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Fellows like Archie Westcott or Carol Gouverneur, fellows with notorious habits which marriage is not likely to mend. How could it? No one expects it to. The girls who marry men like that get what they bargain for looks for money money for looks " "But Trevelyan Morehouse!" Hermia paused and examined the roses in the silver vase with a quizzical air.
Everybody else seemed to understand what had happened everybody but himself. He turned again to the man next him on the bench. Morehouse, too, had been watching the ex-lightweight's deft fingers. "Broken," he groaned. "His right hand is gone." And after what seemed hours Old Jerry realized that Morehouse was cursing hoarsely. In Conway's corner the activity was doubly feverish.
You handle the publicity end merely hail Bolton as a comer, when the time is ripe. Are you are you in on it?" Morehouse thoughtfully scratched his head. "I have been a trifle fastidious, haven't I?" he murmured, and unconsciously he mimicked Hogarty's measured accents. "But I hardly believe that any sensitive scruples of mine would annoy me much in this matter.
But then I never understand her nor she me." She sipped tea and smiled. "Woman is at once the woman and the serpent, mon ami. All she needs is a man and a Garden of Paradise." He frowned into his teacup but did not reply. "Is it true, John?" she asked quietly. "What is true?" "That Hermia is to marry Trevvy Morehouse?" "From whom did you hear that?" he asked. "From whom have I not heard it?
One of the boys scored a hit by slapping his dime down on the soda fountain marble and bellowing for rum and salt horse. Some one started to tease the little Morehouse girl about sailors having sweethearts in every port, but when they saw the look in her eyes they changed their mind, and stopped. It's funny how a girl of twenty is a woman, when a man of twenty is a boy.
And he had been rewarded; he had penetrated, with the aid of that small picture inset at the column-head, the disguise of the colorful sobriquet which Morehouse had fastened upon Young Denny Bolton. More than that, he had been reading for weeks each step in that campaign of publicity which had so harrowed Old Jerry's peace of mind and somehow he had kept it religiously to himself.
"Then will you take me for your shuvver and trial guide to those places? I won't ask you any more, now. You can send me packing afterward, if you don't think I live up to the character Mr. Morehouse has given you of me." "Mr. Morehouse! I haven't heard from him since my first day in New York." "I mean the other Mr. Morehouse, his brother your banker. Henry wired to him from New York.
"How thim clerks do loike to be talkin'! Me proceed to collect two dollars and twinty-foive cints off Misther Morehouse! I wonder do thim clerks know Misther Morehouse? I'll git it! Oh, yes! 'Misther Morehouse, two an' a quarter, plaze. 'Cert'nly, me dear frind Flannery. Delighted! Not!" Flannery drove the express wagon to Mr. Morehouse's door. Mr. Morehouse answered the bell.
He wheeled in his chair until he faced Old Jerry full. "I don't know," he said. "A half-hour before you came in I didn't like even to think of it. But now chance? Well, this deadly waiting is over anyhow, and we'll soon know. And I wonder now I wonder!" With his watch flat in the palm of his hand Morehouse sat and whistled softly. And then he shot hastily to his feet.
There is nothing so soothing to a guilty conscience as to be out of the path of the avenger. Mr. Morehouse stormed into the house. "Where's the ink?" he shouted at his wife as soon as his foot was across the doorsill. Mrs. Morehouse jumped, guiltily. She never used ink.
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