“There! there! Keep your hair on, I tell you.”
“'Tis on, what there is left of it. But, Barney, what sort of talk have you been givin' me? If Hungerford ain't all right, how is it that he knows so many folks in this town? How is it that he's invited everywhere, to all sorts of places, into everybody's houses? Invitations! Why, he gets more'n we do, and,” with a sigh, “land knows that's enough, nowadays.”
B. Phelps grunted contemptuously. “It is easy enough to get invitations,” he observed. “When you've been in this town as long as I have you'll know that any young fellow, who is as good looking and entertaining as he is, will be invited to all sorts of things. The girls like him, so do their mothers—some of them. But there! I may be all wrong. Anyhow, I mustn't stay with you any longer or Annette'll be suspicious that you and I are knocking her dashed Chapter. I've told you this for your own good. Gertrude's a bully girl; I always liked her—wished a good many times I had a daughter like her. I should hate to see her get in wrong like—well, like some people you and I know. You keep her at home as much as you can. Good Lord, man!” with sudden vehemence, “do you want your house to get to be an empty d——d hole, only fit to sleep in, like—like—Yes, Annette, I'm coming.”
This conversation remained in Captain Dan's head for days. It disturbed him greatly. Several times he made up his mind to speak to Serena concerning it, but each time he changed his mind. He even thought of writing a note to John Doane, urging the latter to run down to Scarford for a few days, but he was fearful that to do this might be a mistake. John would tell Gertrude, and she might not like it. Besides, Gertrude had said that she expected John to come before very long. So Daniel did nothing further than to remonstrate mildly concerning the acceptance of Miss Canby's invitation. As he gave no reason for his objection, other than the general one that he was tired and did not care about it, his remonstrances were unheeded. He need not go unless he wished, said Serena, she and Gertrude and Cousin Percy could go and he could stay at home and rest. Gertrude said the same. When the evening came, the whole family went, the captain included.
Annette had characterized the gifted Miss Canby as unusual, and the social affairs given by her as unique. After the first half hour in the “Bohemian” apartments, Daniel would have agreed with her, although his opinion might have been more emphatically expressed. Miss Canby WAS unusual, her apartments were unusual, and the “Bohemians” there gathered most unusual of all.
Gertrude, strolling about in the company of a young gentleman—not a Bohemian, but, like herself, merely a commonplace guest—found her father seated in a corner, sheltered by a Japanese screen and an imitation palm, and peering out at the assembled company with a bewildered expression on his face.
“Well, Daddy,” she asked, “are you having a good time?”
Daniel, who had not noticed her approach, started and looked up.
“Hey?” he asked. “A good time! My soul and body! Yes, I'm havin' a good time. I haven't had a better one since I went to the sideshow at the circus. Who's that long-legged critter with the lay-down collar and the ribbon necktie? That one over there, talking to the woman with the hair that don't match. What ails him?”
Gertrude looked and laughed. “That is Mr. Abercrombie, the poet,” she said. “Nothing ails him; he is a genius, that's all.”