"You are not very enthusiastic."
"I have every reason to be. She is a very winsome girl."
"She's a dear... . She has spoken of you several times."
"That is most amiable of her, and of you to say so."
"Oh, very," laughed Camilla, tossing her pretty head, "but it evidently does not interest you very much. In fact-" she glanced sidewise-"it is understood that no woman ever interests you for more than forty-eight consecutive hours."
"Pure slander, Camilla. You do."
"Oh-not in the way I mean."
"Well, but you don't expect me to be interested in Mrs. Paige-in the way you mean do you?"
"Why not?" she asked mischievously.
"Because, to begin properly, Mrs. Paige is not likely ever to become interested in me."
"I am heartily glad of it," retorted Camilla. "You'd forget her in a week,"
"That's more than forty-eight hours," he said, laughing. "You're flattering me now."
"Anyway," said Camilla, "I don't see why everybody that knows her isn't mad about Ailsa Paige. She has such high principles, such ideals, such wonderful aspirations-" She clasped her hands sentimentally: "At times, Phil, she seems too ethereal, scarcely of earth-and yet I breakfasted with her and she ate twice as much as I did. How does she keep that glorious figure!"
Plumpness was the bane and terror of Camilla's life. Her smooth, suave white skin was glossy and tight; distracting curves, entrancing contours characterised her now; but her full red lips fairly trembled as she gazed at her parents' portraits in her bedroom, for they had both been of a florid texture and full habit; and she had now long refused sugar and the comforts of sweetmeats dear to the palate of her age and sex. And mostly was this self-denial practised for the sake of a young and unobservant friend, one Stephen Craig, who had so far evinced no unusual inclination for her, or for anything except cigars and masculine society of his own age and condition.
She managed to get Philip Berkley to talk about Stephen, which ingenuity soothed her. But Philip was becoming bored, and he presently escaped to retrace his steps up Broadway, up Fifth Avenue, and then west to the exceedingly modest lodgings whither fate and misfortune had wafted him.
On the way he passed Colonel Arran's big double house with a sullen and sidelong scowl, and continued onward with a shrug. But he smiled no more to himself.
Burgess was in the room, cross-legged on the floor, ironing out his master's best coat.
"What the devil are you about," said Philip ungraciously. "Get up.
I need what floor I've got to stand on."
Burgess obediently laid the board and the coat on a trunk and continued ironing; and Philip scowled at him askance.
"Why don't you enlist?" he said. "Every car-driver, stage-driver, hackman, and racing-tout can become major-generals if they yell loud enough."
Burgess continued ironing, then stole a glance at his master.
"Are you thinking of enlisting, sir?"
"No; I can't pass the examination for lung power. By the way," he added, laughing, "I overlooked the impudence of your question, too. But now is your time, Burgess. If I wanted you I'd have to put up with your insolence, I suppose."
"But you don't want me, sir."
"Which restrains you," said Philip, laughing. "Oh, go on, my friend. Don't say 'sir' to me; it's a badge of servitude pasted onto the vernacular. Say 'Hi!' if you like."
"Sir?"
"Hell! I say don't behave like a servant to me."
"I am a servant, sir."
"You're not mine."
"Yes, sir, I am. Will you wear this coat this evening, sir?"
"God knows," said the young fellow, sitting down and gazing about at the melancholy poverty of the place... . "Is there any of that corn whisky?"
"No, sir."
"Damn it, you said there was this morning!"
"No, sir, I didn't."
The man lied placidly; the master looked at him, then laughed.
"Poor old Burgess," he said aloud as though to himself; "there wasn't a skinful in that bottle. Well, I can't get drunk, I can't lie here and count from six to midnight and keep my sanity, I can't smoke-you rascal, where's my cigar? And I certainly can't go out anywhere because I haven't any money."
"You might take the air on the avenue, sir. Your clothes are in order."
"Poor Burgess! That was your amusement, wasn't it?-to see me go out discreetly perfumed, in fine linen and purple, brave as the best of them in club and hall, in ballroom and supper room, and in every lesser hell from Crystal Palace cinders to Canal.
"Poor Burgess! Even the seventy-five pretty waitresses at the Gaities would turn up their seventy-five retrousse noses at a man with pockets as empty as mine."
"Your clothes are fashionable. So is your figger, sir."
"That settles it?" protested the young fellow, weak with laughter. "Burgess, don't go! Don't ever go! I do need you. Oh I do want you, Burgess. Because there never will be anybody exactly like you, and I've only one life in which to observe you, study you, and mentally digest you. You won't go, will you?"
"No sir," said Burgess with dignity.
CHAPTER VI
There was incipient demoralisation already in the offices of Craig & Son. Young gentlemen perched on high benches still searched city maps and explored high-way and by-way with compass and pencil-point, but their ears were alert to every shout from the streets, and their interest remained centred in the newspaper bulletins across the way, where excited crowds clamoured for details not forthcoming.
All day, just outside the glass doors of the office, Broadway streamed with people; and here, where the human counter currents running north and south encountered amid the racket of omnibuses, carts, carriages, and drays, a vast overflow spread turbulently, eddying out around the recruiting stations and newspaper offices which faced the City Park.
Sidewalks swarmed, the park was packed solid. Overhead flags flew from every flag pole, over every portal, across every alley and street and square-big nags, little flags, flags of silk, of cotton, of linen, of bunting, all waving wide in the spring sunshine, or hanging like great drenched flowers in the winnowing April rain.
And it was very hard for the young gentlemen in the offices of Craig & Son to keep their minds on their business.
Berkley had a small room to himself, a chair, a desk, a city map suspended against the wall, and no clients. Such occasional commissions as Craig & Son were able to give him constituted his sole source of income.
He also had every variety of time on his hands-leisure to walk to the window and walk back again, and then walk all around the room-leisure to go out and solicit business in a city where already business was on the edge of chaos and still sliding-leisure to sit for hours in his chair and reflect upon anything he chose-leisure to be hungry and satisfy the inclination with philosophy. He was perfectly at liberty to choose any subject and think about it. But he spent most of his time in trying to prevent himself from thinking.
However, from his window, the street views now were usually interesting; he was an unconvinced spectator of the mob which started for the Daily News office, hissing, cat-calling, yelling: "Show your colours!" "Run up your colours!" He saw the mob visit the Journal of Commerce, and then turn on the Herald, yelling insult and bellowing threats which promptly inspired that journal to execute a political flip-flap that set the entire city smiling.