Short Fiction

her to marry Gordon who, confound him, would jump at the chance of it. However Tatum might argue, that, he determined, was not only the proper thing, it was the only thing.

But now, abandoning the train, he crossed to Fifth Avenue and entered a club where behind a paper for a while he sat and waited. A member strolled in and yawned; another appeared; a third; finally the one he wanted.

He waved the paper. “Gordon!”

At that, Gordon, had he been able, would have turned tail. He had an animal feeling of being snared. Heartily he wished himself out of it. But, summoning a smile, he approached, straddled a chair, and quite affably looked Wentworth over.

“I have been to my lawyer,” the latter told him.

“And how was he?” Gordon inquired. He found but that. Yet since the morning he had been in and out of the club thinking that, at any moment, a message might come from Julianne to whom⁠—lest Wentworth should get it⁠—he had discreetly omitted to telephone. Now without knowing at all how the land lay, here he was in the thick of it. None the less the smile remained, and at once he was on again.

“By George, you will never believe me, but the last time I consulted a lawyer I had to advise him. On my word I did. He was in a stew over some mess of his own, and I reminded him of Antoninus and how, one night, when the empire was in a turmoil, and the old chap was dying, the captain of the guard came to him for the watchword, ‘Equanimity,’ he replied. You remember?”

“Yes,” Wentworth answered. “It is one of the most consoling things in history.”

Gordon’s smile deepened. “And precious few of them there are. History is dull as ditch-water and ought to be brilliant as a ballet.”

He was but sparring for wind, only he rather felt that Wentworth knew it.

“I had to advise my lawyer, too,” the latter was saying.

Appreciatively, smiling still, Gordon nodded. “They are just like physicians. It is stupid to go to a doctor unless you can tell him what’s wrong with you. If you don’t know, how in the world can you expect him to? If you can’t tell a lawyer how to act⁠—”

“I told mine.”

“And paid him too. That’s always the way.”

“I told him to get Julianne a divorce.”

“Eh?” Gordon exclaimed. His smile vanished. He sat back. He had not known what to expect, but of all things he had not expected that.

“It will be quite simple,” Wentworth continued and would have said more, but now a man in a blue swallowtail and a waistcoat of slashed mustard approached.

“You are wanted at the telephone, sir.”

It was Gordon whom he addressed, and Gordon rose to it. It was a straw, a plank, a raft, rescue from the awkwardness of the situation. With a gesture of excuse he got to his feet, followed the man, entered a corridor in which there were booths.

“Number two, sir.” The operator announced.

Gordon, closing the door, took the receiver. “Hello! Oh, it is you! Well, he’s here. Have you seen him since? You did not see him this morning? I have a bit of news for you then. He has been to his lawyer. No, no, not that at all. It will be for you. All the honors of war. No, honors I said, not horrors. What? I did not get it. Rubbish? Did you say rubbish? Well, rubbish is always a point of view. Hello! Hello!”

The connection was cut. Gordon stared at the instrument. But it was not that which he saw, the necessity rather of returning to Wentworth and of taking medicine which it was shameful of him to dose him with. But, he instantly decided, he could avoid all that. The telephone was excuse enough. He could invent a message and vanish.

“Here,” he called to a boy as he left the booth. “My hat and stick.”

Weaponed with these, he went and waved at Wentworth. “Got to run. In a taxi at that.”

But Wentworth stood up and approached him. “Is it so very pressing?”

Gordon turned and made for the door. “My father’s had a fit.”

Wentworth followed. “I had rather hoped for a minute with you, but⁠—”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Another time.”

Both now were on the pavement. Gordon beckoned a chauffeur, threw him an order, entered the cab.

“You see,” Wentworth said to him through the window, “when it is all over you can marry⁠—”

He was about to add “Julianne.” But Gordon was too quick for him.

“When what’s all over? Good Lord, what are you driving at? I’m not a marrying man.”

Already the car was in motion. Before Wentworth could reply, it spat, veered, darted.

The house of cards about him, Wentworth reentered the club. He had been sure that Gordon would jump at it. Now the man’s defection left him in the dark. In that darkness he sat until, another darkness supervening, he went out into it and on to his home.

In the hall there a servant addressed him. “Mrs. Wentworth has been asking for you, sir. Mrs. Wentworth’s in the dining room. Dinner is served.”

Lusciously, a moment later, that lady also addressed him. “Now tell me, dear, all about your trip.”

Never had she seemed more fair, more desirable. Her mouth glowed, her eyes deepened, and, confident in her charm, she smiled.

Wentworth, coerced by that charm, sat down. “There is not much to tell,” he replied. “But I think you will like the house.”

He paused, looked at her. At the spectacle of her beauty something spoke in him.

“I know that I shall,” he at once continued. “It is almost directly on the sea.”

And why not? he reflected as he helped himself to an oyster. Why not, since love is pity? Besides, he decided, as he helped himself to another oyster, Tatum is right. It’s the proper thing.

A Business Man

In the ornate and brilliant room, when the songbirds had flown, the musicians had departed and the last guest