“well, philip, my boy,” said tom, slapping me on the knee when we were all in our seats, and i had relieved “cr?sus” of the reins, “i suppose it was an unpardonable piece of assurance for me to invite a man you had never seen without letting you know he was coming. and then to let him come up first! that was certainly rubbing it in, but the poor boy doesn’t have a chance to get out much. sort of a fresh air charity on your part.”
he roared with laughter at this sally of his, and hepburn smiled faintly.
“this poor boy has always had to do the society act, philip, and he’s fitted for better things. hope you haven’t any hops up at your house. have you any hops?”
“not a hop,” said i.
“nor a cotillion?”
“nor a cotillon. in fact, i’m afraid it may be rather dull for one who is accustomed to do something all the time.”
“i’m sure i’ll have a delightful time,” said hepburn from the second seat. “i’m rather tired. it’ll be a jolly good thing for me.”
“by george, isn’t this a paintable country?” broke in tom. “if a man could only get the fragrance of this air into his pictures it would be no trouble to get rid of them.”
“inoculated already,” laughed ethel.
“oh, i always get inoculated as soon as i come to this kind of country. i was born on prairie country and i never saw a hill until i was eighteen, and then i wondered how i had lived without ’em.” he turned ’way round. “pity you don’t paint, benedict.”
benedict, on the back seat, said, “oh, i don’t have to do anything to enjoy this. just to be alive is enough in air like this. isn’t it, alice?”
and alice agreed with him and the horses bore us higher and higher, slower and slower, and at last we arrived and ellery and cherry greeted us.
james came out to relieve the guests of their suit cases and i invited all hands to go to their rooms and remove the evidences of their smoky ride.
when ethel and madge had come down from our room i said to ethel,
“no dressing, i suppose?”
“no, i suppose not,” said she, and there was a little note of regret in her voice.
i went up and washed and put on a cutaway and in a few minutes i came down and walked back and forth on the veranda.
in about a quarter of an hour the three men who were using ellery’s chamber as a dressing room came down the front stairs. i caught a glimpse of them and lo, two were in tuxedos, and hepburn was in full evening clothes.
quick as a wink, and before they saw me, i whisked around to the back of the house, and finding ethel in the kitchen, where she was superintending some salad arrangement, i said,
“they’re all dressed. me to my evening clothes.”
“good,” said she.
i saw ellery within calling distance. he was in a sack coat. i hailed him and he came up.
“don’t want to make ’em feel foolish. they’re all dressed. run up and put on your tuxedo or whatever you have. come into my room to dress and we can help each other.”
he got his clothes and we hastened to my room, where we made as quick changes as we could.
“funny about ethel,” said i. “she likes simplicity, but she also likes evening clothes. says a man looks better. i won’t wear a tuxedo and look like a bob-tailed cat, so i’ve got to go the whole thing. when she sees five immaculate shirt fronts she’ll be just about happy.”
“well, it does look nice,” said ellery.
“oh, i don’t mind once i’m in them.”
at last we were ready all but our ties, and none too soon, for we heard ethel come into the front hall and say, “dinner’s ready. where are the men?”
and then madge said, “oh, they had to run up stairs at the last minute to get something. here they come.”
ethel called up to me, “hurry down, dear. we’ll go in informally.”
“that’s right. we’ll be right down,” said i.
we heard the tramp of the other three, and i would have run down on account of the stranger within my gates, but ellery asked me to tie his cravat, and i made a botchy tie of it, and finally ethel called up from the dining room. “we’re all waiting, dear.”
then we both went down in our evening clothes, and entered the dining room. around it stood the ladies and the three men, and when we saw them and they saw us a happy shout arose. the men were not in evening dress.
they had seen me when they first came down, and, as tom explained afterward, hepburn, seeing that i was not in evening clothes, had suggested that they all change back, which tom was very glad to do, “as he hated the durned things.”
so there they stood in sacks and cutaway and we were the only ones in evening dress.
“well, i won’t change back again,” said i, “but after this let’s give our city clothes a rest and just be comfortable.”
“but i contend,” said benedict, “that evening clothes are just as comfortable.”
“yes,” said tom, “but it’s harder to get into ’em, and if we go out walking after dinner it’s ridiculous to be dressed so stiffly in a wild flower country.”
it was a jolly dinner and no one did more to make it jolly than tom. his humour is elemental, but it is genuine, and his appreciation of it is also genuine and his tremendous reverberating laugh is infectious.
many times during the progress of the meal i found hepburn’s placid eyes resting on cherry.
“two of them,” thought i, and after dinner ethel and i compared notes and we agreed that cherry could have her choice.
perhaps we jumped to conclusions, but to see cherry was to love her, and ethel told me that she was glad that cherry was only a little girl when i first met her or “you might have been mr. paxton.”
“phil, do you know who it would do good to have up here?” said tom, after a burst of enthusiasm concerning the country. “jack manton. jack manton and billy edson. they’re both stone broke and they’re getting their country by taking walks out of new york, and this scenery would just about kill ’em both dead. why don’t you ask ’em up?”
a roar followed this question.
“let ’em sleep in the chimney,” i suggested, at which innocent remark minerva, who was waiting on table, gave a suppressed giggle that set cherry off and she was followed first by ellery and then—of all the people in the world, by mr. hepburn. probably minerva’s act itself was so unheard of that it struck him as being humourous. a maid laughing at table.
but it was a lucky thing that minerva was in the room. that is lucky for jack and billy.
“kin i say sump’n?” said she to ethel, and ethel, rather astonished, said, “what is it?”
“they’s a lot of boards out in the woodshed, an’ james could build a place for those gen’lemen.”
“the very thing,” said tom. “that’s it. that’s it. just ask ’em up and save their lives.”
“but you said it would kill ’em dead to come up,” said cherry.
“oh, they wouldn’t stay dead five minutes in this air,” said he. “come on. if i hadn’t been an artist i would have been a carpenter. send for ’em. i’ll help build the shack.”
i looked at minerva. her face was beaming.
she loved company.
“what do you think, ethel?”
“why, the more the merrier,” said she. “are they congenial?”
“congenial’s no name for it,” said tom. “both of ’em starving. neither has sold a picture in six months, and the night before i came away they dropped in at my studio, and when i told ’em where i was coming they were as happy as if they were coming themselves, and were going to share in it. two nice, promising boys, and perhaps this would be their salvation.”
“have them come by all means,” said ethel.
and minerva went out to tell james the good news.
