e had violent opinions expressed in sudden, sharp movements,
gestures with his shoulders, swift frowns and fragmentary sentences.

Howat Penny had never seen a more ill-ordered youth, and he experienced
an increasing difficulty in keeping a marked asperity from his speech
and conduct. Eliza Provost shortly came down, and the three strolled out
into the ruddy light of late afternoon. Howat Penny consumed a long time
dressing for the evening; and, in the end, irritably summoned Rudolph.
"I can't get these damned studs in," he complained; "whatever do you
suppose women use for starch now?" Rudolph dexterously fixed the
emeralds, then held the black silk waistcoat. "And coats won't hang for
a bawbee," he went on. "Gentlemen like Gary Dilkes used to go regularly
to London, spring and fall, for their things. No doubt then about a man
of breeding. You didn't see the other kind around. Wouldn't have 'em."
Rudolph murmured consolingly. "Sat in the pit but never got into the
boxes," his voice grew thin, querulous. "I'm moving along, Rudolph," he
admitted suddenly; "the manners, and, by thunder, the music too, don't
suit me any more. Give me the old Academy days in Irving Place." He
hummed a bar from _Ernani_.

Through dinner he maintained a severe silence, listening with a frowning
disapproval to Eliza Provost's tranquil, subversive utterances. Howat
Penny couldn't think what her father was about, permitting her to
harangue loafers by the streets and saloons. She was, in a cold way--she
had Peter Jannan Provost's curious grey colouring--a handsome piece of a
girl, too. "A fine figger," he told himself.

Later, Mariana and James Polder had gone out on the porch, he faced with
reluctance the task of furnishing her with entertainment; but, to his
extreme relief, she procured a leather portfolio, and addressed herself
to a sheaf of papers. But that, in itself, was a peculiar way for a
young woman to spend an evening. She would have done it, he felt, if he
had been half his actual age. God help the man with a fancy for her!
Charming visions were woven on his memory from the fading skeins of the
past--a ride in a dilapidated, public fiacre after a masked ball in
Paris ... at dawn. Confetti tangled in coppery hair, a wilful mouth,
fragrantly painted, and phantomlike swans on a black lake. His silk hat
had been telescoped in the process of smacking a Frenchman's eye.
Perhaps, they had told each other, there would be cards later in the