asier. With Goodhue, Lambert, and Mundy he applied himself unreservedly
to his work. Consequently he didn't visit much, didn't see Sylvia again
until the fall when he met her at a dinner at the Goodhues'. She shrank
from him perceptibly, but there was no escape. He studied her with an
easier mind. No date for her wedding had been set. Until that moment
should come there was nothing he could do. What he would be able to
accomplish then was problematical. Something. She shouldn't throw
herself away on Blodgett.

"It must be comforting," he heard her say to Goodhue, "to know if
trouble comes your wonderful firm will be taken care of."

George guessed she had meant him to hear that.

"I'm sure I hope so," Goodhue answered her, "but what do you mean?"

"I heard Mr. Morton say once he didn't think he'd care to go to war.
Didn't I, Mr. Morton?"

Goodhue, clearly puzzled by her manner, laughed.

"Give us something more useful, Sylvia. He's a born fighter."

"I believe I said it," George answered her. "There might be problems
here I couldn't very well desert."

Her eyes wavered. He recalled her hysterical manner that evening at
Oakmont. She still sought chances to hurt him. In spite of Blodgett,
then, she recognized a state of contest between them. He smiled
contentedly, for as long as that persisted his cause was alive.

XVII

It languished, however, during the winter as did Blodgett's hopes of a
speedy wedding. The Planters' Fifth Avenue home remained closed, because
of Mr. Planter's health. Sylvia and her mother went south with him.
Blodgett made a number of flying trips, deserting his affairs to that
extent to be with Sylvia. George was satisfied for the present to let
things drift.

Dalrymple certainly had drifted with events. He had taken no pains to
hide the shock of Sylvia's engagement. George of all people could
understand his disappointment, his helpless rage; but Dalrymple hadn't
bothered him, and he had about decided he never would.

One spring day, quite without warning, he appeared in George's office.
It was not long after the Planters' return to Oakmont. What did he want
here? Was there any point spending money on him as matters stood?

He looked at Dalrymple, a good deal surprised, reading the dissipation
recorded in his face, the nervousness exposed by the mobile hands. All
at once he understood why he had come at last. Dalrymple had wandered
too far. The patience of his friends had been exhaust