By the time he had dressed and breakfasted, he had answered the telephone a dozen times, messages from men he knew, anxious to learn if his intimacy with young Gunther had brought him any valuable information; inquiries as to the effect on his personal fortunes, and rumors of individual losses.
He himself remained undisturbed by the frenzy. His own fortune, thanks to the wise provision of a hard-headed father, was safely invested in solid properties, and the world of speculation had not entered his ken. He returned to his newspapers, read everything bearing on the personal fate of John G. Slade, which interested him extraordinarily since his encounter with that abrupt and forceful personality, and, rising, asked himself how he could kill the time until the hour of his luncheon with Rita Kildair.
The irritation he had felt at the end of his ride with Nan Charters had disappeared. Studying the evening calmly, he analyzed her words with a clearer perception. He comprehended that, beyond all the cleverness of her attitude, she had been veritably piqued by his indifference and his absorption by Emma Fornez, who treated her as a little actress. Considering the encounter thus, he smiled occasionally, congratulating himself that the conversation had ended so abruptly—when a continuance would have led him perhaps to say some of those sudden, illogical remarks which are irresistibly drawn from a man by the provoking contact of certain feminine personalities.
"She may say what she wants," he said, selecting a cigarette. "She was caught by her own tricks." He took several steps, and grinned to himself. "It's an amusing game, and a game that will be amusing to play."
Despite this feeling of confidence and elation, he had an irresistible desire to telephone her, to indulge himself in the pleasure of hearing her voice again. He had resisted the impulse several times, convincing himself of the tactical error; and yet, the more he argued against it, the more the desire haunted him.
Ordinarily he spent an agreeable half-hour after breakfast, calling up on the telephone those of the opposite sex with whom he was in the relation of a good comrade. He enjoyed these morning snatches of intimacy, with an enjoyment untouched with any seriousness. This morning, as he took the telephone in hand, he thought first of Emma Fornez, but as he had neglected to make his adieu to her on leaving with Nan Charters, he considered a moment while he formulated an acceptable apology.
The prima donna answered him from the languid idleness of her bed, where she was resting in a state of complete exhaustion.
"I am ab-so-lutely fini," she said in an anguished tone. "It is fright-ful. I shall never be able to sing—never!" Then she remembered. "I am very angry with you—yes, yes,—very angry."
Beecher explained, with crocodile tears, how he had been forced to come to the aid of a distressed and helpless female.
"Ta-ta-ta! Stuff and nonsense! You could have boxed her up in a carriage and sent her home—yes, yes, you could. But you are in love—you are weak—you wanted an excuse—she made a fool of you—she twisted you around her finger!"