THE SINS 
 
 OF THE 
 CHILDREN 
 
 COSMO HAMILTON
 
 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN
 
 Cosmo Hamilton 
 
 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 THE DOOR THAT HAS NO KEY 
 THE MIRACLE OF LOVE 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE YOUNGER 
 GENERATION
 
 And over them both . . . hung the moon and stars. 
 FRONTISPIECE. See page 34.
 
 THE SINS OF THE 
 CHILDREN 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 COSMO HAMILTON 
 
 WITH FRONTISPIECE BY 
 
 GEORGE O. BAKER 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 1916
 
 Copyright, 1916, 
 BY COSMO HAMILTON. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 Published, October, 1916 
 
 THE COLONIAL PRESS 
 C. H. SIMOND8 CO., BOSTON, U. 8. A.
 
 To 
 
 MY WIFE 
 
 2130040
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PART ONE YOUTH l 
 PART TWO THE CITY . i 1 ... 99 
 PART THREE LIFE . . .221
 
 PART ONE 
 YOUTH
 
 THE SINS OF 
 THE CHILDREN 
 
 WHEN Peter Guthrie laughed the rooks stirred on 
 the old trees behind the Bodleian and the bored cab- 
 drivers who lolled in uncomfortable attitudes on their 
 cabs in St. Giles perked up their heads. 
 
 He threw open his door one morning and leaving 
 one of these laughs of his rolling round the quad of 
 St. John's College found the recumbent form of Nicho- 
 las Kenyon all among his cushions as usual, and as 
 usual smoking his cigarettes and reading his maga- 
 zines. The words " as usual " seemed to be stamped 
 on his forehead. 
 
 " What d'you think ? " cried Peter, filling the room 
 like a thirty-mile gale. 
 
 " You ought to know that I don't think. It's a form 
 of exercise that I never indulge in." Kenyon lit a 
 fresh cigarette from the one which he had half -smoked 
 and with peculiar expertness flicked the end out of the 
 window into St. Giles Street, which ran past the great 
 gates of the college. He hoped that it might have 
 fallen on somebody's head, but he didn't get up to see.
 
 4 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " Well," said Peter, " I was coming down the High 
 just now and an awful pretty girl passed with a Univ. 
 man. She looked at me thereby very nearly laying 
 me flat on my face and I heard her ask, ' Who's 
 that ? ' It was the man's answer that makes me laugh. 
 He said : ' Oh, he's only a Rhodes scholar ! ' " And 
 off he went again. 
 
 Nicholas Kenyon raised his immaculate person a few 
 inches and looked round at his friend. The Harvard 
 man, with his six-foot-one of excellent muscles and 
 sinews, his square shoulders and deep chest, and his 
 fine, honest, alert and healthy face, made most people 
 ask who he was. "If I'd been you," said Kenyon, 
 " I should have made a mental note of that Univ. 
 blighter in order to land him one the next time you 
 saw him, that he wouldn't easily forget." 
 
 "Why? I liked it, from a man of his type. I've 
 been 'only a damned Rhodes scholar' to all the little 
 pussy purr-purrs ever since I first walked the High in 
 my American-made clothes. I owe that fellow no 
 grudge; and if I meet that girl again which I shall 
 make a point of doing I bet you anything you like 
 that his scoffing remark will lend a touch of romance 
 to me which will be worth a lot." 
 
 " Was she something out of the ordinary? " 
 
 " Quite," said Peter. 
 
 He hung his straw hat on the electric bulb, threw off 
 his coat, rolled up his sleeves and started to tidy up his 
 rooms with more energy and deftness than is possessed 
 by the average housemaid. He flicked the little pile 
 of cigarette ash, which Kenyon had dropped on the
 
 YOUTH 5 
 
 floor, into a corner. He gathered the weekly illus- 
 trated papers which Kenyon had flung aside and put 
 them on a back shelf, and then he picked up the man 
 Kenyon in his arms, deposited him in a wide arm- 
 chair in front of the fireplace and started punching all 
 the cushions. 
 
 Kenyon looked ineffably bored. " Good God ! " he 
 said. "What's all this energy? You shatter my 
 nervous system." 
 
 " My dear chap," said Peter, " you seem to forget 
 that this is Commem. and that my people have come 
 three thousand miles to see their little Peter in his little 
 rooms. I'm therefore polishing up the knocker of the 
 big front door. My mother has a tidy mind and I 
 want my father to gain the impression that I'm me- 
 thodical and responsible. He has a quick eye. They 
 wired me from London last night to say that they'll be 
 here at five o'clock to tea. I dashed round to the Ran- 
 dolph early this morning to book rooms for them. 
 Gee, it's a big party, too ! I can't make out why they 
 want so many rooms. It'll be like my sister to have 
 brought over one of her school friends. I guess I 
 shall be darned glad to see them, anyway." 
 
 There was a touch of excitement in the boy's voice, 
 and his sun-tanned, excellent face showed the delight 
 that he felt. He had not seen his mother, brother and 
 sister for two years, having spent his vacations in 
 England. 
 
 Nicholas Kenyon got up slowly. He did every- 
 thing slowly. " Well," he said, " I thank God that 
 my people don't bother me on these festive occasions.
 
 6 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 To my way of thinking the influx of fathers and 
 mothers into Oxford makes the whole place provincial. 
 However, I can understand your childish glee. You 
 are pretty badly dipped, I understand, and with the 
 true psychology of the rasping undergraduate you are 
 first going to throw the glamour of the city of spires 
 over your untravelled parent and then touch him for 
 a fairly considerable cheque." 
 
 Peter gave a sort of laugh. " Touch my father ! " 
 he said. " Not much, I shall put my case up to my 
 mother. She's the one who does these little things." 
 
 Kenyon was faintly interested. Being perennially 
 impecunious himself and unable to raise money even 
 from the loan sharks, he looked to the advent of Peter's 
 parents to bring him at least fifty pounds. He always 
 borrowed from Peter. 
 
 " Oh, I see," he said. " It's the old lady who car- 
 ries the money-bags, is it ? " 
 
 " No, it isn't," said Peter; " but as a matter of fact 
 I never have gone to my father for anything and I 
 don't think I ever shall. I don't know why it is, but 
 none of us have ever been able to screw up courage to 
 say more than * Good-morning ' and ' Good-night ' to 
 the Governor, although of course we all think he is a 
 very wonderful person." 
 
 Kenyon yawned. "I see," he said. "Bad luck. 
 I should hate to have such a disagreeable devil for a 
 father one of the martinet type, who says don't all 
 the time when he ought to say do, and makes home a 
 sort of pocket-hell for everybody." 
 
 Peter twisted round and spoke quickly and rather
 
 YOUTH 7 
 
 warmly. " So should I," he said, " but luckily I 
 haven't. I didn't want to suggest that my father was 
 that type of man. He's one of the very best one of 
 the men who count for something in my country. 
 He's worked like a dog to give us a chance in life and 
 his generosity makes me personally sometimes feel al- 
 most indecent. I mean that I feel that I have taken 
 advantage of him, but but, somehow or other, 
 oh, I don't know, we don't seem to know each other 
 that's all. He hasn't the knack of winning our 
 confidence or something. So it comes to this : when 
 we want anything we ask mother and she gets it for us. 
 That's all there's to it. And look here, Nick, I want 
 you to be frightfully nice to the Governor. Get out 
 of your ice-box and warm up to the old man. I can't, 
 you see ; but as he has come all this way to look me up 
 I want somebody to show some appreciation." 
 
 With his eyes to the small relief which the visit of 
 Dr. Hunter Guthrie, of New York City, might bring 
 him, Nicholas Kenyon nodded. " Rely on me," he 
 said. " Butter shan't melt in my mouth; and before 
 your father leaves Oxford I'll make him feel that he's 
 been created a Baronet and appointed Physician in 
 Ordinary to His Majesty the King. Well, so long, 
 Peter ! I'm lunching with Lascelles at the House this 
 morning. I'll drop in to tea and hand cakes round to 
 your beloved family." 
 
 " Right-o," said Peter. " That'll be great! " And 
 when the door closed and he found himself alone he 
 arranged a certain number of silver cups which he had 
 won in athletics all along his mantel-piece, for his
 
 8 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 father to see, gazed at them for a moment with a half- 
 smile of rather self -conscious, pride, finished tidying 
 his room, gazed affectionately for a few moments at 
 the familiar sight of Pusey House through the leaf- 
 crowded trees that lined the sunny street, and then sat 
 down to his piano and played a rag-time with all that 
 perfect excellence and sense of rhythm which had 
 opened the most insular doors to him during his first 
 days as a fresher. 
 
 II 
 
 THIS fine big fellow, Peter Murray Guthrie, who 
 had done immensely well at Harvard in athletics and 
 was by no means a fool intellectually, could afford to 
 be amused at the fact that he had been scoffingly re- 
 ferred to as " only a Rhodes scholar." He had been 
 born under a lucky star and he had that wonderful 
 gymnastic faculty of always falling on his feet. If 
 with all his suspicions aroused he had gone up to Ox- 
 ford in the same rather timid, self-conscious, on-the- 
 defensive manner of the average Rhodes scholar who 
 expected to be treated as a creature quite different 
 from the English undergraduate, he would have found 
 his way to the American Club and stayed there more 
 or less permanently, taking very little part in the glori- 
 ous multitudinous life of the freshmen of his college, 
 and remained a sort of pariah of his own making. 
 Freshmen themselves, the Lord knows, are forlorn 
 enough. Everything is strange to them, too, so- 
 ciety, rules, customs, unwritten laws and faces.
 
 YOUTH 9 
 
 They are solitary creatures in the midst of a bustling 
 crowd. If they do not come from one of the great 
 public schools and meet again the men they knew there 
 their chance of making friends is small and for many 
 dull disappointing weeks they must mope and look-on 
 and envy and find their feet alone, suffering, poor 
 devils, from a hideous sheepishness and wondering, 
 with a sort of morbid self-consciousness, what others 
 are thinking of them. But Peter was unafraid. He 
 stalked into Oxford prepared to find it the finest place 
 on earth with his imagination stirred at the sight 
 of those old colleges whose quadrangles echoed with 
 the feet of the great dead and rang with those of the 
 younger generation to whom life was a great adven- 
 ture and who might spring from those old stones into 
 everlasting fame. He strode through the gate of St. 
 John's with his chin high, prepared to serve her with 
 all his strength and all the best of his youth and leave 
 her finally unsullied by his name. He didn't give a 
 single whoop for all this talk about the snobbishness 
 and insularity of English undergraduates. He didn't 
 believe that he would find a college divided and sub- 
 divided into sets; and if the statement proved to be 
 true well, he intended to break all the barriers down. 
 Therefore, with such a spirit added to his fine frank, 
 manly personality, irresistible laugh, great big friendly 
 hand and the rumours that came with him of his bull- 
 like rushes on the football field, he became at once a 
 marked man. Second-year and even third-year men 
 nudged each other when he passed. " By Jove ! " they 
 said. " That's a useful looking cove ! We must get
 
 io THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 him down to the river." Or, " I wonder if that 
 American can be taught to play cricket? " As for the 
 freshers all as frightened as a lot of rabbits far 
 away from their warren they gazed with shy ad- 
 miration and respect at Peter, who, expecting no re- 
 buffs, received none. 
 
 Finding that he could not live in college until he was 
 a second-year man, Peter had looked about him among 
 the freshers for a likely person with whom to share 
 rooms. He had come up in the train with Nicholas 
 Kenyon, whose shell he had insisted upon opening. 
 He, too, was entered at St. John's and was very ready 
 being impecunious to share lodgings with the 
 American whose allowance he might share and whose 
 personality was distinctly unusual. These two then 
 gravitated to Beaumont Street, captured a large sit- 
 ting-room and two bed-rooms on the ground floor, and 
 from the first evening of their arrival were perfectly 
 at home. Peter at once hired a piano from a music 
 shop in the High which he quickly discovered, bought 
 several bottles of whiskey and a thousand cigarettes, 
 besides several pounds of pipe tobacco, threw open his 
 window, and as soon as dinner was over started play- 
 ing rag-times. 
 
 Kenyon had been interested and amused. He had 
 not expected to find himself " herding," as he put it, 
 with a damned Rhodes scholar. He took it for 
 granted that these " foreigners " would live apart from 
 the ordinary undergraduate, as uncouth people should. 
 He had been quick to notice, however, psychology 
 being his principal stock in trade, that Peter had
 
 YOUTH ii 
 
 made an instant impression; and as he sat on the win- 
 dow-sill listening with what he had to confess to him- 
 self was keen pleasure to Peter's masterly manipulation 
 of the piano and saw all the windows within near 
 range of their house open and heads poke out to listen, 
 he was able without any propheticism to say that 
 Peter would quickly be the centre of a set. He would 
 certainly not be sulking in the American Club. 
 
 Very quickly P. M. Guthrie, of St. John's, became 
 " Peter " to the whole college and stroke in the 
 freshers' boat. The other Rhodes scholars owed 
 everything that was good to him. He stood by them 
 loyally, made his rooms their headquarters, and all 
 who wanted to know him were obliged to know them. 
 He introduced swipes at the first freshers' concert in 
 the Hall, with enormous success, selecting Forbes 
 Nicholl, of Brasenose; Watson Frick, of Wadham; 
 Baldwin Colgate, of Worcester; and Madison Smith, 
 of Merton, all good Americans, for the purpose. 
 Even Dons stayed to listen on that epoch-making oc- 
 casion and the fame of their curious and delightful 
 method of singing spread all over the university. It 
 was easy. There was nothing else like it. 
 
 Quite unconsciously Peter was for a little while the 
 whole topic of conversation at Dons' dinners. These 
 hide-bound professors were really quite surprised at 
 the remarkable way in which, at one fell swoop, this 
 man Peter Guthrie had managed to weld together the 
 English and American undergraduates for the first 
 time in their knowledge. Some of them put it all 
 down to his piano playing and were very nearly
 
 12 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 right. Others conceived his great laugh to be mainly 
 responsible and were not far short of the mark. 
 But it was Nicholas Kenyon, the psychologist, who 
 put his finger on the whole truth of this swift and un- 
 believable success. He said that it was Peter's hu- 
 manity which had conquered Oxford, and in so doing 
 proved impecunious only son of an absolutely broke 
 peer as he was that he would be able to make a very 
 fair living in the future on his wits. It may be said 
 that he never intended to work. 
 
 It was part of Peter's honesty and simplicity to re- 
 main American. He made no effort to ape the Ox- 
 ford manner of speech. He would see himself shot 
 before he got into the rather effeminate clothes af- 
 fected by the Oxford man. He continued to be nat- 
 ural, to remain himself, and not to take on the colors 
 chameleon-wise of those about him. His Stetson hat 
 was the standing joke of St. John's. Nevertheless, 
 there was not one man in the college who would not 
 have hit hard if any derogatory remarks had been 
 thrown at the head inside it. His padded shoulders, 
 upholstered ties and narrow belt were all frequently 
 caricatured, but the sound of Peter's laugh gathered 
 men together like the music of the Pied Piper of Ham- 
 elin. It was just that this man Peter Guthrie was a 
 man that made him not only accepted in a place seeth- 
 ing with quaint and foolish habits, out-of-date shib- 
 boleths and curious unwritten laws, but loved and re- 
 spected. Here was one to whom merely to live was 
 a joy. To the despondent he came therefore as a 
 tonic. He exuded breeziness filled with ozone. His
 
 YOUTH 13 
 
 continuous high spirits infected even those foolish boys 
 who were encrusted with affectation and stuccoed with 
 the petty side and insolence of Eton. He worked 
 hard and played hard and slept like a dog, ate hearty 
 and drank like a thirsty plant. Also he smoked like 
 a factory chimney. He had no crankish views no 
 tolerance for " isms," and was not ashamed to stride 
 into chapel and say his prayers like a simple boy. In 
 short, " unashamed " was his watchword, and he had 
 been endowed with the rare gift of saying " No," and 
 sticking to it. And to Nicholas Kenyon, who fre- 
 quented the rooms of the so-called intellectuals those 
 " little dreadful clever people " who parroted and per- 
 verted other men's thoughts and possessed no origi- 
 nality of their own it was a stroke of genius on 
 Peter's part to have nothing but the photographs of his 
 family all over his rooms. He must be a big man, 
 Nicholas said to himself, who could afford, among the 
 very young, to dispense with the female form divine 
 in his frames the nudes so generally placed in 
 them in order to convey the impression of being 
 devilish wise and bad. Also it showed, according to 
 this human merchant, a peculiar strength of character 
 on Peter's part to bolt his door regularly one evening 
 a week so that he might sit down uninterrupted and 
 write a tremendous screed to his mother. However, 
 that was Peter the man-boy Peter the Rhodes 
 scholar Peter the Oxford man who always 
 wound up his musical evenings with the " Star Span- 
 gled Banner." And there was just one other side to 
 this big, simple fellow's character which puzzled and
 
 I 4 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 annoyed the bloodless, clever parasite who lived with 
 him and upon him, women. 
 
 Now, Nicholas Kenyon the Honourable Nicholas 
 Augustus Fitzhugh Kenyon was a patron of the 
 drama. That is to say, he had the right somehow to 
 enter the stage door of the Theatre Royal at all times, 
 and did so whenever the theatre was visited by a musi- 
 cal comedy company. He was known Jo innumerable 
 chorus girls as " Boy-dear," and made' a point of en- 
 tertaining them at luncheon and supper during their 
 visits to the university town. He brought choice 
 specimens of this breed to Beaumont Street for tea 
 and tittle-tattle and introduced them to Peter, who 
 liked them very much and would have staked his life 
 upon their being angels. But when it came to driving 
 out to small unnoticeable inns, Peter squared his shoul- 
 ders and stayed at home. 
 
 ' The devil take it ! " said Nicholas one night, with 
 frightful frankness which was devoid of any inten- 
 tional insolence. "What's this cursed provincialism 
 that hangs to you? I suppose it comes from the fact 
 that you were born in a shack to the tinkle of the trol- 
 ley-car!" 
 
 Peter's howl of laughter made the piano play an 
 immaculate tune. "Wrong," he said. "Gee! but 
 you're absolutely wrong. The whole thing comes to 
 this, Nick: One of these fine days I'm going to be 
 married. The girl I marry is going to be clean. I 
 believe in fairness. I'm going to be clean. That's all 
 there is to it." 
 
 So that, one way and another, Dr. Hunter G. Guth-
 
 YOUTH 15 
 
 rie, of New York, as well as St. John's College, Ox- 
 ford, had several reasons to be rather proud of this 
 man Peter. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ONE o'clock that afternoon found Peter still ham- 
 mering on his piano, not only to the intense delight of 
 three snub-nosed tradesmen's boys who delayed de- 
 livery of mutton-chops and soles, which were only 
 plaice, but also of five people who had come quietly 
 into the room. They stood together watching and lis- 
 tening and waiting for him suddenly to discover that 
 he was not alone. One was a tall, rather angular, 
 clean-shaven, noticeably intellectual man whose thin 
 hair was grey and who wore very large glasses with 
 tortoise-shell frames, through which he looked with 
 pale, short-sighted eyes. He held a grey hat in his 
 thin hand and stood watching the boy who made his 
 piano do the work of a full band with a smile of 
 infinite pride on his lips. Another was a little lady, 
 all soft and sweet, with a bird-like face and a curious 
 bird-like appearance. All about her there was a sort 
 of perennial youthfulness, and the goodness of her 
 kind heart gleamed so openly in her eyes that they 
 asked beggars and cripples, itinerant musicians, raga- 
 muffins, street dogs and all humbugs to come and be 
 helped. At that moment they were full of tears, al- 
 though little lines of laughter were all about them. 
 Another was a slight, exceedingly good-looking young 
 man whose hair went into a series of small waves and
 
 16 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 was brushed away from his forehead. He was grin- 
 ning like a Cheshire cat and showing two rows of teeth 
 which would make a dentist both envious and annoyed. 
 There was a slight air of precocity about his clothes. 
 Two girls made up the rest of the party. Both were 
 young and slim and of average height. Both were 
 unmistakably American in their fearless independence 
 and cleanness of cut. One was dark, with almost 
 black eyebrows which just failed to meet in the mid- 
 dle. Her eyes were amazing and as full of danger as 
 a maxim, large and blue the most astonishing 
 blueness. They were framed with long, thick, black 
 lashes. Her lips were rather full and red, and her 
 skin white. She might have been an Italian or a 
 Spaniard. The other girl was blonde and slim, 
 with large grey eyes set widely apart, a small patri- 
 cian nose and a lovely little mouth turning up at the 
 corners. 
 
 How long all these people would have stayed watch- 
 ing and listening no man can say. Suddenly, in the 
 middle of a bar, Peter sprang up and turned round. 
 His cry of joy and the way in which he plunged for- 
 ward and picked up the little bird-like woman in his 
 arms was very good to see. 
 
 " Mother ! " he cried. " Mother ! Oh, Gee ! This 
 is great ! " and he kissed her cheeks and her hands, and 
 then her cheeks again, all the while making strange, 
 small, fond noises like a little boy who comes back 
 home after the holidays. 
 
 " Oh, dear, dear Peter ! " said the little woman, be- 
 tween tears and laughter. "How splendidly rough
 
 YOUTH 17 
 
 you are ! You shake me to pieces ! Where shall I be 
 able to tidy my hair? " 
 
 Then, with a rather constrained air and a touch of 
 nervous cordiality, Peter turned to his father and took 
 his hand. "How are you, father?" he asked. 
 " You look fine." 
 
 Dr. Hunter Guthrie swallowed something and gave 
 a murmur which remained incoherent. Before he 
 could pull himself together, Peter was hugging his sis- 
 ter, who squealed like a pig from the tightness of this 
 man's mighty grasp. And then the brother came in 
 for it and winced with pain and pleasure as his hand 
 was taken in a vise-like grip. 
 
 "Hello, Graham!" 
 
 "Hello, Peter!" 
 
 And then everybody except Peter burst out laugh- 
 ing. He stood in front of the fair girl, with his mouth 
 wide open, and held out his hand and said : " I was 
 going to hunt the whole place for you, I beg your 
 pardon." It was when he drew back, with his face 
 and neck the color of a beet root, that the laughter 
 reached its climax. 
 
 Belle Guthrie was the first to find her voice. 
 " Well, Peter," she said, " that's going some. Is an 
 introduction superfluous in Oxford? Where did you 
 meet Betty Townsend ? " 
 
 " I haven't met her," said Peter. " I saw her this 
 morning in the High for a second " He ran his 
 finger round his collar and moved from one foot to the 
 other and shifted his great shoulders. No man on 
 this earth had ever looked so uncomfortable.
 
 i8 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 And then, with consummate coolness, Betty Town- 
 send came to the rescue. " Just after we arrived this 
 morning," she said, " and you were all buying picture 
 post-cards, I passed Mr. Guthrie when I was walking 
 along the High Street with Graham's friend. I recog- 
 nized him from the photographs that you have at 
 home, and I think he must have heard me ask, ' Who's 
 that? ' I naturally gave him a friendly look. That's 
 all." 
 
 " I didn't catch the friendly look," said Peter. But 
 he did catch the friendly tone and stored it up among 
 his treasures. Then he suddenly stirred himself, being 
 host, picked up his mother and placed her on his elab- 
 orate sofa ; gave his best arm-chair to his father; waved 
 his sister into the window-seat with her friend, and 
 tilted Graham into a deck chair. 
 
 Standing in the middle of the room, beaming with 
 pride, he said : " How in thunder did you get here 
 so soon? Your wire said that you were coming to 
 tea, and I was going to meet the train leaving Pad- 
 dington at three-thirty. Gee! This is the best thing 
 that ever happened ! Will you lunch here ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, dear ! " said Mrs. Guthrie. " So many of 
 us will worry your landlady." 
 
 Then out came one of Peter's huge laughs. 
 " Worry my landlady ? One look at Mrs. Brownstack 
 would show you that she got over being worried before 
 the great wind. Why she's kept lodgings for under- 
 graduates for twenty years. It's the same thing as 
 saying that she's spent the greater part of her life sit- 
 ting on the top of Vesuvius. I can give you beer, beef,
 
 YOUTH 19 
 
 pickles, biscuits, cake, swipes they call coffee, some 
 corking Nougat and three brands of cigarettes." 
 
 " I think," said Dr. Guthrie, with a suggestion of 
 haste, " it might be better if you lunched with us at 
 the hotel." Like all doctors, his first thoughts were 
 of digestion. 
 
 " Right-o ! " said Peter, and he dived into his bed- 
 room for a more respectable coat. His brother fol- 
 lowed him in and the two stood facing each other for a 
 moment, eye to eye. They had not met for two years. 
 Instinctively they grasped hands again and the minds 
 of both were filled with most affectionate things a 
 very flood of words but one said " Old man ! " and 
 the other " Peter ! " And while Graham brushed his 
 kinky hair with a temporary suggestion of throati- 
 ness, Peter hauled out his best coat and whistled to 
 show how utterly unmoved he was. 
 
 They returned to the sitting-room together. Dr. 
 Guthrie was examining the conglomeration of books 
 that loaded the shelves. The plays of Bernard Shaw 
 rubbed shoulders with " Masterton on Land Taxes." 
 Stevenson's " Treasure Island " leaned up against 
 Webster's Dictionary. " Tono-Bungay " had for a 
 companion a slushy novel by Garvice and on them 
 all was dust. 
 
 The little mother, all a-flutter like a thrush, was at 
 the window looking through the trees at the warm old 
 buildings opposite. The two girls were peering into 
 a cupboard as into the " Blue Room," where they 
 found nothing but a few whiskey bottles, several packs 
 of cards, a box of chess-men, a couple of mortar-
 
 20 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 boards with all their corners gone, and a large collec- 
 tion of white shoes in all grades of dilapidation. 
 
 "Are you all ready?" asked Dr. Guthrie, with a 
 curious gayety. Among all this youth even he felt 
 young. 
 
 " Rather," said Peter. " I could eat an ox." 
 
 He opened the door, touched his mother's soft cheek 
 with his ringer as she passed, tweaked his sister's hair, 
 refrained from catching Betty Townsend's eyes, 
 winked at his brother and drew back for his father. 
 
 Once in the quad Mrs. Guthrie whispered to Gra- 
 ham and went quickly out into St. Giles, beckoning to 
 the two girls to follow. She was very anxious that 
 Peter should walk with his father, and this rather 
 pleased with himself Peter did. He would have 
 taken his father's arm if he had dared, he was so 
 mighty glad to see him. Several times the Doctor 
 seemed about to do the same thing, but his hand hesi- 
 tated and dropped. And so these two fell in step and 
 walked silently along towards the Randolph Hotel, 
 passed by men in twos or threes, many of whom, to 
 the Doctor's inward delight, cried out, " Hullo, 
 Peter! " with tremendous cordiality. It was not until 
 they turned the corner that the Doctor spoke. 
 
 " It gives me real pleasure to see you again, Peter," 
 he said, with a quick self-conscious glance at the young 
 giant at his elbow. 
 
 ' Thank you, father," said Peter, looking straight 
 ahead and getting as red as a peony.
 
 YOUTH 21 
 
 IV 
 
 NICHOLAS KENYON more than lived up to his prom- 
 ise. In clothes into which he seemed to have been 
 poured in liquid form, he handed hot toast and cakes to 
 Peter's family at tea-time with that air of deferential 
 impertinence which was his peculiar property. He 
 had the same effect on the Doctor and Mrs. Guthrie 
 and the two girls as he had on Peter when he first saw 
 him on the train. His complete self-control, his in- 
 dolent assurance, his greyhound look of thoroughbred- 
 ness and the decorative way in which he phrased his 
 sentences all charmed and amused them. For Peter's 
 sake he came right out of his shell at once and behaved 
 like a man who had been a favorite in that family cir- 
 cle for years. In the most subtle manner he implied 
 to the Doctor that his fame as a bacteriologist had 
 spread all over Oxford, and even England. He re- 
 fused to believe that Mrs. Guthrie was the mother of 
 her children and not her own eldest daughter. He 
 asked Graham almost at once to do him the favor of 
 giving him the name of his tailor, and told Betty that 
 he had shot with her father, Lord Townsend, many 
 times, well-knowing that he was a portrait painter in 
 New York. With consummate ease and tact he put 
 everybody on the best of terms with one another and 
 themselves, thereby winning still more of Peter's ad- 
 miration and liking. With great pleasure he accepted 
 the Doctor's invitation to dine at the Randolph Hotel, 
 and in return invited all present to be his guests at the
 
 22 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 Open Air Performance of " Twelfth Night," later in 
 the week, by the O.U.D.S., in the beautiful gardens 
 of Worcester. In a word, he played with these people 
 as a cat plays with a mouse and as he had always played 
 with Peter. He used all his brain not only to win their 
 confidence and friendship but to make an impression 
 which might afterwards be of use to himself. 
 
 Nicholas Kenyon was one of those men who are 
 born and not made. He opened his eyes to find 
 himself in an atmosphere of aristocratic roguery. 
 The beautiful old house in which his father lived was 
 mortgaged to the very tops of the chimneys. It was 
 maintained on money borrowed from the loan sharks at 
 an exorbitant interest. It was filled with men and 
 women who, like his own parents, were clever and 
 intellectual enough to work for their livelihood, but 
 who preferred to live on their wits and cling to so- 
 ciety by the skin of their teeth. In this atmosphere of 
 expert parasites an atmosphere as false as it was 
 light-hearted Nicholas was brought up. He was a 
 complete man of the world at fourteen. Even at that 
 age he gambled, raced and borrowed money; and in 
 order to provide himself with the necessities of life 
 he ran a roulette table in secret at Eton and made a 
 book for the racing bets of the little boys of his own 
 kidney. Highly gifted and endowed with a most 
 likable personality, with the art of eluding punishment 
 for misdeeds brought to a masterly completeness, he 
 could have been shaped, under different circumstances, 
 into a man whose name would stand high in his coun- 
 try. With the proper training and discipline and the
 
 YOUTH 23 
 
 right sense of duty which is given to those lucky lads 
 whose parents are responsible and honorable he had 
 it in his power to become a famous diplomat. As it 
 was, he entered Oxford as a parasite and would leave 
 the university for the world in the same capacity. He 
 was entirely unscrupulous. He had no code of honor. 
 He quietly used the men about him to provide him with 
 amusement, money, hospitality, and to insure him 
 against having to work. He turned his personality 
 into a sort of business asset a kind of limited lia- 
 bility company which brought him in regular divi- 
 dends. His breeding and good form, his well-known 
 name and his inherent ability to slide comfortably into 
 any set or society, made him wholly irresistible. No 
 one suspected him, because his frankness disarmed sus- 
 picion. His knowledge of human nature told him that 
 the paradox of his being poor lent him a sort of ro- 
 mance, and he always began by telling new acquaint- 
 ances that he was broke to the wide. In this way he 
 struck the honest note of the men who disdain to con- 
 vey false impressions. He was poor, but proud, and 
 made himself so attractive and companionable that 
 men were delighted to be put to great expense in order 
 to entertain him, and he wanted everything of the 
 very best. His clothes were immaculate. His cigar- 
 ettes were freshly rolled. When he drove a car it had 
 to be of the best known make. He was a most fas- 
 tidious reader and had once read a paper on modern 
 poetry which had startled the Dons of his college. 
 He contributed short satirical articles to the Isis from 
 time to time which tickled the intellect of the more dis-
 
 24 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 criminating; and as a fresher had given a performance 
 of Puck in one of the productions of the O.U.D.S., 
 over which undergraduate critics went raving mad. 
 Even in his dealings with his friends, the chorus girls, 
 there was a certain touch of humour which made it 
 impossible even for the most straightlaced to say hard 
 things of him. 
 
 In a word, Nicholas Kenyon was a very dangerous 
 man. His influence was. as subtly bad and pernicious 
 as a beautifully made cigarette heavily charged with 
 dope; and he would at any time if necessary have 
 stolen his mother's toilet set in order to provide him- 
 self with caviar, plover's eggs and a small bottle of 
 champagne. 
 
 And this was the man who had shared rooms with 
 Peter Guthrie during his terms at Oxford, and of 
 whom the Doctor spoke that first night of his stay at 
 the Randolph Hotel as an unusually charming person 
 whom it was a pleasure to meet. 
 
 In fact, he was the sole topic of conversation in all 
 the bedrooms of Peter's family party before the lights 
 were turned out. Mrs. Guthrie said, as she sat in 
 front of the dressing-table combing her hair : " How 
 lucky it is, dear, that Peter has found such a wonder- 
 ful friend here I He is so English and so refined in 
 every sense of the word a gentleman." The Doctor 
 thoroughly agreed with her and made a mental note to 
 invite Kenyon to his house in New York in the autumn. 
 
 Belle Guthrie took her brushes into Betty's room, 
 which was next to her own, and looking extremely 
 attractive in a pale pink kimono, with her dark
 
 YOUTH 25 
 
 hair all about her shoulders and her naked feet in pink, 
 heel-less slippers, gave a ripple of excited laughter and 
 confided to her friend that she was going to have a 
 more bully time even than she had hoped. " I love 
 St. John's College," she said, " and these wonderful 
 old streets and all the church bells which strike so fre- 
 quently but I'm perfectly crazy about Nicholas 
 Kenyon. He is so, so different so witty says 
 such perfectly wonderful things and oh, my dear! 
 did you see the way he looked at me when he said 
 'good-night'?" 
 
 Betty shook her head her little golden head 
 her rather wise little head. " I didn't look," she said. 
 " The light was shining on Peter's face, and that was 
 good enough for me." 
 
 What Graham thought of Kenyon came out in 
 Peter's rooms, to which he had gone back with his 
 brother when the family were left at the hotel after 
 their return from a jaunt on the river in the moon- 
 light after dinner, the quiet, soothing, narrow 
 stream on which they had floated in punts all among 
 cushions and listened with keen appreciation to the 
 throbbing song of the nightingale and the deep voice 
 of an undergraduate singing " Annie Laurie " in the 
 back water to the thrumming accompaniment of a 
 mandolin. 
 
 Kenyon himself had gone round to the rooms of 
 some friends of his to play bridge, so the two brothers 
 were able to talk undisturbed. The night was de- 
 liciously warm and Peter's old windows, with their 
 numerous leaded panes, were wide open. It was
 
 26 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 eleven o'clock and the life of the town had almost 
 ceased, although from time to time little parties of 
 undergraduates passed along St. Giles and their high- 
 spirited laughter drifted up. 
 
 After having put cigarettes in front of his brother, 
 Peter flung himself full stretch upon his sofa, with a 
 pipe between his teeth. " Now for your news, old 
 man ! " he said. " I'm glad you like Nick. He cer- 
 tainly is one of the best. What seems perfectly amaz- 
 ing to me is that while I'm still a sort of schoolboy, 
 rowing and reading, you're a full-blown man earning 
 your living. I'd give something to see you buzzing 
 about Wall Street with your head full of stocks and 
 shares and the rise and fall of prices. How do you 
 doit?" 
 
 Graham ran his hand rather nervously over his 
 mouth. "It's great!" he said excitedly. "That's 
 what I call life. Gee! You've no idea how fascinat- 
 ing it is to gamble on the tape and get a thrill every 
 time you hear it tick. It's like living among earth- 
 quakes. I love it ! " 
 
 " Gamble ! " Peter echoed the word with a touch 
 of fright. "Good Lord; but you don't gamble 
 surely ? I thought you were a broker and looked after 
 other people's concerns ! " 
 
 Graham shot out a short laugh. "Other people's 
 concerns? Why, yes; but we're not in Wall Street 
 for other people. I've had the luck of the devil lately 
 though, everything I've touched has gone wrong. 
 However, don't let's talk about that. I'm here for a 
 holiday and a rest, and I need 'em. I believe I was
 
 YOUTH 27 
 
 on the verge of a nervous breakdown before I came 
 away. When I get back I shall have to straighten 
 things out. At the present moment I'm out about 
 twenty thousand dollars." 
 
 It was his young brother who said these things 
 the boy who two years ago was only just out of 
 Harvard. Peter sat up in two senses. " You ? 
 Twenty thousand dollars ! Have you told father ? " 
 
 " My God, no ! " said Graham. " I shall get it all 
 back of course; otherwise, Phut! As to telling 
 father, well well, do you ever tell father any- 
 thing? I'd rather face electrocution than go into fa- 
 ther's room with such a tale. Once before about 
 six months ago when I had to meet a bill for five 
 thousand dollars, I had a little talk with mother, and 
 after she had a fit she gave me a handful of her jewels 
 to pawn. She was afraid of father, too. Within 
 two months I got them out again. Steel did me very 
 well that time ; and mother, bless her dear heart ! 
 called me a very clever boy, and said : ' What a brain 
 you have, darling, but please don't do it again ! ' Oh, 
 my God, Peter! You don't know what Wall Street 
 means. It's hell! It's marvellous! It's life! One 
 of these days when a real good chance comes I'll go 
 some plunge, and then you'll see me living quietly in 
 the country breeding ponies or dogs or chickens or 
 something, and I'll marry and settle down." 
 
 Peter got up, re-loaded his pipe, and said : " Just 
 think of it! You're two years younger than I am. 
 I've not begun to live and you're in the whirl of money 
 and risk. In the meantime there's father so busy ex-
 
 28 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 perimenting with microbes that he hasn't one idea of 
 what his boys are doing, or are likely to do abso- 
 lutely content to let them find their feet unaided! 
 Well, I suppose he knows what he's doing, but what 
 you've just told me makes me wonder whether it 
 wouldn't be wise for him to experiment a little bit with 
 us for a change. What d'you think? " 
 
 Graham shrugged his shoulders. With the light on 
 his face he looked older than his brother, and there 
 was something in his eyes which showed that he had 
 already gazed at life very much more closely than the 
 big healthy fellow who was his host. " Oh, well," he 
 said pouring himself out a rather stiff whiskey 
 " we've never known quite what it was to have a father, 
 I mean except as a sort of aloof institution, a vague 
 person who educated us and placed us out. I should 
 resent his butting in now. There's someone coming 
 up your stairs, isn't there ? " 
 
 There was. It was Kenyon, who rattled money in 
 his trousers pocket with a little smile at the corners 
 of his sophisticated mouth. 
 
 PETER put in the time of his life during the next 
 few days, and like the great big simple fellow that he 
 was, revelled in being the little hero of his family. 
 
 From morning until night he kept them on the move, 
 taking them to all his favorite haunts in the town and 
 out in the country, introducing to them whole flocks of
 
 YOUTH 29 
 
 his friends, with whom they had tea and lunch ; guiding 
 them into the strange quiet chapels that were filled 
 with the aroma of dead years like a bowl of dry rose- 
 leaves; going with them into the sweet, quiet, sacred, 
 stately seclusion of New College Garden and into the 
 echoing cloisters of Magdalen. They were good days, 
 memorable days, giving them all mental pictures that 
 even time would not blur nor age rub out. To Peter 
 the best of all the afternoons was the one when he 
 looked up at the St. John's barge as he paddled out 
 into the river in the College Eight and caught the 
 eager and excited eyes of all the people who meant so 
 much to him, and especially those of Betty. He rowed 
 that afternoon as he had never rowed before, carrying 
 with him all along the stream the raucous shouts of the 
 members of his college who tore along the tow-path 
 almost demented with enthusiasm, firing pistols, turn- 
 ing rattles and screaming " St. John's ! St. John's ! 
 Give her ten ! Give her ten ! Up ! Up ! " And 
 finally, when he staggered out of the boat almost sick 
 from exertion, his knees shaking under him, the 
 thought that came to him as he heard the incessant 
 cries of "Good old Peter!" was "Thank God for 
 this! The Governor will get something back for all 
 he has done for me." He just waved his hand to his 
 people, felt his way into the barge, laid himself flat 
 on the floor and underwent the soothing process of be- 
 ing rubbed and sponged down and all the while he 
 smiled and was very happy. 
 
 He didn't catch the look of maternal agony in his 
 mother's eyes nor her remarks which was perhaps
 
 30 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 just as well. Seeing her great big boy crumpled up 
 over his oar before he was assisted out of the boat, 
 seeing him stand rocking like a drunken man with his 
 great chest heaving and his face the color of a green 
 apple, she leaned over the rail and cried out : " Oh, 
 my dear, what have they done to you? Oh, Hunter, 
 you must not let him do these things, he'll kill him- 
 self! Oh, Peter, Peter!" 
 
 As a matter of fact, no one heard her. There was 
 too much good solid roar going on. Every lusty- 
 throated St. John's man was shouting at the full capac- 
 ity of his lungs. Oh, but it was a good scene! And 
 for the quiet, studious Doctor who had sat day after 
 day for the greater part of his life watching bacteri- 
 ological experiments, with the most intense interest, 
 it was one that caused his blood to move almost dan- 
 gerously through his veins and make him shout for 
 the first time in his life. 
 
 It had a different effect upon temperamental Belle, 
 who danced with excitement and kept on saying, in a 
 sort of refrain, " Oh, I'm crazy about all this simply 
 crazy ! " As for Graham, even the thrill of Wall Street 
 seemed poor to him in comparison with this stirring 
 scene, the wild rush of men, the rhythmetic plunge 
 of oars, the glorious muscular effort and the frenzied 
 outburst. 
 
 Betty merely smiled, clasped her hands together and 
 held her breath. It seemed to her that in Peter all the 
 heroes of her youth, Brian de Bois Guilbert, Ivan- 
 hoe and the rest, were epitomized in the form, the 
 splendid young giant form of her fellow-countryman.
 
 YOUTH 31 
 
 Above all things in the world she wanted to lean over 
 and put a wreath of laurels on the man who stroked 
 the St. John's boat to victory. As it was, she cried a 
 little, quietly and simply, not caring who saw her tears ; 
 and in her heart, for a reason which she herself found 
 unexplainable, she sang " My Country 'tis of Thee." 
 She had never in her life been so deeply stirred, and 
 who can wonder at that? There is indeed something 
 full of inspiration about these undergraduates' strug- 
 gles on the water and the fervent partisanship of the 
 colleges. It is unique and splendid and sends young 
 men out into the world with good and beautiful mem- 
 ories and with the love and loyalty for their alma 
 mater which makes them better able to serve the women 
 who need them and the country to which they be- 
 long. 
 
 And when, having changed his shorts and got once 
 more into his flannels, Peter went up to the roof of the 
 barge, stinging with health and glowing with very 
 natural pride and satisfaction, it was the Doctor 
 whose hand he first took, and the Doctor who said: 
 "My son, my dear son!" It was an extraordinary 
 moment for Peter, who had never in his life before 
 felt the indescribable barrier which existed between 
 his father and himself so near to crumbling. 
 
 That night, while his father and mother and Graham 
 were taken to the theatre by three of his fellow Rhodes 
 scholars, to see a performance of one of Gilbert and 
 Sullivan's plays, Peter and Nicholas Kenyon took 
 Betty and Belle to the Worcester Ball, the two girls 
 being under the wing of the wife of one of the Dons.
 
 32 
 
 It was one of those warm, clear, silver nights which 
 the fickle climate of England sometimes produces ap- 
 parently to show what it can do when it likes. The 
 moon was full and the sky was bespattered with stars. 
 The trees on the smooth lawn round the old college 
 flung their shadows as though in sunlight and it was 
 to a seat under one of these that Peter led Betty just 
 before midnight, having very nearly danced her off her 
 feet. They sat down panting a little, and laughing for 
 no reason, and listened for a moment to the strains of 
 the band which drifted through the open windows of 
 the hall. 
 
 It was not in Peter to do anything by halves. He 
 worked and played like a Trojan and put his back into 
 everything that he took up. He knew by this time, 
 short as it was, that he was wholly and completely in 
 love with the little girl, the first sight of whom had 
 made him catch his breath. With a peculiar kind of 
 grimness he had made up his mind that she was for him 
 if he could win her, and all the previous night he 
 had dreamed of her as his future wife, as the girl who 
 would stand by his side, helpmate and everlasting 
 lover, and for whom he would work well and live 
 well and carry her with him rung by rung to the top 
 of the ladder. He told himself when he awoke that 
 he was a presumptuous ass even to dream that she 
 would care for him. What was there in him for such 
 a girl to care about? All the same, he set his teeth 
 and from that moment laid all his future plans and his 
 hopes and ambitions and all the best of his nature, at 
 her little feet and knew perfectly well that if Betty
 
 YOUTH 33 
 
 could not love him eventually he would walk alone 
 through life. 
 
 Odd, romantic or foolish as it may seem, when 
 youth falls in and out of love so easily, this was true. 
 Peter had, with a sort of unrealized solemnity, kept 
 his heart free and pure. He was no trifler he had 
 never philandered. Like the boy who, perhaps un- 
 duly imaginative, believes that he will find the place 
 where the rainbow ends, Peter said to himself : " One 
 day I shall find my girl. I want to go to her heart- 
 whole and complete." 
 
 There was nothing of sentimentality about this. It 
 was simply the outcome of the effect of the mother- 
 influence upon the boy which had become a very con- 
 crete thing. Somehow, ever since he was old enough 
 to remember and to think, he had looked upon his 
 mother as his sweetheart, and when she bent over his 
 cot at night and asked God to bless him and left the 
 touch of her soft lips upon his forehead she had im- 
 pressed upon him the unconscious ambition to make 
 another such woman the centre of his own home. 
 The numerous tender services, the exquisite maternal 
 thought fulness of this little mother-woman, had been 
 built up by him into a protection and a load-star. 
 Betty came a girl in whom he recognized at once 
 another mother and she just touched his heart with 
 her finger and walked straight in, fitting into the place 
 which had been kept for her like a diamond into its 
 setting. 
 
 Poor dear old Peter! No one would have thought, 
 who looked at him sitting there in his big awkwardness
 
 34 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 and incoherence, that he was a man in love, although 
 a psychologist or even an ordinarily observant girl 
 could very easily have told how Betty felt. 
 
 "Topping, isn't it?" he said. 
 
 " Simply wonderful," she replied. 
 
 "Tired?" 
 
 " Not a bit." 
 
 " Pretty good floor, eh ? " 
 
 " Perfectly splendid." 
 
 " Gee ! I shall miss this place." 
 
 " Why, of course you will." 
 
 "All the same, I shall be mighty keen to get at 
 things, and begin." 
 
 " Yes, of course you will." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " Oh, that's easy." 
 
 "Is it? How?" 
 
 "Well, don't I know you?" 
 
 "Do you? I wish you did." 
 
 Up in the branches something stirred. It may have 
 been Cupid probably it was. 
 
 But silence followed this conversational effort a 
 silence broken by a great heaving sigh, mostly of ex- 
 citement, and the strains of the band which drifted out 
 of the windows of the College Hall. 
 
 And over them both, as over all other men and 
 women, young and old, at the beginning and at the 
 end, hung the moon and the stars. 
 
 How good it is to be young and in love !
 
 YOUTH 35 
 
 VI 
 
 / 
 
 UNNOTICED by Mrs. Guthrie and her two boys, 
 there was something more than a little pathetic in the 
 Doctor's eager, wistful attitude toward the rather 
 thoughtless, high-spirited, seething youth in the mid- 
 dle of which he found himself for the first time. 
 
 This man had never been young. The atmosphere 
 of the farm on which he had been born killed youth 
 as foul air kills a caged bird. Poverty, sordidness and 
 the grim, constant struggle to live made his childhood 
 and early days utterly devoid of the good sweet things. 
 His mother, worn out and dispirited, died in giving 
 him birth, and his father, bitter, lonely and filled with 
 the irony that comes from a long and unprofitable 
 hand-to-hand fight with mother-earth, let him bring 
 himself up. He was turned out to work at a time 
 when most lads are sent to school. He had to trudge 
 daily into the straggling, one-eyed town, at an early 
 hour, to report at the chemist's store where he obtained 
 employment as an errand boy. Most of the small 
 wages he earned were required by his father. From 
 almost the very beginning life was to him a sort of 
 whirling stream into which he had been flung before 
 having been taught to swim. Mere self-preservation 
 demanded that he should keep himself afloat. He 
 picked up education as a stray dog picks up an occa- 
 sional bone. There was, however, great grit in this 
 boy and deep down in his soul an ambition to become 
 something better than his father, whose daily wrestle
 
 36 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 with nature the most relentless of task-mistresses 
 had warped his character and stultified his soul. 
 Young Hunter shuddered at the thought of living al- 
 ways on the farm, of grubbing in the earth, of planting 
 and hoeing and reaping, of facing the almost inevi- 
 table tragedy of spoiled crops and ruined hopes, and 
 the yearly set-backs of advancing freights and higher 
 wages. He looked with growing horror and detesta- 
 tion at the farm implements among which his father 
 spent his life; and while he ran his errands, carrying 
 medicines and soda syphons, he nursed a dream in his 
 little cold heart, which grew out of the smell of medi- 
 cines and the talk of illness that was all about him in 
 the chemist store. It was to become a doctor and tend 
 the needs of humanity and, if it was in his power, to 
 save to other children the mothers who brought them 
 into being. 
 
 No wonder Dr. Hunter Guthrie wore strong glasses 
 over his short-sighted eyes. At all times, with a sort 
 of greed and an almost terrible eagerness, he read 
 every medical book on which he could lay his hands, 
 in bed by the light of one candle, in the cubby-hole at 
 the back of the store under the glare of the unshaded 
 electric bulb, in trolley-cars and trains, and on the 
 stoop of the shabby farmhouse so long as the light 
 lasted. Later, after his day's work, he attended night 
 classes, and even as he walked from the farm to the 
 town he read. Spending sleepless nights and living 
 laborious days he followed the example of many other 
 brave and determined boys whose names gleam like 
 beacons in the history of their country. He worked
 
 YOUTH 37 
 
 his way through the necessary stages until finally, af- 
 ter a struggle so relentless that it nearly broke his 
 health, he became a qualified doctor. In order to earn 
 the money for his courses he was at different times 
 bell-boy in a country hotel, an advertisement writer in 
 a manufacturer's office, a clerk for a real-estate man 
 and a traveling salesman for safety razors. His vaca- 
 tions were more arduous than his terms, and during 
 these he earned the money with which to pay his col- 
 lege expenses. Every step up the ladder of innumer- 
 able rungs which sometimes seemed to him impos- 
 sible to climb was painful and difficult. So much 
 concentration was needed from the very beginning 
 so much condensed determination and energy required 
 that at the age of twenty-five he seemed to have 
 lived twice that number of years. No wonder then 
 that the all-conquering youth fulness of all the under- 
 graduates amongst whom he found himself at Oxford 
 awoke a sort of envy in his heart and startled him who 
 had never been young. There was no meanness, 
 jealousy or sense of martyrism in his feelings as he 
 watched the kaleidoscopic picture of university life 
 only a sort of wonder and amazement that there were 
 men in the world so lucky so indescribably fortunate 
 as to be able to carry boyhood and all its joys forward 
 to an age when he had forgotten that such a period 
 existed. Many times during those interesting and 
 stirring days he stopped suddenly and thanked his God 
 that he had been able to do for his own boys those 
 things which no one had ever done for him, and give 
 them such a chance in life as he had never had. Ac-
 
 38 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 tually to see Peter, his eldest boy, proving his muscular 
 strength and his mental ability and moving among his 
 fellows with such splendid popularity, filled him with 
 pride and gladness. Here indeed was a very concrete 
 evidence of his reward for that long, arduous struggle. 
 
 Like most men who have concentrated upon one 
 thing, Dr. Guthrie was a child when it came to others. 
 Athleticism, of which he knew nothing, filled him 
 with admiration. The knack of conversation amazed 
 him. Even to his wife he found it difficult to talk. 
 To force himself to confide was almost impossible 
 it was like blasting a rock. One afternoon however 
 he got nearer to an intimate expression of his feelings 
 than ever before perhaps because he was still under 
 the influence of the intoxication of the youthfulness 
 all about him. 
 
 Kenyon had driven them out after tea to Shotover 
 Hill. All the young people had gone on to Cuddes- 
 den, leaving the doctor and his wife to sit and look 
 down into the valley far below in which nestled the 
 town and all its colleges and spires. It had been a 
 golden day and the sun was setting with all the dig- 
 nity and pomp of early summer, making the thin line 
 of the Thames shine like a winding silver ribbon. 
 There was something of exultation over the earth that 
 evening and of untranslatable beauty, and the evening 
 song of the birds was like that of choristers in a great 
 cathedral. 
 
 Unusual words seethed in the doctor's head. He 
 was moved and thrilled. The rest and the relief of 
 leaving his work, all the bustle and stir of the new life
 
 YOUTH 39 
 
 in which he was a temporary figure, seemed to take 
 him back to his own early days when, with the little 
 woman who sat by his side, he had stood with her in 
 their first house, newly married. 
 
 He took his hat off, put his arm round the shoulders 
 of that faithful woman and kissed her cheek with a 
 touch of passion and gratitude. " My darling," he 
 said, " I wish I could say properly some of the things 
 that I feel about you and my children and the goodness 
 of God. There are tears in my heart, and strange 
 feelings. I feel oddly young and strong. I want to 
 laugh and cry. I'd like to pick wild flowers and 
 make a little crown for your head. Don't laugh at 
 me please don't laugh." 
 
 The little woman took his thin hand and pressed 
 it to her cheek. " I laugh because that is how I feel, 
 too," she said, "young and glad and very happy to 
 see my big Peter doing such wonderful things, and 
 still a boy. Dear old man, we have much to be thank- 
 ful for! I know how you've worked and striven, 
 and how fine it is to see some of the results of it. I 
 was a little afraid before we came here that we might 
 find Peter different altered perhaps older but 
 he's just the same. He's exactly like you." 
 
 The Doctor shook his head and a sudden pain 
 twisted his thin, studious face. " Oh no, no," he said, 
 " I was never like that. I wish to God I had been. 
 But it was to make Peter what he is that I've worked 
 night and day. He's my idea of a man. He's doing 
 all the things that I'd like to have done. He's me as 
 I might have been if I'd had any luck any sort of
 
 40 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 a chance. Do I regret it? Am I jealous? No; be- 
 cause if I hadn't lived such an opposite life I mightn't 
 have desired to give my boy all this." He waved his 
 hand towards the spires that rose in all their signif- 
 icance out of the town away below. And then, with 
 intense eagerness and a ring of wistfulness in his voice 
 that brought tears to his wife's eyes, he bent towards 
 her. " Do you think he realizes this, Mary ? Does 
 Graham ever stop to think how hard I've worked to 
 put him in Wall Street? Does Belle ever wonder 
 what it's cost me in youth and health to give her so 
 much more than she needs? I'm I'm a queer, 
 wordless, foolishly shy man. Old since the time they 
 all three began to think and use their eyes, neces- 
 sarily concentrated and aloof away in that laboratory 
 of mine, and and sometimes I wonder whether my 
 children know me and understand and make allow- 
 ances. Do they, Mary, my dear one? Do they? " 
 
 " Yes, my man, my brave and splendid man," she 
 replied, " they do, they do ! " And in saying this she 
 deliberately lied, out of her great and steadfast love 
 for this man of hers she lied. 
 
 No one knew so well as she did that the father of 
 her children might almost as well be a mere distant 
 relation who lived in their home for reasons of con- 
 venience and allotted money to their requirements at 
 the proper time. No one knew so well as she did that 
 Hunter Guthrie's tragic lack of childhood had dried 
 out of his nature the power of understanding children. 
 Never having been a child in any sense of the word 
 never having known the inexpressible joy of a moth-
 
 YOUTH 41 
 
 er's love remembering nothing but a father who 
 was either working hard or tired out he was unable 
 to conceive what his own children needed in addition 
 to all that they got hourly from his wife and from his 
 own work. It had always seemed to him that in the 
 possession of a mother they had everything good that 
 God could give them. It seemed to him that his own 
 part was performed by providing for their needs. No 
 man desired to be the father of sons and daughters 
 more than he did. No man was prouder in the pos- 
 session of them than he was and had always been. 
 To hear the patter of their little feet about his house 
 sent him to his work with that sense of religion of 
 which Carlyle wrote. To watch them shaping from 
 childhood into youth was the most satisfactory and 
 beautiful thing in his life. To be able, year after 
 year, to do better and still better for them was his 
 best and biggest reward far greater and more glor- 
 ious than the distinction he earned for himself and 
 the international reputation that increased with each 
 of his discoveries. And when, six months after Peter 
 had left home to go to Oxford with a Rhodes scholar- 
 ship, he found himself unexpectedly endowed to the 
 extent of over three million dollars under the will of 
 a late wealthy patient, so that he might, in the old 
 man's own words, " devote himself, without the fret 
 and fever of earning a livelihood as a practitioner, to 
 the noble and limitless work of a bacteriologist for 
 the benefit of suffering humanity all over the world," 
 it was for the sake of his children that he offered up 
 thanks. With what immense pride he notified the
 
 42 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 authorities at Harvard that his son was independent 
 of the scholarship, which was free to send another 
 man to Oxford. With what keen pleasure he was 
 able to buy Graham a seat on the Stock Exchange, 
 bring Belle out as a debutante and send his little Ethel 
 to the best possible school. These things he could do, 
 and did, but he could not and had never been able to 
 do for them a better thing than all these, win their 
 confidence, their deep affection and their friendship. 
 That gift had been killed in him. It could not be 
 acquired, taught or purchased, and he had always been 
 as much out of touch with his boys and girls as though 
 he were divided from them by a great stone wall. It 
 had always been with them, "Look out! Here's 
 father!" instead of "Hello! Here's Dad!" His 
 entrance into their playroom was the signal for silence. 
 The sight of his studious face and short-sighted eyes 
 and distrait, shy manner chilled them and reduced them 
 to quietude and self -consciousness and suspicion. If 
 he had treated them always as human beings, played 
 with them, sat on the floor and built houses with their 
 bricks, thrown open the door of his study to them, if 
 only for half an hour every day, so that there might 
 be no possibility of its becoming a Blue Room; if he 
 had, as they grew into the habit of thinking and ob- 
 serving and remembering, told them about himself 
 and his own boyhood and in this way inculcated a 
 mutual interest, a desire to respond and open out; if, 
 before the two boys had gone to college he had had 
 the courage to act on the earnest advice of a friend 
 and speak to them on the vital question of sex, give
 
 YOUTH 43 
 
 them the truth as he so well knew it and warn them 
 bravely and rightly of the inevitable pitfalls that lined 
 their youthful path, no brick wall would have existed 
 and he would have been their pal as well as their 
 father, a combination altogether irresistible. 
 
 As it was Hunter Guthrie's wife, who loved him 
 deeply and devotedly and recognized in him a great 
 man as well as a most unselfish father, was obliged to 
 lie in reply to his questions. She would rather have 
 died, then and there, than hurt him and bring down 
 his house about his ears. The sad and tragic part of 
 it all was that she knew utterly that no good, no 
 change could be brought about by telling the truth. 
 It was too late. 
 
 VII 
 
 BELLE had told Betty that she was " crazy " about 
 Nicholas Kenyon. There is usually a wildness of ex- 
 aggeration about this expression which renders it al- 
 most harmless. The exuberant type of girl who uses 
 it applies it with equal thoughtlessness to a new hat, a 
 new play or a new set of furs. She will be crazy 
 about a tenor and a pomeranian, a so-called joke in a 
 comic paper and the sermon of a fashionable preacher. 
 In regard to Kenyon, however, Belle was really and 
 truly crazy in its most accurate dictionary sense. Af- 
 ter the Worcester Ball, during which she gave him 
 nearly every dance, to the flustered concern of the 
 Don's wife who was her chaperon, she went to no 
 trouble to conceal from Kenyon the fact that she found
 
 44 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 him vastly attractive. Kenyon was not surprised. 
 Already he was a complete expert in the art of making 
 himself loved by women. He knew exactly what they 
 liked him to say and he said it with a touch of inso- 
 lence which took their breath away and a following 
 touch of deference which gave them back their self- 
 respect. Belle was very much to his liking. Her 
 rather Latin beauty, which was rendered unexplainable 
 by the sight of her parents her incessant high spirits 
 and love of life her naive assumption that she was 
 the mistress of all the secrets of this world, amused, 
 interested and tickled his fancy. Her beauty, fresh- 
 ness and youth pleased him as an epicure, and he went 
 out of his way to be with her as much as he could. He 
 had no intention whatever of falling in love with her, 
 first of all because it was all against his creed to 
 fall in love with anyone but himself; secondly, because 
 his way of living demanded that he should have no 
 partner in his business, all that he could win by his 
 wits he would need. Nevertheless, he was quite as 
 ready as usual to take everything that was given to 
 him, and give nothing in return except flattery, well- 
 rounded sentences and a good deal of his personal at- 
 tention. 
 
 During the week that passed so quickly he had only 
 been able to see Belle with her people, and when he 
 found that this bored her as much as it bored him, he 
 set his brain to work to devise some plan by which he 
 could escape with her from the party for a few hours. 
 Needless to say he succeeded. 
 
 On the night before the party were to leave Oxford
 
 YOUTH 45 
 
 he arranged another evening trip on the river, maneu- 
 vred Peter into one punt with his father and mother, 
 Graham and Betty, and got into another with Belle. 
 For some little time he poled along closely behind 
 them, but as the river was full of similar parties he 
 found it easy to drop behind and dodge deftly into a 
 back water. Here he tied up to a branch, set himself 
 down on the cushions at Belle's side and lit a cigarette. 
 
 "How's that?" he asked. 
 
 Belle laughed a little excitedly. " Very clever," 
 she said. " I wondered how you were going to do 
 it." 
 
 He didn't find it necessary to tell her that he had 
 performed a similar trick a hundred times. " Under 
 the right sort of inspiration," he said, " even I can 
 develop genius. Tell me something about New York, 
 and what you find to do there." 
 
 " I should have to talk from now until to-morrow 
 morning even to begin to tell you," she said. " I only 
 came out last winter, but the history of it would fill 
 a book. New York is some town and I guess a girl 
 has a better time there than anywhere else in the 
 world. Why don't you come and see something of it 
 for yourself? " 
 
 Kenyon leaned lightly against the girl's soft 
 shoulder. " That's precisely what I'm going to do," 
 he said. " Your father has given me a cordial invita- 
 tion to stay at his house, and I shall go over with 
 Peter in October." 
 
 "Oh, isn't that fine!" cried Belle. "You'll love 
 the place it's so different."
 
 4 6 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " I'm not worrying about the place," said Kenyon. 
 " I'm simply going for the chance of dancing with 
 you to the band which really does know how to play 
 rag-time. It'll be worth crossing three thousand miles 
 of unnecessary water to achieve that alone." 
 
 " I don't believe you," said Belle ; but all her teeth 
 gleamed in the moonlight and her heart pumped a 
 little. How wonderful it would be to become the wife 
 of the Honourable Nicholas Kenyon, who seemed to 
 her to be everything that was desirable. 
 
 Kenyon picked up her hand and just touched it 
 with his lips. "You don't believe it? Well, we'll 
 see." He knew very well that if he had chosen to do 
 so he could have kissed her lips, but his policy was to 
 go slow. His epicurianism was so complete that he 
 liked to take his enjoyment in sips and not empty his 
 glass at a gulp. This girl whose imagined worldliness 
 was so childlike was well worth all his attention. He 
 looked forward with absolute certainty to the hour 
 when he should place her on his little list of achieve- 
 ments ; but like all collectors and connoisseurs he added 
 to his pleasure by winning his point gradually, step 
 by step, with a sort of cold-blooded pas"sion. 
 
 Belle was accustomed to men who were a little crude 
 in their naturalness and who immediately voiced their 
 admiration and their liking with boyish spontaneity. 
 She had strings of beaux of all ages who immediately 
 sent her flowers and presents and dogged her heels 
 from dance to dance and rang her up constantly on the 
 telephone and generally showed their eagerness with 
 that lack of control which was characteristic of a na-
 
 YOUTH 47 
 
 tion which had deliberately placed women in the posi- 
 tion of queens. 
 
 Perhaps it was because this man's methods were so 
 different that she found him so attractive. He fed 
 her vanity and piqued it at the same time. He said 
 more by saying nothing than any man had ever ven- 
 tured to do, and he retired so quickly after an amaz- 
 ing advance that he left her assuming more than if he 
 had never advanced at all. It was perfectly natural, 
 although she had already dipped into the fastest New 
 York set, that she should believe that at the end of 
 every man's intention there was a marriage and a 
 sort of throne in his house. She little knew Nicholas 
 Kenyon. She had had the good fortune to meet men 
 in New York, and not collectors. 
 
 " What are your father's plans when he leaves Ox- 
 ford?" asked Kenyon, leaning a little more closely 
 against the girl's soft shoulder. 
 
 " Why, we're going to Shakespeare's country, to the 
 English lakes and then to Scotland, where father's 
 ancestors lived; and then in August we shall go to 
 London for a week, and go home on the Olympic. 
 Why don't you go over with us ? " 
 
 " I should like nothing better," said Kenyon, " but 
 as a matter of fact I shall wait until Peter has got 
 through his various engagements. He rows at Hen- 
 ley in July, you know, the boat is entered for the 
 Lady's Plate, and then he comes home with me. He 
 wants to shoot my father's birds in August and see 
 a little of English country life before he settles down 
 to his law work in America."
 
 48 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 Belle was silent for a few moments. She wished 
 that this wonderful week could be extended over the 
 whole of her holidays. She knew, and was really a 
 little frightened at knowing, that when she left Ox- 
 ford the next day she would leave behind her a heart 
 that had hitherto been quite untouched. She was 
 amazed and even a little annoyed to find that a mere 
 week had brought about such a revolution in all her 
 feelings and in her whole outlook on life. She had 
 meant to have a perfectly wonderful time before fall- 
 ing in love. 
 
 " I suppose," she said, " that we shan't hear any- 
 thing of you until we see you again, unless, unless 
 you write sometimes to mother and tell her how you 
 are and what Peter is doing." 
 
 Kenyon didn't even smile. " Peter will write to 
 your mother once a week, as usual he's very con- 
 sistent and I'll get him to put in a postscript about 
 me, if you like. I shall have some difficulty in pre- 
 senting myself from writing to you from time to 
 time, although I'm a child in the art of letter-writing." 
 
 " Why should you prevent it ? I should simply love 
 to have your letters." 
 
 "But isn't your mother a little old-fashioned?" 
 
 "Maybe," said Belle, "but does that matter? 
 You've not met any American girls before that's 
 easy to see. We do just what we like, and if our 
 mothers don't agree they don't dare to say so. Shall 
 I tell you why ? Because it wouldn't make any differ- 
 ence if they did." 
 
 ' Then I shall write," said Kenyon, " and give you
 
 YOUTH 49 
 
 brief but eloquent descriptions of English weather, 
 English politics and the condition of my liver, that 
 is to say, the three inevitable topics of this country." 
 
 Belle laughed. " Then it will be perfectly safe for 
 me to leave your letters about," she said. 
 
 " Perfectly, always supposing that you censor the 
 postscripts." 
 
 " I'm crazy about you f " said Belle ; and this time 
 her laugh awoke the echoes of the river and filled a 
 nightingale near by with a pathetic ambition to emu- 
 late its music. 
 
 ^ And then they heard Peter's great voice shouting, 
 " N-i-c-k! " Whereupon Kenyon gathered himself to- 
 gether, not unpleased at being disturbed, stood up 
 gracefully and pulled back into the main stream. 
 "The call of duty," he said "such is life." It was 
 consistent with his policy to conduct this most pleasant 
 affair by instalments. 
 
 When he saw the other punt he asked Peter, with a 
 touch of beautiful petulance, why he had deliberately 
 lost them, and turned a deaf ear to Graham's idiotic 
 chuckle. 
 
 The landing stage was in the shadow, which was 
 just as well. When Kenyon gave his hand to Belle 
 to help her out of the punt, he drew her close against 
 him and with a touch of passion as unexpected as the 
 sudden flash of a searchlight across a dark sky left a 
 kiss on her lips that took her breath away. 
 
 All the way back to the hotel she hung on Peter's 
 arm and dared not trust herself to speak. For the 
 first time in her young life she had caught a glimpse
 
 50 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 of its meaning. It left her strangely moved and 
 thrilled. 
 
 Little Mrs. Guthrie walked back with Kenyon, very 
 proud of the fact that he was Peter's friend. 
 
 Poor little mother ! 
 
 VIII 
 
 ON the steps of the Randolph Hotel, Mrs. Guthrie 
 turned to Kenyon and asked him, with one of her most 
 motherly smiles, to have some supper with them. Tel- 
 egraphing quickly to Peter and Graham that they were 
 not to accept the invitation, Kenyon said : " Nothing 
 would give me greater pleasure absolutely nothing. 
 Unfortunately Peter and I have already accepted an 
 invitation from two of our Dons and we cannot 
 possibly get out of this dull but profitable hour." 
 
 "How very disappointing!" said Mrs. Guthrie. 
 
 "How silly!" said Belle. 
 
 Betty merely said, "Oh! " but the rest of her sen- 
 tence was condensed into one quick look at Peter. 
 
 Peter, utterly without guile, turned round to Nich- 
 olas Kenyon in blank amazement. " It's the first I've 
 heard of it," he said. " What on earth do you mean? 
 Two of the Dons ? Who are they ? " 
 
 But Kenyon was an artist and a strategist, and 
 therefore a liar. " My dear old boy ! What would 
 you do without me? I'm your diary, your 'secretary, 
 your guide, philosopher and friend. If you've forgot- 
 ten the engagement I certainly haven't." And he
 
 YOUTH 51 
 
 shot at Peter a swift and subtle wink, in which he in- 
 cluded Graham. 
 
 Scenting adventure and gathering that the two Dons 
 were in all probability coming from the chorus of 
 " The Pirates of Penzance," Graham joined in quickly. 
 " I suppose I can't come and listen humbly to the 
 learned conversation of these two professors? " 
 
 "But why not?" said Kenyon. "No doubt you 
 can tell them more about Wall Street in five minutes 
 than they would ever learn in their lives. Therefore, 
 dear Mrs. Guthrie, I'm afraid we must all say ' good- 
 night.' We'll rejoin you in the morning for breakfast 
 as arranged, and wind up what's been the pleasantest 
 week of my life, by driving out to Woodstock for 
 lunch." 
 
 It was all done in the most masterly manner, and 
 when the three men left the hotel arm in arm they 
 were not guided by Kenyon toward St. Giles, but to 
 the theatre, where the curtain was just about to fall 
 with the last act. 
 
 "What's all this?" asked Peter, impatiently. 
 " Mother had set her heart upon having us to supper." 
 
 " Mother has had us all day," replied Kenyon. 
 " Bear in mind the fact that there are other women in 
 the world to whom we owe a little gallantry. You and 
 Graham are going to eat Welsh Rabbit at the some- 
 what humble rooms of my little friends, Lottie Law- 
 rence and Billy Seymour." 
 
 " I'll see you damned first! " said Peter. " I've no 
 use for these people. Come on, Graham, let's go back." 
 
 Kenyon's face was wreathed in smiles. " It can't
 
 52 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 be done, dear lad," he said. " Your mother would be 
 the last person on earth to permit you to be discourte- 
 ous to our two distinguished Dons, and by this time 
 in all human probability Betty will be preparing for 
 bed." 
 
 Peter had been building all his hopes on another 
 hour with Betty. She was leaving Oxford with his 
 people the next afternoon and he wanted above all 
 things, however incoherently, to let her know some- 
 thing of the state of his feelings. He had never been 
 so angry with Kenyon before. " Curse you ! " he 
 said. " You've spoiled everything. If you must play 
 about with these chorus girls why can't you do it 
 alone? Why drag me in? " 
 
 Kenyon's eyes narrowed. " Only the angels die 
 young, Peter, my friend," he said. " As I've been 
 obliged to tell you before, you stand a pretty good 
 chance of an early demise. Have you ever heard the 
 word ' priggish ' ? For a whole week I've played the 
 game by you and devoted myself, lock, stock and bar- 
 rel, to your family. Mere sportsmanship demands 
 that you make some slight return to me by joining my 
 little party to-night. Don't you agree with me, 
 Graham?" 
 
 Graham's vanity was vastly appealed to by the 
 fact that this perfect man of the world had taken 
 him into his intimacy. Hitherto he hadn't met Eng- 
 lish chorus girls. He rather liked the idea. " Why," 
 he said, " I can't see why we shouldn't go. I'm with 
 you, anyway. Come on, Peter. Be a sport." 
 
 But Peter held his ground. He had all the more
 
 YOUTH 53 
 
 reason for so doing because he had met Betty. " All 
 right!" he said. "You two can do what you jolly 
 well like. Cut me out of it. I shall turn in. If 
 that's being priggish fine. Good-night!" 
 
 He wheeled round and marched off, and as he passed 
 beneath the windows of the Randolph Hotel he drew 
 up short for a moment and with a touch of knight- 
 liness which was quite unself-conscious he bared his 
 head beneath the window of the room in which be 
 believed that Betty was to sleep, but which, as a mat- 
 ter of fact, harboured a short, fat, wheezy Anglo-In- 
 dian with a head as bald as a billiard ball. 
 
 Kenyon disguised his annoyance under an air of 
 characteristic imperturbability. " Well, that's our 
 Peter to the life," he said, taking Graham's eager arm. 
 " He's a sort of Don Quix9te a very pure and per- 
 fect person. One of these days he's likely to come 
 an unholy cropper, and that's to my way of thinking 
 what he most needs. I don't agree with a man's being 
 a total abstainer in anything. It narrows him and 
 makes him provincial. Then, too, a man who fancies 
 himself as better than his fellows is apt to wear a halo 
 under his hat, and that disgusting trick ruins friend- 
 ship and leads to a hasty and ill-considered marriage 
 with the first good actress who catches him on the hop 
 and makes use of his lamentable ignorance. Come 
 along, brother, we'll see life together." 
 
 "Fine!" said Graham. "Me for life all the 
 time." 
 
 So these two, the one curiously old and the other 
 dangerously young, made their way to the stage door
 
 54 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 of the Theatre Royal and waited among the little 
 crowd of undergraduates for the moment when the 
 ladies of the chorus should have retouched their make- 
 up and be ready for further theatricalisms. 
 
 Lottie Lawrence and Billy Seymour were the first 
 out. The latter's greeting was exuberant. " What- 
 ho, Nick! Where's the blooming giant you said you 
 were going to bring?" 
 
 " Otherwise engaged, dear Billy ; but permit me to 
 introduce to you a financial magnate from the golden 
 city of New York." 
 
 Billy was young and slim and so tight-skirted that 
 her walk was almost like that of a Chinese Princess. 
 Even under the modest light of the stage door-keep- 
 er's box her lips gleamed crimsonly and her long eye- 
 lashes stuck out separately in black surprise. Her 
 small round face was plastered thickly with powder. 
 She was very alluring to the very young. Her friend 
 had come from an exactly similar mould and might 
 have been a twin but for her manner, which was that 
 of the violet the modest violet on a river's brim. 
 
 Kenyon hailed a cab, gave the man the address in 
 Wellington Square and sat himself between the two 
 girls, with an arm round each. 
 
 Billy Seymour had taken in Graham with one expert 
 glance of minute examination. " Graham Guthrie, 
 eh ? " she said. " It smacks of Caledonia, bag-pipes 
 and the braes and banks o' bonnie Boon. I take it 
 your ancestors went over on the S. S. Mayflower, of 
 the White Star Line that gigantic vessel which fol- 
 lowed the beckoning finger of Columbus and started
 
 YOUTH 55 
 
 the race which invented sky-scrapers and the cuspi- 
 dors." 
 
 Graham let out a howl of laughter and told himself 
 that he was in for a good evening, especially as the 
 ladies' knees were very friendly. 
 
 Lottie Lawrence placed her head on Kenyon's 
 shoulder, sighed a little and said : " Oh, I'm so tired 
 and so hungry ; and I've a thirst I wouldn't sell for a 
 tenner." 
 
 Kenyon tightened his hold. " All those things shall 
 be remedied, little one," he said. " Have no fear." 
 
 The first things which met their eyes when they en- 
 tered the sitting-room of the sordid little house in 
 which a series of theatricals had lodged from time 
 immemorial, were a half-dozen bottles of champagne 
 sent in by Nick's order. The two girls showed 
 their appreciation for his tactfulness in different ways. 
 Billy fell upon one of the bottles as though it were 
 her long-lost sister, pressed it to her bosom and placed 
 a passionate kiss upon its label; while Lottie, with an 
 eloquent gesture, immediately handed Graham a rather 
 battered corkscrew. " Help me to the bubbly, boy," 
 she said. " My throat is like a limekiln." 
 
 All the clocks of the City of Spires were striking 
 three as Kenyon and Graham supported each other out 
 into the quiet and deserted street. There was much 
 powder on Graham's coat and a patch of crimson on 
 Kenyon's left cheek. 
 
 " Life with a big L, Graham, my boy," said Kenyon 
 a little thickly.
 
 56 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " A hell of a big L," said Graham, with a very much 
 too loud laugh at his feeble joke. " You certainly do 
 know your way about." 
 
 " And most of the short cuts," said Kenyon dryly. 
 " Presently I shall scale the wall of St. John's, climb 
 through the window of one of our fellows who's about 
 to take holy orders, and wind up the night in the hos- 
 pitable arms of Morpheus." This eventually Graham 
 watched him do, with infinite delight, and was still 
 wearing a smile of self-congratulation as he passed 
 the door of his mother's bedroom in the hotel and 
 entered his own. 
 
 His father heard the heavy footsteps as they went 
 along the passage, but imagined that they were those 
 of the night watchman on his rounds. 
 
 Fate is the master of irony. 
 
 IX 
 
 THE following morning at eight o'clock Peter, as 
 fit as a fiddle, stalked into Kenyon's bedroom and 
 flung up the blind. The sun poured in through 
 the open window. Innumerable sparrows twittered 
 among the trees in the gardens and scouts were mov- 
 ing energetically about the quad. From the other 
 windows the sounds of renewed life were coming. 
 The great beehive of a college was about to begin a 
 new and strenuous day. 
 
 Kenyon was sleeping heavily with a blanket drawn 
 about his ears. His clothes were all over the floor
 
 YOUTH 57 
 
 and a tumbler one-fourth filled with whiskey stood 
 on the dressing-table among a large collection of ivory- 
 backed brushes, links, studs, tie-pins and other para- 
 phernalia which belong to men of Kenyon's type, 
 the bloods of Oxford. With a chuckle, Peter dipped 
 a large sponge in the water of the hip-bath which had 
 been placed ready on the floor, and throwing back the 
 blanket squeezed its contents all over Kenyon's well- 
 cut face. 
 
 The effect was instantaneous. The sleeper awoke, 
 and cursed. Peter's howl of laughter at the sight of 
 this pale blinking man with his delicate blue silk 
 pajamas all wet round the neck advertised the fact to 
 the whole college that he was up and about. 
 
 Kenyon got slowly out of bed. " There are fools 
 damned fools and Peter Guthrie," he said 
 quietly. " What's the time? " 
 
 " Time for you to get up, shave and bathe, if you 
 want to breakfast at the Randolph. How late were 
 you last night? " 
 
 " Haven't a notion," said Kenyon. " The first 
 faint touch of dawn was coming over the horizon, so 
 far as I remember, when your little brother watched 
 me climb through the window of the man Rivers, upon 
 whose ' tummie ' I planted my foot. For a man 
 who's about to enter the Church he has an astounding 
 vocabulary of gutter English. You look abominably 
 fit, old boy the simple life, eh? Heigh-ho! 
 Manipulate this machine for me while I'm doing my 
 hair." He picked up the small black case of his 
 safety-razor and threw it at Peter, who caught it.
 
 58 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 Then he got into a very beautiful silk dressing-gown, 
 stuck his feet into a pair of heelless red morocco slip- 
 pers, and with infinite pains and accuracy made a cen- 
 tre parting in his fair hair, in which there was a slight 
 natural curl. 
 
 From his comfortable position on the foot of the 
 bed Peter watched his friend shave, a performance 
 through which he went with characteristic neatness. 
 It was a very different performance from the one 
 through which Peter was in the habit of going. Soap 
 flew all round this untidy man, giving the scout much 
 extra work in his cleaning-up process. 
 
 Kenyon didn't intend to enter into any details as 
 to the orgy of the night before. He knew from pre- 
 vious experience that Peter's sympathy was not with 
 him. For many reasons he desired to stand well with 
 his friend, especially looking to the fact that he needed 
 an immediate loan. One or two of his numerous 
 creditors were pressing for part payment. So he let 
 the matter drop and took the opportunity to talk like 
 a father to Peter on another point which had grown 
 out of the visit of his people. " Tell me," he said, 
 " what is precisely the state of your feelings in re- 
 gard to your sister's friend? It seems to me that 
 you're getting a bit sloppy in that direction. Am I 
 right?" 
 
 " No," said Peter, " ' sloppy ' isn't the word." 
 
 "Oh! Well, then, what is the word? I may be 
 able to advise you." 
 
 " I don't want your advice," said Peter. " My 
 mind is made up."
 
 YOUTH 59 
 
 Kenyon turned round. " Is that so ? Quick 
 work."' 
 
 Peter nodded. " It's always quick when it's inev- 
 itable." 
 
 " Oho ! What have we here romance ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I think so," said Peter quietly. 
 
 " Who'd have thought it ? Our friend Peter has 
 met his soul-mate! Out of the great crowd he 
 has chosen the mother of his children. It is to 
 laugh!" 
 
 "Think so?" said Peter. "I don't." 
 
 Kenyon put down his razor and stood in front of 
 the man with whom he had lived for several years 
 and who had now apparently come up against a big 
 moment in his life. It didn't suit him that Peter 
 should be seriously in love yet. He looked to his 
 friend to provide him with a certain amount of leisure 
 in the future. His plans would all go wrong if he 
 had to share him with someone else. He had imagined 
 that his friend was only temporarily gone on this little 
 girl whose brief entry into Oxford had helped to make 
 Eight's week very pleasant. It was his duty to find 
 out exactly how Peter stood. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me," he asked, " that you've 
 proposed to Betty Townsend ? " 
 
 " Not yet," said Peter, " but I'm going to this morn- 
 ing that is if I have the pluck." 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Kenyon, with a genuine 
 earnestness, " don't do it. I've no doubt she'll jump 
 at you, being -under the influence of this place and 
 seeing you as a small hero here; but take the advice
 
 60 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 of a man who knows and bring caution to your rescue. 
 What'll happen if you tie yourself up to this girl? 
 After all, you can't possibly be in love with her 
 that's silly. You're under the influence of a few sil- 
 ver nights, and that most dangerous of all things 
 propinquity. Dally with her of course, kiss her and 
 write her letters in which you quote the soft stuff of 
 the poets. That'll provide you with much quiet 
 amusement and assist you in the acquisition of a liter- 
 ary style; but, for God's sake, don't be serious. 
 You're too young. You've not sown your wild oats. 
 What's the use of taking a load of responsibility on 
 your shoulders before you're obliged to do so? I'm 
 talking to you like a father, old man, and I've the 
 right." 
 
 " Oh yes," said Peter, " you've the right no man 
 better but you and I look at things differently. I 
 want the responsibility of this girl. I want someone 
 to work for, an impetus an ultimate end. It may 
 seem idiotic to you that I know the right girl directly 
 I see her, but all the same it's a fact. You see my 
 undergraduate days are almost over. When I go 
 home in the fall I shall start earning my living. What 
 am I going to work for? A home, of course, and a 
 wife and all that that means. If that's what you call 
 romance, thank you, it's exactly what I want. Do you 
 get me? " 
 
 Kenyon shrugged his shoulders. " Then I don't see 
 that there's anything more to be said. Does all this 
 mean that you're going to chuck me? Supposing 
 Betty accepts you? Are you going to dog her foot-
 
 YOUTH 61 
 
 steps for the rest of the summer and leave me in the 
 cart?" 
 
 " Oh Lord, no ! " said Peter. 
 
 " Thank God for small mercies ! And now if you'll 
 give me a little elbow-room I'll have my bath." 
 
 "Right-o!" said Peter. "Buck up! Breakfast 
 at nine o'clock." 
 
 He went out, not singing as usual but with a cu- 
 rious quietness and a strange light dancing in his 
 eyes. 
 
 Kenyon was left the sole master of that little bed- 
 room. As he finished dressing he marshalled his 
 thoughts and into them entered the figure of a certain 
 very beautiful person who lived in a cottage on the 
 borders of his father's estate. Before now she had 
 twisted young men, quite as romantic as Peter, out of 
 their engagements to simple little girls. He would 
 see that she worked her wiles on Peter. He didn't 
 intend that his friend should devote himself to any 
 person except Nicholas Kenyon so long as he could 
 prevent it. 
 
 X 
 
 IT was a rather curious meal, this final breakfast 
 at the Randolph Hotel. There were several under- 
 currents of feeling which seemed to disturb the atmos- 
 phere like cross winds. The Doctor and Mrs. Guthrie 
 were genuinely sorry that the week had come to an 
 end. It was one which would be filled with memo- 
 ries. Graham would very willingly have remained at
 
 62 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 Oxford as long as Kenyon did. He had fallen a 
 complete victim to the attractions of this master of 
 psychology. He regarded him as the very last word 
 in expert worldliness. He paid him the highest tribute 
 that he considered it was possible for one man to pay 
 another, by calling him " a good sport," and he looked 
 forward with enormous pleasure to the time when he 
 would be able to show Kenyon the night side of New 
 York, with which he had himself begun to be well 
 acquainted. 
 
 As to the two girls, wonderful things had happened 
 to both of them during that emotional, stirring, pic- 
 turesque and altogether " different " week. It seemed 
 almost incredible to them they had been in that old 
 town for so short a time, during which, however, their 
 little plans their girlish point of view had un- 
 dergone absolute revolution. The high-spirited Belle, 
 who had hitherto gone through life with a consistent 
 exuberance and rather thoughtless joy, was rendered 
 uncharacteristically serious at the knowledge that she 
 would not see Nicholas Kenyon again for some 
 months. Not for a moment did she regret the fact 
 that she had fallen badly in love with him. It was a 
 new sensation for her, and young as she was, it was 
 the new thing that counted. Her mind was filled with 
 dreams. In imagination she walked from one series 
 of pictures into another and all were touched with 
 excitement, exhilaration and a sense of having won 
 something, the possession of which all her friends 
 would envy her. 
 
 In going over in her mind all that Kenyon had said
 
 YOUTH 63 
 
 to her, she could not put her finger on any actual 
 declaration on his part; but his subtle assumption of 
 possession, the way in which he touched her hand and 
 looked at her over other people's heads with eyes which 
 seemed to embrace her, seemed to her to be far more 
 satisfactory than any conventional set of words ordi- 
 nary under such circumstances. Then, too, there was 
 that wonderful and sudden kiss on the landing stage 
 in the shadow. Why, there was no doubt about it. 
 She had, like Caesar, come and seen and conquered. 
 She was to be the Hon. Mrs. Nicholas Kenyon, 
 daughter-in-law of Lord Shropshire, of Thrapstone- 
 Wynyates. What a delightful surprise for father and 
 mother, and how proud they would be of her ! 
 
 Betty knew that Peter intended to make her his 
 wife. She knew it and was happy. His very inco- 
 herence had been more eloquent to her than the well- 
 rounded sentences of all the heroes of her favorite 
 novels, and if he never said another word before she 
 left, she would be satisfied. In her heart there was 
 the sensation of one who had come to the end of a long 
 road and now stood in a -great wide open space on 
 which the sun fell warmly and with great beauty. 
 
 Not much was said by anyone, and the question of 
 the afternoon train which was to leave at four-thirty 
 was consistently avoided by them all. 
 
 Breakfast over, the whole party followed Kenyon 
 into the street, where two cars were waiting for the 
 trip to Woodstock. They were to lunch at the old inn 
 which stood beneath the gnarled branches of the oaks 
 that had sheltered the Round Heads and Royalists.
 
 64 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 The first car was Kenyon's roadster, in which he 
 placed Mrs. Guthrie, the Doctor and Graham. He had 
 intended that Betty should sit by his side as he drove, 
 and that Peter should take Belle in his two-seater. 
 But Master Peter was too quick for him this time. 
 He had touched Betty on the arm and said : " You're 
 coming with me." And before Kenyon could frame a 
 sentence to break up this arrangement these two were 
 off together with the complete disregard for speed 
 limits which was peculiar to the Oxford undergradu- 
 ate. Kenyon had the honesty to say about this to 
 himself that it was well done, but all the same he was 
 immensely annoyed. As he drove off with Belle on 
 the front seat he was not, for at least a mile, a very 
 talkative companion. Belle put his silence down to 
 the fact that she was going away that afternoon. 
 
 Along St. Giles, past the burial ground, the Roman 
 Catholic Church, Somerville, and into the Woodstock 
 road as far as the Radcliffe Infirmary, Peter kept the 
 lead, and then the big car overtook him and left him 
 behind. Graham waved his hand and shouted some- 
 thing which Peter didn't catch. It was probably 
 facetious. As far as Wolvercote Peter kept in touch 
 with the car in front, when he began to fall gradually 
 behind. He had a plan in the back of his head. 
 
 The morning seemed to suit all that he had to say, 
 if he found himself able to say it. The earth was 
 warm with the sun. The hedges and trees were still 
 in the first fresh vigor of early summer. Everywhere 
 birds sang and were busy with their young. 
 
 Peter pulled up short at the edge of a spinney.
 
 YOUTH 65 
 
 " Let's get out of here," he said, " I want to show you 
 a corking little bit of country." And Betty obeyed 
 without a word. She rather liked being ordered about 
 by this big square-shouldered person. 
 
 They didn't go far, hardly, in fact, fifty yards 
 from the car, and when they came to a small open- 
 ing among the beeches where bracken grew and " bread 
 and cheese " covered the soft turf with their little 
 yellow heads, Peter said : " Sit down ; I want to 
 speak to you." 
 
 And again Betty obeyed without a word. It was 
 coming she knew that it was coming and the 
 only thing she was afraid about was that Peter would 
 hear the quick beat of her heart. 
 
 He laid himself full stretch at her feet, threw off his 
 cap and ran his fingers through his hair. " You know 
 this place," he said. 
 
 " I ? No, I've never been here before." 
 
 "Yes, you have. You've been here with your 
 friends. They come out every night from the first 
 of May until the first of October. Can't you see the 
 marks their feet have made as they danced here in the 
 ring? It's awfully queer. This is the first place I 
 came to after I got to Oxford all the leaves were 
 red and I sat here one afternoon alone and won- 
 dered how long it would be before I should look up 
 and see you. I've often come here since, winter and 
 summer, and listened for sticks to crackle as you came 
 along through the trees to find me. Why don't you 
 laugh?" 
 
 "Why should I?"
 
 66 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " I knew you wouldn't. If you had it wouldn't 
 have been you." 
 
 He turned himself round on to his elbows and 
 looked up at her, and remained looking and looking. 
 And Betty looked back. Her heart was beating so 
 loudly that it seemed to her that someone was whack- 
 ing a carpet somewhere with a stick. She wondered 
 whether she would be able to hear Peter when he spoke 
 again, if ever he did. 
 
 And Peter said : "I'm going to begin to be a man 
 exactly five months from to-day. That is to say, I'm 
 going into a law office in New York to make a begin- 
 ning. I'm going to work like the dickens. Do you 
 know why ? " 
 
 Betty shook her head and then nodded. He was a 
 long time coming to the point. If he wasn't quick 
 she'd simply have to scream. Her heart was up in her 
 throat it was most uncomfortable. 
 
 Peter went on. Somehow words came easy to him. 
 The earth was so friendly and so motherly and so very 
 kind, and after all this was his spot and she was there 
 at last. " I forget the number of the house," he said, 
 " but up on the eighth floor of it, facing south, there's 
 a most corking apartment. The rooms are large and 
 can be filled with big furniture and enormous book- 
 cases. I'm going to work to get that. I don't know 
 how long it'll take, but I'm going to ask you to help 
 me to get it. Will you?" 
 
 Betty nodded again. Someone was beating the car- 
 pet in a most violent manner. 
 
 Peter, without another word, sprang up, put two
 
 YOUTH 67 
 
 large strong hands under Betty's elbows and set her 
 on her feet. She came up to the top button of his coat 
 and he held her there tight and it hurt her cheek. But 
 oh, how fine and broad the chest was behind it and how 
 good it was to nestle there. She heard him say much 
 that she forgot then, but remembered afterwards 
 simple boyish things expressed with deep sincerity and 
 a sort of throb outpourings of pent-up feelings 
 not in the very least incoherent, but all definite and 
 very good. And there they stayed for what appeared 
 to be a long time. The man with the carpet had gone 
 away, but without looking up Betty knew that there 
 were hundreds of little people dancing around them in 
 the ring and the little clearing full of the yellow heads 
 of wild flowers seemed to have become that great open 
 space and out of it, between an avenue of old trees, 
 stretched the wide road which led to, the word was 
 the only one in the song that filled her brain, moth- 
 erhood ! Motherhood ! 
 
 A rabbit ran past them frightened, and Betty sprang 
 away. " Peter! What will the others say? " 
 
 Peter shook himself and his great laugh awoke the 
 echoes of the woods. " I don't care what anybody 
 says," he answered. " Do you? " 
 
 " Yes. Let's go. We shall be late for lunch." 
 
 And Peter picked her up, carried her to the car, 
 kissed her, put her in, and drove away.
 
 68 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 XI 
 
 PETER and Kenyon left the station arm in arm. 
 They had watched the train round the corner and dis- 
 appear. Many hands had waved to the crowd of un- 
 dergraduates who had come to see their people and 
 friends off. Peter had stood bareheaded with his hand 
 still tingling with the touch of Betty's. 
 
 They walked slowly back to college, each busy with 
 his thoughts. Exultation filled Peter's mind. Ken- 
 yon was wondering how much he could touch Peter 
 for. In the procession of returning undergraduates 
 they made their way under the railway bridge and 
 along the sun-bathed but rather slummy cobblestone 
 road over which the tram-cars ran. They passed the 
 row of little red brick houses most of which were 
 shops and the factory, stammering smoke, and 
 turned into the back way which led by a short cut to 
 Worcester. 
 
 Oxford had resumed her normal atmosphere. Fa- 
 thers and mothers, uncles, guardians, brothers, sisters 
 and cousins, who had all descended upon the town, had 
 departed. No longer were the old winding streets set 
 alight by the many colored frocks of pretty girls, nor 
 were they any longer stirred into a temporary bustle 
 by the great influx of motor-cars. Undergraduates 
 held possession once more and with their peculiar 
 adaptability were making hasty preparations for the 
 long vacation. 
 
 Peter led the way to his sitter, loaded his inevitable
 
 YOUTH 69 
 
 pipe, and sat in the sun on the sill of the open window. 
 With fastidious care Kenyon stuck a cigarette into a 
 long meerschaum holder and laid himself down on the 
 settee. He had worked very hard during the week 
 and had very much more than carried out his promise 
 to Peter to make himself pleasant. The moment had 
 come when he might certainly lead the way up to his 
 reward. 
 
 Peter took the words out of his friend's mouth. 
 " What d'you think? " he said. " When I was saying 
 good-bye to the Governor on the platform he took me 
 aside and gave me a cheque. He did it in his curious 
 apologetic way which always makes me feel that he's 
 someone else's father, and said : ' I think this will see 
 you through for a month or two.' Gee! It's some 
 cheque, Nick ! I don't think I shall have to touch the 
 old man down for another bob until I have to book my 
 passage. His generosity leaves me wordless. I wish 
 to God I'd been able to say something nice. As it was, 
 I had to tell mother to thank him for me." He went 
 over to his desk, fished out a cheque-book, sat down 
 and made one out in his large round boyish handwrit- 
 ing. 
 
 Kenyon watched him intently. He hoped that it 
 might be for himself and for fifty sovereigns. That 
 amount, carefully split up, would keep some of his 
 more pressing tradesmen quiet for a short time. 
 
 "Is this any good to you, old man?" said Peter. 
 He dropped the cheque on to Kenyon's immaculate 
 waistcoat. It was for a hundred pounds. 
 
 The master parasite was taken by surprise almost
 
 7 o THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 for the first time in his life and he was sincerely 
 touched by this generosity. " My dear old Peter ! 
 This is really devilish kind of you! I'm exceedingly 
 grateful. My exit from Oxford can now be made 
 with a certain amount of dignity. I'll add this amount 
 to your other advances, and you must trust in God and 
 my luck at cards to get it back." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," said Peter. "You'd have 
 done the same for me. What's the good of friend- 
 ship anyway if a man can't share his bonuses with a 
 pal ? Well, well ! There goes another Commem : 
 the last of them for us. Everything seems awfully 
 flat here without, without my people. What d'you 
 think of the Governor? " 
 
 Kenyon folded the cheque neatly and slipped it into 
 a small leather case upon which his crest was em- 
 bossed in gold. It was one of the numerous nice 
 things for which he owed. " Your father," he said, 
 " is a very considerable man. I made a careful study 
 of him and I've come to the conclusion that all he 
 needs from you and Graham is human treatment. If 
 he were my father I should buy a metaphorical chisel 
 and an easily manipulated hammer and chip off all his 
 shyness bit by bit as though it were concrete. Prop- 
 erly managed there's enough in Dr. Guthrie to keep 
 you in comfort for the rest of your life without doing 
 a stroke of work. What age is he somewhere 
 about fifty-three I suppose ? In all human probability 
 he is good barring accidents for another fifteen 
 years or so. Then, duly mourned, and, I take it, con- 
 siderably paragraphed in your newspapers, he will go
 
 YOUTH 71 
 
 to his long rest and you will come into your own. 
 With even quite ordinary diplomacy you can use those 
 fifteen years to considerable advantage to yourself, 
 dallying gently with life and adding considerably to 
 your experience, making your headquarters at his 
 house. You can do the semblance of work in order 
 to satisfy his rather puritanical notion, but I can't 
 see that there'll be any need for you to sweat. For 
 instance, become a poet that's easy. There are 
 stacks of sonneteers whom you could imitate. Or you 
 could call yourself a literary man and do nothing more 
 than establish a sanctum-sanctorum in which to keep 
 a neat pile of well-bound manuscript books and ac- 
 quire a library. If I were you I should adopt the lat- 
 ter course it sounds well. It'll satisfy the old man 
 and all the while you're not writing the great book 
 he'll pat himself on the back and congratulate himself 
 on having had you properly educated. During all this 
 time you can draw from him a very nice yearly in- 
 come, and then make your splash when nature has laid 
 her relentless hand upon the old man's shoulder." 
 
 There was a moment's pause, during which Peter 
 looked very curiously at the graceful indolent man who 
 lay upon his settee. " If I didn't know that you were 
 talking for effect," he said, " I should take you by the 
 scruff of your neck and the seat of your breeches and 
 hurl you down-stairs. I know you better than to 
 believe that you are the cold-blooded brute that you 
 make yourself out to be. Anyhow, we'll not discuss 
 the matter. The one useful thing you have said 
 and on which I shall try to act is that Graham and
 
 72 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 I must try to be more human with the Governor. He 
 deserves it. What's the program? " 
 
 " For me," said Kenyon, " dinner with Lascelles and 
 bridge to the early hours. With good cards and a 
 fairly good partner I shall hope to make a bit. What 
 are you going to do? " 
 
 " I shall dine in Hall," said Peter, " and then go out 
 for a walk." 
 
 " I see." Kenyon got up, filled his cigarette case 
 from Peter's box and stood with his back to the man- 
 tel-piece. " You proposed to Betty to-day, didn't 
 
 you 
 
 " How the deuce did you know that ? " 
 Kenyon laughed. " My dear fellow," he said, 
 " everybody knows that. You exuded romance when 
 you arrived late at the Inn. The very waiter guessed 
 it, and was so stirred, being Swiss, that he very nearly 
 poured the soup down your mother's neck. And when 
 your mother looked at you I saw something come into 
 her eyes which showed me that she knew she had lost 
 you. I wouldn't be a mother if you paid me! " And 
 then he held out his hand with that charm of which he 
 was past-master. " ' Friend that sticketh closer than 
 a brother,' three years; dashed bit of a slip of a girl, 
 one week, and where's your friend? Well, good 
 luck, Peter! She's a nice little thing. Dream your 
 dreams, old boy, but don't altogether forget the man 
 who's been through Oxford with you." 
 
 Peter grasped the hand warmly. " Don't be an 
 ass ! " he said. " Go and brush your back hair. It's 
 all sticking up."
 
 YOUTH 73 
 
 And when he was alone, except for a golden patch 
 of evening sun which had found its way through his 
 window and had spilt itself on his carpet, Peter pulled 
 out a little white glove from his pocket and kissed it. 
 
 " O God! " he said. " Help me to become a man." 
 
 XII 
 
 No one knew, because no one was told, of the many 
 hours of grief which little Mrs. Guthrie endured after 
 she left Oxford. There were two reasons for this 
 grief. One, the inevitable realization that the time 
 had come for some other woman to take her place with 
 her son. She remained his mother, but she was no 
 longer first. The other, that Peter had not told her 
 about Betty at once and had left it for her to find out, 
 as the others did. And this hurt badly. He had al- 
 ways been in the habit of telling her everything, 
 first at her knee, then as he stood on a level with her, 
 and finally when he looked down upon her from his 
 great height. Every one of his numerous letters writ- 
 ten while he was so far away from home contained the 
 outpourings of his soul his troubles, difficulties, tri- 
 umphs, wonderings and short incoherent cries for 
 help. As Kenyon said, she had only to look at him 
 once when he marched into the Old Inn at Woodstock 
 with Betty to know that she had lost him. She waited 
 for him that afternoon to tell her, but he never 
 spoke. Even as he put her into the train she hoped 
 that he would remember, but he didn't. That wasn't
 
 74 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 like her Peter, she told herself again and again. What 
 was she to think but that it only needed one short week 
 and a very pretty face to make him forget all the long 
 years of her love and tenderness. It was very, very 
 hard. 
 
 It is true that for the remainder of their holiday, 
 during which, with her husband, Graham, Belle, and 
 Betty, Mrs. Guthrie went from one charming place to 
 another, seeing shrines and looking down from fa- 
 mous heights on garden-like valleys of English coun- 
 try, Peter's letters came as regularly as usual. They 
 were no shorter and no less intimate; and in the first 
 one that she received, the day after leaving Oxford, 
 he told her his great news, but he hadn't spoken of 
 it he hadn't come to her at once, and she felt with 
 a great shock of pain that she was deposed. Also she 
 was well aware of the fact that the same posts which 
 brought her letters brought letters to Betty and she 
 was jealous. 
 
 Uttering no word of complaint, even to the Doctor, 
 little Mrs. Guthrie nursed her sorrow and went out of 
 her way to be very nice to Betty. Her mother-in- 
 stinct told her that she must win this girl; otherwise 
 there was a chance that she might in the future see very 
 little of Peter. In all this she had one small triumph, 
 of which she made the most. Her letters from Peter 
 contained more news than those written to Betty, and 
 thus she was able to score a little over the girl. With 
 an air of great superiority, very natural under the cir- 
 cumstances, she told Betty and the others the manner 
 in which Peter had gone down from Oxford; of the
 
 YOUTH 75 
 
 dinner that was given to him by the American Club, 
 a great evening, during which he was presented with a 
 silver cigarette box covered with signatures, of the 
 farewell luncheon with his professors and the delight- 
 ful things that they said to him there ; of his strenuous 
 doings at Henley, the stern training, the race itself in 
 which his boat was beaten; of the wild night on the 
 Vanderbilt barge; of the few cheery days spent in 
 London with a bunch of the Rhodesmen; and finally 
 his preparations for his visit to Thrapstone-Wynyates, 
 in Shropshire, the famous old Tudor House of Ken- 
 yon' s father. 
 
 Three times during these pleasant weeks Peter ran 
 down to see, not her, but Betty, and went out with 
 her with his face alight and then hurried back to his 
 engagements, having given her, his mother, who loved 
 him so, several hugs and a few incoherent words. It 
 was the way of life, youth to youth, but it was very 
 hard. 
 
 On the afternoon of the fifth of August, when the 
 party crossed the gangplank at Southampton to go 
 aboard the Olympic, little Mrs. Guthrie told herself 
 that in a few minutes she would see Peter's great form 
 elbowing through the crowd, although he had not said 
 that he would be there to say good-bye. She almost 
 hoped that something might prevent him from being 
 in time, because she knew that he would not come solely 
 to hold her in his arms, but for another reason. Noth- 
 ing, however, did prevent him. He followed them al- 
 most instantly on board ; and although he never left her 
 side, he surreptitiously held Betty's hand all the time.
 
 76 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 A smile of unusual bitterness crept all about the 
 little woman's heart. It was very hard. He was her 
 boy her son her first-born and the apple of her 
 eye. She had come up for the first time to one of the 
 rudest awakenings that a mother can ever know. And 
 presently when the cry, " All ashore that's going 
 ashore ! " went up and Peter put both his big arms 
 about her and said, " Good-bye, mummie, darling, I 
 shall come home soon," she broke into such a fit of 
 weeping and kissed him with a passion so great that 
 the boy was startled and a little frightened. There 
 was no time to think or ask questions. There was 
 his father's hand to shake, and Graham's, and Belle 
 to kiss. There was also Betty, and she was suddenly 
 hugged before them all. 
 
 As the big liner sent out its raucous note of de- 
 parture and moved away from the dock the little 
 mother was unable to see the bare head of her boy 
 above the heads of the great crowd. Her eyes \vere 
 blinded. " He doesn't understand," she said to her- 
 self. " He doesn't understand." 
 
 Poor little mother ! It was very hard. 
 
 XIII 
 
 THE cottage on the borders of Lord Shropshire's 
 
 park was just as pretty and just as small as the little 
 
 lady who lived there. It was appropriately called 
 
 'The Nest," although there was no male bird in it 
 
 and it was devoid of young ones; but Mrs. Randolph
 
 YOUTH 77 
 
 Lennox was so like a bird, with her trilly soprano 
 voice, her quick dartings here and there and the pe- 
 culiar way she had of getting all a-flutter when people 
 called, that the name of her charming little place 
 first given by Kenyon stuck, and was generally used. 
 
 It was perched up on high ground overlooking the 
 gardens of the old Tudor House, those wonderful 
 Italian gardens in which Charles II had dallied with 
 his mistresses on his return from his long, heart-break- 
 ing and hungry exile. It was tree-surrounded and 
 creepers grew up its old walls to its thickly thatched 
 roof. For many years it had been occupied by the 
 agent of the estate, until so it was said it was 
 won by Mrs. Lennox from the present Lord Shrop- 
 shire as the result of a bet. 
 
 No one had ever seen Randolph Lennox and many 
 people didn't believe that he was anything more than 
 a myth; but the little woman gave herself out as the 
 widow of this man and was accepted as such. Her 
 income was small, but not so small as to preclude her 
 from playing bridge for fairly large stakes, dressing 
 exquisitely, riding to the hounds and keeping an ex- 
 tremely efficient menage, consisting of two maid serv- 
 ants and an elderly gardener. It enabled her also to 
 spend May and June in London yearly at a little hotel 
 in Half Moon Street, Piccadilly, from which utterly 
 correct little house she was taken nightly to dinner 
 and to the theatre by one or other of the numerous 
 young men who formed her entourage. Never taken 
 actually into the heart of London society, she man- 
 aged with quiet skill to attach herself to its rather
 
 7 8 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 long limbs, and her name was frequently to be found 
 in the columns of society papers as having been seen 
 in a creation by Paquin or Macinka at Ranalagh or 
 Hurlingham, the opera, or lunching at the Ritz. 
 
 At one time the tongue of rumor had been very 
 busy about Mrs. Randolph Lennox, " Baby " Len- 
 nox as she was commonly called. It was said that she 
 had been lifted out of the chorus of the Gaiety at the 
 age of nineteen by His Serene Highness, the Prince 
 of Booch-Kehah; that she had passed under the con- 
 trol of Captain Harry Waterloo, and eventually, be- 
 fore disappearing for a time, figured in the Divorce 
 Court as a corespondent. The tongue of rumor is, 
 however, in the mouth of Ananias, and as Baby Len- 
 nox never spoke of herself except, a little sadly, as a 
 woman whose brief married life was an unfortunate 
 memory, her past remained a mystery and people were 
 obliged to accept her for her present and her future. 
 She was so small so golden-haired so large eyed 
 so fresh and young and dainty so consistently 
 charming and birdlike that she was the Mecca of 
 very young men. With the beautiful trustfulness of 
 the male young they believed in her, and over and over 
 again she could have changed her name to others which 
 were equally euphonious and which, unlike her own, 
 could be discovered in the Red Book. But as there 
 was no money attached to them she continued to re- 
 main a young and interesting widow and to live in the 
 little cottage on the hill and to pop in and out of the 
 Shropshire house as the most popular member of its 
 kaleidoscopic parties.
 
 YOUTH 79 
 
 Whether there was any truth in the story that the 
 present Lord Shropshire was related to her in a fa- 
 therly way no one will ever know, except perhaps 
 Nicholas Kenyon, who in his treatment of her was 
 uncharacteristically brotherly. These two, at any 
 rate, had no secrets from each other and both regarded 
 life from the same peculiar angle. As parasites they 
 had everything in common and they assisted each other 
 and played into each other's hands with a loyalty that 
 was praiseworthy even under these circumstances. 
 
 Nicholas Kenyon's mother a very large, hand- 
 some woman with brilliant teeth and amazing good- 
 nature, who, even when in the best of health, never 
 finished dressing till four o'clock in the afternoon and 
 then never put much on was undergoing a rest-cure 
 in the west wing of Thrapstone-Wynyates when the 
 boys arrived for the shooting. For nearly a year she 
 had been playing auction every night until the very 
 small hours and had, while in a nervous condition, 
 stumbled across an emotional pamphlet written by a 
 Welsh revivalist, which sent her straight to bed. She 
 was really greatly shaken by it and perhaps a little bit 
 frightened. It did not mince words about the future 
 of women of her type, and she was shocked. Heaven 
 seemed to her to be a place into which she had the 
 same inherited right to walk as the Royal Enclosure 
 at Ascot; but this vehement little book put a widely 
 different point of view before her. Therefore it hap- 
 pened that the first woman to whom Peter was intro- 
 duced was the little widow, " Baby " Lennox, who was 
 acting as hostess.
 
 8o THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 Two evenings before she met Peter she had received 
 a letter from Kenyon, which ran as follows : 
 
 " Carlton Hotel, 
 "Dear Old Girl: 
 
 " I shall turn up at home on Thursday in time for tea. 
 I hear that mother is enjoying herself in the throes of 
 some very pleasant imaginary complaint of sorts and has 
 retired to the solitude of the west wing. After a busy 
 season she no doubt wishes to read Wells' new novel of 
 socialism and seduction and the latest Masefield poems, 
 which always remind me of the ramblings of rum-soaked 
 sailors in a Portsmouth pub. I, for one, shall miss her 
 florid and inaccurate presence and the deliciously flagrant 
 way in which she cheats at Bridge ; but if father has gath- 
 ered round him an August house-party on his usual lines, 
 I look forward to a cheery time, dog eating dog, if I 
 may put it like that. I am bringing with me the man 
 with whom I have shared rooms at Oxford, Peter 
 Guthrie. He's the American of whom I have spoken to 
 you before. I am especially anxious for him to meet 
 you, because, while under the hypnotic influence of Ox- 
 ford in all the beauty of late spring, he has been fool 
 enough to get himself engaged. Now, not only is Guthrie 
 very useful to me, having a wealthy father and being 
 himself a generous soul, but I am going to New York 
 with him in October to see if that city can be made to ren- 
 der up some of its unlimited dollars, and I don't want him 
 to be hanging, booby-eyed, at the heels of a girl until such 
 time as I have found my feet. You have a wonderful 
 way with the very young and unsophisticated and I shall 
 really be enormously obliged if you will work your never- 
 failing wiles on my most useful friend and draw his at 
 present infatuated mind away from the nice, harmless
 
 YOUTH 81 
 
 little girl who has just sailed. Fasten on him, my dear, 
 and make him attach himself to you for the remainder of 
 our holiday. Go as far as you dare or care, the farther 
 the better for my sake and eventually for his own. He is 
 one of those admirable, simple, big, virgin men to whom 
 women are a wonderful mystery. At present he has re- 
 fused even to look through a glass, darkly, at that pleasant 
 and compensating side of life, and he needs to be brought 
 down from his self-made pedestal. It will do him good 
 and me a service. Honestly, I find it more than a little 
 trying to be in such close association with an Archangel. 
 Turn your innocent blue eyes on him, Baby dear, and 
 teach him things and, above all, get him out of this silly, 
 sentimental tangle of his. Incidentally, he has money 
 and can procure more and I feel sure that you will not 
 find him a waste of your good efforts. He is a splendid 
 specimen of what my particular Don was wont to call 
 ' young manhood,' and when he plays ragtime he puts 
 the Savoy, or, for the matter of that, any other English 
 orchestra into a little round hole. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 " N. K." 
 
 Quite unconscious of this scheme, Peter fell into the 
 light-heartedness of this beautiful old house with his 
 usual gusto. To his unsuspicious eyes Baby Lennox 
 was quite the most charming woman he had ever met. 
 
 He was delighted, a little surprised and even a little 
 jealous at the relations which existed between Kenyon 
 and his father. He was quick to notice that they 
 treated each other more like pals or brothers, than 
 father and son, were entirely open and frank with 
 each other, walked about arm in arm, played tennis
 
 82 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 and billiards together and often spent hours in each 
 other's society, laughing and talking. He noticed, too, 
 that Kenyon always called his father " Tops," a name 
 which had grown into daily use from the time when, 
 as a tiny lad just able to talk, the things that most 
 caught his fancy were Lord Shropshire's riding-boots, 
 in which he seemed to live, being mostly on horseback. 
 " Nicko " was what his father called Kenyon, that 
 and old man or old boy. He wished most deeply that 
 he and his own father were on such good terms. 
 
 If Peter had heard the sort of things these two 
 talked about and confided to each other, his surprise 
 would have elaborated into amazement. The elder 
 man took infinite pleasure in telling the one who was 
 so complete a chip off the same block the most minute 
 details of his love affairs during the time that he was 
 at Sandhurst for his army training, while he was in a 
 crack Cavalry regiment and while he knocked about 
 London and Paris and Vienna before and after his 
 marriage. Also he revelled in relating his racing and 
 gambling experiences, describing the more shady epi- 
 sodes with witty phrases and a touch of satire that was 
 highly entertaining to the younger man. They both 
 agreed, with a paradoxical sort of honesty, deliberately 
 and inherently, that they were not straight and ac- 
 cepted each other as such, and the father used fre- 
 quently to speculate from which of his dull, responsible 
 and worthy ancestors he acquired the tendency. It 
 was certainly not from the late Lord Shropshire, 
 whose brilliant work as a Cabinet Minister in several 
 Governments and as one of the most valued advisers
 
 YOUTH 83 
 
 of Queen Victoria had placed his name permanently 
 in the annals of his country. " We get it from one of 
 the women of the family, I suspect, Nicko," he had a 
 way of saying, after a more than usually excellent din- 
 ner. " A dear, pretty creature who lived a double life 
 with delightful finesse the great lady and the hu- 
 man woman by turns. What d'you think, old boy? 
 At any rate, you and I make no pretences and, 'pon 
 my soul! I don't know which of us is the better ex- 
 ponent in the delicate and difficult art of sleight of 
 hand. I wish I were going to America with you. I 
 fancy that we should make in double harness enough 
 to enable us to retire from the game and live like little 
 gentlemen. As it is, you'll do very well, I've no doubt. 
 From what I hear, the country reeks with wealthy 
 young men waiting to be touched by an expert such as 
 you are. Do some good work, old fellow, and when 
 you come back you shall lend me a portion of your 
 earnings, eh ? " 
 
 They were a strange couple, these two, capable, out- 
 wardly charming and cut out for a very different way 
 of life but for the regrettable possession of a kink 
 which caused them to become harpies and turn the 
 weaknesses of unsuspicion of human nature to their 
 own advantage. Some psychologists might have gone 
 out of their way to find excuses for these men and 
 endeavor to prove that they would both have run 
 straight but for the fact that they were always pushed 
 for money. They would, however, have been wrong. 
 Just as some men are born orators, some with me- 
 chanical and creative genius and some with the gift of
 
 84 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 leadership, these two men were born crooked, and un- 
 der no conditions, even the most favorable, could they 
 have played any game according to the rules. 
 
 The men of the party were all excellent sportsmen 
 and good fellows, and the women more than usually 
 delightful representatives of English society. As a 
 matter of fact, the men were all, like Kenyon's fa- 
 ther, living on their wits and just avoiding criminal 
 prosecution by the eighth of an inch. They called 
 themselves racing men, which, translated into cold 
 English, means that they were people of no ostensible 
 means of livelihood, who attended every race meeting 
 and backed horses on credit, taking their winnings and 
 owing their losses until chased by crook solicitors. 
 They all bore names well known in English history. 
 They had all passed through the best schools and either 
 Oxford, Cambridge or Sandhurst. One or two of 
 them were still in the army. One had been requested 
 to resign from the navy, the King having no further 
 use for his services, and one was a Member of Parlia- 
 ment, having previously been hammered in the other 
 house, that is to say the Stock Exchange. The 
 women of the party were either wives of these men 
 or not, as the case may be. At any rate they were 
 good to look at, amusing to talk to, and apparently 
 without a care in the world. And if Lord Shrop- 
 shire, in welcoming Peter to his famous house, had 
 said, like the spider to the fly, " Come into my parlor 
 so that whatever you have about you may be sucked 
 dry by us," he would have been strictly truthful. Sev- 
 eral other such men as Peter had gone into that web
 
 YOUTH 85 
 
 sound and whole, but they had come out again with 
 many things to regret and forget. 
 
 Who could say whether Peter would escape? 
 
 XIV 
 
 PETER had, as he duly reported to his mother and to 
 Betty, a corking time at Thrapstone-Wynyates. 
 
 Although an open-air man, an athlete, whose read- 
 ing had always been confined to those books only that 
 were necessary to his work, dry law books for the 
 most part, Peter was far from being insensible to the 
 mellow beauty of the house, and his imagination, un- 
 cultivated so far as any training in art or architecture 
 went, was subconsciously stirred by the knowledge 
 that its floors and stone walks and galleries were worn 
 by the feet of a long line of men and women whose 
 loves and passions and hatreds had been worked out 
 there and whose ghostly forms in all the picturesque 
 trappings of several centuries haunted its echoing Hall 
 and looked down from its walls, from their places in 
 gold frames, upon its present occupants. 
 
 The atmosphere of Oxford, and especially of his 
 own college, had often spun his thoughts from rowing 
 and other strenuous, splendid, vital things, to the great 
 silent army of dead men whose shouts had rung 
 through the quad and whose rushing feet had gone 
 under the old gate. But this house, standing bravely 
 and with an indescribable sense of responsibility as 
 one of the few rear-guards of those great days of
 
 86 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 chivalry and gallant fighting for heroic causes, moved 
 him differently. Here women had been and their per- 
 fume seemed to hang to the tapestries, and the influ- 
 ence of their hands that could no longer touch was 
 everywhere apparent. Often Peter drew up short, on 
 his way up the wide staircase, to listen for the click 
 of high heels, the tinkle of a spinet and the rattle of 
 dice. Everywhere he went he had a queer but not 
 unpleasant sense of never being alone, just as most 
 men have who walk along the cloisters of a cathedral 
 whose vast array of empty prie-dieus have felt the 
 knees of many generations and in whose lofty roof 
 there is collected the voices of an unnumberable choir. 
 
 Up early enough to find the dew still wet on flowers 
 and turf he enjoyed a swim every morning in the 
 Italian bathing pool beneath the Cedar trees with Baby 
 Lennox. Then he either went for a gallop, before 
 breakfast, on one of Lord Shropshire's ponies again 
 with Baby Lennox or had a round of golf with her 
 on the workmanlike nine-hole course which had been 
 laid out in the park. She played a neat game, driving 
 straight, approaching deftly and putting like a book, 
 frequently beating him. 
 
 The picture of this very pretty little person as she 
 stood on the edge of the bathing pool that first morn- 
 ing was, as she intended it to be, indescribably attrac- 
 tive. She came from her room in a white kimono 
 worked with the beautiful designs which only the 
 Chinese can achieve. Her golden hair was closely 
 covered by a tight-fitting bathing cap of geranium red, 
 most becoming to her white skin. " Mr. Peter! " she
 
 YOUTH 87 
 
 called out. " I can't swim a bit, so you must look 
 after me like like a brother." And then, as though 
 to show how silly that word was, she flung off the 
 wrap and stood, all slim and sweet, in blue silk tights 
 cut low at the neck and high above her little round 
 white knees. Peter thought, with a kind of boyish 
 gasp, that she looked like a most alluring drawing on 
 the cover of a magazine. With an irresistible simplic- 
 ity and utter lack of self-consciousness she stood, bal- 
 anced on the edge of the pool, with the sun embracing 
 her, in a diving attitude, in no hurry to take her dip. 
 And when Peter, suddenly seized with the notion that 
 he might be looking at her too intently, dived in, she 
 gave a little cry of joy and dismay and jumped in after 
 him. " You must hold me, you must hold me, or I 
 shall go under ! " she cried, and he swam with her to 
 the steps. In reality she swam like a frog, but her 
 beautiful assumption of inability and her pluck in 
 jumping into deep water again and again to be taken 
 possession of by him, rilled him with admiration at her 
 courage. With her tights wet and clinging and the 
 water glistening on her white flesh she assured herself 
 that she deserved admiration, having carefully calcu- 
 lated her effect. Practice makes perfect, and the very 
 young are always alike. 
 
 The first morning on which she appeared in riding 
 kit she again made a charming picture. She always 
 rode astride, but few women would have ventured to 
 wear such thin and such close-fitting white breeches. 
 Her coat, cut like a man's, was of white drill. Her 
 stock was white and her hat, with a wide flat brim was
 
 88 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 of white straw, but her boots were as black and shiny 
 as the back of a crow. " Your hand, Mr. Peter," she 
 said, raising her little foot for the spring, it was 
 " Mr. Peter " still, " what a gorgeous morning for 
 a gallop." And for a moment she leaned warmly 
 against his shoulder. Yes, she was quite pleased with 
 the effect. Peter's face was flushed as they started 
 off together. 
 
 When they golfed she had a delightful way of mak- 
 ing her conversation from green to green into a sort 
 of serial. With her head hatless, her short Irish 
 homespun skirt displaying much blue stocking which 
 exactly matched her silk sweater and her large be- 
 fringed eyes, she made a fascinating opponent and 
 companion. " No wonder you loved Oxford and all 
 that it gave you. Quite a little tee, please. Thanks. 
 To a man with any imagination " A settle, a swing, 
 a nice straight ball and silence while Peter beat his 
 ball pressing for all he was worth; the picking up of 
 the two bags and on side by side. " A man witlv any 
 imagination must feel the beauty and underlying mean- 
 ing of that inspiring atmosphere, as of course you 
 did. You, I can see, are highly susceptible to every- 
 thing that is beautiful. You, I think, of all men, you 
 who have managed to remain, I'm sure I don't know 
 how ! so unspoiled, will always remember and feel 
 the influence of your college. A cleek, I think, don't 
 you? No? A brassie? Just as you say." And so 
 she would continue chatting merrily away all round, 
 but always keen on her game and doing her best to do 
 it credit, letting out nice little bits of flattery with so
 
 YOUTH 89 
 
 naive an air and with such frankly appreciative glances, 
 that poor old Peter's vanity, hitherto absolutely dor- 
 mant, began to bud, like new leaves in April. 
 
 It must be remembered that Peter was a rowing 
 man. Always, except when out with the guns, he was 
 with Baby Lennox. They were inseparable from the 
 first day of his visit. Even in the evening they hunted 
 in couples, because she was sick of Bridge, she said, 
 and he gave out that he knew nothing at all about any 
 card games and had no desire to learn. After being 
 frequently pressed to cut in by Courthope, Pulsford, 
 Fountain and the other men who could not bear to 
 see him with an unscathed cheque-book, and tempted 
 again and again by their well-groomed and delightfully 
 friendly wives to try a hand, Peter was left alone. 
 They were annoyed and irritated but they found that 
 when Peter said " No " he didn't mean " Yes," like 
 so many of the other young men whose weakness 
 formed the greater part of these people's income ; and 
 so they very quickly gave him up to Baby Lennox, 
 were obliged to be satisfied with his jovial piano-play- 
 ing and make up for lost time with the inevitable mem- 
 bers of the nouveau riches who lived near by and were 
 only too glad to pay for the privilege of dining at 
 Thrapstone-Wynyates in the odour of titles. 
 
 The nights being warm and windless, Peter sat out 
 on the moon-bathed terrace with Baby Lennox listen- 
 ing to her girlish prattle and thinking how particularly 
 charming she looked with the soft light on her golden 
 hair and white arms and dainty foot. Sometimes, 
 suddenly, her merry words would give place to sad
 
 90 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 ones, and Peter's simple, honest heart would be touched 
 by her artistic and mythical glimpses of the unhappy 
 side of her life. 
 
 "Oh, Peter, Peter!" she said one night, uncon- 
 sciously showing almost a yard of leg in a black lace 
 stocking patterned with butterflies. " I wish, oh, how 
 I wish that I'd been born like you, under a lucky star ! 
 I've always been in a smart and rather careless set and 
 I've never really had time to see visions and walk in 
 the garden of my soul." She spoke in capital letters. 
 " If I'd met you when I was a little young thing you 
 might have become my gardener to pluck the weeds 
 out of my paths, and train the flowers of my mind. 
 You might have planted seeds so sweet that in my best 
 and most devout hours their blooms would have filled 
 my thoughts with scent. Oh dear me, the might have 
 beens, how sad they are ! But, in one thing at least 
 I can take joy, I'm all the better for knowing you, 
 dear big Peter." 
 
 But these graver interludes never lasted long. 
 Mrs. Lennox was far too clever for that. She would 
 break the monotony of conversation by walking with 
 her little hand on the boy's strong arm, or by dancing 
 with him to the music of a gramophone placed in the 
 open window of the morning room. How close she 
 clung to him then and how sweet she was to hold ! 
 
 And then, she would say, with a wonderful throb 
 in her voice. "Oh, Peter, Peter! Isn't life wonder- 
 ful isn't it just the most wonderful and thrilling 
 thing that is given to us ? Listen to the stars there's 
 love in their song ! Listen to the nightingale love,
 
 YOUTH 91 
 
 all love ! Listen to the whisper of the breeze ! Can't 
 you hear it tell us to love and touch and taste all the 
 sweets that are given us to enjoy? Oh, Peter, Peter! 
 Listen, listen, and live ! " 
 
 In her picturesque and slangy way she announced 
 to Kenyon, as soon as three days after the commence- 
 ment of the house-party, that she " had got Peter well 
 hooked." It was not, however, an accurate statement. 
 It is true that Peter's vanity had been appealed to. 
 Whose wouldn't have been? This attractive young 
 thing was hostess. She was far and away prettier, 
 younger, more alluring and more complex than any 
 other woman in the party. And yet she had made a 
 favorite of Peter at once and showed a frank pleasure 
 in being with him at all possible times. He had hardly 
 spoken for longer than an hour with her before she had 
 said, in the middle of his description of the Henley 
 week, " I must call you Mr. Peter, I must. May I ? " 
 She sent him little notes, too, charming, spontaneous 
 little notes, to say " Good-night," and how greatly she 
 had enjoyed the evening, or the swim, or the round of 
 golf, beginning "Dear Big Man" and ending, at 
 first without a signature, and eventually with " Baby." 
 At the beginning they were brought in by the man, or 
 placed on the dressing-table against a bowl of flowers. 
 Then they were thrust under his door by her after he 
 had gone up to his room, or thrown through his open 
 window from the narrow balcony that ran round the 
 house. Her room was next to his. She had seen to 
 that. In a hundred unexpected and appealing ways 
 she had set out to prove to him that they were indeed,
 
 92 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 as she had said they were, " very, very close friends." 
 Now, Peter had never been a woman's man. To him 
 women and their ways were new and wonderful. He 
 suspected nothing. Why should he? He accepted 
 Mrs. Randolph Lennox on her face value, which was 
 priceless, as so many other excellent and unsophisti- 
 cated young men had done. He believed in her and 
 her stories and was very sorry that she had been un- 
 happy. He believed that she was sincere and good 
 and clean and that she liked him and was his friend. 
 
 Kenyon, who watched all this, called Peter an easy 
 mark. He was. What else could he be in the expert 
 and cunning hands of such a woman? 
 
 As for Mrs. Lennox, her performance, it was 
 rather in the nature of a performance, was all the 
 more brilliant and effective because Peter appealed to 
 her more than any man she had ever met. His height 
 and strength and squareness, his fearless honesty, his 
 unself -conscious pride and boyish love of life, she 
 liked them all. She liked his clean-cut healthy face 
 and thick hair and amazing laugh. But, above every- 
 thing, she liked him for being untilled soil, virgin 
 earth. It was this that piqued her seriously and set 
 alight in her a desire which grew and grew, to test her 
 charms upon him, to taste him, to stir him into a first 
 great passion. And this was the real reason that she 
 gave him so much of her time and company. The 
 gratification of this desire was the thing for which she 
 was working, upon which she had set her mind. Hers 
 was not a record of failures. Peter stood a very poor 
 chance of getting out whole.
 
 YOUTH 93 
 
 XV 
 
 NICHOLAS KEN YON has promised himself that, one 
 of these days, when abject poverty forces him to work, 
 he will write a whole book about Peter and Baby Len- 
 nox, and call it " Another Temptation of St. An- 
 thony." 
 
 Not only did Kenyon watch this, to him, rather 
 extraordinary incident, with keen interest, but so also 
 did the members of his father's house-party, who came 
 to regard Peter as a kind of freak. They all knew, 
 because they were all psychologists, that Mrs. Len- 
 nox was badly smitten; as they put it, on this young 
 American. They all knew, because one of the 
 women made it her business to spy, that their tem- 
 porary hostess was going through all the tricks of her 
 trade to seduce this unconscious boy. 
 
 The incident provided Lord Shropshire and his 
 friends with endless amusement, and bets were made 
 as to how long Peter would hold out. Every morn- 
 ing something new was reported to them by the lady 
 who had appointed herself to watch. One day it was 
 that Baby had taken Peter to see her cottage after 
 dinner and had had a little fainting fit in her bedroom 
 while showing him the view from the window. An- 
 other that she had twisted her ankle on the eighth hole 
 and had been obliged to ask to be carried back to the 
 house. There was, however, no evidence, not even of 
 a circumstantial nature, to prove that Baby had suc- 
 ceeded. It was presently agreed that either Peter was 
 a fool or an angel.
 
 94 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 There was one incident, however, which escaped un- 
 noticed, one of which even Kenyon knew nothing. 
 It took place three nights before the party broke up. 
 
 After a gorgeous day of hard exercise and splendid 
 fresh air, an hour at the piano after dinner and his 
 usual talk to Baby under the moon, Peter went up to 
 bed at eleven o'clock. He was very sleepy and meant 
 to be up earlier than ever in the morning. He didn't 
 say good-night to Kenyon or his satirical father. 
 They were, like the others, very seriously at work 
 making what money they could. There had been a 
 fairly large dinner-party drawn from the surrounding 
 houses, and there were eight bridge tables occupied 
 in the large drawing-room. He left Mrs. Lennox in 
 the hall looking more delicious than ever and went up 
 to his room to smoke a final pipe and look over an 
 illustrated paper before turning in. 
 
 His room was large and square and wainscotted, 
 with dull grilled ceiling, and an oak floor so old that 
 here and there it slanted badly. His bed was a four- 
 poster, deeply carved at the back with the Kenyon 
 arms, the motto underneath rather sarcastically being 
 " For God and Honour." In front of the fireplace, 
 with its sprawling iron dogs and oak setting, there was 
 a long, narrow sofa filled with cushions, and at its side 
 a small writing-table on which stood two tall silver 
 candlesticks. These gave the room its only light and 
 added to the Rembrandtesque atmosphere of it. It 
 was a room which reeked with history and episodes of 
 historical romance, love and sudden death. The win- 
 dows which led to the balcony were open and the warm
 
 YOUTH 95 
 
 air of a wonderful night puffed in, causing the candle 
 flames to move with a gentle rhythmic dignity to and 
 fro. 
 
 Peter read and smoked for half an hour in his dress- 
 ing-gown, while Quixotic moths flung themselves pas- 
 sionately into the candle-light one after another to die 
 for some unexplainable ideal. From the drawing- 
 room below a woman's throbbing voice drifted up, 
 singing an Indian love song, and when it ceased the 
 whole night was set a quiver by a nightingale's out- 
 burst of appeal. These things, and the silver wonder 
 of the moon and stars, the touch of Mrs. Lennox's 
 soft hand on his lips and the feeling and almost psychic 
 undercurrent of strange emotion in that room in which 
 so much had taken place, all stirred and thrilled the 
 boy and sent his blood racing in his veins. 
 
 He stayed up longer than he intended, listening and 
 wondering and wishing, for the first time in his life, 
 that he had read poetry, so that he could fit some im- 
 mortal lines to his mood and his surroundings. It was 
 this, to him, curious thought which set him laughing 
 and broke some of the spell. " Gee ! " he said to him- 
 self, " can you see me spouting Shakespeare or mouth- 
 ing Byron ? " He shied his dressing-gown into the 
 sofa, put both flames out with one huge blow and 
 leaped into bed. 
 
 Almost instantly he heard his name urgently called. 
 He sat up. Was he dreaming? Who should call at 
 that time of night ? Could it be Baby ? He heard the 
 call again. It was nearer. A little shadow fell sud- 
 denly upon the floor of his room. And then, in the
 
 96 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 window, with the shaft of moonlight all about her, 
 stood Mrs. Lennox. 
 
 Peter caught his breath and clambered out of his 
 bed. "What is it?" he asked. "What's the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 The woman ran in with a glad cry. " Oh, Peter ! 
 I thought you had gone out of your room," she whis- 
 pered, " and I didn't know what to do. I saw a hide- 
 ous figure walk through my wall just after I had put 
 out my light, and when it came towards me with long, 
 bony ringers, I rushed out and came to you. Oh, hold 
 me, Peter, hold me! I'm terrified and as cold as a 
 frog!" 
 
 She slipped into his arms, all young and sweet and 
 incoherent, trembling like a little bird in a thunder- 
 storm. It was a most calculated piece of perfect act- 
 ing. 
 
 Peter's heart seemed to jump into his mouth. The 
 flowing hair of the little head that lay on his chest was 
 full of the most intoxicating scent. 
 
 " I'll I'll go and see what it is," he said abruptly. 
 
 " No, no ! Don't go. I can't let you go, Peter. 
 Stay with me ! " 
 
 " Rut, if there's a man in your room " 
 
 " It wasn't a man. It was the ghost that belongs to 
 the family. It always comes before some dreadful 
 accident. Oh, darling, stay with me! Take care of 
 me ! I'm terrified ! " 
 
 She clung to him in a very ecstasy of fright and 
 the closeness and warmth of her body sent Peter's 
 brain whirling. He tried to speak, to think of some-
 
 YOUTH 97 
 
 thing to say, but all his thoughts were in the swirl of 
 a mill-stream, and he held her tighter and put his face 
 against her hair, while his heart pumped and every 
 preconceived idea, every hard-fought-for ideal went 
 crash. 
 
 " I love you. I love you, Peter. My Peter ! " she 
 whispered. " Who but you should shelter me and 
 hold me and keep me in your arms! Keep me with 
 you always, night and day. Look into my eyes and 
 see how much you mean to me, my man." 
 
 She raised her head and stood on tiptoe. The jeal- 
 ous moon had laid its light upon her face and her eyes 
 were shining and her lips were parted, and the slight 
 silk covering had fallen from her shoulder. The 
 whiteness of it dazzled. 
 
 " Oh, my God ! " said Peter, but as he bent to kiss 
 her mouth, momentarily drunk with the touch and 
 scent of her, someone shouted his name and thumped 
 on his door, and Mrs. Lennox tore herself away and 
 ran through the window like a moon-woman. 
 
 The door was flung open. Fountain came in, his 
 voice a little thick. " I say, Guthrie, are you getting 
 up early in the morning? 'Cause, if so, I'll take you 
 on for nine holes before breakfast. What d'yer say? 
 Coin' to get healthy, d'yer see? What? " 
 
 Peter found his voice. " All right ! " he said. 
 
 " Will you ? Good man. Give me a call at six, 
 will you? We'll bathe in the pool before coming in. 
 So long then." And out he went again, lurching a 
 little and banging the door behind him. 
 
 For several queer minutes Peter stood swaying, with
 
 98 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 his breath nearly gone as though he had been rowing, 
 and one big hand on his throbbing head. And as he 
 stood there the posts of the bed seemed to turn into 
 trees and its cover into soft grass all alive with the 
 yellow heads of " bread and cheese," and among them 
 sat Betty, with her eyes full of love, confidence and 
 implicit faith, Betty, for whom he had saved him- 
 self. 
 
 And then he started walking about the room. Up 
 and down he went up and down cursing himself 
 and his weakness which had nearly smashed his dream 
 and put his loyalty into the dust. 
 
 And when, she also had cursed, Mrs. Lennox 
 stole back, as sweet and alluring as ever, and even 
 more determined, she found that Peter had re-lit his 
 candles, got into his dressing-gown again and was sit- 
 ting at the table writing. 
 
 "Peter! Peter!" she called. 
 
 But he didn't hear. 
 
 " Peter ! " she whispered, and went nearer and 
 nearer until her body rested against his shoulder. 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon," he said, rising. " Is it 
 all right now? That's fine. It's just a touch cold. 
 Don't you think you'd better be in bed ? " 
 
 Baby Lennox had seen the beginning of the letter, 
 " My own Betty." She nodded, drew back her upper 
 lip in a queer smile and turned and went. She was 
 clever enough to know that she had lost. 
 
 And then Peter bent again over his letter, and in 
 writing to the little girl whom he adored with all his 
 heart, he was safe.
 
 PART TWO 
 
 THE CITY
 
 " MOTHER took the car to Lord & Taylor's," said 
 Belle, looking herself over in the long glass with a 
 scrutiny that was eventually entirely favorable. " I 
 guess it'll do us good to walk." 
 
 " I'd simply love to," said Betty. " But I must just 
 run in and tell father I'm going to have dinner with 
 you. I won't be a minute." 
 
 " All right, my dear. Time's cheap. Don't hurry 
 on my account." 
 
 Belle went over to the dressing-table. She had only 
 recently powdered her nose from the elaborate ap- 
 paratus from which she rarely permitted herself to be 
 separated, but a little more would do no harm. She 
 burst into involuntary song as she performed a trick 
 which she might so well have afforded to leave to those 
 ladies of doubtful summers to whose Anno Domini 
 complexions the thick disguise of powder may perhaps 
 be useful. Tucked into her blouse there was a letter 
 from Kenyon which had come a week ago. It was 
 only a matter of days before she was to see him again. 
 
 And Betty ran out of her bedroom and along a 
 passage which led to the studio. A stretch of cloud- 
 less sky could be seen through a recess window, and 
 the far-below flat roofs of the old buildings on the 
 corner of Gramercy Park. She knocked and waited. 
 There was a grunt, and she went in.
 
 102 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 Into the large lofty room a cross between a barn 
 and an attic a hard north light was falling with 
 cruel accuracy. It showed up stacks of unframed 
 canvasses with their faces turned to the dark wall and 
 the imperfections of several massive pieces of oak, the 
 worn appearance of the stained floor, the age of the 
 Persian rugs and of a florid woman who sat with 
 studied grace and an anxious expression of pleasant 
 thought on the dais, with one indecently beringed hand 
 resting with strained nonchalance on the arm of her 
 chair and the other about an ineffably bored Pekingese. 
 
 Ranken Townsend, the successful portrait painter, 
 had backed away from his almost life-size canvas, 
 and with his fine untidy head on one side and irrita- 
 tion in his red-grey beard was glaring at it with savage 
 antagonism. 
 
 The lady on the dais had crow's-feet round her 
 made-up eyes, and a chin that could not be made any- 
 thing but double however high she held it. Also 
 as the north light seemed to take a hideous delight in 
 proving her figure was irreclaimably dumpy and 
 plump. The lady on the canvas, however, such is 
 Art that runs an expensive studio, good wines and 
 well-preserved Coronas, was slight and lovely and 
 patrician, and should she stand up, at least six feet 
 tall. No wonder Townsend grunted and glared at the 
 commercial fraud in front of him, at which, in his 
 good, idealistic, hungry Paris days he would have slung 
 wet brushes and the honest curses of the Place Pigalle. 
 He was selling his gift once more for five thousand 
 dollars. His wife dressed at Bendels.
 
 THE CITY 103 
 
 Anger and irritation went out of the painter's eyes 
 when he saw the sweet face that peeked in. " Hello, 
 sweetheart ! " he sang out. " Come in and bring a 
 touch of sun. Mrs. Vandervelde, I'd like you to meet 
 my little girl." 
 
 Without turning her head or breaking a pose that 
 she considered to have become, after many serious at- 
 tempts, extremely effective, the much-paragraphed 
 lady, whose lizard-covered mansion in Fifth Avenue 
 was always one of the objects touched upon by the 
 megaphone men in rubber-neck wagons, murmured a 
 few words. " How d'you do, child ? How well you 
 look." 
 
 Betty smothered a laugh. Mrs. Vandervelde had 
 acquired the habit of looking through her ears. " I'm 
 going home with Belle, father, and I shall stay to din- 
 ner. But I'll be back before ten." 
 
 " Will you ? All right." He tilted up her face and 
 kissed it. " I'm dining at the National Arts Club to- 
 night, and I guess I shall be late." He pointed his 
 brush at the canvas and made the grimace of a man 
 who's obliged to swallow a big dose of evil-smelling 
 physic. So Betty, who understood and was sorry, 
 put his hand to her lips, bowed to the indifferent lady 
 and slipped away. The room was perceptibly colder 
 when she left. The picture was already four thousand 
 two hundred dollars toward completion, and Betty was 
 just as much relieved as her father, who returned an- 
 grily to work to paint in the diamonds. He was sick 
 of that smile. 
 
 While waiting for the elevator, Belle gave a rather
 
 104 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 self-conscious laugh and lifted her tight skirt quickly. 
 " Seen the latest, Betty ?" She showed a tiny square 
 watch edged with diamonds worn as a garter. " Cun- 
 ning, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Why, I should just think it was ! Where did you 
 buy it?" 
 
 " Buy it ? My dear, can you see me paying 
 three hundred dollars for something that doesn't 
 show? Harry Spearman gave it to me last night, 
 and put it on in his car on the way to the Pierrot 
 Club." 
 
 "Put it on?" 
 
 Belle threw back her beautiful head and burst out 
 laughing. " You said that just like the Quaker girl 
 in the play at the Hudson. Why shouldn't he put it 
 on? It amused him and didn't hurt me. He's a 
 sculptor, and like the bus-conductor, ' legs is no treat 
 to him,' anyway." 
 
 They entered the elevator, dropped nine floors to 
 the wide foyer of the palatial apartment house, and 
 went out into the street. It was a typical New York 
 October afternoon the sky blue and clear, the sun 
 warm and the air alive with that pinch of ozone of 
 which no other city in the world can boast. The girls 
 instinctively made their way towards Fifth Avenue, 
 warily dodging the amazing traffic, the struggling 
 wagons and plunging horses going in and out of build- 
 ings in course of ear-splitting construction, and coal- 
 chutes, in the middle of the sidewalks. 
 
 " But you were not at the opening of the Pierrot 
 Club last night," said Betty. " I heard you tell Mrs.
 
 THE CITY 105 
 
 Guthrie that you were dining with the Delanos and 
 going to their theatre party." 
 
 " I know. But Harry Spearman sent round a note 
 in the afternoon asking me to have dinner with him 
 at Delmonico's and go on to the Club to dance. I had 
 such a severe headache that I rang up Mrs. Delano 
 and reluctantly begged to be excused. To quote 
 Nicholas, theatre parties with elderly people bore me 
 stiff. As it was, I had a perfectly corking time till 
 one o'clock and danced every dance." 
 
 "Did you tell Mrs. Guthrie?" 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, Betty, what do you take me 
 for ? Mother isn't my school-teacher and I don't have 
 to ask her for permission to live. I have my latch- 
 key and dear little mother is perfectly happy. As she 
 never knows what I do she never has to worry about 
 me ; and, as she always says, I can only be young once." 
 A curious little smile played round her very red lips. 
 " It's true that Harry Spearman is rather unmanage- 
 able when he gets one alone in a car after several hours 
 of champagne and ragtime, but oh, well, I guess I 
 can take care of myself. Do you know, I don't think 
 the Pierrot Club's going to be as good this winter. 
 It's a year old, you see. Everybody's going to the new 
 room at the Plaza that is, everybody back from the 
 country. It's rather a pity, I think. I like the Club, 
 but the motto of New York is * Follow the Crowd/ 
 and so the Plaza's for me." 
 
 Betty's admiration for her school-fellow and closest 
 friend was invincible and her loyalty very true. It 
 made her therefore a little uneasy to notice about her
 
 106 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 a growing artificiality which was neither attractive nor 
 characteristic. She knew better than anyone that 
 Belle was a remarkable girl. She had a kind heart. 
 She possessed that rarest of gifts, a sense of gratitude, 
 and if her talent for writing had been properly de- 
 veloped she might eventually have made her mark. 
 She had a quick perception sympathy and imagina- 
 tion not often found in so young a girl an uncanny 
 ear for the right word and if she chose to exercise 
 it, quite an unusual power of concentration. It seemed 
 to Betty to be such a pity that, just at the moment when 
 Belle left school with her mind filled with ideals and 
 the ambition to make something of herself and do 
 things, the Doctor found himself a rich man. The in- 
 centive to work which the constant need for economy 
 had awakened in her went out like a snuffed candle. 
 From having before been in the habit of saying, with 
 eager enthusiasm, " I'm going to do such and such a 
 thing, whatever the odds," she immediately began to 
 say : " Oh, my dear, what's the use ? " Everything 
 for which she had intended to work became now hers 
 for the asking. Her father gave her a free hand in 
 the matter of entertaining her young friends. She 
 could order what books she wished to read from Bren- 
 tano's, and she had a generous allowance on which to 
 dress. Like a chameleon she quickly changed the 
 rather dull colors of her former surroundings for 
 those bright ones which the sudden accession to wealth 
 made it easy to acquire. Her outlook was no longer 
 that of the daughter of an overworked general prac- 
 titioner whose income had to be carefully managed in
 
 THE CITY 107 
 
 order to live not too far up-town and educate a family 
 of four, but of a debutante whose parents entertained 
 distinguished men and women in a fashionable street 
 and whose friends were equally well off. Her in- 
 herited and cultivated energy was, of course, obliged 
 to find vent in some direction, since it was not em- 
 ployed in the development of her talent; and it was 
 now burnt up in a restless search of enjoyment, a con- 
 stant series of engagements to lunch and dine, and do 
 the theatre and dance, especially dance. The ordi- 
 nary healthy, high-spirited young man, who had not 
 much to say for himself, quickly bored her. Her wits 
 required to be kept sharp, her latent intelligence needed 
 something on which to feed. It was therefore natural 
 that she should throw her smiles at men much older 
 and far more experienced than herself and who, from 
 the fact that they did not intend to give anything for 
 nothing, exercised her ingenuity and native wit to keep 
 them in order. In a word, she found that playing 
 with fire and avoiding being burned kept that side of 
 her in good condition which, in her old circumstances, 
 would have been devoted to work. And so with a 
 sort of conscious superficiality she had allowed herself 
 to flit from one unmeaning incident to another and en- 
 tered into a series of artificial flirtations with men 
 who had no scruples and one passion simply in order 
 to kill time. Her carelessness led her into episodes, 
 the merest hint of which would have thrown dear lit- 
 tle Mrs. Guthrie into a panic, and her coolness per- 
 mitted her to escape from them with perhaps more in- 
 genuity than dignity. Even upon her return from
 
 io8 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 England with her heart full of Nicholas Kenyon, and 
 with a desire to see him again that kept her awake 
 at night, she frittered away her superfluous energy 
 with this Harry Spearman, whom no woman with any 
 respect for her daughter would willingly allow within 
 a mile of her, even if properly chaperoned. 
 
 Betty, being one of those girls who had never been 
 suspected of any talent, but who nevertheless had it 
 in her to perform a far more womanly and beautiful 
 thing than to write books or plays to be in fact a 
 good wife to the man she loved and a good mother to 
 his children looked at Belle's way of living with 
 growing anxiety. She was not a prude or a prig. 
 She had not been allowed out in the world with eyes 
 all curious to see the truth of things through a veil of 
 false modesty. Her father, a wise and humane man, 
 had seen to that. She delighted in enjoyment, went 
 to the theatre whenever she had the opportunity and 
 danced herself out of shoes. But, not being ambitious 
 to shine, she was content to apply her energy to the 
 ordinary work that came to her to do, the practical, 
 everyday, undramatic, domestic things that cropped 
 up hourly in the strange house where the father was 
 an artist and the mother suffered from individualism 
 and was a leader of new movements. Leaving school 
 to find a home in a constant state of chaos, her father 
 rarely out of his studio, her mother always in the 
 throes of committee meetings and speech-making, 
 she knuckled down to set it in order, to clear out 
 an extravagant cook with an appetite for hysterics, 
 and a sloppy Irish waitress whose hairpins fell every-
 
 THE CITY 109 
 
 where and whose loose hand dropped things of value 
 almost before it touched them. This done she found 
 others and appointed herself housekeeper, and the du- 
 ties of this position kept her both busy and happy, 
 the one being hyphenated to the other. But even if 
 her father had been, like Dr. Guthrie, a rich man in- 
 stead of one who lived up to every penny that he 
 earned and generally several thousand dollars beyond, 
 she had nothing in her character that, however little 
 she was occupied, would have allowed her to look at 
 life from the modern standpoint of Belle and her other 
 friends. She was and rejoiced in the fact old- 
 fashioned. Most of her ideas were what is now scoff- 
 ingly called " early Victorian," because they were not 
 loose and careless, and the many things that Belle and 
 others found " fearfully amusing " were, to her, im- 
 possible. She didn't, for instance, leave her petticoat 
 in the cloak-room when she went to dances, so that 
 her partners might find her better fun. She didn't 
 go to tea alone with mere acquaintances in bachelor 
 apartments, or for taxi rides with her partner between 
 dances. She never made herself cheap, and went out 
 of her way to avoid men whose eyes ran calculatingly 
 over her figure. These things and many others 
 merely appealed to her as the perquisite of those girls 
 who did not place a very high value upon self-respect. 
 The Guthries lived at 55 East Fifty-second Street. 
 It was the house which the man whom Dr. Guthrie 
 called his benefactor had built for himself and left to 
 the doctor whom he was proud to endow. The 
 architect who had been employed had been given a
 
 no THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 free hand. He had not been required to mix his styles 
 or perform extraordinary architectural gymnastics of 
 any kind. The result of his efforts was good. It 
 was a house such as one sees in one of the numerous 
 old London squares within sound of the mellow clock 
 of St. James's Palace. Addison might have lived in 
 it, or Walpole or Pepys. Its face was scrupulously 
 plain and its doorway was modelled on those of the 
 Adams period. Standing between two very florid 
 examples of modern architecture it made one think 
 of the portrait of a charming early Victorian gentle- 
 woman between the photographs of two present-day 
 chorus ladies in hoopskirts and a cloud of chiffon. 
 The rooms were large and lofty and were all furnished 
 with great simplicity and taste. There was nothing 
 in them except old furniture which had been collected 
 in England by its late owner, piece by piece, and its 
 oak chests, armoires and secretaries, china closets, 
 corner pieces and Chippendale chairs were very good 
 to look at and live with. So also were the pictures, 
 
 Cattermoles, Bartalozzi engravings, colored prints 
 and a half-dozen priceless oil paintings by old masters, 
 
 which made the small, cunning, unscrupulous, eager 
 mouths of the numerous art collectors of New York 
 water with desire. The library, too, out of which led 
 the Doctor's laboratory, was almost unique, and con- 
 tained first editions and specimens of rare and beau- 
 tiful book-binding which filled the Doctor's heart with 
 constant pleasure and delight. It was nearly a year 
 before the man who had struggled so hard to lift 
 himself out of his father's small farm could believe
 
 THE CITY in 
 
 that he wasn't walking in his sleep when he passed 
 through these beautiful rooms, and often he was 
 obliged to pinch himself to make sure that he was not 
 dreaming. 
 
 There was however one room in this house which 
 would have given its late owner many shudders to 
 enter. This was the little mother's own particular 
 room, the windows of which looked out upon that 
 row of small, red, bandbox-like houses opposite which 
 had managed to remain standing in spite of the 
 rapacious hands of reconstruction companies which 
 are never so happy as when destroying old landmarks 
 and tearing down old buildings. Into this room Mrs. 
 Guthrie had placed all the furniture of her first sitting- 
 room, cheap, late Victorian stuff of which she had 
 been so inordinately and properly proud when she 
 started housekeeping with the young doctor. From 
 these things Mrs. Guthrie could not be parted. They 
 were all redolent with good and tender memories and 
 were to her mind far more valuable and more beau- 
 tiful than all the priceless old oak pieces put to- 
 gether. 
 
 Curiously enough or perhaps not curiously at all 
 this was Peter's favorite room, too, and he never 
 entered it without renewing his vows to climb to the 
 top of his own tree, as his father had done. Belle, 
 Graham and Ethel all laughed at the little mother for 
 clinging to this " rubbish," as they called it, which 
 was so out of keeping with the rest of the house. 
 But Peter sympathized with her and never failed while 
 sitting there in the evening, in close and intimate con-
 
 ii2 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 versation with the dear little woman who meant so 
 much to him, to get from it a new desire to emulate 
 his father and make his own way in the same brave 
 spirit. 
 
 When Belle and Betty arrived at East Fifty-second 
 Street a little tired after their walk they found 
 Graham in the hall. " Oh, hello! " said he. " Been 
 shopping? " 
 
 " No," answered Belle, " nothing tempted us. 
 We've walked all the way home from Gramercy Park, 
 some walk! Everything I've got on is sticking 
 to me. Aren't you home early, Graham ? " 
 
 Graham nodded. " Nothing doing," he said. 
 " Besides, I'm dining early." He turned to Belle with 
 a rather curious smile. " I thought you were to be 
 with the Delanos last night." 
 
 Belle tilted her chin. " I was. I dined there, went 
 to the Winter Garden and then danced at Bus- 
 tanoby's." 
 
 " I caught sight of you in Spearman's car some- 
 where about one o'clock in the morning. Did he drive 
 you home ? " 
 
 " I guess he did, dear boy," said Belle, blandly, " and 
 by the way, we saw you, going in to supper somewhere 
 with a girl with a Vogue face and an open-air back! " 
 
 Graham laughed. " That's different," he said. 
 " Spearman isn't the sort of man I care to see my sis- 
 ter going about with alone. I advise you to be a little 
 more fastidious." 
 
 " Thank you, Graham darling," said Belle, quite un- 
 moved, " but I'm old enough to choose my own friends
 
 THE CITY 113 
 
 without your butting in. Just for fun, would you tell 
 me what you know about the word fastidious ? " 
 
 " That's different," said Graham again. And he 
 went up-stairs to his own room with rather heavy 
 feet. 
 
 Belle looked at Betty and a little smile curled up 
 the corners of her beautiful red mouth. " I don't see 
 anything wrong with Harry Spearman, and he's an 
 old friend of the Delanos. My word, but isn't 
 Graham a good sport ? " 
 
 Presently when they went into the drawing-room 
 they found little Mrs. Guthrie sitting in front of the- 
 table with a more than usually happy smile, and Ethel 
 lying on the sofa looking the very epitome of an inter- 
 esting invalid. With a slightly critical frown on her 
 pretty face she was reading Wells's latest novel, a 
 full-blooded effort well calculated to improve the con- 
 dition of a girl of fifteen who had not gone back to 
 school on account of anaemia. 
 
 With quick intuition, and one glance at her mother's 
 face, Belle knew she had heard from Peter. " Any 
 news?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, darling, the very best of news. A Mar- 
 coni from my boy," said Mrs. Guthrie. 
 
 "What does he say?" 
 
 "Oh, what does he say?" asked Betty. But the 
 question was asked mentally, because little Mrs. 
 Guthrie was happy and must not be made jealous. 
 
 Putting on her glasses with great deliberation, Mrs. 
 Guthrie picked up a book, and with a smile of pride 
 and excitement hunted through its pages and even-
 
 ii 4 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 tually produced the cable form, which she had used 
 as a marker. 
 
 "Do hurry, mother, dear!" cried Belle. News 
 from Peter meant news from Nicholas. 
 
 " Now please don't fluster me, Belle. Of course 
 I would unfold it the wrong side up, wouldn't I? 
 Well, this is what he says : ' Expect to dock day after 
 to-morrow, dearest Mum. All my love.' ' 
 
 " Is that all he says ? Is there nothing about his 
 his friend?" 
 
 Ethel gave a quiet chuckle, of which Belle coldly 
 took no notice. 
 
 " There are a few more words," replied Mrs. 
 Guthrie, "and I expect they were very expen- 
 sive." 
 
 " Oh, mother, darling; do go on! " 
 
 " Let me see, now. Oh, yes. ' And to Betty.' ' 
 
 "Oh, thank you," said Betty. "Oh, Peter, my 
 Peter ! " she cried in her heart. 
 
 This time Ethel laughed. But no one noticed it. 
 It was rather disappointing. 
 
 " At last I shall see Nicholas again," thought Belle, 
 "at last!" 
 
 And the little mother folded up the cable very care- 
 fully and slipped it back into the book. Peter had 
 sent it to her, to her. 
 
 And then Belle turned her attention to her little 
 sister, who not only looked most interesting, but knew 
 that she did. " I think you condescended to be 
 amused, Grandmamma," she said, in the most good- 
 natured spirit of chaff. Like everybody else in the
 
 THE CITY 115 
 
 family she was really rather proud of this very fin- 
 ished production of an ultra-modern and fashionable 
 school. 
 
 " I seem to have missed a lot of fun by not go- 
 ing to Europe," replied Ethel. " It would have been 
 very entertaining to watch you and Betty fall in 
 love." 
 
 " I guess so," said Belle. " The only thing is that 
 you would have been very much odd man out. They 
 draw the line at little school-girls at Oxford." 
 
 " Now don't begin to quarrel, girls," said Mrs. 
 Guthrie. " I'm very sorry Ethel wasn't with us. 
 The trip would have widened her view and given her 
 much to think about. But never mind. She shall go 
 with us next time." 
 
 Ethel stifled a yawn. " Thank you, mamma, dear. 
 But when I go to England I may elect to stay there. 
 I think it's very probable that I shall marry an Eng- 
 lishman and settle down to country life, doing London 
 in the season." 
 
 Belle's laugh rang out. " That's the sort of thing 
 we have to put up with, Betty," she said. " You're 
 going to marry a Duke, aren't you, Baby, and be a 
 Lady in Waiting at Court, with a full-page photo- 
 graph every week in the Tatler? When Peter comes 
 home he'll find you a constant source of joy. My 
 descriptions of the way in which you've come on while 
 he's been away always made him laugh." 
 
 Ethel rose languidly from the sofa, at the side of 
 which a little nourishment had been served. Mrs. 
 Guthrie, who had been busily at work knitting a scarf
 
 ii6 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 for Graham a thing that he would certainly never 
 wear went quickly to give her a hand. " Are you 
 going to your room now, darling ? " she asked. 
 
 Ethel caught Belle's rather sceptical eye and, with 
 exquisite coolness, entirely ignored its suggestion that 
 she was shamming. " Yes, mamma, dear. I shall 
 go to bed almost at once. There's nothing like sleep 
 for anaemia. Of course I shall have to read for a 
 little while, because insomnia goes with my complaint, 
 but I shall fall off as soon as I can. Please don't 
 come in to-night, in case you disturb me. I'll tell 
 Ellen to put my hot milk in a thermos." 
 
 Belle burst into another laugh. " You beat the 
 band," she said. " Any one would think that your 
 school was for the daughters of royalty. I know 
 exactly what Nicholas Kenyon will call you." 
 
 Ethel turned towards her sister with raised eye- 
 brows. With her rather retrousse nose, fine, wide- 
 apart eyes and soft round chin she looked very pretty 
 and amazingly self-composed. Her poise was that of 
 a woman who had been a leader of society for years. 
 " Yes? And what will that be? " 
 
 " The queen of the Flappers," said Belle. 
 
 Ethel picked up her book, carefully placing the 
 marker. " Oxford slang leaves me cold," she said, 
 loftily. 
 
 " I certainly hope that he'll call her nothing of the 
 sort," said Mrs. Guthrie. " ' Flapper.' What a ter- 
 rible word ! What does it mean ? " 
 
 " It means girls under seventeen who have discov- 
 ered all the secrets of life, the value of a pair of pretty
 
 THE CITY 117 
 
 ankles and exactly how to get everybody else to do 
 things for them. It's the best word I heard in Eng- 
 land." 
 
 " Nicholas Kenyon sounds to me rather a precocious 
 boy," said Ethel. 
 
 "Boy! Nicholas Kenyon a boy ! Well!" 
 Belle acknowledged herself beaten. She could find 
 no other words. 
 
 The little mother put her arm, with great affection, 
 around the shoulders of her youngest child, of whom 
 she was extremely proud and a little frightened. 
 " Never mind, darling," she said. " Belle doesn't 
 mean anything. It's only her fun." 
 
 " Oh, that's all right, mamma. I make full allow- 
 ance for Belle. She's a little crude yet, but she'll 
 improve in time." 
 
 Belle gave a scream of joy. Her sense of the 
 ridiculous, always extremely keen, made her delight 
 in her little sister and the perfectly placid way in which 
 she sailed through existence with the lofty superiority 
 of her type a type that is the peculiar result of 
 supercivilization and the deferential treatment of fash- 
 ionable schoolmistresses who bow to wealth as before 
 a god. 
 
 " Run in and say good-night to father. He won't 
 mind being disturbed for a moment by you." 
 
 " I don't think I will," said Ethel. " The sight of 
 his laboratory may give me a nightmare. I really 
 must be careful about myself just now. Good night, 
 mamma dear. Don't sit up too late. Good night, 
 Belle. I should advise you to go to bed at once.
 
 ii8 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 Your complexion is beginning to show the effects of 
 late hours already." 
 
 "Oh, you funny little thing," said Belle. "You 
 give me a pain. Trot off to bed ; and instead of read- 
 ing Wells, Ibsen and George Bernard Shaw, try a 
 course of Louisa Alcott and a dose of Swiss Family 
 Robinson. That'll do you much more good and make 
 you a little more human." 
 
 But even this plain sisterly speaking had no ap- 
 parent effect. Ethel gave Betty, who had been watch- 
 ing and listening to the little bout with the surprise 
 of an only child, a small peck on the cheek. " Good 
 night, dear Betty," she said. " I'm glad that you're 
 going to be my sister-in-law. Unless Peter has 
 changed very much since he's been away he'll make a 
 good husband." 
 
 And then, with quiet grace, she left the room. No 
 one, not even Belle, whose high spirits and love of 
 life had led her into many perfectly harmless adven- 
 tures when she was the same age, suspected that Ethel 
 was up to anything. They were wrong. The self- 
 constituted invalid had invented anaemia for two very 
 good reasons. First, because she was not going to 
 be deprived of welcoming her big brother when he 
 returned home for good, school or no school, and 
 second because she had struck up a surreptitious ac- 
 quaintance with the good-looking boy next door. At 
 present it had gone no further than the daily exchange 
 of letters and telephone calls. The adventure was in 
 the course, however, of speedy development. The 
 boy was going to pay her a visit that evening, by way
 
 THE CITY 119 
 
 of the roof. No wonder Ethel didn't want to be 
 disturbed. 
 
 With an unwonted burst of extravagance Betty took 
 a taxi home as soon after dinner as she could get away. 
 " Is there a letter for me ? Is there a letter for me ? " 
 she asked the moon and all the stars in the clear sky 
 as her rackety cab bowled swiftly downtown. 
 
 She let herself in and the first thing that caught her 
 eyes was the welcome sight of a thick envelope ad- 
 dressed in Peter's big round, honest, unaffected hand. 
 
 " Peter, oh, my Peter ! " she whispered, pressing 
 the letter to her lips. 
 
 Within five minutes she was sitting on her bed, in 
 the seclusion of her own room, and what Peter had 
 to say for himself was this: 
 
 " Carlton Hotel, London, 
 
 " September 28, 1913. 
 " My dearest Betty : 
 
 " Gee ! but I was mighty glad to find a letter from you 
 this afternoon when I got in, so glad that I dashed out of 
 this Hotel, went across the street to the White Star offices 
 and asked them to exchange my bookings to a boat sailing 
 a week earlier, because I just can't stand being away 
 from you any longer. I don't know what Nick will say, 
 and don't much care. He's at Newmarket staying with a 
 man who trains horses. I've just sent him a telegram to 
 say what I've done, and as he's very keen to see New York 
 and is only killing time, I don't think he'll kick up a row. 
 I would have sailed on the Olympic, which left the day 
 after I said good-bye to Thrapstone-Wynyates, if I hadn't 
 promised father to go up to Scotland and see the place 
 where his ancestors lived. I couldn't back out of that,
 
 120 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 especially as goodness only knows when I shall come to 
 Europe again, perhaps not until I bring you over on a 
 honeymoon, my baby, and we go back to Oxford together 
 to see how the fairy ring is getting on. We must do that 
 some day. You don't know how I love that little open 
 space where the trees haven't grown so that the moon 
 may spill itself in a big patch for all our friends to dance 
 in on fine nights. I've read your letter a dozen times and 
 know it by heart, like all the others you've written to me. 
 You write the most wonderful letters, darling. I wish 
 I knew how to send you something worth reading, though 
 I'm quite sure you don't mind my clumsy way of putting 
 things down, because you know how much I love you 
 and because everything I say comes straight out of my 
 heart. 
 
 " My last letter was written in Scotland, Cupar Fife. 
 I shall always remember that quiet little place where the 
 red-headed Guthries, they must have been red-headed 
 from eating so much porridge, tilled the earth and 
 brought up sheep in the way they should go. The vil- 
 lage seems as much cut off from the rest of the world 
 as though it were surrounded by sea, and every small 
 thing that happens excites it. The man who kept the Inn 
 that I stayed in (feeling frightfully lonely, though really 
 very much interested) had words with his good woman 
 one night and the rights and wrongs of the perfectly 
 private matter have since divided all the inhabitants. 
 Best friends don't speak and the minister is going to 
 preach about the affair next Sunday. I saw the house 
 the old Guthries lived in and was taken all over it by a 
 kind old soul to whom father gave more money than she 
 thought existed when he was there. Gee ! but my great- 
 grandfather must have had precious little ambition to live 
 his whole life in a little hole like that. In most of the
 
 THE CITY 121 
 
 rooms the beds were in small alcoves and needed climbing 
 up to like bunks. Mrs. McAlister, who lives there now 
 with her married daughter and her seven children, sleeps 
 in one of these fug-holes in the kitchen. Think of it! 
 And she said that the floor swarms with beetles she can 
 hear them crackling about in the night. All the same, by 
 Jove ! this primitive living makes men. I can see from 
 whom father got his grit and determination. 
 
 " I was glad to find myself in London. I've only been 
 here for a night or two at various times and it's a wilder- 
 ness to me. I lose myself every time I go out and have 
 to ask Bobbies how to get back. Topping chaps, these 
 Bobbies. They mostly look like gentlemen and are aw- 
 fully glad to get a laugh. To hear them talk about the 
 'Aymarket, Piccadilly Surcuss, Wart'loo Plaice and West- 
 minister Habbey first of all puzzles one and then fills 
 one with joy. As to the Abbey, oh, Gee ! but isn't it 
 away beyond words! I spent a whole day wandering 
 about among the graves of its mighty dead, and finally 
 when I got to the end of the cloister and came upon that 
 small, square, open space where the grass grows so green 
 and sparrows play about, I was glad there was nobody to 
 see me except the maid-servant of one of the minor 
 Canons who was taking in the milk for afternoon tea. 
 There are one or two vacant niches among the shrines 
 of men who have done things and moved things on, in 
 which I should like to stand (not looking a bit like my- 
 self in stone) when I have done my job, and if I were 
 an Englishman I should work for it. As it is, I shall 
 work for you and all you mean to me, my baby, and 
 that's even a higher privilege. 
 
 " I went to a theatre last night, Wyndham's. I 
 thought the play was corking, but the leading actor - an 
 ugly good-looking fellow wasn't trying a yard, and let
 
 122 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 it away down every time he was on. Also he spent his 
 time making jokes under his breath to the other people to 
 dry them up. No wonder the theatres are in a bad way 
 in London. There's no snap and ginger about the shows 
 except the ones of the variety theatres, where they really 
 do take off their coats for business. It's fine to hear rag- 
 times at these places, although they're as stale on our side 
 as if they had been played away back before the great 
 wind. By the way, I'm a bit anxious about Graham. 
 His letters have a queer undercurrent in them. 
 
 " I'm going to the National Gallery, the British Mu- 
 seum and South Kensington to-morrow, and in the even- 
 ing I'm dining at the Trocadero with eight men who 
 were up at St. John's with me. They're all working in 
 London and hate it, after Oxford. It seems odd to me 
 not to be there myself and I miss it mighty badly some- 
 times. All the same it's great to feel that one's a man at 
 last, with real work to do and that apartment waiting for 
 us to win. This is the last mail that I can catch before 
 sailing and so I just have to tell you once again, in case 
 you forget it, that I adore you and that if I don't see you 
 on the landing in little old New York among the crowd 
 I shall sink away like an India-rubber balloon with a pin 
 in it. So long, my dearest girl. All, all my love, now 
 and forever. " PETER." 
 
 " P. S. Do you think your father can be brought to 
 like me somehow or other? 
 
 " Kiss this exact spot." 
 
 II 
 
 A GOOD sport! Oh, yes, Graham answered admir- 
 ably to that description, according to its present-day
 
 THE CITY 123 
 
 use. Graham, like Belle, was suffering from the fact 
 that everything was too easy. His father's so-called 
 benefactor had taken all the sting of life for that boy. 
 Fundamentally he had inherited a considerable amount 
 of his father's grit. He needed the impetus of strug- 
 gle to use up that sense of adventure which was deep- 
 rooted in his nature. He was a throw-back. He had 
 all the stuff in him that was in his ancestors, those 
 early pioneers who were momentarily up against the 
 grim facts of life. He was not cut out for civiliza- 
 tion. He needed action, the physical strain and stress 
 of hunting for his food among primeval surroundings 
 and the constant exercise of his strength in dangerous 
 positions. He would have made a fine sailor, a reck- 
 less soldier or an excellent flying man. He was as 
 much out of his element in Wall Street as a sporting 
 dog which is doomed to pass away its life sitting be- 
 side a chauffeur in an elaborate motor-car. The 
 daring recklessness which would have been an asset 
 to him as a hunter of big game or a man who attached 
 himself to dangerous expeditions, found vent, in the 
 heart of civilization, in gambling and running wild. 
 It was a pity to see such a lad so utterly misplaced and 
 going to the devil with an alacrity that alarmed even 
 some of his very loose friends. If his father had con- 
 tinued to be a hard-working doctor whose income was 
 barely large enough to cover his yearly expenses, 
 Graham could have used up his superabundant ener- 
 gies in climbing, rung by rung, any ladder at the 
 bottom of which he had been placed. As it was, he 
 found himself, through his father's sudden accession
 
 124 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 to wealth, beginning where most men leave off, with 
 nothing to fight for nothing to put his teeth into 
 nothing for which to take off his coat. It was 
 all wrong. He made money and lost it with equal 
 ease although he lost more than he won. He was 
 surrounded with luxuries when he should have been 
 faced daily with the splendid difficulties which go to 
 form character and mental strength. Somehow or 
 other his innate desire for adventure had to be used 
 up. With no one to exercise any discipline over him, 
 with no steady hand to guide him and control, he flung 
 himself headlong into the vortex of the night life of 
 the great city and was an easy prey for its rastaquores. 
 At the age of twenty- four he already knew what it 
 was to be haunted by money-lenders. Already he was 
 up to the innumerable dodges of the men who borrow 
 from Peter to pay Paul. He was a well-known figure 
 in gambling clubs and the houses in the red-light dis- 
 trict, and he numbered among his friends men and 
 women who made a specialty of dealing with boys of 
 his type and who laid their nets with consummate 
 knowledge of humanity and with the most dastardly 
 callousness. He was indeed, in the usual inaccurate 
 conception of the word, a good " sport," and stood 
 every chance of paying for the privilege with his 
 health, his self-respect and the whole of his future 
 life. 
 
 To have seen the nervous way in which he dressed 
 for dinner the next evening, throwing tie after tie 
 away with irritable cursing, would have convinced the 
 most casual observer of the fact that he stood in need
 
 THE CITY 125 
 
 of a strong hand. His very appearance, the dark 
 lines round his eyes, the unsteadiness of his hand, 
 denoted plainly enough the sort of life that he was 
 leading, but the short-sighted eyes of the Doctor in 
 whose house he lived missed all this, and there was 
 no one except the little mother to cry " halt " to this 
 poor lad and, in her experience, of what avail was 
 she? 
 
 He drove after having dined with three other 
 Wall Street men at Sherry's to an apartment house 
 on West Fortieth Street, little imagining that fate had 
 determined to put him to the test. Kenyon had rec- 
 ommended him to try it. He had heard of it from 
 Captain Fountain's brother, who had called it " very 
 hot stuff " in one of his letters, the headquarters 
 of a so-called " Bohemian " set in which Art and 
 gambling were combined. It was run by a woman 
 whose name was Russian, whose instincts were cos- 
 mopolitan, and who had been shifted out of most of 
 the great European cities by the police. " The Pa- 
 powsky," as she was called, spoke several languages 
 equally fluently. She was something of a judge of 
 art. She had an uncanny way of being able to pre- 
 dict success or failure to new plays. She knew 
 musicians when she saw them and only had to smell a 
 book to know whether it had excellence or not. Her 
 short, thin body and yellow skin, her black hair cut 
 in a fringe over her eyes and short all round like that 
 of a Shakesperian page, her long, dark, Oriental eyes 
 and her long artistic hands were in themselves far 
 from attractive. It was her wit and sarcasm how-
 
 126 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 ever and the brilliant way in which she summed up 
 people and things which made her the leader of those 
 odd people to be found in every great city who 
 delight in being unconventional and find excitement in 
 a game of chance. 
 
 The apartment in which she held her " receptions " 
 and entertainments was unique. The principal room 
 was a large and lofty studio, arranged like a grotto 
 with rocks and curious lights and secluded places 
 where there were divans. Here there was a dais, at 
 the back of which there was an organ, and a grand 
 piano stood upon it in a French frame all over cupids, 
 and it was here that the most extraordinary exhibi- 
 tions of dancing were given by the Papowsky hand- 
 maidens and others. 
 
 The other people who lived in this apartment house 
 had already begun to talk about it in whispers, and 
 its reputation had gone out into the city. One or two 
 feeble complaints had been made to the police, but 
 without any avail. At the moment when Graham had 
 first entered it, it was in its second year and was flour- 
 ishing like the proverbial Bay Tree. The magnets 
 which drew him to this house of Arabian Nights were 
 the roulette table in a secluded room at the end of the 
 passage, and one of the hand-maidens of the Papow- 
 sky, whose large, gazelle-like eyes and soft caressing 
 hands drew him from other haunts, and followed him 
 into his dreams.
 
 THE CITY 127 
 
 III 
 
 GRAHAM'S hat and coat were taken by a Japanese 
 servant, whose little eyes twinkled a welcome. 
 
 The long, brilliantly lighted passage which led to 
 the studio was hung with nudes, some of them painted 
 in oils with a sure touch, some highly finished in black- 
 and-white, and the rest dashed off in chalks, rough 
 impressionist things which might have been drawn by 
 art students under the influence of drink. Between 
 them in narrow black frames there was a collection of 
 diabolically clever caricatures of well-known singers, 
 actors, authors, painters and politicians, each one 
 bringing out the weaknesses of the victims with 
 peculiar impishness and insight. The floor of the pas- 
 sage was covered with a thick black pile carpet, which 
 smothered all noise. 
 
 As Graham entered the studio several strange minor 
 chords were struck on the piano and a woman's deep 
 contralto voice filled the large studio like winter wind 
 moaning through an old chimney. 
 
 The Papowsky, who was giving an evening for 
 young artists, and was half-covered in a more than 
 usually grotesque garment, slid out of the shadow and 
 gave Graham her left hand, murmuring a welcome. 
 Exuding a curious pungent aroma, she placed a long 
 finger on her red, thin lips and slipped away again. 
 For some minutes Graham remained where she left 
 him, trying to accustom his eyes to the dim though 
 far from religious light. He made out men in
 
 128 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 dress clothes sitting here and there and the glint of 
 nymph-like forms passing from place to place, spring- 
 ily. The scent of cigarette smoke mixed with that of 
 some queer intoxicating perfume. The sound of 
 water plashing from a fountain came to his ears. 
 
 On his way to find a seat, Graham's arm was sud- 
 denly seized, he was pulled into a corner and found 
 himself, gladly enough, alone with the girl who called 
 herself Ita Strabosck. There was one blue light in 
 this alcove and by it he could see that the girl was 
 dressed like an Apache in black suit with trousers 
 which belled out over her little ankles and fitted her 
 tightly everywhere else. She retained her close grip 
 and began to whisper eagerly to him. Her foreign ac- 
 cent was more marked than usual, owing to the emo- 
 tion under which she obviously labored. Her heart 
 hammered against his arm. 
 
 " You have come to zee me ? " 
 
 Graham whispered back. " Don't I always come 
 to see you ? " 
 
 "You like me?" 
 
 Graham bent forward and kissed her mouth. 
 
 "You love me?" 
 
 The boy laughed. 
 
 " S-s-s-h ! Eef you love me, eef you really and 
 truly love me, I vill to-night ask you to prove 
 eet." 
 
 " I've been waiting," said Graham, with a sudden 
 touch of passion. 
 
 " Zen take me avay from this 'ell. I 'ave a soul. 
 Eet ees killing me. I 'ave a longing for God's air.
 
 THE CITY 129 
 
 Take me back to eet. The Papowsky ees a vile 
 woman. She lure me 'ere and I am a prisoner. You 
 do not know the 'errors of zis place. I am young. 
 I am almost a child. I was good and I can be good 
 again. At once, when you come 'ere, I saw in you 
 one who might rescue me from zis. I love you. You 
 say you love me. I beseech you to take me away." 
 
 Graham was stirred by this emotional appeal whis- 
 pered in his ear, by the young arms that were flung 
 round his neck, and by the little body that was all soft 
 against him. His sense of chivalry and his innate 
 desire for adventure were instantly set ablaze. At the 
 same time, what could he do with this strange little 
 girl ? Where could he put her ? 
 
 He began to whisper back something of his inabil- 
 ity to help, but a hand was quickly placed over his 
 mouth. 
 
 " Eef you believe in God, take me away. I do not 
 care what you do with me. I do not care eef you 
 make me work for my bread. You are not like ze 
 rest. You too are young and you are a man, and I 
 love you. I will be your servant your slave. I 
 will kiss your feet. I will give you myself. I will 
 wait on you 'and and foot. Give me a little room near 
 ze sky and see me once a day, but take me out of this 
 evil place I am being poisoned. Vill you do zis ? 
 Vill you ? " She slipped down on her knees and 
 clasped her hands together. 
 
 In the faint blue light Graham could see the large 
 eyes of the girl looking up at him through tears, as 
 though to a saviour. Her whole attitude was one of
 
 I 3 o THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 great appeal. Her young, slim body trembled and the 
 throbbing of her voice with its curious foreign accent 
 moved him to an overwhelming pity. Here then was 
 something that he could do was a way in which he 
 could exercise his bottled up sense of adventure which 
 had hitherto only been kept in some sort of control 
 by gambling and running risks. 
 
 " Do you mean that you're forced to remain here, 
 
 that you can't get out if you want to? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes ! I tell you I was caught like a 
 wild bird and zis ees my cage. Ze door ees guarded." 
 
 A great excitement seized the boy. He lifted Ita 
 up and put his mouth to her ear. " You've come to 
 the right man. I'll get you out of this. I always 
 loathed to see you here, but how's it to be done? 
 She has eyes in the back of her head, and those 
 damned Japanese servants are everywhere." 
 
 " Eeet ees for you to sink," said the girl. " You 
 are a man." 
 
 " I see," said Graham. " Right. Leave it to 
 me." 
 
 He liked being made responsible. He liked the 
 utter trust which this girl placed in him. He liked 
 the feeling of danger. The whole episode and its 
 uncanny romance caught hold of him. It was not 
 every day that in the middle of civilization the chance 
 came to do something which smacked of mediaevalism 
 
 which had in it something of the high adventure 
 of Ivanhoe. 
 
 He said : " Get away quick and put your clothes 
 on. Don't pack anything just dress. There won't
 
 THE CITY 131 
 
 be any one in the roulette room until after twelve. 
 Go in there and hide behind the curtains and wait for 
 me. Quick, now ! " 
 
 Once more the girl flung her arms about him and 
 put her lips to his mouth. 
 
 For several minutes Graham remained alone in the 
 alcove, with his blood running swiftly through his 
 veins his brain hard at work. The woman on the 
 dais was still singing. In the vague, uncertain light 
 he could see the Papowsky curled up on a divan near 
 by, smoking a cigarette. Other people had come in 
 and made groups among the foolish rockery. Then 
 he got up quietly, went out into the passage and looked 
 about. He had never before explored the place, he 
 only knew the studio and the roulette room. It 
 dawned upon him that this apartment was just be- 
 neath the roof of the building. Somewhere or other 
 there was likely to be an outlet to the fire-escape. 
 That was the idea. He had it. The girl had said 
 that it would be impossible to take her away by the 
 main door. Those Japanese servants were evidently 
 watch-dogs. Even as he stood there, wondering, he 
 saw that he was eyed by a small, square-shouldered 
 Japanese whose head seemed to be too large for his 
 body and whose oily deferential grin was not to be 
 trusted. He lit a cigarette, and putting on what he 
 considered to be an air of extreme nonchalance, 
 strolled along until he came to the roulette room. No 
 one was there. The candelabra were onlj partially 
 alight. He darted quickly to the window and flung 
 it up. The iron steps of the fire-escape ran past it
 
 132 
 
 to the roof. " Fine ! " he said to himself. " Now I 
 know what to do." 
 
 He shut the window quickly and turned round just 
 as the man who had been watching him came in. 
 " Say ! " he said. " Just go and get me a high-ball. 
 Bring it here." He followed the man to the door and 
 into the passage and watched him waddle away. He 
 had not been there more than a moment when the door 
 opposite opened bit by bit, and the girl's face, with 
 large frightened eyes, peeped round the corner. In 
 a little black hat and a plain frock with a very tight 
 skirt she looked younger and prettier and more in need 
 of help than ever. Without a word, Graham caught 
 hold of her hand, drew her into the passage, shut her 
 door, ran her into the roulette room and placed her 
 behind the curtains, making sure that her feet were 
 hidden. Whistling softly to himself he sat down and 
 waited. The man seemed to have been gone half an 
 hour. It was really only a few minutes before he 
 waddled back on his heels. Graham took the drink. 
 " How soon do you think they'll begin to play to- 
 night ? " he asked, keeping his voice steady with a 
 huge effort. 
 
 The Japanese shrugged his shoulders. " As usual, 
 sir," he said, smiling from ear to ear and rubbing his 
 hands together as though he were washing them. 
 "Any time after twelve, sir any time, sir." 
 
 "All right!" said Graham. "I shall wait here." 
 
 He kept up the air of boredom until he imagined 
 that the small, black-haired, olive-tinted man had had 
 time to get well away. Then he sprang to the door,
 
 THE CITY 133 
 
 saw that the passage was empty, darted back into the 
 room and over to the window. 
 
 " Come on ! " he said. " Quick's the word ! " and 
 climbed out, giving the girl his hand. For a moment 
 they stood together on the ledge of the fire-escape, the 
 stairs of which seemed to run endlessly down. With 
 a chuckle of triumph Graham shut the window, as 
 the girl gave a little cry of dismay. 
 
 She had called that place hell, but from the height 
 on which they stood it seemed as though they were 
 climbing down from the sky. 
 
 IV 
 
 " UPTOWN," said Graham to the taxi driver. " I'll 
 tell you where when I know myself." 
 
 A knowing and sympathetic grin covered the big 
 Irish face and a raucous yell came from the hard-used 
 engine, and the taxi went forward with a huge 
 jerk. 
 
 The little girl turned her large eyes on Graham. 
 " You do not know vhere you take me ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " No, by thunder, I don't. I can't drive you like 
 this to a hotel, you've got no baggage. Most of my 
 friends live in bachelor apartments, and the women I 
 know, well, I would like to see their faces if I turned 
 up with you and this story." 
 
 The girl's foreign gesture was eloquent of despair. 
 She heaved a deep sigh and drew into the corner of
 
 i 3 4 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 the cab. The passing lights shone intermittently on 
 her little white face. How small and pitiful and help- 
 less she looked. 
 
 The sight of her set Graham's brain working again. 
 In getting her out of the Papowsky's poisonous place 
 and leading her step by step down the winding fire- 
 escape and, when it ceased abruptly in mid-air, into 
 the window of a restaurant, he had been brought to 
 the end of one line of thought, that of getting the 
 girl safely out of her prison. He now started on 
 another, while the cab rocked along the trolley lines 
 beneath the elevated railway, sometimes swerving 
 dangerously out and round the iron sup'ports. 
 
 Suddenly Graham was seized with an idea. He put 
 his head out of the cab window and shouted to the 
 driver: "Fifty-five East Fifty-second Street." 
 
 The girl turned to him hopefully. " What ees 
 zat?" she asked. 
 
 " My home." 
 
 " Your 'ome ? You take me to your 'ome ? " 
 
 " Why no, not exactly. I'm going in to get a bag 
 for you. It won't have much in it except a brush and 
 comb and a pair of my pajamas, but with them we 
 can drive to any quiet hotel and I'll get a room for 
 you. In the morning I'll find a little furnished apart- 
 ment and you can go out and buy some clothes and 
 the other things that you need. How's that ? " 
 
 Ita caught up his hand and held it against her heart. 
 " But you are not going to leave me? " 
 
 " Yes, I must," said Graham. " I shall have to 
 register you as my sister. You've just come off the
 
 THE CITY 135 
 
 train and I've met you at the station. Oh, don't cry ! 
 It's the best I can do. It's only just for one night. 
 I'll fix things to-morrow and you'll be very happy in 
 a little apartment of your own, won't you? I'll see 
 you every day there." 
 
 With a sudden and almost painfully touching aban- 
 don of gratitude the girl flung herself on the floor of 
 the cab and put her head on Graham's knees, calling 
 on God to bless him. Something came into the boy's 
 throat. 
 
 The taxi crossed Fifth Avenue behind a motor-car 
 that was also going towards Madison Avenue. It 
 looked very familiar to Graham. Supposing it was 
 his father returning from one of his medical meetings ! 
 He put his head out again, sharply : " Stop at the first 
 house on East Fifty-second Street!" he shouted. 
 Almost before the cab had stopped he leaped out. 
 " Wait for me here," he added. 
 
 " Sure an' I will." The driver threw a glance at 
 his taxi-meter. Not for him to care how long he 
 waited. 
 
 Graham darted along the street and up the steps 
 of Number fifty-five, and just as he had the key in the 
 door he heard his father's voice. 
 
 " No, no. Let my car take you home. Yes, a 
 wonderful evening. Most inspiring. Good night! 
 Let's meet again soon ! " 
 
 Graham made up his mind what to do. He held 
 the door open for the Doctor and stood waiting for 
 him, with the bored look of one who has had a rather 
 dull evening.
 
 136 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " Oh, thank you, Graham," said Dr. Guthrie. 
 " Have you just got back? " 
 
 " Yes ; I thought I'd get to bed early to-night." 
 
 " You look as though you needed sleep," said the 
 Doctor. " But but don't go up at once. Please 
 come and have a cigarette in my room. I've I've 
 been speaking at the Academy of Medicine, explain- 
 ing a new discovery. A great triumph, Graham, a 
 great triumph. I would like to tell one of my sons 
 about it. Won't you come ? " 
 
 There was an unwonted look of excitement on his 
 father's thin face and a ring in his voice which made 
 it almost youthful. It was the first time that Graham 
 had ever received such an invitation. He was sur- 
 prised, and if he had not been so desperately anxious 
 to slip up-stairs, lay quick hands on the bag and get 
 away again he would have accepted it gladly. For 
 a reason that he could not explain he felt at that 
 instant an almost unbearable desire to find his father, 
 to get in touch with him, to give something and re- 
 ceive something that he seemed to yearn for and need 
 more urgently than at any other moment in his life. 
 As it was, he was obliged to back out. " I'm fright- 
 fully tired to-night," he said, yawning. 
 
 "Oh, are you? I'm sorry," said the Doctor 
 apologetically. " Some other night perhaps some 
 other night." 
 
 The two men stood facing each other uncomfort- 
 ably. Exhilaration had for a moment broken down 
 the Doctor's shyness. It all came back to him when 
 he found his son's eyes upon him like those of a
 
 THE CITY 137 
 
 stranger. He took off his coat and hat, said " Good- 
 night " nervously and went quickly across the hall and 
 into his library. 
 
 He was deeply hurt. He stood among those price- 
 less books with a curious pain running through his 
 veins. " What's the matter with me ? " he asked him- 
 self. " Why do I chill my children and make them 
 draw back? " 
 
 Graham shut the door, and then as quickly as an 
 eel ran up-stairs to his bedroom, turned on the light, 
 opened the door of the closet and pulled out a large 
 suit-case. Then he began to hunt among the drawers 
 of his wardrobe for some pajamas. He threw these 
 in. From his bathroom he caught up a brush and 
 comb and some bedroom slippers. These followed 
 the pajamas. Then he shut the case, picked it up, 
 crept quietly down-stairs, across the hall and out into 
 the street, shutting the door softly behind him. He 
 gave the taxi-driver the name of a small hotel fre- 
 quented by actors, and jumped into the cab. 
 
 Ita Strabosck welcomed him as though he had been 
 gone a week. " 'Ow good you are to me ! " she cried. 
 " Eef you never do anysing else een your life, zis that 
 you 'ave done for me vill be written down by zee 
 angels een your book." 
 
 Graham laughed. " The angels I wonder." 
 
 All the same he was a little proud of himself. Not 
 many men would have perfected the rescue of this 
 little girl so neatly from a house in which her body 
 and soul were in jeopardy. It had been an episode 
 in his sophisticated life which was all to his credit.
 
 138 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 He felt that, with pleasure liked the idea of being 
 responsible for this poor little soul, of having some 
 one dependent entirely upon his generosity and who 
 presently would wait for his step with a fluttering 
 heart and run to meet him when he came in tired. He 
 liked also the thought that this girl would be a little 
 secret of his own, some one personal to himself, to 
 whom he could take his worries and he had many 
 and get sympathy and even advice. 
 
 The cab drew up. Graham released himself from 
 the girl's arms and led her into the small and rather 
 fuggy foyer of the hotel, which was a stone's throw 
 from Broadway. A colored porter pounced upon the 
 bag and an alert clerk looked up from the mail that 
 he was sorting. 
 
 " I want a room for my sister," said Graham, " with 
 bath. Got one ? " 
 
 " Fifth floor," said the clerk, after gazing fixedly 
 for a moment at something at the back of the screen. 
 He then pushed the book towards Graham. 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation, Graham wrote 
 " Miss Nancy Robertson, Buffalo," and took the key 
 that was extended to him. " Come on, Nancy," he 
 said, and led the way to the elevator, in which was 
 waiting a tall, florid woman carrying a small bulldog 
 in her arms. She had obviously not taken very great 
 pains to remove the make-up from her face which had 
 been necessary to her small part. Graham recognized 
 her as an actress whom he had seen some nights 
 before in an English play at the Thirty-ninth Street 
 Theatre, and he thought how queer life was and what
 
 THE CITY 139 
 
 odd tricks it played. Not a foot away from each 
 other stood two women, the one just back from a place 
 in which she had been aping a human being in a piece 
 utterly artificial and untrue, the other who had played 
 a part in a tragedy of grim and horrible reality, out 
 of which she had been carried before the inevitable 
 climax. 
 
 The colored boy, with a hospitable grin on his face, 
 led the way along a narrow, shabby passage whose 
 wall-paper was much the worse for wear, and finally 
 opened the door of a small bedroom, switching on the 
 light. 
 
 " I'll undo the case," said Graham quickly. 
 
 The boy drew back. " Sure." 
 
 "And say! If you'll see that my sister gets what 
 she rings for I'll give you five dollars." 
 
 " You bet your life, sah." There was a dazzling 
 glint of white teeth. 
 
 " Thanks." 
 
 " You welcome." 
 
 The cry of joy and relief which made the whole 
 room quiver, as soon as the porter had gone, went 
 straight to Graham's heart " I guess it's not much 
 of a room," he said, a little huskily, " but we'll change 
 all this to-morrow." 
 
 The girl ran her hand over the pillow and the bed- 
 cover. " Oh, but eet ees zo sweet and clean," she 
 said, between tears and laughter, " and no one can 
 come. Eet ees mine. You are zo, 20 good to me." 
 
 Graham undid the case and spilt the meagre con- 
 tents on the bed, Then he put his hands on Ita'g
 
 140 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 shoulders and kissed her. " Good-night, you poor 
 little thing," he said. " Sleep well, order anything 
 that you want, and don't leave this room until I come 
 and fetch you. Your troubles are over." 
 
 She clung to him. " But you vill stay a leetle 
 just a leetle?" 
 
 " No, I'm going now." 
 
 There was nowhere in Graham's mind the remotest 
 desire to stay. A new and strange chivalry had taken 
 the place of the passion that had swept over him earlier 
 in the evening when the blue light had fallen on her 
 slim body. 
 
 She looked into his face, nodded and put her lips 
 to his cheek. " Good night, zen," she said. " You 
 'ave taken me out of hell. You are very good." 
 
 And as Graham walked home under the gleaming 
 moon and the star-bespattered sky, there was a little 
 queer song in his rather lonely heart. 
 
 Poor, simple, sophisticated lad! How easy it had 
 been for that cunning little creature whose one ambi- 
 tion was to be the mistress of an apartment in business 
 for herself, to take advantage of his unfed sense of 
 adventure. She, and fate, had certainly played him 
 a very impish trick. 
 
 V 
 
 THE Oceanic had been timed to dock at four-thirty, 
 but the thick mist at the mouth of the Hudson had 
 caused some delay and her mail had been heavy. The 
 consequence was that she was edged in to her dock
 
 THE CITY 141 
 
 considerably more than an hour late, to be welcomed 
 by an outburst of long-expectant handkerchiefs. 
 
 During the period of waiting by no means un- 
 pleasant, because the sun fell warmly upon the won- 
 derful river several brief, emotional conversations 
 took place between the people who had come to greet 
 Peter. The Guthries were there in a body, even 
 Ethel had pulled herself together and had come to be 
 among the first to greet her favorite brother. Graham 
 wouldn't have missed the occasion for anything on 
 earth. His love for Peter was deep and true. And 
 it was good to see the excitement of them all and of 
 the little mother, who was in a state of verging be- 
 tween tears and laughter all the time. Her big boy 
 was coming home again and once more she would 
 have the ineffable joy of tucking him up at night some- 
 times, and asking God to bless him before she drew 
 the clothes about his ears as she had done so often. 
 Even the Doctor found it necessary to take off his 
 glasses several times and rub them clear of the mois- 
 ture that prevented him from seeing the approaching 
 vessel which seemed to have given herself up to the 
 bullying of the small but energetic tugs whose blunt 
 noses butted into her. 
 
 Betty brought her father; and these two, with a 
 delicacy of feeling characteristic of them, placed them- 
 selves among the crowd away from the Guthrie fam- 
 ily. Intuitively, Betty knew that much as Mrs. 
 Guthrie liked her, she would rather resent her pres- 
 ence there at such a moment. Belle's quick eyes very 
 soon discovered them, however, and presently they
 
 i 4 2 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 permitted themselves to be drawn into the family 
 group. 
 
 It was a curious moment for Ranken Townsend and 
 his feelings were not unlike those of little Mrs. 
 Guthrie. " My God ! " he said to himself as he stood 
 looking out at the wide river, its marvellous and 
 strenuous life and the amazing sky-line of the build- 
 ings on the opposite bank ; " has the time arrived 
 already for me to lose my little girl? Am I so old 
 that I have a young thing ripe enough for marriage 
 and to bring into the world young things of her 
 own? " 
 
 The artist had only met the elder Guthries once be- 
 fore, although Belle was a particular friend of his, 
 having been frequently brought to his studio by Betty. 
 He knew Peter only from having seen him in the treas- 
 ured snapshots which his little daughter brought home 
 with her from Oxford. He had to confess to him- 
 self although his natural jealousy made him unwill- 
 ing to do so that Peter looked just the sort of man 
 whom he would like his daughter to marry when her 
 time came. And so he singled out Mrs. Guthrie 
 almost at once and drew her aside. The breeze blew 
 through his Viking beard, and a fellow-feeling 
 brought into his eyes an expression of sympathy which 
 immediately warmed Mrs. Guthrie's heart towards 
 him. " I didn't want to come this afternoon, Mrs. 
 Guthrie," he said. " Shall I explain why ? " 
 
 " No," said the little mother. " I quite under- 
 stand." 
 
 ' Your boy and my girl are following the inevitable
 
 THE CITY 143 
 
 laws of nature, and it's rather hard luck for us both, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 Mrs. Guthrie put her handkerchief up to her mouth 
 and nodded. 
 
 " Betty's a good girl and I've only to look at you to 
 know that the man to whom she's given her heart is 
 a fine fellow. Well, it brings us up to another mile- 
 stone, doesn't it? one that I wish was still some 
 years ahead. However, let's face it with pluck and 
 with unselfishness, and be friends. Shall we?" 
 
 " Please," said the little mother, giving him her 
 hand. 
 
 Ranken Townsend bared his head. 
 
 And then Dr. Guthrie came up and peered at the 
 man who was talking to his wife. He vaguely re- 
 membered the artist's picturesque appearance and fine 
 open face, but he had forgotten his name. 
 
 Mrs. Guthrie hurried to the rescue. " You remem- 
 ber Mr. Townsend, of course, Hunter," she said. 
 " Betty's father, you know." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said the Doctor. "Of 
 course I remember you, and I'm very delighted to see 
 you again. You have friends coming on the Oceanic 
 too, then ? " 
 
 Townsend laughed. " No, I don't know anybody 
 on her not a soul. All the same I've come to meet 
 your son." 
 
 " Indeed ! It's very kind of you, I'm sure." And 
 then the Doctor suddenly remembered that sooner or 
 later he'd be obliged to share Peter with the man who 
 stood before him, and just for a moment he like
 
 i 4 4 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 his wife and like the other father felt the inevitable 
 stab of jealousy. He covered it with a cordial smile. 
 " What am I thinking about ? Betty brought you, 
 naturally. We must meet more often now, Mr. 
 Townsend." 
 
 " I should like nothing better. I don't know your 
 boy yet except through his photographs and my hav- 
 ing met his mother, but I'm very proud to know that 
 my little girl is to bear a name that will always be 
 honoured in this country." 
 
 Dr. Guthrie blushed and bowed, and put his hand 
 up to his tie nervously. 
 
 It was a curious little meeting, this. All three 
 parents were self-conscious and uncomfortable. They 
 would have been antagonistic but for the very true 
 human note that each recognized. They were all 
 reminded of the unpleasant fact that they were in 
 sight of a new and wide cross-road in their lives, 
 along which they were presently to see two of their 
 young people walking away together hand in hand. 
 Parenthood has in it everything that is beautiful, but 
 much that is disappointing and inevitable much that 
 brings pain and a sudden sense of loneliness. 
 
 There was a very different ring in the conversation 
 of Betty and Belle, who stood a few yards away sur- 
 rounded by people of all the strange conglomerate 
 nationalities which go to make up the population of 
 the United States. Good-tempered, affectionate and 
 excitable Hebrews were already shouting welcomes to 
 their friends on the Oceanic, as the vessel drew slowly 
 nearer. Temperamental Irish were alternately wav-
 
 THE CITY 145 
 
 ing handkerchiefs and daubing their eyes with them, 
 and others of French, German, Dutch, Swedish, 
 Norwegian, Russian and English extraction were 
 trying to discern the faces of those who were near 
 and dear to them among the passengers who were 
 leaning over the rails of the vessel. It was an ani- 
 mated and moving scene, very much more cheery than 
 the ones which take place on the same spot when the 
 great trans-Atlantic Liners slip out into the river. 
 
 "Look!" cried Belle. "There's Nicholas. Isn't 
 he absolutely and wonderfully English? " 
 
 " And there's Peter ! " said Betty, with a catch in 
 her voice. " And isn't he splendidly American ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'm so excited I can hardly stand still. I've 
 dreamed of this every night ever since we came home." 
 
 " So have I. But this is better than dreams. 
 Look! Peter has seen us. He's waving his hat. 
 Even his hair seems to be sunburnt." 
 
 Belle laughed, though her eyes were full of tears. 
 " I can almost smell the violet stuff that Nicholas puts 
 on his." 
 
 Then there was the usual rush as the liner slid into 
 her berth, and as Mrs. Guthrie was swept away with 
 it, holding tight to Graham's arm, she said to herself : 
 " He waved to Betty first. O God, make me brave ! " 
 
 All the same, it was the little mother to whom Peter 
 went first as he came ashore, and he held her very 
 tight, so that she could hardly breathe, and said : 
 " Darling mum ! How good to see you ! " and there 
 was something in that. 
 
 The Doctor took his boy's big hand with less self-
 
 146 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 consciousness than usual. He wished that he might 
 have had the pluck to kiss him on both cheeks and thus 
 follow the excellent example of a little fat Frenchman 
 who had nearly thrown him off his balance in his 
 eagerness to welcome a thin, dark boy. 
 
 "Hello, Belle! Hello, Graham! Hello, Ethel!" 
 And then Peter stood in front of Betty, to whom he 
 said nothing, but the kiss that he gave her meant more 
 than the whole of a dictionary. " Oh, my Peter ! " 
 she whispered. 
 
 Nicholas Kenyon followed with his most winning 
 smile, and was cordially welcomed. He had charming 
 things to say to everyone, especially to Belle. After 
 close scrutiny, Ethel's inward criticism of him was 
 that he had " escaped being Oxford." 
 
 And then Ranken Townsend held out his hand. 
 " But for me, Peter Guthrie," he said, " you wouldn't 
 have had a sweetheart. Shake ! " 
 
 A wave of color spread all over Peter's brown face. 
 He grasped the outstretched hand. " I'm awfully 
 glad to see you," he said. 
 
 " And I'm awfully glad to see you." The artist 
 measured the boy up. Yes, he was well satisfied. 
 Here stood a man in whose clean eyes he recognized 
 the spirit of a boy. Betty had chosen well. " Do 
 you smoke a pipe ? " 
 
 " Well, rather." 
 
 " I thought so. Bring it along to my studio as soon 
 as your mother can spare you and we'll talk about 
 life and love and the great hereafter. Is that a bet? " 
 
 " That's a bet," said Peter. And he added, putting
 
 THE CITY 147 
 
 his mouth close to Betty's ear : " Darling, he's a 
 corker ! He likes me. Gee, that's fine ! " Then he 
 turned to his mother, ran his arm round her shoulder, 
 walked her over to the place in the great echoing, bus- 
 tling shed over which a huge " G " hung, and sat down 
 with her on somebody else's trunk which had just 
 been flung there, to wait with unapproving patience 
 for that blessed time when one of the officialdom's 
 chewing gods, having forced a prying hand among his 
 shirts and underclothing, should mark his baggage 
 with a magic cross and so permit him to reconnect 
 himself with life. 
 
 Nicholas Kenyon, as immaculate as though he had 
 just emerged from a bandbox, slipped his hand sur- 
 reptitiously into Belle's. " Are you glad to see me ? " 
 he asked, under his breath. 
 
 Belle said nothing in reply, but the look that she 
 gave him instead set that expert's blood facing through 
 his veins and gave him something to look forward to 
 that alone made it worth crossing a waste of unneces- 
 sary water. 
 
 VI 
 
 " A VERY pleasant domestic evening," said Kenyon, 
 standing with his back to the fireplace of the library. 
 ' The bosom of this family is certainly very warm. 
 Peter, my dear old boy, I had no idea that you were 
 going to bring me to a house in which a Prime Min- 
 ister or the President of the Royal Academy might 
 be very proud to dwell. Also, may I congratulate you
 
 i 4 8 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 upon your little sister? She's a humorist. I found 
 myself furbishing up all my epigrams when I spoke 
 to her. By Jove, she's like a Baliol blood with his 
 hair in a braid." 
 
 A quiet chuckle came from Graham, who was sit- 
 ting on the arm of a big deep chair, looking up at Ken- 
 yon with the sort of admiration that is paid by a 
 student to his master. " I don't know anything about 
 Baliol bloods," he said, " but Ethel takes a lot of beat- 
 ing. When she quoted Bernard Shaw, at dinner, 
 father nearly swallowed his fork." 
 
 Peter was sitting on the table, swinging his legs. 
 
 " Oh, she'll be all right when she gets away from 
 her school. She'll grow younger every day then. 
 What awful places they are these American girl 
 schools. They seem to inject into their victims a sort 
 of liquid artificiality. It takes a lot of living down. 
 Upon my soul, I hardly knew the kid! Two years 
 have made a most tremendous difference in her. I 
 thought I should throw a fit when she looked at me 
 just now in the drawing-room and said : ' The child- 
 ish influence of Oxford has left you almost unspoiled, 
 Peter, dear.' " 
 
 Kenyon laughed. " Excellent ! " he said. " I 
 know the English flapper pretty well. It'll give me 
 extreme delight to play Columbus among the Amer- 
 ican variety of the species." He looked round the 
 beautiful room with an approving eye. " That must 
 have been a very civilized old gentleman who made 
 this collection. I wonder if he bought some of the 
 books from Thrapstone-Wynyates ! My father was
 
 THE CITY 149 
 
 forced to sell some of them shortly after he succeeded 
 to the title. As the long arm of coincidence fre- 
 quently stretches across the Atlantic, I should like to 
 think that some of the first editions in which my 
 grandfather took so high a pride have found their 
 way into an atmosphere so entirely pleasant as this. 
 One of these fine days, Peter, they may raise a little 
 necessary bullion for you." 
 
 " I hope not," said Peter. 
 
 Graham got up. " It's only eleven o'clock. Sup- 
 pose we get out and see something. Everybody's 
 gone to bed, we shan't be missed." 
 
 " A very brainy notion," said Kenyon, " but what's 
 there to do ? " 
 
 " Oodles of things," said Graham. 
 
 "Well, lead the way. I'm with you. The dull 
 monotony of life aboard a liner has given me a thirst 
 for twinkling ankles, the clash of cymbals and the 
 glare of the lime-light. You with us, Peter? " 
 
 " Yes, unless one second." He went over to the 
 telephone that stood on a small table in a far corner 
 of the room, looked up a number in the book, asked 
 for it and hung on. 
 
 Kenyon shot a wink at Graham. " Get your hat,' 
 old boy," he said. " Peter would a-wooing go. He's 
 the most desperately thorough person." And he 
 added inwardly : " Hang that girl." 
 
 " Can I speak to Mr. Townsend ? Oh, is that you, 
 Mr. Townsend? Peter Guthrie, yes. May I come 
 round and have a jaw ? Thanks, awfully! I'll 
 get a taxi right away." He turned back to the other
 
 150 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 two men. " Great work," he said. " You two will 
 have to go alone to-night. However, we've a thou- 
 sand years in front of us. See you at breakfast. So 
 long!" 
 
 " Wait a second," said Graham. " I'll ring up a 
 taxi and we'll all ride down together." 
 
 " Right-o ! " said Peter. " I'll rush up to my room 
 and get a pipe." 
 
 When he came down again he found Kenyon and 
 Graham waiting at the open door. A taxicab was 
 chugging on the curbstone. Kenyon got in first, with 
 his long cigarette holder between his teeth and a 
 rakish-looking opera hat balanced over his left eye. 
 He carried a thin black overcoat. All about him there 
 was the very essence of Piccadilly. Peter sat beside 
 him and Graham opposite. The cab turned round, 
 crossed Madison into Fifth Avenue and went quickly 
 downtown. The great wide street, as shiny as that 
 of the Champs Ely see, was comparatively clear of 
 traffic. Peter looked at the passing houses with the 
 intense and affectionate interest of the man who comes 
 home again. At the corner of West Forty-second 
 Street Graham stopped the cab. " It's only a short 
 walk to the best of the cabarets," he said ; " we'll let 
 Peter go straight on. Come on, Nicholas, bundle 
 out." 
 
 ''Where are we going?" asked Kenyon, making a 
 graceful exit, 
 
 " Louis Martin's, old boy," said Graham. 
 
 " Pretty hot stuff, I hope. Au revoir, Peter. Do 
 your b^st to make the bardecl paint merchant like you,
 
 THE CITY 151 
 
 You'll have some difficulty." And with that parting 
 shot, contradicted by one of the winning smiles which 
 he had inherited from his delightful but unscrupulous 
 father, Nicholas Kenyon took Graham's arm and these 
 two walked away in high spirits. 
 
 When the cab stopped at the high building on the 
 corner of Gramercy Park, its door was opened by 
 Ranken Townsend. " I timed you to arrive about 
 now, my lad," he said cordially. " I took the oppor- 
 tunity of getting some air. It's mighty good to-night. 
 Come right up." He continued to talk in the ele- 
 vator, which had a long way to go. " Betty has gone 
 to a party. You may meet her mother, I'm not sure. 
 She's out at one of her meetings she spends her 
 life at meetings and if she comes in tired, as she 
 generally does, she probably won't come into the 
 studio. However, that need only be a pleasure de- 
 ferred. Do you speak? If so, she'll nail you for one 
 of her platforms." 
 
 "I, speak?" said Peter, with a shudder. "I'd 
 rather be shot." 
 
 Townsend laughed, led the way into his apartment 
 and into the studio. In the dim light of one reading 
 lamp which stood on a small table at the side of a low 
 divan, the room looked larger than it was. It reeked 
 with the good ripe smell of pipe tobacco and seemed 
 to be pervaded with the personality of the man who 
 spent most of his life in it. One of the top windows 
 was open and through it came the refreshing air that 
 blew up from the Hudson. Peter caught a glimpse 
 of the sky, which was alive with stars. It was a good
 
 152 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 place. He liked it. Work was done there. It 
 inspired him. 
 
 The artist took Peter's hat and coat and hung them 
 in the alcove. Then he went across the room and 
 turned up the light that hung over a canvas. " How 
 d'ycm like it ? " he asked. 
 
 Peter gave an involuntary cry. There sat Betty 
 with her hands folded in her lap. To Peter she 
 seemed to have been caught at the very moment when 
 from his place at her feet he looked up at her just 
 before he held her in his arms for the first time. Her 
 face was alight and her eyes full of tenderness. It 
 was an exquisite piece of work. 
 
 Townsend turned out the light. He was well 
 pleased with its effect. Peter's face was far better 
 than several columns of printed eulogy. " Now come 
 and sit down," he said. " Try this mixture. It took 
 me five years to discover it, but since then I've used 
 no other." He threw himself on the settee and set- 
 tled his untidy head among the cushions. 
 
 The light shone on Peter's strong profile, and when 
 Townsend looked at it he saw there all that he hoped 
 to see, and something else. There was a little smile 
 round the boy's mouth and a look in his eyes that 
 showed all the warmth of his heart. 
 
 "And so you love my little girl as much as that? 
 Well, she deserves it, but please don't take her away 
 from me yet. I can't spare her. She and my work 
 are all I've got, and I'm not lying when I say that she 
 comes first. Generally when a man reaches my age 
 he has lived down his dependence on other people for
 
 THE CITY 153 
 
 happiness and his work has become his mistress, his 
 wife and his children. In my case that isn't so, and 
 my little girl is the best I have. She keeps me young, 
 Peter. She renders my disappointments almost null 
 and void, and she encourages me not wholly to sacrifice 
 myself to the filthy dollar an easy temptation I can 
 assure you. So don't be in too great a hurry to take 
 my little bird away and build a nest for her in another 
 tree. Does that sound very selfish to you ? " 
 
 "No," said Peter; "I understand. Besides 
 good Lord ! I've got to work before I can make 
 a place good enough for her. I've come back to 
 begin." 
 
 "I see! Fine! I thought perhaps that Oxford 
 might have taken some of the good American grit out 
 of you. It just occurred to me that you might be go- 
 ing to let your father keep you while you continue to 
 remain an undergraduate out here in life. A good 
 many of our young men with wealthy fathers play that 
 game, believe me." 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Peter, " but there's something 
 in my blood, I think it's porridge, that urges me 
 to do things for myself. Besides, I believe that there's 
 a feeling of gratitude somewhere about me that makes 
 me want to pay back my father for all that he's done. 
 I'm most awfully keen to do that, Mr. Townsend! 
 His money has come by accident. I'm not going to 
 take advantage of it. I'm going to start in just as if 
 he were the same hard-working doctor that he used 
 to be when he sent me to Harvard, skinning himself 
 to do so. I think he'll like that. Anyway, that's my
 
 154 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 plan. And as to Oxford, well, I should have to be 
 a pretty rotten sort of a dog if I didn't gain something 
 there that wonderful place out of which men have 
 gone, for centuries, all the better for having rushed 
 over its quads and churned up the water of its little 
 old river and stood humbly in its chapels. Don't you 
 think so?" 
 
 " I do indeed, my dear lad ; but somehow or other 
 the younger generation doesn't seem to take advantage 
 of those things, and the sight of the young men of 
 the present day and their callous acceptance of their 
 fathers' efforts make me thank God that I never had a 
 boy. I should be afraid. Think of that! What are 
 you going to do, Peter? What is your line of 
 work?" 
 
 " The law/' 
 
 " The law ? Well, I guess that's a queer sort of 
 maze to put yourself into. An honest man in the law 
 is like a rabbit in a dog kennel. Is that your definite 
 decision? " 
 
 " Absolutely," said Peter. " I chose the law for 
 that reason. I think that honesty is badly needed in 
 it. I've got a dream that one of these days I shall be 
 a judge and make things a bit easier for all the poor 
 devils who have made mistakes." 
 
 "God help you!" 
 
 " I shall ask him to," said Peter. 
 
 The artist looked up quickly. In his further keen 
 and rather wistful scrutiny of the great big square- 
 shouldered man with the strong, clean jaw-line and 
 the firm mouth there was a little astonishment. " Do
 
 THE CITY 155 
 
 you mean to tell me that in the middle of these queer 
 undisciplined, individualistic times you believe in 
 God?" 
 
 The room remained in silence for a moment, until 
 Peter leaned forward and knocked out his pipe. "If 
 I didn't believe in God," he replied quietly, " would 
 you be quite so ready to trust Betty to me ? " 
 
 At that moment the door was swung open and a 
 tall, stout, hard-bosomed woman with a mass of white 
 hair and the carriage of a battleship sailed in. Her 
 evening clothes glistened with sequins and many large 
 beads rattled as she came forward. She wore a string 
 of pearls and several diamond rings. Unable to fight 
 any longer against advancing years and preserve what 
 had evidently been quite remarkable good looks, she 
 had cultivated a presence and developed distinction. 
 In any meeting of women she was inevitably voted to 
 the chair, and in the natural order of things became 
 president of all the Societies to which she attached her- 
 self, except one. In this isolated case the woman who 
 supplanted her, for the time being, was even taller, 
 stouter and harder of bosom, in fact, a born presi- 
 dent. 
 
 The two men rose. 
 
 "Ah, Ranken, still up, then! I half-expected to 
 find the studio in darkness. You'll be glad to hear 
 that we passed a unanimous resolution to-night con- 
 demning this country as a republic and asking that it 
 shall become a monarchy forthwith." 
 
 Townsend refrained from looking at Peter. " In- 
 deed ! " he said gravely. " An evening well spent.
 
 156 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 But I want you to know Peter Guthrie, Dr. Hunter 
 Guthrie's eldest son, just home from Oxford." 
 
 Mrs. Townsend extended a large well-formed hand. 
 " Let me see ! What do I know about you ? You're 
 the young man who Oh, now I remember. 
 You're engaged to Betty. But before I forget it, and 
 as you are just out of Oxford, I'll put you down to 
 speak at the annual meeting next Tuesday at the Wal- 
 dorf, of the Society for the Reconstruction of Uni- 
 versity Systems. Your subject will be ' Oxford as a 
 Menace to the Younger Generation.' There will be 
 no fee I beg your pardon ? " 
 
 Peter's face was a study in conflicting emotions. 
 He looked like a lonely man being run away with in 
 a car that he was wholly unable to drive. Townsend 
 turned a burst of laughter into a rasping cough. 
 " You're awfully kind," said Peter, almost stammer- 
 ing. " But I believe in Oxford." 
 
 " Ah ! Then you shall say so to the Society for the 
 Encouragement of Universities, on Thursday at eight 
 sharp, at the St. Mary's Public School Building, Brook- 
 lyn." 
 
 "As a matter of fact, I don't speak," said Peter. 
 "I I never speak." 
 
 " Why, then, you shall be one of the chief thinkers 
 at the bi-monthly meeting of the Calif ornian Cogita- 
 tors. I'm not going to let you off, so make up your 
 mind to that. And now I'm going to bed. I'm as 
 tired as a dog. Good-bye, Paul, I mean Peter. Ex- 
 pect me to call you up one day soon. There's so much 
 to do with this world chaos that we must all put our
 
 THE CITY 157 
 
 hands to the wheel." And with a wave of her hand, 
 Mrs. Townsend sailed majestically away. 
 
 Peter gasped for breath and the artist subsided into 
 the divan and gave way to an attack a very spasm 
 of laughter, which left him limp and weak. 
 
 " Never allow Betty to get bitten by the meeting- 
 bug, son," he said, when he had recovered. " It isn't 
 any fun to be married to a bunch of pamphlets. 
 What ! Are you off now ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid I've kept you up, as it is, Mr. Town- 
 send. I I want to thank you for your immense kind- 
 ness to me. I shall always remember it. Good 
 night!" 
 
 Rankin Townsend got up, stood in front of Peter 
 for a moment and looked straight at him. He was 
 serious again. " Good night, my dear lad," he said. 
 " I feel that I can trust Betty to you and that takes a 
 load off my mind. Come often and stay later." 
 
 Peter walked all the way home along Madison Ave- 
 nue. That part, at any rate, of the great sleepless 
 city was resting and quiet, and the boy's quick foot- 
 steps echoed through the empty street. He was glad 
 to be back again in New York glad and thankful. 
 Somewhere, in one of her big buildings, was his love- 
 girl the woman who was to be his wife the rea- 
 son of his having been born into the world. No won- 
 der he believed in God.
 
 158 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 VII 
 
 THE following afternoon Peter was to call at the 
 apartment-house on Gramercy Park at half-past-four. 
 He had arranged to take Betty for a walk, a good 
 long tramp. There were heaps of things that he 
 wanted to tell her and hear, and several points on which 
 he wanted to ask her advice. He was not merely 
 punctual, as becomes a man who is head over heels 
 in love he was ten minutes before his time. All the 
 same, he found Betty waiting for him in the hall, 
 talking to a big burly Irishman who condescended to 
 act as hall-porter and who looked not unlike a briga- 
 dier-general in his rather over-smart uniform. This 
 man had known Betty for many years and watched her 
 grow up; had received many kindnesses from her and 
 had seen her bend by the hour over the cot of his own 
 little girl when she was ill. His face was a study 
 when he saw Peter bound into the place, catch sight 
 of Betty and take her in his arms, and without a single 
 touch of self-consciousness pour out a burst of in- 
 coherent joy at being with her once more. 
 
 Catching his expression, in which surprise, resent- 
 ment and a sort of jealousy were all mixed, Betty said, 
 when she got a chance: "Peter, this is a friend of 
 mine, Mr. O'Grady." 
 
 Peter turned and held out his hand. " How are 
 you? All Miss Townsend's friends have got to be 
 my friends now." 
 
 The Irishman's vanity was greatly appealed to by
 
 THE CITY 159 
 
 the simple manliness of Peter's greeting, his cheery 
 smile and his utter lack of side. He smiled back and, 
 having given the hand a warm grip, drew himself up 
 and saluted. At one time he had served in the British 
 Army, and he wanted Peter to know it. He would 
 have told him the story of his life then and there with, 
 very likely, a few picturesque additions, but before 
 he could arrange his opening sentence the two young 
 people were out in the street. He watched them go 
 off together, the one so broad and big, the other so 
 slight and sweet, and said to himself, rolling a new 
 quid of tobacco between his fingers: "Ah, thin; it's 
 love's young dream once more ! And it's a man he is. 
 God bless both of them! " 
 
 " Are you feeling strong to-day, darling ? " asked 
 Peter. 
 
 " Strong as a lion," said Betty. " Why ? " 
 
 " Because I'm going to walk you up the Avenue and 
 into the Park and about six times round the reservoir. 
 Can you stand it ? " 
 
 Betty laughed. " Try me, and if I faint from ex- 
 haustion you can carry me into the street and call a 
 taxi-cab. I'm not afraid of anything with you." 
 
 " That's fine ! This is the first time we've been 
 really alone since I came back. It'll take from now 
 until the middle of next week to tell you even half 
 the things I've got to say. First of all, I love 
 you." 
 
 "Darling Peter." 
 
 " I love you more than I ever did, much more a 
 hundred times more and I don't care who hears me
 
 i6o THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 say so." That was true. He made this statement, 
 not in a whisper, but in his natural voice, and it was 
 overheard by several passers-by who turned their 
 heads, and being women, smiled sympathetically and 
 went on their way with the deep thrill of the young 
 giant's voice ringing in their ears like music. 
 
 They stood for a moment on the curbstone trying 
 to find an opportunity to cross the street. Betty gave 
 herself up to the masterly person at her side without 
 a qualm. She adored being led by the arm through 
 traffic which she wouldn't have dared to dodge had 
 she been alone. It gave her a new and splendid sense 
 of security and dependence. 
 
 The rain had begun to fall softly. It gathered 
 strength as they turned into Fifth Avenue, and came 
 down smartly. Betty didn't intend to say a word about 
 the fact that she was wearing a new hat. It had es- 
 caped Peter's notice. Her face was all he saw. He 
 wasn't even aware that it was raining until he took 
 her arm and found her sleeve was wet. 
 
 "Good Lord!" he said. "This won't do. Dash 
 this rain, it's going to spoil our walk. Where can we 
 go? I know." A line of taxis was standing on a 
 stand. He opened the door of the first one. " Pop 
 in, baby," he said. " We'll drive to the Ritz and have 
 tea. I can't have you getting wet." 
 
 Betty popped in, not really so profoundly sorry to 
 escape that strenuous walk as Peter was. 
 
 Being a wise man he took full advantage of the taxi- 
 cab, and for all the fact that it was broad daylight 
 and that anybody who chose could watch him, he gave
 
 THE CITY 161 
 
 Betty a series of kisses which did something to make 
 up for lost time and a long separation. The new hat 
 suffered rather in the process, but what did that mat- 
 ter ? This was love. Hats could be replaced such 
 a love as his, never. 
 
 " Your father is a great chap," said Peter. " We 
 had a good yarn last night. By Jove! I wish my 
 father had something of his friendly way. I felt 
 that there was nothing I couldn't tell him nothing 
 that he wouldn't understand. Well, well; there it is. 
 Graham and I will have to worry along as best we may. 
 Everything'll come out all right, I hope." 
 
 " How did you like mother ? " asked Betty. 
 
 " Well," said Peter, considering his answer with 
 the greatest care, " she's undoubtedly a wonderful 
 woman, but she scares me to death. The very first 
 thing she did was to ask me to speak at one of her 
 meetings." 
 
 Betty burst out laughing. "What ? Already? 
 When are you speaking? What are you going to 
 say?" 
 
 " Good Lord ! What can I say ? I can recite the 
 Jabberwocky or the alphabet in English, French and 
 American, but that finishes my repertory. Can you 
 see me standing on a platform as white as a sheet try- 
 ing to stammer out a few idiotic sentences to a room 
 full of women ? Look here ! You've got to get it out 
 of her head that I can be of the slightest use to her. 
 Tell her I stutter, or that I've got no roof to my mouth 
 anything you like but, for goodness sake, have 
 my name taken off her list. Will you promise that?
 
 162 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 Already I wake up in the middle of the night in an 
 absolute panic." 
 
 " Don't worry," said Betty, " Mother's a very 
 strong-minded woman, but she's awfully easy to 
 manage. And now I want you to promise me some- 
 thing." 
 
 " Anything in the world," said Peter. 
 
 " Well, then, don't mistake the Ritz for that dear 
 little open place where the fairies dance, and suddenly 
 kiss me in front of the band and all the people having 
 tea." 
 
 " Hard luck," said Peter. " I'll do the best I can. 
 But you're such an angel and you look so frightfully 
 nice that I shall have all I can do to keep sane." 
 
 The cab drew up and they got out, went through the 
 silly swinging doors which separate a man from his 
 girl for a precious moment and into the Palm Court 
 where the band was playing. Peter gave his hat and 
 stick to a disgruntled waiter, who would have told 
 him to check them outside but for his height and 
 width. 
 
 The place was extraordinarily full for the time of 
 year. Everywhere there were women, and every one 
 of them was wearing some sort of erect feather in her 
 hat. It gave the place the appearance of a large 
 chicken run after a prolonged fracas. The band was 
 playing the emotional music of La Boheme. It was 
 in its best form. The waiter led them to a little table 
 under a mimic window-sill which was crowded with 
 plants. Many heads turned after them as they ad- 
 ventured between the chattering groups. It was so
 
 THE CITY 163 
 
 easy to see that their impending marriage had been ar- 
 ranged in Heaven. 
 
 "What sort of tea do you like?" asked Peter. 
 " Anything hot and wet, or have you a choice ? 
 Really, I don't know the difference between one and 
 another." 
 
 But Betty did. Hadn't she kept house for her 
 father? "Orange Pekoe tea," she said, "and but- 
 tered toast." 
 
 Peter made it so, and in sitting down nearly knocked 
 x over the table. He was too big for such places and 
 his legs got in the way of everything. At the other 
 end of the room Kenyon was sitting with Belle. Betty 
 had seen them at once, but she held her peace. For 
 the first time in her life she appreciated the fact that 
 two is company. Both men were too occupied to 
 recognize anybody. 
 
 Peter was very happy and full of enthusiasm about 
 everything, and Betty was an eager listener as he talked 
 about her and himself and the future, while she poured 
 out the tea. It was all very delightful and domestic 
 and new and exhilarating, and it didn't require much 
 imagination on the part of either of them to believe 
 that they were sitting in their own house, far away 
 from people, and that Peter had just come home after 
 a long day's work, and that the band was their new 
 Victrola performing in the corner. Only one thing 
 made Betty aware of the fact that they were in the 
 Ritz Hotel, and that was the pattern of the teacups. 
 She never would have chosen such things, and if they 
 had been given to her as a wedding present she would
 
 164 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 have packed them away in some far-off cupboard. She 
 had already made up her mind that their first tea serv- 
 ice was going to be blue-and-white, because it would 
 go with her drawing-room, the drawing-room which 
 she had furnished in her dreams. 
 
 " I don't think you'd better do that, Peter," whis- 
 pered Betty suddenly. 
 
 " Do what, darling? " Butter wouldn't have melted 
 in his mouth. 
 
 "Why, hold my hand. Everybody can see." 
 
 " Not if you put it behind this end of the table- 
 cloth. Besides, what if they can? I'm not ashamed 
 of being in love. Are you? " 
 
 " No ; I glory in it. But " 
 
 " But what ? " He held it tighter. 
 
 " I think you'd better give it back to me. There's 
 an old lady frowning." 
 
 " Oh, she's only a poor benighted spinster. And 
 anyhow she's not frowning. She put her eyebrows 
 on in the dark." 
 
 " Very well, Peter. I suppose you know best." 
 And Betty made no further attempts to rescue her 
 hand. 
 
 She had two good reasons for leaving it there, the 
 first, that she liked it, and the second that she couldn't 
 take it away. But she made sure that it was hidden 
 by the tablecloth. 
 
 " Won't you smoke, Peter ? " 
 
 " Oh, thanks. May I ? " 
 
 " All the other men are." 
 
 Peter took out his case and his cigarette holder.
 
 THE CITY 165 
 
 It was very easy to take out a cigarette with one 
 hand, but for the life of him he couldn't manoeuvre 
 it into the tube. Was he so keen to smoke that he 
 would let her hand go? 
 
 He gave it up and broke into a smile that almost 
 made Betty bend forward and plant a resounding kiss 
 on his square chin. " Well, I'm dashed," he said. 
 " I believe you asked me to smoke on purpose to get 
 free." 
 
 " I did," she said. " Peter, you're you're just a 
 darling." 
 
 And that was why he upset the glass of water. 
 
 Presently he said, when peace was restored: 
 "What d'you think I've done to-day? I've fixed up 
 a seat in the law office of two friends of mine. They 
 were at Harvard with me corkers both. I intend 
 to start work next week. Isn't that fine? We're 
 going to mop up all the work in the city. Darling, 
 that apartment of ours is getting nearer and nearer. 
 I shall be a tired business man soon and shall 
 want a home to go to, with a little wife waiting 
 for me." 
 
 And Betty said : " How soon do you think that'll 
 be?" 
 
 Before Peter could answer, Belle's ringing voice 
 broke in. She and Kenyon had come up unnoticed. 
 " The turtle doves," she said. " Isn't it beautiful, 
 Nick?" 
 
 "Well, rather!" 
 
 And the spell was broken. They little knew, these 
 two who were so happy, that in the fertile brain of the
 
 i66 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 man who stood smiling at them was the germ of a 
 plan which would break their engagement and bring 
 a black cloud over the scene. 
 
 VIII 
 
 THE family dined early that evening. Graham had 
 taken a box at the Maxine Elliott Theatre. He and 
 Kenyon and Peter vvere to take Belle and Betty there 
 to see a play by Edward Sheldon, about which every- 
 body was talking. Little Mrs. Guthrie, who was to 
 have been one of the party, had decided to stay at 
 home, because the Doctor was not feeling very well, 
 and so she was going to sit with him in the library 
 and see that he went to bed early, and give him a dose 
 of one of those old-fashioned cures in which she was 
 a great believer. 
 
 Naturally enough, although he was not an ardent 
 play-goer, Peter was looking forward with keen pleas- 
 ure to the evening because he would be able to sit close 
 to Betty and from time to time whisper in her ear. 
 During dinner, however, which was a very merry 
 meal, with Kenyon keeping everyone in fits of laugh- 
 ter, Peter caught something in his mother's eyes which 
 made him revolutionize his plans. The little mother 
 laughed as frequently as the rest of them, to the 
 casual observer she was merry and bright, with noth- 
 ing on her mind except the slight indisposition of the 
 Doctor. But Peter, who possessed an intuitive eye 
 which had a knack of seeing underneath the surface
 
 THE CITY 167 
 
 of things and whose keen sympathy for those he loved 
 was very easily stirred, became aware of the fact that 
 his mother was only simulating light-heartedness and 
 stood in need of something from him. 
 
 He threw his mind back quickly, and in a moment 
 knew what was wrong. During the short time that 
 he had been back in the city he had forgotten to give 
 his little mother anything of himself. That was wrong 
 and ungrateful and extremely selfish, and must be 
 remedied at once. 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation he decided to cut 
 two acts of the play and do everything that he could 
 to prove to the little mother who meant so much to 
 him that, although he was engaged to be married, she 
 still retained her place in his heart. 
 
 Dinner over, he went quickly to the door and opened 
 it, and as his mother passed out he put his arm round 
 her shoulders and whispered, " Mummie, dear, slip 
 up to your room and wait there for me. I want to 
 talk to you." The look of gratitude that he received 
 from the dear little woman was an immense reward 
 for his unselfishness. Then he went up to Graham 
 and said : " Look here, old boy, I find I shan't be able 
 to go along with you now, but I'll join you for the 
 last act." 
 
 " Oh, rot ! " said Graham. " What's up? Betty'll 
 be awfully upset." 
 
 " No, she won't," said Peter. " I'm going to send 
 her a note." And while the others were getting ready, 
 he dashed off a few lines to the girl who, like himself, 
 understood the family feeling. It contained only a
 
 i68 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 few lines, but they were characteristically Peterish 
 and were calculated to make Betty add one more brick 
 to the beautiful construction of her love for him, be- 
 cause they showed that he understood women and 
 their sensitiveness and realized their urgent need of 
 tenderness and appreciation. 
 
 As soon as the party had driven away, Peter col- 
 lected a pipe and a tin of tobacco and went quickly 
 up the wide staircase. He rushed into his mother's 
 own particular room with all his old impetuosity and 
 found her sitting at a table by the side of a great work- 
 basket in which he saw a large collection of the socks 
 that he had brought home with him and which stood 
 badly in need of motherly attention. No man in this 
 world made so many or such quick holes in the toes 
 of his socks as Peter did, and he knew that she had 
 ransacked the drawers to find them. He drew up a 
 chair, thrust his long legs out in front of him and made 
 himself completely comfortable. 
 
 This little room was unlike any other in the house. 
 In it his mother had placed all the pet pieces of inex- 
 pensive furniture which had been in the sitting-room 
 of the little house in which she and the Doctor had 
 settled down when they were first married. It was 
 unpretentious stuff, bought in a cheap store in a small 
 town, what is called " Mission " furniture, curi- 
 ous, uncomfortable-looking chairs which creaked with 
 every movement, odd little sideboards, which would 
 have brought a grin either of pain or amusement to 
 the face of the former owner of the beautifully fur- 
 nished house which had been left to the Doctor. The
 
 THE CITY 169 
 
 walls were covered with photographs of the family in 
 all stages, Peter as a chubby baby with a great curl 
 on top of his head Belle in a perambulator smiling 
 widely at a colored nurse Graham in his first sailor- 
 suit Ethel bravely arrayed in a party frock, 
 " Thinking of Mother " and over the mantel-piece 
 one an enlargement of the Doctor taken when he 
 was a young man, with an unlined face and thick, 
 straight hair, his jaws set with that grim determina- 
 tion which had carried him over so many obstacles. 
 It was a room at which Graham, Belle and Ethel fre- 
 quently laughed. But Peter liked it and respected it. 
 He felt more at home there than anywhere else in the 
 house. It reminded him of the early struggles of his 
 father and mother and touched every responsive note 
 in his nature. 
 
 " I'm sorry you're not going to the theatre, dear," 
 said Mrs. Guthrie. 
 
 " No, you're not," said Peter. 
 
 " Oh, indeed I am. I like you to enjoy yourself 
 with the others, and Betty'll be there. Only stay a 
 few minutes; and, as the curtain always goes up late, 
 you'll be in time to see the whole of the play." 
 
 " Blow the play ! " said Peter. " I'm going to talk 
 to you just as long as I like. I can go to the theatre 
 any night of the week." 
 
 Mrs. Guthrie dropped her work, bent forward and 
 put her cheek against Peter's. " You're a dear, dear 
 boy," she said. " You're my very own Peter, and 
 even if I were a poet I couldn't find words to tell you 
 how happy you make me ; but I did my best not to let
 
 170 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 you see that I was just a wee bit hurt because you 
 haven't had time to spare me a few moments since you 
 came home. After all, I'm only a little old mother 
 now, and I must try to remember that." 
 
 " Oh, don't," said Peter. " I'm awfully sorry I've 
 been such a thoughtless brute. But, no one no, 
 no one can ever take your place, and you know it." 
 He went down on his knees at her side and wrapped his 
 strong arms round her and put his head upon her 
 breast as he used to do when he was a little chap, and 
 remained there for a while perfectly happy. 
 
 He couldn't see the Madonna look which came into 
 the eyes of the little mother, whose pillow had fre- 
 quently been wet with tears at the thought that she 
 had lost her boy. Nor did he see the expression of 
 extreme gratitude which spread rather pathetically over 
 her face. But he felt these things and held her tightly 
 just to show how well he understood, and to eliminate 
 from her heart that feeling of pain which he knew 
 had crept into it because he had found that other little 
 mother who was to be his wife and have sons of her 
 own. 
 
 Presently he returned to his chair and to his pipe, 
 and began to talk. " By gad ! " he said, " it's good to 
 be home again. I find myself looking at everything 
 differently now quite time, too. I should have been 
 at work years ago. Universities are great places and 
 1 shall never regret Oxford, but they take a long time 
 to prepare a fellow to become a man." Then he 
 laughed one of his great and big laughs, and his chair 
 creaked and one or two of the old pieces of furniture
 
 THE CITY 171 
 
 seemed to rattle. " I hid those socks, but I knew you'd 
 find them. What a mother you are, mother! I'll 
 make a bet with you." 
 
 " I never bet," said Mrs. Guthrie, who was all smiles. 
 
 " I'll bet you a hundred dollars you never mend 
 Graham's socks. Now then tell the truth." 
 
 " Well, no, I don't. He doesn't like socks that have 
 been mended; and, anyway, he isn't my first-born. 
 You see that makes a lot of difference." 
 
 " There you are," said Peter. " Pay up and smile. 
 Oh, say ; I'm sorry father's seedy. He sticks too closely 
 to those microbes of his. I shall try to screw up cour- 
 age and take him on a bust now and then. It'll do 
 him good. Think he'll go ? " 
 
 Mrs. Guthrie looked up eagerly. " Try," she said. 
 " Please do try. Now that you've come home for 
 good I want you to do everything you can to get closer 
 to your father. He's a splendid man and he's always 
 thinking about you and the others, but I know that 
 he'll never make the first move. He doesn't seem to 
 understand how to do it. But he deserves everything 
 you can give him. If only you could break down his 
 shyness and diffidence, because that's what it is, 
 you'd make him very happy." 
 
 " Yes, that's what I think," said Peter. " I've been 
 thinking it over, especially since I saw the way in 
 which Kenyon's father treats him. I shall pluck up 
 courage one of these nights, beard him in his den and 
 have it out, and put things straight. I want him much 
 more than he wants me ; and, d'you know, I think that 
 Graham wants him too,"
 
 172 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " I'm sure he does," said Mrs. Guthrie. " Gra- 
 ham's a good boy, but he's very reckless and thinks that 
 he's older than he is. He comes to me sometimes with 
 his troubles, but how can I help him? I wish, Peter, 
 I do wish that he'd go sometimes to his father ! " 
 
 " Well, I'm going to try to alter all that," said Peter. 
 " It's got to be done somehow. Father's always been 
 afraid of us, and we've always been afraid of father. 
 It's silly. What d'you think of Nicholas? Isn't he 
 a corker ? " 
 
 Mrs. Guthrie smiled. " He improves on acquaint- 
 ance," she said. " He's certainly one of the most 
 charming men I've ever met. Do you think " she 
 lowered her voice a little " do you think there's any- 
 thing between him and Belle ? " 
 
 " Good Lord ! " said Peter. " I never thought of 
 that. Is there?" 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Guthrie, " I've noticed one or 
 two little things. He's been writing to her, you 
 know." 
 
 " Has he ? By Jove ! Well, then, there must be 
 something in it. He's a lazy beggar and I don't be- 
 lieve I've ever seen him write a letter in his life. Gee, 
 I shall be awfully glad to have him for a brother-in- 
 law ! That topping place in Shropshire ! Belle would 
 make an absolutely perfect mistress of it, although 
 there's plenty of life in the old man yet. By Jove, 
 it was good to see the relationship between Nick and 
 his father. It staggered me. Why, they were as 
 good as friends. They go about arm in arm and tell 
 each other everything. It used to make me feel quite
 
 THE CITY 173 
 
 sick sometimes. Think of my going about arm in 
 arm with father ! " 
 
 " Think of Belle becoming the Countess of Shrop- 
 shire! I should like that. It would be another 
 feather in your father's cap, your father who used 
 to carry siphons in a basket." 
 
 " More power to his elbow," said Peter. " It might 
 have been better for me if I'd carried siphons in a 
 basket. After all, I'm inclined to believe that there's 
 no university in the world like the streets. Think of 
 all the men who've graduated from windy corners and 
 muddy gutters It'd be a fine thing for Ethel, too, 
 if Belle marries Nick. Isn't she an extraordinary 
 kid? Upon my word, she takes my breath away. 
 She's older at sixteen than most women are at thirty. 
 By the way, what's the matter with her? What's 
 anaemia, anyhow? She looks as fit as a fiddle." 
 
 " Oh, she'll soon get over that," said Mrs. Guthrie. 
 " I think they bend too much over books at her school. 
 You know the modern girl isn't like the girls of my 
 generation. I didn't have to learn geometry or piano 
 playing. I didn't think it was necessary to know Eu- 
 clid or a smattering of the classics. We learned how 
 to make bread and cook a good steak and iron clothes. 
 You know husbands don't come home to hear Mozart 
 on a Baby Grand and enter into discussions about 
 writers with crack-jaw names." 
 
 " I know, Ibsen, Schopenhauer, Hauptmann and 
 Tolstoy. No; they don't fill a hungry tummie, do 
 they?" 
 
 " No, indeed they don't," said Mrs. Guthrie. " And
 
 174 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 that reminds me that I must go and give your father 
 his little dose. When a doctor isn't well he never knows 
 how to look after himself." She got up and put down 
 her work, and then bent over Peter. " Thank you for 
 coming up to-night, my dearest boy. I've had a queer 
 little pain in my heart for a long time, but you've taken 
 it all away. Now run along and see your Betty, and 
 don't worry about your little mother any longer." 
 
 Peter got up and put his hands on his mother's shoul- 
 ders. "Listen!" he said. "I love you. I shall al- 
 ways love you. No woman shall ever come between 
 me and you." And he caught her in his arms and 
 kissed her. 
 
 And then she bustled down-stairs to the library, 
 where the Doctor was taking it easy for once and 
 dipping into one of the numerous books that sur- 
 rounded him. There was a smile on Mrs. Guthrie's 
 face which was like the sun on an autumn morning. 
 
 On the way to his bedroom Peter passed the door of 
 Ethel's room, and drew up short. He had heard her 
 say she was going to bed early. He hadn't had many 
 words with her since he got back. So he decided to 
 go in and wipe off that debt, too. When he tried to 
 open the door he found that it was locked. He started 
 a devil's tattoo with his knuckles. " Are you there, 
 Kid?" he shouted out. 
 
 The answer was " Yes." 
 
 " Well, then, open the door. I want to come 
 in." 
 
 After a moment the door was opened and Ethel 
 stood there in a very becoming peignoir. She looked
 
 THE CITY 175 
 
 extremely disconcerted and did her best to block the 
 way into the room. 
 
 But that wouldn't do for Peter. "What's all 
 this ? " he asked. " We lock our door now, do 
 we?" 
 
 " Yes, sometimes," said Ethel. " Why aren't you 
 at the theatre ? " She shot a surreptitious glance to- 
 wards the window, which was open. 
 
 " I've been having a talk with mother," said Peter. 
 " Hello ! I see you've been trigging up your room. 
 Frightfully swagger now, isn't it. New art, eh? 
 You're coming on, my dear, there's no mistake about 
 that. I'm afraid you find us all appallingly provincial, 
 don't you?" 
 
 The broad grin on Peter's face was no new thing to 
 Ethel. He had always pulled her leg and treated her 
 as though she were a sort of freak. All the same, she 
 liked his coming in and was flattered to know that he 
 thought it worth while to bother about her. But she 
 began to edge him to the door. He had come at a 
 most unpropitious moment. 
 
 " Oh ho ! " said Peter. " So this's what higher edu- 
 cation does for you ? A nice mixture cigarettes and 
 candies I must say. Now I know why you locked 
 your door. With a marshmallow in one hand and an 
 Egyptian Beauty in the other you lie on your sofa in 
 the latest thing in peignoirs and see life through the 
 pages of, what ? " He picked up a book from the 
 table. " Good Lord ! " he added ; " you don't mean 
 to say you stuff this piffle into you ? " It was a col- 
 lection of plays by Strinberg.
 
 1 76 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " Oh, go to the theatre ! " said Ethel. " You're be- 
 ing horridly Oxford now and I hate it." 
 
 " You'll get a lot more of it before I've done with 
 you," said Peter. " All the same, you look very nice, 
 my dear. I'm very proud of you, and I hope you will 
 do me the honour to be seen about with me sometimes. 
 But how about taking some of that powder off your 
 nose? If you begin trying to hide it at sixteen it'll 
 be lost altogether at twenty." He made a sudden 
 pounce at her and holding both her hands so that she 
 could not scratch, rubbed all the powder away from her 
 little proud nose and made for the door, just missing 
 the cushion which came flying after him, and took 
 himself and his big laugh along the passage. 
 
 Immensely relieved at being left alone, Ethel locked 
 the door again and went over to her dressing-table, 
 where she repaired damage with quick, deft fingers. 
 With another glance at the window, a glance in 
 which there was some impatience, she arranged her- 
 self on the settee to wait. 
 
 IX 
 
 No wonder Peter had made remarks about this 
 room. It was deliciously characteristic of its owner. 
 Large and airy; all its furniture was white and its 
 hangings were of creamy cretonne covered with little 
 rosebuds. The narrow bed was tucked away in a cor- 
 ner so that the writing-desk, the sofa and the revolv- 
 ing book-stand on which stood a bowl of mammoth
 
 THE CITY 177 
 
 chrysanthemums might dominate the room. Sev- 
 eral mezzotints of Watts' pictures hung on the walls 
 and a collection of framed illustrations of the Arabian 
 Nights, by Dulac. The whole effect was one of naive 
 sophistication. 
 
 Through the open window the various sounds of the 
 city's activity floated rather pleasantly. There was 
 even a note of cheerfulness in the insistent bells of the 
 trolley-cars on Madison Avenue and the chugging of 
 a taxi-cab on the other side of the street. Before 
 many minutes had gone by a rope ladder dangled out- 
 side the window, and this was followed immediately 
 afterwards by the lithe and wiry figure of a boy. Wear- 
 ing a rather sheepish expression he remained sitting 
 on the sill, swinging his legs. "Hello!" said he. 
 " How are you feeling? " 
 
 " There's some improvement to-night," said Ethel. 
 " Won't you come in ? Were you waiting for a sig- 
 nal?" 
 
 "You bet!" 
 
 He was a nice boy, with a frank, honest face, a blunt 
 nose and a laughing mouth. His hair was dark and 
 thick, and his shoulders square. He was eighteen and 
 he looked every day of it. He lived next door and 
 was the son of a man who owned a line of steamships 
 and a French mother, who was not on speaking terms 
 with Mrs. Guthrie, owing to the fact that the Doctor 
 had been obliged to remonstrate about her parrot. 
 This expensive prodigy gave the most lifelike and 
 frequent imitations of cats, trolley-cars, newsboys, 
 sirens and other superfluous and distressing disturb-
 
 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 ances on the window-sill of the room which was next 
 to his laboratory. So this boy and girl uncon- 
 sciously playing all over again the story of the Mon- 
 tagues and Capulets met surreptitiously night after 
 night, the boy coming over the roof and using the rope 
 ladder which had played its part in all the great 
 romances. Was there any harm in him? Well, he 
 was eighteen. 
 
 " What'll you have first? " asked Ethel, in her best 
 hostess manner "candies or cigarettes?" 
 
 " Both," said the boy ; and with a lump in his cheek 
 and an expression of admiration in both eyes he 
 started a cigarette. He was about to sit on the settee 
 at Ethel's feet, but she pointed to a chair and into this 
 he subsided, crossing one leg over the other and hitch- 
 ing his trousers rather high so that he might display 
 to full advantage a pair of very smart socks, newly 
 purchased. 
 
 " I hope you locked your bedroom door," said 
 Ethel, " and please don't forget to whisper. There's 
 no chance of our being caught, but we may as well be 
 careful." 
 
 The boy nodded and made a little face. "If father 
 found out about this," he said ; " oh, Gee ! What 
 did you do with Ellen after she bounced in last night? " 
 
 " Oh, I gave her one of my hats. I told her that if 
 she kept quiet there was a frock waiting for her. She's 
 safe. Now, amuse me ! " 
 
 For some minutes the boy remained silent, worry- 
 ing his brain as to how to comply with the girl's rather 
 difficult and peremptory request. He knew that she
 
 THE CITY 179 
 
 was not easy to amuse. He was a little frightened 
 at the books she read and looked up to her with a 
 certain amount of awe. He liked her best when she 
 said nothing and was content to sit quite quiet and 
 look pretty. After deep and steady thought he took 
 a chance. "Do you know this one?" he asked, and 
 started whistling a new ragtime through his teeth. 
 
 It was new to Ethel. She liked it. Its rhythm set 
 her feet moving. " Oh, that's fine," she said. 
 "What are the words?" 
 
 The boy was a gentleman. He shook his head, 
 thereby stimulating her curiosity a hundred-fold. 
 
 " Oh don't be silly. I shall know them sooner or 
 later, whatever they are 'besides, I'm not a child." 
 
 The boy lied chivalrously. " Well, honestly, I don't 
 know them, something about * Row, row, row ' I 
 don't know the rest." 
 
 She knew that he did know. She liked him for not 
 telling her the truth, but she made a mental note to or- 
 der the song the following morning. 
 
 And so, for about an hour, these two young things 
 who imagined that this was life carried on a desultory 
 conversation, while the boy gradually filled the room 
 with cigarette smoke, and remained reluctantly a whole 
 yard away from the sofa. It was all very childish and 
 simple, but to them it was romance with a very big R. 
 They were making believe that they had thrown the 
 world back about a hundred years or so. He was a 
 knight and she a lady in an enemy's castle; and, al- 
 though their mothers didn't speak, they liked to ignore 
 the fact that Mrs. Guthrie would have had no objec-
 
 i8o THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 tion to his coming to tea as often as he desired and 
 taking Ethel for walks in broad daylight whenever he 
 wished for a little mild exercise. But, he was 
 eighteen, and so presently, repulsed by her tongue but 
 enticed by her eyes, he left his chair and found himself 
 sitting on the settee at Ethel's feet, hold' "^ her hand, 
 which thrilled him very much. She was kinder than 
 usual that night, sweeter and more girlish. Her 
 stockings were awfully pretty, too, and her hair went 
 into more than usually delicious ripples round her 
 face. 
 
 " You're a darling," he said suddenly. " I love to 
 come here like this. I hope you'll be ill for a month." 
 And he slid forward with gymnastic clumsiness and 
 put his arm round her shoulder. He was just going to 
 kiss her and so satisfy an overwhelming craving when 
 there was a soft knock on the door and Dr. Guthrie's 
 voice followed it. " Are you awake, Ethel ? " 
 
 The boy sprang to his feet, stood for a moment with 
 a look of peculiar shame on his face, turned on his 
 heels, made for the window, went through it like a 
 rabbit and up the troubadour ladder, which disappeared 
 after him. 
 
 Ethel held her breath and remained transfixed. 
 Again the knock came and the question was repeated. 
 But she made no answer, and presently, when the sound 
 of footsteps died away, she got up a little peevish 
 and more than a little irritable kicked a small pile 
 of cigarette ash which the boy had dropped upon her 
 carpet, and said to herself : " Just as he was going to 
 kiss me ! Goodness, how annoying father is ! "
 
 THE CITY 181 
 
 X 
 
 THE following morning Belle took Nicholas Ken- 
 yon for a walk. Dressed in a suit of blue flannel with 
 white bone buttons, with a pair of white spats gleam- 
 ing over patent leather shoes and a grey hat stuck at 
 an angle of forty-five, Kenyon looked as fresh and as 
 dapper as though he had been to bed the night before 
 at ten o'clock. He had, as a matter of fact, come home 
 with the milk ; but he was one of those men who pos- 
 sess the enviable gift of looking healthy and untired 
 after the sort of nights which make the ordinary man 
 turn to chemistry and vibro-massage. 
 
 Belle had sported a new hat for the occasion. 
 
 This fact Kenyon realized with that queer touch of 
 intuition which was characteristic of him. " By 
 Jove ! " he said. " That's something like a hat, Belle. 
 Hearty congratulations. You suit it to perfection." 
 
 Belle beamed upon him. " But you would say that 
 anyhow, wouldn't you?" 
 
 " Perfectly true ; but in ninety-nine cases out of a 
 hundred I shouldn't mean it." 
 
 They turned into Madison Avenue. It was an ex- 
 quisite morning. The whole city was bathed in sun, 
 but the refreshing tang of late autumn was in the air. 
 Most of the large houses were still closed, their own- 
 ers lingering in the country or abroad. All the same 
 there was the inevitable amount of traffic in the streets 
 and apparently the usual number of passers-by. The 
 city can be according to the strange little creatures
 
 182 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 who write society news " utterly deserted " and yet 
 contain all its teeming millions. 
 
 " And what may that be ? " asked Kenyon, pointing 
 to the heavy white buttresses of a church which backed 
 on the street. 
 
 " Oh, that's the Roman Catholic Cathedral." 
 
 " Roman Catholic, eh ? I noticed churches every- 
 where as we drove up from the docks, more churches 
 than pubs apparently, and yet I suppose it would be 
 quite absurd to imagine that New Yorkers imbibe 
 their alcohol entirely in the form of religion." 
 
 " Quite," said Belle, dryly. " Although we have a 
 hundred religions and only five cocktails." 
 
 " I see you also go in for antique furniture." 
 
 Belle laughed. " You have a quick eye," she said. 
 " There's so much genuine Old English stuff in this 
 city that if it were sent to England there wouldn't 
 be room for it on shore. Tell me; what are your 
 plans?" 
 
 " Well," said Kenyon, " I'm going to accept your 
 father's perfectly charming hospitality for a fortnight 
 and then take rooms in a bachelor apartment-house, of 
 which Graham has told me, for the winter." 
 
 " You're going to settle down here ? " cried Belle. 
 
 " Rather, for six months. I'm here to study the 
 conditions, make myself familiar with the character- 
 istics and draw from both what I hope will be the 
 foundations of much usefulness." Kenyon consid- 
 ered that he had enveloped his true mission which 
 was to lighten the pockets of all unwary young men 
 with a satirical verbiage that did him credit,
 
 THE CITY 183 
 
 " I thought that perhaps you'd come for some other 
 reason," said Belle, whose whole face showed her dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 Kenyon shot a quick glance at her. How naive 
 she was how very much too easy but, neverthe- 
 less, how very young and desirable. " That goes with- 
 out saying, you delicious thing," he replied, closing 
 his hand warmly round her arm for a moment and so 
 bringing the light back to her \eyes. " By the way," 
 he continued, " what's the matter with Graham? " 
 
 " I don't know that anything's the matter with Gra- 
 ham." 
 
 " I think so. I notice a worried look about him 
 that he didn't have at Oxford; that he seems to be 
 always on the verge of telling me something, and draw- 
 ing back at the last minute. I must make a point of 
 finding out what his trouble is. Peter and I were dis- 
 cussing it this morning after breakfast. We're both 
 a bit anxious about him. Do you know if your father 
 has noticed it? " 
 
 " Father ? Oh, he doesn't notice anything. He be- 
 lieves that Graham is working very hard and doing 
 well. He knows less about what goes on in our house 
 than the people who live next door." 
 
 " That's rather a pity. I'm all for complete con- 
 fidence between father and son. However, I shall 
 play father to Graham for a bit and see what can be 
 done for him. He puzzles me. There's a mystery 
 somewhere." 
 
 Something of this mystery was disclosed to Ken- 
 yon and Peter that night. After dining them both
 
 1 84 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 at the Harvard Club a place which filled Kenyon 
 with admiration and surprise Graham suddenly sug- 
 gested, with a queer touch of excitement, that they 
 should go with him to his apartment. 
 
 " Your apartment ? " said Peter. " What on earth 
 do you mean ? " 
 
 " Well, come and see," said Graham. 
 
 The two elder men looked at each other in amaze- 
 ment. Kenyon's quick mind ran ahead, but Peter, the 
 unsophisticated, was quite unable to understand what 
 in the world Graham wanted an apartment for when 
 he lived at home. They all three left West Forty- 
 fourth Street in silence and walked arm in arm down 
 Fifth Avenue as far as Twenty-eighth Street. Here 
 they turned westward and followed Graham, who was 
 wearing an air of rather sheepish pride, up the steps 
 of an old brown stone house with rather a shabby 
 portico. 
 
 " Dismal looking hole," said Peter. 
 
 " Wait ! " said Graham, and he put his finger on a 
 bell. The door opened automatically and he led the 
 way into a scantily furnished hall and up three flights 
 of stairs, whose red carpet was in the autumn of its 
 days. Drawing up in front of a door on the left of 
 the passage he rang again, and after a lengthy pause 
 was admitted to a small apartment by a colored maid, 
 who gave a wide grin of recognition. 
 
 " Come right in," said Graham. " Lily, take our 
 hats and coats. Don't leave them about in the hall. 
 Hang them up and then go and get some drinks." 
 
 Kenyon looked about him curiously. He could see
 
 THE CITY 185 
 
 that the place was newly furnished and that everything 
 had been chosen by a man. He glanced into the din- 
 ing-room. The pictures were sporting and the furni- 
 ture mission. He detected no sign of a woman's hand 
 anywhere. He began to be puzzled. He had ex- 
 pected to find something quite different. But when 
 Graham opened the door of the sitting-room and 
 said : " Well, here we are, Ita ! " and he saw a small, 
 dark, olive-skinned girl rise up from a settee and run 
 forward to Graham with a little cry of welcome, he 
 knew that his deduction of the situation had been a 
 right one. So this was the mystery. 
 
 Still with the same air of sheepish pride, Graham 
 said : " Peter, this is Miss Ita Strabosck. My 
 brother, Ita. And this is Nicholas Kenyon, who's a 
 great friend of mine. They've just come over from 
 England, and so of course I've brought them to see 
 you." 
 
 The little girl held out a very shy hand, and 
 said : " I am so glad. Eet ees very good of you to 
 come." 
 
 In a curiously plain tight frock of some soft black 
 material, cut square across her tiny breasts, and leav- 
 ing her arms bare almost to the shoulders, she stood, 
 with one knee bent, looking from one man to the other 
 with a sort of wistful eagerness to be treated kindly. 
 She held a tiny black Teddy bear with red eyes against 
 her cheek, like a child. 
 
 Peter, for a reason which he was unable to explain 
 to himself, felt a wave of sympathy go over him. He 
 not only accepted the girl on her face value, but some-
 
 1 86 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 how or other believed her to be younger and more ro- 
 mantic than she looked. She seemed to him to have 
 stepped out of the pages of some Arabian book to 
 be a little exotic whom Graham must have discovered 
 far away from her native hot-house. He liked the 
 way in which her thick hair was arranged round her 
 face, and he would have sworn that she was without 
 guile. 
 
 Not so Kenyon. " Great Scott ! " he said to him- 
 self. " Here's a little devil for you. Our young 
 friend Graham has had his leg pulled. I've seen mos- 
 quitoes before, but the poison of this one will take all 
 the ingenuity of an expert to counteract." 
 
 He sat down and watched the girl, who threw one 
 quick antagonistic glance at him and attached herself 
 to Peter, to whom she talked in monosyllables. She 
 might only very recently have left a Convent School, 
 except that her dog-like worship of Graham seemed to 
 prove that she owed him a deep debt of gratitude for 
 some great service. 
 
 Graham watched her, too, and his expression showed 
 Kenyon that even if he didn't love her he believed in 
 her and was proud of himself. 
 
 XI 
 
 BY a sort of mutual consent the three men left the 
 apartment in Twenty-eighth Street early. They did 
 not desire to finish the evening at any cabaret or club. 
 They called the first passing taxicab and drove home.
 
 THE CITY 187 
 
 By mutual consent also they never once referred to Ita 
 Strabosck, but discussed everything else under the sun. 
 Kenyon had never been so useful. With consummate 
 tact but all the while with the picture in his mind of 
 the cunning little actress whom they had just left 
 he led the conversation from dancing to baseball and 
 from country clubs to women's clothes. Whenever 
 the cab passed a strong light Graham made a quick, 
 examining glance at Peter's face. He knew old Peter 
 as well as Peter knew his piano, and he was quite well 
 aware of the fact that although his brother laughed a 
 good deal at Kenyon's quaint turn of phrase he was 
 upset at what he had seen. 
 
 It was just after eleven o'clock when they went into 
 the smoking-room of the house in Fifty-second Street. 
 Mrs. Guthrie and Ethel had gone to bed. Belle had 
 not returned from a theatre party. The Doctor was 
 at work in his laboratory. He heard the boys come 
 in. The sound of their voices made him raise his head 
 eagerly. He even half-rose from his chair in a desire 
 to join them and hear them talk, and laugh with them 
 and get from them some of that sense of youth which 
 they exuded so pleasantly, but his terrible shyness got 
 the better of him once more and he returned to his ex- 
 periments. How ironical it was that with complete 
 unconsciousness he was leaving it to such a man as 
 Nicholas Kenyon to play father to his second son, who 
 had never in his short life needed a real father so 
 badly. 
 
 For some little time smoking a good cigar with 
 complete appreciation Kenyon continued to give
 
 1 88 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 forth his impressions of New York so far as he knew 
 it. He was especially amusing in his description of 
 the effect upon him of the first sight of the Great 
 White Way. Then, all of a sudden, there came one of 
 those strange pauses. It was Peter who broke the 
 silence. " Graham, old boy," he said, " tell us about 
 it. What does it all mean ? Good Lord ! you're only 
 twenty- four. Are you married?" 
 
 Before Graham could reply, Kenyon sent out a scoff- 
 ing laugh. "Married! Is he married?" he cried. 
 " My good old grandfather's ghost, Peter ! But how 
 indescribably green you are. Hang me if you're 
 not like a sort of Peter Pan ! You've passed through 
 Harvard and Oxford with a skin over your eyes. 
 It's all very beautiful, very commendable and what 
 Belle would call 'very dear' of you and all that 
 sort of thing, but somehow you make me feel that 
 I've got to go through life with you in the capacity 
 of the sort of guide one hires in Paris the human 
 Baedeker." 
 
 " But if Graham hasn't married that poor girl," said 
 Peter, bluntly, "what's he doing with her?" 
 
 Graham sprang to his feet and began to walk about 
 the room. All about his tall, slight, well-built figure 
 there was a curious nervousness and excitement. Even 
 in the carefully subdued light of the room it was plain 
 to see that his face was rather haggard and drawn. 
 The boy looked years older than Peter. " I'll start 
 off," he said, " by giving you fellows my word of 
 honor that what I'm going to tell you is the truth. I 
 have to begin like this because if either of you were
 
 THE CITY 189 
 
 to tell me this story I don't think I should be able to 
 believe it. Some time ago I was taken I forget by 
 whom to a pestilential but rather amusing place in 
 Fortieth Street. It's a huge studio run by a woman 
 who calls herself Papowsky. It's what you, Nick, 
 would call the last word in supereffeteness. Ita Stra- 
 bosck was one of the girls. I liked her at once. I 
 didn't fall in love with her, but she appealed to me and 
 it was simply to see her that I went there several times. 
 I knew the place was pretty rotten and I didn't cotton 
 on to the people who were there or the things they did. 
 I even knew that the police had their eyes on it, but 
 I liked it all the more because of that. It gave it a 
 sort of zest, like absinthe in whiskey." 
 " Quite ! " said Kenyon. " Fire away ! " 
 " The last time I went there, Ita took me into a cor- 
 ner, told me that she was never allowed out of the 
 place and was a sort of White Slave, and begged me 
 to take her away. I don't think I shall ever forget the 
 sight of that poor little wretch trembling and shaking. 
 It was pretty bad. Well, I took her away. I got her 
 out by a fire-escape when nobody was watching us. 
 Dodged through a window of a restaurant on the first 
 floor, and so out into the street. It was very tricky 
 work. The day after I took the apartment that you 
 came to to-night, furnished it, and there Ita has been 
 ever since. I go there nearly every night until the 
 small hours. She's happy now and safe and I don't 
 regret it. She hated the place and the things she had 
 been forced to do and nothing will make me believe 
 that she was bad. She was just a victim that's all.
 
 igo THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 And if I have to go without things I don't care so long 
 as she has all she needs. That's the story. What 
 d'you think of it?" 
 
 Peter got up, went over to his brother and held out 
 his hand silently. With a rather pathetic expression 
 of gratitude in his eyes, Graham took it and held it 
 tight. "That's like you, Peter," he said, a little 
 huskily. 
 
 Kenyon made no movement. He looked with a 
 pitying smile at the two boys as they stood eye to eye. 
 The whole thing sounded to him like a fairy tale and 
 for a moment he wondered whether Graham was not 
 endeavoring to obtain their sympathy under false pre- 
 tences. Then he made up his mind that Graham 
 like the man with whom he had lived at Oxford 
 was green also, for all that he had knocked about in 
 New York for two years. Not from any kindness of 
 heart, but simply because he wanted to use Graham 
 as a means of introducing him to the young male 
 wealthy set of the city, he determined to get him out 
 somehow or other of this disastrous entanglement. 
 He would however go to work tactfully without al- 
 lowing Graham to think that he had made a complete 
 fool of himself. He knew that if he wounded this boy's 
 vanity and brought him down from his heroic pedestal 
 he would set his teeth, put his back to the wall and re- 
 fuse to be assisted. With keen insight he could see 
 that this incident was likely to injure the usefulness of 
 his visit to America. 
 
 "Urn!" he said. "It's a pitiful story, Graham. 
 You behaved devilish well, old boy. Not many men
 
 THE CITY 191 
 
 would have acted so quickly and so unselfishly. Now, 
 sit down and tell me a few things." 
 
 Gladly enough Graham did so, heaving a great sigh. 
 He was glad that he had made a clear breast of all 
 this. He was too young to keep it a secret. He 
 wanted sympathy urgently and a little human help. 
 Peter loaded and lit a pipe and drew his chair into the 
 group. 
 
 " This girl Ita What's-her-name loves you, of 
 course? " 
 
 Graham nodded. 
 
 " Anyone could see that," said Peter. 
 
 " But she'd been in that studio some time before 
 you came along, I take it, I mean she'd been any- 
 body's property for the asking? " 
 
 Graham shuddered. " I hate to think so," he 
 said. 
 
 Peter kicked the leg of the nearest chair. 
 
 " How d'you feel ? " asked Kenyon. 
 
 " Awfully sorry for her," said Graham. 
 
 " Yes, of course. What I mean is, are you all 
 right?" 
 
 Graham looked puzzled. " I find it rather difficult 
 to pay for everything," he said, "especially as I've 
 been damned unlucky lately." 
 
 The man of the world involuntarily raised his eye- 
 brows. " Good Lord ! " he said to himself. " And 
 this boy is the son of a specialist. Blind blind ! " 
 Then he spoke aloud, passing on to another point. 
 " How long do you think it is incumbent upon you to 
 make yourself the guardian of this girl ? "
 
 192 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 Graham shrugged his shoulders. " She comes from 
 Poland. Her father and mother are dead and she has 
 no one to look after her." 
 
 " I'll help you," said Peter. 
 
 That was exactly what Kenyon didn't want. He 
 got up, went over to the table and mixed a drink. 
 " Potter off to bed, Graham, old boy," he said. " Get 
 a good night's rest. You need it. We'll go further 
 into the matter in a day or two. It requires serious 
 consideration. Anyway, I congratulate you. You're 
 a bit of a knight, and you've my complete admiration." 
 He led the boy to the door, patted him on the shoulder 
 and got rid of him. Then he returned to Peter, whose 
 face showed that he was laboring under many conflict- 
 ing emotions. 
 
 " Nick," he said, " he's only twenty- four just 
 making a beginning. He did the only thing he could 
 do under the circumstances, but, but what would 
 father say?" 
 
 " I don't think it's a question as to what your father 
 would say," said Kenyon. " If I know anything, the 
 way to put it is what can your father do? Of all men 
 in the city he's the one who could be most useful in 
 this peculiar mess-up Peter, you and I have got 
 to get that boy out of this, otherwise " 
 
 "Otherwise what?" 
 
 " Otherwise quite shortly the police are likely 
 to fish out of the river the dead body of a promising 
 lad of twenty-four, and there'll be great grief in this 
 house." 
 
 "What d'you mean?"
 
 THE CITY 193 
 
 " Exactly what I say. That girl's a liar, a cheat 
 and a fraud." 
 
 " I don't believe you." 
 
 " I don't care whether you believe me or not. She's 
 rotten from head to foot. She's as easy to read as an 
 advertisement. She's taking advantage of a fellow 
 who's as unsuspicious as you are. You're both green, 
 green, I tell you, as green as grass." 
 
 " I'd rather be green," cried Peter, hotly, " than go 
 through life with your rotten skepticism." 
 
 "Would you? You talk like an infant. Graham 
 will want to marry some day, and then what ? Good 
 Heavens! Hasn't anybody taken the trouble to tell 
 you two any of the facts of life? You are neither of 
 you fit to be allowed out in the streets without a nurse. 
 It's appalling. Skeptical, you call me. You're blind, 
 I tell you. Blind ! So's the old man in the next room. 
 There's an ugly shadow over this house, Peter, as 
 sure as you're alive. Don't stand there glaring at me. 
 I'm talking facts. If you've got any regard for your 
 brother and his health and his future; if you want to 
 save your mother from unutterable suffering and your 
 father from a hideous awakening, don't talk any fur- 
 ther drivel to me, but make up your mind that the 
 girl, Ita Strasbosck, has it in her power to turn Graham 
 into a suicide. She's a liar a liar and a trickster and 
 a menace and I'll make it my business to prove it to 
 you and Graham." 
 
 " You can't." 
 
 " Can't I ? We'll see about that. And you've got 
 to help me. We've got to make Graham see that he
 
 194 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN , 
 
 must shake her off at once, at once, I tell you. The 
 alternative you know." 
 
 Peter got up and strode about the room. He was 
 worried and anxious. He didn't, unfortunately, fully 
 appreciate the gravity of this affair, because, as Ken- 
 yon had said so tauntingly, he was a child in such mat- 
 ters. But what he did appreciate was that his only 
 brother had done something, however sympathetic the 
 motive, which might have far-reaching consequences 
 and which did away with the possibility of his going, 
 as it was Peter's determination to go, clean and 
 straight to a good girl. 
 
 He turned to Kenyon, who had made himself com- 
 fortable. " I'll help you for all I'm worth, Nick," he 
 said. 
 
 " Right," said Kenyon. " I'll think out a line of ac- 
 tion and let you know to-morrow. There's no time to 
 be lost." 
 
 XII 
 
 KENYON got rid of Peter, too. 
 
 Apart from the fact that he was going to wait up 
 for Belle, he wanted to be alone. He was angry. It 
 was just like his bad luck to come all the way to 
 America and find that the two men who had it in their 
 power to be of substantial use to him were both fully 
 occupied, one being hopelessly in love, the other in 
 money trouble and in what he recognized as a difficult 
 and even dangerous position. With characteristic 
 selfishness he resented these things. They made it
 
 THE CITY 195 
 
 necessary for him to exercise his brain, not for him- 
 selfwhich was his idea of the whole art of living 
 but for others. There were other things that he 
 resented also. One was the fact that Peter was what 
 he called a damned child. He had no admiration what- 
 ever for his friend's absolute determination to look 
 only at the clean things of life. A thousand times 
 since they had shared the same rooms he had cursed 
 Peter because of his sweeping refusal to discuss a 
 question which he knew to be of vital and far-reaching 
 importance. At these times Peter had always said 
 something like this : " My dear Nick, I'm not going 
 to be a doctor, a woman-hunter, or a sloppy man about 
 town. I don't want to know any details whatever of 
 the things which stir up other men's curiosity. I've 
 no room in my brain for them. They don't amuse me 
 or interest me. I'm jolly well going to remain a 
 damned child, whether you like it or not, so you may 
 chuck trying to drag me into these midnight discus- 
 sions of yours with the men who hang nudes all over 
 their walls and gloat over filthy little French 
 books." 
 
 And then there was Graham. He, like untold hun- 
 dreds of his type, had a certain amount of precocity, 
 but no knowledge. He had merely peeked at the truth 
 of things through a chink. He had looked at life with 
 the salacious eyes of a Peeping Tom. And what was 
 the result ? Worse than total ignorance. Deep down 
 in whatever soul he had, Nicholas Kenyon honestly 
 and truly believed in friendship between father and 
 son. He knew none better because it was his
 
 196 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 business to observe, that a young man was frightfully 
 and terribly handicapped who went out into the world 
 unwarned, unadvised and uninitiated. He had often 
 come across men like Peter and Graham whose lives 
 had been absolutely ruined at the very outset for the 
 reason that their fathers had either been too cowardly 
 or too indifferent to give them the benefit of their own 
 experience and early troubles. In fact, most of the 
 men he knew and he knew a great many had 
 been left to discover the essential truths and facts for 
 themselves. The inevitable end of it was that they 
 made their discoveries too late. 
 
 Fate certainly must have had a very grim amuse- 
 ment in watching Nicholas Kenyon as he walked up 
 and down the library of Dr. Hunter Guthrie's house 
 that night, blazing at the delinquencies of fathers. 
 Nevertheless, Kenyon had the right to be indignant, 
 whether his reasons for being so sprang out of his 
 selfishness or not His own father was an unscrupu- 
 lous, unserious man, that was true, but at any rate he 
 had given his son a human chance. He could take it 
 or leave it as he liked. And when Kenyon, piecing 
 together all that he had heard of Dr. Guthrie from 
 Peter, from Graham and from Belle, added all that 
 to the very obvious fact that these two boys were out 
 in the world with blind eyes, he burst into a scoffing 
 laugh. In his mind's eye he could see the excellent 
 and distinguished Doctor rounding his back over ex- 
 periments for the benefit of humanity, while he utterly 
 neglected to give two of the human beings for whom 
 he was responsible the few words of advice which
 
 THE CITY 197 
 
 would render it unnecessary for them to become his 
 patients. 
 
 If Kenyon had been a more generous man if in 
 his nature there had been one small grain of unselfish- 
 ness he would have gone at that very moment, 
 then and there, to the door of the Doctor's laboratory 
 into that wonderful room sat down opposite the 
 man who spent his life in it with such noble concentra- 
 tion and begged him to desert his microbes and turn 
 his attention to his sons. As it was he neglected to 
 take an opportunity which would have enabled the re- 
 cording angel to make one very good entry on the 
 blank credit side of his account, and concentrated upon 
 a way in which he could use Peter and Graham for his 
 own material ends. He was immediately faced there- 
 fore with two "jobs," as he called them, one to 
 queer Peter's engagement with Betty, in order that he 
 might achieve his friend's whole attention, the other 
 to lift Graham out of his ghastly entanglement, for 
 the same purpose. Bringing himself up to that point 
 and relying upon his ingenuity with complete confi- 
 dence, Kenyon mixed himself another high-ball and 
 listened with a certain amount of eagerness for Belle's 
 light step. 
 
 He hadn't long to wait. He had just gone into the 
 dimly lighted hall with the intention of getting some 
 air on the front doorstep, when the door opened and 
 Belle let herself in. 
 
 " You keep nice hours," he said. 
 
 Belle ha4 been dancing. Her cheeks were glowing 
 and her eyes bright, She had never looked so all-
 
 198 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 conqueringly youthful or so imbued with the joy of 
 life. She came across to him like a young goddess of 
 the forest, with the wild beauty and that suggestion of 
 unrestraint which always made Kenyon's blood run 
 quickly. 
 
 "Have you waited for me?" she asked. "How 
 perfectly adorable of'you." 
 
 " What have you been doing? " 
 
 " Oh, the usual things dinner, theatre, danc- 
 ing." 
 
 Kenyon went nearer and put his hands on her arms, 
 hotly. " Curse those men ! " he said. 
 
 "What men?" 
 
 " The men who've been holding you to-night. 
 Why have I come over? Can't you scratch these 
 engagements and wait for me? I'm not going to 
 share you with every Tom, Dick and Harry in this 
 place." 
 
 A feeling of triumph came to Belle a new feel- 
 ing because hitherto this man's attitude had been 
 that of master. " You're jealous ! " she cried. 
 
 Kenyon turned away sharply. For once he was not 
 playing with this girl for the sport of the thing, just 
 to see what she would say and do in order to pass away 
 the time. The whole evening had tended to upset his 
 calculations and plans. He had found himself thrown 
 suddenly into a position of responsibility, a state 
 that he avoided with rare and consummate agility. 
 And now came Belle, radiant and high-spirited, from 
 an evening spent with other men, more beautiful and 
 desirable than he had ever seen her look.
 
 THE CITY 199 
 
 Belle turned him back. "You are jealous, you 
 are." 
 
 " Oh, good Lord, no," said Kenyon, with his most 
 bored drawl. " Why should I be? After all it isn't 
 for me to care what you do, is it? It's a large world 
 and there's plenty of room for both of us what?" 
 
 He walked away. 
 
 Triumph blazed in Belle's heart. She saw in Ken- 
 yon's eyes that he was saying the very opposite of the 
 thoughts that were in his mind. She almost shouted 
 with joy. She had longed to see into the heart of this 
 man who was under such complete and aggravating 
 self-control, -even to hurt him to obtain a big, spon- 
 taneous outburst of emotion from him. She loved 
 him desperately, indiscreetly far too well for her 
 peace of mind and she urgently needed some 
 answering sparks of fire. 
 
 She didn't move. She stood with her cloak thrown 
 kack, her chin held high and the light falling on her 
 dark hair and white flesh. This was her moment. 
 She would seize it. 
 
 " Yes, there is plenty of room for us both," she 
 said, " and the fact that I shall go on dancing with 
 other men needn't inconvenience you in the least. I 
 don't suppose that we shall even see each other in the 
 crowd. There are many men who'll give their ears 
 to dance with me, I mean men who can dande, not 
 bored Englishmen." 
 
 She drew blood. Kenyon went across to her 
 quickly. " How dare you talk to me like that ! 
 Curse these men and their ears. Who's brought me
 
 200 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 to this country ? You know I came for you, you 
 know it. I am jealous as jealous as the devil. 
 And if ever you let another man put his arms round 
 you I'll smash his face." He put out his hot hands to 
 catch her. 
 
 But, with a little teasing laugh, Belle dodged and 
 flitted into the library. The spirit of coquettishness 
 was awake in her. She had the upper hand now and 
 a small account to render for missed mails, and an 
 appearance of being too sure. She threw off her cloak 
 and stood with her back to the fireplace, looking like 
 one of Romney's pictures of Lady Hamilton come 
 to life. 
 
 Kenyon strode in after her, all stirred by her beauty. 
 " In future," he said, " you dance with me. You 
 understand ? " 
 
 Belle raised her eyebrows and then bowed pro- 
 foundly. " As you say, O my master ! " And then 
 she held out her arms with a sudden delicious abandon. 
 " Take me, then. Let's dance all the way through 
 life." 
 
 Kenyon caught her, and all about the room these 
 two went, moving together in perfect unison, cheek 
 to cheek, until almost breathless Belle broke into a 
 little laugh, stopped singing, and said : " The band's 
 tired." But Kenyon held her tighter and closer and 
 kissed her lips again and again and again. 
 
 With a little touch of warning in its tone the clock 
 on the mantel-piece presently struck two, and Belle 
 freed herself and straightened her hair with a rather 
 uncertain hand. " I must go now," she said breath-
 
 THE CITY 201 
 
 lessly. " Father may be working late. Supposing he 
 came through this room ? " 
 
 " Serve him right," said Kenyon. 
 
 They went upstairs together on tip-toe, and halted 
 for a moment on the threshold of Belle's bed-room. 
 Through the half-open door Kenyon saw the glow of 
 yellow light on the dressing-table, and the corner of 
 a virginal bed. Once more he kissed her and then, 
 breathing hard, went to his own room, stood in the 
 darkness for a moment, and thanked his lucky star 
 for the gift of Belle. 
 
 XIII 
 
 THE following afternoon, Peter, Kenyon and Belle 
 went to see Ranken Townsend's pictures and to have 
 tea with Betty. The little party was a great success. 
 Peter and the artist got on splendidly together, which 
 filled Betty with joy and gladness, and Kenyon had 
 added to the general smoothness and pleasantness by 
 offering extremely intelligent and enthusiastic criticism 
 of the canvasses that were shown to him, drawing 
 subtle comparisons between them and those of Rey- 
 nolds and Gainsborough. Like all true artists, Town- 
 send was a humble man and unsuspicious. He be- 
 lieved, in the manner of all good workers, that he had 
 yet to find himself, although he had met with uncom- 
 mon success. He was, therefore, much heartened and 
 warmed by the remarks of one who, although young, 
 evidently knew of what he was talking and proved 
 himself to be something of a judge. When Kenyon
 
 202 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 received a cordial invitation to come again to the 
 studio he solidified the good impression that he had 
 made by saying that he would be honoured and de- 
 lighted. 
 
 There had been a sharp shower during tea, but the 
 sky had cleared when they left Gramercy Park, taking 
 Betty with them, and so they started out to walk 
 home. 
 
 Belle and Betty went on in front, arm in arm, and 
 the two friends followed. This suited Kenyon ex- 
 actly. He had laid his plan and had something to say 
 to Peter. 
 
 Belle was very happy, and she showed it. She 
 looked round at Betty with her eyes dancing. " I can 
 see that you're dying to ask me something," she said. 
 " But don't. You and I don't have to ask each other 
 questions. We've always told each other everything, 
 and we always will." 
 
 " Belle, you're en-ga " 
 
 " S-s-s-h ! Don't mention the word." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Well, we've been talking this afternoon and Nich- 
 olas says, and I think he's right though I wish he 
 weren't that he doesn't want to go to father until 
 he's been here longer and has made up his mind what 
 he's going to do. You see, he's not well off. He's 
 got to work, although I can't fancy Nicholas work- 
 ing, and so we're not going to be really engaged 
 for a few months. Meantime, he's going to look 
 round and find something to do. That'll be easy. 
 You don't know how clever he is, not merely clever
 
 THE CITY 203 
 
 a monkey can be clever, or a conjurer the word 
 I meant to use was ' able.' Aren't you glad ? Isn't 
 it splendid ? " 
 
 " Oh, my dear," said Betty, " wouldn't it be per- 
 fectly wonderful if we could be married on the same 
 day? Of course I've seen it coming " 
 
 Belle laughed. " I knew you'd say that. Person- 
 ally I didn't see it coming. After we'd left Oxford 
 I began to think that Nicholas had only been flirting 
 with me. He wrote such curious, aloof little letters 
 and very few of them. They might have been written 
 by an epigramist to his maiden aunt; but last night, 
 
 well, last night made everything different, and this 
 afternoon we've had a long talk. Of course I wish 
 we were going to be openly and properly engaged, but 
 I'm very happy and so I don't grumble." 
 
 " As the future Countess of Shropshire, I wonder 
 whether you will ever give a little back room in your 
 beautiful English place to the young American lawyer 
 and his wife ! " 
 
 " Betty, I swear to you that I don't care a dime 
 about all that now, I mean the title and the place. 
 It's just Nicholas that I want Nicholas, and no one 
 else. I wouldn't care if he were what he calls a 
 ' bounder ' or a ' townee/ My dear, I'm mad about 
 him just mad." 
 
 "Isn't everything as right as Truth?" said Betty. 
 " The more I see Peter the more I love him. He's, 
 well, he's a man, and he's mine. He's mine for an- 
 other reason, and that's because he's always going to 
 be a boy, and I'm here to look after him. He'll need
 
 204 
 
 me. And I must have him need me, too, because I 
 need to be needed. Do you understand ? " 
 
 Belle nodded. " You're the born mother, my dear," 
 she said, " whereas, I'm, well, not. I want love 
 just love. I'll give everything I've got in the world 
 for that everything. Love and excitement and 
 movement, to go from place to place meeting new 
 people, hearing new languages, seeing new types, liv- 
 ing bigly and broadly, being consulted by a man who's 
 brilliant and far-seeing, that's what I need. That's 
 my idea of life. Ah-h! " She shot out a deep breath 
 and threw her chin up as though to challenge argu- 
 ment. 
 
 Betty watched her with admiration. She had never 
 looked so unusual, so exhilarated, so fine. All about 
 her there was the very essence of youth and courage 
 and health. There was a glow in her white skin that 
 was the mere reflection of the fire that was alight in 
 her heart. Given happiness this girl would burst into 
 the most fragrant blossoming and gleam among her 
 sisters like a rose in a pansy bed. Given pain and dis- 
 illusion she had it in her to fling rules, observances, 
 caution, common sense and even self-respect to the 
 four winds and go with all possible speed to the 
 devil. 
 
 " What would have happened to us both if we 
 hadn't gone to Oxford? " asked Betty, with an almost 
 comical touch of gravity. " Think ! I should be 
 doomed to be a little old maid, with nothing but an 
 even smaller dog to keep in order, and as for 
 you "
 
 THE CITY 205 
 
 " I ? Don't let's talk about it. I should have gone 
 top-pace through several years and then, with thirty 
 looming ahead, married a nice safe man with oodles 
 of money who would spend his life following me 
 round. Thank Heaven, I shall never be the centre 
 of that ghastly picture ! " 
 
 And so they went on, these two young things, open- 
 ing up their hearts to each other as they walked home 
 and flying off at all manner of feminine tangents. 
 
 Kenyon, perfectly satisfied with his talk to Belle, 
 whom he had secured without binding himself to any- 
 thing definite, was wearing white spats, and so he 
 picked his way across the wet streets like a cat on 
 hot bricks. For several blocks he permitted Peter to 
 talk about Betty. His affectation of interest and sym- 
 pathy was not so well done as usual. He had deter- 
 mined, with a sort of professional jealousy, not to 
 allow Ita Strabosck to trade on Graham's credulity 
 any longer. All his thoughts were concentrated on 
 his plan to smash up that burlesque arrangement, as he 
 inwardly called it. If anyone were to make use 
 of Graham he intended to be that one. The girl, at 
 present a humble member of the great army of para- 
 sites in which he held a commission, must be cleared 
 out. She was inconveniently in the way. 
 
 When Peter was obliged to stop for breath, Ken- 
 yon jumped in. " Look here ! " he said. " You're 
 coming with me to the shrine of the pernicious Pa- 
 powsky to-night." 
 
 " You mean on Graham's business ? " asked Peter. 
 " Is it absolutely necessary to go to that place ? "
 
 206 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " Absolutely. You'll see why, if everything works 
 as I think it will, when we get there." 
 
 "Right. And how about Graham?" 
 
 " You and Graham are going to have dinner with 
 me at Sherry's. I shall have to see that he has half 
 a bottle too much champagne. That'll make him care- 
 less and put a bit of devil into him, and when I sug- 
 gest that he shall take us to Papowsky's, he will jump 
 at the notion. He's awful keen to show us what a 
 blood he is. Once he gets us inside the rest will 
 follow." 
 
 " I see. By Jove, I shall be thundering glad when 
 Graham's plucked out of this wretched mess. The 
 only thing is I'm booked to dine with Mr. Townsend 
 at his club to-night." 
 
 " It can't be done," said Kenyon. " Directly you get 
 home you must telephone. Say that an urgent mat- 
 ter has just cropped up and beg to be excused. Call 
 it business call it anything you like but get out 
 of it." 
 
 "All right!" said Peter. "I'm heart and soul 
 with you, old boy. I'm very grateful for all the 
 trouble you're taking. You always were a good 
 chap." 
 
 " My dear Peter, add to my possession of the ordi- 
 nary number of senses one that is almost as rare as 
 the Dodo, the sense of gratitude. Hello! Here's 
 some of the family in the car!" 
 
 They had halted on the steps of the Doctor's house 
 as Mrs. Guthrie and Ethel were driven up. Kenyon 
 sprang forward, opened the door and handed the
 
 THE CITY 207 
 
 ladies out with an air that Raleigh himself would have 
 found commendable. 
 
 " Blood tells," said Belle, who watched from the top 
 step, with a proud smile. 
 
 " Yes," said Betty, " but I prefer muscle. Look! " 
 
 The pavement was uneven in front of the house 
 and the rain had made a little pool. So Peter picked 
 his mother up, as though she were as light as a bunch 
 of feathers, and carried her into the house. 
 
 " My dearest big boy ! " she said. 
 
 " Darling little Mum ! " said Peter. 
 
 XIV 
 
 KENYON, turned out as excellently as usual, led the 
 way into the dining-room at Sherry's. It was a quar- 
 ter to eight. Every other table was occupied. The 
 large room was too warm and was filled with the con- 
 glomerate aromas of food. Peter sat on the right of 
 his host and Graham on the left. Both men were 
 quiet and distrait, Peter because he was anxious, 
 Graham for the reason that he had not been able to 
 leave behind him the carking worries that now fell 
 daily to his lot. Kenyon, on the contrary, was in his 
 best form, and even a little excited. Apart from the 
 fact that he rather liked having something to do that 
 would prove his knowledge of life and the accuracy 
 of his powers of psychology, he was looking forward 
 to be amused with what went on in the studio-apart- 
 ment of the Papowsky. 
 
 "By Jove!" he said, looking around and arrang-
 
 208 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 ing his tie over the points of his collar with expert 
 fingers, a thing which Graham immediately pro- 
 ceeded to do also, " this place has a quite distinct 
 atmosphere. Don't you think so, Peter?" 
 
 "Has it?" 
 
 " One would, I see, choose it for a trying and dull- 
 bright dinner with a prospective mother-in-law or with 
 some dear thing, safely married, with whom one had 
 once rashly imagined one's self to be in love. Waiter, 
 the wine list ! " 
 
 Graham laughed. 
 
 Kenyon, scoring his first point, continued airily. 
 " For my part, I shall make a point of dining here one 
 night with an alluring young thing fresh from the 
 romantic quietude of a Convent School. I feel that 
 these discreet lights and reserved colours will give a 
 certain amount of weight and even solemnity to my 
 careful flattery A large bottle of Perrier Jouet 
 '02, and be sparing with the ice. Peter, I think you'll 
 find that this caviare gives many points to the tired 
 stuff that used to be palmed off on us at Buol's and 
 other undergraduate places of puerile riotousness." 
 
 The dinner, which Kenyon had ordered with becom- 
 ing care, would have satisfied the epicureanism of a 
 Russian aristocrat. During all its courses the host 
 kept up a running fire of anecdote which quickly made 
 the table a merry one. He also saw to it that Graham's 
 glass was never empty. They sat laughing, smoking 
 and drinking Creme Yvette until they were the last 
 people in the room except for an old bloated man and 
 a very young Hebrew girl. The band, which had
 
 THE CITY 209 
 
 mixed ragtime indiscriminately with Italian opera and 
 Austrian waltzes, and played them all equally well, 
 went off to acquire the second wind and the relaxed 
 muscles necessary for a later performance, and the 
 waiters had long since rearranged the table for supper 
 before Kenyon suggested adjourning to a club for 
 a game of billiards which would amuse them until it 
 was time to begin the business of the evening. So 
 they walked round to the Harvard Club, and here 
 Peter the only one of the party who was completely 
 his own master became host. 
 
 They played until a little short of twelve o'clock. 
 By this time, having been additionally primed up with 
 one or two Scotch whiskeys, Graham was ready for 
 anything, and it was then that Kenyon suggested that 
 he should take them to the famous studio. Graham 
 jumped at the idea, falling, as Kenyon knew that he 
 would, into the little trap set for him. " We're chil- 
 dren in your hands, Graham," he said, with a subtle 
 touch of flattery. " Lead us into the vortex of art 
 with the lid off. I'm most frightfully keen to see this 
 place and it'll be great fun for you, duly protected, to 
 find out whether the Papowsky has discovered whether 
 you were the Knight Errant who rescued one of her 
 victims. Romance, old boy romance with a big R." 
 And so Graham, more than a little unsteady and with 
 uproarious laughter, led the way. 
 
 When they arrived at the studio-apartment in For- 
 tieth Street they found the hall filled with people. 
 It happened that Papowsky was giving an Egyptian 
 night and nearly all of the habitues were in appro-
 
 210 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 priate costumes. With the cunning of her species this 
 woman knew very well that few things appeal so 
 strongly to a certain type of men and women as dress- 
 ing up, which generally means undressing. The 
 Japanese servant who took their hats and coats wel- 
 comed Graham with oily and deferential cordiality. 
 " We are having a big night, sir," he said, with the 
 peculiar sibilation of his kind and with his broad, flat 
 hands clasped together. " It is Madame's birthday, 
 sir. Yes, sir. You and the gentlemen will enjoy it 
 very much." 
 
 Peter and Kenyon followed Graham into the studio. 
 Their curiosity, already stirred by the sight of the men 
 and women in the hall, was added to by the Rembrandt 
 effect of the high, wide room, whose darkness was 
 only touched here and there by curious faint lights. 
 The buzz of voices everywhere and little bursts of 
 laughter proved that there were many people present. 
 As they went in, a powerful lime-light was suddenly 
 focused on the centre of the room and into this slid 
 a string of young, small-breasted, round-limbed girls. 
 Led by one who contorted herself in what was sup- 
 posedly the Egyptian manner, they moved to and fro 
 with bent knees and angular gestures, and rigid pro- 
 files. Music came out of the darkness, the music 
 of a string band with cymbals. 
 
 " Good Lord ! " said Kenyon. " What an amazing 
 mixture of exotic stinks ! " 
 
 " Look out for your money," said Peter, with a 
 touch of blunt materialism. 
 
 Graham made for an unoccupied alcove, in which
 
 THE CITY 211 
 
 there was a flabby divan. On this they all three sat 
 down and began to peer about. A few yards away 
 from them they presently made out an astonishing 
 group of young men dressed as Egyptians. They 
 were sitting in affectionate closeness, simpering and 
 tittering together. On the other side they gradually 
 discerned an overwhelmingly fat, elderly woman hold- 
 ing a kind of Court. She was almost enveloped in 
 pearls. Otherwise she was scantily hidden. Her feet 
 were in sandals. Several mere boys had arranged 
 themselves in picturesque attitudes about her and half 
 a dozen maidens were grouped round her chair. One 
 was fanning her with a large yellow leaf. The blue 
 light under which Graham had sat listening to the 
 whispered appeal of Ita Strabosck fell softly and 
 erotically upon them. 
 
 " Circe come to life," said Kenyon. 
 
 " Ugh ! I don't quite know how I'm going to pre- 
 vent myself from being sick," said Peter. 
 
 " Ah ! but wait a bit," said Graham. " The show 
 hasn't begun yet." 
 
 It made a fairly good beginning as he spoke. The 
 girls in the circle of light brought their attitudinizing 
 to an end and their places were instantly taken by two 
 painted men in coloured loin-cloths. To a screaming 
 outburst of wild and incoherent music they gave what 
 seemed to Kenyon to be a perfect imitation of civet- 
 cats at play. They crawled along on all-fours, sprang 
 high into the air, crouched, bounded, whirled round 
 each other and finally, amid a roar of applause, rolled 
 out of view wrapped in each other's arms.
 
 212 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " Um ! " said Kenyon. " After just such an ex- 
 hibition as that Rome burst into flames." 
 
 There was insistent demand for an encore. The 
 performance was repeated with the same gusto and 
 relish. The three men saw nothing of it. Just as the 
 band burst forth again, Kenyon made a long arm, 
 caught the skimpy covering of a girl who was passing 
 and drew her into the alcove. 
 
 " Come and cheer us up, Minutia," he said. " We 
 feel like lost souls here." 
 
 The girl was willing enough. It was her business 
 to cheer. She stood in front of them for a moment 
 so that the blue light should show her charms. She 
 looked very young and tiny. Fair hair was twisted 
 round her head. She wore nothing but a thin, loose 
 Egyptian smock, but her small snub nose and impu- 
 dent mouth placed her, whatever might be her cos- 
 tume, on Broadway. " Say ! Why are you muts 
 dressed like men ? " she asked with eager interest. 
 
 " Oh, well," said Kenyon, " we happen to be men ; 
 but I swear that we won't advertise the fact." 
 
 The girl greatly enjoyed the remark, but her scream 
 of laughter was drowned by the band. Then she 
 caught sight of Graham. "Oh, hello, Kid! So 
 you've come back." 
 
 Graham made room for her. He rather liked being 
 recognized. Kenyon would see that he knew his way 
 about. " Yes, here I am again. It's difficult to get 
 the Papowsky dope out of the system." 
 
 " Don't see why you should try. It's pretty good 
 dope, I guess." She snuggled herself in between
 
 THE CITY 213 
 
 Graham and Kenyon, putting an arm round each. 
 She bent across Kenyon to examine Peter and gave an 
 exaggeratedly dramatic cry of surprise and admira- 
 tion. " My God ! It's a giant ! Say, dearie, you'd 
 be the King of all the pussies, in a skin. All them 
 dinky little love-birds would hop round your feet and 
 chirp. Oh, gosh, you'd make some hit among the 
 artists, sure ! " 
 
 "Think so?" said Peter. He would have given 
 a great deal for a pipe at that moment, so that he 
 could puff out great clouds of smoke as a disinfect- 
 ant. 
 
 " A gala night," said Graham. 
 
 " Sure. If the police were to make a raid to-night, 
 gee, there'd be a fine list of names in to-morrer's 
 papers ! " 
 
 "Think they will?" asked Kenyon. "By Jove! 
 I wish they would. Think of seeing these people 
 scuffling like frightened rabbits. It would be epoch- 
 making." 
 
 The girl turned a keenly interested eye on Kenyon 
 and looked him over with unabashable deliberation. 
 " You've got a funny kind of accent," she said. 
 "What is it? English?" 
 
 It was the first time that Kenyon had ever been 
 accused of speaking with an accent. He was de- 
 lighted. It appealed to his alert sense of humour. 
 He laughed and nodded. 
 
 " The giant ain't English, is he ? Are you, 
 dearie?" 
 
 " No," said Peter.
 
 214 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " That's fine. I guess I don't like the English 
 much. They always strike me as being like Amer- 
 icans, trying hard to be different." 
 
 " You don't dislike me, I hope ? That would be a 
 very bitter blow," said Kenyon, tweeking her ear. 
 
 " Oh, you're a comic," she said. " You're all right. 
 Is this your first visit ? " 
 
 "Yes. Have you been here long?" Kenyon 
 asked the question carelessly, as though to keep the 
 ball moving. It was, as a matter of fact, the begin- 
 ning of his plan to disillusion Graham. 
 
 " Oh, I've been in the business ever since it started. 
 Ask the kid, he knows. Don't you, kid ? " 
 
 " Rather," said Graham. 
 
 " I used to be in the chorus, but this is ther life." 
 
 " I suppose so," said Kenyon. " Variety, gaiety, 
 art, what more can any girl desire ? " 
 
 " Dollars," she said dryly. " And I make more 
 here, by a long way." 
 
 " That's good. But, but don't you get a little fed 
 up? I mean it must be hopelessly monotonous to be 
 shut up in one place all the time." 
 
 " Don't know whatcher mean. Translate that, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 " He means never getting out," said Graham. 
 
 " Never getting out ! I don't get you, Steve. Me 
 and my sister get away after the show, same as any 
 other." 
 
 " What ! " Graham was incredulous. It struck 
 him that the girl was lying for reasons of loyalty to 
 her employer. He knew better.
 
 THE CITY 215 
 
 " Oh, I see ! " said Kenyon, leading her on care- 
 fully. " You don't live here, then ? " 
 
 " Live here? Of course I don't. I come about ten 
 o'clock every night and leave anywhere between three 
 and four in the morning. Earlier if there's nothing 
 doing." 
 
 " Oh, I thought that the girls here are, well, 
 held up, kept here all the time, prisoners, so to 
 speak." 
 
 A shrill amused laugh rang out. " Oh, cut it out ! ' 
 What's all this dope? Say! you've been reading 
 White Slave books. You're bug-house dippy. 
 Why, this is a respectable place, this is. This is the 
 house of Art. We're models, that's what we are. 
 We're only here for local colour. If we choose to 
 make a bit extra on our own, we can." She laughed 
 again. It was a good joke. The best that she had 
 heard for years. 
 
 Kenyon threw a quick glance at Graham's face. 
 He could just see it in the dim light. The boy was 
 listening intently incredulously. So also was 
 Peter, who had drawn himself into a corner and was 
 hunched up uncomfortably. 
 
 Kenyon began to feel excited. Everything was 
 going almost unbelievably well. The girl was so 
 frank, so open and obviously spontaneous. It was 
 excellent. " Of course you tell us these things," he 
 said, voicing what he knew was going silently through 
 Graham's mind. " But we know better. We know 
 that you, like that poor little girl, Ita Strabosck, are 
 watched and not allowed to get away under any cir-
 
 216 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 cumstances. Now, why not tell us the truth? We 
 may be able to help you escape, too." 
 
 Again she laughed. " Oh, say ! " she said. " What 
 are you anyway? Reporters on the trail of a story? 
 I'm telling you the truth. Why not? As for Ita, 
 Oh, ho! She put it all over a boob, she did. She's 
 ambitious, she is. She was out to find a mut who'd 
 keep her, that was her game. She told us so from 
 the first. We used to watch her trying one after an- 
 other of the soft ones. But they were wise, they 
 were. But at last some little feller fell for her foreign 
 accent and little sobs. She had a fine tale all ready. 
 Oh, she's clever. She ought to be on the stage play- 
 ing parts. Most of us go round to her place in the 
 daytime and have a good time with some of her men 
 friends. I've not been yet. But from what my sis- 
 ter says, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she gets her 
 man to marry her. From what she says, he's a senti- 
 mental Alick, and, O Gosh! won't she lead him some 
 dance ! " 
 
 At last Graham broke forth, his face white, his eyes 
 blazing and his whole body shaking as though he had 
 ague. " You're lying ! " he shouted. " Every word 
 you've said's a lie ! " 
 
 The girl, entirely unoffended at this involuntary out- 
 burst, bent forward and looked at Graham with a new 
 gleam of intelligence, amusement and curiosity. 
 " My word, I believe you're Mr. Strabosck. I believe 
 you're the boob. Oh, say! come into the light. I 
 guess I must have a look at you." 
 
 Graham got up, stood swaying for a moment as
 
 THE CITY 217 
 
 though he had received a blow between the eyes, and 
 staggered across the room and out into the passage. 
 
 " Now he knows," said Kenyon. " Come on, 
 Peter. We shall have our work cut to hold him in. 
 There was blood in his eyes." Utterly ignoring the 
 girl, Kenyon made for the door, forced his way 
 through new arrivals and found Graham utterly sober, 
 but with his mouth set dangerously, standing in front 
 of the Japanese. " My hat and coat, quick! " he was 
 saying, " or I'll break the place up." 
 
 " Steady, steady," said Kenyon. " We don't want 
 a scene here." 
 
 " Scene be damned. I tell you something's got to 
 break." 
 
 The Japanese ducked into the coat-room. 
 
 " Where's Peter? " Graham looked back expecting 
 to see his brother's head and shoulders above the 
 crowd. There was no sign of him. 
 
 By accident the lime-light which had been suddenly 
 turned on for a new performance fell on Peter as he 
 was marching towards the door of the studio. In- 
 stantly he found himself surrounded by half a dozen 
 good-natured men who had all taken a little too much 
 to drink. They, like the other people present, were in 
 Egyptian clothes and obviously glad to see in Peter 
 a healthy normal specimen of humanity. 
 
 " Oh, hello, brother, where are you off to? " asked 
 one. 
 
 " Out ! " said Peter shortly. 
 
 " I'll be darned if you are. Come and have a 
 drink!"
 
 218 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " No, thanks, I've other things to do." 
 
 " Oh, rot ! Be a sport and stay and help us to stir 
 things up. Come on, now ! " 
 
 Peter tried to push his way through. " Please get 
 out of the way," he said. 
 
 But a jovial red-headed fellow got into it. 
 " You're staying, if I have to make you." 
 
 Something snapped in Peter's brain. Before he 
 could control himself he bent down and picked up the 
 man by the scruff of his neck and the cloth that was 
 wound round his middle and heaved him over the heads 
 of the crowd into a divan, and then hitting out right 
 and left cleared a path to the door, leaving chaos and 
 bleeding noses behind him. Without waiting to get 
 his hat and coat he made a dash for the elevator, 
 caught it just as it was about to descend and went 
 down to the main floor dishevelled and panting. 
 
 Out in the street he saw Kenyon trying to put 
 Graham into a taxicab. Kenyon saw him and called 
 out. " Come on, or Papowsky will make it hot for 
 us." 
 
 On his way home from a late evening at one of his 
 clubs, Ranken Townsend caught the name Papowsky, 
 whose evil reputation had come to his ears. He 
 threw a quick glance at the men who were leaving her 
 place and saw that one of them was Peter. He drew 
 up and stood in front of the man in whom he thought 
 he had recognized cleanness and excellence and told 
 himself that he was utterly mistaken. 
 
 " So this was your precious business engagement," 
 he said, with icy contempt. " Well, I don't give my
 
 THE CITY 219 
 
 daughter to a man who shares her with women like 
 Papowsky, so you may consider yourself free. Good 
 night." 
 
 And the smile that turned up the corners of Ken- 
 yon's mouth had in it the epitome of triumph. All 
 along the line he had won. All along the line. 
 
 Peter watched the tall disappearing figure. He felt 
 as though he had been kicked in the mouth.
 
 PART THREE 
 
 LIFE
 
 THAT night was one of the most extraordinary that 
 Peter ever spent. Although he was smarting under 
 the terrible injustice of Ranken Townsend's few, but 
 very definite words, and felt like a man who had sud- 
 denly come up to an abyss, he took Graham in hand 
 and devoted himself, with all the tenderness of a 
 woman, to this poor boy. 
 
 All the way home in the cab Graham had been more 
 or less held down by Kenyon and his brother. His 
 brain was in a wild chaos. The realization that he 
 had been tricked and made a fool of hit him hard. In 
 his first great flush of anger he was filled with an over- 
 whelming desire to go to the apartment in which he 
 had placed Ita Strabosck and smash it up. He wanted 
 to have the satisfaction of breaking and ripping apart 
 every piece of furniture that he had bought to make 
 her comfortable and happy, and make an absolute 
 shambles of the place. He wanted also to order that 
 girl out into the street. At that moment he no longer 
 cared what happened to her or where she went. His 
 vanity had received its first rude shock. All the way 
 home he shouted at the top of his voice and struggled 
 to get away from the men who were looking after 
 him. It took all Peter's strength to hold him tight. 
 It was by no means a good sight to see this young
 
 224 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 man, who only half an hour before had been exhila- 
 rated by champagne and the feeling that he was really 
 of some account as a man of the world, reduced to a 
 condition of utter weariness by his violent outbursts. 
 At first he absolutely refused to enter the house and 
 insisted upon walking up and down the street. Fi- 
 nally, by making an appeal to his brother's affection, 
 Peter persuaded him to go in quietly and up to his 
 own room. There, pale and exhausted and entirely 
 out of spirits, Graham, turned quickly on his brother. 
 " Keep Kenyon out," he said. " For God's sake, keep 
 Kenyon out ! I want you." 
 
 Kenyon heard these words and smiled to himself, 
 nodded to Peter, and went downstairs again to make 
 himself comfortable in the library and have a final 
 cigarette before going to bed. He had every reason 
 for self-congratulation. Graham was free, there 
 was no doubt about that, and it looked as though 
 Peter also would now be able to be made useful again. 
 Luck certainly had been on his side that night. 
 
 It was not much after one o'clock when Peter shut 
 the door of Graham's bed-room. From then on- 
 wards he turned himself into a sort of nurse, doing 
 his best to concentrate all his thoughts on his broth- 
 er's trouble and keep his own until such time as he 
 could deal with it; and, while Graham poured out his 
 heart going over his story of the Ita Strabosck 
 rescue again and again Peter quietly undressed him, 
 bit by bit. " Yes, old man," he kept saying, " I quite 
 understand; but what you've got to do now is to get 
 to bed and to sleep. Let me take off your coat.
 
 LIFE 225 
 
 That's right. Now sit down for a second. Now let 
 me undo your shoes. It's a jolly good thing I came 
 home. You bet your life I'll stand by you and see 
 you through you bet your life I will! " 
 
 " And you swear you'll not say anything about this 
 to mother or Belle, and especially father even if 
 I'm ill, in fact to any one? You swear it?" 
 
 "Of course," said Peter. 
 
 There was something comical as well as pathetic in 
 the sight of this big fellow playing the woman to this 
 distraught boy, undoing his tie, taking off his collar 
 and gradually getting him ready for bed. It was a 
 long and difficult process and needed consummate tact, 
 tender firmness and quiet determination. A hundred 
 times Graham would spring to his feet and with 
 one shoe on and one shoe off, minus coat and waist- 
 coat, tie and collar pace the room from end to end, 
 gesticulating wildly, sending out a torrent of words in 
 a hoarse whisper sometimes almost on the verge 
 of tears. He was only twenty- four not much more 
 than a boy. It was very hard luck that he should be 
 up against so sordid a slice of life at a time when he 
 stood at the beginning of everything. 
 
 But Peter knew intuitively that it was absolutely 
 necessary for Graham to rid his system of this Stra- 
 bosck poison and empty out his heart and soul before 
 he could be put to sleep, like a tired child. And so, 
 with the utmost patience, he subjected himself to play 
 the part of a mental as well as a physical nurse. Bet- 
 ter than that, he mothered his brother, smoothed him 
 down, sympathized with him, assured him again and
 
 226 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 again that he had done the only possible thing; and 
 finally as the first touch of dawn crept into the room 
 had the infinite satisfaction of putting the clothes 
 about his brother's shoulders and seeing his dark head 
 buried in his pillow. Even then he was not wholly 
 satisfied. Creeping upon tip-toe about the room he 
 laid hands on Graham's razors and put them in his 
 pocket. He was possessed with a sort of terror that 
 the boy might wake up and, acting under a strong 
 revulsion of feeling, cut his throat. It must be 
 remembered that he had watched a human being under 
 the strain and stress of a very strong and terrible emo- 
 tion and he was naturally afraid. He knew his broth- 
 er's excitable temperament. He had heard him 
 confess that the girl had exercised over him something 
 more than mere physical attraction, and although he 
 was no psychologist it was easy for him to see that, 
 for a time at any rate, Graham was just as ready to 
 hurt himself as to hurt the girl. Some one had to be 
 paid out for his suffering and it was Peter's business 
 to see that his brother, at any rate, escaped punish- 
 ment. Not content with having got Graham to bed 
 and to sleep and secured the razors which might be 
 used in a moment of impetuousness, Peter stayed on, 
 sat down near the bed and listened to one after an- 
 other of the sounds of the great city's awakening. It 
 was then that he permitted himself to think back. He 
 didn't remember the fracas in the studio apartment or 
 the unpleasantness of the place with the unhealthy, un- 
 pleasant creatures who had been there. He repeated 
 to himself over and over again the words the cold,
 
 LIFE 227 
 
 cruel words of Ranken Townsend, " So this was 
 your precious business engagement. Well, I don't 
 give my daughter to a man who shares her with 
 women like Papowsky, so you may consider your- 
 self free." In his mind's eye he could see the tall 
 artist march away. He felt again as though he had 
 been kicked in the mouth. 
 
 II 
 
 RANKEN TOWNSEND had arranged a sitting with 
 Madame Mascheri, the famous opera singer, at eleven 
 o'clock. He entered his studio at ten, and the first 
 thing he did was to ring up one of his best friends and 
 get into a quarrel with him. He had already so sur- 
 prised his old servant at breakfast that she had retired 
 to the kitchen in tears. He was angry and sore and 
 there was likely to be a nice clash in the studio when 
 he said sharp things to the spoiled lady who consid- 
 ered that all men were in their proper places only when 
 they were at her feet. 
 
 Ranken Townsend was more than angry. He was 
 disappointed mentally sick completely out of gear. 
 He had seen Peter Guthrie and there was no argu- 
 ment about the fact come out of a notorious house, 
 dishevelled and apparently drunk. It was a sad blow 
 to him. A bad shock. The effects of it had kept him 
 awake nearly all n%ht. Betty was the apple of his 
 eye. He was going to protect her at all costs, and he 
 knew that in doing so he must bring great unhappi-
 
 228 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 ness into her life. He had believed in Peter Guthrie. 
 He had seemed to him to be a big, strong, clean, hon- 
 est, simple, true fellow who had gone straight and who 
 meant to continue to go straight. It meant a tre- 
 mendous amount, an altogether incalculable amount 
 to him as a father to have found that his estimate was 
 wrong. He realized perfectly well that his words had 
 been harsh the night before. He detested to have 
 been obliged to say them; but, for the sake of his little 
 girl, he was not going back on them. The evidence 
 was too strong. 
 
 The telephone bell rang. He stalked across to it. 
 "Well?" he said. "What's that? Who did you 
 say? Send him up at once." And then, with his 
 jaw set and his hands thrust deep into his pockets, 
 he took up a stand in the middle of the studio and 
 waited. 
 
 It was Peter. He came in quietly and looked very 
 tired. " Good morning, Mr. Townsend," he said. 
 
 The answer was sharp and antagonistic. " I don't 
 agree with you." 
 
 Peter put down his hat and stick, went up to the 
 artist and stood in front of him squarely and without 
 fear. " You're going to withdraw what you said last 
 night." 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because it was unjust and no man is hanged in 
 these times before he's given a chance to defend him- 
 self."
 
 LIFE 229 
 
 " No one is going to hang you, Peter Guthrie. 
 You've hanged yourself." 
 
 " No, no," said Peter, " that won't do. It isn't like 
 you to adopt this attitude and I must ask you to treat 
 me properly." 
 
 Townsend shot out a short laugh. " There's no 
 need for you to ask me to do that. My treatment of 
 you is going to be so proper that this is going to be 
 the last time you'll come into this studio. I've done 
 with you. So far as I'm concerned you're over. 
 Betty isn't going to see you or hear from you again. 
 I consider that it was a mighty good accident that took 
 me into Fortieth Street last night. That's all I have 
 to say." 
 
 Peter didn't budge. He just squared his shoulders 
 and tilted his chin a little more. " I don't think that's 
 all you've got to say," he said. " I quite understand 
 that you had a bad shock when you saw me coming 
 out of that place last night. If I were in your shoes 
 I should say just what you're saying now." 
 
 " It's something to win your approval," said Town- 
 send, sarcastically, " and I'm sure I'm very much 
 obliged to you for coming down town to give me your 
 praise." 
 
 " Oh, don't talk like that," said Peter. " It doesn't 
 do any good and it doesn't help to clear things up." 
 
 " You can't clear things up. Neither of us can. 
 You began by lying to me when you said you had a 
 business engagement, and you wound up by coming 
 out drunk of the rottenest house in this city. And, 
 see here! I don't like your tone. I'm not standing
 
 230 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 here to be reproved by you for my attitude in this mat- 
 ter. I might be more inclined to give you a chance if 
 you made a clean breast of it." 
 
 " I wish I could," said Peter, " but I can't. All I 
 can tell you is that I had to go to that place last night 
 for a very good reason. I'd never been there before 
 and I shall never go there again. I hadn't even heard 
 of the place until a few days ago. You've got to 
 accept my word of honour that I went there with a 
 friend of mine to get a man who means a very great 
 deal to me out of bad trouble." 
 
 " It's taken you sometime to think that out," said 
 Townsend, brutally. 
 
 Peter winced as if he had been struck. He had 
 gone to the studio under the belief that everything 
 would be quite easy. He was honest. His conscience 
 was clear. He was not a liar. Surely his word 
 would be accepted. Whatever happened he wasn't 
 going to be disloyal to his brother. Apart from the 
 fact that he had sworn not to give Graham away, he 
 wasn't the kind that blabbed. He tried again, still 
 keeping himself well under control, although he was 
 unable to hide the fact that Ranken Townsend's utter 
 disbelief in him hurt deeply. 
 
 " Mr. Townsend," he said, " I don't want to do any- 
 thing to make you more angry than you are. It's per- 
 fectly simple for you to say that you won't have me 
 marry Betty. But remember this: I've only got to 
 go to Betty and ask her to marry me, with or without 
 your consent, and she will. If you don't believe me, 
 you don't know Betty,"
 
 LIFE 231 
 
 " Ah ! but that's exactly where you make your mis- 
 take," said Townsend. " I do know Betty. And let 
 me tell you this, Peter Guthrie: My girl has been 
 brought up. She hasn't been dragged up or allowed 
 to bring herself up. The consequence is that she's 
 not among the army of present-day girls who look 
 upon their fathers and mothers as any old trash to 
 be swept aside and over-ridden whenever it suits them 
 to do so. I'm the man to whom she owes all the hap- 
 piness and comfort that she's known. I'm the man 
 who's proud to be responsible for her, to whom she 
 belongs and who knows a wide stretch more of life 
 and its troubles than she does, and, not being an 
 empty-headed, individualistic, precocious little fool, 
 she knows it too. She belongs to a past decade to 
 an old-fashioned family. Therefore, what I say goes; 
 and if I tell her that, for a very good reason, I don't 
 want her to have anything to do with you, she will 
 be desperately unhappy, but she'll not question my 
 authority or my right to say so. These are facts, how- 
 ever absurd and strange they may appear to you. I 
 think it would be a damned good thing if other fathers 
 took the trouble to get on the same footing with their 
 daughters. There'd be less unhappiness and fewer 
 grave mistakes if they did." He was almost on the 
 verge of adding, " Look at your sister Belle if you 
 don't believe me." 
 
 Peter had nothing to say. 
 
 The two men stood facing one another, gravely, in 
 silence. They were both moved and stirred. And 
 then Peter nodded. " I'm glad you're Betty's father,"
 
 232 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 he said at last. " She owes you more than she can 
 ever pay back. I give you my word that I shan't 
 attempt to dispute your authority. I respect you, Mr. 
 Townsend, and when I marry Betty I want to have 
 your consent and approval. I also give you my word 
 that it was absolutely necessary for me to go to Pa- 
 powsky's last night, without any explanation what- 
 ever. Are you going to take it?" 
 
 "No," said Townsend; "I'm not. Even if I'd 
 known you for years what you ask is too much for me 
 to swallow. Good Lord, man ! can't you see that I'm 
 protecting my daughter the one person I love in this 
 world the one person whose happiness means more 
 to me than anything on earth ? Why should I believe 
 that you're different from other young men, the 
 average young man whom I see every day, who no 
 more cares about going clean to the woman he is going 
 to marry than he does for running straight afterwards? 
 I don't know you and hitherto I've accepted you on 
 your face value. When it comes to the question of 
 a man's trusting his daughter to the first person who 
 comes and asks him for her, he's got to be pretty sure 
 of what he's doing. In any case, I don't hold with 
 the old saying that ' young men will be young men.' 
 You may sow your wild oats if you like, but they're 
 not going to blossom in the garden of a little girl who 
 belongs to me. In that respect I'm as narrow-minded 
 as a Quaker. And let me tell you this finally: I 
 know the sort of place that Papowsky's is. I know 
 what goes on there and the sort of people who fre- 
 quent it. To my mind any man who's seen coming
 
 LIFE 233 
 
 out of it does for himself as the future husband of 
 any good girl. If you have, as you say, a good reason 
 for going there, tell it to me. If not, get out." 
 
 The artist had said these things with intense feel- 
 ing. Hard as they were, Peter had to acknowledge 
 that they were right. Just for one instant he wav- 
 ered. He was on the point of giving the whole story 
 away. Then his loyalty to his brother came back to 
 him. He would rather be shot than go back on the 
 man who had trusted him and with whom he had 
 grown up with such deep affection. " Very well," he 
 said, " that settles it. I've nothing more to say. But 
 one of these days I'll prove that my word of honor 
 was worth taking. In the meantime, you can't stop 
 me from loving Betty and you'll never be able to stop 
 Betty from loving me." 
 
 He turned on his heel, took up his hat and stick 
 and went out. 
 
 Ill 
 
 GRAHAM was sitting up in bed when Peter returned 
 to his room. He was looking about him with an ex- 
 pression of queer surprise, puzzled apparently to 
 find himself in his room. 
 
 "Oh, hello, old man!" said Peter. "How d'you 
 feel?" 
 
 Graham put his hand up to his head. " I don't 
 know yet. Have I been asleep? I thought I'd been 
 in a railway accident. I was looking about for the 
 broken girders and the ghastly signs of a smash."
 
 234 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 He got slowly out of bed, put on his slippers and 
 walked up and down for a few minutes with a heavy 
 frown on his face. The emotion of the night before 
 had left its marks. He stopped in front of a chair 
 on the back of which his evening clothes were hang- 
 ing neatly. He remembered that he had thrown them 
 off. He noticed at first with irritation that the 
 things on his dressing-table had been re-arranged 
 tampered with. It didn't look as he liked it to look. 
 Something had been taken away. It dawned on him 
 that all his razors had been removed. " Removed," 
 the word sent a sort of electric shock through his 
 brain as it passed through. He went over to the win- 
 dow and looked out into the street. The sun glorified 
 everything with its wonderful touch. Good God! 
 To think that he might be standing at that very mo- 
 ment on the other side of the great veil. 
 
 " I don't know I don't know what to say to you 
 for all this, Peter," he said. 
 
 Peter sat down, thrust his hands into his pockets 
 and his long legs out in front of him. Reaction had 
 set in. He felt depressed and wretched. " One of 
 these days," he said, " I may ask you to do the same 
 thing for me." 
 
 Something in his tone made Graham turn round 
 sharply. "What's wrong?" 
 
 " Everything's wrong," said Peter. " But I'll tell 
 you some other time. Your affair has got to be set- 
 tled first." 
 
 " No ; tell me now," said Graham. He dreaded to 
 feel that he was the cause somehow or other of bring-
 
 LIFE 235 
 
 ing trouble upon his brother. Never before in all his 
 life had he seen Peter looking like that. 
 
 " Mr. Townsend happened to be passing Papowsky's 
 last night and saw me coming out. I'd had a scrap 
 up in the studio with a bunch of men who were half 
 drunk. I must have looked like it. He told me that 
 he wouldn't have me marry Betty, and he repeated it 
 this morning. I've just come away from his place. 
 That's what's the matter with me." 
 
 " Oh, curse me ! " cried Graham. " Curse me for 
 a fool!" 
 
 Peter sprang to his feet. " Don't start worrying 
 about me. And look here; don't let's waste time in 
 trying to scrape up spilt milk. I'm going to marry 
 Betty, that's a dead certainty, and sooner or later Mr. 
 Townsend will withdraw the brutal things he said to 
 me. And you're going to wipe your slate clean, right 
 away. So buck up and get busy, old man. Have 
 your bath and get dressed as soon as you can. I'm 
 going to help you to fix your affair as soon as you're 
 ready." 
 
 " How ? " asked Graham. 
 
 " I don't know quite. I think I'll ask Kenyon." 
 
 " No, don't. Let's do it together. I don't want 
 Kenyon to see, I mean I'd rather Kenyon was out 
 of it. I'd rather that you were the only one to look 
 on at the remainder of my humiliation, that's the 
 word. He knows quite enough as it is." 
 
 "All right!" said Peter. "Hurry up, then. 
 We'll go round to the apartment and see Ita Stra- 
 bosck. I cashed a cheque on the way back from Mr.
 
 236 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 Tovvnsend's. We can't let her go out into the street 
 with nothing in her pocket, that's impossible." 
 
 Graham nodded. He couldn't find words to say 
 what he felt about it all. There was a look of acute 
 pain on his pale face as he went into the bath-room. 
 
 And then Peter sat down at his brother's table and 
 wrote a little note Lo Betty : 
 
 " My own dearest Baby : 
 
 " Something has happened and your father who's a 
 fine fellow and well worthy of you believes that I'm 
 such a rotter that he's told me to consider myself 
 scratched. I'm going to play the game by him for your 
 sake as well as his. Don't worry about it. Leave every- 
 thing to me. I won't ask you to go on loving me and be- 
 lieving in me, because that you must do, just as I shall go 
 on loving you and believing in you. It has to be. I've 
 got to think things over to see what can be done. 
 
 " In the meantime, and as long as I live, 
 
 " Your PETER." 
 
 He addressed the letter and put the envelope in his 
 pocket. Then he went to the bath-room and called 
 out: "Old man, shall I have some breakfast sent up 
 for you? " The answer was, " No; the sight of food 
 would make me sick." 
 
 Graham dressed quickly and nothing more was said 
 by either of the brothers until they went out into the 
 street together. 
 
 " We'll get a cab," said Peter. 
 
 "No; I'm too broke. Let's walk." 
 
 And so they walked hard, arm in arm. It seemed 
 rather an insult to Graham that the day was so fine,
 
 LIFE 237 
 
 the sky so blue and equable and that all the passers-by 
 seemed to be going on their way untroubled. He'd 
 have been better pleased if the day had been dark and 
 ugly and if everybody had been hurrying through rain 
 and sleet. His own mind was disturbed by a storm 
 of the most unpleasant thoughts. The girl whom 
 they were on their way to see had exercised a strong 
 physical fascination over him. He had believed in 
 her absolutely. She had meant a great deal to him. 
 Her deceit and cunning selfishness brought pessimism 
 into his soul. It was a bad feeling. 
 
 As they came up to the house with its shabby door, 
 a man well-past middle age, a flabby, vulgar person, 
 with thick awkward legs, left it rather quickly and 
 walked in the opposite direction. The two boys went 
 in and Peter led the way up the dark staircase. The 
 door was open and Lily, the colored maid, was hold- 
 ing a shrill argument with a man with a basket full of 
 empty siphons on his arm. Her face broke into an 
 odd and knowing smile when she saw Graham. They 
 passed her without a word and went along the passage 
 into the sitting-room. It was empty, but in a hideous 
 state of disorder. There was about it all that last 
 night look which is so unpleasant and insalubrious. 
 The windows had not been opened and the room 
 reeked with stale tobacco smoke and beer. Cigar 
 stumps lay like dead snails on the carpet. Empty 
 bottles were everywhere and dirty glasses. Through 
 the half-open door which led into the bed-room they 
 heard a flutey, uncertain soprano voice singing a curi- 
 ous foreign song.
 
 238 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 After a moment of weakness and indecision, 
 Graham pulled himself together and called out : " Ita ! 
 Ita ! " sharply. 
 
 The song ceased abruptly. There was a cry of well- 
 simulated joy and the girl, with her hair frowzled and 
 a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress, ran into 
 the room with naked feet. She drew up short when 
 she saw the expression on Graham's face and Peter's 
 square shoulders behind him. " Somesing ees ze mat- 
 ter," she said. " Oh, tell me ! " Second nature and 
 constant practice made the girl begin to act. This was 
 obviously an opportunity for being dramatic. 
 
 With a huge effort Graham controlled himself. 
 " I'm giving up this apartment to-day," he said. 
 
 " You are giving up ? " 
 
 " I said so." 
 
 "And what ees to become of me? You take me 
 somewhere else ? " 
 
 " No. I hope I shall never see you again 
 never ! " 
 
 The girl burst forth. How well he knew that 
 piteous gesture that pleading voice the tears that 
 came into those large almond eyes, all those tricks 
 which had made him what he had been called the night 
 before at Papowsky's " a boob." " What 'ave I 
 done? Do you not love me any more? I love you. 
 I will die for you. You are everysing to me. Do not 
 leave me to ze mercy of ze world. Graham! 
 Graham ! My saviour ! I love you zo ! " 
 
 Graham shook her off. " Please don't," he said. 
 " Just pack your things and dress yourself. All I've
 
 LIFE 239 
 
 got to say to you is that I've found you out. Perhaps 
 you'd better go back to Papowsky's. You're very 
 clever, they all say so there. Find another damned 
 young fool that'll be easy." 
 
 The girl suddenly threw back her head and broke 
 into an amazing laugh. The sound of it, so merry 
 so full of a sort of elfin amusement, was as start- 
 ling to the two boys as though a bomb had been 
 dropped into the room. " I could not find such a 
 damned fool as you," she said loudly and coarsely, 
 " eef I 'unted the earth. Eef you 'ad waited to come 
 until to-night you would 'ave found zis little nest 
 empty and ze bird flown. There ees a better boob zan 
 you. Perhaps you met 'im going out. 'E marries 
 me to-morrow. I vas to keep zat for a leetle surprise. 
 Oh, yes, I am clever, and eet kills me with laughing 
 to zee you stand there like a school teacher. You 
 turn over a new leaf now, eh? Zat ees good. Zo do 
 I. To-morrow I am a wife. I marry a man. My 
 time with babies ees over." 
 
 She picked up a glass that was half- full of beer and 
 with a gesture of supreme contempt jerked it into 
 Graham's face. Then, with the quickness of an eel, 
 she returned to her bedroom and slammed the door. 
 They heard her laughing uncontrollably. 
 
 Graham wiped his face with his handkerchief, and 
 dropped it on the floor with a shiver. " I shan't want 
 to borrow any money from you, Peter," he said in a 
 low voice. " Let's go." 
 
 And they went out into the street together into 
 the sun, and took a long breath of relief a long,
 
 240 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 clean breath, untainted by stale tobacco smoke and 
 beer and the pungent scent of Ita Strabosck. 
 
 Peter made no attempt to put into words his intense 
 sympathy, but he took his brother's arm and held it 
 tight, and Graham was very grateful. Right out of 
 the very bottom of his heart two tears welled up into 
 his eyes as he walked away. 
 
 After all, he was only twentyrfour. 
 
 IV 
 
 ON her way up to her room that night, Ethel drew 
 up short outside Graham's bedroom door. She knew 
 that he was in, which was in itself unusual. She 
 thought there must be something the matter, because 
 she had seen Graham leave the house in the morning 
 long after his usual time. She had also watched his 
 face at dinner and had seen in it something that fright- 
 ened her. It was true that Peter was her favorite 
 brother, but she was very fond of and had great ad- 
 miration for Graham. Also she, herself, was in trouble. 
 Trouble seemed to be an epidemic in that family. Her 
 Knight Errant next door, in spite of her signalling and 
 the fact that she had laid out as usual the cigarettes 
 and the candies, had deserted her. In order to receive 
 his visits and feed herself on the excitement with which 
 they provided her, she was still maintaining her pre- 
 tence of invalidism, and the worst of it was she now 
 knew that she had grown to be very fond of the boy, 
 who at first had only been a source of amusement.
 
 LIFE 241 
 
 So, with a fellow-feeling for Graham, she listened 
 outside his door. She wanted very badly to slip in 
 and give her sympathy to her brother and receive some 
 of it from him. She didn't feel quite as individual- 
 istic as usual. The artificiality of the flapper left her 
 for the time being and she felt as young as she really 
 was and rather helpless, and awfully lonely. 
 
 Hearing nothing, she tapped gently on the door, 
 opened it and went in. Graham was sitting in an arm- 
 chair with his elbows on his knees and his head be- 
 tween his hands. He made a picture of wretched- 
 ness which would have melted the heart of a sphinx. 
 Ethel went over to him and put her hand on his 
 shoulder. " Is anything the matter, Hammie ? " she 
 asked, using the nickname that she had given him as 
 a child. 
 
 Graham didn't look up. " Oh, Lord, no ! " he said, 
 with a touch of impatience. " What should be the 
 matter? " But he was very glad to feel that touch of 
 friendliness on his shoulders. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. I'm all right as right as rain." 
 
 Ethel knew better. She knew also that she would 
 have said those very things to Belle if she had been 
 caught in a similar state of depression. So she sat 
 down on the arm of Graham's chair and put her hand 
 against his cheek. " I've got about a hundred and 
 seventy-five dollars, if that's any good to you," she 
 said. 
 
 Graham gave a scoffing laugh, but all the same he 
 was very grateful for the offer. " My dear kid," he
 
 242 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 said, " a hundred and seventy-five dollars that's no 
 better than a dry bone to a hungry man." 
 
 "Is it as bad as all that, Hammie?" 
 
 " Yes, and then some." 
 
 Ethel thought deeply for a few minutes. Her char- 
 acteristic selfishness, which had been almost tenderly 
 encouraged at school, had given way temporarily be- 
 fore her own disappointment. " Well," she said 
 finally, " I've got four brooches and five rings, a watch 
 and a dressing-case. You can sell them all if you 
 like." 
 
 Then Graham turned round, gave his little sister 
 one short, affectionate look and put his head down on 
 her shoulder. " Don't say anything, please," he said. 
 " Just let me stay here for a minute. It does me 
 good." 
 
 And he stayed there for many minutes, and the two 
 sat silently and quietly, getting from each other in their 
 mutual trouble the necessary help which both needed 
 so much. A strange, new feeling of motherliness stole 
 over the girl. It surprised her. It was almost like 
 being in church on Christmas Eve, or listening to the 
 most beautiful melody. 
 
 It was a long time since these two had taken the 
 trouble to meet each other half-way. The thoughts of 
 both went back to those good hours when Graham had 
 put his little sister on a sled in front of him and pushed 
 her, laughing merrily, over the hard snow in the park. 
 He had never even dreamed in those days of money 
 and the fever that it brings, or women and the pain 
 they make.
 
 LIFE 243 
 
 And then Graham got up, just a little ashamed of 
 himself, after all, he was now a man of the world, 
 and saw that Ethel's cheeks were wet with tears. It 
 was his turn to try and help. " Good Lord ! " he said. 
 " You don't mean to say that you're worried about 
 anything. What is it ? " 
 
 She shook her head and turned her face away. 
 " Oh, nothing nothing at all." 
 
 All the same she felt much, ever so much better for 
 the kiss that he gave her, and went along to her own 
 room half-determined to be honest with herself and 
 go back to school the next day. She was rather 
 startled to find the smell of cigarette smoke in her 
 bedroom, which was in darkness. She turned up the 
 nearest light and almost gave a cry of joy when she 
 found the boy from next door sitting on the window- 
 sill. 
 
 " Jack ! " she cried. " I thought you were I 
 thought you had " 
 
 Jack threw his cigarette out of the window and got 
 up awkwardly. " I got your note just now," he said, 
 " and so I've come." 
 
 Ethel went to the door and locked it. All the clouds 
 had rolled away. She was very happy. She had evi- 
 dently made a mistake. He must have been prevented 
 from coming. She wished he'd given her time to 
 powder her nose and arrange the curls about her ears. 
 As it was, she opened the box of cigarettes and held 
 out the candies to him. 
 
 " No, thanks," said Jack. " I'm off chocolates and 
 I've knocked off smoking to a great extent."
 
 244 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 With a womanly touch which she and all women 
 have inherited from Eve, who never forgot to stand 
 with her back to the sun and took care, if possible, 
 to remain in the woods until after breakfast, Ethel 
 turned on a shaded light and switched off the strong 
 overhead glare which made her look every day of her 
 fifteen years. Then she sat down with the light over 
 her left shoulder. She was quite herself again. All 
 was well with the world. 
 
 "Where have you been?" she asked, a little im- 
 periously. 
 
 " Nowhere," said Jack. 
 
 " Then why haven't you been to see me ? I have 
 signalled every night. I can't understand it." 
 
 " I know you can't. That's why I've stayed away." 
 
 Ethel was puzzled at the boy's solemn tone. "Of 
 course, if you don't want to come, please don't. I 
 wouldn't drag you here against your will for any- 
 thing." 
 
 " Yes, but I do want to come. I stay away for 
 your sake, and I'm not coming again after this even- 
 ing." 
 
 That was exactly what Ethel wanted to hear. She'd 
 been afraid that Jack had found some one else. Now 
 she knew differently. " Don't be silly," she said. 
 " Have a cigarette. Come and sit on the sofa and 
 don't let's waste time." 
 
 But Jack didn't move. He had gone back to the 
 windowsill and remained hunched up on the narrow 
 ledge, holding on with both hands. " I'm off in a 
 minute," he said. " I'm just going to tell you one or
 
 LIFE 245 
 
 two things before I go. Would you like to hear 
 them?" 
 
 " If they're pleasant," she said. 
 
 " Well, they're not pleasant." 
 
 " Well, then, tell me." 
 
 For a moment or two Jack remained silent. Per- 
 haps he was trying to find careful words into which to 
 put his thoughts. When finally he spoke it was with 
 a suppressed emotion that sent a quiver through the 
 quiet room. " I can't stand coming here/' he said. 
 " I can't stand it. I don't know what you are 
 whether you're a mere baby who knows nothing, or 
 an absolute little rotter. You tell me I can say what 
 I think, so I'm going to." He got tip and went a little 
 nearer to the sofa. " What d'you think I'm made 
 of? Look at yourself in the glass and then see 
 whether you're the sort of a girl who can let a man 
 into her bedroom night after night for nothing. I 
 tell you I can't stand it. I stayed away, not because 
 I wanted to, but because I didn't want to do you any 
 harm. I was a fool for coming here at all. If I 
 didn't believe that you are simply a silly girl I'd stay 
 to-night and come every night as I used to do, but 
 I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt. Next 
 time you signal to a man take care to find out what 
 he's made of and be a bit more careful. There, now 
 you've got it. Good night and good-bye. I've a 
 darned good mind to put the note you sent me to-night 
 in an envelope and address it to your mother. It 
 would save some other fellow from a good deal of 
 unnecessary discomfort. I'm frightfully sorry to be
 
 246 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 so brutal, but I don't believe you know what you're 
 doing. Perhaps this'll be a lesson to you." 
 
 He turned quickly, swung himself out, went up the 
 rope ladder hand over hand and drew it up after him. 
 
 Ethel closed her eyes and sat rigid. The boy might 
 have planted his fist in her face. 
 
 V 
 
 KENYON had taken Mrs. Guthrie and Belle to the 
 Thirty-ninth Street Theatre that night. A quiet little 
 romantic play, quite unpretentiously written, had 
 found its way to that theatre either by accident or as 
 a stop-gap. The manager who put it there had ar- 
 ranged, even before the opening performance, to re- 
 place it at the end of the week with something which 
 had a punch, a coarse, vulgar, artificial piece of 
 mechanism such as he had been in the habit of pro- 
 ducing all of his managerial life. His intention to 
 do this was strengthened by the press notices, which 
 all agreed that the new piece was a very little play 
 about nothing in particular and which made too great 
 a demand upon the imagination of its audience. That 
 last remark of the critics was worth a million dollars 
 to the play's author. The theatre remained almost 
 empty until the Friday night of its first and if the 
 manager had anything to do with it only week. The 
 scenery for the new production was already stacked 
 on the stage. But to the amazement of all concerned, 
 except the author, the theatre did business. The house
 
 LIFE 247 
 
 was almost full and the box office was so busy that 
 the young man who looked after it, a past-master 
 in rudeness, became quite querulous. On Saturday 
 night there was a full house and the booking was so 
 big for the following week that the notices of with- 
 drawal were taken down and the play with a punch 
 had to find another home. The manager, greatly put 
 out, watched this little play sail into a big, steady suc- 
 cess, and whenever his numerous acquaintances he 
 had no friends caught him in an unbusy moment, 
 he would say : " I can't make it out. It beats me. 
 Look at the notices. I couldn't understand a word of 
 the thing when I read it. I only put it into the theatre 
 to keep it warm. My word, I don't know what the 
 public wants." He didn't, and he never would. But 
 the author knew. He had made a play which appealed 
 to the imagination of his audience. 
 
 Peter had watched the party go to the theatre after 
 an early dinner; had seen Graham go up to his room 
 and his father drive away to a meeting at the Academy 
 of Medicine; and then, anxious to be alone and think 
 things over, he too left the house for a long, hard 
 tramp. He went into the park and walked round and 
 round the reservoir. The night was fine and clear, 
 and up in the sky, which was pitted with stars, a young 
 moon lay on her back. From all sides the music of 
 traffic came to his ears in a never-ceasing refrain, and 
 high up he could see the numerous electric signs which 
 came and went with steady precision and monotony. 
 Every now and then he caught sight of the Plaza, 
 whose windows all seemed to be alight. It gave a
 
 248 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 peculiar touch of fantasy to that side of the 
 Park. 
 
 Peter found himself thinking of some of the things 
 which Ranken Townsend had said to him. Without 
 bitterness, and certainly without anger, he began to 
 see something in the artist's bluntness which gradually 
 made him long, with a sort of boyish anguish, to go 
 in to his own father. The more he thought about 
 this the more it seemed to him right and necessary and 
 urgent to beard the Doctor in his den and break down 
 the curious barrier which shyness had erected between 
 him and his children. He realized at that moment 
 that he stood desperately in need of a father's help 
 and advice. It was quite obvious to him also that 
 Graham needed these things even more than he did. 
 If only they could both go to that wise and good man 
 who stood aloof and get something more from him 
 than the mere money with which he was so generous. 
 He knew no one better that he always received 
 from his mother the most tender sympathy, but how 
 could he discuss with her some of the things with 
 which he was faced since the Ita Strabosck episode 
 had come into his life? Kenyon had done much to 
 make it plain to him that it was not good to continue 
 to walk in blank ignorance of the vital facts with which 
 his father dealt daily. He was a man and he had to 
 live in the world. His boyish days among boys were 
 over. They belonged to the past. 
 
 It was borne in upon him as he went round and 
 round the wide stretch of placid water in which was 
 reflected the moon and stars, that his father should
 
 LIFE 249 
 
 know all about Graham. Certain things that Kenyon 
 had said stuck to his mind like burrs. If he could 
 persuade Graham to make a clean breast of it to the 
 Doctor, the brother who meant so much to him might 
 be saved from a disaster which would not merely af- 
 fect himself, but others, a wife and children per- 
 haps. Kenyon had hinted at this and the hint was 
 growing in Peter's mind like an abscess. It was time 
 that he and his brother faced facts and knew them. 
 Who could initiate them better than the distinguished 
 doctor whose life had been devoted to such serious 
 questions ? 
 
 Having brought himself up to this point and being 
 also tremendously anxious to tell his father of the 
 position in which he stood with Mr. Townsend, Peter 
 determined to strike while the iron was hot to go 
 home and see his father at once. He left the park 
 quickly, and when finally he let himself into the house 
 was astonished to see how late it was. The servant 
 told him that his mother and sister had come back 
 from the theatre and had gone to bed. " Mr. Ken- 
 yon," he added, " came back, but went out again at 
 once. Mr. Graham went to bed early and the Doctor 
 has not returned yet." 
 
 "Good!" thought Peter. "Then I'll wait for 
 him." He gave up his hat and stick, went through 
 the quiet, dimly lit library, and after a moment's hesi- 
 tation opened the door of the Blue Room, that room 
 in which he had been so seldom, hitherto only under 
 protest. He had opened the door quietly and was 
 astonished to see Graham sitting at his father's desk
 
 250 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 with the light from a reading lamp shining on his dark 
 head. "By Jove, Graham!" he said. "You must 
 have been thinking my thoughts. This is extraor- 
 dinary." 
 
 Graham looked up with a start and thrust some- 
 thing under the blotting-pad. His face went as white 
 as a sheet and he stammered a few incoherent words. 
 
 Quite unconscious of his brother's curious embar- 
 rassment, Peter sat on the corner of the desk. " I've 
 had it out with myself to-night," he said, going, as 
 he always did, straight to the point. " I've made up 
 my mind to make father into a father from now on- 
 wards. I can't stand this detached business any 
 longer. Let's both wait for him and have it out." 
 
 " What d'you mean ? " asked Graham. " I don't 
 get you." He put his hand out surreptitiously and 
 scrunched up one of the sheets of note paper on which 
 he had been writing. 
 
 " Listen ! " said Peter, with intense earnestness. 
 " I've got to know things. So have you. I've got 
 to have advice. I've got to be treated as a human be- 
 ing. What's the good of our having a father at all 
 if we don't get something from him? I don't mean 
 money and a roof, clothes and tilings to eat. I mean 
 help. I'm in a hole about Betty. I want to talk 
 about my work about my future. Graham, let's 
 give father a chance. Many times he seems to me to 
 have fumbled and been on the point of asking us to 
 meet him half-way. Well, I'm going to do so. Stay 
 here and let's both see it through. Have the pluck 
 to tell him about your trouble and throw the whole
 
 LIFE 251 
 
 responsibility on him. It's his and he ought to have 
 it. Wait a second. Listen! If Ranken Townsend 
 had been your father you never would have gone near 
 Papowsky. You wouldn't have come within a thou- 
 sand miles of Ita Strabosck that's a certainty." 
 
 Graham got up quickly, but kept his hand heavily 
 on the blotting-pad. " No," he said almost hysteri- 
 cally. " Count me out. I'm not in this. It's no good 
 our trying to alter father at this time of day it's too 
 late. He's microbe mad. He knows nothing what- 
 ever about sons and daughters. I could no more tell 
 him about the mess I'm in than fly over the moon. 
 He'd turn and curse me that's all he'd do. He'd 
 get up and preach, or something. He doesn't under- 
 stand anything about life. I'd a jolly sight rather 
 go to mother, only I know it would hurt her so, and 
 anyway my story isn't fit for her ears. No; cut me 
 out, I tell you. I'm not in this." 
 
 Peter got up and put his hands strongly on his 
 brother's shoulders. He didn't notice then how near 
 he was to a breakdown. " Graham, old man, you've 
 got to be you've just got to be. What Kenyon 
 said is true. You and I are blind and are damned 
 children wandering about stumbling about. We 
 need we absolutely need a father more than ever we 
 did in our lives. So do Belle and Ethel. We all 
 think that we can go alone, and we can't. I know I'm 
 right I just know it so you've got to stay." 
 
 A puff of wind came through the open window. 
 Several pieces of paper fluttered off the desk and fell 
 softly on the floor. Peter stooped and picked them
 
 252 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 up. On them the words " Hunter G. Guthrie " had 
 been written over and over again. 
 
 He laughed as he looked at them. " What on earth 
 has father been writing his name all over these sheets 
 for ? How funny ! What a strange old chap he seems 
 to be. It's a sort of undergraduate trick, this, 
 practising a signature before writing a first cheque." 
 
 " Give 'em to me ! " said Graham sharply, and he 
 tried to snatch them away. His voice was hoarse and 
 his hand shook. 
 
 Peter looked at him in great surprise. It was im- 
 possible for him not to be aware of the fact that some- 
 thing was dreadfully wrong. As he stood and looked 
 into his brother's guilty face the fact which stood out 
 most clearly was that Graham had himself been writ- 
 ing his father's signature all over those sheets of pa- 
 per. Why? A man did a thing of that sort for one 
 reason only. 
 
 He seized Graham's hand which was pressed on the 
 blotting-pad, jerked it up, pushed the blotting-pad 
 aside and picked up the cheque-book that laid beneath 
 it. 
 
 " Don't touch that," cried Graham, " for God's sake ! 
 Let me have it ! I'll tear out the cheque. I think I 
 was mad. Oh, God! I'm so worried I didn't know 
 what I was doing ! " 
 
 There was a struggle, quick and sharp, and in an 
 instant Graham found himself staggering across the 
 room backwards. 
 
 With his heart standing still, Peter opened the thin, 
 narrow, brown-covered book. A cheque for three
 
 LIFE 253 
 
 thousand dollars had been made out to Graham Guth- 
 rie. The signature had been forged. 
 
 " You've done this," he said. " You've actu- 
 ally " 
 
 Graham was up on his feet. His lips were trem- 
 bling. He put out a shaking hand. " My God ! " 
 he whispered. " Father's in the library." 
 
 The sound of the Doctor's thin, clear voice came 
 through the half-open door. Frozen with fear, Gra- 
 ham seemed to be unable to move. His very lips had 
 lost their colour. 
 
 With an overwhelming anxiety to hide his brother's 
 frightful fall from honesty and sanity, Peter pounced 
 on the little book, thrust it into Graham's pocket, 
 snatched up the give-away slips of paper, tore them 
 into small pieces and threw them in the basket. 
 
 " Don't give me away. Don't let him know. If 
 you do, I swear to God you'll never see me again ! " 
 
 There was still something to be done, and Peter did 
 it. He took his brother up in his arms, realizing that 
 he was, in a way, paralyzed, carried him to a chair 
 that was out of the ring of light and sat him down. 
 " Get yourself in hand, quick," he whispered. 
 "Quick, now!" 
 
 And Graham, strengthened by his brother's vitality, 
 forced himself into some sort of control. 
 
 Striding to the fireplace, Peter stood there waiting 
 for his father, with a strange pain going through his 
 body. He felt just as though he had been told that 
 Graham, his best pal and dear brother, had had an 
 appalling accident and might not live.
 
 254 
 
 The Doctor's voice, as he gave directions to a serv- 
 ant, came nearer and nearer. 
 
 VI 
 
 WITH his hand on the handle of the door, the Doctor 
 paused. " I want you to call me to-morrow at half- 
 past-seven, Alfred. Don't forget. I have a busy day. 
 Good-night." 
 
 The two boys watched him come into the room. 
 His head was high and there was a little smile round 
 his usually straight mouth. He walked with a sort of 
 sprightliness, as though moving to music. He looked 
 extraordinarily young and exhilarated. 
 
 He saw what was to him a most unusual sight in 
 that quiet, lonely work-room. He was surprised into 
 an exclamation of great pleasure, and he quickened 
 his pace until he stood between his sons. Graham got 
 up and put on a nervous, polite smile. " This's what 
 I most wanted," said the Doctor, " my two boys 
 waiting for me here in this room. I can't tell you 
 I can't tell you, Peter, and Graham, how often, how 
 strongly, how eagerly I've wished to see you where 
 you are now. I can't tell you how I've longed to have 
 you here after my meetings, to tell you how I'm get- 
 ting on, moving things fonvard, and to ask you share 
 in my successes. My dear Peter my dear Gra- 
 ham." 
 
 It was pitiful. The strange, almost incoherent out- 
 break of the shy man nearly made Peter burst into
 
 LIFE 255 
 
 tears. He would almost rather his father had treated 
 them coldly and with raised eyebrows. His present 
 attitude his unhidden joy his eager, and even 
 wistful welcome, had in it something of tragedy, be- 
 cause it showed all the waste of years during which 
 the sympathy and the complete, necessary and beau- 
 tiful understanding of these three might have been 
 welded into one great, insurmountable rock. 
 
 The Doctor, with an obvious desire to play host, 
 an intuition which again touched Peter deeply, went 
 quickly to a little chest which stood in a corner of the 
 room. " What will you have ? " he asked anxiously. 
 " I've got a very good cigar here, or cigarettes if you 
 would like them better. Let me see! What do you 
 smoke, Peter? " 
 
 " He doesn't even know what I smoke," thought 
 Peter. " A pipe," he said. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes ! Well, this is generally said to be 
 a very good mixture. Try some." He gave a jar 
 of tobacco to Peter. " These are nice, though per- 
 haps they are a little too dry." And he extended a 
 box of cigars to Graham. 
 
 The boy helped himself, trying to keep his hand 
 steady. " Thank you," he said. 
 
 " And now," said the Doctor, " let's sit down and 
 have a long yarn. Shall we? I would like to tell 
 you about to-night. The meeting was of vital interest 
 and importance." He drew his chair forward so that 
 it might be between those of the two boys. He looked 
 from Peter's face to Graham's as though afraid that 
 he was asking too great a favour. " You you'll
 
 256 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 forgive my talking about myself, I'm sure at least 
 I hope you will. I so seldom have the opportunity, 
 with those I love, I mean with those for whom I'm 
 working. To see you here like this, at last, makes me 
 very happy." He slipped his large glasses off and 
 wiped them openly without attempting to hide the 
 fact that they had become suddenly useless to 
 him. 
 
 A short silence followed a silence in which the 
 emotion with which the room was charged could al- 
 most be heard. Peter threw a quick glance round it, 
 almost as though he expected to see the curious ex- 
 perimental tubes turn and point accusingly at his 
 brother. The laboratory was filled with such tubes 
 and other curious instruments, all of them silent wit- 
 nesses of Graham's act of madness. 
 
 The Doctor re-lit his cigar, put his glasses on again 
 and clasped his long, capable hands over one thin knee. 
 " I wish I could even suggest to you," he said more 
 naturally and with keen enthusiasm " the intense ex- 
 citement that we bacteriologists are all beginning to 
 feel. For years and years we've been experimenting, 
 and little by little our work is coming to a definite 
 head. Every time we meet we find that we've moved 
 a step further on the road to discoveries. It makes 
 me laugh to think that my early theories, which, only 
 a few years ago, were scoffed at and looked upon as 
 dreams, are taking shape. It's been a long, uphill 
 fight. Science is beginning to win. It's all very won- 
 derful." He noticed that Graham's cigar had gone 
 out. With extreme politeness, such as a man would
 
 LIFE 257 
 
 use to very welcome guests, he held out a box of 
 matches. 
 
 The boy took it. " I don't feel like smoking," he 
 said, with a catch in his voice. 
 
 Something in his tone made the Doctor peer closely 
 at him. " You look pale, my dear lad," ke said, " pale 
 and tired. Aren't you well ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; he's perfectly all right," said Peter hur- 
 riedly, trying to steer his father to another subject. 
 
 Graham threw his cigar away. " I'm not ! " he 
 cried, with a sudden, uncontrollable outburst. " I feel 
 as rotten as I am. I can't sit here and listen to you, 
 father. Don't be kind to me, I can't stand it." He 
 put his head down between his hands and burst out 
 crying like a boy. 
 
 The Doctor was startled. He got up quickly and 
 stood hesitatingly. He wanted to put his hands on 
 the boy's shoulders, but the sudden breakdown brought 
 back his shyness. "What's the matter?" he asked. 
 " Peter, do you know ? " 
 
 Peter nodded. He then made up his mind to let 
 things take their course. " Let him tell you," he said. 
 " This may be the turning point for all three of us." 
 
 Graham drew the cheque-book out of his pocket, 
 opened it and threw it on the desk under the reading 
 lamp. " Look ! " he said. <l That's what I've come 
 to." 
 
 For some moments the Doctor saw nothing but a 
 cheque drawn by himself in favor of his second son 
 for three thousand dollars. The fact that he didn't re- 
 member having made it out, and the fact that it was
 
 258 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 for so large a sum made at first no impression upon 
 him. He was so puzzled and so taken back at the 
 sudden outburst of emotion which had broken up what 
 he hoped was going to be a charming reunion that the 
 sight of this cheque conveyed nothing to him. Both 
 his sons watched him closely, not knowing what he 
 would say or do. He was such a stranger to them 
 his feelings and characteristics were so unknown to 
 them that they found themselves speculating as to the 
 manner in which he would take this dreadful piece of 
 dishonesty. A great surprise was in store for them. 
 
 When the Doctor realized what had been done, 
 that the signature on the cheque was not his own, al- 
 though it was very cleverly copied, they saw him 
 wince and shut his eyes. After a moment of peculiar 
 hesitation he drew his chair up to the desk and sat 
 down. Holding his breath, Peter watched him tear 
 the cheque out and quietly make out another for pre- 
 cisely the same amount. Then the Doctor got up and 
 stood in front of Graham with the new cheque in his 
 hand. All the sprightliness and exhilaration with 
 which he had entered the room had left him. He 
 looked old and thin and humble. His shoulders 
 stooped a little and the cheque trembled in his hand. 
 
 " Am I such an ogre that my children are afraid to 
 bring their troubles to me ? " he said, in a broken voice. 
 " What have I ever done to deserve this, Graham ? 
 You'd only to come to me and say that you needed 
 money and I'd have given it to you. Who am I work- 
 ing for ? For whom have I always worked ? " He 
 held out the cheque. " Take it, and if that isn't
 
 LIFE 259 
 
 enough ask me for more. I'd like to know why it is 
 that you need it, if you'll be good enough to tell me; 
 but, for God's sake, don't hurt me like this again." 
 
 Without a word without, indeed, being able to 
 find a word, infinitely more crushed by this kindness 
 than he would have been by an outburst of anger and 
 reproach, Graham took the cheque, turned on his 
 heel and left the room, walking like a drunken matt. 
 
 Peter watched him go. There was a feeling of 
 great relief in his heart. Nothing that he could have 
 done or said nothing that Kenyon could have said 
 in his most forcible manner, with all the weight of 
 sophistication behind it, could have pulled Graham up 
 and set him on a new path so well as the unexpected 
 generosity of his father and the few pathetic words 
 with which he underlined it. 
 
 But when Peter turned round to his father with the 
 intention of taking him, for the first time, into his con- 
 fidence and treating him as he would have treated 
 Ranken Townsend under the same circumstances, he 
 saw that the Doctor was crumpled up in his chair with 
 his hands over his face and his shoulders shaking with 
 sobs, and so he held his peace; and instead of obtain- 
 ing the help that he needed so much he put his strong 
 arm round his father in a strange protective way, as 
 though he were the stronger man. 
 
 " Oh, don't, father," he said. " Please don't"
 
 260 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 VII 
 
 THERE was a good reason why Kenyon didn't stay 
 out his fortnight at Dr. Guthrie's house. He had al- 
 ready begun to know several young men whose very 
 good feathers were waiting to be plucked. It was 
 obviously impossible for him to invite them to East 
 Fifty-second Street, and it became necessary, there- 
 fore, that he should take a bachelor-apartment in 
 which to set up business. There he could play cards 
 until any hour that suited him and settle down seri- 
 ously to make his winter in New York a success. 
 Also, he confessed to himself, the atmosphere of the 
 Doctor's house was not conducive to his peace of mind 
 or to his rigidly selfish way of life. He hadn't come 
 over to the United States in order to play the fairy 
 godmother, or even the family adviser to the young 
 Guthries. He had worked hard to clear the one thing 
 out of Graham's life which had rendered him useless, 
 and he had had the satisfaction of seeing Peter's en- 
 gagement broken, for which admirable accident he 
 was profoundly grateful, because Peter also would 
 now be free. In fact, these two brothers could now 
 easily be brought to concentrate upon Kenyon's de- 
 serving case and take round to his apartment any 
 friends of theirs who enjoyed gambling and could pay 
 when they lost. 
 
 Kenyon possessed a neat and tidy brain. It was 
 run on the same principle as a well-organized business 
 office. It had its metaphorical card indexes, letter-
 
 LIFE 261 
 
 files and such like; so that when he made up his mind 
 to go into his own quarters he gave the matter the 
 closest and most careful consideration. He paid sev- 
 eral visits to the well-known bachelor apartment- 
 houses in and around West Forty-fourth Street. 
 They would have been very suitable but for the exist- 
 ence of irksome rules and regulations as to ladies. He 
 went further afield and, with Graham's assistance, ex- 
 amined several apartments in private houses. What 
 he wanted was a place somewhere on the map where 
 his breakfast would be cooked especially for him at 
 any hour he desired, and which would be free of ele- 
 vator boys, clerks, and the watchful eye of a manager. 
 Finally he discovered exactly such a place on the sec- 
 ond floor of a fairly large old-fashioned house in West 
 Forty-eighth Street. In this the elderly lady who, as 
 Kenyon at once saw, was blessed with the faculty of 
 being able to look at things with a Nelsonian eye, 
 having, poor soul, to earn her living, lived in the 
 basement with her parrot and her Manx cat. Two 
 young business men shared rooms on the first floor 
 and a retired professor who spent the greater part 
 of his time in the country rented the third floor. 
 The servants slept in the attic. 
 
 Into this house Kenyon moved, much against the 
 wishes of all the Guthries, especially Belle, the day 
 after Peter's attempt to get in touch with his father 
 came to such an utter failure. He was very well 
 pleased with his quarters. They gave him elbow-room 
 and freedom from the responsibility of looking after 
 another man's sons. The sitting-room, arched in the
 
 262 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 middle, ran from the front to the back of the house 
 and it was well and discreetly furnished. There was 
 a particularly nice old Colonial mirror over the man- 
 tel-piece, and what prints there were hanging on the 
 walls were very pleasant. The bedroom across the 
 passage would have been equally large had it not been 
 broken up to provide a bath-room and a slip-room for 
 
 Fate, however, with its characteristic impishness, 
 interfered with Kenyon's well-laid scheme. At the 
 very hour when he was arranging his personal photo- 
 graphs a cable addressed to him was delivered at Dr. 
 Guthrie's house. It so happened that Peter was in the 
 hall when the servant took it in, and he started off at 
 once to take it round to his friend. He was glad 
 enough to seize any excuse to see Kenyon again. He 
 felt horribly at a loose end. Graham's affairs had 
 completely upset him and disarranged his plans. He 
 was longing to see Betty, but was not going back on 
 his agreement with Ranken Townsend until such time 
 as he could make the artist eat his words; and, as to 
 his father and his endeavor to break down that appar- 
 ently insurmountable barrier, he was utterly disheart- 
 ened and depressed. He was shown into Kenyon's 
 rooms at the moment when he was standing in front 
 of a very charming photograph of Baby Lennox which 
 he had placed on the sideboard. It showed her in a 
 little simple frock, with a wide-brimmed garden hat, 
 standing among her roses with a smile on her face. 
 She looked very young, pretty and flower-like. 
 
 "Hello, Peter 1"
 
 LIFE 263 
 
 " I've brought this cable round. Otherwise I 
 wouldn't have rushed in on you quite so soon." 
 
 " My dear old boy," said Kenyon, " you know very 
 well that you have the complete run of whatever place 
 I may be living in, at all hours of the day and night. 
 A cable for me, eh? What the devil ? I was jolly 
 careful to give my address here to very few people in 
 England. Too many are anxious to serve me with 
 summonses. Baby Lennox is going to be married, 
 perhaps, and sends me the glad tidings. By Jove, I 
 wonder who she's nabbed ! " He shot out a laugh and 
 tore open the envelope. " Oh, my God ! " 
 
 " What ifc it ? " asked Peter, anxiously. 
 
 Kenyon held out the cablegram and remained stand- 
 ing rigid, with his mouth open and his eyes shut, and 
 his face as white as a stone. 
 
 It was from Baby Lennox. " Your father died last 
 night. A heart attack. Come home at once." 
 
 " Oh, my dear Nick ! " said Peter. " My dear old 
 boy ! I can't tell you how " 
 
 " No," said Kenyon ; " don't say anything. Just sit 
 down and wait for me. Whatever you do, don't go." 
 And he went out of the room and across the passage 
 to his bedroom, and shut himself in. 
 
 Peter waited. The few cold, definite and even 
 brutal words contained in the cablegram would have 
 hit him much harder and rendered his sympathy for 
 his friend very much more real if he could have felt 
 what it would have been to him to hear of the death 
 of his own father. While he waited, mechanically 
 holding that slip of paper between his fingers, his re-
 
 264 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 spect for his friend's grief widened into an odd and 
 powerful feeling of envy. The man who was dead 
 had been infinitely more than a father. He had been 
 a friend and a brother as well. It made him sick and 
 cold to feel that the receipt of such a cablegram bring- 
 ing to him the news of the death of his own father 
 would have moved him only to extreme sympathy for 
 his mother. He was ashamed and humiliated to real- 
 ize that no actual grief would touch him, because his 
 father was nothing more than a sort of kind but illusive 
 guardian or a good-natured step-father altogether 
 unused to children who effaced himself as much as 
 he could and threw all responsibility upon his wife. 
 
 It was an hour before Kenyon reappeared, and dur- 
 ing that time which seemed to Peter no more than 
 a few minutes he went over again in his mind the 
 scene which had taken place in the Doctor's laboratory, 
 out of which he had gone stultified and thrown back 
 upon himself. He was as grateful as Graham had 
 been for the Doctor's generosity, but appalled at the 
 thought that he had utterly failed to realize not only 
 the gravity of Graham's act, but the long years of 
 parental neglect which made such an act possible. It 
 seemed to him that the way in which his father had 
 taken that deplorable incident was all wrong. He 
 should not have written another cheque. He should 
 have had Graham up in front of him, strongly and 
 firmly, and tried him as a judge would have tried him 
 if his act had been discovered and dealt with by law. 
 He should have gone into all the circumstances which 
 led up to the forgery and thereby have cleared the way
 
 LIFE 265 
 
 for a new understanding. As it was, his acceptance 
 of it was so weak that it gave Peter and Graham a 
 feeling almost of contempt for that too kind man to 
 whom children were obviously without significance, 
 and the unmistakable knowledge that he was unable to 
 understand his grave responsibility and the fact that 
 he, alone among men, must take the blame for all their 
 misdeeds and mistakes, because they had been allowed 
 to enter life unwarned, unguided and unhelped. The 
 outcome to Peter of this hour's bitter thought was 
 finally this : That if news were brought to him at that 
 moment of his father's death the only sorrow that he 
 could feel would be at the fact that he felt no sorrow. 
 
 When Kenyon came back into the room it was with 
 his usual imperturbability. He might merely have 
 left it to answer the telephone or interview the man 
 who had come to collect his clothes to be ironed. But 
 his eyes were red. In his own peculiar way he had 
 loved his father and admired him. It was the first 
 time that he had wept since he had been a child. 
 
 " Thanks, so much, for waiting, old boy," he said. 
 " I hope you've been smoking, or something." 
 
 " No," said Peter ; " I have things to think about 
 too." 
 
 Kenyon looked about, with a queer little smile. " I 
 was just settling down," he said. " Very decent room, 
 this, isn't it ? Well, well, there it is. You never know 
 your luck, eh? " 
 
 " When will you sail, Nick? " 
 
 " The first possible boat. Do you know anything 
 about the sailings? Ah, this paper will have it. I
 
 266 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 detest the sea and its everlasting monotony and bland- 
 ness, and the dull-bright propinquity that it forces 
 upon one." He opened the paper and searched among 
 its endless columns for the Shipping News. " Here 
 we are. * Trans-Atlantic Sailings.' I have a wide 
 choice, I see. There's a White Star and a Cunarder 
 leaving to-morrow at twelve-thirty. The Olympic, I 
 see! That's good enough, if she's not full up. I'll 
 see to it this afternoon. There's sure to be a cabin 
 somewhere at this time of year." 
 
 " I shall miss you badly," said Peter. 
 
 " Thanks, old man. I know you will. And I shall 
 hate going. Well, well ! " 
 
 Peter picked up a book and put it down again; 
 opened and shut a box of cigarettes and pushed a bowl 
 of flowers nearer the middle of the table. " Do you 
 want any I mean, can I ? " 
 
 Kenyon laid his hand on his friend's square shoul- 
 der. " Not this time, Peter, old son. Thanks, aw- 
 fully. I've had one or two good nights and my pock- 
 ets are full of dollars. They'll see me home with per- 
 fect comfort. Well, here ends my visit to the United 
 States. To-morrow night I shall have left the hos- 
 pitable Statue of Liberty behind me. But she'll see 
 me again. I'll dash round in the morning and thank 
 your people for their extreme kindness to me. You'll 
 see me off, won't you? " 
 
 " Yes," said Peter ; " of course." 
 
 "Of course. We won't dine to-night. I I don't 
 feel like it." 
 
 " I understand, old man," said Peter.
 
 LIFE 267 
 
 " So long, then." 
 
 " So long," said Peter. 
 
 " The Earl is dead ! " said Kenyon, with a sudden 
 break in his voice. " Long live the Earl ! " And he 
 raised his hand above his head. 
 
 VIII 
 
 NOT for the first time in his comparatively short 
 life, Nicholas Kenyon was able to put to the test his 
 often boasted power of self-control. It was his creed 
 to accept everything that might happen to him, whether 
 good or bad, with equanimity. It was part of his 
 training to allow nothing to interfere with the routine 
 of his day and the particular scheme that he had 
 worked out for himself. He was, however, utterly 
 unprepared for his father's death. Only the day be- 
 fore he had received a very cheerful and amusing let- 
 ter from the Earl of Shropshire which had provided 
 him with many quiet chuckles. When the blow came 
 in that sudden fashion it knocked him down and for 
 an hour reduced him to the level of an ordinary human 
 being of a man who had not specialized in individ- 
 ualism and who did not set the earth revolving round 
 himself as its hub. Shut up in his bedroom he gave 
 way to his real and best emotions, the genuineness of 
 which surprised him. He was a master egotist a 
 superindividualist the very acme of selfishness. 
 Therefore, odd as it may seem, he was somewhat 
 ashamed of his deep feeling, because it proved to him 
 that one of the links of his carefully forged chain of
 
 268 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 philosophy was weak. He defined the word philoso- 
 pher as one who is profoundly versed in the science of 
 looking after himself. 
 
 As soon as Peter had left Kenyon's rooms, the new 
 Earl of Shropshire took himself in hand and " carried 
 on " as they do in the Navy after casualties, accidents 
 and the issue of new orders. He continued to ar- 
 range his photographs round the room. He consid- 
 ered that he might as well make himself completely 
 comfortable until the time came for him to pack up 
 again and leave the country. He called up Belle on the 
 telephone and had a little talk with her. He told her 
 of his father's death and of the fact that he would have 
 to sail within the next twenty- four hours. He lis- 
 tened with satisfaction to her cry of anguish, and ar- 
 ranged with her to come to see him that evening. It 
 appeared that she was engaged to dine with some 
 friends and go with them to hear Alfred Noyes read 
 his poems at the ^olian Hall. He insisted upon her 
 keeping her engagement and begged that she would 
 come round to his rooms alone at eleven o'clock. 
 
 He didn't intend to leave the United States, even 
 under such circumstances, without adding Belle to his 
 little list of conquests. The cold-bloodedness of such 
 an intention was peculiarly characteristic of the man. 
 " No weakness," he said to himself " no weakness. 
 No matter what happens, what had happened, is hap- 
 pening or may happen, you must carry on. You've 
 built up a creed, stick to it." And then, very quietly - 
 having changed his tie to a black one he went forth 
 to discover the offices of the White Star Steamship
 
 LIFE 269 
 
 Company, having obtained the proper directions 
 from his landlady. He took the subway to the Bat- 
 tery, interviewed a clerk of Number One Broadway, 
 had the good fortune to find that there was a state- 
 room vacant on the boat deck of the Olympic; 
 wrote his cheque for it; pocketed a bundle of labels; 
 paid Graham a brief visit in his office on Wall Street 
 and walked all the way home again, endeavoring to 
 count the German names all along the most amazing 
 street in the world, and giving up his temporary hobby 
 in despair. On the way home he sent off a cable to 
 Baby Lennox, giving her the name of the ship on 
 which he was to sail. By this time he was tired and a 
 little dazed at the amazing stir and bustle of Broad- 
 way, with its never-ceasing lines of cable-cars and its 
 whir and rush of human traffic. He was glad of a 
 cup of tea, and presently arranged himself for a quiet 
 nap on the sofa in his sitting-room. 
 
 Later, with his mind concentrated solely on Belle's 
 impending visit and what he intended to achieve, he 
 dined alone at the Ritz, dropped in to see a turn or 
 two at the Palace, and strolled back to Forty-eighth 
 Street at half-past-ten. As he went into the house 
 he heard the landlady talking to the two young busi- 
 ness men who lived on the first floor. She was asking 
 them to be good enough not to play the piano that 
 evening, as the Professor had come back from the 
 country and was very unwell. She had sent for the 
 doctor, and he would be more comfortable if the house 
 were as silent as it could be made. 
 
 Knowing that Belle would be punctual that night,
 
 270 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 of all nights, he went down just before eleven o'clock 
 and waited for her at the front door. It was his in- 
 tention to get her into the house unobserved, more for 
 his own sake than for hers. The night was clear, but 
 half a gale was blowing, carrying before it all the dust 
 of the city and sending odd pieces of paper swirling 
 into the air and making the hanging signs outside 
 shops and small restaurants creak and groan. In its 
 strong, vibrating song there was a note of wild passion 
 that fitted exquisitely into Kenyon's frame of mind. 
 
 Belle drove up in a taxicab a few minutes after 
 eleven. " Not a word until we get upstairs," said 
 Kenyon, as he helped her out. And then when she 
 stood in his sitting-room, with all her emotions in a 
 state of upheaval, nothing was said for many minutes. 
 He took her in his arms and kissed her, delighting in 
 her young beauty and freshness with all the apprecia- 
 tion of a connoisseur. 
 
 There seemed to Belle to be no indiscretion in this 
 visit. Was she not engaged to be married to this man ? 
 
 As a matter of fact, she was not. Kenyon had been 
 playing with her ; and now that he had succeeded to his 
 father's title he had even less intention of dealing seri- 
 ously by her than ever before. Marriage was not in 
 his thoughts or plans. The title was his and the old 
 house that went with it, but he was no better off than 
 he had been as Nicholas Kenyon, the Oxford under- 
 graduate. On the contrary he now had responsibilities 
 of which he had hitherto been free and he must look 
 out for some one who could buy his name for a sub- 
 stantial sum. If Belle had read into his vague and
 
 LIFE 271 
 
 indefinite remarks a proposal of marriage it only 
 showed that she possessed a very lively imagination. 
 He was not going at that point to undeceive her. He 
 was merely going to take from her everything that she 
 was gracious enough to give. His trip to New York 
 had provided him with very little in actual substance. 
 He was determined that it should not be altogether 
 empty, and that Belle should furnish him with a charm- 
 ing memento. 
 
 He broke into Belle's preliminary remarks of con- 
 ventional condolence by saying, " Thank you ; but 
 please don't say a word about my father. Let's talk 
 about ourselves. We're alive. The next few hours 
 are our property. Let's make them memorable. Let's 
 give each other something that we can never forget." 
 And he took her cloak and led her to a chair as though 
 she were a queen, and stood looking at her with very 
 greedy eyes. 
 
 But Belle's temperament was Latin. Ever since 
 Kenyon had spoken to her over the telephone she had 
 been unable to control her feelings. She loved this 
 man overwhelmingly. She had given him all her 
 heart, which had never been touched before. To her 
 it seemed amazingly cruel that fate had come along 
 with its usual lack of sympathy and circumspection 
 and put a sudden end to all the delightful hours to 
 which she had been looking forward. The death of a 
 man whom she didn't know meant very little to her. 
 She was young, and to the young what is death but ?. 
 vague mystery, an inconvenient accident which seems 
 to affect every one but themselves ? Indeed, she rather
 
 272 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 resented the fact that Kenyon's father, in dying, was 
 to take so suddenly out of her life the one human being 
 about whom her entire happiness revolved. 
 
 "Oh, Nicholas, Nicholas! Must you go? Must 
 you leave me ? Let me go with you. I have the right. 
 I shall be miserable and unhappy without you." And 
 she clung to him with all the unreasonableness of a 
 child. 
 
 Kenyon was not in the least touched by this appeal 
 only extremely pleased, because it showed him that 
 Belle was in the right mood to be won. He put his 
 hand on her round, white shoulder. " You must be 
 brave," he said. " I know how you feel, but you must 
 help me. Don't make things more difficult than they 
 are. I may be able to come back quite soon, who 
 can tell?" 
 
 " I believe you're glad to go ! " cried Belle. 
 
 Kenyon drew back. He wanted to make her feel 
 that she had hurt him. He succeeded. 
 
 In an instant, full of self-reproach, Belle was on her 
 feet and in his arms again. " What am I going to do 
 without you? I almost wish you'd never come into 
 my life. I've been looking forward to your being 
 here the whole winter. How am I going to get 
 through the days alone ? " 
 
 A motor-car drew up at the house. Neither of them 
 heard Dr. Guthrie's voice giving a quick order to the 
 chauffeur or recognized his step as he passed upstairs 
 on the way to see his friend, the Professor, on the 
 floor above, to whom he had been called by the land- 
 lady.
 
 LIFE 273 
 
 Presently, having turned out all the lights except a 
 shaded lamp on the table, Kenyon began to let himself 
 go. He threw aside his characteristic calmness and 
 became the lover the passionate, adoring man who 
 was about to be separated, under tragic circumstances, 
 from the girl who was equally in love. He threw 
 aside his first intention of finessing Belle into his bed- 
 room on the plea of asking her to help him to pack. 
 He remembered that the old man above was ill and that 
 the landlady and others would be passing to and fro. 
 This was distinctly annoying. He was, however, a 
 past-master in the art that he was at present pursuing 
 and set the whole of his mind on his opportunity. 
 Belle was, naturally enough, as putty in his hands and 
 her despair at losing him made her weak and pliable. 
 
 He sat down on the sofa and held Belle in his arms 
 and kissed her again and again. " I love you ! I love 
 you ! I don't know I can't think what I shall be 
 like without you," he said, bringing all his elaborate 
 cunning to play upon her feelings. " More like a 
 man who's lost his arms than anything; and we were 
 to have come nearer and nearer this winter, finding 
 out all the best of each other and all the joy that it is 
 to love wholly and completely." 
 
 " Oh, don't go, don't go ! " cried Belle, making a 
 pathetic and almost child-like refrain of the words, " I 
 love you so ! I love you so ! " 
 
 Kenyon bent down with her until her head was pil- 
 lowed on the cushions, and kissed her lips and eyes. 
 " You must love me, sweetheart, you must. It's the 
 only thing that I can turn to and count on now. Go on
 
 274 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 loving me every minute that I'm away. I shall need 
 it, and before I go let me have the precious proof of 
 your love to store up in my heart. Give me the price- 
 less gift that is the only thing to keep me living till I 
 come back." 
 
 "Nicholas, Nicholas!" she whispered, with her 
 young breasts heaving against him. " I love you so ! 
 I love you so ! " 
 
 The moment of his triumph had almost been reached 
 when the Doctor, on his way down, saw something 
 glistening in the passage outside Kenyon's sitting- 
 room. He stooped and picked it up. He was puzzled 
 to see that it was a little brooch that he had given 
 to Belle on one of her birthdays. Her initials had 
 been worked on it in diamonds. For several mo- 
 ments he held it in his hand, wondering how it could 
 have been dropped in that place. He was utterly 
 unaware of the fact that Kenyon lived in the house 
 which he knew to be given up to bachelors. Then 
 the blood rushed into his head. Almost for the first 
 time in his life the Doctor acted on the spur of 
 the moment. He was filled with a sudden sense of 
 fear before which his inherent shyness and hesitancy 
 were swept completely away. He tried to open the 
 door. It was locked. He hammered upon it, shout- 
 ing : " Let me in ! Let me in ! " 
 
 Kenyon, cursing inwardly, sprang up from the sofa. 
 " It's your father," he said. " Go and sit by the table, 
 quick, and pretend to be arranging these photographs." 
 He could have ignored that knocking, but the result 
 would be that the Doctor would go down to the land-
 
 LIFE 275 
 
 lady and there would be a scandal. How in the name 
 of thunder did he know that Belle was in the room? 
 He dashed over to the mantel-piece, collected a hand- 
 ful of his pictures and threw them on the table in 
 front of Belle, who, with a touch of panic, tried to 
 smooth her hair. Then he went to the door and 
 opened it. 
 
 " Good evening, Doctor," he said quietly. " This 
 is very kind of you. Belle is here helping me to pack, 
 and Peter should have been here, but I expect some- 
 thing has detained him. Do come in." He saw the 
 brooch in the Doctor's hand and cursed Belle's care- 
 lessness. 
 
 As Dr. Guthrie entered the room the blood slowly 
 left his head. A feeling of intense relief pervaded 
 him. He saw Belle sitting at the table with the ut- 
 most composure putting one photograph on top of 
 another. At his side stood the man who had recently 
 been his honored guest and who was the best friend 
 of his eldest son, the man of whose sad loss he had 
 heard that afternoon from his wife. He thanked God 
 that everything was well and hastened to accept Ken- 
 yon's suggestion that he had come there for the pur- 
 pose of saying good-bye to him. It saved him from 
 the appearance of having lost his head and made a 
 fool of himself. " I I'm indeed grieved to hear of 
 your father's death, my dear Mr. Kenyon," he said, 
 stammering a little. " I was called to see an old friend 
 of mine who lives in this house, who isn't at all well, 
 and I thought I'd take the opportunity on my way 
 down "
 
 276 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " I'm deeply obliged to you," said Kenyon, giving 
 the weak, nervous man before him the credit of hav- 
 ing seized the hint so quickly. " It helps me very much 
 to have so many good friends. I sail to-morrow at 
 two-thirty. This is a good opportunity for me to 
 thank you very much for your delightful hospitality. 
 Will you wait for Peter? " 
 
 "No; I think not, thanks," said the Doctor. " It's 
 getting late and, as you say, Peter has in all prob- 
 ability been detained. Belle, dear, I think you'd bet- 
 ter come with me, now." 
 
 Kenyon was still quite placid and courteous and un- 
 daunted. " Oh, but mayn't she stay until Peter turns 
 up?" 
 
 " I think not," replied the Doctor, astonished at his 
 own firmness. " It's very late." 
 
 " Curse it ! Curse it ! " cried Kenyon, inwardly. 
 But with a little smile he went over to Belle and gave 
 her his hand. " You've helped me a lot," he said. " I 
 can easily finish packing now. Good night and good- 
 bye." 
 
 Choking back her sobs and full of resentment at 
 her father's clumsiness and interference, Belle rose and 
 allowed Kenyon to help her into her cloak. 
 
 By a strange accident she, like Graham, had been 
 saved from a disaster which might have followed her 
 into the future. God's hand must have been stretched 
 out to help that man, who, by his unconscious neglect, 
 had made it possible for these two children of his to 
 stand on the brink of irreparable misfortune. 
 
 Kenyon, keeping up a quiet flow of conventional
 
 LIFE 277 
 
 remarks, followed them down-stairs and out into the 
 street. He could have drawn Belle back into the hall 
 while the Doctor went out to the car, and kissed her 
 once again. But, it was over, what was the use. 
 He watched her fling herself into the motor-car and 
 sit all hunched up with her hands over her face, and 
 then he took the Doctor's hand and shook it warmly. 
 All the angels in Heaven must have shuddered as he 
 did so, and cried, " Judas ! Judas ! " 
 
 " Good-bye again, then/' said the Doctor. " I'm 
 deeply sorry for the reason that takes you away from 
 us. I hope we may see you again soon." 
 
 " I hope so, too," said Kenyon. 
 
 Standing in that quiet street he watched the auto- 
 mobile drive away, and cursed. His mind was filled 
 with impotent rage. He felt as he did when he was a 
 child and some one had hurt him. He wanted to find 
 the thing which that some one treasured most and 
 break it all to pieces, and stamp on it. Then he re- 
 turned to his rooms, switched on all the lights, and with 
 a gesture almost animalish in its baffled passion, swept 
 all the photographs from the table. 
 
 He was kicking them savagely, one after another, 
 when he heard the whistle which he and Peter had 
 used at Oxford to attract each other's attention. He 
 ran to the window and opened it. There stood 
 Peter with a glint of moonlight on his great square 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Come up ! " said Kenyon. " By God, my luck's 
 come back! Now I can make that old fool pay for 
 ruining my evening! "
 
 278 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 IX 
 
 WITH a fiendish scheme in the back of his head and 
 with a most unpleasant smile on his face, Kenyon went 
 over to the sideboard. He brought out two glasses. 
 In one he mixed a whiskey high-ball and in the other 
 he poured a concoction of neat whiskey and brandy, 
 adding everything else that his bottles contained, a 
 mixture calculated to dull the senses even of the most 
 hardened drinker. Then he waited still with this 
 unpleasant smile upon his face. 
 
 When Peter came in he looked tired and pale. His 
 boots were covered with dust and there were beads of 
 perspiration on his forehead. " I saw that you were 
 up," he said, " so I whistled. If you hadn't called out 
 I should have gone home. Hope you don't mind." 
 
 " Mind ! " cried Kenyon. " I never was so glad to 
 see anybody in my life. You look like a tramp. 
 Where've you been ? " 
 
 Peter threw his hat on the sofa and sat down heavily. 
 " I wasn't in the mood to go home to dinner. I've 
 been walking hard ever since I saw you. God knows 
 where I've been. At one time I stood under the 
 apartment-house in Gramercy Park. It's a wonder I 
 didn't go up and have it out again with Ranken Town- 
 send. But it wouldn't have been any use." 
 
 "Not the smallest," said Kenyon. "You'd only 
 have given him the satisfaction of standing on his hind- 
 legs and preaching to you. Will you have something 
 to eat?"
 
 LIFE 279 
 
 Peter shook his head. 
 
 " Well, then, have a drink." And he put the poison 
 in front of Peter. " I was going to drink to myself, 
 a rather dull proceeding alone. Now you can join 
 me. On your feet, Peter, old man, and with no heel- 
 taps, I give you ' the new Peer ! The most decorative 
 member of England's aristocracy, Nicholas Augus- 
 tus Fitzhugh Kenyon, Eighth Earl of Shropshire, 
 master of Thrapstone-Wynyates the man without 
 a shilling ! ' Let it go ! " 
 
 Peter stood up, clinked his friend's glass with his 
 own, emptied it and set it down. " Good Lord ! " he 
 said, with a frightful grimace. " What in thunder 
 was that?" 
 
 Kenyon burst into a derisive laugh. " ' Some 
 drink,' as you say over here. Away goes your water- 
 wagon, Master Peter. Off you come from your self 
 made pedestal. Drunk and incapable will be the words 
 that will presently be very fitly applied to you, my im- 
 maculate friend." And he laughed again, as though 
 it were a great joke. It would do him good to see 
 Peter " human," as he called it, for once, to satisfy 
 his sense of revenge to pay out Dr. Guthrie for his 
 cursed interference. 
 
 Peter was glad to get back to his chair. " I don't 
 care what happens to me," he said. " What does it 
 matter ? I've got nothing to live for a father who 
 doesn't care a damn what becomes of me, and a girl 
 who's given me up without a struggle." 
 
 He had had nothing to eat since the middle of the 
 'day. He was mentally and physically weary. Al-
 
 280 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 though he was unaware of the fact, he had caught a 
 severe chill. It was not surprising that the horrible 
 concoction which Kenyon had deliberately mixed went 
 straight to his head. 
 
 Everything vile lying at the bottom of Kenyon's 
 nature had been stirred up. At that moment he cared 
 nothing for his friend's repeated generosity, his con- 
 sistent loyalty and his golden friendship. With a sort 
 of diabolical desire to amuse himself and see humiliated 
 in front of him the man who had stuck to his principles 
 so grimly, he filled his glass again, to make certainty 
 doubly certain. " This time," he cried, " I'll give you 
 another toast. Come on, now. On your feet again, 
 and drink to ' that most charming family, the Guthries, 
 and in particular to the eldest son to the dear, good 
 boy who has run straight and never been drunk, and 
 has treated women with such noble chivalry. In a 
 word, to Peter, the virgin man.' ' He raised his glass, 
 and so did Peter. This time the stuff almost choked 
 him and he set his glass down only half empty. But 
 he put on a brave front and sat up straight, laughing 
 a little. " Nice rooms, these," he said. " Large and 
 airy. Bit nicer than our first rooms at Oxford, eh? " 
 How different this hideous poison made him look. 
 Already he was like a fine building blurred by mist. 
 
 " It's extraordinary what you dry heroes can do 
 when you try," said Kenyon. " All I hope is that 
 you'll come face to face with your fond parent pres- 
 ently when you fumble your way into your beautiful 
 home." He bent down and picked up his photographs 
 and went on talking as though to himself. " Yes,
 
 LIFE 281 
 
 there's some satisfaction in making others pay. I've 
 tried it before, and know. I remember that plebeian 
 little hunx at Oxford who was going into the Church. 
 His name was Jones, -or something of the sort. I 
 think he was a damned Welshman. He once called 
 me a ' card sharp.' I didn't forget it. The first 
 night he turned up in his Parson's clothes I doped him 
 and he woke up next morning in the gutter. I loved 
 it. Now, then, Peter, give me a hand with these 
 things and bring them across the passage to my bed- 
 room." He pointed to some books and left the room 
 with his photographs. 
 
 Peter got up unsteadily and rocked to and fro. He 
 picked up the books as he was directed and staggered 
 after his friend. He lurched into the bedroom and 
 stood in the doorway, supporting himself. " I'm 
 I'm drunk," he said, thickly. " Hopelessly drunk. 
 Wha what the devil have you done to me ? " 
 
 Kenyon burst out laughing. Many times he had 
 threatened to do this for his friend, whose attitude 
 of consistent healthiness and simplicity had always 
 irritated him. He delighted at that moment in seeing 
 Peter all befogged and helpless and as wholly unable 
 to look after himself as though he were a baby. 
 
 " Now you'd better go," he said sharply. He was 
 tired with the episode. " I'm sick of the Guthries ! 
 Go home and cling to your bed while it chases round 
 the room. I'll have jnercy on you however to this 
 extent. I'll put you in a taxi. There's sure to be one 
 outside the hotel down the street. Come on, you hulk- 
 ing ex-Oxford man. Lean on me. Rather a para-
 
 282 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 dox, isn't it? Hitherto I've always leaned on you." 
 He got his visitor's hat and jammed it on his head, 
 all cock-eyed. And then, still talking and jibeing and 
 sneering, he led the uncertain Peter down-stairs. 
 
 There were two taxicabs drawn up outside the hotel 
 to which Kenyon had referred. He shouted and 
 waved his hand. A chauffeur mounted his box, 
 manoeuvred the car around and drove up, glad to get 
 a fare. 
 
 As he did so, a night butterfly flitted past, on her 
 way home. She had had apparently an unsuccessful 
 evening, for she stopped at the sight of these two men. 
 Her rather pretty, thin, painted face wore an eager, 
 anxious look. " Hello, dearie ! " she said, and touched 
 Kenyon on the arm. 
 
 " By Jove ! " said Kenyon to himself. " By Jove ! " 
 
 He was struck with a new inspiration. He had 
 made his friend drunk. Good! Now he would send 
 him off with a woman of the streets. That would 
 complete his evening's work in the most artistic fashion, 
 and render Peter human at last. And who could tell ? 
 It might hit the Doctor fair and square, " the tact- 
 less, witless, provincial fool." 
 
 " Wait a second," he said to the girl, and with 
 the able assistance of the driver put the almost in- 
 animate and poisoned Peter into the cab. Then he 
 turned. The night bird was eyeing him with a curious 
 wist fulness. She was too smartly dressed and the 
 white tops of her high boots gleamed sarcastically. 
 "Well, dearie?" 
 
 " There's a customer for you," said Kenyon, jerk-
 
 LIFE 283 
 
 ing his finger towards the cab. " Take him home. 
 He has money in his pocket. Help yourself." 
 
 The girl gave the driver her address which was 
 somewhere in the Sixties and then, with a little 
 chuckle, jumped in and drew the door to behind her 
 with a bang that echoed through the sleeping street. 
 
 The cab drove away, and Kenyon's laugh went 
 after it. 
 
 He was revenged. 
 
 X 
 
 BUT for the chauffeur, a burly and obliging Irish- 
 man, Nellie Pope's unwilling and unconscious customer 
 would never have reached her rooms. They were on 
 the top floor of a brown-stone house which had no 
 elevator. The struggle to earn his own daily bread 
 made the chauffeur sympathetic. So he got Peter 
 over his shoulder, as though he were a huge sack, and 
 carried him step by step up the narrow, ill-lit, echoing 
 staircase. On the top landing he waited, breathing 
 hard, while the girl opened the door with her latch- 
 key. 
 
 "Where'll I put him?" 
 
 " Bring 'im into the bedroom," said the girl. " I'm 
 sure I'm obliged to you for the trouble you've taken, 
 mister. You'll 'ave a glass of beer before you go 
 down, won't you?" 
 
 "Sure!" 
 
 He lumped Peter on to the bed with an exclamation 
 of relief. It groaned beneath his dead weight. Mop-
 
 284 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 ping his brow and running his fingers through a shock 
 of thick, dry hair, the Irishman looked down at the 
 great body of his own customer's evening catch. " I 
 guess I've seen a good many drunks before," he said, 
 " but this feller's fairly paralyzed. It's a barrel he 
 must have had, or perhaps he's shot himself with one 
 of them needle things. Anyway, he's a fine-looking 
 chap." 
 
 Nellie Pope, who had heard these remarks as she 
 was pouring out a bottle of beer, it was one of 
 those apartments in which every sound carries from 
 room to room and in which when you are seated in 
 the kitchen it is possible to hear a person cleaning his 
 teeth in the bathroom, went in and stood at the 
 elbow of the chauffeur. Switching on a light over 
 the bed she peered into Peter's face. Her own lost 
 most of its prettiness under the glare. There were 
 hollows and sharpnesses here and there, the roots of 
 the hair round her temples were darker than the too- 
 bright gold of the rest of it. There was, however, 
 something kind, and even a little sweet about her 
 English cockney face and shrewd eyes. " Yes 'e's a 
 fine looking chap, isn't 'e, a bit of a giant, too, and 
 looks like a gentleman. Poor boy, I wonder what that 
 feller did to 'im ! " She put her hand on Peter's head 
 and drew it back quickly. " 'E's got a fever, I should 
 think. It looks as if I should 'ave to play nurse to- 
 night. Oh, I beg pardon, mister, 'ere's your beer." 
 
 The Irishman took the glass, held it up against the 
 light, made a curious Kaffir-like click with his tongue 
 and threw back his head. " I guess that went down
 
 LIFE 285 
 
 fine," said he. " One dollar and ten cents from you, 
 Miss, and I'll make no charge for extras." He held 
 out a great horny hand. 
 
 Nellie Pope opened her imitation gold bag. " Bin 
 out o' luck lately," she said. " Don't know whether 
 I've got No, I 'aven't. Oh, I know ! " With a 
 little laugh she bent over Peter again and hunted him 
 over for some money. Finding a small leather case 
 she opened it. It contained a wad of bills. With a 
 rather comical air of haughty unconcern she handed 
 the chauffeur two dollars. " Keep the change," she 
 said. 
 
 He laughed, pocketed the money, handed back the 
 glass and went off, shutting the door behind him. 
 
 Miss Pope, who had a tidy mind as well as an 
 economical nature, took the glass into the kitchen and 
 finished the bottle herself. And then, without remov- 
 ing her hat and gloves she sat down and counted the 
 money that was contained in the case. " One hundred 
 and twenty-five dollars," she said. " Some little 
 hevening ! " 
 
 She put the case into her bag, where it lay among 
 a handkerchief, steeped in a too-pungent scent, a small, 
 round box of powder, a stick of lip salve, and a few 
 promiscuous dimes. Then she took off her hat a 
 curious net-like thing round which was wound two 
 bright feathers her coat and her gloves. The latter 
 she blew out tenderly, almost with deference. They 
 were white kid. All these she put very carefully on a 
 scrupulously clean dresser. Singing a little song she 
 arranged a meal for herself on the table, having
 
 286 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 \ 
 
 first laid a cloth. Bread, butter and sardines made 
 their appearance, with the remains of a chocolate cake 
 which had been greatly to the taste of her last night's 
 customer, who had not been, however, a very generous 
 person. Extremely hungry, she sat down and, with 
 the knowledge that her purse was full, laid on the 
 butter with a more careless hand than usual. While 
 she ate she enjoyed the bright dialogue of Robert 
 Chambers in a magazine which, having first broken 
 its back in order to keep it open, she propped up 
 against a bowl. Half way through the meal, she 
 jumped up suddenly. " 'Ere ! " she said. " You can't 
 leave that poor boy like that, you careless cat, and 'im 
 lying with a fever!" She went swiftly into the bed- 
 room, and once more stood looking down at the inert 
 form of poor old Peter. Then she laughed at the 
 difficulty of taking off his clothes, and with a shrug 
 of her shoulders started pluckily at his boots. She 
 hung the coat and waistcoat over the back of one 
 of the chairs, there were only two, and having 
 folded the trousers with great care, returned to her 
 supper. It was after two o'clock when finally she 
 crept quietly into bed. 
 
 XI 
 
 A LITTLE over twenty-four years before, Nellie 
 Pope had been born to two honest, hard-working coun- 
 try folk. They lived in a village of about two dozen 
 cottages a stone's throw from the great cross cut by 
 the Romans on the chalky side of Chiltern Hills, in
 
 LIFE 287 
 
 England. Her parents' quiver had already been a full 
 one and there was indeed very little room in it for 
 the new arrival. Eight other boys and girls had pre- 
 ceded her with a rapidity which must have surprised 
 nature herself, bounteous as she is. The father, a 
 deep-chested, brown-bearded, very ignorant, but good- 
 natured man, worked all the year round on a farm. 
 His wages were fourteen shillings a week. The wife, 
 who had been a domestic servant, added to the family 
 pot by taking in washing and, if able, helping at the 
 big house when guests were there. Neither of them 
 had ever been farther away from their native village 
 than the town which lay in the saucer of the valley, 
 the steeple of whose church could be seen glinting in 
 the sun away below. 
 
 Little Nellai, as she was called, was thrown on her 
 own resources from the moment that she could crawl 
 out of the narrow kitchen door into the patch of gar- 
 den where potatoes grew and eager chickens played 
 the scavenger for odd morsels of food. Her eldest 
 sister was her real mother, and it was she who daily 
 led her little brood of dirty-faced children out into 
 the beech forest which stood in strange silence behind 
 the cottage. The monotonous years slipped by one 
 after another, enlivened only by a death or a birth or 
 a fight, or a very occasional jaunt to the town in one 
 of the farm wagons, perched up on a load of hay or 
 wedged in between sacks of potatoes. Little Nellai's 
 pretty face and fair hair very soon made her a pet 
 of the lady at the big house, and it was from this 
 kind, but mistaken person, from whom she obtained
 
 288 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 the seeds of discontent which at the early age of sixteen 
 sent her into the town as a " help " in the kitchen of a 
 man who kept a garage. It was from this place, on 
 the main road to London, that Nellie Pope saw life 
 for the first time and became aware of the fact that 
 the world was a larger place than the little village 
 perched up so near the sky, and caught the fever of 
 discovery from the white dust that was left behind 
 by the cars which sped to London one way, and to 
 Oxford the other. 
 
 During this first year among shops and country 
 louts, Nellie became aware of the fact that her pretty 
 face and fair hair were very valuable assets. They 
 procured her candies and many other little presents. 
 They enabled her to make a choice among the young 
 men with whom to walk out. They won smiles and 
 pleasant words not only from the chauffeurs of the 
 cars which came into her master's garage to be at- 
 tended to, but also from their owners. Eventually it 
 was one of these more unscrupulous than most 
 who, staying for a few days at the " Red Lion," 
 carried Nellie away with him to London, after several 
 surreptitious meetings in the shady lane at the back 
 of the churchyard. There it was that she saw life 
 with very naked eyes, passed quickly from one so-called 
 protector to another, was taken to the United States 
 by one of a troupe of gymnasts, and then deserted. 
 For two years she had been numbered among the night 
 birds who flit out after dark a member of the oldest 
 profession in the world. There were, however, no 
 moments in her life hard, terrible and sordid as it
 
 LIFE 289 
 
 was when she looked back with anything like regret 
 at those heavily thatched cottages which stood among 
 their little gardens on the side of the hills. She 
 could put up with the fatigue, brutality and uncer- 
 tainty, the gross actuality of her present life, with 
 courage, cheerfulness and even optimism, but the mere 
 thought of the deadly monotony of that peaceful vil- 
 lage, where summer followed winter with inexorable 
 routine, made her shudder. The first pretty frock 
 which had been given her by the lady of the big house 
 had begun the work. The candies and the little pres- 
 ents from the country louts had completed it ; and here 
 she was, still very young, with a heart still kind and 
 with a nature not yet warped and brutalized, a 
 danger to any community in which she lived, the de- 
 liberate spreader of something so frightful that science 
 and civilization stood abashed in her presence. 
 
 Vanity has much to answer for, and out of nature 
 spring many plants whose tempting berries are filled 
 with poison. 
 
 It was in the bed of this wretched little woman that 
 the unconscious Peter slept that night. 
 
 It was ten o'clock in the morning when the weary 
 girl faced another day. She didn't grumble at the 
 fact that she had been frequently disturbed and had 
 watched many of the hours go by while she attended 
 to Peter with something of the spirit of a Magdalen. 
 She kept repeating to herself : " Poor boy ! Poor boy ! 
 I wonder what his mother would say if she saw him 
 like this." 
 
 She bathed his head, listened with astonishment to
 
 290 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 his babbling, and tried to piece together his incoherent 
 pleading with Ranken Townsend and his declarations 
 to Betty of his everlasting love. She listened with 
 acute interest to the broken sentences which showed her 
 that this great big man-boy was endeavoring to stir up 
 his father to do something which seemed to him to be 
 urgent and vital, and she wondered who Graham was, 
 and Nicholas. 
 
 The first thing that she did when she was dressed 
 and had put the kettle on her gas stove to boil, was to 
 hunt through Peter's pockets to find out who he was. 
 It was obvious to her that he was not so much a cus- 
 tomer as a patient. She was a little afraid of accept- 
 ing the whole responsibility of his case. The only 
 letter she found was one signed " Graham," headed 
 with the address of an office in Wall Street. In the 
 corner of it was printed a telephone number. Graham, 
 it was plain to her, was a Christian name. She could 
 find no suggestion of the surname of the writer or of 
 the man who lay so heavily in the next room. 
 
 " I dunno," she said to herself. " Something has 
 got to be done. That boy's in a bad way. 'E's as 
 'ot as a pancake and I shouldn't think 'e's used to 
 drink by the way 'e takes it. Suppose hanything 
 should 'appen to 'im 'ere. I should look funny. What 
 'ad I better do?" 
 
 What she did was to have breakfast. During this 
 hasty meal she thought things over all her hard- won 
 practicality at work in her brain. Then she put on 
 her befeathered hat and her white gloves, a second- 
 best pair of shoes, and went out and along the street,
 
 LIFE 291 
 
 and into the nearest drug store. Here she entered 
 the telephone booth and asked for the number that was 
 printed on Graham's note. By that time it was just 
 after nine o'clock. Having complied with the sharp 
 request to slip the necessary nickel into the slot, an 
 impatient voice recited the name of the firm. " I 
 want to speak to Mr. Graham," she said. " No such 
 name ? Well, keep your 'air on, Mister. I may 
 be a client a millionaire's wife for all you know. 
 I'm asking for Mr. Graham and as 'e's a friend of 
 mine, and probably your boss, I'm not bothering about 
 his surname. You know that as well as I do Do 
 I mean Mr. Graham Guthrie? Well, yes. Who else 
 should I mean?" She gave a chuckle of triumph. 
 "All right! I'll 'old on." 
 
 In a moment or two there was another voice on the 
 telephone. " How d'you do? " she said. " I'm hold- 
 ing a letter signed by you, to ' Dear Peter/ Ah ! 
 I thought that would make you jump It doesn't 
 matter what my name is. What's that ? Yes, I do 
 know where he is. I've been looking after 'im all 
 night. Come up to my place right away and I'll 
 be there to meet you. Dear Peter is far from well." 
 She gave her address, and feeling immensely relieved 
 left the box. But before she left the store she treated 
 herself to a large box of talcum powder and a medium- 
 sized bottle of her favorite scent, paying the bill with 
 Peter's money. She considered herself to be fully 
 justified. 
 
 On the way home she dropped into a delicatessen 
 shop and bought some sausages, a bottle of pickles, a
 
 292 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 queer German salad of raw herring chopped up with 
 carrots and onions, and carried these away with her. 
 On her way up-stairs the bald, hard stairs she 
 .was greeted by a half -dressed person whose hair was 
 in curl-papers and who had opened her door to pick 
 up a daily paper which lay outside. " Hello, Miss 
 Pope! Anything doing? " " Yes," said Nellie Pope, 
 " the market's improving," and she laughed and went 
 on. 
 
 Peter was still lying inert when she bent over him 
 once more. She felt his head again, put the covers 
 about his shoulders, pulled the blind more closely over 
 the window, and after having put the food away re- 
 turned to make up her face. She wasn't going to be 
 caught looking what she called " second-rate " by this 
 Mr. Graham Guthrie when he came. 
 
 There being no need to practice rigid economy at 
 that moment, she gave herself a glass of beer and sat 
 down to pass the time with her magazine, in which 
 life was regarded through very rosy spectacles. 
 
 When finally she opened the door, in response to a 
 loud and insistent ring, her answer to Graham's abrupt 
 question: "Is my brother here?" was "Yes; why 
 shouldn't he be?" She didn't like the tone. The 
 word " here " was underlined in an unnecessarily un- 
 pleasant manner. 
 
 XII 
 
 " WHAT'S my brother doing here ? " asked Graham. 
 " What d'you s'pose ? Better go and ask 'im your- 
 self."
 
 LIFE 293 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " In bed, if you must know." The girl answered 
 sharply. She found her caller supercilious. She 
 followed him into the bedroom, telling herself that 
 this was a nice way to be treated for all the trouble 
 that she had taken. 
 
 Graham bent over the bed. " Good God ! " he said. 
 " What's the matter with him ? " 
 
 "Drink!" said the girl drily. 
 
 " Drink ! He never drinks." 
 
 " Then 'e must 'ave fallen off the water-wagon into 
 a barrel of alcohol and opened 'is mouth too wide. 
 Also 'e's got a fever." 
 
 Graham turned on the girl. " How did he get 
 here?" 
 
 " In a cab. You don't s'pose I carried 'im, 
 d'you?" 
 
 "Where'd you find him?" 
 
 " I didn't find 'im. Some one gave 'im to me as a 
 present a nice present, I must say." 
 
 " Don't lie to me! " cried Graham. " And don't be 
 impudent." 
 
 " Impudent ! " cride Nellie Pope, shrilly. " Here, 
 you'd better watch what you're saying. I don't stand 
 any cheek, I don't, neither from you nor anybody 
 else, and I'm not in the habit of lying. I tell you I was 
 made a present of 'im. I was told to take 'im 'ome 
 by a young fellow on Forty-eighth Street, who 'ad 
 called up a cab." 
 
 " Forty-eighth Street, are you sure? " 
 
 " Well, if I don't know the streets, who does? The
 
 294 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 young fellow was a gent. He didn't talk, he gave 
 orders. He was tall and slight and he 'ad kinky hair. 
 Quite a nut. English, he was, any one could tell 
 that." 
 
 " Good God! " thought Graham " Kenyon." He 
 sat down on the bed as though he had received a blow 
 in the middle of his back. Only an hour before he 
 had telephoned to Kenyon to say good-bye and wish 
 him a pleasant crossing, and all that he said about 
 Peter was that they had seen each other the night be- 
 fore. " No doubt he's all right," he had said, in 
 answer to Graham's anxious question. What did it 
 all mean? What foul thing had Kenyon done? 
 
 Graham had been up all night waiting for his 
 brother. He had good news for him. He had pulled 
 himself together and gone to see Ranken Townsend 
 during the time that Peter had been walking the streets. 
 To the artist he had made a clean breast of everything, 
 so that he might, once for all, set Peter right in the 
 eyes of his future father-in-law. That was the least 
 that he could do. He had carried away from the 
 studio in his pocket a short, generous and impulsive 
 letter from the artist, asking Peter's forgiveness for 
 not having accepted his word of honor. Armed with 
 this, Graham had waited while hour after hour slipped 
 by, growing more and more anxious as Peter did not 
 appear. At breakfast he told his mother in case 
 she should discover that Peter had not returned that 
 he had stayed the night in Kenyon's rooms, as they 
 had much to talk about and one or two things to 
 arrange. He had been in the house when Kenyon
 
 LIFE 295 
 
 had rung up, apologizing for being unable to come 
 round, and thanking Mrs. Guthrie for her kindness and 
 hospitality. 
 
 And there lay Peter inanimate and stupefied. In 
 the name of all that was horrible, what had happened ? 
 Graham got up and faced the girl again. " You 
 mustn't mind my being abrupt and rude," he said. 
 " I'm awfully sorry. But this is my brother, my best 
 pal, and I've been terribly anxious about him, and you 
 don't know nobody knows what it means to me 
 to see him like this." 
 
 "Ah! Now you're talking," said Nellie Pope. 
 " Treat me nicely and there's nothing I won't do for 
 you. If you ask me and if I don't know a bit 
 more about life than you do I ought to I have a 
 shrewd idea that your brother was made drunk, that 
 is, doped. 'E was quite gone when 'e was put into the 
 cab, and from the way that kinky-headed chap laughed 
 as we drove off together, I mean me and your 
 brother, I should think that 'e 'ad it in for him, but 
 of course I don't know hanything about that. Per- 
 haps you do." 
 
 Graham shook his head. " No," he said ; " I don't 
 know anything about it either. But what are we 
 going to do with him, that's the point ? He's ill, that's 
 obvious, and a doctor ought to see him at once." 
 
 " That's what I think," said the girl, " and I don't 
 think 'e ought to be moved, 'e's so frightfully 'ot. 'E 
 might catch pneumonia, or something. What I think 
 you'd better do is to call up a doctor at once, get him 
 to give your brother a dose and give me directions as
 
 296 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 to what to do. 'E can stay 'ere until 'e's all right 
 again, and I'll nurse 'im." 
 
 "Yes, but why should you ?" 
 
 " Oh, bless you, that's all right. I'm glad to have 
 something to do. Time hangs heavy. Besides, the 
 poor boy is just like a baby. I like 'im and you 
 needn't be afraid that I shall try to get anything out 
 of 'im, because I shan't." 
 
 Graham snatched eagerly at the proffered assist- 
 ance. He was intensely grateful. " Have you a tele- 
 phone here ? " he asked. 
 
 Nellie Pope laughed. " What d'you take me for ? " 
 she said. " I'm not a chorus lady. When I want to 
 use the 'phone I pop round to the drug store and have 
 a nickel's worth. That's how I got on to you." 
 
 Graham caught up his hat and left the apartment 
 quickly. One of his college friends was a doctor and 
 had just started to practice. He would ask him to 
 come and see Peter. He agreed with the girl that it 
 would be running a great risk to move Peter, and he 
 was all against taking him home in his present con- 
 dition. It would only lead to more lies and would 
 certainly throw his mother into a dreadful state of 
 anxiety. 
 
 While he was gone, Nellie Pope set to work to tidy 
 up the bedroom. She put her boots away in a closet, 
 got out a clean bedspread, rubbed the powder off her 
 mirror and arranged her dressing-table. This doctor, 
 whoever he was, should find her apartment as tidy as 
 she could make it. It was a matter of pride with her. 
 She still had some of that left. One thing, however,
 
 LIFE 297 
 
 she was determined about. The doctor must not be 
 allowed to look too closely at her. 
 
 XIII 
 
 GRAHAM came out of the telephone box in the drug 
 store. Dr. Harding was unable, he said, to leave his 
 office for an hour and a half, when he would drive to 
 Nellie Pope's address and meet Graham in her apart- 
 ment. 
 
 But as he was hurrying back to Peter's bedside, 
 Graham drew up suddenly. The rage that had en- 
 tered into his soul when he had gathered that Kenyon 
 was responsible for his brother's condition broke into 
 a blaze. Almost before he knew what he was doing 
 or what he was going to do when he got there, he hailed 
 a passing taxi and told the man to drive to Kenyon's 
 apartment. He remembered that the liner was not 
 due to leave until two-thirty. Kenyon would there- 
 fore be at home for some time yet. He told himself 
 that he must see him he must. He owed it to 
 Peter first, and then to himself as Peter's brother and 
 pal, to make Kenyon answer for this dirty and disloyal 
 trick. Yes, that was it, he told himself as the cab 
 bowled quickly to its destination. Kenyon must be 
 made to answer, or, at any rate, to offer some ex- 
 tenuating explanation if he could. It would be some- 
 thing that would make him wake up in the middle of 
 the night and curse himself if he let the opportunity 
 slip out of his hands to face Kenyon up before he went
 
 298 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 immaculately, unquestioned and perhaps unpunished 
 out of their lives. How could he face Peter when he 
 was well again? How could he look at his own re- 
 flection in the looking-glass if, for reasons of his per- 
 sonal admiration of Kenyon and disinclination to force 
 things to an issue, he let him escape without finding 
 out the truth? 
 
 The cab stopped. Graham sprang out, paid the 
 man, ran up the flight of stone steps and rang the bell. 
 None too quickly it was answered by a girl with a mass 
 of black hair and a pair of Irish eyes which had been 
 put in with a dirty finger. 
 
 "Is Mr. Kenyon in?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The hall was filled with baggage. A very distinct 
 " K " was on all the baggage tabs. 
 
 " All right ! " said Graham. " I know my way 
 up." 
 
 Rather sharply Kenyon called out " Come in ! 
 when Graham knocked on the door of the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 In a much-waisted suit of brown clothes, a brown 
 tie and a pair of brown shoes which were so highly 
 polished as to look almost hot, Kenyon was standing 
 with the telephone receiver to his ear. He was say- 
 ing " Good-bye " to one of the men to whom Graham 
 had been proud to introduce him and whose pockets he 
 had already lightened by a fairly considerable sum. 
 He finished speaking before turning to see who had en- 
 tered, and hung up the receiver. 
 
 "Oh, hello, my dear fellow! " he said. " I didn't
 
 LIFE 299 
 
 expect to see you. How extremely and peculiarly 
 pleasant ! " 
 
 Graham wondered if he would think so by the time 
 that he had done with him. But, with a strong effort 
 of will, he kept his self-control. He intended to let 
 Kenyon give himself away. That seemed to be the 
 best plan. 
 
 Kenyon gave him no chance to speak. " Not satis- 
 fied with wishing me ' bon voyage ' over the wire, eh ? 
 By jove, this is most friendly of you. You'll help 
 kill the boring time before I drive off to the docks 
 with all my duly and laboriously labelled luggage. 
 Make yourself at home, old boy, and give me your 
 news." 
 
 He took his hat and stick and yellow gloves out 
 of the one comfortable chair and waved his hand 
 toward it. 
 
 Graham remained standing. Having seen Peter 
 lying in such a bed, inert and humiliated, Peter, of 
 all men, he resented Kenyon's suave cordiality and 
 glib complacency. " I've just come from Peter," he 
 said. 
 
 Kenyon burst out laughing. " Oh, do tell me ! 
 How does he look ? Is his head as big as the dome of 
 St. Paul's this morning? It ought to be. I gave him 
 the sort of mixture that would blow most men sky- 
 high. It's never been known to fail." 
 
 "It hasn't?" said Graham. "So you did give it 
 to him ! " he added inwardly. " Good ! You'll pay 
 for that" 
 
 " I was amazed to see the thirsty way our abstem-
 
 300 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 ious Peter lapped it down. I've a sneaking notion 
 that he liked it. It was on an empty stomach, too. 
 He seems to have been in an emotional mood yester- 
 day tramping the streets. Ye gods, how these 
 sentimentalists go to pieces under the influence of a 
 bit of a girl! He came up here fairly late, just after 
 Belle I mean, just after " 
 
 "Belle? Was Belle here last night, then?" Gra- 
 ham's voice rang out sharply. 
 
 " Yes," said Kenyon, with a curious smile. After 
 all, what did it matter now who knew? He was on 
 the verge of sailing and he hoped that he might never 
 see this family of Guthries again. " Yes, Belle was 
 here." 
 
 There was a look in the corners of Kenyon's eyes 
 that sent a spasm of fear all through Graham's body. 
 What was this man not capable of doing since he had 
 deliberately turned Peter, his friend, over to a street- 
 walker, having first rendered him senseless ? " Then 
 I'm here for Belle, as well," he said to himself, " and 
 whatever you did you'll pay for that too." 
 
 There was an empty cardboard collar-box on the 
 floor. Kenyon gave it a spiteful kick. " Yes, Belle 
 and I had, what shall I call it? a rather tender 
 parting scene here last night, quite tender, in fact. 
 All very amusing in the sum total of things, eh? I 
 was peculiarly ready for Peter when he dropped in. 
 And, by the way, how on earth did you find out where 
 he spent the night, learning, I trust, to shake off some 
 of his Quaker notions ? " 
 
 " She rang me up," said Graham, whose fists were
 
 LIFE 301 
 
 clenched so tightly that every finger contained a pulse. 
 He was almost ready to hit almost. He was only 
 waiting for one other proof of this dirty dog's 
 treachery. 
 
 " Oh, did she ? Found your name and address in 
 Peter's pocket, I suppose. Well, she came along last 
 night at the exact psychological moment. The alacrity 
 with which she took dear old drunken Peter off my 
 hands at the merest hint had a certain amount of 
 pathos about it. He's off his immaculate perch now, 
 eh? He's left his tuppenny halo on a pretty sordid 
 hat-peg, at last, eh? He'll thank me for having done 
 it for him one of these days, I'll be bound." 
 
 Graham went slowly over to him. " Not one of 
 these days," he said with extreme distinctness. 
 " Through me, thank God, to-day now." 
 
 Kenyon darted a quick look at the man who had 
 always caused him a considerable amount of inward 
 laughter, whom he had labelled as a precocious pro- 
 vincial. He saw that his face had gone as white as a 
 stone that his nostrils were all distended and that 
 his eyes seemed to have become bloodshot. No 
 coward, Kenyon had an inherent detestation of a 
 fracas, especially when he was dressed for the street. 
 He decided to avert a row with a touch of autocratic 
 authority. It had worked before. 
 
 " Let there be no vulgar display of pugilism here," 
 he said, sharply. "If you don't like my methods, get 
 out!" 
 
 Everything in Graham's nature seemed to have be- 
 come concentrated in one big ball of desire to hit and
 
 302 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 hit, and hit again to hear the heavy thud of his 
 blows on that man's body to see him lying squirm- 
 ing and broken on the carpet with a receipt in full upon 
 his face for all that he had done. 
 
 " Put up your fist," he said, " or I shall have to hit 
 you cold." 
 
 "Curse you, get out!" cried Kenyon, catching 
 Graham one on the mouth before he was ready. 
 
 Graham laughed. He needed that. By jove, he 
 needed that. He let out his left. " That's for 
 Peter," he said. 
 
 Kenyon staggered. His left eye seemed to fill. 
 With a yell of pain he jumped in and hit wildly. 
 
 Graham waited a second chance and got it. " And 
 that's for Belle," he said. And his knuckles bled with 
 the contact of teeth. 
 
 Kenyon went in again. Chairs fell over and the 
 table was pushed aside. And all the time that he 
 failed to reach Graham's face he screamed like a horse 
 whose stable is in flames. 
 
 But Graham, cold, icy cold, and cooler than he had 
 ever been in his life, played with him. He had never 
 been so much a man in his life. He warded and 
 guarded and waited hoping that he might once more 
 feel the sting of pain that would make his last blow 
 unforgetable epoch-making. 
 
 He got it, but with Kenyon's foot. 
 
 And again Graham laughed, for joy for very 
 joy. Now he could hit, and hit honestly. 
 
 " You little gentleman ! " he said. " You perfect 
 little gentleman I've paid you for Peter, and for
 
 LIFE 303 
 
 Belle. Here's my debt, with a hundred per cent, in- 
 terest and then some." 
 
 The blow, hard and firm from the full shoulder, 
 caught Kenyon on the point of the jaw, lifted him 
 off his feet and laid him out full stretch on the broad 
 of his back. 
 
 For several moments, breathing hard, Graham stood 
 over him, looking down at the dishevelled, unconscious 
 dandy, with his bad blood all over his face and 
 clothes. His collar had sprung, his beautiful brown 
 tie had gone round under his ear, his shirt cuffs were 
 dabbled with red, one eye was bunged up and his mouth 
 was all swollen. 
 
 Then Graham rang the bell, and while waiting 
 tidied himself up in front of the glass in which he now 
 felt that he could look. 
 
 The girl came in and gave a shrill cry. 
 
 " Just see to that man, please. Cold water at once 
 will be the best thing." 
 
 He caught up his hat, went out, shut the door, ran 
 down-stairs, let himself into the street and was out of 
 sight and into a taxicab before the girl had recovered 
 herself. 
 
 " Paid in full," he said breathlessly to himself, as 
 he bound up his knuckles " in full." 
 
 XIV 
 
 WITH wide-eyed anxiety, Graham, having driven 
 straight back, waited for the doctor's verdict. The
 
 304 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 two young men stood alone in the little sitting-room. 
 With a touch of delicacy, which they were quick to 
 notice, Nellie Pope made no attempt to follow them in. 
 
 "Um!" said Dr. Harding. "A very close shave 
 from pneumonia. He can't be moved yet, unless, of 
 course, you'd like me to send for an ambulance. 
 That's up to you." 
 
 Graham shook his head. " No," he said. " I don't 
 want that. I think he'd better be I mean I don't 
 want my father Oh, well, I dare say you under- 
 stand." 
 
 " Yes," said Dr. Harding, " I'm afraid I do. God 
 knows what the percentage of disaster is from men 
 having soused themselves like that. It seems to me 
 that your brother, who had obviously caught a severe 
 chill, must have set out deliberately to make himself 
 drunk, and mixed everything in sight." 
 
 Graham held his peace. But his blood tingled at 
 the knowledge that he had given Kenyon something 
 that he would never forget and which would make it 
 necessary for him to remain in the seclusion of his 
 state-room for some days at least. 
 
 The young doctor sat down and wrote a prescrip- 
 tion and went on quickly to tell Graham what to .do. 
 Finally he rose. " I'll look in again this evening," he 
 said. "You'll be here, won't you? Of course we 
 shall get him all right in a couple of days or so, that 
 is, right enough to go home, but " 
 
 " But what ? " asked Graham. 
 
 "Well," said Dr. Harding, "I may have to 
 leave the rest of the treatment to your father." He
 
 LIFE 
 
 305 
 
 shook his head several times on his way to the door. 
 He had taken one or two close, examining looks of 
 Nellie Pope. 
 
 " Mr. Guthrie, you're wanted." 
 
 Graham turned sharply. Nellie Pope, waiting until 
 the doctor had gone, put her head in at the door. 
 " Come on in," she said. " Come on in ! " 
 
 Graham followed her into the bedroom and bent 
 over Peter. Opening his eyes with some difficulty, 
 as though they hurt him, Peter looked about. The 
 room was strange. The face of the girl was strange. 
 The whole thing seemed to belong to a dream. Then 
 he recognized his brother. " You got away, then," 
 he said. 
 
 "Got away?" 
 
 " Yes. By Jove, what a blaze ! The last time I 
 saw you, you were carrying mother along the passage. 
 I could hardly see you for smoke. I got Betty out 
 into the street and dived back into the house. Father 
 was the only one left. Good God, what awful flames ! 
 The library was red hot. I got into the middle of it, 
 choking and yelling for father, when something fell on 
 my head. Is he dead ? " 
 
 " No," said Graham. " He's all right." 
 
 A little smile broke out on Peter's face and he 
 sighed and turned over and went to sleep again. 
 
 Nellie Pope made a comical grimace. " I don't 
 wonder that Ys been dreaming about a fire," she 
 whispered. She arranged the covers over Peter's 
 shoulder with a deft and sympathetic hand, and then 
 took Graham's arm and led him out into the passage.
 
 306 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " You've got your work. Push off. I'll see to the 
 medicine when it comes. Don't you worry. Get 
 back as soon as you can, and while you're away I'll 
 look after 'im like a sister. I like 'im, poor boy ! My 
 goodness! why don't somebody put the lid on all the 
 distilleries? Half the troubles in the world 'ud be pre- 
 vented that way ! " 
 
 Very reluctantly Graham acted on the girl's sugges- 
 tion that he should return to his office. He was in 
 the middle of very important work. He held out his 
 hand. " You're a damned good little sort," he said, 
 " and I'm intensely grateful." 
 
 Nellie Pope's eyes filled with tears. It had been a 
 long time since she had been treated so humanly or 
 had her hand so warmly clasped. But she screwed 
 out a laugh and waved her hand to Graham as he let 
 himself out. 
 
 She spent the rest of the day in and out of the bed- 
 room. With her eyes continually on her clock, she 
 devoted herself untiringly and with the utmost effi- 
 ciency to looking after her patient. To the very in- 
 stant she gave him his medicine and said cheery, pleas- 
 ant things to him every time she had to wake him up 
 to administer it. It was an odd and wonderful day 
 for her, as well as for Peter, filled with many touches 
 of curious comedy, the comedy of life and many 
 moments of queer pathos. Once she had to listen to a 
 little outburst of incoherent love, when Peter insisted 
 on telling her what an angel Betty was. Once she was 
 obliged to hear what Peter had to say about his father, 
 from which she gathered that this man was responsible
 
 LIFE 307 
 
 for the burning house from which this boy had only 
 just been able to escape alive, having saved his family. 
 The obsession of fire remained with Peter until the 
 evening, when he woke up with a clear brain, and 
 having taken his medicine, looked at her with new 
 eyes. 
 
 " What's all this? " he asked quietly. " Where arri 
 I, and who are you ? " 
 
 " Oh, that's all right," said Nellie Pope. 
 
 " Is it ? Are you a nurse ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 " Is this a hospital ? " 
 
 " Yes, that is, a nursing home," she said. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Peter. " Where's Kenyon ? " 
 
 " I don't know, dearie." 
 
 " What on earth was that filth that he gave me to 
 drink? I carried the books into his room, and then 
 I'm hanged if I can remember I've got a most 
 frightful headache. Every time I move my head 
 seems to split in half. How long have I been here? 
 Was I poisoned, or what ? " 
 
 " Now don't you talk or you'll get me into trouble. 
 You go off to sleep like a good boy. You'll be all 
 right in the morning." 
 
 "Shall I? That's good." And he heaved a big 
 sigh and obeyed. It was extraordinary how sleep 
 came to his rescue. 
 
 He was still asleep when Graham came back at six 
 o'clock. Nellie Pope opened the door to him. " 'E's 
 getting on fine," she said. " You can take that line 
 out of your forehead. 'E's been talking quite sensibly
 
 308 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 to me. What I don't know about your father and 
 your family isn't worth knowing." 
 
 Graham tiptoed into the bedroom, drew a chair up 
 to the side of the bed and sat down. And while he 
 waited for the time to arrive for Peter's next dose 
 many strange things ran through his brain, his own 
 precocity his own desire to be smart and become a 
 man of the world his own evening in the little shabby 
 theatrical lodgings in Oxford with Kenyon his 
 dealings with Ita Strabosck the night he had spent 
 in his bed-room when Peter took his razors away 
 that awful hour when he sneaked into his father's 
 laboratory and under the pressure of great trouble 
 forged his name. The only thing that gave him any 
 sense of pleasure out of all this was the fact that he 
 carried in his pocket a warm and spontaneous letter 
 from Ranken Townsend, which he knew would be 
 better to Peter than pints of medicine. 
 
 And while he sat watching, Nellie Pope ate her 
 sausage in the kitchen and finished the instalment of 
 the love story in her magazine. 
 
 What a world, O my masters ! 
 
 IT was late when Graham let himself into his 
 father's house that night. He had done many things 
 that day. He had also been through much anxiety. 
 He felt that he deserved the right to turn in at once 
 and sleep the sleep of the just. But Kenyon had said
 
 LIFE 309 
 
 that Belle had been alone in his rooms the night be- 
 fore and the queer expression that had come into his 
 eyes as he made the remark lived most uneasily in 
 Graham's memory. He now knew Nicholas Kenyon 
 to be a skunk an unscrupulous individualist devoid 
 of loyalty, incapable of feeling true friendship and in 
 every way unfit to have any dealings, unwatched, with 
 a girl unless she was in his own set or belonged to 
 the same class as the two chorus girls for whom 
 he had waited outide the stage door of the Oxford 
 Theatre. 
 
 He was well aware of the fact that Belle had been 
 something more than merely attracted by Kenyon. 
 He had even hoped that she might be engaged to be 
 married to him, being very proud to believe that some 
 day soon she might become the wife of the man under 
 whose spell he, like all the rest of the family, had 
 fallen. Now, however, in the light of Kenyon's 
 hideous treatment of Peter, he saw his one-time hero 
 with eyes from which all the glamour of his appearance 
 had disappeared and he was filled with an overwhelm- 
 ing desire to see Belle at once and make it clear to her, 
 bluntly and finally, that she must clear Kenyon out 
 of her mind as a house is rid of vermin. Belle was, 
 as he well knew, a high-spirited, amazingly imperious, 
 independent girl, with strong emotions. She was not 
 one who would be turned lightly, or even driven, out 
 of a line of thought. She was, on the contrary, as 
 difficult to treat as an unbroken filly and could only 
 be managed with the lightest of hands. If she really 
 and truly loved Kenyon and still believed in him, he
 
 310 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 knew that he could not say anything that would 
 prejudice him in her estimation, even by telling her 
 what he had done to Peter. She would be able to 
 produce reasons, however far-fetched, to make that 
 incident seem less ugly. There was, however, the 
 chance just the chance that she would be open to 
 conviction. After much inward argument and hesi- 
 tation he decided to go up to Belle's room, and if she 
 were not asleep, to have a little talk with her and find 
 out how the land lay, and if he could see any possibility 
 of adding to his punishment of Kenyon to do so by 
 putting him in his true colour before Belle. 
 
 It took him some time to come to this decision and 
 screw up his courage to face Belle. For nearly an 
 hour he paced up and down the quiet library, smoking 
 cigarette after cigarette. Belle was likely to tell him 
 to go and hang himself if she considered that he was 
 butting into her private affairs. He knew this, no 
 one better. He had often done so before. He de- 
 cided, however, to run this risk and, in the hope that 
 she might still be up, went upstairs and stood for a 
 moment listening outside her door. He could hear 
 no sound in her room, no movement, no creak of a 
 drawer being opened or shut. He knocked softly and 
 waited, was just going to knock again when the door 
 was opened. 
 
 With her beautiful black hair done for the night 
 and a pink kimono over her night-dress, Belle stood in 
 the doorway with an expression of surprised inquiry 
 in her eyes. These two had not taken the trouble to 
 be very good friends for some years.
 
 LIFE 311 
 
 " Oh, it's you, Graham," she said, but made no 
 move. 
 
 "It's awfully late, I know; but, if you're not too 
 tired, may I come in?" Graham hated himself for 
 being self-conscious. It seemed absurd with his own 
 sister. He wished then that he had not been quite 
 so selfish and self-contained since he had considered 
 himself to be a man, and had gone out of his way to 
 keep up his old boyish relations with Belle. 
 
 He was a little surprised when she said, " Come in, 
 dear," and made way for him. He noticed quickly as 
 soon as she stood und^r the light that her eyes were 
 red and swollen, and that there was a most unusual 
 air about her of gentleness and dejection. He noticed, 
 too, with immense relief, that a large photograph of 
 Kenyon in hunting-kit which he had seen standing on 
 her dressing-table had been taken away. A good sign ! 
 
 The room was very different from Ethel's. It had 
 nothing of that rather anaemic ultra-modern air so 
 carefully cultivated by the younger girl. On the con- 
 trary, everything in it was characteristic of Belle. It 
 was full of ripe colours and solid comfort. A mass of 
 silver things jostled each other untidily on the dressing- 
 table. A collection of monthly fashion papers with 
 vivid decorative covers lay on a heap on a chair, and a 
 novel, open in the middle, had been flung, face down, 
 on the sofa. There was no attempt at carefully 
 shaded lights. They were all turned on and were re- 
 flected from the long glasses in a large mahogany 
 wardrobe. The carpet all round the dressing-table 
 was bespattered with white powder.
 
 312 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " I was reading' when I heard your knock," she 
 said, " at least I was pretending to read. Sleep was 
 miles away." 
 
 Graham sat down, hanging a pair of stockings over 
 the arm of the chair. " Why? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, I've been thinking, for a 
 change. It's such a new thing for me that it knocked 
 sleep out of my head. Not nice thoughts, either." 
 
 She seemed glad to talk, Graham thought. " Any- 
 thing the matter, Bee ? " he asked. 
 
 " I guess it's nearly a century since you called me 
 Bee," she said with a queer little laugh. " Would you 
 say that anything was the matter if you had just picked 
 yourself out of the ruins of a house that had fallen 
 about your ears? " 
 
 Graham got up suddenly, sat on the sofa at Belle's 
 side and put his arms round her shoulder. " Don't 
 dodge behind phrases, old girl," he said. " Just tell 
 me in plain English. Let me help you if I can." 
 
 But Belle shook him off, not angry with him so 
 much as with herself. She detested weakness. This 
 unexpected kindness on Graham's part made her feel 
 like crying again. In her heart she longed for some 
 one to whom she could pour out her soul, and Gra- 
 ham's affection almost caught her before she could 
 stop herself. Not to him, she told herself, nor to any 
 member of her family, was she going to confess the 
 sort of thoughts that had choked her brain ever since 
 that hour alone with Kenyon. Not even to Betty, to 
 whom she told most things, was she going to lay bare 
 the fact that, in the cold light of day, she found herself
 
 LIFE 313 
 
 deeply hurt and deeply humiliated at Kenyon's treat- 
 ment of her. In fact, she had herself only that night 
 begun to realize the state of her feelings and was still 
 suffering under the discovery. 
 
 Graham, whose nature and character were as much 
 like those of Belle as though they were twins, caught 
 her mental attitude as she stood struggling between 
 pride and a desire to tell the truth. It was as plain 
 to him as though she had already confessed that Ken- 
 yon had done something which had shaken her belief 
 in him. His photograph, which had dominated her 
 room, had been put away. Her eyes were red and 
 swollen. All his sympathy was stirred. At the same 
 time he rejoiced in the eager thought that he had it 
 in his power to clear Kenyon finally out of her 
 mind. 
 
 He set to work quietly. " I'm going to tell you 
 about Peter," he said. 
 
 She turned quickly. " Peter ? There's nothing 
 wrong with Peter, is there ? " 
 
 " God knows how much wrong there is. I'm going 
 to tell you all I know. We're all in this, through 
 Kenyon, and because we've been thoughtless fools 
 running amuck through life." 
 
 The idea of there being anything wrong with Peter 
 brought Belle quickly out of self-analysis and the self- 
 indulgence of her own pain. " Don't beat about the 
 bush," she said. " Please tell me. You told mother 
 this morning that he had stayed with Nicholas last 
 night." 
 
 " That was a lie. This is what happened. After
 
 3H THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 a rotten day worrying about an upset with Betty, he 
 went to see Kenyon late last night. He'd had nothing 
 to eat. I believe because Kenyon had been disap- 
 pointed about something earlier in the evening, but 
 I only make a guess at that from the way he looked 
 when I saw him to-day, he deliberately took it out 
 on Peter." 
 
 "On Peter? How?" Belle understood this dis- 
 appointment only too well. 
 
 " He made him drunk." 
 
 "Drunk! Peter!" 
 
 " Dead drunk, by doping him with a fearful mix- 
 ture of all the drinks he had. He had always threat- 
 ened to do it, and this time he caught Peter napping. 
 That was a foul enough thing to do anyway, but it 
 didn't satisfy him. He got him into the street and in- 
 stead of putting him into a cab and sending him home 
 he called a passing woman " 
 
 "Oh, no!" cried Belle. 
 
 " Yes, and gave Peter over to her and there he's 
 been, in her bed, in a little hole of an apartment, ill 
 and poisoned, ever since." 
 
 "Oh, my God!" cried Belle. 
 
 " The woman rang me up early this morning and I 
 got Ralph Harding to go and see what he could do. 
 I've been there most of the day, except for ten min- 
 utes with Kenyon the best ten minutes I ever put 
 in ever." 
 
 He got up and stood looking at Belle with a gleam 
 of such intense satisfaction in his eyes that she guessed 
 what he had done.
 
 LIFE 
 
 315 
 
 " That's our admirable friend Kenyon," he added. 
 ' That's the man who shared rooms with Peter 
 whose charm of manner got us all at Oxford, and who 
 was made one of the family by father and mother 
 when he came to this country. I hit him for Peter, 
 for you and for myself in that glorious ten minutes 
 to-day. I left him lying on the floor in his rooms 
 all over his own black blood, and if ever I meet him 
 again, in any part of the world, at any time of my life, 
 I'll give him another dose of the same sort for Peter, 
 for you and for me That's what I came to tell 
 you, Bee." 
 
 He bent forward and kissed her, turned round and 
 left the room. 
 
 That was Kenyon, Graham had said. 
 
 Standing where he had left her, with this story of 
 utter and incredible treachery in her ears, Belle added 
 another count to Graham's indictment, that of try- 
 ing to seduce her without even the promise of mar- 
 riage, when her grief at parting with him made her 
 weak. 
 
 For a moment she stood chilled and stunned. That 
 was Kenyon All along she had been fooled all 
 along he had been playing with her as though she 
 amounted merely to a light creature with whom men 
 passed the time. It was due to her father, of all 
 men, her father, that she stood there that night, 
 humiliated but unharmed, with her pride all slashed 
 and bleeding, her self-respect at a discount, but with 
 nothing on her conscience that would make her face 
 the passing days with fear and horror.
 
 316 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 She suddenly flamed into action. " Yes ; that's 
 Kenyon! " she thought, and making a sort of blazing 
 pounce on the middle drawer of her dressing-table she 
 pulled it open, took out the large photograph of a man 
 in hunting-kit, and with queer, choking cries of rage 
 and scorn, tore it into shreds and stamped upon the 
 pieces. 
 
 XVI 
 
 BELIE got very little sleep that night. Having 
 finally decided, on top of her talk with Graham, that 
 Kenyon had intended to treat her much in the same 
 way as he had treated Peter, she endeavored to look 
 back honestly and squarely at the whole time dur- 
 ing which that super-individualist had occupied her 
 thoughts. She saw herself as a very foolish, naive 
 girl, without balance, without reserve and without 
 the necessary caution in her treatment of men which 
 should come from proper training and proper ad- 
 vice. 
 
 She laid no blame upon her mother, that excel- 
 lent little woman whose God-sent optimism made her 
 believe that all her children were without flaw and 
 that the world was full of people with good hearts 
 and good intentions. She blamed only herself, and 
 saw plainly enough that she had allowed her head to 
 be turned by her father's sudden acquisition of wealth 
 which made it unnecessary for her to be anything more 
 than a sort of butterfly skimming lightly through life 
 without any duties to perform without any work
 
 LIFE 317 
 
 to occupy her attention without any hobbies to fill 
 her mind and give her ambition. She felt like some 
 one who had just escaped from being run over in the 
 streets, or who, by some divine accident, had been 
 turned back from the very edge of an abyss. It was 
 indeed a night that she could never forget in all her 
 life. She lay in bed in the dark room with her eyes 
 wide open, hearing all the hours strike one by one, 
 watching herself with a sort of terror and amazement 
 passing through Oxford. All the incidents that had 
 been crowded into that short and what had appeared 
 to be glorious week, came up in front of her again, es- 
 pecially the incident in the back-water with Kenyon and 
 the night of the ball at Wadham College. These were 
 followed in her mind by the scene in the library in her 
 father's house, and finally that dangerous hour in 
 Kenyon's rooms when, but for the intervention of that 
 man who seemed of so little account, she might have 
 been placed among those unfortunate girls of whom 
 the world talks very harshly and who pay a terrible 
 price for their foolishness and ignorance. And when 
 finally she got up, tired-eyed but saner than she had 
 been since those good, strenuous days of hers at her 
 college when she had intended to make art her mis- 
 sion in life, she told herself with a characteristic touch 
 of humour that the reformed criminal was a very good 
 hand at preaching, and made up her mind to go along 
 to Ethel and improve the occasion. It was very ob- 
 vious to her that if she did not do this nobody would, 
 and she was eager to give a sort of proof of the fact 
 that she was grateful for her own escape by giving
 
 318 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 her young sister the benefit of her suffering. And 
 so she put on her dressing-gown and went to her sis- 
 ter's room the little sister of whom she was so fond 
 and proud. 
 
 Ethel was sitting at her dressing-table doing her 
 hair. There was a petulant and discontented expres- 
 sion on her face. Still shamming illness, she had not 
 yet recovered from the smart of what she called Jack's 
 impertinence. There was a surprise in store for her, 
 she who believed that she had managed so success- 
 fully to play the ostrich. 
 
 "Why, Belle!" she said. "What's the matter? 
 You look as though you had been in a railway acci- 
 dent." 
 
 Belle sat down, not quite sure how she would begin 
 or of the sort of reception that she would receive. 
 She always felt rather uncouth in the presence of this 
 calm, self-assured, highly finished little sister of hers. 
 " Well," she said, " I have been through a sort of 
 railway accident and a good many of my bones seem 
 to have been broken, that's why I'm here. I want 
 to stop you, if I can, from going into the same 
 train." 
 
 " I don't think I quite understand you." 
 
 " I don't suppose you do, my dear, but you shall 
 believe me." And then, in the plainest English she 
 gave Ethel the story of her relations with Kenyon, 
 without in any way sparing herself. And when she 
 came to the parting scene in Kenyon's rooms she 
 painted a picture that was so strong and vivid so ap- 
 palling in its proof of foolishness, that she made even
 
 LIFE 319 
 
 Ethel forget her complacency and sit with large, fright- 
 ened eyes. 
 
 Then she got up and began to walk about. " I'm 
 not a fool," she said, " and this thing is going to teach 
 me something. Also, I'm not a coward and I've told 
 you all this for a reason. You think that you're a very 
 wise little person, kiddie, but in reality you're no bet- 
 ter than I am, and just as sentimental and every bit 
 as unwatched and as resentful of guidance. Why are 
 you here instead of being at school? You think no 
 one knows that. Well, I do. You're playing ducks 
 and drakes with mother and father and your educa- 
 tion in order to have what we call a ' good time.' 
 You have shammed sickness so that you could have 
 an adventure with the boy next door." 
 
 " How d'you know that? " cried Ethel. 
 
 " Easily enough, my dear. I was told by the girl 
 who used to bring your thermos up to this room and 
 who had caught you with the boy. Two days ago she 
 left to be married, but before she went she blurted 
 out the whole story. It wasn't for me to interfere 
 then. I didn't much care, to tell the truth, in fact, 
 I thought it was rather a good joke. I rather ad- 
 mired you for the cunning way in which you had ar- 
 ranged everything. I thought you were a good sport. 
 I don't know how far it has gone, but I hope to Heaven 
 that you've not been quite so insane as I was. I'm 
 not going to tell mother or do the elder sister stunt, 
 or anything of that sort. I'm just going to ask you to 
 chuck it all and go back to school and play the game 
 for a change, and to try to bear in mind that you owe
 
 320 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 father and mother something, a thing we all seem 
 to have forgotten, and when you do go back, just 
 remember and always remember what I've told 
 you about myself. We're very much alone, you and 
 I, like two girls who are staying in a house with 
 somebody else's father and mother, and so let's help 
 each other and get a little honesty and self-respect 
 and see things straight. What d'you say, dear little 
 sister?" 
 
 Ethel got up, and with a complete breakdown of all 
 the artificiality so carefully instilled into her by her 
 fashionable school, slipped into her sister's arms and 
 burst out crying. 
 
 XVII 
 
 IT was not until the next afternoon that Peter was 
 allowed to get up. His superb constitution had stood, 
 rock-like, against the chill which the doctor's medicine 
 had helped to throw off. He had done full justice 
 to a broiled chicken which Nellie Pope had cooked 
 for him ; but when, having put on his clothes, he stood 
 in front of the looking-glass, he felt as though he had 
 been under a steam-roller and flattened out. 
 
 " Good Lord ! " he said, when he saw his pale, un- 
 shaven face. " Good Lord ! " But he was very 
 happy. He had read and re-read Ranken Townsend's 
 generous apology. Betty was waiting for him 
 thank God for that. 
 
 And then he began to look round. Was this a 
 nursing home? The dressing-table, with its tins of
 
 LIFE 321 
 
 powder and a large dilapidated puff, its red stuff for 
 lips, its shabby little brushes and a comb with several 
 of its teeth gone, looked as though it belonged to a 
 woman, poor and struggling. The door of the 
 closet, which gaped a little, showed dresses hanging 
 and a pair of very high-heeled boots with white up- 
 pers. He opened a drawer in the dressing-table. It 
 was full of soiled white gloves, several veils neatly 
 rolled up, and a collection of small handkerchiefs. A 
 strong, pungent scent rose up from them. 
 
 An ugly suspicion crept slowly into his mind. He 
 looked at the bed with its frilled pillows, at the flower 
 papered bare walls, at the rather worn blue carpet, at 
 the flimsy wrap hanging limply on a peg on the door 
 of the bath-room, at the little bed-room slippers tucked 
 away beneath one of the white, painted chairs 
 
 He turned and called out : " Nurse ! Nurse ! " 
 
 Something in his tone brought Nellie Pope in quickly. 
 
 He was standing with his hand on the big brass 
 knob of the bed. " You told me that this was a nurs- 
 ing home," he said. 
 
 The girl laughed. How should she know what 
 Peter had done with his life of the ideal that he 
 kept so steadily in front of him? She only knew the 
 other kind of men. " So it is," she said. " It's my 
 home and I've had to be your nurse. Pretty well 
 put, I think. Don't you? 'Ow d'you feel, dearie? 
 A bit groggy on your pins? " 
 
 The girl's cockney accent, her made-up face, her 
 cheap, smart clothes were noticed by him for the first 
 time. Her insinuating, cheerful manner and that
 
 322 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN . 
 
 sort of hail-fellow-well-met intimacy that was all about 
 her, came to him with a new and appalling meaning. 
 He had been spoken to by just such women in London 
 after dark, and on Broadway and its side streets as 
 he passed. They belonged to the night life of all 
 great cities. They were the moths who came out 
 attracted by the glare of electric light. Good God! 
 What was he doing in that place ? 
 
 The keen remembrance of this woman's inestimable 
 kindness, the supreme lack of selfishness which had 
 inspired her to bend so frequently over his bed, tlie 
 charity of her treatment of him as he lay ill and help- 
 less, made him anxious above everything else not to 
 hurt her feelings. But there were things that he must 
 know at once, urgent, vital things which might affect 
 all the rest of his life. There was Betty his love-girl 
 the girl who was to be his wife who was waiting 
 for him with the most exquisite and whole-hearted 
 trust 
 
 " I want you to tell me how I came here," he said. 
 
 Nellie Pope went over to the dressing-table. 
 " That's easy," she replied lightly, adding a new coat 
 of color to her lips. " The night before last, not hav- 
 ing 'ad any luck, I was 'aving a last look round and 
 'appened to be in Forty-eighth Street just as you stag- 
 gered out of a 'ouse on the arm of a young gent. I 
 reckoned 'e didn't 'ave any use for me, being outside 
 'is own place, but' I passed 'im the usual greetin' from 
 force of 'abit, just as 'e 'ad called up a taxi. With a 
 funny look on 'is face, a curly smile I called it to 
 meself, 'e suddenly gave me orders, lumped you into
 
 LIFE 323 
 
 the cab, blind to the wide, and told me to get in and 
 take you 'ome, and 'elp meself to any money you 'ad 
 on you. Well, I did, and the next instalment of the 
 serial you know as well as I do. Feeling weak, old 
 dear?" 
 
 Peter sat heavily on the foot of the bed. 
 
 Nellie Pope went on, simply and naturally, like 
 one who is glad to talk, glad to hear her own voice, 
 indescribably, pathetically glad to be in the company 
 of a man who asked for nothing, who was not a guest, 
 but a friend a fellow-creature down on his luck. 
 " Me and Graham," she said, " and, I say, what a 
 good-looking boy that is, and fairly devoted to you, 
 dearie, well, 'im and me think that you must 'ave 
 done something to get the goat of this young feller. 
 'E doped you, that's certain, and then passed you off 
 on me. Enjoyed the joke, as it were, too, according 
 to what I noticed. Is that likely ? " 
 
 Peter didn't answer. The joke ? Back into his 
 mind came the many things that Kenyon had said to 
 him at Oxford : " You need humanizing, old boy. 
 You want to be hauled off that self-made pedestal of 
 yours. One of these days you'll come to an unholy 
 crash " Back into his mind also came Kenyon's 
 taunts made to him as he stood with his back to the 
 fireplace in the library the night after they had returned 
 from having seen Ita Strabosck : " You're blind ! 
 Blind ! I tell you, and in that room sits a man whose 
 patients you may become." 
 
 Utterly ignorant of the feeling of revenge which 
 had surged through Kenyon's brain after Belle had
 
 324 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 been saved by the Doctor, it was borne in on Peter, as 
 he sat on the bed of this poor little night-bird, that Ken- 
 yon had set out on purpose with calculated delibera- 
 tion to make him human, as he called it, before he 
 returned to England. He had made him drunk in 
 order to carry out the joke. He had given him some- 
 thing to render him insensible, well knowing that in 
 no other way could this fiendish desire be fulfilled. 
 
 "What time is my brother coming?" he asked. 
 
 Nellie Pope was busy daubing powder on her face. 
 " Not until about nine o'clock," she said. " 'E and 
 me talked it over this morning. The idea is that you're 
 coming in on the train that arrives at the Grand Cen- 
 tral at eight- forty-five. Now don't forget this. You 
 stayed the night in your friend's apartment, but you 
 couldn't see 'im off the next morning because you'd 
 taken on a bit of business for 'im which meant going 
 out of town. Your brother is going to meet you at 
 the station. That's the story. And you're going 
 'ome together. 'E went back to get one of your bags. 
 'E will sneak it out of the 'ouse and bring it round here. 
 Oh, I think we're pretty good stage managers, 'im and 
 me. You see, the notion is that Ma mustn't be upset. 
 Poor little Ma ! " 
 
 " What's to-day ? " asked Peter, whose whole body 
 seemed suddenly to have been frozen. 
 
 " Sunday, dearie." 
 
 " Then I've been here two nights ? " 
 
 " That's so," said the girl. 
 
 Peter was consumed with a desire to explore the 
 apartment. He wanted to discover whether there was
 
 LIFE 325 
 
 another bedroom. "Are you comfortable here?" he 
 asked, a little clumsily. 
 
 Nellie Pope was rather flattered at his interest and 
 so genuinely delighted to see this great big man-boy 
 on his feet again that she could have broken into a 
 dance. " Come and 'ave a look at my suite," she said, 
 laughing at the word she chose. " You know the 
 bedroom, I don't think you'll forget that in a 
 'urry. On the right I 'ave the sitting-room which I 
 only use for my customers, preferring to sit in the 
 kitchen, which we now come to." She led him into 
 it, with her hand on his arm she was apeing the 
 manner and the phraseology of the guide. '" In this 
 bright little apartment, beautifully furnished with a 
 gas stove and dresser not exactly Jacobean a 
 plain, but serviceable Deal table and a nice piece of 
 linoleum which 'as worn very well, the sometimes 
 popular Miss Nellie Pope passes most of 'er leisure. 
 'Ere she cooks her own meals and washes up after 
 'erself, she's a very neat little thing, and before 
 going out on the long trail in all weathers, reads about 
 life with a big L in the magazines, in which 'eroes 
 with curly 'air, who stand about six-feet-six, make 
 'onest love to blondes with 'eads like birds' nests, who 
 are nearly always about six-feet-one, and never fail 
 to wear silk stockings, and there you 'ave it. A 
 charming suite for a single lady who earns 'er own liv- 
 ing. The only drawback to it is that the rent 'as to 
 be paid monthly in advance, and the blighter who col- 
 lects it gives no grace. This is the sort of thing: 
 ' Say ! Got that rent? ' ' Well ' ' Come on now,
 
 326 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 ain't got no time to waste here. Pay up or get 
 out ' I tell you what it is, dearie, there's a little 
 Florida in Hell for them men who let out apartments 
 to us girls, and the heat there is something intense." 
 She laughed, but there was a curious quiver to it. 
 
 Behind all her badinage and cheery pluck Peter could 
 see a vein of terror which touched his sympathies. 
 Poor little painted, unfortunate thing! Was there no 
 other way in which she could live and keep her head 
 above water? He sat down and leaned on the table 
 with his elbows. " Will you tell me," he said, " what 
 brought you to this ? " 
 
 " Brought me to it ? " Nellie Pope shot out a 
 laugh. "You dear, funny old thing!" she said. 
 " Nothing brought me it. I chose it." 
 
 " Chose it ! Chose this? " 
 
 " Yes, this ! A great many of us choose it. It's 
 the easiest way. That shocks yer, doesn't it, you 
 who come from a comfortable home and whose sis- 
 ters 'ave everything they want. But, you listen to 
 this and don't be too fast to pass judgment. I was 
 one of a big brood of unnecessary kids. My father 
 earned fourteen shillings a week by grubbing in the 
 earth from daybreak till sundown and my mother 
 took in washing. We lived perched up on a 'ill among 
 a dozen dirty little cottages. What was the outlook 
 for me? Being dragged up with meat once a week 
 and as a maid-of-all-work down in the town, being 
 ordered about by a drab of a tradesman's wife, with 
 not enough wages to buy a new 'at and a little bit of 
 finery for Sundays, and then be married to a lout who
 
 LIFE 
 
 327 
 
 got drunk regularly every Saturday night and made 
 me what mother was, a dragged, anaemic, dull ani- 
 mal woman, working up to the time I 'ad a baby and 
 working directly afterwards, no colour, no lights, 
 no rush and bustle, no decent clothes to put on, no in- 
 dependence. Yes, I chose it, and if I 'ad my time over 
 again I should choose it again. See! It's the easiest 
 way. Oh, yes, we die young and nobody knows where 
 we're buried, but we've 'ad our day, and it's the day 
 that every woman fights for, the same as every man. 
 Oh, by the way, 'ere's your purse ! " She pushed it 
 over to Peter. 
 
 " My purse?" he said. 
 
 ' Yes ; don't you recognize it ? It hasn't got so much 
 in it as it 'ad, because I was told to 'elp meself, and 
 I did. I 'ave jotted down what I 'ave taken; 'ere's 
 the account." She held out a piece of paper on which 
 Peter could see a list of spendings, which included a 
 taxicab fare and a nickel for telephoning. At the end 
 of it there was an item entitled " Fee, thirty dollars." 
 
 Peter shuddered. He pushed the remainder of the 
 money back to her across the table. " Please keep it," 
 he said. 
 
 Nellie Pope laughed again. She was full of laugh- 
 ter. " I hoped you'd say that," she said. " It'll come 
 in mighty useful." 
 
 Peter felt in his pocket and took out his cheque- 
 book. He looked about and saw a bottle of ink and a 
 pen on the dresser, with a piece of dilapidated blue 
 blotting-paper. Watched with peculiar interest and 
 excitement by Nellie Pope, he got up, went over to the
 
 328 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 dresser and wrote a cheque. " Will you accept this? " 
 he asked. " I wish I could make it larger. But if 
 it was ten times the amount it couldn't possibly cover, 
 my gratitude to you. You've been awfully kind to 
 me. Thank you, Nellie." He held it out. 
 
 The girl took it and gave a little cry. " Five hun- 
 dred dollars! Oh, Gawd! I didn't know that there 
 was so much money in the world." She burst into 
 tears, but went on talking. " Mostly I can't afford to 
 cry, because it washes the paint off my face, and it's 
 very expensive. But what do I care, with this bloom- 
 ing cheque in my 'and ? I shall be able to take a little 
 'oliday from business and, my word, that's a treat. 
 God makes one or two gentlemen from time to time, 
 'pon my soul he does. Put it there, Peter." She held 
 out her hand with immense cordiality and gratitude, 
 and Peter took it warmly. 
 
 But he had discovered what he wanted to know. 
 There was only one bed in that apartment, and back 
 into his mind came Kenyon's words. " Blind ! Blind ! 
 both of you and in that room sits a man whose 
 patients you may become." 
 
 XVIII 
 
 GRAHAM was before his time. He hurried in, as 
 anxious to get Peter out of that apartment as Peter was 
 to go. He found his brother sitting on one side of the 
 kitchen table and Nellie Pope on the other. Both 
 had magazines. The girl tore herself out of the mar-
 
 LIFE 
 
 329 
 
 ble house of the heroine's father with reluctance. 
 Peter had been holding his magazine upside down for 
 an hour. He had been looking right through it and 
 into his father's laboratory. There was not even the 
 remote suggestion of a smile on his pale face when 
 Graham threw open the door. 
 
 " Come on, old man," urged Graham. " The taxi's 
 waiting." 
 
 Peter got up. "Well, good-bye, Nellie," he said. 
 " I'll come and see you soon." 
 
 The girl darted a quick look at him. She saw that 
 she was mistaken. " Oh, yes, that'll be very kind of 
 you. I 'aven't got any friends." 
 
 " Yes you have," said Graham, " two." 
 
 Nellie Pope led the way into the narrow passage, 
 stood on tiptoe, made a long arm and got Peter's hat 
 off the peg. Then she stood in front of him and her 
 lips trembled, although her well-practised smile curled 
 up the corners of her mouth. " Not good-bye, but ore- 
 voy, eh ? Well, good luck and God bless you. I shall 
 miss you both most awfully. It's been a fair treat to 
 'ave you 'ere." 
 
 Peter waved his hand and went down the bare stairs. 
 His knees felt weak and shaky and his eyes seemed 
 to be at the back of his head. He drew back to let a 
 woman pass. She cocked her golden head at him with 
 an enquiring eye and a flash of teeth and pushed open 
 the half-closed door of an apartment. Her high- 
 pitched metallic voice rang out. " Say, Kid, there 
 goes Nellie Pope's boarder. By Gosh, don't yer think 
 some one oughter stop her ? "
 
 330 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 The two boys drove home in silence. They had 
 both caught the meaning of those significant words. 
 
 Graham, the self -imagined man of the world, who 
 had picked up a large collection of half- facts as all 
 the precocious do but who, for all that, or in spite 
 of that, had walked into the trap set by Ita Strabosck 
 without the faintest perception of his danger, threw 
 those words aside. Everything would be right, he 
 told himself, and if he had been coming out of Nellie 
 Pope's apartment in the ordinary way and had over- 
 heard her rival's loud comment, he would simply have 
 shrugged his shoulders, like the rest of the young men 
 of his type and spirit, and knowing only the tail end of 
 the truth, told himself that all men take " chances " 
 and that the odds were largely in his favor. And 
 what would this attitude of puerile bravado have 
 proved? That he and all the men like him were just 
 as much a menace to society from knowing the half- 
 facts which did nothing more for them than allow 
 them to take " chances," as the men who were wholly 
 ignorant and so blundered blindly into tragedy. 
 
 To Peter, the words of the painted woman came as 
 a finishing blow. In his crass and culpable ignorance, 
 into which Kenyon had flung one most terrific fact, 
 he came away from Nellie Pope not knowing whether 
 he was immune not able to assure himself that he 
 was safe. Think of it! Big and strong as he was, 
 he remained a mere child in the matter of plain, nec- 
 essary and urgent truths, and if ever a man knew him- 
 self for a fool he was Peter Guthrie, as he drove home. 
 
 No less grateful to God than ever for having been
 
 LIFE 331 
 
 assisted to go through Harvard and Oxford clean and 
 straight, he cursed himself for not having sought out 
 the facts of life, not from grinning and salacious 
 arguments of half-informed young men, but from a 
 proper source, since his father had not conceived 
 it to be his duty to give them to him early in his life. 
 If Kenyon had not opened out a new and awful vista 
 of thought the night that he talked about Graham and 
 Ita Strabosck, Peter's ignorance, so jealously and mis- 
 takenly preserved, would have remained so colossal that 
 he would have gone home humiliated, but unworried. 
 As it was, this one thing at any rate this one most 
 awful thing had sunk into his mind, making him 
 dangerously less ignorant but without proper knowl- 
 edge. He arrived home a prey, therefore, to the most 
 hideous fear. 
 
 Luckily there were people dining with his father 
 and mother. Belle had gone out of town for several 
 days, suffering from the shock of finding out the truth 
 about Kenyon, and Ethel had returned to school. 
 Peter ^.vas able to go up to his own room unnoticed. 
 
 Graham, whose loyalty and concern had been good to 
 see, went up with him and threw the suit-case into a 
 corner. 
 
 "Gee!" he said, with a touch of emotion that he 
 made no attempt to hide, " but I'm glad you're home, 
 Petey." It was many years since he had called Peter 
 by the name that he had gone by in the nursery. He 
 seemed to have come so close to his big brother dur- 
 ing those recent hours. 
 
 Peter did a surprising thing. He turned quickly,
 
 332 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 strode over to Graham, put his arm round his shoulder 
 and kissed his cheek. For just those few moments 
 both men had gone back through the years and were 
 little boys again. 
 
 Two things happened to Graham. He blushed to 
 the roots of his hair, and swallowed something that 
 threatened to choke him. 
 
 " You said you had something on, didn't you, 
 supper, or something ? " said Peter. 
 
 " Yes; but I'll cut it out if you want me to/' 
 
 " No, don't. Why should you ? I feel pretty rot- 
 ten and I shall turn in right away. Don't bother about 
 me any more, old man." 
 
 " I'd rather stay with you." 
 
 " Yes, I know you would, old boy, but you push 
 off and have a good time. As a matter of fact, I 
 rather want to to be alone for a bit. D'you see ? " 
 
 " All right, then." And to show that he had become 
 a man again and his own master, Graham went off 
 whistling the latest tango. 
 
 And by letting his brother go at that moment, Peter 
 did a very unwise thing. He was still weak and ill. 
 His brain, which had not recovered itself from the 
 effects of Kenyon's poisonous mixture, was in no con- 
 dition to be tortured by solitary thought. He needed 
 to be kept away from self -analysis to be set to work 
 on the ordinary commonplaces of everyday life. Most 
 of all, his thoughts required to be put to rest by sleep. 
 
 Left to himself, Peter sat down, almost in the dark, 
 with his arms folded, his legs stuck out and his chin 
 buried in his chest, and thrashed the tired machinery
 
 LIFE , 333 
 
 of his brain into action. All that had happened in 
 the last forty-eight hours coming on top of the suf- 
 fering that he had undergone through having been 
 separated from Betty and having failed to bring about 
 the new relationship with his father, upon which he 
 had set his heart, gradually became distorted. He be- 
 gan to look at everything through an enormous mag- 
 nifying glass and to see himself, not as one whose 
 loyal, simple and unsuspicious nature had been taken 
 advantage of by Kenyon, but as a common drunken 
 creature who had had to be lifted into a cab and who 
 had spent two nights in the apartment of a woman 
 of the street. He began to look at himself with so 
 deep a humiliation and disgust that the mere thought 
 of his ever again holding Betty in his arms seemed 
 outrageous. And having by stages, made conceivable 
 by the condition of his health and the strain that had 
 been put upon him by all the things that had happened 
 since his return from England, come up to this morbid 
 and hyperconscientious point in his self-condemnation, 
 he stood up suddenly, obsessed by a new and appal- 
 ling thought. He said to himself : " I'm not only 
 unworthy of Betty, I'm unclean, and so unfit to live." 
 And having seized at that with the avidity and even 
 triumph that comes with a sudden disorder of the un- 
 derstanding, he began to dramatize his death to ask 
 himself how to make it most effective. And then his 
 father entered his thoughts. " Ah ! " he cried in- 
 wardly. "Father it's father who is responsible 
 it's father who must be made to pay! I'm his eldest 
 son. He's very proud of me. He shall come into the
 
 334 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 room to-night in which he spends all his time for the 
 benefit of other men's sons and find the one he neglected 
 lying dead on the floor. That's it! Now I've got it! 
 There's a hideous irony about this that'll sink even 
 into his curious mind. I'd like to be able to see his 
 face when he finds me. There'd be just a little satis- 
 faction in that." 
 
 If only Graham could have come back at that mo- 
 ment, or the little mother to put her arms round that 
 poor, big, over-sensitive, uninitiated lad and bring him 
 out of his mental dejection with her love and warmth! 
 
 There was a revolver somewhere among his things. 
 He had bought it when he went camping during one 
 of his vacations from Harvard. He hadn't seen it 
 for several years. With feverish haste he instituted 
 a search, going through one drawer after another, 
 flinging his collars and socks and all his personal things 
 aside, talking in a half-whisper to himself, until, with 
 a little cry of glee, he found it with a box of cartridges. 
 And then, with the most scrupulous care he loaded it, 
 slipped it into his pocket and crept out of the room 
 and downstairs. The door of the drawing-room was 
 ajar. He heard laughter and the intermingling of 
 voices, heard some one say " Good-bye." He dodged 
 quickly past, through the library and into the room in 
 which he had last stood with his hand on the shaking 
 shoulders of his father. He would give him some- 
 thing to weep about this time, yes, by jove, he would ! 
 He would make him wake up at last to the fact that 
 his sons were human beings and needed to be treated 
 as such!
 
 LIFE 
 
 335 
 
 He welcomed the fact that away in the distance a 
 storm had broken with the deep artillery of thunder, 
 and that already heavy rain was swishing down on the 
 city. It fitted into his half-maddened mood. 
 
 He shut the door. He walked quickly about the 
 room, speculating as to the most effective place to 
 be found outstretched. He had a decision and then, 
 so that there might be no loop-hole for his father, sat 
 down to write a final indictment. 
 
 Time fled away. He covered page after page of 
 note paper, pouring out all his soul, making a great 
 appeal for the right treatment of Graham and his sis- 
 ters, and finally signed his name, having scrawled in 
 his large round writing, " This is my protest." 
 
 The storm had come nearer. Outbursts of thunder 
 rolled over the house followed by stabs of light- 
 ning. 
 
 He then deliberately placed himself on the chosen 
 spot, cocked the trigger and put the cold barrel of the 
 revolver to his temple. 
 
 There was a sort of scream. 
 
 Peter swung round, with his nerves jangling like 
 a wire struck suddenly with a stick. 
 
 There stood his father, unable to form a sentence, 
 his face grey, his eyes distended and his arms thrown 
 out in front of him. 
 
 XIX 
 
 PETER was angry, like a child disturbed just at the 
 moment when he was planning a surprise.
 
 336 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " Why couldn't you have come in five minutes 
 later ? " he cried out, with queer petulance. 
 
 The Doctor tottered forward and peered into his 
 son's face. " Why were you going to do that ? Tell 
 me, tell me ! " 
 
 " You'd have found it all there," said Peter, point- 
 ing to the pages which he had left on the desk. " Not 
 very nice reading, I can assure you. But if you 
 want me to tell you instead, I will. And then you can 
 see how a man dies, instead of finding him dead. Per- 
 haps this is the best way, after all." 
 
 He went to the door and locked it, still holding the 
 revolver. The sight of his father did not stir any 
 pity or sympathy in his heart. On the contrary, it 
 added to the fever that had attacked his brain and acted 
 as an irritant. He went back and stood in front of 
 the grey man. There was an expression of contempt 
 on his altered face. The pattering of heavy rain 
 against the windows seemed to please him. Nature, 
 like himself, seemed to have burst into open protest. 
 
 " Sit down," he said. 
 
 The Doctor obeyed. The blaze in his son's eyes 
 contradicted his unnatural calmness. He had to deal 
 with temporary madness. He could see that, and he 
 was chilled with a sense of impending danger in which 
 the most poignant solicitude was mixed. 
 
 " Now," said Peter, weighing his words with odd 
 deliberation, " you're going to hear something that'll 
 shake you out of your smug self-complacency and your 
 pitiful belief that everything is all right in this house 
 You're a good man, a better man than the average
 
 LIFE 
 
 337 
 
 father. There's nothing in your life that isn't to your 
 credit. Even since you had children you've worked 
 like a dog to give them a better education than you 
 had, and you've gone without things to provide us with 
 money and make things easy. We all know that and 
 we're grateful. We all know that we ought to be 
 proud of you as a doctor as a man who has made 
 discoveries and added to the scientific knowledge of 
 your profession. Well, we are proud of you. But 
 in the last words that you'll hear me speak I'm going 
 to tell you what you've failed to do and why, in spite 
 of all your kindness and unselfishness, not one of your 
 children respects you or loves you, and why I, your 
 eldest son, have got to put an end to myself because 
 of your neglect." 
 
 Dr. Guthrie sprang to his feet. The calculated 
 cruelty of this indictment was more than he could en- 
 dure. "What does this mean? If you don't respect 
 and love me, the others do. In what way have I neg- 
 lected you ? " He stood up to Peter like a man, 
 whipped into sudden anger. 
 
 Peter liked that. It meant that he could hit out 
 and put facts into naked words without feeling that 
 he was ill-treating a weakling. " That's what I'm 
 going to tell you," he said. " But there's lots of time 
 and I'm not going to leave anything out. What makes 
 you think the others respect and love you? Do they 
 ever tell you so? Do they ever tell you anything? 
 Do they ever go out of their way to come in here for 
 a little talk? And if they did come in would you get 
 out of your shell far enough for them to see that you're
 
 338 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 a human being? Would you meet them half-way in 
 their desire to get something besides your money from 
 you ? Have you ever once in your life been sufficiently 
 inspired with a sense of your responsibility as to make 
 you get up and leave your work and come among us 
 to play with our toys and get known ? Have you ever 
 once in all the years that we've been growing up been 
 courageous or wise enough to take Graham or me for 
 a walk and tell us any one thing that we ought to 
 know ? In what way have you ever neglected us ? In 
 the most vital way of all. We could have done with- 
 out your money and the education that you've been 
 so delighted to give us. We could have done without 
 comfort and servants and good food and easy times. 
 They mean nothing in the sum total of things that 
 count. Most men never have them at the beginning. 
 They make them. What you've never given us is 
 yourself. And we needed you. What you've never 
 given us is common sense. You've been a good father 
 in every inessential way, but no father at all in all that 
 goes to make us men. You've lived in a fool's para- 
 dise. You've let us find our own way. You've not 
 given us one human talk one simple fact one word 
 of warning. You've utterly neglected us because 
 you're a coward and you've hoped and trusted that 
 others might tell us what you've been afraid to say. 
 Afraid, to your own flesh and blood, think of it ! " 
 The Doctor cried out again. He realized much of 
 the truth of all this. He had confessed himself to be 
 painfully shy to his wife many times and had spent 
 God knew how many anxious hours wondering how
 
 LIFE 
 
 339 
 
 he could get to know his boys. But it was too much 
 to stand and be whipped by his son. 
 
 ' There are thousands of fathers who hold my 
 views and act as I have acted," he said. 
 
 " And there are so many thousands of sons who have 
 to pay for those views that you and men like you spend 
 your lives in trying to save them." 
 
 The Doctor drew in his breath. " Wh-what d'you 
 mean? " he stammered. 
 
 " Ah ! that gets you, doesn't it ? Now you're begin- 
 ning to see what I'm driving at, don't you? Put your 
 mind back to the night you found Graham here with 
 me. You saved him from forging your name, and 
 that was good. But what led him up to that? Did 
 you ask yourself? Did you go to Graham and gain 
 his confidence? Did you wonder whether there was 
 a woman behind it all who would never have come into 
 his life if you had dealt by him like a man and a fa- 
 ther, the sort of woman who has made necessary 
 these things round your laboratory and caused you 
 to bend over your experiments for years and years ? " 
 
 " Good God ! What do you mean ? " 
 
 Peter raised his voice. " Why should your sons be 
 immune? What have you ever done to render them 
 so? Why am I now standing here with this revolver 
 in my hand? Look at me! A few hours ago I had 
 health and everything in the world that makes life 
 worth living, except a father. At this moment, be- 
 cause I've never had a father, I'm so terrified that I 
 should be a criminal if I married the girl I love that 
 I'm going to kill myself."
 
 340 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 " Why? What have you done? " 
 
 "I've been two nights in the bed of the sort of 
 woman whose work you are trying to undo." 
 
 The Doctor staggered, and then rose up in his 
 wrath. " You have ? You, my son, with such a 
 mother with such home influence ! You mean to 
 tell me that you've descended to such depths of im- 
 morality that you've gone back on everything that your 
 education has made of you? It's unthinkable un- 
 believable. You must be a mere animal to have done 
 such a thing." 
 
 What else he would have said in his emotion and 
 horror no one can say. 
 
 A cry of pain and rage rang out. The injustice of 
 his father's narrow, inhuman point of view, his in- 
 ability to show him, even by his impending death, that 
 he must wake up to his duty and stand by Graham 
 and his sisters, sent the blood into Peter's fevered 
 brain. 
 
 " My God ! " he cried. " You dare to talk like that 
 to me? You dare to kick me in the face after I've 
 told you that I'm ignorant without listening to my 
 explanation as to how I got into that woman's apart- 
 ment. All right, then, I'm not going to be the only 
 one to pay. You shall take your share of it. The 
 sins of the children are brought about by the neglect 
 of the fathers, and we'll go and stand together before 
 the Judge to-night for a verdict on that count." 
 
 He raised the revolver, aimed it at his father's head, 
 put his finger on the trigger 
 
 There was a blinding flash of lightning. A yellow
 
 34i 
 
 quivering flame seemed to cut the room in half between 
 the two angry men 
 
 An instant later the Doctor saw Peter standing with 
 both hands over his face. The unfired revolver lay on 
 the table in all its ugliness. And presently, when he 
 had realized what had happened, he went nearer. 
 " God didn't intend that you should do that," he said. 
 And then his voice broke and he went forward to put 
 his arms round Peter's shoulders. " Give me another 
 chance, my dearest boy ! " he cried. " Give me another 
 chance ! " 
 
 But before he could reach his son the great big hurt 
 boy crumpled and fell in a heap at his feet. 
 
 XX 
 
 FOR three weeks Peter's bedroom was the one room 
 in the house to which the eyes of all the family were 
 wholly turned. There, in the dark, he lay a victim to 
 an attack of brain fever. Never in a condition of 
 great danger, poor old Peter was ill and the Doctor, 
 who, better than the rest, knew that death has many 
 doors through which life goes out, eyed the specialist 
 who had been called in with pathetic eagerness. 
 
 The little mother and Belle were joined at once by 
 Betty, and the three women sat very close together, 
 speaking and even thinking in whispers during the first 
 two days. To the one whose first child he was and 
 the one who waited to be his wife, Peter meant every- 
 thing good that life had for them, and in their terror
 
 342 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 that he might be taken away their imaginations ran 
 ahead, as they always do in moments of such poignant 
 anxiety, and they were afraid to look out of the win- 
 dow in case they should see Death, the black camel, 
 kneeling at the gate. 
 
 While the shadow seemed to rest on his house, Dr. 
 Guthrie did many things. First of all he went over all 
 the terrible words that Peter had said to him that 
 bad and unforgettable night. With great humbleness 
 and deep emotion he accepted them as the truth. He 
 sat for hpurs at his desk with his hands over his face 
 and tears leaking through his fingers. Metaphorically 
 he placed his old hard-working, concentrated self in 
 the criminal stand and his new startled, humbled and 
 ashamed self in the Judge's seat and summed up his 
 life as a father. It was very plain that he had failed 
 in his duty to his boys. He had made no great effort 
 to conquer that queer shyness which had affected him 
 from the beginning. He had allowed his children to 
 grow up to regard him as Bluebeard. He had thrown 
 upon his wife's slight shoulders all the onus of the 
 responsibility for the human development of their 
 characters, and because she had succeeded while they 
 were young he had, like a coward, neglected to step in 
 and take upon himself his obvious duty when they had 
 grown old enough to need more much more than 
 the soft guiding hand of a mother. He had allowed 
 them to make an early start, the girls, as well as the 
 boys, without understanding the vital necessity of 
 duty and discipline which he alone could inspire in 
 them, because no man or woman in all the country,
 
 LIFE 
 
 343 
 
 in any school or college, gave a single thought to either. 
 He had hidden behind a hundred weak and foolish ex- 
 cuses in order to avoid the so-called difficulties of 
 speaking manfully to these two embryo men. He had 
 permitted them to grow out of boyhood without giving 
 them the benefit of his own uninitiated struggles, or 
 the simple warnings and facts which take the glamour 
 away from temptation and make straight ways easy. 
 He " took chances," and hoped that some one else 
 might by accident give them the facts of sex or that 
 they would find them out themselves, as other young 
 men were obliged to do, never mind how. 
 
 Remorse and regret made Hell for this man in 
 those honest hours, this good, exemplary, distin- 
 guished, self-made man whose name would live 
 by his professional efforts and scientific discoveries 
 and who had succeeded in everything except as a 
 father. 
 
 And then he called Graham into his room, and sit- 
 ting knee to knee with his second son, was brave enough 
 to tell him wherein he now knew that he had failed and 
 asked of him, as he had asked of Peter, for another 
 chance. It was a pathetic and emotional talk that 
 these two had, during which both told the truth, hiding 
 nothing, reserving nothing. The outcome of it was 
 good for them both, as well as for Peter. They went 
 together to see Nellie Pope and heard from her lips, 
 to the Doctor's unspeakable thankfulness, that Peter 
 was in no danger from her. From that time onwards 
 that little, kind, wretched girl became one of the Doc- 
 tor's patients in the proper hospital, eventually to be
 
 344 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 placed by him at work which rendered the need for 
 her following her chosen profession unnecessary. 
 
 And finally the day came when Peter was able to 
 receive visitors, and a very good day it was. The lit- 
 tle mother went in first she had the right. Peter 
 was sitting in his dressing-gown by the window. To 
 his intense relief he had just passed through the hands 
 of a barber, whom he had asked to make him look a 
 little less like a poet. He turned his head quickly to- 
 wards the door as his mother went in. His old high 
 spirits had returned. The sun was shining and life 
 looked very good. His imagination made him as well 
 aware of the fact that his mother had been through 
 some of the most anxious hours of her life as though 
 he had seen her sitting in her room below with a drawn 
 white face and her hands clasped together. He got up 
 and went to meet her. He took her in his arms and 
 held her very tight. What they said to each other was 
 far too sacred to put into cold print. They spoke in 
 undertone, because the trained nurse kept a jealous eye 
 upon her patient and moved in and out of the dressing- 
 room adjoining. The interview was not allowed to 
 be a long one. The last thing that Peter said to his 
 mother made her very happy. " I think that the Gov- 
 ernor and I are pals," he said. " I think we've found 
 each other at last. Isn't that just about the best thing 
 you ever heard ? " 
 
 In the afternoon Belle was allowed in. To his great 
 relief she told him in her characteristic, concise way, 
 how she felt about Kenyon. He caught her young, she 
 ?aid marvellously young, "and if he should ever
 
 LIFE 345 
 
 come back to New York all he'll get from me will be 
 two fingers. I've quite recovered. So you may take 
 that line out of your forehead, old boy. One of these 
 days when you're out and about again we'll walk about 
 four times round the reservoir and I'll tell you some- 
 thing of what's been going through my mind while 
 you've been ill. In fact, we'll have a very substantial 
 pow-wow about Nicholas Kenyon, and I don't think 
 we shall leave him quite as immaculate as he usually 
 is by the time we've finished, do you? " 
 
 "No," said Peter, "I don't. All the same, I'm 
 grateful to him for one thing. He has brought fa- 
 ther out of his shell, that's about the best thing he 
 ever did in his life." 
 
 There was something amusing as well as touching 
 in the way in which the two brothers met again. It was 
 the next morning early. Peter was still in bed, with 
 his hair all frowzled and the remains of sleep still in 
 the corners of his eyes. Graham had ten minutes 
 before he was obliged to leave the house to go down- 
 town. 
 
 " Hello, old sport ! " said Graham. 
 
 " Hello, sonnie ! Rather a hot thing in ties, that, 
 eh?" 
 
 Graham cleared his throat and put his hand rather 
 self-consciously to the black-and-white effect newly 
 designed by his pet firm of haberdashers. " I think 
 it'll make the senior partner blink all right," he said. 
 "How d'you feel this morning?" 
 
 Peter showed his teeth. " I'm sitting up and tak- 
 ing nourishment. Probably before the end of the
 
 346 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 week you'll see me in shorts and a zephyr sprinting 
 round the park before breakfast." 
 
 " I'd like to," said Graham, and he held out his 
 hand. 
 
 Peter took it and gave it a scrunch which had in 
 it nothing of the invalid. " Give my love to the 
 subway," he said, " and my kind regards to Wall 
 Street'' 
 
 Graham grinned, waved his hand and left the room. 
 He found it necessary to blow his nose rather hard on 
 his way down-stairs. " Oh, Gee ! " he said to himself. 
 "Oh, Gee! Only think if Peter had" He didn't 
 allow himself to finish the thought. 
 
 And then came Betty, and the way in which she 
 and Peter came together the way in which they 
 stood only a step or two from the door, inarticulate 
 in their love and thankfulness, was too much even for 
 the trained nurse, to whom love and death and the 
 great hereafter were mere commonplaces. She with- 
 drew to the dressing-room and stayed there for a whole 
 solid quarter-of-an-hour, eliminating herself with a 
 tact fulness for which Peter blessed her and Betty be- 
 came her friend for all time. 
 
 " My baby ! " said Peter. " We shall have to begin 
 all over again. We're almost strangers." 
 
 But Betty shook her head. " No," she said. " No. 
 There hasn't been one moment during all this time that 
 I haven't been with you." 
 
 And Peter nodded. " That's dead true," he said. 
 
 And then they sat down very close together and the 
 things they said to each other are lost to the world,
 
 LIFE 347 
 
 because we joined the nurse in the next room and shut 
 the door. 
 
 XXI 
 
 IT happened that the anniversary of Doctor and Mrs. 
 Guthrie's wedding day, they had been married twen- 
 ty-eight years, fell on a Sunday that year. 
 
 The night before, at dinner, the little mother, thank- 
 ful and happy at having Peter back again at the table, 
 asked a favour. In having to ask it, instead of sim- 
 ply saying that she desired her children to go with her 
 to church the next morning, she proved her knowledge 
 of the fact that she had joined the ranks of mothers 
 whose children have outgrown them. 
 
 Mrs. Guthrie was, however, one of those rather rare 
 women who had grown old gracefully. The hand of 
 time, whose natural treatment she had made no 
 sort of endeavor to combat, had added to her beauty. 
 Optimism, a steady faith in God and His goodness, and 
 the usual gift of accepting whatever came to her with- 
 out kicking against the pricks, had mellowed her. It 
 was without any of the spirit of martyrdom that 
 cakes the nature of those women who have not been 
 able to acquire the best sort of philosophy that she 
 frankly made this very natural and easily fulfilled de- 
 sire a favour. Peter was well again and she wanted to 
 kneel before the altar of the Great Father and give 
 thanks, surrounded by her children, on the anniversary 
 of the day that made her a wife. 
 
 The family had grown out of the habit of going to
 
 348 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 church, Belle was tired, as a rule, after a late Satur- 
 day night, Graham was an inveterate week-ender, 
 Ethel was a modernist, and Peter played golf, and 
 so, when they all agreed without any argument the lit- 
 tle mother was almost as surprised as she was de- 
 lighted. 
 
 The conspiracy of silence which the family had 
 tacitly agreed upon during their recent trouble, in or- 
 der to spare her from unhappiness, left Mrs. Guthrie 
 wholly without any knowledge of the fact that they 
 were all glad of an excuse to join her in church, be- 
 cause they all felt a curious eagerness to listen to the 
 simple, beautiful service with which they had grown 
 up and to kneel once more more humbly and sin- 
 cerely than ever before in the house of the God who 
 had been instrumental in their various escapes. 
 
 It would have been better if Mrs. Guthrie had not 
 been so carefully shielded if she had been made to 
 share with the Doctor the blame, at any rate for the 
 mistakes which the two girls had made, from the 
 fact that she had let go the reins of duty and discipline 
 with which she had held them in their early years and 
 given them their heads if she had been strong 
 enough and wise enough to maintain over Belle and 
 Ethel, without autocratically putting a stop to their 
 having " a good time," the authority of respect, won 
 by love and the exercise of sympathy and common 
 sense if, in short, she had not been content to slip 
 into a position that allowed these high-spirited girls 
 to say to themselves quite so early in their lives, " Oh, 
 poor, dear little mother doesn't understand. She
 
 LIFE 
 
 349 
 
 doesn't know anything that modern girls have to go 
 through." She was shielded because it was under- 
 stood that she was a sort of sleeping partner not 
 an active member of the firm. She was regarded as 
 being so sweet and soft and old-fashioned that she 
 couldn't possibly appreciate the conditions of the times 
 in which the girls lived. Their early positions had 
 become reversed. It was the girls who mothered their 
 mother. 
 
 It was a strangely silent party that returned home 
 that Sunday morning, headed by the Doctor and the 
 little mother. Betty had been invited by Mrs. Guth- 
 rie to join them and was to stay to lunch. It was while 
 they were in the hall, and just as Betty had gone up- 
 stairs with Mrs. Guthrie, that the Doctor turned 
 quickly. " I want you all to come to my room," he 
 said. " I won't keep you more than a few moments," 
 and led the way. 
 
 Wondering what was going to happen, but taking 
 trouble to avoid catching each other's eyes, Peter, 
 Graham, Belle and Ethel followed their father across 
 the library into the room which, for the two boys, had 
 associations that they were never likely to forget, 
 and for the two girls had hitherto been a place to 
 avoid. 
 
 As soon as they were in the room the Doctor shut 
 the door and, from force of habit, went over to his 
 desk. With one thin hand on it, and with a shaft 
 of winter sun on a face that was very lined and pale 
 he stood there for a moment in silence. His lips trem- 
 bled a little, but there was a look in his eyes behind
 
 350 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 those strong glasses that his children had never seen 
 before. 
 
 " Peter, Graham, Belle and my little Ethel," he said 
 brokenly, " I'm going to ask you all, on a day that 
 means a great deal to your mother and to me, and 
 so to you, to forgive me for not having been all that I 
 ought to have been to you I know that I've failed 
 in my duty as a father. You have always been my 
 most precious possessions and it is for you that I've 
 worked so hard and so closely, but because of all that 
 I went through as a child and because I never strug- 
 gled as I ought to have done to overcome a foolish 
 shyness that has made me self-conscious, you and I 
 have never been friends have never understood each 
 other. I take all the blame for whatever you have 
 done that has made you suffer and of which you are 
 ashamed. Very humbly, I stand before you now and 
 ask you, as I asked Peter, here, in this room, to give 
 me another chance. Let's make a new beginning from 
 to-day, with the knowledge that I love you better than 
 anything in the world. I want you all to meet me half- 
 way in future, to look upon me no longer as the shy, 
 unsympathetic, unapproachable man who, by accident, 
 is your father, but as your closest and most intimate 
 friend whose best and dearest wish is to help you and 
 listen to your worries and give you all the advice in 
 his power. I want this room to be the place to which 
 you'll always come with the certain knowledge that 
 you'll be welcomed by me with the greatest eagerness 
 and delight. Don't let there be anything from to-day 
 onwards that you can't tell me. Promise me that. I
 
 LIFE 
 
 I've told myself two or three times that it's too late 
 for me to be of any use to you that having failed I 
 could never repair my mistake or ever hope to win 
 youi confidence and friendship." 
 
 His voice broke so badly that he was unable to 
 speak, and the painfulness of this strange little scene 
 was almost more than those young people could bear. 
 It hurt them enough to stand facing a man who 
 opened his soul for them to gaze into, especially when 
 that man was their father. It was dreadful to see him 
 blinded by tears in the middle of an appeal which they 
 all realized called for such extreme courage and 
 strength of character to make. 
 
 They all wanted to do something to help him and 
 force him out of a humbleness that made them hor- 
 ribly self-conscious. It was Peter who did it. With 
 two strides he stood at the Doctor's side and put his 
 arms round his shoulder. 
 
 The Doctor looked up into the face of the great 
 big, tender fellow, whose eyes were eloquent, and 
 smiled. Then he found his voice again and forced 
 himself to the bitter end of what he had determined to 
 say. " Something in the way you've all treated me 
 since Peter has been ill," he said, " has given me hope. 
 That's why I put myself in your hands, my dears. 
 Shall we make a new beginning? Will you take me 
 into your friendship? Will you all give me another 
 chance? " 
 
 With a little cry from her heart Belle went forward 
 and put her arms round her father's neck, and Ethel, 
 with hot tears running down her face, crept up to
 
 352 THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 him and put one of his hands to her lips. Graham 
 bent over the other, which he held tight, and Peter, 
 who had longed for this moment through all his ill- 
 ness, didn't give a curse who heard, his voice break, 
 patted the Doctor on the back, and said : " Dear old 
 man, my dear old father! " over and over again. 
 
 THE END
 
 Books by Cosmo Hamilton 
 The Blindness of Virtue 
 
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 324 Pages. $1.35 net. 
 
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 Books by Cosmo Hamilton 
 The Blindness of Virtue 
 
 A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
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 126 Pages. $1.00 net. 
 
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