“Mercury wanted to find you, Miss Clark, and as I had a message for you from your mother, Will, I ventured to interrupt your earnest conversation. I hope I don’t intrude.” He bowed with easy grace to Sappho and bade her good evening, at the same time taking the chair which Will vacated as he rose to go to his mother.
“Thank you, John. No, you do not intrude. Miss Clark, I shall see you again shortly, I hope. I would very much like to finish our conversation.”
Sappho bowed and he turned away. She followed the retreating figure with her eyes; John watched her jealously, and the child stood and watched them both. Finally with a sigh she opened the note, but before reading it turned to murmur a gentle apology to Langley.
“Oh, never mind me,” he returned pleasantly; “if you get such a mongrel mixture as the one sent to me, I shan’t envy you the pleasure you’ll get out of it.”
“It wasn’t pleasant, I remember. Dora told us about it.”
“Pleasant! A regular death’s head at a feast, I call it. Do read yours, Miss Clark, and see if you haven’t something better.”
“Let me see: ‘The mysterious stars bespeak for you better luck than you have already had. Harassed and perplexed by fickle Fortune, love shall find a way.’ ”
“Bravo!” cried John. “But how could it be otherwise? If the same blood which inaugurated the Trojan wars, of which fair Helen was the object, still runs in the veins of the gods of love and fortune, they could not resist the influence of so much youth and beauty as we are blessed with here tonight.”
“And what shall I say in reply to so gallant a speech, Mr. Langley? To my way of thinking, such words should be uttered to one alone. You must have forgotten Dora.” Sappho turned to the waiting child and drew him into her lap.
“Because a man is engaged to one girl does that spoil all the pleasure which lies in meeting others? One woman can never tie my wandering fancy; my heart is large enough to appreciate the charms of the fair sex wherever discovered. Dora don’t like it, I know, but she’ll get used to it after we are married,” he said, recklessly.
Sappho kissed the child on her lap, and placing the postage for her letter in his hand, told him to run away. “Truly, Mr. Langley, you appear in a new light. Why do you tell your thoughts to me, who am Dora’s friend? I do not wish to hear them.”
There was a mocking smile on his face as he turned to her from watching the child. “A pretty boy that. His is beauty of a rare kind. Do you know, I fancy that he resembles you.”
“Really, Mr. Langley, you grow very strange in your conversation. I shall have to beg you to excuse me,” and with a haughty little bow she left the place.
John watched her departure with a slight smile on his face. “Oh, beauty is the wine of life, fair woman, for me,” he hummed beneath his moustache. The smile was still on his face as he ordered a cup of coffee and proceeded to drink it leisurely.
The fair had been very popular, and most successful from a business point of view. The week was now drawing to a close. The community was on the qui vive over the rivalry between Mrs. Robinson and Mrs. Davis. Racy developments were looked for on the closing night. Every woman had ranged herself on one side or the other, and not a few of the men had been led by their vigorous wives to declare themselves for a chosen leader.
Friday night was to end the sale of votes on the prizes. Saturday was to be devoted to counting up the votes, so that at nine o’clock that night the successful winners could be announced. The pastor was asked to allow the fair to run another week, but he declined emphatically, saying that so many controversies had grown out of it that another week would seriously deplete his membership and bring disaster upon the cause of religion. So that idea was abandoned. Wednesday Mrs. Robinson was ahead on the piano but behind on the dining-room receipts. Thursday night Mrs. Davis was ahead on the piano but behind on the receipts in the refreshment room. So luck fluctuated until the rivals found themselves neck and neck, so to speak, at eight o’clock on Friday night. Anyone who had watched Mrs. Robinson would have noticed that her face wore a satisfied smirk which told that she anticipated an easy victory, and the knowing ones of her satellites told each other that “Sis’ Robberson was all right.”
Mrs. Davis viewed the action of her rival with stolid countenance, from which the envoys of the other side, who stood about trying to catch a word to repeat to their champion, could gain no comfort. To her trusted henchmen she whispered: “Jes’ you watch me keep ’em guessin’. I’m a-goin’ to show ’em, shortly, that the ‘race am not to the swif’er nor the battle to the stron’er, but to her what enjureth untel the end.’ ”
As half-past seven approached various savory smells could be traced to the “old Southern dining-room,” but above all the enticing scents which were ever introduced to aggravate the palate of the lover of good living, the knowing ones could trace the odor of a rare and tempting dainty—the opossum! Yes, Mrs. Robinson had conspired with her Southern friends and received a tempting animal direct from the “Old Dominion,” and on this eventful night she stood in the middle of the dining-room triumphantly directing the placing of the dish upon the main table, which was carefully arranged with covers laid for twenty-five persons. The ordinary patrons of the room were turned from the
