Part 25 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXIII

He leaped from his hateful couch, swearing at himself like an army teamster. He stumbled to the telephone and curtly demanded the exact time, hoping to prove his watch a liar. Back from s.p.a.ce came the reply: ”K'reck time is 'le'm fifty-eight.”

His ”Thanks!” had almost the effect of an oath. He slammed the innocent receiver on the hook and stood staring at the bare feet protruding from his indolent pajamas, where there should have been puttees and spurs and smartly flaring riding-breeches. He was doubly indignant with himself because he had counted upon that morning galopade. He rode like a centaur, though with the military and not the park seat, and he had expected his horsemans.h.i.+p to commend him to Persis.

He wondered what he should do. He reversed Sancho Panza and cursed the man that invented sleep. He formed a wild project to fling into his things, leap to horse, and hunt the park through. But he had not yet bespoken the horse, and he knew that Persis must have finished her ride hours ago, doffed her boyish togs, cold-showered her glowing body, and put on whatever finery her engagements required. She had probably spent the irretrievable hours at a committee meeting of some society for rescuing working-girls from work. And her father had probably earned or lost a million while Forbes lay annulled in a coma of stupidity.

How should he apologize? He could not wait till he saw her. The offense must be erased before it set. He must call her up instantly. He ransacked the dangling telephone-tome. Her father's office was mentioned, but not his residence. Yet he must have a residence, and it must have a telephone.

Forbes banged the hook and demanded ”Information,” and when that mysterious dame answered from her airy throne he besought her to give him at once the number.

Information answered with a lilt as if the name of Persis were one of importance:

”I think it's a private wire; I'll see.”

While Forbes waited he was interrupted, incessantly cut off, restored to the wrong number, helplessly forced into other people's personal chats, and left dangling in empty s.p.a.ce. When at length he retrieved Information, she told him:

”Jus' z'I thought, 's a priva twire.”

”Of course it's a private wire!” Forbes thundered. ”I don't want to have a public conversation. What's the number?”

”'S 'gainst comp'ny rules to give numbers listed as private. Sorry.”

”But this is a matter of life and death.”

There was an almost audible sigh, as if she had heard that before.

”Sorry, but under no soic'mstances are we p'mitted to give numbers of parties listed private.”

He insisted, pleaded, threatened; but she answered with implacable politeness. ”Sorry, but--”

At length he screwed his courage to the point of calling up the office of her father. Here he learned only that Mr. Cabot had left the office, and it was contrary to orders to give his house number.

After beating his head and hands vainly for a long time against those walls that New-Yorkers have to build about themselves if they are ever to know seclusion, Forbes remembered Ten Eyck and called up his house.

He was not at home, and his whereabouts were unknown.

A deferential, yet stately voice with the indescribable tone of a butler or a valet advised ”Mr. Forbes, ah, yes,” to try various clubs; ”The Racquet or the Brook, possibly,” or ”I believe I heard him say” (the two h's were hazy) ”that he was to be at the Metropolitan at one. If you could call him then, sir, I'm quite sure you'd--Not at all! Very good, sir.”

Ten Eyck could give him Persis' occult number; then he could send a note and some flowers to plead for him and appease her wrath before they met at the luncheon. When they met no time must be wasted in more apologies.

But Ten Eyck was not to be found anywhere. Forbes gave up. He telephoned for ”coffee and rolls and a morning paper in a powerful hurry,” and stormed into his bathroom. When he came out as spa.r.s.ely dressed as most of the gentlemen are in the advertising pages of the magazines, he found his breakfast on a little half-table mysteriously apported.

While he danced into his trousers his eyes were caught by head-lines on the paper folded at his plate:

”Mayor puts Lid on _Thes Dansants_.”

Forbes seized the paper, flung himself into a chair, and read with violence the dire news that the same mayor who had ordered people to quit dancing at one now ordered them not to begin dancing before dinner.