Meredith spent the next day in great tribulation and
perplexity; he felt that something had to be done,
but what to do he did not know. He still believed
that a “stirring-up” was what Harkless
needed—not the species of “stirring-up”
that had taken place last night, but a diversion which
would divert. As they sat at dinner, a suggestion
came to him and he determined to follow it. He
was called to the telephone, and a voice strange to
his ear murmured in a tone of polite deference:
“A lady wishes to know if Mr. Meredith and his
visitor intend being present at the country-club this
evening.”
He had received the same inquiry from Miss Hinsdale
on her departure the previous evening, and had answered
vaguely; hence he now rejoined:
“You are quite an expert ventriloquist, but
you do not deceive me.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” creaked the
small articulation.
“This is Miss Hinsdale, isn’t it?”
“No, sir. The lady wishes to know if you
will kindly answer her question.”
“Tell her, yes.” He hung up the receiver,
and returned to the table. “Some of Clara
Hinsdale’s play,” he explained. “You
made a devastating impression on her, boy; you were
wise enough not to talk any, and she foolishly thought
you were as interesting as you looked. We’re
going out to a country-club dance. It’s
given for the devotees who stay here all summer and
swear Rouen is always cool; and nobody dances but me
and the very young ones. It won’t be so
bad; you can smoke anywhere, and there are little
tables. We’ll go.”
“Thank you, Tom, you’re so good to think
of it, but——”
“But what?”
“Would you mind going alone? I find it
very pleasant sitting on your veranda, or I’ll
get a book.”
“Very well, if you don’t want to go, I
don’t. I haven’t had a dance for
three months and I’m still addicted to it.
But of course——”
“I think I’d like to go.” Harkless
acquiesced at once, with a cheerful voice and a lifeless
eye, and the good Tom felt unaccountably mean in persisting.
They drove out into the country through mists like
lakes, and found themselves part of a procession of
twinkling carriage-lights, and cigar sparks shining
above open vehicles, winding along the levels like
a canoe fete on the water. In the entrance hall
of the club-house they encountered Miss Hinsdale,
very handsome, large, and dark, elaborately beaming
and bending toward them warmly.
“Who do you think is here?” she said.
“Gomez?” ventured Meredith.
“Helen Sherwood!” she cried. “Go
and present Mr. Harkless before Brainard Macauley
takes her away to some corner.”
PRETTY MARQUISE
