The best thing that Jack Delancy ever did, for himself, was to marry Edith Fletcher.  The wedding, which took place some eight months before the advent of the Spanish dancer, was a surprise to many, for the girl had even less fortune than Jack, and though in and of his society entirely, was supposed to have ideals.  Her family, indeed, was an old one on the island, and was prominent long before the building of the stone bridge on Canal Street over the outlet of Collect Pond.  Those who knew Edith well detected in her that strain of moral earnestness which made the old Fletchers such stanch and trusty citizens.  The wonder was not that Jack, with his easy susceptibility to refined beauty, should have been attracted to her, or have responded to a true instinct of what was best for him, but that Edith should have taken up with such a perfect type of the aimlessness of the society strata of modern life.  The wonder, however, was based upon a shallow conception of the nature of woman.  It would have been more wonderful if the qualities that endeared Jack to college friends and club men, to the mighty sportsmen who do not hesitate, in the clubs, to devastate Canada and the United States of big game, and to the border ruffians of Dakota, should not have gone straight to the tender heart of a woman of ideals.  And when in all history was there a woman who did not believe, when her heart went with respect for certain manly traits, that she could inspire and lift a man into a noble life?

The silver clock in the breakfast-room was striking ten, and Edith was already seated at the coffee-urn, when Jack appeared.  She was as fresh as a rose, and greeted him with a bright smile as he came behind her chair and bent over for the morning kiss—­a ceremony of affection which, if omitted, would have left a cloud on the day for both of them, and which Jack always declared was simply a necessity, or the coffee would have no flavor.  But when a man has picked a rose, it is always a sort of climax which is followed by an awkward moment, and Jack sat down with the air of a man who has another day to get through with.

“Were you amused with the dancing—­this morning?”

“So, so,” said Jack, sipping his coffee.  “It was a stunning place for it, that studio; you’d have liked that.  The Lamons and Mavick and a lot of people from the provinces were there.  The company was more fun than the dance, especially to a fellow who has seen how good it can be and how bad in its home.”

“You have a chance to see the Spanish dancer again, under proper auspices,” said Edith, without looking up.

“How’s that?”

“We are invited by Mrs. Brown—­”

“The mother of the Bible class at St. Philip’s?”

“Yes—­to attend a charity performance for the benefit of the Female Waifs’ Refuge.  She is to dance.”

“Who?  Mrs. Brown?”

Edith paid no attention to this impertinence.  “They are to make an artificial evening at eleven o’clock in the morning.”