“No, I’ve—er—rather lost touch with the Family.”
“So I gathered from Mr. Carmyle. And I feel hideously responsible. It was all through me that all this happened.”
“Oh, no.”
“Of course it was. I made you what you are today—I hope I’m satisfied—I dragged and dragged you down until the soul within you died, so to speak. I know perfectly well that you wouldn’t have dreamed of savaging the Family as you seem to have done if it hadn’t been for what I said to you at Roville. Ginger, tell me, what did happen? I’m dying to know. Mr. Carmyle said you insulted your uncle!”
“Donald. Yes, we did have a bit of a scrap, as a matter of fact. He made me go out to dinner with him and we—er—sort of disagreed. To start with, he wanted me to apologize to old Scrymgeour, and I rather gave it a miss.”
“Noble fellow!”
“Scrymgeour?”
“No, silly! You.”
“Oh, ah!” Ginger blushed. “And then there was all that about the soup, you know.”
“How do you mean, ‘all that about the soup’? What about the soup? What soup?”
“Well, things sort of hotted up a bit when the soup arrived.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean, the trouble seemed to start, as it were, when the waiter had finished ladling out the mulligatawny. Thick soup, you know.”
“I know mulligatawny is a thick soup. Yes?”
“Well, my old uncle—I’m not blaming him, don’t you know—more his misfortune than his fault—I can see that now—but he’s got a heavy moustache. Like a walrus, rather, and he’s a bit apt to inhale the stuff through it. And I—well, I asked him not to. It was just a suggestion, you know. He cut up fairly rough, and by the time the fish came round we were more or less down on the mat chewing holes in one another. My fault, probably. I wasn’t feeling particularly well-disposed towards the Family that night. I’d just had a talk with Bruce—my cousin, you know—in Piccadilly, and that had rather got the wind up me. Bruce always seems to get on my nerves a bit somehow and—Uncle Donald asking me to dinner and all that. By the way, did you get the books?”
“What books?”
“Bruce said he wanted to send you some books. That was why I gave him your address.”
Sally stared.
“He never sent me any books.”
“Well, he said he was going to, and I had to tell him where to send them.”
Sally walked on, a little thoughtfully. She was not a vain girl, but it was impossible not to perceive in the light of this fresh evidence that Mr. Carmyle had made a journey of three thousand miles with the sole object of renewing his acquaintance with her. It did not matter, of course, but it was vaguely disturbing. No girl cares to be dogged by a man she rather dislikes.
“Go on telling me about your uncle,” she said.
“Well, there’s not much more to tell. I’d happened to get that wireless of yours just before I started out to dinner with him, and I was more or less feeling that I wasn’t going to stand any rot from the Family. I’d got to the fish course, hadn’t I? Well, we managed to get through that somehow, but we didn’t survive the fillet steak. One thing seemed to lead to another, and the show sort of bust up. He called me a good many things, and I got a bit fed-up, and finally I told him I hadn’t any more use for the Family and was going to start out on my own. And—well, I did, don’t you know. And here I am.”
Sally listened to this saga breathlessly. More than ever did she feel responsible for her young protégé, and any faint qualms which she had entertained as to the wisdom of transferring practically the whole of her patrimony to the care of so erratic a financier as her brother vanished. It was her plain duty to see that Ginger was started well in the race of life, and Fillmore was going to come in uncommonly handy.
“We’ll go to the Astor now,” she said, “and I’ll introduce you to Fillmore. He’s a theatrical manager and he’s sure to have something for you.”
“It’s awfully good of you to bother about me.”
“Ginger,” said Sally, “I regard you as a grandson. Hail that cab, will you?”
X
Sally in the Shadows
I
It seemed to Sally in the weeks that followed her reunion with Ginger Kemp that a sort of golden age had set in. On all the frontiers of her little kingdom there was peace and prosperity, and she woke each morning in a world so neatly smoothed and ironed out that the most captious pessimist could hardly have found anything in it to criticize.
True, Gerald was still a thousand miles away. Going to Chicago to superintend the opening of The Primrose Way; for Fillmore had acceded to his friend Ike’s suggestion in the matter of producing it first in Chicago, and he had been called in by a distracted manager to revise the work of a brother dramatist, whose comedy was in difficulties at one of the theatres in that city; and this meant he would have to remain on the spot for some time to come. It was disappointing, for Sally had been looking forward to having him back in New York in a few days; but she refused to allow herself to be depressed. Life as a whole was much too satisfactory for that. Life indeed, in every other respect, seemed perfect. Fillmore was going strong; Ginger was off her conscience; she had found an
