at Crosby's defection, for he had made up his mind to write to Leila Duane that evening, in pursuance of Crosby's suggestion that he should hasten his wooing. And a letter like that required time and concentration of thought.
However, Gale returned to his rooms fairly early, and was getting ready to turn in for the night when, soon after eleven o'clock, his telephone bell rang.
It was Crosby again, and he began his conversation with voluble praise of the concert.
"Oh, let up," said Gale. "Tell me the rest in the morning. I'm off to by-by."
"But hold on, Gale, that isn't all I wanted to say. I find I've left that memo at White Birches—had it there last night, looking over it. I had it with some other papers in an old wallet, and left the whole business on the dresser in my bedroom."
"Oh, hang it, Crosby! You do beat the dickens with your forgetfulness! How'm I ever going to make a lawyer out of you, unless you get over your carelessness?"
"Don't scold, Emory. I didn't go for to do it. And, I say, I'll telephone to Driggs right away, and he'll send it right bang over here by registered mail and special delivery and all those things."
"You'd better wait till morning to telephone—they're probably having a party or something; and I suppose we can get along without that stuff tomorrow. But you do make me mad."
"Yes, I know I do," responded Crosby cheerfully. "Guess I'll say good-night before you get any madder."
"Good-night," replied Gale shortly. "Get around to the office on time to-morrow morning." He hung up the receiver with a jerk, for, though he was fairly good-tempered, he did get tired of his partner's continual forgetfulness. But he allowed his thoughts to return to Leila Duane, and he soon forgot Crosby's deficiencies.
And when Crosby turned up Tuesday morning at nine o'clock, fully fifteen minutes ahead of time, full of apologies for his carelessness, Gale only said, "Never mind, old chap. Herrmann can wait a day or two more."
"I telephoned Driggs this morning," said Crosby, "'long about eight o'clock. He said he'd whack it right over here. Good boy, Driggs!"
"Did he—did he say—anything about—"
"About Miss Duane pining away because of your absence? No, he didn't."
"Oh, stuff!" said Gale. "Chuck it, and get to work, now that you're here."
And then the two men really devoted their thoughts and efforts to the business in hand.
Chapter VI.
On a Balcony
After Gale and Crosby had left White Birches, much of the life of the party seemed gone. Leila was plainly distrait. She had not failed to notice that Mr. Gale had evinced an interest in her attractive self, and she hated to have that interest cut off in its youth and beauty. As for Dorothy, she had only her fiancé and his secretary to flash her smiles at, and that was a beggarly portion of men for the unlimited number of smiles she had at her disposal. And so when Leila attempted to appropriate Ernest Chapin, Dorothy showed fight.
After all, it was the old situation. Dorothy cared for Ernest Chapin, but he was poor. Justin Arnold was an old fogy, dictatorial, and a good deal of a bore, but he was rich.
Perhaps Dorothy was neither more nor less mercenary than other girls, but she had made up her mind to marry Justin Arnold, and she had no intention of allowing her heart to interfere with her plans.
This, however, did not prevent her from smiling at Chapin, and Dorothy's smiles were like fuel to a flame. And so fascinating was this game, that Dorothy became more and more daring, more and more interested in Ernest Chapin, until finally her mother interfered.
"Dorothy," she said straightforwardly, "you must stop flirting with Mr. Arnold's secretary. Not only is it bad form and beneath your dignity, but you are jeopardizing your whole future. Mr. Arnold won't stand it much longer."
"How do you know, Mother?"
"I know from the way he looks at you when you're making those silly grimaces at Mr. Chapin."
"I don't think they're silly grimaces," and Dorothy cast a casually admiring glance at herself in a mirror; "and Mr. Chapin doesn't, either."
"Indeed he doesn't! He's over head and ears in love with you, if that's any satisfaction to your foolish, vain little heart! Dorothy, I wish you had more dignity."
"Now, Mother, am I a dignified type?"
What mother could help smiling fondly at this question, put by a dainty, saucy sprite, to whom the word "dignity" could not possibly be applied? But she tried to hide her admiration, and said with would-be sternness, "You must try to achieve a little, my dear, if you're going to be Justin Arnold's wife."
"'I will be good, dear mother,' I heard a sweet child say," sang Dorothy, with mischievous glances at her mother. "Honest and truly, black and bluely, I will be good—if I can!"
And then with a parting kiss and a gentle little shake of her mother's shoulders, Dorothy ran away to dress for dinner.
In a spirit of mischief, she determined to be very demure that night. She put on a simple little white frock, with knots of light green ribbon. She parted her hair, and brushing out its rebellious curls as much as possible, she drew it down over her ears, and into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, which had the effect of making her look like a very mischievous Saint Cecilia.
She checked an impulse to dance downstairs, and walked down slowly, with her hands hanging crossed in front of her, and, as she had fully expected, she met Arnold in the hall.
"Good heavens, Dorothy! what have you been doing to yourself?"
"Don't you like me?" An angelic smile was on the face upturned to his, and the corners of the dimpled mouth drooped in saintly fashion.
"Why, I don't know whether I do or not. What's it for? I never know what you're up to."
"Oh, Justin, that's the trouble! you never know anything! Why don't you have any perception or understanding, or inter—what do you call it interospection?"
"Interospection! There's no such word."
"Yes, there is; I just made it myself. It's a lovely word and it means if you love a little girl, you ought to understand what she means, even when she doesn't mean anything."
"Dorothy," and Arnold looked at her, not entirely with approbation. "I do believe there's nothing to you but frivolity!"
Dorothy pouted. "You wouldn't say that if you loved me."
"Of course I love you, but I'm not of a demonstrative sort, so you needn't expect a foolish show of affection."
"I just love a show of foolish affection," murmured Dorothy, but Arnold went on, unheeding.
"And I'm eighteen years older than you are, so you can't expect me to imitate your childish ways."
"Oh, do imitate them, Justin, you'd look so funny! By the way, Justin, did you ever love anyone else before you loved me?"
"Don't ask foolish questions, Dorothy."
"Then give me a sensible answer."
"Very well, I will. I see no reason for not telling you that I did love somebody else, years ago; but she,—she didn't love me."
"I don't blame her much," said Dorothy, but she said it half under her breath, and Arnold, whose thoughts had flown backward, didn't hear her.
And then the others joined them, and a few guests came, and the big hall became a scene of merry laughter and gay chatter. The hall was circular, and rooms rayed out from it in various directions. This plan allowed of many queer-shaped little rooms or alcoves between the larger apartments, and as, during the various improvement periods, some floors or ceilings