effrey asked, with a certainty that it
had something to do with Moore.

"What I just said," she answered, with a perfect simplicity. "About
lines of cleavage. It's a good figure of speech, and it's something the
men can understand."

"For Moore? You're writing it for Moore?"

"Yes." She slipped the pad into her bag.

"Amabel," said he, helpless between inevitable irritation and tenderest
love of her, "you are a perfectly unspoiled piece of work from the hand
of God Almighty. But if you're running with Weedon Moore, you're going
to do an awful lot of harm."

"I hope not, dear," she said gravely, but with no understanding, he saw,
that her pure intentions could lead her wrong.

"I've heard Weedon Moore talking to the men."

She gave him a look of acute interest.

"Really, Jeff? Now, where?"

"The old circus-ground. I heard him. And he's pulling down, Amabel. He's
destroying. He's giving those fellows an idea of this country that's
going to make them hate it, trample it--" He paused as if the emotion
that choked him made him the more impatient of what caused it.

"That's it," said she, her own face settling into a mournful
acquiescence. "We've earned hate. We must accept it. Till we can turn it
into love."

"But he's preaching discontent."

"Ah, Jeffrey," said she, "there's a noble discontent. Where should we be
without it?"

He got up, and shook his head at her, smilingly, tenderly. She had made
him feel old, and alien to this strange new day.

"You're impossible, dear," said he, "because you're so good. You've only
to see right things to follow them and you believe everybody's the
same."

"But why not?" she asked him quickly. "Am I to think myself better than
they are?"

"Not better. Only more prepared. By generations of integrity. Think of
that old boy up there." He glanced affectionately at the judge, a friend
since his childhood, when the painted eyes had followed him about the
room and it had been a kind of game to try vainly to escape them. "Take
a mellow soil like your inheritance and the inheritance of a lot of 'em
here in Addington. Plant kindness in it and decency and--"

"And love of man," said Miss Amabel quietly.

"Yes. Put it that way, if you like it better. I mean the determination
to play a square game. Not to gorge, but make the pile go round. Plant
in that kind of a soil and, George! what a growth you get!"

"I don't find fewer virtues among my plainer friends."

"No, no, dear!