Loraine Haswell sighed—­and masked a yawn behind a small uplifted hand.  “I wonder,” she mused as though to herself, yet quite loud enough to be heard, “why some men find it so hard to make money, and to others it seems so easy.”

Len Haswell flushed brick red to his cheekbones.  He bit his lip and forced himself to remain silent for a moment, then he spoke gently.  “I’m sorry I am not as brilliant a financier as some others.  Nature doesn’t endow us all alike.  A good many people would regard me as fairly successful, I dare say.  For myself a small house on the Sound would be good enough, if you were there—­”

“Thank you,” she answered with deliberate cruelty, “I don’t think I’d care for that.”

The man’s scowl became ominously black.  The hands at his side twitched, and the temper with which few credited him because of his perpetual control, flared out.

“No, by the Almighty, you would rather prefer to be where the gods of life are pleasure and extravagance and selfish indulgence!  Where the loyal love of a husband means less than the flatteries of a tame cat....”  As suddenly as the eruption had come it subsided.  He raised both hands.  “Forgive me,” he implored, “I didn’t mean that.  But I am distraught and financial affairs are very precarious, Loraine.  We may stand on the brink of a disastrous panic.  It lies in Hamilton Burton’s power to make me or break me—­absolutely.  Don’t you see what that means?”

His wife shook her head, “I’m afraid I don’t understand the intricacies of finance.”  Her tone added that neither was she extravagantly interested in them.

“It means this,” Haswell spoke gravely.  “You have been seen with Paul Burton more perhaps than is advisable.  Paul Burton is Hamilton Burton’s brother ... he is the one man with whom I can’t afford to quarrel.”

“I haven’t suggested your quarreling with him.”

“Then please don’t drive me to it.”

“Again I say that you are letting your imagination make you the victim of absurdities.  Of just what are you accusing me?”

He came over and took her hand.  “I am not accusing you of anything.  I am willing to let my honor rest in your hands, but I am warning you against innocent mistakes.”

He sought to put an arm about her, but she slipped from his grasp, and after a moment he said “Good-night” with a sort of sullen resignation, and went out, closing the door noiselessly after him.

* * * * *

Jefferson Edwardes had tramped far.  When Mary Burton had gone to her own room, he had plunged into the thicketed slopes of the hills and walked for hours.  Since his long exile in the White Mountains he had always held to the idea that a man can think more clearly close to the rocks and under open skies.  Just now he wanted an untinged clarity to attend his thoughts.