Spring was turbulent in the sap of young trees and the blood of young
humans when Mary Delia James rolled along Fifth Avenue in the quietly
elegant limousine provided for her special use by a correctly generous
husband. Nothing about her suggested participation in the turbulence of
the season. Rather, life with that most unvernal young man, T. Jameson
James, would have served to allay any tendencies toward ebullience
which she might otherwise have exhibited. She gave the impression of a
cool impassivity.
The car had just turned into a side street when her languid expression
livened. She signalled to her chauffeur, leaned out of the window and
called:
"Cary! Cary Scott!"
The object of the summons turned in mid-crossing and came back, his
eyes shining with pleasure.
"Dee! It is good to see you again. How's James?"
"All right, thank you. What do you mean by turning up and not letting
us know?"
"Unexpected," he explained. "I hardly had time to find it out before I
was here."
"The telegraph, that useful invention, is still operating. Get in;
we're blocking traffic. You're dining and spending the night with us,
of course."
"If I stay over," he answered dubiously. "I don't know yet. Tell me
about the family."
"As usual. We're all flourishing in true Fentriss style."
"Pat? And Mr. Fentriss? And the Brownings?"
"Separated. No; I don't mean Fred and Con," she amended, laughing at
the dismay in his face. "Dad and the Brownings. Fred's sticking to
business _and_ to Con; they've got a cottage over beyond the Club;
addition in June, not to the cottage, to the family. Pat's running
Holiday Knoll like a veteran, though just now she's in Boston. She'll
be sunk in desolation when she finds you've been here and she's missed
you."
"Perhaps I'll be back again when she returns," he said carelessly, but
his words belied his inward resolution so to arrange his schedule that
he would run no risk of the peace-destroying encounter. As a minor
determination, he decided to accept Dee's invitation for the night,
since it involved no danger of seeing Pat.
"Yes; Pat's quite doing her job," continued Dee. "It's good for her
to have the responsibility. But she's still a queer, restless, morbid
kid. You saw a lot of her at one time, Cary. I always thought you had a
steadying influence on her. What's the matter with Pat, do you think?"
"The fever of the age, perhaps."
"Oh, we've all got that. But Pat's temperature is particularly high.
She rushes from one whirl to another, playing Billy-old-hell with Mark
Denby one week, and Emslie Selfridge another, and Selden Thorpe, a
third, and what does she get out of it? Not even excitement, or else
she's a little liar. She's beaten it now because she says she's bored
to suicide with this place."
"And you yourself, Dee? How is it with you?"
"Oh, I've everything I want," she said restlessly.
"Everything should include happiness; I'm glad."
"What's that? Don't know--yeh." Her voice was hard. "Please stop
looking at me like a solemn owl, as if you were probing for symptoms.
Bobs does all that I need in that line."
"Osterhout? How is he?"
"Go and see him. He needs stirring up. You _are_ coming to us to-night,
aren't you?"
"Only too charmed. What's this place?" he asked, as the car drew to the
curb.
"My tailor's. Will you wait for me?"
"Heavens, no!" he laughed. "I'm nearly forty now. Can't spare the time."
"Then account for yourself before you go. What brings you here so
suddenly and without any announcement?"
"A peculiar mission."
"Private, for a guess. Not hooked, are you, Cary?"
"Nothing of that nature. It's private, but not secret, from you. In
fact, you may be able to help me."
"I? In what possible way?"
"I want to find Stanley Wollaston."
At the name a slow colour rose in Dee's cheeks until it tinged even
the broadly and beautifully modelled forehead. "He's gone away. To
Richmond. I can give you his address."
"Good! I've some important news for him. There's no reason why you
shouldn't know it. His aunt in England has died and left him the
estate. Stan's lean days are over."
The rich hue ebbed out of Dee's face. "He'll go back, then," she mused.
At once she recovered herself. "I _am_ glad," she said.
"I knew you would be," he answered. But he thought with pity: "She
still loves him"; and, with uneasiness, "and still sees him." He
continued: "He'll be going back within a month at the latest. I'll go
on to-morrow to find him."
He got out, bared his head, and helped her to alight.
"At seven o'clock then," she said. "Shall I get some people in? Who do
you want to see?"
"No one else in the world," he answered with such conviction that she
smiled up at him.
"You _are_ a dear, Cary. I can't tell you how much we've missed you.
Pat almost went into mourning."
She did not see his expression change, ever so slightly, as he turned
away. Business of his own kept Scott busy most of the afternoon. When
he reached the club he found Jameson James waiting to motor him out.
James was amiable in his stiff and carefully measured way.
Scott went to his room immediately upon their arrival, bathed, dressed,
drank the preliminary cocktail which Dee had mixed with her own hands
and sent up to him, and had started to go downstairs when he stopped,
his breath piling up, as it were, in his throat from an emotion half
dismay, half rapture. The unforgettable, luscious huskiness of a voice
floated up from below.
"Dee; where are you? _Do_ come and hook this last hook for me. I can't
get the dam' thing to stay."
He took a step forward. Pat looked up. "Oh, _Mist_-er Scott!" she
crowed. "It's too flawless to see you again. I thought you were _never_
coming back."