"Because you mustn't. It's impossible."

Thayer mistook his meaning.

"I can't see the impossibility, Dane. Lorimer was--is my friend. I knew
him long before I ever heard of Mrs. Lorimer. I was their guest at
Monomoy for a month, last summer, too. We both of us know that I can
hold Lorimer, when nobody else can. I don't pretend to understand it,
myself; but the fact remains. All in all, I think I am the best possible
person to go."

His voice was quiet, yet its every accent was final and uncompromising.
Before its dignity, Bobby felt like a rebuked child. He hastened to
justify himself.

"I wasn't thinking of that at all, Thayer. The idea would have been an
insult both to you and to Beatrix. I know that Beatrix feels she can
rely on you to manage Lorimer; but nevertheless it is absolutely out of
the question for you to go."

"Why?"

"Your engagements for the winter."

"I have made no engagements yet."

"Is that a fact?"

"As a general rule, I tell the truth," Thayer answered dryly.

"Well, you are sure to make some."

"Perhaps. When I do, it will be time enough for me to keep them."

"But your reputation!" Bobby urged.

"What of it?"

"How is it going to stand your burying yourself in the wilderness, just
when you have the city at your feet?"

"It will have to stand it. It will, if it is worth anything at all."

"Thayer, you sha'n't!" Bobby protested. "It's Quixotic and idiotic. You
sha'n't spoil your own good life for the sake of Lorimer's bad one. He
isn't worth it."

Thayer straightened his shoulders and threw back his head.

"What about Mrs. Lorimer?" he asked steadily.

The clock marked the passing seconds until hundreds of them had gone
away, never to return. Then Bobby crossed the room and laid his hand on
Thayer's shoulder.

"Thayer," he said slowly; "you are a fool, an utterly asinine fool; but
I can't help wishing that there were a few more fools in the world just
like you."

And in that instant, it flashed into Bobby Dane's mind that, ever since
he had first come to know Cotton Mather Thayer, he had been expecting
and awaiting just such a scene.

Late that same afternoon, Miss Gannion's card was brought to Beatrix.
All that day, she had denied herself to callers; not even Sally Van
Osdel had been admitted. Ten minutes before Miss Gannion came, Beatrix
would have said that she too must be sent away; but, as she read the
name on the card, she felt a sudden impulsive longing to