Old Planter wants to see you at nine o'clock to-night."
"Since you and Ma," George said, "seem on such good terms with him I suppose I'll have to go."
"Thank the Lord we are," his father grumbled. "I wouldn't have blamed him if he had packed us all off. He was more than fair. I've looked after you so far, but you'll have to shift for yourself now."
"And the only thing I didn't like about it," George mused, "was leaving you and Ma."
"What did he say to Miss Sylvia?" his mother whispered.
"Said he couldn't get along without her, and was going to have her."
He might have been speaking of one who had ventured to impersonate the deity.
"And he touched her! Put his arms around her!"
The horror in his mother's face grew.
"Georgie! Georgie! What could you have been thinking of?"
He leaned against the pump.
"I'm thinking now," he said, softly, "it's sort of queer a man's father and mother believe there's any girl in the world too good for their son."
"Lots of them," his father snapped. "Sylvia Planter most of all."
"Oh, yes," his mother agreed.
He straightened.
"Then listen," he said, peremptorily. "I don't think so. I told her I was going to have her, and I will. Just put that down in your books. I'll show the lot of you that I'm as good as she is, as good as anybody."
The late sun illuminated the purpose in his striking face.
"Impertinent servant!" he cried. "Stable boy! Beast! It's pretty rough to make her marry all that. It's my only business from now on."
V
He went to his room, leaving his parents aghast. With a nervous hurry he rid himself of his riding breeches, his puttees, his stock.
"That," he told himself, "is the last time I shall ever wear anything like livery."
When he had dressed in one of his two suits of ordinary clothing he took the broken riding crop and for a long time stared at it as though the venomous souvenir could fix his resolution more firmly. Once his hand slipped to the stock where Sylvia's fingers had so frequently tightened. He snatched his hand away. It was too much like an unfair advantage, a stolen caress.
"Georgie! Georgie!"
His mother's voice drifted to him tentatively.
"Come and get your supper."
He hid the broken crop and went out. His father glanced disapproval.
"You'd do better to wear Old Planter's clothes while you can. It's doubtful when you'll buy any more of your own."
George sat down without answering. Since his return from the ride that afternoon his parents and he had scarcely spoken the same language, and by this time he understood there was no possible interpreter. It made him choke a little over his food.
The others were content to share his silence. His father seemed only anxious to have him away; but his mother, he fancied, looked at him with something like sorrow.
Afterward he fled from that nearly voiceless scrutiny and paced one of the park paths, counting the minutes until he could answer Old Planter's summons. He desired to have the interview over so that he could snap every chain binding him to Oakmont, every chain save the single one Sylvia's contempt had unwittingly forged. He could not, moreover, plan his immediate future with any assurance until he knew what the great man wanted.
"Only to make me feel a little worse," he decided. "What else could he do?"
What, indeed, could a man of Planter's wealth and authority not do? It was a disturbing question.
Through the shrubbery the lights of the house gleamed. The moonlight outlined the immense, luxurious mass. Never once had he entered the great house. He was eager to study the surrounding in which women like Sylvia lived, which she, to an extent, must reflect.
In that serene moonlight he realized that his departure, agreeable and essential as it was, would make it impossible for him during an indefinite period to see that slender, adolescent figure, or the features, lovely and intolerant, that had brought about this revolution in his life. He acknowledged now that he had looked forward each day to those hours of proximity and contemplation; and there had been from the first, he guessed, adoration in his regard.
It was no time to dwell on the sentimental phase of his situation. He despised himself for still loving her. His approaching departure he must accept gladly, since he designed it as a means of coming closer – close enough to hurt.
He wondered if he would have one more glimpse of her, perhaps in the house. He glanced at his watch. He could go at last. He started for the lights. Would he see her?
At the corner of the building he hesitated before a fresh dilemma. His logical entrance lay through the servants' quarters, but he squared his shoulders and crossed the terrace. It was impossible now that he should ever enter the house in which she lived by the back door.
It was a warm night, so the door stood open. The broad spaces of the hall, the rugs, the hangings, the huge chairs, the portraits in gilt frames against polished walls, the soft, rosy light whose source he failed to explore, seemed mutely to reprove his presumption.
He rang. He did not hear the feet of the servant who answered. The vapid man that had trotted for his father that afternoon suddenly shut off his view.
"You must wear rubbers," George said.
"What you doing here? Go 'round to the back."
"Mr. Planter," George explained, patiently, "sent for me."
"All right. All right. Then go 'round to the back where you belong."
George reached out, caught the other's shoulder, and shoved him to one side. While the servant gave a little cry and struggled to regain his balance, George walked in. A figure emerged painfully from an easy chair in the shadows by the fireplace.
"What's all this, Simpson?"
The polished voice gave the impression of overcoming an impediment, probably a swollen lip.
"It's young Morton, Mr. Lambert," Simpson whined. "I told him to go to the back door where he belongs."
"What an idea!" Lambert drawled. "Enter, Mr. Morton. My dear Mr. Morton, what is the occasion? What can we do for you? I must beg you to excuse my appearance. I had a trifling argument with my new hunter this afternoon."
George grinned.
"Must be some horse."
None the less, he felt a bruise. It would have been balm to destroy Lambert's mocking manner by a brusque attack even in this impressive hall.
"Your father sent for me."
"Shall I put him out, sir?" Simpson quavered.
Lambert burst into a laugh.
"I
