Alice Adams, Booth Tarkington [thriller novels to read .txt] 📗

If he had remembered, she thought, he could not have helped glancing at her. On the contrary, he seemed more at ease, just then, than he had since they sat down, for he was favouring her father with a thoughtful attention as Adams responded to the introduction of a man’s topic into the conversation at last. “Well, Mr. Russell, I guess you’re right, at that. I don’t say but what cigars may be all right for a man that can afford ’em, if he likes ’em better than a pipe, but you take a good old pipe now⁠—”

He continued, and was getting well into the eulogium customarily provoked by this theme, when there came an interruption: the doorbell rang, and he paused inquiringly, rather surprised.

Mrs. Adams spoke to Gertrude in an undertone:

“Just say, ‘Not at home.’ ”

“What?”

“If it’s callers, just say we’re not at home.”

Gertrude spoke out freely: “You mean you astin’ me to ’tend you’ front do’ fer you?”

She seemed both incredulous and affronted, but Mrs. Adams persisted, though somewhat apprehensively. “Yes. Hurry⁠—uh⁠—please. Just say we’re not at home if you please.”

Again Gertrude obviously hesitated between compliance and revolt, and again the meeker course fortunately prevailed with her. She gave Mrs. Adams a stare, grimly derisive, then departed. When she came back she said:

“He say he wait.”

“But I told you to tell anybody we were not at home,” Mrs. Adams returned. “Who is it?”

“Say he name Mr. Law.”

“We don’t know any Mr. Law.”

“Yes’m; he know you. Say he anxious to speak Mr. Adams. Say he wait.”

“Tell him Mr. Adams is engaged.”

“Hold on a minute,” Adams intervened. “Law? No. I don’t know any Mr. Law. You sure you got the name right?”

“Say he name Law,” Gertrude replied, looking at the ceiling to express her fatigue. “Law. ’S all he tell me; ’s all I know.”

Adams frowned. “Law,” he said. “Wasn’t it maybe ‘Lohr’?”

“Law,” Gertrude repeated. “ ’S all he tell me; ’s all I know.”

“What’s he look like?”

“He ain’t much,” she said. “ ’Bout you’ age; got brustly white moustache, nice eyeglasses.”

“It’s Charley Lohr!” Adams exclaimed. “I’ll go see what he wants.”

“But, Virgil,” his wife remonstrated, “do finish your coffee; he might stay all evening. Maybe he’s come to call.”

Adams laughed. “He isn’t much of a caller, I expect. Don’t worry: I’ll take him up to my room.” And turning toward Russell, “Ah⁠—if you’ll just excuse me,” he said; and went out to his visitor.

When he had gone, Mrs. Adams finished her coffee, and, having glanced intelligently from her guest to her daughter, she rose. “I think perhaps I ought to go and shake hands with Mr. Lohr, myself,” she said, adding in explanation to Russell, as she reached the door, “He’s an old friend of my husband’s and it’s a very long time since he’s been here.”

Alice nodded and smiled to her brightly, but upon the closing of the door, the smile vanished; all her liveliness disappeared; and with this change of expression her complexion itself appeared to change, so that her rouge became obvious, for she was pale beneath it. However, Russell did not see the alteration, for he did not look at her; and it was but a momentary lapse the vacation of a tired girl, who for ten seconds lets herself look as she feels. Then she shot her vivacity back into place as by some powerful spring.

“Penny for your thoughts!” she cried, and tossed one of the wilted roses at him, across the table. “I’ll bid more than a penny; I’ll bid tuppence⁠—no, a poor little dead rose⁠—a rose for your thoughts, Mr. Arthur Russell! What are they?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t any.”

“No, of course not,” she said. “Who could have thoughts in weather like this? Will you ever forgive us?”

“What for?”

“Making you eat such a heavy dinner⁠—I mean look at such a heavy dinner, because you certainly didn’t do more than look at it⁠—on such a night! But the crime draws to a close, and you can begin to cheer up!” She laughed gaily, and, rising, moved to the door. “Let’s go in the other room; your fearful duty is almost done, and you can run home as soon as you want to. That’s what you’re dying to do.”

“Not at all,” he said in a voice so feeble that she laughed aloud.

“Good gracious!” she cried. “I hadn’t realized it was that bad!”

For this, though he contrived to laugh, he seemed to have no verbal retort whatever; but followed her into the living-room, where she stopped and turned, facing him.

“Has it really been so frightful?” she asked.

“Why, of course not. Not at all.”

“Of course yes, though, you mean!”

“Not at all. It’s been most kind of your mother and father and you.”

“Do you know,” she said, “you’ve never once looked at me for more than a second at a time the whole evening? And it seemed to me I looked rather nice tonight, too!”

“You always do,” he murmured.

“I don’t see how you know,” she returned; and then stepping closer to him, spoke with gentle solicitude: “Tell me: you’re really feeling wretchedly, aren’t you? I know you’ve got a fearful headache, or something. Tell me!”

“Not at all.”

“You are ill⁠—I’m sure of it.”

“Not at all.”

“On your word?”

“I’m really quite all right.”

“But if you are⁠—” she began; and then, looking at him with a desperate sweetness, as if this were her last resource to rouse him, “What’s the matter, little boy?” she said with lisping tenderness. “Tell auntie!”

It was a mistake, for he seemed to flinch, and to lean backward, however, slightly. She turned away instantly, with a flippant lift and drop of both hands. “Oh, my dear!” she laughed. “I won’t eat you!”

And as the discomfited young man watched her, seeming able to lift his eyes, now that her back was turned, she went to the front door and pushed open the screen. “Let’s go out on the porch,” she said. “Where we belong!”

Then, when he had followed her out, and they were seated, “Isn’t this better?” she asked. “Don’t you feel more like yourself out here?”

He began a murmur: “Not