Part 10

Sue rose. “Really,” she said, “I can’t listen any longer. Genevieve is the handsomest girl in the State of New York. She’s a darling to boot. And you gentlemen”--this with studied candor--“would have _less_ to say if each and every one of you had not been given your--your----”

“Mitten?” suggested Mr. St. Ives politely.

“--Last year,” concluded Sue. “I’m sorry I’ve listened to a single unkind thing about her. I insist that you talk of something else while you remain.”

“We’d better go, then,” said Mr. Hammond, his face eloquent of woe. “We came to talk about just that, you see. There isn’t a dashier player, or a stronger hitter, or a better shot at goal in Westchester County. Of course, there’s Tommy Watts. He could sub. But none of us want Tommy, he’s so wild with that whippy stick of his. Oh, why--_why_----”

“I haven’t seen Phil for nearly two weeks,” said Sue. “Grandmamma has been quite ill.”

“How is Mrs. Townsend?” inquired Mr. St. Ives. “Pardon our forgetting to ask. We’re so confounded worried----”

“Phil’s happiness must come before polo,” went on Sue very decidedly. “Surely you didn’t think that I would conspire against him.”

“Oh, nothing of the sort!” cried Mr. Graves. “Our hope wasn’t that you would butt in--that is, interfere unpleasantly--and break things up. On the contrary, we wanted you to--er--well, to sort of stampede Genevieve so that she’d say ‘Yes’ at once, or maybe elope. Oh, if Phil _only_ had an old cat of a mother who would oppose the match!”

Sue looked down at her boots. Then, after a moment’s thought: “If you like Phil, and think so badly of Genevieve,” she argued, “why should you wish to see them marry? I refuse to be the cat.”

“The Hadbury game!” cried Mr. Hammond. “Sue, we want to win that game!”

“Well,” she said, “if Phil really loves Genevieve, and if Genevieve loves Phil, I’ll try my best to--to--but I make you no promise. I shall think only of their happiness, of course.”

The three filed to the door. There they turned. “Point out to Genevieve,” suggested Mr. St. Ives, “that Hillcrest is an ideal place for entertaining.”

“And mention,” added Mr. Graves, “that Phil’s income is in the first flight--oh, don’t omit that.”

“But, above all things, cut down the dangling,”--this from Mr. Hammond. They shook hands with her impressively and filed out into the hall.

Sue returned to the plump chair and sat down. Directly before her was the writing-desk with its pair of silver-bordered photographs. She studied the pictures earnestly for a while. And when she turned from them it was to go to a mirror and look at her own reflection--long and keenly and with honest eyes. There were her horseback freckles, dotting her nose as the stars dot the sky, and her square, little, undimpled chin, and her sunburned cheeks, roughened by all the winds of spring. “Ah,” she said at last, “she is _so_ beautiful. _I_ love her for her beauty, too. I don’t blame _any_body for loving her.” Then she left the mirror and went back to the chair before the couch.

Many another person had contrasted the two. And not a few of the Country Club members openly asserted--and with wrath--that Genevieve Unger’s desire for Sue Townsend’s society lay in the fact that Sue, with her wisp of a figure and her irregular little face, served as a contrast to the other girl’s stateliness and radiant beauty. But there were other striking contrasts between the girls, apart from the one of looks. As one club wag put it, a mere comparison of their footwear accounts for the year presented the essential difference between them. During the season, Sue wore out two pairs of riding-boots, tan; one pair of riding-boots, black; one pair of boots for climbing; three pairs of stout shoes for morning wear; six pairs of sandals suitable for use in the surf; ten pairs of tennis shoes, and two pairs of slippers; while Genevieve’s list for the same length of time included six pairs of boudoir slippers; six pairs of carriage shoes--to match as many gowns; one pair of high-heeled shoes unsuitable for street wear; and twenty-two pairs of slippers in velvet, satin and kid.

But to Sue, ready for her ride forty minutes ahead of the appointed time, only one contrast appeared. And when Mr. Rawson was announced she sprang from her chair, bade the servant tell him that she would be down in one moment, and fled up the stairs to her dressing-room, where she dabbed a bit of powder upon the offending nose, fluffed out her hair at either temple, and donned a white chiffon veil.

But Phil barely glanced at her as she came out to her horse. His eyes, blue like her own, had a far-away expression in them, and he answered her greeting absent-mindedly. When he had put her up and mounted his own pony he rode away beside her at a walk, his look fixed ahead of him eagerly but unseeing; his lips parted in a faint smile. Behind them, at the prescribed distance, followed the red-cheeked, red-haired groom.

Sue said nothing, letting her companion have all his thoughts for himself. Every now and then she gave him a quick, inquiring glance.

When he broke silence at last he spoke musingly--almost as if to himself. “What a day to be at the dentist’s,” he said. “I hope he won’t hurt her.”

“Dentist’s?” inquired Sue. “Who’s gone?”

“Why--Miss Unger.” He coloured self-consciously.

“Oh, has she?” went on Sue, surprised. “Are you sure? I thought this was the date for that lawn fête at the Fanshaws’--Greenwich, you know--for the benefit of something or other. Genevieve telephoned me she’d promised to go and sell fudge.”

“But she went to town instead,”--this with finality.

At this point, Sue thought of Messrs. Hammond, Graves and St. Ives, and of the oncoming contest at Hadbury. “Did you play this morning?” she asked. “I suppose the team is getting splendidly drilled.”

“I suppose so,” he answered vaguely. He was looking far ahead once more.

“I think I’ll ask Genevieve to drive to Hadbury with me the day of the game,” resumed Sue.

He turned toward her, then, undisguised pleasure brightening his face: “How you always think of doing nice things for others!” he said. “Go, Sue. It’ll be a corking match.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything. And, of course, I’d take Genevieve. One can’t help doing nice things for _her_. Isn’t she beautiful, Phil!” She said it earnestly.

“So beautiful that most of the girls aren’t especially kind to her,” Phil answered. “Just this morning Elizabeth Carlton had to throw out something--a nasty hint, you understand. It was about Valentine, that English chap who’s been at the club so much lately.”

“I really don’t know him,” returned Sue. “But I’ve heard----”

“Yes, and I’ll wager it’s all true,” went on Phil hotly. “He isn’t the sort of a man you’d like to see her marry.”

“Phil, you’ve fallen a victim, too,” said Sue gently.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Well, I told you you would.”

After that the conversation was still of Genevieve, until the gates of Arbor Lodge were passed again--of Genevieve, the queenly; Genevieve, the faultless; and (with a little embarrassment on Phil’s part) of Genevieve, the trampler of hearts.

“You’ll be at practice to-morrow morning, won’t you?” asked Sue, from the terrace steps. “Let me know when you can ride again. I hate going out alone.”

Phil headed his horse toward home. “Oh, yes, I’ll play in the morning,” he answered; “but I’ll take a car out in the afternoon, probably. Good-bye, Sue.” And with Larry following hard on his tracks he galloped away.

Sue drove over to The Lilacs immediately after breakfast, the day of the Hadbury game--to find Genevieve still in a soft dressing-gown of cobwebby lace and pink ribbons, lazily sipping her chocolate. She held up a satin cheek to be kissed.

“I’m on time, you see,” laughed Sue. “But don’t hurry. I’ve got the Lenox wagon and the bay ponies, and we’ll go a-zipping. How did the lawn fête turn out?”

Genevieve did not look up, but broke her toast with tapering fingers. “I didn’t go,” she said carelessly, after a moment of silence.

“Oh!” Sue’s tone was one of relief. “So you went to town, after all--Phil said you had. We hoped the dentist didn’t hurt you.”

A shade of annoyance crossed the face of the other girl. Then, “He didn’t, thank you,” she said shortly, and got up to make ready for the drive.

The two arrived at Hadbury in plenty of time. It was a perfect morning--the sun warm, the air soft and still, the sky cloudless--and the scene at the polo-field was a gay one. On one side of the rectangle rose the “ladies’ stand,” a grassy slope occupied by little groups of people who had come on foot; on the other side, at a discreet distance, was a line of vehicles. Sue guided her scampering ponies midway of the line, between two other teams. Phil came over to them for a moment. Others gathered, too, until there was a man for every spoke of the nigh front wheel, and dark-eyed Genevieve held a little court.

There were no callers at the off wheel, and Sue had all her attention for the lines. So she protested to Phil against his having sent the red-haired, red-cheeked Shadow to stand at her horses’ heads. “I don’t need him,” she said, “and it makes the ponies cross to be held.”

“Larry came of his own accord,” whispered Phil. “He’s an obliging lad, and he likes you.”

At that, Sue brightened and observed the red-haired lad pleasantly. But Larry did not see her kindly glance. Standing straight, with heel to heel and a hand at either bit, his gaze was fixed in open, undisguised wonderment upon the beautiful Miss Unger.

Soon the match began--and went superbly. To quote Mr. Hammond, it was “the greatest ever since the Persians played polo, by Jove!” Upon the vivid green of the field went the teams, playing a hard-galloping, hard-hitting game, in which Phil particularly distinguished himself. He rode the brown pony, and his sleeves were rolled up, his head was bare, despite the heavy sticks that described circles about him, his hair flew in the wind like a young Indian’s. Now his orders rang out sharp and clear--“Take the ball!” or “Back-hander there!” or “Ride the man and leave the ball!” And his mount sped up and down; his square-headed stick did skilful work.

“It’s an education to watch him,” declared Sue enthusiastically, as a rousing bravo from a group of onlooking men went up, for Phil had just dashed in, changed places with Number Three and made a brilliant stroke.

Genevieve did not answer. She was talking to a tall man with a face the approximate shade of Larry’s. “May I present Mr. Valentine?” she asked presently, with some affectation, “--late of the English Army, you know.”

Sue bowed.

“Churmed,” observed Mr. Valentine, in what was to Sue an entirely new British mode of pronunciation.

At the end of the first period Phil came over to the wagon a second time and chatted with Genevieve, who was looking particularly handsome in a mauve linen and a tailored hat--so handsome that Sue, dressed in less striking colours, seemed white and tired in comparison. Again a group was gathered at Genevieve’s side of the wagon, but Sue, more quiet than was her wont, had no smiles for them. She looked away between the paper goal-posts that, painted in wide cream-and-blue bands, loomed up near by like giant sticks of candy.

“This afternoon he’ll motor”--it was Mr. St. Ives who was talking; he was standing beside Phil. “_To-morrow_ afternoon he’ll motor. The next afternoon he’ll go out in his car.” Then he made a wry face and reached over the back of the seat to seize Sue’s fingers and squeeze them gratefully under a pretext of shaking hands.

“Will you go this afternoon, Miss Unger?” asked Phil. “My ten minutes are nearly up, aren’t they, Sue?”

“Sue’s only got her locket,” said Miss Unger with a lazy smile.

“Well, what’s the time by your locket, Sue?” demanded Mr. St. Ives, and reached for it.

Sue slipped the locket inside her shirtwaist.

“Say yes, Miss Unger,” urged Phil.

“I’m fearfully sorry--I really can’t go this afternoon.” Genevieve gave a quick glance past Phil to the man behind him--Valentine. “I have an engagement.”

At that, Phil fell back, his face suddenly grave, lifted a hand in a gay salute and strode away.

But throughout the remainder of the game he played harder than ever, and with such coolness, resource and accuracy that there was frequent hand-clapping from the line of vehicles, and even Hadbury parasols were waved from the ladies’ stand; while to one side, where the extra ponies waited, groom leaned to groom, commenting excitedly. But when the match was done, with the Brampton team victors, he disappeared, and Sue did not see him again. She got away as soon as she could manage it, and turned the bays homeward at top speed.

“Don’t you think Mr. Valentine handsome?” asked Genevieve, as they rolled along. “Soldierly, I think.”

“Bob doesn’t believe the man has ever been in the army,” said Sue. “And he says Mr. Valentine owes everyone in Brampton.”

Genevieve opened her eyes. “Why, Sue!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never heard you repeat things against anyone before. Mr. Valentine has plenty of money. And shopkeepers always gossip to curry favor with servants.”

“And Bob says he gambles,” persisted Sue. “I like you too well to see him claim any of your attention.”

“Don’t all men gamble?” demanded Genevieve.

“Not professionally--that’s common.”

Genevieve put up her pretty chin. “It’s hardly any commoner than gossip,” she answered. “However, I’ve noticed that if a man is distinguished he gets a lot of criticism. But”--with a shrug--“one never minds the criticism of kids.”

Sue said nothing.

She left Genevieve at The Lilacs and went home. But she had only arrived when she was summoned to the telephone. As she took the receiver she could hear sobbing. Then, “Sue!” wailed a voice--Genevieve’s; “l-look in the wagon, Sue. I--I lost my p-purse this morning.” She began to sob again.

Sue gave a prompt order. “Dear Genevieve,” she answered back, “don’t worry. The purse is sure to turn up.” A few minutes later she was in the carriage-house, dressed for riding. And when she learned that no purse had been found, telephoned Genevieve again before mounting the grey to ride to The Lilacs.

Genevieve was gone to Hadbury when Sue arrived, Phil having urged that an advertisement be placed at once in the _Star_, together with the offer of a suitable reward.

“Then Phil came, after all,” said Sue. She was walking to and fro in the old-fashioned drawing-room.

“I called him,” answered Mrs. Vander Laan, who was a little old lady with an enthusiastic liking for young people. “When he got here he telephoned to have the field searched; then started. The reward is to be one hundred dollars.”

“That much?” asked the girl. “The purse must have contained a good deal.”

“Exactly seven hundred,” said Mrs. Vander Laan; “all of her month’s allowance. Wasn’t she foolish to be carrying so much about with her! But the sweet child was so pretty as she wept.”

“Seven hundred!” exclaimed Sue. “Has she any idea where she lost it?”

“She thinks it was when she was just starting for home. She remembers having the purse when she was still at the polo-field. She says you drove so rapidly----”

“I did,” admitted Sue, conscience-stricken. “Oh, I sha’n’t let her lose it, Mrs. Vander Laan. It was my fault. Why didn’t she deposit it in a bank that day she went into town?”

Mrs. Vander Laan was embroidering. Now she suddenly stopped and looked up at Sue. “But she hasn’t been to town,” she declared.

“Not to the dentist’s?” asked Sue, “--the day of the Fanshaw garden fête?”

“No, dear. She went driving with Mr. Valentine.”

“Oh.” Sue began to walk the floor again.

She was still walking when Genevieve and Phil came in. “Genevieve, I’m _so_ sorry,” she cried, giving her hand to the other girl. “Tell me something to do.”

Genevieve met her sympathy ungraciously. “Oh, don’t bother,” she said with a little irritation. “I’d rather not have such a fuss made about it.” Then, to Mrs. Vander Laan: “May we have tea, _mütterchen_? Sue, take Mr. Rawson home with you and jolly him up with some tennis.”

But Phil did not look like a candidate for “jollying up.” He turned to Sue. “To think that Miss Unger carried the money all around New York that afternoon in a hand-bag that anybody might have grabbed,” he said, “and then lost it at the polo match.”

Mrs. Vander Laan had stopped to look up again. Sue was close by, suddenly pink with embarrassment for Genevieve, who was rattling the cups and saucers at the tea-table.

“All around New York?” repeated Mrs. Vander Laan. “Why do you say that, Mr. Rawson? Genevieve hasn’t been to New York.”

Genevieve whirled toward them now, anger flaming in her cheeks. “Oh, please, _please_ let the matter of the money drop!” she exclaimed. “If I’d staked it at bridge and lost it you’d have all thought it a good joke.”

“Indeed _not_,” replied the little old lady, suddenly sitting up. “I think gambling----”

But what she thought was left unsaid. For at that moment the drawing-room door was opened by a maid and Mr. Aubrey Valentine was announced.

Phil went home in the wake of Sue’s pony. Once she glanced round at him as she galloped. His lips were set, his feet were braced, his cap was pulled far down. He circled his machine into the driveway leading up to Arbor Lodge with preciseness.

They were out in the wicker chairs at the tennis-court before he spoke. Then he faced her squarely and blurted out one sentence: “Sue, she lied to me.”

“Now, Phil,” began Sue, “didn’t you ask her something you had no right to ask? You met her two weeks ago--just two weeks. Since then you’ve claimed her time pretty steadily, haven’t you? She didn’t want to go out with you that day; she wanted to do something else.”

“She lied to me,” repeated Phil.

“She may have fibbed. Most women do that. You cornered her, probably.”

“It wasn’t necessary to lie.”

“She thought it was.”

“Where _did_ she go?” His eyes narrowed.

Sue shook her head smiling. “Have you any right to know, Phil? Now, think?”

“No. But you remember Elizabeth Carlton’s nasty hint? I spoke of it. Is it possible----” He turned away impatiently.

“Listen, Phil,” she begged. “I’ll ask Genevieve about it, and then tell you what she says. She’ll explain it all satisfactorily, I’m sure. The dear girl is so worried to-day, Phil, she’s likely to say almost anything. Seven hundred is a lot to lose.”

“Oh, never mind asking her,” said Phil. “I suppose you’re right.” He chose a racquet and played until early twilight. Then, bareheaded and smiling once more, he went chugging away down the drive.

Larry met him as he turned in at the gate of his own estate. The man was not in his wonted livery, but was outward bound along the drive, dressed in a Sixth Avenue copy of Phil’s newest Fifth Avenue lounge suit--a copy that had exaggerated scallops cut out of cuffs and pocket-flaps. “I’ve got news, sir,” he announced, holding up a hand.

“News?--about what, Larry? Jump in.” The car came to a stop under the arc-light at the gate.

“Jim come home from Hadbury at six, sir,” began Larry, his red face blowzier than usual and his eyes wide with excitement; “and he says to me, ‘Larry, the Princess’ (that’s what we call Miss Unger, sir)--‘the Princess lost seven hunderd-dollar bills at the Hadbury polo-grounds to-day.’ I kicked my heels clean into the air, sir, I was that happy----”

“Why, Larry!”

“I found ’em, sir.” Now his face was fairly purple with joy.

“You found them!” repeated his master. “Well, that _is_ luck!”

“Here, sir.” Larry produced a slender purse of brown seal from the inside pocket of his coat. “You was gone before I could tell you.”

“Are you sure it’s Miss Unger’s?” asked Phil.

“I haven’t looked into it, sir.”

Seated, heads together, they opened the purse. “Two, four, six, seven,” counted Phil, lifting the crisp bills when he had flattened them out. “Sure enough! Well, Larry, you light the lamps, and we’ll make The Lilacs two-forty. I’ll wait at the side gate; and don’t you say anything about my being there. I couldn’t go in. Just ask for Miss Unger and hand her the purse.”

“Me, sir?” asked Larry. “_Me_ take it to the Princess?”

“Yes. We won’t let her stay worried a second longer than we can help. Here--put the purse into your pocket again. Miss Unger has offered a reward, Larry, but I’ll give you the hundred myself. I’d rather. Are we ready? Good!” The car went forward at a bound.

“Bless you, sir, I don’t want no reward,” the man answered. “Why, it’s reward enough just to have her talk to me, sir, for ten minutes, maybe, and thank me, and--and smile. Many’s the time I’ve looked at her, sir, like I’d look at a beautiful star, and I’ve said to myself, ‘I’d like to have a missis like her.’”

“Oh, you would.” The car came to a stop at Mrs. Vander Laan’s side gate.

“Yes, sir--you’ll excuse me, sir,” added Larry quickly. The gravity and thoughtfulness in the other’s tone seemed very like reproof. Then the groom sprang down from his seat and was off toward the house at a run.

He was breathless when he reached the servants’ entrance. But while he waited he recovered his breath instead of imparting his good news to the maid who welcomed him. Also (that same maid remarked upon it afterward), he twirled his hat constantly, refused to sit down, and kept wetting his lips as if he were nervous. Then--he was in the old-fashioned, dimly-lighted drawing-room, his hat revolving steadily and his tongue cloven to the roof of his mouth.

She came presently, sweeping through a door at the farther end of the long, high room. She was in pink--a cloudy pink that set off her loveliness marvelously. And as she advanced toward him Larry forgot to do anything but look.

“You wish to see me?” she asked.

“Y-Yes, Miss. You lost a purse this mornin’.”

“Yes.”

“I found it, Miss.”

She gave a cry of delight. “You found it! Oh, I’m _so_ glad!”

Larry hung his hat between his knees, despite the fact that these were trembling. Then he held out a coat-lapel with one hand and reached into an inner pocket with the other. “Here, Miss,” he said proudly, and laid the purse upon the table beside which she stood; after that he recovered his hat.

She caught the purse up with another little cry--an inarticulate cry. Then she turned and walked swiftly to the yellow-shaded candelabrum on a second table at the farther end of the long room. Here she opened the purse, leaning down with her back toward him.

It was fully a minute before she straightened and turned and came toward him once more, slowly, the bills in her hand. As she paused near him, something--a change in her carriage or her look--made him retreat a step.

“Where did you find it?” she asked brusquely.

“Not ten feet from where the wagon stood, Miss. It must ’a’ fell in turnin’.”

She was silent a moment. Then, “So you knew where the wagon stood,” she commented. There was no attempt to hide the meaning in her voice.

“I--I seen where you was,” stammered Larry, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Indeed! You were present at the game, then?”

“Yes, Miss. After the ladies and gents went I goes across to that side--ridin’. There she laid, big as life.”

“I see.” She walked to and fro a few steps. After a little she paused in her walk and spoke again: “You know of the reward, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, Miss, but----”

She interrupted him. Her eyes were angry, her slender figure was rigid, as if with some sudden resolution. “Why did you wait until now?” she demanded. “It’s after seven o’clock. You knew it was mine.”

“When Jim told me about the advertisement I did, Miss, and I says to myself, ‘Wasn’t you a crazy not to guess whose it was?’ I says. But, you see, I was on the other side of the field most of the time.”

“_Most_ of the time,” she repeated, a little sneeringly. “Were you near the wagon at all?”

Her reference was plain. He rubbed at his chin with the back of a shaking hand. “Well, I--I held Miss Townsend’s team a bit,” he admitted huskily.