"Tell me, what do the papers say?"
Settling herself comfortably back in the carriage, Shirley questioned
Jefferson with eagerness, even anxiety. She had been impatiently
awaiting the arrival of the newspapers from "home," for so much
depended on this first effort. She knew her book had been praised in
some quarters, and her publishers had written her that the sales were
bigger every day, but she was curious to learn how it had been received
by the reviewers.
In truth, it had been no slight achievement for a young writer of her
inexperience, a mere tyro in literature, to attract so much attention
with her first book. The success almost threatened to turn her head,
she had told her aunt laughingly, although she was sure it could never
do that. She fully realized that it was the subject rather than the
skill of the narrator that counted in the book's success, also the fact
that it had come out at a timely moment, when the whole world was
talking of the Money Peril. Had not President Roosevelt, in a recent
sensational speech, declared that it might be necessary for the State
to curb the colossal fortunes of America, and was not her hero, John
Burkett Ryder, the richest of them all? Any way they looked at it, the
success of the book was most gratifying.
While she was an attractive, aristocratic-looking girl, Shirley
Rossmore had no serious claims to academic beauty. Her features were
irregular, and the firm and rather thin mouth lines disturbed the
harmony indispensable to plastic beauty. Yet there was in her face
something far more appealing--soul and character. The face of the
merely beautiful woman expresses nothing, promises nothing. It presents
absolutely no key to the soul within, and often there is no soul within
to have a key to. Perfect in its outlines and coloring, it is a delight
to gaze upon, just as is a flawless piece of sculpture, yet the delight
is only fleeting. One soon grows satiated, no matter how beautiful the
face may be, because it is always the same, expressionless and
soulless. "Beauty is only skin deep," said the philosopher, and no
truer dictum was ever uttered. The merely beautiful woman, who
possesses only beauty and nothing else, is kept so busy thinking of her
looks, and is so anxious to observe the impression her beauty makes on
others, that she has neither the time nor the inclination for matters
of greater importance. Sensible men, as a rule, do not lose their
hearts to women whose only assets are their good looks. They enjoy a
flirtation with them, but seldom care to make them their wives. The
marrying man is shrewd enough to realize that domestic virtues will be
more useful in his household economy than all the academic beauty ever
chiselled out of block marble.
Shirley was not beautiful, but hers was a face that never failed to
attract attention. It was a thoughtful and interesting face, with an
intellectual brow and large, expressive eyes, the face of a woman who
had both brain power and ideals, and yet who, at the same time, was in
perfect sympathy with the world. She was fair in complexion, and her
fine brown eyes, alternately reflective and alert, were shaded by long
dark lashes. Her eyebrows were delicately arched, and she had a good
nose. She wore her hair well off the forehead, which was broader than
in the average woman, suggesting good mentality. Her mouth, however,
was her strongest feature. It was well shaped, but there were firm
lines about it that suggested unusual will power. Yet it smiled
readily, and when it did there was an agreeable vision of strong,
healthy-looking teeth of dazzling whiteness. She was a little over
medium height and slender in figure, and carried herself with that
unmistakable air of well-bred independence that bespeaks birth and
culture. She dressed stylishly, and while her gowns were of rich
material, and of a cut suggesting expensive modistes, she was always so
quietly attired and in such perfect taste, that after leaving her one
could never recall what she had on.
At the special request of Shirley, who wanted to get a glimpse of the
Latin Quarter, the driver took a course down the Avenue de l'Opera,
that magnificent thoroughfare which starts at the Opera and ends at the
Theatre Francais, and which, like many others that go to the
beautifying of the capital, the Parisians owe to the much-despised
Napoleon III. The cab, Jefferson told her, would skirt the Palais Royal
and follow the Rue de Rivoli until it came to the Chatelet, when it
would cross the Seine and drive up the Boulevard St. Michel--the
students' boulevard--until it reached the Luxembourg Gardens. Like most
of his kind, the cocker knew less than nothing of the art of driving,
and he ran a reckless, zig-zag flight, in and out, forcing his way
through a confusing maze of vehicles of every description, pulling
first to the right, then to the left, for no good purpose that was
apparent, and averting only by the narrowest of margins half a dozen
bad collisions. At times the fiacre lurched in such alarming fashion
that Shirley was visibly perturbed, but when Jefferson assured her that
all Paris cabs travelled in this crazy fashion and nothing ever
happened, she was comforted.
"Tell me," he repeated, "what do the papers say about the book?"
"Say?" he echoed. "Why, simply that you've written the biggest book of
the year, that's all!"
"Really! Oh, do tell me all they said!" She was fairly excited now, and
in her enthusiasm she grasped Jefferson's broad, sunburnt hand which
was lying outside the carriage rug. He tried to appear unconscious of
the contact, which made his every nerve tingle, as he proceeded to tell
her the gist of the reviews he had read that afternoon.
"Isn't that splendid!" she exclaimed, when he had finished. Then she
added quickly:
"I wonder if your father has seen it?"
Jefferson grinned. He had something on his conscience, and this was a
good opportunity to get rid of it. He replied laconically:
"He probably has read it by this time. I sent him a copy myself."
The instant the words were out of his mouth he was sorry, for Shirley's
face had changed colour.
"You sent him a copy of 'The American Octopus?'" she cried. "Then he'll
guess who wrote the book."
"Oh, no, he won't," rejoined Jefferson calmly. "He has no idea who sent
it to him. I mailed it anonymously."
Shirley breathed a sigh of relief. It was so important that her
identity should remain a secret. As daughter of a Supreme Court judge
she had to be most careful. She would not embarrass her father for
anything in the world. But it was smart of Jefferson to have sent
Ryder, Sr., the book, so she smiled graciously on his son as she asked:
"How do you know he got it? So many letters and packages are sent to
him that he never sees himself."
"Oh, he saw your book all right," laughed Jefferson. "I was around the
house a good deal before sailing, and one day I caught him in the
library reading it."
They both laughed, feeling like mischievous children who had played a
successful trick on the hokey-pokey man. Jefferson noted his
companion's pretty dimples and fine teeth, and he thought how
attractive she was, and stronger and stronger grew the idea within him
that this was the woman who was intended by Nature to share his life.
Her slender hand still covered his broad, sunburnt one, and he fancied
he felt a slight pressure. But he was mistaken. Not the slightest
sentiment entered into Shirley's thoughts of Jefferson. She regarded
him only as a good comrade with whom she had secrets she confided in no
one else. To that extent and to that extent alone he was privileged
above other men. Suddenly he asked her:
"Have you heard from home recently?"
A soft light stole into the girl's face. Home! Ah, that was all she
needed to make her cup of happiness full. Intoxicated with this new
sensation of a first literary success, full of the keen pleasure this
visit to the beautiful city was giving her, bubbling over with the joy
of life, happy in the almost daily companionship of the man she liked
most in the world after her father, there was only one thing
lacking--home! She had left New York only a month before, and she was
homesick already. Her father she missed most. She was fond of her
mother, too, but the latter, being somewhat of a nervous invalid, had
never been to her quite what her father had been. The playmate of her
childhood, companion of her girlhood, her friend and adviser in
womanhood, Judge Rossmore was to his daughter the ideal man and father.
Answering Jefferson's question she said:
"I had a letter from father last week. Everything was going on at home
as when I left. Father says he misses me sadly, and that mother is
ailing as usual."
She smiled, and Jefferson smiled too. They both knew by experience that
nothing really serious ailed Mrs. Rossmore, who was a good deal of a
hypochondriac, and always so filled with aches and pains that, on the
few occasions when she really felt well, she was genuinely alarmed.
The fiacre by this time had emerged from the Rue de Rivoli and was
rolling smoothly along the fine wooden pavement in front of the
historic Conciergerie prison where Marie Antoinette was confined before
her execution. Presently they recrossed the Seine, and the cab, dodging
the tram car rails, proceeded at a smart pace up the "Boul' Mich',"
which is the familiar diminutive bestowed by the students upon that
broad avenue which traverses the very heart of their beloved Quartier
Latin. On the left frowned the scholastic walls of the learned
Sorbonne, in the distance towered the majestic dome of the Pantheon
where Rousseau, Voltaire and Hugo lay buried.
Like most of the principal arteries of the French capital, the
boulevard was generously lined with trees, now in full bloom, and the
sidewalks fairly seethed with a picturesque throng in which mingled
promiscuously frivolous students, dapper shop clerks, sober citizens,
and frisky, flirtatious little ouvrieres, these last being all hatless,
as is characteristic of the work-girl class, but singularly attractive
in their neat black dresses and dainty low-cut shoes. There was also
much in evidence another type of female whose extravagance of costume
and boldness of manner loudly proclaimed her ancient profession.
On either side of the boulevard were shops and cafes, mostly cafes,
with every now and then a brasserie, or beer hall. Seated in front of
these establishments, taking their ease as if beer sampling constituted
the only real interest in their lives, were hundreds of students,
reckless and dare-devil, and suggesting almost anything except serious
study. They all wore frock coats and tall silk hats, and some of the
latter were wonderful specimens of the hatter's art. A few of the more
eccentric students had long hair down to their shoulders, and wore
baggy peg-top trousers of extravagant cut, which hung in loose folds
over their sharp-pointed boots. On their heads were queer plug hats
with flat brims.
Shirley laughed outright and regretted that she did not have her kodak
to take back to America some idea of their grotesque appearance, and
she listened with amused interest as Jefferson explained that these men
were notorious poseurs, aping the dress and manners of the old-time
student as he flourished in the days of Randolph and Mimi and the other
immortal characters of Murger's Bohemia. Nobody took them seriously
except themselves, and for the most part they were bad rhymesters of
decadent verse. Shirley was astonished to see so many of them busily
engaged smoking cigarettes and imbibing glasses of a pale-green
beverage, which Jefferson told her was absinthe.
"When do they read?" she asked. "When do they attend lectures?"
"Oh," laughed Jefferson, "only the old-fashioned students take their
studies seriously. Most of the men you see there are from the
provinces, seeing Paris for the first time, and having their fling.
Incidentally they are studying life. When they have sown their wild
oats and learned all about life--provided they are still alive and have
any money left--they will begin to study books. You would be surprised
to know how many of these young men, who have been sent to the
University at a cost of goodness knows what sacrifices, return to their
native towns in a few months wrecked in body and mind, without having
once set foot in a lecture room, and, in fact, having done nothing
except inscribe their names on the rolls."
Shirley was glad she knew no such men, and if she ever married and had
a son she would pray God to spare her that grief and humiliation. She
herself knew something about the sacrifices parents make to secure a
college education for their children. Her father had sent her to
Vassar. She was a product of the much-sneered-at higher education for
women, and all her life she would be grateful for the advantages given
her. Her liberal education had broadened her outlook on life and
enabled her to accomplish the little she had. When she graduated her
father had left her free to follow her own inclinations. She had little
taste for social distractions, and still she could not remain idle. For
a time she thought of teaching to occupy her mind, but she knew she
lacked the necessary patience, and she could not endure the drudgery of
it, so, having won honors at college in English composition, she
determined to try her hand at literature. She wrote a number of essays
and articles on a hundred different subjects which she sent to the
magazines, but they all came back with politely worded excuses for
their rejection. But Shirley kept right on. She knew she wrote well; it
must be that her subjects were not suitable. So she adopted new
tactics, and persevered until one day came a letter of acceptance from
the editor of one of the minor magazines. They would take the article
offered--a sketch of college life--and as many more in similar vein as
Miss Rossmore could write. This success had been followed by other
acceptances and other commissions, until at the present time she was a
well-known writer for the leading publications. Her great ambition had
been to write a book, and "The American Octopus," published under an
assumed name, was the result.
The cab stopped suddenly in front of beautiful gilded gates. It was the
Luxembourg, and through the tall railings they caught a glimpse of
well-kept lawns, splashing fountains and richly dressed children
playing. From the distance came the stirring strains of a brass band.
The coachman drove up to the curb and Jefferson jumped down, assisting
Shirley to alight. In spite of Shirley's protest Jefferson insisted on
paying.
"Combien?" he asked the cocher.
The jehu, a surly, thick-set man with a red face and small, cunning
eyes like a ferret, had already sized up his fares for two sacre
foreigners whom it would be flying in the face of Providence not to
cheat, so with unblushing effrontery he answered:
"Dix francs, Monsieur!" And he held up ten fingers by way of
illustration.
Jefferson was about to hand up a ten-franc piece when Shirley
indignantly interfered. She would not submit to such an imposition.
There was a regular tariff and she would pay that and nothing more. So,
in better French than was at Jefferson's command, she exclaimed:
"Ten francs? Pourquoi dix francs? I took your cab by the hour. It is
exactly two hours. That makes four francs." Then to Jefferson she
added: "Give him a franc for a pourboire--that makes five francs
altogether."
Jefferson, obedient to her superior wisdom, held out a five-franc
piece, but the driver shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. He saw that
the moment had come to bluster so he descended from his box fully
prepared to carry out his bluff. He started in to abuse the two
Americans whom in his ignorance he took for English.
"Ah, you sale Anglais! You come to France to cheat the poor Frenchman.
You make me work all afternoon and then pay me nothing. Not with this
coco! I know my rights and I'll get them, too."
All this was hurled at them in a patois French, almost unintelligible
to Shirley, and wholly so to Jefferson. All he knew was that the
fellow's attitude was becoming unbearably insolent and he stepped
forward with a gleam in his eye that might have startled the man had he
not been so busy shaking his fist at Shirley. But she saw Jefferson's
movement and laid her hand on his arm.
"No, no, Mr. Ryder--no scandal, please. Look, people are beginning to
come up! Leave him to me. I know how to manage him."
With this the daughter of a United States Supreme Court judge proceeded
to lay down the law to the representative of the most lazy and
irresponsible class of men ever let loose in the streets of a civilised
community. Speaking with an air of authority, she said:
"Now look here, my man, we have no time to bandy words here with you. I
took your cab at 3.30. It is now 5.30. That makes two hours. The rate
is two francs an hour, or four francs in all. We offer you five francs,
and this includes a franc pourboire. If this settlement does not suit
you we will get into your cab and you will drive us to the nearest
police-station where the argument can be continued."
The man's jaw dropped. He was obviously outclassed. These foreigners
knew the law as well as he did. He had no desire to accept Shirley's
suggestion of a trip to the police-station, where he knew he would get
little sympathy, so, grumbling and giving vent under his breath to a
volley of strange oaths, he grabbed viciously at the five-franc piece
Jefferson held out and, mounting his box, drove off.
Proud of their victory, they entered the gardens, following the
sweet-scented paths until they came to where the music was. The band of
an infantry regiment was playing, and a large crowd had gathered. Many
people were sitting on the chairs provided for visitors for the modest
fee of two sous; others were promenading round and round a great circle
having the musicians in its centre. The dense foliage of the trees
overhead afforded a perfect shelter from the hot rays of the sun, and
the place was so inviting and interesting, so cool and so full of sweet
perfumes and sounds, appealing to and satisfying the senses, that
Shirley wished they had more time to spend there. She was very fond of
a good brass band, especially when heard in the open air. They were
playing Strauss's Blue Danube, and the familiar strains of the
delightful waltz were so infectious that both were seized by a desire
to get up and dance.
There was constant amusement, too, watching the crowd, with its many
original and curious types. There were serious college professors, with
gold-rimmed spectacles, buxom nounous in their uniform cloaks and long
ribbon streamers, nicely dressed children romping merrily but not
noisily, more queer-looking students in shabby frock coats, tight at
the waist, trousers too short, and comical hats, stylishly dressed
women displaying the latest fashions, brilliantly uniformed army
officers strutting proudly, dangling their swords--an attractive and
interesting crowd, so different, thought the two Americans, from the
cheap, evil-smelling, ill-mannered mob of aliens that invades their own
Central Park the days when there is music, making it a nuisance instead
of a pleasure. Here everyone belonged apparently to the better class;
the women and children were richly and fashionably dressed, the
officers looked smart in their multi-coloured uniforms, and, no matter
how one might laugh at the students, there was an atmosphere of
good-breeding and refinement everywhere which Shirley was not
accustomed to see in public places at home. A sprinkling of workmen and
people of the poorer class were to be seen here and there, but they
were in the decided minority. Shirley, herself a daughter of the
Revolution, was a staunch supporter of the immortal principles of
Democracy and of the equality of man before the law. But all other talk
of equality was the greatest sophistry and charlatanism. There could be
no real equality so long as some people were cultured and refined and
others were uneducated and vulgar. Shirley believed in an aristocracy
of brains and soap. She insisted that no clean person, no matter how
good a democrat, should be expected to sit close in public places to
persons who were not on speaking terms with the bath-tub. In America
this foolish theory of a democracy, which insists on throwing all
classes, the clean and the unclean, promiscuously together, was
positively revolting, making travelling in the public vehicles almost
impossible, and it was not much better in the public parks. In
France--also a Republic--where they likewise paraded conspicuously the
clap-trap "Egalite, Fraternite," they managed these things far better.
The French lower classes knew their place. They did not ape the dress,
nor frequent the resorts of those above them in the social scale. The
distinction between the classes was plainly and properly marked, yet
this was not antagonistic to the ideal of true democracy; it had not
prevented the son of a peasant from becoming President of the French
Republic. Each district in Paris had its own amusement, its own
theatres, its own parks. It was not a question of capital refusing to
fraternize with labour, but the very natural desire of persons of
refinement to mingle with clean people rather than to rub elbows with
the Great Unwashed.
"Isn't it delightful here?" said Shirley. "I could stay here forever,
couldn't you?"
"With you--yes," answered Jefferson, with a significant smile.
Shirley tried to look angry. She strictly discouraged these
conventional, sentimental speeches which constantly flung her sex in
her face.
"Now, you know I don't like you to talk that way, Mr. Ryder. It's most
undignified. Please be sensible."
Quite subdued, Jefferson relapsed into a sulky silence. Presently he
said:
"I wish you wouldn't call me Mr. Ryder. I meant to ask you this before.
You know very well that you've no great love for the name, and if you
persist you'll end by including me in your hatred of the hero of your
book."
Shirley looked at him with amused curiosity.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "What do you want me to call you?"
"Oh, I don't know," he stammered, rather intimidated by this
self-possessed young woman who looked him calmly through and through.
"Why not call me Jefferson? Mr. Ryder is so formal."
Shirley laughed outright, a merry, unrestrained peal of honest
laughter, which made the passers-by turn their heads and smile, too,
commenting the while on the stylish appearance of the two Americans
whom they took for sweethearts. After all, reasoned Shirley, he was
right. They had been together now nearly every hour in the day for over
a month. It was absurd to call him Mr. Ryder. So, addressing him with
mock gravity, she said:
"You're right, Mr. Ryder--I mean Jefferson. You're quite right. You are
Jefferson from this time on, only remember"--here she shook her gloved
finger at him warningly--"mind you behave yourself! No more such
sentimental speeches as you made just now."
Jefferson beamed. He felt at least two inches taller, and at that
moment he would not have changed places with any one in the world. To
hide the embarrassment his gratification caused him he pulled out his
watch and exclaimed:
"Why, it's a quarter past six. We shall have all we can do to get back
to the hotel and dress for dinner."
Shirley rose at once, although loath to leave.
"I had no idea it was so late," she said. "How the time flies!" Then
mockingly she added: "Come, Jefferson--be a good boy and find a cab."
They passed out of the Gardens by the gate facing the Theatre de
l'Odeon, where there was a long string of fiacres for hire. They got
into one and in fifteen minutes they were back at the Grand Hotel.
At the office they told Shirley that her aunt had already come in and
gone to her room, so she hurried upstairs to dress for dinner while
Jefferson proceeded to the Hotel de l'Athenee on the same mission. He.
had still twenty-five minutes before dinner time, and he needed only
ten minutes for a wash and to jump into his dress suit, so, instead of
going directly to his hotel, he sat down at the Cafe de la Paix. He was
thirsty, and calling for a vermouth frappe he told the garcon to bring
him also the American papers.
The crowd on the boulevard was denser than ever. The business offices
and some of the shops were closing, and a vast army of employes,
homeward bound, helped to swell the sea of humanity that pushed this
way and that.
But Jefferson had no eyes for the crowd. He was thinking of Shirley.
What singular, mysterious power had this girl acquired over him? He,
who had scoffed at the very idea of marriage only a few months before,
now desired it ardently, anxiously! Yes, that was what his life
lacked--such a woman to be his companion and helpmate! He loved
her--there was no doubt of that. His every thought, waking and
sleeping, was of her, all his plans for the future included her. He
would win her if any man could. But did she care for him? Ah, that was
the cruel, torturing uncertainty! She appeared cold and indifferent,
but perhaps she was only trying him. Certainly she did not seem to
dislike him.
The waiter returned with the vermouth and the newspapers. All he could
find were the London Times, which he pronounced T-e-e-m-s, and some
issues of the New York Herald. The papers were nearly a month old, but
he did not care for that. Jefferson idly turned over the pages of the
Herald. His thoughts were still running on Shirley, and he was paying
little attention to what he was reading. Suddenly, however, his eyes
rested on a headline which made him sit up with a start. It read as
follows:
JUDGE ROSSMORE IMPEACHED
JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME COURT TO BE TRIED ON BRIBERY CHARGES
The despatch, which was dated Washington two weeks back, went on to say
that serious charges affecting the integrity of Judge Rossmore had been
made the subject of Congressional inquiry, and that the result of the
inquiry was so grave that a demand for impeachment would be at once
sent to the Senate. It added that the charges grew out of the recent
decision in the Great Northwestern Mining Company case, it being
alleged that Judge Rossmore had accepted a large sum of money on
condition of his handing down a decision favourable to the company.
Jefferson was thunderstruck. He read the despatch over again to make
sure there was no mistake. No, it was very plain--Judge Rossmore of
Madison Avenue. But how preposterous, what a calumny! The one judge on
the bench at whom one could point and say with absolute conviction:
"There goes an honest man!" And this judge was to be tried on a charge
of bribery! What could be the meaning of it? Something terrible must
have happened since Shirley's departure from home, that was certain. It
meant her immediate return to the States and, of course, his own. He
would see what could be done. He would make his father use his great
influence. But how could he tell Shirley? Impossible, he could not! She
would not believe him if he did. She would probably hear from home in
some other way. They might cable. In any case he would say nothing yet.
He paid for his vermouth and hurried away to his hotel to dress.
It was just striking seven when he re-entered the courtyard of the
Grand Hotel. Shirley and Mrs. Blake were waiting for him. Jefferson
suggested having dinner at the Cafe de Paris, but Shirley objected that
as the weather was warm it would be more pleasant to dine in the open
air, so they finally decided on the Pavilion d'Armonville where there
was music and where they could have a little table to themselves in the
garden.
They drove up the stately Champs Elysees, past the monumental Arc de
Triomphe, and from there down to the Bois. All were singularly quiet.
Mrs. Blake was worrying about her new gown, Shirley was tired, and
Jefferson could not banish from his mind the terrible news he had just
read. He avoided looking at Shirley until the latter noticed it and
thought she must have offended him in some way. She was more sorry than
she would have him know, for, with all her apparent coldness, Jefferson
was rapidly becoming very indispensable to her happiness.
They dined sumptuously and delightfully with all the luxury of
surroundings and all the delights of cooking that the French culinary
art can perfect. A single glass of champagne had put Shirley in high
spirits and she had tried hard to communicate some of her good humour
to Jefferson who, despite all her efforts, remained quiet and
preoccupied. Finally losing patience she asked him bluntly:
"Jefferson, what's the matter with you to-night? You've been sulky as a
bear all evening."
Pleased to see she had not forgotten their compact of the afternoon in
regard to his name, Jefferson relaxed somewhat and said apologetically:
"Excuse me, I've been feeling a bit seedy lately. I think I need
another sea voyage. That's the only time when I feel really
first-class--when I'm on the water."
The mention of the sea started Shirley to talk about her future plans.
She wasn't going back to America until September. She had arranged to
make a stay of three weeks in London and then she would be free. Some
friends of hers from home, a man and his wife who owned a steam yacht,
were arranging a trip to the Mediterranean, including a run over to
Cairo. They had asked her and Mrs. Blake to go and she was sure they
would ask Jefferson, too. Would he go?
There was no way out of it. Jefferson tried to work up some enthusiasm
for this yachting trip, which he knew very well could never come off,
and it cut him to the heart to see this poor girl joyously making all
these preparations and plans, little dreaming of the domestic calamity
which at that very moment was hanging over her head.
It was nearly ten o'clock when they had finished. They sat a little
longer listening to the gipsy music, weird and barbaric. Very
pointedly, Shirley remarked:
"I for one preferred the music this afternoon."
"Why?" inquired Jefferson, ignoring the petulant note in her voice.
"Because you were more amiable!" she retorted rather crossly.
This was their first misunderstanding, but Jefferson said nothing. He
could not tell her the thoughts and fears that had been haunting him
all night. Soon afterward they re-entered their cab and returned to the
boulevards which were ablaze with light and gaiety. Jefferson suggested
going somewhere else, but Mrs. Blake was tired and Shirley, now quite
irritated at what she considered Jefferson's unaccountable
unsociability, declined somewhat abruptly. But she could never remain
angry long, and when they said good-night she whispered demurely:
"Are you cross with me, Jeff?"
He turned his head away and she saw that his face was singularly drawn
and grave.
"Cross--no. Good-night. God bless you!" he said, hoarsely gulping down
a lump that rose in his throat. Then grasping her hand he hurried away.
Completely mystified, Shirley and her companion turned to the office to
get the key of their room. As the man handed it to Shirley he passed
her also a cablegram which had just come. She changed colour. She did
not like telegrams. She always had a dread of them, for with her sudden
news was usually bad news. Could this, she thought, explain Jefferson's
strange behaviour? Trembling, she tore open the envelope and read:
Come home at once,
Mother.