The Lion and The Mouse: A Story Of American Life

by Charles Klein and Arthur Hornblow

  CHAPTER IV

  "Tell me, what do the papers say?"

  Settling herself comfortably back in the carriage, Shirleyquestioned Jefferson with eagerness, even anxiety. She had beenimpatiently awaiting the arrival of the newspapers from "home,"for so much depended on this first effort. She knew her book hadbeen praised in some quarters, and her publishers had written herthat the sales were bigger every day, but she was curious to learnhow it had been received by the reviewers.

  In truth, it had been no slight achievement for a young writer ofher inexperience, a mere tyro in literature, to attract so muchattention with her first book. The success almost threatened toturn her head, she had told her aunt laughingly, although she wassure it could never do that. She fully realized that it was thesubject rather than the skill of the narrator that counted in thebook's success, also the fact that it had come out at a timelymoment, when the whole world was talking of the Money Peril. Hadnot President Roosevelt, in a recent sensational speech, declaredthat it might be necessary for the State to curb the colossalfortunes of America, and was not her hero, John Burkett Ryder, therichest of them all? Any way they looked at it, the success of thebook was most gratifying.

  While she was an attractive, aristocratic-looking girl, ShirleyRossmore had no serious claims to academic beauty. Her featureswere irregular, and the firm and rather thin mouth lines disturbedthe harmony indispensable to plastic beauty. Yet there was in herface something far more appealing--soul and character. The face ofthe merely beautiful woman expresses nothing, promises nothing. Itpresents absolutely no key to the soul within, and often there isno soul within to have a key to. Perfect in its outlines andcoloring, it is a delight to gaze upon, just as is a flawlesspiece of sculpture, yet the delight is only fleeting. One soongrows satiated, no matter how beautiful the face may be, becauseit is always the same, expressionless and soulless. "Beauty isonly skin deep," said the philosopher, and no truer dictum wasever uttered. The merely beautiful woman, who possesses onlybeauty and nothing else, is kept so busy thinking of her looks,and is so anxious to observe the impression her beauty makes onothers, that she has neither the time nor the inclination formatters of greater importance. Sensible men, as a rule, do notlose their hearts to women whose only assets are their good looks.They enjoy a flirtation with them, but seldom care to make themtheir wives. The marrying man is shrewd enough to realize thatdomestic virtues will be more useful in his household economy thanall the academic beauty ever chiselled out of block marble.

  Shirley was not beautiful, but hers was a face that never failedto attract attention. It was a thoughtful and interesting face,with an intellectual brow and large, expressive eyes, the face ofa woman who had both brain power and ideals, and yet who, at thesame time, was in perfect sympathy with the world. She was fair incomplexion, and her fine brown eyes, alternately reflective andalert, were shaded by long dark lashes. Her eyebrows weredelicately arched, and she had a good nose. She wore her hair welloff the forehead, which was broader than in the average woman,suggesting good mentality. Her mouth, however, was her strongestfeature. It was well shaped, but there were firm lines about itthat suggested unusual will power. Yet it smiled readily, and whenit did there was an agreeable vision of strong, healthy-lookingteeth of dazzling whiteness. She was a little over medium heightand slender in figure, and carried herself with that unmistakableair of well-bred independence that bespeaks birth and culture. Shedressed stylishly, and while her gowns were of rich material, andof a cut suggesting expensive modistes, she was always so quietlyattired and in such perfect taste, that after leaving her onecould never recall what she had on.

  At the special request of Shirley, who wanted to get a glimpse ofthe Latin Quarter, the driver took a course down the Avenue del'Opera, that magnificent thoroughfare which starts at the Operaand ends at the Theatre Francais, and which, like many others thatgo to the beautifying of the capital, the Parisians owe to themuch-despised Napoleon III. The cab, Jefferson told her, wouldskirt the Palais Royal and follow the Rue de Rivoli until it cameto the Chatelet, when it would cross the Seine and drive up theBoulevard St. Michel--the students' boulevard--until it reachedthe Luxembourg Gardens. Like most of his kind, the _cocher_ knewless than nothing of the art of driving, and he ran a reckless,zig-zag flight, in and out, forcing his way through a confusingmaze of vehicles of every description, pulling first to the right,then to the left, for no good purpose that was apparent, andaverting only by the narrowest of margins half a dozen badcollisions. At times the _fiacre_ lurched in such alarming fashionthat Shirley was visibly perturbed, but when Jefferson assured herthat all Paris cabs travelled in this crazy fashion and nothingever happened, she was comforted.

  "Tell me," he repeated, "what do the papers say about the book?"

  "Say?" he echoed. "Why, simply that you've written the biggestbook of the year, that's all!"

  "Really! Oh, do tell me all they said!" She was fairly excitednow, and in her enthusiasm she grasped Jefferson's broad, sunburnthand which was lying outside the carriage rug. He tried to appearunconscious of the contact, which made his every nerve tingle, ashe proceeded to tell her the gist of the reviews he had read thatafternoon.

  "Isn't that splendid!" she exclaimed, when he had finished. Thenshe added quickly:

  "I wonder if your father has seen it?"

  Jefferson grinned. He had something on his conscience, and thiswas a good opportunity to get rid of it. He replied laconically:

  "He probably has read it by this time. I sent him a copy myself."

  The instant the words were out of his mouth he was sorry, forShirley's face had changed colour.

  "You sent him a copy of 'The American Octopus'?" she cried. "Thenhe'll guess who wrote the book."

  "Oh, no, he won't," rejoined Jefferson calmly. "He has no idea whosent it to him. I mailed it anonymously."

  Shirley breathed a sigh of relief. It was so important that heridentity should remain a secret. As daughter of a Supreme Courtjudge she had to be most careful. She would not embarrass herfather for anything in the world. But it was smart of Jefferson tohave sent Ryder, Sr., the book, so she smiled graciously on hisson as she asked:

  "How do you know he got it? So many letters and packages are sentto him that he never sees himself."

  "Oh, he saw your book all right," laughed Jefferson. "I was aroundthe house a good deal before sailing, and one day I caught him inthe library reading it."

  They both laughed, feeling like mischievous children who hadplayed a successful trick on the hokey-pokey man. Jefferson notedhis companion's pretty dimples and fine teeth, and he thought howattractive she was, and stronger and stronger grew the idea withinhim that this was the woman who was intended by Nature to sharehis life. Her slender hand still covered his broad, sunburnt one,and he fancied he felt a slight pressure. But he was mistaken. Notthe slightest sentiment entered into Shirley's thoughts ofJefferson. She regarded him only as a good comrade with whom shehad secrets she confided in no one else. To that extent and tothat extent alone he was privileged above other men. Suddenly heasked her:

  "Have you heard from home recently?"

  A soft light stole into the girl's face. Home! Ah, that was allshe needed to make her cup of happiness full. Intoxicated withthis new sensation of a first literary success, full of the keenpleasure this visit to the beautiful city was giving her, bubblingover with the joy of life, happy in the almost daily companionshipof the man she liked most in the world after her father, there wasonly one thing lacking--home! She had left New York only a monthbefore, and she was homesick already. Her father she missed most.She was fond of her mother, too, but the latter, being somewhat ofa nervous invalid, had never been to her quite what her father hadbeen. The playmate of her childhood, companion of her girlhood,her friend and adviser in womanhood, Judge Rossmore was to hisdaughter the ideal man and father. Answering Jefferson's questionshe said:

  "I had a letter from father last week. Everything was going on athome as when I left. Father says he misses me s
adly, and thatmother is ailing as usual."

  She smiled, and Jefferson smiled too. They both knew by experiencethat nothing really serious ailed Mrs. Rossmore, who was a gooddeal of a hypochondriac, and always so filled with aches and painsthat, on the few occasions when she really felt well, she wasgenuinely alarmed.

  The _fiacre_ by this time had emerged from the Rue de Rivoli andwas rolling smoothly along the fine wooden pavement in front ofthe historic Conciergerie prison where Marie Antoinette wasconfined before her execution. Presently they recrossed the Seine,and the cab, dodging the tram car rails, proceeded at a smart paceup the "Boul' Mich'," which is the familiar diminutive bestowed bythe students upon that broad avenue which traverses the very heartof their beloved _Quartier Latin_. On the left frowned thescholastic walls of the learned Sorbonne, in the distance toweredthe majestic dome of the Pantheon where Rousseau, Voltaire andHugo lay buried.

  Like most of the principal arteries of the French capital, theboulevard was generously lined with trees, now in full bloom, andthe sidewalks fairly seethed with a picturesque throng in whichmingled promiscuously frivolous students, dapper shop clerks,sober citizens, and frisky, flirtatious little _ouvrieres_, theselast being all hatless, as is characteristic of the workgirlclass, but singularly attractive in their neat black dresses anddainty low-cut shoes. There was also much in evidence another typeof female whose extravagance of costume and boldness of mannerloudly proclaimed her ancient profession.

  On either side of the boulevard were shops and cafes, mostlycafes, with every now and then a _brasserie_, or beer hall. Seatedin front of these establishments, taking their ease as if beersampling constituted the only real interest in their lives, werehundreds of students, reckless and dare-devil, and suggestingalmost anything except serious study. They all wore frock coatsand tall silk hats, and some of the latter were wonderfulspecimens of the hatter's art. A few of the more eccentricstudents had long hair down to their shoulders, and wore baggypeg-top trousers of extravagant cut, which hung in loose foldsover their sharp-pointed boots. On their heads were queer plughats with flat brims.

  Shirley laughed outright and regretted that she did not have herkodak to take back to America some idea of their grotesqueappearance, and she listened with amused interest as Jeffersonexplained that these men were notorious _poseurs_, aping the dressand manners of the old-time student as he flourished in the daysof Randolph and Mimi and the other immortal characters of Murger'sBohemia. Nobody took them seriously except themselves, and for themost part they were bad rhymesters of decadent verse. Shirley wasastonished to see so many of them busily engaged smokingcigarettes and imbibing glasses of a pale-green beverage, whichJefferson told her was absinthe.

  "When do they read?" she asked. "When do they attend lectures?"

  "Oh," laughed Jefferson, "only the old-fashioned students taketheir studies seriously. Most of the men you see there are fromthe provinces, seeing Paris for the first time, and having theirfling. Incidentally they are studying life. When they have sowntheir wild oats and learned all about life--provided they arestill alive and have any money left--they will begin to studybooks. You would be surprised to know how many of these young men,who have been sent to the University at a cost of goodness knowswhat sacrifices, return to their native towns in a few monthswrecked in body and mind, without having once set foot in alecture room, and, in fact, having done nothing except inscribetheir names on the rolls."

  Shirley was glad she knew no such men, and if she ever married andhad a son she would pray God to spare her that grief andhumiliation. She herself knew something about the sacrificesparents make to secure a college education for their children. Herfather had sent her to Vassar. She was a product of themuch-sneered-at higher education for women, and all her life shewould be grateful for the advantages given her. Her liberaleducation had broadened her outlook on life and enabled her toaccomplish the little she had. When she graduated her father hadleft her free to follow her own inclinations. She had little tastefor social distractions, and still she could not remain idle. Fora time she thought of teaching to occupy her mind, but she knewshe lacked the necessary patience, and she could not endure thedrudgery of it, so, having won honors at college in Englishcomposition, she determined to try her hand at literature. Shewrote a number of essays and articles on a hundred differentsubjects which she sent to the magazines, but they all came backwith politely worded excuses for their rejection. But Shirley keptright on. She knew she wrote well; it must be that her subjectswere not suitable. So she adopted new tactics, and persevereduntil one day came a letter of acceptance from the editor of oneof the minor magazines. They would take the article offered--asketch of college life--and as many more in similar vein as MissRossmore could write. This success had been followed by otheracceptances and other commissions, until at the present time shewas a well-known writer for the leading publications. Her greatambition had been to write a book, and "The American Octopus,"published under an assumed name, was the result.

  The cab stopped suddenly in front of beautiful gilded gates. Itwas the Luxembourg, and through the tall railings they caught aglimpse of well-kept lawns, splashing fountains and richly dressedchildren playing. From the distance came the stirring strains of abrass band.

  The coachman drove up to the curb and Jefferson jumped down,assisting Shirley to alight. In spite of Shirley's protestJefferson insisted on paying.

  "_Combien?_" he asked the _cocher_.

  The jehu, a surly, thick-set man with a red face and small,cunning eyes like a ferret, had already sized up his fares for two_sacre_ foreigners whom it would be flying in the face ofProvidence not to cheat, so with unblushing effrontery heanswered:

  "_Dix francs, Monsieur!_" And he held up ten fingers by way ofillustration.

  Jefferson was about to hand up a ten-franc piece when Shirleyindignantly interfered. She would not submit to such animposition. There was a regular tariff and she would pay that andnothing more. So, in better French than was at Jefferson'scommand, she exclaimed:

  "Ten francs? _Pourquoi dix francs?_ I took your cab by the hour.It is exactly two hours. That makes four francs." Then toJefferson she added: "Give him a franc for a _pourboire_--thatmakes five francs altogether."

  Jefferson, obedient to her superior wisdom, held out a five-francpiece, but the driver shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. He sawthat the moment had come to bluster so he descended from his boxfully prepared to carry out his bluff. He started in to abuse thetwo Americans whom in his ignorance he took for English.

  "Ah, you _sale Anglais_! You come to France to cheat the poorFrenchman. You make me work all afternoon and then pay me nothing.Not with this coco! I know my rights and I'll get them, too."

  All this was hurled at them in a patois French, almostunintelligible to Shirley, and wholly so to Jefferson. All he knewwas that the fellow's attitude was becoming unbearably insolentand he stepped forward with a gleam in his eye that might havestartled the man had he not been so busy shaking his fist atShirley. But she saw Jefferson's movement and laid her hand on hisarm.

  "No, no, Mr. Ryder--no scandal, please. Look, people are beginningto come up! Leave him to me. I know how to manage him."

  With this the daughter of a United States Supreme Court judgeproceeded to lay down the law to the representative of the mostlazy and irresponsible class of men ever let loose in the streetsof a civilised community. Speaking with an air of authority, shesaid:

  "Now look here, my man, we have no time to bandy words here withyou. I took your cab at 3.30. It is now 5.30. That makes twohours. The rate is two francs an hour, or four francs in all. Weoffer you five francs, and this includes a franc _pourboire_. Ifthis settlement does not suit you we will get into your cab andyou will drive us to the nearest police-station where the argumentcan be continued."

  The man's jaw dropped. He was obviously outclassed. Theseforeigners knew the law as well as he did. He had no desire toaccept Shirley's suggestion of a trip to the police-station, wherehe knew he would get little
sympathy, so, grumbling and givingvent under his breath to a volley of strange oaths, he grabbedviciously at the five-franc piece Jefferson held out and, mountinghis box, drove off.

  Proud of their victory, they entered the gardens, following thesweet-scented paths until they came to where the music was. Theband of an infantry regiment was playing, and a large crowd hadgathered. Many people were sitting on the chairs provided forvisitors for the modest fee of two sous; others were promenadinground and round a great circle having the musicians in its centre.The dense foliage of the trees overhead afforded a perfect shelterfrom the hot rays of the sun, and the place was so inviting andinteresting, so cool and so full of sweet perfumes and sounds,appealing to and satisfying the senses, that Shirley wished theyhad more time to spend there. She was very fond of a good brassband, especially when heard in the open air. They were playingStrauss's _Blue Danube_, and the familiar strains of thedelightful waltz were so infectious that both were seized by adesire to get up and dance.

  There was constant amusement, too, watching the crowd, with itsmany original and curious types. There were serious collegeprofessors, with gold-rimmed spectacles, buxom _nounous_ in theiruniform cloaks and long ribbon streamers, nicely dressed childrenromping merrily but not noisily, more queer-looking students inshabby frock coats, tight at the waist, trousers too short, andcomical hats, stylishly dressed women displaying the latestfashions, brilliantly uniformed army officers strutting proudly,dangling their swords--an attractive and interesting crowd, sodifferent, thought the two Americans, from the cheap, evil-smelling,ill-mannered mob of aliens that invades their own Central Park thedays when there is music, making it a nuisance instead of a pleasure.Here everyone belonged apparently to the better class; the womenand children were richly and fashionably dressed, the officerslooked smart in their multi-coloured uniforms, and, no matter howone might laugh at the students, there was an atmosphere ofgood-breeding and refinement everywhere which Shirley was notaccustomed to see in public places at home. A sprinkling ofworkmen and people of the poorer class were to be seen here andthere, but they were in the decided minority. Shirley, herself adaughter of the Revolution, was a staunch supporter of theimmortal principles of Democracy and of the equality of man beforethe law. But all other talk of equality was the greatest sophistryand charlatanism. There could be no real equality so long as somepeople were cultured and refined and others were uneducated andvulgar. Shirley believed in an aristocracy of brains and soap. Sheinsisted that no clean person, no matter how good a democrat,should be expected to sit close in public places to persons whowere not on speaking terms with the bath-tub. In America thisfoolish theory of a democracy, which insists on throwing allclasses, the clean and the unclean, promiscuously together, waspositively revolting, making travelling in the public vehiclesalmost impossible, and it was not much better in the public parks.In France--also a Republic--where they likewise paraded conspicuouslythe clap-trap "Egalite, Fraternite," they managed these things farbetter. The French lower classes knew their place. They did notape the dress, nor frequent the resorts of those above them in thesocial scale. The distinction between the classes was plainly andproperly marked, yet this was not antagonistic to the ideal oftrue democracy; it had not prevented the son of a peasant frombecoming President of the French Republic. Each district in Parishad its own amusement, its own theatres, its own parks. It was nota question of capital refusing to fraternize with labour, but thevery natural desire of persons of refinement to mingle with cleanpeople rather than to rub elbows with the Great Unwashed.

  "Isn't it delightful here?" said Shirley. "I could stay hereforever, couldn't you?"

  "With you--yes," answered Jefferson, with a significant smile.

  Shirley tried to look angry. She strictly discouraged theseconventional, sentimental speeches which constantly flung her sexin her face.

  "Now, you know I don't like you to talk that way, Mr. Ryder. It'smost undignified. Please be sensible."

  Quite subdued, Jefferson relapsed into a sulky silence. Presentlyhe said:

  "I wish you wouldn't call me Mr. Ryder. I meant to ask you thisbefore. You know very well that you've no great love for the name,and if you persist you'll end by including me in your hatred ofthe hero of your book."

  Shirley looked at him with amused curiosity.

  "What do you mean?" she asked. "What do you want me to call you?"

  "Oh, I don't know," he stammered, rather intimidated by thisself-possessed young woman who looked him calmly through andthrough. "Why not call me Jefferson? Mr. Ryder is so formal."

  Shirley laughed outright, a merry, unrestrained peal of honestlaughter, which made the passers-by turn their heads and smile,too, commenting the while on the stylish appearance of the twoAmericans whom they took for sweethearts. After all, reasonedShirley, he was right. They had been together now nearly everyhour in the day for over a month. It was absurd to call him Mr.Ryder. So, addressing him with mock gravity, she said:

  "You're right, Mr. Ryder--I mean Jefferson. You're quite right.You are Jefferson from this time on, only remember"--here sheshook her gloved finger at him warningly--"mind you behaveyourself! No more such sentimental speeches as you made just now."

  Jefferson beamed. He felt at least two inches taller, and at thatmoment he would not have changed places with any one in the world.To hide the embarrassment his gratification caused him he pulledout his watch and exclaimed:

  "Why, it's a quarter past six. We shall have all we can do to getback to the hotel and dress for dinner."

  Shirley rose at once, although loath to leave.

  "I had no idea it was so late," she said. "How the time flies!"Then mockingly she added: "Come, Jefferson--be a good boy and finda cab."

  They passed out of the Gardens by the gate facing the Theatre del'Odeon, where there was a long string of _fiacres_ for hire. Theygot into one and in fifteen minutes they were back at the GrandHotel.

  At the office they told Shirley that her aunt had already come inand gone to her room, so she hurried upstairs to dress for dinnerwhile Jefferson proceeded to the Hotel de l'Athenee on the samemission. He had still twenty-five minutes before dinner time, andhe needed only ten minutes for a wash and to jump into his dresssuit, so, instead of going directly to his hotel, he sat down atthe Cafe de la Paix. He was thirsty, and calling for a vermouth_frappe_ he told the _garcon_ to bring him also the Americanpapers.

  The crowd on the boulevard was denser than ever. The businessoffices and some of the shops were closing, and a vast army ofemployes, homeward bound, helped to swell the sea of humanity thatpushed this way and that.

  But Jefferson had no eyes for the crowd. He was thinking ofShirley. What singular, mysterious power had this girl acquiredover him? He, who had scoffed at the very idea of marriage only afew months before, now desired it ardently, anxiously! Yes, thatwas what his life lacked--such a woman to be his companion andhelpmate! He loved her--there was no doubt of that. His everythought, waking and sleeping, was of her, all his plans for thefuture included her. He would win her if any man could. But didshe care for him? Ah, that was the cruel, torturing uncertainty!She appeared cold and indifferent, but perhaps she was only tryinghim. Certainly she did not seem to dislike him.

  The waiter returned with the vermouth and the newspapers. All hecould find were the London _Times_, which he pronounced T-e-e-m-s,and some issues of the _New York Herald_. The papers were nearly amonth old, but he did not care for that. Jefferson idly turnedover the pages of the _Herald_. His thoughts were still running onShirley, and he was paying little attention to what he wasreading. Suddenly, however, his eyes rested on a headline whichmade him sit up with a start. It read as follows:

  JUDGE ROSSMORE IMPEACHED

  JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME COURT TO BE TRIED ON BRIBERY CHARGES

  The despatch, which was dated Washington two weeks back, went onto say that serious charges affecting the integrity of JudgeRossmore had been made the subject of Congressional i
nquiry, andthat the result of the inquiry was so grave that a demand forimpeachment would be at once sent to the Senate. It added that thecharges grew out of the recent decision in the Great NorthwesternMining Company case, it being alleged that Judge Rossmore hadaccepted a large sum of money on condition of his handing down adecision favourable to the company.

  Jefferson was thunderstruck. He read the despatch over again tomake sure there was no mistake. No, it was very plain--JudgeRossmore of Madison Avenue. But how preposterous, what a calumny!The one judge on the bench at whom one could point and say withabsolute conviction: "There goes an honest man!" And this judgewas to be tried on a charge of bribery! What could be the meaningof it? Something terrible must have happened since Shirley'sdeparture from home, that was certain. It meant her immediatereturn to the States and, of course, his own. He would see whatcould be done. He would make his father use his great influence.But how could he tell Shirley? Impossible, he could not! She wouldnot believe him if he did. She would probably hear from home insome other way. They might cable. In any case he would say nothingyet. He paid for his vermouth and hurried away to his hotel todress.

  It was just striking seven when he re-entered the courtyard of theGrand Hotel. Shirley and Mrs. Blake were waiting for him.Jefferson suggested having dinner at the Cafe de Paris, butShirley objected that as the weather was warm it would be morepleasant to dine in the open air, so they finally decided on thePavilion d'Armonville where there was music and where they couldhave a little table to themselves in the garden.

  They drove up the stately Champs Elysees, past the monumental Arcde Triomphe, and from there down to the Bois. All were singularlyquiet. Mrs. Blake was worrying about her new gown, Shirley wastired, and Jefferson could not banish from his mind the terriblenews he had just read. He avoided looking at Shirley until thelatter noticed it and thought she must have offended him in someway. She was more sorry than she would have him know, for, withall her apparent coldness, Jefferson was rapidly becoming veryindispensable to her happiness.

  They dined sumptuously and delightfully with all the luxury ofsurroundings and all the delights of cooking that the Frenchculinary art can perfect. A single glass of champagne had putShirley in high spirits and she had tried hard to communicate someof her good humour to Jefferson who, despite all her efforts,remained quiet and preoccupied. Finally losing patience she askedhim bluntly:

  "Jefferson, what's the matter with you to-night? You've been sulkyas a bear all evening."

  Pleased to see she had not forgotten their compact of theafternoon in regard to his name, Jefferson relaxed somewhat andsaid apologetically:

  "Excuse me, I've been feeling a bit seedy lately. I think I needanother sea voyage. That's the only time when I feel reallyfirst-class--when I'm on the water."

  The mention of the sea started Shirley to talk about her futureplans. She wasn't going back to America until September. She hadarranged to make a stay of three weeks in London and then shewould be free. Some friends of hers from home, a man and his wifewho owned a steam yacht, were arranging a trip to the Mediterranean,including a run over to Cairo. They had asked her and Mrs. Blake togo and she was sure they would ask Jefferson, too. Would he go?

  There was no way out of it. Jefferson tried to work up someenthusiasm for this yachting trip, which he knew very well couldnever come off, and it cut him to the heart to see this poor girljoyously making all these preparations and plans, little dreamingof the domestic calamity which at that very moment was hangingover her head.

  [Photo, from the play, of the Ryder household as Jefferson is introduced to Miss Green.]

  "Father, I've changed my mind, I'm not going away."--Act II.

  It was nearly ten o'clock when they had finished. They sat alittle longer listening to the gipsy music, weird and barbaric.Very pointedly, Shirley remarked:

  "I for one preferred the music this afternoon."

  "Why?" inquired Jefferson, ignoring the petulant note in hervoice.

  "Because you were more amiable!" she retorted rather crossly.

  This was their first misunderstanding, but Jefferson said nothing.He could not tell her the thoughts and fears that had beenhaunting him all night. Soon afterward they re-entered their caband returned to the boulevards which were ablaze with light andgaiety. Jefferson suggested going somewhere else, but Mrs. Blakewas tired and Shirley, now quite irritated at what she consideredJefferson's unaccountable unsociability, declined somewhatabruptly. But she could never remain angry long, and when theysaid good-night she whispered demurely:

  "Are you cross with me, Jeff?"

  He turned his head away and she saw that his face was singularlydrawn and grave.

  "Cross--no. Good-night. God bless you!" he said, hoarsely gulpingdown a lump that rose in his throat. Then grasping her hand hehurried away.

  Completely mystified, Shirley and her companion turned to theoffice to get the key of their room. As the man handed it toShirley he passed her also a cablegram which had just come. Shechanged colour. She did not like telegrams. She always had a dreadof them, for with her sudden news was usually bad news. Couldthis, she thought, explain Jefferson's strange behaviour?Trembling, she tore open the envelope and read:

  _Come home at once,_

  _Mother._