Chapter 16

During the rushing Easter vacation, Eleanor had seen less of Harold Phipps than Quin had feared. Considering the subliminal state of understanding at which they had arrived in their voluminous letters, it was a little awkward to account for the fact that she had found so little time to devote exclusively to him. They had met at dances and had had interrupted tête-à-têtes in secluded corners, and several stolen interviews in the park; but her duties as hostess to two lively guests had left little time for the exacting demands of platonic friendship. Now that the girls were gone, she had counted on this last Sunday at Uncle Ranny’s as a time when she could see Harold under proper conditions and make amends for any seeming neglect.

But when Sunday came, and she found herself seated at Aunt Flo’s small, perfectly appointed dinner-table, she found it increasingly difficult to keep her mind upon the brilliant and cynical conversation of her most admired friend. To be sure, they exchanged glances freighted with meaning, and as usual her vanity was touched by the subtle homage of one who apparently regarded the rest of humanity with such cold indifference. He was the first person, except Papa Claude, who had ever taken her and her ambitions seriously, and she was profoundly grateful. But, notwithstanding the fact that she felt honored and distinguished by his friendship, she sometimes, as now, found it difficult to follow the trend of his conversation.

An hour before she had received an agonized note from her grandfather saying that nothing had been accomplished, and that, unless she could use her influence “in a quarter that should be nameless, all, all would be lost!”

Her dark, brooding eyes swept the table with its profusion of silver and cut glass, its affectation of candle-light when the world without was a blaze of sunshine. She looked at Uncle Ranny, with his nervous, twitching lips and restless, dissatisfied eyes; at Aunt Flo, delicate, affected, futile; at Harold Phipps, easy, polished, serene. What possible chance would there be of rousing people like that to sympathy for poor, visionary Papa Claude? For three days the dread of having to fulfil her promise had hung over her like a pall. Now that the time was approaching, the mere thought of it made her head hot and her hands cold.

“Cheer up, Nell!” her uncle rallied her. “Don’t let your misdeeds crush you. You’ll be in high favor again by the time you get back from Baltimore.”

“Are you sharing my unpopularity with the family?” asked Harold.

Eleanor confessed that she was. “I’ve been in disgrace ever since my party,” she said. “Did Uncle Ranny tell you the way we shocked the aunties?”

“I did,” said Mr. Ranny; “also the way sister Isobel looked when little Kittie Mason shook the shimmy. It’s a blessing mother did not see her; I veritably believe she would have spanked her.”

“A delicious household,” pronounced Harold. “What a pity they have banished me. I should so love to put them in a play!”

“But I wouldn’t let you!” Eleanor cried, so indignantly that the other three laughed.

“Neither bond nor free,” Harold said, pursing his lips and lifting his brows. “A little pagan at home and a puritan abroad. How are we going to emancipate her, Ran?”

“You needn’t worry,” said Mrs. Ranny, lazily lighting her cigarette. “Eleanor is a lot more subtle than any one thinks; she’ll emancipate herself before long.”

Eleanor was grateful to Aunt Flo. She was tired of being considered an ingénue. She wanted to be treated with the dignity her twenty years demanded.

“I have a plan for her,” said Harold, with a proprietary air. “Who knows but this time next year she will be playing in ‘Phantom Love’?”

Eleanor’s wandering thoughts came to instant attention.

“Is there a part I could play?” she asked eagerly, leaning across the table with her chin on her clasped hands.

Harold watched her with an amused smile. “What would you say if I told you I had written a rôle especially for you? Would you dare to take it?”

Eleanor closed her eyes and drew a breath of rapture.

“Would I? There isn’t anything in heaven or earth that could prevent me!”

“Mrs. Bartlett,” said the trim maid, “there’s a young man at the front door.”

The conversation hung suspended while Mrs. Ranny inquired concerning his mission.

“It’s the young man that brings messages from the office, ma’am.”

“Oh, it must be Quin,” said Mr. Ranny, rising and going into the hall. “Did you want to see me about something?”

Eleanor held her breath to listen. Was it possible that that absurd boy had actually followed her up to the Bartletts’ with the intention of going with them on their expedition? Hadn’t it been enough for him to come to her party in that idiotic coat, with his shirt-front bulging and his face swollen? Of course she liked him—she liked him immensely; but he had no right to impose upon her kindness, to make a pretext of his interest in Papa Claude to force himself in where he was not invited. Now that he had got into the scrape, he would have to get out of it as best he could. She was resolved not to lift a finger to help him.

“Oh! I didn’t understand”—Mr. Ranny’s voice could be heard from the hall, with a cordial emphasis evidently intended to cover a blunder. “Come right in the dining-room; we are just having coffee. You know these ladies, of course, and this is Captain Phipps, Mr. Graham.”

Quin came into the room awkwardly, half extended his hand, then withdrew it hastily as Harold, without rising from the table, gave him a curt nod and said condescendingly:

“How do you do, Graham?”

Eleanor’s quick understanding glance swept from the erect, embarrassed, boyish figure in the badly fitting cheap suit and obviously new tan shoes, to the perfectly groomed officer lounging with nonchalant grace with his crossed arms on the table. A curious idea occurred to her: Suppose they should change places, and Harold should stand there in those dreadful clothes Quin wore, and receive a snub from an ex-officer—would he be able to take it with such simple dignity and give no sign of his chagrin except by the slow color that mounted to his neck and brow? She, who a moment before had been ready to annihilate the intruder, rose impulsively and held out a friendly hand.