just let him alone about it for a day or two. Promise me you won’t say any more to him until—well, until he’s able to come downstairs to table. Will you?”
Mrs. Adams bit her lip, which had begun to tremble. “I think you can trust me to know a FEW things, Alice,” she said. “I’m a little older than you, you know.”
“That’s a good girl!” Alice jumped up, laughing. “Don’t forget it’s the same as a promise, and do just cheer him up a little. I’ll say good-bye to him before I go out.”
“Where are you going?”
“Oh, I’ve got lots to do. I thought I’d run out to Mildred’s to see what she’s going to wear to-night, and then I want to go down and buy a yard of chiffon and some narrow ribbon to make new bows for my slippers—you’ll have to give me some money–-“
“If he’ll give it to me!” her mother lamented, as they went toward the front stairs together; but an hour later she came into Alice’s room with a bill in her hand.
“He has some money in his bureau drawer,” she said. “He finally told me where it was.”
There were traces of emotion in her voice, and Alice, looking shrewdly at her, saw moisture in her eyes.
“Mama!” she cried. “You didn’t do what you promised me you wouldn’t, did you—NOT before Miss Perry!”
“Miss Perry’s getting him some broth,” Mrs. Adams returned, calmly. “Besides, you’re mistaken in saying I promised you anything; I said I thought you could trust me to know what is right.”
“So you did bring it up again!” And Alice swung away from her, strode to her father’s door, flung it open, went to him, and put a light hand soothingly over his unrelaxed forehead.
“Poor old papa!” she said. “It’s a shame how everybody wants to trouble him. He shan’t be bothered any more at all! He doesn’t need to have everybody telling him how to get away from that old hole he’s worked in so long and begin to make us all nice and rich. HE knows how!”
Thereupon she kissed him a consoling good-bye, and made another gay departure, the charming hand again fluttering like a white butterfly in the shadow of the closing door.
CHAPTER III
Mrs. Adams had remained in Alice’s room, but her mood seemed to have changed, during her daughter’s little more than momentary absence.
“What did he SAY?” she asked, quickly, and her tone was hopeful.
“‘Say?’ ” Alice repeated, impatiently. “Why, nothing. I didn’t let him. Really, mama, I think the best thing for you to do would be to just keep out of his room, because I don’t believe you can go in there and not talk to him about it, and if you do talk we’ll never get him to do the right thing. Never!”
The mother’s response was a grieving silence; she turned from her daughter and walked to the door.
“Now, for goodness’ sake!” Alice cried. “Don’t go making tragedy out of my offering you a little practical advice!”
“I’m not,” Mrs. Adams gulped, halting. “I’m just—just going to dust the downstairs, Alice.” And with her face still averted, she went out into the little hallway, closing the door behind her. A moment later she could be heard descending the stairs, the sound of her footsteps carrying somehow an effect of resignation.
Alice listened, sighed, and, breathing the words, “Oh, murder!” turned to cheerier matters. She put on a little apple-green turban with a dim gold band round it, and then, having shrouded the turban in a white veil, which she kept pushed up above her forehead, she got herself into a tan coat of soft cloth fashioned with rakish severity. After that, having studied herself gravely in a long glass, she took from one of the drawers of her dressing-table a black leather card-case cornered in silver filigree, but found it empty.
She opened another drawer wherein were two white pasteboard boxes of cards, the one set showing simply “Miss Adams,” the other engraved in Gothic characters, “Miss Alys Tuttle Adams.” The latter belonged to Alice’s “Alys” period—most girls go through it; and Alice must have felt that she had graduated, for, after frowning thoughtfully at the exhibit this morning, she took the box with its contents, and let the white shower fall from her fingers into the waste-basket beside her small desk. She replenished the card-case from the “Miss Adams” box; then, having found a pair of fresh white gloves, she tucked an ivory-topped Malacca walking-stick under her arm and set forth.
She went down the stairs, buttoning her gloves and still wearing the frown with which she had put “Alys” finally out of her life. She descended slowly, and paused on the lowest step, looking about her with an expression that needed but a slight deepening to betoken bitterness. Its connection with her dropping “Alys” forever was slight, however.
The small frame house, about fifteen years old, was already inclining to become a new Colonial relic. The Adamses had built it, moving into it from the “Queen Anne” house they had rented until they took this step in fashion. But fifteen years is a long time to stand still in the midland country, even for a house, and this one was lightly made, though the Adamses had not realized how flimsily until they had lived in it for some time. “Solid, compact, and convenient” were the instructions to the architect, and he had made it compact successfully. Alice, pausing at the foot of the stairway, was at the same time fairly in the “living-room,” for the only separation between the “living room” and the hall was a demarcation suggested to willing imaginations by a pair of wooden columns painted white. These columns, pine under the paint, were bruised and chipped at the base; one of them showed a crack that threatened to become a split; the “hard-wood” floor had become uneven; and in a corner the walls apparently failed of solidity, where the wall-paper had declined to accompany some staggerings of the plaster beneath it.
The furniture was in great part an accumulation begun with the wedding gifts; though some of it was older, two large patent rocking-chairs and a footstool having belonged to Mrs. Adams’s mother in the days of hard brown plush and veneer. For decoration there were pictures and vases. Mrs. Adams had always been fond of vases, she said, and every year her husband’s Christmas present to her was a vase of one sort or another—whatever the clerk showed him, marked at about twelve or fourteen dollars. The pictures were some of them etchings framed in gilt: Rheims, Canterbury, schooners grouped against a wharf; and Alice could remember how, in her childhood, her father sometimes pointed out the watery reflections in this last as very fine. But it was a long time since he had shown interest in such things—“or in anything much,” as she thought.
Other pictures were two water-colours in baroque frames; one being the Amalfi monk on a pergola wall, while the second was a yard-wide display of iris blossoms, painted by Alice herself at fourteen, as a birthday gift to her
