Part 12 (2/2)

I found the author gazing off with a far-away reminiscence which was mostly pain. The taxi' was whirring under the arch, but he had already forgotten it and its occupant.

”Do you want to unbosom yourself, Bobby?” I questioned.

He shook his head.

”To you?” he inquired with a smile. ”You're a woman-hater.”

But a moment later he came over and laid his hand affectionately on my shoulder, fearing he had offended me.

”I guess, old man,” he explained, ”there's no balm in post-mortems. I loved her, that's all, and I still do.”

”She married?” I inquired.

”She is now Mrs. William Clay Weighborne of Lexington. It's a prettier name than f.a.n.n.y Maxwell, and looks better on a check. I was number three, that's all.”

”Mrs. Who?” I repeated, in astonishment. ”You don't mean the wife of W.

C. Weighborne?”

”Why?” he asked suddenly. ”Is the gentleman an acquaintance of yours?”

”Since this morning, yes. He is even a business a.s.sociate.”

”How you birds of a financial feather do flock around the same pabulum,”

he coolly observed.

”I was rather well impressed with him,” I admitted idiotically enough.

”He seemed a very decent sort of chap.”

Maxwell lighted a cigarette. His voice was a trifle unenthusiastic as he replied.

”So I am informed.”

A few days later I arrived at Lexington and Weighborne, who met me at the station with his car, announced that I was to go to his home on the Frankfort turnpike. But at this arrangement I balked. Despite a certain curiosity to see his wife, the lady who had left such a melancholy impress on the heart of my friend, there were considerations which outweighed curiosity. My own peculiar afflictions bore more heavily on me than those of my acquaintances and I had no yearning for the effort of socializing.

So Weighborne protestingly drove me to the Ph[oe]nix, and armed me with a visitor's card to the Lexington Union Club. I could see that he was deeply absorbed. His mind was so tensely focused on coal and timber development that it was difficult for him to think of other matters. My apathy lagged at the prospect of following his untiring energy over hours of close application to detail. I would put it off until to-morrow. Yet I had hardly taken my seat at table in the dining-room of the Ph[oe]nix, when a page called me to the telephone booth and Weighborne's voice came through the transmitter.

”Hullo, old man, did I drag you away from food? Sorry, but there are some papers here I'd like mighty well to have you look over. I might bring them in, but if you don't mind running out it would be better.”

Of necessity I a.s.sented.

”I'll have my chauffeur call for you at 8:30,” he arranged, ”and meanwhile I'll be getting things into shape here. By the way”--his voice took on a rea.s.suring note--”you sidestepped my rooftree this evening, and I gathered that you were not in the mood for meeting people.”

I murmured some insincere a.s.surance to the contrary, which did not beguile him.

”We shall have the house quite to ourselves,” he said. ”All the family are flitting off to a dance at the Country Club.”

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