I
It was a well-known thing in that household that Nick required a long
time to dress. He had come home from the office promptly at six and had
gone at once to his room, where, as he had expected, his evening clothes
were laid ready for him. He was to take Mrs. Allanby and Caroline to a
dinner at the house of one of his senior partners, and it was an
altogether particular and important occasion. Caroline was wearing a new
dress, of which he thoroughly approved; she had been ready when he came
home, so that he could see it and pass judgment. Mrs. Allanby was still
dressing; she was, in spite of her fifty years, a lady of no little
quiet coquetry, and on this occasion she had a two-fold desire to look
her best, first, because she so valued her nephew’s approbation, and
second because she was very anxious to impress upon the senior partner
how excellent a family was Nick’s.
He had bathed and shaved, and was standing before the mirror in shirt
and trousers, tying his white tie with severe attention, when someone
knocked at his door. He was surprised, almost affronted.
“Well!” he called. “What is it?”
“It’s Ca’line!”
“I’m not late! It’s not half past seven yet....”
“No, Ah know it! But someone wants to speak to you on the telephone.”
“Who?”
“Ah don’t know.... A woman.... She wouldn’t tell her name. She said it
was important. Shall Ah say you’re busy and can’t come?”
“No!” he said, hastily. “I’ll come!”
And just as he was, hurried into the little sewing room where the
upstairs telephone was.
“This is Landry speaking!” he said.
And a forlorn and patient voice answered:
“It’s me--Rosaleen.... It’s about Petey. I’m very sorry to bother you,
but I don’t know what to do, exactly.”
“Why? Tell me!”
“The doctor says it’s typhoid fever----”
“By George! That’s too bad!”
“And Katie’s.... It’s hard to tell it over the telephone.... I
_wish_--couldn’t I possibly see you just for a few minutes?”
“Of course! I’ll be with you at once. Where are you?”
“I’m at home,” she answered, and gave him the address she had withheld
for five years.
Nick turned to Caroline.
“I’ll have to go somewhere first,” he said, hurriedly. “I’ll try not to
be late for dinner. But if I am, go without me, and I’ll follow.... Just
explain to Anson----”
“Explain what? Where are you going?”
Indignation and disappointment had brought tears to her eyes. This
outrageous desertion was too much for her; she struggled for a moment to
hold her tongue, but she could not.
“It’s that _waitress_!” she cried. “Ah know it! Some nasty, common,
scheming woman.... It’s a _shame_! It’s a _shame_!”
She began to cry.
“It’s a _shame_!” she cried again.
Nick looked at her with frigid disgust.
“It happens to be a--very old friend who’s in great trouble,” he said.
“_What_ old friend? How can you have old friends here that we never
heard of?”
He turned away from her and rang up a nearby garage for a taxi.
“It’s a case of serious illness,” he said.
“Do you mean to say you’re _not coming_ to that dinner?” cried
Caroline.
“Haven’t you any--heart?” demanded her cousin. “I tell you, someone is
seriously ill....”
“What’s it got to do with _you_!” cried Caroline. “Who is it? Why won’t
you tell me?”
When they looked back upon that episode later, it didn’t seem
_possible_. That these two people, so dignified, so self-restrained, so
civilized, should have said what they said to each other, should have
enacted so disgraceful a scene!
“Who is this person that’s seriously ill?” Caroline demanded, again,
with fierce contempt.
“It’s none of your business!” said Nick.
He was astounded, she was astounded, by such a phrase from him.
“All right!” said she. “Go to your waitress! Ah don’t care! But Ah won’t
go to the dinner either! And Ah won’t send any word or make any excuses.
_You_ can do that to-morrow, in your office. _You_ can explain to Mr.
Anson why nobody came to his dinner party.”
“You couldn’t _do_ such a--beastly, contemptible thing!” cried Nick in
alarm. It was the special business of women to make excuses for men;
they knew how; they had the art.... “Caroline, if you _don’t_, I’ll
never forgive you!”
“Ah don’t give a _darn_!” she cried. “There!”
“You’ve _got_ to go!” he said, but weakly. He couldn’t make her.... He
stood there by the telephone, white with rage, trying to think.... But
nothing came to his brain except two horribly distressing pictures; he
saw Anson and his wife and the other guests waiting, polite but
astonished and resentful.... And he saw Rosaleen, wild with anxiety,
looking out of a window for him.
“There’s a taxi here, sir!” said a voice, and he saw the parlourmaid in
the doorway, frankly interested at this curious spectacle of Miss
Caroline in evening dress and Mr. Landry in his shirt sleeves, evidently
quarreling.
“Yes, it’s for me!” he said, briefly.
Without another glance at Caroline he ran into his room, hurried on his
waistcoat and dress coat, thrust on his overcoat, snatched up hat and
stick and rushed out.
Rage burned in him. He didn’t think of Rosaleen as the taxi sped along;
he thought of Caroline, with hate, with triumph.
“Let her go to the devil!” he said. “I _won’t be_ bullied!”