he proper amount of exercise, and
this excess of emotion jarred him in a way that irritated him. He did
blame Jeff, who was at the bottom of this beautiful creature's misery.
Still, if Jeff had not left her, she would not be sitting here now with
the white hands in his. But he was conscious of a disturbing element of
the unlawful, like eating a hurtful dish at dinner. Reardon had lived
too long in a cultivating of the middle way to embark with joyousness on
illicit possessing. As the traditions of Addington were wafting Alston
Choate away from this primitive little Circe on her isle, so his
acquired habits of safe and healthful living were wafting him. If his
inner refusals could have been spoken crudely out they would have
amounted to a miserable plea:

"Look here. It ain't because I don't want you. But there's Jeff."

For Reardon was not only a good fellow, but he had gazed with a wistful
awe on the traditions of Addington's upper class. He had tried honestly
to look like the men born to it; he never owned even to himself that he
felt ill at ease in it. Yet he did regard it with a reverence the men
that made it were far from feeling, and he knew something was due it. He
drew back, releasing gently the white hands that lay in his. He wanted
to kiss them, but he was not even yet sure they were enough his to
justify it. He cleared his throat.

"The man for you to go to," said he, "is Alston Choate. I don't like
him, but he's square as a die. And if you can get yourself where it'll
be possible to speak to you without knowing there's another man stepping
between--" he hesitated, his own heart beating for her and the decencies
of Addington holding him back. "Hang it, Esther," he burst forth, "you
know where I stand."

"Do I?" said Esther.

She rose, and, looking wan, gave him her hand. And Reardon got out of
the room, feeling rather more of a sneak than Alston had when he went
away. Esther stood still until she heard the door close behind him. Then
she ran out of the room and upstairs, to hide herself, if she could,
from the exasperated thought of the men who had failed her. She hated
them all. They owed her something, protection, or cherishing tenderness.
She could not know it was Addington that had got hold of them in one way
or another and kept them doggedly faithful to its own ideals. As she was
stepping along the hall, Madame Beattie called her.

"Esther, stop a minute. I want you."

Esther paused, and then cam