“They have a dear little boy—going on four. I never saw a child so beautifully trained. Doctor Merrick went along with them to New York and brought little Jack back with him to stay at Windymere until Mrs. Dawson returns. I dare say old Mr. Merrick can be found, at this minute, leading the pony he has bought for him.” …
There was a letter from Joyce:
“No, darling, I’m sure you will take no pleasure in thinking or saying ‘I told you so.’ For that wouldn’t be you … Never a day passes that I do not scourge myself for the abominable way I used you that winter when you were trying so hard to step in between me and myself.
“I wasn’t fair to anybody through those days. Not even to poor Bobby. I never told you the straight of that. I meant to; but, you see, I telephoned to him the next morning and asked him to come and see me. I’d a hazy notion that he was—well—kind to me the night before, and I thought he might renew our friendship. He made some excuse. I was hurt and humiliated. I knew something had happened to cause an estrangement between you and Bobby, for—can you forgive me, darling?—I noticed a letter you had from him shortly afterward, and peeked into it. He wanted to be forgiven for causing you a lot of suffering. I knew that meant he hadn’t told you all the truth. You thought he was in that souse party at Gordon’s, and I just let you think so—after he refused to see me again. The honest fact was that he went there sober and fought everybody in the place to get me out when I was so blind drunk I didn’t really learn what it was all about for three days. I know Bobby means nothing to you and that you despise him, but it’s only fair to him that you should know how he happened to bring me home, that Thanksgiving night.
“No, darling, it’s not any better. It’s never going to be any better. I know that now. Tommy can’t help it. One night he comes home drunk, surly and obstinate; the next night drunk, silly and sentimental; the next night drunk, argumentative and critical; the next night drunk, savage and abusive—but always drunk. I can definitely count on that! I never know what mood he will be in—whether I am to be upbraided for imagined indifference to him and his work (little enough he does of it!) or pestered with pretences of an affection neither of us feels—but I can always be sure of one thing: he will be drunk!
“At first, he claimed he wrote better when stimulated, and I believed him; drank with him—all times of the day, in all sorts of places, with all kinds of people. He said it helped him to the local colour necessary to his story writing. I took his word for it. Then I saw that it was rapidly doing him up. He was losing his magazine market. His things began to come back with curt little notes. I hated to nag him, but the time came when I had to rebel against being dragged about with his greasy crowd of drunken pretenders to some sort of literary or artistic talent—would-be’s and has-beens!
“Now he is out on his own, doing little or nothing. Thank God, we don’t have to worry about the rent or where the next meal is coming from. Dear old dad saw to that. So long as they continue to mine copper in the Upper Peninsula, Tommy and I can go through the motions of living, but it’s a dull business and life has gone flat. I would leave him tomorrow if it were not that I feel under a sort of obligation. I’m as much responsible for his habits as anyone. What would you do in my place?”
So—nothing whatever ailed Northwestern Copper or Joyce would be having trouble with her dividends. She would write to Monty and press some serious questions. Had Monty volunteered to look after her business with the purpose of appropriating her income? Why had she not sought counsel before putting herself at his mercy? There were plenty of reliable trust companies … Perhaps there was an explanation … Well, he should have his chance to offer it … very soon, too! She would write today! … No—tomorrow. She wasn’t up to it today … So he was taking Brightwood by storm, was he? … Glass-blowing! … Whatever for? … What had surgery to do with glass-blowing? … Why hadn’t he told the truth about that episode at Gordon’s! … She was glad his letter of apology had been too vague for Joyce to understand … Poor Joyce!
Gathering up her mail, she arose from the table, smiled at old Martino as he drew back her chair, and strolled slowly down the winding carriage-drive. The gay little parasol refused to share her trouble, and brightened her face. She descended the narrow flight of steps to the next level of the mountain road that spiralled up from the village; followed a graceful arc of it to the second long flight which widened to a street flanked by picturesque little shops.
Yesterday she had promised herself that this morning she would make an excursion to the Villa Carlotta. Diagonally across the bay, on a heavily wooded shore of indescribable beauty, the famous home of an absentee prince was open to tourists … Some important Canovas, some rare orchids, a wide variety of exotics … She must see them. Everyone did.
There was no lack of attentive service as she stepped down into the red-and-blue canopied motorboat … It required many assistants at the little wharf in front of the Villa Carlotta to attend to her disembarkation. The diminutive parasol was handed up to the nearest member of the reception committee,
