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When Helen Cartwright had accepted Phil Emory as escort for the Harvard Class Day festivities, on the occasion of his graduation, every one had considered the matter of their engagement as settled; that is to say, every one except Helen and Emory. This view of the matter did not occur to Helen, even as a remote possibility, and Phil Emory had absolute knowledge to the contrary, since Helen herself had answered his question very clearly, even though not satisfactorily, some months before this event took place. But she liked him immensely none the less, and saw no reason why she should not throw confetti at him from the circus-like seats of the Stadium, or eat strawberries and ices with him and her other friends at the various Class Day spreads. In fact, she saw every reason for doing so, inasmuch as she thoroughly enjoyed it; and Emory was proud enough to act as host under any conditions whatever.
After graduation Emory probably had as good a chance as any one until Jack Armstrong entered the field. The younger man had become more and more intense in his devotion, but when he found himself out-classed by the force of Armstrong’s attack he accepted his defeat generously and philosophically. No one contributed more to the jollity of the wedding breakfast or extended heartier congratulations to the bride and bridegroom.
Emory’s visit at the Villa Godilombra, when he first arrived in Italy, was one of the pleasantest experiences of his whole trip thus far. Never had he seen a more glorious spot, and never had he seen Helen so radiantly beautiful. He had remarked to Eustis more than once during their stay that an Italian background was the one thing needful to show off Helen’s charms to the greatest perfection. When he returned to Florence, therefore, he determined to see her again, making his belated duty call the excuse; so the fortunate meeting with Armstrong and the invitation which resulted fitted in most agreeably with his plans.
The automobile passed Emory in his vettura half-way up the hill. “Good-bye, old chap! Must hurry, as we have company coming for dinner!” cried Armstrong, gayly, as the machine glided past him, giving him only a vision of waving hands before he became enveloped in the cloud of dust. When he arrived at the villa he found Helen and Jack awaiting him as if they had been at home all the afternoon.
“This is a pleasant surprise, Phil,” said Helen, cordially. “Until Jack told me you were in Florence I supposed you and Dick Eustis had at least reached London by this time.”
“No,” Emory replied, as they walked into the garden; “I only went as far north as Paris. Eustis continued on to London, and is there now, I expect, but I ran across Ferdy De Peyster in Paris. He had a frightfully sick turn, and I had to take care of him for a while.”
“Ferdy was sick, you say?” Helen was eagerly interested. “You don’t mean dangerously so?”
“No—not as things turned out; but I will admit I was a bit anxious about him for a time. He had been terribly cut up over something, and then caught a beastly cold on his lungs, and I thought he was in for a severe case of pneumonia. He was pretty sandy about it, and in a week he came around all right. I took him over to Aix, where I left him, and then I decided to sail home from Naples instead of Southampton.”
“Did he tell you what the trouble was?” Helen was anxious to know how confidential De Peyster had been.
“Oh, an affaire de cœur he said; but he did not tell me who the girl was. He spoke of his call on you and Miss Thayer, here, shortly after we departed, but the poor chap was not very communicative.”
“Forgive me for deserting you, Emory,” interrupted Armstrong as he approached them from the house, closely followed by Annetta bearing a tray. “This is one part of the dinner which I never leave to any one else. These Italians know a lot of things better than we do, but mixing cocktails is not one of their long suits.”
“By Jove! that is a grateful reward to a dusty throat!” said Emory, replacing the glass on the tray.
“And now to dinner,” announced Helen. “Annetta bids us enter.”
Uncle Peabody and Miss Thayer joined them at the table.
“I must tell you, Mr. Cartwright,” said Emory, after the greetings were over, “that what you said about eating when I was here before made quite an impression on me, and I have been trying your methods a little.”
“Good for you!” cried Uncle Peabody.
“I really think I ought to make a confession,” Emory continued. “I had heard about your work and all that, but I had an idea that you were more or less of a crank, and that your theories were the usual ones which go with a new fad. But when you talked about understanding and running properly one’s own motive power it appealed to me as being sensible. Then your idea that the appetite is given one to tell him what the system needs sounded reasonable to me; and when you insisted that this same appetite had a right to be consulted as to when enough fuel was on board I woke up to a realization that I had not always been that respectful to myself.”
Uncle Peabody smiled genially. “Have you found the experiment very disagreeable?”
“By no means,” replied Emory, decidedly. “Of course, I started in on it more as a joke than anything else, but I have been surprised to find how much more I really enjoy my food. Why, there are flavors in a piece of bread which I never discovered until I chewed it all to pieces.”
“That is on the same principle exactly that a tea-taster or a wine-taster discovers the real flavor of the particular variety he is testing. That is one thing which gave me my idea. He sips a little and then thoroughly mixes it with the saliva, and in that way tastes the delicate aroma which the glutton never knows either in drink or food.”
“How does the system work with the elaborate Continental table d’hôte, Mr. Emory?” queried Miss Thayer.
Uncle Peabody answered for him: “You became an object of suspicion to the head-waiter, and the garçon thought you were criticising the food.”
“Exactly,” laughed Emory. “But, all joking aside, Mr. Cartwright, I have become a confirmed disciple. I never felt so well, and I am eating about half as much as I used to.”
“This seems to be developing into an experience meeting,” Armstrong remarked. “Why don’t you write out a testimonial for the gentleman?”
“I would gladly do so, but from what I hear he stands in no need of any such document.”
Emory turned to Uncle Peabody. “It is a case of being ‘advertised by our grateful friends,’ is it not, Mr. Cartwright?”
“How long will you be in Florence, Phil?” asked Helen. “Are you just passing through again, or is this where you make your visit to the City of Flowers?”
“I have no definite plans. My steamer doesn’t sail for a month, and I am moving along as the wind blows me. Are the Sinclair girls still here?”
“No; they sailed for home last week.”
“Why don’t you stay in Florence for a while and help Helen exercise the automobile?” suggested Armstrong. “Miss Thayer and I are working every day at the library, and it will prevent her becoming lonesome.”
Helen looked inquiringly at her husband. This suggestion from him, and to Phil Emory of all men! The times had indeed altered! She saw that Emory was observing her, and felt the necessity of relieving the tension.
“You must not put it on that score, Jack,” she said, quietly. “I am not at all lonely, but I should be very glad to have Phil join us to-morrow. What do you say, Phil?”
“I should like nothing better. But tell me about this work, Armstrong. Are you really boning down to arduous labor on your honeymoon?”
“It is a bit out of the ordinary, is it not?” admitted Jack, uncertain whether or not Emory’s question contained a reproach. “I would not dare do it with any one except Helen, but she understands the necessity. I don’t know when I shall get another chance.”
“Jack is accomplishing wonders in his work,” explained Helen, anxious to have Emory feel her entire sympathy; “you must have him tell you about it. In the mean time, while he is improving himself mentally, Uncle Peabody and I are entering somewhat into the social frivolities of Florence. To-morrow we are going to a reception to be given to the Count of Turin and the Florentine Dante Society at the Villa Londi. Jack scorns these functions, but you will be quite in your element. We will take you with us.”
“It is not that I ‘scorn’ these things, as you say, Helen,” protested Armstrong. “You give any one an entirely wrong idea. They are all right enough in their own way, but I can get these at home. This chance at the library, however, is one in a lifetime, and I feel that I must improve it.”
“Of course,” replied Helen, “that is what I meant to say.”
Emory glanced from one to the other quietly. “I shall be most happy to go if you are quite sure I won’t interfere with the plans you have already made. You know I am not on speaking terms with Italian.”
“You won’t have to be,” Uncle Peabody assured him. “These Italians speak English so well that you will be ashamed of your ignorance. You will have no difficulty in making yourself understood.”
Helen was rebellious at heart that Jack should have suggested Emory to relieve her loneliness. It was enough that he was willing to be away from her so much without taking it for granted and referring to it in such a matter-of-fact way. Inez as well came in for her share of the resentment, her very silence during the discussion serving to aggravate Helen’s discomfiture. Helen deliberately turned the conversation.
“I can’t help thinking of poor Ferdy, Phil. Have you heard from him since you left him at Aix?”
“No, but I should have heard if all had not been going well.”
“What is the matter with De Peyster?” asked Armstrong.
“Oh, you did not hear what Phil told me about him before dinner, Jack. He has been very ill, and Phil took him over to Aix for a cure.”
It was the first time De Peyster’s name had been mentioned since his abrupt departure, and Inez flushed deeply as she listened.
“What was the trouble, Emory?” asked Armstrong, innocently.
“He came pretty near having pneumonia,” replied Emory. “He was hard hit with a girl somewhere over here, and was thrown down, I suspect. Then he grew careless and was a pretty sick chap when I ran across him in Paris.”
Armstrong had no idea of the result of his question. He glanced hastily at Inez and gulped down half a glass of wine, nearly choking himself in the process.
“There you go!” exclaimed Uncle Peabody, quite understanding the situation and wishing to relieve the embarrassment. “You will drown yourself one of these fine days if you don’t listen to my teachings and profit by Mr. Emory’s example.”
But Emory was quite unconscious of the delicate ground upon which he trod. The days and nights he had spent with De Peyster were still strongly impressed upon his mind.
“I thought you might know something about this, Helen,” he continued, “for Ferdy mentioned your name and Miss Thayer’s several times while he was delirious. I could not make out anything he said, he was so incoherent. Later, when he began to improve, I asked him about it, but he evidently did not care to talk. But how stupid I have been!” He broke off suddenly and turned to Miss Thayer. “Here I have been sitting beside you all this time and never once offered my congratulations!”
Inez drew back from the proffered hand. The color left her face as suddenly as it had come. “What do you mean?” she stammered.
“Why, De Peyster told me you were engaged,” Emory said, quite taken aback. “Have I said something I ought not to? He said you told him so.”
“Mr. De Peyster had no right to say that!” Inez cried, fiercely, almost breaking into tears.
Emory was most contrite. “Ten thousand pardons,” he apologized. “You must forgive me, Miss Thayer. Ferdy never suggested that it was a secret at all—and now I have given the whole thing away!”
Emory wished himself half-way across the Atlantic.
“I am very much annoyed,” replied Inez, still struggling to contain herself—“not with you, but with Mr. De Peyster.”
“But she is not engaged,” Armstrong insisted, with decision.
“I think Inez had better be left to settle that point herself, Jack,” Helen interrupted, pointedly.
“Then why does she not settle it?”
“I will settle it.” Inez sat up very straight in her chair, her tense features making her face look drawn in its ashy paleness.
“Jack has no right to force you into any such position, Inez,” Helen protested, indignantly; “he is forgetting himself.”
“De Peyster is responsible for the whole thing.” Emory struggled to step in between the clash of arms. “I recall the very words. ‘Phil, old chap,’ he said, ‘you remember Miss Thayer? She is engaged. She told me she had found some one whom she loved better than her life.’ Can you blame me for making such a consummate ass of myself?”
Armstrong’s intense interest had taken him too deeply into the affair for him to heed Helen’s protests.
“You never said anything of the kind, did you, Miss Thayer?”
“I am not engaged,” replied Inez, very firmly, “and I cannot understand why Mr. De Peyster should have put me in this uncomfortable position.”
“Of course not,” assented Armstrong, with evident satisfaction. “De Peyster is a fool. I will tell him so the next time I see him.”
“I think we had better change the subject,” said Helen, rising, her face flushed with indignation. “The methods of the Inquisition have no place at a modern dinner-table.”