With breathless secrecy Father planned to entice Mrs. Vance Carter to “The T Room.” Once they had her there, she would certainly appreciate the wholesome goodness of Mother’s cooking. He imagined long intimate conversations in which Mrs. Carter would say to him, “Mr. Appleby, I can’t tell you how much I like to get away from my French cook and enjoy your nice old house and Mrs. Appleby’s delicious homey doughnuts.” It was easy to win Mrs. Carter, in imagination. Sitting by himself in the rose-arbor while Mother served their infrequent customers or stood at the door unhappily watching for them, Father visualized Mrs. Carter exclaiming over the view from the arbor, the sunset across the moors as seen from their door—which was, Father believed, absolutely the largest and finest sunset in the world. He even went so far as to discover in Mrs. Vance Carter, Mrs. Cabot-Winslow-Carter, a sneaking fondness for cribbage, which, in her exalted social position, she had had to conceal. He saw her send the chauffeur away, and cache her lorgnette, and roll up her sleeves, and simply wade into an orgy of cribbage, with pleasing light refreshments of cider and cakes waiting by the fireplace. Then he saw Mrs. Carter sending all her acquaintances to “The T Room,” and the establishment so prosperous that Miss Mitchin would come around and beg the Applebys to enter into partnership.
Father was not such a fool as to believe all his fancies. But hadn’t he heard the most surprising tales of how friendly these great folk could be? Why here just the other day he had been reading in the boiler-plate innards of the Grimsby Recorder how Jim Hill, the railroad king, had dropped off at a little station in North Dakota one night, incog., and talked for hours to the young station-master.
He was burning to do something besides helping Mother in the kitchen—something which would save them and pull the tea-room out of the hole. Without a word to Mother he started for Grimsby Hill, the estate of Mrs. Vance Carter. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he was certain that he was going to do something.
As he arrived at the long line of iron picket fence surrounding Grimsby Hill, he saw Mrs. Carter’s motor enter the gate. It seemed to be a good omen. He hurried to the gate, peered in, then passed on. He couldn’t go and swagger past that exclusive-looking gate-house and intrude on that sweep of rhododendron-lined private driveway. He walked shyly along the iron fence for a quarter of a mile before he got up courage to go back, rush through the towering iron gateway and past the gate-house, into the sacred estate. He expected to hear a voice—it would be a cockney servant’s voice—demanding, “’Ere you, wot do you want?” But no one stopped him; no one spoke to him; he was safe among the rhododendrons. He clumped along as though he had important business, secretly patting his tie into shape and smoothing his hair. Just let anybody try to stop him! He knew what he was about! But he really didn’t know what he was about; he hadn’t the slightest notion as to whether he would go up and invite their dear cribbage-companion Mrs. Carter to come and see them or tack up a “T Room” advertisement on the porch.
He came to a stretch of lawn, with the house and all its three towers scowling down at him. Behind it were the edges of a group of out-buildings. He veered around toward these. Outside the garage he saw the chauffeur, with his livery coat off, polishing a fender. Great! Perhaps he could persuade the chauffeur to help him. He put on what he felt to be a New York briskness, furtively touched his tie again, and skipped up to the chauffeur.
“Fine day!” he said, breezily, starting with the one neutral topic of conversation in the world.
“What of it?” said the chauffeur, and went on polishing.
“Well, uh, say, I wanted to have a talk with you.”
“I guess there’s nothing stopping you. G’wan and have your talk. I can’t get away. The old dragon wanted to have a talk with me, too, this morning. So did the housekeeper. Everybody does.” And he polished harder than ever.
“Ha, ha!” Which indicates Father’s laughter, though actually it sounded more like “Hick, hick!” As carelessly as he could Father observed: “That’s how it goes, all right. I know. When I was in the shoe business—”