The next day Miss Drew issued invitations for a cotillon. Mr. Montgomery Brewster was not asked to attend.
XIV
Mrs. DeMille Entertains
Miss Drew’s cotillon was not graced by the presence of Montgomery Brewster. It is true he received an eleventh-hour invitation and a very cold and difficult little note of apology, but he maintained heroically the air of disdain that had succeeded the first sharp pangs of disappointment. Colonel Drew, in whose good graces Monty had firmly established himself, was not quite guiltless of usurping the role of dictator in the effort to patch up a truce. A few nights before the cotillon, when Barbara told him that Herbert Ailing was to lead, he explosively expressed surprise. “Why not Monty Brewster, Babs?” he demanded.
“Mr. Brewster is not coming,” she responded, calmly.
“Going to be out of town?”
“I’m sure I do not know,” stiffly.
“What’s this?”
“He has not been asked, father.” Miss Drew was not in good humor.
“Not asked?” said the Colonel in amazement. “It’s ridiculous, Babs, send him an invitation at once.”
“This is my dance, father, and I don’t want to ask Mr. Brewster.”
The Colonel sank back in his chair and struggled to overcome his anger. He knew that Barbara had inherited his willfulness, and had long since discovered that it was best to treat her with tact.
“I thought you and he were—” but the Colonel’s supply of tact was exhausted.
“We were”—in a moment of absent mindedness. “But it’s all over,” said Barbara.
“Why, child, there wouldn’t have been a cotillon if it hadn’t been for—” but the Colonel remembered his promise to Monty and checked himself just in time. “I—I mean there will not be any party, if Montgomery Brewster is not asked. That is all I care to say on the subject,” and he stamped out of the room.
Barbara wept copiously after her father had gone, but she realized that his will was law and that Monty must be invited. “I will send an invitation,” she said to herself, “but if Mr. Brewster comes after he has read it, I shall be surprised.”
Montgomery, however, did not receive the note in the spirit in which it had been sent. He only saw in it a ray of hope that Barbara was relenting and was jubilant at the prospect of a reconciliation. The next Sunday he sought an interview with Miss Drew, but she received him with icy reserve. If he had thought to punish her by staying away, it was evident that she felt equally responsible for a great deal of misery on his part. Both had been more or less unhappy, and both were resentfully obstinate. Brewster felt hurt and insulted, while she felt that he had imposed upon her disgracefully. He was now ready to cry quits and it surprised him to find her obdurate. If he had expected to dictate the terms of peace he was woefully disappointed when she treated his advances with cool contempt.
“Barbara, you know I care very much for you,” he was pleading, fairly on the road to submission. “I am sure you are not quite indifferent to me. This foolish misunderstanding must really be as disagreeable to you as it is to me.”
“Indeed,” she replied, lifting her brows disdainfully. “You are assuming a good deal, Mr. Brewster.”
“I am merely recalling the fact that you once told me you cared. You would not promise anything, I know, but it meant much that you cared. A little difference could not have changed your feeling completely.”
“When you are ready to treat me with respect I may listen to your petition,” she said, rising haughtily.
“My petition?” He did not like the word and his tact quite deserted him. “It’s as much yours as mine. Don’t throw the burden of responsibility on me, Miss Drew.”
“Have I suggested going back to the old relations? You will pardon me if I remind you of the fact that you came today on your own initiative and certainly without my solicitation.”
“Now, look here, Barbara—” he began, dimly realizing that it was going to be hard, very hard, to reason.
“I am very sorry, Mr. Brewster, but you will have to excuse me. I am going out.”
“I regret exceedingly that I should have disturbed you today, Miss Drew,” he said, swallowing his pride. “Perhaps I may have the pleasure of seeing you again.”
As he was leaving the house, deep anger in his soul, he encountered the Colonel. There was something about Monty’s greeting, cordial as it was, that gave the older man a hint as to the situation.
“Won’t you stop for dinner, Monty?” he asked, in the hope that his suspicion was groundless.
“Thank you, Colonel, not tonight,” and he was off before the Colonel could hold him.
Barbara was tearfully angry when her father came into the room, but as he began to remonstrate with her the tears disappeared and left her at white heat.
“Frankly, father, you don’t understand matters,” she said with slow emphasis; “I wish you to know now that if Montgomery Brewster calls again, I shall not see him.”
“If that is your point of view, Barbara, I wish you to know mine.” The Colonel rose and stood over her, everything forgotten but the rage that went so deep that it left the surface calm. Throwing aside his promise to Brewster, he told Barbara with dramatic simplicity the story of the rescue of the bank. “You see,” he added, “if it had not been for that openhearted boy we would now be ruined. Instead of giving cotillons, you might be giving music lessons. Montgomery Brewster will always be welcome in this house and you will see that my wishes are respected. Do
