you coming down to buzz the preacher?” demanded Brandes, turning from the drenched window.
“So you can talk phony to the little kid? No.”
“Ah, get it out of your head that I mean phony.”
“Well, what do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
Stull gave him a contemptuous glance and turned over on the pillow.
“Are you coming down?”
“No.”
So Brandes took another survey of himself in the glass, used his comb and brushes again, added a studied twist to his tie, shot his cuffs, and walked out of the room with the solid deliberation which characterised his carriage at all times.
CHAPTER VI
THE END OF SOLITUDE
A rain-washed world, smelling sweet as a wet rose, a cloudless sky delicately blue, and a swollen stream tumbling and foaming under the bridge – of these Mr. Eddie Brandes was agreeably conscious as he stepped out on the verandah after breakfast, and, unclasping a large gold cigar case, inserted a cigar between his teeth.
He always had the appearance of having just come out of a Broadway barber shop with the visible traces of shave, shampoo, massage, and manicure patent upon his person.
His short, square figure was clothed in well-cut blue serge; a smart straw hat embellished his head, polished russet shoes his remarkably small feet. On his small fat fingers several heavy rings were conspicuous. And the odour of cologne exhaled from and subtly pervaded the ensemble.
Across the road, hub-deep in wet grass and weeds, he could see his wrecked runabout, glistening with raindrops.
He stood for a while on the verandah, both hands shoved deep into his pockets, his cigar screwed into his cheek. From time to time he jingled keys and loose coins in his pockets. Finally he sauntered down the steps and across the wet road to inspect the machine at closer view.
Contemplating it tranquilly, head on one side and his left eye closed to avoid the drifting cigar smoke, he presently became aware of a girl in a pink print dress leaning over the grey parapet of the bridge. And, picking his way among the puddles, he went toward her.
“Good morning, Miss Carew,” he said, taking off his straw hat.
She turned her head over her shoulder; the early sun glistened on his shiny, carefully parted hair and lingered in glory on a diamond scarf pin.
“Good morning,” she said, a little uncertainly, for the memory of their first meeting on the bridge had not entirely been forgotten.
“You had breakfast early,” he said.
“Yes.”
He kept his hat off; such little courtesies have their effect; also it was good for his hair which, he feared, had become a trifle thinner recently.
“It is beautiful weather,” said Mr. Brandes, squinting at her through his cigar smoke.
“Yes.” She looked down into the tumbling water.
“This is a beautiful country, isn’t it, Miss Carew?”
“Yes.”
With his head a little on one side he inspected her. There was only the fine curve of her cheek visible, and a white neck under the chestnut hair; and one slim, tanned hand resting on the stone parapet.
“Do you like motoring?” he asked.
She looked up:
“Yes… I have only been out a few times.”
“I’ll have another car up here in a few days. I’d like to take you out.”
She was silent.
“Ever go to Saratoga?” he inquired.
“No.”
“I’ll take you to the races – with your mother. Would you like to go?”
She remained silent so long that he became a trifle uneasy.
“With your mother,” he repeated, moving so he could see a little more of her face.
“I don’t think mother would go,” she said.
“Would she let you go?”
“I don’t think so.”
“There’s nothing wrong with racing,” he said, “if you don’t bet money on the horses.”
But Rue knew nothing about sport, and her ignorance as well as the suggested combination of Saratoga, automobile, and horse racing left her silent again.
Brandes sat down on the parapet of the bridge and held his straw hat on his fat knees.
“Then we’ll make it a family party,” he said, “your father and mother and you, shall we? And we’ll just go off for the day.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Will you go?”
“I – work in the mill.”
“Every day?”
“Yes.”
“How about Sunday?”
“We go to church… I don’t know… Perhaps we might go in the afternoon.”
“I’ll ask your father,” he said, watching the delicately flushed face with odd, almost sluggish persistency.
His grey-green eyes seemed hypnotised; he appeared unable to turn them elsewhere; and she, gradually becoming conscious of his scrutiny, kept her own eyes averted.
“What were you looking at in the water?” he asked.
“I was looking for our boat. It isn’t there. I’m afraid it has gone over the dam.”
“I’ll help you search for it,” he said, “when I come back from the village. I’m going to walk over and find somebody who’ll cart that runabout to the railroad station… You’re not going that way, are you?” he added, rising.
“No.”
“Then–” he lifted his hat high and put it on with care – “until a little later, Miss Carew… And I want to apologise for speaking so familiarly to you yesterday. I’m sorry. It’s a way we get into in New York. Broadway isn’t good for a man’s manners… Will you forgive me, Miss Carew?”
Embarrassment kept her silent; she nodded her head, and finally turned and looked at him. His smile was agreeable.
She smiled faintly, too, and rose.
“Until later, then,” he said. “This is the Gayfield
