with me--is there? I'm--I'm playing the game."

It certainly couldn't be grief over Mrs. Thornton's death--she had begun
to act that way before Mrs. Thornton died--that night when she came home
with Thornton, and he and the Flopper were behind the trellis. Thornton!
Had Thornton anything to do with it, after all? No--Madison had laughed
at it then, and he had much more reason to laugh at it now. Thornton was
still in Chicago, and hadn't been back to Needley.

For three weeks this sort of thing occupied a considerably larger share
of Madison's thoughts than he was wont to allow even the most vexing
problems to disturb his usually imperturbable and complacent self--and
then one afternoon, he smiled a little grimly, and, leaving the hotel,
started along the road toward the Patriarch's cottage.

"What Helena needs is--a jolt!" said Madison to himself. "I guess her
trouble is one of those everlasting feminine kinks that all women since
Adam's wife have patted themselves on the back over, because they think
it's a dark veil of mystery that is beyond the acumen of brute man to
understand. That's what the novelists write pages about--wade right in
up to the armpits in it--feminine psychology--great! And the women smile
commiseratingly at the novelist--the idea of a man even pretending to
understand them--kind of a blooming merry-go-round and everybody happy!
Feminine psychology! I guess a little masculine kick-up is about the
right dope! What the deuce have I been standing for it for? I don't have
to--I don't have to go around making sheep's-eyes at her--what? She
wants grabbing up and being rushed right off her feet _à la_ Roost,
and--hello, Mr. Marvin, how are you to-day!"--he had halted beside a
middle-aged man who was sitting on the grass at the roadside.