VI

"A very pleasant domestic evening," said Kenyon, standing with his back

to the fireplace of the library. "The bosom of this family is certainly

very warm. Peter, my dear old boy, I had no idea that you were going to

bring me to a house in which a Prime Minister or the President of the

Royal Academy might be very proud to dwell. Also, may I congratulate

you upon your little sister? She's a humorist. I found myself

furbishing up all my epigrams when I spoke to her. By Jove, she's like a

Baliol blood with his hair in a braid."

A quiet chuckle came from Graham, who was sitting on the arm of a big

deep chair, looking up at Kenyon with the sort of admiration that is

paid by a student to his master. "I don't know anything about Baliol

bloods," he said, "but Ethel takes a lot of beating. When she quoted

Bernard Shaw, at dinner, father nearly swallowed his fork."

Peter was sitting on the table, swinging his legs.

"Oh, she'll be all right when she gets away from her school. She'll grow

younger every day then. What awful places they are--these American girl

schools. They seem to inject into their victims a sort of liquid

artificiality. It takes a lot of living down. Upon my soul, I hardly

knew the kid! Two years have made a most tremendous difference in her. I

thought I should throw a fit when she looked at me just now in the

drawing-room and said: 'The childish influence of Oxford has left you

almost unspoiled, Peter, dear.'"

Kenyon laughed. "Excellent!" he said. "I know the English flapper pretty

well. It'll give me extreme delight to play Columbus among the American

variety of the species." He looked round the beautiful room with an

approving eye. "That must have been a very civilized old gentleman who

made this collection. I wonder if he bought some of the books from

Thrapstone-Wynyates! My father was forced to sell some of them shortly

after he succeeded to the title. As the long arm of coincidence

frequently stretches across the Atlantic, I should like to think that

some of the first editions in which my grandfather took so high a pride

have found their way into an atmosphere so entirely pleasant as this.

One of these fine days, Peter, they may raise a little necessary bullion

for you."

"I hope not," said Peter.

Graham got up. "It's only eleven o'clock. Suppose we get out and see

something. Everybody's gone to bed, we shan't be missed."

"A very brainy notion," said Kenyon, "but what's there to do?"

"Oodles of things," said Graham.

"Well, lead the way. I'm with you. The dull monotony of life aboard a

liner has given me a thirst for twinkling ankles, the clash of cymbals

and the glare of the lime-light. You with us, Peter?"

"Yes, unless--one second." He went over to the telephone that stood on a

small table in a far corner of the room, looked up a number in the book,

asked for it and hung on.

Kenyon shot a wink at Graham. "Get your hat, old boy," he said. "Peter

would a-wooing go. He's the most desperately thorough person." And he

added inwardly: "Hang that girl."

"Can I speak to Mr. Townsend? Oh, is that you, Mr. Townsend? Peter

Guthrie, yes. May I come round and have a jaw--? Thanks, awfully! I'll

get a taxi right away." He turned back to the other two men. "Great

work," he said. "You two will have to go alone to-night. However, we've

a thousand years in front of us. See you at breakfast. So long!"

"Wait a second," said Graham. "I'll ring up a taxi and we'll all ride

down together."

"Right-o!" said Peter. "I'll rush up to my room and get a pipe."

When he came down again he found Kenyon and Graham waiting at the open

door. A taxicab was chugging on the curbstone. Kenyon got in first, with

his long cigarette holder between his teeth and a rakish-looking opera

hat balanced over his left eye. He carried a thin black overcoat. All

about him there was the very essence of Piccadilly. Peter sat beside him

and Graham opposite. The cab turned round, crossed Madison into Fifth

Avenue and went quickly downtown. The great wide street, as shiny as

that of the Champs Elysee, was comparatively clear of traffic. Peter

looked at the passing houses with the intense and affectionate interest

of the man who comes home again. At the corner of West Forty-second

Street Graham stopped the cab. "It's only a short walk to the best of

the cabarets," he said; "we'll let Peter go straight on. Come on,

Nicholas, bundle out."

"Where are we going?" asked Kenyon, making a graceful exit.

"Louis Martin's, old boy," said Graham.

"Pretty hot stuff, I hope. Au revoir, Peter. Do your best to make the

bearded paint merchant like you. You'll have some difficulty." And with

that parting shot, contradicted by one of the winning smiles which he

had inherited from his delightful but unscrupulous father, Nicholas

Kenyon took Graham's arm and these two walked away in high spirits.

When the cab stopped at the high building on the corner of Gramercy

Park, its door was opened by Ranken Townsend. "I timed you to arrive

about now, my lad," he said cordially. "I took the opportunity of

getting some air. It's mighty good to-night. Come right up." He

continued to talk in the elevator, which had a long way to go. "Betty

has gone to a party. You may meet her mother, I'm not sure. She's out at

one of her meetings--she spends her life at meetings--and if she comes

in tired, as she generally does, she probably won't come into the

studio. However, that need only be a pleasure deferred. Do you speak? If

so, she'll nail you for one of her platforms."

"I,--speak?" said Peter, with a shudder. "I'd rather be shot."

Townsend laughed, led the way into his apartment and into the studio. In

the dim light of one reading lamp which stood on a small table at the

side of a low divan, the room looked larger than it was. It reeked with

the good ripe smell of pipe tobacco and seemed to be pervaded with the

personality of the man who spent most of his life in it. One of the top

windows was open and through it came the refreshing air that blew up

from the Hudson. Peter caught a glimpse of the sky, which was alive with

stars. It was a good place. He liked it. Work was done there. It

inspired him.

The artist took Peter's hat and coat and hung them in the alcove. Then

he went across the room and turned up the light that hung over a canvas.

"How d'you like it?" he asked.

Peter gave an involuntary cry. There sat Betty with her hands folded in

her lap. To Peter she seemed to have been caught at the very moment when

from his place at her feet he looked up at her just before he held her

in his arms for the first time. Her face was alight and her eyes full of

tenderness. It was an exquisite piece of work.

Townsend turned out the light. He was well pleased with its effect.

Peter's face was far better than several columns of printed eulogy. "Now

come and sit down," he said. "Try this mixture. It took me five years to

discover it, but since then I've used no other." He threw himself on the

settee and settled his untidy head among the cushions.

The light shone on Peter's strong profile, and when Townsend looked at

it he saw there all that he hoped to see, and something else. There was

a little smile round the boy's mouth and a look in his eyes that showed

all the warmth of his heart.

"And so you love my little girl as much as that? Well, she deserves it,

but please don't take her away from me yet. I can't spare her. She and

my work are all I've got, and I'm not lying when I say that she comes

first. Generally when a man reaches my age he has lived down his

dependence on other people for happiness and his work has become his

mistress, his wife and his children. In my case that isn't so, and my

little girl is the best I have. She keeps me young, Peter. She renders

my disappointments almost null and void, and she encourages me not

wholly to sacrifice myself to the filthy dollar--an easy temptation I

can assure you. So don't be in too great a hurry to take my little bird

away and build a nest for her in another tree. Does that sound very

selfish to you?"

"No," said Peter; "I understand. Besides--good Lord!--I've got to work

before I can make a place good enough for her. I've come back to begin."

"I see! Fine! I thought perhaps that Oxford might have taken some of the

good American grit out of you. It just occurred to me that you might be

going to let your father keep you while you continue to remain an

undergraduate out here in life. A good many of our young men with

wealthy fathers play that game, believe me."

"Yes, I know," said Peter, "but there's something in my blood,--I think

it's porridge,--that urges me to do things for myself. Besides, I

believe that there's a feeling of gratitude somewhere about me that

makes me want to pay back my father for all that he's done. I'm most

awfully keen to do that, Mr. Townsend! His money has come by accident.

I'm not going to take advantage of it. I'm going to start in just as if

he were the same hard-working doctor that he used to be when he sent me

to Harvard, skinning himself to do so. I think he'll like that. Anyway,

that's my plan. And as to Oxford,--well, I should have to be a pretty

rotten sort of a dog if I didn't gain something there--that wonderful

place out of which men have gone, for centuries, all the better for

having rushed over its quads and churned up the water of its little old

river and stood humbly in its chapels. Don't you think so?"

"I do indeed, my dear lad; but somehow or other the younger generation

doesn't seem to take advantage of those things, and the sight of the

young men of the present day and their callous acceptance of their

fathers' efforts make me thank God that I never had a boy. I should be

afraid. Think of that! What are you going to do, Peter? What is your

line of work?"

"The law."

"The law? Well, I guess that's a queer sort of maze to put yourself

into. An honest man in the law is like a rabbit in a dog kennel. Is that

your definite decision?"

"Absolutely," said Peter. "I chose the law for that reason. I think that

honesty is badly needed in it. I've got a dream that one of these days I

shall be a judge and make things a bit easier for all the poor devils

who have made mistakes."

"God help you!"

"I shall ask him to," said Peter.

The artist looked up quickly. In his further keen and rather wistful

scrutiny of the great big square-shouldered man with the strong, clean

jaw-line and the firm mouth there was a little astonishment. "Do you

mean to tell me that in the middle of these queer undisciplined,

individualistic times you believe in God?"

The room remained in silence for a moment, until Peter leaned forward

and knocked out his pipe. "If I didn't believe in God," he replied

quietly, "would you be quite so ready to trust Betty to me?"

At that moment the door was swung open and a tall, stout, hard-bosomed

woman with a mass of white hair and the carriage of a battleship sailed

in. Her evening clothes glistened with sequins and many large beads

rattled as she came forward. She wore a string of pearls and several

diamond rings. Unable to fight any longer against advancing years and

preserve what had evidently been quite remarkable good looks, she had

cultivated a presence and developed distinction. In any meeting of women

she was inevitably voted to the chair, and in the natural order of

things became president of all the Societies to which she attached

herself, except one. In this isolated case the woman who supplanted her,

for the time being, was even taller, stouter and harder of bosom,--in

fact, a born president.

The two men rose.

"Ah, Ranken, still up, then! I half-expected to find the studio in

darkness. You'll be glad to hear that we passed a unanimous resolution

to-night condemning this country as a republic and asking that it shall

become a monarchy forthwith."

Townsend refrained from looking at Peter. "Indeed!" he said gravely. "An

evening well spent. But I want you to know Peter Guthrie, Dr. Hunter

Guthrie's eldest son, just home from Oxford."

Mrs. Townsend extended a large well-formed hand. "Let me see! What do I

know about you? You're the young man who--Oh, now I remember. You're

engaged to Betty. But before I forget it, and as you are just out of

Oxford, I'll put you down to speak at the annual meeting next Tuesday at

the Waldorf, of the Society for the Reconstruction of University

Systems. Your subject will be 'Oxford as a Menace to the Younger

Generation.' There will be no fee--I beg your pardon?"

Peter's face was a study in conflicting emotions. He looked like a

lonely man being run away with in a car that he was wholly unable to

drive. Townsend turned a burst of laughter into a rasping cough. "You're

awfully kind," said Peter, almost stammering. "But I believe in Oxford."

"Ah! Then you shall say so to the Society for the Encouragement of

Universities, on Thursday at eight sharp, at the St. Mary's Public

School Building, Brooklyn."

"As a matter of fact, I don't speak," said Peter. "I--I never speak."

"Why, then, you shall be one of the chief thinkers at the bi-monthly

meeting of the Californian Cogitators. I'm not going to let you off, so

make up your mind to that. And now I'm going to bed. I'm as tired as a

dog. Good-bye, Paul,--I mean Peter. Expect me to call you up one day

soon. There's so much to do with this world chaos that we must all put

our hands to the wheel." And with a wave of her hand, Mrs. Townsend

sailed majestically away.

Peter gasped for breath and the artist subsided into the divan and gave

way to an attack--a very spasm--of laughter, which left him limp and

weak.

"Never allow Betty to get bitten by the meeting-bug, son," he said, when

he had recovered. "It isn't any fun to be married to a bunch of

pamphlets. What! Are you off now?"

"I'm afraid I've kept you up, as it is, Mr. Townsend. I--I want to thank

you for your immense kindness to me. I shall always remember it. Good

night!"

Rankin Townsend got up, stood in front of Peter for a moment and looked

straight at him. He was serious again. "Good night, my dear lad," he

said. "I feel that I can trust Betty to you and that takes a load off my

mind. Come often and stay later."

Peter walked all the way home along Madison Avenue. That part, at any

rate, of the great sleepless city was resting and quiet, and the boy's

quick footsteps echoed through the empty street. He was glad to be back

again in New York--glad and thankful. Somewhere, in one of her big

buildings, was his love-girl--the woman who was to be his wife--the

reason of his having been born into the world. No wonder he believed in

God.