hours of merciless clearness that 
 come sometimes to every one, and come to no one with 
 greater bitterness than to such a nature as hers. 
 
 In every woman's life there comes a time when romance 
 ceases; but it does not come to every woman as early as 
 it did to Cecily Fairchild, or as comprehensively. She had 
 married Avery for reasons of pure romance, although she 
 was by nature not a romantic woman. Romance had de- 
 serted Avery less completely than it had her — he loved 
 Cecily in the same way he always had, if not to the same 
 extent. Nothing had grown up in her life to take the place 
 of dead romance; and yet so strong is habit, and so power- 
 ful life itself, that under ordinary circumstances she would 
 probably have gone on living as most of the couples about 
 her were, she believed, living: not very happily, but very 
 respectably, swallowing their discontent and hiding their 
 maladjustment. 
 
 Avery had willed otherwise. His leaving home as he had 
 left implied no criticism of his domestic conditions — at least, 
 it implied none patently; what may have lain unacknowl- 
 edged in a corner of Avery's mind, Cecily was not sure. 
 Avery probably realized something ; he was not stupid. What 
 was important in his going was that he had allowed her all 
 this time by herself, time to get used to being alone, time to 
 
go CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 think things over carefully; and that he had saved her the 
 necessity of doing anything spectacular. It would have taken 
 some mighty domestic flare-up ever to make Cecily pack 
 her baggage and leave him ; and one of the worst features 
 of such situations as theirs was that they never did flare up. 
 But if the present state of things lasted long enough — and 
 it gave every sign of lasting — it would resolve itself into 
 something definitive. Something definitive, the end of what 
 she had had these past years : the wonder and surprise of 
 first joy — gone; the weariness and impatience of later dis- 
 illusion — ended. The tide was creeping up, and she had no 
 need to move, could scarcely have moved if she had wanted 
 to. When it receded, it would leave only smooth sand all 
 about her. 
 
 Cecily got out of bed, turned off her lights, and sat down 
 at an open window. It was a soft summer night, with a 
 deep sky full of stars. What a night for lovers ! she thought'. 
 To love and be loved, on a night such as this, would com- 
 pensate for dreary stretches in between. And yet, was not 
 the actual meaning of things somewhere in the dreary in- 
 between, rather than in the poppied reaches of love ? Even 
 if romance were dead, for a woman considerably under 
 thirty much life must remain. 
 
 As Cecily sat there the magic of the night claimed her for 
 a moment: she seemed to feel her lover's arm about her 
 and his hands on hers, his strong, supple, man's hands, the 
 touch of which she had so loved. So sweet was the dream 
 that awakening brought a moment of sharp agony. But 
 when she was restored to her previous lucidity of soul 
 Cecily was sad, perhaps, but calm and a little curious. 
 
 Suddenly she smiled, a mischievous little smile. " I for- 
 give you, Lois Butler," she said to herself. " You took my 
 husband when you didn't want him, but I don't want him 
 either. Poor Avery ! I wonder who does want him. He's 
 nice. He and I could be great friends, I think, if I had 
 
NOVICE'S PROGRESS 91 
 
 never married him. In view of our past, we can't be even 
 that now. Why do people marry ? Marry and tire — there 
 ought to be a French proverb running like that. There 
 probably is. Eh-h-h, how tired one does get ! " 
 
 She rose and went over to her dressing-table. The picture 
 of Avery was indistinct in the dusk, but she knew it so well 
 that she had no need actually to see it. " It was your good 
 looks that did it, I think," she said. " You were quite the 
 handsomest young man I ever saw, Avery; there were 
 others who had more money, but I always thought of how 
 tired I should get of looking at them. Or perhaps it wasn't 
 your looks; and perhaps the thing will work out yet to a 
 conceivable end. I should feel so much better about it if I 
 could get it all quite straight in my mind." 
 
 She went back to bed then, and lay looking at the lucid 
 squares of the open windows. " Margaret looks like her 
 father," she reflected. " If she grows dark as she grows 
 older, she will be the image of him. At least, I have given 
 my children a handsome father. If it weren't for that, I 
 might almost as well have made a suitable marriage, in- 
 stead of taking Avery because I loved him. Yet Heaven 
 knows I did love him. I loved him — and all I want now is 
 a way out of the labyrinth. I'll find it some day: he will 
 come back, and we shall settle. Until then, I shall figure 
 in the eyes of Jefferson as a patient Penelope." 
 
THE END OF PENELOPE 
 
 It was autumn once more when Avery came back. His 
 train drew into Jefferson about nine o'clock ; as his coming 
 was unannounced, there was no one at the station to meet 
 him. The station looked as dingy as ever, and the familiar 
 "hack" in which he journeyed uptown — at that date Jef- 
 ferson boasted no taxicabs — had the same musty smell that 
 he remembered from one or two previous experiences. It 
 was a little mustier, that was all. From now on Avery was 
 to ride in musty hacks, or public street cars ; gone was the 
 day of even his modest motor. 
 
 In the eyes of people who measure success in terms of 
 motor-cars, he had returned in a plight as sorry as Rip Van 
 Winkle's ; but while his hack rolled uptown Avery had all 
 the true sensations of a conquering hero. His parting talk 
 with Grosvenor had been like medals and bands of music : 
 it meant welcome appreciation, it connoted glorious possi- 
 bilities. " You know all that we can teach you," the older 
 man had said, smiling. " Now set up for yourself ; go back 
 to your own middle west, and do the best that's in you." 
 
 " The best that's in me isn't any too good, if only to repay 
 you for what you have taught me and what you have made 
 me see," said Avery. " It has been a privilege to work 
 under you, Dr. Grosvenor; you're a wonderful man." 
 
 Grosvenor smiled at his earnestness. " Be that as it 
 may," he said, " you'll be a bigger man than I some day. I 
 have benefited from having you here; there's no reason 
 why I shouldn't tell you that, now that you're leaving. If 
 
 92 
 
THE END OF PENELOPE 93 
 
 Lois Butler has any more aspirants like you, tell her to 
 send them along." 
 
 From Grosvenor, this was great praise: it was at once a 
 decoration for deeds well done, and a trumpet call to farther 
 service. Avery's life should go to justifying his preceptor's 
 confidence in him; he was now one of the called, and he 
 appreciated the solemnity of the call. And his intentions 
 as to private matters, if not so well nor quite so enthusi- 
 astically thought out, were of a becoming magnanimity. 
 His domestic life was to be re-established on a sounder and 
 broader basis; in it he was to taste freedom as well as re- 
 ponsibility. If he could only keep his temper, and make 
 Cecily see things as he saw them, he was sure that it was 
 not at all impossible. And then — his mind shot a gleam 
 ahead — when his life was secure in its new fulness and fine- 
 ness, he would go to see Mrs. Butler; he would display 
 the fulness and fineness to her, and explain that it was the 
 ripening of her gift to him. 
 
 As the hack began to lumber down his own street, Avery 
 almost wished that he had telegraphed Cecily of his com- 
 ing. His idea in not doing so had been to take her unpre- 
 pared, before she had a chance to erect barriers against 
 him ; to take advantage even-^he owned it — of her surprise 
 and delight when she saw him. But in this way he ran the 
 risk of not finding her at home; and to his mounting im- 
 patience any delay began to seem terrible. He risked, more- 
 over, finding a houseful of people; and to rush in unex- 
 pectedly and greet her before the collective eye of the town 
 suggested possibilities of embarrassment. 
 
 When he came in sight of the house, however, there were 
 lights upstairs and none down. The shades baffled him for 
 a moment; then he became sure that there was a light in 
 Cecily's own room — or rather perhaps that there were five 
 or six, burning serenely beneath silken shades. With a de- 
 licious sense of adventure, Avery unlocked the door and 
 
94 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 let himself into the dim hall. Cautiously he started up 
 the stairs; he did not wish to alarm her by sudden noise. 
 Half-way up he crossed a broad band of light that came 
 from Cecily's open door. 
 
 She was standing in the middle of the floor, in her long 
 night-gown. She had raised one hand to take out the first 
 hairpin when she heard him; and she remained motionless 
 for a moment, her eyes turned to the doorway. Then she 
 said quietly, " You startled me, Avery." 
 
 He advanced into the room and halted uncertainly. 
 Cecily produced from the closet a lacy white negligee, one 
 he had never seen before ; having donned it, she sat on the 
 edge of the bed. " Sit down, Avery," she said. " Have 
 you had your dinner ? " 
 
 Avery nodded, and seated himself on a chair near her. 
 Except for several volumes near at hand, an indication that 
 Cecily had fallen victim to his deplorable habit of reading 
 in bed, the room was just as he remembered it: exquisite, 
 subdued, waxenly neat. Only Cecily was somehow not the 
 same. She had her old tenseness, to be sure : she sat on the 
 edge of her bed as some queenly warrior might have sat 
 her horse going into battle. Perhaps the length of their 
 separation made him fancy a difference where none ex- 
 isted ; perhaps it made her — very naturally too — a little shy 
 and distant. 
 
 " You aren't surprised to see me, Cecily ? " he asked. 
 " You've been expecting me ? " 
 
 " Yes, rather," she said. " Some time." 
 
 " Well, yes, of course. But you hadn't any idea that I 
 would come tonight ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I have wanted to come for such a long time," he said. 
 " But I delayed until I had settled some things." 
 
 " It's nice to have things settled," she*said. But she did 
 not ask what he had settled. 
 
THE END OF PENELOPE 
 
 95 
 
 " Confound it, Cecily, aren't you glad to see me ? " he 
 broke out. " You haven't even offered to let me kiss 
 you." 
 
 " You may kiss me if you like," said Cecily. 
 
 After the kiss, however, she slipped out of his encircling 
 arm, and took up her former dispassionate scrutiny. She 
 was not sulky, Avery decided, but she certainly was queer. 
 " How are the children ? " he asked. 
 
 " They're very well. Tomorrow is Junior's birthday." 
 
 " So it is ! He is five years old, isn't he ? I'm glad I 
 came in time for his birthday." 
 
 " It will be pleasant," said Cecily. " How long do you 
 intend to stay ? " 
 
 " Except for a few days that I may have to be away mak- 
 ing arrangements, I shall be here until we are all ready to 
 leave," said Avery. 
 
 " Oh ! Then we are all to leave Jefferson ? " 
 
 " I'm going into work here in the middle west ; but of 
 course Jefferson isn't a large enough place to try out any 
 such plan as that I have in mind." 
 
 " Your plans are extensive, Avery ? " 
 
 " I'm sure they are quite practicable." 
 
 " That's nice. Are you sure you aren't hungry, Avery ? 
 Wouldn't you like some beer and a sandwich ? " 
 
 Avery shook his head impatiently. " I don't want to 
 think about food," he said. " I'm thinking about you. It's 
 months since I have seen you, and you are lovelier than 
 ever." 
 
 " That's why I'm lovelier than ever to you ; just because 
 it's months since you've seen me." 
 
 He demurred. " Now, Cecily, that implies all sorts of 
 things that I don't like. Perhaps you think that I've 
 neglected you, dear; but I'm sure you will see in the end 
 that this — this hiatus has been for the best." 
 
 " Undoubtedly it has. A great many marriages go on 
 
96 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 existing, Avery, simply because people don't think about 
 them." 
 
 " Perhaps that's just as well for a great many people," 
 said Avery. " But no one could imagine that ours was 
 one of that kind." 
 
 " I don't know why not, Avery. I don't know why not." 
 
 Avery jumped out of his chair, and stood over her. 
 " Cecily, you don't realize what you are saying ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes I do ! " she said calmly. " I've thought it all 
 out." 
 
 " I've been away for too long," he said. " I didn't realize 
 that a few months' absence would make such a difference 
 in you, or I should have come back sooner, at any cost." 
 
 " The only difference it has made in me is that it has 
 given me time to think." 
 
 " Oh, my dear," he said softly, " can't we stop analyzing 
 for a few minutes, and just be happy?" 
 
 " It used to be different, didn't it? You used to analyze, 
 and I was the one who was contented to be happy." Cecily 
 held him with that calm, considering gaze. 
 
 " I'll never give you any more time to think, if it's to be 
 used for thinking things like this." Avery walked to the 
 other side of the room. " When we begin our new life " 
 
 " We are to have a new life, then ? " 
 
 " Didn't I tell you that we are going to leave Jefferson ? " 
 
 " Yes. I'm glad of that, Avery, so glad." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " 
 
 " Well, if you had come back here to take up the old life, 
 that would have made it hard for me not to take it up too." 
 
 " Who says I wanted to take up the old life, Cecily ? It 
 was a life of misfits, I grant that readily enough." 
 
 He came back toward the bed then, and sat down facing 
 her. Eye to eye, he groped for her meaning. Eye to eye, 
 and speaking low, she enlightened him. " No man is ever 
 to. live with me, Avery,, simply because he has married me. 
 
THE END OF PENELOPE 97 
 
 If he adores me once in six months, he need see me but 
 once in six months. I never intend to live on the charity of 
 custom." 
 
 Avery drew a long breath. " Oh, is that all ? " 
 
 " It is sufficient, Avery. It covers the case." 
 
 " Cecily, I make every allowance for your pride. From 
 your point of view I've neglected you, and I dare say I have. 
 You're angry with me, and I dare say you have a right to 
 be." 
 
 " Do I seem angry, Avery ? I'm not." 
 
 " If you're not angry, you're cynical," he declared. 
 " When did you turn cynic about marriage, Cecily ? " 
 
 " I'm not cynical, about that or anything. I'm not a per- 
 son with theories, either. I simply have my eyes open now, 
 Avery." 
 
 Avery examined her curiously : she seemed to have 
 everything so carefully thought out. She didn't look like a 
 cynic, he was aware, or like a " person with theories." She 
 did look as if her eyes were open; but most of all she 
 looked pretty and familiar and utterly his. " Are you warm 
 enough, Cecily ? " he asked unexpectedly. 
 
 " Yes. I'm quite comfortable, thank you," she said po- 
 litely. 
 
 " If your eyes are open," Avery went on, returning to the 
 matter in hand, " if your eyes are open, dear, they must see 
 first of all that I've come back to you." 
 
 " If yours are open, Avery," she rejoined, " you must see 
 that I haven't waited." 
 
 For a single moment everything seemed to recede very far 
 from Avery; and into the void so left there flashed a hor- 
 rible, nameless suspicion. Then the very sight of her reas- 
 sured him: he saw what in her fine clearness Cecily meant. 
 She was only telling him that she had determined to do 
 without him. 
 
 How lonely she must have been, to have thought of a 
 
98 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 thing like that! It wasn't pique that had determined her, 
 it was sheer morbidness. He was deeply to blame in having 
 left her so alone— alone, a woman so young, so lovely, and 
 his wife! 
 
 " Cecily, love, what a tone for us to take ! " he cried. 
 "Tonight, and here ! " A quick gesture of his arm included 
 the whole, delightful room, breathing quiet and intimacy; 
 his glance came to rest on Cecily. 
 
 " Neither time nor place is of my choosing," she said. 
 " I suspect though that it's too late to talk sense. You 
 must be tired, Avery." « 
 
 If she had been merely setting herself up against him, 
 his masculine part was simply to batter down her defenses. 
 But you couldn't do that sort of thing with Cecily. If she 
 chose to let down the drawbridge and come out of her own 
 accord, she would do it superbly. But he had no heavy 
 artillery that would force her to capitulate. Indeed for 
 artillery he was much worse off than usual: he had lately 
 given her, whether she pointedly used it or magnanimously 
 refrained from using it, a grievance against him. 
 
 He took refuge in the excuse she offered. " I am tired," 
 he said. It was quite true now; and yet when he had 
 entered that house he had not been conscious of the slightest 
 fatigue. In spite of its truth he was ashamed of the excuse 
 as soon as he had offered it; he hastened to add, " Upon my 
 soul, Cecily, I don't know what you're driving at." 
 
 " You can make a very shrewd guess, gpon't, by be- 
 ing naive, force me to be brutal, Avery. She stifled 
 a yawn. 
 
 Again he spent a moment stupidly staring at her; there 
 was no doubt that her appearance fascinated him. She 
 looked, in that light, that costume, those surroundings, a 
 creature made for all life's softest uses ; and looking at her 
 so he could never quite lose consciousness of what she had 
 been to him. But there stood out through all her loveliness 
 
THE END OF PENELOPE 99 
 
 and all his remembrances the patent fact of what she now 
 was to him. 
 
 Avery gave it up. " Let's leave our discussion until 
 morning," he said. 
 
 " Very well," she concurred. " I don't want you to think 
 I'm hasty, Avery." 
 
 Hasty? He saw, on the contrary, that she was so sure 
 of herself that she didn't thirst for immediate battle ; what- 
 ever else it might be, this clearly wasn't a question of 
 nerves. Avery rose from his chair. " I don't think you're 
 hasty ; but perhaps you're a bit sudden, dear," he said. 
 
 " I think you will find your room in order," she said. 
 (Oh, impeccable housekeeper — his room was always in or- 
 der!) "Call me if you want anything. You're quite 
 sure you aren't hungry ? " 
 
 " Quite sure." Avery stooped and kissed her. " Good- 
 night, dear." 
 
 He awoke late the next morning. He had been late in 
 getting to sleep, and had slept badly. Cecily's present atti- 
 tude and his memories of their common past were a poor 
 sleeping draught. But to wake in the familiar room seemed 
 like a glorious continuation of that past. Delighting in the 
 morning sunlight and cold water, Avery splashed in his 
 tub; sniffing coffee and ham and eggs, he descended the 
 stairs. 
 
 Cecily was seated at the head of the breakfast-table, with 
 an open newspaper in front of her ; one on either hand, her 
 children ate their oatmeal. " Good-morning, Avery," she 
 said, glancing up as he entered. " I thought you might 
 wish to sleep this morning, so we didn't wait for you. 
 Junior, here's Daddy. Margaret, Daddy's here." 
 
 That was all delightfully as it should have been. Avery 
 kissed the children, kissed his wife, sat down to breakfast 
 with an appetite. Cecily returned to her newspaper, only 
 glancing up occasionally to see that the children were pro- 
 
ioo CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 gressing with their meal and minding their manners. Her 
 continued application to that newspaper gave Avery his 
 first chilly feeling that last night's talk had been what 
 counted, that the morning's joys were illusory. Of course, 
 if a man stayed away and left the morning paper to his 
 wife for months, he needn't expect her to resign it at once 
 on his reappearance; yet Cecily, bending over it in absorp- 
 tion, sipping her coffee without ever looking at him, began 
 to seem formidable. 
 
 After the children had finished their breakfast and had 
 been excused from the table, she finally looked at him. 
 " Are you going out this morning ? " she asked. 
 
 " I don't know," he stammered. " I hadn't thought. 
 Why?" 
 
 " I thought perhaps there were people here in town that 
 you wanted to see." 
 
 " Oh, there are, of course. But I wanted to see you 
 chiefly. I should like to stay here this morning with you." 
 
 " It's a particularly fine morning, and I have Junior's 
 birthday cake to make." 
 
 " Then I'll go downtown and buy him a present. Is he 
 to have his cake this noon ? " 
 
 " Yes. He isn't allowed cake at night." 
 
 " Then perhaps I can see you this afternoon, Cecily — 
 when he and the baby are having their outing?" 
 
 " Yes, surely. Any time when I'm not busy." 
 
 Avery went downtown. Choosing a present for his boy 
 was not so easy as it might have been ; he wished Cecily had 
 come with him, to help him select. He finally chose an 
 engine, for which he paid more than he had intended to 
 pay. As he was waiting for it to be wrapped up, it oc- 
 curred to him that this was the department where Mrs. 
 Fisher's sister used to work. " Wasn't there once a dark 
 girl in this department ? " he said to a saleswoman. " A 
 dark, quiet girl, whose sister died of consumption ? " 
 
THE END OF PENELOPE 101 
 
 The saleswoman looked at him distantly. " I couldn't 
 say," she answered. " There's no such person here now." 
 
 He asked the same question of Lena Schulz, whose de- 
 partment he visited next. Lena told him the girl had left 
 town, she thought; her interest in the subject was scanty, 
 so overwhelmed was she by Dr. Fairchild's presence. 
 " You will go to see my mother? " she implored. " It would 
 make her so happy. We so often speak of you." 
 
 " Yes, of course I'll go to see her. I wouldn't leave Jef- 
 ferson without seeing Mrs. Schulz," said Avery heartily. 
 
 He went at once to Mrs. Schulz's cottage, where he was 
 wept and almost prayed over. From there he walked to 
 another of his poorer friends', and then to another. Fi- 
 nally it grew so late that he had almost to run home, in 
 order not to miss Junior's birthday dinner. 
 
 The youngster was in a wriggle of anticipation. The 
 baby Margaret had, on the other hand, already developed an 
 enormous power of keeping still — " my dourness cropping 
 out in the second generation," thought Avery. " Poor little 
 girl ! " Cecily sat at the head of the table ; she had her 
 children so well in hand that she could turn her attention 
 to amusing Avery. 
 
 " I let the children come to the table at every meal now," 
 she began by explaining. " They aren't allowed everything 
 that I eat, of course; but their manners are improved by 
 the change, I think, and meal-times are pleasanter for 
 them." 
 
 " That is nice," said Avery. 
 
 " They are both learning something new every day," 
 said Cecily, " but Junior has got to the place where I can 
 positively see his mind opening out." 
 
 " That must be interesting," said Avery. 
 
 " It is, especially as his mind is much like mine — and I 
 myself have only just got to the stage where my mind is 
 opening out." 
 
102 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 Avery stared. 
 
 It was not altogether a comfortable meal for him. Cecily 
 seemed to have got on very well without him; it was not 
 surprising, in view of that fact, if she had made up her 
 mind to get on altogether without him. He had been a fool 
 to give her the opportunity to find it out, a fool to think that 
 life would stand still while he was learning how to begin 
 again ! What fatuity had ever made him suppose that Cecily 
 was a woman who could be dropped and taken up again at 
 will? He looked at her across the table; he noted her slim 
 shoulders, erect under her white blouse, her little, straight 
 nose, her thin-lipped, red mouth ; and he wondered if there 
 was actually some new resilient quality in her, or if she 
 only seemed new to him because he had forgotten all that 
 was most characteristic about her. 
 
 After Junior had finally had his birthday cake, and had 
 blown out the candles, and had opened his presents and 
 approved them, the children were led off for their afternoon 
 walk. " Let's have a talk, Cecily," said Avery, " now that 
 we are alone for a few minutes." 
 
 They sat down in the Kving-room, Avery near the table, 
 Cecily at the windows. As she turned to look out of them, 
 in the strong light her face was different. % You have 
 changed," said Avery involuntarily. " I am beginning to 
 believe that about your mind's opening out." 
 
 She turned to him then, and smiled at him, a smile happy, 
 confident, not in the least ironic. " Avery, to tell you the 
 truth," she said, " I am beginning to feel that I shall soon 
 be free from compromises and from false positions. That 
 is enough to change me." 
 
 " I wasn't aware that you were ever in a false position," 
 said Avery doggedly. 
 
 She turned back to the window. The strong light behind 
 her head made a halo of the edge of her hair, a reddish 
 halo ; her hair must have been that reddish color when she 
 
THE END OF PENELOPE 103 
 
 was a little girl. Unlike last night, he was observing her 
 today as if she were a stranger ; and like a well-bred stran- 
 ger, Cecily was determined to enter into no arguments. 
 Avery was reduced to asking what was the meaning of " all 
 this," and when she blandly refused to see what he meant 
 by " all this," of inquiring, " Just what do you intend to do, 
 Cecily?" 
 
 " There is no use, is there," she answered sweetly, " of 
 trying to keep from a man of your penetration the fact that 
 I intend to do something ? Well, I am going to leave Jef- 
 ferson when you do, though perhaps our tickets will not 
 bear the same destination. Jefferson is not quite the place 
 I should choose for my experiment, even if it didn't know 
 too much about us. I intend, Avery, to try to work for my 
 living. Now don't, please don't, say ' Who would have you 
 to work for them ? ' I don't know ; but I intend to find out. 
 That is the experimental part; for I really believe, Avery, 
 that once I begin to work, I shall find that I am worth my 
 salt." 
 
 Avery bounded from his chair. " That is the worst," he 
 shouted, " the most preposterous thing I ever heard of ! 
 Do you think that I have forgotten all my responsi- 
 bilities?" 
 
 " By no means," said Cecily in cool tones that deprecated 
 his violence. " You may send me money for the support 
 of the children, if you have it and care to send it. I shall 
 take care of them, but of course you can come and see them. 
 After all, isn't that quite the way such things are usually 
 arranged, even when families live all under one roof — the 
 mother cares for the children, and the father calls on 
 them?" 
 
 Avery allowed himself to be distracted long enough to 
 say, " You have taken to observing social conditions, I 
 see." 
 
 " At least to discussing them," said Cecily. 
 
io 4 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 Something in her tone as she uttered that last phrase 
 caused Avery to say sharply, " You are sure there isn't in 
 your decision any element of — well, of pique ? " 
 
 She looked at him candidly. " There may be," she said. 
 " But if there is, it's quite negligible." 
 
 She was so strong in her conclusions that she could 
 afford to concede points in her argument. Avery's anger 
 began to be tinged with discouragement. " I'm going to 
 advise all husbands of my acquaintance never to go away 
 and give their wives time to think," he said bitterly. 
 
 " On the ground, perhaps, that thinking threatens the 
 stability of the marriage relation ? " 
 
 In spite of himself Avery laughed. " Confound it, Cecily, 
 you talk as if your mind were made up," he said. " You 
 haven't counted the cost." 
 
 " Well, no, I haven't," she answered. " I can't, until I'm 
 much nearer the end of my life than I am now. Listening 
 to wiseacres or judging by the experience of others won't 
 help me to count the cost in my own individual case, Avery. 
 And I do know the cost of the sort of life I have always 
 led." 
 
 " Was it so very bad ? " 
 
 " It was so thoroughly artificial." 
 
 " But why do you confound your standard and your hus- 
 band?" 
 
 "The two things seem to me to be rather closely con- 
 nected, Avery." 
 
 " There is actually nothing the matter," he flung at her, 
 " except that you are bored." 
 
 " Do you call that nothing ? " she asked. 
 
 " You simply refuse to argue," he said. 
 
 " Do you think that by arguing we may convince each 
 other?" 
 
 " Oh, I suppose you are right," he admitted. " At any 
 rate, you seem to have made up your mind." 
 
THE END OF PENELOPE 105 
 
 " Yes. You implied that before." 
 
 " It isn't strange if I repeat myself," said Avery. " I'm 
 confused. This is enough to take the wind out of anybody's 
 sails." 
 
 " It is rather hard on you," she said gently. 
 
 Avery walked up and down the room for several turns, 
 and then stopped before her. " Cecily," he said, " did you 
 ever actually care anything about me ? " 
 
 She rose and laid her hands lightly on his shoulders. 
 " I'm not trying to spoil the past, Avery," she said quickly. 
 " If anything in it seems to you lovely, keep it. You can't 
 expect me to guide my life by your romantic sentiments; 
 but I'm not trying to make you think that I never cared." 
 
 He enfolded her for a moment, and laid his face against 
 her hair. His eyes were wet, but those she lifted to him 
 as he let her go were dry and very bright. " You can al- 
 ways see the children, you know," she said. " I shall ar- 
 range to be near enough to you so that you can see them 
 week-ends, at least." 
 
 " I can't provide very liberally for the children," said 
 Avery. She did not answer that. " I think I shall leave to- 
 night, on the nine-o'clock train," he added. 
 
 " You needn't hurry," said Cecily. " Stay a week, if you 
 would like to. You probably need a rest." 
 
 " I'd stay a month, if I thought there was any hope of 
 your changing your mind," he said. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right about going, though. Once you 
 are at work again you will feel better," said Cecily. 
 
 " I hope so. I could feel much better, and still not be 
 exactly cheerful." 
 
 She took up a book from the table. Avery went into 
 the hall, and found his hat. " Is there anything you 
 would especially like to have for dinner ? " she called after 
 him. 
 
 " Sackcloth and ashes," said Avery over his shoulder. 
 
106 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Well, the ashes at least are possible," answered Cecily. 
 " Avery c " 
 
 " Yes? " He turned back. 
 
 " Thank you for not making a fuss, Avery." 
 
 "Oh, you're welcome, I'm sure." Avery slammed the 
 door behind him. . 
 
 He walked aimlessly down the street, seeking the poor 
 relief of motion. This was his chance to do several things 
 he had spoken of doing: to see Mrs. Butler, for instance. 
 Indeed, it was probably his only chance of seeing Mrs. 
 Butler on his present visit. But somehow he did not care 
 about seeing her Just now. Cecily ran in his head like a 
 melody: Cecily his exquisite girl, his radiant bride, the 
 mother of his beautiful children. Yet why, when he longed 
 for her as he was longing now, had he given in so easily? 
 He had run away from discussion last night, he had let her 
 go today without "making a fuss." When he wooed her 
 in the first place he had not given in easily; and his an- 
 cestral conscience assured him that she was, or at least 
 ought to be, more to him now than she had been then. It 
 was curious, unless in spite of both instinct and ancestral 
 conscience, he at bottom believed she was right not only for 
 herself but for him, and that he should get on better without 
 her. 
 
 It was a thought that chilled him, even there in the bright 
 sunlight. A fuller freedom, a larger service were fine things ; 
 but was he never to have anything else? Surely he and 
 Cecily had started out to supply each other with all of the 
 warm, the affectionate, the personal and human that one 
 needed in a lifetime. Yet even in those early days the little 
 rift must have been there, even if they had not perceived it. 
 Avery shuddered when he thought that, for it was to those 
 early days that he liked to go back in memory ; these last 
 years in Jefferson seemed to provide little that even gilding 
 memory could work upon. It was curious, how people be- 
 
THE END OF PENELOPE 107 
 
 gan a life together with every confidence in the happiness 
 they could give each other, and ended by being simply a 
 respectable couple. 
 
 He and Cecily might have ended in that way, if her 
 Spirit had been of a leaden conformity. He respected the 
 strength of her decision, marveling at it the while ; he felt 
 that in time he should be grateful to her for her Atropos 
 deed. He was not grateful yet, and he was thoroughly 
 wretched. At intervals all the afternoon he felt that he 
 would give freedom, service, Tightness, for one hour of the 
 old stinging bliss. But the spell of her person and his 
 memories was less powerful somehow than the look in 
 her cool eyes — her eyes had grown very cool. At the 
 thought of them he winced when he remembered the mag- 
 nanimous spirit in which he had come to take Cecily away 
 with him. 
 
XI 
 
 LOIS AND CECILY 
 
 Avery left that night, as he had threatened to. He kissed 
 his sleeping children and his wife, and gave her half the 
 money that he had in his pocket. " I shall write you," he 
 said. " You will write to me ? " 
 
 He wrote indeed a week later, to say that he was in 
 Chicago and should probably remain there. " Chicago is a 
 wonderful place in which to start any work like mine," he 
 said. " It is so naive, so eager to learn, to have what is 
 best, if only it can find out what is best. Also, it would 
 like to nave everything that New York has, so you see I 
 shall be a rival to Grosvenor." 
 
 It was a freer and more interesting letter than any he 
 had written her from New York. Cecily read it in bed: 
 she had been very tired these last few mornings, and had lain 
 abed late. " It's a real letter, though short," she thought, as 
 she finished it. " It goes to show that if we had never mar- 
 ried we might have been friends." 
 
 The baby came presently and climbed on her bed. List- 
 lessly Cecily began to play with her. " You look like your 
 father, honey,'' said Cecily. " Your father is a great man, 
 married to a woman who doesn't appreciate him." 
 
 " Daddy ? " said the baby inquiringly. 
 
 " No, Muvver," said Cecily. " Daddy knows what he's 
 going to do; Muvver is just finding out." 
 
 She rose soon after that, and sent for a woman to help 
 the servants give the house a thorough cleaning. Whatever 
 happened, it was well to set one's house in order. Then 
 she sent out invitations for a big luncheon. Whatever hap- 
 
 108 
 
LOIS AND CECILY 109 
 
 pened, it was not amiss to give a party. Finally, after lunch 
 she sat down to her desk, spread out bills and bank book, and 
 entered upon a serious consideration of her finances. 
 
 Cecily hated money matters, had always hated them. 
 There were certain things one actually needed, certain 
 others that were necessary properly to set one off ; and in a 
 really well-organized world these things would simply have 
 been present without having to take thought about paying 
 for them. Cecily was not extravagant, at least not in any 
 sense in which she understood the word. She could instance, 
 and sometimes did, her sewing, her remodeling, the sys- 
 tematic housekeeping which enabled her to get from two 
 servants the work of three. But she had a liking for 
 " nice things " ; she had been brought up to think that it 
 was a sign of superiority, the stamp of breeding, indeed, to 
 " like nice things." Not to care particularly about " things " 
 struck her as the acme of other-worldliness ; Avery's lack 
 of reverence for things had always puzzled her. 
 
 Gloom descended on her present work with bills and lead- 
 pencil. It was conceded that Avery had done very well in 
 the years of his practice in Jefferson ; indeed for so young a 
 practitioner he had done phenomenally well. But the serv- 
 ants, the entertaining, the babies, the car, Cecily's smart 
 little costumes, of which she never had too many, had eaten 
 up all his income. Cecily still had money in the bank, more 
 than her debts amounted to ; but with that supply diminish- 
 ing, and Avery sending her only small checks, perhaps 
 sometimes none at all, she had not money enough to care for 
 herself and the children indefinitely. " I can go to work, 
 whether I like it or not, I see," she said to herself. " Of 
 course I could take a small flat, and do my own house- 
 work, and perhaps take a roomer or two, and wear made- 
 over clothes — shabby made-over clothes. But I couldn't 
 stand that — and I won't go back to Avery. No, I'd run a 
 boarding-house before I'd do that. Imagine me running a 
 
no CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 boarding-house ! " And with a flash of fun she thrust her 
 bills back into a drawer. 
 
 Her luncheon was a great success — Cecily never gave a 
 party that wasn't. The food, flowers and service were all 
 perfect; after luncheon there was a little good music, and 
 then cards. Cecily's cheeks glowed; she dismissed trouble- 
 some matters from her mind, resolved to enjoy this day to 
 the uttermost. It might be the last big party she would 
 ever give. 
 
 Mrs. Wallace, assuming the privileges of an intimate 
 friend, lingered after the others were gone. "A lovely 
 party," she said. "You have such a knack with parties, 
 Cecily." 
 
 " Oh, thank you ! " Cecily, fingering her own exquisite 
 dress, smiled absently at her friend. 
 
 " One thing surprised me, though," Mrs. Wallace went 
 on. 
 
 " This is what she has stayed to tell me," thought Cecily. 
 Aloud she asked, " What was that, Edith? " 
 
 "Mrs. Butler's being here." 
 
 That had surprised Cecily too; she had hardly expected 
 Mrs. Butler to accept her invitation. But she did not think 
 Mrs. Wallace had any reason to suspect her of unfriendly 
 sentiments toward " the stately Lois " ; if her friend had 
 any such suspicion, Cecily purposed to put an end to it. 
 She asked gently, " Why did that surprise you, Edith ? " 
 
 " Well, she isn't asked as much as she was at first. 
 She only goes where she feels like going, for one thing; 
 and then, she's so peculiar." 
 
 "Peculiar?" 
 
 " Yes. She's always going to City Council meetings, and 
 poking around in odd places, and asking the queerest peo- 
 ple to her house. You never dare to go there, for you never 
 can tell whom you will meet. I believe in being charitable, 
 of course ; but, my dear, those things should be kept within 
 
LOIS AND CECILY m 
 
 limits. And this winter she was away from home for weeks 
 at a time, traveling around and lecturing." 
 
 " So would I be, if any one would pay to listen to me 
 lecture," said Cecily. " So would you too, Edith Wallace." 
 
 " But her husband was here most of the time ! " 
 
 "If he didn't object, why should you?" 
 
 " I'm sure I beg your pardon if I've said anything out of 
 the way," said Mrs. Wallace, rising and gathering her furs 
 about her. " I didn't know you were an especial friend of 
 hers." 
 
 " I'm not," said Cecily. " I know almost every one else 
 who was here today better than I know Mrs. Butler. But 
 I hate to see a remarkable woman judged by a provincial 
 standard." 
 
 " Provincial ! Thank you ! " said Mrs. Wallace, who was 
 nothing if not studiously urban. 
 
 " You're welcome," returned Cecily placidly. 
 
 When Mrs. Wallace had gone, Cecily sat for a time in her 
 own room. Below-stairs she could hear a chair shoved 
 across the floor occasionally, or a door closed; in the nur- 
 sery Junior was telling a story to his sister, and the sound 
 of his shrill voice went on and on. The house seemed very 
 quiet after the late commotion; Cecily was still tingling 
 with excitement. It would be impossible for her to read 
 for a few hours and then go quietly to bed; beside, there 
 was something she wanted to do. A vagrant idea kept 
 coming and going in her mind. Against her own inclina- 
 tion, Mrs. Wallace's attack had led Cecily to defend Mrs. 
 Butler; and whether the mere act of defense had made her 
 like the woman she championed, or whether her animosity 
 of yesteryear had actually softened, Cecily at any rate 
 was haunted by the idea of Lois Butler. " I'd like," she 
 said to herself, " I'd like to see her again — soon — now. I 
 believe " 
 
 After her solitary dinner she put on her wraps, and 
 
ii2 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 went out. It was a fine, cool night, tempting to a pedes- 
 trian. " At any rate, I need a walk," thought Cecily. She 
 was not altogether decided; but little by little she drifted 
 toward the river. Walking along the river drive, breast- 
 ing with delight the keen river wind, watching the pro- 
 tracted reflection of the city lights in the water, Cecily 
 presently found herself in front of the Butlers'. As she 
 viewed the solid Victorian house, her enterprise ceased to 
 seem absurd ; and with the Quixoticism left out, it dwindled 
 to an evening call on acquaintances. Viewing it as such, 
 Cecily mounted the steps and rang the bell. 
 
 The Butlers were having their coffee in the library before 
 an open fire, whose flickering light gave an odd appearance 
 of life to the high-perched busts of Plato and Socrates. On 
 hearing Cecily's voice Lois turned in her chair; and the 
 eager Walter came running out into the hall. 
 
 " Do come in here ! " he said. " It's jolly to see you. 
 Did you walk? Here, let me take your cloak. What a 
 beautiful dress ! " 
 
 He drew her after him into the library; and she stood 
 smiling at him. "It is a beautiful dress, isn't it?" Lois 
 answered her husband. " It is the one she wore at her 
 luncheon ; I admired it all the afternoon. You always have 
 such lovely clothes, Mrs. Fairchild." 
 
 " I didn't know you ever noticed them," said Cecily. 
 
 " Did you think it was beneath me or above me to notice 
 them ? " asked Lois. 
 
 " She thought, dear, that you thought it was beneath 
 you," suggested Butler. 
 
 Cecily laughed, flushing a little. " Please don't make me 
 seem to be any horrider than I am," she said. 
 
 " I don't think you're in the least horrid," said Butler. 
 
 " I was telling him all about your party," said Mrs. But- 
 ler. " Now it's delightful to have you here to talk it over 
 with." 
 
LOIS AND CECILY 113 
 
 Lois was sitting in a low, roomy chair, her knees crossed 
 and her head resting against the chair-back. The warm 
 glow of the firelight brought out the warmth in her brown 
 eyes, the deep browns of her hair. Seen so she herself gave 
 the impression of warmth, of directed and controlled vigor, 
 of a resultant something that was almost peace. She was 
 not a serene woman, but her balance and development made 
 her at least a woman touched with serenity. Before her the 
 slim Cecily in her iridescent gown looked an eager, ephem- 
 eral thing, not without a certain bright significance and dis- 
 tinction. Lois was a magnificent, substantive woman; but 
 tonight it was Cecily who drew the eye. 
 
 Cecily continued to stand, warming one foot at the fire. 
 After a moment's silence she said, addressing Lois as if 
 Walter were not there, " I am glad you liked my party. I 
 liked it, too. It had, I thought, a swan-song brilliance." 
 
 "Swan-song?" Mrs. Butler repeated. 
 
 " Yes. One rather likes a swan-song to be brilliant, 
 though liking doesn't always make it so." 
 
 "Are you leaving Jefferson?" asked Butler.- 
 
 " I am leaving Jefferson," said Cecily, still looking at his 
 wife and not at him. 
 
 " Dr. Fairchild has established himself in his work," said 
 Mrs. Butler eagerly, " and you are going to him ? " 
 
 " He has established himself in his work," answered 
 Cecily. " Didn't you see him when he was here ? " 
 
 " No. He has been here recently ? " 
 
 " Very recently. Scarcely a month ago. I rather thought 
 he came to see you." 
 
 " No. I rather think he ought to have ; but perhaps he 
 was modest. He has done so splendidly in the east — per- 
 haps he didn't want me to tell him how splendidly. He 
 will go far, Mrs. Fairchild; you will see." 
 
 "Yes," said Cecily. "No doubt." 
 
 Butler, whose conjectures went much nearer the facts of 
 
ii4 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 this case than his wife's, said slowly, " I don't know, Lois. 
 He was doing mighty fine things here in a quiet way, I 
 thought. The poor people felt freer to call him than any 
 other doctor in town." 
 
 " Yes, I know. I only wish we had some one like him to 
 put in charge when we open the dispensary at the works, 
 Walter. But you must remember that the same qualities 
 which served Dr. Fairchild here will serve him elsewhere, 
 and that it's too bad for a man of his caliber to be restricted 
 to a " 
 
 "To a third-rate town?" suggested Butler placidly. 
 " But abstractedly, Lois, didn't you consider the spectacle of 
 his efforts here a fine one?" 
 
 " No, I didn't," said Lois bluntly. " He was hemmed in 
 and miserable, and in a few years more he would have been 
 frustrated." 
 
 "Am I right, Mrs. Fairchild?" asked Butler, turning to 
 where Cecily stood watching the two of them. 
 
 " No. Mrs. Butler is right," said Cecily. She paid hom- 
 age freely to Mrs. Butler's gift of being always in the right ; 
 but from that moment on Butler was sure that his first 
 surmise had been correct, and that she was somehow in 
 trouble about her husband's undertaking. 
 
 " Well, we can't allow Mrs. Butler to be too consistently 
 in the right," he said. " Let's have a game of three-hand 
 auction, and put her in her place. She is the worst card- 
 player in Jefferson, Mrs. Fairchild, as you probably found 
 out this afternoon." 
 
 " I never played at all before I came here," said Lois. 
 " Should you like to play, Mrs. Fairchild ? " 
 
 " No, don't let's play," said Cecily. " I came here to ask 
 you something, and I want to ask it." 
 
 "To ask me something?" Lois straightened herself in 
 her chair, and looked quickly up at the other woman. 
 
 " Yes. When you provided my husband with a new, and 
 
LOIS AND CECILY 115 
 
 undoubtedly more fitting, but less remunerative calling, 
 what did you think was to become of me ? " 
 
 " What was to become of you ? " 
 
 " Yes. Was I simply to be reduced from the wife of a 
 professional man in fair circumstances to the wife of a 
 struggling social reformer? Was my share of Avery's new 
 life to be only more housework and more economy ? " 
 
 Butler held his breath, but Lois answered readily enough, 
 " You think me more influential in Dr. Fairchild's decision 
 than I was. I advised him to do what he has done, but I 
 didn't persuade or compel. However, I have no objection 
 to answering your question as well as I can. I didn't work 
 out your part in the compact very exactly — I was consider- 
 ing your husband principally. But when he stated sub- 
 stantially the same objection that you have, I told him he 
 was making a great mistake if he took you for an amiable 
 little fool." 
 
 > " No, I'm not a fool, and I'm not embarrassingly amiable," 
 said Cecily. " But he might consider me a sensible woman 
 justly incensed, mightn't he?" 
 
 " You are least of all the sort of woman who wants 
 to be a burden on her husband," said Mrs. Butler 
 evenly. 
 
 " I am least of all that ? " echoed Cecily. 
 
 It was an amicable conversation, almost jesting; yet Wal- 
 ter Butler held his breath as he listened and looked. He 
 had never seen Cecily Fairchild look as she looked tonight. 
 Usually he thought her a pretty woman of a not particu- 
 larly significant type ; but tonight she looked like the trans- 
 parent vessel of some awfully luminous contents. 
 
 " You are right. I'm least of all a burden to my hus- 
 band," Cecily repeated. " So little that when he came home, 
 on this visit during which you did not see him, — when he 
 came home, and expressed his willingness to resume his 
 burden, I sent him packing. I'm so little a burden to him 
 
n6 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 that he has gone to one city to do his precious work, and I 
 am going to another to earn my own living." 
 
 There was a moment's silence after that, and in the bright 
 little after-dinner group clustered about the fire two pairs of 
 eyes were turned on Cecily. No wonder, thought Butler, 
 she looked luminous, poor heart-broken girl; in spite of 
 the fact that he would rather have looked away, her lumi- 
 nousness held him. 
 
 Then Lois Butler left her chair, and spoke with a certain 
 native nobility. " I am very sorry anything like that has 
 happened," she said. " You must think I have meddled 
 abominably. But so far as one can be sure of anything in 
 this world, I am sure that Avery Fairchild is fulfilling his 
 destiny. And I'm sure that you will fulfil yours, and that it 
 will be brighter than you can believe now. If I have caused 
 you any suffering — and it seems that I have — I humbly 
 ask your forgiveness for it." 
 
 Those eager eyes of Cecily's looked into hers ; Lois took 
 a step forward and put out her hands. Suddenly Cecily 
 sobbed, " Oh, I know it's splendid some way, I know you 
 meant it to be. But I do — I do miss him. I'm not used to 
 this state of things — yet." 
 
 Butler walked away to the other end of the room. " I 
 wonder if Fairchild ever saw her when she looked like 
 that ? " he thought. " He can't have, or things never would 
 have gone the length they evidently have gone." 
 
 When he returned to the fire Lois was sitting with 
 Cecily in her arms; but a moment later Cecily struggled 
 to her feet and wiped her eyes. " This isn't in the least 
 what I meant to tell you, or how I meant to tell it. I 
 didn't come here to reproach you, Mrs. Butler; I came to 
 ask advice," she said. 
 
 " If there is anything I can tell you " said Mrs. 
 
 Butler. 
 
LOIS AND CECILY 117 
 
 " I think there is. At least, I want you to understand. 
 I suppose, Mrs. Butler, that what I really want is a friend. 
 My own people are all dead, you know ; and as for friends, 
 I haven't any. Oh, there are a few old schoolmates I write 
 to once a year or so ; and there are plenty of acquaintances 
 here. I wouldn't talk to any of them about this; I 
 couldn't." 
 
 " I shall feel it an honor if you care to talk to me," said 
 Mrs. Butler. 
 
 " Thank you." Cecily sat down in the chair Butler had 
 left. " I am going to earn my own living, as I said. But 
 the question is, what am I going to do ? I was brought up 
 in a very common fashion : I wasn't taught anything except 
 how to make myself attractive to men, and, in a vague way, 
 how to keep house. So I think I shall begin now to do my 
 learning. I would like to go into an office — in fact that 
 seems to be about the only thing that there is for me to 
 do. I suppose I can learn shorthand in any city I may 
 move to." 
 
 " Of course you can. That is a sensible decision, isn't 
 it, Walter?" 
 
 " I know to my sorrow," said Butler, " how few sten- 
 ographers there are who seem to have any innate capacity. 
 If a stenographer is what you want to be, Mrs. Fairchild, 
 there are places waiting for you. There is one in my 
 office, if you care to take it." 
 
 " Thank you," said Cecily, " but I don't feel that I care 
 to stay in Jefferson." 
 
 " Perhaps you are wise to make a new start in a new 
 place. You have thought the whole thing out quite care- 
 fully, haven't you ? " said Lois. 
 
 " It's simple enough, I dare say," answered Cecily. " I 
 will admit, though, that when I first thought of it, it seemed 
 rather daring. You see, I had always thought of stenogra- 
 phers as a social class, instead of a business group." 
 
n8 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 "Oh, the education of a nice girl!" deplored Mrs. 
 Butler. 
 
 " You speak as if you never were a nice girl," said But- 
 ler, smiling. 
 
 " My dear Walter, you will find plenty of people in this 
 your native city who would tell you, if they dared, that far 
 from being a nice girl, I've always been an unscrupulous 
 woman." 
 
 "And your unscrupulousness approves of me?" asked 
 Cecily. 
 
 " I altogether approve of you," said Lois. " I think 
 you're splendid." 
 
 "You're splendid, but you're wrong," said Butler sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Why, Walter, what makes you say that?" asked Lois, 
 startled. 
 
 " People can adjust their differences," said Butler, " by 
 some fine, bold compromise." 
 
 " Or some little, sneaking compromise," said Lois quickly. 
 
 " I can't argue with you, Lois ; you are the most cogent 
 woman I ever saw," said Butler. " But I feel quite strongly 
 that our duties in this world are toward each other — not 
 away from each other." 
 
 " They are talking for each other now, not for me," 
 thought Cecily. She could not have told in what way their 
 few sentences seemed to her significant; in fact she did not 
 try to telj. But she realized afterward that from that even- 
 ing she always thought of Walter Butler as somehow the 
 hero of this particular matrimonial alliance, as the cement 
 in the structure, so to speak. 
 
 Butler turned to her now, and surprised her intent gaze. 
 He smiled at her. " Shan't we have that game of auction 
 now?" he asked. "The evening is only just beginning." 
 
 " I think I'll go home now," said Cecily slowly. " You 
 see, I wanted to bind myself to my arrangement by an- 
 
LOIS AND CECILY ng 
 
 nouncing it to some one. I'm afraid you will think I've 
 made a great to-do over a very trifling affair. One woman 
 more or less earning her own living — what does that mat- 
 ter these days ? " 
 
 " It matters a great deal to you, and you do not know 
 how much it may matter to those about you," said Lois 
 gravely. " One woman who is neither cowardly nor servile 
 may make a difference in the general reckoning, Mrs. Fair- 
 child." 
 
 She looked so sympathetic as she said it, so magnanimous, 
 so thoroughly true and right, that Cecily felt a thrill of 
 admiration. " No wonder Avery has been influenced by 
 her," she thought. " She might influence anybody ; she does 
 even me, I think." 
 
 Yet when, after their good-bys were said, Walter Butler 
 took her home in the car, it was of him that she thought with 
 more kindness. He was driving, and she sat beside him. 
 " If you ever decided to come back here," he said with his 
 eyes on the road, " remember that we always have a position 
 open to you." And a little later, " If you care to use my 
 name as a reference at any time, you may, you know." 
 And again, " Have you a lease of that house ? I'll help you 
 to dispose of it, if you have." 
 
 " And yet you don't approve of what I'm doing," said 
 Cecily after this last offer. He turned toward her with 
 some surprise. " You don't approve, but you're willing to 
 help me all that you can," she explained. 
 
 " My dear girl, approval and disapproval are academic 
 matters. I hope we all do what we can to help each other 
 out." Butler turned his attention back to the road. 
 
 His seriousness was not all on Cecily's account. For once 
 in his affectionate, easy-going life, Walter Butler was that 
 night taking a definitely critical view of his wife Lois. 
 
XII 
 THE WORLD RECEIVES 
 
 Once she had made up her mind to a thing, it was a fore- 
 gone conclusion that Cecily Fairchild would carry it through. 
 She had, as the saying is, her faults; but she had neither 
 gaps nor lapses. Having made up her mind to leave Jef- 
 ferson, she left : Walter Butler disposed of the lease of her 
 house, and sent his trucks to take her furniture to the car. 
 In mid-winter she put Jefferson behind her. 
 
 It is easy to leave a city, especially if your pride sustains 
 you; it is not difficult to leave a husband, especially when 
 you are backed by the powerful trinity, pride, anger and 
 ennui, to say nothing of righteous and reasonable decision. 
 But it is difficult to leave a beautiful little house, even 
 though you may have chafed sometimes at its smallness, 
 when you know that you have nothing better ahead than 
 some dingy " duplex," like thousands of other duplexes. 
 And it is altogether impossible to leave some people; they 
 will not be left. 
 
 To this class belonged Cecily's second maid, a prim, 
 middle-aged woman of Scotch descent. Cooks had come 
 to the exquisite little house while Cecily lived there, and 
 had left it; the last incumbent took her dismissal calmly, 
 and went. But Anna had been a fixture for several years, 
 and a fixture she proposed to remain, if not in this house, 
 then wherever else Cecily set up her household gods. 
 " Notices," threats and even jeers made no impression on 
 Anna ; in vain Cecily protested that in the future she could 
 afford nothing but a general servant. "That may all be 
 
THE WORLD RECEIVES iai 
 
 true, Mrs. Fairchild," Anna would say, when Cecily pic- 
 tured to her the life to which she was condemning herself. 
 " I've never been a general servant, but I'm quite willing 
 to be, for the sake of staying with you and the children. If 
 you aren't going to have much money, Mrs. Fairchild, that's 
 all the more reason why you should have a maid you are 
 accustomed to. No new person would be so careful and 
 saving as I will be. And if you think of going to work 
 somewhere, Mrs. Fairchild, I simply will not leave. I 
 wouldn't any more have Margaret left to one of those girls 
 you pick up in a city " 
 
 " I thought your faithful servant type died long ago, long 
 ago," said Cecily, touched in spite of herself, and there- 
 fore determined to be flippant. " Well, don't blame me if 
 you don't like it, Anna." 
 
 " I'm sure I shouldn't think of doing that, Mrs. Fair- 
 child," said Anna primly. 
 
 Secretly Cecily was glad enough of Anna's support, for 
 the two months during which she made her arrangements 
 and moved proved to be a harassing period, though not 
 without gleams of entertainment. Her broadest amusement 
 was derived from the visits of sympathetic and curious 
 friends. Defeating their curiosity and giving them no open- 
 ing for their sympathy was a game at which Cecily came 
 to be highly expert. " I thought that this business might 
 separate the sheep from the goats for me," she reflected. 
 " But it seems they are all sheep." 
 
 As the scene of her future life and labors Cecily had 
 chosen a lakeside city a few hours' ride from Chicago, near 
 enough so that Avery could see his children occasionally. 
 It was a city large enough to give commercial opportunities 
 and chances of decent freedom of action, but not yet so 
 large as to have robbed its denizens permanently of sun- 
 shine and fresh air. There she found a five-room " duplex," 
 less dingy than many she looked at, and with the use of 
 
122 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 half a fair-sized back yard appertaining to it. Swallowing 
 her memories of the little house in Jefferson, endeared to 
 her in a thousand ways, and of the exquisite bedroom now 
 vacant, Cecily moved in. 
 
 When it was furnished the flat looked much better. It 
 could hardly have failed to look its best under Anna's 
 superintendence. That prim devoted person would work 
 at the hardest sort of labor all day, and at night serve 
 Cecily's dinner with the utmost propriety. The dinner might 
 consist of a scrambled egg and bread and butter; but at 
 least the china and the linen were above reproach; and 
 Anna's correct cap, which was donned regularly, lent an 
 air to everything. Cecily never would outgrow her fond- 
 ness for an air; and Anna herself seemed to feel that so 
 long as she clung to the air, and the caps, she would never 
 deteriorate into an ordinary general servant, " one of those 
 girls you pick up in a city." Her devotion to the two chil- 
 dren left Cecily with her day and mind free for her new 
 effort. "Without Anna's old-fashioned virtues," thought 
 Cecily, "where would my iconoclasm be? I suppose one 
 can't even upset a social tradition and do it effectively 
 without the assistance of some simple good soul." 
 
 As things were, her " iconoclasm " had a clear enough 
 way. If Cecily had been one of your true iconoclasts, whose 
 spice of life is hearing the uproar as the icons come crash- 
 ing down, she would have been disappointed every day now. 
 When things were fairly in order, she went downtown and 
 enrolled herself at the leading " business college." The prin- 
 cipal was obviously pleased with her superior intelligence 
 and her good looks ; the teachers welcomed her zealousness. 
 But the roof failed to fall in ; indeed, Cecily's epoch-making 
 advent caused only the smallest kind of a ripple. Most of 
 the pupils were considerably younger than she, though one 
 or two were older. Her excellent clothes drew some 
 glances, which her manner sufficiently repelled ; Cecily had 
 
THE WORLD RECEIVES 123 
 
 no idea of acquainting herself with the unkempt and the 
 unmannered. As she said herself, she hated frow- 
 siness. So the frowsy went their way, and she went 
 hers. 
 
 She had enough to do, indeed, to acquaint herself with 
 her shorthand manual and her typewriter. It was a long 
 time since she had studied anything absolutely new, and she 
 was appalled to realize how hard she found it. " I must 
 have been keeping house and bringing up my children with 
 half my head," she reflected. 
 
 She made • perceptible progress, however, as spring came 
 on. She made, too, the mistake that nine out of ten women 
 would make in her circumstances. After a day filled with 
 shorthand she would fill an evening with sewing; she could 
 make the children such " adorable " clothes, and ready-made 
 garments were so far beneath her notice. Mere fatigue 
 would perhaps not have taught her the folly of her ways ; 
 but fortunately, as it proved, she made herself actually sick. 
 A week spent in bed with a high fever is a great chastener ; 
 Cecily was meek enough under the admonitions of the 
 doctor whom the frightened Anna called in. What is more, 
 she tried to live up to them. It might distress her to see her 
 children wear ready-made clothes; but it distressed her 
 much more to think of failing in her experiment. 
 
 The clothes they wore made no difference to the chil- 
 dren ; and after all they looked pretty in anything. Indeed, 
 with the democracy of youth they rather preferred their 
 present life to that in Jeffeson, which had not been wholly 
 free from dress-parades and well-regulated walks. They 
 had a sandpile here, in the fascinating back yard; it was 
 near a high board fence, and screened from observation, as 
 the season advanced, by the rows of flowers that Cecily 
 planted. When the two of them were playing there on a 
 breezy spring morning, between the hollyhocks that grew 
 
124 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 along the fence and the nasturtium vines that were allowed 
 to run along the ground, they were as charming as they 
 had ever been, and on the whole happier than before. " It 
 isn't doing them any harm," thought Cecily. She had to 
 acknowledge, as one by one they disappeared, that in enter- 
 ing thus boldly on a new life her mind had not been wholly 
 free from specters. 
 
 With specters generally she had increasingly less to do. 
 When she was overtired, of course, she could see immense 
 flaws in her present plan of life; she was conscious of its 
 loneliness and bareness. But when she was not tired she 
 found that that life did not lack variety, or even moments 
 of charm; and she was learning the bracing happiness that 
 comes from conquering obstacles. 
 
 To be sure, when she had finished her course of short- 
 hand she was haunted for a time by the fear that she would 
 never get a " position." Positions, she thought, did not go 
 by fear or favor, but strictly by desert; and what did she 
 deserve? Of what use could she, Cecily Fairchild, be in 
 the market-place? 
 
 Consideration of the people with whom she went to 
 " business college " helped her out of her panic ; for if she 
 knew little, most of them knew greatly less. When she 
 received information from the college of a vacant " posi- 
 tion," Cecily hid her timidity, dressed herself carefully, and 
 sallied forth. An anxious and not altogether approving 
 Anna waited for her at home, she knew; and the prac- 
 ticability of her enterprise was now being put to the 
 test. 
 
 Once, twice, three times she was unsuccessful. At one 
 place the pay was too low ; at another there were too many 
 people ahead of her; at the third her name was taken, but 
 she never heard farther. With every attempt her courage 
 sank, but she rallied it determinedly. This was simply 
 the fortune of war. 
 
THE WORLD RECEIVES 125 
 
 A fourth time she went out to answer a call. This time 
 she knew that Anna watched her from behind the curtains ; 
 so at the corner she looked back and waved her hand. As 
 she turned the corner she was to all appearances the gayest 
 of the gay. 
 
 About the middle of the afternoon, before she had dared 
 to hope for her mistress's return, Anna heard the front door 
 open. " Make me a cup of tea, Anna, will you please ? " 
 Cecily's voice called to her. 
 
 Anna, quite stiff and awkward with anger, made the 
 tea. Her adored Mrs. Fairchild, returning and calling for 
 tea in the middle of the afternoon, must be utterly worn out. 
 The idea of Mrs. Fairchild «out in the world earning her 
 living hurt Anna at best, for Anna was not infected with 
 the virus of mad modern ideas : she would have preferred 
 to see her mistress stay quietly at home, her bills paid by 
 Dr. Fairchild. But if Mrs. Fairchild would descend into 
 the market-place, then the very least that the market-place 
 could do was to recognize a lady when it saw one, and 
 spread a carpet before her feet. Primmer than ever, but 
 with eyes that smoldered, Anna appeared at Cecily's bed- 
 room door with the cup of tea. 
 
 Cecily, who was stooping to change her shoes, lifted a 
 flushed and smiling face. " Anna, what do you think ? " she 
 demanded. " I have a position." 
 
 " I'm sure I'm very glad to hear it," said Anna. 
 
 " I knew you would be, but not so glad as I am to get 
 it. In a law office it is, one of the best firms in town : Sims, 
 Morley and Sims. You would like the look of their office, 
 Anna; it is respectable, solid, nay imposing." Cecily sank 
 on her bed and took the cup of tea. " Even the card cata- 
 logue would inspire confidence, let alone the law library, 
 which has a room to itself. There are three stenographers 
 beside me, to say nothing of a young man clerk. You would 
 be impressed, Anna." 
 
126 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " I dare say I should, Mrs. Fairchild." Anna picked up 
 the shoes that Cecily had just discarded, and fitted shoe- 
 trees into them. 
 
 " I am to get twelve dollars a week," continued Cecily, 
 sipping tea. " What do you think of that ? " 
 
 " It never took you long to spend twelve dollars, Mrs. 
 Fairchild." 
 
 " Oh, I've been careful lately," Cecily assured her. " I'm 
 much more careful than I used to be, Anna." 
 
 " Do you expect to get along and bring up the children 
 on twelve dollars a week, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. I expect to get more some day. But I 
 wish you could have seen how nicely I got this position, 
 Anna. Some girls go from office to office for weeks before 
 they find anything." 
 
 Perhaps Cecily was trying to forget her own recently 
 past tremors. The unflinching Anna remarked, "Even if 
 you tried, you couldn't lower yourself to the level of most 
 people, Mrs. Fairchild." 
 
 " Thank you, Anna," said Cecily, her eyes twinkling. 
 " In spite of your undemocratic spirit, thank you. Thank 
 you, too, for your tea; you make delicious tea." 
 
 " Will you have another cup, Mrs. Fairchild ? " 
 
 " No, thank you. I think I'll rest a bit before dinner ; I 
 want to be in good trim to-morrow. I have clean blouses 
 enough to take me through the week, haven't I ? " 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Fairchild, even at the rate of one a 
 day." 
 
 " That's probably what I shall need." Cecily stretched 
 her arms above her head, and yawned. " I say, Anna, if 
 you like you may take the children down to Chicago this 
 week-end to see Dr. Fairchild. I can get along by myself 
 for a day or two." 
 
 Cecily felt magnanimous to be considering her husband 
 just then, for her thoughts and interests were turning natu- 
 
THE WORLD RECEIVES 127 
 
 rally to the work ahead. It was a great world that she was 
 entering, this world of the market-place. From afar, from 
 her position of "sheltered woman," she had suspected its 
 existence, had sniffed in imagination its acrid and dusty 
 odor ; and now at length the gates were flung open to her. 
 A hot, fierce world; a dirty, close-packed world; a world 
 that would make short work of pretty illusions, but a 
 world so wide — so wide. 
 
 It began for her, indeed, that very next day. And as 
 summer ripened into fall, and then winter closed down 
 upon her, Cecily enjoyed to the full her new pungent life. 
 She liked its early risings and early retirings; liked de- 
 parture for work, in her fresh blouse and neat suit, with a 
 book under her arm for street-car consumption. She liked 
 the big office, flanked on one side by the law library, and 
 on the other by the three doors bearing the brass name- 
 plates of the individual members of the firm. Mr. Sims 
 Senior's private office was somewhat somber and heavy, as 
 became the surroundings of the head of so important a firm. 
 Mr. Morley's was tasteful, and boasted an etching or two, 
 Mr. Morley being rather given to the patronage of the fine 
 arts. Mr. Sims the younger ran to obtrusive cheerfulness in 
 his furnishings, as he did to effusiveness in his personal 
 bearing. He had a lot of growing up still to do, Cecily 
 thought. She liked Mr. Morley; every one in the office 
 liked Mr. Morley. Of Mr. Sims Senior Cecily had no very 
 definite opinion; indeed as the newest stenographer in the 
 office she had at first very little to do with him. It must 
 be believed that the little was well done, or she would 
 not have had an indefinite opinion about him; for on 
 the whole Mr. Sims Senior was fairly well hated in his 
 office. 
 
 Cecily liked her work. She liked the shorthand notes 
 that she always took with some mental struggle, and de- 
 ciphered with a sense of triumph. She liked the response 
 
ia8 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 of her typewriter to her fingers: there is no mechanical 
 device that has more personality, — or at times more actually 
 human perversity, — than a typewriter. She liked the neat 
 letters and the legal papers that were for the present her 
 contribution to the world's business. 
 
 She liked not only the opportunities of her work, but also 
 its limitations. The hours were limited, for one thing, 
 though there were days when they seemed long enough; 
 and if demands were made upon her time and energy, at 
 least there were none upon her spirit. She was called upon 
 to serve her employers, but not to love them. Moreover, 
 when they had paid her her weekly stipend their respon- 
 sibility toward her ended. If she met one of the firm out- 
 side of office hours, he greeted her according to his nature, 
 Mr. Sims absent-mindedly, Mr. Morley courteously, young 
 Mr. Sims jauntily. That was all. " In modern business," 
 said Cecily, " each man minds his own." 
 
 Best of all Cecily liked her home-comings. She had of 
 course this advantage over most of her women fellow- 
 workers, that she had a home to go to, and a veritable home, 
 not a ghastly furnished room or a corner of a relative's 
 establishment. Her flat was small, the rooms were not 
 elegantly proportioned, most of them were not light enough ; 
 but it offered Cecily rest, refreshment, the society of her 
 children, books. And now that she had made up her mind 
 to leave undone everything in the flat that Anna could not 
 do, she found to her surprise that this was the first time 
 in her life she had had a real home. In Jefferson her 
 house had always been the field of her endeavors. When 
 she returned from outside, it had been to confront prob- 
 lems, to meet demands upon her; and those problems and 
 demands were usually of a trivial and frequently of an 
 irritating nature. They had often spoiled the enjoyment 
 she might have had at home ; and even when they did not 
 occur, she was never free from the possibility of them. But 
 
THE WORLD RECEIVES 129 
 
 when you were away and at work all day, you didn't allow 
 anything to spoil your quiet dinner, or the bedtime hour 
 of your babies, or the blessed afterward when with the 
 shades all down and the low light glowing beside the bed, 
 you sank back on your pillows and opened a cherished 
 volume either of the new or old. 
 
 By way of welcome incident in so much serenity, Cecily's 
 employer on the day before Christmas raised her salary 
 from twelve dollars a week to fourteen. She found an 
 envelope announcing the change on her desk when she came 
 to work. With the magnanimity of triumph she went, at 
 her lunch hour, to the telegraph office, and sent Avery an 
 invitation to come up Christmas Day for a noon dinner and 
 " to see the children." 
 
 When she reached home she found his answering tele- 
 gram, stiffly informing her that he was engaged to dine 
 " with friends." There was also a large express package, 
 addressed in his writing and filled with toys. It had evi- 
 dently been sent the day before. The idea of Avery wan- 
 dering forlornly from toy-counter to toy-counter, buying 
 things for his absent children, struck Cecily as pathetic. 
 She sat down forthwith and wrote to him, offering to let 
 Anna take the children to Chicago for New Year's; she 
 charitably refrained from saying anything about the two 
 dollars a week that stood to her for success. Perhaps Anna 
 would tell him, if he consented to see her. 
 
 Avery answered his wife's note at once; and Anna and 
 the children made the journey to Chicago on the appointed 
 day. " Dr. Fairchild is well, ma'am, and very busy," Anna 
 reported on her return. " He said to let him know if there 
 was anything you wanted." 
 
 Cecily was sitting on her divan, one of her newly-returned 
 children in each arm. She looked up quickly. " That's 
 kind of him," she said, " very kind. But I'm not asking for 
 anything, either that he can give me or that he can't. I 
 
130 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 have everything I want." And she began forthwith to 
 learn Junior's impression of the hotel at which his father 
 had lodged him. 
 
 Clearly, it is not every one who can say at the end of 
 a first year in the world that she has everything she wants. 
 
XIII 
 AND EVEN COMPLIMENTS 
 
 Cecily was happy now, not so happy as she had been early 
 in her married life, but certainly far happier than she had 
 been in the last few years. Her happiness was not surpris- 
 ing: no one is ever really safe from attacks of the mysteri- 
 ous thing, consequent sometimes on nothing more important 
 than a change in temperature or a particularly well- 
 digested meal. But what did astonish Cecily, at the same 
 time that it delighted her, was her growing sense of perma- 
 nence. Never even at her happiest had she felt that she 
 " belonged " in the old life ; long before she acknowledged 
 it the fatal maladjustment had been there, if it had not, in- 
 deed, been present from the beginning. To " belong " is 
 certainly a luxury; and for the restless permanence itself 
 is something of a novelty. 
 
 It was inevitable that all years should not go as well as 
 that first year. Indeed, early in the second Cecily went 
 through a troubled period, and her troubles were of a very 
 material nature. Her reserve money was almost gone, her 
 salary was not sufficient for all the needs of her family, and 
 Avery's checks, although regular, remained dishearteningly 
 small. The fourteen dollars a week that looked so big when 
 she considered merely that she earned it, melted away at 
 once when she began to spend it. When the rent of the little 
 flat was paid, and Anna's five dollars a week — Anna had 
 had six in Jefferson for doing half the work — and when 
 Anna's carefully whittled bills for food were settled, there 
 was nothing left for Cecily. Yet Cecily must have carfare, 
 and ought to have had lunch. Instead she took to having 
 
 131 
 
132 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 soda fountain mixtures at noon, malted milk and eggs ; and 
 she wore her old clothes without renewal. Fortunately 
 the clothes were still very good; but when at length they 
 did wear out, where were the new ones to come from? 
 "That will be poverty," thought Cecily. "This is a 
 sharp foretaste." Fortunately the children were very well. 
 If she had had to pay doctor's bills on their account, she 
 who was accustomed to the other end of a doctor's bill, 
 Cecily would have felt that she was indeed supplied with 
 matter for irony. 
 
 And just when money for necessities was not too plenti- 
 ful, Cecily began to long for diversion. Reading in the 
 evening was all very well; but one got tired of spending 
 every evening that way. There were times when Cecily 
 tingled for movement and excitement: she would have 
 given anything to step back even into Jefferson society, to 
 dine elegantly, to dance, to talk for the sake of talking, to 
 flirt a little. Her social impulse had not died during the 
 last year; sometimes it seemed to be quite horribly alive. 
 " At my age, and with my experience ! I'm ashamed of 
 me ! " she would say to herself. 
 
 Then she would devise some brave excursion to the pub- 
 lic museum, or the library, or perhaps to a motion-picture 
 theater, and would put on a clean blouse and go. Anna 
 sometimes went with her at first; but Anna could never be 
 happy away from the children, and would fret all the way 
 for fear that the house might burn down or one of the 
 children develop croup. " Neither of them has ever had 
 croup," protested Cecily. 
 
 " There is always a first time," said Anna darkly. 
 
 Finally Anna refused to go at all. She excused herself 
 on the plea that she had outings enough with the children, 
 while her mistress was " shut up in that office." " Go by 
 yourself, Mrs. Fairchild," she advised. " There's nothing 
 to be afraid of." 
 
AND EVEN COMPLIMENTS 133 
 
 Or to enjoy, Cecily felt like adding. However, she went 
 alone a few times; after that she spent her evenings at 
 home. " There's nothing to be afraid of," she admitted. 
 " But I never have gone out alone in the evening, and I 
 can't get used to it." It is evident that there clung to Cecily 
 more of the Jefferson standard than could be expressed 
 simply by Anna's white cap. 
 
 In the middle of an especially dull and straitened week 
 she sat one morning taking Mr. Sims Senior's dictation. 
 Lately more of Mr. Sims' work had fallen to her, without 
 giving her incidentally any more definite a view of Mr. 
 Sims himself. It was generally agreed in the outer office 
 that he was " the brains of the concern " ; but he seemed 
 to have little existence outside the law. He was a mis- 
 anthropic man, who gave the impression of being absent- 
 minded ; and he had the reputation among his subordinates 
 of being a brusque speaker. 
 
 He dictated droningly, without hesitation and without 
 interest. Cecily was taking notes almost mechanically ; she 
 was growing better acquainted with her shorthand, shifting 
 it bit by bit from her cerebrum to her finger-tips. Suddenly 
 the droning ceased, and Mr. Sims interrupted himself to 
 ask, " Is your husband living, Mrs. Fairchild ? " 
 
 Cecily had always foreseen that some time some such 
 inquiry would be put to her; it was surprising that the 
 question had held off so long. She drew her breath sharply, 
 and answered simply, " Yes." 
 
 "Is he a lawyer?" asked Mr. Sims. 
 
 " No. He is a doctor." 
 
 "Was your father a lawyer?" 
 
 " No. He was in business." 
 
 " You have never worked for a lawyer before ? I thought 
 this was your first position ? " 
 
 " It is my first position." Cecily could not understand 
 
134 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 the turn that the conversation was taking, but it seemed at 
 least to be away from her domestic affairs. 
 
 " If this is absolutely your first acquaintance with law, 
 how do you manage to do as well as you do ? " he flung 
 at her. 
 
 " I suppose, if I do well, it's, simply because I put my 
 mind on it," said Cecily. " I like the work. Candidly, I 
 didn't know that I did it particularly well." 
 
 " You have a mind to put, that's the beginning," said Mr. 
 Sims. He went on almost grudgingly, as if the words were 
 wrung from a reluctant soul. " But putting your mind on 
 a thing is all the battle. Women could get anywhere and 
 do anything if they would put their minds on things, but 
 they won't. I have a wife, and what does she think of? 
 Society — that only ; and she only half thinks of that. I've a 
 daughter, a girl with a fine mind; and what does she think 
 of? Dress and young men. Those girls out there in the 
 office with you, what do they think of ? How soon they can 
 draw their salary, and what fool things they can spend 
 it on." 
 
 He looked moodily out of the window, and Cecily let her 
 pencil drop and leaned back in her chair. " As bad as all 
 that?" she asked quietly. 
 
 A gleam almost of amusement came into Mr. Sims' 
 eyes as he turned to her. " Am I right about you ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Only in part. I must admit, however, that I don't 
 spend my working hours thinking about young men and 
 new clothes," answered Cecily. 
 
 " Perhaps that explains it." Mr. Sims began again to 
 dictate without carrying the subject farther. 
 
 When some time later Cecily rose with a notebook almost 
 full she was prepared for his usual, " If you can't finish that 
 this afternoon, let it wait until tomorrow." To justify his 
 confidence in her she was prepared today to answer, " I'll 
 
AND EVEN COMPLIMENTS 135 
 
 do it before I leave tonight, Mr. Sims." But instead of 
 alluding to the dictation he had given, Mr. Sims again 
 looked out of the window, frowned heavily and said, " After 
 this, when my bell ring9 I should like to have you answer it, 
 if you are at liberty, Mrs. Fairchild. And you will please 
 convey to the outer office news that I have asked you to 
 answer it." 
 
 This meant promotion, of course ; but promotion was not 
 Cecily's first thought on hearing it. From such a source, 
 such words as these were laureled tribute. All the after- 
 noon Cecily worked in a glow, with a wonderful sense of 
 something pleasant in one corner of the mind' Mr. Sims so 
 firmly believed to be undivided. 
 
 " Anna," she said as she ate her chop that evening, " what 
 do you think has happened to me today?" 
 
 Anna waited on table perfectly as ever, though she might 
 have spent the whole day washing; but the conditions of 
 their new life had removed many barriers between her and 
 her mistress, and they often talked together during meals. 
 Looking at Cecily, who was quite starry-eyed with pleasure, 
 Anna replied, " Something pleasant, I hope, Mrs. Fair- 
 child." 
 
 " Pleasant enough, but startling," answered Cecily. 
 "For the first time in my life, Anna, a man has approved 
 of me for some other reason than because I was pretty and 
 could answer him flippantly." 
 
 Anna supplied Junior with a fresh slice of bread, and 
 poured water all around. Then she remarked austerely, 
 " I'm sure it need make very little difference to any of us 
 why any of them like us." 
 
 " Anna, you're an old maid ! " Cecily jibed. 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Fairchild." 
 
 " Aren't you even going to ask why the man approved 
 of me?" 
 
 "Why was it, Mrs. Fairchild?" 
 
136 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Because I can do things, Anna. I dare say you don't 
 think I can do much " 
 
 " I never gave you any cause to say that, Mrs. Fair- 
 child," Anna was stung into interrupting. 
 
 " You're right, Anna, and I beg your pardon. You're a 
 dear, generous old thing, and you believe in me far too 
 implicitly. But implicit belief isn't the way of the world, 
 Anna; and impersonal liking doesn't fall to most women. 
 At least, I've never before been liked impersonally, and 
 strictly on my merits. I feel that today I took a step, not as 
 a woman, but simply as a human being." 
 
 " I once heard a lady talk about women and human 
 beings," said Anna. " At a woman suffrage meeting it 
 was; another maid took me there. That sort of talk is 
 all very well for that sort of woman. If you could have 
 
 seen her, Mrs. Fairchild f But I remember thinking that 
 
 night, ' If I was as pretty as Mrs. Fairchild, I'd like to 
 have people remember all the. time that I was a woman.' " 
 
 " Thank you for your admiration, Anna. You think me 
 much prettier than I am; but even if I were as lovely as 
 a woman could be, don't you think it is too bad for any 
 one's life to be moulded wholly by her looks ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't think so, if I had the looks," said Anna 
 obstinately. 
 
 " Your life is conditioned by your salads, Anna ; and 
 believe me, that's much better. This salad was heavenly; 
 
 and how you manage them for the money ! Wouldn't 
 
 you like to go out this evening, Anna? I am going to put 
 the children to bed." 
 
 " I have going enough in the day. Why don't you go 
 somewhere yourself, Mrs. Fairchild? You slave all day 
 in that office " 
 
 " While you are recreating at the washtub ? Thank you, 
 Anna. I think tonight I'll attend to the children, and then 
 write a letter." 
 
AND EVEN COMPLIMENTS 137 
 
 No letter would require the major part of an evening for 
 its writing, unless it were a well-considered letter to a 
 man — to Avery Fairchild, for instance. It was indeed to 
 Avery that Cecily wrote that evening. Perhaps she wrote 
 partly in a spirit of brag, but there was no brag in 
 the letter. It told him simply how well the children were, 
 and how well she herself was, and what good care Anna 
 took of them all ; and it expressed a hope that he was well, 
 and was not working too hard. It was not a newsy letter ; 
 but she reflected as she read it over that it was magnanimous 
 in its tone. " And why shouldn't I be magnanimous ? " she 
 thought. " Events have proved me gloriously in the right ; 
 magnanimity is only decent." 
 
 She sealed the letter, and put it with her hat and gloves. 
 " If I mail it in the morning, he ought to get it some time 
 tomorrow," she thought. " I wonder how he spends his 
 evenings — working, doubtless. I'd go down and see him 
 sometime, if it wouldn't look like an advance. But of 
 course it would. And if he hasn't curiosity enough to 
 want to see me, I certainly haven't enough to seek him 
 out." 
 
 She went in for a good-night look at her children, so 
 warm and sweet as they slept. She had often indulged in 
 the ceremony in Jefferson, and Avery had almost never 
 gone with her. That had hurt her at the time, but she 
 was glad of it now ; if her life and Avery's had been twined 
 together in many little ways, they would have been harder to 
 untwine. As it was, the bond had severed easily enough, 
 and had left her without regrets. 
 
 " Nothing ever bothers me now but money matters, and 
 I suppose money matters will always continue to bother 
 me," she reflected as she brushed her hair. " Cecily Fair- 
 child with money enough — it's inconceivable! Yet there 
 are people who have too much. Once before I die I should 
 like to experience the sensation of having too much money." 
 
138 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 She caught her own eye in the mirror, and smiled at her- 
 self. " I'm afraid the events of the day have rather gone to 
 my young head," she thought. " But it's small wonder if 
 they have. Mr. Sims ! Imagine ! If his encomiums were 
 known, wouldn't there be jealousy in ' the office ' ! " 
 
XIV 
 
 AND AVERY GOES MARCHING ON 
 
 A hundred miles away from Cecily and her office — yes, a 
 hundred miles away from anything that concerned her — 
 Avery Fairchild had given himself up to his new life. 
 Looking more like a young monk than ever, he worked at 
 founding his Association. All the backing he could get, he 
 got; all possible publicity, all aid, financial and moral. 
 This thing was to be at once the channel of his future 
 energies and a living monument to his determination. And 
 in spite of inevitable setbacks it grew, grew and prospered 
 and became daily better known and more influential. " It 
 is splendid," wrote Grosvenor, hearing through a third per- 
 son of Avery's success. " It is just what I had expected 
 of you," was Lois Butler's testimony. 
 
 In his zeal for his work, and perhaps in some relief at 
 release from a more formal way of living, Avery made his 
 bachelor arrangements very simple, and found that he be- 
 came very easily accustomed to such simplicity. His meals 
 he took wherever he happened to be : indeed in these pre- 
 liminary days he was often out through the state, organiz- 
 ing the work. By way of permanent habitation he rented 
 a furnished room not too far downtown. Cecily would not 
 have called the room " furnished " at all. There was no 
 rug, and there were no curtains. Calf-bound books on medi- 
 cine all down one side frowned at cloth-bound books on 
 sociology and economics lining the other ; at one end under 
 the windows stood a large desk, and opposite, against the 
 fourth wall, a meager dresser. This left no place for the 
 bed except the middle of the floor ; and there, both of neces- 
 
 139 
 
i 4 o CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 sity and in the interest of a free play of air, it stood, a nar- 
 row white iron bed, with a green-shaded light depending 
 from a cord over it. No one, it would seem, could have 
 a regret, far less a dream, in such a room; it was a place 
 for hard work, solid reading and sound sleep. 
 
 The hermit-like nature of his accommodations, and the 
 fact that he was after all not a hermit, may account for 
 the fact that after he had got things once in trim, and this in- 
 dependent work of his was beginning to go, and to go 
 mightily, Avery found himself suddenly unwilling to devote 
 his entire time and thought to his work. When he came 
 home at night he wanted change, he wanted amusement; 
 sometimes, to his own disgust, he quite acutely wanted 
 Cecily, who when the mood was on her could be most dis- 
 tinctly amusing. 
 
 Failing Cecily, he managed presently to find amusement 
 elsewhere. People in lines of work similar to his own 
 made a friend of him, and he learned to enjoy their com- 
 pany, and to seek it. Wealthy people whom he met in 
 financing his work had him to dinner; and although there 
 was in his intercourse with them the damning thought that 
 he must be always at his best, he got a certain wry pleasure 
 even from being at his best. That must be how women felt 
 in most of their social life, it occurred to him in passing: 
 they had not simply to enjoy themselves, they had to suc- 
 ceed. 
 
 When he. had no engagement with either the great or 
 the simple, there were always, now that he had become a 
 city-dweller, people in the mass for him to have recourse 
 to. Avery alone was of course not handicapped in going 
 out as was Cecily alone; and with his natural lack of so- 
 ciability he soon grew to prefer these solitary excursions to 
 any others, although he admitted that their novelty might 
 be half their charm. He went to the theater a great deal, 
 single tickets being always within his reach. He did not 
 
AND AVERY GOES MARCHING ON 141 
 
 know a good play from a bad one, and he never would ; he 
 went as much for the audience as for the play. He liked to 
 feel these hundreds near him, all so intent on the mimic 
 lives across the footlights, all for the moment so unconscious 
 of self. 
 
 Then there were the cinema theaters, so dear to the 
 economical heart of the populace, with their shadowy 
 dramas flickering ghost-like at one end of their gloomy 
 auditoriums, and the unceremonious arrival and departure 
 of their patrons. When even the cinema theater seemed too 
 confining, there were the city streets, where air and motion 
 might be had while a man watched people. The people of 
 a great city, moving along at night under the lamps — what 
 a strange and many-sided phenomenon f How much there 
 was that one would never know about these figures, glimpsed 
 for a moment and then gone ; and yet, from the elegant fur- 
 wrapped ladies in limousines to the poor drab on the cross- 
 ing, how much one could after all tell at a glance ! Flitting 
 creatures, as flitting and as shadowy as those in the cinema 
 — strange, significant creatures, each of them, too, an ob- 
 server in some degree, and each in his own consciousness 
 the center of his own little universe. 
 
 The rude removal from domesticity of a man by nature 
 neither vicious nor vulgar often has as its first result some 
 such broadening or, at any rate, loosening of interest. 
 Avery floated into the general so easily that once the first 
 wrench was over he seldom felt much regret for the par- 
 ticular. After one of the visits of his children it always 
 took him some time to regain his usual equanimity; but 
 he did not see his children very often. As for Cecily, he 
 was doing very well without her, though that now remote 
 lady seemed neither to know nor to care how well he did. 
 Sometimes he worried about her; connubial habit still had 
 so much hold on him. But he too felt that he was now 
 settled for life; and he would certainly have regarded it 
 
142 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 as an insult if any one had told him that for all his gravity 
 he was still a man, and a young man. 
 
 With women as women he had now nothing to do. He 
 met and talked with many women in the course of his 
 work, but he did not regard them precisely as women : they 
 corresponded to " patients " in the life he had left. He em- 
 ployed a woman organizer, who was certainly a most use- 
 ful person, invaluable in " getting at " women's clubs ; and 
 in his outer office there were two women stenographers. 
 But the one he seldom saw, and the others he never looked 
 at. In fact he was now living a fine free celibate life, with 
 as much possibility of permanence as a celibate life usually 
 has. To his own view, his life stretched before him like 
 a long, narrow, clean-swept road, visible and uniform to the 
 very end. Chance and change, except as they might come 
 to him through his work, could hardly intrude into such 
 a life. Avery fixed his eyes on that imaginary road until 
 it fairly hypnotized him, until his belief in it was almost 
 literal. He did not dread change only because he no longer 
 believed it possible : for him all things were determined. 
 
 Into this clean, bare, narrow road came a vagrant breeze, 
 light enough but disturbing; and Avery perceived that he 
 was still under the dominion of chance and change. He did 
 not, however, recognize the disturbing element at once; 
 how should he, indeed, when it was introduced by such a 
 person as Mrs. Kiteley Van Duzen? Avery would have 
 exonerated Mrs. Van Duzen in advance from any knowl- 
 edge, even, of disturbing elements, not to speak of propaga- 
 tion of them. She was one of Avery's oldest acquaintances 
 in Chicago, and had been very valuable to him in- starting 
 his Association. She was a large, solid woman, powerful 
 physically and socially, who dabbled ponderously in philan- 
 thropy, and was suspected of sportive touches of socialism ; 
 she was saved from being ridiculous by her deep appre- 
 ciation of the necessity for backing altruistic ideas with 
 
AND AVERY GOES MARCHING ON 143 
 
 coin of the realm. In mere ordinary decency Avery was 
 grateful to Mrs. Van Duzen, and loyally suppressed the 
 irritation that the mere sight of her never failed to rouse 
 in him. Why need any woman, he wondered, even a phil- 
 anthropic, middle-aged woman, have such a battleship bear- 
 ing, and such large, uncompromising feet? 
 
 Mrs. Van Duzen sailed in upon Avery one fine afternoon, 
 taking the outer office by storm and at once invading the 
 inner. She dropped into a chair that creaked under her 
 weight, planted her feet squarely and demanded, " How 
 are things going, Dr. Fairchild?" 
 
 Avery had never fully got over expecting to hear her ad- 
 dress him as " young man." Struggling to forget her feet, 
 he answered urbanely, " Very well indeed, Mrs. Van 
 Duzen. We are beginning to have more calls now than we 
 can take care of. I think I could put another organizer into 
 the state field at once, if I had any certain prospect of 
 being able to pay him." 
 
 " If that is the case, we must get more money. We can- 
 not allow our growth to be hampered by simple lack of 
 means." 
 
 " You agree with me, however, that we must pay our way 
 as we go ? " 
 
 " Of course. Under the circumstances you will not be 
 displeased to learn that I came to talk with you about 
 another contributor?" 
 
 "Another contributor? Dear lady, lead me to him," 
 said Avery. 
 
 She smiled ; she could appreciate his jocosity. " It isn't 
 he ; it's she. I'm speaking of a young widow, Mrs. Mor- 
 rison Keppel — she was Caroline Russell," Mrs. Van Duzen 
 informed him. 
 
 The name conveyed nothing to Avery; he murmured 
 politely, "Ah, yes?" 
 
 " She married Morrison Keppel when he had grown 
 
144 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 children, some of them older than she," Mrs. Van Duzen 
 went on for his enlightenment. " He had a big fortune, 
 solidly invested in downtown real estate. He was violently 
 in love with her, and the girl wasn't a fool. Well, he died 
 a year ago. Of course she has plenty of money ; and as she 
 is in mourning, she has not much opportunity of spend- 
 ing it." 
 
 " An ideal contributor, I see," said Avery. " I shall be 
 delighted to make her acquaintance, Mrs. Van Duzen. How 
 soon can I ? " 
 
 " This afternoon, I believe. I told her that if you weren't 
 busy I might bring you up in my car, and the poor girl was 
 excited at the thought. She lives alone except for an un- 
 married sister-in-law, who is a good duenna, I suppose, but 
 no companion whatever for her. After luncheon Caroline 
 has a walk or a drive, and then mopes until bedtime. She 
 is mourning very strictly, you see." 
 
 Avery rose to get his hat. " How much do you think 
 a call from us would be worth to her ? " he asked in 
 passing. 
 
 Again Mrs. Van Duzen knew that he was speaking in 
 jest, and again she appreciated his jest; but in her reply was 
 visible the shrewdness which underlay her ponderous pecu- 
 liarities. " I should think it would be worth about two 
 hundred dollars," she said. 
 
 Avery closed his desk. " If we can make two hundred 
 dollars in one afternoon " 
 
 " In half an afternoon. It's late now ; she is sure to have 
 returned from her walk." 
 
 When they arrived at her house, Mrs. Keppel had, indeed, 
 returned from her outing, though there was nothing in her 
 appearance to suggest that she had recently been out; her 
 cheeks were as pale as the white crape gown that she wore. 
 When they were ushered in she was lounging before the 
 drawing-room fire, listlessly fitting together pieces of a 
 
AND AVERY GOES MARCHING ON 145 
 
 wooden puzzle on a board affixed to the arm of her chair. 
 At her elbow sat her sister-in-law, a sinister female who 
 gave the impression of being always at people's elbows. 
 She was of a thinness that no dressmaker could disguise, 
 and increasing deafness had given her a horrible peering 
 look that made her resemble an inquisitive death's head. 
 " A perfect Gorgon," thought Avery. 
 
 The room in which they sat had been designed for mag- 
 nificence; with the passing of years it had grown a little 
 subdued and faded, and was improved thereby. A sweet, 
 old-fashioned smell, possibly lavender, which clung to all 
 Mrs. Keppel's garments, had been so diffused about by her 
 occupancy that it now clung to the very chairs where she 
 had sat. The room or the odor, or the dreadful duenna, or 
 possibly the first sight of Caroline Keppel's pale face and 
 ashy blonde hair, gave Avery the feeling that here was a 
 creature for whom life had stopped. . From the vantage 
 point of a man whose life lay so definitely ahead of him, 
 he dared to pity her almost before they had spoken. 
 
 Later he decided that instead of having stopped short, 
 her life had not yet begun. He had an unexpected oppor- 
 tunity for finding out. The Gorgon was carried off at once 
 by Mrs. Van Duzen, and the alternate pipe and boom of 
 their voices could be heard at intervals from somewhere 
 across the hall, like an intermittent fife and drum duet. 
 Avery sat down near the fire, and Mrs. Keppel gave him 
 a little shy smile. 
 
 " What is the puzzle that you're doing? " he asked. 
 
 " It's a new one ; I don't even know yet what the pic- 
 ture will represent when I get it together." 
 
 " I don't see how you can ever get it together." Avery 
 bent over the pieces on the board. 
 
 " Oh, I can ; but of course it takes a lot of time. I sup- 
 pose you think it's a very silly way to spend time ? " 
 
 " No, I hadn't thought that." 
 
146 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " I think it is," she maintained. " Very silly, indeed, 
 though not perhaps as silly as some others. I suppose you 
 never waste any time ? " 
 
 " Do you think me a paragon, Mrs. Keppel ? Or do you 
 think that's how I try to impress people ? " 
 
 " I think you're a man who is doing a splendid work, and 
 one that must take an infinite amount of courage," she said. 
 " Mrs. Van Duzen has been telling me about you. To 
 keep people from getting sick, and prevent all that suffering 
 and misery — it's so wonderful. And it is being done — you 
 are doing it." 
 
 " We are making a very modest little beginning," said 
 Avery. 
 
 "That isn't to deny that you have great aims?" 
 
 "Well, no, I wouldn't deny that." 
 
 She mused for a moment, with her eyes on the fire ; before 
 that she had looked, shyly but quite continuously, at him. 
 The profile that was turned to him was lovely in a delicate 
 way, though the mouth was quite unformed ; it seemed the 
 profile of a very young woman. Caroline Keppel was 
 twenty-eight years old, as Avery learned afterward; but 
 she looked younger than that, and seemed still younger than 
 she looked. Her life had done little to mature her. Only 
 a year out of school she had been married to the elderly and 
 fastidious Keppel, who had been won by her wistful and 
 rather unintelligent youth; and during their married life 
 he had done his best to preserve the charm that had at- 
 tracted him. Between him and the Gorgon, who had lived 
 in his house since the death of his first wife, Caroline had 
 spent her married years; and as yet Keppel's death had 
 meant only a familiar presence removed, and a passing 
 from two keepers into the closer custody of one, and into 
 the path decreed by tyrant custom for those in mourning. 
 Caroline had never rebelled against her lot, had scarcely 
 even thought about the fact that she had a fixed manner of 
 
AND AVERY GOES MARCHING ON 147 
 
 life. But today there was in her shy eyes a standard femi- 
 nine perception of the fact that the caller who came on such 
 a noble mission was a young man, and distinctly handsome. 
 
 " Tuberculosis," said Avery after a pause, " could be 
 stamped out in a generation, if only everybody would set 
 about it." 
 
 He was quoting from one of his pamphlets. It was grow- 
 ing fatally frequent with him to quote his own pamphlets 
 and speeches, especially his speeches. But something in her 
 candid, uncritical eye, which turned to him as he spoke, 
 made him smile and add, " Of course, that won't be in your 
 and my generation." 
 
 " But it's a wonderful idea," she maintained. " And to 
 go about diffusing ideas like that must be a wonderful 
 life." 
 
 " Such a life as one may make sacrifices to obtain," he 
 said seriously. " And at that, it isn't all beer and skittles." 
 
 " But it has a purpose. And for the sake of a pur- 
 pose " 
 
 " A purpose compensates for much," he agreed. 
 
 " How did you ever gather courage to undertake such a 
 thing?" she demanded. "Didn't you have to make a — a 
 break, and wasn't it awful to do?" 
 
 " Yes. Yes to both questions," said Avery. " But the 
 courage was supplied from without." 
 
 " By another man ? " 
 
 " Hardly. By a woman. 
 
 This did interest her, even made the color come into her 
 cheeks. " Women don't often do things like that," she said. 
 
 " Oh, yes they do ! " said Avery. " Simon-pure disinter- 
 ested things, much oftener than you perhaps have any 
 idea." 
 
 " Then tell me of this one. I should like to know about 
 such a woman." 
 
 Avery was nothing loath. He had, indeed, by this time 
 
i 4 8 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 evolved a story of Lois Butler and himself that was a fine 
 piece of idealistic narration. Grosvenor would have 
 chuckled naughtily if he could have heard it, and hearing 
 it would probably have made Mrs. Butler a little ashamed. 
 But Mrs. Keppel drank it in; to her there was something 
 very noble and affecting in the story. Cecily did not ap- 
 pear in it, unless the hearer chose to personify as " wife " 
 certain malign influences felt all through. Along at the 
 end, however, Avery mentioned his children; and Mrs. 
 Keppel wished at once to know all about them. Avery par- 
 ticularized as to age, sex and coloring, and conveyed the 
 information that they did not live in Chicago, and he saw 
 them only occasionally. " I live by myself, batching it," he 
 explained. 
 
 She examined into his arrangements as an interested 
 child might : made him describe his little room up two flights 
 of stairs — " You really live in only one room? " — exclaimed 
 over his irregular arrangements in regard to meals, and 
 shook her head at the idea of his lonely evenings. Then 
 abruptly she reverted to his children. " It must be nice to 
 have little children," she said. " My husband had three, 
 but they were all grown when I married him. Grown chil- 
 dren don't count, but the little ones are sweet. Won't you 
 bring your children to see me some time when they are 
 visiting you ? " 
 
 It seemed droll to Avery, but his polite promise evidently 
 made her happy. When a moment later the Gorgon and 
 Mrs. Van Duzen reappeared, like an impressive procession 
 of the major and minor proprieties, Mrs. Keppel gave him 
 a rapid, happy smile, as if there were between them a de- 
 lightful secret understanding. A minute afterward he might 
 well have doubted that she had ever smiled at him, for 
 under the eye of her sister-in-law Mrs. Keppel bade Dr. 
 Fairchild a very colorless farewell, scarcely lifting her eyes 
 as she did so. 
 
AND AVERY GOES MARCHING ON 149 
 
 Avery was not aware of having been greatly interested 
 by Mrs. Keppel; indeed, without an unconscious revela- 
 tion he would not have known that he had been interested 
 at all. But when Mrs. Van Duzen inquired on the home- 
 ward ride, " Was it two hundred ? " Avery realized with a 
 sense of shock that he had forgotten all about the money 
 which was supposed to be his sole object in the interview 
 just ended. Money had not been mentioned by him or Mrs. 
 Keppel. 
 
 There was no need of making his forgetfulness public. 
 Avery simply said to Mrs. Van Duzen, " You are a prophet, 
 daughter of a prophet." And while she, pleased at her own 
 sagacity and his appreciation, went on to explain that she 
 had led Judith Keppel away because Caroline was afraid of 
 her, and would not dare even to give away her own money 
 under Judith's eyes, Avery was wondering whether Mrs. 
 Van Duzen could detect the absence of that two hundred 
 dollars from the annual report of the Association. 
 
XV 
 
 THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 
 
 He did not have to falsify his books in order to pacify his 
 friend; for only a few days after his meeting with Mrs. 
 Keppel Avery received a note from her, accompanying her 
 check for one hundred dollars. He looked at the check 
 first — he felt it to be bad manners, but it was done before 
 he thought. Then he read her note quite slowly and care- 
 fully. " I should like to see you again and hear more about 
 your work," she assured him. That would be easily pos- 
 sible, thought Avery, as she had previously heard not about 
 his work, but about himself. How could any man be ex- 
 pected, when a pretty woman was questioning him about 
 himself, to turn the conversation to business matters? 
 
 " If you could lunch with me some day, perhaps we could 
 talk more at length," Mrs. Keppel went on ; and then, with- 
 out so much as an allusion to the check inclosed, she signed 
 herself cordially his. Avery read the note a second time, 
 and decided that it sounded like an invitation. Well, he 
 thought, why not? A man must lunch somewhere; and in 
 work like his it certainly paid to be courteous to wealthy 
 contributors. He reached for his telephone, and looked 
 up her number. 
 
 Mrs. Keppel's voice sounded slightly frightened; Avery 
 made his soothing. " I wished to make an appointment with 
 you to talk about the work," he said after a moment. 
 
 She drew her breath audibly ; then she demanded, " Will 
 you — can you come to lunch?" 
 
 " I should be charmed to." 
 
 " When can you come ? " 
 
 *5<> 
 
THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 15 1 
 
 " At almost any time. I don't have many luncheon en- 
 gagements." 
 
 "Can you come today?" she brought out desperately. 
 
 " Indeed I can," he said heartily. 
 
 She laughed in some excitement. " I shall expect you 
 at one o'clock," she said, and then added with another 
 laugh, " Don't forget." 
 
 Avery did not forget; he arrived ten minutes before the 
 hour, feeling a bit uncomfortable, as if the outcome of 
 these so simple actions might at some time place him in a 
 false position. He did not look uncomfortable, however, 
 only very handsome, and very sleek, and faintly amused. 
 
 Mrs. Keppel was waiting for him before the drawing- 
 room fire, and she made no pretense of employment: she 
 was frankly waiting. Also, she was alone. " Judith isn't at 
 home today," she said at once, feeling apparently that she 
 ought to say something; then she added impulsively, 
 " Wasn't it all right, my asking you when she wasn't 
 here?" 
 
 " Very right, indeed," said Avery consolingly. " Her 
 deafness makes her very hard to talk to; I'm sure that I 
 shall like it better to have just you to talk with." 
 
 As a matter of fact Avery was not madly delighted at the 
 prospect of a three-hour tete-a-tete; but he felt the begin- 
 ning of a kind of pity for Mrs. Keppel. This luncheon 
 represented adventure to her; it was an escapade. The 
 notion of escapade connected with lunching in her own 
 house, under the eyes of her own butler, opposite so staid 
 a person as Avery thought himself, showed him well enough 
 how narrow her experience had been. Viewing the thing 
 according to the standards of the two women he had known 
 best, he decided that Lois Butler would have drawn there- 
 from interesting conclusions as to the survivals of mediaeval- 
 ism in modern society ; and Cecily would have been frankly 
 amused. 
 
152 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 Cecily would have liked the punctilious arrangements. 
 Avery found the food heavenly; after his round of cheap 
 restaurants he was in trim to do it full justice. Mrs. Kep- 
 pel, on the other hand, ate almost nothing. Some remain- 
 ing trace of the ineradicable " doctor " led Avery to ask, 
 " Don't you ever have any better appetite than this ? " 
 
 " I never have any better appetite," she answered, " but 
 I eat more when Judith is here. If I didn't, she would 
 call a doctor." The butler had disappeared for a moment, 
 and she lowered her voice to say, " Not that even a doctor 
 isn't sometimes a welcome diversion." 
 
 " Thank you," said Avery. 
 
 She looked bewildered. "You mean ? Oh, of course! 
 
 You are a doctor yourself. I won't forget that again." 
 
 " Forget it as often as you like," said Avery. " It's as 
 hard to make most people forget that as it is to take away 
 the priestly character. People call you ' doctor ' in the most 
 personal connections; they put it on your tombstone when 
 you die; if you live in a small town they call your wife 
 ' Mrs. Doctor.' You can abandon your profession, but you 
 can't drop the title. Sometimes I think it would be a great 
 luxury to be once more just plain Mister." 
 
 " I'll call you Mister if you like," she said. 
 
 " Do," said Avery, laughing. 
 
 Perhaps she felt that she had been bold to say that; at 
 any rate, she now began to talk about books and pictures 
 and travel, and with some determination held the conversa- 
 tion to these subjects. She had been abroad six or seven 
 times, and Keppel had led her through a considerable 
 amount of carefully selected reading. She must have been 
 a patient little thing all her life, Avery thought: receptive 
 he could hardly call her, for she was actually unscathed 
 by the culture with which she had been so assiduously sur- 
 rounded. 
 
 At the close of the meal she led him back to the drawing- 
 
THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 153 
 
 room. Avery stretched out his legs to the fire. He was per- 
 meated by a vast feeling of leisure, and in his life leisure was 
 a delightful novelty. He caught Mrs. Keppel's eye upon 
 him, and smiled. " Do you know," he said, " I think I 
 should like to sit by a fire such as this for a solid week. Sit 
 by a fire, and do nothing but picture puzzles." 
 
 " I haven't done any puzzles lately. I've been reading 
 this." She displayed for his approval a volume picked up 
 from a nearby table. It was one of Lois Keith's housing 
 studies, written perhaps ten years before. 
 
 " How do you like it ? " he asked. 
 
 " It seems so shocking," she said simply. " The poor chil- 
 dren in those places, you know." 
 
 " If I were you, I shouldn't think too much about it," 
 said Avery. 
 
 " But people like you give their lives just to better such 
 conditions ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Once a person is in it, it's work like any other work. 
 But you won't do any good just by worrying yourself about 
 such conditions." 
 
 " You think I couldn't do anything about them but 
 worry ? " 
 
 "What could you do?" 
 
 What, indeed, could she? Mrs. Keppel sighed, but 
 with an air of relinquishment she returned the book to 
 the table. Avery had a foolish feeling that he had been 
 cruel to her. In an effort to find a more agreeable subject 
 he said, " I had a letter from my boy this morning. It is 
 the first I've ever had ; he's just learning to write." 
 
 Her face lighted up instantly. " How charming ! Have 
 you the letter with you ? " 
 
 After some fumbling Avery produced it. Mrs. Keppel 
 bent over it eagerly, and gave a little, soft laugh as she 
 made out the huge' uncertain scrawl- " The darling ! " she 
 exclaimed. "The darling!" 
 
154 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " It makes me feel like an old man to get letters from 
 my son," said Avery. " He will be going off to college be- 
 fore I know it." 
 
 " Do you suppose he will be a doctor? " asked Mrs. Kep- 
 pel. " Or a social worker ? " 
 
 Candor would have compelled Avery to say, " I suppose 
 he and his mother will settle that between them." But in 
 this atmosphere a reference to Junior's mother was some- 
 how not easy ; he contented himself with replying, " Either 
 or both, I suppose, or neither, if he likes. Nowadays in 
 these matters we allow people to choose for themselves." 
 
 " You think that people should be allowed a good deal of 
 individual freedom?" she asked slowly. 
 
 " I think that they are allowed it. In all matters of real 
 importance the times are grown anarchical. That is my 
 conviction, Mrs. Keppel." 
 
 "Matters of real importance, you say?" 
 
 " Yes. My life," explained Avery, " is in its major as- 
 pects mine to do with as I will. It is free from church 
 interference, tolerably free from state control, hampered 
 by public opinion only if I am a sensitive fool, or if the 
 work I want to do demands public support. But if I chose 
 to come into your drawing-room of an evening in an un- 
 starched collar, consider the uproar that would be created 
 among visitors." 
 
 She laughed. "Yes. My sister-in-law would consider 
 that real anarchy. I am not sure that I should mind, how- 
 ever." 
 
 Something in her tone made Avery look at her quickly; 
 it seemed to him that she had not taken his remark for 
 the simple persiflage that he had intended. Perhaps he 
 ought to be careful what he said to her ; yet in view of her 
 years and her status any very elaborate care seemed super- 
 fluous and absurd. Women were not brought up in con- 
 vents or kept in cotton wool nowadays. Ah, but Mrs. 
 
THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 155 
 
 Keppel was the old swathed type ; and that constituted both 
 the pity of things and her peculiar appeal. " Don't you ever 
 try to be an anarchist, Mrs. Keppel," he said. " It wouldn't 
 do." 
 
 " I didn't mean to try," she said, a little startled, but a 
 little hurt too. 
 
 " Let me take that book away with me," he requested. 
 
 " Yes, if you care to. You will probably get more from 
 it than I could," she answered. " But I may," she said 
 after a pause, " I may give you some money for your sick 
 people, mayn't I ? " 
 
 Avery smiled at her wistfulness: money was not usually 
 given with this air. She misinterpreted his smile, and 
 hastened to say, " It would be such a pleasure to me, you 
 know; and I have more money than I know what to do 
 with." 
 
 " I shall always be glad to have your help," said Avery 
 heartily. " Don't think that I do not appreciate your inter- 
 est in us. I would rather you didn't go wading into this 
 modern muck and mud by yourself— that's all. If you 
 would like to see some of our workings, I'll take you myself 
 out to a sanitarium, or to the Babies' Pavilion. Should 
 you like to go ? " 
 
 " Oh, I should love it 1 You will really take me ? And 
 you will let me send you a check every month, so that I 
 may feel I am doing something for the sick babies " 
 
 " You may set the day yourself," said Avery. " Only 
 let me know a little in advance, so that I shall be in Chi- 
 cago. I sometimes have to be out of town, you know." 
 
 " I shall love it ! " she repeated. 
 
 The object of his visit having now been accomplished, 
 Avery was of course at liberty to go; but he did not go 
 just yet. He liked the great, quiet room, and the firelight, 
 and the chair that conformed so well to his body ; he liked 
 to sit here with this woman ; he was even beginning to think 
 
156 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 that he liked her. She was such a relief from his occupa- 
 tions of every day; she was so different from most of the 
 people with whom he had to do. She had a certain pale 
 beauty, which a rich setting was well calculated to bring 
 out; she had, above all, the appeal of her limitations. The 
 princess imprisoned in a tower had been the favorite heroine 
 of Avery's boyhood ; but he had of late years got out of the 
 way of ever expecting to meet a princess in a tower. 
 
 The talk took an amiable meandering turn; it even al- 
 lowed itself occasional silences, those last proofs of con- 
 geniality. Mrs. Keppel would never stimulate a man to 
 effort, far less alter the course of his life : Avery felt that 
 from the beginning. But in the peace and leisure of her 
 presence a man could rest. At times one was very desirous 
 of rest, and it was singularly hard to come by. 
 
 Their idyl was interrupted by a maid, a close-lipped, 
 Argus-eyed maid, who reminded Avery of the absent Miss 
 Judith Keppel. "The car is here, Mrs. Keppel, if you're 
 ready for your ride. Miss Keppel said that I was to re- 
 mind you," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Keppel frowned, and her lip trembled; evidently 
 she wished to rebel, and probably she did not quite dare. 
 Avery hastened to 6ay, " Do take me to the office, Mrs. 
 Keppel, if you are going that way." 
 
 " Surely," she answered. " That will save a little time for 
 you, won't it ? " 
 
 " It will make up for some that I have spent here so 
 agreeably while other things were pressing upon me," he 
 said. 
 
 Mrs. Keppel allowed herself to be enveloped in a black 
 fur coat and crowned by a black mourning hat and veil of 
 undeniable smartness, but vastly unbecoming to her pale 
 tones. She and Avery got into the limousine, and she was 
 whirled off for her afternoon's airing, exactly as if she had 
 been a baby or an invalid. Did she hate her dependence, 
 
THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 157 
 
 he wondered, or would she some day come to hate it? Or 
 had she simply been humiliated because her dependence was 
 shown before a stranger? 
 
 She seemed at least to enjoy herself during their ride 
 together ; doubtless she was often lonely. When she set him 
 down at his office she shook hands with him, and mur- 
 mured shyly, " You won't forget ? " 
 
 " No, indeed I sha'n't. Let's go some time next week," 
 he answered. " Telephone me — or rather, I will telephone 
 you." 
 
 She was charming, he reflected as he settled himself to 
 his work; but it was with a charm that would never come 
 between a man and his business. In proof of that fact he 
 put in a very good two hours at his desk, pitying Mrs. 
 Keppel a little, perhaps, because she was of a type so mild. 
 
 It never occurred to Avery that any type, no matter how 
 mild, has its characteristic defenses. From his office Mrs. 
 Keppel drove to Mrs. Van Duzen's, and stopped for a 
 cup of tea. There were only the two of them; and when 
 the talk grew intimate Mrs. Keppel divulged the fact that 
 she had seen Dr. Fairchild, and heard her friend grow warm 
 in his praise. 
 
 " He talks about his children sometimes," she said pres- 
 ently in a pause. " Is his wife dead ? " 
 
 " I'm not sure, but I think they are divorced," said Mrs. 
 Van Duzen. 
 
 Whereupon Caroline looked so shocked and hurt that 
 her friend quickly changed the subject: Caroline was such 
 a simple, good, old-fashioned sort of woman that probably 
 the very word divorce was distasteful to her. Thus Mrs. 
 Van Duzen, never in all her wisdom suspecting that the 
 guileless Caroline had discovered exactly what she wished 
 to discover, and had thereupon turned the conversation be- 
 fore there was need of her making any disclosures herself. 
 
XVI 
 
 A LUNCHEON PARTY 
 
 Avery and Mrs. Keppel made the promised excursion to 
 look at the Babies' Pavilion ; later he lunched twice at her 
 house. After that he did not seek her for some time : the 
 acquaintance was very pleasant, but he did not care to have 
 it ripen into intimacy. It might never have so ripened had 
 it not been for a combination of circumstances which had 
 in the beginning nothing to do with it. 
 
 Along in that second year Grosvenor came, by Avery's in- 
 vitation, to spend a week with him. During that time the 
 elder man reviewed every aspect of the work the younger 
 was doing. To Avery it was an absorbing and wonderful 
 week ; and he had throughout a feeling that Grosvenor was 
 satisfied with him, was proud of his pupil's work and fond 
 of his pupil's person. To a man who was, whether he 
 realized it or not, lonely, the personal affection meant almost 
 more than the professional pride. 
 
 But that was not all of it. On the last morning of his 
 stay Grosvenor interrupted Avery's consultation with his 
 organizer to say, " Fairchild, we are going to lunch today 
 promptly, do you understand ? " 
 
 " I'm never sure how promptly I can go," Avery de- 
 murred. " What is the special need for promptness today ? " 
 
 " Some one else is going with us, of course." 
 
 " Some one else ? " 
 
 " Yes. A lady." 
 
 " A lady ? " Avery's heart leaped up. 
 
 " The lady. No less a lady than Lois herself." 
 
 158 
 
A LUNCHEON PARTY 159 
 
 "Oh! How did you get track of her? Is she staying 
 in Chicago ? " 
 
 " She's stopping off for the day, on her way home from a 
 lecture tour. I had written to her that I was to be here, and 
 I flatter myself that she is here largely to see me. Probably 
 you believe she has come to see you. Honestly, didn't 
 you know she was coming ? " 
 
 " Honestly, I didn't. She writes to me sometimes, to 
 be sure; but it is weeks since I last heard from her." 
 
 " Oh, I never hear from her," said Grosvenor. " But 
 now that I am so near, I was anxious to see her." 
 
 " Is her husband with her ? " asked Avery. 
 
 " She wasn't clear on that point. I rather think not." 
 
 " That's too bad. He would be so convenient for me to 
 talk to," said Avery. Grosvenor chuckled. 
 
 They did leave the office promptly, and one of them, at 
 least, went eagerly. At her lake-front hotel Mrs. Butler 
 came promptly down to them, looking her resplendent best. 
 She smiled radiantly, and gave a hand to each. " To think 
 of our being here together, the three of us ! " she said. 
 
 It was wonderful, to be sure; and in spite of Avery's 
 fears that three would be more than company, it was purely 
 delightful. They sat at a small table, a table that just fitted 
 three, in one of the dining-rooms of the complicated hotel ; 
 on one side of them was a window, on the other a palm. 
 As Avery had foreseen, Lois and Grosvenor did at first 
 most of the talking; what he had not foreseen was the na- 
 ture of the conversation. If he had been ten years younger, 
 it would have been a disappointment to him : for these two 
 people, both so distinguished in their serious calling, both 
 such guiding-stars to Avery, jested frivolously and con- 
 tinually, and sometimes not very adroitly. Grosvenor ral- 
 lied Lois about everything, from her husband to her hat, 
 which she had bought that morning, and he pretended to 
 consider audacious for a person of her years. Lois was not 
 
160 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 able to give altogether as good as she got; but at least 
 she received everything with unimpaired good humor, a 
 good humor that included Avery and kept him from feeling 
 left out. He wasn't left out, even if he didn't talk much ; 
 and it was pleasant not to have to talk. He could simply sit 
 and look at her. She was so handsome and contented 
 that she would have rejoiced even a casual eye ; and toward 
 Lois Butler Avery never would be casual. 
 
 He had indeed got so thoroughly to enjoy the present 
 arrangement that, when they had finished eating, it was 
 almost with displeasure he heard Lois say, laying down her 
 single cigarette, "Dr. Grosvenor, suppose you go and get 
 me some magazines to read on the train." 
 
 Grosvenor rose obediently, though he asked with a sig- 
 nificant grin, "Shall I hurry back?" Lois and Avery 
 were left alone at the table; it was growing late, and 
 nearby tables were all vacant. The afternoon sunshine 
 brought out a reddish gleam in Lois's hair, and flecks of 
 gold in her eyes. Her face was all friendliness as she 
 turned to him. " Now," she said, " tell me how you are 
 getting on." 
 
 " Oh, magnificently ! My work has gone better than I 
 ever dared to hope " 
 
 She swept his precious work aside with a gesture of her 
 fine hands. " But you," she insisted. " You yourself ? " 
 
 " What do you judge of me myself? " asked Avery, put- 
 ting his elbows on the table. He did not quite know what 
 to tell her ; but he was also honestly anxious for her opinion. 
 
 She considered him seriously, as if she were in honor 
 bound to tell him what she thought of him. " You cer- 
 tainly are absorbed in your work," she said after a moment, 
 "and you seem purposeful. I like a man to have a pur- 
 poseful look. But you're thinner, — you are getting too 
 thin; and you look somehow — how shall I put it? — like 
 a man who spends a great deal of his time alone." 
 
A LUNCHEON PARTY 161 
 
 " Of course I do spend much time alone ; but I like that, 
 you know," said Avery. 
 
 " You may like it, but it isn't good for you." 
 
 " Until my domestic status is settled, I may be constrained 
 to spend a good share of my time alone," Avery muttered, 
 his eyes on the tablecloth. " Lois," he said suddenly, " do 
 you ever see or hear anything of my wife ? " 
 
 " I never see her, and I haven't heard anything authorita- 
 tive from her. Of course I sometimes hear ordinary gos- 
 sip ; but you don't care to know what ordinary gossip says." 
 
 " I can guess that well enough. But I should so like to see 
 some one I could rely on, who has seen her and could tell 
 me 
 
 " You hear from her, surely ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! When I send her a check she acknowledges 
 it; and sometimes she writes to me between checks, short 
 letters, straight to the point and abominably cheerful. They 
 don't tell me anything." 
 
 " And you never see her? " 
 
 " Never. My children come to see me sometimes, under 
 convoy of a maid; but Cecily never comes." 
 
 " Avery Fairchild," said Lois abruptly, " are you pining 
 for Cecily?" 
 
 Avery flushed, but he met the question squarely. " Cer- 
 tainly not, except perhaps in the sense in which one may 
 isometimes pine for, say, one's departed youth. It's a 
 sentimental regret, no more. But I worry about her. She's 
 young, and alone ; and if things went wrong with her, she 
 wouldn't let me know. Then she's not a particularly strong 
 woman, and she doesn't always treat herself as she ought. 
 In short, I'm still enough her husband so that I do allow 
 myself to worry about her." 
 
 " That must be mighty unpleasant." Lois was looking 
 away, with an expression he did not understand; but she 
 looked at him to say, " Would it set your mind at ease if 
 
162 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 some common friend went to see her, and learn at first 
 hand how she's getting qn ? " 
 
 " Where am I to find that common friend ? " 
 
 " I would go, if you cared to have me." 
 
 "You would go? When?" 
 
 "At once, on my way home." 
 
 " You would actually do that for me ? " 
 
 " Why not? " she said. " I shall be glad to." 
 
 Across the table Avery took her hand and pressed it. 
 " My best of friends, and as kind as ever," he said. " I 
 can trust you." 
 
 " Then it's settled," she said, her firm fingers in his. 
 Again that expression which he did not understand came 
 over her face; and Grosvenor, returning just then, sur- 
 prised it. 
 
 " Fairchild admires Lois whole-heartedly," he thought. 
 " I judge however from Lois's looks that she has been 
 playing the part of Almighty God once too often, and has 
 done something which she regrets." 
 
 When he and Avery, after their farewells to Lois, walked 
 away together, Grosvenor remarked carelessly, " Lois looks 
 well, doesn't she? She is getting a little bit stouter, but 
 weight is becoming to those large women." 
 
 Avery did not answer, and his friend added mischievously, 
 
 " Do you still think her as much of a little tin angel as 
 ever?" 
 
 Avery laughed. " Who ever said that I considered her 
 an angel ? " he demanded. 
 
 Yet his state at the moment was not unlike that of a 
 man who has just been in conference with an angel. He 
 walked as if he were walking on air, looking about him 
 but not seeing anything, smiling vaguely, and at intervals 
 trying to frown, so as to keep himself from getting too far 
 above the earth. Well, why not? Did not the word Gros- 
 venor had spoken in derision fit well enough in fact? Lois 
 
A LUNCHEON PARTY 163 
 
 Butler had been Avery's herald angel, trumpeting him to 
 battle, his guardian angel, solving his difficulties for him. 
 Even apart from his recollection of her face and voice, the 
 thought of her divine promise to see Cecily was enough 
 to make him light-hearted. If Lois had interested herself, 
 no difficulties could last. 
 
XVII 
 
 AND A MORNING CALL 
 
 Avery's instinctive trust in Lois — he would have been 
 ashamed to admit that it was instinctive — carried him 
 buoyantly through the next two days. If Lois was repre- 
 senting his interest, he felt that his interest was certain to 
 succeed ; and wisely enough, he did not stop to ask himself 
 just what he meant in this case by his interest, or how on 
 earth, if that interest were any sort of suit with Cecily, he 
 could possibly expect it to succeed. 
 
 The third morning happened to be Saturday. Still in 
 his mood of divine complacence, Avery sat smiling as he 
 began to open his mail. There was, as he had half-expected, 
 a letter from Lois; and although he noticed it at once, 
 Avery saved it until the last, to prolong the luxury of 
 anticipation. A foolish thing to do — he smiled at himself; 
 but he wanted leisure to read Lois, and to read of Cecily, 
 and to read out of the letter its last particle of meaning. 
 Perhaps — who knew? — perhaps he might even save the let- 
 ter until afternoon, and devote his half-holiday to its 
 luxurious consumption. That was not at all a bad idea. 
 
 In upon his heavenly mood came sounds of discussion, 
 proceeding from the outer office. Avery's stenographer was 
 asking some one for a card; and that some one, a woman, 
 was answering that she had no card, but that Dr. Fair- 
 child would certainly see her. Some charitable or social- 
 minded woman, no doubt, well-meaning and more or less of 
 a nuisance. It was odd, though, how a man's mind influ- 
 enced his senses. Simply because he was thinking about 
 
 164 
 
AND A MORNING CALL 165 
 
 Cecily, and that woman in the outer office happened to com- 
 bine a nervous eager voice with a quick staccato mode of 
 utterance, Avery almost believed for a moment that it was 
 Cecily. So strong was his impression that he half-rose from 
 his chair to go and see; and then sank back, ashamed of 
 the idea, just as the victorious intruder, brushing past in- 
 terference, appeared upon his threshold. 
 
 It was Cecily. Cecily, slim and eager-eyed. Cecily, crisp 
 and alert. Cecily, watching him critically, and completely 
 mistress of herself. So opportune was her arrival, and so 
 exactly did her appearance tally with his recollection, that 
 for a moment Avery doubted the evidence of his own senses. 
 It seemed as if his thought must in some mysterious way 
 have evoked her. He sat and stared. 
 
 " May I come in ? " she asked blithely. " May I close the 
 door ? Thank you. How are you, Avery ? " 
 
 " I am well," Avery managed to say. " Won't you sit 
 down ? " 
 
 " Thank you." She sat down, in the chair his visitors 
 usually occupied. It was so placed that she now faced him 
 across his desk, just as she had faced him hundreds of times 
 across the breakfast-table. Her nearness, so strange and yet 
 so oddly familiar, could not help but affect him. The 
 blood came up under his dark skin, and then receded, leav- 
 ing him ghastly. Initiative in the conversation he had to 
 leave to her. 
 
 His embarrassment did not altogether displease her. 
 " Are you surprised to see me ? " she asked. 
 
 " I'm delighted to see you," he said. " Did you come 
 down this morning ? " 
 
 " Yes. On the early train. I have Saturday afternoon, 
 of course; so I could come down for the day simply by 
 asking for the morning." 
 
 It was very queer, the idea of Cecily's asking anybody for 
 one of her own mornings. He didn't like to remark on the 
 
1 66 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 queerness ; so he asked instead, " You have some shopping 
 to do?" 
 
 She shook her head. " You have the idea that women 
 never do anything but shop ? " 
 
 " They do things enough these days," he answered, be- 
 ginning to recover his equilibrium. " Some rather rum 
 things, too." 
 
 " Thank you," she said demurely. 
 
 " I didn't mean you, of course," he added. 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " Where are you going, if I may ask ? " 
 
 " It's no secret. I want to spend some time in the Art 
 Institute this morning. I like the Institute, anyway ; and I 
 was there one Saturday when I was a girl. I liked it better 
 then than any other time, before I saw not only the col- 
 lections, but also the city's foreign population, strolling 
 through the corridors and gaping at the statuary. I'd like to 
 know what sort of impression Abyssinian sculpture leaves 
 on the mind of a Croatian laboring-man, wouldn't you, 
 Avery?" 
 
 An idea that might have occurred earlier to a stupider 
 man was beginning to make itself clear to Avery. Cecily 
 had come, must have come, from some sort of interest in 
 him. He couldn't as yet grasp the quality or extent of that 
 interest, but he determined to meet it half-way. "Where 
 do you lunch ? " he wanted to know. " Have you an en- 
 gagement ? " 
 
 "An engagement with Cecily, to lunch as fast as pos- 
 sible; there are other things in Chicago more interesting 
 than its food. I have a ticket for the symphony concert this 
 afternoon." 
 
 " The symphony concert? I didn't know that you went in 
 very hard for things of that sort, Cecily." 
 
 " I didn't always. But one may get rather hungry for 
 things of that sort," she answered. 
 
AND A MORNING CALL 167 
 
 The picture that these words drew for Avery was not 
 without pathos ; but there was no pathos in the bright eyes 
 of his companion as she glanced about his office. " A snug 
 little place you have here, Avery," she remarked. Avery 
 nodded. "And busy, too, isn't it?" 
 
 " Yes. We can't complain of not being busy," he said. 
 " But as you are an infrequent visitor, we'll make some 
 concessions in your honor. Cecily, won't you lunch with 
 me? I'll trail about the Art Institute with you before, 
 and disappear immediately afterward, if you want me 
 to ; but I should very much like to lunch with you, Cecily." 
 
 For some reason the idea seemed to shock her. " Oh, 
 no ! " she exclaimed. " No, I really couldn't, Avery." 
 
 "Why not? It's your duty to, I think," he teased. "I 
 haven't been to the Art Institute since I've lived in Chicago, 
 Cecily. It takes a Roman to be genuinely ignorant of 
 Rome. Please, Cecily?" 
 
 She leaned across the desk and scrutinized him. 
 " Avery," she demanded, " are you trying to be gallant ? " 
 
 " Hang it, no ! " he shouted. " But since when has it 
 been forbidden for a man to take a woman he admires very 
 much out to lunch with him ? " 
 
 " You see nothing peculiar in the circumstances ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, I do. But the peculiarity all argues for me. I 
 see you only once in a hundred years or so, and I naturally 
 want to prolong the sight for an hour or two. What's wrong 
 in that? I don't bother you very often." 
 
 " You don't bother me at all," she said placidly. " I came 
 here to bother you, if you choose to look at it that way. I 
 don't blame you if you do; but my motive in coming was 
 actually to relieve your mind. I thought you might like 
 to know how Lois Butler succeeded in her mission, if she 
 hasn't yet reported. I see she has, though. That's her 
 writing, isn't it?" 
 
168 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 Too late Avery made a movement to cover the tell- 
 tale letter, and then drew back his hand. " I haven't read 
 what she has to say," he stated. " I am not sure what 
 you mean by her mission ; but I think it was kind of her to 
 go and see you as she did." 
 
 " Kind ? It was most thoughtful." Cecily met his look 
 guilelessly. By that he gauged the extent of his blunder, 
 for she was not at all a guileless woman. 
 
 " If her visit has brought you here, it has done good, 
 Cecily," he said. " Take her letter and read it if you like." 
 He thrust the unopened envelope toward her. 
 
 Cecily waved it away. " When you write, be sure to 
 thank her for bringing me," she said. " Though, of course, 
 she only made my determination come to a head. I have 
 been intending for ever so long to come and see you." 
 
 " If I had guessed that you wanted to see me, I should 
 have come to you, Cecily," he said. " But I didn't guess 
 it. You and I are poor correspondents." 
 
 " There are so many things one can't say in a letter." 
 
 " Yes," he agreed. " But if you had even intimated that 
 you wanted to see me " 
 
 " Well, I didn't intimate it," she said with a touch of 
 impatience, " so here I am." 
 
 " Am I to understand that you want to — to go over the 
 situation a little with me ? " he asked. 
 
 " Just that, Avery." 
 
 She made no movement to begin, however; and for a 
 long silent moment they faced each other across the desk. 
 His first impression that she was just the same as she used 
 to be had now worn off. She was just as pretty — it was 
 astonishing how pretty the creature was; she was dressed 
 just as becomingly and jauntily as of old, though more 
 simply, as befitted a woman who had her own living to 
 earn. But her mobile mouth was quieter than it used to 
 be, and her eyes even more shrewdly observant. She had 
 
AND A MORNING CALL 169 
 
 been living and learning, that was obvious; and by every 
 bit that she learned or lived apart from him, she was so 
 much the more a stranger to him. 
 
 That quiet look of hers, gauging him, testing him, not 
 in the least distrusting herself or hesitating on her own ac- 
 count, gave him a feeling of ordeal. " Cecily," he said 
 earnestly, " I'm no match for you in cleverness ; and in 
 matters like this a man can't force a woman — he simply 
 can't. But I ask you at least to> tell whatever you have 
 to tell me, and not to keep me dangling. To what have you 
 made up your mind ? If you have made it up, please tell me 
 so quite simply." 
 
 " To what have you made up yours ? " she parried. 
 
 " In these matters my mind is wholly obedient to yours," 
 he insisted. 
 
 A certain constraint appeared in her manner. She had 
 before been so brave and bright and dauntless that he 
 feared she had something up her sleeve; and now, unrea- 
 sonable man, he felt but the more anxious as her manner 
 grew less easy and confident. She dropped her eyes, and 
 began nervously to clasp and unclasp her gloves. 
 
 It was quite steadily, however, that she began, " The 
 present state of things suits me very well. If I were sure 
 that it suited every one as well as it does me, and would 
 continue to do so, I should say, let it alone. But I think 
 that even now you are not satisfied, and I fear that in time 
 perhaps I myself shall not be." 
 
 A ridiculous and inopportune hope, which for all its 
 ridiculousness was singularly fair-colored and delightful, 
 brushed Avery just then. " If it ever begins to pall on 
 you " he suggested. 
 
 " Or on you," she interrupted. Lifting her eyes to his, 
 not without some effort, she said swiftly, " If you ever care 
 for a divorce, Avery, I shall be glad to give it to you. For 
 the present I think there is less trouble and publicity in 
 
170 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 going on as we are now; but whenever you want your 
 legal freedom, you have only to hint for it. Of course, 
 I shall take advantage of the agreement myself, if I ever 
 care to." 
 
 The moment's hope, or some latent hope that he carried 
 always with him and never acknowledged, or perhaps only 
 the brutal word " divorce," so shocking to vestiges of Puri- 
 tanism, made this announcement come to Avery like a thun- 
 derclap. After all, there was nothing remarkable in her 
 suggesting such a course; any third person would have 
 deemed it the logical wind-up of their situation. Yet did she 
 mean that she would actually cast off even the last sign of 
 her marriage with him — renounce even his name and her 
 legal right to call herself his wife — simply because she was 
 so very, very tired of him ? Or had the little wretch found 
 another man — it shouldn't be hard, with her looks — and 
 was what she wanted a quit-claim deed? He didn't actu- 
 ally care, of course; what difference did it make to him? 
 If a man had cast a thing out of his life — a thing, or a per- 
 son, either — he was very foolish if he didn't do his best to 
 abolish even the remembrance of that thing — or that person. 
 But it was with a curious tightening sensation in his chest 
 that Avery asked, " Is this what you came to tell me? " 
 
 " Yes. I thought it was quite time you knew definitely. 
 Of course, you might have guessed it for yourself, and yet 
 you couldn't be sure. Women sometimes hang on to men 
 in the oddest way " She wrinkled her nose humor- 
 ously at the idea of how women sometimes " hang onto " 
 men. She added, " You see why I couldn't put this into a 
 letter, don't you, Avery?" 
 
 " Yes, I see." Avery sat heavily in his chair. Her pretty 
 face across the desk from him seemed miles away; he 
 stared stupidly at her saucy little hat and bright tie. Over 
 and over his mind took in the details of her appearance; 
 yet she seemed to get no nearer to him. He was angry with 
 
AND A MORNING CALL 171 
 
 himself for noticing so much. What was it to him how 
 she was dressed ? And yet it was very characteristic of her, 
 certainly, to dress so carefully for such an errand. If Cecily 
 were going to be guillotined, she would ascend the scaffold 
 becomingly attired and only a very little perturbed. 
 
 Now that she had delivered her dire message, she was 
 not perturbed at all. She smiled a little, and said quite 
 gently, " I wanted you to see me, too. I thought from 
 something Mrs. Butler said that you might be worried 
 about me. But you can see for yourself that I'm well ; and 
 I'm safe, and I'm working hard." 
 
 " Are you happy ? " asked Avery, still with that same 
 dreadful dullness. 
 
 " Don't I look happy ? " she asked, not challengingly, 
 but as if she could afford to be generous and leave the ver- 
 dict to him. 
 
 " You look very fit, indeed," he answered. Couldn't she 
 see that that only added to his grievance? 
 
 There was another pause; then -she slipped to the edge 
 of her chair and said, " That's all, I think. I mustn't keep 
 the Institute waiting." 
 
 " Surely, you're not going yet? I have so much to say 
 to you." He hadn't anything to say; he couldn't think of 
 anything to say. He simply hated to see her go. " I haven't 
 even asked how the children are," he hastened to say. 
 
 She smiled. " They are very well. They are growing 
 and developing, learning new naughtinesses and new wis- 
 dom all the time. Shall I send them to you for a week- 
 end soon, Avery ? " 
 
 " Do, please." 
 
 " It isn't too expensive for you ? Putting them and the 
 nurse up at a hotel must cost you something." 
 
 " I can afford it, thank you ; I am always glad to afford 
 it. I like to have the children with me." 
 
 She nodded brightly; then she rose, and gave him her 
 
172 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 hand across the desk. " I am glad I have seen you, Avery," 
 she said. " I'm sure it's best to have everything under- 
 stood. Don't hesitate to let me know if anything happens." 
 
 " Nothing will happen, so far as I am concerned," he 
 said shortly. 
 
 " Perhaps not. But I'm sure it makes you feel better, too, 
 to have things understood, doesn't it ? " 
 
 She turned and started toward the door. He went half- 
 way with her, and then she somehow got ahead of him, and 
 opened the door for herself. With the knob in her hand, 
 she stopped just a moment, her head in the air and a smile on 
 her lips, bright and dauntless, every inch the captain of her 
 soul and her own life's mistress. Iron bars could not more 
 effectually have kept him from stopping her, though he 
 yearned with all his soul to stop her. But her look held him 
 while she said, " Good-day, Avery." Then she was gone, 
 leaving not so much as a whiff of perfume or a stroke of the 
 pen behind her ; gone, with a finality that spoke to his fore- 
 bodings. 
 
 After all, he ought to have known it. If Cecily had made 
 up her mind not to keep him in her life, she would never 
 stop until she had cleansed it of the last vestige of him. 
 He was a sentimental fool not to have thought things out 
 himself to this same end. He had thought nothing out to 
 an end, preferring vague hopes of which he was ashamed 
 even in his secret heart, and vague dreams the fulfilment 
 of which would not have satisfied him. Well, if he was 
 born a fool he would probably continue to be one ; and when 
 Cecily vanished through his office door she seemed to take 
 with her the last of his spirit's spring. 
 
 After some time Avery picked up Lois Butler's letter and 
 opened it. It did not matter very much now what she had 
 said ; but he might as well find out. The letter was written 
 from Jefferson ; Lois was very glad to be at home once more 
 and to see Walter and her dear boy. " I was successful in 
 
AND A MORNING CALL 173 
 
 finding Mrs. Fairchild," she went on, passing quickly to the 
 true subject of her letter. " In fact I saw her both at her 
 office and at her home. She is with an excellent firm of 
 lawyers, and they are coming to depend very much on her, 
 it seems to me. She has a comfortable flat, where she 
 gave me an excellent dinner. I think she knew I was there 
 partly on your account, but that didn't seem to check her 
 hospitality. 
 
 " Both she and the children look well. What you desire 
 perhaps most of all to hear, she seems satisfied with her 
 mode of life. I must confess that surprised me a little: 
 for she always seemed to me a domestic creature, and here 
 she is in the outer world ; she seemed so fond of society, and 
 under present conditions she is almost destitute of it. Yet 
 you can tell when a person is happy, can't you? and she 
 seems so to me. I wish that you could see her, to judge for 
 yourself." 
 
 Lois as ever fatally right! Avery hotly resented her 
 Tightness on this particular occasion: he actually cursed 
 her for a meddlesome female. But a moment later he felt 
 that it would have been all the same if Lois hadn't med- 
 dled. Careless of possible observers through the now open 
 door, he dropped his head on his arms. He was convinced 
 that he couldn't live with Cecily; he lived on the whole 
 much more happily and to greater purpose without her. 
 Yet there were moments like the present when purpose and 
 happiness and congruity and dignity all together seemed 
 less to his aching senses than her mere presence, her tang- 
 ing, salty presence, so much harder to forget than another 
 woman's sweetness. 
 
 Such moments do not last; life could hardly go on if 
 they did. Avery suddenly raised his head, and then jumped 
 from his chair. " I'll be back this afternoon," he shouted 
 to the stenographer nearest the door, struggling into his 
 overcoat as he passed her. 
 
174 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 Into the hurly burly of the street he rushed ; faster even 
 than the pedestrian crowd of Chicago he dashed from block 
 to block, disregarding policemen's whistles, dodging trolley- 
 cars, nearly run down by automobiles. He would have 
 taken a taxicab if a vacant one had passed ; but at the rate 
 at which he was going he made faster progress in these 
 downtown streets than most taxicabs. Yet it seemed to him 
 that he had been on the way for hours when he rounded a 
 corner into Michigan Boulevard, and felt the lake breeze 
 cool in his face. 
 
 Into the hall presided over by the two mortuary brothers 
 De Medici he sped, feeling as if he had reached some sort of 
 goal. But there was in this hall no one he knew, no one he 
 might conceivably be looking for. Turning to his right, 
 Avery made systematically the round of the sculpture, 
 Abyssinian and other: no Cecily glowed amidst its ever- 
 lasting calm. He went upstairs to the paintings. The 
 permanent collection was supplemented today by a very 
 interesting exhibition, of which Avery saw not a single pic- 
 ture. He had no eyes except for the people who fingered 
 their catalogues and gazed awkwardly upward, as people 
 do in galleries. Cecily was not among them. 
 
 In the Inness room he was startled for a moment by the 
 apparition of a slender, smartly-dressed woman, not swung 
 solidly back on her heels, like most of the women he had 
 passed, but poised lightly, as if for instant flight. He 
 started toward her ; but halted midway. The woman hadn't 
 even to turn to undeceive him; for the hair beneath her 
 saucily perched hat was red. In fact she did not turn ; and 
 he never saw the face that went with the back which had 
 for a moment so thrilled him. 
 
 Avery circled the galleries a dozen times; he began to 
 feel that people were watching him. The morning was 
 wearing along. Suddenly he had another inspiration, and 
 consulted a guard. Was there, he asked, a restaurant in the 
 
AND A MORNING CALL 175 
 
 building? It seemed that there was. Guided by the guard's 
 instructions, Avery descended to the basement, passed 
 a huge allegorical replica whose head touched the ceiling, 
 and found himself in a room full of students, all chatter- 
 ing like magpies. Many of them were young women, and 
 some of the young women were pretty; but not one of 
 them was Cecily. At another time he would have liked to 
 pause and watch these art students, perhaps to lunch here 
 himself. But today, vivacious and unconscious as all these 
 young people were, he felt no wish to linger among them. 
 There was but one face he just now cared to see. 
 
 Sure at last that he should not find in the Institute the 
 one he sought, Avery emerged finally into the outer air. 
 He was beginning to feel both tired and hungry; worse 
 than either, he was beginning to feel ridiculous. All Chi- 
 cago was before him, if he cared to go on looking; and 
 perhaps at the symphony concert, or in the crowd when it 
 was over, he might find Cecily. But even if he did find 
 her, what on earth was he to say to her? What could he 
 say that she wouldn't meet with her cool, smiling decision? 
 
 He started slowly back toward his office, he who had 
 rushed forth so eagerly on the wings of impulse. His feet 
 dragged as he went, and his self-esteem sank lower and 
 lower. 
 
 In the office two placid stenographers were killing time, 
 pending his entrance. He found them some work to do, 
 and then went to his own desk. The sheets of Lois But- 
 ler's letter lay before him, imprisoned by a paper-weight. 
 Avery gathered them together, and put them into the en- 
 velope. Then he sat there and hated himself; and for a 
 second dark moment he hated Lois as well. 
 
 When the two stenographers had departed, at the early 
 Saturday closing time, Avery took his telephone, and called 
 Mrs. Keppel's number. " Are you doing anything this after- 
 noon ? " he asked her. When she said " No," he suggested, 
 
176 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 "Well, shan't we do something, you and I? Can't you 
 get away?" 
 
 To both these questions she said " Yes," and they made 
 their arrangements accordingly. " That's not fair to Mrs. 
 Keppel," said accusing conscience. " You are using her as 
 a simple counter-irritant to Cecily." 
 
 " No. I like her for her own sake ; and I'm not using her 
 at all. I'm simply giving her a little fun when we both 
 need it," Avery argued. In his present mood the very word 
 " fun " jarred upon him ; but in self-defense he put his 
 fingers in his ears and ran away from accusing conscience. 
 
XVIII 
 
 DEALS WITH AN OFFICE PERSON 
 
 On the Monday morning after her visit to Chicago, Mrs. 
 Fairchild was the first person to appear at the office of Sims, 
 Morley and Sims. The same thing had happened rather often 
 in the course of her employment there : indeed a woman 
 who was giving her whole attention to the office could 
 hardly be anything else but prompt. Perhaps, too, a woman 
 who was determined to be thoroughly business-like needed 
 a few moments each morning to put herself en rapport with 
 business. But that presupposes a certain lack of any natural 
 interest in business; and Mr. Sims Senior at least would 
 never have believed any such thing of Mrs. Fairchild. 
 
 Five minutes after her arrival, as Mrs. Fairchild was 
 sharpening a day's supply of pencils, Mr. Morley also ap- 
 peared. Now the phenomenon of Mr. Morley's early arrivals 
 had only lately begun to be manifest. All the previous 
 years of his connection with the firm, he had thought ten 
 o'clock a suitable hour for beginning the day's work. Even 
 now he did not come down early too often; if he had, a 
 watchful outer office might have connected his punctuality 
 with some other person's. 
 
 Yet surely not with Mrs. Fairchild's. When she heard 
 his step she looked up, gave him a very casual " Good- 
 morning," dated her notebook, and began to poke about her 
 typewriter with an oil can. Mr. Morley went on to his own 
 office, left his hat and coat, and presently came back with 
 the most casual air in the world. When he approached Mrs. 
 Fairchild she opened the drawer in her desk where she kept 
 her purse and other small belongings, and produced a book, 
 
 177 
 
178 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 which she handed to him. He stood weighing it in his 
 hand and looking down at her; she gave that undivided at- 
 tention of hers to her machine. 
 
 " Did you like it? " he asked after a moment. 
 
 " Yes, very much." 
 
 " Is there a note inside ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Aren't you ever going to write me another note ? " 
 
 " The one I did write was an inspiration," she said. 
 " If you lent me another such tantalizing book, I might 
 write you another note about it." 
 
 "That puts it up to me, doesn't it?" he answered. 
 " Well, I shall bring down another book tomorrow, and I 
 shall try very hard to find one that is tantalizing." 
 
 " I don't promise," she stated. 
 
 She wouldn't, his smile said. He sat down at the desk 
 nearest to hers, and changed the subject. " Wasn't it odd 
 that I should see you in the park yesterday ? " 
 
 " Not at all odd," said Cecily. " I take my children and 
 my maid to one or another of the parks every fine Sunday. 
 Lincoln, Jackson — all the patriots and fathers of their coun- 
 try; we know every inch of their demesnes." 
 
 " You're luckier than I, if you know what to do with 
 your Sundays," said Mr. Morley. " I like week-days ; one's 
 work breaks them up pleasantly enough. But Sunday, un- 
 less I week-end somewhere, is stupid for me. I usually 
 lunch or dine out, or motor or play golf all day, if it's fine ; 
 if the weather is bad, I read until I'm almost blind. All 
 the while I'm conscious of a deep sense of boredom." 
 
 " Some people have too easy a time in this world. If you 
 worked harder during the week, you'd be glad enough to 
 rest when Sunday came around," she said. 
 
 " Oh, Sunday is a beastly day for a single man. That's 
 the general testimony — it's perfectly beastly." 
 
 " If that is all that is the matter, why don't you marry? " 
 
DEALS WITH AN OFFICE PERSON 179 
 
 she asked. " I'm sure that you could find some nice girl 
 who would agree to be your wife Sundays only, on Bernard 
 Shaw's plan." 
 
 Mr. Morley smiled, but his next remark was rather grim. 
 " That is about the sort of wife my friend Bradley Antisdel 
 has, I think." 
 
 " The nice man who was with you yesterday ? " she 
 asked. " He doesn't look very happy." 
 
 " No, poor devil. I think he had more pleasure from 
 the few minutes he spent playing with your children than 
 he has had before in a long time." 
 
 " It didn't seem to me that he was getting much pleasure 
 from it," said Cecily. " He was rather pathetic and wistful, 
 I thought." 
 
 " I'd like to tell you about him some day," said Mr. Mor- 
 ley, leaning toward her. " That is, of course, if you care 
 to listen. Poor Bradley is lonesome Sunday and every 
 other day; his only change from lonesomeness is acute 
 misery. And he's rigidly faithful to the woman who treats 
 him so." 
 
 " Women are capable of a variety of meannesses," said 
 Cecily. 
 
 " Clara Antisdel is. If she belonged to me, I'd choke 
 her." 
 
 Cecily laughed. The idea of such violence on the part 
 of Mr. Morley — Mr. Morley, whose perfect " niceness " was 
 his charm and his raison d'etre — the idea really was very 
 funny ; and yet she liked his genuine concern at his friend's 
 unhappiness. 
 
 When she laughed, Mr. Morley began to smile, and they 
 passed suddenly into a sort of intimacy. Yet only a moment 
 later she was remarking, just as she might have remarked 
 it to either of the other partners, " I shall be very busy 
 today, I suppose. Miss Carter is leaving at the end of the 
 week, and candidates for her position are to come today. I 
 
180 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 am to try them out, and present only the best for Mr. Sims's 
 inspection." 
 
 " And he will tell you to go ahead and hire ? " 
 
 " Probably. He'll say," Cecily gave a naughty imitation 
 of Mr. Sims's manner, " ' I told you to get me a sten- 
 ographer. I don't care how you get her or where you get 
 her, so long as you get her. Only don't keep coming and 
 asking me questions. It's funny people never can do as 
 they're told, and not ask questions.' " 
 
 Mr. Morley grinned at the caricature of his partner. 
 " You have Sims down pretty well," he remarked. " Some- 
 times it <makes me nervous to think of all these eyes out 
 here trained on us of the firm; I suppose even our smallest 
 peculiarity can't pass unnoticed." 
 
 " Oh, the outer office adores you," said Cecily. " It's Mr. 
 Sims Senior who ought to feel his ears burning at odd 
 moments." 
 
 " The outer office adores me — unanimously ? " 
 
 " No. Mrs. Fairchild likes Mr. Sims the best of anybody. 
 He's strong, if he is gruff," said Cecily teasingly. 
 
 They certainly were progressing today; but at moments 
 Morley liked to feel again under his feet the accepted 
 standards of the office : in some things it was best not to try 
 to go too fast. " Isn't the outer office rather inclined," he 
 asked, " to resent the powers and responsibilities that Mr. 
 Sims thrusts upon you ? " 
 
 " It might be, if I weren't so modest about them," she 
 answered. " I'm modest about them because I know that 
 Mr. Sims cherishes delusions about me. If he ever 
 awakens " 
 
 " Oh, come now ! You aren't trying to make me believe 
 that you're quite an ordinary stenographer ? " 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure. Mr. Sims is a better judge of 
 my stenography than I am myself," she said smoothly. 
 " Of course, none of us is ordinary to himself." 
 
DEALS WITH AN OFFICE PERSON 181 
 
 " Perhaps you're not ordinary to me ; would I lend my 
 French poetry and German philosophy to an ordinary 
 stenographer?" 
 
 " I don't know. Would you? " 
 
 " She would have a lot of use for it if I did, wouldn't 
 she?" asked Mr. Morley. He looked at his watch then, 
 and rose from his chair. " The office force ought to 
 arrive soon," he said. " If they don't, the candidates will 
 precede them." 
 
 He went into his own office, and Cecily immediately put 
 down her defensive oil can, and sat looking idly out of the 
 window. It was very hard for her to get her thoughts on 
 the day's work today, even with the advantage of the 
 early fortifying minutes to herself. Now she caught her- 
 self wondering if Avery got down to his office this early, . 
 and deciding that he did not — Avery had never been a 
 friend to early rising. She gave her shoulders a little 
 shake, and frowned angrily. Why should she be thinking 
 of Avery at all — what were his comings and goings to her ? 
 
 It was with actual relief that she answered the brusque 
 greeting of Mr. Sims Senior; this was the everyday world 
 making its welcome demands, which so effectually excluded 
 mere sentiment. " Do you care to dictate at once ? " she 
 asked eagerly. 
 
 " Aren't you going to be too busy today for all my dic- 
 tation?" he asked. 
 
 " Not at all," she answered. " Applicants can wait ; and 
 once I've got you down, Mr. Sims, my notes can wait too, 
 if necessary." 
 
 He grunted as if satisfied. Cecily thought with amuse- 
 ment what fun it was always to come up to the scratch — at 
 least, where one person was concerned ; to preserve that at- 
 titude toward all the world might end by making one very 
 much a machine. 
 
 When she came out of Mr. Sims's private office with a 
 
1 82 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 notebook half full, the rest of the office force had arrived, 
 and a row of candidates was sitting along the wall. As she 
 began the weeding-out process, another candidate arrived, 
 and then another and another ; so that for a time she seemed 
 to get farther and farther behind. Every unemployed 
 stenographer in the city seemed to be applying for the 
 open position ; and every stenographer in the city seemed to 
 be unemployed. As she weeded out, Cecily's " undivided " 
 mind was aware all the time of the perpetual faint smirk on 
 the face of the departing Miss Carter, who was going to be 
 married, and felt her position to be enviable, and of the 
 perpetual scowl on the face of the oldest stenographer in 
 the office, who clearly regarded Cecily as an upstart. 
 
 In her own mind she was less an upstart than a bold 
 buccaneer; for if she held the field, it was surely by virtue 
 of sheer boldness. She made her impression on these peo- 
 ple, just as in the old days in Jefferson she had always 
 contrived to make her impression on people there — an im- 
 pression not so very different, after all. Of course, she was 
 not all that she appeared to be — neither were the people 
 around her; and of course, they lived under the perpetual 
 possibility of finding one another out. But that possibility 
 was rather exhilarating than otherwise; it was sometimes 
 the only thing that kept the daily monotony from growing 
 unbearable. 
 
 Today she was in a new situation; she had not previ- 
 ously wielded the hiring power. The sense of power com- 
 bined with that always lurking sense of uncertainty to ban- 
 ish the depression and wistfulness of the last two days. 
 She worked rapidly at the weeding-out process until there 
 were only two candidates left ; then she sat back, and very 
 judicially considered them. 
 
 Either of them would do, she had no doubt: each had 
 given satisfactory references, and had written a good speci- 
 men letter. She wondered how badly either of them needed 
 
DEALS WITH AN OFFICE PERSON 183 
 
 the place — as badly as she herself had once needed one? 
 One of the girls was distinctly attractive : the only daugh- 
 ter of a widowed mother, perhaps, brought up tenderly, 
 and forced by unexpected circumstances to earn her own 
 living. She would certainly look the better of the two in 
 the office. The other, awkward, rather severely dressed, 
 had still something in her face that appealed to Cecily. 
 It might have been described as a look of dawning power, 
 such a look as one might expect to see on the face of an old- 
 world peasant woman who was just beginning to realize 
 herself. Cecily had an uncomfortable feeling that she had 
 seen that look somewhere before, if she had not indeed seen 
 that very woman. In spite of herself the look held her and 
 drew her; little by little it eclipsed the evident charm, the 
 very probable capability, of the other girl. " Here is some 
 one who is growing," Cecily thought ; and then, " She looks 
 intense, too ; I think Mr. Sims would like her." 
 
 She found herself dismissing the more finished product, 
 telling the crude, powerful girl that she might have the 
 place, and that she might come in the afternoon for an hour 
 or two, to find where things were kept. " Miss Carter will 
 be glad to show you," Cecily said. 
 
 The sound of factory whistles startled her; it was noon 
 already. " And I have an engagement for lunch," she mut- 
 tered as she put on her hat. " Oh, dear ! In this world one 
 either waits or keeps others waiting." 
 
 She was going to lunch with Fannie Kinkcaid. In the 
 same block with Cecily's modest duplex stood a rather pre- 
 tentious apartment building, in whose most expensive apart- 
 ment the Kinkcaids lived. It was characteristic of Fannie 
 that she should be indifferent to location, though she had a 
 good eye for convenience and even luxury in her apartment. 
 She was a good-natured, rather vulgar woman, not with- 
 out a certain native shrewdness. She had been attracted 
 in the first place by Cecily's children, and had soon come to 
 
184 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 admire Cecily herself. Cecily had at first liked the Kink- 
 caid automobile : Tides were a luxury these days. Later she 
 had come to have a friendly feeling for Fannie herself, half 
 because Fannie was such a good soul, half because aside 
 from the automobile there were no outside inducements to 
 like her. In Jefferson Cecily had made it her business al- 
 ways to know the right people; still more important, never 
 to know the wrong ones. In business life Cecily had always 
 her impression to make. But with Fannie it was different ; 
 she liked Fannie, frankly, because Fannie didn't count. 
 
 The two of them often lunched together; and the days 
 when they did so were marked " gras " in Cecily's calendar. 
 Fannie fed an ever-increasing bulk on the choicest food 
 the town afforded, and deplored unceasingly the fact that 
 it afforded nothing choicer. " A city this size," was her 
 ever-renewed wail, " and no better place for two women to 
 go for lunch than the grill room of a department store ! " 
 
 " It's a good thing for you," said Cecily from the van- 
 tage of her own irreproachable slimness, " that this is the 
 best the town affords." 
 
 " Oh, my dear, if you were born to be fat, you'll be fat," 
 said Fannie, scooping up a forkful of mayonnaise. " But 
 take my word for it, if anybody started a really excellent 
 place in this town — a Fifth Avenue tea-room — he'd make 
 money." 
 
 " I don't know but you're right," said Cecily, her atten- 
 tion arrested. " It would be a good opening for a woman, 
 wouldn't it?" 
 
 " Why don't you try it ? " asked Mrs. Kinkcaid abruptly. 
 " You have the business training, and you know all about 
 food and buying and that sort of thing." 
 
 " I wish I did," said Cecily. " If I did, maybe I should 
 try it, Fannie. Would you be a customer of mine? " 
 
 She passed off the matter lightly, very lightly ; but in her 
 own mind she had the feeling that one of her ideas was 
 
DEALS WITH AN OFFICE PERSON 185 
 
 coming. Perhaps it would simply come and go, as so many 
 ideas do; perhaps, on the other hand, it would be one of 
 those overwhelming, often rather sudden ideas, two or 
 three of which had moulded her life so far. At any rate, a 
 coming idea was always interesting. 
 
 Thanks to the morning's extra duties and Fannie's 
 lengthy lunch, Cecily stayed late at the office that after- 
 noon. She supposed every one else had gone; and she 
 typed away in haste. Looking up at the end of a sheet, she 
 discovered that the new stenographer was still there; and 
 she surprised on that curious, intense face a look that was 
 fairly burning, a look in which there was admiration and 
 curiosity, and some other emotion, Cecily could not tell what. 
 It was certainly not gratitude. " Why does she look at me 
 like that ? " thought Cecily, and spoiled the new sheet she 
 was beginning. " You needn't stay any longer, Miss Sam- 
 uels," said Cecily. " Your hours are over at five, you 
 know." 
 
 Miss Samuels looked at her and swallowed hard ; her fer- 
 vent expression sank into dull apathy. " How ugly she is," 
 thought Cecily. " I hadn't noticed before how ugly she is. 
 I wonder why she looked at me like that ? " She went back 
 to her typewriting, and dismissed both Miss Samuels and 
 her extraordinary looks from her mind. 
 
 They were not always to be so dismissed. The next 
 evening, when Cecily left a little early, with Mr. Morley's 
 volume tucked securely under her arm, Miss Samuels left 
 just behind her. That might be merely a coincidence; but 
 it began to recur every evening. More embarrassing still, 
 whenever Cecily looked up during the day's work she seemed 
 to find Miss Samuels's eyes upon her. If Cecily left early, 
 Miss Samuels left early; if Cecily lingered, she lingered. 
 If Cecily started for a glass of water, Miss Samuels was 
 there before her, and proffered the full glass. It was noticed 
 in the office, and commented on ; the new stenographer was 
 
1 86 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 christened " Mrs. Fairchild's shadow." Cecily, although 
 she was not averse to admiration, was annoyed — the more 
 so because she felt that Miss Samuels's emotion toward 
 her was not admiration only. It had in it a certain sinister 
 quality. 
 
 She would probably have put the girl in her place with 
 a few sharp words, if her mind had not been so occupied 
 just then with other things. The new idea of Fannie Kink- 
 caid's sowing was germinating; and side by side with it 
 was a somewhat incongruous fact, of which she was only 
 now becoming distinctly aware. 
 
 Richard Morley was beginning to be a factor in her life. 
 The consciousness of his importance had not come to her 
 as a sudden revelation; yet a few days, these very days 
 immediately after her return from Chicago, were all that 
 were needed to make her consciousness very definite. Once 
 she had thought of him simply as the amiable member of 
 the firm, and had rather despised him for that perpetual 
 amiability. Even when he singled her out to the extent of 
 lending her books he had simply added to her estimate of 
 him envy of his excellent library. For her he repre- 
 sented a certain culture, a certain tone, a certain plane of 
 living. 
 
 Now abruptly in the course of a few conversations the 
 man had emerged to her consciousness from all that he 
 represented. At the same time she must have emerged to 
 his; but woman-like she had caught the truth of their 
 changed relations while he was still groping for it. He 
 admired her, and she liked him ; their interest in each other 
 was growing, and would doubtless continue to grow. 
 
 She was not displeased at her discovery; yet she shrank 
 a little from the consequences that it might entail. Of 
 course, she had known all along that her life would not 
 always be so clear of the male element as it had been dur- 
 ing the interval since she left Avery Fairchild. Some 
 
DEALS WITH AN OFFICE PERSON 187 
 
 women were capable of leading indefinitely a gray neuter 
 existence, but Cecily was not among them. She might have 
 been grateful, then, conscience told her, that the new mascu- 
 line interest was dawning in such a likable shape. Often 
 she was grateful. When she was with Morley she appre- 
 ciated his good qualities, every one of which was of such a 
 nature as to make his relations with a woman delightful to 
 the woman. In view of those qualities it was astounding 
 that he had remained so long unmarried : some day he 
 would undoubtedly tell Cecily all about it. It was when 
 she was alone, however, that she could not help regretting 
 the passionate days when loving hadn't been based so ex- 
 clusively on liking. 
 
 That was as good as saying that she wanted to be young 
 always : or else that she regretted Avery Fairchild. She 
 didn't regret Avery; her calmness in their last interview 
 had certainly shown as much. And if she regretted the 
 passionate follies of eighteen, it was time she gave herself 
 something new to think about. She was still too young 
 to begin to regret such things as her divine lost youth, the 
 vanished passion of which had entailed consequences that 
 she was only now beginning to live down. 
 
 Had it not been for her perturbation over Morley, the 
 idea given her accidentally by Fannie Kinkcaid might have 
 remained an idea and nothing more. Under present condi- 
 tions it had become a rather carefully thought out plan by 
 late summer, when Morley's snatched conversations with 
 her were growing more and more frequent. It was divulged 
 to him in one of them that took place in " the office " after 
 hours. Morley was lounging in a chair he had pulled up 
 to the other side of her desk, watching her in the mellow 
 light of late afternoon. Cecily, as usual, was apparently 
 devoting only a small share of her attention to him, though 
 he had always the feeling in talking to her that nothing 
 escaped her. 
 
1 88 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " You know," she had just remarked in some unimportant 
 connection, " I am a very restless person." 
 
 " That is only another way of saying that you are mod- 
 ern," he suggested. 
 
 " Only another way of saying that I'm a woman, perhaps 
 you mean." 
 
 " Certainly only another way of saying that you're you," 
 he toyed with the idea farther. " I can't imagine you as 
 placid." 
 
 " I should hope not ! " she exclaimed. " I would as soon 
 be dead as placid; I hate the very sound of the word." 
 
 " But to tell you the truth," said Morley, " I shouldn't 
 be dumfounded if you grew to be even placid. You are 
 so many things already that I can't imagine you as being." 
 
 "Yes?" She kept her eyes obstinately lowered. 
 
 " For instance," Mr. Morley made the point, not for 
 the first time, "you don't seem in the least like a sten- 
 ographer." 
 
 " Oh-h-h," she breathed, " I thought you considered me 
 a very good stenographer." 
 
 " You know what I mean," he said. " Your stenography 
 is much above the average ; but you are not, and you know 
 that you are not, a stenographer person." 
 
 " Do you mean," she suggested, " that I don't seem to 
 you to fit in with all this ? " 
 
 Following her gesture he glanced about the spacious, 
 solid, familiar office; then he looked back at her. She was 
 looking at him now, earnestly and eagerly ; and she seemed 
 yery young. There was a characteristic nervous grace in 
 the way she sat, one arm flung across the top of her type- 
 Writer, her clenched fingers almost touching his sleeve. He 
 looked at her so long that he forgot she was waiting for 
 an answer, and was startled to hear her repeat, " Do I sug- 
 gest all this?" She included the office in another quick 
 gesture. "Do I? Do I?" 
 
ti 
 
 DEALS WITH AN OFFICE PERSON 189 
 
 Do you want me to tell you what you do suggest ? " 
 What?" 
 
 " A salon, perhaps. Some background, at any rate, 
 deeper than anything we have around here — and power." 
 
 " Oh, thank you ! " she said quickly. " I was afraid for 
 a moment that you were about to draw a sweetly domestic 
 picture." 
 
 " So little do you suggest that," said Morley, " that it 
 surprises me when I see you with your children; I am 
 always startled at your fondness for them." 
 
 " Why not tell me that I'm an unscrupulous woman, and 
 be done with it? " 
 
 " You know I don't mean anything of the kind. But you 
 are full of surprises, contradictions, changes ; in some ways, 
 Mrs. Fairchild, you seem to me like a very young woman, a 
 woman whose character hadn't actually ' set.' " 
 
 " Perhaps you're right," she said thoughtfully. " I'm de- 
 cisive enough in trifles; but I don't know exactly what I 
 want in big things. To know just what one wanted, and to 
 steer directly for it, would be a life worth living." 
 
 " Happy the people who are born with a ruling pas- 
 sion," said Morley. 
 
 She nodded, and sat for a moment in silence, looking 
 wistfully ahead of her. He loved her pensive moods ; their 
 very occasional character made them all the sweeter. They 
 never lasted long: now her eyes cleared with a snap, and 
 she said, " Suppose we drop the ever-interesting topic, what 
 I think of you and what you think of me." 
 
 " We have never discussed what you think of me," he 
 said. " Let's change to that instead." 
 
 She laughed. " Mr. Morley," she said, " don't be sur- 
 prised if you hear some day that I am leaving this office." 
 
 " Don't you like it here ? " he asked. " Or have you other 
 plans ? " 
 
 " I like it well enough, if I could afford to stay." 
 
igo CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Ask for a raise ; we shall be glad to give it to you/' 
 suggested Morley. " My partner would do any amount of 
 raising before he would lose you, Mrs. Fairchild." 
 
 " All the more reason I should leave before his bubble 
 breaks," said Cecily. " It isn't purely a question of money, 
 however. Even if you paid me far more than I am worth, 
 so that I could afford to stay here all my life, then all my 
 life I should be a mere cog in somebody else's machine. 
 I have been thinking lately that I should like a machine of 
 my own. That may be mere restlessness, or conceit." 
 
 " Or it may be human nature," he said. 
 
 They looked at each other steadily for a moment, and he 
 smiled. He had a fine smile, and a fine, well-bred, high- 
 nosed face, that looked as if generations had gone to the 
 making of it. At moments like this, quite irrelevantly Cecily 
 would find herself dwelling on his appearance, and it al- 
 ways pleased her ; it suggested things that she loved to think 
 about. She liked everything that the man connoted ; it was 
 no wonder she liked the man himself. 
 
 " It's the spirit of the age, too," he went on presently. 
 " In these days everybody wants a machine of his own. 
 Even woman, the pre-ordained cog, wants one." 
 
 "And you don't like that?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do ! " he maintained. " It startles me a bit, 
 perhaps; but I admire you for it. Have you thought yet 
 what particular form your machine is to take ? " 
 
 " I have thought, and in some detail. The idea was born 
 of practical experience; and the more I think about it, the 
 more it appeals to me." 
 
 " Do you care to tell me what it is ? " he asked. 
 
 " I should like to. It is nothing more nor less than an 
 expensive and elegant luncheon- and tea-room." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Fairchild ! " 
 
 " Now you are horrified," she accused him. " If I sim- 
 ply talk of the idea of a machine, that's all right ; but when 
 
DEALS WITH AN OFFICE PERSON 191 
 
 I propose to enter a field that's perfectly honest and fairly 
 remunerative, and hasn't yet been touched in this town, 
 you're horrified." 
 
 " I'm not horrified. But it would mean responsibility 
 and worry, and the investment of capital from which, even 
 if you were successful, you would scarcely get adequate 
 returns for some time. Have you thought of all this ? A 
 salary is less independent, but it's safer." 
 
 "I've thought of all that," she said. "And yet the 
 longer I have it in mind the more this plan attracts me. 
 Do you realize that with all the money there is here, this 
 town hasn't a decent place " 
 
 Just at that moment the outer door of the office opened, 
 and Miss Samuels entered; she had left, supposedly for 
 home, three-quarters of an hour before. " I — I forgot some- 
 thing," she stammered. 
 
 Cecily bent over her typewriter; Mr. Morley scowled 
 at the intruder. Miss Samuels, out of breath but un- 
 daunted, went to her desk and fumbled in a drawer, glanc- 
 ing sidewise as she did so at Cecily and Mr. Morley. Then 
 she closed the drawer, looked hard and directly at them, 
 with a sparkle in her deep-set eyes, and left as empty- 
 handed as she had come. 
 
 " By Jove, I don't like that girl ! " Morley burst out. 
 " She didn't want anything ; she came back here to spy 
 on us." 
 
 Cecily defended her own choice of a junior stenographer 
 for the office. " You couldn't call it spying, it's so obvi- 
 ous," she maintained. " And if she haunts my footsteps, it's 
 partly my fault. The poor girl admires me, and I like ad- 
 miration." 
 
 If Miss Samuels had accomplished nothing else by her 
 intrusion, she had broken in upon Morley's mood. He 
 rose and began to fidget about the office. " You haven't 
 in any way committed yourself to this plan ? " he asked. 
 
192 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " No," said Cecily, picking up some papers. " But I am 
 thinking of it, and looking around ; and the more I think and 
 look, the more it attracts me. It is distinctly feasible." 
 
 " Think still longer before you embark on it," he ad- 
 vised. " Meanwhile I'll speak to Sims about increasing 
 your salary." 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself," she said coolly. " I can speak 
 to him myself, if I want it done." 
 
 " I prefer to," he answered. 
 
 They were miles away now from the confidential mood of 
 a few minutes ago; Cecily felt that for the day all actual 
 communication between them was at an end. She was not 
 surprised when she heard him start toward the door of his 
 private office. 
 
 With his hand on the knob he halted, and spoke with un- 
 expected harshness. " I advise caution, but my private 
 hope is that you will do this thing. I can't help feeling so 
 about it. You and I ought never to stand to each other as 
 employer and employee. It won't do much longer." 
 
 He vanished, and Cecily stared after him. He could 
 mean only one thing by his brusque statement : he had be- 
 come conscious of his growing feeling for her. Well, that 
 would make the situation more interesting, perhaps ; at any 
 rate it had to come some time. And why not Richard Mor- 
 •ley as well as another man; why not, indeed, Richard 
 Morley much rather than any other ? Amused, excited and 
 vaguely distressed, Cecily seized her wraps and fled before 
 he could emerge again ; there were times when it would not 
 do to remain too long upon the scene. 
 
XIX 
 
 DEALS WITH CEASING TO BE AN OFFICE 
 PERSON 
 
 Need of money was indeed pressing Cecily. Her salary had 
 already reached a very respectable figure, and Avery's re- 
 mittances were double what they had once been; but her 
 expenses were rising too, and bade fair to rise higher. 
 Now that Junior was actually in school she began to realize 
 that she was face to face with the problem of educating 
 her children. Educated they were to be, better than their 
 mother had ever been ; she had made up her mind to that. 
 But it would take money to educate them, money for years 
 and years; and after that there was her old age to be 
 thought of. Of course, for a pretty woman there was 
 always the possibility of annexing a man and a man's in- 
 come. But Cecily had decided that if she married again 
 it would not be for financial reasons; she had paid, and 
 paid dearly, for the privilege of exercising freedom of 
 choice. 
 
 With regard to Richard Morley as a candidate for her 
 hand, she couldn't make up her mind. The only thing that 
 she definitely intended so far as he was concerned was 
 to get out of his office before, in his increasing admiration 
 for her, " anything happened." Yet when anything did 
 happen, she might feel that it was distinctly pleasant; it 
 might make her very happy. Only, for the present she pre- 
 ferred to let this thing run, and turn her attention to other 
 issues. 
 
 The more that she thought of her tea-room, the more 
 attractive the idea seemed to her. She already had her 
 
 193 
 
194 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 eye on a place that would suit her, a vacant building on a 
 corner, centrally located, but not too noisy. Of course, she 
 needed capital, but there were half a dozen ways to get 
 that. Oddly enough, she chose the least obvious: she sat 
 down one night, and impulsively wrote to Walter Butler. 
 
 After the letter was mailed she had compunctions for 
 having written it; her acquaintance with Butler had been 
 slight, and she had not communicated with him for years. 
 But her judgment was not at fault : two days later she had 
 an answer to her letter. Butler stated that he had placed 
 to her credit in a bank fifteen hundred dollars ; if that wasn't 
 enough, she could call on him for more. " I admire your 
 courage," he went on, " and I am sure you will be success- 
 ful in your undertaking. It is a fine idea. No other enter- 
 tainments in Jefferson were ever so well arranged and 
 served as yours. I haven't told Lois about your plan yet ; 
 but as soon as you have everything in full swing, she and I 
 will walk into your shop some day and surprise you." 
 
 That was all beautifully generous of Butler : his prompt 
 response, his kind words, even his not telling Lois just yet. 
 He wanted to come at her with news of Cecily's success, 
 not of her temerity; yet Cecily knew that if he kept any- 
 thing from Lois, even for a day, it was at some cost to 
 himself. 
 
 The arrival of the money committed Cecily to her under- 
 taking. For a day or two she dallied with the idea, telling 
 herself that she was foolish to leave a sure thing for a 
 risky, that the office had been a haven to her and might so 
 continue, that she couldn't always be plunging and never 
 come to grief. For another day she played with the idea 
 of leading Richard Morley to a declaration, and then ac- 
 cepting him out of hand : a beautifully simple solution of 
 existing complications, if only one could be sure that it 
 would solve them forever, and that things would always 
 continue to be simple. But she wasn't ready for anything 
 
CEASING TO BE AN OFFICE PERSON 195 
 
 like that, and she was ready for her new undertaking. A 
 week after Butler's letter arrived, Cecily was bending all 
 her energies to the new matter in hand. 
 
 Characteristically, she undertook the hardest thing first, 
 and approached Mr. Sims with news of her leaving. He 
 took it with unexpected gentleness. " We couldn't hope to 
 have you always, I suppose. Well, I wish you luck." He 
 swung his chair toward the window, and then flung round 
 again to growl, " Have you all the money you need ? If 
 not, I'll lend you some ; I know you'll pay it back promptly. 
 You want to start things off handsomely, you know." 
 
 Cecily had always been proud of Mr. Sims's approval — 
 all the prouder because he was not an approving sort of 
 man. Now she measured the depth of his concern by the 
 fact that he evidently spoke to Sims Junior at once about 
 her leaving: communication between the father and son 
 was usually limited to strictly necessary business, except 
 when, at intervals of about a week, the older man upbraided 
 the younger, more or less on general principles. 
 
 Before lunch-time, however, young Mr. Sims strolled up 
 to Cecily's desk. " I say, you know," he remarked, " I'm 
 mighty sorry you're going." 
 
 His somewhat fatuous countenance showed genuine con- 
 cern. Cecily looked at him in some surprise, for during 
 all the time she had been in the office she had had very 
 little intercourse with him, and that little had usually been 
 of a hostile character. " I'm sorry too," she said, " but I 
 feel that I have to consult my own interest." 
 
 " Yes, of course." He nodded dejectedly. " But it seems 
 a shame." As he turned away he muttered to himself, , 
 " The only real looker in the office, too." 
 
 Miss Samuels stopped him as he was going out, and 
 seemed in her intense way to be asking him questions. He 
 answered shortly, for the poor girl was very little of a 
 " looker " ; but Miss Samuels evidently got the information 
 
1 96 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 she desired. As Cecily was putting on her hat to go out 
 for lunch, she was aware of her faithful shadow at her 
 elbow. She would be glad to be rid of that surveillance; 
 but as she was so soon to be rid of it, she forced herself to 
 ask kindly, " Are you going my way, Miss Samuels ? " 
 
 The girl nodded breathlessly. Her eyes were smolder- 
 ing with excitement, and she looked heavier-browed and 
 lankier of wrist than usual. " Shall we lunch together ? " 
 asked Cecily as they went down in the elevator. " I warn 
 you that I'm in a hurry. I have some things to do after 
 lunch." 
 
 She was in fact doing something that very moment. As 
 she went down the street, half a step ahead of her breath- 
 less, silent companion, she was mentally " budgeting " her 
 fifteen hundred dollars, allowing so much for rent, so much 
 for furnishings, so much for wages; she would like to 
 keep a small sinking fund if she could, as an enterprise of 
 this character could hardly be expected to make money at 
 first. She would spend as much as she dared on furnish- 
 ings — appearances would be half the battle. " And service 
 the other half," she thought. " It will be the servant prob- 
 lem raised to the nth power, the service will." 
 
 When she had almost forgotten her presence, Cecily's 
 companion suddenly burst out, " Mrs. Fairchild, I hear 
 that you are leaving the office. When you go, I want to go 
 with you." 
 
 Another proof of embarrassing devotion, thought Cecily. 
 " I should like to take you," she said. " But, you see, I 
 sha'n't have any way to use you. I can attend to my book- 
 keeping and my small correspondence myself; I expect to 
 employ only a cook and waitresses." 
 
 " I could wait on table, Mrs. Fairchild ; at least, I could 
 learn to," said Miss Samuels quickly. 
 
 " Well, you would be very foolish to do it," said Cecily 
 in an even tone. 
 
CEASING TO BE AN OFFICE PERSON 197 
 
 " I suppose so." The girl sighed, then brightened a little 
 as she added, " We can see each other though sometimes, 
 can't we?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said Cecily heartily. 
 
 " I can even come to lunch at your tea-room," and Miss 
 Samuels brightened a little more. " And we can see each 
 other sometimes in the evenings " 
 
 Cecily was not listening to her. They had come abreast 
 of the corner that Cecily had from the first coveted for a 
 " location " ; there it stood, light, airy, just large enough — 
 and she had fifteen hundred dollars capital. Cecily looked 
 at the placard in the window, estimated mentally the num- 
 ber of tables she could place, wondered what could be done 
 about a kitchen; then abruptly she started for the agent's 
 office. In the interest of the community's lunches she missed 
 her own that day; but when she got back, late and tri- 
 umphant, to Sims, Morley and Sims' office, she had actually 
 rented her "location." 
 
 After that the days went by with such bewildering 
 rapidity that Cecily hardly knew when she left Sims, Mor- 
 ley and Sims'. Leave the office she did, and before she left 
 she hired and " broke in " the young woman who was to 
 succeed her; but even while she was doing so, she was out- 
 fitting her tea-room. She loved " outfittings," and would 
 willingly have equipped a store or a house every week of 
 her life. In this present task both her extravagance and 
 her native shrewdness came into play : she got " nice 
 things " not only because she liked them herself, but be- 
 cause she expected her customers to appreciate them. Let 
 other extravagant women come here, and they would find 
 opportunity to spend their money; and other shrewd 
 women would here find their money's worth. 
 
 On a perfect winter day the tea-shop opened. Cecily 
 had lain awake most of the night before, imagining every 
 possible accident, and convinced that the whole undertaking 
 
ig8 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 could never be a success — and if it failed, what then? 
 But with daylight imaginative terrors deserted her, 
 crowded out, oerhaps, by the details that she must 
 see to. 
 
 The whole day went like one of her best-conducted parties 
 of the Jefferson days. The shop was crowded for luncheon, 
 and again for tea : the service went without a hitch. Mrs. 
 Sims brought a large party ; several of Mr. Morley's friends 
 came. Other people had been, attracted both by actual 
 advertising and by a judicious use of personal comment — 
 the city was small enough to make mouth to ear advertising 
 still the most effective. 
 
 Every detail of Cecily's careful planning was noticed 
 and appreciated : the quaint little bouquets, the monograms 
 she had herself embroidered on the homespun linen napkins, 
 the fact that the cretonne under the plate-glass table-tops 
 matched the cretonne at the windows, and the same tints 
 were caught again in the flowered English china. Some of 
 her ideas would soon reappear in private houses, unless 
 Cecily was very much mistaken; but she had plenty of 
 ideas, and could afford to give them away, if people would 
 only buy her muffins and salads. 
 
 The last of her guests lingered until half-past six. The 
 door had only just closed behind them when Mr. Morley's 
 car drew up to the curb, and Mr. Morley alighted. Cecily 
 waved her hand to him through the window. " Why didn't 
 you come in earlier?" she asked as he entered. 
 
 " I was afraid there would be nobody here but women," 
 he said. " Did you have a good crowd ? " 
 
 " Splendid ; all we could handle. They were all very 
 appreciative, and everything went off beautifully." 
 
 "I should have been represented here by proxy," he 
 said, his eye wandering about the shop. " Oh, yes ! " On 
 a little table by themselves, where they would not detract 
 from the effect of the little bouquets, were several vases 
 
CEASING TO BE AN OFFICE PERSON 199 
 
 of congratulatory flowers ; and among them he had singled 
 out the orchids of his selection. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " she echoed. " They're lovely — lovely ! " She 
 went quickly up to the table, and bent over the flowers. 
 Standing so, in the exquisite dress she had made for her 
 opening, she looked for all the world like a hostess after 
 a wonderful party, a fairy party, or even like a bride after 
 her wedding; her sparkling excitement was merging mo- 
 ment by moment into a misty, weary, happy contemplation. 
 Morley felt a sudden impulse to put his arms around her, 
 and capture her at this moment of high exquisiteness ; but 
 the patent indecorum of such conduct here and now stayed 
 him. 
 
 " Every one was most kind," she said a moment later, 
 examining one by one a heap of cards that had evidently 
 been detached from the flowers. " I didn't know I had so 
 many friends. Mr. Sims, and young Mr. Sims — the Kink- 
 caids — Fannie was here for both luncheon and tea — Miss 
 Samuels — ' the office ' — Walter Butler — Anna. Anna is my 
 maid, you know; wasn't it wonderful of her to think of 
 doing this ? " 
 
 Morley was wondering who Walter Butler was. " Aren't 
 you ready to go home now?" he asked. "I'll drive you, 
 if you are." 
 
 " You'll drive me?" She glanced into the street. " Oh, 
 I thought perhaps you were driving your own car. Why 
 don't you ever ? " 
 
 " Because I'd rather sit back quietly and talk with my 
 friends." 
 
 "At least one friend could sit with you if you drove," 
 she insisted. 
 
 " But — shameful confession — I have never learned to 
 drive," he admitted. 
 
 " I wouldn't have that to say of myself, if I were you. 
 Why, even I," said Cecily, " can drive a car." 
 
200 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " You're one of these people who can do anything, I 
 think." 
 
 " Or at least think they can," she suggested. " Well, I'm 
 ready to go now. I'll lock this door; the help can go out 
 the back way." 
 
 " Shall we drive around for a little while ? " he asked as 
 he handed her into the car. 
 
 She nodded, and he gave the order. " Now, isn't this 
 nice ? " he asked as they glided off. " Nicer than if I were 
 my own chauffeur?" 
 
 She shook her head obstinately, murmuring that she 
 " wouldn't trust any hired chauffeur." Then she changed 
 the subject. " You needn't have been afraid of being the 
 only man at my place of business this afternoon," she said. 
 " Half the town's chivalry was there, as well as all its 
 beauty." 
 
 " Anybody I know ? " 
 
 " They were all people you know, I'm sure — the best 
 people in town," she rallied him. " There was one person 
 there I was curious to see." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Mrs. Antisdel. I heard her called by name, and I'm 
 sure it must be the wife of that nice, worried-looking friend 
 of yours." 
 
 " Yes, Clara would be quite likely to be there." Mr. 
 Morley's face had darkened at the name. " What sort of 
 woman was she?" 
 
 " A pretty blonde, with cold eyes and a very disagreeable 
 mouth." 
 
 " I never noticed that she is pretty," said Morley. " The 
 rest of your description fits perfectly." 
 
 " Oh, she is pretty, so far as physique goes," insisted 
 Cecily. " You hate her, don't you ? I must admit that the 
 mere sight of the two of them is enough to make any one a 
 violent partisan of his." 
 
CEASING TO BE AN OFFICE PERSON 201 
 
 " You would hate her too," said Morley. " A woman of 
 your sort, Mrs. Fairchild, couldn't help hating a woman 
 of hers. I'll admit that there is only one person on earth 
 I should actually like to see roasted alive at a slow fire. 
 That person is Clara Antisdel." 
 
 " Just because she isn't agreeable to him ? " 
 
 " There isn't any ' just ' in it. Coldness of heart and 
 lack of generosity aren't considered cardinal sins; but in 
 some of their developments they are worse than any cardi- 
 nal sin could be." 
 
 " Then she isn't a sinful lady ? " 
 
 " Heavens, no ! She mistreats Bradley in the name of all 
 that is high and holy." 
 
 " Women can be so delicately cruel," said Cecily. 
 
 " Mrs. Fairchild, when a woman has married for money, 
 what ought she to do? What ought her attitude toward 
 her husband to be ? " 
 
 " A woman ought never to marry for money, of course," 
 said Cecily. " But if she does, she ought to go through with 
 it, and make the best of her bargain. If she isn't too 
 good to take his money, she isn't too good to treat the 
 giver decently." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear you say that," said Mr. Morley. 
 " It is very much my own conviction ; but sometimes men 
 and women differ so in their way of looking at things." 
 
 " I infer that Mrs. Antisdel married your friend for his 
 money, and that she is — well, stingy ? " 
 
 " You infer correctly. She was in love with another 
 man at the time of her marriage. Her mother arranged this 
 match for her, I suppose — Bradley was quite a catch. But 
 Clara was old enough to know what she wanted, and she 
 made her choice. Having made it, and secured Antisdel's 
 money, she began to immolate herself on the altar of that 
 other affair of hers; and she has immolated consistently 
 ever since. Not only does she grind his face in private, 
 
202 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 but she delights in always appearing before people as woe- 
 begone as possible." 
 
 "And he doesn't retaliate?" 
 
 " No. Bradley loved her to begin with ; and then, he 
 hasn't the retaliating disposition. All he wants, or has ever 
 wanted, is to sit quiet and be happy. He's mortally hurt 
 now, and he gets hurt afresh every day, you see." 
 
 " Then it's one of those situations where there's no way 
 out?" 
 
 " No way out, I'm afraid." 
 
 Cecily's face, turned to him in the soft light, was very 
 grave ; it looked sweet and pure, and full of pity. " You try 
 to relieve him all that you can, of course — to make him 
 forget?" 
 
 " Yes, in so far as our poor bachelor distractions can make 
 a man forget such a thing." 
 
 " If it's a touch of home, sweet home that he wants, 
 bring him around to my house some time," said Cecily. 
 
 It seemed to Morley that her sudden flippancy covered 
 a really wonderful generosity. " Do you mean that ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 She had only half meant it ; but to his eager question she 
 replied promptly, " Of course I do." 
 
 Her divining mind saw heights and depths of torture in 
 Bradley Antisdel's position; and in the happiness of her 
 success she was inclined to be generous. She liked Morley's 
 concern for his friend ; she liked Morley himself. Tonight, 
 when she was happy anyway, and when success seemed to 
 be on the point of freeing her from ever having to think 
 about a man, she liked to think about Richard Morley. 
 Another time she would feel differently about it, would 
 realize with horror that either this day had been the first 
 of many, or it had not : that she would spend the rest of her 
 life, in all probability, either in some neat commercial 
 groove or with Richard Morley established permanently at 
 
CEASING TO BE AN OFFICE PERSON 203 
 
 her side. Tonight the realization gave her no horror. 
 Side by side, the two of them rode on in a silence that grew 
 sweeter as it lengthened. 
 
 It seemed to Morley that they said good-night only a few 
 moments later. He was not the less happy of the two, for 
 he approached her without detaining second-thoughts, such 
 as she usually felt ; and tonight he was especially happy, for 
 he could not help contrasting the frank, the generous, the 
 open-handed and open-minded Cecily with the stifling and 
 oppressive Clara Antisdel. 
 
XX 
 
 AVERY'S LITTLE AFFAIR 
 
 This period in Cecily's life was devoted to new and grow- 
 ing interests. At about the same time Avery Fairchild, 
 miles away and completely out of touch with her, had 
 begun to have a craving for novelty. Once you got the 
 hang of a thing, he found, you required decided change. 
 His work did not bore him; he was determined never to 
 let it bore him; but eighteen-hour days had begun to pall. 
 He deliberately sought change. And for thorough and com- 
 plete change, change that was like stepping not only into 
 another atmosphere but into another age, he went more 
 and more to Caroline Keppel. 
 
 She always welcomed him, always seemed to find it con- 
 venient to welcome him. They fell into a way of spending 
 their Sundays together. He would come for lunch — in the 
 Keppel circle they dined at night Sundays as well as other 
 days. Afterward, if it was fine weather they would motor. 
 If it stormed, they ensconced themselves by an open fire, and 
 talked or played chess. Keppel had taught her how to play 
 chess, and she now taught Avery. The very deliberation 
 of the old-world game suited him: to idle like this hour 
 after hour was for him the refinement of luxury. 
 
 They had ceased to use the drawing-room, and she re- 
 ceived him now in her own sitting-room, a small apart- 
 ment on the second floor. The room was always very 
 warm, and there were a great many flowers ; the novels 
 and magazines that made up Caroline's reading lay about 
 on chairs and tables, and there was a great basket full of 
 half-finished embroidery. Caroline liked to begin, but she 
 
AVERY'S LITTLE AFFAIR 205 
 
 seldom finished anything : as time went on, the condition of 
 her work-basket came to be one of their favorite jokes. 
 They accumulated quite a stock of these jokes, and a store 
 of little allusions, chiefly of his inventing. Caroline rarely 
 invented, but she was intensely appreciative. When a man 
 is, whether he will admit it or not, still smarting from hav- 
 ing been discarded, appreciation is grateful to him; it can 
 hardly become so gross as to be distasteful. And Caroline 
 was a born echo. Docile to begin with, she had been 
 trained to echo Keppel; and now that he was gone, she 
 sweetly echoed Avery. 
 
 Not all the hospitality was of her furnishing. He repaid 
 her by taking her to queer little restaurants, or sometimes 
 to the theater, or even to motion pictures. It was all new 
 to her, and delicious ; her life had been so narrow, and her 
 ideas were so simple, that for her there was a tang of for- 
 bidden fruit about many things which were commonplace 
 to him. 
 
 Their intimacy went unremarked for some time, because 
 their social circles did not cross. It was sure to be remarked, 
 however; and some instinctive perception of that fact made 
 Avery uneasy one day when he was talking with Mrs. Van 
 Duzen. That lady had come into his office ostensibly on 
 business; but all the time that she talked she was more or 
 less furtively " sizing him up." Presently she began to ap- 
 proach personal subjects with a series of ponderous swoops 
 and circlings that made it a relief when she actually brought 
 out, "Have you seen Mrs. Keppel lately?" 
 
 " Yes," he said simply. 
 
 "Did you know that Judith Keppel has left her?" 
 
 " No, I did not. I should hardly have supposed it pos- 
 sible." 
 
 " It is accomplished. And the odd part of it is that Caro- 
 line turned her out." 
 
 Avery laughed. It was funny to think of Caroline's 
 
ao6 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 turning anybody out, let alone the celebrated Gorgon. " I 
 had missed Miss Keppel lately," said he. " If you wanted 
 a word with Mrs. Keppel at one time you had to resort 
 to stratagem. But I hadn't any idea that the relief was 
 permanent." 
 
 Mrs. Van Duzen had followed his laugh with an uncer- 
 tain smile. " Permanent enough, I suppose. But what 
 really concerns you — Are you sure this is news to you ? " 
 
 "Dear lady, absolutely!" 
 
 " Well, I suppose Caroline wouldn't tell you, and per- 
 haps she wouldn't thank me to. But I'm going to; I feel 
 that you ought to know it. Judith came to me with the 
 whole business; she was not only furiously angry, but 
 troubled as well. It seems that the entire quarrel was about 
 you." 
 
 "About me?" 
 
 " Yes. At least, it began that way. Judith objected to 
 your being there so much, and Caroline said she would 
 choose her own friends. Judith asserted her authority, and 
 Caroline read her a perfect Declaration of Independence. 
 You can imagine how it would go." 
 
 " I should imagine that I was merely the pretext, or at 
 most the starting-point," said Avery. " The trouble was 
 bound to come; no woman in this age will consent to re- 
 main indefinitely in swaddling-clothes." 
 
 " Well, perhaps," she admitted. " But I thought that you 
 ought to know about it." 
 
 " I wish that you hadn't told me," said Avery. 
 
 " Oh, you needn't feel conscience-stricken about it," said 
 Mrs. Van Duzen. " Caroline is better off without Judith. 
 But she's an impulsive little fool; and now that she's up 
 in arms, she may go too far. Don't let her." 
 
 " What can I do to prevent her, even forewarned as I 
 am, if she feels like going too far? " 
 
 Her eyes met and held his. In her voice that seemed 
 
AVERY'S LITTLE AFFAIR 207 
 
 to come from an imposing distance, with her best manner, 
 she said, " You can do everything, I think." 
 
 " You are mistaken," he protested. 
 
 Mrs. Van Duzen smiled, a very majestic, very knowing 
 smile. In general Avery appreciated this woman's useful- 
 ness, but was inclined to despise her intellect. Now sud- 
 denly she struck him as clever, clever beyond his reach to 
 checkmate or even to apprehend. He had an uncanny 
 feeling that if she marked out a path for him, he would 
 have to tread it; with absurd intensity, he hoped that she 
 would not go on. 
 
 She went on, however; she grew painfully concrete. 
 " Why don't you," she asked, " make yourself Caroline's 
 guardian for life? She has money, and she is not bad-look- 
 ing. She certainly needs some one to depend on, and she 
 thinks that you are a wonder." 
 
 " She's a charming girl," said Avery. " But I have 
 enough to do to look after myself and help my consump- 
 tives." 
 
 " Well, keep your own counsel," she advised. " There is 
 no hurry. But I should like to see Caroline settled." 
 
 " If a guardian is what she wants," said Avery — he 
 avoided the use of the word " husband " — " if a guardian 
 is what she wants, she need fear no lack of candidates." 
 
 <l< Her money would draw them ; that is exactly the 
 trouble," said Mrs. Van Duzen. " But you are so disinter- 
 ested." 
 
 " Was any man ever that ? " asked Avery. 
 
 Mrs. Van Duzen took the question for one of his jokes ; 
 she laughed, and the subject dropped. But when she left 
 him, she could not take with her the seed she had sown. 
 Avery heartily wished that she had held her tongue; but 
 as she hadn't, he couldn't quite ignore what she had said. 
 For his sake Caroline had sent away her sister-in-law ; and 
 she had kept not only the motive but even the bare fact 
 
208 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 from him. She hadn't wished to embarrass him; perhaps 
 like him she was satisfied with the present state of things, 
 and didn't wish to look too deeply into their relation. Avery 
 wanted to believe that, and presently found himself able. 
 He was less able to dismiss the subject from his mind. It 
 sat at table with him, stayed before him as he worked; it 
 proved rather a haunting idea, though he hardly knew 
 whether he should call it agreeable or the reverse. 
 
 After his solitary dinner his bare room was suddenly dis- 
 tasteful to him, and he left it and went out. It would be 
 waiting for him in its solitude and its bareness when he 
 returned. He felt a swift pang of desire for a home, some 
 gracious dwelling-place presided over by a wife-person, a 
 sweet, not too dominant creature who belonged to him. 
 He was still young ; walking along he stretched his muscles 
 and threw back his shoulders, and felt how young he was. 
 He was young, and he could not go on to the end of his 
 life like this. He had mistaken emptiness for serenity ; now 
 he detested emptiness. His discontent burned within 
 him. 
 
 It was an evening of early spring, unseasonably warm 
 and very damp. The fog rolling in from the lake filled 
 his lungs. " A bad night for my consumptives," he thought, 
 and then hated his consumptives. Why must they come 
 intruding into his thoughts ? He worked for them — wasn't 
 that enough? 
 
 It was a night made for love — he might as well admit 
 that. Avery gave himself a mighty shake, and then drew 
 up to avoid a passing automobile which had in his ab- 
 straction all but run him down. A man and a woman sat 
 in it. They were very young, and their eyes were misty 
 with passion; her hand was clasped in his. They were 
 looking straight ahead of them, but they saw only each 
 other. The sight of them made Avery fierce. He was not 
 much older than they: would no woman's hand ever lie 
 
AVERY'S LITTLE AFFAIR 209 
 
 clasped in his again, no woman's lips ever be raised to 
 him? 
 
 He walked on and on, his restlessness raging through 
 him. He had left his own district far behind, had got into 
 a part of town where the policemen no longer saluted him, 
 and the look of the streets was unfamiliar. He did not care 
 where he went; one place was as good as another, in this 
 wearisome, hopeless game of running away from oneself. 
 
 And then gradually the streets grew familiar once more ; 
 he was going somewhere that he had gone before, some 
 time. Quite suddenly he saw that he was only a block from 
 Mrs. Keppel's house. He paused, his heart fluttering like a 
 girl's; then he turned, and deliberately made his way 
 thither. 
 
 The windows of her sitting-room were lighted, and one 
 of them was open to the evening breeze. He stood and 
 looked at that open window, and the beating of his heart 
 almost suffocated him. He did not know why he was there 
 nor what he wanted; but he knew that if Caroline came 
 near the window he should call to her. 
 
 She did come presently, and stood at the window peering 
 out into the night; against the light within her hair was 
 misty, the edges of her dress were luminous. " Caroline ! " 
 he called softly. " Caroline ! " 
 
 She did not start, but she looked out intently; it was 
 almost as if his voice had answered something in her 
 thoughts. " It is I, Avery," he said. " Come down here ; 
 please come down." 
 
 She vanished from the window, and he was not sure 
 that she had heard him at all ; but a moment later the house- 
 door opened. Avery stretched out his hand to the gate; it 
 swung on its hinges, and he met her in the tiny grass-plot. 
 A stone wall and a row of lilac bushes shielded them from 
 the street. 
 
 She had slipped a satin cloak over her tea-gown, and 
 
210 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 was bareheaded; her outline was softly feminine, uncer- 
 tain, romantic. She looked up at him as they met, and put 
 out her hands to him ; still she said not a word. 
 
 He took her hands in his. " Wretch, to stay indoors 
 on a night like this," he chided her, laughing a little. 
 
 " I had hoped that you would come," she whispered, and 
 then added lamely, " or telephone. You will come in ? " 
 
 But he would not go in; as he felt tonight, he could not 
 pay an ordinary evening call, between walls and among 
 servants. He took her arm instead, and drew her to the 
 side of the house, where they could talk unobserved. 
 
 " You had hoped that I would come tonight ? " he asked. 
 
 She pressed her hands together, lifted her eyes to his and 
 nodded. 
 
 "How could I stay away from you, on such a night?" 
 he whispered. 
 
 He repossessed himself of her hands, and slowly drew 
 her to him. She did not resist, but her eyes held his ; even 
 in the gloom they questioned him. For a moment she made 
 no sound; then she caught her breath sharply, and her 
 arms went around his neck. 
 
 Youth renews itself in man to this extent, that each 
 woman kissed for the first time is the first woman kissed; 
 and across the beloved lips there lies just then the shadow 
 of no other. When Avery's arms met around Caroline 
 Keppel he was no longer the experienced man, once mar- 
 ried and twice a father; no longer the dedicated man, the 
 prophet of a new social order. He was that simplest of 
 things, mere man, in his eternal juxtaposition with mere 
 woman: that simple thing, as inevitable as the stars in 
 their courses there above. 
 
 He felt no desire to speak; after their star-touching first 
 moment he held her close to him with one arm, and stroked 
 her hair. " I hoped that you would come. I've always 
 hoped that you would come — like this," she whispered. 
 
AVERY'S LITTLE AFFAIR 211 
 
 Oh, amazing Caroline ! Discreet and daring woman, who 
 could keep her own counsel so long, and then at just the 
 right moment give herself so completely away ! He laughed 
 a little, thinking how her hopes had run on ahead of his. 
 Then he thought how if it had not been for a meddlesome 
 woman and a night unseasonably warm he might never 
 have come " like this " ; and it seemed to him that he had 
 much to make up to Caroline. 
 
 Presently she shivered a little. " Are you cold ? " he 
 asked. He opened his coat, and she crept inside; he could 
 feel her heart beating against him. Encircled by the rough 
 coat and by his arm, she laughed drowsily. " I don't know 
 why we don't go inside," she said. " I can do as I like in my 
 own house." 
 
 They went inside presently; but before they went they 
 must linger and linger, listening to the spring wind in the 
 budding lilacs; and above the spring wind they heard the 
 beating of their own hearts, and the call of their too long 
 denied youth. 
 
XXI 
 
 PROGRESS OF AVERY'S LITTLE AFFAIR 
 
 Avery awoke the next day as the man of experience, with 
 a past, a future and an ethical sense. He realized that he 
 was engaged in an affair with a woman, and he found the 
 idea surprisingly distasteful, although the woman was not 
 distasteful in the least. Undoubtedly he would some day 
 ask her to marry him ; and he shivered at the thought, which 
 brought with it a horrible vision. 
 
 The vision was not of married life with Caroline — he 
 couldn't imagine that at all. It was of Cecily's face when he 
 should go to her and ask for a divorce. " You couldn't 
 stick it alone, could you, Avery?" he heard her ask; and 
 there followed in the ears of his imagination other questions, 
 put in her imperturbable way, " Is she pretty ? " and " Has 
 she money ? " and perhaps even, " And does she adore you, 
 Avery ? " followed finally by charitable consent to any 
 arrangement that suited him, and sweetly expressed wishes 
 for his happiness. 
 
 It was in vain for him to tell himself that even if he went 
 so far as to ask her for a divorce, he needn't see Cecily 
 personally, that, indeed, under the circumstances it would 
 be quite unusual for him to do so. That didn't soothe him. 
 The idea wasn't that he heard or didn't hear what Cecily had 
 to say ; what troubled him was his giving her any chance to 
 say it, to him or to any one else ; it was his putting himself 
 into a position which she would cynically enjoy. " You 
 couldn't stick it alone, could you, Avery ? " He struck his 
 fist on his desk, and glared about his empty office. No, by 
 
 212 
 
PROGRESS OF AVERY'S LITTLE AFFAIR 213 
 
 God, he wouldn't ask Cecily for anything. Cecily would 
 herself be remarrying one of these days, making some con- 
 founded, long-headed good match. He would wait, and let 
 the proposal for a divorce come from her; he would wait, 
 if he grew gray-haired in the waiting, and Caroline got 
 tired of him and cast him off. 
 
 Not that he could imagine Caroline's casting him off. 
 He softened as he thought of Caroline, Caroline who had 
 waited so long for him to come to her. She was waiting 
 for him now, he had no doubt ; thinking of him as she ate 
 her late breakfast, counting the hours that separated them. 
 He would let her know that he counted them too; it 
 " worked " better with a man, he would show the world, 
 when a woman was simple and sweet than when she was 
 clever and critical. 
 
 Her voice came over the wire thrilling with joy. He 
 would be with her late that afternoon, he told her; he 
 would come straight there from the office. " It looks like 
 rain," she said anxiously. " Shan't I send the car for 
 you ? " 
 
 Avery chuckled at the idea, though her anxiety did not 
 displease him. " It might arouse too much interest in my 
 office if you did that," he said. 
 
 " Come as early as you can," she said. " Remember, I 
 shall be watching for you." 
 
 She would watch, and wait. How old-fashioned, and 
 yet how sweet it was. She might have said " and pray " ; 
 he would be willing to wager that she did pray. It was 
 pleasant for a man to come back to such simple values, espe- 
 cially when he was weary of ultra-modern ideas and ultra- 
 modern people. Not that he didn't like Caroline for her 
 own sake; he mustn't represent his liking for her as too 
 exclusively a matter of reaction. 
 
 The threatened rain fell that afternoon; and Avery, get- 
 ting thoroughly soaked on his way to her, felt his 
 
214 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 impatience rising. He walked slowly to let it rise 
 the higher; oh, but it was sweet to have some 
 one to go to! 
 
 The open fire was burning in Caroline's sitting-room, and 
 tea was laid on a table near it. She sat waiting in a new 
 and splendid gown of blue and silver; her days of mourn- 
 ing were past, and she glowed at him with a pale radiance 
 beneath her ash-colored hair. 
 
 When the servant left she sprang to meet him, and ex- 
 claimed how long he had been coming, and how wet he was. 
 " Late, but here," said Avery, keeping one of her hands 
 as he threw himself into a big chair and stretched his legs 
 to the fire. " And now that I am here, I shall stay until you 
 put me out." 
 
 " But your feet ! What would you say if one of your pa- 
 tients got so wet ? " she remonstrated. 
 
 " None of the eternal doctor ! " he admonished. 
 " Speaking merely as a man, I should be glad to see any 
 one get wet in such a good cause." 
 
 He drew her toward him; she knelt beside his chair. 
 " Oh," she repeated as he released her, " you were so long 
 coming ! " 
 
 He smiled at her naivete, but realized that it put a double 
 burden upon him. " Give me some tea, Caroline," he said. 
 " I want to talk seriously to you." 
 
 " Oh, don't, please don't ! " she cried. " All my life I've 
 been talked seriously to, and I don't like it. I want you to 
 be young with me." 
 
 He thought of the years when she had been shepherded 
 by her husband and Judith Keppel, thought of how her 
 youth had always been denied; and then he thought that 
 their relation was as yet very new, and there would be 
 plenty of time to discuss it seriously. He picked up a fold 
 of her blue drapery, and stroked it between his fingers. 
 " What a lovely color this is ! " he said. 
 
PROGRESS OF AVERY'S LITTLE AFFAIR 215 
 
 " And there are other lovely colors, rose and green and 
 yellow and lilac. And I am going to have them all," she 
 proclaimed. 
 
 " Extravagant one ! " he jibed. 
 
 " Who has a better right than I, I ask ? I've been through 
 a sort of premature old age, Avery, and I've just come 
 young. Perhaps if it hadn't been for you I should never 
 have been young at all. Think of growing old, when you 
 have never been young." He grasped her hand in quick 
 sympathy, and as she returned the pressure she added, still 
 plaintively, " And now that I am young, I don't want any- 
 body to scold me. At least now, when I've just found 
 you " 
 
 " My dear girl, I gave up all idea of talking seriously to 
 you long ago." 
 
 " How long ago ? " 
 
 " Ages and ages ! Some time after I came into this room, 
 never mind when." 
 
 " That's lovely," she purred at him. " I love it when you 
 give in to me, Avery." 
 
 " Most women would," said Avery. 
 
 " I don't care what most women would do. I don't even 
 care what you would say or do say to most women, when 
 you're outside ; but while you're here, Avery, we won't dis- 
 cuss most women." 
 
 She poured his tea for him, and he drank it. The index 
 of forbidden subjects was growing at an alarming rate, he 
 thought; it hampered conversation if one always stopped 
 beforehand and thought whether a subject was allowable. 
 He was silent, and she moved about the room, bringing up a 
 little stool, getting a guitar and tuning it. " I'll play for 
 you," she said as she sat down on the stool. " Shall you 
 like that?" 
 
 " I didn't even know that you could play," he said. 
 
 " You know very little about me yet," she announced. 
 
216 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " It will be such fun to discover. You talk, when you 
 aren't singing, and I'll listen all the time," he proposed. 
 
 " You may be disappointed," she warned him ; but clearly 
 she didn't think so. She was luxuriating in the very 
 thought of letting him know all about her. 
 
 She began to play, and after a few minutes to sing. She 
 sang little French and Italian songs, snatches of opera, 
 things that she must have learned in solemn lessons and 
 other things that she might have picked up in the streets of 
 foreign towns. A fold of her blue drapery lay across his 
 knee. He sat watching the fire, lulled by the warmth and 
 the music. This was far pleasanter than talking; this 
 listening, and at times almost ceasing to listen, and merely 
 being, was just what his hungry soul desired. And unac- 
 knowledged but ever present, there lay in the depths of his 
 mind the consoling consciousness that when he chose he 
 could leave all this behind, and go away by himself. 
 
 After some time Caroline left him. " I've ordered dinner 
 to be served here," she said as she came trailing back. " I 
 hate that big, bleak dining-room; we shall be much cosier 
 here by the fire." 
 
 That was indiscreet of her, it seemed to Avery. But 
 he had promised not to scold; and anyway, what would 
 have been the good of pointing out to her an indiscretion 
 in which she would probably have gloried ? " For this 
 young woman, I am a large and lively spree," he thought. 
 Aloud he said, " That will be nice. I like to eat all over 
 the house." 
 
 " I'm so glad you do," she said. " We're going to have 
 all the things you like best. I've noticed, every time 
 you took me to dinner, what you seemed to favor." 
 
 " Who would have thought a young woman would be so 
 noticing? " 
 
 " Little birds, and a Romaine salad, and a bottle of sound 
 wine," she announced. 
 
PROGRESS OF AVERY'S LITTLE AFFAIR 217 
 
 There was no doubt that the wine would be sound, he 
 thought ; and she really had hit his taste in the other items. 
 He smiled up into her eager face. " Jolly," he said. 
 
 It was jolly to have one's tastes consulted, and to feel 
 once more about one that teasing, tantalizing, satisfying 
 thing, a feminine atmosphere. And after a day's work it 
 was pleasant to sit still and be ministered to, and eat an 
 exquisite dinner of some one else's choosing — it was un- 
 natural for a man to have to bother about food. Yet if the 
 time ever came when he should eat all his dinners and spend 
 all his evenings in this atmosphere, should he really like it 
 so well? 
 
 Second thoughts can spoil even the best of dinners, and 
 Avery tried resolutely to banish his from his mind. He was 
 so successful that at the conclusion of the meal he had not 
 a thought of any kind in his head as he threw himself 
 back in his chair. " Aren't you going to play some more? " 
 he suggested. 
 
 She shook her head, and began to move softly about 
 the room. She was not so quiescent as he ; indeed she was 
 a little wistful. Perhaps she expected him to play the con- 
 quering hero : she was so much younger than he, and she 
 had probably spent the day imagining what the evening 
 would be like. When she drew near him again Avery held 
 out his hands to her. 
 
 One thing led to another : a handclasp to a kiss, that kiss 
 to another, and many kisses to half an hour when he held 
 her close and called her silly, endearing names. And now 
 the magic of the night before returned completely; now at 
 last he was thoroughly happy, and would have stayed the 
 fleeting moment if he could. She lay quiet in his arms, 
 pale and exquisite ; the scent that clung about her garments 
 covered them both. This was youth : this was ecstasy : this 
 was life. 
 
 It was terminated neither by time nor conscience. She 
 
2i8 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 stirred presently; lifting her hand, she stroked his hair. 
 " I love your hair," she said. " It's like black satin." 
 
 The first time he had ever kissed Cecily, she made almost 
 the same remark. Avery's arms stiffened, and he drew 
 his head away from her. " I think I would better go soon," 
 he said, and rose from his chair. 
 
 She was conscious of a sudden coldness, ignorant of what 
 had brought it about. " It isn't late," she protested, her 
 lip drooping. 
 
 " Not very late, but Avery has a big day's work ahead 
 of him," he explained. 
 
 " Very well," she said with a sigh ; then she brightened 
 again as she added, " Will you come tomorrow ? " 
 
 "Tomorrow? May I?" 
 
 " Indeed you may." 
 
 " If I may, I will," he said. " Tomorrow and tomorrow 
 and tomorrow." 
 
 That pleased her. " Tomorrow and tomorrow and to- 
 morrow," she repeated, as if it were a charm. She put 
 up her lips for a good-night kiss. 
 
 " Yesterday and yesterday and yesterday," rang in 
 Avery's head as he strode down the street. What had he 
 to do with tomorrows ? Yesterdays pursued him, lay on him 
 like a weight. He thought he would walk home, to tire 
 himself. The rain had ceased, and the pavements were wet 
 and glistening. Yes, he must tire himself. It was a long 
 walk, and perhaps at the end he could sleep. He wanted 
 to sleep; yet how could he, unless he could forget? And 
 how could he forget? Cecily was with him as he walked: 
 his first love, his bride, his wife, a tantalizing creature 
 never quite grasped, and now gone — gone. No doubt if 
 he had her back they would simply repeat their old story, 
 jars, coldness, veiled eyes and glances that never met; yet 
 now with every nerve he longed to have her back. What 
 did it matter whether they agreed or disagreed? "I am 
 
PROGRESS OF AVERY'S LITTLE AFFAIR 219 
 
 my beloved's." Yes, now and always, together or a world 
 apart, happy or unhappy, I am my beloved's! 
 
 Cecily would smile, if she could see him fresh from the 
 embrace of another woman, and yearning for her. He 
 could smile himself, but it was a wry smile. Was he never 
 to be able to forget that long-past love of his? Must he 
 drag it with him on an ever-lengthening chain to his life's 
 end? 
 
 No, by God, he wouldn't ! He no longer cared for Cecily, 
 nor she for him, and he wasn't going to make a superstition 
 of her. Fiercely he put the idea of Cecily from him, 
 sternly he turned his mind toward the free life he had 
 won, the life of liberty and service. It was the weather 
 that was affecting his nerves, that and the idiotic conduct 
 of which he had lately been guilty. What had he to do 
 with women, or they with him? His mind ran on eagerly 
 to his own high, bare room. Once there he could shake 
 off this obsession; once there, he should be himself again. 
 
 With a sense of relief he ran up the stairs, threw open 
 the door and turned on his light. For a minute the relief 
 deepened ; in the air of that austere chamber he could cer- 
 tainly breathe more freely. Then he saw, lying on his big, 
 neat desk, a letter addressed to him in Cecily's writing. 
 For a moment he felt oppressed, and thoroughly indignant ; 
 this was a shabby trick for fate to play him just when he 
 was summoning his self-command. Slowly and rebelliously 
 he opened it. 
 
 It was an intelligent, friendly letter, apparently written 
 on no particular occasion. Avery's shrewd guess was that 
 she had been up to something, and was writing from com- 
 punction, but he could gather no hint as to what the 
 something was. She told him of the success of her tea- 
 shop, which was already paying; she told him of Junior's 
 progress in school, and related incidents of Margaret's 
 precocity. " When you wish to see the children, you have 
 
220 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 only to say so," she concluded; and signed herself his as 
 ever, Cecily. 
 
 Avery laid down the letter, and groped in his desk drawer 
 for a picture. He seldom looked at it, but he knew where 
 to find it; and now he drew it forth, and held it close up 
 under his desk-light. It showed Cecily, in evening dress, 
 seated with the baby Margaret on her lap; one arm was 
 about Junior, then some two and a half years old, who stood 
 beside her. Cecily was looking down, and her face was in 
 shadow; but her soft, wavy hair and the familiar lines of 
 her neck and her thin figure were there ; and in her arms she 
 held his children. 
 
 He studied the picture in detail, recalling how she had 
 had it taken as a surprise for him. She had made her own 
 dress, clever, clever girl ! and the little frock that Margaret 
 had on, and perhaps Junior's as well. How thin she was, 
 and how plump and healthy the children! It looked as 
 if they had drained all the vitality away from her. He 
 remembered the night when Margaret was born; remem- 
 bered that after Junior's birth he had not wanted another 
 child, had been afraid that it would kill her when it came, 
 she had so nearly died at Junior's birth. But she had not 
 been afraid : she had always been brave where her chil- 
 dren were concerned, and most awfully generous. She had 
 named the boy for him, and the girl, whom he had wanted 
 to call Cecily, for his dead mother. All those things had 
 been marvelous to Avery. And yet so soon afterward they 
 had had nothing to say to each other, and then had come 
 the breach. 
 
 And in spite of the yearning of these occasional nights 
 when one remembered, it was a breach past healing, on his 
 side as well as on hers. He was to go to see another woman 
 tomorrow, and doubtless in another year that woman 
 would be calling him husband. It was the way things 
 went. 
 
PROGRESS OF AVERY'S LITTLE AFFAIR 221 
 
 Avery slipped the picture back into its drawer, and went 
 and leaned in the open window. Somebody two houses 
 down the street was playing a phonograph, and through the 
 damp air the music carried perfectly, came to him fully and 
 sweetly. Avery listened to one record, something on a 
 violin, something very fine-drawn and wistful. Suddenly 
 he began to enjoy his own melancholy; he would have liked 
 to lean there all night, and have the music go on and on, 
 and breathe the damp air until it grew chilly with the dawn. 
 
 The violin music ceased, and the person two houses down 
 the street changed the record. His next choice was a song; 
 and at the close of the first line Avery started as if he 
 had been shot, and closed the window violently. The 
 person down the street was playing " Love's Young 
 Dream." 
 
 Before he went to bed, Avery sat down and wrote Cecily 
 a long letter. It was simply interesting and friendly; yet 
 when he re-read it and remembered how he had spent the 
 evening, he felt rankly polygamous. Nevertheless he got 
 it ready for the mail ; if sending it constituted polygamy, so 
 much the worse for monogamy. 
 
 In the morning his head ached, and he was once more a 
 prey to those second thoughts of his. He destroyed the let- 
 ter he had written; and some time later, he telephoned to 
 Caroline that he would be at her house early. Cecily be- 
 longed to his catalogue of vain regrets, and he had no 
 intention of not leaving her there. 
 
 Later in the morning he was much annoyed when, after 
 several more or less furtive glances at him, his poor plain 
 stenographer asked if he didn't feel well. He assured her 
 and himself, and his lingering thoughts of Cecily, that he 
 had never felt better in his life. 
 
XXII 
 
 MORLEY HAS SOMETHING TO SAY 
 
 Cecily's tea-shop, which had been at first an interesting 
 novelty, soon established itself as a response to a long- 
 felt need in the life of the city. In winter it was cosy, with 
 drawn curtains and low lights and steaming pots of tea; 
 in summer, clothed with awnings and farther shielded from 
 the street by great pots of things green and growing, it 
 seemed to take its characteristic note from the pleasant 
 tinkle of ice in tall glasses. And at her desk going over 
 accounts, or hiring and training her waitresses, or greet- 
 ing her customers and making them feel like her guests, 
 Cecily pervaded the place, a firm and gracious young woman, 
 mistress of herself and, so far as her conscience dictated, 
 servant of the people. 
 
 Her affection for her business grew to be almost a by- 
 word among her friends. The tea-shop was like a third 
 child to her, with the addition that the success of her tea- 
 shop was a perpetual and delightful surprise, whereas her 
 children were matters of course, and she got from them 
 pretty much what she expected. 
 
 The responsibility and the independence and her own 
 graciousness reacted on her most favorably. She had al- 
 ways been pretty, in a too thin, too nervous, almost dry 
 way; now she seemed to be passing from a protracted 
 girlhood to a lovely maturity. Her figure was rounder, 
 her mouth sweeter, her very voice fuller and softer. She 
 had blossomed, it seemed; though whether it was all her 
 new occupation, or whether other causes were at work as 
 well, who should say? 
 
MORLEY HAS SOMETHING TO SAY 223 
 
 Richard Morley could not, though he observed every- 
 thing that happened to her. He saw more and more of 
 her these days, frankly took up as much of her time as 
 she would allow him to take ; and the attraction that drew 
 him to her was steadily growing in power. It was not by 
 any one quality that she drew* him : he had known other 
 women who possessed her various qualities to a greater 
 degree. But either the blending of them, or some mys- 
 terious final quality supplied by his own imagination, at- 
 tracted and held him. And once the attraction was estab- 
 lished, his very maturity and the stability of his character 
 tended to make it permanent. If all he wanted had been a 
 suitable wife, his own social circle could have furnished 
 half a dozen candidates better fitted than this present one. 
 But he didn't want a suitable wife, he thought it odd that 
 he should want a wife at all. He had simply fallen in love 
 with Cecily; and being in love, he intended to marry. 
 
 He was sitting with her one hot Sunday afternoon. 
 Cecily's tea-shop was not open Sundays, and he liked to 
 come to her flat. Even on a Sunday, a day hitherto de- 
 voted in spite of his better judgment to a boredom inherited 
 from his Puritan ancestors, Morley found her poignant — 
 final proof, if proof were needed, of her peculiar and pene- 
 trating charm. 
 
 The window shades were down, and the air of the little 
 room was sultry. Cecily was wearing a white dress, and 
 looked very cool; but even she seemed to feel the languor 
 of the day. Conversation went altogether by snatches. At 
 intervals the two of them fell silent, and then he would feel 
 her presence more strongly than ever, almost unbearably. 
 Forthwith he would plunge into conversation again, and for 
 a few moments the interview took on a false appearance 
 of vivacity. 
 
 " When it gets cooler," he said, " we'll go for a ride, 
 shan't we?" 
 
224 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Junior and Baby and all ? " she asked. 
 
 " Junior and Baby and Anna," he asserted. " We'd take 
 the dog, if you had a dog." 
 
 " That will be fine. Anna deserves a little outing, I'm 
 sure. She likes you, you know," said Cecily. 
 
 He was glad of that; in a pinch a man is glad of all 
 allies. Again conversation lagged, and again he was fear- 
 fully conscious of her. " Do you ever happen to see any- 
 thing of Bradley Antisdel ? " he asked hastily. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " she answered. " He took my invitation 
 quite seriously, and he has come. Not often, you know ; in 
 fact I think not more than three or four times." 
 
 " I'm glad he has," said Morley heartily. " I know it 
 does him good." 
 
 " Perhaps it does. It isn't any trouble for me : he just 
 sits and watches the children, and at the end of an hour or 
 SO' he gets up and goes." 
 
 " I know it does him good," Morley repeated. " And it's 
 fine of you to say that it isn't any trouble to have him here. 
 I know it can't be amusing for you ; poor old Bradley isn't 
 very good company these days." 
 
 " I'm sorry for him," said Cecily. 
 
 " Any one might be," answered Morley, and then added 
 sharply, " Don't let me get on that subject, Mrs. Fairchild; 
 I never know when to stop." 
 
 The mere mention of " that subject " made him angry, 
 now and always. His anger broke the smooth surface of 
 his " niceness " ; and yet in it he always seemed " nicer " 
 than ever. Perceiving that fact, Cecily looked at him so 
 kindly that Morley made another abrupt conversational 
 plunge, 
 
 They were distracted by the entrance of Margaret. 
 Cecily called the child to her, arranged her hair-ribbon, 
 dropped a quick kiss on her cheek. "Where's Brother?" 
 she asked. 
 
MORLEY HAS SOMETHING TO SAY 22s 
 
 Brother was reading, it appeared. He frequently was 
 reading, in spite of the difficulties of the newly acquired 
 art. " Brother's going to be a bookworm, I fear," said 
 his mother, smiling at Morley. " I was myself, in my 
 youth." 
 
 " He is very much like you ? " asked Morley. 
 
 "Oh, very much!" 
 
 " But your little girl isn't." 
 
 " No," said Cecily. A shade of embarrassment ap- 
 peared in the manner of each ; this time it was Cecily who 
 hunted a topic. " Did I tell you," she asked quickly, " that 
 Miss Samuels has moved up into this neighborhood ? " 
 
 " Miss Samuels ? " Morley pretended intense interest. 
 " Oh, yes, that girl in our office — your choice." 
 
 " Yes, my choice." 
 
 " Your choice has turned out well, I think," said Morley. 
 " She hasn't done much work for me, but the other men 
 seem to consider her satisfactory." 
 
 " She ought to be," said Cecily, " if only by reason 
 of the effort that she makes. If you could see her 
 as I have " 
 
 " She was an adorer of yours, wasn't she ? " he asked. 
 " Did she move up here to be near you ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Cecily. " She still haunts me, but 
 she isn't so awkward about it as she used to be. She comes 
 to the tea-shop often for lunch — oftener than she can 
 afford, I'm sure. Well, one night she lay in wait for me at 
 the corner, and told me that she had moved. She asked 
 me to come and see her, and I finally went." 
 
 " And it was revealing ? " 
 
 " It was. If you could see that room of hers ! It 
 
 was the usual furnished room to begin with, but quite im- 
 possibly neat; and it was crammed with books. The most 
 improving books : dictionaries and grammars, and the 
 ' Iliad,' and ' How to Look at Pictures.' And she has read 
 
226 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 them all, and studied most of them. Imagine, she has even 
 taught herself German ! " 
 
 " I can't imagine it," said Morley^ " But all that effort is 
 mighty fine." 
 
 "Isn't it? As 1 sat and listened to her schemes for 
 self-improvement, I felt awfully ashamed. I've had so 
 much greater opportunities, and I've wasted most of them." 
 
 " I can't believe that you ever in your life wasted an op- 
 portunity," said Morley. 
 
 " Yes, I have," she retorted rather sharply. 
 
 Again there was silence ; and suddenly Morley felt moved 
 to attack the subject he had been so pointedly avoiding. 
 He leaned toward her. " Margaret," he said, " go see if 
 you can find Anna. Mrs. Fairchild, before we go for our 
 ride, let's devote a few minutes to talking about our- 
 selves." 
 
 " That's always an agreeable pastime," said Cecily. " But 
 have we anything in particular to say about ourselves ? " 
 
 "I have. Can't you guess what it is?" 
 
 She shook her head. Leaning back in her chair, her 
 bright eyes on him, she seemed to claim her immemorial 
 privilege of being wooed. 
 
 " You had some flat-hunting project on a week ago, 
 didn't you ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes. Had I forgotten to tell you about that ? I meant 
 to tell." 
 
 " Never mind it just now ; you can tell me about it after- 
 ward. But please don't go on with it until you consider 
 what I have to say. I'm fairly well off in this world's 
 goods, Mrs. Fairchild. I'm older than you, but I'm healthy 
 and decently good-tempered, and I've lived a harmless if 
 somewhat useless life. I want you to marry me." 
 
 She drew a long breath, and continued to look steadily 
 at him. " Thank you, Richard," she said slowly, " thank 
 you." 
 
MORLEY HAS SOMETHING TO SAY 227 
 
 " I can't give you all that you deserve, perhaps," he went 
 on, " but I can make your life easier for you — and I'm 
 rather mad about you, Cecily." 
 
 " Thank you," she said again ; her eyes were softer. 
 
 " I've never felt that you cared much about me," he con- 
 tinued, " but you like me, don't you ? " 
 
 " I like you very much, Richard," she said. " But there 
 are — obstacles." 
 
 " Obstacles ? I see none ; you will have to make me be- 
 lieve that." 
 
 " You see none ? " 
 
 " None," he averred. " Certainly your children are no 
 obstacle. For a man of my age, to come into a ready-made 
 family is finer than having one of his own. And I adore 
 your children, Cecily." 
 
 " You would be wonderful with the children, I know," 
 she said. " As they grew older you could help me with 
 them, especially with Junior. I see breakers ahead; I 
 should like a man's help with him. No, it isn't the chil- 
 dren." 
 
 "Aren't you free?" he asked. "I didn't know, but I 
 have always taken it that you were." 
 
 " I can be at any time, I dare say ; there are only some 
 formalities to go through," she said. 
 
 Icy fingers seemed to grip him. " Perhaps you don't 
 care to be. Perhaps you still love your first husband? 
 Cecily, it isn't that?" 
 
 She shook her head. " How could I love him? I never 
 see him. Avery Fairchild is nothing but a name to me 
 now." 
 
 " Avery Fairchild ? Of Chicago ? That doctor who goes 
 all over the country and lectures about tuberculosis? Was 
 he your husband ? " 
 
 " Does he go all over the country? I thought his work 
 lay in Chicago." 
 
228 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Perhaps it does. I've read about him in the Chicago 
 papers. A very handsome man, to judge by his picture." 
 
 " Yes. He is handsome," she said. 
 
 " You weren't — happy together ? " 
 
 " No. Marriage wasn't what I had pictured it, and I 
 wasn't satisfied. I ask too much of life, I suppose." 
 
 " But you can give me," he said, appealing artfully to 
 her generosity, "all I ask." 
 
 " If I were fifty years old," she said, " I would take you, 
 Richard." 
 
 " Will you when you are fifty ? " he asked quickly. 
 
 She laughed. " Ask me then," she said. " And mean- 
 while, I'm going to take the flat I was speaking of, and move 
 in the fall. Shall I tell you about it?" 
 
 " Of course, tell me about it." 
 
 " Well, a man has just turned a huge old frame house 
 into flats, and I can have the third floor. For no more rent 
 than I pay here, Richard, I can get a dwelling-place that 
 will do my soul good. A great balcony, three beautiful 
 
 little bedrooms, bath, kitchen and such a living-room ! 
 
 Such a huge raftered living-room — real rafters, they hold 
 up the roof — and full of the softest light ! " 
 
 "You have taken it, you say?" 
 
 " Yes. I did so yesterday. I hesitated before only be- 
 cause I wanted a play-place for the children; and now the 
 landlord tells me that I can have half of the back yard, 
 all fenced off. But the living-room, Richard — you will 
 love the living-room ! " 
 
 "The living-room will have a chance to get very tired 
 of me, Cecily. I am glad that you like houses and the 
 decoration of them. It will make me very happy if some 
 day you tell me to have my old place done over." 
 
 She smiled at him, shaking her head, and he thought 
 best to drop the subject. Yet as he started for his drive 
 half an hour later, with her beside him and her boy between 
 
MORLEY HAS SOMETHING TO SAY 229 
 
 them, he felt even happier than starting off with her usually 
 made him. He had made some gain that afternoon. In 
 the first place she had allowed him to use her given name, 
 the sweet English " Cecily " that he loved. And she had 
 by no means refused him; he did not believe that she 
 intended to refuse him. He thought none the less of her for 
 not falling into his hand at the first sign he made ; and she 
 was assuredly worth waiting for. Wait for her he would, 
 even if necessary until she reached the fifty years she had 
 suggested. Meanwhile he appreciated the present state of 
 affairs, which was sweet, if tantalizing: tantalizing, but 
 sweet. 
 
XXIII 
 
 EPISODE 
 
 " Avery Fairchild is nothing but a name to me now." 
 Cecily had surprised herself when she said that. It was 
 fatally true, though, and she had for a long time acknowl- 
 edged it to herself. It was months since Avery had even 
 let her hear from him. Not, of course, that Cecily minded 
 it on her own account ; but he might very well have shown 
 some interest in his children. Avery had never been furi- 
 ously paternal, but she had thought that his children meant 
 something to him, had reproached herself more or less for 
 separating him from them. But he was allowing them to 
 grow away from him as they grew tall and lovely, and, to 
 a mature mind, more interesting every day. They had 
 now ceased to ask either when Daddy was coming home or 
 when they were going to Daddy; and although those ques- 
 tions had pricked her sharply enough in their day, she 
 rather missed them now. 
 
 In the spring she had herself written to him, in a spirit 
 of compunction for things he might have resented if he 
 had chosen; she had written a consciously agreeable let- 
 ter, as agreeable as she knew how to make it. Her letter 
 had remained unanswered. Remittances still continued to 
 come, but they were sent now by the bank. The check 
 had grown from twenty to forty dollars, a growth which 
 indicated prosperity on Avery's part; this very summer it 
 advanced to sixty. Cecily, being now prosperous herself, be- 
 gan to bank all his drafts as the nucleus of a fund to edu- 
 cate the children. 
 
 330 
 
EPISODE 231 
 
 Like Morley, she occasionally saw Avery's name in the 
 .Chicago paper ; it occurred to her that some day she would 
 see it there in another connection. Avery might very well 
 remarry; why, indeed, should he not? She admitted no 
 interest in his plans, had certainly come to the end of her 
 own relations with him. But if that were the reason Avery 
 had cut his children, if he indeed planned a new house- 
 hold and perhaps a second family, she would see to it that 
 her children had a new father. Richard Morley was won- 
 derful with her children ; but then Richard was always per- 
 fect in his attitudes. She really ought to marry him; she 
 was coming quite to like the idea. The generous character 
 of his passion appealed to her; and the ease and richness 
 of his life were such as she had always desired. 
 
 Still she hesitated. A woman could know first love but 
 once, a serener feeling befitted after that; but there were 
 times when in spite of herself Morley's wooing threw her 
 mind back violently to other days and another lover. The 
 passion of those days had faded, but remembrance of all 
 that had happened since could not dim their wonder. With 
 all her liking for Morley, and her appreciation of both his 
 qualities and his environment, she was never thrilled by 
 his person or his feeling for her. The worst of it was that 
 she had known such a thrill, and missed it in the present 
 situation. 
 
 After that summer day when he had first asked her to 
 marry him, Morley often recurred to the subject. " I am 
 happy as I am, Richard," she would plead. " Some day, 
 perhaps." Later she changed it to, " Some day, surely — 
 but not just now." And within sight of her unkissed lips 
 Morley held his patience, and argued with himself that he, 
 too, was happy as things were. A woman was not less 
 attractive for being chary of herself; and she rose in his 
 estimation for being able to keep a man of his years and 
 experience guessing about the whole situation. 
 
232 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 At least, she didn't keep him at arm's length because 
 she lacked generosity. All through that next fall and winter 
 Bradley Antisdel came more or less regularly to her flat; 
 and she allowed and even encouraged him to come, though 
 his dumb presence must have bored her. Morley some- 
 times encountered him there, sitting in a corner, never 
 staying long, often silent for half an hour at a stretch, but 
 drinking in peace at every pore. Antisdel was one of 
 those to whom the gift of expression has been denied; but 
 one evening when they left together he said awkwardly to 
 Morley, jerking his head back over his shoulder, " That's 
 what a home should be like." 
 
 Morley divined how it must appeal to him — the lived-in 
 atmosphere of Cecily's new flat, the pretty children in the 
 happy hour between supper and bed-time, the woman who 
 used her nervous energy at worst only for the production 
 of witty and wicked sayings about people. Even the ab- 
 sence of row would appeal to poor Antisdel; in his own 
 house, if he was not being frozen, he was being rowed. 
 He rather preferred the rows ; for during them Clara could 
 not yearn quite so pointedly for her deserted lover. 
 
 " It's a rare chance for Bradley, finding such a woman as 
 Cecily to give him a few hours of peace," Morley thought, 
 " but if Clara ever finds out about this, there will be a 
 memorable row." Clara made a point of not caring any- 
 thing about her husband; but Morley suspected that she 
 would not put up with anything that looked like an infringe- 
 ment of her property rights in him. " She's a common 
 dog in the manger, as well as a tragic heroine," was Mor- 
 ley's summing-up of Mrs. Antisdel. 
 
 Cecily never seemed to worry about the possibility of 
 Mrs. Antisdel's finding out; as indeed why should she, 
 considering what there was to find out ? Beside, every mo- 
 ment of Cecily's time was taken these days. She was 
 
EPISODE 233 
 
 working hard, seeing a great deal of Morley, settling her 
 new flat. What leisure had she to think of anything so un- 
 important as poor Antisdel, standing like a beggar to re- 
 ceive the crumbs that fell from her table? 
 
 Her new flat was all that she had hoped it would be, an 
 airy and unusual dwelling, suited to Cecily as she was at 
 this stage of her life. In the great raftered living-room, 
 full of the soft light that she loved — a room that trans- 
 formed and improved any light, day or electric or fire — 
 Bradley Antisdel continued to occupy at intervals the least 
 comfortable chair; and Cecily endured his visits with fine 
 ironic patience. 
 
 " The odd part of it," thought Morley, who watched and 
 analyzed the whole situation, " is that Bradley isn't a bit 
 in love with Cecily, unless I'm very much mistaken. I think 
 that he never has loved any one but that beast Clara." 
 Morley wouldn't have liked it, of course, if Antisdel had 
 been in love with Cecily, and Cecily probably wouldn't have 
 liked it either. The fact that he so obviously wasn't, saved 
 the situation and probably accounted for her patience. She 
 was simply being generous. 
 
 The three of them, Cecily, Antisdel and Morley, were 
 sitting together one winter evening. The children had just 
 started for bed, under conduct of Anna ; Morley and Cecily 
 had drawn their chairs close to the wood-fire. Antisdel as 
 usual sat back a little, though they had urged him to draw 
 up too. He was as quiet as ever tonight, but it was not 
 merely his retiring disposition that made him sit back. He 
 wanted to look at them. Morley and Cecily looked happy ; 
 he could see what a life they had stretching before them; 
 he wished to watch them, and think of their happy, happy 
 future. He loved Richard Morley, and here was Morley 
 in love with and apparently on the point of being loved by 
 God's kindest woman. Her beauty and intelligence any 
 one could observe, but only Bradley Antisdel knew how 
 
234 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 kind she was, kind even to a poor devil who must bore her 
 to death. 
 
 " Why don't we pop corn over the coals, or even toast 
 marshmallows ? " asked Cecily from the depths of her chair. 
 " I should love it if you fed me toasted marshmallows, 
 Richard." 
 
 " Beastly, sticky things" objected Morley. " I'll be glad 
 to pop corn for you though." 
 
 " That's like you, Richard," she commented. " Pop- 
 corn comes down to us from the Puritans, I think, and it's 
 certainly an ascetic dainty." 
 
 " I'm not sure about that," said Morley. " I know that 
 when I was a child I loved it chiefly because I could gorge 
 myself on it without ever getting sick." 
 
 " Richard ! " she exclaimed. " Were you ever really a 
 greedy, dirty little boy ? " 
 
 " All little boys are greedy and dirty, even your delight- 
 ful Junior," said Morley, smiling. 
 
 " Oh, I can't allow that ! Mine is a model child," she pro- 
 tested. 
 
 The door-bell rang at that moment, and they heard Anna 
 go to answer it. Antisdel's experience had made him ap- 
 prehensive ; he sat rigid now, fearful that something would 
 interrupt their pleasant evening. Morley and Cecily, both 
 secure in a good conscience and the background of a life 
 unshaken by rows, seemed not to have heard the bell; they 
 were looking at each other. But when Anna showed the 
 new arrival into the room — there was no other place to show 
 her — Morley sprang to his feet and rushed forward. " My 
 dear Clara ! " he exclaimed. " Have you come for Bradley? 
 It's a good wind that blows you in here; I've been long- 
 ing to have you meet my friend Mrs. Fairchild. Mrs. Fair- 
 child, this is Mrs. Antisdel." 
 
 Clara Antisdel was in evening dress, with a rich wrap 
 and a huge muff. As she stood in the doorway, her lips 
 
EPISODE 235 
 
 curled and her eyes blazing, she was a striking and effective 
 figure. A figure of triumph she seemed to poor Antisdel ; 
 she had tracked him to his last little refuge. Richard 
 Morley saw in her only a bad-tempered woman who was 
 always determined to make scenes; a scene was what he 
 wanted to avoid. 
 
 " I hope you aren't in any hurry, Clara," he said. " We 
 were planning some innocent bucolic delight, such as pop- 
 corn ; though of course if you'd rather, the four of us can go 
 out somewhere to spend the evening." 
 
 His effusiveness only let Mrs. 'Antisdel see that he 
 dreaded her. She answered him with a single look; then 
 she turned the batteries of her scorn on Cecily. Cecily, to 
 be sure, did not seem to mind : she stood with an arm rest- 
 ing lightly on a chair-back, and regarded her visitor with 
 an expression in which curiosity predominated. 
 
 " So," said Mrs. Antisdel, breaking her silence, " so you 
 are the woman he comes to see ! " 
 
 " Clara ! Clara ! " protested Antisdel. 
 
 But Cecily needed no allies. " I suppose I am," she 
 said, " formally at- least." 
 
 "Formally?" 
 
 "Yes. I think," said Cecily, "that he actually comes 
 to see the children, and because it's quiet here." 
 
 " Are you sure it's quiet ? " asked Mrs. Antisdel. " Isn't 
 it rather that you make it interesting?" 
 
 Morley seemed to choke at that ; but Cecily laid her free 
 hand on his arm. " No, Mrs. Antisdel," she said slowly. 
 " I don't make it interesting. I don't even find it interest- 
 ing. 
 
 " That is hard to believe," said Clara, throwing her head 
 back. 
 
 " I don't see why it need be," said Cecily, her courteous 
 tone never altering. "Doubtless your husband was once 
 
236 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 the same as other men. Now he hasn't a single idea except 
 peace, peace at any price." 
 
 Clara kept her superior manner, but she stumbled now. 
 " What does that mean ? " she asked. 
 
 " Simply that he doesn't get it at home, I suppose." 
 
 " That isn't any of your affair." Clara's magnificence 
 was dwindling into vulgarity; it became more apparent 
 every minute that she could if she chose lead any one a 
 life ! " When this business is aired " 
 
 " Clara, don't talk nonsense," said Morley sharply. 
 
 " What have you to do with this ? " asked Mrs. An- 
 tisdel. 
 
 " You are speaking to the woman to whom I am paying 
 my addresses, as the phrase is," said Morley. " I hope to 
 marry her, Clara, if she will have me." 
 
 " In that case, I can see how you are interested," said 
 Mrs. Antisdel nastily. Once more it took Cecily's touch 
 to restrain Morley. 
 
 " I haven't promised to marry him," said Cecily, always 
 very quietly. " But if I do marry him, I shall carry out 
 my bargain. There is nothing like keeping to your bar- 
 gain, Mrs. Antisdel. If you want to leave a man, leave him ; 
 but so long as you keep his name — and spend his money — 
 don't starve him and don't badger him. The silly game will 
 ruin your own life, and it will leave him yours in the 
 end only because he has become such a poor creature that 
 no other woman will have him." 
 
 Clara Antisdel's face blanched at that last hit. She 
 began to stammer something, but Cecily went on, "You 
 came to me, Mrs. Antisdel, not I to you. I'm not the 
 keeper of your private conscience, but you yourself have 
 given me some right to speak in this matter. You are 
 spoiling a good man's life — oh, he is a good man, a fine 
 man ! He would be an agreeable man if you only gave him 
 the chance. You're spoiling your own life too. Of course, 
 
EPISODE 237 
 
 that's your business ; but don't ruin his. So long as you are 
 his wife, be his wife ; or leave him, and leave him in peace." 
 
 " For some other woman ? " snapped Mrs. Antisdel. 
 
 " Perhaps. After all, why not, if you don't want him any 
 more? But that isn't the course I should like to see you 
 take, Mrs. Antisdel. The splendid course, the course for 
 a really human woman, is to stay and make him happy. 
 Men are such silly things, so easy to make happy." A little 
 smile flickered over Cecily's lips. 
 
 Clara Antisdel, who had come to make such a magnificent 
 scene, was somehow overborne. Nonplussed, though not 
 convinced, she stood tapping her foot and looking at Cecily, 
 this curious woman who dealt out world-old truths as if 
 they were new-minted by her own experience, and somehow 
 succeeded in making her listeners think that they were 
 precious. 
 
 " It's easy to spoil things, Mrs. Antisdel," Cecily wound 
 up, " and it's not always easy to make them right again. 
 But for you, fortunately, the making right is easy. There 
 stands your good, patient Bradley, who never looked at 
 another woman — all this talk of another woman may 
 amuse you, but it's awfully beside the point. He only asks 
 you to be decent to him. That's a real life- for a woman, 
 being decent to some man. Surely, you won't push aside 
 your chance of a real life ? " 
 
 "What makes you talk this way to me?" asked Mrs. 
 Antisdel, almost pitifully. 
 
 " I'm sorry for your husband," answered Cecily. " So is 
 every one else who knows him. Perhaps you like to have 
 people sorry for your husband. I think myself that it's 
 a most humiliating position for you." 
 
 That drew a little of Clara's former fire. " I didn't 
 ask for your opinions," she said hotly. 
 
 " No. But you must admit that by coming here you laid 
 yourself open to them." 
 
238 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 Mrs. Antisdel looked away from Cecily, looked doubtfully 
 at Antisdel. That gentleman, who had at first been only 
 profoundly uncomfortable, had begun to have gleams of 
 a wonderful hope. " It's only truth that she tells you, 
 Clara," he hastened now to say. " She has been very kind 
 to me, and she must have been dreadfully bored all the 
 time. I'm not exhilarating at my best, and I haven't been 
 at my best lately." 
 
 " Do you blame me for that ? " she asked. 
 
 He had just now more than his usual courage. " Some- 
 times you might be kinder to me than you are," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 Mrs. Antisdel stood summoning all her reserves, calling 
 especially to mind that idea of her lost love which had 
 stood consolingly by her in so many crises. She had, how- 
 ever, a feeling that it was more or less useless against 
 Cecily. Bradley was a simple soul, and easily impressed; 
 but what did this cool young woman care about her lost 
 love? Mrs. Fairchild might have had a dozen loves of her 
 own, and lost them — and then lived them down. Before her 
 impression of Cecily rather than anything the latter had 
 said, Mrs. Antisdel stood agape. 
 
 She saw that she had failed of her effect; and at the 
 same moment there came over her a stunning perception 
 of a whole new range of effects. One could be very ef- 
 fective, it appeared, simply by being kind — especially if 
 one were not the sort of person whose kindness comes 
 gushingly and foolishly forth, were indeed kind rather by 
 contrast. She moved suddenly, dropping her big muff. 
 Antisdel sprang forward to restore it to her; somehow 
 about it their hands met, and then their eyes. His held that 
 dog-like pleading which she had so often seen, and so often 
 despised. It was stupid of her to have sounded Bradley 
 always on that one string; stupid for her, to have him 
 
EPISODE 239 
 
 always the same in his response. If one were kind, at 
 least sometimes 
 
 " I have the car here, Bradley," she said softly. " Should 
 you like to come with me ? " 
 
 "Where are you going?" he asked. 
 
 " Home. Shouldn't you like to come home with 
 me?" 
 
 In his response she saw that already he was vibrating 
 in a different way. Hope springs high in this world, on 
 slight provocation. Even in Bradley Antisdel it sprang 
 high ; and in the delight of its springing, he was rather curt 
 in his farewells to his kind woman. Clara too was cold; 
 there are things one cannot admit having learned from an- 
 other woman. But Cecily did not seem to mind; from her 
 height she watched their departure with a certain amuse- 
 ment — these two going out arm in arm! The door closed 
 behind them, and Morley found his tongue. 
 
 " You were splendid ! " he cried. " Splendid, my dear ! " 
 
 Cecily looked at him for a moment; then her brow con- 
 tracted and her fists clenched. She laid her head down on 
 her chair-arm, and burst into tears. 
 
 Morley had never seen her cry. In vast distress he 
 stooped over her, murmured soothingly, even tried to take 
 her in his arms. She shrank from him. " Please, Richard, 
 go away," she sobbed. " Go away, please, and leave me 
 alone." 
 
 He went away, at a loss to account for her sudden emo- 
 tion. If she had in spite of appearances allowed herself to 
 
 care for Antisdel But she obviously didn't care for 
 
 him ; no woman who cared for a man could talk about him 
 as she had talked about Bradley, or hand him over so coolly 
 to his legal wife. Yet if she didn't care about him, why 
 should she go to pieces at the sight of his truce with Clara ? 
 
 Was it, perhaps, not the people at all, but something 
 in the situation itself, that had moved her? There was 
 
2 4 o CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 more in her life than she had ever cared to tell him, per- 
 haps more than she could have told if she had tried. There 
 might be some very bitter depths. It could not be for 
 nothing that she had left her husband, that mysterious ab- 
 straction whom Morley knew only as a name in the Chi- 
 cago papers. 
 
 Morley had hit near the truth in his last conjecture, had 
 at least succeeded in hitting the exact opposite of the 
 truth. It was of Avery Fairchild that Cecily thought as she 
 lay sobbing to herself; but it seemed to her at this moment 
 that it was for nothing she had left him. She had been 
 generous tonight; why had she not been generous with 
 Avery? Everything might have been different if she had 
 only been different ; but it was too late now. At the thought 
 of how much too late it was, Richard Morley was suddenly 
 hateful to her; it was for other arms, than his that she 
 longed. And Avery had not written to her for months, had 
 probably forgotten her altogether, had doubtless consoled 
 himself with another woman. Too late now — and all her 
 own fault. 
 
 She grew calmer presently; she realized that if things 
 weren't as they ought to be, at least they must be faced 
 as they were. She had been rude to Richard, and had sent 
 him away in a manner quite foreign to the gospel of kind- 
 ness she had just been preaching. When her head was 
 cool again, she telephoned to Morley. In a voice that was 
 still a little thick she told him that she hadn't meant to 
 be rude ; and he answered that she hadn't been, that his 
 only thought was distress at seeing how she felt. He feared 
 that she had been working too hard lately; wouldn't she 
 dine with him the next evening, and go to some silly show 
 that would cheer her up ? 
 
 He was so much better than she deserved. She accepted 
 gladly, gratefully, feeling herself wrapped round by his 
 unquestioning tenderness. At these times of self-reproach, 
 
EPISODE 241 
 
 and in the mad moments when the thought would occur to 
 her that in some way her path and Avery's might yet cross, 
 and the dour man might reclaim her and refuse to give 
 her up — at all such times, she wrapped herself closer and 
 closer in the protecting garment of Morley's devotion. 
 
XXIV 
 
 AVERY PAYS A VISIT 
 
 Avery Fairchild had drifted into an engagement of mar- 
 riage. At least, he supposed that he was engaged to be mar- 
 ried; but both his inclination and Mrs. Keppel's had made 
 the arrangement somewhat indefinite. Avery's status was 
 still unsettled, and bade fair to remain so until his mounting 
 feeling for Caroline, if it did mount, should overcome his 
 obstinate determination not to ask Cecily for a divorce. As 
 for Caroline, she was satisfied with things as they were 
 now. At present she enjoyed both liberty and romance, 
 and in her married life she had known neither. With the 
 very idea of marriage she associated all sorts of dreary 
 pomposities and restrictions. 
 
 Finally, she loved the relation in which they now stood. 
 There was always a masculine background in her life 
 these days, and a feminine in his. They were much to- 
 gether; Avery had the run of her house, the use of her 
 car, if only he would use it. Many times he drew the line, 
 for fear of making her conspicuous ; and as the older of the 
 two, and the man, he felt it his duty to warn her that 
 people might talk. To which Caroline answered sweetly, 
 " Let them talk," and picked up her guitar. 
 
 Where she would have been without her guitar and her 
 intricate toilets, and the tea- and chess-tables over which 
 her white hands fluttered so delicately, Avery did not know. 
 Such women as Cecily and Lois Butler made their appeal 
 of themselves, would have made it on a desert island; but 
 Caroline Keppel spoke in and by the multitude of her 
 things. Her wealth was no mere extraneous thing ; clothes 
 
 242 
 
AVERY PAYS A VISIT 243 
 
 and automobiles, house and servants, little luxuries and 
 big, were her means of expression. For Avery's benefit she 
 increased the means: bought, as she had threatened, new 
 clothes of silken and glowing magnificence; bought a new 
 limousine, and then because he would not use it, bought also 
 a smaller closed car. She increased her accomplishments, 
 too, passing from guitar to mandolin and even to violin, 
 having her agreeable voice farther cultivated, practising 
 three hours of a morning for the sake of that one hour in 
 the evening when she should sit near him and sing to him. 
 
 The abundance either of her possessions or of her leisure 
 finally got on Avery's nerves. Little suppers for the two 
 of them appeared when he would sooner have rummaged 
 through the ice-box; Caroline waited for him evenings 
 when he would rather have gone home and to bed. To 
 keep off the contagion of her soft ways, he worked harder 
 than ever ; and work was again constantly grateful to him — 
 he had that at least to thank her for. His little room was 
 grateful, too, cold and calm and bookish; Avery returned 
 from her atmosphere hungry for asceticism. 
 
 That spring, when his acquaintance with Caroline was 
 already more than a year old, he once more changed his 
 occupation. A daily paper of huge circulation and mounting 
 ideals conceived of a " department " of advice on health, 
 run from day to day by a medical authority. It was in 
 a way an extension of the work that Avery had been doing ; 
 and he was asked to conduct the department, giving up his 
 entire time to it. The salary was good, the opportunity 
 great, the field new; and the Anti-Tuberculosis Association 
 was now so well organized that he could intrust it to others 
 to carry on. He consulted Lois Butler by letter. " Go 
 ahead," was her advice. Avery went ; and after the change 
 was made he spoke of it to Caroline, and wrote to Gros- 
 venor, and, somewhat less promptly, to Cecily. 
 
 Grosvenor answered at once and rather quizzically, 
 
244 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 Cecily in a polite, formal little note. Lois came personally 
 to offer her comments, arriving in town with Walter Butler 
 to spend the week-end. Avery spent most of it with them, 
 and was steeped in a queer feeling of their happiness. Lois 
 had never regretted her stupendous condescension in marry- 
 ing Walter, had apparently never even realized it; and 
 Walter on his side had never for a moment forgotten it. 
 They had grown together vastly in these last few years, 
 they with their perpetual unconscious " we," had even 
 grown to look alike, now that they were both gaining 
 weight. Some of the manifestations of their content Avery 
 did not like : they might both, for instance, have been bet- 
 ter dressed; Avery objected to handsome fur coats grown 
 a little shabby, and made to order shoes obviously the worse 
 for want of blacking. But the spread of their radiant con- 
 tent was over everything; their plans, their home, their 
 boy, echoed through their speech their perfect unity. 
 
 They met Mrs. Keppel once, when the four of them 
 dined at a restaurant and went to the theater together. 
 After that Caroline was forced to lie by with a bad case of 
 tonsilitis. With the exception of poor Caroline's suffering, 
 that was all exactly as Avery would have had it : he wanted 
 Lois to meet Mrs. Keppel, but he didn't want to force the 
 acquaintance, or have Lois suspect — well, suspect anything. 
 
 In a half-hour when she and Avery were alone, Lois 
 spoke of Cecily. She and Walter had seen her in her tea- 
 shop — "a wonderful tea-shop, Avery, the best-conducted 
 that I ever saw anywhere, and an institution of the town." 
 Cecily was looking very well, and prettier than ever. 
 
 " I hear very little about her," said Avery. " I wonder 
 about her sometimes, how she really likes being 'on her 
 own,' and whether she is still unattached." 
 
 "There are rumors in Jefferson — I don't know what 
 foundation they have " 
 
 "But repeating them merely as gossip, they are ?" 
 
AVERY PAYS A VISIT 245 
 
 he asked, not lifting his eyes from the cigarette he had in 
 his hand. 
 
 " They are that she is engaged to a man she has met 
 lately, a parti, an eligible." 
 
 " Yes ? It would be strange, you know, if she couldn't 
 do well for herself." 
 
 " Oh, as to doing well ! " Lois's fine hands seemed 
 
 to push something away from her, and her fine eyes were 
 troubled. 
 
 Avery clung to his friends to the last moment, accompany- 
 ing them to their train, and chatting with them through the 
 window until the train left. He had not seen them very 
 often since he left Jefferson, and his correspondence with 
 Lois, sustained so long, had lately fallen off. But for him 
 she would always be a woman apart; and she and the hus- 
 band with whom she was in such harmony seemed to keep 
 Avery in a fine, sweet air. 
 
 He had not brought himself to confide to Lois his quasi- 
 engagement — a proof that the engagement was pretty 
 sharply separated from the rest of his life. He was already 
 having doubts as to the wisdom and the perpetuity of that 
 arrangement; yet when in deference to her tonsils Caroline 
 went away for a month, he missed her. His delight at miss- 
 ing her measured for the first time the depths of his dis- 
 trust of their relation. She was a relaxation for him, but, 
 poor girl, she distracted him from the serious business of 
 life. Of course not even Caroline Keppel, fine flower of 
 dependence though she was, could live her life entirely in 
 relation to some one else's; and he assured himself that 
 only his own unreasonableness chafed at her just and really 
 very modest demands upon him. 
 
 She came back from her vacation very much refreshed, 
 and eager to be with him. She had more new clothes, had 
 learned to play a little Hawaiian guitar, had bought a great 
 deal of new music ; even when she was away, she must have 
 
246 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 been thinking of him constantly. But he had involved him- 
 self, not only in an immense amount of medical reading, 
 but in some investigations of his own. He wanted to work 
 nights and Sundays, and Caroline pouted. " This won't 
 last forever," he said in his own justification. " And you 
 know, if I am to guide the public health, I must guide it 
 correctly." 
 
 They were in her sitting-room, and had finished their 
 game of chess ; when the disposal of the next evening came 
 up, Avery had pleaded that he must work. Caroline rose 
 so abruptly that she knocked half the chessmen off the 
 board. " Of course," she said sharply, " that's all right for 
 you. But if I wanted to do anything else when you wanted 
 me here " 
 
 " You could go ahead and do it," he said mildly. " I 
 don't ever want to feel that my visits are a burden to you, 
 Caroline." 
 
 " But there isn't ever anything I want to do, in preference 
 to seeing you," she went on stormily. " And you know it, 
 and take advantage of it; but when it comes to making 
 any sacrifice for me " 
 
 " I appreciate your devotion, indeed I do," he protested. 
 " But I don't demand it, you must remember." 
 
 " If you only would ! " she thought ; but she said nothing. 
 She bit her lip to keep the tears back. 
 
 As the simplest way of ending the discussion, Avery went 
 around the table and took her in his arms. " I love you, 
 you know; you mustn't ever forget that," he whispered. 
 
 It worked like a charm, as he had known that it would: 
 she kissed him, and smiled. Then she lifted her face again 
 to say, " And you will come tomorrow, won't you ? " 
 
 He yielded, though he could feel shackles about his 
 wrists as he did so. Consciousness of his bound state made 
 him take his leave at once, and very shortly ; and it stayed 
 with him all the next day. Grumpily enough he went to 
 
AVERY PAYS A VISIT 247 
 
 Mrs. Keppel's, picturing all the way the fascinating and im- 
 portant work that he was leaving undone. 
 
 Having carried her point, she was now very gracious : 
 fed him sumptuously, and at first amused him charmingly. 
 But her throat was not strong as yet, and she could not 
 sing very long. She talked instead, and her evil angel led 
 her to choose a topic that she usually avoided for her own 
 sake as well as for Avery's : she held forth at length on plans 
 for their marriage. 
 
 They would live here, of course, she said, unless he pre- 
 ferred to go somewhere else. Of course, they could buy 
 a new house, but this one would really be very nice, if it 
 were done over; she had never liked the present decora- 
 tions. Avery could make any changes he wished. He 
 could have Keppel's room done over to suit him, or any 
 other bedroom that he chose. Their honeymoon they would 
 spend in Europe; she supposed even his precious work 
 could wait while he was on his honeymoon. 
 
 Avery did not like to think of its waiting, while he 
 dangled about Europe in her silken wake. And at the 
 very idea of the late Mr. Keppel's bedroom sumptuously 
 redecorated for him, he felt nostalgia for his own bare 
 " diggings." 
 
 The air seemed close and heavy. He would have liked to 
 go for a drive, and they could have gone at once if he had 
 only suggested it. But the car was Caroline's, bought with 
 the late Mr. Keppel's money; and Avery did not suggest 
 a drive. To excuse his silence he lighted a cigarette. Caro- 
 line always had his favorite brand ready for him ; but he ig- 
 nored them, and took one from his pocket instead. 
 
 In the midst of a silence that was, on his side at least, not 
 wholly cordial, a maid came to summon him to the tele- 
 phone. He came back with a worried frown. " It's my 
 landlady," he explained. " There is a special delivery let- 
 ter for me. I told her to send it over." 
 
248 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Don't you suppose it's business ? " she asked. 
 
 " No. All my business goes to the office." 
 
 " Bad new from your relatives ? " she suggested, and 
 added flippantly, " Have you any relatives, Avery ? " 
 
 " I have two children," he said dryly. 
 
 " You don't talk about them as you used to. And I 
 haven't ever seen them, Avery. Am I never to see them ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I haven't seen them much myself, lately." 
 Avery was nervous, but he was trying to hold himself in 
 check, to speak civilly, if not at length. 
 
 She disregarded danger signals. " Avery," she said 
 abruptly, " isn't there some way that you could get the 
 children?" 
 
 He sprang to his feet, half strangling. " Oh, I didn't 
 mean that as it sounded ! " she cried. " I wouldn't take them 
 from their mother, of course. Only I thought how you 
 would like to have them " 
 
 " For God's sake, Caroline, be quiet ! " he shouted. 
 
 She stared at him, startled. He went to a window, 
 opened it, breathed deeply of the outside air; he saw noth- 
 ing that was before him. If the letter would only come! 
 It might be bad news about one of the children, it might 
 be about Cecily. If it were Cecily sick, or even — dead — 
 and the letter found him here ! He shuddered, and Caroline, 
 watching him and seeing the shudder, came and closed the 
 window. 
 
 The letter finally came. He snatched it in an agony of 
 apprehension, and read it at a glance. " It's from Cecily," 
 he said. " My boy is sick. I must go at once." He looked 
 at his watch. 
 
 Caroline rang for the car, telephoned about trains, offered 
 to send word to the office in the morning. She had recov- 
 ered from her awkwardness; she was now perfect in her 
 solicitude. " Let me know, Avery, let me know at once," 
 she whispered as he left. But he scarcely saw her. In her 
 
AVERY PAYS A VISIT 249 
 
 house, in the very car he had shortly before hesitated to use, 
 he was suddenly out of the circle of her influence. 
 
 In the train he never once harked back to her; all his 
 thoughts ran ahead to Cecily and his child. He re-read 
 her letter a dozen times, though in twice reading it he had 
 learned the bare phrases. " Seriously if not critically ill — 
 thought you ought to know — will keep you informed." He 
 would glance down it to the scrawled " As ever, Cecily," 
 at the end, and restore it to his pocket; in a few minutes 
 he would be reading it again. He seemed to get a sort of 
 obscure comfort from the act; and, indeed, it was the only 
 comfort he gained on the trip. 
 
 When he arrived at his destination it was late at night. 
 He left the station walking like a man in a dream. Slowly 
 and with infinite trouble, as if nightmarish weights were 
 attached to his feet, he found the street where Cecily lived ; 
 then he paced up and down it looking for her house. The 
 address was given in her letter — he referred to it repeatedly. 
 But house-numbers were not easy to find ; and in the dark- 
 ness most of them eluded him completely. He finally 
 recognized the house by its architectural peculiarity : it was 
 so tall and square, but there was apparently only one en- 
 trance. There were lights burning in the third story, too ; 
 and some one had said that she lived in the third story. 
 Who could have told him that ? Lois ? Perhaps ; he couldn't 
 seem to remember. 
 
 With his hand on the bell he hesitated, and crossed the 
 street to reconnoiter. On a second view, there were not 
 many lights; and no doctor's automobile stood before the 
 door — that at least was a relief. Perhaps no one was awake 
 in the house; and in that case, he could not disturb them 
 at this unearthly hour. 
 
 Avery thrust his hands into his overcoat pockets, and 
 began to pace up and down the street. It was cold, and he 
 was confoundedly tired; his head ached. Time was when 
 
250 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 he was pretty well inured to being up all night; but lately 
 he must have got soft. It might be better for him to 
 be back in general practice again: after all, that was a 
 man's life. It had its braveries, its dangers, its combats and 
 its victories ; in his memory it glowed with a kind of morn- 
 ing splendor. But if it was anything like his memory of 
 it, why hadn't he stayed in general practice? He forgot 
 exactly why not, though he remembered a vague sensation 
 of discontent. His reasons had, somehow, something to 
 do with a woman. Yet when he' left the life of which he 
 was thinking, he had given up a wonderful woman. Given 
 her up, had he? he wondered in his daze. Why, no; for 
 at this very moment she seemed to lie in his arms, with her 
 face upturned to his. And then suddenly it wasn't Cecily's 
 face at all, but Caroline's; and burning disgust filled him. 
 He stumbled in his walk, and almost fell. 
 
 This wouldn't do at all. He should be going fast asleep 
 next, and having a policeman speak to him. He took a 
 considerable turn down the street, counting the blocks in 
 the sidewalk and also counting his steps, hoping by the in- 
 tricacy of the calculation to keep himself awake. 
 
 Day dawned at last; and with the first glimmer Avery 
 stationed himself opposite to Cecily's, and began to watch 
 the windows. His stupor left him; burning impatience 
 filled its place. 
 
 His impatience was rewarded sooner than he could have 
 expected. Some one came presently to one of the dimly- 
 lighted windows, and leaned there to watch the dawn. It 
 was Cecily. To Avery's straining eyes she looked white and 
 spent. He crossed the street on a run. 
 
 She must have seen him coming, for the door yielded 
 under his hand. He rushed up the stairs — they seemed 
 fairly interminable; how on earth did she ever get the 
 children up and down? Though, of course, the children 
 weren't babies any more; he kept forgetting that. 
 
AVERY PAYS A VISIT 251 
 
 At the top of the stairs, in the dusky hall, she was wait- 
 ing for him. She seized his lapels, and delivered herself 
 in a rapid whisper. " He's better, Avery — oh, much bet- 
 ter! He had a bad night last night; that's why I wrote 
 you this morning — yesterday morning, I should say. But 
 he has slept tonight. Until just now the nurse was asleep, 
 and I stayed with him. He's been quiet all night. Per- 
 haps he wasn't as sick at any time as I thought him; the 
 children have always been so well, I suppose I'm silly about 
 them. Still, I thought you ought to know." 
 
 " You were right ; I'm glad you let me know." Feeling 
 her tremble, and remembering how she had looked across 
 the street, he growled, " Damned nurse, sleeping her head 
 off and letting you get yourself thoroughly done up." 
 
 " Oh, I shall sleep today. How I shall sleep ! " she ex- 
 claimed, and then added, " Won't you come in, Avery ? " 
 
 Even in the grim light of dawn the living-room was a 
 wonderful room, a creation in rooms. Avery looked about 
 it curiously, recognizing here a thing and there a thing, 
 and recognizing over all a touch, that old-time characteristic 
 touch of Cecily's. 
 
 "Should you like to see Junior?" asked Cecily. He 
 nodded. Did she still call the boy that, he wondered, when 
 they were alone? 
 
 She led the way to a little passage, off which opened a 
 row of doors. They passed through one, into a small, 
 simply-furnished room, with some of a boy's traps on 
 shelves against the wall. A uniformed nurse rose from a 
 chair beside the bed. " Miss Wilkinson, Dr. Fairchild," 
 said Cecily carelessly. 
 
 Avery stooped over the bed. The boy was fast asleep, 
 with one clenched fist resting on the bedclothes. Avery 
 asked a few questions of the nurse, and laid his hand on 
 his boy's head, whether affectionately or professionally he 
 hardly knew. Then he drew Cecily out of the room. 
 
252 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " He's getting on very nicely, I should judge," he whis- 
 pered. " You will be in worse need of treatment than he 
 is, if you aren't careful." 
 
 " I'm all right," she assured him. " Just a minute, Avery, 
 until I get a handkerchief " 
 
 She went into the last doorway, at the end of the pas- 
 sage. Avery stood where he was, but he followed her with 
 his eyes. No need to have her presence claim that room; 
 he would have known it anywhere, with its soft pale colors, 
 its little stand of books beside the narrow immaculate bed, 
 its exquisite dressing-table with the photograph of her chil- 
 dren in the middle, its general air of cloistral neatness, of 
 almost cloistral charm. This was like, it was very like, 
 Cecily's little room in the Jefferson house. Memory took 
 him by the throat ; he would have asked nothing better than 
 to throw himself on the little bed, and bury his face in the 
 pillow, and sob. 
 
 He was saved from sentimental excess by Cecily's re- 
 turn. "Avery," she asked, "are you hungry?" 
 
 " Now that you speak of it, I am," he answered. 
 
 " Come on." She led him into the kitchen. " Anna's 
 asleep," she said. " Let's get ourselves some breakfast." 
 
 Very much in the manner of a honeymooning couple — 
 they had done it many times themselves during the first 
 months of their marriage — they hunted out bacon and eggs, 
 made coffee and toast. Avery " set the table " on the shelf 
 of the kitchen cabinet, and there presently they sat down 
 together. 
 
 As Avery ate, his spirits rose. He kept up a flow of ques- 
 tions, which Cecily answered with short sentences and 
 little quick jerks of her head. " Does Anna sleep in the 
 room with Margaret ? " he asked, and " Have you visited 
 Junior's school ? " and, with some embarrassment, " Have 
 you plenty of money to get along ? " Later she talked : she 
 told him of the success of her tea-shop, and also spoke of 
 
AVERY PAYS A VISIT 253 
 
 a new plan. Some day, when she had money enough ahead 
 to make it feasible, she hoped to open a working-girls' lunch- 
 room in a part of town quite distant from her tea-shop. 
 
 " Something different, Avery," she said. " I want to have 
 it as simple as possible, but with everything very pretty: 
 just as pretty as my tea-shop, but of course not as luxurious. 
 I should like to use blue and white dishes — you can buy 
 such pretty ones for so little money — and plate-glass table- 
 tops with blue and white cretonne under them. Starved 
 souls ought to be fed as well as starved bodies. I think 
 that with good management I could come out a little ahead 
 on such an undertaking; but of course I can't venture on 
 it until I have money in the bank." 
 
 It seemed curious to hear Cecily gravely discussing a 
 philanthropic undertaking; it struck a discordant note in 
 his sense, exquisite and in part painful, of dipping into his 
 past. But she talked with so much interest, and went so 
 into detail, that he was convinced her interest was un- 
 feigned. " She talks to me as she might to any other 
 man," he thought. " But at least she feels that she can 
 talk freely to me about what interests her. That is some- 
 thing." 
 
 A sound behind him made him look around. There in 
 the doorway stood the small Margaret in her night-clothes, 
 trailing a pink blanket behind her. " Why, Baby, what are 
 you doing out of bed at this hour ? " asked Cecily. 
 
 Margaret, grave, sleepy, utterly adorable, stood looking 
 at Avery. Did she remember him, he wondered; little 
 children have such short memories, and she was so very 
 little. Avery held out his arms to her. " Aren't you com- 
 ing to Daddy, Margaret ? " he asked. 
 
 She came then with a rush, and climbed on his knee. 
 Avery wrapped her up and held her. Margaret was by 
 this time a relatively mature child, in her own opinion ; she 
 even looked forward to going to school. But to Avery she 
 
254 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 seemed nothing but a baby, a small immature feminine 
 copy of himself. He sat looking down at her, watching her 
 eyelids droop and droop, and finally close. She did look 
 like him, very much like him; he wondered if Cecily knew 
 how much. He looked up quickly, in order to surprise 
 Cecily watching them. She was watching them, indeed, 
 but rather absently ; and when he looked at her, she 
 yawned. 
 
 It occurred to him that it would be a good thing if he 
 went away, and let her go to sleep. But he didn't want to 
 go away; or rather, he wanted to, but he couldn't make 
 up his mind to put down the child and go. Finally the tele- 
 phone rang, and Cecily went to answer it. Only then 
 Avery rose, and carrying the sleeping Margaret, followed 
 her into the living-room. 
 
 Cecily, with one knee in a chair, stood between him and 
 the window, answering the telephone; her profile was 
 toward him. There was an unstudied grace in the pose; 
 and the sight of her so, graceful, careless, off guard, 
 struck him as somehow poignant and memorable. 
 
 Her voice roused him. " Isn't it rather early for you? " 
 she was saying into the mouth-piece. " That's good of 
 you. . . . I'm grateful for your anxiety, but I'm sorry it 
 kept you awake. . . . He passed a very good night, thank 
 you ; I'm sure he's going to get well now. . . . Yes, come 
 and see me late this afternoon; I'm not going downtown 
 today." 
 
 Was it a woman friend she was talking to, he wondered, 
 or her " parti " ? The expression of her face as she turned 
 to him settled the point ; she looked at him almost insolently. 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; I shouldn't have listened," he said. 
 
 " It's of no consequence," she assured him. 
 
 " I'll go now," he said stiffly. He laid the sleeping child 
 on a divan. Cecily bent over her, and adjusted the blanket. 
 
 " You'll rest now, won't you, Cecily ? " 
 
AVERY PAYS A VISIT 255 
 
 " Yes," she answered. When she lifted her head she 
 looked simply white and tired. 
 
 " You'll let me know at once if there is any change in 
 the boy's condition ? And you'll let me know, anyway, how 
 he gets on?" 
 
 " Yes, Avery." 
 
 " I shall — I shall come again," he said. She did not 
 answer. 
 
 He left her, and began to go down the interminable 
 stairs. He stumbled as he went — he was so very tired. 
 But if he was so tired, why was he going away? Here 
 surely he could have found rest. To have Cecily beside 
 him, and to sink down, down 
 
 What nonsense! In the outer air he stood breathing 
 deeply, and lighted a cigar to steady himself. " I couldn't 
 rest with her, ever," he thought. " And yet, even if I 
 thought we should get on now no better than before, I 
 would go back to her again, if she would only have me." 
 
 That was nonsense too. She wouldn't have him, and 
 he wouldn't go back even if she would. But it was very 
 upsetting, stepping for a moment into her atmosphere, step- 
 ping almost into their old life together. It made a man 
 think things. 
 
 How would she strike him if he met her now for the 
 first time ? As happy and successful, no doubt ; for surely 
 she was happy and successful. " She has her projects and 
 her babies, congenial work and her own money. Doubtless 
 she could have her choice of a dozen better men than I, if 
 a man were what she wanted. Perhaps she regrets me 
 sometimes, in a purely sentimental way ; but she has stamped 
 the follies of her youth underfoot. It's quite time for me 
 to do the same with mine." 
 
 He tried to think of Caroline; and felt, with a sinking 
 heart, that the follies of middle age may be worse than 
 the follies of youth. In the train he went to sleep, and for- 
 
256 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 got about follies and women; and when he reached home 
 he was utterly spent, and was thinking about nothing at all. 
 
 At the door he was met by his landlady, a fat, fussy soul, 
 who would have been devoted to him if she had dared. 
 " Somebody kept 'phoning to you this morning, Dr. Fair- 
 child — a woman. The last time she left her number; you 
 were to call her as soon as you came in." 
 
 She gave him Caroline's number. Avery groaned aloud 
 at the thought of talking to Caroline just then; yet the 
 poor girl was doubtless anxious about him. " I'll call her 
 now," he said to his landlady. " Will you be so good as to 
 make me some tea or something? I'm not going out to- 
 day." 
 
 She bustled off, delighted with the commission. Avery 
 went to the telephone, and gave the well-known number. 
 " After all, this is the right thing to do," he thought as he 
 waited. " Heaven knows I need some one." 
 
XXV 
 
 DIVERSIONS OF A FIANCE" 
 
 Avery soon resumed his habit of going to Mrs. Keppel's; 
 but now he never went there straight from the office. Under 
 pretext of wishing to dress, he always went home late in 
 the afternoon. There, two or three times a week, he would 
 find a note from Cecily, telling him that Junior had made 
 satisfactory progress, or had caught cold and was not quite 
 so well. He always scribbled a little note in answer; and 
 when he presented himself, sleek and handsome as ever, be- 
 fore his mistress, there was an added sparkle in his eyes. It 
 did him good to change his clothes, he explained to her; 
 when he got ready for the evening, he liked to shake off 
 every trace of the office. 
 
 That was very different from the sentiments he had pro- 
 fessed not long before, but Caroline tried to believe him. 
 She herself would often spend half the afternoon dressing, 
 trying first one gown and then another; she had taken 
 to appearing in full evening dress. After their greetings 
 were over Avery was expected to notice and comment on 
 her splendor ; but he never guessed how much anxious effort 
 had been expended on every detail. 
 
 " I thought," she said one evening, after the preliminaries 
 were all over, " I thought you might prefer to dine at a 
 restaurant." 
 
 "Just as you like," he answered. His eyes had wan- 
 dered beyond her. 
 
 "As you like, Avery." 
 
 " It's immaterial to me." 
 
 It was material to Caroline ; her nerves ached for excite- 
 
 257 
 
258 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 ment. But as he would not express a choice, she obstinately 
 determined to disappoint herself. " Then we'll stay here," 
 she announced. 
 
 " That will suit me," he said with cheerful alacrity. 
 
 " I don't feel like going into a crowd tonight. I'm tired, 
 I think," she said. 
 
 He looked at her kindly. " Have you been overdoing? " 
 he asked. 
 
 She nodded miserably; her plumage was already droop- 
 ing. She didn't want him to be kind to her; he had kissed 
 her as he might have kissed his mother, and that was 
 worse than no kiss at all. 
 
 They sat down to dinner in the stately dining-room ; lately 
 she did not admit him to the intimacy of her sitting-room. 
 Across the beautiful table service they seemed a brilliant 
 couple; but they talked as if they were at opposite ends of 
 the earth. Avery simply could not get his mind on his 
 surroundings; each time that he caught it wandering, he 
 tried by forced consideration and interest to make up for 
 his absent-mindedness. Caroline saw his effort, and hated 
 him for it. She would have liked to quarrel with him, but 
 she hadn't the heart. She played with the things on her 
 plate, and choked back her tears; she wondered why she 
 had ever let herself get into this situation. 
 
 In the beginning Avery Fairchild had been for her a 
 fascinating escapade. Sending Judith away, letting Avery 
 draw closer and closer to her, had all been part of a romantic 
 adventure. She had felt that she could allow herself ro- 
 mantic adventures, for with the Keppel money some of the 
 Keppel self-confidence had passed to her. If it pleased her 
 to amuse herself with a man, that was her affair; when it 
 no longer pleased her, she could call it off. 
 
 But after that very night in her garden from which dated 
 Avery's disillusion, she became more and more conscious 
 that she didn't want to have done with him, that she would 
 
DIVERSIONS OF A FIANCE 259 
 
 sooner, indeed, have parted with her right hand. She clung 
 to him even when she felt it would have been better policy 
 not to cling. She tried her every fascination shamelessly, 
 she who had once been so far above such tactics; and she 
 was only too delighted when Avery allowed himself to be 
 fascinated. 
 
 Months ago she had made up her mind that if she had to 
 marry him to keep him, marry him she would. And in the 
 face of that condescension, she could not help seeing that he 
 was beginning to be bored with her. " Give him up — 
 give him up now, before he goes," her intelligence urged 
 her; but she wasn't prepared to give him up. It would 
 have suited him altogether too well; and after the first 
 dramatic excitement was over, what would become of 
 her? 
 
 She finally gave up all pretense of eating; and Avery 
 actually did notice that. " Really, Caroline, I'm afraid you 
 aren't well," he said. 
 
 " I'm very well, Dr. Fairchild," she answered, emphasiz- 
 ing the word " doctor " with childish spite. How hand- 
 some he looked in this soft light! If it hadn't been for 
 his good looks, she might never have seen him a second 
 time. Well, that would have been better all around; so 
 she hated his good looks. 
 
 " Is your throat sore ? " he asked mildly. 
 
 She shook her head, not daring to trust her voice. Doubt- 
 less he would put it all down to her nerves; what did he 
 and such as he care for feelings? 
 
 When they were alone in the drawing-room she put her 
 arms about his neck, and burst into tears. " I get so lonely 
 without you," she whispered. "Avery, dear, I miss you 
 
 so." 
 
 " My poor darling ! " He sat down before the fire and 
 drew her to his knee. " Foolish one, loving heart," he mur- 
 mured. Just so he might have soothed a child who had 
 
a6o CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 fallen down in the street; but Caroline was past caring for 
 parallels ; she allowed herself to be soothed, and was grate- 
 ful. 
 
 She had, however, lost her sense of fitness that evening. 
 When she presently began to talk it was of their marriage, 
 her plans and arrangements for it. She knew that he al- 
 ways shrank from the subject; she could now feel him 
 stiffen as she talked. But her unhappiness had gone to 
 her head like wine, and she could not check her own gar- 
 rulity. She even talked of what they would do with her 
 money, and that topic she knew Avery hated ; she was even 
 proud that he hated it, for he showed that her money was 
 not what interested him. 
 
 She brought up on the worst topic of all. " When are 
 you going to get your divorce, Avery?" she asked. 
 
 He had been wonderfully patient heretofore; but now 
 his patience snapped. " I shall wait for my wife to divorce 
 me," he said. " You've always understood that ; or if you 
 haven't, you understand it now. If you object, you don't 
 have to wait for me, you know." 
 
 " Oh, Avery, I didn't mean anything like that ! " she 
 cried. " You know I'm glad to wait for you. But I can't 
 help it — I'm jealous of that marriage of yours." 
 
 " Why should you be ? " he asked sharply. " You've 
 been married yourself." 
 
 " I know, but it's different. My husband died — and, any- 
 way, it's different, Avery." 
 
 " Your choice of topics is rather extraordinary, Caro- 
 line," he said coldly. 
 
 Her face flushed. " I dare say you don't like it," she 
 said. " I think you have never quite ceased to love that 
 woman, Avery. You don't realize how easily you call her 
 ' my wife ' even now." 
 
 " Force of habit," said Avery. " She was my wife for 
 several years, you know." 
 
DIVERSIONS OF A FIANCE 261 
 
 " She has your children ; perhaps that's what I 
 feel." 
 
 " If I could go back, I'd try to be a more fatherly father 
 to my children," said Avery. 
 
 " We make lots of mistakes in this world," she said 
 softly. He nodded shortly, hoping that she would find an 
 indifferent topic. 
 
 But her evil angel still possessed her, and she continued 
 to talk about their marriage. There had been a time when 
 she wouldn't think of it; and now she seemed unable to 
 think very long of anything else. " We can go south win- 
 ters," she assured him. " The kind of work you are doing 
 now can be done anywhere." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but it cannot," he answered. He 
 was trying to be indulgent with her, as she seemed to be 
 nervous, but there were limits to his endurance. She was 
 making him feel hampered; and hadn't he always fought 
 that hampered feeling, sacrificed almost priceless things so 
 that he might not be hampered? 
 
 They had progressed to rather a lively dispute when he 
 was summoned to the telephone. When, lately, hadn't the 
 telephone interrupted him, with more or less timeliness? 
 " It's a telegram," he said to Caroline, his lips whitening ; 
 and then he listened in silence. 
 
 The words " This is Western Union " had at once turned 
 his thoughts to Junior; so that his first sensation on get- 
 ting the actual message was relief. It had already been 
 replaced by regret, however, when he hung up the receiver. 
 " The telegram is from Jefferson," he explained to Caro- 
 line. " My friend Walter Butler is dead." 
 
 " Oh, that's too bad ! " exclaimed Caroline. " He 
 seemed a very agreeable man, the only time I ever met 
 him." 
 
 " Yes. There was this about Walter : he always made 
 his sacrifices gaily," said Avery. 
 
262 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Are you going to the funeral ? " asked Caroline. 
 
 " Yes. Perhaps I'll even go to Jefferson tomorrow morn- 
 ing. I might be able to do something." 
 
 "Something for her?" asked Caroline sharply. 
 
 " Yes. A man sometimes can. So far as I know, she 
 hasn't any male relatives." 
 
 He stood looking at the floor; his thoughts were obvi- 
 ously miles away. Caroline ventured to lay a hand on his 
 arm. He started; and looked first at her and then about 
 him, like a man waking from a dream. " I think I'll be off 
 now," he said. " I have some things to do before I can 
 leave town. Good-by, Caroline." 
 
 The evening was still young ; and when he left her, Caro- 
 line sat alone in her finery, and stared at the fire. Avery 
 was going away, and going to see a woman. He had made 
 no secret of his admiration for this woman; still, perhaps 
 it was better for him to see her than to see his " wife " — 
 his wife indeed! Perhaps, so far as that went, he had a 
 wife in every town. Twice lately he had left her to go out 
 of town to see some other woman. " But I could endure 
 that," she thought, " if I were always perfectly sure that 
 he would come back to me." 
 
 He would come back this time, of course ; and she tried 
 to believe that he always would. Wasn't the determina- 
 tion, after all, largely in her own hands? Well, she would 
 be very tactful when he came back. She had been clever 
 enough at first; it was only when she came to feel so in- 
 tensely about him that she had lost her head. 
 
 Yet what was the good of a relation in which one had to 
 be constantly tactful or constantly at war? What satis- 
 faction, after all, did she get from the best of her inter- 
 views with Avery nowadays? When she thought of him 
 in his absence it was with delight: to her mental eye he 
 was a man among men. But when they were together 
 they quarreled regularly, or else one or the other of them 
 
DIVERSIONS OF A FIANCE 263 
 
 in mere superiority refrained from quarreling. This, said 
 Caroline to herself as she sat watching the fire burn down 
 to a steady glow, wasn't happiness. If it was even love, 
 so much the worse for love. 
 
 As her nerves returned to something like their normal 
 state, her mind resumed the delightful occupation of build- 
 ing up her picture of Avery. It wasn't, she reflected, as 
 if she didn't actually appreciate his fineness. He had de- 
 voted his life to a noble purpose; he was heart and soul in 
 a work that she couldn't even comprehend. She found a 
 melancholy pleasure in building him up as high as pos- 
 sible, and abasing herself as low. He was wonderful, and 
 she, in spite of the dross that surrounded her, was ordinary, 
 very ordinary ; except in her appreciation of him, she felt, 
 she was actually stupid. 
 
 So far Caroline had often gone in her thoughts after 
 Avery left her; but tonight she went farther, and found 
 something she had not seen before. It was not so much 
 seen, perhaps, as glimpsed and then lost again, and then 
 once more glimpsed: something alien and terrifying, that 
 yet came upon her soul in glimmers of a pure radiance. It 
 was a pure gleam, which must be in some ways like Avery's 
 devotion to his work. 
 
 Suppose that after all her years of independence, after 
 her one spurt of self-indulgence in claiming Avery, she 
 were some day herself to follow the gleam? She had loved 
 Avery for following his ; yes, it seemed to her that the real 
 reason for her love, indulgent as that love might have been, 
 was that Avery was at bottom a high-souled idealist. If 
 she in her turn followed the gleam, if she too paid the 
 price for following, some day Avery would realize what she 
 had done, and respect her for it. 
 
 As much, perhaps, as he respected one of those other 
 women, those women he went out of town to see. Her 
 jealousy nickered up again when she remembered where 
 
264 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 Avery had gone; but it didn't burn deep enough to de- 
 stroy all recollection of that gleam. She could see herself, 
 if something only gave her strength, ending this whole 
 affair in a glory of self-immolation. But when she cov- 
 ered her eyes with her hands, and tried to blind herself to 
 everything but the magnificence of such a sacrifice, she 
 only found herself forlornly wondering what Avery was 
 doing, and when he would actually leave for Jefferson. 
 
 Avery, as a matter of fact, worked the rest of that night, 
 and left for Jefferson on an early morning train. He must 
 be getting back into something like his old form, for after 
 this last sleepless night he was alert, and pleasantly ex- 
 cited. He dozed intermittently on the train; and when- 
 ever he woke he would pity poor Walter Butler, who had 
 left the goodly earth so young. To think of Walter's being 
 dead, and all his cares and joys at an end, while he, Avery, 
 was actually on his way to Lois! 
 
 It was odd that he should be always going to Cecily or 
 to Lois, and then coming back to Caroline. And the odd- 
 est part of it was unmistakably that it should be Caroline 
 to whom he always came back. If it had been either of the 
 
 others ! Of course, it was a droll idea, his going back 
 
 to either of those others; but just now it seemed more 
 natural than the actual state of affairs. How wonderful 
 the country looked today, the kind, quiet country — how 
 good it was to be going through the country to Lois ! The 
 whole earth was sweet, and poor Walter Butler had been 
 forced to leave it. 
 
 Avery had reckoned confidently on being able to slip into 
 Jefferson as quietly as he had on the occasion of his last 
 visit — that memorable visit when Cecily told him she had 
 had enough. But he had reckoned without his fame. All 
 the citizens subscribed for a Chicago paper, most of them 
 for that particularly far-reaching paper on which Avery 
 was now employed. The Chicago Aedile proclaimed Avery 
 
DIVERSIONS OF A FIANCE 265 
 
 an authority, a pioneer, almost a prophet: Aedile-readrng 
 Jefferson took its former citizen to its bosom. Hearty 
 citizens wrung his hand in the hotel lobby, stopped him on 
 the street to congratulate and question him. An enter- 
 prising reporter was at hand before Avery had had time 
 to wash his face. He arrived at Mrs. Butler's door with 
 a feeling of having fought his way there. 
 
 The Victorian house looked especially gloomy today; it 
 seemed — or was it his imagination? — as if all the glowing 
 life that the young Butlers had brought into it was gone, 
 and instead of that brief bright light reigned the natural 
 somber spirit of the place. Avery shivered as he stepped 
 into the lofty hall. This was a wonderful house for a 
 funeral; it might have been built with that in mind. 
 
 He was shown into the library, and Lois came directly 
 down to him. " How good of you to come, Avery ! " she 
 said. They stood for a moment hand in hand, with- 
 out speaking; then their hands parted, and they sat 
 down. 
 
 She was in a huge, high-backed chair, with a great win- 
 dow behind her. The afternoon sun lighted her black- 
 robed figure, her quiet pose with hands clasped in her lap. 
 She was like some storied queen mother, so collected was 
 she, so stately and picturesque; but he noted that her eye- 
 lids were heavy. 
 
 She spoke first of Walter's death, which was caused by 
 pneumonia. He had been ill only five days. "He was 
 cheerful up to the very last, and droll," said Lois. For a 
 moment tears filled her eyes ; that dying drollery of his was 
 awful in the remembering. Then quickly she asked about 
 Avery's work, and discussed some experiments of her own. 
 Presently she sent for her boy, who came and stood beside 
 her: a beautiful boy, strikingly like her, though it pleased 
 her to see in him a certain resemblance to his father. 
 " Walter left me everything," she said, her arm around the 
 
266 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 boy's shoulders. " He knew that, for all my theories, he 
 could trust me to deal justly with his boy." 
 
 When Avery rose to go she asked, " You expect to be 
 here for some days ? Ycu will come again ? " 
 
 " Until the day after tomorrow, at least. Yes, I shall 
 come again," he said. 
 
 As a matter of fact, he stayed a week. His late fellow- 
 citizens arranged a banquet in his honor, and proposed to 
 have him talk to them on " The Health of a City." It was 
 an opportunity not to be missed, a sowing of seed in virgin 
 soil. Avery communicated with the Aedile, and stayed. 
 
 He saw Mrs. Butler three more times, after the glimpse 
 that he had of her, controlled as a statue, at Walter's 
 funeral. They talked very naturally at those interviews: 
 Lois never took the conventional tone of the bereaved. 
 Avery, who had once looked on her as a person calamity 
 would never touch, saw her now as a woman who would 
 fairly absorb calamity, and thereby rise superior to it. She 
 missed her husband every hour and every minute, he felt; 
 but she was detemined to live out the life that was hers. 
 
 She was tremendously interested in the chance that had 
 come his way here in Jefferson. " I believe," she said the 
 morning when he came to report the success of the banquet 
 and his speech, " I believe that you are doing more for 
 Jefferson in these few days than I have ever done for it. 
 I've tried, you know ; but I haven't exactly ' taken ' here. 
 I've been tremendously happy here, though. Perhaps now 
 that I'm alone, I shan't be in Jefferson constantly." 
 
 A few minutes before he left, she seemed to nerve her- 
 self up to something that she had all along wanted to ask. 
 " Avery, are you going to marry that girl — Mrs. Keppel? " 
 
 " I am not sure " would have been a foolish reply, as 
 well as unchivalrous. " I expect to," said Avery. 
 
 " You wouldn't marry for money," she said. " I know 
 it isn't that. Do you love her, Avery ? " 
 
DIVERSIONS OF A FIANCE 267 
 
 " I suppose so. A man must have some woman in his 
 life, you know." 
 
 " Avery, it cuts me to hear you say that. It isn't like 
 you. Things haven't turned out right for you, have 
 they?" 
 
 " I don't know about their tightness. They have turned 
 out as they had to," he murmured. 
 
 " I'm not so sure about that. These last few years have 
 changed my ideas on many subjects, Avery.'' 
 
 " You were very happy, these last few years, weren't 
 you?" 
 
 " Very happy. Have you," she asked, " have you seen 
 Cecily lately?" 
 
 " Of what was that a propos ? " he asked. 
 
 " It wasn't a propos. I simply wished to find out." 
 
 " Perhaps it was, though," he said. " I wonder if Cecily's 
 ideas have ever changed ? " 
 
 " I thought she had developed wonderfully, the last time 
 I saw her," Lois assured him. 
 
 " I've seen her quite recently," Avery admitted. There- 
 upon he told her the story of his visit to Cecily. 
 
 " It makes me think of many things," she mused. 
 " Avery, are you quite, quite sure that all is over between 
 you?" 
 
 "I couldn't be surer." 
 
 " But if one of you took just a step toward reconcilia- 
 tion — I hate the word, let me say — toward each other, 
 Avery " 
 
 " It would do no good. It's most unlike you to even 
 speak of it." 
 
 " I know ; I know. It's indelicate, too." She smiled at 
 the mid- Victorian turn of the expression; then she went 
 on, " It's only that I want to see you happy, and that, per- 
 haps, I'm not quite myself just now." 
 
 "I understand. I'm not angry, Lois, I shouldn't think 
 
268 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 of being." He put out his hand to her, to show that there 
 was peace between them. 
 
 Her firm warm fingers grasped his frankly. As they did 
 so she said, with one of her startling flickers of femininity, 
 " Avery, if you're not angry with me, make the first step 
 toward her. Please, just to see. Only the first, that's all 
 you need make." 
 
 He laughed at her persistence ; but the sheer audacity of 
 the idea had something fascinating in it. To walk again into 
 that so characteristic flat of hers, to say, " Cecily, I've 
 come to stay," to put down his hat and stay, regardless 
 of Cecily's parti, reckless of Caroline, snapping his fingers 
 at the past, and if need be at the future — it was an enticing 
 vision. 
 
 Lois read in his eyes that he was tempted. Having sown 
 her seed, she was careful not to say too much, and he left 
 soon afterward. " Write to me sometimes," she bade him. 
 " Good-by." She smiled, however, as she added, " Good 
 luck." 
 
 He left her standing in the middle of the room, with her 
 hands hanging loose at her sides, and something like her 
 old brave bright smile on her lips. To Avery there was 
 something sublime in her lack of wistfulness; he felt that 
 she was not so cheerful without an effort. 
 
 But he soon found himself, rather oddly for him, think- 
 ing less about Lois than about what she had said. To go 
 back — to make a bold trial for Cecily's regard — that was 
 the idea that Lois had left him with. If he made the at- 
 tempt, at worst he should be no worse off than he was now ; 
 and the prospect of success was dazzling. 
 
 He began to recall hopeful signs, and was surprised at 
 the number that came to him. Cecily had shrunk from 
 ever actually getting a divorce — that was very significant, 
 in view of her definiteness in most things. She had always 
 answered his letters — deficiencies in correspondence had 
 
DIVERSIONS OF A FIANCE 269 
 
 been on his side. She had been generous with the chil- 
 dren ; here too, if complaint were possible, it was not to be 
 made by him. Probably she had sent him away in the first 
 place more because she hated the life they were leading 
 than because she hated him. Well, he had hated that life 
 too ; but now they were wiser, and could live a better. Yes, 
 both of them were wiser, and both of them had grown. 
 If they should live together again, Cecily could be as inde- 
 pendent as she liked ; and he would be as independent as he 
 liked. And at night they could always come home to each 
 other. He smiled at the quaintness of the reciprocal 
 phrase; and yet, why not? 
 
 The idea was beginning to take possession of him ; and he 
 viewed its rise without alarm, although he knew how com- 
 pletely ideas could possess him. There were obstacles, of 
 course; that dreadful dangling relation with Mrs. Keppel 
 was an obstacle. But what had he ever cared for obstacles, 
 when one of his ideas possessed him? His marriage to 
 Cecily and his entry into his life-work had both been feats 
 of the headlong. He was not afraid to crown them with a 
 precipitous remarriage. 
 
 He could see so well how the whole thing might be 
 worked out. This blessed newspaper job had come just in 
 time ; now he could offer to go and live in Cecily's city, if 
 need be; yes, thanks to good train service and the United 
 States mail, that would be quite possible. Perhaps she 
 would consider him magnanimous to make such an offer ; at 
 any rate, he could come offering concessions instead of 
 demanding them. 
 
 His idea seemed to him a breath from a mighty future, 
 a future when man and woman should enjoy an independ- 
 ence now undreamed of, leading ever to a union now im- 
 possible. Caroline Keppel had always represented a step 
 into the past; and that had always worried him. To be 
 rooted in the past, but not rooted to it — that was the right 
 
27o CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 idea. And this new marriage with Cecily should be an 
 affair of right ideas, of ripe experience, of perfect adjust- 
 ment, even as the old marriage had been an affair of 
 passionate youth and its maladjustments, of things by their 
 nature powerful and sweet, but tending ever to destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 The longer he thought of the scheme, the more com- 
 pletely it had possession of him; and on the train he had 
 nothing to do but think. From feeling that his idea was a 
 forlorn hope, he passed to thinking that it was reasonable 
 and possible enough; and thence, as the hours went by, to 
 believing it as good as done. He would set about it at once : 
 a day and night of solid work, perhaps, to get a little time 
 for himself; and then a good rest, to get his mind in per- 
 fect working order. In a few hours he might — think of 
 it! — be arguing with Cecily. A man needed all his facul- 
 ties to argue with Cecily; he smiled as he recalled her 
 occasional petulance. But he trusted himself, and his own 
 determination when an idea possessed him. Just a little 
 time now, and he would again rush for a train, and in that 
 train rush through miles of country ; and from that train — 
 from that train he would rush to Cecily. 
 
 This present train, jerking and rattling away from Jef- 
 ferson, reached Chicago just after nightfall. The idea had 
 now grown on Avery to such an extent that he and the 
 idea were identical; it was a triumphant, soaring idea that 
 was carried through the lighted streets in his person. To 
 the eyes of such an idea, how wonderful everything looked! 
 It was an enchanted city now, this noisy, dirty, careless 
 metropolis at which he scolded daily. Good old Chicago — 
 it had been very good to him ! He would come here often, 
 of course, even after his new life had begun; and if some 
 -day his work took him to other places, at least he would 
 never lose touch with Chicago. 
 
 He encountered his landlady in the hall; and at sight of 
 
DIVERSIONS OF A FIANCE 271 
 
 her his courage somehow sank. There was no' reason why 
 it should, no reason at all ; but she was a fussy soul. " Has 
 anybody been here to look for me?" he asked, simply in 
 order to have something to say. 
 
 " Yes, Dr. Fairchild. There's a man waiting for you 
 now," she said. 
 
 At this totally unexpected reply Avery's eyebrows shot 
 up. " The dickens ! Where is he? " 
 
 " In the parlor, Dr. Fairchild." 
 
 Avery opened the door of the parlor, a room he had not 
 entered three times as long as he had lived in the house. 
 The man rose to meet him. " Are you Avery Fairchild ? " 
 he asked. Avery nodded. " I am from the sheriff's office," 
 the man went on. 
 
 For a moment Avery was honestly at a loss, " You 
 work late, don't you ? " he asked genially. 
 
 " I was anxious to serve this paper on you, and make 
 return," said the man. 
 
 Avery put out his hand for the paper. A minute later 
 he heard his own voice saying dully, " I acknowledge serv- 
 ice. Is that all ? " In another minute he was alone. 
 
 A summons and complaint in a divorce case, just like 
 hundreds of other that were ground out annually: stereo- 
 typed phrases, routine allegations. But this was different 
 from every other case; this was the complaint of Cecily 
 Fairchild against Avery Fairchild. It couldn't be, though; 
 in his excitement he must be making some sort of stupid 
 mistake. 
 
 He carried the paper upstairs with him, and put it on his 
 desk. Then he took an immense drink of cold water; after 
 which he undressed with scrupulous care, unpacked his suit- 
 case and restored everything to its place, and took a bath. 
 In moving about the room he avoided looking at the paper ; 
 he had a ridiculous hope that if he only avoided looking long 
 enough, when he did look it would have disappeared. But 
 
272 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 at last he had no farther excuse for not looking; and when 
 he looked, there it lay. He picked up the paper, and read 
 it very carefully, by the light of his own lamp. It seemed 
 to be all there, right enough; but it was simply beyond 
 credence. 
 
 Dully and unbelievingly, he crawled into bed, and fell 
 into a light doze. Suddenly the day's bright dream re- 
 turned to him, brighter now a hundredfold. He could see 
 his whole life before him, now no longer a straight, hard 
 road, but a daisied meadow, perhaps, a sunny place where 
 duty and pleasure, development and indulgence, were all 
 gloriously blended, where he walked always with a slim, 
 dark-haired woman, whose dry staccato words were all 
 music to him. 
 
 He started awake in a little while, and then the whole 
 truth rushed blindingly upon him. His magnificent idea 
 amounted to nothing, and Cecily and he had come to the 
 end. It was useless to protest ; but something in. him pro- 
 tested nevertheless. " Girl ! Girl ! " he cried out as he lay 
 there, " we have had the past ; we should have the fu- 
 ture." The dismal phrases of the legal paper recurred to 
 him ; yet he held out his arms to her bright image. " I 
 never stopped loving you, dear," he whispered, " I never 
 stopped loving you." 
 
 Daybreak found him still lying there, going over and over 
 in his mind the things that ought to have been and the 
 things that were. He got up and pulled down his shades; 
 there was no hurry now, for he had nothing but work ahead. 
 Finally he went to sleep, and slept heavily until noon. 
 
 His first act on rising was to write to Cecily's lawyer 
 that he would not contest the suit. The lawyer's name, he 
 noted, was Sims ; that must be the man Cecily had worked 
 for, once upon a time. What business had any Sims to 
 step in and tell him that he must have nothing farther to do 
 with Cecily? But Sims really did nothing; the actual mes- 
 
DIVERSIONS OF A FIANCE 273 
 
 sage, of course, came to him from Cecily. In this world 
 or another, Cecily intended henceforth to have nothing 
 whatever to do with him. 
 
 On his way down to the Aedile office, Avery mailed his 
 letter to Cecily's lawyer. In the next block he stopped to 
 order some flowers for Caroline. " I suppose," he reflected 
 grimly, " it's Caroline from now on." And his obvious, 
 honorable, worldly-wise duty, marriage with the attractive, 
 desirable, devoted Caroline, sickened him like a descent into 
 some mouldy catacomb. 
 
XXVI 
 —AND OF A FIANCEE 
 
 Richard Morley had finally " put the whole matter up " 
 to Cecily. A dozen times he had decided to do so ; a dozen 
 times he had let a good opportunity pass, because things 
 were very pleasant just as they were. 
 
 Then one evening he had dropped in to see her, without 
 any sort of intention. He found her at the end of a diffi- 
 cult day, one of those days when everything seems to go 
 wrong. She was very tired, and very nervous. She 
 fidgeted in her chair, got up and walked about the room, 
 picked up things and put them down. Repeatedly she 
 seemed on the point of crying; and then she would laugh 
 instead. It was not a moment he would ever have chosen 
 to speak of an important matter, if he had simply been 
 choosing : it was not a moment when she ought to be called 
 upon to make an important decision. But seeing her so 
 made him aware of an instinctive desire to do for her, to 
 keep her worries at arm's length. This desire grew in 
 intensity; and with it came presently a wish to take her on 
 his knee, and soothe her just as one would a fretful child. 
 That was obviously very silly, for both in sound sense and 
 self-control, he had no doubt that Cecily was his superior; 
 yet when she seemed defeated and frustrated, as she did 
 tonight, she had an appeal in addition to any that she had 
 ever possessed in an hour of triumph. 
 
 Against his own better judgment, he undertook to intro- 
 duce his subject. " Cecily, I want to say something to you," 
 he began. 
 
 " I'm sorry for that. I'd rather go for a ride," said 
 
 974 
 
—AND OF A FIANCEE 275 
 
 Cecily. " I should like to ride and ride in the darkness — in 
 darkness and silence." She flung out her hands toward 
 him. 
 
 " Listen to me just a minute," he said, " and then we'll 
 go riding after that." 
 
 " If you would only learn to drive your own car," she 
 said, " we could talk as we ride, without fear of being over- 
 heard." 
 
 " There are very few things I wouldn't say in my car," 
 he answered. " Mat is a safe enough man, Cecily." 
 
 " Oh, perhaps he is, in that way. Perhaps he's even a 
 bit deaf," she retorted. " But I tell you, Richard, I think 
 that man drinks." 
 
 He smiled at the universal feminine suspicion of mascu- 
 line intoxication. " I'm sure he doesn't, Cecily. He has 
 worked for me for years, you know." 
 
 " Well, you wait and see," she said darkly. " Anyway, 
 you miss a lot of fun in not knowing how to drive your car. 
 You wouldn't always have to drive, you know." 
 
 "Should you like to drive a car?" he asked. 
 
 " Shouldn't I ? " She flung herself back in her chair, 
 and stretched her arms above her head. " I used to, a 
 little. I tell you, Richard, if I had my life to live over, 
 I'd live it in doing such things as driving cars, and I'd let 
 my duties go hang." 
 
 " I can see you," he said quietly. 
 
 She smiled a little, and then yawned. " If you have some- 
 thing you must say before we start, I'm listening," she 
 said. 
 
 " Since you are listening," replied Morley, " I'll say 
 my say at once. Cecily, when are you going to marry me ? " 
 
 "When am I?" 
 
 " Yes. Ought I to ask, are you going to marry me? " 
 
 She smiled again, wryly this time. " I should be a fool 
 not to marry you, shouldn't I ? " she asked. 
 
276 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " My dear girl, don't take it that way ! " he besought her. 
 " I think everything of you, Cecily. You needn't sacrifice 
 anything in order to marry me. You can do pretty much 
 as you like, you know ; and I can give your children every 
 advantage." 
 
 " What a rapturous proposal ! " she ejaculated. " There, 
 Richard, never mind; I didn't mean to be nasty. I am 
 fond of you; and it will be nice to feel sometimes that I 
 have some one back of me." 
 
 " I shall see that you never regret it," he said. The tone 
 of his voice startled her. 
 
 "Why, Richard!" she cried. "My dear fellow !" 
 
 She put out her hand to him. 
 
 " May I kiss you, Cecily ? " he asked huskily. 
 
 " May you ? You must ! " she cried gaily. " And after 
 that we'll ride and ride, Richard; and when you bring me 
 home, we'll find that we have lots more to say; and you 
 shall kiss me again." 
 
 All the rest of that evening she was gay and sweet; if 
 she had been with Avery, he would have guessed that after 
 her evening's gaiety she would probably cry herself to 
 sleep. 
 
 However she got to sleep, she was awakened the next 
 morning by the entrance of Anna, beaming at her over a 
 flower-box. " A boy just now brought it," she said ; and 
 then, being a confidential servant, she waited for her mis- 
 tress to open the box. 
 
 It held long-stemmed pink roses, dozens and dozens of 
 them. Cecily laid them beside her on the bed, and closed 
 her eyes. Fragrance filled the room, she breathed it in, and 
 luxuriated in the feeling of being sought after. But she 
 rose presently, and went to work just as usual. A dozen 
 engagements, marriage itself, should not make her forget 
 that she had her place in the world's work, with bills com- 
 ing due monthly and a modest pay-roll to satisfy at the end 
 
—AND OF A FIANCEE 277 
 
 of the week. Yet she worked that day with a mind pleas- 
 antly vacant, or filled only with a soothing perfume of pink 
 roses. 
 
 She had a good crowd for luncheon ; one very charming 
 party made her sit down and talk with them ; evidently they 
 considered her the biggest part of her own stock-in-trade. 
 How would it be when she was Richard Morley's wife? 
 Just the same, she promised herself passionately; she for- 
 got all the disagreeables of the day before, and told herself 
 that not by one iota would she change her business, her 
 precious business, for any man. 
 
 After luncheon she went home, as she usually did for 
 an hour before the tea crowd began to come. Morley knew 
 of her custom, and often telephoned her at this hour. 
 Doubtless he would telephone today; she was glad to find 
 herself pleasantly excited at the prospect. But when she 
 reached home, a note from Morley was what awaited her, 
 a note delivered by Anna as proudly as if all this delightful 
 masculine attention were being paid to herself. 
 
 It was only a line, hoping that Cecily would come home 
 this afternoon, as he was sending her a little present. 
 What would the present be, she wondered as she dropped 
 the note on her dressing-table. A string of pearls, per- 
 haps — she glanced in the mirror at her throat, almost see- 
 ing its smooth suface so encircled. She had always wished 
 for pearls; yet somehow she would rather Richard didn't 
 begin by loading her with jewels. 
 
 Anna, now positively excited, came to summon her to 
 the door; the present must have arrived. Cecily, prepared 
 to meet a messenger with a jewelry box, saw no one at the 
 door ; behind her Anna said, " Downstairs, Mrs. Fairchild ; 
 it's downstairs." Cecily ran down the long flights, emerging 
 breathless and bare-headed in the afternoon sun. Before 
 her stood Richard's chauffeur, the same Mat of whom she 
 had spoken last evening; and at the curb was a new run- 
 
278 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 about of choice and sophisticated beauty. " Your car, Mrs. 
 Fairchild," said Mat, touching his cap. " Mr. Morley's 
 orders were that if you were at liberty, I was to give you a 
 lesson in running it." 
 
 An eager, starry-eyed Cecily answered Morley's ring 
 herself that evening. " Richard, dear, what a present ! " 
 she cried, lifting her face to be kissed. 
 
 He laughed boyishly. " Did you like it?" he asked. 
 
 " Like it ? Why, it's the thing I've always wanted ! It's 
 my idea of luxury, Richard. I could hardly tear myself 
 away from it to go back to work." 
 
 " Why go back ? " he suggested. 
 
 Inside his encircling arm she drew back to look at him 
 with sudden gravity. " Don't say anything like that, Rich- 
 ard," she begged. 
 
 " No, I won't," he said hastily. He seemed somewhat 
 afraid of the subject. " But save some scraps of time, 
 won't you, for the new car and for me ? " 
 
 That day marked the beginning of a very happy period 
 for Cecily, a period when she lived on excitement and 
 devotion. It seemed to her as if she were a girl again : she 
 had always the feeling of being deliciously sought after. 
 Richard was quite wonderful: he was lavish at times, and 
 she liked his lavishness, but often he allowed her to forget 
 his possessions, and remember simply himself. After all, it 
 was that self which sought her. 
 
 This indeed was his real courtship. Before this he had 
 made her feel that he liked, even that he loved her; but 
 above all that she had his profoundest respect. The un- 
 deniable difference in their social positions had made neces- 
 sary that showing of respect, and he had shown it very 
 nicely, very delicately. But now mere respect could be 
 taken for granted: now he would lay at her feet nothing 
 less than his devotion — his devotion and his need of her. 
 
 And in the warmth of his devotion, Cecily blossomed 
 
—AND OF A FIANCEE 279 
 
 afresh. Her little hats were jauntier than ever, her white 
 collars neater and saucier. She played with her children 
 as if she had only just discovered their fascination. She 
 gloried in her new car, and in her own cleverness with it ; 
 she jeered afresh at Richard, because running any car was 
 beyond him. He loved her jeering, gloried in her high 
 spirits; they were to him proof that this marriage of his 
 was to turn out a great success. 
 
 As yet he and Cecily had told only a few people of their 
 engagement. Anna had to know, of course ; and Anna was 
 delighted. Mr. Sims was told; and the news so affected 
 him that he actually came to call upon Cecily, sacrificing 
 to his respect for his partner and his admiration for Mrs. 
 Fairchild a stiff twenty minutes that was full of agony 
 both for himself and for the lady on whom he called. And 
 Richard told a woman friend of his, an exquisite and 
 elegant woman, near his own age, who also came to see 
 Cecily. The reason why this woman had been told was 
 immediately patent to Cecily, and from her height of 
 woman intensely sought she was heartily sorry for this fad- 
 ing, exquisite creature who adored, and who 1 wasn't 
 wanted. She admired, too, this woman's courage in coming 
 to see her, in exposing to her sharp eyes that tremulous 
 secret. " I couldn't have done it in her place," she thought. 
 And then, as she noted and appreciated her visitor's charm, 
 almost timid, yet wonderfully finished, it struck her, " Why 
 didn't Richard marry this woman years ago ?> Beside her, I 
 must appear shoddy and second-rate. What has made 
 him choose me?" 
 
 Ordinarily she saw well enough why Richard had 
 " chosen " her, and why he had never married this ex- 
 quisite woman, of whom he was fond, and nothing more 
 than fond. In his ordered, cultured, middle-aged existence, 
 Cecily was a wonderful disturbing element: she was ro- 
 mance, she was adventure, she was youth. Against her the 
 
280 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 habits of a lifetime and the attractions of an elegant 
 spinster had no chance of succeeding. 
 
 So interested was Cecily in playing her new part of the 
 young fiancee, and so bent was she on making the most of 
 these happy days, that she ignored or postponed one or two 
 things that were incumbent upon her. This neglect led to 
 an incident trivial in itself, and yet to her spirit so signifi- 
 cant that it changed her feeling for her new situation and 
 even altered her attitude toward her peerless fiance. 
 
 She was driving home in her car one Saturday in her 
 afternoon interval. She had intended to go directly home, 
 but lured by the air and the sense of motion she had driven 
 around for half an hour; and a new turning brought her 
 opposite the house where Miss Samuels roomed. Poor, 
 devoted, boresome Samuels — Cecily hadn't even thought 
 about her lately. In the magnanimity of her happiness she 
 determined to go see Samuels some time; then reflecting 
 that this was Saturday afternoon, when Miss Samuels 
 wouldn't be working, and that she herself had an hour of 
 leisure, she turned the car and stopped it before the room- 
 ing-house. 
 
 Miss Samuels's wilted landlady was obviously awed at 
 this bright vision descending from a smart car. She man- 
 aged however to stammer that her lodger wasn't at 
 home, but was expected at any moment. Would the lady 
 wait? 
 
 " I'll go up to her room," said Cecily sweetly. " Don't 
 trouble; I know the way." 
 
 In the neat little bookish room Cecily drew off her heavy 
 gloves, and began to examine the books. There were some 
 new ones, annotated in pencil; evidently the self-improve- 
 ment went steadily on. Cecily shook her head, amused by 
 this diligence and yet respecting it. " If we all availed our- 
 selves as thoroughly of our opportunities " she re- 
 flected; though at the same time she knew she would have 
 
—AND OF A FIANCEE 281 
 
 been actually more affected by another person's magnificent 
 disdain of opportunities. 
 
 She might read for a few minutes, while she waited for 
 Miss Samuels. With one of the more interesting books in 
 her hand, Cecily turned away from the shelves, and moved 
 a step or two toward the middle of the room. Then she 
 gasped audibly, and the volume dropped to the floor. 
 
 In the center of the dresser-top, among the neat cheap 
 toilet articles, stood a large photograph in a silver frame. 
 There was no mistaking that handsome dark face, that 
 smooth thick black hair, those wonderful supple hands 
 of which the photographer had caught the very trick. No, 
 there was no mistaking the subject, even if Cecily herself 
 had not had a copy of the picture. It was one Avery Fair- 
 child had had taken for his wife's birthday in the Jefferson 
 days. 
 
 Cecily's first impulse was to seize the picture and run; 
 even so do we possess ourselves of what belongs to us, 
 wherever we happen to find it. But a moment later her 
 mind was in a whirl of conjecture; and her own conjec- 
 tures held her rigidly there. Then it was too late to run; 
 for she heard hurried footsteps on the stairs, and Miss 
 Samuels herself rushed into the room. 
 
 She took in the situation so swiftly that it seemed as 
 if she must have suspected it beforehand. She stepped 
 between Cecily and the dresser, and stood there panting ; in 
 the silence of the room could be heard the beating of her 
 heart. 
 
 After a minute or two Cecily spoke ; her tone was easy, 
 if somewhat artificial. " Your landlady said that she ex- 
 pected you soon. I told her that I would wait here. I was 
 passing, and stopped for a few minutes. This is the first 
 time, isn't it, that I have ever come here as an unex- 
 pected guest ? " 
 
 The other woman bowed her head, speechless ; her hands 
 
282 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 hung heavily at her sides. At that moment her origin and 
 ancestry were clearly manifest : one could fairly see behind 
 her the generations of dumb driven cattle. Sudden anger 
 flared up in Cecily; she felt a furious desire to spurn all 
 those cowering wretches in the person of their descendant. 
 " Where did you get that picture ? " she demanded. 
 
 The dull face suddenly lighted ; the long hands and bony 
 wrists were flung toward her in a gesture of passionate 
 appeal. " Don't tell him," the girl said in a low voice. 
 " He has forgotten all about me, but — he's like a god to me, 
 Mrs. Fairchild." 
 
 "You know him?" asked Cecily. A wild thought had 
 come to her that Miss Samuels's seeming devotion to her- 
 self was an espionage inspired by Avery. 
 
 " I did know him once, in Jefferson." 
 
 "In Jefferson?" 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Fairchild; I lived there then." 
 
 " I never knew you there, did I ? " 
 
 " No, Mrs. Fairchild. We were very, very poor. I had 
 a sister, with three small children; she was dying of con- 
 sumption. He came to see her; he was very good to her. 
 If you could have seen how he used to come among the 
 poor people — not only like a doctor, Mrs. Fairchild. Like 
 a ray of light, like an inspiration." 
 
 " He used to work among poor people a great deal," 
 said Cecily. Yes, she remembered that, and how disagree- 
 able she herself had always been about his doing it; but 
 Avery as a ray of light — she simply couldn't imagine that. 
 
 The other woman, however, seemed to take her remark 
 as hearty agreement. "I was a poor, ignorant girl," she 
 went on, her face more and more transfigured. " I was 
 without ambition, without sense of responsibility. When 
 my sister died, I should have tried simply for a little pleas- 
 ure in life, if the thought of him hadn't somehow come 
 before me and stopped me. As it was, I studied instead. 
 
—AND OF A FIANCEE 283 
 
 At first I studied evenings, and saved a little money; and 
 then I took up shorthand." 
 
 Cecily suppressed an exclamation. " At the Jefferson 
 Business College? " she asked. The other nodded. 
 
 It all came back to Cecily then, her breezy autumn walk 
 in a mood of furious discontent, and her encounter with 
 all the pupils pouring out of the business college, and her 
 passing glimpse of this girl's crude face, with a sort of 
 awakening visible even then amidst its crudity. 
 
 " Oh, I have worked ! " Miss Samuels cried in exulta- 
 tion. " I have taken care of my sister's children. I had to 
 have help, of course, but I've been always there, so that 
 they couldn't feel themselves friendless. Two of them have 
 gone to work, and the other is still in school; I mean to 
 keep her there as long as I can. Of course, it has taken 
 most of my money to do for them; I know what it is to 
 cook your own meals on a gas jet and do your own wash- 
 ing in the bathroom when the landlady isn't looking. But 
 always, through it all, I have found time and means to 
 study, study, study." 
 
 Again she flung out her arms in that sweeping, passion- 
 ate gesture ; and now as she went on she lifted her head and 
 looked Cecily full in the eye. " I got the picture to remind 
 me; I went to a photographer in Jefferson, and got him 
 to sell it to me for the first money I earned with my short- 
 hand. It isn't always easy to keep on in the path you have 
 marked out for yourself, especially when you're young. 
 And there are things to keep away from, too. The men 
 of my own class — I wouldn't look at them now. The men 
 of a class above wouldn't look at me, I know ; I'm not pretty. 
 But I'm satisfied as I am. To go on always, doing my 
 decent work in the daytime, and at night studying, and 
 thinking my own thoughts — that is enough for me." 
 
 A woman living by the light of an ideal — of an illusion, 
 if you liked; and that illusion Avery Fairchild! With a 
 
284 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 flicker of curiosity Cecily asked, " How did you come to 
 make a friend of me?" She would have thought herself 
 the last person this idealist would have taken for a friend. 
 
 " At first I only wished to be near something that was 
 his. I suspected too that there was misunderstanding, and 
 I had a wild idea that in some mysterious way I might 
 help to clear it up. But soon I grew to love you for your- 
 self. You're not in the least like him, but you're just as 
 
 wonderful in your way. I " She paused, her face 
 
 working. " I can't bear to think of you two, my ideals, 
 any way but happy together." 
 
 " I'm afraid that's out of the question," said Cecily, with 
 a gentleness that surprised herself. Some obscure impulse 
 of pity made her add, " It isn't anything that he has done." 
 
 " I knew it wasn't ! But if he hasn't done anything, 
 couldn't you — couldn't" you make up with him? I know 
 other men admire you, and you like them perhaps, but — 
 it — isn't — possible — that you don't love him." 
 
 She was silent, and drew a long breath; perhaps she 
 expected to be rebuked for what she had said. But Cecily 
 was scarcely conscious now of the other woman; it might 
 have been her own soul speaking to her. She stood as if 
 rooted to the spot, the prey of fast-coming memories ; noth- 
 ing was real or near but the voice of the dim dead past. 
 
 Suddenly she lifted her head. What was she doing in 
 this room, with this girl? In a moment she was herself 
 again; and then the past so vividly evoked seemed a night- 
 mare. In view of present conditions, it was a nightmare, 
 this ineradicable unthinkable past. 
 
 Without a word, Cecily turned and fled, stumbling down 
 the stairs — there seemed to be hundreds of stairs. In the 
 sunny quiet street everything looked distorted. Some- 
 thing seemed to be pursuing her, something so horrible that 
 she didn't dare even to learn what it was. She grasped 
 the steering-wheel with bare hands ; her gloves had dropped 
 
—AND OF A FIANCEE 285 
 
 in that accursed room, and if they had been filled with gold 
 she wouldn't have gone back for them. 
 
 Down the street she rushed the little car at break- 
 neck speed; but her feet pressed the floor frantically be- 
 cause the car did not, could not, go fast enough. Down 
 that street and up another she drove, and across town. 
 There, in the solidest, oldest block of the City's most " ex- 
 clusive " street, lived her friend and quondam employer, 
 Mr. Sims. 
 
 Young Sims happened to be in the hall when she was 
 admitted. At sight of her he shot up his eyebrows and 
 stroked his silken mustache; suspecting her approaching 
 marriage to " old Morley," he was doubly prepared for 
 persiflage. Cecily passed him without so much as seeing 
 him. 
 
 Sims Senior was in his library, where he habitually took 
 refuge, when he chanced to be in the house, from women 
 and their ways. It was a grim room, all his own. He got 
 up at Cecily's entrance, and drew forward a chair for her. 
 " I am glad to see you, Mrs. Fairchild," he said. 
 
 Her silence, and the odd strained way in which she 
 looked about her, almost succeeded in frightening him. 
 " Is there anything the matter? " he asked. " Is there any- 
 thing I can do ? I hope there is." 
 
 Suddenly she slid toward the edge of her chair, and her 
 glance fastened itself on him. " There is something," she 
 said. " Something that must be attended to, and at once. 
 Mr. Sims, I want you to get me a divorce." 
 
 His face did not change ; he pulled a pad of paper toward 
 him. "When ?" he began. 
 
XXVII 
 INFERENCES FROM A SUCCESSFUL MARRIAGE 
 
 In the days of her bereavement, Lois Butler turned to 
 Avery. With the passage of time after Walter's death she 
 seemed to grow not less but more lonely : the appeal of her 
 grief was greater. " You knew him too, Avery," she would 
 say, " you knew him." The friends of her early life hadn't 
 known her husband ; in her husband's city she hadn't very 
 generally made friends. Now in her frankly unhappy 
 state, it must be Avery that she sought. They wrote regu- 
 larly; she saw him on repeated visits to Chicago, and she 
 asked him to come to Jefferson. Avery could not help feel- 
 ing that it was a distinction for him to be so singled out by 
 audi a woman ; and he received her all the more readily 
 because during these days he was not himself particularly 
 happy. 
 
 One result of their renewed intimacy was that he per- 
 ceived in Lois certain common feminine qualities which 
 at one time he would not have believed her to possess. He 
 noticed now, for instance, how often engagements with 
 Lois seemed to forestall engagements or possible engage- 
 ments with Caroline. There was some natural feminine 
 wiliness here : he grinned on discovering it. Once it would 
 have appeared to him as the clay feet of his idol; but he 
 was getting older, and coming by degrees to see that a 
 woman is after all none the worse for being a woman. 
 
 Caroline, he was sure, knew as well as he the object of 
 those engagements that so often kept him from her. The 
 engagements themselves he made no attempt to conceal. 
 Perhaps she would have liked it better if he had : a little 
 
 286 
 
INFERENCES FROM A MARRIAGE 287 
 
 mystery in the background would have renewed the savor 
 of their own affair. But Avery's indifference as to how 
 much she knew galled her. 
 
 She endeavored to beat him at his own game, or at least 
 to pique his interest. She went out pointedly with other 
 men ; it was not difficult, he would find, for Mrs. Keppel to 
 get masculine attention. But Avery, far from being piqued, 
 said gently that he was glad to have her go out, go all she 
 cared to; he explained that it gave him more leisure, and 
 that his mind was at rest about her when he .knew she was 
 having a good time. 
 
 " Shall you like to have me go out with other men after 
 we are married ? " she blazed out. 
 
 Avery simply smiled in answer, smiled just as one would 
 at a child who was trying to say something daring and 
 naughty. He was very sure of himself, she thought; and 
 yet why shouldn't he be? This attempt at revolt on her 
 part ended in nothing; she was more unhappy in her re- 
 bellious expeditions than when she simply sat at home and 
 waited. Probably any future rebellion would end in the 
 same way, and she would go on to the end of her life caring 
 more for Avery than he did for her, and accordingly bound 
 hand and foot in her actions. 
 
 Yet she wondered sometimes if their lives would go on 
 long together; she wondered if they would ever be mar- 
 ried. More than once, enraged at his real or fancied 
 neglect, she even determined to break the engagement her- 
 self. More than once that singular gleam which had come 
 first on the night Avery heard of Butler's death, returned 
 to her ; and she was frightened, delighted, fascinated. But 
 she hadn't strength to make it perpetually hers. At the 
 sight of Avery, or the mere sound of his voice over the 
 telephone, resolution would turn to water. It seemed that 
 she could not help herself. 
 
 Then one evening, one never to be forgotten evening, he 
 
288 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 came to her with his divorce decree in one pocket and an 
 engagement ring in another — his freedom and his thralldom 
 both upon his person. The ring was a magnificent one, a 
 combination of diamonds and sapphires; to slip it on he 
 took off the wedding-ring she had worn for so many years. 
 " If you would like something else better, we can change 
 this," he said. " But this is my ideal of what looks well 
 on you." 
 
 " Oh, I wouldn't have you change it for worlds ! " she 
 cried. " It's perfectly beautiful, and it was so sweet of you 
 just to get it as you did. Your taste is wonderful, Avery." 
 
 Indeed she could not say enough to express her apprecia- 
 tion. She kissed him again and again; being surprised this 
 way made it doubly wonderful. What she did not tell him 
 was that the sight of the new ring on her finger gave her 
 new confidence ; and that was what made her happy. 
 
 Presently he thrust his hand into a pocket; and there 
 encountered his temporarily forgotten legal paper. " Did 
 I tell you," he asked — he knew he had not — " did I tell 
 you that we can be married at any time after the expira- 
 tion of a year?" 
 
 " Not actually ? " she exclaimed. " Oh, Avery ! Then 
 I can announce our engagement ? " 
 
 " As soon as you like," he said. " There isn't any hurry 
 yet, is there?" 
 
 " No. Perhaps we would better wait. Only I'm anxious 
 to have it done, because from that moment I shall be yours 
 before the world — and yet I shall never be yours at heart 
 more than I am now." 
 
 She was a sweet little thing, and at moments like this 
 she touched him. If only he couldn't always, at any men- 
 tion of their marriage, feel chains clanking about him ! But 
 he was fond of Caroline; and as a practical point of con- 
 duct, he had no choice but to go on. He had taken this 
 other life into his — in a wanton moment, perhaps, but he 
 
INFERENCES FROM A MARRIAGE 289 
 
 had taken it ; and he must live up to his bargain. The 
 sooner he began to do so, the sooner he should get used 
 to it. 
 
 He went to Jefferson the next day, half hoping that on 
 his return the blazoning forth to the world would have been 
 accomplished, and he himself definitely and publicly com- 
 mitted. Meanwhile, " we who are about to die " He 
 
 had a farewell or two to bid before the public assump- 
 tion of his new status. 
 
 Immediately after his arrival he visited the Jefferson 
 Health Department, which now, thanks to his exertions, 
 employed a full-time health officer. Then he strolled along 
 the river-bank, up to Mrs. Butler's. It was a November 
 day, of the chill, mournful kind; his errand, if errand he 
 had, was mournful too. He walked slowly; thick-coming 
 memories seemed to clog his brain and impede his foot- 
 steps. And yet he was very glad to be here, and to be 
 going to Lois; he rejoiced even in the depth of his melan- 
 choly, so suitable to the day and place, so little like mere 
 vexation. 
 
 Lois, apprised by telephone of his coming, was waiting 
 for him; she received him in her converted conservatory. 
 It was the first time that they had sat there since Walter 
 died. The queer, familiar room, and Lois's voice and pres- 
 ence, brought back the old days so strongly that when 
 Avery's sense of duty forced him to stammer out his news, 
 he didn't himself believe it. 
 
 Lois heard it very quietly; after a pause she lifted her 
 eyes, and said, " So you and Cecily have come to the end." 
 That was the thing which struck her. 
 
 " To the end, no doubt," said Avery. " It doesn't seem 
 possible ! " 
 
 " It was never meant to happen." 
 
 " In a sense, no," he agreed. " In another sense, per- 
 haps it couldn't have been avoided. I am willing to admit, 
 
ago CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 though, that I've been weak with her all along. But I 
 didn't see my conduct as weakness until it was too late. 
 We aren't born old enough, Lois, that's the truth — to say 
 nothing of our marrying too young. And in our youth we 
 look on things broadly and crudely : I love or I don't love, 
 I am angry, or this thing annoys me and I should like to 
 have it ended." 
 
 " You don't know what Cecily intends to do ? You never 
 found out what her application meant?" 
 
 " No. I never tried to find out. What would; have been 
 the use? I should only have distressed her. If we could 
 begin again, and live life over in the light of our experi- 
 ence, it would be different." 
 
 " If we were a little more patient all the time " she 
 
 suggested. 
 
 " Yes. And if we realized even in our preoccupation and 
 our bad tempers that you may never consciously think of 
 a person, and yet never once have her out of your mind " 
 
 " That," said Lois quickly, " is marriage, or its result. 
 You couldn't come closer to the gist of the matter." 
 
 He nodded. " In our different ways, we seem to have 
 learned the same thing, Lois." 
 
 She picked up a magazine from the table at her elbow. 
 It was a radical sheet, conducted by very young men and 
 women; it shrieked protest at every existing institution. 
 " Some of my closest friends founded this," she remarked. 
 " The only reason I wasn't in it myself was that it wasn't 
 a money-making scheme, and I had to earn my living. 
 Those same friends hooted when I married ; heaven knows 
 what they would say if they could see me now." 
 
 " You aren't the radical you once were ? " 
 
 "On some subjects, I am: distribution of income, for 
 instance. But marriage " 
 
 " Marriage has treated you so kindly," he said. 
 
 " Perhaps that accounts for it. Yes, it must. For my 
 
INFERENCES FROM A MARRIAGE 291 
 
 ideas on the subject are still fairly liberal, but my feelings — 
 Avery, I feel that by its very nature marriage is perma- 
 nent. I don't say it ought to be ; I say it is." 
 
 " By that same token, you think I shall be more or less 
 an idiot if I marry Mrs. Keppel ? " 
 
 " You do fully expect to marry her, Avery ? " 
 
 " I fully expect to. We go pretty much where we are 
 wanted in this world: Cecily doesn't want me, and Caro- 
 line does." 
 
 " That isn't the question," declared Lois. " A frivolous 
 society woman is not the wife for you. What does she 
 know of your work or your aspirations ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Avery. " Perhaps she will give me a 
 rest from them — complete change, you know." 
 
 "Do you believe that she will? I don't," said Lois 
 bluntly. " My opinion is that having just spent several 
 painful years scrambling out of the frying-pan, you are 
 now on the point of jumping into the fire. But perhaps 
 you've fully made up your mind, and in being disagreeable 
 to you now I'm simply spoiling your visit." 
 
 " There is one thing that, if it could happen, would make 
 me change my mind even now," said Avery. 
 
 " Yes ? " She leaned forward, interested. 
 
 Avery looked her steadily in the eye. " Marry me 
 yourself, Lois, and you will save me from all other 
 women." 
 
 For once in her life, Lois's poise deserted her. Her face 
 went white and then red; she stared at him in fascina- 
 tion. 
 
 " I'm not raving, and I'm not joking, Lois. It isn't pos- 
 sible under the circumstances for me to say all that I'd like 
 to : but you have only to speak a word, and I'll break my 
 engagement to Caroline, and wait for you. I know you 
 don't love me, but you like me pretty well. You have a good 
 many years yet to live, and we could work so splendidly 
 
292 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 together. You've always helped me ; can't you go on help- 
 ing me — always ? " 
 
 She shook her head mutely. " I hardly know why I've 
 said this," Avery went on. " When I came here I didn't 
 intend anything of the sort ; and of course if I had intended 
 to speak to you of such a matter, I should have waited. 
 But it would be a wonderful thing, if it could come to pass, 
 Lois." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " she breathed. " It would be very wonderful, 
 Avery." 
 
 She got up then, and walked away from him; she stood 
 looking over the curtains at the river. Presently she said, 
 without turning, " I hope that I shall always be able to 
 help you, Avery. I want you always to feel free to call 
 upon me. But I can't marry you, not even " — she hesitated 
 — " not even now." 
 
 "You can't, Lois?" 
 
 " I've had that once, you know," she said, " marriage, 
 and all that it means. I can't go back to that." 
 
 " Having had that, you won't put up with anything less ? " 
 
 She left the window ; she came up and laid her hand on 
 his arm. " I can't, dear. I can't," she said. 
 
 He gripped her hand in his. Her hand grasped his in 
 return, firmly, frankly, yet he had a curious feeling that she 
 was not frank, that for once in her life she was forcing her 
 attitude. 
 
 " I think it's selfish of me not to do as you ask," she 
 declared. " It's selfish of me ; but in this matter I have to 
 be selfish. You see that, don't you ? What you can't see is 
 how it hurts me to be selfish to you, Avery. You're the best 
 friend I have in the world; I would do anything for you, 
 except that." 
 
 And then, close upon his impression that she wasn't 
 quite frank, followed another impression, so wild that it 
 startled him, so farcical that he would never have dared to 
 
INFERENCES FROM A MARRIAGE 293 
 
 tell it to another person, even if there were any one to 
 whom a man could tell such things. But absurd as it was, 
 he knew from the moment it entered his head that it was 
 true. Wonderful Lois, so lately widowed, so perfect in her 
 devotion to Walter's memory, was actually afraid of her 
 own feeling for Avery. She had already sacrificed to love, 
 had given freely and ungrudgingly years of her precious, 
 brilliant life to it ; and she wasn't willing to love again. 
 
 He sympathized humorously with her unwillingness ; and, 
 away down underneath, he loved the fact that she was 
 afraid of him, that with the corner of her which was merely 
 feminine and affectionate, she found him all too attractive. 
 It must be a bit humiliating for her, though, to fear any- 
 body; and the entrance of that little niggling fear presaged 
 the end of their relation. Never again would they sit to- 
 gether quite as of old; and perhaps in time they would 
 cease entirely to sit together. This was the oddest way for 
 their relation to end; unless, perhaps, the odd thing was 
 that, being man and woman, they hadn't reached this end 
 sooner. 
 
 " We won't speak of it again, Lois," he said. " But I 
 should have liked it awfully well." 
 
 " I believe I should have liked it myself ; but it's quite 
 impossible," she said. Again she was forcing the note, and 
 her eye wavered in meeting his. 
 
 " Won't you have Jerry down, if he's in the house ? " 
 asked Avery briskly after a moment's pause. " I should 
 like to see him again before I leave." 
 
 " I left word for him to come in when he returned from 
 his walk. Evidently he hasn't returned," she said. 
 
 " In that case I shall miss him," said Avery, rising. 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you are going now, Avery ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " But I shall see you again ? " 
 
 " No. I'm going back to Chicago by the night train." 
 
294 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Going back to Chicago — so soon ? " she faltered. She 
 ■was frank now — she was frankly troubled. 
 
 " Going back to Chicago at once. Going back to Chi- 
 cago," he iterated mercilessly, " to do my simple duty, 
 Lois." 
 
XXVIII 
 THE GLEAM 
 
 Surely, thought Avery, his way had never been marked 
 so clearly before any human man as Avery's own was be- 
 fore him. There could be no equivocation now, and no 
 more delay than was absolutely necessary — was in fact de- 
 manded of him by the laws of the commonwealth. He 
 would do his duty henceforth, not only because he was a 
 noble fellow and devoted to duty, but because as things had 
 turned there was nothing much else for him to do. When 
 of three possible courses two had failed, it required 
 neither discernment nor determination to go ahead on the 
 other. Oh, Avery was beautifully clear in his own mind; 
 and it never occurred to him that Fate might still have a 
 trick up her sleeve. 
 
 He had a chance to get his course a little in perspective, 
 as it were; for he was not going back to Chicago quite as 
 directly as he had made Lois believe. He stopped on the 
 way to fill two lecture engagements. Dr. Fairchild was 
 coming to be in demand as a lecturer — a sign not only 
 of his own increasing popularity, but of the growth of in- 
 terest in the things he represented. The solid citizen, the 
 governing body or board, the intelligent laboring-man, were 
 all coming to be interested. Education for health was the 
 new order; and of that new order, Avery Fairchild was in 
 the middle west quite peculiarly and indisputably the 
 prophet. To feel the truth flowing through one to eager 
 minds — that compensated for the many times one was dis- 
 appointed ! Ah, a man could live in his work, when he had 
 such a work to live in ! 
 
 295 
 
296 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 On his return to Chicago he went directly to the Aedile 
 office, and attacked his piled-up mail, that queer, eager, some- 
 times intelligent, often pathetic and occasionally comic mail 
 of his. He looked up presently to say to the stenographer 
 at his elbow, " Will you telephone for me, please ? Call up 
 Mrs. Morrison Keppel," he gave the number, " and tell her 
 I shall be over about six o'clock." It was the first time he 
 had ever communicated with Caroline through a third per- 
 son. Yet why not, when the whole world would soon 
 know of the bond between them, and recognize its irre- 
 proachably regular character ? 
 
 It was actually seven o'clock when he rang Mrs. Kep- 
 pel's bell, though he had come straight from the office. 
 " Just as I came from the train ! " he cried as he stooped to 
 kiss her; he intended to forestall reproaches for his tardi- 
 ness. 
 
 The face that she raised to his was not, however, re- 
 proachful: it was sweet instead, and very, very serious. 
 Not since the early days of their acquaintance had he seen 
 her look so sweet, and never before had she looked so 
 wholly, so purposefully serious. She was dressed simply, 
 too; nothing flashed or glittered or shone as she moved. 
 " Has anything happened ? " he was moved to ask. 
 
 She shook her head. All during dinner she talked calmly 
 of indifferent matters, thereby increasing his feeling that 
 something had indeed happened: for when since he could 
 remember had she been satisfied to be impersonal? But 
 whatever its cause, an interlude of peace was not bad ; per- 
 haps it even promised a certain peace in the future. 
 
 When they were alone after dinner in her familiar little 
 sitting-room, Avery made himself comfortable by the fire, 
 and picked up a magazine. " Shan't I read to you as you 
 sew ? " he asked. " Or would you rather talk, Caroline ? " 
 
 She stood with her back to the fire, and looked at him 
 without speaking. Avery, still retaining his magazine, put 
 
THE GLEAM 297 
 
 out his hand to her. She ignored the outstretched hand, 
 continuing to fix him with a look of singular clarity and 
 steadiness. Something, clearly, had come over her; but 
 so long as it wasn't either jealousy or a romantic transport, 
 he ventured to hope that it wouldn't disturb him too much. 
 
 " Avery," she said presently, " you came here straight 
 from the train ? That is, you didn't go home ? " 
 
 It was his tardiness, after all; he was going to get a 
 wigging. " I sent my bag home, and went straight to the 
 office," he explained. " My work was stacked up for me 
 there : mail a foot deep all over the top of my desk, dear. 
 That was why I had to come here all travel-stained." 
 
 " Oh, that doesn't matter," she assured him. " I only 
 wished to know if you had gone to your room." 
 
 " No, dear." 
 
 She drew a long breath; her clear gaze dropped for a 
 second, and then once more fixed his. " Because, Avery," 
 she said slowly, " because I've been there." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " To your room. I went there the day before yesterday." 
 
 He didn't know what to make of that statement, delivered 
 so simply and earnestly. " But you knew I wasn't in town, 
 Caroline," he finally brought out. 
 
 " Yes. Oh, yes ! That is why I chose the day I did, 
 Avery. I wanted to go when there was no chance of your 
 coming in — and when I could have a day or two afterward 
 before I saw you." 
 
 " That sounds as if you were making some sort of pious 
 pilgrimage, Caroline. What on earth made you want to 
 go there ? " 
 
 " I wanted to see your environment, Avery. Not the 
 environment of an office, or anything so calculated : I 
 wanted to see the careless surroundings of your every- 
 day life." 
 
 " What you saw was careless enough, I'll be bound. 
 
298 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 Well, I'm sure it was all right if you wanted to do it, Caro- 
 line ; but just what," he asked with some amusement, " did 
 my landlady say ? " 
 
 " I told her, Avery, that I was from your office, and was 
 sent there for a book." 
 
 " Very convincing." Avery checked a laugh, but could 
 not help saying, " I have no doubt she thought you looked 
 it, Caroline. But what did you do when you got past the 
 landlady?" 
 
 " I had quite a time getting rid of her, Avery " 
 
 " I can believe that," he interjected. 
 
 " But when I did, I sat down on the edge of your bed, 
 and looked around me. I sat there a long time, to let things- 
 soak in; and I thought and thought." 
 
 A quaint picture, the elaborate Caroline seated on the 
 edge of his monastic bed, thinking, thinking; he could 
 fairly smell the faint lavenderish aroma of her garments 
 spreading through his bare chamber. And then something 
 in the contrast hardened him. " Did it amuse you to see 
 how badly I live ? " he asked. 
 
 "Ah, that wasn't the idea! And you don't live badly, 
 Avery ; I'm not so stupid as to think that." 
 
 " Not badly, only very differently ? " 
 
 " Differently — with a hopeless difference, Avery." 
 
 Her candid eyes again met his; her pale cheeks flushed 
 a little. Then slowly between her and her lover she lifted 
 her slim satiny left hand. It was quite bare. 
 
 " What have you done with your engagement ring ? " 
 asked Avery, fondly imagining that he thereby changed the 
 subject. " Have you made up your mind after all that you 
 don't like it ? I thought you might want to make a change." 
 
 " I took it off as I sat there on your bed, Avery. I haven't 
 worn it since." 
 
 Some shade of her incredible meaning at last came home 
 to him. " You mean ? " 
 
THE GLEAM 299 
 
 " I appreciated all that I saw," she explained. " A man 
 who can live as you do, who chooses to live that way, 
 couldn't live in my environment. He would be stifled. 
 Things, things, things — I not only have them, I love them, 
 I couldn't do without them. They're my life, Avery; con- 
 formity to a wonderful ideal, personal self-denial, visions 
 and their realization — that is yours." 
 
 He had all along seen something of that himself; only 
 he hadn't put it so flatteringly, or considered the matter so 
 crucial. But he couldn't admit its validity when she set it 
 forth. " Nonsense, Caroline ! " he said stoutly. " You 
 never saw bare bachelor diggings before, and you're quite 
 naturally horrified. But you attach too much importance 
 to what was really only a strong visual impression. You 
 know, I haven't always lived in that room." 
 
 " I know ; but when you had your choice, it was to that 
 room you betook yourself. You haven't always lived the 
 kind of life you'd like, Avery ; but that room represents it, 
 in one way." 
 
 " What if it does ? You're not breaking our engage- 
 ment because you don't like my taste in room decoration, 
 are you ? " 
 
 " No, Avery. I am breaking our engagement " — her 
 eyelids fluttered — " because I see all that your room implies. 
 I've never seen anything so clearly before." 
 
 " You think that we wouldn't be happy, Caroline ? " 
 
 " I know that we wouldn't. Oh, perhaps for the first 
 little while I could make you happy; I'm sure I could." 
 She smiled a little, happily at first ; but the smile ended in 
 a sob. " In heaven, perhaps you and I could be happy 
 always, but here on earth " 
 
 " You're not willing to take the chance, Caroline ? " 
 
 " It isn't a chance, Avery. For a long time, I kept hop- 
 ing it was; that's why in spite of all that I've seen for a 
 long time, I haven't come sooner to a decision. But that 
 
300 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 day everything cleared up for me. It isn't a chance at all." 
 
 " Oh, come ! It isn't like you to sit here discussing such 
 things ! " he protested. " Leave them to older, more sordid 
 people, Caroline. You love me, and I you; isn't that 
 enough ? " 
 
 "No," she said flatly. "No, it isn't, Avery. Once I 
 should have thought that it was, but it isn't. Perhaps 
 you've liked me all the better at some times because I'm on 
 the whole an unseeing little fool — because I don't usually 
 try to be anything else. It's not the least achievement of 
 your life, Avery Fairchild, that this time I should care to 
 see. For once, my eyes have been opened." She pressed 
 the backs of her hands against her recently opened eyes, 
 as if literally the eyeballs ached. 
 
 A thought occurred to him. " Perhaps you have found 
 some other man ?" he hazarded. 
 
 " Avery ! " She was hurt and shocked by his suspicion ; 
 it had never occurred to her in her sincerity, in her final 
 surrender to the gleam, that her motives would be doubted. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Caroline," he said hastily. " It was 
 nasty of me to say that. I'm so awfully startled and upset 
 — I never suspected " 
 
 " I knew you would be upset," she conceded generously. 
 " That has been one of the worst thoughts I've had to face 
 during these miserable days, Avery." 
 
 He could believe that the last few had been miserable 
 days; only through real suffering would such a resolution 
 erect itself in her unstable character. But he must have 
 misjudged her all along, for he had never suspected her 
 capable of anything like this : for right or wrong, this was 
 splendid. During all those past hours when she had seemed 
 to be merely selfish and fretful, she had been trying to 
 reconcile his mode of life and hers; she had been groping 
 her way toward this conclusion. Her so significant visit 
 had been only the climax of her groping. 
 
THE GLEAM 301 
 
 " Forgive the egotistic sound of it, Caroline," he said. 
 " What will you do if you don't marry me ? " 
 
 " Live as I always have, Avery, with the minimum of 
 thought and exertion. Live as I did just after Morrison 
 Keppel died, perhaps — only I won't have Judith back. I 
 won't," she said with a flash of spirit, " have Judith back, 
 ever." 
 
 She had turned a little away from him, and was looking 
 down ; against the glow of the fire her profile was indistinct, 
 but her ash-colored hair made a soft line of light. He had 
 sat so often and looked at her like this ; but now as he sat 
 and looked, it was borne in upon him that he would never 
 do so again. This was the end, the end of watching and 
 drifting, the end of his diet of mixed emotions. For even 
 now his emotion wasn't mixed, it was fine and pure : he had 
 never before admired her so heartily and wholly as he did 
 at the moment of separation. 
 
 Of course, he had to make an effort to weaken her reso- 
 lution, to postpone her action. " Let's at least think things 
 over," he suggested. " You have taken me so utterly un- 
 aware. You've had time to work yourself up to this; at 
 least, give me the same. Let me see you again before I 
 consider this final, Caroline." 
 
 " What would be the good of that ? " she asked in a low 
 voice. " You'll grow used to the idea soon enough if you 
 don't see me." She actually smiled as she added, " In an- 
 other year, if you happen to hear my name, you'll wonder 
 who Caroline Keppel is." 
 
 That was the nearest she ever came to irony; and it 
 somehow brought Cecily to his mind. He was indignant 
 with Cecily for thus invading the situation : doubtless she 
 was spending this evening with her fiance, and unquestion- 
 ably she was not spending it parting forever from that 
 fiance. This evening would leave her bound to another 
 man, and Avery hopelessly and uselessly free. But that 
 
302 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 wasn't what Avery minded ; what exasperated him was his 
 inability even now to carry off a situation that actually 
 didn't concern her without in some way relating it to that 
 everlasting woman. 
 
 " You can't make me forget you," he said sturdily to 
 Caroline. " You can turn me out, but you can't make me 
 forget you." 
 
 " As you like," she said, her eyes again averted. " I 
 shall do my very best to forget you, Avery." 
 
 Avery looked at his watch, and returned it to his pocket ; 
 then, sliding forward in his chair, he absent-mindedly 
 warmed one hand at the fire. Caroline still stood silent, 
 with averted face; between them the silence deepened and 
 deepened. Avery hadn't anything more to say ; there wasn't 
 much of anything to say. He left his chair and stood be- 
 side her. She glanced at him, and then away from him. 
 She was spent with her effort, and was doubtless wishing 
 he would go. He would have gone, at once, only it didn't 
 seem suitable that such an important interview should 
 terminate so soon. He wanted to go, but he didn't want her 
 to know that he did. 
 
 And then as he stood idly there, feeling the warmth of 
 the fire on his back and thinking, if he thought anything at 
 all, that he should have a great many free evenings now — 
 then without warning there came to Avery a moment of 
 comprehensive clearness passing any other he had ever 
 known. Such moments come, one hears, to drowning peo- 
 ple; they come sometimes during serious illness, or when 
 misfortune has opened a man's eyes ; or even, now and then, 
 from the simple fact that it is three o'clock in the morning. 
 But they come very rarely in the shank of the evening to a 
 man standing near a bright fire with a pretty woman who 
 has just at some cost to herself fulfilled his inmost unac- 
 knowledged wish. That is perhaps one reason why Avery's 
 crisis took him so chokingly by the throat. 
 
THE GLEAM 303 
 
 For it came over him of a sudden that Caroline had taken 
 him, poor girl, quite simply at his own valuation, and his 
 own valuation was utterly false. His own valuation of him- 
 self, that groundwork on which he had at such cost to 
 himself and to others built his life, simply hadn't any right 
 to exist. It wasn't that he hadn't done good work; there 
 were in his last few years accomplishments which needed 
 no apology. But his whole magnificent ideal of himself — 
 what a slatternly patchwork he had made in attempting to 
 realize it! Even his celibacy, the signs of which had so 
 impressed Caroline, was nothing but a fine self-denying 
 pose. If he had been in the least faithful to his celibate 
 ideal, or worthy of the exemptions it brought him, he simply 
 shouldn't be here now. 
 
 He stood there shivering in nightmare horror. The 
 worst of it was that he had to play his part to the end ; he 
 was at that very moment planning to use the avenue of re- 
 treat Caroline's faith in him had laid open. Doubtless he 
 would continue to play his chosen part, that of an awakener 
 of the public conscience. At least, he was learning tonight 
 how a thoroughly bad conscience felt. " Avery Fairchild," 
 he thought to himself, " you rotten, rotten sentimentalist ! " 
 
 He could deceive himself, he could deceive other people ; 
 he was even now deceiving the woman at his elbow. But 
 there was one person he had never deceived. Cecily had 
 left him, it came to him suddenly, simply because she had 
 seen through him. Oddly enough, Caroline was taking a 
 similar course because she, on the contrary, didn't in the 
 least see through him. But, oh ! he achingly thought, what 
 a happy life would have been his if he had been either 
 high and clear or quite simple and opaque, instead of 
 cloudy, confused, confusing, he and his ideas! 
 
 It remained for him finally to break the silence. " Don't 
 try to decide anything tonight, Caroline," he said. " Think 
 it over, and sleep on it." 
 
304 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " I have thought it over, so many, many times," she said 
 wearily. " I want to get it settled, and then I shall sleep." 
 
 He looked at her kindly, noting her tired eyes and droop- 
 ing lips. " I'm afraid it has made you awfully unhappy," 
 he said. " It's too bad that I ever had to come into your 
 life for no end better than that." 
 
 " It has made me awfully happy, too," she urged bravely. 
 " Often, often, it has made me happy." 
 
 She was playing her part magnificently, he felt. Women 
 were like that, at least the women with whom Avery 
 Fairchild came in contact were ; for he recollected that this 
 was the second time he had been magnificently and mag- 
 nanimously chucked. With reviving egotism, he winced 
 now at the remembrance. 
 
 Caroline was ready by this time for the last formalities; 
 she held out something in her closed hand. " Your ring, 
 Avery," she said. 
 
 " Keep it," he answered. " Keep it, even if you never 
 care to wear it." 
 
 She had evidently rehearsed the scene pretty carefully in 
 her own mind ; and she wasn't prepared for this. " Keep 
 it ? " she echoed doubtfully. 
 
 " Please do. I haven't any other use for it, you know," 
 he said. 
 
 " Would you — would you like me to have it ? " she 
 breathed. 
 
 " Indeed I should," he said. 
 
 She flushed and looked at him gratefully; the first tears 
 of the evening stood in her eyes. She was now, he saw, she 
 had been all along, beautifully true to her type. She might 
 be as right as Lois had ever been, as final as Cecily; but 
 she had made her sacrifice romantically, and she was grate- 
 ful for any romance that she could get out of it. 
 
 In virtue of this perception, the least Avery could do was 
 to take her in his arms, to assure her that he didn't con- 
 
THE GLEAM 305 
 
 sider this final, and that even if it was, he should never, 
 never forget her. He acquitted himself gallantly, although 
 he was sick at heart. Knowing that it was their last em- 
 brace, but protesting to her that it couldn't and mustn't be, 
 Avery got through it; and suddenly, strangely, found him- 
 self in the street, without remembering exactly how he got 
 there. 
 
 The street looked curiously empty, and he felt a little 
 dazed. Small wonder, to be sure, if he were dazed; this 
 thing had happened with incredible suddenness. And sud- 
 den as it was, it marked the end of something. For he was 
 now, he vowed solemnly as the air began to clear his head, 
 through with romance, for ever and a day. 
 
 He hadn't exactly outgrown it : romance, rather, had out- 
 grown him. All his life, it seemed to him now, he had 
 been perpetually thrust out of doors, and had come to him- 
 self on the pavement, to note always in a detached way 
 that the street was pretty well empty. Well, so be it, then : 
 the outsides of doors for him henceforth, the chill, crisp, 
 outer air. As thrice rejected by women, middle-aged, 
 devoted to a work for which, after all, he had made sacri- 
 fices, it was time for Avery on his side to forswear romance. 
 
 Then as the cool air filled his lungs, and brisk walking 
 braced his whole being, he became aware of the fact that 
 he was tremendously glad to be rid of his entanglements. 
 He might never find again, in the old life to which he was 
 returning, quite the old satisfaction. But in the old room, 
 once a certain aroma of lavender had been dispelled, he 
 might look to find something like the old absorption in his 
 work, something like the old high contacts. If the old 
 single-hearted belief in himself should indeed prove to be 
 gone, thanks to the blighting clearness of tonight's vision — 
 well, he was no longer so young that he demanded from life 
 everything at once. 
 
 It had been an awful moment, that moment of revelation 
 
306 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 at Caroline's fireside. He shivered again now when he 
 remembered how his weakness had actually gathered itself 
 together and struck him full in the face. Yet even a man's 
 weakness, if carried to the pitch to which Avery carried his, 
 may serve, he presently saw, in place of strength for him. 
 For without his weakness where would Avery have been? 
 If he hadn't been the sort of man to be won by a word — 
 the sort, even, to be swayed by a woman's word — he could 
 never have done the work that after all lay so close to his 
 heart. Why, if he hadn't been that sort of man, he wouldn't 
 even (oh, most immediate thought !) have been Avery Fair- 
 child. He hugged the idea of his work, even if it didn't now 
 seem quite so important as it sometimes did. He hugged 
 the idea of himself, even if it was a somewhat scarred idea. 
 If he had been firmer and clearer, he would have been 
 another, man. Of course, he reflected at last rather ruefully, 
 it might have been better for the world if he had been 
 another man, even were the world to lose in the meta- 
 morphosis his wonderful, his incomparable work. 
 
XXIX 
 THOSE TEDIOUS PRELIMINARIES 
 
 It wasn't until Cecily actually began to hang back, and be- 
 came in some particulars a little evasive, that Morley on his 
 side became insistent. He had indeed been all along so 
 patient, had so beautifully refrained from hurrying or 
 worrying her, that Cecily might almost have supposed him 
 tepid, if she hadn't so clearly seen that his failure to press 
 her was due to the self-restraint which was after all at 
 the root of his perfections. 
 
 He did in fact desire her, as a man honorably may a 
 woman; and when she was shortly to be free before the 
 world, and was by her own acknowledgment his, and was 
 yet grown strangely reluctant, he couldn't but begin to press 
 her. Why he had to press, and why he could feel her 
 steadily, delicately resist the pressure, was more than Cecily 
 herself could say. Why wasn't she happy and carefree now, 
 as she had been in the first days of her engagement? 
 Nothing had changed, unless she herself had; and if she 
 had indeed changed, what was the meaning of that ? 
 
 At any rate, she was now more appreciative than she had 
 ever been before. She appreciated Richard fervently, she 
 counted and cherished his fine points, taking him apart and 
 then putting him together again, assuring herself over and 
 over that he was, take him part by part or take him alto- 
 gether, quite the finest human being she had ever known. 
 She appreciated him exactly as if she had to make up to him 
 for something. But for what could she have had to make 
 up to him, except perhaps some deep-down sentimental 
 
 307 
 
308 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 scruple, unworthy the attention of a woman of her years 
 and experience? 
 
 So far as her deeds went, she had lately bound herself 
 more closely to Morley. In the first place she had told more 
 people, had in particular told Fannie Kinkcaid, whom to 
 tell was as good as putting a thing in the newspapers. But 
 right there she had been chilled, because in response to 
 Fannie's generous and genuine delight she had been so 
 passive, even though she had longed to glow in her turn. 
 Her mind had floated off idly to the time not far ahead 
 when back in Jefferson Edith Wallace would learn of her 
 new marriage; and then she was ashamed of herself for 
 thinking of such a thing. 
 
 She had farther bound herself by going at Morley's 
 solicitation to look over his house and decide what changes 
 she would like. She had never been in his house before; 
 she entered it for the first time as its future mistress and, 
 of course, its critic. 
 
 That house had been a revelation to her, so full was it 
 of family portraits and old books, of inherited furniture and 
 time-touched hangings, so wholly the fruit of heritage and 
 tradition. She was beyond exclamation; she surveyed in 
 silence until they came to the dining-room, and then she 
 wheeled on him. " What are you doing with such a house 
 in the Middle West?" she asked. "How could, people 
 like yours ever bear to leave the East, Richard? They 
 must have had such ties there." 
 
 " Oh, they did have ! " answered Morley. " For long 
 enough they dreamed of going back. But of course that's 
 over now; I shall never go back." 
 
 " They had to leave ? " she insisted. 
 
 " Indeed, they had to. Sheer financial necessity, my dear 
 Cecily. In my grandfather's time the family had come 
 down to tradition and pretty well nothing else. My grand- 
 father did well enough as a beggared gentleman, but my 
 
THOSE TEDIOUS PRELIMINARIES 309 
 
 father was a break in the tradition. My father made 
 money." 
 
 She stepped back to the faded, deep-toned drawing-room. 
 Not even Richard's father's money had spoiled it, thanks 
 to the family taste. " We won't spoil it now," she said 
 quickly. " It's delicious just as it is, Richard." 
 
 " I'm glad you like my old things," he said. " But com- 
 ing here as mistress, I thought you would naturally desire 
 to make some changes. You're so awfully clever, Cecily; 
 you could surely improve the old place." 
 
 " I'll decide where to keep my waste-basket after I come 
 here," she said, smiling. " Any real change, though, would- 
 n't be an improvement ; it would be sacrilege." 
 
 It would be, of course. But why was she, Cecily, com- 
 ing into a house where even a minor improvement would be 
 sacrilege? She who was not by nature reverent, but was, 
 as Richard said, so awfully clever, she whose breath of life 
 was change, flux, modernity — what was she doing in this 
 galere? 
 
 She wasn't actually in it yet, thanks to the law's delay: 
 her decree forbade her remarriage for the space of a year. 
 But morally she was in it, fathoms deep in it; and actu- 
 ally the months were slipping by quickly enough. Not 
 quickly enough for Richard, who seemed to want to get all 
 preliminaries out of the way; who wanted to rush for- 
 ward to greet her freedom with open arms, and all ar- 
 rangements made for their marriage. But surely that ought 
 to have pleased her; surely she was at last about to step 
 into a setting such as she had all her life coveted, to say 
 nothing of possessing herself of the finest man, she main- 
 tained, the finest man she had ever known. 
 
 In these days her tea-shop became a perfect refuge for 
 her. She was so busy there, things were always coming at 
 her from so many sides at once, that she had no time to be 
 sentimental. And everything there was so definite, and 
 
3io CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 suited her so well. She knew what she wanted to do and 
 how to do it ; and things always came out so splendidly for 
 her. The planning ahead, the ordering, managing her work 
 people, pleasing ljier customers so well that they would come 
 back again and again — all this she was mistress of, all this 
 she loved and clung to. And this too her marriage would 
 change. Of course, Richard had promised that she should 
 always keep her shop; but presently it would become, not 
 the source of her income and the mainspring of her ■ 
 daily concerns, but simply the plaything of a rich man's 
 wife. 
 
 A rich man's wife, splendidly above all harassing de- 
 tails. A rich man's wife, gorgeously furred, dressed in 
 perfect taste, jeweled expensively but unobtrusively. Ah, 
 she could fill the bill! What else had she always longed 
 for? And when there was as the rich man in the back- 
 ground, not some awful thick-necked beast, like Edith Wal- 
 lace's husband, say, but the charming, impeccable Morley — 
 why, she ought to be very happy, that was all. 
 
 Often she was happy enough. But there were times, 
 especially when she was tired, that everything disgusted her, 
 when nothing held her to her bargain but the fact that she 
 was after all so fond of Richard. Worse still, there were 
 moments of abnormally clear sight, when she could see 
 that if she had intended to marry a rich man she should 
 have done it years before, before she ever went out into the 
 world, to meet its rough blows and its rough embraces. 
 To marry a poor man, one to whom her Saturday night's 
 money would mean something, to keep on doing for her 
 children, and feeling that they couldn't have got on with- 
 out her doing for them — that idea had a fatal attraction 
 for her. It had been coming at intervals now ever since 
 that wretched afternoon at Miss Samuels's; and it was 
 since that afternoon that she had found herself unable to 
 get back her old gaiety and swagger. That racking after- 
 
THOSE TEDIOUS PRELIMINARIES 311 
 
 noon, remembrance of which was like a nightmare, had 
 opened her eyes to so many things ! And in view of her 
 situation, she wanted her eyes closed. Ah, that was awful ! 
 When one had been so many years in the wide world, to 
 make one's prayer, " Close my eyes " ! 
 
 She had to trust to her will now, and to that cultivated 
 appreciation of Richard. Passionately she wrapped herself 
 in his tenderness ; resolutely she set herself to meet it with 
 an unfaltering devotion. She was guilty, in her passion- 
 ate endeavor, of some ridiculous behavior in small things: 
 shutting out trifles that savored of her rough world with- 
 out, devoting herself resolutely to anything that smacked 
 of the fireside and its cherished banalities. By these trifles, 
 in her clear-eyed moments, she measured the extent of her 
 wilful blindness; and then shuddering she again closed her 
 eyes. 
 
 After one of those clear-eyed moments had passed, she 
 was always grateful to Richard for pressing her. As they 
 came with increasing frequency now, she was glad that 
 Richard more and more pressed her. Indeed his eagerness 
 had now mastered him ; and when she was neither blessing 
 nor evading that eagerness, it seemed to her beautiful and 
 boyish, and a very little pathetic. He was happy, at any 
 rate ; and if we could only live in the happiness we create, 
 Cecily would have been happy too. 
 
 Would she be married — he came at her so — as soon as 
 the year was up? Would she? Of course she would, if 
 he wished it. They wouldn't wait a day longer than was 
 necessary. Let him only come for her in his car, with a 
 white bouquet, and she'd put on her best hat and walk right 
 off with him. Or he could hire a taxi, if he liked: that 
 would make it a wee bit more secret and romantic. It 
 Would be like marrying incognito, almost like eloping. 
 When he said he couldn't see that, Cecily said he could 
 suit himself as to the vehicle; all she insisted on was the 
 
312 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 white bouquet. "Keep track of the days, Richard," she 
 admonished him. 
 
 " I am counting them," he answered quickly. 
 
 She could joke about taxis and white bouquets, but she 
 couldn't make up her mind on some points just as important 
 — wouldn't think of them at all. There was the question of 
 a wedding-trip, for instance: she wouldn't express any 
 preference as to a trip, or even as to dispensing with one. 
 " Plan that all yourself, Richard ; surprise me," she said. 
 And Richard, reflecting that perhaps it was his role to 
 plan the wedding-trip, went into the recesses of a well- 
 stocked memory to plan the most idyllic trip that was pos- 
 sible. 
 
 He found a great pleasure in the doing of it : many were 
 the trips he took with her in imagination, in order to select 
 just the right one for the two of them in reality. But he 
 had curious, drab moments when he didn't believe that the 
 trip would ever come to pass. It wasn't that he doubted 
 Cecily, or even imagined her as turning him away at the 
 last moment: it was simply that the prospect of life with 
 her was too good to be true, and at his more sober moments 
 he couldn't believe in its approach. 
 
 The year wore away with surprising swiftness, it seemed 
 to Cecily ; even Morley found it shorter than he had feared 
 it would be. Finally it had only weeks to run, and pres- 
 ently the last day was upon them. And with its dawn, and 
 the realization that her fate was now upon her, Cecily grew 
 calmer. At least, she would now be so busy that until 
 everything was settled she wouldn't have any time to 
 think. 
 
 Richard came over that last evening of the year, and they 
 dined together at a restaurant. Neither of them mentioned 
 the day, but they were both keenly conscious of it. After- 
 ward in the automobile he took her hand in his and whis- 
 pered, " Soon now, soon." 
 
THOSE TEDIOUS PRELIMINARIES 313 
 
 She wasn't afraid of it, in that way. " As soon as ever 
 you like," she said aloud, looking straight ahead of 
 her. 
 
 " You have preparations to make — things to see to ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Only a brilliant new suit and hat to be married in. I 
 can get those ready-made ; I am easy to fit," she said. 
 
 " Then why not at once ? " 
 
 " At once, if you like." 
 
 He breathed freely. He had always thought her a young 
 woman of decision; and any shade of reluctance in her 
 manner made him uneasy. Of course, he appreciated all 
 her little reserves and delicacies ; but there were times when 
 she had struck him as sick of her bargain. 
 
 " I have an idea, Cecily," he said. 
 
 "Yes, Richard?" 
 
 " The next fine day — tomorrow, if it's clear — let's take 
 the car, and run down to Chicago " 
 
 " Chicago ! Why to Chicago ? " she asked sharply. 
 
 " It's the best place to shop, isn't it ? I supposed it 
 was." 
 
 " I could get my things there, you mean ? Yes, of course. 
 But I could get all I need here, Richard." 
 
 " I know. But I'm sure you'd have more to choose 
 from there. And I thought if we took the car, and made 
 sort of a lark of it, you wouldn't find it such tedious busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " What a manager you are, Richard ! " she said in some 
 amusement. 
 
 " Ah, you don't know how I like to have somebody to 
 plan for! Just because I've dawdled limply through this 
 much of my life, you mustn't get the idea that I'm incapable 
 of forethought or firmness." 
 
 " I had hoped," she said, smiling, " that you wouldn't 
 be too firm, Richard. One manager is enough in a family." 
 
3H CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " It isn't that, Cecily, dear. It's that I like to do for 
 you " 
 
 " I know, Richard." Indeed that wasn't what bothered 
 her. Her vision of herself being drawn along in Richard's 
 so uncharacteristically energetic wake disturbed her, not be- 
 cause she was afraid of being superseded as " manager," 
 but because she would never have been so drawn along if 
 she hadn't been fundamentally reluctant. 
 
 Her reluctance was nonsense, though. She hastened to 
 fall in with Richard's plan, and even, in her own parlance, 
 to go it one better. " We'll go tomorrow, if the weather is 
 good, Richard," she said. " I'll drive you down in my 
 own car." 
 
 " But that would tire you, dear. My idea was to make it 
 as easy as I could for you." 
 
 Although the glass was up, and the chauffeur couldn't 
 possibly have heard, Cecily leaned toward Richard as she 
 said, " Will it be easy for me, do you think, to look for- 
 ward all day as I shop to being driven home by your 
 chauffeur after he has had a whole day in Chicago to 
 himself?" 
 
 " Cecily, he doesn't drink." 
 
 Cecily shrugged impatiently : in some things, she believed 
 all men stuck together. But she was trying to be gracious ; 
 and after all Richard's plan was rather good. " Just as 
 you like, then," she said. " It's most kind of you to think 
 things out the way you do, Richard. I — I'm busy, you 
 know, and tired." 
 
 He took her in his arms, poor, tired, sweet little thing. 
 " We go tomorrow ? " he asked. 
 
 " Tomorrow." 
 
 "And how soon after that ?" he hinted. 
 
 " Oh, at once ! " she cried. " The license and the parson 
 are so easily got, you know, once the trousseau matter is 
 settled." 
 
THOSE TEDIOUS PRELIMINARIES 315 
 
 Her face, close to his in the dusk, was laughing and 
 tender. The complex feminine sight and sound and odor of 
 her, here beside him in the darkness, would have been 
 exquisite enough; but at the thought that all this was 
 Cecily ! 
 
 " Sometimes," he whispered, " I have an awful feeling, 
 dear. This is too good to last. I wasn't made to be so 
 happy — or so intensely alive." 
 
 " I don't particularly know why it shouldn't last," she 
 said. " But a man like you ought to know that one can't 
 depend on things lasting, Richard. You have me here to- 
 night, and tomorrow you're going off with me for an all-day 
 excursion. Isn't just that enough for the present?" 
 
 " It's wonderful," he said. 
 
 " Isn't it enough ? " she insisted. 
 
 " It's boundless," said the infatuated Richard. 
 
 She was lovely then ; she bent her energy to making him, 
 for this one evening, supremely happy. Her success pleased 
 and excited her; it was wonderful to think that one could 
 do so much for any human being, and the power to do it 
 was like an answer to all sorts of questions. Of course, if 
 you were exceedingly happy yourself, you didn't think so 
 consciously about making another person happy : there were 
 more things you could take for granted. In view of the 
 fact that it was she who deliberately gave happiness, Cecily 
 felt years older, vastly more experienced than Richard, 
 whose years were so many more than hers, whose experi- 
 ence was in many respects so much vaster. 
 
 Perhaps that was the right attitude to take toward him; 
 perhaps it was the attitude which would eventually make 
 itself permanent. It was only in virtue of the side of her 
 experience which, after all, went deeper than Richard's, 
 that Cecily knew how essentially unfair an attitude it was. 
 Some relations in life have to be exactly reciprocal, or a 
 hidden condescension will do its best to vitiate them. 
 
316 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 But perhaps that was going too deep. Perhaps all that 
 she actually meant summed itself up in the simple fact that 
 she wasn't a girl any longer, and that this present relation, 
 or episode, or affair, as you chose to call it, wasn't the 
 beginning of her experience. 
 
XXX 
 THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE 
 
 After as many false starts as need be contained in one 
 lifetime, Avery Fairchild was settled at last. The tenor 
 of his way was now finally and irretrievably even. His 
 work would hold him to the end : his interests would always 
 be intellectual and humane, firm, impersonal. The last and 
 greatest danger in his path — a danger to every man, and 
 especially to every solitary man — had been women; and 
 women were now eliminated as a danger, because one by 
 one every possible woman had been removed. 
 
 After their parting he saw Caroline a few times in pub- 
 lic places, usually in company with some man or other, al- 
 ways strikingly dressed, always, it seemed to him, a little 
 haggard in her gaiety. He had made one or two feeble 
 backsliding attempts at seeing her privately — it was so diffi- 
 cult to believe that they had actually separated — but she 
 always repulsed him. No matter how haggard she grew, 
 she was sincere at last; and she rested in her own sin- 
 cerity. He and Lois Butler still corresponded fitfully; but 
 since that last day at Jefferson their relation had never been 
 the same. They pretended that it was the same, but they 
 both knew better. Avery realized that their correspondence 
 was dropping off, that their whole relation was tapering 
 toward a close ; he saw it do so very nearly without regret. 
 From Cecily he never heard. 
 
 During his probationary year — probationary not to 
 change, but to a succession of similar years — Avery ex- 
 panded and settled as well : he became both a national and 
 
 3i7 
 
318 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 a neighborhood figure. He ran his column in the Aedile; 
 he published a book called " Social Workers' Experiences " ; 
 he spoke much, once or twice to physicians' congresses, very 
 many times to governing bodies that were to be influenced, 
 most frequently to lay gatherings: for although his scien- 
 tific knowledge was by no means despicable, his renown was 
 chiefly as an apostle to the laity. 
 
 His home was still the little high-perched room that had 
 been his so long. It would be his longer ; he intended never 
 to desert that good little room. He liked it well enough; 
 and then he didn't want to make any more changes. In it 
 he changed nothing, except that books accumulated all the 
 time, and papers threatened some day to overflow and pre- 
 vent his egress. No, he wouldn't change anything; now 
 at last he knew where he was and where he would remain. 
 If the room still looked like a temporary abode, Avery 
 himself looked a little more permanent. In spite of his hard 
 work he had at last begun to put on weight: not much 
 weight, to be sure, but enough to dim his resemblance to a 
 spare and somber young monk. 
 
 The first day after the expiration of his probationary 
 period was particularly full of work for Avery: so full in- 
 deed that he had forgotten the day possessed any special 
 significance. He had attended to his mail at the Aedile 
 office, and written one of the pungent articles which had 
 become a feature of that paper. Then he had labored on a 
 course in public health work which an enterprising univer- 
 sity extension had ordered of him ; he had reached the sec- 
 tion on small cities, and found it especially fascinating and 
 baffling. Tiring of it at last, he had put in an hour before 1 
 dinner with some new medical journals ; and now, dinner 
 over, and two hours' more reading despatched, he strolled 
 out for some exercise before bedtime. He was well fed, 
 and only agreeably tired : his health had never been better, 
 and he was not in the least bored. The most important 
 
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE 319 
 
 question confronting him was whether he should buy or 
 borrow a new novel and therewith read himself to sleep. 
 
 Meanwhile he would smoke and stroll ; and if any point of 
 interest in his circumambient fellow-creatures presented it- 
 self to his notice, he would ruminate drowsily upon it. Such 
 points of interest, with their remote, third-person charm, 
 were especially suitable to a man whose acute personal life, 
 the life of tanging pleasure and scalding pain, had stopped 
 some time since. 
 
 Avery paused in the doorway to get his pipe going. It 
 was a foggy evening, he noted : the row of lights down the 
 street looked in the murkiness like loosely-strung opals, and 
 the warm squares of lighted windows seemed to gaze at him 
 like friendly, drowsy eyes. The policeman passed, travel- 
 ing his beat, and spoke to Avery as to a respected crony. 
 A couple of belated children, playing in the gutter, smiled 
 sheepishly up at him : this wouldn't be the first time he had 
 sent them home to bed. Avery smiled back at them, too con- 
 tented just now even to do his duty by the forlorn. This 
 was peace and satisfaction that he felt tonight; and thi,s 
 back-street neighborhood, where the policeman knew him 
 and the very guttersnipes respected him — this was home. 
 
 Having got his pipe going, he strolled off down the street. 
 At the second corner he had to stop to let an automobile 
 pass. It was turning into his street ; and, ever on the look- 
 out for one of his hazy points of interest, he scanned it as it 
 passed. It was a fine large car, driven by a perfectly 
 dressed but, it struck Avery, a not quite regular and 
 reliable chauffeur. The body of the car was piled with 
 boxes, behind which a man and woman were almost hidden. 
 
 " I should say that fellow has been drinking. He will do 
 well if he gets his passangers and their bandboxes home," 
 Avery had time to think before the car was exactly abreast 
 of him. When it was, its own light, soft and dim, as be- 
 came the light of such a car, revealed to him the faces of 
 
320 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 the occupants. For a moment his heart stopped beating. 
 The man, the well-bred, well-got-up man, turning solicitously 
 just at that moment to his companion, didn't matter, were 
 he ever so clearly revealed; for his pretty, charmingly- 
 dressed, weary and rather bored companion was — not only 
 resembled, but indubitably was, Cecily herself. 
 
 She didn't see him at all, and in a moment the car had 
 passed. Avery's heart began to make up for the beats it 
 had missed. With the blood singing in his ears, he clenched 
 his icy fists and stood still just where he had seen her. Of 
 all possible points of interest for the evening's ruminating, he 
 certainly hadn't expected a vision of Cecily and her bride- 
 groom elect. And those conspicuous boxes — her trousseau, 
 probably. Her trousseau — hers ! 
 
 The car had gone on up the street, in the direction in 
 which Avery lived. Avery didn't follow it with his eyes; 
 for a few moments he wasn't conscious of looking at any- 
 thing. Then on his dulled ears a crash sounded; he raised 
 his head, and looked. At the corner, less than half a block 
 from his own familiar doorway, the automobile had col- 
 lided with a surface car that crossed its path. Wings 
 seemed to attach themselves to Avery's leaden feet; before 
 he was aware of starting, he made one of the crowd about 
 the damaged machine. 
 
 Some of them had got off the car, of course ; where the 
 rest came from he couldn't guess. In the street that had 
 been so quiet five minutes before was a mob standing shoul- 
 der to shoulder. Without ceremony Avery elbowed his 
 way through. " I'm a doctor," he heard himself saying 
 to some one at the center ; and he knelt on the pavement. 
 
 The chauffeur was already on his feet ; but both his pas- 
 sengers lay with closed eyes. Avery could have cried aloud 
 when he saw that still face of Cecily's ; but his early train- 
 ing stood him in good stead. Without his seeming to have 
 anything to do with it, his fingers busied themselves with 
 
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE 321 
 
 the work of examination, first of the woman, then the man. 
 Then he stood up, brushing the dust from his knees, and 
 found himself face to face with an officer of the law. He 
 heard his own voice, deep and steady, though he hadn't an 
 idea of what he would say until he heard himself say it. 
 " You can take the man to the hospital," said that authori- 
 tative voice. " He has an arm broken, and a couple of ribs 
 or so, and he's dazed. It won't hurt him to be moved, 
 though. The chauffeur may as well go with him. The 
 woman's head and back have been hurt, and she ought to be 
 disturbed as little as possible. It would be best if you car- 
 ried her into the house here, I should think." 
 
 The law chanced to be personified in the policeman to 
 whom Avery had spoken a few minutes before, his own 
 particular crony of a policeman. The officer's duty was 
 simply to summon the ambulance and get all the injured 
 into it; but personal acquaintance carried the day against 
 duty. He touched his cap and said, " Very well, Dr. Fair- 
 child. Stand back, you fellows; here, one of you help the 
 doctor." 
 
 Avery picked up the injured woman in his arms; the 
 conductor of the colliding street-car followed with his arms 
 full of the spilled boxes. Some of them had come open, 
 and dainty, frivolous things trailed behind him as he went. 
 
 In the hall they encountered Avery's landlady, curious, 
 deprecating, somewhat alarmed. " It's my wife," said 
 Avery to her. " She has been injured; we are taking her 
 up to my room." 
 
 The landlady rushed on before them, to turn down the 
 bed. As Avery followed her broad back up all the stairs, 
 walking gingerly with his burden, he was conscious of a 
 passing wonder at the spontaneity with which he had said 
 " my wife." Of course, he would have had to say that, 
 to explain this performance; but the two words had come 
 very easily to his lips. 
 
322 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 In his room, though, he had no time for any concern 
 with the conventions of society. They put Cecily into his 
 bed, and he and the landlady set to work to restore con- 
 sciousness to her horribly still form. Once the landlady, 
 seeing the changeless, greenishly pale face, began to whim- 
 per, and Avery checked her with a look. Once he stum- 
 bled over those boxes that the conductor had put down, and 
 swore softly. Aside from those two interruptions, they 
 didn't seem to have any personal life there in the high- 
 perched room. Avery simply worked without thinking; he 
 didn't have to think, and he couldn't allow himself to do so 
 now. And at his side his landlady toiled perspiring, doing 
 as she was told without understanding why, sanctioning, in 
 blind obedience to the immediate need, she knew not what, 
 and for the present did not care. 
 
 For hours they worked there together; and at last the 
 patient was breathing regularly, though she had not opened 
 her eyes. " That's all for the present," said Avery curtly. 
 " You'd better go to bed now, for I shall need you in the 
 morning." 
 
 His landlady drew herself wearily upright, dragged her- 
 self slowly from the room ; even if she hadn't been too tired 
 to question him, her curiosity was deadened by the service 
 he had exacted of her. Avery was left alone with the still 
 form on the bed. 
 
 At first he didn't even glance at the bed. He walked to 
 the window, and looked down into the street. The victims 
 had been removed and the crowd dispersed long since ; the 
 damaged automobile, pushed to the curbing, alone bore wit- 
 ness to the night's events. The sky was beginning to lighten 
 a little and a milk-wagon was making deliveries down the 
 street. 
 
 He turned his back to the window presently, and ad- 
 justed his reading-lamp so that it cast only a dim light on the 
 bed ; he drew a chair to the bedside, and sat down. In the 
 
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE 323 
 
 dim light Cecily didn't look so unnaturally pale; at times 
 he could even imagine that she stirred. He sat with his 
 eyes fixed upon her, half expecting her to disappear if he 
 looked away for a second. It couldn't, it simply couldn't 
 be Cecily, lying here on his monastic bed; any more than 
 it could be Cecily who lay so with her challenging eyes 
 closed, and who never once in all these hours had felt his 
 presence close at hand. But it was Cecily, Cecily herself, 
 as he had seen her a thousand times, and never expected to 
 see her again. It was Cecily, not only here, but for the 
 moment in her weakness actually his: his, because tonight 
 it was he who could serve her. Sitting quite still, never 
 stirring hand or foot, Avery secretly blessed his profes- 
 sion at once and forever, because it had given him tonight's 
 service to her: blessed her weakness, and his opportunity, 
 and chance, the mighty mistress : blessed his life, because 
 it had held this hour, this hour of pain and trial, of be- 
 wilderment and wonder. 
 
 Light was beginning to flood the room, and dim the 
 radiance of his lamp, when without warning her eyes 
 opened and met his. Hers showed instant recognition, but 
 no surprise. " Hello, Avery," she said weakly. He trusted 
 himself only to smile in answer; and he was not sure that 
 she even saw the smile. Her eyelids drooped again almost 
 at once, and she slept. 
 
 It was only the weakest echo of a once familiar glance, 
 but it acted like magic on Avery. Its effect was distinctly 
 sobering. He saw all of a sudden that he had practically 
 kidnapped his divorced wife out from under the nose of her 
 fiance. Indeed, for all that he knew they might be already 
 married, in which case Dr. Fairchild was certainly in an 
 awkward hole. If he had only let events take their natural 
 course, if he had only let the authorities take Cecily to the 
 hospital — he who spent so much of his time preaching hos- 
 pitals! — Avery shivered, as if he were caught naked and 
 
324 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 ridiculous before a jeering populace. And then he looked 
 back at Cecily, sleeping there in his bed; and it seemed 
 to him that if he had let them take her away the night before 
 he would have committed the greatest blunder in his history. 
 
 Cecily's sleep was now restless and disturbed; she woke 
 again about ten o'clock. She looked down at herself, and 
 murmured, " Sleeping in my clothes. No wonder I'm un- 
 comfortable." 
 
 " Feel strong enough to be really undressed ? " asked 
 Avery. 
 
 She took his presence quite for granted. " Yes, please," 
 she said. 
 
 He and the landlady finished undressing her, and in- 
 ducted her into one of the landlady's nightgowns. " How 
 do you feel ? " he asked. 
 
 " Head aches — awfully," she murmured. 
 
 " Any pain anywhere else ? " 
 
 " No. Things always go — weak spot," she murmured 
 feebly. Her eyes closed, and her fingers moved as if in 
 search of something. Avery took her hand, and her fingers 
 closed around his and held them. He sat down beside the 
 bed. 
 
 " Ought she to be like that ? " whispered the landlady. 
 
 " Yes, she's all right. Slight concussion of the brain ; 
 she hasn't yet remembered where she is or what happened 
 to her," he answered. 
 
 Cecily kept his hand all that afternoon. Once he re- 
 leased it and was about to steal away ; but she half-wakened, 
 and seemed almost terrified. So he took her hand again, and 
 sat watching the afternoon wane and the shadows gather. 
 Presently he went to sleep himself as he sat; and when he 
 wakened with a start, it was quite dark in the room. Cecily 
 had dropped his hand at last ; she was moaning a little as 
 she lay. He readjusted the ice-bag on her head, and tip- 
 toed to the window. The damaged machine had now been 
 
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE 325 
 
 removed; the street was just as usual. Cecily seemed to 
 have dropped out of another life into his, and the other life 
 hadn't yet missed her. 
 
 If it didn't miss her the next day, if no one came to make 
 inquiries about her, Avery would have to take steps him- 
 self. Not, however, if she became fully conscious. In that 
 case she herself would take the steps, and would doubt- 
 less make a few comments as well. He knew those brief 
 comments of hers, which had the power to make him feel 
 such a fool ; he could imagine her stripping the present situ- 
 ation in three or four sentences, exposing it not only to 
 her ridicule but to his own. 
 
 He turned back and lighted the lamp to look at her. 
 With her silky hair down and the shadow of her eyelashes 
 on her cheeks, Cecily asleep always resembled a tired 
 child. The utter unconsciousness of her, Cecily who was 
 always defensive, always aggressive and commentary — it 
 was almost like seeing a proud spirit humbled, to have her 
 here like this. No, it was more like seeing a complex 
 spirit resolved into its elements. Its elements were simple 
 and sweet ; and now, in its elements, it was ever so briefly 
 his. 
 
 For tomorrow they would have to make some sort of 
 adjustment with the world. He didn't know what sort; in 
 his ignorance of how they now actually stood toward the 
 world, he couldn't even conjecture. But one thing he did 
 know. Whatever ties she might have, Cecily wasn't simply 
 going to put her hat on her aching head and walk out of 
 his life again as smartly as she had entered it. That would 
 have been just the course he might have expected, in view 
 of the past, and reason and common sense. But his own 
 action, which had either violated or transcended common 
 sense, just as you chose to put it — his own action had made 
 her simply walking away quite impossible. At last they 
 would have an understanding. " By God," he thought 
 
326 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 solemnly as he stood looking down at her, " that's a thing 
 we never have had ! " 
 
 He sat down to see the night out. She was resting quite 
 easily now ; she might even come to herself before morning, 
 though he scarcely believed she would. The case wasn't 
 in the least complicated ; it was only the situation that was 
 complicated. And Avery, watching all night beside her 
 like a candidate for knighthood before his altar, felt within 
 him the growth of a power to simplify the situation. In 
 the dim, quiet room, beside the sleeping figure, he found 
 nothing hazy or unreal ; he felt instead like a man who has 
 emerged from a world of shadows, and has found a solid 
 reality. And if any one supposed he was now going to let 
 that reality escape ! 
 
XXXI 
 " I MADE A SECOND MARRIAGE IN MY HOUSE " 
 
 That next morning she woke promptly at six o'clock — 
 there seemed to him something fateful in her even waking 
 at her old familiar hour. Her eyes sought him at once ; and 
 when they found him she spoke, weakly but with her own 
 familiar inflection. " Aren't you ever going to give me any- 
 thing to eat ? " she asked. 
 
 It was the first full sentence she had accomplished. 
 Avery, delighted beyond measure, and also somewhat 
 shaken by the thought of the impending trial, asked, " Well, 
 what would you like to eat ? " 
 
 "It's morning, isn't it? Oh, breakfast," she suggested 
 vaguely, and then added, " Bacon." 
 
 " I guess not ! " he laughed. 
 
 He brought her a tray: she tried to lift her head, and 
 sank back with a groan. " My head hurts," she confessed. 
 " I can't sit up, Avery." 
 
 He fed her breakfast to her mouthful by mouthful ; there 
 was a singular grace in her helplessness, just as there was 
 charm in her broken ends of sentences. Cecily helpless and 
 appealing — Cecily leaning on him! 
 
 After breakfast he rather expected her to ask questions — 
 how long she had been sick, and how she came in that 
 strange room, and very likely how he happened to be there. 
 But instead of asking questions she made another demand. 
 " Something different to wear, please," she begged, lift- 
 ing an arm bound in the ridiculous long tight sleeve of his 
 landlady's nightgown. That garment was buttoned straight 
 
 327 
 
328 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 up the front, half hiding her throat ; never before in all her 
 life, he supposed, had Cecily worn anything so ugly. 
 
 " I'll go out and get you something different, as soon as 
 the stores open," said Avery. 
 
 " A kimmy and some slippers, too ? " 
 
 " Surely, surely," he answered. 
 
 " There are some things in those boxes," she said, indi- 
 cating the salvage from the wreck. 
 
 Avery winced. " Never mind. Wait for the things I'm 
 going to get," he advised her. 
 
 He must have been stupid from lack of sleep; for it 
 wasn't until he was half-way downtown after her new gar- 
 ments that he realized the full import of Cecily's statements. 
 If she recognized those boxes, and knew what was in them, 
 she must remember most of what had happened ! If she re- 
 membered most of what had happened, the situation was 
 actually on. 
 
 He wanted to run back to her now, and have it out with 
 her. It would take a deal of talking to right things be- 
 tween them — unless indeed they had all along talked too 
 much, and their talking had done for them. If she saw the 
 situation as he did, it was too extravagantly simple to need 
 discussion; and if she didn't of herself see it as he did, he 
 was afraid he couldn't make her. 
 
 He bought her things before he actually went back to her : 
 for any interview, Cecily would doubtless want to look 
 nice. On his return he found her waiting for him, bathed 
 and brushed by a landlady whom she had succeeded in com- 
 pletely subjugating. The two of them arrayed Cecily in the 
 garments of Avery's choosing; and the landlady stood and 
 beamed at her. " Doesn't she look fine this morning ? " the 
 good soul asked Avery. 
 
 " Pretty fine," he answered eagerly. 
 
 Cecily smiled, lying back among her pillows. " Is that all, 
 Mrs. Fairchild ? " the landlady asked. 
 
" A SECOND MARRIAGE IN MY HOUSE " 329 
 
 " Yes, that's all. Thank you very much." Cecily dis- 
 missed her. 
 
 Left alone with Cecily, Avery, who had so much to say, 
 couldn't find a way to begin. " Will you give me a pencil 
 and some paper, Avery ? " she asked suddenly. 
 
 He stood awkwardly by while she penciled two notes ; she 
 gave them open to him to direct. One was for Anna, the 
 other for her head waitress at her tea-shop. As he took them 
 his hand touched hers, and he soared suddenly to the 
 clouds. Was Richard badly hurt ? " she asked the next 
 moment. 
 
 " I — haven't found out," Avery stammered. 
 
 " I think it is quite time you did," she said coldly. 
 
 Avery flushed with anger. It was quite time he found 
 out how badly Morley had been hurt ; but it wasn't Cecily's 
 place to tell him so — though doubtless she was very much 
 interested, very much interested indeed. The woman was 
 capable of walking over his dead body to marry Morley, if 
 she chose to do it; so why would his living presence deter 
 her? A week in another man's rooms wouldn't amount to 
 anything; she had never been afraid of gossip. And as for 
 appreciating a miracle when she met one, that was quite 
 beyond Cecily. 
 
 She had sunk back and closed her eyes. In silence Avery 
 directed the two notes, took his hat and went out. He 
 mailed the notes, and then he went to find Richard and 
 learn how he was. 
 
 That seal of his profession which had irked him so often 
 and was now proving so tremendously useful not only 
 helped Avery to find Morley but gained him admission to 
 his actual presence. Beside the hospital bed where his 
 redoubtable rival lay in a drug-induced sleep, Avery stood 
 and chatted with the nurse. " The doctor has been keeping 
 him under anaesthetic all the time," she explained. " He 
 isn't so badly injured, but he has been very nervous and 
 
33Q CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 uneasy all the time, and he hurts himself when he begins to 
 throw himself about." 
 
 Avery bent over and looked into the high-bred face on 
 the pillow, and suddenly there came over him an immense 
 compassion. This man had clutched at a star, and had 
 fallen back bruised and bleeding, with his whole life to re- 
 make; the star had fallen, Avery was now sure, into his 
 own hand. 
 
 As if he felt through all veils the presence of the man 
 he had long if vaguely feared, Morley began to stir un- 
 easily. Avery stepped back out of his sight, and told the 
 nurse he would leave a note. " The poor fellow isn't easy 
 in his mind," he explained. " If you can let him have this 
 when he wakens, it may help him. Ask the doctor in at- 
 tendance, anyway." 
 
 " Cecily is safe, and rapidly recovering from slight in- 
 juries," he wrote. He hesitated, then added, " I shall come 
 again to see you," before he signed his name. " Surely 
 that's prim enough?" he asked of the nurse. 
 
 Then he went back to report. " Richard has a broken 
 arm, and is suffering from nervous restlessness," he told 
 Cecily. " I left a note saying that you were safe." 
 
 " Poor Richard," she said softly, and sighed. 
 
 He sat down in the room, and looked at his watch. The 
 afternoon was waning, and he became acutely aware of 
 how long it was since he had slept. Well, he would go down- 
 stairs somewhere, or perhaps to a hotel, and have a long 
 sleep tonight. Cecily could be left alone, and he needed all 
 his faculties for the combat which couldn't, he now rea- 
 soned, be postponed later than tomorrow. He rose, stum- 
 bling a little in the dusk, and made his way toward the 
 door; he would just go out quietly, and send his landlady 
 to make Cecily comfortable for the night. 
 
 A voice arrested him. " Avery ? " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
"A SECOND MARRIAGE IN MY HOUSE" 331 
 
 " Will you help me on with my kimmy ? I want to sit 
 up for a few minutes." 
 
 Avery crossed the room, and dangled the garment before 
 her. " No. Sit down on the bed, and help me nicely," she 
 commanded. 
 
 Avery sat down, and began to tremble. He laid her 
 kimono about her shoulders. His arm almost encircled her ; 
 he meant to draw it away at once. But she turned toward 
 him, and her eyes met his; close to him in the gathering 
 twilight, her face was questioning, tender, eager, like a 
 young girl's. His arm tightened about her; he drew her 
 toward him. " Don't go, Cecily," he almost groaned. 
 
 She gave a little laugh that was half a sob. " I haven't 
 hurried myself yet, have I ? " she asked. 
 
 " Don't ever go, Cecily. Stay with me always." 
 
 " Always is — a big word in human mouths, Avery," she 
 faltered. But she lifted her lips toward him for what he 
 felt was his bridal kiss. Her lips were wet with her own 
 tears. A strange embrace for Cecily, that bridal kiss salty 
 with tears ; but he wouldn't have exchanged it, he swore to 
 himself, for all the unthinking bliss of the days that were 
 dead. The careless rapture of first love meant nothing in 
 comparison with the love that was born of sorrow and had 
 grown with experience, the love that sprang from life it- 
 self. This was sweeter for every misunderstanding, for 
 every moment of separation; it was sweeter even because 
 for a few seconds he could feel her sobbing against 
 him. 
 
 When she was quiet he lifted her bodily, and carried her 
 to the window ; there he sat in his big chair, and held her in 
 his arms as if she had been Margaret. At the window he 
 could see her face; he looked and looked at it, that dear, 
 familiar, ever new face. And having looked, he fell to 
 talking : he babbled of parsons and licenses. " Do you 
 mean to say, Avery, that it will take the power of church 
 
332 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 and state to tell us we may live together?" she asked, 
 smiling whimsically. 
 
 " Have you forgotten that you're my divorced wife ? " he 
 asked. An awful thought occurred to him. " Cecily, you 
 still are — my divorced wife? You haven't ?" 
 
 " I haven't anything," she said. 
 
 She would have been contented, then, to listen; but he 
 wished to hear her talk. He pined for explicit protesta- 
 tion, would have her assure him in every way that every- 
 thing was just as he wanted it. Some questions he was 
 determined to have answered. " How long ago did you 
 make up your mind to stay with me, Cecily ? " he demanded. 
 
 " That's telling. Before you made up your mind to keep 
 me, perhaps." 
 
 " From the moment I brought you up here, I meant to 
 keep you, Cecily. My bringing you was only a fluke, if you 
 choose to look at it that way; but it was better than any 
 plan I ever thought out in my self-satisfied wisdom." 
 
 She consented to tell him. " Avery," she said, and her 
 look was very sweet, " from the moment I woke up here 
 and saw you, bewildered and only half-conscious as I was, 
 I felt that I had come home. It wasn't an intention, dear. 
 When one is truly at home " 
 
 "It was like that?" he cried. "Ah, my dear, that is 
 best of all!" 
 
 He kissed her disheveled hair, her soft, silky hair, that 
 was like a child's. " I shall have my home back," he said, 
 " and my children. And you — and you." He couldn't keep 
 himself from it any longer; he had to have her assurance. 
 " Do you love me, dear ? Do you love me ? " he demanded. 
 
 She laughed at that. " I'd rather quarrel with you, Avery, 
 than agree with any other man on earth," she said. 
 
 At that characteristic answer he laughed too. " Ah, that 
 is love ! " he cried. 
 
 He would have liked to sit there so until dawn ushered in 
 
" A SECOND MARRIAGE IN MY HOUSE " 333 
 
 his wedding-day; but the physical man asserted itself. 
 Without warning he yawned uncontrollably. Instantly 
 Cecily was all compunction. " You've been up nights 
 without end," she said. "(How long have I been here, 
 Avery?) You must get a good night's rest, or you'll be 
 done for." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed I couldn't sleep tonight," he pleaded. 
 " Why, Cecily, if you're strong enough we can be mar- 
 ried tomorrow, here. Do you think that in view of such 
 a fact I could now go tamely to bed, and sleep ? " Much 
 to his disgust, a second yawn, mightier than the first, broke 
 from him. 
 
 " As a favor to me, please try to sleep," she said, po- 
 litely suppressing her smile. " I shall be a rather damaged 
 bride, I fear; so I want at least a groom who looks his 
 best." 
 
 He didn't intend to sleep, even though she bade him ; but 
 sleep he did, and very soundly at that. When he went to 
 her in the morning sunshine she was lying there wide 
 awake, and he knew somehow that she hadn't slept. She 
 wasn't worse, but she had so many things to think about 
 that night: reverently he turned away his thoughts from 
 the things she had to think about. 
 
 They breakfasted together gaily enough, though Cecily 
 hadn't much to say. After breakfast, however, she began 
 to talk; and it was of Richard that she talked. Richard, 
 it appeared, might consider himself a very hardly used man. 
 " I don't blame you, Avery ; I don't blame even myself. 
 It couldn't be helped, I feel; but that doesn't make it any 
 better for him. The suddenness of the whole thing, you 
 know : one day to expect to marry me, and the next, or 
 what seems to him the next, to find me married to you. It 
 will not only be a shock, but it will make him think I never 
 cared for him. It will spoil the past, and that's unforgiv- 
 able. Even the bare situation may horrify him. Maybe it 
 
334 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 is horrifying in itself; I don't quite know. In matters of 
 life and death, one isn't delicate." 
 
 " Cecily," Avery said solemnly, " I'll bring your Richard 
 to you before I marry you. We may be guilty of much, 
 but we can't be guilty of the last meanness." 
 
 " You will, Avery ? Ah, you feel as I do about it ! " she 
 cried. 
 
 " The situation isn't of our choosing," he said, " but we'll 
 certainly make the best of it." Suddenly his eyes snapped. 
 " I'll bring him here today," he almost shouted. 
 
 " How can you ? He's hurt, I thought you said ; he can't 
 leave his room." 
 
 " I'll bring him on a stretcher, if necessary," Avery in- 
 sisted. " Don't forget that for all my magnanimous prom- 
 ises, today is our wedding-day." 
 
 " Then," she said, " if you will assemble all my clothes 
 before you go out, Avery, I think I'll dress." 
 
 Sure enough, when he came in about noon, she was 
 dressed and sitting by the window. " He'll be here this 
 afternoon ! " cried Avery. 
 
 " Who, Richard ? " she asked, breathless. 
 
 " No, the parson. I've got a license, I've done every- 
 thing," he exulted. 
 
 " But I must see Richard first," she insisted, half in tears. 
 "You promised, Avery." 
 
 " Well, you shall see him," said Avery. " Will you begin 
 to think about me, after you have ? " 
 
 " Oh, Avery, once I'm free to think about you ! " 
 
 " I know, I know," he said hastily. " I'll bring him, 
 never fear." 
 
 He didn't quite know how; but about three o'clock he 
 actually brought Morley up to her. Morley's arm was in a 
 sling, his forehead decorated with strips of plaster; Avery 
 had almost to carry him up the stairs. But Morley's spirit 
 was prepared for anything, except for blaming Cecily ; and 
 
"A SECOND MARRIAGE IN MY HOUSE" 335 
 
 in spite of his physical weakness and his knowledge of what 
 he was losing, he looked at Avery with a good deal of 
 curiosity. 
 
 All along Morley must have known that he was losing, 
 ever since he got Avery's note ; he must he in some measure 
 prepared for what lay ahead of him. In silence the two 
 men accomplished the ride, and the trip upstairs; Avery 
 opened the door to his room, and led Morley inside. Then, 
 purposely blind and deaf, he went out and closed the door 
 behind him: it was Morley's right and Cecily's duty to 
 thrash this thing out alone. But he hoped they wouldn't 
 thrash too hard, hoped that though sorely tried Morley 
 could still be magnanimous. 
 
 Avery went slowly downstairs, quiet, but cheerful. He 
 reflected that after all this wasn't a first marriage: there 
 were consequences and complexities still to be dealt with. 
 No, it wasn't a first marriage, but it carried with it some- 
 thing that no first marriage could. Then he had hoped, 
 and now he knew; then, all unsuspecting, he had so much 
 bitterness ahead, and now, in the wisdom of experience, he 
 had put bitterness behind. 
 
 In the shabby parlor his landlady claimed him. Cecily 
 had evidently confided in her, and the poor good woman 
 was all excitement. She held him by the sleeve, and talked 
 breathlessly of the lovely lady; and Avery, feeling older 
 than her sixty years by all the accumulation of bitterness 
 past and joy to come, smiled tolerantly at her. " Go and 
 put on your best dress, if you want to assist at a wedding," 
 he said. " Get some friends of yours, too, if you like ; but 
 you haven't much time." 
 
 Presently he heard Morley making his way slowly down- 
 stairs. He ran to help him; and would have driven back 
 with him to the hospital, but Morley waved him aside. 
 Morley's lips were pressed tight; in the overwhelmingness 
 of his pain he was almost blinded. Avery's happiness might 
 
336 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 in its course crush this strange man, whose destiny met his 
 for this alone; but even at this moment Avery spared time 
 to feel profoundly sorry for this superseded Richard, whose 
 life, approaching so near fruition, had yet remained poor and 
 starved. 
 
 It was only in deliberate magnanimity that he spared 
 even a single thought then and there to Morley, limping 
 painfully out of the saga. For that very same hour the 
 parson arrived, and the excited landlady with her hastily 
 summoned friend. " Come, my dear," Avery said, bending 
 over Cecily. 
 
 At the last moment she demurred. " Is there any such 
 killing hurry ? " 
 
 " Indeed there is. We have wasted so many years, Cecily 
 — from now on we have to make every hour count." 
 " Then — I'm ready," she said. 
 " Sit still, if you would rather, dear," he urged. 
 She shook her head, and resolutely stood up ; and before 
 the window of Avery's monastic room, still dewy-eyed from 
 her interview with Richard, Cecily was married to Avery 
 Fairchild. 
 
 In an incredibly short space of time just the two of 
 them were left together, and Cecily had sunk back into her 
 chair, white and weak. She rallied, however, to eat a little 
 of the dinner that was sent in to them, and even to touch 
 her lips to a champagne glass. But she was awfully quiet. 
 Avery, fearing that her thoughts had gone back to other 
 days and another bridal, talked and talked, in his endeavor 
 to make her see that things couldn't well be better than 
 they were now. They went presently to sit in the window, 
 and watch the lights come out all across the city, and the 
 stars overhead. Her hand was in his, their shoulders 
 touched. And still Avery talked. 
 
 Then suddenly, without in the least knowing how he got 
 there, he found himself on the other side of the argument. 
 
" A SECOND MARRIAGE IN MY HOUSE " 337 
 
 " It's only too bad," he was saying, " that so much should 
 have had to happen, when it need never have been if we 
 had only had a little more patience and forbearance." 
 
 That roused her; he could feel her whole body grow 
 tense. " Don't ever think it, Avery ! " she cried. " If we 
 hadn't had the courage of our convictions then as now, if 
 we had dragged along as so many couples do, we should be 
 wretched now, that's all — wretched past redeeming. Avery, 
 I wouldn't give my experience in the world for anything; 
 it's the best part of coming back that I can bring that 
 experience to you now." 
 
 " Well, perhaps," he said doubtfully ; he remembered 
 suddenly and acutely that curious moment during his last 
 passage with Caroline when all his chosen life had mocked 
 him, and he had had to wrap himself close in the mantle 
 of self-esteem, to get enough warmth to go on living. He 
 missed a few words of Cecily's. 
 
 " If I know anything, I know that ; if you miss that, you 
 miss the whole meaning of our story," she was saying when 
 his attention returned. 
 
 As became a man on his wedding-night, he gave in, 
 whether or not he was convinced. And then smiling she 
 deigned to say, " Why, stupid, if there had been no dif- 
 ference there would be no reconciliation. There would be 
 no point to kidnapping a wife with whom you were on 
 perfect terms, any more than there would be a possibility 
 of kidnapping a woman who wasn't your wife. It's only 
 the complete situation that gives you the incredible romance 
 of the outcome, don't you see ? " 
 
 He was looking at her now, not at the view. " Then 
 this seems to you romance ? " he asked. 
 
 " Romance ? This is life itself ! " she cried ; and her 
 tender, eager face turned to him. 
 
 " You're too deep for me," he protested. " But I dare 
 say you're right, Cecily." 
 
338 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 " Right ? Of course I'm right. I was right before, and 
 I'm right now." She laughed as she said it. 
 
 He dropped the argument then and there ; the years had 
 taught him some wisdom. In that wisdom he put his arm 
 around her, and felt her dear tired head rest on his shoul- 
 der as naturally as if it had never rested anywhere else. 
 The familiarity and the strangeness, the rapture and con- 
 fidence and distrust of the whole situation, came sweeping 
 over him. " Cecily " he faltered. 
 
 "Yes, dear?" she encouraged him. 
 
 " Shall we — be going home — tomorrow ? " 
 
XXXII 
 THE LAST WORD 
 
 In the fullness of a settled and apparently satisfied life, 
 Richard Morley took suddenly to good works. He took to 
 them, gossip rather more than hinted, on account of a dis- 
 appointment in an exceedingly romantic love affair. Two 
 or three people who might be expected to know scouted the 
 whole story; but on the other hand it got about on good 
 authority that Mr. Sims had let slip the remark that in 
 Dick's place he'd have taken to drink, because some things 
 were too much to stand. 
 
 So perhaps Morley had to take to something; though 
 he himself gave no explanation of his new interests other 
 than that having no one to leave his money to, he had de- 
 termined to spend it himself. Whatever the reason, he 
 became, from the day when after a mysterious excursion 
 he reappeared in town with an arm in splints, one of the 
 socially conscious, the patron of every good movement in 
 the city. Personally he wasn't much different, only in- 
 creasingly patient, and rather older in appearance; but a 
 certain exquisite friend of his wept at the change. She 
 could give him up for his own happiness, but it galled 
 even a disciplined woman to give him up for anything like 
 this. 
 
 There was held in his city one winter evening a large 
 meeting in the interest of better housing conditions. Mor- 
 ley, as a patron of the movement, was accommodated with 
 a seat on the platform, and informed that after the meet- 
 ing he would be expected to take the speaker back to her 
 
 339 
 
340 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 hotel. He was by no means reluctant, for the speaker in- 
 terested him, not only in her subject, of which she was 
 thoroughly mistress, but in herself. She was a middle-aged 
 woman, majestic in figure, dressed handsomely in black: 
 her mouth was kind and firm, but her eyes were unquiet. 
 " What a radiant girl she must have been ! " he thought as 
 he looked at her, and then, " Does she, or doesn't she, 
 quite realize her own possibilities? Does she? She ought 
 to; I think she must have given up her life to realizing 
 them." 
 
 She was, at any rate, a wonderful speaker. She held the 
 audience from the first five minutes in the hollow of her 
 fine hand : she tossed them up, she hurled them down, she 
 squeezed them and fondled them, but she never once let 
 them go. She spoke for an hour and three-quarters, and not 
 a person left his seat. 
 
 There had been something of the platform in her man- 
 ner and voice when Morley was introduced to her before 
 the meeting; he was surprised, therefore, after it was all 
 over, and she was seated in his car, to find her so simple 
 and quiet. She leaned back, as if she were tired; and her 
 face was almost gloomy. Little was said on their way to 
 her hotel; and. he was quite unprepared for her appeal 
 when they got out. " Won't you come in and talk?" she 
 asked hurriedly. " I'm not in the least sleepy, and I am 
 in the mood for talk." 
 
 He followed her into the hotel parlor, and they ensconced 
 themselves in a corner. " This is nice of you," she said 
 smiling at him. " I travel alone, you see, and I travel so 
 much. It gets very dull sometimes. I oughtn't to com- 
 plain, though, for my boy is in school in the East, and I have 
 my work. If I hadn't, heaven knows what I should 
 do." 
 
 She had touched a chord in Morley which was swiftly 
 responsive. " I haven't any boy, here or elsewhere," he 
 
THE LAST WORD 341 
 
 said. "An old bachelor, Mrs. Butler, is the loneliest of 
 God's creatures." 
 
 " Yes. Some things don't even bear talking about, do 
 they ? " she responded. There was a moment's pause ; then 
 she asked hurriedly, "Was the best material in town at 
 that meeting tonight? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed," he answered heartily. " All of it except 
 our one expert. We hardly feel that he belongs to us, 
 though; his business takes him to Chicago several times a 
 week, and about the country very often. He's away some- 
 where now, I think." 
 
 " Do you mean Avery Fairchild ? " she asked. 
 
 "Yes. You know him?" 
 
 She nodded. " Everybody in a related line of work 
 knows him. Dr. Fairchild is one of the biggest men in the 
 country, from my point of view. You are fortunate in hav- 
 ing him live here." 
 
 " I'm sorry he wasn't here tonight," said Morley. 
 
 " So am I," she said. " I had hoped to learn how he was 
 getting on. It's a long time since I last saw him." 
 
 Morley had an impression that this was what she had 
 been leading up to : that she had indeed brought him in here 
 for no other purpose. " In a town of this size, everybody 
 can tell you everybody else's affairs," he said. " We really 
 are a city in many respects, but we haven't outgrown the 
 epoch of village gossip. Dr. Fairchild is prospering, I 
 believe." 
 
 " His wife is in business here ? " asked Mrs. Butler. 
 
 " Yes. That is why they live here, I suppose." 
 
 " She is successful, too ? " 
 
 " Yes. She has branched out lately, and has a fine busi- 
 ness. She also conducts a working-girls' lunch-room that 
 isn't quite like anything else I ever saw. It would pay you 
 to stay over a day just to see it." 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't," said Mrs. Butler politely, " but I'm 
 
342 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 very much interested in hearing you speak of it. She must 
 have developed since the days when I knew her. I knew 
 her as well as the doctor, but it was a long time ago." 
 
 " Yes, she has developed," said Morley drily. 
 
 " And are they happy ? " she suddenly flung at him. 
 
 He might have closed like a clam on that ; but instead he 
 became expansive at last. " Oh, they are happy enough, 
 there's no doubt of that! I see the two of them seldom, 
 and then only by chance, but I know happiness when I see 
 it, and I see it in them. I assure you that they are happy, 
 Mrs. Butler. Not," he discriminated, " with the unthink- 
 ing happiness of twenty-one, of course. Their bliss has a 
 strain of tremor, almost of pathos, in it; so much has 
 passed over them, you see." 
 
 She took it quite wonderfully. " You know," she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know ! I may claim to have made some 
 study of the case. I have studied it," he brought out reck- 
 lessly, " because I count it my greatest distinction that I 
 once came very near to marrying Cecily Fairchild." 
 
 Eye to eye, she gave confidence for confidence : her gen- 
 erosity even outdid his. For a moment just then he thought 
 her greater than when she dandled crowds. " I myself," 
 she said, " once came very near to marrying Avery Fair- 
 child. Not even Avery himself knows quite how near." 
 
 He dropped his eyes; with elaborate nonchalance he 
 selected and lighted a cigarette. " I am now," he concluded, 
 " only the infrequent spectator of their drama, except when 
 I constitute myself its chorus. I wouldn't mind being more, 
 but Cecily's conscience always hurts when she sees 
 me. 
 
 " Oh, it would never have done," she cried, " for them 
 to marry anybody but each other ! " 
 
 " No, it would never have done," he agreed. 
 
 He smoked in silence for a minute, and then suddenly 
 
THE LAST WORD 343 
 
 and beautifully smiled. " If you haven't seen them of late 
 years, you don't know how truly you speak," he said. 
 " It's Cecily and her baby who are quite the crown of the 
 affair. If you could see her with that child, Mrs. But- 
 ler !" 
 
 "You mean Margaret?" she suggested. "Margaret 
 must be a great girl by this time." 
 
 " No, I don't mean Margaret. This child was born only a 
 year or so ago." 
 
 " Oh, since the — reconciliation," she said. " I didn't 
 know." 
 
 There was a moment of awkward silence ; then she rose 
 with a rustle of ample black draperies. " I won't detain 
 you any longer now," she said sweetly. " It has been very 
 kind of you to come in and talk to me." 
 
 " I assure you I've enjoyed it," he returned. 
 
 They moved to an elevator, and rang for it. " I wish 
 you all sorts of luck in your work here, Mr. Morley," she 
 said. 
 
 " Thank you," said Morley. " We intend to deserve it." 
 
 " That's the only way, of course." 
 
 She looked of a sudden very weary, he thought; but she 
 rallied herself, smiled brilliantly, and said, " Remember me 
 to Dr. Fairchild when you see him." 
 
 " I will, when I see him." 
 
 Morley watched the ascending car as it bore her off. 
 How very odd, that she should have revealed to him, a 
 stranger, things that her closest friends didn't know — and 
 other things that she didn't fully know herself. His 
 picture of her would always be different from the thousands 
 of others going about in other minds. It was neat, it was 
 really very neat. 
 
 But as he rode home it wasn't of Lois Butler that he 
 thought. " They are happy," he murmured to himself. 
 " It couldn't have been any other way. If they had been 
 
344 CECILY AND THE WIDE WORLD 
 
 unhappy, I But they are happy. They found each 
 
 other, and they realized themselves." 
 
 He didn't mean to be embittered : to be embittered would 
 really have been to lose everything. Rather wearily he 
 leaned back on the cushions, meager, high-bred, kindly, a 
 man who had lived so completely in his tradition that it 
 had helped him to absorb tragedy, had helped him even to 
 outgrow itself. Under the soft light his face was singularly 
 peaceful. 
 
BY DOROTHY CANFIELD 
 
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