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 01525 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Gift of 
 ALISON P. CASARETT 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924010481145 
 
WE THREE 
 
'Dark against the light illumination of the hall stood Lucy 
 Fulton." 
 
WE THREE 
 
 BY 
 
 GOUVERNEUR MORRIS 
 
 ifSIBOE OS "THE SEVEN DAIUNCS," ETC. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BV 
 
 HENRY HUTT 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY "l/( 
 
 NEW YORK LONDON 
 
 1916 
 
 '^''""miiimoj' . . 
 
COPYKIGHT, 1916, BY 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 Copyright, 1915, igiC, by thk Internationai, Magazine Compaky 
 
 
 
 . ' Printed in the United States of America 
 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "Dark against the light illumination of the kail 
 
 stood Lucjr Fulton" . . . Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAOE 
 
 "They met with an honest kiss, like lovers long 
 
 parted" 34 
 
 "It's what you and I stood up and promised be- 
 fore a lot of people" 104 
 
 " 'You are all that counts . . . you know Aat' " 208 
 
WE THREE 
 
 I 
 
 WHEN I know that Lucy as going to Palm 
 Beach for the winter I shall go to Aiken. 
 When I know that she is going to Aiken, 
 I shall go to Palm Beach. And I shall play the 
 same game with Bar Harbor, Newport, Europe, 
 and other summer resorts. So we shall only meet 
 by accident, and hardly ever. We've been asked 
 not to. 
 
 But I ought to begin further back. It would 
 do no harm to begin at the beginning. There is 
 even a king's advice to that effect. Said the king 
 in "Alice," "Begin at the Beginning, go on to the 
 End, and then stop." 
 
 In the be^nning, then : When I was a little boy, 
 old enough to be warned against playing with 
 matches, I began of course to think them desirable 
 playthings, and whenever I got a chance played with 
 them. And I never : 
 
 ( I ) Set myself on fire, 
 
 I 
 
We Three 
 
 (2) Nor anybody else, 
 
 (3) Nor the house in which my parents lived 
 with me. 
 
 And yet I had been told that I should do all of 
 these things; not often perhaps, but certainly every 
 once in a while. 
 
 Of course it is possible to do all sorts of things 
 with a match. You may light it and blow it out, for 
 instance. Lighted, you may put it in your mouth 
 without burning yourself. And if you do this in the 
 dark, the li^t will shine through your cheek, and 
 if you are a fat child you will give the impression of 
 a Hallowe'en lantern carved from a pumpkin. Or 
 you may lig^t the butt of your father's cigar and 
 learn to smoke. It is one of the cheapest ways. Or 
 you may set fire to the lower edge of the newspaper 
 which your grandfather is reading in the big arm- 
 chair by the window, and I guarantee that you will 
 surprise him. Here is an interesting play : Light a 
 match, blow it out, and, while the end is still red 
 hot, touch the cook firmly on the back of the neck. 
 If she has been reading Swinburne she will imagine 
 that she has been kissed by a policeman. When she 
 finds out that she hasn't she will be disappointed, 
 and perhaps you will be disappointed, too. Oh, a 
 
 2 
 
We Three 
 
 match IS a wonderful thing, even the wooden ones 
 that are made on earth ! You may bum a whole city 
 to the ground. And once, I am told, there was a 
 man who lighted a match and fired a cannon that 
 was heard around the world. 
 
 To play with matches is one thing: to play with 
 the fire that you have lighted, or helped light, is 
 another. And it was not until I played with fire 
 that I did any real harm in this world (that I know 
 about) . Playing with fire I singed a moth ; I singed 
 a butterfly, and I burnt a man. 
 
 If this was just the story of my own life I 
 wouldn't be so impertinent as to hope that it would 
 be interesting to anybody. It isn't my story, and no 
 matter how much I may seem to figure in it, I am 
 neither its hero, nor, I think, the god who started 
 the machinery. 
 
 Thirty-five years ago I took to live with me a 
 middle-aged couple, who had begun to fear that 
 they were going to die without issue. Though I 
 say it that shouldn't, I was very good to them. I 
 let them kiss me and maul me from morning till 
 night. Later, when I knew that it was the very 
 worst thing in the world for me, I let them spoil 
 me as much as they wanted to. They even gave 
 
 3 
 
JVe Three 
 
 me the man's name, without my consent, and I 
 didn't make a row. But I did lift my head with 
 sufficient suddenness and violence to cause the 
 Bishop of New York to bite his tongue, and to 
 utter a word that is not to be found in the prayer 
 book. I was christened Archibald Mannering 
 Damn. 
 
 But I have never used the surname with which the 
 good Bishop so suddenly and without due author- 
 ization provided me. Certain old friends, ac- 
 quainted with the story, do not always, however, 
 show my exquisite taste and reticence In this matter. 
 Only the other day in the Knickerbocker Club I 
 overheard some men talking. And one of them, in a 
 voice which I did not care for, said "Archibald 
 Mannering — damn I" And conveyed without other 
 word or qualification than the tone of his voice, that 
 he had very little use for me. Well, I can thank 
 God for putting Into the world some other people 
 who have not that man's clearsightedness and ex- 
 cellent powers for passing judgment upon his fel- 
 low men. 
 
 So the man gave me his name and took other lib- 
 erties with me, and the woman gave me her watch 
 to break (I broke it) and took other liberties, and 
 
 4 
 
We Three 
 
 a second woman who called herself Nana took still 
 other liberties with me — liberties which made me 
 furiously angry at the time, and which even now 
 would make me blush. 
 
 Sometimes I was sorry that I had taken the man 
 and the woman to live with me. At times they bored 
 me. They seemed to me intelligent, and I had to 
 choose my words carefully, and talk down to them 
 as to a pair of children. But I got used to them 
 gradually. And I got to like them, especially the 
 woman. I even formed the habit of forgiving her 
 things offhand without being asked to — Oh, my dear 
 parents, I am only trying to poke a little fun at you I 
 And you weren't middle-aged when you came to live 
 with me. I only imagine that you must have seemed 
 so to a baby whose eyes had only just come undone. 
 Thirty-five years have rolled by — ^bringing, taking, 
 and, alas ! leaving behind them cares and vicissitudes, 
 and still you seem no more than middle-aged to me. 
 You, father, with your fine, frank weather-beaten 
 face of a county squire with the merry smile and the 
 wit which makes you so welcome wherever you go, 
 even those ghosts of sorrow deep in your eyes don't 
 make you look more than middle-aged. And yet I 
 think no hour of your life passes in which you don't 
 
 5 
 
JVe Three 
 
 recall, with a strangling at your throat, how my 
 little sister, Pitapat, came in from the garden droop- 
 ing, to you, almost always to you, when she was in 
 trouble, and climbed and was lifted into your lap, 
 and cuddled against you — Oh, I can't write the rest. 
 But I tell you that I, too, sir, have recalled little 
 Pitapat, and how she died, all on a summer's day, 
 in her "Dada's" arms, and that the thought of 
 what she was to you, and what such another child 
 might be to such another man, has twisted even my 
 tough entrails, and caused me for once, at least, to 
 draw back from a piece of easy and enticing mis- 
 chief, and play the man. 
 
 And you, mother, with your face of a saint, 
 haven't I always poked fun at you? You don't 
 look more than middle-aged either. You look less. 
 And yet you too have your sorrow that never dies. 
 For you were fitted to be a mother of men, and you 
 have brought into the world only a lovely flower that 
 soon withered away, and a Butterfly. 
 
 I don't call myself a Butterfly from choice. I 
 only do it because I'm trying to be honest, and I 
 think that it's just about what I am. But do we really 
 know what a butterfly is? Have we given that or- 
 namental (though I say it — that shouldn't) and 
 
 6 
 
We Three 
 
 light-minded (though I say it with shame) and 
 light-hearted (though the very lightest of hearts 
 must weigh something, you know) insect a square 
 deal? I confess that only a light-hearted Insect 
 would perpetrate such a sentence as the foregoing; 
 but wouldn't it be fun if, when the whole truth comes 
 to be known about butterflies, we found them more 
 or less self-respecting, more or less monogamous, 
 occasionally ratiocinative, carelessly kind, rather 
 than light-hearted creatures, and not insects, in the 
 accepted sense, at all? It would surprise me no more 
 to learn that an insect was really a man, than that a 
 man, even so great and thinking a man as Mr. Bryan 
 for example, was an insect. 
 
 If the butterfly at lunch flits from flower to flower; 
 and the butterfly at play flits from butterfly to but- 
 terfly; so then may the butterfly (at what he is 
 pleased to call his work) flit from theme to theme, 
 from subject to subject, from character to character, 
 from plot to counterplot, and crosswise and back 
 again. If more autobiographists realized how many 
 difliculties may be avoided in this way, far fewer 
 autobiographists would be heroes and many, many 
 more would be butterflies. 
 
II 
 
 EVEN before I was bom the ricKer people of 
 New York did not inhabit that city the year 
 round, but their holiday excursions were far 
 shorter tlTan now, both In distance and duration. 
 To escape the intenser heats of summer the moneyed 
 citizen of those days sent his family to the seaside 
 for six weeks or to the mountains. Later his fam- 
 ily began to Insist that it must also be spared the 
 seasons of intense cold. And nowadays there are 
 families (and the number of these Increases by leaps 
 and bounds) who if they are not allowed to escape 
 from ever5rthlng which seems to them disagreeable 
 or difficult, get very down in the mouth about it. 
 Even the laboring classes are affected. The rich 
 man wishes to live without any discomfort whatever, 
 and the poor man wishes to live without doing any 
 work whatever. That, I think, is at the root of their 
 most bloody differences of opinion, for the poor man 
 thinks that the rich man ought to be uncomfortable, 
 and the rich man thinks that the poor man ought to 
 work. And they will never be In agreement. 
 
 8 
 
JVe Three 
 
 Given enough money it becomes easier and easier 
 to run from one difficulty or discomfort into another. 
 And even the laborer finds it continually easier to 
 make a living without earning it. 
 
 When I was a little boy, Newport and Bar Har- 
 bor were a long way from New York. To Europe 
 was a real voyage ; while such places as Palm Beach 
 and Aiken were never mentioned in polite society, 
 for the simple reason that polite society had never 
 heard of them. But nowadays it is not uncommon 
 for a man to have visited all these places (and some 
 of them more than once) in the course of a year. 
 Europe which was once a foreign country is now but 
 as a suburb of New York. And I myself, I am 
 happy to say, have been far oftener in Paris than in 
 Brooklyn. 
 
 The modern butterfly thinks little of flying out 
 to Pittsburg or Cleveland or St. Louis for a dance 
 or a mere wedding. He attends athletic events thou- 
 sands of miles apart, and knows his way from the 
 front door to the bar and card room of every im- 
 portant club between the Jockey Club in Paris and 
 the Pacific Union in San Francisco, excepting, of 
 course, those clubs in his; own city to which he does 
 not happen to belong. 
 
 9 
 
JVe Three 
 
 My father, because of my little sister's fragility, 
 was one of the first men I know to make a practice 
 of going South for the winter, and to Long Island 
 for the spring and autumn. In summer we went to 
 Europe or Bar Harbor, for with justice he preferred 
 the climate of the latter to that of Newport or 
 Southampton. We were less and less in our town 
 house, and indeed so jumped about from place to 
 place, that although my mother succeeded in mak- 
 ing her other houses easy and indeed charming to 
 live in, I have never known what it was to have a 
 home. And indeed I cannot at this moment call to 
 mind a single New York family of the upper class 
 that lives in a home. 
 
 My mother is old-fashioned. She would have 
 preferred to live in one place the year around, to 
 beautify and to ennoble that place ; to be buried from 
 it as she had been married into it, and to leave upon 
 it the stamp of her character, incessant industry and 
 good taste; to fill it gradually with the things she 
 loved best or admired most, and to be always there, 
 ready for the children or the grandchildren to come 
 home. 
 
 But she gave up this ambition at a hint of delicacy 
 in a child's face, and a note of anxiety in a husband's 
 
 lO 
 
JVe Three 
 
 voice, and took to packing trunks to go somewhere, 
 and unpacking them when they arrived. Of course 
 she couldn't do this to all of them, for we moved 
 with very many, but there were certain ones to which 
 she would let nobody put hand but herself — ^my 
 father's, my sister's, mine, and her own. And you 
 always knew that if you had accidentally left letters 
 and notes in your pockets that you didn't want seen, 
 they wouldn't be. 
 
 My father would almost abuse her for doing so 
 much work with her own hands, and for always 
 being up'so early, but in secret he was very proud 
 of her; and to see her dressed for the dance or the 
 opera, eager and gay as a girl, slender and beauti- 
 ful, her head very high and fearless, you would have 
 thought that she had never done anything in all her 
 life, but be pampered and groomed and sheltered^ 
 
 Upon one good old-fashioned custom they were 
 in firm agreement. They always slept in the same 
 bed; they do still. And they will lie in the same 
 grave. 
 
 Whichever home it was that we happened to be 
 inhabiting, unless out of season because of my sister, 
 it was always pretty well filled with people. My 
 father loved people, and my mother got to love them 
 
 II 
 
JVe Three 
 
 for his sake. For my part, until very recently, I 
 have always hated to be alone. Flint is a gloomy 
 solitary, but when he meets with Steel there are 
 sparks. 
 
 I suppose there are brooding lovers of knowledge 
 in this world who are fonder of their own than of 
 any other company. But most people' can only think 
 half thoughts and need other people to complete 
 them. It is amusing enough to knock a ball against 
 a wall, and a wonderful help in the perfection of 
 strokes, but it is far more amusing to face somebody 
 across a net and play lawn tennis. 
 
 My father and mother always hoped that I would 
 be a great man, and even now they hope that I may 
 one day turn over a new leaf. Unfortunately there 
 was no greatness in me, and as for those leaves of 
 my life which I have not yet read, they are uncut, 
 and I am always mislaying the paper knife. And 
 whether the matter on the next leaf or the one after 
 will be new or not, is for the future to know. You 
 cannot, I think, teach a child to grow great. 
 
 But you can teach a child to dance and swim and 
 shoot and sail, and to ride and to be polite, and to 
 keep clean, and by example rather than precept, to 
 be natural and unaffected ! It was hoped then that 
 
 12 
 
JVe Three 
 
 I would be a great man; in the event, however, of 
 my turning out to be nothing but a butterfly, I was 
 brought up to be as ornamental a butterfly as pos- 
 sible. I cannot remember when I wasn't being pre- 
 pared and groomed to take, without awkwardness, 
 a place in society. 
 
 Well-bred grown-ups talk to children, without af- 
 fectation or condescension, as if they too were 
 grown-ups. My parents were always entertaining 
 people, and it was assumed without comment that I 
 too was host no less than they. Twice a day I had 
 to be in evidence : at tea time, face and hands shin- 
 ing clean, hair carefully brushed, my small body 
 covered with crisp white duck, black silk stockings 
 on my legs, and patent leather pumps on my feet. 
 No conversation was required of me, but if I had 
 forgotten a name and the face that went with it, I 
 was allowed to feel uncomfortable ; allowed to feel 
 as a grown man feels when he has accidentally said 
 something that would better have been left unsaid. 
 It was my duty to go accurately from guest to guest, 
 to shake hands, and to say perfectly naturally not 
 "Hunh!" as so many modern children do, but "How 
 do you do, Mrs. Lessing," or "How do you do, Mrs. 
 Green," and not to stare and fidget or be awkward. 
 
 13 
 
JVe Three 
 
 Then I had my tea, discolored hot water with sugar 
 and cream, my buttered toast, and a bit of cake. 
 After that my mother would make it exceedingly 
 easy for me to get away. My second public appear- 
 ance was just before dinner. Then, dressed once 
 more in white and patent leather, I came to the draw- 
 ing-room to wish and be wished good night. 
 
 To obey my mother, when there was no real temp- 
 tation to disobey her, was very easy, and nobody 
 ever saw me look sulky or balky when I was told to 
 do this or that. It was easy to obey her, because 
 from the first, she took it absolutely for granted that 
 she was going to be obeyed. Of course it was differ- 
 ent with general orders designed to cover long pe- 
 riods of time, for here the tempter had his chance 
 at me, and I was forever falling. "Stop kicking the 
 table leg, Archie," is an order easily and instantly 
 obeyed. For "Never kick a table," I cannot say the 
 same. I used to divide her orders into two classes : 
 The now news and the never nevers. The latter 
 were mostly beyond me. Though you may halt one 
 sinner in the act of throwing a stone at another, 
 there is little reason to believe that he will not soon 
 be trying his aim again. 
 
 I like children when they are polite and a little 
 H 
 
We Three 
 
 reticent, when they are not too much in evidence, 
 and when the whole household is not made to re- 
 volve about them. 
 
 Fulton once said to me, in that shy yet eager way 
 of his : "If only I could arrest my babies' develop- 
 ment ; keep them exactly as they are ; on tap when I 
 wanted them, and hibernated like a couple of little 
 bears when I was busy and mustn't be disturbed! 
 They should never change, while I lived, if I had 
 my way. And I'd promise not to abuse my priv- 
 ileges. I'd only take 'em out of the ice box when I 
 absolutely needed them and couldn't do without 
 them." 
 
 It was the first time that I ever was in the Fulton 
 house that he said that. The two babies, a boy and 
 a girl, Jock and "Hurry," two roly-polies, with 
 their mother's eyes and mischievous smile, had been 
 brought in to the tea table to be polite and share a 
 lump of sugar. And they had been very polite, and 
 had shown the proper command over their shyness, 
 and had shaken me decorously by the hand, and 
 made their funny grave little bows and asked me 
 how I did. And I had said something in praise of 
 the little girl to her face, and Fulton had reproached 
 me a little for doing so. 
 
 15 
 
}Ve Three 
 
 "In India," he had said, "it is very bad luck to 
 praise a child to its face, very bad luck indeed." 
 
 "I'm so sorry," I said, when the children had 
 gone. "I ought to have remembered that even very 
 little babies In the cradle understand everything 
 that's said to them. May I praise them now? Be- 
 cause they are the two most delicious babies in the 
 world. I'd like to eat them." 
 
 "When I'm tired or worried," said Fulton, hid 
 eyes lighting with tenderness, "Hurry always knows. 
 And she comes and climbs Into my lap and leans 
 against me without saying a word, and she keeps 
 creepy-mouse still until she knows that I'm feeling 
 better. Then she chuckles, and I hug her. Some- 
 times I wish that she was made like a tennis ball; 
 then I could hug her as hard as I wanted to without 
 hurting her." 
 
 While he was speaking, Mrs. Fulton looked all 
 the time at her husband's face. I remember think- 
 ing, "God! If ever some woman should look at me 
 like that!" Her mouth smiled mischievously, just 
 the way little Hurry's smiled, and her eyes — I won't 
 try to describe the love and tenderness that was in 
 them, nor the dog-like faithfulness — were eyes that 
 prayed. And they were the deepest, most brilliant 
 
 i6 
 
TVe Three 
 
 blue — like those Rheims windows that the Beast 
 smashed the other day. She laughed and said: 
 "Hurry and her father don't care about each other 
 — not at all." 
 
 Fulton lifted his eyes to hers and it was as if "I 
 love you" flashed from each to the other in that 
 crumb of time. His face reddened a little, and hers 
 became more rosy. They weren't a bit ashamed of 
 being obviously in love with each other. I think 
 they rather prided themselves on it. 
 
 "Why //Mrr3».2"' I asked. "Is it a real name? Of 
 course I remember Hurry Harry in Cooper " 
 
 "Her real name is Lucy," said Fulton, "same as 
 her Mumsey, but they look so ridiculously alike that 
 I was afraid I'd get 'em mixed up. And so we call 
 her Hurry, because she always hurries; she hurries 
 like mad. Same as her Mumsey." 
 
 "Do you," I asked, "hurry hke mad?" 
 
 She gave a comical hurried nod that made me 
 laugh right out, and Fulton said : 
 
 "She has smashed the more haste the less speed 
 fallacy all to pieces." You could see that the man 
 was glowing with pride. And he began to boast 
 about her, and though she tried to stop him, she 
 couldn't help looking perfectly delighted with her- 
 
 17 
 
We Three 
 
 self, like some radiant child in the new dress for 
 the party. 
 
 When Fulton had finished his eulogy, a long one, 
 filled with humor, character drawing, and tender- 
 ness — something in his voice rather than his words, 
 perhaps, always gave people the feeling that he had 
 a wonderfully light touch, and a point of view at 
 once sentimental and humorous — I reproached him, 
 in turn, for praising a child to her face. 
 
 "In India," I said, "it's considered beastly un- 
 lucky." 
 
 Mrs. Fulton sprang to his defense. "I'm not a 
 child," she defied me, "I'm a married woman." 
 
 They took me to the front door themselves, and 
 watched me as far as the gate. I know this, be- 
 cause although I did not look back, it was when I 
 reached the gate that I heard the door close, and I 
 thought: "Now if I looked back, and the door was 
 transparent, I'd see a pretty picture. It's a thou- 
 sand to one shot that he's caught her in his arms and 
 is kissing her and that she's perfectly delighted." 
 
Ill 
 
 IT is not easy for me to keep away from Lucy 
 Fuhon either on paper or in i-eal life. The lat- 
 ter I have to do, for I think that I am able to 
 keep a promise, and I ought to do the former as 
 much as I can, if I am to tell her story and her hus- 
 band's and my own in their true proportions. Other- 
 wise we should but appear as one of those "eternal 
 triangles" to which so much of French dramatic 
 genius has been devoted; whereas it appears to me, 
 though not, I am afraid, to Fulton, that if our rela- 
 tions to each other could be symbolized by a figure, 
 that figure would not he a triangle; but a cross, let 
 us say, between a triangle and a square. 
 
 Fulton and I are the same age. We were in the 
 same class at Mr. Cutter's school for a year or two, 
 and were quite friendly at times. But except that we 
 both collected postage stamps, we had no tastes in 
 common. It is almost enough to say that he was 
 full of character and reserve, and that I was un- 
 stable and kept the whole of my goods displayed in 
 the shop window. I cannot imagine thirteen-year- 
 
 19 
 
We Three 
 
 old Fulton in love with fifteen-year-old Nell or 
 Nancy, but I was frequently in love with both 
 at the same time, or so fancied myself, and, 
 almost consciously, as it seems, he was conserving 
 his powers of loving for the one great passion of 
 his life, when he should give all that a man may 
 have in him of purity and faith and purpose. But 
 when my time for a great passion came, though I 
 gave all that I had to give, it is true, still that all 
 was not the whole that I might have had; it was 
 only all that was left, all that had not already been 
 given. But there was enough at that to hurt and do 
 harm. 
 
 Fulton was studious and enamored of knowledge 
 for its own sake. I was lazy and only interested in 
 such pieces of knowledge as I felt might be of use 
 to me. But we both stood well in our classes; he 
 because he had brains and knew how to use them, 
 and I because the Lord had gifted me with a capital 
 sight memory. 
 
 Perhaps I should do better to state who our in- 
 timates were in those days, and what has become of 
 them. Fulton's most intimate friend was a boy 
 named Lansing, who made a practice of cutting open 
 dead things to see what was inside of them. Today 
 
 20 
 
JVe Three 
 
 Lansing (of course that's not his real name) is so 
 great a surgeon that even the man in the street knows 
 him by sight. My most intimate friend was Harry 
 Colemain, and we were mixed up in all sorts of dev- 
 iltries together. To me he has been always a faith- 
 ful friend and a charming companion, but of his 
 career, what can I say that is really pleasant? Noth- 
 ing, unless I modify each statement by pages of ex- 
 planation and reminiscence. As he danced the old 
 dances, so he dances the new, to greater perfection 
 than any man in New York. He is gorgeously built, 
 and has a carriage of the head, an eye and a smile, 
 and a way with him that can shake a man from the 
 water wagon or a woman from her virtue. He 
 smokes like a factory, and drinks like a fish, yet at a 
 moment's notice he is ready for some great feat of 
 endurance — such as playing through the racket 
 championship, or swimming from Newport to Nar- 
 ragansett Pier. He might have been — anything you 
 please. But what can I say definitely that he is? 
 Well, at this very moment, he is co-respondent in a 
 divorce suit which is delighting the newspapers, 
 and it looks as if he'd have to marry her in the 
 end. And that's a pity because they were tired 
 of each other before they got found out, and she's 
 
 21 
 
JVe Three 
 
 not the kind of woman that his friends are going to 
 like. 
 
 Fulton's friend Ludlow has just published the 
 best book on the birds of New York, past and pres- 
 ent, that was ever written. My friend Pierson died 
 the other day of pneumonia. As a boy he had the 
 constitution of an ox, and ought to have thrown off 
 pneumonia as I would throw off a cold in the head, 
 but the doctors say that he had simply burned up his 
 powers of resistance with overdoses of alcohol. You 
 never saw him drunk or off his balance or merry in 
 any way; he simply and slowly soaked himself till 
 his insides were like sponges dipped in the stuff. 
 And Pierson's not the only man in my circle who 
 has gone out like that; and as they went so will 
 others go; strong and well Saturday to the casual 
 eye, and dead Monday. 
 
 This is not the time to take up those great issues 
 which have risen between those who are tempted 
 by drink and fall, and those who are not tempted 
 and don't. But I am very sure of this : that a vast 
 majority of the men who make the world go round 
 drink or have drunk; and that when at last the 
 world comes to be governed by those who don't and 
 haven't, it will be even worse governed, more pettily 
 
 22 
 
JVe Three 
 
 and meddlesomely, than it is at present. And that 
 is saying a good deal, even for a butterfly. 
 
 You mustn't gather that Fulton and his friends 
 were a goody-goody set of boys. They erred and 
 strayed from their ways at times, like the worst of 
 us. There was Browning for instance, a born ex- 
 perimenter, who so experimented with cocktails one 
 fine morning (at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 
 Forty-third Street) that he marched into Madame 
 Castignet's French class, drunk as a lord, full of 
 argument, and was presently expelled from the 
 school. It was commonly said that the disgrace of 
 it would hound him through life. Far from it! 
 Those who at this day pack Carnegie Lyceum to 
 hear him play the violin, and who listen, laughing, 
 and crying, and comparing him to the incomparable 
 Kreisler, perceive no disgrace in that youthful epi- 
 sode, rather they see in it an early indication of the 
 divine temperament trying to shake off its fetters 
 and be free. 
 
 One boy that I went to school with is on the 
 famous Meadowbrook team ; another has played in 
 Davis Cup matches; another brought home a First 
 from the Olympic games. In' the pack tliat I run 
 with there is even one Roper who achieves a large 
 
 23 
 
We Three 
 
 income by writing fiction for the magazines, but 
 even he isn't in the least like that brilliant little circle 
 to which Fulton belonged. For we feel that we are 
 paying him an immense compliment when we say, 
 "Would you ever suspect that he was an author?" 
 Good at games, fond of late hours and laughter, 
 with the easiest and most affectionate good manners, 
 he is quite convinced, if you can get him to talk shop 
 at all, that art for art's sake is bunk, and that there 
 is more amusement and inspiration to be had on 
 Bailey's Beach and in the Casino at Newport than 
 in the whole of Italy. 
 
 I must set Roper off against Fulton's friend Gar- 
 rick. Poor Garrick slaved and slaved and reached 
 after perfection. Some say that in the thin little 
 volume that he succeeded at last in getting published, 
 and leaving behind for the delight of posterity, he 
 actually touched perfection. Perhaps he did. I 
 don't know. But I do know this : that he had enough 
 talent and energy to make a living, and didn't. That 
 he loved his art more than his wife and family, and 
 that they all starved together. Is it worse to starve 
 your family for love of liquor than for love of art? 
 Roper loves his liquor but he fights against it and 
 makes a handsome income ; Garrick gave himself up 
 
 24 
 
We Three 
 
 body and soul to his love for art, and if it wasn't for 
 his friends Mrs. Garrick would be working in a 
 sweatshop. 
 
 Fulton and I discussed him once (when I was 
 going to the Fulton house a good deal) , but we had 
 to give it up as a topic. Fulton saw something fine 
 and generous in the man, and could not speak of him 
 without emotion, while I found it Impossible to speak 
 of him without contempt. 
 
 Fulton himself fell away from his friends In later 
 years, not spiritually but physically. Lucy Fulton 
 simply had to go on living among the people with 
 whom she had been brought up, and in the manner 
 to which she was accustomed ; and Fulton seeing her 
 pine and grow sorrowful In other conditions, and 
 bored and fretful, gradually fell into her ways and 
 wishes, as a gentleman shouldn't (but does always), 
 and made his new friends among those who are born 
 to be amused. Her love and happiness were far 
 more important to him than changed ways and the 
 injured feelings of old friends. Once he talked to 
 me about this (for we grew quite intimate). I re- 
 member he said: 
 
 "Somehow I don't seem to see my old friends 
 any more or keep up with them. If anything hap- 
 
 25 
 
JVe Three 
 
 pened to Luq^, I'd be absolutely alone in the world, 
 except for the babies. A man does wrong to drift 
 away from those who he knows by a thousand proofs 
 care for him, on any pretext or for any cause." 
 
 And yet he had come to wear the hallmarks of the 
 pack, and to talk the language of the world that only 
 asks to be happy and amused. He took to games 
 seriously and played them well, and you couldn't 
 point to him as one of those cautious persons who 
 never by any chance drank even one cocktail too 
 many. Indeed, he often became hilarious and witty, 
 and added no end to the gayety of occasions, and was 
 afterward privately reproached by Lucy. Coming 
 from another, the hilarity and wit would have re- 
 joiced her, but, coming from her nearest and dearest, 
 her mind narrowed, and the cold fear that women 
 have of liquor possessed her. 
 
 To me it has always been comical, even when I 
 didn't feel well myself, to see the husbands come into 
 the club after a big night; each wearing upon his 
 face, as plainly as if they had been physical scratches, 
 the marks of the wifely tears which he had been 
 forced to witness, and of the reproaches which he 
 had been forced to hear, and yet each trying to look 
 as if he was the master of his own house and his 
 
 26 
 
We Three 
 
 own destiny. No well-born woman, however cold 
 and calculating, can silently put up with her hus- 
 band's drinking, yet how easily she overlooks it in 
 any other man ! How many excuses she will find for 
 him: 
 
 "Why, he's quite wonderful I Of course I knew at 
 once that he was tipsy, but he was perfectly sensible 
 — ^perfectly." 
 
 If men didn't drink, women wouldn't have so 
 many parties to go to or so much money to spend. 
 How many teetotalers let their wives spend them 
 Into ruin and disgrace ? It is the drinking American 
 who indulges his wife and lets her make a fool of 
 herself and him. It's his unconfessed, and perhaps 
 unadmitted, remorse seeking a short cut to forgive- 
 ness. 
 
 It seems that I played too much pool and billiards 
 for a small boy ; and got into too much city mischief, 
 for I learned at the end of a delightful Newport 
 summer that I was to finish my schooling, not at 
 Mr. Cutter's, but at Groton. 
 
IV 
 
 IN those Groton days I let matches strictly alone ; 
 I neither played with them, nor used them to 
 light cigarettes with. I was vaguely ambitious 
 to be great and splendid, and I was down on pur- 
 poseless boys who didn't behave themselves. 
 
 Lucy's brother was in my form. She used to come 
 to visit him, with her parents, in their car. Even 
 for Groton parents the Ludlows were enormously 
 rich, or if they weren't enormously rich, 'they were 
 enormous spenders. 
 
 Lucy was seven years our junior, but even in those 
 baby days she had the laughing mouth and the pray- 
 ing eyes that were to play such havoc later on. She 
 was a child of the world; natural, straightforward, 
 and easy-going. 
 
 Lucy at nine was so pretty, so engaging, and had 
 so much charm and magnetism that I remember 
 having regretted, very solemnly, and with youthful 
 finality, that we did not belong to the same genera- 
 tion. I was sorry that she was not fifteen or sixteen 
 like myself; so that I could be in love with her and 
 she with me ! 
 
 28 
 
JVe Three 
 
 Once Lucy was so sick that they thought she was 
 going to die, and Schuyler was called home from 
 school. The whole school was affected, so strong 
 and vivid was its memory of an engaging and fear- 
 less child. I remember being sorrier than ever that 
 I had been confirmed into a system which makes dis- 
 ease contagious instead of health, and asking one of 
 the masters how he reconciled the death of a kid 
 like that, whom everybody loved, with his concep- 
 tion of an all-wise and all-merciful God. He an- 
 swered, it has always seemed to me very lamely, 
 that if we didn't believe that all was for the best, 
 in this best of all worlds, we should never get any- 
 where. 
 
 All for the best ! If we are to forgive the Power 
 that sets him on, why not the murderer himself who 
 does the real dirty work? If all is for the best, so 
 then must the component parts of all (each and 
 every) be for the best. In" short we can do no 
 wrong in this best of worlds. Oh, what grim, weak- 
 minded nonsense they prate and preach ! 
 
 There was hand-clapping when the Rector told us 
 that Schuyler/ Ludlow's little sister was going to get 
 well, and presently Schuyler returned to school some- 
 what self-important, as becomes one who has sat at 
 
 29 
 
We Three 
 
 meat with famous doctors, and talked of them in 
 Extremis. 
 
 The first time I rode with Lucy through the Aiken 
 woods, I recalled this famous illness of hers, and I 
 think it had something to do with all that happened 
 afterward. 
 
 We had lost ourselves, a little, as you do at 
 Aiken, among the infinity of sand trails beyond the 
 Whitney drive. We knew where we were, of course, 
 and we knew where Aiken was, but every trail that 
 started toward it fetched up short with a wrong 
 turning. It was one of those bright hot days in late 
 February, when a few jasmine flowers have opened, 
 and you are pretty sure that there won't be any more 
 long spells of rain or freezing cold. Even Lucy, 
 who loved riding, was content to sit a walking horse, 
 and bask in the sunshine. 
 
 I mentioned her famous illness, and she remem- 
 bered nothing about it. "I'm always too busy," she 
 said, "with what's going on right now to remember 
 things." 
 
 "Why," I said, "Schuyler was sent for, and you 
 were given up half a dozen times. Don't you really 
 remember at all?" 
 
 "They wouldn't have told me I was being given 
 30 
 
We Three 
 
 up right and left, would they? Probably it didn't 
 hurt much, and I was given a great many presents. 
 It seems to me I do remember one particularly great 
 time of presents, when lots of old gentlemen came 
 to see me." 
 
 "I hoped you'd remember better," I said; "be- 
 cause at the time it seemed to me one of the most 
 important things that had ever happened in the 
 world." 
 
 Lucy listened eagerly. She didn't in the least 
 mind a conversation that was all about herself. 
 
 "The whole school," I said, "was touched with 
 solemnity. Now you wouldn't take me for a pray- 
 ing man, would you?" 
 
 "I don't know. Wouldn't I?" 
 
 "Whether I am or not," I said, "doesn't matter 
 now, because I have so little to pray for. But at 
 that time I went down on my knees and prayed that 
 you'd get well." 
 
 "You were very fond of Schuyler, weren't you?" 
 
 "And am. But that wasn't the reason. I don't 
 know just what the reason was. Maybe I was look- 
 ing forward to this ride, and didn't want to miss it ! 
 I was ashamed to be seen praying, so I prayed in 
 bed. But I was afraid that wouldn't do any good, so 
 
 31 
 
We Three 
 
 when my roommate had gone to sleep I got up in 
 the dark and went down on my marrowbones on the 
 bare \c^ floor, and I prayed like a good 'un." 
 
 Luq^'s mouth laughed, but her eyes prayed. 
 
 "Then, maybe," she said, "if it hadn't been for 
 you, I wouldn't be here now." 
 
 "I'd like to think that," I said; "but there must 
 have been lots of others who prayed. I should like 
 nothing better than a Carnegie hero medal, with the 
 attached pension, but the jury require proofs." 
 
 "It's funny," she said, "to think of you kneeling 
 on the icy floor and praying for me." 
 
 "For your recover'^!" I corrected her. 
 
 "I think it would have been nicer if you had prayed 
 for me. Didn't you — even a little?" 
 
 "If I had realized that I could be seven years 
 older than you and still belong to the same gen- 
 eration, my prayers would have been altogether 
 different, and there would have been more of 
 them." 
 
 "Where do you think this road goes?" 
 
 She turned into it without waiting for an answer, 
 and urged her pony into a gentle amble. 
 
 I caught up with her and said : "I know this trail. 
 It will take us straight to the Whitney drive. Then 
 
 32 
 
JVe Three 
 
 we can go right up over the hill and come out by 
 Sand River." 
 
 "It's fun," she said, "to find somebody that likes 
 riding. Everybody's mad about golf. John rides 
 whenever I ask him, but it's cruel to separate him 
 from the new mid-iron that Jimmie made for him. 
 And he won't let me ride alone." 
 
 Poor John Fulton showed little worldly wisdom In 
 making that prohibition. 
 
 "I'd rather ride than eat," I said. "Will you ride 
 again tomorrow?" 
 
 She quoted the Aiken story of the lonely bache- 
 lor in the boarding-house. He is called to the tele- 
 phone, hears a hospitable voice that says, "Will you 
 come to lunch tomorrow at one-thirty?" and an- 
 swers promptly, "You het I will! . . . Who is 
 it?" 
 
 Just before you reach the Whitney drive there is 
 a right angle turn from the trail which we were fol- 
 lowing; it back-tracks a little, errs and strays 
 through some fine jasmine "bowers," and comes 
 out at the old race track. 
 
 "It's early," I said; "let's go this way." 
 
 She wheeled her pony instantly. 
 
 "Do you always do what you're told?" 
 33 
 
JVe Three 
 
 She bowed her head very humbly, and meekly, 
 through a mischievous mouth, said: "Yes, sir!" 
 And added: "Except when awfully long." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" 
 
 "That the most fun is beginning something, and 
 then beginning something else before you get all 
 tired out and tangled up. Never say no until you 
 are sure that what's been proposed isn't any good. 
 Then back out!" 
 
 "Don't you ever say no?" 
 
 "I 'spect I was very badly brought up. Nobody 
 ever said no to me." 
 
 We wound up a hot hillside among tangled masses 
 of jasmine, in which here and there were set star- 
 like golden flowers, whose gardenia-like perfume 
 mixed with the resinous aromatic smell of the long- 
 needle pines. I rode a little behind, on purpose, for 
 I love to see a pretty woman turn her head and look 
 backward across her shoulder. She has no pose 
 more charming, unless it be when she stands before 
 the "laughing mirror" and lifts her hands to her 
 hair. 
 
 "I have often wondered," I said, "how you hap- 
 pened to marry Fulton. But now I understand. It 
 was because you couldn't say no to anybody, and 
 
 34 
 
'They met with an honest kiss, like lovers long parted." 
 
TVe Three 
 
 yet he couldn't by any possible chance have been the 
 first to ask. What has become of the first poor 
 fellow to whom you were unable to say no? . . . 
 And all the others?" 
 
 She looked back at me over her shoulder, her eye- 
 brows lifted in an effort of memory, which, with a 
 mischievous laugh, she presently abandoned. 
 
 "Why," she said, "as far as I know: 'One flew 
 east and one flew west and one flew over the cuckoo's 
 nest.' " I wish I could convey by words the lilt of 
 her clear, fearless, boyish voice, the sparkle of mis- 
 chief and daring In her eyes, and deep beneath, like 
 treasures in the sea, that look of steadfastness, of 
 praying, that made you wonder If she was really as 
 happy and as carefree as she seemed to be, and not 
 some loyal martyr upon the altar of matrimony. 
 
 To look at, she was but a child in her teens, slen- 
 der and virginal, and yet I had It from Fulton him- 
 self that her babies had weighed nine pounds apiece 
 and that she had nursed them both. "She looks 
 down," he said, "with contempt, on bottle babies." 
 
 He was just coming in from golf, with the smug 
 smile of one who has played a good round, on his 
 face. His buggy boy, Cornelius' Twombly, a black 
 imp of twelve, who carried a razor In his hip pocket, 
 
 35 
 
We Three 
 
 wore also the smug look of one who has caddied to 
 victory, and won certain nickels and dimes from an- 
 other caddie upon the main and minor issues of the 
 match. 
 
 As Fulton climbed out of his rickety, clattering 
 runabout, Mrs. Fulton slipped from her smart pony, 
 and they met with an honest kiss, like lovers long 
 parted, and at once each began to tell the other all 
 about everything. 
 
 "If they love each other like that," I thought, 
 "why doesn't he always ride with her, or why doesn't 
 she always play golf with him ?" 
 
 I heard such expressions as "And the new mid- 
 iron" . . . "The jasmine will be in full bloom in a 
 week." "As we were going to Black Jack" (this is 
 the eighth hole at Aiken, where the holes are all so 
 good that they are spoken of by name instead of by 
 number) . "Mr. Mannering is the nicest person to 
 ride with," etc., etc. 
 
 Then Fulton remembered my existence. "You'll 
 not go without a drink I" he said. 
 
 Mrs. Fulton's eyes confirmed the invitation, so I 
 chucked |phe reins over my pony's head to make him 
 think that he was tied to a hitching-post, and went 
 into the house with them. But I did not stay long. 
 
 36 
 
TVe Three 
 
 Fulton wanted to talk golf; Mrs. Fulton wanted to 
 bathe and change into skirts, and I wanted to go 
 away by myself and think. I wanted to study out 
 why it was that toward the end of our ride together, 
 whenever Mrs. Fulton spoke to me or looked back 
 at me over her shoulder, my pulses seemed to quicken 
 — and my breathing. 
 
V 
 
 WE were at the teginning of those parlous 
 times when the Democrats, having come 
 into power upon a wave of impassioned 
 idiocy and jealousy, were beginning to make us poor 
 at home and despised abroad. A schoolmaster 
 president, with three cabinet officers plucked by the 
 hair from a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, had put a 
 temporary end to all our best qualities as a nation, 
 with the possible exception of the power to laugh 
 at jokes. 
 
 It was a hectic winter in Aiken. Some of the 
 , richest members of the Aiken Club were in trouble. 
 There was some talk of making two and a half cents 
 a point bridge standard instead of five. Even my 
 own father asked me to go a little light, if I could, 
 and not be led into any foolishness. "I've not been 
 hit yet," he said, "but you can't tell what the fools 
 will do next." You heard very few bets made. 
 There was less drinking. It was as if certain men 
 were going into training in order to be at their very 
 best when the worst times should come. 
 
 38 
 
We Three 
 
 Fulton's Cartridge Company, with its headquar- 
 ters in New York and its mills in Bridgeport, Con- 
 necticut, had not paid a dividend in some time. He 
 had only his salary as president (twenty or twenty- 
 five thousand a year, I believe) , and it was with the 
 drastic intention of cutting that salary in two, and 
 otherwise paring the company's expenses to the 
 quick, that he went north the first week in March. 
 
 I dined with them the night before he left. There 
 were only four of us: the Fultons, myself, and one 
 of those charming Southampton girls, with sea-blue 
 eyes, and sunburned hair, who swim like seals, play 
 tennis like men, and fear nothing. Evelyn Gray 
 was the name of this particular one. I liked her im- 
 mensely, and was not altogether sorry to learn that 
 she was to keep Lucy Fulton company until Fulton 
 returned. 
 
 But it was a somewhat depressing dinner. There 
 was an atmosphere in the cheerful blue and white 
 dining-room, the white panels of the doors and 
 wainscoting had a narrow border of blue, like im- 
 pending fate. Fulton, it seemed, had never yet been 
 away from home over night. And this was a record 
 of devotion which he was very loath to break. Even 
 more loath to see it broken was Lucy Fulton. 
 
 39 
 
We Three 
 
 "I tell him," she said, "that if he goes it will be the 
 beginning of the end." She spoke in jest, and al- 
 though Fulton laughed back at her you could see 
 that what she had said troubled him and hurt him. 
 "As a matter of fact," she went on, "he's been look- 
 ing for an excuse for some time. And now he thinks 
 he's found one, but it wouldn't pass in a court of 
 chivalry. He could write to his old directors just as 
 well as not. Oh, you needn't think you're the only 
 one who's going to have a gay time. You needn't be 
 surprised to hear that I, too, have left home in the 
 company of a dark and fascinating foreigner. And 
 anyway I shall give a dance and open all the cham- 
 pagne in the cellar." 
 
 "There are only two quarts and a pint," said Ful- 
 ton, and he turned to me. "You've never been mar- 
 ried, have you? So you don't know what the mod- 
 ern woman can spend when she gets going, do 
 you?" 
 
 I had a pretty good idea, but did not make the 
 admission and continued to look interrogative. 
 
 "Well," he said, smiling, "she just has to spend so 
 much, she says so herself. Then her poor husband's 
 dividends are passed, and still she has to spend so 
 much ; she just has to, she says so herself. Then her 
 
 40 
 
We Three 
 
 poor husband's poor salary has to be cut in half, 
 and she speaks calmly of giving dances and opening 
 wine. Evelyn, I count on you as an old and tried 
 friend. If necessary you will interpose your dead 
 body between Lucy and this dance of hers." 
 
 Superficially he was very tolerant and good-na- 
 tured, but you could see that beneath the surface, 
 nerves were jumping, and that he was in that condi- 
 tion of financial and perhaps mental embarrassment 
 which causes molehills to look like mountains. And 
 it was here, and now, that I learned something new 
 about Lucy; that even in jest she did not enjoy hav- 
 ing economy preached to her. She looked a little 
 sullen for a moment and bored. 
 
 "What's the matter with my giving a dance?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh, will you?" cried Lucy, the sullen look van- 
 ishing beneath a radiant flash of child-like joy and 
 enthusiasm. "Where will you give it? At Wil- 
 cox s i 
 
 "Anywhere you say." 
 
 Fulton tossed his hands in a merry gesture of 
 despair. 
 
 "Now "you're stung!" he said, and then to Lucy, 
 with a swift change of voice and manner: "I was 
 
 41 
 
We Three 
 
 only joking, you know that. If you want to give a 
 dance, give it." 
 
 It was as if a child had cried to be taken up, and 
 in the face of all the tenets of modern training, had 
 been taken up. And you knew that with the lightest 
 heart in the world Mrs. Fulton was going to spend 
 money, which her husband could ill afford. 
 
 Shortly after dinner a loud yelling arose in the 
 nursery, and the Fultons hurried off to investigate 
 and give comfort, leaving the manipulation of a fear- 
 ful and wonderful glass coffee machine to Evelyn 
 Gray and me. 
 
 "Lucy," said Evelyn, "has as much idea of money 
 as an alcohol lamp has. She ought to be well shaken. 
 I don't believe John has been able to lay by a cent 
 for a rainy day." 
 
 "But think what a run she gives him for his money. 
 He's the original happy married man. Think how 
 she works to make him comfortable, and how she 
 mothers the babies, and how she hangs on his words, 
 as if nobody else was present. Just now, most peo- 
 ple would have sent a servant to find out which baby 
 was making a disturbance, and why — but those two 
 simply bolted for the nursery as if controlled by one 
 brain and one set of muscles." 
 
 42 
 
We Three 
 
 "Almost makes a bachelor wish he wasn't a 
 bachelor!" 
 
 "Just the same I think they are a model of what 
 married people ought to be. Since I got to know 
 them pretty well, I've entirely changed my notions 
 of the Institution." 
 
 "I always thought it was a bully good institution," 
 said 'Evelyn. Through two glass tubes water, raised 
 almost to the boiling point by an alcohol flame, be- 
 gan to mount from one retort into another containing 
 pulverized coffee. 
 
 "But," she went on with an affectation of melan- 
 choly, "I've never found the right man, or he's never 
 found me." 
 
 "Have you looked," I asked, "diligently and with 
 patience?" 
 
 She lifted her fine sea-blue eyes to mine. "Not so 
 diligently, I hope, as to be conspicuous," she said. 
 "But no girl fails to examine the possibility of every 
 man she meets — married or single — and the girl you 
 think the most matter-of-fact is the one who most 
 often slips out of bed, sits by her window, and looks 
 at the moon." 
 
 "Do you want to get married?" 
 
 "There, you're not merely surprised, you're 
 43 
 
JVe Three 
 
 shocked at the idea. Of course I do. Look now 
 the coffee's running down into the bottom thing. 
 What do we do next?" 
 
 "It's too pale," I said. "Put the lamp back and 
 send it through again. And pray that it don't ex- 
 plode. But listen — for the sake of argument — I 
 want to get married, too." 
 
 "You! A nice husband '^ou'd make!" 
 
 "That's what I wanted to know. So even I have 
 had my matrimonial possibilities examined into by 
 matter-of-fact ladies, who sit at windows in their 
 nightgowns, and look at the moon! I didn't like to 
 ask more directly. Now tell me what's wrong with 
 me?" 
 
 Her eyebrows rose mirthfully. "Are we playing 
 truths, or shall I let you down easily?" 
 
 "I want the truth." 
 
 "Well, if your father lost his money, or disin- 
 herited you, you couldn't support a wife." 
 
 "Decision deferred," I said. 
 
 "You would begin married life with the highest 
 and most generous resolutions ; your subsequent fall 
 would be all the harder for your wife to bear. You 
 have a certain something about you that few really 
 good men have, that attracts women. How long 
 
 44 
 
We Three 
 
 could you let that power rest without experimenting 
 to see if you still had it? Not very long. You are 
 the kind of man whose wife doesn't dare to have a 
 good-looking maid." 
 
 "There," I said somewhat nettled, "you do me an 
 injustice." 
 
 "You are a faithful friend," she said, "but you 
 wouldn't be a faithful lover. Change and excite- 
 ment and risk are bread and meat to you." 
 
 "Look here," I said, laughing, "you've not only 
 considered me, you've considered me more than 
 once, and seriously!" 
 
 "You have always," she said, "charmed me far 
 more than was good for me." 
 
 I answered her mocking look with one as mock- 
 ing. 
 
 "I should like," I said, "nothing better than 
 to disprove all the things you think about me." 
 
 "You never will." 
 
 "Do you know what I think about myself? I 
 think that I shall astonish the world with one of 
 those grand passions which make history worth read- 
 ing. The girl who gets me will be very lucky !" 
 
 "If you ever do have a grand passion," said 
 Evelyn thoughtfully, "and it's just barely possible, 
 
 45 
 
JVe Three 
 
 it won't be for a girl. It won't be the kind that 
 brings any good to anybody." 
 
 As they appeared in the door of the living-room, 
 Fulton's hand dropped from his wife's waist. She 
 was very rosy and lovely. They looked as if they 
 had loitered on their way back from the nursery. 
 
 "Mrs. Fulton," I said, "I don't like your coffee- 
 machine because I think it's going to explode, and 
 we don't know how to get the coffee out. And I 
 don't like your friend. She has exploded and scalded 
 me cruelly." 
 
 "Oh," said Lucy, with the look of a knowing 
 child, "I know, you've been playing truths, and Ev- 
 elyn's got a New England conscience." 
 
 "If she wasn't so good-looking," I said, "I don't 
 believe people would have her around, after a few 
 experiences." 
 
 "You must try not to let her get on your nerves," 
 said Fulton, "for I'm counting on you to keep an eye 
 on this household while I'm away, and to see that 
 those who inhabit it behave themselves." 
 
 "I don't want any more talk about going away," 
 said Mrs. Fulton; "the fact is bad enough. I'm not 
 a bit ashamed to have people know that I'll be mis- 
 erable and cross all the time you are gone." 
 
 46 
 
We Three 
 
 But she wasn't. 
 
 I saw her the next day just after his train had 
 pulled out. She had taken Jock and Hurry to see 
 him off. And all three, I was told by an eye-witness, 
 had wept openly and without shame. My informant, 
 Mrs. Deering, said that she had been reminded of 
 Louis XVI leaving his family for the scaffold. But 
 when I saw them five minutes later (you could still 
 hear the far-off coughing of the northbound train) 
 only Hurry looked grave, while Jock and his mother 
 were illustrating to perfection the old adage, "Out of 
 sight out of mind." 
 
 They did not look like a mother and her children, 
 but like a big sister with her very littlest brother and 
 sister. Hurry, sitting in the middle, was being al- 
 lowed to hold the reins and the whip. She was in 
 her usual hurry, and you could see at a glance that 
 over any actual use of the whip friction was con- 
 stantly arising. Under the runabout could be seen 
 the thin dangling legs of Cornelius Twombly. I 
 waved and shouted. Mrs. Fulton and Jock waved 
 and shouted back, and Hurry seized the opportunity 
 to strike cunningly with the whip. The horse lurched 
 sharply forward, the three handsome bare heads 
 jerked sharply back, and upon two wheels, in dust 
 
 47 
 
We Three 
 
 and laughter, they rounded the nearest corner and 
 vanished. 
 
 I was going nowhere in particular, and so I turned 
 my pony and trotted after them. If they came to 
 grief, I thought, I owed it to Fulton to be on hand to 
 pick up the pieces. But I didn't really expect to be 
 useful. I caught them just as they pulled up in 
 front of their house, and within a minute Hurry had 
 commandeered me to ride her round the block, so I 
 took her up in front, and we had a fine ride; then 
 Jock, looking wistful, had to have his turn, and after 
 that I was ordered to leave my pony and come see 
 the new sand pile and the new puppy. Mrs. Fulton 
 had gone into the house and left me to my fate, so I 
 gave a hand to Jock and a hand to Hurry, and they 
 dragged me to their own particular playground, and 
 made me build King Solomon's palace in the "But- 
 terfly that Stamped," and plant a whole palace gar- 
 den with sprigs of box and Carolina cherry. And 
 I built and planted with all my might, and it was a 
 lot of fun, until suddenly Hurry crawled into my lap 
 and laid her head against me and went to sleep. 
 
 "You mustn't mind her," said Jock, "she's only a 
 little baby." 
 
 I didn't mind her a bit; but somehow she had 
 48 
 
TVe Three 
 
 taken all the fun out of me, and made me feel more 
 serious and tender than I liked. I made her as com- 
 fortable as I could, and presently my own crossed 
 legs began to go to sleep; the new puppy made a 
 hunter-like dash into the nearest shrubbery, Jock 
 caught up his bow and arrow and followed, the 
 children's nurse scuttled off toward the kitchen wing 
 for a cup of tea, and I was generally abandoned to 
 my fate. 
 
 Once or twice Hurry twitched sharply as all young 
 animals do in sleep; and once she shook her head 
 quite sharply as if a dream had required something 
 of her and been denied. Then she turned her face 
 upward so that it was in the full glare of the sun 
 and because I had no hat I shielded it with my hand. 
 
 Then very quietly came Lucy Fulton and stood 
 looking down at us, and I looked up at her, and in 
 that exchange of glances was promoted from an ac- 
 quaintance to an old and intimate friend of the fam- 
 ily. Thereafter we did not have to make new be- 
 ginnings of conversations, but could if we chose 
 resume where we had left off. 
 
 Hurry waked as suddenly as she had gone to 
 sleep, and Lucy made her thank me for taking such 
 good care of her. But when it was time for me to 
 
 49 
 
JVe Three 
 
 get up out of the hot sand, I couldn't at first because 
 of the soundly sleeping legs, and when I managed 
 it, it was for Hurry's benefit, with a great, and I 
 hope, humorous exaggeration of the pains and diffi- 
 culties. 
 
 I don't know why I drank so many cocktails that 
 night before dinner, nor so much champagne at din- 
 ner, nor so many whiskies afterward. I had neither 
 made a heavy killing at the races, nor met with dis- 
 aster. If the day differed from other days it was 
 only in this, that I had received the confidence of a 
 little child and her mother ; that this confidence had 
 touched my heart very nearly, and given me the wish 
 to be of use to those two, and if necessary to sacri- 
 fice my selfish self for them. Feeling then that I 
 was a better man than I had thought myself, elated 
 with that thought, and almost upon the brink of good 
 resolutions, I cut into a rubber of bridge, and began 
 to drink cocktails. Why, I shall never know. Let 
 those who drink explain and understand, each to him- 
 self, and let those who don't drink despise and con- 
 demn, publicly, as is usual with them. 
 
VI 
 
 I WAS feeling very sentimental by the time I 
 got to bed. I had had a long, and I suppose 
 maudlin, talk with Harry Colemain on the 
 beauties of matrimony. We had maintained the 
 Fultons against all comers, as our ideal example of 
 that institution. 
 
 "Just think," I said, "this very night is the first 
 one that John has been away from her since they 
 were married. That's going some. That's some 
 record. He boarded the train like a man mounting 
 the scaffold to have his head chopped. off." 
 
 I almost cried over the touching picture which I 
 felt I had drawn. 
 
 "There aren't many couples like them," Harry 
 agreed wistfully. "But I bet even you and I had it 
 in us to be decent and faithful if we'd ever struck 
 the right girl. Those things are the purest luck, and 
 we've been unlucky. But it makes me sick to be as 
 old as w^ are, and no nearer home than the day we 
 left college." 
 
 "When that baby was asleep in my lap — did I 
 tell you about that?" 
 
 51 
 
We Three 
 
 "Twice," said Harry mournfully. 
 
 I didn't believe him, and related the episode again. 
 "It was wonderful," I said; "she was like a little 
 stove with a fire in it. She made me feel so trusted 
 and tender that I could have put back my head and 
 bawled like a wolf. Think of having babies like that 
 for your very own, and a wife like Lucy Fulton 
 thrown in." 
 
 "She could have married most anybody," said 
 Harry, "but she took a poor man and a rank out- 
 sider because she — hie — loved him. That's the kind 
 of girl she is! Why nobody ever thought she'd 
 settle to anybody. I bet she broke her word to 
 half a dozen men, before she gave it to Fulton and 
 kept it." 
 
 "I wouldn't call him exactly an outsider," I said; 
 "anyway she's made an insider of him. Everybody 
 likes him, and admires him. I never thought much 
 of him at school, but I think he's a peach now. And 
 he understands everything you say to him." 
 
 "He understands a good deal more than we'll 
 ever be able to say to him. B.e\ got brains. Evelyn 
 Gray is staying with them." 
 
 "I know she is. I dined there last night. She's 
 looking very pretty." 
 
 52 
 
TVe Three 
 
 "She is pretty," said Harry, "and she's got pretty 
 hands and feet; most pretty women haven't. It's 
 usually the woman with a face that would stop a 
 clock that has pretty feet." 
 
 "Like Mrs. Deering," I suggested. 
 
 "Exactly," he said. "But Deering is no fool." 
 
 "How do you mean he isn't a fool?" 
 
 "Why," said Harry, "he makes her sleep with her 
 feet on the pillow." 
 
 This struck me as very funny, and I laughed until 
 I had forgotten what I was laughing at. Harry got 
 laughing, too, after a while. He put his whole soul 
 in it. Then we ordered two bottles of ale and had 
 some fat wood put on the fire, and watched it roar 
 and sputter with flame as only fat wood can. After 
 much meditation and a swallow of the fresh-brought 
 ale, my mind began to harp on Evelyn Gray, and to 
 magnify her good looks and attractions. So I said: 
 
 "Harry, why don't 'jou marry Evelyn?" 
 
 For a moment he scowled at the fire. Then he 
 spoke in a bitter voice. 
 
 "Suppose I wanted to, and she wanted to," he 
 said, "still we couldn't." 
 
 "Why not?" I asked Innocently, expecting, I think, 
 that his phrase was some sort of a conundrum. 
 
 53 
 
We Three 
 
 "Why, Archie, my boy," he said, and his scowl 
 faded to a look of weariness and disgust, "it looks as 
 if I might have to marry somebody else." 
 
 "Not ?" 
 
 He nodded. And presently he said, "It will be 
 best for her — of course." 
 
 "But I haven't heard even a rumor. Has he 
 started anything?" 
 
 "No. He's a decentish little chap. He's trying 
 to make up his mind whether to divorce her or be 
 divorced himself. It hinges on the children. If he 
 divorces her he'll get them, and if he lets himself 
 be divorced, she will." 
 
 "It's big trouble, Harry!" 
 
 "Yes. For we are sick and tired of each other. 
 I'd rather like to blow my head off." 
 
 "But if she divorces him, you needn't marry her." 
 
 He rose slowly to his full height and held out his 
 hand. "I'm going to turn in," he said. "Good 
 night." 
 
 "Good night, Harry. I'm sorry for you, you 
 know that." 
 
 "I only have my deserts," he said. "Sensible men, 
 like you, steer clear of family complications." 
 
 When he had gone I had another bottle of ale in 
 54 
 
JVe Three 
 
 front of the fire, and from thinking of Harry, I got 
 to thinking of how well ale seemed to go on top of 
 whiskey, and to congratulating myself on my strong 
 head and stomach. "Nobody," I thought compla- 
 cently, "would suspect that I had been drinking." 
 Then I got to thinking once more about Evelyn 
 Gray. It was time I settled down, why not with 
 Evelyn — ^if only to prove to her that the truths she 
 had told me about myself weren't true? I began to 
 fancy that I had in me all the qualities that go to 
 make the ideal husband, and that in Evelyn were to 
 be found all the qualities which make the ideal wife. 
 I could have wept to think what a good sportsman 
 she was, and how Pilgrim-father honest. 
 
 On her writing-desk my mother has three little 
 monkeys carved in ivory. One has his hands clapped 
 to his ears, one to his eyes, and the other to his 
 mouth. Their names are "Hear no Evil," "See no 
 Evil," and "Speak no Evil." 
 
 I have to pass her door to get to my room. But 
 late at night that door is never left ajar. She is not 
 the kind of mother who puts in a sudden (and wholly 
 accidental!) appearance when her son is coming 
 home a little the worse for wear. She has never 
 seen me the worse for wear (and I'm not very of- 
 
We Three 
 
 ten), and if she has her way (and I have mine) she 
 never will. 
 
 "What in thunderation started you last night?" 
 said my father at breakfast. 
 
 "I'm hanged if I know," I said; "but what makes 
 you think I got started?" 
 
 "I'd just put out the lights in the library when you 
 came in. You stopped in front of the hall mirror, 
 and said : 
 
 "Beautiful Evelyn Gray is dead 
 Come and sit by her side an hour." 
 
 "I didn't" I exclaimed indignantly. 
 
 My father began to chuckle all over like Santa 
 Claus in the Christmas poem. 
 
 "You mean beautiful Evelyn Hope, don't you?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "Gray was the name." 
 
 "I'd like to know what you were doing up so 
 late?" 
 
 "Oh, we had a big night — ^three tables of bridge 
 and one of poker. I sat up late to count my win- 
 nings." 
 
 "How much did you drop, as a matter of fact ?" 
 
 "Only about eighty." 
 
We Three 
 
 "Any twinges this morning?" 
 
 "No, sir. And a better appetite than you've got." 
 
 "I doubt that." 
 
 And, indeed, we both ate very hearty breakfasts. 
 
VII 
 
 IF I thought that Lucy would be melancholy 
 during her husband's absence I was mistaken. 
 It was almost as if she had no husband. She 
 was like some radiant schoolgirl home for the holi- 
 days. But I am pretty sure that Fulton missed her 
 during every waking moment. He wrote to her at 
 least twice a day and sent her many telegrams. 
 
 "He knows what a shocking memory I have," she 
 explained; "and he's afraid that I'll forget him un- 
 less constantly reminded. Wouldn't it be funny if 
 people only existed for us when they were actually 
 present? Some time I think I'm a little like that 
 about people. Until I really fell in love, I always 
 loved the boy that was on the spot." 
 
 "I've heard that you were an outrageous flirt." 
 
 "I didn't know my own mind. That isn't flirting. 
 And when a boy said he liked me, I was so pleased 
 and flattered that I always said I liked him, too, and 
 the minute he was out of sight, I'd find that I didn't." 
 
 A few days of hot sunshine had worked wonders 
 with the jasmine. Here and there the bright golden 
 
 58 
 
We Three 
 
 trumpets were so massed as to give an effect of bon- 
 fires ; here and there a vine carried beauty and sweet- 
 ness to the top of a tall tree, or festooning among the 
 branches resembled a string of lights. The hum- 
 ming of bees was steady and insistent like the roar 
 of far-off surf. And so strong was the mounting of 
 the sap that already the twigs and branches of de- 
 ciduous trees appeared as through a mist of green. 
 The buds on the laurel, swollen and pink, looked like 
 sugar decorations for wedding cakes. Flashes of 
 brightest blue and scarlet told of birds recently ar- 
 rived from still farther south. Lucy Fulton had 
 just received a telegram from her husband, saying 
 that in New York a blizzard was raging. 
 
 She was in one of her talkative moods. Her 
 voice, clear and boyish and far-carrying, was so easy 
 and pleasant to listen to that it didn't matter much 
 what she said. Should I convey an erroneous im- 
 pression and one derogatory to a charming compan- 
 ion if I said that she chattered along like a magpie? 
 
 She talked about servants, and I gathered that 
 she had never had any trouble with servants. And 
 I thought, "Why should you, you who are so friendly, 
 so frank, and so kind?" She gave me both sides of 
 the argument about bare legs for children versus 
 
 59 
 
JVe Three 
 
 stockinged legs. She confessed to an immense pas- 
 sion for so lowly a dish as stewed prunes, she me* 
 morialized upon dogs and horses that had belonged 
 to her. I learned that her favorite story was the 
 "Brushwood Boy," that her favorite poem was "The 
 Last Ride Together," and that her favorite flower 
 was Olea fragrans, the tea-olive (she really said its 
 Latin name), whose waxy-white blossom is no big- 
 ger than the head of a pin, and whose fragrance 
 is as that of a whole basketful of hot-house peaches. 
 
 Had I really and truly liked the teagown she wore 
 the other night? Would I cross my heart to that 
 effect? Well, then, she had made it all herself in a 
 day. If the worse came to the worst, if cartridges 
 fell upon still more evil days, she would turn dress- 
 maker, and become rich and famous. Wasn't it a 
 pity that John had to work so hard, and miss so 
 many lovely days ? 
 
 "I think he'd be quite rich," she said, "if it wasn't 
 for me. I was brought up to spend all the money I 
 wanted to, and I don't seem able to stop. I know it 
 isn't fair to John, and John says it isn't fair to the 
 babies, and I make beautiful resolutions and forget 
 all about them." 
 
 "But now that your husband has had to cut his 
 60 
 
JVe Three 
 
 salary in half, you'll simply have to be good, won't 
 you?" 
 
 She admitted that now she would simply have to 
 be good. And a moment later she was making plans 
 for the dance that she was going to give at Wilcox's. 
 
 "Why wouldn't it be a fine beginning of economy 
 to cut that dance out?" I asked. "Why not let me 
 give it? I'm quite flush just now. It wouldn't hurt 
 me a bit." 
 
 "I thrashed it all out with John," she said, "that 
 same night after you'd gone. He told me to go 
 ahead, and not disappoint myself. I didn't see why 
 you shouldn't give a dance for me if you wanted to, 
 and I wanted you to. But John wouldn't listen to 
 that for a minute. I must say I couldn't see why, 
 and I don't yet. It isn't like paying my dressmaker's 
 bill, or giving me a pearl necklace. I said that. 
 And he said no, it wasn't like that, but that it was a 
 second cousin twice removed." 
 
 "I think he'd be mightily pleased if he came back 
 and found that the price of this dance was still to 
 his credit in that firm and excellent institution, the 
 Bank of Western Carolina." 
 
 "If we are really hard up," she said, "what does 
 a few hundred dollars matter one way or the other?" 
 
 6i 
 
JVe Three 
 
 It seemed to me that I had done all that I could 
 to save Fulton's money for him. I had the feeling 
 that if I continued to preach economy I might get 
 myself disliked, for already Lucy seemed to have 
 lost something of her light-heartedness and vivacity. 
 
 "When do you give it?" I said. "Please ask me." 
 
 "I shall give it day after tomorrow night," she 
 said; "and I shall ask everybody in Aiken." 
 
 I said that she insulted me, and then we laughed 
 like two silly children, and light-heartedness and vi- 
 vacity returned to her like two bright birds to a flow- 
 ering bush. We planned the dance in full detail. 
 There was just time to get a famous quartette down 
 from Washington. She would have the rooms dec- 
 orated with wagon-loads of jasmine. Once I had 
 seen the expression of Hurry's face upon learning 
 that there was to be chocolate ice cream for dessert. 
 In planning her dance Lucy's face had just the same 
 expression. When she was excited with happiness 
 it seemed to me that she had the loveliest face I had 
 ever seen. 
 
 We rode until dusk, but I could not accept her in- 
 vitation for tea or a drink, because my mother was 
 expecting some people over from Augusta and I had 
 promised to come home. The people's motor, how- 
 
 62 
 
We Three 
 
 ever, had broken down, and I found my mother all 
 alone, presiding at a tea table that almost groaned 
 with good things to eat. 
 
 "What have you been doing?" she asked. 
 
 "I've been riding — as you see. I've been riding 
 with Mrs. Fulton." 
 
 "Again? It seems to me you ride with her every 
 day. You must find her fascinating, or you wouldn't 
 do it." 
 
 "You read me like a book, mother. I certainly 
 wouldn't. But don't yQu think fascinating is rather 
 a strong word? She's the most easy-going and en- 
 gaging little person in the world, but fascinating . . . ? 
 Fascination suggests the effect of paint and fixed 
 smiles and lights and spangles upon old men with 
 bald heads, the effect of the wily serpent upon the 
 guileless bird." 
 
 "Aiken," said my mother, "is such a very small 
 
 place." 
 
 "It Isn't like you to beat about the bush. Why not 
 say frankly that if I keep on I'll end by making Lucy 
 Fulton conspicuous?" 
 
 "Very well," smiled my mother (very gently), 
 "that's just what I do say." 
 
 "Aiken," I said, "can go hang. If two people 
 
 63 
 
JVe Three 
 
 like to ride together, for no worse reason than that 
 they like riding and are good friends, what earthly 
 business is it of Aiken's? People make me sick. 
 That's a bromide, but it's a good one. As for Lucy 
 Fulton, I really like her a lot, and she really amuses 
 me, but if I knew that I was never to see her again 
 in this world, I'd lose no sleep over it. Why, they 
 are the original happy married pair. Just think he's 
 away from home for the first time since they were 
 married. They make love to each other openly, 
 right under your very nose, so that it's downright 
 embarrassing. Latterly I've had a meal ticket at 
 their house, and seeing them together with their 
 babies, and noting all the peace and trustfulness and 
 lovingness of it, has opened my eyes (that were so 
 firmly shut) to the possibilities and beauties of mat- 
 rimony." 
 
 "At any rate," said my mother, "you haven't 
 talked yourself entirely out." 
 
 "Well, you see, I was a listener today. Part of 
 the time I was lectured on the empty life I lead, and 
 then I was almost persuaded that I ought to fall in 
 love with Evelyn Gray, and she with me. I shouldn't 
 wonder If Mrs. Fulton bullied us into It before she 
 got through." 
 
 64 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "It would be a delightful marriage," said my 
 mother with enthusiasm, "for everybody." 
 
 "With the possible exception of Evelyn and 
 
 me. 
 
 Just after this Evelyn, who was great friends with 
 my mother, came in without being announced, and 
 said that she was famished, and that she put herself 
 entirely in our hands. So we fed her tea, toast, hot 
 biscuits, three kinds of sandwiches, and as many 
 kinds of cakes. And she finished off with a tumbler 
 full of thick cream. 
 
 "Been sitting by your window lately," I asked, 
 "looking at the moon?" 
 
 "He thinks," Evelyn complained to my mother, 
 "that delicate sentiments and a hearty appetite don't 
 go together. But we know better, don't we?" 
 
 "When I'm in love," I said, "I eat like a canary 
 bird. I just waste away. Don't I, mother?" 
 
 "Fall in love with somebody," said my mother, 
 "and I'll tell you." 
 
 "Nobody encourages me," I said; "my life has 
 been one long rebuff, I remind myself of a dog with 
 muddy paws; whenever I start to jump up I get a 
 whack on the nose." 
 
 "Your sad lot," said Evelyn, "is almost the only 
 
We Three 
 
 topic of conversation among sympathetic people. 
 But of course, if you will have muddy paws 1" 
 
 "And yet, seriously," I said; "somewhere in this 
 wide world there must be one girl in whose eyes I 
 might succeed in passing myself off as a hero. I 
 wish to heaven I had her address— a little cream?" 
 
 Evelyn scorned the hospitable suggestion and 
 reached for her gloves and riding crop. 
 
 "I came to see you," she said to my mother, "really 
 I did. And I've done nothing but eat. I'm coming 
 again soon when there's nobody here but you, and 
 the larder is low." 
 
 "Good Lord!" I said, when we had reached the 
 front gate. "Where's your pony?" 
 
 "I sent him away," she said; "I'm walking. And 
 you don't have to see me home." 
 
 "But if I want to? And anyway it's too late and 
 dark for you to walk home alone. Once upon a 
 time there was a girl and her name was Little Red 
 Riding Hood, and once as she was walking home in 
 the dark, after an unusually heavy tea, she met a 
 wolf. And he said, ' Evening, Little Red Riding 
 Hood,' and she, though she was twittering with 
 fear, and in no condition for running because of the 
 immensely heavy tea, said, 'Evening, Mr. Wolf.' " 
 
We Three 
 
 "Come along then!" said Evelyn. "Already you 
 have persuaded me that Little Red Riding Hood is 
 a pig, and that she is in great danger." 
 
 But we didn't walk to the Fultons', we strolled. 
 And the deep dusk turned to a velvety black night, 
 soft and warm as a garment, and all spangled over 
 with stars. It was one of the Aiken nights th^t 
 smells of red cedar. We passed more than one pair 
 of soft-voiced darkies who appeared to lean against 
 each other as they strolled, and from whom came 
 sounds like the cooing of doves. Once far off we 
 heard shouting and a pistol shot, and presently one 
 came running and crossed our path far ahead, 
 but whether a white man or a black we could not 
 
 tell. 
 
 The lights in the Fultons' yard had not yet been 
 switched on. In a recess cut from the foliage of a 
 cedar tree, a white garden seat glimmered in the 
 starlight. 
 
 "It's too early to dress for dinner," I said, "and 
 it's a pity to go indoors." 
 
 Without a word Evelyn turned into the fragrant 
 recess. The sudden acquiescence of one usually so 
 disputatious, where I was concerned, troubled me a 
 little, because I could not explain it to my satisfac- 
 
 67 
 
We Three 
 
 tion. It never had happened before. I could not 
 see her face clearly enough to gather its expression, 
 and so I put a cigarette in my mouth and struck a 
 match. It missed fire, and Evelyn said, "Please 
 don't. Unless you want to very much." 
 
 "I don't want to at all," I said; "it was just habit. 
 Cedar smells better than tobacco, and that's saying 
 a good deal." 
 
 She did not answer and a few moments later I 
 said: 
 
 "Any other couple, I suppose, seated on this bench 
 in these surroundings would make a noise like the 
 cooing of doves. But either you or I don't say any- 
 thing, like tonight walking home, or we fight. And 
 yet I think that if the whole truth were told we like 
 each other quite a good deal. I admit that you often 
 say hard things about me to my face, but I deny that 
 you say them behind my back. Behind my back I 
 have heard that you sometimes make valiant and 
 comradely efforts to — well to make a silk purse out 
 of a sow's ear, so to speak." 
 
 "I've always remembered," she said, very gently, 
 "and never forgotten how nice you were to me at my 
 coming-out party, when I was so scared and young 
 and all. I thought you were the most wonderful 
 
 68 
 
JVe Three 
 
 man in the world, and had the most understanding 
 and the most tact." 
 
 She laughed softly, but not mirthfully. 
 
 "That night," she said; "if you'd asked me to run 
 away with you I'd have done it like a shot." 
 
 "But tonight," I said, "if I so much as touched 
 your hand, you'd turn into an icicle, and send me 
 about my business with a few disagreeable tiruths 
 to wear in my bonnet. And I think I know the rea- 
 son. It's because on that first night, even if I had 
 been desperately in love with you, I wouldn't have 
 thought of asking you to run away with me, whereas 
 now I can conceive of making such a proposition to 
 somebody that I didn't even love two bits' worth — 
 for no better reason than that she was lovely to look 
 at and that the night smelled of cedar." 
 
 "I've only been out seven years," said Evelyn; 
 "seven years tonight." 
 
 "Many happy returns, Evelyn. I had no idea this 
 was an anniversary." 
 
 "It doesn't seem possible," she went on, "for a 
 man to change his whole moral nature in seven years, 
 and to boast about that change." 
 
 "I haven't changed and I didn't boast. If I ever 
 knew what was right and what was wrong, I still 
 
 69 
 
JVe Three 
 
 know. The only difference is that I us<^d to think it 
 mattered a lot, and now I'm not so sure. I see good 
 people suffer, and wicked people triumph; and I 
 don't think that everything is for the best in this best 
 of worlds; I think most things are decidedly for the 
 worst. Why should so many people be poor and 
 sick and uncomfortable? Why should so many men 
 marry the wrong girls, so many girls the wrong men? 
 If we are suffering for our sins, well and good, but 
 what was the use of making us so pesky sinful ! You 
 won't, of course, but most people come back at one 
 with one's inability to comprehend — ^they always say 
 'comprehend' the Great Design. As If they them- 
 selves comprehended said Great Design to perfec- 
 tion. If there is a Great Design, no human being 
 understands a jot of it; that's certain. Why be so 
 sure then that something we don't understand, and 
 which may not even exist, is absolutely right and 
 beautiful? Suppose it could be proved to us that 
 there was no Great Design, and no Great Designer, 
 that the world was the result of some blind, happy- 
 go-lucky creative force, what would we think of the 
 world then, poor thing? A poor woman with noth- 
 ing to live for walks the streets that she may live ; a 
 rich woman with much to live for dies slowly and in 
 
 70 
 
JVe Three 
 
 great torture, of cancer. If we accept the Great De- 
 sign we shouldn't even feel pity for these two women, 
 we should say of them merely, 'How right 1 How 
 beautiful!' But we do feel pity for them, and by 
 that mere feeling of pity deny automatically the 
 beauty of the Great Design, in the first place, and its 
 subsequent execution. I can conceive, I think, of a 
 lovely picture: you for instance, on a white bench, 
 under a cedar in the starlight, listening to my de- 
 lightful conversation, but I couldn't possibly draw 
 the picture, let alone paint it. The Great Design, 
 it seems to me, had a tremendous gift for landscape, 
 but fell down a little when it came to people." 
 
 "Archie," said Evelyn, "you talk like an irreverent 
 schoolboy." 
 
 "Of course I do," I said; "I must. I can't help 
 myself. I am only playing my part in the Great 
 Design. But if you believe in that then it is irrever- 
 ent of you to say that my talk is anything but abso- 
 lutely right, just, and beautiful. So there !" 
 
 She said nothing. And after a few moments of 
 silence I began to feel sorry that I had talked flip- 
 pantly. 
 
 "Evelyn," I said, "you mustn't mind poor old me." 
 
 Almost unconscious of what I was doing I lifted 
 71 
 
We Three 
 
 her right hand from her lap, and held it in both 
 mine. She made one feeble little effort to tug her 
 hand away and then no more. In the heavens, a 
 star slipped, and from the heavens fell, leaving a 
 wake of golden glory. And it seemed after that 
 sudden blazing as if the night was blacker than 
 before. 
 
 I slid my left arm around her shoulders, and, un- 
 resisted, drew her a little toward me, until I could 
 feel her heart beating strongly against mine. 
 
 Just then the latch of the house door turned with 
 a strong oil click, the door swung open, and dark 
 against the light illumination of the hall stood Lucy 
 Fulton. As she stood looking and listening, the 
 strong bell of the far-off courthouse clock began to 
 strike. Long before the lights and last clanging 
 concussion, Evelyn and I had withdrawn to the ut- 
 termost ends of our bench. 
 
 Then Lucy turned and went back into the house 
 and shut the door after her. 
 
 Evelyn had risen. 
 
 "Good night," she said, but she did not hold out 
 her hand. 
 
 "Good night," I said; "I've made you late. I'm 
 sorry." 
 
 72 
 
JVe Three 
 
 She started to speak, hesitated, and then said, 
 very quietly, "Why did you make love to me just 
 now: 
 
 It seemed to me that the least I could do was to 
 answer "Because I love you." But the words must 
 have choked me, and with shame, I told her the 
 truth. 
 
 "I made love to you," I said, "because I have only 
 one life to live." 
 
 "I thought so," she said, still very quietly, and 
 turned toward the house. But I had caught up with 
 her in a mere crumb of time. 
 
 "I have been honest with you, Evelyn," I said; 
 "will you be honest with me? I have told you why 
 I made love to you. I want to know; it seems to me 
 that I ought to know. Why did you let me?" 
 
 "Oh," she said, "I shut my eyes and pretended 
 that we were in the conservatory, seven years ago 
 tonight." 
 
 "Pretended?" 
 
 "Yes, Archie, honestly." 
 
 Halfway up the steps of the house she turned, 
 and said a little wearily, "How many lives do you 
 think / have to live?" 
 
 "May it be long and happy." 
 73 
 
We Three 
 
 On that we parted, and I heard the ghost of a 
 cynical laugh as she let herself into the house. 
 
 And I hurried home, inexcusably late for dinner, 
 and filled with shame and remorse. And ever at the 
 back of my head was the image, not of Evelyn Gray, 
 vague and illusive in the starlight, but of that other 
 image that had stood forth dark and sharply defined 
 against the light of the hall. 
 
 "Lucy Fulton," I said to myself, "you came in the 
 nick of time. And you are my good angel." 
 
VIII 
 
 ON the following day I had no especial de- 
 sire to see Evelyn. I thought that it might 
 be embarrassing for her, and I knew that 
 it would be embarrassing for me, so that it was not 
 without trepidation that I presented myself at the 
 Fultons' house to keep a riding engagement with 
 Lucy. 
 
 But you never know what will embarrass a woman 
 and what won't. I remember when the Jocelyn. 
 house burned down, and nothing was saved but a 
 piano (at which Peter Reddy seated himself and 
 played the "Fire Music") and a scuttle of coal, how 
 Mrs. Jocelyn, usually the shyest and most easily 
 shocked person in the world, came down a ladder in 
 nothing but a flimsy nightgown, and stood among us 
 utterly unselfconscious and calmly making the best 
 of things, until someone (it was a warm night and 
 there were no overcoats in the crowd) tore down a 
 veranda awning and wrapped her in it. And I re- 
 member a certain very rich and pushing Mrs. Edi- 
 son from somewhere in New Jersey who worked 
 
 75 
 
JVe Three 
 
 herself almost into the top circle of society, and was 
 then caught in a very serious and ofEensive lie, which 
 ended her social career as suddenly as a sentence Is 
 ended by a period. I had been present when she told 
 the lie, and I was present when it was brought home 
 to her, and I felt almost as sick as if I had told it 
 myself, and been caught. But she didn't turn a hair. 
 She just laughed and said, "Yes. I ma'de it up. 
 What are you going to do about it?" Morgan 
 Forbes, about whom the lie had been told, was trem- 
 bling so with rage that he could hardly articulate. 
 He said, "The next time you set foot in Newport 
 you will be arrested and prosecuted for criminal 
 libel." And she knew that he meant it and that her 
 career was ended; still she didn't turn a hair. You 
 couldn't help admiring her. Sometimes I can't help 
 wondering what has become of her. She looked like 
 one of those Broken Pitcher girls that Greuze 
 painted; and you'd no more have expected to find 
 poison in her than in a humming-bird. 
 
 Nor did Evelyn show any embarrassment what- 
 ever. She was sitting cross-legged on the big living- 
 room lounge, reading a Peter Rabbit book to Jock 
 and Hurry, and looking cool as a lily. She looked 
 serene and aloof. I could not believe that only a 
 
 76 
 
JVe Three 
 
 few hours before she had felt that, having but one 
 life to live, nothing mattered much one way or an- 
 other. "At least," I thought, "she'll never wish to 
 talk the thing over, and that's a blessing!" 
 
 Lucy, dressed for riding, was drumming on a 
 window-pane, and looking out into the shady, over- 
 grown garden. I thought her expression a little 
 quizzical, her hand a little cool and casual, not 
 altogether friendly. And I was surprised to find 
 how great an effect of discomfort and dreariness this 
 thought had upon me. 
 
 "Any news from the man of the house?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "Be back Monday," she said. This was a day 
 sooner than she had expected him, but she spoke 
 without any show of enthusiasm. Indeed, she spoke 
 a little wearily. I had never seen her face with so 
 little color in it. Evelyn, after a friendly nod, and 
 a "You mustn't Interrupt," had gone on with her 
 reading. 
 
 "Are we riding?" I said. "We don't seem to 
 be wanted here." 
 
 "Yes," said Lucy. "Let's ride. I feel as if I 
 hadn't exercised for a week." She led the way to 
 the ponies, through the garden and round the house, 
 
 77 
 
We Three 
 
 almost brusquely. A Spanish bayonet pricked her 
 in the arm, and she made a monosyllabic exclama- 
 tion in which there was more anger than pain. 
 Usually so gay and chattersome, she seemed now a 
 petulant and taciturn creature. 
 
 But she was no sooner astride her pony than the 
 color returned to her cheeks, and the sparkle, if not 
 the gayety, to her eyes. And at once, as if her taci- 
 turnity had been a vow, to be ended when she should 
 touch leather, she began to talk. "I'm cross with 
 you," she said. 
 
 "With mef" 
 
 "About last night. I thought — I don't know what 
 I thought. But I've liked you so much. And all 
 your thoughts about people are kind and generous, 
 and I simply won't believe that it's all put on for 
 effect, and " 
 
 "What about last night? I didn't even see 
 you. What have I done?" 
 
 "Evelyn saw you, didn't she ? Well, I saw Evelyn 
 right afterward. A child could have seen that she 
 was upset, and I made her tell me all about .every- 
 thing. You don't care two straws about her, really. 
 Do you?" 
 
 "Does she care two straws about me?" 
 78 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "Was It just one of those things that happen when 
 it's dark and romantic and two people feel lonely, 
 and " 
 
 "And have forgotten yesterday, and aren't con- 
 sidering tomorrow. But nothing did happen. You 
 came out on the porch, and the courthouse bell 
 sounded a shockingly late hour, and if we didn't 
 remember yesterday or consider tomorrow, at least 
 we thought of dinner." 
 
 "Evelyn," said Lucy, "was wild with anger and 
 shame." 
 
 "I am sorry." 
 
 "You don't look a bit sorry." 
 
 "I don't believe a man is ever sorry unless he 
 makes real trouble." 
 
 "Isn't losing faith in oneself real trouble?" 
 
 "And who has done that?" 
 
 "Why, Evelyn, of course. She thought that she 
 was as unapproachable as an icicle, and now she says 
 all sorts of wild things about herself. Just before 
 you came in the children asked her to read Peter 
 Rabbit to them. She said she would, but that she 
 didn't think she was ^t to." 
 
 I burst out laughing, and so did Lucy. "And 
 still," she cried, "you don't look sorry." 
 
 79 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "I'm looking at you," I said, "and I'm hanged 
 if I can look at you and either feel sorry or half 
 the time keep a straight face. And if I could, I 
 wouldn't. As for Evelyn I'm glad she's found out 
 that she isn't an icicle. Look here, I'll bet you a 
 thousand dollars she's engaged or married within 
 a year, beginning today." 
 
 "I couldn't pay if I lost," said Lucy. "But if 
 you'll make It ten dollars, I'll take you ten times." 
 
 We shook hands, and then, as is usual, tried to 
 prove that we had bet wisely. 
 
 "She's lonely," I said, "that's all that is the mat- 
 ter with her. She sees all her friends married and 
 established, she has the perfectly ludicrous idea that 
 she is not as young as she used to be. She feels like 
 an ambitious thoroughbred that's been left at the 
 post." 
 
 To this characterization of Evelyn Lucy took op- 
 posing views. Her friend, as a matter of fact, 
 wasn't in the least lonely, but was excellent company 
 for herself, and led a full life. She was not the mar- 
 rying kind. If she liked men It was only because 
 they played the games she liked to play better than 
 women play them. "Imagine Evelyn," she said, 
 "unable to eat, unable to sleep ! Imagine her sitting 
 
 80 
 
JVe Three 
 
 at the window in her nightgown and looking pen- 
 sively at the moon 1" 
 
 "Funny," I said, "but that's just what I was im- 
 agining. All girls do it and some wives. It's as 
 much a part of a girl as long hair, and the fear 
 of spiders. If a girl didn't get her moon bath now 
 and then, she'd just shrivel up and die." 
 
 "Well," said Luq^, and she pretended to sigh, 
 "there may be something in it. But not for Evelyn." 
 
 A moment later. 
 
 "Listen," she said, "just to make me out wrong, 
 and win my good money you wouldn't " 
 
 "My word," I said, "you are suspicious. But 
 I thought you were a born matchmaker. I thought 
 you'd be pleased if you got Evelyn and me mar- 
 ried!" 
 
 "It wouldn't do at all," she said. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Oh," she said, "if you must know, it's because I 
 like you — ^both — ^better the way you are." 
 
 And from a walk she put her pony into a brisE 
 gallop, and I followed suit, and caught up with her. 
 And I was a little moved and troubled by what she 
 had said. For it seemed to me as If she had said 
 it of me alone, and that the inclusion of Evelyn in 
 
 8i 
 
We Three 
 
 that delayed and hanging fire "both" of her phrase 
 had been an afterthought. 
 
 After a pleasant uphill while of soft galloping, 
 she signaled with her hand, and once more the po- 
 nies walked. 
 
 "Tell me truthfully," she said. "Are you inter- 
 ested in Evelyn?" 
 
 "Is it manners for a man to say he isn't inter- 
 ested in a girl?" 
 
 "You couldn't say it to me, because — Oh, because, 
 I really want to know." 
 
 "Mrs. Fulton," I said, "if I've made her think 
 so, I deserve to be kicked." 
 
 "Then that's all right. She knows exactly the 
 value to put. on your attentions. And I'm glad." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I don't think it would he much fun to ride with 
 a man who couldn't bring his mind along with him, 
 do you? Especially now that all the flowers are 
 popping out and it's so lovely in the woods." 
 
 "But," I said, "you have yet to forgive me for 
 last night." 
 
 "There's nothing to forgive," she said. "Don't 
 you know that though the man always takes the 
 blame, it's always the girl's fault. A man can't get 
 
 82 
 
TVe Three 
 
 himself into trouble by just sitting still and looking 
 pensive, but a girl can. From the moment Evelyn 
 sat on that bench under the cedar she had only one 
 thought. It was to see if she could make you kiss 
 her." 
 
 "No, no, Mrs. Fulton," I exclaimed. "It wasn't 
 a bit like that. Honestly it wasn't." 
 
 "In that case," said Mrs. Fulton, and her rosy 
 face was at its very gayest, "Evelyn is a liar." 
 
 "She told you that she tried to make me?" 
 
 "Why, what else was there for her to be ashamed 
 about?" 
 
 "But you said she was also angry." 
 
 "I suppose," said Lucy mischievously, "she was 
 angry becaus,e I came out on the porch." 
 
IX 
 
 IN the days of the waltz and the twostep, Aiken, 
 did not dance, but immediately upon the intro- 
 duction of the Turkey Trot and the Grizzly 
 Bear, she made honorable amends. Wilcox built an 
 oval ballroom with a platform for musicians, the 
 big room at the Golf Club was found to have a cap- 
 ital floor, and the grip of bridge whist upon society 
 was rudely loosened. 
 
 Whatever may be said in derogation of the mod- 
 ern dances, they have rejuveng,ted the old and 
 knocked a lot of nonsense out of the young. To 
 my eye there is nothing more charming than a well- 
 danced maxixe. To dance well a man must be an 
 athlete and a musician ; to be either is surely a wor- 
 thy ambition. To dance well a girl must at the 
 very least have grace and charm. 
 
 So far as I am concerned, Lucy Fulton's dance 
 was a great success, from the arrival of the first 
 guest. I was the first guest. 
 
 We had a whole dance to ourselves while Evelyn 
 was busy with the telephone and before the second 
 guest arrived. In all her life Lucy had never looked 
 
 84 
 
We Three 
 
 more animated or more lovely. The musicians 
 caught her enthusiasm and the high spirit which 
 flowed from her like an electric current, and at once 
 these things appeared in their music. 
 
 "I've pnly one sorrow," I said, "that I can't dance 
 with you and watch, you dance at the same time." 
 
 "But if you had to choose one or the other?" 
 
 "I shall choose often," I said, "but I'm afraid 
 others will begin getting chosen. If I had my 
 way there would be no other man but me and no 
 other girl but you, and we'd dance till breakfast 
 time." 
 
 "Evelyn," said Lucy, her eyes full of mischief, 
 "could chaperon us from a bench. She could send 
 for her knitting." 
 
 "Who Is this Evelyn?" I said. 
 
 'And then the rhythm of the music became too 
 much for us, and we did not speak any more, only 
 danced ; only danced and liked each other more and 
 
 more. 
 
 That night It seemed there were no tired men or 
 women in Aiken. There were no lingering groups 
 of yarn-swapping men in the buffet, only half-melted 
 humanity who gulped down a glass of champagne 
 and flew back to the dance. We made so much noise 
 
 85 
 
We Three 
 
 that half the dogs in Aiken barked all night, and 
 roosters waked from sleep began to crow at eleven 
 o'clock. 
 
 I am sure that Lucy did not give many thoughts 
 to poor John Fulton, worrying his head off in far 
 New York. She had the greatest power upon her 
 own thoughts of any woman or man I ever knew. 
 And always she chose agreeable and even delightful 
 things to think about. When I try to make castles 
 in the air I get worrying about details, such as neigh- 
 bors and plumbing. Sometimes I have felt that it 
 would be agreeable to run away from everyone and 
 everything, and live on some South Sea beach in an 
 undershirt and an old pair of trousers. I can see the 
 palms and the breadfruit, as well as the next man. 
 I can picture the friendly brown girls with their 
 bright, black eyes and their long necklaces of scarlet 
 flowers and many-colored shells, and I can hear the 
 long-drawn roar of the surf on the coral beach. 
 But always my bright, hopeful pictures go to smash 
 on details. More insistent than the roar of the 
 surf, I hear the humming of great angry mosquitoes, 
 and I try to figure out what I should do if I came 
 down with appendicitis and no surgeon within a 
 thousand miles. 
 
 86 
 
JVe Three 
 
 Lucy chose her thoughts as she would have se- 
 lected neckties, choosing the pretty ones, tossing the 
 ugly ones aside and never thinking of them again, 
 or, for that matter, of the bill for the pretty neckties 
 that would be sent to her husband. Only very great 
 matters, such as love and death, could have occupied 
 her mind against her will. 
 
 Toward one o'clock the dance became hilarious. 
 One or two men had the good sense to go home, 
 two or three others had not. One of them — the 
 King boy — ^made quite a nuisance of himself, and to 
 revenge himself for a snub (greatly exaggerated by 
 the alcoholic mind), sought and found the hotel 
 switchboard and In the midst of a fox trof shut off 
 all the lights. 
 
 But the music went right on, and so did many of 
 the dancers. There were violent collisions, shouts 
 of laughter, and exclamations of pain. 
 
 I was faring the nearest wall of the room when 
 the lights went out and I backed Lucy toward It, 
 and then, groping, for I hadn't a match in my 
 clothes, found it and stood guard over her, one hand 
 pressing the wall on each side of her and my back 
 braced. I received one thundering jolt over the kid- 
 neys, and one cruel kick on the ankle bone. And 
 
 87 
 
We Three 
 
 then the lights went on again, and we finished our 
 dance. 
 
 Luqr said she hated people who weren't cool and 
 collected in time of danger. That if she was ever 
 in a theater when it caught fire she hoped there'd 
 be somebody with her, like me, to take care of her I 
 "That was the neatest thing," she said, "the way 
 you got us out of that. We might have been knocked 
 down and trampled to death." 
 
 When that dance ended, we went out of doors 
 for a few minutes to get cool. We took a turn 
 the length of the narrow, sanded yard and back. 
 We could hear the buggy boys just beyond the tall 
 privet hedge. Some were cracking jokes; others 
 were heavily snoring, and there were whispered con- 
 versations that had to do, no doubt, with mischief, 
 and petty crimes. 
 
 "It's been a grand party," I said. "By and by 
 I'm going to give one." 
 
 "But not for me, you know, just a spontaneous 
 party. Oh, do please, will you?" 
 
 "Of course I will. But it will really be given ^" 
 
 "I mustn't know." 
 
 "You shall never know if you mustn't." 
 
 "I think you ought to dance once with Evelyn." 
 88 
 
We Three 
 
 "I have danced with her, but only half a dance. 
 She said she was tired — and then she finished it with 
 Dawson Cooper." 
 
 "I wish they'd get to like each other." 
 
 "So do I. They're the right age. They've the 
 right amount of money between them, and they like 
 the same sort of things. But it rests with Evelyn. 
 Dawson would fly to a dropped handkerchief as a 
 pigeon flies home; but he's very shy and doesn't 
 think much of himself." 
 
 It seemed a good omen when we entered the 
 main hall and found them sitting out a dance to- 
 gether. 
 
 Dawson rose, but with some reluctance, it seemed 
 to me. 
 
 "Isn't it about my turn, Lucy?" he said. "Will 
 you?" 
 
 "Did Evelyn tell you you had to?" 
 
 He blushed like a schoolboy, and Evelyn burst 
 out laughing. 
 
 "Then I will," said Lucy, "when I see a man try- 
 ing to do his duty like a man, I help him always, and 
 besides you dance like a breeze." 
 
 So they went away together, he apologizing and 
 she teasing. 
 
 89 
 
We Three 
 
 "How about me?" I said to Evelyn. "Is it my 
 turn?" 
 
 "No," she said, "it isn't. I want to talk to you." 
 
 I sat down facing her in the chair that Dawson 
 Cooper had occupied. "Just now," she said, "when 
 you and Lucy went outside, I heard someone say 
 to someone else " 
 
 "Hadn't they any names?" 
 
 "No. She said to him, 'It's about time John Ful- 
 ton came back. Lucy's making a fool of herself.' " 
 
 Somehow I seemed to turn all cold inside. 
 
 "Of course," said Evelyn, "Lucy knows and you 
 know and I know, but the man in the street who sees 
 you ride out together day after day, and the woman 
 who's no particular friend of yours, who sees you 
 dance dance after dance together — they don't know. 
 Aiken is a small place, but like the night, it has a 
 thousand eyes, and as many idle tongues. If I 
 didn't know Lucy so well, and you so well, I'd be a 
 little worried." 
 
 "Why," I said, "it's a golf year. Nobody would 
 rather ride, except Lucy and me." 
 
 "The reason doesn't matter," said Evelyn. "When 
 two young people are together a whole lot, their 
 feelings don't stand still. They either get to like 
 
 90 
 
TVe Three 
 
 each other less and less, or more and more. You 
 and Lucy don't like each other less and less. Any- 
 body can see that, so it must be more and more. 
 And there's always danger in that. Isn't there?" 
 
 I thought for a moment, and then said: "Not 
 for her, certainly." 
 
 "You knew Lucy when she was a little girl, but 
 you didn't see her often when she was growing up, 
 did you? Her best friend never thought that she 
 would ever settle to any one man. She was the 
 most outrageous little flirt you ever saw. No, not 
 outrageous, because each time she thought she was 
 really in love herself. It was one boy after an- 
 other, all crazy about her, and she about them. 
 / Then it was one man after another. What Lucy 
 doesn't know about moonlight and verandas, and 
 the sad sounds of the sea at night, isn't worth know- 
 ing. But all the time, from the time she was fif- 
 teen, there was John Fulton in the background. He 
 was never first favorite till she actually accepted 
 him and married him, but he was always in the run- 
 ning, in second or third place, and whether he won 
 her down by faithfulness and devotion nobody 
 knows. Nobody quite knows how or why she 
 changed toward him. I don't believe she does. He 
 
 91 
 
We Three 
 
 was just about the last man anybody thought she'd 
 marry. But anyway her young and flighty affections 
 got round to him at last, and fastened to him. They 
 fastened to him like leeches. No man was ever 
 loved as hard as she loved him when she got round 
 to it. She made up for all the sorry dances she'd 
 led him. She was absolutely shameless. She made 
 love to him in public, she " 
 
 "She still does, Evelyn," I said. "I think that's 
 one reason why I like her so much, and him. 
 There's nobody else so frank and natural about 
 their feelings for each other. Why, it's beautiful 
 to see." 
 
 "Archie," said Evelyn, "for short periods of time 
 she loved some of the men she didn't marry almost 
 as hard." 
 
 After a moment's silence, she said with hesitation. 
 
 "It's a lucky thing for her that all the men she 
 thought she cared about were gentlemen. You must 
 have noticed yourself how little yesterday means to 
 her, how less than nothing tomorrow means, until 
 it becomes today." 
 
 "Well," I said, "it all boils down to this, that 
 after many vicissitudes, she found her Paradise at 
 last." 
 
 92 
 
We Three 
 
 "Who can be sure that a girl who had as many 
 love affairs as she had is — all through !" 
 
 Just then Dawson Cooper came back and took 
 Evelyn away with hTm. I was immensely interested 
 in all that she had told me about Lucy. I rather 
 wished that I might, for a while, have been one of 
 the many. And I was annoyed to learn that people 
 were undertaking to make our business theirs. 
 
 "I'll tell John about it when he comes back," I 
 said, "and if he thinks best, why I won't see so 
 much of her." 
 
 But when he came back it did not seem worth 
 while to tell him. 
 
X 
 
 1HAD forgotten that John Fulton was to re- 
 turn Monday, until Luq?^ gave it as a reason 
 for not being able to ride on that afternoon. 
 "Even if the train is on time," she said, "I don't 
 think I ought to go chasing off, do you? He'd like 
 us all to he at home together and maybe later he'd 
 like me to take him for a little drive." 
 
 'She was rather solemn for Lucy. I did not in 
 the least gather that she would rather ride with me 
 than play around with her husband. I did gather 
 that she was not using her own wishes and prefer- 
 ences as an excuse, but the physical fact of John's 
 home-coming. And I learned in the same mo- 
 ment that I wished his return might be indefinitely 
 postponed, and that Monday afternoon with no 
 Lucy to ride with promised to be a bore. 
 
 I saw her doing chores in the village, Jock and 
 Hurry crowded into the seat beside her, just before 
 the arrival of the New York train. From the back 
 of the runabout dangled the reed-like, moth-eaten 
 legs of Cornelius Twombley. For him, too, the re- 
 
 94 
 
We Three 
 
 turn of the master was a joyous occasion; there 
 would be a quarter for him if he had been a good 
 boy, and some inner voice evidently was telling him 
 that he had. There was a red-and-white-striped 
 camellia in his buttonhole, and his narrow body was 
 beautified by a dirty white waistcoat. 
 
 The New York train whistled. Lucy flicked the 
 horse with the whip, three handsome hatless heads 
 were jerked backward, Cornelius Twombley's pea- 
 nut-shaped head was jerked forward, the voices of 
 Jock and Hurry made noises like excited tree frogs, 
 and away they all flew toward the station. 
 
 It was easy to picture the beaming faces that John 
 Fulton could see when he got off the train; it was 
 easy to hear the happy joyous voices all going at 
 once, that would greet him. If there was trouble 
 in his life he would forget it in those moments. 
 
 I turned into the Aiken Club feeling a little lonely. 
 How good, I thought, it would be to be met, even 
 once, as Fulton is being met. 
 
 And now I must set down things that I did not 
 know at this time, and only found out afterward. 
 And other things that are only approximately true, 
 things that wouldn't happen in my presence, but 
 which I am very sure must have happened. 
 
 95 
 
JVe Three 
 
 When Lucy drove off at such a reckless pace to 
 get to the station before the train, I don't think it 
 even occurred to her that during his absence her 
 feelings for her husband had changed in any way. 
 It was he, I think, who was the first to know that 
 there was a change. He did not realize It at the 
 station or on the way home. How could he with 
 Jock and Hurry piled in his lap, and both talking 
 two-forty, and Lucy at his side, trying to make her- 
 self heard and even understood? No man could. 
 It must have been shortly after he got home, at that 
 moment. Indeed, when he was alone with her, and 
 his arms went out to her with all the love and yearn- 
 ing accumulated at compound Interest during ab- 
 sence. Habit, and the wish to hurt no one, must 
 have carried her arms to tighten a little about him, 
 and to lift her lips to him. Then I think she must 
 have turned her head a little, so that it was only her 
 cheek that he kissed. I imagine that until that time 
 Fulton's love-making had always found the swiftest 
 response, that with those two passion had always 
 been as mutual and spontaneous as passion can be; 
 and that now, perhaps the very first time, his fire met 
 with that which it could not kindle Into answering 
 flame. 
 
 96 
 
We Three 
 
 I do not think that he at once let her go. I think 
 that first his arms that held her so close loosened 
 (already the pressure had all gone out of hers). 
 I think she was sorry they had to loosen, and glad 
 that they had. Then his arms must have dropped 
 to his sides. He did not at once turn away, but kept 
 on looking at her, as she at him — he, hurt, he did 
 not know why, but brimming with love and compas- 
 sion and tenderness and a little desperate with the 
 effort to understand and to make allowances for 
 whatever might have to be understood. Her 
 great blue eyes looked almost black for once, 
 prayer upon prayer was In their depths, they 
 were steady upon his and unfaltering. It was 
 as if she was giving him every opportunity to 
 look down through them and see what was In her 
 soul. 
 
 It could not have been till many days later that 
 a whole sequence of episodes which hurt and could 
 not be understood forced him into speech. I think 
 he must suddenly in a moment of trial, have come 
 out with something like this: 
 
 "Why, Lucy, it sometimes seems as If you didn't 
 love me any more." 
 
 When she didn't answer, it must have flashed 
 
 97 
 
We Three 
 
 through him like a streak of ice-cold lightning that 
 perhaps she really didn't. 
 
 I am glad that it is only in imagination that I 
 can hear his next question and her answer. There 
 must have been a something in his voice from which 
 the most callous-hearted would have wished to run, 
 as from the deathbed of a little child. 
 
 "Don't you, Lucy?" 
 
 And how terribly It must have hurt her to answer 
 that question! Considering what he had been to 
 her and she to him, for how long a period of time 
 neither had been able to see anything In this world 
 beyond the other, and considering with even more 
 weight than these things their own children for 
 whom the feelings of neither could ever really 
 change, I think that Lucy ought to have 
 lied. I think she ought to have lied with all her 
 might and main, lied as John Fulton would have lied 
 if the situation had been reversed, and that there- 
 after, until his death or hers, she ought to have acted 
 those lies, with unflagging fervor and patience. Ten- 
 derness for him she never lost. She might, upon 
 that foundation, have built a saintly edifice of simu- 
 lated love and passion. 
 
 But it was not In her nature to lie. I thihk she 
 98 
 
We Three 
 
 probably said: "I don't know. I'm afraid not." 
 And then I think her sad face must have begun to 
 pucker like that of a little child going to cry, and I 
 think it is very likely, so strong is habit, that she 
 then hurried into her husband's arms and had her 
 cry upon his breast. 
 
XI 
 
 I IMAGINE that thereafter for a time John 
 Fulton's attitude toward Lucy was now dig- 
 nified and manly, and now almost childlike 
 in its despair. Having made her love him once, he 
 must have felt at first that he could make her love 
 him again. I imagine him making love to her with 
 all the chivalry and poetry that was in him, and 
 then breaking off short to rail against fate, against 
 the whole treacherous race of women, perhaps, and 
 to ask what he had done to deserve so much suf- 
 fering? "Why didn't you do this to me when I 
 was proposing? Why did you wait till I was stone 
 broke and worried half sick, with everything going 
 from bad to worse? Is it anything I've done, any- 
 thing I've failed to do ? Why, Lucy, we were such 
 a model of happiness that people looked up to us. 
 How can anybody suddenly stop caring the way 
 you have ? If it had been gradual I But you were 
 in love with me the night I went away, weren't you ? 
 Weren't you?" 
 
 Here he catches her shoulders and forces that 
 
 lOO 
 
We Three 
 
 one admission from her, and makes the great pray- 
 ing woebegone eyes meet his. Then, almost, he 
 pushes her away from him. 
 
 "And I go away for a few days," he cries, "and 
 come back and everything is changed. I who had 
 a sweetheart, haven't even a wife. Why have you 
 changed so? There must be a reason? What is it? 
 Are you sick? Have you eaten something that has 
 made you forget? Have you been bewitched? 
 That's no fool question. Have you? Have you?" 
 
 "Have I what?" 
 
 "Have you been bewitched? Tell me, dear, who 
 has done this thing to you?" 
 
 Again he has her by the shoulders. 
 
 "Lucy, is there someone? Never mind the other 
 things, just tell me that? You've gotten to like 
 someone else? Is that it?" 
 
 And Lucy must have answered that there was no 
 one else. And there is no question but that to the 
 best of her belief and knowledge she was telling 
 the truth. 
 
 But the mere thought that there might be someone 
 else had moved Fulton as he had never been moved 
 before. He once told me that even as a little boy 
 he had never in all his life known one pang of jeal- 
 
 lOI 
 
JVe Three 
 
 ousy. He will never be able to make that boast 
 again. And like some damned insidious tropical 
 malaria, the passion has taken root in his system, 
 so that only death can wholly cure him. 
 
 Like some vile reptile it had found within him 
 some cave from which it might emerge to brandish 
 its hideous envenomed horned head, and into which 
 betimes it might withdraw. 
 
 I can imagine no one so stupid as to question any 
 serious statement of fact that Lucy might make. 
 Her eyes were wells of truth; her voice fearless 
 and sure, like that of some kingly boy. 
 
 So when she said there was no one, Fulton, who 
 knew her far better than anyone else, believed her 
 without any question. And a great weight must 
 have been lifted from his heart. With the truth 
 that he had wrung from her, I think he must have 
 rested almost content for a few hours. 
 
 But contentment is far off from a man who hears 
 the great edifice of love and happiness which he has 
 reared, crashing about his ears. 
 
 He could not make up his mind to any definite 
 course of action. Now, calm and judicial, I hear 
 him discussing matters with coolness, and self-for- 
 getfulness. 
 
 102 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "If there is any chance for me, ever," he would 
 say, "it would be silly of us to take any action which 
 would be final. And, besides, I don't see how I could 
 reconcile my conscience to giving you a divorce. Or 
 you yours to getting one. It would be hard enough 
 for you to lie about the most trifling thing. You 
 couldn't, you simply couldn't face the court and tell 
 them that I had been cruel and unfaithful. You 
 couldn't accuse me of anything so gross, and so un- 
 like me, as the other woman who would have to be 
 hired for the occasion. There's another side to it. 
 I think the children are better off with you than with 
 me. You're the best mother that ever wa^s, the most 
 sensible and the most careful. But I don't think I 
 could give them up. If you and the babies were all 
 three to drop out of my life, I'd have nothing left 
 but the duty of finding money to support you. 
 There's a certain pleasure in doing your duty, of 
 course, but in this case hardly enough. Honestly, 
 dear, with never a sight or touch of you, I simply 
 couldn't Iceep things going long." 
 
 Then perhaps Lucy asked some such question as 
 this: "Don't people often, when they've stopped 
 caring about each other, go on living together just 
 the same, as far as other people know? And real- 
 
 103 
 
JVe Three 
 
 ly just be good friends and live their own lives?" 
 
 "This is very different. We haven't stopped car- 
 ing about each other. You've stopped caring about 
 me. I care about you, just as I did in the beginning, 
 and always shall. We couldn't lead separate lives 
 under the same roof. God knows I feel old enough, 
 but I'm still a young man, and like it or not, you are 
 still my wife. It is something to own the shell that 
 once contained the pearl." 
 
 Another time he goes hurrying through the house, 
 prayer-book in hand, a thumb marking the marriage 
 ceremony. He has been brooding and brooding and 
 snatching at straws. 
 
 "Read this, Lucy. Just look it over. It's what 
 you and I stood up and promised before a lot of 
 people. I'm glad I looked it up. You'll see right 
 away that it's a contract which nobody could have 
 the face to break. I want you to read it over to 
 yourself." 
 
 Finally she does, just to please him, in the sad 
 knowledge that no good will come of it. 
 
 "You'd forgotten, hadn't you? But just see what 
 you promised. Didn't you mean to keep these prom- 
 ises when you made them?" 
 
 "Oh, of course I did. Why ask that?" 
 104 
 
" 'It's what you and I stood up and promised before a lot 
 of people.' " 
 
We Three 
 
 "But now you want to back out." 
 
 Then the old argument that a promise which one 
 is powerless to keep isn't a bona fide promise and 
 cannot be so regarded. Fulton sees that for himself 
 presently. 
 
 "No, of course," he says. "If you don't love me, 
 you can't make yourself by an effort of will. And 
 if you don't honor me . . ." 
 
 "You know I do." 
 
 "How about the other thing, the promise to obey? 
 That is surely in your power to keep." 
 
 She admits that she can keep that promise; but 
 she leaves herself a loophole. She does not say that 
 she will keep it. 
 
 And so the words of the prayer book shed no light 
 on the situation, and I shouldn't wonder if Fulton 
 raged against the book, and flung it into a far cor- 
 ner, and was immediately sorry. 
 
 For a man situated as Fulton was, some definite 
 plan of action is necessary ; and to my mind the one 
 that would be best would be one in which the least 
 possible consideration for the woman should be 
 shown. When Lucy began to play clench-dummy 
 with her own life, with her husband's love, and with 
 the institution of marriage, Fulton, I think, would 
 
 105 
 
We Three 
 
 have made no mistake if he had stripped her to the 
 skin and taken a great whip to her. 
 
 Her whole life had been one of self-indulgence. 
 She had indulged herself with Fulton's love till she 
 was glutted with it ; that she was the mother of two 
 children may, perhaps, be traced to self-indulgence, 
 and surely it must be laid down to self-indulgence 
 that she was not the mother of more than two. Her 
 self-indulgence kept Fulton poor and in debt, and 
 it had come to this: that her impulse to self-indul- 
 gence would now stop at nothing unless circum- 
 stances should prove too strong for it. 
 
 It is not the gentle, faithful, self-sacrificing man 
 who keeps his wife's love; it never was. It was 
 always the man who had in him a good deal of the 
 brute. 
 
 But, except in a moment of insanity, a man does 
 not go against his nature. Fulton has too good a 
 brain not to think that if Lucy were locked up for a 
 week or so, and fed on bread and water, good might 
 come of it. But his was not the hand to turn the 
 key in the lock. He could no more have done it than 
 he could have struck her. This sudden failure of 
 her love for him was only another evidence of that 
 wastefulness and extravagance which had so often 
 
 io6 
 
We Three 
 
 hurt him financially. Surely it must have occurred 
 to him more than once to publish notices in the 
 newspapers to the effect that he would only be re- 
 sponsible for his own debts. He must, I think, have 
 threatened the thing from time to time, knowing 
 in his heart that he could never bring himself to put 
 it into execution. 
 
 I wonder how Fulton felt when hard uport the 
 knowledge that she no longer loved him, he received 
 the bill for the dance which she had g^ven against 
 his wishes, and in full knowledge of his present 
 financial predicament? 
 
 She had treated him so badly that it is a wonder 
 of wonders that he kept on loving her. 
 
 For one thing they deserve great credit. Even 
 Evelyn Gray, a guest in the house, did not know 
 that there was any trouble between them. All she 
 thought was that owing to financial and other wor- 
 ries, which time would right, Fulton seemed a little 
 graver and less enthusiastic than usual. 
 
 Nor was I any wiser. I had not, of course, so 
 many chances of seeing the two together, but I saw 
 as much of Lucy as ever, for we rode together nearly 
 every day. 
 
XII 
 
 IF nothing more definite had come of all this, I 
 should now see but little significance in those 
 long afternoons of riding with Lacy. She could 
 leave the substance of her trouble behind, as easily 
 as she could have left a pair of gloves, and she took 
 into the saddle with her only a shadow of the 
 tragedy that was glowering upon her house. 
 
 I see now, that, at this time, we must have begun 
 to talk more seriously and upon more intimate top- 
 ics ; that we laughed less and that there were longer 
 silences between us. We began to take an interest 
 in the trees and flowers among which we rode, to 
 learn their names, and to linger longer over those 
 which did not at once strike the eye. 
 
 And I see now that Lucy talked more than usually 
 about her husband. It was as if by doing constant 
 justice to his character she hoped to make up to him 
 for her failure of affection. In his domestic rela- 
 tions he was a real hero by all accounts. Didn't I 
 think they lived nicely? She thought so, too, but 
 it wasn't her fault. She was so extravagant, and 
 
 io8 
 
TVe Three 
 
 such a bad manager, it was a wonder they could live 
 at all. She admitted so much with shame. But if I 
 could understand how it is with some men about 
 drink, then it must be easy for me to understand 
 how it is with some women about money. Oh, she'd 
 spent John into some dreadful holes ; but he had al- 
 ways managed to creep out of them. How he hated 
 an unpaid bill ! It wasn't his fault that there were 
 so many of them. For her part (wasn't it awful!) 
 they filled her neither with shame nor compunction. 
 And he'd been so fine about people. His instinct 
 was to be a scholar and a hermit. But she loved 
 people, she simply couldn't be happy without them, 
 and (wasn't it fun?) she had had her way, and 
 now John liked people almost as much as she did. 
 And he had a knack of putting life and laughter into 
 the simplest parties. 
 
 Sometimes when we had finished riding, we had 
 tea in the garden. It would be turning cool, and she 
 would slip a heavy coon-skin coat over her riding 
 things; and there was a long voluminous polo-coat 
 of John's that I used to borrow. Evelyn nearly 
 always joined us, John not so often. Sometimes 
 Dawson Cooper came. He was getting over his 
 shyness. Sometimes he was quite brazen and face- 
 
 109 
 
We Three 
 
 tious. It looked almost as if he was being encour- 
 aged by someone. 
 
 Of the sorrow that was gnawing at John Fulton's 
 heart I saw no sign. He was alert, hospitable, hu- 
 morous often, and toward Lucy his manner was won- 
 derfully considerate and gentle. If I had guessed 
 at anything, it would have been that the wife was in 
 trouble and not the husband. He could not sit still 
 for long at a time, but he did not in the least suggest 
 a man who was on the verge of a nervous break- 
 down. His activity and sudden shiftings from place 
 to place and from topic to topic were rather those 
 of a man who superabounds in physical and mental 
 energy. 
 
 At this time he did not know whether he and Lucy 
 were gping to separate or not. If they should, he 
 was already preparing dust to throw in the world's 
 eyes. He let it be known that at any moment he 
 might have to go to Messina in the interests of his 
 cartridge company (this was a polite fiction) and 
 that he might have to be gone a long time. Busi- 
 ness was a hard master. He had always tried to 
 keep it out of his home life, but in times like these 
 a man must be ready to catch at straws. 
 
 And Lucy, just her head and fingers showing from 
 no 
 
We Three 
 
 the great coon-skin coat, would give him a look 
 that I should not now interpret as I did then. I 
 thought that it made her feel sick at heart even to 
 think of his going to some far-off place without her ! 
 
 "Speaking of far-off places," I said once, "Gerald 
 Colebridge is taking some men to Burlingham to 
 play polo. He's asked me, and I'm tempted almost 
 beyond my strength. What does everybody think?" 
 
 "I'd go like a shot," said Dawson Cooper. "Ger- 
 ald will take his car and everything will be beauti- 
 fully done; and California just about now!" Here 
 he bunched his fingers, kissed them and sent the kiss 
 heavenward. 
 
 "Wish / was asked!" exclaimed Evelyn. 
 
 "Ever been to California?" Fulton asked. "Be- 
 cause if not, gd. And still I've thought sometimes 
 that spring in Aiken is almost as lovely." 
 
 Poor fellow, it must have been quite obvious that 
 he didn't think so any more. But then Evelyn, Daw- 
 son, and I were blind and deaf, at this time. 
 
 "When," said Lucy at last, "would you go, if 
 you go?" 
 
 "Why, in a day or two," I said. "I'd probably 
 leave day after tomorrow on the three o'clock and 
 join the party in New York." 
 
 Ill 
 
We Three 
 
 "Oh, dear," she said, "I'll have to take up golf 
 then. You're the only man In Aiken who likes to 
 ride. And John won't let me ride alone." 
 
 "Why not," said he, "ask me to ride with you?" 
 
 "Oh, I know you'd do it," she said. "You're a 
 hero, but I'm not quite such a brute." 
 
 I wish I could have gone to California. 
 
 I rode with Lucy the next afternoon, for the last 
 time as we both thought. As we came home 
 through Lover's Lane, the ponies walking very 
 slowly, she leaned toward me a little, turned the 
 great praying eyes upon me, and said, her mouth 
 smiling falteringly: 
 
 "Please don't go away. I hate it. Everything's 
 gone all wrong with the world. And if you're not 
 my friend that I can talk to and tell things to, I 
 haven't one." 
 
 "Are you serious, Lucy?" 
 
 "Oh, it's no matter!" she said lightly, and began 
 to gather her reins, preparatory to a gallop. 
 
 "It's only that it didn't seem possible that you 
 could need one particular friend out of so many. 
 Of course, I stay. Will you tell me now what it is 
 that's gone all wrong?" 
 
 "Yes," she said with a quickly drawn breath. 
 
 112 
 
We Three 
 
 "I've had to tell John that I don't love him any 
 more, and don't want to be his wife." 
 
 If one of those still and stately pines which lend 
 Lover's Lane the appearance of a cathedral aisle 
 had fallen across my shoulders, I could hardly have 
 been more suddenly stunned. 
 
 When I looked at her the corners of her lovely 
 mouth were down like those of a child in trouble. 
 
 "Please don't look at me," she said. 
 
 We rode on very slowly in silence. Sometimes, 
 without looking, I could not be sure that she was 
 still crying. Then I would hear a little pathetic 
 sniffling — a catching of the breath. Or she would 
 fall to pounding the thigh with her fist. 
 
 But she pulled herself together very quickly and 
 borrowed my handkerchief and when we reached 
 the telegraph office her own husband could not have 
 known that she had been crying. 
 
 She held my pony while I telegraphed Gerald 
 Colebridge that I could not go to California with him. 
 
 Far from looking like one who had recently been 
 crying, she looked a triumphant little creature, as 
 she sat the one pony, and held the other. The color 
 had all come back to her face, and she looked — 
 why, she looked happy I 
 
 113 
 
XIII 
 
 WELL, my dear," said my mother, "we 
 shall miss you." 
 
 "Oh," I said, "I've given it up. I'm 
 not going." 
 
 As she had said that she would miss me, this an- 
 swer ought to have given my mother unmixed pleas- 
 ure. It didn't seem to. She smiled upon me with 
 the greatest affection, and at the same time looked 
 troubled. 
 
 "When you came into my room this morning your 
 mind was definitely made up. Has anything hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 "Only that I've changed my mind. Aiken is too 
 nice to leave." 
 
 "I sometimes think," said my mother, "that the 
 life you lead is narrowing. At your age, how I 
 should have jumped at the chance to see California 
 in spring I But I shan't ask you why you don't jump. 
 I know very well you'd not tell me." 
 
 "Must I have a reason? They say women don't 
 have reasons for doing things. Why should men?" 
 
 114 
 
We Three 
 
 "A woman," said my mother, "does nothing 
 without a reason. But often she has to be ashamed 
 of her reasons, and so she pretends she hasn't any. 
 Men are stronger. They don't have to give their 
 reasons, and so they don't pretend." 
 
 "Maybe," I said, "I'm fond of my family and 
 don't want to be away from them." 
 
 My mother blushed a little, and laughed. 
 
 "I shall pretend to myself," she said, "that that 
 Is why you have given up your trip. But I'm afraid 
 it isn't your father and me that you've suddenly 
 grown so fond of." 
 
 "Now look here, mamma," I said, "we thrashed 
 that all out the other day." 
 
 "Thrashed all what out? — Oh, I remember — 
 your attentions to Luqr Fulton, or hers to you, which 
 was it?" 
 
 "It wasn't our attentions to each other, as I re- 
 member. It was the attention which Aiken is or 
 was paying to us." 
 
 "So it was," said my mother. 
 
 She gave me, then, a second cup of tea, and talked 
 cheerfully of other things. Some people came in, 
 and I managed presently to escape from them. 
 
 It hadn't been easy to tell my mother that I had 
 IIS 
 
We Three 
 
 given up the California trip. I knew that her triple 
 intuition would connect the change of plan with Lucy 
 Fulton, and I was not in the mood to meet such an 
 accusation with the banter and levity which it no 
 longer deserved. 
 
 Like it or not, I was staying on in Aiken because 
 Lucy had asked me to. That we had been gossiped 
 about had angered me ; but it could do so no longer. 
 That we were good friends, and enjoyed riding and 
 being together, was no longer the whole truth. 
 There was in addition this: that Lucy no longer 
 loved her husband, and that she had made me her 
 confidant. 
 
 From the first to the last of my dressing for din- 
 ner that night, everything went wrong. I stepped 
 into a cold tub, under the impression that I had told 
 my man to run a hot one. He had laid out for me 
 an undershirt that had lost all its buttons, and a pair 
 of socks that I hated. I broke the buckle of the belt 
 that I always wear with my dinner trousers; I 
 dropped my watch face downward on the brick 
 hearth, and I spilled a cocktail all over my dress 
 shirt, after I had got my collar on and tied my tie ! 
 
 Usually such a succession of misadventures would 
 have given rise to one rage after another. But I was 
 
 ii6 
 
We Three 
 
 too busy thinking about Luqr. I could no longer 
 ^eny that she attracted me immensely. Perhaps she 
 had from the beginning. I can't be sure. But I 
 should never have confessed this to myself, or so 
 I think, if I had not learned that she had suddenly 
 fallen out of love with her husband. In that ideal 
 state of matrimony, in which I had first gotten to 
 know her, she had seemed a holy thing upon a plane 
 far above this covetous world. But now the angel 
 had fallen out of that which had been her heaven, 
 and come down to earth. That I had had anything 
 to do with this, I should even now have denied to 
 God or man with complete conviction. I had no 
 interest in the causes of her descent, only in the fact 
 of it. And all that time of bungling dressing for 
 dinner I kept thinking, not that I should help her 
 look for a new heaven, but that I must try, as her 
 true friend, to get her back Into her old one. At that 
 time John Fulton had no better friend than I. It 
 seemed to me really terrible that things should have 
 gone wrong with these two. 
 
 My father came in while I was still dressing. 
 
 "Hear you've given up California," he said 
 bluntly; "do you think that's wise? . . . Where do 
 you keep your bell?" 
 
 117 
 
JVe Three 
 
 I showed him. 
 
 "How many times do you ring if you want a 
 cocktail?" 
 
 "Twice. If you'll ring four times I'll have one 
 with you. I spilt mine." 
 
 So my father pushed the bell four times and com- 
 plimented me on my love of system and order, and 
 then he returned to his first question. 
 
 "Do you think it wise?" 
 
 "Well, father," I said, "we've always been pretty 
 good friends. Will you tell me why you think it 
 isn't wise ?" 
 
 "Yes, I will," he said; "I think it's foolish for a 
 man to run after women in his own class for any 
 other purpose than matrimony." 
 
 "So do I!" said I. 
 
 "A man," he persisted, "doesn't always know that 
 he is running after a woman. Nature will fool him. 
 Look at young lovers ! Why, they actually believe 
 in the beautiful fabric of spiritual poetry that they 
 weave about each other. And nature lets 'em. But 
 men who have seen life, and have lived, as I 
 shouldn't be at all surprised if you had, for instance, 
 are able to see the ugly mundane facts through the 
 rosy mist. My boy, you and Lucy Fulton are be- 
 
 ii8 
 
JVe Three 
 
 ing talked about. You don't have to tell me it's 
 none of my business, I know that. But I can't help 
 wanting you to steer clear of rows, and I don't want 
 to see any woman get mud thrown on her because 
 of you. For a man of course, unfortunately, con- 
 sequences never amount to much. It's for the woman 
 that I should plead if I had any eloquence or per- 
 suasiveness. I'd say to you, don't run away for your 
 own sake, that's not worth while ; but run away for 
 hers. Now you will forgive me, my dear fellow, 
 won't you, for butting in like this. . . ." 
 
 The cocktails came, and when the man who 
 brought them had gone, I said : 
 
 "It's for her sake that I'm staying, father; will 
 you listen' a little ? You're the only man in the 
 world that I can talk to without fear of being re- 
 peated. As far as going to California is concerned I 
 was going — ^untll a late hour this afternoon. I felt 
 more concern at leaving my mother than anyone 
 else. You believe that?" 
 
 He nodded to what was left of his cocktail. 
 
 "Lucy and I may have been talked about, but 
 there was absolutely no reason why we should have 
 been. We rode together this afternoon and out of a 
 clear sky she told me that she had fallen out of love 
 
 119 
 
We Three 
 
 with her husband — for no reason at all, that's the 
 worst of it — and she doesn't know what to do, and 
 has no friend she feels like talking to about it, except 
 me. That's why I'm staying. She asked me not to 
 go. And of course I said I wouldn't." 
 
 My father finished his cocktail, and blew his nose. 
 
 "Oh," I said, "I'm not infatuated with the situa- 
 tion either." 
 
 "Women certainly do beat the Dutch!" said ray 
 father. "I suppose she wants advice, and backing 
 when she doesn't follow it." 
 
 "If I can keep her in the path of her duty, father, 
 be sure I will." 
 
 "And if you can't?" 
 
 "It's a real tragedy," I said. "They were the 
 happiest and most loving couple in the world, ex- 
 cept you and mother, and only a short time ago." 
 
 "What time is it?" asked my father. 
 
 "I've broken my watch." 
 
 "Well, it doesn't matter if we are a little late for 
 dinner." 
 
 He cleared his throat, and turned a fine turkey- 
 cock red, and looked very old-fashioned and hand- 
 some. 
 
 "I never thought to tell you this," he said; "it's 
 
 120 
 
We Three 
 
 like throwing mud on a saint. Once your mother 
 came to me and said she didn't love me any more 
 and that she loved another man and wanted to go 
 away with him." 
 
 "I feel as if you'd kicked my feet out from. under 
 me. 
 
 "It doesn't seem to have come quite to that with 
 Lucy, but it may, and in some ways the cases are 
 parallel. I took counsel with your grandfather. He 
 advised me to whip her. When I refused to do that, 
 he gave less drastic advice, which I followed. . I 
 told your mother and the man that if after a year 
 during which they should neither see each other nor 
 communicate they still wanted each other, I would 
 give your mother a divorce. I don't know when 
 they stopped caring about each other. I think it 
 took your mother less than three months to get over 
 him. And if he lasted three weeks, why I'm the dog 
 that — ^he was." 
 
 I detected a ring of passionate hatred in my fa- 
 ther's voice. 
 
 "So she came back to me," he said presently, "in 
 a little less than a year. Your little sister was your 
 mother's offering of conciliation. And we have lived 
 happily. But things have never been with us quite 
 
 121 
 
TVe Three 
 
 as they were. I have never known if your mother 
 really got to loving me again, or if she has raised 
 a great monument of simulation and devotion upon 
 a pedestal of shame and remorse. Even now, if I 
 drink a little more than is good for me, she never 
 criticizes. She feels that she has forfeited that pre- 
 rogative." 
 
 "What became of the man?" 
 
 "He died of heart failure," said my father, "in a 
 disreputable place. They tried to hush it up, but 
 the facts came out. When I heard of it, I plumped 
 right down in a chair and laughed till I was almost 
 sick. I knew what he was," he said with sudden 
 savageness, "all along. But there is no making a 
 woman believe what she doesn't want to believe. 
 He was fascinating to women, and a cur. He kept 
 his compact with me, not because of his given word, 
 but because he was physically afraid of me." 
 
 "Thank you for telling me all this, father," I 
 said; "I like you better and better. But in one way 
 the cases aren't parallel. In Lucy's case there is 
 no other man." 
 
 "Not yet," said my father; "but when a woman 
 no longer loves her husband, look out for her. She 
 has become a huntress — she is a lovely sloop-of-war 
 
 122 
 
JVe Three 
 
 that has cleared her decks for action. . . . Are you 
 ready?" 
 
 I slipped my arm through my father's and we 
 went downstairs together. 
 
 "I'm sorry you're mixed up in this," he said; "but 
 you couldn't go when she made a point of your stay- 
 ing. I'm obliged to you for telling me." 
 
XIV 
 
 IT grew very warm during the evening and 
 windy. By bedtime there was a hot, lifeless 
 gale blowing from the southeast. Now and 
 then the moon shone out brightly through the 
 smother of tearing clouds, and was visible for a 
 moment in all her glory, only to be submerged the 
 next moment and blotted out. About two o'clock 
 single raindrops began to splash so loudly on the 
 veranda roof just outside my window that the noise 
 waked me; after that I only slept fitfully, and my 
 ears were never free from the loud roaring of the 
 tropic rain that began presently to fall upon Aiken. 
 I dreamed that somebody had stolen the Great Lakes 
 and while being hotly pursued had dropped them. 
 All day it rained like that, and all the following 
 night, and only let up a little the afternoon of the 
 second day. I got into an oilskin then and walked 
 out to the Fultons'. 
 
 Theirs was a nervous household. Jock and 
 Hurry confined indoors for nearly two days had had 
 too little exercise and too many good things to eat. 
 
 124 
 
We Three 
 
 They were quite cross and irrepressible. John had 
 the fidgets. He couldn't even stay in the same room 
 for more than a minute, and he wouldn't even try 
 sitting down for a change. Lucy had had to give 
 up at least a dozen things that required dry weather 
 and sunshine. She seemed to take the rain as some- 
 thing directed particularly against herself by mali- 
 cious persons. Evelyn, also cross and nervous, was 
 on the point of retiring to her own room to write 
 letters. Just then Dawson Cooper telephoned to 
 know if she cared to take a little walk in the rain 
 and she accepted with alacrity. 
 
 "It's gotten so that he only has to whistle," said 
 Lucy petulantly, when Evelyn had gone. "I think 
 she's made up her mind to be landed." 
 
 Fulton came and went. Every now and then he 
 dropped on the piano-stool for a few moments and 
 made the instrument roar and thunder; once he 
 played something peaceful and sad and even, in which 
 one voice with tears in it ran away from another. 
 
 The piano was in the next room, and whenever it 
 began to sound, Lucy dropped her work Into her 
 lap and listened. At such time she had an alert, 
 startled look. She resembled a fawn when it hears 
 a stick snap in the forest. 
 
 125 
 
We Three 
 
 We heard him leave the piano, cross the hall and 
 go into the dining-room. 
 
 "He's hardly touched his piano in years," said 
 Lucy. "But now he's at it in fits and starts from 
 morning till night. Night before last when the rain 
 began he got up and went down in his bare feet and 
 played for hours. I had to fetch him and make him 
 come back to bed." 
 
 Then she seemed to feel that an explanation was 
 necessary. She bent rosily over the work, and said: 
 "We don't want the servants to know." 
 
 Again the piano began to ripple and thun- 
 der. Again we heard John go into the dining-room. 
 
 I must have lifted an eyebrow, for Lucy said: 
 
 "Yes. I'm afraid so, but it doesn't seem to go to 
 his head. Oh," she said, "it wrings my heart, but I 
 haven't the righ^ to say anything." 
 
 "Lucy," I said, "have you thought out anything 
 since I saw you last?" 
 
 "I think in circles," she said; "one minute I'm for 
 doing my duty to him, the next minute I can only 
 think of myself. It catit be right for me to be his 
 wife when I've stopped being — Oh, anything but aw- 
 fully fond of him." 
 
 "You are that?" 
 
 126 
 
We Three 
 
 "Of course I am." 
 
 "It's just about the saddest thing that ever came 
 to my knowledge," I said; "and you won't be angry 
 if I say that I think you ought to stick to him and 
 make the best of it?" 
 
 "You're not a woman. No man understands a 
 woman's feeling of degradation at belonging to a 
 man she doesn't love. Oh, it's an impossible situa- 
 tion. And I can't see any way out. I couldtCt take 
 money from John, if I left him; I haven't got a 
 penny of my own. And I think it would kill me to 
 go away from Jock and Hurry for long. And the 
 other thing would just kill me." 
 
 "That," I said, "Lucy, I don't believe." 
 
 "You don't know. Not being a woman, you can't 
 know." 
 
 "Men," I said, "and women too survive all sorts 
 of things, mental and physical, that they thinTc can't 
 he survived. I read up the Spanish Inquisition once 
 for a college essay, and the things they did to people 
 were so bad that I was ashamed to put them in, and 
 yet lots of those people survived and lived usefully 
 to ripe old ages." 
 
 "Who did?" 
 
 Unheard by us, John had finished in the din- 
 127 
 
We Three 
 
 ing-room and had come to pay us a flying visit. 
 
 "People that were tortured by the Spanish Inqui- 
 sition," I said. 
 
 "A lot they know about torture," said he. "They 
 only did things to people that the same people could 
 imagine doing back to them. Nothing is real tor- 
 ture if you can see your way to revenge it — if only 
 in imagination. Torture is what you get through 
 no fault of your own from somebody you'd not tor- 
 ture back for anything in the world. It's what sons 
 do to mothers, husbands to wives, wives to hus- 
 bands. Isn't that so, Lucy?" 
 
 "I suppose so," she said very quietly, her head 
 bent close to her work. 
 
 "But what," exclaimed John, "has all this to do 
 with the high cost of living?" 
 
 He would neither sit down nor stand still. He 
 moved here and there, changing the positions of 
 framed photographs and ash trays, lighting cigar- 
 ettes, and throwing them into the fire. He had the 
 pinched, hungry look of a man who is not sleeping 
 well, and whose temperature is a little higher than 
 normal. 
 
 "Were you in the Spanish War?" he asked me 
 suddenly. 
 
 128 
 
We Three 
 
 (At the moment I was thinking: "If you go on 
 like this you'll never win her back, you'll only make 
 matters worse!") I said: "In a way, but I didn't 
 see any fighting. I got mixed up in the Porto Rico 
 campaign." 
 
 "I was with the Rough Riders," he said; "I've 
 just been remembering what fun it all was. I wish 
 you could go to a war whenever you wanted to, the 
 way you can to a ball game." 
 
 Then as quickly as he had introduced war, he 
 switched to a new subject. 
 
 "I want you to try some old Bourbon a man sent 
 
 me." 
 
 He had crossed the room, quick as thought, and 
 pushed a bell; when the waitress came he told her 
 to bring a tray. 
 
 "Isn't whiskey bad for you when you're so 
 nervous?" said Lucy quietly, and without looking 
 
 up. 
 
 "I don't know," said John, with a certain frolick- 
 ing quality in his voice; "I'm trying to find out." 
 
 "What was that you were playing a while ago?" 
 I asked. "The slow, peaceful, sad sort of thing." 
 
 "This?" And he whistled a few bars. 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 129 
 
We Three 
 
 "I made it up as I went along," he said; "music's 
 like a language. When a man's heard a lot of the 
 words and the idioms he can make a bluff at talk- 
 ing it ; but I can only speak a few words. I've only 
 got a child's vocabulary. I can only say, 'I'm hun- 
 gry,' or 'I'm sleepy,' or 'I want a set of carpenter's 
 tools,' or 'Brown swiped my tennis bat and I'm going 
 to punch his head,' or 'The little girl over the fence 
 has bright blue eyes and throws a ball like a boy 
 and climbs trees.' " 
 
 He had to laugh himself at the idea of being able 
 to express such things in musical terms, but when he 
 had sponged up a long glass of very darkly mixed 
 Bourbon and ApoUinaris, the picture of the little 
 girl over the fence must have been still in his mind, 
 for having left us abruptly for the piano, he pre- 
 luded and then began to improvise upon that theme. 
 He talked rather than sang, but always in tune and 
 with the clearest enunciation, and any amount of ex- 
 perience. 
 
 He began merrily, and in no time had us both 
 laughing; I think the first air which he tortured to 
 fit his unrhymed and unrhythmical words belonged 
 once to Mozart, but I am not sure. It was made 
 out of merriness, sunshine, and dew. 
 
 130 
 
We Three 
 
 "The little girl over the fence, the fence 
 
 Has bri-i-i-ight blue-ooo eyes 
 And thro\ys a ball like a boy, a boy, 
 
 And cli-i-i-i-i-i-imbs trees." 
 
 He repeated in the minor, modulated into a more 
 solemn key, and once more talked off the words. 
 He left you with a slight feeling of anxiety. You 
 began to be afraid that the little girl would fall out 
 of the trees and hurt herself. But no, instead he 
 grabbed something by the hair right out of a Bee- 
 thoven adagio, and began to want that little girl with 
 the blue eyes as a little girl with blue eyes has sel- 
 dom been wanted before ; she became Psyche, Tro- 
 jan Helen, a lover's dream; all that is most exquisite 
 and to be desired in the world — and then suddenly 
 he lost all hope of her and borrowed from Palestrina 
 to tell about it, and the last time she climbed trees 
 it was plump on up into Heaven that she climbed, 
 and from hell below, or pretty close to it, there arose 
 the words "And climb trees" like a solemn ecclesias- 
 tical amen. 
 
 It was an astounding performance, almost de- 
 moniac in its cleverness and in its power to move 
 the hearer. 
 
 Lucy's eyes were filled with tears. 
 131 
 
We Three 
 
 "I wish he wouldn't," she said. 
 
 There was quit^ a long silence, but as we did 
 not hear him moving about, he probably sat on at 
 the piano, for presently, in a whisper, you may say, 
 more to himself than to us, he sang that Scotch 
 song, "Turn ye to me," which to my ear at least 
 stands a head and shoulders taller and lovelier than 
 any folk song in all the world, unless it's that Nor- 
 man sailor song that Chopin used in one of the Noc- 
 turnes. 
 
 "The waves are dancing merrily, merrily, 
 Ho-ro, Whairidher, turn ye to me : 
 The sea-birds are wailing, wearily, wearily, 
 Horo Whairidher, turn ye to me. 
 
 "Hushed be thy moaning, love bird of the sea, 
 
 Thy home on the rocks is a shelter to thee; 
 
 Thy home fs the angry wave, mine but the lonely grave, 
 
 Horo Whairidher, turn ye to me." 
 
 Lucy rose abruptly and left the room. I could 
 hear her whispering to him, pleading. 
 
 Surely he must have sung that song to her when 
 she was only the little girl with blue eyes over the 
 fence, and it must have had something to do with 
 making her love him. But the qualities of his voice 
 
 132 
 
W^e Three 
 
 that could once make her heart beat and fire her 
 with love for him could do so no more. He had 
 left, poor fellow, only the power to torture her with 
 remorse and make her cry. 
 
XV 
 
 THE next day I kept a riding engagement 
 with Lucy, but she didn't. 
 
 "She's gone for a walk with John," said 
 Evelyn, who had come out of the house to give me 
 Lucy's messages of regret and apology. 
 
 "Lucy gone walking !" I exclaimed. "Have the 
 heavens fallen?" 
 
 "Sometimes I think they have," said Evelyn. 
 "But you know more about that than I do." 
 
 "Know more about what?" 
 
 "Haven't you noticed?" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "Why, John is all up in the air about something or 
 other, and Lucy is worried sick about him. I 
 thought probably she'd told you what the trouble 
 was. I've asked. She said probably money had 
 something to do with it; and that was all I could 
 get out of her. Come down off that high horse and 
 talk to me. I'm not riding till four." 
 
 So I left my pony standing at the front gate and 
 Evelyn and I strolled about the grounds. 
 
 134 
 
We Three 
 
 "Money isn't the whole trouble," said Evelyn 
 presently. "I know that. Something even more se- 
 rious has gone terribly wrong. And I want to l^elp." 
 
 "Won't they work it out best by themselves?" I 
 suggested. 
 
 "Sometimes," she said, "it seems almost as if 
 they had quarreled. Sometimes John looks at her — 
 Oh, as if he was going to die and was looking at her 
 for the last time. Could he have something serious 
 the matter with him?" 
 
 "He could, of course, but it doesn't seem likely." 
 
 "He doesn't look well." 
 
 "True." 
 
 "Look here, Archie, don't you know what's 
 wrong?" 
 
 "I wish I did," said I. "If I could right it." 
 
 As a matter of fact I didn't know what was 
 wrong. I knew only that Lucy no longer loved her 
 husband. But why she no longer loved him was th^ 
 real trouble, and she had not told me that, even if 
 she knew it herself. But wishing to strengthen my 
 answer, I said: "You're the one who ought to know 
 what's wrong. You're on the spot. And besides, 
 you're a woman and a woman is supposed to have 
 three intuitions to a man's one." 
 
 135 
 
We Three 
 
 Evelyn ignored this. 
 
 "Sometimes," she said, "John is so gentle and pa- 
 thetic that I want to cry. Sometimes he is cantank- 
 erous and flies into rages about trifles. It's getting 
 on my nerves." 
 
 "Why not pack up your duds and move on?" 
 
 "Oh, because " 
 
 I laughed maliciously. "We might move on to- 
 gether," I suggested. 
 
 "You were going to move on," she said, "but you 
 have stayed. I wonder why?" 
 
 I did not enlighten her. 
 
 "If," she said presently, "people find out that 
 things in this house are at sixes and sevens I won- 
 der if they won't find fault with you and Lucy? Has 
 that occurred to you?" 
 
 "It has occurred to you," I said, "to my own 
 mamma and doubtless to other connections. But 
 it hasn't occurred to me. We see too much of ,each 
 other?" 
 
 "Altogether." 
 
 "You really think that?" 
 
 Evelyn shrugged her shoulders. "For appearance' 
 sake, yes," she said. "Of course you do. But it's my 
 opinion that if you'd been going to get sentimental 
 
 136 
 
JVe Three 
 
 about each other you'd have done it long ago." 
 
 "Evelyn," I said, "I've never made trouble in a 
 family." 
 
 "Is that because of your natural virtue or because 
 you have never wanted to?" 
 
 "A little of both, I think. People fall in love at 
 first sight. That can't be helped. Or they fall in 
 love very quickly, and that's hard to help. But peo- 
 ple who fall in love gradually through long asso- 
 ciation have no good excuse for doing so, if they 
 oughtn't. They should see it coming and quit seeing 
 each other before it's too late." 
 
 "But I don't agree," said Evelyn. "I think love 
 is always a first-sight affair. I don't mean neces- 
 sarily the first time two people see each other, but 
 that suddenly after years of association even, they 
 will see each other in a new light." 
 
 "A light that was never on sea or land?" 
 
 "A light that is always where people are, just 
 waiting to be turned on." 
 
 At that moment we heard Dawson Cooper's voice 
 calling: "Hallo there! Where are you ?" 
 
 -Presently he hove into sight, and did not seem 
 altogether pleased at finding Evelyn and me to- 
 gether. 
 
 137 
 
We Three 
 
 "Archie thought he was going to ride with Lucy," 
 Evelyn explained, "but she threw him down, and I 
 suppose we have got to ask him to ride with us!" 
 
 "Yes," I said, "I think you have, but I don't have 
 to accept, do I ? You're just doing it 80*^5 not to hurt 
 my feelings, aren't you? Of course if you really 
 want me — — " 
 
 "Come along, Coops," said Evelyn. "He's try- 
 ing to tease us. He wouldn't ride with us for a 
 farm." 
 
 We separated at the mounting-block, and I 
 watched them a little way down the road. And 
 felt a little touch of envy. Evelyn was looking very 
 alluring that afternoon, 
 
 I rode in the opposite direction until I came to 
 the big open flat north of the racetrack; there, a 
 long way off, I saw John Fulton and Lucy walking 
 slowly side by side. John was sabering dead weed 
 stalks with his stick. So I turned east to avoid them, 
 then north, until I had passed the forlorn yellow 
 pesthouse with its high, deer-park fence, and was 
 well out in the country. 
 
 Then I left the main road, and followed one tor- 
 tuous sandy track after another. Suddenly Heroine 
 shied. I looked up from a deep, aimless reverie, 
 
 138 
 
TVe Three 
 
 and saw sitting at the side of a trail a withered old 
 negress. She looked like a monkey buried in a 
 mound of rags. 
 
 "Evening, Auntie," I said. 
 
 "Evening, boss." 
 
 Heroine had broken into a sweat, and was trem- 
 bling. She kept her eyes on the old negress and her 
 ears pointed at her, her nostrils widely dilated. 
 
 "My horse thinks you're a witch, Auntie," I said. 
 "Hope you'll excuse her." 
 
 "I allows I got ter, boss, caze that's jes what I 
 is." 
 
 "Honest to Gospel?" I laughed. 
 
 "You got fifty cents, boss?" 
 
 I found such a coin in my pocket and tossed it to 
 her. 
 
 "I used to have," I said. 
 
 She rose to her feet and Heroine drew away from 
 her, firmly and rudely. 
 
 "Don' min' me, honey," said the old woman, and 
 she held out a hand like a monkey's paw. To my 
 astonishment Heroine began to crane her head to- 
 ward the hand, sniffed at it presently, gave a long 
 sigh of relief and stood at ease, muscles relaxed, 
 and eyelids drooping. 
 
 139 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "Now I believe you," I said. "What else can ' 
 you do?" 
 
 She turned her bright, beady eyes this way and 
 that, searching perhaps for anyone who might be 
 watching and listening. Then she said, "I kin tell 
 fo'tunes, boss." 
 
 "Just tell me my name." 
 
 "You is Mista Mannering, boss." 
 
 "Hum, that's too easy," I said. "I've been com- 
 ing to Aiken a great many years. What is my 
 horse's name?" 
 
 "Her name is He'win, boss." 
 
 "Hum," I said and felt a little creepy feeling of 
 wonder. 
 
 "Does you want to know any mo'?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "You's flighty, boss, but you ain't bad. You is 
 goin' ter be lucky in love, 'n then you is goin' ter 
 be unlucky. You is goin' ter risk gettin' shot, but 
 dere ain't goin' ter be no shootin'. When summer 
 come around you is goin' ter have sorrer in you' 
 breas', and when winter comes around dere'U be de 
 same ole sorrer, a twistin' and a gnawin'." 
 
 "What sort of a sorrow. Auntie?" 
 
 "Sorrer like when you strikes a lil chile what ain't 
 140 
 
We Three 
 
 done no harm, only seem like he done harm, sorrer 
 like you feels w'en you baby dies, 'case you is too 
 close-fisted ter sen' fer de doctor, sorrer like " 
 
 She broke off short, looking a little dazed and 
 foolish. 
 
 "You've had your share of sorrow, Auntie, I can 
 see that." 
 
 "Is I a beas' o' de fiel'?" she exclaimed indig- 
 nantly, "or is I a humanous bein'?" 
 
 "Must all human beings have sorrows?" 
 
 "Yes, boss, but each has he own kin' 1 Big man 
 has big sorrer, little man have little sorrer, and dem 
 as is middlin' men dey has middlin' sorrers.** 
 
 "It's all one," I said, "each gets what he can 
 stand and no more. Put a big sorrow on a little man 
 and he'd break under it; put a little sorrow on a big 
 man and he wouldn't know that he was carrying it. 
 What else can you tell me, Auntie?" 
 
 "I ain't goin' ter tell yo' no mo'." 
 
 "Not for another half-dollar?" 
 
 "No, boss." 
 
 "Well, there it is anyway. Gtfdd evcmng." 
 
 "Good evening, boss." 
 
 She had made me feel a little shivery and I rode 
 off at the gallop. 
 
 141 
 
XVI 
 
 I WAS surprised to find John Fulton in the Club. 
 As a home-loving man he was not a frequent 
 viMtor. He had dropped in, he said, to get a 
 game of bridge, had tired of waiting for somebody 
 to cut out, and had been reading the newspapers to 
 find out how the world was getting along. 
 
 "I haven't more than glanced at them in a week," 
 he said, "but there's nothing new, is there? Just 
 new variations of public animosity and domestic 
 misfortunes. Have you read this Overman busi- 
 ness?" 
 
 "I haven't." 
 
 "It's a, ease or a hard-working, thorougmy respect- 
 able man who, for no reason that is known, sud- 
 denly shoots down his wife and children in cold 
 blood, and then blows his own head to smithereens." 
 
 "But of course there was a reason," I said; "he 
 must have felt that he was justified." 
 
 "He seems to have had enough money and good 
 health. And he passed for a sane, matter-of-fact 
 sort of fellow." 
 
 142 
 
We Three 
 
 "If it was the regular reason," I said, "jealousy, 
 he wouldn't have hurt the children." 
 
 "Only a very unhappy man could kill his chil- 
 dren," said Fulton. "His idea would be to save 
 them from such unhappiness as he himself had ex- 
 perienced. But in nine cases out of ten it would be 
 a mistaken kindness. Causes similar to those which 
 drove the father into a despair of unhappiness would 
 in all probability affect the children less. No two 
 persons enjoy to the same degree, suffer to the same 
 degree or are tempted alike. How many wronged 
 husbands are there who swallow their trouble and 
 endure to one who shoots?" 
 
 "Legions," I said. "Fortunately. Otherwise one 
 could hardly sleep for the popping of pistols." 
 
 "Do you believe that or do you say it to be amus- 
 ing?" 
 
 "I think that the number of husbands who find out 
 that they have been wronged is only exceeded by the 
 number who never even suspect it. But they are not 
 the husbands we know, the modern novelist to the 
 contrary notwithstanding. In our class it is the 
 wives who are wronged as a rule; in the lower 
 classes, the husbands. I've known hundreds of what 
 the newspapers call society people; the women are 
 
JVe Three 
 
 good, with just enough exceptions to prove the rule : 
 the men aren't." 
 
 "When you say that the women are good, you 
 mean they are technically good?" 
 
 "Who is technically good?" 
 
 "Hallo, Harry!" 
 
 Colemain, having pushed a bell, pulled up a big 
 chair and joined us. 
 
 "We were saying that the average woman we 
 know is technically good." 
 
 "You bet she is!" said Colemain. "She has to 
 be ! If she wasn't how could she ever put over the 
 things she does put over? And as a rule her hus- 
 band isn't technically good and so she has power 
 over him. She says nothing, but he knows that she 
 knows, and so when she does something peculiarly 
 extravagant^and outrageous, he reaches meekly for 
 his checkbook. For one man who is ruined by 
 drink there are ten ruined by women; and not by 
 the kind of women who are supposed to ruin men 
 either; not by the street-walker, the chorus girl or 
 the derai-mondaine. American men are ruined by 
 their wives and daughters who are technically good. 
 Don't we know dozens of cases? When there is a 
 crash in Wall Street how many well-to-do married 
 
 144 
 
JVe Three 
 
 men go to smash to one well-to-do bachelor? A 
 marriage isn't a partnership. It's the opposite ex- 
 cept in name. It's a partnership in which the junior 
 partner gives her whole mind to extracting from the 
 business sums of money which ought to go back into 
 it. And she spends those sums almost invariably 
 on things which diminish in value the moment they 
 are bought. It isn't the serpent that is the arch 
 enemy of mankind. It's the pool in which Eve first 
 saw that she was beautiful, or would be if she could 
 only get her fig-leaf skirt to hang right." 
 
 "But I think," said Fulton gently, "that women 
 ought to have pretty clothes, and bright jewels and 
 luxuries. If a girl loves a man, and proves it and 
 keeps on loving him, how is it possible for him to 
 pay her back short of ruining himslf ? Haven't you 
 ever felt that if the whole world was yours to give 
 you'd give it gladly? Why complain then when 
 afterwards you are only asked to give that infinites- 
 imal portion of the world that happens at the mo- 
 ment to be yours? If a man is ruined for his wife, 
 if cares shorten his life, even then he has done far, 
 far less than he once said he was willing and eager 
 to do." 
 
 He looked at the big clock over the mantelpiece, 
 
 145 
 
JVe Three 
 
 sat silent for a moment, then rose, wished us good- 
 night and went out. 
 
 "You wouldn't think," said Harry, "to hear him 
 talk that a woman was playing chuck-cherry with 
 that infinitesimal portion of the world that happens 
 to be his. I was in the bank this morning and I 
 saw him come out of the President's room. He 
 looked a little as if he'd just identified the body of 
 a missing dear one in the morgue." 
 
 "I'm afraid he is frightfully hard up," I said, 
 "but he hasn't said anything to me about it, and 
 I don't like to volunteer." 
 
 "He's a good man," said Harry, "one of the few 
 really good men I know, and it's a blamed shame." 
 "Oh, it will all come out in the wash." 
 "It depends on how dirty the linen isl" 
 "American men," I said, "never seem to have the 
 courage to retrench. Why not take your family 
 to a cheap boarding-house for a year or two ? Cut 
 the Gordian knot and get right down to bed rock? 
 Boarding-house food may be bad for the spirit, but 
 it's good for the body. My father had dyspepsia 
 one spring, and his doctor told him to spend six 
 weeks in a summer hotel — an-j summer hotel — and 
 take all his meals in it." 
 
 146 
 
TVe Three 
 
 Just then one of the bell-boys interrupted us. He 
 said that Mrs. Fulton wished to speak with me. He 
 followed me into the coat room, where the telephone 
 is, in a persistent sort of way, so that I turned on 
 him rather sharply and asked what he wanted. 
 
 His eyes were bulging with a look of importance 
 and his black face had an expression of mystery. 
 "She ain't on de telephone," he said, "she's outside." 
 
 "Well, why couldn't you say so?" 
 
 I went out bareheaded into the dusk and walked 
 quickly between the bedded hyacinths and the ever- 
 green hedges of Carolina cherry to the sidewalk. 
 But she wasn't there. Far up the street I saw a fa- 
 miliar horse and buggy, and a whip that signaled to 
 me. 
 
 She was all alone. Even Cornelius Twombley, as 
 much a part of the buggy as one of the wheels, had 
 been dropped off somewhere. 
 
 "I haven't seen you all day," she said. "I thought 
 maybe you'd like to go for a little drive." 
 
 I simply climbed into the buggy and sat down 
 beside her. 
 
 "Evelyn and Dawson," she explained, "were 
 crowding the living-room, so I thought of this. Is 
 John in the Club?" 
 
 147 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "He was, but he said good-night to Harry Cole- 
 main and me, and I think he went home. . . . How 
 is everything? I saw you and John from afar, walk- 
 ing together. I knew you could run because I've 
 seen you play tennis, but I didn't suppose you'd ever 
 learned to walk. You're always either on a horse 
 or behind one." 
 
 "Was it very bold of me to come to the Club for 
 you ? I suppose I ought to have telephoned." Then 
 she laughed. "I ought to have had more considera- 
 tion of your reputation," she said. 
 
 "My reputation will survive," I said. "But look 
 here, Lucy " 
 
 "I'm looking!" 
 
 "I meant look with your mind. I don't know if 
 I ought to bring it up ; it's just gossip, Harry saw 
 John coming out of the President's room in the bank. 
 He said it looked to him as if John had been trying 
 to make a touch and hadn't gotten away with it. 
 You know I hate to see him distressed for money, 
 especially now when other things are distressing 
 him, and I wonder if there isn't some tactful arrange- 
 ment by which I could let him have some money 
 without his knowing that it came from me." 
 
 "Aren't you good!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I sup- 
 148 
 
JVe Three 
 
 pose he makes things out as bad as he can so as to 
 influence me as much as possible ; but he says we are 
 in a terrible hole, that we oughtn't to have come here 
 at all, that if he'd had any idea how much money 
 I'd been spending in New York before we came he 
 wouldn't have considered coming, that everybody is 
 hounding him for money, and that he doesn't see 
 how he can possibly pay his bills at the end of the 
 season. Of course it's mostly my fault; but I can't 
 help it if the Democrats are in power and business 
 is bad, can I?" 
 
 "Well," I said, "I'm flush just now and I'll think 
 up a scheme. Meanwhile let's forget about every- 
 thing that isn't pleasant. Where are you going to 
 drive me?" 
 
 "I don't care. Let's get away from the lights. 
 What time is it? John doesn't like me to be late; 
 and besides I haven't kissed the kiddies good-night. 
 Let's just take a little dip in the woods. On a hot 
 night it's almost like going for a swim. Oughtn't 
 you to have a hat or something? If you get cold you 
 can put the cooler on like a shawl." 
 
 Her manner affected me as it had never affected 
 me before. 
 
 The <fip from the hot dusk of the dusty road into 
 149 
 
We Three 
 
 the cool midnight of the pine -ipoods had all the ex- 
 hilaration of an adventure. The fact that she had 
 sent into the Club for me flattered my vanity. She 
 wanted me and not another to be with her. I felt a 
 tenderness for her that I had never felt before. I 
 wanted a chance to show that I understood her and 
 was her friend without qualification. Shoulder 
 touched shoulder now and then and it seemed to 
 me as if I was being appealed to by that contact 
 for support, countenance, and protection. 
 
 We chattered about the night and the pale stars, 
 and the smells of flowers. We wished that there 
 was no such thing as dinner, that the woods lasted 
 forever, and that we might drive on through the 
 soft perfumed air until we came to the end of 
 them. 
 
 Then there was quite a long silence, and for the 
 first time in my life I experienced the wish, well, not 
 to kiss her, but to lay my cheek against hers. It was 
 a wish singularly hard to resist. 
 
 "I suppose we ought to turn back." 
 
 "You know best," I said. 
 
 "Do you want to?" 
 
 "No, do you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 150 
 
JVe Three 
 
 But we turned back and came up out of the woods 
 into the lights of the town. 
 
 "Where shall I drop you— at the Club?" 
 
 "Let me drop you," I said, "and borrow your 
 buggy afterward to take me home. You ought not 
 to drive alone at night." 
 
 "Maybe it would be better if I did," she said. 
 
 We said good-night at the door of her house, but 
 not easily. For once it seemed hard to say any- 
 thing final. 
 
 "Was I very brazen," she said, "to ask you to 
 go with me, when I didn't want to be alone?" 
 
 "You were not," I said, "it was sweet of you. I 
 loved it." 
 
 Cornelius Twombly lunged from the black 
 shadow of a cedar tree and went to the horse's head. 
 
 "Good-night, Lucy. Good luck!" 
 
 Just then we heard John calling. 
 
 "That you, Lucy? You're late. I was getting 
 anxious." 
 
 We could see him coming down the path, a vague 
 shadow among the shadows, his cigarette burning 
 brightly. 
 
 "Hallo, who is it? I can't see." 
 
 "It's Archie Mannering," said Lucy. 
 151 
 
We Three 
 
 "Oh, is it? Won't you come in?" 
 
 "Can't, thanks. Got to dress. Lovely night, isn't 
 it? Good-night. Good-night, Lucy." 
 
 When I had driven a little way I turned and 
 looked over my shoulder, but though I could only 
 see the fire of John's cigarette, I imagined that I 
 could see his face — a little puzzled, a little anxious, 
 and very sad. 
 
 It was on that same night that he said to Lucy: 
 "Aren't you seeing a good deal of Archie Manner- 
 ing?" 
 
 And she answered: 
 
 'Am I ? I suppose I am. I like him awfully." 
 
XVII 
 
 I AWOKE the next morning with the feeling 
 that something or other was impending. 
 I had no idea what it might be, pleasant 
 or unpleasant. I felt a little the way you feel just 
 before a race on which you have bet altogether too 
 much money, a little excited, a little nervous, equally 
 ready for laughter or anger. I had also the feeling 
 that I had a great many things to do, and could not 
 possibly get them done in so short a space of time 
 as one day. 
 
 I hurried through breakfast. I hurried through 
 the papers. And then I realized with a sense of 
 anti-climax that until four o'clock, when I was to 
 ride with Lucy, I had but one thing of any possible 
 importance to do. And upon that business from 
 first to last including the walk to the village and 
 thence to the Club I spent no more than three-quar- 
 ters of an hour. It had been an eccentric piece of 
 business, and I was rather pleased with myself for 
 having brought it to a satisfactory conclusion. But 
 I wanted others to know what I had done and t» be 
 
 153 
 
We Three 
 
 pleased with me for doing it; and to tell anyone was 
 quite out of the question. 
 
 In the Club letter-box under "M," I saw a small 
 gray envelope. Instinct told me that it was for me, 
 and that it was from Lucy. Then somehow all my 
 feeling of restlessness and suspense melted away like 
 a lump of sugar in hot tea. I felt at once serene 
 and comfortable. 
 
 I carried the note to a writing-table, for I imag- 
 ined that it would require an immediate answer, and 
 then read it. Like all Lucy's notes it began without 
 the conventional endearment, and ended with in- 
 itials. It contained also her usual half-dozen mis- 
 takes in spelling. 
 
 John says he has no money and can't get any. So we've 
 got to close the house and go back north, and live very 
 cheaply till better times. So I've got to begin packing. So 
 I can't ride this afternoon. Isn't it all a beastly shame? But 
 please drop in and say how-dy-do just the same, and don't 
 mind if you have to sit on a trunk. And please be a little 
 sorry because I'm going away and we can't have any more 
 rides. And please don't say anything about this; because 
 John isn't just himself and maybe when we get all packed 
 up he'll change his mind. L. F. 
 
 Long before they were "all packed up," John did 
 change his mind. I was present when he changed 
 
 154 
 
JVe Three 
 
 it. Lucy, Evelyn, and I were in the living-room 
 helping each other to pack large silver-framed pho- 
 tographs into the tray of a trunk. It was slow work. 
 During the winter none of us had looked at the 
 photographs or commented on the originals, but now 
 that they were to be swathed in tissue paper and 
 put out of sight each one had to be approved or 
 disapproved, and long excursions had to be made 
 into the life histories and affairs of the friends who 
 had sat for them. 
 
 Lucy had just taken a large photograph of Ev- 
 elyn from the top of the low bookshelves that filled 
 one end of the room when John came in from the 
 garden with an open letter in his hand. He was 
 smiling in a puzzled sort of way. 
 
 "What do you know about this!" he exclaimed 
 rather than asked. 
 
 "Nothing," said Lucy, "yet." And she began to 
 wrap Evelyn's photograph in many folds of tissue 
 paper. 
 
 "Yesterday," said John, "I tried to get some 
 money from the bank, but they turned me down. 
 Now they write that upon reconsideration I can 
 have anything I like." 
 
 Well, Lucy's expression at that moment was 
 155 
 
We Three 
 
 worth a great deal more than the few thousands 
 which her husband would see fit to borrow from 
 the bank, and I couldn't but feel that there are mo- 
 ments when it is really worth while to be alive and 
 rich. 
 
 "Wonder what made 'em change their minds?" 
 said John. 
 
 "There's one thing sure," said Lucy. "You are 
 not to look a gift horse in the mouth." 
 
 She unwrapped the photograph of Evelyn and 
 put it back in its old place on top of the book- 
 shelves. 
 
 "This settles everything, does it?" asked John. 
 "We don't go back to New York?" 
 
 "We do not," said Lucy firmly. 
 
 "Well," said John, "I'd better see the bank be- 
 fore it changes its mind again. Is the buggy out- 
 side?" 
 
 "No, but you can take Archie's or Evelyn's. 
 Can't he? I sent Cornelius Twombly to do some 
 chores." 
 
 "I'll drive you down," said Evelyn, "having a 
 telegram to send." 
 
 "And I'll stay and help Lucy unpack," I said. 
 "Lord, people, I'm glad you're not going!" 
 
We Three 
 
 The moment we were alone Lucy said: "You 
 did it." 
 
 "Did what?" 
 
 "Don't beat about the bush 1 Don't pretend that 
 you are not a blessed angel in disguise 1" 
 
 Her face was very grave and lovely. 
 
 "It's the kindest, tactfulest thing that anybody 
 ever did." 
 
 "I couldn't bear the thought of your going back 
 to the city when it's such fun here." 
 
 "What can I say or do to thank you?" 
 
 "Nothing, Lucy. Yes, you can. You can ride 
 with me this afternoon." 
 
 She looked a little troubled. "Last night, after 
 you had gone," she said, "John said, 'Aren't you 
 seeing a good deal of Archie Mannering?' " 
 
 For a moment I felt distinctly chilled and un- 
 comfortable. Then I said: "Oh, dearl Now 
 Brutus himself is beginning to worry about us. How 
 
 silly!" 
 
 "How silly!" echoed Lucy, and we stood staring 
 at each other rather vapidly, finding nothing to say. 
 
 After a while I asked if John had said any more 
 on the subject. "Did he embroider the theme at 
 all?" I asked, 
 
 157 
 
JVe Three 
 
 Lucy took a photograph out of the trunk tray 
 and began to unwrap it. "Yes," she said. "He 
 did. He even held forth. He said that when a 
 woman no longer cared for her husband, it was 
 dangerous for her to see much of another man. 
 He realized, he said, that ours was an exceptional 
 case, but that soon people would guess about him 
 and me, and tha^ then they'd begin to talk about 
 you and me. And he hates anything conspicuous, 
 and so forth, and so forth." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 She smiled up at me, but not very joyously. "I 
 said, 'I'm- not going to be rude to one of the best 
 friends I've got, just for fun. If you forbid me to 
 see him, why I suppose I'll obey you, but I'd have 
 to explain to him, wouldn't I ? I'd have to say, "John 
 considers our friendship dangerous, so we're not to 
 see each other any more!" ' And of course he said 
 that that was out of the question, and I agreed with 
 him." 
 
 "Still you've said it." 
 
 And we smiled at each other. 
 
 "He didn't give me a good character," said Lucy 
 dolefully. "He said I never think of yesterday or 
 tomorrow, but only of the moment. He said I 
 
 158 
 
We Three 
 
 neglect the children, and Oh, I'd like to end it all ! 
 It's an impossible situation. I'd give my life gladly 
 to feel about him the way I used to, but I can't — I 
 can't ever." 
 
 She looked very tragic. 
 
 "Oh," she went on vehemently, "It's terrible. I'm 
 all cold and dumb. Every power of affection that I 
 had has gone out like a candle. I do neglect the 
 children ! It's because I can't look them In the face. 
 I've failed him, and I've failed them, and I ought 
 to tie a stone round my neck and jump Into the near- 
 est millpond." 
 
 "It's a good three miles to the nearest millpond," 
 I said. "And there Isn't a stone in this part of 
 South Carolina. You are all up in the air now, be- 
 cause the situation you are In is so new to you. But 
 you'll get used to it." 
 
 "If I don't go mad first." 
 
 "Why, Lucy?" 
 
 "You don't understand," she cried. "You have 
 never had loving arms to go to when you were in 
 trouble. I've had them and I've lost them. I mean 
 I've lost the power to go to them and find com- 
 fort." 
 
 A picture of her running to my arms for comfort 
 
 159 
 
We Three 
 
 flashed through my mind, and troubled me to the 
 marrow. And I had from that moment the definite 
 wish to take her in my arms. And in that same 
 moment I realized that those who thought we were 
 too much together were not such meddling fools as 
 I had thought them. 
 
 "Lucy," I said, and I hardly recognized my own 
 voice. "Whatever happens, you've a friend who 
 will never fail you." 
 
 "I know that," she said, and she held out her two 
 hands, and I took them in mine. 
 
 "If you sent for me to the endsi of the earth, I 
 would come." 
 
 "I know that." 
 
 "There is nothing you could ask of me that I 
 wouldn't give." 
 
 "I know that." 
 
 And that afternoon we rode together in the woods. 
 
XVIII 
 
 A MAN must have descended to the very 
 deepest levels of depression before he loses 
 his power to laugh, or to be cheered by an 
 unexpected bettering of his financial position. John 
 Fulton was in a bad way, but certain things still 
 struck him as funny, and the money which he had 
 been enabled to borrow from the bank had eased 
 his mind. Still, so Lucy told me, he could not sleep 
 at night, and it must have been obvious to the most 
 casual observer that he was a sick man. He had a 
 drawn and hungry look. Jock and Hurry could by 
 no means satisfy his appetite for affection. Indeed, 
 I think the sight and touch and the sounds of them 
 at play were no great comfort to him at this time. 
 He must have felt in their presence something of 
 that anguish of pity which a man feels for children 
 who have lost their mother. 
 
 He had hoped at first that Lucy's failure of af- 
 fection was but a temporary aberration. But at last 
 he must have come to despair of any change in her 
 feelings for him, at least under existing conditions. 
 
 i6i 
 
TVe Three 
 
 Indeed their relations were going from bad to worse. 
 A man loved and beloved falls into habits of pas- 
 sion for which there is no cure but death or old age. 
 Yet a man would readily believe that separation 
 might affect him like an opiate, and it must have 
 been in this belief that Fulton determined to accom- 
 pany Harry Colemain on a trip to Palm Beach. To 
 me he vouchsafed the explanation that he was not 
 well and that he couldn't sleep, and that when he 
 wasn't well, and that when he couldn't sleep, his one 
 thought and desire was to get to salt water. "It 
 always cures me," he said, just as if he had often 
 been sick before. From Lucy I had the truth of the 
 matter. 
 
 "He thinks," she said, "that if he goes away and 
 stays away for a long time that perhaps I will miss 
 him enou^ to want him back, and on the old foot- 
 ing. He isn't even going to write to me. It's going 
 to be exactly as if he didn't exist." 
 
 "Do you think it wise for him to go, Lucy?" 
 "Perhaps it will do him good. It won't change 
 me, I know that. If only he'd change. Haven't 
 I done him enough harm to make him hate me? 
 Archie, I'm so sorry for him that I wish I was dead. 
 And yet I want to live. I'm too young to die. I 
 
 162 
 
TVe Three 
 
 want to live, and be happy — happy the way I used 
 to be happy." 
 
 "And you can't with John?" 
 
 She shook her head quiedy. "It's the most won- 
 derful thing to be in love!" she said. "I wonder 
 what I did to have that wonderful thing? I wonder 
 what I've done to deserve to lose it? And even if — 
 even if it happened again it could never be the same. 
 There can be only one first time — even if you've 
 got a silly memory that doesn't remember very well. 
 And you make ties and habits and all these have to 
 be thrown overboard when the second time happens, 
 and there's scandal, and cold shoulders, and — what 
 do you think I ought to do ? If I can't give him what 
 he's paying for oughtn't I to cut loose on my own, 
 to support myself, and not be a burden to him and a 
 ubiquitous reminder that we've failed to make a go 
 of living together? What ought I to do?" 
 
 It had become very hard for me to tell her what 
 I thought she ought to do. Ever since that moment 
 when I had first known that I wanted to take her in 
 my arms and comfort her, I had begun to have 
 doubts of my own honesty. And now she had put 
 that honesty to a definite test, and I was determined 
 that it should come through the ordeal alive. 
 
 163 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "Must I really tell you what I think you ought 
 to do?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Some of the things x tnink you ought to do, are 
 things that I know you don't want to do — things 
 that you think perhaps you can't do. Women often 
 say can't when they mean wot^t, don't they?" 
 
 "Maybe." 
 
 "I'm afraid you aren't going to like what I'm 
 going to say, nor me for saying it." 
 
 "Try me," she said, and she gave me a look of 
 great trust and understanding. 
 
 "I'm going to tell you what I think you ought to 
 do, Luqr, and what I think you ought to have done." 
 
 Any teacher whose scholars looked at him with 
 the trustfulness and expectation with which Lucy 
 now looked at me, must be inspired, I think, to the 
 very top notch of his sense of honor and duty. I 
 am sure at least that I laid the law down of what I 
 thought she should do, and should have done with 
 complete honesty and without regard to conse- 
 quences. If I got nothing better for my pains than 
 dislike, at least I could criticize her conduct and 
 character without being biased by my growing af- 
 fection for her. 
 
 164 
 
We Three 
 
 "In the first place," I said, "when you found out 
 that you no longer loved your husband, you made 
 your first mistake. By your own admission he had 
 given you everything in the way of devotion and 
 faithfulness that a man can give a woman. When 
 you found that you no longer loved him, you 
 shouldn't have told him. He ought never to have 
 known. You should have summoned all your forti- 
 tude and delicacy to deceive him into thinking that 
 you had not changed toward him, and never would." 
 
 "I couldn't!" exclaimed Lucy. 
 
 "You wouldn't," I said. 
 
 "It wouldn't have been honest." 
 
 "Perhaps not. But it would have been noble." 
 
 Lucy naturally enough preferred praise to blame, 
 and this showed in her face and in her voice. I 
 felt infinitely removed from our previous terms of 
 intimate confidence, when she said: "Couldn't or 
 wouldn't, it's history that I didn't." 
 
 "That being so," I said, "I think you should go 
 now to your husband and tell him that love or no 
 love you propose to be his faithful wife till death 
 part you ; to put him first in your head, if not in your 
 heart. It may be that through a long course of 
 simulation you will come once more to care for him. 
 
 165 
 
We Three 
 
 Self-sacrifice is a noble weapon. I think, Lucy, that 
 you would be very wise if you told him that two is 
 not a lucky number." 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "Jock and Hurry," I said, "are two." 
 
 She changed color to the roots of her hair. "Oh," 
 she cried, "you don't understand how a woman feels 
 about that ! I'd rather die. I — I couldn't!" 
 
 "You won't." 
 
 "I thought "jou understood me better. I thought 
 •jou wanted me to be happy !" 
 
 "Upon my soul, Lucy, I think that you might find 
 happiness that way." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders and her face looked 
 hard as marble. "And that's your advice!" she 
 said. And then with a sudden change of expres- 
 sion, "It's what you think I ought to do. Would 
 it please you if I took your advice ? Is it what you 
 want me to do ?" 
 
 I had spoken as I thought duty commanded. It 
 hadn't been easy. WitK each word I felt that I 
 had lost ground in her estimation. She asked that 
 last question with the expression of a weary woe- 
 begone child, and I answered it without thought, 
 arid upon the urge of a wrong impulse. 
 
 i66 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "No — no," I cried. "It's not what I want you 
 to do. I had almost rather see you dead," 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 "Do you mean that?" 
 
 "Yes, Lucy. Yes." 
 
 "Then you do care. Oh, thank God !" 
 
 I don't know how she got there. It was as if I 
 had waked up and found her in my arms. 
 
 Kissed and kissing, we heard the opening of the 
 distant front door. And Oh, how I wish I had 
 found the courage when Fulton came into the living- 
 room, to tell him that I loved his wife, and that she 
 loved me, and what was he going to do about it ! I 
 did have the impulse, but not the courage. When 
 Fulton came in Lucy was knitting at an interminable 
 green necktie, and I was talking to her from a far 
 chair across an open number of the illustrated hon- 
 don News. We looked, I believe, as casual and 
 innocent as cherubim, but my conscience was very 
 guilty, and it seemed to me, rightly or wrongly, that 
 for the first time Fulton showed me a certain curt- 
 ness of manner, as if he was not pleased at finding 
 me so often in his house. 
 
XIX 
 
 WITH the knowledge that I loved Lucy 
 and that she loved me, came also the 
 knowledge that for a long time the situa- 
 tion had been inevitable — inevitable if we kept on 
 being so much in each other's company. Passages 
 between us of words and looks now recurred to my 
 memory filled with portentous meaning. Oh, I 
 thought, how could I have been so blind! A fool 
 must have seen It coming. I ought to have seen It 
 coming. I ought to have run from it as a man runs 
 from a conflagration. When Lucy told me that she 
 no longer loved her husband I ought to have known 
 that the fault was mine, and I ought to have gone 
 to a far place, and left that little family to rehabili- 
 tate itself in peace. Surely after a "blank" spell 
 Lucy would have loved her husband again. 
 
 But all the thoughts that I carried to bed with 
 me that night were not dark with remorse. It was 
 possible for whole minutes of time, especially be- 
 tween sleeping and waking, to forget the complica- 
 tions of the situation and to bask in the blissful 
 
 i68 
 
TVe Three 
 
 warmth of its serenities. The laughter, the prayers, 
 the adoration of Lucy's lovely eyes were mine now. 
 She loved me better than her children, better than 
 life itself. She had not said these things to me, she 
 had looked them to me. It was wonderful to feel 
 that I had been trusted with so much that was beau- 
 tiful and precious. 
 
 Once a spoiled child, always a spoiled child. In 
 the scheme of things I would not at first give their 
 proper place to those awful barriers which society 
 has set up between a man and another man's wife. 
 We loved each other with might and main, and our 
 only happiness could be in passing over those bar- 
 riers and belonging to each other. John Fulton and 
 his children were but vague pale shadows across the 
 sunshine. 
 
 The sleep that I got that night, short though it 
 was, was infinitely refreshing. I waked with the 
 feeling that happiness had at last come into my 
 life, and that I was not thirty-five years old, but 
 twenty years young. 
 
 I walked in my mother's garden waiting for serv- 
 ants to come downstairs and make coffee for me and 
 poach eggs. It was going to be a lovely day. Al- 
 ready the sun had coaxed the tea-olives to give out 
 
 169 
 
We Three 
 
 their odor of ripe peaches. "How she loves them," 
 I thought. "If only she were with me now." 
 
 The garden seemed very beautiful to me. For 
 the first time In my life, I think, I took a flower in 
 my hands and examined it to see how it was made. 
 A great and new curiosity filled me. How beautiful 
 the world was, and all things in it; how short the 
 time to find out all that there was to be known about 
 all those beautiful things! And what an ignoble 
 basis of ignorance I must start from If I was to "find 
 out," and to "understand 1" There filled me a sense 
 of unworthiness and a strong desire for self-improve- 
 ment. 
 
 "I must learn the names of some of these things," 
 I thought, and I began to read the labels which stood 
 among the flowers and shrubbery, for In such mat- 
 ters my mother was very strict and particular: 
 'Abelda grandiflora, Laurestinus, Olea fragrans, 
 
 Ligustrum napalense, Rosa watsoniana Now 
 
 really could that thing be a rose? It looked 
 more like a cross between a fern and an ostrich 
 plume. I looked closer. Each slender light green 
 leaf was mottled with lighter green, a miracle of 
 exquisite tracing, and the thing was in bud, millions 
 and millions of buds no bigger than the eggs in a 
 
 170 
 
JVe Three 
 
 shad roe. Yes, it was a rose. I looked at the drop 
 of blood on the ball of my thumb, and thought what 
 a beautiful color it was, and how gladly, if need be, 
 I would shed every drop of it for Her. 
 
 Dark smoke began to pour from the kitchen chim- 
 ney, and I knew that the cook was down. Hilda 
 must have seen me in the garden, for she was setting 
 a place for me at one end of the big dining-table. 
 How fresh and clean she always looked and how 
 tidy. Almost you might have thought that her hair 
 was carved from some rich brown substance. It 
 was always as neat as the hair of a statue. 
 
 "Good morning, Hilda." 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Archie." 
 
 "How about breakfast?" 
 
 "It will be ready directly." 
 
 "Wish you'd give me a long glass of ApoUinaris 
 with a lot of ice in it." 
 
 "With pleasure." 
 
 I heard her pounding ice in the pantry and then 
 the pop as the bottle came open. She stood behind 
 my chair while I drank. And somehow I got the 
 feeling that she was smiling. I turned my head 
 quickly. She was smiling, but tremulously, ahnost 
 as if she was going to cry. 
 
 171 
 
We Three 
 
 "What's the matter, Hilda — have I forgotten to 
 brush the back of my hair?" 
 
 "No, sir— it's " 
 
 "It's whatf 
 
 "Nothing, sir — oiirly " 
 
 "Don't be silly Tell me." 
 
 She told me, and for a moment, so odd was her 
 statement, I thought she must have gone out of her 
 mind. 
 
 "The window of my room," she said, "is just 
 over one of the windows of yours." 
 
 I didn't know what to say. I really thought she 
 must be slightly deranged. I said lamely: "Which 
 window?" 
 
 "The one by your bed, the one you always leave 
 open so's the air can get to you." 
 
 "Well, Hilda, what about it?" 
 
 "Sometimes I hear you talking in your sleep, and 
 then I lean out of my window and listen." 
 
 With this admission she blushed crimson and no 
 longer looked me in the eyes. 
 
 "Do you think that's quite fair?" 
 
 "I don't lead a very full life, Mr. Archie." 
 
 "And my unconscious prattle helps to fill it? Do 
 I often talk in my sleep ?" 
 
 172 
 
We Three 
 
 "You talked last night." 
 
 Her voice was full of meaning and somehow I 
 felt chilled and no longer so very gay and happy. 
 
 "What did I talk about?" 
 
 "About a lady." 
 
 With humiliation I realized that I was now turn- 
 ing red; but I laughed, and said: "We look like a 
 couple of boiled lobsters, Hilda. What did I say 
 about the lady?" 
 
 "You said — I only thought you ought to know 
 that I know — so's — ^well so's you can keep that win- 
 dow shut, and fix it so no one else will know." 
 
 I felt like a convicted criminal. 
 
 "Did I — ^mention the lady's name?" 
 
 She nodded. "You were talking about Mrs. Ful- 
 ton," she said in a low voice, "only you didn't call 
 her that." 
 
 "Hilda," I said firmly. "Mrs. Fulton and I are 
 very old friends — nothing more." 
 
 I could see that she didn't believe me, and I 
 changed my tactics. "You'll not talk, Hilda ?" 
 
 Her face had resumed its natural color, and she 
 now looked me once more in the eyes. "I'd sooner 
 die than hurt you, Mr. Archie." 
 
 "Why, Hilda !" 
 
 173 
 
We Three 
 
 All this time I had been sitting and talking over 
 my shoulder, but now I got quickly out of my chair, 
 and drew her hands away from her face. "Oh, 
 Hilda, I am so sorry. What can I do? I'm so 
 sorry, Hilda, and so proud, too." 
 
 She looked up at that. 
 
 "You poor child! I feel like a dog, a miserable 
 dog I" 
 
 "You couldn't help it, Mr. Archie. You can't 
 help being you. Can you?" 
 
 She tried to smile. 
 
 "How long," I asked, "has it been like this?" 
 
 "Ever since the day I came — three years and two 
 hundred and twenty-one days ago — and I heard 
 you say to Mrs. Mannering — to your mother — 
 'Mother,' you said, 'that new maid is as pretty as 
 a picture.' And that did it !" 
 
 "Hilda," I said as quietly as I could, "I'm more 
 touched and flattered than I can express. I'll be a 
 good friend to you as long as I live. But — I think 
 I ought to say it, even if it's a cold rough thing to 
 say. I don't believe I'm ever going to feel the same 
 way about you, and so " 
 
 "Oh, I know that, but Oh, do you still think 
 
 I'm pretty?" 
 
 174 
 
We Three 
 
 "Indeed I do. I've always thought that. Al- 
 ways known that." .. 
 
 "Well," she said, speaking very bravely but with 
 a mouth that quivered, "that's something. I don't 
 lead a very full life, but that's something." 
 
XX 
 
 MOTHER, are you very busy with those 
 letters?" 
 
 "Yes, dear, very." 
 
 "I thought so; so put them down and come into 
 the garden. There is a bench where the thyme and 
 eglantine " 
 
 "My dear, you frighten me. What has hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 My mother rose, one hand on her bosom. 
 
 "Nothing to be frightened about. It's only a 
 little tragedy in a life that isn't very full. Come 
 and talk it over." 
 
 I gave her my arm and we strolled into, the gar- 
 den like a pair of lovers. 
 
 "Do you remember when Hilda came to us?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "I said to you on that day, 'Mother, the new 
 maid is as pretty as a picture.' Do you remember?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, I said it, and Hilda heard me say it, and 
 please don't laugh, it seems that my saying it made 
 
 176 
 
We Three 
 
 the poor child — Oh, care about me. She's cared 
 ever since, and I'm afraid she cares a whole lot." 
 
 "How did you get to know?" 
 
 "She told me, this morning, practically out of a 
 clear sky. One thing I want to make clear is that 
 it's just as little my fault as it possibly can be. I 
 feel like the devil about it, but I can't for the life 
 of me find one little hook to hang a shred of self- 
 reproach on. My morals aren't what they should 
 be. But I am a fastidious man, and the roof under 
 which my mother lives is to me as the roof of a 
 temple. But you know all this. Now what's to be 
 done? One thing is clear, I can't and won't be 
 amorously waited on, I think the poor child will 
 have to be sent away." 
 
 "Oh, dear!" cried my mother, "and just when 
 she's getting to be a perfect servant, and your father 
 so used to her now — says he never knows when 
 she's in the room and when she isn't." 
 
 We returned to the house. 
 
 "I'll talk it over with her," announced my mother, 
 "and try to decide what's best — ^best for her, the 
 poor, pretty little thing." 
 
 You may be sure that that meeting In the little 
 room where my mother wrote her letters was no 
 
 177 
 
yy e 1 nree 
 
 meeting between a mistress and a servant, but be- 
 tween two honest women who in different ways 
 loved the same man. 
 
 I was with Lucy while it took place, but certain 
 gists of what was said and done have come to me, 
 some from my mother, and some from Hilda. 
 
 My mother, it seemed, waived at once all those 
 degrees of the social scale which separated them, 
 took. Hilda in her arms, kissed her, and held her 
 while Hilda had what women call a "good cry." 
 My mother is too proud and brave to cry, but she 
 was unhappy without affectation. After the em- 
 brace and the cry they sat side by side on a little 
 brocaded sofa and talked. My mother fortunately 
 did not have to point out the social obstacles in the 
 way of a match between Hilda and me, as there was 
 never any question of such a match. Indeed, in the 
 talk between them I was not at first mentioned. My 
 mother took the position that Hilda was just a sweet, 
 nice-minded girl who was very unhappy and needed 
 comforting, and advice. First she made Hilda tell 
 the story of her life. To be permitted to do this 
 in the presence of a sincere listener and well-wisher 
 is one of the greatest comforts to anyone. 
 
 "The poor child," said my mother, "has had such 
 178 
 
We Three 
 
 a drab, colorless, unhappy life that it made her 
 almost happy to tell about It." 
 
 It seemed that Hilda wasn't "anybody" even for 
 a servant. Her earliest recollections were of life In 
 an English orphanage — one of those orphanages 
 where the mothers of the orphans are still alive and 
 there never were any fathers. 
 
 "But she's made herself think," my mother told 
 me, "that her father was a gentleman — God save 
 the mark!" 
 
 Well, she went into service when she was a 
 "great" girl of fourteen or fifteen, and after various 
 drab adventures In servitude came to this country 
 and was presently sent to my mother on approval. 
 She had left her last place in England because of a 
 horrible butler. He was bowlegged and very old. 
 He drank and made the poor frightened girls in the 
 house listen to horrible stories. One found notes, 
 printed notes, pinned on one's pincushion. "Have 
 a heart. Don't lock your door tonight," and such 
 like. Or a piece of plate would be missed and one 
 would find It In one's bureau drawer, where the hor- 
 rible old man had put it, and one dared not com- 
 plain to the master lest upon carefully planned cir- 
 cumstantial evidence one be made out to be a thief. 
 
 179 
 
fT e 1 nree 
 
 It had been so wonderful coming to live in my 
 mother's house. The servants were so different, 
 so kind, so worthy. The servants' rooms were so 
 clean and neat and well-furnished as the master's 
 rooms. So much was done to make the servants 
 comfortable and happy. Nobpdy had ever spoken 
 
 crossly to one in my mother's house "And, Oh, 
 
 Mrs. Mannering, I feel so low and ashamed to 
 have made so much trouble for you and Mr. Archie." 
 
 That was the first mention of my name. 
 
 "My dear Hilda, you mustn't feel ashamed be- 
 cause you've had a romance." 
 
 "Oh, it has been a sort of romance, hasn't it, 
 Mrs. Mannering? But I never — never should have 
 let it all come out. Because now I'll have to go 
 away, and never even see him ever any more. I 
 never should have let it come out, but I couldn't 
 help it. And him always so kind and polite, and 
 never once guessing all these years !" 
 
 Now my mother had not gone into that inter- 
 view without a definite plan. She had heard that 
 the Fultons — of all the people in this world whom 
 it might have been! — were being abandoned by their 
 waitress, and already by a brisk use of the telephone 
 my mother had secured the place for Hilda. 
 
 i8o 
 
JVe Three 
 
 It's a wonder that Hilda did not burst out laugh- 
 ing or screaming when she heard into whose service 
 she was to go. I don't think she hated Lucy — ^yet. 
 But for a woman who loved a man to take a place 
 with the woman the man loved must have struck 
 her as the most grotesque of propositions. But 
 what could she do? Loyal to me, and to my secret, 
 she wasn't going to give me away to my mother. 
 
 "But," she protested, "Mr. Archie goes so much 
 to that house !" 
 
 "But now," said my mother, "don't you see, he 
 won't go so much." 
 
 Indeed the dear manager felt that she had killed 
 two birds with one stone. Lucy had a good place, 
 and from now on there would be in the Fultons' 
 house a living reason why a man of tact (like her 
 beloved sonl) should keep away. Alas, mother, 
 there were other living reasons in that house which 
 should have served to keep me away, and didn't. 
 
 I heard from my mother of the arrangement and 
 was troubled. For once in her life of smoothing 
 out other people's lives she had blundered seriously. 
 Her measures had in them only this of success : that 
 I found many excuses for not taking meals in the 
 Fultons' house, and from that time forward saw 
 
 i8i 
 
We Three 
 
 Hilda very seldom. My mother gave her a lot of 
 clothes, and quite a lot of money, I suppose, and the 
 poor child for a while dropped out of sight. But 
 not out of mind, I can tell you; for it worried me 
 sick to feel that she was always in Lucy's house, 
 watching and listening when she could. 
 
 I had not at this time had any great experience 
 with the passion of jealousy. But a man who reads 
 the newspapers, or has done his turn at jury duty in 
 Criminal Sessions, cannot be ignorant of the des- 
 perate acts to which now and again it drives men 
 and women. 
 
 Hilda, according to the slight knowledge I had of 
 her character, was gentle and patient ; she would be 
 treated by Lucy as all Lucy's servants were, with 
 the greatest tact and friendliness, and still the mere 
 fact of her presence in that house filled me with fore- 
 bodings. She would be in a position to make so 
 much trouble, if ever anything should happen to 
 start her on the war path. She had proved already 
 that her moral nature was not superior to eaves- 
 dropping; already she had my secret by the ears, 
 and one-sided and Innocent though that secret may 
 have appeared to her, it was not really a one-sided 
 secret, and when she had got her clutch upon the 
 
 182 
 
We Three 
 
 other side, she could be almost as dangerous and 
 mischievous as you please. 
 
 At best, Hilda was one more difficulty with which 
 Lucy and I would have to contend. 
 
 It would have been wisest to tell Lucy all that I 
 knew about Hilda. But you may have noticed with 
 butterflies that they do not fly the straight line be- 
 tween two points ; rather they fly in circles, with back- 
 tracking, excursions, and gyrations, so that unless 
 you have seen them start you cannot guess where 
 they have started from, nor until the wings close and 
 the insects come to a definite rest, are you in a posi- 
 tion to know what their objective was. 
 
 In the face of our recently declared love for each 
 other, any mention of Hilda's below-stairs passion 
 for the "young master" seemed to me a blatant in- 
 delicacy. Almost it might have a quality of pluming 
 and boasting, a gross acceptance of man's polyga- 
 mous potentialities. 
 
 There would be time later for conversations in 
 which future practicalities should take precedence 
 over romantic fancies and protestations. Just now 
 the Butterfly did not care a rap what should happen 
 when winter came; for the present the world was 
 filled with flowers — all his, and all containing honey. 
 
 183 
 
XXI 
 
 HE broke up their home," is a familiar 
 phrase. But few men in the act of break- 
 ing up a home realize the gravity of what 
 they are about. I had gone a long way toward 
 breaking up Fulton's happy family life without hav- 
 ing the slightest notion that I was doing anything 
 of the kind. When Lucy fell out of love with her 
 husband, it was not because she had fallen in love 
 with me. It was because she was going to. The 
 lovely little sloop-of-war was merely clearing her 
 decks for action. She didn't know this; I didn't. 
 I frequented the house a little more than other men ; 
 that was all. And I frequented it not because of the 
 charm exercised upon me by an individual member of 
 the Fulton family, but of the charm which it exer- 
 cised upon me as a whole. There was peace, there 
 was happiness, there was love and understanding; 
 there was poignant food for a lonely bachelor to 
 chew upon. Remembering this how can I believe 
 that this is the best of all possible worlds, and that 
 everything in it is for the best? If I had not been 
 
 184 
 
JVe Three 
 
 fascinated by the Fultons as a family, I should never 
 have become a frequenter of their house. If I had 
 not been a frequenter of their house, I should never 
 have split that family which as a whole so fasci- 
 nated me with a wedge of tragedy. It Is a horrid 
 circle of thought. 
 
 When I learned that Lucy no longer loved her 
 husband my heart had given no guilty bound of an- 
 ticipation ; Instead It had turned lead-heavy for sheer 
 sorrowing and sunk Into my boots. The other day 
 the Germans smashed the blue glass in Rheims Ca- 
 thedral. A friend brought me a little fragment of 
 this, and among my personal possessions I give it 
 the place of first treasure. It's a more wonderful 
 blue than Lucy's eyes, even. The light of heaven 
 has poured through it to illumine the face of Joan 
 of Arc. Its price Is far above rubles and sapphires, 
 and It seems to me the most wonderful treasure to 
 have for my very own. But does this fact automatic- 
 ally make me glad that the Germans banged the 
 great cathedral to pieces? It does not. Sometimes 
 when I look at the light through my piece of blue 
 glass I see red. And I hope that those who trained 
 guns against the holy shrine and who are not already 
 in hell, soon will be. And I could wish myself the 
 
 185 
 
JVe Three 
 
 hell of never having known Luqr's love, if by so 
 doing I could restore the Fulton family to the 
 blessed and tranquil state in which I first knew them. 
 I began this chapter with an idea of self-defense. 
 How much of the tragedy am I responsible for? 
 Upon my soul I can never answer that question to 
 my satisfaction, and my conscience has put it to me 
 thousands of times. I ought to have seen it coming. 
 I didn't — at least I'm very sure that I didn't. But 
 sometimes I am not so very sure of this. It is so 
 obvious (now) that I ought to have seen it coming, 
 that sometimes I persuade myself that I actually did. 
 But how could I? For if I had, with any certainty 
 at all, surely I would have been man enough to hide 
 myself away somewhere, even at the ends of the 
 earth. Love does not grow and wax great upon air. 
 Solid food is needed in the occasional presence of 
 the beloved. Suppose I had fled away the moment 
 I learned that Lucy no longer loved her husband? 
 Already her heart must have been turning to me, if 
 only a little, but with the magnet which had caused 
 it to turn that little removed from sight, first, and 
 presently from mind, I believe that after a dazed 
 numbed period that heart of hers might have swung 
 back into its place. 
 
 i86 
 
We Three 
 
 Later when Fulton said to me, "But you ought to 
 have seen it coming, and taken measures to see that 
 it didn't come," I gave him my word that I hadn't 
 seen it coming, and it was very obvious that he didn't 
 believe me. Will anyone believe me? It doesn't 
 matter. I am not even sure myself that I am telling 
 the truth. But I know that I am trying to. 
 
 I had left my mother to her interview with Hilda, 
 and betaken myself to the club. It was too early 
 even to hope for a sight of Lucy. There were a 
 number of men in the reading-room discussing the 
 morning leader in that fair-minded and pithy sheet, 
 the Charleston News and Courier, and one of these, 
 eyeing me with a quizzical expression, said: "You 
 look as if you had won a bet." 
 
 So already // showed in my face. 
 
 Well, I felt as if I had won many bets, and was 
 only twenty, and that the course before me was all 
 plain sailing. I was not yet in a condition to argue 
 with myself about right and wrong. It did not seem 
 worth while to look into the serried faces of diffi- 
 culties and think how I could burst through them. It 
 was more natural on that first morning after the dis- 
 covery to look boldly over their heads to the rich 
 open and peaceful country beyond. 
 
 187 
 
JVe Three 
 
 A line from the "Brushwood Boy" kept occurring 
 to me, "But what shall I do when I see you in the 
 light?" 
 
 What should I do, what would Lucy do ? Would 
 there be people about or would we have the good 
 luck to meet alone? Did she still love me, or had 
 the dark night brought council and a change of heart? 
 I knew that it hadn't. We were as definitely en- 
 gaged to each other as if there was no husband in 
 the way, no children, no law, no convention, no 
 nothing. I was idiotically happy. 
 
 One thing only troubled me a little. Had Lucy's 
 impulse to precipitate frankness already started any 
 machinery of opposition into action? Had she told 
 her husband? Knowing her so intimately, I could 
 not make up my mind, but would have been inclined 
 to take either end of the bet. 
 
 Suppose she had told him ? 
 
 Wouldn't she give me a word of warning so that 
 I could be prepared for anything he might say to 
 me at our first meeting? I thought so, but could 
 not be sure. 
 
 "If he does know," I thought, "I don't want to 
 see him. Why don't I want to see him? Am I 
 afraid of him? I am not afraid of him physically. 
 
 i88 
 
JVe Three 
 
 I am stronger than he and more skillful, and I am 
 not afraid of him mentally. He has a better mind 
 than I have, but that is nothing to be afraid of. 
 Well, then, why don't I want to see him? Oh, be- 
 cause it will be awkward and disagreeable; because 
 he will look sick to death and irreparably injured. 
 Because he will not do me justice, because he will 
 think it is all my fault; and because he will require 
 of me things which I shall not promise him." 
 
 I heard the telephone ringing in the distance. My 
 heart bounded and I knew that Lucy was asking for 
 me. I had risen and half crossed the room to meet 
 the boy who came to tell me that I was indeed 
 wanted on the phone. My heart began to thump 
 in my breast, like a trunk falling downstairs. I 
 glanced guiltily to see if the rumpus it seemed to 
 me to be making was attracting notice. No. Every 
 man was sunk in his newspaper. A moment later, 
 I heard her voice in my ear. 
 
 "Listen, I'd like to see you. I'll be dressed and 
 downstairs in ten minutes. Evelyn and John have 
 driven to the golf club to get John's sticks. He's 
 really going to Palm Beach. They start sometime 
 soon after lunch. . . . How do I feel? . . . Oh, 
 about the same as yesterday !" 
 
 189 
 
JVe Three 
 
 I cannot describe the thrill of emotion which I 
 managed to abstract from that last phrase. About 
 the same as yesterday! I, too, felt like that, only 
 more so. 
 
 "Good-by — for ten minutes." 
 
 She hung up suddenly. But I could not at once 
 leave the telephone room. It seemed to me that I 
 must be visibly trembling from head to foot. 
 
 My buggy was at the club door. First I drove 
 home, raced up the stairs to my room, and from a 
 closet in which I keep all sorts of hunting and fishing 
 gear, snatched a fine deep-sea rod by Hardy of Lon- 
 don, and a big pigskin box of tackle. I remem- 
 bered to have heard John Fulton say that he had 
 none of such things with him in Aiken, and I thought 
 they might come In handy for him at Palm Beach. 
 I cannot quite explain why it was, but I had the 
 sudden desire to load the man with favors and 
 presents. 
 
 It was only on the way to his house that the 
 rod and the tackle-box struck me as an excellent 
 excuse for so early a morning call. I left them on 
 the table In the front hall, and marched boldly 
 through the house, and unannounced into the living- 
 room. 
 
 190 
 
We Three 
 
 Of all the Lucy that turned swiftly from a window 
 at the sound of my steps, and hurried to meet me, I 
 saw only the great blue eyes. 
 
 She came into my arms as if it was the most nat- 
 ural thing in the world for her to do, as if they had 
 always been her comfort and her refuge. She was 
 calm and fresh as a rose in the early morning. I 
 could feel her heart beating tranquilly against mine. 
 It seemed to me that the essence of every sweetest 
 flower in the world had been used in her making. 
 I felt that she was the most precious and defenseless 
 thing in creation, and that me alone she trusted to 
 cherish her and to defend her. It could not but be 
 right to hold her thus closer and closer and to learn 
 that her heart beat no longer tranquilly, but with a 
 fluttering throbbing quickness like the heart of a 
 wild bird that you have caught and hold in your 
 hand. 
 
 All this while my lips were pressed to hers and 
 hers to mine. Then from the playground door rose 
 in lamentation over some tragic-seeming mishap of 
 play, the voice of Hurry. 
 
 Our kiss ended upon the shrill note of woe and 
 protest. But still we looked each other in the eyes, 
 and she said: "What are we going to do about it?" 
 
 191 
 
XXII 
 
 SHE hadn't told her husband. 
 She had been on the point of telling him, 
 but for once her great gift of frankness had 
 failed her. She had not feared any storm that might 
 burst upon her own head ; it was only that her heart 
 had rebelled against adding to the weight of care 
 and sorrow which her husband already carried. Let 
 him have what pleasure he could out of the trip to 
 Palm Beach. When he returned she could do her 
 telling. 
 
 The fact that she had not told, and was not going 
 to for some time, troubled her. She felt, she said, 
 as if she was lying. She made it very clear that her 
 reticence was for his sake, not for her own. 
 
 Personally I rejoiced in the failure of her frank- 
 ness. Trouble enough was bound to come of our 
 love for each other; at best there would be weary 
 months of waiting for old knots to be untied before 
 there could be any question of tying new ones. There 
 would be at least one dreadful interview to be gone 
 through with John Fulton; many readjustments of 
 
 192 
 
JVe Three 
 
 friendships, some friends would side with him, some 
 with her; and last and worst, that moment when I 
 should have to tell my mother and she would grow 
 old before my eyes. 
 
 "There'll be heaps of little worries and troubles, 
 Luqr, dear," I said; "bound to be. But we'll not 
 begin to think about them till John comes back from 
 Palm Beach. If it's wrong for us to love each other 
 at all, at least we are going to make it as right as we 
 can. We owe ourselves all the unalloyed happiness 
 we can lay hands on. So — let's pretend." 
 
 We sat on the sofa in the Fultons' living-room 
 holding hands, like two children. 
 
 "Let's pretend," I said, "that there aren't any 
 complications; that time has gone backward ten 
 years; that we've just gotten engaged; that there's 
 nobody to disapprove and be unhappy about it. I 
 can pretend true, if you can." 
 
 "It's easy for me," said Lucy; "I was never any 
 good at remembering or looking forward, never any 
 good at anything that wasn't going on right there 
 and then. Oh, I'm so glad it's you!" 
 
 "Why, Lucy?" 
 
 "Because you're not a bit like me. If you were 
 like me, we wouldn't think of what would happen 
 
 193 
 
We Three 
 
 later on, we'd just go away together. It's so compli-y 
 cated and foolish to think we can't. Laws and peo- 
 ple make such a snarl of things. I wouldn't try to 
 untangle it, I'd just cut it all to pieces, and then I 
 suppose we'd be sorry." 
 
 "Yes, dear, we'd be very, very sorry. And the 
 world would make us suffer almost more than our 
 love could make up to us for. So we'll just have to 
 pretend for a while." 
 
 "And besides," she said in a startled sort of way, 
 "I might fall out of love with you, mightn't I? Oh, 
 I've fallen out of love lots of times — ^then with John, 
 and maybe I'll fail you. You must know that I'm 
 not any good. But even if I'm not, I do love you. 
 Oh, I do." 
 
 "Do you?" 
 
 "And I trust you so. There's nobody so kind and 
 thoughtful and strong." 
 
 It is pleasant for an unkind, thoughtless weak man 
 to be told such untruths by the woman he loves. 
 And for a few moments I imagined I had the quali- 
 ties that she had wished upon me, nay, loved upon 
 me. For a few moments there was no kindness, no 
 thoughtfulness, no strength of which I was inca- 
 pable. 
 
 194 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "When your arms are around me I know that 
 nothing can hurt me." 
 
 I was holding her in my arms now. But there 
 came in through the hall a pattering of little feet, 
 and by the time Jock and Hurry had burst into the 
 room I was at a garden window looking out, and 
 Lucy had caught up from her work bag that Penel- 
 ope's web of a silk necktie upon which she so often 
 worked, and made no progress. 
 
 "Has Favver come back?" 
 
 "Why, no, you little goose. He's gone to Palm 
 Beach. We took him to the train. He won't be 
 back tomorrow, nor the day after. Nor ttie day 
 after that," and she halted only when she had come 
 to about the tenth tomorrow. "And now make your 
 manners to Mr. Mannering." 
 
 In fiction children and dogs have an intuitive aver- 
 sion^for the villain of the piece. But Jock and 
 Hurry had none for me. Indeed they liked me very 
 much and looked to me for treats, and rides round 
 the block, and romping games in which I fled and 
 they pursued. But then it was only since yesterday 
 that I had become a genuine villain. Had their in- 
 tuition made the discovery? I think I was a little 
 anxious. 
 
 195 
 
We Three 
 
 But they rushed upon me, and we were to remain 
 for the present at least, so it seemed, the same old 
 friends. 
 
 It flashed across my mind that some day in the not 
 far future these children would live under my roof ; 
 surely the courts would award them to Lucy ; and I 
 highly resolved to be a genuine father to them 
 through thick and thin. Somehow or other they, 
 must always be fond of me. Whatever I had to 
 leave when I died they must share equally with 
 any children that I might happen to have of my 
 own. Children ? I caught Lucy's eyes. We looked 
 at each other across the tops of those children's 
 heads, and read each other's thoughts. I know 
 this, because when Jock and Hurry had been sent 
 away, I said: "Did you know what I was think- 
 ing of just then? I was thinking, wondering, hop- 
 ing " 
 
 "I couldn't love you," she said quietly, "and not 
 want what you want and hope what you hope." 
 
 "Lucy!" 
 
 I touched her hair with the tips of my fingers. 
 
 "What, dear?'^ 
 
 "There was never anyone in the world so wonder- 
 ful as you, so beautiful, so generous." 
 
 196 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "I suppose it's nice' to have you think so." She 
 looked with great contentment at the necktie. 
 
 "You haven't told me when Schuyler is com- 
 ing. 
 
 "He's coming tomorrow." 
 
 "That's fine. But it will have its funny side." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, I shall have to tell him all about-us, won't 
 I ? And we were schoolmates together, and I think 
 telling him i love his sister and want to marry her 
 and asking his consent has its funny side. He'll be 
 on our side anyway, Lucy." • 
 
 "I'm afraid nobody will think it's as nice as we 
 do." 
 
 "Well, of course, it isn't as nice for anybody as it 
 is for us." 
 
 "Will you tell him right away?" 
 
 "Couldn't I wait a few days? Somehow I like to 
 bask in the sunshine of just you knowing and just 
 me knowing. What do you think?" 
 
 She gave me a wonderful look. "I'm not here 
 to think — I'm here to take orders from my dear." 
 
 I let five days go before I told Schuyler. They 
 were five wonderful days, during which we borrowed 
 no trouble from the past or the future; five days 
 
 197 
 
JVe Three 
 
 during which we agreed to cross our bridges only 
 when we came to them. On that fifth day I received 
 a long letter from Harry Colemain dated Palm 
 Beach. 
 
 My Dear Fellow [he wrote] : At the risk of losing you 
 I think that I must tell you something of the experiences that 
 I have been having with John Fulton. To begin with he 
 told me about his wife's failure of affection and their domes- 
 tic smash-up. He told me going down in the train. We 
 shared the drawing-room. Every time I was. jolted into 
 wakefulness, I found him wide awake. For five days I don't 
 think he has slept a wink. He looks parched and dry like 
 a mummy. He has tried very hard to be a cheerful com- 
 panion, and we have fished and swum and gone through the 
 motions of all the Palm Beach recreations. But his mind 
 is never for one single instant clear of his troubles. We 
 have become very intimate. I think he had to talk or die. 
 He apologizes very often for having talked and continuing 
 to do so, but throws himself upon what he calls my merci- 
 fulness. He talks in a circle, always coming back to the 
 questions why and what. Why has it happened? What 
 has he done to deserve it? He searches his memory for 
 reasons as you look for bits of gold in a handful of sand. 
 Yes, he was very cross once about some money, but that 
 was years before she stopped loving him. It couldn't be 
 that, etc., etc. 
 
 Our rooms are separated by a little parlor. I'm a sound 
 sleeper, and hate being disturbed, but I have given him posi- 
 tive orders to wake me if he gets lonely and wants to talk. 
 
 198 
 
We Three 
 
 He's only obeyed these orders once. And then he didn't ex- 
 actly obey them, he waked me because he couldn't control 
 his nerves. He couldn't sleep, as usual, so he started to get 
 up, and just when he got his legs over the side of the bed 
 he began to laugh. It was his laughter that waked me. 
 By the time I was wide awake the laughter sounded very 
 ugly, and by the time I got to him it was mixed with awful 
 sobs that came all the way from his diaphragm and seemed as 
 if they were going to tear him to pieces. I turned on the 
 light, but the moment I saw his face I turned it off. It 
 isn't decent for one man to see another have hysterics. We 
 haven't spoken of the thing since, but he knows that I came in 
 and sat by him and felt horribly sorry for him. I can read 
 this in his eye. And I think he would do anything in the 
 world for me. The next morning his voice was very hoarse ; 
 sometimes a woman's voice is that way after she's paid some- 
 what over-handsomely for being a woman. I am trying to 
 convey to you the impression that the man is in a terribly 
 bad way, and through no possible fault of his own, which 
 must make his torment harder to bear. 
 
 What I think about Lucy Fulton is simply this: that she 
 ought to be cowhided until she sees which side her bread 
 is buttered on. And this is where you come in. You're 
 great friends with her, and have a lot of influence vnth her. 
 John says so. She admires what she is pleased to call your 
 judgment. Can't you make her see that just because she has 
 been spoiled, and given all the best of everything, she's gotten 
 bored, and is letting one of the best men in this world eat 
 his heart out with grieving? She ought to lie to him. She 
 ought to telegraph him to come back, and when she gets him 
 back she ought to make him think that she still loves him. 
 
 199 
 
We Three 
 
 Every woman has at heart one chance to be decent. This 
 is hers. 
 
 Another thing. John has betrayed his notion that Lucy 
 sees too much of you for her own good, at this time. He 
 doesn't even imagine that she cares for you in any way that 
 she shouldn't or you for her; but he does wish — ^well, that 
 you'd gone to California when you planned to, etc., etc. 
 Now the season's pretty nearly over, and I know that a few 
 weeks one way or the other never did matter to you and 
 won't now. Of course, it has its ridiculous side, but I really 
 think it would comfort John Fulton quite a little if he heard 
 that you had left Aiken. You see he's half crazy with grief 
 and insomnia, and he's got it in his head that if Lucy had 
 fewer other people to amuse her, she might get bored again 
 and in sheer boredom turn again to him. But just use your 
 influence with Lucy, if you've got any. I tell you on the 
 honor of a cynical and skeptical man, that if things go on 
 the way they are going, I think John Fulton wiU die of a 
 broken heart. You see, he's had too much — more than you 
 and I can possibly imagine — and that much he has now lost. 
 If he isn't to get back any portion of it, he'll curl up and 
 die. 
 
 Hoping you're having a fine time and fine weather, 
 Always your affectionate friend, 
 
 H. C. 
 
 Well, the days of basking in the sunshine on top 
 of the powder magazine were over. 
 After some thought, I went to Lucy's brother 
 200 
 
JVe Three 
 
 and gave him Harry's letter to read. He had slept 
 late, and I found him dressing. 
 
 Schuyler was, of course, deeply troubled and con- 
 cerned. That he himself hadn't had "an inkling of 
 this- — ^not an inkling," seemed for some minutes 
 quite important to him, for he made the statement 
 a number of times. Then, for he was energetic, and, 
 like Lucy, oftenest in a hurry, he said: 
 
 "The thing to do is for us to take this letter to 
 Lucy, stand over her while she reads it, and then 
 throw hot shot into her. Why it's a damned shame ! 
 John's been twice as good a husband as Lucy's been 
 a wife. And now she does this to him." Then some- 
 thing appeared to strike Schuyler's sense of humor, 
 for he burst out laughing. "And he's getting jealous 
 of you!" he said gleefully. "When did you first 
 become a snake in the grass?" 
 
 "Perhaps you'll end by calling me that," I said 
 gravely. "Stop laughing, Schuyler. A very sad 
 thing has happened and a very wonderful thing. 
 Lucy and I " 
 
 His face became instantly as grave as mine, 
 "Lucy and you?" 
 
 "We hope that you'll be on our side." 
 
 "And John doesn't know?" 
 
 201 
 
We Three 
 
 "You see by Harry's letter that although he 
 doesn't know, his intuition is trying to tell him." 
 
 "How long's this been goin' on?" 
 
 "It just came, Schuyler, happened, was — not many 
 days ago. We didn't see it coming, and " 
 
 He interrupted sharply, his eyes grown suddenly 
 cold. "I want to know if you have still a sort of 
 right to be in this house?" 
 
 "Why— yes— I think so." 
 
 "Think — don't you know?" 
 
 He gave a harsh short laugh. 
 
 "I know what you are driving at, of course. We 
 care about each other. If that's wrong, that's all 
 that is wrong." 
 
 "You take a weight off me," he said, and his tone 
 was more friendly. 
 
 "You always maintained that love was its own 
 justification, Schuyler?" 
 
 "And I've heard you maintain that it wasn't. Now 
 we seem to have swapped beliefs." 
 
 He turned to his dressing-table and tied his tie. 
 While so doing he muttered : "Pleasant vacation in 
 sunny South." 
 
 And then was silent. I could not think of any- 
 thing to say. Having finished dressing he thrust 
 
 202 
 
JVe Three 
 
 his hands into his trousers pockets and began to 
 pace about the disordered room. 
 
 "Shall we go out in the sun?" I suggested. 
 
 "A dark cave would be more in keepin' with my 
 feelings. Let's stop here a little and talk. What's 
 the idea anyway?" 
 
 "Why, the usual idea, I suppose." 
 
 "John to give Lucy a divorce, you and Lucy to 
 marry shortly after, and Jock and Hurry to go to 
 hell! I think less than nothing of the usual idea. 
 To begin with, why should John give Lucy a di- 
 vorce? She's the one that's done all the harm. I 
 know I'm her brother. It only helps me to see her 
 character clearer than other people do. Well, say he , 
 isn't the fool I think he is. Say he won't give her a 
 divorce? What then?" 
 
 "Hadn't we better cross that bridge when we come 
 to it?" 
 
 "In the usual way, I suppose. No. I'm too old- 
 fashioned to like usual ways of doing things. Fur- 
 thermore, I like you and Lucy too much. I don't 
 want to see her life ruined, and John after all is a 
 manufacturer of ammunition. How about crossin' 
 the bridge and findin' him on the other side with a 
 big bang-stick in his hand?" 
 
 203 
 
We Three 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders, though at heart I was 
 not indifferent to the picture which Schuyler had con- 
 jured up. 
 
 "Oh," said he, "what a damned mess! Come, 
 we'll talk to Lucy." 
 
 I went with him most unwillingly. And I thought 
 it good fortune that we did not find her alone, but 
 with Evelyn, Dawson and the children. 
 
 Schuyler kissed his sister good morning with 
 warm, brotherly affection and gave her a playful 
 pat or two on the back. 
 
 "All we need," he said cheerfully, "is old John, 
 and a girl apiece for Archie and me, to be a happy 
 family party." 
 
 He made goat's eyes at Evelyn and Dawson. The 
 latter blushed. But the former returned his glance 
 with a fine and mischievous indifference. 
 
 "Now, people," Schuyler continued, "I'm on my 
 vacation. I've plenty of energy, and I'm open to 
 suggestion. You, Evelyn, do you want to ride with 
 me or with Dawson?" 
 
 "I want to ride with you, but I'm going to play 
 golf with Dawson." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "We were just lingering to say good morning." 
 204 
 
We Three 
 
 She rose a little languidly, and I perceived with 
 misgivings that she and Dawson were really about 
 to depart. 
 
 "Well," said Schuyler, "any time you feel like 
 shakin' Dawson, just put me wise, there's a good 
 fellow 1" 
 
 When Dawson and Evelyn had gone, Schuyler 
 proceeded to get rid of the children. He gave them 
 fifty cents apiece, and said that if he didn't see them 
 or hear them for half an hour they could keep the 
 money. 
 
 "Are you trying to get this room all to yourself?" 
 asked Lucy. "Do you want Archie and me to van- 
 ish, too?" 
 
 "No," said Schuyler; "much as you and Archie 
 may wish to, I want nothing of the kind. Lucy, I 
 think you'd better telegraph John to come home, 
 don't you?" 
 
 "I've told Schuyler, Lucy," I said. 
 
 "And that's a good thing," said Schuyler; "be- 
 cause I 'don't have to take sides. I like you all. 
 You and Archie have to take your side, and John 
 has to take his, naturally." 
 
 Lucy, her hands folded in her lap, looked bored 
 and annoyed. 
 
 205 
 
We Three 
 
 "A lot of talk isn't going to help any," she said. 
 
 "For certain reasons, Lucy," said Schuyler, "you 
 and Archie are just now as blind as two bats. You 
 don't see what you are doing, and you don't see 
 what you are up against." 
 
 "I've only one life," said Lucy, "and it's my own." 
 
 "But it isn't," said Schuyler; "you gave it to John. 
 I'd be mightily hurt and shocked to find out that 
 you were an Indian giver." 
 
 "John will give my life back to me when he 
 knows." 
 
 "Well, find out if he will or not. Send for him. 
 Tell him what's happened." 
 
 "I think that would be best, Lucy," I said. 
 
 "Then, of course, I'll send," she said. "But " 
 
 "John, you know," said Schuyler, "may not take 
 you two very seriously. He may think that Lucy's 
 feelings for you, Archie, are just a passing whim. 
 Upon the grounds of his own experience with Lucy, 
 he would be within his rights to feel that way. Why 
 not," his face brightened into a sort of cheerfulness, 
 "why not test yourselves a little? You go north, 
 Archie, and wait around, and then, after a while, if 
 you and Lucy feel the same, it will be time enough 
 to tell John. It's all been too sudden for you to feel 
 
 206 
 
We Three 
 
 sure of yourselves. It isn't as if neither of you had 
 ever been In love before and gotten over it. As a 
 matter of cold fact, you've both been tried before 
 now and found wanting. So I think you ought to 
 go slow — for John's sake. He's the fellow that's 
 been tried and that hasn't been found wanting;" 
 
 It was obvious that Lucy did not like her brother's 
 suggestion at all, for she rose suddenly, her hands 
 clenched, and exclaimed: 
 
 "Oh, you don't understand at all. How can I go 
 on living with a man I don't love? How can you 
 ask me to be so false to myself and to Archie- " 
 
 "And to Jock and Hurry?" asked Schuyler 
 gently. 
 
 She showed no emotion at the mention of these 
 names. 
 
 "Don't they count for anything?" persisted 
 Schuyler. 
 
 "Of course they count for something, so does poor 
 John. Do you think it's any pleasure to have hurt 
 him so? But is it my fault if they don't count 
 enough?" 
 
 Here she came swiftly to my side, and slid her 
 hand under my arm and clung to it. "They count," 
 she said, "but they don't count enough." And she 
 
 207 
 
JVe Three 
 
 turned to me. "You are all that counts. I'd give 
 up my life for you, and I'd give up my children and 
 everything. You know that." 
 
 There was a long silence. Then Schuyler, speak- 
 ing very slowly, said: "You'd go away with him, 
 and never see Jock and Hurry again, not be able to 
 go to them when they were sick, not to be at little 
 Hurry's wedding when she grows up and gets mar- 
 ried. ... For God's sake!" 
 
 "Now do you realize that I'm in earnest?" she 
 cried. 
 
 Schuyler turned quietly on his heel and left the 
 room. After a while we heard his voice in the dis- 
 tance, mingling joyfully with the voices of Jock and 
 Hurry. 
 
 Lucy's face, all tears now, was pressed to my 
 breast. 
 
 "You are giving up too much for me, my darling," 
 I said; "I'm not worth it." 
 
 "But if you went out of my life I'd die !" 
 
 "I won't go out of your life, Lucy. But there are 
 lives and lives. We could meet and be together 
 to gather strength for the times we had to be apart." 
 
 At that she had a renewal of crying, and cried for 
 a long time. 
 
 208 
 
'You are all that counts . . . you know that. 
 
We Three 
 
 "It isn't right for Jock and Hurry to run any risk 
 of losing you," I said, "and love — Lucy — love with 
 renunciation is a wonderful thing, and a strong 
 thing." 
 
 "I'm not strong. I don't want to be strong. I 
 just want to give and give and give." 
 
 "We could have our own life apart from every- 
 body else — ^but not a hidden guilty life — a life to be 
 proud of — a life in which you would strengthen me 
 for my other life and I would strengthen you for 
 yours." 
 
 She stopped crying all at once and freed herself 
 from my arms. "Then you don't want me?" 
 
 "I want you." 
 
 She lifted her hands to my shoulders. "Suppose 
 we find that we can't stand a life of love — ^with re- 
 nunciation?" 
 
 "At least we would have tried to do what seemed 
 to make for the happiness of the most people." 
 
 "And you think I ought to live on with John, as 
 — ^as his wife?" 
 
 "No, I couldn't bear that — but as his friend, 
 Lucy, as the mother of Jock and Hurry. Oh, no," 
 I said; "I couldn't bear it, if — if you weren't faith- 
 ful to me." 
 
 209 
 
We Three 
 
 "And you would be faithful to me?" 
 
 "In thought and deed." 
 
 "And we'd just be wonderful friends?" 
 
 "Lovers, too, Lucy. We couldn't help that." 
 
 And I kissed her on the forehead. And at that 
 moment I felt very noble, and that the way of life 
 which I had proposed was a very fine way of life, 
 and possible of being lived. 
 
 "Then," she said, "John mustn't know. He must 
 never know. It will always be our secret. But then 
 Schuyler knows." 
 
 "When I tell him what we mean to do, he won't 
 tell." 
 
 And the first chance I had I told Schuyler. And 
 finished with, "So don't tell John, will you?" 
 
 "I'll see how happy Lucy manages to make him, 
 first," said Schuyler. "But if you think he won't 
 find out all by himself, you're mistaken. It's a rot- 
 ten business all around." 
 
 And he looked at me with a kind of comical 
 amazement. "Think of Lucy carin' more for you 
 than for Jock and Hurry!" he exclaimed. "I sup- 
 pose you regale her from time to time with episodes 
 from your past life? . . . Well, if I didn't think 
 you'd both get tired of each other before long, I'd 
 
 2IO 
 
TVe Three 
 
 feel worse. One thing, though, if I promise you 
 that I won't give you away to John, will you prom- 
 ise me for yourself and for Lucy that you won't take 
 any serious step, without telling me first, and giving 
 me a chance to try to dissuade you?" 
 
 "As there is to be no question of a serious step," 
 I said, "I promise." 
 
XXIII 
 
 OURS was to be one of the most beautiful 
 and beneficial loves of history. Almost we 
 fell in love with our new way of loving. 
 It had, we felt, a dignity and a purpose lacking in 
 other loves. To look each other in the eyes, and feel 
 that in a moment of strength, spurred by pity for 
 those who had no such love as ours to sustain them, 
 we had renounced each other, was a state of serenity 
 and peace. 
 
 It added to the beauty of our renunciation that it 
 claimed no luster of publicity, but had been made in 
 quiet privacy. No one, we thought, will ever know ; 
 yet it will have been strong and pure, so that the 
 world cannot but be the better for it. 
 
 We delighted for a while in our supreme renun- 
 ciation as children delight In a new toy. And even 
 now I can look back upon that time and wish that 
 there could have been a little more substance to the 
 shadow. It was a time of wonderful and sweet Inti- 
 macy. We were to tell each other everything. There 
 was delight in that. There was the delight of look- 
 
 212 
 
TVe Three 
 
 Ing ahead and planning the meetings that should be 
 ours in other places, until at last John himself came 
 to realize that in our loving friendship was nothing 
 unbeautiful, or unbeneficent, and meetings would 
 happen when or where we pleased, the world 
 silenced by the husband's approval. 
 
 So I did not take Harry Colemain's well-meant 
 advice, and leave Aiken. 
 
 For a while it would suffice John to know that 
 Lucy intended to stand by him and be the keeper of 
 his house ; to put his interests first, and to make up 
 to him in dutifulness and economy for the love which 
 she could not but reserve. Yes, indeed! Riding 
 slowly through the spring woods, I made bold to 
 preach a gospel of new life to her, and she listened 
 very meekly, like a blessed angel, and she felt sure 
 that from me she would derive the will and the 
 strength. Mostly it was a gospel of economy that 
 I preached and how best she might help her husband 
 back upon his feet. And before his return from 
 Palm Beach she had made a beginning. She bought 
 a book to keep accounts in, and she got together all 
 the bills she could lay hands on, and added them up 
 to an appalling total (several, for it came different 
 each time) and she stacked the bills in order of their 
 
 213 
 
We Three 
 
 pressingness, with the requests for payment from 
 lawyers and collectors on top, and she felt an unpar- 
 alleled glow of virtue and helpfulness. 
 
 And one day she took Jock and Hurry in the 
 runabout (Cornelius Twombly behind) and drove 
 to the station to welcome John home. How sweet 
 the sight of those three faces must have seemed to 
 him after absence!, Indeed they had seemed very 
 sweet to me as I looked into them just before they 
 drove stationward. I was not to show up for two 
 or three days. That was one compromise on Harry 
 Colemain's advice. It would show John that Lucy 
 and I were not entirely engrossed in each other's 
 society. It would give him time to turn around 
 and see how he liked the fact that Lucy was going 
 to stick to him, and in many ways be a better wife 
 to him. It would give me an opportunity to see, and 
 be seen by many people. It would, in short, be a 
 beginning of knocking on the head and silencing 
 most of the talk that there had been about Lucy 
 and me. 
 
 When you have a secret you might as well do your 
 best to keep it. 
 
 So I did not see John Fulton for three days after 
 his return from Palm Beach, and then by accident. 
 ' 214 
 
We Three 
 
 He had stopped at my father's house to leave the 
 rod and tackle-box which I had loaned him, and I, 
 happening to be in the hall, opened the door myself, 
 and went out to speak with him. 
 
 "Have a good time?" I asked. 
 
 The man looked so sick that I pitied him. 
 
 "Mechanically, yes. I went through the mo- 
 tions," he said. "That's a beautiful rod. It was 
 the most useful thing I had along. Going to the 
 club ? I'll drive you." 
 
 "Will you? Thanks. I'll just put these things 
 in the hall." 
 
 We drove slowly toward the club. 
 
 "Glad to be back?" 
 
 "Very. I couldn't have stayed away from Lucy 
 and the kids much longer, even if I'd been held." 
 
 He laughed gently. 
 
 "Lucy," he said, "must have thought that I wasn't 
 ever coming back. She's been trying to put the 
 house in order." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Oh, finding out how much money's owed, and 
 making a beginning of tying up loose ends." 
 
 "Kids all right? I haven't set eyes on 'em for 
 three or four days." 
 
 215 
 
We Three 
 
 "Yes, the kids are fine," and he added, after a 
 pause, "and Lucy's fine too." 
 
 There were several men in the club and they made 
 John heartily welcome, and told him how much bet- 
 ter he looked than when he went away. As a matter 
 of fact he looked much worse. 
 
 We all had tea together and asked questions about 
 Palm Beach, and if he had seen so and so, and if 
 he'd brought any money away from the gambling 
 place, and what was new, and amusing, etc. 
 
 "Do you know," he said all of a sudden, "there 
 was one very interesting thing that happened. Any- 
 body mind if I talk shop?" 
 
 Nobody did; so he went on: "I had a telegram 
 from a Baron Schroeder asking if it would be con- 
 venient for me to see him. He came all the way 
 down to Palm Beach, talked to me all the time be- 
 tween trains, and flew away north again. He wanted 
 to know how many rifle cartridges I could make in a 
 year, at a price, a very round price, how many in 
 five years. He wanted to know if I could convert 
 any of my plant into a manufactory for shrapnel, 
 and so on. What interested me is that he should 
 take all that trouble over a small concern like mine. 
 It looks as if someone saw a time when there would 
 
 216 
 
We Three 
 
 be a great dearth of ammunition. Two days ago 
 Schroeder had gone away. I was braced, while in 
 swimming, by a Russian gentleman. He apologized 
 and plied me with the same sort of questions ; I gave 
 him the same sort of offhand answers that I had 
 given Schroeder, and then I asked him what it was 
 all about, and I told him about Schroeder without 
 mentioning names. He said he could only guess, but 
 that if I would sign a contract he would keep my 
 plant running full for five years. It looks, doesn't 
 it, as if somebody had decided to change the map of 
 Europe, and as if others suspected the design?" 
 
 "Well, what came of it? Did you land a con- 
 tract? Tell more." 
 
 "Nothing has come of it yet. But I think some- 
 thing will. I'm to meet the Russian in New York 
 shortly." 
 
 "Why the Russian? The Baron saw you first." 
 
 "The Russian had better manners," said Fulton 
 simply. "I think he liked me, and I know I liked 
 him!" 
 
 Fulton asked me to dinner, but I refused, and so 
 it was nearly four days before I saw Lucy again. 
 In the meanwhile Harry Colemain told me more 
 about the Palm Beach trip. The ammunition in- 
 
 217 
 
We Three 
 
 quirie nad, it seemed, strengthened Fulton's nerves ; 
 there had been no repetition of the hysterics. 
 
 "A man," Harry said, "must be even more down 
 and out than Fulton not to be braced by a prospect 
 of good business. From what he told me, if the 
 contract goes through, he stands to make a fortune." 
 
 "Is there anything peculiarly good about the Ful- 
 ton cartridges, or is Europe just out to gather up all 
 the ammunition she can?" 
 
 "It looks rather like a sudden general demand. 
 But of course nobody knows anything except the 
 insiders. Fulton says if the contract goes through 
 he can die any time and be sure that his family will 
 be well provided for. That feeling will stiffen his 
 backbone. But you haven't told me if you said any- 
 thing to Lucy?" 
 
 I had been dreading that question as one which 
 could not be answered with complete frankness. I 
 don't enjoy lying. Not that my moral sense revolts, 
 but because I am lazy. Lying calls for deliberate 
 efforts of invention. 
 
 "In a general way, yes," I evaded. "But her own 
 good sense has come to the rescue. John's absence 
 gave her a chance to see how she really felt about 
 things. She won't leave him. Indeed, she'll try to 
 
 218 
 
We Three 
 
 make up to him in every way she can for her failure 
 of affection." 
 
 "If she does that'* said Harry, "I daresay the 
 affection will come back. The more you benefit a 
 person the more you like that person. The more 
 you fail in your duty to a person, the less you like 
 that person. I'm delighted with what you say. 
 With all her charm and beauty she can make him 
 happy if she tries." 
 
 "I think it's not a question of charm and beauty," 
 I said. "It's a question of keeping house for him, 
 and being a good mother to the children, and being 
 loyal to him and them." 
 
 "There are reservations?" 
 
 "She doesn't love him." 
 
 "Oh," said Harry scornfully, "that sort of thing 
 won't work." 
 
 "We know a good many cases where that sort of 
 thing seems to work." 
 
 "It only works when the husband acts like a nat- 
 ural man. Fulton won't. For him only Lucy is 
 possible. There can be no substitute. No. In this 
 case it won't work. He's too young and she's too 
 good-looking." 
 
 "Then it won't work," I said shortly. 
 219 
 
We Three 
 
 "She makes me sick," said Harry. "She gets her 
 board and lodging and her clothes and spending 
 money from him, and love and protection, and — Oh, 
 it isn't as if there'd never been anything between 
 them. After all, as far as he's concerned, she's no 
 novice." 
 
 "The moment she stopped loving him she became 
 spiritually separated from him." 
 
 "Spiritually be damned!" exclaimed Harry. 
 "Don't talk to me. There are women in New York 
 who to keep from starvation, will make love to any 
 man that comes along, for a pittance. They do thj 
 very best they can to earn the money. I can't help 
 admiring 'em. But your fashionable married 
 woman, she's too refined, too delicately souled, too 
 spiritual to do anything but eat herself sick on her 
 man's money and spend him into a hole. It's bad 
 enough to be a prostitute who plays the game, but 
 it's a damned sight worse to be a prostitute who 
 doesn't." 
 
 "I'm not going to get angry with you, Harry. 
 We've been through too much together. But I think 
 you have said enough. Lucy is one of the finest, 
 purest-minded women in the world." 
 
 "Then she ought to be her husband's wife, or get 
 220 
 
We Three 
 
 out. If she's not his wife, she's no business grafting 
 on him for board and lodging and pocket money. 
 How long does a pure-minded, good-looking woman 
 keep off the streets if she can't raise the wind any 
 other way? Not long. And how many men can she 
 graft on? Plenty of 'em — once. But not twice. 
 The word goes round about her. 'She's a beauty 
 to look at,' says the word, 'but she doesn't earn her 
 money.' " 
 
 "Many marriages," I said, "have to be rear- 
 ranged and compromised." 
 
 "Don't say hceoe to be, say are." 
 
 "Harry," I said with great firmness, "the country 
 needs rain like the devil." 
 
 After a moment, good humor returned to his face. 
 He said: "You've just won an argument. I also 
 am dry as a bone." 
 
XXIV 
 
 THIS isn't the last ride together," said Lucy, 
 "but almost. This time we are really 
 gomg. 
 
 We had turned into LoverS;' Lane, outward- 
 bound, the ponies walking. 
 
 "John will have to be in New York for many 
 days about this Russian contract, and he doesn't 
 want to take the long trip back. So we're all going 
 together." 
 
 "I shan't stay here very long after you've 
 gone." 
 
 "No, you mustn't." 
 
 "We'll have lots of nice parties in New York." 
 
 "John says he's going to sell our house here, or 
 rent it, or get rid of it somehow." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because he's been so unhappy In it. He says un- 
 less his whole mind is made over we'll never come 
 to Aiken again." 
 
 She drew a long breath, and her eyes roved among 
 the great pine trees on either side of the road as if 
 
 222 
 
We Three 
 
 she wished to impress them forever upon her mem- 
 ory. 
 
 "I love it all so much," she said simply. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," I said; "and it means that I won't 
 ever be coming back for more than a minute. And 
 I love it, too." 
 
 "We're to spend the summer in Stamford to be 
 near the works. Stamford!" 
 
 "You'll find lots of people to like, and bully sail- 
 ing and swimming." 
 
 "And bully spells of white-hot, damp weather, and 
 bully big mosquitoes." 
 
 "It ought to be cheap." 
 
 "Very cheap." 
 
 Then we both laughed. Then we were silent. 
 
 "Tell me," I said, "how is the great compromise 
 working?" 
 
 "I don't know. I told him how I'd made up my 
 mind to stick by the ship, so that there wouldn't be 
 any scandal, or anything to break up his home, or 
 hurt the children, and how I was going to be better 
 about money, and he said, 'Very well, Lucy, we'll 
 try it for a while, but I don't think compromises are 
 much good.' He wants me to do all I'm trying to 
 do, and be his wife too. I thought he'd — Oh, I 
 
 223 
 
We Three 
 
 thought he'd be pleased and grateful — instead of 
 that he tries to be cold to me, and is very sharp 
 and stern." 
 
 "It takes time to settle down to any new modus 
 vivendi." 
 
 "Well," she cried, "I'm not doing it because I 
 want to, am I ? I'm only doing it for his sake. I'm 
 doing every blessed thing I can to save the situation; 
 and if there are things I simply can't do — why he 
 ought to be generous and understand. Oh, I know 
 it isn't going to work! And all the time when he 
 isn't being cold and stern, he — he's trying to make 
 me love him again, and come back to him. And 
 right in the middle of that he'll fly into a rage, and 
 say that I ought to be compelled to behave like a 
 rational human being." ' 
 
 "But he wouldn't compel you to do anything 'you 
 didn't want to do, Lucy. Trust him for that." 
 
 "I don't know. He's so different from the way he 
 used to be. Sometimes I'm afraid. Sometimes I 
 am afraid to be alone in the same house with him. 
 If I didn't have you to back me up, and give me 
 strength I'd — but it can't last long. I know it can't. 
 And I don't know that it's worth trying." 
 
 "You are still fond of him, Lucy?" 
 224 
 
We Three 
 
 "And sorry for him, Oh, so sorry. But fondness 
 and sorrow aren't everything." 
 
 "It will be better when he has the new contract 
 to occupy him, and keep him away. It won't be an 
 all-day affair then. And all the time you and I'll 
 be meeting to talk things over, and borrow strength 
 to go on with. It isn't easy fbr me either, dear. 
 And of course, if after trial we find it won't work, 
 why then it will be our duty to ourselves to cut the 
 Gordian knot." 
 
 She turned toward me and we looked into each 
 other's eyes for a long time. 
 
 "I've given him all I can," she said. "It isn't 
 enough. It never will be enough. Oh, if there are 
 knots to be cut, let's cut 'em and have done with it." 
 
 I dropped my reins, and leaning wide, took her 
 in my arms and kissed her many times. 
 
 "We are romantic children," I said, "to think 
 that there could be any other way. God bless you, 
 my darling, we'll cut all the knots, and begin life all 
 over again, and always be together." 
 
 She became then wonderfully cheerful and excited, 
 and riding always at a walk, no longer on roads, 
 but through the deep woods, we made our plans for 
 the future. 
 
 225 
 
JVe Three 
 
 Nothing was to be said to John until we were in a 
 bigger place than Aiken. The bigger the place the 
 smaller the scandal. I offered (with grave misgiv- 
 ings) to do the telling; but Lucy would not have it 
 so. "It's his right," she said, "to know from me." 
 John having been told, would, we felt sure from what 
 we knew of his character, be willing to do the right 
 thing. It wasn't as if he had been dishonored in any 
 way. He would even be grateful to us for having 
 been strong-minded and aboveboard. It would hurt 
 him terribly. Yes, but a sudden final hurt was better 
 than the lingering sickness from which he was now 
 suffering. There would, of course, be no question 
 of alimony. My father, much as he might disap- 
 prove of the whole affair, was not only fond of me, 
 but fond of Lucy, and he would see us through. 
 
 It would take a long while to get a divorce. That 
 was the darkest cloud on the horizon. But we must 
 face that cheerfully; our reward would be all the 
 greater when it came. 
 
 That John would be unwilling to give up Lucy 
 even when he knew that she loved someone else 
 never occurred to us. He belonged to that class of 
 men whose code is to give the women all the best of 
 everything. He was too fond of Lucy to wish to see 
 
 226 
 
We Three 
 
 her hurt And if he wouldn't give her a divorce, 
 hurt she would be, for in that unlikely event we were 
 determined to jump on the nearest steamer and sail 
 away for parts unknown. 
 
 "Why not come in?" said Lucy, when we had fin- 
 ished our ride. "You haven't been near the house 
 for days, so it won't be very noticeable." 
 
 "All right," I said, "for a minute." 
 
 It was between dusk and dark. The lights had 
 not been turned on in the hall. The opportunity 
 seemed rare and sweet. We stood for one brief 
 fleeting moment closely enlaced — and swiftly sepa- 
 rated, and stood breathing fast, and listening. 
 
 Lucy was the first to make up her mind. 
 
 She stepped swiftly to the dining-room door and 
 flung it open. She was in time to see the trim should- 
 ers and white cap of a servant disappearing from the 
 dining-room into the pantry. 
 
 "Who was it?" 
 
 "My new waitress." 
 
 "Hilda?" 
 
 Lucy smiled grimly. "She'll leave tomorrow." 
 
 "Don't discharge her. She might tell. Perhaps 
 she didn't see." 
 
 I joined Lucy in the dining-room, closed the door, 
 227 
 
We Three 
 
 knelt and looked back into the hall through the 
 keyhole. 
 
 "Could she see?" 
 
 I rose to my feet and nodded. 
 
 "He mustn't hear from anyone but me," said 
 Lucy. "I'll speak to her." 
 
 But Hilda was not in the pantry. 
 
 "I don't think she'll tell," I said, "and after all 
 what does it matter? Let's take a chance." 
 
 Mentally I resolved to communicate with Hilda at 
 the earliest possible moment, and to use whatever 
 influence I had upon her. So I was no sooner in my 
 room at home than I took the receiver from my pri- 
 vate telephone and gave the number of the Fultons' 
 house. After an interval I heard Hilda's voice. 
 
 "It's Mr. Mannering, Hilda." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "I want to see you about something important." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 So she knew, did she ? 
 
 "Can you meet me at ten o'clock tonight?" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Leave the house at ten sharp, and walk toward 
 the town; I'll be watching for you. You'll come?" 
 
 'Yes, sir." 
 
 228 
 
XXV 
 
 NEAR the Fultons, fronting on the street, 
 is a large overgrown yard that has never 
 been built on. Here in the shadow of a 
 great cedar tree I waited and watched for Hilda. 
 On the stroke of ten I saw her coming. She had a 
 neat, brave, brisk way of walking, her head well up, 
 as if she was afraid of nothing. A few moments 
 later I hailed her from under my cedar, and after 
 glancing up and down the street to see if anyone 
 was watching, she joined me there. 
 
 It was very dark. I could just make out her face. 
 She was breathing fast and had one hand pressed 
 upon her heart. 
 
 "Thank you for coming, Hilda. You saw Mrs. 
 Fulton and me in the hall?" 
 
 "And heard you." 
 
 "I'm throwing myself on your mercy, Hilda. 
 Mrs. Fulton and I love each other. When we get 
 back to New York we are going to tell Mr. Fulton. 
 He will let Mrs. Fulton divorce him, and then we 
 are to be married. You'll be my friend, won't you, 
 
 229 
 
We Three 
 
 and not tell? There's been nothing wrong, 
 Hilda " 
 
 "Only kisses." 
 
 "But if he found out from anyone but Mrs. Ful- 
 ton — ^you see he isn't very well and he might do 
 something crazy — something tragic. You see if you 
 told him what you'd seen, he might act before any- 
 one had a chance to explain." 
 
 I was trying to make the matter sound more seri- 
 ous than I felt it to be. Whatever happened, I did 
 not think that Fulton was the kind of man who for- 
 gets his education and his civilization, but I wanted, 
 if I could, to frighten Hilda into secrecy, 
 
 "You'd not want to get me all shot up, would you, 
 Hilda?" 
 
 She was silent for a time, as if weighing pros and 
 cons in her head. Then she looked up at me and 
 said: 
 
 "When / saw, / didn't do anything crazy." 
 
 "Hilda," I said, "he has to be hurt and you have 
 to be hurt. That's always been the way with love 
 — it always will be." 
 
 She was silent again. Then she said in a low voice 
 that carried with it a certain power to thrill : "He'd 
 die for her. And I'd die for you. But he's only a 
 
 230 
 
We Three 
 
 worn-out glove, and I'm only a common servant. 
 She thinks she'd die for you, and you think you'd 
 die for her. But you're both wrong. A woman that 
 won't stand by her babies isn't going to die for any- 
 one, not if she knows it. A man that gets to your 
 age without marrying any of the women he's gone 
 with isn't going to die for anyone if he can help it. 
 Wait till you've crossed her selfish will a few times 
 and see how much she'll die for you; wait till she 
 begins to use you the way she used him. A whole 
 lot you'll want to die for — her — then " 
 
 "I can't listen to this, Hilda." 
 
 "You isMl listen, or else I'll scream and say you 
 attacked me — a whole lot she'll feel like dying for 
 you then. Servants have eyes and ears and hearts. 
 There's servants in that house that know how things 
 used to be, who see how things are now, since you 
 came philandering around. And do you know 
 what those servants think of her, and what I 
 think of her for the way she's treated him? Oh, 
 they like her well enough because she's gentle and 
 easy-going, and good-tempered and easy to get on 
 with; but there isn't a servant in that house would 
 change characters with her. We think she's the 
 kind of woman that's beneath contempt — ^lazy, sel- 
 
 231 
 
We Three 
 
 fish, spendthrift — always pampering number one — 
 and going about the world looking like a sad, bruised 
 lily. Do you think the servants in that house don't 
 know all about your goings and comings, and the 
 life you've led, the harm you've done and didn't 
 have to do, the good you might have done, and 
 didn't?" 
 
 "But, Hilda " 
 
 She motioned me to be silent. Her ears, sharper 
 than mine, or more attentive, had heard voices. 
 They were negro voices, a man's and a woman's. 
 We drew deeper into the shadow of the cedar. 
 
 "So you got no mo' use for me, nigger?" The 
 man's voice rumbled softly and threatened like dis- 
 tant thunder. "Yo' got to have yo' fling?" 
 
 Then the. woman's voice, shrill but subdued: "I 
 don' love you no mo', Frank." 
 
 "You got er nice home 'n nice lil' babies, 'n you 
 goin' to leave 'em fo' a yaller man — is you?" 
 
 They were opposite us now, walking very slowly 
 and occasionally lurching against each other. 
 
 "Yo' ain't goin' ter make trouble, Frank?" 
 
 "I ain't goin' ter give you up, Lily." 
 
 "You ain't? How you goin' ter fix fo' ter keep 
 me?" 
 
 232 
 
JVe Three 
 
 They came to a halt and faced each other, the 
 woman defensive and defiant, the man somber, quiet, 
 with a certain savage dignity and slowly smoldering 
 like an inactive volcano. You couldn't see their fea- 
 tures, only a white flashing of eyes and teeth in such 
 light as there was. 
 
 "You's one er dese new women," said the man 
 softly. "You's got ter be boss 'n have yo' own 
 way." 
 
 He stood for some moments looking down into 
 her face, appraising as it were her flightiness, and 
 meditating justice. Then he struck her quietly^ 
 swiftly and hard, so that her half-open mouth closed 
 with a sharp snap. 
 
 She was not senseless, but she made no effort to 
 rise. He stood over her, smoldering. Then, his 
 voice suddenly soft and tender, "I reckon I is got 
 ter learn you," he said, and he picked her up in his 
 arms and carried her from the roadside deep into 
 the tangled growths of the vacant yard — deeper 
 and deeper, until no sound at all came to us from 
 them. 
 
 "That was Mrs. Fulton's laundress and her hus- 
 band," said Hilda. "She's been trying to copy Mrs. 
 Fulton ; but he's settled that. He's a real man, and 
 
 233 
 
We Three 
 
 he'll keep his wife. Women like to be hit and tram- 
 pled. It proves to them that they're worth while." 
 
 "That may be, Hilda. I don't know. I couldn't 
 hit a woman. . . . You haven't told me that you're 
 not going to tell what you saw." 
 
 "I don't know," she said; "he's suffered enough. 
 It ought to end." 
 
 "But I thought you — didn't want to hurt me?" 
 
 "I don't. Still " 
 
 "Still what?" 
 
 "Oh, favors aren't everything." 
 
 "What do you mean, Hilda!" 
 
 "Oh, I'm just a servant, I suppose I could be 
 bought." 
 
 "I thought better of you." 
 
 "Not with money." 
 
 "Not with money? How then?" 
 
 She turned her face up to mine, then smiled and 
 closed her eyes. "A kiss more or less," she said, 
 "wouldn't matter much to yow." 
 
 And I kissed her. 
 
 Then she opened her eyes and looked up at me 
 until the silence between us grew oppressive. Then 
 with a sudden, "Oh, what's the use!" turned and 
 hurried off. But I caught up with her in two bounds. 
 
 234 
 
We Three 
 
 "Don't go away like that." 
 
 "Oh," she cried, "I hoped you wouldn't. But you 
 did. It's bad enough to love you, but to despise you 
 too! Oh, don't worry. / won't tell. I've been 
 bought, I've lived." 
 
 I remained for a long time, alone, under the cedar 
 tree. I was horribly ashamed and troubled, not be- 
 cause I had kissed her, but because I had had the 
 impulse to kiss her again, because I realized at last 
 that it takes more than a romantic love affair to 
 make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Because for a 
 moment I saw myself as Hilda saw me — ^because 
 for a moment I was able to judge Lucy and me, as 
 others would judge us. 
 
 I remained for a long time. The negro and his 
 wife came quietly out of the bushes, her arm 
 through his. She would not now run off with the 
 yellow man. I watched them until the darkness 
 swallowed them. 
 
 I leaned against the fragrant stem of the cedar, 
 my hand across my eyes. And in that moment of 
 self-reproach, dread and contempt of the future, I 
 too wished the most worthy and sincere wish of my 
 life. 
 
 I wished that I had never been born. 
 
 235 
 
XXVI 
 
 FOR once, with complete fervor, I wished that 
 I had never been born. And if I was to 
 get back any glimmerings of self-respect, I 
 must act like a man. Upon what grounds did I 
 found the hope that Fulton would not soon find out 
 about Lucy and me ? Why, on the grounds of moral 
 cowardice, of course. I dreaded to face any drastic, 
 final issue. There was no other reason. Well, if I 
 was to prove to myself that I was not a moral cow- 
 ard, Fulton must be told and the issue faced, and 
 Fulton himself must be out-faced. It was not 
 enough to love and be loved in secret. That way 
 lies stealing and cheating. We must come into the 
 open hand in hand, proclaim our love and demand 
 our rights. If these were denied us — ^well, it would 
 be too bad. But at least we would have come out 
 from under the rose, and the consequences could be 
 flung openly and courageously in the faces of those 
 who denied us. And it would be fairer to Fulton 
 to tell him. He was suffering torment. With a 
 definite cause to face, it would be easier for him to 
 regain his health and his sanity. 
 
 236 
 
We Three 
 
 Strong in these resolutions, I felt as if a great 
 weight had been lifted from my shoulders. But if 
 you think that I went at once to Fultorf and told 
 him, you have greatly misapprehended the mental 
 workings of a butterfly. 
 
 I went first to Luqr, and told her that I was going 
 to tell. And from her, too, it was as if a weight 
 had been lifted. 
 
 "We can't go on this way forever," I said; "we 
 thought we could, but we know we can't. We love 
 each other and we're human, and sooner or later — 
 Oh, it's best to go to him now with a clean bill, and 
 tell him that love is too strong for us all, and that 
 he must come out on the side of love no matter how 
 much it hurts him." 
 
 "When are you going to tell him?" 
 
 "No time like the present, Lucy." 
 
 And I drew a long breath, for in spite of the 
 bold words, I felt panicky. I felt as if the doctors 
 had just set the time for the operation, and that it 
 was sooner than I expected. 
 
 "We ought to have told him long ago. Where 
 is he?" 
 
 "In the garden." 
 
 "It's a hard thing to do. Give me a kiss." 
 
 237 
 
We Three 
 
 A moment later I felt strong enough and noble 
 enough to slay dragons. And I found Fulton sitting 
 on a garden bench in a recess of clipped privet, 
 Hurry on his lap. 
 
 "She isn't feeling very well, poor baby," he said; 
 "it's the sudden heat. She couldn't eat any break- 
 fast. Did you want to see me about something 
 special ?" 
 
 "Why, yes, I do. But you're busy with Hurry." 
 
 "We were just going in to lie down, weren't we?" 
 he said to the child. "I won't be a minute." 
 
 He picked her up in his arms, and carried her 
 into the house. A few moments later he returned, 
 smiling, as if she had said something that had 
 touched his humor. 
 
 "Let's sit on the bench," he said. "It's the one 
 cool place in Aiken, this morning." 
 
 Mechanically I sat down beside him and accepted 
 a cigarette from his case. 
 
 "I always dread the first hot spell for the babies," 
 he said. "I'm glad we're going up early this 
 year," 
 
 "You'll be in New York a while?" 
 
 "At the New Turner. And then Stamford. 
 Poor Lucy dreads Stamford, but I've got to be near 
 
 238 
 
}Ve Three 
 
 the works. What are you planning to do this sum- 
 mer?" 
 
 "It depends a great deal on you, John." 
 
 Now he turned to me with a very grave expres- 
 sion on his face. "On me?" 
 
 "I love Lucy, John, and she feels the same way 
 about me." 
 
 His expression of courteous inquiring gravity did 
 not change. "So thaf^ what was at the bottom of 
 everything. I told her she was seeing too much of 
 you, but she wouldn't listen. Of course, my conten- 
 tion was just on general principles. I thought you 
 were both to be trusted." 
 
 "We only found it out just before you went to 
 Pahn Beach." 
 
 "You ought to have seen it coming. A man of 
 your experience and record isn't like a college fresh- 
 man in such matters." 
 
 "If I had seen it coming, John, believe me I'd 
 have run from it. But all at once it had come, and 
 it's a question now, not of what might have been, 
 but of Lucy's happiness." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "we mustn't think of ourselves 
 now, or of the children. We must think of what is 
 best for Lucy. And what is best for Lucy can't be 
 
 239 
 
We Three 
 
 thought out offhand. There's the complication of 
 winding up here, moving, and so forth. What is 
 your idea? Yours and Lucy's?" 
 
 "We hope and trust that you won't want to stand 
 in our way." 
 
 "Divorce? Well, of course, it might come to 
 that. It's not, however, an idea which I am pre- 
 pared offhand to receive with enthusiasm. Any 
 more than I propose to act upon the very first im- 
 pulse which I had when you told me." 
 
 "What was that?" 
 
 "I thought how delicious it would be to get my 
 automatic and fill you full of lead. But you and 
 Lucy, I take it, have so far resisted your tempta- 
 tions, and I must battle with mine." 
 
 "I ought to have said that; our temptations have 
 been resisted, John." 
 
 He shrugged that vital fact aside with, "Oh, I 
 should have known if there had been anything to 
 know." 
 
 "I needn't say, need I, that I feel like hell about 
 your position, your end of it?" 
 
 "My position is not so bad as it was. I have 
 something definite to face now. But much as I 
 appreciate your impulsive good will, I don't think 
 
 240 
 
JVe Three 
 
 that your sympathy is a thing which I care to accept. 
 Lucy, of course, feels that her fancy for "you is a 
 more imperative call than her duty to her children 
 and me." 
 
 "You've been in love, John." 
 
 "I am in love. I think we had better not discuss 
 our several powers of loving." 
 
 He rose from the bench and began to stroll up 
 and down in front of it. >. 
 
 "I haven't," he said, "given this contingency any 
 thought whatever. You and Lucy will have to pos- 
 sess your souls in patience for a time. It is all very 
 sudden. But supposing for a moment that I should 
 consent to a divorce. Are you able to support a 
 wife?" 
 
 "I have no money of my own," I said, "but my 
 father, as you know, has oceans of it, and gives me 
 a very handsome income." 
 
 "And yet he might not care to support you above 
 the ruins of a home. In that eventuality what could 
 you do ? Lucy is very extravagant." 
 
 "I could work my hands to the bone for her." 
 
 Fulton looked curiously at his own lean, nervous 
 hands, smiled faintly, and said: "Yes, and then be 
 chucked aside like a worn-out garment. Well, we'll 
 
 241 
 
We Three 
 
 cross that bridge when we come to It. And now 
 you'll be anxious to see Lucy, and report. Tell her 
 that I swallowed the pill without making too much 
 of a face. Tell her that I seemed inclined to be 
 reasonable. Tell her also with my compliments that 
 she must continue to exercise self-restraint and pa- 
 tience. Things are bad enough. If they were any 
 worse I could not answer the consequences." 
 
 "All right, John. Thank you for taking it so 
 calmly." 
 
 "Oh, I'm not calm inside. Don't worry about 
 that" 
 
 I left him there — standing very straight in the 
 garden path, his face the color of granite, and of 
 the stillness. 
 
XXVII 
 
 WHAT did he say?" 
 Her face was brilliant with exJcite- 
 ment and anxiety. And I told her as 
 well as I could. 
 
 "He was preternaturally calm and easy," I said; 
 "I couldn't imagine a man being more well-bred 
 about anything. But he won't say anything definite 
 now. Of course, he ought to have time to think. We 
 could have counted on that, if we'd thought. He 
 will take plenty of time t make up his mind, and 
 then he won't change it. But Lord, I'm glad he 
 knows now; and from us." 
 
 There was a quiet knocking on the half-open door 
 of the liviiigf-room. 
 
 "Come in. . . . Oh, John, you needn't have 
 knocked." 
 
 He came in slowly and quietly, a gentle smile on 
 his lips. The gray granite look had softened into 
 his natural coloring. 
 
 "I must say you're a very handsome pair," he 
 said. "Don't go just yet, Archie. If we three are 
 
 2431 
 
JVe Three 
 
 to talk things over in the future, we had better have 
 a little tentative practice. Are we three the only 
 ones who know of this sensational development?" 
 
 "And Schuyler," I said. 
 
 "Is he for you or against you?" 
 
 "We thought we could be just great friends and 
 see each other once in a while. He was for that. 
 But, of course, that was only romantic nonsense." 
 
 "Yes, that was nonsense," said Fulton. "It would 
 have made my position altogether too ridiculous. 
 Did it occur to you to be great friends, and not see 
 each other?" 
 
 "John," exclaimed Lucy, "you don't understand." 
 
 "I don't understand the importance which lovers 
 attach to love? Well, perhaps not. Drunkards 
 hate to cure themselves of drink; smokers of smoke; 
 lovers of love. Yet all these appetites can be cured, 
 often to the immense benefit of the sufferers and of 
 everybody concerned. And so you thought you 
 could lead two lives at once, Lucy?" 
 
 "I did think so." 
 
 "Gathering strength in romantic byways to see 
 you through the prosy thoroughfares ? It wouldn't 
 have worked." 
 
 "We know that now." 
 244 
 
We Three 
 
 "You couldn't have lied about every meeting with 
 Archie — lied as to where you were going and where 
 you had been. Truth comes natural to you, even 
 if you seem to have fallen down on some of the 
 other virtues." 
 
 I knew that he was laboring under a great strain. 
 And yet for the life of me I could not read any 
 symptoms of that laboring in his face or voice. Hisi 
 voice was easy, casual, and tinged with humor. It 
 was almost as if he was relieved to find two such 
 Inconsequential persons as Lucy and myself at thei 
 bottom of his troubles. Now and then his left eye- 
 brow arched high on his forehead, and there would 
 be a sharp sudden glance In the corresponding eye. 
 
 "I wonder," he said, turning to me, "if people In 
 your situation ever look at It from the critical out- 
 sider's point of view. Have you considered that a 
 passion for something forbidden Is not a natural, not 
 a respectable passion? According to all moral and 
 social laws Lucy Is a forbidden object for your love 
 and vice versa. People are not going to think well 
 of you two." 
 
 "Oh, we know thatl' said Lucy, wearily. 
 
 "My dear Lucy, you mustn't show signs of dis- 
 tress so early In the game. What we are discussing, 
 
 245 
 
We Three 
 
 or trying to throw a little light on, Is the subject 
 which just now, by all accounts, should interest you 
 more than anything else in the world. Furthermore, 
 I really must insist on consideration for myself and 
 the children." 
 
 "No amount of talk ever made me do right — or 
 :wrong," said Lucy; "I just do right or wrong, and 
 of course fjou think this is wrong. So what's the 
 use?" 
 
 "Think it wrong," exclaimed Fulton, "of course 
 I do. Don't you?" His voice expressed almost 
 horrified surprise. "Don't you think it wrong to 
 fall out of love with your husband, into love with 
 another man, and to take no more interest in your 
 children than if they were a couple of wooden dolls 
 made in Germany?" 
 
 "Caring enough makes everything right," she 
 said, still wearily, as if the whole subject bored her. 
 
 "Caring enough!" exclaimed John. "Oh, caring 
 enough makes everything right. But do you care 
 enough — either of you? I may change my mind, 
 but just now, as a man fighting for what little happi- 
 ness there may be left for him in the world, this 
 question of how much you care is the crux of the 
 whole matter. If I thought that you cared enough 
 
 246 
 
We Three 
 
 I'd take my hat off to the exception which proves the 
 rule that all illicit passlonsf are wrong. If I thought 
 that you cared enough I'd think that a great wonder 
 had come to pass in the world, and I'd give you my 
 blessing and tell you to go your ways." 
 
 Lucy rose and went appealingly to him. "John, 
 dear," she said, "we do care enough." 
 
 He turned to me quickly. 
 
 "And you think that?" 
 
 "I care enough," I said, "so that nothing else mat- 
 ters — not even the hurt to you." 
 
 "Do you care so much that no argument will 
 change you?" 
 
 I think Lucy and I must both have smiled at 
 him. 
 
 "No pressure of opposition?" 
 
 "Caring Is supposed to thrive on opposition, isn't 
 it?" said I. 
 
 "In short," said John, "if I refuse to be divorced 
 you care enough to run away together into social 
 ostracism ?" 
 
 Lucy smiled at me and I smiled back at her. And 
 at that Fulton's calmness left him for a moment. 
 
 "My God," he cried, "I am up against it." 
 
 But almost Instantly he had himself once more 
 247 
 
We Three 
 
 in hand, and was speaking again in level, almost 
 cheerful tones. 
 
 "Social ostracism," he said, "would be very hor- 
 rid if you stopped caring for each other." 
 
 "Why take it for granted that we'd stop caring?" 
 
 "I don't. I'm taking nothing for granted. But 
 no girl, Archie, .ever cared for a man more than 
 Lucy cared for me — and then she stopped caring. 
 I know less about your stamina. But this is not the 
 first time you've cared." 
 
 "It's the first time I've really cared," I said. 
 
 "It's not the first time you've said that you really 
 care^, is it?" 
 
 I was unable to answer, and his eyes twinkled 
 with a kind of automatic amusement. Then once 
 more grave, "I never even thought" he said, "that I 
 ever cared about anyone but Lucy. That gives me a 
 peculiar advantage in passing judgment on matters 
 of caring — an advantage enjoyed neither by you 
 nor Lucy. I wasn't any more her first flame than 
 she is yours. But she was my first and only flame. 
 I can speak with a troop of faithful years at my 
 back. But you and she have only been faithful to 
 each other for a matter of days. I am not doubting 
 the intensity of your inclination, but I can't help ask- 
 
 248 
 
JVe Three 
 
 ing, Will it last? Are you prepared to swear that 
 you will love her and no other all your days?" 
 
 "Yes," I said firmly. And I loved her so much 
 at that moment that I felt purified in so saying and 
 believing. 
 
 "How about you, Luqr? Never mind, don't an- 
 swer. You are thinking of that day when you stood 
 up before all our friends and swore that you would 
 love me all your days. Naturally it would embar- 
 rass you to repeat that with respect to another, be- 
 fore my face. So I won't ask you to . . ." 
 
 "John," said Lucy, "all this is so obvious. And 
 it leads nowhere. Talk won't change us. So won't 
 you please say what you are going to do?" 
 
 "Not until I know myself," he said. "But there 
 is one thing ... I think it would be better all 
 round if you saw less of each other until something 
 is decided. I realize that Jock and Hurry and I are 
 very much in the way. Jock and Hurry naturally 
 don't care how much you two are together. But I 
 do. It isn't that I don't trust you out of my sight. 
 You know that. But the mind of a jealous man is a 
 gallery hung with intolerable pictures. Merely to 
 think of Lucy, Archie, giving you the same look that 
 she used to have for me is to burn in hell-fire." 
 
 249 
 
We Three 
 
 He turned on his heel, and left us abruptly. We 
 could hear him calling to the nurse to ask how Hurry 
 was feeling, and we could hear his steps going up 
 the stair to the nursery. 
 
 "He's going to do the right thing, Lucy," I said. 
 
 "I wish he wouldn't talk and talk. The milk's 
 spilled. I suppose we've got to keep more or less 
 apart." 
 
 "Yes, Lucy." 
 
 I held out my arms, and for a moment we made, 
 I suppose, one of those intolerable pictures that 
 hung in Fulton's mental gallery. And then I went 
 away. 
 
 It was good to have told. I was very deeply in 
 love ; I thought that Lucy's and my future could soon 
 be smoothed into shape, but I did not feel happy. 
 I felt as if I had been through a great ordeal of 
 some sort, and had come off second best. It seemed 
 to me that I ought to have stood up more loud- 
 ly for my love, for its intensity and power to en- 
 dure. 
 
 In addition there had been about John Fulton an 
 ominous quiet. I could better have endured a vio- 
 lent outbreak. For there is no action without its 
 reaction. After a storm there is calm. But Ful- 
 
 250 
 
We Three 
 
 ton's calm was more like that which precedes a 
 storm. 
 
 His breakdown came after I had left. Lucy told 
 me about it. He had come back to her in the living- 
 room, and said things about me that she would 
 never never forgive. 
 
 "I don't care what he says about me," she cried, 
 "but if he talks to me against you, I won't stand 
 it." 
 
 "It's natural for him to feel bitter against me. 
 I'm sorry, of course. But it doesn't matter." 
 
 "If he's got to feel bitter, let him feel bitter 
 against me. If anyone is to blame, I am to 
 blame." 
 
 "What did he say about me?" I asked. 
 
 "He said you were the kind of man that men 
 didn't count when they were counting up the number 
 of men they knew. He said you had always been 
 too idle to keep out of mischief. And that no pretty 
 woman would be safe from you — if you weren't 
 afraid . . . Afraid 1" 
 
 "That's quite an indictment." 
 
 "I said: 'Why didn't you say all that to his face, 
 when he was here, instead of waiting till you could 
 say it behind his back . . .' " 
 
 251 
 
TVe Three 
 
 Here she turned to me with the most wonderful 
 look of tenderness and trust. 
 
 "But I know what I know. And you are the kind- 
 est and the truest and the gentlest man . . ." 
 
 "Oh, I'm not! I'm not, Lucy I . . . But what 
 does that matter, if I never let you find out the dif- 
 ference ? . . . We mustn't take what John says too 
 seriously. He's had enough trouble to warp his 
 mind." 
 
 She still looked up into my face with that wonder- 
 ful trust and tenderness. "And you are the most 
 generous man to another man!" she said. 
 
XXVIII 
 
 THE very next day Evelyn told a few old 
 friends that she was going to be married 
 to Dawson Cooper. At once Lucy felt 
 that she must give a dinner in the happy young 
 people's honor, and to this dinner, as one of Eve- 
 lyn's oldest friends and of Dawson's for that matter, 
 I had to be asked. 
 
 In many ways, this dinner differed in my memory 
 from other dinners. To begin with, it was exceed- 
 ingly short, and well done. The table was decorated 
 with that flower which some people call Johnny 
 jump-up, and some heartsease, and of which all 
 that I can state positively is that it is the great- 
 grandmother of the pansy family. We had some 
 tag-ends of Moet and Chandon '84 to drink and a 
 bottle of the old Chartreuse. In the second place, 
 it was the last time I was ever to sit at meat under 
 John Fulton's roof. The dinner had psychological 
 peculiarities. I was in love with my hostess; she 
 with me. Twice I could have run away with the 
 girl in honor of whose engagement the dinner was 
 
 253 
 
JVe Three 
 
 being given. My host, who personally had insisted 
 on my presence, would have been delighted to hear 
 of my sudden death. The waitress would have died 
 for me (I had her word for it), and at the same 
 time she despised me. Within the week I had 
 thrown myself on her mercy, and bought her silence 
 with a kiss. 
 
 What a dinner it would have been if we had 
 elected to play truth; if each person present could 
 have been forced to say what he or she knew about 
 the others! 
 
 Personally I must have rushed out of the house, 
 my fingers in my ears, like Pilgrim. 
 
 But we didn't talk about embarrassing things. 
 We made a lot of noise, and did a lot of laughing, 
 and toasting. But I was glad when it was all over. 
 I was always catching someone's eye, and thinking 
 how much harm a man can do, if with no will to do 
 harm, he follows the lines of least resistance and 
 drifts. The harm that is done of malice and pur- 
 pose has at least a strength of conviction about it, 
 and disregard of consequences. It is far more re- 
 spectable to do murder in cold blood, than to 
 slaughter a friend because you happen to be careless 
 with firearms. 
 
 254 
 
We Three 
 
 Among other things that dinner proved to me 
 that it is possible to do several things at once: to 
 laugh, talk, and think. I kept laughing and talking 
 and helping now and then to tease Evelyn and Daw- 
 son, and yet all the while I was busy thinking of 
 other things. And all the thinking was based on one 
 wish; not that I had never been born, but that I 
 had my whole life to live over again. Surely, I 
 thought, with another trial I might have amounted 
 to something. I had money back of me, I thought, 
 and position, and a mind — well, not much of a mind, 
 but when you think what that Italian woman does 
 with half-wit children — surely the right educators 
 could have made something quite showy out of me. 
 The energy I had put into acquiring skill at games 
 and in learning the short cuts to pleasure, might 
 have been expended on righteousness and the devel- 
 opment of character. Most at ease with the great, 
 I might, during the dearth of great men, have as- 
 pired to be an ambassador. I'd have married 
 young, and have given all the tenderness which 
 various women have roused in me, to one woman. 
 And there would have been children, and stability, 
 and a home constantly invaded by proud and happy 
 grandparents. Or if these fine things had not been 
 
We Three 
 
 in my reach, at least I might have shaken the dust 
 of futile places from my feet, and closed my ears to 
 the voices of futile people. Often I have had the 
 valorous adventurous impulse, and the curiosity to 
 find out what was "beyond the ranges" — ^merely to 
 resist it. I am Tomlinson, I thought. I might have 
 been Childe Roland. 
 
 Was there not still time to turn a new leaf — to 
 be somebody, to accomplish something? Yes, I 
 could make the woman who awaited me beyond the 
 puddle of scandal — happy. I could — I must be un- 
 selfish and fine where she was concerned. The 
 world might forgive me, it would never quite for- 
 give her. The world would never believe that we 
 had played the game as fairly as it can be played. 
 There would be such talk as, "Of course the 
 moment Fulton found out what was going on, 
 he got rid of her." Other people would say, 
 "Well, damaged goods is all he ever deserved, 
 anyway." 
 
 Lucy, damaged goods? I stole a look at her. 
 Litde and lovely and happy and full of laughter at 
 the head of her table, there was no shadow upon 
 that pansy face. She was, as always, living in the 
 moment. From all our troubles and complicatioi^s, 
 
 256 
 
We Three 
 
 "a rose high up against the thunder were not so 
 white and far away." Remorse would never greatly 
 torment her. In time, too, Fulton's hungry stone- 
 gray face of the last weeks would fade from my 
 memory. 
 
XXIX 
 
 BEYOND saying that he thought for various 
 reasons we should see less of each other, 
 Fulton had made no effort to keep Lucy 
 and me apart. If he had an adviser in this, that 
 adviser was Schuyler. The idea, I suppose, was 
 that Lucy, unopposed, would soon tire of the affair, 
 as she had tired of others in her extreme youth, and 
 return to her duty, if not to her affection. But we 
 only loved each other the more. And the various 
 exasperations of delay became hard to bear. Lucy, 
 when what seemed to her a reasonable time had 
 passed, and Fulton had not yet made up his mind 
 about the divorce, was against delay. We had 
 warned Fulton we had played the game, why should 
 we lose time to do so? I had to argue with her 
 against the next steamer for foreign parts, and to 
 persuade her (half persuade her) that in the long 
 run patience would serve us best. "Now," I said, 
 "we don't feel that we need anyone but ourselves. 
 But we both love people — our own kind of people. 
 If John won't play fair (we called it that) our own 
 
 258 
 
JVe Three 
 
 kind of people will be on our side, no matter what 
 we do. But we should have John's word for it that 
 he is not going to play fair, before we take any 
 drastic step." 
 
 The Fultons left Aiken, and after what seemed 
 to me a decent delay of a few days, I followed 
 them to New York. John seemed further than ever 
 from coming to a decision, so Lucy thought. But 
 she evinced a more patient spirit. For the young 
 woman with credit and a fondness for clothes New 
 York is a great solace, even if she is half broken- 
 hearted. 
 
 "The contract with the Russian has gone 
 through," she said; "John will make a lot of money. 
 I tell him that it's horrid to get rich by making 
 things that are used to kill people with, but he says 
 there are too many people In the world, and that 
 most of them would be the better for a little killing 
 — so he's given me a fine credit, and I'm buying all 
 the clothes I need." 
 
 "Lucy, I don't think you ought to spend his 
 money — any more than you absolutely have to — 
 considering;" 
 
 "We spoke of that. He said I'd hurt him 
 enough, and that while I was still ostensibly his 
 
 259 
 
We Three 
 
 wife, he wished me to have all that he could give 
 me. 
 
 "While you are still ostensibly his wife? That 
 sounds as if — Oh, as if he was going to step out, 
 Lucy, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Sometimes he talks as if it was all arranged. 
 He says, 'Next year, if you shouldn't happen to 
 be with me, I'll do so and so,' and all that sort of 
 talk. At other times he talks of building a big 
 house down on Long Island — ^just the kind of house 
 I've always wanted — ^just as if he was sure that I 
 would still be living with him." 
 
 Well, one day Fulton came to my hotel and sent 
 up his card. I went down to him as quickly as I 
 could finish dressing. He said: 
 
 "Sorry to trouble you, but my time isn't quite my 
 own. This seemed a golden opportunity. We've 
 a lot to talk over. I've a taxi outside. Will you 
 drive around a little?" 
 
 "Certainly, if you'll just wait while I telephone." 
 
 I called up Lucy. 
 
 "I can't meet you this morning, I am to have a 
 talk with John. Somehow I feel sure that some- 
 thing is going to be dedded." My heart was beat- 
 ing quick and fast. I was unaccountably excited. 
 
 260 
 
JVe Three 
 
 This excitement seemed to communicate itself to 
 Lucy. She said as much. 
 
 "I'm terribly excited," she said, and her voice 
 had a kind of wild,, triumphant note in it. "You'll 
 tell me everything the minute you can?" 
 
 "Of course. Good luck." 
 
 "Good luck." 
 
 We drove' across Forty-third Street and up the 
 crowded Avenue for several blocks without speak- 
 ing. Then Fulton smiled a little and spoke in a 
 level, easy voice. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said, "the water is not so cold as 
 it looks. Shall we take the plunge?" 
 
 "By all means," I said. My heart was thump- 
 ing nervously. I hoped he would not notice it. 
 
 "Lucy and I," he said, "as you know, were won- 
 derfully happy for a good many years. Until last 
 winter, I was never away from her over night. And 
 then, only because of a financial crisis. I have never 
 even looked at another woman with desire, or 
 thought of one. Until last winter, Lucy was the 
 same about other men. She was a wonderful little 
 mother to her kids, and the most faithful, loving, 
 valiant wife that ever belonged to a man full of 
 cares and worries." 
 
 261 
 
We Three 
 
 "I know all this, John," I said; "I could wish that 
 you had been unhappy together." 
 
 "I wish to make several things clear," he said. 
 "According to all civil and moral law, I am an abso- 
 lutely undivorceable man. There is only one ground 
 for divorce in this state. To clear the decks for 
 you and Lucy, I should have to smirch myself and 
 take a black eye." 
 
 "But the people who count always understand 
 these things." 
 
 "In order to secure my own unhappiness, to make 
 it everlasting, I should have to perjure myself. I 
 know that it is the custom of the country for mar- 
 ried gentlemen who are no longer loved to perjure 
 themselves. But it seems to me a custom that would 
 bear mending. However, it is not yet a question 
 of that." 
 
 "Still undecided?" 
 
 "No. My mind Is made up. I am prepared to 
 step down and take my black eye on certain condi- 
 tions." 
 
 I bowed my head. 
 
 "Lucy," he said, "doesn't love the children as 
 much as I do. She has allowed herself to forget 
 how dear they are to her, so it would have to be 
 
 262 
 
JVe Three 
 
 understood among us three that I should retain the 
 children. You see, I've got to keep something of 
 what belongs to me — to keep me going. Lucy will 
 agree to this, because just now all she wants is new 
 clothes and you. There is another point upon which 
 I feel that I must be satisfied." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "How long is your young people's infatuation for 
 each other going to last? If it is to be brief and 
 evanescent, it would be absurd for me to take a 
 black eye. But if it is to be stable and enduring, I 
 should be ashamed to stand in the way of it. Know- 
 ing something of Lucy's history, how long do you 
 think her fancy for you will last?" 
 
 "These things are on the lap of the gods." 
 
 "Well, then, yours for her? Now, I know that 
 my love for her, which has been tried by fire and 
 ice and time, will last until I die, or lose my reason. 
 With me it is not a question of thinking, but of 
 knowing. How long do you know that your love 
 for her will last?" 
 
 "That is an impossible question to answer. I 
 think it will always last." 
 
 "Thought won't do, Archie, on this all-important 
 phase of the situation, we must have the light of 
 
 263 
 
TVe Three 
 
 definite knowledge. Now, as a man who has had 
 many love affairs, some innocent and some not, you 
 should have a good working knowledge of your en- 
 durance in such matters. If you were cast away on 
 a desert island with a very pretty woman, you to 
 whom women have always been necessary, you from 
 whose hand there has always been some woman or 
 other ready to eat, how long would your love for 
 Lucy last?" 
 
 I was amazed momentarily by his question, but it 
 was not one which I could answer. 
 
 "A week?" He rather shot this at me, and for a 
 moment there was a satiric gleam in his eye. 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "You know that it would last a week?" 
 
 I began to feel a little angry, and I said, quite 
 sharply: "I know it." 
 
 "A month?" 
 
 "Yes, a month." 
 
 Both our voices had risen. His became easy and 
 level once more. 
 
 "A year, Archie?" 
 
 "How can I know that, John?" I tried to meet 
 his quick change of manner. "I think so. I'm very 
 sure of it." 
 
 264 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "But you don't know?" 
 
 "I can't know." 
 
 "And if the very pretty woman on the island 
 came to you in the night and said she had seen hob- 
 goblin eyes in the dark, and was afraid — how long, 
 though you still love her, would you be faithful to 
 Lucy? A man like you, in good health, with an in- 
 completely developed moral sense?" 
 
 "We are getting nowhere," I said, determined to 
 keep my temper. 
 
 "We are getting to this," said he, "that if a year 
 from today, you and Lucy still love each other, and 
 have been faithful to each other, and still want each 
 other — ^you shall have each other." 
 
 "A year?" I think he smiled at the surprise and 
 disappointment in my voice. 
 
 "During which year," he said, "you will not meet 
 each other except by accident, and you will not cor- 
 respond." 
 
 I said nothing, but he read my thoughts. 
 
 "It isn't Fair to you and Lucy? At least it is fair 
 to me. Nobody has thought about me. I have had 
 to think for myself, and for the children. Admit 
 this — if your love stands a year's test you will stand 
 a far greater chance of happiness than if you ran 
 
 265 
 
We Three 
 
 away together now, unblessed by the man you had 
 wronged, and unclergied. Admit this, too— that if 
 your love doesn't stand the test, then my life has 
 been ruined for as futile, puerile, misbegotten a pas- 
 sion as ever reared its head under an honest man's 
 roof. Admit it ! Admit it." 
 
 "I'm not sure that I admit any such thing." 
 
 "Then, my dear fellow," he said, "your mental 
 and moral capacity are on precisely the same 
 plane. . . . I'm sure you don't want to injure Lucy. 
 Give her this chance to straighten out and get un- 
 tangled. If there is any truth in your love for her 
 you will see that this way is best for her." 
 
 "I am thinking of her happiness." 
 
 "^r^you?" 
 
 "She's been very patient, John. I can't tell you 
 how patient." 
 
 "For God's sake don't try to tell me. Haven't 
 I had enough to bear?" 
 
 "I think Lucy won't be willing to wait a year." 
 
 "She must be made willing. You must help. A 
 year soon passes — soon passes. If things then are 
 as they are now, then I shall believe that your love 
 for each other is strong and fine, and I shall re- 
 nounce my claim with a good grace — a good grace." 
 
 266 
 
We Three 
 
 "If we can't wait a year, John !" 
 
 "You mean if you won't? In that case I shall not 
 feel that Lucy is entitled to a divorce, or either of 
 you to any money at my hands. Among the people 
 who are necessary to you and Lucy, a wronged and 
 upright husband has great power. If you are such 
 children, such fools, as not to be willing to stand a 
 test of your love, you will have to be punished. It 
 would mean that your passion has nothing to do with 
 what is understood by love. You would merely be 
 pointed at and passed up as a rather well-known 
 young couple with adulterous proclivities." 
 
 There was a long, charged silence. 
 
 "The law and the prophets are all on your side, 
 John, but " 
 
 "You'll not answer now, please. You'll think it 
 over. And don't forget all the pleasant things that 
 you can do in a year. There's that hunting trip in 
 Somaliland you used to talk about so much — there's 
 London and Paris — wonderful places for a man 
 who's trying to cure himself of an unlawful love." 
 
 "Trying to cure himself?" 
 
 "Of course. Jesting aside, don't you think that 
 what you and Lucy want to do to Jock and Hurry 
 and me is wrong? Of course you do. You're not a 
 
 267 
 
We Three 
 
 devil. If, by uttering the wish, you could bring it 
 about that you had never loved Lucy, that she had 
 never fallen out of love with me and loved you over 
 the heads of her children, that all might be as it 
 was when you first began to come to our house, 
 wouldn't you utter that wish? Of course you 
 would." 
 
 He was smiling at me now, very gently and cun- 
 ningly, and there was, at the same time, in his eyes 
 an awful pathos. 
 
 "Why, yes," I said, "I suppose so." 
 
 "Just bear out what I've always maintained," 
 said he; "I'ye always maintained that you were a 
 good fellow — at heart." 
 
 "Am I to see Lucy again — ^before the year be- 
 gins?" 
 
 "Is it very necessary?" 
 "I suppose not. But — 
 
 "Well, I imagine Lucy will insist on seeing you. 
 It will be a pity, but after all she's only a little child 
 in some ways. It's all going to be very hard for you 
 both, at first," he said gently. "So you shall see 
 each other again — if she says so." 
 
 Suddenly he reached out his hand, and I took it. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "I needed your help." 
 268 
 
XXX 
 
 IT seemed to me, at the time, that I had showed 
 myself very weak in the conference in the taxi- 
 cab. It seemed to me that my acquiescence in 
 Fulton's proposals reflected on the strength of my 
 love for Lucy. Perhaps it did. But in the clearer 
 light of today it seems to me that to his questions I 
 made the only answers possible; and that only a 
 demented person could have found serious flaws in 
 the logic of his position^ 
 
 When we had parted, I walked for a long time 
 in the most crowded streets, trying to reconcile my- 
 self to the long separation from Lucy, and to the 
 weakness which I thought I had betrayed in agree- 
 ing to it. 
 
 Could I endure that separation? The world 
 would be empty with no Lucy to go to, no Lucy even 
 to hear from. I loved her too much to part with 
 all but the thought of her. It did not seem possible 
 that the mere passage of time could dull the edge of 
 my passion. Yet cold memory blinked at this very 
 possibility. 
 
 269 
 
JVe Three 
 
 I had parted from other women, thinking that 
 thoughts of them must fill the rest of my life to the 
 exclusion of everything else; only to find that after 
 a little lapse of time their images faded, and even 
 the memory of what they had been to me had no 
 power to think. 
 
 So might it he with Lucy. "You know it might" 
 said cold memory. "Don't be a fool — ^you think it 
 won't, but you know it might." 
 
 "But," I argued, "this is different. No other 
 woman ever loved me as she does. I may be a 
 fool, but her eyes have spoken, and I know the truth 
 when I hear it." 
 
 "She does love you," said my other self, which I 
 have called cold memory, "and she did love him, 
 and before his time, others, if only briefly. Without 
 the sight of you to feed on, her love will starve and 
 die. It is almost always so." 
 
 "Almost." 
 
 "There are exceptions. Is it likely, considering 
 your records, that you and she will be an exception? 
 It is not likely." 
 
 It wasn't. John Fulton was probably right. He 
 believed that time would cure us, and almost the 
 whole of human experience agreed with him. 
 
 270 
 
We Three 
 
 And wouldn't it be better if we were cured? Far 
 better. I had to admit that. We ought, indeed, 
 to hope that we should be cured ; to help with all our 
 strength in the effecting of that cure. And con- 
 versely, Lucy ought to try to return to her affection 
 for John and to her duty. 
 
 Suddenly I felt cold and shivery as before under- 
 going an operation. 
 
 Poor little Lucy ! Even now she must be listening 
 to John's ultimatum, as I had listened, but with this 
 difference; she could not see the justice and the 
 logic of his position. She would only see that she 
 was being cruelly hurt, and thwarted, and disap- 
 pointed; that she was being curbed and punished by 
 forces too strong for her to cope with. And I pic- 
 tured her, all reserve gone at last, a tortured child — 
 just sobbing. It seemed to me that I must go to her 
 or die. And indeed I went a little way toward their 
 hotel. Then I thought, perhaps her sobs would 
 move him to a change of heart. Perhaps he will 
 weaken, and let her go. Upon the strength of this 
 thought I returned to my own hotel, rearing a bliss- 
 ful edifice of immediate happiness. 
 
 I sat in the lobby in a position of reading, a news- 
 paper before my face; but I did not read. I was 
 
 271 
 
We Three 
 
 listening for the boy who would page me to the tele- 
 phone. Many names were called in the lobby, but 
 it was two o'clock before I started at the sound of 
 my own. 
 
 Fulton was at the other end of the telephone, not 
 Lucy. He sounded very much upset and depressed : 
 "Lucy would like to see you right away, if you can 
 come round." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 We said no more. 
 
 Her face was white and tear-stained. I had no 
 sooner closed the door of their sitting-room behind 
 me, than she flung herself upon my breast and burst 
 into a storm of sobs. After a long time words be- 
 gan to mingle with the sobs. 
 
 "It will kill me. Why does he want me to die? 
 . . . I've only got you. ... I want to belong to 
 you — ^to you." 
 
 I talked and I talked, and I soothed and I soothed, 
 but she was sick with grief and pain and a kind of 
 insane resentment, as if she had gone through a 
 major operation without an anesthetic. It would 
 have been horrible to see anybody suffer so. And 
 she was the woman I loved! The strain was so 
 great upon me that at last my powers of resistance 
 
 272 
 
We Three 
 
 snapped. I flung honor to the winds, and became 
 strong with resolution. And now my words seemed 
 to pierce her consciousness and to calm her. 
 
 "It's all right, Lucy." I had to speak loudly at 
 first, as if she was deaf. "You shan't suffer like this. 
 I teU you you shan't — not if I am damned to hell." 
 
 I knew now that she was listening, the sobs be- 
 came muffled and less frequent. "It's you and me 
 against the world now," I said. "There'll be no 
 more flimflamming. I promised John to wait a year. 
 That doesn't matter. A promise made at your ex- 
 pense won't hold. . . . When is your husband com- 
 ing back?" 
 
 ". . . hour," was aU the answer I got. . . . 
 
 "Then there's not much time left. Try to pull 
 yourself together. We've got to make all our plans 
 right now, and there's not much time." 
 
 "You will take me away?" 
 
 "Of course. Now listen. There's no sense in 
 putting your husband on his guard. Let him think 
 that we are both agreed to the year's probation. I'll 
 look up things and engage passage. I'll do that this 
 afternoon. Tonight I'll go to Hot Springs to see 
 my father and get money. My own balance is very 
 low, unfortunately. Day after tomorrow I'll be in 
 
 273 
 
We Three 
 
 town again. Now, how are we going to communi- 
 cate?" 
 
 I can't say that she was calm now, but she no 
 longer sobbed, and her mind was in working order 
 again. 
 
 "By telephone," she said. "Every morning when 
 I know John's plans for the day I'll let you know, 
 and so you'll know when to call me up." 
 
 Already the anticipations of our great adventure 
 were bringing back the color to her cheeks and the 
 sparkle to her eyes. I smiled at her. "Don't be 
 too cheerful," I said; "we might get ourselves sus- 
 pected." 
 
 "Couldn't we just tell John that we had decided 
 to go — and go?" 
 
 "Better not." 
 
 "I hate to deceive and play act and be under- 
 handed." 
 
 "So do I — ^but — Lucy, darling, you're going to 
 trust me in more important things than this. I think 
 my way is best. We don't want any more agonies 
 and recriminations and scenes. Do we?" 
 
 I took her in my arms and whispered, "It's only 
 a few days now, but I don't see how I can wait. I 
 don't see how." 
 
 274 
 
We Three 
 
 And she burrowed with her face between my 
 cheek and shoulder, and whispered back, "And I 
 don't see how I can wait." 
 
 There was a little space of very tense silence, dur- 
 ing which my eyes roved to the little silver traveling- 
 clock on the mantel, and then I said in a voice that 
 shook : 
 
 "I'd better get out before he comes back." 
 
XXXI 
 
 MY parents, loafing North, via Hot Springs, 
 were delighted to see me. As soon as 
 courtesy to my mother made it possible, 
 I got my father aside, and told him that my real pur- 
 pose in coming was to raise the wind. 
 
 "I need a lot of money," I said; "sooner or later 
 you'll know why. So I may as well tell you." 
 
 My father's fine weather-beaten face of a country 
 squire expressed an interest at once frankly affection- 
 ate and tinged with a kind of detached cynicism. 
 
 "I am going to run off with Lucy Fulton," I said. 
 
 "I supposed that was it," said my father, without 
 evincing the least surprise. 
 
 "You did?" 
 
 "Oh, we old fellows put an ear to the ground now 
 and then," he explained; "and sometimes sleep with 
 one eye open. Punch's advice to the young couple 
 about to marry was 'Don't.' My advice to you and 
 Lucy is double don't. Why not give yourselves a 
 year to think it all over, as John Fulton so sanely 
 and generously suggests?" 
 
 276 
 
JVe Three 
 
 Astonishment at my father's superhuman knowl- 
 edge of events must have showed in my face. Still 
 smiling with frank affection, he said, "John put me 
 in touch with the whole situation before he left 
 Aiken. The year of probation was my suggestion 
 to him." 
 
 "But Lucy and I can't agree." 
 
 "Then you can't. Do you sail, fly, entrain, or 
 row — and when?" 
 
 "We sail, father, next Wednesday." 
 
 "A week from today. I am profoundly sorry. 
 It's very rough on Fulton, just when he has closed 
 with this Russian contract and is by way of getting 
 rich." 
 
 "It's our one chance for happiness, father." 
 
 He cocked an eyebrow at me. "And I think it is 
 your one sure road to misery." 
 
 "But you'll see me through?" 
 
 "Come to me a year from today. Tell me that 
 during that time you have neither seen Lucy nor 
 communicated with her, but that you still love each 
 other — then I'll see you through." 
 
 "My dear father, it's so much better for you to 
 put up the money than for me to borrow it from one 
 of my friends." 
 
 277 
 
We Three 
 
 "Only because the friend would expect you to pay 
 him back. How would you live when his money 
 was gone — ^keep on borrowing?" 
 
 "Why, father, you're acting like a parent in an 
 old-fashioned novel. Are you threatening to cut me 
 off?" 
 
 "My son," said he, "a man who had done well, 
 and who deserved well of the world came to rhe and 
 showed me his heart — a heart tormented beyond 
 endurance with unreturned love, with jealousy, and 
 with despair. He threw himself upon my mercy. 
 And I said that I would help him, with whatever 
 power of help I have at command. I don't love that 
 man, my son. I love you. But I am on his side. 
 All my fighting blood is aroused when I learn that 
 still another American husband has been wronged 
 by his wife, and by an idle flirting bachelor. God 
 keep me firm in what must seem to you like cruelty 
 in one to whom you have always turned with the ut- 
 most frankness and loyalty in your emergencies. 
 And from whom until this moment you have always 
 received help." 
 
 I was appalled and thunderstruck. After a while 
 I said, "Father, she sobbed so that I thought she 
 would break a blood vessel. I couldn't stand it. I 
 
 278 
 
We Three 
 
 had to say I would take her away. If I don't, I 
 think she will die or kill herself." 
 
 My father drew himself up very straight, and 
 looked very handsome and stern, for a moment. 
 Then his frame relaxed and his eyes twinkled, 
 and he said, "Die? Kill herself? My grand- 
 mother!" 
 
 "Oh, father," I cried, "don't! Don't! She is 
 all the world to me. You talk as if " 
 
 "I talk as if she was an excellent example of the 
 modern American wife in what the papers call 'so- 
 ciety.' And that is precisely what she is. You know 
 that as well as I do. Just because you love her is no 
 reason for pretending that she's a saint and a mar- 
 tyr and the victim of a grand historical passion. She 
 is lovely to look at. She is charming to be with. 
 But that doesn't prevent her from being a bad little 
 
 egg." 
 
 "Father," I said, as gently as I could, "I love her 
 with all my heart. Why, she's like a little child, 
 and she's being so hurt. You've never refused me 
 anything. Help me to make her happy." 
 
 "When she has gotten over her fancy for you, 
 when Fulton has plenty of money for her to spend, 
 she will be as happy as she deserves to be — ^until she 
 
 279 
 
We Three 
 
 makes herself miserable again by indulging in some 
 affair similar to this. Now, my dear boy, go back 
 to her, tell her that you haven't enough money to 
 elope on and no way of getting it. Tell her also 
 that if at the end of a year's probation you and she 
 still want each other, nobody will oppose you, and 
 that you, on the day of your marriage to her, will 
 be made a rich man in your own right." 
 
 "Father, I want her so." 
 
 "And I want champagne so," said my father. 
 "And the accursed doctor has forbidden it. Do I 
 torture myself? Not at all. I turn for solace to an 
 excellent bottle of Scotch whiskey. And this has at 
 least the effect of making me want the champagne 
 less. Don't get confused between psychology and 
 physiology. If I were in your boots I'd slip over to 
 Paris — and drink Scotch wriskey." 
 
 So I went back to New York, and, as soon as pos- 
 sible, I talked to Lucy over the telephone, and told 
 her about the interview with my father. 
 
 "But,"I finished, "we'll do whatever you say. We 
 can't very well land In Europe without any money; 
 but I've still got most of the passage money; and if 
 you say so, we can stay right in this country and live 
 on that for a few weeks, while I try to get a job. 
 
 280 
 
We Three 
 
 I could borrow some money, but it would have to 
 be paid back. Oh, Lucy, this is such a humiliating 
 confession to make, but what can I do?" 
 
 "Everybody is against us," she said, "everything 
 — I don't suppose there's any use struggling." 
 
 She sounded cold and tired. 
 
 "I suppose," she went on slowly, "we'll have to 
 wait, the way John says. Shall we?" 
 
 "You say it, Lucy. Don't make me say it." 
 
 "So we'll wait," she said; "not see each other, 
 and not communicate. I don't see how I can stand 
 it, but I suppose I can. ... A whole year — a whole 
 yearl" 
 
 "At the end of it, my darling, all that there is 
 in the world for me, nobody will stand in our way; 
 there'll be plenty of money and a long life before 
 us." 
 
 "Listen . . . aU the long time will you take care 
 
 of yourself?" 
 "Yes, Lucy." 
 
 "And not notice any other ladies?" . . . 
 "Lucy . . . let's take a chance on what I have 
 
 got." 
 
 A long silence. Then: "Oh, no. I suppose 
 
 John's right. Everybody's right. . . . But"— there 
 
 281 
 
JVe Three 
 
 was a valiant ring In her voice, "we'll show 'em they 
 were wrong and cruel. Won't we?" 
 
 "Yes, Lucy." 
 
 "Good-by, then, and God bless and keep you." 
 
 "It's only for a year, Lucy." 
 
 I heard a short, dry sob. It was mine. 
 
XXXII 
 
 1 DON'T know how I got through the next ten 
 days. After three of them had passed I be- 
 gan to fear a mental breakdown, because my 
 mind kept working all by itself, without orders. If 
 I wanted to think forward, to the end of the proba- 
 tionary year, I couldn't. Always I kept thinking 
 I ought to have done, or said, so and so. I ought 
 to have been firmer. I was always reviving that 
 drive in the taxicab with Fulton, or that last inter- 
 view with my father. If my love was strong and 
 fine I ought never to have knuckled under. They 
 had had too easy a time with me. I had played into 
 their hands, and they had treated me like a child. 
 From pure humiliation I could not sleep at night. 
 
 And what was Lucy doing? How was she bear- 
 ing it? What sort of life was she leading, the 
 poor, abused child? The world seemed to have all 
 joined against me in a conspiracy of silence. No- 
 body mentioned Lucy in my hearing. Although the 
 same city held us, until they moved to Stamford, I 
 had no accidental glimpse of her. Our last talk had 
 
 283 
 
JVe Three 
 
 not been in the least satisfactory. It seemed to me 
 that I must see her once more to preach courage 
 and hope. During those first ten nights I hardly 
 slept at all. Sometimes I would picture out Lucy's 
 whole course of life during the next few months. 
 And I imagined that, grown at last utterly indifferent 
 through suffering, she might drift back into her for- 
 mer relations with Fulton, if only because he loved 
 her so much, and no one can keep on saying no 
 forever. Such imaginings had sometimes the vivid- 
 ness of scenes actually witnessed and threw me into 
 tortures of jealousy. 
 
 Not until a short period of the tenth day was 
 Lucy ever actually out of my mind. I had been 
 sitting in a chair staring at a newspaper, all my 
 nerves tense and hungry, when suddenly they seemed 
 to have relaxed and to have been fed. The skin 
 of my face no longer seemed tightly stretched. I 
 felt as if I had waked from a refreshing sleep ; but 
 this was not the case. I had simply, without deliber- 
 ation, forgotten Lucy for half an hour, and been 
 making agre^eable personal plans for the year of 
 probation. 
 
 "Good Lord," I thought; "has living without her, 
 already begun to be easier?" 
 
 284 
 
We Three 
 
 It had. I began to take pleasure in seeing my 
 friends; to look forward to the Newport season, to 
 the international tennis, to the golf championship at 
 Ekwanok, to the thousand and one things that make 
 for the happiness of a butterfly's summer. 
 
 After a month of Newport, days passed with 
 only hurried thoughts of Luc7. Chance mention of 
 her name gave me no uneasiness; they affected my 
 heart, like sudden trumpets, but I kpew that my 
 face had become an inscrutable mask, and that my 
 voice was in perfect control. Those who had 
 thought that there was something between us began 
 to think differently. 
 
 And then, after days of suspense, surmise, and 
 real consternation, the legs of civilization seemed to 
 have been knocked from under it, and the greatest 
 nations of Europe flew at each other. 
 
 Now indeed there seemed an easy way to the 
 year's end. The Germans rolled through Belgium 
 and into France, outraging humanity. It looked 
 as if they would roll right into Paris, and sow salt 
 where the world's first city had stood. 
 
 I rushed up to Bar Harbor to tell my parents that 
 I was going to France to enlist in the foreign legion. 
 Oh, how swiftly the time would fly, I thought. That 
 
 285 
 
We Three 
 
 I might get crippled or killed never occurred to me. 
 I thought only that having failed at everything else, 
 I must obviously be possessed of military genius. I 
 pictured myself climbing the bloody ladder of pro- 
 motion to high command and winning the gratitude 
 of that country which next to my own I love the 
 most. 
 
 My mother, to whom I first broached the news, 
 did not cry or make a fuss. But I saw that I had 
 distressed her terribly. 
 
 "It isn't our war," she said; "and what use will 
 one more enlisted man be to them? And besides, 
 my dear, only sons are always the first ones to 
 get hurt; only sons and men whose families are de- 
 pendent upon them. But . . ." and here she 
 gave me a wonderful look ... "I think I know 
 why you want to go. And that makes me very 
 proud." 
 
 "I think you do know, Mumsey," I said. "It's 
 because we'd rather get hurt trying to do something 
 worth while, than go on the way we've always gone 
 on, amounting to nothing, and disappointing every- 
 body." 
 
 Then she got me in her arms, and cried over me 
 a little. 
 
 286 
 
We Three 
 
 My father, as usual, took my decision with the 
 most good-natured indifference, 
 
 "Fine experience," he said, "for any man that's 
 free to go. Makes me wish I were younger and 
 without obligations. Still I can enjoy the music at 
 the swimming-pool with a free conscience; because 
 I'm sending over all the money I can spare. . . . 
 How did you reach the conclusion that you could 
 go? 
 
 "Could ^T 
 
 "Yes. Of course you've no complication in your 
 life that should keep you from going. Well, I'm 
 glad of that." 
 
 "It seems to me that if anyone is free to go, I 
 am." 
 
 He smiled upon me, somewhat too playfully for 
 my comfort, and shook his head slowly. "So Fulton 
 and I were right about the year's probation. I'm 
 delighted. How soon did you and Lucy find out 
 that absence doesn't make the heart grow fonder?" 
 
 "Oh," I said, "it isn't that. What has that to do 
 with it? There's a year to be got over, and fight- 
 ing's the most agreeable and the quickest way I can 
 think of just now." 
 
 My father looked disappointed. 
 287 
 
JVe Three 
 
 "I hoped you had got over caring. And — ^you 
 haven't?" 
 
 For a few moments I met his eyes. But only for 
 a few moments. He didn't laugh. "I'm glad," he 
 said simply. 
 
 I tried to explain exactly how I felt. 
 
 "Of course not seeing her or hearing from her — 
 why — you see — ^but when I do see her it will all 
 come right back. I know that." 
 
 He smiled a little grimly. "Normally," he said, 
 "there are years of pleasant living before you. But 
 not if you get yourself killed — not if you lose an 
 arm or a leg, or come back with half your face shot 
 off, and your one remaining ear stone deaf from can- 
 non fire. But anyway I'm glad the Fulton business is 
 over. Your love has cooled and, even if Lucy's 
 hasn't — ^there could never be anything between you 
 now?" 
 
 He was speaking sarcastically. He went on in 
 the same vein : "The year over — even if you found 
 that Lucy was still wrapped up in you, that her hap- 
 piness depended on you, you would not, of course, 
 feel that you were under any obligation to pretend 
 that you still cared for her and to do a gentleman's 
 best to make her happy." 
 
 288 
 
We Three 
 
 "I get your point, father," I said; "and of course 
 if she still cares, I must try to make good. Of course 
 I must." 
 
 "Suppose," he said, no longer sarcastically, but 
 very earnestly, "suppose the year is up. Suppose 
 Lucy still cares, and as a reward for her faithfulness 
 and her patience there is nothing but your grave 
 'somewhere in France'? This is why I asked you 
 if you could go." 
 
 "I'll look like a fool," I said. "I've told several 
 people that I was surely going." 
 
 "That's too bad," he said; "but you'll have to 
 stand it. You have a good reputation for physical 
 pluck, though, and nobody will say anything very 
 nasty. And as for us," his voice rang a little, "who 
 are on the inside, we know that it is braver of you 
 to stay than to go." 
 
 "Anyway," I said, "if she — if Lucy — doesn't care 
 any more — ^why I can go then." 
 
 "You can go then. But it seems to me that a 
 man of education is wasted in a trench. That, how- 
 ever, is a matter of taste." 
 
XXXIII 
 
 IT was not until the early winter that I saw Lucy. 
 It was by accident. I sat just behind her at a 
 musical comedy. She was with her husband. 
 They looked very prosperous. They seemed to be 
 comradely enough. Mostly I saw only the back of 
 her head ; once, her full profile ; and then at last she 
 turned half around in her seat, and saw me. I don't 
 know what I did. I think I smiled, half rose to my 
 feet, and lifted my hand as if to take off a hat — 
 which of course I didn't have on. She nodded, and 
 smiled brightly ; but her eyes had that expression of 
 praying that I have so often mentioned. 
 
 It was long' since I had thought of her for more 
 than a few minutes at a time. But now my heart 
 began to beat furiously and all my sleeping love for 
 her waked in my heart. 
 
 And now she was telling her husband who was 
 sitting just behind them. 
 
 I went out after the act, intending to stay out. 
 But Fulton followed so quickly that he caught me 
 
 290 
 
We Three 
 
 just as I was leaving the theater. "Hello, Archie," 
 he said. 
 
 "Hello, John. How arc you all?" 
 
 "Pretty well," he said; "and you?" 
 
 "Pretty well. Cartridges still looking up?" 
 
 "Yes. We're doubling the capacity of the plant 
 for the second time since the war started. Have a 
 drink?" 
 
 We walked to the nearest saloon. "Wo heard 
 that you were going to enlist." 
 
 "I did think of it, and then I got cold feet." 
 
 "Like hell you did!" 
 
 "Well, reasons against it were found for me. Rea- 
 sons which I ought to have fihought of for myself. 
 Here's how." 
 
 "Santel" said John. A moment later, "Going to 
 Aiken?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, it depends." 
 
 There was an awkward silence. 
 
 "Lucy is very anxious," he then said, "to open our 
 house again this winter." 
 
 "As a matter of fact," said I glibly, "I've more 
 than half decided on Palm Beach." 
 
 A bell rang shrilly. 
 
 "Time to go back," he said. 
 291 
 
}Ve Three 
 
 "One moment, John. I'm not going back — of 
 course. How, is Lucy?" 
 
 "Oh, pretty well," he said stiffly; "I think she'll 
 come through all right. Had a tough time for a 
 while." 
 
 Upon that he hurried off to rejoin her, and I 
 turned my face once more to the bar, and gave an 
 order. I felt as if I had been through a terrible 
 ordeal. I was all in. 
 
 From now on I heard more often of the Fultons, 
 for they were leading a conspicuously gay life. 
 Somebody had loaned them a house for six 
 weeks, and by all accounts Lucy was making money 
 fly. 
 
 I saw her in the distance three times. Twice to 
 bow and exchange smiles. The other time she didn't 
 see me. Seeing her meant two or three days of tor- 
 ture; then her image and desirability would begin 
 to fade once more. But at least no other woman 
 interested me in the least. 
 
 Presently they went to Aiken. A few days later 
 I entrained for Palm Beach; but found that I could 
 not stand the place or the pace for long periods of 
 time, and fell into the habit of commuting with New 
 York. It was the war, I think, which made me so 
 
 292 
 
We Three 
 
 restless. It seemed to me that the night had not 
 been well slept, nor the most promising day well 
 begun until I had read the headlines in the papers. 
 My hot wish to fight as a soldier had cooled. More 
 and more I wanted to be of service, but in some 
 way which seemed to me more imaginative and in- 
 telligent. But I could not hit on the way. I must 
 go to Paris, I thought, then surely the inspiration of 
 helpfulness would come. But I could not very well 
 go to Paris until the year of probation was up. If 
 Lucy still cared — well, it would be easy enough for 
 me to care. I knew now that her physical presence 
 was sufficient to make me care — at any given mo- 
 ment. "Oh," I thought, "I can't lose. Either I'll 
 go to Paris and be useful, or I'll begin a new life 
 with the girl I love who loves me." 
 
 Late in February Harry Colemain joined me at 
 Palm Beach. He had wintered at Aiken, and I had 
 all the Aiken news from him. The place had never 
 been so full — ^people who usually went abroad, etc., 
 etc. — some delightful new people, about all the old 
 standbys. It was not a sporting winter. Most of 
 the men were feeling too poor for high stakes. 
 Would I believe it, the golf course was crowded all 
 day? The new hotel? It looked as if it was going 
 
 293 
 
We Three 
 
 to be a success. The clubs were having the biggest 
 year in their history. The golf club would be able 
 to reset the green with Bermuda grass. Some of 
 the holes had come through the summer splendidly. 
 Some were better than they ever had been, others 
 were worse, etc., etc. 
 
 I asked him about this and about that. At last I 
 said: "How are the Fultons?" 
 
 "Well, John comes and goes. He seems to have 
 gotten back his health. The kids are fine ... of 
 course they are not what they were as a family. 
 That's obvious. But Lucy seems to have come to 
 her senses. She was very gay at first. Then she 
 went round looking — well, she looked frightened. 
 Lots of people noticed it. It was as if the doctor 
 had told her she had lung trouble. She quit riding 
 and dropped out of everything — except very quiet 
 little dinners. Then she got very interested in her 
 yard, and had experts over from Berckman's and 
 did a lot of new planting . . ." 
 
 "But why did she look frightened? There wasn't 
 anything the matter, was there?" 
 
 "Well, you know the trouble she made for John, 
 wouldn't be his wife and all that? Well, he seems 
 to have won her round to his way of looking at com- 
 
 294 
 
We Three 
 
 promise — or she got more or less fond of him 
 again. I don't know." 
 
 "I don't quite understand what you're driving at." 
 
 "You don't? Why, she's to have a baby. And 
 everybody who knew there had been trouble says, 
 'Thank God for that.' " 
 
 My hands began to tremble so that I had to hide 
 them under the table at which we were sitting. 
 
 "Bully, isn't it?" said Harry; fortunately he had 
 turned his head to look at two very lovely young 
 women who had strolled into the palm garden. 
 
 "Bully," I said. 
 
 "See those two, Archie?" he said in a guarded 
 yoice. 
 
 "Sure I see them." 
 
 "One of 'em's the famous Mrs. Paxton, who " 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "Met her last autumn at " He rose suddenly 
 
 to his feet, and advanced to meet the two women. 
 "Hello, there 1 Glad to see you." 
 
 Mrs. Paxton's cool demure face broke into a de- 
 lighted smile. 
 
 "Why, Harry 1" she exclaimed. "Miss Coles, let 
 me introduce Mr. Colemain." 
 
 A moment later Harry had dragged me forward 
 
 295 
 
We Three 
 
 (literally) and I was being Introduced. Miss Coles 
 had very beautiful brown eyes, very white teeth, and 
 a very deep dimple. 
 
 "Why," said Harry, "shouldn't all you good peo- 
 ple dine with me?" 
 
 "Why not?" exclaimed Mrs. Paxton. 
 
 I started to say that I had a pressing engagement, 
 discovered Miss Coles' exceedingly beautiful eyes 
 lifted to mine, and saw upon her face an expression 
 of the most alluring mockery, and so — "Why not?" 
 said I. 
 
 We had a long and a merry dinner. I felt de- 
 fiant of life, a man without responsibilities, who 
 owed nothing and to whom nothing was owed. 
 
 After dinner we went strolling in the moonlight. 
 Harry and Mrs. Paxton strolled in one direction, 
 Miss Coles and I in another. 
 
 Miss Coles looked very beautiful, and she wore 
 an expression of childlike proprietorship which was 
 very becoming to her. 
 
 "Why are you Miss Coles?" I asked. 
 
 "I'm not — really." Her voice was little more 
 than a whisper. "It's more fun to be Miss while 
 the divorce is pending. I'm from California — no- 
 body knows me here." 
 
 296 
 
We Three 
 
 "And you're getting a divorce?" 
 
 She nodded slowly. And then with a flash of en- 
 gaging frankness: "No, I'm not," she said; "he is." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 We stroUed on in silence for a moment, and then 
 as if by agreement came to a sudden halt and looked 
 at each other. 
 
 Then she laughed softly, her head tilted back, 
 and her round bare throat showing very white in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 I threw my cigar into a bed of scarlet flowers. 
 
XXXIV 
 
 1HAD passed througn one of those stages of 
 mental and spiritual depression during which 
 a man does not even ask forgiveness of himself 
 for any of his acts. If "Miss" Coles had wished 
 me to marry her I would have done so ; but the sug- 
 gestion was never made by either of us. We parted, 
 a little gloomily, but not unhappily, and before there 
 was even a breath of scandal. It was just after she 
 heard that her husband had secured his decree 
 against her. That hard cold fact, that proof of 
 things which no woman likes to have proved against 
 her, seemed to sober her, you may say, and bring 
 her up with a round turn. From now on she was 
 going to be good, she said. No. I mustn't blame 
 myself for anything. Everything was her fault. 
 Everything always had been. I was ashamed too? 
 She was glad of that. We'd always be good friends. 
 Why, yes 1 From a friend, yes — if he was really as 
 rich as all that. It would help her to look around, 
 to get her bearings for the new and better life. It 
 had been a frightfully expensive winter. It had 
 
 298 
 
We Three 
 
 been sweet of me to keep her rooms so full of flow- 
 ers. She loved flowers. . . . Oh, nobody was hurt 
 much, and nobody but us anyway. 
 
 Reform is a great thing. I learned from Harry 
 that the very night I left Palm Beach she lost all the 
 money I had "conveyed" to her at gambling, 
 and only the other day she ran off with a man I 
 know very well indeed — ^and a married man at that. 
 I hope she won't talk too much in the first few weeks 
 of her Infatuation. 
 
 I reached New York feeling like the cad that I 
 suppose I am. But it was pretty bitter hearing 
 about Lucy, and the baby. At least I had kept faith 
 longer than she had. I wondered if she once more 
 loved her husband. Did I hope so? Yes, of course, 
 in the same way that you express conventional hor- 
 ror when you hear of the latest famine in China. 
 
 Well, for better for worse, I was a free man 
 again. Free— if it is free to be tormented by re- 
 morse, to feel cheap, futile, a waster — a thing of no 
 account to anyone. If this is freedom it isn't good 
 to be free. No man is happy who comes and goes 
 as he pleases. There must be responsibilities to 
 shoulder, and ties which bind him. If he lives for 
 himself alone and for what, in the first glad bursts 
 
 299 
 
JVe Three 
 
 of unattachment he imagines to be pleasure, a day 
 will come when the acid of self-contempt begins to 
 corrode him. 
 
 I determined to go to France, via London for I 
 needed clothes, and if I had a definite place it was 
 to volunteer as a nurse in the American hospital. 
 So I took out a passport, and engaged my passage. 
 
 A few days later, while crossing from Madison 
 Avenue to Fifth, I found myself suddenly face to 
 face with Hilda. She averted her head and tried to 
 pass without being recognized, but I called her name, 
 and she stopped short and turned back. 
 
 "It's just to ask how you are getting on, Hilda." 
 
 "I've just left Mrs. Fulton," she said; "I'm going 
 home." 
 
 "Home?" 
 
 "England." 
 
 "You don't mean it ! Bqt why?" 
 
 "Oh," she said, "it's all gotten on my nerves — the 
 war. I want to help. I've saved enough money to 
 take me over, and to keep me if I have to look round 
 a bit." 
 
 "I'm going over, too," I said. 
 
 "To help?" 
 
 "Oh, Hilda, I don't know. I hope so." 
 300 
 
We Three 
 
 "Oh, I hope so, too, Mr. Mannering." 
 
 "But, Hilda, I want to talk to you. There may 
 
 not be another chance. Where are you going nowf 
 "I'm staying with friends till I sail." 
 "Well, tell them you're going for a motor ride 
 
 with another friend, and to dine somewhere along 
 
 the Sound, will you?" 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't, not very well." 
 
 "Hilda," I said, "there are so many things I want 
 
 to know, and only you can tell me about Stamford — 
 
 about last winter — is it true that Mrs. Fulton is 
 
 gomg- 
 
 "Yes, she is." 
 
 We were silent for a moment. Then she spoke. 
 "Do you still ?" 
 
 "No, I don't think so, Hilda." 
 
 "Then I'll come — if you want me to, and think 
 I ought. But if any of your friends ?" 
 
 "Do I have to tell you that you are one of the 
 smartest looking people I know, Hilda? They'll 
 
 think you are the Marchioness of Amber " I 
 
 glanced at her red hair, which did have amber lights 
 in it, "and they'll envy. So do come. Will you?" 
 
 I borrowed a fine new racing runabout, and at six 
 o'clock called for her at the address she had given 
 
 301 
 
We Three 
 
 me. She had gotten herself up with the most dis- 
 creet good taste, and looked perfectly charming. 
 She must have read the approval in my glance, for 
 the color flew to her cheeks, and she looked tri- 
 umphantly pleased. 
 
 "Going to be warm enough?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you." 
 
 "It's mighty nice of you to come." 
 
 "Oh, when you held out half an excuse to me, I 
 couldn't help coming." 
 
 "What's your idea — for England? To be a 
 nurse — or what?" 
 
 "A nurse, sir." 
 
 "I'm not sir, please. I'm going to be a nurse, 
 too. I told you once that I'd always be your friend. 
 And a friend isn't ever sir. So don't do it again." 
 
 "I'll not," she said. 
 
 Presently I began to ask her about the Fultons. 
 At first her answers were short and unsatisfactory, 
 but presently she began to warm to the topic. 
 
 Stamford? Oh, it had been awful. The house 
 had never been divided in its allegiance, but nobody 
 could have remained callous to Mrs. Fulton's grief. 
 Meals were especially awful. Mr. and Mrs. Fulton 
 tried to make conversation. Sometimes just when 
 
 302 
 
TVe Three 
 
 it seemed as if she was going to be a little cheerful — 
 phist ! her eyes would fill with tears, and she would 
 bolt from the room. At such times Mr. Fulton's 
 face was a study of pity for her and grief for them 
 both. She was good to the children; no question 
 about that. Sometimes she grabbed them into her 
 arms and hugged them too hard. It was as if she 
 was trying by sheer physical effort to give them back 
 what she had taken away from them. 
 
 Sometimes one thought one heard little Hurry 
 crying very softly and bitterly, and it would turn 
 out to be Mrs. Fulton, locked in her bedroom. Pres- 
 sure of business, success, kept Mr. Fulton going. 
 Sometimes the two tried to talk things over. But it 
 was an irritating, mosquitoey house. Always their 
 voices ended by rising to the point where they could 
 be heard all over the ramshackle paper-thin dwelling. 
 
 It stood on a lawn that sloped to tidal waters, 
 very ugly and muddy at low tide. A long gangway 
 reached to a float for boats ; here the water was deep 
 enough to dive into at half tide. Often at dawn, 
 if the tide was right, and you happened to be awake, 
 you might see Mr. Fulton descend the wet lawn in 
 wrapper and bare feet for the swim that seemed to 
 make up to him for his sleepless nights. You knew 
 
 303 
 
We Three 
 
 that he was in trouble by the way that he took to the 
 water. It's always a little shivery at dawn, but he 
 never hesitated. His wrapper was coming off by the 
 time he reached the float — it was too far off to mind 
 watching him — and into the water he'd go, head firstj 
 as quick as he could get in. It was almost as if he 
 was afraid he'd die before he got to it. He was a 
 fine swimmer, but oftenest he just lay about, some- 
 times with his face under. Then he looked hke a 
 drowned man. Sometimes he went in earlier than 
 dawn. She had seen phosphorescence off the float in 
 the black night, and heard the clean, quiet splash of 
 his dive. 
 
 Once he stayed in so long that Mrs. Fulton 
 called to him from her window, "Please come in, 
 John, I'm frightened." Oh, yes, she wanted to be 
 free from him, perhaps she still does, but not that 
 way. If anything had happened to him, if he had 
 taken his life, for instance, one imagined that in the 
 first agonies of remorse she would have taken hers 
 too. 
 
 It must have been terrible for her — at first — never 
 hearing from ■you, not knowing where you were, or 
 what you were doing, whether you were sick or well. 
 Of course she wanted you to be happy, but with her. 
 
 304 
 
JVe Three 
 
 It would have been a comfort to know that you were 
 suffering as much as she was. And she couldn't 
 know. 
 
 She had a calendar in her room. She kept tab on 
 it of the days as they passed, beginning with the first 
 day of the probationary year. She'd draw a line 
 through each day — each day when she went to bed, 
 and hoped that the day was really over. She had her 
 bad, wicked, black, sleepless nights, too. You could 
 always tell by how late she was in the morning. She 
 had a child's happy faculty of being able to make up 
 for lost sleep. Well, when the day seemed over 
 she drew a line through it. One day the chamber- 
 maid came below stairs (it was the first we knew of 
 it) and propounded a conundrum. "When is a day 
 not a day?" No one could guess. So she said, 
 "When Mrs. Fulton doesn't draw a line through it." 
 So it seemed that the forty-ninth day of her proba- 
 tion had not been a passage of time. Time had 
 stood still. Why? Well, in the afternoon Mrs. 
 Fulton had gone as crew with a young gentleman 
 who owned a knockabout, and they had got wet to 
 the skin, and had won a leg on some pennant or other 
 after a close, well-sailed race. Mrs. Fulton had 
 come home about dark, drenched, blooming, buoy- 
 
 30s 
 
We Three 
 
 ant, and chattering about the events of the after- 
 noon. She had had her first heart-felt good time of 
 the probationary year. For once, time had not 
 dragged. Time had stood excitingly, exhilaratingly 
 still. She had forgotten to scratch off the day. 
 
 Things went better after that. Twice a week, 
 rain or shine, she was crew of the young gentleman's 
 knockabout. Often they went for practice sails. 
 Sometimes they took Jock and Hurry. In hot 
 weather they wore bathing suits. The young gentle- 
 man? He was to be a Yale senior, come autumn. 
 He rowed on the Yale crew. My ! you should have 
 seen his arms and legs — so strong and so brown, so 
 becoming to his dark blue bathing suit. His hair 
 was so sunburnt that it looked like molasses candy. 
 He could stay in the water all day and fetch from 
 the bottom anything that was thrown in for him. 
 Sometimes he came to meals. He was very quiet and 
 shy. He blushed a good deal. And there was a 
 weight on his mind. He had a condition to make 
 up — ^political economy. He could hold Jock and 
 Hurry out at arm's length, one in each hand, but the 
 weight on his mind was too much for him. Every 
 time the Fultons mentioned it to him, he groaned. 
 He was truly comical when he groaned. Toward 
 
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JVe Three 
 
 autumn he began to get gloomy. Summer was over, 
 college would open. No more sails ; no more Mrs. 
 Fulton. Below stairs one knew that he was in love 
 with Mrs. Fulton. How? Well, when one let him 
 out at the front door, he always drew in a sigh that 
 he held all the way to the front gate. One waited 
 to hear him let it out. It would have blown out 
 a gas jet across a good-sized room. There were 
 other ways of telling. And since the forty-ninth 
 day that was not a day, no one had heard Mrs. Ful- 
 ton crying. 
 
 He came to say good-by. One never knew just 
 what happened. They were in the front hall. Sud- 
 denly the front door must have opened. Fulton 
 must have come in, for suddenly one heard his laugh. 
 It was the strangest laugh in the world, full of joy, 
 full of laughter, and full of scorn. 
 
 He saw the young gentleman to the front gate. 
 He clapped the young gentleman on the back, and 
 said (the parlor maid had heard) : "Don't worry! 
 It's all right! Don't make a mountain out of a 
 mole-hill!" and then in a different voice, "Bless you, 
 my son!" 
 
 Then he had come back to the house still laughing, 
 and one heard him shouting, "Where are you, Lucy? 
 
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We Three 
 
 Come here! The game's up now! You must see 
 that for yourself I Don't be a goat!" 
 
 Did she see for herself? Oh, yes. She hadn't 
 loved the young gentleman, not really. She had 
 liked him enough to get over you being a life and 
 death matter to her. That was all. She had liked 
 him enough to let him kiss her at parting. That 
 must have been what Mr. Fulton had caught them at. 
 
 "But, Hilda," I interrupted, "why didn't he tell 
 me that it was all over, whei^ I saw him in New York 
 — just before Christmas?" 
 
 "Well, they couldn't know how you felt, could 
 they? Maybe he wanted you to have your full year. 
 Maybe he thought you'd fall down as she had, and 
 that she'd hear of it and that it would be a lesson 
 to her. How should / know?" 
 
 She told me more. The very night of the young 
 gentleman's departure, late, a telegram had come to 
 Mr. Fulton. She, Hilda, had gone down to the 
 front door, signed for the telegram, and carried it 
 to Mr. Fulton's room. He did not answer to her 
 first light knock ; nor to a first or second loud knock. 
 She pushed the door open. The room was full of 
 moonlight. Mr. Fulton's bed was empty. It had 
 not been slept in. 
 
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JVe Three 
 
 Hilda tiptoed to the end of the corridor, laid the 
 telegram on the floor in front of Mrs. Fulton's door, 
 knocked very firmly, and the moment she heard 
 someone stirring within, turned upon her heel and 
 fled. 
 
 So much for the average strength of those grand 
 passions upon which so many marriages are wrecked ! 
 
 "Are they happy now, Hilda — the way they used 
 to be?" 
 
 Oh no, not happy, fairly contented. She would 
 never love him the way she used to. Her fantastics; 
 had taken the beauty plumb out of their lives. But 
 something remained. A loving husband, an unlov- 
 ing, but naturally kind, good-natured and affectionate 
 wife, trying to do her duty by the two children that 
 were and the one that was to be. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Mannering," said Hilda ; "you mustn't 
 blame yourself too much. If it hadn't been you, it 
 would have been someone else. I didn't think so, 
 but now I do. And he might not have been a gen- 
 tleman." 
 
XXXV 
 
 WE had dinner on the terrace of the Tamer- 
 lane Inn, overlooking the Sound. 
 
 "But, Hilda," I was arguing, toward 
 coffee, "we might have gone on caring forever — if 
 we hadn't been separated. Propinquity feeds love; 
 absence starves it." 
 
 "Love? Indeed it doesn't. Fancy? Yes." 
 
 She looked straight in my eyes. 
 
 "Hilda," I said, "you — you don't still — that way 
 — about me?" " 
 
 "Don't I?" she said slowly. "Why else would I 
 lie awake to hear Mr. Fulton go swimming? Why 
 else would I be wanting to go with the Red Cross to 
 the front where the bullets are?" 
 
 "But you told me in Aiken that you — that you 
 despised me." 
 
 "It would be a poor love," she said, "that couldn't 
 live down a little contempt that had jealousy for its 
 father and mother." 
 
 We continued to look at each other while the 
 waiter brought and served the coffee. Then I said : 
 
 310 
 
We Three 
 
 "Hilda, I know one thing. What you've got to give 
 ought not to go begging." 
 
 Her eyes part-way filled, but she gave her shoul- 
 ders a valiant little shrug. Then, with a sudden 
 strong emotion, and a thrill in her voice: "That's 
 for you to say," she said. 
 
 "Do you mean that?" 
 
 "You had only to ask," she said; "ever." 
 
 I was deeply moved, and a conviction that for 
 me there might still be something true and fine 
 raced into my mind. And was followed by a whole 
 host of gentle and unselfish and pitying thoughts, 
 as to a tree at evening flocks of starlings come to 
 roost. 
 
 "Hilda," I said, "if there is no power of loving 
 in me, but only of fancying, still you have said that 
 fancy feeds on propinquity. I have no right to say 
 that I love you ; no right to promise that I ever will. 
 It's not your sweet pretty face that's moving me now. 
 It's your power of loving — ^your power of loving 
 me — ^your constancy — ^your trust — ^your courage in 
 saying that these things shall not go beg^ng — if I 
 say they shall not. What I thought another had, 
 what I thought I had, only you have. I dare not 
 make promises. I dare not boast. But caring the 
 
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We Three 
 
 way you care, if you think you can make anything 
 out of me — say so." 
 
 She thought for a while, her eyes lowered, her 
 lips parted in a peaceful sort of smile. Then she 
 said: "It'll be good to have heard all that." 
 
 "It'll be better to have tried," I said. 
 
 "Not if you don't want me at all." 
 
 "But I do." 
 
 "Well," she said, looking up now, and a valiant 
 ring in her sweet English voice: "If I wanted to 
 say no, I couldn't. If I thought I ought to say no, I 
 wouldn't But I don't think I ought to. I think when 
 the Lord God put what's in my heart in it, he meant 
 for there to be something for me at the end of tor- 
 ment. So I say yes. For I've knelt on cold floors 
 and hot floors to pray God that some day I could 
 give myself to the man I love." 
 
 "And that shall be when you are married to him. 
 . . . Don't look so frightened . . . it's got to be 
 like that. Give a man a chance to make good. Do 
 you think I'm such a fool as to throw away the love 
 you've got for me ? . . . We'll try this nursing game 
 together, but not at the front, where the bullets are. 
 I want us to live and to have our chance, you yours 
 and I mine — ^taken together. Don't you see that I 
 
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We Three 
 
 am speaking with every ounce of sincerity there is 
 in me? I couldn't take such love as yours and not 
 make good. That's in my heart. I couldn't, I 
 couldn't. Isn't it in my face, too — isn't it?" 
 
 She did not answer at first, only looked in my 
 face, her eyes flooding. 
 
 Then she said: "I don't see your face any more 
 — only a kind of glory." 
 
 We ran slowly back to the city, slowly, and very 
 peacefully. Now and again we talked a little, and 
 argued a little. 
 
 "But," she said, "it will ruin your life if you marry 
 a servant. So please, please don't ! What would I 
 do when I knew I'd hurt you?" 
 
 "There's no life to ruin, Hilda. What's been is 
 just dust and ashes. You and 1 — ^we'U live for each 
 other, and we'll try to help where help's needed. It 
 will be fine for me to have helped, after all these 
 foolish years — ^when I did only harm, and only half- 
 hearted harm at that." 
 
 "It would be so different if only — if only " 
 
 "If only I loved you?" I freed one hand from 
 the steering wheel and put my arm around Her. 
 "But you feel tenderness?" 
 
 313 
 
We Three 
 
 "I feel tenderness." 
 
 I pressed her close to my side. 
 
 "Was I ever unkind to you?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Tenderness and kindness — ^that's something to 
 go on." 
 
 She turned her head and kissed the hand that 
 pressed against her shoulder. It was the slightest, 
 gentlest, softest kiss, and a lump rose in my throat. 
 
 "If the angels could see me now," she said, "and 
 know what was in my heart, they'd die of envy." 
 
 "And what's in your heart, Hilda 2" 
 
 "You," she said. 
 
 The house where she was staying had an inner 
 and an outer door. In the obscurity between these 
 two we stood for a little while at parting, and kissed 
 each other. 
 
 And as soon thereafter as could be, we were 
 quietly married. 
 
 When I began to put down this story about the 
 Fultons, I was still head over heels in love with 
 Lucy, and I did not know how it was all going to end. 
 And I don't know now. I began to write before 
 Hilda became a definite figure in my life, to write in 
 order to pass the time. And so I wrote until I re- 
 
 314 
 
We Three 
 
 alized that I had failed Lucy, and began to hope 
 that she had failed me. Even then I expected to 
 live the same old fleeting life of a butterfly bachelor 
 to the end. Then I began to think that out of the 
 thing I was writing, there was beginning to rise 
 a kind of lesson, a preachment. It seemed to me 
 that I was going through an experience that others 
 would do well to know about. 
 
 Can a man live down the shame of scorching an- 
 other man's happiness, after finding that the cause 
 which drove him to do so, has lost its power to im- 
 pel? I am not ashamed of having loved Lucy; I 
 am ashamed of not having loved her enough. Thank 
 God no greater harm was done to Fulton than was 
 done. He has his Lucy, what there is left of her, 
 his children, and a greater financial success than 
 ever he hoped for. And he has had his triumph over 
 me. He must have told her, in some of his bad mo- 
 ments, just what kind of a man I was — a waster, a 
 male flirt, a man who had the impulse to raise the 
 devil, but lacked the courage, and the character. 
 And she knows now, after her short period of over- 
 powering love for me and belief in me, that he was 
 right. That is his triumph. I think he is too good 
 a gentleman to rub it in. 
 
 315! 
 
We Three 
 
 My father and mother accepted Hilda with 
 the sweetest good grace. She was not what they 
 had hoped for; she was not what they had expected 
 or feared. To ray father it seemed, he was good 
 enough to say so, that I had played the man. And 
 he could not, he said, help loving any woman, 
 whether she came from the roof of the world or its 
 cellar, who had loved his son so faithfully and so 
 long. 
 
 And the rings on Hilda's finger, and the pride in 
 her new estate, and the pretty clothes that my mother 
 helped her to buy worked a wondrous change in her. 
 People couldn't help looking after her, she was so 
 pretty, so graceful, and had so much faith and wor- 
 ship in her eyes. 
 
 We had put off our date of sailing a little, so that 
 my friends might see that I was not ashamed of 
 what I had done, but that I gloried in it, and that 
 my parents showed a face of approval to the world. 
 Those days of postponement were, I think, the best 
 days of my life. A treasure had been given into my 
 guardianship, and it seemed to me that I was going 
 to be worthy of the trust. 
 
 Then, the very day before wc were to sail, I met 
 Eucy face to face in the street; and began to tremble 
 
 316 
 
JVe Three 
 
 a little. She held out both hands; she was always 
 so natural and frank. 
 
 "So you've done it!" she exclaimed; "I think she's 
 sweet, and so good-looking." 
 
 Then the smile faded from her lips, and she made 
 the praying eyes at me, and I knew that I had only 
 to be with her a moment to love her. 
 
 "Of course," she said, "it's all right our meeting 
 and speaking now." 
 
 "Of course," I said, and they sounded lame words, 
 lamely spoken. 
 
 "Do you believe in post-mortems?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "No," I said, "but I like them." 
 
 "We — Oh, it's lucky we had parents and guar- 
 dians, isn't it? When did you come to the end of 
 your rope?" 
 
 I could only shake my head. 
 
 "Was it when you — heard about me?" 
 
 "I like post-mortems, but I don't approve of 
 them." 
 
 So she abandoned the post-mortem. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, "why you married her? Was 
 she an old flame?" 
 
 "No, Lucy — a new flame." 
 317 
 
We Three 
 
 "I hope you will be very, very happy," she said. 
 
 "But you doubt it." 
 
 "Why shouldn't I?" 
 
 "Why indeed?" 
 
 ".Eisten. It — it wasn't any of it your fault. I 
 tried to make you like me, and succeeded, and the 
 harm was done — ^but now we've settled down to a 
 harmless and quiet old age." 
 
 Had we ? Oh, why had that pansy face and those 
 great praying eyes come into my life again? Would 
 it be always so when we met, the heart leaping, and 
 the brain swimming, and the body shaken with ten- 
 derness and desire? 
 
 I spoke no word of betrayal, but so standing a 
 little to one side of the passing crowds on the side- 
 walk, looking into that upturned face, seeing those 
 eyes so sad and prayerful above the smiling mouth, 
 I betrayed my wife for the first time, and Lucy read 
 me like a primer, and she knew that I loved her — 
 either still or once more. Of her own emotions her 
 face told me nothing. 
 
 "I hear," she said, "that you are both to volun- 
 teer as nurses. I think that is splendid." 
 
 "If only I can live so as to help someone, Lucy. 
 I am going to try very hard. And I am going to try 
 
 3,1 8 
 
We Three 
 
 very hard to be a good husband, for my wife has 
 showered me with noble and priceless gifts." 
 
 After a moment: "I hope," said Lucy, "you're 
 going on the American line. The Germans seem to 
 be torpedoing everything else in sight." 
 
 "We're sailing on the Lusitania." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Tomorrow." 
 
 "They couldn't do anything to her. She's too 
 big. You'll have some distinguished company." 
 
 "Really I I haven't seen the passenger list." 
 
 "Why, there's Justus Miles Forman, and Charles 
 Frohman, and Alfred Vanderbilt and I don't know 
 who all. . . . Well," she held out her hand sud- 
 denly; "I've chores to do, thousands of them, so 
 good luck to you, and good-by, if I don't see you 
 again." 
 
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