Harriet and the Piper | Page 5

there!" Isabelle said.
"I should hope so!" old Madame Carter remarked, pointedly. "At least
if there's any of OUR blood in his veins--but of course he's all Slocum.
They used to say of my Aunt Georgina that she never married because
the only man she ever loved was beneath her socially--"
Isabelle knew all about Aunt Georgina, and she looked wearily away.
Tony, sighing elaborately, drew upon himself the old lady's fire.
"Why don't you go over and join the young people, Mr. Pope?" she
asked, pleasantly. "Isabelle and I can manage very well without a
cavalier. You're tired, Isabelle--I can always tell it. Be glad that you're
too young to know what that means, Mr. Pope. Go over there--there's a
chair next to Nina. What shall we suspect him of, Isabelle--a quarrel
with pretty Miss Allen?--if he avoids the young people, and looks like
such a thunder-cloud."
Isabelle sighed patiently.
"The Bellamys are coming in for awhile," she observed, with deliberate
irrelevance, "and I hope they'll bring their Swami--or whatever he is,
with them. He must be a queer creature."
"He's not a Swami, he's an artist," Tony said, drawn into a casual
conversation much against his will. "Blondin--I've met him. He has a
studio up on Fifty-ninth Street--goes in for poetry and musical
interpretations and I don't know what else. Now I believe it's Indian
philosophies--I can't bear him, he makes me sick!"
He relapsed into gloomy silence, and Isabelle put into her laugh
something affectionate and soothing.
"He evidently lives by his wits," she suggested, "which is something
you have never had to do!"
Tony scowled again. It was part of his charm for her that he was the
spoiled darling of fortune. Handsome and young, and with no family

ties to restrain him, he had recently come into his own enormous
fortune. Isabelle knew that his New York apartment was fit for a prince,
that his man servant was perfection, that he had his own pet affectations
in the matter of monogrammed linen, Italian stationery, and specially
designed speed cars. His manner with servants, his ready check book,
his easy French, and his unruffled self-confidence in any imaginable
contingency, coupled with his youth, had strong attraction for a woman
conscious of the financial restrictions of her own early years and the
limitations of her public school education.
"Why don't you go to the club and dress now, and come back and dine
with us?" she said, in an undertone.
"Do you want me?" he asked, sulkily.
"I'm ASKING you!"
For answer he stood up, and smiled wistfully down upon her, with a
hesitancy she knew well how to interpret in his eyes. She should not
have asked him to dinner; he should not accept her invitation. Yet he
had been longing so thirstily for just that permission, and she had been
yearning so to give it! Happiness came back into both their hearts as he
turned to go, and she gave him just a quick touch of a warm little hand
in farewell. At such a moment, when her mood of heroism gave way to
melting, Isabelle had a desperate sort of hope that one more concession
would not alter the inevitable parting, whenever it came. This time--and
this time-- and this time--must positively be the last.
Other guests had come in, and Miss Field was extremely busy, and
Ward, helping her officially, was busy, too. She had indeed offered her
place to Isabelle, but Isabelle, spurred by her mother-in-law's criticism,
would not have disturbed her secretary for any consideration now.
"No, no--stay where you are, my dear!" she had said. And Miss Field
remained.
"Fun to have you down here!" said Ward, in her ear.

Harriet Field had an aside with a maid regarding hot water. Then she
gave Ward an indulgent, an older-sisterly glance. He was in years
almost twenty-two, but at twenty-seven the young woman felt him ages
her junior. Ward was broad and fair, his light brown hair was somewhat
tumbled about from the tennis; his fine, strong young throat showed
brown where the loose collar turned back. Even in his flat tennis shoes
he stood a clear two inches above Miss Field, although she was not a
small woman by any means. He was a joyous, irresponsible boy, and he
and his mother's secretary had always been good friends since the day,
four years ago now, when the silent, somewhat grave Harriet Field had
first made her appearance in the family. Ward was so much a child in
those days that Harriet used to go with him to pick out suits and shirts,
and to buy matinee seats for him and his school friends, and they
laughed now to remember his favourite and invariable luncheon order
of potato salad and French pastries. Nina