The grill in the Governor Baldwin was not crowded and we had no trouble
getting a pleasant table in the corner, while four colored men blew
into metal objects, hit things and delivered themselves of various
rhythmic noises. From time to time they paused, in order to allow the
perspiring couples who jiggled and writhed on the dancefloor time to
cool off. While waiting for Emily Post to appear, Arthurjean was very
subordinate, calling me "Mr. Tompkins" and acting, quite as the boss's
secretary should act when out for dinner with the boss. Merry Vail was
in high spirits and insisted on having the deputy who had helped serve
the writ join us for a drink. But the deputy was a pallid young man
with--he told us--a heart-murmur that kept him out of the armed forces
and he never touched anything strong.
So we shed him ahead of the time when the nurse from "The Sanctuary"
showed up in a slick dancing-dress that seemed painted on her torso
and a make-up that was a tribute to the skill of the advertisers of
cosmetics. Vail took one look at her and his face lit up like Broadway.
"Spring is in the air," he remarked to the world at large. "Will you
dance, Miss Post?"
She flashed a smile that promised some and hinted at more, and said,
"You bet!"
I watched them as they took the dance floor and the music took them. I
turned back to my secretary.
"What gives, angel?" I asked.
She beamed at me. "Winnie," she observed, "you're _it_. Perhaps the
most famous man in Wall Street, in a quiet way. You caught the market
just right. Mr. Wasson and Mr. Cone pulled out just right, before the
big operators decided they must be patriotic and support quotations
before you made too much money. We've cleaned up nearly three million
dollars and Mr. Cone's so happy about it he's got him a brand-new
girl-friend."
"How about Wasson?" I asked. "Has success gone to his head?"
"Oh, he's just the same as ever. He didn't bat an eyelash except to
say that you were one wise so-and-so to figure the break."
"And how about yourself, Arthurjean?"
She grinned at me. "I guess a girl can tell when she's washed up with
a swell guy. But you're not Winnie--not the Winnie I knew--and there
aren't going to be any fun and games from now on, I guess."
She took a hearty pull at her highball.
"So we're friends," she announced. "You've got a swell wife waiting for
you. If you ever need me, I'll be around. If you don't, that's okay
too. But Gawd, honeychile, we did have us some fun--Winnie and I. He
had a theory that monogamy was a kind of hardwood that grows in the
tropics, and that made him kind of nice to play with. What gives with
you?"
I gave her a fill-in on the Washington trip and the events that had
brought me to The Sanctuary, and she listened with a growing smile.
"Why--" she began, but the music stopped, and Vail and Miss Post
returned to the table.
"Winnie," Vail announced, "spring hath come to Hartford, Conn., and
I've decided to take a room at this hotel. This is a mighty fine little
city, isn't it? Clean, vital, New England honesty and all that, not to
mention insurance. And--" His eyes strayed fondly in the direction of
the nurse who sat with eyes demurely downcast.
"Okay," I told him. "This is the official opening of spring. Just give
me those papers I wanted to sign. The money for Dr. Rutherford, I mean."
He stared at me.
"You don't mean to say you were serious about that!" he exclaimed. "I
thought it was a gag to tip me off that you were being railroaded to
the asylum. Hell, I'll have the stuff drawn up and you can sign it on
Monday. There's nothing doing in town over the week-end and Rutherford
can wait. If you like, I'll try to beat him down. For my money, he'll
settle for five thousand and to hell with his family honor."
I shook my head. "No dice, Merry. It's fifteen thousand--a gentleman's
agreement."
"Hell! no gentleman has any business making agreements. That's what
lawyers are for."
The music started up with a rather miscegenated attempt to marry
Mendelssohn's Spring Song to "Pistol-Packing Momma." He grabbed Emily
Post by the arm. "Come on," he urged. "Got to dance. I'll show you some
steps that aren't in the book of etiquette."
"Why, Mr. Vail!" she agreed, and they were off again.
I resumed my talk with Arthurjean. "You'd better stay here, too," I
told her. "It's getting late and they lock up the trains on the New
Haven road along with the cows."
She looked the question at me.
"Nope!" I replied sturdily. "I'm going to drive back and see whether
spring has come to Bedford Hills. Even commuters have children now and
then," I added. "They used to blame it on sunspots or Roosevelt but
now I guess they'll have nobody to blame but themselves."
In return for a five-spot the hotel door-man told me how to find the
nearest Black Market gas-station, so I tanked up the Packard and worked
myself across country until I hit the Parkway.
The night was clear and cool but there was a hint of blossoms in the
air.
Vail was right. Spring had come to the commuters and I thought
sardonically of what could be expected at every country club the next
night--Saturday. I missed the turn-off for Bedford Hills and wasted
a couple of hours wandering amiss through the maze of Westchester
roads, but finally I found myself on a familiar road and soon eased
the Packard to a slow stop on the crackling gravel of the entrance of
Pook's Hill.
I left my bags in the car and walked quietly along the grass until I
let myself in at front door. A muffled woof from the kitchen showed
that Ponto had drowsily recognized my tread as I tip-toed up the
stairs and into my bedroom. It was three o'clock in the morning and
the frogs were still jingling in the marshy meadows as I stood by the
window and tasted the night air. Then I undressed rapidly and put on a
dressing-gown and slippers. I turned off the lights and tip-toed across
the hall to my wife's bedroom.
Her door was closed but, when I turned the handle, it proved not to
be locked or bolted. I closed it softly behind me and approached the
edge of the bed. Germaine was sleeping quietly, the faint glow of the
starlight outlining her dark hair against the white pillow.
Suddenly she started.
"What? Who's that?" she cried.
I leaned over and brushed her hair with my lips.
"It's me," I told her truthfully. "Everything's all right."
"Hurry!" she murmured. "You'll catch cold."
A moment later, she remarked conversationally, "Heavens! You _are_
cold."
Then she burrowed herself against me and wordlessly raised her lips to
mine.
* * * * *
When I opened my eyes in the morning the bed felt strangely deserted. I
reached over and found that I was alone.
"Jimmie!" I called. "Jimmie!"
She appeared at the bathroom door.
"Hullo," she remarked. "Where did you come from? And what are you doing
there? Don't you know that all respectable married couples sleep in
separate rooms, according to 'House and Garden'?"
"I'm not respectable," I told her. "Please notify the editor."
"You certainly are not!" she observed. "You nearly gave me
heart-failure, sneaking into my room like that when you were supposed
to be in Hartford. It would have served you right if I'd called for the
police."
"I'm just as good as the average policeman," I suggested. "Come over
here and I'll show you how we Tompkinses--"
But she evaded me.
"No, sir. We must set a good example to the servants. It's way past
breakfast time and I don't want Myrtle to guess that we're absolutely
shameless."
Breakfast was waiting for us when we came downstairs and we gave
a reasonably good impersonation of an elderly married couple at
the breakfast table. I read the financial section of the "Times"
and Germaine again busied herself with the social page of the
"Herald-Tribune", now and then reading brief items about marriages, and
divorces, while I grunted noncommitally about the state of the market.
As a matter of fact, we both believed we had succeeded admirably when
our attention was attracted by a meaning kind of cough.
It was Mary-Myrtle.
"What is it, Myrtle?" Germaine asked with a radiant smile.
"It's not my business to say so," the maid stammered, "but I wanted to
know whether you would really keep me on. I--I like it here--and I'm so
glad you're happy, Mrs. Tompkins."
"Of course, you're going to stay with us, Myrtle, but however did you
guess?"
"You can see it in your face, Mrs. Tompkins," she said, "and Mr.
Tompkins he was looking at the sporting page and talking about U.S.
Steel and A.T.&T. And--oh, it's nice."
And she fled from the room.
Germaine looked at me like the angel at the Gates of Eden. "There!"
she exclaimed. "That's what happens when I trust you. You can't even
find the right page in the paper to fake from. Next time I'm going to
marry a man who doesn't look so damned happy it's a give-away."
"It's spring," I explained stupidly.
"You know, Winnie," my wife said suddenly, "speaking of spring, I've
been thinking about Ponto. You've had him for five years now and I
think he's getting a little queer. Don't you think it would be a good
idea to send him to the kennels and have him bred? Perhaps that's all
that's been wrong with him."
"Spoken like a woman, Jimmie," I said, "but I agree that it wouldn't do
any harm. I'll phone Dalrymple after breakfast and have him send over
for Ponto's Sacre du Printemps. He's got championship blood and, unlike
holy matrimony, there's money in it."
She shrugged her shoulders unspeakably.
"Poor Winnie!" she mocked. "You'd be worth millions if you'd been paid,
like Ponto."
"It mightn't be a bad idea, at that," I remarked. "If you realize the
years of apprenticeship and training, the high degree of professional
skill required--"
"Come here, then," she ordered, "I'll pay you."
She did.
"You won't forget about Ponto," she added breathless after her kiss.
"The poor darling oughtn't to be celibate in this household. I wouldn't
want it to happen to a dog."