I remembered that there was--a longer road--and at the first turn to
the right I took to it. In a way it was a safer road, and if there was
an accident--what would "Edith" say?
We slipped along in silence for a while. Then I asked her if she was
warm enough. It was a balmy evening, with the faintest of air
stirring. She laughed.
Her amusement stung me, but I had just identified a landmark, and knew
the clubhouse to be less than a mile away. So I made another brilliant
sally. "I am coming to that dance!" I announced.
She regarded me with an amazement which was obvious, though I could
not see her face. And then, "Will you please to tell me," she
inquired, "just when you made up your mind to that heroic act?"
After-reflection convinced me that nothing less than a criminal
mistake in the mixing of my Rhine wine and seltzer was responsible for
my reply. "Since I saw you," I answered, solemnly.
"Since you saw me?" Then something in the statement, of which I was
not immediately aware, appeared to impress her with its humor. She
laughed.
I gave the steering wheel a vicious jerk. We sheered dangerously. She
uttered a little, frightened cry, and her gloved fingers closed upon
my wrist. I was absolutely certain I had short-circuited a battery
wire when, her hand still resting on my arm, she pleaded: "Forgive me
for laughing. I remember now that Edith said you did not dance. You
are coming this evening just for me, aren't you?"
What reply was there but the one I made?
"You poor fellow," she went on, and it seemed as if there were a soft
pressure from her fingers. "You poor fellow. But--I tell you what we
will do. We will watch the dancing together--as often as I can steal
away. And we will have a long talk by ourselves, if-if----"
"If what?" I asked.
"If Edith doesn't mind!"
"Damn Edith!" was on my tongue, but politeness, rather than common
sense, transmuted the sentence. "Oh, Edith won't mind," I declared,
with conviction. And thereat we both laughed--though why, I am not
sure. But all at once we seemed to know each other much better. And
then the lights of the clubhouse came into view across the lawn, and
we turned into the big gates.
During the passage of the driveway I devised an explanation. It was
intended to salve my conscience for not plumping out the truth. The
Lord alone knows what I intended should ensue. One thing only was
clear to me---we would have that "long talk to ourselves," if it could
be contrived. So it was agreed between us that I was to come up to the
dancing floor as soon as I had stabled the automobile and put on
evening clothes. Our exact meeting place was a vague locality
described by her as "wherever Edith is."
With that understanding we parted at the door of the clubhouse. I
heard an attendant direct her to the ladies' dressing room, and him I
commissioned to have her trunk conveyed where she might wish. As she
disappeared within the doorway her hat brim gave me a saucy little nod
of farewell.
When I was in my room the enormity of my offense and the absurdity of
my position were forced upon me. Here I was impersonating another man
and under promise to meet my victim in the very presence of the wife
of the man I impersonated, perhaps face to face with the man himself.
There could be no explanation, no palliation of the trick I had
played, which would allow me to retire with a resemblance of
countenance. Who would credit my statement of innocence, even was I
willing to throw the burden of the mistake on the shoulders
of--Margery? _Margery!_ I pronounced the name aloud, but in a whisper,
and liked the sound of it so well that I said it again.
Then I realized that I was standing in front of my shaving mirror, one
hand clasping a collar, the other a tie, and that the glass reflected
an expression positively disgusting in its rapture. I chucked the
collar into a corner and sat down on the edge of the bed to think it
out. At the end of twenty minutes I was where I had started in. But my
mind was made up. At least she should not find me a coward. I would do
exactly as I had promised.
I shaved and dressed. Half an hour later I was standing in the doorway
of the dancing floor trying to discover where "Edith" was.
But "my wife," if present, inconsiderately was concealing her identity
in the faces and figures of half a hundred or more women, not one of
whom I knew. Margery apparently had not yet come upon the floor,
or--the horrid thought obtruded itself--she had discovered who I was,
or, rather, who I was not. And what more likely? I had been an ass not
to think of this before. And as to the consequences? Each possibility
was a shade more humiliating than the one before.
Then, just as I was about to turn away to hide myself, to forget
myself, anywhere, anyhow, I saw Margery; and, to save my soul, I could
not have left without a lingering look by which to remember all the
sweet lines of her face and figure. Bereft of that long coat and close
veil, for the first time I saw what I had only guessed at before. She
had stepped from the shelter of a palm to lay a detaining hand upon
the arm of an older woman; and as she stood there, with bright eyes
regarding the dancers, her head tilted back, the thought of flight
fled from me.
The woman she stood beside was not "Edith," but Mrs. "Ted" Mason--the
wife of one of the best fellows I ever knew, and a stanch friend of
mine. Instantly my resolve was made. Mrs. "Ted's" loyalty should be
put to the supreme test. She should be my confessor, and, unless I was
mistaken, the counsel for my defense. I started on my way around the
hem of promenaders.
Twice I was delayed by the incursions of dancers, and when I reached
the side of my prospective ally she was alone. Out on the floor a
slender figure in lavender was smiling in the face of her partner--a
man I knew I was to dislike exceedingly when I should meet him.
Mrs. "Ted's" eyes grew big when I stood before her. And when she spoke
it was with the air of a tragedy queen. "Do I see aright? Is it you?
Or is it your wraith? Is this Page Winslow? And is this scene of
revelry--a dancing floor? Oh, Page, Page! In my old age to give me
this shock is cruel--unlike you--utterly cruel, I say!"
My face burned for the shame I could not conceal, but I was beyond the
point where any attack was to divert me. I explained--lies came so
readily now. I was present to-night by promise to Tony Rennert, I
said. Only by engaging to show myself at the dance had I been able to
persuade him to give me his company for a day's shooting. And Tony was
detained in the city, and I was here alone, unprotected, liable at any
moment to be seized with stage fright and to swoon. Such a thing would
be disgraceful and embarrassing as well to all my friends--in other
words, to herself. No, I corrected myself, that was not quite true.
There was _one_ other person present who might remember me--a Miss
Gans----
"Margery Gans!" Mrs. Ted's amazement left her speechless for a moment.
Then, while the first words of my confession stuck in my throat, she
burst out: "And you of all men! Why, she is just out of a convent
school! Tonight is her first! How on earth----?"
It was harder than ever now to say what I was trying to say, and she
gave me small opportunity. "Why? Why?" she resumed, and suddenly her
voice took on a gravity which her mischievous eyes belied. "My dear
Page, do you believe in the instrumentality of coincidence?"
My confusion was patent, and she went on. "Because, whatever you have
believed, you must believe in it from this night. Do you know what has
happened to Margery Gans?"
"What?" I gasped.
Mrs. "Ted" studied me from beneath lowered lids. "Oh!" she said, and
"Oh!" again. Then she linked her arm in mine. "There are chairs behind
this palm," she suggested.
We sat down. "Page," she said, "I would not have believed it of you if
you had not told me yourself."
"What?" I asked, but her gaze was disconcerting; and when she smiled
wisely, I did not repeat the question.
She laid her fan across my hand. "I wonder," she remarked,
reflectively, "I wonder how and when you and Margery met. But, no,
that is unfair. Don't tell me. I am very glad you did meet--that is
all. And I was nearer to the truth than I thought when I asked you
about coincidences. This is what I was going to tell you. Margery is
the guest to-night of Edith Page--Mrs. Stoughton Page. At the last
moment Edith's baby was taken ill with the croup, and she sent word
she could not leave home. She asked me to act as chaperon. Soon
afterward Stoughton Page arrived in his car with Margery, and must
have hurried home at once when he heard the baby was sick, for I
haven't been able to find him. I have told Margery that Mrs. Page was
detained at home, but I have not told her the details, and I don't
wish you to. She would think it more serious than it is, and it would
spoil her evening."