Huntington listened to the tilt between the boys with amus.e.m.e.nt, and yet with a real feeling of envy. What riches these youths possessed with life all before them, its mysteries still unexplained, its illusions still unshattered!

"I thought your sister the finest girl I ever met," he said to Philip, curious to see what response the boy would make.

"Oh, she wouldn't show that side to you," Philip replied; "it's only with people her own age."

Huntington winced. There it was again, and again he had brought it upon himself! To these boys he seemed an antique fossil of humanity, ent.i.tled to respect and veneration! He must appear the same to her. "People of her own age,"--of course, that was the natural thing as it would appear to any one. Again he cursed himself inwardly for being fool enough deliberately to open up the wound.

Billy was delighted to hear his uncle's comment on the girl, and beamed contentedly.

"You see, Phil," he said, "even Uncle Monty noticed what a corker she is, and usually he never looks at a girl twice. Uncle Monty is a cynic on marriage, a woman-hater and all that sort of thing. Yet even he noticed Merry."

"Don't say that, Billy!" Huntington protested with unusual vehemence.

"But you are," the boy insisted. "The last time I dined here with you and Mr. Cosden, before you went to Bermuda, I heard you tell him that many a married man who seemed contented was only resigned."

"That doesn't mean that I'm a 'woman-hater'; I won't stand for it! Be careful what you say!"

Billy looked at him in amazement. It was a rare thing to see his uncle ruffled.

"I beg your pardon, Uncle Monty," he apologized. "I didn't intend to b.u.mp any one's feelings. Truly I wasn't joshing at all,--I thought you meant it! But I'm glad you didn't, for now you'll be more sympathetic with me, and you can help me a lot."

"All right, boy," Huntington said soberly. "I know you didn't mean anything by what you said, but marriage is a mighty sacred thing and you ought not to speak lightly of it."

"How's Mr. Cosden?" Billy asked, eager to get the conversation onto safer grounds.

"Well and happy; he dined with me last week."

"Say, but he can ride a bicycle!--What did he have against me down at Bermuda?"

"He said you covered too much territory."

"I don't see where I got in his way, but he was forever b.u.t.ting in on Merry and me. And the way he hustled me off in that little speed-boat! I never had any one take such an interest in my getting back to college on time! That must have cost him quite a bit of kale. I can't understand it."

"It was because he is so good a friend of mine," Huntington explained.

"He saw a youngster down there who flopped around like a big St. Bernard pup"--Huntington was gratified that his memory still retained Merry's simile,--"and he served the best interests of his friend by keeping you from making a mistake on your latest flop. Doesn't that clear things up?"

"As clear as mud," Billy grunted. "I guess I need one of those gla.s.s-bottomed boats they use down there to see the spinach and the gold-fish. I could see the gold-fish all right, but the spinach was on me.--That reminds me, Uncle Monty, will you lend me a hundred dollars?"

"For what, this time?"

"I want to lend it to Phil,--he's broke because his father has cut down his allowance."

"Billy!" Philip cried aghast; "I told you that in confidence. I wouldn't think of borrowing money from Mr. Huntington."

"How in the world do you expect to get a hundred dollars out of me unless I land Uncle Monty for it?--and he asked, 'for what?' You heard him."

"It's all right, Phil," Huntington said rea.s.suringly. "Billy doesn't have any secrets from me because he can't keep them. I would much rather lend the money to you than to him."

"That isn't fair," Billy protested. "Phil is sure to pay it back, and I need it."

"I don't know what has happened," Philip explained without paying any attention to what his friend was trying to say, "but all of a sudden Dad wrote that I must cut my expenses in two. That's a hard thing to do in a minute, and I don't see why I should do it anyway, for Dad has all kinds of money."

"These are hard times in Wall Street, my boy," Huntington answered him, "and many a rich man's son has to cut his corners. If your father has written you that I advise you to follow his instructions. He isn't a man to say it unless he means it.--I'll gladly help you out while you're getting adjusted."

"Thank you, Mr. Huntington, but perhaps I won't need it. Even cut in two my allowance is bigger than most of the boys'."

"Fathers are so inconsiderate," Billy yawned; "very few of them understand their sons."

"A paraphrase of the old saw, Billy," Huntington commented. "To-day we would say that it is a wise stock which knows its own par."

"Or a wise corn which knows its own popper," laughed Billy.

"Or a wise beast which knows its own fodder," Philip added,--"now we're all even!"

"Speaking of fodder," Billy said, showing renewed signs of life, "let's go down to the Copley-Plaza and get something to eat."

"After the dinner you ate?" Huntington demanded.

"That was over two hours ago, and I'm as hollow as a tin can. Come on, Phil."

"You can't be serious, Billy," insisted Huntington.

"I sure am. Whenever I get a real square feed I have a pain, and to-night I've felt perfectly comfortable."

"All right, go on if you feel that way," his uncle replied. "Take him away, Phil, and let him stuff himself until he has a pain! I'll let you know when Hamlen arrives, and then I'll count on you to help me out.

"Better include me," Billy insisted.

"The next time I ask you to dine with me, young man, I'll thank you to get filled up at the hotel first!"

XXIV

The Stevenses, brother and sister, lived together in the old family mansion in Washington Square. The income from the property left behind by the elder members of the family would have been ample if Richard had contributed even a modest amount as a result of his daily exertion; but as exertion had never proved one of Ricky's strong points, except in opposition to his sister's efforts to bully him into business, Edith was forced to practise many economies to make the divided sum serve her requirements.

"If you ever showed half the ability after you got into business that you do in keeping out of it, you'd make a howling success," she told him; yet in spite of her perennial resentment she made many personal sacrifices to enable her brother to lead his aimless existence. They were a curious combination of selfishness and generosity, each going to extremes in both. Each criticised the other in unstinted terms, yet underneath it all lay an affection which would have carried either through fire and brimstone had the other required it.

Richard Stevens still kept up his social activities, but Edith moved in a smaller and quieter circle made up of old-time friends. She knew she could not compete, in these days of extravagant entertainment, and unless she could repay her social obligations in kind she preferred not to accept. She could not have everything she wished, so she selected what she believed contributed most to her happiness and peace of mind.

All this had been carefully considered, and having been thus settled she philosophically accepted conditions as they were. She exacted much from her brother by way of attention, and he responded willingly, still finding ample leisure outside her demands to live his own life in a manner which satisfied himself.

It was the morning after one of Richard's off nights, when Edith sat leisurely finishing her late breakfast and reading the head-lines in the morning paper, that her brother put in his belated appearance.