The Adventures of Sally | Page 3

whom I, like Marc Antony, am no orator--I have been asked to
propose the health..."
"Who asked you?" It was the smaller of the Marvellous Murphys who
spoke. He was an unpleasant youth, snub-nosed and spotty. Still, he
could balance himself with one hand on an inverted ginger-ale bottle
while revolving a barrel on the soles of his feet. There is good in all of
us.
"I have been asked," repeated Mr. Faucitt, ignoring the unmannerly
interruption, which, indeed, he would have found it hard to answer, "to
propose the health of our charming hostess (applause), coupled with the
name of her brother, our old friend Fillmore Nicholas."

The gentleman referred to, who sat at the speaker's end of the table,
acknowledged the tribute with a brief nod of the head. It was a nod of
condescension; the nod of one who, conscious of being hedged about
by social inferiors, nevertheless does his best to be not unkindly. And
Sally, seeing it, debated in her mind for an instant the advisability of
throwing an orange at her brother. There was one lying ready to her
hand, and his glistening shirt-front offered an admirable mark; but she
restrained herself. After all, if a hostess yields to her primitive impulses,
what happens? Chaos. She had just frowned down the exuberance of
the rebellious Murphys, and she felt that if, even with the highest
motives, she began throwing fruit, her influence for good in that quarter
would be weakened.
She leaned back with a sigh. The temptation had been hard to resist. A
democratic girl, pomposity was a quality which she thoroughly disliked;
and though she loved him, she could not disguise from herself that,
ever since affluence had descended upon him some months ago, her
brother Fillmore had become insufferably pompous. If there are any
young men whom inherited wealth improves, Fillmore Nicholas was
not one of them. He seemed to regard himself nowadays as a sort of
Man of Destiny. To converse with him was for the ordinary human
being like being received in audience by some more than stand-offish
monarch. It had taken Sally over an hour to persuade him to leave his
apartment on Riverside Drive and revisit the boarding-house for this
special occasion; and, when he had come, he had entered wearing such
faultless evening dress that he had made the rest of the party look like a
gathering of tramp-cyclists. His white waistcoat alone was a silent
reproach to honest poverty, and had caused an awkward constraint right
through the soup and fish courses. Most of those present had known
Fillmore Nicholas as an impecunious young man who could make a
tweed suit last longer than one would have believed possible; they had
called him "Fill" and helped him in more than usually lean times with
small loans: but to-night they had eyed the waistcoat dumbly and
shrank back abashed.
"Speaking," said Mr. Faucitt, "as an Englishman--for though I have
long since taken out what are technically known as my 'papers' it was

as a subject of the island kingdom that I first visited this great
country--I may say that the two factors in American life which have
always made the profoundest impression upon me have been the
lavishness of American hospitality and the charm of the American girl.
To-night we have been privileged to witness the American girl in the
capacity of hostess, and I think I am right in saying, in asseverating, in
committing myself to the statement that his has been a night which
none of us present here will ever forget. Miss Nicholas has given us,
ladies and gentlemen, a banquet. I repeat, a banquet. There has been
alcoholic refreshment. I do not know where it came from: I do not ask
how it was procured, but we have had it. Miss Nicholas..."
Mr. Faucitt paused to puff at his cigar. Sally's brother Fillmore
suppressed a yawn and glanced at his watch. Sally continued to lean
forward raptly. She knew how happy it made the old gentleman to
deliver a formal speech; and though she wished the subject had been
different, she was prepared to listen indefinitely.
"Miss Nicholas," resumed Mr. Faucitt, lowering his cigar, "... But
why," he demanded abruptly, "do I call her Miss Nicholas?"
"Because it's her name," hazarded the taller Murphy.
Mr. Faucitt eyed him with disfavour. He disapproved of the marvellous
brethren on general grounds because, himself a resident of years
standing, he considered that these transients from the vaudeville stage
lowered the tone of the boarding-house; but particularly because the
one who had just spoken had, on his first evening in the place,
addressed him as "grandpa."
"Yes, sir," he said severely, "it is her name. But she has another name,
sweeter to those who love her, those who