Part 12 (1/2)
But you wouldn't have thought this on the morning when Mary entered it in response to Burdon's suggestion.
A fire was glowing on the andirons. New rugs gave colour and life to the floor. The mantel had been swept clear of annual reports and technical books, and graced with a friendly clock and a still more friendly pair of vases filled with flowers. The monumental swivel chair had disappeared, and in its place was one of wicker, upholstered in cretonne. On the desk was another vase of flowers, a writing set of charming design and a triple photograph frame, containing pictures of Miss Cordelia, Miss Patty and old Josiah himself.
Mary was still marvelling when she caught sight of Burdon Woodward in the doorway.
”Who--who did this?” she asked.
He bowed low--as d'Artagnan might have bowed to the queen of France--but came up smiling.
”Your humble, obedient servant,” said he. ”Can I come in?”
It had been some time since Mary had seen him so closely, and as he approached she noticed the faultlessness of his dress, the lily of the valley in his b.u.t.tonhole, and that slightly ironic but smiling manner which is generally attributed to men of the world, especially to those who have travelled far on adventurous and forbidden paths. In another age he might have worn lace cuffs and a sword, and have just returned from a gambling house where he had lost or won a fortune with equal nonchalance.
”He still smells nice,” thought Mary to herself, ”and I think he's handsomer than ever--if it wasn't for that dark look around his eyes--and even that becomes him.” She motioned to a chair and seated herself at the desk.
”I thought you'd like to have a place down here to call your own,” he said in his lazy voice. ”I didn't make much of a hit with the governor, but then you know I seldom do--”
”Where did you get the pictures?”
”From the photographers'. Of course it required influence, but I am full of that--being connected, as you may know, with Spencer & Son. When I told him why I wanted them, he seemed to be as anxious as I was to find the old plates.”
”And the fire and the rugs and everything--you don't know how I appreciate it all. I had no idea--”
”I like surprises, myself,” he said. ”I suppose that's why I like to surprise others. The keys of the desk are in the top drawer, and I have set aside the brightest boy in the office to answer your buzzer. If you want anybody or anything--to write a letter--to see the governor--or even to see your humble servant--all you have to do is to press this b.u.t.ton.”
A wave of grat.i.tude swept over her.
”He's nice,” she thought, as Burdon continued his agreeable drawl. ”But Helen says he's wicked. I wonder if he is.... Imagine him thinking of the pictures: I'm sure that doesn't sound wicked, and... Oh, dear!....Yes, he did it again, then!... He--he's making eyes at me as much as he dares!...”
She turned and opened a drawer of the desk.
”I think I'll take the papers home and sort them there,” she said.
”You're sure there's nothing more I can do?” he asked, rising.
”Nothing more; thank you.”
”That window behind you is open at the top. You may feel a draft; I'll shut it.”
In his voice she caught the note which a woman never misses, and her mind went back to her room at college where the girls used to gather in the evenings and hold cla.s.ses which were strictly outside the regular course.
”It's simply pathetic,” one of the girls had once remarked, ”but nearly every man you meet makes love the same way. Talk about sausage for breakfast every morning in the year. It's worse than that!
”First you catch it in their eye and in their voice: 'Are you sure you're comfortable?' 'Are you sure you're warm enough?' 'Are you sure you don't feel a draft?' That's Chapter One.
”Then they try to touch you--absent-mindedly putting their arms along the back of your chair, or taking your elbow to keep you from falling when you have to cross a doorsill or a curb-stone or some dangerous place like that. That's always Chapter Two.
”And then they try to get you into a nice, secluded place, and kiss you.