The Wall Street Girl Part 19

"Are you going to send it away?"

Without further argument he paid the driver and sent him off.

"It isn't right to waste money like that," she told him.

"Oh, that was the trouble? But it wouldn't have cost more than a couple of dollars to have gone back with him."

"Two dollars! That's carfare for three weeks."

"Of course, if you look at it that way. But here we are away uptown, and--hanged if I know how to get out."

He looked around, as bewildered as a lost child. She could not help laughing.

"If you're as helpless as that I don't see how you ever get home at night," she said.

He looked in every direction, but he did not see a car line. He turned to her.

"I won't help you," she said, shaking her head.

"Then we'll have to walk until we come to the Elevated," he determined.

"All right," she nodded. "Only, if you don't go in the right direction you will walk all night before you come to the Elevated."

"I can ask some one, can't I?"

"I certainly would before I walked very far."

"Then I'm going to ask you."

He raised his hat.

"I beg pardon, madame, but would you be so good--"

"Oh, turn to the right," she laughed. "And do put on your hat."

It was a quiet little French restaurant of the better kind to which he took her--a place he had stumbled on one evening, and to which he occasionally went when the club menu did not appeal to him. Jacques had reserved a table in a corner, and had arranged there the violets that Monsieur Pendleton had sent for this purpose. On the whole, it was just as well Miss Winthrop did not know this, or of the tip that was to lead to a certain kind of salad and to an extravagant dish with mushrooms to come later. It is certain that Monsieur Pendleton knew how to arrange a dinner from every other but the economical end.

Don was very much himself to-night, and in an exceedingly good humor.

In no time he made her also feel very much herself and put her into an equally good humor. Her cares, her responsibilities, her fears, vanished as quickly as if the last three or four years had taught her nothing. She had started with set lips, and here she was with smiling ones. In the half-hour that she waited in her room for him, she had rehea.r.s.ed a half-dozen set speeches; now she did not recall one of them.

Don suggested wine, but she shook her head. She had no need of wine.

It was wine enough just to be out of her room at night; wine enough just to get away from the routine of her own meals; wine enough just not to be alone; wine enough just to get away from her own s.e.x for a little.

Don chatted on aimlessly through the anchovies, the soup, and fish, and she enjoyed listening to him. He was the embodiment of youth, and he made even her feel like a care-free girl of sixteen again. This showed in her face, in the relaxed muscles about her mouth, and in her brightened eyes.

Then, during the long wait for the steak and mushrooms, his face became serious, and he leaned across the table.

"By the way," he began, "the house has received a new allotment of bonds; I want to tell you about them."

He had his facts well in hand, and he spoke with conviction and an unconventionality of expression that made her listen. She knew a good salesman when she heard one, whether she was familiar with the particular subject-matter or not. The quality of salesmanship really had nothing to do with the subject-matter. A good salesman can sell anything. It has rather to do with that unknown gift which distinguishes an actor able to pack a house from an actor with every other quality able only to half fill a house. It has nothing to do with general intelligence; it has nothing to do with conscientious preparation; it has nothing to do with anything but itself. It corresponds to what in a woman is called charm, and which may go with a pug nose or freckles or a large mouth. But it cannot be cultivated. It either is or is not.

It was the mushrooms and steak that interrupted him. Jacques was trying to draw his attention to the sizzling hot platter which he was holding for his inspection--a work of art in brown and green.

Ordinarily Monsieur Pendleton took some time to appreciate his efforts. Now he merely nodded:--

"Good."

Jacques was somewhat disappointed.

"Madame sees it?" he ventured.

Madame, who was sitting with her chin in her hands, staring across the table at Monsieur, started.

"Yes," she smiled. "It is beautiful."

But, when Jacques turned away to carve, she continued to stare again at Mr. Pendleton.

"It's in you," she exclaimed. "Oh, what a chance you have!"

"You think I'll do?"

"I think that in two years you'll be outselling any one in the office," she answered.

His face flushed at the praise.

"That's straight?"

"That's straight," she nodded. "And within another year Farnsworth will pay you anything you demand."

"Ten thousand?"

"A gift like yours is worth that to the house--if you don't spoil it."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, I mean you must keep it fresh and clean and free, and not mix it up with money," she ran on eagerly. "You must keep right on selling for the fun of the game and not for the gain. The gain will come fast enough. Don't worry about that. But if you make it the end, it may make an end of your gift. And you mustn't get foolish with success.

And you mustn't--oh, there are a hundred ways of spoiling it all."

It was her apparent sure knowledge of these things that constantly surprised him.

"How do you know?" he demanded.

"Because I've seen and heard. All I can do is to stop, look, and listen, isn't it?"

"And warn the speeders?" he laughed.

"If I could do that much it would be something," she answered wistfully.

"Will you warn me?"