“Mr. Caine,” said Mrs. Standish, her coldly righteous rebuke rising above Letty’s milder reproval, “I think, perhaps, for discipline’s sake, it might be well for you to end your call before you do anything more to make this wicked boy regard his fault as a matter for levity.”
Caine glanced in humorous appeal toward Letty. But his fiancée, as usual in matters of family crisis, only stared back in piteous fear.
“Mr. Caine,” called Clive, as the visitor completed somewhat frigid adieux and moved toward the door, “I am very sorry I got you into trouble. I’m afraid Aunt Lydia don’t quite understand us men.”
CHAPTER XII
INTO AN UNKNOWN LAND
The red-haired man was fighting.
He had always been fighting. But to-night he must wield weapons whereof he had no experience; unskilled, must meet deft opponents on their own ground. The thought thrilled him, with the joy of the born fighter.
The hour for the Standish dinner was seven; that the meal might be well over before the musicale guests should begin to arrive. Caleb rang the Standish bell at twenty minutes before seven. The manservant who admitted him managed to convey from behind a totally mask-like face that there was something amiss with the arrival. Glancing into the drawing room as he followed a maid to the men’s dressing room upstairs, Caleb saw it was quite devoid of guests. In fact, a servant was lighting the lamps there. The dressing room, too, was deserted.
Conover was vaguely puzzled. Surely the invitation had fixed the hour for seven? And he was nearly twenty minutes ahead of time. At functions such as he was wont to attend, people always began to drop in nearly half an hour beforehand. So fearful had he been to-night of breaking some unknown social rule, that he had allowed a full twenty minutes leeway. Yet he was very palpably the first to arrive. This perplexed and shamed him. It even shook his iron self-confidence. He caught himself hoping that none of the Standishes knew he was there. The man who had with cool derision, faced hostile legislatures, investigation committees and actual physical danger; felt his nerve turning into nerves.
A tray of cigarettes lay on the chiffonier. Caleb had never smoked a cigarette. He wondered if etiquette commanded that he should do so now. He weighed the matter judicially as he took off his coat and gloves; then decided that the cigarettes had indisputedly been put there to be smoked. Gingerly, he lighted one. The aromatic mild flavor of the smoke disgusted him. He had always despised men who chose cigarettes in preference to cigars. Now he regarded such smokers as idiotic rather than decadent. Yet he puffed dutifully at the abhorred paper tube and pondered on the probability of his being called upon to repeat the performance, later, in the dining room. He had heard of people smoking cigarettes with dinner. Or, rather, hadn’t he seen pictures of such a scene? Yes. Surely. A picture on a calendar in the general passenger agent’s office. But the smokers, in the picture, were women. And one of them had her feet on the table. Caleb mentally apologized to his present hostesses and dismissed the theme.
When dinner was at seven, why shouldn’t people come on time? Was there a joke in it somewhere? A joke on himself? Anything, just now, seemed possible. What was the use of smoking this measly cigarette when there was no one to see? He dropped it into a bronze dish, went over to the cheval glass and surveyed himself from head to foot. Then he turned; and, looking over one shoulder, sought to see how his dress coat fitted in the back. The twisting of his body caused a huge central wrinkle to spring out between his shoulders, creases diverging from it. Also there was a spear of stiff red hair in the very center of his well-brushed head that had escaped from the combined lures of pomade and water. Conover crossed to the chiffonier, picked up one of a pair of military brushes and attacked the rebellious lock with vigor.