Wainwright and the Little Gods

TILL ruminating, as he had been all the afternoon, upon his adventure of the morning, Wainwright betook himself rather earlier than usual to the suburb where resided his friends Mr. and Mrs. Robert Howard, whose guest he was.

As he entered the door he heard Mrs. Howard's distressed voice at the telephone in the upper hall.

"But I tell you I must have some one! I have a dinner on. . . . I say I am giving a dinner to-night. . . . No, not a large dinner, but a very important one. . . . What? . . . No, no! She won't do at all! I have no time to instruct anybody! I must have a thoroughly trained, competent waitress immediately. . . . What? . . . Can't you send me any one . . . Oh de-ear!" She ended with an unmistakable sob.

Wainwright mounted the steps three at a time, to find his hostess in a disconsolate, weeping heap at the top.

"What's the matter, Lady Bob?"

"Matter? Everything's the matter! The fish is too large and the birds are  too small! The mayonnaise curdled—we had to make it all over!—and the rolls  haven't come yet! The florist sent the  wrong flowers, the water has been turned  off nearly all day, I've been to the city  once and down-town three times, and now—at this hour!—Ilma has lost her temper and departed, just because I told her that she really must not wear her hair to-night in the outlandish fashion she has been affecting lately! Oh, Clif, she's gone!"

"Gone! Not your waitress!"

"Yes, my waitress! Guests coming in two hours, and nobody to serve! I've telephoned and telephoned, and there isn't a trained waitress to be had. Bob was so anxious that everything should be just right to-night, and I've tried so hard, and—oh, what am I going to do!" Again tears seemed imminent.

"Hold hard, there! Let's think. You can't borrow a maid in the neighborhood?"

"No. I tried that first. Mrs. Chalmers has guests herself, and Mrs. Ford's girl has gone to the city. It's her day off. And there are no others that I'd trust."

"You've tried all the intelligence offices?"

"Every one."

"Well, why not get along without a waitress? We can pass things ourselves, in good old country fashion."

"You don't know Beverly Brown!"

"Who's he, that he shouldn't pass the butter?"

"He's—Beverly Brown, and he'd rather break all ten of the commandments into small smithereens than bend one of his pet conventions. He never makes any allowance for other people's emergencies, and is incapable of understanding that any one can differ from him on a social question and still be within the pale. His hobby is genealogy and his fetish is family. And he never passed the butter in his life!"

"H'm! His horizon must be—limited!"

"It is; though he's clever, in a way. He's taken a fancy fo Rob, and I haven't shocked him out of it—yet. You know, he's interested in the new company—in fact, he's a very important director—and Rob wants to convert him to his policy before he goes away. He's going to Cuba, or South America, or somewhere next week. So we planned this dinner—and it's Rob's last chance. Mr. Brown is most easily approached by way of his palate,—and you know yourself we have a good cook."

"I do that!"

"The funny thing about her is that she belongs here, in this little town. But everything has gone wrong all day, and now that wretched Ilma! He'll be irritated and argumentative, and he'll disagree with every single thing Rob says, and convince himself irrevocably that Rob's policy is all wrong, and then he'll oppose it forevermore! You see? It looks trivial, but it isn't. It's the wreck of a man's hopes!"

"No, it isn't! Not yet! There must be a way out of this, and we'll find it, or perish in the—I'll tell you, Lady Bob! Easy! I'll buttle for you!"

"You!"

"Sure thing! I'm a bully butler!"

"Clifford Wainwright! You never in your life—"

"Yes, I have, too! I buttled once in a play—Thank Goodness the Table is Spread was the name of it—and they all said—"

"Oh, Clif, don't joke!"

"I'm not joking, Lady Bob. I was never more serious in my life. Honestly! Even if I am a bachelor, I have some pretty definite ideas about table service, and I'm sure I could pull it off all right."

"Of course you could 'pull it off'! It isn't that! But it's so absurd. Besides, I need you to talk to the daughter."

"What daughter?"

"Miss Brown."

"Thanks," dryly. "If she's a chip of the old block, I'd rather buttle."

"She isn't. She's the one thing in Beverly Brown's life that he hasn't been able to order. She's so independent that if she were anybody's else daughter, he wouldn't let his associate with her. As it is, he comes as near adoring her as a man of his sort can."

"So? Well, I've rather outgrown my youthful fancy for pert young girls."

"She isn't pert! And she is young, but not in that sense. She's been out several seasons. I don't know a more attractive girl than Frances Brown."

"Frances!" He bent a sharp glance upon her. "Is her name Frances?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"True," carelessly; "why not? It's a common enough name. And it might as well be Hecuba, as far as I am concerned. It's me to the butler's pantry. This seems to be my day for adventures."

"Why? What else has happened?"

"Ah," darkly, " 'I could a tale unfold'—but I won't! Not while your mind is divided by an unserved dinner! I shall first win your undying gratitude by saving your feast from—"

"But you'll break up my party! My table won't balance!" "Who else is coming?"

"Miss Sewell. Just six of us."

"Should I remember Miss Sewell?"

"No, you've not met her."

"Good! Isn't there some unattached male pusson whom you can hale in on short notice to take my seat?"

"Yes, there's Edgar Trumbull,—but he can't talk." "Can he buttle?"

"Mercy, no!"

"Well, as Mr. James says, 'There you are.' Between the Scylla of an unbuttled dinner and the Charybdis of Mr. What's-his-name's conversational disabilities, which do you choose?"

"Oh," she miserably conceded, "I must have somebody to serve dinner!"

"Kismet! I buttle. Lucky thing that visitor and vassal wear the same livery in this country!"

"Of course you know that Bob will be furious."

"If he were the little tin god that you try to make him out, that might be serious, but since really he's a mere man, he can't help himself, can he?"

"He'll be sure to forget and call you Clif. By the way, I suppose you'd rather not be spoken to as Wainwright?"

"No. Call me—" He hesitated for a moment, ruminating, and then, whimsically smiling, he said, "Call me—Harris."

As his wife had prophesied, Howard rebelled vigorously against the plan when he reached home, but to no purpose. It was too late to change the arrangement, and he had barely time to scramble into evening clothes before the guests arrived.

When Mrs. Howard, giving the last touches to the table, called, "There they come, Clif!" Wainwright lazily pulled himself up from the easy chair in which he had been lounging and glanced toward the gate.

"The devil!" said he then, tensely.

"What? What did you say, Clif?"

"Nothing!" he replied, curtly, and went into the hall, feeling that his "day for adventure" promised to prove a long one.

Some hours earlier he had been about to take a train at the Astor Place station of the Subway, when he saw a lady coming toward him gayly smiling and holding out her hand. Her manner was a charming compound of delicacy, vivacity, and the poise which is the result only of social experience, and he wondered, even then, that he had met her and forgotten the circumstance. However, he was sure that he should remember in a moment who she was.

"How do you do?" she cried, as he took her hand. "Who knew that you were in New York?"

"I arrived only last week," he replied, "and I'm staying out of town for the present. Are you taking this train?"

"No; I had just left it when I caught sight of you, and—Oh! perhaps it was important that you should take it!"

The gates had closed noisily.

"No, I'm in no haste."

"Really? Then—have you time to walk home with me? It isn't far—Washington Square, you know,—and we can chat as we go—about London," she added, with a fleeting upward glance.

"By all means." Still finding no clue to her identity, Wainwright's perplexity increased as they climbed to the street and turned briskly west.

"But first," she lightly continued, "I think I'd better explain why you are so suddenly forced into a modern travesty of a medieval situation."

"Oh—am I?" he asked, rather blankly.

"You are. You have succored, single-handed, a maiden in distress, and you are now bearing her away in safety to her father's castle."

"Banners waving, plumes floating from my helmet, and Shanks' mare gayly caracolling beneath me," he suggested. "Precisely. I'm glad you have a sense of environment. You see— It's a little difficult to explain, but—"

"Then why bother?"

"I prefer to." A tinge of hauteur darkened her tone, and as quickly disappeared. "But it's the sort of thing that only happens, in our day and generation, between paper covers—yellow ones at that, I'm afraid. Did you notice, as we left the Subway, a middle-aged man with burning dark eyes, who stared—unpleasantly?"

"Come to think of it, I did encounter a malevolent glance—"

"But you didn't realize that you had just unhorsed him and left him prostrate on the field? You do those things so easily!" she mocked, laughing.

"Who is he?"

"He's an anachronism. He's an old and trusted retainer of my father's—his bookkeeper, to be exact—who is suffering from a mild type of dementia, resulting from overwork and disordered nerves."

"He is a bit out of place in helmet and cuirass."

"Isn't he? But that's the form his vagary takes. He will be a knight, and he—he—"

"Sues for your favor," quietly supplied Wainwright. "I think I understand."

"Now, if you remember anything at all about my father"—her glance was full of humor—"you know that he has a truly medieval inability to understand nervous phenomena of that character, and an equally medieval practice of inflicting summary chastisement, so far as he can, on those who offend him." He nodded, vainly trying to recall such a person among his acquaintances. "Consequently, it has seemed desirable that he should not be told of this man's eccentricity."

"Truly the quality of mercy gets no straining at your hands. It falls on the—"

"Ah, now you come to the melodrama! And don't you remember that in every properly constructed thriller there is a dependent family to be spared? In this case it takes the form of a widowed sister and four small children, whom he supports and is angelically good to."

"But if he persistently annoys you—"

"He doesn't—at least, not much. I generally manage to keep out of his way. Besides, he has never been in the least violent before."

"You should have him taken in charge. Some day he'll—"

"No, he won't. He can't. We're going away for several months. I suppose that's why he was so desperate to-day. And it isn't as if he were vicious, or really insane. It's just a sort of obsession that will wear away as he grows stronger. But I was frightened when I got off that train, for I knew he was following me, and I didn't want to call a policeman. And then I saw you, and I knew at once that—I mean, I recognized you at once. Or almost at once. I was a little in doubt, because I didn't know you were on this side, until I saw your English clothes. There! I've bored you with this long story because I wanted you to understand why you were suddenly metamorphosed into a hero of melodrama." A little wave of her hand dismissed an unpleasant subject. "Now tell me all about London. You've been over a long time, haven't you?"

"Four years," said he. "How late is your information?"

"My last news came in a letter from Isabel Danby"—he wondered why she looked so mischievous—"but, of course, it was all about the most wonderful baby in the world."

"Ah!" Here at last was a glimmer of light. "Then perhaps you know what they're going to name him? They hadn't decided when I sailed."

"Why, do you know—" Her eyes rounded in astonishment, but she caught her quick words midway, demurely concluding: "I mean, don't you know? They call him Richard, after— My land!" They were crossing University Place, and her tone suggested calamity.

"What's the matter?"

Before she had time to reply, they were joined by an elderly man whose inflexibility of appearance and manner left little doubt in Wainwright's mind that they had met the father whom she had earlier described.

"Ah, Frances," said the newcomer, "I have been at the house to see you. Aren't you rather late in returning?" His glance just touched her companion.

"I was detained, and on my way back I met—" For an instant Wainwright held her glance, and he fancied that she seemed disconcerted, but she concluded, apparently with perfect composure: "Father, you remember Mr.—Harris?" Then, slowly, she flushed crimson.

"Harris? I do not remember having met you, sir."

Wainwright was about to correct the error, when she lightly responded:

"Oh, don't you? Well, it's possible that you've never met, after all. London is rather devious. At any rate, he's a friend of the Danbys. What brings you up-town at this hour?"

While her father explained that he was to meet some business acquaintances at luncheon in the neighborhood, Wainwright rapidly decided that his wisest course lay in immediate departure. She had evidently mistaken him for some one else, but to correct her error and proclaim his own identity in that crisis, he reflected, would profit him little and would embarrass her. Her father would unquestionably fail to understand a mistake of that nature, and she would find it difficult to make the full explanation he would demand without disclosing the situation she had been at such pains to conceal.

"Oh, must you go?" As she gave him her hand he felt a comforting assurance that the warmth of her tone was meant for the present rather than for the previous Harris, whoever he might be. "I'm sorry that we're going away so soon, for we shall probably not see you again. However, our next meeting may be as unexpected as it was this morning. Who knows?"

"At any rate, I hope it may be soon."

Inwardly resolved that it should be soon if human ingenuity and Isabel Danby could bring it about, Wainwright went his way. Six hours later he was bitterly convinced that the reckless little gods were playing at dice with his destiny, as, in his self-imposed character of butler, self-dubbed Harris, he gravely opened the door for Mr. and Miss Brown, who passed him without a glance. Nor did they notice him when he announced dinner and stood stiffly beside the door as the little party entered the dining-room; but the moment came, during a lull in the conversation, when Frances Brown lifted her careless glance to his face. He saw the first amazement give way to incredulity and consternation in her eyes before he discreetly turned away his own. When he looked at her again, she was talking animatedly to the laconic Trumbull, her head held high, and a slow, deep flush had crept upward to her hair.

Presently the lightly drifting chat touched London and Americans living there, and Mr. Brown turned to his daughter, asking,

"By the way, Frances, who is the Mr. Harris with whom I met you this morning?"

"Oh, he's just a man who—knows the Danbys," she indifferently replied. "There's no reason why you should remember him. I don't know why I did."

"I thought him fine-looking."

"Oh, did you? I used to think him clever"—her emphasis of the past participle was as unmistakable as it was delicate—"but, physically, he belongs to a type rather too frequently met to be distinguished."

At that moment, for the first time, her father got his eye on the butler, and put up his glasses to assure himself that his sight had not tricked him.

"Y-yes," he dryly acquiesced, looking searchingly at his inattentive daughter, "the type is, as you say, somewhat—common."

The dinner proceeded smoothly, enlivened by quips and soft laughter. The misadventures, so far as Mrs. Howard was concerned, had exhausted themselves with the departure of the recreant maid, and the spirits of the hostess brightened as course succeeded perfect course, Mr. Brown's affability waxing with each.

Wainwright, however, slipping silently around the table, alert and competent, knew that not a movement of his escaped the observant elderly guest; and he read alike the indignation of the woman who saw herself hoodwinked by a friend's servant, and the grim purpose of the man who believed both his daughter and his host to be the victims of an unprincipled impostor. While he deftly replaced plates and refilled glasses his mind was busy seeking a solvent for the situation, which should neither disclose the Howards' makeshift nor betray Frances Brown's confidence.

Coffee was served on the veranda, in the furtherance of a deep scheme to engage Trumbull in chat with the women, leaving the host free to devote himself to Mr. Brown. Presently, when the two had finished both their cigars and their business chat, Howard, successful and elate, turned to the others, suggesting:

"Wouldn't you like to go down to the end of the garden to see a little kiosk sort of thing that we've been building? The lanterns aren't in yet, so it may be a bit dark, but it's our latest toy, and we like to play with it."

Accordingly, they all sauntered off down the scented paths, the young moon faintly lighting their way. This was the cue for "Harris," waiting in the hall, to follow with a tray of cool beverages.

A few moments later, therefore, when a dark figure paused at the entrance to the little summer-house, the Howards remained serenely quiescent, until Wainwright's deep voice dropped like a bomb into their complacency.

"Good evening," said he. "May I come in?"

At the sound, Frances Brown turned sharply toward him, peering vainly through the dusk in an effort to see his face; Mrs. Howard caught her breath; and her husband sprang to his feet, exclaiming:

"What the— Who is that?"

"It's I, Bob. Did I startle you?" The voice was reassuring in its steadiness.

"Oh, hello, Clif!" faltered Howard, scrambling for his lost composure. "I—I thought it was Harris. I—I was looking for him."

"He'll be along in a minute, I fancy. He said you were down here, so I came on ahead. I hope I'm not—"

"No, no! Come in! Delighted to see you!" protested his bewildered friend, and introductions followed.

Mr. Brown turned from shaking hands with the newcomer to ask,

"Mr. Howard, did I understand you to speak of your man just now as Harris?"

"Maris," quietly inserted Wainwright.

"Yes, yes, Maris," repeated Robert, blindly. "His name is Maris. Have a cigarette?"

To his consternation, Wainwright not only accepted, but immediately struck a match and held it a moment between curved hands, nursing its flame, his face standing sharply out from the dark in the reflected glow. Frances Brown leaned forward, gripping her chair with both hands, and her father all but permitted his own blazing match to scorch his fingers while he sternly challenged Wainwright's steady, indifferent glance. An instant later the burnt matches had been tossed aside and the keen faces had merged again into the dusk.

"Ah?" said Mr. Brown, deliberately. "His name is Maris. And—pardon my inquisitiveness, but I have a reason for asking—have you had him long?"

"N-no, not very long. He came to us quite recently—from England."

"From England! Ah! You—were satisfied with his references?"

"Perfectly. Why?" Howard desperately decided to try aggression.

"He resembles—strikingly resembles a man representing himself to be a gentleman, and calling himself Harris, who—whom I have recently met."

"Perhaps he is a gentleman in disguise," calmly suggested Wainwright. "Bob, you may be sheltering an angel unawares."

"A gentleman never needs a disguise," significantly replied the older man.

"Isn't that a little swseping?" inquired Miss Sewell. "It's not impossible, I suppose, for a man of quite unassailable social position to find himself suddenly without money in a foreign country, and—"

"It is improbable that he would seek employment as a household servant in any emergency," said Beverly Brown, "and quite impossible that, occupying such a position, he would permit himself to accompany, publicly, a lady whom he had formerly known."

"Oh—probably!" she conceded. "But can't you imagine circumstances—for fun—to prove he could—to win a wager? Why, there are a dozen reasons why a man might temporarily assume a disguise."

"My imagination does not soar so far," was the dry response. "To my mind there can be no possible excuse, much less a reason, for a man's making a mountebank of himself. I speak, of course, of a man of our world—a man of breeding, of position, with traditions to sustain—in short, a gentleman. When he becomes a mountebank, he ceases, in the finer sense, to be a gentleman. Do you agree with me, Mr.—Wainwright?" There was just enough hesitation before the name to give it emphasis.

"I should rather say," unconcernedly returned the suspect, "that being a gentleman, it is quite impossible for him to be a mountebank."

"Ah? Well, it comes to the same thing in the end. It would be an impossible thing, I repeat, for a gentleman to do. Of course there is a type of man who changes his alias—and his social position—with the need of the hour." "Oh!" exclaimed Howard, fancying he caught the drift. "Well, that's not my man. He's all right. I know all about him. In fact"—with a flash of inspiration—"he has lived in the family of friends of mine for years." "Really? Doubtless you are right, then, but the likeness is striking. I might almost say startling."

"After all, isn't it strange that there are not more physical duplicates in the world," said Wainwright, casually, "considering that we are all built on the same general plan?"

"I dare say. But, then, there's the similarity of the name. It's a little queer."

"As to that," again Wainwright caught the ball, "would any of us accept without doubt, if we saw them in print about somebody else, any of the queer—not to say fantastically incredible—things that have happened to all of us? We talk of chance and coincidence, but I have a notion that most of these things are the workings of the destiny that shapes our ends."

"Rough?" quietly suggested Frances Brown, who had overheard only the latter part of the discussion.

"Oh, I'm no thoroughgoing fatalist," said he. "Destiny is rather likely to drop the job after she has indicated our lines, I fancy, and leave the polishing to us."

"Also leaving us to the unpractised hacking of any chance passer-by," she retorted.

"Apropos of destiny," said Howard, "who's going to get swatted next in this rage of reform that possesses us?" "Isn't it disheartening?" sighed Miss Sewell. "Everything we were brought up to believe has been disproved, and now everybody we pinned our expiring faith to is being exposed. What are we coming to?"

"An ancestor of mine," Wainwright replied, "once said that the public morality is like the tide—ever ebbing and flowing; but the public conscience is like the sea, mighty and undeniable, purifying even itself."

Mr. Brown turned sharply toward him. "Judge Peyton Wainwright said that."

"Exactly. He was my great-grandfather."

"Really! A notable man in his day. An ancestor to be proud of, sir."

"I think so," was the quiet reply.

"I know several of the Wainwright family," Mr. Brown continued. "It's odd that I never met you before."

"Not particularly. I've lived abroad for several years."

"You must be of the Rhode Island branch."

"I am. Endicott Wainwright was my father."

"Really!" said Mr. Brown, thoughtfully.

A man came down the path, carrying a tray full of tinkling glasses. There was nothing in his size or general outline to suggest that he was other than the butler who had served earlier in the evening, and it was too dark to see his face. Wainwright arose and strolled over to where his hostess sat breathless.

"What on earth!" she whispered. "Who is he?"

"Give it up! I believe he's the cook's cousin's son-in-law,—that woman of yours is a jewel, Lady Bob!—and the clothes belong to Jerry Stranahan, if you know who he is. I don't, but he's a friend and a brother," he chuckled. "How did you manage it?"

"By counsel with the cook-lady, and by telephoning, and by—well, it was a bit expensive, perhaps,—but it's worth it!"

"You poor boy! But"—doubtfully—"of course it's all right out here in the dark, but when we go back to the house—" "That 'll be all right too. Just you trust me, Lady Bob. There's more in this than meets the eye, but you sha'n't suffer." He turned away and dropped into a chair beside Frances Brown. "Are you going to forgive me?" he asked.

"Why should I?" coldly.

"At first I thought I had met you somewhere and forgotten it—though I might have known I never should have done that!—and at the last, when I understood, it seemed better, all things considered, to leave well enough alone, until I could get Isabel Danby to set me straight with you."

"It's to be regretted that later counsels prevailed."

"But how was I to know that you were you, and were coming here to-night? And—I'm sure Mrs. Howard wouldn't mind your knowing that there was a domestic cataclysm at the last moment—"

"Evidently you were born to heroic deeds, as the sparks fly upward," she murmured, ironically. "What a pity that; valor is separable from its better part!"

"Discretion is not alone in a chance external resemblance to other—unrelated qualities," he daringly retorted. "Is it possible that what seems to you—what, for example, does it seem to you?"

"Assurance," said she, promptly.

"That what seems to you assurance," he imperturbably continued, "is really discretion, unrecognized and misinterpreted?"

"H'mph!" She turned an impatient, scornful shoulder to him, and a short silence ensued between them. Finding, however, that he made no further attempt to exonerate himself, she presently resumed, "Is it permitted to inquire what deep purpose is served by this—discreet—piling of Ossa on Pelion?"

"At least, you are convinced that you were not imposed upon by a cheeky servant."

"You discredit my intelligence." Whereat he laughed a little.

"And it seemed desirable all around that your father should abandon his theory that your English friend and Howard's butler were one and the same,—and that one a crook."

"And now you underestimate my father's tenacity."

At that moment, as the serving-man was about to retire, they heard Mr. Brown say,

"By the way, Mr. Howard, will you ask your man whether my cab has come?"

"No, sorr," replied a strident tenor voice. "Annyway, not whin I lift the house it hadn't."

"Good Lord!" muttered Wainwright.

"Let me know when it comes."

"Yis, sorr."

"That's an odd accent to come out of England," quietly observed Mr. Brown.

"You see?" breathed the girl.

"Oh, did you understand me to say that he was an Englishman?" recklessly temporized Howard, inwardly execrating Wainwright as the moving cause of the whole absurd, humiliating situation. "I said that Maris came to us directly from England, but surely that brogue speaks for itself!"

"Did he say—Harris?" gasped Frances. "Surely you didn't—"

"Yes, but I did," he confessed. "We changed it to Maris, though, for your father's benefit. By the way, I suppose it's none of my business, but—who is Harris?"

For a moment she hesitated. Then, with a short laugh, she said: "Well, you don't deserve it, but—it isn't quite fair to make you bear it all. So, since you've asked,—' I don't believe there's no sich a person.'"

"Sairy Gamp!" he ejaculated.

"Oh, please understand! I was in such straits! And I was sure you were—what you are,—and it seemed so much simpler—then—just to take it for granted that—oh, don't you see?" At the moment she failed to understand his silence, and hurried on. "Then, when father appeared so suddenly, I ought to have said that I'd forgotten your name for the instant, but—I was startled, and—I'd just been rereading Chuzzlewit— Are you laughing?"

"Oh, please! please!" It was his turn to gasp. "How can I help it! To think that you—"

"You might try to understand—"

"And that is the one explanation that never dimly occurred to me!"

"Av ye plaze, sorr, the caab's coom."

"Which means that I must say good night," said Wainwright, arising, laughter still in his voice.

"You—you won't go up to the house with us, Clif?" uncertainly suggested Mrs. Howard.

"No, thanks. You know it's nearer for me to go across lots. I'm staying in the neighborhood," he explained to the others, "and have learned the short cuts."

"I'm sorry not to have seen more of you, Mr. Wainwright," said Mr. Brown. "And I regret that my daughter and I are leaving town so soon."

"Thank you," replied the younger man. "I shall soon be leaving myself, however. At least—I hope to sail on Thursday for Cuba."

"Cuba!" exclaimed several voices.

"Yes. That is—I haven't quite decided yet. It depends, to a certain extent, on—the advices I receive later."

"This is very odd," said Mr. Brown, "for my daughter and I expect to sail on Thursday for Havana, on our way to South America."

"Is it possible! Cuba's an interesting country, Miss Brown."

"Is it?" she said. "I have a fancy that it may bore me." "I hope not. I am anticipating—all sorts of delightful things, if I am fortunate enough to go at all."

"Really? I doubt," pregnantly, "if you would find the climate pleasant at this season.—Is there any danger that we may miss that train?"

Good-nights were hastily said, and Wainwright left them. As she reached the first turn in the winding way, Frances looked furtively back and saw him coolly sauntering toward a path that only he and the Howards knew led behind the shrubbery straight to the kitchen door.

When the hurrying party arrived at the house, the man who had served them at dinner stood, erect and expressionless, beside the door he held open. Mercifully he was not called upon to speak, for he needed all his breath just then.

Passing him on the way out to the carriage, however, Mr. Brown paused.

"I think I'll put on my overcoat, after all," said he. "These early summer evenings are cool." Then, as Wainwright helped him into the garment, "Do you think it's likely to rain, Maris?"

All but Miss Sewell and Trumbull, both entirely out of the running, saw the trap, and there was a general suspension of breath.

"No, sorr," replied Wainwright, in a high, strident voice, which, however it may have differed from that of the cook's cousin's son-in-law, was so unlike his own deep tones that Howard choked with sudden laughter. "No, sorr. It's a foine noight, sorr."

"Thank you," said Mr. Brown, and passed on.

Wainwright and Howard went to the carriage with them, and Frances was no sooner seated than she exclaimed:

"Oh, bother! I've dropped my handkerchief out this other side!"

Howard would have sprung to restore it to her, but the butler was before him.

"Good-by—Harris," she whispered. "And—if you should see Mr. Wainwright, you may tell him—"

"Yes, yes! Go on!"

"Tell him that I think—maybe—he may find Cuba pleasant after all."

"T'ank ye, Miss Brown. Good night, sorr," said the butler.

After a period of thought, as they drove to the station, Mr. Brown said: "Frances, I think there must be something wrong with my eyes. I'm going to see Blake about them to-morrow. Did you notice a striking likeness between your Mr. Harris and that butler and young Wainwright?"

"There's a general resemblance, certainly," she thoughtfully admitted; "but then, as we said at dinner, the type is not an uncommon one."

"They all looked precisely alike to me," he confessed.

"Did they?" said his daughter. "How odd!"