of open speech.
"Perhaps I can help you in certain ways. There's something—Well, we won't begin on that to-day. But you can rest assured that I am your friend, can't you?"
They understood each other thus easily. He knew that she was well aware of what was in his mind, and was disposed to help him to the full extent of her woman's power. In his struggle for money and place—things that she appreciated—she would be an able friend.
Having come to a complete agreement on a number of matters, in the manner of a man and a woman, they began to talk of Paris and of other days. Outside in the hall there was the sound of steps, and a laughing, vigorous girl's voice. The architect could see a thin, tall girl, as she threw her arms about Judge Phillips's plump neck and pulled his head to a level with her mouth. He noticed that Mrs. Phillips was also watching this scene with stealthy eyes. When the door had closed upon the judge, she called:—
"Venetia, will you come here, dear! I want you to meet Mr. Hart. You remember Mr. Hart?"
The girl crossed the drawing-room slowly, the fire in her strangely extinguished at the sound of her mother's voice. She gave a bony little hand to the architect, and nodded her head, like a rebellious trick dog. Then she drew away from the two and stood beside the window, waiting for the next order.
She was dark like her mother, but her features lacked the widow's pleasant curves. They were firm and square, and a pair of dark eyes looked out moodily from under heavy eyebrows. The short red lips were full and curved, while the mother's lips were dangerously thin and straight. As the architect looked at the girl, standing tall and erect in the light from the western window, he felt that she was destined to be of some importance. It was also plain enough that she and her mother were not sympathetic. When the widow spoke, the daughter seemed to listen with the terrible criticism of youth lurking in her eyes.
A close observer would have seen, also, that the girl had in her a capacity for passion that the mother altogether lacked. The woman was mildly sensuous and physical in mood, but totally without the strong emotions of the girl that might sweep her to any act, mindless of fate. When the clash came between the two, as it was likely to come before long, the mother would be the one to retreat.
"Have you had your ride, dear?" Mrs. Phillips asked in soothing tones, carefully prepared for the public.
"No, mamma. Uncle Harry was here, you know."
"I am sorry not to have you take your ride every day, no matter what happens," the mother continued, as if she had not heard the girl's excuse.
"I had rather see uncle Harry. Besides, Frolic went lame yesterday."
"You can always take my horse," Mrs. Phillips persisted, her eyebrows contracting as they had over the money question.
A look of what some day might become contempt shadowed the girl's face. She bowed to the architect in her stiff way which made him understand that it was no recommendation to her favor to be her mother's friend, and walked across the room with a dignity beyond the older woman's power.
"She is at the difficult age," the mother murmured.
"She is growing beautiful!" Jackson exclaimed.
"I hope so," Mrs. Phillips answered composedly. "When can you let me see the sketches?"
"In two or three days."
"Won't you dine with us next Wednesday, then?"
She seemed to have arranged every detail of the transaction with accuracy and care.
CHAPTER VII
The Spellmans lived on the other side of the city from Mrs. Phillips, on Maple Street, very near the lake. Their little stone-front, Gothic-faced house was pretty nearly all the tangible property that Mr. Spellman had to leave to his widow and child when he died, sixteen years before. There had been also his small interest in Jackson's Bridge Works, an interest which at the time was largely speculative, but which had enabled Powers Jackson to pay the widow a liberal income without hurting her pride.
The house had remained very much what it had been during Mr. Spellman's lifetime, its bright Brussels carpets and black-walnut furniture having taken on the respectability of age and use. Here, in this homely eddy of the great city, mother and daughter were seated reading after their early dinner, as was their custom. Helen, having shown no aptitude for society, after one or two seasons of playing the wall-flower at the modest parties of their acquaintance, had resolutely sought her own interests in life. One of these was a very earnest attempt to get that vague thing called an education. Just at present, this consisted of much reading of a sociological character suggested by a course of university lectures which she had followed during the winter.
Mrs. Spellman, who had been turning the leaves of a magazine, finally looked up from its pages and asked, "Have you seen Jackson since the funeral?"
Helen dropped her book into her lap and looked at her mother with startled eyes.
"No, mother. I suppose he is very busy just now."
She spoke as if she had already asked herself this question a number of times, and answered it in the same way without satisfaction.
"I wonder what he means to do about the will," Mrs. Spellman continued. "It must have been a great disappointment to him. I wonder if he had any idea how it would be?"
"What makes you think he is disappointed?" the girl asked literally.
"Why, I saw Everett this morning, and he told me he thought his cousin might contest the will. He said Jackson was feeling very sore. It would be such a pity if there were any trouble over Powers's will!"
Helen shut the book in her lap and laid it on the table very firmly.
"How can Everett say such things! You know, mother, Jackson would never think of doing anything so—mean—so ungrateful!"
"Some people might consider that he was justified. And it is a very large sum of money. If he had expectations of—"
"Just because uncle Powers was always so kind to him!" the girl interrupted hotly. "Was that any reason why he should leave him a lot of his money?"
"My dear, most people would think it was a sufficient reason for leaving him more than he did."
"Then most people are very self-interested! Everett Wheeler might expect it. But Jackson has something better in life to do than worry over not getting his uncle's money."
Mrs. Spellman, who had known Jackson since he was a child, smiled wisely, but made no reply.
"What good would the money be to him? Why should he want more than he has—the chance to do splendid things, to work for something better than money? That's the worst about men like Everett—they think of nothing but money, money, from morning to night. He doesn't believe that a man can care for any other thing."
"Poor Everett!" her mother remarked with quiet irony. "He isn't thinking of contesting the will, however."
"Nor is Jackson,
