But be that as it may, in this particular instance the devil was not lurking in, tampering with the improvements and refinements of detail in the big, red body of Mrs. Challoner's Mastodon model—no, it was not with the machine that he was concerned, but with the man himself, befuddling whatever brains he had left; and the devil it was and no other that incited Challoner to leave a certain establishment,—about which we shall have something to say later on,—take the wheel from the chauffeur and embark on a sensational, bacchic career up the Avenue at an hour when the view of that fashionable thoroughfare through the silken, shimmery curtains falling over a window in a corner house facing the Park was too alluring not to be irresistible.
And so it came about that the comments on the passing throng made by two women, indulging in afternoon tea in Mrs. Challoner's white and gold drawing-room, were interrupted in a manner that was as unexpected as it was embarrassing.
"Look, Miriam!" Shirley Bloodgood was saying to her hostess, apropos of a woman passing by whom they both knew, "did you ever see anything more atrocious than that gown?"
The other smiled her appreciation; and again the voluble Miss Bloodgood went on:—
"And do look at the Heath girls in those huge hats—what frights!"
But whatever were her thoughts on the subject, Miriam Challoner did not answer, for precisely at that moment her attention was attracted by something strangely familiar in an unusually insolent and insistent honking of a motor-horn, which was causing a wave of apprehension to sweep down the long line of vehicles. And a moment later they saw that chauffeurs were rudely interrupting the purring of automobiles lazing over their allotted miles; that drivers were swerving their horses into closer relations with the curb; that hardly had these attained a position of comparative safety than there flashed by them and fetched up in front of Mrs. Challoner's house a big machine, which a distinguished though dissipated looking man had been recklessly forcing with utter disregard of the right of way, a performance which called forth a volley of expletives not only from cabbies singularly unappreciative of his dexterity in executing perilously close shaves, but likewise from angry pedestrians, who had halted on hearing the groan with which the machinery protested his sudden braking.
For a moment that seemed minutes the atmosphere in the drawing-room was electric, the tension almost unbearable, for it was impossible for either of the women to doubt that the other saw what she had seen: the condition that the man was in who had leaped from the car and was now crossing the sidewalk apparently oblivious to the exclamations of wonder and lament that he had escaped authoritative vigilance.
Rising quickly, Shirley Bloodgood put out her hand. "Good-bye—thank you so much, Miriam!" There was an amazement of question in the eyes that involuntarily sought those of her friend; but her one thought was to escape what she wisely interpreted as an oncoming scene between husband and wife.
But though there was a mist before her eyes, a surging in her ears, not a muscle of Miriam Challoner's face moved; and she permitted the girl before her to perceive no emotion other than gentle surprise.
"Surely, my dear, you're not going?—What?—So soon?"