The Lion and the Mouse; a Story of an American Life

by Charles Klein and Arthur Hornblow

  CHAPTER IV

  "Tell me, what do the papers say?"

  Settling herself comfortably back in the carriage, Shirley questionedJefferson with eagerness, even anxiety. She had been impatientlyawaiting the arrival of the newspapers from "home," for so muchdepended on this first effort. She knew her book had been praised insome quarters, and her publishers had written her that the sales werebigger every day, but she was curious to learn how it had been receivedby the reviewers.

  In truth, it had been no slight achievement for a young writer of herinexperience, a mere tyro in literature, to attract so much attentionwith her first book. The success almost threatened to turn her head,she had told her aunt laughingly, although she was sure it could neverdo that. She fully realized that it was the subject rather than theskill of the narrator that counted in the book's success, also the factthat it had come out at a timely moment, when the whole world wastalking of the Money Peril. Had not President Roosevelt, in a recentsensational speech, declared that it might be necessary for the Stateto curb the colossal fortunes of America, and was not her hero, JohnBurkett Ryder, the richest of them all? Any way they looked at it, thesuccess of the book was most gratifying.

  While she was an attractive, aristocratic-looking girl, ShirleyRossmore had no serious claims to academic beauty. Her features wereirregular, and the firm and rather thin mouth lines disturbed theharmony indispensable to plastic beauty. Yet there was in her facesomething far more appealing--soul and character. The face of themerely beautiful woman expresses nothing, promises nothing. It presentsabsolutely no key to the soul within, and often there is no soul withinto have a key to. Perfect in its outlines and coloring, it is a delightto gaze upon, just as is a flawless piece of sculpture, yet the delightis only fleeting. One soon grows satiated, no matter how beautiful theface may be, because it is always the same, expressionless andsoulless. "Beauty is only skin deep," said the philosopher, and notruer dictum was ever uttered. The merely beautiful woman, whopossesses only beauty and nothing else, is kept so busy thinking of herlooks, and is so anxious to observe the impression her beauty makes onothers, that she has neither the time nor the inclination for mattersof greater importance. Sensible men, as a rule, do not lose theirhearts to women whose only assets are their good looks. They enjoy aflirtation with them, but seldom care to make them their wives. Themarrying man is shrewd enough to realize that domestic virtues will bemore useful in his household economy than all the academic beauty everchiselled out of block marble.

  Shirley was not beautiful, but hers was a face that never failed toattract attention. It was a thoughtful and interesting face, with anintellectual brow and large, expressive eyes, the face of a woman whohad both brain power and ideals, and yet who, at the same time, was inperfect sympathy with the world. She was fair in complexion, and herfine brown eyes, alternately reflective and alert, were shaded by longdark lashes. Her eyebrows were delicately arched, and she had a goodnose. She wore her hair well off the forehead, which was broader thanin the average woman, suggesting good mentality. Her mouth, however,was her strongest feature. It was well shaped, but there were firmlines about it that suggested unusual will power. Yet it smiledreadily, and when it did there was an agreeable vision of strong,healthy-looking teeth of dazzling whiteness. She was a little overmedium height and slender in figure, and carried herself with thatunmistakable air of well-bred independence that bespeaks birth andculture. She dressed stylishly, and while her gowns were of richmaterial, and of a cut suggesting expensive modistes, she was always soquietly attired and in such perfect taste, that after leaving her onecould never recall what she had on.

  At the special request of Shirley, who wanted to get a glimpse of theLatin Quarter, the driver took a course down the Avenue de l'Opera,that magnificent thoroughfare which starts at the Opera and ends at theTheatre Francais, and which, like many others that go to thebeautifying of the capital, the Parisians owe to the much-despisedNapoleon III. The cab, Jefferson told her, would skirt the Palais Royaland follow the Rue de Rivoli until it came to the Chatelet, when itwould cross the Seine and drive up the Boulevard St. Michel--thestudents' boulevard--until it reached the Luxembourg Gardens. Like mostof his kind, the cocker knew less than nothing of the art of driving,and he ran a reckless, zig-zag flight, in and out, forcing his waythrough a confusing maze of vehicles of every description, pullingfirst to the right, then to the left, for no good purpose that wasapparent, and averting only by the narrowest of margins half a dozenbad collisions. At times the fiacre lurched in such alarming fashionthat Shirley was visibly perturbed, but when Jefferson assured her thatall Paris cabs travelled in this crazy fashion and nothing everhappened, she was comforted.

  "Tell me," he repeated, "what do the papers say about the book?"

  "Say?" he echoed. "Why, simply that you've written the biggest book ofthe year, that's all!"

  "Really! Oh, do tell me all they said!" She was fairly excited now, andin her enthusiasm she grasped Jefferson's broad, sunburnt hand whichwas lying outside the carriage rug. He tried to appear unconscious ofthe contact, which made his every nerve tingle, as he proceeded to tellher the gist of the reviews he had read that afternoon.

  "Isn't that splendid!" she exclaimed, when he had finished. Then sheadded quickly:

  "I wonder if your father has seen it?"

  Jefferson grinned. He had something on his conscience, and this was agood opportunity to get rid of it. He replied laconically:

  "He probably has read it by this time. I sent him a copy myself."

  The instant the words were out of his mouth he was sorry, for Shirley'sface had changed colour.

  "You sent him a copy of 'The American Octopus?'" she cried. "Then he'llguess who wrote the book."

  "Oh, no, he won't," rejoined Jefferson calmly. "He has no idea who sentit to him. I mailed it anonymously."

  Shirley breathed a sigh of relief. It was so important that heridentity should remain a secret. As daughter of a Supreme Court judgeshe had to be most careful. She would not embarrass her father foranything in the world. But it was smart of Jefferson to have sentRyder, Sr., the book, so she smiled graciously on his son as she asked:

  "How do you know he got it? So many letters and packages are sent tohim that he never sees himself."

  "Oh, he saw your book all right," laughed Jefferson. "I was around thehouse a good deal before sailing, and one day I caught him in thelibrary reading it."

  They both laughed, feeling like mischievous children who had played asuccessful trick on the hokey-pokey man. Jefferson noted hiscompanion's pretty dimples and fine teeth, and he thought howattractive she was, and stronger and stronger grew the idea within himthat this was the woman who was intended by Nature to share his life.Her slender hand still covered his broad, sunburnt one, and he fanciedhe felt a slight pressure. But he was mistaken. Not the slightestsentiment entered into Shirley's thoughts of Jefferson. She regardedhim only as a good comrade with whom she had secrets she confided in noone else. To that extent and to that extent alone he was privilegedabove other men. Suddenly he asked her:

  "Have you heard from home recently?"

  A soft light stole into the girl's face. Home! Ah, that was all sheneeded to make her cup of happiness full. Intoxicated with this newsensation of a first literary success, full of the keen pleasure thisvisit to the beautiful city was giving her, bubbling over with the joyof life, happy in the almost daily companionship of the man she likedmost in the world after her father, there was only one thinglacking--home! She had left New York only a month before, and she washomesick already. Her father she missed most. She was fond of hermother, too, but the latter, being somewhat of a nervous invalid, hadnever been to her quite what her father had been. The playmate of herchildhood, companion of her girlhood, her friend and adviser inwomanhood, Judge Rossmore was to his daughter the ideal man and father.Answering Jefferson's question she said:

  "I had a letter from father last week. Everything was going on at homeas when I left. Father says he misses
me sadly, and that mother isailing as usual."

  She smiled, and Jefferson smiled too. They both knew by experience thatnothing really serious ailed Mrs. Rossmore, who was a good deal of ahypochondriac, and always so filled with aches and pains that, on thefew occasions when she really felt well, she was genuinely alarmed.

  The fiacre by this time had emerged from the Rue de Rivoli and wasrolling smoothly along the fine wooden pavement in front of thehistoric Conciergerie prison where Marie Antoinette was confined beforeher execution. Presently they recrossed the Seine, and the cab, dodgingthe tram car rails, proceeded at a smart pace up the "Boul' Mich',"which is the familiar diminutive bestowed by the students upon thatbroad avenue which traverses the very heart of their beloved QuartierLatin. On the left frowned the scholastic walls of the learnedSorbonne, in the distance towered the majestic dome of the Pantheonwhere Rousseau, Voltaire and Hugo lay buried.

  Like most of the principal arteries of the French capital, theboulevard was generously lined with trees, now in full bloom, and thesidewalks fairly seethed with a picturesque throng in which mingledpromiscuously frivolous students, dapper shop clerks, sober citizens,and frisky, flirtatious little ouvrieres, these last being all hatless,as is characteristic of the work-girl class, but singularly attractivein their neat black dresses and dainty low-cut shoes. There was alsomuch in evidence another type of female whose extravagance of costumeand boldness of manner loudly proclaimed her ancient profession.

  On either side of the boulevard were shops and cafes, mostly cafes,with every now and then a brasserie, or beer hall. Seated in front ofthese establishments, taking their ease as if beer sampling constitutedthe only real interest in their lives, were hundreds of students,reckless and dare-devil, and suggesting almost anything except seriousstudy. They all wore frock coats and tall silk hats, and some of thelatter were wonderful specimens of the hatter's art. A few of the moreeccentric students had long hair down to their shoulders, and worebaggy peg-top trousers of extravagant cut, which hung in loose foldsover their sharp-pointed boots. On their heads were queer plug hatswith flat brims.

  Shirley laughed outright and regretted that she did not have her kodakto take back to America some idea of their grotesque appearance, andshe listened with amused interest as Jefferson explained that these menwere notorious poseurs, aping the dress and manners of the old-timestudent as he flourished in the days of Randolph and Mimi and the otherimmortal characters of Murger's Bohemia. Nobody took them seriouslyexcept themselves, and for the most part they were bad rhymesters ofdecadent verse. Shirley was astonished to see so many of them busilyengaged smoking cigarettes and imbibing glasses of a pale-greenbeverage, which Jefferson told her was absinthe.

  "When do they read?" she asked. "When do they attend lectures?"

  "Oh," laughed Jefferson, "only the old-fashioned students take theirstudies seriously. Most of the men you see there are from theprovinces, seeing Paris for the first time, and having their fling.Incidentally they are studying life. When they have sown their wildoats and learned all about life--provided they are still alive and haveany money left--they will begin to study books. You would be surprisedto know how many of these young men, who have been sent to theUniversity at a cost of goodness knows what sacrifices, return to theirnative towns in a few months wrecked in body and mind, without havingonce set foot in a lecture room, and, in fact, having done nothingexcept inscribe their names on the rolls."

  Shirley was glad she knew no such men, and if she ever married and hada son she would pray God to spare her that grief and humiliation. Sheherself knew something about the sacrifices parents make to secure acollege education for their children. Her father had sent her toVassar. She was a product of the much-sneered-at higher education forwomen, and all her life she would be grateful for the advantages givenher. Her liberal education had broadened her outlook on life andenabled her to accomplish the little she had. When she graduated herfather had left her free to follow her own inclinations. She had littletaste for social distractions, and still she could not remain idle. Fora time she thought of teaching to occupy her mind, but she knew shelacked the necessary patience, and she could not endure the drudgery ofit, so, having won honors at college in English composition, shedetermined to try her hand at literature. She wrote a number of essaysand articles on a hundred different subjects which she sent to themagazines, but they all came back with politely worded excuses fortheir rejection. But Shirley kept right on. She knew she wrote well; itmust be that her subjects were not suitable. So she adopted newtactics, and persevered until one day came a letter of acceptance fromthe editor of one of the minor magazines. They would take the articleoffered--a sketch of college life--and as many more in similar vein asMiss Rossmore could write. This success had been followed by otheracceptances and other commissions, until at the present time she was awell-known writer for the leading publications. Her great ambition hadbeen to write a book, and "The American Octopus," published under anassumed name, was the result.

  The cab stopped suddenly in front of beautiful gilded gates. It was theLuxembourg, and through the tall railings they caught a glimpse ofwell-kept lawns, splashing fountains and richly dressed childrenplaying. From the distance came the stirring strains of a brass band.

  The coachman drove up to the curb and Jefferson jumped down, assistingShirley to alight. In spite of Shirley's protest Jefferson insisted onpaying.

  "Combien?" he asked the cocher.

  The jehu, a surly, thick-set man with a red face and small, cunningeyes like a ferret, had already sized up his fares for two sacreforeigners whom it would be flying in the face of Providence not tocheat, so with unblushing effrontery he answered:

  "Dix francs, Monsieur!" And he held up ten fingers by way ofillustration.

  Jefferson was about to hand up a ten-franc piece when Shirleyindignantly interfered. She would not submit to such an imposition.There was a regular tariff and she would pay that and nothing more. So,in better French than was at Jefferson's command, she exclaimed:

  "Ten francs? Pourquoi dix francs? I took your cab by the hour. It isexactly two hours. That makes four francs." Then to Jefferson sheadded: "Give him a franc for a pourboire--that makes five francsaltogether."

  Jefferson, obedient to her superior wisdom, held out a five-francpiece, but the driver shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. He saw thatthe moment had come to bluster so he descended from his box fullyprepared to carry out his bluff. He started in to abuse the twoAmericans whom in his ignorance he took for English.

  "Ah, you sale Anglais! You come to France to cheat the poor Frenchman.You make me work all afternoon and then pay me nothing. Not with thiscoco! I know my rights and I'll get them, too."

  All this was hurled at them in a patois French, almost unintelligibleto Shirley, and wholly so to Jefferson. All he knew was that thefellow's attitude was becoming unbearably insolent and he steppedforward with a gleam in his eye that might have startled the man had henot been so busy shaking his fist at Shirley. But she saw Jefferson'smovement and laid her hand on his arm.

  "No, no, Mr. Ryder--no scandal, please. Look, people are beginning tocome up! Leave him to me. I know how to manage him."

  With this the daughter of a United States Supreme Court judge proceededto lay down the law to the representative of the most lazy andirresponsible class of men ever let loose in the streets of a civilisedcommunity. Speaking with an air of authority, she said:

  "Now look here, my man, we have no time to bandy words here with you. Itook your cab at 3.30. It is now 5.30. That makes two hours. The rateis two francs an hour, or four francs in all. We offer you five francs,and this includes a franc pourboire. If this settlement does not suityou we will get into your cab and you will drive us to the nearestpolice-station where the argument can be continued."

  The man's jaw dropped. He was obviously outclassed. These foreignersknew the law as well as he did. He had no desire to accept Shirley'ssuggestion of a trip to the police-station, where he knew he would getlittle sympat
hy, so, grumbling and giving vent under his breath to avolley of strange oaths, he grabbed viciously at the five-franc pieceJefferson held out and, mounting his box, drove off.

  Proud of their victory, they entered the gardens, following thesweet-scented paths until they came to where the music was. The band ofan infantry regiment was playing, and a large crowd had gathered. Manypeople were sitting on the chairs provided for visitors for the modestfee of two sous; others were promenading round and round a great circlehaving the musicians in its centre. The dense foliage of the treesoverhead afforded a perfect shelter from the hot rays of the sun, andthe place was so inviting and interesting, so cool and so full of sweetperfumes and sounds, appealing to and satisfying the senses, thatShirley wished they had more time to spend there. She was very fond ofa good brass band, especially when heard in the open air. They wereplaying Strauss's Blue Danube, and the familiar strains of thedelightful waltz were so infectious that both were seized by a desireto get up and dance.

  There was constant amusement, too, watching the crowd, with its manyoriginal and curious types. There were serious college professors, withgold-rimmed spectacles, buxom nounous in their uniform cloaks and longribbon streamers, nicely dressed children romping merrily but notnoisily, more queer-looking students in shabby frock coats, tight atthe waist, trousers too short, and comical hats, stylishly dressedwomen displaying the latest fashions, brilliantly uniformed armyofficers strutting proudly, dangling their swords--an attractive andinteresting crowd, so different, thought the two Americans, from thecheap, evil-smelling, ill-mannered mob of aliens that invades their ownCentral Park the days when there is music, making it a nuisance insteadof a pleasure. Here everyone belonged apparently to the better class;the women and children were richly and fashionably dressed, theofficers looked smart in their multi-coloured uniforms, and, no matterhow one might laugh at the students, there was an atmosphere ofgood-breeding and refinement everywhere which Shirley was notaccustomed to see in public places at home. A sprinkling of workmen andpeople of the poorer class were to be seen here and there, but theywere in the decided minority. Shirley, herself a daughter of theRevolution, was a staunch supporter of the immortal principles ofDemocracy and of the equality of man before the law. But all other talkof equality was the greatest sophistry and charlatanism. There could beno real equality so long as some people were cultured and refined andothers were uneducated and vulgar. Shirley believed in an aristocracyof brains and soap. She insisted that no clean person, no matter howgood a democrat, should be expected to sit close in public places topersons who were not on speaking terms with the bath-tub. In Americathis foolish theory of a democracy, which insists on throwing allclasses, the clean and the unclean, promiscuously together, waspositively revolting, making travelling in the public vehicles almostimpossible, and it was not much better in the public parks. InFrance--also a Republic--where they likewise paraded conspicuously theclap-trap "Egalite, Fraternite," they managed these things far better.The French lower classes knew their place. They did not ape the dress,nor frequent the resorts of those above them in the social scale. Thedistinction between the classes was plainly and properly marked, yetthis was not antagonistic to the ideal of true democracy; it had notprevented the son of a peasant from becoming President of the FrenchRepublic. Each district in Paris had its own amusement, its owntheatres, its own parks. It was not a question of capital refusing tofraternize with labour, but the very natural desire of persons ofrefinement to mingle with clean people rather than to rub elbows withthe Great Unwashed.

  "Isn't it delightful here?" said Shirley. "I could stay here forever,couldn't you?"

  "With you--yes," answered Jefferson, with a significant smile.

  Shirley tried to look angry. She strictly discouraged theseconventional, sentimental speeches which constantly flung her sex inher face.

  "Now, you know I don't like you to talk that way, Mr. Ryder. It's mostundignified. Please be sensible."

  Quite subdued, Jefferson relapsed into a sulky silence. Presently hesaid:

  "I wish you wouldn't call me Mr. Ryder. I meant to ask you this before.You know very well that you've no great love for the name, and if youpersist you'll end by including me in your hatred of the hero of yourbook."

  Shirley looked at him with amused curiosity.

  "What do you mean?" she asked. "What do you want me to call you?"

  "Oh, I don't know," he stammered, rather intimidated by thisself-possessed young woman who looked him calmly through and through."Why not call me Jefferson? Mr. Ryder is so formal."

  Shirley laughed outright, a merry, unrestrained peal of honestlaughter, which made the passers-by turn their heads and smile, too,commenting the while on the stylish appearance of the two Americanswhom they took for sweethearts. After all, reasoned Shirley, he wasright. They had been together now nearly every hour in the day for overa month. It was absurd to call him Mr. Ryder. So, addressing him withmock gravity, she said:

  "You're right, Mr. Ryder--I mean Jefferson. You're quite right. You areJefferson from this time on, only remember"--here she shook her glovedfinger at him warningly--"mind you behave yourself! No more suchsentimental speeches as you made just now."

  Jefferson beamed. He felt at least two inches taller, and at thatmoment he would not have changed places with any one in the world. Tohide the embarrassment his gratification caused him he pulled out hiswatch and exclaimed:

  "Why, it's a quarter past six. We shall have all we can do to get backto the hotel and dress for dinner."

  Shirley rose at once, although loath to leave.

  "I had no idea it was so late," she said. "How the time flies!" Thenmockingly she added: "Come, Jefferson--be a good boy and find a cab."

  They passed out of the Gardens by the gate facing the Theatre del'Odeon, where there was a long string of fiacres for hire. They gotinto one and in fifteen minutes they were back at the Grand Hotel.

  At the office they told Shirley that her aunt had already come in andgone to her room, so she hurried upstairs to dress for dinner whileJefferson proceeded to the Hotel de l'Athenee on the same mission. He.had still twenty-five minutes before dinner time, and he needed onlyten minutes for a wash and to jump into his dress suit, so, instead ofgoing directly to his hotel, he sat down at the Cafe de la Paix. He wasthirsty, and calling for a vermouth frappe he told the garcon to bringhim also the American papers.

  The crowd on the boulevard was denser than ever. The business officesand some of the shops were closing, and a vast army of employes,homeward bound, helped to swell the sea of humanity that pushed thisway and that.

  But Jefferson had no eyes for the crowd. He was thinking of Shirley.What singular, mysterious power had this girl acquired over him? He,who had scoffed at the very idea of marriage only a few months before,now desired it ardently, anxiously! Yes, that was what his lifelacked--such a woman to be his companion and helpmate! He lovedher--there was no doubt of that. His every thought, waking andsleeping, was of her, all his plans for the future included her. Hewould win her if any man could. But did she care for him? Ah, that wasthe cruel, torturing uncertainty! She appeared cold and indifferent,but perhaps she was only trying him. Certainly she did not seem todislike him.

  The waiter returned with the vermouth and the newspapers. All he couldfind were the London Times, which he pronounced T-e-e-m-s, and someissues of the New York Herald. The papers were nearly a month old, buthe did not care for that. Jefferson idly turned over the pages of theHerald. His thoughts were still running on Shirley, and he was payinglittle attention to what he was reading. Suddenly, however, his eyesrested on a headline which made him sit up with a start. It read asfollows:

  JUDGE ROSSMORE IMPEACHED

  JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME COURT TO BE TRIED ON BRIBERY CHARGES

  The despatch, which was dated Washington two weeks back, went on to saythat serious charges affecting the integrity of Judge Rossmore had beenmade the subject of Congressional inquiry, and that the result of theinquiry was so grave that a deman
d for impeachment would be at oncesent to the Senate. It added that the charges grew out of the recentdecision in the Great Northwestern Mining Company case, it beingalleged that Judge Rossmore had accepted a large sum of money oncondition of his handing down a decision favourable to the company.

  Jefferson was thunderstruck. He read the despatch over again to makesure there was no mistake. No, it was very plain--Judge Rossmore ofMadison Avenue. But how preposterous, what a calumny! The one judge onthe bench at whom one could point and say with absolute conviction:"There goes an honest man!" And this judge was to be tried on a chargeof bribery! What could be the meaning of it? Something terrible musthave happened since Shirley's departure from home, that was certain. Itmeant her immediate return to the States and, of course, his own. Hewould see what could be done. He would make his father use his greatinfluence. But how could he tell Shirley? Impossible, he could not! Shewould not believe him if he did. She would probably hear from home insome other way. They might cable. In any case he would say nothing yet.He paid for his vermouth and hurried away to his hotel to dress.

  It was just striking seven when he re-entered the courtyard of theGrand Hotel. Shirley and Mrs. Blake were waiting for him. Jeffersonsuggested having dinner at the Cafe de Paris, but Shirley objected thatas the weather was warm it would be more pleasant to dine in the openair, so they finally decided on the Pavilion d'Armonville where therewas music and where they could have a little table to themselves in thegarden.

  They drove up the stately Champs Elysees, past the monumental Arc deTriomphe, and from there down to the Bois. All were singularly quiet.Mrs. Blake was worrying about her new gown, Shirley was tired, andJefferson could not banish from his mind the terrible news he had justread. He avoided looking at Shirley until the latter noticed it andthought she must have offended him in some way. She was more sorry thanshe would have him know, for, with all her apparent coldness, Jeffersonwas rapidly becoming very indispensable to her happiness.

  They dined sumptuously and delightfully with all the luxury ofsurroundings and all the delights of cooking that the French culinaryart can perfect. A single glass of champagne had put Shirley in highspirits and she had tried hard to communicate some of her good humourto Jefferson who, despite all her efforts, remained quiet andpreoccupied. Finally losing patience she asked him bluntly:

  "Jefferson, what's the matter with you to-night? You've been sulky as abear all evening."

  Pleased to see she had not forgotten their compact of the afternoon inregard to his name, Jefferson relaxed somewhat and said apologetically:

  "Excuse me, I've been feeling a bit seedy lately. I think I needanother sea voyage. That's the only time when I feel reallyfirst-class--when I'm on the water."

  The mention of the sea started Shirley to talk about her future plans.She wasn't going back to America until September. She had arranged tomake a stay of three weeks in London and then she would be free. Somefriends of hers from home, a man and his wife who owned a steam yacht,were arranging a trip to the Mediterranean, including a run over toCairo. They had asked her and Mrs. Blake to go and she was sure theywould ask Jefferson, too. Would he go?

  There was no way out of it. Jefferson tried to work up some enthusiasmfor this yachting trip, which he knew very well could never come off,and it cut him to the heart to see this poor girl joyously making allthese preparations and plans, little dreaming of the domestic calamitywhich at that very moment was hanging over her head.

  It was nearly ten o'clock when they had finished. They sat a littlelonger listening to the gipsy music, weird and barbaric. Verypointedly, Shirley remarked:

  "I for one preferred the music this afternoon."

  "Why?" inquired Jefferson, ignoring the petulant note in her voice.

  "Because you were more amiable!" she retorted rather crossly.

  This was their first misunderstanding, but Jefferson said nothing. Hecould not tell her the thoughts and fears that had been haunting himall night. Soon afterward they re-entered their cab and returned to theboulevards which were ablaze with light and gaiety. Jefferson suggestedgoing somewhere else, but Mrs. Blake was tired and Shirley, now quiteirritated at what she considered Jefferson's unaccountableunsociability, declined somewhat abruptly. But she could never remainangry long, and when they said good-night she whispered demurely:

  "Are you cross with me, Jeff?"

  He turned his head away and she saw that his face was singularly drawnand grave.

  "Cross--no. Good-night. God bless you!" he said, hoarsely gulping downa lump that rose in his throat. Then grasping her hand he hurried away.

  Completely mystified, Shirley and her companion turned to the office toget the key of their room. As the man handed it to Shirley he passedher also a cablegram which had just come. She changed colour. She didnot like telegrams. She always had a dread of them, for with her suddennews was usually bad news. Could this, she thought, explain Jefferson'sstrange behaviour? Trembling, she tore open the envelope and read:

  Come home at once,

  Mother.