Peter grinned.
We were steaming down the river. I was very tired and, having the desire to rest in bed, I began to undress. Suddenly it came over me that I had made a great mistake. I put my clothes on again rapidly, dashed to the deck, and hunted up the purser. You know, he had already befriended me. I told him that I had just opened my mail and my telegrams and had run across one informing me of the violent illness of my father—you know how much that would really worry me!—and that I must go back. He informed me that this was impossible, but another bill—a very large one this time—made him more sympathetic and my disembarkation was arranged with the aid of a tug-boat. I even got my trunks off, but I had to cry a good deal to do that. I'm very sorry for you, Mr. Whiffle, the purser said. He will never forget me, I'm sure.
The telephone rang. Peter lifted the receiver from the hook and I heard him say, Please reserve me a deck cabin on the Kronprinz Wilhelm sailing tomorrow. He turned, as he put the receiver back: I'm not crazy about the North German Lloyd but I've already sailed this week on the French Line, the Holland-American, the Cunard, and the White Star. I had to change.
By telephone the next day, I learned that Peter had not sailed on the Kronprinz Wilhelm.
Do you know, he said, I've hit on a solution. I could not decide where to go—every place has its faults—but it has occurred to me that I am not compelled to go anywhere; I can stay on right here!
There is still a pendant to this part of my tale. In May, Peter informed me that he had rented a house on Long Island, a small cottage near Great Neck, with a big fire-place and furniture that would do. He took me out with him the first night. He had engaged a man and his wife, Negroes, to care for the place and cook. We enjoyed a very good dinner and he seemed to have settled down for the summer but in the morning, at breakfast, I, and the Negroes, learned that he was dissatisfied.
I don't like the place much, he explained, at least, I don't think I do. At least, I'm not going to stay here.
He paid the servants two weeks wages and dismissed them. Then he telephoned an expressman to call for his trunks, none of which had been opened. Carrying the bags, two of which contained cats, we caught the 9 o'clock train back to town.
Before this last fluctuation, some time in April, I think it was, Peter's father really did die. Peter did not go to Toledo for the funeral but, after it was over, Mrs. Whiffle came to New York and I met her one day at tea. There was no change in Peter; certainly not a band of black on his arm.
He did seem to have one fixed idea that spring, an idea that centred on marriage.