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Then Dysart came, and for the second time the note of coquetry was struck, clearly, unmistakably, through the tension of a moment's preliminary silence; and Duane, dumb, furious, yielded her only when she took Dysart's arm with a finality that became almost insolent as she turned and looked back at her childhood's comrade, who followed, scowling at Dysart's graceful back.
Lang, the second man, was flitting about, busy with a decanter of Scotch. A moment later Rosalie signified her preference for it with a slight nod. Geraldine, who sat watching indifferently the filling of Mrs. Dysart's glass, suddenly leaned back and turned her head sharply, as though the aroma from glass and decanter were distasteful to her.
The postscript was dated ten days later, from Dysart's own house: "Receiving no reply, I telephoned you, but Brandon says you are away from the city on business and have left no address, so I took the liberty of entering your house, selecting this letter from the mass of nine days' old mail awaiting you, and shall direct it to you at the hotel in Baltimore where Bunny Gray says that somebody has seen you several times with a Mr.
"Well, then, to be more precise, if you lift one finger to injure me you'll cut a figure in court.... And you can marry her later." "Who?" "My wife. I don't think Miss Seagrave will stand for what I'll drag you through if you don't keep clear of me!" Duane gazed at him curiously: "So that is what you are, Dysart," he said aloud to himself. Dysart's temples reddened.
His costume is very like mine, you know " "Does Jack Dysart stand for minutes holding Sylvia's hands and is she accustomed to place her hands on his shoulders, as though expecting to be kissed? And does he kiss her?" So he had to lie again: "No, of course not," he said, smiling. "So it could not have been Dysart." "There are only two costumes like yours and Mr. Dysart's.
He unfolded the telegram which had come that morning directed to Duane. "Mrs. Jack Dysart's husband died this morning. Am trying to communicate with her. Wire if you know her whereabouts." It was signed with old Mr. Dysart's name, but Dr. Bailey knew he could never have written the telegram or even have comprehended it.
Now and then there came news from across the sea and messages of remembrance, letters that were closely written on thin sheets of paper, and that spoke of lords and ladies, of great journeys, of the death of little children and the proud successes of boys at school, of the wedding of Helena Dysart's only daughter; but even that had happened years ago.
Dysart's grip relaxed, his hand fell away, and he made a ghastly grimace as a little old gentleman came half-trotting, half-shambling to the doorway. He was small and dapper and pink-skinned under his wig; the pink was paint; his lips and eyes peered and simpered; from one bird-claw hand dangled a monocle.
"So if you'd rather not have me, I won't be offended, and, anyway, you are dear and decent people and I love you. "How funny," mused Geraldine. "She's dropped Jack Dysart's name already in private correspondence.... Poor child!" Looking up at Kathleen, "We must ask her, mustn't we, dear?" There was more of virginal severity in Kathleen.
She swung around toward him, confused and exasperated; but no seriousness was proof against the delighted malice in Dysart's face; and she laughed a little, and laughed again when he did. And she thought that he was, perhaps, the handsomest man she had ever seen. All débutantes did.
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