The week after the pageant proved far from the rest time Jerry had planned. Every day brought him invitations. All sorts of new demands were made upon his time. In his hurried calls upon Bobs he tried to explain that this was a part of his job. He was playing the fish now; when he had them hooked and landed, he would be free.

“If they don’t pull the fisherman in after them, into the golden, dead sea,” she gibed bitterly.

“They won’t get me, Bobsie,” he boasted.

Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon continued to act as his social sponsor. She wanted him in tow every minute. Jerry noticed that wherever she took him, by some strange chance, they came upon Althea Morton. He sat next her at dinner, at the opera; he danced with her, paid her compliments; but it began to dawn upon him that he was not doing the one thing Mrs. Brendon desired, making love to her.

Althea Morton was the most perfect type, physically, which American aristocracy produces. She came of good, old New York stock, somewhat emasculated from too much wealth, but still pure. She had been born into luxury. She grew up in it, without thinking about it. To have every taste in life gratified was as natural as breathing air.

She had the usual so-called education of girls of her class. Fashionable school was followed by a year abroad, for French and music. She was protected always from any contact with the rude world; she was always spared the necessity of thinking for herself. It was perhaps not her fault that her advantages were such a handicap. The two main tenants of her creed, were, naturally enough, making the best of her beauty, and acquiring a proper husband.

It was her second season when she met Jerry Paxton. His good looks and his charm attracted her, as they did all women, so that little by little he came to hold a very special place in her thoughts. His sudden success with the people of her world set the final seal of approval upon him.

To be sure he had no money; he boasted himself an impoverished artist, but that only added to his attractions. She had plenty of money for them both, and to do her justice, money was so much a matter of course with her, that it never occurred to her that Jerry could really be poor.

She, too, was not unaware of Mrs. Brendon’s intentions in regard to Jerry and herself, but she supposed that their constant meetings were prompted by his desires, rather than by Mrs. Brendon’s passion for vicarious romance. Althea was happy, and willing to let events shape themselves as they would. This period of focussing Jerry’s attention upon herself was exciting.

It was the second week after the pageant that Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon had an inspiration. It flashed upon her at a dinner party in her own house, when Jerry, Althea, a Mr. and Mrs. Wally Bryce, and the Brendons were present.

“We’re all tired to death from that pageant. Let’s take the Empress off to Palm Beach, Crom, and have a few weeks’ rest. Will you all come?” she asked.

“I’ll come,” said Mrs. Bryce promptly, “and so will Wally, if I have to drag him aboard in chains.”

“Good enough, old girl, but what about the Stock Exchange?”

“It will be here when we get back.”

“One of your partners said that Wally’s week-ends began on Thursday and ended the following Tuesday. They’ll never miss you, Wally,” laughed Mr. Brendon.

“How about you, Althea?” his wife asked.

“I should love it.”

“And you, Jerry Paxton?”

“I’m afraid you must count me out. You see ”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind. You shall make studies for my portrait aboard the yacht and we’ll stay out till you’re ready to put on paint,” the hostess remarked. “When can we start, Crom?”

“Day after to-morrow, if you like.”

“What will you do with our chee-ild?” Wally asked his wife.

“Oh, bother! I forgot her. Isabelle is coming home to-morrow for three weeks. She got into a scrape and she’s suspended.”

“Bring her along,” said Mrs. Brendon promptly.

“Bless you, I will. What a way to keep Isabelle quiet,” said her mother.

“What a way to spoil the quiet for the rest of us!” groaned her father.

“We’ll troll her along behind the yacht, if she’s a nuisance,” Mrs. Wally consoled him.

So it was settled, so it happened. Bobs and Jinny Chatfield made satiric comments on the “Cinderella Man.” Jinny laid a bet on Miss Morton’s capture of him. He took up her wager, kissed them both good-bye, and left in high good humour for a holiday to his liking.

The yacht was a marvel of luxury. They were housed like princes, fed like kings. Two days out of New York they slid into sunshine and warm winds. Life was one long, delicious playtime. To Jerry it was perfect, until he began to realize the limitations of a ship, and one man’s ability, when pitted against that of two women of decision.

Mrs. Brendon made good her promise to sit for studies for the portrait, but a few days out at sea were enough to convince Jerry that the price of his freedom was not the completed portrait of Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon, but a completed romance. It looked as if Mrs. Brendon would keep him at sea until he proposed to Althea.

Man-like, the thing began to get on his nerves. Man-like, he looked about for some feminine outlet for his feelings, and, as if for the first time, his eye fell upon Isabelle Bryce, the sixteen-year-old daughter of the Wallys. She was a queer, thin, brown little creature, with huge brown eyes. For the first few days he had scarcely seen her. She read, or stayed with the captain, or talked to the sailors. He found her squatted on deck, one windy morning, when the others were inside playing bridge.

“Hello! Aren’t you afraid you’ll blow overboard?” he inquired.

“No, I’m not. You’ve waked up, have you?”

“Have I been asleep?”

“You haven’t seen me before,” she retorted.

“Well, I see you now. Do you know what you look like?” He smiled down at her.

“Yes. I look like a ripe olive.”

“No. You look like a cricket. Are you always so silent? Don’t you ever chirp?”

“Me, silent? I’ve given the Wallys the blow of their lives. They think I’m sick, I’ve been so good on this rotten cruise.”

“What caused the reform good company?”

“No. I’m getting ready to break it to them that I may not be taken back at that school. I got into the devil of a row.”

“Did you? And they expelled you?”

“Suspended me until they decide. That’s why I had to come on this jolly party.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Of course I don’t like it. How’d I know whether you ever would wake up or not?”

“Did you want me to wake up?” he asked curiously.

“But, oui, aye, yah, yes, of course! You don’t suppose I want to play with fat old Brendon, do you? Wally is a fearful bore, so there’s only you.”

“Poor little Cricket, she wanted a playmate,” he teased.

“She did! I can’t rub my knees together and make a ‘crick,’ you know, so I had to wait till you came to. I’d have pushed you overboard, if it hadn’t happened to-day. I’m so full of unused pep, I’m ready to pop!”

“Well, come on. I’m awake. Now what?”

“Let’s warm up,” she said, and was up and off down the deck in one spring. Jerry pursued. She raced around the whole deck twice, then waited for him to catch up with her.

“Puffing, Jerry? You’re getting fat!” she jeered.

“You impudent little beggar. I’d like to shake you.”

“Try it.”

This was the opening mistake in what proved to be a perfect succession of diplomatic errors on the part of Jerry Paxton. It was as if the lid had popped off the cricket. She followed at Jerry’s heels every minute. She sang, she talked, she whistled, she played tricks. She was the great, original pest, which no one could subdue, and Jerry laughed at her. Mrs. Brendon ordered her off when Jerry was working at the studies, but for the rest of the time she preyed upon them all.

Her father rowed her in public, one day, and lost his temper.

“Don’t be a brat!” said he.

“It amuses me to be a brat,” she retorted. “It amuses Jerry, too.”

“It amuses nobody,” said her mother.

“Jerry, a moi; au secours! Take your dying pet away before she’s stepped on. The Wallys are hungry for cricket blood!” she cried, dragging Jerry up from a seat where Althea had him safely cornered.

“Look here, kid, you’ve got to behave or they’ll send you home,” he said, marching her off forward.

“You’re handsome when you’re cross, Jerry. I adore you cross.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“You’re only cross because I made you ridiculous by dragging you away. You ought to be glad I saved you from Althea, the beautiful wax doll. Has she any works, Jerry? When I punch her she says ‘Papa! Mama!’ just like the other dolls.”

“That will do. We will not discuss the other guests in this party,” sternly.

“Don’t expect me to have manners. I hate them.”

“You rather bore me this morning,” he remarked, and left her. She sulked the rest of the day, and waited her chance. The night was perfect, warm, with a full moon. Mrs. Brendon managed to get Althea and Jerry on the upper deck alone, while she guarded the others elsewhere. Isabelle had gone to bed with a headache, to every one’s delight.

“Isn’t this wonderful?” said Jerry.

“Yes,” with a sigh.

“Why the sigh? Aren’t you happy?”

“No. Everything seems so difficult here. We had such good times together in New York, but here it is so forced. Besides, that dreadful child seems to interest you more than any of the rest of us.”

“I only keep her off the rest of you.”

“But you laugh at her; you like her.”

“She’s an oddity. I confess she amuses me.”

“She makes outrageous love to you.”

“That baby? Good Lord! She’s a little schoolgirl.”

Althea laughed harshly.

“Surely you aren’t jealous of her?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? You spend all your time with her.”

He leaned over and laid his hand on hers. She was really distressed, and Jerry could not bear to have people unhappy.

“My dear girl,” he began. Then, at an expression which dawned on her face, he turned to look behind him. Isabelle, her hair flying, her robe floating behind her, her bare feet stuck into little mules, flew across the deck to them, and, as Jerry rose, fled to his arms, sobbing.

“Oh, Jerry, Jerry. I can’t bear it!”

“Look here, Cricket, what’s the matter?” he said, embarrassed at the scene.

“You hate me! I’ll kill myself, if you hate me.”

“Rubbish! I don’t hate you except when you make yourself a pest.”

The sobbing increased.

“Don’t cry like that, child.”

She clung to him, her head against his neck, as he bent over to hold her.

“Jerry, I’m s-sorry. P-please s-say you l-like me.”

“Of course, I like you. Now, go to bed, like a nice girl.”

“Not till you say you love me.”

“All right; I say it. Now trot.”

“Say it so I can remember, Jerry.”

“Cricket, I love you madly. Now hop.”

“I came to save you, Jerry,” she whispered in his ear, so Althea could not hear.

“What’s that?” he said, loosening her arms.

“Carry me down, Jerry?”

“Nothing of the kind; you’ll walk,” he said sternly, and led her toward the steps.

“Jerry, they’ll send you home if you don’t propose to Althea pretty soon. Then we can go together,” said the imp, as she left him.

When he went back to Althea she rose, and he saw how angry she was.

“How can you let that creature make you so ridiculous, Jerry?”

“I’m sorry she annoys you. She is a spoiled, neglected kid, but there’s no harm in her.”

“She’s a disgusting little beast, and I think it is a perfect outrage that the Bryces have shut us up on a ship with her. I shall land the first minute possible, and go home. I don’t intend that a miss in her teens shall insult me as she does the rest of you.”

She went to her stateroom in high dudgeon, and from that moment Jerry was like a man in a nightmare. When he thought he was on solid land, he stepped off precipices. When he knew he was walking properly, he found himself skimming the earth two feet above terra firma.

When they finally put in at Palm Beach he improvised: a telegram calling him north at once. It was now a case of marry Althea or run, so, like “Georgie, Porgie, Puddin’, Pie,” he made a hasty exit.

It was with a feeling of pleasant relaxation that he took the night train north. He went to bed early, and slept like an escaped prisoner. When the porter went through the car calling: “Telegram for Mr. Jerome Paxton,” he came to, and sat up as if he had been struck by a mallet. He put his head out and called for the yellow envelope. Half awake, he read:

“Is Isabelle with you? Wallace Bryce.”

He called for a blank and wired: “Certainly not.” Then, as his indignation at Wally had thoroughly wakened him, he began to dress. What did Bryce mean by that ridiculous wire? Why in the name of mercy should that limb of Satan be with him? He supposed she was up to some of her tricks. He opened the curtains of his berth to make for the dressing room, when the curtains of the lower opposite were parted.

“What did you tell Wally, Jerry?” asked the Cricket, grinning.