The Flyers | Page 3

Scudaway.
"I recall the next day more vividly," he interrupted.
"Changing the subject," inserted the amiable bore, his moon-face
beaming, "I see that the Thursdales have opened their place across the
ravine. Isn't it rather early for them to leave town for the summer?"
"They come out every year about this time."
"Lot of people will be opening their places next week. I saw Mrs.
Gorgus to-day. She says they're putting her house in shape---"
"Impossible!" cried Mrs. Tanner. "It hasn't any shape."
"The only thing that could put the Gorgus house in shape is an
earthquake. Who was the architect of that abortion?" demanded Rolfe.
"Denison. He's an impressionist."
"The Thursdales have a new French car. Have you seen it? Eleanor ran
over here in it this afternoon with her Englishman. Showing off both of
her novelties at once, d'ye see?" said Carter, the tennis player.
"I understand the thing's a go--sure go," said the big man. "In the fall
some time. He's a rather decent chap, too."
"And, what's better, if his brother and his cousin should happen to die,
he'll be a duke."
"If they're as healthy as he seems to be, there'll be nothing doing for
him."
A good-looking young fellow, who had been staring at the fire all
evening, moved uneasily in his lounging chair. Several quick glances
were sent to where he sat moodily apart from the others, and then

surreptitious winks and nudges were exchanged.
"Joe is as crazy in love with her as ever, poor devil," whispered Rolfe.
Gradually the group of gossips came closer together over the table top;
the conversation was continued in more subdued tones.
"They're discussing me, damn 'em," said the moody young man to
himself. "I suppose they're pitying me. Damn cats! But I'll show 'em a
thing or two they're not looking for before long." He looked at his
watch for the twentieth time in an hour and scowled at the drenched
window-panes across the way. For some reason this exceedingly nice-
looking young man was in a state of extreme nervousness, a condition
which, luckily for him, he was able to keep within himself.
And this was what Mrs. Scudaway was saying in an urgent undertone
to the half dozen who leaned across the big table: "Joe is a mighty good
sort, and I'm sorry for him. He's been good enough for Eleanor
Thursdale ever since she came out two years ago, and I don't see why
he should cease being good enough for her now. This Englishman
hasn't any more money and he isn't half as good looking. He's English,
that's all. Her mother's crazy to have a look in at some of those London
functions she's read so much about. She's an awful ass, don't you think,
Tommy?"
"Ya-as," said the blase man; "such as she is."
"Mighty hard lines, this thing of being an ordinary American,"
lamented the placid bore.
"One might just as well be called Abraham or Isaac," reflected Carter.
"No romantic young lover would live through the first chapter with
either of those names," said pretty Miss Ratliff, who read every novel
that came out.
"Dauntless has been terribly out of humour for the past week or two,"
said Carter. "He's horribly cut up over the affair,--grouchy as blazes,
and flocks by himself all the time. That's not like him, either."

"He's the sweetest boy I know," commented little Mrs. Tanner, whose
husband had barked about the midiron.
"I've heard he's the only man you ever really loved," murmured Rolfe,
close to her ear.
"Nonsense! I've known him all my life," she replied, with quick and
suspicious resentment.
"Trite phrase," scoffed he. "I'll wager my head that every woman living
has uttered that same worn expression a hundred times. 'Known him all
my life!' Ha, ha! It's a stock apology, my dear. Women, good and bad,
trade under that flag. Please, to oblige me, get a fresh excuse."
"The most ignorant duffer in the world could lay you a stymie if---" the
loud-voiced golfer was complaining just at that instant. The man he
was addressing was nodding his head politely and at the same time
trying to hear what was being said at the round table.
"Joe Dauntless is good enough for anybody's daughter," vouchsafed the
blase man in corduroys.
"He's a ripping good fellow," again said Mrs. Scudaway.
"Mrs. Thursdale's got an English governess for her kids, an English
butler, an English bull terrier, and a new Cobden-Sanderson binding on
that antique History of England she talks so much about," observed
Carter.
"And she's beginning to wear her evening gowns on the street in the
morning. Besides, her shoes lob over at the heels," remarked the rangy
Mrs. Carter.
"Yes, she's getting to be thoroughly English. I've noticed a tendency