A DINNER.
The last remark made by Miss De Voe to her fire resulted, after a few
days, in Peter’s receiving a formal dinner invitation, which he
accepted with a promptness not to be surpassed by the best-bred
diner-out. He regretted now his vamping of the old suit. Peter
understood that he was in for quite another affair than the Avery, the
Gallagher, or even the Purple dinner. He did not worry, however, and if
in the dressing-room he looked furtively at the coats of the other men,
he entirely forgot the subject the moment he started downstairs, and
thought no further of it till he came to take off the suit in his own
room.
When Peter entered the drawing-room, he found it well filled with young
people, and for a moment a little of the bewildered feeling of four
years before came over him. But he found himself chatting with Miss De
Voe, and the feeling left him as quickly as it had come. In a moment he
was introduced to a “Miss Lenox,” who began talking in an easy way
which gave Peter just as much or as little to say as he chose. Peter
wondered if many girls were as easy to talk to as—as—Miss Lenox.
He took Miss De Voe in, and found Dorothy Ogden sitting on his other
side. He had barely exchanged greetings with her, when he heard his
name spoken from across the table, and looking up, he found Miss Leroy
sitting opposite.
“I hope you haven’t entirely forgotten me,” that girl said, the moment
his attention was caught.
“Not at all,” said Peter.
“Nor my dress,” laughed Miss Leroy.
“I remember the style, material, and train.”
“Especially the train I am sure.”
“Do explain these mysterious remarks,” said Dorothy.
“Mr. Stirling and I officiated at a wedding, and I was in such mortal
terror lest some usher should step on my gown, that it became a joke.”
“Whose wedding was that?” asked Miss De Voe.
“Miss Pierce’s and Watts D’Alloi’s,” said the bridesmaid.
“Do you know Watts D’Alloi?” exclaimed Miss De Voe to Peter.
“Yes.”
“Indeed! When?”
“At college.”
“Are you a Harvard man?”
“Yes.”
“You were Mr. D’Alloi’s chum, weren’t you?” said Miss Leroy.
“Yes.”
“Watts D’Alloi?” again exclaimed Miss De Voe.
“Yes.”
“But he’s a mere boy.”
“He’s two years my senior.”
“You don’t mean it?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were over thirty.”
“Most people do.”
Miss De Voe said to herself, “I don’t know as much about him as I
thought I did. He may be very frank, but he doesn’t tell all one
thinks. Now I know where he gets his nice manner. I ought to have
recognized the Harvard finish.”
“When did you last hear from the D’Allois?” asked Miss Leroy.
“Not since they sailed,” said Peter, wincing internally.
“Not really?” said the bridesmaid. “Surely you’ve heard of the baby?”
“No.” Lines were coming into Peter’s face which Miss De Voe had never
before seen.
“How strange. The letters must have gone astray. But you have written
him?”
“I did not know his address.”
“Then you really haven’t heard of the little baby—why, it was born
two—no, three years ago—and of Helen’s long ill-health, and of their
taking a villa on the Riviera, and of how they hope to come home this
spring?”
“No.”
“Yes. They will sail in June if Helen is well enough. I’m to be
god-mother.”
“If you were Mr. D’Alloi’s chum, you must have known Ray Rivington,”
said Dorothy.
“Yes. But I’ve not seen him since we graduated. He went out West.”
“He has just returned. Ranching is not to his taste.”
“Will you, if you see him, say that I’m in New York and should like to
run across him?”
“I will. He and Laurence—my second brother—are old cronies, and he
often drops in on us. I want you to know my brothers. They are both
here this evening.”
“I have met the elder one, I suppose.”
“No. That was a cousin, Lispenard Ogden. He spoke of meeting you. You
would be amused to hear his comment about you.”
“Mr. Stirling doesn’t like to have speeches repeated to him, Dorothy,”
said Miss De Voe.
“What do you mean?” asked Dorothy, looking from one to the other.
“He snubbed me the other evening when I tried to tell him what we
heard, coming out of the convention last autumn,” explained Miss De
Voe, smiling slightly at the thought of treating Peter with a dose of
his own medicine.
Peter looked at Miss De Voe. “I hope you don’t mean that?”
“How else could I take it?”
“You asked me if I wished something, and I merely declined, I think.”
“Oh, no. You reproved me.”
“I’m very sorry if I did. I’m always blundering.”
“Tell us what Lispenard said, Dorothy. I’m curious myself.”
“May I, Mr. Stirling?
“I would rather not,” said Peter.
And Dorothy did not tell him, but in the drawing-room she told Miss De
Voe:
“He said that except his professor of archaeology at Heidelberg, Mr.
Stirling was the nicest old dullard he’d ever met, and that he must be
a very good chap to smoke with.”
“He said that, Dorothy?” exclaimed Miss De Voe, contemptuously.
“Yes.”
“How ridiculous,” said Miss De Voe. “Lispenard’s always trying to hit
things off in epigrams, and sometimes he’s very foolish.” Then she
turned to Miss Leroy. “It was very nice, your knowing Mr. Stirling.”
“I only met him that once. But he’s the kind of man somehow that you
remember. It’s curious I’ve never heard of him since then.”
“You know he’s the man who made that splendid speech when the poor
children were poisoned summer before last.”
“I can’t believe it!”
“It’s so. That is the way I came to know him.”
Miss Leroy laughed. “And Helen said he was a man who needed help in
talking!”
“Was Mrs. D’Alloi a great friend of his?”
“No. She told me that Watts had brought him to see them only once. I
don’t think Mr. Pierce liked him.”
“He evidently was very much hurt at Watts’s not writing him.”
“Yes. I was really sorry I spoke, when I saw how he took it.”
“Watts is a nice boy, but he always was thoughtless.”
In passing out of the dining-room, Dorothy had spoken to a man for a
moment, and he at once joined Peter.
“You know my sister, Miss Ogden, who’s the best representative of us,”
he said. “Now I’ll show you the worst. I don’t know whether she
exploited her brother Ogden to you?”
“Yes. She talked about you and your brother this evening.”
“Trust her to stand by her family. There’s more loyalty in her than
there was in the army of the Potomac. My cousin Lispenard says it’s
wrecking his nervous system to live up to the reputation she makes for
him.”
“I never had a sister, but it must be rather a good thing to live up
to.”
“Yes. And to live with. Especially other fellows’ sisters.”
“Are you ready to part with yours for that purpose?”
“No. That’s asking too much. By the way, I think we are in the same
work. I’m in the office of Jarvis, Redburn and Saltus.”
“I’m trying it by myself.”
“You’ve been very lucky.”
“Yes. I’ve succeeded much better than I hoped for. But I’ve had very
few clients.”
“Fortunately it doesn’t take many. Two or three rich steady clients
will keep a fellow running. I know a man who’s only got one, but he
runs him for all he’s worth, and gets a pretty good living out of him.”
“My clients haven’t been of that sort.” Peter smiled a little at the
thought of making a steady living out of the Blacketts, Dooleys or
Milligans.
“It’s all a matter of friends.”
Peter had a different theory, but he did not say so. Just at that point
they were joined by Laurence Ogden, who was duly introduced, and in a
moment the conversation at their end of the table became general. Peter
listened, enjoying his Havana.
When they joined the ladies, they found Lispenard Ogden there, and he
intercepted Peter.
“Look here,” he said. “A friend of mine has just come back from Europe,
with a lot of prints. He’s a fellow who thinks he has discrimination,
and he wants me to come up and look them over to-morrow evening. He
hopes to have his own taste approved and flattered. I’m not a bit good
at that, with men. Won’t you go with me, and help me lie?”
“Of course I should like to.”
“All right. Dine with me at six at the Union Club.”
“I’m not going to let you talk to each other,” said Miss De Voe.
“Lispenard, go and talk with Miss McDougal.”
“See how quickly lying brings its own punishment,” laughed Lispenard,
walking away.
“What does he mean?” asked Miss De Voe.
“The opposite of what he says, I think,” said Peter.
“That is a very good description of Lispenard. Almost good enough to
have been said by himself. If you don’t mind, I’ll tell him.”
“No.”
“Do tell me, Mr. Stirling, how you and Watts D’Alloi came to room
together?”
“He asked me.”
“Yes. But what ever made him do that?”
“I’ve often wondered myself.”
“I can easily understand his asking you, but what first threw you
together?”
“A college scrape.”
“Were you in a college scrape?”
“Yes. I was up before the faculty twice.”
“Do tell me what you had done?”
“I was charged with stealing the chapel Bible, and with painting a
front door of one of the professors.”
“And had you done these things?”
“No.”
The guests began to say good-night, so the dialogue was interrupted.
When it came Peter’s turn to go, Miss De Voe said:
“I hope you will not again refuse my dinner invitations.”
“I have had a very pleasant evening,” said Peter. “But I had a
pleasanter one, the other night.”
“Good-evening,” said Miss De Voe mechanically. She was really thinking
“What a very nice speech. He couldn’t have meant anything by his remark
about the questions.”
Peter dined the next evening with Lispenard, who in the course of the
meal turned the conversation to Miss De Voe. Lispenard was curious to
learn just what Peter knew of her.
“She’s a great swell, of course,” he said incidentally.
“I suppose so. I really know nothing about her, but the moment I saw
her I felt that she was different from any other woman I had ever met.”
“But you’ve found out about her since?”
“No. I was tempted to question Dr. Purple, but I didn’t like to ask
about a friend.”
Lispenard laughed. “You’ve got a pretty bad case of conscience, I’m
afraid. It’s a poor thing to have in New York, too. Well, my cousin is
one of the richest, best born women in this country, though I say it.
You can’t do better than cultivate her.”
“Is that what you do?”
“No. You have me there. She doesn’t approve of me at all. You see,
women in this country expect a man to be serious and work. I can’t do
either. I suppose its my foreign education. She likes my company, and
finds my escortage very convenient. But while she thinks I’m a pretty
good companion, she is sure I’m a poor sort of a man. If she takes a
shine to you, make the most of it. She can give you anything she
pleases socially.”
“I suppose you have anything you please socially?”
“Pretty much.”
“And would you advise me to spend time to get it?”
“Um. I wouldn’t give the toss of a copper for it—but I can have it.
It’s not being able to have it that’s the bad thing.”
“So I have found,” said Peter gravely.
Lispenard laughed heartily, as he sipped his “Court France.” “I wish,”
he said, “that a lot of people, whose lives are given to nothing else,
could have heard you say that, in that tone of voice. You don’t spell
Society with a capital, do you?”
“Possibly,” said Peter, “if I had more capital, I should use some on
society.”
“Good,” said Lispenard. “Heavens,” he said to himself, “he’s made a
joke! Cousin Anneke will never believe it.”
He told her the next day, and his statement proved correct.
“I know you made the joke,” she said. “He didn’t.”
“And why shouldn’t he joke as well as I?”
“It doesn’t suit him.”
“Why not?”
“Parlor tricks are all right in a lap-dog, but they only belittle a
mastiff.”
Lispenard laughed good-naturedly. He was used to his cousin’s hits at
his do-nothingness, and rather enjoyed them. “He is a big beast, isn’t
he? But he’s a nice fellow. We had such a good time over Le Grand’s
etchings last night. Didn’t get away till after one. It’s really a
pleasure to find a man who can smoke and keep quiet, and yet enjoy
things strongly. Le Grand was taken with him too. We just fitted each
other.”
“I’m glad you took him. I’m going to give him some society.”
“Did you ever hear the story of Dr. Brown?”
“No. What is it?”
“A certain widow announced to her son that she was to marry Dr. Brown.
‘Bully for you, Ma,’ said the son, ‘Does Dr. Brown know it?’”
“What do you mean?”
Lispenard laughed. “Does Stirling know it? Because I advise you to tell
him before you decide to do anything with him. He’s not easy to drive.”
“Of course he’ll be glad to meet nice people.”
“Try him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Peter Stirling won’t give a raparee for all the society
you can give him.”
“You don’t know what you are talking about.”
But Lispenard was right. Peter had enjoyed the dinner at Miss De Voe’s
and the evening at Mr. Le Grand’s. Yet each night on reaching his
rooms, he had sat long hours in his straight office chair, in the dark.
He was thinking of what Miss Leroy had told him of—of—He was not
thinking of “Society.”