TheOceanichad been timed to dock at four-thirty, but the thick mist at the mouth of the Hudson had caused some delay and her mail had been heavy. The consequence was that she was edged in to her dockconsiderably more than an hour late, to be welcomed by an outburst of long-expectant handkerchiefs.
During the period of waiting—by no means unpleasant, because the sun fell warmly upon the wonderful river—several brief, emotional conversations took place between the people who had come to greet Peter. The Guthries were there in a body,—even Ethel had pulled herself together and had come to be among the first to greet her favorite brother. Graham wouldn't have missed the occasion for anything on earth. His love for Peter was deep and true. And it was good to see the excitement of them all and of the little mother, who was in a state of verging between tears and laughter all the time. Her big boy was coming home again and once more she would have the ineffable joy of tucking him up at night sometimes, and asking God to bless him before she drew the clothes about his ears as she had done so often. Even the Doctor found it necessary to take off his glasses several times and rub them clear of the moisture that prevented him from seeing the approaching vessel which seemed to have given herself up to the bullying of the small but energetic tugs whose blunt noses butted into her.
Betty brought her father; and these two, with a delicacy of feeling characteristic of them, placed themselves among the crowd away from the Guthrie family. Intuitively, Betty knew that much as Mrs. Guthrie liked her, she would rather resent her presence there at such a moment. Belle's quick eyes very soon discovered them, however, and presently theypermitted themselves to be drawn into the family group.
It was a curious moment for Ranken Townsend and his feelings were not unlike those of little Mrs. Guthrie. "My God!" he said to himself as he stood looking out at the wide river, its marvellous and strenuous life and the amazing sky-line of the buildings on the opposite bank; "has the time arrived already for me to lose my little girl? Am I so old that I have a young thing ripe enough for marriage and to bring into the world young things of her own?"
The artist had only met the elder Guthries once before, although Belle was a particular friend of his, having been frequently brought to his studio by Betty. He knew Peter only from having seen him in the treasured snapshots which his little daughter brought home with her from Oxford. He had to confess to himself—although his natural jealousy made him unwilling to do so—that Peter looked just the sort of man whom he would like his daughter to marry when her time came. And so he singled out Mrs. Guthrie almost at once and drew her aside. The breeze blew through his Viking beard, and a fellow-feeling brought into his eyes an expression of sympathy which immediately warmed Mrs. Guthrie's heart towards him. "I didn't want to come this afternoon, Mrs. Guthrie," he said. "Shall I explain why?"
"No," said the little mother. "I quite understand."
"Your boy and my girl are following the inevitablelaws of nature, and it's rather hard luck for us both, isn't it?"
Mrs. Guthrie put her handkerchief up to her mouth and nodded.
"Betty's a good girl and I've only to look at you to know that the man to whom she's given her heart is a fine fellow. Well, it brings us up to another milestone, doesn't it?—one that I wish was still some years ahead. However, let's face it with pluck and with unselfishness, and be friends. Shall we?"
"Please," said the little mother, giving him her hand.
Ranken Townsend bared his head.
And then Dr. Guthrie came up and peered at the man who was talking to his wife. He vaguely remembered the artist's picturesque appearance and fine open face, but he had forgotten his name.
Mrs. Guthrie hurried to the rescue. "You remember Mr. Townsend, of course, Hunter," she said. "Betty's father, you know."
"I beg your pardon," said the Doctor. "Of course I remember you, and I'm very delighted to see you again. You have friends coming on theOceanictoo, then?"
Townsend laughed. "No, I don't know anybody on her—not a soul. All the same I've come to meet your son."
"Indeed! It's very kind of you, I'm sure." And then the Doctor suddenly remembered that sooner or later he'd be obliged to share Peter with the man who stood before him, and just for a moment he—likehis wife and like the other father—felt the inevitable stab of jealousy. He covered it with a cordial smile. "What am I thinking about? Betty brought you, naturally. We must meet more often now, Mr. Townsend."
"I should like nothing better. I don't know your boy yet except through his photographs and my having met his mother, but I'm very proud to know that my little girl is to bear a name that will always be honoured in this country."
Dr. Guthrie blushed and bowed, and put his hand up to his tie nervously.
It was a curious little meeting, this. All three parents were self-conscious and uncomfortable. They would have been antagonistic but for the very true human note that each recognized. They were all reminded of the unpleasant fact that they were in sight of a new and wide cross-road in their lives, along which they were presently to see two of their young people walking away together hand in hand. Parenthood has in it everything that is beautiful, but much that is disappointing and inevitable—much that brings pain and a sudden sense of loneliness.
There was a very different ring in the conversation of Betty and Belle, who stood a few yards away surrounded by people of all the strange conglomerate nationalities which go to make up the population of the United States. Good-tempered, affectionate and excitable Hebrews were already shouting welcomes to their friends on theOceanic, as the vessel drew slowly nearer. Temperamental Irish were alternately wavinghandkerchiefs and daubing their eyes with them, and others—of French, German, Dutch, Swedish, Norwegian, Russian and English extraction—were trying to discern the faces of those who were near and dear to them among the passengers who were leaning over the rails of the vessel. It was an animated and moving scene, very much more cheery than the ones which take place on the same spot when the great trans-Atlantic Liners slip out into the river.
"Look!" cried Belle. "There's Nicholas. Isn't he absolutely and wonderfully English?"
"And there's Peter!" said Betty, with a catch in her voice. "And isn't he splendidly American?"
"Oh, I'm so excited I can hardly stand still. I've dreamed of this every night ever since we came home."
"So have I. But this is better than dreams. Look! Peter has seen us. He's waving his hat. Even his hair seems to be sunburnt."
Belle laughed, though her eyes were full of tears. "I can almost smell the violet stuff that Nicholas puts on his."
Then there was the usual rush as the liner slid into her berth, and as Mrs. Guthrie was swept away with it, holding tight to Graham's arm, she said to herself: "He waved to Betty first. O God, make me brave!"
All the same, it was the little mother to whom Peter went first as he came ashore, and he held her very tight, so that she could hardly breathe, and said: "Darling mum! How good to see you!" and there was something in that.
The Doctor took his boy's big hand with less self-consciousnessthan usual. He wished that he might have had the pluck to kiss him on both cheeks and thus follow the excellent example of a little fat Frenchman who had nearly thrown him off his balance in his eagerness to welcome a thin, dark boy.
"Hello, Belle! Hello, Graham! Hello, Ethel!" And then Peter stood in front of Betty, to whom he said nothing, but the kiss that he gave her meant more than the whole of a dictionary. "Oh, my Peter!" she whispered.
Nicholas Kenyon followed with his most winning smile, and was cordially welcomed. He had charming things to say to everyone, especially to Belle. After close scrutiny, Ethel's inward criticism of him was that he had "escaped being Oxford."
And then Ranken Townsend held out his hand. "But for me, Peter Guthrie," he said, "you wouldn't have had a sweetheart. Shake!"
A wave of color spread all over Peter's brown face. He grasped the outstretched hand. "I'm awfully glad to see you," he said.
"And I'm awfully glad to see you." The artist measured the boy up. Yes, he was well satisfied. Here stood a man in whose clean eyes he recognized the spirit of a boy. Betty had chosen well. "Do you smoke a pipe?"
"Well, rather."
"I thought so. Bring it along to my studio as soon as your mother can spare you and we'll talk about life and love and the great hereafter. Is that a bet?"
"That's a bet," said Peter. And he added, puttinghis mouth close to Betty's ear: "Darling, he's a corker! He likes me. Gee, that's fine!" Then he turned to his mother, ran his arm round her shoulder, walked her over to the place in the great echoing, bustling shed over which a huge "G" hung, and sat down with her on somebody else's trunk which had just been flung there, to wait with unapproving patience for that blessed time when one of the officialdom's chewing gods, having forced a prying hand among his shirts and underclothing, should mark his baggage with a magic cross and so permit him to reconnect himself with life.
Nicholas Kenyon, as immaculate as though he had just emerged from a bandbox, slipped his hand surreptitiously into Belle's. "Are you glad to see me?" he asked, under his breath.
Belle said nothing in reply, but the look that she gave him instead set that expert's blood racing through his veins and gave him something to look forward to that alone made it worth crossing a waste of unnecessary water.
"A very pleasant domestic evening," said Kenyon, standing with his back to the fireplace of the library. "The bosom of this family is certainly very warm. Peter, my dear old boy, I had no idea that you were going to bring me to a house in which a Prime Minister or the President of the Royal Academy might be very proud to dwell. Also, may I congratulate youupon your little sister? She's a humorist. I found myself furbishing up all my epigrams when I spoke to her. By Jove, she's like a Baliol blood with his hair in a braid."
A quiet chuckle came from Graham, who was sitting on the arm of a big deep chair, looking up at Kenyon with the sort of admiration that is paid by a student to his master. "I don't know anything about Baliol bloods," he said, "but Ethel takes a lot of beating. When she quoted Bernard Shaw, at dinner, father nearly swallowed his fork."
Peter was sitting on the table, swinging his legs.
"Oh, she'll be all right when she gets away from her school. She'll grow younger every day then. What awful places they are—these American girl schools. They seem to inject into their victims a sort of liquid artificiality. It takes a lot of living down. Upon my soul, I hardly knew the kid! Two years have made a most tremendous difference in her. I thought I should throw a fit when she looked at me just now in the drawing-room and said: 'The childish influence of Oxford has left you almost unspoiled, Peter, dear.'"
Kenyon laughed. "Excellent!" he said. "I know the English flapper pretty well. It'll give me extreme delight to play Columbus among the American variety of the species." He looked round the beautiful room with an approving eye. "That must have been a very civilized old gentleman who made this collection. I wonder if he bought some of the books from Thrapstone-Wynyates! My father wasforced to sell some of them shortly after he succeeded to the title. As the long arm of coincidence frequently stretches across the Atlantic, I should like to think that some of the first editions in which my grandfather took so high a pride have found their way into an atmosphere so entirely pleasant as this. One of these fine days, Peter, they may raise a little necessary bullion for you."
"I hope not," said Peter.
Graham got up. "It's only eleven o'clock. Suppose we get out and see something. Everybody's gone to bed, we shan't be missed."
"A very brainy notion," said Kenyon, "but what's there to do?"
"Oodles of things," said Graham.
"Well, lead the way. I'm with you. The dull monotony of life aboard a liner has given me a thirst for twinkling ankles, the clash of cymbals and the glare of the lime-light. You with us, Peter?"
"Yes, unless—one second." He went over to the telephone that stood on a small table in a far corner of the room, looked up a number in the book, asked for it and hung on.
Kenyon shot a wink at Graham. "Get your hat, old boy," he said. "Peter would a-wooing go. He's the most desperately thorough person." And he added inwardly: "Hang that girl."
"Can I speak to Mr. Townsend? Oh, is that you, Mr. Townsend? Peter Guthrie, yes. May I come round and have a jaw—? Thanks, awfully! I'll get a taxi right away." He turned back to the othertwo men. "Great work," he said. "You two will have to go alone to-night. However, we've a thousand years in front of us. See you at breakfast. So long!"
"Wait a second," said Graham. "I'll ring up a taxi and we'll all ride down together."
"Right-o!" said Peter. "I'll rush up to my room and get a pipe."
When he came down again he found Kenyon and Graham waiting at the open door. A taxicab was chugging on the curbstone. Kenyon got in first, with his long cigarette holder between his teeth and a rakish-looking opera hat balanced over his left eye. He carried a thin black overcoat. All about him there was the very essence of Piccadilly. Peter sat beside him and Graham opposite. The cab turned round, crossed Madison into Fifth Avenue and went quickly downtown. The great wide street, as shiny as that of the Champs Élysée, was comparatively clear of traffic. Peter looked at the passing houses with the intense and affectionate interest of the man who comes home again. At the corner of West Forty-second Street Graham stopped the cab. "It's only a short walk to the best of the cabarets," he said; "we'll let Peter go straight on. Come on, Nicholas, bundle out."
"Where are we going?" asked Kenyon, making a graceful exit.
"Louis Martin's, old boy," said Graham.
"Pretty hot stuff, I hope. Au revoir, Peter. Do your best to make the bearded paint merchant like you.You'll have some difficulty." And with that parting shot, contradicted by one of the winning smiles which he had inherited from his delightful but unscrupulous father, Nicholas Kenyon took Graham's arm and these two walked away in high spirits.
When the cab stopped at the high building on the corner of Gramercy Park, its door was opened by Ranken Townsend. "I timed you to arrive about now, my lad," he said cordially. "I took the opportunity of getting some air. It's mighty good to-night. Come right up." He continued to talk in the elevator, which had a long way to go. "Betty has gone to a party. You may meet her mother, I'm not sure. She's out at one of her meetings—she spends her life at meetings—and if she comes in tired, as she generally does, she probably won't come into the studio. However, that need only be a pleasure deferred. Do you speak? If so, she'll nail you for one of her platforms."
"I,—speak?" said Peter, with a shudder. "I'd rather be shot."
Townsend laughed, led the way into his apartment and into the studio. In the dim light of one reading lamp which stood on a small table at the side of a low divan, the room looked larger than it was. It reeked with the good ripe smell of pipe tobacco and seemed to be pervaded with the personality of the man who spent most of his life in it. One of the top windows was open and through it came the refreshing air that blew up from the Hudson. Peter caught a glimpse of the sky, which was alive with stars. It was a goodplace. He liked it. Work was done there. It inspired him.
The artist took Peter's hat and coat and hung them in the alcove. Then he went across the room and turned up the light that hung over a canvas. "How d'you like it?" he asked.
Peter gave an involuntary cry. There sat Betty with her hands folded in her lap. To Peter she seemed to have been caught at the very moment when from his place at her feet he looked up at her just before he held her in his arms for the first time. Her face was alight and her eyes full of tenderness. It was an exquisite piece of work.
Townsend turned out the light. He was well pleased with its effect. Peter's face was far better than several columns of printed eulogy. "Now come and sit down," he said. "Try this mixture. It took me five years to discover it, but since then I've used no other." He threw himself on the settee and settled his untidy head among the cushions.
The light shone on Peter's strong profile, and when Townsend looked at it he saw there all that he hoped to see, and something else. There was a little smile round the boy's mouth and a look in his eyes that showed all the warmth of his heart.
"And so you love my little girl as much as that? Well, she deserves it, but please don't take her away from me yet. I can't spare her. She and my work are all I've got, and I'm not lying when I say that she comes first. Generally when a man reaches my age he has lived down his dependence on other people forhappiness and his work has become his mistress, his wife and his children. In my case that isn't so, and my little girl is the best I have. She keeps me young, Peter. She renders my disappointments almost null and void, and she encourages me not wholly to sacrifice myself to the filthy dollar—an easy temptation I can assure you. So don't be in too great a hurry to take my little bird away and build a nest for her in another tree. Does that sound very selfish to you?"
"No," said Peter; "I understand. Besides—good Lord!—I've got to work before I can make a place good enough for her. I've come back to begin."
"I see! Fine! I thought perhaps that Oxford might have taken some of the good American grit out of you. It just occurred to me that you might be going to let your father keep you while you continue to remain an undergraduate out here in life. A good many of our young men with wealthy fathers play that game, believe me."
"Yes, I know," said Peter, "but there's something in my blood,—I think it's porridge,—that urges me to do things for myself. Besides, I believe that there's a feeling of gratitude somewhere about me that makes me want to pay back my father for all that he's done. I'm most awfully keen to do that, Mr. Townsend! His money has come by accident. I'm not going to take advantage of it. I'm going to start in just as if he were the same hard-working doctor that he used to be when he sent me to Harvard, skinning himself to do so. I think he'll like that. Anyway, that's myplan. And as to Oxford,—well, I should have to be a pretty rotten sort of a dog if I didn't gain something there—that wonderful place out of which men have gone, for centuries, all the better for having rushed over its quads and churned up the water of its little old river and stood humbly in its chapels. Don't you think so?"
"I do indeed, my dear lad; but somehow or other the younger generation doesn't seem to take advantage of those things, and the sight of the young men of the present day and their callous acceptance of their fathers' efforts make me thank God that I never had a boy. I should be afraid. Think of that! What are you going to do, Peter? What is your line of work?"
"The law."
"The law? Well, I guess that's a queer sort of maze to put yourself into. An honest man in the law is like a rabbit in a dog kennel. Is that your definite decision?"
"Absolutely," said Peter. "I chose the law for that reason. I think that honesty is badly needed in it. I've got a dream that one of these days I shall be a judge and make things a bit easier for all the poor devils who have made mistakes."
"God help you!"
"I shall ask him to," said Peter.
The artist looked up quickly. In his further keen and rather wistful scrutiny of the great big square-shouldered man with the strong, clean jaw-line and the firm mouth there was a little astonishment. "Doyou mean to tell me that in the middle of these queer undisciplined, individualistic times you believe in God?"
The room remained in silence for a moment, until Peter leaned forward and knocked out his pipe. "If I didn't believe in God," he replied quietly, "would you be quite so ready to trust Betty to me?"
At that moment the door was swung open and a tall, stout, hard-bosomed woman with a mass of white hair and the carriage of a battleship sailed in. Her evening clothes glistened with sequins and many large beads rattled as she came forward. She wore a string of pearls and several diamond rings. Unable to fight any longer against advancing years and preserve what had evidently been quite remarkable good looks, she had cultivated a presence and developed distinction. In any meeting of women she was inevitably voted to the chair, and in the natural order of things became president of all the Societies to which she attached herself, except one. In this isolated case the woman who supplanted her, for the time being, was even taller, stouter and harder of bosom,—in fact, a born president.
The two men rose.
"Ah, Ranken, still up, then! I half-expected to find the studio in darkness. You'll be glad to hear that we passed a unanimous resolution to-night condemning this country as a republic and asking that it shall become a monarchy forthwith."
Townsend refrained from looking at Peter. "Indeed!" he said gravely. "An evening well spent.But I want you to know Peter Guthrie, Dr. Hunter Guthrie's eldest son, just home from Oxford."
Mrs. Townsend extended a large well-formed hand. "Let me see! What do I know about you? You're the young man who—Oh, now I remember. You're engaged to Betty. But before I forget it, and as you are just out of Oxford, I'll put you down to speak at the annual meeting next Tuesday at the Waldorf, of the Society for the Reconstruction of University Systems. Your subject will be 'Oxford as a Menace to the Younger Generation.' There will be no fee—I beg your pardon?"
Peter's face was a study in conflicting emotions. He looked like a lonely man being run away with in a car that he was wholly unable to drive. Townsend turned a burst of laughter into a rasping cough. "You're awfully kind," said Peter, almost stammering. "But I believe in Oxford."
"Ah! Then you shall say so to the Society for the Encouragement of Universities, on Thursday at eight sharp, at the St. Mary's Public School Building, Brooklyn."
"As a matter of fact, I don't speak," said Peter. "I—I never speak."
"Why, then, you shall be one of the chief thinkers at the bi-monthly meeting of the Californian Cogitators. I'm not going to let you off, so make up your mind to that. And now I'm going to bed. I'm as tired as a dog. Good-bye, Paul,—I mean Peter. Expect me to call you up one day soon. There's so much to do with this world chaos that we must all put ourhands to the wheel." And with a wave of her hand, Mrs. Townsend sailed majestically away.
Peter gasped for breath and the artist subsided into the divan and gave way to an attack—a very spasm—of laughter, which left him limp and weak.
"Never allow Betty to get bitten by the meeting-bug, son," he said, when he had recovered. "It isn't any fun to be married to a bunch of pamphlets. What! Are you off now?"
"I'm afraid I've kept you up, as it is, Mr. Townsend. I—I want to thank you for your immense kindness to me. I shall always remember it. Good night!"
Rankin Townsend got up, stood in front of Peter for a moment and looked straight at him. He was serious again. "Good night, my dear lad," he said. "I feel that I can trust Betty to you and that takes a load off my mind. Come often and stay later."
Peter walked all the way home along Madison Avenue. That part, at any rate, of the great sleepless city was resting and quiet, and the boy's quick footsteps echoed through the empty street. He was glad to be back again in New York—glad and thankful. Somewhere, in one of her big buildings, was his love-girl—the woman who was to be his wife—the reason of his having been born into the world. No wonder he believed in God.
The following afternoon Peter was to call at the apartment-house on Gramercy Park at half-past-four. He had arranged to take Betty for a walk,—a good long tramp. There were heaps of things that he wanted to tell her and hear, and several points on which he wanted to ask her advice. He was not merely punctual, as becomes a man who is head over heels in love—he was ten minutes before his time. All the same, he found Betty waiting for him in the hall, talking to a big burly Irishman who condescended to act as hall-porter and who looked not unlike a brigadier-general in his rather over-smart uniform. This man had known Betty for many years and watched her grow up; had received many kindnesses from her and had seen her bend by the hour over the cot of his own little girl when she was ill. His face was a study when he saw Peter bound into the place, catch sight of Betty and take her in his arms, and without a single touch of self-consciousness pour out a burst of incoherent joy at being with her once more.
Catching his expression, in which surprise, resentment and a sort of jealousy were all mixed, Betty said, when she got a chance: "Peter, this is a friend of mine, Mr. O'Grady."
Peter turned and held out his hand. "How are you? All Miss Townsend's friends have got to be my friends now."
The Irishman's vanity was greatly appealed to bythe simple manliness of Peter's greeting, his cheery smile and his utter lack of side. He smiled back and, having given the hand a warm grip, drew himself up and saluted. At one time he had served in the British Army, and he wanted Peter to know it. He would have told him the story of his life then and there with, very likely, a few picturesque additions, but before he could arrange his opening sentence the two young people were out in the street. He watched them go off together, the one so broad and big, the other so slight and sweet, and said to himself, rolling a new quid of tobacco between his fingers: "Ah, thin; it's love's young dream once more! And it's a man he is. God bless both of them!"
"Are you feeling strong to-day, darling?" asked Peter.
"Strong as a lion," said Betty. "Why?"
"Because I'm going to walk you up the Avenue and into the Park and about six times round the reservoir. Can you stand it?"
Betty laughed. "Try me, and if I faint from exhaustion you can carry me into the street and call a taxicab. I'm not afraid of anything with you."
"That's fine! This is the first time we've been really alone since I came back. It'll take from now until the middle of next week to tell you even half the things I've got to say. First of all, I love you."
"DarlingPeter."
"I love you more than I ever did, much more—a hundred times more—and I don't care who hears mesay so." That was true. He made this statement, not in a whisper, but in his natural voice, and it was overheard by several passers-by who turned their heads,—and being women, smiled sympathetically and went on their way with the deep thrill of the young giant's voice ringing in their ears like music.
They stood for a moment on the curbstone trying to find an opportunity to cross the street. Betty gave herself up to the masterly person at her side without a qualm. She adored being led by the arm through traffic which she wouldn't have dared to dodge had she been alone. It gave her a new and splendid sense of security and dependence.
The rain had begun to fall softly. It gathered strength as they turned into Fifth Avenue, and came down smartly. Betty didn't intend to say a word about the fact that she was wearing a new hat. It had escaped Peter's notice. Her face was all he saw. He wasn't even aware that it was raining until he took her arm and found her sleeve was wet.
"Good Lord!" he said. "This won't do. Dash this rain, it's going to spoil our walk. Where can we go? I know." A line of taxis was standing on a stand. He opened the door of the first one. "Pop in, baby," he said. "We'll drive to the Ritz and have tea. I can't have you getting wet."
Betty popped in, not really so profoundly sorry to escape that strenuous walk as Peter was.
Being a wise man he took full advantage of the taxicab, and for all the fact that it was broad daylight and that anybody who chose could watch him, he gaveBetty a series of kisses which did something to make up for lost time and a long separation. The new hat suffered rather in the process, but what did that matter? This was love. Hats could be replaced—such a love as his, never.
"Your father is a great chap," said Peter. "We had a good yarn last night. By Jove! I wish my father had something of his friendly way. I felt that there was nothing I couldn't tell him—nothing that he wouldn't understand. Well, well; there it is. Graham and I will have to worry along as best we may. Everything'll come out all right, I hope."
"How did you like mother?" asked Betty.
"Well," said Peter, considering his answer with the greatest care, "she's undoubtedly a wonderful woman, but she scares me to death. The very first thing she did was to ask me to speak at one of her meetings."
Betty burst out laughing. "What—? Already? When are you speaking? What are you going to say?"
"Good Lord! What can I say? I can recite the Jabberwocky or the alphabet in English, French and American, but that finishes my repertory. Can you see me standing on a platform as white as a sheet trying to stammer out a few idiotic sentences to a room full of women? Look here! You've got to get it out of her head that I can be of the slightest use to her. Tell her I stutter, or that I've got no roof to my mouth—anything you like—but, for goodness sake, have my name taken off her list. Will you promise that?Already I wake up in the middle of the night in an absolute panic."
"Don't worry," said Betty, "Mother's a very strong-minded woman, but she's awfully easy to manage. And now I want you to promise me something."
"Anything in the world," said Peter.
"Well, then, don't mistake the Ritz for that dear little open place where the fairies dance, and suddenly kiss me in front of the band and all the people having tea."
"Hard luck," said Peter. "I'll do the best I can. But you're such an angel and you look so frightfully nice that I shall have all I can do to keep sane."
The cab drew up and they got out, went through the silly swinging doors which separate a man from his girl for a precious moment and into the Palm Court where the band was playing. Peter gave his hat and stick to a disgruntled waiter, who would have told him to check them outside but for his height and width.
The place was extraordinarily full for the time of year. Everywhere there were women, and every one of them was wearing some sort of erect feather in her hat. It gave the place the appearance of a large chicken run after a prolonged fracas. The band was playing the emotional music ofLa Bohème. It was in its best form. The waiter led them to a little table under a mimic window-sill which was crowded with plants. Many heads turned after them as they adventured between the chattering groups. It was soeasy to see that their impending marriage had been arranged in Heaven.
"What sort of tea do you like?" asked Peter. "Anything hot and wet, or have you a choice? Really, I don't know the difference between one and another."
But Betty did. Hadn't she kept house for her father? "Orange Pekoe tea," she said, "and buttered toast."
Peter made it so, and in sitting down nearly knocked over the table. He was too big for such places and his legs got in the way of everything. At the other end of the room Kenyon was sitting with Belle. Betty had seen them at once, but she held her peace. For the first time in her life she appreciated the fact that two is company. Both men were too occupied to recognize anybody.
Peter was very happy and full of enthusiasm about everything, and Betty was an eager listener as he talked about her and himself and the future, while she poured out the tea. It was all very delightful and domestic and new and exhilarating, and it didn't require much imagination on the part of either of them to believe that they were sitting in their own house, far away from people, and that Peter had just come home after a long day's work, and that the band was their new Victrola performing in the corner. Only one thing made Betty aware of the fact that they were in the Ritz Hotel, and that was the pattern of the teacups. She never would have chosen such things, and if they had been given to her as a wedding present she wouldhave packed them away in some far-off cupboard. She had already made up her mind that their first tea service was going to be blue-and-white, because it would go with her drawing-room,—the drawing-room which she had furnished in her dreams.
"I don't think you'd better do that, Peter," whispered Betty suddenly.
"Do what, darling?" Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth.
"Why, hold my hand. Everybody can see."
"Not if you put it behind this end of the tablecloth. Besides, what if they can? I'm not ashamed of being in love. Are you?"
"No; I glory in it. But——"
"But what?" He held it tighter.
"I think you'd better give it back to me. There's an old lady frowning."
"Oh, she's only a poor benighted spinster. And anyhow she's not frowning. She put her eyebrows on in the dark."
"Very well, Peter. I suppose you know best." And Betty made no further attempts to rescue her hand.
She had two good reasons for leaving it there,—the first, that she liked it, and the second that she couldn't take it away. But she made sure that it was hidden by the tablecloth.
"Won't you smoke, Peter?"
"Oh, thanks. May I?"
"All the other men are."
Peter took out his case and his cigarette holder.It was very easy to take out a cigarette with one hand, but for the life of him he couldn't manœuvre it into the tube. Was he so keen to smoke that he would let her hand go?
He gave it up and broke into a smile that almost made Betty bend forward and plant a resounding kiss on his square chin. "Well, I'm dashed," he said. "I believe you asked me to smoke on purpose to get free."
"I did," she said. "Peter, you're—you're just a darling."
And that was why he upset the glass of water.
Presently he said, when peace was restored: "What d'you think I've done to-day? I've fixed up a seat in the law office of two friends of mine. They were at Harvard with me—corkers both. I intend to start work next week. Isn't that fine? We're going to mop up all the work in the city. Darling, that apartment of ours is getting nearer and nearer. I shall be a tired business man soon and shall want a home to go to, with a little wife waiting for me."
And Betty said: "How soon do you think that'll be?"
Before Peter could answer, Belle's ringing voice broke in. She and Kenyon had come up unnoticed. "The turtle doves," she said. "Isn't it beautiful, Nick?"
"Well, rather!"
And the spell was broken. They little knew, these two who were so happy, that in the fertile brain of theman who stood smiling at them was the germ of a plan which would break their engagement and bring a black cloud over the scene.
The family dined early that evening. Graham had taken a box at the Maxine Elliott Theatre. He and Kenyon and Peter were to take Belle and Betty there to see a play by Edward Sheldon, about which everybody was talking. Little Mrs. Guthrie, who was to have been one of the party, had decided to stay at home, because the Doctor was not feeling very well, and so she was going to sit with him in the library and see that he went to bed early, and give him a dose of one of those old-fashioned cures in which she was a great believer.
Naturally enough, although he was not an ardent play-goer, Peter was looking forward with keen pleasure to the evening because he would be able to sit close to Betty and from time to time whisper in her ear. During dinner, however, which was a very merry meal, with Kenyon keeping everyone in fits of laughter, Peter caught something in his mother's eyes which made him revolutionize his plans. The little mother laughed as frequently as the rest of them,—to the casual observer she was merry and bright, with nothing on her mind except the slight indisposition of the Doctor. But Peter, who possessed an intuitive eye which had a knack of seeing underneath the surfaceof things and whose keen sympathy for those he loved was very easily stirred, became aware of the fact that his mother was only simulating light-heartedness and stood in need of something from him.
He threw his mind back quickly, and in a moment knew what was wrong. During the short time that he had been back in the city he had forgotten to give his little mother anything of himself. That was wrong and ungrateful and extremely selfish, and must be remedied at once.
Without a moment's hesitation he decided to cut two acts of the play and do everything that he could to prove to the little mother who meant so much to him that, although he was engaged to be married, she still retained her place in his heart.
Dinner over, he went quickly to the door and opened it, and as his mother passed out he put his arm round her shoulders and whispered, "Mummie, dear, slip up to your room and wait there for me. I want to talk to you." The look of gratitude that he received from the dear little woman was an immense reward for his unselfishness. Then he went up to Graham and said: "Look here, old boy, I find I shan't be able to go along with you now, but I'll join you for the last act."
"Oh, rot!" said Graham. "What's up? Betty'll be awfully upset."
"No, she won't," said Peter. "I'm going to send her a note." And while the others were getting ready, he dashed off a few lines to the girl who, like himself, understood the family feeling. It contained only afew lines, but they were characteristically Peterish and were calculated to make Betty add one more brick to the beautiful construction of her love for him, because they showed that he understood women and their sensitiveness and realized their urgent need of tenderness and appreciation.
As soon as the party had driven away, Peter collected a pipe and a tin of tobacco and went quickly up the wide staircase. He rushed into his mother's own particular room with all his old impetuosity and found her sitting at a table by the side of a great work-basket in which he saw a large collection of the socks that he had brought home with him and which stood badly in need of motherly attention. No man in this world made so many or such quick holes in the toes of his socks as Peter did, and he knew that she had ransacked the drawers to find them. He drew up a chair, thrust his long legs out in front of him and made himself completely comfortable.
This little room was unlike any other in the house. In it his mother had placed all the pet pieces of inexpensive furniture which had been in the sitting-room of the little house in which she and the Doctor had settled down when they were first married. It was unpretentious stuff, bought in a cheap store in a small town,—what is called "Mission" furniture,—curious, uncomfortable-looking chairs which creaked with every movement, odd little sideboards, which would have brought a grin either of pain or amusement to the face of the former owner of the beautifully furnished house which had been left to the Doctor. Thewalls were covered with photographs of the family in all stages,—Peter as a chubby baby with a great curl on top of his head—Belle in a perambulator smiling widely at a colored nurse—Graham in his first sailor-suit—Ethel bravely arrayed in a party frock, "Thinking of Mother"—and over the mantel-piece one—an enlargement—of the Doctor taken when he was a young man, with an unlined face and thick, straight hair, his jaws set with that grim determination which had carried him over so many obstacles. It was a room at which Graham, Belle and Ethel frequently laughed. But Peter liked it and respected it. He felt more at home there than anywhere else in the house. It reminded him of the early struggles of his father and mother and touched every responsive note in his nature.
"I'm sorry you're not going to the theatre, dear," said Mrs. Guthrie.
"No, you're not," said Peter.
"Oh, indeed I am. I like you to enjoy yourself with the others, and Betty'll be there. Only stay a few minutes; and, as the curtain always goes up late, you'll be in time to see the whole of the play."
"Blow the play!" said Peter. "I'm going to talk to you just as long as I like. I can go to the theatre any night of the week."
Mrs. Guthrie dropped her work, bent forward and put her cheek against Peter's. "You're a dear, dear boy," she said. "You're my very own Peter, and even if I were a poet I couldn't find words to tell you how happy you make me; but I did my best not to letyou see that I was just a wee bit hurt because you haven't had time to spare me a few moments since you came home. After all, I'm only a little old mother now, and I must try to remember that."
"Oh, don't," said Peter. "I'm awfully sorry I've been such a thoughtless brute. But, no one—no, no one—can ever take your place, and you know it." He went down on his knees at her side and wrapped his strong arms round her and put his head upon her breast as he used to do when he was a little chap, and remained there for a while perfectly happy.
He couldn't see the Madonna look which came into the eyes of the little mother, whose pillow had frequently been wet with tears at the thought that she had lost her boy. Nor did he see the expression of extreme gratitude which spread rather pathetically over her face. But he felt these things and held her tightly just to show how well he understood, and to eliminate from her heart that feeling of pain which he knew had crept into it because he had found that other little mother who was to be his wife and have sons of her own.
Presently he returned to his chair and to his pipe, and began to talk. "By gad!" he said, "it's good to be home again. I find myself looking at everything differently now—quite time, too. I should have been at work years ago. Universities are great places and I shall never regret Oxford, but they take a long time to prepare a fellow to become a man." Then he laughed one of his great and big laughs, and his chair creaked and one or two of the old pieces of furnitureseemed to rattle. "I hid those socks, but I knew you'd find them. What a mother you are, mother! I'll make a bet with you."
"I never bet," said Mrs. Guthrie, who was all smiles.
"I'll bet you a hundred dollars you never mend Graham's socks. Now then tell the truth."
"Well, no, I don't. He doesn't like socks that have been mended; and, anyway, he isn't my first-born. You see that makes a lot of difference."
"There you are," said Peter. "Pay up and smile. Oh, say; I'm sorry father's seedy. He sticks too closely to those microbes of his. I shall try to screw up courage and take him on a bust now and then. It'll do him good. Think he'll go?"
Mrs. Guthrie looked up eagerly. "Try," she said. "Please do try. Now that you've come home for good I want you to do everything you can to get closer to your father. He's a splendid man and he's always thinking about you and the others, but I know that he'll never make the first move. He doesn't seem to understand how to do it. But he deserves everything you can give him. If only you could break down his shyness and diffidence,—because that's what it is,—you'd make him very happy."
"Yes, that's what I think," said Peter. "I've been thinking it over, especially since I saw the way in which Kenyon's father treats him. I shall pluck up courage one of these nights, beard him in his den and have it out, and put things straight. I want him much more than he wants me; and, d'you know, I think that Graham wants him too."
"I'm sure he does," said Mrs. Guthrie. "Graham's a good boy, but he's very reckless and thinks that he's older than he is. He comes to me sometimes with his troubles, but how can I help him? I wish, Peter, I do wish that he'd go sometimes to his father!"
"Well, I'm going to try to alter all that," said Peter. "It's got to be done somehow. Father's always been afraid of us, and we've always been afraid of father. It's silly. What d'you think of Nicholas? Isn't he a corker?"
Mrs. Guthrie smiled. "He improves on acquaintance," she said. "He's certainly one of the most charming men I've ever met. Do you think"—she lowered her voice a little—"do you think there's anything between him and Belle?"
"Good Lord!" said Peter. "I never thought of that. Is there?"
"Well," said Mrs. Guthrie, "I've noticed one or two little things. He's been writing to her, you know."
"Has he? By Jove! Well, then, there must be something in it. He's a lazy beggar and I don't believe I've ever seen him write a letter in his life. Gee, I shall be awfully glad to have him for a brother-in-law! That topping place in Shropshire! Belle would make an absolutely perfect mistress of it, although there's plenty of life in the old man yet. By Jove, it was good to see the relationship between Nick and his father. It staggered me. Why, they were as good as friends. They go about arm in arm and tell each other everything. It used to make me feel quitesick sometimes. Think of my going about arm in arm with father!"
"Think of Belle becoming the Countess of Shropshire! I should like that. It would be another feather in your father's cap,—your father who used to carry siphons in a basket."
"More power to his elbow," said Peter. "It might have been better for me if I'd carried siphons in a basket. After all, I'm inclined to believe that there's no university in the world like the streets. Think of all the men who've graduated from windy corners and muddy gutters—It'd be a fine thing for Ethel, too, if Belle marries Nick. Isn't she an extraordinary kid? Upon my word, she takes my breath away. She's older at sixteen than most women are at thirty. By the way, what's the matter with her? What's anæmia, anyhow? She looks as fit as a fiddle."
"Oh, she'll soon get over that," said Mrs. Guthrie. "I think they bend too much over books at her school. You know the modern girl isn't like the girls of my generation. I didn't have to learn geometry or piano playing. I didn't think it was necessary to know Euclid or a smattering of the classics. We learned how to make bread and cook a good steak and iron clothes. You know husbands don't come home to hear Mozart on a Baby Grand and enter into discussions about writers with crack-jaw names."
"I know,—Ibsen, Schopenhauer, Hauptmann and Tolstoy. No; they don't fill a hungry tummie, do they?"
"No, indeed they don't," said Mrs. Guthrie. "Andthat reminds me that I must go and give your father his little dose. When a doctor isn't well he never knows how to look after himself." She got up and put down her work, and then bent over Peter. "Thank you for coming up to-night, my dearest boy. I've had a queer little pain in my heart for a long time, but you've taken it all away. Now run along and see your Betty, and don't worry about your little mother any longer."
Peter got up and put his hands on his mother's shoulders. "Listen!" he said. "I love you. I shall always love you. No woman shall ever come between me and you." And he caught her in his arms and kissed her.
And then she bustled down-stairs to the library, where the Doctor was taking it easy for once and dipping into one of the numerous books that surrounded him. There was a smile on Mrs. Guthrie's face which was like the sun on an autumn morning.
On the way to his bedroom Peter passed the door of Ethel's room, and drew up short. He had heard her say she was going to bed early. He hadn't had many words with her since he got back. So he decided to go in and wipe off that debt, too. When he tried to open the door he found that it was locked. He started a devil's tattoo with his knuckles. "Are you there, Kid?" he shouted out.
The answer was "Yes."
"Well, then, open the door. I want to come in."
After a moment the door was opened and Ethel stood there in a very becoming peignoir. She lookedextremely disconcerted and did her best to block the way into the room.
But that wouldn't do for Peter. "What's all this?" he asked. "We lock our door now, do we?"
"Yes, sometimes," said Ethel. "Why aren't you at the theatre?" She shot a surreptitious glance towards the window, which was open.
"I've been having a talk with mother," said Peter. "Hello! I see you've been trigging up your room. Frightfully swagger now, isn't it. New art, eh? You're coming on, my dear, there's no mistake about that. I'm afraid you find us all appallingly provincial, don't you?"
The broad grin on Peter's face was no new thing to Ethel. He had always pulled her leg and treated her as though she were a sort of freak. All the same, she liked his coming in and was flattered to know that he thought it worth while to bother about her. But she began to edge him to the door. He had come at a most unpropitious moment.
"Oh ho!" said Peter. "So this's what higher education does for you? A nice mixture—cigarettes and candies—I must say. Now I know why you locked your door. With a marshmallow in one hand and an Egyptian Beauty in the other you lie on your sofa in the latest thing in peignoirs and see life through the pages of,—what?" He picked up a book from the table. "Good Lord!" he added; "you don't mean to say you stuff this piffle into you?" It was a collection of plays by Strindberg.
"Oh, go to the theatre!" said Ethel. "You're being horridly Oxford now and I hate it."
"You'll get a lot more of it before I've done with you," said Peter. "All the same, you look very nice, my dear. I'm very proud of you, and I hope you will do me the honour to be seen about with me sometimes. But how about taking some of that powder off your nose? If you begin trying to hide it at sixteen it'll be lost altogether at twenty." He made a sudden pounce at her and holding both her hands so that she could not scratch, rubbed all the powder away from her little proud nose and made for the door, just missing the cushion which came flying after him, and took himself and his big laugh along the passage.
Immensely relieved at being left alone, Ethel locked the door again and went over to her dressing-table, where she repaired damage with quick, deft fingers. With another glance at the window,—a glance in which there was some impatience,—she arranged herself on the settee to wait.
No wonder Peter had made remarks about this room. It was deliciously characteristic of its owner. Large and airy; all its furniture was white and its hangings were of creamy cretonne covered with little rosebuds. The narrow bed was tucked away in a corner so that the writing-desk, the sofa and the revolving book-stand—on which stood a bowl of mammothchrysanthemums—might dominate the room. Several mezzotints of Watts' pictures hung on the walls and a collection of framed illustrations of the Arabian Nights, by Dulac. The whole effect was one of naïve sophistication.
Through the open window the various sounds of the city's activity floated rather pleasantly. There was even a note of cheerfulness in the insistent bells of the trolley-cars on Madison Avenue and the chugging of a taxicab on the other side of the street. Before many minutes had gone by a rope ladder dangled outside the window, and this was followed immediately afterwards by the lithe and wiry figure of a boy. Wearing a rather sheepish expression he remained sitting on the sill, swinging his legs. "Hello!" said he. "How are you feeling?"
"There's some improvement to-night," said Ethel. "Won't you come in? Were you waiting for a signal?"
"You bet!"
He was a nice boy, with a frank, honest face, a blunt nose and a laughing mouth. His hair was dark and thick, and his shoulders square. He was eighteen and he looked every day of it. He lived next door and was the son of a man who owned a line of steamships and a French mother, who was not on speaking terms with Mrs. Guthrie, owing to the fact that the Doctor had been obliged to remonstrate about her parrot. This expensive prodigy gave the most lifelike and frequent imitations of cats, trolley-cars, newsboys, sirens and other superfluous and distressing disturbanceson the window-sill of the room which was next to his laboratory. So this boy and girl—unconsciously playing all over again the story of the Montagues and Capulets—met surreptitiously night after night, the boy coming over the roof and using the rope ladder—which had played its part in all the great romances. Was there any harm in him? Well, he was eighteen.
"What'll you have first?" asked Ethel, in her best hostess manner—"candies or cigarettes?"
"Both," said the boy; and with a lump in his cheek and an expression of admiration in both eyes he started a cigarette. He was about to sit on the settee at Ethel's feet, but she pointed to a chair and into this he subsided, crossing one leg over the other and hitching his trousers rather high so that he might display to full advantage a pair of very smart socks, newly purchased.
"I hope you locked your bedroom door," said Ethel, "and please don't forget to whisper. There's no chance of our being caught, but we may as well be careful."
The boy nodded and made a little face. "If father found out about this," he said; "oh, Gee! What did you do with Ellen after she bounced in last night?"
"Oh, I gave her one of my hats. I told her that if she kept quiet there was a frock waiting for her. She's safe. Now, amuse me!"
For some minutes the boy remained silent, worrying his brain as to how to comply with the girl's rather difficult and peremptory request. He knew that shewas not easy to amuse. He was a little frightened at the books she read and looked up to her with a certain amount of awe. He liked her best when she said nothing and was content to sit quite quiet and look pretty. After deep and steady thought he took a chance. "Do you know this one?" he asked, and started whistling a new ragtime through his teeth.
It was new to Ethel. She liked it. Its rhythm set her feet moving. "Oh, that's fine," she said. "What are the words?"
The boy was a gentleman. He shook his head, thereby stimulating her curiosity a hundred-fold.
"Oh don't be silly. I shall know them sooner or later, whatever they are—besides, I'm not a child."
The boy lied chivalrously. "Well, honestly, I don't know them,—something about 'Row, row, row'—I don't know the rest."
She knew that he did know. She liked him for not telling her the truth, but she made a mental note to order the song the following morning.
And so, for about an hour, these two young things who imagined that this was life carried on a desultory conversation, while the boy gradually filled the room with cigarette smoke, and remained reluctantly a whole yard away from the sofa. It was all very childish and simple, but to them it was romance with a very big R. They were making believe that they had thrown the world back about a hundred years or so. He was a knight and she a lady in an enemy's castle; and, although their mothers didn't speak, they liked to ignore the fact that Mrs. Guthrie would have had no objectionto his coming to tea as often as he desired and taking Ethel for walks in broad daylight whenever he wished for a little mild exercise. But,—he was eighteen, and so presently, repulsed by her tongue but enticed by her eyes, he left his chair and found himself sitting on the settee at Ethel's feet, holding her hand, which thrilled him very much. She was kinder than usual that night, sweeter and more girlish. Her stockings were awfully pretty, too, and her hair went into more than usually delicious ripples round her face.
"You're a darling," he said suddenly. "I love to come here like this. I hope you'll be ill for a month." And he slid forward with gymnastic clumsiness and put his arm round her shoulder. He was just going to kiss her and so satisfy an overwhelming craving when there was a soft knock on the door and Dr. Guthrie's voice followed it. "Are you awake, Ethel?"
The boy sprang to his feet, stood for a moment with a look of peculiar shame on his face, turned on his heels, made for the window, went through it like a rabbit and up the troubadour ladder, which disappeared after him.
Ethel held her breath and remained transfixed. Again the knock came and the question was repeated. But she made no answer, and presently, when the sound of footsteps died away, she got up—a little peevish and more than a little irritable—kicked a small pile of cigarette ash which the boy had dropped upon her carpet, and said to herself: "Justas he was going to kiss me! Goodness, howannoyingfather is!"
The following morning Belle took Nicholas Kenyon for a walk. Dressed in a suit of blue flannel with white bone buttons, with a pair of white spats gleaming over patent leather shoes and a grey hat stuck at an angle of forty-five, Kenyon looked as fresh and as dapper as though he had been to bed the night before at ten o'clock. He had, as a matter of fact, come home with the milk; but he was one of those men who possess the enviable gift of looking healthy and untired after the sort of nights which make the ordinary man turn to chemistry and vibro-massage.
Belle had sported a new hat for the occasion.
This fact Kenyon realized with that queer touch of intuition which was characteristic of him. "By Jove!" he said. "That's something like a hat, Belle. Hearty congratulations. You suit it to perfection."
Belle beamed upon him. "But you would say that anyhow, wouldn't you?"
"Perfectly true; but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred I shouldn't mean it."
They turned into Madison Avenue. It was an exquisite morning. The whole city was bathed in sun, but the refreshing tang of late autumn was in the air. Most of the large houses were still closed, their owners lingering in the country or abroad. All the same there was the inevitable amount of traffic in the streets and apparently the usual number of passers-by. The city can be—according to the strange little creatureswho write society news—"utterly deserted" and yet contain all its teeming millions.
"And what may that be?" asked Kenyon, pointing to the heavy white buttresses of a church which backed on the street.
"Oh, that's the Roman Catholic Cathedral."
"Roman Catholic, eh? I noticed churches everywhere as we drove up from the docks,—more churches than pubs apparently, and yet I suppose it would be quite absurd to imagine that New Yorkers imbibe their alcohol entirely in the form of religion."
"Quite," said Belle, dryly. "Although we have a hundred religions and only five cocktails."
"I see you also go in for antique furniture."
Belle laughed. "You have a quick eye," she said. "There's so much genuine Old English stuff in this city that if it were sent to England there wouldn't be room for it on shore. Tell me; what are your plans?"
"Well," said Kenyon, "I'm going to accept your father's perfectly charming hospitality for a fortnight and then take rooms in a bachelor apartment-house, of which Graham has told me, for the winter."
"You're going to settle down here?" cried Belle.
"Rather,—for six months. I'm here to study the conditions, make myself familiar with the characteristics and draw from both what I hope will be the foundations of much usefulness." Kenyon considered that he had enveloped his true mission—which was to lighten the pockets of all unwary young men—with a satirical verbiage that did him credit.
"I thought that perhaps you'd come for some other reason," said Belle, whose whole face showed her disappointment.
Kenyon shot a quick glance at her. How naïve she was—how very much too easy—but, nevertheless, how very young and desirable. "That goes without saying, you delicious thing," he replied, closing his hand warmly round her arm for a moment and so bringing the light back to her eyes. "By the way," he continued, "what's the matter with Graham?"
"I don't know that anything's the matter with Graham."
"I think so. I notice a worried look about him that he didn't have at Oxford; that he seems to be always on the verge of telling me something, and drawing back at the last minute. I must make a point of finding out what his trouble is. Peter and I were discussing it this morning after breakfast. We're both a bit anxious about him. Do you know if your father has noticed it?"
"Father? Oh, he doesn't notice anything. He believes that Graham is working very hard and doing well. He knows less about what goes on in our house than the people who live next door."
"That's rather a pity. I'm all for complete confidence between father and son. However, I shall play father to Graham for a bit and see what can be done for him. He puzzles me. There's a mystery somewhere."
Something of this mystery was disclosed to Kenyon and Peter that night. After dining them bothat the Harvard Club—a place which filled Kenyon with admiration and surprise—Graham suddenly suggested, with a queer touch of excitement, that they should go with him to his apartment.
"Your apartment?" said Peter. "What on earth do you mean?"
"Well, come and see," said Graham.
The two elder men looked at each other in amazement. Kenyon's quick mind ran ahead, but Peter, the unsophisticated, was quite unable to understand what in the world Graham wanted an apartment for when he lived at home. They all three left West Forty-fourth Street in silence and walked arm in arm down Fifth Avenue as far as Twenty-eighth Street. Here they turned westward and followed Graham, who was wearing an air of rather sheepish pride, up the steps of an old brown stone house with rather a shabby portico.
"Dismal looking hole," said Peter.
"Wait!" said Graham, and he put his finger on a bell. The door opened automatically and he led the way into a scantily furnished hall and up three flights of stairs, whose red carpet was in the autumn of its days. Drawing up in front of a door on the left of the passage he rang again, and after a lengthy pause was admitted to a small apartment by a colored maid, who gave a wide grin of recognition.
"Come right in," said Graham. "Lily, take our hats and coats. Don't leave them about in the hall. Hang them up and then go and get some drinks."
Kenyon looked about him curiously. He could seethat the place was newly furnished and that everything had been chosen by a man. He glanced into the dining-room. The pictures were sporting and the furniture mission. He detected no sign of a woman's hand anywhere. He began to be puzzled. He had expected to find something quite different. But when Graham opened the door of the sitting-room and said: "Well, here we are, Ita!" and he saw a small, dark, olive-skinned girl rise up from a settee and run forward to Graham with a little cry of welcome, he knew that his deduction of the situation had been a right one. So this was the mystery.
Still with the same air of sheepish pride, Graham said: "Peter, this is Miss Ita Strabosck. My brother, Ita. And this is Nicholas Kenyon, who's a great friend of mine. They've just come over from England, and so of course I've brought them to see you."
The little girl held out a very shy hand, and said: "I am so glad. Eet ees very good of you to come."
In a curiously plain tight frock of some soft black material, cut square across her tiny breasts, and leaving her arms bare almost to the shoulders, she stood, with one knee bent, looking from one man to the other with a sort of wistful eagerness to be treated kindly. She held a tiny black Teddy bear with red eyes against her cheek, like a child.
Peter, for a reason which he was unable to explain to himself, felt a wave of sympathy go over him. He not only accepted the girl on her face value, but somehowor other believed her to be younger and more romantic than she looked. She seemed to him to have stepped out of the pages of some Arabian book—to be a little exotic whom Graham must have discovered far away from her native hot-house. He liked the way in which her thick hair was arranged round her face, and he would have sworn that she was without guile.
Not so Kenyon. "Great Scott!" he said to himself. "Here's a little devil for you. Our young friend Graham has had his leg pulled. I've seen mosquitoes before, but the poison of this one will take all the ingenuity of an expert to counteract."
He sat down and watched the girl, who threw one quick antagonistic glance at him and attached herself to Peter, to whom she talked in monosyllables. She might only very recently have left a Convent School, except that her dog-like worship of Graham seemed to prove that she owed him a deep debt of gratitude for some great service.
Graham watched her, too, and his expression showed Kenyon that even if he didn't love her he believed in her and was proud of himself.