The course of events, indeed, had lately produced in Wharton a certain excitement—­recklessness even.  He had come down into these parts to court “the joy of eventful living”—­politically and personally.  But the situation had proved to be actually far more poignant and personal than he had expected.  This proud, crude, handsome girl—­to her certainly it was largely due that the days had flown as they had.  He was perfectly, one might almost say gleefully, aware that at the present moment it was he and not Aldous Raeburn who was intellectually her master.  His mind flew back at first with amusement, then with a thrill of something else, over their talks and quarrels.  He smiled gaily as he recalled her fits of anger with him, her remonstrances, appeals—­and then her awkward inevitable submissions when he had crushed her with sarcasm or with facts.  Ah! she would go to this ball to-night; Aldous Raeburn would parade her as his possession; but she would go with thoughts, ambitions, ideals, which, as they developed, would make her more and more difficult for a Raeburn to deal with.  And in those thoughts and ambitions the man who had been her tormentor, teacher, and companion during six rushing weeks knew well that he already counted for much.  He had cherished in her all those “divine discontents” which were already there when he first knew her; taught her to formulate them, given her better reasons for them; so that by now she was a person with a far more defined and stormy will than she had been to begin with.  Wharton did not particularly know why he should exult; but he did exult.  At any rate, he was prodigiously tickled—­by the whole position.

A step, a rustle outside—­he hastily shut his book and listened.

The door opened, and Marcella came in—­a white vision against the heavy blue of the walls.  With her came, too, a sudden strong scent of flowers, for she carried a marvellous bunch of hot-house roses, Aldous’s gift, which had just arrived by special messenger.

Wharton sprang up and placed a chair for her.

“I had begun to believe the ball only existed in my own imagination!” he said gaily.  “Surely you are very late.”

Then he saw that she looked disturbed.

“It was papa,” she said, coming to the fire, and looking down into it.  “It has been another attack of pain—­not serious, mamma says; she is coming down directly.  But I wonder why they come, and why he thinks himself so ill—­do you know?” she added abruptly, turning to her companion.

Wharton hesitated, taken by surprise.  During the past weeks, what with Mr. Boyce’s confidence and his own acuteness, he had arrived at a very shrewd notion of what was wrong with his host.  But he was not going to enlighten the daughter.

“I should say your father wants a great deal of care—­and is nervous about himself,” he said quietly.  “But he will get the care—­and your mother knows the whole state of the case.”