Part 21 (1/2)
”I guess,” said Bud, in his quiet, little old-man way, ”I'm the one to hev the say. I'm agoin' to give ma two dollars a week and bank the rest.”
Meanwhile John was having an uncomfortable time as he walked home with Colette. He had started on the trail of the surplice the day before. The ”tenner” and the young ladies who had given the tableaux had been interviewed, but in neither case had the mysterious pocket been discovered. To-day he had visited the Beehive, but no one in the store had paid any attention to the pocket, or knew of its existence. Colette remained obdurate to his pleadings. She a.s.sumed that he was entirely to blame for the loss, and seemed to take a gleeful delight in showing him how perverse and wilful she could be. To-night he found himself less able than usual to cope with her caprices, so he began to talk of impersonal matters and dwelt upon the beauties of Bud's voice, and the astonis.h.i.+ng way in which it had developed.
She admitted that Bud's voice was indeed wonderful, but maintained that Mrs. Jenkins's poppy hat and white gloves had been far surpa.s.sing in the way of surprises.
”Did you ever, John, see anything more shoutingly funny?”
”It wasn't funny, Colette,” he said wistfully, and he proceeded to relate the history of the hat as he had heard it from the bishop that day.
[Ill.u.s.tration: To-night he found himself less able than usual to cope with her caprices]
And though in the depths of her heart Colette was touched by the pathos of the purchase, she must needs tread again the feminine labyrinth instead of following the more natural and open path.
”Who was the young girl with the Boarder?” John next vouchsafed.
”Why, Lily Rose, of course. The Lily for whom he 'sot for his likeness in the surplus.' That awful surplice,” she burst forth in irritation at the mere mention of the unfortunate word. ”Some of these people must have it. John, you don't half try to find it.”
”I am following out the list in order,” he a.s.sured her. ”I shall go to see Mrs. Hudgers to-morrow.”
”And the next one to her,” reminded Colette, ”is Derry Phillips, Amarilly's new benefactor. She told me to-day that she had a note from him, asking her to begin work at the studio in a few days.”
”I have a double duty in my call there,” said John didactically. ”If he is like some of the young artists I know, his studio will hardly be a proper place for Amarilly.”
”As it happens,” returned Colette coldly, ”Derry Phillips, for all his nonsense, is reported to be a true gentleman; but it would make no difference with Amarilly if he were not. Her inherent goodness would counteract the evil of any atmosphere. She can take care of his rooms until she is a little older. Then she can become a model.”
”Colette!” he exclaimed protestingly.
”Why not?” she returned. ”Why shouldn't Amarilly be a model, or go on the stage? Neither place would be below her station in life.”
John sought refuge in utter silence which admonished and exasperated Colette far more than any reproof would have done.
”You might as well go, if you have nothing to say,” she remarked stiffly, as he lingered in the portico, evidently expecting an invitation to enter.
”I have _too_ much to say, Colette.”
Her sidelong glance noted his dejection, and her flagging spirits rose again.
”Too much, indeed, when you are so critical of what I say!”
”Colette, hear me!”
”No, I won't listen--never when you preach!”
”I don't mean to preach, Colette, but don't you think--”
”Good night, John,” she said, smiling.
”Good night!” he echoed dolefully, but making no move to leave.