s plans for her. She was to study music
determinedly--she had a proud little bank account--and she would live at
the old house and revel in Nancy's social triumphs.

And Raymond, in his shrouded house, had his restless hours and with
greater reason, for he was playing utterly in the dark and had to
acknowledge to his grim, off-standing self that, except for the fact
that he was in the dark, he would not dare play the very amusing game he
was playing.

"If she is masquerading," Raymond beat about with his conscience, "it's
the biggest lark ever, and she and I will have many a good laugh over
it."

"_But if she--isn't?_" demanded the shadowy self.

"Well, if she isn't, she jolly well knows how to take care of herself!
Besides, I'm not going to hurt her. Why, in thunder, can't two fellow
creatures enjoy innocent things without having evil suggestions?"

"_They can!_" thundered the Other Self, "_but this isn't innocent--at
least it is dangerous_."

"Oh! be hanged!" Raymond flung back and the Shadow sank into oblivion.

Left to himself--one of his selves--Raymond resorted to sentiment.

"Of course we both know--under what might be--what _is_. She's like
Kipling's girl in the Brushwood Boy."

But that did not take in the Other Self in the least. It laughed.

When July came the heat settled down in earnest on the panting city.

"Aren't you going to take any vacation?" asked Raymond. He and Joan were
sauntering up Fifth Avenue to a certain haven in a backyard where the
fountain played and the birds sang.

"No. I'm going to stay in town and let Miss Gordon have her outing. The
Brier Bush is too young to be left alone this year. Next year it will be
my turn."

"I'm afraid you'll wilt," Raymond looked at the blooming creature beside
him. "Funny, isn't it, how things turn out? I expected to go in August
to--to that lady with whom you first saw me" (Joan looked divinely
innocent); "but only yesterday she informed me that she had resolved to
go abroad, and asked if it would make any difference to me. She's like
that. Her procedure resembles jumping off a diving plank."

"Well, does it make any difference?" Joan asked.

"You bet it does! It makes me free to stay in town."

"I'm afraid you'll wilt," Joan twinkled.

"We must take precautions against that." Raymond looked deadly in
earnest.

The meetings of these two were now set, like clear jewels in the round
of common days. They were not too frequent and they wer