“Nothing of the kind, Bud!” Bruce protested. “You’ll have me scared in a minute. There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m all right; I just have to get readjusted to a new way of living; that’s all.”
“Well, as you don’t thrill to the idea of viewing works of art, I’ll tell you what I’m really here for. I’m luring you away to sip tea with a widow!”
“A widow! Where do you get the idea that I’m a consoler of widows?”
“This one doesn’t need consoling! Helen Torrence is the name; relict of the late James B. deceased. She’s been away ever since you lit in our midst and just got home. About our age and not painful to look at. Jim Torrence was a good fifty when he met her, at White Sulphur or some such seat of opulence, and proudly brought her home for local inspection. The gossips forcibly removed most of her moral character, just on suspicion, you understand—but James B.’s money had a soothing effect and she got one foot inside our social door before he passed hence three years ago and left her the boodle he got from his first wife. Helen’s a good scout. It struck me all of a heap about an hour ago that she’s just the girl to cheer you up. I was just kidding about the art stuff. I telephoned Helen I was coming, so we’re all set.”
“Ah! I see through the whole game! You’re flirting with the woman and want me for a blind in case Maybelle finds you out.”
“Clever! The boy’s clever! But—listen—I never try to put anything over on Maybelle. A grand jury hasn’t an all-seeinger eye than Mrs. Bud Henderson. Let’s beat it!”
On the drive uptown Henderson devoted himself with his usual thoroughness to a recital of the history of Mrs. Torrence. The lady’s social status lay somewhere between the old and the new element, Bud explained. The president of the trust company that administered her affairs belonged to the old crowd—the paralytic or angina pectoris group, as Bud described it, and his wife and daughters just had to be nice to Torrence’s wife or run a chance of offending her and losing control of the estate. On the other hand her natural gaiety threw her toward the camps of the newer element who were too busy having a good time to indulge in ancestor worship.
Henderson concluded his illuminative exposition of Mrs. Torrence’s life history as they reached the house. They were admitted by a colored butler who took their coats and flung open a door that revealed a spacious living-room.
“Helen!” exclaimed Henderson dramatically.
It was possible that Mrs. Torrence had prepared for their entrance by posing in the middle of the room with a view to a first effect, an effect to which her quick little step as she came forward to meet them contributed. Her blue tea gown, parted a little above the ankles, invited inspection of her remarkably small feet adorned with brilliant buckles. She was short with a figure rounded to plumpness and with fluffy brown hair, caught up high as though to create an illusion as to her stature. Her complexion was a clear brilliant pink; her alert small eyes were a greenish blue. Her odd little staccato walk was in keeping with her general air of vivacity. She was all alive, amusingly abrupt, spontaneous, decisive.