Vicky Van | Page 6

With A Handbag'."
"Now, don't be mean!" but Cassie laughed. "And I don't blame her if
she does. Poor Ad paints above the heads of the public, so if this is a
high-up Publican, she'd better make sales while the sun shines."
"What's her work like?"
"You can see more of it in this house than anywhere else. Vicky is so
fond of Ariadne and so sorry her pictures don't sell better, that she buys
a lot herself."

"Does Miss Gale know Miss Van Allen does it out of--"
"Don't say charity! No, they're really good stuff, and Vicky buys 'em
for Christmas gifts and bridge prizes."
"Does she ever play for prizes? I thought she liked a bit of a stake,
now."
"Yes, at evening parties. But, often we have a dove game of an
afternoon, with prizes and pink tea. Vicky Van isn't a gay doll, you
know. She's--sometimes, she's positively domestic. I wish she had a
nice husband and some little kiddies."
"Why hasn't she?"
"Give it up. She's never seen any man she loved, I s'pose."
"Perhaps she'll love this Somers person."
"Heaven forbid! Nothing less than a crown prince would suit Vicky
Van. Look, she's turning to meet him. Won't he be bowled over!"
I turned, and though there were several people between us, I caught a
glimpse of Somers' face as he was presented to Miss Van Allen. He
was bowled over. His eyes beamed with admiration and he bowed low
as he raised to his lips the dainty, bejeweled hand.
Vicky, apparently, did not welcome this old-time greeting, and she
drew away her hand, saying, "not allowed. Naughty man! Express
proper compunction, or you can't sit next me at supper!"
"Forgive me," begged Somers. "I'm sorry! I'll never do it again--until
after I sit next you at supper!"
"More brains than I thought," I said to Cassie, who nodded, and then
Vicky Van rose from her chair.
"Take my place for a moment, Mr. Somers," she said, standing before
him. "I--" she dropped her eyes adorably, "I must see about the

arrangement of seats at the supper table." With a merry laugh, she ran
from the room, and through the long hall to the dining-room.
Somers dropped into her vacant chair, and continued the Bridge game
with the air of one who knows how to play.
In less than five minutes Vicky was back. "No, keep the hand," she said,
as he rose. "I've played long enough. And supper will be ready shortly."
"Finish the rubber,--I insist" Somers returned, and as he determinedly
stood behind the chair, Vicky, perforce, sat down.
He continued to stand behind her chair, watching her play. Vicky was
too sure of her game to be rattled at his close scrutiny, but it seemed to
me her shoulders shrugged a little impatiently, as he criticized or
commended her plays.
She had thrown a light scarf of gauze or tulle around when she was out
of the room, and being the same color as her gown, it made her seem
more than ever like an houri. She smiled up into Somers' face, and then,
coyly, her long lashes fell on her pink cheeks. Evidently, she had
concluded to bewitch the newcomer, and she was making good.
I drew nearer, principally because I liked to look at her. She was a live
wire to-night! She looked roguish, and she made most brilliant plays,
tossing down her cards with gay little gestures, and doing trick shuffles
with her twinkling fingers.
"You could have had that last trick, if you'd played for it," Somers said,
as the rubber finished.
"I know it," Vicky conceded. "I saw, just too late, that I was getting the
lead into the wrong hand."
"Well, don't ever do that again," he said, lightly, "never again."
As he said the last word, he laid his finger tips on her shoulder. It was
the veriest touch, the shoulder was swathed in the transparent tulle, but

still, it roused Vicky. She glanced up at him, and I looked at him, too.
But Somers was not in flirtatious mood. He said, "I beg your pardon,"
in most correct fashion. Had he then, touched her inadvertently? It
didn't seem so, but his speech assured it.
Vicky jumped up from the table, and ignoring Somers, ran out to the
hall, saying something about looking after the surprise for the supper.
To my surprise, Somers followed her, not hastily, but rather
deliberately, and, quelling an absurd impulse to go, too, I turned to
Norman Steele, who stood near.
"Who's this Somers?" I asked him, rather abruptly. "Is he all right?"
"You bet," said Steele, smiling. "He's a top-notcher."
"In what respects?"
"Every and all."
"You've known him long?"
"Yes. I tell you Cal, he's all right. Forget it.