When Rodrigo reached his office the next morning, his exasperatingly
efficient spinster secretary had long since opened his mail and had
the letters, neatly denuded of their envelopes, upon his desk. That
is, all but one. She had evidently decided that this one was of too
private a nature for her to tamper with. The envelope was pale pink
and exuded a faint feminine scent. It was addressed in the scrawly,
infantile hand of Sophie Binner and was postmarked Montreal. Rodrigo
fished it out of the pile of business communications, among which it
stood out like a chorus girl at a Quaker meeting, and, breaking the
seal, read it:
Dearest Rod,
Why the elusiveness, dear boy? I called you up three times. I
hope it was accidental that I couldn't reach you, though it looks
bad for poor Sophie, since you never tried to get in touch with
me as you promised. Or did you?
Well, I'm here with the show in Montreal. They decided to get us
ready up here among our own land before springing us upon the
Yankees. But it's so lonesome. Christy is such a bore.
We open in New York a week from to-night. Times Square Theatre.
How about a party after the show? I can get some of the other
girls if you like. But would prefer just us two. You know--like
the good old days in London. I miss you dreadfully, dear boy.
Do drive my blues away as soon as I get back to the U.S.A. Be
nice to me. And write.
Your loving
SOPHIE.
Rodrigo smiled wryly as he folded up the letter and slipped it into
his pocket. He had received scores of such communications from
Sophie. He had been used to replying to them in kind. He had seldom
been temperate in his letters to her. He rather prided himself upon
the amount of nonsense he was able to inject into plain black ink.
That had been the trouble in the case of his _billets doux_ to Rosa
Minardi.
But he was not thinking of Rosa at the present moment. It had
occurred to him that some use might be made of the invitation in the
pink letter in connection with the promise he had made to Henry
Dorning to broaden John's horizon. By Jove, he would take up
Sophie's suggestion for a party on the night of the New York opening
of the Christy Revue. He would invite John and another of Sophie's
kind to accompany them. Pretty, thrill-seeking Sophie--she was
certainly a great little horizon-broadener. And he would leave it to
her to pick from the Christy company another coryphee of similar
lightsomeness.
He resolved to set the ball rolling at once and, the rest of his mail
unread, rose and started into the neighboring office. Opening the
door of John's sanctum, he stopped for a moment to view the tableau
inside.
Two blond heads were bent absorbedly over a letter on John's desk, a
man's and a woman's. They were talking in low voices, and Mary
Drake's pencil was rapidly underscoring certain lines in the letter.
She was advancing an argument in her soft, rapid voice, evidently as
to how the letter should be answered. John was frowning and shaking
his head.
Rodrigo, standing watching them, wondered why they were not in love
with each other. Here was the sort of woman John needed for a wife.
Though he could not catch her exact words, he gathered that she was
trying to influence him to answer this letter in much more decided
fashion than he had intended. That was Mary Drake all over.
Thoroughly business-like, aggressive, looking after John's interests,
bucking him up at every turn. That was the trouble as far as love
was concerned. John regarded her as a very efficient cog in the
office machinery rather than as a woman. And yet she was very much
of a woman. Underneath the veneer of almost brusqueness, there was a
tender stratum, as Rodrigo thought he had discovered in her unguarded
moments. Love could be awakened in Mary Drake by the right man, and
it would be a very wonderful sort of love.
Rodrigo asked himself if he really wanted John Dorning to be the
awakener. Something in his own heart seemed to protest. Watching
her, a feeling of tenderness for her swept over him. He had never
again sought jauntily to flirt with her as he had attempted to do
that first day he met her. A deeper feeling for her, such as he had
never experienced before for any woman, was being slowly kindled
within him. And this feeling was steadily growing deeper as she
began admitting him to her friendship on much the same status that
John Dorning enjoyed.
She glanced up and saw Rodrigo. Smiling good-morning to him and
quickly gathering up John's letters, including the one under debate,
and her stenographic notebook, she made a movement to retire to her
own office.
"Don't let me drive you away, Mary," Rodrigo said in a genial voice.
"You're not. I was just going anyway." She turned to Dorning.
"Then I'll write Mr. Cunningham we cannot take care of him until he
pays for the other consignment?"
John hesitated, then he nodded affirmatively. "You're absolutely
ruthless, Mary," he protested ruefully, "and you may lose us a good
customer, as well as the money he owes us. But perhaps you know
best. Go ahead--write him as you like."
She enjoyed her little triumph. "Don't worry, John. I know Mr.
Cunningham, and he's no person to be treated with silk gloves on."
And she hurried into her office and closed the door behind her. In
an instant they heard the hurried clack of her typewriter.
"John, I can't tell you how much I enjoyed that little visit with
your folks," Rodrigo began sincerely.
John beamed. "That's fine. And I can tell you they liked you too."
Rodrigo continued, "Maybe I'm to have the chance soon to repay you in
some small measure. Do you remember Sophie Binner, the English
actress we met on the ship coming over? The pretty blonde we walked
around the deck with?" After a slight pause, John concluded he did.
Rodrigo produced the little pink missive from his pocket and
flourished it. "Well, Sophie has invited you and me to a party the
night her show opens here in town. A week from to-night. It will be
a nice, lively time. You'll like it. Shall I answer her it's a
date?"
John shot a questioning glance at Rodrigo. The latter wondered
uneasily if his friend was interpreting the invitation as a sign
Rodrigo was back-sliding a bit. "She particularly wants to see you,"
Rodrigo hastened to lie. Then, impulsively, "Oh, let's go, John. We
both need a change, a little tonic. I know you don't care for
Sophie's kind of people or entertainment usually. Neither do I--any
more. But, for one night, I think it would be a lot of fun. We
could go to some night club, see the sights, dance around a little,
leave them at their hotels, and go on home. What do you say?"
Perhaps John agreed with him. Perhaps it was merely the eagerness in
Rodrigo's voice that swung him. At least he finally concluded,
"You're right. We have been sticking pretty close. I'll be glad to
come along, though the girls will probably find me a bit slow."
"Nonsense," cried Rodrigo, and slapped his friend lustily on the
back. "That's fine," he added. "I'll write Sophie directly."
Falling into an old habit, he started the letter "Dearest Sophie"
almost subconsciously and he used rather intimate language, without
paying much heed to what he was doing. He would rather like to see
Sophie again and bask in her effulgence for a few hours. But as she
would be merely the means of carrying out his and Henry Dorning's
purpose, he excused himself. There would be none of the old thrill
in flattering her in ink, he feared, as he sat down to write her.
Yet he surprised himself with the warmth he worked up in the letter
to her.
[Illustration: "COME ON OUTSIDE AND I'LL SHOW YOU HOW MUCH OF A SHEIK
YOU ARE," SNARLED HIS ANTAGONIST.]
He received an immediate reply from her. She was tickled as pink as
her note-paper, he gathered. He wrote her two more notes, even more
affectionate than the first--one had to pretend to be mad over Sophie
or she would lose interest at once--and was rewarded with many long,
scrawled pages telling of joy over their coming meeting, the
selection of one Betty Brewster as "a great sport and a neat little
trick" as the fourth member of the party, complaints about Christy
and the neutral reception the show had received in Canada.
John Dorning's coming-out party was assuming the proportions of a
festive affair.
John himself made no further mention of it. Rodrigo did not remind
him, having a feeling that his friend might shy off if he gave the
matter much thought. Then, on the morning of the Christy Revue
opening, Rodrigo as off-handedly as possible spoke of their
engagement that evening. And John, looking blankly, and then
confusedly, said, "Why, Rodrigo, I thought I told you. I'm leaving
for Philadelphia this afternoon to attend the dinner of the Rand
Library trustees. You knew we'd put in a bid to furnish the fresco
work for the new building."
Rodrigo's face fell. But his first feeling of irritation and
disappointment passed quickly. John was so frankly mortified. He
_had_ so completely forgotten all about Sophie. It was almost funny.
Rodrigo said, "Can't you put off your trip? Sophie will be very much
disappointed."
"You know I can't postpone it," John faltered. "The dinner at
Philadelphia was arranged especially for me. I'll have to go."
Rodrigo shrugged. "Well, I dare say I can patch it up with Sophie.
We'll make it some other time. I'll give her a ring later and call
it off for to-night."
"Rodrigo, I hope I haven't caused you any inconvenience. I'll be
glad to go out with your friends any other time you say," John
pleaded.
"Oh, don't worry, old boy. I'll fix it up. You just go right ahead
down to Philadelphia, and bring home that contract. Business before
pleasure, you know."
But, around six o'clock, Rodrigo wondered if that were such an
excellent motto after all. He had been too busy all day to call
Sophie. Dorning and Son closed at five o'clock, and he was all alone
there now in the deserted quasi-mausoleum. Mary Drake, who was
usually a late worker, had left in the middle of the afternoon,
because her mother was not feeling well. Now that the party with
Sophie was definitely off and he had nothing but a long lonesome
evening to look forward to, Rodrigo had a feeling of disappointment.
He had been working hard and faithfully for three months, and he had
been looking forward to this evening of pleasure. He deserved it, by
Jove.
On an impulse, he located Bill Terhune's telephone number and picked
up the instrument. Waiting while the bell buzzed, he told himself
that Terhune had probably long since left his office. He half
guiltily hoped the former Oxonian had. But Terhune's familiar voice
smote his ear with a bull-like "Hullo!"
This was followed by a roar of joyous surprise as Rodrigo identified
himself. Agitated questions and replies. Rodrigo broached the
proposition of appointing his delighted listener a substitute for
John Dorning on the Sophie Binner junket.
"Fine! Great!" fairly shouted Terhune. "I'll call my wife up and
tell her I've dropped dead or something."
"Bill--you're married?" questioned Rodrigo.
"Sure. All architects have to get married. It gives them the
necessary standing of respectability that gets the business. I even
live in Jersey. Think of that, eh? Don't worry about my wife. I
can fix it up. She's used to having me stay in town over-night, and
has gotten tired of asking questions. I'll bring the liquor, too.
What's that? Oh, sure--we need liquor. This Binner baby's a regular
blotter, if I remember her rightly. I've got a stock right here in
the office. Good stuff too. I'll meet you in the lobby of the
Envoy. I'll take a room there for the night. What's that? Oh,
no--couldn't think of staying at your place. You know me, Rod--what
would your cultured neighbors say, eh? Don't forget now--lobby of
the Envoy at six-thirty. I'll dash right around there now and book a
room."
Bill Terhune had already registered at the plush-lined Hotel Envoy
and was waiting at the desk, key in one hand and a suitcase in the
other, when Rodrigo walked in. Terhune was bigger, especially around
the waistline, and more red-faced than ever, Rodrigo saw at a glance.
The waiting man greeting the Italian with a lusty roar, bred on the
broad Dakota prairies, that could be heard all around the decorous,
palm-decorated lobby.
"Well, well," Bill rumbled, "who would have thought the Count would
have come to this, eh? But say, boy, I'm sure glad to see you. Come
up and have a drink. Hey, bellboy! Grab that bag, will you, and be
very careful with it too. It contains valuable glassware."
Up in the twelfth floor room which Bill had hired for the night at a
fabulous stipend, the American at once dispatched the bellboy for
ice, glasses, and White Rock. Then he disrobed, sputtered in the
shower-bath for a few minutes, rubbed himself a healthy pink and
dressed in his dinner clothes, which he had brought along in his bag.
"Always keep them at the office," he chuckled. "I can't tell when I
might have an emergency call." He poured bootleg Scotch into the
glasses and rocked the ice around with a spoon.
"How do you get away with it, Bill?" Rodrigo asked, smiling. "I
thought American wives were regular tyrants."
"That's how much you foreigners know," scoffed Bill. "All women love
my type. You can always keep their love by keeping them wondering.
That's my system--I keep my wife wondering whether I'm coming home or
not." He handed Rodrigo a full glass with a flourish. "To good old
Oxford," he toasted with mock reverence. Rodrigo echoed the toast.
The Italian refused another drink a few minutes later, though his
action did not discourage Terhune from tossing off another. In fact,
the genial Bill had three more before he agreed that they had better
eat dinner if they wished to make the Christy Revue by the time the
curtain rose. Rodrigo did not fancy Bill's taking on an alcoholic
cargo that early in the evening. Bill was a nice fellow, but he was
the sort of chronic drinker who, though long habit should have made
him almost impervious to the effects of liquor, nevertheless always
developed a mad desire to fight the whole world after about the fifth
imbibing.
They descended in the elevator, Bill chattering all the while about
his pleasure at seeing his old friend again and about the extreme
hazards of the architect business in New York. A small concern like
his didn't have a chance, according to Bill. The business was all in
the hands of large organizations who specialized in specific branches
of construction, like hotels, residences, restaurants and churches,
and made money by starving their help.
After dinner the two men made jerky, halting taxicab progress through
the maelstrom of theatre-bound traffic and reached their seats at the
Times Square Theatre over half an hour late. The house was filled
with the usual first-night audience of friends of the company,
critics, movie stars, society people, chronic first-nighters, men and
women about town, and stenographers admitted on complimentary tickets
given them by their bosses. It was a well-dressed, lively crowd, and
one that was anxious to be very kind to the show. In spite of this,
Rodrigo was quite sure by the middle of the first act that the revue
wouldn't do. It was doomed to the storehouse, he feared. The girls
were of the colorless English type, comparing not at all with the
hilariously healthy specimens one found in the American musical
comedies. Christy had skimped on the costumes and scenery, both of
which items were decidedly second rate. The humor had too Londonish
a flavor, and the ideas behind the sketches were banal in the extreme.
However, when Sophie Binner came on quite late in the act, Rodrigo
sat up and admitted that the sight of her again gave him decided
exhilaration. She was alluring in her costume of pale blue and gold,
a costume which exposed the famous Binner legs to full advantage and
without the encumbrance of stockings. The audience liked her also.
She was the prettiest woman the footlights had revealed thus far, and
she had a pleasing, though not robust voice. Coupled with this was
an intimate, sprightly personality that caught on at once. She
responded to two encores and finally disappeared amid enthusiastic
applause.
Rodrigo turned to comment upon her success to Bill Terhune, and
discovered that the Dakotan had fallen fast asleep.
During the intermission, Rodrigo left his somnolent seat-mate and,
buttonholing an usher, sent him back-stage with his card. In a few
minutes, he followed the card to the dressing room of Sophie, where,
in contrast to the noisy confusion outside, he was permitted to gaze
upon her gold-and-tinsel liveliness at close range. She was sitting
at her dressing-table, a filmy wrap thrown carelessly about the
costume she has worn in the first act. Her slim, white body looked
very girlish. Her wise, laughing blue eyes welcomed him. With a
swift look at the closed door, she invited, "Kiss me, Rodrigo, and
say you're glad to see me."
He obeyed, not altogether because it is always polite to accommodate
a pretty lady who asks to be kissed. He wanted to kiss her. He
would have done it without the invitation. He did it very expertly
too. Sophie waved her hatchet-faced English maid out of the room.
But that gesture was unnecessary. Rodrigo explained that he could
only stay a minute. He had left the other male member of their
contemplated foursome, sleeping. They laughed merrily over that.
Sophie said she would be overjoyed to see Bill Terhune again. "I was
afraid you were going to bring that sober-faced business partner of
yours," she interjected. Rodrigo stiffened a little, but decided
that this was neither the time nor the place to start an impassioned
defence of John Dorning. The principal thing, he said, was to be
sure Sophie and her companion were set for the festivities after the
show. They were, she cried. She and Betty Brewster would meet them
at the stage door fifteen minutes after the final curtain.