Chapter XXIV

The Stevenses, brother and sister, lived together in the old family mansion in Washington Square. The income from the property left behind by the elder members of the family would have been ample if Richard had contributed even a modest amount as a result of his daily exertion; but as exertion had never proved one of Ricky's strong points, except in opposition to his sister's efforts to bully him into business, Edith was forced to practise many economies to make the divided sum serve her requirements.

"If you ever showed half the ability after you got into business that you do in keeping out of it, you'd make a howling success," she told him; yet in spite of her perennial resentment she made many personal sacrifices to enable her brother to lead his aimless existence. They were a curious combination of selfishness and generosity, each going to extremes in both. Each criticised the other in unstinted terms, yet underneath it all lay an affection which would have carried either through fire and brimstone had the other required it.

Richard Stevens still kept up his social activities, but Edith moved in a smaller and quieter circle made up of old-time friends. She knew she could not compete, in these days of extravagant entertainment, and unless she could repay her social obligations in kind she preferred not to accept. She could not have everything she wished, so she selected what she believed contributed most to her happiness and peace of mind. All this had been carefully considered, and having been thus settled she philosophically accepted conditions as they were. She exacted much from her brother by way of attention, and he responded willingly, still finding ample leisure outside her demands to live his own life in a manner which satisfied himself.

It was the morning after one of Richard's off nights, when Edith sat leisurely finishing her late breakfast and reading the head-lines in the morning paper, that her brother put in his belated appearance.

"Morning, Ricky," she greeted him cheerfully. "Up for all day?"

"I think so," was the doubtful answer. "I'm awfully tired. I'd have been down sooner except that I couldn't decide whether to stay in bed until lunchtime and give up my breakfast, or get up and have my breakfast and give up my rest. Even now I believe I made a mistake, for I'm awfully tired and I don't feel hungry."

"You might go back to bed again," Edith suggested helpfully.

"No; I'm dressed now, and that would be too much trouble.--I think I'll make my breakfast off a jolly little bottle of Celestin."

Edith laughed. "Too much wine last night, Ricky?"

Stevens made a wry face. "I'll have to give up dancing or drinking, one or the other," he said emphatically; "it isn't scientific. Wine should be allowed to stand in the stomach just as it ought to stand in the bottle. This idea of churning it up by dancing is all wrong. I'd rather dance while I'm dancing and drink while I'm drinking; but every one else wants to do both things at the same time. It's all wrong.--That Celestin has a beastly bad taste this morning." He examined the bottle critically. "I was afraid the maid had brought me Hunyadi by mistake."

"I was in at Marian's yesterday," Edith remarked. "Mr. Hamlen has arrived, and she expects Philip and Billy Huntington at the house over Easter."

"Has Hamlen been there yet? He's a melancholy sort,--about as cheerful as a hearse. Feeling as I do this morning I think I'd rather like to see him; but I hope to feel better soon."

"No; he hasn't been there yet. Marian tried to get him out for dinner, but some other friends were to dine with her so he wouldn't come."

"He's a queer one,--but that reminds me: that Cosden man is in town."

"He is?" Edith exclaimed, arresting her coffee-cup on its way to her lips and poising it in mid-air. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I couldn't until now; it was only yesterday I saw him. He was much more civil than in Bermuda. Wanted to know about you and all that sort of thing. He's going to telephone you before he goes back."

"Very kind of him, I'm sure," Edith sniffed. "Perhaps I'll be in and perhaps I won't."

"Well that's your affair; you needn't see him on my account. But if you were to ask me, I'd say he's not such a bad sort."

"I didn't ask you, Ricky," Edith said significantly, and Stevens, with precedent to guide him, refrained from further discussion of the topic.

Yet in spite of the snap in her eyes when she commented on Cosden's inquiry it so happened that she was in when he telephoned, and she was also at home, arrayed in her most fetching afternoon gown, when he called an hour later. Not that he would notice whether she wore gingham or alpaca, she told herself, but she owed it to her self-respect to appear her best.

She had expected to see Cosden in his business suit with bulky contracts and other papers bulging from his pockets, rushing in and out again like a hurricane; but instead she beheld him entirely at his ease in cutaway and silk hat, with immaculate grey spats over his patent-leather boots. He carried himself with an air quite different from that she had become familiar with in Bermuda, and the reception she had planned for him--brief, matter-of-fact and bristling with satire--required a certain modification.

"I wasn't looking for a social call," Edith said guardedly after a non-committal greeting. "I thought perhaps you had some business matter to discuss."

"Still unforgiving!" Cosden smiled. "What can I do to make you forgetful?"

"Of what?" Edith asked with well-feigned surprise.

"Then suppose we assume that you have forgotten."

"Aren't you over here on business?"

"Yes; and pleasure, too. This is the pleasure."

Her mystification was genuine. Was this the self-assertive, vivified piece of machinery she had known three months before? Cosden could but see her surprise and it pleased him.

"I told you I should find out what was the matter with me. Have I partially succeeded?"

"Yes," she acknowledged frankly; "what did it?"

"Huntington and--you."

"But you couldn't change like this in so short a time; no one could."

"Most of it is probably on the surface," he admitted cheerfully. "Underneath is the same Cosden branded with the ear-marks of his business. But I'm on my way, and if there's enough of a change to have you notice it, then there's hope!"

"Have you seen the Thatchers?" Edith asked, not knowing just how to answer him.

"I saw Mr. Thatcher yesterday. He asked me to dine with them to-night, but I thought I'd wait until next time I'm over. He says Mrs. Thatcher is planning to have our whole Bermuda party down at the shore in July. You will be there, of course?"

"If it's in July, I shall be. Marian has invited me to spend the month with her."

"Good! that was one of the things I called to find out."

"What are the others?"

"Whether you are forgiving and--forgetful."

Edith laughed at the serious way he asked the question.

"Are you laughing at me or with me?" he demanded half in earnest.

"Why, I don't know what to make of you."

"Make whatever you like,--it's in your hands!"

"But I feel we ought to become acquainted all over again.

"So do I; that is another one of the things I wanted to find out.--Will you dine with me to-night, and then go to the theater afterwards?"

"Why--" she hesitated.

"It's the best possible way to get acquainted over again," he insisted.

"I'm not sure that I want to," Edith retorted; "but I will admit that you've excited my curiosity."

"That's something," Cosden replied good-naturedly. "Why isn't an evening together the easiest way to satisfy it?"

"All right," Edith said with sudden decision. "I really must know more about this."

"The veneer may wear off before the evening is over."

"That's what I'm thinking," she answered frankly. "I'm wondering how deep it really goes."

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