XI

The sun had gone down, and the last of its lingering glory had died

before the yawl managed to cajole her way back to her mooring.

Dinner was ready by the time the hungry threesome, laughing and

talking, arrived at the cottage. Howard, spoiling for a cocktail, made

for the small square dining-room, and Irene, waving her hand to

Tootles, cried out, "Cheero, dearie, you missed a speedy trip, I don't

think," and took her into the house to tidy up in the one bathroom.

Martin drew up short on the edge of the stoop, listened and looked

about, holding his breath. It was most odd, but--there was something in

the still air that had the sense of Joan in it.

After a moment, during which his very soul asked for a sight of her, he

stumped into the living room and rang the bell impatiently.

The imperturbable Judson appeared at once, his eyebrows slightly raised.

"Has any one been here while I've been away?" asked Martin.

"No, sir. No one except Miss Capper, who's been reading on the stoop."

"You're quite sure?"

"You never can be quite sure about anything in this life, sir, but I

saw no one."

"Oh," said Martin. "All right, then." But when he was alone, he stood

again, listening and looking. There was nothing of Joan in the room. A

mixture of honeysuckle and tobacco and the aroma of cooking that had

slipped through the swing door into the the kitchen. That was all. And

Martin sighed deeply and said to himself "Not yet. I must go on

waiting," and went upstairs to his bedroom. He could hear Irene's voice

above the rush of water in the bathroom and Howard's, outside, raised

in song. In the trees outside his window a bird was piping to its mate,

and in the damp places here and there the frogs had already begun to

try their voices for their community chorus. It was a peaceful earth,

thereabouts falsely peaceful. An acute ear could easily have detected

an angry roar of guns that came ever nearer and nearer, and caught the

whisper of a Voice calling and calling.

When Martin returned to the wood-lined sitting room with its large

brick chimney, its undergraduate chairs and plain oak furniture, its

round thick blue and white mats and disorderly bookcase, Tootles was

there, a Tootles with a high chin, a half defiant smile, and

honeysuckle at her belt.

"Tootles."

"Yes?"

"Have you been alone all the afternoon?"

"Yes." (Fight? Tooth and nail.) "Except for the flies.... Why, boy?"

"Oh, nothing. I thought--I mean, I wondered--but it doesn't matter. By

gum, you have made the room look smart, haven't you? Good old Tootles.

Even a man's room can be made to look like something when a girl takes

an interest in it."

If she had been a dog she would have wagged her tail and crinkled up

her nose and jumped up to put her nozzle against his hand. As it was

she flushed with pleasure and gave a little laugh. She was a

thousandfold repaid for all her pains. But, during the first half of a

meal made riotous by the invincible Howard and the animated Irene,

Tootles sat very quiet and thoughtful and even a little awed. How could

Martin have sensed the fact that she had been there?... Could

she,--could she possibly, even with the ever-ready help of

nature,--hope to win against such a handicap? She would see. She would

see. It was her last card. But during all the rest of the meal she saw

the picture of a muscular sun-tanned youth carrying that pretty

unconscious thing down the incline to a car, and, all against her will,

she was sorry. That girl, pampered as she was, outside the big ring of

hard daily effort and sordid struggle as she always had had the luck to

be, loved, too. Gee, it was a queer world.

The stoop called them when they left the boxlike dining room. It was

still hot and airless. But the mosquitoes were out with voracious

appetite and discretion held them to the living room.

Irene flung herself on the bumpy sofa with a cigarette between her lips

and a box near to her elbow. "This's the life," she said. "I shall

never be able to go back to lil' old Broadway and grease paint and a

dog kennel in Chorusland."

"Sufficient for the day," said Howard, loosening his belt. "If a

miracle man blew in here right now with a million dollars in each hand

and said: 'Howard Guthrie Oldershaw,'--he'd be sure to know about the

Guthrie,--'this is all yours if you'll come to the city,' I'd..."

Irene leaned forward with her mouth open and her round eyes as big as

headlights. "Well?"

"Take it and come right back."

"You disappoint me, Funny-face. Go to the piano and hit the notes.

That's all you're fit for."

It was a baby grand, much out of tune, but Howard, bulging over the

stool, made it sound like an orchestra,--a cabaret orchestra, and ran

from Grieg to Jerome Kern and back to Gounod, syncopating everything

with the gusto and the sense of time that is almost peculiar to a

colored professional. Then he suddenly burst into song and sang about a

baby in the soft round high baritone of all men who run to fat and with

the same quite charming sympathy. A useful, excellent fellow, amazingly

unself-conscious and gifted.

Martin was infinitely content to listen and lie back in a deep straw

chair with a pipe between his teeth, the memories of good evenings at

Yale curling up in his smoke. And Tootles, thinking and thinking, sat,

Puck-like, at his feet, with her warm shoulders against his knees. Not

in her memory could she delve for pleasant things, not yet. Eh, but

some day she might be among the lucky ones, if--if her plan went

through--

Howard lit another cigarette at the end of the song, but before he

could get his hands on the notes again Irene bounded to her feet and

went over to the piano. "Say, can you play 'Love's Epitome'?" she

pronounced it "Eppy-tomy."

"Can a duck swim?" asked Howard, resisting a temptation to emit a howl

of mirth. She was too good a sort to chaff about her frequent

maltreatment of the language.

"Go ahead, then, and I'll give you all a treat." He played the

sentimental prelude of this characteristic product of the vaudeville

stage, every note of which was plagiarized from a thousand plagiarisms

and which imagined that eternity rhymed with serenity and mother with

weather. With gestures that could belong to no other school than that

of the twice-dailies and the shrill nasal voice that inevitably goes

with them, Irene, with the utmost solemnity, went solidly through the

whole appalling thing, making the frequent yous "yee-ooo" in the true

"vawdville" manner.

To Tootles it was very moving, and she was proud of her friend. Martin

almost died of it, and Howard was weak from suppressed laughter. It was

the first time that Irene had shown the boys what she could do, and she

was delighted at their enthusiastic applause. She would have rendered

another of the same sort gladly enough,--she knew dozens of them, if

Tootles had not given her a quick look and risen to her feet.

"Us for the downey," she said, and put the palm of her hand on Martin's

lips. He kissed it.

"Not yet," said Howard. "It's early."

"Late enough for those who get up at dawn, old dear. Come on, Irene."

And Irene, remembering what her friend had said that morning, played

the game loyally, although most reluctant to leave that pleasant

atmosphere, and said "Good night." And she was in such good voice and

Howard played her accompaniment like a streak. Well, well.

Tootles took her hand away gently, gave Martin a little disturbing

smile, put her arm round the robust shoulders of her chum, opened the

screen door and was gone.

Howard immediately left the piano. He had only played to keep things

merry and bright. "Me for a drink," he said. "And I think I've earned

it."

Martin's teeth gleamed as he gave one of his silent laughs.

"How well you know me, old son," he said.

"Of course. But--why?"

"I like Tootles awfully. She's one in a million. But somehow it's--oh,

I dunno,--mighty difficult to talk to her."

"Poor little devil," said Howard involuntarily.

"But she's having a real good time--isn't she?"

"Is she?" He helped himself to a mild highball in reluctant deference

to his weight.

"I've never seen her look so well," said Martin.

Wondering whether to tell the truth about her state of mind, which his

quick sophisticated eyes had very quickly mastered, Howard drank, and

decided that he wouldn't. It would only make things uncomfortable for

Martin and be of no service to Tootles. If she loved him, poor little

soul, and he was not made of the stuff to take advantage of it, well,

there it was. He, himself, was different, but then he had no Joan as a

silent third. No, he would let things alone. Poor old Tootles.

"Great weather," he said, wrenching the conversation into a harmless

generality. "Are you sleeping on the yawl to-night?"

"Yes," replied Martin. "It's wonderful on the water. So still. I can

hear the stars whisper."

"Most of the stars I know get precious noisy at night," said Howard,

characteristically unable to let such a chance go by. Then he grew

suddenly grave and sat down. "Martin, I'm getting frightfully fed up

with messing about in town. I'm going to turn a mental and physical

somersault and get a bit of self-respect."

"Oh? How's that, old man."

"It's this damn war, I think. I've been reading a book in bed by a man

called Philip Gibbs. Martin, I'm going to Plattsburg this August to see

if they can make something of me."

Martin got up. "I'm with you," he said. "If ever we get into this

business I'm going to be among the first bunch to go. So we may as well

know something. Well, how about turning in now? There'll be a wind

to-morrow. Hear the trees?" He filled his pocket with cigarettes and

slung a white sweater over his shoulder.

"All right," said Howard. "I shall read down here a bit. I won't forget

to turn out and lock up." He had forgotten one night and Judson had

reported him.

"Good night, old son."

"Good night, old man."