“Good luck!” Allen called, as Billy was closing the door.
“Thanks!” said Billy.
Five minutes later he was seated in an uptown subway express, his forehead puckered into a frown, his lips compressed in a thin line, his hands clenched tightly. Clearly, he was thinking — a most unusual occurrence in the life of Billy, his friends would have told you.
Billy was richer in friends than in anything else. A year previous he had graduated at Harvard — barely; he had then tried the brokerage business, thereby adding to his own amusement and subtracting more from his father’s bank account; and when his distracted parent had sent him on a sixty days’ tour of the Mediterranean he had calmly altered the carefully arranged program into a six months’ visit to Paris.
He had been the most popular man of his class at Harvard; he had won the good will of every broker on the street in five months; and there was a certain crowd of students in Paris who loved him well, and drank to his health whenever they thought of it — or had anything to drink. But these are acquisitions which are hardly calculated to gain the commendation of a father; which fact was impressed upon Billy in terms more forcible than elegant on the day that he arrived home from Paris.
Du Mont, Senior, owner and editor of the New York Clarion, had been unwilling that his son should become a journalist; but with Billy’s insistence and his mother’s tears he had been forced to acquiesce. For Billy had written from Paris that nothing else would bring him home; and when the elder Du Mont received a letter informing him that his only son was about to become a waiter at the Café Sigognac, and soliciting his patronage in the event of his coming to Paris, he cabled two hundred dollars and an uncomfortable surrender at once.
On the morning after his arrival, accordingly, Billy had reported at the Clarion office for duty. He had informed his father that he had decided to begin with editorials and special articles. Any one else would have been disconcerted by the torrent of sarcasm which this statement elicited; but not Billy. He smiled cheerfully at the assertion that the only articles he could write were the advertisements of haberdashers, and agreed willingly to the course of reportorial work proposed by his father.
As the subway express roared into Grand Central Station and out again, Billy’s look of gloom changed into the dreamy smile of one who was recalling sweet memories. A certain afternoon on the Seine, and a fair laughing face that had looked out at him from the cabin of a luxurious motor launch, as he lay stretched on the bank while a student friend belabored him for going to sleep over de Musset; the subsequent meeting at the Club House at Argenteuil, when he certainly had not appeared to the best advantage; the round of drives and theatres during the remaining week of her stay in Paris, necessitating a hurried amalgamation of funds among his friends at Lampourde’s; these things flitted across his mind with a distinctness that spoke highly of their importance.
As for the Count de Luni— But before Billy could decide on the particularly horrible fate to be reserved for that gentleman, the train reached Ninety-sixth Street, and he found himself again in the open air, with an April breeze coming caressingly up the hill from the Hudson, directly in his face. He sniffed it with the air of a dilettante and with an evident appreciation.
As he entered the imposing marble hall of the Elemara, on Riverside Drive, a feeling of timidity assailed him. With Billy timidity was so rare a visitor that he paused for a moment to enjoy the novelty of this strange sensation. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders and a reflection that what was worth getting was worth going after, he sent up his card.
Seated in the reception room in the Lyndon apartment, Billy felt an apathy and indifference steal over him which he strove vainly to drive away. This, after all, was not Paris. The sunny Seine of Argenteuil was very different from the sullen Hudson, obscured by the smoke of a thousand chimneys. The glaring magnificence of the decorations and hangings of this commercial castle were in unpleasing contrast to the genuinely artistic tawdriness of Lampourde’s and the Café Fracasse. Billy hated show.
He was stopped in the midst of these reflections by the appearance of Miss Cecily Lyndon, about whose slender form the velvet curtains seemed to cling lovingly as she passed through them. Billy rose at her entrance, and as she crossed the room to where he stood, regarded her with frank approval.
This was not the Cecily whose frank friendliness had been so thoroughly charming, but she was as fair. That look of detached politeness could not hide the witchery that lurked in the blue of her eyes and the curve of her lips.
“Good morning, Mr. Du Mont,” said Miss Lyndon, with some dignity.
Billy extended his hand, smiling, refusing to be impressed. Miss Lyndon took it languidly, let it drop almost meaningly, and remained standing, politely attentive.
Billy regarded this studied ceremony with mild amusement, and was stubbornly silent. Finally, when she felt that another second would make her ridiculous, Miss Lyndon asked coldly:
“Have you been in New York long?”
“Not long enough to find my way around,” said Billy, exasperated. “I started out this morning to call on a friend — a dear friend — and I find that I have somehow made a mistake and intruded on someone I don’t know.”
Miss Lyndon started to answer, then bit her lip and remained silent.
“I beg your pardon for annoying you,” continued Billy, rising to go. “As an excuse I can only plead an invitation which I thought sincere.”
“That was the night before,” said Cecily, without thinking.
“Before what?” demanded Billy.
Miss Lyndon was silent.
“Before what?” Billy repeated
“Before — before you annoyed me by not coming,” said Cecily, because she couldn’t help it.
Billy stared at her for a moment, not understanding.
“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, and dropped back into his chair. He had forgotten all about his promise to go to her train in Paris, and his failure to keep the promise because of the financial impossibility of a sufficiently glorious parting gift.
“I was sorry,” he said, “sorrier than you would believe. Really, I had the best excuse in the world.”
“It’s of no consequence,” said Cecily, with elaborate indifference. “One always has excuses.”
“It isn’t an excuse. It’s a reason. And it is of consequence — to me.”
“It’s hardly worth discussing, is it?” asked Cecily, dryly.
Billy regarded her for a moment in angry silence. But then, she had a right to be offended.
“Miss Lyndon,” he said, “I am sorry. I... if you knew my reason — but I can’t tell you. Will you forgive me?”
This was more than Cecily had bargained for. She looked uncomfortable.
“Will you forgive me?” repeated Billy, humbly.
It puts a girl in a sad dilemma to ask her forgiveness. It is sweet to forgive — but it is also sweet to refuse. If she could only have both pleasures at once!
“You don’t deserve it,” declared Cecily, holding out her hand.
“Of course not,” agreed Billy, holding the hand tightly.
“I don’t believe you’re a bit sorry.”
“Not now.”
“Haven’t you held my hand quite long enough?” sarcastically.
“Not quite,” calmly.
Cecily withdrew her hand abruptly and walked to the window.
“I’m going for a drive,” she announced, after a brief silence. And as Billy looked at her inquiringly she added, “with my mother.”
“Oh!” said Billy, thoughtfully. “Is your mother very — er — fond of driving?”
“Why?”
“Because — if she isn’t — I thought we might bring her back some violets or something, and she wouldn’t need to go.”