CHAPTER X
IN THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
Conover swung down the hill toward the valley in whose centre twinkled the lights of the Arareek Country Club. He was still buoyed up by the curious elation that was always his after an hour with Desirée. For perhaps the first time in his life the thousand soft odors of the June dusk carried for him a meaning; and in every nerve he was aware of the mild glory of the night. He took deep breaths of the scented air and squared his mighty shoulders as he strode down the slope. It was good to be alive; to feel the easy play of one’s perfect muscles; to be tireless, victorious, and still in the early thirties.
A girl in a white dress was walking a short distance ahead of him as he neared the Clubhouse. Each long step brought Conover nearer to her. At her side walked a man. The couple were in no haste, but seemed bent on enjoying the beauty of the night in leisurely fashion before reaching their destination. As Caleb came alongside, a few rods from the Arareek gates, the man hailed him. It was Caine. Conover, barely remembering himself in time to imitate the other’s salute, pulled off his hat and slouched toward the two.
“Miss Standish,” said Caine, after greeting the Fighter, “May I present Mr. Conover?”
The girl held out her hand shyly. Caleb, as he took it, looked down at her with considerable interest. He was curious to see what manner of woman the fastidious Caine had so long idolized; and to whom, in face of much rumored family opposition, he had recently become engaged. The lights of the open Clubhouse door shone full upon Letty Standish, and Caleb’s first curiosity changed to something like astonishment. She was a plump little creature, with a pretty, slack face. Caleb, versed in reading physiognomy, saw in her upturned countenance much amiability,—of the sort that tends to turn gently sub-acid under the right provocation,—a charmingly, complete lack of any sort of resolution; and an intellect as profound as that of an unusually sagacious guinea pig. Large, delft-blue eyes, a quivering button of a nose, a pouting little mouth; profuse light brown hair piled high above a narrow forehead. Pretty with the inherent comeliness of extreme youth, but—
“Looks like a measly rabbit!” thought Conover in amused contempt, “An’ that’s what Amzi Nicholas Caine’s been workin’ all his life to win, is it? Gee, but it’s queer what kinks a sane man’s brain’ll take, where a woman’s concerned.”
Outwardly he was listening with stony immobility to Letty’s timid words of salutation. As she paused, he pulled his wits together.
“Pleased to meet you,” said he. “I’m to have the pleasure of takin’ dinner at your house Friday night, I b’lieve. Thanks for askin’ me. I hope we’ll see more of each other.”
“My aunt and I are always glad to meet Father’s business friends,” returned Letty, ill at ease. She had wondered, and her aunt had protested loudly, at Standish’s curt announcement that Blacarda’s vacated place at the table must be taken by this unknown outsider. Nor, as she looked at the stocky, heavy-jowled man and heard his uncouth speech, did the mystery grow clearer.
“You seemed in a hurry,” observed Caine, relieving the girl’s embarrassment by taking Conover off her hands, “I think we’ll be in plenty of time to hear all of the speeches we care to. There’s the same pleasing likeness about them that there is about a string of street cars. If you miss one, you can get the next and nothing worth while is lost by the omission. At stag dinners of course it’s different. Then it is always interesting to note the inverse ratio between eloquence and sobriety. But at these ‘Celebration’ dinners the speeches are warranted to contain nothing of dangerous interest. Shall we go in?”