Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1913-09-21

that which brought the greatest happiness.
And sanity such as his own was only a sober
kind of madness, quiet mania that sought
out the soul of things and in the seeking fed
itself upon the problems of the world, diet
that, too much prolonged, might lead to men,
tai Indigestion. Morbid-was heo Intro
spective' A grouche He was, he must be,
all of these things!
His small inquisitor had neglected none
OF his failings, had practised her glib tongue
at his expense in the few hours in which she
had taken possession of Thimble Island and
OF him. What a child she was, how spoiled,
and how utterly irresponsible! He identified
her completely now,-Hermia Challoner,
the sole heiress Of all Peter Challoner's hard
got millions, the heiress too, it was evident,
of his attitude toward the world the flesh,
and the devil,-Peter Challoner, by profes-
sion banker and captain of industry, man
whose name was remembered the breadth
of the land for his mastery manipulation of
a continental railroad which eventually
came under his CONTROL an organizer of
trusts, patron saint of political lobbyists, a
product of the worst and of the best of mod
ern business. This girl who had fallen like
bright meteor across Markham sober sky
this morning was Peter Challoner's daugh-
ter. He remembered now the stories he had
heard and read of her caprices, the races on
the hunting field, and the women's polo
team she had organized at Cedarcroft,
which she had led against a team of men on
a Southern field. 1t had all been in the
newspapers, and he had read of her with a
growing distaste for the type of woman that
American society made possible. Peter
Challoner's daughter, the spoiled darling Of
money idolaters, scrubbing the floor of his
kitchen!
And yet-this little madcap disclosed a
winning directness and simplicity that
charmed and surprised him. She was joy
Gus soul. He could not remember a morn
ing when he had been SO completely alb
stracted from the usual current of thought
and occupation as today, and, whatever the
faults bequeathed by her intrepid father,
she was, as Markham had said to Olga,
quite human. There were possibilities in
the child-and it seemed a pity that no
strong, guiding hand led the way on road
like hers which had 50 many turnings She
was only an overgrown child as yet, fiat
chested, slender, almost boy,-a child in
deed, full of quick impulses for good or
for evil!
MARKHAM rose, knocked the ash out of
~ his pipe, walked over to his canvas,
set it up against the porch pillar, and exam
ined it leisurely. But in a moment he took it
indoors and added it to the pile in the living
room, fetching fresh canvas and carrying
his easel and paintbox over the hill to an
other spot, a shady one among the rocks
where he had already painted many times.
He worked awhile, and then sat and
smoked again, his thoughts affair." What sort
Of influence was Olga Tcherny for the mind
of this impressionable child? The Countess
was clever, generous, and wonderfully at
tractive to men and to women; but, as
Markham knew, her views Of life were lib
eral, and she was not wise-at least not
with wisdom that would help Hernia Chal-
loner One doesn't live for ten years in
Paris in the set in which Markham had met
her without absorbing something of its
careless creed, its loose ethical and moral
standards. New York society, he knew, re-
fected much that was bad, and much that
was good, Of the gay worlds of Paris and
London, for Americans are unexcelled in the
talent Of imitation; but from phrases that
had passed Olga's lips he knew that she had
outgrown her own country.
Markham tried to paint but things went
wrong, and 50 he gave it up, swearing silently
at the interruption that had spoiled his day.
After lunch he tried it again, with no better
success, and finally gave it up, and taking a
book went out on point Of rocks where the
tide swirled, and cast in a fishing line; not
because he hoped to catch anything, but
because fishing, of all the resources available,