The Inner Flame. Burnham Clara Louise

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      "Yes," retorted Edgar drily. "Perhaps, if your little day-dream could come true and you be the son, you wouldn't think so."

      "I believe it is father's fault largely," said Kathleen. "He began by spoiling you."

      "Then, if I'm spoiled, what's the use of kicking? – and if he's done it he must pay for it; but that's just what he won't do – pay for it."

      The speaker stubbed the light out of his cigarette and tossed it on the table. He rose and walked the floor.

      "He has put you in his office," said Kathleen. "He will give you every chance to rise."

      "Yes, and meanwhile pays me a salary smaller than the allowance he gave me at college."

      "Because," said the girl, "he found that you couldn't even keep within that. He knew you must wake up."

      "What occasion?" demanded Edgar, standing still to gesture. "I'm the only son. Look at the money he has."

      "And has worked for; worked for, Edgar. Can't you understand? Supposing you had worked like that, and had a son who dipped into the bag with both hands and threw your money away."

      "I don't want to throw it away. I get one hundred cents' worth of fun out of every dollar I spend. What more does he want? I didn't ask to be born, did I? I didn't ask to have expensive tastes. Why should I have to ride in a taxicab?"

      "You don't. There are the street cars."

      Edgar's blond face turned upon her angrily. "When do you suppose I want a machine? When I'm doddering around with a cane?"

      "Earn it, then."

      "Yes, I can on a petty few hundreds a year!"

      "You drive down with father every morning, don't you?"

      "No, I don't. I have to get there before he does."

      Kathleen laughed. "What an outrage!"

      "I take the car first and then it goes back for him," said Edgar sulkily.

      "Oh, the cruelty of some parents!" drawled Kathleen, knocking the ash from her cigarette. "The idea of Peter going back for father. He should stand in Wall Street awaiting your orders."

      "No, he shouldn't, but I should have a motor of my own. The Ad. is more old-fashioned than any of the other fathers in our set." The speaker paused and gestured defensively. "You'll get off all that ancient stuff about the new generation wanting to begin where the old left off. Of course we do. Why not? I hope my son will begin where I leave off."

      Kathleen gave her one-sided smile – her Mona Lisa smile her admirers called it: —

      "Where you leave off is not liable to be a bed of roses if you keep on as you've begun." She looked up at her brother gravely as she tapped the end of her cigarette and dropped it in the ash receiver. "Why don't you use your brains?" she asked. "Can't you see that the more father notices that you have no ambition, the tighter he will draw the rein?"

      "I have plenty of ambition."

      "For work?"

      "Oh, you make me tired!"

      The young man resumed his impatient walk.

      The sister leaned back in her chair, her dark eyes following him, without the hint of a smile.

      "I'd like to see you tired," she said seriously.

      He turned on her. "Ever see me after a polo game?"

      "But life isn't a game, Edgar."

      He opened his eyes at her and grimaced scornfully.

      "The grave and reverend senior again; nearly ready to graduate, and inform the world that

      'Life is real, life is earnest,

      And the grave is not its goal!'

      Might as well be in the grave at once as dig and grind the days away. Heaven help us when you get home! I suppose you must go through the fine-spun theory stage like the usual attack of measles."

      "Measles are catching," remarked Kathleen quietly.

      "Exactly! but I'm mighty glad I'm immune from the know-it-all disease."

      "That would mean that you'd had it, Edgar, and you never did have it; not even a rash. Open the window, please. We're a little blue in here."

      Edgar threw open the unoffending window with a force that threatened the mechanism.

      "No doubt," he said, "you'd like to have me live, like that cowboy, in a stable, and get my own meals."

      "A garage would suit you better, I suppose," returned Kathleen. "What are you talking about?"

      "Hasn't mother written you of the genius who has come out of the wild and woolly to get his Pegasus curried in New York?"

      "Has mother taken up a genius? – Mother, of all people!"

      "Why, she's had him at the house, and insists on my being civil to him; but I haven't seen him yet. I get enough of him right at the breakfast and dinner table without hunting up the stable. His ambition is at the bottom of my coffee cup, and his genius for hard work is served as an entrée every night."

      "Oh," – Kathleen's face gained a ray of interest, – "you mean that cousin of ours."

      "He's no cousin," retorted Edgar. "He's one of mother's fifty-seven varieties, a sort of step-neighbor-in-law of ours. When father and mother were out at the mine they met him. I think it was up to him to stay out there and make that mine pay. I think if he'd shown a little genius for hard work right there, it would have been more to the point."

      "Yes, mother wrote me." Kathleen's tone was tinged with the interest in her eyes. "What is his name, now?"

      "Sidney," responded Edgar with open disgust. "Oh, I'm authority on his name all right, – Philip Sidney; I've had it dinged into my ears faithfully."

      "A name to live up to," remarked the girl. "It was interesting, Aunt Mary leaving him her money."

      "It would have been more interesting if she'd had anything to leave."

      Edgar had thrown himself back on the divan and was watching curtains and smoke draw out the window.

      "Do you remember," continued his sister, "what nice cookies Aunt Mary used to give us when we were little? Mother felt sorry not to be here when she died."

      "Oh, mother's ripping," declared Edgar, his cheerfulness restored by some inspiriting memory. "She's had a hand-to-hand, knock-down-and-drag-out with the old gargoyle that holds the fort over there at Aunt Mary's."

      "What do you mean?" drawled Kathleen with faint disgust.

      "Mother gave a graphic account of the fray at dinner one night. I wasn't giving the story my whole attention, but I gathered that she and the doughty Eliza each got hold of one end of Aunt Mary's camel's hair shawl and had a tug of war; and Eliza's cat won the day for her by jumping on mother and nearly clawing her furs off."

      "Edgar," protested Kathleen, СКАЧАТЬ