smiled, maliciously.
“Is it so bad as that?” he queried. “I knew, of course, you were hit, but I hoped it was only for a small amount.”
“Shut up, Mattison!” exclaimed Colloden. “If you haven’t any appreciation of propriety, you can at least keep quiet.”
“Oh, I don’t know – ”
“Don’t you?” said Colloden, quietly, reaching across and grasping him by the collar. “Think again, —and think quickly!”
A sickly grin, half of surprise and half of anger, overspread Mattison’s face.
“Can’t you take a little pleasantry?” he asked.
“We don’t like your pleasantries any more than we like you, and that is not at all. Take my advice and mend your tongue.” He shook him, much as a terrier does a rat, and jammed him back into his chair. “Now, either be good or go home,” he admonished.
Mattison was weak with anger – so angry, indeed, that he was helpless either to stir or to make a sound. The others ignored him – and, when he was a little recovered, he got up and went slowly from the room.
“It wasn’t a particularly well bred thing to do,” observed Colloden, “but just the same it was mighty pleasant. If it were not for the law, I’d have broken his neck.”
“He isn’t worth the exertion, Roderick,” Croyden remarked. “But I’m obliged, old man. I enjoyed it.”
When they rejoined the ladies on the piazza, a little later, Mattison had gone.
After a while, the others went off in their motors, leaving Croyden alone with Miss Cavendish. Hungerford had offered to drop him at the Club, but he had declined. He would enjoy himself a little longer – would give himself the satisfaction of another hour with her, before he passed into outer darkness.
He had gone along in his easy, bachelor way, without a serious thought for any woman, until six months ago. Then, Elaine Cavendish came home, after three years spent in out-of-the-way corners of the globe, and, straightway, bound him to her chariot wheels.
At least, so the women said – who make it their particular business to observe – and they never make mistakes. They can tell when one is preparing to fall in love, long before he knows himself. Indeed, there have been many men drawn into matrimony, against their own express inclination, merely by the accumulation of initiative engendered by impertinent meddlers. They want none of it, they even fight desperately against it, but, in the end, they succumb.
And Geoffrey Croyden would have eventually succumbed, of his own desires, however, had Elaine Cavendish been less wealthy, and had his affairs been more at ease. Now, he thanked high Heaven he had not offered himself. She might have accepted him; and think of all the heart-burnings and pain that would now ensue, before he went out of her life!
“What were you men doing to Montecute Mattison?” she asked presently. “He appeared perfectly furious when he came out, and he went off without a word to anyone – even Charlotte Brundage was ignored.”
“He and Colloden had a little difficulty – and Mattison left us,” Croyden answered. “Didn’t he stop to say good-night?”
She shook her head. “He called something as he drove off – but I think he was swearing at his man.”
“He needed something to swear at, I fancy!” Croyden laughed.
“What did Roderick do?” she asked.
“Took him by the collar and shook him – and told him either to go home or be quiet.”
“And he went home – I see.”
“Yes – when he had recovered himself sufficiently. I thought, at first, his anger was going to choke him.”
“Imagine big, good-natured Roderick stirred sufficiently to lay hands on any one!” she laughed.
“But imagine him when stirred,” he said.
“I hadn’t thought of him in that way,” she said, slowly – “Ough!” with a little shiver, “it must have been terrifying – what had Mattison done to him?”
“Nothing – Mattison is too much of a coward ever to do anything.”
“What had he said, then?”
“Oh, some brutality about one of Colloden’s friends, I think,” Croyden evaded. “I didn’t quite hear it – and we didn’t discuss it afterward.”
“I’m told he is a scurrilous little beast, with the men,” she commented; “but, I must say, he is always polite to me, and reasonably charitable. Indeed, to-night is the only deliberately bad manners he has ever exhibited.”
“He knows the men won’t hurt him,” said Croyden, “whereas the women, if he showed his ill nature to them, would promptly ostracize him. He is a canny bounder, all right.” He made a gesture of repugnance. “We have had enough of Mattison – let us find something more interesting – yourself, for instance.”
“Or yourself!” she smiled. “Or, better still, neither. Which reminds me – Miss Southard is coming to-morrow; you will be over, of course?”
“I’m going East to-morrow night,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“But she is to stay two weeks – you will be back before she leaves, won’t you?”
“I fear not – I may go on to London.”
“Before you return here?”
“Yes – before I return here.”
“Isn’t this London idea rather sudden?” she asked.
“I’ve been anticipating it for some time,” sending a cloud of cigarette smoke before his face. “But it grew imminent only to-day.”
When the smoke faded, her eyes were looking questioningly into his. There was something in his words that did not ring quite true. It was too sudden to be genuine, too unexpected. It struck her as vague and insincere. Yet there was no occasion to mistrust – it was common enough for men to be called suddenly to England on business. —
“When do you expect to return?” she asked.
“I do not know,” he said, reading something that was in her mind. “If I must go, the business which takes me will also fix my return.”
A servant approached.
“What is it, Hudson?” she asked.
“The telephone, Miss Cavendish. Pride’s Crossing wishes to talk with you.”
Croyden arose – it was better to make the farewell brief – and accompanied her to the doorway.
“Good-bye,” he said, simply.
“You must go?” she asked.
“Yes – there are some things that must be done to-night.”
She gave him another
