Part 28 (1/2)
Tinker sat on the ground near her, his chin on his knees, observing her with a sympathetic understanding which would have disquieted her not a little, had she not been too busy with her thoughts to notice it.
They were still and silent for a long while, until she sighed; then he said, with unfeigned sadness, ”I'm beginning to think he never will.”
”Who never will what?” said Dorothy, awaking from her reflections, and extremely disconcerted by the exactness with which Tinker's remark echoed them.
”My father--ask you to marry him,” said Tinker succinctly.
”Tinker!” cried Dorothy faintly, and she flushed a very fine red.
”It's all very well to say 'Tinker!' like that,” he said, shaking his head very wisely. ”But it's much better to look at things straight, don't you know? You often get a little forrarder that way.”
”You are a dreadful little boy,” said Dorothy with conviction.
”Yes, yes; I'm not blind,” said Tinker patiently. ”But the point is, that my father is ever so much in love with you, and he'll never ask you to marry him, because you're too rich. I'm sure I've given you every chance,” he added with a sigh.
”You have?” said Dorothy, gasping.
”Yes; I'm always seeing that no one makes a third when you and he are together--on moonlit nights and picnics, and so on, don't you know?”
Dorothy laughed, in spite of her discomfort, at this frank discussion of her secret. ”But this is inveterate match-making,” she said. ”Why do you do it?”
”Oh, I think it would be a good thing. You both want it badly, and you'd get on awfully well together. Besides, you're neither of you as cheerful as you used to be, and I don't like it; it bothers me.”
”It's very good of you to let it,” said Dorothy, smiling.
”Not at all. And Elsie and I would have a settled home, too. It's very funny; but sometimes I get tired of living in hotels.”
”I'm sure you do,” said Dorothy with sympathy.
”Well, have you got any idea how it can be worked?”
”No!” cried Dorothy, shocked, and flus.h.i.+ng again; ”I haven't! I wouldn't have!”
”That's silly, when it would be such a good thing,” said Tinker with a disapproving air. ”However, I suppose I can work it myself. I generally have to when I want anything done.”
”What are you going to do?” cried Dorothy in great alarm. ”Oh, I do wish I hadn't said anything, or listened to you!”
”I don't know what I'm going to do. These affairs of the heart are always difficult,” said Tinker with the air of a sage who has observed many generations of unfortunate lovers.
”I won't have you do anything; I forbid it!” cried Dorothy.
”You shouldn't order your employer about,” said Tinker with a smile which, on any face less angelic, would have been a grin. ”Besides, I'm responsible, and I must do what's good for you. And, after all, I shan't give you away, don't you know?”
”Oh, do be careful!” said Dorothy plaintively.
”I will,” said Tinker; and he rose and sauntered off along the promenade.
Dorothy looked after him with mingled feelings, dread of what he might do, vexation, and a little shame that he should have so easily surprised her secret; though, indeed, she preferred that Tinker should have discovered it rather than anyone else in the world. Then her sure knowledge of his discretion eased her anxiety, and the consideration of his able imagination and versatile ingenuity set a new and strong hope springing up in her.
Tinker strolled along to the Cafe du Printemps, and found his father sitting before it on the usual uncomfortable little chair before the usual white-topped table. He saw that his father's face wore the same expression as Dorothy's had worn before he had insisted on coming to her aid. Then he saw, with something of a shock, that a gla.s.s of absinthe stood on the table. Things must, indeed, be in a bad way if his father drank absinthe at half-past ten in the morning.