Starting Out with Java From Control Structures

through Objects 7th Edition Gaddis Test Bank

install download

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-objects-7th-edition-gaddis-test-bank/

Download more testbank from https://testbankfan.com

We believe these products will be a great fit for you. Click
the link to download now, or visit testbankfan.com
to discover even more!

Starting Out with Java From Control Structures through

Objects 7th Edition Gaddis Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-objects-7th-edition-gaddis-solutions-
manual/

Starting Out with Java From Control Structures through

Objects 6th Edition Gaddis Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-objects-6th-edition-gaddis-test-bank/

Starting Out With Java From Control Structures Through

Objects 6th Edition Gaddis Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-objects-6th-edition-gaddis-solutions-
manual/

Starting Out with Java From Control Structures through

Objects 5th Edition Tony Gaddis Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-objects-5th-edition-tony-gaddis-test-
bank/
Starting Out with Java From Control Structures through
Objects 5th Edition Tony Gaddis Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-objects-5th-edition-tony-gaddis-
solutions-manual/

Starting Out With C++ From Control Structures Through

Objects 7th Edition Tony Gaddis Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-c-from-control-
structures-through-objects-7th-edition-tony-gaddis-test-bank/

Starting Out with Java From Control Structures through

Data Structures 3rd Edition Gaddis Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-data-structures-3rd-edition-gaddis-
test-bank/

Starting Out With Java From Control Structures Through

Data Structures 2nd Edition Gaddis Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-data-structures-2nd-edition-gaddis-
test-bank/

Starting Out with Java From Control Structures through

Data Structures 3rd Edition Gaddis Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-data-structures-3rd-edition-gaddis-
solutions-manual/
Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects 7e (Gaddis)
Chapter 8 A Second Look at Classes and Objects

TRUE/FALSE

1. The key word this is the name of a reference variable that an object can use to refer to itself.

ANS: T

2. The key word this is the name of a reference variable that is available to all static methods.

ANS: F

3. The names of the enum constants in an enumerated data type must be enclosed in quotation marks.

ANS: F

4. An enumerated data type is actually a special type of class.

ANS: T

5. enum constants have a toString method.

ANS: T

6. An instance of a class does not have to exist in order for values to be stored in a class's static fields.

ANS: T

7. A class's static methods do not operate on the fields that belong to any instance of the class.

ANS: T

8. You can declare an enumerated data type inside a method.

ANS: F

9. If a class has a method named finalize, it is called automatically just before an instance of the class
is destroyed by the garbage collector.

ANS: T

10. If a class has a method named finalize, it is called automatically just before a data member that has
been identified as final of the class is destroyed by the garbage collector.

ANS: F
 11. If you write a toString method for a class, Java will automatically call the method any time you
concatenate an object of the class with a string.

ANS: T

12. When an object is passed as an argument, it is actually a reference to the object that is passed.

ANS: T

13. Both instance fields and instance methods are associated with a specific instance of a class, and they
cannot be used until an instance of the class is created.

ANS: T

14. A single copy of a class's static field is shared by all instances of the class.

ANS: T

15. When an object reference is passed to a method, the method may change the values in the object.

ANS: T

16. If you write a toString method to display the contents of an object, object1, for a class,
Class1, then the following two statements are equivalent:

System.out.println(object1);
System.out.println(object1.toString());

ANS: T

MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. __________ is the term for the relationship created by object aggregation.

a. "Has a" c. "Is a"
b. Inner class d. One-to-many
ANS: A

2. The only limitation that static methods have is __________.

a. they must be declared outside of the class
b. they cannot refer to nonstatic members of the class
c. they can only be called from static members of the class
d. they can refer only to nonstatic members of the class
ANS: B

3. A class that is defined inside another class is called a(n) __________.

a. nested class c. inner class
b. enumerated class d. helper class
ANS: C
 4. Static methods can only operate on __________ fields.
a. instance c. global
b. static d. local
ANS: B

5. When you make a copy of the aggregate object and of the objects that it references, __________.
a. you are performing a shallow copy
b. you are performing a nested copy
c. you are performing a deep copy
d. a compiler error will occur
ANS: C

6. A deep copy of an object __________.

a. is an assignment of that object to another object
b. is an operation that copies an aggregate object and all the objects that it references
c. is a bogus term and means nothing
d. is always a private method
ANS: B

7. Which of the following is not true about static methods?

a. It is not necessary for an instance of the class to be created to execute a static method.
b. They are called by placing the key word static after the access specifier in the method
header.
c. They are called from an instance of the class.
d. They are often used to create utility classes that perform operations on data but have no
need to collect and store data.
ANS: C

8. The "has a" relationship is sometimes called a(n) __________ because one object is part of a greater
whole.
a. enterprise c. mutual relationship
b. possession d. whole-part relationship
ANS: D

9. The whole-part relationship created by object aggregation is more often called a(n) __________
relationship.
a. "has a" c. extra class
b. inner class d. inside class
ANS: A

10. The JVM periodically performs the __________ process to remove unreferenced objects from
memory.
a. memory shuffling c. garbage collection
b. system restore d. memory sweeping
ANS: C
11. CRC stands for __________.
a. Class, Recyclability, Collaborations c. Class, Responsibilities, Collaborations
b. Class, Redundancy, Collections d. Code, Reuse, Constancy
ANS: C

12. Enumerated types have the __________ method which returns the position of an enum constant in the
declaration list.
a. position c. ordinal
b. location d. index
ANS: C

13. Java automatically stores a __________ value in all uninitialized static member variables.
a. 0 b. -1 c. null d. false
ANS: A

14. You cannot use the fully-qualified name of an enum constant for ___________.
a. a case expression c. a boolean expression
b. an argument to a method d. Any of these
ANS: A

15. When the this variable is used to call a constructor__________.

a. it must be the first statement in the constructor making the call
b. it can be anywhere in the constructor making the call
c. it must be the last statement in the constructor making the call
d. None of these. You cannot use the this variable in a constructor call.
ANS: A

16. When a reference variable is passed as an argument to a method __________.

a. a copy of the variable's value is passed into the method's parameter
b. the method has access to the object that the variable references
c. the method becomes a static method
d. the program terminates
ANS: B

17. When a method's return type is a class, what is actually returned to the calling program?
a. an object of that class
b. a reference to an object of that class
c. the values in the object that the method accessed
d. nothing - the return type is simply for documentation in this situation
ANS: B

18. In Java it is possible to write a method that will return __________.

a. a whole number c. a string of characters
b. a reference to an object d. Any of these
 ANS: D

19. You cannot use the == operator to compare the contents of __________.
a. objects c. integers
b. strings d. Boolean values
ANS: A

20. An object's __________ is simply the data that is stored in the object's fields at any given moment.
a. value c. record
b. assessment d. state
ANS: D

21. A static field is created by placing the key word static __________.
a. after the access specifier and the field's data type
b. after the access specifier and before the field's data type
c. after the field name
d. in brackets, before the field's data type
ANS: B

22. A declaration for an enumerated type begins with the __________ key word.
a. enumerated c. ENUM
b. enum type d. enum
ANS: D

23. When a field is declared static there will be __________.

a. a copy of the field for each method in the class
b. a copy of the field in each class object
c. only one copy of the field in memory
d. two reference copies of the field for each method in the class
ANS: C

24. If the this variable is used to call a constructor, __________.

a. a compiler error will result if it is not the first statement of the constructor
b. a compiler error will result if it is the first statement of the constructor
c. nothing will happen
d. the this variable cannot be used as a constructor call
ANS: A

25. To compare two objects in a class, __________.

a. use the == operator (for example, object1 == object2)
b. write a method to do a byte-by-byte compare of the two objects
c. write an equals method that will make a field by field compare of the two objects
d. This cannot be done since objects consist of several fields.
ANS: C
26. Which of the following is not true about static methods?
a. They are created by placing the key word static after the access specifier in the method
header.
b. It is necessary for an instance of the class to be created to execute the method.
c. They are called directly from the class.
d. They are often used to create utility classes that perform operations on data but have no
need to store and collect data.
ANS: B

27. If you attempt to perform an operation with a null reference variable __________.
a. the resulting operation will always be zero
b. the results will be unpredictable
c. the program will terminate
d. Java will create an object to reference the variable
ANS: C

28. If object1 and object2 are objects of the same class, to make object2 a copy of object1
__________.
a. write a method for the class that will make a field by field copy of object1 data
members into object2 data members
b. use the copy method that is a part of the Java language
c. use the default constructor to create object2 with object1 data members
d. use an assignment statement to make object2 a copy of object1
ANS: A

29. If you have defined a class, SavingsAccount, with a public static method,
getNumberOfAccounts, and created a SavingsAccount object referenced by the variable
account20, which of the following will call the getNumberOfAccounts method?
a. account20.getNumberOfAccounts();
b. SavingsAccount.getNumberOfAccounts();
c. getNumberOfAccounts();
d. SavingsAccount.account20.getNumberOfAccounts();
ANS: B

30. If you have defined a class, SavingsAccount, with a public static data member named
numberOfAccounts, and created a SavingsAccount object referenced by the variable
account20, which of the following will assign numberOfAccounts to numAccounts?
a. numAccounts = account20.numAccounts;
b. numAccounts = numOfAccounts;
c. numAccounts = SavingsAccount.numberOfAccounts;
d. numAccounts = account20;
ANS: C

31. Assume the class BankAccount has been created and the following statement correctly creates an
instance of the class.
BankAccount account = new BankAccount(5000.00);
 What is true about the following statement?
System.out.println(account);
a. A runtime error will occur.
b. The method will display unreadable binary data on the screen.
c. The account object's toString method will be implicitly called.
d. A compiler error will occur.
ANS: C

32. Given the following declaration:

enum Tree ( OAK, MAPLE, PINE )
What is the fully-qualified name of the PINE enum constant?
a. enum.PINE c. Tree.PINE
b. PINE d. enum.Tree.PINE
ANS: C

33. Given the following declaration:

enum Tree ( OAK, MAPLE, PINE )
What is the ordinal value of the MAPLE enum constant?
a. 0 b. 1 c. 2 d. 3
ANS: B

34. If the following is from the method section of a UML diagram, which of the statements below is true?
+ equals(object2:Stock) : boolean
a. This is a public method that accepts a Stock object as its argument and returns a
boolean value.
b. This is a public method that returns a reference to a String object.
c. This is a private method that receives two objects from the Stock class and returns a
boolean value.
d. This is a private method that returns a boolean value.
ANS: A

35. If the following is from the method section of a UML diagram, which of the statements below is true?
+ add(object2:Stock) : Stock
a. This is a private method named add that accepts and returns objects of the Stock class.
b. This is a private method named Stock that adds two objects.
c. This is a public method named add that accepts and returns references to objects in the
Stock class.
d. This is a public method named Stock that adds two objects.

ANS: C

36. Given the following method header, what will be returned from the method?
public Rectangle getRectangle()
a. the address of an object of the Rectangle class
b. the values stored in the data members of the Rectangle object
c. a graph of a rectangle
d. an object of the class Rectangle
ANS: A
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
difficult to make his peace with the young lady who discovered that
the previous engagement which had kept him away from her
kettledrum had been a promise made to little Janey Amory that he
would take her to see Tom Thumb.
"It is very kind in you to give us any of your time at all," Bertha had
said to him once, "when you are in such demand. Richard tells me
your table is strewn with invitations, and there is not a belle of his
acquaintance who is so besieged with attentions. Mr. Arbuthnot is
filled with envy. He has half-a-dozen new songs which he plays
without music, and he has learned all the new dances, and yet is not
invited half so much."
"It is my conversational powers they want," was the colonel's
sardonic reply.
"That goes without saying," responded Bertha. "And if you would
only condescend to waltz, poor Laurence's days of usefulness would
be over. Won't you be persuaded to let me give you a lesson?"
And she came toward him with mocking in her eyes and her hands
extended.
But the colonel blushed up to the roots of his hair and did not take
them.
"I should tread on your slippers, and knock off the buckles, and
grind them into powder," he said. "I should tear your gown and
lacerate your feelings, and you could not go to the German to-night.
I am afraid I am not the size for waltzing."
"You are the size for anything and everything," said Bertha, with an
exaggerated little obeisance. "It is we who are so small that we
appear insignificant by contrast."
This, indeed, was the general opinion, that his stalwart proportions
were greatly to his advantage, and only to be admired. Among those
who admired them most were graceful young waltzers, who would
have given up that delightful and exhilarating exercise on any
occasion, if Colonel Tredennis would have sat out with them in some
quiet corner, where the eyes of a censorious world might be
escaped. Several such were present to-night, and cast slightly wistful
glances at him as they passed to and fro, or deftly managed to
arrange little opportunities for conversations which, however, did not
flourish and grow strong even when the opportunities were made. It
was not entertainment of this sort—innocent and agreeable as it
might be—that Colonel Tredennis wanted. It would be difficult to say
exactly what he wanted, indeed, or what satisfaction he obtained
from standing gnawing his great mustache among Mrs. Amory's
more versatile and socially gifted adorers.
He did not want to be a witness of her coquetries—they were
coquetries, though to the sophisticated they might appear only
delightful ones, and a very proper exercise of feminine fascination
upon their natural prey; but to this masculine prude, who unhappily
loved her and had no honest rights in her, and whose very affection
was an emotion against which his honor must struggle, it was a
humiliation that others should look on and see that she could so
amuse herself.
So he stood on the outer edge of the little circle, and was so
standing when he first caught sight of the professor at the opposite
end of the room. He left his place then and went over to him. The
sight of the refined, gentle, old face brought to him something
bordering on a sense of relief. It removed a little of his totally
unreasonable feeling of friendlessness and isolation.
"I have been watching you across the room," the professor said,
kindly. "I wondered what you were thinking about? You looked
fierce, my boy, and melancholy. I think there were two or three
young ladies who thought you very picturesque as you stared at the
floor and pulled your mustache, but it seemed to me that your air
was hardly gay enough for a brilliant occasion."
"I was thinking I was out of place and wishing I was at home,"
replied the colonel, with a short laugh, unconsciously pulling his
mustache again. "And I dare say I was wishing I had Mrs. Amory's
versatility of gifts and humor. I thought she was tired and unwell
when I helped her out of the carriage; but it seems that I was
mistaken, or that the atmosphere of the great world has a most
inspiring effect."
The professor turned his spectacles upon the corner Tredennis had
just left.
"Ah!" he remarked quietly; "it is Bertha, is it? I fancied it might be,
though it was not easy to see her face, on account of the breadth of
Commander Barnacles' back. And it was you who came with her?"
"Yes," said Tredennis.
"I rather expected to see Mr. Arbuthnot," said the professor. "I think
Richard gave me the impression that I should."
"We saw Mr. Arbuthnot just before we left the house," returned the
colonel. "He had been calling upon Mrs. Sylvestre."
"Upon Mrs. Sylvestre!" echoed the professor, and then he added,
rather softly, "Ah, she is another."
"Another!" Tredennis repeated.
"I only mean," said the professor, "that I am at my old tricks again. I
am wondering what will happen now to that beautiful, graceful
young woman."
He turned his glance a little suddenly upon Tredennis' face.
"Have you been to see her?" he inquired.
"Not yet."
"Why not yet?"
"Perhaps because she is too beautiful and graceful," Tredennis
answered. "I don't know of any other reason. I have not sufficient
courage."
"Mr. Arbuthnot has sufficient courage," said the professor. "And some
of those gentlemen across the room would not shrink from the
ordeal. They will all go to see her,—Commander Barnacles included,
—and she will be kind to them every one. She would be kind to me
if I went to see her—and some day I think I shall."
He glanced across at Bertha. She was talking to Commander
Barnacles, who was exhibiting as much chivalric vivacity as his
breadth would allow. The rest of her circle were listening and
laughing, people outside it were looking at her with interest and
curiosity.
"She is very gay to-night," the professor added. "And I dare say Mrs.
Sylvestre could give us a better reason for her gayety than we can
see on the surface."
"Is there always a reason?" said the colonel. For the moment he was
pleasing himself with the fancy that he was hardening his heart.
But just at this moment a slight stir at one of the entrances attracted
universal attention. The President had come in, and was being
welcomed by his host and hostess. He presented to the inspection of
those to whom he was not already a familiar object, the unimposing
figure of a man past middle life, his hair grizzled, his face lined, his
expression a somewhat fatigued one.
"Yes, he looks tired," said Bertha to the newspaper man who stood
near her, "though it is rather unreasonable in him. He has nothing to
do but satisfy the demands of two political parties who hate each
other, and to retrieve the blunders made during a few score years by
his predecessors, and he has four years to do it in—and every one
will give him advice. I wonder how he likes it, and if he realizes what
has happened to him. If he were a king and had a crown to look at
and try on in his moments of uncertainty, or if he were obliged to
attire himself in velvet and ermine occasionally, he might persuade
himself that he was real; but how can he do so when he never
wears anything but an ordinary coat, and cannot cut people's heads
off, or bowstring them, and hasn't a dungeon about him? Perhaps he
feels as if he is imposing on us and is secretly a little ashamed of
himself. I wonder if he is not haunted by a disagreeable ghost who
persists in reminding him of the day when he will only be an abject
ex-President and we shall pity where we don't condemn him; and he
will be dragged to the Capitol in the triumphal car of the new one
and know that he has awakened from his dream; or, perhaps, he will
call it a nightmare and be glad it is over."
"That is Planefield who came in with him," said her companion. "He
would not object to suffer from a nightmare of the same
description."
"Would he be willing to dine off the indigestibles most likely to
produce it?" said Bertha. "You have indigestibles on your political
menu, I suppose. I have heard so, and that they are not always easy
to swallow because the cooks at the Capitol differ so about the
flavoring."
"Planefield would not differ," was the answer. "And he would dine off
them, and breakfast and sup off them, and get up in the night to
enjoy them, if he could only bring about the nightmare."
"Is there any possibility that he will accomplish it?" Bertha inquired.
"If there is, I must be very kind to him when he comes to speak to
me. I feel a sort of eagerness to catch his eye and nod and beck and
bestow wreathed smiles upon him already; but don't let my modest
thrift waste itself upon a mere phantasy if the prospect is that the
indigestibles will simply disagree with him and will not produce the
nightmare." And the colonel, who was just approaching with the
professor, heard her and was not more greatly elated than before.
It was not very long, of course, before there was an addition to the
group. Senator Planefield found his way to it—to the very centre of
it, indeed,—and so long as it remained a group formed a permanent
feature in its attractions. When he presented himself Bertha gave
him her hand with a most bewitching little smile, whose suggestion
of archness was somehow made to include the gentleman with
whom she had previously been talking. Her manner was so gracious
and inspiring that Planefield was intoxicated by it and wondered
what it meant. He was obliged to confess to himself that there were
many occasions when she was not so gracious, and if he had been
easily rebuffed, the wounds his flourishing and robust vanity
received might have led him to retire from the field. Frequently,
when he was most filled with admiration of her cleverness and spirit,
he was conscious of an uneasy sense of distrust, not only of her, but
of himself. There was one special, innocent, and direct gaze of which
her limpid eyes were capable, which sometimes made him turn hot
and cold with uncertainty, and there was also a peculiarly soft and
quiet tone in her voice which invariably filled him with perturbation.
"She's such a confounded cool little devil," he had said, gracefully, to
a friend on one occasion when he was in a bad humor. "She's afraid
of nothing, and she's got such a hold on herself that she can say
anything she likes, with a voice as soft as silk, and look you straight
in the eyes like a baby while she does so; and when you say the
words over to yourself you can't find a thing to complain of, while
you know they drove home like knives when she said them herself.
She looks like a school-girl half the time; but she's made up of steel
and iron, and—the devil knows what."
She did not look like a school-girl this evening,—she was far too
brilliant and self-possessed and entertaining; but he had nothing to
complain of and plenty to congratulate himself upon. She allowed
him to take the chair near her which its occupant reluctantly vacated
for him; she placed no obstacles in the way of his conversational
desires, and she received all his jokes with the most exhilarating
laughter. Perhaps it was because of all this that he thought he had
never seen her so pretty, so well dressed, and so inspiring. When he
told her so, in a clumsy whisper, a sudden red flushed her cheek, her
eyes fell, and she did not reply, as he had feared she would, with a
keen little two-edged jest far more discouraging than any
displeasure at his boldness would have been. He could scarcely
believe the evidence of his senses, and found it necessary to remain
silent a few seconds to give himself time to recover his equilibrium.
It was he who was with her when Tredennis saw her presentation to
the President, who, it was said, had observed her previously and
was pleased, after the interview was over, to comment admiringly
upon her and ask various questions concerning her. It doubtless
befell His Excellency to be called upon to be gracious and ready of
speech when confronted with objects less inspiring than this young
person, and it might have been something of this sort which caused
him to wear a more relaxed countenance and smile more frequently
than before when conversing with her, and also to appear to be in
no degree eager to allow her to make her bow and withdraw.
It was just after she had been permitted to make this obeisance and
retire that Colonel Tredennis, standing near a group of three
persons, heard her name mentioned and had his ears quickened by
the sound.
The speakers were a man and two women.
"Her name," he heard a feminine voice say, "is Amory. She is a little
married woman who flirts."
"Oh!" exclaimed the man, "that is Mrs. Amory, is it—the little Mrs.
Amory? And—yes—that is Planefield with her now. He generally is
with her, isn't he?"
"At present," was the answer. "Yes."
The colonel felt his blood warming. He began to think he recognized
the voice of the first speaker, and when he turned found he was not
mistaken. It belonged to the "great lady" who had figured
prominently in the cheery little encounter whose story had been
related with such vivacity the first evening he had dined with the
Amorys. She had, perhaps, not enjoyed this encounter as impartially
as had her opponent, and had probably not forgotten it so soon. She
wore the countenance of a woman with an excellent memory, and
not totally devoid of feminine prejudice. Perhaps she had been
carrying her polished little stone in her pocket, and turning it
occasionally ever since the memorable occasion when justice had
been meted out to her not so largely tempered with mercy as the
faultless in character might have desired.
"The matter gives rise to all the more comment," she remarked,
"because it is something no one would have expected. Her family is
entirely respectable. She was a Miss Herrick, and though she has
always been a gay little person, she has been quite cleverly prudent.
Her acquaintances are only just beginning to realize the state of
affairs, and there is a great division of opinion, of course. The
Westoria lands have dazzled the husband, it is supposed, as he is a
person given to projects, and he has dazzled her—and the admirer is
to be made use of."
The man—a quiet, elderly man, with an astutely humorous
countenance—glanced after Bertha as she disappeared into the
supper-room. She held her roses to her face, and her eyes smiled
over them as Planefield bent to speak to her.
"It is a tremendous affair,—that Westoria business," he said. "And it
is evident she has dazzled the admirers. There is a good deal of life
and color, and—audacity about her, isn't there?"
"There is plenty of audacity," responded his companion with
calmness. "I think that would be universally admitted, though it is
occasionally referred to as wit and self-possession."
"But she has been very much liked," timorously suggested the third
member of the group, who was younger and much less imposing.
"And—and I feel sure I have heard women admire her as often as
men."
"A great deal may be accomplished by cleverness and prudence of
that particular kind," was the answer. "And, as I said, she has been
both prudent and clever."
"It isn't pleasant to think about," remarked the man. "She will lose
her friends and—and all the rest of it, and may gain nothing in the
end. But I suppose there is a good deal of that sort of thing going
on here. We outsiders hear it said so, and are given to believing the
statement."
"It does not usually occur in the class to which this case belongs,"
was the response. "The female lobbyist is generally not so—not
so"—
"Not so picturesque as she is painted," ended her companion with a
laugh. "Well, I consider myself all the more fortunate in having seen
this one who is picturesque, and has quite a charming natural color
of her own."
 CHAPTER XXIV.
They moved away and went to the supper-room themselves, leaving
Tredennis to his reflections. What these were he scarcely knew
himself for a few seconds. The murmur of voices and passing to and
fro confused him. For half an hour of quiet in some friendly corner,
where none could see his face, he felt that he would have given a
year or so of his life—perhaps a greater number of years than a
happier man would have been willing to part with. It was of Bertha
these people had been speaking—of Bertha, and it was Bertha he
could see through the open doors of the supper-room, eating ices,
listening to compliment and laughter and jest! It was Planefield who
was holding her flowers, and the man who had just picked up her
fan was one of his friends; in two or three others near her, Tredennis
recognized his associates: it seemed as if the ground had been
ceded to them by those who had at first formed her little court.
Tredennis was seized with a wild desire to make his way into their
midst, take her hand in his arm, and compel her to come away—to
leave them all, to let him take her home—to safety and honor and
her children. He was so filled with the absurd impulse that he took
half a step forward, stopping and smiling bitterly, when he realized
what he was prompted to do.
"How she would like it," he thought, "and like me for doing it; and
what a paragraph it would make for the society column!"
Incidents which had occurred within the last few weeks came back
to him with a significance they had never before borne. Speeches
and moods of Richard's, things he had done, occasional unconscious
displays of eagerness to please Planefield and cultivate him, his
manner toward Bertha, and certain touches of uneasiness when she
was not at her best.
From the first the colonel had not felt himself as entirely
prepossessed by this amiable and charming young man as he
desired to be, and he had been compelled to admit that he was not
always pleased by his gay good-humor, evanescent enthusiasms,
and by his happy, irresponsible fashion of looking at life. When he
had at last made this confession to himself he had not shrunk from
giving himself an explanation of the matter, from which a nature
more sparing of itself would have flinched. He had said that his
prejudice was one to blush at and conquer by persistent effort, and
he had done his sternly honest best to subdue it. But he had not
succeeded as he had hoped he should. When he fancied he was
making progress and learning to be fair, some trifle continually
occurred which made itself an obstacle in his path. He saw things he
did not wish to see, and heard things he did not wish to hear,—little
things which made him doubt and ponder, and which somehow he
could not shake off, even when he tried to forget them and persuade
himself that, after all, they were of slight significance. And as he had
seen more of the gay good-humor and readiness to be moved, his
first shadowy feeling had assumed more definite form. He had found
himself confronted by a distrust which grew upon him; he had met
the young man's smiling eyes with a sense of being repelled by their
very candor and brightness; he had learned that they were not so
candid as they seemed, and that his boyish frankness was not
always to be relied upon. He had discovered that he was ready to
make a promise and forget it; that his impressionable mind could
shift itself and change its color, and that somehow its quickness of
action had a fashion of invariably tending toward the
accomplishment of some personal end,—a mere vagary or graceful
whim, perhaps, but always a fancy pertaining to the indulgence of
self. Tredennis had heard him lie,—not wickedly or awkwardly, so
far; but with grace and freedom from embarrassment. It was his
accidental detection of one of the most trivial and ready of these
falsehoods which had first roused him to distrust. He remembered
now, as by a flash, that it had been a lie about Planefield, and that it
had been told to Bertha. He had wondered at the time what its
object could be; now he thought he saw, and in a measure
comprehended, the short-sighted folly which had caused the weak,
easily swayed nature to drift into such danger.
"He does not realize what he is doing," was his thought. "He would
lie to me if I accused him of it."
Of these two things he was convinced: that the first step had been
merely one of many whims, whatever the results following might be,
and that no statement or promise Amory might make could be relied
on. There was no knowing what he had done or what he would do.
As he had found entertainment in the contents of the "museum," so
it was as probable he had, at the outset, amused himself with his
fancies concerning the Westoria lands, which had, at last, so far
fascinated and dazed him as to lead him into the committal of follies
he had not paused to excuse even to himself. He had not thought it
necessary to excuse them. Why should he not take the legal
business in hand, and since there was no reason against that, why
should he not also interest himself in the investigations and be on
intimate terms with the men who were a part of the brilliant project?
Why should not his wife entertain them, as she entertained the rest
of her friends and acquaintances? Tredennis felt that he had learned
enough of the man's mental habits to follow him pretty closely in his
reasoning—when he reasoned. While he had looked on silently, the
colonel had learned a great deal and grown worldly-wise and quicker
of perception than he could have believed possible in times gone by.
He was only half conscious that this was because he had now an
object in view which he had not had before; that he was alert and
watchful because there was some one he wished to shield; that he
was no longer indifferent to the world and its ways,—no longer given
to underrating its strength and weaknesses, its faults and follies,
because he wished to be able to defend himself against them, if
such a thing should become necessary. He had gained wisdom
enough to appreciate the full significance of the low-voiced,
apparently carelessly uttered words he had just heard; and to feel
his own almost entire helplessness in the matter. To appeal to Amory
would be useless; to go to the professor impossible; how could he
carry to him such a story, unless it assumed proportions such as to
make the step a last terrible resource? He had been looking older
and acknowledging himself frailer during the last year; certainly he
was neither mentally nor physically in the condition to meet such a
blow, if it was possible to spare it to him.
Tredennis looked across the room at Bertha again. It seemed that
there was only one very simple thing he could do now.
"She will probably be angry and think I have come to interfere, if I
go to her," he said; "but I will go nevertheless. At least, I am not one
of them,—every one knows that,—and perhaps it will occur to her to
go home."
There was resolution on his face when he approached her. He wore
the look which never failed to move her more strongly than any
other thing on earth had ever done before, and whose power over
her cost her all the resistance of which she was capable. It had
sometimes made her wonder if, after all, it was true that women
liked to be subdued—to be ruled a little—if their rulers were gentle
as well as strong. She had heard it said so, and had often laughed at
the sentiment of the popular fallacy. She used to smile at it when it
presented itself to her even in this manner; but there had been
occasions—times perhaps when she was very tired—when she had
known that she would have been glad to give way before this look,
to obey it, to feel the relief of deciding for herself no more.
Such a feeling rose within her now. She looked neither tired nor
worn; but a certain deadly sense of fatigue, which was becoming a
physical habit with her, had been growing upon her all the evening.
The color on her cheeks was feverish, her limbs ached, her eyes
were bright with her desperate eagerness to sustain herself. Once or
twice, when she had laughed or spoken, she had been conscious of
such an unnatural tone in her voice that her heart had trembled with
fear lest others should have heard it too. It seemed impossible to
her that they should not, and that these men who listened and
applauded her should not see that often she scarcely heard them,
and that she dare not stop for fear of forgetting them altogether and
breaking down in some dreadful way, which would show that all her
spirit and gayety was a lie, and only a lie poorly acted, after all.
She thought she knew what Tredennis had come to her for. She had
not lost sight of him at any time. She had known where he stood or
sat, and whom he spoke to, and had known that he had seen her
also. She had met his eyes now and then, and smiled and looked
away again, beginning to talk to her admirers with more spirit than
ever each time. What else was there to do but go on as she had
begun? She knew only too well what reason there was in herself that
she should not falter. If it had been strong yesterday, it was ten
times stronger to-day, and would be stronger to-morrow and for
many a bitter day to come. But when he came to her she only
smiled up at him, as she would have smiled at Planefield, or the
gallant and spacious Barnacles, or any other of the men she knew.
"I hope you have had a pleasant evening," she said. "You enjoy
things of this sort so much, however, that you are always safe. I saw
you talking in the most vivacious manner to that pretty Miss
Stapleton,—the one with the eyelashes,—or rather you were
listening vivaciously. You are such a good listener."
"That's an accomplishment, isn't it?" said Planefield, with his easy
air.
"It is a gift of the gods," she answered. "And it was bestowed on
Colonel Tredennis."
"There are talkers, you know," suggested the Senator, "who would
make a good listener of a man without the assistance of the gods."
"Do you mean the Miss Stapleton with the eyelashes?" inquired
Bertha, blandly.
"Oh, come now," was the response. "I think you know I don't mean
the Miss Stapleton with the eyelashes. If I did, it would be more
economical to make the remark to her."
"Ah!" said Bertha, blandly again. "You mean me? I hoped so. Thank
you very much. And I am glad you said it before Colonel Tredennis,
because it may increase his confidence in me, which is not great. I
am always glad when any one pays me a compliment in his
presence."
"Does he never pay you compliments himself?" asked Planefield.
Bertha gave Tredennis a bright, full glance.
"Did you ever pay me a compliment?" she said. "Will you ever pay
me a compliment—if I should chance to deserve one?"
"Yes," he answered, his face unsmiling, his voice inflexible. "May I
begin now? You always deserve them. My only reason for failing to
pay them is because I am not equal to inventing such as would be
worthy of you. Your eyes are like stars—your dress is the prettiest in
the room—every man present is your slave and every woman pales
before you—the President is going home now only because you have
ceased to smile upon him."
The color on Bertha's cheek faded a little, but her smile did not. She
checked him with a gesture.
"Thank you," she said, "that will do! You are even better than
Senator Planefield. My eyes are like stars—my dress is perfection! I
myself am as brilliant as—as the chandelier! Really, there seems
nothing left for me to do but to follow the President, who, as you
said, has been good enough to take his leave and give us permission
to retire." And she rose from her chair.
She made her adieus to Planefield, who bestowed upon Tredennis a
sidelong scowl, thinking that it was he who was taking her away. It
consoled him but little that she gave him her hand—in a most
gracious farewell. He had been enjoying himself as he did not often
enjoy himself, and the sight of the colonel's unresponsive
countenance filled him with silent rage. It happened that it was not
the first time, or even the second, that this gentleman had
presented himself inopportunely.
"The devil take his grim airs!" was his cordial mental exclamation.
"What does he mean by them, and what is he always turning up for
when no one wants to see him?"
Something of this amiable sentiment was in his expression, but the
colonel did not seem to see it; his countenance was as unmoved as
ever when he led his charge away, her little hand resting on his arm.
In truth, he was thinking of other things. Suddenly he had made up
his mind that there was one effort he could make: that, if he could
conquer himself and his own natural feeling of reluctance, he might
speak to Bertha herself in such words as she would be willing to
listen to and reflect upon. It seemed impossible to tell her all, but
surely he might frame such an appeal as would have some small
weight with her. It was not an easy thing to do. He must present
himself to her in the rôle of an individual who, having no right to
interfere with her actions, still took upon himself to do so; who
spoke when it would have seemed better taste to be silent; who
delivered homilies with the manner of one who thought himself
faultless, and so privileged to preach and advise.
"But what of that?" he said, checking himself impatiently in the
midst of these thoughts. "I am always thinking of myself, and of how
I shall appear in her eyes! Am I a boy lover trying to please her, or a
man who would spare and shield her? Let her think poorly of me if
she chooses, if she will only listen and realize her danger when her
anger is over."
The standard for his own conduct which he had set up was not low,
it will be observed. All that he demanded of himself was utter
freedom from all human weakness, and even liability to temptation;
an unselfishness without blemish, a self-control without flaw; that he
should bear his own generous anguish without the movement of a
muscle; that he should wholly ignore the throbbing of his own
wounds, remembering only the task he had set himself; that his
watchfulness over himself should never falter, and his courage never
be shaken. It was, perhaps, indicative of a certain degree of noble
simplicity that he demanded this of himself, which he would have
asked of no other human creature, and that at no time did the
thought cross his mind that the thing he demanded was impossible
of attainment. When he failed, as he knew he often did; when he
found it difficult to efface himself utterly from his own thoughts and
was guilty of the weakness of allowing himself to become a factor in
them; when his unhappiness was stronger than himself; when he
was stirred to resentment, or conscious of weariness, and the
longing to utter some word which would betray him and ask for pity,
—he never failed to condemn himself in bitterness of spirit as
ignoble and unworthy.
"Let her be angry with me if she chooses," he thought now. "It is for
me to say my say, and leave the rest to her—and I will try to say it
kindly."
He would set aside the bitter feeling and resentment of her trifling
which had beset him more than once during the evening; he would
forget them, as it was but right and just that they should be
forgotten. When he spoke, as they went up the staircase together,
his tone was so kind that Bertha glanced up at him, and saw that his
face had changed, and, though still grave, was kind, too. When she
joined him after leaving the cloak-room, he spoke to her of her wrap
again, and asked her to draw it more closely about her; when he
helped her into the carriage, there was that in his light touch which
brought back to her with more than its usual strength the familiar
sense of quiet protection and support.
"It would be easier," she thought, "if he would be angry. Why is he
not angry? He was an hour ago—and surely I have done enough."
But he showed no signs of disapproval,—he was determined that he
would not do that,—though their drive was rather a silent one again.
And yet, by the time they reached home, Bertha was in some
indefinite way prepared for the question he put to her as he assisted
her to alight.
"May I come in for a little while?" he asked. "I know it is late, but—
there is something I must say to you."
"Something you must say to me?" she repeated. "I am sure it must
be something interesting and something I should like to hear. Come
in, by all means."
So they entered the house together, and went into the parlor. They
found a fire burning there, and Bertha's chair drawn up before it.
She loosened her wrap rather deliberately and threw it off, and then
sat down as deliberately, arranging her footstool and draperies until
she had attained the desired amount of languid comfort in her
position. Tredennis did not speak until she was settled. He leaned
against the mantel, his eyes bent on the fire.
Being fairly arranged, Bertha held out her hand.
"Will you give me that feather screen, if you please?" she said,—"the
one made of peacock feathers. When one attains years of discretion,
one has some care for one's complexion. Did it ever occur to you
how serious such matters are, and that the difference between being
eighteen and eighty is almost wholly a matter of complexion? If one
could remain pink and smooth, one might possibly overcome the
rest, and there would be no such thing as growing old. It is not a
single plank which is between ourselves and eternity, but a—Would
the figure of speech appear appropriate if one said 'a single cuticle'?
I am afraid not."
He took the screen from its place and regarded it a little absently.
"You had this in your hand the first night I came here," he said,
"when you told the story of your great lady."
She took it from him.
"That was a pretty little story," she said. "It was a dear little story.
My great lady was present to-night. We passed and repassed each
other, and gazed placidly at each other's eyebrows. We were vaguely
haunted by a faint fancy that we might have met before; but the
faculties become dimmed with advancing years, and we could not
remember where or how it happened. One often feels that one has
met people, you know."
She balanced her gleaming screen gracefully, looking at him from
under its shadow.
"And it is not only on account of my complexion that I want my
peacock feathers," she continued, dropping her great lady by the
way as if she had not picked her up in the interim. "I want them to
conceal my emotions if your revelations surprise me. Have you never
seen me use them when receiving the compliments of Senator
Planefield and his friends? A little turn to the right or the left—the
least graceful little turn—and I can look as I please, and they will see
nothing and only hear my voice, which, I trust, is always sufficiently
under control."
She wondered if it was sufficiently under control now. She was not
sure, and because she was not sure she made the most reckless
speeches she could think of. There was a story she had heard of a
diplomatist, who once so entirely bewildered his fellow-diplomats
that they found it impossible to cope with him; they were invariably
outwitted by him: the greatest subtlety, the most wondrous coup
d'état, he baffled alike; mystery surrounded him; his every act was
enshrouded in it; with such diplomatic methods it was madness to
combat. When his brilliant and marvellous career was at an end his
secret was discovered; on every occasion he had told the simple,
exact truth. As she leaned back in her chair and played with her
screen Bertha thought of this story. She had applied it to herself
before this. The one thing which would be incredible to him at this
moment, the one thing it would appear more than incredible that
she should tell him, would be the truth—if he realized what that
truth was. Any other story, however wild, might have its air or
suggestion of plausibility; but that, being what it was, she should
have the nerve, the daring, the iron strength of self-control, which it
would require to make a fearless jest of the simple, terrible truth, it
would seem to him the folly of a madman to believe, she knew. To
look him in the eye with a smile, and tell him that she feared his
glance and dreaded his words, would place the statement without
the pale of probability. She had told him things as true before, and
he had not once thought of believing them. "It is never difficult to
persuade him not to believe me," she thought. There was no one of
her many moods of which she felt such terror, in her more natural
moments, as of the one which held possession of her now; and yet
there was none she felt to be so safe, which roused her to such
mental exhilaration while its hour lasted, or resulted in such reaction
when it had passed. "I am never afraid then," she said to Agnes
once. "There is nothing I could not bear. It seems as if I were made
of steel, and had never been soft or timid in my life. Everything is
gone but my power over myself, and—yes, it intoxicates me. Until it
is over I am not really hurt, I think. There was something I read
once about a man who was broken on the wheel, and while it was
being done he laughed, and shrieked, and sang. I think all women
are like that sometimes: while they are being broken they laugh, and
shriek, and sing; but afterward—afterward"—
So now she spoke the simple truth.
"I shall have you at a disadvantage, you may observe," she said. "I
shall see your face, and you will not see mine—unless I wish you to
do so. A little turn of my wrist, and you have only my voice to rely
upon. Do you wish to speak to me before Richard comes in? If so, I
am afraid you must waste no time, as his train is due at twelve. You
were going to say"—
"I am afraid it is something you will not like to hear," he answered,
"though I did not contradict you when you suggested that it was."
"You were outside then," she replied, "and I might not have let you
come in."
"No," he said, "you might not."
He looked at the feather screen which she had inclined a trifle.
"Your screen reminded me of your great lady, Bertha," he said,
"because I saw her to-night, and—and heard her—and she was
speaking of you."
"Of me!" she replied. "That was kind indeed."
"No," he returned, "it was not. She was neither generous nor
lenient; she did not even speak the truth; and yet, as I heard her, I
was obliged to confess that, to those who did not know you and only
saw you as you were to-night, what she said might not appear so
false."
Bertha turned her screen aside and looked at him composedly.
"She was speaking of Senator Planefield," she remarked, "and Judge
Ballard, and Commander Barnacles. She reprehended my frivolity
and deplored the tendency of the age."
"She was speaking of Senator Planefield," he answered.
She moved the screen a little.
"Has Senator Planefield been neglecting her?" she said. "I hope not."
"Lay your screen aside, Bertha," he commanded, hotly. "You don't
need it. What I have to say will not disturb you, as I feared it would
—no, I should say as I hoped it would. It is only this: that these
people were speaking lightly of you—that they connected your name
with Planefield's as—as no honest man is willing that the name of his
wife should be connected with that of another man. That was all;
and I, who am always interfering with your pleasures, could not bear
it, and so have made the blunder of interfering again."
There were many things she had borne, of which she had said
nothing to Agnes Sylvestre in telling her story,—things she had
forced herself to ignore or pass by; but just now some sudden,
passionate realization of them was too much for her, and she
answered him in words she felt it was madness to utter even as they
leaped to her lips.
"Richard has not been unwilling," she said. "Richard has not
resented it!"
"If he had been in my place," he began, feeling ill at ease—"if he
understood"—
She dropped her screen upon her lap and looked at him with steady
eyes.
"No," she interposed, "that is a mistake. He would not have looked
upon the matter as you do. It is only a trifle, after all. You are
overestimating its importance."
"Am I?" he said. "Do you regard it in that light?"
"Yes," she replied, "you are too fastidious. Is the spiteful comment of
an ill-natured, unattractive woman, upon a woman who chances to
be more fortunate than herself, of such weight that it is likely to
influence people greatly? Women are always saying such things of
one another when they are angry. I cannot say them of our friend, it
is true, because—because she is so fortunate as to be placed by
nature beyond reproach. If I had her charms, and her manner, and
her years, I should, perhaps, be beyond reproach too."
She wondered if he would deign to answer her at all. It seemed as if
the execrable bad taste of her words must overwhelm him. If he had
turned his back upon her and left the room, she would have felt no
surprise. To have seen him do so would have been almost a relief.
But, for him, he merely stood perfectly still and watched her.
"Go on," he said, at length.
She faintly smiled.
"Do you want me to say more?" she asked. "Is not that enough? My
great lady was angry, and was stupid enough to proclaim the fact."
She made a quick turn toward him. "To whom was she speaking?"
she demanded. "To a man or a woman?"
"To a man," he answered.
She sank back into her chair and smiled again.
"Ah," she said, "then it is of less consequence even than I imagined.
It is pleasant to reflect that it was a man. One is not afraid of men."
She lifted the screen from her lap, and for a moment he could not
see her face.
"Now he will go," she was saying to herself breathlessly behind it.
"Now he must go. He will go now—and he will not come back."
But he did not go. It was the irony of fate that he should spare her
nothing. In the few moments of silence which followed he had a
great struggle with himself. It was such a struggle that, when it was
at an end, he was pale and looked subdued. There was a chair near
her. He went to it and sat down at her side.
"Bertha," he said, "there has been one thing in the midst of all—all
this, to which you have been true. You have loved your children
when it has seemed that nothing else would touch you. I say
'seemed,' because I swear to you I am unmoved in my disbelief in
what you persist in holding before me—for what reason you know
best. You love your children; you don't lie to me about that—you
don't lie to yourself about it. Perhaps it is only nature, as you said
once, and not tenderness; I don't know. I don't understand you; but
give yourself a few moments to think of them now."
He saw the hand holding the screen tremble; he could not see her
face.
"What—must I think of them?"
He looked down at the floor, knitting his brows and dragging at his
great mustache.
"I overestimate the importance of things," he said. "I don't seem to
know much about the standards society sets up for itself; but it does
not seem a trifle to me that their mother should be spoken of lightly.
There was a girl I knew once—long ago"—He stopped and looked up
at her with sudden, sad candor. "It is you I am thinking of, Bertha,"
he said; "you, as I remember you first when you came home from
school. I was thinking of your mother and your dependence upon
her, and the tenderness there was between you."
"And you were thinking," she added, "that Janey's mother would not
be so good and worthy of trust. That is true."
"I have no answer to make to that, Bertha," he said. "None."
She laid the screen upon her lap once more.
"But it is true," she said; "it is true. Why do you refuse to believe it?
Are you so good that you cannot? Yes, you are! As for me—what did
I tell you? I am neither good nor bad, and I want excitement. Nine
people out of ten are so, and I am no worse than the rest of the
nine. One must be amused. If I were religious, I should have Dorcas
societies and missions. As I am not, I have"—she paused one
second, no more—"I have Senator Planefield."
She could bear the inaction of sitting still no longer. She got up.
"You have an ideal for everything," she said, "for men, women, and
children,—especially for women, I think. You are always telling
yourself that they are good, and pure, and loving, and faithful; that
they adore their children, and are true to their friends. It is very
pretty, but it is not always the fact. You try to believe it is true of
me; but it is not. I am not your ideal woman. I have told you so.
Have you not found out yet that Bertha Amory is not what you were
so sure Bertha Herrick would be?"
"Yes," he answered. "You—you have convinced me of that."
"It was inevitable," she continued. "I was very young then. I knew
nothing of the world or of its distractions and temptations. A
thousand things have happened to change me. And, after all, what
right had you to expect so much of me? I was neither one thing nor
the other, even then; I was only ignorant. You could not expect me
to be ignorant always."
"Bertha," he demanded, "what are you trying to prove to me?"
"Only a little thing," she answered; "that I need my amusements,
and cannot live without them."
He rose from his seat also.
"That you cannot live without Senator Planefield?" he said.
"Go and tell him so," was her reply. "It would please him, and
perhaps this evening he would be inclined to place some confidence
in the statement."
She turned and walked to the end of the room; then she came back
and stood quite still before him.
"I am going to tell you something I would rather keep to myself,"
she said. "It may save us both trouble if I don't spare myself as my
vanity prompts me to do. I said I was no worse than the other nine;
but I am—a little. I am not very fond of anything or any one. Not so
fond even of—Richard and the children, as I seem. I know that,
though they do not. If they were not attractive and amiable, or if
they interfered with my pleasures, my affection would not stand
many shocks. In a certain way I am emotional enough always to
appear better than I am. Things touch me for a moment. I was
touched a little just now when you spoke of remembering my being
a girl. I was moved when Janey was ill and you were so good to me.
I almost persuaded myself that I was good too, and faithful and
affectionate, and yet at the same time I knew it was only a fancy,
and I should get over it. It is easy for me to laugh and cry when I
choose. There are tears in my eyes now, but—they don't deceive
me."
"They look like real tears, Bertha," he said. "They would have
deceived me—if you had not given me warning."
"They always look real," she answered. "And is not there a sort of
merit in my not allowing you to believe in them? Call it a merit,
won't you?"
His face became like a mask. For several seconds he did not speak.
The habit he had of taking refuge in utter silence was the strongest
weapon he could use against her. He did not know its strength; he
only knew that it was the signal of his own desperate helplessness;
but it left her without defence or resource.
"Won't you?" she said, feeling that she must say something.
He hesitated before replying.
"No," he answered, stonily, after the pause. "I won't call it a merit. I
wish you would leave me—something."
That was very hard.
"It is true," she returned, "that I do not—leave you very much."
The words cost her such an effort that there were breaks between
them.
"No," he said, "not much."
There was something almost dogged in his manner. He could not
bear a great deal more, and his consciousness of this truth forced
him to brace himself to outward hardness.
"I don't ask very much," he said. "I only ask you to spare yourself
and your children. I only ask you to keep out of danger. It is yourself
I ask you to think of, not me. Treat me as you like, but don't—don't
be cruel to yourself. I am afraid it does not do for a woman—even a
woman as cool as you are—to trifle with herself and her name. I
have heard it said so, and I could not remain silent after hearing
what I did to-night."
He turned as if to move away.
"You are going?" she said.
"Yes," he replied. "It is very late, and it would be useless to say any
more."
"You have not shaken hands with me," she said when he was half
way to the door. The words forced themselves from her. Her power
of endurance failed her at the last moment, as it had done before
and would do again.
He came back to her.
"You will never hold out your hand to me when I shall not be ready
to take it, Bertha," he said. "You know that."
She did not speak.
"You are chilled," he said. "Your hand is quite cold."
"Yes," she replied. "I shall lie down on the sofa by the fire a little
while before going upstairs."
Without saying anything he left her, drew the sofa nearer to the
hearth and arranged the cushions.
"I would advise you not to fall asleep," he said when this was done.
"I shall not fall asleep," she answered. She went to the sofa and sat
down on it.
"Good-night," she said.
And he answered her "Good-night," and went out of the room.
She sat still a few seconds after he was gone, and then lay down.
Her eyes wandered over the room. She saw the ornaments, the
pictures on the wall, the design of the rug, every minute object, with
a clearness which seemed to magnify its importance and
significance. There was a little Cloissoné jar whose pattern she never
seemed to have seen before; she was looking at it when at last she
spoke.
"It is very hard to live," she said. "I wish it was not—so hard. I wish
there was some way of helping one's self, but there is not. One can
only go on—and on—and there is always something worse coming."
She put her hand upon her breast. Something rose beneath it which
gave her suffocating pain. She staggered to her feet, pressing one
hand on the other to crush this pain down. No woman who has
suffered such a moment but has done the same thing, and done it in
vain. She fell, half-kneeling, half-sitting, upon the rug, her body
against her chair, her arms flung out.
"Why do you struggle with me?" she cried, between her sobs. "Why
do you look at me so? You—hurt me! I love you! Oh! let me go—let
me go! Don't you know—I can't bear it!"
In the street she heard the carriages rolling homeward from some
gay gathering. One of them stopped a few doors away, and the
people got out of it laughing and talking.
"Don't laugh!" she said, shuddering. "No one—should laugh! I laugh!
O God! O God!"

In half an hour Richard came in. He had taken Miss Varien home,
and remained to talk with her a short time. As he entered the house
Bertha was going up the staircase, her gleaming dress trailing
behind her, her feather-trimmed wrap over her arm. She turned and
smiled down at him.
"Your charms will desert you if you keep such hours as these," she
said. "How did you enjoy yourself, or, rather, how did you enjoy Miss
Varien, and how many dazzling remarks did she make?"
"More than I could count," he said, laughing. "Wait a moment for me
—I am coming up." And he ran up the steps lightly and joined her,
slipping his arm about her waist.
"You look tired," he said, "but your charms never desert you. Was
that the shudder of guilt? Whose peace of mind have you been
destroying?"
"Colonel Tredennis'," she answered.
"Then it was not the shudder of guilt," he returned, laughing again.
And, as she leaned gently against him, he bent and kissed her.
 CHAPTER XXV.
It was generally conceded that nothing could be more agreeable
than Mrs. Sylvestre's position and surroundings. Those of her
acquaintance who had known her before her marriage, seeking her
out, pronounced her more full of charm than ever; those who saw
her for the first time could scarcely express with too much warmth
their pleasure in her grace, gentleness, and beauty. Her house was
only less admired than herself, and Mrs. Merriam, promptly
gathering a coterie of old friends about her, established herself most
enviably at once. It became known to the world, through the
medium of the social columns of the dailies, that Mrs. Sylvestre was
at home on Tuesday afternoons, and that she also received her
friends each Wednesday evening. On these occasions her parlors
were always well filled, and with society so agreeable that it was not
long before they were counted among the most attractive social
features of the week. Professor Herrick himself appeared on several
Wednesdays, and it was gradually remarked that Colonel Tredennis
presented himself upon the scene more frequently than their own
previous knowledge of his habits would have led the observers to
expect. On seeing Mrs. Sylvestre in the midst of her guests and
admirers, Miss Jessup was reminded of Madame Récamier and the
salons of Paris, and wrote almost an entire letter on the subject,
which was printed by the "Wabash Times," under the heading of "A
Recent Récamier," and described Mrs. Sylvestre's violet eyes, soft
voice, and willowy figure, with nothing short of enthusiasm.
Under these honors Mrs. Sylvestre bore herself very calmly. If she
had a fault, an impetuous acquaintance once remarked, it was that
she was too calm. She found her life even more interesting than she
had hoped it would be; there was pleasure in the renewal of old
friendships and habits and the formation of new ones, and in time it
became less difficult to hold regrets and memories in check with a