Front matter (continued 2)

Miss Speechless was a delightful change from Miss Wherry, with her ideas, and Miss Bumpschus, with her charities. She rattled on and on at me without any regard for what I was saying to her, which always makes conversation easy. I have not the remotest idea what she said. She laughed a good deal, and threw in lots of color occasionally for no reason at all, and as she is very pretty, I set her down as charming. She is a human phonograph and seems to talk out what at some other time another has talked into her. But she must change the records often, else she would never be such a great belle. When she turned to Count Poglioso Spinnigini, I found on my other hand Mrs. Williegilt, as interested as ever in carbureters, bridge, and glanders.

The dinner was a huge success. The twenty-four at the table, with the possible exception of Bertie Bumpschus, were in fine fettle, and as I glanced at the illustrious company, picking lackadaisically at course after course of the Radigan bounty, I felt that my friend had no need to give a donkey-dinner at Newport to make herself secure. Madison Mudison toasted Miss Veal in a few charming words. He envied his young cousin. Too late in life he was coming to the realization that love in a cottage was better than bachelorhood in a dozen clubs. Were he young again, he would search the world to find another like Pearl Veal, were that possible. Radigan expressed his delight in having Plumstone Smith as a brother-in-law. If anyone had asked him a month ago what man in all the world he would choose for his dear little sister he would have said "Plumstone Smith." This caused Plumstone to declare that he considered himself a devilish lucky fellow; Miss Veal was a devilish lucky girl; they were all devilish lucky. Miss Veal smiled radiantly. I caught Mrs. Radigan's eye and thought of the duke to come.

The musicale that followed was a fitting finish. The hosts arrived about ten o'clock, and half an hour later began to enjoy $25,000 worth of music. The house was comfortably filled with the smartest of the smart. The Skimphony Orchestra silenced them, and then Furioso's splendid voice rang out from the smoking-room. After he had sung several thousand dollars' worth, Herr String, the eminent 'cellist, supported by the full Skimphony, played beautifully. Roardika, Hemstop, and several other high-priced artists followed him. Furioso closed the programme with "Ah mio, mi mio." After Furioso, supper. And such a supper! The Radigans' chef is an artist.

When the duke comes for Miss Veal and the new house is done, they will show the town how to do things.

CHAPTER XI

An Awfully Good Time

Since her engagement to Plumstone Smith, Jr., was announced, Miss Pearl Veal is having what in Society is called an awfully good time. This means that her day ends in the early morning and she awakens about noon; stands around other people's drawing-rooms at teas for some hours; hurries home to change her costume for dinner; sits smiling through a half-dozen courses; is whirled away for a few acts of opera; hustled off to dance till close to dawn. Society has taken her up. People are doing things for her. Consequently, I am beginning to fear that she will lose the color she brought from Kansas City; that the lines of her face, once so round and soft, will straighten and harden; that she will give up smiling and take to talking, or become phonographic, like Miss Marion Speechless.

Mrs. Radigan, of course, is delighted. Mrs. Radigan has cause to be pleased. She has become a personage. She is being gossiped about in the most outlandish fashion, much to her own amusement and the indignation of J. John, who always was slow-witted and not ready to appraise things at their real value. For instance, Radigan was in a towering rage when a weekly journal that chronicles the doings of the smart set hinted broadly that Mrs. Radigan was engaged to marry J. Madison Mudison as soon as she had cleared away the present matrimonial barriers by visiting South Dakota. Moreover, it was said that the husband had already found consolation and was acquiescing in the arrangement, as it was long known that he had been making eyes at Miss Ethel Bumpschus. The purest fiction! Radigan and his wife are the most devoted pair imaginable, and even if it were the smart thing to do, I cannot conceive their separating, particularly if Radigan's winnings in such an arrangement were to be Miss Bumpschus. The story was, of course, promptly denied and put to sleep, but it serves to show the high place my friends at present fill in the public eye. Radigan was brought to this view and cooled down, but it required some diplomacy to soothe the ruffled feelings of Miss Bumpschus. A check for $5,000 for her pet charity, the Home for Aged Elevated Ticket-choppers, acted as a balm, and to show that she bore no ill-will against her fellow-sufferers she gave a dinner-dance in honor of Miss Veal.

And this was but one of about fifteen "things" given for the girl in the past week. Mrs. Plumstone Smith, Miss Bobbie Williegilt, and Mrs. Lenox Mint all gave her luncheons; Miss Wherry and J. Madison Mudison gave her theatre-parties; the Dewberry Lambs a dance. Besides, she has been kept jumping from house to house every afternoon to meet people who have been asked to meet her. Then she has been asked to act as bridesmaid at eleven weddings in the near future, and it will take no small part of her income for the year, large though it is, to buy gowns and hats for these joyous affairs, which will vary in shade from pink to saffron. Poor Miss Veal! My heart goes out to her.

I was favored with an invitation to the dinner preceding the Bumpschus dance, and had the honor of sitting between Miss Ethel and the Countess Poglioso Spinnigini, an arrangement which I suspected was effected by Bertie Bumpschus in revenge for my taking his place at the Radigan table last week. I talked to the Countess in English, French, German, and Italian till my head ached, then turned her over to the guileless J. Madison Mudison at her other side. But Mudison is an old campaigner. He did not try to entertain the fair Italian at all, but let her talk to him, occasionally breaking into her flow of jargon with the French expressions he had picked up at the bridge-table. How I admired him! He is a man of tact.

Meantime I was in the hands of Miss Bumpschus discussing the needs of the aged ticket-choppers, and covertly watching Miss Veal down the table having an awfully good time. She was seated between old Mr. Bumpschus and Dewberry Lamb, talking out to them a few thoughts that I had talked into her the day before concerning the great novel of the week. Mr. Bumpschus showed his deep interest by eying her over the top of his upraised glass and exclaiming, "Ah! Indeed!" at proper intervals, and when she had exhausted him she turned to Dewberry Lamb and said, "I was just telling Mr. Bumpschus," etc. "How intensely interesting!" exclaimed Mr. Lamb. "Indeed!"

Blessed is the tobacco habit at times like this! When the women had gone, I had an opportunity to soothe my nerves with a strong cigar and relieve the pressure of thought upon my brain by discussing stocks and real-estate with Madison Mudison. He also talked entertainingly about the invasion of upper Fifth Avenue by tradesmen. It was with regret that I left him to get down to the business of dancing.

Dancing is the strangest of diversions. It is a curious relic of barbarity. To glide over a glassy floor, a beautiful girl on your arm, to the strains of some dreamy waltz, sweeping around and around, free and fearless, that is one thing, but not the real. To go bumping and thumping through a maze of a hundred hopping and skipping and kicking men and women, to have your feet tramped on, to tangle them up in meshy trains, to have elbows poked into your eye, to strain your sight hunting for vacant places—is that pleasure? I waited in line a half-hour for the opportunity to take Miss Veal twice around the room. My collar was gone, my shirt front caved in, but waiting had given me rest. When she came staggering up she was on the point of collapse, her hair was awry, she was panting for air, and seemed to be wobbling on her legs, but when I handed her a paper parasol she said "Whew!" long drawn, and away we went. Miss Bumpschus stepped on my heel, Bobbie Williegilt's toe caught in the lace trimming of Miss Veal's gown and we had to stop in the most dangerous spot while I gathered up the trailing yards of it, at the peril of being bowled over at any minute. Miss Speechless rammed a paper parasol into my ear, and a near-sighted stag rushing onto the floor for the hand of Miss Mint jumped heavily on my partner's foot, crushing her diamond buckle. But we got twice around. She said it was lovely.

"I am almost dead," she gasped. "I've been having such an awfully good time."

With that she passed into the hands of the next man in that devoted row awaiting her, and was whirled from sight in the dancing maelstrom.

Yet man prides himself on being a reasoning creature.

CHAPTER XII

We Inspect the New House

I went through the new Radigan house on Fifth Avenue the other day, and I must say that not in years have I had so delightful an adventure as that trip through my friends' fairy-palace. The phrase fairy-palace is used not to imply beauty, but the marvel of its building, for it might be said to have arisen in a night. But Coppe & Coppe are masterful architects. They hold the time record for a twenty-seven-story office building, and with artists like these, Radigan's money, and a cousin who is a walking delegate, wonders can be accomplished. The mansion to-day is practically finished, except for the lightning-rods on the tower, which rises from the western front, an exact copy of those truncated ones of Notre Dame.

We strolled up in the afternoon, the Radigans, Miss Veal, and myself, and on the way picked up J. Madison Mudison, who was walking off a little stag dinner of the night before, and seemed rather depressed. As we passed Seventieth Street we got the first view of the new house and crossed the street to get the best effects. Mrs. Radigan, with much pride, pointed out the exterior beauties of the structure. With the gardens, it occupies an entire block, save for a row of apartment houses on the Madison Avenue end, and I must confess that the bare backs of these plebeian structures, with their laundry work floating in the breeze, do not make an agreeable setting; but Mrs. Radigan said that that objection would soon be done away with, as the upward trend of trade would eventually replace the flats with fine office buildings. So we tried to rub them from our eyes and see only the splendid edifice that was glistening in the afternoon sun.

Mrs. Radigan was beaming. As mistress of such a home she had a good right.

"Mr. Coppe assures me that it is perfect," she said, when we had stood for some minutes in mute admiration. "He declares that it is his firm's she-dove."

"Mr. Coppe tells me," she went on, "that the front is just like Ver-sales, the palace of the Lewises, Lewis cattorze, Lewis cans, and Lewis seeze. The tower is like that of Notre Dayme exactly, only red to match the front." Mrs. Radigan had assumed something of the air of a sight-seeing automobile lecturer, and fearing that her strident tones would collect a crowd I began to move ahead with Miss Veal. Then I caught a few words more and loath to lose so lucid a treatise on architecture, paused to catch this: "Mr. Coppe says a building must always express something. You observe how he has carried out the idea. Look along the north end of the second story and you will see a window with six classic columns outside. That is John's study."

Meaning, of course, I pondered, that the Greeks always had columns outside their study windows. The tower, then, was meant to indicate that John was a vestryman in St. Edward's, and the French front below that his wife was a leader of the fashion. I was curious to know what the back of the house expressed and was graciously informed that Mr. Coppe said that it was not a reproduction, but had been inspired by the Villa Medici in Rome.

So we went on. A loud banging at a brass knocker, taken from one of Washington's head-quarters, set electric bells going inside and brought a workman, who summoned Mr. Coppe, he having been prepared for our coming. Coppe is a charming fellow. He has danced his way to the very front of his profession, and as a cotillon-leader and artist has no rival in the city. Of late he has been giving his entire time to the Radigans, and his commissions on the interior decorations alone would allow him to retire for life. I could see that at a glance. In every room there was a goodly company of workmen—working, for the walking delegate was there looking after the interests of his relatives.

The entrance-floor did not interest me much. A few small reception and dressing rooms were surrounded by servants' quarters and kitchens, and Mrs. Radigan refused to look at the kitchen. Cooking odors, she said, always nauseated her, a condition for which she had to thank her surfeited maternal ancestors, I suspect. So we went up the wide staircase, part of which was brought from an old French château. At the first landing Mr. Coppe drew our attention to a niche in the wall.

"Here," he said, "we shall hang the famous Velasquez which I recently discovered on the East Side and purchased for Mr. Radigan for $40,000—a bargain."

This was the first Radigan had heard of his prize, and it pleased him greatly.

"Is it an ancient or a modern?" he inquired gravely.

Hearing its age and that it was so old that the central figure hardly showed at all, he expressed his delight. Radigan has been developing wonderfully of late as a patron of the arts.

At the second landing we came to the well-known portrait of J. John Radigan, Esq., in hunting costume, and at the head of the stairs, in the foyer, the first thing to catch the eye was the picture of Mrs. Radigan, which made such a furore at the recent Academy. It is by the great Fatuous, who did the Kaiser, the Duke of Lummix, and Lady Angelica Mumm, and so has had a great vogue here this winter. In securing him to paint her into society last fall, Mrs. Radigan executed a master-stroke. She sat day and night that it might be done in time for the exhibition, but nothing ever daunts her. She declared that poor Radigan was risking life and limb playing polo and hunting foxes for her sake, and she just had to do something. Between sitting and polo I should say that the latter was the easier, but surely she was repaid for her suffering.

Fatuous is an artist, indeed! The woman of his canvas is lovely. She is about six inches taller than Mrs. Radigan, and perhaps fifty pounds lighter in weight. Leaning back gracefully in her chair, her eyes are turned down, as she gazes tenderly and pensively at the child at her side. Spirituelle she looks, high-born and high-strung as becomes the daughter of a hundred Americans and the mistress of the largest house that fronts the park.

"It's charming," said Mr. Mudison. "But who is the boy?"

"Jack," Mrs. Radigan answered.

"Jack?" exclaimed the clubman, puzzled.

"Not my husband—my son," she returned.

"Ah," cried Mr. Mudison. "I see, I see. The child I met at Westbury, walking with a governess."

One of the greatest triumphs of this democratic country of ours is the ease with which the plain Johns of one generation are succeeded by Jacks. I have never seen this Radigan hopeful but once, and have hardly heard mention of him much oftener, but our modern system of keeping the children in storage until they are full-grown often leads us to the erroneous idea that somebody's millions are just lying in wait for a library to found.

"Mr. Fatuous said I must have a child to balance the composition," explained Mrs. Radigan. "So I had Jack brought up from Westbury, where we had been keeping him for the winter. He just hated sitting and it generally took me and the governess and a nurse to hold him. Sometimes he kicked dreadfully, but Mr. Fatuous made him look like a perfect dear. Thank goodness, though, that's over. I just couldn't stand the kicks any longer, so we got a child from an asylum I am interested in. He did splendidly."

I wondered why Mrs. Radigan troubled sitting herself, and was on the point of making the suggestion when she went on:

"So here I am, sitting looking pensively at Jack, one of my hands resting on the arm of the chair and the other holding Jack's, who is looking up affectionately at me. A bit of light comes through the window, shining on my face and on the diamond buckle on my slipper, which rests on a silk cushion. I am awfully angular and lovely and thin. Mr. Fatuous says he considers the woman in the picture one of the handsomest he has ever done. It really looks something like me."

"A perfect likeness," cried Mr. Mudison.

Mrs. Radigan was splendid when she felt the slippery floors of her real home beneath her feet. Her mien became majestic as we went from room to room—first through the portrait-gallery, where already a few of the gems Mr. Coppe had bought on commission were being hung; then into the ballroom, all white and gold, and so artfully arranged with mirrors as to make a small dance appear like a charity ball; on into the conservatory, where the artificial palms were already in place, and everything was being prepared for the rest of the plants. We retraced our steps to the other side, where the suite begins with a small salon, finished, as Mrs. Radigan explained, in light blue and gold, in the style of "Lewis cans." Beyond this is a large drawing-room in dark red, with several cosy-corners, making it the only homelike apartment in the house. It opens into the dining-room, done in light oak and very smart tapestries, showing a series of hunting scenes on Hempstead Plain. After this, a good idea, all Radigan's own and very original, is the little café, which opens off one corner and joins the smoking and billiard-rooms. It gives him all the comforts of his club in his own home, he says, for he can either sit down and punch a brass bell on the Flemish oak table, or have his choice passed to him through a small hole which communicates with the butler's pantry.

Altogether the house is very complete. An elevator took us to the next floor. We saw Radigan's study, with a gymnasium adjoining it, and stairs leading to a swimming-tank below; the sleeping apartments, all exact copies of the royal suite in the Hotel St. Regis; the library, where room is provided for 10,000 volumes, for which Mr. Coppe has already placed a lump order.

Everybody was delighted. For myself, I have never seen a more perfect house, one which so shows in every crack and cranny the wealth and taste that have been lavished on it. Even J. Madison Mudison, who had been wandering around rather dazed and mute, as we turned to leave, said that it was "awfully jolly." It is. If Mr. Coppe had worked for years instead of two weeks over his plans he could not have conceived a dwelling that would better express its occupants.

Mrs. Radigan was more than satisfied. I thought she would embrace the architect when we parted, so effusive was she. But instead she gave him her royal command.

"You must positively be out of the house in three weeks," she said. "I am going to give an Indian ball and want the rooms fixed up like woods and wigwams and things. I simply must have the affair before Lent."

CHAPTER XIII

We Go Skating at Exudo

I am beginning to suspect that the unwarranted report that Mrs. Radigan is to marry J. Madison Mudison and Radigan to marry Miss Bumpschus may prove true, after all. At the time when it was printed there was absolutely no ground for the story, but the publication seems to have turned the thoughts of all concerned in a new direction and the suggestion is pleasing. In their efforts to prove that such a report is cruel Miss Bumpschus is having the Radigans to something two or three times a week, and Mudison calls daily on Mrs. Radigan to express his regret. Radigan is supporting the Home for Aged Ticket-choppers, and has discovered many bonds of sympathy between Miss Ethel and himself. For instance, she loves church-work and abominates polo and bridge. J. John, in his efforts to further his wife's ambitions, has been twice hit on the head by a mallet and has been rolled on by his ponies a score of times. Poker and passing the plate at St. Edward's are much more to his taste. His wife has sporting proclivities. She likes to have a bishop to dinner. It delights her to see her husband being beaten on the head by the mallets of the smartest men in town, and to watch him in his automobile tearing off one hundred miles of beach an hour. She was in ecstasy when the story got out that he had lost $100,000 in one night's play at Potlots, and he had to spend a few weeks at Newport to avoid the subpœna servers and reporters. As he had really lost the money, Radigan did not appreciate the additional prestige the incident had won for him. So you see there is a great incompatibility in temperament. In Mudison, on the other hand, Mrs. Radigan has found her ideal man. He belongs to seven clubs; his polo handicap is nine; he is arrested monthly for overspeeding; he is literary and talks delightfully on the works of Winston Churchill and Anna K. Green; his family has been known in New York for nearly half a century, its founder being Sheriff Mudison, who left a large fortune. Of course there is the question of young Radigan, but he could easily be given to a third party, so I am not altogether sure that the change would not be a good one if Miss Bumpschus could be made to overcome her old-fashioned prejudices.

There is at present, however, no sign of a movement toward South Dakota; but I suppose if it comes to that, Mrs. Radigan would prefer to go in Lent, so as not to miss any of the winter season, and then she could be back for Newport in August. That would, of course, necessitate her giving up her plans to spend May and June in London and capture a duke for Miss Pearl Veal, but I fear she is occupying herself more with her own heart now than with her sister's hand. But the clouds are gathering for the storm—if storm it can be called. Then, are not storms always followed by fair weather? We all went to Exudo skating the other day—one of the clouds—as the guests of J. Madison, who was endeavoring to show the world that there was nothing in the cruel gossip. Besides the Radigans and Miss Bumpschus, Plumstone Smith and his fiancée, Miss Veal, he kindly asked Miss Marian Speechless and myself. By a special effort Mrs. Radigan got up very early and we were able to catch the eleven-o'clock train, so we reached the club by one. Who should we see there but Willie Lite, the Dewberry Lambs with the Count and Countess Poglioso Spinnigini, the Harry Stumbles and a lot of other nice people we know! I had a glimpse of the Van Rundouns, with some queer-looking friends from Boston, but I had no chance to speak to them. The Dewberry Lamb party joined us at luncheon and we had a very jolly time at the big round table.

Madison Mudison knows how to order—a rare accomplishment. When we got through I felt as if I never wanted to move again, but would rather stretch my legs toward the blazing fire and smoke, smoke, smoke; but when you accept an invitation your host becomes your keeper, so we were all corralled and trotted away to the lake.

Miss Speechless had brought her sister's skates, so I had to freeze my fingers adjusting the clamps to fit. Then, as I kneeled on the ice before her in a devoted attitude, while I fixed them on her feet and complained of their being too large, I froze my knees. By the time I had prepared myself to go gliding over the ice, I was all a-shiver and eager for a spurt that would start the blood going. But there, waiting for me, was Miss Speechless, standing with her feet together, balancing as though she were on a tight rope, pleading to me to hurry. She was afraid to strike out, and when I reached her, was fluttering helplessly in the wind. So there was nothing for me to do but to tow her—a difficult and dangerous task, as I am not an adept at going backward. It was work, more than I had counted on, and I was soon in a condition bordering on exhaustion. At last I was allowed a moment's rest, and as I stood there panting, Miss Speechless, fluttering in the wind, told me how jolly it was; but I paid no attention to her, my eyes being fixed on the others. At one end of the lake J. Madison Mudison and Mrs. Radigan, hand in hand, were gliding gracefully around. It was beautiful to see them. I am sure Mrs. Radigan learned the art on the canal at home, though she says she spent her winters in Canada as a child. And as for Mudison, I forgave him his legs—he should never wear knickerbockers—when I saw the way he soared around on one skate. Out would go the right feet, left feet waving gently in the air; a swerve, and they were off in the other direction. They swept around in a graceful curve and came rolling down toward us, as lightly and airily, as unconscious of all but themselves, as though there were no laws of gravitation. It was beautiful to see them!

But at the other end of the lake, what a picture! Radigan and Miss Bumpschus, hand in hand, fluttering aimlessly about. They went in little jiggety steps, and every now and then she would stop suddenly, without warning, while he would go on to destruction. He was earnestly good-natured about it, though, and would clamber up to his feet and go on with her, undaunted. I worried about them once when I saw them coasting toward a weak spot in the ice, but Radigan, with rare good judgment and self-sacrifice, sat down and averted a disaster. And Miss Bumpschus seemed to enjoy it all tremendously.

I could not stand forever in that freezing wind watching the progress of these two romances. Miss Speechless on skates was on my hands, and I had to resume my towing. A blessed moment came when Plumstone Smith rolled up and addressed some graceful nothings to her, upon which she seized his hands and asked him to take her around just once. That just once was lengthened into numberless times, for I slipped noiselessly away to the secluded spot where Miss Veal was airily cutting eights and double eights and other figures. Together we sat on the bank, she in the shelter of her automobile coat smoking a cigarette with me, while we watched the others. Plumstone went by backward, puffing, dragging Miss Speechless after him. A smile crossed my companion's face—you should see Pearl Veal smile!—as she gazed at the spire of smoke that went heavenward from her lips. She looked at me when they had gone by, and somehow we laughed.

Mudison and Mrs. Radigan came rolling past us. They swept about and glided back to the secluded corners of the lake. Radigan and Miss Bumpschus came clattering up. They parted while they turned about, and then half-trotted, half-skated toward their end of the ice.

"Isn't it a shame that Sally should be tied down to such a poor skater as John," said Miss Veal.

But I was not thinking of John and Sally, I was covertly watching Pearl Veal, her rounded cheeks richly colored by the wind, her soft reddish hair fluttering over the top of the upturned collar of fur, her glorious eyes on mine. I was wishing I were a duke or a member of the Stock Exchange or a champagne agent, or something like that.

CHAPTER XIV

Exit Plumstone Smith, Jr.

It has come at last, and much sooner than I had dared to expect. Of course I am speaking of Miss Pearl Veal's engagement to Plumstone Smith, Jr. Poor Plumstone! He is heart-broken. I saw him at the Ping-pong Club the other afternoon, smoking a cigarette and gazing abstractedly into the depths of a Scotch highball. He did not speak to me, and even though he might not have intended to cut me dead, such action would surely be in his right. And the cruel stories in Town Twaddle are at the bottom of it all. Last week that paper in its leader, in a guarded statement giving no names, announced that the engagement of a certain rich and beautiful girl, a new-comer from the West in Society, to a well-known clubman and cotillon-leader, a son of an old and impoverished family, had been broken. It said that the young man's mother was in bed with nervous prostration, as she had had her house elaborately decorated and had bought some stock on margins on the strength of the improvement in the family prospects; that the youth himself was spending his days in one of his clubs, pounding a bell and crying, "The same!" But still more cruel, it laid the wreck of this home to a young real-estate agent, name not given, who had been insinuating himself into the graces of the innocent beauty. Now, did you ever hear the beat of that? In a separate paragraph it most politely intimated that Miss Pearl Veal's engagement to me would soon be announced.

Where Town Twaddle got the story is a mystery, for it is true to the part where it accuses me of insinuating myself into the affections of another man's fiancée. Though I have known Pearl Veal many months, I do not think we had spoken a dozen words to each other up to the day when we all went skating at Exudo. Then I must admit, as we sat on the bank smoking cigarettes and watching Plumstone cavorting around the ice with Marian Speechless, she revealed her heart to me. No one was more astounded than I.

Love steals upon us strangely in these days. Time was when men won women with the sword, when gallant deeds and pretty speeches, when a noble bearing and a nimble wit were the snare we set for beauty. How different now! Little did I dream as I sat at the Radigan table, covertly admiring Miss Veal across the board, that I was awakening a divine flame as I consumed terrapin and champagne; that I was fanning that flame when I said "Ah!" and "You don't say!" when I discoursed on the weather or the beauty of the opera. These were the snares I set—these, with a few well-cut clothes, some immaculate shirt-fronts and rather snappy ties. My conscience is clear. She would never have been happy with Plumstone had she allowed the affair to proceed to a church terminus, for it was evident that he was after her millions, and her only reason for accepting him was to gain social position. But this reason exists no longer. To-day the Radigans are smarter than the Smiths. There are those who will bemoan the fact that such a condition can exist in Society. Croakers all! Possibly they are the sons of some war, who, boasting the deeds of ancestors, are doing nothing themselves, and so are being pressed back by those who are doing to-day what the others' forebears did yesterday. For myself, I like new things; fresh people as well as fresh vegetables; new families as well as new clothes. Old families new painted are pleasant to know, but spare us the heirlooms. After all, the Plumstone Smiths are the Radigans of yesterday.

So Pearl Veal is in a position to choose. She has chosen and I bow to her will. There was a time when I suspected that she would take nothing less than a duke and would have a wedding-riot, but she says that love in a cottage is all she asks. So she has bought a forty-foot front lot on Seventy-ninth Street, and Coppe & Coppe are making plans for it. So far I have had nothing to say in the whole affair. I seem to have done my part when I ate terrapin and drank my wine, and caught the occasional lustrous glance of the blue eyes over the board; when I said "Ah!" and "You don't say!" Then Pearl took a hand and now Mrs. Radigan is running the whole affair.

Mrs. Radigan has been wonderful. Of course she never intended that her sister should marry Plumstone Smith, but after him she looked to a duke. That she consented to a real-estate agent I owe to J. Madison Mudison. She loves Mudison devotedly, I know, and it has softened her wonderfully. Her view of life has changed. She is less selfish. She sighs more and says less, and when Pearl and I asked her blessing, she just stirred her tea and said, "Oh, well, if you will."

Pearl and I were too surprised to speak for a moment.

Mrs. Radigan looked up from her tea and asked, "Who are your ushers to be?"

I said I did not care, but that I would like to have Green, who had lived in the same boarding-house with me in my lean years. At that she put her cup down and said fiercely: "I think I will have Mr. Lite act as best man. The ushers will be Harry Mint, Mr. Mudison, Bobbie Williegilt, and Dewberry Duff. John will give an ushers' dinner for you at the Ticktock Club."

"But—" I was about to protest, but even Cupid had not taken the fire from those masterful eyes, and I collapsed.

"And your bridesmaids, Pearl?" said Mrs. Radigan, turning to my fiancée.

"I would like to have my old school-friend, Mignonette Klapper," said Pearl, groping nervously for her cigarette-case.

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Radigan. "Clarissa Mudison will be maid of honor, and the other bridesmaids will be Ethel Bumpschus, Marian Speechless, Pinkey Mint, and Marguerite Lamb. You see I have been expecting this and have made my plans."

"When is the wedding to be?" I asked feebly.

"In Lent," said Mrs. Radigan, untouched by the covert sarcasm. "Some time after we move into the new house. I want to have the wedding-breakfast there. The wedding will be in St. Edward's, and will be performed by the rector. Of course I'll have some of our Long Island clergy with the Bishop to do some blessing."

"Is there nothing that I can do?" said I.

"You can look after the police arrangements," said Mrs. Radigan. "It will take about sixty men at the church and as many at the house. Be sure and have some of the new mounted squad if possible."

"But Sally—" Pearl began to protest.

Her sister cut her short with a sigh.

"That will do for the present, dear," she said sweetly.

Then she gazed into the depths of her tea just as I had seen Plumstone Smith do at the club. Poor Mrs. Radigan!

CHAPTER XV

My Dinner to Miss Pearl Veal

I gave a delightful little dinner in my rooms the other evening in honor of my fiancée, Miss Pearl Veal. Of course there were some hitches, but they were such as are likely to occur in any similar affair in a bachelor room-hold, so altogether it was a success. The company was limited by the size of my study, but I managed to get together a thoroughly interesting and congenial crowd of people. Radigan could not come, as there was an important meeting of the vestry of St. Edward's to devise ways and means of redecorating the rectory, but J. Madison Mudison took his place at the last minute, after telephoning to Miss Bumpschus that he had been called suddenly out of town and could not go to the opera with them. Mrs. Radigan chaperoned, and, besides Miss Veal, the Countess Poglioso Spinnigini and Mrs. Bobbie Q. Williegilt were there, and with Bobbie Q., Arthur Slaughterblock-Jones, and myself we just had elbow-room at the table.

Slaughterblock-Jones was the only new-comer and doubtful quantity. He is from Chicago, but having made a fortune in the formation and collapse of the United States Stove-lifter Company, he has hyphenated his name, moved to New York, and is living at the Ping-pong Club. I must say his acquaintance has hitherto been limited to rather queer people, but as he has given me some useful tips in the market, I thought I would show my appreciation by letting him have an opportunity to meet a few of the smart set. He really did fairly well, and his stories, fresh from the woolly West, were an agreeable change from the worn jokes of Mr. Mudison. Mrs. Radigan has taken him up, and has sent him an invitation to the Indian ball, with which the new house is to be opened. But, of course, he had to make some bad breaks. When he had sent us all off into convulsions over his anecdote about the Irishman and the life-insurance agent, he had to be reminded of another which he had heard at the Van Rundouns. Of all the people in the world to mention! Turning to Mrs. Williegilt he asked her if, by the way, she knew the Van Rundouns, and she replied that she believed they at one time had a place next hers in Westchester, but she did not know them. She said it very quietly, but so firmly that he should have understood. He did not. He had to go blundering on, talking familiarly—I might almost say boastingly—of those queer friends of his. He did not seem to realize that these were the swells of yesterday; that they no longer stirred the social sea. For a moment I was in a panic lest he ask Mrs. Radigan if she knew the Van Rundouns, and I had to break in and ask Mr. Mudison to propound the riddle he had given me the day before when we happened to meet on the avenue.

But I am getting into the middle of the dinner before even the soup. To begin with, my rooms looked charmingly cosey. I had taken down the overflow of real-estate maps from my office and the pictures I got in Paris and put in their places some sporting prints and a dozen or so photographs of Pearl Veal. Stalk looked after everything. He is my new man, for it seemed to me that I was justified in having him when I was soon to marry four millions, and he looked so extremely well that Mrs. Radigan, thinking he was a man she had met somewhere, bowed most familiarly to him when she came in. The Countess thought he was Mr. Williegilt, and to avoid further trouble I had to whisper to him to stand in the hall till everybody arrived.

The worst hitch of the evening was the ruin of the bottle of cocktails I had had mixed by William at the Ticktock Club. He makes the only cocktail in New York that is fit to drink. And after I had explained to everybody how good it was, Stalk went to the patent ammonia refrigerator in the bathroom, to find that the temperature there had suddenly dropped about 100 below zero, and the precious beverage was frozen solid. As it would have taken an hour to thaw that amber ice, we had to send downstairs for aid. Such cocktails as they sent up! There was entirely too much bitters in them, and Mrs. Williegilt got a bad olive in hers. As it went down she looked as if she were my enemy for life. I don't know what the other stuff in them was, but the effect was immediate. All the steam in the building seemed to be pouring into the radiator and to defy all efforts to keep it out. We had to open the windows wide to reduce our temperature, and the contest between Mrs. Williegilt and the olive waxed fierce for a time, but we hurried the champagne and she won.

Gray care was soon cast aside. The dinner was excellent in spite of the distance to the apartment-house kitchen. Madison Mudison was inclined to think that the champagne, though fair, was a trifle too sweet, but he always makes it a point to find some slight fault with the wine, and I did not mind it. Pearl smiled delightfully from soup to coffee. Mudison and Slaughterblock-Jones vied with each other in telling stories. Even Mrs. Radigan asked what was the difference between a cab horse and a bunch of roses, but when we all gave it up she had forgotten. Bobbie Williegilt made two rolls into dough balls, and I interpreted to the Countess all that was said, resorting to French, German, and gestures as a mode of communication.

It was about coffee that a lull in the conversation gave me an opportunity to say that I had gathered my few nearest friends together in my bachelor quarters; it would be my last dinner of the kind in my rooms, as I was about to give up the delightful freedom of bachelorhood for the still more delightful captivity of a home with a wife for a jailer. Miss Veal and I—I got no further than that, there was such an outburst of congratulations. Everybody pretended to be so surprised, though, of course, they had read all about it in Town Twaddle.

The Countess made a little trouble in the lull that followed the applause, for, not being able to understand me very well, she conceived the idea that the demonstration had something to do with Pearl's former engagement to Plumstone Smith, and, smiling at my fiancée, she raised her glass and proposed, "Monsieur Smees." They had a terrible time explaining it all to her, and Pearl and I had to look as if we were not in the room, though we could have heard Mrs. Radigan a block away as she made her French plain by shouting.

Madison Mudison was charming. He saved the day. He choked the Countess off, and, pushing his chair back from the table and eying his glass meditatively, he made a delightful little informal speech, forgetting entirely that but a few weeks before at the Radigan dinner he had welcomed Pearl Veal into the family of Smith. As Mrs. Radigan's sister, he said, he regarded Miss Veal as near and dear to him. Were he a younger man, a richer man, a handsomer and a wiser man, he might perhaps be here in a different rôle—with apologies to his host—he might aspire to a relationship still nearer and dearer. Too late in life he had come to realize that love in a cottage was better than bachelorhood in a dozen clubs. His part was to bless the mating of others. He wanted now, speaking for his dear friends, to welcome into the house of Radigan his young host. Money was not all of life; family was not all; brains were not all. He gloried in his young host, who, having none of these things, had come to New York, had made an honored name for himself in the real-estate world, had won the beautiful daughter of one of the city's best families. Miss Veal was lucky to win such a man. His young host was lucky to win such a girl. The Radigans were lucky. We all were lucky.

I was just remarking that I believed I was the luckiest man in all the world when the telephone-bell interrupted, and Mrs. Bobbie Williegilt, being nearest it, playfully took up the receiver. She dropped it in a jiffy and sternly called to me.

"I was sayin'," came a voice from the office, "that our rules requires that all ladies leaves the buildin' at eleven o'clock."

"But—" I began to protest.

"We can't make no exceptions," said the idiot in the office.

"See here," I began, getting desperate, for I heard Mrs. Williegilt calling for her wraps.

"We can't run no risks," said the big, loud voice below. "It's past the hour now."

Stalk went down with a five-dollar bill and got an hour's grace, but fifteen minutes was all that was really needed, for by that time Mrs. Williegilt had led my guests on the retreat.

CHAPTER XVI

Mrs. Radigan's Costume-ball

I have just been going over the newspaper accounts of the Radigans' costume-ball, and I must say that the columns and columns devoted to it, speak well for my friends' standing in Society. It is generally conceded that New York has never before seen such a lavish affair, and the estimates of its cost go from $50,000 up. Yet these do not consider the new house, which was built primarily as a place of entertainment, not as a home; so part of the million spent there should be charged against the dance. The whole affair was colossal. But the Radigans are paying the bills without a word, for they are more than satisfied with the advertising they have received. Their position is now absolutely established, and nothing can shake them out of smart society but the loss of their money.

The new house was a dream. Young Mr. Coppe, of Coppe & Coppe, the architects, had arranged all the decorations, and he showed rare taste and ingenuity, for to contrive the surroundings for an Indian dance was no simple matter. But he worked it out cleverly. Entering the great hall, the guests left civilization behind them and stood in a giant wigwam. It was a little out of shape, because of the proportions of the room, but the illusion was well maintained by the arrangement of poles and hides, with decorations of bows, arrows, and imitation scalps hanging everywhere. Of course it was necessary to leave this for a moment and plunge into the civilization of the dressing-rooms, where a score of servants costumed like trappers were in attendance. But when your costume was arranged you plunged into the wild again, passing through the wigwam, up the broad stairway, past the famous Velasquez and the Fatuous portrait of Mrs. Radigan and her child, pausing in the foyer, a charming forest with a pool full of goldfish in the centre, on into the wigwam, once the portrait-gallery, where Mrs. Radigan received her guests.

Mrs. Radigan was superb. Mrs. Radigan was unique. Mrs. Radigan was lovely. She was Pocahontas, and that there should be not the slightest color of scandal she made Radigan appear as Captain John Smith, so when he wandered up, dragging his long rifle, she could with propriety acknowledge him as her husband. I do not know what the real Pocahontas looked like, but if she was anything like Mrs. Radigan she must have been capable of any heroism. Mrs. Radigan is massive. Her hair, black, flowing down over her shoulders, interworked with flowers and feathers, gave her in the higher altitudes the appearance of Hamlet's unhappy love. Her gown might be described as that of a nouveau-riche Indian maiden, for the famous Radigan pearls put the bead-work to sleep, speaking figuratively; and the rather short skirt gave a glimpse of open-work silks that might have been a gift from her Majesty of England.

Mrs. Radigan was charming. There was a smile and a hearty, whole-souled hand-shake for all, and as they came trooping past her in their Indian garb she had a word of admiration for every one of them. Pearl Veal as Minnehaha, and myself as Hiawatha, each got a resounding kiss, which in my case disarranged my deep bronze complexion. And as for J. Madison Mudison! Pearl and I were at Mrs. Radigan's side when he arrived, and we noted that she held his hand very long and seemed to say nothing. But he might well have set anybody speechless. We should never have known him had not the giant trapper at the door, the pride of the servants' hall, announced "Mr. Madison Mudison, the great medicine-man." He was simply hideous. His face was painted all the colors of the rainbow, and from his neck down he was festooned with stuffed snakes and carried a vicious-looking war-club. When he had made his obeisance he stared open-mouthed at the marvellous alteration of the gallery, all hung as it was with hides and scalps, weapons, and trophies of the chase. "Jolly," was his comment—"awfully jolly!" Then, shouldering his weapon, he gathered in Miss Veal and went on into the ballroom.

To go into the ballroom was like stepping into some primeval forest, so artfully had Mr. Coppe carried out his scheme. You seemed in an open place among the trees, a glade, with a green waxed floor underfoot, a starry sky—twinkling stars—overhead and about you the receding woods, whose unreality you only realized when you bumped into the wall. To carry out the illusion, the whistler of a downtown music-hall was hidden in the ceiling, and made a noise like a bird. There was a little stage at one end, and half of the Skimphony Orchestra was concealed in the conservatory, playing divine music.

A remarkable scene! The place was packed with Indians, all laughing and chatting till the noise they made sounded like a knitting-mill, and among them, his long rifle over his shoulders, moved Captain John Smith, nobly playing his part as host to the distinguished company. Miss Bumpschus was there and she almost fainted when I sailed up with J. Madison Mudison, who made a threatening demonstration with his awful spiked club. I must confess I think Miss Bumpschus as an Indian looked better than usual, though her spectacles might have been dispensed with. Still, I suppose she wanted to see what was going on. Mrs. Bobbie Williegilt, on the other hand, was perfect, even to the papoose which she carried on her back. This infant caused some excitement by falling off on the floor later in a dance, for she had failed to explain to some of the dowagers that it was only imitation. Marian Speechless as an Apache maiden, Dewberry Lamb as Red Cloud, and Arthur Slaughterblock-Jones as a youth, were especially excellent in their make-up. By eleven o'clock you might have fancied yourself back in the seventeenth century, sporting in the Virginia forests with Pocahontas and her people.

A company of trappers marched in, and with ropes of roses marked off a ring in the centre of the great room, so that clustered about it the smart tribes were regaled by a war-dance, in which seven of the cleverest men in town took part under the leadership of Madison Mudison. It was very well done, except that young Stuyvesant Mint's head hit one of the spikes of Mudison's club and he had to retire. They were followed by a company of débutantes and young men, including Miss Veal and myself, who did a minuet, which everybody said was charming, as the Indian costumes made it different from anything of the kind they had ever seen.

A fanfare of trumpets announced the arrival of Miss Maggie McBride, the prima donna of the Hodge-Podge Company, who at present, you know, is the wife of young Bullion, or am I thinking of old Emerson Dotty? The company immediately divided, forming a lane. Radigan advanced to the sedan chair in which four trappers had carried the actress, and helping her to alight, he gracefully led her to the stage. She, too, was in Indian costume, and about her neck wore the famous Dotty diamond collar, for the possession of which the aged Emerson's former wife is now suing. Her performance was inimitable. She sang the same songs and danced the same dances that we can see any night for $2, but some of the Indians did not realize what it cost to have her perform in a private house, and became bored and began to move toward the odor of cooking. This necessitated cutting her programme short, and rather hurrying the feast.

There was a general sigh of relief on the part of the bored Indians when Radigan led the way to the feast with Miss McBride on his arm, looking very lovely. Of course it was necessary at this juncture to part from Indian customs, so supper was served at small tables in the great suite of rooms which begins at the salon and ends in Radigan's little café, all arranged like wigwams. The waiters, attired as trappers, were very picturesque; indeed, the supper was most excellent and the fire-water of many kinds and unlimited in quantity. The heat of the rooms made the paint run somewhat, and consequently there was a considerable exit of the more elderly Indians after the last course. The younger element stayed to dance, until almost daybreak. Many before going home went to the billiard-room, where Radigan had thoughtfully established a number of professional photographers, who took pictures of the guests at his expense, for the Radigans have a way of leaving nothing undone that will add to the pleasure of their guests. They spare no expense. That is the way they have been able to become so extremely smart, and that they are smart none can doubt who reads the list of their guests. Take, for example:

Mrs. Plumstone, Count and Countess Poglioso Spinnigini, Mrs. Bobbie Q. Williegilt, Miss Speechless, Miss Constance Wherry, Mr. and Mrs. Dewberry Lamb, Mr. and Mrs. John Twitter, Mrs. Very, Mrs. Garish, Miss Bumpschus, Mr. Williegilt, Mr. Stuyvesant Mint, Joshua Jumpkin, 7th, J. Madison Mudison, Williegilt Bumpschus, Mrs. Edgerton Twaddell, The Misses Twaddell, Mr. E. Williegilt, Mr. and Mrs. Timpleton Duff, Mrs. Hegerton Humming, Miss Humming, Mr. E. Humming, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Tattler, Miss Bilberry, Miss Clarissa Mudison, Miss Tumbleton, Mr. Cecil Hash, Prince Cosmospopolis, Miss Mint, Mr. Willie Lite, Mr. Garish, Mr. Horatio Gastly.

CHAPTER XVII

The Duke of Nocastle Arrives

His Grace the Duke of Nocastle is in town, and the way the wheels are buzzing within wheels keeps me in one long headache. I must confess I am worried. As I was sitting in the Ping-Pong Club the other afternoon, gazing into the depths of a Scotch, Plumstone Smith, Jr., addressed me in an airy way.

"I see that the Duke has arrived," said he smiling.

I have no recollection of what I said to him, but I hope he does not report it to the governors, for I suspect that it was not the kind of language one gentleman should use to another in the club. He seems content, however, to smile at me and cut me dead. But I do not care for him, for he is nothing but one of these dingy heirlooms that is handed down in Society from generation to generation. Of course I think all will come out well in the end, but still I shall not be sure till Pearl Veal and I have walked down from the altar together and the mob at the church-door is actually pulling her dress to pieces. Naturally, the matter lies entirely with his Grace, but I find strength in the fact that Ethel Bumpschus has ten millions, while Pearl can boast but four. But Miss Bumpschus is so plain! Of course, once she became a duchess we should all rave over her beauty, but while she is an American "Miss," there are some doubts on that point. It is unfortunate that the Duke should be visiting the Bumpschuses, for distance lends enchantment, and Pearl Veal, with $4,000,000 six blocks away, must be fascinating to a man who dines daily with Miss Bumpschus and her ten.

Nocastle is a relative of Nothingham, who a few years ago married a Bumpschus. His arrival in this country was announced by the papers with a great flourish of trumpets, and the social historians even went so far as to say that he was to marry Miss Ethel, that the match was one of love, pure and simple, that he had met her at Nice while he was staying there incog., and had lost his heart on sight to the sweet and simple little New Yorker. They did meet at Nice last winter; but he hurried back to England and stuck to his pride and his leaky castles till a few heavy rains had mildewed his wardrobe. Thereupon he set sail for this country to get the means to mend his roofs. To mend the roofs of a half-dozen English castles requires the fortune of a Radigan.

When a picture of the Duke in his Guard's uniform burst upon my eye as I opened my paper at breakfast on the morning of his arrival, I was panic-stricken. He was magnificent, seemed to stand about six feet six, and wore as many decorations as one of our own Sons of the Revolution. When I read of his achievements I was in despair. A man of action, he. He had served in the Soudan with the Red Cross Society; had been decorated by her Majesty for his services in the commissary department in South Africa; had written a pamphlet on the ginger-beer evil, and had made several speeches on that subject in the House of Lords. What chance would a plain American real-estate agent have against a man like this?

That afternoon I dropped in at the Bumpschuses to see him, and seeing him, hope rose again. His Grace is possibly five feet four, partially bald, very pale, and wears a tiny, fuzzy mustache turned upside down. His collar was much too big for him, and seemed designed to allow him to draw his head in like a turtle. As for his clothes, they were cut in the English fashion, to fit a fire-plug or an upright piano. I must say that he was very affable, and declared that everything he had seen was "jolly little," or "jolly big," or "jolly good." For a while he looked so small and harmless and behaved so decently all around that I quite lost my heart to him and promised to show him the sights of the town, the Flatiron Building, the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Clark mansion. Then Miss Speechless pulled me over to one corner and told me not to be so familiar with him, as he was one of the greatest men in England. And when she got through reciting his name I was so overcome I hardly dared speak in his presence. Fancy my clapping on the shoulder Charles John Peter Michael Henry Edwin Reginald Clarence Angus Joseph Fitznit, Duke of Nocastle, Marquis of Bumpshire, Earl of Duckham, Baron Llfygntynllan, Baron McGonigle in Ireland, Knight of the Garter, the Bath, the Fleece. When I raised my eyes again to his Grace I saw him as in the photograph, six feet six in the uniform of the Guards; I saw Mrs. Radigan, just in, holding his hand and calling him "Duke"; I saw Pearl Veal in an attitude of rapt admiration and I shuddered.

It was evident that Mrs. Radigan did not know his entire name, for she talked to him so familiarly, tapping him with her fan, calling him "Your Royal Highness," "Your Grace," "My Lord," and "Duke" with equal facility. Miss Bumpschus was furious. She tried in vain to get her guest out of the masterful woman's hands, but was outgeneralled. You simply cannot awe Mrs. Radigan. She showed the Duke that she was on easy terms with nobility by asking him if he knew the Count and Countess Poglioso Spinnigini and her dear friend, Prince Cosmospopolis of Greece. When he replied that he had not that pleasure, she got up a dinner on the spot for Thursday evening. Miss Bumpschus kept breaking in all the time, but accomplished nothing. Mrs. Radigan told the Duke plainly that she would not let Ethel monopolize him. She wanted him to know her little sister, Pearl Veal, who had long been reading about him and was devoted to Red Cross work and the ginger-beer problem. Pearl was looking very lovely indeed, as she stood silently smiling at her sister's side, and his Grace promised to come to lunch the very next day. By this time I joined my cause with Miss Bumpschus and we surrounded them and forced the Dewberry Lambs between Mrs. Radigan and the prize. She took it good-naturedly and sipped tea with Willie Lite. While Mrs. Dewberry Lamb was telling Nocastle how her automobile had broken down on the way, he cross-examined me as to my friends.

"Who," he asked, "is the jolly girl with the eyes, that that jolly Mrs. Bannigan introduced to me—Cutter—Cuttle—Cutlet?"

"Ve-al," said I, emphasizing the French pronunciation indignantly.

"Veal," said he. "A jolly name. I knew it had something to do with dinner."

"Miss Veal is my fiancée," said I sternly.

"Lucky fel-lah," said he; "jolly lucky. I lunch there to-morrow."

Lucky! At that moment I was the most unhappy man in all the world. I saw myself at the mercy of this great Englishman; I saw myself going the way of Plumstone Smith; I saw slipping from my grasp, not four millions, but Pearl. Strange as it may seem, I have never given a thought for her money. I know no one will believe it, but nevertheless it is true. To sit quietly with her is happiness. She is altogether lovely in her eyes, in her color, in the roundness of her face, and the fulness of her form. Mere talk is the complement that makes plainness attractive. Pearl Veal seldom talks. She smiles. She smokes. And when the gray clouds float around her she is like a charming sunset. People say she is brainless. When I want learning I can find it in books; when I want wit, I can read my Richardson and Lamb. I am not blind. Beauty feasts my eye. To delight me it only has to smile. Pearl and I are boon companions. She says she finds real contentment in my company; I do not bore her with chatter about stocks and real estate, about novels and plays, about tennis and bridge; I just smoke and smile; my clothes fit so very well and my taste in ties appeals to her. Then, when the air is clear and crisp, when the sunlight kaleidoscopes the avenue and its many-colored fronts, when all the town seems to be afoot or awheel, we find it rare sport to escape Mrs. Radigan and go tearing along together, speaking to those we ought not to speak to, and leaving unspoken to those to whom we should speak, to hail Mignonette Klapper and Estelle Beerberger, Green, and the fellows of my old boarding-house. Sometimes, in more serious mood, we turn into Madison, the avenue of sentiment, the thoroughfare along which the young and thoughtless wander into matrimony. Sometimes Pearl becomes cynical. Sometimes she rails. She wonders whether it really pays to be so smart as we have become under Mrs. Radigan's generalship. Then it is that I know that she has brains.

Are these days over? I am looking to the future with dread. Few women, however noble, can refuse a Duke. When the opportunity comes they deem it a sacred duty to mend the roofs of historic castles. I feel that my fate lies entirely with his Grace. Will he take Miss Bumpschus and her ten millions, or Pearl Veal with her four? I await his decision. He had luncheon with the Radigans yesterday. To-morrow he dines there with Prince Cosmospopolis, the Poglioso Spinniginis, and other local nobles. A few days will decide all.

CHAPTER XVIII

A Problem for the Duke

Poor Nocastle! His Grace seems to have a problem to solve that is beyond his intellectuality. Here stands Ethel Bumpschus, with spectacles and ten millions; there Pearl Veal, beautiful, with but four. Which will he choose? And surely he has only to choose, for he is a peer of England. He is only five feet four, partially bald, pale, fuzzy mustache upside down, but then, besides, he is Charles John Peter Michael Henry Edwin Reginald Clarence Angus Joseph Fitznit, Duke of Nocastle, Marquis of Bumpshire, Earl of Duckham, Baron Llfygntynllan, Baron McGonigle in Ireland, etc. He has been here nearly two weeks now, turning the Bumpschus house upside down, and yet his engagement to its heiress has not been announced. Town Twaddle cruelly reported that there had been a hitch over the settlements, that his solicitor had been cabled for, and that pending the arrival of Sir Charles Wigge no announcements would be made. But I know better. The hitch came that afternoon at the Bumpschuses when the noble eyes lighted on Pearl Veal, as she stood beside Mrs. Radigan, smiling. Since then his Grace has haunted the Radigan house, and when he is not loafing in the shadow of its mistress, he is sitting on a bench in the Park Mall, seeking an inspiration in the bust of Robert Burns. Time is flying. He will have to decide soon, for he has bought a brace of bull pups and the fancier is standing all day in the Bumpschus hall, respectfully waiting for his money.

My position is a hard one. Were Pearl the only one to be coped with, there would be no doubt of the future, but with a social Oyama like Mrs. Radigan opposing you, there can be little hope. Mrs. Radigan is very frank. She got me in a corner the other day and proceeded to explain to me why the engagement should be broken at once. Pearl's happiness for life was at stake, she said, and surely I would sacrifice myself for her. But is it happiness? said I. She told me that I was a child. Pearl would be a duchess, the mistress of four castles; she would take precedence over Clarissa Bumpschus, who had married the Duke of Nothingham, and over Evangeline Very, who was to wed the Earl of Less; she could snub Ethel Bumpschus, who had always been a snob, anyway; and the Japanese war would be forgotten while the wedding was under way. Was this not happiness for any girl? As for me, she promised me that I should be best man, and surely it would give me more distinction to be best man for a duke than to be the groom myself.

I admitted that the prospect was dazzling all around, but asked about the Duke's debts, which I had heard ran up close to a million, not counting the bull pups, and would eat a large hole in Pearl's pocket-book. Mrs. Radigan laughed. Trust her for that, she said. The Bumpschuses had settled Nothingham's debts for ten cents on the dollar, and she was sure that $500,000 would mend Nocastle's roofs and satisfy his creditors. She appealed to my sense of honor. Was it right for me to expect Pearl to marry a plain American real-estate agent when she could have at her call one of the greatest men in England? It was selfish of me, I admitted. Then, weary of it all, in rather hopeless fashion, I said that we had best leave it all to Pearl.

Mrs. Radigan was triumphant. She seemed to think the last obstacle to a noble brother-in-law removed. She said that I was a dear, unselfish boy, and all that. She could now go on with her plans, and would have the wedding right after Lent at St. Edward's. Just then Pearl came in, all aglow from a forty-mile spin in her car with Marian Speechless, and when she had emerged from her furs she sank into a chair and called for tea and cigarettes.

I gave her a light, and when she was smoking contentedly, Mrs. Radigan said: "It's all settled." Then she explained that I was willing to retire in favor of his Grace.

Pearl just smiled and smoked—that inscrutable smile of hers.

"Well?" said Mrs. Radigan sharply.

"Well?" said Pearl, blowing rings.

"The engagement's off," said Mrs. Radigan.

"Which one?" said Pearl smiling.

"The present one," said Mrs. Radigan sharply.

"Why?" said Pearl.

"Because I think you should marry the Duke," said Mrs. Radigan.

"Indeed?" said Pearl.

"You would be happier with a duke," said Mrs. Radigan firmly.

"You think so?" said Pearl.

"There is no woman living that would not jump at a duke," said Mrs. Radigan. "You will be the envy of every girl in town."

Pearl smiled and smoked—smoked inscrutably.

"Well?" said Mrs. Radigan.

"We will walk down Madison Avenue," said Pearl, rising, and turning her lustrous eyes to me.

Her conduct has puzzled me greatly. It seemed like prolonging the torture before the end. For when it comes to a choice between a duke and a real-estate agent, there can be but one answer. It only remains for his Grace to make up that feeble mind of his, and my day-dream will be over. Now I am enjoying it as best I can.

As we strolled down Madison that afternoon, it seemed to me that it would likely be our last appearance together on the avenue of sentiment. We were silent. My mood was too despairing for silly prattle, and Pearl seldom speaks, and then in hardly more than monosyllables. Once I thought I would end it all there, and so let my tongue run away with me for a moment. I think I referred to the duke in ungentlemanly language. Her answer was a smile more inscrutable than ever.

That night the Duke dined with us to meet the local nobility. Of course it was informal, being Lent, and Mrs. Radigan being religious, so the dinner was set for 7.30 in accordance with the church ritual, but no one appeared until after 8. Of course his Grace took Mrs. Radigan in, and with her usual tact she had fixed Ethel Bumpschus at his right, with Pearl across the table, so the contrasts were very sharp. Artfully, too, she had exiled me to the other end, between the Countess Poglioso Spinnigini and Mrs. Bobbie Q. Williegilt. Mrs. Radigan was in high feather, with a noble to the right of her, a noble to the left of her, and champagne in front of her. Prince Cosmospopolis of Greece is a very delightful man, and as he has been in this country a long while as agent of a Sicilian olive house, he speaks English very well, and so kept the attention of Pearl Veal through the whole dinner, as Count Poglioso Spinnigini on her other hand early gave up trying to make himself understood and found consolation in his plate and glasses. Clever Mrs. Radigan! The Duke was evidently much worried by the princely olive agent's attentions to his hostess's beautiful sister. Occasionally he would turn his eyes from her to venture that something was "jolly," but for the most part he was silently gazing over the board. Once he got his courage up and tried to break up Prince Cosmospopolis's tête-à-tête by giving a loud "haw," and then: "I say, Miss Cutlet."

Naturally, there was a hush. Then everyone began talking as loud as possible, and the desperate Duke absently drained Mrs. Radigan's champagne glass to the bottom. Pearl looked my way, and I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.

Miss Bumpschus was triumphant. I could see that in her well-bred laugh. Poor young woman! She did not realize for what purpose Mrs. Radigan had been engaging her across the Duke in a long dissertation on the needs of the aged ticket-choppers. She did not know that in me a new champion had arisen in her cause. The idea of joining forces with her came to me by a sudden thought, and quick as the women had gone, and we were in the smoking-room, I got his Grace off in one corner. We are very good friends, for I have put him up at one or two clubs, besides showing him the sights of the town. Glorious were the colors in which I painted the plain Ethel. She had ten millions now in her own name, and when old Bumpschus died there was another ten coming. Better still, old Bumpschus had heart disease, and I had information that he was likely to drop off at any time. The Duke smoked up a cigarette in a minute and a half, and his lips moved as though he were working a problem in mental arithmetic. Then I intimated that Miss Veal's money was rather precariously invested, that with the present Stock Exchange quotations her fortune varied daily from one to two millions. His Grace seemed much affected.

"She's a jolly girl—a jolly, lovely girl," he said, as we were returning to the drawing-room.

"Miss Veal?" said I nonchalantly.

"She's jolly, too," he said.

But when he sat down on the sofa beside Miss Bumpschus and began to count the lights in the chandelier, I knew of whom he was thinking. A moment there only, and his gaze fell on Pearl, looking up into the face of the gallant Cosmospopolis. She glanced his way and smiled lustrously. Ethel Bumpschus was forgotten, deserted. His Grace shot across the room and secured the prized vacant place before the Prince was aware of the danger.

"Jolly evening," cried the Duke; "awfully jolly!"

"It is delightful that your Royal Highness cares for our simple American ways," said Mrs. Radigan beaming, as she sat shuffling the cards for a table of bridge.

CHAPTER XIX

His Grace Still Hesitates

I do not believe that Mrs. Radigan will marry again. Time was very recently when she had a fond eye on J. Madison Mudison, for he was undoubtedly the smartest bachelor in town, while she had risen no higher than to stand in the line of patronesses at subscription dances. Now with the new house, the costume-ball, and the completion of a traffic agreement between the Radigan and the Williegilt railroads, she has set herself on such a dizzy height that a match with Mr. Mudison would be a tumble, for Radigan to-day belongs to just as many clubs, and, besides, has millions that keep adding unto themselves. She just sighs when Mudison is mentioned, and perhaps she will blush a little and say there was really never anything in the reports that were abroad. So we regard the affair as history, and Mrs. Radigan never troubles about the past. Her concern is with the future, and to-day the future lies over the sea, among the beer-pots of England, among the leaky palaces of the great Duke of Nocastle, and in the court of his Majesty the King. I grow sad when she reveals her ambition, for to me it means the loss of Pearl Veal; for though at times there comes to me through the cloud of cigarette smoke that hovers around that lovely girl, comes with her smile and her monosyllabic utterances a gleam of hope, it seems really madness to think that when the crucial question is popped by his Grace's solicitor she will refuse. Mrs. Radigan says that her sister is not mad. Mrs. Radigan interprets the inscrutable smile as favorable. Mrs. Radigan goes on laying her plans for a great wedding, and has already hired a press agent.

"We can let him have an office in the little reception-room downstairs," she said to me over her teacup the other day. "He can have his type-writers and telephone there, and I am sure that the noise will not disturb us away off here."

"But my dear Mrs. Radigan," said I, "you must remember that I am still engaged to your sister, and that Ethel Bumpschus is in the field pitting her ten millions against Pearl's paltry four."

"Your engagement is a minor matter," replied Mrs. Radigan pleasantly; "you must remember that while it may seem important to you, it is Pearl's third or fourth, for before Plumstone Smith she had several devoted admirers in Kansas City. As for Ethel, I have plainly intimated to his Highness that if worst comes to worst, Radigan and I will make up a purse between us to quite bring Pearl's dot to Bumpschus proportions."

Truly, when Mrs. Radigan sets her mind on accomplishing anything, one might as well get out of her way. But I die hard myself.

"Has the Duke proposed?" I asked.

"Pearl tells me not," was the quiet reply. "But you know his Highness is waiting for his solicitor, and when Sir Charles Wigge arrives from London, we can look for doings, real doings. I tell you, any girl might well be proud of having a 'Sir' come to her to lay the hand of a duke at her feet."

"A ghastly ceremony," said I, thinking of one thing.

"You are not qualified to judge," said she smiling, and evidently misinterpreting my remark.

But how clever she is! Most women conducting such a campaign would seek to separate the Duke from the Bumpschuses and bring him entirely within their own sphere of influence. But Mrs. Radigan regards Ethel Bumpschus as her chief ally, though an unwitting one, and when she gets possession of his Grace she likes to have the great heiress around. She says Pearl shows so well against a plain background. The poor Duke is almost distracted. What with Pearl's beauty and my insidious remarks to him about the enormous wealth of the house of Bumpschus and the speculative character of the Radigan fortunes, he flutters about as aimlessly as a wounded butterfly and has about as much to say. When the dog-fancier is particularly pressing for a payment on the bull pups his Grace will concentrate his attentions on one heiress or the other for a day at a time, then he will go all to pieces again and aimlessly wander up and down the Park Mall or stand on the Battery wall watching the steamships come in.

Mrs. Radigan told him the other day that she could see by his face that he was working too hard, and insisted that the bracing air of Hempstead Plain could alone save him to his country. So we all went down to the Westbury place for a week-end, even Miss Bumpschus, with Constance Wherry and Williegilt Mint, a youngish chap, who is studying at Harvard, and so has not much to do except go about. Pearl took some of us down in her car in the afternoon, while the rest went by train, arriving in time for dinner. The Duke was in our party, but I doubt if ever again he will trust himself to the mercy of our fair chauffeuse, for Pearl is an expert with her car and can run as close to a hub without scraping it as can the Frenchman who looks after the Radigan machine-shop. We put the Duke and Miss Bumpschus behind, with Gascan as chaperone, and we should never have known they were there as we ran down the avenue to Thirty-fourth Street had not the Duke once remarked that it was "jolly." Then I gave Pearl a gentle nudge and she made a figure S around two rapidly approaching trolley cars. I expected a scream, but there was an ominous silence. Covertly I turned my head, first to look into the expressionless face of Gascan, his eye set along the track, then into the pale eyes of the great Englishman. He was terror-stricken, but to do him justice, I think he was not so much frightened by the smartness with which Pearl ran across the fender of the trolley car, as by Miss Bumpschus, who lay gasping in one of his arms. I could not help smiling, and in smiling I aroused him to action. With the bull-dog perseverance that is the characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon, he propped Ethel up in her corner.

"That was a jolly close call," he said, speaking, we supposed, of the delightful way Pearl handled the car.

"Another like that and you lose the Duke," I whispered. I could see just a bit of pink cheek turn pinker, just the full mouth curling at the corners, for all the rest was hidden from me by fur and goggles.

We shot between a vegetable truck and an elevated post, at top speed, and came to a standstill within an inch of the ferry-gate; and when on the other side of the river, we whirled away again at the legal speed, going like the wind. The keen air put the mischief in Pearl's veins, and she ran with a recklessness that at times even disturbed my equanimity, though, of course, I did not dare show it, for I have noticed that these silent women set more store by nerve than by brains. We turned corners on one tire; we ran up to trolley cars at a forty-mile clip, then circled around them with a wild scream of the horn; over crossings we bowled with a succession of shocks that were likely to hurl his Grace off into the sky, but he clung to the hem of the silent Gascan's cow-skin coat. Just once the noble Englishman spoke. The mud, gentle harbinger of spring, was rising around us in clouds, and the engine, called on for double exertion, was roaring demoniacally.

"Jolly!" he cried. "Je-je-je-olly!"

Miss Bumpschus said nothing. I fear that the cynical expression of Gascan, the chauffeur, had for the time blighted her hope that in their mutual peril she and the Duke would find a tie to bind them. But such peril had to have its end; such a journey could not long continue, for in all the world there were not enough thousands of miles for speed like that to cover. We chipped the paint off the iron gate of the Westbury place as Jamaica lay hallowed in the gold of the setting sun, and the groans of the resting engine brought the whole house to the veranda. Gascan handed down the frozen Duke and Ethel Bumpschus, and in the warm smile of Sally Radigan they were thawed out.

"Of course my little sister brought your Highness down quietly," said Mrs. Radigan, when she had fixed him before the library fire and despatched a man for hot Scotch.

"It was jolly," replied the great Englishman. "I'm used to fast going—jolly fast going."

But I think that had the Duke the power at that moment he would have fled home to his leaky castles, leaving behind wealth and loveliness, broken hearts and full purses. Pearl had shown a phase of her character that made him fear for his ducal rights, and as for Miss Bumpschus, his man told my man that—but these are kitchen secrets.

Night came, bringing with it Constance Wherry, large and good-natured as ever, with Williegilt Mint and Radigan. Dinner came, bringing the Duke down in a coat that fitted over his shoulders as on a wire hanger; bringing Pearl Veal in simple black that set off her rounded shoulders to perfection, and Ethel Bumpschus in a spangly pink creation, with eye-glasses, and a black patch on her chin; bringing Constance Wherry with her neck squeezed into one of the finest pearl collarettes I have ever seen, though it was not tight enough to prevent her talking as volubly as ever. Mrs. Radigan was in splendid tune with her surroundings. As one of the men pushed the Duke into his place at her side, I heard her remark: "We are all so glad your Highness has come. You will enjoy it here, I am sure. To-night we have bridge. To-morrow there are a lot of things to see: the Cathedral at Garden City, and the beautiful view of the plains from the hill behind the stables. I'm sure it's as fine as anything you have in Europe. It reminds me of Bar-beyzun, the place Mil-let painted, you know."

His Grace said it would be jolly.

Then she said that Sir Charles Wigge must see it when he came. She would insist on the Duke bringing him down for a few days. When Sir Charles did come, all would be over with me, I thought. There was plenty of time to ponder on the situation, for Constance Wherry was giving me in detail the plot of a play she had seen the night before, and by leaning interestedly toward her I was able to get an occasional glance around the monstrous jardinière, and see Pearl, as she covered his Grace with smiles. The Duke quite warmed up and smiled, too, and made several remarks, after he had had some champagne. There was little consolation for me there, except the meagre possibility in Pearl's promise to take Sir Charles out in her car—the roads would be better then, she said, and they would be able to go.

"It would be jolly," Nocastle stammered, twirling his glass.

After dinner we had bridge, but it was rather tame at our table, his Grace declining to play for more than a ha'penny a point, as he had to carry Miss Bumpschus, who never gambles. It was rather a bore, but I found some pleasure in the polite row we had at the end, over the question as to whether we were playing on the American or English coinage basis. His Grace said English, of course, as he never could understand our American money. It was folly to be wise, indeed, as he had won three rubbers; but as the amount involved was only $5, I settled in English and let it go at that, but Miss Wherry stuck to cents, paid, and went to bed in a towering rage. She lacks humor. Now, when I told Pearl about it she blew a smoke ring and said simply, "He's a jolly duke."

CHAPTER XX

Sir Charles Wigge Takes Possession

Mrs. Radigan has been overawed at last. Sir Charles Wigge has arrived, and the masterful English solicitor is more than a match for her, clever though she is. He seldom gives her an opportunity to speak, and then her voice sounds in a faint tremolo that is almost pitiful. If you asked her why England was great, she would simply point to the Duke of Nocastle's friend and guide, and I do not know but that I should agree with her. Fortunate, indeed, is the land that possesses such a man, for, having him, it must be the centre of all the virtues. He must be the court of last appeal at home, as there is nothing that he does not know absolutely, no opinion not his that is worth considering. We all feel very humble since we have had him around for a day or two, and I actually have found myself wondering how I ever attained majority under the barbarous conditions in which we live, in the glare of the sun, in a dry and wholesome atmosphere, in warm houses, with little that is fit to eat, and then so far from London. Our beer is bad, too, and as for the water, Sir Charles spurns it. Men, says he, are like plants, that to fully flower should be rained on daily, in proof of which he has only to point to his own people.

I refuse to apologize. Pearl smiles. Mrs. Radigan is abject. Realizing that this modern knight carries the Duke in his waistcoat pocket, she fears to offend him and so agrees with everything he says.

"Ah, Sir Wigge," she said to him the other afternoon, "it must be a great hardship for you to have to give up your beloved London for the discomforts of New York."

"It is not a hardship," Sir Charles replied with a courtly grace. "You know that as a youngster I served in the campaign against the Zulus. An Englishman, Mrs. Radigan, adapts himself to his circumstances. He is as much at home in a Zulu kraal or in America as he is in Piccadilly."

Now when Sir Charles speaks like this, it comes as if from Zeus. He looks like Zeus shaved. I suggested this to Mrs. Radigan, but she replied that she would not say, until she had seen the two together, and I decided that it was not worth while for me to explain; I could cherish for myself the conceit that this was some barbaric god, dressed up by a Piccadilly tailor, and surveying the world through a monocle. When I saw him first, I was standing in the Radigan library, gazing disconsolately over the park, watching the endless stream of carriages rolling along the drive-way, for the town was out enjoying the breath of early spring. I was thinking of him, wondering when he would arrive, when he would present himself to Pearl Veal to claim her hand and her fortune for his noble master, the Duke of Nocastle. Then a smart brougham bowled up to the curb, and by the Frenchmen on the box I recognized a Bumpschus carriage, and I was not surprised when his Grace climbed out. A great man followed, a very large man, with gray hair and gray side-whiskers, clad in the conventional attire, so he might have been taken for either a statesman or an undertaker. The two paused a moment while the stranger gazed over the Radigan house. Then he turned and, looking down at his companion, said something. The Duke laughed so heartily that he dropped his monocle, and it took several moments of beating around the air before his hands discovered it, dangling at the end of its string.

"The Duke and Sir Charles Wigge have just come in," said I to Mrs. Radigan.

"At last," said she, laying down her picture-paper and gliding over to me. "My poor boy, I fear this is the end of your romance. It is splendid of you to stand ready to give up Pearl to the Duke, and no doubt you will find your reward in the consciousness of a duty done. To a certain extent, it is hard for my little sister, for I think she is fond of you, but while she says nothing, I am sure that she believes as I do, that it would be wrong, absolutely wrong, for her to refuse an offer from so great a man, a man any girl would deem it a privilege to marry."

An appeal to Pearl brought me not even a smile.

"I thought Sir Charles would be here soon," she said, "for this despatch in the papers from London says that the meeting of Nocastle's creditors was postponed on receipt of a cablegram from him. Perhaps he would like to see it, Sally."

But Sally did not hear. She was already hurrying downstairs to greet her distinguished callers and to be utterly crushed. Just what Sir Charles said to her I do not know, but how he said it I can easily realize, for she brought the pair up to the library to have "a real comfy time," as she put it, leaving word downstairs that if anyone except Miss Bumpschus called she was not at home.

"And what do you think of America, Sir Wigge?" said Mrs. Radigan, when she had him comfortably fixed with a glass of whiskey and a cigar.

"I had only to drive up Broadway, as you call your Strand, to realize why we did not care to keep New York," Sir Charles replied with a grand smile.

"But did you not admire the skyscrapers?" said I boldly.

"In England," replied our visitor, "we have buildings every bit as long, longer, indeed, much longer, but we lay them along the ground, as they should be laid."

"But, your Lordship," put in Mrs. Radigan with some spirit, "we have not the room, and must build up."

"You should find the room," said Sir Charles with royal good-nature. "We find it in England, Mrs. Bannigan, and I am told that America is somewhat larger even than England."

"Did Fifth Avenue not impress you?" inquired Pearl rather sweetly.

"Your Piccadilly—it is your Piccadilly, I believe—should be toned down," replied the Englishman graciously. "It is too loud. The glare of the sun is blinding and overheating, Miss Vial."

He spoke to my fiancée as though she were a bottle or an adjective, and I could not forbear to interpose mildly, "Miss Ve-al, Sir Charles."

"In England," returned Sir Charles, "it would be Vial or possibly Willy. I am told that in America you have an absurd custom of pronouncing words the way they are spelled. Is it not so, Miss Weal?"

"Yes," Pearl replied, "but——"

"On the contrary," said Sir Charles, "it is easier, much easier, to spell words the way they are not pronounced. The minute you begin to pronounce as you spell, it becomes impossible to spell correctly at all. Is it not so, your Grace?"

The Duke said that it was so. Moreover, he added admiringly that whatever Sir Charles said was so. Mrs. Radigan, with some of her native fire still smouldering, ventured to remark that she spelled entirely by sound and then had her secretary make the corrections, which amused her visitor immensely. When he had recovered his equanimity and polished his glass, he proceeded to demonstrate how absurd was her view.

"In England, Mrs. Lanigan, we have for centuries pronounced words the way they are not spelled. Don't you suppose that if we had not found it the best thing to do we should have changed?"

"But, my Lord—" began Mrs. Radigan.

"The question is not one which allows any argument at all, Mrs. Stranahan," said the solicitor. "We threshed it all over in England, long ago, and decided it."

Then it was that Mrs. Radigan began to sympathize with him about the hardships of his visit, and learned how the Zulu campaign had hardened him for it. Then it was that Mrs. Radigan broached her plan for another week-end at Westbury and secured his consent to come, though she had discreetly promised not to show him anything, feeling, perhaps, that there was nothing for such a man to see. Then it was that Sir Charles graciously admitted that there was one thing in this country to see, and announced his intention of honoring it with a look.