Gl T Vi "in 
 jLJj Y 
 
 LEVELAND MOFFET 
 ND VIRGINIA HA
 
 GLINT 
 OF WINGS 
 
 UNIT. OF CAUF. LIBRARY. I-OS ANGELES
 
 GLINT 
 OF WINGS 
 
 The story of a Modern Girl who 
 wanted her Liberty and got it 
 
 by 
 CLEVELAND MOFFETT 
 
 Author of "Possessed," 
 
 and 
 VIRGINIA HALL 
 
 Drawings by Anne Moffett 
 
 THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY 
 Publishers New York
 
 Copyright 1922 by 
 THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 f RIMTED IN THE U. S. ,
 
 CONTENTS 
 PART ONE UNAWAKENED 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I A LOVE LETTER FROM AN UNKNOWN 
 
 MAN 3 
 
 II PATRICIA DEMANDS HER LIBERTY . 16 
 
 III PATRICIA'S ULTIMATUM 25 
 
 IV "I'M GOING TO WIN HER" .... 38 
 V THE PROPOSAL TREE 45 
 
 VI THE HUSBAND OF HER DREAMS ... 52 
 
 VII PATRICIA ELOPES 60 
 
 VIII PATRICIA CUTS OFF HER HAIR ... 69 
 
 IX THEIR FIRST QUARREL 76 
 
 X IN WHICH STANLEY CALLS ON PATRICIA'S 
 
 FATHER 94 
 
 XI MAN TO MAN 105 
 
 XII PATRICIA WORKS FOR A WIFELY HALO . Ill 
 
 XIII THE LURE OF CLOTHES 121 
 
 XIV PATRICIA DECIDES TO LEAVE HER HUS- 
 
 BAND 129 
 
 XV "YOUR UNRULY PAT" . 137 
 
 2131594
 
 CONTENTS 
 PART TWO AWAKENED 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I PIERRE 147 
 
 II THE DEPTHS ARE STIRRED .... 156 
 
 III STANLEY ASSERTS HIMSELF .... 173 
 
 , IV PATRICIA TELLS PIERRE THE TRUTH . 182 
 
 V DESPAIR 192 
 
 VI PATRICIA UNBURDENS HER SOUL . . 204 
 
 VII STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE . . . .211 
 
 VIII PIERRE ASKS PATRICIA TO MARRY HIM . 232 
 
 IX ENTER MARGOT 239 
 
 X A FOOL'S PARADISE 249 
 
 XI THE END OF EVERYTHING .... 258 
 
 PART THREE LOVE WATCHES 
 
 I THE BARRIER OF PRIDE 265 
 
 II THE LONGING 283 
 
 III THE END OF His STRENGTH .... 290 
 
 IV THE LEAP 297
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Patricia Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 Patricia trying to make up her mind to say she is sorry 80 
 
 "Now, God is coming down out of Heaven" 88 
 
 Louis Tong 112 
 
 Don Hammond. That old Don Juan is like a yellow 
 plant that has grown under a moldy board 126 
 
 Stan 182 
 
 Margot 240 
 
 Pierre. . . he withdrew forever into the shadows 282
 
 GLINT 
 OF WINGS
 
 The Glint of Wings in a far off sky, the glint 
 
 of something magical, enchanting, 
 
 beyond just beyond.
 
 PART ONE UNAWAKENED

 
 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A LOVE LETTER FROM AN UNKNOWN MAN 
 
 PATRICIA LYDIG sat on the veranda of the Inn, 
 idling over the pages of a book. Mentally she 
 was at war. She hated the fussy hotel guests 
 gossiping about climate, rheumatism and food, 
 hated the rhapsodic account of sunsets and moun- 
 tains, the scandalized old ladies in their knitted 
 shawls who looked at her, nudged one another and 
 exuded an atmosphere of "It was not like that in 
 our day," whenever she smoked an innocent little 
 cigarette. 
 
 Above all she hated the thought that the Lydig 
 family had come out to winter in California, 
 leaving behind her beloved Manhattan Island, 
 where all the really worth-while things in the 
 world were gathered, in her opinion. And Mount 
 Lowe, of all places! Home for incurable bores! 
 What a ridiculous touristy thing to do, to come 
 
 3
 
 4 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 crawling up here on that absurd little wriggling 
 cable-car railway. Would she ever forget that 
 awful guide with his professional patter about 
 the beauties of nature? Really for an intelligent 
 man her father did make the most extraordinary 
 decisions. 
 
 "I cannot, I will not go," she had stormed 
 when Newton Lydig announced this feature of 
 their itinerary. "What's the use of being twenty- 
 one if a girl still has to be dragged about against 
 her will like a child of four?" 
 
 But she went, and, alas ! here she was. 
 
 "Nothing could possibly happen in this place 
 in a million years, and father knows it," Patricia 
 reflected bitterly, as she lit another of her fav- 
 orite Egyptians and thrust the toe of a smart 
 brown Russian boot through the veranda rail, 
 tilting back her chair, and grinning wickedly at 
 an attenuated spinster who righteously averted her 
 eyes from this symbol of modern feminine degen- 
 eracy. 
 
 "Damn!" yawned Patricia. 
 
 At this moment, suddenly, as had happened 
 before, began one of those stormy discussions be- 
 tween the two Patricias (there are two of her, 
 just as there are two of all of us) that had some- 
 times kept both of them agitated for days.
 
 FROM AN UNKNOWN MAN 5 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (Who has the habit of arguing with herself 
 at such times) Get out, Woozy! 
 
 WOOZY 
 No, I'm going to talk to you. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Conscience! Always on my trail! What a 
 nuisance! What have I done now? Why 
 shouldn't I say damn 1 And smoke a cigarette 
 when I feel like it? Right out in the open in- 
 stead of sneaking off to my room. 
 
 WOOZY 
 You know how it worries mother. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Poor mother! She's so unsophisticated. All 
 that talk of hers yesterday about religion! No 
 wonder I lost my temper. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 Mother is right. The trouble with you is that 
 you have no religious belief. 
 PATRICIA 
 
 I have, too, in my own way. I'm more reli- 
 gious than most people. Up in the hills, alone by 
 the sea I'm inspired, taken out of myself. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 You don't seem inspired by these hills. You 
 do nothing but grouch.
 
 6 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 I mean New York hills. I hate California 
 I hate everything in it the climate that they're 
 always bragging about and the silly little orange 
 groves . . . 
 
 (She bites her lips as her sense of humor nearly 
 forces her to smile, and lets her gaze rest upon 
 a stately eucalyptus in the gardens as it sways 
 towards a row of golden camphor trees} 
 
 WOOZY 
 You don't hate the sunshine, Pat? 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Yes, I do. It's monotonous. It's too bright. 
 It makes all the colors crude. It spoils the green 
 of the grass makes it flat. I tell you that as 
 an artist. And I despise the palm trees; they 
 look like like 
 
 (She pauses with a wicked gleam in her eyes) 
 like fat Jewesses. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 (Teasing) They must remind you of Man- 
 hattan Island. Do you despise the birds, Pat? 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 I certainly do nasty little things that wake 
 you up at five in the morning. 
 
 WOOZY 
 There you are ! You say such silly things
 
 FROM AN UNKNOWN MAN 7 
 
 when you try to be clever. Besides, you hurt 
 mother's feelings. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (Impatient) Mother! Poor dear! She's 
 hopelessly old-fashioned. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 What a heartless little monster you are ! You 
 know how beautiful mother's life is full of lov- 
 ing service. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 (Uneasily) She enjoys it. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 Does she? Well, anyway, her religion amounts 
 to something it's based on unselfishness. But 
 yours the only religion you've got, Patsy Lydig, 
 is to go after what you want. 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (With decision} I'm going after it all right, 
 straight after it. Where does mother get off with 
 all her unselfishness? What good does it do her? 
 Every one walks all over her. The more unsel- 
 fish a woman is the less she gets. The patient 
 Griseldas are doormats, and I'm not going to be a 
 Griselda. 
 
 At this moment a tow-headed, freckled-faced 
 youngster came pattering up the veranda steps, 
 pulled off a tattered cap, and thrust a letter into
 
 8 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 Patricia's lap, muttering, "He told me to give 
 it to you." 
 
 "He? Who?" the girl asked in surprise as 
 she examined a square white envelope. But the 
 urchin had gone. She could see him tearing down 
 the trail. 
 
 Opening this missive Patricia read the most 
 astounding love letter a girl ever received. From 
 an entire stranger ! Her cigarette went out as 
 she read and re-read it. It began abruptly: 
 
 Do not be vexed with me for presuming to address you ; 
 some impulses are too strong to be resisted. I must speak. 
 It is quite beyond my power to refrain from telling you 
 that I love you above all things, above all women. I am 
 not afraid to declare this because so great a love as mine 
 for you is the justification of any audacity. It cannot fail, 
 for it will never change. For a week I have watched you, 
 yearned for you, dreamed of you my beautiful predes- 
 tined one! 
 
 Patricia laughed, teetering joyously back and 
 forth on her chair until the observant old ladies 
 gasped with apprehension. 
 
 "Of all the sentimental bosh 1 There's a catch 
 in it." And she read on: 
 
 I have never loved before and shall never love again 
 except to love you. This love will fill my entire life, 
 even if you refuse me any word. . . .
 
 FROM AN UNKNOWN MAN 9 
 
 The girl stopped abruptly. "Any word! 
 Huh!" she sniffed, but a puzzled frown puckered 
 her brow as she turned back to the letter : 
 
 . . . even if I never have the joy of knowing you or 
 speaking to you, I still affirm that my whole life will be 
 glorified by this love. 
 
 All I ask of you now is a line saying that you do not 
 deny the possibility of a miracle like this. Tie your 
 answer to the Proposal Tree (place of miracles!), ad- 
 dressed to one who can and will make you happy, one 
 who happens to be rich in this world's goods and 
 who places all that he has and is at your sweet dis- 
 posal. 
 
 STANLEY MATTHEWS. 
 
 The folded sheet rustled in Patricia's hand. 
 Her eyes grew speculative. "What's the idea?'* 
 she asked herself again, then took account of a 
 postcript : 
 
 I beg that you accept the enclosed invitation for your- 
 self and friends. You will meet some of the most promi- 
 nent people in the movie world at a reception after the 
 picture. 
 
 Her lip lifted scornfully as she carelessly 
 
 relit her cigarette, and sweeping past her 
 
 watchful and disappointed audience, retired to 
 her room.
 
 io GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 II 
 
 Even Patricia with all her scorn for convention 
 and love of daring was shocked into speechless 
 amaze at this communication. Instinctively she 
 crushed and crumpled the sheet in her hand. 
 What colossal impertinence ! Then, piqued by 
 one of the phrases which half eluded her, she 
 slowly smoothed the page out on her knee and 
 studied it. 
 
 Preposterous as was the declaration, the letter 
 itself carried with it an oddly convincing sin- 
 cerity. It rang true. But the unparalleled au- 
 dacity of him! She read and re-read it, 
 her eyes dwelling on the signature. Stanley 
 Matthews! In all probability he was a movie 
 star! Yes, come to think of it, there was a 
 movie star by that name, though Patricia had 
 never seen him. 
 
 A vague impression insinuated itself into her 
 mind, then eluded her. He said he had been 
 watching her for a week. Could it be possible 
 that Stanley Matthews was the tall, red-haired 
 man with rugged face and broad shoulders whom 
 she had caught eying her at odd times these last 
 days? She had seen him surreptitiously watch- 
 ing her the first night at dinner. She had met him 
 down by the spring, on the veranda, and again
 
 FROM AN UNKNOWN MAN n 
 
 one moonlight night she had caught a glimpse of 
 him on a bench beneath the oak tree that fronted 
 her room. He was smoking a pipe. 
 
 Patricia dismissed the red-haired man con- 
 temptuously and came back to the letter. Per- 
 haps Stanley Matthews had admired her and some 
 one of his friends had sent this as a practical 
 joke. At which thought her dignity rose, injured 
 and rebellious. How dared they presume! 
 
 Again the girl re-read the letter and now no- 
 ticed for the first time the overlooked invitation. 
 It was for the next day to the premiere presenta- 
 tion of a big picture a private showing in Holly- 
 wood. That might be fun! Yes, it would be a 
 lark to go there. She might see Charlie Chaplin 
 or Nazimova. She would certainly go. But her 
 parents ? How could she account to them for the 
 invitation? How overcome their objections? 
 
 Wait! She might induce one of the girls she 
 had met at the Inn to go with her in their car and 
 say that she had received the invitation. That 
 would be a harmless deception. And this other 
 girl would be a protection in case she should meet 
 the ardent one and he dared to be presumptuous. 
 
 Subtly, almost subconsciously, Pat was flattered 
 to have made such an overmastering appeal to a 
 man who did not know her, a man to whom she 
 had never spoken. At least this was a new ex-
 
 12 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 perience. But an uneasy fear came. Was it pos- 
 sible her short skirts and too-red lips had, ac- 
 cording to her father's oft-asserted theory, made 
 this stranger mis-read her? Could he have found 
 her Greenwich Villagy? She felt cheapened by 
 the mere supposition. Surely there was about 
 her a difference, a distinction. The supreme 
 little snob in Patsy rose with a hoity-toity lift to 
 the chin, a damning supercilious atmosphere that 
 said plainly: "Please notice who I am." Then 
 disgustedly she laughed at herself as a ridiculous 
 poseur. This was one of Patricia's nicest quali- 
 ties, she could so often see herself as the most 
 delicious of jokes. "Don't be a silly little it," 
 she told herself now severely. 
 
 Anyway, Patsy decided to go to this reception 
 and arranged the details with her new girl friend, 
 who was delighted to assist. But when she 
 broached the idea to her mother she met with 
 firm opposition. 
 
 "A motion picture studio is no place for a 
 nice girl." 
 
 "Oh, Mother, that's absurd! Girls of twenty- 
 one aren't babies. We're much more sophisti- 
 cated than you think. We know quite a lot about 
 life." 
 
 "Your father won't hear of it, you know he 
 won't."
 
 FROM AN UNKNOWN MAN 13 
 
 "Father is so ridiculous always assuming I'm 
 going to make a fool of myself with some man. 
 Heavens, those old bogey dangers ! We've heard 
 so much about them, that we are really disap- 
 pointed when nothing ever happens." 
 
 "Patricia I" 
 
 "Well, we are. All this talk about girls being 
 lured away by polished villains to live in immoral 
 grandeur it's just movie stuff. We're quite 
 able to take care of ourselves. Please, Mother, 
 let me go." 
 
 "I'll ask your father, but you know how he 
 objected to your Bohemian friends in New York." 
 
 Here the storm broke, Patricia being already 
 on her nerves, and New York being a painful sub- 
 ject. She declared that they were treating her 
 like a child. She was thwarted at every turn. 
 All the joy and spontaneity were taken out of life. 
 She might as well be in boarding school. It was a 
 conspiracy of ceaseless, foolish surveillance. As 
 for the reception, all her interest in it was gone 
 now, she wouldn't go under any circumstances 
 not even if they let her go alone. 
 
 Of course she did not mean this, as her mother 
 well understood when she said sorrowfully: "I 
 will speak to your father, Patricia, and see what 
 he thinks."
 
 i 4 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 For a long time that night Patricia lay on her 
 bed reflecting bitterly. If she were a boy her 
 father would have put her through college, al- 
 lowing her the choice of a profession and the 
 money to fit herself for it; and afterwards he 
 would have backed her up with a generous sum to 
 start in life. Being a mere girl, however, he had 
 chosen a profession for her, the profession of 
 matrimony. For this he had given her "accom- 
 plishments," sent her to "finishing" schools, har- 
 nessed her to the irksome and ridiculous routine 
 of fashionable life. Matrimony! 
 
 Patricia kicked off one pump and irately dug 
 her foot into the comforter. How unreasonable 
 men were with their daughters ! Besides, she was 
 not prepared for matrimony. If she had to pass 
 an examination in the fundamental qualifications 
 she would flunk flat. Instinct told her this. 
 
 "I hate their whole rotten system," she re- 
 belled, as her other pump flew after its mate; 
 then beating up the pillow she buried her damp, 
 flushed face in it meditating angrily. She did 
 not want to marry, she wasn't going to marry 
 not for an age. Certainly not, if she had to take 
 one of these epitomes of social boredom that her 
 father had his mental eye upon. She had settled 
 that long ago. "It's absurd," she thought. "If 
 I should announce my engagement father would
 
 FROM AN UNKNOWN MAN 15 
 
 allow me anything I want for my trousseau . . . 
 he would be lavish about the wedding . . ." 
 
 Patricia checked the nervous tapping of her 
 foot against the coverlet as a thought came that 
 held her breathless, then sent her flying across 
 the room to her writing table. 
 
 "I've got it," she exulted. "I know what I'll 
 do."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 PATRICIA DEMANDS HER LIBERTY 
 
 "Our society is still full of hostility against . . . females 
 who feel the want of liberty, and are not yet ripe for it. They 
 lack both the strength and the power for carrying on the strug- 
 gle against a whole society which has doomed them- . . ." 
 
 A MAN may be a great statesman and not 
 be able to manage his own cook; similarly and 
 with much more reason a man may be a success- 
 ful novelist and depicter of feminine emotions 
 (which Newton Lydig was) and not be able to 
 manage his own daughter. 
 
 "Let me think, de?r," he said to his wife after 
 listening to a distressed account of the mother's 
 interview with Patricia. 
 
 "I feel that it's a very serious moment, New- 
 ton. We mustn't make any mistake." 
 
 "Please let me think," repeated the father with 
 a touch of impatience, for, if the truth must be 
 told, he had known vaguely for months that an 
 issue like this with his daughter must soon be 
 
 16
 
 PATRICIA DEMANDS HER LIBERTY 17 
 
 faced; he ought to have been ready for it but 
 was not. 
 
 "I'll come back later," the mother sighed, and 
 left the master of the house to his perplexed 
 meditations. 
 
 The novelist's eyes rested upon Patricia's face 
 on his desk before him, two faces in their Rus- 
 sia-leather case, for two were necessary to sug- 
 gest the contradictions in their daughter's loveli- 
 ness; one, a profile showing the flower-like grace 
 of her head in its glory of coiled hair, the purity 
 of her features, the child-like candor of her eyes; 
 the other, full-face and equally beautiful, but lan- 
 guid and sophisticated, the femme du monde, re- 
 vealing in her clear, keen gaze the understanding 
 of centuries, artificial, arrogant . . . yet some- 
 how strangely appealing. 
 
 Patricia was twenty-one (her birthday had 
 come only a few weeks before) and for months 
 she had been dreaming of this time and of what 
 it would mean to her. At twenty-one she would 
 have her liberty. At twenty-one she would burst 
 forth wonderfully from irksome bonds and re- 
 straints. At twenty-one she would cut off her hair 
 (to cite one small privilege firmly denied and in- 
 tensely longed for) if she still felt like it. At 
 twenty-one she would smoke cigarettes unabashed
 
 1 8 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 before her disapproving father. And a thousand 
 other things ! 
 
 Now she was twenty-one ! 
 
 Lydig saw that this was not a case where he 
 could nonchalantly shrug fatherly shoulders and 
 shift his responsibility in the usual masculine way 
 by saying, "Well, well, after all she's a girl and 
 her mother can manage her better than I can." 
 Her mother could not do this alone. Pat was his 
 own daughter, part and parcel of his youthful 
 egotism, his love of adventure carried to the point 
 of recklessness; also of his proneness to experi- 
 ment with life's enticing secrets, of his courage 
 . . . even when this led, alas ! to agonizing re- 
 morse. 
 
 Thinking as a psychologist, not as a father, 
 Lydig understood how these young women of 
 the on-coming generation feel about their liberty. 
 They feel very much as men feel, that is, they care 
 supremely about it, and propose to have it, or 
 some of it, at almost any cost. Real liberty to 
 go and come as they please, to enjoy themselves as 
 they please, to face life as they please, even at 
 the risk of mistakes and misadventures. He un- 
 derstood that an intelligent and high-spirited girl 
 in her early twenties finds it irksome to be always 
 . . . always watched over, chaperoned, generally 
 interfered with by her parents. Nor is she neces-
 
 PATRICIA DEMANDS HER LIBERTY 19 
 
 sarily ready to marry merely to escape this guard- 
 ianship. He didn't want to marry either at 
 twenty-one. Naturally a girl much prefers to 
 drift along for a few years in the care-free spirit 
 of youth, exulting in the growing consciousness of 
 her womanly power, her beauty . . . waiting for 
 the hero of her dreams to appear, exploring, un- 
 hindered, this path or that in the garden of life's 
 fascinations that encompasses her. Unhindered! 
 That was the point. Fathers and mothers (how- 
 ever sincerely loved) may become a hindrance. 
 Even a husband would be a hindrance in certain 
 explorations and investigations that a modern girl 
 longs to make. She thinks of a husband later; 
 of children later ; for the moment she is taken up 
 with her new role as a fearless and independent 
 force in this age of women's emancipation. She 
 realizes her power, and proposes to make the 
 most of this exactly as men have made the most 
 of their power for centuries. 
 
 Liberty! That is exactly what the novelist 
 himself had demanded when he was twenty-one. 
 "How clearly he remembered that year of his re- 
 bellion he was twenty-three when he broke 
 away from the stifling dullness and narrowness 
 of teaching school and set sail for Paris, cutting 
 loose his eager bark from its old respectable moor- 
 ings, letting it drift boldly forth into the shining
 
 20 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 river of adventure. Paris and journalism 1 Paris 
 and excitement! Five la joiel 
 
 But now when his daughter asked for her lib- 
 erty, he protested that this could not be accorded; 
 she was not ready for it the thing was impos- 
 sible. Why? He even called her ungrateful, un- 
 reasonable for making this demand. Why? 
 
 The obvious answer was that he feared the 
 mistakes that she might make, and was not willing 
 to let her risk making such mistakes, simply be- 
 cause she was a girl, and a girl's mistakes are not 
 to be trifled with; this was evidently the position 
 that all conservative fathers would take. On the 
 other hand . . . 
 
 Patricia was fundamentally fine, Lydig was 
 sure of that, an incurable idealist, hiding lovely 
 maidenly dreams behind a mask of worldliness. 
 A fearless, intelligent young woman, but not yet 
 ready to go her way unguided, not yet ready to 
 enjoy the Liberty with a big L that she clam- 
 ored for. Her knowledge of life and of human 
 nature was a pathetic half-knowledge, fed by 
 daring "modern" books that she only half un- 
 derstood, by plausible poseurs whom she adored 
 meeting and whose brilliant but preposterous 
 views of feminine duty and destiny only served to 
 confuse her. 
 
 By the way, where was that absurd essay
 
 PATRICIA DEMANDS HER LIBERTY 21 
 
 of Pat's that he had come upon accidentally the 
 other day? An essay written a year or two ago 
 that had a bearing on the present situation. Ah ! 
 He remembered, and presently produced from a 
 drawer some pages bearing this intriguing title in 
 red ink, "On Being Bad," by Patricia Lydig. 
 Frowning, the father ran his eyes over a para- 
 graph of this sufficiently daring composition: "It 
 is just as dreary to stand on one's head all the 
 time as to snore through one's days in a rocking 
 chair. My present ideal is to never get so flabby 
 as to be unable at intervals to rouse myself with 
 a shout and a somersault or two from the 
 lethargy of routine, and then return, disheveled 
 but grinning, to rock docilely and dream. Shaw 
 says, 'every step of progress means a duty re- 
 pudiated,' and whether this be true or not, I know 
 that, for me, it is during my interludes of inde- 
 corum that Life has been most alive and throb- 
 bing." 
 
 Interludes of indecorum! Good heavens! 
 There was the modern girl who called herself 
 Intellectual because she had read the foolish books 
 of some cynical Englishman who thought noth- 
 ing of the harm he might do, so long as he 
 achieved a cheap popularity. What if Pat should 
 put her trust in one of these studio prattlers! 
 Poor child ! What if she should elect to build the
 
 22 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 altar of her love beside some burned-out soul who 
 might appreciate her beauty! 
 
 Lydig thought back through the months and 
 recalled his shock of surprise that night in New 
 York (it was only three months ago) when, hav- 
 ing dropped in at the Red Lion cabaret after 
 the theater, he had caught sight of Patricia at a 
 gay table, seated between two men who, for all 
 their well-bred appearance, were evidently fol- 
 lowers of pleasure ! In the group were two other 
 
 women, one the hostess, Mrs. K , a rich and 
 
 restless widow who spent half her time in Paris, 
 the other a beautiful creature from the stage who 
 had achieved a recent vogue and who now, dar- 
 ingly appareled, was a center of attention. Pa- 
 tricia explained it all afterward in an agitated 
 scene. Her mother knew about this invitation. 
 
 Mrs. K was a perfectly respectable person. 
 
 They had gone to the theater, then to the Red 
 Lion for supper, just as Lydig himself had gone, 
 just as everybody went. She was not responsible 
 
 for Mrs. K 's guests, was she? The men were 
 
 perfectly all right; one of them, as her father 
 knew, was a serious bacteriologist he had 
 played golf with him. So what was the harm? 
 They surely didn't object to the dancing, did they? 
 After all she wasn't a little girl any longer. And 
 so on.
 
 PATRICIA DEMANDS HER LIBERTY 23 
 
 But the memory of that scene haunted the 
 father. He knew the significance of it. He had 
 read the alluring message of that vamp lady's 
 cruel, beautiful eyes as she fixed them on the 
 flushed, eager face of his daughter . . . and 
 lifted her glass! And those men! With their 
 smug respectability! Their red-faced, coldly- 
 appraising glances ! It was intolerable. He could 
 not bear it. He had decided to make a change. 
 They must do something to draw Patsy away from 
 these Bohemian or near-Bohemian influences in 
 New York that evidently attracted her strongly. 
 And Helen, with a mother's wisdom, agreed with 
 him when they had talked it over. They would 
 try a season away from Manhattan Island, a sea- 
 son in California, where Patsy might find herself 
 amid saner surroundings, and where they all 
 might benefit. So they had come out here and he 
 had taken this charming apartment in Pasadena 
 with a separate suite for Patricia, where they were 
 to settle down for six months or so to catch 
 their breath, as it were, and make a new start. 
 
 And now at the very moment of their arrival 
 had come this unfortunate invitation (perhaps the 
 first of many!) that would lead Patsy into even 
 less desirable surroundings than those she had 
 left behind. A reception of motion picture peo- 
 ple ! Screen stars ! At Hollywood, of all places !
 
 24 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 No I Decidedly no! That would be jumping 
 from the frying pan into the fire ! He might as 
 well put his foot down decidedly and settle this 
 thing once and for all. Patricia was not to ac- 
 cept any invitations of that character. 
 He forbade it.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 PATRICIA'S ULTIMATUM 
 
 MEANTIME, the daughter, roused to action and 
 ready to face the issue with her father that was 
 now inevitable, had lighted the shaded electric 
 lamp at her desk and ransacked the pigeon holes 
 for paper. Then with her feet curled chummily 
 about the round of her chair and her left hand 
 running through her hair until it stood high and 
 wild from her forehead, Patricia composed this 
 letter: 
 
 DEAR FATHER: As I always cry when we have argu- 
 ments together and so lose out, I'm going to write down 
 a few plain facts for you to think about. Then you can 
 write me your opinion just as if I were an outsider who 
 had made you a business proposition. 
 
 Suppose, Father, that I had been a boy. You would 
 have taken great pride and spared no expense in preparing 
 me for a career in life, wouldn't you? You would have 
 trained me from earliest childhood to decide things for 
 myself and you would have respected mv inclinations and 
 ambitions. And backed me up financially until I got 
 
 25
 
 26 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 started, wouldn't you? My success would have been 
 your success. 
 
 Patricia considered these two paragraphs ap- 
 provingly. With her elbows dug into the desk 
 and her hands supporting her head, she gazed 
 thoughtfully off into space, then went back to her 
 task with eyes brightening as the ideas came. 
 Her pen scratched on: 
 
 But because I'm a girl you take no account of my in- 
 dividuality. You think there is only one thing for me to 
 do get married, and only one way to get married your 
 way. Well, I don't agree with you. I hate this silly 
 tip-toeing along in life that you are forcing on me. I 
 want to shake hands with life, face to face. When I meet 
 a real man and love him, I suppose I'll marry him, if he 
 wants me; but there's no hurry about that. I despise the 
 poor little excuses for men that I meet in our "best so- 
 ciety." Those bored and fastidious veterans of the stag- 
 line! With their oiled hair! I'm sure they are greedy 
 and lazy and coarse when they're not on exhibition. It 
 isn't maidenly to think about that, but girls do. Unfor- 
 tunately, we are rational creatures, rather like men ! 
 
 Patricia cocked her head to one side and 
 chuckled. "That's true," she reflected, and, 
 dropping her fountain pen into the ink bottle un- 
 til it clicked, she warmed to her composition:
 
 PATRICIA'S ULTIMATUM 27 
 
 If I should tell you to-night that I am engaged to Mr. 
 Willy Proper and want oh, quite a snug little sum for 
 my trousseau, you would give me the money gladly, now 
 wouldn't you? Well, I'm not engaged, and I'm not 
 asking for money for a trousseau, but, Father, I ask you, 
 I beg you to take a chance on my discretion and ability, 
 as you would with a son, and advance me even half the 
 price of a trousseau and a smart wedding and let me go 
 back to New York, get an apartment and try to make 
 some sensible use of my talents. Can't you gamble on me 
 to that extent? Won't you trust me? I can draw a .d 
 design and write a bit and I know I can accomplish some- 
 thing worth while, if I have a chance. Please, Father! 
 Help me to be proud of being a woman, not resentful 
 about it. 
 
 It's no use to say that I can do my work here at home. 
 I can't. I'm too comfortable at home. I'm sunk up to 
 my eyes in indolence. I've got to get away where I'll be 
 forced to stand on my own feet. I've got to show what 
 I'm good for in the labor market. 
 
 By this time the girl's cheeks were flushed with 
 her deep seriousness. She wondered why she had 
 not thought of writing before. Stanley Matthew's 
 letter had suggested the idea to her. He had 
 served that purpose at any rate. She ran on: 
 
 Come, Father, be original. Set an example to all the 
 - t'ler foolish fathers who think that the only proper and 
 lady-like occupations for nice girls (as an interlude be-
 
 28 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 tween graduation and matrimony) are library work or 
 teaching school. Ugh! Besides, I couldn't teach school. 
 I must use the gifts I have. 
 
 "Now for the direct appeal," thought the girl. 
 She tapped the end of her pen meditatively against 
 her even white teeth. "I must strike hard." 
 She began several sentences, then ended with : 
 
 Give me my trousseau in dollars, Father. Let me spend 
 for myself, according to my own ideas, what you are 
 spending for me. Let me invest it, as I want to, in my 
 talents. Later on I'll pay you dividends in achievements 
 that you will be proud of; and I'll buy my own trousseau 
 for my own kind of a husband, if I ever find him. I've 
 been a leaner all my life. Don't make me go on being a 
 leaner. // you won't listen to me now, Father, I'll do 
 something we both may regret. And eventually I'll go 
 back to New York anyway. I'm not putting any trim- 
 ming of sweet words about these facts, I want you to 
 face them boldly and honestly. 
 
 YOUR PAT. 
 
 There was a litter of little crumpled paper 
 balls, discarded approximations to her thought, 
 about Patricia's chair when she had finished. She 
 considered this labored attempt reflectively for 
 a moment, then addressed and sealed the letter. 
 And put a stamp on it. Then she smoothed her
 
 PATRICIA'S ULTIMATUM 29 
 
 hair, searched for her pumps, picked them up on 
 her toes and slipped into them, threw a big coat 
 over her negligee and mailed the letter in the box 
 under the oak tree. After which she hurried back 
 to her room. 
 
 Thrilling now at the thought that the issue with 
 her father was definitely joined, yet vaguely anx- 
 ious, sleepless, Patricia went to the window and 
 stared out into the night, out upon the oak- 
 shadowed slope that stretched away below. And 
 there again, placidly smoking his pipe, was that 
 inevitable, impertinent, ridiculous man with his 
 fateful face and red hair. Petulantly she turned 
 away and drew down the shade. 
 
 II 
 
 The final clash between father and daughter 
 came the next evening in the most decorous set- 
 ting, when the Lydig family drew around a flower- 
 spread table in the spacious dining-room of the 
 Inn. 
 
 Patricia did not expect the climax so soon, 
 not knowing that a conscientious, bespectacled 
 clerk had sorted the mail for the postman, 
 waylaid her letter to her father, and put it in his 
 box. The reading of this business-like communi- 
 cation had shocked Lydig into concentrated atten-
 
 30 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 tion, awakening in him deep resentments, uneasi- 
 ness, exasperation. And yet . . . what she wrote 
 was true in the main ! Good Lord ! Why did 
 men marry and have daughters ! Girls were cer- 
 tainly too much for any mere male to handle ! 
 
 While the perplexed father studied this appeal, 
 Patricia was powdering her nose in a near-by 
 dressing-room, inspecting her hair from all angles 
 in a hand-mirror, and adjusting the blouse of her 
 French lingerie frock. Father and mother were 
 already seated when Pat sailed into the dining- 
 room, exuberant with health and radiantly lovely 
 in her orchid color scheme. 
 
 "Don't order soup for me," she said cheer- 
 fully, as her father pondered over the menu card, 
 settled the momentous question of dinner and 
 dispatched an obsequious waiter. He then turned 
 to his daughter with a resolute, paternal air. 
 
 "Pat," he began abruptly, "I have your letter." 
 
 Patricia jumped. This swift action was discon- 
 certing. "Please, Father," she said anxiously, 
 "don't answer until you have thought it over. 
 Not now!" 
 
 His eyes were fixed on her, cold and grave, 
 through his big, round spectacles, and Pat saw 
 that there was to be no delay for a written reply. 
 The issue was to be in immediate words. She 
 braced herself to meet it.
 
 PATRICIA'S ULTIMATUM 31 
 
 "I really can't understand your writing such a 
 letter, Patricia," he said. 
 
 "Why?" asked the girl. "Isn't it true?" 
 
 "Yes, in part," he admitted. "It sounds rea- 
 sonable, but, Pat, theory and fact are very dif- 
 ferent. A young man can afford to make a few 
 mistakes in getting started in life, but a young 
 woman cannot. Her happiness and success, as 
 things are now, depend to a great extent upon 
 her making a desirable marriage." 
 
 "That's always at the back of your thought, 
 Father to get me married. You seem to think 
 that any old husband is better than none." The 
 girl flung out the words resentfully. 
 
 "Well, with marriage a woman gets her inde- 
 pendence, my dear." 
 
 "Does she? Not always. Anyway, it's foolish 
 to tell a girl she can't have her independence until 
 she is married. You might as well tell her she 
 can't vote until she's married." 
 
 "That's entirely different. A woman can be 
 ,-happy if she never votes. But if she does anything 
 that interferes with her marriage " 
 
 "It doesn't interfere with her marriage for a 
 girl to be usefully occupied, does it? If I had 
 my liberty, in some career, I'd be in a way to meet 
 men a different kind of men . . ." 
 
 "Exactly, that's what .1 want to avoid."
 
 32 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "I mean a better kind of men workers, not 
 society snips." 
 
 "A girl alone in New York can't tell what kind 
 of men she will meet." 
 
 "Now you're coming back to these stage 
 villains! I tell you there aren't any, Father. 
 And if there should be one or two queer speci- 
 mens escaped from a dime-novel, we'd know how 
 to deal with them." 
 
 Lydig's hands closed angrily as he recognized 
 the futility of masculine argument. 
 
 "Let me tell you something about villains, 
 Patsy," he said quietly. "There are some in real 
 life, but often they don't know it. They are well- 
 intentioned persons who don't mean to be vil- 
 lains until the occasion arises. That's why it's 
 important to keep the occasion from arising. 
 The French know that, they keep their daughters 
 sheltered until marriage." 
 
 "Sheltered? They make prisoners of them, 
 and what's the result after marriage? Read 
 their books and you'll find out." 
 
 "They may go to the other extreme, but every 
 American father will agree with me," Lydig was 
 speaking now with increasing warmth, "that an 
 attractive girl who makes a practice of, let us say, 
 going to gay studio parties where she may be 
 alone with some man whom she likes, some man
 
 PATRICIA'S ULTIMATUM 33 
 
 who likes her I don't care if he's the best man 
 living that girl isn't safe." 
 
 "You're not complimentary to your own sex, 
 Father, and what you say about modern girls is 
 insulting." 
 
 "I'm sorry, but I must act according to my best 
 judgment, Patsy, and I can't see you living in New 
 York alone. You're not ready." 
 
 "And I never will be in your opinion," choked 
 the girl. "I'll never be grown-up and responsible, 
 not even when I am forty and done for. Oh! I 
 can see it's just no use. You won't be reason- 
 able." She was at the point of tears. 
 
 "Do you really think me unreasonable?" 
 
 "I certainly do. You've lived with artistic 
 people all your life, in New York and in 
 Paris. You write your books and plays as you 
 please and allow no one to bore you. You are 
 Newton Lydig! When you feel like it you con- 
 sort with all sorts of clever Bohemians; but you've 
 never wanted me to know them. I'm a pretty lit- 
 tle piece of bric-a-brac to be kept in cotton wool, 
 according to the nice safe standard of Miss 
 Spence's School and Park Avenue, and marry 
 some stupid millionaire out of the social register. 
 Well, I'm not going to do it." 
 
 The father remained silent, drumming with his 
 fingers in time to the balcony orchestra which was
 
 34 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 playing "Ain't We Got Fun," while a deferential, 
 white-clad waiter served filet of sole a la menuniere 
 and corn on the cob and the mother listened in 
 growing apprehension. There was justice enough 
 in Patsy's agitated defiance to disconcert her father 
 for a moment. It was true he had tried to shield 
 his daughter from undesirable influences, and hav- 
 ing no fortune to leave, he had favored what is 
 called an advantageous marriage. After all, the 
 standards of Miss Spence's School are not so bad, 
 and, other things being equal, the novelist pre- 
 ferred Park Avenue to Sixth Avenue or Lexing- 
 ton Avenue. Why not? A man is not necessarily 
 a fool because he has money, and the average suc- 
 cessful business man is quite as worthy of a 
 woman's love and respect as a correspondingly suc- 
 cessful artistic person. Rather more so, for men 
 in the latter class, Lydig had found, those glitter- 
 ing Bohemians that Patsy "dreamed about, are 
 usually vain and irresponsible and make the worst 
 husbands in the world. Let a girl sigh over them 
 from a safe distance, adore their photographs, 
 treasure their autographs, yearn over their pages, 
 but for Heaven's sake, let her marry some one 
 else. 
 
 "Patricia !" reproached her mother. 
 
 "I don't mean to be disrespectful, Mother,
 
 PATRICIA'S ULTIMATUM 35 
 
 but " the girl held her ground valiantly, "there 
 are certain things that ought to be said." She 
 eyed her father steadily. 
 
 "Yes," he agreed, "and they may as well be 
 said now." 
 
 Then came the final phase of this discussion 
 which continued across the table, quietly and 
 pleasantly enough, as far as outward manifesta- 
 tions went; nevertheless things were said that al- 
 tered the course of several lives. 
 
 On the whole, until the very end, Patricia was 
 more controlled than her father, who, accustomed 
 to the habit of authority, found it hard to deal 
 with her on a basis of strict intellectual equality. 
 His tendency was to demand of her the subservi- 
 ence of a dutiful daughter (as when she was lit- 
 tle) who must accept whatever Father said as in- 
 carnate wisdom. This put him at a disadvantage 
 because he was conscious of a certain arbitrariness 
 in himself and was exasperated by it. 
 
 "As I understand it then, Patricia," he con- 
 cluded with hardening eyes, "you stand on the 
 terms of your letter. You demand your entire 
 liberty?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "To go and come as you please?" 
 
 "Exactly."
 
 36 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "To know and frequent such people as you 
 happen to fancy?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "For example, if a man invites you to dinner 
 and the theater you claim the right to accept 
 his invitation whether your mother and I know 
 anything about the man or not? Do you?" 
 
 "I I suppose I do." 
 
 "And to come home with him after the theater, 
 perhaps after supper say at one o'clock in the 
 morning alone with him?" 
 
 "There is no harm in that, Father. Every- 
 body does it. That's why I want to go back to 
 New York, so these little things won't worry 
 you." 
 
 "Little things!" He was silent for a moment, 
 trying to say nothing he would be sorry for after- 
 ward. 
 
 "I can't consent to that, Patricia, not while you 
 are dependent upon us." 
 
 The girl eyed him without flinching as she felt 
 the situation grow more tense. 
 
 "I I hope to earn money by my writing if 
 you'll only be patient until I get started," she 
 pleaded. 
 
 "When will that be? How much can you earn? 
 Don't you see how uncertain it all is? Don't you 
 feel that you should respect our wishes, our preju-
 
 PATRICIA'S ULTIMATUM 37 
 
 dices, if you like, at least until you are married or 
 self-supporting? Don't you, Patsy?" 
 
 He tried to make his words tenderly appealing, 
 but they sounded harsh and uncompromising to 
 his daughter. He seemed to be taking a sordid 
 advantage of his miserable money. Her self-con- 
 trol broke and her anger flamed out. 
 
 "No, I don't! I have my own life to live and 
 I'm going to live it in my own way, just as you 
 lived your life in your way, and I think it's very 
 unkind of you to " 
 
 "Patricia ! Stop !" interposed the mother, who 
 saw with distress that the quarrel had reached a 
 point where irreparable harm would be done. 
 
 And Patricia, tingling with a sense of wrathful 
 self-vindication, stopped, not because of this warn- 
 ing, but because at that moment, by a strange 
 fatality, a call boy, wearing yellow glasses and 
 walking very straight, came briskly down the 
 length of tables calling out with painstaking dis- 
 tinctness: "Mister Stan-ley Matthews." And 
 again as he came nearer: "Mis-ter Stan-ley 
 Matthews!"
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 "I'M GOING TO WIN HER" 
 
 HERE was a coincidence. While Patricia and 
 her father were arguing over the abstract question 
 of a girl's liberty, there at another table within 
 twenty feet of them sat the man who was destined 
 to influence Patsy decisively in her effort to 
 achieve this liberty the man with the awkward, 
 powerful body and the shock of reddish hair. 
 The man who had written that incredible love 
 letter, Stanley Matthews! There he was watch- 
 ing the lady of his adoration. All through the 
 meal he had been watching her, talking about her 
 to his companion, a fat, jolly-looking, red-faced 
 individual who listened in patient astonishment to 
 Stan's sentimental outpourings. 
 
 "If it was anybody else but you, old boy, who 
 was giving me this line of love-at-first-sight stuff, 
 I'd say he was plain nuts. I'd have him fired from 
 the company. I'd tell the governor, as a con- 
 scientious director, that he was unsafe and unfit 
 
 38
 
 "I'M GOING TO WIN HER" 39 
 
 to be the hero of a million-dollar serial. I would 
 sure as my name is Dodd." 
 
 Stanley answered with an engaging and trans- 
 forming smile that revealed an unusual, rather 
 aloof personality. "That's all right, Hammy, I 
 don't know why I've taken an old cynic like you 
 into my confidence. Your seared and calloused 
 soul can no more understand my feelings than " 
 
 Dodd laughed in a shrill falsetto that con- 
 trasted grotesquely with his massive bulk. 
 "What's worrying my seared and calloused soul 
 is the vision of what this fool infatuation is going 
 to do to your work. Get over it, Stan. Have 
 somebody introduce you to her and you'll find 
 she's just an ordinary pretty girl like all the rest 
 of 'em." 
 
 "No! Oh, no! She's different, totally differ- 
 ent. Thank God, I have true intuitions. I know 
 what I'm talking about." 
 
 Dodd stared in mystified incomprehension. 
 There was something in Stanley's earnestness and 
 quiet power that took away any facetious impulse. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me a man can love a 
 woman when he's never spoken to her?" 
 
 "Yes. I've done it." Stan turned towards the 
 Lydig table and his eyes rested on the fair young 
 girl who was all unconscious of his gaze. "I love 
 her beyond everything in the world. She is going
 
 40 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 to be my wife or or I'll never have a wife." 
 
 Hamilton Dodd was stunned into a sort of 
 rough sympathy. "I certainly wish you luck, my 
 boy, but what's the plan? What's your next 
 move?" 
 
 "I don't know. I sent her a note telling her 
 how I feel. I'm waiting for my answer." 
 
 "Telling her how you feel? You didn't have 
 the nerve to to say you love her?" 
 
 "I certainly did." 
 
 "Good Lord! When she don't know who you 
 are? When she's never seen you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You signed your name to it?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "She'll think you're crazy! You are crazy. 
 You don't know a thing about her." 
 
 Stan's face had taken on an almost inspired 
 look. "I know everything about her more than 
 she knows about herself." 
 
 "Huh ! A week ago you hadn't heard of her?" 
 
 "I have known her always !" 
 
 Dodd sniffed at this mystical utterance and re- 
 marked, after studying the Lydig group where dis- 
 cord was fast developing: "If any one should 
 ask me, I'd say the little lady has a damned lively 
 temper." 
 
 The star reached out impulsively and laid a
 
 "I'M GOING TO WIN HER" 41 
 
 hand on his friend's shoulder. "Hammy, I'm a 
 lonely fellow. I don't fit in very well with this 
 movie crowd. I don't have much to do with them 
 you know that." 
 
 "It's just as well you don't, with such tender 
 susceptibilities," grinned the director. "Without 
 jollying, Stan, I must hand it to you that you've 
 never fallen for any of our vamp queens. And I 
 guess you've had chances enough with your face 
 spread over all the bill-boards in creation on 
 twenty-four-sheet posters." 
 
 "I've never cared for a woman," answered 
 Matthews simply. 
 
 "And now you're going to make up for it, 
 eh?" 
 
 The star went on meditatively: "I'm not 
 much on looks. No nice ways. No tact or savoir 
 faire. And a horrible dresser, Hammy. It 
 doesn't matter how much I pay for a suit of 
 clothes, it looks like the devil as soon as I get 
 into it. I'm exactly the kind of a man Patricia 
 Lydig wouldn't care for, unless " 
 
 "Patricia Lydig! She's got a swell name." 
 
 "She's an aristocrat and I'm a plebeian; but, 
 Hammy, I'm going to win her. It's fate. God 
 knows I'm not conceited, only there are forces 
 in us so strong that, when they are concentrated 
 on only one thing, they cannot be resisted."
 
 42 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 The director was more and more impressed. 
 "Say, boy, we tough old fellows go kidding along 
 don't show our feelings much, but if there's 
 any little thing I can do " 
 
 "Thanks, Hammy. There's one thing you can 
 do it will be a comfort. I'm worried about 
 this! I can win that girl, I know it. I'm so sure 
 I can win her that the only question is whether I 
 have a right to do it, whether it's exactly fair." 
 
 "Fair?" 
 
 "I mean to her. She won't love me in the ideal 
 way, not at first. She won't love me as I love 
 her." 
 
 "If she don't love you, she'll turn you down." 
 
 "No ! She'll do whatever I want her to do. I 
 say that because there's something tremendous 
 I'll show you. I never tried this, but I know I can 
 do it. That girl is absorbed in talking to her 
 father. Her back is turned, isn't it? Now watch ! 
 I'm going to look at her in a certain way it isn't 
 anything cheap, like hypnotism, it's just speaking 
 to her! Now!" 
 
 Stan fixed his eyes on Patricia with a strange 
 intensity and sat quite still. He breathed deeply 
 and his nostrils dilated. A few moments later the 
 young woman shifted uneasily, then turned 
 squarely around and cast a perplexed glance to-
 
 "I'M GOING TO WIN HER" 43 
 
 wards the table of the two men. But she saw only 
 Hamilton Dodd, for at that instant Stanley, 
 following an unexplainable impulse, leaned to one 
 side so that he was hidden from the girl's view 
 by one of the massive brown columns. And a few 
 seconds later, as if to complete the coincidence, 
 the yellow-spectacled call boy shouted out: "Mis- 
 ter Stan-ley Matthews 1" 
 
 "That beats anything I ever saw," mused Dodd. 
 "Hello!" He turned in surprise as he saw that 
 his friend had slipped away, unnoticed, and passed 
 out through a screen door that shut off the read- 
 ing room. There he stood beckoning. 
 
 "I don't want her to see me yet, Hammy," Stan 
 explained, and led the way to one of the long 
 windows facing the west where the Malibu Hills 
 tower above the Pacific. He stood there in awed 
 silence before a spread of flaming, deepening sun- 
 set, marked here and there with patches of azure 
 and pale green. 
 
 "Some good omen, I'll say," commented the 
 director. 
 
 Stan's face brightened extraordinarily as he 
 drank in the glory of the colors. "Yes! I be- 
 lieve in omens." 
 
 "You're going to land her, boy. Anything you 
 set your heart on, you get. Remember how you
 
 44 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 broke into the movie game when you made that 
 jump that Morgenstein was afraid of? Remem- 
 ber Rajah in the stockade do you?" 
 
 Stanley Matthews did not answer, but stood 
 lost in grave reverie, his eyes held by the glory of 
 the sunset. When he spoke it was in a tone 
 of sad half-shy self-revelation. 
 
 "It makes me ashamed, Hammy, when you talk 
 like that. I'm not brave. I was scared to death 
 when I jumped off that bridge. I was scared to 
 death when I unbolted the door of that stockade. 
 And" he hesitated with a sensitive quiver of 
 the lips "I'm scared to death now, but " 
 
 Hamilton Dodd stared at him. "For the love 
 of Mike what for?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm going at this thing too hard." 
 
 "You mean the girl?" 
 
 "Yes, but I can't help it. It's my destiny. 'For 
 better, for worse,' I'm going to do it. I want 
 her too much!" 
 
 His eyes were still fixed in the west. His lips 
 moved slowly as he said with a sort of fierce rev- 
 erence, seeming to call upon that golden and pur- 
 ple splendor to witness his vow: "I'm going to 
 win her."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE PROPOSAL TREE 
 
 THE clash of wills had come between Patricia 
 and her father; the girl had thrown down the 
 gauntlet, demanded her liberty, and had been re- 
 fused. Lydig had said to his daughter what any 
 modern father would seem justified in saying: 
 "No, my dear child, as long as I support you, as 
 long as you owe everything to your mother and 
 to me, I expect you to give reasonable considera- 
 tion to our wishes and opinions touching your 
 behavior." 
 
 He had said this kindly, but firmly, and Patsy 
 had answered with a virtual defiance. If her 
 parents persisted in thwarting her wishes and 
 telling her what she might and might not do, she 
 would take the law into her own hands and work 
 out her own salvation. 
 
 But how was this to be accomplished? How 
 could she carry out her threat? What about 
 money? She could not get it from her father, 
 and, even if she could, she had too much pride to 
 
 45
 
 46 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 ask for it. Yet without money she could do 
 nothing. It would cost her two hundred dollars, 
 for example, merely to get to New York, and, if 
 she managed to get there, then what? How 
 could she live? 
 
 Patricia was one of thousands of American 
 girls who from babyhood have received "advan- 
 tages" that often in the end prove to be dis- 
 advantages. For, in spite of their society ex- 
 perience, their smattering of art, French, music, 
 biology, zoology, sociology, physics, civics and 
 other cultural things that they have "had" in our 
 select private schools (and promptly forgotten), 
 these charming young ladies have never learned 
 to support themselves; they can do nothing well 
 enough to be paid for it in the open market; often 
 they can do nothing that would even lift them out 
 of the ranks of unskilled labor. Nevertheless 
 they demand their independence, plus a bank ac- 
 count. 
 
 These girls ought to be the radiant flower of 
 our national young womanhood, since everything 
 that love and care can suggest has been done for 
 them, but, alas! they are restless and dissatisfied, 
 openly or secretly rebellious most of them. 
 
 So it was with Patricia who now for the first 
 time in her life found herself in a position where
 
 THE PROPOSAL TREE 47 
 
 she must either "make good" through her own 
 efforts or acknowledge that much of her confident 
 talk had been mere bravado. What was she go- 
 ing to do? 
 
 All through the day following the family dis- 
 agreement Patsy labored over this problem with 
 a maddening sense of her own helplessness in the 
 face of material necessities. There must be some 
 way for her to justify her existence, to show her 
 father that she was not a mere talker; but what? 
 
 Late in the afternoon, baffled but determined, 
 the girl took to the mountain trail for inspira- 
 tion. It lured her on with treacherous mauve 
 shadows that promised unspeakable wonders just 
 beyond, but changed at her approach, leaving 
 bare, scarred, sage-covered hills. Money? 
 Where was she to get the money that would open 
 for her the door of freedom? 
 
 Suddenly, she became aware of voices and dis- 
 covered two girls, blondine and made-up like sav- 
 ages, who were pinning white slips of paper to a 
 Jow, wide-spreading tree close to the trail some 
 feet below. She drew near and stared curiously. 
 All the branches were ticketed with little notes, 
 like a Christmas tree alight with candles! Ah, 
 of course ! This must be the Proposal Tree that 
 the amazing Stanley Matthews had referred to.
 
 48 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 What a preposterously sentimental idea I Could 
 he actually have hoped that she would pin an 
 answer here? 
 
 Leaping down the steep bank, she precipitated 
 herself before the two fantastic strangers who 
 greeted her genially, unconscious of their blue and 
 yellow grease paint. 
 
 "Hello!" exclaimed one. "Come after a pro- 
 posal?" 
 
 "Proposal?" Patsy hazarded, pretending ig- 
 norance. Could they be members of the movie 
 company that was headed by her unknown suitor? 
 
 The other shrilled in glee. "She isn't on! 
 The guide must have neglected his dooty. 'Why 
 this, ladies and gents,' " she gave a creditable imi- 
 tation, " 'is the Proposal Tree. Just pin your 
 bid for a husband on one of these branches, and 
 he'll be handed over.' " 
 
 "We're fishing for our star, Stan Matthews," 
 giggled the first one, "but there's no landing him." 
 
 Patricia pricked up her ears. 
 
 "Making pictures here?" 
 
 "Yep, just up the trail. Rest of the company 
 will be along soon Stan with 'em. We'd bet- 
 ter beat it." 
 
 Which they presently did, leaving the new- 
 comer to her somber thoughts.
 
 THE PROPOSAL TREE 49 
 
 The sun went down. The sky crimsoned. 
 The air grew sharp and penetrating, warning that 
 darkness would fall swiftly. Patricia reviewed 
 that angry scene with her father and now an idea 
 struck her only to be dismissed; but it came back 
 temptingly. Why not? Her parents took it for 
 granted that she was a foolish little thing, why 
 not be foolish? Why not answer Stanley Mat- 
 thews' letter and have the satisfaction of know- 
 ing that her father, by his unreasonableness, had 
 driven her into doing this, the very thing that she 
 had decided not to do? Now she would answer 
 the letter ! 
 
 She drew nearer the Proposal Tree, her heart 
 beating absurdly, and, following an impulse that 
 had now become irresistible, she traced Stanley 
 Matthews' name on a piece of paper, penciled un- 
 der it a crazy little caricature of herself and 
 signed her initials. Circling the tree, she chose 
 her branch with care, first stringing the paper onto 
 a long scarlet silk tie, of which she divested her- 
 self, and sent it a-flutter. Then at the sound of 
 footsteps on the trail, and deep resonant voices, 
 Pat took to her heels and ran. 
 
 An hour later Patricia came down to dinner in 
 a meek gray silk gown that her father approved, 
 and played up to his idea of the cut-paper-pattern
 
 5 o GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 daughter; but before the meal was over she re- 
 gretted her idiocy at the Proposal Tree and made 
 up her mind to go after that bit of compromising 
 paper just as soon as the moon would "oblige." 
 
 The moon rose late, the guests retired early, 
 so Pat had the trail to herself when she slipped 
 away. An unearthly quiet brooded over the hills 
 and canons. Eerie night sounds made her start 
 every few seconds the soft whirr of some bird 
 disturbed on its nest, the hoot of an owl, a 
 loosened rock rushing down a shale-covered preci- 
 pice. 
 
 As she reached the Proposal Tree a blood- 
 curdling yelp cut the intense stillness of the night, 
 transfixing her with horror. A wild vision of a 
 California mountain lion came to her, and as she 
 turned to flee she found herself face to face with 
 the man, the sandy-haired individual who had 
 haunted her movements and her imagination. 
 
 "It's only a coyote," he said with quiet serious- 
 ness, not wasting breath on preliminaries. The 
 girl had a suspicion that he wanted to laugh, but 
 would not have done so for worlds. 
 
 She took a quick inventory of this stranger, 
 checked off his bigness, the sincere ring of his 
 voice, his clean-shaven, irregular, emphatic fea- 
 tures, and squarely-met eye. She chose him in 
 preference to the coyote.
 
 THE PROPOSAL TREE 51 
 
 "Come along," he said with fine disregard of 
 the girl's unknown wishes, as she hesitated, to- 
 ward him. "We'll explore this trail a bit far- 
 ther. But wait! . . ." he turned, unknotted the 
 fluttering tie and, after chuckling over the cari- 
 cature of Patricia, folded it neatly, ready for his 
 pocket. 
 
 Patsy snatched at it childishly. "Give it to 
 me it's mine," she protested in a feeble, sharp- 
 edged soprano that had no chance against his 
 lordly baritone: "Say, hands off, please. This 
 is mine! You see I'm Stanley Matthews."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE HUSBAND OF HER DREAMS 
 
 THE next morning Patricia awoke with an an- 
 ticipatory start. Just what . . . then she re- 
 membered. This preposterous man Stanley 
 Matthews ! There was something about his as- 
 sertive personality that fascinated her. His eyes 
 were absurdly full of candor, at times they shone 
 and danced like a youngster's. A fine strong face, 
 but overhung by that shock of thick reddish hair, 
 her particular abomination. Patsy had often de- 
 clared that she would rather die an old maid than 
 have a red-headed husband. Wait! Where was 
 that joyous description she had amused herself 
 by writing a year or so ago of the husband of her 
 dreams? 
 
 Chuckling at this remembrance, Patricia leaped 
 out of bed and, searching through the disorder of 
 her bureau drawers, came upon a leather-bound 
 note book wherein were several pages of her dash- 
 ing handwriting under this title, "The Great Un- 
 known," and beginning: 
 
 "In the first place, he must be taller than I 
 52
 
 THE HUSBAND OF HER DREAMS 53 
 
 the taller the better so I can tell that he's there 
 when we dance; so that when he kisses me I can 
 know the glorious expanding feeling of having to 
 reach to get my arms around his neck; and at the 
 same time, paradoxically, have the sensation of 
 being entirely surrounded and cut off from the 
 rest of the universe by him." 
 
 "All right so far, friend Stanley," she smiled 
 at this exuberance. "You're tall enough, but I 
 guess that's about the end of your qualifications." 
 And she read on : 
 
 "I want him to be the kind of person who will 
 inspire all girls to clutch each other and exclaim, 
 'My dear, isn't he too divine !' whom all men will 
 admire and desire to meet ; whom all servants will 
 dote on (this will make it so much easier for me) ; 
 who will delight the souls of all children, dogs and 
 casual old women. 
 
 "I prefer him to be dark rather than blond; 
 however, I only demand that he shan't be red- 
 headed. Red-headed men always get scarlet, and 
 blotchy, and blistered, and repulsive when they 
 sunburn; and they swarm with big scrawly freckles 
 like red ants." 
 
 "There! I told you so," she exulted. "You 
 see you'll never do, Mr. Matthews. Never!" 
 She read on, amused at this modest summary of 
 her matrimonial requirements:
 
 54 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "I want him to have good taste in furniture, 
 books, music, art, plays, movies; be able to drive 
 any kind of car; play bridge, golf, tennis; ride 
 the wildest horse with baffling ease and distinc- 
 tion; understand all about baseball, politics, stocks 
 and bonds, and whatever junk it might be useful 
 for me to know about sometime. 
 
 "I want him to be a stalwart boxer too, so that 
 he could knock down any man whatsoever who 
 might offend me. Nothing would thrill me more 
 than to have such an occasion arise. Also, though 
 I don't require it, almost more than anything else 
 I'd love to have him be able to sing in a nice, deep, 
 husky voice that catches one inside. Then, some- 
 times in the evening he could strum on a banjo 
 or Hawaiian guitar, and sing queer, amusing, 
 delectable songs, while I'd lounge at his feet, with 
 lots of cushions at my back, draw fantastic pic- 
 tures, drink orangeade, and adore him." 
 
 "I suppose my ardent one wins out on the stal- 
 wart boxer requirement," she mused, "but when 
 it came to good taste O Great Gopher Prairie I" 
 
 Then, skimming a few paragraphs, Patricia 
 came to this: 
 
 "In conclusion, I want a husband who has led 
 a life of adventure, I don't care whether he got 
 expelled from six schools, or ran away to Paris,
 
 THE HUSBAND OF HER DREAMS 55 
 
 or joined a circus, or lived as a tramp, but he 
 must have done something. (I couldn't stand 
 a man who had been brought up in a small town, 
 and had always stuck there.) He must have a 
 past. However, above all things, he must be un- 
 mistakably, inexorably, and immutably a gentle- 
 man, I mean to the extent if he were found drunk 
 in a red shirt at seven o'clock in the morning in 
 the middle of Third Avenue and Fourteenth 
 Street, he would be as bewitching, as refined, as 
 graceful, as attractive, as unquestionably superior 
 as ever. 
 
 "Postscript. Besides these requisites and sug- 
 gestions, he must naturally have money. The 
 idea of a threadbare young couple in a garret with 
 one tea-cup between them may have romantic pos- 
 sibilities, but it doesn't impress me as the ideal 
 form of connubial felicity." 
 
 "I don't want much, do I ?" she laughed, as she 
 tossed the book back into the drawer. 
 
 With a certain pleasurable apprehensiveness 
 Patricia recalled that she had promised to meet 
 her worshiper again this very afternoon. After 
 all she might as well pluck a little amusement 
 against the general boredom. Besides she had 
 never encountered such a will as his. It was like 
 flint good-natured flint! Undintable! Very
 
 56 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 well! He would find out how far he could get 
 with this masculine determination. She had a 
 will of her own. 
 
 So they met, as arranged, near Observation 
 Rock, and almost at once her barbarian asserted 
 himself bafflingly, as before. 
 
 "Better sit down on this bowlder no, here!" 
 he decided against her preference. "Oh, yes, you 
 do like this side of the road. Look at that view !" 
 
 And Patricia sat on his side of the road, sat 
 there and listened with genuine interest to his talk 
 about himself, his work, his purposes. She felt 
 that this man had courage, real courage, not a 
 melodramatic parody of it. And yet he wasn't a 
 cave man either. Just when she was labeling him 
 one he showed superb open-mindedness to her 
 ideas, a lamb-like gentleness, a disconcerting 
 modesty. 
 
 That night she wrote in her diary: "I have 
 heard of a man being so homely that he is hand- 
 some. On second thought no one could call Stan- 
 ley Matthews homely, no discerning person. He 
 is too arresting. Too fascinating. 
 
 "Why am I thrilled by his stories, I who was 
 always irritated by the doting Desdemona and her 
 valorous Moor? Perhaps because Stan is never 
 conceited. He courts the abstract in an admir- 
 able way. The inner man dominates his outer
 
 THE HUSBAND OF HER DREAMS 57 
 
 manifestations. That sounds like the catechism, 
 but never mind I" 
 
 And the next day she wrote this confession: 
 "He kissed me! He dared! Only the second 
 day! I didn't like it. He bent my head back un- 
 til it hurt my neck. I resisted: 'No, please, 
 don't Oh !...'! mumbled against his cheek. 
 I made my body taut, bracing myself against his 
 power. I did not want to kiss him. But ... to 
 my shame I write it ... my lips betrayed 
 me . . ." 
 
 The third day of Stanley Matthews came, and 
 Patsy decided that she must put an end to him and 
 his hopes; but somehow she did not. It was evi- 
 dent that he would be an impossible husband . . 
 except that she could wave good-by to poverty. 
 New York with Stan's money would be a lark; 
 but what could she do with him? No, she 
 couldn't think of it. But she did! 
 
 Thus the days passed until the sixth after their 
 encounter on the trail. 
 
 "If you're the star of this movie bunch up 
 here, why are you playing around with me? 
 Don't you ever work?" she asked him. 
 
 "Work!" exclaimed the great fellow, stretched 
 out full length on a huge bowlder under some 
 sycamores, "you can bet your jolly boots I work. 
 I'm doing the hardest stunt right now I ever tried
 
 58 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 to pull off. I'm going to marry you. The whole 
 grouching bunch can wait and lose money until 
 I get you." 
 
 Patsy gasped, ignoring his eyes, for he had 
 drawn himself into a sitting posture and tried to 
 claim her gaze. 
 
 "And you dared hold up the whole company 
 for that!" 
 
 "I did," he said serenely. 
 
 "At a loss . . . ?" 
 
 "About a thousand a day." 
 
 "It's disgraceful. You know as well as I that 
 you are wasting your time and their money. I'll 
 never marry you. You're an absurd person I" 
 
 "Perhaps," he smiled, and her heart missed a 
 beat 
 
 "Stan Matthews, don't keep on with this silly 
 bravado. It's compelling, I admit; you're gor- 
 geously reckless and adventurous, but I'm adven- 
 turous, too. I'm reaching out to other things. 
 You're not the kind of man I plan to marry, not 
 at all." 
 
 "Shall we go home?" he asked complacently. 
 "I suppose it's not quite time for your parents to 
 know about me; it's no use to worry them yet." 
 
 Patricia made more promises to herself that 
 she would not see Stan again, but she did not mean 
 to keep them and knew that she did not. The
 
 THE HUSBAND OF HER DREAMS 59 
 
 seventh evening found her swinging down the 
 trail at his side, as usual. As they moved along 
 he hummed : 
 
 "There's a long, long trail a-winding, 
 Into the land of my dreams." 
 
 "You might get a more up-to-date song," she 
 twitted him. 
 
 Ignoring this, he said seriously: "To-morrow 
 night we'll go down that trail for keeps, sweet- 
 heart." 
 
 She opened her lips to protest, but he closed 
 them with a kiss. She put out her arms and 
 pushed herself away from him. "No!" she pro- 
 tested weakly. "No!" and she went back to his 
 arms. 
 
 "Now tell me this," he whispered. "Say it 
 after me, just to please me, dear girl. I want to 
 hear you say it. Say, Tm going to marry you,' ' 
 he ordered. 
 
 Thrilled in spite of herself she obeyed. "I 
 I'm going to marry you." 
 
 " 'To-morrow night' say it." 
 
 "To-morrow night." 
 
 " 'Darling' say it." 
 
 "D-darling!" she stammered. 
 
 Then he kissed her again . . .
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 PATRICIA ELOPES 
 
 "Home is not always where we are born it is among ideas 
 that are dear to us." 
 
 THEN came the next day . . . 
 
 It was after dinner, in the fading twilight. 
 The Lydig family were seated on the piazza of 
 the Inn, apparently reading, really busy with their 
 thoughts. Newton Lydig, full of tenderness for 
 his daughter, a tenderness that was belied by his 
 rather severe intellectual appearance, was won- 
 dering what the outcome of his quarrel with Pa- 
 tricia would be. Patsy had changed during the 
 last week. She had ceased storming. She 
 hadn't said a word about hating these moun- 
 tains suspicious circumstance! Nor had she 
 even mentioned New York. On the contrary she 
 had been gentle and conciliatory; none of which 
 had in the least deceived her father. This only 
 meant that she had come to some new decision. 
 She was planning something but what? 
 
 60
 
 PATRICIA ELOPES 61 
 
 The novelist turned to his wife, who was near 
 him, and said in a low tone: "She isn't recon- 
 ciled, is she?" 
 
 "I'm afraid not," sighed the mother. 
 
 "She's rebellious in her heart?" 
 
 Helen Lydig smiled mysteriously, then with 
 that light of faith in her eyes that always com- 
 forted her and reproached her husband's im- 
 patience: "We mustn't worry about this, dear. 
 It will work itself out all right. You know there 
 are two Patricias." 
 
 "Two Patricias!" he reflected. "I suppose so. 
 Well, that puts a big responsibility on the other 
 one!" 
 
 He turned to his newspaper and tried to ab- 
 sorb himself in the financial report of the New 
 York Times, but did not see the figures. His 
 heart was yearning toward his child. If he could 
 only protect her against herself through this pe- 
 riod of immaturity, guarding her without seem- 
 ing to, without stirring her ever-ready resentment. 
 But his opinions carried so little weight with 
 her. All sorts of people deferred to him, 
 asked his advice about this or that (as hap- 
 pens with writers) and apparently valued it; but 
 not Patricia. On the contrary, his opinions 
 drove her rather in the opposite direction. How 
 strange this sense of mutual antagonism be-
 
 62 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 tween a father and daughter who really love each 
 other! 
 
 * 
 
 And Patricia, as she skimmed her book, was 
 thinking in a tumult of Stan and the promise she 
 had made. There before her eyes was their 
 appointment, scribbled on a slip of paper in his 
 decided handwriting she was to meet him 
 down the trail at eleven. She glanced at her 
 wrist-watch a quarter past eight! In less than 
 three hours this incredible thing would have hap- 
 pened! 
 
 Stanley had wished to tell her parents of their 
 engagement, but Patricia had assured him that if 
 he really wanted her, he had better take her on 
 the wing he would not have the ghost of a 
 chance with her father. The thought of New- 
 ton Lydig father-in-lawing a movie star was 
 too much for Pat's gravity, more than she 
 had dreamed of in her most deliriously daring 
 moments. 
 
 Just then the wind, erratic imp, whisked away 
 her lover's penciled message and fluttered it, en- 
 ticingly, under her father's very eye. Pat waited 
 breathless while he stooped, picked up the slip, 
 adjusted his black-rimmed pince-nez, frowned, 
 then glanced at his daughter. 
 
 "That's mine, I guess, Father," the girl re-
 
 PATRICIA ELOPES 63 
 
 marked casually, flipping over a page with well- 
 assumed nonchalance. 
 
 "Oh," he said, then turned the note ovor again 
 and handed it back ceremoniously without com- 
 ment! 
 
 Patricia sighed in relief. It had been a close 
 call. What if her father had read that note I 
 But of course he hadn't. If he had he would 
 have said something. A little later she escaped 
 to her room and began her packing, pondering 
 the momentous question whether to put in a pink 
 or a blue negligee. She preferred the blue, but 
 pink made her look softer, more appealing, and 
 it might be well to play up the traditional quality 
 of the bride. 
 
 Suddenly there was a sharp rap at the door 
 and a summons from her father to come down at 
 once. Her father knew! He had only waited 
 so that he might collect himself for a difficult and 
 painful scene. 
 
 Patricia came, carrying her hand-bag, and made 
 no attempt at denial or evasion. She answered 
 her father quietly, looking at him out of steady 
 gray eyes, and admitted that it was true she was 
 going away this very night with a man she was 
 going to marry. She said all this with that cul- 
 tured self-control that always exasperated her 
 father.
 
 64 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 In the interview that followed Lydig begged 
 his daughter to wait for a few days before taking 
 this irrevocable step. Let her at least give them 
 time to meet her prospective husband and know 
 something about him; and to understand why she 
 had chosen him so suddenly, why she had thought 
 it best not to present him to her father and 
 mother. 
 
 But the girl only insisted that this would do no 
 good. Her father would not consent, and she 
 had made up her mind. 
 
 "What is his name, Patricia?" asked the 
 mother. 
 
 "His name is Matthews, Stanley Matthews." 
 
 "How long have you known him?" 
 
 "About two weeks." 
 
 "You met him here in California? You didn't 
 know him in New York?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What is his business his occupation?" ques- 
 tioned Lydig. 
 
 Patricia's chin lifted a little as she faced her 
 father, half pleadingly; then she made as if to 
 speak, but he cut her short. 
 
 "After all, what difference does it make? 
 You're bound to marry him now?" 
 
 She hesitated, realizing that this was her final 
 word, and tried to be conciliatory.
 
 PATRICIA ELOPES 65 
 
 "Would you like to meet him, Father, if I send 
 for him?" 
 
 "You simply wish to present him to us, Pat? 
 You do not admit any discussion of the main ques- 
 tion?" 
 
 "I I'm going to marry him, Father." 
 
 Lydig looked at his wife and realized that she 
 was at the limit of her strength. Then he made 
 some strong remarks about ingratitude. In 
 thinking it over afterward the father felt that 
 perhaps he lost an opportunity here to change his 
 child by gentleness ; but he could do no more. He 
 too had reached his limit. 
 
 So the break came at once. 
 
 Patricia went on to say (keeping her voice as- 
 tonishingly low) that she did not mean to be un- 
 loving or undutiful, but she had thought this over 
 and had decided had given her promise for 
 good and sufficient reasons 
 
 "What reasons?" Lydig demanded harshly. 
 "I'd like to know what reasons seem good and 
 sufficient to you for treating your mother and me 
 as if as if we were nothing to you!" 
 
 The mother was crying softly as Patsy went 
 to her. "Please don't cry, Mother. It doesn't 
 do any good." Then she turned away, after 
 kissing her mother, who clung to her, weeping, 
 and started down the trail.
 
 66 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 A moment later she was gone. 
 
 II 
 
 Such a night! The yawning canons below 
 were swimming with mist and moonlight. The 
 mountains towered above, majestic, appalling in 
 their strength. The pungent sweetness of sage 
 and pine, the disturbing scent of the sun-saturated 
 earth, claimed her senses. 
 
 From some unknown corner of her brain fear 
 leaped. What had she done? Who was this 
 man to whom she was going? A product of this 
 great, bizarre West, so fierce, undisciplined, and 
 lacking in nuances. Stan's great shoulders were 
 a little like these rugged mountains. And his 
 mind she had explored it so little. Might 
 it not enchant and enslave like this terrifying 
 splendor of the night? She shivered and her 
 thoughts went rushing back to that safe, if 
 tedious, past that she was putting away from 
 her forever. 
 
 A sharp end in the trail, a dark figure loom- 
 ing portentously, a sudden sickening leap of her 
 heart then she was caught close in Stan's hun- 
 gry embrace; the salt of her sudden rush of tears 
 mingled with his kisses.
 
 PATRICIA ELOPES 67 
 
 III 
 
 For anguished hours through that night the 
 father sat by his window looking out at the pur- 
 ple mountains, the drenching moonlight, at snow- 
 covered Baldy, there in the distance, rising silver 
 white above the range . . . thinking! Then, as 
 an outlet for pent-up feelings that called for some 
 expression, he wrote in his diary: 
 
 "She has gone! . . . 
 
 "Patricia ! Our only child, so tenderly loved, 
 upon whom so many hopes were centered . . . 
 gone ! Was it for this that we brought her up, 
 heaped advantages upon her, were patient with 
 her, proud of her for this, that she might turn 
 from us in a moment, and, without a word of 
 warning, leave us for a stranger who signed him- 
 self 'Stan' and said he would be waiting for her 
 down the trail at eleven? 
 
 "God! What's the use of loving a child?" 
 
 "A foolish little memory . . . that day in 
 
 Paris when George B persuaded me to cut 
 
 off my mustache. Patsy met me at the door when 
 I came home (she was only eight) and drew back, 
 startled at my altered countenance. 
 
 " 'What's the matter, Dinkels?' I smiled awk-
 
 68 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 wardly. 'Don't you know Father? Aren't you 
 going to kiss Father?' 
 
 il i he child hesitated, her lip quivered, her eyes 
 filled slowly with tears. 
 
 " 'You know, Father, I I shall always love 
 you just as much,' she stammered in sweet dis- 
 tress, 'no matter how how homely you are !' ' 
 
 "Ah, Patricia, my child! You have held my 
 heart in the hollow of your hand from the mo- 
 ment I heard your first cry. All your willful- 
 ness, your egotism, all our disagreements, have 
 not altered this deep and tender love for you that 
 still abides. No action of yours can destroy my 
 faith in the fundamentally fine woman you are 
 arid are to be. Life will point the way, as I 
 could not."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 PATRICIA CUTS OFF HER HAIR 
 
 WE left our lovers on the mountain height, 
 drinking in with rapturous silence the beauty of 
 the valley far below with its millions of winking 
 lights. Great drifts of white mist floated like lost 
 spirits in the canons. California ceased to be 
 California. It was just their world to explore. 
 
 An hour later they were married in a little vine- 
 covered rectory at Pasadena whither they were 
 whisked in Stanley's car; and Patricia discovered 
 to her surprise that her real name was, not Mrs. 
 Stanley Matthews, but Mrs. Arthur Stanley 
 Creighton, Matthews being a name assumed for 
 movie purposes. 
 
 "Wasn't that poor old divine a scream?" the 
 girl whispered, when they were back in the car. 
 "You ought to get him to go into the movies, 
 dear. I've never seen such a rectory-rector off 
 the screen. One would have thought he was con- 
 signing us to perdition, judging by his studied 
 melancholy." 
 
 69
 
 70 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 Her newly-made husband smiled, but he said: 
 "Don't, Patsy please." 
 
 Surreptitiously she shot a quick glance at him 
 and saw that his face was quivering. She had a 
 half-suspicion that his eyes were misty, and moved 
 toward him. The queerest thing a lump came 
 into her throat ! She wanted to cry. She clung 
 to him. 
 
 "You lovely thing," he kept saying, his lips 
 close to her cheek. "Oh! you dear, dear girl! 
 my wife!" 
 
 * 
 
 Ten days in a lovers' retreat in the Arroyo, 
 ten wonderful, breathless days that made life seem 
 to Patricia like a shining river stretching away 
 before her eager eyes, glinting and beckoning in 
 the sunshine, promising ineffable happiness, be- 
 yond, just beyond. 
 
 "Not a cloud on the horizon," she wrote in her 
 diary on the third day. "The sails of my ad- 
 venturous craft are set for that enchanting wind 
 of good fortune which has brought me my hus- 
 band, Stan." 
 
 On the next day she wrote : "I always knew 
 that if father would stop inhibiting my actions, 
 everything would clear up. It has marvel- 
 ously. There is a surprise at every bend, 
 until I am in danger of becoming that ob-
 
 PATRICIA CUTS OFF HER HAIR 71 
 
 noxiously old-fashioned thing an enthusiast." 
 And again she wrote: "I've been haunted by 
 an idea that father and mother could never have 
 experienced could never have been like Stan 
 and me! If they were, how can our elders train 
 themselves into such cast-iron miracles of repres- 
 sion? What is the matter with their memories 
 with their sympathies for young people?" 
 
 And again : "I know why our elders storm at 
 us, 'the unregenerate new generation'; they are 
 peeved that they have jogged alone past the mile- 
 stone where they can plunge in, too, and enjoy us 
 and our joys! If father were only a modern edi- 
 tion of the young man he once was, he would hail 
 a girl like myself with enthusiasm. It is so silly 
 of him to try to pull the wool over my eyes by his 
 model conduct of to-day. Can't I read the elo- 
 quent French dots ... in his books and see a 
 few pictures of his youth myself? And I'm as 
 glad that he owned those delicious dots ... as 
 I am sorry he disowns them! He would have 
 -been so much more fun if he would have taken 
 me for an equal and comrade; chatted over some 
 of his reminiscences with me in friendly fashion, 
 instead of sitting aloft in Great High Mogul lone- 
 liness, demanding my respect. 
 
 "Why is a daughter supposed to be a little
 
 72 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 carved ivory image of the Madonna? Why not 
 let her be what is bound to be, a flesh and blood 
 woman like other women? It is all so utterly 
 inconsistent." 
 
 Patricia's first step into liberty was to have her 
 hair cut off. Never would she forget the sensa- 
 tion of those cold shears on her neck, the way her 
 head bobbed forward, the heavy dropping of her 
 hair. Little shivers ran down her spine. The 
 deed was done ! 
 
 The barber uttered an exclamation; two white- 
 aproned women in the beauty parlor turned to 
 look with little ahs and ohs of regret. And 
 Patsy overheard whispers : 
 
 "Such gorgeous hair!" 
 
 "What a pity!" 
 
 "A shame!" 
 
 "What a silly little fool!" 
 
 At first she sat calm and unmoved. How light 
 and conquering her head felt! She picked up a 
 hand mirror and studied herself in the big glass 
 before her. The reflection smiled back, eyes 
 alight with excitement. She ran her hands 
 through the thick shock. It curled up delight- 
 fully off her neck and brought out the fine con- 
 tours of her head, just as she had felt sure it 
 would.
 
 73 
 
 In the midst of this exultation Patricia thought 
 of her father. Her hair had always been his 
 pride. She wore it flying because he wished it 
 until she was nearly sixteen. And now regret 
 gnawed at her heart; but regrets in the face of 
 facts are useless. Besides, it was more modern 
 to have short hair, more stylish, sanitary, and 
 infinitely less trouble. She told them to wrap it 
 up, and after a delicious orgy of shopping she 
 sallied home with her hair in a neat little package 
 under her arm. 
 
 Patricia had just taken off her hat and turned 
 from the dresser when she heard a shout from 
 Stan : 
 
 "Great God!" 
 
 He stood in the doorway, expressions flitting 
 across his face at a terrific tempo. She recog- 
 nized a masculine something oddly familiar that 
 charged the whole room. She waited. Then the 
 air cleared as unexpectedly as an April sky. Stan 
 came over and kissed her. 
 
 "Where is it?" he asked quietly. "Oh, my 
 dear, I wish you hadn't! I wish you hadn't had 
 to!" 
 
 Pat fought her feelings, tossed her head and 
 ran her fingers carelessly through the "bone of 
 contention." 
 
 "Here," she said, and showed the box to her
 
 74 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 disapproving husband, then she melted into tears. 
 
 "Oh ! Stan," she wailed. "I'm sorry. Father 
 loved it so, and now you!" Her voice trailed 
 off forlornly and ended in half-uttered gurgles 
 under his kisses. 
 
 Like a wise man he let her cry for a bit, then 
 drew from her comfortingly the confession of a 
 deeper worry than appeared. This had been 
 troubling Patsy ever since their plunge down the 
 trail together, although she had hardly admitted 
 it to herself until now. Perhaps her father did 
 not love her! She recalled something her 
 mother had told her one day when she was about 
 fifteen, that, although parents go on loving their 
 children with that first instinctive love they be- 
 stow upon them in babyhood, there comes a time, 
 when children are beginning to be individuals 
 when, if they want the friendship of their parents, 
 they must earn it! Earn it! She hadn't earned 
 it, and perhaps her father had ceased to love 
 her! 
 
 Stan laughed at this, reasoned, and urged the 
 disconsolate bride to write to her father; but that 
 she refused to do. He was older and he ought 
 to reach out to her first. 
 
 "I'll compromise by writing to mother, but I 
 do wish . . . how I wish . ." she sobbed.
 
 PATRICIA CUTS OFF HER HAIR 75 
 
 "Anyway you love me just as well without my 
 hair don't you?" 
 
 "I could not love you less, or better, darling. 
 You own every fiber of my heart now and al- 
 ways," he assured her.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THEIR FIRST QUARREL 
 
 AT the end of a blissful fortnight the young 
 lovers moved over to Catalina Island for the pro- 
 duction of "The Magic Isle," a serial in many 
 episodes, with Stanley Matthews as the hero, and 
 day after day Patricia watched the Company's 
 yacht Sinbad lift anchor from a point in front of 
 the hotel and sweep out of the blue bay of Avalon, 
 with sun-lit, exultant sails. There were pictures 
 of bandits and Indians to be taken on the other 
 side of the island, and sometimes the bride ac- 
 companied this strange aggregation of movie-folk, 
 daubed up like futuristic nightmares, and watched 
 them go through their lurid adventures. But 
 they soon got on her nerves. She found them 
 disappointing under the pitiless revelations of a 
 California sun. How utterly different Stanley 
 was from the average professional! This puz- 
 zled her, and Stan was evasive on the subject, 
 only remarking that later he had a surprise for 
 
 76
 
 THEIR FIRST QUARREL 77 
 
 her. A surprise . . . now what could this be? 
 Was he, too, thinking of New York? 
 
 These should have been radiantly happy weeks 
 for the bride, since Stan was a lover that any girl 
 might be proud of; she recognized his generous 
 devotion and enjoyed the good times they had 
 together picnicking on the rocks, fishing in some 
 remote cove, riding over the hills. What a pic- 
 ture Stan made, bronzed and competent, lifting 
 and lowering the glistening oars, pausing to light 
 his beloved briar pipe. How his laugh rang out 
 over the waters ! 
 
 "And yet I am restless, dissatisfied," she con- 
 fessed to her diary, "reaching out to life as I want 
 it to be, not as it is. Surely this is not love. It 
 is not the love I have dreamed of ; if I really loved 
 Stan I would be content to stay here with him in- 
 definitely. By that test I certainly do not love 
 him, for if I were chained to this island, I should 
 hate its sparkling beauty!" 
 
 Patricia was resolved in her own mind that 
 Stan should not sign up for another Western en- 
 gagement, but must arrange for a transfer to the 
 East as soon as "The Magic Isle" was finished. 
 He could accomplish this, if he wished, and she 
 had assumed that she could easily influence him 
 to this decision; but latterly she had discovered a 
 certain quiet relentlessness about her husband
 
 78 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 that was beginning to disturb her. "Stan seems 
 to be yielding to me," she wrote, "but later I find 
 that only apparently did I have my wish; at bed 
 rock his own will has been asserted. He reminds 
 me of father's exasperating quotation: Dulciter 
 in modo, fortiter in re!" 
 
 So she temporized, carefully planning the grand 
 coup that was to lead them back to New York 
 and the heart of things. 
 
 At last, however, she decided to speak, and 
 one night in early June got into her most charm- 
 ing gown, and waited for Stan in the rose-covered 
 arbor near the water. 
 
 The faint blue twilight gathered in the little 
 cove, bringing the hush and wistfulness of the 
 hour. The monotonous wash of the pebbles on 
 the rocky shore, the insistent song of the frogs 
 and crickets, the faint, ghostlike sails on the dis- 
 tant horizon all fitted in with her mood. But 
 Stan came home tired, dirty and wet, after a day's 
 adventuring with diving stunts and a wreck, and 
 she saw that this was not her moment. These 
 movie exploits looked easy enough from a com- 
 fortable seat in the theater, but they were strenu- 
 ous and exhausting, and often she had seen the 
 poor boy drag himself into the hotel wearier than 
 any day laborer and fall asleep before dinner, 
 like a worn-out child.
 
 THEIR FIRST QUARREL 79 
 
 It was Stanley himself who anticipated her the 
 next morning by abruptly unfolding his surprise. 
 They had climbed high above the village by the 
 little winding path cut in the hillside, and paused 
 to look down over the bay that glittered and 
 danced in the delicious sunshine. Suddenly, with 
 the musical whirr of many wings, a flock of blue- 
 birds darted past, sweeping, with lovely dippings 
 and risings, into the canon back of the hotel. 
 
 "Look!" cried Pat, as the sun glinted on their 
 wings. 
 
 "The hills are full of them," Stan observed 
 contentedly. "If they stand for happiness, we'll 
 have an ocean of it." Then with eyes lighting up 
 clear and sharp, he said: "No more 'movies' 
 for me, sweetheart, I'm through. I'm going back 
 to my own work. I've had three years of serials. 
 I've earned a lot, learned a lot, and I quit with 
 joy, all debts canceled." 
 
 Patricia waited, her brain whirling while he 
 ran on, gripping her arm in his enthusiasm until 
 it hurt. "We're going to Montecito, just out of 
 Santa Barbara up among the mountains. I 
 have a bungalow with an enchanting garden and 
 a view of the sea. There I can write in peace." 
 
 She stared at him, as if she had never seen this 
 man before. His well-cut brown gabardine suit 
 with its patch pockets, and his soft brown linen
 
 80 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 shirt made him look unusually youthful. Every- 
 thing about him spoke of life, almost brutally com- 
 pelling. There was vigor to his hair, sunburned 
 from days in the open, vigor in his deeply- 
 browned skin, in his powerful movements. She 
 drew away from him and straightened up, press- 
 ing her lips together. 
 
 "You're going to write what?" 
 
 "Essays, novels, serious articles all the things 
 I've yearned to do for years and couldn't be- 
 cause of obligations. You see," his face grew 
 sober and incredibly tender, "my father was no 
 kind of a business-man. When he died he left 
 his affairs in a mess. There was a big bunch of 
 notes unpaid and it was up to me to straighten 
 'em out, see?" 
 
 "I I see," Patsy stammered. 
 
 "The movie road was the only way I could 
 travel that led to money big money so I took 
 that road. But I'm caught up now, to-day I'm 
 a free man, with enough to carry us along sim- 
 ply." He stretched his arms wide, threw out his 
 chest and took a long breath. Then he dug into 
 one deep pocket and brought out the inevitable 
 pipe. She watched his strong, intelligent fingers 
 fill the bowl. He lighted the pungent tobacco and 
 drew contentedly upon the amber stem.
 
 Patricia trying to make up her mind to say she is sorry
 
 THEIR FIRST QUARREL 81 
 
 "This is your surprise?" Her voice was flat, 
 dun-colored. 
 
 "Why, yes! I thought you hated my being a 
 'movie-star,' not that you said it, darling, but I 
 thought . . ." 
 
 The tide of bitterness rose higher as she saw 
 the dream-world she had built up day by day van- 
 ishing like smoke. She felt ready to strike, to 
 break, to hurt intolerably. 
 
 "And just what is my role to be?" she inter- 
 rupted in a hard, unnatural voice. 
 
 He turned and regarded his young wife incred- 
 ulously, then burst into a good-natured laugh that 
 kindled her to fury. She struck out to free her- 
 self from his confident arms. To her terror, the 
 odor of his breath and the smoke-sweet fragrance 
 of his coat caught at her senses. A faint shiver 
 that numbs the will ran over her. 
 
 "But I I," she faltered, "I thought you'd 
 take me back to New York. I hoped you'd get 
 an Eastern transfer. That's one reason why 
 er " 
 
 "What?" he demanded, his eyes insistent. 
 
 "That's one reason I married you," she blurted 
 out defiantly. 
 
 "I guess you'll have to make the best of it 
 now."
 
 82 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "Not necessarily," she snapped. "Come 
 let's go back to the hotel." 
 
 II 
 
 That night Patricia wrote in her diary: "I 
 swam in the sea this afternoon, thinking this might 
 calm me, swam on my back, and watched the 
 faintly pink clouds drifting in the sky, the gulls 
 circling low. But there was no calm. I cannot 
 see things Stan's way." 
 
 And the next night she wrote: "In spite of 
 my restlessness there is an insidious charm about 
 this island that wins one gradually, like certain 
 subtle and costly perfumes. Little by little I 
 yield myself to its beauty, to its blue waters, swirl- 
 ing against the jagged black rocks of the shore 
 line. I heard a story, or did I dream it? that 
 this is a place of enchantment where one discov- 
 ers one's real self, which, alas! one seldom has 
 even a bowing acquaintance with. This true self 
 comes out from the heart of these rose-colored 
 hills, comes and dwells with one." 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (Looking up from her writing} Hello! 
 Woozy! I suppose you think you're my real self.
 
 THEIR FIRST QUARREL 83 
 
 Well, you're not. You're a cheeky little sneak. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 Never mind that. I want to know what you're 
 going to do with this nice man you've married. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 Ah! You approve of him? 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 He's much too good for you. Why don't you 
 stop this foolish intriguing to get back to New 
 York and settle down to real happiness? 
 
 PATRICIA 
 I can't be happy away from New York. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 Silly! You've got a splendid, red-blooded 
 husband who worships you. He'll give you 
 everything you want. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (Fexed) He can't, if he leaves the movies. 
 Do you think I'm going to be a meek little house- 
 wife? (Dreamily) Perhaps if I loved him in 
 the ideal way 
 
 WOOZY 
 Patsy! How can you say such a thing? 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 A woman doesn't necessarily love a man in 
 the ideal way just because she's married to him. 
 
 WOOZY 
 You do love him.
 
 84 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (Judicial tone) Perhaps. But mark this, 
 Woozy, if trouble comes, it won't be my fault. 
 It will be the fault of these two men with their 
 dominating ideas. 
 
 WOOZY 
 Two men? 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Yes, father and Stan. They swept me off my 
 feet. You know they did. Why should men 
 always be asserting their wills over women? You 
 must do this ! You mustn't do that ! I will kiss 
 you ! I will marry you ! How is a girl going to 
 know when she really loves? 
 WOOZY 
 
 But you do love him, Pat. You can't help lov- 
 ing him. He's wonderful. And you'll love him 
 more and more, if you'll only stop analyzing 
 everything and writing in that conceited journal. 
 (Pleading) Go to Stan and tell him you under- 
 stand why he wants to quit the movies. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 I don't. I think it's very unfair of him. He's 
 making two thousand dollars a week. Think 
 what that means. 
 
 WOOZY 
 You ought to be proud that he aspires to some-
 
 THEIR FIRST QUARREL 85 
 
 thing better than bloodthirsty serials. They're 
 not worthy of his talents. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Well, I'm not proud of him, and if he tries to 
 put this over on me, he'll be sorry. Now shut 
 up! 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 No. There's something else. Why don't you 
 write to mother and father? 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Don't bother me. I'm going to write to 
 them when I'm not so worried. 
 
 WOOZY 
 You mean when you're not so selfish. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Patricia, like most girls of her age and bringing 
 up, was selfish. It is hard to place the responsi- 
 bility for this condition, whether upon parents for 
 spoiling their daughters by ill-judged indulgence, 
 or upon society for practically compelling the 
 parents to act thus (through force of example), 
 or upon the growing spirit of irreligion that has 
 hardened and disillusioned the younger genera- 
 tion. When Patricia married Stanley she thought 
 she was solving all her difficulties. She thought
 
 86 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 that all harassing and belittling money worries 
 were over, and that life henceforth would become 
 free and gracious. Alas! Now she was dis- 
 covering that she had only stumbled into new 
 worries and different harassments. In some ways 
 Stanley Matthews, for all his devotion, was less 
 malleable than her father, as on this important 
 evening when he enraged her by saying: "Your 
 father treated you like a child, Pat, and you acted 
 like one. He humored you, yielded to you when 
 he ought to have spanked you. But to me you're 
 a responsible grown person, and I expect you to 
 act like one." 
 
 "And help you economize, I suppose?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "And do some of the housework?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 They quarreled then fiercely, separating for 
 the night without a word of reconciliation. Stan 
 took his things into an adjoining room, slamming 
 the door, and a few minutes later Pat heard him 
 booming out a song that rose above the noisy 
 rush of his shower. 
 
 "And there's not a girl like Sa-a-lly," he pro- 
 claimed over and over again. If she hadn't felt 
 sure it was childish bravado on his part, this 
 would have been insufferable. 
 
 Her heart felt sore and beaten, her head ached.
 
 THEIR FIRST QUARREL 87 
 
 She went round and round in mental circles. 
 What was she to do? A sudden vision of home 
 came to her. If only she could go home! She 
 felt her cheeks flame. Of course she could not 
 go home. 
 
 With a wry smile Patsy recalled her father's 
 story of her four-year-old days. He had found 
 her on the top steps that led down into the 
 kitchen, playing with some dishes that the cook 
 had given her to keep her quiet. She had ranged 
 them neatly along the top step. 
 
 "So you have some dishes?" he said, by way of 
 conversation. 
 
 "They're not mine," she answered gravely, 
 "they're God's dishes." Then, before the poor 
 father had recovered, she informed him: "I am 
 God. This is Heaven. Now," she drew her- 
 self up with an air of conquest and came slowly 
 down the steps as if she were trailing long robes, 
 "now, God is coming down out of Heaven." 
 
 That was the trouble with her. All her life 
 she had been playing God. And now Life had 
 the laugh on her. It had checkmated her. 
 
 Patricia bathed her eyes, looked at herself in 
 the mirror and decided that part of her failure to 
 manage Stanley was due to the fact that her short 
 hair did not go well with this negligee. How 
 many, many times she had wished her hair back
 
 88 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 on again! No action of her life had ever con- 
 vinced her so completely of the folly of obeying 
 an impulse without a long-distance view of the 
 future. Her father was right ! 
 
 She curled up in the window-seat, hugging her 
 knees, gazed morosely out over the star-lit sea, 
 lit a cigarette and thought. 
 
 Was she really an unintelligent little beast? 
 Her blazing honesty was destructive. It was 
 crude, untutored. If she had only used tact, 
 tripped along lightly in their talk, she might have 
 met Stan's objections and brought him to terms. 
 It was her miserable pride. In her heart she was 
 sorry for the nasty, sharp things she had said, 
 but ... 
 
 No one who has not a stubborn, willful nature 
 can know the throes of agony a less favored per- 
 son will suffer before expressing regret for a 
 wrong or an unkind action. Patsy remembered 
 once when she was a child being particularly hate- 
 ful to her mother, who did not scold or punish her, 
 but only turned reproachful eyes upon her as she 
 tucked her into bed, and said: "I'm very much 
 disappointed in you, Patricia. I would never 
 have believed that you could be so naughty." 
 
 What a wave of remorse had swept over her! 
 Her heart had swelled to enormous proportions.
 
 "Now, God is coming down out of Heaven"
 
 THEIR FIRST QUARREL 89 
 
 It seemed to fill her whole body. She wanted to 
 burst into sobs of penitence; but, instead, she 
 only pulled the bed clothes sulkily over her head 
 as her mother turned away with a sigh and closed 
 the door. The rest of the night, up to twelve 
 o'clock, the child had spent in the long hall that 
 separated her bedroom from her mother's. She 
 would get out of her bed, repentant, and patter 
 down the passageway only to hesitate outside the 
 door, standing first on one cold bare foot, then on 
 the other. Finally, after a dozen such fruitless 
 trips, the door opened and her mother came out, 
 whereupon the child leaped into her arms. "I 
 I'm sorry, but I I can't say it!" she sobbed. 
 
 Patricia got up abruptly, stumbled over one of 
 her husband's great mountain boots and tip-toed 
 to the door that separated their two rooms. This 
 was the first night Stan had been away from her. 
 Her imagination flew in to him. She put her ear 
 to the keyhole. Not a sound ! Probably he was 
 as wretched as she was, as sorry, he certainly had 
 said horrid, domineering things . . . 
 
 Her curiosity got the better of her, and, by 
 the merest crack, she opened the door. No 
 sound! She opened it wide. The little rose- 
 shaded light by his bed was still burning; and 
 now, deep and regular, she caueht his breathing.
 
 90 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 She walked into the center of the room and 
 there, stretched diagonally across the big bed, lay 
 Stan sound asleep! 
 
 Patsy hovered between wrath and an uncon- 
 trollable desire to laugh. How like a manl 
 Money matters could keep him tossing all night, 
 but a quarrel with his wife, his safely married 
 wife . . . 
 
 Rage tore loose in her again. She stormed 
 back to her room, undressed, turned off the lights, 
 and went to bed. Not to sleep, however, for she 
 was in a dilemma. If Stan insisted upon going 
 into retirement on a bread and butter basis and 
 she went with him, how delighted her father 
 would be. Nothing that he could have devised 
 could so exactly have suited his idea. The quiet, 
 the discipline, the work, both manual and mental. 
 Admirable ! It would be the making of Patricia. 
 
 On the other hand, if she were to break with 
 Stan (How could she anyway? She hadn't a 
 cent of her own) she would again prove that her 
 father was right. A poor husband indeed she 
 must have selected to leave him so soon. Her 
 cheeks burned. Her pride was abashed. What 
 could she do? 
 
 Thus Patricia tossed feverishly, perplexed and 
 humiliated. Why should men always rule and 
 dominate women? And decide that women must
 
 THEIR FIRST QUARREL 91 
 
 know how to do domestic work, or show an inter- 
 est in it? Every man has some such old-fashioned 
 ideal of a womanly woman hidden away in a cor- 
 ner of his brain willed to him through genera- 
 tions. Womanly! How that word irritated 
 her! 
 
 Patsy reverted to the conclusion that all her 
 troubles had come from being too honest. Hon- 
 esty is a good principle for a man, but for a 
 woman. Never ! Not if she wanted to get along 
 with the opposite sex. (And she can't get along 
 without them!) Men like to be lied to coyly 
 and adroitly. It makes them feel that they are 
 playing a clever game, it flatters their vanity. 
 Men lap up vanity as a kitten does milk! 
 
 Meanwhile Stan was breathing serenely in the 
 adjoining room, and would waken fresh and dan- 
 gerously alert in the morning. She must decide 
 on something or be placed at a hopeless disadvan- 
 tage. There was evidently only one thing to do 
 make peace with Stan, apparently yield to his 
 wishes, and then, later on, bend all her energies 
 toward changing him. 
 
 Having decided this the young wife got up, 
 groped her way to the door and a moment later 
 was back at Stan's bedside. His face was bur- 
 rowed comically into the pillow, only one eye 
 being visible, and his arms were thrown up and
 
 92 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 rounded about it. He looked like such a young- 
 ster! 
 
 Pat leaned over and ran her finger along the 
 light down on her husband's one visible ear. He 
 stirred. How splendid and strong-looking he 
 wasl . . . But he might keep on a little longer 
 in the movies. She wanted at least one grand 
 splurge into the gay life. This was such an anti- 
 climax . . . 
 
 She looked down at him, then impulsively 
 stooped to kiss him. Her hair swept his fore- 
 head and he brushed it away impatiently. It 
 was too funny and she burst out laughing where- 
 upon he opened that single eye and blinked 
 solemnly at her. 
 
 "Hello!" he groped drowsily, "that you, Pat?" 
 
 She hesitated only a second, then turned off the 
 light, crept in with him . . . and went to sleep 
 in his arms. 
 
 IV 
 
 That same night another scene . . . 
 
 At Durand's restaurant in Los Angeles (there 
 is no better food to be had in Paris) where the 
 father and mother had dined, and talked for the 
 hundredth time about Patricia and renunciation 
 how the time inevitably comes when parents must
 
 THEIR FIRST QUARREL 93 
 
 readjust themselves, often with anguish, to the 
 severing of bonds of tenderness that have grown 
 strong through years ! 
 
 Never would the mother admit that Patsy had 
 been unloving; on the contrary she defended the 
 child for holding to her own viewpoint and stand- 
 ing out for her liberty, even against her parents. 
 Her faith was unwavering that, through all this 
 tangle of apparent waywardness and contrariness, 
 Patricia had been true to herself and to her 
 destiny. 
 
 "Then you think everything is coming out all 
 right? You really think that?" 
 
 Helen's seriousness deepened, she was silent for 
 a moment, her eyes shadowed by a grave thought- 
 fulness as if she were communing with her soul; 
 then she said simply: "I believe in the inheri- 
 tance we have given our child ... I have faith 
 in the prayers I've said ... I know she has 
 chosen a man worthy of her love."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IN WHICH STANLEY CALLS ON PATRICIA'S FATHER 
 
 A FEW days later while Newton Lydig was at 
 work in the Pasadena home (he had taken Pa- 
 tricia's little apartment as his office and many of 
 her books and pictures were still where she had 
 left them) the telephone rang and the novelist was 
 informed that a Mr. Creighton wished to see him. 
 He could not place this person at first, but pres- 
 ently remembered a novel of unusual promise, 
 Brute and Angel by Arthur S. Creighton, a 
 young author who had sent his first book to Lydig 
 a couple of years ago in New York in the hope 
 that he would find in it something worthy of com- 
 mendation, which the veteran writer did. It was 
 Arthur S. Creighton who was calling now, and 
 he was asked to come up. 
 
 As soon as Lydig caught sight of this young 
 fellow he liked him. A face of rugged homeli- 
 ness, but full of power and individuality. Trust- 
 worthy, but vaguely formidable a man to drive 
 ahead relentlessly after his own ambition and pur- 
 
 94
 
 STANLEY CALLS 95 
 
 poses, yet kindly in the main. A fine physical 
 specimen tanned like a sailor, strong as a moun- 
 taineer. He had thick reddish hair. 
 
 "Well," smiled the older man, "literary work 
 doesn't seem to have hurt you." 
 
 Creighton answered with embarrassment and, 
 as they talked, Lydig noticed in his caller a vague 
 uneasiness as if he had something on his mind 
 that he wanted to express, but could not. Several 
 times his eyes lingered on Patricia's picture there 
 on the desk beside a vase of California poppies. 
 
 At a reference to his novel the young man said 
 that Lydig's words of praise had lifted him up to 
 the clouds, had made him feel like poor Walt 
 Whitman when he got that letter from Emerson. 
 
 "I hope the book sold well?" 
 
 "No, it didn't," the visitor shook back his hair 
 with a characteristic gesture. "But never mind, 
 I'll get square later on. What troubles me is 
 er " 
 
 Then awkwardly he came to the reason for his 
 call which was in connection with some very lucra- 
 tive work in the movies that he had been doing 
 for the past two years. His problem was one 
 that disturbs all writing men these days the mo- 
 tion picture lure. The question was should he 
 go on with this movie work in spite of its inar- 
 tistic, not to say trashy character, and renew
 
 96 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 an extraordinarily advantageous contract two 
 thousand dollars a week! or should he go back 
 to the serious writing that he aspired to do and 
 a modest income? Perhaps Lydig had a subcon- 
 scious intuition that they were approaching a dra- 
 matic situation. At any rate he gave careful at- 
 tention to the talk that followed. 
 
 "How old are you?" he asked. 
 
 "Twenty-seven." 
 
 The questioner felt a pang of envy as he re- 
 membered what he was at twenty-seven a 
 talented, rather ill-regulated newspaper man in 
 Paris, full of vague projects for the future 
 books to be written, plays to be written some 
 day! But in the main intensely or indolently oc- 
 cupied with day-by-day pleasures and excitements. 
 Would he at twenty-seven have seriously con- 
 sidered giving up two thousand dollars a week or 
 two hundred dollars a week (as a matter of fact 
 he had never earned more than one hundred dol- 
 lars a week in Paris!) for the sake of some fine 
 piece of work that he hoped to accomplish? 
 Alas, no! 
 
 Lydig got up and walked about the room. 
 
 "With all this money that you've been making, 
 you must have saved something?" he remarked. 
 
 "I've saved forty thousand dollars. That's 
 the best I could do. I had debts to pay my
 
 STANLEY CALLS 97 
 
 father's debts a matter of honor. That's why 
 I took up movie work." 
 
 There was a look in his eyes that gave the older 
 man a queer sense of responsibility. After all 
 Arthur S. Creighton was nothing to him. Why 
 should he take his problems to heart? But he 
 did, and he listened with particular interest for 
 the answer to another question that he shot forth 
 (knowing its importance), a question that seemed 
 to throw Creighton into confusion, for he colored 
 and fidgeted as Lydig asked: 
 
 "Are you married?" 
 
 "Yes, I am. That's the point. If I weren't 
 married I shouldn't hesitate a moment. I'd give 
 up the movie game and write books ; but . . ." 
 
 "You mean your wife wants luxuries money?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Of course the father thought of Patricia now, 
 but by some strange obtuseness he never once 
 connected her with his visitor. 
 
 "It will be quite a come-down for your wife, 
 won't it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It will mean simpler living?" 
 
 "Much simpler." 
 
 "Before I answer your question, I'll have to 
 talk a little. Mr. Creighton," he proceeded, 
 "I'm not exactly a fatalist, I admit the possibility
 
 98 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 of a man's surpassing himself, as it were, espe- 
 cially a young man ; but it's improbable. For the 
 most part we humans strike a certain gait of ac- 
 complishment and keep to that gait. We can't 
 do any better, no matter how much we would like 
 to. Furthermore, the things we do best are 
 usually the things we do easily. In your case you 
 see yourself writing novels big novels, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Well yes." 
 
 "Of course you do. So does every newspaper 
 man, every magazine writer. He imagines him- 
 self a Charles Dickens. He dreams of what he 
 would do if he only dared to cut loose from the 
 drudgery that is enslaving him. But the chances 
 are he would write poor novels. Or poor plays. 
 The chances are that newspaper work or maga- 
 zine work is the most suitable field for his talents, 
 as long as he only dreams of changing." 
 
 Creighton squinted his eyes in a puzzled frown. 
 "You mean " he began, but the other cut him 
 short. 
 
 "Wait! We are all dreamers. I dream of 
 writing better novels. Every year I promise my- 
 self not to let my work be handicapped any longer 
 by mercenary considerations. I'll dig out the 
 biggest thing in me and write that, regardless of 
 popularity, or royalties or anything else. But I
 
 STANLEY CALLS 99 
 
 don't do it. I keep on writing the same old safe 
 stuff that has brought me in a good income for 
 years. Most novelists are like that. In our 
 hearts we think we could do better, but we don't! 
 And it's doubtful if we could. If we could, we 
 would, we'd be compelled to by the creative urge 
 within us." 
 
 "You think I'd better stay in the pictures?" 
 
 "Unless you're sure you are an exception to the 
 rule yes. You may be an exception, there are 
 exceptions, occasional exceptions in every line. 
 Graham Bell breaks away from school-teaching 
 and invents the telephone. The Wright brothers 
 kick over the traces of some hum-drum calling and 
 show the world how to fly. Madame Curie dis- 
 covers radium. Walt Whitman writes the 
 'Leaves of Grass.' It's possible but are you 
 sure? You've written one novel and it didn't set 
 any rivers on fire, did it? Besides " he hesi- 
 tated, not wishing to hurt the young man's feel- 
 ings. 
 
 "Goon. Please!" 
 
 "If you really had in you the makmg of a great 
 novelist there's no use adding to the crop of 
 second-rate or third-rate novels, is there? you'd 
 have broken loose already. You wouldn't be 
 here asking my advice. You would have decided 
 your literary destiny for yourself. Nothing could
 
 ioo GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 have kept you at motion picture serials, if you felt 
 the power of a first-class novelist burning within 
 you." 
 
 "You're wrong, sir," the young fellow an- 
 swered quietly. "The necessity of paying a debt 
 of honor could have kept me at it until the debt 
 was paid." 
 
 "Well, yes, I see that." 
 
 "And as to saying that the average man does 
 the best work he's capable of doing, I don't be- 
 lieve it. The average man doesn't begin to do 
 what he might do. Take our American writers. 
 Do you mean to tell me they couldn't make a 
 better showing? Of course they could. You 
 admitted it just now when you spoke of your own 
 aspirations. You might realize them all you 
 big fellows who have made reputations could 
 realize them, if you didn't care so damned much 
 about " He checked himself at the beginning 
 of a fiery outburst. 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 "Oh, about living in expensive apartments, and 
 riding around in limousines and I suppose you 
 think me a cheeky young cub to criticize my elders 
 and betters like this, but " 
 
 "Go on ! Let us have it." 
 
 "I feel sore about this, Mr. Lydig. It fills me 
 with rage to think what a measly impression our
 
 STANLEY CALLS 101 
 
 American novelists make in the world. Why 
 must we always be kow-towing to English novel- 
 ists? Why haven't we any writers over here as 
 distinguished as Kipling or Barrie or H. G. Wells, 
 or even that sickening mountebank, Bernard 
 Shaw? It's no use pretending we have, for we 
 haven't. Why not? I'll tell you why you said 
 it yourself, it's because we play safe all the time. 
 We are crazy to be successful, to write best sellers, 
 to pile up royalties money." 
 
 "It's the spirit of the age." 
 
 "Well, it's a rotten spirit that has never made 
 for art. I've been fed up on it in the movies. 
 Reclame! A writer ought to be a consecrated 
 person, living to express great ideas. If he can't 
 be that he might as well go into the chewing-gum 
 business. But what do we see? Look at our 
 novelists! Our playwrights! Where do they 
 get their inspiration? I'll tell you from the 
 press-agent, the box office. Watch 'em strutting 
 about at banquets, tea-parties, women's clubs . . . 
 shaking hands like politicians . . . full of poses 
 . . . thinking about the speech they are going to 
 make and hoping to God the newspapers will print 
 it which they usually don't. Excuse me, sir." 
 
 Lydig laughed. 
 
 "What would you have us do?" 
 
 "Do?" Creighton flashed back recklessly.
 
 102 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "I'd have a writer search into his heart or soul 
 or wherever he keeps his treasure and spit it out 
 without fussing so much about style. Style 1 
 Good Lord! A man's style will take care of it- 
 self, if he has anything to say that's worth saying. 
 If he hasn't, he'd better not write. What's the 
 use of being so damned clever and subtle when the 
 stuff has no value? Did Lincoln try to be clever 
 when he wrote the Gettysburg Address? Did he 
 worry about his style? He did not, but he said 
 something that will be remembered after all the 
 books of all the word-magicians and beauty-wor- 
 shipers have been forgotten." 
 
 "Don't you worship beauty?" 
 
 "For its own sake? No, sir! I worship 
 beauty when it clothes great thoughts, stirs noble 
 emotions . . . faith . . . courage; not a vague, 
 sensuous beauty like an opium dream. I worship 
 the beauty of Victor Hugo. I'd rather have 
 written Les Miserable* than anything in English 
 literature . . ." 
 
 More and more, as Lydig listened, he felt him- 
 self stirred, captivated by the courage of this 
 young barbarian. 
 
 "The trouble with American writers," Creigh- 
 ton swept on, "is that they're always imitating 
 this man or that man, usually some infernal Eng- 
 lishman who succeeded because he imitated no-
 
 STANLEY CALLS 103 
 
 body. We haven't the courage to be ourselves, 
 but we might have it. Mark Twain had it. O. 
 Henry had it. So did that corking old Walt 
 Whitman. And Edgar Allan Poe. I say if an 
 artist can't be himself, he can't be anything." 
 
 Patricia's father was kindling now in this blaze 
 of enthusiasm. He forgot his own objections, he 
 went back to the time when he had thrilled under 
 the urge of these very same feelings and aspira- 
 tions, to the time before he had surrendered to 
 expediency and become a compromiser. He was 
 suddenly ashamed of himself and of his mediocre 
 work. 
 
 "I hope I didn't offend you," he apologized, 
 "by saying that if you had the making of a nov- 
 elist in you, you'd have left the movies of your 
 own accord. That was rather a sweeping asser- 
 tion and " 
 
 "I have left the movies," Creighton interrupted 
 sharply. "I began a novel several weeks ago. 
 I expect to go ahead with it and finish it, un- 
 less . . ." 
 
 Lydig interrupted him : "Don't say any more 
 You're right, my boy. I agree with you. For 
 God's sake don't commercialize yourself. Keep 
 to your big ambition, even if it means sacrifice. 
 Consecrate yourself, as you said just now, to the 
 best that's in you and "
 
 104 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "Wait I" 
 
 "What'* the matter? What are you keeping 
 back?" 
 
 "My my wife." 
 
 "If your wife amounts to anything, she'll make 
 the fight with you she'll be glad to. I tell you 
 art is based on sacrifice. She'll understand that, 
 if she loves you . . . and if she doesn't, if she 
 isn't fine enough to understand, then my advice 
 to you is " 
 
 Stanley cut the speaker short with a swift thrust 
 of his hand. 
 
 "Stop!" he cried. "You don't understand, I 
 I've been trying to tell you, but I couldn't. My 
 wife is she's your daughter Patricia 1"
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 MAN TO MAN 
 
 ONE never knows in advance how one will re- 
 act to a startling surprise a sudden peril, a great 
 joy. ( >ncc I .vJi^ had been awakened in the night 
 by a burglar and all he did was to sit up good 
 naturcdly and stare at the intruder, calling out 
 "Hello!", which so astonished the fellow that he 
 dived out through an open window and took to his 
 heels. Now in the face of Creighton's revelation, 
 the novelist simply said, "I see!" 
 
 Naturally he was inclined to blame Stanley for 
 not declaring straight out who he was when he 
 first came in, instead of dissimulating; but when 
 the father saw how disturbed his young friend 
 was, how regretful for the false position he had 
 placed them both in, he had not the heart to press 
 his advantage. Already they were on good terms 
 and they remained so, Lydig's only expressed 
 grievance against his son-in-law being the elope- 
 ment. \Vhv had he not come frankly to the par- 
 ents and asked their consent? 
 
 105
 
 io6 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "My only justification is that I loved her, and 
 was afraid of losing her," answered the young 
 man with disarming penitence. "You see she was 
 wavering, she wasn't sure that she loved me. She 
 isn't yet." 
 
 The father's face clouded. "Is it possible you 
 have taken the responsibility of settling my 
 daughter's future without being sure she loves 
 you?" 
 
 "Well, somebody had to do it somebody in 
 her own generation. Patricia is a wonderful girl, 
 but she's like a thoroughbred colt that's been run- 
 ning wild and will hurt herself kick everything 
 to pieces unless she's trained." 
 
 "Trained?" 
 
 "That's a rough word. I don't mean it that 
 way. I mean that I can help her against her- 
 self better than anybody else, because I " he 
 bit his lips nervously, "I care so much. I'm 
 ready to take any amount of trouble. I'll do 
 whatever is necessary. I'm not going to lose her. 
 That's why I've put this money thing up to you, 
 sir. As far as my literary reputation goes, I 
 don't give a hang, that's secondary to Patricia. 
 She comes first. I'll stay in the movies all my life, 
 if it's better for her. But I don't believe it is. 
 I believe it's better for her to come down to earth, 
 to face life, to bear part of the burden that's put
 
 MAN TO MAN 107 
 
 upon all of us. On the other hand I may be mis- 
 taken. If I am, I want you to tell me. That's 
 why I'm here." 
 
 Again Lydig was tempted to become acri- 
 monious when he reflected that his son-in-law had 
 led him to commit himself in regard to the finan- 
 cial question before revealing his identity. That 
 was not quite fair. On the other hand it was so 
 evident that Stanley meant to do right his hon- 
 est countenance left no doubt on that point that 
 the father put a good face on the matter and, 
 smiling, held out his hand. 
 
 "There, my boy! We all make mistakes. 
 The main point is," he added with a searching 
 look, "I feel that you are sincere, Creighton, I 
 know you are." 
 
 "Thank you, sir." 
 
 They talked for an hour, man to man, and 
 Stanley explained as well as he could Patsy's 
 aloofness from her parents, admitting, without dis- 
 loyalty to her, that she had a prideful spirit. 
 
 "She is angry because she is in the wrong," de- 
 clared the father. "She knows she ought to have 
 come to see her mother and me. By the way, 
 does she know you have come?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "I assure you it grieves her not to come, she
 
 io8 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 hates to be unkind, but she just can't yet. 
 Especially ' his face brightened with a mis- 
 chievous gleam, "when she isn't quite sure whether 
 this wonderful, soul-satisfying liberty thing, that 
 she's been so crazy about, is going to materialize 
 in the way she thought. I tell her liberty is an 
 eternal illusion, something we all dream of, but 
 never get." 
 
 "That's true." 
 
 "Pat is all the time afraid some one will put 
 something over on her it used to be you, now it's 
 me. You've heard her talk, sir." 
 
 "Yes," dryly. "I thought marriage would 
 change all that. I thought love would " 
 
 "Love!" the young man repeated. "Pat's got 
 to find out first what love really is." 
 
 "Right, my boy. Love must be fed by un- 
 selfishness. I've seen that kind of love for twenty- 
 three years." 
 
 "You mean Patricia's mother?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I know. Pat admits the beauty of her 
 mother's life, she's often touched by it, but she 
 figures that her mother wants to be unselfish, so 
 why shouldn't she be? Whereas Pat wants to be 
 selfish, even though it makes her unhappy. This 
 younger generation has no use for duty." 
 
 As Newton Lydig listened, he recovered his
 
 MAN TO MAN 109 
 
 equanimity, taking note of the fact that here was 
 a case where the younger generation might find 
 their own progressive medicine rather bitter. 
 How would young Mr. John F. Carter, Jr., bril- 
 liant crusader against blundering oldsters of the 
 Grundy tribe who have spoiled the world and had 
 now better shut up and "Go into their respective 
 backyards and dig for worms, great big pink 
 ones " how would he enjoy it, if he should find 
 himself mated to one of these wild young heroines 
 whom he champions so amusingly in the Atlantic 
 Monthly? 
 
 They returned to the question of expenses and 
 discussed the necessity that Patricia would be 
 under of coming down to a more reasonable way 
 of living, if Stanley decided to give up his large 
 income. Pat would have to economize in various 
 ways. She would have to get up in the morning 
 at a reasonable hour. And so on. 
 
 "If you can make her get up in the morning," 
 laughed her father, "you'll be doing more than 
 we were ever able to do. And if you can per- 
 suade her to do housework cooking, sewing, 
 anything like that well, I'll say the age of mir- 
 acles isn't past." 
 
 Stanley fell into frowning silence, while Lydig 
 went on to say that the only thing for a man to do 
 in the face of a crisis is to decide deep down
 
 no GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 within himself what is the right and best course 
 for him to follow, and then to follow it. "You're 
 at the parting of the ways, my boy. I naturally 
 think of Patricia's advantage, but no good can 
 come from spoiling her, coddling her. I've done 
 enough of that already. You must start right. 
 The first year of married life is the most impor- 
 tant. You establish a precedent. 
 
 "As to the money part of it, money isn't every- 
 thing. On the contrary, your children will be 
 spoiled by too much money, and if you go on year 
 after year, piling up a fortune at the expense of 
 your best aspirations and possibilities, they will 
 be the first to turn against you later on and say, 
 'Poor old dad, that was the best he could do I' 
 which will wound you cruelly, for you will know 
 that the fault was your own, that you failed to 
 do the big thing in life you might have done be- 
 cause you lacked the courage to assert yourself 
 as the head of your own family." 
 
 That settled it. Stanley turned to the older 
 man with a light of high purpose in his eyes and 
 said simply: "By George, sir, you're righ*. I'll 
 do it. I'll take the risk. I'm going back to 
 Montecito now and well, I may run down again 
 in a few weeks and let you know what happens."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 PATRICIA WORKS FOR A WIFELY HALO 
 
 A LULL for the lovers before the storm, a long, 
 lazy lull in the bungalow at Montecito, most beau- 
 tiful spot on earth, Stan declared; but Patricia 
 called it hatefully beautiful. 
 
 A premonitory clash came one morning in 
 August at the breakfast table ancient center of 
 domestic trouble laid attractively in the garden 
 under the tropical horse-chestnuts. 
 
 Patricia sat there waiting. Her eyes moved 
 restlessly over the lawn where the jacaranda trees 
 had shed their blossoms in exquisite lavender 
 pools; then on along flower-bright paths to the 
 garden, humming, astir, fragrant with summer's 
 jsecrets. 
 
 "Tell your master I've been waiting fifteen 
 minutes," she said fretfully to Louis Tong, their 
 immaculate Chinese servant with his neatly 
 braided blue-black hair wound about his head. 
 
 u Yes, Missey Cleighton," lisped the Oriental, 
 in
 
 ii2 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 vouchsafing one of his rare, but irresistible smiles 
 as he trotted away. 
 
 Patricia was irritated by the knowledge that 
 Stanley had worked late the night before at his 
 interminable novel. That novel ! It seemed like 
 divided allegiance; also it was a perpetual re- 
 minder of their impaired financial state. 
 
 She had another unexpressed grievance in a 
 subtle change she had noticed or thought she 
 noticed in Stan's attitude toward her ever since 
 his visit to Los Angeles a fortnight before ; in this 
 change Patsy had sensed her father's influence. 
 She could scarcely believe that Stan would have 
 gone to see her father without telling her, but 
 where did he get these new fathery ideas? If he 
 had gone, she would be furious. One master-of- 
 her-fate was enough. To have two who chummed 
 together and talked her over would be the last 
 straw. 
 
 Stan appeared presently in working attire 
 which, it must be confessed, was of a rough-and- 
 ready albeit comfortable character a gray shirt 
 with rolled down collar open at the throat, an old 
 pair of trousers and a most disreputable, flapping 
 pair of red slippers covering socks that needed 
 darning, at least one of them did. And his shock 
 of red hair glistened redder than usual after his 
 morning shower. All of which exasperated Pat,
 
 Louis Tong
 
 PATRICIA WORKS 113 
 
 especially his serene indifference to the impression 
 he was making, his masterful sloppiness, as she 
 called it. Already Stan was thinking of his book, 
 eager to get back to the day's task and take up 
 the creative threads where he had left them the 
 night before. 
 
 "Morning, dear," he nodded as he seated him- 
 self and made ready to eat, drumming meantime 
 on the table with strong, freckled fingers and 
 watching the cool, shifting shadows patterned by 
 the foliage on the white damask. 
 
 It was a trifle now that started the battle of 
 words, a disapproving glance and comment by 
 Patricia regarding his appearance, more particu- 
 larly those horrible red slippers and blue socks 
 with a hole in one of them ! 
 
 "That's a little up to you, isn't it?" he smiled. 
 
 "Why is it?" she flared. "Why should I be 
 responsible for your socks?" 
 
 "Somebody's got to look after things. Yester- 
 day I hadn't a clean collar." 
 
 "Well, suppose I hadn't a clean blouse! 
 Would you worry?" 
 
 He eyed her sharply, and met the implied chal- 
 lenge, saying good-naturedly: 
 
 "Look here, Pat. I say it's up to you to see 
 that this house is better managed. You don't 
 know what Louis Tong is doing in the kitchen
 
 ii 4 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 what he buys or how much he spends! You 
 should. You promised to be my partner, and if 
 our exchequer has diminished " 
 
 "That's not my fault. If a housewife was 
 what you wanted when you married me, you could 
 have hired one." 
 
 "Pat!" 
 
 "Over at Catalina I told you . . ." 
 
 "And I told you what I'd expect of you," he 
 interrupted. "I weakened because I well, I 
 hoped you'd grow to care for me. Besides, I 
 hate these clashes. They soil love. I know how 
 your father felt, I see why he couldn't bring him- 
 self to force you to do things." 
 
 She pricked up her ears. How did Stan know 
 that her father could not force her to do things? 
 Besides he had! 
 
 "Now I insist upon your doing your share," 
 her husband went on. 
 
 "Insist! You can't get anything out of me 
 through force, Stan Creighton. You may as well 
 know it. I'll bring my share to this partnership, 
 but in a different way. I want to write ... I 
 want to write quite as much as you do." 
 
 Stan laughed. 
 
 "You've never taken my writing or my art seri- 
 ously," she went on hotly. "Never, never!
 
 PATRICIA WORKS 115 
 
 You seem to think that all women are meant for 
 is to be nice little domestic tabbies. Well, some 
 of us are not." 
 
 "I haven't seen you laboring at your writing, 
 Pat. You've dabbled a bit, that's all. If you're 
 in earnest why don't you work? Masterpieces 
 aren't thrown off in a moment of careless rapture. 
 Everything takes hard work. Now your art. 
 . . . There you have a real gift." 
 
 Father again! Work! And her art! Her 
 father had wanted her to commercialize this by 
 making posters. Stan would be suggesting this 
 next, she thought tearfully. 
 
 "I tell you I can't work here," she choked. 
 "I've tried again and again. The white paper 
 stares back at me, empty empty as the days, 
 empty as my mind of ideas. . . . Probably I'll 
 never really work until I'm forced to, until I have 
 to earn my bread and butter. I've felt all along 
 that I should be on my own. I wanted to try it 
 in New York and father put a dam to that ambi- 
 tion. It sent me off on a tangent. That's what 
 dams do." 
 
 "I suppose I'm the tangent." 
 
 "If I've made a mistake, it's better to acknowl- 
 "dge it now and start over again, isn't it?" 
 
 Stan had grown grave.
 
 n6 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "Mistake? Oh, Patsy," he pleaded, "'can't you 
 come down to earth, forget yourself for a while 
 and help me?" 
 
 At which she flashed back angrily: "If you 
 had told me we were to live the simple life when 
 I married you, that would have been different. 
 But you didn't! It wasn't fair, Stan. You've 
 humiliated me." 
 
 II 
 
 The outcome of this talk was an absolute com- 
 mand from Creighton that his wife assume the 
 housekeeping responsibility. A direct command! 
 Patricia felt prisoned, bound to stay here, bound 
 to act as he wished. She bottled her rage, but it 
 fermented and grew more dangerous each day as 
 she went about her imposed domestic duties. She 
 hated housework with a deep and smoldering 
 hatred, most unchristian and unwomanly. Why 
 should a woman spend half her day planning the 
 meals for her lord and master and the rest of the 
 time superintending the house? Why must she 
 always adjust her mood to her husband's mood, 
 achieving harmony only by tactful management of 
 him, that is by the sacrifice of her mental, spiritual 
 and physical self? If marriage were really a 
 partnership, why might not he adjust himself a 
 little to her? Also, if a woman can earn money
 
 PATRICIA WORKS 117 
 
 by writing or business activities or otherwise, why 
 may she not give her share in that way and pay 
 a housekeeper? Stan's conception of a fine wo- 
 man was absurd, old-fashioned, he wanted her to 
 be the dispenser of a deep and sacrificial type of 
 love, but Patricia could not give that kind; she 
 realized this more and more each day. 
 
 But one evening Woozy came and reasoned 
 with Patricia, pleaded with her, the result being 
 that for a time the rebellious bride was placated; 
 indeed Patsy made various good resolutions which 
 she recorded day by day, or rather night by night, 
 in her diary. 
 
 Thus on Friday: "Stan's eyes follow me so 
 wistfully and appealingly that I feel shamed. 
 What if he is dogmatic and insistent about the 
 housekeeping? Probably his mother and all the 
 good women he has ever known or read about 
 have been like that." 
 
 And again on Saturday: "I register a vow to 
 try each day for two weeks I'll try. I'll woo 
 the kitchen, the mending, the marketing. I'll 
 study the menus. I'll try to be economical." 
 
 And on Sunday: "I can't help it, I hate house- 
 work. I despise it. If it wasn't that Stan is so 
 pathetically funny in his joy at my attempts, I'd 
 throw the whole thing up this minute." 
 
 And on Monday: "What's the use of persist-
 
 n8 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 ing in a thing that one does badly? I'm a misfit. 
 My temper is worn to a frazzle. Perhaps Stan 
 is right; he says I'm smoking too many cigarettes. 
 Well, I'll try cutting down on them." 
 
 And on Tuesday: "Stan marches heroically 
 about in his socks the ones I've darned! I 
 know they are lumpy; I choke over a laugh and 
 end by weeping." 
 
 And on Wednesday: "I must be economical. 
 I cannot make money elastic. My once cheerful 
 Louis Tong has developed into a regular grouch. 
 His grin has departed. He hates me in his do- 
 main. Sensible man, Louis Tong!" 
 
 And on Thursday: "Working for a wifely 
 halo is some job. I've cut down on cigarettes, 
 six a day, and Stan's approbation stares nakedly 
 from his good clean eyes. Oh, he is dear and 
 kind. A dull pain closes down on my heart as I 
 realize my inability to measure up to his expec- 
 tations. Stan, dear, I'm sorry. I'm sorrier than 
 you'll ever know. I'm not really a quitter, but 
 isn't all this frenzied drudgery a farce?" 
 
 ^And on Friday: "Rocks ahead! I can't keep 
 this up much longer. I'm beaten before I start. 
 Why should I make myself over into something 
 I am not? Sewing and mending! Food, food, 
 food! I could scream with the deadly dullness 
 of it. I'm taking Stan as he is. Why can't he
 
 PATRICIA WORKS 119 
 
 take me as I am, faults and all, if he loves me as 
 much as he says? If I loved a man as much as 
 I could love, I'd probably be happy to scrub for 
 him. That's it! I don't love Stan enough." 
 
 And on Saturday: "Each night I look into the 
 mirror for my halo. It hasn't appeared any- 
 way halos are irritating. Haven't smoked at all 
 to-day. Nervous as a cat!" 
 
 And on Sunday: "I've been sounding myself 
 and my inability to meet this domestic exigency, 
 and I conclude I have been brought up all wrong. 
 My parents crippled me by their loving indulgence. 
 I've never been trained to do anything except to 
 lean on those who love me, and their sacrifices 
 have made me pathetically useless. I'm only just 
 awakening to this astounding fact." 
 
 On Monday Patricia did not write about house- 
 hold perplexities, but touched upon a matter of 
 graver import: "After all have Stan and I much 
 in common? Take literature, this wonderful 
 literature that he's sacrificing everything for. He 
 certainly has some antiquated ideas here. He 
 eats up sentimental stuff that sickens me. 'You're 
 all for showy brilliance,' he flung back at me to- 
 day. 'Cold beauty isn't enough for suffering 
 mankind. Why give them a stone when they 
 hunger for bread?' 
 
 "I told him he sounded like Billy Sunday, and
 
 120 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 I acknowledged that beauty satisfies me. Walter 
 Pater's chaste reticence quickens my pulses, Oscar 
 Wilde's verve dazzles me, Shaw's cheery cynicism 
 flatters me into believing that just Shaw and my- 
 self are the clever ones on earth. I say there's 
 no excuse for writing anything, if one can't write 
 it beautifully. I like outward beauty in all 
 things; pretty clothes, homes of friendly dignity, 
 all the graces of life. They charm me. When 
 I told Stan this he said: 'They're not worth a 
 damn without sincerity and heart.' ' 
 
 On Tuesday she wrote: "Deep down in my 
 heart persists a belief in my ability to do some- 
 thing well, to give and take generously, as life 
 demands." 
 
 And on Wednesday, after twelve days of vain 
 effort to be a domestic wife, Patricia abandoned 
 the attempt with this wail of despair : "I give it up. 
 It's too much for me. Stan's pride has been 
 flattered that I've tried and I've been able to 
 preen myself a bit; but really I haven't done much 
 good. I've been like the child helping its mother 
 wipe the dishes, more of hindrance than a help. 
 I'm backsliding again on cigarettes a box and a 
 half to-day. But in the words of my husband, I 
 don't give a damn! I'm sick of holding in, of 
 play-acting as a model wife. From now on I'm 
 going to be myself!"
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE LURE OF CLOTHES 
 
 A WEEK passed . . . then suddenly came the 
 crisis, through one of those little happenings that 
 flash out, like sparks in a powder-mine, whenever 
 the powder-mine is ready. 
 
 It was a morning in late September. There 
 was a decided snap in the air. Gusts of wind 
 whirled yellowing leaves from the trees, heaped 
 them about the tree trunks or over the lawns, 
 heralding Autumn. Patricia was bored, fretful, 
 irritated. Life stagnated about her. She saw 
 that in this marriage she had taken a reckless leap 
 into the dark, and was now groping helplessly. 
 Still, she did not reproach herself, but rather her 
 husband. What right had Stanley to cheat her 
 of the future his money had apparently offered? 
 She had thought she loved him yes but that 
 was in a certain setting. Taken out of that set- 
 ting, she might never have considered him. Men 
 were so conceited, so intensely vain of their man- 
 hood! The poorest, oldest, most decrepit man 
 
 121
 
 122 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 fancies he may still win the loveliest of debutantes, 
 he actually does ! 
 
 Pat ordered Louis Tong to saddle her horse, 
 but changed her mind and took the car. Fancy 
 speeding in a Dodge ! It belittled her emotions ; 
 stepped on the brakes of her spirit. But she 
 laughed as she swung recklessly out of the rustic 
 gate, nipped off a corner of it and sent it flying to 
 the bulging-eyed envy of two small country boys 
 hovering near. 
 
 Poor Pat! Her soul was unsteady, like this 
 rattling machine as it plunged down the steep and 
 rocky mountain road. The oaks, wildwood tan- 
 gles of berries and trailing grape-vines failed to 
 rouse in her a throb of interest, while the distant 
 sparkle of the ocean only increased her exaspera- 
 tion. It symbolized the sea of life that she 
 longed to be adventuring on, but was not. 
 
 Once on the well-paved boulevard leading into 
 Santa Barbara, Patricia let the car out; it leaped 
 forward, bringing tears to her eyes from the sting 
 of the air. If she only had a real car, how she 
 would have humored this restless demon within 
 her! 
 
 As she turned up State Street she all but col- 
 lided with a stunning dark blue car, evidently of 
 French make. She stared enviously, then noticed
 
 THE LURE OF CLOTHES 123 
 
 the driver, a smart, cock-sure young person in a 
 dashing black and yellow sports outfit, who turned 
 at that moment. An incredulous light dawned 
 simultaneously in the eyes of both. 
 
 "Margot Regnier!" Patricia cried excitedly. 
 
 "Patricia !" 
 
 Their machines soon hugged the curb, and after 
 a hasty exchange of confidences, they decided to 
 park the plebeian Dodge and were off in the purr- 
 ing beauty. 
 
 Margot had been one of the most envied girls 
 at Miss Spence's School. She had brains, or at 
 least superficial brilliancy; and a dark beauty that 
 amazed. Also money and charm. French on 
 her father's side, Irish on her mother's, with all 
 the dash and dare of her American upbringing, 
 she had led her parents a merry chase. Six 
 months after her coming-out party in New York, 
 at the height of a spectacular social triumph, 
 Pere Regnier happened in unexpectedly at a little 
 smoker Margot was giving one evening, where- 
 jupon she was packed off unceremoniously to a 
 Western College. Six months later she was po- 
 litely asked to leave, much to her joy and her 
 father's wrath and shame. 
 
 At her wit's end now for an entrance into 
 longed-for freedom, Margot had married Don 
 Hammond, a middle-aged fortune hunter ; but her
 
 i2 4 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 father, still the source of supplies, was not ready 
 for them to return to New York, so she and Don 
 were temporarily caged with a dull and dowdy 
 aunt who owned a mansion perched on a neigh- 
 boring cliff. 
 
 "There's my tale of woe," laughed Margot. 
 "Now tell me yours, old darling!" 
 
 Flattered by the interest in her career indicated 
 in Margot's shining dark eyes, Patricia gradually 
 told her whole story, nor did she conceal her 
 present impatience, dissatisfaction, rebellion. 
 She drove home aflutter with excitement. 
 
 But a few days later when Margot called and 
 had tea with them in their little chintz-hung liv- 
 ing room, she saw that Stan was going to be un- 
 manageable about her friend. 
 
 "I don't like her," he said decisively after- 
 wards, "I don't like the beautiful shell of her, 
 nor the little farce of her soul." 
 
 On the other hand Margot was frankly pleased 
 with Stan and rhapsodized openly to Patricia 
 about him; but Creighton persistently refused her 
 invitations, so Patsy went alone. These lavish 
 parties of Margot's led to other invitations that 
 called for new clothes. This stirred the young 
 wife's resentment, for she had had nothing new in 
 months. 
 
 Patricia was at Margot's one afternoon when
 
 THE LURE OF CLOTHES 125 
 
 the maid unpacked a box from a famous New 
 York dressmaker's. 
 
 "What gorgeous things!" sighed Pat, enviously. 
 
 "Why don't you order a gown or two your- 
 self?" suggested Margot as she lifted a creamy 
 lace gown from its tissue paper wrappings. 
 "This sort of thing would be wonderful on you, 
 cherie, with your short curls. I could send in 
 your orders with mine, and ask them to mail the 
 bill to your husband." 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't do that!" 
 
 "Why not? Don't be a darn little fool. 
 What's a husband for? Work him, my dear. 
 Use your sex charm. Men are such innocent 
 babies lambs led to the slaughter." 
 
 She gathered up two exquisite negligees, an 
 orchid creation over a flesh chiffon, and a luscious 
 apricot with dashes of turquoise blue and, squint- 
 ing her dazzling dark eyes until they became mere 
 black slits through her heavy, curling lashes, she 
 said: 
 
 "Here, take this orchid affair. Something new 
 gives one confidence . . ." Her laugh discon- 
 certed Patricia, who blushed painfully, then 
 blushed because she had blushed. 
 
 "I hate this underhand feminine way of get- 
 ting things," she rebelled. 
 
 "You ought to have been a boy, Pat. You're
 
 126 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 so absurdly honest. Women must be tactful." 
 Again that provocative laugh. 
 
 "That's it," replied Patricia with fierce earnest- 
 ness. "A man can walk upright in the sun, but 
 a woman has to creep and fawn. I detest it." 
 
 Nevertheless she listened to Margot's tempting, 
 for clothes are a disease with women. Against 
 her will she listened. One by one Pat's argu- 
 ments for the decent course (meaning self-re- 
 straint) were brushed aside, and before she left 
 she had sent in an order to Lucile for two simple 
 but appallingly expensive evening gowns, and an 
 evening cloak. Also Margot persuaded her that 
 her old riding suit could be improved upon, and, 
 well . . . why not? 
 
 Patricia went home torn between happy excite- 
 ment over the prospect of some new clothes, and 
 a guilty feeling that she had betrayed Stan. 
 
 That night at dinner she exerted herself to 
 draw her husband out of the detached, imper- 
 sonal attitude that he had held too persistently 
 of late, and finally obtained his promise to go to 
 Margot's next party. Here it was that Stan met 
 Margot's husband, Don Hammond, an old wreck 
 (he was over forty and looked for all the world 
 like a shriveled, Bellflower apple) who before his 
 marriage was a poverty-stricken, would-be artist, 
 living by his wits and social position. Margot
 
 Don Hammond. That old Don Juan is like a yellow plant that 
 has grown under a moldy board
 
 THE LURE OF CLOTHES 127 
 
 accepted him because his frost-bitten speech 
 amused her, and because, being subject to her gifts, 
 he would be meek and lowly under her commands. 
 
 "A lot of rotters," Stanley characterized them 
 as they drove home. "That old Don Juan is like 
 a yellow plant that has grown under a moldy 
 board. I forbid you to have anything more to 
 do with him or his crowd." 
 
 "Forbid!" 
 
 "Yes, forbid," he repeated. "If you're still 
 a child, I must treat you like one. . . ." Then 
 after a second, through his teeth, "Thank God 
 you're not a liar. You're not like that deceitful 
 cat Margot. Believe me, she's no friend of 
 yours." 
 
 That night Patricia wrote in her diary: "I 
 have analyzed myself unmercifully and I admit 
 that I am a joke as a housekeeper and home- 
 maker. I'm not making good as an artist. I'm 
 persistently unhappy. I'm a round peg in a 
 square hole. My quarrels with Stan always end 
 in reconciliations, but they cheapen me in my own 
 eyes. To take clothes, presents, anything from a 
 man one does not love, even if he is called one's 
 husband, is in my opinion contemptibly low. 
 This idea grows on me, constantly shaming me." 
 
 And the next night she wrote: "Once I said 
 that I did not want love to dominate me; now I
 
 128 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 am convinced that I have not had a peep at love, 
 even through a half-closed door. Nine-tenths of 
 the women in the world never do! I won't be 
 one of these women. I want the rare, unshared 
 things. / want to know what love is even if I 
 get hurt in knowina/"
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 PATRICIA DECIDES TO LEAVE HER HUSBAND 
 
 A FORTNIGHT later Stanley announced to Pa- 
 tricia that he was going to Los Angeles to see 
 her father, and this brought her former sus- 
 picions to a certainty. 
 
 "You went to see him before didn't you?" 
 
 "Yes," he admitted calmly, "I did. I had to. 
 I'd take any course that would help us toward 
 happiness." 
 
 "I think it was contemptible of you. I can't 
 believe it." 
 
 "And I can't believe these," he retorted, 
 striking his hand against a pile of her bills heaped 
 on his desk. "It was beneath you to burden me 
 like this, Pat, just when I need your help. It was 
 that odious Margot's influence, I know it was." 
 
 Followed a terrific culminative quarrel. Pa- 
 tricia tried to put spirit into her excuses, but at 
 heart she knew herself to be in the wrong. How 
 could those miserable bills have accumulated so 
 rapidly? Of course the new car (in spite of trad- 
 
 129
 
 1 30 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 ing in the Dodge) made a big item; then she had 
 suffered heavy losses at bridge. But eleven thou- 
 sand dollars! Incredible! 
 
 "I had to amuse myself in some way," she con- 
 tended. 
 
 "Amuse yourself, certainly, within reason, but 
 why in thunder didn't you trust me, ask me for 
 money? I'm not a monster." 
 
 "Why does a woman always have to humiliate 
 herself and ask money of a man?" 
 
 "Because marriage is a partnership. Besides, 
 he earns the money." 
 
 "If it's a partnership, why doesn't he consult 
 her about what he spends? I say there's no 
 liberty for a woman as long as she has to beg 
 money of a man. When I married you I ex- 
 pected to have the beautiful things I've always 
 craved. I knew you were making plenty of 
 money . . ." 
 
 Stan frowned. 
 
 "I thought you loved me," she continued. 
 
 "Lord, that word love! The most abused 
 word in the English language. You haven't even 
 a bowing acquaintance with it." 
 
 "Perhaps not. I hate housework, that's cer- 
 tain. If you want me to stay with you, you'll 
 have to make some other arrangements." 
 
 "If I want you to stay with me ... ?"
 
 TO LEAVE HER HUSBAND 131 
 
 "Yes, I can go back to New York, go to 
 work." 
 
 He stared at her for a long, steady moment. 
 She could feel the blood rush into her cheeks ; but 
 she shut her jaws hard and steeled her will. 
 
 "I'm sick of this farce," she added as he turned 
 away. 
 
 They separated for the night without a kiss, 
 and Patricia lay awake for hours sounding the 
 situation, longing to go to him, hating herself be- 
 cause she could not summon the right emotion 
 to meet the moment, wondering, analyzing . . 
 
 II 
 
 The next morning Stanley announced his de- 
 cision. 
 
 "I've come to a sharp turn in the road," he 
 said. "I need advice. Instead of going to a 
 lawyer, I'm going to your father. I like him and 
 trust him. Come, go with me, Pat," he urged. 
 "Pocket your pride." 
 
 Patricia's eyes grew misty as tender memories 
 of her mother and father flooded in, pictures of 
 them as they were, and would be. She concen- 
 trated with fierce steadiness on the zinnias, her 
 effort at control causing her throat to ache in- 
 tolerably. "Why not go?" tempted the still
 
 I 3 2 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 small voice within; but aloud she said: "I'll de- 
 cide and let you know at luncheon, Stan." 
 
 "Why, bless you," he cried in delighted sur- 
 prise, "bless you, Pat, my dear." And to Louis 
 Tong's grinning confusion he swept her out of 
 her chair into his arms, while the Chinaman beat 
 a hasty retreat with the hot coffee. For a second 
 Pat clung to her husband, listening to the blunt 
 sincerity of his devotion. Why could she not be 
 what he wanted her to be? That model and 
 priceless housewife of biblical times whom her 
 father used to quote. 
 
 "She . . . worketh willingly with her hands. 
 She riseth also while it is yet night and giveth 
 meat to her household and a portion to her 
 maidens" 
 
 III 
 
 All through the morning Patricia wrestled with 
 herself; she resolved to have reached a decision 
 when the sun had climbed to the topmost rocky 
 peak before her. She lay in the hammock and, 
 fascinated, watched the sunlight creep up the hill- 
 side, watched it steal softly over the sage and 
 scrub oaks, now touching a clump of eucalyptus 
 trees that cut cathedral-like into the hazy blue, 
 then insinuating itself on and up the brown,
 
 TO LEAVE HER HUSBAND 133 
 
 seared hillside until it blazed on the topmost 
 ledge ! 
 
 During this Woozy came and fought her; made 
 her see things that she had known before, but 
 never acknowledged. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 It's abominable ! You're thinking of running 
 away. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (Defiant) I can't endure this any longer. 
 It's no use trying. I crave action, movement 
 New York. I want to live! 
 WOOZY 
 
 Haven't you any sense of duty? Or decency? 
 You've run away once already. 
 PATRICIA 
 
 I can't help it. I must work out my own des- 
 tiny without the interference of any man. I'm 
 not going to do domestic drudgery. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 If you support yourself in New York, you'll 
 have to do more disagreeable things. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 I'll be free anyway. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 No. A woman is never free. Why can't you 
 speak the truth? Do you want me to tell you 
 why you are unhappy here?
 
 i 34 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Why? 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 You think you haven't found your ideal of a 
 man. If you had, you'd do the drudgery gladly. 
 And economize gladly. It's this treacherous 
 glint of wings that is luring you on, promising 
 something magical, enchanting, beyond, just be- 
 yond your reach . . . 
 
 PATRICIA 
 You're clever to see that, Woozy. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 You hope to find your ideal in New York, but 
 it's a mirage, Pat. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (Dreamily) I wonder. I'm going to find 
 out. I'm going to follow the truest instincts of 
 my womanhood. Thousands of women spoil their 
 lives because they compromise before an issue 
 like this. I'm not going to compromise. I owe 
 that to myself. And in the end I'll hold the flut- 
 tering wings of happiness. You'll see. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 Why didn't you think of this before you mar- 
 ried Stan? 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 They didn't give me time, father and Stan be- 
 tween them. They overwhelmed me with mascu-
 
 TO LEAVE HER HUSBAND 135 
 
 line insistence, as men always do. Stan happened 
 to want me so he carried me off. He took it for 
 granted that I loved him. Now he's furious be- 
 cause I can't live up to his foolish idea of what I 
 ought to be. Why didn't he leave me alone? 
 WOOZY 
 
 (Pleading} Patsy, you think you're unhappy 
 with Stan, but you'll be unhappier without him. 
 Besides, you are legally his wife. He has rights. 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Don't be silly. Stan doesn't want me against 
 my will. (Tenderly} Poor Stan! (After an 
 embarrassed silence} Woozy, I'm much obliged 
 to you for one thing, you've made me understand 
 why I don't love Stan in the ideal way. It just 
 came to me like a flash. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 Why? 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 I won't say it. I won't humiliate myself. 
 
 IV 
 
 High noon and the sun-tipped ledge ! Patricia 
 shut her lips and steeled herself to her decision. 
 The struggle was over. She rose to answer the 
 deep, musical call of the gongs, announcing lunch- 
 eon. When Stan came out of his study, elabo-
 
 i 3 6 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 rately casual, she went up to him at once and met 
 his eyes squarely. 
 
 "I can't go with you this afternoon, dear, but 
 you can take father and mother my love; please 
 tell them I am sorry I couldn't come and I've 
 written father a letter here!" She slipped it 
 into Stan's coat pocket, then drew him down to 
 her and kissed him. At which he weakened. 
 
 "Say the word, darling, and I won't go, per- 
 haps it would be better, perhaps . . ." 
 
 "No, no," she urged, "you must go now. We 
 must have the courage to carry through what we 
 believe is right, both of us." 
 
 Stan's eyes said unutterable things, and from 
 the train he called to her: "Good-by, sweet- 
 heart! It's all coming out right. I'll be back 
 day after to-morrow. I've a surprise for you 
 then. Good-by! Good-by!" 
 
 But Patricia knew that when he came back on 
 the day after to-morrow she would be gone!
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 "YOUR UNRULY PAT" 
 
 IT was characteristic of Creighton that in his 
 interview with Newton Lydig, which took place 
 over luncheon at the Los Angeles Athletic Club, 
 he at first concealed the cause of his anxiety; his 
 loyalty to Patricia led him to present the situa- 
 tion in its most favorable aspects. And yet the 
 novelist was puzzled by a flitting wistfulness in 
 the young man's smile. 
 
 "Patricia's been splendid," Stan declared. "She 
 has buckled down to plain living you'd be sur- 
 prised. Up and dressed at eight o'clock, and do- 
 ing her very best to manage things in the home 
 -and help me. She's even cut down on her 
 cigarettes." 
 
 Lydig rather plumed himself on this develop- 
 ment. "It's the old story," he said. "A happy 
 marriage will do more for a girl than all the 
 teaching and preaching in the world. Pat has 
 found herself. I congratulate you, both of you." 
 
 137
 
 138 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 Again he noticed that enigmatical smile and an 
 uneasy or embarrassed shifting of his head and 
 shoulders. 
 
 "What's the matter? Don't you deserve con- 
 gratulations?" 
 
 "Oh, yes er you bet we do." 
 
 "Then why the peculiar manner? You're 
 keeping back something, Oh!" with a flash of 
 pleased anticipation, "is it ?" 
 
 Stan shook his head slowly. "No, not that." 
 
 "She isn't ill?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Anything wrong with your work? Haven't 
 you been making progress with your book?" 
 
 The answer came with an odd little laugh as 
 Creighton tapped a leather portfolio that he had 
 brought with him. "There are thirty-thousand 
 words in here, done in the last month since I 
 saw you." 
 
 "Fine ! I don't see what's troubling you. 
 Come ! Speak up I" 
 
 "Oh, nothing special one or two little er 
 flare-ups." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "Oh, nerves that's all. You see it's hard for 
 Pat to be economical. She ran into a bunch of 
 spenders up there, rich people who have nothing 
 to do but jazz around and blow their money and
 
 "YOUR UNRULY PAT" 139 
 
 it's only natural Pat should want nice clothes, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "Ye-es. And nice clothes are expensive." 
 
 "They sure are. Besides she got a new car 
 and a few other things." 
 
 At this he grew serious and, beginning awk- 
 wardly, came presently to the heart of the matter, 
 which was that, in spite of brave efforts and a 
 promising start, Patricia was profoundly unrecon- 
 ciled to the life they were leading at Montecito. 
 
 "The mistake I made," Stanley admitted, "was 
 in trying to put over this simple life thing after 
 we were married. I ought to have told her be- 
 fore you can't get away from that. She knew 
 I was making a lot of money when I married her, 
 and she had a right to assume that I would go 
 on making it. We've got to be fair to her." 
 
 "But we went over all that." 
 
 "You and I went over it. Pat didn't go over 
 it. She wasn't consulted. That's one thing that 
 makes her sore. She doesn't see why her whole 
 j)lan of existence must be changed because I want 
 to write a book. I can put myself in her place. 
 She thought she was marrying a rich man. There 
 are some people in this world who want their own 
 way so strongly that it makes them ill, pretty 
 nearly kills 'em, if they don't get it. The only 
 salvation for people like that is to do the thing
 
 i 4 o GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 they want to do and take the consequences. You 
 chucked the school-teaching business when you 
 were a young chap and went off to Paris, didn't 
 you, sir? Patsy told me about it. You had to 
 go, didn't you?" 
 
 The father admitted this. 
 
 "Well, Pat feels about New York the way you 
 felt about Paris. She won't be satisfied any- 
 where else not now. And I'm going back into 
 the movies. I'm going to give her all the money 
 she wants." 
 
 Lydig stared in surprise. "That means sur- 
 render absolute surrender?" 
 
 "That's what it means," Stan nodded. 
 
 "Have you told her?" 
 
 "Not yet, I wanted to tell you first." 
 
 "Then all that we said the other day all our 
 arguments our reasons what about them?" 
 
 "All true, every one of 'em. The ideal thing 
 to do is to stick to the simple living plan and fight 
 it out on the present lines up at Montecito, I know 
 that; but I'm not big enough to put it over. You 
 couldn't put it over either. You had Patricia with 
 you for years, sir, and with all your love and wis- 
 dom you couldn't change her character or force 
 her into new ways of living, could you? Well, 
 neither can I. You side-stepped pretty nearly 
 every straight issue that came up, didn't you?
 
 "YOUR UNRULY PAT" 141 
 
 You let her smoke, you let her be extravagant, 
 you let her lie in bed mornings . . . and so on. 
 Well, I'm no miracle worker. I'm going to side- 
 step too." 
 
 "I wonder if you aren't mistaken about Pa- 
 tricia," the father reflected. "Perhaps she's ad- 
 justing herself better than you think to this new 
 life." 
 
 Stan shook his head. 
 
 "No, Pat's eating her heart out for New York 
 City, so I'm arranging for a transfer to the East- 
 ern studio." 
 
 "But your work? Your ambition to do big 
 things? Does all that go by the board?" 
 
 "Guess it does. I care more for Pat than I 
 do for fame. It wouldn't satisfy me to turn out 
 the greatest novel ever written and lose Patricia. 
 I should say not I Besides, this novel that I've 
 been doing," he picked up the portfolio, "it isn't 
 any good. I'm ashamed of it. I've ground away 
 at it day after day, but the stuff is hopeless. I 
 wouldn't let my publisher have it. There! I'll 
 _show you what I think of my novel." 
 
 They had withdrawn to the smoking room and 
 were enjoying their demi-tasse in front of a mas- 
 sive fireplace where logs were blazing pleasantly 
 against an in-creeping Pacific fog. With a quick 
 movement Creighton opened the leather flap and
 
 i 4 2 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 tossed his thirty-thousand words into the fire. 
 
 "You're crazy!" cried Lydig, trying to rescue 
 the flaming pages; but it was too late. 
 
 "Not crazy that's the sanest thing I ever did. 
 I'm a good judge of my work. I know when it's 
 rotten. I can't create characters when I'm sick 
 at heart. I'll never do another stroke of novel- 
 writing, never until Patricia is happy, really 
 happy." 
 
 The father sat fascinated, profoundly im- 
 pressed, and did not speak until that unfortunate 
 mass of type-writing had smoldered into ashes. 
 
 "Poor child!" he sighed. "I hoped it would 
 be different when she married." 
 
 The young man answered confidently: "It's go- 
 ing to work out all right. Just wait until I break 
 the news to her. She'll be a mighty good imita- 
 tion of a happy girl, if I'm any judge. You'll 
 find Pat changed for the better, sir. Oh! I've 
 got a letter for you. She gave it to me the last 
 thing with her fondest love. Here you are!" 
 He produced a long envelope addressed to her 
 father in Patricia's familiar writing it was the 
 first letter Newton Lydig had received from his 
 daughter since the night of her elopement. 
 
 Then came the shattering news, that penitent 
 but inexorable letter in which Patricia notified her 
 father and her husband that before Stanley re-
 
 "YOUR UNRULY PAT" 143 
 
 turned to their little Montecito home she would 
 have left for New York to earn her own living! 
 The irony of it ! Just when the eager lover was 
 preparing the surprise that was to make his be- 
 loved radiant! Too late! 
 
 In a separate note to Stan, enclosed in the 
 other, she begged him to forgive her, but not fol- 
 low her or try to see her or force her to come back 
 to him. Then, woman-like, after assuring him 
 that it would be quite useless and disastrous for 
 him to interfere with her purposes, she added this 
 exasperatingly emotional postscript: 
 
 "There are some moments, Stan . . . some 
 moments that we have shared . . . you remem- 
 ber? Do not let them fade. Do not let any one 
 make you forget your unruly Pat."
 
 PART TWO AWAKENED
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 "What a dark world who knows? 
 Ours to inhabit is ! 
 One touch, and what a strange 
 Glory might burst on us, 
 What a hid universe !" 
 
 ONE of the tragedies in women's lives is that 
 marriage does not always bring full awakening. 
 Often the profoundest depths of a woman's nature 
 are not stirred for years after a life-mate has 
 been chosen. In some cases, alas ! they are never 
 stirred; or again, by a man other than the life- 
 mate, as Patricia was fated to know. Thus far 
 her life had been that of a spoiled child; a sel- 
 fish, impulsive, forceful young woman; not a real 
 woman, as she was now to realize. 
 
 We may pass over the first four months that 
 Patricia spent in New York four months of 
 liberty! No need to detail the struggles, humili- 
 ations, deprivations that she endured (gladly on 
 
 147
 
 i 4 8 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 the whole!) as the price she paid. In the end 
 her talents and power of will conquered, and she 
 found herself, after a few weeks, earning her own 
 living, as she had dreamed of doing, without be- 
 ing beholden for a penny to any man, whether 
 husband or father. To tide her over the first 
 necessitous period, Patsy borrowed several hun- 
 dred dollars from skeptical but generous Margot, 
 being resolved at least to accept no more mas- 
 culine favors. 
 
 Liberty ! 
 
 If the truth must be told, this proved, on at- 
 tainment, to be a rather dreary, gray-tinged thing, 
 for here was this indolent, luxury-loving young 
 woman, dwelling in a single darkish room (with 
 no private bath!) in a New York boarding house 
 up near Columbia. And caged from nine to five 
 in a dingy building on Fourth Avenue where she 
 dashed off little fashion articles for an advertis- 
 ing concern. At thirty-five dollars a week. 
 
 Such a thing is pride 1 
 
 As for the compensations of her new estate, 
 these did not immediately appear, and Patricia 
 suffered from loneliness and disillusionment (but 
 would have died rather than admit it) through 
 many dragging weeks. 
 
 Then suddenly came the burst of glory, the glint 
 of wings the man!
 
 PIERRE 149 
 
 Never would she forget that day of their first 
 meeting. Every detail of it was graven on her 
 memory. It was on one of those golden Saturday 
 afternoons with their precious free hours that 
 she had only learned to appreciate since she be- 
 came a breadwinner. With a sigh of relief 
 Patricia had closed her desk, closed the door of 
 her office, shot down seventeen flights in the eleva- 
 tor, and made her way over to the Avenue, her 
 gracious and beloved Fifth Avenue. 
 
 The shop windows drew her like magnets, as 
 of yore, only now window-shopping was her limit. 
 She pored over their contents, luxurious soft furs, 
 exquisite cobwebby lingerie, chic little hats each 
 in turn held her attention. And oddly mingled 
 with a glow of pride in her hardly-earned free- 
 dom was a pang of self-pity as she watched other 
 women alight from their limousines and sail care- 
 lessly past her as purchasers ! 
 
 A voice behind her made her turn sharply, she 
 knew those lilting tones of that voice, high, bird- 
 like : "Patricia !" 
 
 She was looking into the glowing face of her 
 old friend, Janice King, now Mrs. Shephard Clare- 
 mont. Janice was the daughter of an old New 
 York family; one of those families that lift their 
 chin ever so slightly, and, in well-bred voices seem 
 to say that the really nice people don't go in for
 
 i 5 o GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 the things that these wild young creatures of our 
 supposedly Smart Set indulge in ... 
 
 But Janice herself was lovable, the kindest and 
 blithest of God's creatures. It was not her fault 
 that she had been held up as a shining example 
 from babyhood. Pat liked her too well to hate 
 her, in spite of the fact that the difference of the 
 poles lay between them temperamentally which 
 proves genuine affection. 
 
 "Where shall we go to luncheon?" the gay 
 voice asked with its pleasing staccatos, as Janice 
 hurried her friend into her snug little motor. 
 
 "Anywhere." 
 
 They drove to Louis Sherry's tea-room at 58th 
 Street, filled with association for Patricia, since 
 the old Lydig home on Park Avenue was just 
 around the corner. 
 
 "Now tell me everything," sighed Janice, con- 
 tentedly, after she had ordered. "I have a gen- 
 eral idea of your mad career since you left us 
 (your mother wrote to mine) but . . ." she broke 
 off with that penetrating glance that invariably 
 left Patricia wondering why Janice loved her when 
 she so thoroughly disapproved of her. "Oh! 
 Pat," she breathed, "what a girl you are! To 
 elope and run away again, all within a year! 
 Come, tell me about it. Your husband what 
 is he like?"
 
 PIERRE 151 
 
 Then, wide-eyed, she listened to the story, and 
 could scarcely believe her ears when Pat came to 
 her present phase as an humble toiler, and 
 sketched in her boarding-house the horror of its 
 marble-hailed entrance, its hideous carved ebony 
 table, its encumbering chairs wherein no human 
 could find comfort; also the twilight gloom of its 
 halls, where one groped for the key-hole with 
 trained, experimenting fingers. Oh ! the dinginess 
 of it! The impertinent darkey at the elevator 
 and telephone switchboard, the dining-room, pre- 
 sided over by that shrewd and heroically corseted 
 master-piece of marceled importance whom Pat 
 had christened the Super-dreadnaught, her land- 
 lady. 
 
 "But Patricia how could you ! Why ostra- 
 cize yourself? Are you absolutely crazy?" 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 The keen, absorbed interest in Janice's face 
 died out; in its place came a troubled incredulous 
 expression bordering on pity. 
 
 u "But . . . after you were married . . . surely 
 . . . why the intimacy, the sweetness ... I 
 don't understand . . ." 
 
 "No, you couldn't. You'd never understand 
 the desire a girl has to earn her own living the 
 desire I have." 
 
 Janice shrugged noncommittally. Money, of
 
 1 5 2 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 course, could not interest her. She had plenty of 
 it always had had. 
 
 "Surely, you're not counting on making a for- 
 tune, Pat," she smiled, and at this her friend's 
 pride flared. 
 
 "I don't know. Just now my thirty-five dol- 
 lars a week is a fortune to me. At any rate it's 
 mine through my own efforts." 
 
 Again the quizzical, half-pitying look. 
 
 "But wifehood, motherhood are they mean- 
 ingless to you, Pat?" 
 
 Patricia blushed under the expression of those 
 eyes that stabbed with their sweetness. She knew 
 Janice was thinking of her six months' old baby, 
 she had told her about him almost at once, and 
 of her good-natured, mediocre husband, Shephard 
 Claremont, a little bald, thin person with an irri- 
 tating, nervous cough. And Pat gave back her 
 pity with a vengeance. No shining river of ad- 
 venture for Janice only a placid, safe little pond, 
 strewn with a few pretty water lilies and set about 
 with graceful, weeping willows. 
 
 "You didn't love your husband, that's certain," 
 Janice concluded. 
 
 "I was attracted to him," Patricia defended. 
 "He's fine, Janice, really big and fine, better than 
 I am . . . only . . . well, it wasn't right for me 
 to stay with him, under the circumstances."
 
 PIERRE 153 
 
 Behind Janice's reserve could be felt her mental 
 comment, "Pat will settle down and be all right 
 when she has a baby of her own." That used to 
 be the diagnosis of the old doctor, "Tut, tut, Mrs. 
 Lydig, Patricia will be all right when she is mar- 
 ried and has some babies," which always com- 
 forted her mother and lashed Patricia to fury. 
 
 Presently they said good-by, as Janice was due 
 early at her apartment by reason of Shephard, 
 Jr., and was full of agitations over not arriving on 
 time. Patricia took a bus and rode down as far 
 as Madison Square, charming in the purple bloom 
 of an early winter twilight. The great space was 
 restful to her nerves, the trees, shrubs, and the 
 first faint street lights partook of the mysterious 
 beauty of the hour. She felt a craving for some- 
 thing good to read, something that would lift her 
 out of this dull stretch, and went into Brentano's 
 never would she speak that name again without a 
 quickening of the heart, for it was there that . . . 
 
 She walked into the shop, searched hurriedly 
 up and down the aisles (it was within half hour 
 -of closing time) and finally paused before a row 
 of books that appealed. A title caught her eye 
 and she laid her hand eagerly upon it; simul- 
 taneously another hand reached for it. Their 
 fingers touched. A shock, definite, amazing! 
 Pat did not stir, did not look up for what seemed
 
 i 54 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 an unbelievably long time. Then, breathless with 
 expectancy, she lifted her eyes. 
 
 Out of an extraordinarily sensitive face, gray 
 eyes looked at her, sought her out, the sum of 
 her. A slim, sensitive face it was, flooded with 
 such light and understanding that her eyes seemed 
 drawn there to stay. His short black mustache 
 contributed to her impression that he must be a 
 foreigner, even before she noticed the blue of his 
 resplendent French uniform. 
 
 // was incredible that she did not know him! 
 Incredible that she could not speak to him! 
 
 After a few seconds, a woman came up from 
 behind and he turned to her. Patricia caught a 
 glimpse of the woman's face and her heart lifted 
 magically, then sank with a miserable apprehen- 
 sion. It was Margot! 
 
 "Pat . . . what luck! I've meant to hunt you 
 up ever since I came home, last week, but . . ." 
 
 "Did did your husband come with you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Good old Don!" She shrugged. 
 
 "Then?" 
 
 "Oh, he's a friend an old friend of the fam- 
 ily from France." She half turned, but Pat 
 tugged at her sleeve, scarcely realizing that she 
 whispered, "Don't tell him please " 
 
 Margot's keen, worldly-wise black eyes 
 twinkled, then grew shrewd.
 
 PIERRE 155 
 
 "Pat! not you! Flirting already! Pierre!" 
 she called. 
 
 Once more those intent gray eyes were search- 
 ing Patricia's. Margot's voice came as from a 
 great distance, gay, careless . . . 
 
 "Oh, Capitaine Boissard, meet my friend, Mrs. 
 Creighton, an old school chum;" then, interpreting 
 the pleading of Pat's eyes, she added mischie- 
 vously: "Prenez-guard you know how danger- 
 ous these pretty young widows are."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE DEPTHS ARE STIRRED 
 
 *. . . Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
 When a new planet swims into his ken ; . . ." 
 
 FATE surely had a finger in this business, for 
 they met again, these two, the very next day; in 
 all that measureless, boundless city of New York 
 they met again accidentally. 
 
 Patricia was on her way home from her work, 
 in the late afternoon. A soft rain was falling. 
 Street lights gleamed like pale flowers through 
 the mist; freshly-washed shrubs and trees and the 
 wet earth yielded their fragrance as she got off 
 the bus and walked up Morningside Drive. The 
 high black iron fence encircling L'Eglise de Notre 
 Dame stood out distinctly, its individual spikes 
 glistening with rain drops. Through the widely- 
 flung gates she caught the radiance of the altar, 
 alight with hundreds of hopefully gleaming tapers. 
 There was an atmosphere of security and comfort 
 here, a suggestion of peace. She hesitated at the 
 gateway and, as she looked, Capitaine Boissard 
 
 156
 
 THE DEPTHS ARE STIRRED 157 
 
 came out, his blue overcoat and the red and gold 
 of his cap cutting assertively into the luminous 
 grayness. Her heart leaped as their eyes met and 
 she realized that the thought of him had never 
 left her since that first glance the day before. 
 She had reproached herself for letting him think 
 her a widow. Now she understood why she had 
 done this. She must have had a subconscious 
 knowledge that he was a Catholic an ardent 
 one . . . 
 
 The rain beat in a merry, resonant patter on 
 the taut silk of her umbrella as he came up to her. 
 "Oh you!" he exclaimed, "What a good omen 
 to meet you here! I called on you this after- 
 noon." 
 
 Words deserted her. There were pulses in 
 her throat that throbbed excitedly. What an 
 extraordinary face he had ! She was too happy 
 it frightened her. And that little way he had of 
 laughing under his breath, so amused and inter- 
 ested! His intonations and French rs were de- 
 licious quaint, different. He was utterly unlike 
 any one Patricia had ever known. 
 
 "You came to see me this afternoon?" she 
 managed at last, "but, you see, I'm a worker, no: 
 a lady of leisure, Capitaine." 
 
 "A worker?" 
 
 "Yes. Only this afternoon I fell into a v,-o .
 
 I 5 8 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 derful new position, head of the Art Department 
 on a Millinery Trade's Review. I'm feeling 
 mighty proud of myself." 
 
 "Ah . . . that is ver-ry interesting. You 
 must tell me more about it. You American 
 women . . . you are remarkable! To live 
 alone . . . you do live alone?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "You were going into the church," he added. 
 "I am so hap-py you, too, are a Catholic?" 
 
 She woke with a start. 
 
 "Oh, no!" she hastened "not a Catholic, no, 
 no!" 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No, I am not religious," she said uncomfort- 
 ably. 
 
 He studied her face intently, thoughtfully, while 
 she admired his profile thin, aquiline, aristo- 
 cratic. 
 
 "But you are religious, ve-ry religious," he pro- 
 tested confidently. "You do not know it. You 
 love beauty keenly. In pictures, books, nature. 
 And religion makes our lives beautiful. Come! 
 To her amazement she made no protest, but en- 
 tered the church with him and they knelt together. 
 The gray evening faintly illumined the windows, 
 but the altar glowed, warm and vital. She felt 
 his fingers close on her arm; tears gathered and
 
 THE DEPTHS ARE STIRRED 159 
 
 slipped down her cheeks; but her heart felt quiet 
 as a summer lake. 
 
 Once outside he bent down to her and, half- 
 teasingly, half-endearingly, whispered: 
 
 "Pat-r-ricia I" 
 
 She did not remonstrate and they began to 
 laugh like children. At her door he left her with 
 a warning to be ready in a couple of hours. He 
 was going to take her to dinner. 
 
 II 
 
 There followed for Patricia a deliriously happy 
 month, yet one of torturing deception and self- 
 deception, wherein she found each day some new 
 and adequate reason for not confessing to Pierre 
 that she was a married woman. No better record 
 of events and emotions during this period of soul 
 awakening could be given than that taken from 
 her diary: 
 
 Friday night. 
 
 I must not keep up this deception with Pierre 
 already he is Pierre to me. I must tell him I am 
 a married woman. I did not mean to mislead 
 him. Margot was so quick to act on a mere im- 
 pulse of mine. After a while I'll tell him. Cer- 
 tainly after awhile. I'll tell him when I'm a
 
 160 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 little surer ... of what? Why, that he will 
 forgive my deception. No, no, Pat! You're 
 lying to yourself. You mean to wait until you 
 are sure that he loves you as you want him to love 
 you, as you, yourself, have come to love him. 
 
 Saturday. 
 
 Patricia, my poor child! What have you 
 done? You must tell Pierre the truth. You are 
 in the light, it is dazzling, blinding, but after it 
 will come grayness! 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 Pierre hates lipsticks and rouge. We went 
 shopping yesterday afternoon for some things to 
 take back, to his sister in France. I hung over 
 a case of adorable chased gold vanity cases, but 
 when I called his attention to them, I sensed his 
 disapproval. His tone was slightly contemptu- 
 ous. 
 
 "It would be an insult to give a nice French 
 girl such a gift," he said. 
 
 The French clerks who waited on us were 
 frankly delighted with us both. They beamed 
 and caressed us with voice and eyes, and defer- 
 entially called me Madame! I blushed, my heart 
 lifting, and Pierre furtively pressed my hand. 
 
 "I am v-er-ry pr-roud," he whispered.
 
 THE DEPTHS ARE STIRRED 161 
 
 Joy and fear struggled in my heart. I will tell 
 him soon. I must. I know he cares. I am 
 sure. 
 
 Monday. 
 Happy, so happy . . . 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 Evidently Pierre and Margot have not dis- 
 cussed me. I saw Margot to-day and she did not 
 seem to know that I have been meeting Pierre . . . 
 
 When I am with him I feel that we are alone, 
 even in the heart of a crowd. We have found 
 a way of walking hand in hand without detection ! 
 His military overcoat has an immense pocket into 
 which we can both slip our hands, his covering 
 mine . . . such a little thing but intimate, poig- 
 nantly sweet. 
 
 Wednesday night. 
 
 Pierre has been called to Canada on a mission 
 -connected with the recruiting of Poles. He tele- 
 phoned me to meet him at the Metropolitan Gal- 
 lery at four o'clock. He was pacing up and down 
 in front of the huge Museum as I got off the bus, 
 the wind whipping his long overcoat about his 
 high brown-laced boots. 
 
 The air had that cloudy effect that suggests
 
 162 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 snow; it was snappy, invigorating. The thought 
 of our temporary parting kept me silent, but drew 
 us subtly closer. His imperative eyes frightened 
 me. I began a little nonsensical running conver- 
 sation about my experiences in the office and 
 showed him some highly colored poster girls ready 
 for the next issue of our magazine. He laughed 
 under his breath, amused, interested, but I felt 
 him brush all that aside and go on searching the 
 mind and heart of me. 
 
 We fenced, keeping each other at a distance, 
 and yet were drawn irresistibly nearer and nearer. 
 We passed through the rooms examining various 
 paintings. As a connoisseur, he listened to me 
 deferentially, nodding his head. 
 
 "Ah yes you know." 
 
 We paused before a group of Sorollas our 
 eyes drawn to his "Bathers." The hint of beach, 
 the jolly girl, brown and radiant, the sunshine 
 caught in the white sail that the youth holds about 
 her, then the flash of the waves in the background 1 
 Light, youth, the seal 
 
 I became conscious that our shoulders were 
 close, our hands clasped. My throat ached with 
 emotion. Our eyes met. Mine filled. My lips 
 trembled. 
 
 "Ah dea-r girl," he whispered,"beauty is life 
 itself to you."
 
 THE DEPTHS ARE STIRRED 163 
 
 Outside it had commenced to snow, fine pow- 
 dery snow that blurred and obscured everything. 
 People on the avenue were black specks blown 
 through whirling whiteness. We stood in an al- 
 cove, ostensibly watching, but in reality absorbed 
 in this throbbing unrecognized drama between us. 
 
 "Why, look," I cried childishly, "a button 
 gone!" 
 
 "I know," he smiled, his hand unconsciously 
 reaching for the top button of his overcoat. I 
 thought perhaps you would sew one on for me?" 
 
 A lightning shot of remembrance came to me. 
 Stan and his buttons! But it did not check the 
 warm answer of my heart! 
 
 "Of course, if you can find one of those odd 
 blue military buttons." 
 
 "If not . . . could you not move one . . . ?" 
 
 Then what I had dreaded and longed for 
 happened. His arms closed hungrily round me. 
 I tried to speak, to protest, struggle away from 
 him, but I could not. My lips lifted naturally 
 to his. 
 
 That such sweetness could be in the world! 
 It was all inexpressibly lovely things merged, 
 cypress and eucalyptus trees outlined against blaz- 
 ing sunsets, the hush of twilight over still waters, 
 the lilting tones of a child the ache of beauty 
 that is half pleasure, half pain.
 
 1 64 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 We were very silent the rest of the evening. 
 He talked a little of France, of his home, its gar- 
 dens. ... At eleven we went to the station, but 
 he did not kiss me again. He put me in a taxi, 
 closed the door and stood waving good-by. 
 
 Saturday. 
 
 I hurried home from the office to see if there 
 was any mail. Letters have become of amazing 
 importance to me. One from father that set my 
 conscience on fire with remorse. And one from 
 Stan. Good, kind Stan! I know now what he 
 must have felt for me, evidently still feels. I 
 am sorry, bitterly self-reproachful; but I cannot 
 give up Pierre. Nothing can take him from me. 
 He belongs to me. He is my rightful mate. 
 Nothing can separate us. Creed? No, certainly 
 not. He has lived in the trenches. Creeds did 
 not matter there. 
 
 Monday. 
 
 A letter from Pierre. I sat down on my couch 
 and held the large white square for a moment, 
 studying the fine, print-like writing before opening 
 it. It was exquisitely restrained, almost disap- 
 pointingly so, but the fragrance of our feeling for 
 each other hung indefinitely about it. 
 
 "Why," he asked, "must our souls, that think
 
 THE DEPTHS ARE STIRRED 165 
 
 together, be separated by this small thing, a 
 breath, a nothing, yet indispensable the spoken 
 word? . . ." 
 
 Then came his stabbing news. Soon, very 
 soon, he was to sail home to France ! The ache 
 at my heart made it impossible for me to read 
 further for some moments. He was to come back 
 to New York for ten days or so before sailing. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 Pierre is back. I did not know anything could 
 thrill me as did the sound of his voice over the 
 wire. Our separation has seemed endless. We 
 had a gay dinner at our favorite little French 
 restaurant, Forty-eighth Street, west of Sixth Ave- 
 nue. There is a charming intime air about the 
 place, gayety, color, movement. But the words 
 of a French song echo in my ears: 
 
 "Mais viendra le jour des adieux, 
 
 Car il faut que les femmes pleurent 
 Et que les hommes curieux 
 
 Tentent les horizons que leurent." 
 
 Coming home in the car he put his arm about 
 me, kissed my eyes, lips, hair. I protested 
 faintly, drew away, trying to explain that I was 
 an unhappy, wicked wife, but ended by creeping 
 closer to him while I drank in his words:
 
 166 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "Ah cher-ie, cher-ie, I have waited for you 
 all my life." 
 
 Saturday. 
 
 Pierre talked to me of his religion this evening. 
 He never antagonizes, is always tactful and in- 
 tuitive. 
 
 "I know, I understand something of what you 
 feel, Pierre," I conceded, "the aesthetic side of 
 your church appeals to me, too, 
 
 'The storied windows richly dight 
 Casting a dim, religious light/ 
 
 the silence, the candles ... all the restful beauty 
 of it. But there are other aspects, that seem 
 medieval to me, I say. Why not let me be re- 
 ligious in my own way?" 
 
 Our conversation turned into other fields. 
 Pierre touched upon a possible metier for himself 
 here in America. I was amazed! He is well 
 past thirty, yet he has done nothing but write a 
 few polished French verses for various conserva- 
 tive papers in Paris, though, of course, he served 
 bravely in the war. He has leaned upon his 
 family, has studied, read, cultivated the arts 
 and himself. He has become the delightful com- 
 panion that I have always wanted, but ... an
 
 THE DEPTHS ARE STIRRED 167 
 
 uneasy comparison insinuated itself into my mind. 
 While Stan was assuming his father's debts, set- 
 ting aside his own desires and working at a hated 
 task, Pierre was accepting the support of his 
 parents. Stan is crude and unfinished. Pierre is 
 perfection. But . . . after all is love based on 
 worthiness ? 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 Our precious days are slipping by. Pierre has 
 not spoken any binding word of love, but content 
 is in my heart. We can never be separated. 
 He will go back to France for six or seven weeks, 
 then he will return to me. He belongs to me. 
 
 Monday. 
 
 Pierre grew heated on the subject of the wide- 
 spread contempt of parental authority in America. 
 In contrast he pictured the almost worshipful 
 regard of young people in France for their parents. 
 I suppose we go to one extreme, while they go 
 to the other. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 In one corner of my heart I have an oppres- 
 sing sense of guilt. My happiness is full and 
 brimming, but am I not like a thief with his
 
 1 68 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 stolen jewel? Why is life such a bully? I can't 
 tell Pierre about Stan and risk his love, I simply 
 cannot. The hours and days pass . . . 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 Nothing matters now. Pierre has spoken. It 
 was last evening. I have heard him say what 
 I have longed to hear. My heart sings, sings! 
 He seemed intensely excited when he came for me. 
 His eyes fairly blazed. I had put on a simple 
 rose georgette gown, as we were to dance after 
 our dinner, and he had sent me three perfect pink 
 rose-buds, long stemmed, delicate, fragrant. I 
 was pinning them on as I came out of the elevator 
 and my eyes fell under his ardent gaze. 
 
 Once in the taxi and speeding out the Drive, 
 Pierre drew me back into his arms without speak- 
 ing. I could feel his heart beat. Mine was rac- 
 ing as excitedly as his. My arms went up about 
 his neck quite shamelessly, my cheek rested against 
 his shoulder. 
 
 "Ah che-rie," he whispered, "I don't need 
 to tell you already I have said it ... in many 
 ways. You have understood ... I love you. 
 I want you with me always." 
 
 I began to cry then, softly, happily. His hands 
 smoothed my hair, caressed me with a tenderness 
 that hurt.
 
 THE DEPTHS ARE STIRRED 169 
 
 How foolish, absurd, to think that the most 
 modern of modern flappers, seemingly hard, cold, 
 calculating, is not the same eternal primitive Eve 
 when touched by the magical and revealing power 
 of genuine love! I listened to his old, old story 
 of the tranquil fireside. I could see him at the 
 piano, the firelight touching his hands, lingering 
 on his face, could picture myself waiting on him, 
 loving him. I trembled as he spoke ... of 
 children . . . Yes, at heart we women are all 
 alike . . . But I could not tell him! 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 Pierre has gone. I cannot believe it ... 
 Early this morning his great ship lifted anchor 
 and sailed away, taking all that I love best in the 
 world. How can I wait for his return? I can 
 feel his kisses burning on either cheek, the little 
 conventional station kisses ... I could not go to 
 the boat . . . And I could not tell him about 
 Stan! 
 
 A few more weeks his country claims him, 
 then he will be demobilized and come sailing back 
 to me. 
 
 
 
 I have telegraphed father to come on at once. 
 I want to tell him the whole story before I break
 
 I 7 o GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 the news to Stan. Father will help me to do what 
 is necessary. Poor Stan! I have treated him 
 abominably and the sooner he is rid of me the 
 better. Some other woman can make him happy. 
 As for me in my heart I am already the wife 
 of Pierre ! 
 
 A week later. 
 
 When I came home from work to-night I found 
 father. Although I was expecting him and 
 wanted him, it seems incredible that he is actually 
 here. So many things have happened since I said 
 good-by to him, that night of my elopement with 
 Stan. 
 
 I went to him with a rush of emotion and kissed 
 him impetuously; but almost immediately felt that 
 old instinctive barrier creeping between us. I 
 could not bring myself to tell him . . . what must 
 be told. I asked about mother and learned that 
 she has been ill for months. In her usual thought- 
 ful, unselfish way she had kept this back in her 
 letters, and I felt like a guilty thing. Remorse 
 filled my heart and I burst into tears. Father 
 was dear and kind. He tried to comfort me, 
 and put aside all his old authoritative ways. 
 When I asked him to wait until to-morrow before 
 our serious talk he agreed tenderly. 
 
 "I'll come and take you to luncheon," he said,
 
 THE DEPTHS ARE STIRRED 171 
 
 then he went on to tell me that he and mother 
 were proud of the success I had had in my work. 
 My heart was full of gratitude. What wonder- 
 ful friends we might have been all these years, 
 if we could only have been a little more human 
 and natural with one another! 
 
 Later. 
 
 I have thought over the whole situation. I can- 
 not give up Pierre. There is something in the 
 eyes of older people, an elusive expression that 
 urges me to gather quickly all the beauty and 
 happiness life puts within my reach. I have 
 caught that look again and again of late 
 in the eyes of rich old women riding in lux- 
 urious motors, in the eyes of tired mothers 
 hanging to straps in the subway, in the eyes of 
 street-sweepers, office workers, school teachers 
 ... A discouraged baffled look, as if life had 
 evaded them, its silver stream sweeping far afield 
 offering only a tantalizing glimpse of what might 
 have been theirs. I saw that look to-night in 
 father's eyes! 
 
 No, I cannot give up Pierre. Nothing can 
 make me give him up. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 Father and I had luncheon together and at last
 
 i 7 2 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 I told him everything, little by little. It was the 
 hardest thing I ever did. As he listened my 
 heart ached for him. He did not storm at me, or 
 reproach me, he seemed to respect my sincerity 
 and to understand what has happened; but he was 
 sad disappointed, helpless before this new dis- 
 aster that I was contemplating divorce! 
 
 He promised to help me, however, to stand 
 by me, to do all that he could he would go 
 over the whole situation with Stanley as soon as 
 he arrived. 
 
 "Stanley?" I cried. "He isn't coming, is he? 
 I wired you I didn't want him to come." 
 
 "I know, dear, I persuaded him not to, after 
 a lot of argument," answered Father; "but he 
 must have changed his mind. There was a tele- 
 gram from him at the hotel. Here!" 
 
 He handed me this curt, ominous message : 
 
 "Am leaving to-night. Have followed your 
 advice long enough. Propose to manage this af- 
 fair myself. Stanley."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 STANLEY ASSERTS HIMSELF 
 
 IN the flow of everyday happenings Stanley 
 Creighton was susceptible to doubts and waver- 
 ings like other men and, being modest about him- 
 self, he knew what it was to fall into fits of dis- 
 couragement when he was conscious of his own 
 inferiorities, his rough ways, his lack of glib ad- 
 justability; and became uncertain as to the course 
 that he ought to pursue. At such times he was 
 easily influenced by others whom he loved and 
 respected, as he had been influenced by Patricia 
 and by her father; but let disaster come or some 
 sudden peril that forced him to act swiftly and 
 at once he was a different man. He was like an 
 experienced navigator lounging on the deck of a 
 ship until the storm breaks, whereupon in a twin- 
 kling he asserts himself, brushing aside incompe- 
 tents, and takes command. Stanley had now as- 
 serted himself. 
 
 As his train rushed along he thought back 
 through the months to that miserable time when 
 
 173
 
 i 74 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 Patricia had left him. After the immediate hurt 
 to his pride had calmed a little his one thought 
 had been to rush after his wife and get her back 
 at any cost. He would yield to her demands, all 
 of them, he would do anything to conciliate her. 
 He could not endure life without her. 
 
 But he had endured it after listening to her 
 father's arguments. Lydig assured him that to 
 pursue Patsy against her will and insist upon his 
 rights as a husband would only make matters 
 worse. He would lose her irretrievably. The 
 only way to make Patricia realize her mistake 
 was to let her have her own way. 
 
 No one but the forsaken husband knew the 
 bitterness of his struggle with himself, but he 
 finally yielded and the weary months had passed. 
 He had written Patricia two pleading letters, but 
 they were returned unopened, with these words 
 scrawled across one of them: "Don't, please, 
 Stan!" 
 
 Now, however, everything was changed. He 
 had tried the experiment of patience and it had 
 failed. Patsy's telegram indicated that some- 
 thing had gone wrong: "Father dear, please come 
 to New York as soon as convenient. Am not ill, 
 but must see you. Beg you not to let Stanley 
 come yet." 
 
 What was the meaning of this? What could
 
 STANLEY ASSERTS HIMSELF 175 
 
 be the meaning? Why did she not wish him to 
 come? And what was the significance of that 
 word yet? The father had warned Stanley 
 against following his cave-man impulses. Rot! 
 He ought to have followed them long ago. After 
 all she was his wife. 
 
 "A woman is merciless when she does not love," 
 Lydig had said to him one day, and Stanley had 
 not disputed this at the time. Now he would have 
 replied that a woman is often a little fool who 
 doesn't know whether she loves or not. The 
 right man can show her. Well, he would take 
 this thing into his own hands and perhaps it wasn't 
 too late. 
 
 So it befell that four days later Stanley's voice 
 thrilled to Patricia over the telephone: "Hello! 
 This is Stan. Yes, I've seen your father we've 
 had a little talk. Yes, I know about that 
 everything. Could you come and take luncheon 
 with me at the Brevoort? To-day? Yes, I'd 
 rather make it down-town, if you don't mind." 
 
 Here was the first faint clash of wills, and 
 Patricia yielded. She would have preferred an 
 uptown meeting place, one of those feminine, 
 charmingly decorated tea-rooms, where she felt 
 more on her ground, but for some reason she did 
 not insist. Nor did she ask him to call for her,
 
 i 7 6 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 as she had hoped he would, saying (when he did 
 not suggest this) that she could come down quite 
 conveniently in a Fifth Avenue bus. 
 
 Their meeting was disconcertingly direct, quite 
 friendly, but unsentimental. Stanley made no 
 move to kiss her, as she had supposed he would 
 after so long a separation. In a way she was 
 relieved at this, for why should a man kiss a wo- 
 man who is trying to divorce him? Still he might 
 have shown that he would have liked to kiss her. 
 And at least he might have paid her some little 
 compliment on her looks her new hat and dress 
 that she had bought with her own money. She 
 noticed that he looked pale, a trifle thinner, with 
 a spiritual something in his eyes. He was dif- 
 ferent in a way good-natured, gentle, but some- 
 how vaguely formidable. And he was better 
 dressed with more care and quieter taste than 
 she had ever seen him. A splendidly built fel- 
 low with keen, heavily fringed gray eyes whom 
 all the women in the room noticed. Had he 
 really ceased caring for her? Or was it merely 
 an assumed coldness? 
 
 Stanley wasted no time in polite generalities, 
 had no questions to ask about her work or her 
 self-supporting experiences in New York, did not 
 even flatter her by suggestions of jealousy noth- 
 ing of the sort. On the contrary his air was that
 
 STANLEY ASSERTS HIMSELF 177 
 
 of a man absolutely sure of himself and of his 
 mastery of the situation. 
 
 "Now, Pat, suppose we lay our cards on the 
 table," he began, as soon as he had given the 
 order. "Your father tells me you have met a 
 Frenchman here and fallen in love with him? Is 
 that so?" 
 
 His whole manner irritated her. What was the 
 need for this abruptness? How lacking he was 
 in delicacy! 
 
 "Yes," she answered, coldly. 
 
 "You want a divorce from me? You propose 
 to marry this Captain Boissard?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "As I understand it he has no money? No 
 regular business or position? Have you thought 
 about that?" 
 
 "That doesn't worry me. He's a very talented 
 man, Stanley. He will make his way." 
 
 "How? How old is he? If I'm going to 
 give you up I must know something about the man 
 "I'm giving you to." 
 
 "He's thirty years old." 
 
 Creighton shook his head disapprovingly. 
 "It's bad form to knock a rival, but I'll just call 
 your attention to this, Pat, as a matter of cold 
 fact, that if a man hasn't amounted to something 
 by the time he's thirty, the chances are he'll never
 
 i 7 8 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 amount to anything. Hasn't Captain Boissard 
 any income at all any sure income?" 
 
 "He has his pay from the Government and " 
 she flushed, "a little from his family." 
 
 "I happen to know what the pay of a French 
 captain is and well, it's no disgrace to be poor, 
 but say he has his two or three thousand dollars 
 a year he hasn't more than that, has he?" 
 
 "Perhaps not. I don't know. I don't care. 
 This isn't a question of money. Love doesn't 
 depend upon money." 
 
 "No, of course not. You really love him, Pat? 
 There's no mistake about it this time?" His tone 
 was gentler now. 
 
 "There's no mistake," she answered with a 
 pathetic, pleading look that cut to his heart. "I 
 I love him, Stan." 
 
 "You poor foolish little girl ! You don't know 
 what love is. First you thought you loved me 
 you must have thought so or you wouldn't have run 
 away from home with me. Now you're sure you 
 love this Frenchman. I don't doubt that you 
 think you do, you may love the man you think 
 he is." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" 
 
 "I mean that we're none of us what we seem 
 to be. And the opinion we have of other people
 
 STANLEY ASSERTS HIMSELF 179 
 
 is wrong half the time. For instance, you've 
 got a certain idea about me, but it's not the right 
 idea. I'm not the man you think I am not a bit 
 of it. You'll find that out. You think I stand 
 in awe of you and your father because you've had 
 more advantages than I have. Well, I don't. 
 I don't give a hang for all the culture and nice 
 ways that you consider so important. I know 
 something more important than culture, a whole 
 lot more important." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "Never mind. Just watch me. I'll show you 
 a few things and your father too. You don't 
 either of you know your own minds. Well, I do, 
 thank God ! I've let you two decide for me long 
 enough. I know exactly what I want and I'm 
 going after it straight after it." His eyes had 
 become hard, dominating. 
 
 "You mean . . ." 
 
 "Yes, you you're my wife." 
 
 "I tell you I love another man. I love him 
 "with all my heart and soul." 
 
 "Do you love him enough to be his mistress?" 
 
 Patricia drew back white with anger. 
 
 "What an abominable outrageous " 
 
 "I'm sorry for you, if you don't," Creighton 
 went on with cutting directness. "I know what
 
 1 80 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 I'm talking about. I've only been here twenty- 
 four hours, but I've found out enough in that time 
 to make me reasonably sure ..." 
 
 "What have you found out?" 
 
 "This man is a Catholic." 
 
 "Naturally, most Frenchmen are." 
 
 "Devout you understand?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "He wouldn't marry a divorced woman. He 
 couldn't, or he thinks he couldn't." 
 
 "How do you know what Captain Boissard 
 thinks?" 
 
 "You mean to say you think he will marry you ? 
 You are counting on that? You think he will 
 be big enough to jeopardize the welfare of his 
 precious French soul for your sake? Do you?" 
 
 She was crying now softly, dabbing a hand- 
 kerchief to her eyes. 
 
 "Listen, Pat! I'm not a brute. If I thought 
 Boissard was a fine man who would make you 
 happy if I thought he was worthy of you if I 
 believed that you knew the kind of fellow he is 
 and loved him in spite of that " 
 
 "I won't listen to you. What do you know 
 against Captain Boissard, except that he's a Cath- 
 olic? Which is better than being a free-thinker." 
 
 "Free-thinker? I'm going to be a straight 
 thinker. Not a mushy sentimentalist. If Bois-
 
 STANLEY ASSERTS HIMSELF 181 
 
 sard was really a fine man, I'd step aside. I'd 
 have to. I want you to be happy. But, by God, 
 you won't be happy with him. He won't marry 
 you." 
 
 "He will. He has asked me to marry him a 
 dozen times. He asked me only yesterday." 
 
 "Tell him you've got a husband living and see 
 if he asks you again." 
 
 "He will." 
 
 "He won't." 
 
 "And if he does? Stanley?" 
 
 Her voice was pleading, conciliatory as she 
 came a step nearer to her husband. 
 
 Stanley turned away and stood pondering this 
 with a heavy frown. 
 
 "If Boissard offers to marry you after he knows 
 the truth, and if you still want to marry him, you 
 shall have a divorce."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 PATRICIA TELLS PIERRE THE TRUTH 
 
 (Written by Patricia) 
 
 Monday. 
 
 I HAVE seen Stan. Useless to record our inter- 
 view. It was hard, tearing. I could have wept 
 for him. He is utterly masculine. Determined. 
 How pitiful that we all try to hold on to what 
 we have had and loved! Nothing is lasting, no 
 matter how hard we try to make it so. Every- 
 thing is swept away from us by the current of 
 life. 
 
 I was honest with him at least, but then I 
 had to be. No shadow of an evasion is possible 
 with him. His eyes command, his mind and will 
 are like flint. He resolutely faces realities. Had 
 he been in the place of Pierre he would soon have 
 known that I was not a widow. I have a feeling 
 that even Pierre must have his suspicions, but 
 feared to ask a question that might spoil his dream. 
 We have both been cowards. 
 
 Stan's ultimatum was characteristic; "Catholics 
 
 J&2
 
 -^^^ 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 Stan
 
 PATRICIA TELLS THE TRUTH 183 
 
 do not marry divorced women. Tell him you 
 are a divorced woman and then, if he still asks 
 you to be his wife, I will give you a divorce. 
 But he won't marry you." 
 
 Imagine 1 He dared to say that I 
 
 Thursday. 
 
 Pierre's letters have been a comfort, for the 
 most part chatty, full of clever pen-pictures of 
 places and people, tender and promising, though 
 in one he awoke a fear in my mind. He referred 
 to our kneeling together in the little French 
 church. 
 
 "That to me was the apex of happiness, for 
 it meant that God himself had joined our souls 
 for good. How I should like to have a long, 
 long talk with you on that, and show you how 
 an 'inherited faith,' as you called it, can become 
 one's own property; how the beauty of Christ ages 
 and the Middle Ages can be also the beauty of 
 modern times and modern people; how the noble 
 roots of an old unchanged form of worship can 
 bloom into ever-changing flowers of love and self- 
 sacrifice." 
 
 And he added these consoling words: ''You are 
 going to give me the happiest days of my life. I 
 pray God that I may not be unworthy . . ."
 
 1 84 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 It is no use to worry. I am sure of Pierre. 
 He can translate his love of the ideal, and accept 
 a creed that is kinder to poor humans, who inevita- 
 bly make mistakes at one time or another . . . 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 I'm thankful for my work. My days at the 
 office are absorbing. They demand all my atten- 
 tion. To-day I took father into my domain (I 
 have a private room of my own now, if you 
 please) and he was properly impressed. 
 
 "Fine, fine!" he complimented me. "You had 
 the talent, I always said so, only your will did not 
 lead it in the right direction. If you want to 
 keep this position, Pat, if it means happiness to 
 you, I'm sure Stan will not object." 
 
 I turned to him in surprise. 
 
 "But, Father, I've told you about Pierre. 
 That's not an idle fancy. It's the truth. I love 
 him. I'm going to marry him. Stan will be 
 happier without me. He is strong, self-reliant. 
 He doesn't need me. Pierre does." 
 
 
 
 Four more days until Pierre's boat is due I 
 
 Thursday. 
 I went to dinner this evening with three of the
 
 PATRICIA TELLS THE TRUTH 185 
 
 girls I have met through my work. They have 
 a charming little apartment in the Village all 
 fresh chintz and the furniture moved about so 
 that even old wrecks of things look comfy. They 
 are great girls, all up and coming, not afraid of 
 work. Over cigarettes and coffee we discussed 
 plays of the season, music, and ideas for stories. 
 One of them is not concerned with men, the others 
 hobnob in friendly, casual fashion with several. 
 Is that because they have not met the one man 
 who can shatter their nice, safe equilibrium? I, 
 too, was once cool and calm with my fingers on 
 my pulse. 
 
 
 
 I shall see Pierre to-morrow night! 
 
 Friday. 
 
 Here I sit writing, waiting for Pierre. Already 
 I have heard his voice over the telephone. I'm 
 absurdly excited. I must be calm. There is no 
 dodging the issue to-night. I have promised Stan 
 to tell Pierre that I am a married woman! Is it 
 possible Pierre will turn from me ? No, he could 
 not. Our love has a deep spiritual basis. 
 
 Pierre's first letter, written at sea, spoke of 
 our separation as the pierre de louche. He said 
 absence is for the affections what a great storm
 
 1 86 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 is for trees in a forest, some it wrenches up brut- 
 ally, others it fortifies in deeper and stronger 
 rootage! . . . 
 
 In a few minutes the telephone will ring. Its 
 shrill call will set my heart beating to this new 
 swift rhythm of happiness. I shall put on my hat, 
 the soft velour I bought this afternoon its in- 
 tense blue coaxes out the color of my eyes. And 
 he will like me in this gown two weeks' salary 
 went into it a simple wine-colored velvet cut 
 with medium low square neck and elbow sleeves 
 edged with dark fur . . . I'll be hurrying into my 
 big coat, fastening my furs snugly at the throat 
 so that their soft, long-haired loveliness brushes 
 up becomingly about my face. Then a dash of 
 perfume on the tips of my ears, across my lips, 
 through my hair . . . The telephone I ... The 
 telephone I . . . 
 
 Later. 
 
 I unbarred my prejudice and let Pierre come up 
 to my room, as all the girls in the house do with 
 their suitors. I could not greet him with a simple 
 hand-shake in the hall, and kisses in taxis always 
 seem furtive, stolen. I want to get away from 
 that, to clear up all deception and be once more on 
 speaking terms with my best self. 
 
 I had imagined our meeting dozens of times,
 
 PATRICIA TELLS THE TRUTH 187 
 
 acted it over and over in my mind in a dozen 
 different ways and places. But now ... I 
 opened the door and let my beloved enter my lit- 
 tle square room with its dark painted furniture 
 and glowing chintz. I closed the door and slipped 
 quietly into his outstretched arms. 
 
 "No," I begged, "please, please, Pierre!" I 
 murmured against his too vehement kisses. "I 
 must talk to you, I have a thousand things to 
 say." 
 
 His faint frown troubled me as I studied his 
 face. He was thinner. He looked different 
 . . . Why, of course, his uniform ! He no longer 
 wore his uniform. Some of his magnificence had 
 gone with the blue and red and gold, but that did 
 not matter. I was glad, for the change gave 
 him more wholly to me, drew him away from the 
 eyes of a curious world. 
 
 So we sidetracked again, dodged the main is- 
 sue, and, like two truant children, joyed in our 
 dinner, our rush out along the Drive beside the 
 cold, gray Hudson with its fringe of dark bare 
 trees. 
 
 We found a table near the huge open fire-place 
 at our Inn. There were only half-a-dozen couples 
 dancing and, as I knew I could not take Pierre to 
 my room after ten o'clock (rules of the house) I 
 decided to make the plunge now.
 
 1 88 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "Pierre," I said suddenly, leaning across the 
 table to him, "I have something to tell you. I 
 I have held something back." His quick ques- 
 tioning eyes clutched my heart. "You see ... I 
 am not yet free . . . but I will be soon. My hus- 
 band has promised me that I am to be free." 
 
 "Your husband!" 
 
 Again fear gripped me for his face went white, 
 then set into hard lines. 
 
 "You did not ask me about that," I stam- 
 mered, realizing that I was making a mess of 
 things. "I thought I was almost sure you 
 guessed . . ." 
 
 "You knew I was a Catholic," he replied. 
 "You knew a divorced woman could mean noth- 
 ing to me." 
 
 His eyes were cold, his tone irrevocable. If 
 we were only alone where I could have a fair 
 chance. That maddening foxtrot! How could 
 I talk against it 1 
 
 "Oh! let's go," I burst out. "I can't stand 
 this anywhere out of this bedlam." 
 
 "Why?" he asked wearily. "It's no use. 
 You've said all there is to say. You are a mar- 
 ried woman. I am a Catholic. I cannot marry 
 a divorcee. You must have realized that. You 
 know what my religion means to me."
 
 PATRICIA TELLS THE TRUTH 189 
 
 At this my anger blazed. 
 
 "You half-knew about Stan all along. You 
 could have known, but you feared to face the 
 truth. You did." 
 
 "Well, yes," he admitted slowly, "I did sense 
 that things were not quite r-right . . . but . . ." 
 
 "Why didn't you ask Margot?" I persisted. 
 "Why did you avoid her? For the same reason 
 I avoided her. Pierre . . . don't, don't look at 
 me like that . . . I'll disgrace myself, break 
 down. Please take me away . . ." 
 
 He called the waiter then, settled with him and 
 helped me into my coat. Once in the car he 
 softened a little, but he made no move toward 
 me. 
 
 "It is no use," he said gently. "Oh, please 
 don't cry ... It cannot be ... but then, we 
 have known some happiness. Is it not so? It 
 was ver-ry sweet while it lasted. I will remem- 
 ber it ... always." 
 
 I began to sob stormily. 
 
 "You think yourself religious. You believe 
 God is on your side. You would save your own 
 soul and let mine go !" I reached out to him 
 pleadingly, touching his arm. "Surely that is not 
 Christ-like, Pierre. Isn't your first duty to me? 
 You have awakened the very best in me. If you
 
 i 9 o GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 leave me now, you will kill my belief in every- 
 thing, man, God everything." 
 
 We were riding on ... on, and he remained 
 silent. Was he made of stone? Had he been 
 playing upon my sensibilities all along? Was it 
 all false, a lie? What a weak, wavering love his 
 must be to be put aside for a creed! 
 
 Pierre's arms were about me. He was saying: 
 "Pat-ricia ... my darling ... I thought it 
 would all be so sweet. But, you see, I cannot 
 go against my family, my church, my God. I 
 cannot. I love you . . . but I cannot do 
 that . . ." 
 
 "Your God, your soul, your family!" I cried 
 bitterly. "Selfish! Selfish! I fell into passion- 
 ate weeping, fighting Pierre off when he bent near 
 to comfort me, then suddenly throwing my arms 
 about his neck, kissing him recklessly . . . 
 
 
 
 He has gone. 
 
 I came up to my empty room and threw my- 
 self dressed on my couch. The ache at my heart 
 was a physical thing with sharp, agonizing stabs. 
 I could not think. I felt no mental anguish. 
 
 It is not good-by. I am sure of that. He 
 thinks he will stay away; but he cannot. There
 
 PATRICIA TELLS THE TRUTH 191 
 
 are forces in life too powerful to be overcome 
 or resisted. 
 
 I was too ill to go to the office this morning, 
 but I shall go to-morrow morning. Pierre will 
 come back to me. If not .
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 DESPAIR 
 
 (Written by Patricia) 
 
 Saturday. 
 
 THREE days have dragged by. No word from 
 Pierre. I have performed my task at the office 
 like an automaton. One of the girls asked if 
 I were ill, and the manager offered to take some 
 work off my shoulders. 
 
 How short or how long Time is, according to 
 circumstances. I am torn between the desire to 
 rush here and there in a mad search for forget- 
 fulness, and the insistent demand to stay closely 
 in my room so that I may not miss a telephone 
 message. My whole being strains, waiting for 
 the call. It comes and I rush to it, faint with 
 anticipation. Over the wire comes a voice, any 
 voice, except the one I want. And disappoint- 
 ment breaks over me. 
 
 Fate is malicious. I inevitably meet people I 
 have laboriously sought to avoid. It was Janet 
 to-day. She picked me up in her motor, blithe, 
 
 192
 
 DESPAIR 193 
 
 chatty as usual, content with life and her round 
 of pleasures and duties. There was no getting 
 out of dropping in at her home for tea; I could 
 not afford to be persistently evasive and odd. 
 
 A few months back I would have been un- 
 stirred by my visit to that charming apartment. 
 Now bitterness flooded me. It was the tranquil 
 fireside that Pierre and I had dreamed of. Why 
 should the Janets of the world sit lapped in hap- 
 piness and content, as life's best gifts fall into 
 their hands without effort, without intense long- 
 ings even? But far back in my mind I knew that 
 the Janets are not highly selective, nor exacting 
 of Fate. Therefore Life yields them neither 
 great joy nor great pain merely a cheerful con- 
 tent. They are tabbies basking in the sun. 
 
 A crisply starched nurse brought in that ador- 
 able baby and, as I held out my arms, he eyed 
 me, gravely judging, then gave a leap and with 
 a gurgle nestled to me. 
 
 Followed half an hour of pleasant chatter 
 while the firelight played over the old blue of the 
 porcelain, gleamed on the silver, leaped from the 
 polished mahogany of the tea table, drawing the 
 room's out-of-the-way corners intimately closer. 
 It was all cheery and comfortable the spicy 
 smell of cinnamon toast, the competent move- 
 ments of an immaculate maid, and the low, coo-
 
 i 9 4 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 ing laugh of that sturdy, ten months old boy! 
 I talked of my work and of father's visit, with 
 an elusive mention of Stan, meant to give an im- 
 pression that perhaps . . . well, perhaps . . . 
 Yes, Janet got it. She beamed in motherly fash- 
 ion, patted my hand and kissed me as I rose, my 
 heart swelling and aching until I felt at last the 
 tears could come. 
 
 * 
 
 I hurried home. No word. I searched 
 through my mail box, irately questioned the darky 
 at the switchboard, crawled miserably up to my 
 room, threw myself quiet and motionless on my 
 couch, my heart a dead weight, my ears still strain- 
 ing for the telephone. 
 
 
 
 Monday. 
 
 He cannot leave me in silence much longer. 
 Perhaps he will write. Perhaps. After awhile. 
 
 Thursday. 
 No word. 
 
 The days break into sunshine that dies out like 
 the hope in my heart. 
 
 Friday. 
 
 He is cold, hard, selfish Pierre. There is no 
 such thing as justice in the world. Where is the
 
 DESPAIR 195 
 
 God of the trenches, the Great Unseen Force of 
 magnificently impartial Love? 
 
 Saturday afternoon. 
 
 No mail in my box, but when I came to my 
 room, listless and down-hearted, I discovered a 
 box tied to the door knob. A florist's box! 
 
 Lilies lilies-of-the-valley ! Their subtle per- 
 fume reached me as I caught the handwriting on 
 an envelope. I put my face down against the 
 small appealing white flowers, and for the first 
 time since Pierre's leave-taking tears! 
 
 I joyed in the flowers for a moment, went hum- 
 ming into the bathroom for water and collided 
 with a kimono-ed girl-neighbor who told me she 
 had taken the box in from the florist's boy. I 
 arranged the lilies in a low heliotrope bowl, think- 
 ing of the message that awaited me, then, with 
 trembling fingers broke the seal. 
 
 "Cherie: 
 
 "This is good-by. I have lived with tortured 
 mind and heart these dayc and nights, have fought 
 against causing you the pain that I have suffered. 
 But, I cannot see you again. There is no trust- 
 ing myself. Near you, with your dear voice in 
 my ears, the perfume of you, the touch of your 
 hands. . . . No, I would be too weak. You can 
 tell yourself that the heart of votre ami will re-
 
 196 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 main forever true. You alone, bien chere, have 
 reached my soul. Adieu ! In spite of separation 
 and silence, you will keep always the faithful love 
 
 of 
 
 "PIERRE." 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 I have tried to go back over the horror of last 
 night and recall events as they happened. It was 
 just after Pierre's letter that the telephone began 
 its persistent ringing. I did not answer it. Then 
 the doorbell rang. Some one was knocking. 
 Voices in the hall. 
 
 "Yes, I am sure she is in." Another knock, 
 then the knob turntd, the door opened slowly, 
 and light from the hall streamed in. 
 
 "Patricia Pat!" 
 
 Some one was stumbling over a chair, then the 
 electric light came blindingly. I crouched back 
 in a corner among my pillows blinking angrily 
 at Margot! 
 
 "What do you want?" I asked sullenly. "Go 
 away. Oh, I am ill ill go away." 
 
 She turned and spoke cheerfully to some one 
 in the hall. 
 
 "It's all right. She's here, just resting a 
 headache." She came back to the couch and sat 
 down by me.
 
 DESPAIR 197 
 
 "You take things too seriously, Pat. V T hat- 
 ever has happened, it's not worth tearing your 
 soul up by the roots like this. Particularly . . . 
 if it's a man. No man in the world is worth 
 agonizing over selfish beasts !" 
 
 "Why did you come?" I cried. "Pierre . . . ?" 
 
 "He rang me up to say 'good-by.' He's sail- 
 ing soon. Says he's too busy to see any one." 
 Her voice ironically stressed the busy. 
 
 "I suppose he told you," I began, scanning her 
 face. 
 
 "Nothing ... but I'm not a fool. Don't 
 you think I've known that you two were playing 
 about together?" 
 
 As she said this a fierce, cruel look leaped into 
 her eyes. A line deepened about her mouth. She 
 looked ugly! A second later this was gone, and 
 Margot had resumed her usual, half-humorous, 
 half-cynical expression, a tolerant acceptance of 
 life in any of its varied forms. 
 
 "What difference does that make to you?" 
 
 "You mean that I'm not a custodian of 
 -morals!" 
 
 She laughed flippantly, drew her light satin 
 slippered feet onto the couch, embraced her knees 
 with her arms, and abstractedly circled one slim, 
 silken ankle with her fingers. She was an ar- 
 resting figure in her daringly cut apricot silk even-
 
 i 9 8 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 ing gown, the masses of her dark hair piled high 
 in an amazing but simple coiffure. "Right you 
 are, my dear, but after all you're my friend so 
 is Pierre." When she turned to me again her 
 eyes were wonderfully softened. "I knew Pierre 
 in France when I was so high. We used to walk 
 about the sedate paths of his father's fine old 
 garden. I was a youngster in short skirts with 
 hair flying, and this fine young man in his trim 
 Lycee uniform was my hero. That was my one 
 real love affair. When I was eighteen and he 
 twenty-seven he would not look at me that is, 
 not as I wished him to. He was always grave 
 and aloof. His family hoped he would go into 
 the church . . ." 
 
 "Then he really is religious? . . . 
 
 Margot shrugged. 
 
 "Come, dearie ! What's the use of being seri- 
 ous? Get into something pretty. We've a little 
 party on to-night and you're going oh, yes, you 
 are. Look at me, Pat!" She leaned over me 
 with a fierce intentness that made me shrink away 
 from her. "There's no use thinking of Pierre 
 seriously. You're married and he's a rabid 
 Catholic; moreover, his family would disinherit 
 him, and how could he make a living? You'd 
 have to furnish a jolly big dot, that's certain, and
 
 DESPAIR 199 
 
 if you should sway him ... in another way . . . 
 (you might, he's emotional and rather weak) if 
 you did, if you dared remove that precious little 
 halo of yours, he would soon hate you, and him- 
 self, too, but chiefly you. He's like other men 
 in that. Besides," again that evil light in her 
 eyes and the set look about her lips, but they 
 passed quickly, "I want you with me to-night. 
 It isn't good for you to be alone." 
 
 Why I went I do not know, but I did. Noth- 
 ing seemed of much consequence. I might as 
 well dance as cry. Why not? I tried to coax 
 back the old reckless Patricia; I made my lips 
 into a scarlet bow across my pale face, all the 
 more challenging because I wore a simple white 
 gown. I frizzed out my hair audaciously. 
 
 "Now you'll do, my dear, but get a vivid coat," 
 commented Margot as she surveyed me. 
 "Haven't one? Well, I have. We'll go to my 
 apartment first anyway for cocktails." 
 
 Half a dozen men, including Don Hammond, 
 who was dispensing drinks, had already gathered 
 in the apartment when we entered. Margot's 
 parties were always made up chiefly of men. She 
 burst into the room breezily. 
 
 "Hello, boys! Is Don keeping you happy?" 
 
 By the time the introductions were over I was
 
 200 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 sorry I had come. I sank down on the daven- 
 port before a large, old-fashioned fireplace where 
 logs were snapping and glowing, hating all these 
 bowing men about me. Sleek and well-groomed 
 as they were in their evening dress, they betrayed 
 their real selves in suggestive stories, thinly veiled 
 with fake decency. Marriage had certainly not 
 done much for Margot, except to coarsen her un- 
 speakably. 
 
 I had never attended one of her "parties," al- 
 though she and I had had afternoon tea in her 
 apartment several times. It was a charming 
 place by fire and candlelight Chinese blue and 
 soft, melting ochers. I spoke of the room's rest- 
 fulness to the florid-faced man who had drawn 
 up a chair and thrust his face too near to mine. 
 His answers were so confused and vague that I 
 laughed and he, misunderstanding, jerked his 
 chair closer, pressing against my knees. Some 
 one was thumping out a foxtrot, while Margot 
 and a slim, blond youth, clasped close, danced 
 spasmodically. I eluded the florid-faced person 
 and, going over to Don Hammond, hastily drank 
 his proffered gin fizz, making a wry face. Gin 
 has always been medicine to me, but its effects 
 were what I needed now. I'd get through some- 
 way, I kept telling myself, but it was sickening, 
 all of it. I saw Margot kiss the slim, dancing
 
 DESPAIR 201 
 
 youth behind the door, and blow a little salute 
 at Don's back. 
 
 I was glad when, wrapt in a scarlet velvet, fur- 
 trimmed coat of Margot's, I went with the others 
 to a glaring, fashionable restaurant where we met 
 the rest of the party, and flocked to our waiting 
 table there it was banked with American beauty 
 roses. 
 
 Such agonizing hours of hilarity! I kept tell- 
 ing myself that nothing made any difference. 
 Nothing! And I drained my teacup of contra- 
 band cocktails with hectic eagerness. How idi- 
 otic it all was, the blatant talk of the men, the 
 giggling coquetry of the women, the feverish en- 
 deavor of every one to appear gay, devilishly 
 gay! I was tired, sick, too, of fighting off the 
 florid one's more and more insistent and insinuat- 
 ing attentions. What sentimental rot to talk of 
 life as a shining river! It was full of slimy, un- 
 lovely things, muddled, choked with the dregs of 
 our hopes. 
 
 I reached the point where I could not stand it 
 any longer, and, with a whispered excuse to Mar- 
 --got, I slipped away to the dressing-room, then 
 on down the stairs out into the sharp winter night. 
 I walked rapidly, not realizing that I had left my 
 little gold coin-purse in my own coat pocket and 
 that I was penniless. The elevated roared over-
 
 202 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 head. Sixth Avenue! I did not care where I 
 went or what happened to me. Why not? . . . 
 Why not? . . . 
 
 I caught curious looks directed at me. Once I 
 started nervously, imagining that a man was fol- 
 lowing me. I did not know where I was going. 
 I did not care. I only wanted to get away from 
 everything, to get away from the thought beating 
 at my weary brain. 
 
 I walked on, crossed the Avenue, and passed 
 along East Fifty-eighth Street, which was prac- 
 tically deserted. An occasional taxi-driver 
 pressed close to the curb to urge "Taxi, miss?" 
 
 Sifting into my mind came a thought that 
 pulled me up sharply. I stood still and turned 
 it over in my mind. Why not? There was noth- 
 ing ahead for me anyway. I might as well yield 
 to this now. I turned down two blocks and 
 sought East Fifty-sixth Street. My eye ran over 
 the individual numbers. I passed from house to 
 house, then paused before a creamy-colored front. 
 Its windows were discreet with green shutters, 
 there was a gleaming brass knocker on the door, 
 and above it the number that I sought, standing 
 out distinctly. 
 
 Fear, linked with all my instinctive reserve, 
 rose to fight my wild intention. Pride looked at 
 me with outraged eyes. But an even stronger
 
 DESPAIR 203 
 
 impulse warred against all of these and led me 
 through the door, down the wide empty hallway 
 to the drowsing elevator boy. He blinked at me 
 solemnly, disinterestedly, stepping aside that I 
 might enter his cage. Then to my stammered 
 question he yarned indifferently: 
 
 "Capt'n Boissard? No'um. He ain't come in 
 yet. No'um." 
 
 The actual question and answer brought me to 
 my senses. Crimsoning, I rushed out, colliding 
 at the door with a man who was hurrying in. I 
 avoided looking at him, drawing the deep fur col- 
 lar of my cloak jealously about my face, and mur- 
 muring an apology. But the man stepped 
 squarely in front of me, whereupon I started in- 
 dignantly, then looked up into the eyes of Stan!
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 PATRICIA UNBURDENS HER SOUL 
 
 ONE o clock in the morning! 
 
 Never would Patricia forget the expression in 
 Stan's eyes as he stood looking down at her, while 
 she hugged her gorgeous cloak and the tatters of 
 her pride about her. On the threshold of Pierre's 
 apartment! Anger burned in his eyes like a 
 flame; but instinctively she realized that it was di- 
 rected past her, not at her. His bewilderment, 
 hurt pride, unbelief, furious resentment for him- 
 self and for her all these surging emotions that 
 she sensed in him were mastered by tenderness, a 
 supreme tenderness that enveloped her and lulled 
 her fears as a child is soothed to sleep by its 
 mother. 
 
 "Come on, Patsy," he spoke in a quiet, con- 
 trolled voice. "There's a taxi passing, we can 
 get it, if we hustle . . ." He took her arm 
 and hurried her along, hailing the driver. Their 
 feet beat upon the pavement, her high heels click- 
 ing sharp staccatos to his even, assured tread. 
 
 204
 
 UNBURDENS HER SOUL 205 
 
 "Now then, relax and rest," he commanded, as 
 they settled themselves in the car. To the chauf- 
 feur he said, "Out the Drive, yes, right along un- 
 til I tell you to stop understand?" 
 
 She huddled obediently in a corner and he 
 stretched himself out comfortably, elaborately 
 casual, in an endeavor to put her at her ease. But 
 when he spoke again his words exploded: 
 
 "Look here, Pat. What I'd like to do, what 
 I planned to do was to beat up that sanctified, 
 saint-posing French weakling, then take you home 
 with me, whether you liked it or not. I figured 
 that I'd played the patient, outraged husband long 
 enough. It was all right for you to go to work. 
 I've been proud of your pluck and your success, 
 yes, I have, but a love-affair on the side was one 
 too many for me. You see I was cock-sure I'd 
 win out in the long run, that deep down in your 
 heart you cared a darn sight more about me than 
 you knew, and that the simple fundamental facts 
 which keep life clean and sweet would appeal to 
 you when you woke up." He stopped and fum- 
 bled for his old friend, pipe, went through the 
 mechanics of filling it, then awkwardly apologized 
 and rammed it back into his pocket in spite of her 
 protest. He continued : 
 
 "Well, figuring the way I do now," he con- 
 tinued, "I see I was all wrong. I've messed
 
 2 o6 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 things up generally. It was no use trying to break 
 you to my way of thinking. I was a fool to try. 
 I would only break your spirit. I guess I don't 
 know much about women. 
 
 "I went to your father because the roots of 
 his affection for you are bedded as deeply as 
 mine; besides he has known you longer, but he 
 wasn't any wiser than I. 
 
 "You know that letter you wrote to me, Pat? 
 I've done some studying over it. It's this glint 
 of wings you spoke of that has played the devil 
 with our happiness. I'm not blaming you. 
 Heavens, no, child! It's a natural aspiration to- 
 ward the ideal. We all reach and strain for 
 something money, business success, social suc- 
 cess, artistic achievement. That's why I wanted 
 to quit the movies and do a big piece of real writ- 
 ing that would satisfy me, the real me, and, poor 
 dub that I was! make you proud of me." For 
 the first time' a note of bitterness crept into his 
 voice. She tried to speak, but he interrupted: 
 
 "No, wait a moment, Pat. I've got to say my 
 little say right Now. It's been bottled up for 
 months. Where was I? Oh! yes, the glint of 
 wings in a far-off sky. Well, it's plain that what 
 this glint of wings meant to you, in spite of kidding 
 yourself about your liberty and your art and your
 
 UNBURDENS HER SOUL 207 
 
 this and that that you wanted or thought you 
 wanted it's plain that it really meant love!" 
 
 They turned a corner sharply and the girl 
 lurched forward; a street light shone in across 
 Stan's face, white, intent, his eyes centered on 
 space. Abruptly he turned to her and gripped 
 one wrist until she winced. 
 
 "Pat, you poor little kid! You love him all 
 right. There's nothing more to say. He's not 
 worthy of you, not strong enough, but you love 
 him. I've trailed you all night. I was in the 
 cafe and watched your pitiful attempts to be one 
 with that damned vulgar crowd, and yet keep your 
 fine little head above water. I followed you 
 stumbling about the streets, not knowing, not car- 
 ing where you went or what happened to 
 you. And then in despair you turned to him! 
 There must be something about him to bring you 
 proud, willful humbly to his door! . . . 
 Wait . . . just this and I'm through." He 
 moved closer to her, eyes tender, voice shaken. 
 
 "Patsy, darling, do you think for one minute 
 I'd be such a selfish brute as to try to hold you 
 against a love like that? Do you think I'd prison 
 you with me when your happiness is with some 
 one else? Not by a long shot. You want him. 
 You shall have him. Now tell me what's the
 
 2 o8 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 matter. I'll do anything to help you. That's the 
 only way my love can speak. I'm a farce at fine 
 words and fine ways. Then I'll fade away take 
 the first train for California, Nevada, any old 
 place that means a quick divorce and another 
 chance for you. Go on, dear." 
 
 Patricia spoke, beginning haltingly, torn with 
 distress. In each one of us there is a need to 
 unburden, to word our misdeeds, our remorse, our 
 despair. The Catholic fathers understood the 
 human heart when they instituted the confessional; 
 but it should be voluntary, not compulsory. How 
 many lives it has saved from ship-wreck! How 
 many minds it has kept sane! 
 
 And, presently, under the encouragement of his 
 sympathy, Patricia told Stan everything without 
 reservation, all the intensity of joy and pain that 
 she had been through. 
 
 "So you see," she concluded, "there's no good 
 in divorce, no good in anything. Oh, Stan, I'm 
 tired, tired! What's the matter with me? I'm 
 not really bad. I'm not even selfish at bed rock 
 I know it. I could have slaved, been poor, en- 
 dured anything with Pierre. I'm no good at 
 compromises. And I've spoiled your life. If 
 you could only love some one else, Stan. I tell 
 you everything is cruel, malicious." 
 
 Stan interrupted gravely:
 
 UNBURDENS HER SOUL 209 
 
 "You're dead wrong, Pat, you're nervous 
 overwrought. Sense of proportion out of joint. 
 Sense of humor completely swamped ! You're go- 
 ing right home to bed now and sleep for a dozen 
 hours." He rapped on the window, gave the 
 driver Patricia's address, then slipped his arm 
 around her in brotherly fashion. "Now then, 
 kiddie, listen to me. You're borrowing tragedy. 
 Do you think that a man who loves a woman as 
 this chap loves you is going to give her up for a 
 detail in creed? Do you think that? Not for a 
 minute ! What if he is a Catholic? He's a man, 
 too. Mark my words, he'll come back. He'll 
 tell you he can't live without you. You may both 
 be doing penance the rest of your lives in some 
 way he'll conceive of to save your souls; but he'll 
 come back, / know he will." 
 
 Patricia would have been startled had she seen 
 the savage thrust of his jaw as he spoke ! And 
 his arms closed spasmodically about her shoul- 
 ders. "Oh! Patsy," he choked. "He'd better 
 be good to you, or I'll " 
 
 They rode on silently. A slow sure peace stole 
 into her heart. Stan so strong and confident! 
 He must know of what he spoke. Men did know 
 things like that about each other. How grate- 
 ful she was! How wonderful to be able to rely 
 on such a love ! Her head nodded forward.
 
 210 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "That's right, honey . . . that's right, go to 
 sleep . . ." Stan's voice sounded far away. 
 
 Through her dreams that night this thought 
 carried : 
 
 "Pierre will come back to me."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE 
 
 To Stan Creighton whose religious ideas as a 
 child had been formed in the rather vague Prot- 
 estant atmosphere of an American small town 
 (his people were Methodists) , and whose maturer 
 views had worked themselves out on broad, not 
 to say free-thinking lines, there was something 
 preposterous in the notion that a really fine man 
 would allow any restraint of creed or dogma to 
 come between himself and the woman of his 
 choice. He could understand disagreements on 
 religious subjects, even heated ones, but he would 
 as soon have thought of allowing the course of 
 his true love to be turned aside by some political 
 or scientific argument as by anything that any 
 .preacher or religious teacher could say or write. 
 
 Not so Pierre whose sincerity in these scruples 
 of conscience was soon made apparent in a meet- 
 ing between the two men at the Frenchman's 
 apartment where Stanley called. 
 
 "I see," said Creighton when they had passed 
 
 211
 
 212 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 from brief and embarrassing preliminaries to the 
 subject that filled their thoughts. "You love her, 
 but you don't love her enough." 
 
 Boissard answered with simple and straight- 
 forward convincingness: "Monsieur, I beg you 
 to believe that this is the most terrible happen- 
 ing of my life. I love Pat-ricia. My whole soul 
 yearns for her. I would rather die than do her 
 any wrong. But I must point out to you that the 
 situation in which we find ourselves was not 
 created by me. Until a few days ago I nevair 
 dreamed that Pat-ricia was a married woman. I 
 loved her honorably. I asked her to marry me 
 honorably. It was only when I discovered the 
 tragic truth that I saw what a gulf lay between 
 us an impassable gulf. Then, in that first un- 
 happy hour, I told her marriage was impossible 
 between us. I showed her why." 
 
 "And you sent her away from you said you 
 would never see her again?" 
 
 "Mais certainementf To see her again meant 
 marriage or or sin. I had to send her away. 
 What would you have done in my place, mon- 
 sieur?" 
 
 "I would have married her." 
 
 "Not if that meant disgrace to your beloved 
 family." 
 
 "Yes."
 
 STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE 213 
 
 "Not if it meant the betrayal of your sacred 
 faith, the perdition of your immortal soul. No, 
 monsieur! I beg you to believe that in France 
 we Catholics take our religion seriously." 
 
 Stan noted the illumined, almost inspired look 
 in the young soldier's eyes, and there began to 
 form in his heart a vague feeling that perhaps, 
 after all, this Frenchman was a fine man listen- 
 ing to the voice of his conscience, resolved to do 
 right at all costs. If that were true, then Bois- 
 sard was not unworthy of Patricia. 
 
 Stan was no longer listening, although he 
 seemed to listen. He was thinking intently, 
 groping towards a decision of unbelievable diffi- 
 culty. If Boissard really believed that to marry 
 a divorced woman was a deadly sin that would 
 blight and destroy his own soul and make him 
 therefore incapable of giving her happiness, then 
 he was right in standing by his conviction. There 
 are some things that a man will never do, let the 
 consequences be what they may; he will not tram- 
 ple on the flag of his country, he will not insult 
 Jhis mother's memory, he will not defile the sanc- 
 tuary of his soul. 
 
 "You said just now that you love Patricia?" 
 "Love her? I would die for her ver-ry gladly." 
 Die for her! Stanley crossed his long legs, 
 threw back his shock of hair and squinted at the
 
 2i 4 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 Frenchman through half-shut eyes very much as 
 he would have sized up an adversary in a poker 
 game. 
 
 "I guess he's on the level," mused Creighton, 
 and the fact is, if the call had come at that mo- 
 ment, Captain Boissard would have stepped forth 
 unfalteringly to any sacrifice. 
 
 With this conviction there came to Stanley, 
 like a flash in the darkness, a new idea as to what 
 he must do now. If this man was worthy of 
 Patricia and loved her as she loved him, why 
 they must come together no question about it. 
 They must come together in the right way in 
 wedlock. They would come together anyhow, as 
 things were going. Stan knew enough about men 
 and women to be sure of this. Nothing could 
 keep them apart, not vows or threats, not oceans 
 or continents they would come together. And 
 he, Stanley, stood between their coming together 
 honorably. So it was up to him to Hm! he 
 crossed his legs awkwardly again and thought of 
 that rotten day in the Argonne woods when the 
 Germans were smashing ahead and had almost 
 cut off an American division that had lost its way. 
 The order had come for a quick retreat with calls 
 for machine-gunners who would remain behind 
 to delay the enemy a bad piece of business. 
 Stan was afraid all right, but he volunteered that
 
 STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE 215 
 
 was for his flag. Well, this would be for Pa- 
 tricia. 
 
 Now suddenly with a rattle of the elevator 
 door came the crisis. There was a knock, and 
 Pierre answered it, facing a tall, round-shouldered 
 messenger boy who wearily tendered a pale blue 
 envelope along with his book. Stan's eyes idly 
 followed his companion's back, and presently he 
 became aware of an embarrassing situation there 
 at the door. Something unusual was happening. 
 
 "Sign there, mister," said the boy, and Bois- 
 sard signed in nervous haste, then tipped the mes- 
 senger over-generously and stood waiting for him 
 to go. But the messenger did not move. 
 
 "The lady said I was to get her bag." 
 
 Stan pricked up his ears. The lady! What 
 lady? Why was the Frenchman so nervous as 
 he tore open the note? And that seal on the en- 
 velope? It seemed familiar. Was it possible 
 this note was from Patricia? 
 
 "Just a minute," said Boissard, white-faced, as 
 .he met the husband's accusing eyes. 
 
 Not a word was spoken until the handbag had 
 been found and delivered a blue velvet trifle 
 with silver letters that Stanley knew well. Patri- 
 cia's bag! There it lay on the mantelpiece over 
 the fireplace, which must mean that . . .
 
 2 i6 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 When the boy had gone Stan said quietly: 
 "Well, Captain, this puts a new slant on the sit- 
 uation. I judge that note is from my wife?" 
 
 "Yes er she called here for a few moments 
 with Mrs. Hammond and er she left her 
 bag." 
 
 "When was that?" 
 
 "Why er yesterday yesterday afternoon." 
 
 It was evident the Frenchman was lying, but 
 Stanley prolonged the suspense he was thinking 
 what he must do now. 
 
 "I see. Mrs. Hammond and my wife called 
 here at your apartment yesterday afternoon?" 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Hammond has been interesting her- 
 self in the fete we are getting up for French con- 
 sumptive children." 
 
 "I understood you to say that you hadn't seen 
 my wife since you said good-by to her the day 
 before yesterday?" 
 
 "I er I meant that I hadn't seen her 
 alone." 
 
 "Then you weren't alone with my wife yester- 
 day?" 
 
 There was just a suggestion of menace in thj 
 slight stress that Stan put upon the words my 
 wife. 
 
 "Why, no, of course not, the ladies remained 
 only un petit moment."
 
 STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE 217 
 
 The officer smiled pleasantly, showing his white 
 teeth. 
 
 "And that note? She just asked you to send 
 back her bag is that all?" 
 
 "Parf ailment" Pierre made a careless gesture 
 as if to throw the crumpled sheet into the fire. 
 
 "Wait! I'd like to see it." 
 
 "Mais voyons, monsieur, qa ne se fait pas." 
 
 "Meaning that it isn't done. I get you; but 
 I call your attention to the fact that I am this 
 lady's husband. Come ! Let me have it." 
 
 Stan spoke pleasantly enough, but Boissard un- 
 derstood quite well what was back of that Ameri- 
 can smile. He hesitated, then changed to angry 
 defiance. 
 
 "I will not allow you to see this note 
 nevair!" 
 
 "Ah, that's better ! Now we'll get at the facts. 
 My wife was here with you alone?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Last night." 
 
 "At what time ?" 
 
 "I er I'm not sure." 
 
 "Was it late as late as eleven?" 
 
 "Possibly." 
 
 "When did she leave?" 
 
 "I I did not notice the hour."
 
 218 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "You must know how long she stayed about 
 how long?" 
 
 "Perhaps twenty minutes." 
 
 "Why did she come? Did you ask her to 
 come? Did you know she was coming?" 
 
 The officer hesitated. 
 
 "I called her on the telephone, monsieur. I 
 felt that I must see her once more. I could not 
 leave America without saying adieu. It was not 
 possible. In my place you would have done the 
 same." 
 
 Again that look of fine dignity in the foreigner's 
 dark eyes. Stan felt a certain admiration for 
 him. After all Pierre was only following out the 
 accepted code lying for the woman he loved, to 
 shield her from suspicion. 
 
 "I can't quite imagine myself in your place 
 tempting another man's wife to come to my apart- 
 ment at night after I had given my word of 
 honor that I would never see her or try to see 
 her again." 
 
 The words were calmly, stingingly insulting. 
 
 "Let us have no more words," cried Boissard. 
 "I will give you justification for anything. Now 
 then! I love your wife. I shall stay here 
 where she is. I refuse to sail. I withdraw my 
 promise. I shall see your wife, monsieur, when-
 
 STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE 219 
 
 ever she does me the honor to allow me to see 
 her. Voilal" 
 
 He snapped his fingers at Stanley. 
 
 Still Stan controlled himself; he was awed by 
 a thought that had swept startlingly into his con- 
 sciousness. Here was a way to find out how 
 much real manliness there was behind these melo- 
 dramatic protestations. A quick and simple test 
 for this Frenchman. Did he dare to make it? 
 Had he the courage? 
 
 Stan withheld the words that burned on his lips, 
 drawn apart for a moment into the sanctuary of 
 his own soul; he was saying to himself that God 
 would forgive him for seeming to desecrate the 
 most holy thing in his life by temporizing. Only 
 seeming! And Patricia would forgive him, if she 
 knew. Then, with a strangely hushed and con- 
 ciliatory manner he replied : 
 
 "Suppose we cut out bluster and exaggerations. 
 We're facing the jiggest thing in our lives. We 
 both need to keep our heads. It's hard for me 
 to admit it, but I'll give you credit for being 
 sincere in what you said about my wife. It was 
 almost impossible asking too much of human 
 nature for you not to have seen her last night." 
 
 "Ah, monsieur!" responded Boissard, mollified 
 by this new attitude.
 
 220 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "We'll say we both love her more than we 
 ever have loved or ever will love any woman. 
 We both want to help her, to make her happy 
 not to harm her. Is that right?" 
 
 "Harm Pat-ricia? I would die for her." 
 
 Stan's eyes narrowed, his strong teeth flashed 
 in a tortured smile that would have disturbed 
 Pierre had he known its significance. 
 
 "I guess we'd both be glad to die for her, and 
 perhaps before we get through " he checked 
 himself, while Boissard studied the American un- 
 der vaguely apprehensive brows. He was puz- 
 zled by this uncanny mildness in a man who did 
 not look mild. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "There's one thing that I want to get settled, 
 in my mind; what is Patricia's real feeling for 
 you. If I knew that she loves you as deeply as 
 say as deeply as, say half as deeply as I love 
 her, I wouldn't hesitate a moment, I'd step aside, 
 I I'd let you have her." 
 
 "Ah, monsieur!" 
 
 "But how can I be sure of that? She thought 
 she loved me. How do I know she isn't mis- 
 taken about you ?" 
 
 Pierre was silent. He saw or thought he saw 
 the point towards which the conversation was 
 drifting. He was making up his mind whether
 
 STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE 221 
 
 he would be justified in allowing Stanley to read 
 Patricia's note. 
 
 "Monsieur," he said, "I find myself in an un- 
 speakably embarrassing position. What can be 
 more painful to a man of heart, a man of honor, 
 than to lay before a husband whom he respects 
 and whose distress he sincerely sympathizes 
 with" 
 
 "Never mind that." 
 
 "To lay before him evidence, that a beloved 
 and beautiful wife has bestowed her affection else- 
 where. My heart bleeds for you, but as you 
 say tres justement, we are facing a supreme mo- 
 ment, we must think not only of ourselves, but 
 of one who " 
 
 "That's enough! Let me have the evidence," 
 cut in Stan, whose big, red-knuckled hands were 
 twitching ominously. 
 
 At this with a deferential bow the foreigner 
 handed over Patricia's note and stood, pale and 
 tense, while Stan read it, read the words that 
 doomed his hopes. 
 
 "I am sorry, monsieur, ver-ry sorry," mur- 
 mured Pierre. 
 
 "I see," was Stan's only comment as he fin- 
 ished. "Now we will burn it," and he flung the 
 unhappy message into the flames. 
 
 "It looks as if Patricia is bound to go to you,"
 
 222 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 he resumed; "nothing can stop her. Very well, 
 she'll have to go either as your wife or your mis- 
 tress. There isn't any other way. We'll dis- 
 cuss these two possibilities. You say you won't 
 marry her?" 
 
 "I have shown you why I cannot marry her. 
 I would be the happiest man in the world, if " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know. Don't go over that re- 
 ligious stuff. You can't marry her. So she'll 
 have to be your mistress? Is that it?" 
 
 This blunt presentment of the case took Bois- 
 sard's breath away; but, pressed by Stan, he ad- 
 mitted that such a development was not beyond 
 the bounds of possibility. Poor human nature 
 it was weak. 
 
 "And you propose to allow this to happen?" 
 pursued the husband. "You know perfectly well, 
 as a man of the world, what the future will hold 
 for my wife if she casts her lot with you in this 
 way don't you?" 
 
 Pierre thrust forth his exquisitely cared-for 
 hands with their long distinguished fingers in a 
 gesture of pitiful incapacity. He felt that this 
 interview was sweeping him beyond his depth. 
 What could he say? What could any man say 
 to such a preposterous question from a woman's 
 husband? 
 
 "Alas, monsieur, we are in an impasse from
 
 STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE 223 
 
 which I see no issue. As a man of honor I can- 
 not leave Patricia " 
 
 Stan bounded to his feet and the explosion of 
 his rage, long suppressed, was a thing to see. 
 
 "Man of honor!" he strode towards Boissard. 
 "You blackguard!" 
 
 The Frenchman rose livid, shaken from his 
 smooth correctness. 
 
 "Ah, it has come," he stammered. 
 
 "Come? You bet it's come. I've waited to 
 see if there's a shred of decency in you, but there 
 isn't. You're yellow all through. Now, then, 
 listen to me. I know how Patricia feels. She 
 loves you, there's no doubt about it. That note 
 was a cry from her soul and by the Lord Harry 
 I'm going to see that you marry her and give her 
 the protection of your name, if it's the last thing 
 I do on this earth which it probably will be," he 
 added bitterly. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "No?" 
 
 Stan advanced slowly until he came close to 
 his rival, terrible in his wrath and in the justice 
 of his cause. Pierre did not speak, did not move, 
 but stood as if frozen to the floor. 
 
 "Look into my eyes," ordered Creighton. 
 "What do you see there out of your precious 
 soul that you're so anxious to save? Am I bluff-
 
 224 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 ing? Do you think so? Am I ready to go to 
 any lengths any lengths understand? Do you 
 believe it? Look!" 
 
 The Frenchman looked, blinked, tried to 
 straighten himself defiantly, sought blindly to as- 
 sert himself in some way, and failed. His eyes 
 sank. His courage oozed out. He was beaten, 
 cowed without a struggle and could only whimper : 
 "I I believe it." 
 
 "Ah ! Go to that telephone. Call up my wife 
 at her apartment. She's waiting there, hop- 
 ing for some word of comfort. Tell her you 
 got her note. Give her an answer. Go on." 
 
 Pierre obeyed, moving mechanically like a pris- 
 oner under sentence. 
 
 "What what shall I tell her?" 
 
 "Tell her you want her to be your wife. Tell 
 her you've thought it over, you're happy about 
 it. Go on." 
 
 Again Pierre obeyed and Stan listened to a one- 
 sided telephone conversation that was certainly 
 out of the ordinary for a loving husband to 
 hear. 
 
 When it was over Creighton said : "Whatever 
 happens, you are never to let her know that you 
 asked her to marry you under any sort of pressure 
 from me say it!" 
 
 Pierre's dark eyes were fixed on the floor from
 
 STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE 225 
 
 which he never once looked up. In a tremulous 
 whisper he made the promise : 
 
 "I I will never let her know." 
 
 "Perhaps you can make amends for what you've 
 done with her to encourage you. You've got 
 that to live for." 
 
 "I I'll try." 
 
 "My lawyer will attend to the divorce formali- 
 ties. He will communicate with you. I'll pay 
 for everything, concede everything." 
 
 "You are generous," the Frenchman bowed. 
 
 For some moments the two stood silent listen- 
 ing to the faint roar of the elevated, to the clang 
 of neighboring trolley cars. Then Stan turned 
 to go. 
 
 "Well, I guess that's all. I won't see you 
 again. I'll be getting back to the Coast. Oh! 
 I don't want to rub it in, but do you know what 
 would have happened, if you had acted differently 
 just now? Suppose you had said to me: 'I love 
 her more than my life, but not more than my 
 God. If I've got to choose between my life and 
 ._ my duty to God, I'll choose my duty to God.' Do 
 you know what I would have done? Do you?" 
 
 "I think I know now." 
 
 "Yes, we see these things too late. It would 
 have been my move, and there wouldn't be any 
 need of a divorce understand?"
 
 226 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "I I understand." 
 
 "Good-by." Stan lingered a moment at the 
 door, his eyes fixed upon his broken enemy. 
 
 II 
 
 Stan walked away heavy-hearted. He had 
 triumphed over his rival, but it was an empty 
 victory. He had lost Patricia. Whatever hap- 
 pened now he had lost Patricia. 
 
 Aimlessly he strolled down Madison Avenue, 
 turning over in his mind the one question that 
 remained to be answered had he performed his 
 full and final duty to his wife? Was there noth- 
 ing left for him to do now but go away and try to 
 forget? Was it right to hide from her the fact 
 that Pierre was a quitter? Could he let her 
 marry such a man? Suppose Pierre had a secret 
 prison record and Stan knew this? Would he 
 be justified in holding back that knowledge ? No I 
 And yet a crime against the state was less serious 
 than a crime against God. A traitor to his re- 
 ligion through cowardice that's what Pierre 
 was! 
 
 On the other hand, Patricia loved Boissard. 
 She might never find out the truth about him. 
 The glamor of her love might shield him. And
 
 STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE 227 
 
 even if she did know, she might be happier with 
 him than without him. Women were queer crea- 
 tures, apt to lavish their tenderness upon the weak 
 rather than the strong. 
 
 One thing was certain, if Stan told Patricia 
 what had happened, she would hate him. She 
 might turn against the Frenchman, but she would 
 never forgive Stanley for forcing this ordeal upon 
 her lover, for shattering her radiant dream. She 
 would repudiate Stan irrevocably, even though she 
 repudiated Boissard at the same time. 
 
 Creighton strode along brooding over this . . . 
 
 Well, what of it? What if he did lose her? 
 He had lost her already. A woman cannot love 
 two men at the same time, and she loved Pierre. 
 In any event Stan was out of it. All that he could 
 do was to help her a little, or try to help her, 
 in this crisis, and then fade away. Pat was only 
 twenty-two, a child. She had years before her, 
 and if she could only make a new start, a right 
 start . . . 
 
 That was it, a right start. He must influence 
 her to do what was right, regardless of any other 
 consideration. He must do right himself. And 
 it wasn't right to let a woman marry a man when 
 some essential fact regarding this man's honor 
 was deliberately concealed from her. Therefore,
 
 228 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 the conclusion of the whole thing was that he must 
 tell Patricia what had happened to-night between 
 himself and Pierre. He must do it. 
 
 Stanley walked on ... 
 
 Wait ! Was he deceiving himself with sophis- 
 ticated reasoning? Was he trying to justify him- 
 self for doing something that he really wanted 
 to do ? Was he unconsciously influenced by hatred 
 and jealousy in thinking that he ought to tell Pa- 
 tricia? Was there in his heart a sneaking idea 
 that in her distress and loneliness she might come 
 back to him? 
 
 Stanley pondered this . . . 
 
 No, his motives were clear and unselfish. As 
 God was his witness he had no thought save for 
 the happiness and welfare of this dear child who 
 needed help so much and who had no one but him 
 to help her. He must decide for her, he must act 
 for her and yes, he must tell her the truth. 
 
 Two hours later long after midnight Creigh- 
 ton was wandering wearily along the silent and 
 deeply shadowed streets in the neighborhood of 
 Patricia's apartment. He had telephoned to her 
 an hour before, thinking that he might as well 
 have this last painful meeting over with while 
 he had the resolution to face it. But the reply 
 had come that Mrs. Creighton had gone out at
 
 STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE 229 
 
 half-past eleven. Mrs. Creighton! She would 
 not be bearing his name much longer. She would 
 want her divorce, no matter what she decided 
 about Pierre. 
 
 Strange that Patricia had left the house at that 
 late hour! Where had she gone? It was now 
 after one and she had not returned. Could any- 
 thing have happened? Had she received a tele- 
 gram? A summons over the phone? The 
 colored girl in the hall was sleepily ignorant and 
 indifferent as to this. So Stan had walked on 
 . . . waiting. 
 
 He thought of Pierre, but rejected that possi- 
 bility. Even the Frenchman's buoyant nature 
 must have had enough of emotional strain for one 
 night without a meeting with Patricia that would 
 necessarily be full of agitations. And if she in 
 her joy had telephoned to him, he would have 
 postponed seeing her until the next day. 
 
 Stan leaned against the broad stone wall that 
 borders Morningside Park along the ascending 
 avenue and drank in the beauties and mystery of 
 the night. Here and there on benches under- 
 neath the gently swaying trees he discerned dim 
 couples sitting close together, lost in the eternal 
 ecstasy of their young happiness, oblivious to the 
 passing of time. In the distance beyond the 
 spread of verdure lay the vast city, drowsing,
 
 23 o GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 throbbing less intensely after the day's emotions. 
 How many hearts would face the morrow, as he 
 would, with little hope or joy left in them. A 
 pitiful business this living and loving, he re- 
 flected. What should he do now with his strength 
 and his ambition? What was there left to do? 
 
 Stan strolled aimlessly along the granite ram- 
 part that sloped upwards like an imposing gallery 
 above the park below, and suddenly his eye was 
 caught by the flutter of a dress as a woman, with 
 a hand on her companion's arm, came up to the 
 higher level. A moment later these two, bliss- 
 fully absorbed in each other, reached the side- 
 walk and, as the electrics fell full upon their 
 faces, Stanley recognized Patricia and Pierre. 
 He stood motionless in the shade of a maple and 
 watched them pass slowly. So close were they 
 that he sensed a delicate and familiar fragrance 
 and caught a look of indescribable joy in his wife's 
 eyes as she murmured, turning towards the park 
 and sleeping city and clinging close to her lover; 
 u Oh, my darling! Isn't it wonderful! Isn't it 
 beautiful!" 
 
 Then they moved on, crossing the avenue, and 
 Stan's eyes followed them. 
 
 God! What was he to do? This was the mo- 
 ment for him to speak, to carry out his clearly
 
 STANLEY CALLS ON PIERRE 231 
 
 formed and well justified intention; but he saw 
 now that he could not do it. The thing was quite 
 impossible. He would never tell Patricia what 
 kind of man Pierre was. Never 1
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 PIERRE ASKS PATRICIA TO MARRY HIM 
 
 (Written by Patricia) 
 
 "Love consists in desiring to give our own to another and in 
 feeling as our own another's delight." 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 PIERRE has asked me to be his wife! He will 
 take me as I must be a divorced woman! I 
 have not yet recovered from the shock of joy and 
 amazement that came with his telephone message 
 last night. Love has triumphed as Stan pre- 
 dicted. And to think to remember! that pas- 
 sion almost conquered. I tremble as I recall that 
 night I went to Pierre's apartment. How did I 
 dare? It was sheer madness, but I was fighting 
 for my happiness. I wanted Pierre. I wanted 
 him beyond everything in the world. And I would 
 have been swept completely off my feet had not 
 that old Puritan ancestor of mine stalked out of 
 the dusty years in the very nick of time, stiffened 
 my backbone, starched up my will, collared me, 
 
 232
 
 PIERRE SPEAKS OF MARRIAGE 233 
 
 so to speak, and marched me home. I hated him 
 at the time, wept hysterically; but an hour later 
 as I lay in the darkness, my burning face buried 
 in the cool white pillow body throbbing, mind 
 seething how I blessed and respected that old 
 ancestor. 
 
 All through the next day I waited for some 
 message from Pierre, hoping against hope; but 
 none came. In the evening, heart-sick and de- 
 spairing y I remembered that I had left my bag at 
 his place. Making an excuse of this, I sent him 
 a passionate note . . . but it seems the boy was 
 delayed. 
 
 At eleven I went to bed, leaden-hearted, and 
 at a quarter past the telephone shrilled through 
 the quiet hall. I leaped up, slipperless and with- 
 out kimono, to answer it. Then, as his voice came 
 singing back to me over the wire, the pulses in 
 my throat and temples throbbed dizzyingly. His 
 words struck on my ears, increasing my sense of 
 faintness. He had changed his mind . . . he 
 wanted to marry me! 
 
 My answers came in dispassionate monosylla- 
 bles, I would see him in the morning . . . yes, 
 in the morning. Then I hung up calmly, went 
 back to my room, crawled into bed and lay still. 
 I was stunned. 
 
 Gradually the full import of this message beat
 
 234 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 its way home to my brain. I was seized by an 
 overmastering joy. Had I understood? I must 
 know immediately. What had broken down 
 Pierre's iron resolve? How could he have stood 
 out against me in our stormy scene the night be- 
 fore . . . and changed so completely now ? 
 
 Without turning on the light I groped my way 
 back to the telephone and called Pierre. His 
 voice came gruff and abrupt, a little petulant, but 
 softened as he recognized mine; he pleaded weari- 
 ness. Then, realizing that my feelings were hurt, 
 he yielded and arranged to meet me at the Grand 
 Central Station. 
 
 And so we met at midnight in this queer place, 
 amid the rush and ceaseless flow of humanity. 
 It was not a lyrical setting for our happiness, but 
 his words atoned as we sat there, lost in our se- 
 cluded corner, while the tides of the world hur- 
 ried past. 
 
 "I'm sorry, dear," I began penitently, "I ought 
 not to have insisted upon your coming . . . you 
 look so tired . . ." 
 
 "It is nothing. I will soon be myself . . ." 
 
 "Pierre, listen, dear! I realize how much you 
 have given up for my sake, but, oh! I'll give back 
 so generously in love that you cannot regret." 
 
 His hand tightened on mine; my heart seemed 
 too big for my body.
 
 PIERRE SPEAKS OF MARRIAGE 235 
 
 "Tell me how it happened," I begged, and his 
 face was transfigured as he said : "Why, my dear, 
 it was a miracle, a direct answer to my prayers. 
 All along I had told myself that God and life 
 had promised you to me, that love such as ours, 
 starting from a deep, spiritual source, could not 
 die. I clung to my faith in the face of apparent 
 defeat." There came into his eyes a queer, 
 strained look. 
 
 "You do not tell me what I want to hear," I 
 reproached. 
 
 "I tell you everything," he answered, "when I 
 say that Love is more powerful than any other 
 force in life, more compelling even than religion. 
 It is religion. Some angel put you in my path; 
 and from the first I realized that you could help 
 me make my life what it should be." 
 
 "Pierre!" I cried joyfully. "Pierre, do you 
 mean that?" 
 
 He sighed heavily. "I would have had it dif- 
 ferent, cherie. I would have had you first, led 
 you to my altar; but that could not be. Mon 
 Dieu! but we are weak, we humans. Back and 
 forth we sway like the treetops in a wind." Then 
 with gathering passion: "Weak! Cowards!" 
 
 But now our love rose imperiously, demand- 
 ing more discreet surroundings, and we passed out 
 into the night. Pierre would have hailed a taxi
 
 236 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 had not I, with a new little proprietary air, cen- 
 sored his extravagance, pointing out that we must 
 begin to economize. Inwardly I rejoined that I 
 had checked my impulse to take an apartment after 
 my raise in salary. Saving, with the incentive 
 of our approaching marriage, would become an 
 interesting game. I played with this idea as we 
 made our way over to the Avenue and climbed 
 lurchingly up the narrow winding steps to a seat 
 on top of a bus. 
 
 We rode on, silent and content, under a black 
 sky a-thrill with stars. With Pierre's love I 
 must measure up to many expectations. I must 
 make up to him for broken family ties, for loss 
 of fortune, and most of all I must build up his 
 ideal of good so that he could never feel that he 
 had renounced his God in renouncing his creed. 
 
 And so home through the park . . . happy! 
 . . . happy 1 
 
 Thursday. 
 
 Stan came to say good-by this evening. I was 
 shamed of the indecently joyous atmosphere that 
 clung about me, for back of the steady light in 
 his good gray eyes was an expression so anguished 
 and tender that I felt wicked. It was dastardly 
 to wound a man like Stan simple, open, whole- 
 some as God's good gifts of sunshine and sleep,
 
 PIERRE SPEAKS OF MARRIAGE 237 
 
 or the wide expanse of blue seas and sky. My 
 throat tightened uncomfortably. 
 
 Stan is too good for me, good in a direct, unaf- 
 fected, challenging way that erases all cobwebby 
 dreams and demands realities of fine fiber. 
 Pierre's goodness and fineness are of the super- 
 cultured kind; they satisfy the hungry aesthetic 
 side of me, but stripped of fine words and fine 
 feathers, of his impressive traditional background, 
 how well would his realities show up? No mat- 
 ter! I love him, weaknesses and all. I love him 
 perhaps a little more because I must forgive. 
 
 Stan seated himself clumsily in my protesting 
 little handpainted rocker, and thrust his hands 
 into his pockets. 
 
 "Waste of words to ask how things are with 
 you, Pat," he said with a valiant effort at cheeri- 
 ness. "Your heart is in an O. K. state of cozi- 
 ness. Didn't I tell you it would all come out 
 right?" 
 
 I choked down the lump in my throat. 
 
 "Oh, Stan! You have been good to me," I 
 stammered. "Don't think that all along I 
 haven't appreciated just how splendid you are." 
 
 "I guess we appreciate each other, Pat. I know 
 you're as clean and fine a woman as God ever 
 made, but there's no use trying to fiddle around 
 and patch up an answer to this affinity stuff. It
 
 238 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 can't be done. Some people draw one like a 
 magnet; others don't. Sometimes it means hap- 
 piness; sometimes hell. But go to the magnet 
 one must." He ran his hands through his hair, 
 those well-shaped, generous-sized hands that had 
 always made me shiver a little because they were 
 too hairy and freckled. But they were speaking 
 hands, full of power. Then he rose, shaking his 
 clothes into place, trying to bridge the silence 
 that settled over us. 
 
 "I'll be pulling out for Montecito soon. Back 
 to the bungalow. Might drop me a line if there's 
 any stuff you want." 
 
 Another silence, and now abruptly his embar- 
 rassment left him. "Pat," he said earnestly, put- 
 ting his arms about my shoulders and drawing 
 me back to him, "I don't have to ask you, I know 
 you, trust you, but just be on guard. It will be 
 damned hard. Love always makes it hard, no 
 matter how fine we are. But until you are his 
 wife, Pat, until then . . . remember you bear my 
 name. It's a good clean name . . . Pat, my 
 darling! . . ." With sudden passion he crushed 
 me to him, his great body shaken by slow, hard 
 sobs. 
 
 And the next moment he had gone.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 ENTER MARGOT 
 
 IN spite of his inglorious behavior in the scene 
 with Creighton, Captain Boissard did not regard 
 himself as an ignoble person. After all he had 
 only yielded before the superior strength of a 
 desperate adversary. He had defended his re- 
 ligious convictions to the best of his ability, but 
 he had been crushed by a wild man. What more 
 could he have done except to let Stanley kill him? 
 And that would have brought dishonor upon his 
 name and family. No, it was his duty to yield, 
 just as one yields to a highwayman. God would 
 forgive him. 
 
 With such poor sophistication did Boissard bol- 
 ster up his self-respect during the fortnight fol- 
 lowing Stan's departure for the West. And, 
 thanks to that marvelous power possessed by all 
 of us of believing what we wish to believe and 
 of seeing things as we wish to see them, he soon 
 found himself restored to a measure of self-com- 
 placency. It could scarcely have been otherwise 
 
 239
 
 24 o GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 for a man of his temperament, madly in love 
 and now privileged to enjoy unrestricted meet- 
 ings with the lady of his choice, meetings of de- 
 licious fondness. How wonderfully things had 
 shaped themselves! Pierre had been forced to 
 do the thing that with all his soul he longed to 
 do, but never would have done, unconstrained. 
 To make an ungracious comparison, it was as if 
 a reformed gambler had been compelled to gam- 
 ble, or a reformed drunkard to drink. His love 
 for Patricia grew and grew if that were possi- 
 ble and he longed for the day when, after lag- 
 ging divorce formalities, she would be his wife. 
 
 There was one cloud on the horizon, however, 
 one carefully hidden fact in his existence that was 
 causing the Frenchman anxiety. A chain is no 
 stronger than its weakest link, and a man's matri- 
 monial security is no greater than the discretion 
 of any jealous woman who may have cause to 
 threaten it. In this case, to Boissard's intense 
 regret, there was such a woman Margot, she 
 of the dark eyes and quick, vindictive temper. 
 Hell has no fury, the poet tells us, like that of 
 beauty scorned, and Pierre was giving some ap- 
 prehensive thought to that warning. 
 
 Poor Pierre ! A weak, not a wicked man ! At 
 no time had he loved Margot or even pretended 
 to love her. But he was kind-hearted, full of
 
 IT*' 
 lrf*~ 
 
 Margot
 
 ENTER MARGOT 241 
 
 sympathy for a disconsolate fair one, and in sen- 
 timental affairs he was a Parisian, that is, he 
 saw no particular harm in certain things that are 
 regarded with disapproval (at least theoretically) 
 in America. For years, ever since Margot was 
 a little girl, he had been adored by her, and 
 when she came to young womanhood he was ar- 
 dently pursued by her, so much so that at one time 
 he was tempted by her fortune and had even con- 
 sidered a mercenary union. But, to his credit, be 
 it said, he had put aside this lure and had learned 
 with relief of her marriage to that middle-aged, 
 dandified fortune-hunter, Don Hammond, whom 
 the capricious heiress had finally annexed for 
 reasons of her own chiefly a longing for the free- 
 dom that a rich young matron whose better half 
 is financially dependent upon her may insist upon 
 if she wants it. Which Margot did. 
 
 Following her marriage, Mrs. Don Hammond, 
 restless and disillusioned, after some months of 
 a vain effort to adjust herself happily to her new 
 condition, had silenced whatever small voice of 
 conscience there was and allowed herself to drift 
 'along the pleasant way of her inclinations, this 
 leading her more and more strongly toward 
 Pierre. Soon she was in full pursuit, using all 
 her advantages of purse and person to achieve the 
 object of her obsessing desires.
 
 242 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 And so the thing had come about not too odi- 
 ously, in the balmy air of Montecito, with its 
 lazy, pleasure-laden round, during a month that 
 the handsome captain had spent there, visiting the 
 Hammonds. In a way he had never been very 
 guilty, only a compromiser with duty, prone to 
 follow the line of least resistance, in this as in 
 other things. And never for a moment had he 
 worried about Don Hammond, whom he regarded 
 as a hopeless fool a bit of a knave, too this 
 being a fairly accurate estimate. 
 
 But Pierre had reason enough to worry a few 
 months later when, having returned to New York 
 (for government duties), he found Margot fol- 
 lowing him promptly, she in a state of romantic 
 exaltation over this realization of her life-long 
 dream. Now Pierre belonged absolutely to her. 
 Alasl 
 
 It is likely that this one-sided affaire would have 
 dragged along to some kind of a forlorn ending, 
 without dramatic complications, but for that meet- 
 ing at the book-shop, that momentous meeting 
 when the flame of real love flashed up suddenly 
 in the hearts of Patricia and Pierre. How much 
 difference a single meeting can make in two lives! 
 A single revealing glance ! A touch of the hand 1 
 Life was never the same to Boissard after that, 
 never would be.
 
 ENTER MARGOT 243 
 
 A man may have trifled with women for years, 
 taken his bonnes fortunes as they came, and yet 
 be capable of loving in the great way when he 
 finds the one able to inspire him. So it was with 
 Pierre. He could not, after knowing Patricia, 
 continue his insincere dalliance with Margot. Let 
 the consequences be what they might, he could 
 not do this. Hence embarrassed weeks, with all 
 manner of excuses for failure on his part to make 
 or to keep appointments with the sighing and 
 yearning Mrs. Hammond. Business engage- 
 ments ! Unavoidable absences. Pretended colds 
 or headaches, evasions, postponements anything 
 to keep the disconsolate lady at a distance. Even 
 in Paris where they understand these things it is 
 felt that to break with a sweetheart (rompre) is a 
 difficult and dreaded procedure; and this was 
 New York. The captain was at his wit's end 
 most of the time. He was paying for his weak- 
 ness. 
 
 Pierre was engaged to marry the one woman 
 in all the world for him. No other presence 
 now could thrill him. No other voice could charm 
 him. Patricia ! And her closest friend was Mar- 
 got! 
 
 What would Margot do about it, for she was 
 not an unobservant person, nor was she one to 
 sit down meekly and let another woman run
 
 244 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 away with her lover. What would Margot 
 do? 
 
 What Margot did was to call at Pierre's apart- 
 ment unceremoniously and unannounced, early one 
 morning about a week after Stan's farewell. She 
 had been in this apartment before, it must be ac- 
 knowledged, but always in a tender and trusting 
 mood. Now she came suspicious, keen-eyed, 
 coldly resolved to be put off no longer. 
 
 Pierre received her with his usual deference. 
 He began the usual glib excuses about govern- 
 ment responsibilities, family matters, various wor- 
 ries none of which was well done. It was im- 
 possible to simulate affection. His old emotional 
 tricks were failing him. 
 
 Margot studied him and her heart sank; she 
 knew the signs; but still she waited, chattered 
 along, showing her pretty teeth, coming close to 
 him with an artless movement that revealed her 
 sumptuous form in its smart spring garbing. She 
 had brought him an armful of roses from their 
 country place she had just motored in. Weren't 
 they lovely? Come, he must help her put them 
 in water. 
 
 Pierre helped her, listening to her running talk 
 and answering as best he could. At the inevit- 
 able moment he kissed her, a perfunctory kiss, 
 and she pouted her displeasure.
 
 ENTER MARGOT 245 
 
 "Cherie, what is it?" she pleaded. "You are 
 strange, different. Tell me." 
 
 More excuses while her face clouded, her frown 
 deepened. The outbreak was near, but she made 
 one more conciliatory effort. He was tired out. 
 He was ill. He needed a change. What would 
 he say to a week's rest in the Catskills? She 
 knew a cozy little inn absolutely quiet delicious 
 cooking they could take wonderful strolls 
 through the hills. And so on. Would he 
 come? 
 
 The Frenchman hesitated, understanding quite 
 well that the crisis was at hand, and, as he wav- 
 ered, his eyes fell upon Patricia's picture, seen 
 through the curtains of his alcove bedroom, Pa- 
 tricia's picture, framed in red leather, standing on 
 the table de nuit underneath a rosary of large 
 wooden beads from Bethlehem. 
 
 "I can't do it. It's impossible," he said quietly. 
 
 Margot's eyes had followed her lover's glance, 
 and now her fury broke. 
 
 "You don't care for me any more. Always 
 excuses excuses . . ." 
 
 The storm swept on through its inevitable 
 phases bitter words, tears, pleadings, re- 
 proaches; more tears, more reproaches, while 
 Pierre tried vainly to appease the sufferer, 
 vainly because he stubbornly refused to say the
 
 246 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 one thing that was capable of appeasing her, he 
 would not say that he loved her. 
 
 "It's all Patricia's fault. I've suspected it for 
 weeks. Now I know. You're in love with her 
 are you?" 
 
 Boissard nodded, glad to throw aside dissimula- 
 tion and find strength in his sincerity. 
 
 "Yes, I am in love with her," he avowed. "It's 
 different from anything I've ever known ever 
 dreamed of. I I'm sorry to hurt you, dear. 
 You and I have been happy together in a way, 
 but it couldn't last. You know it couldn't. You 
 have obligations that " 
 
 "So has Patricia. She's a married woman." 
 
 "Yes, she told me. It's unfortunate she did 
 not tell me sooner, but it's all right now, her 
 husband will give her a divorce." 
 
 "A divorce? Pierre! What do you mean?" 
 
 "We are going to be married." 
 
 "Married? You're going to marry Patricia? 
 You?" 
 
 She stared at him with wide-open, startled eyes. 
 
 "I'm going to marry her," he answered gravely. 
 
 "You you love her as much as that?" Mar- 
 got gasped, for in spite of her frivolous, selfish 
 nature, she was a devout Catholic and knew bet- 
 ter than any one what this meant to him. She 
 knew the strength of his proud family traditions
 
 ENTER MARGOT 247 
 
 and prejudices, she knew the sincerity of his be- 
 lief. 
 
 "Yes," he said, but she watched him shrewdly, 
 unconvinced. 
 
 "Pierre, there is something you are keeping 
 back. I see it in your eyes. I know it. Tell 
 me tell me!" 
 
 Then he told her, little by little, answering her 
 questions at first with denials and evasions, but 
 gradually allowing her to get the truth from him, 
 the whole miserable truth about that tragic inter- 
 view with Stan, ending in his enforced proposal 
 of marriage. 
 
 "You did it under compulsion?" rejoiced Mar- 
 got. "Because he threatened you? You don't 
 love her you don't love her!" 
 
 "I do love her. I'm proving it now. If I didn't 
 love her, I'd say so, wouldn't I, just to satisfy 
 you? I'd tell you that I don't want to marry Pa- 
 tricia, that I'm doing it under protest, that I'm 
 heart-broken about it and love you a thousand 
 times more, only you are married yourself. Don't 
 "you see what plausible lies I could tell you if I 
 were not sincere? But I am sincere. I love 
 Patricia more than anything." 
 
 Margot's comely shoulders lifted skeptically. 
 
 "It doesn't go, dear man. You're trying to 
 make the best of a rotten situation. You don't
 
 24 8 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 love Patricia better than anything. If you did 
 you would have married her without Stanley's as- 
 sistance. Tell me, suppose Stan hadn't inter- 
 fered? What would you have done? Ah! 
 You see you can't answer. You needn't. I know 
 what you would have done." 
 
 Her mocking, cynical smile cut him to the quick; 
 seeing which she became swiftly comforting and 
 caressing. 
 
 "Never mind, Pierre. These things have to 
 happen I mean marriages. Tu aimeras ta petite 
 Mar got la meme chose, n'est-ce-pas?" 
 
 "Just what do you mean by that?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing," she laughed, but he felt a vague 
 threat behind her restored gayety.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 A FOOL'S PARADISE 
 
 (Written by Patricia) 
 
 Two weeks later. 
 
 MARGOT came to see me last night and . . . 
 I am writing down what happened. It is all un- 
 real to me. I feel nothing believe in nothing. 
 An indifference more searing than hate dominates 
 me. 
 
 I had been to a concert at ^Eolian Hall with 
 Pierre. It was an exquisite program, music that 
 brought us into perfect communion. I came back 
 to my room at a little after ten, humming with 
 contentment, and found Margot waiting for me. 
 She was sitting, quietly reading. Her cheeks 
 ^flushed, her eyes brilliant. She looked beautiful, 
 cold and hard as a diamond in her flame-colored 
 evening gown. 
 
 "Why, Margot," I exclaimed, "how you startled 
 me! ... Been here long?" 
 
 "Half-hour or so. Don is over at the Clare- 
 249
 
 250 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 mont stupid party! and I just ran away. He 
 said he'd stop for me about midnight. You've 
 been so artful at dodging me, ma belle, that I 
 thought I'd catch you on the wing." 
 
 She carefully marked her magazine and laid it 
 by on the table, stifling a half yawn, as her shrewd 
 black eyes held mine. I suddenly felt guilty and 
 uneasy. I had deliberately avoided her, putting 
 off the day when I must confess to her about 
 Pierre. This was because of an unanalyzable 
 fear I had experienced in her presence. 
 
 I had mechanically thrown off my light spring 
 jacket and small fur, but stopped at my hat. 
 
 "Make yourself at home, cherie," laughed Mar- 
 got. "Get into a negligee. I've a lot to talk 
 to you about." 
 
 I obeyed her without comment, carefully put 
 away my clothes, selected a soft blue negligee, let 
 down my hair (I had commenced to double it 
 under at the nape of my neck since Pierre had 
 begged me to let it grow out) and settled my- 
 self back among the pillows of my couch. 
 
 "Go ahead," I said. "Anything wrong? 
 Surely Don isn't exercising a husband's author- 
 ity . . ." 
 
 Margot checked me with a contemptuous shrug, 
 drew her chair close to the couch and stared hard 
 at me.
 
 A FOOL'S PARADISE 251 
 
 "You're not quite so desperate as you were 
 the other night, Pat," she laughed unpleasantly. 
 "Just the same I spoke the truth when I said 
 that you're living in a Fool's Paradise." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that Pierre is not going to marry you." 
 
 My slow-burning resentment flared into words : 
 
 "That's my own affair and Pierre's," I said. 
 "Please understand that, Margot." 
 
 Again, that hard, unpleasant laugh. 
 
 "Did Pierre ask you to say that to me?" 
 
 "We have never discussed you." 
 
 "Eh bien, ma chere, let's not quarrel. He's 
 not worth it ... no man is." She settled back 
 more comfortably, tapping with her slender, dis- 
 creetly-ringed fingers. "Pat, you're the same 
 dear, lovable little fool. I like you, always have, 
 always must, even if you do stand in my light." 
 
 "In your light ! Absurd ! How could I stand 
 in your light? I may as well tell you now, Mar- 
 got, Pierre loves me enough to marry me even 
 in the face of the disapproval of the Catholic 
 Church. That's all there is to it. Stan has gone 
 West to start divorce proceedings. You said 
 you cared for Pierre once and I didn't want to 
 flaunt my happiness in your face." 
 
 Suddenly I felt very tired and unhappy. I 
 wished that Margot would go away. But she
 
 252 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 sat calmly with that mocking, all-knowing ex- 
 pression about her eyes and mouth. 
 
 "I take it back, Pat. I said Pierre wouldn't 
 marry you, didn't I? Well, he would. He's a 
 pitiful weakling. But you will never marry him." 
 
 I was so on my nerves now that I felt a childish 
 wish to cry, also to do physical violence to this 
 dark, lovely creature leaning over me with her 
 confusing words and her deadening atmosphere. 
 "Go away," my heart cried. "Leave me my hap- 
 piness and beliefs." But aloud I said: 
 
 "Really, you're too mystifying. What's the 
 dark secret?" 
 
 Anger blazed in Margot's eyes. "So that's 
 the tone you take with me, is it? All along I've 
 tried to spare you some of my heartaches. I 
 once hugged a bunch of dreams quite as ecstatic 
 as yours. We all go through that stage. Yours 
 came later than mine, that's all. I know Pierre 
 and his type. I've seen him by the dozen in 
 France these cultured flowers of the intellectual 
 upper classes who always do and say the right 
 thing at the right time. They would die for their 
 loves, but work and live for them, never! The 
 hard facts of life are depressing to these fine gen- 
 tlemen. Have you forgotten how kindly I took 
 up the little lie your eyes asked me to tell Pierre 
 that first day at Brentano's? I suggested that
 
 A FOOL'S PARADISE 253 
 
 you were a widow . . . Why? Half to please 
 you and half to further my own purposes. Don 
 does not love Pierre. Don's a rotter himself; 
 but he is out and out a rotter, a decent rotter! 
 He actually admits it. And, you see . . . he 
 has had good cause to hate Pierre!" 
 
 My eyes met hers incredulously. 
 
 "I never tricked myself into believing that 
 Pierre loved me," she went on shamelessly, "but 
 ... he found me beautiful, desirable. I hoped 
 he would come to love me." 
 
 "And you thought he might marry you?" 
 
 "Marry? No. We are both Catholics. I 
 wouldn't be guilty of turning him from his faith." 
 
 "But you would steal his love?" 
 
 Margot shrugged. "In order to get a shred 
 of happiness in this old world we have to pay 
 and others have to pay. Don never imagined I 
 loved him. He wanted money. I wanted a hus- 
 band and freedom from my father's authority. 
 It was a fair exchange. Don is getting his share 
 of the bargain." 
 
 I made no comment and Margot went on: 
 
 "With you it is different, Pat. You have a 
 real man for a husband. I love Pierre, but I 
 know so do you that Stan is worth a dozen 
 Pierres." 
 
 The penetrating, eagle-like light in her eyes
 
 254 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 died out and she became once more the easy-going, 
 likeable Margot that I had known; but her voice 
 was passionately earnest. 
 
 "Pat, don't ever make the mistake I made. So 
 far you've held on to the best in you. You've 
 come through unscathed and still have a chance 
 to know real, sane happiness. When a woman 
 gives herself, it's her soul and all. A man can 
 wrap up his best self, fold it away in lavender, 
 trot out the remainder for a little spree, then call 
 on the way home for his little lavender-scented 
 soul as good as new. He reserves this for the 
 woman he really loves, and feels no qualms of 
 conscience before her. That precious little sanc- 
 tified bit of himself atones for all his wander- 
 ings." 
 
 "You mean that a man can love two women at 
 the same time?" 
 
 "He might; men have elastic hearts; but I 
 wasn't thinking of that. I meant that a man can 
 love one woman and amuse and flatter himself 
 with the beauty of another." 
 
 There came a blinding flash in my brain. 
 
 "Pierre! You!" I cried. 
 
 "Yes," she confessed. 
 
 "I shared him with you! Then all his beau- 
 tiful words lies !"
 
 A FOOL'S PARADISE 255 
 
 "No, cherie. They were true, they came from 
 his lavender-scented soul. That was yours. It 
 never was mine." 
 
 Margot put out her hand in a movement of 
 pity, but I shook her off in white fury. 
 
 "Pierre has never been mine since he knew you. 
 I give you my word. He told me he loved you, 
 told me he would marry you . . . told me the 
 real reason why he would marry you." 
 
 "The real reason?" I flashed back. "What 
 other reason is there than his love our love, a 
 good, clean love . . ." 
 
 "Wait!" 
 
 "No!" I rushed on. "Do you think I'm go- 
 ing to blame Pierre for mistakes he committed 
 before I knew him? No! This is only another 
 proof that he needs me. Nothing can take him 
 from me. Do you hear? Nothing! Nothing I 
 I am going to marry him." 
 
 There came into Margot's face a look of con- 
 centrated fury, jealousy, hatred. She was like a 
 deadly serpent about to strike. One of us would 
 Demerge from this interview crushed. I knew 
 it. 
 
 "Then you may as well know, ma chere" she 
 taunted, "that Stan forced Pierre to offer to marry 
 you, yes, forced him! In order to save his
 
 256 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 precious skin Pierre took you and renounced his 
 faith." 
 
 "No I It isn't true I" I cried, but I knew that 
 it was. 
 
 "You're better off without him. Bah! A 
 weak man is like a creeping pestilence, he can do 
 more harm than a dozen villains." 
 
 "Stan!" I blubbered. "You say Stan . . . 
 forced Pierre! But Stan wants me himself." 
 
 "Of course," came the relentless, explaining 
 voice, making clear my damnation. "Of course 
 Stan loves you. That's the reason. There never 
 was such a love. He's a man that husband of 
 yours." 
 
 Like a battering ram relentlessly driving home 
 the truth came the memory of Stan's savage words 
 that night in the taxicab : "He'd better be good 
 to you, or " 
 
 Still I would not believe. 
 
 "No!" I cried in a panic of fear. "Oh! no, 
 Margot! It isn't true. Tell me it isn't true." 
 
 Her eyes rested on me compassionately, and as 
 I watched that expression dawn, grow and deepen 
 I read my own doom. I was humiliated in the 
 dust. 
 
 "I believe you," I yielded wearily. "Now go 
 away . . . please go ... now! No, I am per- 
 fectly well ... go, go ! Leave me alone . . ."
 
 A FOOL'S PARADISE 257 
 
 Later. 
 
 I do not want to hear his explanations. I will 
 not see him. It would be useless, quite useless. 
 I will go on with my work, on and on and on ...
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE END OF EVERYTHING 
 
 "You're thinking only of the man not of what he stood for. 
 He stood for everything, good and beautiful; he was my 
 bringer of dreams, my fulfillment of fancy. Losing him, I lose 
 not only this, but the power, the wish, ever to dream again." 
 
 FOR a long time after Margot had gone Patri- 
 cia did not stir from her place among the pillows 
 of her couch. She lay inertly with no positive 
 thought. The only living thing about her seemed 
 to be an insistent pain at her heart, a pain that 
 probed cruelly like an instrument of torture. 
 
 If only she could think! 
 
 She buried her face in the pillows, beating at 
 them with her clenched fists. 
 
 "No, no ! It cannot be." Over and over she 
 repeated this like the refrain of a song. 
 
 If only she could sleep! She must sleep. 
 There was so much to be done at the office to- 
 morrow. The advance summer fashion number of 
 the Millinery Review was coming out. She had 
 some ridiculously pert designs ready that is al- 
 most ready. What was this pain tearing at her 
 
 258
 
 THE END OF EVERYTHING 259 
 
 heart? Oh! yes . . . Pierre! Pierre had lied 
 to her. She would never see him again. He and 
 Margot . . . Incredible ! Unbelievable ! Be- 
 sides, how could she give him up, yield all her 
 dreams, her beliefs, hopes? She could not! 
 Could not! Dry sobs tore her. 
 
 Toward morning Patricia fell into a deep sleep 
 from which she was awakened by the metallic din 
 of her neighbor's alarm clock. She started from 
 the couch, then sank back in nervous fright. Like 
 a malicious enemy lying in ambush, the pain 
 leaped back into her heart, and memory came with 
 it. Some one turned on the shower in the bath- 
 room next door. The water came down in noisy 
 glee, pounding in Patricia's ears, while the bather 
 sang lustily to defy the icy shock. 
 
 Were people actually going on just as usual? 
 She must get up. It must be nearly eight o'clock 
 and she was due at the office by nine. How the 
 pulses throbbed over her body! And she 
 burned! Burned! 
 
 She hurried to the bathroom and collided with 
 Jier blithe neighbor who emerged, bright-eyed and 
 pink, from her shower, wrapped in a pale blue 
 kimono. 
 
 "Hello!" burst out the radiant one. "What 
 . . . well, say you must have had some little 
 party last night. You look all in."
 
 2 6o GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 Patricia got by her. But she oughtn't to have 
 taken the shower. She was cold. Too cold. 
 
 The noises of the subway were maddening. 
 They ground on her nerves until she could have 
 cried aloud. The crossings bewildered her. 
 Everything seemed to dart by at once. How many 
 people there were ! All going alertly about their 
 business. People! Everywhere people! They 
 jostled her, elbowed her out of their way. She 
 wanted to strike out savagely at them. She hated 
 them. Hated the city. Hated New York. She 
 wanted to get away. How the noises hurt ! 
 
 All day she worked at her desk. Sick, burn- 
 ing with fever, tormented by her thoughts, Patri- 
 cia worked on through the office hours, finished 
 her designs, then took a bus and rode down the 
 Avenue to the old Brevoort House where her 
 father was stopping. 
 
 As she went up the broad, wooden steps into 
 the old white building her tension lessened. The 
 little Frenchman at the book stall near the door 
 recognized her and bowed deferentially. Her 
 father was well known here. But the night clerk 
 was new, indifferent and curt. No, Mr. Lydig 
 was not in. He had left word that he was dining 
 out with a friend. 
 
 Keenly disappointed, Patricia turned away and 
 sought the little waiting room. Two or three
 
 THE END OF EVERYTHING 261 
 
 couples were idling there, talking in low voices. 
 She chose a seat by one of the long French win- 
 dows where she could look out on the brightly 
 lighted Avenue, busy with the traffic of the dinner 
 hour. As she passed an old fashioned mirror, 
 that ran from floor to ceiling, she caught a 
 glimpse of herself. How odd she looked! And 
 plain! That was because there was nothing more 
 in the world for her she had come to the end of 
 everything. 
 
 The hours of Patricia's wait were slow torture. 
 She went out into the night, seeking the cool 
 breeze, but the ceaseless noise and movement 
 drove her back. Twice she started to take the 
 bus home and twice she turned back, conquered 
 by the thought of her lonely room. 
 
 At last her father came hurrying in, hat and 
 stick in hand, his face full of concern as he dis- 
 covered Patricia huddled in her corner. 
 
 "Why, Pat! Poor child, what is it?" 
 
 "I thought you'd never come," she said petu- 
 lantly, then put her head down and burst into 
 ~tears. Her voice came brokenly: 
 
 "Take me home, Father . . . take me away 
 from this horrible noise. Don't leave me here, 
 please . . ." 
 
 Bit by bit, soothing her as best he could, he 
 drew the story from her, all that Margot had told
 
 262 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 her, and was convinced of the truth, partly by her 
 half-hearted excuses and baited phrases set for 
 comfort and reassurance. Alas! He saw that 
 what she said was true, and he knew what this 
 meant to his child. 
 
 "Patsy, dear, you're making yourself ill. I 
 must take you home. We'll go into all this to- 
 morrow. Come along now . . . had your din- 
 ner? . . . Oh ! yes, you do. We'll get you some- 
 thing hot, then for a good sleep, and I'll come for 
 you the first thing in the morning. Now just 
 calm down." 
 
 An hour later as they drove home Patricia 
 dozed in her father's arms, and the next morn- 
 ing when he called for her she had a high fever. 
 The doctor insisted that she be moved to St. 
 Luke's hospital where she could be properly cared 
 for. 
 
 "She's on the verge of brain fever," he told 
 her father. "She's had some severe mental 
 shock. It will take care to bridge this crisis." 
 
 There followed days of delirium and anxiety, 
 and three weeks later Newtcn Lydig, accompanied 
 by a trained nurse, started across the continent 
 for California, taking poor Patricia back to her 
 anxiously waiting mother.
 
 PART THREE LOVE WATCHES
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE BARRIER OF PRIDE 
 (Written by Patricia) 
 
 Six months later 
 in the Ojai F alley. 
 
 "O gracious Mother, in thy vast eternal sunlight, 
 Heal us, thy foolish children, from our sins; 
 Who heed thee not, but careless of thy Presence 
 Turn our bent backs on thee and scratch and scrabble 
 In ash-heaps for Salvation." 
 
 PURPLE shadows stealing up the canons and 
 over the scorched California hills, touching their 
 barren boldness with mystery and beauty. Be- 
 low, red sandstone, then an olive orchard, its 
 graygreen leaves silvering in the lazy summer 
 -breeze; and beyond, the wide sweep of the peace- 
 ful valley, enfolded by the giant arms of its hills. 
 
 Here, perched on my gray bowlder well up its 
 craggy slope, I sit writing, idly, yielding now and 
 again to the impelling languor that overtakes me, 
 a convalescent, living in the open air and sunshine. 
 
 265
 
 2 66 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "How one loves them, 
 These wide horizons, 
 Vague and vast and infinite." 
 
 They tell me I was very ill when they brought 
 me home six months ago. I do not remember 
 much about that, only the amazement when I 
 woke to find myself here. And then the slow 
 building-up, days of courage followed by despair 
 . . . Hot summer nights flooded with moonlight 
 when I, out of all the world, seemed alone with 
 my bitter sweet memories mother, father and 
 myself! Just as of old! 
 
 I can feel the anxious eyes of my parents follow- 
 ing me as I move about the house or garden, can 
 sense their suppressed questions, the tenderness 
 they mask with a pathetic studied cheerfulness. 
 Often I feel as if they were my own dear children 
 whom I must shield from unhappiness through 
 me ! So we play a little farcical game with one 
 another. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 To-night, under a full moon, as I lay in my low 
 canvas chair in the garden listening to the usual 
 night concert mocking-birds, crickets, frogs, a 
 party on horseback passed. Their voices and 
 laughter floated back to me with a merry clitter-
 
 THE BARRIER OF PRIDE 267 
 
 clatter of horse's hoofs. Youth and love! Al- 
 ways the same ! Heedlessly happy ! Indifferent 
 to the sorrows of those who have dropped by the 
 wayside. The old sharp pang shot through me 
 as I listened and remembered! 
 
 A latticed window opened and mother's voice 
 came, "Patsy, dear! You'd better get a scarf. 
 The dew is falling. You'll be chilled through." 
 
 I went into the house wearily. 
 
 What does a girl do when her heart is broken? 
 And her pride humbled? When she sees that she 
 has made mistakes . . . mistakes? And knows 
 that she may make more? How does she go on 
 living? 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 (Speaking suddenly) Don't be discouraged, 
 Patsy. It will all come out right, if you'll only 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Go to Stan and tell him I'm sorry and ask him 
 to take me back? No! That's impossible. 
 You can see it's impossible, Woozy. After I've 
 had my own way and gone to New York, after 
 everything has failed me and I I'm down and 
 out (crying softly) how can I go to Stan? 
 WOOZY 
 
 I didn't mean that exactly.
 
 268 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Besides, I don't love him, that is I I don't 
 think I do. 
 
 WOOZY 
 If you would only ask for guidance. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Say my prayers? No! I've tried, but I 
 can't. Why does God make the world so hard 
 for women ? 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 He doesn't. It's a beautiful world for women 
 who obey the law like mother. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 What law? 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 The oldest law there is, that it's more blessed 
 to give than to receive. You've only tried receiv- 
 ing. You want everything done for you. Why 
 don't you try doing something for somebody else ? 
 
 PATRICIA 
 There you are again religion. 
 
 WOOZY 
 No. I mean work. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Haven't I been working? Didn't I get up at 
 seven and slave in an office all day? Wasn't that 
 work?
 
 THE BARRIER OF PRIDE 269 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 I said unselfish work. What you did was 
 through ambition for yourself. Why don't you 
 try some kind of unselfish work? 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (Hesitating) I I'll think about it, Woozy. 
 I'm not going to quarrel with you anyway. I'm 
 too tired. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 I saw the post-man joggling along the road 
 behind his shambling old mare this morning and 
 ran out to get the mail before he put it in the box. 
 He was chattily inclined and I found it hard to 
 listen as Stan's determined hand-writing chal- 
 lenged me from a large square of envelope. It 
 was addressed to father and I was conscious of 
 keen chagrin. I found father in the garden and 
 cajoled him to the hammock in the arbor before 
 I gave him the letter. 
 
 "You've never told me," I said, "whether Stan 
 went ahead with the divorce, Father, whether he 
 fias written, or anything. I think I ought to 
 know." I waited, with that old unnamed fear 
 running through me. 
 
 Father opened his letter with maddening pre- 
 cision before he answered. 
 
 "He couldn't very well go on with the divorce
 
 2 7 o GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 while you were so ill, my dear. I persuaded him 
 to wait until you were well again, since there was 
 no particular rush about it. He wrote twice while 
 you were ill not since then." During this father 
 was scanning the letter in a most casual way. 
 "This is merely to say that he got the little box 
 with his mother's earrings that you sent back. 
 He's much obliged." 
 That was all ! 
 
 II 
 
 Three months later 
 St. James Park. 
 
 For three months I've been trying to please 
 Woozy, occupying myself with good works, and 
 the result is I am forced to admit that some 
 women make perfect fools of themselves when it 
 comes to following out independent careers. This 
 is a pity for it gives our righteous guardians an 
 argument that they are quick to seize upon and 
 exaggerate for not giving liberty to any of us. It 
 seems that quite a number of silly movie-struck 
 girls have come to Los Angeles thinking they are 
 pretty enough and clever enough to be second 
 Mary Pickfords and, naturally, some of them 
 are out of jobs. 
 
 Some of the leading women in Los Angeles
 
 THE BARRIER OF PRIDE 271 
 
 have organized to find work for these girls 
 that's where I come in but the discouraging part 
 of it is that most of these girls will throw up any 
 business position we get them the very minute they 
 hear of even the faintest chance for picture work. 
 It's an obsession! No matter what they have 
 suffered, they still hope on. The next time they 
 will land something big. Three hundred dollars 
 a week at least! And a star part later! And if 
 they get a little money, they spend it all on clothes, 
 they say they must make a good showing in order 
 to attract the directors. Oh, those directors! 
 
 It's no use arguing with them, for of course 
 girls have become stars overnight, and leaped 
 into fame and fortune through making a lucky hit 
 in some small part. But what a horrible gamble 
 it is! 
 
 Saturday night. 
 
 I had one good idea anyway, and the ladies on 
 the committee say that I helped put it over splen- 
 didly. What these girls who are adrift in Los 
 "Angeles I suppose it's the same in other cities 
 need especially are decent homes, where they can 
 have reasonable comforts and wholesome food 
 for a modest expenditure. We have established 
 a small Studio Club in an old mansion near Holly- 
 wood that we were able to rent on favorable
 
 272 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 terms, but we must have more sleeping porches 
 and bathrooms. So I suggested that we start a 
 drive among the public spirited citizens to raise 
 ten thousand dollars, and tag^ght this effort cul- 
 minated in a fete with danqa^ We had dozens 
 of pretty girls in fetching costumes; and there 
 were crowds willing to spend their money so that 
 we cleared over seven thousand dollars. I was so 
 pleased 1 
 
 III 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 To-night as we were finishing dinner father 
 turned his kindly gray eyes on me and said: "By 
 the way, I've good news for you, Pat." 
 
 I straightened up eagerly. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "The lease is up on our Fifty-sixth Street apart- 
 ment and we go back to New York next month." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 My heart sank and I'm afraid my face showed 
 it. A whole continent between Stan and me! 
 What chance would I ever have to . . . ? 
 
 Father was scrutinizing me keenly. 
 
 "Why, come," he pinched my cheek playfully, 
 "you don't seem particularly joyful. I thought 
 you'd rise with a shout of thanksgiving."
 
 THE BARRIER OF PRIDE 273 
 
 "I why, yes, that's fine, Father," I managed, 
 but I could tell that he suspects the truth. 
 
 Stan ! All through the evening he has been 
 in my thoughts, I can see him plainly . . . 
 laughing, teasing . . . filling his loved old pipe. 
 How he used to exasperate me eating apples! 
 Sinking his strong white teeth into the red skin, 
 noisily snapping off a bite to chew it with juicy 
 satisfaction, one eye cocked in my direction to en- 
 joy my shivers of disgust. He is such a boy! 
 . . . Oh! Stan, if I could only have loved 
 you! 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 You do love him. You know very well you 
 love him. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 No! 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 Then why do you think about him all the time ? 
 Why aren't you glad to go to New York? 
 PATRICIA 
 
 I hate New York now. It makes me think 
 of you know. Besides, I like this Studio work. 
 I take pride in it. What are you laughing at? 
 WOOZY 
 
 Oh, nothing, only if Stan should move to 
 New York
 
 274 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (Biting her lip, then after a long silence} It's 
 possible I do love him. He's so fine and de- 
 pendable. 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 A woman can't get along very well without a 
 man's companionship, even if she has a career, 
 can she? 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 N-no. I suppose she can't. Men have de- 
 veloped a soundness of judgment and er cer- 
 tain practical qualities through centuries of strug- 
 gle that women can't be expected to have yet. 
 But women will get these qualities gradually. 
 WOOZY 
 
 (Teasing] In a few centuries. Besides, even 
 when they have careers and are successful in them, 
 women have a certain capacity for loving, haven't 
 they, Pat? 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (Smiling) Silly! 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 And for being loved? Even a woman lawyer 
 wants to be kissed once in awhile, doesn't she? 
 The question is, Who's going to do the kissing? 
 For example, if you went back to New York 
 without Stan?
 
 THE BARRIER OF PRIDE 275 
 
 PATRICIA 
 Yes? 
 
 WOOZY 
 
 You couldn't be working all the time. You'd 
 have your evenings and after all, you're only 
 twenty-three. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 That's it. I'd be lonely. That's why I don't 
 want to go. 
 
 WOOZY 
 You'd meet other men. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (With decision} I don't want to. Mind you, 
 Woozy, I'm not weakening on the question of a 
 woman's right to her liberty, but I admit that one 
 of the things we women do rather easily just now 
 is to make fools of ourselves in regard to some 
 man. We're in a transition period. We are 
 absolutely fitted for artistic careers and business 
 positions; but, as you say, we are also fitted for 
 love. So there you are. It results in complica- 
 tions. 
 
 Thursday. 
 
 This morning I had an emotional experience 
 that has left me all unnerved. I went to the Los 
 Angeles police station to get information about 
 one of our Studio girls who ran away with a
 
 276 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 man, a coarse, flashy individual who promised 
 her everything in the world and then abandoned 
 her. The old, heart-breaking story. It seems 
 there are villains in real life after all. 
 
 For an hour I waited in a dingy, bare room 
 with a dozen forlorn specimens of womankind, 
 bold-eyed or dejected. Two young girls not over 
 sixteen were chewing gum and giggling together 
 while a blond of eighteen flaunted her spoiled pret- 
 tiness and powdered her nose. One by one they 
 told their stories to the City Mother, a fat, unil- 
 lumined person, I thought, in spite of newspaper 
 eulogies. Where was the light of high purpose 
 shining in her eyes that they talk about? Rather 
 a bored and business-like person, she seemed to 
 me, in her severe black dress with painfully neat 
 collar and cuffs. Another disappointment! 
 
 It was all so depressing that I almost turned 
 and fled, but Woozy whispered to me : "March 
 on, Pat. You're a common soldier now. No 
 swashing about in gallant array. You're out for 
 plain service and hard work." 
 
 So I stayed, and finally the girl I was seeking, 
 
 Margaret H , came in, a Madonna-like 
 
 beauty. She looked at me out of her big violet 
 eyes and then she broke down and sobbed. 
 
 "Come on, dear!" I said encouragingly. 
 "We'll go for a drive in the car." And I did
 
 THE BARRIER OF PRIDE 277 
 
 my best to comfort her as we took a long run 
 along the smooth, white beach above Santa Mon- 
 ica, close to the in-washing breakers with the pur- 
 ple haze of the Malibu hills beyond. Finally we 
 turned back along an oak-shadowed road and 
 came to the Studio Home. Poor Margaret! 
 How she wept as we swung in through the grilled 
 iron gateway. I was in tears myself. 
 
 Think of it! This girl came from a good 
 home in a Middle Western town. Her father 
 is a well-to-do doctor. She has had "advantages" 
 and could have made a good marriage, if she had 
 been willing to stay at home. But she was am- 
 bitious. She was sure her beauty and her talent 
 could conquer just as I was. She wanted her 
 liberty just as I did. Oh, it's too tragical. 
 
 WOOZY 
 (Tenderly] Don't cry, Pat. 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 Why shouldn't I cry? It makes me see what 
 might have happened, if 
 
 WOOZY 
 No! 
 
 PATRICIA 
 
 (Agitated} Why not? I absolutely trusted 
 Pierre. He was my ideal incapable of anything 
 base, but you see we don't understand. We
 
 278 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 think we know everything. We read about the 
 double-standard and all that, but when the test 
 comes we (sobbing) we do need to be watched 
 over a little. 
 
 Three weeks later. 
 
 Another shock. This afternoon I saw Louis 
 Tong! I almost ran over him as I was driving 
 through the Mexican quarter, taking a bundle 
 of clothing to one of my protegees, who has hid- 
 den her distress in a poor room in this old part 
 of town. He shot in front of the Dodge in that 
 slippery way those yellow heathen have. I gasped 
 and looked down into the frightened gleam of 
 his slanting eyes. 
 
 "Missey Cleighton 1" he cried. 
 
 "You!" I exclaimed. "You, Louis Tong, scar- 
 ing me out of my wits! Here, climb in. I've 
 got an errand to do near here, but I can't let you 
 get away." 
 
 Only one other person could have been more 
 welcome to my sight than this thin-faced, little 
 yellow man. He could give me news of the other 
 one. 
 
 The car door clicked after him as Louis Tong 
 obeyed me. He sat primly beside me in his neat 
 black Chinese clothes. From beneath his black 
 felt hat hung a long and eloquent queue. His slim
 
 THE BARRIER OF PRIDE 279 
 
 feet were in neat black satin slippers with amaz- 
 ingly clean, thick white soles. His slim hands, 
 an index to his soul, I always told Stan, were 
 folded across his black sateen lap. On the back 
 seat towered the bundle of clothes. 
 
 The traffic cop signaled and we darted on our 
 way. Little by little I drew from him news of 
 Stan, and learned that Louis Tong had come to 
 town on business for his master. He is Stan's 
 right-hand man now. A Chinaman's loyalty once 
 won is won forever. 
 
 "Him veely sad," Louis Tong assured me as 
 he ended his report. 
 
 "Why?" I probed. "Why? He seems con- 
 tent enough mooning over his book. He doesn't 
 need . . . help . . . like other people. He is 
 strong." 
 
 The bright eyes silently contradicted me. I 
 understood, and my heart lifted. 
 
 "Take care of him, Louis Tong," I begged, as 
 I left him at the entrance of Chinatown. "And 
 tell him . . . tell him, won't you, that I'm of 
 some use in the world now." 
 
 "Him veely sad for you, Missy Cleighton," 
 repeated the little man stubbornly. "Man no 
 man without wiffee." 
 
 Correct, Louis Tong! And woman is no 
 woman without the man she loves I
 
 280 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 Saturday night. 
 
 A great revelation has overwhelmed me. It 
 came like a lightning flash and shows what a 
 blind, selfish little ingrate I have been. I have 
 been crying for an hour and even now, as I write, 
 my heart seems to suffocate me. God teach me, 
 show me the way. 
 
 All my pride is gone. 
 
 It happened this evening while Father and I 
 drove into the hills, then walked together, enjoy- 
 ing the wistful beauty of the twilight. I knew 
 that Father was sensing with me all this loveliness 
 and suddenly I felt close to him. My hand 
 tightened on his arm. The long, perplexing bar- 
 rier between us was breaking down. Sorrow has 
 done what happiness could not. 
 
 There were letters when we came home and I 
 watched Father sort them over. At one he 
 paused, his face a puzzle of conflicting emotions, 
 and looked uncertainly at me. It was evidently a 
 letter he did not wish me to see. 
 
 "Never mind, Father," I said with a flash of 
 understanding, "I'm ready for it. Please!" 
 
 It was from Pierre. The bright blue of the 
 French stamp and the fine, print-like handwriting 
 struck cruelly at memories I had carefully put 
 away or tried to.
 
 THE BARRIER OF PRIDE 281 
 
 Father looked so grave and kind and friendly 
 standing there beside me. My heart swelled 
 gratefully. 
 
 "Don't tell Mother yet, it will worry her," I 
 whispered as I took the letter, then I kissed him 
 swiftly and hurried to my room. 
 
 It was a long time before I had the courage to 
 break the seal. It was like opening an old wound, 
 but I finally read the pages, fighting my tears. 
 It was a cry for forgiveness and a last farewell. 
 Pierre has given up the world. After weeks of 
 illness, followed by a period of mad dissipation, 
 he has found peace in the sanctuary and is now 
 about to take the vows of silence, poverty, chas- 
 tity, in one of the severest Catholic orders. The 
 black robe is to replace his brilliant blue and 
 scarlet. How vividly he comes before me! I 
 can see him striding along at my side humming 
 gayly: 
 
 "Car, c'est comm'ci, 
 Car, c'est comm'ca, 
 Regardez moi, ma fille." 
 
 Pierre a monk I 
 
 After referring in deepest humility to his own 
 weakness and unworthiness, his failure to stand 
 by his faith, he passed on to a eulogy of Stan 
 that touched my heart; and he revealed this
 
 282 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 amazing thing, that Stan would have died for me, 
 if Pierre had been worthy. He would have 
 slipped out, unnoticed, into the Great Beyond, if 
 Pierre had stood the test of simple manhood. 
 He would have done this so that the divorce-bar- 
 rier between us might be removed. Such love! 
 And no one would ever have known the truth, for 
 Stan made Pierre promise that he would never 
 reveal this. Now Pierre was breaking his prom- 
 ise so that I might be happy. If it was a sin, 
 he begged forgiveness, as for his other sins. And 
 he asked God's blessing upon me and upon Stan 
 as he withdrew forever into the shadows.
 
 Pierre. . .he withdrew forever into the shadows.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE LONGING 
 
 "And then the longing, the longing that is like physical 
 pain, that hunger of the heart for some one intolerably 
 dear. . . ." 
 
 STAN CREIGHTON saddled his horse and rode 
 down to the sea. It was an hour before sunrise 
 and he could not sleep. All about him chilling 
 mists steamed up from the ground, a melancholy 
 incense to his heart-sick meditations. To be un- 
 happy in the mountains is a maddening thing; 
 their lofty peace and majesty reproach one irrita- 
 tingly, like a preachy moralist. It is better to 
 be unhappy by the sea. 
 
 He urged his horse onto the hard wet sand 
 -near the breaker's edge. The beach stretched 
 away gray and desolate through the inrolling 
 fog. The ocean was gray, the shore was swal- 
 lowed up in grayness. His horse walked dis- 
 trustfully on the sand, ears twitching back and 
 forth, nostrils quivering with apprehension, head 
 
 283
 
 284 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 raised high to stare with great, startled eyes over 
 the glittering sheet of steely waters, or lowered 
 to sniff anxiously at the kelp piled on the sand. 
 
 "I should have taken Pat away as soon as this 
 place began to irritate her," he reflected. "If I 
 had humored her a little, I might have won her." 
 
 Stan reined in his horse and looked out over 
 the sea. How often he had done this before, 
 waiting on these lonely sands for the sun to rise 
 in its splendor over the mountains and illumine 
 the Pacific. If something could only illumine his 
 soul! 
 
 He thought back through the months, search- 
 ing for some mistake on his part. After his 
 fruitless trip to New York he had gone to a 
 lawyer in Los Angeles, according to his promise, 
 and talked over the necessary steps leading to 
 a divorce; but the next day a telegram from Pa- 
 tricia's father had urged delay, and a long letter 
 following this told of Patsy's broken dream and 
 of her illness. His tenderness and concern for 
 her unhappiness had surged up again and impelled 
 him to go to her; but he had resolutely hardened 
 his will. Had he not done everything in his 
 power to win Patricia and failed? She knew his 
 love was of the enduring kind, and that he de- 
 sired no other woman in the world. Up to a 
 certain point he could plead, entreat, try to dom-
 
 THE LONGING 285 
 
 inate; but only up to a certain point. He had 
 done his best, and, if she wanted or needed him 
 now, she must make the advance. He had shown 
 her definitely that she could always rely upon him. 
 No, he would never seek her again. 
 
 Stan turned and rode back slowly into the Mon- 
 tecito hills. Back to the bungalow, the bunga- 
 low that had no particular reason for existence 
 any longer. Back to his work, as he had gone 
 back doggedly, so many times through days and 
 weeks that dragged . . . dragged. In his lonely 
 evenings he had sought relief from bitter thoughts 
 in the creation of a new book, The Valley of the 
 Shadow, that had grown slowly, since most of 
 his strength was given to movie tasks through the 
 day. Another wild serial that at least diverted 
 him. Even so the book had grown and was be- 
 ginning to take shape under his unflinching de- 
 mands upon himself. But what was the use? 
 Another book ! What pitiful things books were ! 
 
 To Louis Tong, his devoted slave and sole 
 companion, Stan expounded his views on life, 
 striding about the big living-room, shirt open at 
 the throat, pipe in a fury of activity, while the 
 immaculately-aproned Oriental listened deferen- 
 tially. 
 
 "Men are conceited fools, Louis Tong, and 
 don't you forget it," explodes Stan. "Why, you
 
 286 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 can't pick up a paper without seeing where some 
 meddling parson is worrying about the length of 
 girls' skirts, and lordy! if she hasn't gone and imi- 
 tated him in smoking cigarettes! Such an im- 
 moral creature! Aping him!" 
 
 Louis Tong blinks. The male of the species, 
 unquestionably superior, is being underrated. 
 Queer creatures, these American men! But he, 
 wise Oriental, smooths his crackling white apron 
 and holds his peace. 
 
 "I say we modern men are fools," storms the 
 master. "Why don't we play up to her love of 
 love and really win love; not only win it but keep 
 it? We're too lazy and conceited, that's why. 
 We do what we please and want her to be what 
 we please. And it serves us jolly well right when 
 we get stung." 
 
 A strong smell of burning potatoes comes from 
 the kitchen. Louis Tong leaps into the air, sniffs 
 dramatically, and dashes from the room. 
 
 So the days pass. 
 
 In spite of all the brave, light talk that passed 
 between them, Louis Tong, with his inscrutable 
 wisdom, knew quite well what purpose was slowly 
 forming in his master's mind and, loyal servant 
 that he was. mourned over this.
 
 THE LONGING 287 
 
 "Say, I believe you Orientals have the right idea 
 after all," reflected Stan one evening as he sat on 
 the vine-spread piazza watching the fading sun- 
 set. "If things get too hard here, why you don't 
 worry, do you?" 
 
 Louis Tong smiled brightly. "Same as chilern 
 all learn each one get nes'ary strength what 
 must be?" 
 
 "Exactly the necessary strength for what must 
 be. That's the dope. We don't have to bear too 
 much, do we, son?" 
 
 "All things can bear," affirmed the little yel- 
 low man, his dark eyes burning with deep con- 
 cern. 
 
 Stan was silent for a long time drawing what 
 comfort he could from his trusty briar pipe. 
 
 "Come here, Louis Tong. I want to tell you 
 something." The devoted servitor came close 
 and stood waiting. "I don't believe there's any- 
 body in the world cares as much for me as you 
 do." 
 
 "One other, master." 
 
 ~ Stan shook his head. "No ! You've stood by 
 me through hell yes, you have and put it there, 
 friend!" 
 
 He held forth his big, sun-burned hand and 
 gripped the slim brown palm of the Chinaman,
 
 288 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 at which moment East and West did truly 
 meet. 
 
 "Wake me at six. Hamilton's coming at seven. 
 You know we pull that big stunt to-morrow. 
 Great stuff, my boy!" 
 
 "Master use double big jump?" questioned 
 Tong. 
 
 "Oh, maybe not. Hamilton wants to put in 
 Morgensten, but Morgy's not very keen about it. 
 Says the timbers aren't shored up strong enough 
 where we take off. That's rot, the timbers are 
 all right." 
 
 Louis Tong's unfathomable eyes gripped the 
 speaker. 
 
 "Yes, master." 
 
 "Another thing, I'm going to write a couple of 
 letters before I go to bed. You'll find 'em on my 
 table. One is for you. The other is I guess 
 you know who the other is for. See that it's 
 mailed to her." 
 
 "Yes, master." 
 
 "Good-night." 
 
 "Night, master." 
 
 Stanley finished a meditative pipe, then shut 
 himself in the den for his letters. In one, using 
 legal phrases, he made a formal gift of the bunga- 
 low with its furnishings and six acres of ground
 
 THE LONGING 289 
 
 to his faithful servant and friend, Louis Tong. 
 The last letter was to Patricia. 
 
 Having done this, Stan went to bed and slept 
 soundly. 
 
 Louis Tong crept stealthily out into the night.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE END OF HIS STRENGTH 
 
 AT eight o'clock the next morning a bored com- 
 pany of movie folk, costumed as bandits and 
 hideously grease-painted, were lounging about near 
 the precipitous edges of a mountain chasm that 
 has been used for many a thrilling episode. From 
 this giddy height bowlders have crashed down 
 upon unsuspecting heroes; blazing rivers of oil 
 have descended, frantic heroines have been res- 
 cued from wild beasts and Indians, in short, all 
 manner of plots and counter-plots have been 
 worked out here, the villains being invariably dis- 
 comfited in the end while the sorely tried lovers 
 come together happily. 
 
 For the climax of this particular "million dollar 
 super-serial" Hamilton Dodd proposed to sur- 
 pass himself with a triple sensation a life and 
 death race between an automobile and a train 
 (old stuff!), then the hero's leap with his car 
 across a chasm when he finds the mountain bridge 
 wrecked (this was to be Stan's hair-raising stunt, 
 
 290
 
 THE END OF HIS STRENGTH 291 
 
 if he decided to do the thing himself and not use 
 a dummy) ; and, finally, a mad dash for an open 
 drawbridge through which the treasure-train and 
 the lovely heroine will plunge to destruction un- 
 less the hero arrives in time. Which, of course, 
 he will. 
 
 The drawbridge and the roaring river were 
 supposed to be just beyond this mountain chasm, 
 but were really a hundred miles distant (roaring 
 rivers being scarce in California), and that scene 
 had already been taken the doomed train start- 
 ing at the open draw and backing away so that 
 no one was ever in the slightest danger, the thrill 
 being produced by showing the picture in reverse- 
 photography. Here at the chasm, however, there 
 was danger enough; this was a real chasm, four- 
 teen feet across with a real descent of two hun- 
 dred yards to the rocks below. 
 
 "If Stan tackles that jump in the car I'll say 
 he's crazy," remarked one of the lolling bandits. 
 
 "He'll do it all right," insisted another. 
 
 "Bunk ! Press Agent stuff !" 
 
 "Didn't he go into the cage with that crazy 
 Rajah?" 
 
 "Crazy nothing! The tiger was doped. You 
 watch now and you'll see a white-faced dummy in 
 Stan Matthews' clothes make the jump or try to. 
 But they'll never get across. You can't tell me
 
 292 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 it's possible to rig up any automatic control that 
 will steer a car straight at sixty. No, sirl 
 They'll smash sure!" 
 
 The others chimed in with various opinions 
 and bets were made on the issue of this adventure. 
 
 Meantime, around the curve a mile or so down 
 the trail, Hamilton Dodd, angry and perspiring, 
 was trying to convince his stubborn star that it 
 was both foolish and needless for Stan to think 
 of risking his life in this way. The two had de- 
 scended from the car, after satisfactory speed 
 tests, and were sitting in the shade (not com- 
 fortably, however, for both were on their nerves), 
 talking over the situation. 
 
 "Morgy's perfectly willing to do the jump, 
 Stan," reasoned the fat director. "Don't be a 
 fool, just because " he checked himself, and 
 studied his friend in anxious irritation. Then he 
 mopped off his face with a large comedy hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 "Just because what?" 
 
 "Oh, hell ! I know what the trouble is, I know 
 how you feel, boy, but I tell you they're not 
 worth it. No woman is." 
 
 Stan answered impatiently. 
 
 "Drop that. How much are you giving Morgy 
 to do this jump?"
 
 THE END OF HIS STRENGTH 293 
 
 "It's none of your business, Stan, but oh, I'll 
 tell you double pay and a bonus." 
 
 "How much bonus?" 
 
 "Five hundred." 
 
 "That settles it. I won't have Morgy bribed 
 to take a chance he's afraid of. If he weakens, if 
 his nerve fails no, sir!" 
 
 "Huh!" grunted the big man peevishly. 
 "What if your nerve fails? The governor has 
 spent a fortune making a star of you. He's got 
 a right to have you take care of yourself, hasn't 
 he? Where does he get off, if you fall?" 
 
 "I'm not going to fall. The governor said I 
 could use my own judgment. He knows it will 
 help the act to have the star really make the 
 jump and not fake it." 
 
 "The governor don't know what's in the back 
 of your head. He don't know about Patricia. 
 Come, Stan!" 
 
 The director's voice was pleading now and 
 he laid a red hand on his friend's shoulder in 
 rough kindliness. 
 
 .-. There fell a silence while Dodd waited, not 
 venturing to intrude further upon Creighton's 
 reticence. 
 
 "I know you mean well, but you don't under- 
 stand," answered the star.
 
 294 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "I understand right enough why you want to 
 do this." 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "You don't care whether the old tub gets across 
 or not. You'd a little rather she didn't." 
 
 "Wrong ! I'd rather she did." 
 
 "Then why not put Morgy in? He'll get her 
 over." 
 
 Another silence. 
 
 "I'll tell you why, Hammy. I'll give you my 
 real reason. I guess I owe 'you that." 
 
 "You sure do." 
 
 "It's a queer mixed-up psychology. It's true 
 I'm sick of the game, I feel as if I haven't got a 
 thing to live for. I'm not like you. All women 
 aren't the same to me. There's only one that I 
 take any interest in or ever will. See? And 
 she's turned me down. So there's nothing left 
 except to " 
 
 He hesitated as he plucked pieces of moss from 
 a tree-root and flung them down. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Bury myself in work or or in that canon." 
 
 "When the car falls?" 
 
 "Yep!" 
 
 Hamilton Dodd pondered this. 
 
 "That being the case, Stan Matthews," he 
 drawled, "you can see where I, as the fat director
 
 THE END OF HIS STRENGTH 295 
 
 of this aggregation of talent with a million-dollar 
 responsibility, have got to call the whole stunt 
 off." 
 
 "No, Hammy! You're going to let me go 
 through with it if you care about my staying 
 on this bum old earth. It's my one chance." 
 
 "Don't get you, Stan." 
 
 "Listen!" explained the other wearily. "I'm 
 taking this as the hand of Providence whether 
 I carry on or quit. I want to carry on, but 
 this is a test whether I can nerve courage 
 see? If I get across, I'll live be glad to. 
 I'll cut out the dumps and never grouch 
 again." 
 
 "Honest?" 
 
 "There's my hand, but if you don't give me 
 this chance, Hammy, then I I'll find some other 
 way. There are plenty of ways." 
 
 His broken sentences and checked emotion con- 
 vinced the director in spite of himself. 
 
 "You put me in a hell of a position," he scowled. 
 "Say, do you think you can do this stunt? Are 
 you going to try?" 
 
 "Yes, I'm going to try. I'll take the curve at 
 forty that's the only ticklish part of it then 
 I'll hit her up to fifty-five on the stretch and lift 
 her to sixty-five as we take off. Sixty-five will 
 do it?"
 
 296 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 "Sure ! The car won't stand any more. Can 
 you hold her steady at sixty-five, Stan?" 
 
 "Can I? Yes." 
 
 "And you want to do it?" 
 
 "Want to do it? I tell you I've got to do it." 
 
 A last long silence while bluff, tender-hearted 
 Hamilton Dodd did the hardest thinking of his 
 life. 
 
 "See here, son," was his last appeal, "why 
 don't you let me use a dummy? Then nobody 
 will get hurt. I understand how you feel about 
 Morgy. I hate to see him take a chance myself 
 with his wife and baby. And that dummy will 
 go over fine. I've got the engine and steering 
 wheel harnessed up automatically so they can't 
 fail." 
 
 "Rot! It's sure to fail. You've got to have 
 a man at the wheel, running at sixty-five. You 
 know it. Besides, I want the test myself! This 
 isn't a stunt for the movies, Hammy, it's the 
 salvation of a man."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE LEAP 
 
 "To give and give and give, 
 This I know is love at last." 
 
 AN hour later Hamilton Dodd, quiet and seri- 
 ous-faced, stepped down from the Ford car that 
 had accompanied the big roadster in the speed 
 trials. The Company crowded about him with 
 eager questions. Where was Stan Matthews? 
 Was he going to make the jump ? What had hap- 
 pened? 
 
 "He says he's going to do it," answered Dodd, 
 mopping his brow. "Who's got those field- 
 glasses? You, Billy? Come over here. Bring 
 the megaphone." 
 
 The two men walked slowly toward a rise of 
 ground a hundred yards to the left, from which 
 point the approaching mountain trail could be 
 followed beyond the curve. 
 
 "Looks like there's something doing," re- 
 marked one of the Company; whereupon several, 
 
 297
 
 298 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 scrambling up, started to follow the director; but 
 he waved them back. 
 
 "You people stay where you are," he ordered. 
 "Get ready. I'll give you the signal." 
 
 All was excitement now as the bandits disposed 
 themselves at carefully rehearsed points near the 
 shattered bridge and prepared to play their parts 
 as villains in thwarting a hero. 
 
 "Wonder if Stan's going to risk it, after all," 
 said one. 
 
 "Don't worry. Dodd's kidding us. They'll 
 use a dummy all right," laughed another. 
 "They're not going to let a million-dollar star 
 kill himself." 
 
 Meantime Dodd from his rocky height was 
 scanning the trail which curved away to the left at 
 a point that was really about a mile distant, but 
 seemed much nearer in the clear air. At the rate 
 Stan would come, he would cover this mile in 
 seventy seconds or so. Seventy seconds before 
 he would reach the broken bridge. 
 
 "I don't like this, Billy," frowned the fat man. 
 "Stan is taking an awful chance." He glanced 
 down into the chasm which fell away beneath 
 them into shivery depths. 
 
 His companion was studying the hills on the 
 right, observing a silver speck about a mile and 
 a half away that was moving toward them rapidly,
 
 THE LEAP 299 
 
 coming down another mountain road that joined 
 the main trail about five hundred yards ahead. 
 
 "Look!" he pointed. "Another carl And 
 hitting it up, too." 
 
 Dodd turned his glasses. "I'll say she is, fifty 
 or better. Hello! It isn't our car! I know 
 that gray Hudson with the California top. What 
 the devil Billy, it's the Chinaman driving. 
 There's a woman in the car ! She's leaning out 
 waving! Good God, it's Stan's wife!" 
 
 Stan's wife yes! 
 
 Patricia was coming to her husband, coming as 
 fast as the car would take her. All her doubts 
 had vanished when Louis Tong, after a mad 
 dash of seventy miles the night before, had 
 awakened the Lydig household at five in the morn- 
 ing to tell of his master's desperate purpose. Not 
 a moment did she hesitate, there was only one 
 thing to do and that she did, acting with a strange, 
 quiet fortitude, but promptly. Seventy miles they 
 had raced back through darkness and dawn, over 
 the mountain roads, and would have arrived 
 in time, an hour before this, but for engine 
 trouble . . . tire trouble. Oh, the anguish of 
 it! 
 
 And now they were late ! In the distance she 
 could see the actors gathered at the bridge. She 
 could see Hamilton Dodd on the hilltop, his
 
 300 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 ample figure silhouetted against the sky-line. She 
 could see him lift his megaphone. Dear God, if 
 they could only get there before . . . 
 
 "Faster, Louis Tong!" she ordered, and the 
 gray car leaped ahead, rushing on toward the 
 point where the two trails converged into a single, 
 narrow way, a shelf of rock, cut into the face of 
 the precipice, that led to the bridge. If they 
 could reach this junction point before Stan got 
 there, they could block his way. They were only 
 a quarter of a mile distant, they would reach it 
 in fifteen seconds . . . 
 
 "Faster!" she cried. 
 
 At this moment a dark blue Packard, an open 
 car with no top, shot around the distant curve 
 on the other trail, straightened beautifully in the 
 stretch and came on speeding furiously. There 
 were shouts from the actors. 
 
 "It's Stan!" 
 
 Dodd caught up his megaphone and bellowed 
 into it: "Everybody ready! Make this big!" 
 
 "He's doing fifty-five. Good! . . . Good! 
 Hold her steady . . . steady, boy! What's that 
 fool woman trying to do? Screaming at him! 
 He can't hear her he's got his cut-out open." 
 
 The blue car with its muffler off to cool the en- 
 gine roared along at fifty-five, lifted its speed to
 
 THE LEAP 301 
 
 sixty, then, suddenly to Dodd's dismay, as it 
 passed the V of the other trail, dropped back to 
 fifty-five, to fifty, to forty-five . . . 
 
 "Good God!" shouted Hammy. "It can't be 
 ... he couldn't . . . Oh! . . . Oh!" he groaned 
 as swift developments came so startlingly that 
 they almost stopped his breathing. 
 
 The blue car had dropped to forty or less. 
 Forty would never take them over. What had 
 happened? Had Stan lost his nerve? Dodd 
 seized the megaphone, but Billy stayed his hand. 
 
 "No use, old man." 
 
 Fifteen seconds before the jump! There was 
 still a chance, if Stan could rally, but as he de- 
 scribed it afterwards, he seemed to be sitting 
 there in a daze. His muscles refused to work. 
 His will was paralyzed. He knew what he ought 
 to do, what he wanted to do, but he couldn't do 
 it! 
 
 The blue car had slowed down to thirty-five, 
 and Hamilton Dodd looked away, sickened. 
 Three hundreds yards to go ! Well, this was the 
 end, he reflected; and Stan was thinking the same, 
 as he sat stolidly at the wheel. After all what 
 did it matter? This settled everything. It was 
 all for the best. Patricia would get his letter 
 and
 
 302 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 An angry horn snarled just behind. What 
 was that? Some idiot trying to pass? On this 
 ten-foot trail? With a broken bridge ahead? 
 Fools ! 
 
 Then came the miracle. Hammy Dodd and 
 Billy saw it, gasping. The gray car had suddenly 
 gone mad and, passing the V of the two trails, 
 shot ahead so fast behind the other on the single 
 narrow trail that the Packard seemed to stand 
 still. Now thirty feet separated them ! . . . now 
 ten ! . . . now the nose of the Hudson grazed the 
 Packard's rear fender, as the pursuing car swerved 
 far over toward the edge of the precipice. Auto- 
 matically Stan hugged the rocky wall on his right 
 he would give these crazy people every inch 
 there was. 
 
 Two hundred yards to the bridge! 
 
 Patricia, white-faced, bare-headed, stepped out 
 on the running-board and, clinging to the frame 
 of the top, closed the door behind her. 
 
 "Now, Louis Tong!" she called, and the China- 
 man responded with a last gallant spurt, opening 
 his throttle wide and swerving to the left until his 
 off wheels skimmed the crumbling edge. He was 
 going to pass, if the gods willed it. The engine 
 quivered like a thoroughbred, then, doing the im- 
 possible, reeling over the gulf, crept alongside of 
 the leader, so close that the two running-boards
 
 THE LEAP 303 
 
 touched; whereupon Patricia, listening only to the 
 call of her love, cast herself across from one car 
 to the other and fell prone inside the Packard 
 with a wild, inspiring cry: "Step on her, Stan!" 
 
 Then she fainted. 
 
 Who can explain the swift operations of the 
 human mind its power of instantaneous compre- 
 hension and decision? In a flash Stanley under- 
 stood. Patsy, his Patsy, had come to save him. 
 If she could not save him, she would die with 
 him. She would crash down into these depths 
 with him because she loved him. God! She 
 loved him! 
 
 A hundred and fifty yards ! 
 
 What should he do? In eight seconds they 
 would be there. Eight seconds! The speedom- 
 eter showed fifty-five. He must have hit up the 
 pace without knowing it. He could lift her 
 across easily now the engine was going wonder- 
 fully. But Patricia? Dared he risk it? There 
 was still time to throw on the emergency. No I 
 The car behind would smash into them. He had 
 to go on. 
 
 A hundred yards! 
 
 "Grind, you devils," yelled Hamilton Dodd, and 
 five movie-operators with hearts in their mouths, 
 ground on. Was there ever such an ending to 
 a serial? Marvelous stuff! Not an inch of it
 
 3 o 4 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 had they missed, knowing that the story would 
 have to be re-written to fit this new climax. With 
 a new heroine! 
 
 Fifty yards! 
 
 The speedometer showed sixty-five . . . jumped 
 to seventy-five . . . 
 
 A quick glance at Patricia, a deep breath that 
 carried a prayer . . . then Stan gave her all the 
 gas there was and held the wheel steady. A sec- 
 ond later they struck the shored-up timbers of the 
 take off and . . . 
 
 "By God, sir, she went over like a bird," re- 
 ported one of the bandits. "Never broke a 
 tire ! Greatest picture of the century!" 
 
 When Patricia opened her eyes, she was lying 
 on a couch in the big living-room at the bungalow. 
 A Chinese quilt covered her. The lamps were 
 lighted. It must be night. And a storm had 
 come up, she could hear it roaring through the 
 hills. How strange ! She must have slept a long 
 time. It was the excitement . . . the happiness ! 
 
 She glanced about the room where everything 
 was familiar, exactly as it had been. Logs were 
 blazing in the fire-place, throwing shadows over 
 the polished boards of the ceiling, over the furni- 
 ture, over a big leather chair directly in its glow.
 
 THE LEAP 305 
 
 Stan's chair ! And Stan was in it ... She could 
 just see the top of his head, that red-brown shock. 
 All the love that she had disciplined for months 
 flooded into her heart, caught at her throat. 
 
 "Stan !" she called weakly, and he came to her. 
 
 "Oh, Stan! Stan, dear," she murmured. 
 
 In a blur of ecstasy she felt herself gathered 
 close in his arms, and a peace that passed all 
 understanding took hold of her heart. 
 
 "My dear one my husband!" she whispered 
 brokenly. 
 
 She could feel his heart throbbing out its an- 
 swer. His strong, dependable arms held her 
 close while she wept in joy. "Keep me," she 
 begged. "Stan, keep me with you always. I 
 love you. I do love you." 
 
 Outside the storm broke. They could hear it 
 beating heavily at the windows but it was sum- 
 mer in their hearts. 
 
 And that night before she slept Patricia wrote 
 _her father: 
 
 ''FATHER DEAR: You got Stan's telegram, you know 
 that all is well. In my immense happiness I want to tell 
 you that at the bottom of my locked and stubborn heart, 
 there has abided always, love, admiration and gratitude 
 for my father. But I let the days slip by without telling
 
 3 o6 GLINT OF WINGS 
 
 you. It is so easy in the rush of selfish living to neglect 
 tenderness to those we love, and youth is cruelly self- 
 confident. How they come back to reproach us the 
 kindly things we might have said, the thoughtful acts we 
 have left undone! 
 
 "Father dear, you wanted to protect me from life, I 
 see it now. You knew that my shining river, dancing and 
 beckoning in the sunshine, was beset with dangers that I 
 could not, would not see! To me it was just one glorious 
 adventure, of which I was determined no one should 
 cheat me. It did not occur to me that you, too, might 
 have sailed the same river as a young man, filled with high 
 hope, high courage and high ideals; that you yearned to 
 save me from unhappiness that you, yourself, must have 
 experienced, for I belonged to you, I was of your own 
 blood, and you knew it. 
 
 "I was not stupidly willful. I had an idea that my life 
 was to be a thing apart from other women; something 
 brilliant, dazzling, quite alien to woman's ordinary lot. 
 This blinded me so that I could not see the truth, I could 
 not recognize Stan even when I stood close and looked 
 into his eyes. Wonderful, patient, generous Stan with- 
 out whom I should have thrown away a reality for a 
 chimera ! 
 
 "My eyes are open at last. I know that I am not a 
 brilliant solitary whom the world should seek out and 
 applaud, but only a part of a great and wonderful scheme 
 that none of us can now hope to understand. I know that 
 it is not getting, but giving that brings real happiness.
 
 THE LEAP 307 
 
 "The doors of our bungalow are impatient to swing 
 wide for you and Mother. Come! Come soon! 
 
 "A heart full of love to you both, my dears, from 
 your daughter, 
 
 "PATRICIA." 
 
 THE END
 
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