were big enough to sit up and hear about it, and discuss what American brains and character could be depended upon to do, I glowed with pride and confidence in Sam.  I’m glad I didn’t know then about the collapsed structure of my hopes for him that Sam was even then secretly unsettling.  At the thought my hand trembled on the wheel and I turned my car hastily away from two chickens and a dog in the road and my mind from the anxiety of Sam to further pleasant thoughts of Peter.

I don’t believe Judge Vandyne’s thoughts of Peter are as pleasant as mine, for Peter doesn’t go to the office at all any more; he spends his waking moments at a club where players and play-writers and all men play a great deal of the time.  I forget its name, but it makes the judge mad to mention it.

“The dear old governor’s mind is gold-bound,” said Peter, sadly, after we came away from luncheon with the judge down in Wall Street.  “Why should I grub filthy money when he has extracted the bulk of it that he has?  I must go forward and he must realize that he should urge me on up.  I ought not to be tied down to unimportant material things.  I must not be.  You of all people understand me and my ambitions, Betty.”  As he said it he leaned toward me across the tea-table at the Astor, where we had dropped exhaustedly down to finish the discussion on life which the judge’s practical tirade had evoked.

“But then, Peter, you know it was a very great thing Judge Vandyne showed his bank how to do about that international war loan.  In England and Scotland they speak of him with bated breath.  It was so brilliant that it saved awful complications for Belgium.”

“Oh, he’s the greatest ever—­in all material ways,” answered Peter, with hasty loyalty and some pride, “but I was speaking of those higher things, Betty, of the spirit.  The things over which your soul and mine seem to draw near to each other.  Betty, the second act of ’The Emergence’ is almost finished, and Farrington is going to read it himself when I have it ready.  He told me so at the club just yesterday.  You know he awarded my junior prize for the ‘Idyl.’  Think of it—­Farrington!” And Peter leaned forward and took my hand.

“Oh, Peter, I am so glad!” I said, with a catch of joy in my breath, but I drew away my hand.  I knew I liked Peter in many wonderful ways, but in some others I was doubtful.  I had only known Peter the three years I’ve been away from Hayesboro, being finished in the North, and even if I did room with his sister at the Manor on the Hudson and travel with her a year, it is not the same as being born next door to him, as in the case of Sam, for instance.  But then I ought not to compare Peter and Sam.  Peter is of so much finer clay than Sam.  Just thinking about clay made me remember those unspeakable boots of Sam’s I had encountered out on the road, and again I determinedly turned my thoughts back to that wonderful afternoon with Peter at the Astor