Part 15 (1/2)

Brandes rose with an air almost jocular and smote Stull upon the back.

”Stein thinks he's the greatest manager on earth. Let him tell you so if you want anything out of him,” he said, walking to the window.

The volleys of rain splas.h.i.+ng on the panes obscured the outlook; Brandes flattened his nose against the gla.s.s and stood as though lost in thought.

Behind him Stull dried his features, rummaged in the suitcase, produced a bathrobe and slippers, put them on, and stretched himself out on the bed.

”Aren't you coming down to buzz the preacher?” demanded Brandes, turning from the drenched window.

”So you can talk phony to the little kid? No.”

”Ah, get it out of your head that I mean phony.”

”Well, what do you mean?”

”Nothing.”

Stull gave him a contemptuous glance and turned over on the pillow.

”Are you coming down?”

”No.”

So Brandes took another survey of himself in the gla.s.s, used his comb and brushes again, added a studied twist to his tie, shot his cuffs, and walked out of the room with the solid deliberation which characterised his carriage at all times.

CHAPTER VI

THE END OF SOLITUDE

A rain-washed world, smelling sweet as a wet rose, a cloudless sky delicately blue, and a swollen stream tumbling and foaming under the bridge--of these Mr. Eddie Brandes was agreeably conscious as he stepped out on the verandah after breakfast, and, unclasping a large gold cigar case, inserted a cigar between his teeth.

He always had the appearance of having just come out of a Broadway barber shop with the visible traces of shave, shampoo, ma.s.sage, and manicure patent upon his person.

His short, square figure was clothed in well-cut blue serge; a smart straw hat embellished his head, polished russet shoes his remarkably small feet. On his small fat fingers several heavy rings were conspicuous. And the odour of cologne exhaled from and subtly pervaded the ensemble.

Across the road, hub-deep in wet gra.s.s and weeds, he could see his wrecked runabout, glistening with raindrops.

He stood for a while on the verandah, both hands shoved deep into his pockets, his cigar screwed into his cheek. From time to time he jingled keys and loose coins in his pockets. Finally he sauntered down the steps and across the wet road to inspect the machine at closer view.

Contemplating it tranquilly, head on one side and his left eye closed to avoid the drifting cigar smoke, he presently became aware of a girl in a pink print dress leaning over the grey parapet of the bridge. And, picking his way among the puddles, he went toward her.

”Good morning, Miss Carew,” he said, taking off his straw hat.

She turned her head over her shoulder; the early sun glistened on his s.h.i.+ny, carefully parted hair and lingered in glory on a diamond scarf pin.

”Good morning,” she said, a little uncertainly, for the memory of their first meeting on the bridge had not entirely been forgotten.

”You had breakfast early,” he said.