d on him and her
ears listening to him alone. Particularly now; for his mood had
changed and he was drifting back toward something she had said earlier
in the evening--something about her own possible capacity for good and
evil. It was a question, only partly serious; and she responded in the
same vein:

"How should I know what capabilities I possess? Of course I have
capabilities. No doubt, dormant within me lies every besetting sin,
every human failing. Perhaps also the cardinal, corresponding, and
antidotic virtues to all of these."

"I suppose," he said, "every sin has its antithesis. It's like a chess
board--the human mind--with the black men ranged on one side and the
white on the other, ready to move, to advance, skirmish, threaten,
manoeuvre, attack, and check each other, and the intervening squares
represent the checkered battlefield of contending desires."

The simile striking her as original and clever, she made him a pretty
compliment. She was very young in her affections.

"If," she nodded, "a sin, represented by a black piece, dares to stir
or intrude or threaten, then there is always the better thought,
represented by a white piece, ready to block and check the black one.
Is that it?"

"Exactly," he said, secretly well pleased with himself. And as for
Athalie, she admired his elastic and eloquent imagination beyond
words.

"Do you know," she said, "you have never yet told me anything about
your business. Is it all right for me to ask, Clive?"

"Certainly. It's real estate--Bailey, Reeve, and Willis. Willis is
dead, Reeve out of it, and my father and I are the whole show."

"Reeve?" she repeated, interested.

"Yes, he lives in Paris, permanently. He has a son here, in the
banking business."

"Cecil Reeve?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"No. My sister Catharine does."

Clive seemed interested and curious: "Cecil Reeve and I were at
Harvard together. I haven't seen much of him since."

"What sort is he, Clive?"

"Nice--Oh, very nice. A good sport;--a good deal of a sport.... Which
sister did you say?"

"Catharine."

"That's the cunning little one with the baby stare and brown curls?"

"Yes."

There was a silence. Clive sat absently fidgeting with his glass, and
Athalie watched him. Presently without looking up he said: "Yes, Cecil
Reeve is a very decent sport.... Rather gay. Good-looking chap. Nice
sort.... But rather a sport, you know."

The girl nodded.

"Catharine mustn't believ