Chapter 13: What Tony Built

By a caprice of chance, it was that day Masterson came; almost at the hour when Adriance, tired and exultant, was rearing a structure of good dreams as he ate his cheap food at the counter of the lunch-cart under the shadow of the huge electric sign bearing his name.

Morning had arrived at noon, when Elsie was called to her front door by a clang of the bell; one of those small gongs favored years ago, that snap with a pulled handle. Down at the end of the straight path she heard laughter and the high-pitched voices of women above the soft roll of an automobile’s motor. Surprised, she opened the door.

Before her, on the high, absurd little porch, a man in motoring furs stood and steadied himself by grasping the snow-powdered railing. Confronted by a woman, he lifted his cap, and a sunbeam piercing the old roof gleamed across his close-clipped auburn curls.

“I was told at the little shop that a chauffeur lived here,” he explained, pleasantly enough. The glare of the sun on snow dazzled his first vision. “Our compressed air system is out of order, and my man forgot to put in a hand-pump. I——”

His voice trailed away into silence. He had seen her face.

“Elsie?” he doubted. “Elsie?”

She smiled at him with her serene composure, although deep color swept over her face with the startled movement of her blood.

“Mrs. Adriance,” she corrected. “Will you not come in? I am sorry Mr. Adriance is not at home.”

He crossed the threshold mechanically, his gaze not leaving her.

“I did not believe it,” he exclaimed, under his breath. “I thought Lucille—lied.”

“Mr. Masterson!”

He shook his head in deprecation of offense, continuing his scrutiny of her. He had the appearance of a man fevered by drink or illness; his eyes were bright behind a surface glaze, his face was haggard, yet flushed. His features, always of a fineness almost suggesting effeminacy, had sharpened to an extreme delicacy that promised little for health or endurance.

“They told me a chauffeur lived here,” he said, presently.

“Anthony is a chauffeur,” she answered, compassion for the change in him making her voice very gentle. “But I am afraid we have no automobile tools to lend. All such things are kept at the factory or in the machine he drives.”

He swept aside the subject of automobiles with an impatient movement of his hand, and slowly turned to look over the room.

It had gathered much of comfort during those last months, that room; and something more. Scarlet-flowered curtains hung at the windows, echoing the vivid note of scarlet salvia in bloom on the sills. A shelf of books had been put up; beneath, a small table held the jade-and-ivory chessmen drawn up in battle array on their field. As always, the fire glowed, and on the hearth the cat stretched drowsily. Cheer dwelt in the place, the atmosphere of comradeship and assured love; and the pulse of it all was the girl who stood, tranquil of regard, rich in life and beautiful with health, princess in her own domain.