"Was it not bein' a lady to say the word like he did?" said Kern, swaying about and waving her arms like wings. "I told Sadie Whirtle it wasn't netiquette, but Sadie she said it wasn't funny without you used the swear. And I did want to make you laugh.... She druther be funny than netiquette, Sadie said."

The young man picked up his bag again, his face intent. "I'm late with my calls," said he. "Tell your mother that I mayn't be back for dinner."

"Sadie she heard a lady say d.a.m.n once right out, a customer in the store, in a velvet suit--"

"Now stop that foolish dancing, Corinne."

Kern stopped dancing. She still looked a little pale from her illness, which had cost her seven pounds. That morning she had donned her working-clothes expectantly, but she had changed since coming in, and that accounted for her favorite red dress. The dress was a strict copy of the slender mode; she looked very small, indeed, in it. She wore a brave red ribbon in her hair, a necklace of red beads, and a long gilt chain which glittered splendidly as she moved.

"What makes you look at me that way, Mr. V.V.?"

The young man gave a small start and sigh.

"You must take better care of yourself, Corinne," said he, from the depths of troubled thought. "I shall certainly do something better for you later on. That I promise."

"Why, I feel very, _very_ well, Mr. V.V., truly."

"You're much too clever and pretty to be wearing your life out at this sort of thing.... Much too dear a little girl...."

Kern turned away. Mr. V.V. had never said such a thing to her before, and he now made a mental note that he must be careful not to do it again. He had honestly intended only a matter-of-fact statement of simple and, on the whole, pleasant truth; but Kern, with her sensitiveness and strange delicacy, too clearly felt that he had taken a liberty. All her gaiety died; her cheek seemed to flush a little. She walked stiffly past Mr. V.V. to the door, never looking in his direction.

"I'll go soak the colliflower, sir," she murmured, and slipped away into the hall.

XIII

How Life was Gray and Everything was Horrid; how Carlisle went to Little Africa with Hen; how the Man spoke to her again, just the same, and what happened then; further, reporting a Confidential Talk with a Best Girl-Friend.

Hearing the whir of a slowing motor behind her, and her name called besides, Henrietta c.o.o.ney checked her practised pedestrian's stride and looked back over her shoulder. The Heth car, with Carlisle alone in it, rolled abreast of her at the curb.

"What on earth are _you_ doing, Hen," asked her cousin, but hardly as if the matter interested her much--"up here at this time!"

"Servant chasing!" cried Hen, gaily. "My favorite outdoor sport.

Hortense's left us. I got out early on purpose. You're looking mighty well, Cally."

Cally made a weary little face, which seemed to say that such matters as looks were very far from being of interest to her. It happened to be the fact, indeed, that she had never felt more depressed and bereft in her life: witness her hailing Hen c.o.o.ney, whom she had never cared much for, and less than ever after the way Hen had shown her real nature about the Works. Time's chances had brought her to this, that she preferred Hen's society above the company of her own thoughts. Gray and empty had been Cally's days since a New Year's moment in the library....

"But you'll not find any servants up here, my dear!--unless you expect to throw bags over their heads and kidnap them?"

"I'd like to," laughed Hen, friendly elbows on the car door. "And then give them the bastinado every hour on the hour. Think of Hortense's doing us so when we've all been perfect mothers to her for a year. But I've come up here just to get an address, from Mrs. J.T. Carney, and now I'm off to Little Africa, pleasant but determined."

"Jackson Ward?"

"No," said Hen, producing and consulting a sc.r.a.p of paper, "it's South Africa this time--106A Dunbar Street. You know--down along the Ca.n.a.l."

"Hop in," said Cally, listlessly. "I'll drive you down there." "Perish the thought!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Hen, in some surprise. "You don't want to go exploring the slum districts, finding out how the other half lives. I'll like the walk--"

But Carlisle insisted, being out only because she was bored with being in, and Hen hopped in, not altogether reluctantly. By request she repeated the Ethiopian address to the chauffeur, himself of that tongue and nation; and off the cousins bowled.

"Bored? How's this, Cally? I hear on all sides that it's the gayest winter in ten years. You're not tired of parties, at your age?"

"Oh, I'm crazy about them," said Cally, indifferently, yet drawing comfort from the sound of her own voice. "But one can't have parties every hour of the day, you know. There are always c.h.i.n.ks to be filled up, and that is where one's background comes in. My background has a violent attack of indigestion just now. Everything's horrid.--_Ohh_! Why _will_ a dog take chances like that?..."

"How's Uncle Thornton?" said Hen, holding her hat on with a hand that looked hard-worked. "I don't believe I've seen him since that day we all came to dinner--"

"Oh, he's well, I suppose, but he's out of spirits a good deal of the time, which I _will_ say is unusual for papa. I think he's probably worried about business or ... Who was that old man that stared at me so?

He looked as if I ought to know him."

"Where?" said Hen, glancing back. "Oh!--there under the tree? Why, that's Colonel Dalhousie. You know--"

"Oh!" said Cally, immediately regretting having spoken. To relieve the baldness of her exclamation, she added: "I thought he was a rather younger man than that."

"He's broken dreadfully in the last few months--that's probably why you didn't recognize him," said Hen, cheeringly. "They say the poor old man's grieving himself to death."

Through Cally quivered an angry wonder why it was that only disagreeable things happened nowadays. Why, why, when everything else was just as abominable as possible, need that old man go prowling around the streets, stopping on corners to stare at her?...

She went on quickly with a tinge of light bitterness in her voice:

"I'm sure it must be business, for there's a hard-times atmosphere hanging over the house, all of a sudden, and mamma is constantly remarking that there's a limit to my extravagance, etc., etc. She and I happen to be on dreadfully formal terms just at present, which is another of the joys of home. And to cap the climax," she added, with a burst of confidence only half mocking, "I'm in an absolutely suitorless condition--not a blessed swain to my name! I was never so dest.i.tute and forlorn in my life!"

Hen, struck from the beginning with the unusual note in her brilliant cousin's manner, laughed. She perceived that Cally wished to talk about herself, and talk complainingly, and Hen didn't mind.

"First time I ever heard such a complaint in this quarter. Is J.

Forsythe Avery dead without my knowledge?"

"J. Forsythe is in New York. Robert's in the sulks. James Bogue, 2d, is in bed--measles, if you please ... Do you ever have the horrible n.o.body-loves-you feeling? Rather odious, isn't it?"

"Ghastly," said Hen.

"I'll be awfully glad to get away next month," continued Cally....

Interested by the hiatus in Cally's list of missing swains, Hen desired that this conversation should go on. Like most people, the c.o.o.neys had of course heard of, and gossiped about, the open breach between their cousin and Mr. Canning a month ago, promptly followed by the great young man's departure from town. Through the masculine half of the local world, it was generally a.s.sumed that Miss Heth had actually rejected Mr. Canning. It was a rare tribute to the girl's attractions that not a few women also believed this, even though Cally's best girl-friends, like Mattie Allen, were perfectly _sure_ nothing of the sort had happened....

Hen, a c.o.o.ney, had had a special reason for wondering if this interesting affair might not be "on" again. However, Cally, skipping the conversation along, was talking now of the visit she had in prospect to her friend, Mrs. Willing, Florence Stone that was, in New York. Florrie, she informed Hen, wanted her particularly for the Lenten weeks, promising that they would spend the sober penitential season in a hilarious round of theatres, restaurants, and shops. It appeared that this promising invitation had come only that morning, and Cally described it as a direct answer to prayer.

"Goodness, Cally! You talk as if you lived in a special kind of purgatory," said Hen. "I don't know anybody that has a better time than you."

"Is an everlasting round of gaieties, all exactly alike, your idea of a perfect time? What is the point or meaning of it all?" demanded Cally, the philosopher. "The whole trouble with me," she added, explanatorily, "is that I haven't budged from home in three months, and I'm simply bored deaf and dumb."

Hen might have replied that she hadn't budged for three years, but what was the use? She said instead: "When're you going to sail for Europe. May?"

"It remains to be seen whether we sail at all or not," answered Carlisle, with a sudden mocking little laugh. "Mamma talks several times a day of cancelling our pa.s.sage and shipping me off to Aunt Helen's farm for the summer. She's been tremendously droll with me of late...."

Droll, of course, was only the girl's derisive euphemism. The truth was that mamma's att.i.tude, since hearing of the extraordinary rupture,--which her daughter refused either to explain or amend instantly,--had been nothing short of violent. Jangling scenes recurred daily.... Perhaps, indeed, it was mamma's relentless pressure that had brought about the gradual shifting, amounting to a total revolution, in Cally's own att.i.tude. More probably, though, it was only the inevitable resurgence of her own sane fundamental purposes, temporarily swept away by purblind pa.s.sion.

It is one thing to kick out your symbol of happiness in a burst of senseless rage. It is quite another to learn to live day by day without it.... Why, indeed, should she not yield obedience to poor mamma--at the least greet Canning's return with some mark of forgiveness, a tiny olive-branch?...