Part 70 (1/2)

”'Fever,' I thought you said,” replied Miss Frisby stolidly. ”I wrote 'fever.'”

”'Diva.' Do use your intelligence, my good girl. Go on.”

”Here you will see an amba.s.sador with a diva from the opera, exchanging the latest gossip from the chancelleries for intimate news of the world behind the scenes. There, the author of the latest novel talking literature to the newest debutante. Truly one may say that Mrs. Peagrim has revived the saloon.'”

Mrs. Peagrim bit her lip.

”'Salon.'”

”'Salon,'” said Miss Frisby unemotionally. ”They tell me, I am told, I am informed....'” She paused. ”That's all I have.”

”Scratch out those last words,” said Mrs. Peagrim irritably. ”You really are hopeless, Miss Frisby! Couldn't you see that I had stopped dictating and was searching for a phrase? Otie, what is a good phrase for 'I am told'?”

Mr. Pilkington forced his wandering attention to grapple with the problem.

”'I hear,'” he suggested at length.

”Tchah!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed his aunt. Then her face brightened. ”I have it.

Take dictation, please, Miss Frisby. 'A little bird whispers to me that there were great doings last night on the stage of the Gotham Theatre after the curtain had fallen on ”The Rose of America,” which, as everybody knows, is the work of Mrs. Peagrim's clever young nephew, Otis Pilkington.'” Mrs. Peagrim shot a glance at her clever young nephew, to see how he appreciated the boost, but Otis' thoughts were far away once more. He was lying on his spine, brooding, brooding.

Mrs. Peagrim resumed her dictation. ”'In honour of the extraordinary success of the piece, Mrs. Peagrim, who certainly does nothing by halves, entertained the entire company to a supper-dance after the performance. A number of prominent people were among the guests, and Mrs. Peagrim was a radiant and vivacious hostess. She has never looked more charming. The high jinks were kept up to an advanced hour, and every one agreed that they had never spent a more delightful evening.'

There! Type as many copies as are necessary, Miss Frisby, and send them out this afternoon with photographs.”

Miss Frisby having vanished in her pallid way, the radiant and vivacious hostess turned on her nephew again.

”I must say, Otie,” she began complainingly, ”that, for a man who has had a success like yours, you are not very cheerful. I should have thought the notices of the piece would have made you the happiest man in New York.”

There was once a melodrama where the child of the persecuted heroine used to dissolve the gallery in tears by saying ”Happiness? What _is_ happiness, moth-aw?” Mr. Pilkington did not use these actual words, but he reproduced the stricken infant's tone with great fidelity.

”Notices! What are notices to me?”

”Oh, don't be so affected!” cried Mrs. Peagrim. ”Don't pretend that you don't know every word of them by heart!”

”I have not seen the notices, Aunt Olive,” said Mr. Pilkington dully.

Mrs. Peagrim looked at him with positive alarm. She had never been overwhelmingly attached to her long nephew, but since his rise to fame something resembling affection had sprung up in her, and his att.i.tude now disturbed her.

”You can't be well, Otie!” she said solicitously. ”Are you ill?”

”I have a severe headache,” replied the martyr. ”I pa.s.sed a wakeful night.”

”Let me go and mix you a dose of the most wonderful mixture,” said Mrs. Peagrim maternally. ”Poor boy! I don't wonder, after all the nervousness and excitement.... You sit quite still and rest. I will be back in a moment.”

She bustled out of the room, and Mr. Pilkington sagged back into his chair. He had hardly got his meditations going once more, when the door opened and the maid announced ”Major Selby.”

”Good morning,” said Uncle Chris breezily, sailing down the fairway with outstretched hand. ”How are--oh!”

He stopped abruptly, perceiving that Mrs. Peagrim was not present and--a more disturbing discovery--that Otis Pilkington was. It would be exaggeration to say that Uncle Chris was embarra.s.sed. That master-mind was never actually embarra.s.sed. But his jauntiness certainly ebbed a little, and he had to pull his moustache twice before he could face the situation with his customary _aplomb_. He had not expected to find Otis Pilkington here, and Otis was the last man he wished to meet. He had just parted from Jill, who had been rather plain-spoken with regard to the recent financial operations; and, though possessed only of a rudimentary conscience, Uncle Chris was aware that his next interview with young Mr. Pilkington might have certain aspects bordering on awkwardness and he would have liked time to prepare a statement for the defence. However, here the man was, and the situation must be faced.

”Pilkington!” he cried. ”My dear fellow! Just the man I wanted to see! I'm afraid there has been a little misunderstanding. Of course, it has all been cleared up now, but still I must insist on making a personal explanation; really, I must insist. The whole matter was a most absurd misunderstanding. It was like this....”