the office. It was slightly--No, I will be frank with you, Harold, it was very irregular."
Harold also looked grave. "What could my father have meant by such a request as this to my mother?"
The silver haired senior partner flushed and spoke as if he were trying to break something gently.
"I don't understand it, my boy. But I think, indeed I prefer to think, that your father was not quite himself all this summer. A man like your father does not, in his right senses, find pleasure in the society of an ignorant, common little girl. He does not make a practise of keeping her at the office after hours, often until eight o'clock, or take her to restaurants and to the theater with him; not, at least, in a slanderous city like New York."
Harold flinched before McQuiston's meaning gaze and turned aside in pained silence. He knew, as a dramatist, that there are dark chapters in all men's lives, and this but too clearly explained why his father had stayed in town all summer instead of joining his family.
McQuiston asked if he should ring for Annie Wooley.
Harold drew himself up. "No. Why should I see her? I prefer not to. But with your permission, Mr. McQuiston, I will take charge of this request to my mother. It could only give her pain, and might awaken doubts in her mind."
"We hardly know," murmured the senior partner, "where an investigation would lead us. Technically, of course, I cannot agree with you. But if, as one of the executors of the will, you wish to assume personal responsibility for this bequest, under the circumstances--irregularities beget irregularities."
"My first duty to my father," said Harold, "is to protect my mother."
That afternoon McQuiston called Annie Wooley into his private office and told her that her services would not be needed any longer, and that in lieu of notice the clerk would give her two weeks' salary.
"Can I call up here for references?" Annie asked.
"Certainly. But you had better ask for me, personally. You must know there has been some criticism of you here in the office, Miss Wooley."
"What about?" Annie asked boldly.
"Well, a young girl like you cannot render so much personal service to her employer as you did to Mr. Wanning without causing unfavorable comment. To be blunt with you, for your own good, my dear young lady, your services to your employer should terminate in the office, and at the close of office hours. Mr. Wanning was a very sick man and his judgment was at fault, but you should have known what a girl in your station can do and what she cannot do."
The vague discomfort of months flashed up in little Annie. She had no mind to stand by and be lectured without having a word to say for herself.
"Of course he was sick, poor man!" she burst out. "Not as anybody seemed much upset about it. I wouldn't have given up my half-holidays for anybody if they hadn't been sick, no matter what they paid me. There wasn't anything in it for me."
McQuiston raised his hand warningly.
"That will do, young lady. But when you get another place, remember this: it is never your duty to entertain or to provide amusement for your employer."
He gave Annie a look which she did not clearly understand, although she pronounced him a nasty old man as she hustled on her hat and jacket.
When Annie reached home she found Willy Steen sitting with her mother and sister at the dining-room table. This was the first day that Annie had gone to the office since Wanning's death, and her family awaited her return with suspense.
"Hello yourself," Annie called as she came in and threw her handbag into an empty armchair.
"You're off early, Annie," said her mother gravely. "Has the will been read?"
"I guess so. Yes, I know it has. Miss Wilson got it out of the safe for them. The son came in. He's a pill."
"Was nothing said to you, daughter?"
"Yes, a lot. Please give me some tea, mother." Annie felt that her swagger was failing.
"Don't tantalize us, Ann," her sister broke in. "Didn't you get anything?"
"I got the mit, all right. And some back talk from the old man that I'm awful sore about."
Annie dashed away the tears and gulped her tea.
Gradually her mother and Willy drew the story from her. Willy offered at once to go to the office building and take his stand outside the door and never leave it until he had punched old Mr. McQuiston's face. He rose as if to attend to it at once, but Mrs. Wooley drew him to his chair again and patted his arm.
"It would only start talk and get the girl in trouble, Willy. When it's lawyers, folks in our station is helpless. I certainly believed that man when he sat here; you heard him yourself. Such a gentleman as he looked."
Willy thumped his great fist, still in punching position, down on his knee.
"Never you be fooled again, Mama Wooley. You'll never get anything out of a rich guy that he ain't signed up in the courts for. Rich is tight. There's no exceptions."
Annie shook her head.
"I didn't want anything out of him. He was a nice, kind man, and he had his troubles, I guess. He wasn't tight."
"Still," said Mrs. Wooley sadly, "Mr. Wanning had no call to hold out promises. I hate to be disappointed in a gentleman. You've had confining work for some time, daughter; a rest will do you good."
_Smart Set_, October 1919
PART II
REVIEWS AND ESSAYS
_Mark Twain_
If there is anything which should make an American sick and disgusted at the literary taste of his country, and almost swerve his allegiance to his flag it is that controversy between Mark Twain and Max O'Rell, in which the Frenchman proves himself a wit and a gentleman and the American shows himself little short of a clown and an all around tough. The squabble arose apropos of Paul Bourget's new book on America, "Outre Mer," a book which deals more fairly and generously with this country than any book yet written in a foreign tongue. Mr. Clemens did not like the book, and like all men of his class, and limited mentality, he cannot criticise without becoming personal and insulting. He cannot be scathing without being a blackguard. He tried to demolish a serious and well considered work by publishing a scurrilous, slangy and loosely written article about it. In this article Mr. Clemens proves very little against Mr. Bourget and a very great deal against himself. He demonstrates clearly that he is neither a scholar, a reader or a man of letters and very little of a gentleman. His ignorance of French literature is something appalling. Why, in these days it is as necessary for a literary man to have a wide knowledge of the French masterpieces as it is for him to have read Shakespeare or the Bible. What man who pretends to be an author can afford to neglect those models of style and composition. George Meredith, Thomas Hardy and Henry James excepted, the great living novelists are Frenchmen.
Mr.
