Betts’ troubles were more simple in that they were indefinite.  Betts wanted to do everything, regardless of cost, suitability or season, and was quite as cross over the fact that they could not go camping in the Humboldt woods in midwinter, as she was at having to give up her ideas of a new hat or a theater trip.  And the boys never complained specifically of poverty.  Philip, won by deep plotting that he could not see to settle down quietly at home after dinner, was the gayest and best of company, and Jim’s only allusions to a golden future were made when he rubbed his affectionate little rough head against his mother, pony-fashion, and promised her every luxury in the world as soon as he “got started.”

When Peter Coleman returned from the Orient, early in April, all the newspapers chronicled the fact that a large number of intimate friends met him at the dock.  He was instantly swept into the social currents again; dinners everywhere were given for Mr. Coleman, box-parties and house-parties followed one another, the club claimed him, and the approaching opening of the season found him giving special attention to his yacht.  Small wonder that Hunter, Baxter & Hunter’s caught only occasional glimpses of him.  Susan, somberly pursuing his name from paper to paper, felt that she was beginning to dislike him.  She managed never to catch his eye, when he was in Mr. Brauer’s office, and took great pains not to meet him.

However, in the lingering sweet twilight of a certain soft spring evening, when she had left the office, and was beginning the long walk home, she heard sudden steps behind her, and turned to see Peter.

“Aren’t you the little seven-leagued booter!  Wait a minute, Susan!  C’est moi!  How are you?”

“How do you do, Peter?” Susan said pleasantly and evenly.  She put her hand in the big gloved hand, and raised her eyes to the smiling eyes.

“What car are you making for?” he asked, falling in step.

“I’m walking,” Susan said.  “Too nice to ride this evening.”

“You’re right,” he said, laughing.  “I wish I hadn’t a date, I’d like nothing better than to walk it, too!  However, I can go a block or two.”

He walked with her to Montgomery Street, and they talked of Japan and the Carrolls and of Emily Saunders.  Then Peter said he must catch a California Street car, and they shook hands again and parted.

It all seemed rather flat.  Susan felt as if the little episode did not belong in the stormy history of their friendship at all, or as if she were long dead and were watching her earthly self from a distance with wise and weary eyes.  What should she be feeling now?  What would a stronger woman have done?  Given him the cut direct, perhaps, or forced the situation to a point when something dramatic--satisfying—­must follow.