I assure you, nothing less than a serious injury could prevent my
availing myself of your charming invitation for Wednesday
evening....
"Oh, Maude, you can't think what a relief this is!"
"But----" began Mrs. Penfield and paused, while Clara, folding the note,
tore it deliberately in twain.
"I don't believe he has been seriously hurt at all," she said on second
thought. "He simply did not want to come. Fancy a man who invents such
an excuse!"
"But----" began Mrs. Penfield once more, when Mrs. Fessenden interposed.
"I shall hope never to hear his wretched name again," she said. "Maude,
dear, you won't forget to-morrow night?"
"Not unless Butler forgets me," said Mrs. Penfield, whereat both ladies
laughed the laugh that rounds a pleasant visit.
"Jack," whispered Clara, "please count and see if everyone is here;
there should be twenty."
It was Wednesday evening, and the Fessenden's Colonial drawing-room
housed an assembly to make the snowy breast of any hostess glow with
satisfaction, especially a hostess possessing one inch less of waist
and one inch more of husband than any lady present.
"Exactly twenty," Jack announced; "that is, if we count the Envoy and
the Countess each as only one, which don't seem quite respectful."
"Please don't try to be silly," said his wife, suspecting stimulant
unjustly.
To her the function was a serious achievement, nicely proportioned,
complete in all its parts; from Mrs. Ballington's tiara--a constellation
never known to shine in hazy social atmospheres--to the Envoy
Extraordinary's extraordinary foreign boots. Even the Countess, who wore
what was in effect a solferino tea-gown with high-bred unconcern, was
not a jarring note. Everybody knew how the Countess's twenty priceless
trunks had gone to Capetown by mistake, and her presence made the pretty
drawing-room a _salon_, just as the Envoy's presence made the occasion
cosmopolitan. When the mandolin club in the hall struck up a spirited
fandango, no pointed chin in all the town took on a prouder tilt than
Clara Fessenden's.
The Envoy Extraordinary had just let fall no less a diplomatic secret
than that, in his opinion, a certain war would end in peace eventually,
when Mrs. Penfield, who happened to be near, inquired:
"Oh, Clara, have you heard anything more of that Mr. Hopworthy?"
"Don't speak to me of him!" retorted Clara, clouding over. "When Jack
called at his hotel to leave a card, he had the effrontery to be out.
Just fancy, and we had almost sent him grapes!"
"But----" began Mrs. Penfield.
Pierre was at the door; one hand behind him held the orchestra in check.
"Madame is served," he formed his lips to say, but having reached
"Madame," he found himself effaced by someone entering hurriedly--a tall
young man with too abundant hair and teeth, but otherwise permissible.
The new arrival paused, took soundings, as it were, divined the hostess,
and advanced upon her with extended hand. Evidently it was one of those
amusing little incidents called "contretemps," which often happen where
front doors are much alike, and the people on the left have odd
acquaintances.
"I trust I am not late," the blunderer began at once. "It was so kind of
you to think of me; so altogether charming, so delightful." His eyes
were dark and keen, his broad, unsheltered mouth, which seemed less to
utter than to manufacture words, gave the impression of astonishing
productive power, and Clara, though sorry for a fellow-creature doomed
to rude enlightenment, was glad he was not to be an element in her
well-ordered little dinner. But as her guests were waiting she gave a
slight impatient flutter to her fan. The other went on unobservant.
"One can say so little of one's pleasure in a hurried note, but I assure
you, my dear Mrs. Fessenden, nothing short of a serious accident----"
Where had she met this formula before?
"Oh, Mr. Hopworthy!" she responded with a smile, an automatic smile,
self-regulating and self-adjusting, like the phrase that followed, "I am
so glad you were able to come." And turning to her husband, she
announced, too sweetly to leave her state of mind in doubt:
"Jack, here is Mr. Hopworthy, your aunt's old friend."
With her eyes she added:
"Fiend, behold your work!"
Jack grasped the stranger's hand and wrung it warmly.
"I'm glad you're out again," he said. "Now tell my wife just how you
left Aunt Bates." And so saying he backed toward the door, for he could
be resourceful on occasion. Two minutes later when he reappeared his
face was wreathed in smiles.
"It's all serene," he whispered to his wife. "They have crowded in
another place at your end. We'll make the best of it."
Perhaps it occurred to Clara that things to be made the best of were
oftenest crowded in at her end, but she had no time to say so, for
Pierre had come into his own again--Madame was served.
Jack led, of course, with scintillescent Mrs. Ballington, he having
flatly refused to take in the Countess. Jack's point of view was always
masculine, and often elementary.
The Countess followed with a Mr. Walker, who collected eggs, and was
believed to have been born at sea, which made him interesting in a way.
Then came Maude Penfield, preceding Lena Livingston, according to the
tonnage of their husbands' yachts. In truth, the whole procession gave
in every rank new evidence of Clara's kindly forethought. For herself,
she had not only the Extraordinary, but, by perverse fate, another.
"Mr. Hopworthy," she explained, bringing both dimples into play, "a very
charming girl has disappointed us. I hope you don't mind walking three
abreast."
Clara's untruths were never compromises. When they should be told, she
told them, scorning to keep her score immaculate by subterfuge. "Though
the Recording Angel may be strict," she often said with child-like
faith, "I am convinced he is well-bred."
The pleasant flutter over dinner cards ended as it should in each guest
being next the persons most desired--each guest, but not the hostess.
For Jack's resourcefulness having accomplished the additional place,
stopped short, and his readjustment of the cards, which had been by
chance, had brought the Envoy upon Clara's left and given to Mr.
Hopworthy the seat of honor.
For a moment Clara hesitated, hoping against hope for someone to be
taken ill, for almost anything that might create an opportunity for a
change of cards. But while she stood in doubt the diplomat most
diplomatically sat down. Beyond him the Countess was already drawing off
her gloves as though they had been stockings, and further on the
gentleman born at sea seemed pleased to find his dinner roll so like an
egg.
It was one of those unrecorded tragedies known only to woman. The
failures of a man leave ruins to bear testimony to endeavor; a woman's
edifice of cobweb falls without commotion, whatever pains its building
may have cost.
"I gave you that seat," said Clara to the diplomat in dimpled
confidence, "because the window on the other side lets in a perfect gale
of draught."
"A most kind draught to blow me nearer my hostess's heart," he answered,
much too neatly not to have said something of the sort before.
Fortunately both the Envoy and the Countess appreciated oysters, and
before the soup came, Clara, outwardly herself again, could turn a
smiling face to her unwelcome guest. But Mr. Hopworthy was bending
toward Maude, who seemed very much amused. So was the man between them,
and so were several others.
Already he had begun to make himself conspicuous. People with broad
mouths always make themselves conspicuous. She felt that Maude was
gloating over her discomfiture. She detected this in every note of
Maude's well-modulated laugh, and could an interchange of beakers with
the stranger have been sure of Florentine results, Clara would have
faced a terrible temptation. As it was, she asked the Envoy if he had
seen the Automobile Show.
He had, and by good luck machinery was his favorite topic, a safe one,
leaving little ground for argument. From machinery one proceeds by
certain steps to things thereby created, silk and shoes and books, and
comes at length, as Clara did, to silverware and jewels, pearls and
emeralds. And here the Countess, who mistrusted terrapin, broke in.
She had known an emerald larger than an egg--Mr. Walker looked up
hopefully. It had been laid by Royalty at the feet of Beauty--Mr.
Walker, who had been about to speak, resumed his research, and the
Countess held the floor.
She wore a bracelet given her by a potentate, whose title suggested
snuff, as a reward for great devotion to his cause, and its exhibition
occupied a course.
Meanwhile the hostess, as with astral ears, heard snatches of the
conversation all about her.
"And do you think so really, Mr. Hopworthy?"
"Oh, Mr. Hopworthy, were you actually there?"
"Please tell us your opinion----"
Evidently Jack's aunt's acquaintance was being drawn out, encouraged to
display himself, made a butt of, in point of fact! This came from taking
Maude Penfield into her confidence. There was always a streak of
something not exactly nice in Maude. As Clara, with her mind's eye, saw
the broad Hopworthian mouth in active operation, she felt--the feminine
instinct in such matters is unerring--that Butler Penfield cherished
every phrase for future retaliation at the club, and Lena Livingston,
who never laughed, was laughing. After all, if foreigners are often
dull, at least they have no overmastering sense of humor.
"My Order of the Bull was given me at twenty-six," the Envoy was
relating, and though the story was a long one, Clara listened to it all
with swimming eyes.
"Diplomacy is full of intrigue as an egg of meat," it ended, and once
more Mr. Walker looked up hopefully.
Again the hostess forced herself to turn with semblance of attention to
her right. But Mr. Hopworthy did not appear to notice the concession. He
did not appear to notice anything. He was haranguing, actually
haranguing, oblivious that all within the hearing of his resonant voice
regarded him with open mockery. Jack in the distance, too far away to
apprehend the truth, exhibited his customary unconcern, for Jack's
ideals were satisfied if at his table people only ate enough and
talked. And perhaps it was as well Jack did not comprehend.
"To illustrate," the orator was saying--fancy a man who says "to
illustrate." "This wine is, as we may say, dyophysitic"--here Mr.
Hopworthy held up his glass and looked about him whimsically--"possessed
of dual potentialities containing germs of absolute antipathies--" Even
Jack, could he have heard, must have resented the suggestion of germs in
his champagne.
"Perhaps you would rather have some Burgundy with your duck," suggested
Mrs. Fessenden with heroic fortitude, and Mr. Hopworthy checked his
train of thought at once.
"Aye, Madam," he rejoined, "there you revive an ancient controversy."
"I am sure I did not mean to," Clara said regretfully, and Mr. Hopworthy
smiled his most open smile.
"A controversy," drawled Lena Livingston, "how very odd!"
"It was indeed," assented Mr. Hopworthy, and went on: "Once, as you
know, the poets of Reims and Beaune waged war in verse over the
respective claims of the blond wine and the brunette, and so bitter grew
the fight that several provinces sprang to arms, and Louis the
Fourteenth was forced to go to war to keep the peace."
It was pure malice in Maude to show so marked an interest in a statement
so absurd, and it was fiendish in the rest to encourage Mr. Hopworthy.
Even the most insistent talker comes in time to silence if nobody
listens.
"Oh, M. Hop--Hop--Hopgood," cried the Countess, "if you are a savant,
perhaps you know my Axel!"
"And have you taken out a patent for your axel?" asked the diplomat,
whose mind reverted to mechanics.
The Countess favored him with one glance through her lorgnettes--a
present from the exiled King of Crete--and straightway took her bag and
baggage to the hostile camp. For, of course, the young Count Axel was
known to Mr. Hopworthy, or at least he so declared.
"Please tell me how you won your Order of the Bull," said Clara to the
diplomat, her one remaining hope.
"I think I mentioned that just now," he answered, and conversation
perished.
And thus the dinner wore away, a grim succession of demolished triumphs.
When after an æon or two Clara gave the signal for retreat, she sought
her own reflection in the glass to make sure her hair was still its
normal brown.
"Clara," said Mrs. Penfield, when the ladies were alone, "you might at
least have warned us whom we were to meet."
Mrs. Fessenden drew herself erect. Her breath came fast, her eyes were
bright, and she had nearly reached the limit of forbearance toward
Maude.
"Mrs. Penfield--" she began with dignity, but Maude broke in.
"I must have been a baby not to have recognized the name."
Clara hesitated, checking the word upon her lips, for with her former
friend, to be inelegant was to be sincere.
"I do not understand," she substituted prudently.
"To think, my dear, of you being the first of us to capture Horace
Hopworthy and keeping it from me!" cried Maude.
"I am sure I mentioned that we hoped to have him," murmured Mrs.
Fessenden.
"So sweet of you to give us such a surprise, it was most delightful,"
Lena Livingston drawled.
"Your house is always such a Joppa for successful genius," declared Mrs.
Ballington, "or is it Mecca? I've forgotten which. How did you come to
know he was in town?"
"Jack's relatives in Boston always send us the most charming people with
letters," answered Clara. "Shall we take coffee on the balcony? The men
are laughing so in the smoking-room we can't talk here with any
comfort."
Later--an hour later--when the last carriage-door had slammed, Jack lit
a cigarette and said:
"That Hoppy fellow seemed to make a hit."
Clara yawned.
"Yes, he was rather a fortunate discovery," she said, "but, Jack, we
really ought to take a literary magazine."