The Day of Days | Page 3

policeman, then and
there; for mayhem was the least of the crimes contemplated by P.
Sybarite. But restraining himself, he did nothing more than disentangle
his legs, slip down from the tall stool, and approach Mr. Bross with an

outstretched hand.
"If that letter's for me," he said quietly, "give it here, please."
"Special d'liv'ry--just come," announced George, holding the letter high,
out of easy reach, while he read in exultant accents the traitorous
address: "'Perceval Sybarite, Esquire, Care of Messrs. Whigham and
Wimper'! O you Perceval--Esquire!"
"Give me my letter," P. Sybarite insisted without raising his voice.
"Gawd knows I don't want it," protested George. "I got no truck with
your swell friends what know your real name and write to you on
per-fumed paper with monograms and everything."
He held the envelope close to his nose and sniffed in ecstasy until it
was torn rudely from his grasp.
"Here!" he cried resentfully. "Where's your manners?... Perceval!"
Dumb with impotent rage, P. Sybarite climbed back on his stool, while
George sat down at his desk, lighted a Sweet Caporal (it was after three
o'clock and both the partners were gone for the day) and with a leer
watched the bookkeeper carefully slit the envelope and withdraw its
enclosures.
Ignoring him, P. Sybarite ran his eye through the few lines of notably
careless feminine handwriting:
MY DEAR PERCEVAL,--
Mother & I had planned to take some friends to the theatre to-night and
bought a box for the Knickerbocker several weeks ago, but now we
have decided to go to Mrs. Hadley-Owen's post-Lenten masquerade
ball instead, and as none of our friends can use the tickets, I thought
possibly you might like them. They say Otis Skinner is wonderful. Of
course you may not care to sit in a stage box without a dress suit, but
perhaps you won't mind. If you do, maybe you know somebody else
who could go properly dressed.
Your aff'te cousin,
MAE ALYS.
The colour deepened in P. Sybarite's cheeks, and instantaneous
pin-pricks of fire enlivened his long-suffering eyes. But again he said
nothing. And since his eyes were downcast, George was unaware of
their fitful incandescence.
Puffing vigorously at his cigarette, he rocked back and forth on the
hind legs of his chair and crowed in jubilation: "Perceval! O you great,

big, beautiful Perc'!"
P. Sybarite made a motion as if to tear the note across, hesitated, and
reconsidered. Through a long minute he sat thoughtfully examining the
tickets presented him by his aff'te cousin.
In his ears rang the hideous tumult of George's joy:
"_Per-ce-val!_"
Drawing to him one of the Whigham & Wimper letterheads, P.
Sybarite dipped a pen, considered briefly, and wrote rapidly and freely
in a minute hand:
MY DEAR MAE ALYS:--
Every man has his price. You know mine. Pocketing false pride, I
accept your bounty with all the gratitude and humility becoming in a
poor relation. And if arrested for appearing in the box without evening
clothes, I promise solemnly to brazen it out, pretend that I bought the
tickets myself--or stole them--and keep the newspapers ignorant of our
kinship. Fear not--trust me--and enjoy the masque as much as I mean to
enjoy "Kismet."
And if you would do me the greatest of favours--should you ever again
find an excuse to write me on any matter, please address me by the
initial of my ridiculous first name only; it is of course impossible for
me to live down the deep damnation of having been born a Sybarite;
but the indulgence of my friends can save me the further degradation of
being known as Perceval.
With thanks renewed and profound, I remain, all things considered,
Remotely yours,
P. SYBARITE.
This he sealed and addressed in a stamped envelope: then thrust his pen
into a raw but none the less antique potato; covered the red and black
inkwells; closed the ledger; locked the petty-cash box and put it away;
painstakingly arranged the blotters, paste-pot, and all the clerical
paraphernalia of his desk; and slewed round on his stool to blink
pensively at Mr. Bross.
That gentleman, having some time since despaired of any response to
his persistent baiting, was now preoccupied with a hand-mirror and
endeavours to erase the smudge of marking-ink from his face by means
of a handkerchief which he now and again moistened in an engagingly
natural and unaffected manner.

"It's no use, George," observed P. Sybarite presently. "If you're in
earnest in these public-spirited endeavours to--how would you put
it?--to remove the soil from your map, take a tip from an old hand and
go to soap and water. I know it's painful, but, believe me, it's the only
way."
George looked up in some surprise.
"Why, there you are, little Bright Eyes!" he exclaimed with spirit. "I
was beginnin'