The girl, for it was she, hurried over to him.
“Oh, dad,” she cried, “I haven’t a minute. I just ran in to tell you that when you write to Mr. McNair — you know who I mean — you mustn’t mention me. You see, I didn’t tell him—”
Mr. Carson interrupted with a laugh. “Well, you’ve told him now. This is your friend, Mr. McNair.”
The girl turned and saw Carl, who was gazing at her stupidly. “Oh!” she cried, and stopped short. Her cheeks became crimson. Then, recovering herself, “Good morning, Mr. McNair,” politely.
“Good morning, Miss Carson,” still more politely.
Carl walked across the room, hat in hand. Turning at the door, “I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Carson,” he said. “Good morning, sir.” And he ran, rather than walked, through the corridors and down the stairs to the street door. Arrived there, he stopped to consider.
He understood it all, he assured himself, bitterly. He felt that he had been cheated and deceived. Of course it was all very plain. Miss Carson — the wealthy, the socially elect — had picked him out as a worthy object of charity.
She had probably decided to elevate him.
“Damned idiot!” he said aloud.
“Mr. McNair!” came a voice. He turned.
It was the girl. As she approached Carl stiffened perceptibly.
“I am going uptown,” she said breathlessly, “and I supposed you were, too, so I wanted to ask you to ride up with me. Will you?”
“I am sorry,” declined Carl, with finality and extreme dignity.
“But I—” she stopped, surprised. “Please.”
Carl was silent. Just in front of them a footman was opening the door of a limousine.
“You may help me in,” said the girl. Carl did so, politely, and stood by the open door.
“Now,” she continued, “did you have to beg me to have luncheon with you?”
Carl could not speak. She was very, very sweet.
“Well, then,” taking his silence for assent, “please.”
Carl entered and seated himself at her side. To the waiting footman Miss Carson gave the address of Carl’s office, and the car started uptown.
“Now,” said the girl, “why were you in such a hurry to leave?”
“I... I had to catch a train.”
“Oh!” A pause. Then, with calm impertinence, “Where were you going?”
“To Caxton: I am going back there to live.” And then, as she started to interrupt, “There’s no use pretending. You know why I am going.”
There was a long silence.
Carl gazed out of the window, seeing nothing. He reproached himself that he had not refused obstinately to enter the car. He hated the soft luxuriousness of the cushions; he almost persuaded himself that he hated the girl.
Finally she spoke.
“I have an explanation to make, Mr. McNair. And a request. You see, I do settlement work. On Saturday one of the girls was ill, and I offered to do her work for her. That is why — that is how I met you. If my father knew of it he would be angry. I mean, if he knew I was an inspector,” smiling. “I told him I met you at a reception. You won’t tell him, will you?”
“Likely not, since I sha’n’t see him again.” Clearly, Carl was very unhappy.
The girl smiled. “Oh, but you will. I thought the one thing you wanted was a start. Well.”
“So did I. But now I know what I want. And it is beyond me. You are very kind, Miss Carson — and charitable.”
The car stopped at Carl’s office.
He glanced up at it with a shudder, and leaving the car, stood at its door looking in at the girl. She looked at him questioningly. Plainly, he was ready to go without a word.
“What—” she began, and then finished bravely, “what if I, too, know what you want?”
Carl looked at her in wonder, unbelieving. She was bending toward him, face flushed and lips parted. And her eyes — but Carl was blind.
“Please stay,” she whispered. “And now go — quick.”
Carl mechanically lifted his hat and obeyed. He had walked all of five blocks before he understood anything.
That evening he wrote a letter to Caxton, telling of his new position with R. U. Carson & Co. After it was folded and sealed he tried for an hour to convince himself, and finally went to the mirror and examined himself critically.
“Why,” he said aloud, and with emphasis, “the thing is impossible.”
But it wasn’t. It never is.
Baba
A house party, being an institution established and maintained solely for the convenience of storywriters and matchmakers, has no excuse for existence unless it serves the purposes of one or the other of these valuable members of society.
In real life no matron dreams of giving a house party without inviting a man, preferably young, and a girl, necessarily pretty, whom she wishes to bring together; and no novelist ever puts one in his book if he can find any other way out of it. With the hostess it necessitates many indifferent guests, and with the novelist many undesirable characters. It belongs, therefore, to that species of artificial phenomena known as last resorts.
Knowing all this — for she was a wise matron — Mrs. T. M. S. Hartshorn had nevertheless invited fourteen persons to a house party at her country home in Westchester County during the last week of April.
This fact produces an alternative. Either she knew I was going to write a story about it or she had certain designs in connection with the fates of Edward Besant and Sylvia Herrow; for he was the only young man in the crowd and she the only pretty girl.
Mrs. Hartshorn was a wise matron!
But it would seem that her plan was doomed to failure. Consider: On the evening of the third day of the party Mrs. Hartshorn, making a tour of exploration some time after the dinner hour discovered Mr. Besant seated in gloomy solitude in a dark corner of the library. She paused, waiting for recognition.
He looked up and said: “Oh, is it you?” And buried his face in his hands again.
“Ned, what on earth is the matter with you?” demanded his hostess. “Come on in front; we need you for a fourth table.”
Mr. Besant muttered something very uncomplimentary to tables in general and fourth tables in particular, and declared his intention of remaining where he was forever. Then he looked up with an air of weary decision:
“I forgot. I wanted to speak to you, Dora. I’m going home on the seven-ten.”
“The seven-ten?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
She exploded immediately. She declared that he couldn’t go; that everyone would know why, and laugh at him; that she couldn’t possibly explain his departure, and wouldn’t try; and that she would never give another houseparty as long as she lived.
“Anyway,” she finished, “it’s perfectly silly of you. I suppose Sylvia has refused you, just because she doesn’t happen to know what she wants. Good Heavens! And you run away like this! Ned Besant, you’re a coward!”
But all that the young man would permit himself was a gloomy reiteration of his purpose to leave on the seven-ten in the morning. His hostess presented a dozen arguments — but what is the good of arguing with an oyster?
And at length, convinced of the inflexibility of his determination, she returned to the waiting tables in the drawingroom, announcing:
“We’ll have to do without him. He’s in the library writing letters. Just received a telegram and says he has to leave on the seven-ten tomorrow.”
“Leave!” exclaimed the parrot of the party — a little, fat, red-faced man with eyeglasses.
“Telegram! It couldn’t—” began Tom Hartshorn, the host; then subsided at a glance from his wife.