"Say, old man," he exclaimed, "it's easy to see you are out of sorts this morning. When did Bob Stafford start in to be a social reformer?

Who ever expected such advice from the man who could always get away with more booze at a sitting than any man I ever knew, and who has been the hero of a hundred _affaires de coeur_, not all as respectable as that of Stanton and Maude?"

The railroad man took it good-naturedly.

"That's all right, Fred--rub it in all you like. It's because I've been an a.s.s myself that I can see more plainly than any one, perhaps, what cursed folly it is. We spend our time and substance on some wretched wanton, who never gives us a thought save how much money she can squeeze out of us, and what have we in return? Nothing. The years slip quickly by; we find ourselves getting old, and there's no one round who really cares a jot whether we live or die--except, possibly our relatives, who look forward to the latter. Genuine affection is absolutely foreign to our existence. We have no one to bestow it on; no one to bestow it on us. To be quite frank, that is another reason why I don't care to spend too much time in my Riverside home. I feel lonesome there. The place is quiet; it lacks the life and bustle of a hotel, and Oku, decent little j.a.p as he is, hardly makes an ideal companion--"

Sending a cloud of tobacco smoke up to the ceiling, Hadley gave vent to a low, expressive whistle.

"So--that's where the land lays, eh? You are lonesome. In other words, you want a wife to share with you the artistic treasures of your Riverside home. You are tired of being a bachelor--"

Stafford laughed--a resounding, wholesome laugh, that fairly shook the room.

"You've guessed it, Fred, you've guessed it. You're a mind-reader. I confess I'm tired of b.u.mming. You and Stanton and the rest of the boys are a jolly crowd. You've given me many a good time, but, I tell you, old man, I'm tired of it all. I want to cut away and settle down. If the right girl comes along, I'll marry her--"

Hadley was silent for a few moments, and, sitting lazily back in the comfortable, deep-seated armchair, contented himself with puffing his cigar vigorously and emitting a prodigious quant.i.ty of smoke. Finally he said:

"All right, Bob--you know best what you want. Try matrimony, if you've a mind to, but remember this--don't forget I gave you good warning.

Marriage isn't what it's cracked up to be, by a long shot. The girl you're courting will seem to you a very different person after marriage. She'll be an old-man-of-the-sea hanging around your neck whom you can't shake off. Your trouble will only begin when you take to yourself a wife." Rising and picking up his hat and gloves, he added: "Now I must be going. I have an appointment at the office at 11:30. What are you going to do? Coming down town with me?"

Stafford pointed to the ma.s.s of papers and letters piled up on his desk. Shaking his head he replied:

"No--I can't go out yet. I must answer all these letters." Helplessly he added: "I don't know how I'm going to tackle them. I've an awful headache."

"Why not get a stenographer?"

"A stenographer? That's not a bad idea. Where can I get one?"

"Why, downstairs. There are two attached to the hotel. They attend to the telephone switchboard and do typewriting as well. One is a girl with red hair and a squint; the other is dark and rather pretty--"

"Very well," smiled Stafford. "Send me up the pretty one. I couldn't stand the red-haired girl just now. I've got an important deal on hand. She might queer my luck. Do that for me, old chap. Tell her as you go out, and don't forget--the pretty one."

"Right you are!" laughed Hadley. "I'll see you to-night at dinner. Ta ta!" He was going out when he turned round at the door. "Say--don't forget your virtuous resolution. Don't make love to the pretty typewriter."

The door slammed and Stafford was alone.

For some time after his friend disappeared, the railroad man sat idly turning over the ma.s.s of papers acc.u.mulating on the desk. There was a busy day before him--a directors' meeting at 2 o'clock, people to see at his office. But just now his thoughts were not on his work. He was cogitating on what he had just admitted to Hadley. Yes, that was it.

The truth was out now. He had never acknowledged it before, even to himself. He was tired of his bachelor life. He wanted a wife.

What had all his success been to him? An empty kind of satisfaction, after all. He had made money, more money than he knew what to do with, but it had not brought him real happiness. How could he be happy, when there was no one to share his happiness, his success? His parents were dead; he had no brothers or sisters. He was all alone in the world, and the older he got the more he was beginning to realize how isolated his life was. He had hosts of so-called friends--jolly good fellows of both s.e.xes, who were ready enough to help him spend his money; but what was such friendship as that worth?

Yet Fred might be right, after all. He had himself known men, confirmed bachelors like himself, who had got married and regretted it ever since. Their lives had become a burden to them. They were outrageously henpecked, made to dance attendance until all hours of the morning upon silly, bridge-loving wives. True, but they were poor, weak-minded simpletons, just the kind of men to be dominated, bullied by a woman. He would like to see the girl who could coerce him into doing anything he did not wish to do. If he ever married, he would rule his own household; no woman would venture to dictate to him. He would insist on his absolute independence, do as he chose, go where he liked. He would be the master. If the husband had not the right to command, who had? When a pair of horses was sold, did they not belong to the purchaser? A wife was, in a sense, a purchase. The average society girl who gets married nowadays practically sells herself. She wants a man with money--a man who will give her jewels and clothes and an establishment that will make every other girl of her acquaintance green with envy. She gets him--for a consideration. That, no doubt, was the kind of girl he would one day get. She would offer herself, and if he liked the look of her he would buy her, and, having bought her, she would learn soon enough that there was only one master in the Stafford household. It was not necessary that they love each other.

They would be good friends, chums, and all that, but he would never let go of the check-rein. Certainly he would always be the master.

He was thus engrossed in his reflections, when there came a gentle rap at the door. Instantly galvanized into action, he called out in stentorian tones:

"Come in!"

The door was pushed open, and Virginia Blaine entered, notebook in hand. Her face was slightly flushed, and she stood hesitatingly on the threshold, as if fearing to enter. She was attired in deep mourning, and the simple black dress, relieved only by a little white lace collar round the neck, enhanced the natural rich coloring of her face.

Starting hastily from his seat, Stafford advanced towards her. Timidly she said:

"You asked for a stenographer?"

Impressed, as well as surprised by her beauty, at a loss for a moment what to say, the railroad promoter stammered confusedly:

"No--that is--yes--by all means--won't you sit down?"

She took a seat near the desk, and opening her notebook, got ready to take dictation. Stafford looked fixedly at her. He remembered now having seen her at the telephone switchboard downstairs in the hotel lobby. Smilingly he said:

"What is your name?"

"Miss Blaine," she replied coldly.

"We've met before, haven't we?" he went on.

She colored under his close scrutiny. Why did he stare so? It made her very uncomfortable. If he did not cease looking at her, she would close her book and walk out. It was much against her will that she had come up, alone, to a man's apartment. But she could not afford to lose an opportunity of earning a little extra money. Answering his question, she said rather curtly:

"I believe I got a long distance for you the other day. I'm on the telephone desk, you know. Stenography is only a side issue."

He still gazed at her admiringly, quick to note her well-bred manner, her quiet aloofness, unusual in girls of her occupation.

"I remember," he nodded. "We had quite some difficulty in getting in touch with Washington."

"Yes--there was trouble on the wires."

"But we got it at last, didn't we?" he smiled, making an effort to break the ice and be friendly.

But Virginia intended to stick strictly to business. She must make it plain that hers was not a social call. Quickly changing the topic, she asked:

"Is the dictation ready?"

Stafford would have liked to continue the personal conversation. After all, there was no immediate necessity of getting to work; the correspondence could wait. But there was an icy haughtiness in the girl's demeanor that discouraged any further attempt at getting acquainted. Proceeding therefore to business, he picked up a paper from the desk and commenced to dictate a letter.

CHAPTER V

The loss of her mother, following so soon after the death of her father, had come as a terrible shock to Virginia. She felt it more keenly even than f.a.n.n.y, not only because her nature was more sensitive and impressionable, but also because she realized that she had been suddenly robbed of a constant and devoted companion. f.a.n.n.y, who was now officially engaged to Mr. Gillie, was nearly always in his company, with the result that Virginia, more particular and more exacting in the choice of acquaintances than her sister, found the world emptier and more lonely than ever.

Graduation day had come and gone and the dress which her poor mother had not lived to finish, had to be completed by other hands. At the end of her school days and now practically alone, with no one to look to for support, Virginia began to think seriously of the future. She must get something to do, that was very certain. f.a.n.n.y would soon have Jimmie to look after her, but she herself must depend on her own exertion. She was a long time making up her mind what she would do.

Her education fitted her for a teacher, but she shrank from the idea.

Never would she have the patience. Then she thought of trying to write for the papers or magazines. That, also, was rejected. It was too precarious; she had had no experience. There was the stage. No--that would not do. She did not like the environments. There remained only the alternative of being a saleswoman in a department store or a stenographer. Having taken a course in shorthand, and being fairly proficient, she chose the latter, and, thanks to the influence and good offices of Dr. Everett, at last succeeded in securing a fairly remunerative position.

The first few days of business employment proved a novel and trying experience. To a young girl accustomed to the quiet and exclusiveness of private life, the noise and promiscuousness of a public hotel corridor were singularly distasteful. The men ogled her; the women guests tried her patience. A pretty girl, it was only natural that she should attract attention from the men, but the persistent manner in which they stared, and tried to make acquaintance, annoyed her beyond measure. When they spoke to her in the ordinary course of business they were courteous enough, but their eyes were bold, and sometimes they said things in an undertone which made her face flush scarlet.

She complained to her a.s.sociates, but she got no sympathy. The other girls--sorry they were not attractive themselves--only laughed at her for being so particular. They said that the men meant no harm, and that she should consider it a compliment to her good looks if they took the trouble to address her at all.

Otherwise the work was congenial enough and the hours were not long.

She still lived with her sister in the same house where their mother died. The millinery business had grown sufficiently large to take all f.a.n.n.y's time, and it brought in enough to keep the little household going. When her sister married Jimmie, she would, of course, be compelled to give the shop up, but meantime it helped defray expenses and gave f.a.n.n.y an occupation.