“Shut up, Billy, and listen; your cousin is out here in the hall waiting for you.” Beverly mopped his forehead.
“My cousin?” Billy struggled to his feet.
“Yes, your cousin,—a lady. Now hurry up and get dry. I’ve got to go. She’s at the foot of the stairs. No, I’m not fooling, I swear to God I’m not. It’s the cousin you invited to Beck.”
“Wait, wait, don’t leave me, man. It’ll take me hours to dress,” said Billy, piteously, dabbing himself with a bath towel. “I haven’t any cousin; I never invited one to Beck; my family is away—they’re abroad. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he went on. But he continued to dry himself frantically nevertheless.
“I’m simply telling you what I know,” answered Beverly, calmly. “A person, female, aged—say forty-five; of abundant tonnage and affable manners, would like to meet blond gentleman named Fields about to graduate from Harvard; object, a family reunion. Oh, never mind your hair. Here, put on your wrapper and come on.” He helped Billy, half dry, with his hair dripping stringily over his eyes, into a striped blanket covering, and pushed him gently into the hall.
The Millstone, who had been sauntering up and down the corridors in Beverly’s absence, received them as they emerged.
“Oh,” she said, and peered at them over the rim of her circular fan.
“Allow me to present your cousin,” said Beverly, gravely.
“Cousin Marguerite,” simpered the Millstone. “Can this be the little boy I used to know?” she continued, holding out her hand. “You used to wear knickerbockers.” Billy drew the drapery of his striped blanket more closely about him. Shaking hands was quite out of the question. “Dear me, how you’ve changed.”
“I’m very glad to see you,” gasped Billy. “I—I wish I had my clothes on. If you’ll just wait with Mr. Beverly a minute—” he turned to Beverly. “You’re not in a hurry, are you?”