“I know,” he answered. “But I’ve been so very busy.”
“So I hear. Running round with policemen and their victims. I have no doubt you’ll go back to Boston and report we’re all criminals and cutthroats out here.”
“Oh, hardly that.”
“Yes, you will. You’re getting a very biased view of Honolulu. Why not stoop to associate with a respectable person now and then?”
“I’d enjoy it—if they’re all like you.”
“Like me? They’re much more intelligent and charming than I am. Some of them are dropping in at my house tonight for an informal little party. A bit of a chat, and then a moonlight swim. Won’t you come too?”
“I want to, of course,” John Quincy replied. “But there’s Cousin Dan—”
Her eyes flashed. “I’ll say it, even if he was your relative. Ten minutes of mourning for Cousin Dan is ample. I’ll be looking for you.”
John Quincy laughed. “I’ll come.”
“Do,” she answered. “And bring your Aunt Minerva. Tell her I said she might as well be dead as hogtied by convention.”
John Quincy went out to the corner of Fort and King Streets, near which he had parked the car. As he was about to climb into it, he paused. A familiar figure was jauntily crossing the street. The figure of Bowker, the steward, and with him was Willie Chan, demon back-stopper of the Pacific.
“Hello, Bowker,” John Quincy called.
Mr. Bowker came blithely to join him. “Well, well, well. My old friend Mr. Winterslip. Shake hands with William Chan, the local Ty Cobb.”
“Mr. Chan and I have met before,” John Quincy told him.
“Know all the celebrities, eh? That’s good. Well, we missed you on the President Tyler.”
Bowker was evidently quite sober. “Just got in, I take it,” John Quincy remarked.
“A few minutes ago. How about joining us?” He came closer and lowered his voice. “This intelligent young man tells me he knows a taxi-stand out near the beach where one may obtain a superior brand of fusel oil with a very pretty label on the bottle.”
“Sorry,” John Quincy answered. “My cousin’s coming in shortly on an Inter-island boat, and I’m elected to meet her.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said the graduate of Dublin University. “If my strength holds out I’m aiming to stage quite a little party, and I’d like to have you in on it. Yes, a rather large affair—in memory of Tim, and as a last long lingering farewell to the seven seas.”
“What? You’re pau?”
“Pau it is. When I sail out of here tonight at nine on the old P.T. I’m through forever. You don’t happen to know a good country newspaper that can be bought for—well, say ten grand.”
“This is rather sudden, isn’t it?” John Quincy inquired.
“This is sudden country out here, sir. Well, we must roll along. Sorry you can’t join us. If the going’s not too rough and I can find a nice smooth table top, I intend to turn down an empty glass. For poor old Tim. So long, sir—and happy days.”
He nodded to Willie Chan, and they went on down the street. John Quincy stood staring after them, a puzzled expression on his face.
Barbara seemed paler and thinner than ever, but she announced that her visit had been an enjoyable one, and on the ride to the beach appeared to be making a distinct effort to be gay and sprightly. When they reached the house, John Quincy repeated to his aunt Mrs. Maynard’s invitation.
“Better come along,” he urged.
“Perhaps I will,” she answered. “I’ll see.”
The day passed quietly, and it was not until evening that the monotony was broken. Leaving the dining-room with his aunt and Barbara, John Quincy was handed a cablegram. He hastily opened it. It had been sent from Boston; evidently Agatha Parker, overwhelmed by the crude impossibility of the West, had fled home again, and John Quincy’s brief “San Francisco or nothing” had followed her there. Hence the delay.
The cablegram said simply: “Nothing. Agatha.” John Quincy crushed it in his hand; he tried to suffer a little, but it was no use. He was a mighty happy man. The end of a romance—no. There had never been any nonsense of that kind between them—just an affectionate regard too slight to stand the strain of parting. Agatha was younger than he, she would marry some nice proper boy who had no desire to roam. And John Quincy Winterslip would read of her wedding—in the San Francisco papers.
He found Miss Minerva alone in the living-room. “It’s none of my business,” she said, “but I’m wondering what was in your cablegram.”
“Nothing,” he answered truthfully.
“All the same, you were very pleased to get it.”
He nodded. “Yes. I imagine nobody was ever so happy over nothing before.”
“Good heavens,” she cried. “Have you given up grammar, too?”
“I’m thinking of it. How about going down the beach with me?”
She shook her head. “Someone is coming to look at the house—a leading lawyer, I believe he is. He’s thinking of buying, and I feel I should be here to show him about. Barbara appears so listless and disinterested. Tell Sally Maynard I may drop in later.”
At a quarter to eight, John Quincy took his bathing suit and wandered down Kalia Road. It was another of those nights; a bright moon was riding high; from a bungalow buried under purple alamander came the soft croon of Hawaiian music. Through the hedges of flaming hibiscus he caught again the exquisite odors of this exotic island.
Mrs. Maynard’s big house was a particularly unlovely type of New England architecture, but a hundred flowering vines did much to conceal that fact. John Quincy found his hostess enthroned in her great airy drawing-room, surrounded by a handsome laughing group of the best people. Pleasant people, too; as she introduced him he began to wonder if he hadn’t been missing a great deal of congenial companionship.
“I dragged him here against his will,” the old lady explained. “I felt I owed it to Hawaii. He’s been associating with
