Torchy and Vee
"You may," says I, "and then again--Well, I've seen wiser guys than you
rushed off their feet by fluffy young parties whose whole stock in trade
was a pair of misbehavin' eyes."
"Pooh!" says Peyton. "I've been exposed to that sort of thing as often
as anyone. I think I'm immune."
"Maybe you are," I has to admit.
So as I tows Peyton out to the house that afternoon I kind of hands it
to myself that I've filled Vee's order. And there standing on the front
veranda admirin' the lilacs is Lucy Lee in one of her plain little
frocks--a pink and white check--lookin' as fresh and dainty and
inexpensive as a prize exhibit from an orphan asylum.
I whispers to Vee on the side: "Well, you see I got him. Peyton's
someone she can practice on, too, and no harm done. He's case
hardened."
"Really," says Vee, lookin' him over.
"Admits it himself," says I.
"Oh, well, then!" says Vee, with one of her quizzin' smiles.
And at first it looked like Peyton was about to qualify as an all-'round
exempt. He barely seemed to see Lucy Lee. While she was unreelin' the
sprightly chatter he was inspectin' the baby, or talkin' with Vee, or
askin' fool questions about the garden. Hardly takes a second glance at
Lucy Lee. I expect he had her sized up as about sixteen. He could easy
make that mistake.
Maybe that's what started her in on this brisk offensive at dinner.
Nothing high-school girly about Lucy Lee when she floats down the stairs
at 7:15. It's a grown-up evenin' gown she's wearin' this time. No doubt
then whether or not she'd had her comin' out. The only question was
where she was going to stop comin' out. Not that it wasn't simple
enough, but it sure was skimpy above the belt.
After his first gasp you could see Peyton sittin' up and takin' notice.
Couldn't very well help it, either, for Lucy Lee sure had the net out. I
hadn't noticed them big innocent eyes of hers brought into full play
before but now she cuts loose regardless. And Peyton, he is right in
range. She's givin' him samples of them Oh-you-great-big-wonderful man
looks. You know. And inside of ten minutes Peyton don't know whether
he's bein' passed the peas or is being elected second vice-president of
something.
And I'd always classed Peyton as a cold storage proposition! You should
see the way he thaws out, though. Why, he tells funny stories, throws
off repartee, and spreads himself generally. That long sallow face of
his got tinted up like he'd had a beauty parlor treatment, and his
serious eyes got to sparklin' behind the thick panes.
As for Vee and me, we swapped an amused glance now and then and enjoyed
the performance. After the coffee, when Lucy Lee has led him out on the
east terrace to see the full moon come up, they just naturally camped
down in a swing seat and opened up the confidential chat. By the deep
rumble we could tell that Peyton was carryin' the big end of the
conversation.
"I know," says I. "Lucy Lee is makin' him tell how he's goin' to have
Wall Street eatin' out of his hand some day, and every once in a while
she's remarkin': 'Why, Mr. Pratt! I think you're wonderful; simp-ly
wonderful!'"
"But I thought you said," puts in Vee, "that he was--er--case hardened?"
"Oh, he's just playin' the game," says I. "Maybe it's gone to his head a
little tonight, but when it comes time to duck--You'll see."
One of my pet notions has always been that breakfast time is the true
acid test for this romance stuff. Specially for girls. But next morning
Lucy Lee shows up in another little gingham effect, lookin' as fresh and
smilin' as a bed of tulips. And the affair continues right on from
there. It lasts all day and all that evenin' except when Lucy Lee was
makin' another quick change, which she does about four times accordin'
to my count. And each costume is complete--dress, hat, shoes, stockings
all matchin'. The only restless motions Peyton makes, too, are durin'
these brief waits.
"Entertainin' young party, eh?" I suggests to him as Lucy Lee does one
of her sudden flits.
"A most interesting and charming girl," says Peyton.
"Some class, too. What?" I adds.
"If you mean that she dresses in excellent taste, I agree with you,"
says he. "Such absolute simplicity, and yet----" Peyton spreads out his
hands eloquent. "Why can't all girls do that?" he asks. "It would
be--er--such a saving. I've no doubt she makes them all herself."
"If she does," says I, "she must have put in a busy winter."
"Oh, I don't know," says Peyton. "They're all such simple little things.
And then, you know--or possibly you don't--that Lucy--er--I mean Miss
Vaughn, is a surprisingly capable young woman. Really. There's so much
more to her than appears on the surface."
"Tut, tut, Peyton!" says I. "Ain't you gettin' in kind of deep?"
"Don't be absurd, Torchy," says he. "Just because I show a little
natural interest in a charming young woman it doesn't follow that----"
"Look!" says I. "Someone's givin' you the come-on signal."
Course, it's Lucy Lee. She's changed to an afternoon costume, sort of an
old blue effect with not a frill or a ruffle in sight but with
everything toned in, from the spider-webby hat to the suede slippers.
And all she has to do to bring Peyton alongside is to tilt her chin
invitin'.
We only caught glimpses of 'em the whole afternoon. And that Sunday
evenin' the porch swing worked overtime again. I know both Vee and me
did a lot of yawnin' before they finally drifts in. I'd never seen
Peyton quite so chirky. He even goes so far as to smoke a cigarette. And
next mornin', as he leaves reluctant with me to catch the 8:03 express,
he stops me at the gate to give me the hearty grip.
"I say, old man," says he husky, "I--I never can tell you how grateful I
am for--for what you've done."
"Then let's forget it," says I.
"Forget!" says he, smilin' mushy. "Never!"
At lunch time he asks me which of the Fifth Avenue photographers I think
is the best.
"Eh?" says I, grinnin'. "Thinkin' of havin' yourself mugged and sendin'
the result to somebody in a silver frame?"
"Well," says he draggy, "I--I've been meaning to have some pictures
taken for several years, and now----"
"Got you," says I. "But if you want something real swell let me tow you
to a place I know of on Fifty-fifth."
Honest, I wasn't thinking about the Maison Noir at the time or that it
was just next door. In fact, it was Peyton himself who stops in front of
the show window and grabs me by the arm.
"I say!" says he, pointin' in at the exhibit. "See--see there."
He's pointin' to a display of checked gingham frocks, blue and white and
pink and white, with hats to match.
"Yes," says I, "do look sort of familiar, don't they?"
"Why," he goes on, "they're almost exactly like those of--of Lucy's; the
same simple lines, the same material and everything."
"Classy stuff," says I. "Come along, though. The picture place is next
door, upstairs."
Peyton still stands there gawpin'. "Such a coincidence," he's murmurin'.
"I wonder, Torchy, if one could find out about how much they ask for
such things in a place like this."
"Easiest thing in the world," says I. "Just blow in and get 'em to give
you quotations."
"Oh, but I wouldn't dare do that," says he. "It would seem so--so----"
"Not at all," says I. "As it happens, this joint is one where Vee does
more or less shoppin', when she's feelin' flush, and I've often been
with her. If you're curious we'll breeze in and get their prices."
Peyton was right there with the curiosity, too. And the lady vamp with
the long string of beads danglin' from her neck didn't seem to think it
odd for us to be interested in checked ginghams.
"Ah, yes-s-s!" says she, throwin' open the back doors of the show
window. "Zey are great bargains, those. Marked down but las' week. Thees
wan--m-m-m-m--only $68; but wiz ze hat also, $93."
And the gasp that gets out of Peyton sounds like openin' an airbrake.
"Nine-ty three dollars!" says he. "For a simple little thing like that?
Why, that seems to be rather exorbitant!"
"Mais non!" says the lady vamp, shruggin' her shoulders. "They are what
you call simple, yes. But they are chic, too. One considers that. Las'
week come a young lady from Atlanta who in one hour takes two dozen at
once, and more next day. You see!"
Peyton was beginning to see. But he wanted to be dead sure. "From
Atlanta?" says he. "Not--not a--a Miss Vaughn?"
"Mais oui!" says Madame, clappin' her hands enthusiastic. "The ver' one.
You know her? Yes?"
"I--I thought I did," says Peyton, sort of weak, as he starts for the
door.
He calls off the picture proposition. Says he ain't quite in the mood.
And all that day he seems to have something on his mind that he couldn't
unload. Three or four times he seems to be just on the point of statin'
it to me but never can quite get a start. And next day he's a good deal
the same. He was like that when I left the office about 4 p.m. to catch
an early train. I could about guess what was troublin' him.
So I wasn't much surprised, just before dinner to see Peyton appearin'
at our front gate.
"I--I'm sure I don't know what you'll think of me, Torchy," he begins
apologizing "but I--I just had to----"
"Too bad!" says I. "You're only four hours late. Lucy Lee left for Lenox
on the 2:10."
"Gone!" says he. "But I thought----"
"Yes, she did plan to stay longer," says I, "but it was a bit slow for
her here, and when she got a wire that a certain Captain Wright was to
be at his sister's for a few days' furlough--Well, inside of an hour she
and her maid had packed and were on their way. Oh, yes, and there goes
the rest of Lucy Lee's baggage now."
The express truck was just rollin' around from the side door. Peyton
stares at the load goggle-eyed. "But--but you don't mean that all of
those trunks are hers?" he demands.
"Uh-huh," says I. "I helped strap 'em up. And one of them wardrobes,
Peyton, carries about twenty-five of those little checked dresses. The
hats go in the square affair, and the shoes in the steamer trunk.
Thirty-eight pairs, I believe. Just enough for a week-end. Then in that
bulgy-topped trunk----"
But Peyton ain't listenin'. He's just standin' there, with a dazed,
stunned look in his eyes like he'd just been missed by an express train.
But his lips are movin'. I got the idea. He was doin' mental
arithmetic--twenty-five times ninety-three. And he was gettin' a picture
of a thousand dollar income lyin' flat on its back.
When he comes to be asks me faint when he can get back to town. No, he
won't stay for dinner. "Thank you," says he, "but I couldn't. I'm too
much upset. I fear that I--I've made a dreadful mistake, Torchy."
"About Lucy Lee?" says I. "Don't worry. All you've done is come near
contributin' another silver frame to her collection. You just happened
to find a free field, that's all. Otherwise it would have been a case
where you'd stood in line."
Course Peyton don't believe a word of it. He still thinks he's had a
desperate affair. He don't know whether he's safe yet or not. All he can
see is rows and rows of figures assaultin' that poor little expense book
of his. I expect he thinks he's entitled to wear a wound stripe over his
heart.
Yesterday we had a bread-and-butter note from Lucy Lee mostly telling
what a whale of a time she was havin' up at Lenox.
"Anything about Peyton?" I asks.
"Why, no," says Vee. "But she says the dear captain is----"
"I know," says I. "Simp-ly wonderful."
CHAPTER XII
TORCHY MEETS ELLERY BEAN
Course, I was sayin' it mostly to kid Vee along. I expect I'm nearly as
strong for this suburban life stuff as she is, but whenever she gets a
bit gushy about it, which she's apt to such nights as we've been havin'