The following afternoon Peter was to call at the apartment-house on
Gramercy Park at half-past-four. He had arranged to take Betty for a
walk,--a good long tramp. There were heaps of things that he wanted to
tell her and hear, and several points on which he wanted to ask her
advice. He was not merely punctual, as becomes a man who is head over
heels in love--he was ten minutes before his time. All the same, he
found Betty waiting for him in the hall, talking to a big burly Irishman
who condescended to act as hall-porter and who looked not unlike a
brigadier-general in his rather over-smart uniform. This man had known
Betty for many years and watched her grow up; had received many
kindnesses from her and had seen her bend by the hour over the cot of
his own little girl when she was ill. His face was a study when he saw
Peter bound into the place, catch sight of Betty and take her in his
arms, and without a single touch of self-consciousness pour out a burst
of incoherent joy at being with her once more.
Catching his expression, in which surprise, resentment and a sort of
jealousy were all mixed, Betty said, when she got a chance: "Peter, this
is a friend of mine, Mr. O'Grady."
Peter turned and held out his hand. "How are you? All Miss Townsend's
friends have got to be my friends now."
The Irishman's vanity was greatly appealed to by the simple manliness
of Peter's greeting, his cheery smile and his utter lack of side. He
smiled back and, having given the hand a warm grip, drew himself up and
saluted. At one time he had served in the British Army, and he wanted
Peter to know it. He would have told him the story of his life then and
there with, very likely, a few picturesque additions, but before he
could arrange his opening sentence the two young people were out in the
street. He watched them go off together, the one so broad and big, the
other so slight and sweet, and said to himself, rolling a new quid of
tobacco between his fingers: "Ah, thin; it's love's young dream once
more! And it's a man he is. God bless both of them!"
"Are you feeling strong to-day, darling?" asked Peter.
"Strong as a lion," said Betty. "Why?"
"Because I'm going to walk you up the Avenue and into the Park and about
six times round the reservoir. Can you stand it?"
Betty laughed. "Try me, and if I faint from exhaustion you can carry me
into the street and call a taxicab. I'm not afraid of anything with
you."
"That's fine! This is the first time we've been really alone since I
came back. It'll take from now until the middle of next week to tell you
even half the things I've got to say. First of all, I love you."
"_Darling_ Peter."
"I love you more than I ever did, much more--a hundred times more--and I
don't care who hears me say so." That was true. He made this statement,
not in a whisper, but in his natural voice, and it was overheard by
several passers-by who turned their heads,--and being women, smiled
sympathetically and went on their way with the deep thrill of the young
giant's voice ringing in their ears like music.
They stood for a moment on the curbstone trying to find an opportunity
to cross the street. Betty gave herself up to the masterly person at her
side without a qualm. She adored being led by the arm through traffic
which she wouldn't have dared to dodge had she been alone. It gave her a
new and splendid sense of security and dependence.
The rain had begun to fall softly. It gathered strength as they turned
into Fifth Avenue, and came down smartly. Betty didn't intend to say a
word about the fact that she was wearing a new hat. It had escaped
Peter's notice. Her face was all he saw. He wasn't even aware that it
was raining until he took her arm and found her sleeve was wet.
"Good Lord!" he said. "This won't do. Dash this rain, it's going to
spoil our walk. Where can we go? I know." A line of taxis was standing
on a stand. He opened the door of the first one. "Pop in, baby," he
said. "We'll drive to the Ritz and have tea. I can't have you getting
wet."
Betty popped in, not really so profoundly sorry to escape that strenuous
walk as Peter was.
Being a wise man he took full advantage of the taxicab, and for all the
fact that it was broad daylight and that anybody who chose could watch
him, he gave Betty a series of kisses which did something to make up
for lost time and a long separation. The new hat suffered rather in the
process, but what did that matter? This was love. Hats could be
replaced--such a love as his, never.
"Your father is a great chap," said Peter. "We had a good yarn last
night. By Jove! I wish my father had something of his friendly way. I
felt that there was nothing I couldn't tell him--nothing that he
wouldn't understand. Well, well; there it is. Graham and I will have to
worry along as best we may. Everything'll come out all right, I hope."
"How did you like mother?" asked Betty.
"Well," said Peter, considering his answer with the greatest care,
"she's undoubtedly a wonderful woman, but she scares me to death. The
very first thing she did was to ask me to speak at one of her meetings."
Betty burst out laughing. "What--? Already? When are you speaking? What
are you going to say?"
"Good Lord! What can I say? I can recite the Jabberwocky or the alphabet
in English, French and American, but that finishes my repertory. Can you
see me standing on a platform as white as a sheet trying to stammer out
a few idiotic sentences to a room full of women? Look here! You've got
to get it out of her head that I can be of the slightest use to her.
Tell her I stutter, or that I've got no roof to my mouth--anything you
like--but, for goodness sake, have my name taken off her list. Will you
promise that? Already I wake up in the middle of the night in an
absolute panic."
"Don't worry," said Betty, "Mother's a very strong-minded woman, but
she's awfully easy to manage. And now I want you to promise me
something."
"Anything in the world," said Peter.
"Well, then, don't mistake the Ritz for that dear little open place
where the fairies dance, and suddenly kiss me in front of the band and
all the people having tea."
"Hard luck," said Peter. "I'll do the best I can. But you're such an
angel and you look so frightfully nice that I shall have all I can do to
keep sane."
The cab drew up and they got out, went through the silly swinging doors
which separate a man from his girl for a precious moment and into the
Palm Court where the band was playing. Peter gave his hat and stick to a
disgruntled waiter, who would have told him to check them outside but
for his height and width.
The place was extraordinarily full for the time of year. Everywhere
there were women, and every one of them was wearing some sort of erect
feather in her hat. It gave the place the appearance of a large chicken
run after a prolonged fracas. The band was playing the emotional music
of _La Boheme_. It was in its best form. The waiter led them to a little
table under a mimic window-sill which was crowded with plants. Many
heads turned after them as they adventured between the chattering
groups. It was so easy to see that their impending marriage had been
arranged in Heaven.
"What sort of tea do you like?" asked Peter. "Anything hot and wet, or
have you a choice? Really, I don't know the difference between one and
another."
But Betty did. Hadn't she kept house for her father? "Orange Pekoe tea,"
she said, "and buttered toast."
Peter made it so, and in sitting down nearly knocked over the table. He
was too big for such places and his legs got in the way of everything.
At the other end of the room Kenyon was sitting with Belle. Betty had
seen them at once, but she held her peace. For the first time in her
life she appreciated the fact that two is company. Both men were too
occupied to recognize anybody.
Peter was very happy and full of enthusiasm about everything, and Betty
was an eager listener as he talked about her and himself and the future,
while she poured out the tea. It was all very delightful and domestic
and new and exhilarating, and it didn't require much imagination on the
part of either of them to believe that they were sitting in their own
house, far away from people, and that Peter had just come home after a
long day's work, and that the band was their new Victrola performing in
the corner. Only one thing made Betty aware of the fact that they were
in the Ritz Hotel, and that was the pattern of the teacups. She never
would have chosen such things, and if they had been given to her as a
wedding present she would have packed them away in some far-off
cupboard. She had already made up her mind that their first tea service
was going to be blue-and-white, because it would go with her
drawing-room,--the drawing-room which she had furnished in her dreams.
"I don't think you'd better do that, Peter," whispered Betty suddenly.
"Do what, darling?" Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth.
"Why, hold my hand. Everybody can see."
"Not if you put it behind this end of the tablecloth. Besides, what if
they can? I'm not ashamed of being in love. Are you?"
"No; I glory in it. But----"
"But what?" He held it tighter.
"I think you'd better give it back to me. There's an old lady frowning."
"Oh, she's only a poor benighted spinster. And anyhow she's not
frowning. She put her eyebrows on in the dark."
"Very well, Peter. I suppose you know best." And Betty made no further
attempts to rescue her hand.
She had two good reasons for leaving it there,--the first, that she
liked it, and the second that she couldn't take it away. But she made
sure that it was hidden by the tablecloth.
"Won't you smoke, Peter?"
"Oh, thanks. May I?"
"All the other men are."
Peter took out his case and his cigarette holder. It was very easy to
take out a cigarette with one hand, but for the life of him he couldn't
manoeuvre it into the tube. Was he so keen to smoke that he would let
her hand go?
He gave it up and broke into a smile that almost made Betty bend forward
and plant a resounding kiss on his square chin. "Well, I'm dashed," he
said. "I believe you asked me to smoke on purpose to get free."
"I did," she said. "Peter, you're--you're just a darling."
And that was why he upset the glass of water.
Presently he said, when peace was restored: "What d'you think I've done
to-day? I've fixed up a seat in the law office of two friends of mine.
They were at Harvard with me--corkers both. I intend to start work next
week. Isn't that fine? We're going to mop up all the work in the city.
Darling, that apartment of ours is getting nearer and nearer. I shall be
a tired business man soon and shall want a home to go to, with a little
wife waiting for me."