The little white house on East Twenty-fifth Street was ablaze with light
as Ralston eagerly mounted the low stoop and pressed the bell. The
visitor knocked the slush from his overshoes, slapped the left pocket of
his coat as if to make certain that something was still safely there,
stepped quickly across the threshold when the butler opened the door,
handed the man his hat, threw off his fur coat upon an ebony chair, and
only paused, and that but for a moment, at the entrance of the
drawing-room. He was a tall, clean-built, brisk young man, thoroughly
American in type, with an alert face, which, if not handsome, was
nevertheless agreeable and attractive--a man, in a word, whom one would
not hesitate to address upon the street, provided the question was
pertinent and the information essential.
It was clear from his manner that he was no stranger, but to-day there
were more women than usual at Miss Evarts's Monday afternoon, and the
lights and chatter seemed a bit confusing to one whose mind was charged
with the importance of a newly acquired responsibility. Miss Evarts was
an old friend of his mother's, who, somewhat to his amused annoyance,
took it upon herself to assume toward him a sort of sisterly attitude,
which allowed her the privileges of relationship without prejudice to a
certain degree of elderly sentiment. Attendance upon her selectly
Bohemian gatherings was a duty which he performed when in town, with a
regularity attributable less to a regard for Miss Evarts herself than to
the fact that Ellen Ferguson was usually to be found there presiding
over the tea table and ready for a brisk walk uptown afterwards.
"Ha! There he is now!" exclaimed a middle-aged man, with iron-gray hair
and pointed mustaches, as the newcomer parted the _portières_.
The group about the warrior turned with one accord and stared, at
present teacups, in his direction.
"Good afternoon, ladies and soldier," said Ralston. "I am the
torchbearer of war. Firing has begun. The searchlight on the Garden is
leveled south--like the lance of the horseman on the tower in Irving's
'Legend of the Arabian Astrologer.'"
The colonel set down his cup and pulled his mustaches with a heavy
frown. He took pains to let it be seen that he was overcome with
conflicting emotions--that stern duty summoned him from home and dear
ones, but that his heart was throbbing to avenge his country's honor.
They all looked toward him as if expecting a few appropriate remarks.
The colonel's hands trembled, the veins upon his forehead swelled, and
he seemed about to speak. Then he did.
"You don't say!" he remarked.
There was a sigh of disappointment from the ladies, and in the hiatus
which followed Miss Evarts shook hands with Ralston and introduced him
to the others as "the newly appointed secretary, you know." Which, or
what of, she did not disclose.
"I always thought Ralston was cast for a topliner," continued the
hostess, as he modestly evaded their congratulations.
"It's about time I left the chorus," answered her guest, adapting his
language to Miss Evarts's open predilection for the footlights.
"Kicked your way up?" inquired, in a hoarse voice, a stout lady of stage
traditions, who was clad in a wall-paper effect of gay brocade.
"My dear Mrs. Vokes, don't judge everybody by your own professional
experience," remarked a young lady in brown, whose aquiline features
were accounted "perfectly lovely" by a large suburban, theater-going
public.
"Come! Come!" interrupted Miss Evarts loudly. "Miss Warren, order
yourself more humbly before your betters."
The two popular favorites glared at one another defiantly.
"Well, in any event, Colonel Duer, he'll soon be giving you your sealed
orders," said Miss Evarts, thus disposing of a situation which might
have become awkward.
"Not unless the colonel gets a transfer. I'm steering the navy, not the
army," laughed Ralston.
"The man behind!" murmured Mrs. Vokes.