at there was a
cigarette named after him--the Vanity Valiant!"

An angry glint slanted across his eyes. For some reason the silly story
on her lips stung him deeply. "You find the Sunday newspapers always so
dependable?"

"Well," she flashed, "you must know Mr. Valiant. _Is_ he a useful
citizen? What has he ever done except play polo and furnish spicy
paragraphs for the society columns?"

"Isn't that beside the point? Because he has been an idler, must he
necessarily be a--vandal?"

She laughed again. "_He_ wouldn't call it vandalism. He'd think it
decided improvement to make Damory Court as frantically different as
possible. I suppose he'll erect a glass cupola and a porte-cochere, all
up-to-date and varnishy, and put orchid hot-houses where the wilderness
garden was, and a modern marble cupid instead of the summer-house, and
lay out a kite-shaped track--"

Everything that was impulsive and explosive in John Valiant's nature
came out with a bang. "No!" he cried, "whatever else he is, he's not
such a preposterous ass as that!"

She faced him squarely now. Her eyes were sparkling. "Since you know him
so intimately and so highly approve of him--"

"No, no," he interrupted. "You mistake me. I shouldn't try to justify
him." His flush had risen to the roots of his brown hair, but he did not
lower his gaze. Now the red color slowly ebbed, leaving him pale. "He
_has_ been an idler--that's true enough--and till a week ago he was
'idiotically rich.' But his idling is over now. At this moment, except
for this one property, he is little better than a beggar."

She had taken a hasty step or two back from him, and her eyes were now
fixed on his with a dawning half-fearful question in them.

"Till the failure of the Valiant Corporation, he had never heard of
Damory Court, much less been aware that he owned it. It wasn't because
he loved it that he came here--no! How could it be? He had never set
foot in Virginia in his mortal life."

She put up her hands to her throat with a start. "Came?" she echoed.
"_Came!_"

"But if you think that even he could be so crassly stupid, so
monumentally blind to all that is really fine and beautiful--"

"Oh!" she cried with flashing comprehension. "Oh, how could you! You--"

He nodded curtly. "Yes," he said. "I am that haphazard harlequin, John
Valiant, himself."

CHAPTER XX

ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

There was a pause not to be reckoned by minutes but suffocatingly long.