The Day of Days: An Extravaganza. Louis Joseph Vance

mental darkness; slowly his grin broadened and became fixed—even as his great scheme for the confusion and confounding of P. Sybarite took shape and matured.

      He left Clancey's presently, stepping high, with a mind elate; foretasting victory; convinced that he harboured within him the makings of a devil of a fellow, all the essential qualifications of (not to put too fine a point upon it) a regular wag. …

III

       Table of Contents

      THE GLOVE COUNTER

      With a feeling of some guilt, becoming in one who stoops to unworthy artifice, P. Sybarite walked slowly on up Broadway a little way, then doubled on his trail, going softly until a swift and stealthy survey westward from the corner of Thirty-eighth Street assured him that George was not skulking thereabouts to spy upon him. Then mending his pace, he held briskly on toward the shopping district.

      From afar the clock recently restored to its coign high above unlovely Greeley Square warned him that his hour was fleeting: in twenty minutes it would be six o'clock; at six, sharp, Blessington's would close its doors. Distressed, he scurried on, crossed Thirty-fourth Street, aimed himself courageously for the wide entrance of the department store, battled manfully through the retreating army of feminine shoppers—and gained the glove counter with a good fifteen minutes to spare.

      And there he halted, confused and blushing in recognition of circumstances as unpropitious as unforeseen.

      These consisted in three girls behind the counter and one customer before it; the latter commanding the attention and services of a fair young woman with a pleasant manner; while of the two disengaged saleswomen, one bold, disdainful brunette was preoccupied with her back hair and prepared mutinously to ignore anything remotely resembling a belated customer whose demands might busy her beyond the closing hour, and the other had a merry eye and a receptive smile for the hesitant little man with the funny clothes and the quaint pink face of embarrassment. In most abject consternation, P. Sybarite turned and fled.

      Weathering the end of the glove counter and shaping a course through the aisle that paralleled it, he found himself in a channel of horrors, threatened on one side by a display of most intimate lingerie, belaced and beribboned distractingly, on the other by a long rank of slender and gracious (if stolid) feminine limbs, one and all neatly amputated above their bended knees and bedight in silken hosiery to shame the rainbow; while to right and left, behind these impudent revelations, lurked sirens with shameless eyes and mouths of scarlet mockery.

      A cold sweat damped the forehead of P. Sybarite. Inconsistently, his face flamed. He stared fixedly dead ahead and tore through that aisle like a delicate-minded jack-rabbit. He thought giggles were audible in his wake; and ere he could escape found his way barred by Authority and Dignity in one wonderfully frock-coated person.

      "You were looking for something?" demanded this menace incarnate, in an awful voice accompanied by a terrible gesture.

      P. Sybarite brought up standing, his nose six inches from and his eyes held in fascination to the imitation pearl scarf-pin in the beautiful cravat affected by his interlocutor.

      "Gloves—!" he gasped guiltily.

      "This way, if you please."

      With this, Dignity and Authority clamped an inexorable hand about his upper arm, swung him round, and piloted him gently but ruthlessly back the way he had come, back to the glove counter, where he was planted directly in front of the dashing, dark saleslady with absorbing back hair and the manner of remote hauteur.

      "Miss Brady, this gentleman wants to see some gloves."

      The eyes of Miss Brady flashed ominously; as plain as print, they said: "Does, does he? Well, leave him to me!"

      Aloud, she murmured from an incalculable distance: "Oh, ve-ry well!"

      A moment later, looking over the customer's head, she added icily: "What kind?"

      The floor-walker retired, leaving P. Sybarite a free agent but none the less haunted by a feeling that a suspicious eye was being kept on the small of his back. He stammered something quite inarticulate.

      The brune goddess shaped ironic lips:

      "Chauffeurs', I presoom?"

      A measure of self-possession—akin to the deadly coolness of the cornered rat—returned to the badgered little man.

      "No," he said evenly—"ladies', if you please."

      Scornfully Miss Brady impaled the back of her head with a lead pencil.

      "Other end of the counter, please," she announced. "I don't handle ladies' gloves!"

      "I'm sure of that," returned P. Sybarite meekly; left her standing; and presented himself for the inspection of the fair young woman with the pleasant manner, who was now free of her late customer.

      She recognised him with surprise, but none the less with a friendly smile.

      "Why, Mr. Sybarite—!"

      In his hearing, her voice was rarest music. He gulped; stammered "Miss Lessing!" and was stricken dumb by perception of his effrontery.

      "Can I do anything for you?"

      He breathed in panic: "Gloves—"

      "For a lady, Mr. Sybarite?"

      He nodded as expressively as any automaton.

      "What kind?"

      "I—I don't know."

      "For day or evening wear?"

      He wagged a dismal head: "I don't know."

      Amusement touched her eyes and lips so charmingly that he thought of the sea at dawn, rimpled by the morning breeze, gay with the laughter of young sunlight.

      "Surely you must!" she insisted.

      "No," he contended in stubborn melancholy.

      "Oh, I see. You wish to make a present—?"

      "I—ah—suppose so," he admitted under pressure—"yes."

      "Evening gloves are always acceptable. Does she go often to the theatre?"

      "I—don't know."

      The least suspicion of perplexed frown knitted the eyebrows of Miss Lessing.

      "Well … is she old or young?"

      "I—ah—couldn't say."

      "Mr. Sybarite!" said the young woman with decision.

      He fixed an apprehensive gaze to hers—which inclined to disapproval, if with reservations.

      "Yes, Miss Lessing?"

      "Do you really want to buy gloves?"

      "No-o. … "

      "Then what under the sun do you want?"

      He noticed suddenly that, however impatient her tone, her eyes were still kindly. Eyes of luminous hazel brown they were, wide open and clear beneath dark and delicate brows; eyes that assorted oddly with her hair of pale, dull gold, rendering her prettiness both individual and distinctive.

      Somehow he found himself more at ease.

      "Please," he begged humbly, "show me some gloves—any kind—it doesn't matter—and pretend you believe I want to buy 'em. I don't really. I—I only want—ah—word with you before you go home."

      If this were impertinence, the girl elected quickly not to resent it. She turned to the shelves behind her, took down a box or two, and opened them for his inspection.

      "These are very nice," she suggested quietly.

      "I think so, too." He grinned uneasily. "What I want