Part 37 (1/2)

Not till this blessed moment of relaxation did he become aware of the discomforts of this suite--nor did Genevieve fully appreciate the flamboyantly flowered maroon wall-paper and the jig-saw furniture.

”George,”' she sighed, ”now that you're not needed down here, can't we go home?”

”Home!” The word came out half snort, half growl--hardly the tone becoming one whose triumph was so exultingly fresh. With a jar he had come back to a present which he fully understood. ”d.a.m.n home! I haven't any home!”

Genevieve stared. Uncle Martin snickered, for Uncle Martin had the gift of understanding.

”You mean those flowers of womanhood whom chivalrous man----”

”Shut up,” commanded George. He thought for a brief s.p.a.ce; then his jaw set. ”Excuse me a moment.”

Drawing hotel stationery toward him, he scribbled rapidly and then sealed and addressed what he had written.

”Uncle Martin, your car's outside doing nothing; would you mind going on ahead and giving this little note to Cousin Alys Brewster-Smith, and then staying around and having a little supper with Genevieve and me?

We'll be out soon, but there are a few things I want to talk over with Genevieve alone before we come.”

Uncle Martin would oblige. But when he had gone, there seemed to be nothing of pressing importance that George had to communicate to Genevieve. Nor half an hour later, when he led his bride of four months up to their home, had he delivered himself of anything which seemed to require privacy.

As they stepped up on the porch, softly lighted by a frosted bulb in its ceiling, Cousin Emelene, her cat under her arm, came out of the front door and hurried past them, without speech.

”Why, Cousin Emelene!” George called after her.

She paused and half turned.

”You--you--” she half choked upon expletives that would not come forth. ”The man will come for my trunks in the morning.” Thrusting a handkerchief to her face, she hurried away.

”George, what can have happened to her?” cried the amazed Genevieve.

But George was saved answering her just then. Another figure had emerged from the front door--a rather largish figure, all in black--her left hand clutching the right hand of a child, aged, possibly, five. And this figure did not cower and hurry away. This figure halted, and glowered.

”George Remington,” exclaimed Cousin Alys, ”after your invitation--you--you apostate to chivalry! That outrageous letter! But if I am leaving your home, thank G.o.d I'm leaving it for a home of my own! Come on, Martin!”

With that she stalked away, dragging the sleepy Eleanor.

Not till then did George and Genevieve become aware that Uncle Martin was before them, having until now been obscured by Mrs. Brewster-Smith's outraged amplitude. His arms were loaded with coats, obviously feminine.

”Uncle Martin!” exclaimed George.

”George,” gulped his uncle--”George--” And then he gained control of a dazed sort of speech. ”When I gave her that letter I didn't know it was a letter of eviction. And the way she broke down before me--a woman, you know--I--I--well, George, it's my home she's going to.”

”You don't mean----”

”Yes, George, that's just what I mean. Though, of course, I'm taking her back now to Mrs. Gallup's boarding-house until--until--good-night, George; good-night, Genevieve.” The little man went staggering down the walk with his burden of wraps; and after a minute there came the sound of his six-cylinder roadster buzzing away into the darkness.

”I didn't tell 'em they had to go tonight,” said George doggedly. ”But I did remark that even if every woman had a right to a home, every woman didn't have the right to make my home her home. Anyhow,” his tone becoming softer, ”I've at last got a home of my own. Our own,” he corrected.