CHAPTER VIII.

RECREATION.

When Vin returned home on a sultry afternoon in midsummer, he found a letter, the substance of which was contained in the following paragraph: "Come and spend a few weeks with us at Carnelian Bay, and forget the curious, musty old books and papers which you so constantly study. Come and meet my sister-in-law, Marie Clairmont, who has just returned from Italy. If this beautiful mountain lake does not charm you, her music will. Our car will call for you tomorrow afternoon."

This letter, evidently written impulsively and in some haste, was signed "Maybelle Clairmont,' a beautiful woman to whom Vin had been presented at a reception some weeks before. She had been the most lavishly gowned of all the women in that brilliant gathering. Clad in an evening dress of the very latest Parisian mode, fabricated from some soft, flimsy, dark colored material, which seemed to emphasize rather than to conceal the lines of her exquisitely proportioned form. The shade of her gown had evidently been selected as a contrast to her clear, warmly white complexion, and her abundance of light auburn hair; her broad, softly-rounded, cream white shoulders, her slender waist; her bust and neck, which might well have inspired envy in the

Goddess of Milo; her throat encircled in a necklace of diamonds; her hands blazing with gems; her waist clasped by an old-gold band of antique workmanship, she had been an object of admiration on the part of the men, of envy to the women of her set. How her husband could maintain her in such splendor was a constant source of wonderment. Still there never had been any scandal. She held her head proudly. She walked like a queen. A woman, whom poets looking only at her fair face, might have called the embodiment of their dreams. She had been particularly gracious to Vin on that occasion. But he was neither charmed nor deceived. He saw the canker at the heart of that "Lily" that looked so pure and graceful. When she smiled, he thought of Cleopatra. He knew that the Love of such a woman has always been a degradation to the Man who accepted it, a shame to him who was weak enough to rely upon it. A Woman who makes a boast of her physical beauty! And as Vin held her invitation in his hand, exhaling a faint perfume, he saw her again as she appeared at the reception that evening; but he did not look upon her beautiful face; he saw her. To him she was hideous, would be hideous forever. Her vaunted beauty was to him a mere garment of tissues; perishable, shrinkable, fit only to mingle with the dust from whence it came. A wide experience had taught him that such a female of the genus homo marries with the lie upon her lips; swears fidelity, before God to a husband,

who is apparently able to maintain her in luxury, with infidelity in her heart, and so makes the mystic union, which might otherwise be a blessing, a blasphemy and a curse. Such women corrupt the earth; turn good to evil; deepen folly into crime and corruption, with the seduction of their physical beauty, which modern society gowns only make more seductive; they make fools and beasts of men, who are weak enough to yield to the message of their lying eyes. Vin read her Soul. It was as an open book to him; and it was branded with a name which Society gives to those who are publicly vile; but which, of strict right and justice, should be bestowed on all women of her type, who occupy positions of pride and place in the world, and who have not even the excuse of poverty for selling themselves for gold. He was surprised that such a woman as he believed Maybelle Clairmont to be should think of including him among her guests, for he had scarcely exchanged a dozen words with her, and his acquaintance with Thomas Clairmont, her husband, who was engaged in trade, was hardly more extensive. His first impulse was to decline the invitation. Yet it so chanced that one of those impulses, to which we can give no name, but which Vin had learned to recognize, which frequently play a most important part in the unfolding of our life dramas, moved him to accept the proffered invitation, which he had so unexpectedly received. No sooner had he reached that conclusion than the "Honk, Honk" of a large

touring car, as it swung into the street and stopped before his door, appraised him that Maybelle Clairmont was as good as her word, that her car had arrived to carry him to Carnelian Bay. Hastily packing a few necessary clothes in a small portmanteau, and throwing a heavy ulster across his arm, Vin descended and entered the waiting car, which was immediately whirled away, with incredible swiftness, toward Lake Tahoe. The car moved so silently and swiftly that Vin concluded the motive power must be electricity.

In a seemingly short space of time, the Lake burst upon his view. A magnificent sheet of azure blue water lifted six thousand feet above the level of the Pacific, walled in by a rim of snow-clad mountains which towered more than three thousand feet above its crystal surface. As Vin saw the shadows of the mountains vividly photographed upon its smooth, mirror-like surface, he thought it the fairest picture he had ever seen. It was bewitching, entrancing, enchanting, fascinating! The road traversed the north shore of the Lake, through a forest of virgin pine; the shore bordered by narrow sand beaches, indented with deep curved bays and coves, and where the sand ended the mountainsides seemed to rise rapidly into space, like a wall slightly out of the perpendicular, thickly wooded with pine. This scene of beauty was indelibly impressed upon his mind as the car sped on, entered beautiful

grounds, and came to a stop before a large bungalow, covered with mountain laurel.

i

As Vin alighted from the car, Maybelle Clairmont arose from a reclining chair and came gracefully across the wide veranda to welcome him. She was clad in a simple white dress, unrelieved by any ornament, except a band of old gold which kept her hair in place; and a knot of mountain violets nestled among the lace at her throat. She looked far lovelier than when Vin had first met her. There was a deep light in her eyes, and a slight roseate flush on either cheek, while her smile as she greeted him was graciousness personified.

After greeting his hostess and the interchange of a few commonplace remarks, Vin's attention. was attracted to another lady seated in a low wicker chair at the end of the veranda, whom he surmised to be Marie Clairmont. Their eyes met, and it seemed to Vin that he had met her before. But where? The eyes of his hostess, following his glance, a slight frown momentarily contracted her brows; then, with an instant return of her gracious manner she said, "Marie, allow me; my friend Vin-Mr. Vincent Kingsley!"

As Vin bowed, Marie arose and advanced to meet them. Vin studied her as she moved across the veranda, with a vague sense of Memory, Wonder, Admiration; surely, she was known to him; at least, there was a strong resemblance to one whom he had known, and loved, and lost awhile; an indistinct, far-off, remembering of