"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'Opéra, that magnificent thoroughfare which starts at the Opéra
and ends at the Théâtre Français, 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 Châtelet, 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 _cocher_ 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 Panthéon 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 _ouvrières_, these
last being all hatless, as is characteristic of the workgirl
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 cafés, mostly
cafés, 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
_sacré_ 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 "Egalité, Fraternité," 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 Théâtre de
l'Odéon, 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'Athénée 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 Café de la Paix. He was thirsty, and calling for a vermouth
_frappé_ he told the _garçon_ 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
employés, 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 Café 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 Elysées, 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.
[Photo, from the play, of the Ryder household as Jefferson
is introduced to Miss Green.]
"Father, I've changed my mind, I'm not going away."--Act II.
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._