The Bachelors. William Dana Orcutt

in despair. "Why be an iconoclast? You leave me nothing but matrimony—"

      "The worst bluff of all," interrupted Huntington, stepping forward from behind their chairs, immaculate in white flannels and a panama which rivaled Merry's. "Seeing Mr. Cosden in an academic mood, I could not resist the temptation to snare the nuggets of wisdom which fell from his lips. This must be my excuse for eavesdropping."

      "There he is," Cosden said significantly to Merry. "You'd never dream that he'd come within an ace of missing his breakfast, would you?"

      "Missing what?" Huntington demanded. "In what little pleasantry has my friendly critic been indulging himself?"

      "Let the critic answer for himself," Cosden retorted. "I predicted to Miss Thatcher the exact moment when you would appear, thus proving myself a prophet."

      "You take yourself too seriously, Connie. You're no prophet, nor even the son of a prophet; you're simply a good observer. Some men run a block and then wait five minutes for a car; I learned years ago that it was wiser to walk deliberately to the white post and arrive there at the precise moment. But I don't let that car get away from me, my friend."

      "If my memory serves me right, Mr. Huntington, you were not always so deliberate," remarked Mrs. Thatcher significantly.

      Huntington looked up quickly, unaware until then that the other late breakfasters had followed so closely on his heels.

      "The night has been telling tales," he said.

      "It was stupid of me not to recognize you before," she answered.

      "Do you and Mother know each other?" Merry asked, much interested in the new turn of the conversation.

      "Your mother," said Huntington gravely, "did me the honor to accept my escort to our Senior Dance—I won't tell you how many years ago. She deliberately broke my heart, sailed away to Europe, and then returned and married your father, just out of pique. Now that you know the story of my life, I ask you, why should I accelerate my motions, as my captious companion seems to think I should, when your mother's quixotic conduct deprived me years ago of all possible incentive?"

      "Then you are really the Monty Huntington I knew!" Mrs. Thatcher exclaimed. "I was sure of it when you spoke of your Class to Philip Hamlen."

      "I was sure it was you before you spoke at all," he said quietly. "I recognized an aroma the moment I came into your presence—"

      "An aroma?" Mrs. Thatcher interrupted questioningly.

      "I know not whether it was fragrance or reminiscence, but either is equally sweet."

      Huntington's gallantry, half assumed, half real, as it seemed to those who heard his words, passed simply as a pleasantry with all except Cosden, who knew his friend too well not to recognize the presence of something deeper beneath the lightly spoken expressions. But Thatcher's voice brought him back from his surmises.

      "We are counting on you both to join us," he insisted. "Our party will be incomplete without you."

      "Please come," Mrs. Thatcher added. "For the last twenty-four hours I have been renewing all my girlhood friendships, and poor Edith Stevens here hasn't had a chance even to express an opinion. That for Edith is real self-sacrifice."

      "Edith is sitting back and learning a thing or two," Miss Stevens retorted calmly.

      "Do come and give her a chance to demonstrate," Mrs. Thatcher appealed.

      "I suppose bachelors are as necessary to the demonstration as guinea-pigs to the laboratory," Huntington said. "Come on, Connie; let us take a chance."

      No truer statement had ever been made in jest than that the previous twenty-four hours had been a period of self-sacrifice to Edith Stevens. She was younger than Mrs. Thatcher, and their friends accused them of accepting each other as foils to accentuate their contrasting characteristics. Miss Stevens was slight and erect, and was always gowned with a taste and skill which gave her an air of distinction; her friend possessed such striking fascination of person and manner that she gave distinction to any fashion she might adopt. Mrs. Thatcher's activities accomplished results; Edith's seemed simply the expression of an eternal unrest. The younger woman's hair was light, and her eyes blue, while Mrs. Thatcher was a perfect brunette; and the approach of the two women to the same subject was always from a different standpoint. Yet they had been the closest of friends from school days.

      Except with Marian, Edith, as a rule, dominated the situation at all times. Now, however, she found herself absolutely side-tracked, while her friend occupied the center of the stage in the interesting character of past or present object of admiration from three perfectly good men. Men were a hobby with Edith Stevens. Her brother feelingly remarked that the only reason she never married was that no individual male possessed the composite attributes she demanded. To be one of three women, surrounded by five men, and not to be able to command the attention of any one of them except her brother was nothing less than irony. She had tried flirting with Thatcher years before, and had long since given him up in despair; Hamlen was annexed by Marian before she had even a chance to compete, and of the two remaining eligibles Huntington suddenly confessed himself a part of the flotsam her friend had left behind in her beblossomed path toward the altar.

      "Take one more look at Mr. Cosden, Marian," she said maliciously, as the little party walked slowly down the steps toward the yacht. "Perhaps he, too, was an early admirer."

      Mrs. Thatcher laughed. "No," she reassured her, "I'm sure he never crossed my horizon until last night. I'll renounce all claims on him, but don't you set your cap for Philip Hamlen; I have other plans for him."

      "Where is Mr. Hamlen?" Edith demanded. "Didn't you invite him?"

      "No," Marian replied quickly. "It would be cruel not to give him time to recover his balance after yesterday. Heigh ho!" she sighed. "I wonder whether I'm glad or sorry that I found him here."

      "I've been waiting for a report on that reunion," Edith said suggestively. "I haven't forgotten the letters which we used to read together years ago."

      "Weren't they wonderful?" Marian exclaimed. Then she added, after a pause, "I don't believe I realized until yesterday the depth of suffering which a sensitive soul can reach."

VI

       Table of Contents

      The sailing-party disembarked at the landing steps of the "Princess" shortly after six o'clock, and were greeted by a tall young man whose face was almost concealed by the broad brim of his hat, turned down as if to protect its owner from possible prostration from the sun. At the opposite end of the young man the white trouser-legs were turned up at least two laps higher than would have been expected, so that hat and trousers together made a normal average. Below the turn-up of the trousers showed a considerable expanse of white-silk hosiery, terminating in spotless white buckskin shoes; below the down-turned hat-brim was a grin which extended well across the boyish face. Altogether, the young man warranted the attention he attracted.

      The skipper made so perfect a landing that the identity of those on board was disclosed only at the last moment; but the single glance the young man had was sufficient to reassure him, and he stepped forward eagerly.

      "Hello, everybody!" he cried cheerfully. "Wish you Happy New-Year!"

      Merry was the first to grasp the significance of the excitement. "Why, it's Billy Huntington!" she exclaimed.

      "Of course," he admitted, still grinning; "who else would charge down here like a young dace just for the pleasure of wishing you the compliments of the season?"

      The young man paused long enough to assist the ladies over the rail, with a greeting to each.

      "There's your uncle," Merry said, nodding in the direction of the men; "don't you recognize him?"

      "Surest thing you know," Billy answered, still hanging back. "I'm waiting to see if he will