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believe,
like her elders, that one had only to be brisk, benevolent and fond
to prevail against the powers of darkness.
    She felt this relief now; but a vague restlessness remained with
her, and to ease it, and prove to herself that she was not nervous,
she mentioned to Wyant that she had just been lunching with Jim and
Lita.
    Wyant brightened, as he always did at his son's name. "Poor old
Jim! He dropped in yesterday, and I thought he looked overworked!
I sometimes wonder if that father of yours hasn't put more hustle
into him than a Wyant can assimilate." Wyant spoke good–
humouredly; his first bitterness against the man who had supplanted
him (a sentiment regarded by Pauline as barbarous and mediæval) had
gradually been swallowed up in gratitude for Dexter Manford's
kindness to Jim. The oddly–assorted trio, Wyant, Pauline and her
new husband, had been drawn into a kind of inarticulate
understanding by their mutual tenderness for the progeny of the two
marriages, and Manford loved Jim almost as much as Wyant loved
Nona.
    "Oh, well," the girl said, "Jim always does everything with all his
might. And now that he's doing it for Lita and the baby, he's got
to keep on, whether he wants to or not."
    "I suppose so. But why do you say 'whether'?" Wyant questioned
with one of his disconcerting flashes. "Doesn't he want to?"
    Nona was vexed at her slip. "Of course. I only meant that he used
to be rather changeable in his tastes, and that getting married has
given him an object."
    "How very old–fashioned! You ARE old–fashioned, you know, my
child; in spite of the jazz. I suppose that's what I've done for
YOU, in exchange for Manford's modernizing Jim. Not much of an
exchange, I'm afraid. But how long do you suppose Lita will care
about being an object to Jim?"
    "Why shouldn't she care? She'd go on caring about the baby, even
if … not that I mean…"
    "Oh, I know. That's a great baby. Queer, you know—I can see he's
going to have the Wyant nose and forehead. It's about all we've
left to give. But look here—haven't you really heard anything
more about the Mahatma? I thought that Lindon girl was a pal of
yours. Now listen—"
    When Nona Manford emerged into the street she was not surprised to
meet Stanley Heuston strolling toward her across Stuyvesant Square.
Neither surprised, nor altogether sorry; do what she would, she
could never quite repress the sense of ease and well–being that his
nearness gave. And yet half the time they were together she always
spent in being angry with him and wishing him away. If only the
relation between them had been as simple as that between herself
and Jim! And it might have been—ought to have been—seeing that
Heuston was Jim's cousin, and nearly twice her age; yes, and had
been married before she left the schoolroom. Really, her
exasperation was justified. Yet no one understood her as well as
Stanley; not even Jim, who was so much dearer and more lovable.
Life was a confusing business to Nona Manford.
    "How absurd! I asked you not to wait. I suppose you think I'm not
old enough to be out alone after dark."
    "That hadn't occurred to me; and I'm not waiting to walk home with
you," Heuston rejoined with some asperity. "But I do want to say
two words," he added, his voice breaking into persuasion.
    Nona stopped, her heels firmly set on the pavement. "The same old
two?"
    "No. Besides, there are three of those. You never COULD count."
He hesitated: "This time it's only about Arthur—"
    "Why; what's the matter?" The sense of apprehension woke in her
again. What if Wyant really had begun to suspect that there was
something, an imponderable something, wrong between Jim and Lita,
and had been too shrewd to let Nona detect his suspicion?
    "Haven't you noticed? He looks like the devil. He's been drinking
again. Eleanor spoke to me—"
    "Oh, dear." There it was—all the responsibilities and worries
always closed in on Nona! But this one, after all, was relatively
bearable.
    "What can I do, Stan?