Part 5 (1/2)

When Edith and I went to New York for a week's shopping we were simply deluged with attentions from Breck--theater every night, luncheons, dinners and even breakfasts occasionally squeezed in between. All this, I supposed, was carried on without Mrs. Sewall's knowledge. I ought to have known better than to have excused it. It was my fault. I blame myself. Such an unconventional affair deserved to end in catastrophe.

But to Edith it ended not in spilled milk, but in a spilled pint of her life's blood.

One night in midsummer when I was just dropping off to sleep, Edith knocked gently on my door, and then opened it and came in. She was all ready for bed with her hair braided down her back.

”Asleep?”

”No,” I replied. ”What's the matter?”

”Did you know Gra.s.smere was open?”

”Why?” I demanded.

”Because, just as I was fixing the curtain in my room I happened to look up there. It's all lit up, upstairs and down. Even the ball-room. Did you know about it?”

I had to confess that I didn't. Breck had told me that his mother would remain in the rented palace at Newport for the remainder of the season, under the care of a specialist.

”Looks as if they were having a big affair of some sort up there. I guess Mrs. F. Rockridge has recovered from her nervous break-down! Come, get up and see.”

”Oh, I'll take your word for it,” I replied indifferently. But I won't say what my next act was after Edith had gone out of the room. You may be sure I didn't immediately drop off to sleep.

I looked for one of Breck's ill-penned letters the next morning, but none came. No wire or telephone message either. Not until five o'clock in the afternoon did I receive any explanation of the lights at Gra.s.smere. Edith had been to her bridge club, and came rus.h.i.+ng up on the veranda, eager and excited. There were little bright spots in the center of each cheek. Edith's a handsome woman, thirty-five or eight, I think, and very smart in appearance. She has dark brilliant eyes, and a quality in her voice and manner that makes you feel as if there were about eight cylinders and all in perfect order, too, chugging away underneath her s.h.i.+ny exterior.

”Where's the mail?” she asked of me. I was lying on the wicker couch.

”Oh, inside, I guess, on the hall table. I don't know. Why?”

”Wait a minute,” she said, and disappeared. She rejoined me an instant later, with two circulars and a printed post-card.

”Is this all there is?” Edith demanded again, and I could see the red spots on her cheeks grow deeper.

”That's all,” I a.s.sured her. ”Expecting something?”

”Have you had any trouble with Breck?” she flashed out at me next.

”What are you driving at, Edith?” I inquired. ”What's the matter?”

”Mrs. Sewall is giving a perfectly enormous ball at Gra.s.smere on the twenty-fourth, and we're left out. That's the matter!” She tossed the mail on the table.

”Oh,” I said, ”our invitations will come in the morning probably. There are often delays.”

”No, sir, I know better. The bridge club girls said their invitations came yesterday afternoon. I can't understand it. We certainly were on Mrs. Sewall's list when she gave that buffet-luncheon three years ago.

And now we're not! That's the bald truth of it. It was terribly embarra.s.sing this afternoon--all of them telling about what they were going to wear--it's going to be a masquerade--and I sitting there like a dummy! Helene McClellan broke the news to me. She blurted right out, 'Oh, do tell us, Edith,' she said to me, 'is Mrs. Sewall's ball to announce your sister's engagement to her son? We're crazy to know!' Of course I didn't let on at first that we weren't even invited, but it had to leak out later. Oh, it is simply humiliating!”

”Is she at Gra.s.smere now--Mrs. Sewall, I mean?” I asked quietly.

”Yes, she is. There's a big house-party going on there this very minute. The club girls knew all about it. Mrs. Sewall has got a niece or somebody or other with her, for the rest of the summer, and the ball is being given in her honor. Gale Oliphant, I believe the girl's name is.

But look here, it seems very queer to me that _I'm_ the one to be giving you this information instead of Breck. What does it all mean anyhow?

Come, confess. You must have had a tiff or something with Breck.”

”I don't have tiffs, Edith,” I said, annoyed.