Stacey plunged blindly down the hill, in an insane fury of rage and
thwarted passion. His mind was a hot swirling confusion which he made no
attempt to clarify. But in the welter two things remained firm—his will
to go to Marian’s house to-night, his will not to go. These were two
equal warring forces. Their conflict churned up anger—anger with
Catherine, anger with himself for having inexplicably yielded to
Catherine.
Under foot were wet snow and ice. Stacey slipped again and again. But he
tore on, as though there were some definite place he must get to,
though, indeed, had he been capable of reflection, he would have
perceived the reverse to be true.
He reached the boulevard and turned into it, ploughing along at a
tremendous pace in the direction of his home. But presently some small
capacity for thought did return to him, and he became aware that he most
certainly did not want to go home. He began to walk less rapidly, and at
last stopped altogether, bewildered, and looked about him, not knowing
what to do.
It was only five o’clock, but the early winter dusk was already
darkening the air, and lights were beginning to shine out in the windows
of houses. Stacey stood beneath one of the brilliant clusters of
electric globes with which the city government had adorned the
boulevard, and stared in front of him. But he was not really reflecting;
his mind was simply at a deadlock between the two opposing forces that
usurped it. Some new factor, however slight, must intervene before he
could act.
The factor revealed itself externally as a high-powered racing car,
which drew up, throbbing, at the curb, with a grinding of suddenly
applied brakes and a spatter of slush.
“Hello, Carroll!” called the young man who was driving it. “Pretty nasty
under foot. Can I give you a lift?” He reached over and flung open the
door of the car.
Stacey looked up, with a start. His mind cleared swiftly. The pause
before he was able to reply was hardly perceptible. “Oh, hello,
Whittaker!” he said, in quite a natural voice. “Thanks.” He rested one
foot on the step of the car and frowned. “The only thing is that I don’t
know where I want to go. I was just trying to make up my mind.”
The young man at the wheel laughed. He was a big fellow, appearing still
bigger because of the enormous fur coat he wore, and had a ruddy face,
with pleasant eyes and a hard mouth. He looked like a commercial
traveller come into a fortune. “Well,” he said, “that does make it a bit
difficult, don’t it? Anyhow, hop in! You certainly don’t want to stick
around where you are.”
Stacey obeyed, slamming the door after him, and sat down beside
Whittaker, who started the car off slowly along the boulevard.
The young man was of the type known in current slang as “hard boiled.”
This quality, however, was not the result of his service in France—he
had been a lieutenant of infantry in a different division from Stacey’s.
The war had not had the slightest effect on Whittaker. He had always
been “hard boiled,” even before the term existed.
“I don’t want to go home,” Stacey explained. “Fed up with home. Where
you going? Can’t you take me along?”
The other laughed again. “Sure! I _can_, but you wouldn’t go. Too much
of a high-minded puritan. Why, you wouldn’t even end up that dinner we
had in Paris in any decent way! I’m going out to Bell’s at Clarefield
for the night.”
“All right,” said Stacey, “so will I, if you’ll take me.”
“Well, well, the sky has fallen! My last illusion’s gone! War, thy name
is corruption!” Whittaker exclaimed. “Sure! Glad to have you!” he added
genially. “Now let’s figure it out. I’ve got a little girl I’m going to
take along. We can squeeze you in all right—all the cosier, what? But
you’d better go and dig up some one yourself and get _your_ car.”
Stacey shook his head. “No, I’ll ride with you—if I won’t be butting
in. Maybe I’ll find some one out there.”
“Maybe,” the other returned dubiously. “But everybody will be pretty
much paired off.”
“Drive around to my house and we’ll have a drink while I get a few
things together.”
“All right.” The car leaped forward.
In Stacey’s mind the will to have Marian, the will not to have her, and
the anger persisted, but underneath. Above, as the active part, was the
matter of this trivial escapade. His dissent from Whittaker’s suggestion
that he get his own car and bring another young lady was not due to
distaste—nothing so fastidious as that could get a hearing now—but to
Stacey’s positive fear of being left alone. If he were left to himself,
nothing, as night fell and his longing deepened, could prevent his going
to Marian. He must _be_ prevented.
“Parker,” he said to the man who took Whittaker’s snowy fur coat in the
hall, “I’m going away again for a day or two. You’ll tell Mr. Carroll
when he gets in. First, please get us some whiskey and a siphon—Scotch,
Whittaker?”
“Sounds good.”
“And then kindly pack that very small bag of mine with things for the
night.”
But when Parker had brought the drinks to the library he came up close
to Stacey. “Excuse me, sir,” he said in a low tone. “There’s a young
lady who’s called to see you.”
Stacey opened his eyes wide, but he rose immediately. “Just a minute,
Whittaker,” he remarked. “Be back at once. Pour yourself a drink.”
“Who is it?” he asked Parker, when they were in the hall.
The man looked perturbed. “She wouldn’t give me her name, sir, and
that’s why I thought I’d better speak to you quietly.”
“You did perfectly right. Where is she?”
“In the little drawing-room, sir.”
“Most likely a book agent,” said Stacey, and walked down the hall.
But it was not a book agent. It was Irene Loeffler. She stood waiting,
an expression of mingled fear and determination on her face, across
which the color came and went oddly.
“Hello!” said Stacey brusquely. “What are you doing here?” He did not
offer to shake hands; nor did she.
The girl looked at him. She swallowed nervously. He could see the
movement of her throat.
“I’ll—tell you,” she replied desperately. “I came to see—you, because
you won’t come to see me. I—I don’t believe in silly old conventions.
You—you’d come to me if you—were fond-of-me” (she blurted out the
three words in one terrified syllable), “so I—come to you.”
Any one half-way normal would have laughed outright. Irene was so
absurdly out of harmony with her speech. She was as shrinking and
virginal as her words were shameless.
But Stacey was beyond humor. He was living in a state of nervous
exasperation bordering on madness. “Oh, I see!” he said icily. “A
declaration!”
Her face flamed. “You can be insulting if you want to!” she cried, with
a sudden angry sincerity. Then she went on with her speech. “And when I
came and—asked for you, your man—told me you were just—going away
again—in a few minutes. And I thought—that is, I decided—I mean, take
me with you!”
He stared at her in amazement and for an instant did feel a small
flicker of amusement. The young woman’s polite offer chimed in so well
with Whittaker’s suggestion that they needed another girl.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said coolly, “but I don’t think you’d like
the place. I’m going out to Bell’s Tavern at Clarefield. It’s a bit
rough there and not well thought of in Vernon society. Greatly as I
should enjoy your companionship, I fear you’d find yourself rather
disapproved of in the best Bolshevik circles on your return.”
She winced under his words and flushed crimson, but she faced him, not
unheroically. “You’re hateful!” she cried. “But I—I’ll go—if you’ll
take me!”
All the exasperation that he was feeling within him burst loose suddenly
upon poor Irene, who had nothing to do with causing it.
“You little fool!” Stacey said savagely, “even the idiots in your club
have got more sense than you! They don’t know anything about facts, and
you don’t, either. But they know enough to let them alone. You go home
and play with your theories and don’t mix them up with facts any more.
If I had so much as a shadow of a fancy for you I’d take you with me.
But I haven’t—luckily for you! I don’t care two beans about you! Now
run along home.”
But, with the air of his mind cleared by this explosion, and when he saw
how the girl had collapsed under his brutality, he felt suddenly sorry
for her, and sick and tired.
“Look here, Irene!” he said, taking her arm. “I didn’t mean all that.
Only, honestly, you don’t care anything for me. You’ve just built up an
imaginary me and lavish an imaginary love on him. Forgive me for being
so rough.”
What he said this time was true beyond a doubt, though Irene could
hardly be expected to believe it. For when he took her arm she did not
draw close to him in delight; she shrank instinctively from his touch.
She was sobbing, but he was probably quite right in thinking that it was
from anger and shame. She controlled herself presently and wiped her
eyes.
“Well, then, I’ll be going,” she remarked, in a strangled voice.
He went to the door with her. “Good night, Irene,” he said cordially,
shaking her hand.
“I—I’m sorry to have—put you out,” she said absurdly.
“Oh, that’s all right!” he replied, with a touch of amusement. “Good
night.”
Stacey returned to Whittaker. “Sorry to keep you so long,” he observed.
“No harm in that,” the other returned genially, “so long as you leave me
in such good company.” He waved his hand toward the carafe.
“Yes, good stuff, isn’t it?” said Stacey, and took a stiff drink.
They set off presently, Stacey giving a sigh of relief at being out of
the house and in some one else’s hands—no longer obliged to think for
himself.
It was quite dark now. The car ploughed through the freezing slush and
mud of a suburban district until at last it drew up before a small
outlying drug-store.
Whittaker blew the horn, and a girl scurried out into the green and
purple light, and down to the curb.
“Gee!” she exclaimed, “there’s two of you!”
“Uh-huh,” Whittaker assented. “My friend, Stacey Carroll, Minnie.
Another hero of the late world unpleasantness. Minnie Prentice, Carroll.
Hop in, Minnie, old thing!”
Stacey had stepped down to let the girl in. She shook his hand and
turned her small piquant face to his for a moment, then sprang up
lightly, dropping a kiss on Whittaker’s cheek, running her arm through
his, and snuggling into place, all in a second.
“Minnie,” Whittaker remarked, as the car leaped forward, “was lately a
prominent, if silent, member of that unfortunate production, ‘The Pearl
Girl,’ which expensive show completely failed to arouse Chicago from its
sleep, and passed away, with me finally almost the only mourner.
Disgusted with the rouge and corruption of the stage, Minnie decided to
reform; and where, as I explained to her, can you reform better than in
Vernon? in which pleasant city she now holds a position at Leveredge’s
department store (notion counter), and has me for a chaperon. Hey,
Minnie?”
“You forget to tell Mr. What’s-his-name the rest, Bill,” said Minnie
with dignity.
“Mr. Carroll, sweetness, Carroll! The Vernon Carrolls! So I do,”
Whittaker rattled on, meanwhile driving the car consummately over a
slippery expanse of ice. “Having a sweet pure voice, Minnie is on the
very verge of being admitted to the First Presbyterian Church choir.
Hence the obscure situation of our meeting-place. For, strange as it may
seem, the First Presbyterian Church would not approve of my respectful
appreciation of Minnie. Evil minds church people have!”
The young woman giggled. “My, but you’re silly, Bill! I’ll say you are!”
she observed. “What’ll Mr.—er—Carroll—got it that time, didn’t
I?—think of me?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that!” Whittaker replied. “He won’t think of
you at all. He’s got a secret sorrow.”
The girl turned her face toward Stacey. “That so, Mr. Carroll? You got a
secret sorrow?” she inquired. “What’s she like?”
Stacey laughed. He was not diverted by such patter, but he was soothed
by it; it was precisely what he needed to tide him over these hours.
“Blonde,” he returned. “As blonde as you are. At least, as blonde as I
think you are from your voice. From what I’ve seen of you so far your
coloring appeared to be mixed green and purple.”
“Huh?”
“Come on, sweetness!” Whittaker urged. “Coax the little mind along!
Teach it to walk! Don’t be afraid, little pet! Toddle over to daddy!”
“Oh,” exclaimed the girl, “I get you! The lights there at that
drug-store.”
“That’s it! That’s it! Why, the little darling took three whole steps by
its own self!” Whittaker said admiringly. “Colossal mind Minnie has!” he
added to Stacey. “Too big to work! Too big to move! Just lies still and
pants!”
“Oh, you shut your face, Bill! I guess my mind’s as good as yours any
time. You care a lot about it, anyway, like hell you do! I’ll tell you
what you care about.” And she whispered, giggling, into his ear.
With such trivial talk they passed the time.
But presently the car swung into a wide road, where the snow, well
packed and sanded, had not been torn into icy slush by city drays; and
here Whittaker increased the speed. The hum of the engine became a
smooth rhythmic thunder, the cleft air roared past, and any further talk
was impossible.
Stacey was thrown back on his thoughts. They became the reality, the
actual present only a shadow. He was but vaguely conscious of his
surroundings—the cold flowing air, the car’s headlights on the snow,
Whittaker, the girl’s warm body next him. The memory of Marian was more
vivid than all these things. Soon now she would be expecting him at her
house, and he would not be there. He writhed. And what would she think
of him? She must hate him. Until to-day he had not cared what she felt
toward him. But now it was different. He and she had been honest with
each other to-day. Fancies gone, illusions gone, everything false and
pretty stripped off, their two small remaining selves had met for the
first time in harmony, each no longer asking anything that the other
could not give, but demanding the possible fiercely. He had no right to
break off in this way. So Stacey thought dizzily, anger with Catherine
and himself returning at intervals, as a variation on the theme.
He came back wearily to the present, as the lights of Clarefield flashed
up and the car swept over the curved driveway leading to the gleaming
road-house. He stepped, shivering with cold, from the car, and helped
the girl out. They waited on the hotel verandah while Whittaker drove
the car back to the garage.
“H-how about-t it now, Mr. C-Carroll?” she demanded gaily, her teeth
chattering. “Am I still p-purple and green?”
He forced as much interest as he could, and looked her over. “No,” he
answered, “you’re—well, no matter! Only I shouldn’t worry about a mind,
if I were you. You don’t need one.”
She really was pretty, he saw with indifference. Bad mouth, though, he
noted, with an equal lack of interest. Loose and stupid.
The girl returned his scrutiny. “You’re not so worse, either,” she said,
considering him with sophisticated sensual eyes.
Whittaker returned. “God! but it’s cold! Let’s run for drinks. Thank the
Lord, the bar here is still wide open!”
They went in. A large room on the right was already half full of people
dining and dancing. Whittaker paused for a moment to reserve a table,
then the three hurried off to the bar. It occurred to Stacey that he had
better slip away from Minnie and Whittaker after a little. He had no
right to spoil their evening. Nice sort of companion they must be
finding him! But Whittaker, with the geniality of his sort, seemed to
find no fault in his guest, while, as for Minnie, she would clearly be
benevolently uncritical of any man under forty, not bad looking, who
would drink. Moreover, something soon happened to make Stacey change his
mind.
Glancing across the room to another alcoved space opposite, he caught
sight, over a woman’s shoulder, of a face he thought he recognized,
started, half rose to make sure, then sank down again in his chair and
burst into unforced laughter.
“What’s the joke, Carroll?” Whittaker inquired.
“Nothing—except that I—see Ames Price is here,” Stacey returned
weakly.
“No, is he really?” exclaimed Whittaker. “Well, I say, it is a bit soon,
isn’t it?” And he, too, rose to look, and laughed, though the real joke
was lost on him. “Stewed, too! Stewed to the gills!” he added.
Stacey got up. “Excuse me a minute,” he said. “I’ll go over and worry
him.”
Stacey crossed the room slowly. His mouth still twitched with amusement,
but the expression thus given his face was malignant rather than
mirthful. No, he was certainly not at his best when he smiled. He paused
near the alcoved recess and stood gazing maliciously at Ames Price,
whose back was toward him, and at the tall handsome young woman sitting
across the table from Ames. She was slender and dark, with large eyes
and a rather fine, weary mouth. She looked bored by her escort, and
returned Stacey’s stare with cool interest. Then he touched Ames on the
shoulder.
The man looked around slowly, but when he saw Stacey his mouth fell
open, a slow flush spread over his smooth face and bald forehead, an
apprehensive look came into his eyes, and he rose quickly, swaying a
little.
“Say! What-ta you doing here, Shtacey?” he demanded thickly.
“Me?” Stacey returned. “Why shouldn’t I be here? I’m a free man,
unbound, no ties at all, you know.”
Price clung to his arm and pulled him away to the edge of another booth,
out of hearing of the young woman.
“’Sh’unfortunate!” he said hoarsely, struggling with his intoxication.
“I mean to shay—_say_—you of all people!” He drew out a handkerchief
and wiped his forehead. “Look here, Shta—no, Carroll—you don’t mind if
I call you Carroll? ’S’ easier to say than Shta—your other name. No
lack of inti—intima—cy intended. Look here, Carroll! Now I’m drunk, of
course! You can see that! Anybody can see that! Whole world can see
that! Hell! that isn’t what I was trying to say.” He paused again, made
an even greater effort at self-mastery, and really did achieve some
moderate success. The expression of concern in his glazed eyes deepened.
“Damn it all! You wonder what I’m doing here! Now don’t you?”
“Why, no,” said Stacey, enjoying himself evilly. “I saw you here and
just dropped over to say hello.”
Ames reached for a carafe that stood among glasses on a table near-by,
poured a tumblerful of water with a shaking hand, and drank. Then he
shook his head solemnly. “No, you wonder. Of course you wonder.”
Stacey watched him critically. “Doing pretty well,” he thought. But
beneath Stacey’s surface calm was hatred. So this—this sweating,
panting, bald-headed animal—owned Marian, did he?
“Damn it all, Stacey!” Ames whispered raucously, leaning close to his
tormentor, “I can’t help it! Marian’s so God-damned cold! ’S’no place to
talk about her—I’ve got sense enough left to know that. But got to
explain myself to you—you of all people! Cold, that’s what she
is,—ice! Freezes a man. Honest to God she does! Looks-a fellow
’s’though he was dirt—yes, tha’s it, dirt! Locks her door. ’S’why I
come here. Let her treat me like a man—I’d be best of husbands—none
better.”
“Sorry to hear this,” Stacey returned smoothly. “Wished you both all
sorts of happiness. But you don’t owe me any explanations. Besides, this
is a place for light-hearted gaiety. Shame to spoil it with dull
thoughts of home. I’m out here with Bill Whittaker and his young lady.
Thought perhaps, when I saw you, we might all arrange to dine together
in one large genial party. How about it?”
Ames stared at him, his face clearing slowly. “Why, sure!” he said at
last, heaving a sigh. “Thought at first you’d—oh, never mind now! what?
Come on over and meet Ethel.”
“I’d like to. Not cold, eh?”
“No, not cold. Not warm _or_ cold,” said Ames judicially, “but friendly.
Good sort, Ethel!” He drew Stacey back to the alcove. “Ethel, ’s Stacey
Carroll. Wants us to dine with him an’ some other people. First-rate,
what?”
Stacey bowed, and the girl looked at him appraisingly. She was really
very handsome, he saw now, with an enigmatic quality in her face, caused
perhaps by the fact that her black eyes were not quite horizontal, but
slanted down ever so faintly toward the bridge of her nose.
“Yes,” she said finally, in a pleasant voice, “that’ll be nice.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Stacey remarked. “I’ll go back and arrange with
Whittaker about it. See you both in a few minutes.” And he crossed the
room, smiling again.
“Beautiful plan I’ve evolved, Whittaker,” he said, sitting down and
sipping the cocktail that was waiting for him. “Ames is drunk, as you
observed. Got over it a bit in talking with me, but will grow drunker
presently. Very attractive girl with him—name of Ethel. I feel innocent
sorrow for her. D’you mind if we all dine together? I propose to remove
Ethel gently from Ames. Told you I’d find some one out here.”
Whittaker laughed. “Sure!” he said heartily. “That’s something like!
We’ll help all we can, hey, Minnie?”
“Gee! Mr. Carroll, and I thought you was slow!” the girl exclaimed
delightedly.
“My dear Minnie,” said Stacey, “of course you’ll find me slow. Here I
am, Bill’s guest. I owe it to him to suppress all the evil desires you
arouse in me. Besides, we’re Presbyterians in our family, have a pew in
the church. I’d never feel the same again towards the choir if . . .” He
finished his cocktail and gazed at her reproachfully over the glass,
while she laughed.
They all three crossed the room to Ames, who presented them heavily to
Ethel. He was no drunker than before, however,—perhaps even a little
less drunk, and he entered the dining-room with dignified concentrated
steadiness.
The table the head-waiter had reserved for Whittaker would only seat
four comfortably. “I’m the outsider. I’ll sit here at the corner,”
Stacey said firmly, and motioned the waiter to draw him up a chair close
to Ethel’s. “You order, Whittaker, will you?”
The room was pandemonium, on account of the jazz band that was at one
end and the cabaret performance that was everywhere. All conversations
were necessarily shouted.
It occurred to Stacey that the age he lived in was devoted to noise, as
a barbaric preventive of thought. No doubt it was right. What good had
thought ever done the world? Here were the five of them, come out
frankly in quest of food, drink, lights, noise, and sexual
gratification. Nothing but animals, all five! Well, what of it? Clearly
that was what the earth’s millions were all, in this glaring after-war
illumination, revealed as seeking. The only difference among them was
that some were more complicated and refined in their animalism than
others. There wasn’t much complexity out here. So much the better! Strip
off the last silken shreds of decoration! Leave the truth stark naked!
The animal was all there was, and there was only so much, and no more,
to the animal.
Thus Stacey mused, under cover of the hubbub, not perceiving that the
fact of his musing denied its conclusion; not remarking that his own
word was “quest”; not seeing that people were trying to be, and thus
were not wholly, animals; certainly not seeing that this quest was as
futile as any other.
How, indeed, could his thoughts fail to be superficial? They swam
languidly on the surface waters of his mind. Beneath was a painful
turmoil into which he struggled not to look.
He roused himself sharply, with a start, and looked around. Whittaker,
on his right, was leaning over to Minnie just beyond, his face close to
hers, his hand beneath the table. She was answering his glance and his
words, her blue eyes dilated below the delicately darkened eyebrows, her
loose mouth babbling or, between speeches, drooping sensually. Ames
Price was concerned with nothing but the effort to control his
intoxication. Stacey turned to the girl beside him.
Her pose was easy and graceful, and the curve of her cheek beneath the
mass of her black hair was rather fine. Stacey felt the enigmatic
quality about her even now when he could not see her slanting eyes. His
knee touched hers, not intentionally but because they were sitting very
close together, and she turned her face slowly toward his. Their eyes
met. Hers were extraordinarily large and dark, and gazed into his, half
curiously, half cynically, for a long moment. Strange eyes,
unfathomable! Suddenly dull fire smoldered in them, and Stacey felt
dizzy. He shivered,—but so did she; he felt her knee tremble against
his. She smiled and lowered her eyes.
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Carroll,” she observed calmly. “Every one in
Vernon has, of course. I’d rather like to have been a man and fought as
you’ve fought.”
Clearly she had better self-control than he. He paused before replying.
“Would you, now?” he said then. “That’s odd! You look too properly
disdainful to care about fighting, and, as to being a man, you seem to
me very thoroughly a woman.”
She looked at him again, squarely, appearing to study him.
“By the way,” he added abruptly, “what’s your name? Your drunken friend
presented you merely as Ethel.”
“Wyatt. Ethel Wyatt. It wouldn’t mean anything to you. But I prefer Ames
drunk, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
She turned to Price. “Cheer up, Ames, old top!” she cried, in a jovial,
quite different voice. “Cocktails! Here’s to you!” And she pushed his
glass toward him.
Ames gave her a dazed smile, patted her hand heavily, and drank. “’S’a
mistake!” he said. “Had one a minute ago. Oughtn’t to have any more. But
mus’ drink with Essel—Ethel.” He beamed across at Stacey. “Told you so,
Carroll. See her for yourself now. Friendly. Not warm _or_ cold, but
friendly.”
Again she turned to Stacey. “You believe him?”
“No.” He stared at her fiercely. “Will you chuck Ames and run off
somewhere with me?”
“Yes, later,” she replied coolly, “when he’s quite drunk. I don’t want a
scene. I hate scenes.” And she turned back to Ames.
Throughout the whole dinner she paid no more attention to Stacey,
talking instead, with smiles and a coarsened voice, to her escort. But,
beneath the table, her ankle was curved about Stacey’s, and now and
again he felt it tremble, and trembled, too. But no touch of emotion was
in her voice.
He had begun this merely as a savage joke on Ames. He was physically
stirred now and going on with it eagerly, in search of oblivion.
After a while, Ethel being in sprightly conversation with Ames,
Whittaker leaned close to Stacey. “I say! what’s the matter?” he
demanded. “Wake up and get busy, Carroll!”
“Oh,” said Stacey calmly, “that’s all right! It’s all arranged. We’re
only waiting for Ames to get completely blind. Miss Wyatt doesn’t want a
scene.”
Whittaker stared, then laughed. “My heartiest apologies!” he exclaimed.
“You’re a cool pair!”
“Where am I going to go from here?”
“Well,” said Whittaker thoughtfully, “you might go on to West Boyd.
Fifteen miles straight down the road. There’s a good inn there, the
Thorndike. Oh, but hang it, you haven’t got a car!”
“Can’t I rent one here?”
Whittaker shook his head. “Take mine, old chap!” he said generously. “I
don’t need it. I’ll telephone my man to bring out the other to-morrow
morning.”
Stacey hesitated.
“Sure! Sure! Go ahead! I’m all for helping young lovers. Need money?”
“No, I’ve got my check-book. I suppose they’ll cash a check here.”
Whittaker nodded. “I’ll endorse it. They know me.” He laughed again.
“What a lark!”
“Oh!” said Stacey suddenly, “one thing! Keep Minnie quiet! Don’t want to
let Ethel know I had this planned before I met her.”
Before long Ames rose, staggering, his face livid. “’Scuse me,” he said
thickly, “jus’ minute.”
“He’s going to be sick, I guess,” said Minnie delightedly, watching him
lurch across the crowded room toward the door. “But, gee! Mr. Carroll,
you—”
Whittaker cut her off.
Stacey scribbled a check, and Ethel drank her coffee.
“He won’t be back, I think,” she observed calmly. “Not for a long time.
They’ll find him on some floor after a while. So . . .” She turned to
Stacey.
“So we’ll leave you,” he concluded for her. “Thanks awfully for the car,
Whittaker. And remember what the dinner check comes to. I’ll split it
with you later.”
“You _will_ not! My surprise and joy at your behavior are reward enough.
Come on! We’ll see you off.”
And presently, when Ethel had put on her wraps, and the car had been
brought around, and the two suitcases put in, Whittaker and Minnie stood
on the verandah to see the lovers depart.
“If I knew where Ames was I’d get his shoe and throw after you,” called
Whittaker, as Stacey started the car.
But there was no sign of Ames.