personality--a detached attitude; the man had no
axes to grind for himself; one felt at every turn that this important
universe of the _haute monde_ was unimportant to him. Through his
civility there was an outcropping of savage honesty which made the
house-party sit up straight, more than once. Emerson says, in a
better-made sentence, that the world is at the feet of him who does not
want it. Geoffrey McBirney had taken a long jump, years back, and
cleared the childishness, lifelong in most of us, of wanting the world.
There is an attraction in a person who has done this and yet has kept a
love of humanity. Witness St. Francis of Assisi and other notables of
his ilk.

The people at Sea-Acres felt the attraction and tried to lionize the
dark, tall parson with the glowing, indifferent eyes. But the lion
would not roar and gambol; the lion was a reserved beast, it seemed,
with a suggestion of unbelievable, yet genuine, distaste under
attentions. That point was alluring. One tried harder to soften a
brute so worth while, so difficult. Three or four girls tried. The
lion was outwardly a gentle lion, pleasant when cornered, but seldom
cornered. He managed to get off on a long walk alone when Angela, of
nineteen, meant him to have played tennis, on the second day.

The June afternoon was softening to a rosy dimness as he came in, very
tired physically, hot and grimy, and sick of soul. "Glory be,
tea-time's over, and they'll be dressing for dinner," he murmured, and
turned a corner on eight of "them." A glance at the gay group showed
two or three new faces. More guests! McBirney set his teeth. But he
had no space to take note of the arrivals, for Angela spoke.

"Just in time, Mr. McBirney," Angela greeted him. "Don Emory's
coming--see!" A car was spinning up the drive.

"Is he?" he answered perfunctorily. And the two words were clipped
from history even as they were spoken, by a cry that rang from the
group of people. Tod Winthrop ought to have been in bed. It was
six-thirty, and he was four years old, but his mother had forgotten
him, and his nurse had a weakness for the Emorys' second man; it was
also certain that if a storm-centre could be found, he would be its
nucleus. Out he tumbled from the shrubbery, exactly in front of the
incoming automobile, as unpleasant a spoiled infant as could be
imagined, yet a human being with a life to save. McBirney, standing in
the drive, whirled, saw the small fig