Nothing But the Truth. Isham Frederic Stewart

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      “And got the rocks – or stocks!” from Dickie. “Owns about three of those railroads that are going a-begging nowadays.”

      “Wake up, Bobbie!” some one now addressed that abstracted individual.

      Bob shook himself.

      “Old friend of yours, Miss Gwendoline Gerald, I believe?” said the commodore significantly.

      “Yes; I’ve known Miss Gerald for some time,” said Bob coldly.

      “‘Known for some time’ – ” mimicked the commodore. “Phlegmatic dog! Well, what shall we do now?”

      “Hang around until the concert’s over?” suggested Dickie.

      “Hang around nothing!” said the commodore. “It’s one of those classical high-jinks.” Disgustedly. “Lasts so late the sufferers haven’t time for anything after it’s over. Just enough energy left to stagger to their cars and fall over in a comatose condition.”

      “Suppose we could go to the bar?”

      “Naughty! Naughty!” A sprightly voice interrupted.

      The commodore wheeled. “Mrs. Ralston!” he exclaimed gladly.

      It was the gorgeous lady of the gorgeous car.

      “Just finished my shopping and thought I’d have a look in here,” she said vivaciously.

      “Concert, I suppose?” from the commodore, jubilantly.

      “Yes. Dubussy. Don’t you adore Dubussy?” with schoolgirlish enthusiasm. Though almost sixty, she had the manners of a “just-come-out.”

      “Nothing like it,” lied the commodore.

      “Ah, then you, too, are a modern?” gushed the lady.

      “I’m so advanced,” said the commodore, “I can’t keep up with myself.”

      They laughed. “Ah, silly man!” said the lady’s eyes. Bob gazed at her and the commodore enviously. Oh, to be able once more to prevaricate like that! The commodore had never heard Dubussy in his life. Ragtime and merry hornpipes were his limits. And Mrs. Ralston was going to the concert, it is true, but to hear the music? Ah, no! Her box was a fashionable rendezvous, and from it she could study modernity in hats. Therein, at least, she was a modern of the moderns. She was so advanced, the styles had fairly to trot, or turkey-trot, to keep up with her.

      “Well,” she said, with that approving glance women usually bestowed upon Bob, “I suppose I mustn’t detain you busy people after that remark I overheard.”

      “Oh, don’t hurry,” said the commodore hastily. “Between old friends – But I say – By jove, you are looking well. Never saw you looking so young and charming. Never!” It was rather crudely done, but the commodore could say things more bluntly than other people and “get away with them.” He was rather a privileged character. Bob began to breathe hard, having a foretaste of what was to follow. And Mrs. “Willie” Ralston was Miss Gwendoline Gerald’s aunt! No doubt that young lady was up in her aunt’s box at this moment.

      “Never!” repeated the commodore. “Eh, Bob? Doesn’t look a day over thirty,” with a jovial, freehearted sailor laugh. “Does she now?”

      It had come. That first test! And the question had to be answered. The lady was looking at Bob. They were all waiting. A fraction of a second, or so, which seemed like a geological epoch, Bob hesitated. He had to reply and yet being a gentleman, how could he? No matter what it cost him, he would simply have to “lie like a gentleman.” He —

      Suddenly an idea shot through his befuddled brain. Maybe Mrs. Ralston wouldn’t know what he said, if he – ? She had been numerous times to France, of course, but she was not mentally a heavy-weight. Languages might not be her forte. Presumably she had all she could do to chatter in English. Bob didn’t know much French himself. He would take a chance on her, however. He made a bow which was Chesterfieldian and incidentally made answer, rattling it off with the swiftness of a boulevardier.

      “Il me faut dire que, vraiment, Madame Ralston parait aussi agee qu’elle l’est!” (“I am obliged to say that Mrs. Ralston appears as old as she is!”)

      Then he straightened as if he had just delivered a stunning compliment.

      “Merci!” The lady smiled. She also beamed. “How well you speak French, Mr. Bennett!”

      The commodore nearly exploded. He understood French.

      Bob expanded, beginning to breathe freely once more. “Language of courtiers and diplomats!” he mumbled.

      Mrs. Ralston shook an admonishing finger at him. “Flatterer!” she said, and departed.

      Whereupon the commodore leaned weakly against Dickie while Clarence sank into a chair. First round for Bob!

      The commodore was the first to recover. His voice was reproachful. “Was that quite fair? – that parleyvoo business? I don’t know about it’s being allowed.”

      “Why not?” calmly from Bob. “Is truth confined to one tongue?”

      “But what about that ‘even tenor of your way’?” fenced the commodore. “You don’t, as a usual thing, go around parleyvooing – ”

      “What about the even tenor of your own ways?” retorted Bob.

      “Nothing said about that when we – ”

      “No, but – how can I go the even tenor, if you don’t go yours?”

      “Hum?” said the commodore.

      “Don’t you see it’s not the even tenor?” persisted Bob. “But it’s your fault if it isn’t.”

      “Some logic in that,” observed Clarence.

      “Maybe, we have been a bit too previous,” conceded the commodore.

      “That isn’t precisely the adjective I would use,” returned Bob. He found himself thinking more clearly now. They had all, perhaps, been stepping rather lightly when they had left the club. He should have thought of this before. But Bob’s brain moved rather slowly sometimes and the others had been too bent on having a good time to consider all the ethics of the case. They showed themselves fair-minded enough now, however.

      “Bob’s right,” said the commodore sorrowfully. “Suppose we’ve got to eliminate ourselves from his agreeable company for the next three weeks, unless we just naturally happen to meet. We’ll miss a lot of fun, but I guess it’s just got to be. What about that parleyvooing business though, Bob?”

      “That’s got to be eliminated, too!” from Dickie. “Why, he might tell the truth in Chinese.”

      “All right, fellows,” said Bob shortly. “You quit tagging and I’ll talk United States.”

      “Good. I’m off,” said the commodore. And he went. The others followed. Bob was left alone. He found the solitude blessed and began to have hopes once more. Why, he might even be permitted to enjoy a real lonely three weeks, now that he had got rid of that trio. СКАЧАТЬ