"Well, yes-in a way; only-"

Mrs. Collingham laughed again.

"I see that, too. He does. I can't deny it. Often when I look at him, I see myself, only-you'll laugh, I know-only myself as I'd be reflected in the back of a silver spoon. That's the trouble with Bob-he's so unformed. You must have noticed it. I suppose it's the war; and yet I don't know. He's always been like that-a dear fellow, but no more than half grown. I dare say that by the time he's fifty he'll be something like a man."

As there seemed to be no absolute need for a response to this, Jennie waited for more. It came, after another little spell of musing.

"He's talked to me so much about you all through the winter. That's why I asked you to come down. Mr. Collingham and I feel so tremendously indebted to you for the way you've acted."

Jennie could only repeat feebly, "The way I've acted?"

"I mean the way you've understood him. Almost any other girl-yes, girls right here in Marillo Park-would have taken him at his word." Jennie's lips were parted, but unable to frame a question. Mrs. Collingham eyed the spirit lamp. "All the same, that doesn't excuse _him_. Even a fellow who isn't half grown should have more sense than to make love to every girl he spends an hour with. One of these days, some girl will catch him, and then he'll be sorry. That's why we've been so thankful for the kind of influence you've had over him, and why my husband and I thought we'd like to do something-well, something a little audacious."

Jennie was twisting her fingers and untwisting them, but luckily her hostess, by keeping her eyes on the spirit lamp, didn't notice this sign of nervousness. Once more she spoke, with a musing half smile.

"We-we see a good deal of some one else who keeps talking about you; and-you won't mind, will you?-of course we've drawn our conclusions. We couldn't help that-could we?-when they were staring us in the face."

"Do you mean Mr. Wray?" Jennie asked, with the point-blank helplessness of one who doesn't know how to hedge.

"Oh, I didn't use the name, now did I? And, as I've said, what we've seen we've seen, and we couldn't help it. But, of course, if it hadn't been for Bob, we shouldn't have seen so quickly."

"But he doesn't know?" Jennie cried, more as query than as affirmation.

"No; I suppose he doesn't. I only mean that as you refused Bob so many times-he told me that-we naturally thought there must be some one else, and when everything pointed that way and Hubert talked of you so much-"

She kept this line of reasoning suspended while once more she shifted her ground suddenly. "I wonder if you've ever realized how hard it is to show your grat.i.tude toward people to whom you truly and deeply feel grateful?"

Jennie mumbled something to the effect that she had never been in that situation.

"Well, it _is_ a situation. People are so queer and proud and _difficile_. I suppose it's we older people who run up oftenest against that; but if Mr. Collingham and I could only do for people the things we _might_ do, and which they won't let us do-"

Once more the idea was suspended to give Jennie time to take in the fact that a good thing was coming her way; but all she could manage was to stare with frightened, fascinated eyes and no power of thought.

"Do you know, my dear," the artless voice ran on, "now that I'm face to face with you, I'm really afraid? I told my husband that, if he'd leave us alone together, I shouldn't be-and, after all, I am." She leaned forward confidentially. "How frank would you let me be? How much would you be willing for me to say?"

But before the girl could invent a reply the voice kept up its even, caressing measure.

"_I_ know how things are with you-at least, I think I do. I've been young, my dear. I know what it is to be in love. You're coloring, but you needn't do it-not with me. You're very _much_ in love, aren't you?"

Jennie bowed her head to hide her tears. She hadn't meant to admit how much in love she was, but this sympathy unnerved her.

"You do love Hubert, don't you?"

"Yes, but-"

"And that's why you told Bob you couldn't marry him?"

"That's one of the reasons, but-"

"One of the reasons will do, my dear. You don't know how much I feel with you and for you. I could tell you a little story about myself when I was your age-but, then, old love tales are like dried flowers, they've lost their scent and color. Mr. Collingham and I are very fond of Hubert, and, of course, he doesn't make enough to marry on as things are now. He has a little something, I suppose, and, with the work he's doing, the future is secure. You'll find, one day, that he'll be painting you as Andrea del Sarto painted Lucrezia, and Rembrandt Saskia-their wives, you know-"

"Oh, but, Mrs. Collingham-"

"There, there, my dear! I'm not going to say anything more about that. I know Hubert and what he wants, and so my husband and I thought that if we could show our grat.i.tude to you and make things easier for him-"

"Oh, but you couldn't!"

"We couldn't unless you helped us. That goes without saying, of course.

But we hoped you would. You see, when people have so much-not that we're so tremendously rich, but when they have enough-and when they know as we do what struggle is-and there's been anyone whom they admire as we admire you, after all you've done for Bob-we thought that if we could give you a little present-a wedding present it would be-only just a little in antic.i.p.ation-we thought five thousand dollars-"

She ceased suddenly because Jennie appeared as one transfixed. She sat erect; but the life seemed to have gone out of her.

Mrs. Collingham was prepared for this; she had discounted it in advance.

"She's playing for more," she said to herself. Luckily, she had named her minimum only, and had arranged with her husband for a maximum. The maximum was all the same to her so long as she saved Bob. Having given Jennie credit for seeing through the game all along-such girls were quick and astute-she had expected that the first figure of the "present"

would meet with just this reception.

But Jennie was saying to herself, "Oh, if this kind offer had only come yesterday!" Five thousand dollars was a sum of which she could not see the spending limitations. It meant all of which the family had need and that she herself had ever coveted. With five thousand dollars, she could not only have put her father on his feet, but have come before Hubert as an heiress.

"If you don't think it enough," Mrs. Collingham said, at last, with a shade of coldness in her tone, "I should be willing to make it seven-or ten. Perhaps we'd better say ten at once, and end the discussion. My husband's willing to make it ten, but I don't think he'd give more. Our son is very dear to us"-the realities seeped through in spite of her attempts at comedy-"and, oh, Miss Follett, if you'll only help us to keep him for ourselves as you've helped us already-"

Jennie staggered to her feet. Her arms hung lax at her sides. Ten thousand dollars! The sum was fabulous! It would have meant all cares lifted from the home-and Hubert! She was hardly aware of speaking as she said:

"Oh, Mrs. Collingham, I can't take your money. I wish I could. My G.o.d!

how I wish I could! But-but-"

"But, for goodness' sake, child, why can't you?"

"Because-oh, because-I'm married to Bob already."

CHAPTER IX

It was one of those occasions when the auditory nerve seems to connect imperfectly with the brain. Mrs. Collingham placed her cup on the table and leaned forward, puzzled, tense.

"What did you say? Sit down. Tell me that again."

Jennie collapsed against the tan cushion of the chair, and repeated her confession. Her hostess's brows knitted painfully.

"But I don't understand. When did you marry him?"

The girl explained that it had been on the previous afternoon.

"But-but-you said just now that you were in love with some one else."

"So I am-only-only, Bob made me."

"Made you what?"