"Look here, Miss Obloski, what's wrong? Let's be honest, whatever else
we are. Is it because they _know_ something against me, because they
_think_ they do, or because they _know_ that they don't?"
"It's that," said Daisy. "Mr. Linnevitch don't want me to be going out
with any one he don't know about."
Barstow was obviously relieved. "Thank you," he said. "That's all square
now. It isn't Mrs. Linnevitch; it's the boss. It isn't going out in
general; it's going out with me!"
Then he surprised her. "The boss is absolutely right," he said. "I'm for
him, and, Miss Obloski, I won't ask you to trust me until I've proved to
Linnevitch that I'm a proper guardian----"
"It's only Mr. Linnevitch," said Daisy, smiling very sweetly. "It's not
me. _I_ trust you." Her eyes were like two serene stars.
Barstow leaned closer and spoke lower. "Miss Obloski," he said,
"Daisy"--and he lingered on the name--"there's only one thing you could
say that I'd rather hear."
Daisy wanted to ask what that was. But there was no natural coquetry in
the girl. She did not dare.
She did not see him again for three whole days; but she fed upon his
last words to her until she was ready, and even eager, to say that other
thing which alone he would rather hear than that she trusted him.
Between breakfast and dinner on the fourth day a tremendous great man,
thick in the chest and stomach, wearing a frock coat and a glossy silk
hat, entered the restaurant. The man's face, a miracle of close shaving,
had the same descending look of heaviness as his body. But it was a
strong, commanding face in spite of the pouched eyes and the drooping
flesh about the jaws and chin. Daisy, busy with her book-keeping, looked
up and smiled, with her strong instinct for friendliness.
The gentleman removed his hat. Most of his head was bald. "You'll be
Miss Obloski," he said. "The top o' the mornin' to you, miss. My boy has
often spoken of you. I call him my boy bekase he's been like a son to
me--like a son. Is Linnevitch in? Never mind, I know the way."
He opened, without knocking upon it, the door which led from the
restaurant into the Linnevitches' parlor. Evidently a great man. And how
beautifully and touchingly he had spoken of Barstow! Daisy returned to
her addition. Two and three are six and seven are twelve and four are
nineteen. Then she frowned and tried again.
The great man was a long time closeted with Linnevitch. She could hear
their voices, now loud and angry, now subdued. But she could not gather
what they were talking about.
At length the two emerged from the parlor--Linnevitch flushed, red,
sullen, and browbeaten; the stranger grandly at ease, an unlighted cigar
in his mouth. He took off his hat to Daisy, bent his brows upon her with
an admiring glance, and passed out into the sunlight.
"Who was it?" said Daisy.
"That," said Linnevitch, "is Cullinan, the boss--Bull Cullinan. Once he
was a policeman, and now he is a millionaire."
There was a curious mixture of contempt, of fear, and of adulation in
Linnevitch's voice.
"He is come here," he said, "to tell me about that young feller."
"Oh!" exclaimed Daisy. "Mr. Barstow?"
Linnevitch did not meet her eye. "I am wrong," he said, "and that young
feller is O. K."
When Daisy came back from her first dancing lesson, Mr. and Mrs.
Linnevitch were sitting up for her. Her gayety and high spirits seemed
to move the couple, especially Linnevitch, deeply. He insisted that she
eat some crackers and drink a glass of milk. He was wonderfully gentle,
almost tender, in his manner; but whenever she looked at him he looked
away.