any other way I'd like
to know! What's socialism? Organized robbery! Nothing else! 'Down with
success! Down with initiative! Down with brains!' Stuff!"

"It's not socialism this time: it's Professor Merritt's theories on
property," said Sylvia to the old gentleman, blandly ignoring his
ignoring of her.

Page stared at her in astonishment. "Are you a clairvoyant?" he cried.

"No, no," she explained, laughing. "You took it out of your pocket up
there by the brook."

"But you saw only the title. Merritt's name isn't on the cover."

"Oh, it's a pretty well-known book," said Sylvia easily. "And my
father's a professor of Economics. When I was little I used to have
books like that to build houses with, instead of blocks. And I've had
to keep them in order and dusted ever since. I'm not saying that I
know much about their insides."

"Just look there!" broke in Arnold. "Did I ever see a young lady pass
up such a perfectly good chance to bluff!"

As usual nobody paid the least attention to his remark. The
conversation shifted to a radical play which had been on the boards in
Paris, the winter before.

After luncheon, they adjourned into the living-room. As the company
straggled across the wide, dimly shining, deeply shaded hall, Sylvia
felt her arm seized and held, and turning her head, looked into the
laughing face of Arnold. "What kind of flowers does Judy like the
best?" he inquired, the question evidently the merest pretext to
detain her, for as the others moved out of earshot he said in a
delighted whisper, his eyes gleaming in the dusk with amused malice:
"Go it, Sylvia! Hit 'em out! It's worth enduring oceans of Greek
history to see old Sommerville squirm. Molly gone--Morrison as poor as
a church mouse; and now Page going fast before his very eyes--"

She shook off his hand with genuine annoyance. "I don't know what
you're talking about, Arnold. You're horrid! Judith doesn't like cut
flowers at all,--any kind. She likes them alive, on plants."

"She _would!_" Arnold was rapt in his habitual certainty that every
peculiarity of Judith's was another reason for prostrate adoration.
"I'll send her a window-box for every window in the hospital." His
admiration overflowed to Judith's sister. He patted her on the
shoulder. "You're all right too, Sylvia. You're batting about
three-sixty, right now. I've always told the girls when they said Page
was offish that if they could only get in under his guard once--and
someh