When Dan came downstairs he found Mark Mellenger seated before the fire
in the living room. Sooey Wan stood before him, vigorously shaking a
cocktail mixer and discussing volubly with the newspaper man some inside
facts concerning the latest tong war in Chinatown.
“Hello, here come boss. Hello, boss. How my boy tonight, eh? Velly
happy, eh?” Thus Sooey Wan, his idol face wreathed in a smile that
indicated his entire satisfaction with the world as at that moment
constituted. Dan glared at him, for he knew the thought uppermost in
that curious Oriental mind; Sooey Wan assimilated the hint but continued
to grin and giggle. Mellenger stood up.
“I drink success to your administration of your new job,” he said.
“It’s a perfectly horrible job, Mel, and nothing but woe can come out of
it. Keeping pace with Tamea is a real chore.”
“Would that the gods had favored me with her father’s faith and
friendship. Dan, that girl is as glorious as a tropical sunset.”
“I thought something had happened to you, Mel. So you’re a casualty, eh?
And in the name of the late Jehoshaphat, what do you mean by coming to
my house in dinner clothes? I have never suspected you of owning dinner
clothes.”
“I am a very easy man to fit in ready-made clothing,” his guest replied.
“I bought these after leaving your office tonight. Made up my mind you’d
be dining more or less formally.”
“But my dear Mel, you might have known Tamea would not have considered
you _de trop_ if you had appeared for dinner in a suit of striped
pajamas.”
“No, but Miss Morrison would.”
“What sorcery is this? I did not invite her until twenty minutes ago.”
Mellenger drank his cocktail slowly and thoughtfully and held out his
glass for Sooey Wan’s further attention.
“I am not one of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear
not. I’m a fairly good judge of human nature, and I always judge the
characters of men and women—particularly women—the moment the sample
is submitted. Which reminds me that for the first time I suspect you of
a failure to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“That’s a definite charge. State your specification.”
Mellenger’s somewhat heavy, impassive face lighted humorously. “Now,
didn’t Miss Morrison invite herself?” he challenged.
Dan’s mouth flew open in amazement. “Yes. How did you know?”
Mellenger sat down and gazed owlishly at the fire before replying: “I
had a suspicion, amounting to a moral certainty, that she would.
Usually, as you know, I am a careless fellow. I snatch quick meals in
cheap restaurants and I work like a dog. Hence my one day of rest is
devoted to rest, meditation and observation. Observation and subsequent
meditation convinced me that Miss Morrison would be a guest here
tonight.”
“Remarkable man!”
“I had never had the privilege of meeting Miss Morrison before this
afternoon,” Mellenger continued. “A very striking, intelligent, splendid
looking girl. She has brains and wit.”
“How do you know? She spoke four-words to you—‘How do you do?’”
“She has eyes. Why have you delayed marrying her? You’re a bit of a
dodo, Dan.”
“How do I know she’d marry me, Mel?”
“Because you do not know constitutes the basis for my charge that you’re
a bit of a dodo. Anybody else would know.” He looked up at Dan suddenly,
his gray, deep-set eyes very earnest under shaggy brows. “Are you aware
that this very excellent young woman is deeply in love with you?”
“No, I’m not.”
Mellenger sighed. “Have you ever suspected she might be?”
“That sounds presumptuous, Mel. Of course, once in a while——”
“You have suspected it but have banished the suspicion. . . . You’re
very comfortable here; you’re rich and getting richer; you have a
yearning to chuck business one day and woo art.” He stared again at the
fire and sipped at his cocktail. “The victim of a suppressed artistic
desire is loath to give hostages to fortune in the way of a wife and
children. Good Lord, I’ve written a trunkful of short stories and novels
that haven’t sold; I have never been satisfied with one of them, and
until I am satisfied I have planned to remain single and live in a
hotel. . . . Everybody in town in your set knows how Maisie Morrison
feels toward you. Your indifference constitutes a choice topic of
conversation among the tea tabbies.”
“You are a mine of information, Mel.”
“I get it from our society editor. She knows all the gossip.”
“Oh!”
“Ever consider marrying Miss Morrison, Dan?”
“Yes, I have.”
“He who hesitates is lost, my friend.”
Dan’s face had suddenly gone haggard. “I must not hesitate,” he
murmured, “or I may be lost.”
“Yes,” Mellenger agreed coolly, “only in this case suppose we substitute
for the word _may_ the word _shall_.”
“Tamea?” asked Dan.
Mellenger nodded. “She is exotic, marvelous, irresistible—just the sort
of woman to sweep an idealistic ass like you off his feet—into the
abyss. Maisie Morrison knows that, and Tamea, young as she is, knows
that Maisie Morrison knows it. This afternoon in your office your ward
favored you with an impulsive, childish hug and kiss. That was a stab to
the other girl. They exchanged swift glances. There was challenge in
Maisie’s and triumph and purpose in Tamea’s.”
“This is perfectly horrible, Mel.”
“We-l-l, at any rate it’s inconvenient and embarrassing. It would be
horrible for Maisie to have to come to a realization that this
half-caste islander had won you away from her—and it would be very
horrible for you to arrive at the same realization after it was too
late.”
“But I entertain no such crazy intention.”
“You don’t know what intentions you _may_ entertain. You may never truly
fall in love with Tamea, but—you may become infatuated with her. She
has a singularly potent lure for men—men who love beauty and fire and
vitality—men who feel mentally crowded by a mediocre world. I have
known such men, when infatuated, to sacrifice everything they valued in
life for the transient favor of women who did not assay very highly in
mental or moral values. As a matter of fact, my boy, you are infatuated
with Tamea already.”
“How do you know?”
“I do not know how or why I know. I just know it, and now I am sure I
know it. Forget it, Dan.”
Pritchard’s head sunk on his chest in the thoughtful, half sad posture
that Maisie termed the Abraham Lincoln look. He sighed and said
presently, “What should I do about it, Mel?”
“Get this girl out of your life at once and marry Maisie Morrison as
soon as you can procure a license.”
“I think that’s very sound advice, Mel.”
“I think so, too.”
Mellenger drifted over to the piano and commenced playing very softly;
the words of the song he played rang in Dan Pritchard’s mind with
something of the sad poignancy of the distant tolling of church bells:
Tow-see mon-ga-lay, my dear,
You’ll leave me some day, I fear,
Sailing home across the sea
To blue-eyed girl in Melikee.
If you stay, I love you true,
If you leave me—no can do!
Me no cry, me only say
Tow-see mon-ga-lay.
“Yes”—Mellenger resumed the train of his thoughts—“my advice is
eminently sound—but you’ll not follow it.” The doorbell rang. “There’s
Maisie Morrison now, Dan.”
“I shall ask her this very night to marry me, Mel.”
“I think not, old-timer.”
“You are a very wise man, Monsieur Mel.”
Tamea spoke from the doorway and Dan, looking up startled, beheld her
standing there, a thing of beauty, dazzling, glorious, shimmering, in a
dinner gown of old rose that displayed her matchless figure to
bewildering perfection. Her eyes, not flashing but softly luminous, were
bent upon Dan Pritchard a little bit sadly, a little bit puzzled.
“I have been a stranger here, _chéri_,” she said very distinctly, “but
you have looked with favor upon your Tamea, Dan Pritchard—and we are
strangers to each other no longer. You are my man. I love you, and
though I die this Maisie shall not possess that which I love.”
She crossed swiftly to Dan’s side; as he sought to rise she drew him
down in his chair again and pressed his head back to meet her glance as
she bent over him, her arms around his neck. A silence, while she
searched the soul of him. Then: “You do love your Tamea?”
Dan Pritchard murmured, “I don’t know, Tamea.”
“_Je t’adore!_” She patted his cheek. “I have no wish to hurt this
Maisie,” she informed him and with a glance included Mellenger in the
confidence, “but that which I have, I hold.”
“Exactly,” said Mellenger and commenced to play again, softly and with
devilish humor:
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling,
For you and not for me . . .
Dan sprang up and brushed Tamea aside as Julia appeared in the doorway.
“Miss Morrison,” she announced.
As Maisie entered Mark Mellenger’s heart almost skipped a beat. “She has
accepted the challenge. Zounds! What a woman!” he thought, and stared at
her in vast admiration as she advanced to meet Dan and carelessly gave
him her hand—to kiss! As Dan bent his white face over it Tamea’s voice
shattered the silence.
“I think, Maisie, perhaps you should know that Dan Pritchard belongs to
me. I love him and he is mine.”
Maisie’s smile was tolerant, humorous, maddening; it was apparent to the
watching Mellenger that she had anticipated some such open, direct
attack and had schooled herself to meet it.
“Indeed, Tamea, my dear!” she drawled. “Has Mr. Pritchard, then, given
himself to you so soon?”
“No,” Tamea replied honestly, “he has not. But—he will.”
“How interesting!” She turned to Dan. “Dan, old boy, since it is your
mission in life to make Tamea happy, permit me to give you to her. Here
he is, Tamea, you greedy girl.” She chuckled adorably, gave Dan a little
shove toward Tamea and crossed to the piano where Mellenger stood, grave
and embarrassed. She gave him her hand in friendly fashion.
“Clever, clever woman,” he breathed, for her ear alone.
“How adorably primitive she is, Mr. Mellenger!”
He nodded. “Between the two of us, however,” he answered, still in low
voice, “we’ll fix the young lady’s clock.”
The mask fell from Maisie’s face and Mellenger saw in it naught but pain
and terror.
And then Julia announced dinner.