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After the Crash
Understanding the Social,
Economic and Technological
Consequences of the 2008 Crisis

Orhan Erdem
 After the Crash

“The Great Depression has not only caused economic tragedy throughout the
globe but also paved the way to WWII. Now, it’s been more than a decade since
the 2008 crisis. The big question is ‘what awaits us next?’ After the Crash provides
a very accurate narrative of events and theories that led to the 2008 crisis. How
did this crisis give birth to digital technologies such as blockchain and sharing
economy among others? How did it make our world vulnerable to increased
polarization and authoritarianism? Erdem is a scholar trained both in economics
and physics, who has years of experience in both financial and scholarly world.
Combined with his powerful storytelling, his book is a must read for anyone
who wants to gain insight on ‘what awaits us next’ in the aftermath of the 2008
crisis!”
—Burak Can, Assistant Professor of Data Analytics and Digitalisation,
Maastricht University

“Orhan Erdem provides a thorough investigation of how static economic theories

enforced rigid mental models of human behavior that obfuscated warnings of the
2008 crisis. A book that should be required reading for any social science scholar,
this narrative crafts a clear understanding that economics incorporates the varied
intricacies of the irrationality of human decision-making.”
—Mandolen Mull, Assistant Professor of Leadership, Rockford University

“Orhan Erdem’s After the Crash is an engaging, important, and highly readable
exploration of how the 2008 financial crisis reshaped the world. Through fas-
cinating historical anecdotes, penetrating insights into economics research, and
complementary ideas from psychology and political science, Erdem’s analysis of
the many ways in which our economy and society have changed in response to
the crisis and how they are likely to continue to be impacted in the future is
worth reading for scholars of any field.”
—Roxana Idu, Assistant Professor of Economics, Elgin Community College
 Orhan Erdem

After the Crash

Understanding the Social, Economic
and Technological Consequences
of the 2008 Crisis
Orhan Erdem
Puri School of Business
Rockford University
Rockford, IL, USA

ISBN 978-3-030-43342-0 ISBN 978-3-030-43343-7 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-43343-7

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer
Nature Switzerland AG 2020
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights
of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on
microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and
retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology
now known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc.
in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such
names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for
general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and informa-
tion in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither
the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with
respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been
made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps
and institutional affiliations.

Cover illustration: © Melisa Hasan

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
I would like to dedicate this book to my wife, Şükran Erdem, and my sons
Osman and Ömer whom I missed for two and a half years during which I
wrote this book.
 Acknowledgements

It is not always happy and comfortable life that teaches us. I owe my
thanks to one comfort and one discomfort. A three-year time of painful
separation from my family due to a political crisis in Turkey in 2016 pro-
vided me time to think about how the global arena has been shaping
and where the world has been heading. I owe my thoughts to this time
of stress and endless motivation and encouragement of my wife, Sukran
Erdem.
Having a good student and curious colleague profile has always been
a comfort. I would like to extend my sincere thanks to all my students
at Rockford University and friends who helped improve this book, espe-
cially Annie Daab, Leslie Johns, Monna Ohme, and Leah Zahn. I also feel
lucky to have three great and in-the-know reviewers, Maastricht Univer-
sity professor Dr. Burak Can, who provided continuous feedback while I
was drafting the book, Rockford University professor Dr. Mehmet Dik,
who read the whole manuscript two times and extensively commented on
it, and my dear friend Mehmet Berksan, who read the book meticulously
and spent hours on the phone, discussing my ideas. They both deserve
special thanks. My copy editor Paula Buckner’s critiques and questions
helped shape this book as good as you have now.

vii
 Contents

1 Introduction 1

2 Before the Crisis 7

3 The 2008 Crisis 23

4 The Crisis and Aftermath-I: Behavioral Economics 53

5 The Crisis and Aftermath-II: Society and Economics 77

6 Conclusion 111

Index 115

ix
 List of Figures

Fig. 2.1 U.S. household debt (Source Fed quarterly

report on household debt and credit [https://
www.newyorkfed.org/microeconomics/databank.html],
The Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis [https://
fred.stlouisfed.org/series/GDP] and author’s calculations) 10
Fig. 3.1 The price chart of two U.S. stocks from 1990 to 2005 (Source
Yahoo Finance adjusted close prices) 27
Fig. 3.2 The stock prices of Bristol-Myers Squibb and Fannie Mae
from January 1990 to December 2018 (Source Yahoo Finance
adjusted close prices) 28
Fig. 3.3 S&P 500 index from the peak (Source Yahoo Finance adjusted
prices and author’s calculations) 39
Fig. 3.4 U.S. house prices (Case-Shiller) (Source http://
www.econ.yale.edu/~shiller/data.htm) 40

xi
 CHAPTER 1

Introduction

Abstract This chapter introduces the main idea and presents the flow
and the plan of the book.

Keywords Financial crises · Transformation · Recovery · Technology

Financial crises do not always result in economic consequences only.

Changing political arena, new institutions and social unrest often accom-
pany economic consequences. Analyzing 20 developed countries (Funke
et al. 2016), for example, reveal that after a financial crisis, democratic
tendencies weaken, political polarization rises, and voting share of the
extreme right parties increase by an average of 30 percent. Some of
the offsprings of the crises might include new governments with new
promises, new laws or new financial, and economic institutions. These
offsprings are mostly analyzed alone, excluded one from the others;
economists call this ceteris paribus—everything else is kept constant.
Political scientists would like to discuss the crises from their perspective,
sociologists prefer to analyze the cases from social points of view, and
economists study economic consequences. However, a broader discussion
without excluding the other disciplines provides us with a better under-
standing as the world is getting more and more complex. The question I
am trying to answer in this book is “What are the social, economic, and
technological consequences of the 2008 crisis?”

© The Author(s) 2020 1

O. Erdem, After the Crash,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-43343-7_1
2 O. ERDEM

Eleven years after the 2008 global financial crisis, much has been said
and written about its causes and the lessons to be learned.1 However, as
Mian and Sufi (2014) say “the recovery from the Great Recession has
been terrible.” Thus, the changes that took place afterward deserve to be
discussed from a broader perspective.
The 2008 crisis was one of the biggest the world has experienced.2
Millions of people were hurt, economically or psychologically. Many com-
panies went bankrupt or were rescued by the governments, causing bil-
lions of dollars of losses to taxpayers. Many economies have gone through
recessions, and some have not recovered yet. Even though the U.S. econ-
omy has recovered almost fully from the crisis, it is estimated that the
crisis cost every American a lifetime present-value income loss of $70,000
(Barnichon et al. 2018). However, its effects were not restricted to finan-
cial damages only. It marked the beginning of a new era, which was asso-
ciated with a new understanding of theoretical and practical economics.
This book looks at the crisis with the perspective that the 2008 crash
had epochal changes in our lives. These changes point to an era whose
characteristics are fundamentally different from those of pre-2008 years.
It has been famously said, “Every cloud has a silver lining,” and this crisis
is no exception. What did the crisis change and what are its implications
for us?
I begin by explaining that the first thing that was deeply affected by
the crisis was the economic theory. The classical economic theory, which
was central to the economic policies of several countries, is not well-suited
for error-making humans, and it needs to be updated. We were imagined
to be creatures with perfect foresight, calculation ability, and consistency;
these assumptions provided easy, elegant solutions to problems. However,
some of its main assumptions are unrealistic and provide useless results in
real life. For example, Gary Becker, who received the Sveriges Riksbank
Prize in Economic Sciences in Memory of Alfred Nobel3 in 1992, claimed
that people had children because children were durable goods (Becker
1960), no different than a refrigerator, washing machine, or hairdryer.
The 1982 Nobel laureate, George Stigler, wrote in 1977 that the tastes of
people are similar and do not change over time (Stigler and Becker 1977).
This claim means that everybody has the same preferences over choices,
like food, cars, and houses. This is done for the sake of easy and simple
solutions to economic problems. Once it is assumed that everybody has
the same tastes, it will be straightforward to calculate how a nation would
behave. However, the prediction will not be accurate.
 1 INTRODUCTION 3

These were some stunning examples of a broader idea, called ratio-

nality, which formed the basis of current economic models. We had
to update the economic models to understand the economic decision-
making of humans, but we could not. The economists kept using
outdated models, which paved the way to a financial crisis. Even though
many researchers warned academia about the downsides of these assump-
tions, they were not heeded. The idea that people and companies act
rationally was shaken heavily when market participants did not behave
during the crisis as the theory said they should. The results of the
incomplete formulations and unrealistic assumptions were devastating.
Barry Eichengreen, professor of economics at the University of California
at Berkeley, described this situation: “The great credit crisis has cast
into doubt much of what we thought we knew about the economics”
(The Economist 2009) In other words, the aim to solve the economic
problems of humanity was simplified so heavily that it became useless.
In 2017, nine years after the crisis, an economist received a Nobel Prize
simply for saying that humans make mistakes, they are not robots. His
outstanding works, which were ignored and even ridiculed for decades,
are now appreciated at the highest level. The crisis led us to rethink and
redesign the economic theory, which will totally change the markets and
economic policies in the future. Most of the new research in economics
is no longer assuming fully rational agents acting in perfect free markets.
New theories and policy assertions now consider humans as error-making
and evolving. Thus, this era can be identified with more humane values.
The social life, science, even economic policies, will be designed in a way
that better suits human needs. This would not have happened if there had
been no crisis because economics was previously referred to as one of the
most isolated sciences.
The after-the-crisis-changes are barely restricted to economic theory,
which I explain next. On the governmental side, we have been observing
a natural parallel between authoritarianism and the way many democratic
countries are being governed. Liberalism seems to have failed.4 People
have been losing their trust in economic regimes. Driven by the anger
over the crisis and thanks to technology, people invented new ways of
trading, traveling, lodging, and living that once seemed contrary to capi-
talism. Some of these are practical changes, such as cryptocurrencies, shar-
ing economy, and service subscriptions. Bitcoin was a manifesto to the
monetary system; sharing economy was a rebellion to the consumerist
4 O. ERDEM

lifestyle; and subscriptions were a threat to ownership, the basis of capi-

talism. Without a crisis, these would never have been created.
We are experiencing a profound transformation driven mainly by the
consequences of the crisis, and winding back the clock is not an option.
What do they imply and how are they shaping our lives? What do they
mean for the future? This book, which derives conclusions from several
research, including mine, and political developments, aims to answer these
questions. A few pieces which are related to the behavioral finance are
paraphrased from my earlier empirical works. I use a narrative way of pre-
sentation, and aim to make the book a scholarly one which targets scholars
from all disciplines.
The book proceeds as follows: Chapter 2 starts with the precrisis
period. It mentions a couple of main breakthrough events in history.
Chapter 3 talks about the crisis and how it happened, and Chapter 4
reviews how the crisis helped to change the economic theory. Chapter 5
focuses on what other changes we have in our economic lives and what
we can expect in the near future. Chapter 6 reviews my main argument
and concludes. This book can be a good start to understand the changing
world but never a good place to stop.

Notes
1. See for example Skidelsky (2009, 5), Mian and Sufi (2014), Gjerstad and
Smith (2014), and Bernanke et al. (2019, 29–30) for a long list of reasons.
2. By any measures, Reinhart and Rogoff (2009, 208) refer this crisis as the
“most serious global financial crisis since the Great Depression.”
3. Sveriges Riksbank (Sweden’s central bank) Prize in Economic Sciences in
Memory of Alfred Nobel is commonly referred to as the Nobel Prize in
Economics. The first Prize in Economic Sciences was awarded to Ragnar
Frisch and Jan Tinbergen in 1969 (Source: www.nobelprize.org). From
here on, I will use Nobel Prize in Economics for the sake of simplicity.
4. After mentioning the problems associated with the liberalism, Harari (2018)
concludes liberalism is losing credibility.

References
Barnichon, Regis, Christian Matthes, and Alexander Ziegenbein. 2018. The
Financial Crisis at 10: Will We Ever Recover? FRBSF Economic Let-
ter, August 13. Accessed March 7, 2019. https://www.frbsf.org/economic-
research/files/el2018-19.pdf.
 1 INTRODUCTION 5

Becker, Gary S. 1960. “An Economic Analysis of Fertility.” In Demographic

and Economic Change in Developed Countries, by Universities-National Bureau
Committee for Economic Research, edited by George B. Roberts, 209–240.
New York: Columbia University Press.
Bernanke, Ben S., Timothy F. Geithner, and Henry M. Paulson, Jr. 2019. Fire-
fighting the Financial Crisis and Its Lessons. New York: Penguin Books.
Funke, Manuel, Moritz Schularick, and Christoph Trebesch. 2016. “Going to
Extremes: Politics After Financial Crises, 1870–2014.” European Economic
Review 88: 227–260.
Gjerstad, Steven D., and Vernon L. Smith. 2014. Rethinking Housing Bubble.
New York: Cambridge University Press.
Harari, Yuval Noah. 2018. 21 Lessons for the 21st Century. New York: Spiegel &
Grau.
Mian, Atif, and Amir Sufi. 2014. House of Debt. Chicago: University of Chicago
Press.
Reinhart, Carmen M., and Kenneth S. Rogoff. 2009. This Time Is Different.
Princeton and Oxford, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Skidelsky, Robert. 2009. Keynes: The Return of the Master. New York: Public
Affairs.
Stigler, George J., and Gary S. Becker. 1977. “De Gustibus Non Est Disputan-
dum.” American Economic Review 67 (2): 76–90.
The Economist. 2009. “What Went Wrong with Economics?” The Economist, July
18. Accessed March 12, 2019. https://www.economist.com/leaders/2009/
07/16/what-went-wrong-with-economics.
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
 The young woman drew herself up and surveyed me with a cold
expression. It was several seconds before I divined its cause, and
then I had sense enough to pretend not to notice.
"A passenger who is going to occupy a room in that part of the
boat wants, if possible, to have his niece near him," I continued.
"She will take the upper berth, if you are willing, in your cabin, but it
rests with you. I have arranged for the entire room."
Her icy features relaxed and she was herself again.
"I am quite willing," she answered. "In fact, had I known you
intended to reserve an entire room for me I should have protested.
Of course, it adds to the expense and I would rather have some one
there than not. Are you going to occupy your room alone?"
I told her about Wesson, and she endorsed my action
unreservedly.
"Where a trip cost so much, there is no need of adding to the
expense," she said, thoughtfully. "I want to say another thing: As I
am putting you to so much cost, you need not feel obliged on my
account to stop at the highest priced hotels, when we are on shore.
Anything comfortable and respectable will satisfy me."
I laughed as I responded that the best hotels in the Caribbean
were neither very dear nor very luxurious. I would take her where I
should have gone had I been alone and I hoped she would find
herself "comfortable," as she expressed it, at all of them. I glanced
at my watch at this juncture and suggested that perhaps I had best
be going. If she was to do any shopping that day she would have to
receive the "needful" very soon.
"Oh, to-morrow will do for the shopping," she replied. "If it is
convenient you may send the money to-night, but I could not make
much progress after this hour of the day. I shall probably have to get
my suits ready made and submit to alterations. There is very little
time left us now."
 There was a partnership in this expression that pleased me
greatly. I said as I rose that I hoped no new doubts would creep into
her head, for I felt as if the journey we were to make together had
actually begun.
"I cannot conceive of a reason to change my mind, unless it
comes from some action of yours," said Miss May. "And I feel quite
certain there will not be any."
"You may be positive of it," I replied. "I will go now to order the
trunks, which may not, however, arrive before morning. As to the
money, I will send it by a messenger as soon as possible. Au revoir."
"Au revoir," she said. "Let me add one thing more before you go. I
am very grateful for the kindness you are showing me, more so than
I fear I make plain, and as far as lies in my power I will endeavor to
prove it."
"Don't mention it," I said, affected by her words. "All the
obligation has been and will continue to remain on my side. Expect
me Saturday afternoon."
I had again escaped without yielding to a temptation to do
something foolish, for which I thanked my stars. It was with positive
elation that I walked toward Sixth Avenue.
The dream was coming true. She was going with me. Nothing
would come between us now!
I went without delay to my bank and drew four hundred dollars in
fifty dollars bills, three hundred of which I enclosed in an envelope
and sent at once to Miss May, by a district messenger. I thought it
would drive another nail in the transaction to increase the amount I
had promised, and fifty dollars was to me, in this connection, like a
brass farthing to a millionaire.
Taking a passing car I rode to Macy's, where I purchased a large
and a small trunk of compressed bamboo, covered with cloth of
imitation leather, the lightest and strongest trunk that human
ingenuity has yet invented. The larger one had several trays and a
hat box, and was pronounced by the salesman the very latest thing.
The bag gave me more trouble, but I settled at last on a tasty affair,
with special arrangements for toilet articles, which was to be its
main object of use, and heard to my delight that all of the things
would be delivered without fail that very evening.
On returning to my room I picked up the letters received from the
Herald office and read them over again, laughing occasionally at
something particularly amusing. What a lot of silly women there
must be in New York, when a modest "Personal" like mine had set so
many of them spoiling good stationery with such nonsense. The only
two worth giving any thought to were those from Marjorie and Miss
Brazier. A whimsical notion struck me to write to "Alice" and tell her
how near she had been to winning the "prize" in my case. In the
course of fifteen minutes I had produced the following letter:
 My Dear Miss Brazier:—As there were but two answers to my
Herald advertisement (out of nearly as many hundred) worth
noticing, and as yours was one of them, I may be pardoned for
telling you that your Hated Rival has been secured by me for my
Tropical Trip. Had you given me the least chance to discover your
excellencies, it might quite as likely have been your fate to
accompany me, so you will see how very narrow was your
escape. Having recently recovered from a long illness (whence the
necessity of a Southern voyage) I had no desire to meet your
angry relatives, and I have yet to learn how to gauge a young
lady's personality by mail. So you put yourself out of the running
to begin with.
I am sure, however, it will please you to know that Another has
satisfied herself with my proposals and is now engaged in
preparations to accompany me to a warmer clime. She is not only
"all my fancy painted her," but more. As near as I can tell in the
absence of actual measurements, she is about S feet 4 inches in
height, well made, full chested, with a face to dream about, bluish
gray eyes and hair of a rather light shade. But this description
fails utterly to convey an adequate idea of her exquisite charm.
I am to pay her—imagine making a pecuniary arrangement with
an houri!—twenty dollars a week and expenses, only; except that
the wardrobe which she finds it necessary to purchase for a
climate averaging 78 deg. at this season, is also to be charged to
me.
Was ever so much given for so little? I shall certainly insist on
her accepting a nice little purse of "conscience money" on her
return, if we decide, on mature reflection, to terminate our
contract at that time.
Now, be magnanimous and write me a note of congratulation; I
am sure you have a kind heart and will be glad all my
correspondents did not threaten me with gouty and quick
tempered uncles in case I wished to call on a purely business
errand.
Very Truly,
David Camwell, Lambs Club.
New York, Dec. 30, 1897.
 I summoned a district messenger, by a call in my room, and
dispatched this to East Sixteenth Street, though why I did not put it
in the mail I do not know. There was certainly no haste required.
The steward of the club would send an answer, if one was received,
without delay, for I had given him my pseudonym, and he was too
wise to ask questions.
That night I dreamed I was at St. Thomas; that Marjorie had
somehow changed into the Quarantine Keeper's daughter; and that
Laps, the Danish dog, was proceeding to tear her in pieces, when I
interfered and treated him as Samson did the Lion in the Hebrew
tale. The girl had fainted in my arms and, I was calling wildly upon
Heaven to restore her senses, when a servant, up late, woke me by
knocking on my door and inquiring if I wished for anything.
I searched for a bootjack to throw at the fellow's head, and not
finding it in the dark, I threw a few uncomplimentary expletives
instead. But sleep had vanished for that night, and after taking a
cold bath I threw myself on a sofa, where with a pipe in my mouth I
spent the long hours till morning drawing pictures of the happiness
so soon to be mine.
 CHAPTER VIII.
"A WOMAN I LIKE VERY WELL."

The first thought that struck me when I was ready for breakfast
was that my new secretary ought to terminate her arrangement with
that disagreeably affectionate employer and keep open house during
each entire day and evening for my benefit. The mornings that were
to elapse before the sailing of the "Madiana" would be terribly dull. I
had tried to make it clear to Miss May that her salary had already
begun to be reckoned and I did not see why she should carry on two
business engagements at the same time.
When I rose from the table on which my coffee and eggs had
been spread, it was to receive a letter which had passed through the
Lambs Club and was undoubtedly a reply to the one I had sent Miss
Brazier on the previous day. It would at least entertain me for a few
moments to know what that apparently lively young lady had to say:

Dear Sir:—[it began—coldly enough, I thought] Your

communication has been duly received and its contents noted.
Although it is unlikely, and certainly, on my part, not desired, that
we shall ever meet, I must inform you that my answer to your
advertisement was written purely in fun and without the least
idea of accepting your remarkable proposition. I will add that I
am surprised that you have succeeded in inducing any woman of
the least respectability to undertake such a journey, and I fear
that your impression of her high character will receive some
severe wrenches before your return.
It must require unusual "nerve" to start off for several months
with an unmarried man (or a married one, for that matter) putting
ones self at his mercy, for that is what it amounts to. When the
individual is wholly unknown to the woman who is to accompany
him—when he may, for all she knows, be a "Jack, the Ripper"—
the foolhardiness of the idea grows on one. I am sure I do not
 envy your companion, though it is by no means certain but you,
and not she, will be the most swindled in the affair.
I conjure you, however, though a total stranger, that if your
friend proves to be merely a misguided girl of good intentions,
you will not soil your soul with the greatest guilt of which a man
can be capable. Remember, if your thoughts are dishonorable,
that you have or have had a Mother, perhaps a Sister, whose
memory should make you pause before you inflict irreparable ruin
on one of the same sex.
Yours Sincerely,
A.B.
New York, Dec. 31, 1897.

A strange letter, I thought, take it altogether. I read it over slowly

for the second time. The first few lines indicated disappointment,
and a perusal of the remaining portion did not remove this
impression, entirely. The final sentences sobered me. The reflections
they induced were certainly not exhilarating. Although I have no
sister and cannot remember my mother, I have a great veneration
for my lost parents, and there is no string so susceptible of influence
on my actions as the one this writer touched.
I made a new resolution that I would carry myself like a
gentleman in the truest sense of the word with Miss May. I had been
honest in the expressions I used when talking the matter over with
Harvey Hume. The earnest admonitions of Dr. Chambers had not
been without effect. I meant to prove by this journey that I was
capable of being in the close companionship of a young lady without
becoming either a brute or a Don Juan.
Looking at it even from the standpoint of an enlightened
selfishness I was sure to get more satisfaction in a voyage with a
woman whom I could respect than with one who assumed the role
of a cyprienne.
Loose creatures are to be found in plenty in the Caribbee Islands,
as well as in New York. A sweet, true, honest, intelligent bit of
femininity was quite another thing, and infinitely to be preferred,
from any sensible view.
Marjorie! So far as my uncertain mind could do so I pledged to her
a purity of intercourse such as a man might give to his affianced
sweetheart.
I had folded the letter up and put it in my pocket when a visitor
was announced, no less a person than Tom Barton. He came toward
me with a distressed look on his honest countenance and it was
plain that he was far from being at ease.
"Don," he said, paying no attention to my motion toward a chair,
"what is the trouble between you and Statia? I can't believe you
have done anything intentionally to set her so against you, and yet
—"
"Sit down and don't get excited," I responded quickly, deciding to
dispose of the matter in the calmest way. "Have you had your
coffee? If not, let me ring for another pot. You don't seem well this
morning, old boy."
"I'm not well," he said, in a dispirited tone, taking the chair at last.
"But you can make me so with one word. Last night Statia came to
me with her eyes full of tears. 'Tom,' she said, 'if you love me I want
you to promise never to see Donald Camran again.' 'Never to see
Don!' I exclaimed, unable to believe my ears. 'Yes,' said she, 'I've
told him I don't wish him to call here and I want you to write him to
the same effect.' You may imagine what a staggerer that was.
There's not another fellow in the world of whom I wouldn't rather
she'd have said that. I tried to get her to give some reason—any
reason, or the hint of one—but it was no use. She only cried the
harder, and when at last I went to bed, I tell you I didn't get much
sleep. Tell me, Don, what it means."
"It seems you didn't make your sister the promise," I replied. "And
you were quite right. The whim of a girl should not come between
stanch friends like us."
 That did not satisfy him, however. He murmured that we had been
good friends—that he couldn't bear to think we should ever be
otherwise—but he wanted to understand what his sister meant. As
she wouldn't tell him, he had come to ask that favor of me.
"Supposing I don't care to say anything about it," I replied,
quietly. "If Statia is set on keeping the wonderful secret, how can
you expect me to divulge it?"
He struggled a moment with this idea, for Tom was always slow in
grasping abstruse problems.
"You'll have to help me clear up the mystery," he said, at last. "I've
only got one sister, Don, and she and I are all there are to the family
now. If it comes to losing my sister or my best friend, I must stand
by Statia."
I felt a chill going over my flesh as he spoke. I liked Tom, and I
liked Statia—yes, in spite of the silly meeting of the day before. It
was better to back down a little than to lose such friends.
"What a serious matter you make of it!" I exclaimed. "You ask me
what is the trouble between Statia and me. Well, the fact is, I hardly
know. She met me in Broadway yesterday and wanted to make me
promise something that I could not see—to be candid—was any
affair of hers. When I declined, as courteously as I knew how, she
flew at me with the statement that I need never call at her house
again. I had no choice in the matter, Tom, not the least. I wouldn't
do anything to justify her in talking to me in that way, if I could help
it, but one must retain a few of his personal rights, you know."
"And what was it about?" asked Tom, very earnestly.
"It was about a woman. A woman I like very well, and who
happens to be going on the same steamer I am to the Tropics.
There! The terrible secret is out."
Tom studied the answer a long time, but evidently could make
nothing of it.
 "Statia has always liked you immensely, Don," he said. "I've been
almost jealous of you sometimes. She wouldn't go against you all of
a sudden without what seemed to her a strong reason."
"And I like Statia," was my reply. "Yes, in spite of the ugly attitude
she has chosen to take toward me. Why, Tom—I don't know but,
under the circumstances, I ought to tell you—I asked her only a
week ago to marry me."
"Ah!" he exclaimed, in a mixture of happiness and pain, that was
very touching.
"Yes, and she refused positively. I was disappointed, you may
believe, for I had thought she entertained a decided feeling in my
favor, and would have asked long before except for that illness of
mine. Her attitude might have thrown me back into the doctor's
hands, for my head is not yet any too strong, but I managed to
crush down my thoughts and bear up under it. I hope it's not wrong
to tell you this, old chap, but I don't think I ought to let you go off
with wrong impressions of me."
He shook his head in mute dismay.
"The other woman—the one you and she were speaking about,"
he said. "Who is she? It seems as if the key to the whole trouble
was there."
"Now, Tom," I replied, "you have no right to ask me a question
like that and I shall have to decline to bring the name of a third
person into this discussion. I have the greatest regard for you and
the highest respect for Statia. If you decide to throw me over, the
responsibility must rest where it belongs."
"Would you—would you come round to the house and talk it over
with both of us together?" he asked, after a long pause. "It troubles
me more than I can tell you. Would you come over, say Tuesday
evening?"
"Yes," I said, smilingly, "if Statia writes me a letter asking me to
do so."
 "She must write it," he said, brightening. "I can't have our
friendship broken up like this. Shall you be at home all day?"
I answered that I would be there just before dinner, at least, to
receive any communication that might be sent, and Tom, taking my
hand in his hearty grasp for the first time since he had been in the
room, said 'Good-by' and left me, evidently much relieved.
I was by no means as certain as he that Statia would make any
such back-down. I have noticed that women are more apt than men
to stick to a position they have once taken, even after they find that
the mistake is on their side.
But, I really hoped some avenue would be opened for a
reconciliation without my having to go on bended knees to either of
them, which I saw no reason for doing.
I had told Tom all it would be safe to tell. He was so immaculate in
all his thoughts of women that there was no saying how my plan, if
fully presented, would strike his mind. I certainly did not mean to
risk it.
It was a day that had begun disagreeably and I was looking
forward to at least a pleasant afternoon, when a note from Miss May
came, to dash that prospect to the ground. Here it is:

My Dear Mr. C.:—I fear you have undertaken a larger contract

than you anticipated when you began. To be plain, the amount
you left in my hands will hardly suffice to provide all the
necessaries for a lady travelling as your relation and equal. If you
are satisfied I will consent, though I am sure I would not have
done so at first, to go as your ward, merely,—as a young woman
whom you have promised some friend to see on her journey to a
point where she is to be a governess or whatever you like to say.
In that case you will not be disgraced if I do not dress very
well. I cannot endure the thought of being suspected; and a lady
such as you wish me to appear would have three or four gowns
suitable for appearing at table, with at least a little jewelry—of
which, alas! I have practically nothing.
 I write you this with a heavy heart, for I fear you will begin to
consider me a nuisance, but I hope you will understand. I went
out this morning and priced several gowns, but finding that the
money you left me would be exhausted before the really
necessary things were obtained, I returned to my room without
breaking one of the banknotes.
Please reply by messenger, stating what you think it best to do.
If I am going to cost you more than you wish to expend, tell me
so frankly and I will release you from every obligation. I resigned
my other position last night, but am certain my old employer will
gladly take me back if I have to ask it. Ugh! that is the most
disagreeable thought in connection with this entire matter!
Understand, I am ready to go with you—I want to go—and I
leave the position I am supposed to occupy to your own
judgment. If I am to pass as a governess, in whom you have no
special interest, you may return me half of the money enclosed
and I shall find it amply sufficient. If I am to be your "cousin," I
fear it will have to be doubled.
Please do not decide in a way you will regret. I am obliged to
leave the city on an early train, to remain over New Years with
friends, but shall expect you Tuesday at any hour after ten. That
is, if you wish to see me again.
Yours Faithfully,
M.M.
P.S. The trunks and bag are splendid. Of course, I shall hold
them subject to your orders if you decide to drop our
arrangement.

I looked at the six fifty dollar bills lying on the table, where they
had fallen from the envelope. The messenger boy looked at them
also, as if he half wished he had run away with the package instead
of delivering it. His presence disturbed me and I told him to walk
around the block, returning in a quarter of an hour. This he hesitated
to do and I shoved a two dollar bill into his fist, as a guarantee of
my good faith.
What a criss-cross of ideas piled upon my brain when I was alone!
At one instant I said to myself that Miss May was a schemer, who
had determined to "play me for a sucker,"—to use a common,
though not over delicate expression. She had been indiscreet in
returning my cash; I would put it in my pocket and forget her. On
the other hand, the thought of going south alone was enough to
madden me. I did not care two straws that the cost of the trip would
be doubled, if it possessed the charming features I had allowed
myself to paint.
The woman's going into the country for two whole days when the
question was unsettled was also most exasperating. If I could
proceed immediately to her room and talk with her face to face it
would be easier to decide.
The fifteen minutes passed, the boy returned, and I was still in a
quandary. Finally, when the young imp presented himself in a
business-like attitude, I seized a pen and wrote as follows:

Destroy the note I sent a moment ago and substitute this one.
Dear Miss May:—["Dear" does not mean anything at the
beginning of a letter]—I am very sorry to learn that you feel it
necessary to be absent over Monday, as I have many things to
say to you. Perhaps, as you can do nothing in the meantime, it is
best to let the matter rest till Tuesday morning, when I will call,
promptly at ten, and we will decide everything.
Yours,
D.C.

The boy took this note, when it was sealed and addressed, and
disappeared like magic. He had hardly gone when I wished I had
sent a letter of different purport. There was an awful possibility that
Miss May would take the chance I had undoubtedly offered, to give
up the whole idea of going. She had certainly not seemed as
enthusiastic as I could wish. I ran to a window, threw it open, and
would have whistled to the boy, but he was nowhere to be seen.
It was like a matter of life and death to me then. Ringing in a call
I took my pen again and indited the following:
 Dear Marjorie:—for so you said I might call you:—I return the
money that you sent back to me. Keep it till I meet you Tuesday
morning at ten, when I will come prepared with a sum which will
certainly meet every demand you can put upon it. You are wiser
than I about feminine apparel and could not please me better
than by the forethought you display. It is with great regret that I
learn you are to be absent over Sunday and Monday, when I had
hoped to pass some pleasant hours with you, but I cheerfully
yield to your arrangement. Within a few days there will be no
other friends to distract your attention from one who will prove
himself the truest of them all.
Sincerely Yours,
D.C.
No. — Thirty-fourth Street.

I procured a large envelope and took it into the bedroom, where I

could re-insert the bank bills without danger of arousing the cupidity
of young Mercury. With a lead pencil I added to the note a request
that the recipient would send just a line by bearer to show that my
message had arrived safely, and saw the boy depart, feeling that I
had at last done the sensible thing.
Whether this proved to be the case I will leave the reader to judge
when he has finished this volume.
 CHAPTER IX.
A PRIVATE DINING ROOM.

Saturday evening was dull enough, being only brightened by a

pencilled note from Miss May, reading simply, "Money received. Will
see you Tuesday." I went over to the Lyceum Theatre to a play
called "The Tree of Knowledge," which I now believe one of the
brightest things produced on the American stage in years, though I
was too full of other thoughts to appreciate it at the time.
It was an attempt to shift the burden of blame that has rested in
all fiction on the shoulders of the man, to that of the woman, and
was so far rather welcome to me. We are a bad lot, as a rule, I am
afraid, but some allowance should be made for a case like the one in
the play, where a well intentioned young fellow is used as a football
by a girl who does not care if his life is ruined, so long as she
accomplishes her designs.
I remember being somewhat surprised at the apparent approval of
the fine audience, but that may have been due in a measure to the
delightful acting of the various parts. I had not been to the Lyceum
for a long time and did not remember to have seen the "wronged
young man" before, but he made a most favorable impression on me
as more natural and less stagey than the average. The "villain,"—the
masculine one—was an excellent actor, also. As for the "wicked"
woman, I thought, if Marjorie failed me, I would give her an
invitation to spend the rest of the winter in the Caribbean.
Sunday was weariness itself. I poured over the newspapers, took a
walk, managed to get a short nap, for I was tired, ate my lunch, and
then, to fill up the time, wrote a letter to Miss Brazier, in defense of
myself from the severe attack that unknown young woman had
made. It was a silly proceeding, but I liked to write about Marjorie,
even to one wholly unknown, and this is what I said, as near as I
can remember it:

Dear Alice (Ben Bolt):—I feel justified in calling you "Alice," now
it is settled that you are not to be my companion for long and (to
you, doubtless) weary weeks, a liberty I should never have
dreamed of taking had you decided to go. I do not know in what
way I have offended you, which I judge by your letter to be the
case, but as the children say, "If I've done anything I'm sorry for,
I'm glad of it." (Of course I don't mean exactly that.) The reason I
write this is to ask you to dine with me (in a highly respectable
public dining room—no cabinet particulaire, mind!) some evening
before the 12th, when I am to sail.
If you will do this, I will fill your shell-like ears with such an
account of your Rival that you will acquit her of intending any of
the horrors you intimate. She is neither, I believe, a sinful creature
nor a dunce—just a sweet, strong-minded, trusting seeker after
change and rest.
And I don't like your insinuations, either, about my own moral
character. If you knew me, I should not blame you so much, but
as you don't—it's simply reprehensible. I have no intention of
"soiling my soul," or that of any other person, but if that awful
event happens (I wonder how I would look with a soiled soul!)
you will be to blame. If you really thought I was in danger, why
did you not do the patriotic thing and offer to go in her place?
That would have disposed of the s—s—possibility.
Now, if you have not already thrown this down in a rage—I
judge you to be a woman of the most fiendish temper!—let me be
sensible for just one moment. I am recovering slowly from a long
illness and am as harmless as a dove. I have, honestly, some
work for a typewriter to do, and my physician has advised me to
take one. The young lady who has agreed to go is not the sort
you seem to imagine. She has consented only after the most
distressing stipulations in regard to my conduct—all of which were
entirely unnecessary, by the way. I am to file a bond to return her
to New York by May 1st in absolutely perfect condition.
Come and dine with me, Alice dear, and have your doubts
removed. I won't bite you, nor offer the slightest familiarity, upon
my word! Name your hotel and, provided it is of undoubted
respectability, I will meet you there at any hour you choose, after
 6 P.M., or I will send a carriage for you. I only wish I could bring
'Marjorie'—isn't it a perfectly sweet name! One sight of her soulful
eyes would say more than all my protestations. Unhappily she is
out of town, and I am afraid she wouldn't like to be exhibited, if
she were here.
You'd best come.
Yours Fraternally,
D. CAMWELL.
The Lambs, Dec. 31, 1897.

It didn't seem too funny, when I read it over, as I thought it

would, but I sent it to East Sixteenth Street by a messenger that I
summoned, telling him to bring an answer, if there was any, and to
return for his pay, if there was none. He came back in half an hour,
saying that a boy at the house took the letter up stairs, presumably
to Miss B., and returned in a few minutes stating that she would
reply by mail. As this exhausted all the fun I could expect out of that
matter for the day, I went over to the Club and lounged away the
afternoon.
It was nine o'clock and I had only been at home for a few minutes
when a note came from Statia Barton. It was written in a very cool
strain, but its contents were unexpectedly agreeable, for all that.
Statia said she was afraid she had been a little too severe, and that,
as it distressed Tom very much to have a general falling out, she had
made it up with him. She had nothing to take back in what she had
said relating to a certain matter, (what woman ever took back
anything?) but was willing to admit that it was, really, my personal
affair and that she had no right to control my conduct. She believed
it best, on the whole, that we should see each other as little as
possible before I went away, but she did not wish, on reflection, to
make trouble between her brother and his friend. If Tom wanted me
to come to spend an evening with him, she hoped I would do it, and
she promised to keep out of my way.
 It was a queer mixture, take it altogether, but I was very glad to
receive it. The calming effect on my general condition was such that
when I went to bed, I slept for nearly seven hours without
interruption, something I had not done for the previous fortnight.
Monday, on account of New Years, was as dull as Sunday. When I
awoke with the exultant knowledge that it was at last Tuesday
morning, I sprang from bed joyfully. Filling my tub with water as it
ran from the street pipe, I plunged into its icy depths. Rising again I
repeated the operation half a dozen times, until the effect on my
entire body was of a healthy glow, and then proceeded to dress with
care. I was long in selecting a necktie, for one thing, and tried three
pairs of cuff-links before I was content. My coffee was barely tasted,
and the newspapers were scanned as if in a dream.
All the time, mind you, I was trying my best to obey the injunction
of Dr. Chambers to avoid the least excitement. I persuaded myself
that I was simply happy and that no injurious effect could be
apprehended from a merely contented frame of mind. I did not stop
to think that I was pursuing a short road to the nervous prostration
from which I had emerged, and which had its origin in the same lack
of control I was exhibiting.
Tom Barton called about eight o'clock and, as he entered the
room, came straight to me with his right hand extended. I took it
heartily in mine, glad that the chasm between us was bridged at
last.
"Dear old fellow," he said, with strong feeling, "forgive me for
anything disagreeable I said, the other day. I feel now that I
misjudged you. Let us end that matter and when you come to my
house this evening, tell me exactly what route you are going to take,
so I can arrange where to write you."
I promised to come if I could, and if that was impossible, to send
a message to account for my absence. I told him I had bought a set
of small maps which would show my route perfectly and that I
hoped for frequent communications with him. Neither of us said
anything about Statia, for I think he felt as I did that we should get
along better without bringing in her name. He was obliged to leave
after a brief call. As soon as he was out of sight I donned my out-
door garments and proceeded by round-about stages toward Miss
May's residence.
The hands of my watch pointed to ten exactly, when I rang her
bell. It is considered a virtue, I believe, to be prompt at an
appointment. The woman who attended the door dampened my
ardor somewhat, however, by informing me that Miss May had not
yet returned. She suggested that I go at once to the lady's room and
make myself comfortable till she came, which must be very soon.
I walked slowly up the stairs, which seemed longer than ever,
oppressed with a new series of doubts. Perhaps she would not come
at all. Perhaps she had taken my three hundred dollars and fled to
parts unknown. Perhaps—oh! the ugly things that came into my
head between the lower hall and the door of that empty room.
I turned the knob and entered. Somehow the sight of the things
that belonged to her began to mollify me. There was the chair in
which she had been seated when I saw her last—happy chair! There
was the dressing table, the brush and comb she used, the glass into
which she had looked with her beautiful blue-gray eyes. Yes, and
masquerading as a cabinet, yet deceiving no one for a second, was
the folding bed that had often received her lovely form, with her
head pillowed in happy slumber.
It was something to be in the room she occupied, to see the
furniture she used.
I seated myself in her chair—the one I had seen her in—but
almost instantly rose and walked about. My nerves were too much
on edge to permit me to remain long without motion of some kind.
At the end of half an hour I began to grow incensed again. She had
made the appointment for ten o'clock. She knew from previous
experience that I would keep it to the moment. Trains from the
suburbs ran frequently enough. Did she consider me merely a
puppet, to be played with?
Between half-past ten and eleven I was a hundred times on the
point of descending the stairs and leaving the house, ending the
whole affair.
But I didn't.
She came about ten minutes past eleven, with many expressions
of regret at having kept me waiting. The timepiece at the house of
her friend had broken its mainspring, or something of the sort, and
with the carelessness of a woman she had forgotten to wind her
watch the evening before. The family were all deceived by the fact
that the sky was cloudy. When she reached her station the train had
just gone and she was obliged to wait three-quarters of an hour for
another. As soon as she alighted in New York, she took a cab and
bade the driver hasten. Had I been waiting very long?
I did not know, at that instant, whether I had been a minute or a
week, and I did not care. It was enough that I was again in her
presence—that she had actually arrived. I begged her to say nothing
more about it.
"I have kept the cab," she said, looking me full in the face,
"thinking you might be kind enough to go with me to the shops and
help me pick out my things. If it isn't asking too much—"
I assured her it would give me the greatest pleasure to accept the
invitation and that I had no engagement so important as helping her
to get ready for our journey. With a smile, she took off her hat and
arranged her hair at the mirror, with a few passes of the brush and
comb. Then she put it on again and said she was quite ready.
"Drive to Altman's," she said to the cabman, as she stepped inside
the vehicle.
We were together, side by side. Had we been on the way to the
steamer nothing could have exceeded my delight. These
preliminaries all tended in that direction, however, and I was fain to
curb my haste and content myself with the present.
"I think you ought to see what it costs to dress a young woman
who is going to masquerade as the cousin of a gentleman of
means," said Miss May, as we turned the corner. "I want you to
decide on each article, since the expense is to come out of your
pocket. I must say another thing also, at this time. I shall not
consider as my own anything I need to buy. I am merely in the
position of an actress whose wardrobe is to be provided by her
manager. Whenever our engagement terminates I will return every
article to you in as good shape as possible."
I was staggered by the suggestion, as well as impressed by the
sentiment that led her to make it.
"What could I do with a lot of gowns—and—lingerie?" I inquired,
helplessly. "They would be a veritable drug on my hands."
"They could be altered," she said, thoughtfully. "I shall be very
careful of them."
"Altered!" I cried. "For whom?"
"For the next typewriter you may happen to engage."
I laughed to conceal the disagreeable feeling which the thought
gave me.
"As a joke that is stupendous," I said, "but, if you don't mind, I
would rather you would be funny on some other subject."
She relapsed into silence, something after the manner of a child
who has been chidden, which did not add to my ease. I had no idea
of scolding her. Luckily we were soon at Altman's.
I had come provided with plenty of money that time. The cash she
had brought was exhausted when we left this place and we did not
seem to have got much for it, either. A milliner was next visited,
where the price of the few articles purchased was forgotten in my
admiration of the charming appearance Marjorie made in her new
headgear. Then we drove to another establishment, where she was
obliged to hide herself from view for three-quarters of an hour, with
a bill of eighty-five dollars as the result. She explained that she had
got nothing she could possibly avoid, when it was considered that
we might be several weeks at a time without a laundress, and I said
the only fear I had was that she would buy too little.
A boot shop came next in order, where I had a jealous pang as
one of the salesmen fitted her with various articles in his stock, all
suitable for a warm climate, at a total cost of forty dollars. And then
we drove about, from glove shop to perfumer's, from umbrella
maker to fan dealer, from this to that, and the hands on my watch
showed that it was nearly five o'clock.
"I think that is about all for to-day," said Miss May, drawing a long
breath. "You must be glad it's over."
"Not at all," I replied. "Isn't it about time, though, that we had
something in the way of refreshment?" (She had declined several
offers to lunch during the preceding five hours.) "Mayn't I tell the
driver now to take us to a restaurant?"
She consented, after a little thought, and also said she would
leave the place to me. When I suggested the Hotel Martin, she
thought a little longer, and then surprised me with a request that I
would get a private room.
"Impossible," I said, when I could catch my breath. "They will
assign no party of two to a room alone."
She blushed, which was not surprising. I had put her in the
position of wishing to break a puritanic rule of which she had never
heard.
I mentioned several other places, and we finally agreed on one
some distance up-town, at which I told her the regulation against a
single couple dining alone did not apply. She was rather tired and
leaned back in the carriage in a manner that showed it. I studied her
face as much as I could without appearing to stare, but it was wholly
expressionless.
 "You are very good to me," she said, after a long pause.
"And you are very kind to me," I answered.
"What a lot of money we have spent to-day," she added. "Aren't
you sorry yet?"
"No," I answered, smiling. "Not yet."
"I shall need almost nothing more," she said, "to appear in a garb
that will not disgrace you. Nothing, but a little jewelry, I think."
I said we would go to-morrow and attend to that, or she could go
alone if she preferred, and send the bills to me.
"It must be lovely to have all the money one wants," she
remarked, dreamily. "To order whatever you please without stopping
to see if you can afford it."
"Yes," I assented.
"You can do that?" said Miss May, putting one of her gloved hands
on my arm.
"Within a reasonable limit. My wants are seldom extravagant."
"Why," she asked, slowly, "is the world arranged so unevenly?
Why are some provided with all they want, and more, while others
have to study each item of actual necessity?"
"That is a deep question, that I would not like to settle in my
present state of hunger," I replied, at which she smiled and sat up in
the carriage. "We are luckily near the end of our route. I think I had
best dismiss the cab and get another one when we leave."
She agreed and then asked if I had any objection to her donning a
veil. It was all right, of course—dining in a private room with her
employer—but it might not seem so to a casual passer, who would
possibly recognize her face at some future period. A woman had to
be so particular.
I cut her explanations short by saying that I did not object to the
idea, but quite approved of it; at which she put on the veil, which to
my consternation was blue and quite opaque. I did not wish to let
any difference of opinion come between us, but I reflected that if
one of my friends saw me, with a woman veiled like that, his
conclusions would be anything but pleasing. There is such a thing as
going too far.
We were shown to a nice little room, where the waiter came near
getting himself into trouble by informing me with needless severity
that it was not permitted to lock the door.
Miss May did not seem to hear what he said. She was removing
her blue veil at a little glass that hung on the wall.
When she took the chair opposite to me and accepted the menu
at my hands, she looked so charming that I had to put a veritable
Westinghouse brake on my arms.
 CHAPTER X.
ONCE THERE WAS A CHILD.

The meal that we ordered was well cooked and well served, and
being provided with that best of all sauces, hunger, I did it full
justice. Our conversation seemed, however, rather dull, and there
was not that flow of spirits that I expected when we entered the
place. Miss May seemed absorbed in thought, though she declared,
when I rallied her on the point, that she was not down hearted, but
very happy to be there. Occasionally when footsteps were heard in
the corridor she started nervously, which led me to suppose that she
feared intrusion. I thereupon remarked that while it was against the
rules to bolt the door of the room, I believed a good-sized tip would
secure the privilege; to which she replied, with a vehemence I could
not understand, that she would not hear of such a thing.
One might imagine she suspected me of an intention to murder
her, so earnest was her protest.
"Oh, I would much rather leave it unlocked," I said. "I was only
trying to please you."
She made no answer, and I found my spirits, always mercurial,
beginning to sink a little. Noticing my dejection, she came to my
rescue and soon had me all right again. We talked of the journey,
she asking many particulars of my former visit to the Caribbean
Islands. She had never been at sea for more than a few hours and
wondered if she was liable to that malady so much to be dreaded,
seasickness. I assured her it was not nearly as bad as it was painted
and told of my own slight experiences in that line, years before.
My companion ate and drank sparingly. She declined my proposal
to order champagne, and mixed her claret and apollinaris like a
veritable tyro in restaurant dining. This rather pleased me, on the
lookout as I was for indications that she might be other than she
seemed. She had every mark of the true lady, and I was well
prepared to believe it, when I learned, some days later, of the
station in which she had been born and in which her childhood was
passed.
"I have been thinking," she remarked, after one of her long
pauses; "would it not be best for me, to take your family name? I
wish, above all things, to avoid suspicion."
"I fear we are a little too late for that," I replied. "I was obliged to
give your name to the agent and he has already placed it on the
passenger list."
"Will that list get into the newspapers?" she asked, nervously.
"I presume so."
"Then you must manage to have my name changed, at all
hazards. My old employer would use every means to annoy me if he
discovered where I am going."
"It is only recorded as 'Miss M. May,'" I said. "Surely there is more
than one person of that name in the world."
She shook her head and bit her lips in distress.
"It must be changed," she repeated. "It will not do to give him the
slightest clue. He imagines himself 'in love'—Heaven help me!—and I
dare not risk it. Any name you like, but my own."
"What can he do?" I inquired. "You don't think I would let him
annoy you, when you were under my protection."
"He can do many things. No, there is no way but to alter the
name. Tell the agent the lady you expected is not going—that she
has been taken ill—and that another is to fill her place. Do not
argue, do not hesitate, or I shall be compelled, even now, to give up
the journey. And that," she added, seeing my sober face, "you know
well I would not like to do."
 This was enough to settle the matter and I said I would give the
agent in the morning any name she desired.
"I would like it the same as your own," she said, thoughtfully. "It
might save infinite trouble. Just record me as Miss M. Camwell. Is
there any reason against that?"
Yes, there was one and it occurred to me. The name, which I had
decided to use, was so near my own that Uncle Dugald would be
likely to see it, not to say anything about Hume, Tom Barton and
Statia. They might lay the twisting of Donald Camran into "David
Camwell" to the carelessness of copyist and printer, but their
suspicions would certainly be aroused if they saw next to my name
that of a "Miss" Camwell.
"I will change your name in some way," I answered, after a long
pause, "but I see dangers in the plan you propose, nearly as great
as in the present one."
I then gave her an inkling of my fears, saying I did not wish any
sharp friend to guess what I was doing, which was possible with two
such uncommon names in just a position on an alphabetical list.
She did not seem satisfied, but raised no objection when I asked
her if I might call her Miss M. Carney, which I thereupon decided to
do.
It was rather dull, take it altogether, the dinner, but when we were
again in a cab and rolling toward Forty-fifth Street, Miss May
brightened, like the close of a cloudy day, just before the sun sinks
into the obscurity of the western sky. She put one of her hands on
mine, quite as if the act was a wholly thoughtless one, but it sufficed
to cheer me up. She even volunteered a prophesy that we would be
good friends and contented fellow voyagers.
Before we reached her door she asked me at what hour I would
call on the morrow, quite as if anxious to see me. After a little
debate I decided upon three in the afternoon. That would give her
the entire morning with her dressmaker, for necessary alterations in
the garments she had purchased.
 She did not seem to notice particularly when I raised the gloved
hand I held and pressed it to my lips at parting. It was an act that
any lady might pardon, and she probably thought nothing of it.
"To-morrow, then, at three," she said, smiling at me from the
curbstone.
"Yes. Don't keep me waiting," I answered, remembering the
morning.
"I will try not to; these dressmakers are so unreliable, though. You
—you wouldn't rather I would come to your rooms? Perhaps there is
another of those rules we have been running across, against it. If
there is none, and you prefer—"
I said I approved of the idea highly and that I was at liberty to
invite to my apartment any person I pleased.
"You spoke of a machine that I have never used," said Miss May,
tentatively. "If you have one there, as a sort of excuse—"
"I have one," said I. "Although it won't be needed for that
purpose. You remember the number, — West Thirty-fourth."
She nodded and spoke to my driver, repeating it to him. Then with
another of her bright smiles she waved me good-by and ascended
the steps, while I was driven away.
"Henry," I was saying ten minutes after, to the hall boy, "I expect
a young lady to-morrow, between three and four, who will ask for
Mr. Camwell."
"There isn't any Mr. Camwell in the house, sir," said the boy.
"There will be at that hour. He will be in my rooms. You may not
see him enter and you may not see him leave, but he will be here.
All you have to do is to say 'Yes, ma'am,' to the lady and bring her to
my door."
"I understand," said Henry, with a wholly superfluous grin, that
showed how little common sense the average hall-boy possesses.
 "No, you don't understand anything," I responded, snappishly. "Do
as I order and you'll lose nothing. Make the least mistake and I will
see that you get your notice."
He responded meekly that he would be careful and then handed
me a letter, which I saw was from Miss Brazier. He also said that Mr.
Barton had called and expressed surprise when he heard that I had
left no word for him.
Poor Tom! It came to my recollection all at once that I had
promised to spend the evening at his house, or send him a note if
unable to do so. Well, I would write him an apology before I went to
sleep.
This is what Miss Brazier said:

Dear Mr. Camwell:—I wish I could understand you, but the

riddle grows harder and harder. Sometimes you seem a
combination of Don Quixote, Mephistopheles and Hector
Greyburn. At one moment I believe you the greatest wretch alive;
at the next I ascribe your sentiments to the buoyancy of youth
and convince myself that you are at heart an honorable man.
As to dining with you, I must deny myself that pleasure. I do
not believe you would "bite" me, nor am I afraid your levity would
turn my head. I can merely say that dining with a stranger is not
in accord with my habits and that I see no sufficient reason to
make your case an exception. I would be glad to see your
"Marjorie," though, were that feasible, but this also I must forego.
Now, as a last word—for my correspondence may weary you—
remember that true happiness in this life does not consist in the
mere gratification of every passing whim, and that the path you
have before you may contain thorns as well as roses. If you
return to America with your conscience void of offence toward
God and your companion you will have accomplished something
of which you may well be proud.
Won't you write me just a line when you are again at home, to
say that my petition has been answered.
Your True Friend,
A.B.
 Jan. 2, 1898.

Sobered more than I could account for by reading this letter, I sat
for a long time in silence. Then, after writing a brief note to Tom,
excusing my neglect, I sought my pillow, or in plain English, went to
bed.
My first act in the morning after coffee was to go to Cook's and
alter the name of May to that of Carney, as well as change my own
to "David Camwell," for which I gave a satisfactory reason to the
clerk. He told me that he could omit both names from the list sent to
the newspapers, if I desired, and I decided that this was, on the
whole, the better way.
On leaving I had an idea that pleased me, no less than to visit
Tiffany's and purchase a little jewelry for Marjorie. It would be
pleasant to see her eyes light up as I put it into her hand.
Taking a Broadway car, I soon reached the shop I sought, and
emerged a few minutes later with a pair of diamond eardrops, a ring
of turquoise and small diamonds, and another of chased gold
without a stone. Each was enclosed in a tasty case. I was much
pleased that the selection had been made so easily.
Miss May arrived at my room nearly on time, with a fine color in
her cheeks, due to the fact that she had walked some distance. She
was undeniably good-looking and my heart warmed as I thought of
the long companionship we were to have together. She was a little
tired, she said, from standing for the dressmaker's measurer, and
dropped into my largest chair with a very fetching air of fatigue. As
soon as I could without seeming in haste I produced the case
containing the turquoise ring and presented it for her inspection.
"I took the liberty," I remarked, "of buying this, to fill the vacant
place on one of your fingers. If it does not fit, you can take it back
for alteration; or if it does not please you Tiffany will exchange it."
She took it out languidly and found that it fitted very well. She
was not as delighted as I had supposed she would be, but her tired
feeling probably accounted for that.
"It is very pretty," she said, "and you are very kind."
Then I opened the case containing the plain ring and she found a
suitable position for that also. When I showed her the eardrops she
grew more interested and on trying them on declared them
"perfectly sweet."
"I used to have some very like them," she said, with a sigh, "but
that was long ago. How very good you are. Are you not tired of the
expense I cause you?"
I assured her that I was not, in the least.
"I do not own a piece of jewelry in the world," she added, "except
a wedding ring, that belonged to my mother."
"And these," I corrected her by saying.
"No. These are not mine. They are merely part of the make-up for
the rôle I am to play. You shall have them all back again when the
curtain is rung down."
She took out her purse, and drew forth the ring of which she had
spoken. Placing it on her wedding finger she held it out to me.
"Don't I look quite like a married woman?" she asked, smilingly.
"Quite," I assented, "and a very sweet bride you make, too."
"Have you the typewriting machine here?" she asked, ignoring my
compliment. "I wish to see what it is like."
I put the machine on a table, arranging it for her inspection. It
was an original Hammond, which I prefer to the universal keyboard.
She drew up a chair and listened intently while I explained its
workings, showing how the capitals and figures are produced with
the same set of keys as the lower case letters. I showed the working
of the ribbon, the arrangement of the alarm bell and all the other
points needed by one who had never operated that style. When I
had finished and inserted a sheet of paper she began carefully to
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