Part 19 (1/2)
CHAPTER VIII
A PARTNERs.h.i.+P
All the adjectives in the social register were exhausted by the daily papers in describing Mrs. Festus Willard's dance. Without following them into that verbal borderland wherein ”recherche” vies with ”exclusive,”
and ”chic” disputes precedence with ”distingue,” it is sufficient for the purposes of this narrative to chronicle the fact that the pick of Worthington society was there, and not much else. Also, if I may borrow from the Society Editor's convenient phrase-book, ”Among those present”
was Mr. Harrington Surtaine.
For reasons connected with his new venture, Hal had come late. He was standing near the doorway wondering by what path to attain to an unidentified hostess, when Miss Esme Elliot, at the moment engaged with that very hostess on some matter of feminine strategy with which we have no concern, spied him.
”Who is the young Greek G.o.dling, hopelessly lost in the impenetrable depths of your drawing-room?” she propounded suddenly.
”Who? What? Where?” queried Mrs. Willard, thus abruptly recalled to her duties.
”Yonder by the doorway, looking as if he didn't know a soul.”
”It's some stranger,” said the hostess, trying to peer around an intervening palm. ”I must go and speak to him.”
”Wait. Festus has got him.”
For the host, a powerful, high-colored man in his early forties, with a slight limp, had noticed the newcomer and was now introducing himself.
Miss Elliot watched the process with interest.
”Jinny,” she announced presently, ”I want that to play with.”
The stranger turned a little, so that his full face was shown. ”It's Hal Surtaine!” exclaimed Mrs. Willard.
”I don't care who it is. It looks nice. Please, mayn't I have it to play with?”
”Will you promise not to break it? It used to be a particular pet of mine.”
”When?”
”Oh, years ago. When you were in your cradle.”
”Where?”
”On the St. Lawrence. Several summers. He was my boy-knight, and chaperon, and protector. Such a dear, chivalrous boy!”
”Was he in love with you?” demanded Miss Elliot with lively interest.
”Of course he wasn't. He was a boy of fifteen, and I a mature young woman of twenty-one.”
”He _was_ in love with you,” accused the girl, noting a brightness in her friend's color.
”There was a sort of knightly devotion,” admitted the other demurely.
”There always is, isn't there, in a boy of that age, for a woman years older?”
”And you didn't know him at first?”
”It's ten years since I've set eyes on him. He doesn't even know that I am the Mrs. Festus Willard who is giving this party.”