Relations between them might have ended then and there, for Joan was not
in the habit of casting her pearls before swine, and the confidence was
rather crushed out of Archibald by a realization of his gross stupidity.
But Effie May was as persistent in her fancies as in other matters.
"Where's the eary one?" she asked Joan one Sunday afternoon following
the usual influx of visitors. "He hasn't been around since I don't know
when."
"How should I know? Probably towing some lady-typist by her elbow to a
church social," replied Joan, yawning.
"You may be sure it's a _lady_ typist, then, and not the other sort,"
commented her step-mother. "I like that boy!"
"You seem to," murmured Joan, reflecting idly that it was a compliment
Mr. Blair did not appear to return; which had been one of the few things
in common between them.
But later Effie May had something to say on the subject that interested
her more. She said it to her husband in Joan's hearing.
"You remember that young chap we had at the Horse show one night, whom
Joan met on the train? Name of Blair?"
"Certainly, my love. An agreeable fellow, though not quite, I should
say, to the manner born? However, he had a respect for his elders quite
unusual nowadays," said the Major affably, recalling his personal
success with the young man. "And a keen sense of humor, as I recall,
very keen!"
That, as it happened, was one thing Archibald did not possess. He had in
its place a hearty laugh, a passion for "jokes," and a generous
appreciation of jesting intentions on the part of others, which
doubtless served him quite as well.
"That's the chap. Well, some of the boys who were here this afternoon
were telling me that he's quite a scrapper. Seems some of the young
sports about town have been putting the gloves on with him, down to the
Y. M. C. A.--Johnny Carmichael and that lot--and the other night they
got up a match between him and a regular pug, just to see how good he
was. Seems he stood up to him three rounds, and come out of it with his
nose a pulp and his front teeth gone, askin' for more!"
"Heavens!" murmured Joan. "Those infantile front teeth?"
"Oh, I guess they stuck 'em in again," said Effie May, "but I sure would
have liked to see that match! The boys were quite enthusiastic."
"Did he win?" asked Joan.
"Win?--against a professional? Lord, child, he was doin' well to stand
up to him one round, let alone three! It was Dan McCabe, Dick."
"McCabe? You don't say," repeated the Major, highly interested. "Blair
must be pretty good, then!"
In his younger days Richard Darcy had been something of a devotee of the
gloves himself, and still kept up an interest in ring affairs. Boxing,
he held, was one of the few exercises really becoming a gentleman; and
he had sometimes modestly called the attention of this decadent
golfing-generation to a figure any boy of them might well envy, as a
result of the sport of kings.
Not latterly, however. Of the Major's more recent figure, the less said
the better. Even the mild exertions of the one-step caused him to
perspire and puff audibly, and he had requested that the cheval mirror
be removed from his dressing-room--a rather serious sign with Richard
Darcy. His wife in vain suggested riding, golf, massage. The Major
preferred the expedient of doing without his mirror.
She had in mind this growing _embonpoint_ when she spoke of Archibald's
accomplishment--as well as several other matters, being a woman who
thought nothing of killing two and even three birds with one stone.
"Dickie, I been thinking how nice it would be if you were to put on the
gloves with young Blair sometimes? I've always wanted to see you box."
"Pooh," he murmured, flattered, however, by the suggestion. "I couldn't
interest him now. And before all those young whipper-snappers at the
gymnasium? I'd be a laughing-stock!"
"Why not get him to come up here? Fix up a sort of gymnasium in the
attic?"
"Oh, do!" urged Joan, who had been not a little troubled by the recent
change in her father. "It will be just what you need, Dad, and such fun!
I'm sure you could 'interest' him still."
The Major's eye kindled a little. He was always responsive to any belief
in himself. "You think so, Dollykins? Well, possibly, possibly--But you
speak as if Blair were to be had for the asking, my love!"
"Well, I think he is," remarked Effie May with a twinkle at her
step-daughter. "Depends upon who does the asking--What do you say,
Joan?"
"It would have to be done in words of one syllable," murmured the girl
unkindly, "but I'll try."
So that again Archibald had occasion to shake hands with Fate; and found
himself regularly every Saturday afternoon at four o'clock beneath the
roof of his One and Only, gently exercising her parent, with every
likelihood of tea to follow.
Not that Archibald had any liking for tea. On the first occasion of his
accepting it, he had asked for four lumps of sugar in his cup,
explaining that plenty of sweetness took the worst of the taste away.
But he had firmly declined the Major's sympathetic suggestion to
substitute a highball, having his own quaint notions of the proprieties.
One of them was that no gentleman drinks liquor in the presence of a
lady. It was a genuine shock to him to find that Major Darcy did so,
freely: and what he felt when Mrs. Darcy joined her husband in the act,
he was fortunately able to dissemble. It merely confirmed an earlier
impression.
Joan gave up riding on Saturday afternoons to stay at home and umpire
the boxing matches. She felt that her father ought to be encouraged.
Besides, it rather interested her to see her protege in a new light.
Once stripped to the waist and gloved--(she soon got used to the sight
of her father in a pink silk undershirt and Archibald in no shirt at
all), the young man lost all his awkwardness and shyness and appeared
quite a different person, confident, masterly.
"Look out, Major! I'm after your nose this time," he would smile. "Guard
yourself. Here's where I get it!"
"Damned if you do!" the other would cry, feinting desperately, but
without avail. Archie always got it.
At first the girl gasped with alarm whenever his glove plopped into
smart contact with her father's face or body; but she soon saw that only
the skill of the younger man went into these blows, never his strength.
Richard Darcy saw it too, and was mortified.
"You're playing off on me, damn your young hide!" he would pant. "You
wait--I'll show you yet, I'll show you yet!"
And when on one proud occasion he did "show him," to the extent of
bringing an unexpected trickle of blood from Archie's nose, Joan let out
a cheer of triumph--in which the victim joined with a will.
"Bully!" he cried. "That was a sockdollager! Dare you to do it again,
Major! Doubledare you!"
Seeing him so, the play of powerful muscles under skin as white as a
girl's, the joyous grin on his big, plain face, the sheer good-nature of
him, intent on giving an older man what he called a "run for his money,"
and yet as controlledly gentle with him as a great dog playing with a
child, Joan began to understand why Johnny Carmichael and his friends
were enthusiastic over Archie Blair. He was that rarest of finds, a good
playfellow.
The companionship of men with men was something she suddenly envied. Why
couldn't women put on gloves and knock some of the pettiness out of each
other, the small spites and vanities and jealousies? She would very much
have enjoyed letting a little blood out of the nose of, say, Emily
Carmichael! In a perfectly friendly spirit, of course....
The boxing matches accomplished several results. They were extremely
good for the Major, reducing his waist by several inches and so
increasing his staying-powers that he could eat his way through dinner
from _hors d'oeuvre_ to _creme de menthe_ without losing breath. They
were good for Joan, giving her a new perspective on male human nature,
which since the episode of Eduard Desmond she had been in danger of
regarding rather cynically. And if they weren't altogether good for
Archie Blair--well, Archibald was a young man quite accustomed to taking
care of himself.
He would have faced greater perils than he did for the privilege of
spending a glorious hour under the same roof with Miss Darcy--whom he
continued to call "Miss Darcy" even in his secret thoughts, though she
had lately formed the delightful habit of addressing him as "Archie."
She had also presented him kindly with a small photograph of herself on
a post-card, taken for the purpose of showing Stefan Nikolai the furs he
had sent her, and incidentally the ringless condition of her left hand.
(It was her answer to his letter about the phagocytes.)
Archie did not exhibit this treasure, even to his friend Ellen Neal,
regarding it in the nature of a sacred trust. He had made for it a frame
with a little door which locked, and which greatly intrigued the good
woman for several days; until she found that the back of it came off
quite easily.