Arlt dropped in at Thayer's rooms, the next afternoon, and sat looking
on while his friend put himself into his evening clothes, preparatory to
dining with Miss Gannion.
"I walked up here with Mr. Dane," he observed, after a thoughtful
interval. "What an American he is!"
"American?"
"Yes. No other country but yours can produce such people. France tries
it, and fails. A Frenchman takes his frivolity in earnest. Mr. Dane is
like that little _Scherzo_ by Faulkes, the one that frisks on and on,
and all of a sudden comes to an end with a loud _Ha ha_ over its own
absurdity. Mr. Dane delights in his own talk, just as you delight in
your singing."
"He is not self-conscious," Thayer objected quickly.
"Neither are you. Each of you has a gift, and you each delight in using
it. That is not saying that you either of you regard it as the only gift
in the world. Instead, having it, you make the most of it, to let it
grow and to put it in the way of giving pleasure to other people."
Thayer smiled, in spite of himself.
"To paraphrase you, Arlt, what a German you are! Nobody else would
attempt to philosophize concerning Bobby Dane."
"Why not? He is worth it, for he has other gifts than his wit."
"Did he say anything about Lorimer?" Thayer asked abruptly.
"He spoke of him once or twice."
"Anything especial?"
"N-o."
There had been a slight hesitation. The next instant, Arlt felt Thayer's
keen eyes upon him.
"Is anything wrong with Lorimer?"
"What should there be?"
"Nothing should be. I asked if anything is."
"Mr. Dane would hardly discuss his friends with me." Arlt's tone was
noncommittal.
"Now, see here, Arlt, don't get obstinate. We both know Lorimer's
failing. Have you heard anything new about him?"
Arlt stared hard at the carpet.
"Mr. Lorimer was very good to the mother and Katarina," he said, in his
slow, deliberate English.
"That may be. Mr. Lorimer has been good to a great many people, and we
aren't going to forget it. That doesn't keep us from knowing his
weakness."
"No," Arlt said simply; "but it might keep us from discussing it."
Thayer's lips shut closely for an instant. He felt a rebuke which Arlt
would never have dared to intend.
"It might; but it does not. We both know it, and there is no harm in our
talking it over. Lorimer is weak and foolish; he isn't nearly so bad as
many men we know. The taint is in his blood, and he is too easy-going to
fight it out."
"But he did fight, last summer," Arlt urged.
Thayer's thoughts flew backwards to one night, in Lorimer's room at the
hotel. It seemed to him he could still see Lorimer's flushed face, still
hear against the background of noises that marred the stillness of the
August moonlight outside the window, the high-pitched, insistent voice
of the man who sat on the edge of the bed, arguing about the necessity
of unlacing his shoes before taking them off. The next morning, Beatrix
had received a note from Thayer, apologizing for carrying Lorimer off
for a day's fishing. Cotton Mather himself might well have envied the
grim fervor of the sermon preached by his namesake, that sunshiny summer
day. The old-time hell gave place to a more modern theory of
retribution; but the terrors were painted with a black-tipped brush, and
Lorimer had shuddered, as he listened. For the once, Thayer had made no
effort to avoid rousing his antagonism. Lorimer had been more angry than
ever before in his life; then the inevitable reaction had come, and it
had been a penitent, hopeful sinner who had walked up the pier at
Thayer's side, late in the afternoon. But Arlt, who had been playing
Chopin at Monomoy, all the previous evening, was quite at a loss to
understand how a single day's fishing could so completely exhaust a
strong man like Thayer.
Arlt changed his phrase to the direct question.
"Don't you think he fought with the best that was in him?"