<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2>
<h3>THE ALLIES</h3>
<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">S</span>eldom, if ever, has a more strangely assorted party met at dinner
than that which gathered in the Hotel Kursaal under the social wing of
Mrs. de la Vere. Her husband, while being coached in essentials, was
the first to discover its incongruities.</p>
<p>“Where Miss Wynton is concerned, you are warned off,” his wife told
him dryly. “You must console yourself with Mrs. Badminton-Smythe. She
will stand anything to cut out a younger and prettier woman.”</p>
<p>“Where do you come in, Edie?” said he; for Mrs. de la Vere’s delicate
aristocratic beauty seemed to be the natural complement of her
sporting style, and to-night there was a wistful charm in her face
that the lively Reginald had not seen there before.</p>
<p>She turned aside, busying herself with her toilet. <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_233" id="Page_233"></SPAN></span>“I don’t come in.
I went out five years ago,” she cried, with a mocking laugh.</p>
<p>“Do you know,” he muttered, “I often wonder why the deuce you an’ I
got married.”</p>
<p>“Because, sweet Reginald, we were made for each other by a wise
Providence. What other woman of your acquaintance would tolerate
you—as a husband?”</p>
<p>“Oh, dash it all! if it comes to that——”</p>
<p>“For goodness’ sake, don’t fuss, or begin to think. Run away and
interview the head waiter. Then you are to buttonhole Bower and the
American. I am just sending a chit to the Badminton-Smythes.”</p>
<p>“Who is my partner?”</p>
<p>“Lulu, of course.”</p>
<p>De la Vere was puzzled, and looked it. “I suppose it is all right,” he
growled. “Still, I can’t help thinking you’ve got something up your
sleeve, Edie.”</p>
<p>She stamped a very pretty foot angrily. “Do as I tell you! Didn’t you
hear what Bower said? He will be everlastingly obliged to us for
coming to the rescue in this fashion. Next time you have a flutter in
the city, his friendship may be useful.”</p>
<p>“By gad!” cried Reginald, beginning, as he fancied, to see light,
“something seems to have bitten you this evening. Tell you what—Lulu
is a non-runner. Get Bower to put you on to a soft thing in Africans,
an’ you an’ I will have a second honeymoon in Madeira next winter.
Honor bright! I mean it.”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_234" id="Page_234"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>She seized a silver mounted brush from the dressing table with the
obvious intent of speeding his departure. He dodged out, and strolled
down the corridor.</p>
<p>“Never saw Edie in that sort of tantrum before,” he said to himself.
“If she only knew how sick I was of all this jolly rot, perhaps we’d
run better in double harness.”</p>
<p>So it came to pass, when the company assembled in the great dining
room, that Bower sat on Mrs. de la Vere’s left, and Spencer on her
right. Beyond them, respectively, were Lulu Badminton-Smythe and her
husband, and between these latter were de la Vere and Helen. Thus, the
girl was separated from the two men whom her shrewd eyed hostess had
classed as rivals, while the round table made possible a general
conversation.</p>
<p>The talk could hardly fail to turn on the day’s adventures. Spencer,
who had never before in his life thrust himself forward in a social
gathering, did so now with fixed purpose. He meant to eclipse Bower in
a territory where that polished man of the world was accustomed to
reign unchallenged. But he had the wisdom to wait. He guessed, not
without good cause, that more than one late arrival would pause beside
their table and make polite inquiries as to the climbers’ well being.
These interruptions were fatal to Bower’s well balanced periods. The
journey to the hut, therefore, was dealt with jerkily.</p>
<p>When Spencer took up the thread, he caught and <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_235" id="Page_235"></SPAN></span>held the attention of
his hearers. In this he was helped considerably by his quaint idioms.
To English ears, American expressions are always amusing. Spencer, of
course, could speak quite as correct English as anyone present; but he
realized that in this instance a certain amount of picturesque
exaggeration would lend itself to humor. His quick ear too had missed
none of the queer mixture of prayers and objurgations with which Karl
and the two guides hailed every incident. His selections set them all
in a roar. In fact, they were the liveliest party in the room. Many an
eye was drawn by a merriment that offered such striking contrast to
the dramatic episode in the outer hall.</p>
<p>“The one person missing from that crowd is the stage lady,” was Miss
Gladys Wragg’s caustic comment, when Badminton-Smythe evoked a fresh
outburst by protesting that he forgot to eat his fish owing to
Spencer’s beastly funny yarn.</p>
<p>And Miss Wragg’s criticism was justified. It only needed Millicent’s
presence to add a wizard’s touch to the amazement with which Mrs.
Vavasour and others of her kind regarded the defection of the de la
Veres and the Badminton-Smythes. But Millicent was dining in her own
room. The last thing she dreamed of was that Helen would face the
other residents in the hotel after the ordeal she had gone through an
hour earlier. She half expected that Bower would endeavor to meet her
privately while dinner was being served. She was ready for him. <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_236" id="Page_236"></SPAN></span>She
prepared a number of sarcastic little speeches, each with a subtle
venom of its own, and even rehearsed a pose or two with a view toward
scenic effect. But she had neither taken Bower’s measure nor counted
on Mrs. de la Vere’s superior strategy. All that happened was that she
ate a lukewarm meal, and was left to wonder at her one-time admirer’s
boldness in accepting a situation that many a daring man would have
striven to evade.</p>
<p>After dinner it was the custom of the habitués to break up into small
groups and arrange the night’s amusement. Dancing claimed the younger
element, while card games had their devotees. Mrs. de la Vere danced
invariably; but to-night she devoted herself to Helen. She was under
no illusions. Bower and Spencer were engaged in a quiet duel, and the
victor meant to monopolize the girl for the remainder of the evening.
That was preventable. They could fight their battle on some other
occasion. At present there was one thing of vital importance,—the
unpleasant impression created by the actress’s bitter attack must be
dissipated, and Mrs. de la Vere, secretly marveling at her own
enthusiasm, aimed at the achievement.</p>
<p>“Don’t be drawn away from me on any pretext,” she whispered, linking
her arm through Helen’s as they passed out into the foyer. “And be
gracious to everybody, even to those who have been most cattish.”</p>
<p>Helen was far too excited and grateful to harbor <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_237" id="Page_237"></SPAN></span>animosity. Moreover,
she dreaded the chance of being left alone with Bower. As he had
already declared his intentions publicly, she was sure he would seize
the first opportunity to ask her to marry him. And what would be her
answer? She hardly knew. She must have time to think. She must search
her own heart. She almost flinched from the succeeding thought,—was
it that her soul had found another mate? If that was so, she must
refuse Bower, though the man she was learning to love might pass out
of her life and leave her desolate.</p>
<p>She liked Bower, even respected him. Never for an instant had the
notion intruded that he had followed her to Switzerland with an
unworthy motive. To her mind, nothing could be more straightforward
than their acquaintance. The more she reflected on Millicent Jaques’s
extraordinary conduct, the more she was astounded by its utter
baselessness. And Bower was admirable in many ways. He stood high in
the opinion of the world. He was rich, cultured, and seemingly very
deeply enamored of her undeserving self. What better husband could any
girl desire? He would give her everything that made life worth living.
Indeed, if the truth must be told, she was phenomenally lucky.</p>
<p>Thus did she strive to silence misgivings, to quell doubt, to order
and regulate a blurred medley of subconscious thought. While laughing,
and talking, and making the most successful efforts to be at ease with
the dozens of people who came and spoke to <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_238" id="Page_238"></SPAN></span>Mrs. de la Vere and
herself, she felt like some frail vessel dancing blithely in a swift,
smooth current, yet hastening ever to the verge of a cataract.</p>
<p>Once Bower approached, skillfully piloting Mrs. Badminton-Smythe; for
Reginald, tiring of the rôle thrust on him by his wife, had gone to
play bridge. It was his clear intent to take Helen from her chaperon.</p>
<p>“It is still snowing, though not so heavily,” he said. “Come on the
veranda, and look at the landscape. The lake is a pool of ink in the
middle of a white table cloth.”</p>
<p>“The snow will be far more visible in the morning, and we have a lot
of ice to melt here,” interposed Mrs. de la Vere quickly.</p>
<p>The man and woman, both well versed in the ways of society, looked
each other squarely in the eye. Though disappointed, the man
understood, was even appreciative.</p>
<p>“Miss Wynton is fortunate in her friends,” he said, and straightway
went to the writing room. He felt that Helen was safe with this
unexpected ally. He could afford to bide his time. Nothing could now
undo the effect of his open declaration while flouting Millicent
Jaques. If he gave that wayward young person a passing thought, it was
one of gladness that she had precipitated matters. There remained only
an unpleasant meeting with Stampa in the morning. He shuddered at the
recollection that he had nearly done a foolish thing while crossing
the <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_239" id="Page_239"></SPAN></span>crevasse. What sinister influence could have so weakened his
nerve as to make him think of murder? Crime was the last resource of
impaired intellect. He was able to laugh now at the stupid memory of
it.</p>
<p>True, the American——</p>
<p>By the way, what did Millicent mean by her shrewish cry that Spencer
was paying for Helen’s holiday? So engrossed was he in other
directions that his early doubts with regard to “The Firefly’s”
unprecedented enterprise in sending a representative to this
out-of-the-way Swiss valley had been lulled to sleep. Of course, he
had caused certain inquiries to be made—that was his method. One of
the telegrams he dispatched from Zurich after Helen’s train bustled
off to Coire started the investigation. Thus far, a trusted clerk
could only ascertain that the newspaper had undoubtedly commissioned
the girl on the lines indicated. Still, the point demanded attention.
He resolved to telegraph further instructions in the morning, with
Spencer’s name added as a clew, though, to be sure, he was not done
with Millicent yet. He would reckon with her also on the morrow.
Perhaps, if he annoyed her sufficiently, she might explain that
cryptic taunt.</p>
<p>Could he have seen a letter that was brought to Spencer’s room before
dinner, the telegram would not have been written. Mackenzie, rather
incoherent with indignation, sent a hurried scrawl.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_240" id="Page_240"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Spencer</span>,” it ran,—“A devil of a thing has happened.
To-day,” the date being three days old, “I went out to lunch,
leaving a thick headed subeditor in charge. I had not been gone
ten minutes when a stage fairy, all frills and flounces, whisked
into the office and asked for Miss Wynton’s address. My assistant
succumbed instantly. He was nearly asphyxiated with joy at being
permitted to entertain, not unawares, that angel of musical
comedy, Miss Millicent Jaques. His maundering excuse is that you
yourself seemed to acknowledge Miss Jaques’s right to be
acquainted with her friend’s whereabouts. I have good reason to
believe that the frail youth not only spoke of Maloja, but
supplied such details as were known to him of your kindness in the
matter. I have cursed him extensively; but that can make no
amends. At any rate, I feel that you should be told, and it only
remains for me to express my lasting regret that the incident
should have occurred.”</p>
</div>
<p>This letter, joined to certain lurid statements made by Stampa, had
induced Spencer to accept Mrs. de la Vere’s invitation. Little as he
cared to dine in Bower’s company, it was due to Helen that he should
not refuse. He was entangled neck and heels in a net of his own
contriving. For very shame’s sake, he could not wriggle out, leaving
Helen in the toils.</p>
<p>Surely there never was a day more crammed with contrarieties. He
witnessed his adversary’s rebuff, and put it down to its rightful
cause. No sooner had he discovered Mrs. de la Vere’s apparent motive
in keeping the girl by her side, than he was buttonholed by the Rev.
Philip Hare.</p>
<p>“You know I am not an ardent admirer of Bower,” said the cleric; “but
I must admit that it <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_241" id="Page_241"></SPAN></span>was very manly of him to make that outspoken
statement about Miss Wynton.”</p>
<p>“What statement?” asked Spencer.</p>
<p>“Ah, I had forgotten. You were not present, of course. He made the
other woman’s hysterical outburst supremely ridiculous by saying, in
effect, that he meant to marry Miss Wynton.”</p>
<p>“He said that, eh?”</p>
<p>“Yes. He was quite emphatic. I rebuked Miss Jaques myself, and he
thanked me.”</p>
<p>“Everything was nicely cut and dried in my absence, it seems.”</p>
<p>“Well—er——”</p>
<p>“The crowd evidently lost sight of the fact that I had carried off the
prospective bride.”</p>
<p>“N-no. Miss Jaques called attention to it.”</p>
<p>“Guess her head is screwed on straight, <i>padre</i>. She made a bad break
in attacking Miss Wynton; but when she set about Bower she was running
on a strong scent. Sit tight, Mr. Hare. Don’t take sides, or whoop up
the wrong spout, and you’ll see heaps of fun before you’re much
older.”</p>
<p>Mightily incensed, the younger man turned away. The vicar produced his
handkerchief and trumpeted into it loudly.</p>
<p>“God bless my soul!” he said, and repeated the pious wish, for he felt
that it did him good, “how does one whoop up the wrong spout? And what
happens if one does? And how remarkably touchy everybody seems to be.
Next time I apply to the <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_242" id="Page_242"></SPAN></span>C.M.S. for an Alpine station, I shall
stipulate for a low altitude. I am sure this rarefied air is bad for
the nerves.”</p>
<p>Nevertheless, Hare’s startling communication was the one thing needed
to clear away the doubts that beset Spencer at the dinner table. He
had seen Mrs. de la Vere enter Helen’s bedroom when he left the girl
in charge of a gesticulating maid; but an act of womanly solicitude
did not explain the friendship that sprang so suddenly into existence.
Now he understood, or thought he understood, which is a man’s way when
he seeks to interpret a woman’s mind. Mrs. de la Vere, like the rest,
was dazzled by Bower’s wealth. After ignoring Helen during the past
fortnight, she was prepared to toady to her instantly in her new guise
as the chosen bride of a millionaire. The belief added fuel to the
fire already raging in his breast.</p>
<p>There never was man more loyal to woman in his secret meditations than
Spencer; but his gorge rose at the sight of Helen’s winsome gratitude
to one so unworthy of it. With him, now as ever, to think was to act.</p>
<p>Watching his chance, he waylaid Helen when her vigilant chaperon was
momentarily absorbed in a suggestion that private theatricals and the
rehearsal of a minuet would relieve the general tedium while the snow
held.</p>
<p>“Spare me five minutes, Miss Wynton,” he said. “I want to tell you
something.”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_243" id="Page_243"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>Mrs. de la Vere pirouetted round on him before the girl could answer.</p>
<p>“Miss Wynton is just going to bed,” she informed him graciously. “You
know how tired she is, Mr. Spencer. You must wait till the morning.”</p>
<p>“I don’t feel like waiting; but I promise to cut down my remarks to
one minute—by the clock.” He answered Mrs. de la Vere, but looked at
Helen.</p>
<p>Her color rose and fell almost with each beat of her heart. She saw
the steadfast purpose in his eyes, and shrank from the decision she
would be called upon to make. Hardly realizing what form the words
took, she gave faint utterance to the first lucid idea that presented
itself. “I think—I must really—go to my room,” she murmured. “You
wouldn’t—like me—to faint twice in one evening—Mr. Spencer?”</p>
<p>It was an astonishing thing to say, the worst thing possible. It
betrayed an exact knowledge of his purpose in seeking this interview.
His eyes blazed with a quick light. It seemed that he was answered
before he spoke.</p>
<p>“Not one second. Go away, do!” broke in Mrs. de la Vere, whisking
Helen toward the elevator without further parley. But she shot a
glance at Spencer over her shoulder that he could not fail to
interpret as a silent message of encouragement. Forthwith he viewed
her behavior from a more favorable standpoint.</p>
<p>“Guess the feminine make-up is more complex <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_244" id="Page_244"></SPAN></span>than I counted on,” he
communed, as he bent over a table to find a match, that being a
commonplace sort of action calculated to disarm suspicion, lest others
might be observing him, and wondering why the women retired so
promptly.</p>
<p>“I like your American, my dear,” said Mrs. de la Vere sympathetically,
in the solitude of the corridor.</p>
<p>Helen was silent.</p>
<p>“If you want to cry, don’t mind me,” went on the kindly cynic. “I’m
coming in with you. I’ll light up while you weep, and then you must
tell me all about it. That will do you a world of good.”</p>
<p>“There’s n-n-nothing to tell!” bleated Helen.</p>
<p>“Oh yes, there is. You silly child, to-morrow you will have to choose
between those two men. Which shall it be? I said before dinner that I
couldn’t help you to decide. Perhaps I was mistaken. Anyhow, I’ll
try.”</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p>At midnight the snow storm ceased, the wind died away, and the still
air deposited its vapor on hills and valley in a hoar frost. The sun
rose with a magnificent disregard for yesterday’s riot.</p>
<p>Spencer’s room faced the southeast. When the valet drew his blind in
the morning the cold room was filled with a balmy warmth. A glance
through the window, however, dispelled a germ of hope that Helen and
he might start on the promised walk to Vicosoprano. The snow lay deep
in the pass, and probably extended a mile or two down into the Vale
<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_245" id="Page_245"></SPAN></span>of Bregaglia. The rapid thaw that would set in during the forenoon
might clear the roads before sunset. Next day, walking would be
practicable; to-day it meant wading.</p>
<p>He looked through the Orlegna gorge, and caught the silvery sheen of
the Cima di Rosso’s snow capped summit. Hardly a rock was visible. The
gale had clothed each crag with a white shroud. All day long the upper
reaches of the glacier would be pelted by avalanches. It struck him
that an early stroll to the highest point of the path beyond Cavloccio
might be rewarded with a distant view of several falls. In any case,
it provided an excellent pretext for securing Helen’s company, and he
would have cheerfully suggested a trip in a balloon to attain the same
object.</p>
<p>The temperature of his bath water induced doubts as to the imminence
of the thaw. Indeed, the air was bitterly cold as yet. The snow lay
closely on roads and meadow land. It had the texture of fine powder.
Passing traffic left shallow, well defined marks. A couple of
stablemen swung their arms to restore circulation. The breath of
horses and cattle showed in dense clouds.</p>
<p>For once in his life the color of a tie and the style of his clothes
became matters of serious import. At first, he was blind to the humor
of it. He hesitated between the spruce tightness of a suit fashioned
by a New York tailor and the more loosely designed garments he had
purchased in London. Then he <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_246" id="Page_246"></SPAN></span>laughed and reddened. Flinging both
aside, he chose the climber’s garb worn the previous day, and began to
dress hurriedly. Therein he was well advised. Nothing could better
become his athletic figure. He was that type of man who looks thinner
when fully clothed. He had never spared himself when asking others to
work hard, and he received his guerdon now in a frame of iron and
sinews of pliant steel.</p>
<p>Helen usually came down to breakfast at half-past eight. She had the
healthy British habit of beginning the day with a good meal, and
Spencer indulged in the conceit that he might be favored with a
tête-à-tête before they started for the projected walk. Neither Bower
nor Mrs. de la Vere ever put in an appearance at that hour. Though
Americans incline to the Continental manner of living, this true
Westerner found himself a sudden convert to English methods. In a
word, he was in love, and his lady could not err. To please her he was
prepared to abjure iced water—even to drink tea.</p>
<p>But, as often happens, his cheery mood was destined to end in
disappointment. He lingered a whole hour in the <i>salle à manger</i>, but
Helen came not. Then he rose in a panic. What if she had breakfasted
in her room, and was already basking in the sunlit veranda—perhaps
listening to Bower’s eloquence? He rushed out so suddenly that his
waiter was amazed. Really, these Americans were
incomprehensible—weird <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_247" id="Page_247"></SPAN></span>as the English. The two races dwelt far
apart, but they moved in the same erratic orbit. To the stolid German
mind they were human comets, whose comings and goings were not to be
gaged by any reasonable standard.</p>
<p>No, the veranda was empty—to him. Plenty of people greeted him; but
there was no Helen. Ultimately he reflected that their appointment was
for ten o’clock. He calmed down, and a pipe became obvious. He was
enjoying that supremest delight of the smoker—the first soothing
whiffs of the day’s tobacco—when a servant brought him a note. The
handwriting was strange to his eyes; but a premonition told him that
it was Helen’s. Somehow, he expected that she would write in a clear,
strong, legible way. He was not mistaken. She sent a friendly little
message that she was devoting the morning to work. The weather made it
impossible to go to Vicosoprano, and in any event she did not feel
equal to a long walk. “Yesterday’s events,” she explained, “took more
out of me than I imagined.”</p>
<p>Well, she had been thinking of him, and that counted. He was staring
at the snow covered tennis courts, and wondering how soon the valley
would regain its summer aspect, when Stampa limped into sight round
the corner of the hotel. He stood at the foot of the broad flight of
steps, as though waiting for someone. Spencer was about to join him
for a chat, when he recollected that Bower and the guide had an
arrangement to meet in the morning.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_248" id="Page_248"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>With the memory came a queer jumble of impressions. Stampa’s story,
told overnight, was a sad one; but the American was too fair minded to
affect a moral detestation of Bower because of a piece of folly that
wrecked a girl’s life sixteen years ago. If the sins of a man’s youth
were to shadow his whole life, then charity and regeneration must be
cast out of the scheme of things. Moreover, Bower’s version of the
incident might put a new face on it. There was no knowing how he too
had been tempted and suffered. That he raged against the resurrection
of a bygone misdeed was shown by his mad impulse to kill Stampa on the
glacier. That such a man, strong in the power of his wealth and social
position, should even dream of blotting out the past by a crime,
offered the clearest proof of the frenzy that possessed him as soon as
he recognized Etta Stampa’s father.</p>
<p>Not one word of his personal belief crossed Spencer’s lips during the
talk with the guide. Rather did he impress on his angry and vengeful
hearer that a forgotten scandal should be left in its tomb. He took
this line, not that he posed as a moralist, but because he hated to
acknowledge, even to himself, that he was helped in his wooing by
Helen’s horror of his rival’s lapse from the standard every pure
minded woman sets up in her ideal lover. Ethically, he might be wrong;
in his conscience he was justified. He had suffered too grievously
from every species of intrigue and calumny during his <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_249" id="Page_249"></SPAN></span>own career not
to be ultra-sensitive in regard to the use of such agents.</p>
<p>Yet, watching the bent and crippled old man waiting there in the snow,
a sense of pity and mourning chilled his heart with ice cold touch.</p>
<p>“If I were Stampa’s son, if that dead girl were my sister, how would
<i>I</i> settle with Bower?” he asked, clenching his pipe firmly between
his teeth. “Well, I could only ask God to be merciful both to him and
to me.”</p>
<p>“Good gracious, Mr. Spencer! why that fierce gaze at our delightful
valley?” came the voice of Mrs. de la Vere. “I am glad none of us can
give you the address of the Swiss clerk of the weather—or you would
surely slay him.”</p>
<p>He turned. Convention demanded a smile and a polite greeting; but
Spencer was not conventional. “You are a thought reader, Mrs. de la
Vere,” he said.</p>
<p>“‘One of my many attractions,’ you should have added.”</p>
<p>“I find this limpid light too critical.”</p>
<p>“Oh, what a horrid thing to tell any woman, especially in the early
morning!”</p>
<p>“I have a wretched habit of putting the second part of a sentence
first. I really intended to say—but it is too late.”</p>
<p>“It is rather like swallowing the sugar coating after the pill; but
I’ll try.”</p>
<p>“Well, then, this crystal atmosphere does not <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_250" id="Page_250"></SPAN></span>lend itself to the
obvious. If we were in London, I should catalogue your bewitchments
lest you imagined I was blind to them.”</p>
<p>“That sounds nice, but——”</p>
<p>“It demands analysis, so I have failed doubly.”</p>
<p>“I don’t feel up to talking like a character in one of Henry James’s
novels. And you were much more amusing last night. Have you seen Miss
Jaques this morning?”</p>
<p>“No. That is, I don’t think so.”</p>
<p>“Do you know her?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“It would be a kind thing if someone told her that there are other
places in Switzerland where she will command the general admiration
she deserves.”</p>
<p>“I am inclined to believe that there is a man in the hotel who can put
that notion before her delicately.”</p>
<p>Spencer possessed the unchanging gravity of expression that the whole
American race seems to have borrowed from the Red Indian. Mrs. de la
Vere’s eyes twinkled as she gazed at him.</p>
<p>“You didn’t hear what was said last night,” she murmured. “Where
Millicent Jaques is concerned, delicacy is absent from Mr. Bower’s
make-up—is that good New York?”</p>
<p>“It would be understood.”</p>
<p>This time he smiled. Mrs. de la Vere wished to be a friend to Helen.
Whatsoever her motive, the wish was excellent.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_251" id="Page_251"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>“You are severe,” she pouted. “Of course I ought not to mimic you——”</p>
<p>“Pray do. I had no idea I spoke so nicely.”</p>
<p>“Thank you. But I am serious. I have espoused Miss Wynton’s cause, and
there will be nothing but unhappiness for her while that other girl
remains here.”</p>
<p>“I hope you are mistaken,” he said slowly, meeting her quizzing glance
without flinching.</p>
<p>“That is precisely where a woman’s point of view differs from a
man’s,” she countered. “In our lives we are swayed by things that men
despise. We are conscious of sidelong looks and whisperings. We dread
the finger of scorn. When you have a wife, Mr. Spencer, you will begin
to realize the limitations of the feminine horizon.”</p>
<p>“Are you asking me to take this demonstrative young lady in hand?”</p>
<p>“I believe you would succeed.”</p>
<p>Spencer smiled again. He had not credited Mrs. de la Vere with such
fine perceptiveness. If her words meant anything, they implied an
alliance, offensive and defensive, for Helen’s benefit and his own.</p>
<p>“Guess we’ll leave it right there till I’ve had a few words with Miss
Wynton,” he said, dropping suddenly into colloquial phrase.</p>
<p>“A heart to heart talk, in fact.” She laughed pleasantly, and opened
her cigarette case.</p>
<p>“Tell you what, Mrs. de la Vere,” he said, “if <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_252" id="Page_252"></SPAN></span>ever you come to
Colorado I shall hail you as a real cousin!”</p>
<p>Then a silence fell between them. Bower was walking out of the hotel.
He passed close in front of the glass partition, and might have seen
them if his eyes were not as preoccupied as his mind. But he was
looking at Stampa, and frowning in deep thought. The guide heard his
slow, heavy tread, and turned. The two met. They exchanged no word,
but went away together, the lame peasant hobbling along by the side of
the tall, well dressed plutocrat.</p>
<p>“How odd!” said Mrs. de la Vere. “How exceedingly odd!”</p>
<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_253" id="Page_253"></SPAN></span></p>
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