Part 54

“Oh,” murmured Clifford.

“Remember your promise,” he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.

Clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered alley, entered his garden.

He felt for his studio key, muttering, “I wonder—I wonder,—but of course he doesn’t!”

He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring at the two cards tacked over the panels.

+---------------------------+ | FOXHALL CLIFFORD | +---------------------------+

+---------------------------+ | RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT | +---------------------------+

“Why the devil doesn’t he want me to speak of her?”

He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle bull-dogs, sank down on the sofa.

Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the window.

“Hello,” he said without looking around.

Clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, “I’m afraid, I’m afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott,” he said, at last, “Hastings,—you know the chap that old Tabby Byram came around here to tell us about—the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire—”

“Yes, what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. He’s a brick.”

“Yes,” said Elliott, without enthusiasm.

“Don’t you think so?” demanded Clifford.

“Why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his illusions are dispelled.”

“More shame to those who dispel ’em!”

“Yes,—wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of course—”

Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar.

“I was just going to say,” he observed, “that I have asked him not to come without letting us know, so I can postpone any orgie you may have intended—”

“Ah!” cried Elliott indignantly, “I suppose you put it to him in that way.”

“Not exactly,” grinned Clifford. Then more seriously, “I don’t want anything to occur here to bother him. He’s a brick, and it’s a pity we can’t be more like him.”

“I am,” observed Elliott complacently, “only living with you—”

“Listen!” cried the other. “I have managed to put my foot in it in great style. Do you know what I’ve done? Well—the first time I met him in the street,—or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him to Valentine!”

“Did he object?”

“Believe me,” said Clifford, solemnly, “this rustic Hastings has no more idea that Valentine is—is—in fact is Valentine, than he has that he himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter where morals are as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation between that blackguard Loffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles, to open my eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He’s a healthy, clean-minded young fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up with the idea that saloons are way-stations to hell—and as for women—”

“Well?” demanded Elliott.