Part 15 (2/2)
”He has the dearest old dog,” replied Patty.
The day pa.s.sed quickly for all concerned: the dinner and box-party left nothing to be desired.
The wedding-breakfast would have provoked envy in the heart of Lucullus; for Warrington was a man of the world, thoroughly polished; there was nothing Stoic about him (though, in the early days he had been a disciple of this cult perforce); he was a thoroughgoing epicure.
Patty was delighted. Warrington guided her about the rooms on a tour of inspection. He pointed out all the curios and told the history of each. But the desk was the article which interested her most.
”And this is where you write? Upon this desk plays have grown up?
Won't you give me a single sheet of ma.n.u.script to take home with me?”
”I certainly shall.”
He pulled out a drawer and found some old ma.n.u.script. He selected a sheet, signed it, and gave it to her.
”I am rich!” the girl exclaimed. ”Signed ma.n.u.script from a real live author! I suppose that you receive tons of letters, some praising, some arguing, some from mere autograph fiends.”
”It's a part of the day's work.” His face brightened. He searched his pockets. ”Here is one out of the ordinary. It is unsigned, so I feel no qualms of conscience in letting you read it.”
Patty took the envelope with suppressed eagerness. She drew out the letter and read it slowly.
”Do you receive many like that?” she asked, folding the letter and returning it.
”Very few; that's why I treasure it. I should like to meet the writer; but that's impossible. I have read and re-read it fifty times.”
”Evidently it was written in good faith.” Patty was not very enthusiastic.
”There's not the least doubt of that. I am glad of one thing: I can't disillusion her.”
”What do you mean?”
”Oh, this young woman thinks I must be a paragon of virtues. I'm not; I'm a miserable impostor. She takes it for granted that I am good and kind and wise.”
”Aren't you?” asked Patty gravely.
”As men go. I always try to be kind; sometimes I am good, and sometimes I am wise.”
”I'm afraid you are one of those young men who try to be bad and can't. They are hopeless.”
Warrington laughed.
”But I am superst.i.tious about that letter. I've carried it in my pocket for weeks. It's a kind of mentor. Whenever some fool thing comes into my head, I stop and think of the letter.”
”That is good. The writer hasn't wasted her time.”
”I love you!” whispered John.
Miss Challoner smiled into his eyes. The smile encouraged him, and he raised her hand to his lips.
Ah, if it were not for those gloves! Why did he not say something? She was positive that he had them. To smile and laugh and talk; to face the altar, knowing that he possessed those hateful gloves! To pretend to deceive when she knew that he was not deceived! It was maddening.
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