Jerry came down to the breakfast table attired in tweeds of a rather violent pattern, knickerbockers and spats.  He wore a plaid shirt with turnover cuffs, a gay scarf and a handkerchief just showing a neat triangle of the same color at his upper coat pocket.  This handkerchief, he informed me airily, was his “show-er.”  He kept the “blow-er” in his trousers.  At all events, he was much pleased when I told him that the symphony was complete.

“The linen, allegro, the cravat, adagio con amore, the suit there’s too much of the scherzo in the suit, my boy.”

“Con amore?” he asked, looking up from his oatmeal.

“Yes,” I said calmly, for not until this moment had I guessed the truth. “Con amore,” I repeated.  “I could hardly have hoped, if Miss Marcia Van Wyck had not come to the neighborhood, that you would have done me the honor of a visit.”

It was a random shot, but it struck home, for he reddened ever so slightly.

“How did you know?  Who who told you?” he stammered awkwardly.

“I think it must have been the cravat,” I laughed.

“It was a good guess,” he said rather sheepishly (I suppose because he hadn’t said anything to me about her).

“She was tired of town.  She’s opening Briar Hills for a week or so.  Awfully nice girl, Roger.  You’ve got to meet her right away.”

“I shall be delighted,” I remarked.

“She knows all about you.  Oh, she’s clever.  You’ll like her.  Reads pretty deep sort of stuff and can talk about anything.”

“An intellectual attraction!” I commented.  “Very interesting, and of course rare.”

“Very.  We don’t agree, you know, on a lot of things.  She’s way beyond me in the modern philosophies.  She’s an artist, too understands color and its uses and all that sort of thing.  She’s very fine, Roger, and good.  Fond of nature.  She wants to see my specimens.  I’m going to have her over soon.  We could have a little dinner, couldn’t we?  She has a companion, Miss Gore, sort of a poor relation.  She’s not very pretty, and doesn’t like men, but she’s cheerful when she’s expected to be.  You sha’n’t care, shall you?”

“Yes, I shall care,” I growled, “but I’ll do it if you don’t mind my not dressing.  I haven’t a black suit to my name.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter.  Very informal, you know.”

The motor was already buzzing in the driveway and he wasted little time over his eggs.

“Fix it for tomorrow night, will you, Roger?” he flung at me from the doorway as he slipped into his great coat.  “Nothing elaborate, you know; just a sound soup, entree, roast, salad and dessert.  And for wines, the simplest, say sherry, champagne and perhaps some port.”

“Shall you be back to luncheon?” I inquired.

“No; dinner, perhaps.  G’by!” And he was down the steps and in the machine, which went roaring down the drive, cut-out wide, making the fair winter morning hideous with sound.  I stood in the doorway watching, until only a cloud of blue vapor where the road went through into the trees remained to mark the exit of the Perfect Man.

I turned indoors with a sigh, habit directing me to the door of the study, where I paused, reminded of Jerry’s final admonitions.  Dinner “nothing elaborate,” with an entree, salad, and wines to be got for two women, Jerry’s beautiful decadent who loved nature and ornithology, and the “not very pretty” poor relation who didn’t like men but could be “cheerful when she was expected to be.”  Damn her cheerfulness!  It was inconsiderate of Jerry to set me to squiring middle-aged dames while he spooned with his Freudian miracle in the conservatory.  Strindberg indeed!  Schnitzler, too, in all probability!  While I invented mid-Victorian platitudes for the prosaic, “not very pretty” Miss Gore Bore!  Bore Gore!  Bah!

I gave the necessary orders and went in to my work.  I merely sat and stared at the half-written sheet of foolscap on the desk, unable to concentrate my thoughts.  I am a most moderate man, a philosopher, I hope, and yet today I felt possessed, it seemed, of an insensate desire to burst forth into profanity a fine attitude of mind for a contemplative morning!  My whole world was turned suddenly upside down.

But out of chaos cosmos returned.  I had given up the thought of work, but at last found satisfaction in a quiet analysis of Jerry’s narration of the night before.  What did one female or two or a dozen matter if Jerry was fundamentally sound?  Sophistry might shake, blandishment bend, sex-affinity blight, but Jerry would stand like an oak, its young leaves among the stars, its roots deep in mother earth.  Marcia Van Wyck, her black damask boudoirs, her tinted finger tips, her Freud, Strindberg and all the rest of her modern trash there would come a day when Jerry would laugh at them!

I think I must have dozed in my chair, for I seemed to hear voices, and, opening my eyes, beheld Jerry in my Soorway, a laughing group in the hall behind him.

“‘Even the worthy Homer sometimes nods,’” he was quoting gayly.  “Wake up, Roger.  Visitors!”

I started to my feet in much embarrassment.  “Miss Van Wyck, Miss Gore Mr. Canby,” said Jerry, and I found myself bowing to a very handsome young person, dressed in an outdoor suit of a vivid, cherry color.  I had no time to study her carefully at the moment, but took the hand she thrust forward and muttered something.

“I feel very guilty,” she was saying.  “It’s all my fault, Mr. Canby.  I’ve been simply wild for years to see what was inside the wall.”

“I hope it will not disappoint you,” I said urbanely.

“It’s very wonderful.  I don’t wonder Jerry never wanted to leave.  I shouldn’t have gone ever.  A wall around one’s own particular Paradise!  Could anything be more rapturous?”

("Jerry!” They were progressing.)

The tone was thin, gentle and studiously sweet, and her face, I am forced to admit, was comely.  Its contour was oval, slightly accented at the cheek bones, and its skin was white and very smooth.  Her lips were sensitive and scarlet, like an open wound.  Her eyes, relics, like the cheek bones, of a distant Slav progenitor, were set very slightly at an angle and were very dark, of what color I couldn’t at the moment decide, but I was sure that their expression was remarkable.  They were cool, appraising, omniscient and took me in with a casual politeness which neglected nothing that might have been significant.  I am not one of those who find mystery and enigma in women’s réticences, which are too often merely the evasions of ignorance or duplicity.  But I admit that this girl Marcia puzzled me.  Her characteristics clashed cool eyes with sensual lips, clear voice with languid gestures, a pagan that was how she impressed me then, a pagan chained by convention.

As I had foreseen, when she and Jerry went off to the Museum, I was left to the poor relation.  She was tall, had a Roman nose, black hair, folded straight over her ears, and wore glasses.  When I approached she was examining a volume on the library table, a small volume, a thin study of modern women that I had picked up at a book store in town.  Miss Gore smiled as she put the volume down, essaying, I suppose, that air of cheerfulness of which Jerry had boasted.

“‘Modern Woman,’” she said in a slow and rather deep voice, and then turning calmly, “I was led to, understand, Mr. Canby, that you weren’t interested in trifles.”

“I’m not,” I replied, “but I can’t deny their existence.”

“You can.  Here at Horsham Manor.”

“Could, Miss Gore,” I corrected.  “The Golden Age has passed.”

I didn’t feel like being polite.  Nothing is so maddening to me as cheerfulness in others when I have suddenly been awakened.  Her smile faded at once.”

“I didn’t come of my own volition,” she said icily.  “And I will not bother you if you want to go to sleep again.”

“Oh, thanks,” I replied.  “It doesn’t matter.”

She had turned her back on me and walked to the window.

“Would you like to see the English Garden?” I asked, suddenly aware of my inhospitality.

“Yes, if you’ll permit me to visit it alone.”

That wasn’t to be thought of.  After all she was only obeying orders.  I followed her out of doors, hastening to join her.

“I owe you an apology.  I’m not much used to the society of women.  They annoy me exceedingly.”

She looked around at me quizzically, very much amused.

“You consider that an apology?” she asked.

“I intended it to be one,” I replied.  “I have been rude.  I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“You are a philosopher, I see,” she said with a smile.  “I am sorry to annoy you.”

“Y you don’t, I think.  You seem to be a sensible sort of a person.”

She smiled again most cheerfully.

“Don’t bother, Mr. Canby.  We’re well met.  I’m not fond of meaningless personalities or the authors of them.”

She really was a proper sort of a person.  Her conversation had no frills or fal-lals, and she wasn’t afraid to say what she thought.  Presently we began speaking the same language.  We talked of the country, the wonderful weather and of Jerry, to whom it seemed she had taken a fancy.

“You’ve created something, Mr. Canby a rare thing in this age ” she looked off into the distance, her eyes narrowing slightly.  “But he can’t remain as he is.”

“Why not?” I asked quickly.  “Knowledge of evil isn’t impurity.”

“It will permeate him.”

“No.  He will repel it.”

She smiled knowingly.

“Impossible.  Society is rotten.  It will tolerate him, then resent him, and finally,” she made a wide gesture, “engulf!”

“I’m not afraid,” I said staunchly.

“You should be.  He’s in danger ” She stopped suddenly.  “I mean ” She paused again, and then said evenly, “It seems a pity to me, that’s all.”

“What’s a pity?”

“That all your teaching must end in failure.”

“H-m!  You haven’t a very high opinion of your fellows.”

“No, men are weak.”

“Jerry isn’t weak.”

“He’s human too human.”

“One can be human and still be a philosopher ”

“No.”

“But he knows the good from the bad.”

“Oh, does he?  And if the bad is masquerading?  It is always.  You think he would recognize it?”

She was speaking in riddles, and yet it seemed to me with a purpose.

“What do you mean, Miss Gore?”

“Merely that such innocence as his is dangerous.”

It was an unusual sort of a conversation to be engaged in with a woman I had known but twenty minutes.  I think she felt it, too.  There was some restraint in her manner, but I realized that her interest in Jerry was driving her, if against her better judgment, with a definite design that would not balk at trifles.

“You seem to know a great deal about Jerry,” I said at last.  “Who has told you?”

“My eyes are tolerably good, Mr. Canby, my ears excellent.”

I would have questioned further, but Jerry and the Van Wyck girl at this moment came out on the terrace.  Jerry was laughing.

“Caught in the act,” he cried, as they came down to join us.  “There’s hope for you yet, Roger.”

Marcia came and thrust her arm through Miss Gore’s.  “Isn’t it wonderful to be the first woman in the Garden of Paradise?”

Miss Gore nodded carelessly.

The girl was so radiant in her air of possession that I couldn’t help speaking.

“But you’re not,” I said.

Marcia’s narrow eyes regarded me coolly and then looked at Jerry inquiringly, and when she spoke her voice was almost too sweet.

“Please don’t rob us of our poor little halos, Mr. Canby,” she said.  “Do you mean that there have been other women, girls in here before?”

I can’t imagine why Jerry hadn’t told her that.  She seemed to know about everything else.  “Yes, one.”

“Jerry!” reproachfully.  “And you said I was the first girl you’d ever really known!”

He smiled, though he was quite pink around the ears.

“You are really.  Er she didn’t count.”

“I shall die of chagrin.  Her name, Mr. Canby,” she appealed.

I hesitated.  But Jerry, still red, blurted out: 

“Una Smith.  But Roger says that couldn’t have been her name.”

“But why shouldn’t it be her name?  She had nothing to be ashamed about, had she?”

“Of course not.  She just slipped in through a broken grille.  She was a stranger around here I just happened to meet her and er we had a talk.”

The boy seemed to be quite ill at ease.  What did he already owe this girl Marcia that such an innocent confession made him uncomfortable?

“Una Una Smith,” the girl was repeating.  “This is really beginning to be fearfully interesting.  Una,” she turned quickly, her eyes widening.  In the bright sunlight they seemed very light in color, a dark gray shot with little flecks of yellow.  “Of course,” she exclaimed.  And then, “When was this er intrusion, Jerry?  Last July?”

“I think so.”

It was Jerry’s turn to be surprised.

“She was brown-haired, smallish, with blue eyes?  Quite pretty?”

Jerry nodded.

“Wore leather gaiters and carried a butterfly net?”

“You know her, Marcia?” he broke in.

“Of course.  Jerry, I’m really surprised also a trifle disillusioned ”

They moved off down the path toward the lake, Jerry talking earnestly.  I watched them for a moment in silence, wondering what crisis I had precipitated in Jerry’s affairs.

Beside me I heard the deep voice of Miss Gore.

“You see?  He’s already madly infatuated with her.”

“Yes, yes,” I replied, still watching them.  “And she?”

Miss Gore shrugged her thin shoulders.

“I don’t know.  She won’t marry him.  I doubt if she will ever marry.”

“Thank God for that,” I said feelingly.  She looked up at me quickly.

“You don’t like Marcia?” she asked.

“No.”  I realized that I had gone too far, but I stood firm to my guns.

I was surprised that she didn’t resent my frankness.  Instead of being angry she merely smiled.

“Mr. Canby, it is difficult for many of us who live in the world to realize the effect of luxury and over-refinement upon society!  We live too close to it.  Mr. Benham is an anachronism.  I would have given much if he had not become interested in Marcia.  She is not for him nor he for her.  But I think it is his mind that attracts her ”

“Rubbish!” I broke in.  “Has he no face, no body?”

She smiled at my impetuousness.  Strangely enough, we were both too interested to resent mere forms of intercourse.

“It’s true.  She has a good mind, but badly trained.  His innocence fascinates, tantalizes her.  I’ve watched them heard them.  She toys with it, testing it in a hundred ways.  It’s like nothing she has ever known before.  But she isn’t the kind you think she is.  I doubt even if Jerry has kissed her.  To Marcia men are merely so much material for experimentation.  She has a reputation for heartlessness.  I’m not sure that she isn’t heartless.  It’s a great pity.  She’s very young, but she’s already devoured with hypercriticism.  She’s cynical, a philanderer.  You can’t tamper with a passion the way Marcia has done without doing it an injury.  You see, I’m speaking frankly.  I don’t quite understand why, but I’m not sorry.”

I bowed my head in appreciation of her confidence.  This woman improved upon acquaintance.

“You care for her,” I said soberly.  “I should have been more guarded.”

“Yes, I care for her.  She has many virtues.  She gets along with women and I can understand her attraction for men.  But she has confessed to me that men both attract and repel her.  Sex-antagonism, I think the moderns call it a desire to tease, to attract, to excite, to destroy.  She uses every art to play her game.  It is her life.  If any man conquered her she would be miserable.  A strange creature, you will say, but ”

“Strange, unnatural, horrible!”

She smiled at my sober tone.

“And yet she is acting within her rights.  She asks nothing that is not freely given.”

“Women are curiously tolerant of moral imperfections in those they care for.  Your Marcia is dangerous.  I shall warn Jerry.”

But she shook her dark head sagely.

“It will do no good.  You will fail.”

We walked slowly toward the house and I tried to make her understand that I was grateful for her interest.  She was not pretty, but, as I had discovered, had some beauties of the mind which made her physical attractions a matter of small importance.

As we neared the terrace, a thought came to me and I paused.

“You know who the girl Una is?” I asked.

“Yes,” she nodded, “but her name isn’t Smith.”

“I was aware of that.  Would you mind telling me who and what she is?”

She remained thoughtful a moment, fingering the stem of a plant.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t.  Her name is Habberton, Una Habberton.  She was visiting the Laidlaws here last summer.  Her family, a mother and a lot of girls, live in the old house down in Washington Square.  They’re fairly well off, but Una has gone in for social work spends almost all of her time at it slumming.  I don’t know much about her, but I think she must be pretty fine to give up all her social opportunities for that.”

I smiled.

“She may have another idea of social opportunity,” I said.

“Yes you’re quite right.  I used the wrong words.  One is not accustomed in Marcia’s set to find that sort of thing an opportunity.”

“Miss Van Wyck knows her?” I asked.

“Yes.  Marcia is on a committee that provides money for this particular charity.  They know each other.  She came over to Briar Hills one night with Phil Laidlaw.  Marcia saw her several times in our fields with her butterfly net.  You see, her name is unusual.  Marcia guessed the rest.”

“Thanks,” I said.  “I hope you’ve forgiven me for my churlishness.  I should like to know you better if you’ll let me.”

She turned her head toward me with a motherly smile.

“I don’t care for the society of men,” she said amusedly.  “They annoy me exceedingly.”