A little later he and his sister were at luncheon in her dining-room.
"I am losing patience with you, Dick," she said, as she poured his tea.
"Is that anything new?" he ventured to jest, while wondering what might lay in the little woman's mind.
"You are too strenuous," she smiled, as she dropped two lumps of sugar into his cup. "Entirely too much so. I saw from your face this morning that you are already undoing the effects of your vacation. The old glare is back in your eyes; your hands shake. I really must warn you. You know our father died from softening of the brain, which was brought on by financial worry. You are killing yourself, and for no reason in the world. Look at Alan Delbridge. He is the ideal man of affairs. Nothing disturbs him."
"It is always Delbridge, Delbridge!" Mostyn said, testily. "Even you can't keep from hurling him in my teeth. He is as cold-blooded as a fish. Why should I want to be like him?"
"Well, take Jarvis Saunders, then," she returned. "What more success could a man want than he gets? I like to talk to him. He has a helpful philosophy of life. When he leaves his desk he is as happy and free as a boy out of school. I saw him pitching and catching ball in a vacant lot with one of your clerks the other day. Is it any wonder that so many mothers of unmarried daughters consider him a safe catch for their girls? I am not punning; he really is wonderful."
"Oh, I know it," Mostyn answered, drinking his tea, impatiently. "I was not made like him. I am not to blame."
Mrs. Moore eyed him silently for a moment, then a serious expression settled on her florid face. "Well," she ejaculated, "when are you going to make a real clean breast of it?"
A shudder passed through him. She knew what had brought him home. Marie's hysterical protest had leaked out. The girl had talked to others besides Saunders.
"What do you mean?" He asked the question quite aimlessly. He avoided her eyes.
"I want to know about your latest love affair," she laughed, softly. "Just one line in your last letter meant more to me than all the rest of it put together. As soon as I heard you were staying at Drake's I began to expect it. So I was not surprised. You see, I saw her a year ago. Jarvis introduced us one day. He put himself out to do it. According to him, she was wonderful, a genius, and what not."
"You mean Dolly?" Mostyn's tongue felt thick and inactive.
"Yes, I mean Dolly." Mrs. Moore continued to laugh. "When I saw her she was young enough to play with a doll, though I believe she was reading some serious book. Well, she is pretty—I can't dispute it—and Jarvis declares she is more than that. To do her full justice, she looked like a girl of strong character. I remember how the young thing stared through her long lashes at me that day. Yes, I knew she would turn your head. Dick, you are a man summer flirt. You are even more; you enjoy the distinction of actually believing, temporarily, at least, in every flirtation you indulge in. You have imagination, and it plays you terrible pranks. You wouldn't have been home so soon—you would even have been in your usual hot water over the girl—but for your obligation to Irene Mitchell."
Mostyn tried to be resolute. He was conscious of his frailty of purpose, of his lack of sincerity when he spoke.
"I am not obligated to Irene, and, what is more, Bess, I have positively made up my mind to marry the little girl you are speaking of."
The woman's eyes flickered, her lips became more rigid. It was as if a certain pallor lay beneath her transparent skin and was forcing itself out. He heard her exhale a long breath.
"To think that you could actually sit here and say as ridiculous a thing as that to me in a serious tone," she said, in an attempt at lightness. "Why, Dick, whatever your faults are, you are not a fool."
"I hope not," he said, weakly defiant. "I really care very much for the girl. You see, I knew her three years ago. You needn't oppose me, Bess; I have made up my mind."
"You have done no such thing!" Mrs. Moore blurted out. "That is the pity of it—the absurdity of it. You haven't made up your mind—that is just exactly what you haven't done. You thought you had, I don't doubt, when you said good-by to her, but already you are full of doubt, and in a frightful stew. You show it in your face. You know and I know that you cannot carry that thing through. You are not that type of man. Jarvis Saunders could. If he ever marries, he will marry like that. It wouldn't surprise me to see him walk off any day with some stenographer, with nothing but a shirt-waist for a trousseau, but you—you—Oh, Lord! You are quite a different proposition."
"You think you know me, Bess, but—"
"I am the only person who does know you," she broke in. "I have watched you since you were in the cradle. When you were ten you fell in love with a little girl and cried when she fell and bruised her nose. You have imagined yourself in love dozens of times, and have learned nothing from it. But we are losing time. Tell me one thing, and let's be done with it. Have you engaged yourself to this new one?"
"No, but—"
"Thank God for the 'but,' and let it go at that," she laughed, more freely. "I understand why you didn't better than you do. You doubted your own feelings. You thought you would for once in your life think it over."
"It was not that which held me back."
"I know; it was Irene Mitchell, her fine prospects, and your natural good horse sense. Dick, you couldn't carry that silly dream through to save your life. You are not made that way. Suppose you really married that little country thing. What would you do with her? Well, I'll tell you. You would break her heart—that's what you'd do. You couldn't fit her into your life if you were deity itself and she were an archangel. She seemed perfect up there in her Maud Muller surroundings, but here in this mad town she would be afraid of you, and you would—ask her to keep her finger out of her mouth. Why, you would be the joke of every soul in Atlanta. Mr. Mitchell would despise you. You would lose his influence. In fact, my dear boy, you have gone too far with Irene Mitchell to turn back now. You may not be actually engaged to her, but she and everybody else consider it settled. For you to marry any one else now—to turn a woman like Irene down, after the way you have acted—would ruin you socially. The men would kick you out of your club. You'd never hold your head up afterward. Oh, I'm glad I got at you this morning. It would be a crime against that mountain child to bring her here on account of your—Dick, I have to speak plainly, more plainly than I ever did before. But it is for your good. Dick, passion is the greatest evil on earth. It has wrought more harm than anything else. Passion often fools the wisest of men. To be plain, you think, or thought, that you loved that pretty girl, but you do not and did not. It was simply passion in a new and more subtle dress. Up there, with plenty of time on your hands, you looked back on your life and became sick of it (for you have been wild and thoughtless—not worse than many others perhaps, but bad enough). You were disgusted and decided to make a fresh start. But what sort of start appealed to you? It wasn't to build a hospital with the better part of your capital. It wasn't really to undo any of the little things more or less wrong in your past. Oh no, it was something much more to your fancy. You decided to marry the youngest, most physically perfect girl you had ever found. You may have told yourself that you would lift her a bit socially, that you would aid her people, make her happy, and what not. But passion was at the bottom of it. Real love does not feed on ideal forms and perfect complexions. The man who marries beneath himself for only a pair of bright eyes is the prime fool of the universe—the whole world loves to sneer at him and watch his prize fade on his hands. Real love is above doubt and suspicion, but you would doubt that girl's honesty at the slightest provocation. Let another man be alone with her for a moment, and you—"
The remainder fell on closed ears. He was thinking of the night he stood watching Dolly's window in the moonlight. How true were the words just uttered! Had he not suspected Dolly, even when she had been most courageous and self-sacrificing? How well his sister understood him!
Just then the telephone bell rang. A maid-servant went to it and spoke in a low tone. Presently she came to the door and called her mistress. Mostyn sat limp, cold, undecided, miserable.
"She is right," he whispered, finding himself alone. "She is right. My God, she is right! I am a fool, and yet—and yet—what am I to do?"
Mrs. Moore came in at the door, a significant smile playing between her eyes and lips. He was too despondent to be curious as to its cause.
"Guess who had me on the 'phone?" she asked, sitting down in her chair.
"How could I know?" he answered, too gloomy to fight his gloom.
"Nobody but the most rational, well-rounded, stylish woman in Atlanta. It was my future sister-in-law, Irene Mitchell. She has had her little dream, too, and survived it. She thought she cared a lot for Andrew Buckton—or, rather, she liked to think that he was crazy about her, but he is penniless—has no more energy than a pet kitten, and, sensible girl that she is, she took her father's advice and sent him adrift. Everybody knows that affair is dead. He followed her away this summer, but came back with a long face, completely beaten. Dick, you are lucky."
"What was she telephoning you about?" Mostyn asked, listlessly.
"You."
"Me?"
"Yes; she asked for you."
"And you didn't call me?" He was studying the designing face apathetically.
"No, I fibbed out and out. I told her you were not here yet, but that I expected you to lunch every minute. Then, as sweetly as you please, I offered to deliver the message. It was as I thought, an invitation to dinner to-night. I knew you were in no shape to talk into a 'phone—the service is so bad lately—so I accepted for you, like the good sister I am."
He found himself unable to reply. Suddenly she rose, bent over him, and kissed him on the brow.
"Silly, silly boy!" she said, and left the room.
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