"Come on, Harry, into my room," urged Dicky, taking him by the arm.
"I've got a special brand cached in there, and had to hide it so mein
frau wouldn't drink it up."
I suppose my face reflected the dismay I felt at this intimation that
the women would begin drinking so early. I feared for the repetition
of the experience of Friday evening. But the laws of conventions and
hospitality bound me. I felt that I could not protest. Mrs. Underwood
apparently had no such scruples. She clutched Dicky by the arm and
swung him around facing her.
"Now, see here, my Dicky-bird," she began, "you begin this special
bottle kind of business and I walk out of here. I should think you and
Harry would have had enough of this the other evening. We came over
here today for a little visit, and tonight we'll sit on either the
water wagon or the beer wagon, just as Mrs. Graham says. But you boys
won't start any of these special drinks, or I'll know the reason why."
"Oh, cut it out, Lil," her husband said, not crossly, but
mechanically, as if it were a phrase he often used. But Dicky laughed
down at her, although I knew by the look in his eyes that he was much
annoyed.
"All right, Lil," he said easily. "I suppose Madge will fall in
gratitude on your neck for this when she gets you into the seclusion
of her room. You haven't any objection to our having a teenty-weenty
little smoke, have you, mamma dear?"
"Go as far as you like," she returned, ignoring the sneers.
As I turned and led the way to my room, I was conscious of curiously
mingled emotions. Relief at the elimination of the special bottle with
its inevitable consequences and resentment that Dicky should so
weakly obey the dictum of another woman, battled with each other. But
stronger than either was a dawning wonder. From the conversation I
had overheard in the theatre dressing-room and trifling things in
Mrs. Underwood's own conduct, I had been led to believe that she was
sentimentally interested in Dicky, and that some time in the future
I might have to battle with her for his affections. But her speech to
him which I had just heard savored more of the mother laying down
the law to a refractory child than it did of anything approaching
sentiment. Could it be, I told myself, that I had been mistaken?
Our husbands looked exceedingly comfortable when we rejoined them, for
they were smoking vigorously and discussing the merits of two boxers
Mr. Underwood had recently seen. As we entered the room both men,
of course, sprang to their feet, and I had a moment's opportunity to
contrast their appearance.
Dicky is slender, lithe, with merry brown eyes and thick, brown hair,
with a touch of auburn in it, and just enough suspicion of a curl to
give him several minutes' hard brushing each day trying to keep it
down. Harry Underwood, taller even than Dicky, who is above the medium
height, is massive in frame, well built, muscular, with black hair
tinged with gray, and the blackest, most piercing eyes I have ever
seen. I was proud of Dicky as I stood looking at them, while
Lillian exchanged some merry nonsense with Dicky, but I also had to
acknowledge that Harry Underwood was a splendid specimen of manhood.
As if he had read my thoughts, his eyes caught mine and held them. To
all appearances he was listening to the banter of Dicky and his wife,
but there was an inscrutable look in his eyes, an enigmatical smile
upon his lips, as he looked at me that vaguely troubled me. His
glance, his smile, seemed significant somehow, as if we were old
friends who held some humorous experience in common remembrance. And I