Part 42 (2/2)

”No,” she replied, ”a sweet little story about the Christmas toys. I've done it to death every Christmas for--three years. Oh, well, I can do it again. But it'll have to wait until after Mrs. Norton's lunch.”

She led him into a street where every house was like its neighbor, even to the ”Rooms” sign in the windows, and up the steps of one she could have recognized only by counting from the corner. They entered the murky and stereotyped atmosphere of a boarding-house hallway, with its inevitable hat-rack and the uncollected letters of the homeless on a table. Mrs. Norton came breezily forth to meet them.

”Well, Mr. Magee,” she said, ”I certainly am glad you've came. I'm busy on that lunch now. Dearie, show him into the parlor to wait.”

Mr. Magee was shown in. That rooming-house parlor seemed to moan dismally as it received him. He strolled about and gazed at the objects of art which had at various times accrued to Mrs. Norton's personality: a steel engraving called _Too Late_, which depicted an angry father arriving at a church door to find his eloping daughter in the arms of stalwart youth, with the clergy looking on approvingly; another of Mr.

John Drew a.s.suming a commanding posture as Petruchio in _The Taming of the Shrew_; some ennuied flabby angels riding on the clouds; a child of unhealthy pink clasping lovingly an inflammable dog; on the mantel a miniature s.h.i.+p, under gla.s.s, and some lady statuettes whose toilettes slipped down--down.

And, on an easel, the sad portrait of a gentleman, undoubtedly the late lamented Norton. His uninteresting nose appeared to turn up at the constant odor of cookery in which it dwelt; his hair was plastered down over his forehead in a gorgeous abandoned curve such as some of the least sophisticated of Mr. John T. McCutcheon's gentlemen affect.

Mr. Magee stared round the room and smiled. Was the romance of reality never to resemble the romance of his dreams? Where were the dim lights, where the distant waltz, where the magic of moonlight amid which he was some day to have told a beautiful girl of his love? Hardly in Mrs.

Norton's parlor.

She came and stood in the doorway. Hatless, coatless, smiling, she flooded the place with her beauty. Mr. Magee looked at the flabby angels on the wall, expecting them to hide their faces in shame. But no, they still rode brazenly their unstable clouds.

”Come in,” he cried. ”Don't leave me alone here again, please. And tell me--is this the gentleman who took the contract for making Mrs. Norton happy?”

”I--I can't come in,” she said, blus.h.i.+ng. She seemed to wish to avoid him. ”Yes, that is Mr. Norton.” She came nearer the easel, and smiled at the late lamented's tonsorial crown. ”I must leave you--just a moment--”

Billy Magee's heart beat wildly. His breath came fast. He seized her by the hand.

”You're never going to leave me again,” he cried. ”Don't you know that?

I thought you knew. You're mine. I love you. I love you. It's all I can say, my dearest. Look at me--look at me, please.”

”It has happened so quickly,” she murmured. ”Things can't be true when they--happen so quickly.”

”A woman's logic,” said Mr. Magee. ”It has happened. My beautiful girl.

Look at me.”

And then--she looked. Trembling, flushed, half frightened, half exultant, she lifted her eyes to his.

”My little girl!” he cried down at her.

A moment longer she held off, and then limply she surrendered. And Billy Magee held her close in his arms.

”Take care of me,” she whispered. ”I--I love you so.” Her arm went timidly about his shoulders. ”Do you want to know my name? It's Mary--”

Mary what? The answer was seemingly of no importance, for Mr. Magee's lips were on hers, crus.h.i.+ng the word at its birth.

So they stood, amid Mrs. Norton's gloomy objects of art. And presently she asked:

”How about the book, dear?”

But Mr. Magee had forgot.

”What book?” he asked.

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