THE LEOPARD'S SPOTS
Pete hitched the largest chair forward, lifted a foot to the top of
Bill's writing-table, crossed the other upon it and glared sourly at the
wall in front of him.
"You'll get to like it yet," he predicted.
"Bull!" observed Bill. "I'm a leopard. I can't change 'em."
"You can have 'em changed for you all right. Many a good leopard has
been skinned, Bill."
"What are you beefing about? You're responsible for getting me in on
this more than anybody else."
"Oh, go ahead; lay off on me. It's a grand joke because you see I'm
down. Where do I come in?"
"Where does anybody's valet come in?" countered Bill, as he stropped a
razor.
"You said it. That's just the point. You're copping all the cream. I'm a
servant, that's all. It isn't neighborly, Bill. Gosh hang it, it isn't
democracy! Do you call it a square deal, sneaking her off to a lunch?"
"That was business, Pete. We had to look at stationery. Beside, don't I
give you my evenings?"
"Is it right that I eat in the servants' dining-room? Is it right that I
sleep in the servants' quarters? Me--your guest! Is that a way to treat
a guy who passed your college exams for you? And _she_ thinks I'm a
servant, too. I'll leave it to you if it's right."
"But Aunt Caroline puts you in a class by yourself," observed Bill.
"Aunt Caroline doesn't misjudge you, Pete, even if you do claim to be a
valet."
Pete allocated Aunt Caroline according to his idea of where she would do
the most good.
"But _she_ treats me as if I was somebody to take orders from her," he
grumbled on. "She's losing her respect for me."
"Oh, forget Miss Norcross."
"What? Forget Gray Eyes? Forget little Nell? Why don't you try it
yourself, Bill?"
"I don't have to. She's my secretary," said Bill maliciously.
"She's your dancing-teacher, you mean. I've seen you at it; the two of
you. Getting ready for the party! Bill Marshall, you're losing your
character and your self-respect."
Bill grinned complacently.
"It isn't as if you needed to learn to dance," added Pete, as he kicked
a book off the table. "You can dance rings around her, if you want to.
But you're deceitful, Bill. She's got you one-twoing and three-fouring
all over the library, and you making believe it's all new stuff. It's a
gol darned shame, and I'm going to tell her so."
"You're going to mind your own business or get busted," predicted Bill.
"It doesn't make any difference what I used to know about dancing; I
need practice. Besides, you can always go and talk theology to Aunt
Caroline. She's never busy."
Pete groaned.
"I'm laying off it--when she'll let me," he said miserably. "She's
getting interested in it, Bill. Yesterday I had to go and bone up some
more in the encyclopedia; I was all run out of stuff."
"All right, son; only don't accuse me."
Pete subsided into silence and Bill shaved. The young man who would be a
valet was not enjoying a happy morning. Part of it was because of the
night before, but some of the unhappiness lay rooted in the fact that
Bill's secretary persisted in taking him at face value. At the same time
Pete was convinced that she knew better; that there was a mocking
deliberation in the way that she held him to his bargain.
"Confound it, Bill! That girl's no fool."
"I said it first," Bill reminded him. "I said it days ago."
"She knows darn well I'm something more than a valet."
"She never said it to me, Pete; never even hinted at it. I don't believe
she even suspects."
"Bill, that's an insult. If you say she doesn't even suspect, I'll
poison you. Why, any girl with good sense would suspect. Do I look like
a valet?"
"Sure."
Bill had finished shaving, so it was easy enough to dodge the book.
There had been a good deal of talk like that ever since the party became
a fixed project. Pete Stearns was discovering that the business of
flinging gibes had become less profitable; either Bill's hide was
getting thicker or his perceptions were becoming dulled. It was no
longer possible always to get a rise; sometimes it shocked him to find
that he was rising himself. And then there was that secretary; she had
annoying moments of superiority. She was in a fair way to become a snob,
thought Pete, and just because she could not recognize the difference
between a real social gulf and one that was self-imposed. Some day he
was going to cross that gulf in a wild leap and make her feel silly.
"Where you going now?" he demanded, as Bill made for the door.
"Business, old dear. Cheer up."
Bill's business was in the office on the second floor. It, or she--or
both--had been making a good many demands on his time. He bore them with
a fortitude that made him proud of himself.
"Good morning," said Mary, looking up. "Any more names to suggest?"
"Haven't we dug up enough?"
"We should have a margin to allow for declinations. There are bound to
be a few, you know. Even some of the people who accept don't come."
"I don't think of anybody else," said Bill. "You've got a whole lot of
people now that I never saw or heard of."
"I'm quite proud of the list," she said. "Some of it is really
distinguished. And---- Oh, by the way, Mr. Marshall. Your aunt gave me
another name; you must know him, of course. Bishop Wrangell."
"What! That old dodo?"
"He's a bishop; a very old friend of your aunt's. And bishops are very
exclusive. I think it's fine to have a bishop."
"He's a dodo," reaffirmed Bill. "He'll crab it all. Cut him off."
"But I've already invited him," said Mary. "It's in the mail."
"He'll talk everybody to death," groaned Bill. "I know him; he's been
here to dinner. It's a curse to have a party, but bishops are
damnation."
"You surprise me," observed Mary. (He did not.)
"But you don't know this bird and I do. He's so dry that the dust flies
out of him when he talks."
"Well, I'm sorry, but it's done. I couldn't very well refuse your aunt."
"Oh, I suppose not. Just because he's a bishop Aunt Caroline thinks he's
going to put her on the free-list when she hits heaven. A bishop! What
are we going to have at this party? Prayers?"
Mary bent over her work until she was sure that she had command of
herself.
"Say!" exclaimed Bill. "I know a stunt. Would it be all right to invite
my valet?"
"No; I should think not," answered Mary. "You mean as a guest? Why in
the world do you want him?"
"He could entertain the bishop. We could make that his special job. Come
on; let's do it."
Mary smiled, but shook her head decisively.
"Your guests would never forgive you if they discovered that you had
invited your valet. You see, such things are not done."
She had slipped into the employment of that little phrase until it came
to her lips as a reason for almost any prohibition that dealt with the
social code.
"But I want to do it as a special favor to Pete," urged Bill.
"Or as a special penance, perhaps," said Mary, with a wise look. "No;
and besides, your valet will doubtless have his duties that evening.
He'll be needed in the gentlemen's dressing-room."
Bill picked up a morning paper and turned to the sporting page. Suddenly
he looked up.
"Say, if you can squeeze a bishop in at this stage of the game I ought
to be entitled to invite somebody else, hadn't I?"
"Of course. I asked for suggestions."
"Well, I want to invite a very, very good friend of mine."
"Who?" asked Mary cautiously.
"He's an Italian."
She raised her eyebrows and wrinkled her forehead into an inquiry.
"An artist," added Bill.
"Oh! Now that sounds promising."
"A wop artist. His name is Valentino."
"Why, of course we've got room for him," she said. "I think it's a
splendid idea, Mr. Marshall. I hadn't any notion that you had friends in
the art world. I'm very much interested in art myself. What does he
paint?"
"He's a sculptor," said Bill.
"Better yet. That's even more distinguished. He must have the true
temperament."
"Oh, barrels of it."
"An impressionist or a realist."
Bill considered.
"I'd say he was a little of both. He's very strong on impressions, but
he produces them in a realistic way, if you can get what I mean."
"His work has strength," commented Mary, with a nod of understanding.
"You've got it. That's exactly it, Miss Norcross. He's young, but he's
already made a name for himself. He makes a specialty of working on
heads and busts."
"His full name?" inquired Mary.
"Antonio Valentino."
"Oh, I like it," she exclaimed. "He's the only artist we'll have.
Perhaps another time we can get him to bring his friends. What is the
address, please?"
"He has a studio over on the East Side. Wait a second."
Bill searched a pocket and discovered a memorandum of the address.
"And when you write," he advised, "don't address it to 'Mister,' Make it
'Signor.' He's accustomed to that and it'll please him."
"Signor Antonio Valentino," said Mary, reading from her list. "Quite the
most distinguished name at the party, Mr. Marshall. That's the best
suggestion you've made yet."
Bill smiled as though he had done a full morning's work.
"And now, if you've nothing more for the present, I have errands to do,"
she announced. "Will you excuse me?"
"Don't I get another dancing lesson? I thought you said----"
Mary shook her head as she gathered up some papers.
"I've been thinking about your dancing," she said. "And I've come to the
conclusion, Mr. Marshall, that there isn't anything more I can teach
you. You've done so well that sometimes I suspect----"
That seemed a good place to end the sentence and she walked out of the
room, leaving Bill to wonder whether Pete had not already played him
false.
On her way out Mary remembered that she wanted to speak to Aunt Caroline
about the florist, but at the threshold of the library she paused. Aunt
Caroline was engaged.
"I wish you'd continue where you left off yesterday," she was saying.
"About what, madam?" It was the voice of the valet.
"Why, it was about theology."
"Ah, yes. But you see there are so many kinds. Do you remember just
which we were discussing? Speculative, philosophical, practical or
dogmatic?"
"Mercy, Peter; how should I know? But it was interesting, so please go
on."
"Very good, madam. I think we might go into the catechetical school for
a bit, and that will lead us up to the doctrine of penal substitution."
"Splendid!" said Aunt Caroline.
Mary tiptoed down the hall, holding a gloved hand tightly over her lips.
When she reached the street she let the laugh have its way.
"Now what do you know about that?" she murmured. And Mary was not an
adept in the use of slang.
Some hours later she was discussing final preparations with Nell
Norcross, who had convalesced to the point where she was sitting up in a
chair and taking a vivid interest in everything that concerned the
social fortunes of Bill Marshall, débutant.
"And now I have a surprise for you," said Mary. "You're coming to the
party yourself!"
"I?" exclaimed Nell.
"You're quite well enough, and I'll need your help, my dear. I'm
counting on you."
"But, Mary--oh, I can't."
"Nonsense. I've spoken to Miss Marshall about it. I explained I had a
friend who had also done secretarial work and who really knew a great
deal more about it than I do, and she said by all means to bring you.
There won't really be anything for you to do, but you'll just be there
in case we need some expert advice."
"I don't believe I'm strong enough," demurred Nell.
"Yes, you are. I asked the doctor. He said it would do you good."
"But I haven't a dress, Mary."
"Yes, you have. I've ordered one--one for you and one for me. They're
with the compliments of Miss Marshall, they're perfect dreams and we're
the luckiest people alive."
"You're a conspirator," complained Nell. "Honestly, Mary, I don't think
I ought to go. I'm sure I shouldn't."
One of those determined looks flashed into Mary's face.
"Nell Norcross, you've got to go. I won't let you stay away. It's time
you did something. Here I've been skating along on thin ice, bluffing
and pretending and telling fibs until I hardly know which is my real
name--yours or mine. Now I've reached the very climax and you've got to
see me through. I'm going to be adamant."
Nell sighed.
"You're a whole lot bossier than you were the day I met you in the Brain
Workers' Exchange," she said petulantly.
"Don't ever mention that place," and Mary made a grimace. "It gives me
crawly little chills."
"Will I have to bring any more references?"
"No, you silly thing. References, indeed! Why, Nell, you won't go to
this party on references. You'll go on my reputation!"
"Mary Wayne, I'm in awe of you."
Mary laughed.
"You wouldn't be if you knew how much I feel like a charlatan. It's all
on the outside, Nell. I am just hollow emptiness; the shell is the only
thing that holds me together."
Nell made a gesture of reluctant assent.
"I'll go if you'll let me meet the Italian sculptor," she said. "I adore
sculptors."
"You can meet the sculptor and the bishop both," promised Mary. "And if
you're very good I'll let you meet the valet."
"But not, of course, Mr. Marshall."
"Pooh! That's nothing exciting. Anybody can meet him, my dear."
"Mary," said Nell, "inside of the Marshall house you may be a marvelous
liar, but outside of it your work is really very poor."