The Hon. Member for Morroway did not wait for the adjournment of the afternoon Session. With a gesture that the thirsty never fail to recognise, he signalled two colleagues who occupied adjacent benches, and led the way from the Green Chamber.
The Hon. Member was more than a little piqued at Marjorie Dilling’s insensibility to his persistent Gallery-gazing. It was almost unprecedented in his experience that a young woman should find the sparsely-covered crown of her husband’s head more magnetic an objective than his own luxuriant growth of silver hair. Looked at from above, the leonine mane of Mr. Rufus Sullivan was in the midst of such hirsute barrenness, as conspicuous as a spot of moonlight on a drab, gray wall.
The Hon. Member for Morroway disliked many things: work, religion, temperance, ugly women, clever men, home cooking, cotton stockings, and male stenographers, to mention only a few. But more than any of these, he disliked being ignored by a girl upon whom he had focussed his attention. Such occasions (happily rare!) always induced extreme warmth that was like a scorching rash upon Mr. Sullivan’s sensitive soul, and this, in turn, promoted an intense dryness of the throat. Mr. Sullivan disliked being dry.
So, with admirable directness of movement, he led the way to his room, unlocked a drawer marked “Unfinished Business,” and set a bottle upon the desk at the same time waving hospitality towards his two companions.
For a space the silence was broken only by the ring of glass upon glass and the cooling hiss of a syphon. Then, three voices pronounced, “Here’s how!” and there followed an appreciative click of the tongue and a slight gurgling.
“Ah . . .” breathed the trio.
The Hon. Member for Morroway closed one limpid brown eye and examined his glass against the light. Although an incomparable picture stood framed in the small Gothic window of his room, it did not occur to Mr. Sullivan to look at the distant Laurentians slipping into the purple haze of evening, to feast his soul upon the glory of soft river tones and forest shades; to note the slender spire of silver that glowed like a long-drawn-out star on a back-drop of pastel sky.
Mr. Sullivan was concerned only with the amber fluid in his glass, where tiny bubbles climbed hurriedly to the surface and clung to the sides of the tumbler. If he looked out of the window at all, it was to investigate the possible charms of unattached maidens who strolled towards Nepean Point ostentatiously enjoying the view. Sometimes, Mr. Sullivan found the outlook enchanting, himself. This was when he was stimulated by the enthusiasm of a pretty girl who invariably remarked that it was a sin “to spoil the river shore with those hideous mills, and poison good air with the reek of sulphite.”
Mr. Sullivan vehemently agreed, for he called himself an ardent Nature-lover, unwilling to admit that Nature, for him, was always feminine and young.
“Not much doubt as to the direction the wind blows from Pinto Plains,” he observed, still intent upon his glass.
“Not a shadow,” agreed Howarth, sombrely. “Eastlake and Donahue have certainly got that lad buffaloed to a standstill.”
“Railroaded, you mean,” amended Turner, essaying a wan jest. “I wonder what his price was.” He drained his glass, set it on the table with a thud, and cried, “I never saw their equal—that pair! Time after time, we’ve thought they were down and out. Their subsidies were discounted, banks closed down on ’em, credit was exhausted—you remember the contractors we’ve fixed so that they wouldn’t operate?—even their own supporters got weak in the knees . . . and they manage to find some inspired spell-binder, who pours the floods of his forensic eloquence on the sterile territory, so that first thing we know, a stream of currency begins to trickle from the banks, subsidies are renewed . . . God! how do they pull it off, boys? In a case like this, where do they get the cash to pay Dilling, and what do they promise him? What’s his price, I’m asking you, eh?”
Rufus Sullivan, feeling that two pairs of eyes were upon him, spoke.
“Do you know,” he said, slowly, “it wouldn’t surprise me much to learn that young Dilling hasn’t been bought at all, that he gave himself to the cause, and that all of that grandiose bunk he talked was truth to him?”
“Good God!” breathed Howarth, and gulped loudly.
“ ’S a fact! I listened hard all the time he talked, and I watched him some, and it struck me he wasn’t speaking a part he had learned at the Company’s dictation, nor for a price . . .”
“—which means,” interrupted Turner, “that he’s another of those damned nuisances with principles, and ideas about making politics clean and uplifting for the man in the street.”
“Worse than that,” corrected Howarth. “It means that he’ll be a damsite harder to handle, and more expensive to buy than a fellow who has no definite convictions and finds mere money acceptable.”
“That’s right!” Sullivan set down his empty glass and spread his elbows on the desk, facing them. “I don’t anticipate that Dilling will be any bargain, but,” he thundered, “we’ve got to have him. Fortunately, we can rely upon the incontrovertible fact that like every other man, hehasa price. It’s up to us to find out what it is!”
“But, damn it all, Sullivan,” cried Howarth, “I’m sick of paying prices! Surely we can find some means of muzzling this altruistic western stripling.”
“Nothing simpler,” returned the older man, with heavy sarcasm. “We’ve only got to go to the country, defeat the Government, assassinate Eastlake and Donahue, deport Gough as an undesirable . . . Godfrey happens to be backing Dilling in his constituency don’t you forget . . .”
“What?” asked Turner.
“What for?” from Howarth.
Sullivan spread out his large, fat hands. “For some dark purpose of his own that is yet to be revealed . . . and then, we must squash the vested interests. Suppose you take on this trifling job, Bill. I’m going to be busy this evening.”
“Just the same,” cut in Turner, “I think Billy’s right. He ought to be intimidated—Dilling, of course, I mean—not bought. These Young Lochinvars ought not to be allowed to think they can run the country.”
“Buying or intimidating, it’s much the same thing in the end,” said Sullivan. “You’ve got to find a price or a weapon.” He corked the bottle, locked it away and strolled across the office to examine his features in a heavy gilt mirror that hung on the wall. “Did either of you remark Mrs. Dilling?” he enquired, attacking his mass of hair with a small pocket comb.
“Mrs. Dilling?” echoed the others.
“Why not? She sat in the Gallery all afternoon.”
“How did you know her?” demanded Howarth.
“Why, I saw her come in, and noting that she was a stranger—”
“—and extremely pretty,” suggested Turner, “you took the trouble to find out.”
“Well, she is pretty,” said the Member for Morroway, reflectively. “A fair, childish face, like a wild, unplucked prairie flower.”
“Humph,” observed Turner, exchanging a significant look with Howarth behind his host’s back.
“Beauty is an amazingly compelling force,” Sullivan continued, sententiously. “I have a theory—shared by very few people, it is true, but convincing to me, nevertheless—that Beauty wields a more powerful influence than Fear. What do you think?”
“Never thought about it at all,” confessed Howarth, bluntly. “But what has all this to do with Dilling’s price?”
“Oh, nothing, my dear fellow,” said Sullivan, airily, “nothing at all! I was merely indulging in a moment’s reflection, inspired, as it were, by Mrs. Dilling’s loveliness. You must meet her . . . We must see to it that Ottawa treats her with cordiality and friendliness.”
“Do you know her, yourself . . . already?” asked Turner.
“Er—no. I have not been through the formality of an introduction, but I know her sufficiently well to wager that she is the sort of little woman who responds to the sympathetic word; who is lonely, and searching for warmth rather than grandeur in her associations and who can be relied upon to work for her husband’s advancement . . . when that good time comes.”
A new light gleamed in the eyes of his two listeners. They gave up trying to think of ways in which the new Member might be intimidated—discredited with his constituents or sponsors; and waited for the master mind to reveal itself. But Rufus Sullivan, M.P., was not the man to discuss half-formulated plans. He changed the subject adroitly, jotted down the Dilling’s address and excused himself on the plea that he was dining with the Pratts for the purpose of laying the foundations for a successful campaign.
“There’s an interesting type,” he declared. “Useful—most useful!”
“Pratt?” cried Turner. “Why, he’s a jolly old ass, in my opinion!”
“I mean Mrs. Pratt, of course,” was Sullivan’s mild reproof. “Don’t you realise, my dear chap, that the women of our day are the chief factors in our Government? We are harking back to the piping times of the ‘Merry Monarch’.”
“Oh, rot!” contradicted Howarth, who was a married man.
“Régime du cotillon. . . petticoat Government, eh?” Turner laughed. Both he and Sullivan had evaded the snares of feminine hunters. “I don’t know the lady, but take it that she, also, is easy on the eye.”
Sullivan shook his great white head. Mrs. Pratt, he explained, had not been born to adorn life, but to emphasise it. Nature, in her wisdom, had given to some women determination, and the callousness that must accompany it.
“Purposeful,” said Mr. Sullivan, “grimly purposeful, with about as much sensitiveness as you would find in a piece of rock crystal. She’s got her mind set on having Gus in Parliament, and if Queen Victoria and her attendant lion got off the pedestal outside there, they wouldn’t be able to prevent her. She would repeal the B.N.A. Act if it stood in her way. A very useful woman,” he repeated, and insinuated himself into his overcoat.
“What’s he up to?” Howarth asked his companion as they bent their steps towards the restaurant and dinner.
“God knows!” answered Turner. “But there’s a load taken off my mind by the knowledge that he’s got something up his sleeve. And it won’t be all laughter either, if I know him.”
Howarth paused in the corridor. His dulled conscience was trying to shake off its political opiate and prompt him to play the man in this thing, but its small voice was speedily hushed by the animated scene about him. Pages were scurrying around; Members, released from the tension of debate, were greeting each other noisily; theomnium gatherumof the Galleries was debouching upon the Main lobby, so that the very air he breathed was vibrant with ascherzoof human voices.
“I say,” he cried, “let’s ask Dilling to feed with us. Under the intoxication of triumph, he may loosen up a bit—become loquacious. You get a table. I’ll get him!”
“It isn’t the thing, my dear!” Or, “It’s quite the thing, you know!”
The thing! THE THING! What on earth did it mean?
Marjorie first heard the phrase on the lips of Lady Denby, and gradually she recognised it as a social influence that was as powerful as it was mysterious. It was one of the most elusive of her problems, for, while she understood vaguely, the significance of the term, she failed entirely to apply its principles to the exigencies of her new life. “Besides,” she said to herself, “one discovers whatisthe thing, only to find presently, that it isn’t . . . or the other way round. There doesn’t seem to be any fixed rule.”
It was hers to learn in the hard school of experience, that Ottawa in the twentieth century, was controlled by a social code quite as remorseless in its way as the tribal etiquette which governed the Algonquins when Champlain visited its site, three hundred years before. Wherever she went, the attitude of the people from Government House down to those who moved on the very periphery of its circle, was such as to repress and chill the frank and unquestioning impulse for friendliness that lent much charm to her character. She developed a curious sort of nervousness—an inner quaking, that disconcerted her, and made her feel unnatural. She became so fearful of offending people, that her manner was frequently described as obsequious. Now and then, she knew she was being criticised, but could not, for the life of her, fathom the reason.
The Thing . . . of course, but whatwasThe Thing?
She had tried to break the children of saying “ma’am”. Lady Denby told her it wasn’tthe thing.
“No nice people speak like that, Althea, darling,” Marjorie declared. “You should say, ‘Yes, mother,’ or ‘No, Lady Denby,’ or ‘I don’t know, Miss Deane,’—as the case may be, but please, darling, don’t say ‘ma’am’!” And yet to her astonishment, she heard Miss Leila Brant address no less a personage than the Lady of Government House in this ill-bred manner!
“This, ma’am,” said she, “is one of the forks used at the Carlyle table. It’s really rather a good thing, and I wasthrilledat having picked it up.”
“You have some very interesting bits,” observed The Lady, graciously.
“Oh,ma’am! How can I ever thank you for those words,” cried Miss Brant. “Even the slightest breath of praise from you, means—well, it means more than you can possibly realise.”
Ma’am . . . ma’am . . . Why, Marjorie could scarcely believe that she wasn’t dreaming.
She left the Ancient Chattellarium in a despondent frame of mind. Why, in Ottawa, must she appear so stupid? Why could she not make friends? Would she be humiliated forever, by the lifted eyebrow and the open reproof . . . “It isn’t the thing, my dear?”
It was not her nature, however, to be melancholy, so she thrust dark thoughts away and gave herself up to ingenuous excitement in anticipation of her first party at Rideau Hall.
The Skating Parties held at Government House on Saturday afternoons during January and February were very much THE THING; in fact, geographically speaking, Rideau Hall was its very source, its essence, the spot from which it emanated and seeped into virtually every other residence in the Capital. Scarcely a person from a master plumber down, but felt and yielded to its malison.
Owing to the intense and protracted cold, there was excellent ice as late as the middle of March, and Their Royal Highnesses extended the hospitality of the rink considerably beyond the date specified on the original invitations.
Not that the majority of the people went to the Skating Parties to skate, or even to toboggan—the thoughtful alternative suggested on the large, square card—about two inches below the Royal Coat of Arms. Sufficiently difficult were the performances already expected of them—the curvettings, gyrations and genuflexions demanded at the moment of their presentation to the Vice-Regal party. Sebaceous dowagers teetered dangerously in their endeavour to achieve a court curtsey, occasionally passing the centre of bouyancy and plunging headlong between the two pairs of august feet.
A crowd larger than usual massed in the skating pavilion and fought politely for the mulled claret, tea, coffee, cake and sandwiches that were being served from long, narrow trestles. His Royal Highness, the Duke of Connaught, and the picturesque Princess Pat had come in from the open-air rink below, and without removing their skates, had led the way to the tea-room, whereupon several hundred people unleashed their appetites, sampled the various refreshments, and disposed of the vessels from which they had eaten on the floor, window-sills or chairs, if any, that had been vacated.
In a corner, removed as far as possible from the disordered tea-tables sat three ladies, eating, drinking and conversing as though they were spectators at some bizarre entertainment. They stared with frank insolence about them, looking through many persons who came hopefully within their vicinage, and warning a few by the manner of their salutation that they must approach no nearer. They had been distinguished by receiving a welcome from the Duke and Duchess, who called each by name and hoped that their health was good. After this distinction, the ladies withdrew from the commonalty into their corner, exalted and envied.
“Who in the worldareall these people?” asked Lady Elton. She spoke fretfully, with an edge of desperation on her voice. A stranger might have imagined that she was required by the statutes to learn the name and history of each member of the throng, and that she found the task inexpressibly irksome.
Of course, such was not the case. It didn’t matter whether she knew any of these people or not—at least, it only mattered to the people themselves, many of whom would have been glad to be known by her or any other titled person. She asked the question because it was the thingtoask at Government House, because it was one of those intellectual insipidities that have supplanted conversation and made it possible for a group of persons without visible qualifications, according to the standards of yesterday, to exchange an absence of ideas, and form themselves into a close corporation known as Society.
Mrs. Chesley shook her head. “Isn’t it amazing?” she breathed. “Only a few years ago it was such a pleasure to come down here—one knew everybody—and now . . .”
“Sessional people, I suppose?” interrupted Miss de Latour, with just the faintest movement of her nose as though she was speaking of a drain-digger, or some other useful class of citizen who, by reason of necessity, moved in the effluvia occasioned by his work.
Captain the Honourable Teddy Dodson approached at this moment to ask if the ladies were satisfactorily served.
“Do let me get you some more tea,” he begged. “I’m afraid no one’s looking after you—this awful mob, you know.” He pushed a collection of discarded cups aside and seated himself on the edge of a chair, leaning forward with an air of flattering confidence. “Cross your hearts and hope you may die,” he whispered, “and I’ll tell you what we call these beastly tea fights.”
The trio playfully followed his instructions and encouraged him to reveal the limit of his naughtiness.
“We call them ‘slum parties’,” confided the young Aide, and while the ladies shrieked their appreciation of his wicked wit, he clumped away on his expensive skates, balancing three cups quite cleverly as he elbowed a passage to the table.
“How do you suppose these people get invitations?” Miss de Latour demanded, indignantly. “Look at that woman over there—no, no, the one in the purple hat. Isn’t that the awful Pratt creature who’s pushing herself into everything?”
“My husband,” said Mrs. Chesley, “calls her the Virginia Creeper. However, she’ll get on. They say she’s been left a disgusting lot of money, and that her husband’s going to run for Parliament.”
“That’s no reason why she should be here,” said the other. “Are there no impregnable bulwarks left to protect Society?”
“Why, Pamela,” cried Mrs. Chesley, “how clever of you to remember that! I read it, too, in Lady Dunstan’s Memoirs, but I’ve no memory—I can’t quote things . . .”
“. . . as though they were your own!” finished Lady Elton, and laughed at the neatness of her thrust.
Miss de Latour’s question as to how people secured their invitations was merely an echo of her friend’s banality. There was no secret about the matter; no bribery or corruption. Anyone—almost anyone—desiring to be insulted by the Lady Eltons, Mrs. Chesleys, and Miss de Latours of Ottawa, or to be snubbed of their acquaintances, had only to proceed to the Main Entrance of Rideau Hall, pass beneath the new facade—so symbolic of fronts, both physical and architectural, that had suddenly been acquired all over the City in honour of the Royal Governor-General—and there, in the white marble, red-carpeted hall, sign a huge register, under the eye of two supercilious, scarlet-coated flunkeys, who regarded each newcomer with all the antagonism of their class. This unique procedure was known as “calling at Government House,” and within a few days of the delightful and friendly visit, His Majesty’s Mails conveyed a large, rich-looking card to the door and one learned that “Their Royal Highnessess had desired the A.D.C. in Waiting to invite Mr. and Mrs. Van Custard and the Misses Van Custard for Skating and Toboganning between the hours, etc., etc.”. Thereupon, one wrote to rural relations or foreigners of one kind and another, and mentioned carelessly that one had been “entertained at Government House”.
“There’s Mrs. Long,” announced Lady Elton. “Who’s the man?”
“Oh, some newspaper person, I think—an American,” volunteered Miss de Latour. Obviously it was bad enough in her opinion to be any kind of a newspaper person, but to be an American newspaper person offered an affront to Society that was difficult to condone. Pamela de Latour was intensely proud of her father’s legendary patrician lineage, her capacity for avoiding friendships, and her mother’s wealth. She was well aware of the fact that she was regarded as a person whom “one should know.”
“He’s not bad looking,” murmured Lady Elton, charitably, “and he must be rather worth while, Pam. She’s introducing him to everyone. Let’s wander over and see what we can see.”
But Mrs. Long, watching them from the corner of her very alert brown eyes, and anticipating this move, beat a strategic retreat, and soon lost herself and her newspaper man in the dense crowd. Lady Elton, Mrs. Chesley and Miss de Latour looked significantly at one another as though to say,
“Ah-ha! What do you think of that? Something queer about this affair, if you ask me!”
An expression of their thoughts was denied them, however, for the moment they left the shelter of their corner they were like the Romans advancing across the Danube—a target for the surrounding barbarian hordes.
Almost immediately they were attacked by the Angus-McCallums, two sisters with generous, florid cheeks and rotund figures, who, to quote Azalea Deane, seemed to lie fatly on the surface of every function, rather like cream on a pan of milk.
Their grandfather was a Bytown pioneer whose first task, after complying with the formalities imposed upon all immigrants by the various government officials, had been to find a house—a house, that is to say, requiring the services of a stone mason.
Now Masonry, whether Free or Stone, has always offered signal advantages to those who labour in its interests, and the present case was no exception to the rule. Not only did prosperity attend the twilight years of old Thaddeus McCallum, but especial privileges descended to his progeny, the most conspicuous being the Freedom of Government House grounds which the Misses Angus-McCallum enjoyed. That is to say, the young ladies were at liberty to pass unchallenged within the sacrosanct limits of this estate, whenever whim or convenience dictated . . . an inconceivably rich reward for the excellence of the fine old man’s chisel-drafting and hammer-dressing! They seemed, however, to lose sight of the patriotic service he had rendered to the nation, in an unremitting search for families on whom, without demeaning themselves, they could call.
“Who is . . .,” dominated their every conscious thought.
“Ah, Effie,” cried the elder sister, addressing Lady Elton, “I thought you would be skating.”
“For Heaven’s sake, hush!” warned Lady Elton, severely. “Weren’t you here last week to see me crash to the ice with H.R.H.? I dared not risk another such fall!”
“But with the uncle of a King,” murmured Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum, “such an honour, my dear!”
Helena Chesley laughed.
“That’s not bad for you, Mabel. It’s a pity Mrs. Long didn’t overhear it,” she said.
Between her and the Angus-McCallums there existed an almost perceptible antagonism which was regarded variously as a source of amusement and uneasiness by their friends. Such traditional antipathy was not at all unusual, and marked the relation between many of the “old” families in the Capital.
Before her marriage to the scholarly young man, whose nimble wit and charm of manner had won him a permanent place in the Vice-Regal entourage, Helena Chesley had been a Halstead, and the Halsteads had owned the estate upon which such discomfiting evidences of Thaddeus McCallum’s craftsmanship rose up to confound his descendants. Whether they imagined it or not, is difficult to state, but the Angus-McCallums always felt the condescension of the landed proprietor to the day labourer in Helena Chesley’s cynical smile, while the latter resented the patronising air which the others assumed as a cloak for the inherited resentfulness of Industry towards Capital.
Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum’s retort was cut short by the arrival of Mrs. Hudson, who, metaphorically speaking, embraced the ladies as Crusoe might have taken Friday to his bosom.
“My dears,” she breathed, “I’m so glad to find you! Did anyone ever see such a mob, andsuchpeople? Who do you suppose brought me my tea?” and without waiting for an answer to the question, she continued, “That awful Lennox man! You remember, he used to be the stenographer in Sir Mortimer Fanshawe’s office!”
“Did you drink it?” asked Mrs. Chesley.
Mrs. Hudson’s social position was triumphant and secure. She could sit on the top rung of the steep and slippery ladder (if one finds an apt metaphor in so comfortless a recreation) and look down upon a mass of struggling, straining, pushing microcosms who clutched, and climbed, and slid and fell in an effort to reach the pinnacle she had attained; for just what reason or by what right, no one was prepared to explain. True, she was a frank snob, which was partially accountable. Also, she was wealthy, and “entertained” in a pleasantly formal manner that lent an air of importance to the least important sort of functions.
Had breakfast been served in Mrs. Hudson’s small but well-regulatedménage, indubitably it would have been announced with an impressive opening of double doors, and served by respectful, liveried attendants. Moreover, there would have been a correctly morning-coated gentleman for each lady of the party, for the express and especial purpose of offering her his arm and escorting her to the card-marked table!
Nor was that all. There were those who called Mrs. Hudson a “bug specialist,” and attributed her social success to this interesting form of enthusiasm. Her entomological research was conducted with considerable originality and on lines that differed radically from the method of the late Dr. Gordon Hewitt, similarly called by a large group of affectionate and admiring associates. In Mrs. Hudson’s case, “bug specialising” signified an ardent (and inconstant) pursuit of a fad, or a person, or a combination of both. Rarely did a stranger with any claim whatever to renown, escape from Ottawa without enjoying her hospitality, and it must not be forgotten that she frequently dragged absolute obscurities out of their gloom and played most happily with them for a time.
Azalea Deane said that Mrs. Hudson was the most recent development of The Big Game Hunter—game and bug being interchangeable, if not synonymous in her mind. The truth of the matter was, she made a serious study of the state of being termed Society. She attacked the problems and the methods of succeeding in it, with the same energy and concentrated purpose that a man gives to a great commercial enterprise. It was her business and she made it pay. Mob psychology and regimentation of thought were the fountains from which she derived her source of supply, and judicious investment added to her power. People often wondered how Mrs. Hudson had achieved social eminence when women with superior claims had failed. The answer lies just here—her life was spent in a conscious striving for it. Never a move, an invitation, an acceptance, a salutation on the street, was made without forethought. She made Society her tool. Most people are tools, themselves. Usually, Mrs. Hudson was described as a “character”, which meant that she was different from ordinary people. Her peculiarities—and she wore them consciously, like a crown—were called odd; her vulgarities, original. She was clever enough to keep the fact that shewasclever from being realised, and many people were sorry for her! She had married a man several years her junior, and loved to confess that he was an answer to prayer!
“I saw him first at a concert,” she was wont to remark, “and the moment my eyes fell upon his dear, unsuspecting head, I said to myself, ‘Thank God! I have found the man I intend to marry, and need look no further!’ I went home, and prayed for him, and I got him!”
What effect this disclosure may have had upon the spiritual trend of the community, what intensity of supplication or increase of attendance at the churches, there is, unfortunately, no means of estimating. It can scarcely have failed, however, to have exerted some marked influence upon the spinsters of the Capital, and many a married woman, I am told, bent a devout knee because of it, arguing hopefully, that if the Lord could give, He could also take away!
Mrs. Hudson loved her husband with a sort of cantankerous affection that was like the rubbing of a brass bowl to make it shine. She was always prodding him, or polishing him, or smacking at him with her hands or her tongue. Marriage had robbed her of the joy of believing him a genius, but she was fond of him in her peculiar, rasping way.
“Is anyone else here?” she enquired, wiping out the hundreds of people about her with a gesture.
“Mrs. Long,” she was told, “and a strange man.”
“Ah-h-h!” cried Mrs. Hudson. “Speaking of Mrs. Long, have you heard . . . can’t we sit down, my dears? They say,” she continued, after the group had recaptured their corner, “that her bridge winnings are simply fabulous; and that if she can’t get money, she’ll take the very clothes off your back. Of course, you’ve heard what happened at the Country Club, the other afternoon?”
The group drew in closer, and Mrs. Hudson set forth on the most dangerous of all adventures, the telling of a half-truth.
“She invited Mrs. Knowles, Madam Valleau and little Eva Leeds to lunch, at which, my dears,they say, far too much Burgundy was served, (especially for Eva, who is not used to it) and afterwards, of course, they settled themselves at the bridge table. I’m not saying that Eva is free from blame. Indeed, I have spoken to her most frankly on the subject, and she knows that I think her behaviour most culpable. Gambling amongst women who can afford it is bad enough, but that those who can’t, should be given an opportunity to imperil their husband’s meagre Civil Servant’s salary, is a crime that should be punishable by law.”
“It might be done, too,” murmured Lady Elton, who was an agitative member of the National Council. “If we can prohibit the sale of liquor to a drunken man, I don’t see why we can’t restrict gambling to persons of a certain income.” The sum which occurred to her was, of course, amply covered in her own case and that of her companions. “But, go on—what happened then?”
“Well, Eva lost, and lost, andlost! But do you think that Hattie Long would stop playing? Not a bit of it! At last—this really is too awful, my dears, you’ll never believe me—”
The ladies had already foreseen this possibility, but like everyone else they liked the colourful romance of Mrs. Hudson’s stories, so they urged her to continue.
“Very well,” she agreed, “but mind, not a breath of this must go any further! To make a long story short, when they stopped, Eva was so badly in the hole that she couldn’t cover her loss by an I.O.U. for Tom Leeds’monthly cheque!”
“Horrible!” whispered the group, genuinely shocked.
“What did she do?” asked Lady Elton.
“It seems that a few days before, she had bought from Leila Brant an Empire table. How she buys these things, I’ve no idea. The point is, that Hattie Long was crazy about that same table, too, and fully expected to have it. When she found Eva had got ahead of her she was simply wild, and offered almost double the price—certainly more than the thing was worth.”
“And Eva refused it?”
“I’m obliged to say she did. No one can admire her for doing so. I repeat, I don’t think she has behaved properly, but the point is that she had the table Hattie Long wanted, and so, when she had been driven into this quagmire of debt from which she could not possibly extricate herself, Hattie, with devilish finesse, suggested that she should give up the table and call the matter settled.”
“She didn’t do it?”
“She had to! Her I.O.U.’s for . . .” Mrs. Hudson had the grace to pause “. . . such a sum were utterly valueless! So, bright and early the following morning there was a transfer at her door and now the table decorates Harriet’s reception room.”
At that instant the crowd parted, and before either faction could avoid an encounter, Mrs. Long and her newspaper man stood beside them. Elaborately amiable greetings were exchanged. Mr. Reginald Harper was introduced. Inured as they were to association with the owners of great names, there was not a member of the group who escaped a sudden palpitation upon meeting this world-famed monarch of newspaperdom. It was not easy to keep gratification out of their manner when acknowledging the introduction, but by tacit agreement they were obligated to flick Mrs. Long over his innocent head.
“Are you living in Ottawa, Mr. Carter?” asked Lady Elton, deliberately mis-calling his name, but with a charming show of interest.
Mr. Harper had only arrived the day previous, for a brief stay.
“The place is full of strangers,” volunteered Miss de Latour. “It scarcely seems like home, any more.”
“It’s the fault of the Government,” declared Mrs. Hudson. “New people are always getting in. I don’t understand how they work it, but there you are. Are you connected with the Government?” she asked the stranger, coyly.
Mrs. Long flashed a sharp look at the questioner and answered for her guest. “Only to the extent of financing our poor little country,” she replied. “Mr. Harper,”—she turned to him, archly—“I suppose I may tell it? . . . Mr. Harper has just concluded a loan for a few paltry millions which a New York syndicate is advancing, so that the salaries of the Civil Service,”—her glance rested for a fraction of a second on the trio—“will be paid as usual.”
The elder Miss Angus-McCallum hurriedly changed the subject. “How stunning you look, Hattie,” she said. “But then, you’ve a style of your own and can wear those inexpensive things.Isaw that costume in Hammerstein’s window, and thought it charming.”
Hammerstein was an obscure costumer of Semitic origin, who had recently benefited by one of his frequent fire-sales, and the implication that Mrs. Long’s exclusive tailor-made had been purchased there was so obvious as to border on crudity. Mrs. Hudson could have done much better!
Mrs. Long ignored the thrust. “There seem to be so few men at these parties, nowadays,” she observed, at no one in particular. “But when one looks at the women, one can hardly blame them.”
“If we had a little gambling,” said Miss de Latour, “no doubt they would find it more attractive.”
“But there would be complications.” Mrs. Hudson objected.
“In what way?” prompted Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum.
“Well, my dear, they couldn’t play for the Vice-Regal furniture, could they? They’d get into immediate trouble with such stakes, for the furniture belongs to the taxpayers of Canada and is not negotiable.”
In the sharp silence, Mrs. Long flushed slightly, realising that the incident to which this remark referred had been grossly distorted under Mrs. Hudson’s capable and imaginative manipulation. She was about to make a stinging retort when she thought better of it, promising herself a day of reckoning in the future. Just how, did not at the moment occur to her, but time would show her the way.
“There’s Captain Teddy beckoning us, Mr. Harper,” she said. “We must go,” and over her shoulder she explained, “Mr. Harper has never enjoyed the delicious terrors of toboganning. The Princess is going to take him down. Goodbye!”
“That’s that,” snapped Miss de Latour. “Now, look out for yourself, Mrs. Hudson!”
The well-known purple velvet and ermine of Lady Denby caught Mrs. Chesley’s attention. “She’s got Azalea with her this afternoon, and who in Heaven’s name isthat?”
Lady Denby did not leave them long in doubt. “You must all know Mrs. Dilling,” she said. “Mrs. Raymond Dilling, from Pinto Plains. Her husband is a Member, you know, and one of the most promising young speakers in the Party.”
The ladies bowed frostily, not because they bore any particular grudge against Marjorie, but because they could not afford to miss this golden opportunity for expressing their dislike of Lady Denby, who, though glorified by a title, was not “of their set”. They looked upon her as an “uplifter”, living well within her husband’s income, and exuding an atmosphere, not only of economy, but frugality; one who allied herself with organizations for the benefit of the human race, notably of women and children, and preached the depressing doctrine, that “Life is real, Life is earnest, and the grave is not its goal!”
Marjorie was embarrassed. She had been embarrassed all the afternoon, and something inside of her old fur coat ached intolerably. She noticed that an air of hostility prevailed over the entire throng. She did not realise, however, its fundamental cause; that the acknowledgments of friendships was a delicate matter within the grounds of Government House, for, as a man is known by the company he keeps, so the guests were desirous of being ranked in a higher classification than that in which they ordinarily moved. Which is to say, that although Mrs. Polduggan and Mrs. Crogganthorpe were friendly neighbours, and quite ready to acknowledge one another on their own verandahs, the moment they entered the skating pavilion their vision became blurred, and they saw for the most part, only the Ministers’ wives, persons who were especially prominent, or, better than all, chatted with the wife of a Foreign Consul who was too polite, or too ignorant of Western conditions, to take a decided stand with regard to class distinctions.
“Dilling, did she say?” asked Mrs. Chesley, as Lady Denby and her protegées moved away. “What an impossible person!”
“Who is she?” asked Miss Angus-McCallum. “Should we call?”
Pamela de Latour shrugged her shoulders. “I haven’t anything to do on Wednesday afternoon.”
“Lunch with me,” said Lady Elton. “We’ll all go together.”
“One never knows . . .”
The crowd had thinned perceptibly by the time Lady Denby released Marjorie from the strain of constant introductions, and went away to have a moment’s chat with Miss Denison-Page, the statuesque Lady-in-Waiting.
Marjorie indicated a tall, florid gentleman with a shock of silver hair, who loitered at the doorway in a manner that suggested he was waiting for someone to go home.
“Who is that?” she whispered to Azalea.
“Where? Oh, that’s Rufus Sullivan, the Member for Morroway,” answered the girl. “I meant to have pointed him out to you earlier in the afternoon, only I had no chance. He’s Lady Denby’s pet aversion. One dares not mention his name in her presence.”
“But why?”
“Lots of reasons. He’s quite a character, you know. Heavens, how he stares!”
Marjorie turned away with flaming cheeks. She was loath to admit that he had not only been staring, but that he had been at her elbow during the entire afternoon. This distressed her, for, according to the ethics of Pinto Plains, a man impressed his attentions only upon the woman who encouraged him, and Marjorie felt that something in her manner must have been very misleading. She resented his pursuit less than she felt ashamed of herself for inspiring it, and was inexpressibly relieved when he finally left the room.
The terrible disorder of the pavilion sickened her housekeeper’s soul, and she turned to Azalea, impetuously.
“Just look at this place! Isn’t it disgusting to expect any human being to clean it up?” Then, a little afraid of her own daring, “Wouldn’t you just love to open the back door and let a drove of pigs come in?”
“Yes,” answered Azalea, shortly, “after you’d opened the front door and let them out!”
Marjorie was far from happy. The experience at Government House haunted her. Incidents that she had scarcely noted at the time, recurred in the pitiless glare of a good memory to harry her and rob her of her peace of mind. It had all been so different from what she expected!
Sunday dragged wearily on. The children seemed fretful and unusually difficult. The roast was tough and the furnace went out, so that Raymond was obliged to devote most of his precious afternoon to re-lighting it. By the time, therefore, that the children had sung their evening hymn, had each chosen a Bible story to be read aloud, and had been put to bed, Marjorie felt that she could bear no more, and she invaded the disorderly “drawing-room,” too troubled to be repulsed by the unwelcoming expression in her husband’s eyes.
“Well, what is it, my dear?” Dilling closed the volume upon his long, thin finger, and tapped it with a slender pencil. “Is anything especially the matter?”
“I don’t know,” sighed Marjorie. “That’s just what I want to ask you, dear. Somethingmustbe wrong, somewhere, only I can’t find it! I seem to be so stupid here, Raymond, and people don’t like me. I know I oughtn’t to bother you, dear,” she said, noticing how his eyes strayed back to the book that at the moment she almost hated, with its chrome leather binding, its overwhelming contents, and the voluptuous overpowering odour that reflected the literary richness of its substance, “and I won’t stay long, butcan’tyou help me, and tell me what to do, so that I’ll be more like the Ottawa people?”
Dilling stared down into the mist-blurred eyes, only half seeing them. His thoughts were snared by his own problems and he could not free them immediately. His casual words of encouragement carried no comfort to his wife, who stumbled on,
“You’re so clever, dearie! If you aren’t sure of a thing, you always know where to learn all about it. . . and that’s all I’m asking you, Raymond—to tell me some book that will explain these queer things that I don’t seem to understand.”
“What kind of things?”
The question was not exactly brusque, but to anyone less troubled it would have suggested a definite desire for a brief interview. Marjorie raised her hands and let them fall to her sides helplessly.
“Hundreds—hundreds!” she began. “All sorts . . .”
“Give me a concrete illustration. Tell me one.”
“Well, I never do anythingright! Yesterday—youdoshake hands with people when you meet them, don’t you?—well, yesterday, Lady Denby took me to the Skating Party at Government House. I thought it was going to be so nice, Raymond. We always thought so at home, you know, but it wasn’t just like what we imagined—in fact, it was awfully different.”
“Yes, yes. But the point of the story, Marjorie?”
“I’m trying to tell you, dearie. You see, if you haven’t been there, it’s so difficult to understand the queer customs of the place. I’d been introduced to Captain Dodson—he called out the names, you know, standing just beside Their Royal Highnesses—and when we got into the room where they were receiving, Lady Denby went first, and I came second, and Miss Deane last, and you understand, Raymond, I couldn’t see whether Lady Denby spoke to him or not, and so when I came along and he saw me and sort of smiled, I said, ‘How do you do, Captain Dodson?’ and held out my hand. Youdoshake hands with people, don’t you, Raymond?”
“Never mind just now. Go on.”
“Well, he didn’t shake hands with me! Worse than that, he put his hands behind his back and said, ‘Mrs. Raymond Dilling,’ in an awful voice, and Miss Deane simplypushedme past him! I didn’t know what to do when I got there in front of the Duke and the Duchess. I didn’t know whether to shake hands or not, and I’m—I’m afraid, darling, that I behaved like a terrible simpleton. It was easy enough to see that Lady Denby was frightfully annoyed. She said that to shake hands with Captain Dodson wasnotthe thing, and to shake hands with Their Royal Highnesses,wasthe thing, and altogether, I’m so muddled, I don’t know what to do! Raymond, what on earthisTHE THING?”
Dilling drew his finger definitely from his book, laid the volume on the table, and gave his attention to the question.
“Well, Marjorie,” he said, “although I’ve never formed a considered opinion on this subject, I’ll lay the facts before you, and we’ll reason it out together.”
Reasoning a subject out together between Marjorie and her husband was a merest euphemism for a philosophical lecturette with Dilling on the platform and his wife supplying the atmosphere. With his characteristic gesture when entering upon a discussion of some remote topic that interested him—an upward sweep of the right arm with the sensitive fingers coming to rest on his rapidly-thinning chevelure—he proceeded to instruct her.
“The Thing, my dear girl, as I see it, is one of the forms of what the Polynesians call ‘Tabu’. In the large, ‘tabu’ may be said to be negative magic—that is, abstention from certain acts in order that unpleasant or malefic results may not ensue. Do you follow, so far?”
“Yes, dear . . . I think so . . . a kind of rule, you mean, don’t you? One can see that, but what puzzles me, is that it works both ways. How does one learnwhenit is right, and when it is wrong? Isn’t there some starting point?”
“Most certainly! ‘Tabu’ originated in religion, and was rooted in fear. Moreover, it was common to all peoples in their tribal beginnings. It is associated with the Totem of the North American Indian and the Fetish of the African races; it oppressed the alert Greek mind for an astonishing period, and prevailed amongst the Romans. Some day, you must read about the Flamen Dialis—a member of the priestly caste, who stood next the King in sacerdotal rank.”
“I was thinking especially of shaking hands,” murmured Marjorie.
But Dilling ignored her. He slipped easily into his Parliamentary manner, as though addressing Mr. Speaker, and his political associates. Furthermore, he was enjoying this opportunity to open doors that led into little-used rooms in the treasure-house of his mind.
“So rigid were the laws that governed the Flamen’s conduct—er—so drastic was the discipline of The Thing—that even a knot in the thread of his clothing was practically a crime against the State! Can you imagine it? He couldn’t spend a night outside the City. He was forbidden to ride—even touch—a horse. He . . . well, I could continue at length, but this is sufficient to show you that The Thing, as you term it, is no new, prohibitive measure, designed for your particular embarrassment.”
“Oh, I didn’t think that . . .”
“I forgot to mention that it was not The Thing for the Flamen to suffer marriage a second time—an historical statement, my dear, which has no personal application, I assure you! You see, the wife of the Flamen became sacrosanct, and passed, also, under the iron rule of the ‘Tabu’.”
Marjorie nodded hopefully, and urged her husband to explain how women were affected.
“If you are thinking of the Flaminica,” returned Dilling, “she was affected very severely. I seem to remember that she was forbidden to comb her hair at certain intervals; also, she became unable to discharge her religious duties unless purified by a sacrifice, after hearing thunder. Upon my word,” he broke off suddenly, “I shouldn’t wonder if the wide-spread fear of electric storms may have taken its root from this very law! You have provoked a most interesting train of thought, my dear!”
“I’m ever so glad,” was Marjorie’s quick response. “But do you remember anything about her shaking hands?”
“Not at the moment. However, I venture this opinion . . . the Flaminica was the foundress of those social ‘Tabus’ which have held the minds of women in bondage for so many ages; that she was the dictatrix of moral and social etiquette, to-day. You can readily understand how ladies, supporting this distinguished but irksome office, would seek to mitigate its rigours by using their rank to the discomfiture of less favoured members of their sex.” He began to chuckle. “In short, I believe that Mrs. Grundy and Queen Victoria were her lineal descendants.”
“Queen Victoria?” echoed Marjorie.
“I mean, my dear, that the Flaminica was the mother of Snobocracy, the divine High Priestess of the Order, whose code is expressed in the cryptic formula, ‘It is—or is not—The Thing!’.”
The alarum of the kitchen clock startled them both. Marjorie frowned. Althea must have been naughty again. She had been distinctly forbidden to touch it.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave it at that, my dear,” said Raymond, as he opened his book. Its peculiar odour enveloped her like a puff of smoke. “This report is somewhat more tricky than I had anticipated. But you have the main facts of the case—haven’t you? To-morrow, I’ll bring you a book from the Library.”
As Marjorie closed the door, a sharp whirr sounded from the telephone.
“Hello,” she said, wondering whether Raymond would mind being called.
“Is Mrs. Dilling at home?” asked a mellow voice at the other end of the wire. It was a voice that vibrated, and struck some unfamiliar chord within her consciousness; a voice that unreasonably disturbed her.
“I am Mrs. Dilling,” answered Marjorie, and waited.
“My name is Sullivan,” the voice continued. “Rufus Sullivan, the Member for Morroway.”
“Oh!” cried Marjorie, startled. Then, “Oh, yes?”
“I am wondering if you will allow me the pleasure of calling on you, Mrs. Dilling. I have been a fervent admirer of your husband ever since I heard his speech in the House, last week, and I’m very eager to meet you. It is scarcely necessary for me to tell you that we have not had Dilling’s equal in Parliament for many years.”
“You’re awfully kind,” murmured Dilling’s wife, to the accompaniment of a pounding heart. She didn’t know why, but she was trembling.
“Well, I’m not sure about being kind,” laughed the Hon. Member easily, “but I confess that I am desperately jealous. There’s something about a man of Dilling’s calibre that accuses us old chaps of unappreciated opportunities and wasted youth. One begins to taste the ashes of discouragement.”
“Nobody should be discouraged,” returned Marjorie, feeling the words inadequate, but not knowing what else to say.
“No, no! You’re right, of course! As Walpole tells us, ‘It’s not life that matters; it’s the courage you put into it.’ Just the same, courage is acquired rather less by an effort of will, than by inspiration, don’t you think so?”
“Ye-es,” returned Marjorie, not very sure after all.
“I was wondering, Mrs. Dilling,” the Hon. Member went on in a lighter tone, “if I might be admitted to the list of your acquaintances? If you would permit me to call?”
“I should be very pleased.”
“Thank you . . . thank you . . . I can’t say more! Are you busy this evening, or have you other guests? It goes without saying that I should not care to intrude.”
Marjorie explained that she was quite free and that a call would not be the slightest intrusion, but that “Mr. Dilling” seemed to be very much engrossed in a book, and she wasn’t quite certain—
“Don’t think of it!” cried Sullivan. “I understand perfectly, and wouldn’t allow you to disturb him for the world. Just let me slip in quietly, and when he has finished, perhaps he will join us. I do want to know your husband better, Mrs. Dilling, but it’s quite impossible to form any intimate contacts up there on the Hill, and in the midst of the turmoil of our every-day existence. I won’t say any more, however, through the medium of this unsatisfactory instrument. I will be with you in a moment.”
He was. Before Marjorie had decided whether or not it was The Thing to entertain a Member of Parliament in the dining-room (where the table was set for breakfast) she was summoned to the door by a discreet tinkle of the bell.
Although his enormous bulk nearly filled the tiny passage, Sullivan’s handclasp was very gentle and his voice was low.
“No words, Mrs. Dilling, can convey to you my gratitude for this privilege! I am a lonely man, a shy man for all my huge body, and I do not readily make friends!”
The house seemed to quiver as he followed her to the dining-room, and Marjorie was distressed at her failure to regain her composure and to still the strange quaking within herself. She had never been affected like this, before.
“What a cosy little nest!” exclaimed her guest. “And are therethreebirdlings?”
His fine brown eyes turned from the children’s places—where neat oilcloth bibs and porridge bowls stood ready for the morning—back to her face.
“Yes, we have three children—two girls and a boy.”
“Wonderful little woman,” he breathed, reverently, “and she’s only a slip of a girl, herself.”
“I’m twenty-seven,” declared Marjorie.
“A golden age,” he sighed. “But tell me about the children—do! One of the bitterest disappointments of my life is that I haven’t half a dozen . . . I’m a lonely old bachelor, Mrs. Dilling. Few people realise justhowlonely.”
It flashed through Marjorie’s mind that he had lost his sweetheart years ago. Perhaps she had died. Perhaps she had married someone else. In either case, Mr. Sullivan had remained true to her memory. She liked him for his constancy. Her embarrassment faded a little.
“It’s dreadful to be lonely,” she said, feeling that it would not be polite to ask why he had not married. “I’ve been a little lonely, myself, since we came to Ottawa.”
“Poor child!”
Mr. Sullivan pressed Marjorie’s hand with bland sympathy. The gesture reminded her of Uncle Herbert, whose comfort, in the face of any trial, expressed itself by a clicking of the tongue and that same spasmodic crushing of the hand. Indeed, now that she grew more at ease with him, Marjorie noticed that Mr. Sullivan was quite an old man and she attributed that mysterious something in his manner to the eagerness of a lonely man to make friends. She smiled, brightly.
“Oh, you mustn’t pity me,” she cried. “I like Ottawa. All my life I have dreamed of coming here, and now the dream has come true. But, it is only natural that I miss some of my dearest friends. I wouldn’t be a really nice person if I didn’t, now, would I?”
Mr. Sullivan knitted his brows and said that, try as he would, he could not imagine her being anything but a fine friend. There was just the slightest suggestion of a pause before he added—
“You remind me of the noblest woman I ever knew.”
“Did—did she—die?”
The great, white head sank slowly. Again, Mr. Sullivan sought her hand. “She was just twenty . . . I was a youngster, too. Life has never been the same . . . But there! I mustn’t burden you with my sorrows. You were going to tell me about the children. I don’t suppose you would let me peep at them—just a little tiny peep, if I promise not to wake them?”
“Would you really like to see them?” asked Marjorie, now thoroughly at ease with her guest.
“I can’t tell you how much.”
“Then, of course, you may!”
With an unconsciously coquettish gesture, she laid her finger on her lips and led the way up the creaking stairs. Her thoughts were of the children. Had she been careful to wash all the jam from Baby’s rosebud mouth? Althea, she remembered, had pulled the button off her Teddies and she had found it necessary to resort to the ubiquitous safety pin. And Sylvester—well, there was no prophesying what might have happened to Sylvester since she heard his “Now-I-lay-me,” and kissed him.
The thoughts of Mr. Sullivan, on the other hand, were concerned with almost everything but the children. He was wondering why that door at the foot of the stairs did not open and a voice ask what the devil he was doing, prowling through the house. He was trying to decide whether Marjorie had advised her husband of his coming and he was being deliberately ignored, or whether Dilling habitually shrouded himself with aloofness, and indifference to the affairs of the home and the personnel of his wife’s callers.
At the landing, Marjorie turned to whisper.
“Please don’t look at the room. It’s so hard to be tidy with babies, you know.”
Mr. Sullivan hung yearningly over the cots where Althea and Sylvester were sleeping. He did it very well, and Marjorie was delighted.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, and he indicated that he found a strong resemblance to her.
Beside the baby’s little crib he was overcome with emotion, and Marjorie’s heart went out to him as he groped hastily for his handkerchief and passed it across his eyes. “The cherub,” he whispered, “the exquisite little flower. She has her father’s cast of features, but—” transferring his expression of adoration to the face nearer his “—but I’ll wager she has her mother’s eyes!”
When they creaked their way downstairs again they were on the friendliest terms, and Marjorie could scarcely reconcile this kind, elderly gentleman and his interested, avuncular air, with the debonair gallant who had caught and held her attention so unpleasantly at Government House.
“It only shows,” she reproved herself, “how you can misjudge a person. And he’s old enough to be my father . . .” which state was always synonymous to her with extreme rectitude and respectability.
He would not hear of her disturbing Raymond, nor would he allow her to make cocoa for him, fond of it as he avowed himself to be. But he made her promise that she would let him come soon again, when the children were awake, and that when he was especially lonely, he might telephone her; and moreover, that once in a while she would have tea with him in order that he might prove what an excellent and handy man he would have been . . . under different circumstances!
“This has been for me a wondrous night,” he said, holding her hand and looking affectionately down at her, “and one that I shall never forget. There is little I can do to prove my gratitude for a glimpse of real home life, and the joy that has eluded me, but perhaps there may come a time when you feel that I can serve you. Will you put me to the test, then, Mrs. Dilling?” he queried, softly.
Touched, Marjorie nodded. “I am very pleased to have had you come in like this—”
“ ‘Sans ceremonie,’ as our French friends say,” interrupted Sullivan, looking furtively over her head at the closed door behind which he knew that Dilling sat. “The strength of the weak,” he murmured, “the courage to endure the emptiness of solitary days and weary evenings. I’ve been through it. I understand. God bless you, little woman! But there can be no more loneliness for us so long as we are . . . friends!” He pressed her hand and was gone.
As she went upstairs, Marjorie wondered whether or not she had imagined a shade of difference in him as he left her.