The Mischief Maker | Page 8

piece of serious work we
attempt, over every place we find our way into. They bang the
typewriters in our offices, they elbow us in the streets, they smile at us
from the next table at our workaday luncheon, they crowd the tubes and
the cars and the cabs in the streets. Why the deuce, Julien, can't we treat
them like those sage Orientals, and dump them all in one place where
they belong till we've finished our work?"
Julien lifted his tumbler of whiskey and soda to his lips and set it down
empty.
"In a way, you're right, Kendricks," he agreed. "You go too far, of
course, but I do believe that women hold too big a place in our lives. I
am one of the poor fools who goes to the wall to gratify the vanity of
one of them."
The journalist muttered a word under his breath which he would have
been very sorry to have seen in the pages of his paper. Julien had
moved to the open window. There had been a little break in his voice.
No one knew better than Kendricks that a very brilliant career was
broken.
"I think you're wise to go away for a time, Julien," he decided. "Look
here, it's six o'clock now. I have a taxicab waiting downstairs. Come
round to my rotten little restaurant in Soho and dine with me. Your
fellow can meet us at Charing-Cross with your things. You won't see a
soul you know where I'm going to take you."
Julien turned slowly away from the window. He was looking for the

last time from those rooms at the London which he had loved. The
setting sun had caught the dome of St. Paul's, was flashing from the
dark, placid water of the Thames. The roar of the great city was passing
from eastwards to westwards.
"You're a good chap, Kendricks," he declared. "I'll come along, with
pleasure. I shall have enough solitude later on. But listen, before we
go--listen, David, to a speech after your own heart."
Julien stood quite still for a moment. His pale face seemed suddenly
whiter, his eyes were full of fire.
"David," he said, "if ever the time comes in the future when I find that
a woman is beginning to claim a minute of my thoughts, a single one of
my emotions, to govern the slightest throb of my pulses, I'll take her by
the throat and I'll throw her out of what's left of my life as I would a rat
that had crept into my room. I've done with them. Curse all women!"
There was a silence. Kendricks leaned over to the fireplace and
knocked his pipe against the hearth. Then he suddenly paused.
"What's that?" he asked abruptly.
There was a soft knocking at the outside door.

CHAPTER IV
A BUNCH OF VIOLETS
Kendricks rose slowly to his feet. Julien was looking toward the door
with a frown upon his face. While they stood there the knocking was
repeated, still soft but a little more insistent. Julien hesitated no longer.
"I think," Kendricks said dryly, "that you had better see who is there."
The door was already opened. Julien seemed suddenly transformed into
a graven image. He said nothing, merely gazing at the woman who

walked calmly past him into the room. Kendricks, who also recognized
her, withdrew his pipe from his mouth. This was a situation indeed!
The woman, with her hands inside her muff, looked from one to the
other of the two men.
"Am I interrupting a very important interview?" she asked calmly. "If
not, perhaps you could spare me five minutes of your time, Sir Julien?"
Kendricks recovered himself at once.
"I'll wait for you downstairs, Julien," he declared.
He caught up his hat and departed, closing the door after him. Julien
was still motionless.
"Well?" she began.
He drew a little breath. He was beginning to regain his self-possession.
"My dear Mrs. Carraby," he said, "with your wonderful knowledge of
the world and its ways, will you permit me to point out that your
presence here is a little embarrassing to me and might, under certain
circumstances, be a good deal more embarrassing to you?"
Mrs. Carraby smiled. She stood where the sunlight touched her brown
hair and her quiet, pale face. She was one of those women who are
never afraid of the light. Her face was of that strange, self-contained
nature, colorless, apparently, yet capable of strange and rapid changes.
Just now the last glow of sunlight seemed to have found a skein of gold
in her hair, a queer gleam of light in her eyes. She stood there looking
at the man whom she had come to visit.
"Julien," she said, "I wanted a few words