"I really don’t exactly know, Jim. Do you like him?"
"Sometimes. He’s crew, Dicky, Hasty Pudding. He’s a curious chap. You’ve got to hand him that, anyway."
"Oh, more than that, I think. He’s an artist through and through."
"On the piano, Steve. He’s the real thing. He sings charmingly. He draws better than Harry Beltran. He’s done things in clay and wax—really wonderful things. You saw him in theatricals."
"Why, the _Duke of Brooklyn_, of course. He was practically the whole show!"
"I didn’t know it," she murmured. "I did not recognize him. How clever he really is!"
"But I had seen him, once," she answered in a low, dreamy voice.
Jim Cleland glanced around at her. Again it struck him that Stephanie was growing up very rapidly into an amazingly ornamental girl—a sister to be proud of.
"Did you have a good time, Steve?" he asked.
"Wonderful," she sighed; smiling back at him out of sleepy eyes.
Stephanie Quest was introduced to society when she was eighteen, and was not a success. She had every chance at her debut to prove popular, but she remained passive, charmingly indifferent to social success, not inclined to step upon the treadmill, unwilling to endure the exactions, formalities, sacrifices, and stupid routine which alone make social position possible. There was too much chaff for the few grains of wheat to interest her.
She wanted a career, and she wanted to waste no time about it, and she was delightfully certain that the path to it lay through some dramatic or art school to the stage or studio.
Jim laughed at her and teased her; but his father worried a great deal, and when Stephanie realized that he was worrying she became reasonable about the matter and said that the next best thing would be college.
"Dad," she said, "I adore dancing and gay dinner parties, but there is nothing else to them but mere dancing and eating. The trouble seems to be with the people—nice people, of course—but——"
"Brainless," remarked Jim, looking over his evening paper.
"No; but they all think and do the same things. They all have the same opinions, the same outlook. They all read the same books when they read at all, go to see the same plays, visit the same people. It’s jolly to do it two or three times; but after a little while you realize that all these people are restless and don’t know what to do with themselves; and it makes me restless—not for that reason—but because I _do_ know what to do with myself—only you, darling——" slipping one arm around John Cleland’s neck, "—don’t approve."