Mr. Spragg once more consulted his watch. “I’ll
see you again,” he said with an effort.
Moffatt struck one fist against the other. “No,
sir—you won’t! You’ll
only hear from me—through the Marvell family.
Your news ain’t worth a dollar to Driscoll if
he don’t get it to-day.”
He was checked by the sound of steps in the outer
office, and Mr. Spragg’s stenographer appeared
in the doorway.
“It’s Mr. Marvell,” she announced;
and Ralph Marvell, glowing with haste and happiness,
stood between the two men, holding out his hand to
Mr. Spragg.
“Am I awfully in the way, sir? Turn me
out if I am—but first let me just say a
word about this necklace I’ve ordered for Un—”
He broke off, made aware by Mr. Spragg’s glance
of the presence of Elmer Moffatt, who, with unwonted
discretion, had dropped back into the shadow of the
door. Marvell turned on Moffatt a bright gaze
full of the instinctive hospitality of youth; but
Moffatt looked straight past him at Mr. Spragg.
The latter, as if in response to an imperceptible signal,
mechanically pronounced his visitor’s name; and
the two young men moved toward each other.
“I beg your pardon most awfully—am
I breaking up an important conference?” Ralph
asked as he shook hands.
“Why, no—I guess we’re pretty
nearly through. I’ll step outside and woo
the blonde while you’re talking,” Moffatt
rejoined in the same key.
“Thanks so much—I shan’t take
two seconds.” Ralph broke off to scrutinize
him. “But haven’t we met before?
It seems to me I’ve seen you—just
lately—”
Moffatt seemed about to answer, but his reply was
checked by an abrupt movement on the part of Mr. Spragg.
There was a perceptible pause, during which Moffatt’s
bright black glance rested questioningly on Ralph;
then he looked again at the older man, and their eyes
held each other for a silent moment.
“Why, no—not as I’m aware of,
Mr. Marvell,” Moffatt said, addressing himself
amicably to Ralph. “Better late than never,
though—and I hope to have the pleasure
soon again.”
He divided a nod between the two men, and passed into
the outer office, where they heard him addressing
the stenographer in a strain of exaggerated gallantry.
The July sun enclosed in a ring of fire the ilex grove
of a villa in the hills near Siena.
Below, by the roadside, the long yellow house seemed
to waver and palpitate in the glare; but steep by
steep, behind it, the cool ilex-dusk mounted to the
ledge where Ralph Marvell, stretched on his back in
the grass, lay gazing up at a black reticulation of
branches between which bits of sky gleamed with the
hardness and brilliancy of blue enamel.
Up there too the air was thick with heat; but compared
with the white fire below it was a dim and tempered
warmth, like that of the churches in which he and
Undine sometimes took refuge at the height of the torrid
days.
