The girl put up her handkerchief to catch a tear that was just ready to fall. I have said that she was either laughing or crying. Thrawn saw the tear, and gasped.
“Did you love him so well?” he asked.
The girl nodded, and again pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
“Was he — did you have him long?”
Again the girl nodded. “That is the reason I care,” she said. “He could never be replaced. We all loved him so.”
She gazed tearfully at the spots left on her gown by the terrier’s muddy feet. Thrawn followed her look commiseratingly.
“Hello, Thrawn!” came a voice.
Thrawn looked up, startled. Standing directly in front of them was Billy Du Mont, the ever-smiling and never-working, hat in one hand, and in the other — the lost Paisley, struggling for freedom.
“Good afternoon, Miss Sargent,” said Billy to the girl. “Here’s your pup, Thrawn. Knew you must be around when I saw him.”
Thrawn sat as one stricken dumb, while the girl moved over on the divan to make room for Billy.
“Sorry,” declined Billy, “but I haven’t time. My revered mother is waiting for me at Suzanne’s. Besides, you two look so thoroughly chummy.”
“Is... is that Mr. Thrawn’s dog?” asked the girl.
“Sure,” answered Billy. “Don’t you think it looks like him?”
When he had gone Thrawn looked at the girl and tried to laugh. She did not join him.
“Your heard what he said,” said Thrawn timidly. “We’re chums.”
“I suppose,” said Miss Sargent, icily, “you are speaking of yourself and your dog.”
A long silence.
“It seems to me,” Thrawn observed, “that I have as good a right to be angry with you for saying it was yours as you have to be angry with me for saying it wasn’t mine.”
“You have. Go on and be angry.”
“But I’m not angry. I feel friendly and charitable, and — and happy. This is the most wonderful day of my life. I would lie twice as often for an equal pleasure.”
“Or, perhaps, with an equal pleasure,” suggested Miss Sargent.
“It’s the same thing.”
“I’m not surprised at your thinking so.”
“Besides, it saved you from a most horrible attack of ennui.”
“My only feeling is one of annoyance.”
Thrawn colored hotly. “I beg your pardon,” he said, and bowing stiffly, disappeared down the corridor.
He turned a corner to the left. Then he missed the terrier, and started to retrace his steps.
And then — this Thrawn was anything but a fool — he turned back in the original direction, and shortly approached the divan where he had left Miss Sargent, from the opposite side to that of his departure.
Miss Sargent was leaning forward, gazing intently down the corridor where he had disappeared. Held tightly in her arms was the Paisley.
Thrawn coughed.
“Oh!” cried the girl, and jumped to her feet. The terrier landed on the floor in a heap. “You... you forgot your dog!”
“That is what I returned for,” said Thrawn, with never a smile. “I am sorry to have been forced to annoy you again.”
He picked up the Paisley, and prepared to leave.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” the girl declared hastily — embarrassed. “You... you must forgive me.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Thrawn. “Forgive you!” He bent over and touched ever so lightly with his lips the hand she held out to him.
“Let’s go in to tea,” he said.
Billy Du Mont, Reporter
A novice journalist gains a story, and perhaps a spouse, by a stratagem that Nero Wolfe or Archie Goodwin might have been proud of (if either of them had ever desired to gain a spouse). From Young’s Magazine.
Billy Du Mont sat on the edge of the stenographer’s desk, swinging his legs in a crisscross fashion carefully copied after a young Frenchman he had met at Nice. Finding this monotonous, he added a few bizarre variations of his own.
“Stop that,” commanded his father, gruffly.
Billy thrust his hands in his pockets, and sliding down till his feet touched the floor, began drumming on it with his toes. The elder Du Mont eyed him with growing disapproval.
“Well?” said Billy, encouragingly.
His father grunted. “How long do you think it will last?” he demanded.
Billy looked grieved. “There’s no use asking me questions like that,” he declared. “It’s very discouraging. You know very well I’ve decided to buckle down and work.”
There was a silence, while Billy walked over to the mirror to smile approvingly at his carefully nurtured but scarcely perceptible moustache, and his father turned around in his chair the better to observe this modest proceeding.
“Well,” said Du Mont, Senior, with a sigh, “go on down and report to Allen — God help him.”
He turned to his desk in a manner which indicated that the interview was ended; and Billy, properly ignoring the implication in the prayer for Allen, left the room and proceeded down the hall and stairs to the office of the city editor.
“Hello,” said Allen, cordially, as Billy entered without knocking. “On the job, eh?”
Billy nodded and seated himself on a rickety cane chair, while Allen fumbled among a pile of little yellow slips, with an amused smile.
Billy saw the smile, and resented it — inwardly. But no hostile feeling could long survive in the cheerful and optimistic breast of Billy Du Mont, and when Allen looked up from his desk he met a smile even broader than his own.
“Allen,” said Billy, “you’ve been listening to the voice of the siren — in this case my revered parent. Go on and have your fun. But give me a chance, and I’ll show you all up.”
Allen laughed — a privilege he had earned by dandling Billy on his knee on several occasions some eighteen years before.
“I hope so, Billy,” said he. “We need it. For a starter, here’s a run up Riverside Drive to see a beautiful heiress and make some casual inquiries concerning the whereabouts of her heart.”
Billy frowned. “Must I go where you tell me to?” he demanded.
“Of course.”
The frown deepened. “All right. Go on.”
“It’s this,” said Allen. “There’s a rumor that the Count de Luni has come to America solely for the purpose of marrying Cecily Lyndon, daughter of the banker. He landed yesterday on the Morania. It’s said that it’s a love match, only old man Lyndon has interposed a firm and gentle nix. The Count is staying at the Ritz-Ritz, and I want you to see both him and Miss Lyndon, and get a story out of it. If there’s any—”
He stopped abruptly. Billy’s face had during this brief recital undergone a series of remarkable changes. It had gone from pale to red, from red to splotched, from splotched to rosy pink, shaming his moustache. He had risen from his chair and advanced toward Allen threateningly.
“Who told you that?” he demanded.
Then, realizing that he was making a fool of himself, he sank back into his chair, embarrassed.
Allen regarded him with surprise. “You’d make a fine chameleon,” he observed. “What’s the row?”
Billy recovered quickly. “Nothing,” he said, calmly, rising to go, “only the Count is an old friend of mine. I’ll get the story, all right.”
Allen was curious, but time was precious, and Billy gave him no time to answer.