lattered, walked C. Bailey, Jr., very
conscious that he was being envied; very proud of the beautiful young
girl with whom he was so constantly identifying himself, and who, very
obviously, was doing him honour.

Of his gratified and flattered self-esteem the girl was unconscious;
that he was really happy with her, proud of her appearance, kind to
her beyond reason and even beyond propriety perhaps,--invariably
courteous and considerate, she was vividly aware. And it made her
intensely happy to know that she gave him pleasure and to accept it
from him.

It _was_ pleasure to Clive; but not entirely unmitigated. His father
asked him once or twice who the girl was of whom "people" were
talking; and when his son said: "She's absolutely all right, father,"
Bailey, Sr., knew that she was--so far.

[Illustration: "C. Bailey, Jr., and Athalie Greensleeve ... had supped
together more than once at the Regina."]

"But what's the use, Clive?" he asked with a sort of sad humour. "Is
it necessary for you, too, to follow the path of the calf?"

"I like her."

"And other men are inclined to, and have no opportunity; is that it,
my son? The fascination of monopoly? The chicken with the worm?"

"I _like_ her," repeated Clive, Jr., a trifle annoyed.

"So you have remarked before. Who is she?"

"Do you remember that charming little child in the red hood and cloak
down at Greensleeve's tavern when we were duck-shooting?"

"Is _that_ the girl?"

"Yes."

"What is she?"

"Stenographer."

Bailey, Sr., shrugged his shoulders, patiently.

"What's the _use_, Clive?"

"Use? Well there's no particular use. I'm not in love with her. Did
you think I was?"

"I don't think any more. Your mother does that for me.... Don't make
anybody unhappy, my son."

* * * * *

His mother, also, had made very frank representations to him on
several occasions, the burden of them being that common people beget
common ideas, common associations corrupt good manners, and that
"nice" girls would continue to view with disdain and might ultimately
ostracise any misguided young man of their own caste who played about
with a woman for whose existence nobody who was anybody could account.

"The daughter of a Long Island road-house keeper! Why, Clive! where is
your sense of fitness! Men don't do that sort of thing any more!"

"What sort of thing, mother?"

"What you are doing."

"What am I doing?"

"Parading a very