the whole prospect was
very good to look at, indeed. Taken in conjunction with the fact that
one had no business whatever on hand, it gave one a sense of delightful
freedom to look out on the green lawn and the gay gardens, on the
brook and the tennis and croquet courts, and on the purple-hazed,
wooded hills beyond; it was good to fill one's lungs with country air
and to realize for a little while what a delightful world this is; to see
young people wandering about out there by twos and by threes, and to
meet with so many other people of affairs enjoying leisure similar to
one's own.
Of course, this wasn't a really fashionable place, being supported
entirely by men who had made their own money; but there was
Princeman, for instance, a fine chap and very keen; a well-set-up fellow,
black-haired and black-eyed, and of a quick, nervous disposition; one
of precisely the kind of energy which Turner liked to see. McComas,
too, with his deep red hair and his tendency to freckles, and his frank
smile with all the white teeth behind it, was a corking good fellow; and
alive. McComas was in the furniture line, a maker of cheap stuff which
was shipped in solid trains of carload lots from a factory that covered
several acres. The other men he noticed around the place seemed to be
of about the same stamp. He had never been anywhere that the men
averaged so well.
As he went down-stairs, McComas introduced his wife, already
gowned for the evening. She was a handsome woman, of the sort who
would wear a different stunning gown every night for two weeks and
then go on to the next place. Well, she had a right to this extravagance.
Besides it is good for a man's business to have his wife dressed
prosperously. A man who is getting on in the world ought to have a
handsome wife. If she is the right kind, of Miss Stevens' type, say, she
is a distinct asset.
After dinner, Miss Westlake and Miss Hastings waylaid him on the
porch.
[Illustration: They waylaid him on the porch]
"I suppose, of course, you are going to take part in the bowling
tournament to-night," suggested Miss Westlake with the engaging
directness allowable to family friendship.
"I suppose so, although I didn't know there was one. Where is it to be
held?"
"Oh, just down the other side of the brook, beyond the croquet grounds.
We have a tournament every week, and a prize cup for the best score in
the season. It's lots of fun. Do you bowl?"
"Not very much," Mr. Turner confessed; "but if you'll just keep me
posted on all these various forms of recreation, you may count on my
taking a prominent share in them."
"All right," agreed Miss Hastings, very vivaciously taking the
conversation away from Miss Westlake. "We'll constitute ourselves a
committee of two to lay out a program for you."
"Fine," he responded, bending on the fragile Miss Hastings a smile so
pleasant that it made her instantly determine to find out something
about his family and commercial standing. "What time do we start on
our mad bowling career?"
"They'll be drifting over in about a half-hour," Miss Westlake told him,
with a speculative sidelong glance at her dearest girl friend.
"Everybody starts out for a stroll in some other direction, as if bowling
was the least of their thoughts, but they all wind up at the alleys. I'll
show you." A slight young man of the white-trousered faction, as
distinguished from the dinner-coat crowd, passed them just then. "Oh,
Billy," called Miss Westlake, and introduced the slight young man,
who proved to be her brother, to Mr. Turner, at the same time
wreathing her arm about the waist of her dear companion. "Come on,
Vivian; let's go get our wraps," and the girls, leaving "Billy" and Mr.
Turner together, scurried away.
The two young men looked at each other dubiously, though each had
an earnest desire to please. They groped for human understanding, and
suddenly that clammy, discouraged feeling spread its muffling wall
between them. Billy was the first to recover in part.
"Charming weather, isn't it?" he observed with a polite smile.
Mr. Turner opined that it was, the while delving into Mr. Westlake's
mental workshop and finding it completely devoid of tools, patterns or
lumber.
"The girls are just going to take me over to bowl," Mr. Turner ventured
desperately after a while. "Do you bowl very much?"
"Oh, I usually fill in," stated Mr. Westlake; "but really, I'm a very poor
hand at it. I seem to be a poor hand at most everything," and he laughed
with engaging candor, as if somehow this were creditable.
The
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