“It is. Go home and think it over. Come back here to-morrow at this time and get your orders.”
“Yessum,” said Darcy, folding her hands with assumed docility.
Gloria regarded her with suspicion. “It isn’t going to be any joke,” said she with severity.
“No’m,” assented Darcy with a still more lamblike expression. But her eyes twinkled through it.
“Oh, well, if you want to take it that way,” observed the actress. “But I’d advise you to save your high spirits for the time when they’ll be needed.”
In the seclusion of the hallway Darcy drew out Exhibit A and sought inspiration from the charming face which Holcomb Lee had surrounded with gallant and admiring suitors in the illustration.
“If it can be done,” said Darcy to the picture with the solemnity of a rite, “I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER III
AT its best, the old Remsen house on West Twelfth Street, wore its ancestral respectability cloaked with gloom. Home though it was to Jacob of that name and possession, he regarded it with distinct distaste as he approached the dull, brown steps leading to the massive door. All that could reasonably be done to furbish it up against the young master’s return, old Connor, Jacob’s inherited man, had faithfully attempted: the house’s face was at least washed, and its linen, so to speak, fresh and clean. But a home long unused becomes musty to a sense deeper than the physical. Entering, young Mr. Remsen felt a chill descend upon his blithe spirit. A basso profondo clock within struck a hollow five.
“Hark from the tomb!” observed young Mr. Remsen. “I think I’ll move to the club.” Slow footsteps, sounding from below, dissipated that intention.