Alice Adams by Booth Tarkington (ebook reader macos TXT) 📕

he said. “After that, the young gentleman is as much a stranger to me as he is to my family. I’ve been wondering who she could be.”

“When a man’s preoccupied there must be a lady then?” Russell inquired.

“That seems to be the view of your sex,” Mrs. Palmer suggested. “It was my husband who said it, not Mildred or I.”

Mildred smiled faintly. “Papa may be singular in his ideas; they may come entirely from his own experience, and have nothing to do with Arthur.”

“Thank you, Mildred,” her cousin said, bowing to her gratefully. “You seem to understand my character⁠—and your father’s quite as well!”

However, Mildred remained grave in the face of this customary pleasantry, not because the old jest, worn round, like what preceded it, rolled in an old groove, but because of some preoccupation of her own. Her faint smile had disappeared, and, as her cousin’s glance met hers, she looked down; yet not before he had seen in her eyes the flicker of something like a question⁠—a question both poignant and dismayed. He may have understood it; for his own smile vanished at once in favour of a reciprocal solemnity.

“You see, Arthur,” Mrs. Palmer said, “Mildred is always a good cousin. She and I stand by you, even if you do stay away from us for weeks and weeks.” Then, observing that he appeared to be so occupied with a bunch of iced grapes upon his plate that he had not heard her, she began to talk to her husband, asking him what was “going on downtown.”

Arthur continued to eat his grapes, but he ventured to look again at Mildred after a few moments. She, also, appeared to be occupied with a bunch of grapes though she ate none, and only pulled them from their stems. She sat straight, her features as composed and pure as those of a new marble saint in a cathedral niche; yet her downcast eyes seemed to conceal many thoughts; and her cousin, against his will, was more aware of what these thoughts might be than of the leisurely conversation between her father and mother. All at once, however, he heard something that startled him, and he listened⁠—and here was the effect of all Alice’s forefendings; he listened from the first with a sinking heart.

Mr. Palmer, mildly amused by what he was telling his wife, had just spoken the words, “this Virgil Adams.” What he had said was, “this Virgil Adams⁠—that’s the man’s name. Queer case.”

“Who told you?” Mrs. Palmer inquired, not much interested.

“Alfred Lamb,” her husband answered. “He was laughing about his father, at the club. You see the old gentleman takes a great pride in his judgment of men, and always boasted to his sons that he’d never in his life made a mistake in trusting the wrong man. Now Alfred and James Albert, Junior, think they have a great joke on him; and they’ve twitted him so much about it he’ll scarcely speak to them. From the first, Alfred says, the old chap’s only repartee was, ‘You wait and you’ll see!’ And they’ve asked him so often to show them what they’re going to see that he won’t say anything at all!”

“He’s a funny old fellow,” Mrs. Palmer observed. “But he’s so shrewd I can’t imagine his being deceived for such a long time. Twenty years, you said?”

“Yes, longer than that, I understand. It appears when this man⁠—this Adams⁠—was a young clerk, the old gentleman trusted him with one of his business secrets, a glue process that Mr. Lamb had spent some money to get hold of. The old chap thought this Adams was going to have quite a future with the Lamb concern, and of course never dreamed he was dishonest. Alfred says this Adams hasn’t been of any real use for years, and they should have let him go as dead wood, but the old gentleman wouldn’t hear of it, and insisted on his being kept on the payroll; so they just decided to look on it as a sort of pension. Well, one morning last March the man had an attack of some sort down there, and Mr. Lamb got his own car out and went home with him, himself, and worried about him and went to see him no end, all the time he was ill.”

“He would,” Mrs. Palmer said, approvingly. “He’s a kindhearted creature, that old man.”

Her husband laughed. “Alfred says he thinks his kindheartedness is about cured! It seems that as soon as the man got well again he deliberately walked off with the old gentleman’s glue secret. Just calmly stole it! Alfred says he believes that if he had a stroke in the office now, himself, his father wouldn’t lift a finger to help him!”

Mrs. Palmer repeated the name to herself thoughtfully. “ ‘Adams’⁠—‘Virgil Adams.’ You said his name was Virgil Adams?”

“Yes.”

She looked at her daughter. “Why, you know who that is, Mildred,” she said, casually. “It’s that Alice Adams’s father, isn’t it? Wasn’t his name Virgil Adams?”

“I think it is,” Mildred said.

Mrs. Palmer turned toward her husband. “You’ve seen this Alice Adams here. Mr. Lamb’s pet swindler must be her father.”

Mr. Palmer passed a smooth hand over his neat gray hair, which was not disturbed by this effort to stimulate recollection. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Of course⁠—certainly. Quite a good-looking girl⁠—one of Mildred’s friends. How queer!”

Mildred looked up, as if in a little alarm, but did not speak. Her mother set matters straight. “Fathers are amusing,” she said smilingly to Russell, who was looking at her, though how fixedly she did not notice; for she turned from him at once to enlighten her husband. “Every girl who meets Mildred, and tries to push the acquaintance by coming here until the poor child has to hide, isn’t a friend of hers, my dear!”

Mildred’s eyes were downcast again, and a faint colour rose in her cheeks. “Oh, I shouldn’t put it quite that way about Alice Adams,” she said, in a low voice. “I saw something of her for a time. She’s not unattractive in a way.”

Mrs. Palmer