STEAK, WITH MUSHROOMS AND ADVICE
All of Miss Winthrop that occupied a desk in the office of Carter,
Rand & Seagraves on the next day was that for which Farnsworth was
paying a weekly wage of twelve dollars. From the moment she entered
that morning until she left that afternoon she made this perfectly
clear to every one, including Don. But he also was busy. He had
determined to make himself letter perfect on several bond issues. To
this end he worked as hard as ever he had the day before a final
examination. Besides this, Farnsworth found three or four errands for
him to do, which he accomplished with dispatch. All that week
Farnsworth had used him more and more--a distinctly encouraging sign.
Don knew offhand now the location of some ten or fifteen offices, and
was received in them as the recognized representative of Carter, Rand
& Seagraves. In some places he was even known by name and addressed
as Mr. Pendleton--which filled him with considerable pride.
Don went direct to his house from the office, dressed, and went to the
club.
"If any one rings me up, get the name," he ordered the doorman.
He avoided the crowd before the bar, and went upstairs to the library.
He had brought his circulars with him, and now went over them once
again in order to refresh his memory on some of the details. He was as
anxious about getting this right as if Miss Winthrop were a
prospective customer. Perhaps she might be. Women invested money, and
if he was persuasive enough he might sell her a thousand-dollar bond.
If he did not sell one to her, he might sell a few to Barton. Barton
was always investing money--investing the Pendleton money, in fact. He
might suggest Barton to Farnsworth, and drop around and see him
to-morrow. Then Barton might suggest some one else. Before night he
might in this way sell a couple of dozen of these bonds. He grew
excited at the idea. He felt a new instinct stirring within him.
Don had never sold anything in his life except a few old clothes to
second-hand clothes men in Cambridge. Strictly speaking, that was more
in the nature of a gift than a sale: for a hundred dollars' worth of
clothes, he received perhaps ten dollars, which he felt obliged to
spend on his friends at the first opportunity.
Don had always been a buyer--a talent that required neither
preparation nor development. Money had always passed from him to some
one else. This was pleasant enough, but undramatic. There was no
clash; it called for no effort on his part. To reverse all this and
watch the money pass in the other direction--from some one else to
him--impressed him as a pleasant variation.
At seven o'clock Don replaced his circulars in his pocket and went
downstairs. Wadsworth passed him, and for a moment Don was tempted to
stop him and try out his knowledge of bonds on him. The club, however,
was hardly the place for that. But if ever he met Wadsworth on the
street he would see what he could do. Wadsworth had never been more
than an acquaintance of his, but now he saw in him a prospective
customer.
Don stepped into a taxi at the door and gave the driver the address
supplied by Miss Winthrop. The cab after a little came to a stop
before one of several entrances in a long brick block. Before Don had
time to reach the door Miss Winthrop stepped out. He had rather hoped
for an opportunity to meet some of her family.
"Am I late?" he inquired anxiously.
He could not account in any other way for the fact that she had
hurried out before he had a chance to send in his card.
"No," she answered. "Did you come in that?"
She was looking at the taxi.
He nodded, and stood at the door, ready to assist her in.
"Well, you may send it away now," she informed him.
"But--"
"I won't go in it," she insisted firmly.
"Afraid it will break down?"
"Are you going to send it away?"
Without further argument he paid the driver and sent him off.
"It isn't right to waste money like that," she told him.
"Oh, that was the trouble? But it wouldn't have cost more than a
couple of dollars to have gone back with him."
"Two dollars! That's carfare for three weeks."
"Of course, if you look at it that way. But here we are away uptown,
and--hanged if I know how to get out."
He looked around, as bewildered as a lost child. She could not help
laughing.
"If you're as helpless as that I don't see how you ever get home at
night," she said.
He looked in every direction, but he did not see a car line. He turned
to her.
"I won't help you," she said, shaking her head.
"Then we'll have to walk until we come to the Elevated," he
determined.
"All right," she nodded. "Only, if you don't go in the right direction
you will walk all night before you come to the Elevated."
"I can ask some one, can't I?"
"I certainly would before I walked very far."
"Then I'm going to ask you."
He raised his hat.
"I beg pardon, madame, but would you be so good--"
"Oh, turn to the right," she laughed. "And do put on your hat."
It was a quiet little French restaurant of the better kind to which he
took her--a place he had stumbled on one evening, and to which he
occasionally went when the club menu did not appeal to him. Jacques
had reserved a table in a corner, and had arranged there the violets
that Monsieur Pendleton had sent for this purpose. On the whole, it
was just as well Miss Winthrop did not know this, or of the tip that
was to lead to a certain kind of salad and to an extravagant dish with
mushrooms to come later. It is certain that Monsieur Pendleton knew
how to arrange a dinner from every other but the economical end.
Don was very much himself to-night, and in an exceedingly good humor.
In no time he made her also feel very much herself and put her into
an equally good humor. Her cares, her responsibilities, her fears,
vanished as quickly as if the last three or four years had taught her
nothing. She had started with set lips, and here she was with smiling
ones. In the half-hour that she waited in her room for him, she had
rehearsed a half-dozen set speeches; now she did not recall one of
them.
Don suggested wine, but she shook her head. She had no need of wine.
It was wine enough just to be out of her room at night; wine enough
just to get away from the routine of her own meals; wine enough just
not to be alone; wine enough just to get away from her own sex for a
little.
Don chatted on aimlessly through the anchovies, the soup, and fish,
and she enjoyed listening to him. He was the embodiment of youth, and
he made even her feel like a care-free girl of sixteen again. This
showed in her face, in the relaxed muscles about her mouth, and in her
brightened eyes.
Then, during the long wait for the steak and mushrooms, his face
became serious, and he leaned across the table.
"By the way," he began, "the house has received a new allotment of
bonds; I want to tell you about them."
He had his facts well in hand, and he spoke with conviction and an
unconventionality of expression that made her listen. She knew a
good salesman when she heard one, whether she was familiar with the
particular subject-matter or not. The quality of salesmanship
really had nothing to do with the subject-matter. A good salesman
can sell anything. It has rather to do with that unknown gift which
distinguishes an actor able to pack a house from an actor with every
other quality able only to half fill a house. It has nothing to do
with general intelligence; it has nothing to do with conscientious
preparation; it has nothing to do with anything but itself. It
corresponds to what in a woman is called charm, and which may go
with a pug nose or freckles or a large mouth. But it cannot be
cultivated. It either is or is not.
It was the mushrooms and steak that interrupted him. Jacques was
trying to draw his attention to the sizzling hot platter which he was
holding for his inspection--a work of art in brown and green.
Ordinarily Monsieur Pendleton took some time to appreciate his
efforts. Now he merely nodded:--
"Good."
Jacques was somewhat disappointed.
"Madame sees it?" he ventured.
Madame, who was sitting with her chin in her hands, staring across the
table at Monsieur, started.
"Yes," she smiled. "It is beautiful."
But, when Jacques turned away to carve, she continued to stare again
at Mr. Pendleton.
"It's in you," she exclaimed. "Oh, what a chance you have!"
"You think I'll do?"
"I think that in two years you'll be outselling any one in the
office," she answered.
His face flushed at the praise.
"That's straight?"
"That's straight," she nodded. "And within another year Farnsworth
will pay you anything you demand."
"Ten thousand?"
"A gift like yours is worth that to the house--if you don't spoil
it."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, I mean you must keep it fresh and clean and free, and not mix it
up with money," she ran on eagerly. "You must keep right on selling
for the fun of the game and not for the gain. The gain will come fast
enough. Don't worry about that. But if you make it the end, it may
make an end of your gift. And you mustn't get foolish with success.
And you mustn't--oh, there are a hundred ways of spoiling it all."
It was her apparent sure knowledge of these things that constantly
surprised him.
"How do you know?" he demanded.
"Because I've seen and heard. All I can do is to stop, look, and
listen, isn't it?"
"And warn the speeders?" he laughed.
"If I could do that much it would be something," she answered
wistfully.
"Will you warn me?"
"I'm warning you now."
She met his eyes with a puzzled frown.
"I've seen a lot of men start right, but they don't stay right. Why
don't they?"
"But a lot of them do," he answered.
"And they are the kind that just stay. I hate that kind. I hate people
who just stay. That's why I hate myself sometimes."
He looked up at her quickly. It was the first indication he had that
she was not continually in an unbroken state of calm content. He
caught her brown eyes grown suddenly full, as if they themselves had
been startled by the unexpected exclamation.
"What's that you said?" he demanded.
She tried to laugh, but she was still too disconcerted to make it a
successful effort. She was not often goaded into as intimate a
confession as this.
"It isn't worth repeating," she answered uneasily.
"You said you hated yourself sometimes."
"The steak is very, very good," she answered, smiling.
"Then you aren't hating yourself now?"
"No, no," she replied quickly. "It's only when I get serious
and--please don't let's be serious."
The rest of the dinner was very satisfactory, for he left her nothing
to do but sit back and enjoy herself. And he made her laugh, sharing
with him his laughter. It was half-past ten when they arose and went
out upon the street. There she kept right on forgetting. It was not
until she stood in her room, half-undressed, that she remembered she
had not told Pendleton that to-night was positively to bring to an end
this impossible friendship.