“About you two. I met Mrs. Vivie Patton just now, and she swore me to secrecy, and told me that Mrs. Winnie had told some one that you had made love to her so outrageously that she had to ask you to leave the house.” Montague shrunk as from a blow. “Oh!” he gasped. “That’s what she said,” said he. “It’s a lie!” he cried. “That’s what I told Mrs. Vivie,” said the other; “it doesn’t sound like you—” Montague had flushed scarlet. “I don’t mean that!” he cried. “I mean that Mrs. Winnie never said any such thing.” “Oh,” said Oliver, and he shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe not,” he added. “But I know she’s furious with you about something—everybody’s talking about it. She tells people that she’ll never speak to you again. And what I want to know is, why is it that you have to do things to make enemies of everybody you know?” Montague said nothing; he was trembling with anger. “What in the world did you do to her?” began the other. “Can’t you trust me—” And suddenly Montague sprang to his feet. “Oh, Oliver,” he exclaimed, “let me alone! Go away!” And he went into the next room and slammed the door, and began pacing back and forth like a caged animal. It was a lie! It was a lie! Mrs. Winnie had never said such a thing! He would never believe it—it was a nasty piece of backstairs gossip! But then a new burst of rage swept over him What did it matter Whether it was true or not—whether anything was true or not? What did it matter if anybody had done all the hideous and loathsome things that everybody else said they had done? It was what everybody was saying! It was what everybody believed—what everybody was interested in! It was the measure of a whole society—their ideals and their standards! It was the way they spent their time, repeating nasty scandals about each other; living in an atmosphere of suspicion and cynicism, with endless whispering and leering, and gossip of lew intrigue. A flood of rage surged up within him, and swept him, away—rage against the world into which he had come, and against himself for the part he had played in it. Everything seemed to have come to a head at once; and he hated everything—hated the people he had met, and the things they did, and the things they had tempted him to do. He hated the way he had got his money, and the way he had spent it. He hated the idleness and wastefulness, the drunkenness and debauchery, the meanness and the snobbishness. And suddenly he turned and flung open the door of the room where Oliver still sat. And he stood in the doorway, exclaiming, “Oliver, I’m done with it!” Oliver stared at him. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I mean,” cried his brother, “that I’ve had all I can stand of ‘Society!’ And I’m going to quit. You can go on—but I don’t intend to take another step with you! I’ve had enough—and I think Alice has had enough, also. We’ll take ourselves off your hands—we’ll get out!” “What are you going to do?” gasped Oliver.