It was about nine o’clock in the evening, and Gladwyne’s somewhat noisy guests were scattered about his house and the terrace in front of it. Several of them had gathered in the hall, and Bella Crestwick, Lisle’s companion on the moors, stood, cigarette in hand, with one foot on the old-fashioned hearth-irons, frankly discussing him. A few birch logs glowed behind the bars, for on those high uplands the autumn nights were chilly, but the wide door stood open, revealing a pale green band of light behind the black hills, and allowing the sweet, cool air of the moors to flow in.
The girl had gained something by the change from her outdoor attire to the clinging evening dress, but it was with characteristic unconcern that she disregarded the fact that the thin skirt fell well away from one shapely ankle effectively displayed by a stocking of the finest texture.
“The man,” she said, “is a bit of a Puritan. They still live over there, don’t they? His idea of English women is evidently derived from what his father told him, or from early-Victorian literature. I’m inclined to believe I shocked him.”
“It’s highly probable,” laughed a man lounging near. “Still, I believe the descendants of the folks you mention live three thousand miles from his country, in the neighborhood of the Atlantic shore. One wouldn’t fancy that you’d like Puritans.”
There was nothing offensive in the words, but his glance was a little too bold and too familiar, and Bella looked at him with a gleam of malice in her eyes.
“Extremes meet; it’s the middle—the medium mediocrity—that’s irreconcilable with either end,” she retorted. “For instance, I led a life of severe asceticism all last Lent.” There were incredulous smiles, though the statement was perfectly correct. “It’s a course I could confidently recommend to you,” she proceeded, unheeding; “of late you have been putting on flesh with an alarming rapidity.”
The man made no response and Bella resumed:
“Besides, the Puritans have their good points; they’re so refreshingly sure of themselves and their views, while the rest of us don’t believe in anything. You can’t be a fanatic without being thorough, and in renouncing the world and the flesh you may gain more than a passable figure. Among other things, the ascetic life means straight shooting, steady hands, and an eye you can depend upon. The overcivilized man who does nothing to counterbalance his luxuriousness is generally a rotter.”
“But what has all this to do with Nasmyth’s Canadian?” somebody asked.
Bella waved her cigarette.