For some reason best known to himself Huntington did not confide to Cosden the fact that Mrs. Thatcher had suggested the possibility of a match between Merry and Hamlen. She had referred to it as “poetic justice”; perhaps Huntington, knowing his friend to be unsympathetic in his relations toward poetry in general, might fail to appreciate the present application, particularly since he himself, though possessing pronounced fondness for the poets, had not fully risen to the idea. As a matter of fact, the suggestion shocked him no less than Cosden’s business-like proposition concerning his own marriage. What were people thinking of, these days!

He looked forward to the morrow and to the sailing of the “Arcadian” with a sense of partial relief, for Billy’s boyish infatuation and Cosden’s impatient demands for interference had considerably disturbed his tranquillity. Huntington was a man of action when he so elected, and he enjoyed doing things when they were of his own choice and could be done in his own time and way; but nothing annoyed him more than to be forced into action by another’s choice or election. Now, just as he saw one disturbing element about to be eliminated, another of seemingly greater magnitude loomed up on the horizon, and he cordially wished himself back in Boston with nothing more serious than the east winds to worry him.

But no disturbing element was apparent in his face as he stepped out onto the piazza after his leisurely breakfast the following morning. Glancing around, he discovered Cosden and Miss Stevens standing at the further corner, watching the hustle of the departing guests.

“You’re just in time to witness the great event of the day,” she greeted him as he joined them, pleased that she had Cosden and Huntington even temporarily to herself. “One of the best things they do down here is to arrange the sailings to New York at a time when one may see the boat off without getting up at all hours of the night.”

Cosden started to speak and then paused, looking at her narrowly to make certain that by no possible construction could any answer of his be twisted into an invitation to drive to St. George’s, or to some other point equally remote.

“Your remark shows that you and Mr. Huntington have much in common,” he observed at length.

“Ability to sleep is an evidence of a clear conscience,” she asserted.

“Which explains my restless nights, and the necessity of making up my quota at the wrong end,” Huntington said.

“But you come from New England, Mr. Huntington,” Edith expostulated. “I’ve always heard a lot about the New England conscience.”

“I’ll wager you never heard anything good about it,” Huntington smiled.

“Does it ever really keep any one from doing the things he wants to do?” she asked mischievously.

“No,” Huntington answered gravely; “it simply makes him very uncomfortable while he’s doing them.”

“I thought your sleeplessness might be caused by anxiety lest that precious nephew of yours forget to take the boat this morning,” Cosden remarked dryly.

Huntington was quietly amused. “How about you?” he asked.

“I’m here to throw him bodily on board at the first sign of any change of plan.”

“You speak as if you had a grudge against the boy,” Edith said, looking surprised.

“Not at all,” Cosden demurred; “Billy is all right, but he covers too much territory. Since he landed I haven’t been able to put my foot on the ground without stepping on him. His Alma Mater needs Billy more than I do, and, as Monty says, we alumni must be loyal to our Dear Mother.”

“His Alma Mater will have to do without him for a few days longer unless he appears soon,” Edith remarked calmly, pointing toward the dock. “The tender has just started and will be here at the pier in a moment.”

Both men sprang to their feet.

“Where in the world can that boy be?” Huntington demanded with real concern.

“You go up to his room and I’ll look around down here,” Cosden said, taking command of the situation.

Huntington disappeared with astonishing alacrity, while his friend deserted Miss Stevens to pursue the search down-stairs.

“Why don’t you find Miss Thatcher?” Cosden suggested, coming back to her as the idea struck him; “that will probably locate the boy.”

“I’d rather watch the man-hunt from here,” she retorted coolly. “I don’t want to miss seeing you throw him bodily on board.”

The tender came slowly alongside the “Princess” steps, taking on board the passengers from the hotel. Cosden and Huntington both appeared from different directions as the gang-plank was drawn up and the little steamer’s screw began to churn. Huntington was out of breath, but not empty-handed he carried with him a bag which showed evidences of hectic packing, with pajama strings hanging out from the partially closed top.

“He hadn’t even packed his things!” Huntington panted indignantly.

“Stay here a moment,” Cosden said, leaving him standing irresolutely at the top of the stone steps, watching the stretch of water increase between the departing tender and the pier.

“Please turn this way,” Edith called, leveling her camera at him from the piazza rail. “I want to be sure to get that suit-case into the picture.”

“Wait until Connie comes back,” Huntington begged.

At that moment a disheveled figure appeared running frantically up the “Princess” driveway.

“I’ve lost my boat!” Billy cried with well-simulated despair.

“You did it deliberately, you young rascal!” Huntington cried, aroused at last to exasperation.

“Uncle Monty!” Billy’s face wore an injured expression which would have fitted a Raphael cherub. “You know I wouldn’t have missed that boat for anything. I’m sure to be rooked if I’m not in Cambridge Thursday.”

Cosden joined them in time to hear Billy’s expostulations. “We couldn’t let that happen,” he said comfortingly. “Come on; I’ve fixed it up with the jolly skipper in this motor-boat. He swears he can reach the ‘Arcadian’ before the tender does. Quick! there isn’t a minute to lose!”

“But I haven’t packed my bag ”

“Here it is!”

Huntington removed Billy’s one remaining hope, and the boy saw that he was fairly beaten.

The broad grin returned to his face as he took his bag. “That’s mighty good of you, Mr. Cosden,” he said, with such apparent sincerity that it disarmed his uncle’s wrath. “There aren’t many men who would help a fellow out like that. I won’t forget it!”

He ran down the stone steps and took his place in the stern of the motor-boat. “Good-bye, everybody! Say, Uncle Monty, explain to Merry why I didn’t have time to say ‘good-bye’ to her, and don’t forget that this joy-ride is on Mr. Cosden. Good-bye!”

They watched the little boat speed after the tender, which by this time had reached the narrows; then they turned back to the piazza.

“We’ve succeeded in making ourselves fairly conspicuous,” Cosden remarked. “A good deal of fuss over one small boy, eh, Monty?”

“Thank you so much!” Edith cried enthusiastically as they joined her. “I haven’t seen so much excitement since I arrived, and I love to watch two live men in action.”

“It’s frightful, being stared at, isn’t it?” Cosden protested.

“Don’t believe a word he says, Miss Stevens,” Huntington retaliated. “He really loves to be stared at; it’s the disappointment on the people’s faces after looking at him that causes the worry. Now, Connie, you can put your foot on the ground without stepping on Billy. How are you planning to take advantage of your opportunity?”

Cosden glanced at his watch. “I have an appointment with Thatcher at eleven on that little business proposition. We’re to meet at the ‘Hamilton.’ I’ve just about time to keep it. As for you, I suggest that you invite Miss Stevens to show you the way to the Devil’s Hole. They have a wonderful collection of fish over there, which the Scotch keeper puts through their paces every little while whenever he needs the money. I commend your attention to the bachelor-fish: it has a bad disposition, makes itself obnoxious to its fellow-creatures, and would be sarcastic in its conversation if it had the power of speech.”

With this parting shot Cosden made his excuses to Miss Stevens and walked over to the “Hamilton.” His spirits had improved immensely within the past half-hour, and the proximity of his appointment caused him to forget for the moment that his vacation trip thus far had distinctly bored him. To Cosden a vacation consisted, as Henry James would have described it, of “agitated scraps of rest, snatched by the liveliest violence.” On other occasions, when he sought relaxation, he had found it in strenuous physical exercise; in the present instance he had intended to engage himself in the more unfamiliar occupation of offering a partnership to Merry Thatcher in the “Cosden Social Development Company, Limited,” although he had not expressed it to himself in just these words. In this expectation he had so far signally failed. Had he been a baron of old he might have seized the prospective bride bodily and made off with her to his ancestral castle, but, even with the handicap imposed by modern civilization, now that the diverting influence had been eliminated, he believed the opportunity was nearer to the point of offering itself. The fact that Thatcher had turned to him in this proposition, whatever it was, not only pleased him as a further evidence of recognition, but supplied him with an agreeable outlet for his pent-up energy.

Cosden had told Huntington that Thatcher was a “big man,” and his friend, having learned his business vocabulary, understood what was meant by this designation: Thatcher was a man of substantial means, held influential positions on important boards, and wielded a power in the financial circles in which he moved. Cosden had been far-sighted, he told himself, to have happened upon the scene at this particular juncture, for Thatcher would scarcely have gone out of his way to invite him to join in the enterprise except for the coincidence of their meeting; and Cosden was not averse to being included in the Thatcher group of operators.

Thatcher was awaiting him on the lower piazza when he arrived at the “Hamilton.”

“I wanted to have a few words with you before we join this promoter person up-stairs,” he explained, “so I sent Stevens on ahead to tell him we are on our way. Duncan is the man’s name. He’s a Scotchman who has lived down here for many years. He has little education, and you could cut his brogue with a knife.”

“I won’t object to his brogue if his signature is any good at the foot of a check,” Cosden interrupted.

“He doesn’t come in on that end,” Thatcher continued. “The idea is his, and he can be of service later on if we proceed with it. It isn’t very large, and we can finance it easily if the thing is worth taking up at all. The scheme is to fit Bermuda out with a trolley system, and to bring the right tidy little island down to the twentieth century.”

“Not a bad suggestion,” Cosden commented, “and a great improvement upon the present system of bicycling.” Billy would have rejoiced had he known how stiff his adversary’s legs were after the famous ride to Elba Beach. “Why hasn’t some one thought of it before?”

“Duncan will tell you the story as he has told me,” Thatcher said rising. “Come, let us go to him now. Ricky will have exhausted his vocabulary by this time.”

Cosden smiled at the mention of Stevens’ name. “He’s a curious fellow, Stevens,” he remarked. “With that vacant expression on his face he ought to make a corking poker-player. Is he interested in this deal?”

“Ricky interested in business?” Thatcher laughed. “He would run a mile to avoid it! No, he’s just a messenger this morning; but Ricky is all right in his way. He’s the society member of his family. He isn’t a heavy-weight, but when it comes to dancing or the latest word in men’s attire, you can’t overlook Ricky.”

Cosden’s departure left Huntington and Miss Stevens together on the piazza of the hotel. The bustle attendant upon the sailing had quieted down but Huntington had not recovered from the unusually violent action of the past few moments.

“I was going over to have another visit with Hamlen,” he remarked, “but the morning is gone.”

“It isn’t eleven o’clock yet,” Miss Stevens commented.

“By Jove! is that all? Well, it’s too late now, but I’ll go this afternoon. It seems as if ages had passed since breakfast! Do you suppose they’ll keep that boy on board once they get him there?”

“Of course,” she laughed. “Why worry about him?”

“I’m not worrying,” Huntington protested. “I never worry, I don’t believe in it. Worry is for parents and married people generally.”

“What a cynic you are on the subject of marriage,” Edith remarked; “you never pass an opportunity to knock it, do you?”

“Am I so heartless as all that?” Huntington inquired by way of answer. “But why can’t you and I, who may class ourselves among those fortunate ones who have escaped the snares, be honest with each other and enjoy watching the thraldom of others who have shown themselves less discreet?”

“How do you know that I do class myself among the fortunate ones?”

“Because you are unmarried, and seeing you is to know that you could not enjoy that blessed state except through choice.”

Edith smiled at his gallantry, wondering whether he was really as flippant as he would have her think.

“If a woman were to take that position she would be accused of ’sour grapes,’ wouldn’t she?”

“Probably; such is the instinctive pessimism of the times. It is so much easier to do the conventional when one sees it going on all about him that people are intellectually incapable of comprehending that to avoid the obvious may be a matter of pre-determination, and an evidence of strength rather than the result of accident or an act of omission.”

“Does Mr. Cosden share your views upon this subject?” Edith inquired.

“Not at the present moment, if I am credibly informed by my observations.”

Edith looked at him critically. “Do you mean that he is engaged?” she asked pointedly.

“Oh, no,” Huntington disclaimed promptly, conscious that he was talking of his friend with considerable freedom, but suddenly inspired with the idea that it might help the situation; “no, I didn’t mean that at all. He isn’t as careful as he used to be about exposing himself; that is what I was trying to say. You see, I don’t know how long inoculation holds good: it’s seven years for smallpox, and three years for typhoid. How long should you say a man could hold out against matrimony on the same ratio?”

“When was Mr. Cosden ‘inoculated,’ as you call it?” she asked, smiling.

“When he started out to make his fortune, about fifteen years ago.”

“Then I’m sure it has run out of his system long since,” she laughed. “He ought to be very susceptible.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Huntington sighed. “Of course, Connie has a strong, robust constitution and he may pull through, but I will admit that I’ve seen symptoms lately which cause me some anxiety. Did you notice anything while you were out driving?”

“I noticed a good many things, but nothing which would contribute to the subject you mention. He was about as responsive as the wrong side of a mirror, but I talked at him until he had to say something in self-defense.”

“Dear me!” Huntington held up his hands deprecatingly. “That is one of the worst symptoms possible. I had no idea that it had gone as far as that. You and I must take Connie in hand.”

“Who is the girl?” Edith demanded abruptly.

“Ah! I am counting on you to help me find out.”

“It all must have happened before you came down here.”

“On the contrary; Connie was quite himself until he reached Bermuda. Since then ”

“Why, he hasn’t met any one here except ”

“You and Miss Thatcher,” Huntington completed. “You see how the search narrows itself. I shall continue my investigations until I discover the truth.

“How perfectly ridiculous!” Edith cried, not yet convinced as to his sincerity. “Why, Merry is a mere child, and what makes you think there is anything of that kind in Mr. Cosden’s mind?”

“His vindictiveness. Haven’t you noticed the way he treated Billy? And he has actually been harsh with me on two occasions. It isn’t like Connie; and if it affects him like this now, Heaven alone knows what the outcome will be if matters go further. You know the old song:

“You may carve it on his tombstone, you may cut it on his card,
That a young man married is a young man marred.”

“There you go again,” laughed Edith; “the cynic once more leaps into the limelight.”

“But won’t you pledge yourself to assist me in my noble work? Why not form ourselves into a society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Single Persons, and be sworn to do all we can to intervene between matrimony and its victims?”

“Of course each would be at liberty to use his own judgment?” queried Edith, amused.

“Yes; so long as he did not confound judgment with sentiment.”

“That is a capital suggestion,” she agreed smiling. “I will gladly join you. Our first undertaking, I presume, will be to prevent affairs from going any further between Merry and Mr. Cosden granting that they exist?”

“I don’t say that. I recognize in you a superior person, and as such I have absolute confidence that you will act in accord with the unwritten constitution of our Society.”

“Thank you for that confidence,” Edith said still smiling. Then she added enigmatically, “Whenever I accept a responsibility I always rise promptly to the emergency. In the present instance it requires careful consideration. Now, if you will excuse me I will take my morning constitutional.”

Huntington was not sorry to have a few moments of solitary contemplation. Throwing away a half-smoked cigar, he drew his pipe from his pocket and filled it with his favorite mixture unchanged since he first became acquainted with it at college. A cigarette represented to Huntington the casual inconsequence of youth, a cigar the aristocracy of smoking, a pipe that comfortable companionship which encourages relaxation and introspective thought. With the first whiff he pulled his hat down over his face, settled deep in his chair, and began to run over the events of the past few days. Huntington’s mind was methodical if not always orderly, and his account of stock, when finally classified under the head of “responsibilities,” summed up about as follows:

Responsibility 1: To keep peace with Connie, and yet
persuade him against or frighten him out of his present
assinine intentions.

Responsibility 2: To pull Hamlen out of the solitary life
which he had affected, and to force him to assume that
position in the world to which he rightly belonged.

Responsibility 3: To demonstrate to Mrs. Thatcher that her unmotherly idea of making restitution to Hamlen by throwing her daughter at his head was the product of an overwrought sentimentality rather than a rational suggestion.

Responsibility 4: To become sufficiently intimate with Merry, the direct or indirect occasion of the entire complication, to be able to judge as to the probable outcome of all the other responsibilities.

The sum total of his obligations appalled him, and he found himself proceeding in a mental circle, making no progress beyond the recapitulation. He was not displeased, therefore, when he found himself interrupted in his reveries by a bell-boy who stood before him, holding out a tray containing a telegram. He took it mechanically, wondering who had located him in this island retreat. Opening the yellow envelope he read the following message, sent by wireless from the “Arcadian”:

“That Cosden person has slipped it over on me this time, but I depend on you to watch out for my interests with Merry. She is the one best bet. Don’t let that antique vintage of 1875 annoy her with his attentions. I know I can trust you. Please cable money to me in New York care of Hotel Biltmore to pay for this message and other expenses to Cambridge.

“BILLY.”

Huntington groaned aloud as he twisted uncomfortably in his chair. “Another responsibility to add to the others!” he cried, “and I believed bachelor’s life one of freedom and ease! If ever I get out of this mess I’ll bury myself in some monastery, and let its cold grey walls protect me against the matrimonial madness of the world!”