The City of Masks/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI
WINNING BY A NOSE
MRS. SMITH-PARVIS, having received the annual spring announcement from Juneo & Co., repaired, on an empty Thursday, to the show-rooms and galleries of the little Italian dealer in antiques.
Twice a year she disdainfully,—and somewhat hastily,—went through his stock, always proclaiming at the outset that she was merely "looking around"; she'd come in later if she saw anything really worth having. It was her habit to demand the services of Mr. Juneo himself on these profitless visits to his establishment. She looked holes through the presumptuous underlings who politely adventured to inquire if she was looking for anything in particular. It would seem that the only thing in particular that she was looking for was the head of the house, and if he happened to be out she made it very plain that she didn't see how he ever did any business if he wasn't there to look after it.
And if little Mr. Juneo was in, she swiftly conducted him through the various departments of his own shop, questioning the genuineness of everything, denouncing his prices, and departing at last with the announcement that she could always find what she wanted at Pickett's.
At Pickett's she invariably encountered coldly punctilious gentlemen in "frockaway "coats, who were never quite sure, without inquiring, whether Mr. Moody was at liberty. Would she kindly take a seat and wait, or would she prefer to have a look about the galleries while some one went off to see if he could see her at once or a little later on? She liked all this. And she would wander about the luxurious rooms of the establishment of Pickett, Inc., content to stare languidly at other and less influential patrons who had to be satisfied with the smug attentions of ordinary salesmen.
And Moody, being acutely English, laid it on very thick when it came to dealing with persons of the type of Mrs. Smith-Parvis. Somehow he had learned that in dealing with snobs one must transcend even in snobbishness. The only way to command the respect of a snob is to go him a little better,—indeed, according to Moody, it isn't altogether out of place to go him a great deal better. The loftier the snob, the higher you must shoot to get over his head (to quote Moody, whose training as a footman in one of the oldest houses in England had prepared him against almost any emergency). He assumed on occasion a polite, bored indifference that seldom failed to have the desired effect. In fact, he frequently went so far as to pretend to stifle a yawn while face to face with the most exalted of patrons,—a revelation of courage which, being carefully timed, usually put the patron in a corner from which she could escape only by paying a heavy ransom.
He sometimes had a way of implying,—by his manner, of course,—that he would rather not sell the treasure at all than to have it go into your mansion, where it would be manifestly alone in its splendour, notwithstanding the priceless articles you had picked up elsewhere in previous efforts to inhabit the place with glory. On the other hand, if you happened to be nobody at all and therefore likely to resent being squelched, he could sell you a ten-dollar candlestick quite as amiably as the humblest clerk in the place. Indeed, he was quite capable of giving it to you for nine dollars if he found he had not quite correctly sized you up in the beginning.
As he never erred in sizing up people of the Smith-Parvis ilk, however, his profits were sublime. Accident, and nothing less, brought him into contact with the common people looking for bargains: such as the faulty adjustment of his monocle, or a similarity in backs, or the perverseness of the telephone, or a sudden shower. Sudden showers always remind pedestrians without umbrellas that they've been meaning for a long time to stop in and price things, and they clutter up the place so.
Mrs. Smith-Parvis was bent on discovering something cheap and unusual for the twins, whose joint birthday anniversary was but two days off. It occurred to her that it would be wise to give them another heirloom apiece. Something English, of course, in view of the fact that her husband's forebears had come over from England with the twenty or thirty thousand voyagers who stuffed the Mayflower from stem to stern on her historic maiden trip across the Atlantic.
Secretly, she had never got over being annoyed with the twins for having come regardless, so to speak. She had prayed for another boy like Stuyvesant, and along came the twins—no doubt as a sort of sop in the form of good measure. If there had to be twins, why under heaven couldn't she have been blessed with them on Stuyvesant's natal day? She couldn't have had too many Stuyvesants.
Still, she considered it her duty to be as nice as possible to the twins, now that she had them; and besides, they were growing up to be surprisingly pretty girls, with a pleasantly increasing resemblance to Stuyvesant.
Always, a day or two prior to the anniversary, she went surreptitiously into the antique shops and picked out for each of them a piece of jewellery, or a bit of china, or a strip of lace, or anything else that bore evidence of having once been in a very nice sort of family. On the glad morning she delivered her gifts, with sweet impressiveness, into the keeping of these remote little descendants of her beloved ancestors! Invariably something English, heirlooms that she had kept under lock and key since the day they came to Mr. Smith-Parvis under the terms of his great-grandmother's will. Up to the time Stuyvesant was sixteen he had been getting heirlooms from a long-departed great-grandfather, but on reaching that vital age, he declared that he preferred cash.
The twins had a rare assortment of family heirlooms in the little glass cabinets upstairs.
"You must cherish them for ever," said their mother, without compunction. "They represent a great deal more than mere money, my dears. They are the intrinsic bonds that connect you with a glorious past."
When they were ten she gave them a pair of beautiful miniatures,—a most alluring and imperial looking young lady with powdered hair, and a gallant young gentleman with orders pinned all over his bright red coat. It appears that the lady of the miniature was a great personage at court a great many years before the misguided Colonists revolted against King George the Third, and they—her darling twins—were directly descended from her. The gentleman was her husband.
"He was awfully handsome," one of the twins had said, being romantic. "Are we descended from him too, mamma?" she inquired innocently.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis severely.
A predecessor of Miss Emsdale's got her walking papers for putting nonsense (as well as the truth) into the heads of the children. At least, she told them something that paved the way for a most embarrassing disclosure by one of the twins when a visitor was complimenting them on being such nice, lovely little ladies.
"We ought to be," said Eudora proudly. "We are descended from Madam du Barry. We've got her picture upstairs."
Mrs. Smith-Parvis took Miss Emsdale with her on this particular Thursday afternoon. This was at the suggestion of Stuyvesant, who held forth that an English governess was in every way qualified to pass upon English wares, new or old, and there wasn't any sense in getting "stung "when there was a way to protect oneself, and all that sort of thing.
Stuyvesant also joined the hunt.
"Rather a lark, eh, what?" he whispered in Miss Emsdale's ear as they followed his stately mother into the shop of Juneo & Co. She jerked her arm away.
The proprietor was haled forth. Courteous, suave and polished though he was, Signor Juneo had the misfortune to be a trifle shabby, and sartorially remiss. Mrs. Smith-Parvis eyed him from a peak,—a very lofty peak.
Ten minutes sufficed to convince her that he had nothing in his place that she could think of buying.
"My dear sir," she said haughtily, "I know just what I want, so don't try to palm off any of this jewellery on me. Miss Emsdale knows the Queen Anne period quite as well as I do, I've no doubt. Queen Anne never laid eyes on that wristlet, Mr. Junco."
"Pardon me, Mrs. Smith-Parvis, I fear you misunderstood me," said the little dealer politely. "I think I said that it was of Queen Anne's period—"
"What time is it, Stuyvesant?" broke in the lady, turning her back on the merchant. "We must be getting on to Pickett's. It is really a waste of time, coming to places like this. One should go to Pickett's in the first—"
"There are a lot of ripping things here, mater," said Stuyvesant, his eyes resting on a comfortable couch in a somewhat secluded corner of the shop. "Take a look around. Miss Emsdale and I will take a back seat, so that you may go about it with an open mind. I daresay we confuse you frightfully, tagging at your heels all the time, what? Come along. Miss Emsdale. You look fagged and—"
"Thank you, I am quite all right," said Miss Emsdale, the red spots in her cheeks darkening.
"Oh, be a sport," he urged, under his voice. "I've just got to have a few words with you. It's been days since we've had a good talk. Looks as though you were deliberately avoiding me."
"I am," said she succinctly.
Mrs. Smith-Parvis had gone on ahead with Signor Juneo, and was loudly criticizing a beautiful old Venetian mirror which he had the temerity to point out to her.
"Well, I don't like it," Stuyvesant said roughly. "That sort of thing doesn't go with me, Miss Emsdale. And, hang it all, why haven't you had the decency to answer the two notes I stuck under your door last night and the night before?"
"I did not read the second one," she said, flushing painfully. "You have no right to assume that I will meet you—oh, can't you be a gentleman?"
He gasped. "My God! Can you beat that!"
"It is becoming unbearable, Mr. Smith-Parvis," said she, looking him straight in the eye. "If you persist, I shall be compelled to speak to your mother."
"Go ahead," he said sarcastically. "I'm ready for exposure if you are."
"And I am now prepared to give up my position," she added, white and calm.
"Good!" he exclaimed promptly. "I'll see that you never regret it," he went on eagerly, his enormous vanity reaching out for but one conclusion.
"You beast!" she hissed, and walked away.
He looked bewildered. "I'm blowed if I understand what's got into women lately," he muttered, and passed his fingers over his brow.
On the way to Pickett's, Mrs. Smith-Parvis dilated upon the unspeakable Mr. Juneo.
"You will be struck at once, Miss Emsdale, by the contrast. The instant you come in contact with Mr. Moody, at Pickett's—he is really the head of the firm,—you will experience the delightful,—and unique, I may say,—sensation of being in the presence of a cultured, high-bred gentleman. They are most uncommon among shop-keepers in these days. This little Juneo is as common as dirt. He hasn't a shred of good-breeding. Utterly low-class Neapolitan person, I should say at a venture,—although I have never been by way of knowing any of the lower class Italians. They must be quite dreadful in their native gutters. Now, Mr. Moody,—but you shall see. Really, he is so splendid that one can almost imagine him in the House of Lords, or being privileged to sit down in the presence of the king, or— My word, Stuyvesant, what are you scowling at?"
"I'm not scowling," growled Stuyvesant, from the little side seat in front of them.
"He actually makes me feel sometimes as though I were dirt under his feet," went on Mrs. Smith-Parvis.
"Oh, come now, mother, you know I never make you feel anything of the—"
"I was referring to Mr. Moody, dear."
"Oh,—well," said he, slightly crestfallen.
Miss Emsdale suppressed a desire to giggle. Moody, a footman without the normal supply of aitches; Juneo, a nobleman with countless generations of nobility behind him!
The car drew up to the curb on the side street paralleling Pickett's. Another limousine had the place of vantage ahead of them.
"Blow your horn, Galpin," ordered Mrs. Smith-Parvis. "They have no right to stand there, blocking the way."
"It's Mrs. Millidew's car, madam," said the footman up beside Galpin.
"Never mind, Galpin," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis hastily. "We will get out here. It's only a step."
Miss Emsdale started. A warm red suffused her cheeks. She had not seen Trotter since that day in Bramble's book-shop. Her heart began to beat rapidly.
Trotter was standing on the curb, carrying on a conversation with some one inside the car. He too started perceptibly when his gaze fell upon the third person to emerge from the Smith-Parvis automobile. Almost instantly his face darkened and his tall frame stiffened. He had taken a second look at the first person to emerge. The reply he was in process of making to the occupant of his own car suffered a collapse. It became disjointed, incoherent and finally came to a halt. He was afforded a slight thrill of relief when Miss Emsdale deliberately ignored the hand that was extended to assist her in alighting.
Mrs. Millidew, the younger, turned her head to glance at the passing trio. Her face lighted with a slight smile of recognition. The two Smith-Parvises bowed and smiled in return.
"Isn't she beautiful?" said Mrs. Smith-Parvis to her son, without waiting to get out of earshot.
"Oh, rather," said he, quite as distinctly.
"Who is that extremely pretty girl?" inquired Mrs. Millidew, the younger, also quite loudly, addressing no one in particular.
Trotter cleared his throat.
"Oh, you wouldn't know, of course," she observed. "Go on, Trotter. You were telling me about your family in—was it Chester? Your dear old mother and the little sisters. I am very much interested."
Trotter looked around cautiously, and again cleared his throat.
"It is awfully good of you to be interested in my people," he said, an uneasy note in his voice. For his life, he could not remember just what he had been telling her in response to her inquiries. The whole thing had been knocked out of his head by the sudden appearance of one who knew that he had no dear old mother in Chester, nor little sisters anywhere who depended largely on him for support! "Chester," he said, rather vaguely. "Yes, to be sure,—Chester. Not far from Liverpool, you know,—it's where the cathedral is."
"Tell me all about them," she persisted, leaning a little closer to the window, an encouraging smile on her carmine lips.
In due time the impassive Mr. Moody issued forth from his private office and bore down upon the two matrons, who, having no especial love for each other, were striving their utmost to be cordial without compromising themselves by being agreeable.
Mrs. Millidew the elder, arrayed in many colours, was telling Mrs. Smith-Parvis about a new masseuse she had discovered, and Mrs. Smith-Parvis was talking freely at the same time about a person named Juneo.
Miss Emsdale had drifted over toward the broad show window looking out upon the cross-town street, where Thomas Trotter was visible,—out of the corner of her eye. Also the younger Mrs. Millidew.
Stuyvesant, sullenly smoking a cigarette, lolled against a show-case across the room, dropping ashes every minute or two into the mouth of a fragile and, for the time being, priceless vase that happened to be conveniently located near his elbow.
Mr. Moody adjusted his monocle and eyed his matronly visitors in a most unfeeling way.
"Ah,—good awfternoon, Mrs. Millidew. Good awfternoon, Mrs. Smith-Parvis," he said, and then catching sight of an apparently neglected customer in the offing, beckoned to a smart looking salesman, and said, quite loudly:
"See what that young man wants, Proctor."
The young man, who happened to be young Mr. Smith-Parvis, started violently,—and glared.
"Stupid blight-ah!" he said, also quite loudly, and disgustedly chucked his cigarette into the vase, whereupon the salesman, in some horror, grabbed it up and dumped the contents upon the floor.
"You shouldn't do that, you know," he said, in a moment of righteous forgetfulness. "That's a peach-blow—"
"Oh, is it?" snapped Stuyvesant, and walked away.
"That is my son, Mr. Moody," explained Mrs. Smith-Parvis quickly. "Poor dear, he hates so to shop with me."
"Ah,—ah, I see," drawled Mr. Moody. "Your son? Yes, yes." And then, as an afterthought, with a slight elevation of one eyebrow, "Bless my soul, Mrs. Smith-Parvis, you amaze me. It's incredible. You cawn't convince me that you have a son as old as— Well, now, really it's a bit thick."
"I—I'm not spoofing you, Mr. Moody," cried Mrs. Smith-Parvis delightedly.
His face relaxed slightly. One might have detected the faint, suppressed gleam of a smile in his eyes,—but it was so brief, so evanescent that it would be folly to put it down as such.
The ensuing five minutes were devoted entirely to manœuvres on the part of all three. Mrs. Smith-Parvis was trying to shunt Mrs. Millidew on to an ordinary salesman, and Mrs. Millidew was standing her ground, resolute in the same direction. The former couldn't possibly inspect heirlooms under the eye of that old busy-body, nor could the latter resort to cajolery in the effort to obtain a certain needle-point chair at bankrupt figures. As for Mr. Moody, he was splendid. The lordliest duke in all of Britain could not have presented a truer exemplification of lordliness than he. He quite outdid himself. The eighth letter in the alphabet behaved in a most gratifying manner; indeed, he even took chances with it, just to see how it would act if he were not watching it,—and not once did it fail him.
"But, of course, one never can find anything one wants unless one goes to the really exclusive places, you know," Mrs. Smith-Parvis was saying. "It is a waste of time, don't you think?"
"Quate—oh, yes, quate," drawled Mr. Moody, in a roving sort of way. That is to say, his interest seemed to be utterly detached, as if nothing that Mrs. Smith-Parvis said really mattered.
"Naturally we try to find things in the cheaper places before we come here," went on the lady boldly.
"More int'resting," said Mr. Moody, indulgently eyeing a great brass lanthorn that hung suspended over Mrs. Millidew's bonnet,—but safely to the left of it, he decided.
"I've been looking for something odd and quaint and—and—you know,—of the Queen Anne period,—trinkets, you might say, Mr. Moody. What have you in that—"
"Queen Anne? Oh, ah, yes, to be sure,—Queen Anne. Yes, yes. I see. 'Pon my soul, Mrs. Smith-Parvis, I fear we haven't anything at all. Most uncommon dearth of Queen Anne material nowadays. We cawn't get a thing. Snapped up in England, of course. I know of some extremely rare pieces to be had in New York, however, and, while I cannot procure them for you myself, I should be charmed to give you a letter to the dealer who has them."
"Oh, how kind of you. That is really most gracious of you."
"Mr. Juneo, of Juneo & Co., has quite a stock," interrupted Mr. Moody tolerantly,—"quite a remarkable collection, I may say. Indeed, nothing finer has been brought to New York in—in—in—"
Mr. Moody faltered. His whole manner underwent a swift and peculiar change. His eyes were riveted upon the approaching figure of a young lady. Casually, from time to time, his roving, detached gaze had rested upon her back as she stood near the window. As a back, it did not mean anything to him.
But now she was approaching,—and a queer, cold little something ran swiftly down his spine. It was Lady Jane Thorne!
Smash went his house of cards into a jumbled heap. It collapsed from a lofty height. Lady Jane Thorne!
No use trying to lord it over her! She was the real thing! Couldn't put on "lugs" with her,—not a bit of it! She knew!
His monocle dropped. He tried to catch it. Missed!
"My word!" he mumbled, as he stooped over to retrieve it from the rug at his feet. The exertion sent a ruddy glow to his neck and ears and brow.
"Did you break it?" cried Mrs. Millidew.
He stuck it in his waist-coat pocket without examination.
"This is Miss Emsdale, our governess," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis. "She's an English girl, Mr. Moody."
"Glad to meet you," stammered Mr. Moody, desperately.
"How do you do, Mr. Moody," said Jane, in the most matter-of-fact way.
Mr. Moody knew that she was a paid governess. He had known it for many months. But that didn't alter the case. She was the "real thing." He couldn't put on any "side" with her. He couldn't bring himself to it, not if his life depended on it. Not even if she had been a scullery-maid and appeared before him in greasy ginghams. All very well to "stick it on" with these fashionable New Yorkers, but when it came to the daughter of the Earl of Wexham,—well, it didn't matter what she was as long as he knew who she was.
His mask was off.
The change in his manner was so abrupt, so complete, that his august customers could not fail to notice it. Something was wrong with the poor man! Certainly he was not himself. He looked ill,—at any rate, he did not look as well as usual. Heart, that's what it was, flashed through Mrs. Millidew's brain. Mrs. Smith-Parvis took it to be vertigo. Sometimes her husband looked like that when—
"Will you please excuse me, ladies,—just for a moment or two?" he mumbled, in a most extraordinary voice. "I will go at once and write a note to Mr. Juneo. Make yourselves at 'ome. And—and—" He shot an appealing glance at Miss Emsdale,—"and you too, Miss."
In a very few minutes a stenographer came out of the office into which Mr. Moody had disappeared, with a typewritten letter to Mr. Juneo, and the word that Mr. Moody had been taken suddenly ill and begged to be excused. He hoped that they would be so gracious as to allow Mr. Paddock to show them everything they had in stock,—and so on.
"It was so sudden," said Mrs. Millidew. "I never saw such a change in a man in all my life. Heart, of course. High living, you may be sure. It gets them every time."
"I shall run in tomorrow and tell him about Dr. Brodax," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis firmly. "He ought to see the best man in the city, of course, and no one—"
"For the Lord's sake, don't let him get into the clutches of that man Brodax," interrupted Mrs. Millidew. "He is—"
"No, thank you, Mr. Paddock,—I sha'n't wait. Another day will do just as well. Come, Miss Emsdale. Good-bye, my dear. Come and see me."
"Dr. Brown stands at the very top of the profession as a heart specialist. He—"
"I've never heard of him," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis icily, and led the way to the sidewalk, her head very high. You could say almost anything you pleased to Mrs. Smith-Parvis about her husband, or her family, or her religion, or even her figure, but you couldn't belittle her doctor. That was lese-majesty. She wouldn't have it.
A more or less peaceful expedition came to grief within sixty seconds after its members reached the sidewalk,—and in a most astonishing manner.
Stuyvesant was in a nasty humour. He had not noticed Thomas Trotter before. Coming upon the tall young man suddenly, after turning the corner of the building, he was startled into an expression of disgust. Trotter was holding open the limousine door for Mrs. Millidew, the elder.
Young Mr. Smith-Parvis stopped short and stared in a most offensive manner at Mrs. Millidew's chauffeur.
"By gad, you weren't long in getting a job after Carpenter fired you, were you? Fish!"
Now, there is no way in the world to recall the word "fish "after it has been uttered in the tone employed by Stuyvesant. Ordinarily it is a most inoffensive word, and signifies something delectable. In French it is poisson, and we who know how to pronounce it say it with pleasure and gusto, quite as we say pomme de terre when we mean potato. If Stuyvesant had said poisson, the chances are that nothing would have happened. But he didn't. He said fish.
No doubt Thomas Trotter was in a bad humour also. He was a very sensible young man, and there was no reason why he should be jealous of Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. He had it from Miss Emsdale herself that she loathed and despised the fellow. And yet he saw red when she passed him a quarter of an hour before with Stuyvesant at her side. For some time he had been harassed by the thought that if she had not caught sight of him as she left the car, the young man's offer of assistance might not have been spurned. In any event, there certainly was something queer afoot. Why was she driving about with Mrs. Smith-Parvis,—and Stuyvesant,—as if she were one of the family and not a paid employe?
In the twinkling of an eye, Thomas Trotter forgot that he was a chauffeur. He remembered only that he was Lord Eric Carruthers Ethelbert Temple, the grandson of a soldier, the great-grandson of a soldier, and the great-great grandson of a soldier whose father and grandfather had been soldiers before him.
Thomas Trotter would have said,—and quite properly, too, considering his position;—"Quite so, sir."
Lord Temple merely put his face a little closer to Stuyvesant's and said, very audibly, very distinctly: "You go to hell!"
Stuyvesant fell back a step. He could not believe his ears. The fellow couldn't have said—and yet, there was no possible way of making anything else out of it. He had said "You go to hell."
Fortunately he had said it in the presence of ladies. Made bold by the continued presence of at least three ladies, Stuyvesant, assuming that a chauffeur would not dare go so far as a physical retort, snapped his fingers under Trotter's nose and said:
"For two cents I'd kick you all over town for that."
Miss Emsdale erred slightly in her agitation. She grasped Stuyvesant's arm. Trotter also erred. He thought she was trying to keep Smith-Parvis from carrying out the threat.
Mrs. Millidew, the elder, cried out sharply: "What's all this? Trotter, get up on the seat at once. I—"
Mrs. Millidew, the younger, leaned from the window and patted Trotter on the shoulder. Her eyes were sparkling.
"Give it to him, Trotter. Don't mind me!" she cried.
Stuyvesant turned to Miss Emsdale. "Don't be alarmed, my dear, I sha'n't do it, you know. Pray compose yourself. I—"
At that juncture Lord Eric Temple reached out and, with remarkable precision, grasped Stuyvesant's nose between his thumb and forefinger. One sharp twist brought a surprised grunt from the owner of the nose, a second elicited a pained squeak, and the third,—pressed upward as well as both to the right and left,—resulted in a sharp howl of anguish.
The release of his nose was attended by a sudden push that sent Stuyvesant backward two or three steps.
"Oh, my God!" he gasped, and felt for his nose. There were tears in his eyes. There would have been tears in anybody's eyes after those merciless tweaks.
Finding his nose still attached, he struck out wildly with both fists, a blind fury possessing him. Even a coward will strike if you pull his nose severely enough. As Trotter remained motionless after the distressing act of Lord Temple, Stuyvesant missed him by a good yard and a half, but managed to connect solidly with the corner of the limousine, barking his knuckles, a circumstance which subsequently provided him with something to substantiate his claim to having planted a "good one" on the blighter's jaw.
His hat fell off and rolled still farther away from the redoubtable Trotter, luckily in the direction of the Smith-Parvis car. By the time Stuyvesant retrieved it, after making several clutches in his haste, he was, singularly enough, beyond the petrified figure of his mother.
"Call the police! Call the police!" Mrs. Smith-Parvis was whimpering. "Where are the police?"
Mrs. Millidew, the elder, cried out sharply: "Hush up! Don't be idiotic! Do you want to attract the police and a crowd and— What do you mean, Trotter, by attacking Mr. Smith-Par—"
"Get out of the way, mother," roared Stuyvesant. "Let me at him! Don't hold me! I'll break his infernal neck— Shut up!" His voice sank to a hoarse whisper. "We don't want the police. Shut up, I say! My God, don't make a scene!"
"Splendid!" cried Mrs. Millidew, the younger, enthusiastically, addressing herself to Trotter. "Perfectly splendid!"
Trotter, himself once more, calmly stepped to the back of the car to see what, if any, damage Stuyvesant had done to the polished surface!
Mrs. Smith-Parvis advanced. Her eyes were blazing.
"You filthy brute!" she exclaimed.
Up to this instant. Miss Emsdale had not moved. She was very white and breathless. Now her eyes flashed ominously.
"Don't you dare call him a brute," she cried out.
Mrs. Smith-Parvis gasped, but was speechless in the face of this amazing defection. Stuyvesant opened his lips to speak, but observing that the traffic policeman at the Fifth Avenue corner was looking with some intensity at the little group, changed his mind and got into the automobile.
"Come on!" he called out. "Get in here, both of you. I'll attend to this fellow later on. Come on, I say!"
"How dare you speak to me in that manner?" flared Mrs. Smith-Parvis, turning from Trotter to the girl. "What do you mean. Miss Emsdale? Are you defending this—"
"Yes, I am defending him," cried Jane, passionately. "He—he didn't do half enough to him."
"Good girl!" murmured Trotter, radiant.
"That will do!" said Mrs. Smith-Parvis imperiously. "I shall not require your services after today, Miss Emsdale."
"Oh, good Lord, mother,—don't be a fool," cried Stuyvesant. "Let me straighten this thing out. I—"
"As you please, madam," said Jane, drawing herself up to her full height.
"Drive to Dr. Brodax's, Galpin, as quickly as possible," directed Stuyvesant's mother, and entered the car beside her son.
The footman closed the door and hopped up beside the chauffeur. He was very pink with excitement.
"Oh, for heaven's sake—" began her son furiously, but the closing of the door smothered the rest of the complaint.
"You may also take your notice, Trotter," said Mrs. Millidew the elder. "I can't put up with such behaviour as this."
"Very good, madam. I'm sorry. I—"
Miss Emsdale was walking away. He did not finish the sentence. His eyes were following her and they were full of concern.
"You may come to me tomorrow. Trotter," said Mrs. Millidew, the younger. "Now, don't glare at me, mother-in-law," she added peevishly. "You've dismissed him, so don't, for heaven's sake, croak about me stealing him away from you."
Trotter's employer closed her jaws with a snap, then opened them instantly to exclaim:
"No, you don't, my dear. I withdraw the notice. Trotter. You stay on with me. Drop Mrs. Millidew at her place first, and then drive me home. That's all right, Dolly. I don't care if it is out of our way. I wouldn't leave you alone with him for anything in the world."
Trotter sighed. Miss Emsdale had turned the corner.