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"Donald ought to return at once," declared Doctor Queerington, when she paused for breath; "if he is guilty, he ought to take his punishment; if innocent, as I believe, he ought to be vindicated." "Well, we can't find him," said Mrs. Sequin with resigned cheerfulness. "He is probably in the Orient with Cropsie Decker. What a magnificent bed this is! Do you suppose I could buy it?
Cropsie Decker could have helped him, but Cropsie was in Mexico. To Noah Wicker he had ceased to be an individual, he had become a client, a first client, and personalities were swamped in abstractions. The only place where he could have found sympathy and understanding was at Thornwood, the hospitable door of which he had resolutely closed with his own hand.
"If I were Lee Dillingham I should go South for the winter," Gerald said, going to the piano and striking a few random chords. After Cropsie Decker left, Miss Lady sat very quiet in the big chair, while Gerald played to her. It was well that only the kindly old bust of Liszt looked down on her tense white face, and clasped hands.
"Who's who?" "That radiant young thing in green. She doesn't belong in a ballroom, she belongs in a forest with ivy leaves in her hair. By Jove, look at the lines of her, and the freedom of her movements. I haven't seen such arms in years!" Cropsie followed his glance: "Oh, that's the new Mrs. Queerington, the wife of John Jay, you know."
Perhaps after all, he was going to be able to do something worth while in the world! He would work like a Trojan, he would begin to-night. He seized pen and paper, but the desire to share his good news prompted him to write letters rather than fiction. He wanted to tell Miss Lady, he wanted to tell the Doctor. He wanted to paralyze Cropsie Decker!
The color had left her face and her hand trembled visibly against the curtain. "What's the matter?" cried Cropsie; "are you ill? Did you dance too long?" "It's nothing, I'm all right. That is I will be " "Can't I get you some water, or an ice, or call Mrs. Sequin?" "No, no, please! It's nothing. I'll slip off to the dressing-room until I feel better. I can go through here up the side stairs."
Margery is nothing but a bunch of notions, and Cropsie Decker has gotten her all stirred up about the injustice that has been done to Don. I won't even let her talk to me about it, it's all so silly. What possible difference can it make who did the shooting? The boys are well out of the scrape and it's almost forgotten by this time.
This Eastern trip, now; it sounded great when I said I'd go, Cropsie is a regular bird, the best fellow in the world to go on such a lark with, but " Miss Lady shot a glance at the handsome, boyish, irresponsible face beside her. "Don't go, Don!" she whispered impulsively; "stay here and buy your farm!" "You mean it!" he demanded, seizing her hands. "You want me to stay?"
But when he had tossed the match into the open grate, he nonchalantly sauntered to the desk and glanced at the register. There was the dashing signature, the ink still wet on the flourish, "La Florine." It was Cropsie Decker's old flame, "The Serpent of the Nile," whom he had last seen poised on the cork of a champagne bottle on a poster on Billy-goat Hill!
"I don't like tea in the afternoon; it spoils my supper." "Well, then, come over to see me. There's a friend of mine I want you to meet. I've been telling him about you." "I can't. I'm drawing pictures for Bertie. He'll be disappointed." "So will I. So will Decker." "Decker?" Miss Lady flashed a glance at him. "You don't mean Cropsie Decker?"
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