The Smart Set/Volume 74/Issue 2/They're All Alike

by Meredith Nicholson

 

.... Are any of them “different,” or do all husbands play a little love game, occasionally, on the side? ... Meredith Nicholson has a new answer to the old query.

 

They're All Alike

By Meredith Nicholson

GRACE CARSON was not by nature adventurous. If it hadn't been for that silly talk at Sue Layton's luncheon about the prevalence of the wandering eye among twentieth century husbands she would never have thought of doing anything foolhardy.

If a husband, following the devices and desires of his own wicked heart, flirted and cut up generally, there was no sound reason why a wife shouldn't enjoy a like privilege. This was the revolutionary doctrine announced by Alma Townley, a charming young matron from Baltimore, who was the guest of honor at Mrs. Layton's table. Mrs. Townley sketched several little affairs of her own, which she excused on the ground that she was only keeping the balance even with her husband.

“They're all alike!” she declared. “They love us and all that, and wouldn't do anything to give us a moment's unhappiness—oh, not for worlds! But out of sight is out of mind with all of them.”

Grace was first shocked and then fascinated by this attitude toward the marital relationship, though, to be sure, nothing in her four years of happy married life justified any such sweeping assertion. Her Philip she knew to be the finest fellow in the world; he worked hard and, at twenty-eight, was already enjoying a good practice in the law. One or two other girls had brightened his horizon before he fell in love with Grace, but they had vanished the moment she appeared. He had given her no cause for jealousy, and his loyalty and devotion were touched with a fine chivalry. They were the best of chums and comrades, and their friends called them the “inseparable Carsons.”

With all the strength of her healthy young being, Grace resented the cynical tone of the table talk and was not slow to express her disapproval.

“Phil isn't like that at all!” she cried. “I'd trust him round the world.”

“Where's your Phil now?” demanded Mrs. Carbury. “He must have left town in a hurry, for you know you only telephoned me at four Monday to say he couldn't come to my dinner that night.”

Grace colored and her eyes fell as they laughed at her discomfiture, for it was a dismaying fact that she did not know where Phil had gone! She was at the Curley's playing bridge Monday when he called her to the telephone to say that he was leaving town unexpectedly and might be absent several days. He would write, he said. It was now Wednesday and he had not written; and for the first time it occurred to her as extraordinary that he hadn't mentioned his destination. In his haste he had very likely forgotten it and with the Curleys waiting she hadn't taken time to ask.

“Oh, he went to New York on business,” she answered with ill-feigned ease.

“Oh yes, it's always business!” the Baltimorean remarked malevolently, “but always with a little pink social trimming on the edges!”

“Isn't it astonishing,” remarked another guest, “how easily men pick up acquaintances? In skirts, I mean. I run down to New York often for a day of shopping and frequently eat my luncheon and dinner alone. But no man ever does that. I say that if it's all right for a man to amuse himself by taking a woman his wife doesn't know out to lunch his wife ought to have a like privilege if she meets a man who looks interesting.”

“If I ever tried my hand at it,” remarked Grace with a defiant glance in her eyes, “I should certainly never tell.”

When she reached home there was still no message from Phil. She might call his office and ask where he had gone, but this would only betray her ignorance, and that wouldn't do at all. And then, just as she dismissed this from her mind, Phil's clerk called her on the telephone and asked for Mr. Carson's address.

“He's in Buffalo today,” she lied instantly, “but 1 expect him home in the morning.”

If any proof were needed that Phil was absent on a questionable errand it was supplied by the disclosure that his office did not know his whereabouts. She excused herself from a bridge party and spent the day in self-torture. A month earlier her young unmarried sister had gone to California with her father, who was suffering from a nervous breakdown. He was very ill when he left home, and two weeks had passed since she had heard from them. This, too, was on her mind; and under her resentment at her husband's silence there lay a dark foreboding of impending calamity which she was unable to dispel. Imperative telegrams to her sister at the last address given on the Coast had brought no reply. She did not understand this, and it seemed to her that Phil and all the rest of the world had suddenly deserted her.

She continued to hope for a letter or telegram that would set her fears at rest, but when morning brought no message of any kind, her resentment at Phil's silence became an acute jealousy which demanded expression in action.

She determined to go away for a few days so that Phil on his return might understand that unexplained absences were a game two could play at. She would show him that she was quite as independent as he. It would be easy to run down to New York for a few days and try amusing herself in her own fashion.

Once the idea had taken hold of her she made her preparations rapidly. Packing a small trunk and a suitcase, she summoned a taxi with a feeling of elation. The prospect of slipping the leash for a reckless dash into the world had brought a bright color to her cheeks.

II

She saw with relief that there was no one she knew in the train. Comfortably established in the parlor car, she sought her place in a novel she had been reading the night before, but the adventures of the heroine were tame in comparison with those she felt stretching before her. The novel slipped from her lap, and the gentleman in the next chair put down his newspaper and picked it up for her. She modestly decided that he would not do. He was too much of a gentleman to experiment upon; she must wait for an inferior article—someone who hadn't quite his fine air of breeding.

Her heart beat pit-a-pat when, in the most courteous of voices, he remarked:

“That book is having a great run; it's the year's biggest hit!”

“I'm enjoying it very much,” she answered, though manifestly she had not been enjoying it so greatly, since she had fallen to dreaming and suffered it to slip from her hand. There was a long silence in which his attention seemed to be fixed upon the flying landscape observable through the opposite window. She returned to her book, thinking he had forgotten her.

“Would you think, just looking at me, that I'm terribly down on my luck?” he demanded abruptly.

“I certainly should not have guessed it.” She regarded him gravely.

“I have lost something that I never had,” he said slowly. “You may think it's my senses I've lost!”

“It must be something you coveted—maybe a scarfpin, a dog, a horse or—a woman!”

“It's neither a scarfpin, a dog nor a horse. And as for the woman—I don't know her name.”

“Really!” exclaimed Grace. “Then your chances of finding her are rather slim, | should say.”

“They are indeed. I will tell you everything—everything I know, which is little enough. I met her on a train or my way up the western coast, bound for Portland. That was just ten days ago. She seemed greatly troubled, and I think I may have been of some service in cheering her a little.”

“But you certainly could have learned her identity.”

“No; it was this way: When our train reached Portland some friends took me to their house, and in the flurry at the station I lost track of her. I tried to find her, of course, and a hotel porter sent me to Seattle after a young lady who was not at all the person I was looking for. It was curious that she said nothing in our talk that gave me the slightest clue to her identity. As I look back now it would seem that she may have had a reason for doing so. I mean some reason other than a wish to get rid of me. Conceited as you may think me, I must say that I think she liked me; we hit it off together splendidly.”

“I wish I could do something to help you,” said Grace, seriously.

“There is, I suppose, really no such thing as love at first sight?” he asked.

“I'm open-minded on that question. I've known what appeared to be such cases.”

“Do you know,” he said earnestly, “please don't think me impertinent, but she was like you; you instantly suggested her.”

Grace's heart fluttered wildly as she decided that he was flirting with her and that the story of his quest for the unknown girl was merely a subterfuge.

They were nearing the city. To ask him to dine with her would not be so heinous; she resolved to risk it.

“Perhaps if you haven't another engagement you would dine with me?” she remarked, drawing on her glove. “I hate horribly dining alone.”

He was surprised; but his surprise betrayed itself only fleetingly and he gave his answer as though there were nothing extraordinary in the idea of being invited to dine by a lady upon whose hospitality he had no claim whatever.

“You are very kind; you do me great honor; I shall be delighted.”

“Shall we say seven o'clock, at the Glenarm? And we might go to see 'What Happened to Hezekiah.' I understand it's a most amusing comedy.”

“I'm allowing you to pay for my food, but you must let me have some share in the evening's entertainment. I'll be the host for the theater. My name is John W. Graham and my permanent address is the Thackeray Club, though I am rather permanently not there!”

His name meant nothing to her, but his membership in the Thackeray was an excellent recommendation. Phil had often remarked that the Thackeray was the only club in New York he cared to belong to and he had been very proud when at last his name adorned the waiting list.

He took charge of her baggage check and quickly had her trunk placed in a taxi in which they drove to the Glenarm.

“Please don't trouble further,” he said as he handed her out. “At seven you will find me on the mezzanine.”

III

She had never been to the Glenarm before, and she had chosen it for the reason that none of her friends at home patronized it. It was big enough to be lost in, and she dressed with a timorous joy in her complete obliteration. She summoned a maid to hook her dress, and when she was ready idled about her room until a few minutes after seven to avoid appearing too eager to keep the appointment.

He came toward her quickly, looking very distinguished in evening clothes. The waiter called him by name and led them to a table at the side of the big dining-room.

“I am your guest,” he said, “just as completely as though I were in your own house; so I positively decline to order my food.”

A glance over the room satisfied her that there was no one in the place she knew. Graham, however, bowed several times to acquaintances.

“Please don't think I'm trying to draw you out,” he said. “My curiosity is dead in the general joy of being here, but if I should be obliged to introduce you to someone I should have to call you something. How would Adams do for a pseudonym? It's historic, sounds conservative and begins with A.”

“Admirable,” she murmured.

“And if I am called upon to address you more intimately in the presence of any friend I may run into, we'd better have a given name ready. To tackle the A's again, there's Alice, Alma, Agatha, Abigail—”

“I choose Alma,” she interrupted, “because it's so different from my own truly name.”

“Good!” he exclaimed. “Now that these trifling details are disposed of, I have startling news for you, though it's not very satisfactory from my standpoint. I stepped into the Arlington to explain to an elderly aunt of mine who lives there that I couldn't dine with her as I had promised by wire—because of a pressing business engagement. She noticed my white tie with a cynical eye and no doubt has already cut me out of her will. It was as I left her apartment that I ran into the incomparable one!”

“Then I make haste to excuse you! I have no right to detain you now that you have found her.”

“But you can hardly say that I have found her. I stopped short in the hall and put out my hand, but she passed me like an offended empress. It was the cut direct.”

“Singular, when you had parted amicably.”

“All of that!” He smiled lightly, but his eyes were grave. “The thought of that girl has tortured me. I was hard hit. I have had my little affairs, but never anything like this. The thought that I might never see her again cut me deep. It was a great relief that you tolerated me.

“You didn't say what you did when the lady refused to recognize you. Your story ends or begins right there.”

“Oh, I forgot my manners and did a very ungentlemanly thing. I took careful note of the number of the room she popped into and as they know me in the Arlington office I made bold to ask the room clerk who was in 918. He gave me the name without a question. She is Miss Mary Porter.”

“A charming name,” Grace murmured.

“She registered from Chicago; that's all I could learn.”

“I can see that your problem is a perplexing one. I'm going to let my woman's intuitions work on it a little.”

Fortune was favoring her escapade. To be sure Graham had frankly confessed his love for another woman, but this did not dull the edge of the adventure, but gave her a sense of security. His courtesy and deference left nothing to be desired, and his confidences were flattering.

The humor of “What Happened to Hezekiah” already had the house roaring when they arrived. When the lights went up at the end of the first act Grace satisfied herself by a hasty glance at her neighbors that she was among strangers. She was very happy; not in a long time had she enjoyed herself so thoroughly. It was a great thing to be free. Her delight was that of a child in stolen sweets.

“I have laughed until I am hungry again,” said Graham at the end. “Suppose we go to the Goring for a bite of supper? It's quiet there and we can talk some more.”

“This has all been wonderful,” he said when they had disposed of their supper to the accompaniment of bright impersonal talk. “I suppose that now like naughty little children we should say goodby and never meet again, but I don't like that; the thought of it makes me very lonesome.”

“I wish,” she said wistfully, “I could be of some service to you. That in a way would justify these hours we've spent together. I never did this sort of thing before.”

“I knew that without your telling me, so don't apologize. If I were Galahad in silver armor I would have spurned your suggestion and you would have spent the evening most circumspectly at home while I roamed the streets in a thoroughly miserable frame of mind.”

“Your behavior has been perfect and I haven't a regret! But to go back. I am not disposed to accept the fair one's conduct as final. There must be some reason for the girl's refusal to recognize you, something not related to you in any way. Perhaps—perhaps I might go to see her. My ignorance of you is, to be sure, magnificent, but I could at least vouch for you as a gentleman.”

“You could—you would—”

“Certainly I would! I would have nothing to lose for myself and I might gain something for you.”

“To do that you should know more of me; for your own protection you should have just a few facts.”

He scribbled several addresses on the back of a calling card and gave it to her.

“I believe those people will all vouch for me as a law-abiding citizen.”

They were indeed good names, which anyone with any knowledge of New York would recognize instantly.

“I shall do my best for you,” she said determinedly.

“Whether you succeed or fail I shall always be grateful,” he said as he bade her goodby in the Glenarm office. “My cause is vastly strengthened by the charm and wit of my ambassador.”

They parted with the understanding that she would call him at the Thackeray at one the next day.

“Was it really so dreadful?” she asked herself as she lay in bed waiting for sleep to come. Phil had never scolded her, and she spent much time in speculation as to just what he would say when she told him, as sooner or later she knew she would tell him. With a woman's innate zest for matchmaking, she felt that some fun might be got out of her lightly assumed role of envoy, on behalf of a chance acquaintance, to a young woman she knew not at all. The girl might be disagreeable; indeed, from Graham's account of his meeting with her in the Arlington, she had every reason to assume that her interview on the morrow might cause her serious discomfiture.

IV

As she had determined to take an afternoon train, she had set eleven o'clock as the hour for her visit.

She dressed herself with care and crossing to the Avenue disposed of some small items of shopping to while away the time. Just how to announce herself to the girl in number 918 had troubled her; if she knocked without warning the door might be closed in her face. When she reached the hotel her errand suddenly became distasteful. An immediate rebuff would very likely follow the announcement of her assumed name over the telephone. But her pride was roused and she had no thought of reporting to Graham that her courage had failed her.

She nodded to the clerk, took up the receiver and called with all assurance for number 918. A woman's voice answered instantly, a tired and slightly tremulous voice, she thought.

“Miss Porter, this is Miss Adams.”

“The young lady Dr. Barkett spoke of? Please come right up. I hadn't expected you so soon.”

The ease with which she had accomplished this took her breath away. To gain access to Miss Porter under false pretenses was decidedly not the best way to win the friendly audience her cause demanded. Still, in explaining the misrepresentation she would risk nothing beyond a brusque dismissal.

She had hung up the receiver and was pondering her next step when the room whirled round her and she clutched the edge of the counter for support. For with his eyes straight before him Phil, her husband, walked briskly from the entrance to the desk, asked the number of Miss Porter's room, and, without troubling to announce himself, strode toward the elevator and disappeared.

It was a blow, the sharpest of her life. She had not really suspected that Phil's unaccountable absence from home was due to an infatuation for another woman; she had merely taunted herself with that idea in her pique at his silence, strengthened by the foolish babble at Sue Layton's.

No wonder Miss Porter, having flirted with Graham in the West, was quite anxious to be through with him now to avoid the chance of an embarrassing meeting with her married lover. Any timidity she had felt vanished; she now had sufficient cause for intruding upon Miss Porter, and all manner of denunciatory phrases framed themselves in her mind with which to assail Phil for his infamous duplicity. An enormous curiosity possessed her to know what manner of woman it was that had stolen Phil away from her. Her ties with him were already severed; no legal decree could have freed her more completely than her own will. It would be a joy to confront them that Phil might know that, clever as he was, she was much the cleverer.

In the crowded elevator. she laughed suddenly, a queer, ironic laugh that caused the other passengers to stare at her curiously.

Voices ceased suddenly within when she knocked at number 918. She was repeating her knock insistently when the door opened and a woman's voice said courteously, “Come in, won't you, please?”

She stepped from the dim hall into a room so flooded with light from the eastern windows that she was blinded for a moment. Then as her eyes became accustomed to the glare she found her gaze meeting the stare of a young woman who cried aloud, a faint startled cry of amazed recognition. It seemed an eternity that they confronted each other, both held by a surprise so great that it seemed to exercise a physical compulsion upon them.

It was Grace who found herself first.

“So it's you, is it?” she said harshly, her face very white.

It was her sister Alice who had opened the door.

“You thought I would never know; you thought you could deceive me,” said Grace accusingly, and closed the door.

“Phil must have told you; you would never have known,” moaned Alice, and with a gesture of despair she walked toward the window and flung herself down in a chair.

“Where is Phil now?” Grace demanded, following her like an avenging angel and glancing about the room; but Alice had hidden her face in her hands and paid no heed to her.

“I had always loved you; you were not only my sister but my dearest friend,” said Grace pitilessly. “It doesn't seem possible that you have done this. When you stopped writing me from California I thought nothing of it; and when Phil left home suddenly without giving me any warning or telling me where he was going I never thought that you two were meeting here. He is free; I tell you now that he is free. And as the years pass I hope that sometime you may realize what a dastardly thing you have done, not to any chance woman whose husband you've fancied but to your own sister!”

Alice had ceased sobbing and sat erect in her chair staring at Grace as though she had been a ghost, or better, a crazed woman pouring out senseless vituperations.

“But—Grace—please, Grace, give me just a moment,” she pleaded, lifting her arms imploringly.

“There is nothing you can say to me now or any other time. Let me congratulate you upon the ease with which you have hidden Phil. I suppose you have learned how to manage such things very cleverly,” she went on bitterly.

“Oh, you are cruel! You don't know how cruel and unjust you are!” cried the girl.

“I know that you have both grossly deceived me! I am only glad that I found it out first myself and didn't have to wait for others to tell me!”

In spite of herself the tears came. Something in her sister's appearance and manner—her worn look—troubled her. The girl now sat dumb before her accuser. Several times she attempted to speak, but the words would not come.

“I think there is nothing more to be said,” Grace remarked finally.

She was half way to the door when Alice sprang after her and caught her fiercely by the shoulders.

“You're mad; quite mad!” she cried. “It was to protect you, to save you from humiliation that I appealed to Phil.”

“Don't try heroics! You had given me not the slightest hint that you were leaving California, and Phil disappeared mysteriously without a word to tell me that he was meeting you here. Let go of me! I never want to see you again!”

Alice shook her as an impatient mother shakes a child, helpless to make it understand.

“I couldn't tell you; I never meant to tell you! Phil had made me promise that you should never know.”

“Know!” Grace exclaimed derisively. “Do you think I am so stupid that I don't understand now? Where did you leave father when you ran away for this pretty little liaison with Phil?”

The girl's grip loosened and she sank to the floor moaning. The door into the adjoining room opened and Phil Carson stood stupidly staring at his wife and the sobbing girl at her feet.

“What has hapened, Grace? How did you get here?” he asked, but his tone was calm, without anger or surprise. He sprang to the prostrate girl, lifted her gently to the bed, and seized a carafe and splashed water upon her face.

“Poor little kid,” he murmured. “She had a sad time of it, and I suppose your turning up was the last straw. She has told you everything, I suppose,” he said, without turning his head.

Grace remained on the spot where Alice had caught hold of her. The cool fashion in which Phil ignored her deepened her anger. She had caught him in a secret meeting with her own sister and he was paying not the slightest heed to her. He had seated himself on the edge of the bed and was tenderly stroking the girl's brow.

“Please see if there's smelling salts on the chiffonier. I think she's coming around,” he said as the girl sighed deeply.

Grace found the bottle of salts and handed it to him.

“I think I will go,” she said lifelessly.

He looked at her squarely for the first time.

“My God, Grace, you mustn't take it like this!” he exclaimed.

“Will you please tell me how you expected me to take it?” she demanded.

“I expected you to take it like the brave woman you are! There will be no publicity, no disgrace; I've taken care of all that. It was Alice's wish to spare your feelings in every way.”

“Yes; I gathered as much from her!” she replied coldly.

“She's been superb, wonderful! I had never fully realized how wonderful the dear child is!”

“Now that you know her fine qualities,” she said slowly, “you don't need me any more.”

He realized at last that they were talking at cross purposes and jumped to his feet.

“For God's sake, Grace, what's the matter with you? You said Alice had told you; I assumed she had told you everything! You've got to buck up and help take care of her. The strain of the last few weeks has told on the child and unless we are careful we will have a case of nervous prostration on our hands. I'll clear out and let you get her into bed. If you're too upset to do it, I'll call a maid.”

His tone was sharp and peremptory. He had never spoken to her in such a tone before. Her mind was a whirl of conflicting doubts and questions, but she mechanically drew off her gloves.

“I'm all right now,” said Alice. “I never fainted before in all my life. How very queer it is!”

“Oh, it was only the long strain,” said Phil reassuringly, stroking her hands. “And you hadn't expected to see Grace. We had plotted to keep it from you, Grace, you know.” And then swinging round he struck his palms smartly together. “How did you get here, Grace? Alice, you didn't send for her? ... Well, we won't trouble about that,” he said, seeing a look of distress cross Alice's face. “It's a comfort to have Grace here anyhow, now that it's all over!”

His easy acceptance of her presence added to her bewilderment. She groped in the dark for any possible explanation of Alice's return from the West and her meeting with Phil. They had spoken of their wish to protect her, and this left her in the air. A great humility fell upon her. Why they should wish to protect her she did not know, but the anger had left her heart the moment her hands touched the girl on the bed. Alice was two years her junior and their mother having died when they were very young Grace had early formed the habit of mothering her sister. Alice was a girl of spirit with far more dash and daring than she, and Grace had always loved her gaiety.

“Call me if you need anything,” said Phil, and retired to the room adjoining.

The moment they were alone Alice said very softly, with all the sweetness and tenderness in the world, “You poor goose, I want you to kiss me,” and when Grace bent down and their lips met Alice's arms clasped her neck convulsively. “Oh, you dear silly Grace! He must never know how foolish you were, I'm all right now, and I don't want to be undressed. There wasn't anything the matter with me except that you scared me to death. First of all, we've got to have a little sisterly talk, you and I! I want you to sit right here by me, and I want to know just how you found me in this hotel. I never stopped here before and neither did you.”

“It was quite by accident,” said Grace, avoiding Alice's eyes and bending low as though intent upon brushing a wisp of hair into place. “I'll tell you the truth. When I came to this room I didn't know you were in it!”

“You didn't know!” cried Alice.

“I am telling you the honest truth. When I came to this room I didn't know you were anywhere near New York. I was looking for another woman.”

“Another woman who had run away with Phil?” Alice's eyes danced. She was enormously amused by the situation and hardly less by her sister's confusion.

“I am a fool,” said Grace; “the very worst kind of a fool! We've got to straighten this thing out. I want to know why you registered here by the name of Porter?”

Alice's face clouded.

“I had to do it, dear! I suppose I may as well tell you now what brought me home from California and why I met Phil here. It's a story I never meant for you to know,” she went on soberly. “Phil has been fine, wonderful about it all. I don't know what I should have done without dear old Phil. We wanted to save you, Grace; we didn't want you to have the hurt of it. You understand, don't you, dear?”

“Yes,” Grace answered feebly, her eyes averted.

“There's no need of going into details. When I took father to California he was very, very ill. We did not realize how sick he was. And we had hardly got beyond Chicago before he began to act and talk strangely. It was all about money. The trust company he had established and built up at home has always been his great pride; it was a wonderful institution for a town like ours. When we made him resign the presidency after he began to fail so rapidly, he had a queer delusion that things were not right. I was alarmed about his vagaries for a month or more before I told you he was ill. One of his delusions was that the big steel vault in the company's office was not safe, and after we reached Los Angeles I found he was carrying a lot of securities with him—half a million dollars' worth—in a trunk. They didn't belong to him at all! I was convinced by that time that he didn't know what he was doing!

You can see how pitiful the whole matter was. I didn't dare advise the trust company that father had run away with all that stuff; it would have been very difficult to explain. I tried to get him to come home, but the next phase of his trouble was a fear that he was being followed, and he insisted on moving about. I hadn't the heart to write you and I wanted to get the securities away from him and return them to the trust company without letting you or anyone else know. I had a horrible time! He suddenly lost interest in the securities—really forgot all about them and on one pretext and another I got him to consent to come East. I turned to Phil in my trouble and wired him to meet me at Chicago.

“I tell you, Grace, if you didn't love Phil so much I'd be tempted to steal him away from you. He knew exactly how to do everything and he has managed it all perfectly. He took that awful trunk off my hands in Chicago, hurried back home with it and fixed everything up with the trust company; and then he came on here to determine what we should do about father. He wired two specialists to see him and they gave him a thorough examination last night. They are very reassuring and say he will be all right again. He's in that room there now asleep, the first real sleep he's had in weeks. This afternoon we are taking him to a sanitarium up in the country and very likely in a month or so he will be home again almost as good as new. When you called on the telephone I thought it was the nurse who's to go with us. That's the whole story!”

“You poor, dear child,” sobbed Grace. “I am ashamed to think that you carried this whole burden alone. It is brave and fine of you.” Her eyes filled with tears and Alice flung her arms around her and kissed her passionately. “I've been so wicked; so horribly wicked,” Grace moaned.

“I think you have!” said Alice, drawing away from her and laughing. “You came in here like some furious queen, so fierce that I merely crumpled up and fell down before your wrath. It's a perfect scream that you thought I was trying to vamp Phil; and I can see how you got the whole business twisted.”

Phil came quickly into the room.

“Well,” he exclaimed, “the whole world seems to have been upside down the past week. When I got home and found Grace gone I'd have been scared to death if I'd had time!”

Grace walked to his chair and clasped his head in her hands and let them slip over his eyes.

“I'll tell you all about it, but not until we see poor papa comfortable in the country and come back here tonight. Then I'll make my confession in the presence of the man I eloped with!”

“Eloped!” he ejaculated. “This may be a good joke, but I don't quite get the point. You certainly made a clean getaway. You not only skipped but you covered your trail completely. If I were a jealous husband I might have entertained dark suspicions!”

“Nobody knew I came to New York,” she answered. “You ran away without telling me where you were going, and I thought maybe, just maybe, Phil, there was another woman somewhere. And I thought I'd run away and maybe there would be another man somewhere.”

“We're all alike,” said Phil ironically. “Go right ahead and tell us the rest of it.”

She told the whole of it, going back to Sue Layton's party and the gay cynicisms of her friends. When she told of her meeting with Graham and his quest for the unknown girl Alice repeatedly cried out in surprise.

“You really don't mean it, Grace? It can't be possible that man—”

“It's quite possible that John W. Graham is wildly in love with you. It's all perfectly wonderful! If I had searched the world over I could not have found a man I would rather have as a brother-in-law. Of course if you hadn't been trying to hide yourself and avoid scrutiny by taking an assumed name and all that everything would have been much simpler.”

“That was all on account of poor father. We were fugitives in a way and I was afraid that at any minute something tragic might happen. And then when I ran into Mr. Graham in the hotel right here, I thought sure he had been watching us, and that was why I did not speak to him.”

“You can explain to him at dinner to-night. He's waiting now at the Thackeray for me to call him. I hope you will give the dinner, Phil; you ought to be very grateful to him for being so nice to me.”

“I dare say I should. If I didn't know that Graham is a gentleman I should be disposed to punch his head.”

“You don't mean you know him?”

“Known him for several years. He handles bonds on a large scale, being in fact the Graham of Akins, Graham and Company that you may have heard me speak about. I've done some legal work for them in our neighborhood. But that doesn't justify Graham in flirting with my wife!”

“Please, Phil, if I have got to love him, as I suppose I have,” said Alice, “I think you ought to forgive both him and Grace!”

“Love him,” said Phil; “of course you'll love him. You're all alike!”