Mrs. Wayne laughed.

“More than you know, probably.”

This was candid, and Adelaide pressed on.

“Well is it wise or kind to make such a demand on a young creature when we know marriage is difficult at the best?” she asked.

Mrs. Wayne hesitated.

“You see, I have never seen your daughter, and I don’t know what her feeling for Pete may be.”

“I’ll answer both questions.  She has a pleasant, romantic sentiment for Mr. Wayne—­you know how one feels to one’s first lover.  She is a sweet, kind, unformed little girl, not heroic.  But think of your own spirited son.  Do you want this persistent, cruel responsibility for him?”

The question was an oratorical one, and Adelaide was astonished to find that Mrs. Wayne was answering it.

“Oh, yes,” she said; “I want responsibility for Pete.  It’s exactly what he needs.”

Adelaide stared at her in horror; she seemed the most unnatural mother in the world.  She herself would fight to protect her daughter from the passive wear and tear of poverty; but she would have died to keep a son, if she had had one, from being driven into the active warfare of the support of a family.

In the pause that followed there was a ring at the bell, an argument with the servant, something that sounded like a scuffle, and then a young man strolled into the room.  He was tall and beautifully dressed,—­at least that was the first impression,—­though, as a matter of fact, the clothes were of the cheapest ready-made variety.  But nothing could look cheap or ill made on those splendid muscles.  He wore a silk shirt, a flower in his buttonhole, a gray tie in which was a pearl as big as a pea, long patent-leather shoes with elaborate buff-colored tops; he carried a thin stick and a pair of new gloves in one hand, but the most conspicuous object in his dress was a brand-new, gray felt hat, with a rather wide brim, which he wore at an angle greater than Mr. Lanley attempted even at his jauntiest.  His face was long and rather dark, and his eyes were a bright gray blue, under dark brows.  He was scowling.

He strode into the middle of the room, and stood there, with his feet wide apart and his elbows slightly swaying.  His hat was still on.

“Your servant said you couldn’t see me,” he said, with his back teeth set together, a method of enunciation that seemed to be habitual.

“Didn’t want to would be truer, Marty,” answered Mrs. Wayne, with a utmost good temper.  “Still, as long as you’re here, what do you want?”

Marty Burke didn’t answer at once.  He stood looking at Mrs. Wayne under his lowering brows; he had stopped swinging his elbows, and was now very slightly twitching his cane, as an evilly disposed cat will twitch the end of its tail.

Mrs. Farron watched him almost breathlessly.  She was a little frightened, but the sensation was pleasurable.  He was, she knew, the finest specimen of the human animal that she had ever seen.