Chambers Robert William
The Crimson Tide: A Novel

CHAPTER VI

John Estridge, out of a job–as were a million odd others now arriving from France by every transport–met James Shotwell, Junior, one wintry day as the latter was leaving the real estate offices of Sharrow & Co.

“The devil,” exclaimed Estridge; “I supposed you, at least, were safe in the service, Jim! Isn’t your regiment in Germany?”

“It is,” replied Shotwell wrathfully, shaking hands. “Where do you come from, Jack?”

“From hell–via Copenhagen. In milder but misleading metaphor, I come from Holy Russia.”

“Did the Red Cross fire you?”

“No, but they told me to run along home like a good boy and get my degree. I’m not an M.D., you know. And there’s a shortage. So I had to come.”

“Same here; I had to come.” And Shotwell, for Estridge’s enlightenment, held a post-mortem over the premature decease of his promising military career.

“Too bad,” commented the latter. “It sure was exciting while it lasted–our mixing it in the great game. There’s pandemonium to pay in Russia, now;–I rather hated to leave… But it was either leave or be shot up. The Bolsheviki are impossible… Are you walking up town?”

They fell into step together.

“You’ll go back to the P. & S., I suppose,” ventured Shotwell.

“Yes. And you?”

“Oh, I’m already nailed down to the old oaken desk. Sharrow’s my boss, if you remember?”

“It must seem dull,” said Estridge sympathetically.

“Rotten dull.”

“You don’t mean business too, do you?”

“Yes, that’s also on the bum… I did contrive to sell a small house the other day–and blew myself to this overcoat.”

“Is that so unusual?” asked Estridge, smiling,“–to sell a house in town?”

“Yes, it’s a miracle in these days. Tell me, Jack, how did you get on in Russia?”

“Too many Reds. We couldn’t do much. They’ve got it in for everybody except themselves.”

“The socialists?”

“Not the social revolutionists. I’m talking about the Reds.”

“Didn’t they make the revolution?”

“They did not.”

“Well, who are the Reds, and what is it they want?”

“They want to set the world on fire. Then they want to murder and rob everybody with any education. Then they plan to start things from the stone age again. They want loot and blood. That’s really all they want. Their object is to annihilate civilisation by exterminating the civilised. They desire to start all over from first principles–without possessing any–and turn the murderous survivors of the human massacre into one vast, international pack of wolves. And they’re beginning to do it in Russia.”

“A pleasant programme,” remarked Shotwell. “No wonder you beat it, Jack. I recently met a woman who had just arrived from Russia. They murdered her best friend–one of the little Grand Duchesses. She simply can’t talk about it.”

“That was a beastly business,” nodded Estridge. “I happen to know a little about it.”

“Were you in that district?”

“Well, no,–not when that thing happened. But some little time before the Bolsheviki murdered the Imperial family I had occasion to escort an American girl to the convent where they were held under detention… An exceedingly pretty girl,” he added absently. “She was once companion to one of the murdered Imperial children.”

Shotwell glanced up quickly: “Her name, by any chance, doesn’t happen to be Palla Dumont?”

“Why, yes. Do you know her?”

“I sold her that house I was telling you about. Do you know her well, Jack?”

Estridge smiled. “Yes and no. Perhaps I know her better than she suspects.”

Shotwell laughed, recollecting his friend’s inclination for analysing character and his belief in his ability to do so.

“Same old scientific vivisectionist!” he said. “So you’ve been dissecting Palla Dumont, have you?”

“Certainly. She’s a type.”

“A charming one,” added Shotwell.

“Oh, very.”

“But you don’t know her well–outside of having mentally vivisected her?”

Estridge laughed: “Palla Dumont and I have been through some rather hair-raising scrapes together. And I’ll admit right now that she possesses all kinds of courage–perhaps too many kinds.”

“How do you mean?”

“She has the courage of her convictions and her convictions, sometimes, don’t amount to much.”

“Go on and cut her up,” said Shotwell, sarcastically.

“That’s the only fault I find with Palla Dumont,” explained the other.

“I thought you said she was a type?”

“She is,–the type of unmarried woman who continually develops too much pep for her brain to properly take care of.”

“You mean you consider Palla Dumont neurotic?”

“No. Nothing abnormal. Perhaps super-normal–pathologically speaking. Bodily health is fine. But over-secretion of ardent energy sometimes disturbs one’s mental equilibrium. The result, in a crisis, is likely to result in extravagant behavior. Martyrs are made of such stuff, for example.”

“You think her a visionary?”

“Well, her reason and her emotions sometimes become rather badly entangled, I fancy.”

“Don’t everybody’s?”

“At intervals. Then the thing to do is to keep perfectly cool till the fit is over.”

“So you think her impulsive?”

“Well, I should say so!” smiled Estridge. “Of course I mean nicely impulsive–even nobly impulsive… But that won’t help her. Impulse never helped anybody. It’s a spoke in the wheel–a stumbling block–a stick to trip anybody… Particularly a girl… And Palla Dumont mistakes impulse for logic. She honestly thinks that she reasons.” He smiled to himself: “A disturbingly pretty girl,” he murmured, “with a tender heart … which seems to do all her thinking for her… How well do you know her, Jim?”

“Not well. But I’m going to, I hope.”

Estridge glanced up interrogatively, suddenly remembering all the uncontradicted gossip concerning a tacit understanding between Shotwell, Jr., and Elorn Sharrow. It is true that no engagement had been announced; but none had been denied, either. And Miss Sharrow had inherited her mother’s fortune. And Shotwell, Jr., made only a young man’s living.

“You ought to be rather careful with such a girl,” he remarked carelessly.

“How, careful?”

“Well, she’s rather perilously attractive, isn’t she?” insisted Estridge smilingly.

“She’s extremely interesting.”

“She certainly is. She’s rather an amazing girl in her way. More amazing than perhaps you imagine.”

“Amazing?”

“Yes, even astounding.”

“For example?”

“I’ll give you an example. When the Reds invaded that convent and seized the Czarina and her children, Palla Dumont, then a novice of six weeks, attempted martyrdom by pretending that she herself was the little Grand Duchess Marie. And when the Reds refused to believe her, she demanded the privilege of dying beside her little friend. She even insulted the Reds, defied them, taunted them until they swore to return and cut her throat as soon as they finished with the Imperial family. And then this same Palla Dumont, to whom you sold a house in New York the other day, flew into an ungovernable passion; tried to batter her way into the cellar; shattered half a dozen chapel chairs against the oak door of the crypt behind which preparations for the assassination were taking place; then, helpless, called on God to interfere and put a stop to it. And, when deity, as usual, didn’t interfere with the scheme of things, this girl tore the white veil from her face and the habit from her body and denounced as nonexistent any alleged deity that permitted such things to be.”

Shotwell gazed at Estridge in blank astonishment.

“Where on earth did you hear all that dope?” he demanded incredulously.

Estridge smiled: “It’s all quite true, Jim. And Palla Dumont escaped having her slender throat slit open only because a sotnia of Kaladines’ Cossacks cantered up, discovered what the Reds were up to in the cellar, and beat it with Palla and another girl just in the nick of time.”

“Who handed you this cinema stuff?”

“The other girl.”

“You believe her?”

“You can judge for yourself. This other girl was a young Swedish soldier who had served in the Battalion of Death. It’s really cinema stuff, as you say. But Russia, to-day, is just one hell after another in an endless and bloody drama. Such picturesque incidents,–the wildest episodes, the craziest coincidences–are occurring by thousands every day of the year in Russia… And, Jim, it was due to one of those daily and crazy coincidences that my sleigh, in which I was beating it for Helsingfors, was held up by that same sotnia of the Wild Division on a bitter day, near the borders of a pine forest.

“And that’s where I encountered Palla Dumont again. And that’s where I heard–not from her, but from her soldier comrade, Ilse Westgard–the story I have just told you.”

For a while they continued to walk up and down in silence.

Finally Estridge said: “There was a girl for you!”

“Palla Dumont!” nodded Shotwell, still too astonished to talk.

“No, the other… An amazing girl… Nearly six feet; physically perfect;–what the human girl ought to be and seldom is;–symmetrical, flawless, healthy–a super-girl … like some young daughter of the northern gods!.. Ilse Westgard.”

“One of those women soldiers, you say?” inquired Shotwell, mildly curious.

“Yes. There were all kinds of women in that Death Battalion. We saw them,–your friend Palla Dumont and I,–saw them halted and standing at ease in a birch wood; saw them marching into fire… And there were all sorts of women, Jim; peasant, bourgeoise and aristocrat;–there were dressmakers, telephone operators, servant-girls, students, Red Cross nurses, actresses from the Marinsky, Jewesses from the Pale, sisters of the Yellow Ticket, Japanese girls, Chinese, Cossack, English, Finnish, French… And they went over the top cheering for Russia!.. They went over to shame the army which had begun to run from the hun… Pretty fine, wasn’t it?”

“Fine!”

“You bet!.. After this war–after what women have done the world over–I wonder whether there are any asses left who desire to restrict woman to a ‘sphere’?.. I’d like to see Ilse Westgard again,” he added absently.

“Was she a peasant girl?”

“No. A daughter of well-to-do people. Quite the better sort, I should say. And she was more thoroughly educated than the average girl of our own sort… A brave and cheerful soldier in the Battalion of Death… Ilse Westgard… Amazing, isn’t it?”

After another brief silence Shotwell ventured: “I suppose you’d find it agreeable to meet Palla Dumont again, wouldn’t you?”

“Why, yes, of course,” replied the other pleasantly.

“Then, if you like, she’ll ask us to tea some day–after her new house is in shape.”

“You seem to be very sure about what Palla Dumont is likely to do,” said Estridge, smiling.

“Indeed, I’m not!” retorted Shotwell, with emphasis. “Palla Dumont has a mind of her own,–although you don’t seem to think so,–”

“I think she has a will of her own,” interrupted the other, amused.

“Glad you concede her some mental attribute.”

“I do indeed! I never intimated that she is weak-willed. She isn’t. Other and stronger wills don’t dominate hers. Perhaps it would be better if they did sometimes…

“But no; Palla Dumont arrives headlong at her own red-hot decisions. It is not the will of others that influences her; it is their indecision, their lack of willpower, their very weakness that seems to stimulate and vitally influence such a character as Palla Dumont’s–”

“–Such a character?” repeated Shotwell. “What sort of character do you suppose hers to be, anyway? Between you and your psychological and pathological surmises you don’t seem to leave her any character at all.”

“I’m telling you,” said Estridge, “that the girl is influenced not by the will or desire of others, but by their necessities, their distress, their needs… Or what she believes to be their needs… And you may decide for yourself how valuable are the conclusions of an impulsive, wilful, fearless, generous girl whose heart regulates her thinking apparatus.”

“According to you, then, she is practically mindless,” remarked Shotwell, ironically. “You medically minded gentlemen are wonders!–all of you.”

“You don’t get me. The girl is clever and intelligent when her accumulated emotions let her brain alone. When they interfere, her logic goes to smash and she does exaggerated things–like trying to sacrifice herself for her friend in the convent there–like tearing off the white garments of her novitiate and denouncing deity!–like embracing an extravagant pantheistic religion of her own manufacture and proclaiming that the Law of Love is the only law!

“I’ve heard the young lady on the subject, Jim. And, medically minded or not, I’m medically on to her.”

They walked on together in silence for nearly a whole block; then Estridge said bluntly:

“She’d be better balanced if she were married and had a few children. Such types usually are.”

Shotwell made no comment. Presently the other spoke again:

“The Law of Love! What rot! That’s sheer hysteria. Follow that law and you become a saint, perhaps, perhaps a devil. Love sacred, love profane–both, when exaggerated, arise from the same physical condition–too much pep for the mind to distribute.

“What happens? Exaggerations. Extravagances. Hallucinations. Mysticisms.

“What results? Nuns. Hermits. Yogis. Exhorters. Fanatics. Cranks. Sometimes. For, from the same chrysalis, Jim, may emerge either a vestal, or one of those tragic characters who, swayed by this same remarkable Law of Love, may give … and burn on–slowly–from the first lover to the next. And so, into darkness.”

He added, smiling: “The only law of love subscribed to by sane people is framed by a balanced brain and interpreted by common sense. Those who obey any other code go a-glimmering, saint and sinner, novice and Magdalene alike… This is your street, I believe.”

They shook hands cordially.

After dining en famille, Shotwell Junior considered the various diversions offered to young business men after a day of labour.

There were theatres; there was the Club de Vingt and similar agreeable asylums; there was also a telephone to ring, and unpremeditated suggestions to make to friends, either masculine or feminine.

Or he could read and improve his mind. Or go to Carnegie Hall with his father and mother and listen to music of sorts… Or–he could call up Elorn Sharrow.

He couldn’t decide; and his parents presently derided him and departed music-ward without him. He read an evening paper, discarded it, poked the fire, stood before it, jingled a few coins and keys in his pocket, still undecided, still rather disinclined to any exertion, even as far as the club.

“I wonder,” he thought, “what that girl is doing now. I’ve a mind to call her up.”

He seemed to know whom he meant by “that girl.” Also, it was evident that he did not mean Elorn Sharrow; for it was not her number he called and presently got.

“Miss Dumont?”

“Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s a mere nobody. It’s only your broker–”

“What!!”

“Your real-estate broker–”

“Mr. Shotwell! How absurd of you!”

“Why absurd?”

“Because I don’t think of you merely as a real-estate broker.”

“Then you do sometimes think of me?”

“What power of deduction! What logic! You seem to be in a particularly frivolous frame of mind. Are you?”

“No; I’m in a bad one.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t a bally thing to do this evening.”

“That’s silly!–with the entire town outside… I’m glad you called me up, anyway. I’m tired and bored and exceedingly cross.”

“What are you doing, Miss Dumont?”

“Absolutely and idiotically nothing. I’m merely sitting here on the only chair in this scantily furnished house, and trying to plan what sort of carpets, draperies and furniture to buy. Can you imagine the scene?”

“I thought you had some things.”

“I haven’t anything! Not even a decent mirror. I stand on the slippery edge of a bath tub to get a complete view of myself. And then it’s only by sections.”

“That’s tragic. Have you a cook?”

“I have. But no dining room table. I eat from a tray on a packing case.”

“Have you a waitress?”

“Yes, and a maid. They’re comfortable. I bought their furniture immediately and also the batterie-de-cuisine. It’s only I who slink about like a perplexed cat, from one empty room to another, in search of familiar comforts… But I bought a sofa to-day.

“It’s a wonderful sofa. It’s here, now. It’s an antique. But I can’t make up my mind how to upholster it.”

“Would you care for a suggestion?”

“Please!”

“Well, I’d have to see it–”

“I thought you’d say that. Really, Mr. Shotwell, I’d like most awfully to see you, but this place is too uncomfortable. I told you I’d ask you to tea some day.”

“Won’t you let me come down for a few moments this evening–”

“No!”

“–And pay you a formal little call–”

“No… Would you really like to?”

“I would.”

“You wouldn’t after you got here. There’s nothing for you to sit on.”

“What about the floor?”

“It’s dusty.”

“What about that antique sofa?”

“It’s not upholstered.”

“What do I care! May I come?”

“Do you really wish to?”

“I do.”

“How soon?”

“As fast as I can get there.”

He heard her laughing. Then: “I’ll be perfectly delighted to see you,” she said. “I was actually thinking of taking to my bed out of sheer boredom. Are you coming in a taxi?”

“Why?”

He heard her laughing again.

“Nothing,” she answered, “–only I thought that might be the quickest way–” Her laughter interrupted her, “–to bring me the evening papers. I haven’t a thing to read.”

“That’s why you want me to take a taxi!”

“It is. News is a necessity to me, and I’m famishing… What other reason could there be for a taxi? Did you suppose I was in a hurry to see you?”

He listened to her laughter for a moment:

“All right,” he said, “I’ll take a taxi and bring a book for myself.”

“And please don’t forget my evening papers or I shall have to requisition your book… Or possibly share it with you on the upholstered sofa… And I read very rapidly and don’t like being kept waiting for slower people to turn the page… Mr. Shotwell?”

“Yes.”

“This is a wonderful floor. Could you bring some roller skates?”

“No,” he said, “but I’ll bring a music box and we’ll dance.”

“You’re not serious–”

“I am. Wait and see.”

“Don’t do such a thing. My servants would think me crazy. I’m mortally afraid of them, too.”

He found a toy-shop on Third Avenue still open, and purchased a solemn little music-box that played ting-a-ling tunes.

Then, in his taxi, he veered over to Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street, where he bought roses and a spray of orchids. Then, adding to his purchases a huge box of bon-bons, he set his course for the three story and basement house which he had sold to Palla Dumont.

CHAPTER VII

Shotwell Senior and his wife were dining out that evening.

Shotwell Junior had no plans–or admitted none, even to himself. He got into a bath and later into a dinner jacket, in an absent-minded way, and finally sauntered into the library wearing a vague scowl.

The weather had turned colder, and there was an open fire there, and a convenient armchair and the evening papers.

Perhaps the young gentleman had read them down town, for he shoved them aside. Then he dropped an elbow on the table, rested his chin against his knuckles, and gazed fiercely at the inoffensive Evening Post.

Before any open fire any young man ought to be able to make up whatever mind he chances to possess. Yet, what to do with a winter evening all his own seemed to him a problem unfathomable.

Perhaps his difficulty lay only in selection–there are so many agreeable things for a young man to do in Gotham Town on a winter’s evening.

But, oddly enough, young Shotwell was trying to persuade himself that he had no choice of occupation for the evening; that he really didn’t care. Yet, always two intrusive alternatives continually presented themselves. The one was to change his coat for a spike-tail, his black tie for a white one, and go to the Metropolitan Opera. The other and more attractive alternative was not to go.

Elorn Sharrow would be at the opera. To appear, now and then, in the Sharrow family’s box was expected of him. He hadn’t done it recently.

He dropped one lean leg over the other and gazed gravely at the fire. He was still trying to convince himself that he had no particular plan for the evening–that it was quite likely he might go to the opera or to the club–or, in fact, almost anywhere his fancy suggested.

In his effort to believe himself the scowl came back, denting his eyebrows. Presently he forced a yawn, unsuccessfully.

Yes, he thought he’d better go to the opera, after all. He ought to go… It seemed to be rather expected of him.

Besides, he had nothing else to do–that is, nothing in particular–unless, of course–

But that would scarcely do. He’d been there so often recently… No, that wouldn’t do… Besides it was becoming almost a habit with him. He’d been drifting there so frequently of late!.. In fact, he’d scarcely been anywhere at all, recently, except–except where he certainly was not going that evening. And that settled it!.. So he might as well go to the opera.

His mother, in scarf and evening wrap, passing the library door on her way down, paused in the hall and looked intently at her only son.

Recently she had been observing him rather closely and with a vague uneasiness born of that inexplicable sixth sense inherent in mothers.

Perhaps what her son had faced in France accounted for the change in him;–for it was being said that no man could come back from such scenes unchanged;–none could ever again be the same. And it was being said, too, that old beliefs and ideals had altered; that everything familiar was ending;–and that the former things had already passed away under the glimmering dawn of a new heaven and a new earth.

Perhaps all this was so–though she doubted it. Perhaps this son she had borne in agony might become to her somebody less familiar than the baby she had nursed at her own breast.

But so far, to her, he continued to remain the same familiar baby she had always known–the same and utterly vital part of her soul and body. No sudden fulfilment of an apocalypse had yet wrought any occult metamorphosis in this boy of hers.

And if he now seemed changed it was from that simple and familiar cause instinctively understood by mothers,–trouble!–the most ancient plague of all and the only malady which none escapes.

She was a rather startlingly pretty woman, with the delicate features and colour and the snow-white hair of an 18th century belle. She stood, now, drawing on her gloves and watching her son out of dark-fringed deep blue eyes, until he glanced around uneasily. Then he rose at once, looking at her with fire-dazzled eyes.

“Don’t rise, dear,” she said; “the car is here and your father is fussing and fuming in the drawing-room, and I’ve got to run… Have you any plans for the evening?”

“None, mother.”

“You’re dining at home?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you go to the opera to-night? It’s the Sharrows’ night.”

He came toward her irresolutely. “Perhaps I shall,” he said. And instantly she knew he did not intend to go.

“I had tea at the Sharrows’,” she said, carelessly, still buttoning her gloves. “Elorn told me that she hadn’t laid eyes on you for ages.”

“It’s happened so… I’ve had a lot of things to do–”

“You and she still agree, don’t you, Jim?”

“Why, yes–as usual. We always get on together.”

Helen Shotwell’s ermine wrap slipped; he caught it and fastened it for her, and she took hold of both his hands and drew his arms tightly around her pretty shoulders.

“What troubles you, darling?” she asked smilingly.

“Why, nothing, mother–”

“Tell me!”

“Really, there is nothing, dear–”

“Tell me when you are ready, then,” she laughed and released him.

“But there isn’t anything,” he insisted.

“Yes, Jim, there is. Do you suppose I don’t know you after all these years?”

She considered him with clear, amused eyes: “Don’t forget,” she added, “that I was only seventeen when you arrived, my son; and I have grown up with you ever since–”

“For heaven’s sake, Helen!–” protested Sharrow Senior plaintively from the front hall below. “Can’t you gossip with Jim some other time?”

“I’m on my way, James,” she announced calmly. “Put your overcoat on.” And, to her son: “Go to the opera. Elorn will cheer you up. Isn’t that a good idea?”

“That’s–certainly–an idea… I’ll think it over… And, mother, if I seem solemn at times, please try to remember how rotten every fellow feels about being out of the service–”

Her gay, derisive laughter checked him, warning him that he was not imposing on her credulity. She said smilingly:

“You have neglected Elorn Sharrow, and you know it, and it’s on your conscience–whatever else may be on it, too. And that’s partly why you feel blue. So keep out of mischief, darling, and stop neglecting Elorn–that is, if you ever really expect to marry her–”

“I’ve told you that I have never asked her; and I never intend to ask her until I am making a decent living,” he said impatiently.

“Isn’t there an understanding between you?”

“Why–I don’t think so. There couldn’t be. We’ve never spoken of that sort of thing in our lives!”

“I think she expects you to ask her some day. Everybody else does, anyway.”

“Well, that is the one thing I won’t do,” he said, “–go about with the seat out of my pants and ask an heiress to sew on the patch for me–”

“Darling! You can be so common when you try!”

“Well, it amounts to that–doesn’t it, mother? I don’t care what busy gossips say or idle people expect me to do! There’s no engagement, no understanding between Elorn and me. And I don’t care a hang what anybody–”

His mother framed his slightly flushed face between her gloved hands and inspected him humorously.

“Very well, dear,” she said; “but you need not be so emphatically excited about it–”

“I’m not excited–but it irritates me to be expected to do anything because it’s expected of me–” He shrugged his shoulders:

“After all,” he added, “if I ever should fall in love with anybody it’s my own business. And whatever I choose to do about it will be my own affair. And I shall keep my own counsel in any event.”

His mother stepped forward, letting both her hands fall into his.

“Wouldn’t you tell me about it, Jim?”

“I’d tell you before I’d tell anybody else–if it ever became serious.”

“If what became serious?”

“Well–anything of that sort,” he replied. But a bright colour stained his features and made him wince under her intent scrutiny.

She was worried, now, though her pretty, humorous smile still challenged him with its raillery.

But it was becoming very evident to her that if this boy of hers were growing sentimental over any woman the woman was not Elorn Sharrow.

So far she had held her son’s confidence. She must do nothing to disturb it. Yet, as she looked at him with the amused smile still edging her lips, she began for the first time in her life to be afraid.

They kissed each other in silence.

In the limousine, seated beside her husband, she said presently: “I wish Jim would marry Elorn Sharrow.”

“He’s likely to some day, isn’t he?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, there’s no hurry,” remarked her husband. “He ought not to marry anybody until he’s thirty, and he’s only twenty-four. I’m glad enough to have him remain at home with us.”

“But that’s what worries me; he doesn’t!”

“Doesn’t what?”

“Doesn’t remain at home.”

Her husband laughed: “Well, I meant it merely in a figurative sense. Of course Jim goes out–”

“Where?”

“Why, everywhere, I suppose,” said her husband, a little surprised at her tone.

She said calmly: “I hear things–pick up bits of gossip–as all women do… And at a tea the other day a man asked me why Jim never goes to his clubs any more. So you see he doesn’t go to any of his clubs when he goes ‘out’ in the evenings… And he’s been to no dances–judging from what is said to me… And he doesn’t go to see Elorn Sharrow any more. She told me that herself. So–where does he go?”

“Well, but–”

“Where does he go–every evening?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t answer–”

“Every evening!” she repeated absently.

“Good heavens, Helen–”

“And what is on that boy’s mind? There’s something on it.”

“His business, let us hope–”

She shook her head: “I know my son,” she remarked.

“So do I. What is particularly troubling you, dear? There’s something you haven’t told me.”

“I’m merely wondering who that girl was who lunched with him at Delmonico’s–three times– last week,” mused his wife.

“Why–she’s probably all right, Helen. A man doesn’t take the other sort there.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said drily.

“Well, then?”

“Nothing… She’s very pretty, I understand… And wears mourning.”

“What of it?” he asked, amused. She smiled at him, but there was a trace of annoyance in her voice.

“Don’t you think it very natural that I should wonder who any girl is who lunches with my son three times in one week?.. And is remarkably pretty, besides?”

The girl in question looked remarkably pretty at that very moment, where she sat at her desk, the telephone transmitter tilted toward her, the receiver at her ear, and her dark eyes full of gayest malice.

“Miss Dumont, please?” came a distant and familiar voice over the wire. The girl laughed aloud; and he heard her.

“You said you were not going to call me up.”

“Is it you, Palla?”

“How subtle of you!”

He said anxiously. “Are you doing anything this evening–by any unhappy chance–”

“I am.”

“Oh, hang it! What are you doing?”

“How impertinent!”

“You know I don’t mean it that way–”

“I’m not sure. However, I’ll be kind enough to tell you what I’m doing. I’m sitting here at my desk, listening to an irritable young man–”

“That’s wonderful luck!” he exclaimed joyously.

“Wonderful luck for a girl to sit at a desk and listen to an irritable young man?”

“If you’ll stop talking bally nonsense for a moment–”

“If you bully me, I shall stop talking altogether!”

“For heaven’s sake–”

“I hear you, kind sir; you need not shout!”

He said humbly: “Palla, would you let me drop in–”

“Drop into what? Into poetry? Please do!”

“For the love of–”

“Jim! You told me last evening that you expected to be at the opera to-night.”

“I’m not going.”

“–So I didn’t expect you to call me!”

“Can’t I see you?” he asked.

“I’m sorry–”

“The deuce!”

“I’m expecting some people, Jim. It’s your own fault; I didn’t expect a tête-à-tête with you this evening.”

“Is it a party you’re giving?”

“Two or three people. But my place is full of flowers and as pretty as a garden. Too bad you can’t see it.”