Part 9 (1/2)
”I should say _not_. She's written Miss Hammond that I'm not to receive callers without permission, and that all suspicious mail is to be opened.”
”How outrageous! You tell Captain Phipps to send his letters to me; I'll get them to you. They'll never suspect my fine Italian hand, with my name and address on the envelope.”
Eleanor looked at her older cousin dubiously. ”I hate to do underhand things like that!” she said crossly.
”You wouldn't have to if they treated you decently. Opening your letters!
The idea! I wouldn't stand for it. I'd show them a thing or two.”
Eleanor stood listlessly b.u.t.toning her glove, pondering what Rose was saying.
”I wonder if I could get word to the Captain to-night?” she said. ”Shall I really tell him to send the letters to you?”
”No; tell him to bring them. I'm crazy to see what his nibs looks like.”
”He looks like that picture of Richard Mansfield downstairs--the one taken as _Beau Brummel_. He's the most fastidious man you ever saw, and too subtle for words.”
”He's terribly rich, isn't he?”
”I don't know,” said Eleanor indifferently. ”His father is a Chicago manufacturer of some kind. Does Papa Claude think he is _very_ talented?”
”Talented! He says he's one of the most gifted young men he ever met.
They are hatching out some marvelous schemes to write a play together.
Papa Claude is treading on air.”
”Bless his heart! Wouldn't it be too wonderful, Rose, if Captain Phipps should produce one of his plays? He's crazy about him.”
”You mean he's crazy about you.”
”Who said so?”
”I don't have to be told. How about you, Nell? Are you in love with him?”
Eleanor, taking a farewell look in the mirror, saw a tiny frown gather between her eyebrows. It was the second time that week she had been asked the question, and, as before, she avoided it.
”Listen!” she said. ”Who is that talking so loud downstairs?”
Investigation proved that it was Ca.s.s and Quin in hot dispute, as usual.
On seeing her descend the stair the latter promptly stepped forward.
”Ca.s.s is going to let me take you home, Miss Bartlett.”
”I never said I would,” Ca.s.s contradicted him. ”I'm not going to get her into trouble the night before she goes away.”
”That's for her to decide,” said Quin. ”If she says I can go I'm going.”
The very novelty of being called upon to decide anything for herself, augmented perhaps by the ardent desire in his eyes, caused Eleanor to tip the scales in his favor.
”I don't mind his taking me home,” she said somewhat condescendingly.