Part 12 (1/2)
Forbes pleasantly requested him not to be a d.a.m.ned fool, but the flattery was irresistible.
They went to the bar-room, where, under the felicitous longitude of Maxfield Parrish's fresco of ”King Cole,” they fortified themselves with gin rickeys, and set forth for the short walk down Broadway and across to Bustan.o.by's.
They had been rejected here the night before, but Ten Eyck, at Persis'
request, had engaged a table by telephone.
”It's Persis' own party,” he explained; ”but I have sad news for you: Little Willie isn't invited. He's being punished for being so naughty last night.”
”He acted as if he owned Miss Cabot,” said Forbes.
”He usually does.”
”But he doesn't, does he?--doesn't own her, I mean?” Forbes demanded, with an anxiety that did not escape Ten Eyck, who answered:
”Opinions differ. He'll probably get her some day, unless her old man has a change of luck.”
”Her old man?”
”Yes. Papa Cabot has always lived up to every cent he could make or inherit; but he's getting mushy and losing his grip. The draught in Wall Street is too strong for him. Persis will hold on as long as she can, but Little Willie is waiting right under the peach-tree with his basket, ready for the first high wind.”
”She couldn't marry him.”
”Oh, couldn't she? And why not?”
”She can't love a--a--him?”
”He is an awful pill, but he's well coated. His father left him a pile of sugar a mile high, and his mother will leave him another.”
”But what has that to do with love?”
”Who said anything about love? This is the era of the modern business woman.”
Forbes said nothing, but looked a rebuke that led Ten Eyck to remind him:
”Remember you promised not to marry her yourself. Of course, you may be a bloated coupon-cutter, but Willie has his cut by machinery. If you put anything less than a million in the bank to-day, you'd better not take Persis too seriously. Girls like Persis are jack-pots in a big game. In fact, if you haven't got a pair of millions for openers, don't sit in.
You haven't a chance.”
”I don't believe you,” Forbes thought, but did not say.
They reached the restaurant, and, finding that Persis had not arrived, stood on the sidewalk waiting for her. Many people were coming up in taxicabs, or private cars, or on foot. They were all in a hurry to be dancing.
”It's a healthier sport than sitting round watching somebody else play baseball--or Ibsen,” Ten Eyck observed, answering an imaginary critic; and then he exclaimed:
”Here she is!” as a landaulet with the top lowered sped down the street.
The traffic rules compelled it to go beyond and come up with the curb on its right. As it pa.s.sed Forbes caught a glimpse of three hats. One of them was a man's derby, one of them had a sheaf of goura, one of them was a straw flower-pot with a white feather like a question-mark stuck in it. His heart buzzed with reminiscent anxiety. He turned quickly and noted the number of the car, ”48150, N. Y. 1913.” The woman he had followed up the Avenue was one of those two.
The chauffeur turned sharply, stopped, backed, and brought the landaulet around with the awkwardness of an alligator. A footman opened the door to Bob Fielding, Winifred Mather, and Persis Cabot.