While talk ran riot Steve’s fortune multiplied with almost sinister speed. He learned that flattery and ridicule were the best weapons known to man. And while the Gorgeous Girl flew home at the first war cloud to bury herself in serious war activities Steve climbed the upward path and never once glanced backward lest he grow dizzy.
At thirty-two, in the year 1919, he was able to say to Mark Constantine, in the fashion of a fairy-story hero: “I still love your daughter, sir, and I’ve made my fortune. We want to be married. Your blessing, please.” And to himself: “I’ll show the worst side of me to the world so wolves won’t come and steal my precious gold that I had to have in order to win her; and I’ll show my best side to the woman I love, and that’s fair enough!”
With surprising accuracy Mary Faithful’s keen mind, aided by a tender heart, had pieced this mosaic business and love story together, and as she finished the panorama she glanced at the Gorgeous Girl in her mink dolman and bright red straw hat, the useless knitting bag on her arm, and Steve’s engagement ring blazing away on her finger, and she sighed unconsciously.
“Don’t tell Miss Faithful any more,” Beatrice protested. “I’m sure she knows about everything, and it’s late––I’m tired.”
“All right, lady fair. That’s all, Miss Faithful. Good-night,” Steve dismissed her abruptly.
As Mary left the room he was saying tenderly: “What did you do at cooking school?”
And the Gorgeous Girl was answering: “We made pistachio fondant; and next week it will be Scotch broth. It takes an hour to assemble the vegetables and I dread it. Only half the class were there, the rest were at Miss Harper’s classical-dancing lesson. That’s fun, too. I think I’ll take it up next year. I was just thinking how glad I am papa built the big apartment house five years ago; it’s so much nicer to begin housekeeping there instead of a big place of one’s own. It’s such work to have a house on your hands. Are you ready?”
“Hold on. Don’t I deserve a single kiss?... Thank you, Mrs. O’Valley.” Then the door closed.
Mary Faithful picked up her notations. She tried to comfort herself with the thought that no one should ever have reason to guess her secret. If all honest men steal umbrellas and kisses, so do all honest women fib as to the size of their shoes and the person they love best of all the world!