HE was a handsome, middle-aged woman, with prematurely white hair, and carried herself with a proud self-reliance that was accentuated by the firm contour of her jaw. So much the first glance would have shown you, the second would have revealed eyes softened by tears, a mouth made flexible and human by experience, and if you happen to be a woman, you would have noted her exquisite, tailor-made gown and the richness of her sable collar.
She entered the cable car at Tenth street with the uneasy step of one unaccustomed to such modes of conveyance. Not a seat was vacant and even the available standing room was taken up. An expression half-patient, half-disappointed crossed her aristocratic face, but was rapidly changed to one of strained anxiety as the car bounded and backed up Broadway.
“Madam,” said a voice at her side, “oblige me by taking this seat.”
She turned gratefully toward the speaker, a tall man with iron-gray distinguished bearing and a jaw as determined as her own. Her eyes of velvet-brown met his of steady blue. “Fred! she gasped, letting go the strap to which she had been clinging. The car lurched and she fell into her benefactor's arms.
“Ellen!” he exclaimed, catching her as he steadied himself against the door.
The other passengers looked up, puzzled smiles flitted from face to face. The strangely united couple separated awkwardly; an embarrassed silence ensued and was followed by a conversation even more self-conscious.
“You are looking well,” she observed, distantly, but with a hot flush burning her cheeks.
“Yes,” he answered, pulling at his mustache savagely; “I am quite—I may say perfectly—well. And you?—but it is needless to ask.”
“Thank you, quite well.” She attempted a smile that died painfully, and he hastened to speak again.
“You are in town late this year. I thought—er—you spent your Winters in Santa Barbara”
“Yes,” she interrupted, “usually. Berkley is there now—he loves the polo and wouldn't miss a game. I stayed later this year to see the Mitchells on their return from Europe. It is—" and she faltered a little—“Dudley well?” The yearning that into her eyes was beyond her control.
“Would you,” he said, hesitatingly, “would you take afternoon tea with me at the Waldorf?—we are almost there. We can talk—er—of Berkley.”
She hesitated a moment and nodded. “Yes—of Berkley and Dudley. I think,” she glanced at the jeweled watch that hung at her belt, “we have time.”
“Thank you,” he said, with grave courtesy.
Stopping the car at the next crossing he assisted her to alight, while the interested passengers stared and commented.
It was growing dark, and a fine snow, the first of the season, was powdering the passing throng and adding its white blear to the growing darkness. With an almost boyish diffidence he offered her his arm, and with a deepening flush she accepted it. A short block brought them to the brilliantly lighted doors of the hotel, and a moment later they had settled themselves before a tiny corner table, surrounded by chattering, tea-drinking throng, interspersed with palms backgrounded by walls of a cool, cream-colored tone, domed in with glass and gold. In spite of her composure the lady's brown eyes traveled anxiously over the occupants of the room. Wonder of wonders! not a woman of her acquaintance was to be seen. Her companion stared about him as if the scene were a novelty.
“Pretty room, this,” he commented.
She started. It seemed strange that he should not know surroundings so familiar to every New Yorker. Then she recalled the many years that had elapsed since she had last seen him—since he had last seen his native land. She launched forth into idle comment, wondering at her frivolity while her heart beat painfully, foolishly against the expensive tailor jacket. When their orders were filled and the obsequious waiter had retired to a distance, silence fell between them.
“”Hm—er—Van Baugh—no, I simply can't call you that, Ellen,” he broke off. “Here is a new picture of Dudley. taken just before I left England.” He drew a photograph from his pocket and handed it to her.
She fairly snatched it and held it gloatingly before her.
“How handsome!” she said, proudly; “he has your eyes.”
“He in very like you, though,” he observed, “and grows more so every day. He reminds me of you in countless little ways, habits and expressions—nameless things that make individuality.”