Diane of the Green Van | Page 3

to have another match."

"Your cigarette is burning splendidly," hinted Diane coolly, "and
you've a match in your hand."
For a tense, magnetic instant the keen blue eyes flashed a curious
message of pleading and apology, then the aviator fell to whistling
softly, struck the match and finding no immediate function for it,
dropped it in the water.
"I don't in the least mind floating about," he stammered, his eyes
sparkling with silent laughter, "and possibly I'll make shore directly;
but Lord love us! don't send the sharp-shooteress--please! Better
abandon me to my fate."
Slim and straight as the silver birches by the water, Diane hurried away
up the lake-path.
"The young man," she flashed with a stamp of her foot, "is a very great
fool."
"Johnny," she said a little later to a little, bewhiskered man with cheeks
like hard red winter apples, "there's a sociable, happy-go-lucky young
man perched on an aeroplane in the middle of our lake. Better take a
rope and rescue him. I don't think he knows enough about aeroplanes to
be flying so promiscuously about the country."
Johnny Jutes collected a band of enthusiasts and departed.
"Nobody there, Miss Diane," reported young Allan Carmody upon
returning; "leastwise nobody that couldn't take care of himself. Only a
chap buzzin' almighty swift over the trees. Swooped down like a hawk
when he saw us an' waved his hand, laughin' fit to kill himself, an'
dropped Johnny a fiver an' gee! Miss Diane, but he could drive some!
Swift and cool-headed as a bird. He's whizzin' off like mad toward the
Sherrill place, with his motor a-hummin' an' a-purrin' like a cat. Leanish,
sunburnt chap with eyes that 'pear to be laughin' a lot."
Diane's eyes flashed resentfully and as she walked away to the house
her expression was distinctly thoughtful.

CHAPTER II
AN INDOOR TEMPEST
"If you're broke," said Starrett, leering, "why don't you marry your
cousin?"
Carl Granberry stared insolently across the table.
"Pass the buck," he reminded coolly. "And pour yourself some more
whiskey. You're only a gentleman when you're drunk, Starrett. You're
sober now."
Payson and Wherry laughed. Starrett, not yet in the wine-flush of his
heavy courtesy, passed the buck with a frown of annoyance.
A log blazed in the library fireplace, staining with warm, rich shadows
the square-paneled ceiling of oak and the huge war-beaten slab of
table-wood about which the men were gathered, both feudal relics
brought to the New York home of Carl Granberry's uncle from a ruined
castle in Spain.
"If you've gone through all your money," resumed Starrett offensively,
"I'd marry Diane."
"Miss Westfall!" purred Carl correctively. "You've forgotten, Starrett,
my cousin's name is Westfall, Miss Westfall."
"Diane!" persisted Starrett.
With one of his incomprehensible whims, Carl swept the cards into a
disorderly heap and shrugged.
"I'm through," he said curtly. "Wherry, take the pot. You need it."
"Damned irregular!" snapped Starrett sourly.

"So?" said Carl, and stared the recalcitrant into sullen silence. Rising,
he crossed to the fire, his dark, impudent eyes lingering reflectively
upon Starrett's moody face.
"Starrett," he mused, "I wonder what I ever saw in you anyway. You're
infernally shallow and alcoholic and your notions of poker are as
distorted as your morals. I'm not sure but I think you'd cheat." He
shrugged wearily. "Get out," he said collectively. "I'm tired."
Starrett rose, sneering. There had been a subtle change to-night in his
customary attitude of parasitic good-fellowship.
"I'm tired, too!" he exclaimed viciously. "Tired of your infernal whims
and insults. You're as full of inconsistencies as a lunatic. When you
ought to be insulted, you laugh, and when a fellow least expects it, you
blaze and rave and stare him out of countenance. And I'm tired of
drifting in here nights at your beck and call, to be sent home like a kid
when your mood changes. Mighty amusing for us! If you're not
vivisecting our lives and characters for us in that impudent,
philosophical way you have, you're preaching a sermon that you
couldn't--and wouldn't--follow yourself. And then you end by messing
everybody's cards in a heap and sending us home with the last pot in
Dick Wherry's pocket whether it belongs there or not. I tell you, I'm
tired of it."
Carl laughed, a singularly musical laugh with a note of mockery in it.
"Who," he demanded elaborately, "who ever heard of a treasonous
barnacle before? A barnacle, Starrett, adheres and adheres, parasite to
the end as long as there's liquid, even as you adhered while the ship
was keeled in gold. Nevertheless, you're right. I'm all of what you say
and more that you haven't brains enough to fathom. And some that you
can't fathom is to my credit--and some of it isn't. As, for instance, my
inexplicable poker penchant for you."