Part 11 (1/2)

”Hang it, am I lying to myself about that girl? Is it the knowledge that she'll be my neighbor that inclines me to live here? I know I shall miss her if I stay in New York; I'm honest enough to admit that.

G.o.d knows I've nothing but honor in my heart for her. Why, I wouldn't even kiss her hand without old Jack's consent. Well, well; the scene in the church Wednesday will solve all doubts--if I have any.”

The Sunday luncheon pa.s.sed uneventfully. The aunt said nothing more about his coming home to stay. She knew her boy; urging would do more harm than good; so she left him to decide freely.

”Is the pie good, Richard?” she asked.

”Fine! Can you spare me another piece?”

”I'm glad you'll never be too proud to eat pie,” she returned.

”Not even when it's humble,” laughed Warrington.

”There are some folks roundabout who do not think pie is proper,”

seriously.

”Not proper? Tommyrot! Pie is an inst.i.tution; it is as una.s.sailable as the Const.i.tution of the country. I do not speak of the human const.i.tution. There are some folks so purse-proud that they call pies tarts.”

She looked askance at him. There were times when she wasn't quite sure of this boy of hers. He might be serious, and then again he might be quietly laughing. But she saw with satisfaction that the pie disappeared.

”The world, Richard, isn't what it was in my time.”

”I dare say it isn't, Aunty; yet cherries are just as good as ever and June as beautiful. It isn't the world, Aunt o' mine; it's the plaguy people. Those who stay away from church ought to go, and those who go ought to stay away. I'm going down to the club this afternoon. I shall dine there, and later look up the Benningtons. So don't keep dinner waiting for me.”

”Cheer her up, Richard; she needs cheering. It's been a blow to her to lose her boy. If you'd only get married, too, Richard, I could die content. What in the world shall you do when I am gone?”

”Heaven knows!” The thought of losing this dear old soul gave a serious tone to his voice. He kissed her on the cheek and went out into the hall. Jove came waltzing after him. ”Humph! What do you want, sir? Want to go out with me, eh? Very well; but you must promise to behave yourself. I'll have you talking to no poor-dog trash, mind.”

Jove promised unutterable things. ”Come on, then.”

He walked slowly down town, his cane behind his back, his chin in his collar, deep in meditation. He knew instinctively that Mrs. Bennington wanted to talk to him about the coming marriage. He determined to tell her the truth, truth that would set her mother's heart at peace.

Jove ran hither and thither importantly. It was good to be out with the master. He ran into this yard and that, scared a cat up a tree, chased the sparrows, and grumbled at the other dogs he saw. All at once he paused, stiffened, each muscle tense. Warrington, catching the pose, looked up. A handsome trotter was coming along at a walk. In the light road-wagon sat a man and a white bulldog. It was easy for Warrington to recognize McQuade, who in turn knew that this good-looking young man must be the dramatist. The two glanced at each other casually. They were unacquainted. Not so the dogs. They had met.

The white bull teetered on the seat. Jove bared his strong teeth. How he hated that sleek white brute up there! He would have given his life for one good hold on that broad throat. The white dog was thinking, too. Some day, when the time came, he would clean the slate. Once he had almost had the tan for his own. And he hated the girl who had beaten him off with her heavy riding-crop.

McQuade drove on, and Warrington resumed his interrupted study of the sidewalk. McQuade thought nothing more about the fellow who wrote plays, and the dramatist had no place in his mind for the petty affairs of the politician. Fate, however, moves quite as certainly and mysteriously as the cosmic law. The bitter feud between these two men began with their dogs.

At the club Warrington found a few lonely bachelors, who welcomed him to the long table in the grill-room; but he was in no mood for gossip and whisky. He ordered a lithia, drank it quickly, and escaped to the reading-room to write some letters.

Down in the grill-room they talked him over.

”I don't know whether he boozes now, but he used to be tanked quite regularly,” said one.

”Yes, and they say he writes best when half-seas over.”

”Evidently,” said a third, ”he doesn't drink unless he wants to; and that's more than most of us can say.”

”Pshaw! Sunday's clearing-up day; n.o.body drinks much on Sunday. I wonder that Warrington didn't marry Challoner himself. He went around with her a lot.”

Everybody shrugged. You can shrug away a reputation a deal more safely than you can talk it.

”Oh, Bennington's no a.s.s. She's a woman of brains, anyhow. It's something better than marrying a little fool of a pretty chorus girl.