Quill's Window Part 16

"I am very fond of dancing," said he, and then added with a smile: "Especially since the girls have taken to parking their corsets."

There was a shocked silence, broken by Miss Grady, who, as a dressmaker, was not quite so finicky about the word.

"What do you mean by parking?" she inquired.

"Same as you park an automobile," said he, enjoying the sensation he had created. "It's the fas.h.i.+on now, among the best families as well as the worst, for the girls when they go to dances to leave their corsets in the dressing rooms. Check 'em, same as you do your hat."

"Bless my soul," gasped Mr. Pollock. "Haven't they got any mothers?"

"Sure,--but the mothers don't know anything about it. You see, it's this way. We fellows won't dance with 'em if they've got corsets on,--so off they come."

"What's the world coming to?" cried the editor.

"You'd better ask where it's going to," said Charlie Webster.

"Do you go to the opera very often?" asked Miss Miller nervously.

He spoke rather loftily of the Metropolitan Opera House, and very lightly of the Metropolitan Museum,--and gave Charlie Webster a sharp look when that amiable gentleman asked him what he thought of the Metropolitan Tower.

But he was at home in the theatre. He told them just what Maude Adams and Ethel Barrymore were like, and Julia Marlowe, and Elsie Ferguson, and Chrystal Herne, and all the rest of them. He spoke familiarly of Mr. Faversham as "Favvy," of Mr. Collier as "Willie,"

of Mr. Sothern as "Ned," of Mr. Drew as "John," of Mr. Skinner as "Otis," of Mr. Frohman as "Dan."

And when he said good night and reluctantly wended his way to the room at the end of the hall, round the corner of which the fierce October gale shrieked derisively, he left behind him a group enthralled.

"Isn't he a perfect dear?" cried Mrs. Pollock, clasping her hands.

"The most erudite man I have ever met," agreed Miss Miller ecstatically. "Don't you think so, Mr. Hatch?"

Mr. Hatch was startled. "Oh,--er--yes, indeed. Absolutely!"

he stammered, and then looked inquiringly at his finger nails. He hoped he had made the proper response.

Charlie Webster ambled over to one of the windows and peered out into the whistling night.

"It's an ill wind that blows n.o.body any good," said he sententiously.

"What do you mean by that, Charlie?" inquired Flora Grady, at his elbow.

"Well, if it had been a pleasant night he'd have been up at Alix Crown's instead of here," said Charlie.

"I see," said Flora, after a moment. "You mean the ill wind favoured Alix, eh?"

Charlie's round face was unsmiling as he stared hard at the fire.

"I wonder--" he began, and then checked the words.

"Don't you worry about Alix," said Flora. "She's n.o.body's fool."

"I wasn't thinking of Alix just then," said Charlie.

II

The following morning, Courtney went, as was his custom, to the postoffice. He had arranged for a lock-box there. His letters were not brought up to the Tavern by old Jim House, the handy-man.

The day was bright and clear and cold; the gale had died in the early morning hours. Alix Crown's big automobile was standing in front of the post-office, the engine running. Catching sight of it as he left the Tavern porch, he hastened his steps. He was a good two hundred yards away and feared she would be off before he could come up with her. As he drew near, he saw the lanky chauffeur standing in front of the drug store, chatting with one of the villagers.

Alix was in the post-office. As he pa.s.sed the car, he slackened his pace and glanced over his shoulder into the tonneau. The side curtains were down. A low growl greeted him. He hastened on.

She was at the registry window.

"h.e.l.lo!" he exclaimed, extending his hand and searching her face as he did so for signs of a sleepless night.

"Good morning," she responded cheerily. There was nothing in her voice, her eyes or her manner to indicate an even remotely disturbed state of mind. Her gaze met his serenely; the colour did not rush to her cheeks as he had fondly expected, nor did her eyes waver under the eager, intense gleam in his. He suddenly felt cheated.

"Where are you off to this morning?" he inquired.

"To town for the day. I have some business to attend to and some shopping to do. Would you like to come along?"

He was in a sulky mood.

"You know I hate the very thought of going to town," he said. Then, as she raised her eyebrows slightly, he made haste to add: "I'd go from one end of the desert of Sahara to the other with you, but--"

shaking his head so solemnly that she laughed outright,--"not to the city. Just ask me to go to the Sahara with you and see how--"

"Haven't you had enough of No-Man's Land?" she cried merrily.

"It depends on what you'd call No-Man's Land," said he, and her gaze faltered at last. There was no mistaking his meaning. "Sometimes it is Paradise, you know," he went on softly.

Twice before she had seen the same look in his eyes, and both times she had experienced a strange sensation, as of the weakness that comes with ecstasy. There had been something in his eyes that seemed to caress her from head to foot, something that filled her with the most disquieting self-consciousness. Strange to say, it was not the ardent look of the love-sick admirer,--and she had not escaped such tributes,--nor the inquiring look of the adventurous married man. It was not soulful nor was it offensive. She reluctantly confessed to herself that it was warm and penetrating and filled her with a strange, delicious alarm.

She quickly withdrew her gaze and turned to the little window where Mrs. Pollock was making out her receipt for a registered package.

She felt that she was cowardly, and the thought made her furious.

"Will it go out today, Mrs. Pollock?" she asked.

"This afternoon," replied the postmaster's wife and a.s.sistant.

"Wasn't that a dreadful wind last night, Alix? I thought of you.

You must have been frightened."

"I slept like a log through all of it," said Alix. "I love the wild night wind. It makes me feel so nice and comfy in bed. I was awfully tired last night. Thanks." Then turning to Courtney: "Sorry you will not go with me. I'll bear you in mind if I ever take a trip to the Sahara. Good-bye."

"Will you be at home tonight?" he asked, holding the door open for her to pa.s.s through.

"Yes," she replied composedly.

"I mean,--to me?"

"If you care to come," she said.

He did not accompany her to the car. The big grey-brown dog with his paws on the back of the front seat, was eagerly watching her approach.