"Yes--it's taking me longer than I bargained for. Sometimes I feel very tired. I wish Virginia was here to try it on."

f.a.n.n.y glanced at the clock. With a quick, significant look at Mr.

Gillie, she said quickly:

"She'll be here any moment now. The concert is usually out by this time." There was an awkward pause and then she stammered: "Mr. Gillie has something to say to you, mother."

Mrs. Blaine laid down her work and looked up in surprise.

"Something to say to me?" she echoed in amazement, looking inquiringly from her daughter to the visitor.

But f.a.n.n.y, her face crimson, had already bolted into the kitchen, while Mr. Gillie, his chair tilted backward, a picture of magnificent unconcern, coolly blew smoke rings into the air.

"Something to say to me?" repeated Mrs. Blaine.

"Asch--ooah!"

His chair suddenly returning to the floor level with a thud that shook the house, Mr. Gillie sneezed violently, a physiological phenomenon which curiously enough never failed to present itself when any extraordinary pressure was put upon his brain cells. Wiping his watery eyes with a pink-bordered handkerchief--a color he rather affected--he began eloquently:

"Mrs. Blaine, you're a sensible woman. I feel I can talk to you plain.

There comes a time in every man's life when he feels lonesome--when it looks good to him to have someone round all the time, looking after things--his dinner, his clothes, and so on. Why, sometimes I go around for weeks with my suspenders only half fastened, just because I've got no one to sew a b.u.t.ton on. It gets on a feller's nerves--yes, it does--until at last he says to himself: 'Jimmie, my boy, you've knocked about alone long enough. You want to hitch up with some girl and take it easy a bit.'" He stopped a moment to gauge the effect of his words, but as Mrs. Blaine gave no sign that she understood what he was driving at, he proceeded: "I'm not much good at speechifying. With the frills all cut and to come to the point, this is what it is: f.a.n.n.y seems the kind of girl I'm looking for, and I don't see I could do any better. I've just asked her, and now it's kinder up to you--"

The widow took off her spectacles and gasped. Could she have heard aright? He was actually asking for f.a.n.n.y. She was amazed not so much at his monumental selfishness and impudence as that f.a.n.n.y herself could have given him the slightest encouragement. She fully realized that times had changed since the days when they lifted their heads proudly in the world, but to sink as low as this seemed too terrible, too humiliating. Yet, after all, could she blame her daughter? What was her present life, what would be her future, without education, without money--unless she had someone who could take care of her?

Dissembling her indignation as much as possible, she inquired suavely:

"This takes me very much by surprise, Mr. Gillie. You will, of course, allow me leisure to talk it over with my daughter. May I ask if your means permit you to provide a comfortable home for f.a.n.n.y--the kind of home to which she has been accustomed?"

The muscles of Mr. Gillie's nostrils contracted and for a moment it looked as if his slight frame were again about to be shaken convulsively by a mighty sneeze, but the spasm pa.s.sed. He merely coughed loudly to clear his throat. Then, glancing round the room in which he was sitting, he said:

"Oh, I guess we'll be able to put on as good a front as this, all right, all right." Tilting his chair back until it seemed physically impossible that he could maintain his balance, he went on between puffs of his cigar:

"You see, m'm, I'm not the kind of man that's satisfied to go on working all his life for only just enough to keep body and soul together. That's all right maybe for pikers--poor devils that have no s.p.u.n.k--but not for 'yours truly.' I'm a pusher, a climber, I am, and, what's more, I'm a man with ideas. No one can keep me down in the world. One of these days I'll be driving my own automobile and f.a.n.n.y will be riding in it with me. It's no 'guff' I'm giving you. I'm the real 'goods.'"

"You are a shipping clerk, I believe," said Mrs. Blaine when she could get in a word sideways.

"Yes, m'm," he snapped, "a shipping clerk--what of it?"

"Is that a very--lucrative position?"

He laughed derisively as if it was absurd to imagine he was going to remain a shipping clerk all his life.

"Oh, I'm only a clerk now, but I'll be boss some day--see if I don't."

"Might I ask what your present income is?" inquired the widow blandly.

For the first time Mr. Gillie seemed at a loss for an answer.

Awkwardly shifting his cigar to the other corner of his mouth, he stammered:

"I'm not getting much now--ten a week--that's all." Hastily he continued: "But it won't be for long. The big men down town know me--they know what I'm worth to them. They're just watching me. Any day they may make me an offer that would land me in Easy Street.

Besides, sooner or later I'll astonish people with one of my inventions. I'm full of new ideas. Some of them are bound to make money. It's a cinch!"

How long he would have continued in this strain there is no telling, for, although not talkative usually, he always became extraordinarily loquacious when encouraged to speak of his own affairs. Utterly exhausted by his chatter and feeling dreadfully tired, Mrs. Blaine began to wish that her unwelcome visitor would go. The room was full of tobacco smoke and his free-and-easy manner irritated her extremely.

Of course, his proposal was ridiculous, an impertinence. It was f.a.n.n.y's fault for having encouraged him. But it was best to say nothing--to just drop him gently. An awkward pause followed during which the widow, fatigued as she was, plied her needle more industriously than ever, while the would-be Benedict, nicely balanced on his chair, amused himself sending rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

Happily, at this juncture, f.a.n.n.y returned from the kitchen. She had noticed the strained silence and feared it boded ill. A glance at her mother's face was enough. Quickly she exclaimed:

"Now, mother, you must go to bed. Mr. Gillie will excuse you, I'm sure. It's getting real late."

Taking the hint, the shipping clerk rose to his feet. With a grin he said:

"That's right, m'm--all work and no play don't agree with n.o.body.

That's my maxim. Well, good night, ladies!" As he shuffled off, accompanied to the door by f.a.n.n.y, he said in an undertone: "It's O.K., Fan--I put it to her good and hard--it's you for mine, all right!"

As they pa.s.sed along the dark pa.s.sage he profited by the opportunity to s.n.a.t.c.h a kiss, and as they bade each other good-bye he said:

"You'd better get after mother. She was for handing me a nice, juicy lemon, but I gave her a line of talk that fetched her. Good night, sweetheart!"

Just as he was going out at the front door, Virginia came up.

"Good evening, Mr. Gillie," she said politely.

He laughed as he chucked her playfully under the chin.

"Mr. Gillie?" he echoed. "What's the matter with James or Jimmie? Good night, little sis!"

With a boisterous laugh he went out into the street and shut the door.

Virginia, astounded, looked at her sister and laughed.

"What's the matter with him to-night?" she exclaimed. "Is he crazy?"

Without waiting for an answer, she added quickly: "How's mother?"

f.a.n.n.y averted her face. She dreaded taking Virginia into her confidence; somehow she could not tell her. Briefly she said:

"She's very tired--been working until now. We expected you home earlier. She wanted to try on the dress."

Quickly removing her hat and coat which she threw on a convenient chair, Virginia answered:

"The concert was out later than usual. Dr. Everett was there. He brought me to the corner. How long has Mr. Gillie been here?"

"All evening," replied f.a.n.n.y. Then suddenly the elder sister flung her arms round Virginia's neck.

"Virgie!" she exclaimed, "what do you think? Mr. Gillie has asked me to marry him."

CHAPTER III

Each day brought graduation day nearer, and Mrs. Blaine, becoming more and more nervous as the great event approached, made strenuous efforts to get the dress finished in time. There were vexatious delays without number. It was difficult to find the right material or else something went wrong with the measurements and all had to be done over again.

From morning till night, day after day, the old lady sat in doors, at the table piled high with dressmaker's litter, deeply engrossed in her self-appointed labor of love.