Little Eve Edgarton | Page 5

cavorts perpetually in the gold of her hair or the blue of her eyes, because rain or shine, congeniality or noncongeniality, her energy hasn't any other place to go. But I tell you it means some compliment to a man when in a bleak, dour, work-worn personality like the old Botany dame's for instance he finds himself able to lure out into occasional facial ecstasy the amazing vitality which has been slaving for Science alone these past fifty years. Mushrooms are what the old Botany dame is interested in, Barton. Really, Barton, I think you'd be surprised to see how extraordinarily beautiful the old Botany dame can be about mushrooms! Gleam of the first faint streak of dawn, freshness of the wildest woodland dell, verve of the long day's strenuous effort, flush of sunset and triumph, zeal of the student's evening lamp, puckering, daredevil smile of reckless experiment--"
"Say! Are you a preacher?" mocked the Younger Man sarcastically.
"No more than any old man," conceded the Older Man with unruffled good-nature.
"Old man?" repeated Barton, skeptically. In honest if reluctant admiration for an instant, he sat appraising his companion's extraordinary litheness and agility. "Ha!" he laughed. "It would take a good deal older head than yours to discover what that Miss Edgarton's beauty is!"
"Or a good deal younger one, perhaps," suggested the Older Man judicially. "But--but speaking of Miss Edgarton--" he began all over again.
"Oh--drat Miss Edgarton!" snarled the Younger Man viciously. "You've got Miss Edgarton on the brain! Miss Edgarton this! Miss Edgarton that! Miss Edgarton! Who in blazes is Miss Edgarton, anyway?"
"Miss Edgarton? Miss Edgarton?" mused the Older Man thoughtfully. "Who is she? Miss Edgarton? Why--no one special--except--just my daughter."
Like a fly plunged all unwittingly upon a sheet of sticky paper the Younger Man's hands and feet seemed to shoot out suddenly in every direction.
"Good Heavens!" he gasped. "Your daughter?" he mumbled. "Your daughter?" Every other word or phrase in the English language seemed to be stricken suddenly from his lips. "Your--your--daughter?" he began all over again. "Why--I--I--didn't know your name was Edgarton!" he managed finally to articulate.
An expression of ineffable triumph, and of triumph only, flickered in the Older Man's face.
"Why, that's just what I've been saying," he reiterated amiably. "You don't know anything!"
Fatuously the Younger Man rose to his feet, still struggling for speech--any old speech--a sentence, a word, a cough, anything, in fact, that would make a noise.
"Well, if little Miss Edgarton is--little Miss Edgarton," he babbled idiotically, "who in creation--are you?"
"Who am I?" stammered the Older Man perplexedly. As if the question really worried him, he sagged back a trifle against the sustaining wall of the house, and stood with his hands thrust deep in his pockets once more. "Who am I?" he repeated blandly. Again one eyebrow lifted. Again one side of his thin-lipped mouth twitched ever so slightly to the right. "Why, I'm just a man, Mr. Barton," he grinned very faintly, "who travels all over the world for the sake of whatever amusement he can get out of it. And some afternoons, of course, I get a good deal more amusement out of it--than I do others. Eh?"
Furiously the red blood mounted into the Young Man's cheeks. "Oh, I say, Edgarton!" he pleaded. Mirthlessly, wretchedly, a grin began to spread over his face. "Oh, I say!" he faltered. "I am a fool!"
The Older Man threw back his head and started to laugh.
[Illustration: 'I am riding,' she murmured almost inaudibly]
At the first cackling syllable of the laugh, with appalling fatefulness Eve Edgarton herself loomed suddenly on the scene, in her old slouch hat, her gray flannel shirt, her weather-beaten khaki Norfolk and riding-breeches, looking for all the world like an extraordinarily slim, extraordinarily shabby little boy just starting out to play. Up from the top of one riding-boot the butt of a revolver protruded slightly.
With her heavy black eyelashes shadowing somberly down across her olive-tinted cheeks, she passed Barton as if she did not even see him and went directly to her father.
"I am riding," she murmured almost inaudibly.
"In this heat?" groaned her father.
"In this heat," echoed Eve Edgarton.
"There will surely be a thunder-storm," protested her father.
"There will surely be a thunder-storm," acquiesced Eve Edgarton.
Without further parleying she turned and strolled off again.
Just for an instant the Older Man's glance followed her. Just for an instant with quizzically twisted eyebrows his glance flashed back sardonically to Barton's suffering face. Then very leisurely he began to laugh again.
But right in the middle of the laugh--as if something infinitely funnier than a joke had smitten him suddenly--he stopped short, with one eyebrow stranded half-way up his forehead.
"Eve!" he called sharply. "Eve! Come back here a minute!"
Very laggingly from around the piazza corner the girl reappeared.
"Eve," said her father quite abruptly, "this is Mr. Barton! Mr. Barton, this