e
died, when Corrie was two years old and Flavia four." He rose bruskly
and crossed the room. "You don't smoke, Gerard? I always spoil a cigar
when I talk."

"I don't unless there's something wrong," Gerard answered, tactfully
casual. "A cigarette helps, then. But everything is very right, now. You
know, these races are my holidays, although they are an important
business feature, too. My factory affairs keep me hard at work most of
the year. Then in the intervals I am designing and having constructed a
genuine racing machine of my own, much more powerful than the ninety
Mercury I'm driving now. I'm not an idle citizen, really."

Flavia's head drooped lower. He was telling her father these things as
part of that steady purpose whose object she felt herself; she knew it,
clairvoyantly acute.

"You get a lot out of living," commented Mr. Rose, coming back to his
seat. "You enjoy it, I'm thinking."

"Yes, I do," Gerard replied candidly. "Why not?"

"You're right. Now, I want to tell you about a deal I put through in the
Street, to-day."

Flavia moved to the piano and began to touch the keys. She knew there
would be only men's talk for a while, and from this place she could
watch Gerard unseen. In all the previous days she had avoided this,
refusing to take cognizance of the physical beauty upon which Isabel
dilated, half-unconsciously defending herself from an undefined danger.
She commenced to play pastel-toned bits of Nevin and Chaminade, her
clear eyes delighting in free vision.

Out on the veranda, Corrie was sustaining a defense of his own. Upright
against a column, scarlet with determination, Isabel pursued the wilful
desire she had voiced at the dinner-table.

"That Frenchwoman was around the course with her husband, yesterday,"
she urged. "Other women have done it before. Why won't you take me?"

"You might get hurt. Father never would let you."

"He needn't know, stupid. You don't want to, that's all. I'll ask Mr.
Gerard; he'll like to take me."

The poison had been drawn from that sting, but Corrie winced,
nevertheless.

"I _want_ you, Isabel. I love you."

"You're a boy; I'm a year older than you."

"Eleven months!"

"Anyhow, I'm a woman. I do what I choose, while you're afraid to move
for fear uncle will catch you. What would he do, ferule your little
palms?"

Furious, Corrie sprang across and dropped his hands on her shoulders
with the freedom of their life-long intercourse.

"I'd like