1
"Tell me all," said Hamilton Beamish.
George told him all. The unfortunate young man was still looking licked
to a splinter. For several hours he had been wandering distractedly
through the streets of New York, and now he had crawled into Hamilton
Beamish's apartment in the hope that a keener mind than his own might
be able to detect in the encompassing clouds a silver lining which he
himself had missed altogether.
"Let me get this clear," said Hamilton Beamish. "You called at the
house?"
"Yes."
"And the butler refused to admit you?"
"Yes."
Hamilton Beamish regarded his stricken friend compassionately.
"My poor cloth-headed George," he said, "you appear to have made a
complete mess of things. By being impetuous you have ruined everything.
Why could you not have waited and let me introduce you into this house
in a normal and straightforward fashion, in my capacity of an old
friend of the family? I would have started you right. As things are,
you have allowed yourself to take on the semblance of an outcast."
"But when old Waddington invited me to dinner--actually invited me to
dinner...."
"You should have kicked him in the eye and made good your escape," said
Hamilton Beamish firmly. "Surely, after all that I said to you about
Sigsbee H. Waddington, you were under no illusion that his patronage
would make you popular in the home? Sigsbee H. Waddington is one of
those men who have only to express a liking for anybody to cause their
wives to look on him as something out of the Underworld. Sigsbee H.
Waddington could not bring the Prince of Wales home to dinner and get
away with it. And when he drags in and lays on the mat a specimen--I
use the word in the kindliest spirit--like you, and does so, moreover,
five minutes before the start of a formal dinner-party, thus upsetting
the seating arrangements and leading to black thoughts in the kitchen,
can you blame his wife for not fawning on you? And on top of that you
pretend to be an artist."
"I am an artist," said George, with a flicker of spirit. It was a
subject on which he held strong views.
"The point is a debatable one. And, anyhow, you should have concealed
it from Mrs. Waddington. A woman of her type looks on artists as blots
on the social scheme. I told you she judged her fellow-creatures
entirely by their balance at the bank."
"I have plenty of money."
"How was she to know that? You tell her you are an artist, and she
naturally imagines you...."
The telephone rang shrilly, interrupting Mr. Beamish's flow of thought.
There was an impatient frown on his face as he unhooked the receiver,
but a moment later this had passed away and, when he spoke, it was in
a kindly and indulgent tone.
"Ah, Molly, my child!"
"Molly!" cried George.
Hamilton Beamish ignored the exclamation.
"Yes," he said. "He is a great friend of mine."
"Me?" said George.
Hamilton Beamish continued to accord him that complete lack of
attention characteristic of the efficient telephoner when addressed
while at the instrument.
"Yes, he has been telling me about it. He's here now."
"Does she want me to speak to her?" quavered George.
"Certainly, I'll come at once."
Hamilton Beamish replaced the receiver, and stood for awhile in thought.
"What did she say?" asked George, deeply moved.
"This is interesting," said Hamilton Beamish.
"What did she say?"
"This causes me to revise my views to some extent."
"What did she say?"
"And yet I might have foreseen it."
"What did she say?"
Hamilton Beamish rubbed his chin meditatively.
"The mind of a girl works oddly."
"What did she say?"
"That was Molly Waddington," said Hamilton Beamish.
"What did she say?"
"I am by no means sure," said Mr. Beamish regarding George owlishly
through his spectacles, "that, after all, everything has not happened
for the best. I omitted to take into my calculations the fact that what
has occurred would naturally give you in the eyes of a warm-hearted
girl, surrounded normally by men with incomes in six figures, a certain
romantic glamour. Any girl with nice instincts must inevitably be
attracted to a penniless artist whom her mother forbids her to see."
"What did she say?"
"She asked me if you were a friend of mine."
"And then what did she say?"
"She told me that her stepmother had forbidden you the house and that
she had been expressly ordered never to see you again."
"And what did she say after that?"
"She asked me to come up to the house and have a talk."
"About me?"
"So I imagine."
"You're going?"
"At once."
"Hamilton," said George in a quivering voice, "Hamilton, old man, pitch
it strong!"
"You mean, speak enthusiastically on your behalf?"
"I mean just that. How well you put these things, Hamilton!"
Hamilton Beamish took up his hat and placed it on his head.
"It is strange," he said meditatively, "that I should be assisting you
in this matter."
"It's your good heart," said George. "You have a heart of gold."
"You have fallen in love at first sight, and my views on love at first
sight are well known."
"They're all wrong."
"My views are never wrong."
"I don't mean wrong exactly," said George with sycophantic haste. "I
mean that in certain cases love at first sight is the only thing."
"Love should be a reasoned emotion."
"Not if you suddenly see a girl like Molly Waddington."
"When I marry," said Hamilton Beamish, "it will be the result of a
carefully calculated process of thought. I shall first decide after
cool reflection that I have reached the age at which it is best for
me to marry. I shall then run over the list of my female friends till
I have selected one whose mind and tastes are in harmony with mine. I
shall then...."
"Aren't you going to change?" said George.
"Change what?"
"Your clothes. If you are going to see Her...."
"I shall then," proceeded Hamilton Beamish, "watch her carefully for a
considerable length of time in order to assure myself that I have not
allowed passion to blind me to any faults in her disposition. After
that...."
"You can't possibly call on Miss Waddington in those trousers," said
George. "And your shirt does not match your socks. You must...."
"After that, provided in the interval I have not observed any more
suitable candidate for my affections, I shall go to her and in a few
simple words ask her to be my wife. I shall point out that my income
is sufficient for two, that my morals are above reproach, that...."
"Haven't you a really nice suit that's been properly pressed and
brushed and a rather newer pair of shoes and a less floppy sort of hat
and...."
"... that my disposition is amiable and my habits regular. And she and
I will settle down to the Marriage Sane."
"How about your cuffs?" said George.
"What about my cuffs?"
"Are you really going to see Miss Waddington in frayed cuffs?"
"I am."
George had nothing more to say. It was sacrilege, but there seemed no
way of preventing it.
2
As Hamilton Beamish, some quarter of an hour later, climbed in a series
of efficient movements up the stairs of the green omnibus which was
waiting in Washington Square, the summer afternoon had reached its best
and sweetest. A red-blooded, one hundred per cent American sun still
shone warmly down from a sky of gleaming azure, but there had stolen
into the air a hint of the cool of evening. It was the sort of day
when Tin Pan Alley lyric-writers suddenly realise that "love" rhymes
with "skies above," and rush off, snorting, to turn out the song-hit
of a lifetime. Sentimentality was abroad: and gradually, without his
being aware of it, its seeds began to plant themselves in the stony and
uncompromising soil of Hamilton Beamish's bosom.
Yes, little by little, as the omnibus rolled on up the Avenue, there
began to burgeon in Hamilton Beamish a mood of gentle tolerance for his
species. He no longer blamed so whole-heartedly the disposition of his
fellow-men to entertain towards the opposite sex on short acquaintance
a warmth of emotion which could be scientifically justified only by a
long and intimate knowledge of character. For the first time he began
to debate within himself whether there was not something to be said for
a man who was, like George Finch, plunged headlong into love with a
girl to whom he had never even spoken.
And it was at this precise moment--just, dramatically enough, when the
bus was passing Twenty-Ninth Street with its pretty and suggestive
glimpse of the Little Church Round the Corner--that he noticed for the
first time the girl in the seat across the way.
She was a girl of _chic_ and _élan_. One may go still
further--a girl of _espièglerie_ and _je ne sais quoi_. She
was dressed, as Hamilton Beamish's experienced eye noted in one swift
glance, in a delightful two-piece suit composed of a smart coat in
fine quality repp, lined throughout with crêpe-de-chine, over a dainty
long-sleeved frock of figured Marocain prettily pleated at the sides
and finished at the neck with a small collar and kilted frill: a dress
which, as every schoolboy knows, can be had in beige, grey, mid-grey,
opal, snuff, powder, burnt wood, puce, brown, bottle, almond, navy,
black and dark Saxe. Her colour was dark Saxe.
Another glance enabled Hamilton Beamish to take in her hat. It was, he
perceived, a becoming hat in Yedda Visca straw, trimmed and bound with
silk petersham ribbon, individual without being conspicuous, artistic
in line and exquisite in style: and from beneath it there strayed a
single curl of about the colour of a good Pekingese dog. Judging the
rest of her hair by the light of this curl, Hamilton Beamish deduced
that, when combing and dressing it, she just moistened the brush with
a little scalpoline, thus producing a gleamy mass, sparkling with life
and possessing that incomparable softness, freshness and luxuriance, at
the same time toning each single hair to grow thick, long and strong.
No doubt she had read advertisements of the tonic in the papers and
now, having bought a bottle, was seeing how healthy and youthful her
hair appeared after this delightful, refreshing dressing.
Her shoes were of black patent-leather, her stockings of steel-grey.
She had that schoolgirl complexion and the skin you love to touch.
All these things the trained eye of Hamilton Beamish noted, swivelling
rapidly sideways and swivelling rapidly back again. But it was her face
that he noted most particularly. It was just the sort of face which, if
he had not had his policy of Sane Love all carefully mapped out, would
have exercised the most disturbing effect on his emotions. Even as it
was, this strong, competent man could not check, as he alighted from
the bus at Seventy-Ninth Street, a twinge of that wistful melancholy
which men feel when they are letting a good thing get away from them.
Sad, reflected Hamilton Beamish, as he stood upon the steps of Number
16 and prepared to ring the bell, that he would never see this girl
again. Naturally, a man of his stamp was not in love at first sight,
but nevertheless he did not conceal it from himself that nothing would
suit him better than to make her acquaintance and, after careful study
of her character and disposition, possibly discover in a year or two
that it was she whom Nature had intended for his mate.
It was at this point in his reflections that he perceived her standing
at his elbow.
There are moments when even the coolest-headed efficiency expert finds
it hard to maintain his poise. Hamilton Beamish was definitely taken
aback: and, had he been a lesser man, one would have said that he
became for an instant definitely pop-eyed. Apart from the fact that
he had been thinking of her and thinking of her tenderly, there was
the embarrassment of standing side by side with a strange girl on a
door-step. In such a crisis it is very difficult for a man to know
precisely how to behave. Should he endeavour to create the illusion
that he is not aware of her presence? Or should he make some chatty
remark? And, if a chatty remark, what chatty remark?
Hamilton Beamish was still grappling with this problem, when the girl
solved it for him. Suddenly screwing up a face which looked even more
attractive at point-blank range than it had appeared in profile, she
uttered the exclamation "Oo!"
"Oo!" said this girl.
For a moment, all Hamilton Beamish felt was that almost ecstatic
relief which comes over the man of sensibility when he finds that a
pretty girl has an attractive voice. Too many times in his career he
had admired girls from afar, only to discover, when they spoke, that
they had voices like peacocks calling up the rain. The next instant,
however, he had recognised that his companion was suffering, and his
heart was filled with a blend of compassion and zeal. Her pain aroused
simultaneously the pity of the man and the efficiency of the efficiency
expert.
"You have something in your eye?" he said.
"A bit of dust or something."
"Permit me," said Hamilton Beamish.
One of the most difficult tasks that can confront the ordinary man is
the extraction of foreign bodies from the eye of a perfect stranger of
the opposite sex. But Hamilton Beamish was not an ordinary man. Barely
ten seconds later, he was replacing his handkerchief in his pocket and
the girl was blinking at him gratefully.
"Thank you ever so much," she said.
"Not at all," said Hamilton Beamish.
"A doctor couldn't have done it more neatly."
"It's just a knack."
"Why is it," asked the girl, "that, when you get a speck of dust in
your eye the size of a pin-point, it seems as big as all out-doors?"
Hamilton Beamish could answer that. The subject was one he had studied.
"The conjunctiva, a layer of mucous membrane which lines the back of
the eyelids and is reflected on the front of the globe, this reflection
forming the fornix, is extremely sensitive. This is especially so at
the point where the tarsal plates of fibrous tissue are attached to the
orbital margin by the superior and inferior palpebral ligaments."
"I see," said the girl.
There was a pause.
"Are you calling on Mrs. Waddington?" asked the girl.
"On Miss Waddington."
"I've never met her."
"You don't know the whole family, then?"
"No. Only Mrs. Waddington. Would you mind ringing the bell?"
Hamilton Beamish pressed the button.
"I saw you on the omnibus," he said.
"Did you?"
"Yes. I was sitting in the next seat."
"How odd!"
"It's a lovely day, isn't it?"
"Beautiful."
"The sun."
"Yes."
"The sky."
"Yes."
"I like the summer."
"So do I."
"When it's not too hot."
"Yes."
"Though, as a matter of fact," said Hamilton Beamish, "I always say
that what one objects to is not the heat but the humidity."
Which simply goes to prove that even efficiency experts, when they
fall in love at first sight, can babble like any man of inferior
intellect in the same circumstances. Strange and violent emotions were
racking Hamilton Beamish's bosom: and, casting away the principles of
a lifetime, he recognised without a trace of shame that love had come
to him at last--not creeping scientifically into his soul, as he had
supposed it would, but elbowing its way in with the Berserk rush of
a commuter charging into the five-fifteen. Yes, he was in love. And
it is proof of the completeness with which passion had blunted his
intellectual faculties that he was under the impression that in the
recent exchange of remarks he had been talking rather well.
The door opened. Ferris appeared. He looked at the girl, not with the
cold distaste which he had exhibited earlier in the day towards George
Finch, but with a certain paternal affection. Ferris measured forty-six
round the waist, but Beauty still had its appeal for him.
"Mrs. Waddington desired me to say, miss," he said, "that an
appointment of an urgent nature has called her elsewhere, rendering it
impossible for her to see you this afternoon."
"She might have phoned me," the girl complained.
Ferris allowed one eyebrow to flicker momentarily, conveying the idea,
that, while he sympathised, a spirit of loyalty forbade him to join in
criticism of his employer.
"Mrs. Waddington wished to know if it would be convenient to you, miss,
if she called upon you to-morrow at five o'clock?"
"All right."
"Thank you, miss. Miss Waddington is expecting you, sir."
Hamilton Beamish continued to stare after the girl, who, with a
friendly nod in his direction, had begun to walk light-heartedly out of
his life along the street.
"Who is that young lady, Ferris?" he asked.
"I could not say, sir."
"Why couldn't you? You seemed to know her just now."
"No, sir. I had never seen the young lady before. Mrs. Waddington,
however, had mentioned that she would be calling at this hour and
instructed me to give the message which I delivered."
"Didn't Mrs. Waddington say who was calling?"
"Yes, sir. The young lady."
"Ass!" said Hamilton Beamish. But even he was not strong man enough to
say it aloud. "I mean, didn't she tell you the young lady's name?"
"No, sir. If you will step this way, sir, I will conduct you to Miss
Waddington, who is in the library."
"It seems funny that Mrs. Waddington did not tell you the young lady's
name," brooded Hamilton Beamish.
"Very humorous, sir," agreed the butler indulgently.
3
"Oh, Jimmy, it was sweet of you to come," said Molly.
Hamilton Beamish patted her hand absently. He was too preoccupied to
notice the hateful name by which she had addressed him.
"I have had a wonderful experience," he said.
"So have I. I think I'm in love."
"I have given the matter as close attention as has been possible, in
the limited time at my disposal," said Hamilton Beamish, "and I have
reached the conclusion that I, too, am in love."
"I think I am in love with your friend, George Finch."
"I am in love with ..." Hamilton Beamish paused. "I don't know her
name. She is a most charming girl. I met her coming up here on the bus,
and we talked for awhile on the front door-steps. I took something out
of her eye."
Molly stared incredulously.
"You have fallen in love with a girl and you don't know who she is?
But I thought you always said that love was a reasoned emotion and all
that."
"One's views alter," said Hamilton Beamish. "A man's intellectual
perceptions do not stand still. One develops."
"I was never so surprised in my life."
"It came as a complete surprise to me," said Hamilton Beamish. "It is
excessively aggravating that I do not know her name nor where she lives
nor anything about her except that she appears to be a friend--or at
least an acquaintance--of your stepmother."
"Oh, she knows mother, does she?"
"Apparently. She was calling here by appointment."
"All sorts of weird people call on mother. She is honorary secretary to
about a hundred societies."
"This girl was of medium height, with an extremely graceful figure
and bright brown hair. She wore a two-piece suit with a coat of fine
quality repp over a long-sleeved frock of figured Marocain pleated
at the sides and finished at the neck with a small collar and kilted
frill. Her hat was of Yedda Visca straw, trimmed and bound with silk
petersham ribbon. She had patent-leather shoes, silk stockings, and
eyes of tender grey like the mists of sunrise floating over some magic
pool of Fairyland. Does the description suggest anybody to you?"
"No, I don't think so--She sounds nice."
"She is nice. I gazed into those eyes only for a moment, but I shall
never forget them. They were deeper than the depth of waters stilled at
even."
"I could ask mother who she is."
"I should be greatly obliged if you would do so," said Hamilton
Beamish. "Mention that it is some one upon whom she is to call at five
o'clock to-morrow, and telephone me the name and address. Oh, to seize
her and hold her close to me and kiss her again and again and again!
And now, child, tell me of yourself. I think you mentioned that you
also were in love."
"Yes. With George Finch."
"A capital fellow."
"He's a lambkin," emended Molly warmly.
"A lambkin, if you prefer it."
"And I asked you to come here to-day to tell me what I ought to do. You
see, mother doesn't like him."
"So I gathered."
"She has forbidden him the house."
"Yes."
"I suppose it's because he has no money."
Hamilton Beamish was on the point of mentioning that George had an
almost indecent amount of money, but he checked himself. Who was he
that he should destroy a young girl's dreams? It was as a romantic and
penniless artist that George Finch had won this girl's heart. It would
be cruel to reveal the fact that he was rich and the worst artist in
New York.
"Your stepmother," he agreed, "is apt to see eye to eye with Bradstreet
in her estimation of her fellows."
"I don't care if he hasn't any money," said Molly. "You know that, when
I marry, I get that pearl necklace that father bought for mother. It's
being held in trust for me. I can sell it and get thousands of dollars,
so that we shall be as right as anything."
"Quite."
"But, of course, I don't want to make a runaway marriage if I can help
it. I want to be married with bridesmaids and cake and presents and
photographs in the rotogravure section and everything."
"Naturally."
"So the point is, mother must learn to love George. Now listen, Jimmy
dear. Mother will be going to see her palmist, very soon--she's always
going to palmists, you know."
Hamilton Beamish nodded. He had not been aware of this trait in Mrs.
Waddington's character, but he could believe anything of her. Now that
he came to consider the matter, he recognised that Mrs. Waddington was
precisely the sort of woman who, in the intervals of sitting in the
salons of beauty specialists with green mud on her face, would go to
palmists.
"And what you must do is to go to this palmist before mother gets
there and bribe her to say that my only happiness is bound up with a
brown-haired artist whose name begins with a G."
"I scarcely think that even a palmist would make Mrs. Waddington
believe that."
"She believes everything Madame Eulalie sees in the crystal."
"But hardly that."
"No, perhaps you're right. Well, then, you must get Madame Eulalie at
least to steer mother off Lord Hunstanton. Last night, she told me in
so many words that she wanted me to marry him. He's always here, and
it's awful."
"I could do that, of course."
"And you will?"
"Certainly."
"You're a darling. I should think she would do it for ten dollars."
"Twenty at the outside."
"Then that's settled. I knew I could rely on you. By the way, will you
tell George something quite casually?"
"Anything you wish."
"Just mention to him that, if he happens to be strolling in Central
Park to-morrow afternoon near the Zoo, we might run into each other."
"Very well."
"And now," said Molly, "tell me all about George and how you came to
know one another and what you thought of him when you first saw him and
what he likes for breakfast and what he talks about and what he said
about me."
4
It might have been expected that the passage of time, giving
opportunity for quiet reflection on the subject of the illogical nature
of the infatuation in which he had allowed himself to become involved,
would have brought remorse to so clear and ruthless a thinker as
Hamilton Beamish. It was not so, but far otherwise. As Hamilton Beamish
sat in the ante-chamber of Madame Eulalie's office next day, he gloried
in his folly: and when his better self endeavoured to point out to him
that what had happened was that he had allowed himself to be ensnared
by a girl's face--that is to say, by a purely fortuitous arrangement of
certain albuminoids and fatty molecules, all Hamilton Beamish did was
to tell his better self to put its head in a bag. He was in love, and
he liked it. He was in love, and proud of it. His only really coherent
thought as he waited in the ante-room was a resolve to withdraw the
booklet on "The Marriage Sane" from circulation and try his hand at
writing a poem or two.
"Madame Eulalie will see you now, sir," announced the maid, breaking in
upon his reverie.
Hamilton Beamish entered the inner room. And, having entered it,
stopped dead.
"You!" he exclaimed.
The girl gave that fleeting pat at her hair which is always Woman's
reaction to the unexpected situation. And Hamilton Beamish looking
at that hair emotionally, perceived that he had been right in his
yesterday's surmise. It was, as he had suspected, a gleamy mass,
sparkling with life and possessing that incomparable softness,
freshness and luxuriance.
"Why, how do you do?" said the girl.
"I'm fine," said Hamilton Beamish.
"We seem fated to meet."
"And I'm not quarrelling with fate."
"No?"
"No," said Hamilton Beamish. "Fancy it being you!"
"Fancy who being me?"
"Fancy you being you." It occurred to him that he was not making
himself quite clear. "I mean, I was sent here with a message for Madame
Eulalie, and she turns out to be you."
"A message? Who from?"
"From whom?" corrected Hamilton Beamish. Even in the grip of love, a
specialist on Pure English remains a specialist on Pure English.
"That's what I said--Who from?"
Hamilton Beamish smiled an indulgent smile. These little mistakes could
be corrected later--possibly on the honeymoon.
"From Molly Waddington. She asked me to...."
"Oh, then you don't want me to read your hand?"
"There is nothing I want more in this world," said Hamilton Beamish
warmly, "than to have you read my hand."
"I don't have to read it to tell your character, of course," said the
girl. "I can see that at a glance."
"You can?"
"Oh, certainly. You have a strong, dominating nature and a keen
incisive mind. You have great breadth of vision, iron determination,
and marvellous insight. Yet with it all you are at heart gentle, kind
and lovable; deeply altruistic and generous to a fault. You have it in
you to be a leader of men. You remind me of Julius Cæsar, Shakespeare
and Napoleon Bonaparte."
"Tell me more," said Hamilton Beamish.
"If you ever fell in love...."
"If I ever fell in love...."
"If you ever fell in love," said the girl, raising her eyes to his and
drawing a step closer, "you would...."
"Mr. Delancy Cabot," announced the maid.
"Oh, darn it!" said Madame Eulalie. "I forgot I had an appointment.
Send him in."
"May I wait?" breathed Hamilton Beamish devoutly.
"Please do. I shan't be long." She turned to the door. "Come in, Mr.
Cabot."
Hamilton Beamish wheeled around. A long, stringy person was walking
daintily into the room. He was richly, even superbly, dressed in the
conventional costume of the popular clubman and pet of Society. He
wore lavender gloves and a carnation in his buttonhole, and a vast
expanse of snowy collar encircled a neck which suggested that he might
be a throw-back to some giraffe ancestor. A pleasing feature of this
neck was an Adam's apple that could have belonged to only one man of
Hamilton Beamish's acquaintance.
"Garroway!" cried Hamilton Beamish. "What are you doing here? And what
the devil does this masquerade mean?"
The policeman seemed taken aback. His face became as red as his wrists.
But for the collar, which held him in a grip of iron, his jaw would no
doubt have fallen.
"I didn't expect to find you here, Mr. Beamish," he said
apologetically.
"I didn't expect to find you here, calling yourself De Courcy
Bellville."
"Delancy Cabot, sir."
"Delancy Cabot, then."
"I like the name," urged the policeman. "I saw it in a book."
The girl was breathing hard.
"Is this man a policeman?" she cried.
"Yes, he is," said Hamilton Beamish. "His name is Garroway, and I am
teaching him to write poetry. And what I want to know," he thundered,
turning on the unhappy man, whose Adam's apple was now leaping like a
young lamb in the springtime, "is what are you doing here, interrupting
a--interrupting a--in short interrupting, when you ought either to be
about your constabulary duties or else sitting quietly at home studying
John Drinkwater. That," said Hamilton Beamish, "is what I want to know."
Officer Garroway coughed.
"The fact is, Mr. Beamish, I did not know that Madame Eulalie was a
friend of yours."
"Never mind whose friend she is."
"But it makes all the difference, Mr. Beamish. I can now go back to
headquarters and report that Madame Eulalie is above suspicion. You
see, sir, I was sent here by my superior officers to effect a cop."
"What do you mean, effect a cop?"
"To make an arrest, Mr. Beamish."
"Then do not say 'effect a cop.' Purge yourself of these vulgarisms,
Garroway."
"Yes, sir. I will indeed, sir."
"Aim at the English Pure."
"Yes, sir. Most certainly, Mr. Beamish."
"And what on earth do you mean by saying that you were sent here to
arrest this lady?"
"It has been called to the attention of my superior officers, Mr.
Beamish, that Madame Eulalie is in the habit of telling fortunes for a
monetary consideration. Against the law, sir."
Hamilton Beamish snorted.
"Ridiculous! If that's the law, alter it!"
"I will do my best, sir."
"I have had the privilege of watching Madame Eulalie engaged upon her
art, and she reveals nothing but the most limpid truth. So go back to
your superior officers and tell them to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge."
"Yes, sir. I will, sir."
"And now leave us. We would be alone."
"Yes, Mr. Beamish," said Officer Garroway humbly. "At once, Mr.
Beamish."
For some moments after the door had closed, the girl stood staring at
Hamilton Beamish with wondering eyes.
"Was that man really a policeman?"
"He was."
"And you handled him like that, and he said, 'Yes, sir!' and 'No, sir!'
and crawled out on all fours." She drew a deep breath. "It seems to me
that you are just the sort of friend a lonely girl needs in this great
city."
"I am only too delighted that I was able to be of service."
"Service is right! Mr. Beamish...."
"My first name is Hamilton."
She looked at him, amazed.
"You are not _the_ Hamilton Beamish? Not the man who wrote the
booklets?"
"I have written a few booklets."
"Why, you're my favourite author! If it hadn't been for you I would
still be mouldering in a little one-horse town where there wasn't
even a good soda-fountain. But I got hold of a couple of your Are You
in a Groove? things, and I packed up my grip and came right along to
New York to lead a larger life. If I'd known yesterday that you were
Hamilton Beamish, I'd have kissed you on the door-step!"
It was Hamilton Beamish's intention to point out that a curtained
room with a closed door was an even more suitable place for such a
demonstration, but, even as he tried to speak, there gripped him for
the first time in his life a strange, almost George Finch-like shyness.
One deprecates the modern practice of exposing the great, but candour
compels one to speak out and say that at this juncture Hamilton Beamish
emitted a simpering giggle and began to twiddle his fingers.
The strange weakness passed, and he was himself again. He adjusted his
glasses firmly.
"Would you," he asked, "could you possibly.... Do you think you could
manage to come and lunch somewhere to-morrow?"
The girl uttered an exclamation of annoyance.
"Isn't that too bad!" she said. "I can't."
"The day after?"
"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I shall be off the map for three weeks. I've got
to jump on a train to-morrow and go visit the old folks back in East
Gilead. It's Pop's birthday on Saturday, and I never miss it."
"East Gilead?"
"Idaho. You wouldn't have heard of the place, but it's there."
"But I have heard of it. A great friend of mine comes from East Gilead."
"You don't say! Who?"
"A man named George Finch."
She laughed amusedly.
"You don't actually mean to tell me you know George Finch?"
"He is my most intimate friend."
"Then I trust for your sake," said the girl, "that he is not such a yap
as he used to be."
Hamilton Beamish reflected. Was George Finch a yap? How precisely did
one estimate the yaphood of one's friends?
"By the word 'yap' you mean...."
"I mean a yap. The sort of fellow who couldn't say Bo to a goose."
Hamilton Beamish had never seen George Finch in conversation with a
goose, but he thought he was a good enough judge of character to be
able to credit him with the ability to perform the very trivial deed of
daring indicated.
"I fancy New York has changed George," he replied, after reflection.
"In fact, now that I remember, it was on more or less that very subject
that I called to see you in a professional capacity. The fact is,
George Finch has fallen violently in love with Molly Waddington, the
stepdaughter of your client, Mrs. Waddington."
"You don't say! And I suppose he's too shy to come within a mile of
her."
"On the contrary. The night before last he seems to have forced his way
into the house--you might say, practically forced his way--and now Mrs.
Waddington has forbidden him to see Molly again, fearing that he will
spoil her plan of marrying the poor child to a certain Lord Hunstanton."
The girl stared.
"You're right! George must have altered."
"And we were wondering--Molly and I--if we could possibly induce you to
stoop to a--shall I say a benevolent little ruse. Mrs. Waddington is
coming to see you to-day at five, and it was Molly's suggestion that I
should sound you as to whether you would consent to take a look in the
crystal and tell Mrs. Waddington that you see danger threatening Molly
from a dark man with an eye-glass."
"Of course."
"You will?"
"It isn't much to do in return for all you have done for me."
"Thank you, thank you," said Hamilton Beamish. "I knew, the moment I
set eyes on you, that you were a woman in a million. I wonder,--could
you possibly come to lunch one day after you return?"
"I'd love it."
"I'll leave you my telephone number."
"Thanks. Give George my regards. I'd like to see him when I get back."
"You shall. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mr. Beamish."
"Hamilton."
Her face wore a doubtful look.
"I don't much like that name Hamilton. It's kind of stiff."
Hamilton Beamish had a brief struggle with himself.
"My name is also James. At one time in my life many people used to
call me Jimmy." He shuddered a little, but repeated the word bravely:
"Jimmy."
"Put me on the list," said the girl. "I like that much better.
Good-bye, Jimmy."
"Good-bye," said Hamilton Beamish.
So ended the first spasm of a great man's love-story. A few moments
later, Hamilton Beamish was walking in a sort of dance-measure down the
street. Near Washington Square he gave a small boy a dollar and asked
him if he was going to be President some day.
5
"George," said Hamilton Beamish, "I met some one to-day who knew you
back in East Gilead. A girl."
"What was her name? Did Molly give you any message for me?"
"Madame Eulalie."
"I don't remember anyone called that. Did Molly give you any message
for me?"
"She is slim and graceful and has tender grey eyes like mists floating
over some pool in Fairyland."
"I certainly don't remember anyone in East Gilead like that. Did Molly
give you any message for me?"
"No."
"She didn't?" George flung himself despairingly into a chair. "This is
the end!"
"Oh, yes, she did," said Hamilton Beamish. "I was forgetting. She told
me to tell you that, if you happened to be in Central Park to-morrow
afternoon near the Zoo, you might meet her."
"This is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year," said
George Finch.