III

At seven-thirty, her cheeks glowing and her high-piled hair

gleaming with a suspicion of brilliantine, Evylyn descended the

stairs. Mrs. Ahearn, a little woman concealing a slight

nervousness under red hair and an extreme Empire gown, greeted

her volubly. Evelyn disliked her on the spot, but the husband she

rather approved of. He had keen blue eyes and a natural gift of

pleasing people that might have made him, socially, had he not so

obviously committed the blunder of marrying too early in his

career.

"I'm glad to know Piper's wife," he said simply. "It looks as

though your husband and I are going to see a lot of each other in

the future."

She bowed, smiled graciously, and turned to greet the others:

Milton Piper, Harold's quiet, unassertive younger brother; the

two Lowries, Jessie and Tom; Irene, her own unmarried sister; and

finally Joe Ambler, a confirmed bachelor and Irene's perennial

beau.

Harold led the way into dinner.

"We're having a punch evening," he announced jovially--Evylyn saw

that he had already sampled his concoction--"so there won't be

any cocktails except the punch. It's m' wife's greatest

achievement, Mrs. Ahearn; she'll give you the recipe if you want

it; but owing to a slight"--he caught his wife's eye and paused

--"to a slight indisposition; I'm responsible for this batch.

Here's how!"

All through dinner there was punch, and Evylyn, noticing that

Ahearn and Milton Piper and all the women were shaking their

heads negatively at the maid, knew she had been right about the

bowl; it was still half full. She resolved to caution Harold

directly afterward, but when the women left the table Mrs. Ahearn

cornered her, and she found herself talking cities and

dressmakers with a polite show of interest.

"We've moved around a lot," chattered Mrs. Ahearn, her red head

nodding violently. "Oh, yes, we've never stayed so long in a town

before--but I do hope we're here for good. I like it here; don't

you?"

"Well, you see, I've always lived here, so, naturally---"

"Oh, that's true," said Mrs. Ahearn and laughed. Clarence always

used to tell me he had to have a wife he could come home to and

say: "Well, we're going to Chicago to-morrow to live, so pack

up."

"I got so I never expected to live ANYwhere." She laughed her

little laugh again; Evylyn suspected that it was her society

laugh.

"Your husband is a very able man, I imagine."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Ahearn assured her eagerly. "He's brainy,

Clarence is. Ideas and enthusiasm, you know. Finds out what he

wants and then goes and gets it."

Evylyn nodded. She was wondering if the men were still drinking

punch back in the dining-room. Mrs. Ahearn's history kept

unfolding jerkily, but Evylyn had ceased to listen. The first

odor of massed cigars began to drift in. It wasn't really a large

house, she reflected; on an evening like this the library

sometimes grew blue with smoke, and next day one had to leave the

windows open for hours to air the heavy staleness out of the

curtains. Perhaps this partnership might . . . she began to

speculate on a new house . . .

Mrs. Ahearn's voice drifted in on her:

"I really would like the recipe if you have it written down

somewhere---"

Then there was a sound of chairs in the dining-room and the men

strolled in. Evylyn saw at once that her worst fears were

realized. Harold's face was flushed and his words ran together at

the ends of sentences, while Tom Lowrie lurched when he walked

and narrowly missed Irene's lap when he tried to sink onto the

couch beside her. He sat there blinking dazedly at the company.

Evylyn found herself blinking back at him, but she saw no humor in

it. Joe Ambler was smiling contentedly and purring on his cigar.

Only Ahearn and Milton Piper seemed unaffected.

"It's a pretty fine town, Ahearn," said Ambler, "you'll find

that."

"I've found it so," said Ahearn pleasantly.

"You find it more, Ahearn," said Harold, nodding emphatically "'f

I've an'thin' do 'th it."

He soared into a eulogy of the city, and Evylyn wondered

uncomfortably if it bored every one as it bored her. Apparently

not. They were all listening attentively. Evylyn broke in at the

first gap.

"Where've you been living, Mr. Ahearn?" she asked interestedly.

Then she remembered that Mrs. Ahearn had told her, but it didn't

matter. Harold mustn't talk so much. He was such an ASS when he'd

been drinking. But he plopped directly back in.

"Tell you, Ahearn. Firs' you wanna get a house up here on the

hill. Get Stearne house or Ridgeway house. Wanna have it so

people say: 'There's Ahearn house.' Solid, you know, tha's effec'

it gives."

Evylyn flushed. This didn't sound right at all. Still Ahearn

didn't seem to notice anything amiss, only nodded gravely.

"Have you been looking---" But her words trailed off unheard as

Harold's voice boomed on.

"Get house--tha's start. Then you get know people. Snobbish town

first toward outsider, but not long--after know you. People like

you"--he indicated Ahearn and his wife with a sweeping

gesture--"all right. Cordial as an'thin' once get by first

barrer-bar-barrer--" He swallowed, and then said "barrier,"

repeated it masterfully.

Evylyn looked appealingly at her brother-in-law, but before he

could intercede a thick mumble had come crowding out of Tom

Lowrie, hindered by the dead cigar which he gripped firmly with

his teeth.

"Huma uma ho huma ahdy um---"

"What?" demanded Harold earnestly.

Resignedly and with difficulty Tom removed the cigar--that is, he

removed part of it, and then blew the remainder with a WHUT

sound across the room, where it landed liquidly and limply in

Mrs. Ahearn's lap.

"Beg pardon," he mumbled, and rose with the vague intention of

going after it. Milton's hand on his coat collapsed him in time,

and Mrs. Ahearn not ungracefully flounced the tobacco from her

skirt to the floor, never once looking at it.

"I was sayin'," continued Tom thickly, "'fore 'at happened,"--he

waved his hand apologetically toward Mrs. Ahearn--"I was sayin' I

heard all truth that Country Club matter."

Milton leaned and whispered something to him.

"Lemme 'lone," he said petulantly; "know what I'm doin'. 'Ats

what they came for."

Evylyn sat there in a panic, trying to make her mouth form words.

She saw her sister's sardonic expression and Mrs. Ahearn's face

turning a vivid red. Ahearn was looking down at his watch-chain,

fingering it.

"I heard who's been keepin' y' out, an' he's not a bit better'n

you. I can fix whole damn thing up. Would've before, but I didn't

know you. Harol' tol' me you felt bad about the thing---"

Milton Piper rose suddenly and awkwardly to his feet. In a second

every one was standing tensely and Milton was saying something

very hurriedly about having to go early, and the Ahearns were

listening with eager intentness. Then Mrs. Ahearn swallowed and

turned with a forced smile toward Jessie. Evylyn saw Tom lurch

forward and put his hand on Ahearns shoulder--and suddenly she

was listening to a new, anxious voice at her elbow, and, turning,

found Hilda, the second maid.

"Please, Mis' Piper, I tank Yulie got her hand poisoned. It's all

swole up and her cheeks is hot and she's moanin' an'

groanin'---"

"Julie is?" Evylyn asked sharply. The party suddenly receded. She

turned quickly, sought with her eyes for Mrs. Ahearn, slipped

toward her.

"If you'll excuse me, Mrs.--" She had momentarily forgotten the

name, but she went right on: "My little girl's been taken sick.

I'll be down when I can." She turned and ran quickly up the

stairs, retaining a confused picture of rays of cigar smoke and a

loud discussion in the centre of the room that seemed to be

developing into an argument.

Switching on the light in the nursery, she found Julie tossing

feverishly and giving out odd little cries. She put her hand

against the cheeks. They were burning. With an exclamation she

followed the arm down under the cover until she found the hand.

Hilda was right. The whole thumb was swollen to the wrist and in

the centre was a little inflamed sore. Blood-poisoning! her mind

cried in terror. The bandage had come off the cut and she'd

gotten something in it. She'd cut it at three o'clock--it was now

nearly eleven. Eight hours. Blood-poisoning couldn't possibly

develop so soon.

She rushed to the 'phone.

Doctor Martin across the street was out. Doctor Foulke, their

family physician, didn't answer. She racked her brains and in

desperation called her throat specialist, and bit her lip

furiously while he looked up the numbers of two physicians.

During that interminable moment she thought she heard loud voices

down-stairs--but she seemed to be in another world now. After

fifteen minutes she located a physician who sounded angry and

sulky at being called out of bed. She ran back to the nursery

and, looking at the hand, found it was somewhat more

swollen.

"Oh, God!" she cried, and kneeling beside the bed began smoothing

back Julie's hair over and over. With a vague idea of getting

some hot water, she rose and stared toward the door, but the lace

of her dress caught in the bed-rail and she fell forward on her

hands and knees. She struggled up and jerked frantically at the

lace. The bed moved and Julie groaned. Then more quietly but with

suddenly fumbling fingers she found the pleat in front, tore the

whole pannier completely off, and rushed from the room.

Out in the hall she heard a single loud, insistent voice, but as

she reached the head of the stairs it ceased and an outer door

banged.

The music-room came into view. Only Harold and Milton were there,

the former leaning against a chair, his face very pale, his

collar open, and his mouth moving loosely.

"What's the matter?"

Milton looked at her anxiously.

"There was a little trouble---"

Then Harold saw her and, straightening up with an effort, began

to speak.

"Sult m'own cousin m'own house. God damn common nouveau rish.

'Sult m'own cousin---"

"Tom had trouble with Ahearn and Harold interfered," said Milton.

"My Lord Milton," cried Evylyn, "couldn't you have done

something?"

"I tried; I---"

"Julie's sick," she interrupted; "she's poisoned herself. Get him

to bed if you can."

Harold looked up.

"Julie sick?"

Paying no attention, Evylyn brushed by through the dining-room,

catching sight, with a burst of horror, of the big punch-bowl

still on the table, the liquid from melted ice in its bottom. She

heard steps on the front stairs--it was Milton helping Harold

up--and then a mumble: "Why, Julie's a'righ'."

"Don't let him go into the nursery!" she shouted.

The hours blurred into a nightmare. The doctor arrived just

before midnight and within a half-hour had lanced the wound. He

left at two after giving her the addresses of two nurses to call

up and promising to return at half past six. It was

blood-poisoning.

At four, leaving Hilda by the bedside, she went to her room, and

slipping with a shudder out of her evening dress, kicked it into a

corner. She put on a house dress and returned to the nursery

while Hilda went to make coffee.

Not until noon could she bring herself to look into Harold's

room, but when she did it was to find him awake and staring very

miserably at the ceiling. He turned blood-shot hollow eyes upon

her. For a minute she hated him, couldn't speak. A husky voice

came from the bed.

"What time is it?"

"Noon."

"I made a damn fool---"

"It doesn't matter," she said sharply. "Julie's got

blood-poisoning. They may"--she choked over the words--"they

think she'll have to lose her hand."

"What?"

"She cut herself on that--that bowl."

"Last night?"

"Oh, what does it matter?" see cried; "she's got blood-poisoning.

Can't you hear?" He looked at her bewildered--sat half-way up

in bed.

"I'll get dressed," he said.

Her anger subsided and a great wave of weariness and pity for him

rolled over her. After all, it was his trouble, too.

"Yes," she answered listlessly, "I suppose you'd better."