Chapter III

It wasn't funny to have a conscience. It was bad for George Banks's trousers, which he tossed over the back of a chair and left there to wrinkle. It was bad for his disposition, especially as he found that the cigarettes he had put in his pocket were crushed beyond the possibility of use. It was bad for his sleep, for he lay flat on his back for a long time thinking things over, and all he could think of was the way Barbara Kittridge's lips felt and the way her mouth laughed at him.

The next day he avoided his hostess. In the evening particularly he made sure not to be left alone with her. And on Sunday, when he said his good-by and drove off with Trudy at his side, he vowed he would never see Barbara Kittridge again.

If he was going to marry Trudy--and that seemed entirely probable, for she seemed perfectly willing and he certainly couldn't do anything about it--well, the thing to do was to keep out of the way of temptation. After all, Kitt was the first girl who had interested him since he had asked Mildred to marry him. If he should strike only one exciting girl every six or eight months, it ought to be fairly easy to keep out of their way.

I record his line of reasoning. It becomes my painful duty to record his actions during the three months that followed. But I will do it quickly for you, so that you will not feel so badly about it as I do.

A week after the Kittridge house party Mrs. Trudeau decided to take Mildred abroad. Two weeks after that they sailed. Both of them were properly kissed good-by by George Banks. They found their stateroom filled to the point of discomfort with flowers and baskets of fruit and cakes and books, and cards from George Banks saying _bon voyage_ and other stimulating sentiments.

From the pier George made his way to a certain club and partook of certain stimulants in tall cold glasses. He stayed in the club for dinner, which consisted of several repetitions of the same stimulants, and for the night, which was interspersed with more of the same. By Monday he was ready to return to his regular round of duties in his father's bond house and to look at things calmly.

Thereafter for two weeks he lived a life of quiet and sobriety, at home for dinner every night and in bed early. He wrote to Mildred, care of this and that in Paris and London and Berne and elsewhere, and told her that life was dull without her, as it was. He did not mention that this particular sort of dullness was relief from the other kind of dullness that had been his lot before she left.

Then he got a note from Barbara Kittridge, which said that she was having a lot of people out for a week-end and that she would be delighted to have him among them. This he carried in his pocket for two days and finally answered by a letter which alleged a business trip out of town. The next day he called Kitt on the phone and told her that he found he didn't have to go away after all.

For a great part of Friday evening he talked with Kitt. Saturday morning they swam together--with several other people, which was just as well. Sunday they played tennis and talked about books. Monday he came home again with a heavy heart. He had not kissed Kitt, nor had he come close to it. But he had recognized in her a person worthy of himself--more than worthy of himself--far above him.

She worried him. She made him wish he were less than a gentleman and could drop his _fiancée_ quietly off a pier in a burlap bag. She caused him to spend another afternoon and evening with the tall cool glasses.

For the rest of the summer, let us say merely that George Banks was seen more or less frequently at the Kittridge summer home and that he dined with Kitt in town on several occasions. Let us say that he remembered throughout that he was engaged to be married and that he maintained a high standard of personal behavior.

Let us skip to the not particularly joyous day on which he received a letter from Mildred Trudeau, saying that she would land in New York from the Majestic on September fifth, barring icebergs and other acts of God. At which time, she said, they would announce that their wedding would take place in October.

With the aid of another evening at the club, George bore up. After all, Mildred was a very fine type of young woman. High social endowments. Mighty respectable and dependable. He wouldn't jilt her. Hell, let her marry him!

Still, when his father called him in next morning and asked him to go to Chicago on business that would keep him away from New York on the day of his _fiancée's_ arrival, he welcomed the opportunity. He wired to Bill Lincoln, who had been his roommate for two years, and told him to have the Field Museum and the stockyards ready. With some abandon he packed two bottles of Scotch in his suit case for the trip.