The Port of Missing Men | Page 8

man in the army was a better judge of a
cavalry horse, and if a Wagner recital bored him to death his spirit rose,
nevertheless, to the bugle, and he drilled his troop until he could play
with it and snap it about him like a whip.
Shirley Claiborne had been out of college a year, and afforded a
pleasant refutation of the dull theory that advanced education destroys a
girl's charm, or buoyancy, or whatever it is that is so greatly admired in
young womanhood. She gave forth the impression of vitality and
strength. She was beautifully fair, with a high color that accentuated her
youthfulness. Her brown hair, caught up from her brow in the fashion
of the early years of the century, flashed gold in sunlight.

Much of Shirley's girlhood had been spent in the Virginia hills, where
Judge Claiborne had long maintained a refuge from the heat of
Washington. From childhood she had read the calendar of spring as it is
written upon the landscape itself. Her fingers found by instinct the first
arbutus; she knew where white violets shone first upon the rough breast
of the hillsides; and particular patches of rhododendron had for her the
intimate interest of private gardens.
Undoubtedly there are deities fully consecrated to the important
business of naming girls, so happily is that task accomplished. Gladys
is a child of the spirit of mischief. Josephine wears a sweet gravity, and
Mary, too, discourses of serious matters. Nora, in some incarnation, has
seen fairies scampering over moor and hill and the remembrance of
them teases her memory. Katherine is not so faithless as her ways
might lead you to believe. Laura without dark eyes would be
impossible, and her predestined Petrarch would never deliver his
sonnets. Helen may be seen only against a background of Trojan wall.
Gertrude must be tall and fair and ready with ballads in the winter
twilight. Julia's reserve and discretion commend her to you; but she has
a heart of laughter. Anne is to be found in the rose garden with
clipping-shears and a basket. Hilda is a capable person; there is no
ignoring her militant character; the battles of Saxon kings ring still in
her blood. Marjorie has scribbled verses in secret, and Celia is the
quietest auditor at the symphony. And you may have observed that
there is no button on Elizabeth's foil; you do well not to clash wits with
her. Do you say that these ascriptions are not square with your
experience? Then verily there must have been a sad mixing of infant
candidates for the font in your parish. Shirley, in such case, will mean
nothing to you. It is a waste of time to tell you that the name may
become audible without being uttered; you can not be made to
understand that the r and l slip into each other as ripples glide over
pebbles in a brook. And from the name to the girl--may you be forever
denied a glimpse of Shirley Claiborne's pretty head, her brown hair and
dream-haunted eyes, if you do not first murmur the name with honest
liking.
As the Claibornes lingered at their table a short stout man espied them

from the door and advanced beamingly.
"Ah, my dear Shirley, and Dick! Can it be possible! I only heard by the
merest chance that you were here. But Switzerland is the real
meeting-place of the world."
The young Americans greeted the new-comer cordially. A waiter
placed a chair for him, and took his hat. Arthur Singleton was an
American, though he had lived abroad so long as to have lost his
identity with any particular city or state of his native land. He had been
an attaché of the American embassy at London for many years.
Administrations changed and ambassadors came and went, but
Singleton was never molested. It was said that he kept his position on
the score of his wide acquaintance; he knew every one, and he was a
great peddler of gossip, particularly about people in high station.
The children of Hilton Claiborne were not to be overlooked. He would
impress himself upon them, as was his way; for he was sincerely social
by instinct, and would go far to do a kindness for people he really liked.
"Ah me! You have arrived opportunely, Miss Claiborne. There's
mystery in the air--the great Stroebel is here--under this very roof and
in a dreadfully bad humor. He is a dangerous man--a very dangerous
man, but failing fast. Poor Austria! Count Ferdinand von Stroebel can
have no successor--he's only a sort of holdover from the nineteenth
century, and with him and his Emperor out of the way--what? For my
part I see only dark days ahead;" and he concluded with a little sigh that
implied