it was something else that made the room remarkable, and Myra’s eyes scarcely rested on the woman, so engrossed was she in another feature of her surroundings. On the carpet, on the chairs and sofas, on the great canopied bed and on the soft Angora rug in front of the fire sat and sprawled and slept a great army of white poodle dogs. There must have been almost two dozen of them, with curly hair twisting in front of their wistful eyes and wide yellow bows flaunting from their necks. As Myra and Knowleton entered a stir went over the dogs; they raised one-and-twenty cold black noses in the air and from one-and-twenty little throats went up a great clatter of staccato barks until the room was filled with such an uproar that Myra stepped back in alarm.
But at the din the somnolent fat lady’s eyes trembled open and in a low husky voice that was in itself oddly like a bark she snapped out: “Hush that racket!” and the clatter instantly ceased. The two or three poodles round the fire turned their silky eyes on each other reproachfully, and lying down with little sighs faded out on the white Angora rug; the tousled ball on the lady’s lap dug his nose into the crook of an elbow and went back to sleep, and except for the patches of white wool scattered about the room Myra would have thought it all a dream.
“Mother,” said Knowleton after an instant’s pause, “this is Myra.”
From the lady’s lips flooded one low husky word: “Myra?”
“She’s visiting us, I told you.”
Mrs. Whitney raised a large arm and passed her hand across her forehead wearily.
“Child!” she said—and Myra started, for again the voice was like a low sort of growl—“you want to marry my son Knowleton?”
Myra felt that this was putting the tonneau before the radiator, but she nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Whitney.”
“How old are you?” This very suddenly.
“I’m twenty-one, Mrs. Whitney.”
“Ah—and you’re from Cleveland?”
This was in what was surely a series of articulate barks.
“Yes, Mrs. Whitney.”
“Ah——”
Myra was not certain whether this last ejaculation was conversation or merely a groan, so she did not answer.
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t appear downstairs,” continued Mrs. Whitney; “but when we’re in the East I seldom leave this room and my dear little doggies.”
Myra nodded and a conventional health question was trembling on her lips when she caught Knowleton’s warning glance and checked it.
“Well,” said Mrs. Whitney with an air of finality, “you seem like a very nice girl. Come in again.”
“Good-night, Mother,” said Knowleton.
“’Night!” barked Mrs. Whitney drowsily, and her eyes sealed gradually up as her head receded back again into the cushions.
Knowleton held open the door and Myra feeling a bit blank left the room. As they walked down the corridor she heard a burst of furious sound behind them; the noise of the closing door had again roused the poodle dogs.
When they went downstairs they found Mr. Whitney already seated at the dinner table.
“Utterly charming, completely delightful!” he exclaimed, beaming nervously. “One big family, and you the jewel of it, my dear.”
Myra smiled, Knowleton frowned and Mr. Whitney tittered.
“It’s been lonely here,” he continued; “desolate, with only us three. We expect you to bring sunlight and warmth, the peculiar radiance and efflorescence of youth. It will be quite delightful. Do you sing?”
“Why—I have. I mean, I do, some.”
He clapped his hands enthusiastically.
“Splendid! Magnificent! What do you sing? Opera? Ballads? Popular music?”
“Well, mostly popular music.”
“Good; personally I prefer popular music. By the way, there’s a dance tonight.”
“Father,” demanded Knowleton sulkily, “did you go and invite a crowd here?”
“I had Monroe call up a few people—just some of the neighbors,” he explained to Myra. “We’re all very friendly hereabouts; give informal things continually. Oh, it’s quite delightful.”
Myra caught Knowleton’s eye and gave him a sympathetic glance. It was obvious that he had wanted to be alone with her this first evening and was quite put out.
“I want them to meet Myra,” continued his father. “I want them to know this delightful jewel we’ve added to our little household.”
“Father,” said Knowleton suddenly, “eventually of course Myra and I will want to live here with you and Mother, but for the first two or three years I think an apartment in New York would be more the thing for us.”
Crash! Mr. Whitney had raked across the tablecloth with his fingers and swept his silver to a jangling heap on the floor.
“Nonsense!” he cried furiously, pointing a tiny finger at his son. “Don’t talk that utter nonsense! You’ll live here, do you understand me? Here! What’s a home without children?”
“But, Father——”
In his excitement Mr. Whitney rose and a faint unnatural color crept into his sallow face.
“Silence!” he shrieked. “If you expect one bit of help from me you can have it under my roof—nowhere else! Is that clear? As for you, my exquisite young lady,” he continued, turning his wavering finger on Myra, “you’d better understand that the best thing you can do is to decide to settle down right here. This is my home, and I mean to keep it so!”
He stood then for a moment on his tiptoes, bending furiously indignant glances first on one, then on the other, and then suddenly he turned and skipped from the room.
“Well,” gasped Myra, turning to Knowleton in amazement, “what do you know about that!”
III
Some hours later she crept into bed in a great state of restless discontent. One thing she knew—she was not going to live in this house. Knowleton would have to make his father see reason to the extent of giving them an apartment in the city. The sallow little man made her nervous; she was sure Mrs. Whitney’s dogs would haunt her dreams; and there was a general casualness in the chauffeur, the butler, the maids and even the guests she had met that night, that did not in the least coincide with her ideas on the conduct of a big estate.
She had lain there an hour perhaps when she was startled from a slow reverie by a sharp cry which seemed to proceed from the adjoining room. She sat up in bed and listened, and in a minute it was repeated. It sounded exactly like the plaint of a weary child stopped summarily by the placing of a hand over its mouth. In the dark silence her bewilderment shaded gradually off into uneasiness. She waited for the cry to recur, but straining her ears she heard only the intense crowded
