The Transgression of Andrew Vane: A Novel. Carryl Guy Wetmore

demanded Mrs. Carnby.

      "I'm not sure. I'm over here in search of a hint."

      "And a very excellent idea, too!" said his hostess. "Because, if you will keep your eyes open in the American Colony, you'll see about everything which a man ought not to do; and after that it should be comparatively easy to make a choice among the few things that remain."

      "You're not very flattering to the American Colony," said Andrew.

      "That's because I belong to it," replied Mrs. Carnby, "and you'll find I'm about the only woman in it, able to speak French, who will make that admission. I belong to it, and I love it – for its name. It's about as much like America as a cold veal cutlet with its gravy coagulated – if you've ever seen that! – is like the same thing fresh off the grill. But I don't allow any one but myself to say so!"

      "You're patriotic," suggested Andrew.

      "Only passively. I'm extremely doubtful as to the exact location of 'God's country,' and, even if you were to prove to my satisfaction that it lies between Seattle and Tampa, I'm not sure I should want to live there. America's a kind of conservatory on my estate. I don't care to sit in it continually, but, at the same time, I don't like to have other people throwing stones through the roof. But about what you want to do?"

      "I really haven't the most remote idea. I want it to be something worth while – something which will attract attention."

      "Nothing does, nowadays," said Mrs. Carnby, "except air-ships and remarriage within two hours of divorce."

      "What are you talking about?" asked Mrs. Ratchett, suddenly abandoning the argument in which it was evident that she was coming out second best.

      "My choice of a profession," replied Andrew. "I don't want to make a mistake. But everything seems to be overcrowded."

      "Exactly," observed Radwalader. "It isn't so much a question of selecting what's right as of getting what's left. Haven't you a special talent?"

      "I'm afraid not," said Andrew.

      "And if you had, it wouldn't do you much good in the States," commented Mrs. Carnby. "Nothing counts over there but money and social position. It's the only country on earth where it's less blessed to be gifted than received."

      "I had thought of civil engineering," said Andrew.

      "Civil engineering?" repeated Mrs. Carnby. "But, my dear Mr. Vane, that's not a profession. It's only a synonym for getting on in society. We're all of us civil engineers!"

      She pushed back her chair as she spoke.

      "We'll wait for you in the salon," she added, "and, meanwhile, Mrs. Ratchett and I will think up a profession for Mr. Vane. Jeremy, you're to give them the shortest cigars you have."

      "I was once in the same quandary," said Radwalader to Andrew, when the men were left alone, "and concluded to let Time answer the question for me. You may have noticed that Time is prone to reticence. So far, he has not committed himself one way or another."

      "I'm afraid I haven't the patience for that," said Andrew. "Besides, it's different in America. One has to do something over there. It's almost against the law to be idle."

      "Of course. The only remedy for that is to live in Paris. You might do that. It's a profession all by itself – of faith, if nothing else. Only one has need of the golden means."

      "I think I am a homeopathist, so far as Europe is concerned," said Andrew. "I'm already a little homesick for the Common."

      "It's a bad pun," answered Radwalader, "but is there anything in America but – the common?"

      "You can't expect me to agree with you there."

      "I don't. I never expect any one to agree with me. It takes all the charm out of conversation. You may remember that Mark Twain once said that it's a difference of opinion which makes horse-races. He should have made it human races. That would have been truer, and so, more original. But a homeopathist is only a man who has never tried allopathy. You must let me convert you by showing you something of Paris. If I've any profession at all, it's that of guide."

      "You're very kind," said Andrew, "but you mustn't let your courtesy put you to inconvenience on my account. There must be a penalty attached to knowing Paris well, in the form of fellow country-men who want to be shown about."

      "'Never a rose but has its thorn,'" quoted Radwalader. "If you know Paris well, you're overrun; and if you don't, you're run over. Of the two, the former is the less objectionable. When we leave here, perhaps you'd like to go out to the races for a while? If you haven't been, Auteuil is well worth seeing of a Sunday afternoon."

      "I should be very glad," said Andrew.

      "Then we'll consider it agreed. I see Carnby is getting to his feet. He is about to make his regular postprandial speech. It is one to be commended for its brevity."

      "The ladies?" suggested Jeremy interrogatively.

      "By all means!" said Radwalader, as his cigarette sizzled into the remainder of his coffee. "It's a toast to which we all respond."

      "By the way," said Ratchett, as they moved toward the portières, "I was going to ask you chaps about membership in the Volney."

      The three men gathered in a group, and Andrew, seeing that they were about to speak of something in which he had no concern, passed into the salon. Here he was surprised to find three women instead of two – still more surprised when the newcomer wheeled suddenly, and came toward him with both hands outstretched.

      "How do you do?" she said. "What a charming surprise! Mrs. Carnby was just speaking of you, and I've been telling her what jolly times we used to have last summer at Beverly. How delightful to find you here! Mrs. Carnby's my dearest friend, you must know, Mr. Vane."

      "Miss Palffy is one of the few people to whom I always feel equal," observed Mrs. Carnby.

      "I can say the same, I'm sure," agreed Andrew.

      "That means that you and I are to be friends as well, then," answered Mrs. Carnby, "because things that are equal to the same thing are bound to be equal to each other. Are you going out with Jeremy, Margery?"

      "Yes – our usual Sunday spree, you know. He's a dear!"

      She bent over as she spoke and buried her nose in one of the big roses on the table.

      "Lord, girl, but I'm glad to see you again!" said the inner voice of Andrew Vane.

      CHAPTER III

      THE GIRL IN RED

      The saddling-bell was whirring for the third race as Andrew and Radwalader slipped in at the main entrance of Auteuil, and made their way rapidly through the throng behind the tribunes, in the direction of the betting-booths beyond.

      "We'll just have time to place our bets," said Radwalader, as he scanned the bulletins. "Numbers two, five, six, and eleven are out. Scratch them off your programme and we'll take our pick of the rest."

      "You'll have to advise me," answered Andrew. "One couldn't very well be more ignorant of the horses than I am."

      "I never give advice," said Radwalader, with an air of seriousness. "I used to, long ago. I went about vaccinating my friends, as it were, with counsel, but none of it ever took, or was taken – whichever way you choose to put it – so I gave it up. Besides, a French race-horse is like the girl one elects to marry. The choice is purely a matter of luck, and there's no depending upon the record of previous performances. I've always thought that if I had to choose a wife, I'd prefer to do it in the course of a game of blind-man's buff. The one I caught I'd keep. Then the choice would at least be unprejudiced. Shut your eyes, my dear Vane, and stick your pencil-point through your programme. Then open them and bet on the horse nearest the puncture." And he went through this little performance himself with the utmost solemnity. "It's Vivandière," he added. "I shall stake a louis on Vivandière."

      "And I, for originality's sake, shall choose Mathias, with my eyes open," said Andrew, laughing, as they took their places in line before the booth.

      "Well, you couldn't