"Fate," said Stanistreet.

"Not at all. If I go, it'll be chance that takes me--pure chance."

"Don't see much difference myself."

"There's all the difference. Ask any man who's been chivied about to all

the ends of the earth and back again. He can tell you something about,

chance, but I doubt if he swears much by fate. Chance--oh Lord, don't I

know it!--chance takes you up and plays with you, pleases you or teases

you, and drops you when she's tired of you. Like--some ladies of our

acquaintance, and you're none the worse for it, not you! Fate looks

devilish well after you, loves you or hates you, and in either case

sticks to you and ruins you. Like your wife. To complete the little

allegory, you can have as many chances as you like, but only one fate.

Needless to say, though my chances have been many and charming, I

naturally prefer my--fate."

Tyson was a master of the graceful art of symbolism, and Stanistreet had

caught the trick from him. At the present moment he would have given a

great deal to know how much of all this was a mere playing with words.

There was a sound of hurrying feet in the room upstairs, and the two men

held their breath. Tyson was the first to recover.

"Good God, Stanistreet, how white you are! I wish I hadn't let you in for

this. I'm not in the least nervous myself, you know. She's all right.

Thompson says so. I'm awfully sorry for the poor little soul, but if

you come to think of it, it's the most natural and ordinary thing in the

world."

But Stanistreet's thoughts were back in yesterday. He could see nothing,

think of nothing but the little figure going through the doorway, and

laughing as it went.

"Do you mind not talking about it?" said he.

Tyson sat quiet for a while, except when some obscure movement overhead

roused him from his philosophic calm. Towards midnight Mrs. Wilcox came

to the door and spoke to him for a minute. After that he became

thoughtful. "I don't quite like the look of it," said he; "he's sent for

Baker of Drayton--I suppose it means that the idiot has just sense enough

not to trust his own judgment. But I don't like it."

By the time he had struck another attitude, lit another cigar, and gulped

down another tumbler of whiskey-and-soda, philosophic calm gave way to

philosophic doubt. "I don't know who has the management of these things,

but what I want to know is--why do they make women like that? Is it

justice? Is it even common decency? What do you think?"

Stanistreet moved impatiently. "I don't think. I've no opinion on the

subject. And I never interfere between a man and his Maker--it's bad

form. They must settle it between them."




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