SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 2815, 26 February 1908, Page 89

SHORT STORIES.

THE PARLOUR SOCIALISTS.

(By Edward Salisbury Field, in the Saturday Evening Post.) "We believe in the inherent goodness of mankind," my niece explained, "and U is our purpose to uphold the inalienable rights of the individual." '"That's a fairly large order," I said. "Go on." "We are convinced But you should hear Susan Orchlil talk ; it is like reading a book." "Your convigtions certainly have a bookish flavour," I said. "And who is Mi&s Susan Orchill, pray?" "She is a perfect love," my niece replied ; "we are quite mad about her." "And who are we?" "There are four of us ; Beth Phillips, Tiny Van Cbol, Majorie Fairchild and me. We meet the first Friday of every month to talk things over, and you'd be surprised what ideas some of the girls have." "No doubt," I assented dryly. "And is Miss Susan your chief mentor?" "She's splendid, Uncle Dan, splendid ! — a, graduate of Vassar, and' — she wears the prettiest gowns." "I'm glad she wears pretty gowns," I said. "To weai pretty gowns is one of the inalienable rights of your sex, my dear." i "There! You are being horrid, and I sha'n't tell you another thing." 1 "Please do," I pleaded ; "I can't help I teasing you. But neither can I help I adorina yon," I added Helplessly. Jane, | for such is the name of my niece (she is an attractive little creature with disarming brown eyes), accepted my tribute to her charms with undisguised apI proval." "I'm sure you don't mean to be horrid," she said, "only I wish " "What do you wish?" "I wish you'd wear clothes like Charlie Trenhaven's they'd be awfully becoming." "I thought you were interested in the inherent goodness of man, not in his choice of tailors." "So we are." "You might tell me more about your club," I suggested. ' "It isn't a club; it's a Circle. And we " She .paused. t ' "And you?" » "We are Socialists'," she announced dramatically. '^Not really? Why, you quite take my breath away ! What form does your Socialism take?"- - "We believe in the greatest good for the greatest number, and we are fearfully interested in the submerged tenth." "Bully for you !" I cried. "Yours is a sort of submarine Socialism." "You're being horrid again." "No, • I'm not ; I'm immensely interested. Do go on." "To begin with," sjie explained, "it's going to be frightfully expensive." "Of course it is," I agreed. "You can't expect to hoist the submerged tenth to dry land for a dollar." "That\s what Susan says." "Sensible girl !" "She says there is a certain cohesion in the masses that will not allow of — of — — You know what I mean." " I quite understand," I said. "The cohesive masses insist on cohesing, so what is one to do?" "Yes, that's the problem. What is one to do?"

"You can search me," I said. "You're not a bit sympathetic," Jane complained ; '"you don't care one way or the other." "I do care," I insisted. "I'm much more anxious to elevate the masses than they are to be elevated, and as foe the submerged tenth— l'd do anything in the world to unsubmerge them." "Are you truly serious?"' Jane seemed somewhat dubious about my aspirations. "As serious as can be." "And will you help us?" "I am hardly the sort to stand by, idle, while five charming maidens (I presume Mies Orchill is charming) are busy throwing life-preservers to the socially drowned," I protested. ''Bui if they are socially drowned, what is the use of throwing them life-pre-eervers?" Jane asked in a perplexed voice. "That, my dear, is a question many a wiser man than I has failed to answer," I told her with solemnity. "I have often thought, if the riddle of the universe were

ever solved, it would be solved by the very young," I added hopefully. "I'm not young," declared in a highly indignant voice ; "I was 19 last September. And Susan is " "Don't tell me!" I implored. "She's 23 !" "Far too old to solve the riddle," I sighed ; "far 100 old. I suppose she is no end accomplished ; reads Sanskrit before breakfast and lunches on Greek verbs. If she does, this question naturally arises : What does she have for dinner ?" jTfou aren't a bit nice." "I am what I am/* I replied cryptically, in a humble voice. This form of defence seemed to impress Jane. "Yes," she agreed, "you are what you are — that's the point I've been coming

"It has taken you an unconscionable time to reach your destination," I said. "May I congratulate you on your safe arrival?" "That depends. The fact is, Uncle Dan, I — that is, we — want you to do something for -the cause." "But I'm not a Socialist," I protested ; "I'm only a struggling author." "With a town house and twenty thousand a year," my niece reminded me. "I made thirteen hundred and eixtyeight dollars out of my stories last year," I replied boastfully. "I'm no slouch of an author, my djear."*

"If you hadn't been an author we shouldn't have asked your help," she said. "You will help us, won't you?" "You might, at least, tell me what it is you wish me to do." "Susan will explain." "But I don't know Susan." "I can't tell you another thing. My part was to get you to promise to do it." "And I haven't promised." "Why, Daniel Pritchard, how can you say such a thing?" "But I didn't "promise." "You said you were anxious to elevate the masses." "So I am." "Then that settles it. I'll take you to call on Susan to-morrow afternoon, and [ she'll explain everything." As usual, Jane had her way. I agreed to call on Miss Susan Orchill, and to place my small talent at the disposal of the cause. I had little doubt as to the exact nature of its employment : I should be called upon to embody Miss Susan Orchill's convictions in a tract, or pamphlet, in the transcribing of which I should be pleasantly conscious of misquoting such old friends as Henry George, oohn Stuart Mill, William Morris — even Bernard Shaw. In short, given, such patches as single tax. Government ownership, universal brotherhood, and a trust-ridden people, I should be expected to construct a sort of crazy-quilt, the whole to be surrounded by a border of bright-red Socialism. The next afternoon, at 4 o'clock, my niece- and I alighted from a hansom in front of an imposing apartment house on Madison avenue near Thirty-eighth street ; a, man in livery met us at the door ; we were passed on to a small boy in brass buttons, who' handed our cards to another small boy. Then we eat down in heavilycarved chairs and waited. "To find the head of a Socialistic Circle surrounded- by so much magnificence is — cr — rather bewildering," I confessed. "Did you expect Susan to live in a hall bedroom?" "Most Socialists do," I replied. "Miss Orchill will see youse," announced a voice at my elbow. " Elevator this way." "Who wouldn't be a. Socialist?" I said, as our guide conducted us down a richlycarpeted hall. "My dear, if I were a bit more enterprising I should take a suite of j rooms at the St. Begis, and turn Socialist myself." My first glimpse of Miss Suean Orchill assured me that my niece had been right : she did wear pretty gowns. She, herself, was uncommonly pretty, too. Pretty? She was not beautiful ; not in the accepted' i sense, perhaps, but there was something wonderfully pleasing about her: her eyes were deliciously blue and frank ; she was tall, .b.ut not too tall ; slender, but not too slender ; her manner was almost matronly. I had expected to see a short-sighted "female ,with the stttdent's droop to her shoulders, a sincere, dogmatic creature, for it has long been a theory of mine that the need for a mission in life is ever felt most strongly by the physically unattractive. Miss Orchill was, plainly, a solecism (I still held to my theory, you see), but such a charming solecism that I forgave her on the spot. Her beautifully coifed brown &air ? her chic French gown, her tapering patrician fingers, the poise of her head, the slope of her shoulders, and the soft, warm colour in her cheeks, all made it difficult for me to realise that this was the Miss Orchill. Hei greeting of my niece, however, left me no alternative but to believe. That I stood in the presence of Susan Orchill, Socialist, was clearly proven. Before long I was sitting in the presence of Miss Orchill, offering the bright copper pennies of small talk, and — wonder of wonders — receiving like currency in exchange. Thii was another agreeable surprise, for it has been my experience that the serious-minded seldom converse in less than 20dol bills. Not that Miss OrchiD was frivolous. But it was to hei credit — was it jnot? — > that she could still speak of the weather without shuddering, that she did not meet the commonplaces of ordinary intercourse with statistics, or refute the harmless incoherencies of an idle mind with quotations "from Kant. It was to Jane's credit, too. that she discovered a pressing errand — a bit of shopping, no. doubt — that must be attended to at once. And so I was left alone with Susan—for only a halfhour, mind ; but much may happen in a half-hour. "It was so good of you to come," Susan said (do you mind my calling her Susan?), after Jane had departed. "It was a pleasure." I declared. "I shall be delighted to serve you in any way I can." "Thank you. It is because you write that you can help." "My writing doesn't amount to much," I confessed.

"But you have things published." "Now and then," I admitted. "I've read several of your stories." I waited to hear she had liked them, but she said nothing further on the subject. Probably she hadn't liked them. "I have Just finished writing another," I volunteered. "I'm so glad." "I don't see why," I argued. "You'll see — in time," she replied. "But first I want you to look at some drawings." She took a portfolio from a chair beside her, opened it, and selected a few sketches, which she presented for my inspection. "What do you think of them?" she asked, after I had examined the drawings one by one. "Are they your work?" She- smiled and pleaded not guilty. I felt distinctly relieved. "It seems to me I've seen two or three of them belotq, k I said. "Very- likely." 1 looked at the drawings again ; they ■were of the variety known as pen-and-ink, portraying, for the most part, Jong-necked women and foppishly-dressed men. Two, however, were fantastic to a degree, i .fantasies of the unimaginative kind — if ifaxttasies can be ttnimiagina.tave — recalling •BeaT&ley, though not at all to BeardsJey's disadvantage-^ "The grotesque ones are original, and; the others are copies," Susan, explained. "Very creditable," I murmured politely. VTha person who did them possesses talent— of a kind." "You think so?" "And no end of industry," I added hastily. ,» "I am glad you like them," she said. Now, I had been most careful not to say I liked" the drawings — in truth, I didn't — yet, in spite of that, in Susan's eyes, at least, I stood committed. So, instead oi wriggling out of the fake position in which I found myself placed, I /■wriggled farther in. "Yes, indeed," I lied; "they are tremendously interesting." , Susan: seemed frankly delighted. "In that case," Baid she, "w© can talk it over." As is the rule with people who insist on talking things over, Suean did all the talking. The drawings, it appeared, were the property of one Arthur Gonzales, who portered in" the a,partment house by day and drew by night; be was 20 yeare old, lialf Cuban (I -wasn't told what the other half was), fearfully artistic, and, as I myself had admitted 1 , immensely talented. Indeed, to be poetical, he was a caged .bird, who was only kept from flying off into the empyrean "blue of self-supporting art by the cruel bans of Fate. It was, moreover," to' he my delightful privilege %o file the bars and set the birdie free. In short, I was to allow him to illustrate one of my. stories."But, my dear "ili&c Orchill," I protested, "I write so few stories!" "You told me you had finished one just this morning." "Yes, but it is a story of Montana — cowboys and horses, you know." "I'm gore Arthur . could draw lovely cowboys, and! I've seen some excellent boTaes he has done." "Editors are so unreasonable," I explained. "Besides, every magazine has its own staff of artists." "I shall begin to believe you do not wish to help us, Mr Pritchard." "Of course I want to nelp," I said. "But I thought you were interested in the masses." . "It is «nly by helping the individual that one can hope to elevate the masses. Don't you see? , When a man rises from the ranks he takes his family with him." "He does if he's the- right sort," I admitted. "One successful man. may change the current of a score of lives," she went on. "Supposing he isn't successful?" 'Til answer for Arthur." -"I'm sure he'll rise to the top, and carry Iris brothers, and sisters, and uncles, and aunts with him," I asserted recklessly. "But* Arthur is an orphan ; he's quite alone in the world." ... 'Thea-^is' hitting the top won't benefit the masses, after all,". I mourned. • "H* has ifie highest ideals,"' she insisted ; "he is a Socialist, like myself." "You Socialists seem, to> be awfully clannish." "We have shouldered a, great responsibility." "I don't like to shoulder responsibilities," I remarked uneasily. "Am I to understand that you refuse to help Arthur?" "N-no." "Yet you aTe reluctant."-"Ye-es." "I should be the last to influence you," ■be declared. I looked her full in the eyes. "You're a. fraud!" I said. "I was brought here to be "influenced; you know I was." "Well, perhaps. "And you are. going to make me do what you want, if you possibly can." "I nave set my heaTt on helping Arthur!" "And. so you shall help him," I declared. "I'll write a note to the editor by whom my new story was ordered, asking him to let Arthur illustrate it." "How perfectly splendid! Hadn't you better write the note at once?" I sat down and wrote it, then and there — with great misgiving, it is true, but Sueau was quite irresistible. "And now," I said, when my task was finished, '-let's forget the masses and becoiii©.aceuai»|ed." . ... , ' I nave never spent a more delightful ten minutes . than -the ten. flainntjßs that followed. We chattered away like' magpies, Susan and". I, and if Jane hadn't arrived I'm sure I should have disgraced myself by staying till dinner-time. "How did you like her?" Jane demanded, after we had settled ourselves in our hansom. "I liked her heaps." "I knew you would," she said, then ftfed me thoughtfully. , . _

"Stop staring at m«, you immature little matchmaker!" I cried. "Can't a respectable old bachelor like your uncle express approval without being instantly regarded a« ft passible — a- possible— — " "You are ashamed to say it, and no wonder. If you wecre not the most conceited man in the world you would understand " "What would I understand?" "That Susan is far too good for you." "Of course she is," I agreed — "far too good." "Besides, she never means to marry." "Neither do I," I declared. Having sent off the story that Arthur Gonzales was, or was not, to illustrate, I promptly forgot all about it, nor was I reminded of its existence till three days had passed. The reminder was Jane, who «nt«red the library where I was writing. (I hate to have people enter libraries where I am writing.) "What do you think, Uncle Dan?" she asked explosively. "X think I'm busy," I replied severely. "Don't be a bear !"

I laid down my pen with a- sigh of resignation. "Tell me the worst," I said. "Didn't the editor write to you?" "What editor?" "The editor you wrote to about Arthur." "No."

"liSell, 'h& ha© written i-o Arthur, and has ordered two full-page illustrations and a little one. He cent him your story, too," "Did he, really ! And Susan is pleased?" "Frightfully pleased." "That's good," I said. "You may go now."

I called on Susan .that evening (she had eaia I might call) to congratulate her on Arthur's success. She was, as Jane had put it, frightfully pleased ; wonderfully complacent, too, I thought, considering that an order given and an order satisfactorily executed are- two very different things. She would listen to no such argument, however. Hadn't I myself been impressed by Arthur's drawings? Was it probable that an editor would fail to acknowledge- his genius? "I'm sure, I don't wish to be a little killjoy/ I said. "Then why be one?" "I won't," I promised. "You are right, and I am wrong ; the name of Gonzales will go thundering down the corridors of faTfie, and the echoes of his greatness will ring in the ears of future generations long after you and I are forgotten." "You are only exaggerating your insincerity," ffhe irsisted. "I can be uncommonly sincere." "I value frankness and sincerity."

"Then perhaps I may tell you (that your eyes have bewitched' me — that you are altogether adorable." "I value frankness, not flattery," she responded coldly. • ; "But I love you," I said. "Mx Pritchard!" "I want you to marry me, Susan Orc'hill."

"I shall do nothing of the sort. Why, you've only seen me twice." "The damage was- done on the first occasion." ' * "You can't be serious." - "I was never more serious In my life-" "I'm sorry you are serious," she said. "Is there som«one else?" I demanded. "I never mean to marry," she replied. "But that's ridiculous !' "It is you -who axe ridiculous, Mr Pidtohard." "I w^nt you to marry me, I persisted doggedly. "1 think you had better go, she said. "Oh, please!" I pleaded. But Susan was adamant. I left her — the most miserable of men. The days dragged by — a whole fortnight passed. Jane now came to the library every morning; she wa« no longer an interruption, die was a necessity — I made her talk of Susan by the hour." Susan was an orphan, Susan lived all alone except for a maid ; Susan was interested in music,- she sang- delightfully ; Susan adored children ; Suaan liked chocolate ice cream, but preferred vanilla; Susan, wore the duckkst hats, and number six ."gloves. Pourchin, the great portrait painter, had wanted to paint Susan, and she had! refused. Wasn't it a shame?" "No, it> wasn't a. shame.," I declared savagely. "Susan is a sensible girl; no nice girl likes to have her portrait exhibited in a public gallery. Tell me some more." And my patient little niece — patient for the* first time on record— would search her memory for other facts. Another week passed. "It seems to me," I said one morning, "it is high time Arthur was finishing his drawings. Do you know whether he has? ' "I shall see Susan this, afternoon," Jane replied ; "our Circle- meets this afternoon, you know." _ "So it does," I said, glancing at the calendar on my desk ; "to-day is the first Friday of the month." As letters after breakfast are apt to upset one's morning's work, I have made it a rule to have all my correspondence addressed to my club. Following my usual custom, I lunched at the club that day, after lunch retiring to my favourite chair in the green room to smoke a. cigarette and read my letters. Once there, I perused, in turn, two invitations for dinner, a, request for a subscription to a hospital, an announcement of an exhibition of drypoint etchings 'by a well-knowr artist, the circulai "of a correspondence school, three newspaper clippings in which my name was mentioned in conjunction with the names of eight other authors (in a. -mom«nt of had subscribed to a press-clipping bureau), and a scarcely legible scrawl from an old friend in Colorado,. „ . , "On the next envelope was printed tne name and address of the magazine to which Thud sold my last story. I opened it with misgiving, and this is what I read:

My dear Pritchard,— What in thunder did you mean by recommending Gonzales to do pictures. He can't draw for nuts. Jour story is slated to appear next

month, and, thanks to you, it w appear without illustrations. Cbansbu.w, Art Editor. My next letter was from Susan hersel It read : Dear Mr Pritchard, — The magazii wouldn't have Arthur's pictures, and am frightened lest, in his disappoin ment, he should do something desperat If it is not too much to ask, will ye please come to see me as soon as ye receive this? — Sincerely yours, Susan Orchill. I didn't stop to read any more letter Instead, I rang for a boy, ordered hansom, and was off in a jiffy ; for, ; spite of the wording of her letter, Susa wasn't half so "anxious to see me as was to see her. Ten minutes later I w; in Susan's apartment, surrounded by tl circle. They were all there : Tiny Van Coc a plump little blonde, whom I had know f i om infancy (her infancy, not mine) ; Bet Phillips, pale, brown-eyed, and serious Marjorie Fairchild, tall and tailor-made my niece, Jane ; and Susan. Susan look€ troubled. " Thank you for coming," she sai< ' ' We are greatly distressed abot Arthur." " I'd like to shoot that horrid editc who refused his pictures," declared Tin Van Cool. " They were perfectly lovel] weren't they, feirls?" " I'm no end sorry for the boy," said; "but I'm afraid there is nothing t be done at present. It isn't as if lie wei out of work and in danger of starving.' 1 "But he is out of work," Susan ci plained; "he stopped portering when h received the order for those pictures." "What an insane thing to do!" I ea claimed. v "I advised him to give it up, Susan confessed. "His success seemed s assured, and " "Perhaps they will take him back," suggested. "He didn't give them any notice, an the manager was awfully angry," Susa replied. "But that's not the worst — h got married!" "Married!" I cried. "Do you mean t tell me he dared marry on the strengtl of an order 'i or three pictures?" "We're all so miserable about it," sail Si>san. "And 1 well you may be," I replied. "And v now Arthur hasn't any work, o any prospects, or anything," waile< Tiny Van Cool, "_and it's all that horri< editor's fault." "That's right," I said; "blame th -editor. .Of course, it was he who tdle Arthur he was a genius, it. was he wh< persuaded him to stop "portering and g< in for— art, it was he who told him hi fi-ture was assured and that he migh n'arry." • " I didn't tell him to marry," declare* Svsan; "indeed I didn't, and it's unkim of -you to say so." '* I don't mean to be unkind," I replied " but the fact remains that something has got to be done for Arthur."* "That's just it," said .Beth Phillip; helplessly; " we don't know what to do.' "Where does he live?" I demanded. ''Somewhere on Third avenue," Susai replied. " I have his number in mj address book." " Why can't you and Susan go to see Inn?" asked Jane. I could have hugged her for this sug geftion. "The very thing," I said. "Mies Oi'ohill and I will go at once." "But I — couldn't someone else go?" Susan began. " No, someone else couldn't," I said. " I have a hansom below, and we'll start at once." "" "You'll be nice to Arthur, won't you?" implored Tiny Van Cool. "I shall probably box his ears," 1 answered shortly. " Are you coming, Miss Oichill?" "I suppose so." Tiny Van Cool tearfully unclasped a gola bracelet from her left wrist and handed it to me. " Give it to Arthurs wife," she said. '• I want to give something, too," said litth Phillips," drawing a small ruby ring from her finger. " She must have my sealskin muff." declared Jane. • "And my vanity box," said Marjorie Fairchild. All of these treasures were thrust into my. hands while S*usan was putting/ on her hat and securing her address-book. Their eagerness to help and their unpractical manner of doing so touched me greatly. "You are dear girls," I said, "and I'm sorry I was so cross with you." "And you're a nice man, if you did behave like a bear at first," said Tiny Yau Cool. Our hansom stopped in front of a dreary-looking building on Third avenue near Seventy-eighth street, and Susan and I 'alighted. The entrance to the building was between a butcher shop and a delicatessen store ; a slatternly woman whom we met on the stairs answered our inquiries for Arthur GonzaCes by directing us to room number 37 on the third floor. So it was here that Arthur had struggled and been vanquished by art ; it was here that he had brought his wife on their wedding day. From the street came the roar of the elevated, the clang of surface cars, and the rattle of trucks ; in the air one breathed one was unpleasantly conscious of dirt and dampness and delicatessen. " The poor lambs!" I thought; "the poor lambs!" We" patised on the second landing to rest. s • ■ "I do hope we'll find him," said Susan. " Have you decided what you will say io him?" "No," I confessed, "I haven't." We ascended the last flight in silence. To my first knock at the door of room 37 I received no response. My second knock, hpwever, was successful ; there was a sound of footsteps, then the door opened, disclosing a pale-faced, shabbily-

dressed girl — she couldn't have been more ' than 17, — who had evidently been working, for her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. "Are you Mrs Gonzales?" I asked 1 . "Yes." "We are friends of Mr Gonzales. May we come in?" i She eyed us doubtfully. "My husband is lying down," she said. " But we must see him ; it is impoTtant." " Well, I'll tell him." And with that sh© shut the door. I When the door was again opened it was by Arthur himself. He was in his shirt-sleeves ; his hair was rumpled, and there was sleep in his eyes. Yet, in spite of his dishevelled appearance, he was handsome ; he looked like an artist, even if he wasn't one. | "Oh," he said, "Miss Orchill! Did ■ you wish to see me?" " Yes, we wish very much to see youThis is Mr Pritchard. May. we come in?" " I suppose so. It ain't exactly a , palace," he explained. We entered the room, and what a pitiful little room it was — so bare and cheerless It contained a bed, three chairs, a washstand, a cracked mirror, and a rickety table ; from a row of hooks on the wall depended various articles of dothing, including a grey skirt and blouse of cheap material — her wedding gown, perhaps; — on the floor lay many fragments of paper. "Excuse the mess, said Arthur; "we're i neat as a rule.'.' ! His wife pointed to the torn bits of . paper on the floor. "They're his pici tures," sh© announced, in a grieved voice ; "he tore 'era all up. He hadn't ought to have done it." Arthur smiled; it wasn't a pleasant smile. "She still thinks I can draw," he ; said. "Won't you sit down?" i We sat down. Arthur's wife regarded! I us with listless eyes, then, withdrew to ; the window and gazed down into the street. So this was the result of an illadvised letter to an editor. Susan had ■honestly believed in Arthur, but I had not been honest with Susan. The shabby room, the discouraged boy husband, and ' the pathetic little wife all rested heavily • on my heart. "I guess you're disappointed in me, Miss Orchill," said Arthur, turning to Susan. "Don't!" she begged. "I oan't bear : it." "You and I must talk things over, 1 Gonzales," I said. ; ' Susan rose hastily and went over to the window where Arthur's wife was standing. The next moment the two were sobbing in each other's arms. Arthur shrugged his shoulders expressively. "It's the first time she's bleated," he said. "It will do her good." "Yes," I agreed, "it will do her good." 1 "It's hard on her," he continued, "me ' being out of a job." | "There are & numbei of things in this ' world besides art," I suggested. j "Sure ! Only " i "Isn't there something elee you're inI terested in?" I His eyes lighted "I've been dotty about machinery ever since I was a, kid, only it seemed easier to draw, and " ! "It isn't," I aesured him. "What do I you think of automobiks?" "They're great!" "Would you like to run one?" "Wouldn't I, just!" Susan now came toward us. "I've been ■ ! giving Rosie her wedding presents from the girls," she said'/ "Do look, Arthur," Rosie entreated. "We don't accept charity," Arthur re1 plied brutally. f "See here," I said, "we're all friends ' together. Why not be friendly?" I "I guess I'm sore," he explained. " Excuse me for acting like a pig, B-osie." He \ crossed the room and kissed her. "We always give wedding presents bo j our friends," Susan declared. I "It's no more than you will do for us , ' when Miss Orchill and I are married," j , I said. "Whv — why " Susan began. | "It's" all settled," I continued huTriedly. ''I intend- to give my wife an automobile for a wedding present, and I shall expect you to run it, Arthur." "But I don't know how." "There's a school- for that sort of thing. , I'll allow you 75 dollars a month and! ' your tuition while you're learning ; when you've learned, you'll be Mrs Pritchard's chauffeur. Is it a bet?" i Susan^ opened her mouth as if to. say 1 something, then changed her mind. ' Arthur opened his mouth, and did say something. "I'll do it," he said ; "and — and God bless you, sir." "You mustn't thank me," I replied ; "thank Miss Orchill." "I hope you'll be as happy together as Rosie and I are," he said, turning to Susan. I "We shall, never fear," I responded hastily. "I'll wire you about the aato- , niobife school to-morrow. Good-bye, ! Arthur. Good-bye, Mrs Gonzales. Come j ! along, dear." I Susan did not favour me with either _ a j I word or a glance till we were safe in | , the hansom. i "There," I exclaimed, as we were cutting across Seventy-eighth street toward Madison avenue, "I quite forgot to give ' Arthur a cent of money 1 This is their night to celebrate, and, without money, they can't." "I think they'll be able to celebrate," ' Susan replied, and I noticed, for the first j time, that she had come off without her j puree. ■ ] "You are a dear," I said, "and I love you." i "And I hate you ! You took advantage of me ; you have placed me in a false position. It was — it was " "It was the only thing to do," I de- ■ clar«d. "Arthur would never have accepted our help if we hadn't offered it as lovers ; it was our one bond of sympathy." . "I shall never forgive you — never !" 1 "At all events, it has been a grand day ,

for Socialism ; we have elevated Arthur t$ the gasoline aristocracy, and. have out* fitted Rosie with a sealskin muff and £ vanity box." "Well, I am done with Socialism." " But you never were a Socialist," $ protested; "you were' a dear, day-dream* in Altruist all the" time." " "I was a little fool !" *' I was worse than that," I confessed. "I never did believe Arthur could draw." fc "Do you mean to tell me you-wrot^ that not to the editor juet to please* me!" I " It's the shameful truth," I admitted, She regarded me thoughtfully for g , moment. " I half believe you do lov* I me," she said. "My manner of showing it scarcely I „m? inspection," I . replied humbly*, ! Why, that wretched note might havtf wrecked the lives of those two blessed" babies. Arthur might have taken tc| drink instead of to gasoline, and hid poor httle wife! I can't even think of it." " But it ended so beautifully.* 1 "It hasn't ended," I -replied: aren't married yet." "If I ever do marry yon' it will be fou Arthurs sake." " Of Course," I agreed. "And I shall learn to run the auto* mobile myself." "That's Arthur's job." " One can't live and die with one's chauffeur." " More people die with them than livfl with them," I retorted cheerfully, "What a little snob you are, Susan!"- " I'm not a snob." "Yes, you are," I replied; "so am T, and when Arthur finds himself driving an 8000dol car, he'll be a snob, too." "Will it cost as much as that?'* " Quite that." " But, Dan; dear " " You've loved me all the time {" I - exclaimed triumphantly." J " No, I haven't." 1 " But you do love me?" 1 "Well, perhaps," she admitted. "Yotrl don't deserve ft, you know, but we^ , Altruists are so apt to be altruistic, and! j — why, this man hasn't been taking us j horne — we're in the park !" f " Yes," I 6aid, " we're in the park, . and when w.e come to a dark place where I the trees bend over the road I'm going j to kiss you." -