"I think your part will be harder than mine," John rejoined, after a long silence. "It is less difficult to suffer than to watch another endure. I can very well believe we are taking the wrong way, but I do not see a better. And for the--smudge--I have one consolation." "That is, John?" "The crime chosen is one the state finds it advisable to condemn for reasons of policy. It is not so actual a wrong to our fellow-men as a fortune made in Wall Street or in speculating on their necessities. I am going to break man's regulations, not God's law." "I hope you are right," said Robert with equal reverence. "But you are taking an unblazed trail, and the safe road lies far aside." Down the smooth slope of the country-side crept the vibrating throb of an automobile, accompanied by laughter and the faint sound of gay voices. Some one in the party was singing--a man whose clear tenor reached the two on the veranda, filtered to purest pathos through the veil of distance: "_Sconto col sangue mio L'amor que posi in te! Non ti scordar--non ti scordar di me--_" "That is Billy Clive," Robert identified wearily. "He is an arrant humbug, is Billy; I do not believe he ever had a serious moment in his life. Theo is coming; will you speak to her? It may be you, after all, you know." "I think not, Bertie." "But you will try?" Through the night air pierced the crescendo wail of a horn, startling the insect choirs into silence and waking a sleepy bird in the wistaria vines. Both men rose. "If I must," John yielded. "Yet I have an idea it will not matter who speaks first, and perhaps you are not quite up to the task to-night. Yes, I will try." "And try fairly. I," as the white lights of the car swung into the avenue, "I am going in." Their hands met in passing, Robert turning to the house door and John descending the wide steps to greet the arrival. "The most delicious time," pealed the sweet, high voice of a girl above the noise of the halted automobile. "Good night, Mrs. Preston. Until to-morrow, Sue and Billy. Oh, John, you!" "Come over to-morrow, Allard," rang the merry chorus. "Don't forget the hunt." "Bring Robert, old man." "_Adiós_, Theo." The car started noisily, and whirled down the driveway. "I am so tired," sighed the girl on the steps, gathering up her shimmering skirts and throwing back the hood of her cloak. "Mama has gone to bed, John? Oh, and I do want tea! Why should I not have tea at midnight, if I like? I love to be revolutionary." "Why not, indeed? Sit down there in your chosen divan, my lady." "You will bring me tea?" "Wait only." She sank laughing into a chair and began to draw off her long gloves, watching him as he moved to the little tea-table in a nook of the veranda. Allard possessed an almost feminine deftness at such tasks; perhaps it was as well that Robert was not busied with the fragile china and glass that evening.