u have created--to thank you for
Jerry. He's a gift, Mr. Canby, refreshing like the rain to thirsty
flowers. You can't know what meeting a man like Jerry means to a woman
like me. I don't think you possibly can."

"What does it mean to you?" I asked.

"It means a new point of view on life, a thing scarce enough in this
day when all existence is either sordid or vicious. I had reached a
Slough of Despond, Mr. Canby, weary of the attainable, not strong
enough or clever enough or courageous enough to defy criticism and
obey the small voice that urged. I was sick with self-analysis,
filled to the brim with modern philosophies--"

"I understand," I broke in with a smile, which seemed to come in spite
of me. "There's no medicine for that."

"Yes, Jerry. I--I think he's cured me--or at least Pm well on the road
to recovery. Nobody could be mind-sick long with Jerry letting
daylight in."

"Daylight, yes. You found it startling?"

"A little, at first. I felt the way I look sometimes at dawn after
dancing all night, my tinsel tarnished, my color faded. All my effects
are planned for artificial light, you see."

Her frankness disarmed me.

"I'm thanking you for Jerry," she went on, "but I can't help knowing
that Jerry is what you've made him; that his ideals, his simplicity,
his purity are yours also."

If she had baited her hook with flattery there was no sign of
premeditation in the gentleness of her accents or in the friendly look
she gave me. Could it be possible that this was the person in whom I
had seen such a menace to Jerry's happiness?

"I have merely taught Jerry to be honest, Miss Van Wyck," I replied.
"I ask no credit of him or of you."

"But if it pleases me to give it to you," she said softly, "you surely
can't object."

"No, but I don't ask laurels I don't deserve. Jerry is--merely
himself."

"Plus, Mr. Roger Canby--purist and pedagogue," she laughed. "No, you
can't get out of it. Jerry reflects you; I think I actually recognize
inflections of the voice. You ought to be very glad to have laid so
strong an impress on so fine a thing."

Just then I heard the raucous laugh of Channing Lloyd from the
distant lawn, which reminded me with a startling suddenness that this
slender creature who spoke softly of ideals and purity could choose a
man like this fellow for an intimate. I noticed, too, the delicate
odor which rose from her corsage of which Jack Ballard had spoken,
something subtle and unfamilia