in a similar tempest of infinitely much ado about next to nothing the distant bret winfield was browbeating himself silently, pleading with himself not to disgrace

himself by running away from his loathsome factory. his father needed his presence, and sheila needed his absence.

but gusts of desire for the sight of her swept through him like manias. he would try to reach her on the long-distance telephone. at the theater, where there was as

yet no one in the box-office, it was usually impossible to get an answer or to get a message delivered. the attendants would as soon have called a priest from mass as

an actor from rehearsal. sometimes, after hours of search with the long-distance probe, he would find sheila at the hotel and they would pour out their longings across

the distance till strange voices broke in and mocked their sentimentalities or begged them to get off the wire. it was strange to be eavesdropped by ghosts whose names

or even whereabouts one could never know.

winfield’s mother observed her son’s distress and insisted that he was ill. she demanded that he see a doctor; it might be some lingering fever or something

infectious. it was both, but there is no inoculation, no antitoxin, yet discovered to prevent the attack on a normal being. the mumps, scarlet fever, malaria, typhoid

and other ailments have their serums, but love has none. light attacks of those affections procure immunity, but not of this.

winfield finally told his mother what his malady was. “mother, i’m in love—mad crazy about a girl.”

mrs. winfield smiled. “you always are.”

“it’s real this time—”

“it always was.”

“it means marriage.”

this was not so amusing.

“who is she?”

“nobody you ever saw.”

this was reassuring. mrs. winfield had never seen any girl in town quite good enough for her daughter-in-law.

mrs. winfield was very strict, and very religious in so far as religion is concerned with trying one’s neighbors as well as oneself by very lofty and very inelastic

laws of conduct.

bret dreaded to tell his mother who sheila was or what she was. he knew her opinion of the stage and its people. she had not expressed it often because she winced even

at the mention of hopelessly improper subjects like french literature, the theater, classic art, playing cards, the works of herbert spencer, ouida, huxley, and people

like that.

she knew so little of the theater that when she made him tell her the girl’s name, “sheila kemble” meant nothing to her.

mrs. winfield demanded full information on the vital subject of her son’s fiancée. bret dodged her cross-examination in vain. he dilated on sheila’s beauty, her

culture, her fascination, her devotion to him. but those were details; mrs. winfield wanted to know the important things:

“what church does she belong to?”

“i never thought to ask her.”

“are her people in good circumstances?”

“very!”

“what is her father’s business?”

“er—he’s a professional man.”

“oh! a lawyer?”

“no.”

“doctor?”

“no.”

“what then?”

“er—well—you see—he’s very successful. he’s famous in his line—makes a heap of money. he stands very high in his profession.”

“that’s good, but what is it?”

“why—he— if you knew him—you’d be proud to have him for a father-in-law or—a—whatever relative he’d be to you.”

“no doubt; but what does this wonderful man do for a living?”

“he’s an actor.”

mrs. winfield would have screamed the word in echo, but she was too weak. when she got her breath she hardly knew which of the myriad objections to mention first.

“an actor! you are engaged to the daughter of an actor! why, that’s nearly as bad as if she were an actress herself!”

bret mumbled, “sheila is an actress.”

then he ran for a glass of water.

at length his mother rallied sufficiently to flutter tenderly, with a mother’s infinite capacity for forgiving her children—and nobody else:

“oh, bret! bret! has my poor boy gone and fallen into the snare of some adventuress—some bad, bad woman?”

“hush, mother; you mustn’t speak so. sheila is a good girl, the best in the world.”

“i thought you said she was an actress.”

this seemed to end the argument, but he amazed her by proceeding: “she is! and a fine one, the best actress in the country—in the world.”

when mrs. winfield tried to prove from the profundity of her ignorance and her prejudice that an actress must be doomed he put his hand over his ears till she stopped.

then she began again:

“and are you going to follow this angel about, or is she going to reform?”

“she can’t quit just now. she has a contract, but after this season she’ll stop, and then we’ll get married.”

mrs. winfield caught at this eagerly. “you’re not going to marry her at once then?”

“no. i wish i could, but she can’t break her contract.”

mrs. winfield smiled and settled back with relief. she felt as if an earthquake had passed by, leaving her alive and the house still on its foundations. she knew bret

and she was sure that any marriage scheduled for next year was as good as canceled already.

she wanted nothing more said about it. her son’s relations with an actress might be deplorable, but, fortunately, they were only transient and need not be discussed.

but bret would not permit his love to be dismissed with scorn. he insisted that he adored sheila and that she was adorable. he produced photographs of her, and the

mother could not deny the girl’s beauty. but she regarded it with an eye of such hostility that she found all the guiles and wiles that she wanted to find in it.

bret insisted on his mother’s meeting sheila, which she refused to do. she announced that she would not meet her if she became his wife. she would not permit the

creature to sully her home. she warned bret not to mention it to his father, for the old man’s heart was weak and he was discouraged enough over the conflict with the

scales trust. the shock of a stage scandal might kill him.

the elder winfield wandered into the dispute at its height. he insisted on knowing what it was. his wife tried to break it to him gently and nearly drove him mad with

her delay. when she finally reached the horrible disclosure he did not swoon; he just laughed.

“is that all! mother, where’s your common sense of humor? the young cub has been sowing some wild oats and he’s trying to spare your feelings. think nothing more

about it. bret is going to settle down to work, and he won’t have time for much more foolishness. and now let’s drop it. get your things packed and mine, for i’ve

got to run over to new york for a board of directors’ meeting with some big interests, and while i’m there i’ll just go to a real doctor. these fossils here all

prescribe the same pills.”

bret glared at his father almost contemptuously. he was heavily disappointed in his parents. they were unable to rise to a noble occasion.

an inspiration occurred to him. their trip to new york came pat to his necessities. they had been cold to his description of sheila. but once they met her, they could

not but be swept off their feet—not if they had his blood in their veins.

he sent a voluminous telegram to sheila asking her to call on his father and mother and make them hers. it was a manlike outrage on the etiquette of calls, but sheila

cared little for conventions of the stupid sort.

bret could not persuade his mother to consent to meet sheila and be polite until he implored her to treat sheila at least with the humanity deserved by a magdalen.

that magic word disarmed mrs. winfield and gave her the courage of a missionary. she saw that it was plainly her duty to see the misguided creature. she might persuade

her to change her ways. of course she would incidentally persuade her of the impossibility of a marriage with bret. she would appeal to the girl’s better nature, for

she imagined that even an actress was not totally depraved.

in an important conference with her husband mrs. winfield drew up a splendid campaign. she would try the effect of reason, and, if she failed, her husband would bring

up the heavy artillery.

mr. charles winfield determined to do his share by pointing out to the woman that bret had no income and would have none. this would scare the creature away, for she

was undoubtedly after the boy’s money. what else could she want? if worst came to worst, they might even buy her off. a few thousand dollars would be a cheap

blackmail to pay for the release of their son.

the train that carried the elder winfields to the ordeal of meeting with the threatening invader of their family was due in new york in the forenoon.

when charles winfield bought a paper to glance over it during his dining-car breakfast he was pleased to find a brief mention of the meeting of the directors. his own

name was included in small type, with the initials wrong. still, it was pleasant to be named in a new york paper.

as he turned the page he was startled to see a familiar face pop up before him as if with a cheerful “good morning!” he studied it. it was familiar, but he could not

place it. he read the name beneath—“sheila kemble”!

it was a large portrait and the text accompanying it was an adroit piece of press-agency. reben’s publicity man, starr coleman, had smuggled past the dramatic editor

’s jealous guard a convincing piece of fiction purporting to describe sheila’s opinions on woman suffrage as it would affect the home. he had been unable to get at

sheila during rehearsals and he had concocted the interview out of his own head.

winfield passed the paper across to his wife. both were decidedly shaken. winfield’s logical mind automatically worked out a problem in ratio. if he himself felt

important because a new york newspaper included his name in a list of arrivals, how important was sheila, who received half a column of quotation and a photograph?

furthermore, sheila’s name was coupled with that of a prominent woman whose social distinction was nation-wide.

mrs. winfield fetched forth her spectacles, read sheila’s dictum carefully and with some awe. there were two or three words in it that mrs. winfield could not

understand—neither could sheila when she read it. starr coleman liked big words. but in any case the interview scared mrs. winfield out of her scheme to play the

missionary. by the same token mr. winfield decided not to offer sheila a bribe.

their plans were in complete disarray when they reached new york.

they had not been settled long in their hotel when the telephone-bell rang.

mrs. winfield answered the call, since her husband was belatedly shaving himself.

the telephone operator said, “m’ skemble to speak to m’ swinfield.”

mrs. winfield’s heart began to skip. she answered, feebly, “this is mrs. winfield.”

the operator snapped, “go ahead,” and another voice appeared, putting extraordinary music into a lyrical “hello!”

mrs. winfield answered: “hello! this is mrs. winfield.”

“oh, how do you do? this is mrs. kemble, sheila’s mother. your son asked her to call you up as soon as you got in, but she is rehearsing and asked me to.”

“that’s very n-nice of you.”

“why, thank you. your son probably explained to you that sheila is a horribly busy young woman. i know you are busy, too. you’ll be doing a lot of shopping, i

presume. i should like to call on you as one helpless parent on another, but my husband and i are leaving in a day or two for one of our awful tours to the coast. the

ocean is so beautiful that i wondered if you wouldn’t be willing to run out here and take dinner with us to-night.”

mrs. winfield’s wits were so scattered that she had not the strength even to improvise another engagement. she was not an agile liar. she murmured, feebly: “it would

be very nice. thank you.”

then the irresistible polly farren voice purred on: “that’s splendid! we’ll send our car for you. it’s not a long run out here, and the car can bring sheila out at

the same time. you can have a little visit together.”

“that would be very nice. thank you,” mrs. winfield babbled.

“one more thing, if i may,” polly chanted. “our town car is in new york. it took sheila in, you know. the driver has nothing at all to do till five. my husband says

he would be ever so pleased if you’d let me put it at your disposal. please call it your very own while you’re in the city, won’t you? the chauffeur is quite

reliable, really.”

poor mrs. winfield could only wail, “hold the wire a moment, please.”

she was unutterably miserable. she dropped the receiver and called her lather-jawed husband in conference. they whispered like two counterfeiters with the police at

the door. they could see no way of escape without brutality.

mrs. winfield took up the receiver and wailed, “my husband says it is very nice of you and of course we accept.”

“oh, that’s splendid!” throbbed in her ear. “i’ll telephone the man to call for you at once. good-by till dinner, then. good-by.”

mr. winfield glared at his wife, and she looked away, sighing:

“she has a right nice voice, anyway.”