Roscoe Orlando came up to Eudoxia. His lips were white.
"A little plan I had set my heart upon," he said, trying to smile lightly, "has received a slight check. May I not rely on you to help it through?"
"A little plan I had set my heart upon," she returned significantly, "has received a slight check. May I not rely on you? In other words, I have my problem, just as you have yours. I must insist that justice be done to Mr. Dill."
Roscoe Orlando bowed—only too glad to acquiesce in anything.
"One straggler brought back to camp," said Eudoxia. "To-morrow I shall try to bring back one or two others."
XXIV
Eudoxia Pence immediately got herself into motion. During the watches of the night she evolved plans for such a function as she thought the present situation required. Her picture gallery, re-enforced by those six or eight new masterpieces from Paris, she should throw open to the general public. She would call the thing an afternoon reception, and there would be tea. People were to be invited with some regard to form, but the opportunity would be made rather general—almost anybody might come who was willing to pay a dollar. This crush would supplement her bazar, and would be announced as for the benefit of—oh, well, of any one of the half-dozen charities that looked to her for support. She would throw open the whole house and tea should flow like water. These doings must take place within three days, at the outside. Time was precious and none of her friends would take seriously anything of hers given at so short a notice. No matter, then, who paid; no matter who poured; no matter about anything, if only her net took in all the different people she wanted to catch.
Next morning she rose for a busy day. She had brought back Gibbons, and now she must bring back Hill. Young Prochnow was off the board, but that did not put Daffingdon Dill back upon it; nor would he be there till she should have placed him there. "We must have that commission," said Virgilia. "You shall, if I've got any influence," replied her aunt.
She had long foreseen that, one day or another, she must seize her
Grindstone stock in her talons, beat her wings about the head of Andrew
P. Hill, raise a threatening beak against his obdurate front, and ask him
what he meant by behaving so.
She drove to the bank. The old office stood empty; a last load of ancient ledgers and of shabby furniture was just driving away. She ordered her coupe to go to the new building. Here she found Andrew adjusting himself to his grandiose environment, and delivered her assault.