"Well--I suppose the strongest reasons are those which I can't put into words, Mr. Gorham, but one that seems pretty good to me is that I don't think I'm fitted for it."

"Why not?"

"I'm too optimistic, I think, to make a good diplomat. If a man's a gentleman, and treats me square, I'm apt to think he's all right--and, from what I hear, in diplomacy the one who fools the others the most times is the best fellow. Isn't that right?"

"Some people would tell you that the same thing holds true in business."

"I know; but in business there seems to be something more tangible to work on. Of course I don't know anything about it, but I think I could make a better show selling bonds or cotton than _ententes cordiales_."

"Have you made any effort to secure a position?"

"Not yet, Mr. Gorham. The pater would be more than peeved if I didn't wait for him and his diplomatic expectations. But if he doesn't get busy pretty soon, I think I'll hike it over to New York, and see what's doing."

Gorham smiled in spite of the boy's earnestness. "Surely your father would realize how much in earnest you are if you talked to him as you're talking to me now."

"Father always looks upon me as a joke," Allen continued. "He made his own way, you see, and then, because he was rich, he didn't want me to endure the hardships which really made him what he is. He gave me plenty of money all the way through Harvard, and ever since, in fact; yet he is always wondering why I lack 'initiative.' He's been mighty generous, and I appreciate it all, but don't you think it's one thing to build your own character and economize because you have to, and another to economize when you know you don't have to? I guess that's my complaint."

"He was very proud of what you did at college," Gorham said. "I never used to meet him without hearing about some of your athletic triumphs."

"I suspect it is you who call them triumphs," Allen replied; "that doesn't sound like the pater to me. Of course, some of the things I did in college seemed worth while at the time; I tried for the football team, and I made it--by hard work, with a hundred other fellows doing their best to push me back on the side lines; I tried for the crew, and I made it; I rowed two years at New London, and there was some work about that. I'm afraid I made athletics my vocation and studies my avocation, but I tried to do what I undertook as well as I knew how, and some of the boys still think I'm pretty good in certain lines."

"Life is scarcely a football-field, my boy," Gorham remarked, sententiously. "The world of business admits of no vacuum. It is the survival of the fittest, and work is the great secret of success."

"I know what a 'vacuum' is, anyway," Patricia was recovering from her temporary chagrin.

"Now is your chance to square yourself," said her father, turning to her, kindly.

"I learned that at school last winter," the child continued, proudly: "a 'vacuum' is the place where the Pope lives when it is vacant."

"There, Allen," laughed Gorham, "you have no excuse for not understanding my statement."

"Not in the least. Lady Pat has explained my whole difficulty! But, after all, Mr. Gorham, don't you think there are some things about business and football which are the same?" pleaded Allen, when Patricia was again quieted, his att.i.tude with Mr. Gorham being quite different from the one he had affected with Alice. "I've often tried to think what I'd do if I ever got started, and I've said to myself that when I came up against the other fellow I'd just grit my teeth and say, 'That confounded Eli shan't get through'; and I'm pretty certain that he'd find something in his way before he got the contract I was after."

Gorham was distinctly interested in the boy's intensity. "Suppose I write a line to your father and suggest that he take active steps to get you started somewhere."

"Please don't," Allen said, quickly. "I'll write him myself at once. If you do it, he'll think I haven't got the s.p.u.n.k. Perhaps I can put it strong enough so he will realize that I'm tired of killing time running about in my motor-car."

"I thought your father told me you had lost your license, for speeding."

The boy grinned guiltily. "'Allen Sanford, owner,' lost his license, but 'A. Sanford, chauffeur,' is still allowed to run a car." Then turning to Mrs. Gorham: "You didn't realize you were riding with a chauffeur to-day, did you?"

"You had two licenses?"

"I couldn't possibly get along without them here in Washington. I guess you don't know how wise these police guys are."

Gorham looked at the boy steadily for a moment with an amused expression in his eye.

"I have half a mind to try it," he said, aloud.

"Taking out two licenses?" Allen asked, innocently.

"No," Gorham answered; "I was thinking of something else. Your father will be here some day this week, Allen, and you will have a chance to discuss the whole matter. Perhaps you can get him to agree to some compromise. Whatever you go into, remember what one of our great captains of industry once said--and it's as applicable to diplomacy as it is to business--'The man who starts first gets the oyster; the second man gets the sh.e.l.l.'"

"I'll settle it definitely when I see the pater," Allen said, with determination, "and if I live through the interview I'll go for that oyster with a flying start. Oh, I expect I'll find plenty of good interference against me, but I can stand that. What's that story in mythology about the hydra or something--every time they cut off its head two more grew? That's what I'm going to be--a hydra. Every time I get turned down I'm going to bob up twice again, and, the first thing you know, somebody will give me a job just to get rid of me."

VII

After the theatre Mr. Gorham devoted himself to some late despatches which required immediate attention, so Alice and Eleanor found themselves in the apartment alone. The latter wore a more serious expression than her face had shown earlier in the evening, and the girl was quick to notice it.

"You are not feeling well," she said, more in the form of a statement than as a question, looking at her anxiously. "What can I do for you?"

Mrs. Gorham smiled quietly as she impulsively drew Alice to her and kissed her.

"There's nothing the matter, dear," she answered, pleased with the intuition which prompted the anxiety; "there was something about the play which brought back old memories and they hurt me--that is all."

"Dear heart," was all the girl replied, yet the words brought grateful tears to Eleanor's eyes.

"Are you tired?" she asked, suddenly, with an appeal which caused Alice to look at her inquiringly, but she did not wait for the unnecessary negative. "Then come into my room and let us have a little talk before we go to bed."

As Eleanor sat down Alice threw herself on the floor at her feet, and resting her elbows upon the convenient knees, with her face upon her hands, she looked up expectantly.

"I love these cozy talks," she said. "There is something about this particular hour of the night which makes anything which happens in it of the greatest importance. How beautiful you are! I love just to look at you--no wonder father worships you!"

"You are a sweet child, Alice," Eleanor said, stroking the soft hair affectionately, while unfastening the loose coils until they fell over her shoulders in ma.s.ses of rippling gold. "You have no idea how much you have done to make my life as happy as it is now. What has your father ever told you about me?"

"Nothing, dear, except that you had suffered much before he met you, and that it was our privilege to try to make you forget the past."

"Was that all?"

"All about you. He told me how happy you had made him, so of course I loved you at once."

"And you never asked any questions?"

Alice looked surprised. "Why, no; if father had wished to tell me any more he would have done so without my asking."

"I am glad," Eleanor said, simply. "It is better for me to tell you myself."

Mrs. Gorham paused, and Alice realized that this was not the time to interrupt. Eleanor seemed to be bracing herself as for an ordeal, yet when she spoke the words came with perfect calmness.

"You were ten years old when your mother died," she said.

The girl's face saddened. "Yes, just Pat's age now; and the next four years were so lonely until you came. I try never to think of them. Pat was too young to give me any companionship, so I was virtually alone with my governess. Father never realized my unhappiness. He was so busy with his own matters that, young as I was, I knew that he must not have mine to worry about."

"Those were the years in which I suffered, too," Eleanor replied, quietly. "Perhaps that is what drew us so closely together from the first. Four years of torture!" she continued, more to herself than to the girl before her.