I ought never to have said a word. Never! That door slams the loudest.
It wakes me. It is slamming all the time."
"That too shall pa.s.s."
Ca.s.sy doubted it. The door and the noise of it hurt. Her eyes filled.
Yet, too sensitive to weep at anybody, even at an inkbeast, she stood up, went to the window and, while reabsorbing her tears, looked, or affected to look, at a lean stripe of blue sky.
Meditatively Jones considered her. "Fine day for a walk."
It was as though he had offered her a handkerchief. Tearful no longer, but annoyed, she turned and sat down.
"You seem very original."
"It is absentmindedness, I think. I meant to ask, are you ever down near the Stock Exchange?"
"That is where Mr. Lennox goes, isn"t it?"
"There are others that frequent the neighbourhood. Among them is a deacon named Dunwoodie."
"Isn"t he the lawyer who acted for Mr. Lennox?"
"Now you mention it, I believe he is. Anyway, I wonder if you would care to have him act for you?"
Ca.s.sy crossed her hands. "I don"t understand you."
"For a moment or two, he didn"t either. Then he said he would like to see you. That was an hour ago. I have just come from his office."
"But what in the world does he want of me? Everything is over now, isn"t it? Or are there more doors? Really, if there are, I don"t think I can stand it. I don"t think I can, Mr. Jones."
"Yes, but there are doors that don"t slam, doors that are closed and locked and barred. Sometimes there is romance behind them, sometimes there are santal-wood boxes crammed with rubies; sometimes there are secrets, sometimes there are landscapes of beckoning palms. One never quite knows what there is behind closed doors. He may open one or two for you. Wouldn"t it interest you to let him try?"
Ca.s.sy"s eyelids had been a trifle tremulous, in her under-lip there had been also a little uncertainty. But at the vistas which the novelist dangled at her, she succeeded in looking, as she could look, immeasurably remote.
"That sort of thing is chorus-girl!"
Blankly Jones stared. "What sort of thing?"
"Why, you want me to bring an action. I will do nothing of the kind.
Even if he were living, I would rather be dead. Besides, it was all my fault. I ought to have known better."
"Better than what?" enquired the novelist, who now had got his bearings.
"Mr. Jones, I told you all about it."
"Forgive me, if I seem to contradict you. You did not tell all."
Ca.s.sy stiffened.
"How could you?" Jones continued. "Details are so tiresome. To-day when I was talking to Dunwoodie, I advanced a few. Dunwoodie is a very ordinary person. Details bore you, they bore me. He dotes on them. By the way, you said something about changing your name. I wish you would.
Couldn"t you take mine?"
"You are ridiculous."
"As you like. Any one else would call me mercenary."
He"s crazy, Ca.s.sy uncomfortably reflected. What shall I do?
Modestly the novelist motioned. "Ten Eyck Jones now! It doesn"t rhyme with Victor Hugo or even with Andrew Carnegie, but it has a lilt. It might be worse."
"What are you talking about?" Ca.s.sy, with increasing discomfort, put in.
"There is a little thing that turns men into flint and women into putty.
That"s what I am talking about. I am talking money."
"Thank you. The subject does not interest me."
"Ah, but you are evolved! Would that the butcher were! We all have to consider his incapacities and money helps us. I have an idea that your dear departed may have left you a trifle."
"Really, Mr. Jones, you are talking nonsense."
"It is a specialty of mine."
"Besides, it is impossible."
"Impossible is a word that intelligent young women never employ."
"Very good. Admitting the possibility, I won"t take it."
"It might be paid into your bank."
"I haven"t any bank."
"One could be found for you."
"I would tell them not to accept it."
"The bank that won"t accept money does not exist."
Ca.s.sy flushed. "I rather liked you. Couldn"t you be less hateful?"
"You are trying to pick a quarrel with me."
"Nothing of the kind."
"Then will you let me take you to Dunwoodie?"
"Certainly not."
"Then will you go alone?"