“Gorgeous affair, of course,” declared the mother solemnly. “I expected it would be, honey. The Van Cortlandts always entertain so extravagantly. Well—” she sighed deeply—“when one has millions, Mr. Crane! Tell me, did Miss Stimpson play your accompaniments? I worried so, fearing she would disappoint you at the last moment; you know, honey, how uncertain she is.”
At which Sue declared that that near-sighted and nervous girl, Mazie Stimpson, had sent word at the last moment that it was impossible for her to be there, owing to a distressing attack of sore throat.
“How outrageous of her!” exclaimed the mother. “No wonder, darling, you were nervous.”
“Pity you didn’t go along with her, Emma,” ventured Ford meekly; “been just the thing.”
“I certainly now wish I had,” declared Mrs. Ford firmly. “Sue is so dependent on a good accompanist, Mr. Crane.”
“Ah, but I found one, mother,” announced Sue, with so much satisfaction that Enoch pricked up his ears. “Who do you think came to my rescue? A Mr. Lamont. He plays exquisitely. Wasn’t it kind of him?”
“Mr. Lamont!” exclaimed the mother. “Not Mr. Jack Lamont?” she asked, beaming with interest.
Sue nodded. “Yes, mother—Mr. Jack Lamont. He’s simply marvellous. He gives one so much confidence when he’s at the piano. He’s so wonderfully clever in his phrasing, and never rushes you. I came home with him, mother. He insisted on taking me home in his brougham.” This time Enoch caught his breath. “I begged him to come up, but he had to go back for Mrs. Lamont. He told me such a lot of interesting things—about his polo-ponies and his yacht, and his cottage at Newport. The Van Cortlandts adore him.”
“How delightful!” exclaimed Mrs. Ford. “You, of course, have heard of Mr. Lamont,” she said, turning to Enoch. “‘Handsome Jack Lamont,’ they call him. He’s such a lion in society. They say no cotillon can be a success without him. You see his name everywhere.”
Enoch’s jaw closed with a grip; when it relaxed he confessed bluntly that he had not only heard about Mr. Lamont, but had seen him. That he was, in fact, a member of one of his clubs, where Mr. Lamont was not only to be seen, but heard. He did not add “drunk or sober.” Neither did he dilate upon the various escapades of that gentleman, or the strained relations that had existed during several reckless conspicuous years between Mrs. Lamont and her society-pampered husband, or that his polo-ponies were fed and cared for, his steam-yacht run, and the luxuries of his Newport cottage paid for out of Mrs. Lamont’s check-book—Jack Lamont’s favorite volume, the stubs of whose pages bore evidence of Mrs. Lamont’s resigned generosity in matters that did not concern the public. Instead, Enoch held his tongue and started to take his leave, having left in Sue Preston’s heart a certain friendly reverence. In Enoch, in his charm of manner, in his kindly outspoken sincerity, she saw those qualities so sadly lacking in her stepfather. Enoch was real. She already felt a strange confidence in him. From the little she had heard about him as their neighbor—a reputation of being brusque and ill-natured—she saw only too plainly now that it was a mask, back of which lay a personality, full of so much charm and kindliness, of insight and understanding, of that great gentleness which is part of every great gentleman, that she felt she might come to him gladly for advice as a daughter might come to a father. Had he not already encouraged her? and so eloquently and graciously that she could have listened to him for hours.