The Argosy, Vol. 81, No. 4 — page 69: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

FOUR SPEEDS FOR FOREST HILL. Mr. Atherton was pausing on the threshold to let his guests pass. Orton felt the sinking sensation once more. He wondered if all in the room were watching him and comparing him to that early Christian who peered through a door to see whether a lady or a tiger were on the other side and left to the reader’s guess which. And in she came. For one giddy mo- ment Orton measured the distance and the obstacles between him and the door to the ~ den which gave upon a balcony whence he might leap into the darkness and keep going indefinitely. Obviously Mrs. Pol- hemus was oblivious to any impending ex- citement. On her face was that simpering smile which ladies of her type assume for an occasion. She was very erect even as she smiled, a perfect example, in her stiff high collar and jet-bead-adorned black silk gown, of prudishness shocked at the bare necks and shoulders in the room, yet pru- dishness determined to keep itself in hand and its indignation from expressing itself. “Mrs. Polhemus — and Mr. Polhemus,”’ Mr. Atherton was saying blandly as the spare, stooped, side-whiskered male escort of the lady followed his wife into the room. Mr. Polhemus gave one quick glance at Orton, then dropped his eyes and waited for the explosion that would come when Mrs. Polhemus saw her ex-chauffeur. Had her back been turned to him she must have wheeled under the stress of the wild, tortured, trapped, fascinated gaze of Orton’s eyes. Four steps inside the room she stopped and returned the gaze. She stood still. The shock of her own indignation seemed to have turned her to stone—but stone that panted with quick heaving of the breast, stone that reddened in the face until the red purpled and the big vessels in her temples seemed swollen to the bursting point. Mr. Atherton stood still. Neither toler- ance nor amusement was now in his face. He wore the grim look of a parent who has made up his mind to thrash his child. The other young men in the room had risen. They stood still. Their eyes, the eyes of the young lady guests, the eyes of Arlene Atherton stared from Orton to Mrs. Polhemus, from her to Orton, back again to her — frightened, puzzled eyes, that won- ‘dered what terrible thing had happened or was going to happen. 635 Orton had often wondered how a person could quail, just what he did when he quailed. He knew he was quailing now; he could not help it, even if all the rest of the world were watching him do it. His brain went on like a thing detached. He saw how it had all come about. Mr. Atherton meeting Mr. Polhemus, making vague inquiries about Orton’s sup- posed progress in the Polhemotor business; Mr. Polhemus’s account of his connection with Orton; Atherton’s seizing upon the opportunity to break by strenuous meas- ures an engagement he had never approved. Orton’s brain went on and tried to decide whether Polhemus had told his wife what she was coming to, and if her indignant surprise was only for dramatic effect. But Orton himself only stared back into the awful accusation and denunciation and condemnation and annihilation written in Mrs. Polhemus’s swelling features. It seemed that the woman could not trust her- self to speak, was, perhaps, at a loss how to speak. That she was hindered by any delicate regard for the feelings of the others present or for the amenities of the occasion was unthinkable. She had no feelings herself, could not understand feelings. She was the sort of person who never could swerve from allegiance to duty or be quite happy in do- ing a duty that was not somewhat painful —especially if it were painful to others. Her pause could be only for its own dra- matic effect, perhaps for the purpose of seeking out the words that would be most effective when she spoke them. But it last- ed so long that some of the young folk be- gan to draw in suspended breaths. It was Arlene who could stand the scene no longer. Her voice came in-a quivering little whisper: “‘What—what is the matter?” And Mrs. Polhemus turned to Mr. Ath- erton, the while she covered Orton with an accusing finger which would have been ef- fectual to send his hands skyward had she bidden him put them up. ‘““Mr. Atherton,” she asked with her stri- dent voice, made vibrant by the fierce emo- tions within her—‘‘pardon me. But what is that young man doing in your home?” “Why,” Mr. Atherton answered suavely, “that is Mr. Hardwick Orton, Mrs. Pol- hemus. He holds an important position in your husband’s business, I understand. He is—” Go ONOOKS ANG (C@)