disapproved of my method."
She smiled.  "Oh, you don't know Hermia as I do.  One is never more
certain in one's judgment of her than when one thinks one is wrong."
She gave a short laugh.  "At any rate, she said she was going to speak
to you about it."

"That's curious," he muttered.

"Will you do it?" she asked.

He looked away toward the terrace.

"I hadn't planned to do any portraits until Fall."

"Doesn't she interest you?" she continued quickly.

"She's paintable--it would be profitable, of course--"

"You're evading again."

"Yes, she interests me," he said frankly.  "She's clever, amiable,
hospitable--and quite irresponsible.  But then she would want to be
'pretty.'  I'm afraid I should only make her childish."

"Oh, she's prepared for the worst.  You had better paint her.  It will
do you a lot of good.  Besides, you paint better when you're a little
contemptuous."

"I'm not sure that I could take that attitude toward Miss Challoner,"
he said slowly.  "She's too good for the crowd she runs with, that's
sure, and--"

"Thanks," laughed Olga.  "You always had a neat turn for flattery."

But he didn't laugh.

"I mean it," he went on warmly.  "She's too good for them--and so are
you.  Mrs. Renshaw, a woman notorious even in New York, who at the age
of thirty has already changed husbands three times, drained them and
thrown them aside as one would a rotten orange; Hilda Ashhurst who
plays cards for a living and knows how to win; Crosby Downs, a
merciless voluptuary who makes a god of his belly; Archie Westcott,
the man Friday of every Western millionaire with social ambitions who
comes to New York--a man who lives by his social connections, his wits
and his looks; Carol Gouverneur, _his_ history needn't be repeated--"

"Nor mine--" finished Olga quietly, "you needn't go on."  The calmness
of her tone only brought its bitterness into higher relief.  Markham
stopped, turned and caught both her hands in his.

"No, not yours, Olga.  God knows I didn't mean _that_.  You're not
their kind, soulless, cynical, selfish and narrow social parasite who
poison what they fee don and live in the idleness that better men and
women have bought for them.  Call them your crowd if you like.  I know
better.  You've only taken people as you've found them--taken life as
it was planned for you--moved along the line of least resistance
because you'd never been taught that there was any other way to go.
In Europe you never had a chance to learn--"

"That's it," she broke in passionately, "I never had a chance--not a
chance."

Her fingers clutched his and then quickly released them.

"Oh, what's the use?" she went on in a stifled tone.  "Why couldn't you
have let me live on, steeped in my folly?  It's too late for me to
change.  I can't.  I'm pledged.  If I gamble, keep late hours, and do
all the things that this set does it's because if I didn't I should die
of thinking.  What does it matter to any one but me?"

She stopped and rose with a sudden gesture of anger.

"Don't preach, John.  I'm not in the humor for it--not to-night--do you
hear?"

He looked up at her in surprise.  One of her hands was clenched on the
balustrade and her dark eyes regarded him scornfully.

"I've made you angry?  I'm sorry," he said.

The tense lines of her figure suddenly relaxed as she leaned against
the pergola and then laughed up at the sky.

"Would you preach to the stars, John Markham?  They're a merry
congregation.  They're laughing at you--as I am.  A sermon by moonlight
with only the stars and a scoffer to listen!"

Her mockery astonished and bewildered him.  His indictment of those
with whom she affiliated was no new thing in their conversations, and
he knew that what he had said was true.

"I'm sorry I spoke," he muttered.

She laughed at him again and threw out her arms toward the moonlit sea.

"What a night for the moralities--for the ashes of repentance!  I ask a
man into the rose-garden to make love to me and he preaches to me
instead--_preaches to me_!  of the world, the flesh and the devil, _par
exemple_!  Was ever a pretty woman in a more humiliating position!"

She approached him again and leaned over him, the strands of her hair
brushing his temples, her voice whispering mockingly just at his ear.

"Oh, la la!  You make such a pretty lover, John.  If I could only
paint you in your sackcloth and ashes, I should die in content.  What
is it like, _mon ami_, to feel like moralizing in a rose-garden by
moonlight?  What do they tell you--the roses?  Of the dull earth from
which they come?  Don't they whisper of the kisses of the night winds,
of the drinking of the dew--of the mad joy of living--the sweetness of
dying?  Or don't they say anything to you at all--except that they are
merely roses, John?"

She brushed the blossom in her fingers lightly across his lips and
sprang away from him.  But it was too late.  She had gone too far and
she realized it in a moment; for thought she eluded him once, he
caught her in his arms and kissed her roughly on the lips.

"You'd mock at me, would you?" he cried.

She struggled in his arms and then lay inert.  She deserved this
revenge she knew, but not the carelessness of these kisses of
retribution, each of them merciless with the burden of her awakening.

"Let me go, John," she said faintly.  "You must not--"

"Not yet.  I'm no man of stone.  Can you scoff now?"

"No, no.  Let me go.  I've paid you well and you--O God!  you've paid
me, too.  Let me go."

"Not until you kiss me."

"No--not that."

"Why?" he whispered.

"No--never that!  Oh, the damage you have done!"

"I'll repair it--"

"No.  You can't bring the dead to life----our friendship----it was so
clean----Let me go, do you hear?"

But he only laughed at her.

"You'll kiss me--"

"Never!"

"You shall--"

"Never!"

He raised her face to his.  She quivered under his touch, but her lips
were insensate, and upon his hand a drop of moisture fell--a tear
limpid, pure from the hidden springs of the spirit.  He kissed its
piteous course upon her cheek.

"Olga!" he whispered softly.  "What have I done?"

"Killed something in me--I think--something gentle and noble that was
trying so hard to live--"

"Forgive me," he stammered.  "I didn't know you cared so much."

She started in his arms, then slowly released herself, and drew away
while with an anxious gaze he followed her.

"Our friendship--I cared for that more than anything else in the
world," she said simply.

"It shall be stronger," he began.

"No--friendship does not thrive on kisses."

"Love--" he began.  But her quick gesture silenced him.

"Love, boy!  What can you know of love!"

"Nothing.  Teach me!"

She looked up into his face, her hands upon his shoulders holding him
at arm's length, flushed with her empty victory--ice-cold with self
contempt at the means she had used to accomplish it.  Another man--a
man of her own world--would have played the game as she had played it,
mistrusting the tokens she had shown and taking her coquetry at its
worldly value; would have kissed and perhaps forgotten the next
morning.  But as she looked in Markham's eyes she saw with dismay that
he still read her heart correctly and that the pact of truthfulness
which neither of them had broken was considered a pact between them
still.  Her gaze fell before his and she turned away, sure now that
for the sake of her pride she must deceive him.

"No, I can teach you nothing, it seems, except, perhaps, that you
should not make the arms of your lady black and blue.  Love is a
zephyr, _mon ami_, not a tornado."

He stared at her, bewildered by the sudden transformation.

"I--I kissed you," he said stupidly.  "You wanted me to."

"Did I?" she taunted him.  "Who knows?  If I did"--examining her
wrist--"I have now every reason to regret it."

He stood peering down at her from his great height, his thoughts
tumbling into words.

"Don't lie to me, Olga.  You were not content with friendship.  No
woman ever is.  You wanted me to do--what I have done."

"Perhaps," she admitted calmly, "but not the way you did it.  Kissing
should be done upon the soft pedal _mon ami, adagio, con amore_.  Your
technique is rusty.  Is it a wonder that I am disappointed?"

She was mocking him again, but this time he was not deceived.

"Perhaps I will improve with practice," he muttered.

He would have seized her again but she eluded him, laughing.

"Thank you, no--" she cried.

He went toward her again, but she sprang behind the bench, Markham
following, both intent upon their game.  He had seized her again when
suddenly over their very heads there was a sound of feminine laughter
among the vines from which there immediately emerged a white satin
slipper, a slender white ankle, followed quickly by
another--draperies, and at last Hermia Challoner, who, swinging for a
moment by her hands, dropped breathlessly upon the bench between them.
Markham, whose nose had been narrowly missed by the flying slippers,
drew back in astonishment.

"Hello!" panted Hermia, laughing.  "Reggie was chasing me, so I
slipped over the balustrade onto the pergola--" She stopped and looked
with quick intuition from one to the other.  "Sorry I blunder'd in
here, though, Olga--awfully sorry.  Did I kick you in the nose,
Mr. Markham?"


CHAPTER IX

OUT OF HIS DEPTH

Markham stammered something, but Olga was laughing softly.  "Hermia,
darling, you always do go into things feet first, but it's perilous in
French heels.  Mr. Markham and I were just trying to decide whether
this stone bench wouldn't be just the place to do your portrait.  If
you'll observe--"

The situation was so palpable.  Hermia looked from one to the other
amusedly.  Markham was following Olga's artistic dissertation with the
eye of dubiety, but their hostess was merciless.

"Olga, dear," she inquired sweetly, "did you know your back hair was
down?"

"Oh, is it?  How provoking!  Georgette is positively worthless!"

Even Olga's resourcefulness was not proof against Hermia's persistent
audacity, especially as she was aware of a smudge of face-powder on
John Markham's coat lapel which could not have been attributed by any
chance to the deficiencies of her unlucky maid.

"Poor Georgette!" said Hermia softly, watching Olga's fingers quickly
twist the erring strand into place.

At this moment there was a sound of footsteps on the walk and Reggie
Armistead, who, like an ubiquitous terrier, had at last found the
scent, came down the arbor on the run with Trevvy Morehouse after him,
a poor second, and emerged upon the scene.

"You're mine--" cried Reggie triumphantly.  "I win!"  He moved forward
and would have caught Hermia around the waist, but she dodged him.

"Reggie," she cried, "how dare you!"

"Oh, don't mind us," laughed Olga.

"I don't--" he said stoutly.  "But I got here first, Olga, didn't I?"

"You surely did--"

"I'm glad to have witnesses.  Hermia's dreadfully slippery, you know."

Olga, who had dropped into a corner of the stone bench, looked up
languidly.

"Would you mind telling us what it all means?" she asked.

Hermia laughed.  "May I, Trevvy?"

The excellent Trevelyan smiled politely and shrugged his shoulders.

"By all means--since I have no further interest in the matter."

"It's too amusing.  They were to give me ten minutes' start from the
house--the two of them.  Oh, what a lark!" she laughed.  "I made for
the Maze, while they watched me from the drawing-room windows; but
instead of going in, I skirted the edge and crept through the bushes on
the other side.  By the time they had reached the privet hedge, I had
gone through the house from the kitchen to the terrace again, where I
sat for ten minutes entirely alone laughing and watching those geese
chasing each other around in the moonlight.  I've never had such fun
since I was _born_."

"Geese!  Oh, I say, Hermia!"

"Then Reggie came out sniffing the breeze and I had to run for cover,
so I slipped over the balustrade to the pergola, down which I crept on
my hands and knees and dropped through--and here I am," she concluded.

"But what is it all about?" asked Olga again.

"It means that Hermia is mine--for a month," said Reggie, glowing.
"She promised--you couldn't go back on that, Hermia.  Could she, Olga?"
he appealed.

"I'm sure I don't know.  Do you mean _engaged_ to you?" she asked
curiously.

"Yes--for a month," said Reggie.  "The idea was to try and see if she
really could like either of us well enough to--"

"I didn't really promise anything," Hermia broke in, severely.  "I
merely agreed--"

"She did, Olga," he insisted.  "I knew she'd be trying to wriggle."

Olga was laughing silently.

"You're admirably suited to each other, you two.  You're actually
quarreling already."

"We always do--"

"Then marry at once, my dears."

Hermia glanced at Markham, who was leaning over the back of the bench
watching the scene with alien eyes.  She turned toward Armistead
frankly with an extended hand, which he promptly seized.

"You _are_ a nice boy, Reggie.  I'll try it.  But you'll have to
promise--"

"Oh, I'll promise anything," cried Reggie rapturously.

The excellent Trevelyan watched them a moment in silence, and then
lighting his cigarette slowly wandered away.

Hermia and Armistead followed hand in hand, but not before Hermia had
turned her head over her shoulder and whispered mischievously to Olga:

"You can sit as many risks as you run, Olga, darling."

In the moments which had passed during this interesting revelation
Olga Tcherny had been thinking--desperately.  The taste of life had
never been so sweet in her mouth--nor so bitter.  With the departure
of the trio Markham had not moved, but his eyes followed the two
figures through the rose garden.  The moon was suddenly snuffed out
and the sea grew lead-color--like a passion that has gone stale.
Markham's silhouette loomed monstrous against the sky, and the silence
was abruptly broken by the rough laughter of Crosby Downs from
somewhere in the distance.  Olga shivered and rose.

"Come," she said, "let's follow."

Markham straightened slowly and stood before her, one hand on her arm.

"Olga," he said quietly.

She paused, but she didn't look up at him, and gently she took his
fingers from her arm.

"It's a pity--" he stopped again.  "What you said was true.  You--and
I--one of us has killed the old relation between us."

"Yes," she murmured.

"Can we forget--to-night--"

"No, no," she said.  "Never.  I know."

"Will you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive."

He shook his head.

"Nothing to forgive if you were only amusing yourself--much to forgive
if you really care"

His ingenuousness was alarming.

"_Par exemple_!"  She bantered him.  "You mean that I--that I love
you?"

"Yes, I mean just that."

She took quick refuge in laughter.

"You are the most surprising creature!  Much as I esteem, I cannot
flatter you so much as that."  And she drew away from him, still
laughing softly.

"I have done you a wrong," he went on steadily.

His simplicity was heroic.  She did not dare question him.

"You have a New England conscience, _mon ami_," she said, gently
ironical.  "Your code is meshed in the cobwebs of antiquity.  One
kisses in the moonlight--or one doesn't kiss.  What is the difference?
It is a pastime--not a tragedy.  _Je M'amusais_.  I fished for minnows
and caught a Tartar--_voilˆ tout_.  I love you--I do love you--but
only when you paint, _monsieur l'artiste_--then you are magnificent--a
companion to the gods!  When you kiss-- Oh, la la!  You
are--er--paleozoic!"

It was Olga's master stroke.  She could parry no longer and must
thrust if she would survive.  The tenderness that this gaucherie
aroused in her made her the more merciless in her mockery!  And she
was aware of a throb of exaltation as she made the sacrifice which
prevented the declaration that was hanging on his lips.  In making a
fool of him again she was saving him from making a fool of himself.
Markham did not reply and only stood there gnawing at his lips.  He
was no squire of dames he knew, and what she said of him touched him
on the raw of his self-esteem.  Paleozoic he might be, but it stung
him that she should tell him so.

She delivered his _coup de grace_ unerringly.

"Take my advice and let love-making alone, or if you must make love, do
it as other gods do--my messenger.  Otherwise your Elysian dignity is
in jeopardy.  You are not the kind of man that women love, _mon cher_.
Come, it is time that we joined the others."

She led him down the avenue of roses, every line of her graceful figure
rebuking his insufficiency, and he followed dumbly, aware of it.

Upon the terrace occupied by couples intent upon private matters, she
promptly deserted him, leaving him without a word to his own devices.
He stood for a moment of uncertainty, and then fumbling in his pocket
for his pipe, which was not there, went into the smoking-room in search
of a cigarette.

"Two spades," declared Archie Westcott at the auction table, and then
when Markham went out,  "Odd fish--that."

"Three hearts," said Mrs. Renshaw.  "Why Hermia asks such people I
can't imagine.  You're never certain whom you're asked to meet
nowadays.  Prig, isn't he?"

"Oh, rather!  Has ideals, and all that sort of thing, hasn't he, Hilda?"

"If his ideals are as rotten as his manners I can't say much for 'em."

"Olga likes him--"

"Oh, Olga--" sniffed Hilda.  "Anything for a new sensation.  Remember
that queer little French marquis who trailed around after her at Monte
Carlo?"

"Oh, play ball," growled Gouverneur.  "Who cares--so long as he keeps
out of here."

Unaware of these unflattering comments, Markham strolled out of doors
and into a lonely armchair on the terrace, and smoked in solitary
dignity.  Indeed solitude seemed to be the only thing left to him.  He
was not a man who made friends rapidly, and the three or four people
whom he might have cared to cultivate had other fish to fry
to-night--and were not frying them on the terrace.  Olga, it seemed,
had no intention of returning and Hermia Challoner was doubtless
already in that happy phase of experimentation so warmly advocated by
Reggie Armistead.

He envied those two young people their carelessness, their grace,
their ruddy delights which by contrast added conviction to Olga's
indictment of him.  He tried with some difficulty to analyze the
precise nature of his sentiments toward Olga Tcherny, and found at the
end of a quarter of an hour, to his surprise, that the only feeling of
which he was conscious was one of dull resentment at her for having
made a fool of him.

Whatever Markham the painter had accomplished in the delineation of
character of the fashionable women he had painted, the truth was that
Markham both feared and misunderstood them.  Their changing moods,
their unaccountable likes and dislikes, their petty ambitions and
vanities he accepted as part of the heritage of a race of beings apart
form his own, and he hid his timidity under a brusque manner which
gave him credit for a keener penetration than he actually possessed.
And, strangely enough, Fate, with sardonic humor, had given him a
knack, which so few painters possess, of catching on canvas the
elusive charm of his feminine sitters, of investing with grace those
characteristics he professed so much to despise.  He had told Hermia
Challoner that he did not paint "pretty" portraits, but as Olga knew,
it was upon his delineation of beauty, his manipulation of dainty
draperies, the sheen of silk and satin, that his reputation so
securely rested.  It was perhaps merely a contemptuous cleverness
which had given him the name among his craft of being a "master
brushman."

Into Olga Tcherny's portrait he had put something more of his sitter
than usual.  He had painted the soul of the girl in the body of the
woman of thirty, and if he rendered his subject in a manner more
stilted than usual, he repaid her in the real interest with which her
portrait was invested.  He liked Olga.  He had accepted her warily at
first until he had proved to his own satisfaction the
disinterestedness of her regard and then he had given her his
friendship without reserve, his first real friendship with a woman of
the world, conscious of the charm of their relation from which all
sentiment had been banished.

He had awakened rudely to-night.  He was now aware that sentiment on
Olga's part had never been banished nor could ever be banished with a
woman of her type.  He had made the mistake of judging her by the
records of their friendship, unmindful of her history as to which he
had been forewarned.

To-night the secret was out.  The feminine in her had been triumphant.
He was a different kind of fish from any she had caught and for reasons
of her own she wanted him.  She had been playing him skillfully for
months, giving him all the line in her reel that he might be hooked the
more easily.  And to what end?  Their friendship had fallen into
shreds.  What was to follow?

Of one thing he was certain.  He was learning something, also
progressing.  In the twelve hours that had passed he had kissed two
women--something of a record for a man of his prejudices.  He rose and
threw the unsatisfactory cigarette into the bushes.  It was high time
he was making his way back to Thimble Island and solitude.

There was a rustle of silk behind him, and he turned.

"Oh, do stay, Mr. Markham.  I was just coming out to talk to you."

He greeted Hermia with delight, quickly responding to the charm of her
juvenility.

"I was wondering if I would see you again," he said genuinely.

"You see," she laughed, "I don't always pop in feet first."  She sat
and examined him curiously, and then, after a pause.

"What a fraud you are, Mr. Markham!"

"I?"

"A deep-dyed hypocrite--I can't see how you can dare look me in the
face--"

"But I can--and I find it very pleasant."

"Oh--shame!  To take advantage of my childish credulity--my trusting
innocence.  You make me believe you to be a fossilized pedant--a
philosopher prematurely aged--willing to barter your hope of salvation
for a draught of the Fountain of Youth--and I find you making love to
my chaperon and most distinguished woman guest!  And I was actually
offering to teach you!  Aren't you a little ashamed of yourself?"

"No, I think not," he said slowly.  "You know Madame Tcherny is a very
old friend of mine."

"So she is of mine.  She's a perfectly adorable chaperon--but then
there are limits even to the indiscretions of a chaperon."

"Do you think it quite fair to Olga--" he began.

She leaned back in her chair and smiled at him mischievously.

"Oh, Olga is quite capable of taking care of herself.  It isn't Olga
I'm thinking about at all.  It's you, my poor friend.  Did you know
that Olga has the reputation of being quite the most dangerous woman in
Europe?"

"All women are dangerous.  Fortunately I'm not the kind of man such
women find interesting."

"I'm not sure that I know just _what_ kind of a man you are, Mr.
Markham.  In your studio I inclined to the opinion that you had most
of the characteristics of an amiable gorilla; on Thimble Island you
seemed like _Diogenes_--without the tub; to-night you're _Lothario,
Bluebeard, and Lancelot_ all in one."

"I'm afraid you flatter me.  First impressions are usually correct, I
think.  I'm an amiable gorilla.  Perhaps by the time you visit my
studio again, I may have reached the next link in the chain to the
human."  He laughed and then quickly turned the conversation to a topic
less personal.  "You _will_ visit my studio next winter, won't you?"

"Of course.  You're to do my portrait, you know?  But I was hoping that
you might stay on and paint it here at 'Wake-Robin'!"

He looked off toward Thimble Island a moment before replying.

"I'm sorry I can't.  I have some engagements in New York and my passage
is booked for Europe early in the month.  I leave Thimble Island almost
at once."

"Oh, that's unkind of you.  Don't you find it sufficiently attractive
here?"

"Yes, I do.  Unfortunately, I can't consult my own wishes in the
matter."

She had been examining him narrowly.

"You don't want to stay, Mr. Markham," she announced, decisively.

He looked her in the eyes, but made no reply.

"We're not your sort, I know.  But I thought that with Olga here--"

"It has been very pleasant.  I am glad to have had the privilege--"

"Don't, Mr. Markham.  The truth is," she went on, "that you came here
because you thought you ought to be polite.  You go because you think
you have been quite polite enough.  Isn't that true?"

"Figuratively, yes," he replied frankly.  "I'm not gregarious by