FullReads

“Don’t mention it. You see, it was a matter of pride with me. And now it’s up to me to state that if there’s anything in particular you’d like me to mention about the deceased gentleman or lady—-“

Dryden sighed at the reminder, “One of the loveliest and most pure-hearted of women.”

“That shall go down,” said the reporter, mistaking the apostrophe for an answer, and he drew a note-book from his side pocket.

Dryden raised his hand by way of protest. “I was merely thinking aloud. No, we must trust you.”

Harrington bowed. He hesitated, then by way of noticing the plural allusion in the speech added: “It was your young lady’s look which wounded me the most. And she said something. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what she said? It wasn’t flattering, I’m sure of that, but it was on the tip of her tongue. I admit I’m mildly curious as to what it was.”

Dryden reflected a moment. “You’ve written your article?” he asked, indicating the note-book.

“It’s all mapped out in my mind, and I’ve finished the introduction.”

“I won’t ask to see it because we trust you. But I’ll make a compact with you.” Dryden held out a cigar to his adversary and proceeded to light one for himself. “Supposing what the lady said referred to something which you have written there, would you agree to cut it out?”

Harrington looked gravely knowing. “You think you can tell what I have written?” he asked, tapping his note-book.

Dryden took a puff. “Very possibly not. I am merely supposing. But in case the substance of her criticism–for she did criticise–should prove to be almost word for word identical with something in your handwriting–would you agree?”

Harrington shrugged his shoulders. “Against the automobile as a stake, if it proves not to be?” he inquired by way of expressing his incredulity.

“Gladly.”

“Let it be rather against another luncheon with you as agreeable as this.”

“Done. I will write her exact language here on this piece of paper and then we will exchange copy.”

Harrington sat pleasantly amused, yet puzzled, while Dryden wrote and folded the paper. Then he proffered his note-book with nervous alacrity. “Read aloud until you come to the place,” he said jauntily.

Dryden scanned for a moment the memoranda, then looked up. “It is all here at the beginning, just as she prophesied,” he said, with a promptness which was almost radiant, and he read as follows: “The dual funeral of Miss Josephine Ward, the leading society girl, and Richard Upton, the well-known club man, took place this morning at–” He paused and said: “Read now what you have there.”

Harrington flushed, then scowled, but from perplexity. He was seeking enlightenment before he proceeded further, so he unfolded the paper with a deliberation unusual to him, which afforded time to Dryden to remark with clear precision:

“Those were her very words.”

Harrington read aloud: “‘Look at that man; he is taking notes. Oh, he will describe them in his newspaper as a leading society girl and a well-known club man, and they will turn in their graves. If you love me, stop it.'”

There was a brief pause. The reporter pondered, visibly chagrined and disappointed. The silence was broken by Dryden. “Do you not understand?” he inquired.

“Frankly, I do not altogether. I–I thought they’d like it.”

“Of course you did, my dear fellow; there’s the ghastly humor of it; the dire tragedy, rather.” As he spoke he struck his closed hand gently but firmly on the table, and regarded the reporter with the compressed lips of one who is about to vent a long pent-up grievance.

“He was in four clubs; I looked him up,” Harrington still protested in dazed condition.

“And they seemed to you his chief title to distinction? You thought they did him honor? He would have writhed in his grave, as Miss Mayberry said. Like it? When the cheap jack or the social climber dies, he may like it, but not the gentleman or lady. Leading society girl? Why, every shop-girl who commits suicide is immortalized in the daily press as ‘a leading society girl,’ and every deceased Tom, Dick, or Harry has become a ‘well-known club man.’ It has added a new terror to death. Thank God, my friends will be spared!”