A knock sounded on the door, and a moment later John Casson entered. He was a large, florid old gentleman, groomed to the acme of sartorial and tonsorial perfection—a handsome old fellow with a hearty and expansive manner, but a man, nevertheless, whom a keen student of human nature would instantly deduce to be one who thought rather well of himself.
“What? Dan, my boy, are you still on the job? Maisie, can’t you induce him to drive to the country club with us? How about nine holes of golf?”
Dan Pritchard shook his head. “Not today, sir, thank you.”
“No? Sorry, my boy. Maisie, are you ready to run along?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
She rose hurriedly, went to the mirror in Dan’s wash cabinet and powdered her nose. And while powdering it she studied critically the reflection, in that mirror, of Dan Pritchard’s long, sad, wistful, thoughtful face. It was in repose now, for Casson had walked to the window and was looking out over the bay; and Maisie had ample opportunity to watch Dan and wonder what was going on inside that bent head.
“Sweet old thing,” she soliloquized. “I love you so. I wonder if you’ll ever know—if you’ll ever care—if it will ever occur to you, dear dreamer, to diagnose that warm friendship and discover that it may be love. For just now, stupid, you talked of sacrifice—for me. Oh, Dan, I could beat you!”
She crossed the room silently and stood beside his chair. As he started, politely, to rise, she bent and placed her lips to his ear. “Art is a jealous mistress. I am told. I hope, Dan, you’ll be as true to her as you can be. I’m almost jealous of her.”
He glanced meaningly at old Casson, who was beating time with his fingers on the window-pane and striving to hum a popular fox-trot. “The old bungler!” Dan whispered. “Come in and visit me the next time you come to the office. And if you’ll invite me over to dinner some night next week I shall accept. I want to continue our conversation. I——”
He glanced swiftly at Casson, saw that the old gentleman was still preoccupied with his pseudo-valuable thoughts and decided to risk putting through a plan which had that instant popped into his head. He took Maisie’s chin in thumb and forefinger, drew her swiftly toward him and kissed her on the lips. Old Casson continued to beat his unmusical tattoo on the window-pane, and Maisie, observing this, grimaced at his broad back and—returned Dan’s kiss! For a breathless instant they stood staring at each other—and then old Casson turned.