When the Turtle Turned Loose
THE calm confidence in her position that enables a woman to visit her husband's place of business without self-consciousness, and to enter his private office unannounced, is not acquired in two months. Hence Ellery Jordan experienced a new sensation, at once delicious and perplexing, when, with no previous warning, his office door was flung open by an impetuous hand and he looked up to find his wife upon the threshold.
"Hello!" was his involuntary exclamation.
Before he could get to his feet she had flashed across the room and laid a quick hand upon his arm, apparently oblivious of the stenographer who sat, with open note-book, at his left.
"Who is Lancaster Welles?" she demanded.
He perceived her excitement, but still enmeshed by the novel and delightful realization of all that such an unexpected and unannounced entrance meant, he densely gave back question for question:
"Why?"
"Tell me! Who is Lancaster Welles?"
Wonder began to sharpen Jordan's mental faculties at the expense of his tenderer emotions.
"Chicago man. New manager for the Boltwoods. Why?"
"For the Boltwoods! The Chicago Boltwoods, whom Mr. Bowers hates so?" As she spoke, she gripped the edge of the desk with nervous fingers.
"Yes. Why?"
"Ellery Jordan, I've done the most awful thing! I've asked them to dinner!"
"Why—how—what on earth do you mean? You don't know them!"
"I didn't—but I do! And I did!"
Incoherence threatened to end in tears, and Jordan swung sharply about in his swivel-chair, where amazement had still held him.
"That will do, Miss Calder. I'll send for you again," he said. The stenographer picked up a handful of pencils and left the room, discreetly closing the door after her, as Ellery, glancing at his assistant's desk, pushed a chair toward his wife. "Sherman's out, and we're not likely to be interrupted. Now, dear, what is all this? I don't understand. You poor girl! You're shaking! Sit down." But Mrs. Jordan was too excited to heed the invitation. She stood, desperately facing him, ignoring his outstretched hand.
"Ellery Jordan," she repeated, "I've done the most awful thing! I've asked them to dinner!"
"Well, worse things might happen." A wisdom beyond his experience taught him that patience would be a virtue in these circumstances.
"But you don't understand!"
"No," cheerfully, "I don't in the least understand; but, anyhow, if you did it, it's all right. Now suppose we sit down and talk it over—eh? What's happened?"
"The impossible!" Mrs. Jordan's tone suggested that the memory of all previous human calamity must dissipate like vapor when confronted by this palpable presence of living Tragedy.
"Good! It frequently does," exclaimed her husband, determined to preserve the family balance, "and it's always interesting. Go on—but first sit down."
"Oh, I can't!" She wandered to a window and looked out, while he, swinging one foot from a corner of his desk, regarded her curiously.
"Well?" he suggested.
"I'll have to begin at the beginning, or you'll never understand,—and it's all so silly—and so impossible! You see, I was going down to get that set of plates we talked about last night,"—he nodded,—"when just as I got to Twenty-third Street, who should overtake me but your aunt Julia! She had been in a shop somewhere along Broadway, and when she saw me pass she proceeded to race
