Helen walked down the steps with her guest in a vague desire to be cordial. He mounted his wheel, and bending his little body over the frame, pedalled swiftly out of the driveway. Helen watched him for a moment, feeling that he would not call again, as she hoped he might. He had merely wandered their way this bright summer day like a chance stranger from some vast outer world,--a world that perpetually teased her spirit. "What is he, Nell? Socialist or anarchist?" Jackson called out good-humoredly, when his wife returned to the veranda. It was one of his jokes that his wife dabbled in socialism. "I wish he would have stayed to dinner." "But we're going out." "Yes, I know. But he wouldn't have stayed anyway." Her husband looked at her inquiringly, yet he was not sufficiently interested in Mr. Hussey to frame a question. He poured himself a glass of water, drank it, and when he set the glass down, the bookbinder had been washed into complete oblivion. "Come! It must be time to dress," he said briskly. CHAPTER XVII The Harts were to dine at the Elisha Stewarts' that evening, and the architect had considered this engagement of sufficient importance to bring him back to Chicago all the way from Indianapolis. Elisha Stewart had made his money many years ago, when he commanded a vessel on the lakes, by getting control of valuable ore properties. The Elisha Stewarts had lived in Shoreham for nearly a generation, and were much considered,--very good people, indeed. Their rambling, old-fashioned white house, with a square cupola projecting from the roof, was one of the village landmarks. The place was surrounded by a grove of firs set out by Elisha himself when he built the house. It was a large dinner, and most of the guests, who were of the older set, were already assembled in the long drawing-room when Helen and Jackson arrived. The people in the room were all talking very earnestly about a common topic. "It's the Crawfords," Mrs. Stewart murmured asthmatically into Helen's ear. "You know they find his affairs in such a frightful tangle. They say there won't be much left." "Indeed!" Jackson exclaimed sympathetically. "Anthony wasn't all right, not fit for business for more than a year before he died," Colonel Raymond was saying to the group. "And he snarled things up pretty well by what I hear." "That slide in copper last March must have squeezed him." "Squeezed? I should say it did." "It wasn't only copper." "No, no, it wasn't only copper," assented several men. Among the women, the more personal application of the fact was openly made. "Poor old Anthony! It must have troubled him to know there wasn't one of his family who could look out for himself. Morris was a pleasant fellow, but after he got out of Harvard he never seemed to do much. It will come hard on Linda." "What has the youngest boy been up to lately?" "The same thing, I guess." "I heard he'd been doing better since he went on the ranch."