“The ten o’clock, the fellow told me. Said he would have given it back to him then only he sprinted off in the deuce of a hurry.”
Six eyes focussed themselves upon Archibald.
“Margaret,” he said, “I will not try to deceive you-”
“You may try,” observed Mrs. Milsom, “but you will not succeed.”
“Well, Archibald?”
Archibald fingered his collar.
“There was no taximeter accident.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Milsom.
“The fact is, I have been playing in a golf tournament.”
Margaret uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Playing golf!”
Archibald bowed his head with manly resignation.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you arrange for us to meet on the links? I should have loved it.”
Archibald was amazed.
“You take an interest in golf, Margaret? You! I thought you scorned it, considered it an unintellectual game. I thought you considered all games unintellectual.”
“Why, I play golf myself. Not very well.”
“Margaret! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you might not like it. You were so spiritual, so poetic. I feared you would despise me.”
Archibald took a step forward. His voice was tense and trembling.
“Margaret,” he said, “this is no time for misunderstandings. We must be open with one another. Our happiness is at stake. Tell me honestly, do you like poetry really?”
Margaret hesitated, then answered bravely:
“No, Archibald,” she said, “it is as you suspect. I am not worthy of you. I do not like poetry. Ah, you shudder! You turn away! Your face grows hard and scornful!”
“I don’t!” yelled Archibald. “It doesn’t! It doesn’t do anything of the sort! You’ve made me another man!”
She stared, wild-eyed, astonished.
“What! Do you mean that you, too-”
“I should just say I do. I tell you I hate the beastly stuff. I only pretended to like it because I thought you did. The hours I’ve spent learning it up! I wonder I’ve not got brain fever.”
“Archie! Used you to read it up, too? Oh, if I’d only known!”
“And you forgive me-this morning, I mean?”
“Of course. You couldn’t leave a golf tournament. By the way, how did you get on?”
Archibald coughed.
“Rather well,” he said modestly. “Pretty decently. In fact, not badly. As a matter of fact, I won the championship.”
“The championship!” whispered Margaret. “Of America?”
“Well, not absolutely of America,” said Archibald. “But all the same, a championship.”
“My hero.”
“You won’t be wanting me for a while, I guess?” said Stuyvesant nonchalantly. “Think I’ll smoke a cigarette on the porch.”
And sobs from the stairs told that Mrs. Milsom was already on her way to her room.
The Man, the Maid and the Miasma
Although this story is concerned principally with the Man and the Maid, the Miasma pervades it to such an extent that I feel justified in putting his name on the bills. Webster’s Dictionary gives the meaning of the word “miasma” as “an infection floating in the air; a deadly exhalation;” and, in the opinion of Mr. Robert Ferguson, his late employer, that description, though perhaps a little too flattering, on the whole summed up Master Roland Bean pretty satisfactorily. Until the previous day he had served Mr. Ferguson in the capacity of office-boy; but there was that about Master Bean which made it practically impossible for anyone to employ him for long. A syndicate of Galahad, Parsifal, and Marcus Aurelius might have done it, but to an ordinary erring man, conscious of things done which should not have been done, and other things equally numerous left undone, he was too oppressive. One conscience is enough for any man. The employer of Master Bean had to cringe before two. Nobody can last long against an office-boy whose eyes shine with quiet, respectful reproof through gold-rimmed spectacles, whose manner is that of a middle-aged saint, and who obviously knows all the Plod and Punctuality books by heart and orders his life by their precepts. Master Bean was a walking edition of Stepping-Stones to Success, Millionaires who Have Never Smoked, and Young Man, Get up Early. Galahad, Parsifal, and Marcus Aurelius, as I say, might have remained tranquil in his presence, but Robert Ferguson found the contract too large. After one month he had braced himself up and sacked the Punctual Plodder.