Athalie

"Mother," he said, "you're going about this matter in the wrong way. I

am not in love with Athalie Greensleeve. But there is no girl I like

better, none perhaps I like quite as well. Let me alone. There's no

sentiment between her and me so far. There won't be any--unless you

and other people begin to drive us toward each other. I don't want you

to do that. Don't interfere. Let us alone. We're having a good

time,--a perfectly natural, wholesome, happy time together."

[Illustration: "'I like her,' repeated Clive, Jr., a trifle

annoyed."] "What is it leading to?" demanded his mother impatiently.

"To nothing except more good times. That's absolutely all. That's all

that good times lead to where any of the girls you approve of are

concerned--not to sentiment, not to love, merely to more good times.

Why on earth can't people understand that even if the girl happens to

be earning her own living?"

"People don't understand. That is the truth, and you can't alter it,

Clive. The girl's reputation will always suffer. And that's where you

ought to show yourself generous."

"What?"

"If you really like and respect her."

"How am I to show myself generous, as you put it?"

"By keeping away from her."

"Because people gossip?"

"Because," said his mother sharply, "they'll think the girl is your

mistress if you continue to decorate public resorts with her."

"Would--you think so, mother?"

"No. You happen to be my son. And you're truthful. Otherwise I'd think

so."

"You would?"

"Certainly."

"That's rotten," he said, slowly.

"Oh, Clive, don't be a fool. You can't do what you're doing without

arousing suspicion everywhere--from a village sewing-circle to the

smartest gathering on Manhattan Island! You know it."

"I have never thought about it."

"Then think of it now. Whether it's rotten, as you say, or not, it's

so. It's one of the folk-ways of the human species. And if it is,

merely saying it's rotten can't alter it."

Mrs. Bailey's car was at the door; Clive took the great sable coat

from the maid who brought it and slipped it over the handsome

afternoon gown that his handsome mother wore.

For a moment he stood, looking at her almost curiously--at the

brilliant black eyes, the clear smooth olive skin still youthful

enough to be attractive, at the red lips, mostly nature's hue, at the

cheeks where the delicate carmine flush was still mostly nature's.