Gibbs George
The Maker of Opportunities

CHAPTER XVII

Thus ended the might-have-beens. And the thing that Patricia had taken to be the phantom of romance went up in the smoke of John Doe’s fire. Mortimer Crabb never volunteered any information as to how he got the letters, nor any information as to what became of Heywood Pennington. For one horrible moment the thought crossed Patricia’s brain that perhaps there had never been any letters of hers in the package her husband had burned, but she dismissed it at once as reflecting unpleasantly upon the quality of her intelligence. But one thing was sure, she now had an adequate understanding of the mind of her husband. It was the only misunderstanding they had ever had and Patricia knew there would never be another. Mr. Pennington did not appear again and so far as this veracious history is concerned, after his departure from New York, may have gone at once to Jericho. Patricia ceased to think of him, not because he was not present, but because thinking of him reminded her that she had been a fool, and no woman with the reputation for cleverness which Patricia possessed, could afford to make such an admission even to herself. She was now sure of several things – that she loved Mortimer Crabb with all her heart – and that she would never all her life long love anyone else. She might flirt, yes – nay more, she must flirt. What was the use spending one’s life in bringing an art to the perfection Patricia had attained and then suddenly forswearing it? Fortunately her husband did not require that of her. He never quite knew what she was going to do next, but he never really mistrusted her. And to Patricia’s credit it may be said that she never caused pain and that if she flirted – she sometimes did – it was in a good cause.

The building of the country place had gone forward during the winter, and early summer found them installed there. Beginning with the housewarming, which was memorable, guests came and went and upon them all Patricia practiced her altruism which, since the adventure with John Doe, had taken a somewhat different character. Yet even among these she found work for her busy hands to do.

It happened that among their guests the Crabbs had staying with them as a remnant of the housewarming party a young girl who, because she was only a little younger than Patricia in years, but centuries younger in knowledge of the world, had become one of her most treasured friends.

Little Miss North loved her, too – looked up to her as the ignorant do to the wise, and when her engagement to the Baron DeLaunay was announced Aurora came and told Patricia even before she told her family. Yet Patricia’s shrewd mind found something wrong and she urged the girl to come and join her housewarming for the sole reason of finding out the true inwardness of the engagement, and perhaps, too – who shall say? – to practice her arts again.

After a day or two of mild questioning, of studying, of watching, she began to see light.

Then she invited the Baron for a week end, and made certain preparations.

Then she waited his arrival with her nerves tingling.

She met her husband and the Baron at the steps as they ascended from the machine which brought them from the station.

“Ah monsieur! so glad! I was wondering if you’d be here in time for tea.”

“Wild horses could not have detained me longer, from a glimpse of your beaux yeux, Madame.”

He bent forward with a handsome gesture and kissed the tips of Patricia’s fingers, but she laughed gaily.

“Don’t waste pretty speeches, Baron. Besides – ” she paused significantly and pointed toward the door through which her husband’s shoulders had disappeared, “she is there,” she finished.

“Hélas!” The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders expressively; then straightened and showed his teeth in a smile.

“Since my speeches are wasted, I will follow you in, Madame.”

Patricia paused.

“All the world loves a lover – even I – ”

“Yes – yes – ”

“If I could be sure that you loved – ”

“You?”

“Her,” sternly.

He shrugged again, “Ah, yes – I love her – of course! Why, otherwise, should I wish to marry her?”

“I wonder,” slowly, “why you speak of my beaux yeux?” she said thoughtfully.

“Because I cannot help it – ”

“A lover should be blind,” she put in.

“Like a husband?” he asked, significantly.

“Like a wife,” she corrected, soberly.

He followed her indoors, where Aurora met them at the door of the library.

“Tea, Aurora,” she announced. “Will you pour it? Mort and I will be in in a moment.”

She hovered in the doorway insistently until she saw DeLaunay safely seated on the davenport at the tea-table by Aurora’s side, and only then she departed in the direction of the smoking room.

Mortimer Crabb was drinking a glass of whiskey and water. At the sound of his wife’s voice he turned.

“Did you get it, Mort?” she asked.

For reply he fumbled in the pockets of his dust-coat and brought forth a small package.

“Oh, yes. Here it is. Pretty insignificant affair to make such a fuss about,” and he handed it to her.

“It’s the little things that mean the most, my dear husband – like that,” she said significantly, “and this,” and she kissed him for his reward.

He held her away from him and looked at her good-humoredly – the quizzical humor that was characteristic of him.

“You never kiss me unless you’re up to some mischief, Patty.”

“Then you ought to be glad I’m mischievous, Mort. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.”

“H – m. Why all the mystery? Can’t you tell a fellow?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because then you don’t know as much as I do.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he protested. “I’m your husband.”

“Because if you knew as much as I do – ” She paused. “You know, Mort, it’s only the ignorant husband who’s entirely, blissfully happy.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” he laughed.

“Aren’t you happy, Mort?” she asked.

“Ah, hang it, yes. But – ”

“Then there’s nothing left to be said,” and she kissed him again.

“I can’t understand – ”

She laid resisting fingers on his arm.

“Of course you can’t. That’s one of your charms, Mort, dear. It’s much better for a woman to be misunderstood. The husband who ‘understands’ his wife is on the highway to purgatory. Ask no more questions. If I answer them I surely will lie to you.”

“What the deuce can Daggett and McDade be doing for you. They’re job-printers. They don’t engrave your cards or stationery or anything – ”

“N – o,” with a rising inflection.

“Well – what?”

“I needed some printing.”

“Well, why not go to Tiffany’s? The idea of your sending me away over on the East side – ”

“They’re such adorable printers, Mort.”

“Who ever heard of a printer being adorable? Fudge! What’s the game now? Can’t you tell a fellow?”

“No,” firmly.

Crabb always recognized the note of finality in his wife’s voice, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and followed her with his eyes as she blew another kiss in his direction and vanished up the stairs.

In the privacy of her own room Patricia did some cryptic things with newspapers, a pair of scissors, and the package from the adorable printers, and when she had finished, she folded up the newspapers, with their mysterious contents, including the scissors, and with a fleeting glance at herself in the mirror, went down stairs.

She entered the library noiselessly and after a glance at her guests at the tea-table, she slipped her package into the drawer of the library table and joined them.

“How envious you make me – you two,” she sighed, sinking into a chair, “you’re so satisfied with yourselves – and with each other.”

DeLaunay smiled and fingered his tea-cup.

“Would you have it otherwise?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” she said lightly, “I’m a professional nursery governess to polite and well-meaning persons of opposite sexes. Nursery governesses are not permitted emotions or opinions of any kind, my dears.”

“But even nursery governesses are human, I am told,” said DeLaunay, showing his white teeth.

“Are they? My governesses never were. They were all inhuman – like me. The sight of youthful license arouses all my professional instincts. That’s why I’m in such demand by despairing mothers of romantic heiresses.”

“Patty! you’re horrid.” Aurora’s heavily lidded eyes opened wide. “I’m not romantic – not in the least – and I’m not an heiress – ”

“Oh,” said Patricia.

“At least,” Aurora amended, “not in the modern sense. But it wouldn’t matter to Louis or to me if we – really had to work for our living. I’m so anxious to be of some use in the world. Oh, we’ve planned that already, haven’t we, Louis?”

“Yes,” said DeLaunay, crisply, with a glance of defiance in his eye for Patricia. “We have planned that.”

Patricia’s lips twisted, but she said nothing.

“I sometimes think, Patty,” went on Aurora, “that you’re a little unsympathetic. Won’t you really like to see us married?”

Patricia laughed. “Oh, yes – but not to each other.”

“Why not?”

“You’re too much in love, dear, for one thing. C’est si bourgeois – n’est-ce-pas, Baron? Things are arranged better in France?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Your customs in America are very pleasant ones,” he replied, imperturbably. “I am indeed fortunate to find myself so much in accord with them.”

Aurora gave him a rapturous glance for reward, and he took her fingers in his in calm defiance of his pretty hostess.

Patricia put down her finished tea-cup with a laugh and rose.

“Then I can’t dismay you – either of you?”

Aurora smiled scornfully.

“Not in the least – can she, Louis?”

“Not in the least,” he repeated.

“Oh, very well, your blood upon your own heads.”

“Or in our hearts, Madame,” corrected DeLaunay, with a bow.

“Come, Aurora,” smiled Patricia, “it’s time to dress.”

Patricia spent some time and some thought upon her toilet. Deep sea-green was her color, for it matched her eyes, which to-night were unfathomable. In the midst of her dainty occupation she turned her head over her shoulder and called her husband. Mortimer Crabb appeared in the door of his dressing-room which adjoined, one side of his face shaved, the other white with lather.

“What is it?” he mumbled.

Patricia contemplated the back of her head at the dressing-table by the aid of a hand mirror, removed the hairpins one by one from her mouth and deliberately placed them before she replied.

“Mort,” she said, slowly, “I want you to take Aurora out for a ride in the motor – ”

“To-night! Oh, I say, Patty – ”

“To-night,” she said, firmly. “I’ll arrange it. It will be dark and you’re going to lose your way – ”

“How do you know I am?”

“Because I tell you so, stupid! You’ve got to lose your way – for three hours.”

He looked at her shrewdly.

“What’s up now? Tell me, won’t you? I’m tired of rolling over and playing dead. I am. Besides, what can I do with that girl for three hours?”

“Oh, I don’t care,” said Patricia. “Tell her stories – romantic ones. She likes those. Anything – make love to her if you like.”

“So DeLaunay can make love to you,” peevishly. “I see. I’m not going to stand for it. I’m not any too keen on that fellow as it is. He’s neglecting Aurora shamefully – ”

“It is careless of him, isn’t it?” she said, tilting her head back to get another angle on her head-dress.

Crabb took a step nearer, brandishing his safety razor in righteous indignation.

“It’s a shame, I tell you. You don’t seem to have any conscience or any sense of proportion. You’d flirt with a cigar-Indian if there wasn’t anything else around. Why can’t you leave these young people alone? Do you think I like the idea of your spending the evening here snug and warm with that Frenchman while I’m shuttling around with that silly girl in the dark?”

“Mortimer, you’re ungallant! What has poor Aurora ever done to you?” She turned in her chair, looked at him, and then burst into laughter. He watched her with a puzzled frown. He never knew exactly how to take Patricia when she laughed at him.

“If you only knew how funny you look, Mort, dear. There’s a smudge of soap on the end of your nose and you look like a charlotte russe.” She rose slowly, put her fingers on his arm, and looked up into his eyes with a very winning expression.

“Don’t be silly, dear,” she said, softly. “You know you said you weren’t going to doubt me again – ever. I know what I’m about. I have a duty, a sacred duty to perform and you’re going to take your share of it.”

“A duty?”

She nodded. “You’re not to know until it’s all over. You mustn’t question, you’re to be good and do exactly what I tell you to do. Won’t you, Mort? There, I knew you would. It’s such a little thing to do.”

She leaned as close to him as she could without getting soap on her face.

“I’ll tell you a secret if you’ll promise to be nice. I don’t like the man – really I don’t – not at all.”

He looked in her eyes and believed her. “You always get your way in the end, don’t you?” he said, after a pause.

“Of course I do. What would be the use of a way, if one didn’t have it?”

That seemed unanswerable logic, so Crabb grinned.

“You’re a queer one, Patty,” which, as Patricia knew, meant that she was the most extraordinary and wonderful of persons. So she smiled at the back of his head as he went out because she agreed with him.

CHAPTER XVIII

Patricia’s dinner drew to its delectable close, and coffee had already been served when the butler went to the front door and brought back a telegram on a silver tray.

Patricia picked it up and turned it over daintily.

“For you, Aurora,” she said.

Aurora with apologies tore open the envelope and read, her brow clouding.

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” said Patricia, sweetly sympathetic.

Aurora rose hurriedly. “I don’t know,” she said dubiously, and then reading: “‘Aunt Jane sick, motor over this evening if possible.’ There’s no signature. I suppose I’ll have to go.” Her lip protruded childishly. “How tiresome!”

“It’s very inconsiderate of her, isn’t it?” said Patricia. The look of incomprehension still lingered on the young girl’s face.

“I can’t see what she wants of me,” she murmured.

“Perhaps she’s seriously ill,” Patricia volunteered.

“Perhaps – yes, I must go, of course. But how can I?”

“Mortimer,” Patricia provided the cue.

“I’ll drive you, Aurora,” said Crabb.

“And Louis?”

DeLaunay made no sign.

“I will take care of the Monsieur DeLaunay, dear. Do you think you could trust me?”

Aurora’s lips said, “Of course,” but her eyes winked rapidly several times as she adapted her mind to the situation.

The decision reached, DeLaunay stepped forward.

“If you wish that I should go – ”

“Quite unnecessary,” put in Patricia, quickly. “If your aunt Jane is sick, Aurora – ”

Aurora hung in the wind a regretful moment.

“Oh, yes – he’d be in the way. I’ll leave him with you, Patty. Please don’t flirt any more than you can help.”

“My dear child,” said Patty, with solemn conviction, “since poor, foolish Freddy Winthrop, engaged men are taboo. Besides, to-night I have other plans. I would not flirt if you could animate the Apollo Belvedere. As Mortimer so chastely puts it, ‘me for the downy at 10 G. M.’ Monsieur will doubtless practice pool-shots or play a game of Napoleon.”

“Oh, yes,” said the Frenchman, with a calmness which scarcely concealed the note of derision.

But Aurora, after one long look in his direction, had vanished to don motor clothing, and when she came down, Mortimer Crabb with his quivering car awaited her in the drive. Patricia and the Baron waved them good-by from the porch and then went indoors to the subtle effulgence of the drawing room. Patricia walked to the mantel, turned her back to the fire and stretched her shapely arms along its shelf, facing her guest with level gaze and a smile which was something between a taunt and a caress. DeLaunay inhaled luxuriously the smoke of his cigarette and appraised his hostess through the half-closed eyes of the artist searching for a “motif.” She was puzzling – this woman – like the vagrant color in a landscape in the afternoon sunlight, which shimmered one moment in the sun and in the next was lost in shadowy mystery – not the mystery of the solemn hills, but the playful mystery of the woodland brook which laughs mockingly from secret places. Her eyes were laughing at him. He felt it, though none of the physical symbols of laughter were offered in evidence.

“I’m so sorry, Monsieur,” she began in French. “It is such a pity. There is no excuse for any one to have a sick aunt when the stage is set for sentiment. I had planned your evening so carefully, too – ”

“You are the soul of kindness, Madame,” he said politely, still studying her.

“Yes,” she went on, slowly, “I think I am. But then I am chez moi, and charity, you know, begins at home.”

“I hope you will not call it charity. Charity they say is cold. And you, Madame, whatever you would seek to express, are not cold.”

“How can you know?”

“Your eyes – ”

“My beaux yeux again.” She shrugged her shoulders, and turned toward the door. “It is time, I think, for you to practice pool-shots.”

“Ah, you are cruel!” He stepped before her and held out protesting hands. “I do not care for pool, Madame.”

“Or Napoleon?”

“No – I wish to talk with you. Please!”

She paused, appraising him sideways.

“I have some letters to write,” she said, briefly.

“Please, Madame.” He stood before her, his slender figure gracefully bent, motioning appealingly toward the deep davenport, which was set invitingly in front of the fire. She followed his gesture with her eyes, then with a light laugh passed before him and sat down.

“Nothing about my beaux yeux then,” she mocked.

He glanced at her with a smile which showed his fine teeth and sank beside her and at a distance.

“Voilà, Madame! You see? I am an angel of discretion.”

She smiled approvingly. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

“Do we?” he asked with a suggestion of effrontery.

“I hope so.”

“I’m not so sure. To me you are still a mystery.”

“Am I? That’s curious. I’ve tried to make my meaning plain. Perhaps I can make it clearer. For some weeks you have been making love to me, Monsieur. I don’t like it. I never flirt, except with the very ancient or the very youthful,” she said mendaciously. “You don’t come within my age limits.”

He laughed gayly.

“Love is of all ages and no ages. I am both ancient and youthful. Old in hope, young in despair – in affairs of the heart, I assure you, a veritable babe in the arms. I have never really loved – until now.”

“Why do you marry Aurora then?” she put in.

He looked at her with a puzzled brow, then laughed merrily. “Madame, you are too clever to waste your time in America.” But as Patricia was looking very gravely into the fire, he too relapsed into silence, and frowned at the ash of his cigarette.

“I do not see, Madame, why we should speak of her,” he said, sulkily. “It must be clear to you that our understanding is complete. The marriages in my country, as you know – ”

“Oh, yes, I know,” she interrupted, “but Miss North is different. She has not the social ambitions of other girls. Miss North is romantic but quite unspoiled. Has it occurred to you that perhaps she may hope for a somewhat different relation between you?”

“We are good friends – very good friends. She is enchanting,” he said with enthusiasm, “so innocent of the ways of the world, so talented, so charming. We shall be very happy.”

“I hope so,” dryly.

He examined her shrewdly.

“You have her happiness close to your heart! Is it not so? What is to be feared? I shall be very good to her. We understand each other. She will be glad of the splendor of my ancient name, and I desire the means to restore my estates and place myself in a position of influence among my people. I care for her as one cares for a lovely flower – but the mind – the soul, Madame, I have found them – elsewhere,” he leaned forward and touched her fingers with his own.

Patricia’s gaze was far away. It seemed as though she was unconscious of his touch. “It is a pity,” she said, softly, “a great pity. I am very sorry.”

“Could you not learn to care a little?”

She turned on him then, but her voice was still gentle.

“We are not in France, Monsieur,” she said coldly.

“What does that matter?” he urged. “Love knows nothing of geography. Love is a cosmopolite. It cares not for time or place or convention. I care for you very much, Madame, and whatever you may think, it makes me happy to tell you so.”

“And Aurora?” Patricia reiterated the word, like the clanging of an alarm bell.

The Baron relaxed his grasp and lowered his head.

She leaned forward, elbow on knee, looking into the fire.

“You know, Baron, I’m very sorry for Aurora.”

As he made no comment she went on:

“She has always been a very sweet, amiable, honorable child. I’m very fond of her. She was very much alone with her books and her family. She has always lived in an atmosphere of her own – an atmosphere that she made for herself, without companions of her own age. Her mother brought her up without the slightest knowledge of the guile, the deceit, or wickedness of the world in which some day she was to live. They used even to scan the newspapers before she was permitted to read them, and clip out objectionable paragraphs. Even I have done that since she has been here visiting me. Her father was always too busy making money to bother. At the age of twenty she is still a dreamer, old in nothing but years, living in an idyl of her own, the sleeping princess in the fairy-tale whom you, the gallant prince, have awakened with a kiss.”

DeLaunay’s shoulders moved slightly as he sighed.

“That kiss, Monsieur! You have awakened her,” she went on, “to what?” She paused abruptly and turned toward him for a reply.

“Your question is hardly flattering to my vanity,” he said, smiling. “There are women – ”

“She is a child.”

“All women are children. I shall find means to make her happy.”

Patricia resumed her study of the fire.

“I hope so. With money your opportunities for happiness would be greater. Without money – ” she paused and shook her head slowly.

The Baron turned abruptly, but Patricia’s gaze was fixed upon the fire. When he spoke his tones were suppressed – his manner constrained.

“Madame – what do you mean?”

She faced him slowly, her expression gently sympathetic.

“Have you not heard?”

“Heard what, Madame?”

“Of Monsieur North’s misfortune – you must have seen it in the newspapers – ”

“The newspapers! No – what is it?”

“Monsieur North has lost his money.”

DeLaunay rose quickly, one hand before him as though to ward off a blow.

“What you tell me is impossible,” he said thickly.

“No,” gravely. “It is true.”

He stared at her unbelieving, but her eyes met his calmly, eagerly, and in their depths he saw only pity.

“Would I not have heard this dreadful thing, Madame? Aurora would have told me.”

“She might have told you if she had known.”

“She did not know?”

“They want to save her the pain. They always have. That is one reason why she is stopping here with me. Don’t you understand?”

DeLaunay showed other signs of inquietude and was now pacing the rug nervously.

“It is incredible!” he was saying, “incredible! I cannot – no – ” And he stopped before her. “No, I will not believe it!”

Patricia clasped her hands over her knees and was looking very gravely into the fire. She had the air of a person who is mourning the loss of a very dear friend.

“How do you know this?” he asked again, anxiously.

“From Mrs. North a week ago, when she let Aurora come to me. But it is no secret now, as it has been in the newspapers. I have kept them from Aurora. She is so happy here with you – I hadn’t the heart to do anything to destroy her pleasure.”

“But North and Company is a very great business house. So rich that even in France we have heard of them.”

“Yes – Mr. North has been rich for years,” and then with a sigh, “It is very sad – very, very sad.”

“But how could such a thing happen? Surely he is wise enough – ”

“Speculation!” said Patricia, simply. “All of our business men speculate. Even the oldest – the wisest.”

DeLaunay sank into a chair at some distance, his head in his hands. “Dieu!” she heard him mutter. “What a terrible country. I cannot believe – ”

Patricia got up at last and walked over and put her hand quietly on his shoulder. She was even smiling.

“I am so sorry, Monsieur. Of course you know that, don’t you? But I am sure everything will turn out for the best. Aurora loves you. You must remember that poverty will make no difference in the relations between you. She will even welcome the chance to be poor – she wants to be of some real use in the world – she has said so – you had even planned that, Monsieur!”

The Frenchman turned just one look in her direction, a look in which despair, inquietude, inquiry and anger were curiously blended and then rose and strode the length of the room away.

“You are mocking me. You know, Madame – that – that it is impossible – this marriage – if – what you tell me is true.”

“I wish I could reassure you,” slowly.

“What proofs have you?”

“Isn’t my word enough?”

“Yes, but – ”

“You want confirmation. Very well!” Patricia walked to the library table, opened its drawer, and took out the Sun and Herald. As she opened them two paper cuttings and a pair of scissors fell to the floor. She picked them up before DeLaunay could reach her, opening the newspapers, both of which bore signs of mutilation. And while he wondered what she was about to do or say, she resumed calmly, even indifferently. “I had clipped these papers that Aurora might not see them. Since you profess some incredulity, perhaps you’d rather read for yourself.” And she handed them to him.

He adjusted his monocle with trembling fingers, and began reading the slips, his lips moving, his eyes dilated, while Patricia watched him, her eyes masked by her fingers. She saw him read one article through, then scan the other, his lips compressed, his small chin working forward.

“Five million dollars!” he whispered at last. “It is terrible – terrible. And there will be nothing at all.”

“It looks so, doesn’t it?” she replied. “Read on.”

And he read the remainder of it aloud, pausing at each sentence as though fascinated by the horror of it. When he had read the last word, the papers dropped from his fingers upon the tea-table beside him. At a grimace his eye-glass dropped the length of its cord and he stood erect, squaring his shoulders and straightening to his small height with the air of a man who has made a resolution.

“Madame,” he said, more calmly, “this is very disagreeable news.”

“It’s quite sad, isn’t it? But I must warn you against speaking to Aurora just yet. The news is spreading fast enough and to-morrow it may be necessary to tell her. In the meanwhile you must be gentle with her and tender – you can comfort her so much. She will need all your kindness now, Monsieur.”

But DeLaunay had taken out his watch. “Madame, I thank you for your kindness to me, but I am – I am much perturbed – I – I do not want to see Miss North until I can think what I must do. Would you mind if I went in town to my hotel – ”

“To-night?”

“Yes – to-night.”

“She will think it strange for you to go without a word.”

“I – I – ”

“You could leave a note.”

“You will permit me?”

Patricia watched him seat himself heavily at her writing-desk.

“Monsieur,” she asked, “what will you say to her?”

“That I am ill – that I – ”

“How will that help either you or her?”

He shrugged his shoulders hopelessly.

“What then, Madame?”

“I don’t know,” she said, slowly. “It is a very painful note to write. I am very sorry for you, sorry for Miss North, sorry for myself that you learned of this through me. It is curious that no one told you,” she sighed. “But perhaps it is just as well that you know.”

“I am grateful, Madame, I cannot tell you how grateful,” he began, but she held up her hand.

“It pains me to see Miss North unhappy, but I know more of life than she does. I was educated in France, Monsieur, and I know what is expected of American girls who marry into the ancienne noblesse– the noblesse de souche. Of course, without a dot, this marriage is impossible.”

“Yes, Madame, that is true. It is – impossible, absolutely impossible.”

“Aurora – Miss North believes in your love for her – she will hardly understand – ”

DeLaunay swung around in his chair and rose, facing the hostess.

“There must be no misunderstanding between us,” decisively, “I shall go at once.”

“That’s your decision – your final decision?”

“It is – final.”

By this time she stood beside him at the desk, and as she spoke her finger pointed to the paper and ink.

“Then you must write her to-night – before you go. It would not be fair to leave matters to me. It is not fair to her or to yourself. Sit down, Monsieur, and write.”

He sank into the chair again.

“And what shall I write?”

“If I can help you – ” sweetly.

“I will write what you say,” with a sigh of relief.

So Patricia seated herself beside him and with a troubled brow dictated in English.

“My dear Miss North:

“I have learned with horror and dismay of the great bereavement which has fallen upon you and your family, but in view of this misfortune, I have thought it wisest to take my departure at once.

“You will understand, of course, that under these conditions it is advisable to discontinue our present relations at once, and as my presence might prove embarrassing I leave with feelings of great unhappiness. You are doubtless aware of the customs of my country in the matter of settlements, the absence of which would preclude the possibility of marriage on my part.

“Mrs. Crabb has kindly consented to make my apologies and excuses to you for my abrupt departure which I take with deep regret, the deeper because of my profound esteem for your many delightful qualities, of which you may be assured I shall never cease to think with tender and regretful sentiments – ”

Patricia broke off abruptly. “I think that is all, Monsieur. Will you finish it – as you please?”

The baron nodded and added:

“I am, Mademoiselle, with profound assurances of my friendship and consideration,

“Yours“,

Louis Charles Bertram de Chartres,

“Baron DeLaunay.”

Patricia meanwhile had ordered the Baron’s suitcase packed and had ’phoned for a station wagon and a while later stood in the hallway speeding the parting guest.