Jerry

CHAPTER VIII

The Hotel du Lac may be approached in two ways. The ordinary, obvious way, which incoming tourists of necessity choose, is by the high road and the gate. But the romantic way is by water. One sees only the garden then, and the garden is the distinguished feature of the place; it was planned long before the hotel was built to adorn a marquis’s pleasure house. There are grottos, arbours, fountains, a winding stream, and, stretching the length of the water front, a deep cool grove of interlaced plane trees. At the end of the grove, half a dozen broad stone steps dip down to a tiny harbour which is carpeted on the surface with lily pads. The steps   are worn by the lapping waves of fifty years, and are grown over with slippery, slimy water weeds.

The world was just stirring from its afternoon siesta, when the Farfalla dropped her yellow sails and floated into the shady little harbour. Giuseppe prodded and pushed along the fern-grown banks until the keel jolted against the water-steps. He sprang ashore and steadied the boat while Constance alighted. She slipped on the mossy step—almost went under—and righted herself with a laugh that rang gaily through the grove.

She came up the steps still smiling, shook out her fluffy pink skirts, straightened her rose-trimmed hat, and glanced reconnoitringly about the grove. One might reasonably expect, attacking the hotel as it were from the flank, to capture unawares any stray guest. But aside from a chaffinch or so and a brown and white spotted calf tied to a tree, the grove was empty—blatantly empty. There was a shade of disappointment in Constance’s glance. One naturally does not like to waste one’s best embroidered gown on a spotted calf.

Then her eye suddenly brightened as it lighted on a vivid splash of yellow under a tree. She crossed over and picked it up—a paper-covered French novel; the title was Bijou, the author was Gyp. She turned to the first page. Any reasonably   careful person might be expected to write his name in the front of a book—particularly a French book—before abandoning it to the mercies of a foreign hotel. But the several fly-leaves were immaculately innocent of all sign of ownership.

So intent was she upon this examination, that she did not hear footsteps approaching down the long arbour that led from the house; so intent was the young man upon a frowning scrutiny of the path before him, that he did not see Constance until he had passed from the arbour into the grove. Then simultaneously they raised their heads and looked at each other. For a startled second they stared—rather guiltily—both with the air of having been caught. Constance recovered her poise first; she nodded—a nod which contained not the slightest hint of recognition—and laughed.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I suppose this is your book? And I am afraid you have caught me red-handed. You must excuse me for looking at it, but usually at this season only German Alpine climbers stop at the Hotel du Lac, and I was surprised, you know, to find that German Alpine climbers did anything so frivolous as reading Gyp.’

The man bowed with a gesture which made her free of the book, but he continued his silence. Constance glanced at him again, and this time she allowed a flash of recognition to appear in her face.

‘Oh!’ she re-exclaimed with a note of interested politeness, ‘you are the young man who stumbled into Villa Rosa last Monday looking for the garden of the prince?’

He bowed a second time, an answering flash appearing in his face.

‘And you are the young woman who was sitting on the wall beside a row of—of–’

‘Stockings?’ She nodded. ‘I trust you found the prince’s garden without difficulty?’

‘Yes, thank you. Your directions were very explicit.’

A slight pause followed, the young man waiting deferentially for her to take the lead.

‘You find Valedolmo interesting?’ she inquired.

‘Interesting!’ His tone was enthusiastic. ‘Aside from the prince’s garden, which contains a cedar of Lebanon and an india-rubber plant from South America, there is the Luini in the chapel of San Bartolomeo, and the statue of Garibaldi in the piazza. And then–’ he waved his hand toward the lake, ‘there is always the view.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘one can always look at the view.’

Her eyes wandered to the lake, and across the lake to Monte Maggiore with clouds drifting about its peak. And while   she obligingly studied the mountain, he studied the effect of the pink gown and the rose-bud hat. She turned back suddenly and caught him; it was a disconcerting habit of Constance’s. He politely looked away, and she—with frank interest—studied him. He was bareheaded and dressed in white flannels; they were very becoming, she noted critically, and yet—they needed just a touch of colour; a red sash, for example, and earrings.

‘The guests of the Hotel du Lac,’ she remarked, ‘have a beautiful garden of their own. Just the mere pleasure of strolling about in it ought to keep them contented with Valedolmo.’

‘Not necessarily,’ he objected. ‘Think of the Garden of Eden—the most beautiful garden there has ever been, if report speaks true—and yet the mere pleasure of strolling about didn’t keep Adam contented. One gets lonely, you know.’

‘Are you the only guest?’

‘Oh, no, there are four of us, but we’re not very companionable; there’s such a discrepancy in languages.’

‘And you don’t speak Italian?’

He shook his head.

‘Only English and’—he glanced at the book in her hand—‘French indifferently well.’

‘I saw some one the other day who spoke Magyar—that is a beautiful language.’

‘Yes?’ he returned with polite indifference.   ‘I don’t remember ever to have heard it.’

She laughed and glanced about. Her eyes lighted on the arbour hung with grape-vines and wistaria, where, far at the other end, Gustavo’s figure was visible lounging in the yellow stucco doorway. The sight appeared to recall an errand to her mind. She glanced down at a pink wicker-basket which hung on her arm, and gathered up her skirts with a movement of departure.

The young man hastily picked up the conversation.

‘It is a jolly old garden,’ he affirmed. ‘And there’s something pathetic about its appearing on souvenir post cards as a mere adjunct to a blue and yellow hotel.’

She nodded sympathetically.

‘Built for romance and abandoned to tourists—German tourists at that!’

‘Oh, not entirely—we’ve a Russian countess just now.’

‘A Russian countess?’ Constance turned toward him with an air of reawakened interest. ‘Is she as young and beautiful and fascinating and wicked as they always are in novels?’

‘Oh, dear no! Seventy, if she’s a day. A nice grandmotherly old soul who smokes cigarettes.’

‘Ah!’ Constance smiled; there was even a trace of relief in her manner as she nodded to the young man and turned away.   His face reflected his disappointment; he plainly wished to detain her, but could think of no expedient. The spotted calf came to his rescue. The calf had been watching them from the first, very much interested in the visitor; and now, as she approached his tree, he stretched out his neck as far as the tether permitted and sniffed insistently. She paused and patted him on the head. The calf acknowledged the caress with a grateful moo; there was a plaintive light in his liquid eyes.

‘Poor thing—he’s lonely!’ She turned to the young man and spoke with an accent of reproach. ‘The four guests of the Hotel du Lac don’t show him enough attention.’

The young man shrugged.

‘We’re tired of calves. It’s only a matter of a day or so before he’ll be breaded and fried and served Milanese fashion with a sauce of tomato and garlic.’

Constance shook her head sympathetically; though whether her sympathy was for the calf or the partakers of table d’hôte was not quite clear.

‘I know,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve been a guest at the Hotel du Lac myself—it’s a tragedy to be born a calf in Italy!’

She nodded and turned; it was evident this time that she was really going. He took a hasty step forward.

‘Oh, I say, please don’t go! Stay and   talk to me—just a little while. That calf isn’t half so lonely as I am.’

‘I should like to, but really I mustn’t. Elizabetta is waiting for me to bring her some eggs. We are planning a trip up the Maggiore to-morrow, and we have to have a cake to take with us. Elizabetta made one this morning, but she forgot to put in the baking powder. Italian cooks are not used to making cakes; they are much better at’—her eyes fell on the calf—‘veal and such things.’

He folded his arms with an air of desperation.

‘I’m an American—one of your own countrymen; if you had a grain of charity in your nature you would let the cake go.’

She shook her head relentlessly.

‘Five days at Valedolmo! You would not believe the straits I’ve been driven to in search of amusement.’

‘Yes?’ There was a touch of curiosity in her tone. ‘What for example?’

‘I am teaching Gustavo how to play tennis.’

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘How does he do?’

‘Broken three windows and a flower-pot and lost four balls.’

She laughed and turned away; and then as an idea occurred to her, she turned back and fixed her eyes sympathetically on his face.

‘I suppose Valedolmo is stupid for a   man; but why don’t you try mountain-climbing? Everybody finds that diverting. There’s a guide here who speaks English—really comprehensible English. He’s engaged for to-morrow, but after that I dare say he’ll be free. Gustavo can tell you about him.’

She nodded and smiled and turned down the arbour.

The young man stood where she left him, with folded arms, watching her pink gown as it receded down the long sun-flecked alley hung with purple and green. He waited until it had been swallowed up in the yellow doorway; then he fetched a deep breath and strolled to the water-wall. After a few moments’ prophetic contemplation of the mountain across the lake, he threw back his head with a quick amused laugh, and got out a cigarette and lighted it.

CHAPTER IX

As Constance emerged at the other end of the arbour, Gustavo, who had been nodding on the bench beside the door, sprang to his feet, consternation in his attitude.

‘Signorina!’ he stammered. ‘You come from ze garden?’

She nodded in her usual off-hand manner and handed him the basket.

‘Eggs, Gustavo—two dozen if you can spare them. I am sorry always to be   wanting so many, but’—she sighed—‘eggs are so breakable!’

Gustavo rolled his eyes to heaven in silent thanksgiving. She had not, it was evident, run across the American, and the cat was still safely in the bag; but how much longer it could be kept there the saints alone knew. He was feeling—very properly—guilty in regard to this latest escapade; but what can a defenceless waiter do in the hands of an impetuous young American whose pockets are stuffed with silver lire and five-franc notes?

‘Two dozen? Certainly, signorina. Subitissimo!’ He took the basket and hurried to the kitchen.

Constance occupied the interval with the polyglot parrot of the courtyard. The parrot, since she had last conversed with him, had acquired several new expressions in the English tongue. As Gustavo reappeared with the eggs, she confronted him sternly.

‘Have you been teaching this bird English? I am surprised!’

‘No, signorina. It was—it was–’ Gustavo mopped his brow. ‘He jus’ pick it up.’

‘I’m sorry that the Hotel du Lac has guests that use such language; it’s very shocking.’

‘Si, signorina.’

‘By the way, Gustavo, how does it happen   that that young American man who left last week is still here?’

Gustavo nearly dropped the eggs.

‘I just saw him in the garden with a book—I am sure it was the same young man. What is he doing all this time in Valedolmo?’

Gustavo’s eyes roved wildly until they lighted on the tennis-court.

‘He—he stay, signorina, to play lawn-tennis wif me, but he go to-morrow.’

‘Oh, he is going to-morrow?—What’s his name, Gustavo?’

She put the question indifferently while she stooped to pet a tortoise-shell cat that was curled asleep on the bench.

‘His name?’ Gustavo’s face cleared. ‘I get ze raygeester; you read heem yourself.’

He darted into the bureau and returned with a black book.

‘Ecco, signorina!’ spreading it on the table before her.

His alacrity should have aroused her suspicions; but she was too intent on the matter in hand. She turned the pages and paused at the week’s entries; Rudolph Ziegelmann und Frau, Berlin; and just beneath, in bold black letters that stretched from margin to margin, Abraham Lincoln, U.S.A.

Gustavo hovered above, anxiously watching her face; he had been told that this would make everything right, that   Abraham Lincoln was an exceedingly respectable name. Constance’s expression did not change. She looked at the writing for fully three minutes, then she opened her purse and looked inside. She laid the money for the eggs in a pile on the table, and took out an extra lira which she held in her hand.

‘Gustavo,’ she asked, ‘do you think that you could tell me the truth?’

‘Signorina!’ he said reproachfully.

‘How did that name get there?’

‘He write it heemself!’

‘Yes, I dare say he did—but it doesn’t happen to be his name. Oh, I’m not blind; I can see plainly enough that he has scratched out his own name underneath.’

Gustavo leaned forward and affected to examine the page. ‘It was a li’l’ blot, signorina; he scratch heem out.’

‘Gustavo!’ Her tone was despairing. ‘Are you incapable of telling the truth? That young man’s name is no more Abraham Lincoln than Victor Emmanuel II. When did he write that, and why?’

Gustavo’s eyes were on the lira; he broke down and told the truth.

‘Yesterday night, signorina. He say, “Ze next time zat Signorina Americana who is beautiful as ze angels come to zis hotel she look in ze raygeester, an’ I haf it feex ready.”’

‘Oh, he said that, did he?’

‘Si, signorina.’

‘And his real name that comes on his letters?’

‘Jayreem Ailyar, signorina.’

‘Say it again, Gustavo.’ She cocked her head.

He gathered himself together for a supreme effort. He rolled his r’s; he shouted until the courtyard reverberated.

‘Meestair-r Jay-r-reem Ailyar-r!’

Constance shook her head.

‘Sounds like Hungarian—at least the way you pronounce it. But anyway it’s of no consequence; I merely asked out of idle curiosity. And Gustavo’—she still held the lira—‘if he asks you if I looked in this register, what are you going to say?’

‘I say, “No, Meestair Ailyar, she stay all ze time in ze courtyard talking wif ze parrot, and she was ver’ moch shocked at his Angleesh.”’

‘Ah!’ Constance smiled and laid the lira on the table. ‘Gustavo,’ she said, ‘I hope, for the sake of your immortal soul, that you go often to confession.’

The eggs were not heavy, but Gustavo insisted upon carrying them; he was determined to see her safely aboard the Farfalla, with no further accidents possible. That she had not identified the young man of the garden with the donkey-driver of yesterday was clear—though how such blindness was possible, was not clear. Probably she had only caught a glimpse of   his back at a distance; in any case he thanked a merciful Providence and decided to risk no further chance. As they neared the end of the arbour, Gustavo was talking—shouting fairly; their approach was heralded.

They turned into the grove. To Gustavo’s horror the most conspicuous object in it was this same reckless young man, seated on the water-wall nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. The young man rose and bowed; Constance nodded carelessly, while Gustavo behind her back made frantic signs for him to flee, to escape while still there was time. The young man telegraphed back by the same sign language that there was no danger; she didn’t suspect the truth. And to Gustavo’s amazement, he fell in beside them and strolled over to the water-steps. His recklessness was catching; Gustavo suddenly determined upon a bold stroke himself.

‘Signorina,’ he asked, ‘zat man I send, zat donk’-driver—you like heem?’

‘Tony?’ Her manner was indifferent. ‘Oh, he does well enough; he seems honest and truthful, though a little stupid.’

Gustavo and the young man exchanged glances.

‘And, Gustavo,’ she turned to him with a sweetly serious air that admitted no manner of doubt but that she was in earnest. ‘I told this young man that in case he cared to do any mountain climbing, you   would find him the same guide. It would be very useful for him to have one who speaks English.’

Gustavo bowed in mute acquiescence. He could find no adequate words for the situation.

The boat drew alongside and Constance stepped in, but she did not sit down. Her attention was attracted by two washer-women who had come clattering on to the little rustic bridge that spanned the stream above the water-steps. The women, their baskets of linen on their heads, had paused to watch the embarkation.

‘Ah, Gustavo,’ Constance asked over her shoulder, ‘is there a washer-woman here at the Hotel du Lac named Costantina?’

‘Si, signorina, zat is Costantina standing on ze bridge wif ze yellow handkerchief on her head.’

Constance looked at Costantina, and nodded and smiled. Then she laughed out loud, a beautiful rippling, joyous laugh that rang through the grove and silenced the chaffinches.

Perhaps once upon a time Costantina was beautiful—beautiful as the angels—but if so, it was long, long ago. Now she was old and fat, with a hawk nose and a double chin and one tooth left in the middle of the front. But if she were not beautiful, she was at least a cheerful old soul, and, though she could not possibly   know the reason, she echoed the signorina’s laugh until she nearly shook the clean clothes into the water.

Constance settled herself among the cushions and glanced back toward the terrace.

‘Good afternoon,’ she nodded politely to the young man.

He bowed with his hand on his heart.

‘Addio, Gustavo.’

He bowed until his napkin swept the ground.

‘Addio, Costantina,’ she waved her hand toward her namesake.

The washer-woman laughed again, and her earrings flashed in the sunlight.

Giuseppe raised the yellow sail; they caught the breeze, and the Farfalla floated away.

CHAPTER X

Half-past six on Friday morning, and Constance appeared on the terrace; Constance in fluffy, billowy, lacy white with a spray of oleander in her belt—the last costume in the world in which one would start on a mountain climb. She cast a glance in passing toward the gateway and the stretch of road visible beyond, but both were empty, and seating herself on the parapet, she turned her attention to the lake. The breeze that blew from the farther shore brought fresh Alpine odours of flowers and pine trees. Constance   sniffed it eagerly as she gazed across toward the purple outline of Monte Maggiore. The serenity of her smile gradually gave place to doubt; she turned and glanced back toward the house, visibly changing her mind.

But before the change was finished, the quiet of the morning was broken by a clatter of tiny scrambling obstinate hoofs and a series of ejaculations, both Latin and English. She glanced toward the gate, where Fidilini was visible, plainly determined not to come in. Constance laughed expectantly and turned back to the water, her eyes intent on the fishing-smacks that were putting out from the little marino. The sounds of coercion increased; a command floated down the driveway in the English tongue. It sounded like: ‘You twist his tail, Beppo, while I pull.’

Apparently it was understood in spite of Beppo’s slight knowledge of the language. An eloquent silence followed; then an outraged grunt on the part of Fidilini, and the cavalcade advanced with a rush to the kitchen door. Tony left Beppo and the donkeys, and crossed the terrace alone. His bow swept the ground in the deferential manner of Gustavo, but his glance was far bolder than a donkey-driver’s should have been. She noted the fact and tossed him a nod of marked condescension. A silence followed, during   which Constance studied the lake; when she turned back, she found Tony arranging a spray of oleander that had dropped from her belt in the band of his hat. She viewed this performance in silent disfavour. Having finished to his satisfaction, he tossed the hat aside and seated himself on the balustrade. Her frown became visible. Tony sprang to his feet with an air of anxiety.

‘Scusi, signorina. I have not meant to be presumptious. Perhaps it is not fitting that any one below the rank of lieutenant should sit in your presence?’

‘It will not be very long, Tony, before you are discharged for impertinence.’

‘Ah, signorina, do not say that! If it is your wish I will kneel when I address you. My family, signorina, are poor; they need the four francs which you so munificently pay.’

‘You told me that you were an orphan; that you had no family.’

‘I mean the family which I hope to have. Costantina has extravagant tastes, and coral earrings cost two-fifty a pair.’

Constance laughed and assumed a more lenient air. She made a slight gesture which might be interpreted as an invitation to sit down; and Tony accepted it.

‘By the way, Tony, how do you talk to Costantina, since she speaks no English and you no Italian?’

‘We have no need of either Italian or   English; the language of love, signorina, is universal.’

‘Oh!’ she laughed again. ‘I was at the Hotel du Lac yesterday; I saw Costantina.’

‘You saw Costantina!—Ah, signorina, is she not beautiful? Ze mos’ beautiful in all ze world? But ver’ unkind, signorina. Yes, she laugh at me; she smile at ozzer men, at soldiers wif uniforms.’ He sighed profoundly. ‘But I love her just ze same, always from ze first moment I see her. It was wash-day, signorina, by ze lac. I climb over ze wall and talk wif her, but she make fun of me—ver’ unkind. I go away ver’ sad. No use, I say, she like dose soldiers best. But I see her again; I hear her laugh—it sound like angels singing—I say, no, I can not go away; I stay here and make her love me. Yes, I do everysing she ask—but everysing! I wear earrings; I make myself into a fool just to please zat Costantina.’

He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. A slow red flush crept over Constance’s face, and she turned her head away and looked across the water.

Mr. Wilder, in full Alpine regalia, stepped out upon the terrace and viewed the beauty of the morning with a prophetic eye. Miss Hazel followed in his wake; she wore a lavender dimity. And suddenly it occurred to Tony’s slow moving masculine perception that neither lavender   dimity nor white muslin were fabrics fit for mountain climbing.

Constance slipped down from her parapet and hurried to meet them.

‘Good morning, Aunt Hazel. Morning, Dad! You look beautiful! There’s nothing so becoming to a man as knickerbockers—especially if he’s a little stout.—You’re late,’ she added with a touch of severity. ‘Breakfast has been waiting half an hour and Tony fifteen minutes.’

She turned back toward the donkey-man, who was standing, hat in hand, respectfully waiting orders. ‘Oh, Tony, I forgot to tell you; we shall not need Beppo and the donkeys to-day. You and my father are going alone.’

‘You no want to climb Monte Maggiore—ver’ beautiful mountain.’ There was disappointment, reproach, rebellion in his tone.

‘We have made inquiries and my aunt thinks it too long a trip. Without the donkeys you can cross by boat, and that cuts off three miles.’

‘As you please, signorina.’ He turned away.

Constance looked after him with a shade of remorse. When this plan of sending her father and Tony alone had occurred to her as she sailed homeward yesterday from the Hotel du Lac, it had seemed a humorous and fitting retribution. The young man had been just a trifle too   sure of her interest; the episode of the hotel register must not go unpunished. But—it was a beautiful morning, a long empty day stretched before her, and Monte Maggiore looked alluring; there was no pursuit, for the moment, which she enjoyed as much as donkey-riding. Oh yes, she was spiting herself as well as Tony; but considering the circumstances the sacrifice seemed necessary.

When the Farfalla drifted up ready to take the mountain-climbers, Miss Hazel suggested (Constance possessed to a large degree the diplomatic faculty of making other people propose what she herself had decided on) that she and her niece cross with them. Tony was sulky, and Constance could not forgo the pleasure of baiting him further.

They put in at the village, on their way, for the morning mail; Mr. Wilder wished his paper, even at the risk of not beginning the ascent before the sun was high. Giuseppe brought back from the post, among other matters, a letter for Constance. The address was in a dashing, angular hand that pretty thoroughly covered the envelope. Had she not been so intent on the writing herself, she would have noted Tony’s astonished stare as he passed it to her.

‘Why!’ she exclaimed, ‘here’s a letter from Nannie Hilliard, postmarked Lucerne.’

‘Lucerne!’ Miss Hazel echoed her surprise.   ‘I thought they were to be in England for the summer?’

‘They were—the last I heard.’ Constance ripped the letter open and read it aloud.

‘Dear Constance: You’ll doubtless be surprised to hear from us in Switzerland instead of in England, and to learn further, that in the course of a week, we shall arrive at Valedolmo en route for the Dolomites. Jerry Junior at the last moment decided to come with us, and you know what a man is when it comes to European travel. Instead of taking two months comfortably to England, as Aunt Kate and I had planned, we did the whole of the British Isles in ten days, and Holland and France at the same breathless rate.

‘Jerry says he holds the record for the Louvre; he struck a six-mile pace at the entrance, and by looking neither to the right nor the left he did the whole building in forty-three minutes.

‘You can imagine the exhausted state Aunt Kate and I are in after travelling five weeks with him. We simply struck in Switzerland and sent him on to Italy alone. I had hoped he would meet us in Valedolmo, but we have been detained here longer than we expected, and now he’s rushed off again—where to, goodness only knows; we don’t.

‘Anyway, Aunt Kate and I shall land in   Valedolmo about the end of the week. I am dying to see you; I have some beautiful news that’s too complicated to write. We’ve engaged rooms at the Hotel du Lac—I hope it’s decent; it’s the only place starred in Baedeker.

‘Aunt Kate wishes to be remembered to your father and Miss Hazel.

‘Yours ever,

‘Nan Hilliard.

‘P.S.—I’m awfully sorry not to bring Jerry; I know you’d adore him.’

She returned the letter to its envelope and looked up.

‘Now isn’t that abominable?’ she demanded.

‘Abominable!’ Miss Hazel was scandalized. ‘My dear, I think it’s delightful.’

‘Oh, yes—I mean about Jerry Junior; I’ve been trying for six years to get hold of that man.’

Tony behind them made a sudden movement that let out nearly a yard of rope, and the Farfalla listed heavily to starboard.

‘Tony!’ Constance threw over her shoulder. ‘Don’t you know enough to sit still when you are holding the sheet?’

‘Scusi,’ he murmured. The sulky look had vanished from his face; he wore an expression of alert attention.

‘Of course we shall have them at the   villa,’ said Miss Hazel. ‘And we shall have to get some new dishes. Elizabetta has already broken so many plates that she has to stop and wash them between courses.’

Constance looked dreamily across the lake; she appeared to be thinking. ‘I wonder,’ she inquired finally, ‘if Jerry Junior knew we were here in Valedolmo?’

Her father emerged from the columns of his paper.

‘Of course he knew it, and having heard what a dangerous young person you were, he said to himself, “I’d better keep out.”’

‘I wish I knew. It would make the score against him considerably heavier.’

‘So there is already a score? I hadn’t supposed that the game had begun.’

She nodded.

‘Six years ago—but he doesn’t know it. Yes, Dad,’ her tone was melodramatic, ‘for six years I’ve been waiting for Jerry Junior and planning my revenge. And now, when I have him almost in my grasp, he eludes me again!’

‘Dear me!’ Mr. Wilder ejaculated. ‘What did the young man do?’

Had Constance turned she would have found Tony’s face an interesting study. But she knew well enough without looking at him that he was listening to the conversation, and she determined to give him something to listen to. It was a salutary   thing for Tony to be kept in mind of the fact that there were other men in the world.

She sighed.

‘He was the first man I ever loved, father, and he spurned me. Do you remember that Christmas when I was in boarding-school and you were called South on business? I wanted to visit Nancy Long, but you wouldn’t let me because you didn’t like her father; and you got Mrs. Jerymn Hilliard whom I had never set eyes on to invite me there? I didn’t want to go, and you said I must, and was perfectly horrid about it?—you remember that?’

Mr. Wilder grunted.

‘Yes, I see you do. And you remember how, with my usual sweetness, I finally gave way? Well, Dad, you never knew the reason. The Yale Glee Club came to Westfield that year just before the holidays began, and Miss Jane let everybody go to the concert whose deportment had been above eighty—that of course included me.

‘Well, we all went, and we all fell in love—in a body—with a sophomore who played the banjo and sang negro songs. He had lovely dark gazelle-like eyes, and he sang funny songs without smiling. The whole school raved about him all the way home; we cut his picture out of the programme and pasted in the front of our   watches. His name, father’—she paused dramatically—‘was Jerymn Hilliard Junior!’

‘I sat up half the night writing diplomatic letters to you and Mrs. Hilliard; and the next day when it got around that I was actually going to visit in his house—well, I was the most popular girl in school. I was sixteen years old then; I wore sailor suits and my hair was braided down my back. Probably I did look young; and then Nannie, whom I was supposedly visiting, was only fifteen. There were a lot of cousins in the house besides all the little Hilliards, and what do you think? They made the children eat in the school-room! I never saw him until Christmas night; then when we were introduced, he shook my hand in a listless sort of way, said “How d’y’ do?” and forgot all about me. He went off with the Glee Club the next day, and I only saw him once more.