life as when she planted her
second foot safely on the pier."

"What about Lorimer?"

Bobby shook his broad shoulders, with the air of a man shaking off a
disagreeable subject.

"Oh, he's all right," he said shortly.

Together the two men idled away the afternoon. Bobby would fain have
introduced Thayer to his own brother craftsmen who infested the hotel in
the hope of getting speech with the artists; but Thayer had little
liking for being interviewed, and preferred to divide his time between
his own room and the streets. He and Bobby had an apparently limitless
fund of talk, and their conversation wandered at will over the events of
the past two months. However, as all roads lead to Rome, so all
subjects led to Beatrix. When they came around to her in their
discussion, Thayer invariably changed the subject; yet even a few words
on a constantly recurring theme can end by illuminating that theme
perfectly, provided only that it recurs often enough. By the time Thayer
was dressing for the concert, that night, he was in full possession of
all Bobby Dane's facts concerning his cousin, and he was convinced that
all was not well with Lorimer.

With a commendable spirit of originality, the officers of the chorus had
broken away from the established rule which proclaimed it an _Elijah_
season, and had chosen to give _St. Paul_, that night. Thayer liked the
oratorio. It seemed to him more original, more inspired, infinitely more
human than the other. Moreover, it would be restful to keep silent and
let the tenor warble himself to a lingering death. Even fiery chariots
become monotonous in time, and an indignant mob affords a welcome
variety. He had not heard the tenor since they had sung together in
Berlin, two years before, and he was looking forward to the evening with
a good deal of pleasure.

To his surprise and annoyance, he found the music stopping short at his
tympani, powerless to enter his brain. When he jolted himself out of
his train of subconscious thought, he was aware that the orchestra was
superb, that his old friend, the tenor, had added many cubits to his
artistic stature, during the past two years, that he himself, Cotton
Mather Thayer, would have to use his best efforts if he did not wish to
occupy an entirely subordinate place upon the programme. Then he
recurred to his thought of Beatrix and Lorimer. If Lorimer had not kept
a straight course during his honeymoon, what hope was there for either
himse