Quentin was driving with Lady Saxondale to the home of Miss
Garrison's hostess. Phil's fair, calculating companion said to
herself that she had never seen a handsomer fellow than this
stalwart American. There was about him that clean, strong, sweet
look of the absolutely healthy man, the man who has buffeted the
world and not been buffeted by the world. He was frank, bright,
straightforward, and there was that always-to-be-feared yet
ever-to-be-desired gleam of mastery in his eye. It may have been
sometimes a wicked mastery, and more than one woman who admired him
because she could not help herself had said, “There is a devil in
his eyes.”
They found Lady Marnham's reception hall full of guests, few of whom
Quentin had seen before. He was relieved to find that the prince was
not present, and he made his way to Dorothy's side, with Lady
Frances, coolly dropping into the chair which a young captain had
momentarily abandoned. Lady Frances sat beside Miss Garrison on the
divan.
“I am so glad you kept your promise, Phil, and came. It seems good
to see you after all these years. You bring back the dear days at
home,” said Dorothy, delight in her voice.
“From that I judge you sometimes long for them,” he said, simply. To
Lady Frances it sounded daring.
“Often, oh, so very often. I have not been in New York for years.
Lady Saxondale goes back so often that she doesn't have the chance
to grow homesick.”
“I hear you are going over this fall,” said Quentin, with a fair
show of interest.
“Who--who told you so?” she asked, in some surprise. He could not
detect confusion.
“Prince Ravorelli. At least, he said he expected to make the trip
this fall. Am I wrong in suspecting that he is not going alone?”
“We mean to spend much of the winter in the United States, chiefly
in Florida. I shall depend on you, Phil, to be nice to him in New
York. You can do so much to make it pleasant for him. He has never
been in New York, you know.”
“It may depend on what he will consider pleasant. I don't believe he
will enjoy all the things I like. But I'll try. I'll get Dickey
Savage to give a dinner for him, and if he can survive that, he's
capable of having a good time anywhere. Dickey's dinners are the
real test, you know. Americans stand them because they are rugged
and accustomed to danger.”
“You will find Prince Ugo rugged,” she said, flushing slightly, and
he imagined he could distinguish a softness in her tone.
“I am told he is an athlete, a great horseman, a marvelous
swordsman,” said Lady Frances.
“I am glad you have heard something about him that is true,” said
Dorothy, a trifle quickly. “Usually they say that princes are all
that is detestable and unmanly. I am sure you will like him, Phil.”
Mrs. Garrison came up at this moment with Lady Marnham, and Quentin
arose to greet the former as warmly as he could under the smooth
veil of hypocrisy. Again, just before Lady Frances signaled to him
that it was time for them to leave, he found himself in
conversation, over the teacups, with Dorothy Garrison. This time
they were quite alone.
“It doesn't seem possible that you are the same Dorothy Garrison I
used to know,” he said, reflectively.
“Have I changed so much?” she asked, and there was in her manner an
icy barrier that would have checked a less confident man than Philip
Quentin.
“In every way. You were charming in those days.”
“And not charming now, I infer.”
“You are more than charming now. That is hardly a change, however,
is it? Then, you were very pretty, now you are beautiful. Then, you
were--”
“I don't like flattery, Phil,” she said, hurt by what she felt to be
an indifferent effort on his part to please her vanity.
“I am quite sure you remember me well enough to know that I never
said nice things unless I meant them. But, now that I think of it,
it is the height of impropriety to speak so plainly even to an old
friend, and an old--er--chum.”
“Won't you have a cup of tea?” she asked, as calmly as if he were
the merest stranger and had never seen her till this hour.
“A dozen, if it pleases you,” he said, laughingly, looking straight
into the dark eyes she was striving so hard to keep cold and
unfriendly.
“Then you must come another day,” she answered, brightly.
“I cannot come to-morrow,” he said.
“I did not say 'to-morrow.'”
“But I'll come on Friday,” he went on, decisively. She looked
concerned for an instant and then smiled.
“Lady Marnham will give you tea on Friday. I shall not be at home,”
she said.
“But I am going back to New York next week,” he said, confidently.
“Next week? Are you so busy?”
“I am not anxious to return, but my man Turk says he hates London.
He says he'll leave me if I stay here a month. I can't afford to
lose Turk.”
“And he can't afford to lose you. Stay, Phil; the Saxondales are
such jolly people.”
“How about the tea on Friday?”
“Oh, that is no consideration.”
“But it is, you know. You used to give me tea every day in the
week.” He saw at once that he had gone beyond the lines, and drew
back wisely. “Let me come on Friday, and we'll have a good, sensible
chat.”
“On that one condition,” she said, earnestly.
“Thank you. Good-bye. I see Lady Frances is ready to go. Evidently I
have monopolized you to a somewhat thoughtless extent. Everybody is
looking daggers at me, including the prince, who came in ten minutes
ago.”
He arose and held her hand for a moment at parting. Her swift,
abashed glance toward Prince Ugo, whose presence she had not
observed, did not escape his eyes. She looked up and saw the
peculiar smile on Quentin's lips, and there was deep meaning in her
next remark to him:
“You will meet the prince here on Friday. I shall ask him to come
early, that he may learn to know you better.”
“Thank you. I'd like to know him better. At what hour is he to
come?”
“By 3:30, at least,” she said, pointedly. “Too early to be correct,
you suspect?”
“I think not. You may expect me before three. I am not a stickler
for form.”
“We shall not serve tea until four o'clock,” she said, coldly.
“That's my hour for tea--just my hour,” he said, blithely. She could
not repress the smile that his old willfulness brought to her lips
and eyes. “Thank you, for the smile. It was worth struggling for.”
He was gone before she could respond, but the smile lingered as her
eyes followed his tall figure across the room. She saw him pause and
speak to Prince Ugo, and then pass out with Lady Saxondale. Only
Lady Saxondale observed the dark gleam in the Italian's eyes as he
responded to the big American's unconventional greeting. On the way
home she found herself wondering if Dorothy had ever spoken to the
prince of Philip Quentin and those tender, foolish days of girlhood.
“Has she lost any of the charm?” she asked.
“I am not quite sure. I'm to find out on Friday.”
“Are you going back on Friday?” in surprise.
“To drink tea, you know.”
“Did she ask you to come?”
“Can't remember, but I think I suggested it.”
“Be careful, Phil; I don't want you to turn Dorothy Garrison's
head.”
“You compliment me by even suspecting that I could. Her head is set;
it can't be turned. It is set for that beautiful, bejewelled thing
they call a coronet. Besides, I don't want to turn it.”
“I think the prince could become very jealous,” she went on,
earnestly.
“Which would mean stilettos for two, I presume.” After a moment's
contemplative silence he said: “By Jove! she is beautiful, though.”
Quentin was always the man to rush headlong into the very thickest
of whatever won his interest, whether it was the tender encounter of
the drawing-room or the dangerous conflict of the field.
When he left Lady Marnham's house late on Friday afternoon he was
more delighted than ever with the girl he had once loved. He was
with her for nearly an hour before the prince arrived, and he had
boldly dashed into the (he called them ridiculous) days when she had
been his little sweetheart, the days when both had sworn with young
fervor to be true till death. She did not take kindly at first to
these references to that early, mistaken affection, but his
persistence won. Before the prince arrived, the American had learned
how she met him, how he had wooed and won, and how she had inspired
jealousy in his hot Italian heart by speaking of the “big, handsome
boy” over in New York.
He secured her permission to join her in the Row on Tuesday. There
was resistance on her part at first, but he laughed it off.
“You should ask me to your wedding,” he said, as the prince came in.
“But you will not be here.”
“I've changed my mind,” he said, calmly, and then smiled into her
puzzled eyes. “Brussels, isn't it?”
“Yes; the middle of September,” she said, dreamily.
“You'll ask me to come?”
“I should have asked you, anyway.”
The two men shook hands. “Sorry I can't stay for tea, Dorothy, but I
promised Lord Saxondale I'd meet him at four o'clock.” He did a
genuinely American thing as he walked up the street. He whistled a
lively air.