“You don’t mean to tell me you’ve never heard of him?”
“No, I never did, and I am sure Helen never reads the papers carefully enough to have seen it. But don’t look so surprised at me—who is he—some criminal or a politician?”
“Oh, Lord,” groaned Van Dusen, “this beats anything I ever heard. Why, John R. Morton is the only son and successor of old Dan Morton; he’s just the biggest man in New York—and some man! You know my governor is no piker when it comes to dollars, but Morton—why all the blue bloods of New York are not in the same class with him. He could buy and sell them all without the wink of an eyelash. I’ve met him at the Metropolitan Club this summer. He’s a biggish fellow, about 33, a couple of inches shorter than I am. Talks like a professor, gentle and quiet. By George! I remember now. There was something in the papers about his being mixed up in some foreign business with revolutions and princesses. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s the man. No wonder Miss Barton turned me down. Why, John Morton is the greatest catch in the country and as fine a fellow as ever stood in shoe leather, so they say.”
Margaret suddenly realized that she had not been wise to open the conversation on a matter which concerned Helène alone. Indeed, she had done wrong, she felt, especially as she had not pressed Helène herself for information. She was deeply vexed at her indiscretion.
“Excuse me, a moment, Mr. Van Dusen,” she said quickly, “while I get my coat. I shall not be long. Helen will not be down this evening.”
Without waiting she walked rapidly out of the room. The door closed behind her, she became at once thoughtful. No—she would say nothing to Helen of what she had been told. Besides, she did not know how to broach the subject without betraying herself. She put on her coat and opening Helène’s door she looked in and called out smilingly: “I’ll sit up for you, dear.” Before Helène could reply the door had been closed and Margaret was running down the stairs.
Helène heard the front door slam and knew that she would have to face the coming ordeal alone. How she dreaded the announcement of Mr. Morton’s arrival! Mrs. Kane would draw her own conclusion immediately. The new dress, the flowers, the elaborate preparations—well, Mrs. Kane must think what she liked! It could not be helped now. To-morrow would be the twenty-first of September—the last day of summer. She glanced at the royal roses crowding the vase, their heads proudly erect as if in challenge to the world. Then her eyes fell on the sweet purple of the violets on the table—“The last rose of summer,” she murmured; “but the violet is blue—true blue.”
Her watch told her that it was still some minutes before the time. She must not betray any anxiety or show any undue haste. She would wait ... ah—the electric bell was ringing. A deep voice, his voice, reached her above the hum of talk—then quick steps ascending and a knock at her door brought Nora, the maid.
“Miss Barton, Mr. Morton is waiting in the parlor.”