pon his natural, instinctive impulses. MacRae was aware of that.
He saw now a swift by-play that escaped the rest. Nothing of any
consequence,--a look, the motion of a hand, a fleeting something on the
girl's face and Stubby's. Jack glanced at Nelly Abbott sitting beside
him, her small blonde head pertly inclined. Nelly saw it too. She smiled
knowingly.

"Has the brunette siren hooked Stubby?" MacRae inquired in a discreet
undertone.

"I think so. I'm not sure. Etta's such an outrageous flirt," Nelly said.
"I hope not, anyway. I'm afraid I can't quite appreciate Etta as a
prospective sister-in-law."

"No?"

"She's catty--and vain as a peacock. Stubby ought to marry a nice
sensible girl who'd mother him," Nelly observed with astonishing
conviction; "like Betty, for instance."

"Oh, you seem to have very definite ideas on that subject," MacRae
smiled. He did not commit himself further. But he resented the
suggestion. There was also an amusing phase of Nelly's declaration which
did not escape him,--the pot calling the kettle black. Etta
Robbin-Steele did flirt. She had dancing black eyes that flung a
challenge to men. But Nelly herself was no shrinking violet, for all her
baby face. She was like an elf. Her violet eyes were capable of
infinite shades of expression. She, herself, had a way of appropriating
men who pleased her, to the resentful dismay of other young women. It
pleased her to do that with Jack MacRae whenever he was available. And
until Betty had preempted a place in his heart without even trying, Jack
MacRae had been quite willing to let his fancy linger romantically on
Nelly Abbott.

As it was,--he looked across the room at Betty chatting with young Lane.
What a damned fool he was,--he, MacRae! All his wires were crossed. If
some inescapable human need urged him to love, how much better to love
this piquant bit of femininity beside him? But he couldn't do it. It
wasn't possible. All the old rebellion stirred in him. The locked
chambers of his mind loosed pictures of Squitty, memories of things
which had happened there, as he let his eyes drift from Betty, whom he
loved, to her mother, whom his father had loved and lost. She had made
his father suffer through love. Her daughter was making Donald MacRae's
son suffer likewise. Again, through some fantastic quirk of his
imagination, the stodgy figure of Horace Gower loomed in the background,
shadowy and sinister. There were moments, like the present, whe