The Wheel of Life | Page 3

sent to me with a letter and
I'll be obliged to feed him at the club, but--to tell the truth--there's so
little one can get really fit at this season."
To a man for whom the pleasures of the table represented the larger
share of his daily enjoyment, this was a question not without a serious

importance of its own; and while he paused to settle it he stood,
squaring his chest, with an expression of decided annoyance on his
handsome, good-humored face. Then, having made a satisfactory
choice of dishes, his features recovered their usual look of genial
contentment, and he felt carelessly in his pocket for the letter which he
presently produced and laid on Gerty's pillow. His life had
corresponded so evenly with his bodily impulses that the perfection of
the adjustment had produced in him the amiable exterior of an animal
that is never crossed. It was a case in which supreme selfishness
exerted the effect of personality.
Leaving the letter where he had placed it, Gerty sat sipping her coffee
while she looked up at him with the candid cynicism which lent a
piquant charm to the almost doll-like regularity of her features.
"You did not get three hours sleep and yet you're so fresh you smell of
soap," she observed as an indignant protest, "while I've had six and I'm
still too tired to move."
"Oh, I'm all right--I never let myself get seedy," returned Perry, with
his loud though pleasant laugh. "That's the mistake all you women
make."
Half closing her eyes Gerty leaned back and surveyed him with a
curious detachment--almost as if he were an important piece of
architecture which she had been recommended to admire and to which
she was patiently trying in vain to adjust her baffled vision. The smaller
she screwed her gaze the more remotely magnificent loomed his
proportions.
"How you manage it is more than I can understand," she said.
Perry stared for a moment in an amiable vacancy at the coffee pot.
Then she watched the animation move feebly in his face, while he
pulled at his short fair moustache with a characteristic masculine
gesture. Physically, she admitted, he had never appeared to a better
advantage in her eyes.

"By the way, I had a game of billiards with Kemper and we talked
pretty late," he said, as if evolving the explanation for which she had
not asked. "He got back from Europe yesterday you know."
"He did?" Her indifferent gaiety played like harmless lightning around
his massive bulk. "Then we may presume, I suppose, on Madame Alta
for the opera season?"
He met the question with an admiring chuckle. "Do you really mean
you think he's been abroad with her all this time?"
"Well, what else did he get his divorce for?" she demanded, with the
utter disillusion of knowledge which she had found to be her most
effective pose.
Perry's chuckle swelled suddenly into a roar. "Good Lord, how women
talk!" he burst out. "Why, Arnold has been divorced ten years and he
never laid eyes on Jennie Alta till she sang over here three years ago.
There was nothing in it except that he liked to be seen with a
celebrity--most men do. But, my dear girl," he concluded in a kind of
awful reverence, "what a tongue you've got. It's a jolly good thing for
me that I'm your husband or you wouldn't leave me a blessed patch of
reputation to my back."
His humor held him convulsed for several minutes, during which
interval Gerty continued to regard him with her piquant cynicism.
"Well, if it wasn't Madame Alta it was somebody who is voiceless," she
retorted coolly. "I merely meant that there must have been a reason."
"Oh, your 'reasons'!" ejaculated Perry. Then he stooped and gave the
letter lying on Gerty's pillow a filip from his large pink forefinger.
"You haven't told me what you think of this?" he said.
Picking up the letter Gerty unfolded it and read it slowly through from
start to finish, the little ripple of sceptical amusement crossing and
recrossing her parted lips,

RAVENS NEST, Fauquier County, Virginia, December 26, 19--.
_My Dear Perry_: Nobody, of course, ever accused you of being
literary, nor, thank Heaven, have I fallen under that aspersion--but since
the shortest road to success seems to be by circumvention, it has
occurred to me that you might give a social shove or two to the chap
who will hand you this letter sometime after the New Year.
His name is St. George Trent, he was born a little way up the turnpike
from me, has an enchanting mother, and shows symptoms of being
already inoculated with the literary plague. I never read books, so I
have no sense of comparative values in literature,