Part 15 (1/2)

”For mercy's sake that's nothing. So have I. Who hasn't?”

Madeleine referred the question to Lydia, ”Lyd has seen her later than anybody. She saw her in London. Just think of going to the theater in London--as if it was anywhere. She says they're crazy about her over there.”

”_Oh, wild!_” Lydia told them. ”Her picture's in every single window!”

”Which one? Which one?” they clamored, hanging on her answer breathlessly.

”That fascinating one with the rose, where she's holding her head sideways and--” Oh, yes, they had that one, their exclamation cut her short, relieved that their collections were complete.

”Lyd met a woman on the steamer coming back whose sister-in-law has the same hairdresser,” Madeleine went on.

They were electrified. ”Oh, _honestly_? Is it her own?” They trembled visibly before solution of a problem which had puzzled them, as they would have said, ”for eternities.”

”Every hair,” Lydia affirmed, ”and naturally that color.”

Their enthusiasm was prodigious, ”How grand! How perfectly grand!”

They turned on Lydia with reproaches. ”Here you've been back two months and we haven't got a bit of good out of you. Think of your having known that, all this--”

”Her mother's sick, you know,” Madeleine Hollister explained.

”She hasn't been so sick but what Lydia could get out to go buggy-riding with your brother Paul ever since he got back this last time.”

Lydia, as though she wished to lose herself, had been entering with a feverish intensity into the spirit of their lively chatter; but now, instead of responding with some prompt, defensive flippancy, she colored high and was silent. A clock above them struck five. ”Oh, I must get on,” she cried; ”I'm down here, you know, to walk home with Father.”

They laughed loudly, ”Oh, yes, we know all about this sudden enthusiasm for Poppa's society. Where are you going to meet Paul?”

Lydia looked about at the crush of drays, trolley-cars, and delivery-wagons jamming the busy street, ”Well, not here down-town,” she replied, her tone one of satisfied security.

A confused and conscious stir among her companions and a burst of talk from them cut her short. They cried variously, according to their temperaments, ”Oh, there he comes now!” ”I think it's mean Lydia's gobbling him up from under our noses!” ”I used to have a ride or two behind that gray while Lydia was away!” ”My! Isn't he a good-looker!”

They had all turned like needles to the north, and stared as the spider-light wagon, glistening with varnish, bore down on them, looking singularly distinguished and costly among the dingy business-vehicles which made up the traffic of the crowded street. The young driver guided the high-stepping gray with a reckless, competent hand through the most incredibly narrow openings and sent his vehicle up against the flower-like group of girls, laughing as he drew rein, at the open, humorous outcry against him. A chorus of eager recrimination rose to his ears, ”Now, Mr. Hollister, this is the first time Lydia's been out with our crowd since she came home!” ”You might let her alone!” ”Go away, Paul, you greedy thing!” ”I haven't asked Lydia a single thing about her European trip!”

”Well, maybe you think,” he cried, springing out to the sidewalk, ”that I've been spending the last year traveling around Europe with Lydia! I haven't heard any more than you have.” He threw aside the lap-robe of supple broadcloth, and offered his hand to Lydia. A flash of resentment at the cool silence of this invitation sprang up in the girl's eyes.

There was in her face a despairing effort at mutiny. Her hands nervously opened and shut the clasp of the furs at her throat. She tried to look unconscious, to look like the other girls, to laugh, not to know his meaning, to turn away.

The young man plunged straight through these pitiful cobwebs. ”Why, come on, Lydia,” he cried with a good-humored pointedness, ”I've been all over town looking for you.” She backed away, looking over her shoulder, as if for a lane of escape, flus.h.i.+ng, paling. ”Oh, no, no thank you, Paul. Not _this_ afternoon!” she cried imploringly, with a soft fury of protest, ”I'm on my way to Father's office. I want to walk home with him. I want to see him. I thought it would be nice to walk home with him. I see so little of him! I thought it would be nice to walk home with him.” She was repeating herself, stammering and uncertain, but achieving nevertheless a steady retreat from the confident figure standing by the wagon.

This retreat was cut short by his next speech. ”Oh, I've just come from your father. I went to his office, thinking you might be there. He said to tell you and your mother that he won't be home to dinner to-night at all. He's got some citations on hand he has to verify.”

Lydia had stopped her actual recoil at his first words and now stood still, but she still tugged at the invisible chain which held her. She was panting a little. She shook her head. ”Well--anyhow--I want to see him!” she insisted with a transparently aimless obstinacy like a frightened child's. ”I want to see my father.” Paul laughed easily, ”Well, you'd better choose some other time if you want to get anything out of him. He had turned everybody out and was just settling to work with a pile of law-books before him. You know how your father looks under those circ.u.mstances!” He held the picture up to her, relentlessly smiling.

Lydia's lips quivered, but she said nothing.

Paul went on soothingly, ”I've only come to take you straight home, anyhow. Your mother wants you. She said she had one of those fainting turns again. She said to be sure to bring you.”

At the mention of her mother's name, Lydia turned quite pale. She began to walk slowly back towards the wagon. There was angry, helpless misery in her dark eyes, but there was no longer any resistance. ”Oh, if Mother needs me--” she murmured. She took the offered hand, stepped into the wagon and even went through some fitful pretense of responding to the chorus of facetious good-bys which rose from the group they were leaving.