“Hey, there!” she called, a curious break in the voice she tried to make stern. “Hey, there! You left your room in a pretty fix this morning, you did! Once more like that, and out you go!”
From the floor above came the sound of happy, mocking laughter. Mrs. Coit’s reign had ended.
An Agacella Or
George Stafford had been — believe him — from his infancy a most unique and interesting personality. But if you will believe me instead, he had been nothing of the sort.
I know very well the conclusion at which you will immediately arrive when I say that George Stafford was phlegmatic. But you will be wrong. In these days of extreme specialization, even our adjectives are not free; it has come to the place where nothing can properly be called occult except a science, nothing can be high — in the figurative sense — except ideals, and no one can be phlegmatic except a Dutchman. Nevertheless, in spite of the facts that he was born in Plainfield, New Jersey, that he spoke nothing but United States (being as ignorant of English as he was of Sanskrit), and that his father had made some half a million dollars solely through the benevolent protection of the New York Custom House, George Stafford was phlegmatic. More than that, he was unimaginative, he considered billiards a rather violent form of exercise, and, if the truth be told, he was even a trifle stupid.
To let you at once into the secrets of George’s mind and character, it is only necessary to say that he was spending his vacation at the Hotel Thiersberry, in the Berkshires. With the single exception of an orchestra chair in a New York theater, the Hotel Thiersberry is admitted to be the very dullest spot in all America. It is eminently proper, fearfully expensive, and in the last degree exclusive. “Exclusive” is a terrible word, and the Hotel Thiersberry is a terrible place. And it was here that George Stafford was spending his vacation.
I use the term “vacation” merely for the sake of politeness. For, consulting my dictionary, I find that a vacation is an intermission of stated employment, and it would be absurd to imagine George as consorting with anything so vulgar as stated employment. Not that he was spiritualistic or esthetic or artistic; work — or anything else — could never have disturbed George’s soul; but it would most certainly have disturbed his body. And yet he had an excuse — such as it was — for his use of the word “vacation.” For, having existed through thirty years in a state of habitual and supreme idleness, George had been persuaded by a friend to put on at least the semblance of endeavor, and had submitted to the painting of a sign, “Rainier & Stafford, Architects,” on the door of a modest suite on the fifty-eighth floor of a downtown skyscraper. The check which the elder Stafford drew each month to help pay George’s share of the office expenses was surprisingly small, everything considered.
It was through the influence of Rainier, his partner, that George had been permitted to enter the jealous portals of the Hotel Thiersberry; for the House of Stafford, though favorably known on Mercer Street, was beyond the pale socially. It had not yet arrived. George, though idle, had never been fashionably idle; indeed, that is an art that is seldom acquired as early as the second generation. Thus it was that upon registering at the Hotel Thiersberry George had found himself entering on an entirely new phase of existence.
It was not at all the same as an ordinary hotel. To mention only one peculiarity, George found soon after his arrival, on going into the library to write a letter to his partner, that there was no letter paper. On investigation, he learned that at the Hotel Thiersberry one was supposed to be desirous of using one’s own letter paper. George had none, and he distinctly desired to write a letter; in fact, now that he came to think of it, several of them.
The third morning of his vacation found George in the library, writing letters. He had bought the paper the day before, in a shop in the village, five miles away. He was half-ashamed to use it, and it was indeed very unusual paper; but the shop had contained nothing else that was even possible. This that he had finally chosen was tinted a magnificent purple, and there was embossed in flaming gold at the top of each sheet the figure of an animal that greatly resembled a cow, holding in its hoofs what appeared to be a bundle of kindling wood. It was one of those atrocities which you may see in any stationery shop window; and even George, deficient in taste as he was, had been almost tempted to buy a linen tablet instead.
George was writing on the large mahogany table in the center of the library. Seated opposite him was the lank and angular Mrs. Gerard-Lee, copying a list of synonyms from Graves; for Mrs. Gerard-Lee was an authority. Over by a window were young Mr. Amblethwaite and Miss Lorry Carson, engaged in a hot dispute concerning the proper shape of legs, it being understood that the legs were supposed to be attached to a Pelton saddler; while in front of the door leading to the veranda were gathered a half-dozen old females representing at least twelve hundred pounds avoirdupois and about twelve million sterling. “How Mother would enjoy this!” thought George. And he wrote:
I just overheard Mrs. Scott-Wickersham say that she returned to America a month later than usual in order to attend the Duchess of Wimbledon’s masque ball. And yet she doesn’t seem—
At this moment George became aware of the fact that someone was standing at his right elbow. Turning, he beheld a middle-aged lady of impressive build and a somewhat florid countenance peering through a lorgnette at the sheets of letter paper lying before him. At his movement, her gaze slowly traveled from the paper to his upturned face.
“Sir,” she said, “what is your name?”
“What?” said George, taken aback. “My — oh, yes, my name — of course, certainly, my name.” Then, somewhat recovering himself, “Stafford is my name,” he said with dignity.
His questioner regarded him with a look of triumph. “It is he,” she said to herself, aloud. “I am sure of it, since he can’t remember his name.” Whereupon she winked at George distinctly, even painfully.
Now, George had learned in the last three days that one must be willing to undergo a certain amount of humiliation when one is breaking into the Hotel Thiersberry. But to have a strange lady stand before you and make remarks about you to your face and wink at you was too much. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, the lady continued. “Mr. Stafford,” she said, “I am Mrs. Gordon Wheeler, of Lenox; and this is my daughter... Cecily, Mr. Stafford.”
Whatever protest George had decided to utter was drowned in amazement as Mrs. Gordon Wheeler stepped aside to make way for her daughter. For the first time in quite ten years he became conscious of the blood in his veins. While he stood half-dazed by the vision of loveliness disclosed by Mrs. Wheeler’s timely eclipse, Cecily, her cheeks a delightful rosy pink, stepped up to him with outstretched hands.
“Mr. Stafford,” she said in a low, sweet voice. And then she stopped, as if finding it impossible to express her feelings in words.
“My dear girl,” said George, taking the hands and holding on to them, “if you will sit in this chair for a few minutes, till I finish my letter, I shall be ready to talk to you. I trust your mother sleeps in the afternoon?”
“Good heavens!” said Mrs. Wheeler. “Here I am with an unmarried daughter, and the man accuses me of sleeping! My dear sir, it is impossible. In these days of the vulgar competition of the nouveau riche, one must be constantly on one’s guard. However, I often close my eyes.”
“I am sure you do,” said George approvingly; and then, under his breath, “Goodness knows they need it!”
“You will eat at our table?” asked Mrs. Wheeler.