"We ave been expecting to see you out at the house again," she said to
the young man, as they settled on the stairs. They were seated just
below the landing. Her dress, trimmed with silver braid and little
groups of flaunting bows, grazed his knees; he could number every stone
in the rings that crowded her long, thin fingers. "We didn't suppose a
matter of eighteen miles would scare you."
"It doesn't. But you're never home."
"Oh, yes, I am--once in a while. When you do favor us again, get a
time-table for the next time after. I never heard of the 'Q.' charging
anything for them."
"I will."
"Awfully sudden about Mayme, wasn't it?" she said, with a suddenness of
her own. "I didn't suppose it was going to end like that--at least, not
right away. I dare say you have been noticing how Cousin Frances looks
at me, every now and then. You might think _I_ was the one to blame.
She's been talking to mother about it to-night--and me. I guess I'm
going home all right enough."
"Don't you want to?"
"Oh, I don't mind. But what's the dif.--far as May me is concerned, I
mean? She was bound to have him: she wouldn't have anybody else. It was
their affair, wasn't it? Well, then, why not let them manage it?"
"I suppose so," assented George, dubiously.
"Her father won't see her, I hear. I'd like such a father. Her sister
can't do anything with him."
"Her sister?"
"Yes; she's got about as much influence as anybody. Have you seen her?"
"Yes. Are _you_ very well acquainted with her?" he asked.
"Not very. She belongs to the next older generation."
"How much older? Two or three years?"
"Twenty or thirty. She's about the same age as her mother. But more
useful. Mayme thinks everything of her. She's a good, steady, plodding
stay-at-home. She ought to have been let out and given a show--she's
buried there. He makes her do lots of work."
"Her father?"
"Yes. She writes and figures a good deal of the time. She keeps the
grocer's and butcher's books, for one thing. Mayme says she knows how
to telegraph--they've got their own wire right to the house. When she
wants dissipation she goes to her 'Friendly.' And she belongs to a
club over there where they read papers and discuss. She was a good deal
upset."
"Urn," said Ogden, abstractedly. He recalled the girl's appearance
and her little ordeal of having to face a complete stranger at so
distressful a juncture. Yet she had borne herself with dignity and
composure; nor was he able to deny that she had been as perfectly
courteous as her brief appearance permitted. How that he understood,
he had less cause for complaint against her brother, and none at all
against her.
He dwelt lingeringly on the idea of "a complete stranger." He did not
feel that it would have been infinitely more trying to face a curious
neighbor. He had begun to idealize the ordeal and the victim of it.
"A penny for your thoughts," he presently heard his companion saying.
He came out of his study and looked through the stair-rail at the
little throng below. Two gentlemen had just come out of the dining-room.
"I was wondering who they were," he replied, at a venture.
"Who?"
"Those two."
The pair was followed by Walworth, whose pleasure it was to pour
libations whenever the gathering of two or three together gave a
pretext for that ceremony. One of the two sucked in his upper lip with
due caution, and both united in a pretence--decent, but slight and
futile--that the ladies knew nothing of these hospitable doings.
"The tall, brown one is Mr. Ingles. Haven't you met him here before?"
She indicated a man of forty, whose face was shaven except for a small
pair of snuff-colored whiskers, and whose mouth made a firm, straight,
thin line.
"Ingles? Arthur J.?"
"I don't know; I guess so. He owns the building--the Clifton."
"He's no dude," murmured Ogden to himself.
"Eh? Who said he was?"
"Oh, nobody. Who is the other?"
"That's Mr. Atwater--Mr. Ingles's architect. They're chums; were in
college together. Isn't he the most fascinating-looking man you ever
saw?"
"By Jove, he _is_ distinguished, for a fact! Was he born--here?"
"Don't you think it's lovely for a man of his age to have gray
hair--gray that's almost white? I shall do all I can to make _my_
husband grayhaired before he is middle-aged!"
She laughed at her own audacity. He turned about and stared at her, and
she laughed more heartily yet.
"And don't you like the twirl of his moustache? Or would you have
preferred him with whiskers?--cut in a straight line right across
his cheeks, with the corners near his mouth rounded off--but not too
formally. And do you notice the bridge of his nose and the air it gives
him? And his eyes--wait till he turns around; there, did you ever see
such a hazel? He seems to have everything--youth, experience, style,
family;--why did you ask if he was born here?" she demanded suddenly.
"Did I? I must have meant--is he going to die here?"
"Why not? You don't suppose that men of talent are going to leave
Chicago after this?"
"Do you expect to provide them with careers?"
"I don't see why we shouldn't. We're on the crest of the wave, and
we're going higher yet. From now on anybody who leaves us is likely to
be sorry for it."
Ogden looked back at Ingles; he stood in a doorway, between Fairchild
and Jessie's father.
"Is his wife here?"
"Oh, he isn't married, I don't believe."
"Hot married?--Ingles, I mean."
"Oh! Yes, he's married."
"Is his wife here?"
"Dear, no; you have to speak weeks ahead to get her."
"He's the one, then," Ogden assured himself.
"Which one?"
"Her husband. Do you know her?"
"I've met her here." She leaned over the railing. "What are they all
laughing about, down there?"
"Do you want to go and see?"
Mrs. Floyd and her sister had appeared in the doorway. Between them
was a little girl of five; she had one hand in her mother's, and with
the other she clutched a dilapidated doll. The child wore a guimpe and
a prim little frock with puffed sleeves; she had long, smooth brown
hair that turned thickly at her shoulders, and a pair of big, round,
wondering brown eyes.
"It's Claudia," said Jessie Bradley. "Yes, let's go down."
Atwater had placed himself before the child, half crouching, half
kneeling. He had the persuasive and ingratiating manner proper to a
fashionable architect whose clients were largely women and wealthy
ones, and he seemed willing enough to bring his batteries to bear on
the tiny woman before him.
"Isn't it pretty late for dolly? Oughtn't she to be put to bed in her
own little house?"