Meanwhile, Mr. Leyton—a man of Rushbrook's age, but not so fresh and vigorous-looking—had thrown himself in a chair beside the study fire, after a glance around the handsome and familiar room. For the house had belonged to a brother millionaire; it had changed hands with certain shares of “Water Front,”—as some of Rushbrook's dealings had the true barbaric absence of money detail,—and was elegantly and tastefully furnished. The cuckoo had, however, already laid a few characteristic eggs in this adopted nest, and a white marble statue of a nude and ill-fed Virtue, sent over by Rushbrook's Paris agent, and unpacked that morning, stood in one corner, and materially brought down the temperature. A Japanese praying-throne of pure ivory, and, above it, a few yards of improper, colored exposure by an old master, equalized each other.
“And what is all this affair about the dinner?” suddenly asked a tartly-pitched female voice with a foreign accent.
Mr. Leyton turned quickly, and was just conscious of a faint shriek, the rustle of a skirt, and the swift vanishing of a woman's figure from the doorway. Mr. Leyton turned red. Rushbrook lived en garcon, with feminine possibilities; Leyton was a married man and a deacon. The incident which, to a man of the world, would have brought only a smile, fired the inexperienced Leyton with those exaggerated ideas and intense credulity regarding vice common to some very good men. He walked on tip-toe to the door, and peered into the passage. At that moment Rushbrook entered from the opposite door of the room.
“Well,” said Rushbrook, with his usual practical directness, “what do you think of her?”
Leyton, still flushed, and with eyebrows slightly knit, said, awkwardly, that he had scarcely seen her.
“She cost me already ten thousand dollars, and I suppose I'll have to eventually fix up a separate room for her somewhere,” continued Rushhrook.
“I should certainly advise it,” said Leyton, quickly, “for really, Rushbrook, you know that something is due to the respectable people who come here, and any of them are likely to see”—
“Ah!” interrupted Rushbrook, seriously, “you think she hasn't got on clothes enough. Why, look here, old man—she's one of the Virtues, and that's the rig in which they always travel. She's a 'Temperance' or a 'Charity' or a 'Resignation,' or something of that kind. You'll find her name there in French somewhere at the foot of the marble.”
Leyton saw his mistake, but felt—as others sometimes felt—a doubt whether this smileless man was not inwardly laughing at him. He replied, with a keen, rapid glance at his host:—
“I was referring to some woman who stood in that doorway just now, and addressed me rather familiarly, thinking it was you.”