But George Waldeaux never knew how much Lucy suspected that night. Meanwhile Mrs. Waldeaux's mare had jogged on leisurely, dragging her mistress and Miss Vance home through the shady country lanes. "Phebe is old," apologized Frances. "She really is a retired car horse." "You used to take pride in your horses, Frances?" "Yes." Mrs. Waldeaux added after a pause. "My income is small. Of course George soon will be coining money, but just now---- The peach crop failed this year too. And I save every dollar for Jack's education." "But what of the jokes for the New York paper? They were profitable." "Oh, I gave them up long ago." She glanced around cautiously. "Never speak of that, Clara. I would not have George know for the world; I never would hold up my head if he knew that I was 'Quigg.'" Miss Vance gave a contemptuous sniff, but Mrs. Waldeaux went on eagerly, "I have a plan! You know that swampy tract of ours near Lewes? When I have enough money I'll drain it and lay out a summer resort--hotels--cottages. I'll develop it as I sell the lots. Oh, Jack shall have his millions yet to do great work in the world!" her eyes sparkling. "Though perhaps he may choose to strip himself of everything to give to the poor, like Francis d'Assisi! That would be best of all. It's not unlikely. He is the most generous boy!" "Stuff!" said Miss Vance. "St. Francis, indeed! I observe, by the way, that he crosses himself after his meals. Are you making a Romanist of the child? And you speak French to him, too?" Mrs. Waldeaux's color rose. "His mother was French and Catholic," she said. "I will not have Lisa forgotten." They went on in silence. Miss Vance was lost in thought. Was George Waldeaux equally eager to keep his wife's memory alive? Now that the conceit had been beaten out of him, he would not make a bad husband. And her child Lucy had always--esteemed him highly. CHAPTER XVIII The next day was Sunday. George jumped out of bed with the dawn. He whistled and sang scraps of songs as he took his bath. The sun shone. What a full, happy world it was, anyhow! And he had given up the game last night? Why, life was just beginning for him! He was nothing but a boy--not yet thirty. He would make a big success soon, and then try to win--to win---- He stopped, breathless, looking into the distance, and his eyes slowly grew wet with passion and longing. He left the house and struck across the country through the woodland and farms. He did not know why he went--he had to go. When he reached the Dunbar woods, he stood in the thicket for hours, watching the house. She came out at last and sat down on the steps to play with the dog. Last night in her white, delicate beauty she had not seemed real--she was far off, like an angel coming down into his depths of misery.