"Sit down, won't you, please," said the little lady; but Deering stood
staring open-mouthed at the girl.
Beyond question, she was the girl of the Little Dipper; there was no
mistaking her. At this point the old gentleman afforded diversion by
rising and bowing first to Hood and then to Deering.
"I am Pantaloon," he said. "My daughter is Columbine, as you may have
guessed."
"It's very nice to see you again," Pierrette remarked to Deering; "but,
of course, I didn't know you would be here. How goes the burgling?"
"I--er--haven't got started yet. I find it a little difficult----"
"I'm afraid you're not getting much fun out of the adventurous life," she
suggested, noting the wild look in his eyes.
"I don't understand things, that's all," he confessed, "but I think I'm
going to like it."
"You find it a little too full of surprises? Oh, we all do at first! You
see grandfather is seventy, and he never grew up, and mamma is just like
him. And I--" She shrugged her shoulders and flashed a smile at her
grandparent.
"You are wonderful--bewildering," Deering stammered.
The old gentleman was inveighing at Hood upon America's lack of mirth;
the American people had utterly lost their capacity for laughter, the old
man averred. Deering's fork beat a lively tattoo on his plate as he
attacked his caviar.
And then another girl entered and walked to the remaining vacant place
opposite him.
"Smeraldina," murmured the mistress of the house, glancing round the
table, and calmly finishing a remark the girl's entrance had interrupted.
Deering's last hold upon sanity slowly relaxed. Unless his wits were
entirely gone, he was facing his sister Constance. She wore a dark gown,
with white collar and cuffs, and her manner was marked by the restraint
of an upper servant of some sort who sits at the family table by
sufferance. He was about to gasp out her name when she met his eyes with
a glinty stare and a quick shake of the head. Then Pierrette addressed a
remark to her--kindly meant to relieve her embarrassment--referring to a
walk over the hills they had taken together that afternoon.
"Ah, Smeraldina!" cried Pantaloon, "how is that last chapter? Columbine
refuses to show me any more of the book until it is finished. I look to
you to make a duplicate for my private perusal."
Here was light of a sort upon the strange household; its mistress was a
writer of books; Constance was her secretary; but the effort to explain
how his sister came to be masquerading in such a role left him
doddering, and that she should refuse to recognize him--her own brother!
"If that new book is half as good as 'The Madness of May,'" Pantaloon was
saying, "I shall not be disappointed."
"Oh, it's much better; infinitely better!" Constance declared warmly.
"Tuck, do you realize we are in the presence of greatness?" cried Hood.
Then, turning to Columbine: "The author will please accept my heartiest
congratulations!"
"Thank you kindly," replied the hostess. "I'm fortunate in my secretary.
Smeraldina is my fifth, and the first who ever made a suggestion that was
of the slightest use. The others had no imagination; they all objected to
being called Smeraldina, and one of them was named Smith!"
"I'm afraid I'm the first who ever had the impertinence to suggest
anything," Constance answered humbly.
This was not the sister Deering had known in his old life before he fell
victim to the prevailing May madness. She was in servitude and evidently
trying to make the best of it. She had been the jolliest, the most
high-spirited of girls, and to find her now meekly acting as amanuensis
to a lady whose very name he didn't know sent his imagination stumbling
through the blindest of dark alleys.
Only the near presence of Pierrette and her perfect composure and
good-nature checked his inclination to stand up and shout to relieve his
feelings.
"I hope you don't mind my not turning up for breakfast," she remarked in
her low, bell-like tones.
Deering's hopes rose. That breakfast at the bungalow seemed the one
tangible incident of his twenty-four hours in Hood's company and,
perhaps, if he let her take the lead, he might find himself on solid
earth again.
"I'd been week-ending with Babette; she's an artist, you know, and I'm
posing for another of mamma's heroines. Babette got me up at daylight to
pose for the last picture and then--I skipped and left her to manage the
breakfast."
Her laugh as she said this established her identity beyond question. For
a moment the thought of the packages of worthless wrapping-paper he had
found in his suitcase chilled his happiness in finding her again; but it
had not been her fault; the unbroken seals fully established her
innocence.
"You understand, of course, that it's a dark secret that mother writes.
She had scribbled for her own amusement all her life, and published 'The
Madness of May' just to see what the public would do to it."
"I understand that it's immensely amusing," remarked Deering, thrilling
as she turned toward him.
"Oh, you haven't read it!" she cried. "Mamma, Mr. Tuck hasn't read your
book."
"My young friend is just beginning his education," interposed Hood. "I
unhesitatingly pronounce 'The Madness of May' a classic--something the
tired world has been awaiting for years!"
"Right!" cried Pantaloon. "You are quite right, sir. 'The Madness of May'
isn't a novel, it's a text-book on happiness!"
"Truer words were never spoken!" exclaimed Hood with enthusiasm.
"Do you know," began Deering, when it was possible to address Pierrette
directly again, "I don't believe I was built for this life. I find myself
checking off the alphabet on my fingers every few minutes to see if I
have gone plumb mad!"
She bent toward him with entreaty in her eyes. He observed that they were
brown eyes! In the starlight he had been unable to judge of their color,
and he was chagrined that he hadn't guessed at that first interview that
she was a brown-eyed girl. Only a brown-eyed girl would have hung a moon
in a tree! Brown eyes are immensely eloquent of all manner of pleasant
things--such as mischief, mirth, and dreams. Moreover, brown eyes are so
highly sensitized that they receive and transmit messages in the most
secret of ciphers, and yet always with circumspection. He was perfectly
satisfied with Pierrette's eyes and relieved that they were not blue, for
blue eyes may be cold, and the finest of black eyes are sometimes dull.
Gray eyes alone--misty, fathomless gray eyes--share imagination with
brown ones. But neither a blue-eyed nor a black-eyed nor a gray-eyed
Pierrette was to be thought of. Pierrette's eyes were brown, as he should
have known, and what she was saying to him was just what he should have
expected once the color of her eyes had been determined.
"Please don't! You must never try to _understand_ things like this! You
see grandpa and mamma love larking, and this is a lark. We're always
larking, you know."
Hood's voice rose commandingly:
"Once when I was in jail in Utica----"
Deering regretted his shortness of leg that made it impossible to kick
his erratic companion under the table. But a chorus of approval greeted
this promising opening, and Hood continued relating with much detail the
manner in which he had once been incarcerated in company with a
pickpocket whose accomplishments and engaging personality he described
with gusto. There was no denying that Hood talked well, and the strict
attention he was receiving evoked his best efforts.
Deering, covertly glancing at his sister, found that she too hung upon
Hood's words. Her presence in the house still presented an enigma with
which his imagination struggled futilely, but no opportunity seemed
likely to offer for an exchange of confidences.
Constance was a thoroughbred and played her part flawlessly. Her
treatment by her employer left nothing to be desired; the amusing little
grandfather appealed to her now and then with unmistakable liking, and
the smiles that passed between her and Pierrette were evidence of the
friendliest relationship.
The dinner was served in a leisurely fashion that encouraged talk, and
Deering availed himself of every chance for a tete-a-tete with
Pierrette. She graciously came down out of the clouds and conversed of
things that were within his comprehension--of golf and polo for
example--and then passed into the unknown again. But in no way did she so
much as hint at her identity. When she referred to her mother or
grandfather she employed the pseudonyms by which he already knew them.
While they were on the subject of polo he asked her if she had witnessed
a certain match.
"Oh, yes, I was there!" she replied. "And, of course, I saw you; you were
the star performer. At tea afterward I saw you again, surrounded by
admirers." She laughed at his befuddlement. "But it's against all the
rules to try to unmask me! Of course, I know you, but maybe you will
never know me!"
"I don't believe you are cruel enough to prolong my agony forever! I
can't stand this much longer!"
"Perhaps some day," she answered quietly and meeting his eager gaze
steadily, "we shall meet just as the people of the world meet, and then
maybe you won't like me at all!"
"After this the world will never be the same planet again. Hereafter my
business will be to follow you----"