“As for instance.…”
“Young Potter, and this Baron Frederic von Fincke—you know, Minna, I do not approve of international marriages, and I am very glad that Kathleen refused that Englishman, John Hargraves, whom she met in Germany.…”
“I sometimes wonder if she regrets,” said Mrs. Whitney musingly. “Kathleen hears from him occasionally—and at times she is so very odd in her manner.”
“Humph! I hope not. I don’t want her to be a war bride,” retorted Whitney. “And all Englishmen of family are at the front these days. You don’t think, Minna,” with quickly suppressed nervousness, “that Kathleen can be fond of Sinclair Spencer.”
“Sinclair Spencer?” echoed Mrs. Whitney. “Why he is double her age, and besides, Winslow, his habits are not.…”
“I know,” gloomily, as his wife paused. “I would certainly never give my consent to such a marriage. But, Minna, he is forever hanging around Kathleen and haunts this house.”
“So much so that Kathleen is heartily sick of him,” said Mrs. Whitney comfortingly. “She is not the girl to really care for a man of his caliber. After all, Winslow,” unable to restrain the dig, “you are responsible for Sinclair Spencer’s intimate footing in this house.…”
“Intimate footing? Nothing of the sort. Just because I employed him as my patent attorney, you and Kathleen did not have to throw yourselves at his head and have him sitting in your pockets.”
Mrs. Whitney laughed outright. “My dear Winslow, neither Kathleen nor I encouraged him to come here. If you are afraid,” her eyes twinkling, “that Kathleen considers his attentions seriously, I will sound her on the subject. And this brings me back to what I was going to say originally; you must inquire about the men Kathleen meets. She is at the impressionable age and as apt as not to pick up an undesirable parti.”
“Why didn’t Kathleen remain a schoolgirl?” fumed Whitney. “Then we only had to engage competent nurses and look up their references and our responsibility ended.”
“Your responsibility is just beginning,” said Mrs. Whitney cheerfully. “By the way, the days are short, and Kathleen should be at home by five o’clock at least; this is a rough neighborhood for a beautiful girl to walk through unattended.”
“My forefathers found no fault with this neighborhood,” replied Whitney stiffly. “Then it was fashionable, now it is a good respectable business section; and if dividends continue to dwindle you may thank your stars we are in a business section—for convenience’ sake. I will not give up this house, Minna, even to please you.”
“Dear Winslow, don’t excite yourself.” Mrs. Whitney laid an affectionate hand on his arm. “Remember Dr. McLane’s advice … and dinner will be served in an hour. Please come down and get it while it is hot,” and not waiting to hear his halfhearted promise she walked from the room and closed the door. It was some seconds before Whitney resumed his interrupted work.
“Only a little while now,” he muttered—“only a little while.”
Before proceeding to her bedroom Mrs. Whitney sought the suite of rooms which had been given to Kathleen on her coming of age two months before. Finding the prettily decorated and furnished sitting-room empty she walked into the adjoining bedroom and saw Kathleen sitting at her dressing table.
“What detained you?” she asked kindly, as the girl turned on her entrance.
“The symphony concert was not over until twenty-five minutes ago. Won’t you sit down, dear?” pulling forward a chair. “I must go on with my dressing. My pink satin, Julie, thank you,” as the French maid appeared.
“Are you dining out tonight?” in surprise. “I thought you told me you had no engagement for this evening.”
“I hadn’t, mother. This invitation was quite unexpected,” explained Kathleen, arranging her hair with care. “On my return from the concert I found this note from Miss Kiametia Grey asking me to fill a place and prevent thirteen at her dinner tonight.”
“I see.” Mrs. Whitney inspected the dainty note-paper and forceful handwriting through her gold lorgnette. The word of Miss Kiametia Grey was as the law of the Medes and Persians to her many friends, and Mrs. Whitney had a high regard for the wealthy spinster who cloaked her warm-hearted impulsiveness under an erratic and often brusque manner. “You cannot very well refuse. Who sent you those orchids?” pointing to a handsome bouquet lying half out of its box on the bed.
“Sinclair Spencer,” briefly. “Be careful, Julie, don’t muss my hair,” and discussing unimportant matters Kathleen hurried her dressing as much as possible.
“Not knowing you were going out I told Henry he would not be needed tonight,” said Mrs. Whitney, suddenly waking up to the fact that Kathleen was ready to go. “You had better order a herdic.”
“Oh!” Kathleen gazed at her blankly. “And the dinner is at the Chevy Chase Club.”
“Pardon, madame,” Julie, the maid, spoke in rapid French. “Mademoiselle Grey telephoned to ask if mademoiselle had returned and said that she hoped she could dine with her. Knowing madame had no engagement this evening, I took the great liberty of telling Henry to be here with the limousine.”
“Quite right, Julie,” Mrs. Whitney rose. “Don’t forget your orchids, Kathleen.”
“I am not going to wear them; they”—not meeting Mrs. Whitney’s eyes—“they would stain my dress. Good night, mother. I am likely to be late; don’t either you or Dad wait up for me.”
An hour later, her naturally rosy cheeks a deeper tint from the consciousness that she was late, Kathleen made a charming picture as she stood just within the entrance to the assembly room of the Chevy Chase Club, waiting to greet her hostess who was at that moment marshalling her guests out to the private dining-room. It was several minutes before Miss Kiametia Grey discovered Kathleen’s presence.
“So very glad you could come,” she said, squeezing her hand warmly. “Not only did I want to be helped over the thirteen bugaboo, but I have such a nice dinner partner for you. Captain Miller. Yes, Judge, you are to take me out. Kathleen, introduce yourself to the Captain.”
“Am I to find him by the process of elimination?” laughed Kathleen, as Miss Kiametia laid her hand on the Judge’s arm.
“He is just back of you,” she called, and Kathleen turned around. Every vestige of color left her cheeks as she encountered the steadfast gaze of a tall, broad-shouldered man in immaculate evening dress.
“You?” she blurted out, her white lips barely forming the word. “You?”
There was an agonizing pause, then Captain Miller stepped toward her.
“Suppose we go out to dinner,” he suggested suavely.
Chapter V.
An Eventful Evening
While keeping up an animated conversation with Judge Powers, Miss Kiametia Grey saw with inward perturbation that her vis-a-vis, Captain Miller, was spending much of his time between courses making bread pellets. What possessed Kathleen Whitney? She was usually the soul of courtesy, and yet her hostess had not seen her address one word to her dinner partner. Possibly Kathleen had taken offense at her off-hand introduction to the handsome officer. But that was not like the warmhearted, charming girl she had come to love and admire, and Miss Kiametia ate her dinner with less and less relish as she tried to keep up her end of the conversation and forget about the pair seated opposite her.
Captain Charles Miller had just finished helping himself to an ice when, from the tail of his eye, he saw Kathleen quickly palm his place card.
“Let us make it an exchange,” he said, and reaching across her plate, picked up the pretty hand-painted Japanese card bearing her name, and slipped it inside the pocket of his white vest.
For the first time that evening there was color in Kathleen’s cheeks.
“You have not lost your—”
“Courage?”
“Effrontery,” she finished. “I cannot see that the years have brought much change.”
“To you, most certainly not,” and there was no mistaking the admiration in his
eyes.
“I object to personalities.” She paused. “And particularly on slight acquaintance.”
Miller bowed. “It is my loss that we have not met before,” and he did not miss the look of relief that lighted her eyes for the fraction of a second. Swiftly he changed the subject. “Who is the man glaring at us from the end of the table?”
“Baron Frederic von Fincke.” Her manner was barely civil and that was all. Under his heavy eyebrows Miller’s eyes snapped. She should talk to him, and he squared his broad shoulders.
“I have already met the young girl sitting next him,” he said, “and who is her dinner partner?”
“Captain Edwin Sayre, United States Army.”
“Of what branch of the service?”
“Ordnance.”
“Is it true, Miss Kathleen,” broke in the man seated on her right, “that Captain Sayre has resigned from the army to take a position in the Du Pont Powder Works?”
“I believe so.”
“Is that not establishing a bad precedent, Mr. Spencer?” inquired Miller. He had met the lawyer on his arrival before dinner. “Suppose other officers follow his example, what will the army do in case of hostilities with—eh—Mexico?”
“Probably the officers will apply for active service.” Sinclair Spencer, glad of the pretext that talking to Miller gave him of bending nearer Kathleen, turned his back on his dinner partner. That Kathleen had given him her full attention throughout the dinner had partly compensated for the fact that she was not wearing his orchids. It had been weeks since he had enjoyed so uninterrupted a talk with her. That her manner was distrait and her replies somewhat haphazard escaped him utterly. The drive to Chevy Chase was both long and cold, and while waiting for Miss Kiametia’s other guests to assemble before he presented himself, he had enjoyed more than one cocktail. That stimulant, combined with Miss Kiametia’s excellent champagne, had dulled his perceptions. “The officers will be given their old rank,” continued Spencer. “In the meantime they will have gained most valuable experience.”
“There is really no prospect now of a war with Mexico.” As she spoke Kathleen looked anxiously across at Miss Kiametia, but her hostess showed no disposition to give the signal for rising. Kathleen was aware by his thick speech and flushed features that Spencer had taken more wine than was good for him. She desired to ignore Captain Miller, but she was equally desirous not to encourage Spencer’s attentions. She moved her chair back as far as she could from the table to avoid the latter’s near presence as he bent toward her. Deliberately she turned and continued her remarks to Miller. “As soon as a fair election is held and a president elected, he will be recognized by our Government.”
Miller laughed. “A fair election and Mexico are a contradiction of terms. Trouble there is by no means over. I hope that you are not a peace-at-any-price American?”
“Indeed I am not,” and Kathleen’s eyes sparkled. “I am for peace with a punch.”
Again Spencer cut into the conversation, but his condition was so apparent that Kathleen shrank from him. “Miss Kathleen, give me firs’ dance,” he demanded, as Miss Kiametia laid aside her napkin and pushed back her chair.
In a second Baron Frederic von Fincke was by her side, and with a sigh of thankfulness Kathleen accepted his eager demand for a dance, and they hastened into the assembly room, which, stripped of its furniture, was already filled with dancers. It was the regular Wednesday night dance at the club and the room was crowded. Kathleen had no difficulty in avoiding Captain Miller. Since her debut she had reigned an acknowledged belle in society, and she was quickly importuned by men eager for a dance. But as she laughed and jested with her partners, she was conscious of lagging time and numbing brain. Could she keep up the farce much longer?
From one of the doorways Sinclair Spencer watched the gay scene with surly discontent. An attempt to dance, while its result had no effect upon his understanding, had caused his partner hastily to seek her chaperon. His only ray of consolation was that she had not been Kathleen Whitney. Come to think of it, she had never thanked him for his orchids. The oversight worried him, and he was about to attempt to dodge the dancers and cross the room in search of Kathleen when Baron von Fincke stopped and addressed him.
“She is very beautiful, your Miss Whitney,” he said slowly. His English was not fluent “But she has not the tact of her pretty mother. She would never have shown her avoidance of Captain Miller quite so plainly as did Miss Whitney during dinner.”
“Twasn’t ‘voidance,” protested Spencer. “I cut him out.”
“Then why postpone your wooing?” The foreigner permitted no hint of his secret amusement to creep into his voice as he glanced from Spencer to where Kathleen was dancing.
“Go-going to ask Kathleen tonight,” replied Spencer, with drunken dignity. “I’m no la-laggard. Speak to Whitney, too; though that isn’t important—he won’t refuse.” He cogitated darkly for a moment. “If he does … I’ll make things hot for him.…”
“Hush!” Von Fincke laid a heavy hand on Spencer’s shoulder as he looked carefully about them; apparently no one was within earshot. “Collect your wits. The time is not ripe for threats, Spencer. The invention is not yet completed; until it is—no threats. We must not kill the goose before the golden egg is laid.”
“Washn’t makin’ threats,” stammered Spencer, startled by the angry gleam in his companion’s eyes. “Now, don’t get mad, von Fincke, think of all I’ve done in that Mex—”
“Come this way,” and with no gentle hand the foreigner propelled Spencer down the hall out of sight of the guests and out of doors.
Miss Kiametia Grey, enjoying watching the dancing as much as her guests enjoyed participating in it, was interrupted in her desultory conversation with two chaperons by one of the club attendants. Upon receiving his message she made her way to where Kathleen and her partner had just paused after a breathless extra.
“Having a good time, dearie?” she questioned. “It is a shame to interrupt your pleasure, but your father has telephoned that you must be at home by midnight.”
“And your car waits, Cinderella,” put in Spencer who, suddenly returning, had overheard Miss Kiametia’s remark. He had a particularly hard time with the pronunciation of “Cinderella.”
The spinster favored him with a frown, and the back view of a sharp shoulder blade. To her mid-Victorian mind Sinclair Spencer was not conducting himself as a gentleman should, and her half-considered resolve to drop him from her visiting list became adamantine as she observed his appearance. Slipping her hand inside Kathleen’s arm she led her to the cloakroom.
“Catch me asking fourteen to dinner again!” she exclaimed. “It always dwindles to thirteen at the last moment, and I have a nervous chill until the number is completed.”
“Whose place did I fill?” asked Kathleen, presenting her cloak check to the maid.
“Nobody’s, to be quite candid,” Miss Kiametia smiled ruefully. “My dinner was originally twelve, but Captain Miller was so charming this afternoon that I asked him on impulse, and then sent for you to pair off with him.”
“Thank you.” The dryness of her tone was not lost on the spinster. There were times when she wished to box Kathleen’s ears. She was a born matchmaker, and Kathleen’s indifference to matrimonial opportunities was a constant source of vexation to her.
“Never saw two people look so ideally suited to each other,” she snapped. Kathleen started as if stung. “And I’m told mutual aversion is often a good beginning for a romance. I never saw you discourteous before, Kathleen; you simply ignored Captain Miller until dessert.”
“Possibly I had good reason.” Kathleen’s color rose. “Where, pray, did you pick him up?”
“Tut, tut! Don’t forget you are talking to a woman nearly old enough to be your mother.” But Miss Kiametia’s kind heart softened as she saw Kathleen felt her words. “There, dearie, don’t mind an old crosspatch. Captain Miller was introduced to me by Senator Foster. You can see with
half an eye that Captain Miller is a gentleman born and bred. All ready? Then I’ll run back to my other guests. Come and see me Sunday,” and with a friendly wave of her hand, Miss Kiametia returned to the dining-room where the dancers had adjourned for supper.
Kathleen found her limousine waiting at the entrance, and bidding the club attendant good-night she stepped inside the car, but as her chauffeur started to close the door he was pushed to one side.
“Fa-sher tele-telephoned I was to shee you home,” announced Spencer, striving to enunciate clearly. His haste and unsteady gait precipitated him almost on top of the girl as he endeavored to seat himself by her side. “D-don’t get scared,” placing a moist hand on her wrist. “Fa-sher’s orders. Ask H-Henry.”
The chauffeur touched his cap. “Mr. Whitney did telephone me to bring Mr. Spencer back with you, Miss Kathleen,” he volunteered, and without waiting for further orders he banged to the door and climbed into his seat.
With an indignant exclamation Kathleen leaned over, seized the speaking-tube and whistled through it. But apparently the roar of the open throttle drowned the whistle, for Henry did not pick up his end of the tube. As the car started down the drive a man jumped to the running-board, jerked open the car door, and without ceremony pushed Spencer into a corner and seated himself between the latter and Kathleen.
“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting, Miss Whitney,” he apologized. “Sorry to have been late.”
Kathleen shrank back. She did not need the light from the lamp at the entrance of the club grounds to tell her the intruder was Captain Miller. She was too well acquainted with his voice. A voice she had hoped never to hear again.
Spencer, considerably shaken by the force Miller had used in thrusting him back against the side of the car, muttered a string of curses, which ended abruptly as Miller’s elbow came in sharp contact with his ribs.
Too bewildered for speech, Kathleen rested her head against the upholstered back of the limousine. Neither of the men seemed inclined to break the silence as the car sped swiftly toward Washington, and gradually Kathleen’s reasoning power returned to her. She was furiously angry with herself, with the world, with Fate. Ah, she would be mistress of her own fate. Kathleen compressed her lips in mute determination. Captain Miller must be made to understand that she would not tolerate his further acquaintance. How dared he thrust his presence upon her? Kathleen’s hot anger cooled for a second; if Miller had not thrust himself into the limousine she would in all probability have either had to order Henry forcibly to eject Spencer, which might have given rise to unpleasant gossip, or have endured alone the intoxicated man’s society for the five-mile drive into town.
I Spy Page 3
