and tell us a story.”
“I’ll tell no story in the presence of a so-and-so cheap poet who hasn’t the manners to keep his mouth shut.”
“Sam!” said Irene sharply.
“I don’t like to be around with a so-and-so tramp and grafter who crashes into places where he is not invited or wanted.”
“I assure you he is wanted.”
“By whom?”
“By me!”
“Well, you don’t want me if you want him. We may as well get that straight right now!”
“Just as you say.”
“Miss Comerford,” said John, “I really ought to go over to my friend’s.”
“I want you to stay right here, and what’s more, I’m going to stay here with you. I don’t intend to go anywhere with Sam in his present condition.”
“If I leave here without you, I’ll never come back.”
“Suit yourself about that. I’m not going!”
“Irene, dear,” said Mrs. Parrish, “you know I’ve got to go, don’t you? It’s the Tuttles and I’ve refused them so often.”
“Of course, Ellen, you must. I’m only sorry you haven’t a decent escort.”
“Her escort,” said Sam, “is at least as decent as the snake you’re throwing him over for.”
“I’m not throwing anyone over.”
“You are! You love this guttersnipe and I guess you’re welcome to him.”
“Come on, Sam,” said Mrs. Parrish.
“And in parting, Mr. Drake,” said John, “let me warn you that the first time we meet where no ladies are present, you’ll go home looking like the late Tom Heeney.”
Irene Comerford and John were alone.
“Mr. Knowles, please tell me you didn’t believe what he said about my loving you.”
“He said you loved a guttersnipe.”
“He was referring to you and you know it. And I don’t want you to believe him.”
“There’s no danger, dear. But oh, how I’d like to!”
“Why?”
“Because I love you so.”
“And what about Beth?”
The man servant announced dinner.
“Well,” said John when they were seated at a table too big for two, “what about Beth?”
“She told me you were engaged.”
“She told me that, too, but I was in a position to know better.”
John asked the servant where the Maynard cottage was and learned it was only four cottages away. “I’d like to go down there and square myself with Wallie Blair.”
“You must go right after dinner,” said Irene, “but you mustn’t stay too long.”
“No danger.”
But there was danger, danger John should have foreseen and avoided by staying right where he was. He mixed with Blair’s ribald crew for only half an hour, but on the way back the moon on the lake brought the accursed libretto back into his head and drove Irene entirely out of it. He sat on somebody’s dock and outlined a whole new scene, and when he finally returned, it was eleven o’clock and Miss Comerford had disappeared.
He was sorry, but it didn’t seem strange to him. Nor did her failure to acknowledge his greeting when he found her alone in the dining-room next morning strike him as queer. And after five or ten minutes of silence, he said:
“You’re a lot like me. There are times when you don’t want to talk to anybody.”
“Mr. Knowles, it isn’t ‘anybody’ I don’t want to talk to. It’s you.”
“But why?”
“Can you ask after what you did last night?”
“Do you mean my staying out so long?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what I was doing?”
“I can imagine.”
“Well, I wasn’t at Blair’s, drinking. I was sitting on a dock, blocking out a new scene for my silly opera.”
“Couldn’t you have done it here?”
“Do you think I could concentrate on work if I were with you?”
“You did, at least you said you did, the other day. You said you made up that verse while I was right there with you.”
“Dear, you know I am crazy and absentminded and of a queer temperament. Can’t you care for me as I am?”
“I’m afraid I can.”
“How soon will Mrs. Parrish be down?”
“Any minute.”
“Then let’s settle this thing quick. I’m not engaged to Beth. You’re not engaged to Sam. Let’s be engaged to each other.”
“I’m afraid you’re engaged to your work.”
“I’ll tear it up.”
“I won’t let you do that. But I’ll insist on your doing whatever is left to be done right in my presence, looking right at me.”
“I don’t believe it’s possible, but I’ll try.”
“Then we’re engaged.”
“And remember, Miss Comerford, that being engaged to you means the loss of my job.”
“What for? Maybe you don’t know it, but my father owns more stock than Mr. Beasley.”
High-Rollers
When Walter Finch received and accepted an offer of $30,000 a year from Bernard and Craig, Publicity Engineers, his wife, Marion, declared that now they must certainly buy, build or rent a place in the suburbs for the summer; it was nothing less than criminal to keep the kiddies cooped up in a cauldron like New York during July, August and September.
“Just think, dear,” she said, “you’re going to make twice as much as you did at Ripley’s and we’ve managed to save a little on what they gave you, besides carrying all that silly insurance. Now we can save nearly twice as much as we have been and still have enough left to enjoy ourselves a little.
“I don’t mean you and me especially, though I do believe in people having fun before they get too old. But the children will be so much better physically and in every way if they can spend three months in the country. Isn’t that true, dear?”
“Yes, dear. I suppose it is,” replied Walter. “Some Saturday or Sunday, we’ll take a run over to Jersey or up in Westchester somewhere and see what we can find. But we must rent, not build or buy, because in the first place, I don’t know if I can make good or not in this job, and in the second place, we don’t want to establish ourselves permanently anywhere till we are sure we like the people.”
“I think that’s wise, dear. People do make all the difference. That’s why we ought to pick out some place where we already know somebody and like them; for instance, Hampton Dunes. You’ve always been fond of
