_Second Meeting between a Citizen and the Great Pleasure-Dog
Behemoth, involving Plans for Two New Homes._
And this time they did not have to go into the hall to talk.
No sooner had the opening door revealed the face of young Mr. Surface
than Mr. Dayne, the kind-faced Secretary, reached hastily for his hat.
In the same breath with his "Come in" and "Good-morning," he was heard
to mention to the Assistant Secretary something about a little urgent
business downtown.
Mr. Dayne acted so promptly that he met the visitor on the very
threshold of the office. The clergyman held out his hand with a light in
his manly gray eye.
"I'm sincerely glad to see you, Mr. Queed, to have the chance--"
"Surface, please."
Mr. Dayne gave his hand an extra wring. "Mr. Surface, you did a splendid
thing. I'm glad of this chance to tell you so, and to beg your
forgiveness for having done you a grave injustice in my thoughts."
The young man stared at him. "I have nothing to forgive you for, Mr.
Dayne. In fact, I have no idea what you are talking about."
But Mr. Dayne did not enlighten him; in fact he was already walking
briskly down the hall. Clearly the man had business that would not brook
an instant's delay.
Hat in hand, the young man turned, plainly puzzled, and found himself
looking at a white-faced little girl who gave back his look with brave
steadiness.
"Do you think you can forgive me, too?" she asked in a very small
voice.
He came three steps forward, into the middle of the room, and there
halted dead, staring at her with a look of searching inquiry.
"I don't understand this," he said, in his controlled voice.
"What are you talking about?"
"Mr. West," said Sharlee, "has told me all about it. About the
reformatory. And I'm sorry."
There she stuck. Of all the speeches of prostrate yet somehow noble
self-flagellation which in the night seasons she had so beautifully
polished, not one single word could she now recall. Yet she continued to
meet his gaze, for so should apologies be given though the skies fall;
and she watched as one fascinated the blood slowly ebb from his
close-set face.
"Under the circumstances," he said abruptly, "it was hardly a--a
judicious thing to do. However, let us say no more about it."
He turned away from her, obviously unsteadied for all his even voice.
And as he turned, his gaze, which had shifted only to get away from
hers, was suddenly arrested and became fixed.
In the corner of the room, beside the bookcase holding the works of
Conant, Willoughby, and Smathers, lay the great pleasure-dog Behemoth,
leonine head sunk upon two massive outstretched paws. But Behemoth was
not asleep; on the contrary he was overlooking the proceedings in the
office with an air of intelligent and paternal interest.
Between Behemoth and young Henry Surface there passed a long look. The
young man walked slowly across the room to where the creature lay, and,
bending down, patted him on the head. He did it with indescribable
awkwardness. Certainly Behemoth must have perceived what was so plain
even to a human critic, that here was the first dog this man had ever
patted in his life. Yet, being a pleasure-dog, he was wholly civil about
it. In fact, after a lidless scrutiny unembarrassed by any recollections
of his last meeting with this young man, he declared for friendship.
Gravely he lifted a behemothian paw, and gravely the young man shook it.