Part 39 (2/2)

”Then you don't look upon me with favor?” asked Monroe.

”Mr. Monroe, I am afraid you lack experience--at least in this respect,”

said Mr. Jarney.

”I have money--I have ancestry,” said the imperturbable Monroe.

”Oh, fudge, Monroe! fudge on your money, and your ancestry!” said Mr.

Jarney. ”You need a little schooling in the art of love-making,” he said, smiling at the audacity of the ghost. ”Do you suppose I would put my daughter up to be sold to the highest bidder, and knocked down to any old money bag that should come along? Do you? Do you? Answer me that?”

No answer.

”Do you think, or presume to think,” he continued, ”that I would allow a child of mine to be bandied about in this mercenary manner? She is my daughter--my only child; she has a mind of her own; she is independent; so when she makes up her mind to that end, I shall consider it. She will first counsel with me before her intended suitor does. Mr. Monroe, it is very unbecoming, ungentlemanly, ungracious in you to come here this evening, and speak as you have spoken, not having seen her in months, or talked with her at all on the subject. I would do well, Mr. Monroe,”

continued Mr. Jarney, in the same equinimity of temper, ”to dismiss you from my house, and from my service; don't you think so?”

”Beg your pardon, Mr. Jarney; beg your pardon, if I have given offense,”

said the ghost, with frozen affability. ”I have given these thoughts considerable consideration, and I thought it only proper and meet in me to ask your opinion--it was only your opinion I asked, Mr. Jarney; so I beg your pardon. May I ask the young lady, then?”

”You may do as you like about that,” said Mr. Jarney, knowing, in his kind fatherly heart, the finality of such a procedure.

”Mr. Winthrope has been permitted to see--” pursued Monroe; but Mr.

Jarney broke him off by saying: ”Don't mention Mr. Winthrope's name in this connection as an excuse for your imbecility.”

Mr. Monroe sat through this grilling, unmoved as a donkey might. After cogitating again for a moment, he said: ”I thought I was as good as anyone else, when I broached the subject.”

”You have lost the point of view, Mr. Monroe; lost it entirely,”

answered Mr. Jarney. ”Lest you fall into brambles, you would better brush yourself up a little on the subject of courting. You will find a book of rules, perhaps in a ten cent store; get one, and brush up a little, Mr. Monroe.”

Dinner was announced. Monroe, unabashed and stiffly congruous, descended upon the dining table with such great gravity that he was likely to break in two before his hunger could be appeased. Opposite him sat Edith and Star. Edith, in her pale blue evening gown, was the essence of delicacy. Her face was fulling into health again, though showing the toning wounds of long illness. Her eyes sparkled almost as the diamonds that were set in ring and brooch. Star was like a fresh young sun on a bright summer day. Mrs. Jarney was as bouncing as ever in her sprightliness. Monroe was cold, as marble-like, as statue-like, as ever.

The dinner was very formal, very cheerless, very unappetizing to every one, save Monroe, who ate with relish everything set before him.

The cause of all this coldness may be laid to the front door of Mr.

Monroe. He had cast a shade of the grouch over them all. Somehow, the mother was calmed by the sense of some pervading evil thing, inexpressibly unaccountable. Somehow, the two young ladies felt the chilly presence of a tentacled fish out of water, that was wholly inexplicable. Somehow, the father (unknown to the rest) could not raise himself out of the coolness, into which the ghost had plunged him.

The two young ladies had greeted Monroe very gracefully and profusely, when they first came down stairs; but they momentarily lapsed into mediocre silence by the all pervading something they could not fathom.

The mother started out to be very gleeful over her daughter's recovering health: but instinctively having a premonition of a mysterious caul overhanging her, she slumped into an unbearable quietude. So dinner was eaten with a sort of wingless spirit in them all, proving a discomforting failure in its pleasureableness.

Monroe, in his impenetrability, did not see anything unusual. Had he seen, had he noticed, had he heeded, he would have departed at the most opportune time. But no; he loitered in the parlor, after dinner, and sought to engage Edith in quiet conversation. And he succeeded. Edith was sitting on a settee, with a silk mantle thrown over her shoulders.

Star was drumming on the piano, on which she was now taking lessons, the father and mother being out. Monroe sat down by Edith. After foolishly gazing about the room, as if in an indecisive state of mind about how to entertain himself, he said, icily:

”Miss Jarney, may I have the pleasure of calling on you sometimes?”

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