A small, thin girl with large, vivid eyes, a blue dress and collar-bones, who was zooming up-stairs two steps at a time, ran head on into Bill, who was coming slowly down. Her head struck him at the waist line and Bill sat down on a step. She immediately sat beside him.
"Isn't this the funniest party!" she exclaimed. "Did I hurt you?"
"It is, and you didn't," answered Bill.
He had never seen her before.
"I haven't seen a soul I know, except mother, who brought me here."
"Neither have I," said Bill, glancing down-stairs at the crush.
"Heaven knows why they invited us. Mother says that father used to know somebody in the family years and years ago. She says they're really all right, too. We just came because things have been so terribly dull in town that we've been sitting home screaming. Do you ever feel like screaming?"
"Right now."
"Go ahead," she advised. "I'm sure it will be all right. Anyhow, we came. They have perfectly lovely things to eat. And the house is so beautiful. But it's funny, just the same. Did you know there was a bishop here?"
"I heard so."
"There is; he shook hands with me. He was so solemn; it seemed like shaking hands with God. And there are piles of middle-aged people here, aren't there? I don't mean there aren't any young ones, for of course there are—just millions. But there are more middle-aged ones. Still, the music is just wonderful. Who is the queer old lady who wears the little cap?"
"I believe she lives here," said Bill.
"Well, she's perfectly dear. She patted me on the head and asked me if I was Henry Kingsley's little girl. I told her I was; I didn't want to disappoint her. But I'm not; I'm Arnold Gibbs's little girl. And—somebody's else's."
She chirped her way through the conversation like a voluble bird.
"Engaged," she added, holding up a finger. "But he's not here, so it's all right for me to sit on the stairs with you. Here's something else that's funny: I haven't met the man they're giving the party for. Isn't that a scream? Somehow, we got in late, or something or other. He's awfully high-brow; oh, yes, I heard that the first thing. You're not high-brow, are you?"
Bill shook his head.
"It's comfortable to know you're not," she said. "Whenever I meet an intellect I make a holy show of myself. Did you know that he's sailing for Australia to-morrow? Uhuh! He's going there to study something or other. They told me that down-stairs, too. Let's see; what is it he's going to study? Crustaceans! That's it. What are they? Negroes?"
"I'm not up on them," said Bill. "Maybe."
"Anyhow, he's going to study them. And then he's going to write volumes and volumes about them. He's a scientist. Isn't it funny to be at a scientificparty? And—oh, yes; it seems there's been an affair in his life. He's going away to bury his heart while he's studying the thingamajigs. Did you ever hear of anything so romantic?"
Bill turned his head for a better survey of the young person with the astonishing information.
"Where did you pick up all the info?" he inquired, as carelessly as he could.
"From a young man who knows all about him," answered Arnold Gibbs's little girl.
"What sort of a young man?"
"Oh, a nice one. He's kind of thin and pale and he has baby-stare eyes."
"Does he have funny wrinkles at the corners of them when he laughs?" asked Bill.
"That's exactly what he has!" she exclaimed. "How beautifully you describe. Are you a detective? They have them at parties, you know."
"No, I'm not a detective. I—er—just happen to know him, I think."
Bill wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and stared straight ahead.
"Where did you meet him?" he asked, after a pause.
"Oh, down-stairs. You can meet anybody at a party, you know. It's perfectly all right. If people weren't perfectly all right they wouldn't be invited. He dances beautifully."
"You mean to say——"
"Twice. We danced out in the conservatory. It seems he's bashful; he wouldn't go into the big room for fear he'd bump me into people or step on their feet. He isn't sure of himself. But I don't see why, because he dances excruciatingly well. But he wouldn't believe I was engaged, so I had to run away from him."
"I don't quite get that."
"Kissed me," she sighed. "Oh, well, a party's a party. But I wouldn't let him do it again."
"Would you like to have me lick him?" asked Bill, his voice slightly trembling.
"Lick him? What in the world for? Because he didn't know? Why, what a queer person you are!"
Bill felt that he was, indeed, a very queer person. He was the owner of a party at which his valet had danced twice with one of his guests and kissed her as an additional token of democracy! He did not know whether to rage or laugh. But—oh, if Aunt Caroline ever heard of it! Or his secretary!
"Perhaps you'd like to dance with me," she added.
Bill was startled. But he mumbled an affirmative.
"Let's go, then," and she trotted down-stairs ahead of him, as eager as a kitten chasing a paper ball.
In the lower hall Bill felt a touch on his arm and turned to face Mary Wayne.
"May I interrupt just a moment?" she asked. Then to the girl: "I know you'll excuse me. I won't keep Mr. Marshall a minute."
The small one in the blue dress gave a frightened stare at Bill, shrieked and fled into the crowd.
"Have I offended her?" asked Mary, anxiously. "I'm sorry. I don't seem to place her, although I've been trying to remember all the guests."
"That's Arnold Gibbs's little girl," explained Bill. "She's been telling me things about my party and now she's just discovered who I am."
"Oh! And you let the poor child go on and on, of course. How awfully mean of you. Will you never learn?" Mary frowned at him with all the severity of a sister. "But that's not what I wanted to speak to you about. You've been hiding—and you mustn't!People are asking where you are. Please—please don't spoil things. It's your party and you've just got to be present at it."
Bill made a face.
"I'm tired of being exhibited," he growled. "I'm tired of meeting people who say: 'So this is little Willie Marshall. Mercy, how you've grown! I haven't seen you since you wore knickerbockers. But you're a Marshall, sure enough; you're the image of your father.' I tell you, I'm sick of it!"
"But it's only for once," pleaded Mary. "Now they've met you they won't do it again. But what I want you to do now is to go in and dance with some of the young people. There are some lovely girls in there, and they're just sitting around. Come; I'll introduce you, if you haven't already met them."
But Bill hung back. He did not want to dance at all; he was grateful because his secretary had inadvertently saved him from Arnold Gibbs's little girl. There was woe in his eyes as he looked at Mary. There was every sound reason why his expression should have been different, for Mary, in her party gown from Aunt Caroline, inspired anything but woe. Even she herself was conscious of the fact that she looked nice. Bill was becoming slowly conscious of it himself, although he could not drive the gloom out of his soul.
"Come," she said, peremptorily, hooking her arm in his.
"I'll dance with you," he offered.
"That won't do at all. I'm not a guest."
"If I can't dance with you I won't dance with anybody."
She shook her head impatiently.
"Please be sensible, Mr. Marshall."
"You first," declared Bill stubbornly.
"No! It's not the thing for you to do at all. Perhaps later; but——"
"We'll go out in the conservatory and dance."
"But nobody is dancing out there."
"Come on, then."
Bill started, with her arm prisoned in a grip that forbid escape.
"Well, if I dance with you," said Mary, as she was dragged along, "then afterward you must promise to——"
"Maybe."
They stood at the entrance to the conservatory, Mary still scolding in an undertone. Suddenly she pinched his arm violently and pointed. An animated couple were swinging into view from behind a patch of palms. His valet—and Arnold Gibbs's little girl!
"Oh, Heavens!" said Mary.
She fled, with Bill trailing in her wake.
Even at that, it was not a bad party. It was somewhat overwhelmed with descendants, it is true; descendants of relatives and of old friends and of persons who were intimates of Bill Marshall's grandfather. But some of the descendants were young and were managing to have a good time. Aunt Caroline had her own circle, a sort of little backwater, into which descendants eddied and tarried a bit, and from which they eddied out again. In fact, Aunt Caroline had a party within a party. Her permanent guest seemed to be the bishop; once caught in the backwater he never escaped into the stream. He stayed there with Aunt Caroline, while the descendants whirled gently around them. But the bishop was amiable in his dusty way, while his dignity was unimpeachable. He had made an impression on Arnold Gibbs's little girl, and what more could any bishop do?
Nell Norcross, known to the household and its guests as "Miss Wayne," did not prove to be such a reliance as Mary hoped. Perhaps it was because she was a convalescent and did not feel equal to the ordeal of plunging boldly into affairs; perhaps it was due to a natural diffidence among strangers. But whatever it was, Mary discovered that she was almost wholly upon her own resources; that Nell was not rising capably to the emergency; that she edged off into the middle distance or the background with irritating persistence; that, in short, Nell, with all her wealth of experience and all her highly attested worth as an expert, was unable to adapt herself to the situation so well as the amateur secretary. Nell even admitted this shortcoming to Mary.
"I feel strange because I'm being called by your name," she offered as an explanation.
"Mercy," said Mary. "How about me?"
"But you've become accustomed to it, my dear. Never mind; I'm sure I'll brighten up as soon as the sculptor comes."
"There! I'd forgotten him. Oh, I hope he doesn't fail. I must find Mr. Marshall and ask him if he's heard anything. Have you seen him? I'll hunt around for him. I suppose he's trying to hibernate again."
And once more Mary started on the trail of Bill Marshall, for the double purpose of dragging him back into society and inquiring as to the whereabouts of thesignorfrom Italy.
Pete Stearns was in purgatory. He had been sent for by Aunt Caroline, discovered by a servant and haled to the backwater, into which he was irresistibly sucked.
"Bishop," said Aunt Caroline, "this is the young man of whom I spoke."
The bishop took Pete's hand, pressed it gently and retained it.
"My young friend," he said, "you are on the threshold of a career that offers you priceless opportunities. Have you looked well into your heart? Do you find yourself ready to dedicate your whole life to the work?"
"Sir," replied Pete, with a shake in his voice, "it is my ambition to become nothing less than a bishop."
"There! I told you so," said Aunt Caroline.
"Have you a sound theological foundation?" asked the bishop, still holding Pete's hand.
"I should say he had!" exclaimed Aunt Caroline. "What was it you were telling me about yesterday, Peter? The cat—cat——"
"The catechetical lectures of Cyril of Jerusalem," said Pete smoothly. "From that we go on to the doctrines of Arius of Antioch."
"That would be going backward," commented the bishop.
"Huh! Oh, certainly, sir, strictly speaking. But we have been skipping around a bit, if I may say it, sir. Hitting the high—that is, sir, taking up such matters as interest us. Theistic philosophy, ethical rationalism, Harnack's conception of monophysticism, Gregory of Nyssa, Anselm of Canterbury——"
"Who wrote the 'Canterbury Tales,'" interrupted Aunt Caroline. "Wasn't that what you told me, Peter?"
But Peter was hurrying on.
"Miss Marshall has been good enough, sir, to show some small interest in my work; it has been a great encouragement to me. I may say that in the field of philosophical and speculative theology——"
"Stick to the dogmatic, my friend," advised thebishop—"the dogmatic and the special dogmatic. Be sound, whatever you are. Now, here is a test I apply to every young man; it shows the trend of his thought, it tells me whether he has embarked upon the proper course; give me, my young friend, an outline of your views on diophysite orthodoxy."
Pete coughed and lifted his glance to the ceiling.
"Confound the old coot!" he was telling himself. "He has me out on a limb. What will I do? How in——"
And then—rescue! A small person in a blue dress floated into the backwater.
"Oh, here's my nice man," she said, as she possessed herself of Pete's arm. "Bishop, let go of his hand. He's going to teach me that new vamp thing. Hurry, teacher; the music started ages ago."
And as Pete was towed out of the backwater by Arnold Gibbs's little girl the bishop and Aunt Caroline stared after him.
"I greatly fear," observed the bishop, "that our young friend is somewhat in the grip of predestinarianism."
"Bishop, you frighten me," said Aunt Caroline. "But I'll take it up with him in the morning."
When another partner had invaded the conservatory and claimed the little girl in the blue dress, Pete Stearns sighed.
"There goes the only one who doesn't suspect me," he said. "The only real little democrat in the place. Although it's only ignorance in her case, of course. Oh, well, it's not so bad; I'm doing better than Bill at that."
Somebody tapped him on the arm.
"I've been waiting for an opportunity," said Nell Norcross. "I do not wish to make a scene. But Iunderstand that you are Mr. Marshall's valet. Is that correct?"
Pete looked her in the eye and speculated.
"I think I am not mistaken," said Nell, after she had waited sufficiently for an answer. "May I ask, then, if it is customary for valets to dance with the guests of their employers?"
"Madam," said Pete, "may I in turn ask by what authority you question me?"
"There is nothing mysterious about my position in this house," replied Nell. "I am here as an assistant to Miss—Norcross." It was annoying to stumble over the name. "Miss Marshall understands perfectly; I am here at her request. I think you will do a very wise thing if you retire to the gentlemen's dressing-room and remain there. Am I clear?"
It was Pete's first glimpse at close hand of the social secretary's aide. It did not bore him in the least. He might have described her pallor as "interesting," had he been prone to commonplaces. Her eyes, he thought, were even better than those of Arnold Gibbs's little girl; they were not so vivid, perhaps, yet more deeply luminous.
"Let us debate this matter," he said. "Will you sit down?"
"Certainly not!"
"Aw, let's."
He spoke with a disarming persuasion, but Nell refused to be seated.
"Will you go up-stairs at once?" she demanded.
Pete placed a finger against his lips and glanced from side to side. "Suppose," he said, "I were to tell you a great secret?"
"Go at once!"
"Suppose we exchange secrets?" he whispered.
That startled her. What did he mean? Did he know anything—or suspect?
"Suppose——" He stopped, turned his head slightly and listened. "Something is happening," he said. "Let's run."
And before Nell Norcross knew it she was running, her hand in his, for all the world likeAlicein the Looking Glass Country dashing breathlessly along, with theRed Queenshouting: "Faster! Faster!"
As they reached the front of the house they heard the voice of the announcer:
"Signor Antonio Valentino."
They saw Mary Wayne dexterously crowding her way forward; they saw her look, gasp, utter a faint cry and freeze into an attitude of horror.
And then they saw Bill Marshall, wearing a whole-hearted grin of delight, rush forward to greet his friend, the eminent artist from Italy.
Signor Valentino was short and dark. He had a flattened nose that drifted toward the left side of his face. He had a left ear that was of a conformation strange to the world of exclusive social caste, an ear that—well, to be frank, it was a tin ear. He had large, red hands that were fitted with oversize knuckles. His shoulders rocked stiffly when he walked. His eyes were glittering specks.
"H'lo, Bill, yo' old bum," said the signor.
"Kid, I'm glad to see you. You look like a million dollars."
And Bill seized Kid Whaley's hand, pumped his arm furiously and fetched him a mighty wallop on the shoulder.
The signor did, indeed, look like a million dollars. He wore the finest Tuxedo coat that could be hired on the East Side. His hair was greased and smoothed until it adhered to his bullet head like the scalp thereof.There was a gold-tipped cigarette between his lips. The bow tie that girded his collar had a daring pattern of red. In a shirt front that shone like a summer sea was imbedded a jewel whose candle-power was beyond estimate, so disconcerting was it to the unshielded eye. A matchless brilliant of like size illuminated a twisted finger. His waistcoat was jauntily but somewhat sketchily figured in dark green, on a background of black.
"I got everythin' but th' shoes, Bill," confided the signor in a public whisper. "They gimme a pair that was too small an' I chucked 'em."
Thus it was that the signor wore his own shoes, which were yellow, and knobby at the toes and had an air of sturdiness.
"You're great," said Bill, as he pounded him again on the shoulder. "What made you so late?"
But the signor did not seem to hear. His glance was roving, flashing here and there with a shiftiness and speed that bewildered.
"Some dump and some mob," was his ungrudging tribute. "What's th' price of a layout like this, Bill? I'm gonna get me one when I lick the champ."
The rigid pose of Mary Wayne suddenly relaxed. She appeared to deflate. Her muscles flexed; her knees sagged. She backed weakly out of the crowd and found support against the wall.
As for Pete Stearns, there was a rapt stare of amazed admiration on his face. He turned and whispered to Nell, whose hand he still gripped:
"The son of a gun! He held out on me. He never tipped me a word. But, oh, boy, won't he get his for this!"
As for Bill Marshall, he was presenting Signor Antonio Valentino to his guests. Some of the boldereven shook hands, but the uncertain ones bowed, while those of unconcealed timidity or ingrained conservatism contented themselves with glances which might have been either acknowledgments or a complete withdrawal of recognition.
The signor was unabashed. The days of his stage fright were long past; to him a crowd was an old acquaintance. He turned to Bill with a bland grin.
"Gee, Bill, ain't it funny how I'm a riot anywhere I go? Y' don't even have to tell 'em I'm Kid Whaley."
Bill tucked the signor's arm under his and was leading him through the reception-room. In his own mind there was a faint twinge of misgiving. It was a great adventure, yes; it represented his defiance of Aunt Caroline, of the social secretary, of the career that they were carving for him. It was not open defiance, of course; Bill had intended that it should be subtle. He was undermining the foundations, while at the same time appearing to labor on the superstructure. Presently the whole false edifice would crash and there would be no suspicion that he was the author of disaster. That was the reasoning part of his plotting. The remainder—perhaps the greater part—was sheer impulse. He was cooperating with the devil that lurked within him.
Now the real test was coming. He summoned his moral reserves as he leaned over and whispered:
"Kid, you're going to meet my aunt. Watch your step. Spread yourself, but be careful. Do you remember what I told you?"
"Sure," said the Kid, easily. "I'll put it over. Watch me."
"If you fall down I'm gone."
"I ain't ever fell down yet. Ring the gong."
Aunt Caroline and the bishop were still in the backwateras Bill arrived with the new bit of flotsam. The amiable old chatelaine glanced up.
"Mercy!" she murmured.
"Signor Antonio Valentino," said Bill, with a bow.
Instantly Aunt Carolina smiled and extended her hand.
"Oh! Why, we had almost given you up. I'm so glad you did not fail us. William has told me——"
"Wotever Bill says is right," interrupted the signor. "He's a white guy. Pleased t' meetcha."
Aunt Caroline's hand crumpled under the attack, but she suffered without wincing and turned to the bishop.
"Bishop, this is the sculptor of whom I spoke."
The bishop was staring. His eyebrows were rising. For an instant only he was studying Bill Marshall.
"Pleased t' meetcha, bish."
It was a greeting not according to diocesan precedents, nor was the shaking of hands that followed it, yet the bishop survived. "It is very interesting to know you, sir," he murmured, non-committally.
Aunt Caroline was devoting her moment of respite to a study of Signor Valentino. She knew, of course, that it was not polite to stare at a man's ear, or at his nose, but these objects held her in a sort of wondering fascination. In advance she had formed no clear picture of what a sculptor should be; he was the first she had met. Yet, despite her inexperience and lack of imagination, she was conscious that this sculptor did not match very closely even the hazy ideal that was in her mind.
Bill nudged the signor, and the signor suddenly remembered. He was expected to explain, which he could do readily. It was merely a matter of feinting for an opening. Ah—he had it.
"It's cert'nly a grand little thing t' break trainin', lady. This here sculptor game is a hard life. Y' been pipin' me ear, ain't y'?"
Aunt Caroline lifted a hand in embarrassed protest and tried to murmur a disclaimer.
"W'y, it's all right, lady," said the signor, with generous reassurance. "It's one o' me trade-marks. Say, y'd never guess how I got it. Listen: I landed on it when I did a Brodie off a scaffold in th' sixteenth chapel. Uhuh; down in Rome."
"Sistine!" It was a violent whisper from Bill.
"Sistine," repeated the signor. "That's wot hung it on me, lady. I was up there a coupla hundred feet—easy that—copyin' off one o' them statues of Mike th' Angelus. You know th' guy; one o' th' old champs. All of a sudden, off I goes an' down on me ear. Gee, lady, it had me down f'r nine all right; but I wasn't out. Ain't never been out yet. So I goes up again an' finishes th' job in th' next round. That's th' kind of a bird I am, lady."
Aunt Caroline nodded dumbly. So did the bishop.
"I got th' twisted beezer in th' same mixup," added the signor, as he scratched his nose reflectively. "First I lit on me ear an' then I rolled over on me nose. But, gee; that's nothin'. Guys in my game gotta have noive."
"It would appear to require much courage," ventured the bishop.
"You said it," advised the signor. "But y' gotta have noive in any game, bish. Yes, ma'am; y' gotta have guts."
Aunt Caroline steadied herself against the bishop's arm.
"The signor," explained Bill, "unconsciously slips into the vernacular."
"Slippin' it in on th' vernacular is one o' me best tricks," assented the signor. "Lady, I remember once I caught a guy on th' vernacular——"
Bill was pinching him. The signor remembered and shifted his attack.
"See them mitts?" he asked, as he held forth a pair of knotted hands. "All in the same game, lady. Y' see, I got a studio in Naples, just like th' one I got over on th' East Side. This is th' way I get from handlin' them big hunks of Carranza marble."
Again Bill pinched the sculptor, who inclined his tin ear for counsel.
"Cheese it, Kid; you're in Mexico. Get it right—Carrara."
"Sure," observed the signor, undisturbed. "This here Carrara marble, lady, is all heavyweight stuff. It's like goin' outa y'r class t' handle it. I don't take it on regular."
"I—I've heard so much of the Carrara marble," said Aunt Caroline.
"There ain't nothin' better f'r hitchin' blocks, pavin' stones an' tombstones," declared the signor. Then, with an inspiration: "An' holy-stones, too. Get that, bish? Holy-stones. Ain't that a hot one? Hey, Bill, did you get it? I'm tellin' the bish they take this here Carranza marble——"
Bill interrupted firmly.
"I doubt if the bishop would be interested in the details, signor," he said. "Your work speaks for itself. You see"—to the bishop—"while the signor fully understands all the purposes for which Carrara marble may be used, he is really a specialist on heads and busts."
"Portrait work," suggested the bishop, still a trifle dazed.
"Exactly. The expression that he can put into a face is often marvelous."
"Do you think," inquired Aunt Caroline, hesitating as though she were asking the impossible, "that he would consent to show some of his work here?"
"Any time, lady; any time," said the signor heartily. "Only I ain't brung me workin' clothes an'——"
He broke off as his glance enveloped a figure standing in a doorway that led to the hall.
"My Gawd! It's Pete!"
And Signor Valentino was gone in a rush of enthusiastic greeting.
"Why, he knows your valet, William," said Aunt Caroline.
"I have had Peter over at his studio; he's interested in ecclesiastical art, you know."
"Of course; I might have known." Aunt Caroline hesitated for an instant, then: "William, does he always talk in that curious manner?"
Bill nodded and sighed.
"It's due to his spirit of democracy," he explained. "He chooses to live among the lowly. He loves the people. He falls into their way of speech. I'll admit that it may sound strange, Aunt Caroline——"
"Oh, I wasn't objecting," she said, hastily. "I know so little about the foreign artists that I am ignorant; that's all."
"Some time, Aunt Caroline, I should like to have the signor bring some of his fellow-artists here. At a small affair, I mean."
"And you certainly shall, William. By all means."
Now, Bill was not wholly satisfied with this. He had been relying upon the Kid to do him a certain service. He was using him in the hope of destroying Aunt Caroline's illusions concerning art, society andother higher things. He had no idea that the Kid would score anything that resembled a triumph. But now it was evident to him that in certain phases of life he had never sufficiently plumbed the innocence of his maiden aunt.
"He seems to interest you," he ventured, with a view to exploration.
"Strength and endurance are qualities always to be admired in a man," said Aunt Caroline, as glibly as if it came out of a book. "I had never dreamed that art developed them. Bishop, were you aware of it?"
The bishop was staring pointedly at Bill.
"I—er—no. That is—well, it is probable that I have never given sufficient attention to certain of the arts."
He continued to stare at Bill, until that gentleman began to feel that the bishop was not so unsophisticated as he seemed.
"If you'll excuse me, Aunt Caroline, I'll hunt up the signor. I wouldn't have him feel that I am neglecting him."
But the signor was no longer standing in the doorway, talking to Pete Stearns. Nor was he out in the hall, where Bill immediately searched. A hasty exploration of the dining-room did not discover him.
"Now, where in blazes did he go?" muttered Bill, in an anxious tone.
He started on a run toward the front of the house and barely managed to avert a collision with his social secretary.
"Say, have you seen——"
She checked him with a stabbing glance.
"Do you know what you've done?" she demanded.
"Why, I——"
"Are you sane enough to realize?"
Bill had never seen quite such an expression in her eyes. They fascinated him; almost they inspired him with awe. He even forgot the freckles.
"But I'm looking for the signor."
"Signor!" she echoed. "Well, never mind him. He's gone. Just for the moment, there's something else——"
"Gone? But he just came!"
Mary's jaw had developed an angle of grimness.
"I had him put out of the house," she said. "Yes, and I helped! I had him thrown out by servants. Do you know what he did?"
Bill experienced a sudden shrinking of the skin at his throat and down the sides of his neck.
"He met my friend—Miss Wayne—and——" Mary beat a clenched fist into her palm. "Because she spoke pleasantly to him he—he seized her! And he kissed her! And—now do you see what you've done?"
"I'm sorry," said Bill, in a stumbling whisper.
"Sorry!" Mary's face was aflame. "Sorry! But never mind that now. She has fainted. She was just recovering from an illness. It will probably kill her. Do you understand? I'll have to send for an ambulance. I'll——"
Bill led the way at a run and reached the second floor.
"Where is she?" he demanded.
"You mean the sick lady?" asked the up-stairs maid. "Peter has taken her home, sir. He asked me to tell you that he would use your car."
"Better, was she?"
"A little hysterical, sir; but she could walk."
Bill breathed more comfortably. He turned to Mary Wayne.
"Everything's all right, I guess," he said.
"You think so?" she inquired icily. "You are easily reassured, Mr. Marshall."
Bill shrugged.
"Oh, well; I'm sorry it happened, of course. I guess I'd better go back to the party, perhaps."
Not that he wanted to go back to the party; he simply wanted to get away from those awful eyes of Mary Wayne.
"There will be no need for you to do that," she said. "Everybody is going. Everything is ruined! Everything—oh, how could you?"
"I'll take a look around, anyhow," he said.
She reached forth a hand and seized him by the sleeve.
"You will not!" she said, hotly. "You won't look around anywhere. You'll come straight into the office and talk to me!"
"But——"
"At once!"
So he followed her.
When the car reached a clear block, Pete turned his head for a hurried glimpse at the partly-huddled figure at his right.
"Air doing you any good?" he asked.
"I—I think so."
Miss Norcross spoke uncertainly. She was not quite clear concerning even such a matter as air.
Pete skillfully lighted a cigarette without checking the car's pace. He smoked in silence for several blocks.
"How did you like our little party?" he inquired.
No answer.
"He didn't mean any harm; that was only his way of being democratic."
There was no comment from Miss Norcross.
"Of course," mused Pete, "when you take the warm and impulsive Neapolitan nature and stack it up against the New England conscience you produce a contact of opposites. Looking at the matter impartially——"
"Please stop talking to me."
"Why?"
"For excellent reasons."
"Because I am a valet?"
"Because you choose to forget your position," said Nell, sharply.
Pete sighed mournfully.
"Everywhere it's the same," he said. "They all drawthe line. It'll haunt me even when I'm a bishop. Did you know I was going to be a bishop? I am. But, of course, being once a valet will have its advantages as well as its drawbacks. I'll be able to clean and press my own robes. I'll be a neat bishop if I'm nothing else. If there's one thing I dislike it's a dowdy bishop. You just run over all your bishop friends and you'll appreciate what I mean."
"Stop talking!"
"I don't believe you mean that, Miss Wayne. I believe that you have a secret liking for my conversation. Most people have. You see, it's like this: when I was a young boy——"
Nell sat up abruptly and looked about her.
"Where are you taking me to?" she demanded.
"I thought I'd drop you at the Ritz. That's where you live, isn't it? You have the Ritz manner."
"We've got to go back," she said furiously. "I don't live up this way at all. I live down-town."
"Well, you didn't tell me," said Pete, mildly. "You just let me go right on driving. I never dreamed of taking you anywhere except to the Ritz."
She told him the address and huddled back into her seat. Pete merely elevated an eyebrow as he turned the car.
"To return to our discussion of the party," he said, "it is unfortunate that you fainted before Signor Valentino took his departure. There were features connected with his exit that were unique. But I am greatly afraid that my master, Mr. Marshall, will have difficulty in making explanations. To bring your dearest friend to your house and then——"
"If you don't stop talking I'll shriek."
"We shall see. To make it interesting, I'll bet you five dollars that you don't."
And he continued to talk, smoothly, placidly and without cessation. She did not shriek. She did not even whimper. She sat in outraged silence, her hands clenched, her brain swimming with the futility of trying to puzzle out this mystery of Bill Marshall's valet.
"And so we arrive," said Pete, as he stopped the car in front of the boarding house and glanced up at its gloomy front. "No shrieking, no police whistles, no general alarm. Allow me."
He assisted her from the car and escorted her across the sidewalk. "You need not come up the steps," she said.
But already he was urging her up the steps, with a firm yet considerate grip on her arm. Also, he rang the bell.
"Thank you," said Nell, hurriedly. "That will be all, if you please."
"Suppose they should not hear your ring? Suppose you had to sit on the top step all night? No; I should never forgive myself. It is my duty to remain until—— Ah! The concierge."
The door opened and the landlady peered out into the vestibule.
"Madam," said Pete, removing his hat, "I have the honor to leave in your charge Miss Wayne. May I ask that you show her every consideration, inasmuch as she is somewhat indisposed?"
"Miss Wayne?" echoed the landlady. "There's nobody here——"
And then, in a flicker of light that came from the hallway, she established an identification. At the same instant Nell pushed weakly past her and stumbled into the house.
"There! I told her she wasn't fit to go out," declared the landlady. "I warned her. I knew she'd payfor it. But you can't drill sense into some people; not a particle."
She seemed to be soliloquizing, rather than addressing the stranger on her doorstep. But Pete was not interested in the soliloquy. There was a matter that mystified him. He interrupted.
"When I presented Miss Wayne did I understand you to say——"
She suddenly remembered that he was there.
"None of your business, young man. And don't stand around on my front stoop."
Then she was gone, with a slamming of the door that echoed through the lonely block. Pete decided that her advice was sound; there was nothing to be achieved by standing there. He walked down the steps, climbed into the car and drove slowly off.
"Something is peculiar," he observed, half aloud. "Let us examine the facts."
All the way back to the Marshall house he examined the facts, but when he backed the car into the garage he had reached no conclusion.
Another conversation had been in progress during the time that Pete Stearns was playing rescuer to a stricken lady. It took place in the "office," a term that Mary Wayne had fallen into the habit of applying to the sun parlor where she transacted the affairs of Bill Marshall. For a considerable time all of the conversation flowed from one pair of lips. To say that it flowed is really too weak a characterization; it had the fearsome speed and volume of an engulfing torrent.
Bill walked during most of it. He could not manage to stay in one place; the torrent literally buffeted him about the room. He felt as helpless as a swimmer in the Niagara rapids. Never before had he realizedthe conversational possibilities of a social secretary. He was particularly disquieted because she did not rant. She did not key her voice high; she did not gesture; she did not move from her chair. She simply sat there, pouring scorn upon him in appallingly swift and even tones. She drenched him with it; she seemed in a fair way to drown him.
At last, inevitably, there came a pause. There was awe as well as surprise in the gaze with which Bill contemplated her. She sat stiffly on the edge of her chair, pinker in the cheeks than he had ever seen her before, with her lips tightly set and her eyes glowing.
"That's more than I ever stood from anybody," he said slowly.
"Then you have been neglected in the past," was the comment she shot back.
"My aunt never went as far as you have."
"She would if she appreciated what you have done. When I think of the way you have deceived that dear old woman it makes me want to be an anarchist. Even now she doesn't understand what you've done. She doesn't know that you deliberately ruined everything; she's too innocent to suspect. All your guests know; all the servants know—everybody knows except your poor aunt. But you've imposed on her, you have deceived her, you have lied to her——"
"Oh, hold on there, please."
"Well, you have!" cried Mary. "And you've lied to me."
"How?" he demanded.
"You ask me that! Do I need to remind you? You said you were bringing a friend, an artist. You even lied about his name. And then you had the effrontery to bring into this house a disreputable bruiser——"
"Now, wait a minute," commanded Bill. "I didn'tlie about his name. I told you the truth. His name is exactly as I gave it—Antonio Valentino."
"I don't believe a word of it."
"Simply because you're ignorant about a lot of things. Probably you don't know that nearly every wop fighter in New York City goes into the ring under an Irish name. It's done for business reasons mostly. This man's name is Valentino; he was born in Italy. But when he fights it's Kid Whaley. And if you don't choose to believe me, write to any sporting editor and he'll tell you."
But Mary was not to be thrust aside.
"It makes no difference what his real name is, you concealed his identity. You deliberately deceived me. Not thatIcare," she added bitterly. "I'm thinking of your aunt and the reputation of her home."
"How could I help it if you misunderstood me?" demanded Bill. "I said he was an artist, didn't I? Well, he is. He's next to the top in his line, and it won't be long before he takes first place. If you ever saw him fight you'd understand what art is."
"You said he was a sculptor."
"Well, he is, too, in a way. That may be a bit of artistic license, but he's a sculptor. I've seen him take a man, go to work on him, carve him up and change him so that you couldn't identify him with anything short of finger prints. He's a sculptor of human beings. He works on heads and busts; I said he did, didn't I? And I said he was an impressionist and a realist rolled into one. And he is. A man can do impressionistic work with a pair of six-ounce gloves just as well as he can with a paint brush or a chisel. And you yourself suggested that his work must have strength, and I agreed with you."
Bill rather hoped that this would settle it; not thathe banked heavily on the soundness of his defense, but rather because he felt that it was technically adroit. Mary simply curled a lip and regarded him with fresh scorn.
"That's what I call a very cowardly explanation," she said. "You know as well as I do that it's worthless. It doesn't explain the fact that you let me deceive myself and made me the instrument for deceiving your aunt. I'd have more respect for you if you came out boldly and admitted what you've done."
Bill was beginning to glare.
"If you think I'm going to throw down my friends in order to get into society, then I'll stay out."
"You'd better change your friends," she advised. "So long as you have friends who are an offense to decent people——"
"Stop right there!" warned Bill. "I pick my own friends and I stick by 'em. The Kid has been a good friend of mine and I've tried to be a good friend of his. He's helped me out of more than one hole. And I've helped him. I backed him in his first big fight and got him started on the uproad. I've backed him more than once and I'll back him again, if he asks me to. Why can't you be reasonable about this? Suppose he is a fighter. He's a friend of mine, just the same. And what's a little scrap now and then between friends?"
Mary stared at him in cold silence. He mistook it for wavering. He felt that it was time to fling back the tide.
"I didn't choose to go into society, did I? I was dragged into it—and you were hired to drag me. Now you take the job of trying to come between me and my friends. You try to make a Rollo out of me. Would any self-respecting man stand for that?"
Bill was working up to it as he went along.
"I think you'd better remember your position and mine. If I were you, I'd bear in mind that you're my secretary—not my boss. If I were you——"
Mary sprang to her feet. "I'mnotyour secretary!" she cried, in a trembling voice.
"Oh, but I think you've already admitted that," he said, with an angry laugh.
"Well, I'm not now! I was, but not any more. I resign! Do you hear?I resign!"
Saying which, she sat down again and burst into tears.
The wrath in Bill's eyes faded slowly. In its place came a look of dismay, of astonishment, of clumsy embarrassment. He began shifting his feet. He took his hands out of his pockets and put them back again. He chewed his lip.
"Aw, hell!" he muttered under his breath.
Mary did not hear him. She was too much preoccupied with her sobs. She began searching blindly for a handkerchief, and was not aware of what she did when she accepted Bill's, which he hastily offered.
"Don't cry," he advised.
He might as well have advised the sky not to rain.
"Oh, come, Miss Norcross; please don't cry."
"I—Iwillcry!"
"Well, then, don't resign," he said.
"Iwillresign!"
"Let's be reasonable. Don't let's lose our tempers."
Mary swallowed a sob and shouted into the handkerchief:
"I resign!I resign!I resign!"
Bill gritted his teeth and planted himself threateningly in front of her.
"I won't have it! Understand me? I won't let you resign. I refuse to accept your resignation."
"You c-can't."
"Well, I do."
"I—I w-won't endure it! I've already resigned. I'm through. I'm——"
Right there she had a fresh paroxysm. Bill knew that he must be firm, at all costs. If only on account of Aunt Caroline she couldn't be allowed to resign. And then there was his own account to be considered. Any girl with such nice freckles—— He was in a state of inward panic.
"See here; I'll try to do better," he promised. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
"It's too—too l-late now," sobbed Mary.
"No, it isn't. We'll start all over again. Come, now."
She shook her head miserably.
"Pup-pup-please!" she wailed. "I—I want to resign."
Bill watched her as she curled up in the chair, tucked her feet under her party dress and hunted for a dry spot on the handkerchief.
"I wonder if it would be all right for me to cuddle her," he mused. "The poor kid needs it; maybe she expects it. Well, such being the case——"
A knock, a door opening, and Pete Stearns. He sensed the situation at a glance and winked at Bill.
"I just wished to report, sir, that I escorted Miss Wayne to her home and left her feeling somewhat better."
Mary hastily dabbed her eyes and looked up.
"She's all right? You're sure?"
"Miss Wayne is quite all right, ma'am." He accented the name, watching Mary as he spoke.
"Thank you very much, Peter," she said.
"Once she got out into the air, ma'am——"
Bill interrupted him with a peremptory gesture. Pete winked again and backed out.
Ten minutes later Mary Wayne was more concerned about the probability that her nose was red than she was about her status as Bill Marshall's secretary. Bill was smoking a cigarette and looking thoughtful. He did not know whether it would have been all right to cuddle her or not. The inopportuneness of Pete Stearns had left the question open.
"I think I'll go to bed," said Mary.
Bill went to the door and paused with his hand on the knob.
"That resignation doesn't go, you know," he said.
"Good night," answered Mary.
"Do you withdraw it?"
"I—I'll think about it. Will you open the door, please?"
He opened it a little way.
"I've got to know definitely," he said, with great firmness.
"Well, perhaps—if you really want——"
"Atta boy," said Bill, with a genial patting of her shoulder. "I mean, atta girl. But listen: if you ever pull a resignation on me again I'll——"
Mary looked up, a question in her eyes. Would he really accept it—really?
"Why, I'll spank you—you freckle-faced little devil."
Mary yanked the door full wide and ran down the hall. Bill watched hopefully, but she never looked back.
To the horror of Bill Marshall, the undisguised wonder of Pete Stearns and unexpected joy of Mary Wayne, Aunt Caroline announced herself as much pleased with the party. There were a few things she did not understand, others that she did not know—such as the manner of Signor Valentino's leave-taking—and, therefore, between unsophistication and ignorance, she thoroughly enjoyed matters in retrospect.
Upon Mary she heaped praise, upon Bill gratitude, while to Peter she confided the impression that the bishop was well disposed toward him and would doubtless supply him with any theological hints that he might find necessary in the pursuit of his life-work.
As for Bill and Mary, they were on terms again. Mary had not forgotten what he called her as she fled to her room; it was the second time he had alluded to her freckles, which hitherto she had been wont to regard as a liability. Nor had she forgotten the storm and the tears. It was all very unsecretarial, she realized, and it might easily have been embarrassing if Bill had not displayed a tact and delicacy that she never expected of him. He made neither hint nor allusion to the matter; he behaved as if he had forgotten it. He had not, of course, and Mary knew he had not; and Bill himself knew that it was still vivid in Mary's mind. It was a shunned topic, and underneaththis tacit ladies' and gentlemen's agreement to shun it, it survived as an invisible bond.
In fact, a sort of three-cornered alliance had grown out of Bill's party, so that Pete came to be included in the triangle. This was also tacit as between Pete and Mary, although it was directly responsible for certain covert inquiries that Pete made from time to time concerning "Miss Wayne." His anxiety as to her health appeared to do great credit to his goodness of heart. Between Bill and Pete there was always frank discussion, in private, although on the subject of the social secretary it flowed with perhaps a trifle less freedom.
So greatly had the party furthered the innocent dreams of Aunt Caroline that she lost no time in urging further assaults and triumphs in the new world that had been opened to her nephew.
"My dear," she said to Mary, "I think it would be well to give a small dinner—very soon."
Mary agreed that it would be very well, indeed.
"I confess that I have certain ambitions," said Aunt Caroline. "I would like to have William extend his circle somewhat, and among people whom it would be a very fine thing for him to know."
Mary carelessly approved that, too.
"It would be wonderful, my dear, if we could have Mrs. Rokeby-Jones as a guest."
Mary glanced sharply at Aunt Caroline. She was suddenly trembling with a premonition.
"But do we know Mrs. Rokeby-Jones?" she asked.
Aunt Caroline smiled confidently.
"You do, my dear."
To which, of course, Mary was forced to nod an assent.
"I believe it would be all right for you to speak toher about it," added Aunt Caroline. "She thinks so highly of you that I am sure she would not consider it strange in the least. And besides, there is always the Marshall name."
The Marshall name was Aunt Caroline's shield and buckler at all times, and since Bill's party she had come to regard it as a password of potent magic.
Mary felt suddenly weak, but she fought to avoid disclosure of the fact. Mrs. Rokeby-Jones! What could she say? Already, in the case of Bill's party, threads of acquaintanceship that were so tenuous as scarcely to be threads at all had been called upon to bear the strain of invitations, and, much to her astonishment, they had borne the strain. Thereby emboldened, Aunt Caroline was now seeking to bridge new gulfs. But why did she have to pick Mrs. Rokeby-Jones? Was it because—— Mary tried to put from her mind the unworthy suspicion that Aunt Caroline was still delving as to the facts concerning what they said about the elder daughter. But whatever the motive, whether it be hidden or wholly on the surface, booted little to Mary. It was an impossible proposal.
"She will recall you, of course," Aunt Caroline was saying. "And I am sure that she knows the Marshalls. In fact, I have an impression that at one time William's mother——"
"But are you sure she hasn't gone to Newport?" asked Mary, desperately.
"I saw her name in the paper only this morning, my dear. She was entertaining last night at the theater."
Mary began wadding a handkerchief.
"And perhaps she could suggest somebody else," added Aunt Caroline. "At any rate, suppose you get in touch with her and let me know what she says."
Mary went up-stairs to nurse her misery. It was outof the question to refuse, yet she dreaded to obey. She could not call upon Mrs. Rokeby-Jones; even a blind person could tell the difference between Nell Norcross and Mary Wayne. She could not get Nell to go, for Nell was still overcome by her adventures at the party. She could not send a letter, because the writing would betray her. She could telephone, perhaps; but would Mrs. Rokeby-Jones detect a strange voice? And even if she succeeded in imposture over the wire, how was she to approach the matter of an invitation to the home of a stranger?
After much anguished thought, she decided upon the telephone.
"But even if she consents," murmured Mary, "I'll never dare meet her face to face."
A connection was made in disconcertingly short time and Mary, after talking with a person who was evidently the butler, held the wire, the receiver trembling in her fingers. And then a clear, cool voice——
"Well? Who is it?"
"This—this is Miss Norcross talking," and then Mary held her breath.
"Miss who?"
"Norcross. Miss Norcross."
"Do I know you? Have I met you?" said the voice on the wire.
"This is Nell Norcross." Mary was raising her voice.
"Yes; I hear the name. But I don't place you."
"Miss Norcross—formerly your secretary."
There was an instant's pause. Then the cool voice again:
"Perhaps you have the wrong number. This is Mrs. Rokeby-Jones talking."
"Then I have the right number," said Mary,wrinkling her forehead in perplexity. "I used to be your secretary—Miss Norcross."
"But I have never had a secretary by that name," said Mrs. Rokeby-Jones.
Mary gasped.
"But the reference you gave me! Don't you remember?"
"I have an excellent memory," the voice said. "I have never employed any person named Miss Norcross, I never knew anybody by that name and I certainly never supplied a reference to any such person. You are laboring under some mistake."
"But—but——"
"Good-by."
And Mrs. Rokeby-Jones hung up.
Mary slowly replaced the receiver and sat staring at the telephone. A blow between the eyes could not have stunned her more effectually. Mrs. Rokeby-Jones had repudiated her reference!
Presently she rallied. She ran to her own room and began dressing for the street. She felt that she must escape from the house in order to think. At all costs she must avoid Aunt Caroline until she had been able to untangle this dismaying snarl. A few minutes later she made certain of that by slipping down the rear staircase and leaving the house by a side entrance.
Fifteen minutes later she was at Nell's boarding-house, impatiently ringing the bell.
Nell was propped up in a rocker, looking very wan as Mary entered, but brightening as she recognized her visitor. Mary drew a chair and sat opposite.
"A most embarrassing thing has happened," she said. "I have just had Mrs. Rokeby-Jones on the telephone."
Nell stifled an exclamation.
"And she doesn't remember me—or you, rather—or anybody named Norcross!"
"Oh, my dear!"
"It's the truth, Nell. Oh, I never felt so queer in my life."
Nell moistened her lips and stared with incredulous eyes.
"What—what made you call her up?" she faltered.
"Because I couldn't help it. I was forced to."
And Mary explained the further ambitions of Aunt Caroline and what they had led to.
"Oh, it was shocking, Nell! What did she mean? How dared she do it?"
"I—I—— Oh, Mary!"
"But how could she?" persisted Mary. "That's what I don't understand. Even if my voice sounded strange I don't see how she could. Why did she deny that she ever wrote a reference?"
Nell Norcross pressed a hand to her lips to keep them from quivering. In her eyes there was something that suggested she had seen a ghost. Slowly she began to rock to and fro in her chair, making a gurgling in her throat. Then she whimpered.
"B-because she never wrote it!" she moaned.
"Why—Nell. Oh, Heavens!"
Mary suddenly seemed to have become as frightened as Nell. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, as though expecting to face an eavesdropper. Then she sprang up, went to the door and locked it.
"Nell Norcross, tell me what you mean!"
"She—she didn't write it. Oh, Mary! Oh—please!"
For Mary had taken her by the shoulders and was pushing her rigidly against the back of the chair.
"Who wrote it?" demanded Mary.
"I did."
It required several seconds for Mary to absorb this astounding confession. Then:
"You forged it?"
"I—I wrote it. It isn't forgery, is it? I won't go to jail, will I? Oh, Mary, don't let them——"
Mary shook her somewhat roughly.
"Tell me more about it," she commanded. "Did you lose the reference she gave you? Or did she refuse to give you one?"
Nell shook her head miserably.
"It's worse than that," she sobbed. "I—I never set eyes on the woman in my life."
Mary collapsed into her own chair. She seemed to hear the cool, clear voice of Mrs. Rokeby-Jones calmly denying. Now it was taking an accusative tone. She flushed to a deep red. The memory of that telephone conversation appalled her.
"But the other references?" she managed to whisper.
"All the same."
"All! You wrote them yourself?"
Nell answered with a feeble nod.
"Every one of them?"
"Every one."
"And do you know any of the women who—whose names are signed?"
"Two—one of them by sight."
"Nell Norcross!"
But Nell had reached a fine stage of tears and there was nothing to be had out of her for several minutes. Then Mary managed to calm her.
"Now, tell me about it," she said. "And stop crying, because it won't do a bit of good."
Nell swallowed a sob and mopped at her eyes.
"I—I was in the same fix that you were," she said shakily. "Only I guess I was that way longer. I didn't have any job, and I couldn't get one—without references. You understand?"
Mary nodded. Indeed she did understand.
"I worked in a furrier's; one of the Fifth Avenue places. Stenographer, and I helped on the books, too. And then—well, I had to leave. It wasn't my fault; honestly, Mary. I couldn't stay there because of the way he acted. And of course I wouldn't—I couldn't—ask him for references."
Nell was quieting down, and Mary nodded again, to encourage her.
"Well you know how it is trying to get a job without any references. No decent place will take you. I kept it up for weeks. Why, I couldn't even get a trial. When I couldn't get references, or even refer them to the last place, they'd look at me as if I were trying to steal a job."
"I know," murmured Mary. "They'd look at me, too."
"So I got desperate. You know what that is, too. I had to have a job or starve. And I had to have references—so I wrote them!"
"Oh, Nell!"
Nell looked up defiantly.