CHAPTER XVII

Thus ended the might-have-beens. And the thing that Patricia had taken to be the phantom of romance went up in the smoke of John Doe's fire. Mortimer Crabb never volunteered any information as to how he got the letters, nor any information as to what became of Heywood Pennington. For one horrible moment the thought crossed Patricia's brain that perhaps there had never been any letters of hers in the package her husband had burned, but she dismissed it at once as reflecting unpleasantly upon the quality of her intelligence. But one thing was sure, she now had an adequate understanding of the mind of her husband. It was the only misunderstanding they had ever had and Patricia knew there would never be another. Mr. Pennington did not appear again and so far as this veracious history is concerned, after his departure from New York, may have gone at once to Jericho. Patricia ceased to think of him, not because he was not present, but because thinking of him reminded her that she had been a fool, and no woman with the reputation for cleverness which Patricia possessed, could afford to make such an admission even to herself. She was now sure of several things--that she loved Mortimer Crabb with all her heart--and that she would never all her life long love anyone else. She might flirt, yes--nay more, she _must_ flirt. What was the use spending one's life in bringing an art to the perfection Patricia had attained and then suddenly forswearing it? Fortunately her husband did not require that of her. He never quite knew what she was going to do next, but he never really mistrusted her. And to Patricia's credit it may be said that she never caused pain and that if she flirted--she sometimes did--it was in a good cause.

The building of the country place had gone forward during the winter, and early summer found them installed there. Beginning with the housewarming, which was memorable, guests came and went and upon them all Patricia practiced her altruism which, since the adventure with John Doe, had taken a somewhat different character. Yet even among these she found work for her busy hands to do.

It happened that among their guests the Crabbs had staying with them as a remnant of the housewarming party a young girl who, because she was only a little younger than Patricia in years, but centuries younger in knowledge of the world, had become one of her most treasured friends.

Little Miss North loved her, too--looked up to her as the ignorant do to the wise, and when her engagement to the Baron DeLaunay was announced Aurora came and told Patricia even before she told her family. Yet Patricia's shrewd mind found something wrong and she urged the girl to come and join her housewarming for the sole reason of finding out the true inwardness of the engagement, and perhaps, too--who shall say?--to practice her arts again.

After a day or two of mild questioning, of studying, of watching, she began to see light.

Then she invited the Baron for a week end, and made certain preparations.

Then she waited his arrival with her nerves tingling.

She met her husband and the Baron at the steps as they ascended from the machine which brought them from the station.

"Ah monsieur! so glad! I was wondering if you'd be here in time for tea."

"Wild horses could not have detained me longer, from a glimpse of your _beaux yeux_, Madame."

He bent forward with a handsome gesture and kissed the tips of Patricia's fingers, but she laughed gaily.

"Don't waste pretty speeches, Baron. Besides----" she paused significantly and pointed toward the door through which her husband's shoulders had disappeared, "she is there," she finished.

"_Hélas!_" The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders expressively; then straightened and showed his teeth in a smile.

"Since my speeches are wasted, I will follow you in, Madame."

Patricia paused.

"All the world loves a lover--even I----"

"Yes--yes----"

"If I could be sure that you loved----"

"You?"

"Her," sternly.

He shrugged again, "Ah, yes--I love her--of course! Why, otherwise, should I wish to marry her?"

"I wonder," slowly, "why you speak of my _beaux yeux_?" she said thoughtfully.

"Because I cannot help it----"

"A lover should be blind," she put in.

"Like a husband?" he asked, significantly.

"Like a wife," she corrected, soberly.

He followed her indoors, where Aurora met them at the door of the library.

"Tea, Aurora," she announced. "Will you pour it? Mort and I will be in in a moment."

She hovered in the doorway insistently until she saw DeLaunay safely seated on the davenport at the tea-table by Aurora's side, and only then she departed in the direction of the smoking room.

Mortimer Crabb was drinking a glass of whiskey and water. At the sound of his wife's voice he turned.

"Did you get it, Mort?" she asked.

For reply he fumbled in the pockets of his dust-coat and brought forth a small package.

"Oh, yes. Here it is. Pretty insignificant affair to make such a fuss about," and he handed it to her.

"It's the little things that mean the most, my dear husband--like that," she said significantly, "and this," and she kissed him for his reward.

He held her away from him and looked at her good-humoredly--the quizzical humor that was characteristic of him.

"You never kiss me unless you're up to some mischief, Patty."

"Then you ought to be glad I'm mischievous, Mort. It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good."

"H--m. Why all the mystery? Can't you tell a fellow?"

She shook her head.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because then you don't know as much as I do."

"Why shouldn't I?" he protested. "I'm your husband."

"Because if you knew as much as I do----" She paused. "You know, Mort, it's only the ignorant husband who's entirely, blissfully happy."

"I'm not so sure about that," he laughed.

"Aren't you happy, Mort?" she asked.

"Ah, hang it, yes. But----"

"Then there's nothing left to be said," and she kissed him again.

"I can't understand----"

She laid resisting fingers on his arm.

"Of course you can't. That's one of your charms, Mort, dear. It's much better for a woman to be misunderstood. The husband who 'understands' his wife is on the highway to purgatory. Ask no more questions. If I answer them I surely will lie to you."

"What the deuce can Daggett and McDade be doing for you. They're job-printers. They don't engrave your cards or stationery or anything----"

"N----o," with a rising inflection.

"Well--what?"

"I needed some printing."

"Well, why not go to Tiffany's? The idea of your sending me away over on the East side----"

"They're such adorable printers, Mort."

"Who ever heard of a printer being adorable? Fudge! What's the game now? Can't you tell a fellow?"

"No," firmly.

Crabb always recognized the note of finality in his wife's voice, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and followed her with his eyes as she blew another kiss in his direction and vanished up the stairs.

In the privacy of her own room Patricia did some cryptic things with newspapers, a pair of scissors, and the package from the adorable printers, and when she had finished, she folded up the newspapers, with their mysterious contents, including the scissors, and with a fleeting glance at herself in the mirror, went down stairs.

She entered the library noiselessly and after a glance at her guests at the tea-table, she slipped her package into the drawer of the library table and joined them.

"How envious you make me--you two," she sighed, sinking into a chair, "you're so satisfied with yourselves--and with each other."

DeLaunay smiled and fingered his tea-cup.

"Would you have it otherwise?" he asked.

"Oh, no," she said lightly, "I'm a professional nursery governess to polite and well-meaning persons of opposite sexes. Nursery governesses are not permitted emotions or opinions of any kind, my dears."

"But even nursery governesses are human, I am told," said DeLaunay, showing his white teeth.

"Are they? _My_ governesses never were. They were all inhuman--like me. The sight of youthful license arouses all my professional instincts. That's why I'm in such demand by despairing mothers of romantic heiresses."

"Patty! you're horrid." Aurora's heavily lidded eyes opened wide. "I'm not romantic--not in the least--and I'm _not_ an heiress----"

"Oh," said Patricia.

"At least," Aurora amended, "not in the modern sense. But it wouldn't matter to Louis or to me if we--really had to work for our living. I'm so anxious to be of some use in the world. Oh, we've planned that already, haven't we, Louis?"

"Yes," said DeLaunay, crisply, with a glance of defiance in his eye for Patricia. "We have planned that."

Patricia's lips twisted, but she said nothing.

"I sometimes think, Patty," went on Aurora, "that you're a little unsympathetic. Won't you really like to see us married?"

Patricia laughed. "Oh, yes--but not to each other."

"Why not?"

"You're too much in love, dear, for one thing. _C'est si bourgeois--n'est-ce-pas, Baron?_ Things are arranged better in France?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Your customs in America are very pleasant ones," he replied, imperturbably. "I am indeed fortunate to find myself so much in accord with them."

Aurora gave him a rapturous glance for reward, and he took her fingers in his in calm defiance of his pretty hostess.

Patricia put down her finished tea-cup with a laugh and rose.

"Then I can't dismay you--either of you?"

Aurora smiled scornfully.

"Not in the least--can she, Louis?"

"Not in the least," he repeated.

"Oh, very well, your blood upon your own heads."

"Or in our hearts, Madame," corrected DeLaunay, with a bow.

"Come, Aurora," smiled Patricia, "it's time to dress."

* * * * *

Patricia spent some time and some thought upon her toilet. Deep sea-green was her color, for it matched her eyes, which to-night were unfathomable. In the midst of her dainty occupation she turned her head over her shoulder and called her husband. Mortimer Crabb appeared in the door of his dressing-room which adjoined, one side of his face shaved, the other white with lather.

"What is it?" he mumbled.

Patricia contemplated the back of her head at the dressing-table by the aid of a hand mirror, removed the hairpins one by one from her mouth and deliberately placed them before she replied.

"Mort," she said, slowly, "I want you to take Aurora out for a ride in the motor----"

"To-night! Oh, I say, Patty----"

"To-night," she said, firmly. "I'll arrange it. It will be dark and you're going to lose your way----"

"How do you know I am?"

"Because I tell you so, stupid! You've _got_ to lose your way--for three hours."

He looked at her shrewdly.

"What's up now? Tell me, won't you? I'm tired of rolling over and playing dead. I am. Besides, what can I do with that girl for three hours?"

"Oh, I don't care," said Patricia. "Tell her stories--romantic ones. She likes those. Anything--make love to her if you like."

"So DeLaunay can make love to _you_," peevishly. "I see. I'm not going to stand for it. I'm not any too keen on that fellow as it is. He's neglecting Aurora shamefully----"

"It _is_ careless of him, isn't it?" she said, tilting her head back to get another angle on her head-dress.

Crabb took a step nearer, brandishing his safety razor in righteous indignation.

"It's a shame, I tell you. You don't seem to have any conscience or any sense of proportion. You'd flirt with a cigar-Indian if there wasn't anything else around. Why can't you leave these young people alone? Do you think I like the idea of your spending the evening here snug and warm with that Frenchman while I'm shuttling around with that silly girl in the dark?"

"Mortimer, you're ungallant! What has poor Aurora ever done to you?" She turned in her chair, looked at him, and then burst into laughter. He watched her with a puzzled frown. He never knew exactly how to take Patricia when she laughed at him.

"If you only knew how funny you look, Mort, dear. There's a smudge of soap on the end of your nose and you look like a charlotte russe." She rose slowly, put her fingers on his arm, and looked up into his eyes with a very winning expression.

"Don't be silly, dear," she said, softly. "You know you said you weren't going to doubt me again--ever. I know what I'm about. I have a duty, a sacred duty to perform and you're going to take your share of it."

"A duty?"

She nodded. "You're not to know until it's all over. You mustn't question, you're to be good and do exactly what I tell you to do. Won't you, Mort? There, I knew you would. It's such a little thing to do."

She leaned as close to him as she could without getting soap on her face.

"I'll tell you a secret if you'll promise to be nice. I don't like the man--really I don't--not at all."

He looked in her eyes and believed her. "You always get your way in the end, don't you?" he said, after a pause.

"Of course I do. What would be the _use_ of a way, if one didn't _have_ it?"

That seemed unanswerable logic, so Crabb grinned.

"You're a queer one, Patty," which, as Patricia knew, meant that she was the most extraordinary and wonderful of persons. So she smiled at the back of his head as he went out because she agreed with him.