Routledge rides alone

TENTH EDITION
ROUTLEDGE STARTED AT HER VOICE AND THE TOUCH OF HER HAND
ROUTLEDGE RIDES ALONE
By WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT
With Frontispiece in Colors By MARTIN JUSTICE
A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York
Copyright, 1910 By J. B. Lippincott Company Published March, 1910
TO THE LADY OF COURAGE WHOM I MARRIED
Routledge Rides Alone
Jerry Cardinegh, dean of the British word-painters of war, was just home from China, where he had caught the Allies in the act of relieving Peking. It had been a goodly and enticing service, both to watch and to portray, calling out much of glorious color and tension and peril, and not enough slaughter to chill the world’s appreciation. Cardinegh sat by the fire in his little house in Cheer Street, London, and was ministered to by his daughter, Noreen, a heavenly dispensation which the old campaigner believed he had earned. A dinner together, just the two, truly a feast after lean months crossing the mountains of separation. Then whiskey, glasses, soda, pipes, tobacco, papers of the afternoon—all served by the dearest of hands. The gray, hard veteran lived, indeed, the maiden filling his eyes.
Twenty he had left her, and she was twenty still, but the added fraction of an inch made her look very tall, and startled him. There was a mysterious bloom under the luminous pallor of her skin; fathoms more added to the depth of her eyes, and a suggestion of volume to her voice. Nature and heritage had retouched the girlish lips in color and curve, widened the tender Irish eyes, added glow and amplitude to the red-gold hair.... There had only been two women in the world for Jerry Cardinegh, and the other was a memory—the mother.
“And who do you suppose is coming to-night, deere?” he asked. There was a silver lining of the Tyrone tongue to all that Jerry said, but it was so subtle and elusive as wholly to defy English letters, save possibly that one word “deere” which he rolled fondly for Noreen, and here and there in the structure of a sentence.