"Yes, I suppose that's the man's ideal. It isn't the woman's. We like men who obey the heart occasionally, instead of the head. It's stupid, of course, and we can't defend it, but somehow that's the kind of men we should prefer to have for a friend."
"And why?"
"Because we women count generosity as a virtue, Roger."
Roger drank, and wiped his mouth.
"Then, is an irresponsible person necessarily generous?"
"No, but all I mean is, we admire people who place friendship first, self-interest second."
"It appears that the fair Billy doth know a thing or two!"
Isbel wriggled her shoulders impatiently. "I don't want gifts from friends, but I do want friends who aren't afraid of giving. Surely that distinction is obvious?"
"Quite. What you are suffering from is acute romance. Such interesting persons no longer walk this hard, cold world of ours, if they have ever done so. A man's best friend is his bank balance. You may take that as an axiom."
"I fully believe it." Isbel raised her glass to the level of her face. "So here's long life to money, property, and self!"
"And wine, and women, and smiles, and the blessed sunshine-everything, in short, that makes life worth living! And a bas all metaphysical discussions between living men and women! A special staff of professors has been retained by the world to deal with all that trash."
Having emptied his glass at a gulp, Roger pulled out a cigar, which he proceeded to cut and light with relish. Judge regarded him smilingly.
"You never take things seriously, Mr. Stokes?"
"Yes, my work. But after work I believe in play."
"And no doubt you deserve it. Does he deserve it, Mrs. Stokes?"
"He works like a nigger, I fancy," answered Blanche, negligently. "It runs in the family. His brother Marshall's rapidly axquiring a fortune, and Roger is rapidly acquiring a reputation. Sometimes I feel I should like it to be the other way round."
"So Mr. Marshall Stokes is really clever?"
"They tell me he's a sort of little Napoleon, in his way. Billy's a lucky girl, whether she knows it or not."
"And Mr. Stokes is lucky, too."
"No, no-no gamble about it at all. A man is not a man till he gets married, and if he's unhappy afterwards, it's in all cases entirely his own fault. Look at Mr. Roger Stokes here. He's thoroughly contented with life-it's true he's been a trifle spoilt…Mr. Stokes, your health!…You must come to all my future picnics, if I am fortunate enough to have any more-if only for the sake of your high spirits."
"Then, on the whole, I've given greater satisfaction than the girls?"
"That I didn't say. Some things are outside praise, as you know-the glorious sun, for example. You're the wine of the party, Mr. Stokes, while the ladies are the sunshine."
As the afternoon wore on, Isbel developed a head-ache. She withdrew from the talk, and kept glancing at her wrist-watch; it was nearing two o'clock.
"You look pale, Billy," said Blanche at last.
"My head aches a little."
Everyone manifested sympathy. They decided to pack up and go, and meanwhile Isbel was made to sit in the shade of the trees. When finally they were ready to start for the house, she found herself with empty hands, walking beside Judge.
"May I speak, or would you rather be quiet?" he asked, after a few paces.
"No; please do."
"It's about my house. Why do you want it so badly, Miss Loment?"
She was silent for quite a long time.
"Perhaps it's your friendship I want, and not your house."
"Ah!…But since when…"
"I don't know. These feelings grow, don't' they?
"Yes…but why my friendship?…How have I deserved this?…"
"Then perhaps it is your house I want, after all…Really, Mr. Judge, I know as little about this as you." She lowered her town. "Of course, you know you are an exceptional man? You can understand it must be very flattering for a girl to be friends with such a man."
His face grew dark, but he said nothing till they were nearing the stile, where the others stood waiting for them. Then:
"You have my permission to tell your aunt that she may have Runhill Court at an agreed figure. I won't stand out any longer."
"And this offer is…unconditional?"
"Yes, unconditional."
"You clearly understand-oh, I can't say it…"
"You need not try. I clearly understand everything, and the offer is entirely without conditions."
"Then I will accept it," said Isbel, in a nearly inaudible voice.
Chapter IX WHAT HAPPENED IN THE SECOND ROOM
As they trooped into the ancient, strangely coloured hall their voices instinctively became lower and joking ceased. Blanche drew her friend aside.
"It's a lovely place, Billy!…Well, did you speak to him again?"
"Yes, it's all right-he's going to let us have it."
"How did you manage it?"
"I didn't manage it at all; the offer came from him."
"Really?"
"Certainly-why shouldn't it? So now we shall live here, I suppose."
"Congratulations, my dear!…I expect you'll have to see quite a lot of him after this? You took that into consideration, of course?"
"Why do you dislike him so much?"
"I neither like nor dislike him. I'm only afraid you may have to pay a rather high price for your house, that's all. However, it's your funeral…"
Blanche forthwith turned to Judge, to express her astonishment at the beauty of the hall. It looked even weirder than usual, by reason of the circumstance that the sun's rays now penetrated the windows obliquely, so that one half of the place was in shadow. Judge responded to her with somewhat worried courtesy. Meanwhile Isbel seated herself in a wicker chair, with her back to the fireplace.
"Is the headache worse?" asked Roger, quietly and kindly.
"It isn't any better, Roger." As the others came up: "I wonder if you would all mind seeing the house without me? I hate being a wet blanket."
"What do you propose doing, then?" asked Blanche.
"I'll stop here; my head's going like an engine. I've seen everything before."
"Except that one room," Judge reminded her. "Still, there's absolutely nothing to see there."
"What room is that?" asked "Blanche.
"A room on the top floor," explained Isbel. "Supposed to be haunted-isn't it, Mr. Judge?"
"I don't know where that information comes from, I'm sure. Foolish tales may be told of it, as of any other room."
Blanche laughed. "A real live ghost, Mr. Judge?"
"I hope it's a classic example, but I really know nothing about it."
"How thrilling? You'll take us there?"
"Certainly, if you wish it."
Bur, first of all, they decided to complete their inspection of the apartments on the ground floor. Isbel remained sitting while the others wandered about the hall. The almost incessant drone of Judge's voice, as he explained his property, detail by detail, began to exercise a soporific effect upon her, and she had a hard task to keep her eyes open…
She must have dozed, for she awoke to consciousness with a start. She was alone in the hall. Her friends were still somewhere on the lower floor; she could hear their voices sounding from one of the rooms in the back of the house. The words were indistinguishable, but Judge's rumbling tones were nearly continuous, while Blanche's high-pitched organ supplied an occasional punctuation. She thought how singular it was that a woman's voice should always sound so absurdly shrill when heard from another room in conjunction with a man's.
She sat up sharply and rearranged her skirt. Without her being aware of the fact, her foot was tapping the floor rapidly in nervous agitation. Before going upstairs they would have to return to the hall. They might reappear at any moment, and until they were safely away in the upper part of the house she dared not risk turning in her chair-to see what was behind her…If those stairs should already be there!