you such utter absurdities as you are asking of me. I think the moonlight has affected you. Let us go in, now; it is growing chill."
Dorothy had failed, and she was furious. But she controlled herself, determined not to show temper at Justin's attitude. She had amazed him, and she knew it, but it was the entering edge of a wedge which might be driven farther some other time. So she only said:
"Yes, let us go in. It is dignified and all that, but somehow, Justin, it frightens me. The shadows are so weird, and those ghostly white trees shiver in the wind like spectres of the departed Arnolds. Do you suppose they're wagging their branches at me because they don't like me?"
"Nonsense, Dorothy! You're enough to give a man the creeps. Come on into the house."
As the ladies took up their bedroom candles and went upstairs, leaving the men to spend a half-hour in the smoking-room, Dorothy called down from the upper landing, "Don't forget to put on the burglar-alarm, Justin. Somebody might come and carry me off."
It was characteristic of Arnold that he answered seriously, "I've never forgotten it yet, Dorothy," and ignored the latter part of her speech.
The burglar-alarm was rather a standard joke among guests at White Birches, but this had never interfered with Justin Arnold's systematic observance of the old custom.
Dorothy paused at Leila's room for a good-night gossip. She was still in a quiet mood, and Leila asked her frankly what was the matter.
"Nothing," said Dorothy, with a little sigh. "I'm going to try to give a successful imitation of the dignity of the Arnolds for the rest of my life. I must learn to behave like an Arnold if I'm going to be one."
"Perhaps," said Leila daringly, "you'd rather see than be one!"
"No, not that," said Dorothy thoughtfully. "Justin isn't very much to see, you know."
"I think he's a very handsome man."
"Oh, handsome nothing! He has a face like a hawk, a disposition like an iceberg, and not a bit of temper. I wish he had a temper!"
"He'll probably develop one after he marries you."
"It won't be my fault if he doesn't. But he is an old duck, and I'm terribly fond of him. Now let's change the subject. How many letters have you had from Mr. Gale?"
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Leila, blushing. "He only went away this noon. He's hardly in Philadelphia yet."
"Oh, yes, he is. He reached there before six o'clock, and I've no doubt he's spent the whole evening writing letters to you and tearing them up, in a vain endeavor to strike just the right note of friendliness."
"Dorothy, you're a goose, and I wish you'd go on to bed."
"I am going, dearie, because I know you want to write to Emory Gale!"
Dodging the little white pillow that Leila threw at her, Dorothy flew out into the hall and made for her own room.
As she turned a corner of the dimly lit corridor, she felt herself suddenly grasped by a pair of strong arms and drawn quickly between some heavy draped curtains, and out on to a tiny balcony.
"'Sh!" whispered Ernest Chapin's voice, close to her ear. "I've kidnapped you! You said some one might, so I thought I'd be the one!"
"Unhand me, villain!" whispered Dorothy, giggling at the escapade. "I decline to be drawn behind the arras and carried to who knows what fearful fate!"
"No more fearful fate than to look at the moon for two minutes. It's marvellous from this balcony, shining on that little dark pool. Come and see."
Not entirely unwilling, Dorothy let herself be led out on the little balcony, and, to do Chapin justice, the moonlight effect was quite all he had claimed for it.
Dorothy knew perfectly well she ought not to be out there alone with Ernest Chapin, but a sort of reaction had followed her demure mood, and she murmured, "Just a minute, then. I won't give you but just exactly one minute."
"Then, I shall make the most of it," said Chapin, quickly clasping her in his arms. "Dorothy, my darling, I wouldn't do this, but I know, I know, you love me. You don't love Arnold! And, oh, sweetheart, don't marry him! Don't sell yourself for the Arnold fortune! Come to me, dearest, for you know, you know, you love me."
The sweetness and nearness of Dorothy, and the maddening effect of the moonlight, had caused Chapin to lose all caution, and, though low, his deep tones were clear and distinct.
A cold, hard voice followed his own:
"Oh, no, she doesn't love you, Chapin. You're awfully mistaken! She may be flirting with you—it's one of her bad habits—but she doesn't love you."
"I do," declared Dorothy, irritated by Arnold's calm statements and cutting manner.
"No, you don't, Dorothy. You're a little affected by the moonlight, but you're not in love with a man who is beneath you socially, and who, incidentally, is a coward, and a traitor to the man who employs him."
"Stop!" cried Dorothy, "you shan't talk so about the man I love!"
"You hear, Arnold," said Chapin, with a laugh that was a little unsteady. He still held Dorothy in his arms, and as Arnold stepped out on the balcony, the pair faced him.
"Go to your room, Dorothy," said Arnold, quietly; "I will settle this matter with Mr. Chapin."
"I won't go, Justin, until I explain. It isn't Ernest's fault I asked him to come out here."
Dorothy told her lie calmly, hoping to shield Chapin from the wrath she saw blazing in Arnold's eyes.
"And since when have you called my secretary by his first name? That is more than I do, myself."
"Perhaps he is more to me than he is to you!" Dorothy's voice shook and she drew closer to Chapin, who held her to him.
"I can say nothing, Mr. Arnold," he said, and his tones were clear and strong. "I deserve your scorn and reproach; I have acted the part of a coward and a cad. My only excuse is that I love the same woman you do, and she—"
"Yes," whispered Arnold, with dry lips, "and she—"
"I'll answer for myself," said Dorothy, suddenly, "I love you, Justin!" She left Chapin's side, and nestled against Arnold. Her perfect face, uplifted in the moonlight, thrilled him, and he put his arm round her. Then as suddenly he withdrew it. "You don't!" he cried. "You are only marrying me for my money! You are untrue, unfaithful;—a shallow-hearted coquette! You never loved me! you have deceived me with your false smiles and kisses, and as soon as my back is turned, you are caressing some one else! Our betrothal is ended. I cast you off! No Arnold has ever married a faithless woman. Go to your room. I will attend to this cur who has betrayed me!"
Ernest Chapin said slowly and clearly, "I will answer those remarks to you alone, Mr. Arnold."
"Yes; I think you will," Justin Arnold replied. "Go to your room, Dorothy. I will discuss this little matter with you to-morrow."
"Good-night, Justin." said the girl, in a small, scared voice. "Good-night, Mr. Chapin."
Neither
