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Show H1 AIi uaDls suppose." H I "Not so's yu'd notice It. B VAx Tlljg a(j0p(jon crnze among H our young married women's something H different. Want the kids pedigreed, H physically fit. Fancy doctor out our H way's doing a land office business H woman and child specialist chap H Vienna Updike puts the girls wise heard my wifo H talking about it ought to be run H outy of town. Cora Treloar's last to H fall for the fad." 1 "Luscious girl remember her H wedding. What's Bob been doing? H What's he think about it " H "Quiet chap, Bob. Don't talk much. 1 Money's Cora's, you know, and more to H come from that old Penfleld hag. Oh, H yes! Bob makes a living always has. H But money's money. Reckon Bob ac- H cepts the situation. Anyhow, Cora " H And then followed a dirty little H chuckle that defined the domestic rela- H tions of the Robert Treloars. H Bob Trcloar, the quiet chap referred H to, sat immediately behind the two in- H discreet male scandalmongers, his H wife's paternal uncle the chief, in the H club car of the early golf special. He H had just returned that Saturday morn- H ing from a month's business trip south, had caught the first train out H' home, and now received this first, by H the way, notice of a proposed and un- 1' expected increase in his hitherto M childless family. He was a quiet fli chap: so quiet that when his middle- fl aged acquaintances entered the car H he had raised his paper as a protec- M tive shield aaginst recognition; so H quiet, that when the train arrived at m Lake Crescent, he arose and left it H without having had to suffer the H banalities of a conventional welcome H home. H The consecrated portion of the leafy M suburb of Lake Crescent lies east of H the railway, towards the lake; a for- H est dotted with clearings that are vel- B vet lawns surrounding flower-decked H summer homes bright with gay awn- H ings. West of the track is a region H of dead souls. Anything but dead. H Bob Treloar, bag in hand, swung east- H ward along the shady graveled road Hl with the easy stride of his vigorous H' young manhood. He had notified none H of his coming, else the machine had H been at the station to meet him; Hi walking in Lake Crescent being con- H sidered plebian. Nor had he purposed H his unannounced home-coming as a H pleasant surprise to his wife. Many H absences had ironed all character out H of that emotion. Frou what he had B just heard, Cora had arranged a sur-M sur-M . prise for him. His lip curled. H He entered one of the perfectly H kept up little estates, skirted the H ' drive and let himself into the house H by the door under the port-cochere, H1 using his latch-key. His intention was M to go straight to his room, change. H and make his appearance at luncheon. M His wife seldom showed before that meal and no necessity for disturbing her existed. As he hung up his hat, he heard a child's cry from above. He ascended. The door of his wife's morning-room, morning-room, which Treloar had to pass to reach his own, was open. Within, ho saw a black-robed nun with placid features and hands like chiseled marble; mar-ble; Dr. Updike in his usual immaculate immac-ulate get-up; his austerely autocratic mother-in-law, Mrs.. Penfleld; and hi3 superb young wife with a golden-haired golden-haired child in her arms. Andrea del Sarto would have delighted in the grouping. "The risk is this, Mrs. Treloar," Dr. Updike was saying, his whito hand smoothing his short, pointed beard, "the child's limbs are undeveloped; unde-veloped; deficient bone formation. At eighteen months she should be able to walk. Permit me ." He took the child from the lap of the pouting madonna and tried to make it stand erect. "You see?" he said, as the baby girl sank to the floor. "But she's such a darling, doctor!" Cora Treloar caught sight of her husband hus-band standing in the doorway. "Isn't she a darling, Bob? How are you? When did you come?" Treloar dropped his bag, nodded to Updike, bowed to the nun, and gave his wife and her mother his usual cool, polite greeting. The man's manners man-ners to the women of his family were a measure of conduct that the older woman valued as a social asset the Penfields having been nobodies in particular par-ticular previous to Cora's marriage, though the girl's beauty had commanded com-manded very particular attention. The woman had found herself in possession pos-session of a winning card and she had played Cora for a radiance for which she had hungered. It was fairly well understood in the society into which she had edged that the Penfleld had no intention of giving up either card or radiance. Society mocked her, enjoyed en-joyed her money -when she chose to spend it, and wondered at the acquiescence ac-quiescence of Treloar, who was Just now ascertaining that the pretty child on the floor, playing with the nun's gown, had been in the house for a week on trial. That three other infants in-fants had been experimented with In his absence was immaterial. His wife's determination to go on with her last experiment counted. "Now don't be foolish, Cora," warned warn-ed Mrs. Penfleld. "Don't do something some-thing you'll everlastingly regret. Wo don't want to be saddled with a cripple crip-ple for life." "The litle darling will outgrow it," insisted Cora obstinately. "Won't she, Dr. Updike?" Updike hedged between his two wealthy patients, considered the little possible third, polished his glasses, and said with a show of profound wisdom: wis-dom: "With care and attention she may." "There mama!" exclaimed Cora. But Mrs. Penfleld croaked further protest. "We know absolutely nothing noth-ing about the child's people. It is very important, Cora, very! Perhaps Sister Seraphine will tell us." The religious, haled from her calm detachment, showed no hesitation in replying: "The child is a child of Bin," she said in a voice as sweet as it was bare of inflection. 'She has been baptized. Her mother was a shop-girl. She died at St. Ann's. The father" M "Usual thing, I presume," interrupt ed Mrs. Penfleld. "You need not go on." Sister Seraphine, with a duty to perform, chose to continue, however. "We know the father," she affirmed. "He is a rich, dissolute young man. We shall not appeal to him. It would not be for the child's good. He forsook for-sook her mother in her trouble." "Such blood!" sneered Mrs. Penfleld. Pen-fleld. "Take the brat away." "Her father belongs to one of our first families," replied the nun. And then she said, quite simply: "My business is with the other lady and her husband." "You are presumptuous," declared the discomfited old woman. Treloar entered the discussion pleasantly, almost jocosely, with: "What is all this life and death consultation con-sultation for, anyway Of course, I see what it's about and It's good of you, Cora, doing for children we not having any rather up to us, isn't it? But why get fussed and worry over details?" 'In intena adopting this baby for my own," answered Cora, bending to the child. "After what we have heard!" exclaimed ex-claimed her irate mother. "The child's parentage Is neither here nor there," Treloar remarked 'nor the poor little thing's affliction. It can help neither. Our best people often have rickety children." Scandalized, Mrs. Penfleld threw up her hands. "Robert Treloar, you're not!" "I am not going to adopt this child or any other child, Mrs. Penfleld," asserted as-serted Treloar, without raising his" tone in the least. "Cora, you cannot adopt a child without my consent." "Your consent is taken for granted," Cora's response came carelessly, thrown at her husband over her shoulder. "I withhold that consent absolutely." abso-lutely." Cora sprang to her feet, her flno eyes blazing, and in the blaze a little spark of astonishment. "You forget that I am an independent woman, Bob Treloar," she said. "Never in the presence of my beautiful beau-tiful reminder," smiled Treloar. And then, very gravely, he said: "You do not want a child or you would have given me one. You want a doll Cora, to dress to make a show of to feed your vanity. And a girl-child! girl-child! You are not fit." "Not fit!" cried Mrs. Penfleld. "And' you are one of the reasons, madam," responded Treloar. "You brought your daughter up to be a man's mistress, not his wife. And you " he turned swiftly to the very interested repository of many Lake Crescent secrets "you, Uplike, finished finish-ed the training. Faugh! Better go. man." t "Dr. Updike, you will stay," com- I manded Cora. "You, too, mama, and I you" to the fluttered nun. "The move , witnesses I have to this brutality" "The truth is brutal at times, Cora. It is time truth was spoken in this house." "Don't forget that it is your wife's house," snapped Mrs. Penfleld. "To which I have come like a kept man," rejoined Treloar bitterly. "Bet-. "Bet-. ter leave, Updike." "I shall divorce you for this, Bob Treloar," declared Treloar's wife, not tearful, only exasperated and exceedingly exceed-ingly handsome. "And I shall keep the child." "You shall do neither!" screamed Mrs. Penfleld. "Divorce disgrace " "Oh, shut up, mama," said Cora, coarsely. "I know what I'm about. Divorce is too good for him." "I will supply you with a less embarrassing em-barrassing cause for divorce, Cora any time you say," offered Treloar. Cora Treloar threw a swift glance at her hubsand. A smile came to her inviting lips, the same smile of capricious ca-pricious daring that had fired Bob's desire in earlier days. "Who is she, Bob?" ahe asked. "She is any woman willing to open her door to me for the night," Treloar Tre-loar answered. "Good 3od!" gasped Mrs. Penfleld. "Dr. Updike, will you stand there and hear ladies insulted?" "I'd rather muss you up on the lawn, you you shrimp!" menaced Treloar, as Updike advanced. Bob's voice was lower than before. "Better go," he repeated, raising his arm. "Ah! thought so Stay, Sister Seraphine." Seraphine, about to follow the doctor, doc-tor, paused, the golden head of the child on her breast. "Of course she stays until my business busi-ness with her is arranged," interrupted interrupt-ed Cora. "And the child stays. She is mine." "Madam shall have our prayers," replied the nun. "The baby returns to St. Ann's, until" "Sister Seraphine," said Treloar, his lips twitching, "I am sure we need, your prayers all the prayers going; and Ave owe you and St. Ann's ladies every apology. You are entirely right about the child. Take her back to your convent. But listen, please. Seo that she has medical attention the best. I will pay. Get her strong educate her train her to justify her woman's place in the world. Send the bills to me or any necessary pledge to sign. I am a man easy to And." Cora Treloar looked at her husband as if she had found a new man. 'You mean to adopt the child?" asked ask-ed the perplexed nun. 'I may not do that without my wife's consent," answered Treloar grimly. Cora smiled. "You may take my consent as granted, dear," she said. "You say the child is christened," pursued Treloar; 'what name?" "Mary, for her mother." Seraphine hesitated. 'The last name " "Let that be for her mother, too," directed Treloar. 'This is a pledge of support, you understand no adoption. I object to any but my own children bearing my name." "I understand," Seraphine responded. respond-ed. She bowed, and glided from the rqom. "You have her prayers, ladies," announced an-nounced Treloar with crushing gravity. grav-ity. 'And she the brat, thank God!" responded re-sponded the gracious Mrs. Penfleld. Cora glanced from her mother to her husband. "Prayers," she mocked. And then she rippled with laughter. "Why ,it's as good as Bob's baby now," she said. "Bob's baby! Oh, mama, isn't he just too ridiculous!" "He is a sentimental fool," asserted Mrs. Penfleld. "Probably right," agreed Treloar. Ho laid his latch-key on the table. "I shall have no further use for this,'' lie said. "Er, Mrs. Penfleld, would you mind? Cora and I may never meet in this way again " " "I shall not permit her to remain alone with you, sir," asserted Cora's guardian angel. "Your chauffer Is calling from the drive, mama," remarked Cora. "Three toots that's for you, you know. Too bad you won't stay for luncheon." "Cora!" "Bob Treloar wont beat me. Go home. You'll need a nap before Mrs. Tallington-Todd's garden party. I'll drive over in a day or so." Mrs. Penfleld glared. "I shall not be at home to you, miss," she said. "Oh, yes you will," replied Cora, sweetly. "Bob " Treloar wasted courtesy attending Mrs. Penfleld to the door. He closed it. Turning back into the room, he saw Cora with the latchkey in her hand. She handed it to him without a word. Their eyes met. |