Ruth Cranston

“ Don’t you see that it’s futile to be sorry for a man who loves as Kent can love?”
“You mean——?” Patsy sat up and dried her eyes.
“I mean—why do you suppose that Kent came here to-day to plead for Warren, Patsy?—to plead for his friend? Never in the world! He came to plead for the injury wrought his friend!—for the person who wrought the injury. Ah, my dear!—to be loved as Kent loves Farleigh——!” The silver-haired woman’s voice had sunk almost to a whisper. “It—it’s worth being wicked, just to find it out. It’s sublime!” ”

“ Roger beautifully disregarded her. “What I told you was true, Julie,” he concentrated all the conviction of his black eyes on mademoiselle. “I have been this afternoon to the studio of a friend for whom Suzette poses. I was sad—God knows I had reason—she suggested we should come here. Margot—the other girl—came across us. And—you saw the rest. If you do not believe me, others will tell you—what I told you was true! And there is nothing else to tell—nothing.” ”

“ Patsy kissed her. “You’re a dear, Claire,” she said softly. “It’s very evident you’ve never lived in Washington ten years, and been—Warren’s wife,” she ended suddenly. “Oh, I know well enough they never let him alone,” she added, half under her breath; “women can’t, somehow, if a man’s good-looking—and has influence. But there’s Kent Chalmers—one never hears of Kent like that; and he’s quite as attractive as Warren—well, almost—and if he liked he could have twice Warren’s influence. ”

“ How am I to make them see that each of them is part wrong?”
“Always the first step in reconciliation?” queried Farleigh, slipping deeper into her chair. “I should make her a suffragette and him an indigent tailor—they live at home, don’t they?”
“On the principle that a swapping of wrongs makes right? It would be good humor, but not good philanthropy. Because—you see, Mrs. Chalmers”—Pix dropped the monocle and looked quite steadily into Chalmers’ wife’s eyes—“underneath their—ah—differences, they care for each other.”
“How original!” Farleigh’s laugh was light like the little breeze. ”

“ Mrs. Deverence’s manner added to itself blitheness as the men came in. The change in attitude had never before struck Ellen as artificial.
“Yes—a regular club-gourmand she’s getting to be, eh, Knollys?” Hawley Deverence’s weighty laugh took heavy possession of the charming sunny dining-room as he slumped into his chair. “The women are usurping us, Nolly, my boy—they’re usurping us!”
“And Ellen’s such a complex person,” amended Mrs. Deverence. “A whirl of committees and things just suits her. Of course”—she looked brightly at Knollys—“this is all very well for a week, but for a lifetime——!” ”

“ Timothy looked down at the trembling softened mouth, at the brimming tawny eyes of his Plain Little Sister. “Warren is going to Congress,” he said, letting Doromea’s ring slip on to his smallest finger. “I have heard that at such times—just before they go—they hardly know what they think. Everybody expects them to think something different, you see. I should not be surprised if they did not even know what they said—sometimes. There are stories——”
Patsy looked at him reproachfully. ”

“ Hawley swore; plentifully. “And d’ye know,” he added, plaintive through his disgust, “Sheila told me that was the funniest story she ever heard in her life; told me about it after we got home, and by Gad, it was funny! Began with——”
“Oh, of course!” Knollys shook his shoulders impatiently. “His stories always are funny. He’s always funny. He can’t help being funny. But great Heavens, Hawley, he can help being nothing else! It does seem to me that a fellow ought to have something come to him besides a laugh. He’s got an almighty fine face.” ”

“ Do you know it is ten years since we went to live at Marble Court, Ellen?”
“We were married ten years ago next Sunday,” Ellen’s great black eyes were softer than usual, “and we went to live at the hotel directly we came back from our honeymoon. Yes, it is almost ten years, Knollys. But I’m quite contented; aren’t you? We should never be as comfortable in a house as we have been at Marble Court, I am sure. A house is such a care.” ”

“ The King rose a trifle wearily, regarding his councillors with that mixture of gentleness and pity which seemed to shut him from them, from every one, like a beautiful stiff hedge. “Our relation with Franconia is, truly, very delicate: the two most prominent world powers ... and then the peculiar situation in the Colonies ... yes, for the best interests of the State, I grant you, even, His Royal Highness{186} should make this alliance. But, milords,” his smile upon them was grave though very sweet, “there are things greater than the State.” ”

“ Michael laughed. “If you weren’t my sister I should be afraid of you,” he said, looking at her admiringly. “You see too deep—even in hats.”
“But I cannot trim them,” answered Doromea, seriously. “Anne can—she can make the most delicious hat out of an old square of lace or something. I can’t even tack a plume in place and have it look like anything but a curled poker.”
“You can only help write books,” smiled Michael, “and this one”—he smoothed the thick pile of closely written paper—“is the best you’ve ever helped to write. Er—suppose we just go and speak to Anne.” ”

“ Farleigh could not be annoyed with the little person—she was too simple, somehow—but she kept watching the stairs where Pix had disappeared. Why didn’t he come back? Surely he didn’t imagine she had taken him seriously about untangling this funny little Mrs. Budd’s affairs—“yes, he left Budapest a year ago,” telling it even to funny little Mrs. Budd made Farleigh’s red lips come close together, “he—he has no place now. He’s just a clubman.”
“Just a clubman?” almost shrieked Mrs. Budd. “Oh, my dear, how I feel for you! I do indeed—oh. Mr. Pix was right when he said we might help each other. ”

“ Madame says he is a good man—tant pis! For myself, if it is true, I prefer a devil.
“The three go out, mademoiselle looks at Monsieur Roger not at all. She looks very far away from him. And Monsieur Roger is left with the pot of tea—that has grown cold. When I ask him shall I renew it, he says ‘to be married next week! And to Chames Stuart!’ And then he laughs one laugh—very short—‘Indeed!’ he says—throwing back his head like he does—‘indeed!’ And he marches out of the café, with two steps—but he has legs, Monsieur Roger!—forgetting to pay—everything. ”

“ Poor Sheila!”
“Absolutely conventional!” In her conviction Patsy broke her needle. “Must be deadly for her. Just suppose she’d slid down the banisters——!”
“It would have been a fad with the younger married set for a whole week,” supplemented Ellen. “Sheila leads them all about by the nose, her society. Well,” with a sigh, “I wish she’d come. Even her affectations are charming; it’s only to herself that she doesn’t do justice. To other people she’s delightful.”
“I wish she’d come, too,” joined in Doromea. ”

“ There’s no holding him down. Believe me, Lucia, I hear it from men who——”
“Oh, of course he’s done well. I—I’m tremendously proud of John’s success. But it’s his own success, Mr. Fayerweather,” Lucia said passionately. “I haven’t contributed to the length of an idea!” The suddenness with which it struck her, almost overwhelmed Lucia Gwynne.
“My dear,” said Ambrose, looking at her, “you—none of you—can tell what you contribute. You’re women, aren’t you?” He glanced through the door, at the stairs where her mother was coming down. “That’s one thing you can’t help or evade. ”

“ There are no children, and she complains there’s no husband either. Now what’s to be done? She comes to me—I’m the root of all evil, gymnasium and otherwise—she upbraids me. She’s upbraided me twice this last week, once before my valet. It can’t go on. But the man, her husband, ’s a good janitor; and good janitors are scarce as honest philanthropists. I ask you what’s to be done? I must cure this maniac of his politics. But how?”
“Make him a clubman,” suggested Farleigh with a slow illuminating smile. ”

“ You withdraw all this that Warren has depended on for years, and he finds himself all at once alone. A hand is stretched out—and you know as well as I do, Patsy, in Washington it is not a hand, but many hands. ”

“ Timothy’s gray eyes darkened to absorption. “I should say a ring might do,” he deliberated.
“Sure thing!” Patsy was standing near a person who looked like Warren’s mother, so she repeated, “Sure thing!” loudly and cheerfully. The person started. “Diamonds—eh, Timmie? But”—to the clerk—“not a solitaire. Solitaires”—feeling her own, under the heavy glove—“are so ordinary!{46}”
“I rather fancy a solitaire,” protested Timothy, mildly. “Let’s see yours, Pats!”
With a sublime indifference Patsy took off her glove. “It is rather a good solitaire,” she admitted, negligently. ”

“ You see, when we come home, either Hawley or I, we can always run down to the yard with them right away. But it’s rather grim and stiff for them, poor dears, with only trees in tubs and a fence all round. Some day perhaps we can afford to live in the country.”
“Oh!” Patsy’s glance was rather blank. If she had not known Sheila to be simply a society person, she would have suspected her of trying to make an epigram. But, as Ellen said, Sheila paid no attention to herself—it would never have occurred to her to attempt being clever. ”

“ Stephen Leacock we have a humorist of very marked individuality. His new book, ‘Behind the Beyond,’ is undeniably mirth-provoking. Dull must be the soul who does not find something to laugh at in the five sketches called ‘Familiar Incidents’—visits to the photographer, the dentist, the barber, and so on.”
—Boston Transcript.
“Out of apparently very abundant experience of life both off and on the stage, Mr. Leacock has presented an uncommonly clever satire on the modern problem play and some short stories of familiar happenings that are treated with a delightful sense of humor.”—Baltimore Sun. ”

“ The stepmother regarded Patsy rather wistfully. No, she was no longer twenty-one, this beautiful, tawny-eyed little person. The ten years since then—well, was not Patsy unpacking{129} her trunks?—and quite calmly? The stepmother wished—as with unreasonable ardor—that they were back again at that day when she had packed them up and left Warren. One can do so much more with the age that takes things tragically, she reflected. ”

“ Loring, looking at her uneasily. “Lucia, whatever are you——”
“I am going to draw,” said Lucia, with a deep breath. “Ever since I was married, I’ve never had time: first there was Tommy, and then the trip abroad, and then Tommy’s measles, and then John’s accident, and then the new house in the country, and—I’m going to draw, mother! For days and days, and blissful weeks—I’m going to draw!” ”

“ Come, Timmie, tell us what you’ve been doing—more Plain Stories?”
“Not so many more.” Timothy wondered inadvertently if Michael had put Anne’s elbows in the book—they were exceedingly nice elbows. “You see, there aren’t so many Plain People left to write about. Every one’s going in for being extraordinary, these days—psychic or something.” He looked at Doromea inquiringly. ”

“ That he was a younger son is not extraordinary; that he was a rich younger son is almost an epigram. But on the contrary, it’s the truth. He had gone to Africa, and come back that way; and after a girl (who had enough of her own) had added further to his good fortune by saying no to him, he had turned to philanthropy and America. “They go together,” he had said placidly. “One can’t be a philanthropist on a big scale—one can’t be anything abnormal on a big scale, except in America.”
So he had gone. And terminated in Washington. ”

“ For some reason the Maid of Honor was blushing.
“Nobody would, unless it were one’s butler. It’s being such a temptation to anarchists; and no well-brought-up person likes to be a temptation—or admits that he likes it.” ”

“ Loring wished she would lie down and rest her eyes; but she knew Lucia fairly well: she did not suggest it. That night when Ambrose Fayerweather came to dinner, he said warmly, “Well, well! And so the mother tells me you’re at work again, drawing! What energy you youngsters have, to be sure!” ”

“ And that laugh, it is not the laugh of Monsieur Roger—rich, successful, grand artiste. No! it is a laugh that hides tears, suffering maybe. I do not know. Surely it makes me regard Monsieur Roger more closely, while he says, with what legereté, ‘but certainly madame! one knows that you would give Julie to none but a good man—that you would assure yourself as to his goodness.’
“Then, while mademoiselle and Chames Stuart sip their coffee, madame speaks to him severely. ”