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<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> Mortimer Crabb watched the retreating figure. “H-m,” he said, “the Eternal Question—as usual—without the answer. And yet I would have sworn that that parasol in the Square——” He had always possessed an attitude of amused and tolerant patronage for the City of Brotherly Love—it was the birthright of any typical New Yorker—and yet since that inconsiderable adventure in Rittenhouse Square, he had discovered undreamed-of virtues in the Pennsylvania metropolis. It was a city not of apartments, but of homes—homes in which men lived with their families and brought up interesting children in the old-fashioned way—a city of conservative progress, of historic association, of well-guarded tradition—an American city, in short—which[75] New York was not. At the Bachelors’ Club he sang its praises, and mentioned a plan of wintering there, but was laughed at for his pains. Anything unusual and extraordinary was to be expected of Mortimer Crabb. But a winter in Philadelphia! This was too preposterous. Crabb said nothing in reply. He only smiled politely and when the Blue Wing was put in commission went off on a cruise with no other company but his thoughts and Captain Jepson. Jepson under ordinary circumstances would have been sufficient, but now Mortimer Crabb spent much time in a deck chair reading in a book of poems, or idly gazing at the swirl of foam in the vessel’s wake. Jepson wondered what he was thinking of, for Crabb was not a man to spend much time in dreaming, and the Captain would have given much that he possessed to know. He would have been surprised if Mortimer Crabb had told him. To tell the truth Crabb was thinking—of a parasol. He was wondering[76] if after all, his judgment had been erring. The lady in the Square had left the parasol, it was true. But then all the tribe of parasols and umbrellas seemed born to the fate of being neglected and forgotten, and there was no reason why this particular specimen of the genus should be exempt from the frailties of its kind. As he remembered, it was a flimsy thing of green silk and lace, obviously a French frippery which might be readily guilty of such a form of naughtiness. It had long worried him to think that he might have misjudged the sleeping princess—as he had learned to call her—and he knew that it would continue to worry him until he proved the matter one way or another for himself. Had she really forgotten the parasol? Or had she—not forgotten it? The cruise ended, the summer lengthened into fall, and winter found Mortimer Crabb established in residence at a fashionable hotel in Philadelphia. Letters had come from New York to certain[77] Philadelphia dowagers in the councils of the mighty, to the end that in due course Crabb accepted for several desirable dinners, and before he knew he found himself in the full swing of a social season. And so when the night of the Assembly came around, he found himself dining at the house of one of his sponsors in a party wholly given over to the magnification of three tremulous young female persons, who were to receive their cachet and certificate of eligibility in attending that ancient and honorable function. It was just at the top of the steps leading to the foyer of the ball-room that Crabb met Patricia Wharton in the crowd, face to face. The encounter was unavoidable. He saw the brief question in her glance before she placed him, the vanishing smile, the momentary pallor, and then was conscious that she had gone by, her eyes looking past him, her brows slightly raised, her lips drawn together, the very letter of indifference and contempt. It was cutting advanced to the dignity of a[78] fine art. Crabb felt the color rise to his temples and heard the young bud at his side saying: “What is it, Mr. Crabb? You look as if you’d seen the ghost of all your past transgressions.” “All of them, Miss Cheston! Oh, I hope I don’t look as bad as that,” he laughed. “Only one—a very tiny one.” “Do tell me,” cried the bud. “First, let’s safely run the gantlet of the lorgnons.” When the party was assembled and past the grenadiers who jealously guard the sacred inner bulwarks, Crabb was glad to relinquish his companion to another, while he sought seclusion behind a bank of azaleas to watch the moving dancers. So she really was somebody. He began, for a moment, to doubt the testimony of the vagrant glances and the guilty parasol. Could he have been mistaken? Had she really forgotten the parasol after all? The situation was brutal enough for her and he[79] was quite prepared to respect her delicacy. What he did resent was the way in which she had done it. She had taken to cover angrily and stood at bay with all her woman’s weapons sharpened. The curl of lip and narrowed eye bespoke a degree of disdain quite out of proportion to the offense. But he made a rapid resolution not to seek her or meet her eye. If his was the fault, it was the only reparation he could offer her. As he whirled around the room with his little bud, he caught a glimpse of her upon the opposite side and so maneuvered that he would come no nearer. When he had guided his partner to a seat, it did not take him long to gratify a very natural curiosity. “Will you tell me,” he asked, “who—no, don’t look now—the girl in the black spangly dress is?” “Who? Where?” asked Miss Cheston. “Patricia, you mean? Of course! Miss Wharton, my cousin. Haven’t you met her?” “Er—no! She’s good-looking.” [80] “Isn’t she? And the dearest creature—but rather cold and the least bit prim.” “Pri—Oh, really!” “Yes! We’re Quakers, you know. She belongs to the older set. Perhaps that’s why she seems a trifle cold and—er—conventional.” “Convent—! Oh, yes, of course.” “You know we’re really quite a breezy lot, if you only know us. Some of this year’s debs are really very dreadful.” “How shocking, and Miss Wharton is not dreadful?” “Oh, dear, no. But she is awfully good fun. Come, you must meet her. Let me take you over.” But good fortune in the person of Stephen Ventnor intervened. It was the unexpected which was to happen. Crabb was returning from the table with a favor. His eye ran along the line of chairs in a brief fruitless search. Mr. Barclay, who was leading the cotillion, caught his eye at this precise psychological moment. [81] “Stranded, Crabb? Let me present you to——” He mentioned no name but was off in a moment winding in and out among those on the floor. Crabb followed. When he had succeeded in eluding the imminent dancers and had reached the other side of the room, there was Barclay bending over. “Awfully nice chap—stranger,” he was saying, and then aloud, “Miss Wharton, may I present—Mr. Crabb?” It was all over in a moment. The crowded room had hidden the black dress and the fair hair. But it was too late. Barclay was off in a second and there they were looking again into each other’s eyes, Patricia pale and cold as stone, Crabb a trifle ill at ease at the awkward situation which, however appearances were against him, was none of his choosing. Crabb inclined his head and extended the hand which carried his favor. They both glanced down, seeking in that innocent trinket a momentary refuge from the predicament.[82] It was then for the first time that Crabb discovered the thing he was offering her—a little frivolous green silk parasol. She looked up at him again, her eyes blazing, but she rose to her feet and looked around her as though seeking some mode of escape. He fully expected that she would refuse to dance, and was preparing to withdraw as gracefully as he might when, with chin erect and eyes which looked and carried her spirit quite beyond him, she took the parasol and followed him upon the floor. But the subtlety of suggestion which seemed to possess Crabb’s particular little comedy was to be still more amusingly developed. The figure in which they became a part was a pretty vari-colored whirl of flowers and ribbons, in which the green parasols were destined to play a part. For a miniature Maypole was brought and the parasols were fastened to the depending ribbons in accordance with their color. As the figure progressed and the dancers[83] interwove, Crabb could not fail to note the recurrent intentional snub. He felt himself blameless in the unlucky situation, and this needless display of hostility so clearly expressed seemed made in very bad taste. Each time he passed the flaunted shoulder, the upcast chin, or curling lip, he found his humility to be growing less and less until as the dance neared its end he glowed with a very righteous ire. If she had meant to deny him completely, she should have chosen the opportunity when he had first come up. And as he passed her, he rejoiced in the discovery that she had inadvertently chosen the other end of the ribbon attached to the very parasol which he bore. When the May dance was over, Miss Wharton found Mr. Crabb at her side handing her the green parasol precisely as he had handed her that other one in the Square six months before. “I beg pardon,” he was saying quizzically, “but isn’t this yours?” The accent and benevolent eye were unmistakable.[84] If there were any arrow in her quiver of scorn unshot, his effrontery completely disarmed her. If looks could have killed, Crabb must have died at once. Assured of the depths of his infamy, she could only murmur rather faintly: “I shall go to my seat, at once, please.” Indeed, Crabb was a very lively corpse. He was smiling coolly down at her. “Certainly, if you wish it. Only—er—I hope you’ll let me go along.” How she hated him! The words uttered again with the same smiling effrontery seemed to be burned anew into her memory. Could she never be free from this inevitable man? Her seat was at the far end of the room. “I think you have done me some injustice,” he said quietly, and then, “It has been a pleasant dance. Thank you so much.” “Thank you,” replied Patricia acidly, and he was gone. <hr class="chap" />[85] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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