“That was my fault, Pat, I admit,” said Reichman. “But it won’t occur again.”
“I know it, Emil,” said Pat. “We’ve both had our lesson.... I won’t say nothin’ to Helm. I’ll keep him jollied along until his term’s about up.”
“Then—over he drops,” laughed Reichman.
Branagan did not laugh. He liked Helm. But he did nod—and Branagan’s nod was as good as his word, and his word he had never broken.
III
“THERE GOES A MAN”
MRS. SALFIELD and Mrs. Ramon, leaders in Cincinnati’s fashionable society, were disposed in a comfortable corner of Mrs. Salfield’s ballroom. They were sheltered from rheumatism-provoking draughts. They were at conversational range from the music. They commanded a full view of the beautiful ball, even of the supper room, where a dozen men were “mopping up the champagne instead of doing their dancing duty,” as Mrs. Ramon put it. Mrs. Ramon, posing as of the younger generation, went in—somewhat awkwardly—for the “picturesque” in language. Mrs. Salfield, frankly an old woman, tolerated slang as she tolerated rowdy modern manners and “disgraceful, not to say indecent exposure in ball dresses”; but in her own person she adhered to the old fashions of moderately low dresses and moderately incorrect English. Said Mrs. Ramon:
“There goes that charming grandniece of yours. How graceful she is. I thought you told me she was twenty-nine.”
“Eleanor Clearwater—twenty-nine!” exclaimed Mrs. Salfield. “She’s not yet twenty-four.”
“Oh, I remember, you said she looked twenty-nine—so serious—dignified—reserved—really icy. But that was only two months ago. She looks eighteen now. She’s been away—hasn’t she?”
“Just returned,” said Mrs. Salfield.