Part 7 (2/2)

”That is more like it,” he said. ”When do you think I shall be able to meet this young lady?”

”Within a week or two, at the latest. I must sound her before I trust you with her, for she is nearly as much a stranger to me, so far, as to you. Of course there is no objection--quite the contrary--to your falling in love elsewhere in the meantime, if opportunity serves.”

At this moment Mr. Weil called his companion's attention to a rather corpulent gentleman who had just entered the breakfast room and was stopping near the door to hold a brief conversation with some one he had met there.

”You see that fellow?” he remarked. ”Wait a minute, and I will get him over here. If you ever want to put a real character into one of your stories you will only need to take his photograph. In actual life he is as dull as a rusty meat axe, but for literary purposes he would be a G.o.dsend.”

Catching the eye of the person of whom he was speaking, Mr. Weil motioned to him to come to his part of the room, and as he approached arranged a chair for him invitingly.

”Mr. Boggs, I want to present a young friend of mine to you,” said Archie, rising. ”Mr. Walker Boggs--Mr. s.h.i.+rley Roseleaf.”

Mr. Boggs went through the usual ceremony, announcing that he was most happy, etc., in the perfunctory style that a million other men follow every day. Then he took the chair that was offered him, and gave an order for his breakfast to a waiter.

”Are you a New Yorker, Mr. Roseleaf?” he asked, when this important matter was disposed of.

”Mr. Roseleaf is staying here for the present,” explained Mr. Weil. ”He is a novelist by profession, and I tell him there is no better place to study the sensational than this vicinity.”

The young man's color deepened. He doubted if it was right to introduce the subject in exactly these terms. Mr. Boggs' next question did not detract from his uneasiness.

”Excuse me--I am not altogether up in current literature, and I must ask what Mr. Roseleaf has written.”

Mr. Weil helped his young friend out of this dilemma as well as he could.

”He has written nothing, as yet; at least nothing that has been printed,” he said. ”He is wise, I think, in laying a deep foundation for his romances, instead of rus.h.i.+ng into print with the first thoughts that enter his head, as so many do, to their own subsequent regret and the distress of their readers. I want him to meet men and women who have known what life is by their own experiences. You ought to be worth something to a bright writer, Walker. You have had many an adventure in your day.”

Mr. Walker Boggs shrugged his shoulders.

”In my 'day,' yes,” he a.s.sented. ”Enough to fill the Astor and Lenox libraries and leave enough for Charlie Dillingham and The American News Company. But that is nothing but history now. My 'day' is over and it will never return.”

He paused and ran his right hand dejectedly across his vest in the vicinity of the waist band. Though he knew perfectly what Mr. Boggs referred to, Archie Weil wanted him to express it in his own words to s.h.i.+rley.

”You wouldn't think,” continued Mr. Boggs, after a pause which seemed filled with strange emotions, ”that my figure was once the admiration of every lady who saw it, that they used to stop and gaze at me with eyes of positive envy. And now--look at this!”

He indicated his embonpoint again, and shook his head wrathfully.

”It is simply d.a.m.nable,” he continued, as neither of the others thought best to interrupt him. ”When I was twenty-four I had a reputation that was as wide as the continent. When I walked down Broadway you would have supposed a procession was pa.s.sing, the crowds gathered in such numbers.

If it was mentioned that I would spend a week at Saratoga or Newport, the hotels had not a room to spare while I remained. The next year I married, and as one of the fas.h.i.+on journals put it, two thousand women went into mourning. For a decade I devoted myself entirely to my wife and to business. I made some money, and kept out of the public eye.

Then my wife died, and I retired from the firm with which I had been connected. The next twelve months dragged terribly. I did not know what to do. Finally I decided that there was but one course open to me. I must resume again the position I had vacated as a leader of fas.h.i.+on.”

Mr. Weil bowed, as if to say that this was a very natural and praiseworthy conclusion; precisely as if he had not heard the story told in substantially the same way a dozen times before. He was watching Roseleaf's interested expression and had difficulty in repressing an inclination to laugh aloud.

”I sought out the best tailor in the city,” continued Mr. Boggs. ”I went to the most fas.h.i.+onable hair dresser. I spent considerable time in selecting hats, cravats and gloves. When all was ready I took a stroll, as I had done in the old days, from Fiftieth street, down Fifth Avenue and Broadway to Union Square. I met a few acquaintances who stared at me slightly, but did not act in the least impressed. The women merely glanced up and glanced away again. What was the matter? I went home and took a long survey of myself in the mirror, a cheval gla.s.s that showed me from crown to toe. My costume was perfect. There was not a wrinkle in my face--this was several years ago, remember. There was not a gray hair in my head then--there are a few now, I admit. 'What is it?' I asked myself a hundred times as I stood there, studying out the cursed problem. My tie was all right, my s.h.i.+rt front of the latest cut, my watch chain straight from Tiffany's, my--ah! I saw it all in a moment!”

Roseleaf, who did not see it even yet, wore such an astonished expression that Mr. Weil had to stuff his napkin into his mouth to prevent an explosion.

”It was this devilish abdomen!” said Mr. Boggs, slapping that portion of his frame as if he had a special grudge against it and would be glad if he could hit it hard enough to bring it to a realizing sense of its turpitude. ”My figure had gone to the devil! It was not as large as it is now, but it was large enough to cook my gruel. My waist had increased so gradually that I had never noticed it. I got a tape and took its measure. Forty-two inches, sir! The jig was up. With a heart as young as ever, with a face as good and a purse able to supply all reasonable demands, I was knocked out of the race on the first round by this adipose tissue that no ingenuity could hope to conceal!”

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