“That’s your song.  It must have been written for you,” he cried.  “You are the butterfly girl when you sing like that.”

“Bis!” cried Jack, clapping his hands.

She was very obliging and sang again and again.  I was silent and quite content.  The shadow did not fall upon Jerry again that night.  I was almost ready to believe he had forgotten that such a person as Marcia Van Wyck lived in the world.  Who could have resisted the gentle appeal of Una’s purity, friendliness and charm?  Not I. Nor Jack.  He followed the mood of her songs like a huge chameleon, silent when she sang of sadness, tender when she sang of love, and joyous with her joy.

When she got up from the piano he rose.

“I wonder why I can find so few evenings like this,” he sighed.

“It’s so fearfully old-fashioned, Victorian, to be simple nowadays,” she laughed.

“That’s it,” he cried.  “The terror of your modern hostess, simplicity.  You can’t go out to dine unless some madwoman drags you away from your coffee to the auction table, where other madmen and madwomen scowl at you all the evening over their cards.  Or else they dance.  Dance!  Dance!  Hop!  Skip!  Not like joyous gamboling lambs but with set faces, as though there was nothing else in the world but the martyrdom of their feet.  Mad!  All mad!  Please don’t tell me that you dance, Miss Habberton.”

“I do,” she laughed, “and I love it.”

“Youth!” Jack sighed and relapsed into silence.

The evening passed in general conversation, interesting conversation which the world, it seems, has come to think is almost a lost art, not the least interesting part of which was Una’s contribution on some of the lighter aspects of Blank Street.  And I couldn’t help comparing again the philosophy of this girl, the philosophy of helpfulness, with the bestial selfishness of the point of view of the so-called Freudians who, as I have been credibly informed, only live to glut themselves with the filth of their own baser instincts.  Self-elimination as against self-expression, or since we are brute-born, merely self-animalization!  Una Habberton’s philosophy and Marcia Van Wyck’s!  Any but a blind man could run and read, or if need be, read and run.

Mrs. Habberton was tired and went up early, her daughter accompanying her.  I saw Jerry eyeing the girl rather wistfully at the foot of the stair.  I think he was pleading with her to come down again but she only smiled at him brightly and I heard her say, “Tomorrow, Jerry.”

“Shall we fish?”

“That will be fine.”

“Just you and I?”

“If you think,” and she laughed with careless gayety, “if you think Marcia won’t object.”

“Oh, I say—­” But his jaw fell and he frowned a little.

“Good-night, Jerry, dear,” she flung at him from the curve of the landing.

“Good-night, Una,” he called.

The telephone bell rang the next morning before the breakfast hour and Jerry was called to it.  I was in my study and the door was open.  I couldn’t help hearing.  Marcia Van Wyck was on the wire.  I couldn’t hear her voice but Jerry’s replies were illuminating.