It was not a very tactful remark, perhaps, considering that Steve was the child's G.o.dfather, and, as such, might reasonably expect to be allowed a free pa.s.s to his nursery; but Mamie, like Keggs, had fallen so under the domination of Lora Delane Porter that she had grown to consider it almost a natural law that no one came to see Bill unless approved of and personally conducted by her.

Steve did not answer. He was gaping at the fittings of the place in which he found himself. It was precisely as Keggs had described it, white tiles and all.

He was roused from his reflections by the approach of Mamie, or, rather, not so much by her approach as by the fact that at this moment she suddenly squirted something at him. It was cold and wet and hit him in the face before, as he put it to Keggs later, he could get his guard up.

"For the love of----"

"Sh!" said Mamie warningly.

"What's the idea? What are you handing me?"

"I've got to. It's to sterilize you. I do it to every one."

"Gee! You've got a swell job! Well, go to it, then. Shoot! I'm ready."

"It's boric acid," explained Mamie.

"I shouldn't wonder. Is this all part of the Porter circus?"

"Yes."

"Where is she?" inquired Steve in sudden alarm. "Is she likely to b.u.t.t in?"

"No. She's out."

"Good," said Steve, and sat down, relieved, to resume his inspection of the room.

When he had finished he drew a deep breath.

"Well!" he said softly. "Say, Mamie, what do you think about it?"

"I'm not paid to think about it, Steve."

"That means you agree with me that it's the punkest state of things you ever struck. Well, you're quite right. It is. It's a shame to think of that innocent kid having this sort of deal handed to him. Why, just think of him at the studio!"

But Mamie, whatever her private views, was loyal to her employers. She refused to be drawn into a discussion on the subject.

"Have you been downstairs with Mr. Keggs, Steve?"

"Yes. It was him that told me about all this. Say, Mame, we ain't seen much of each other lately."

"No."

"Mighty little."

"Yes."

Having got as far as this, Steve should, of course, have gone resolutely ahead. After all, it is not a very long step from telling a girl in a hushed whisper with a shake in it that you have not seen much of her lately to hinting that you would like to see a great deal more of her in the future.

Steve was on the right lines, and he knew it; but that fatal lack of nerve which had wrecked him on all the other occasions when he had got as far as this undid him now. He relapsed into silence, and Mamie went on sewing.

In a way, if you shut your eyes to the white tiles and the thermometer and the bra.s.s k.n.o.bs and the shower-bath, it was a peaceful scene; and Steve, as he sat there and watched Mamie sew, was stirred by it. Remove the white tiles, the thermometer the bra.s.s k.n.o.bs, and the shower-bath, and this was precisely the sort of scene his imagination conjured up when the business of life slackened sufficiently to allow him to dream dreams.

There he was, sitting in one chair; there was Mamie, sitting in another; and there in the corner was the little white cot--well, perhaps that was being a shade too prophetic; on the other hand, it always came into these dreams of his. There, in short, was everything arranged just as he pictured it; and all that was needed to make the picture real was for him to propose and Mamie to accept him.

It was the disturbing thought that the second condition did not necessarily follow on to the first that had kept Steve from taking the plunge for the last two years. Unlike the hero of the poem, he feared his fate too much to put it to the touch, to win or lose it all.

Presently the silence began to oppress Steve. Mamie had her needlework, and that apparently served her in lieu of conversation; but Steve had nothing to occupy him, and he began to grow restless. He always despised himself thoroughly for his feebleness on these occasions; and he despised himself now. He determined to make a big effort.

"Mamie!" he said.

As he was nervous and had been silent so long that his vocal cords had gone off duty under the impression that their day's work was over, the word came out of him like a husky gunshot. Mamie started, and the White Hope, who had been sleeping peacefully, stirred and muttered.

"S-sh!" hissed Mamie.

Steve collapsed with the feeling that it was not his lucky night, while Mamie bent anxiously over the cot. The sleeper, however, did not wake.

He gurgled, gave a sigh, then resumed his interrupted repose. Mamie returned to her seat.

"Yes?" she said, as if nothing had occurred, and as if there had been no interval between Steve's remark and her reply.

Steve could not equal her calmness. He had been strung up when he spoke, and the interruption had undone him. He reflected ruefully that he might have said something to the point if he had been allowed to go straight on; now he had forgotten what he had meant to say.

"Oh, nothing," he replied.

Silence fell once more on the nursery.

Steve was bracing himself up for another attack when suddenly there came a sound of voices from the stairs. One voice was a mere murmur, but the other was sharp and unmistakable, the incisive note of Lora Delane Porter. It brought Steve and Mamie to their feet simultaneously.

"What's it matter?" said Steve stoutly, answering the panic in Mamie's eyes. "It's not her house, and I got a perfect right to be here."

"You don't know her. I shall get into trouble."

Mamie was pale with apprehension. She knew her Lora Delane Porter, and she knew what would happen if Steve were to be discovered there. It was, as Keggs put it, as much as her place was worth.

For a brief instant Mamie faced a future in which she was driven from Bill's presence into outer darkness, dismissed, and told never to return. That was what would happen. Sitting and talking with Steve in the sacred nursery at this time of night was a crime, and she had known it all the time. But she had been glad to see Steve again after all this while--if Steve had known how glad, he would certainly have found courage and said what he had so often failed to say--and, knowing that Mrs. Porter was out, she had thought the risk of his presence worth taking. Now, with discovery imminent, panic came upon her.

The voices were quite close now. There was no doubt of the destination of the speakers. They were heading slowly but directly for the nursery.

Steve, not being fully abreast of the new rules and regulations of the sacred apartment, could not read Mamie's mind completely. He did not know that, under Mrs. Porter's code, the admission of a visitor during the hours of sleep was a felony in the first degree, punishable by instant dismissal. But Mamie's face and her brief reference to trouble were enough to tell him that the position was critical, and with the instinct of the trapped he looked round him for cover.

But the White Hope's nursery was not constructed with a view to providing cover for bulky gentlemen who should not have been there. It was as bare as a billiard-table as far as practicable hiding-places were concerned.

And then his eye caught the water-proof sheet of the shower-bath.

Behind that there was just room for concealment.

With a brief nod of encouragement to Mamie, he leaped at it. The door opened as he disappeared.

Mrs. Porter's rules concerning visitors, though stringent as regarded Mamie, were capable of being relaxed when she herself was the person to relax them. She had a visitor with her now--a long, severe-looking lady with a sharp nose surmounted by spectacles, who, taking in the white tiles, the thermometer, the cot, and the bra.s.s k.n.o.bs in a single comprehensive glance, observed: "Admirable!"