could have caught its entire history from the conversational scraps borne from the gossips by the night wind.
"Such a shame—him lookin' so grand— But Ben and her kep' company so long.— The poor young man—the foreigner with them earrings of gold and all in rags—but them awful words the parrot used—um, um,—the man did look like the old boy hisself—but then Master Phil's sowed his wild oats— Oh, oh, they do say"
The two were now so engrossed that they might as well have been gagged. So with another glance at the lighted window and the nervous shadow, the figure left the big elm for the porch, and so through the door. Quietly she tiptoed through the pantry and kitchen, looked about, listened, found the back stairs, ascended them, and entered the door of the northeast chamber.
Philip threw the twentieth quarter-smoked cigarette in the tray. His hair was disordered, his face flushed, and the whiskey line in the flask a full four inches lower than a half hour before. It threatened to ebb still more before the night was much older.
Hearing a staccato laugh, shot through with hints of ragtime, topical songs, and all such titillating things, he turned in his chair, assuming a waggish expression, which at once changed to one of alarm.
"Carlotta!"
"Same to you, angel-face, how does it feel to be left waitin' at the church?" Then glancing at him coquettishly,—"You look lonesome—you're glad ta see me, aren't you now, sweetie?"
