Part 8 (1/2)

”That box of cigars--” he began weakly. ”That box of cigars, the box you found in my room, well, that is a box of cigars. You see, Mrs.

Fenelby,” he continued, cautiously, ”that box of cigars was up there in my room, and--Now, you know I wouldn't try to smuggle anything in, don't you? Now, I'll tell you all about it.” But he didn't. He looked at the box thoughtfully. He saw now that he had been silly to buy a whole box. A man should not buy more than a handful at a time.

”Well?” said Mrs. Fenelby, impatiently.

”Isn't that the box you bought when you went over to the station with Tom this morning?” asked Kitty, sweetly. ”You brought back a box when you returned you know.”

Billy turned his head and glared at her. But she only smiled at him.

He did not dare to look Mrs. Fenelby in the eye.

”Tom smokes a great deal, doesn't he?” Kitty continued lightly. ”I wondered when you brought that box of cigars back with you if he hadn't asked you to bring them over for him. That was what I thought the moment I saw you with them.”

”Why, yes, of course,” said Billy, with relief. ”That was how it was. I--I didn't like to say it, you know,” he a.s.sured Mrs. Fenelby, eagerly, ”I--I didn't know just how Tom would feel about it. Tom will pay the duty. When he comes home this evening. He couldn't come home from the station--and miss his train--and all that sort of thing--just to pay the duty on a box of cigars, could he? So I brought them home. It is perfectly plain and simple! You see if he doesn't pay the duty as soon as he gets in the house. Tom wouldn't want to smuggle them in, Mrs. Fenelby. You shouldn't think he would do such a thing. I'm--I'm surprised that you should think that of Tom.”

Mrs. Fenelby looked at him doubtfully, and then glanced at Kitty's innocent face. She shook her head. It did not seem just what Tom would have done, but she could not deny that it might be so. She would know all about it when he came home in the evening. She cast a glance at the lawn, and uttered a cry. Billy was pouring oceans of water at full pressure upon her pansy bed, and the poor flowers were das.h.i.+ng madly about and straining at their roots. Some were already lying washed out by the roots. Billy looked, and swung the nozzle sharply around, and the scream that Kitty uttered told him that he had hit another mark. That pink s.h.i.+rt-waist looked disreputable.

Water was dripping from all its laces, and from Kitty's hair, and her cheeks glistened with pearly drops. She was drenched.

”Goodness!” she exclaimed, shaking her hanging arms and her down-bent head, and then glancing at Billy, who stood idiotically regarding her, she laughed. He was a statue of miserable regret, and the limply held garden hose was pouring its stream unheeded into his low shoes. Wet as she was, and uncomfortable, she could not refrain from laughing, for Billy could not have looked more guilty if she had been sugar and had completely melted before his eyes. Even Mrs.

Fenelby laughed.

”It doesn't matter a bit!” said Kitty, rea.s.suringly. ”Really, I don't mind it at all. It was nice and cool.”

She was very pretty, from Billy's point of view, as she stood with a wisp or two of wet hair coquettishly straggling over her face. Mrs.

Fenelby would have said she looked mussy, but there is something strangely enticing to a man in a bit of hair wandering astray over a pretty face. Before marriage, that is. It quite finished Billy. He forgave her all just on account of those few wet, wandering locks.

”I'm so sorry!” he said, with enormous contrition. ”I'm awfully sorry. I'm--I'm mighty sorry. Really, I'm sorry.”

”Now, it doesn't matter a bit,” said Kitty lightly. ”Not a bit! I'll just run up and get on something dry--”

”You had better shut off the water,” said Mrs. Fenelby, and went into the house.

Billy laid the hose carefully at his feet.

”I say,” he said, hesitatingly, to Kitty, ”wear the one you had on last night--the white one. I--I think that one's pretty.”

”Oh, no!” said Kitty. ”I can't wear that one. That one is all mussed up. I can't wear that one again. I have a lovely blue one.”

”No!” said Billy, whispering, and glancing suspiciously at the house. ”Not blue! Please don't! It--it's dangerous.”

”Oh, but it is a dream of a waist!” said Kitty. ”You wait until you see it.”

”No!” pleaded Billy again. ”Not a blue one! If you wore a blue one I couldn't help but notice it was blue. It isn't safe. Don't wear a blue one, or a green one, or a brown one. Just a white one.

Not any other color; just white. You see,” he said with sudden confidentiality, ”I'm a detective. I'm detecting for Tom. I told him I would, and I've got to keep my word. He has a notion someone is smuggling things into the house without paying the duty, and he got me to detect at you for him. We're suspicious about your clothes.

There's a white waist, and this pink waist, already, and if you go to wearing blue ones and all sorts of colors, I can't help but notice it. I don't want to get you into trouble with Tom, you know.”

He hesitated a moment and then said, ”You helped me out about those cigars.”

”All right!” said Kitty, cheerfully, ”I'll wear a white one, but I think you might be color blind if you really want to help me.”