“That was absolutely all there was to it?”
“Absolutely all.”
“Very well. I’ll bet you five thousand dollars to a pansy, Lady Tragedy, that the midnight expedition runs somewhat on these lines. Mr. Jabez K. Rugg from Omaha, Nebraska, blows into our Derry’s office late this afternoon with an interesting proposition. He has heard that he is the most promising young architect in America, and as he is desirous of presenting his third wife with a cross between a Moorish palace and a French château for a little anniversary surprise he has applied to Derry for some sound advice, for which he is willing and eager to disburse colossal sums. Time presses, however, and the worthy Mr. Rugg yearns to invest his precious hours in New York both profitably and pleasantly. He suggests that the promising young architect put on his hat, lock up his office, and sally forth into the night, which they will spend together, chattering of business and painting the unfortunate town a brilliant red. He doesn’t happen to know the ropes, but he has a really touching confidence in our Derrick. And our Derrick, fired with the desire to hang pearls about your neck and sables about your shoulders, wafts a good-night kiss to the pleasant anticipation of firelight and candlelight, and sallies forth into what the poet refers to as ‘the lights of old Broadway.’ And there you are! Please pick me out a nice pansy.”
“That’s all very clever and amusing, Hal, but it isn’t especially convincing. And it doesn’t relieve me any more than if someone tried to cheer things up by doing a fox-trot to the funeral march. You needn’t scowl; it doesn’t. If it was as simple as that, why didn’t he explain it at the time?”
“My dear child, he was evidently in a tearing hurry—he’d have had to go into elaborate explanations to make it clear, and he obviously wasn’t in any position to indulge in the luxury of explanations. The impetuous Mr. Rugg may have been clamouring at the door, or tooting his horn underneath the window. At any rate, he’s going to call you up in a bare half hour, and clear up the whole thing; he’s apt to keep his word, isn’t he?”
“Apt to?” she echoed scornfully. “He’d keep his word if the world came to an end. I thought that you knew him.”
At the disdain in her voice something violently resentful flared in the dark eyes that met hers.
“Why, so did I,” he returned evenly. “But apparently I was mistaken. The Derry I knew was not a plaster saint, you see!”
“Nor is the Derry that I know—plaster.” Her voice shook, but she held her head very high. “Are you trying to make me mistrust him, Hal? Be careful, please; you are only making me mistrust you.”
“Oh, good God!” He flung at her a look of such revolt and despair that the small frozen face softened. “Look here, don’t—don’t let’s make more of a mess of this. You can’t believe that kind of thing of me, Anne; you may know Derry, but you’ve known me longer, after all. I’d cut my throat before I’d try to come between you two. Derry’s worth a thousand of me, of course—I know. He’s made you happy, and nothing that I could do in this life or the next would ever repay him for that. But just for a moment it galled me hideously to have you lavishing that flood of adoration on any man that lived: it was a flick on a raw wound, and something deep in me yelled out rebellion. You think jealousy a cheap and ugly thing, you say—well, now you know just how cheap, just how ugly it can be!”