Two weeks later Bud Henderson sought Bruce at Freeman’s office. Bruce looked up from his desk with a frown that cleared as he recognized his friend. With his cap pushed back on his head and buttoned up in a long ulster, Henderson eyed him stolidly and demanded to know what he was doing.
“Going over some specifications; I might say I’m at work, if you knew what the word means.”
“Thanks for the compliment, but it’s time to quit,” Henderson replied, taking a cigarette from a package on Bruce’s desk. “I happen to know your boss is playing handball this moment at the Athletic and he’ll never know you’ve skipped. I haven’t liked a certain look in your eye lately. You’re sticking too close to your job. Bill is pleased to death with your work, so you haven’t a thing to worry about. Get your bonnet and we’ll go out and see what we can stir up.”
“I’m in a frame of mind to be tempted. But I ought to finish this stuff.”
“Don’t be silly,” replied Bud, who was prowling about the room viewing the framed plans and drawings on the walls, peering into cabinets, unrolling blue prints merely to fling them aside with a groan of disgust.
“My God! It doesn’t seem possible that Bill Freeman would put his name to such things!”
“Don’t forget this is a private office, Mr. Henderson. What’s agitating your bean?”
“Thought I’d run you up to the art institute to look at some Finnish work they’re showing. Perhaps it’s Hottentotish; or maybe it’s Eskimo art. We’ve got to keep in touch with the world art movement.” Henderson yawned.
“Try again; I pant for real excitement,” said Bruce, who was wondering whether his friend really had noticed signs of his recent worry. Henderson, apparently intent upon a volume of prints of English country houses, swung round as Bruce, in putting on his overcoat, knocked over a chair. He crossed the room and laid his hands on Bruce’s broad shoulders.
“I say, old top; this will never do! You’re nervous; you’re damned nervous. Knocking over chairs—and you with the finest body known in modern times! I watched you the other day eating your lunch all alone at the club—you didn’t know I was looking at you. Your expression couldn’t be accounted for even by that bum club lunch. Now if it’s money——”
“Nothing of the kind, Bud!” Bruce protested. “You’ll have me scared in a minute. There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m all right; I just have to get readjusted to a new way of living; that’s all.”
“Well, as you don’t thrill to the idea of viewing works of art, I’ll tell you what I’m really here for. I’m luring you away to sip tea with a widow!”
“A widow! Where do you get the idea that I’m a consoler of widows?”
“This one doesn’t need consoling! Helen Torrence is the name; relict of the late James B. deceased. She’s been away ever since you lit in our midst and just got home. About our age and not painful to look at. Jim Torrence was a good fifty when he met her, at White Sulphur or some such seat of opulence, and proudly brought her home for local inspection. The gossips forcibly removed most of her moral character, just on suspicion, you understand—but James B.’s money had a soothing effect and she got one foot inside our social door before he passed hence three years ago and left her the boodle he got from his first wife. Helen’s a good scout. It struck me all of a heap about an hour ago that she’s just the girl to cheer you up. I was just kidding about the art stuff. I telephoned Helen I was coming, so we’re all set.”
“Ah! I see through the whole game! You’re flirting with the woman and want me for a blind in case Maybelle finds you out.”
“Clever! The boy’s clever! But—listen—I never try to put anything over on Maybelle. A grand jury hasn’t an all-seeinger eye than Mrs. Bud Henderson. Let’s beat it!”
On the drive uptown Henderson devoted himself with his usual thoroughness to a recital of the history of Mrs. Torrence. The lady’s social status lay somewhere between the old and the new element, Bud explained. The president of the trust company that administered her affairs belonged to the old crowd—the paralytic or angina pectoris group, as Bud described it, and his wife and daughters just had to be nice to Torrence’s wife or run a chance of offending her and losing control of the estate. On the other hand her natural gaiety threw her toward the camps of the newer element who were too busy having a good time to indulge in ancestor worship.
Henderson concluded his illuminative exposition of Mrs. Torrence’s life history as they reached the house. They were admitted by a colored butler who took their coats and flung open a door that revealed a spacious living-room.
“Helen!” exclaimed Henderson dramatically.
It was possible that Mrs. Torrence had prepared for their entrance by posing in the middle of the room with a view to a first effect, an effect to which her quick little step as she came forward to meet them contributed. Her blue tea gown, parted a little above the ankles, invited inspection of her remarkably small feet adorned with brilliant buckles. She was short with a figure rounded to plumpness and with fluffy brown hair, caught up high as though to create an illusion as to her stature. Her complexion was a clear brilliant pink; her alert small eyes were a greenish blue. Her odd little staccato walk was in keeping with her general air of vivacity. She was all alive, amusingly abrupt, spontaneous, decisive.
“Hello! Bud, the old reliable! Mr. Storrs! Yes; I had been hoping for this!”
She gave a hand to each and looked up at Bruce, who towered above her, and nodded as though approving of him.
“This is delightful! A new man! Marvelous!”
As she explained that she had been away since June and was only just home, Bruce became aware that Henderson had passed on and was standing by a tea table indulging in his usual style of raillery with a young woman whose voice even before he looked at her identified her as Constance Mills.
“You know Mrs. Mills? Of course! If you’d only arrived this morning you’d know Connie. Not to know Connie is indeed to be unknown.”
Constance extended her hand from the divan on which she was seated behind the tea table—thrust it out lazily with a minimum of effort.
“Oh—the difficult Mr. Storrs! I’m terribly mortified to be meeting you in a friend’s house and not in my own!”
“To meet you anywhere——” began Bruce, but she interrupted him, holding him with her eyes.
“——would be a pleasure! Of course! I know the formula, but I’m not a debutante. You didn’t like me that night we met at Dale Freeman’s, and I was foolish enough to think I’d made an impression!”
“Let’s tell him the truth,” said Henderson, helping himself to a slice of cinnamon toast. “Bruce, I bet a hundred cigarettes with Connie I could deliver you here and I win!”
“Not a word of truth in that!” declared Constance. “Bud’s such a liar!”
Mrs. Torrence said they must have tea, and Henderson protested that tea was not to be thought of. Tea, he declared, was extremely distasteful to him; and Bruce always became ill at the sight of it.
“But when I told Connie you were bringing Mr. Storrs she said he was terribly proper and for me not to dare mention cocktails.”
“Now, Helen, I didn’t say just that! What I meant, of course, was that I hoped that Mr. Storrs wasn’t too proper,” said Constance.
“Proper!” Bruce caught her up. “This is an enemy’s work. Bud, I suspect you of this dastardly assault on my character!”
“Not guilty!” Bud retorted. “The main thing right now is that we’re all peevish and need martinis. What’s the Volstead signal, Helen?”
“Three rings, Bud, with a pause between the first and second.”
The tea tray was removed and reappeared adorned with all the essentials for the concoction of cocktails. When the glasses were filled and all had expressed their satisfaction at the result, Henderson detained the negro butler for a conference on dice throwing. He seated himself on the floor the better to receive the man’s instructions. The others taunted him for his inaptitude. The butler retired finally with five dollars of Bud’s money, a result attained only after the spectators were limp with laughter.
“You’re a scream, Bud! A perfect scream!” and Mrs. Torrence refilled the glasses.
She took Bud to the dining-room to exhibit a rare Japanese screen acquired in her travels, and Bruce found himself alone with Constance. She pointed to her glass, still brimming, and remarked:
“Please admire my abstemiousness! One is my limit.”
“Let me see; did I really have three?” asked Bruce as he sat down beside her.
“I want to forget everything this afternoon,” she began. “I feel that I’d like to climb the hills of the unattainable, be someone else for a while.”
“Oh, we all have those spells,” he replied. “That’s why Prohibition’s a failure.”
“But life is a bore at times,” she insisted. “Maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who never go clear down. A man has his work—there’s always that——”
“Hasn’t woman got herself everything—politics, business, philanthropy? You don’t mean to tell me the new woman is already pining for her old slavery! I supposed you led a complete and satisfactory existence!”
“A pretty delusion! I just pretend, that’s all. There are days when nothing seems of the slightest use. I thought there might be something in politics, but after I’d gone to a few meetings and served on a committee or two it didn’t amuse me any more. I played at being a radical for a while, but after you’ve scared all your friends a few times with your violence it ceases to be funny. The only real joy I got out of flirting with socialism was in annoying my father-in-law. And I had to give that up for fear he’d think I was infecting Shep with my ideas.”
A tinge of malice was perceptible in her last words, but she smiled instantly to relieve the embarrassment she detected in his face. He was not sure just how she wanted him to take her. The unhappiness she had spoken of he assumed to be only a pose with her—something to experiment with upon men she met on gray afternoons in comfortable houses over tea and cocktails. Mrs. Shepherd Mills might be amusing, or she might easily become a bore. The night he met her at the Freemans’ he had thought her probably guileless under her mask of sophistication. She was proving more interesting than he had imagined, less obvious; perhaps with an element of daring in her blood that might one day get the better of her. She was quite as handsome as he remembered her from the meeting at the Freemans’ and she indubitably had mastered the art of dressing herself becomingly.
He was watching the play of the shadow of her picture hat on her face, seeking clues to her mood, vexed that he had permitted himself to be brought into her company, when she said:
“I’m not amusing you! Please forgive me. I can’t help it if I’m a little triste. Some little devilish imp is dancing through my silly head. If I took a second glass——”
Bruce answered her look of inquiry with a shake of the head.
“Are you asking my advice? I positively refuse to give it; but if you command me, of course——”
He rose, took the glass, and held it high for her inspection.
“The man tempts me——” she said pensively.
“The man doesn’t tempt you. We’ll say it’s the little imp. Mrs. Mills, do you want this cocktail or do you not?”
“It might cheer me up a little. I don’t want you to think me stupid; I know I’m terribly dull!”
She drank half the cocktail and bade him finish it.
“Oh, certainly!” he replied and drained the glass. “Now, under the additional stimulus, we can proceed with the discussion. What were we talking about, anyhow?”
“It doesn’t matter. Life offers plenty of problems. How many people do you really think are happy—really happy? Now Bud’s always cheerful; he and Maybelle are happy—remarkably so, I think. Helen Torrence—well, I hesitate to say whether she’s really happy or not; she always appears gay, just as you see her today; and it’s something to be able to give the impression, whether it’s false or not.”
“Yes; it’s well to make a front,” Bruce replied, determined to keep a frivolous tone with her. “The Freemans enjoy themselves; they’re quite ideally mated, I’d say.”
“Yes, they’re making a success of their lives. Dale and Bill are always cheerful. Now there’s dear old Shep——”
“Well, of course he’s happy. How could he be otherwise?”
“You’re not taking me seriously at all! I’m disappointed. I was terribly blue today; that’s why I plotted with Bud to get you here—I shamelessly confess that I want to know you better.”
“Come now! You’re just kidding!”
“You’re incorrigible. I’m that rarest of beings—a frank woman. You refuse to come to my house, presumably because you don’t like me, so I have to trap you here.”
“How you misjudge me! I haven’t been around because I’ve been busy; I belong to the toiling masses!”
“You have time for Miss Harden; you two seemed ever so chummy on the golf course. Of course, I can’t compete with Millie—she’s so beautiful and so artistic—so many accomplishments. But you ought to be considerate of a poor thing like me. I’m only sorry I have so little to offer. I really thought you would be a nice playmate; but——”
“A playmate? Aren’t we playing now?—at least you are playing with me!”
“Am I?” she asked.
She bent toward him with a slight, an almost imperceptible movement of her shoulders, and her lips parted tremulously in a wistful smile of many connotations. She was not without her charms; she was a very pretty woman; and there was nothing vulgar in her manner of exercising her charms. Bruce touched her hand, gently clasped it—a slender, cool hand. She made no attempt to release it; and it lay lingering and acquiescent in his clasp. He raised it and kissed the finger tips.
“You really understand me; I knew you would,” she murmured. “It’s terrible to be lonely. And you are so big and strong; you can help me if you will——”
“I have no right to help you,” he said. “It’s part of the game in this funny world that we’ve got to help ourselves.”
“But if you knew I needed you——”
“Ah, but you don’t!” he replied.
Bud tiptoed in with a tray containing highball materials and placed it on the tea table. He urged them in eloquent pantomime to drink themselves to death and tiptoed out again. Bruce, wondering if he dared leave, hoped the interruption would serve to change the current of his talk with Constance, when she said:
“Shep speaks of you often; he likes you and really Shep’s ever so interesting.”
“Yes,” Bruce answered, “he has ideas and ideals—really thinks about things in a fine way.”
He did not care to discuss Shepherd Mills with Shepherd’s wife, even when, presumably, she was merely making talk to create an atmosphere of intimacy.
“Shep isn’t a cut-up,” she went on, “and he doesn’t know how to be a good fellow with men of his own age. And he’s so shy he’s afraid of the older men. And his father—you’ve met Mr. Mills? Well, Shep doesn’t seem able to get close to his father.”
“That happens, of course, between fathers and sons,” Bruce replied. “Mr. Mills——”
He paused, took a cigarette from his case and put it back. He was by turns perplexed, annoyed, angry and afraid—afraid that he might in some way betray himself.
“Mr. Mills is a curious person,” Constance went on. “He seems to me like a man who lives alone in a formal garden with high walls on four sides and has learned to ignore the roar of the world outside—a prisoner who carries the key of his prison-house but can’t find the lock!”
Bruce bent his head toward her, intent upon her words. He hadn’t thought her capable of anything so imaginative. Some reply was necessary; he would make another effort to get rid of a subject that both repelled and fascinated him.
“I suppose we’re all born free; if we find ourselves shut in it’s because we’ve built the walls ourselves.”
“How about my prison-house?” she asked. “Do you suppose I can ever escape?”
“Why should you? Don’t you like your garden?”
“Not always; no! It’s a little stifling sometimes!”
“Then push the walls back a little! It’s a good sign, isn’t it, when we begin to feel cramped?”
“You’re doing a lot better! I begin to feel more hopeful about you. You really could be a great consolation to me if—if you weren’t so busy!”
“I really did appreciate your invitation. I’ll be around very soon.”
After all, he decided, she was only flirting with him; her confidences were only a means of awakening his interest, stirring his sympathy. She had probably never loved Shepherd, but she respected his high-mindedness and really wanted to help him. The depression to which she confessed was only the common ennui of her class and type; she needed occupation, doubtless children would solve her problem to some extent. Her life ran too smooth a course, and life was not meant to be like that....
He was impatient to leave, but Mrs. Torrence and Henderson had started a phonograph and were dancing in the hall. Constance seemed unmindful of the noise they were making.
“Shall we join in that romp?” asked Bruce.
“Thanks, no—if you don’t mind! I suppose it’s really time to run along. May I fix a drink for you? It’s too bad to go away and leave all that whisky!”
The music stopped in the midst of a jazzy saxophone wail and Mrs. Torrence and Henderson were heard noisily greeting several persons who had just come in.
“It’s Leila,” said Constance, rising and glancing at the clock. “She has no business being here at this time of day.”
“Hello, Connie! Got a beau?”
Leila peered into the room, struck her hands together and called over her shoulder:
“Come in, lads! See what’s here! Red liquor as I live and breathe! Oh, Mr. What’s-your-name——”
“Mr. Storrs,” Constance supplied.
“Oh, of course! Mr. Storrs—Mr. Thomas and Mr. Whitford!”
Bruce had heard much of Whitford at the University Club, where he was one of the most popular members. He had won fame as an athlete in college and was a polo player of repute. A cosmopolitan by nature, he had traveled extensively and in the Great War had won honorable distinction. Having inherited money he was able to follow his own bent. It was whispered that he entertained literary ambitions. He was one of the chief luminaries of the Dramatic Club, coached the players and had produced several one-act plays of his own that had the flavor of reality. He was of medium height and looked the soldier and athlete. Women had done much to spoil him, but in spite of his preoccupation with society, men continued to like George, who was a thoroughly good fellow and a clean sportsman.
Whitford entered at once into a colloquy with Constance. Thomas, having expressed his pleasure at meeting Bruce, was explaining to Mrs. Torrence how he and Whitford had met Leila downtown.
“Liar!” exclaimed Leila, who was pouring herself a drink. “You did nothing of the kind. We met at the Burtons’ and Nellie gave us a little drink—just a tweeney, stingy little drink.”
The drink she held up for purposes of illustration was not infinitesimal. Mrs. Torrence said that everyone must have a highball and proceeded to prepare a drink for Thomas and Whitford.
“You and Connie are certainly the solemn owls,” she remarked to Bruce. “Anyone would have thought you were holding a funeral in here. Say when, Fred. This is real Bourbon that Jim had for years. You’ll never see anything like it.”
“Bruce,” cried Henderson, “has Connie filled you with gloom? She gets that way sometimes, but it doesn’t mean anything. A little of this stuff will set you up. This bird, Storrs, always did have glass legs,” he explained to Thomas; “he can drink gallons and be ready to converse with bishops. Never saw such a capacity! If I get a few more Maybelle will certainly hand it to me when I get home.”
Constance walked round the table to Leila, who had drunk a glass of the Bourbon to sample it and, satisfied of its quality, was now preparing a highball.
“No more, Leila!” said Constance, in a low tone. The girl drew back defiantly.
“Go away, Connie! I need just one more.”
“You had more than you needed at the Burtons’. Please, Leila, be sensible. Helen, send the tray away.”
“Leila’s all right!” said Thomas, but at a sign from Mrs. Torrence he picked up the tray and carried it out.
“I don’t think it pretty to treat me as though I were shot when I’m not,” said Leila petulantly. She walked to the end of the room and sat down with the injured air of a rebellious child.
“Leila, do you know what time it is?” demanded Constance. “Your father’s having a dinner and you’ve got to be there.”
“I’m going to be there! There’s loads of time. Everybody sit down and be comfortable!” Leila composedly sipped her glass as though to set an example to the others. Thomas had come back and Constance said a few words to him in a low tone.
“Oh, shucks! I know what you’re saying. Connie’s telling you to take me home,” said Leila. She turned her wrist to look at her watch—frowned in the effort of focusing upon it and added with a shrug: “There’s all the time in the world. If you people think you can scare me you’ve got another guess coming. It’s just ten minutes of six; dinner’s at seven-thirty! I’ve got to rest a little. You all look so ridiculous standing there glaring at me. I’m no white mouse with pink eyes!”
“Really, dear,” said Mrs. Torrence coaxingly, walking toward Leila with her hands outstretched much as though she were trying to make friends with a reluctant puppy. “Do run along home like a good girl!”
Leila apparently had no intention of running along home like a good little girl. She dropped her glass—empty—and without warning caught the astounded lady tightly about the neck.
“Step-mother! Dear, nice step-mamma!” she cried. “Nice, dear, sweet, kind step-mamma! Helen’s going to be awful good to poor little Leila. Helen not be bad step-mamma like story books; Helen be sweet, kind step-mamma and put nice, beautiful gin cocktails in baby’s bottle!”
As she continued in cooing tones Leila stroked her captive’s cheek and kissed her with a mockery of tenderness. Henderson and Thomas were shouting with laughter; Constance viewed the scene with lofty disdain; Whitford was mildly amused; Bruce, wishing himself somewhere else, withdrew toward the door, prepared to leave at the earliest possible moment. When at last Mrs. Torrence freed herself she sank into a chair and her laughter attained a new pitch of shrillness.
“Leila, you’ll be the death of me!” she gasped when her mirth had spent itself.
“Leila will be the death of all of us,” announced Constance solemnly.
“Oh, I don’t know!” said Leila, straightening her hat composedly at the mantel mirror.
“Too bad Leila’s ‘step-mama’ couldn’t have heard that!” sighed Henderson.
“Now, Leila,” said Constance severely, “do run along home. Please let me take you in my car; you oughtn’t to drive in the condition you’re in.”
The remark was not fortunate. Leila had discovered a box of bonbons and was amusing herself by tossing them into the air and trying to catch them in her mouth. She scored one success in three attempts and curtsied to an imaginary audience.
“My condition!” she said, with fine scorn. “I wish you wouldn’t speak as though I were a common drunk!”
“Anyone can see that you’re not fit to go home. Your father will be furious.”
“Not if I tell him I’ve been with you!” Leila flung back.
“Say, Leila!” began Henderson, ingratiatingly. “We’re old pals, you and I—let’s shake this bunch. I’ll do something nice for you sometime.”
“What will you do?” Leila demanded with provoking deliberation.
“Oh, something mighty nice! Maybelle and I will give you a party and you can name the guests.”
“Stupid!” she yawned. “Your hair’s mussed, Helen. You and Bud have been naughty.”
“Your behavior isn’t ladylike,” said Thomas. “The party’s getting rough! Come on, let’s go.”
“Oh, I’m misbehaving, am I? Well, I guess my conduct’s as good as yours! Where do you get this stuff that I’m a lost lamb? Even an expert like you, Freddy, wouldn’t call me soused. I’m just little bit tipsy—that’s all! If I had a couple more highballs——”
By a signal passed from one to the other they began feigning to ignore her. Constance said she was going; Bud, Whitford and Thomas joined Bruce at the door where he was saying good-night to Mrs. Torrence. Leila was not so tipsy but that she understood what they were doing.
“Think you can freeze me out, do you? Well, I’m not so easily friz! Mr. What’s-your-name——” She fixed her eyes upon Bruce detainingly.
“Storrs,” Bruce supplied good-naturedly.
“You’re the only lady or gentleman in this room. I’m going to ask you to take me home!”
“Certainly, Miss Mills!”
With a queenly air she took his arm. Henderson ran forward and opened the door, the others hanging back, silent, afraid to risk a word that might reopen the discussion and delay her departure.
“Shall I drive?” Bruce asked when they reached the curb.
“Yes, thanks; if you don’t mind.”
“Home?” he inquired as he got her car under way.
“I was just doing a little thinking,” she said deliberatingly. “It will take only five minutes to run over to that little cafeteria on Fortieth Street. Some coffee wouldn’t be a bad thing; and would you mind turning the windshield—I’d like the air.”
“A good idea,” said Bruce, and stepped on the gas. The car had been built for Leila’s special use and he had with difficulty squeezed himself into the driver’s seat; but he quickly caught the hang of it. He stopped a little beyond the cafeteria to avoid the lights of the busy corner and brought out a container of hot coffee and paper cups.
“Like a picnic, isn’t it?” she said. “You won’t join me?”
She sipped the coffee slowly while he stood in the street beside her.
“There!” she said. “Thank you, ever so much. Quarter of seven? Forty-five minutes to dress! Just shoot right along home now. Would you mind driving over to the boulevard and going in that way? The air certainly feels good.”
“Nothing would please me more,” he said, giving her a quick inspection as they passed under the lights at a cross-street. She was staring straight ahead, looking singularly young as she lay back with her hands clasped in her lap.
“Constance was furious!” she said suddenly. “Well, I suppose she had a right to be. I had no business getting lit.”
“Well, strictly speaking, you shouldn’t do it,” he said. It was not the time nor place and he was not the proper person to lecture her upon her delinquencies. But he had not been displeased that she chose him to take her home, even though the choice was only a whim.
“You must think me horrid! This is the second time you’ve seen me teed up too high.”
“I’ve seen a lot of other people teed up much higher! You’re perfectly all right now?”
“Absolutely! That coffee fixed me; I’m beginning to feel quite bully. I can go home now and jump into my joy rags and nobody will ever be the wiser. This is an old folks’ party, but Dada always wants to exhibit me when he feeds the nobility—can you see me?”
Her low laugh was entirely reassuring as to her sobriety, and he was satisfied that she would be able to give a good account of herself at her father’s table.
“Just leave the car on the drive,” she said as they reached the house. “Maybe I can crawl up to my room without Dada knowing I’m late. I’m a selfish little brute—to be leaving you here stranded! Well, thanks awfully!”
He walked with her to the entrance and she was taking out her key when Mills, in his evening clothes, opened the door.
“Leila! You’re late!” he exclaimed sharply. “Where on earth have you been?”
“Just gadding about, as usual! But I’m in plenty of time, Dada. Please thank Mr. Storrs for coming home with me. Good-night and thank you some more!”
She darted into the house, leaving Bruce confronting her father.
“Oh, Mr. Storrs!” The emphasis on the name was eloquent of Mills’s surprise that Bruce was on his threshold. Bruce had decided that any explanations required were better left to Leila, who was probably an adept in explanations. He was about to turn away when Mills stepped outside.
“We’re entertaining tonight,” he said pleasantly. “I was a little afraid something had happened to my daughter.”
A certain dignity of utterance marked his last words—my daughter. He threw into the phrase every possible suggestion of paternal pride.
Bruce, halfway down the steps, paused until Mills had concluded his remark. Then lifting his hat with a murmured good-night, he hurried toward the gate. An irresistible impulse caused him to look back. Mills remained just inside the entry, his figure clearly defined by the overhead lights, staring toward the street. Seeing Bruce look back, he went quickly into the house and the heavy door boomed upon him.
Bruce walked to the nearest street car line and rode downtown for dinner. The fact that Mills was waiting at the door for his daughter was not without its significance, hinting at a constant uneasiness for her safety beyond ordinary parental solicitude. What Constance had said that afternoon about Mills came back to him. He was oppressed by a sense of something tragic in Mills’s life—the tragedy of a failure that wore outwardly the guise of success.
In spite of a strong effort of will to obliterate these thoughts he found his memory dragging into his consciousness odd little pictures of Mills—fragmentary snapshots, more vivid and haunting than complete portraits: the look Mills gave him the first time they met at the Country Club; Mills’s shoulders and the white line of his collar above his dinner coat as he left the Hardens’; and now the quick change from irritation to relief and amiable courtesy when he admitted Leila.
Henderson and Millicent and now today Constance had given him hints of Mills’s character, and Bruce found himself trying to reconcile and unify their comments and fit them into his own inferences and conclusions. The man was not without his fascinations as a subject for analysis. Behind that gracious exterior there must be another identity either less noble or finer than the man the world knew.... Before he slept, Bruce found it necessary to combat an apprehension that, if he continued to hear Mills dissected and analyzed, he might learn to pity the man.
That evening when Shepherd Mills went home he found Constance seated at her dressing table, her heavy golden-brown hair piled loosely upon her head, while her maid rubbed cold cream into her throat and face. She espied him in the mirror and greeted him with a careless, “Hello, Shep. How did the day go with you?”—the question employed by countless American wives in saluting their husbands at the end of a toilsome day.
“Oh, pretty good!” he replied. No husband ever admits that a day has been wholly easy and prosperous.
She put out her hand for him to kiss and bade him sit down beside her. He was always diffident before the mysteries of his wife’s toilet. He glanced at the gown laid across a chair and surveyed the crystal and silver on the dressing table with a confused air as though he had never seen them before.
The room denoted Constance Mills’s love of luxury, and incidentally her self-love. The walls on two sides were set in mirrors that reached from ceiling to floor. The furniture, the rugs, the few pictures, the window draperies had been chosen with an exquisite care and combined in an evocation of the spirit of indolence. There was a much be-pillowed divan across one corner, so placed that when she enjoyed a siesta Constance could contemplate herself in the mirrors opposite. Scents—a mingling of faint exotic odors—hung upon the air.
She was quick to note that something was on Shepherd’s mind and half from curiosity, half in a spirit of kindness, dismissed the maid as quickly as possible.
“You can hook me up, Shep. I’ll do my hair myself. I won’t need you any more, Marie. Yes—my blue cloak. Now, little boy, go ahead and tell me what’s bothering you.”
Shepherd frowned and twisted his mustache as he sat huddled on the divan.
“It’s about father; nothing new, just our old failure to understand each other. It’s getting worse. I never know where I stand with him.”
“Well, does anyone?” Constance asked serenely. “You really mustn’t let him get on your nerves. There are things you’ve got to take because we all do; but by studying him a little and practicing a little patience you’ll escape a lot of worry.”
“Yes,” he assented eagerly. “You know he just pretends that I’m the head of the plant; Fields is the real authority there. It’s not the president but the vice-president who has the say about things. Father consults Fields constantly. He doesn’t trust me—I’m just a figurehead.”
“Fields is such an ass,” remarked Constance with a shrug of her shapely shoulders. “An utterly impossible person. Why not just let him do all the explaining to your father? If any mistakes are made at the plant, then it’s on him.”
“But that’s not the way of it,” Shepherd protested plaintively. “He gets the praise; I get the blame.”
“Oh, well, you can’t make your father over. You ought to be glad you’re not of his hard-boiled variety. You’re human, Sheppy, and that’s better than being a magnificent iceberg.”
“Father doesn’t see things; he doesn’t realize that the world’s changing,” Shepherd went on stubbornly. “He doesn’t see that the old attitude toward labor won’t do any more.”
“He’ll never see it,” said Constance. “Things like that don’t hit him at all. He’s like those silly people who didn’t know there was anything wrong in France till their necks were in the guillotine.”
“I told you about that clubhouse I wanted to build for our people on the Milton farm? I hate to give that up. It would mean so much to those people. And he was all wrong in thinking it would injure the property. I think it’s only decent to do something for them.”
“Well, how can you do it without your father?” she asked, shifting herself for a better scrutiny of her head in the mirror.
“You know that little tract of land—about twenty acres, back of the plant? I could buy that and put the clubhouse there. I have some stock in the Rogers Trust Company I can sell—about two hundred shares. It came to me through mother’s estate. Father has nothing to do with it. The last quotation on it is two hundred. What do you think of that?”
“Well, I think pretty well of it,” said Constance. “Your father ought to let you build the clubhouse, but he has a positive passion for making people uncomfortable.”
“I suppose,” continued Shepherd dubiously, “if I go ahead and build the thing—even with my own money—he would be angry. Of course there may be something in his idea that if we do a thing of this kind it would make the workmen at other plants restless——”
“Piffle!” exclaimed Constance. “That’s the regular old stock whimper of the back-number. You might just as well say that it would be a forward step other employers ought to follow!”
“Yes, there’s that!” he agreed, his eyes brightening at the suggestion.
“If you built the house on your own land the storage battery company wouldn’t be responsible for it in any way.”
“Certainly not!” Shepherd was increasingly pleased that she saw it all so clearly.
She had slipped on her gown and was instructing him as to the position of the hooks.
“No; the other side, Shep. That’s right. There’s another bunch on the left shoulder. Now you’ve got it! Thanks ever so much.”
He watched her admiringly as she paraded before the mirrors to make sure that the skirt hung properly.
“If there’s to be a row——” he began as she opened a drawer and selected a handkerchief.
“Let there be a row! My dear Shep, you’re always too afraid of asserting yourself. What could he do? He might get you up to his office and give you a bad quarter of an hour; but he’d respect you more afterwards if you stood to your guns. His vanity and family pride protect you. Catch him doing anything that might get him into the newspapers—not Franklin Mills!”
Relieved and encouraged by her understanding and sympathy, he explained more particularly the location of the property he proposed buying. It was quite as convenient to the industrial colony that had grown up about the storage battery plant as the Milton land his father had declined to let him use. The land was bound to appreciate in value, he said.
“What if it doesn’t!” exclaimed Constance with mild scorn. “You’ll have been doing good with your money, anyhow.”
“You think, then, you’d go ahead—sell the stock and buy the land? It’s so late now, maybe I’d better wait till spring?”
“That might be better, Shep, but use your own judgment. You asked your father to help and he turned you down. Your going ahead will have a good effect on him. He needs a jar. Now run along and dress. You’re going to be late for dinner.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, rising and looking down at her as she sat turning over the leaves of a book. “Connie——”
“Yes, Shep,” she murmured absently; and then, “Oh, by the way, Shep, I was at Helen’s this afternoon.”
“Helen Torrence’s? What was it—a tea?”
“In a manner of speaking—tea! Dramatic Club business. George Whitford was there—he’s concentrating on theatricals. George is such a dear!”
“One of the best fellows in the world!” said Shep.
“He certainly is!” Constance affirmed.
“Connie——” he stammered and took her hand. “Connie—you’re awfully good to me. You know I love you——”
“Why, of course, you dear baby!” She lifted her head with a quick, reassuring smile. “But for goodness’ sake run along and change your clothes!”
When his guests had gone, Mills, as was his habit, smoked a cigar and discussed the dinner with Leila. He was aware that in asking her to join him on such occasions of state he was subjecting her to a trying ordeal, and tonight he was particularly well pleased with her.
“They all enjoyed themselves, Dada; you needn’t worry about that party!” Leila remarked, smoking the cigarette she had denied herself while the guests remained.
“I think they did; thank you very much for helping me.”
Leila had charm; he was always proud of an opportunity to display her to her mother’s old friends, whose names, like his own, carried weight in local history. His son was a Shepherd; Leila, he persuaded himself, was, with all her waywardness and little follies, more like himself. Leila looked well at his table, and her dramatic sense made it possible for her to act the rôle of the daughter of the house with the formality that was dear to him. Whenever he entertained he and Leila received the guests together, standing in front of Mrs. Mills’s portrait. People who dared had laughed about this, speculating as to the probable fate of the portrait in case Mills married again.
“I’d got nervous about you when you were so late coming,” Mills was saying. “That’s how I came to be at the door. I’d just called Millicent to see if you were over there.”
“Foolish Dada! Don’t I always turn up?” she asked, kicking off her slippers. “I’d been fooling around all afternoon, and I hate getting dressed and waiting for a party to begin.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Mills replied dryly. “Just what did you do all day? Your doings are always a mystery to me.”
“Well—let me see—I went downtown with Millie this morning, and home with her for lunch, and we talked a while and I ran out to the Burtons’ and there were some people there and we gassed; and then I remembered I hadn’t seen Mrs. Torrence since she got home, so I took a dash up there. And Connie was there, and Bud Henderson came up with Mr. Storrs and we had tea and Mr. Storrs was coming this way so I let him drive me home.”
This, uttered with smooth volubility, was hardly half the truth. She lighted a fresh cigarette and blew a series of rings while waiting to see whether he would crossexamine her, as he sometimes did.
“Constance was there, was she? Anyone else?”
“Fred Thomas and Georgy Whitford blew in just as I was leaving.”
“So? I shouldn’t have thought Mrs. Torrence would be interested in them.”
“Oh, she isn’t!” replied Leila, who hadn’t intended to mention Thomas or Whitford. “Connie was trying to talk Helen into taking a perfectly marvelous part in a new play the Dramatic Club’s putting on soon, and they are in it, too. Highbrow discussion; it bored me awfully—Mr. Storrs and I managed to escape together. Oh, dear, I’m sleepy!”
“Does this Storrs go about among people you know?” Mills asked, extending his arm to the ash tray.
“Oh, I think so, Dada! He was in college with Bud Henderson, you know, and is in Mr. Freeman’s office. Dale’s crazy about him. You could hardly say he’s pushing himself. Millie and I met him at the Faraway Club—didn’t you meet him that same night? I asked him to call and he hasn’t and he has been to see Millie. I guess the joke’s on me!”
“I saw him again at the Hardens’,” Mills remarked carelessly. “And ran into him afterwards when I was strolling around, and I brought him back with me to get out of the storm. It was the night of the Claytons’ party.”
“Then you know as much about him as I do,” said Leila indifferently. “I think, Dada, if you don’t mind, I’ll seek the hay.”
He stood to receive her good-night kiss. When he heard her door close he took several turns across the room before resuming his cigar. He sat down in the chair in which he had sat the night he brought Bruce into the house. Magazines and books were within easy reach of his hand, but he was not in a mood to read. He lifted his eyes occasionally to the portrait of his father on the opposite wall. It might have seemed that he tried to avoid it, averting his gaze to escape the frank, steady eyes. But always the fine face drew him back. When he got up finally and walked to the door it was with a hurried step as if the room or his meditations had suddenly become intolerable.