Joan and Co.

For a week Joan tried at odd times to get hold of Dicky, but as near as she could make out, there was not a busier man in New York. In just what way he was busy she could not discover. He was never in when she telephoned, and in reply to a note he answered only that it took so much time trying to see that his father did not play too much golf that he was left with scarcely a minute of his own. Under those circumstances, and some others, she was glad enough when her father proposed a couple of weeks at Atlantic City. So they motored down there and stopped at the Traymore. It was just before the season, so that the Board Walk was not yet too crowded to be unpleasant and one could still sit on the hotel deck in decent seclusion. Here she relaxed and baked herself in the sun or listened to the band concerts on the Pier, gazing out to sea. It was an indolent, hazy existence, and was undoubtedly just what she needed.

The one disturbing factor was the long letters she received every morning from Devons. He was glad she had left town. He saw now that the strain of the last month had told on her, and he blamed himself for that. He should not have allowed her to undertake anything so arduous. She was not accustomed to anything of the sort. She was not hardened to it as Miss Manning was. The latter made no effort and left the office at night as fresh as when she came in. She was proving very satisfactory.

When Devons talked of her like that he was repeating almost the very words of her mother. He was quite as blind as the latter had been—quite as narrow. He had failed utterly to realize what these months had really meant to her. It was not the work which had worried her, but his attitude toward it. And from him she had looked for something different. She had expected him to understand her—to see the facts her mother and Dicky had missed. She had been happy—supremely happy—with the joy that comes of service. That is the only happiness that lasts—that can perpetuate itself. For a little while she had felt herself useful, and it was this that had given significance to those days. To be sure, she had done a very little, and perhaps had not done that little as well as Miss Manning was doing it. But that little—he had permitted Miss Manning to take that little away from her. There was nothing left. That is what she felt as he wrote to her. There was nothing left between them to give point to his later letters.

For the next few days he talked only of Hartley. He admired the man. He stood almost in awe of the way he was taking hold of the business and pushing through the negotiations with Burnett.

“Hartley is a genius,” he wrote. “And his man Starling shows the result of training under him. The two are putting in ten hours a day and I am spending most of my time with them. I’m turning out only just enough enamel for Hartley to use because it seems a waste of time to putter around in a small way after listening to the plans they have ahead. And the letters are coming in every day clamoring for the stuff. I tell you, Joan, we have a market bigger than I ever realized. We’ve got them going.

“There isn’t much doubt but what we’ll get the Burnett plant. The only question is one of price and Hartley is driving a sharp bargain.”

And so on and so on and so on. Those details did not interest her in the slightest. She frowned at every mention of the name of Burnett. There were times when she felt as though involved in some plot against him—and against the little woman she had met who was so proud of Dicky and against Dicky himself. She wished Dicky would write to her. She had dropped him a note saying that she was going to Atlantic City and hoped to hear from him. But she did not hear. At the end of a week she was going through her morning mail looking for his boyish handwriting with an eagerness that surprised her. When instead of that she found the businesslike scrawl of Devons, she was always brought up with something of a shock. It was odd, but down here the whole affair with Devons was fast becoming more and more a detached episode. It was probably due to the fact that it began so abruptly and ended so abruptly and had so little to do with her present existence, while Dicky went back in her life several years. Then, too, one could not imagine Devons here without spoiling him. On the other hand, this was just the sort of place into which Dicky would fit. He would like nothing better than to sprawl out in a steamer chair beside her with a rug over his knees and talk of nothing in particular. She would like to hear him talk again of nothing in particular.

Then when finally the deal was consummated—Devons sent her a wire the day the purchase of the Burnett plant was made—he began to write an entirely different sort of letter. She had anticipated this. She had dreaded just this. Her cheeks burned as she read the first one—burned with shame as though she were reading another woman’s letters. It would have been better had he told her these things. With his eyes back of the words and his vibrant voice they would not have sounded quite so—so crude. They would have seemed more personal. Besides, she could have checked him then at the beginning. As it was, he had his own way—taking everything for granted. Even when in her replies she did not reply at all, he retained his confidence. It was as though he assumed her consent to all he wrote. Once she tried to write him what she felt, but it sounded as crude as his own letters, so she tore it up. She felt quite helpless, and in this emergency turned in her thoughts again to Dicky—of all men. It was, under the circumstances, rather absurd.

In the end it was Dicky rather than Devons that brought her back to town. She had begun to get worried about him. In the two weeks she had been away she had not heard a single word. This was unlike him, for even when she had treated him most badly he had never ceased to keep her posted about what he was doing. He had written her daily from Florida at a time when she had been so occupied with other matters that she had not deigned to reply at all to most of them. But it had not been because she did not like to hear from him. Even when he was most foolish she had not objected to reading his outpourings. There were a great many things Dicky did not understand, but now that no one in the world understood that seemed less significant. He, at any rate, was consistent. And whatever it was now that prevented him from writing, she had no doubt whatever but that if she could see him she would find him exactly the same old Dicky. It was with an unexpressed desire to prove this that she came back to town instead of remaining another week as her mother urged.

She had not intended to tell Devons of her plans, but meant to have a day or so to herself. That morning, however, he called her up over the long distance just as she was starting, and insisted upon seeing her that afternoon.

“I want to take you all over the new plant,” he said. “We are fairly well installed now, and you must see for yourself what progress we’ve made. It will open your eyes.”

It was the last thing in the world she desired to do, but she knew that if she refused now it would be only to postpone the inevitable, so she consented. He was to call at the house for her at three.

When he stepped into the drawing-room she felt as though he had undergone some metamorphosis. It was almost as though he had changed physically. He was quicker in his movements—more aggressive in his attitude. He carried himself like a nervous man of affairs. But perhaps these peculiarities were given undue emphasis by his dress. She had never seen him except in the old pepper-and-salt suit he had first worn and the somewhat battered gray felt hat. They had to her grown to be a part of him. These had now been discarded for a new blue serge that fitted perfectly and a new Panama. She noticed, too, that his low shoes were new and that he was wearing gloves. It was a conventional enough costume, but it made him over into a modern young New York business man of a type. Much that characterized him as Mark Devons had vanished. To be sure, all this was superficial, but it had its effect.

It was clear that he was impatient to show her at once the tangible result of his success, and so after scarcely more than commonplace greetings they started in the waiting taxi in which he had driven up. On the way it was of Hartley again that he talked—of Hartley and the prospect that lay ahead.

“It’s like a fairy story coming true!” he exclaimed. “I can hardly believe it yet. It is only a few months ago that I was wandering around these streets on foot and penniless. And now—”

He turned to her as though this were the first time he had seen her since her return.

“You’re looking very much better,” he said abruptly. “The rest has done you good.”

“Yes?”

“At the rate things are going now, I ought to be able to get away myself for a little while this summer. If it’s possible I’d like to get home for a week.”

She tried to show some interest.

“They’ll be glad to see you.”

“They will when they see what I bring them.”

The cab had stopped before a fair-sized building. As she stepped out he pointed to a freshly painted inscription. It read

DEVONS MANUFACTURING COMPANY

“I wanted to make it Devons, Fairburne & Hartley,” he explained. “But Hartley thought this was the better trade name. Every time I look at it I’m half afraid it’s only an optical illusion. Read it for me.”

She repeated the words, “Devons Manufacturing Company.”

“That’s it,” he nodded. “Some different from the one crowded room we started with, eh?”

“It looks very imposing,” she answered.

“We’ve taken over two or three standard kinds of blacking Burnett was making. But as soon as I get time I’m going to try to improve on those. I believe I can do it.”

“I believe you can,” she said.

He led her in as proudly as he might have escorted her into a palace. After all, it stood for that. From this old building was coming the wherewithal to build the Arkwright house which was to be his real palace. He took her into the general offices where Burnett used to sit and introduced her to Starling—a clean-cut young fellow.

“One of the partners in the firm,” he explained.

Starling, with a batch of letters in his hand, paused long enough to be decent, and then stepped over to Miss Manning who sat behind her machine in a corner of the office. In another minute he was dictating and she was watching Miss Manning’s quick fingers taking down the letters in shorthand. Devons was forced to call her twice to get her attention.

“We’ll begin at the ground floor and go up,” he announced. “I want you to see it all.”

So they went down again to a big room filled with kettles where a half-dozen men stained with black, sticky stuff were about their tasks. It was difficult to distinguish one of them from another, but as she watched them one of the men lifted his head. His face was that of a negro minstrel. She caught her breath as her eyes met his. He, too, appeared taken aback for a second and then he grinned. He paused only long enough to nod and turned to his work. She clutched Devons’s arm.

“That man—over there?” she questioned.

She pointed him out to Devons, but the latter only shook his head.

“I don’t know one of them from another,” he answered. “Some of them are Burnett’s men, and I believe Starling has taken on one or two new ones.”

“But that,” she said,—“that is Dicky Burnett.”

“Don’t know him,” he answered indifferently and started on.

But she left his side and hurried over to Dicky Burnett and touched his arm as he was bending over his work.

“Dicky!” she cried.

He looked up.

“Hello,” he answered.

“You—what are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I’ve taken a job—to learn the business,” he replied, unabashed.

“But you—surely that wasn’t necessary?”

“It was,” he answered.

“I don’t understand. You must come and tell me about it. You must come this evening.”

“I’m afraid—”

“No. I insist. You will come this evening.”

“Very well,” he consented. “Only—”

“I shall expect you at eight. You promise?”

“Yes.”

Devons in astonishment had reached her side. She turned back with him.

“You know the fellow?”

“He is Mr. Burnett’s son,” she answered. “I—oh, it’s all so topsy-turvy I want to go home.”

“But you haven’t seen half.”

“I’ve seen enough,” she pleaded. “I want to go home.”