Chapter IV

On the evening of September third George Banks was told by the doorman of the Sportsmen's Club in Chicago that Mr. Lincoln was awaiting him in the bar. Going through the main lounge and taking the first turn to the left, he found that the doorman had spoken at least part of the truth.

Mr. Lincoln was awaiting him. So was the bartender of the Sportsmen's Club. So were a great many Sportsmen's Specials, which were made of gin and lime juice and dashes of things from several bottles, the whole being shaken until it became greenish and frothy. The mixture was efficacious. After the fifth, or possibly the sixth, Mr. Lincoln and his guest, Mr. Banks, might fairly have been said to have reached the ole-fella state. After the eighth, or possibly the twelfth, they felt themselves sufficiently fortified for dinner, and left the bar with promises of a speedy return.

In the dining room, when the waiter, wrinkling his brow over his orders, was fairly started toward the kitchen, Bill Lincoln came to the point.

"Phooey," he said, "whus this I hear 'bout you being engaged?"

He leaned across the table slightly, looking out of the tops of his eyes. His guest drank water.

"Yes," said George Banks.

"Yes, what? Yes, you're engaged? I shu'say you pro'bly are engaged. Seems's though I haven't read anything else in months but George Banks engaged. What I mean's, who's the girl? Whus she like? Is she downhearted or does she keep the spirit of conviv'al'ty in the home? Tell me about her."

"Oh, she's all right."

"Well, tha's a big send-off you give her. 'She's all right,' he says. I didn't ask you if she's sick. I ask you whus she like? Is she a good egg? Tha's what I mean. Is she a good egg?" He stared across the table at George. "Phooey," he said after a moment, "y'understand I didn't mean any harm. I hope I didn't offend you or anything. 'S jus' friendlies' kin' of interes'. 'F course a fella gets a drink or two, he doesn't talk so nice as he might. But Lord! I didn't mean any harm!" His voice trailed off and he stared.

"It isn't that, Bill. You didn't say anything wrong. 'S jus' th' I wan'ed to keep on pleasant topics. I don't want to talk about whus she like. Le's talk about you."

George Banks reached for the water again.

"Wait!" said Bill Lincoln. "Wait! Don' touch that stuff. Good Scotch in my pocket."

He called a captain and ordered sparkling water, glasses and ice. When these necessities arrived he made two drinks and pushed one across the table.

"Now," he said, "what's all this talk about pleasant topics?" The oysters arrived and interrupted him, but he waited. "Tell me," he said as a father commands his erring son.

And so it was that George Banks divulged, for the first time, his inmost thoughts about marriage and women and Mildred Trudeau. With eloquence that waned and waxed as food sobered him and Scotch buoyed him up, he told the whole story of nearly a year of engagement. He told of the enthusiasm that had robbed him of discretion, of the dreadful months of engagement to beauty unmarred by brains. He explained the conventions that the fact of being a gentleman forces upon one engaged by mistake, and how he was just gentleman enough to go through with the thing. He omitted entirely any reference to Barbara Kittridge, and, at that, his story was not finished until they were ready to return to the bar--which they did.

At eleven, when the bar closed, they went, supplied with water and ice, to a corner of the lounge and talked further. All I can say of their conversation is that it was earnest. To reproduce it would be to endanger the world's supply of apostrophes and possibly to make this story unfit for publication.

Eliminating nonessentials, the thing simmered down to an argument as to whether a gentleman must necessarily be a damn fool. Mr. Lincoln saw no sense in Mr. Banks's theories of social ethics, and Mr. Banks had no defense except a series of dogmas about what a gentleman might not do. Therefore Mr. Lincoln won the debate and Mr. Banks agreed that, gentleman or no gentleman, it was up to him, for the good of all concerned, especially old Bill Lincoln, to break his engagement into a thousand pieces.

So firm was his conviction that it held him after he had safely attained his room. He found writing materials in the desk and proceeded not to put off till tomorrow what he had the nerve to do tonight. For nearly an hour he sat and wrote and tore up paper and chewed the penholder and smoked cigarettes. And finally he was satisfied. He folded the paper and put it into an envelope. He picked his way carefully down the hall and rang for the elevator. When it came he handed his letter and fifty cents to the astonished elevator boy, with strict orders that this letter must be posted at once. The boy bowed and agreed that it should be so. George Banks found his room and went to bed. Let us read the letter into the evidence:

MY DEAR MILDRED: I sent a letter to you at the Ritz yesterday to explain how I happened to be in Chicago when you got home. In that letter I said a lot of things I did not honestly mean. The things I mean I did not mean were the things I said about--erasure--loving you. I know that a gentleman does not ever jilt a lady and I hope you will accept my apologies and I hope you will forgive me and I hope that you will understand that I am not jilting you exactly, but only telling you the truth for your good and my good both. You see, it would be a hell of a mess if we got married and we would both be unhappy and so I do not see any sense in being a gentleman about it. It would be pretty hard to be a gentleman and be married to you, anyway, as a friend of mine was saying to me only this evening.

You see, when I asked you to marry me I did not know you very well and I thought you were different from the way you are. I do not mean to say that you are not great the way you are, and everybody seems to think you are great, and my family likes you; but what I mean is I think you would probably be a wonderful wife for somebody that thinks woman's place is in the home, or probably almost anybody but me. But, you see, I cannot talk to you, because I never think you understand what I say and I do not believe you do now. Anyway, I do not think that would be a very good way to commence being married, not understanding each other when we talk and not talking very much.

So what I want to suggest if you do not mind too much is that we do not announce that we will get married in October or any time at all, but just quietly forget it and let bygones be bygones and you speak to me when you see me around even if you know I am not a gentleman, because this is the only time I have not been a gentleman with you or anybody else. And you will know that I am sorry, because I have been thinking of what a mess we would make of it for months; and I have not said anything about it before, because I did not want to be not a gentleman. And I want to impress on you that I am perfectly stone cold sober when I am writing this and that I would never write it at all if it wasn't for the best of both of us.

Hoping to see you soon.

Sincerely yours,
GEORGE BANKS.