“Never!” repeated the commodore. “Eh, Bob? Doesn’t look a day over thirty,” with a jovial, freehearted sailor laugh. “Does she now?”
It had come. That first test! And the question had to be answered. The lady was looking at Bob. They were all waiting. A fraction of a second, or so, which seemed like a geological epoch, Bob hesitated. He had to reply and yet being a gentleman, how could he? No matter what it cost him, he would simply have to “lie like a gentleman.” He —
Suddenly an idea shot through his befuddled brain. Maybe Mrs. Ralston wouldn’t know what he said, if he – ? She had been numerous times to France, of course, but she was not mentally a heavy-weight. Languages might not be her forte. Presumably she had all she could do to chatter in English. Bob didn’t know much French himself. He would take a chance on her, however. He made a bow which was Chesterfieldian and incidentally made answer, rattling it off with the swiftness of a boulevardier.
“Il me faut dire que, vraiment, Madame Ralston parait aussi agee qu’elle l’est!” (“I am obliged to say that Mrs. Ralston appears as old as she is!”)
Then he straightened as if he had just delivered a stunning compliment.
“Merci!” The lady smiled. She also beamed. “How well you speak French, Mr. Bennett!”
The commodore nearly exploded. He understood French.
Bob expanded, beginning to breathe freely once more. “Language of courtiers and diplomats!” he mumbled.
Mrs. Ralston shook an admonishing finger at him. “Flatterer!” she said, and departed.
Whereupon the commodore leaned weakly against Dickie while Clarence sank into a chair. First round for Bob!
The commodore was the first to recover. His voice was reproachful. “Was that quite fair? – that parleyvoo business? I don’t know about it’s being allowed.”
“Why not?” calmly from Bob. “Is truth confined to one tongue?”
“But what about that ‘even tenor of your way’?” fenced the commodore. “You don’t, as a usual thing, go around parleyvooing – ”
“What about the even tenor of your own ways?” retorted Bob.
“Nothing said about that when we – ”
“No, but – how can I go the even tenor, if you don’t go yours?”
“Hum?” said the commodore.
“Don’t you see it’s not the even tenor?” persisted Bob. “But it’s your fault if it isn’t.”
“Some logic in that,” observed Clarence.
“Maybe, we have been a bit too previous,” conceded the commodore.
“That isn’t precisely the adjective I would use,” returned Bob. He found himself thinking more clearly now. They had all, perhaps, been stepping rather lightly when they had left the club. He should have thought of this before. But Bob’s brain moved rather slowly sometimes and the others had been too bent on having a good time to consider all the ethics of the case. They showed themselves fair-minded enough now, however.
“Bob’s right,” said the commodore sorrowfully. “Suppose we’ve got to eliminate ourselves from his agreeable company for the next three weeks, unless we just naturally happen to meet. We’ll miss a lot of fun, but I guess it’s just got to be. What about that parleyvooing business though, Bob?”
“That’s got to be eliminated, too!” from Dickie. “Why, he might tell the truth in Chinese.”
“All right, fellows,” said Bob shortly. “You quit tagging and I’ll talk United States.”
“Good. I’m off,” said the commodore. And he went. The others followed. Bob was left alone. He found the solitude blessed and began to have hopes once more. Why, he might even be permitted to enjoy a real lonely three weeks, now that he had got rid of that trio. He drew out a cigar and began to tell himself he was enjoying himself when —
“Mr. Robert Bennett!” The voice of a page smote the air. It broke into his reflections like a shock.
“Mr. Bennett!” again bawled the voice.
For the moment Bob was tempted to let him slip by, but conscience wouldn’t let him. He lifted a finger.
“Message for Mr. Bennett,” said the urchin.
Bob took it. He experienced forebodings as he saw the dainty card and inscription. He read it. Then he groaned. Would Mr. Robert Bennett join Mrs. Ralston’s house-party at Tonkton? There were a few more words in that impulsive lady’s characteristic, vivacious style. And then there were two words in another handwriting that he knew. “Will you?” That “Will you?” wasn’t signed. Bob stared at it. Would he? He had to. He was in honor bound, because ordinarily he would have accepted with alacrity. But a house-party for him, under present circumstances! He would be a merry guest. Ye gods and little fishes! And then some! He gave a hollow laugh, while the urchin gazed at him sympathetically. Evidently the gentleman had received bad news.
CHAPTER III – AN INAUSPICIOUS BEGINNING
Mrs. Ralston’s house-parties were usually satisfactory affairs. She was fond of people, especially young people, and more especially of young men of the Apollo variety, though in a strictly proper, platonic and critical sense. Indeed, her taste in the abstract, for animated Praxiteles had, for well-nigh two-score of years, been unimpeachable. At the big gatherings in her noble country mansion, there was always a liberal sprinkling of decorative and animated objects of art of this description. She liked to ornament her porches or her gardens with husky and handsome young college athletes. She had an intuitive artistic taste for stunning living-statuary, “dressed up,” of course. Bob came distinctly in that category. So behold him then, one fine morning, on the little sawed-off train that whisked common people – and sometimes a few notables when their cars were otherwise engaged – countryward. Bob had a big grip by his side, his golf sticks were in a rack and he had a newspaper in his hand. The sunshine came in on him but his mood was not sunny. An interview with dad just before leaving hadn’t improved his spirits. He had found dad at the breakfast table examining a book of artificial flies, on one hand, and a big reel on the other.
“Which shall it be, my son?” dad had greeted him cordially. “Trout or tarpon?”
“I guess that’s for you to decide,” Robert had answered grumpily. Dad, in his new role, was beginning to get on Bob’s nerves. Dad didn’t seem to be at all concerned about his future. He shifted that weighty and momentous subject just as lightly! He acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Wish I could make up my mind,” he said, like a boy in some doubt how he can best put in his time when he plays hooky. “Minnows or whales? I’ll toss up.” He did. “Whales win. By the way, how’s the hustling coming on?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, don’t put it off too long.” Cheerfully. “I guess I can worry along for about three weeks.”
“Three weeks!” said Bob gloomily. Oh, that familiar sound!
“You wouldn’t have me stint myself, would you, my son?” Half reproachfully. “You wouldn’t have dad deny himself anything?”
“No,” answered the other truthfully enough. As a matter of fact things couldn’t be much worse, so he didn’t much care. Fortunately, dad didn’t ask any questions or show any curiosity about