And with him had gone his daughter Janet—that faithful, constant companion of his, who since her mother’s death had never left him. She was a good-looking girl, too—though perhaps unkind people might have said girlhood’s happy days had receded somewhat into the past. Thirty, perhaps—even thirty-five—though her father always alluded to her as “My little girl.”
There was something very sweet and touching about their relationship; his pride in her and her simple, loving admiration for Dad. Only that evening before dinner they had got into conversation in the lounge with a party of American globetrotters, who had unanimously voted them quite charming.
“I feel,” had said the Reverend Theodosius, “that it is almost wicked our staying in such an hotel as this, after the dreadful things we’ve seen. How my little girl stood it all I don’t know.” He took his daughter’s hand and patted it lovingly.
“I guess,” said Janet with her faint, sweet smile, “I guess the Dad deserves it. Why he nearly worked himself ill doing relief work and things out there in Vienna and places.”
“Is there any lack of funds, Mr. Longmoor?” asked one lady. “One feels one ought to do something to help.”
The Reverend Theodosius gave her one of his rare sweet smiles.
“There was when I left,” he murmured. “You’d never believe how money goes out there, and really the poor children have very little to show for it.”
“Too bad—too bad.” A square-jawed man who was a member of the party beckoned to a passing waiter. “Say, Mr. Longmoor, will you drink a cocktail with me? And your daughter, too?”
“It is very good of you, sir,” answered the clergyman, with a courteous bow. “My little girl has never even tasted one and I think perhaps she had better not. What do you think, my child?”
“I’d love to try, Daddy, dear,” she said coaxingly. “Do you think I might? Or would it make my head go funny?”
They all laughed.
“That settles it, Miss Longmoor,” cried the man. “I’ve ordered one for you, and if you don’t drink it your father will have to drink two.”
Undoubtedly a charming couple had been the verdict of these chance acquaintances—so simple, so fresh, so unassuming in these days of complexity and double-dealing. The only pity of it was, as the square-jawed man remarked to his wife at dinner, that the very quality of childlike simplicity which made them so charming was the one which laid them open to the most barefaced swindling if they ever came up against blackguards.
After dinner they had all drunk coffee together, and then, because his little Janet was tired, the Reverend Theodosius and his daughter had retired after accepting an invitation to dinner the next day.
“Who are they?” asked Janet, as they entered their sitting room.
“That square-jawed man is John Pendel,” answered her father, thoughtfully lighting a cigar. “Worth about three million. He’s good for dining with, though I’m not over here on any sideshows.”
And then for two hours until he got up and rang the bell, the Reverend Theodosius remained engrossed in work; while his little Janet, lying on the sofa, displayed considerably more leg than one would have expected a vicar’s daughter even to possess. And occasional gurgles of laughter seemed to prove that Guy de Maupassant appeals to a more catholic audience than he would have suspected.
She was knitting decorously when the waiter came in, and her father ordered a little supper to be sent up.
“Some chicken, please, and a little foie gras. I am expecting a friend very soon—so lay for three. Some champagne—yes. Perrier Jouet ’04 will do. I’m afraid I don’t know much about wine. And a little Vichy water for my daughter.”
The waiter withdrew, and the Reverend Theodosius chuckled.
“There’s a very good bath you can empty it down, my dear,” he said. “But I don’t think my little Janet should drink champagne so late. It might make her head go funny.”
She smiled and then grew serious.
“What time do you expect Zadowa?”
“He should have been here by now. I don’t know why he’s late.”
“Did you see him this afternoon?”
“No. I was down at the office, but only for a short while.”
The sound of voices outside the door caused Janet to resume her knitting, and the next moment Count Zadowa was announced. For an appreciable time after the waiter had withdrawn he stood staring at them: then a smile crossed his face.
“Magnificent,” he murmured. “Superb. Madame, I felicitate you. Well though I know your powers, this time you have excelled yourself.”
“Cut that out, and get to business,” returned little Janet shortly, “I’m tired.”
“But should we be interrupted,” remarked the Reverend Theodosius, “we have just returned from an extensive tour in the famine-stricken area round Vienna.”
The Count bowed and smiled again.
“C’est entendu,” he said quietly. “And now we will certainly get to business. For I have the most wonderful news for you, mes amis.”
A warning gesture from the girl announced the arrival of supper, and for a while the conversation turned on the rival merits of different types of soup kitchen. And it was not until the outer door finally closed behind the waiter, that the Reverend Theodosius bit the end off another cigar and stared at his visitor with eyes
