Then he fell upon his mountain of mail and memoranda, demands for this charity and that patriotic subscription, and Mary began a careful explanation of affairs and they sat talking and arguing until the general superintendent looked in to suggest that the shop might like to have Mr. O’Valley say hello.
“It’s nearly eleven,” Steve exclaimed, “and we haven’t begun to say a tenth of all there is to discuss. See the funeral piece, Hodges? Why didn’t you label it ‘Rest in pieces’ and be done with it, eh? I shall now appear to make a formal speech.” Here he cut a rosebud from the big wreath and handed it gravely to Mary; he cut a second one and fastened it in his own buttonhole. “Lead me out, Hodges. I’m a bit unsteady––been playing too long.”
Mary stood in the doorway, one hand caressing the little rose. That Beatrice should have had the flower was her first thought. Then it occurred to her that Beatrice would have all the flowers at the formal affairs to be given the bridal couple, besides sitting opposite Steve at his own table. She no longer felt that she had stolen the rose or usurped attention. There was a clapping of hands and the usual laughter which accompanies listening to any generous proprietor’s speech, a trifle forced perhaps but very jolly sounding. Then Steve returned to his office to become engrossed in conversation with Mary until Mark Constantine dropped in to bowl him off to the club for luncheon.
“She’s kept things humming, hasn’t she?” Constantine asked, sinking into the nearest chair.
“A prize,” Steve said, proudly. “I don’t find a slip-up any place. I’ll be back at two, Miss Faithful, in case any one calls.... How is Bea?” His voice softened noticeably.
Mary slipped away.
“Bea doesn’t like one half of her things and the other half are so much better than the apartment that she says they don’t show up,” her father admitted, drolly. “She is tired to death––so you’ll find her at home, my boy, with a box of candy and the latest novel. Belle was talking her head off when I left the house and the girls keep calling her on the telephone for those little three-quarters-of-an-hour hello talks. It seems to me that for rich girls, my daughter and her friends are the busiest, most tired women I ever knew––and yet do the least.” He put on his hat and waited for Steve to open the door.
“I don’t pretend to understand them,” Steve answered. “Maybe that’s why I’m so happy. Bea fusses if the shade of draperies doesn’t match her gown, and if Monster has a snarl in her precious hair it is cause for a tragedy. But I just grin and go along and presently she has forgotten all about it.”
“I tried to get that young woman helper of yours to help me fix up Bea’s things,” Constantine complained. “Let’s walk to the club––my knees are going stiff on me.”