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They might have been carried near this point by those telepathic influences which have as yet been so imperfectly studied. It was only that morning, after the lapse of a week since Burnamy's furtive reappearance in Carlsbad, that Miss Triscoe spoke to her father about it, and she had at that moment a longing for support and counsel that might well have made its mystical appeal to Mrs. March.
The afternoon before they were to leave Weimar, they spent mostly in the garden before the Grand-Ducal Museum, in a conference so important that when it came on to rain, at one moment, they put up Burnamy's umbrella, and continued to sit under it rather than interrupt the proceedings even to let Agatha go back to the hotel and look after her father's packing.
March and Miss Triscoe were discussing another offence of Burnamy's. "It wasn't," said the girl, excitedly, after a plunge through all the minor facts to the heart of the matter, "that he hadn't a perfect right to do it, if he thought I didn't care for him. I had refused him at Carlsbad, and I had forbidden him to speak to me about on the subject.
They stared at each other; then, as women do, they glanced down at their skirts to see if there was anything amiss with them, and Miss Triscoe perceived her hands empty of Mrs. March's sandals and of Burnamy's handkerchief.
March murmured in his wife's ear, with a bewildered sense of something in the scene like the reversed action of the kinematograph. On the deck of the tender there was a brief moment of reunion among the companions of the voyage, the more intimate for their being crowded together under cover from the drizzle which now turned into a dashing rain. Burnamy's smile appeared, and then Mrs.
"That comes of having no pocket; I didn't suppose I could forget your sandals, Mrs. March! Wasn't it absurd?" "It's one of those things," Mrs. March said to her husband afterwards, "that they can always laugh over together." "They? And what about Burnamy's behavior to Stoller?" "Oh, I don't call that anything but what will come right. Of course he can make it up to him somehow.
Burnamy fond the Bird of Prey, as he no longer had the heart to call him, walking up and down in his room like an eagle caught in a trap. He erected his crest fiercely enough, though, when the young fellow came in at his loudly shouted, "Herein!" "What do you want?" he demanded, brutally. This simplified Burnamy's task, while it made it more loathsome.
He promptly avowed this in the newspaper office which formed one of the eyries of the Bird of Prey, and made the fellows promise not to give him away. He failed to move their imagination when he brought up as a reason for softening toward him that he was from Burnamy's own part of Indiana, and was a benefactor of Tippecanoe University, from which Burnamy was graduated.
As for Burnamy's beauty it was not necessary to insist upon that; he had the distinction of slender youth; and she liked to think that no Highhote there was of a more patrician presence than this yet unprinted contributor to 'Every Other Week'. He and Stoller seemed on perfect terms; or else in his joy he was able to hide the uneasiness which she had fancied in him from the first time she saw them together, and which had never been quite absent from his manner in Stoller's presence.
The glory had not yet faded from the fact in Burnamy's mind. "Eighteen hundred. What did you get for your poem in March's book?" "That's a very trifling matter: fifteen dollars." "And your salary as private secretary to that man Stoller?" "Thirty dollars a week, and my expenses. But I wouldn't take that, General Triscoe," said Burnamy.
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