“Well, don’t work too hard.” Doctor Hamilton lighted his own cigar.
Soon the hired waiter came to the table.
“A telephone message for Mr. Sprague,” he announced.
“Now you’re trying to make me jealous,” laughed the doctor. “If you were a colleague I’d accuse you of trying to make us think you had more patients than I.”
Jim rose and went to the hall.
“Hello!” he called, taking up the receiver. “This is Mr. Sprague speaking.”
“I’ve called you up as you asked, Jim.” It was Miss Storms’ voice. “Is everything all right?”
“I’ll be there in about half an hour,” he answered, his tone louder than necessary, and hung up the receiver.
“I’m sorry to interrupt such a pleasant evening.” He approached the table and addressed John. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave.”
“Excuse me,” apologized John to the others, and he stepped to the living room door.
“Lucy!” he motioned to her. “Mr. Sprague is called away. He’s going.”
“I’m so sorry you couldn’t stay,” she declared, extending her hand.
“I too,” responded Jim, “but it was very nice of you to let me come.”
Taking his hat and coat he went out to catch the train.
“Excuse me a minute.” Lucy smiled to the other ladies. “I must run up and see if my baby is asleep.”
Once in her room she sat down by the dressing table and cried a little, her face hidden in her hands. Suddenly she lifted her head.
After carefully examining her eyes in the mirror she put a tiny bit more rouge on her cheeks, patted her hair, and returned to her guests.
When the male visitors joined the ladies, John seated himself by Miss Powell. She wore an old gold evening gown that displayed her handsome shoulders, and she turned her dark eyes on him.
“I hear you are quite an artist, Mr. Winter,” she commented agreeably. “Mrs. Merwent told me you were responsible for these lovely pictures.” She nodded toward the watercolors on the wall. “I’ve admired them so much.”
“Well, Miss Powell, ‘artist’ is a big word, but I can say that I am interested in art.”
“You are too modest, Mr. Winter. I can’t call myself an artist, certainly, but I appreciate good work when I see it.”
“I might have done something, but it’s my fate to design cheap houses instead of painting great pictures, Miss Powell. I attended the Art School here and I thought of going to Europe afterwards, but I married and—well, here I am.”
His listener’s dark eyes were sympathetic.
“The beauty of a Corot, or an Inness,” he continued, “cannot fail to thrill one, even if he is bound down to humdrum tasks. I have always held that it is the artist’s business to create beauty—simply and purely. There’s little enough of it in common life.”
“That’s just how I feel, Mr. Winter.”
“I don’t approve of the didactic spirit of some of the modern schools,” he ended. “For me art must be purely idealistic.”
John met Miss Powell’s gaze earnestly.
Lucy, who was talking with Mr. Mathews quite near, overheard snatches of this conversation, and from time to time her glance sought John and his companion. Miss Powell noticed her preoccupation.
“We’re talking about art, Mrs. Winter,” she volunteered at length. “Don’t you adore it?”
“I’m afraid I’m deficient in the finer feelings, Miss Powell,” answered Lucy somewhat waspishly, and turned again to Mr. Mathews.
Miss Powell looked at John and lifted her brows.
“I understand and sympathize with your appreciation of sentiment and beauty, Mr. Winter,” she resumed in her low, rich voice. “Thank you for telling me of it.”
“We must talk again some time, Miss Powell,” declared John with feeling. “It was so good of you to come this evening. We must get better acquainted.”
“Thank you. I think so, too,” she agreed with her most brilliant smile.
When the little party broke up there were murmurs of pleasure from the guests.
“I’ve had the best time. I’m coming out again right away,” declared Miss Stimpson, who had been talking with John all the latter part of the evening.
“Do,” he smiled. “We’ll love to have you.”
“I’m so glad to see you and Mr. Winter going out some at last!” exclaimed Mrs. Morris to Lucy. “It’s a good thing to get out occasionally. You must come to us some evening.”
The next morning at breakfast John was in good spirits.
“I think it went off all right,” he remarked approvingly, “but you shouldn’t be so abrupt to people as you were to Miss Powell. You must cultivate tact.”
“I think Miss Powell’s nice,” decided Dimmie, spoon in air.
“You’ve got good taste, Son,” commented his father, opening the morning paper.
When John and Lucy came to make up the list of guests for their next dinner, Jim was excepted.
“Jim Sprague acted last time like it was a condescension for him to come, so we’ll just leave him off altogether.” John frowned as he spoke.
Lucy was silent.
“We’ll invite Mathews, of course. He’s a fine fellow. I’m going to bring him out some evening to stay over night.”
“I wish—” began Lucy, then stopped. She stared at John and as she did so she seemed to shrink up, physically as well as spiritually, and her pupils widened. John was busy with the list and did not appear to notice.
“I’ll bring Mathews out some night,” he said again.
“All right, John,” she replied quite naturally.
Dimmie’s manner was perplexed.
“Why don’t Uncle Jim ever come any more?” he demanded.
Neither of his parents answered him.
Several times during the weeks that followed the query was repeated.
“Dimmie, don’t ask that again!” commanded John angrily on one occasion. “He doesn’t come because he doesn’t want to.”
On the first of the month the mail brought an unusual number of bills, the largest of which was that of the caterer from whom Lucy had several times ordered cakes and ices. After dinner, while John was still seated at the table, she went to the desk in the living room and took them out. Coming back into the dining room, she laid them before him without speaking.
“Well?” John glanced up at her with a
