Her eyes widened with surprise when she saw who the visitor was, and she put a finger to her lip and pointed to the sleeper. And, as we have to record another of the long list of Steve’s failures to propose we may say here, in excuse, that this reception took a great deal of the edge off the dashing resolution which had been his up to that moment. It made him feel self-conscious from the start.
“Whatever brings you up here, Steve?” whispered Mamie.
It was not a very tactful remark, perhaps, considering that Steve was the child’s godfather, and, as such, might reasonably expect to be allowed a free pass to his nursery; but Mamie, like Keggs, had fallen so under the domination of Lora Delane Porter that she had grown to consider it almost a natural law that no one came to see Bill unless approved of and personally conducted by her.
Steve did not answer. He was gaping at the fittings of the place in which he found himself. It was precisely as Keggs had described it, white tiles and all.
He was roused from his reflections by the approach of Mamie, or, rather, not so much by her approach as by the fact that at this moment she suddenly squirted something at him. It was cold and wet and hit him in the face before, as he put it to Keggs later, he could get his guard up.
“For the love of—”
“Sh!” said Mamie warningly.
“What’s the idea? What are you handing me?”
“I’ve got to. It’s to sterilize you. I do it to everyone.”
“Gee! You’ve got a swell job! Well, go to it, then. Shoot! I’m ready.”
“It’s boric acid,” explained Mamie.
“I shouldn’t wonder. Is this all part of the Porter circus?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?” inquired Steve in sudden alarm. “Is she likely to butt in?”
“No. She’s out.”
“Good,” said Steve, and sat down, relieved, to resume his inspection of the room.
When he had finished he drew a deep breath.
“Well!” he said softly. “Say, Mamie, what do you think about it?”
“I’m not paid to think about it, Steve.”
“That means you agree with me that it’s the punkest state of things you ever struck. Well, you’re quite right. It is. It’s a shame to think of that innocent kid having this sort of deal handed to him. Why, just think of him at the studio!”
But Mamie, whatever her private views, was loyal to her employers. She refused to be drawn into a discussion on the subject.
“Have you been downstairs with Mr. Keggs, Steve?”
“Yes. It was him that told me about all this. Say, Mame, we ain’t seen much of each other lately.”
“No.”
“Mighty little.”
“Yes.”
Having got as far as this, Steve should, of course, have gone resolutely ahead. After all, it is not a very long step from telling a girl in a hushed whisper with a shake in it that you have not seen much of her lately to hinting that you would like to see a great deal more of her in the future.
Steve was on the right lines, and he knew it; but that fatal lack of nerve which had wrecked him on all the other occasions when he had got as far as this undid him now. He relapsed into silence, and Mamie went on sewing.
In a way, if you shut your eyes to the white tiles and the thermometer and the brass knobs and the shower-bath, it was a peaceful scene; and Steve, as he sat there and watched Mamie sew, was stirred by it. Remove the white tiles, the thermometer the brass knobs, and the shower-bath, and this was precisely the sort of scene his imagination conjured up when the business of life slackened sufficiently to allow him to dream dreams.
There he was, sitting in one chair; there was Mamie, sitting in another; and there in the corner was the little white cot—well, perhaps that was being a shade too prophetic; on the other hand, it always came into these dreams of his. There, in short, was everything arranged just as he pictured it; and all that was needed to make the picture real was for him to propose and Mamie to accept him.
It was the disturbing thought that the second condition did not necessarily follow on to the first that had kept Steve from taking the plunge for the last two years. Unlike the hero of the poem, he feared his fate too much to put it to the touch, to win or lose it all.
Presently the silence began to oppress Steve. Mamie had her needlework, and that apparently served her in lieu of conversation; but Steve had nothing to occupy him, and he began to grow restless. He always despised himself thoroughly for his feebleness on these occasions; and he despised himself now. He determined to make a big effort.
“Mamie!” he said.
As he was nervous and had been silent so long that his vocal cords had gone off duty under the impression that their day’s work was over, the word came out of him like a husky gunshot. Mamie started, and the White Hope, who had been sleeping peacefully, stirred and muttered.
“S-sh!” hissed Mamie.
Steve collapsed with the feeling that it was not his lucky night, while Mamie bent anxiously over the cot. The sleeper, however, did not wake. He gurgled, gave a sigh, then resumed his interrupted repose. Mamie returned to her seat.
“Yes?” she said, as if nothing had occurred, and as if there had been no interval between Steve’s remark and her reply.
Steve could not equal her calmness. He had been strung up when he spoke, and the interruption had undone him. He reflected ruefully that he might have said something to the point if he had been allowed to go straight on; now he had forgotten what he
