The tramp was a fugitive still. He had walked since morning from Malvern station, where he had been thrown off the freight train on which he had worked a ride east from Harrisburg. At Bryn Mawr he had begged a meal--the irony of it had sunk into his soul--at the back door of a country house at which he had once been a welcome guest. A gossipy chauffeur had let him into his garage for a rest and had given him a cigarette over which he had learned the recent doings in the neighborhood. The thought of venturing into Philip Wharton's grounds that night had entered his madcap brain while he lay in the woods along the Gulf Road, trying to make up his mind whether his tired feet would carry him the twelve miles that remained between him and the city.
Why had he returned? God knew. His feet had dragged him onward as though impelled by some force beyond his power to resist. Now that he was near the home of his boyhood it seemed as if any other place in the world would have been better. It was so real--the peaceful respectability of this country--so like Her. And yet its very peacefulness and respectability angered him. Was it nothing to have hungered and thirsted and sweated that the honor of these people and that of others like them might be preserved? Even Patricia's blamelessness was intolerant--reproachful. The springs of memory that had gushed forth just now at the sight of her were dried in their source. There was a dull ache, a sinking of the spirit that was almost a physical pain; but the unreasoning fever of the wayward boy, the wrenching fury of the outcast soldier were lacking, and for a long time he lay where he had fallen without moving.
Patricia Wharton stood a moment on the edge of the terrace after the dance, slipped her hand into Mortimer Crabb's arm and came down upon the path, drawing a drapery across her white shoulders.
"What is it?" asked Crabb. "You are not cold?"
"Oh, no," she said quietly. "I think I am a little tired."
"Come," he said. "There's a beautiful spot--just here." He led her across the lawn and through an opening in the trees to a garden-bench in the shadow, a spot which none of the other maskers had discovered. Through the leafy screen they could see the gay figures floating like will-o'-the-wisps across the golden lawn, but here they were quiet and unobserved. Patricia sank upon the bench with a sigh, while Crabb sat beside her.