Part 32 (1/2)

”I? I a.s.sure you,” he said, turning a gay face toward her, ”I think it positively the most exciting town I ever saw in my life. But then, of course, I 've had unusual privileges. What is much more important--what do you think of it?”

”Of course, I love it. My mother went here to boarding school a great, great many years ago. No, not that--some years ago. She fell in love with the place on account of the scenery, and the air, which she says is fresher than you can get in other places. Personally, I believe that the same quality can be had elsewhere, but she says not at all. So when we--left New York, nothing would do for her but to come straight here.”

”But don't you find it a little dull?”

”Dull! Why,” she cried, after a moment, ”you talk exactly the way she does.”

”May I offer you an olive?”

She took it daintily in her fingers, bit it and resumed: ”I suppose your metropolitan idea is that a person would be buried alive in Hunston?”

A sunny shaft broke in from without and became entangled with her hair, which was in some ways so curiously like it. McTosh, whose eye was everywhere, promptly lowered a shade two inches--the one blunder he made that day.

”Isn't it?”

”That would depend altogether on the person.”

”Me.”

”I do think so, decidedly.”

”Really you and my mother would be very congenial.”

”McTosh, the bread,” said Peter's cool voice.

Mrs. Marne, who had been interested by Peter's taciturnity and fascinated by his waistcoat, had been leading that ordinarily masterful man something of a conversational dance. Detached for the moment by his demand for provender, she called across the table: ”Mary, I herewith invite you to attend the Culture Club meeting at four o'clock this afternoon, to lead the applause for my paper on Immanuel Kant. Pinky wrote it and--”

”Before any court in the land,” said Hare, lifting his glance above squab _en ca.s.serole_, ”I am prepared to establish my innocence of this charge.”

”If he positively will not take no for an answer,” continued Mrs. Marne, ”you may bring John Richards along. No claret, thank you, Mr. Maginnis.

Men, it is true, are not admitted to the sacred mysteries, but I will arrange to have him seated on the piazza where he may eavesdrop the whole thing through the long French window.”

”Unfortunately,” said Mary, ”he has to go to Albany this afternoon, I believe.”

”To resume our conversation, Mrs. Marne,” said Peter.

”I shouldn't if I were you,” Hare recommended. ”If memory serves, it was hardly worth it. Why not, instead, permit me to tell the story of the seven fat men of Kilgore?”

McTosh, of the gum-shoe tread, shuffled courses dextrously. An under-steward a.s.sisted in the presentation of the viands, another manipulated dishes in the hidden precincts of the pantry. The service was swift and noiseless, but not more so than the pa.s.sage of time. The hands of the little clock fastened against the forward bulkhead already stood at quarter after three.

Mary's eyes, which had been resting on the candidate, turned back to Varney, and they were s.h.i.+ning. ”Seriously, Mr. Varney,” she said in a lowered voice--”how could any one possibly be buried in a town where Mr. Hare is?”

”Mr. Hare?”

She nodded. ”Because he is so _alive_! Why just to live in the same town with him is an inspiration. To be friends with him--well, that is all you ever need to keep from feeling buried alive! He isn't listening, is he?”

”No,” said Varney, ”he is, I believe, telling the story of the seven fat men of Kilgore.”

”If you wish to hand bouquets to Pinky for a while,” called Mrs. Marne, aside, ”I will see that you are not disturbed, Mary.”

”Thank you, Elsie, but it's your sisterly duty to listen to the story.