Part 17 (1/2)

”I--I've been seeing it all afternoon. When can we start?”

”Right away. _Now._” He stopped, rigid. ”No, we won't either. No we _won't_. First, we've got to see the Judge--we've got to make sure there's no flaw in it. And _then_--we won't _let_ anybody copy us!”

”But how can you stop them?”

Henry was electric. ”What's a movie theatre worth on Sunday? When they can't give a show anyway? I'll rent every house in town for every Sunday from now 'till August! I'll have to go slow, so n.o.body'll suspect. It may take a month, or _two_ months, but what do we care?

We'll play it sure. It won't cost too much, and we've got the cash in the bank. We've--” He paused again, and looked down at her, and his voice fell a semi-tone. ”I don't know where I get all this _we_ stuff.

_I_'d have spent two-thirds of it by this time. You're the one that's saved it--and earned it too, by gos.h.!.+” He lifted her hands, and while she watched him, with s.h.i.+ning eyes, he deliberately kissed the tip of each of her ten fingers. ”_That's_ where the money's come from,” said Henry, clearing his throat. ”Out of dish-water. Only tonight we're going out to a restaurant and eat ourselves logy, and you won't wash a d.a.m.n dish. It's my party.”

CHAPTER XI

Miss Mirabelle Starkweather lifted up her cup of tea, and with the little finger of her right hand stiffly extended to Mr. Mix's good health. Mr. Mix, sitting upright in a gilded chair which was three sizes too small for him, bowed with a courtliness which belonged to the same historical period as the chair, and also drank. Over the rim of his cup, his eyes met Mirabelle's.

”Seems to me you've got on some kind of a new costume, haven't you?”

asked Mr. Mix gallantly. ”Looks very festive to me--very.”

For the first time since bustles went out of fas.h.i.+on, Miss Starkweather blushed; and when she blushed, she was quite as uncompromising about it as she was about everything else. It wasn't that she had a grain of romance in her, but that she was confused to be caught in the act of flagging a beau; to hide her confusion, she rose, and went over to the furthest window and flung it wide open. The month was February, and the air was chill and raw, but Mirabelle could think of no other pretext for turning her back and cooling her cheeks. And yet, although she would have perjured herself a thousand times before she would admit it, she felt a certain strange, spring-like pleasure to know that Mr. Mix was only pretending to be deceived.

”Oh, my, no,” she said over her shoulder. ”I've had this since the Flood.”

Mr. Mix had also risen, to hand her back to her seat, and now he stood looking down at her. She was wearing a gown of rustling, plum-coloured taffeta, with cut-steel b.u.t.tons; and at her belt there was a Dutch silver chatelaine which had been ultra-smart when she had last worn it. Vaguely, she supposed that it was ultra-smart today, and that was the reason she had attached it to her. From the chatelaine depended a silver pencil, a gold watch, a vinaigrette with gold-enamelled top, and a silver-mesh change-purse. At her throat, she had a cameo, and on her left hand, an amethyst set in tiny pearls. Mr. Mix, finis.h.i.+ng the inventory, seated himself and began to tap one foot on the floor, reflectively. He was a man of perception, and he knew warpaint when he saw it.

”Makes you look so much younger,” said Mr. Mix, and sighed a little.

”Don't be a fool,” said Miss Starkweather, and to dissemble her pleasure, she put an extra-sharp edge on her voice. ”I don't wear clothes to make me look younger; I wear 'em to cover me up.”

”That's more than I can say for the present generation.”

”Ugh!” said Miss Starkweather. ”Don't speak of it! Shameless little trollops! But the _worst_ comment you could make about this present day is that men _like_ it. They _like_ to see those disgraceful get-ups. They _marry_ those girls. Beyond _me_.”

Mr. Mix sneezed unexpectedly. There was a cold draught on the back of his neck, but as Mirabelle said nothing about closing the window, he hesitated to ask permission. ”I've always wondered what effect it would have had on your--public career--if you hadn't preferred to remain single.”

”My opinions aren't annuals, Mr. Mix. They're hardy perennials.”

”I know, but do you think a married woman ought to devote herself entirely to public affairs? Shouldn't she consider marriage almost a profession in itself?”

”Well, I don't know about that. Duty's duty.”

”Oh, to be sure. But would marriage have interfered with your career?

Would you have let it? Or is marriage really the higher duty of the two?”

”There's something in that, Mr. Mix. I never did believe a married woman ought to be in the road _all_ the time.”

”It _was_ a question of your career, then?”

Mirabelle put down her cup. ”Humph! No, it wasn't. Right man never asked me.”

Mr. Mix's mind was on tiptoe. ”But your standards are so lofty--naturally, they _would_ be.” He paused. ”I wonder what your standard really is. Is it--unapproachable? Or do you see some good in most of us?”

Mirabelle sat primly erect, but her voice had an unusual overtone.