aunting this bounder in his face. He could not understand it in her.
She ought to know that this man did not belong to her world--could not
by any chance be a part of it.

Beatrice could not understand herself. She knew that she was behaving
rather indiscreetly, though she did not fathom the cause of the
restlessness that drove her to Clay Lindsay. The truth is that she was
longing for an escape from the empty life she was leading, had been
seeking one for years without knowing it. Her existence was losing its
savor, and she was still so young and eager and keen to live. Surely
this round of social frivolities, the chatter of these silly women and
smug tailor-made men, could not be all there was to life. She must
have been made for something better than that.

And when she was with Clay she knew she had been. He gave her a vision
of life through eyes that had known open, wide spaces, clean,
wholesome, and sun-kissed. He stood on his own feet and did his own
thinking. Simply, with both hands, he took hold of problems and
examined them stripped of all trimmings. The man was elemental, but he
was keen and broad-gauged. He knew the value of the things he had
missed. She was increasingly surprised to discover how wide his
information was. It amazed her one day to learn that he had read
William James and understood his philosophy much better than she did.

There was in her mind no intention whatever of letting herself do
anything so foolish as to marry him. But there were moments when the
thought of it had a dreadful fascination for her. She did not invite
such thoughts to remain with her.

For she meant to accept Clarendon Bromfield in her own good time and
make her social position in New York absolutely secure. She had been
in the fringes too long not to appreciate a chance to get into the
social Holy of Holies.

CHAPTER X

JOHNNIE SEES THE POSTMASTER

A bow-legged little man in a cheap, wrinkled suit with a silk kerchief
knotted loosely round his neck stopped in front of a window where a
girl was selling stamps.

"I wantta see the postmaster."

"Corrid'y'right. Takel'vatorthir'doorleft," she said, just as though
it were two words.

The freckle-faced little fellow opened wider his skim-milk eyes and his
weak mouth. "Come again, ma'am, please."

"Corrid'y'right. Takel'vatorthir'doorleft," she repeated. "Next."

The inquirer knew as much as he did before, but he lacked the courage
to