Part 11 (1/2)

”The steamer was awfully early,” explained the young lady, ”but she took forever to dock. Don't you think we were awfully good to come in town on such a warm day? I could have played thirty-six holes, you know, but, of course, we hadn't seen Dad for a long time. Mamma asked him to come with us, but he said he'd have to run over to the Club. He'll join us here at three.”

”Let me see, he was gone four months, wasn't he?” said Gordon.

”Yes, something like that,” answered the mother, holding up a tortoise-sh.e.l.l lorgnette and looking at me.

”I want to introduce my friend, David Cole, Mrs. Van Rossum,” hastened Gordon. ”Miss Van Rossum, David is my very best pal. He's the novelist, you know.”

”How very interesting!” clamored the young lady. ”Gordon has given me two of your books to read. Now that I have met you, I shall certainly have to begin them. You see, there is so much to do in summer, Mr.

Cole.”

”Indeed there is, Miss Van Rossum,” I a.s.sented. ”I hardly find time even to look over the morning paper.”

”Oh! Newspapers are such rubbish,” she declared, airily.

”Why, Sophia!” cried Mrs. Van Rossum. ”One of them had your picture last week.”

”It was rotten,” said Miss Sophia, with some firmness.

”Oh, my dear! Why will you use such dreadful language?” the mother reproved her.

”That's all right, Ma, every one says it now.”

Miss Van Rossum, having thus established the status of her vocabulary, at least to her own satisfaction, took a few steps across the big studio and stopped before the picture.

”Oh! I say! Did you do that, Gordon?” she asked. ”Isn't she a stunner?

Was it her own baby or did she borrow it? Cunning little mite, isn't it?”

”A study from a model,” Gordon informed her. ”Yes, it is her own baby.”

The older lady also came forward and inspected the painting.

”Of course, you must have flattered her a great deal,” she opined. ”You have _such_ an imagination, my dear Mr. McGrath!”

”It isn't a patch on David's,” he replied. ”Novelists can beat painters all hollow at that sort of thing.”

”I'm awfully hungry,” interrupted Miss Van Rossum. ”Had to get up at an unearthly hour to come down and meet Dad.”

At once we went to the small table in the next room. The flowers were exquisite. The young lady crunched radishes, with enthusiasm, and spoke disparagingly of a certain hackney which, according to her, had unfairly been awarded a blue ribbon at Piping Rock, gaining a decision over her own palfrey. Also, she discussed Mrs. Pickley-Sanderson's form at tennis and spoke of the new shotgun her father had brought over for her, from England.

”What's your handicap at golf, Mr. Cole?” she asked me, graciously.

”I'm afraid David's a fossil,” put in Gordon. ”He's utterly ignorant of the most important things of life.”

”What a pity,” she sympathized. ”And how do you manage to spend the time?”

”I--I don't spend it, Miss Van Rossum,” I answered, inanely. ”I try to save it and make it last as long as possible.”

”How funny,” she declared, and gave me up as hopeless, directing the remainder of her conversation at Gordon.