Outside Inn Part 25

"I thought that would come. That's the trouble with patronage of any kind. It is so uncertain. There is no immediate danger of your being ousted, is there?"

"No," Nancy said, "there--there is no danger of that."

"I don't like that cutting you down," he said, frowning. "It would be rather a bad outlook for us all if she threw you over, now wouldn't it?"

"Oh!--she won't, there's nothing to worry about, really."

"It would be like my luck to have the only cafe in America turn me out-of-doors.--I should never eat again."

"I promise it won't," Nancy said; "can't you trust me?"

"I never have trusted any woman--but you," he said.

"You can trust me," Nancy said. "The truth is, she couldn't put me out even if she wanted to. I--she is under a kind of obligation to me."

"Thank G.o.d for that. I only hope you are in a position to threaten her with blackmail."

"I could if anybody could," Nancy said. She put out of her mind as disloyal, the faintly unpleasant suggestion of his words. He owed her mythical patron a substantial sum of money by this time. He was not even able to pay Michael the cash for the nightly teapot full of Chianti that Nancy herself now sent out for him regularly. For the first time since her a.s.sociation with him she was tempted to compare him to d.i.c.k, and that not very favorably; but at the next instant she was reproaching herself with her littleness of vision. He was too great a man to gauge by the ordinary standards of life. Money meant nothing to him except that it was the insignificant means to the end of that Art, which was to him consecrated.

They were placed a little to the left of the glowing fire--Nancy had restored the fireplace in the big central dining-room--and the light took the bra.s.s of the andirons, and all the polished surface of copper and pewter and silver candelabra that gave the room its quality of picturesqueness.

"Some of those branching candlesticks are very beautiful," he said; "the impression here is a little like that of a Catholic altar just before the ma.s.s. I've always thought I'd like to have my meals served in church, _Saint-Germain-des-Pres_ for instance."

"It is rather dim religious light." Nancy had no wish to utter this ba.n.a.lity, but it was forced from her by her desire to seem sympathetic.

"Can we go to your place for a little while to-night?"

These were the words she had spent her days and nights hungering for; yet now she hesitated for a perceptible instant.

"Yes, we can, of course. There is a friend of mine--Billy Boynton, up there this evening. He is not feeling very fit, and phoned to ask if he could go up and sprawl before my fire, so, of course, I said he could."

"Oh! yes, Sheila's friend. Can't he be disposed of?"

"I think so. We could try."

But at Nancy's apartment they found not only Billy, but Caroline, and the atmosphere was like that of the glacial regions, both literally and figuratively.

"Hitty had the windows open, and the fire went out, and I forgot to turn on the heat," Billy explained from his position on the hearth where he was trying to build an unscientific fire with the morning paper, and the remains of a soap box. There was a long smudge across his forehead.

Caroline drew Nancy into the seclusion of her bedroom and clutched her violently by the arm.

"I can't stand the strain any longer," she cried, "you've got to tell me. Are you or are you not going to marry d.i.c.k Thornd.y.k.e for his money, and is Billy Boynton putting you up to it--out of cowardice?"

"No, I'm not and he isn't," Nancy said. "What's the matter with you and Billy anyway?"

"I haven't seen him for weeks before. I just happened to be in this neighborhood to-night, and ran in here, and there he was."

"Why don't you take him home with you?" Nancy said.

"I don't want him to go home with me."

"Don't you love him?"

"Oh, I don't know. That isn't the point."

"It is the point," Nancy said; "there isn't any other point to the whole of existence. There's nothing else in the world, but love, the great, big, beautiful, all-giving-up kind of love, and bearing children for the man you love; and if you don't know that yet, Caroline, go down on your bended knees and pray to your G.o.d that He will teach it to you before it is too late."

"I--I didn't know you felt like that," Caroline gasped.

"Well, I do," Nancy said, "and I think that any woman who doesn't is just confusing issues, and taking refuge in sophistry. I wouldn't give _that_"--she snapped an energetic forefinger, "for all your silly, smug little ideas of economic independence and service to the race, and all that tommy-rot. There is only one service a woman can do to her race, and that is to take hold of the problems of love and marriage,--and the problems of life, birth and death that are involved in them--and work them out to the best of her ability. They _will_ work out."

"You--you're a sort of a pragmatist, aren't you?" Caroline gasped.

"Billy loves you, and you love Billy. Billy needs you. He is the most miserable object lately, that ever walked the face of the earth. I'm going to call a taxi-cab, and send you both home in it, and when you get inside of it I want you to put you arms around Billy's neck, and make up your quarrel."

"I won't do that," said Caroline, "but--but somehow or other you've cleared up something for me. Something that was worrying me a good deal."

"Shall I call the taxi?" Nancy said inexorably.

"Well, yes--if--if you want to," Caroline said.

The fire was crackling merrily in the drawing-room when she stepped into it again after speeding her departing guests. Collier Pratt was walking up and down impatiently with his hands clasped behind his back.

"You got rid of them at last," he said. "I was afraid they would decide to remain with us indefinitely."

"I didn't have as much trouble as I antic.i.p.ated," admitted Nancy cryptically.

Collier Pratt made a round of the rose-shaded lamps in the room--there were three including a j.a.panese candle lamp,--and turned them all deliberately low. Then he held out his arms to Nancy.

"We'll s.n.a.t.c.h at the few moments of joy the G.o.ds will vouchsafe us,"

he said.

CHAPTER XVI

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING

Sheila and Nancy were doing their Christmas shopping. The weather, which had been like mid-May--even to betraying a bewildered Jersey apple tree into unseasonable bloom that gave it considerable newspaper notoriety,--had suddenly turned sharp and frosty. Sheila, all in gray fur to the beginning of her gray gaiters, and Nancy in blue, a smart blue tailor suit with black furs and a big black satin hat--she was dressing better than she had ever dressed in her life--were in that state of physical exhilaration that follows the spur of the frost.

"We mustn't dance down the avenue, Sheila," Nancy said, "it isn't done, in the circles in which we move."

"It is you who are almost very nearly dancing, Miss Dear," Sheila said, "I was only walking on my toetips."

"Oh! don't you feel good, Sheila?" Nancy cried.