Mortimer Crabb watched the retreating figure.
"H-m," he said, "the Eternal Question--as usual--without the answer. And
yet I would have sworn that that parasol in the Square----"
He had always possessed an attitude of amused and tolerant patronage for
the City of Brotherly Love--it was the birthright of any typical New
Yorker--and yet since that inconsiderable adventure in Rittenhouse
Square, he had discovered undreamed-of virtues in the Pennsylvania
metropolis. It was a city not of apartments, but of homes--homes
in which men lived with their families and brought up interesting
children in the old-fashioned way--a city of conservative progress, of
historic association, of well-guarded tradition--an American city, in
short--which New York was not. At the Bachelors' Club he sang its
praises, and mentioned a plan of wintering there, but was laughed at for
his pains. Anything unusual and extraordinary was to be expected of
Mortimer Crabb. But a winter in Philadelphia! This was too preposterous.
Crabb said nothing in reply. He only smiled politely and when the _Blue
Wing_ was put in commission went off on a cruise with no other company
but his thoughts and Captain Jepson. Jepson under ordinary circumstances
would have been sufficient, but now Mortimer Crabb spent much time in a
deck chair reading in a book of poems, or idly gazing at the swirl of
foam in the vessel's wake. Jepson wondered what he was thinking of, for
Crabb was not a man to spend much time in dreaming, and the Captain
would have given much that he possessed to know. He would have been
surprised if Mortimer Crabb had told him. To tell the truth Crabb was
thinking--of a parasol. He was wondering if after all, his judgment had
been erring. The lady in the Square had left the parasol, it was true.
But then all the tribe of parasols and umbrellas seemed born to the fate
of being neglected and forgotten, and there was no reason why this
particular specimen of the genus should be exempt from the frailties of
its kind. As he remembered, it was a flimsy thing of green silk and
lace, obviously a French frippery which might be readily guilty of such
a form of naughtiness.
It had long worried him to think that he might have misjudged the
sleeping princess--as he had learned to call her--and he knew that it
would continue to worry him until he proved the matter one way or
another for himself. Had she really forgotten the parasol? Or had
she--not forgotten it?
The cruise ended, the summer lengthened into fall, and winter found
Mortimer Crabb established in residence at a fashionable hotel in
Philadelphia.
Letters had come from New York to certain Philadelphia dowagers in the
councils of the mighty, to the end that in due course Crabb accepted for
several desirable dinners, and before he knew he found himself in the
full swing of a social season. And so when the night of the Assembly
came around, he found himself dining at the house of one of his sponsors
in a party wholly given over to the magnification of three tremulous
young female persons, who were to receive their _cachet_ and certificate
of eligibility in attending that ancient and honorable function.
It was just at the top of the steps leading to the foyer of the
ball-room that Crabb met Patricia Wharton in the crowd, face to face.
The encounter was unavoidable. He saw the brief question in her glance
before she placed him, the vanishing smile, the momentary pallor, and
then was conscious that she had gone by, her eyes looking past him, her
brows slightly raised, her lips drawn together, the very letter of
indifference and contempt. It was cutting advanced to the dignity of a
fine art. Crabb felt the color rise to his temples and heard the young
bud at his side saying:
"What is it, Mr. Crabb? You look as if you'd seen the ghost of all your
past transgressions."
"_All_ of them, Miss Cheston! Oh, I hope I don't look as bad as that,"
he laughed. "Only one--a very tiny one."
"Do tell me," cried the bud.
"First, let's safely run the gantlet of the lorgnons."
When the party was assembled and past the grenadiers who jealously guard
the sacred inner bulwarks, Crabb was glad to relinquish his companion to
another, while he sought seclusion behind a bank of azaleas to watch the
moving dancers. So she really _was_ somebody. He began, for a moment, to
doubt the testimony of the vagrant glances and the guilty parasol. Could
he have been mistaken? Had she really forgotten the parasol after all?
The situation was brutal enough for her and he was quite prepared to
respect her delicacy. What he did resent was the way in which she had
done it. She had taken to cover angrily and stood at bay with all her
woman's weapons sharpened. The curl of lip and narrowed eye bespoke a
degree of disdain quite out of proportion to the offense. But he made a
rapid resolution not to seek her or meet her eye. If his was the fault,
it was the only reparation he could offer her.
As he whirled around the room with his little bud, he caught a glimpse
of her upon the opposite side and so maneuvered that he would come no
nearer. When he had guided his partner to a seat, it did not take him
long to gratify a very natural curiosity.
"Will you tell me," he asked, "who--no, don't look now--the girl in the
black spangly dress is?"
"Who? Where?" asked Miss Cheston. "Patricia, you mean? Of course! Miss
Wharton, my cousin. Haven't you met her?"
"Er--no! She's good-looking."
"Isn't she? And the dearest creature--but rather cold and the least bit
prim."
"Pri--Oh, really!"
"Yes! We're Quakers, you know. She belongs to the older set. Perhaps
that's why she seems a trifle cold and--er--conventional."
"Convent--! Oh, yes, of course."
"You know we're really quite a breezy lot, if you only know us. Some of
this year's debs are really very dreadful."
"How shocking, and Miss Wharton is not dreadful?"
"Oh, dear, no. But she is awfully good fun. Come, you must meet her. Let
me take you over."
But good fortune in the person of Stephen Ventnor intervened.
It was the unexpected which was to happen. Crabb was returning from the
table with a favor. His eye ran along the line of chairs in a brief
fruitless search. Mr. Barclay, who was leading the cotillion, caught his
eye at this precise psychological moment.
"Stranded, Crabb? Let me present you to----"
He mentioned no name but was off in a moment winding in and out among
those on the floor. Crabb followed. When he had succeeded in eluding the
imminent dancers and had reached the other side of the room, there was
Barclay bending over.
"Awfully nice chap--stranger," he was saying, and then aloud, "Miss
Wharton, may I present--Mr. Crabb?"
It was all over in a moment. The crowded room had hidden the black dress
and the fair hair. But it was too late. Barclay was off in a second and
there they were looking again into each other's eyes, Patricia pale and
cold as stone, Crabb a trifle ill at ease at the awkward situation
which, however appearances were against him, was none of his choosing.
Crabb inclined his head and extended the hand which carried his favor.
They both glanced down, seeking in that innocent trinket a momentary
refuge from the predicament. It was then for the first time that Crabb
discovered the thing he was offering her--a little frivolous green silk
parasol.
She looked up at him again, her eyes blazing, but she rose to her feet
and looked around her as though seeking some mode of escape. He fully
expected that she would refuse to dance, and was preparing to withdraw
as gracefully as he might when, with chin erect and eyes which looked
and carried her spirit quite beyond him, she took the parasol and
followed him upon the floor.
But the subtlety of suggestion which seemed to possess Crabb's particular
little comedy was to be still more amusingly developed. The figure in
which they became a part was a pretty vari-colored whirl of flowers and
ribbons, in which the green parasols were destined to play a part. For a
miniature Maypole was brought and the parasols were fastened to the
depending ribbons in accordance with their color.
As the figure progressed and the dancers interwove, Crabb could not
fail to note the recurrent intentional snub. He felt himself blameless
in the unlucky situation, and this needless display of hostility so
clearly expressed seemed made in very bad taste. Each time he passed
the flaunted shoulder, the upcast chin, or curling lip, he found his
humility to be growing less and less until as the dance neared its end
he glowed with a very righteous ire. If she had meant to deny him
completely, she should have chosen the opportunity when he had first
come up. And as he passed her, he rejoiced in the discovery that she had
inadvertently chosen the other end of the ribbon attached to the very
parasol which he bore. When the May dance was over, Miss Wharton found
Mr. Crabb at her side handing her the green parasol precisely as he had
handed her that other one in the Square six months before.
"I beg pardon," he was saying quizzically, "but isn't this yours?"
The accent and benevolent eye were unmistakable. If there were any
arrow in her quiver of scorn unshot, his effrontery completely disarmed
her. If looks could have killed, Crabb must have died at once. Assured
of the depths of his infamy, she could only murmur rather faintly:
"I shall go to my seat, at once, please." Indeed, Crabb was a very
lively corpse. He was smiling coolly down at her.
"Certainly, if you wish it. Only--er--I hope you'll let me go along."
How she hated him! The words uttered again with the same smiling
effrontery seemed to be burned anew into her memory. Could she never be
free from this inevitable man? Her seat was at the far end of the room.
"I think you have done me some injustice," he said quietly, and then,
"It has been a pleasant dance. Thank you so much."
"Thank you," replied Patricia acidly, and he was gone.