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It was a terrible beating. We weren't interested. I don't even remember when Burnley ceased and let the poor devil crawl away. We were all too dazed. "Doc Strowbridge told me about it afterward. He was working late over a report when Lyte came into his office. Lyte had already recovered his optimism, and came swinging in, a trifle angry with Kaluna to be sure, but very certain of himself.
"'I can see nothing, he said finally, then turned on the hapa-haole. 'You have a black heart, Kaluna. And I am not ashamed to say that you have given me a scare that no man has a right to give another. I take you at your word. I am going to settle this thing now. I am going straight to Doc Strowbridge. And when I come back, watch out. "He never looked at us, but started for the door.
"Sir! sir!" spluttered Webster. Then he broke into a roar. "Who asked this cub here, anyway? Who said you could write and ask permission to bring your friends to my house? How dare you how dare you how dare you, sir, speak to me like that? Do you know, sir " "Oh, I know all about you," exclaimed Strowbridge, whose young blood was now uncontrollable.
I hear you are just out of Harvard University. University men never amount to a row of pins." Strowbridge flushed and bit his lip, but controlled himself. "Never amount to a row of pins," roared the doctor, irritated by the haughty lifting of the young man's head. "Don't even get any more book-learning now, I understand. Nothing but football and boat-racing.
She was a Georgia girl herself Alice Strowbridge was her name, and she had naturally a wonderful voice. She went to Paris and Italy to study long before I came out West. She first sang in Milan, and her appearance was a big success. She's made thousands and thousands of dollars." "About how old is she?" asked Tom Osby. "I should think about thirty-five," said Dan Anderson.
"How could she? how could she? how could she?" her mind reiterated. "What difference would it have made to her after she was dead? And I oh God what will become of me?" For a time she did not think of Strowbridge. When she did, it was to see him smiling into the eyes of Elinor Holt. Her delusion fell from her in that hour of terrible realities.
She slipped on and on, forgetting herself, revelling, dreaming; and it was proof at least of the Alice Strowbridge which might have been, that there came to her fingers and her throat that night no sound of cheap sensuous melody, no florid triviality from any land. With a voice which had mastered the world, she sang the best of the masters of the world.
The color was full on her cheek now; the jewels glanced now above a deep bosom laboring in no counterfeit emotion. A splendid creature, bedecked, bejewelled, sex all over, magnificent, terrible, none the less, although the eyes of Alice Strowbridge shone sombrely, her hands twined together in embarrassment, as they did the first time she sang in public as a child.
"You'll have to sing that there song, 'Annie Laurie, like I heard it more than onct, before I went away from home." The soft Georgia speech came back to his tongue, and she followed it herself, unconsciously. "My friend," said she, "you're right. I reckon I'll have to sing." "When?" said Tom Osby. "Now," said Alice Strowbridge. She rose and stepped toward the piano open near the fire.
In an instant she was gone from the room, leaving Tom Osby staring at the flickering fire, now brighter in the advancing shades of evening. In perhaps half an hour Alice Strowbridge reappeared. The rich black laces, and the ripe red rose, and the blazing jewels, all were gone. She was clad in simple white and yes! a blue sash was there.
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