ON his way to the Ritz-Carlton, Forbes stopped at his bank to draw some money. He decided that he would better take along a hundred dollars. It would look impressive when he paid the waiter. He realized that it would drag his bank-account below the acceptable minimum. But he set his teeth and determined to do the thing right if he bankrupted the government. He would probably need most of the rest of the hundred before the week was out. He could begin to save again when he was in his uniform again.

He drew the money, strolled to the hotel, asked for Fernand, and found him at a glass screen in a superb room that ran from street to street. A multitude of red chairs populated the floor, and the medallioned white ceiling was a huge ellipse that looked as big as the earth's orbit.

Fernand was cautiously gracious till he learned that Miss Cabot had sent Forbes to him; then he became quite paternal. Forbes slipped him a ten-dollar bill, and he listened almost tenderly as Forbes explained:

"I want to give a little luncheon—nothing elaborate, but—well, something rather nice, you know."

"Perfectly, M'sieur. And how many will there be?"

Fernand spoke English glibly, with hardly more accent than a sweetish thickness.

"We are seven," said Forbes.

"Very good, sir. Will you select what you wish, or—"

He handed Forbes the card of the day. Forbes looked at the French. He could read military memoirs and strategical works in French, but he was floored by the technical food-terms. A glimpse at the prices unnerved him further; but he asked: "What would you suggest—I'm just home from Asia. I feel a little out of it."

"If Monsieur would permit me," said Fernand, with the eagerness of a benevolent conspirator, an artist with a mission, "I will arrange it and give you a pleasant surprise or two."

Forbes swallowed a small lump of embarrassment, and was careful to ask carelessly:

"About how much would it be?"

He wanted to forestall at least one surprise.

"Oh, not a great deal," Fernand smiled, with the bedside manner of a family doctor. "Miss Cabot hates heavy food. Zhoost a little cocktel, and some caviar d'Astrakhan to begin; and perhaps a little broth; ah, better! she likes purÉe St.-Germain. And after, a little berd and some salade, a sweet, perhaps, or a cheese, some coffee—nothing more! Very simple is best."

This sounded so sane that Forbes began to pluck up hope. He asked:

"Does she—do they—will you give us wine of any kind?"

"Miss Cabot does not care for champagne; and Mr. Enslee—did you say he would be of the party?"

Forbes had not said it, and he flushed to think that everybody, even a head waiter, must be linking Persis' name with Enslee's. But more than ever now he must make sure not to give a shabby meal. Meanwhile he answered the question with a casual nod:

"Yes, Mr. Enslee will be here."

Fernand spoke with indulgent pity: "Mr. Enslee takes usually only a highball of the Scotch. But I think you could tempt them both with a little sherry—for the sake of the berd. I have a sherry that is delicious."

"How much delicious?" Forbes asked, trying to be flippant at his own funeral.

"Eight dollars the bottle. But very fine! They would all like it very much."

At the mention of a concrete price Forbes grew uneasy, and asked outright: "Could you tell me how much—about how much this luncheon is going to cost me?"

Forbes felt ashamed of discussing prices, though many a richer man, especially Enslee, would have fought all along the line and delivered an oration on the extortions of restaurateurs. But Fernand began to compute:

"Let me see; seven cocktels at twenty-five is one-seventy-five. Caviar would be one-twenty-five per person; for seven would be eight-seventy-five. The purÉe St.-Germain we shall make it special—say, about five dollars. I should recommend the poulet de grain aux cÈpes; it is two-fifty per person. You do not really need any lÉgumes, except the asparagus. Oh, this morning what asparagus! I saw it! Asparagus, yes?" Forbes nodded desperately. "That will be seven dollars more; but then you will not wish salade—no, you will not wish salade, though the endive is—no, we will not have endive. For the sweet would you wish special favors? No, it is too much; the Nesselrode pudding is nice. Miss Cabot adores the marrons—good! We might serve cheese, though it is too much. But we will have it ready. Then the coffee is special, and a liqueur, perhaps—yes? Miss Cabot likes the white mint. There will be some cigars for the gentlemen, of course—and the ladies will take their cigarettes with their coffee down the steps here, I presume. Now, let me see." He mumbled his addition a moment, then broke the news. "That makes—about fifty-four-seventy-five. Yes—ah no! we have not added the sherry—one bottle, perhaps two. So you see, Monsieur, it will come only to sixty—sixty-five dollars—roughly."

Forbes thought the word "roughly" appropriate. In his soul there was a sound like the last sough of water in an emptying bathtub. He added mentally the ten dollars he had given Fernand, and the ten dollars he must give the waiter. He wondered if he looked as sick as he felt; as sick as his hundred dollars would look. He had cherished a mad fancy for inviting everybody to dinner, the theater, and a tango supper. If his modest luncheon put him where it did, he wondered where such an evening would have left him. From this point of view he was escaping cheaply. Anyway, he had crossed the Rubicon. He was too poor to be able to afford to skimp. If he had been an Enslee Estate, he could have offered his guests toast and distilled water without being suspected of poverty.

And once committed to the course he had chosen, he would have beggared his family rather than stint his hospitality. He was a gentleman; a fool, perhaps, but a gentleman.

He gave Fernand the order to go ahead. Fernand was upset by the brevity of the time allotted him, but promised to do his best. Forbes cast his eye about for a good table. Fernand put up his hand:

"Miss Cabot has her favorite table. You shall have that, also her captain and her waiter."

Forbes remembered Persis' warning.

"But this luncheon is really in honor of Mrs. Neff," he said.

"Ah, in that case you will want her table. She prefers the opposite side, nearer the band."

Forbes, having a little while to kill, set out for a stroll round the block. It came to him suddenly that the precious hundred dollars he had drawn to make a good show would evaporate and leave almost nothing. He went to his bank and wrote a check for fifty dollars more. As he stood waiting at the paying-teller's grill he felt as if he were a forger taking money he had no right to. But the teller expressed no surprise. When Forbes returned to the Ritz-Carlton he found his guests already gathering in the lounge. Willie Enslee came in late and surly. He explained that his man had had the impudence to fall ill, and had left him to dress himself.

They had their cocktails, and then Forbes led his little flock up to the rich pasture. He had to beg pardon through a knot of people pleading vainly for tables in the circle. They were being turned off into the side rooms of mediocrity.

It gave Forbes a feeling of elation to be greeted with homage by name and led at once to his table. It made a brave showing with silver, glass, and napery already disposed, and a great bouquet of fresh lilacs in the center.

Fernand whispered to Forbes that he had taken the liberty of changing the bill of fare somewhat. The result was a surprise to those spoiled palates, and Forbes' guests were like children in their expressions of delight. Forbes was voted a gourmet, but he gave the credit to the hovering Fernand. He was honest enough still for that, though he had not the courage to admit how deep a gouge the luncheon made in his savings.

Still, he felt as he surveyed his triumph that wealth was a noble thing. If only he could give such artistic banquets every day! If only he could frequent such places and hold up his end among all these brilliant crowds! So many, many people had so much money. Thousands of them were banqueting here and in other restaurants, encouraging all the arts from architecture to salad-dressing. Why should he be denied the status of his tastes?

He attempted to grovel before Persis in apology for oversleeping. But she refused to take the offense seriously, and she congratulated him for having the courage and the honesty to confess the real excuse for absence. He told her that he was sure, from her alert and lustrous eye, that she too had overslept, but she vowed she had not, and he wondered again that such delicate beauty should be conjoined to such unfailing strength.

Save when it was interrupted by exclamations of applause for the choice of the dishes, or childish yum-yums for the exquisiteness of their preparation, the talk was all about the mayor's order closing the thÉs dansants.

"They call this a free country," Mrs. Neff grumbled, "and yet they tell us we may not dance with our tea!"

"A good thing, too!" said Enslee. "It was time somebody stepped in before the whole country went absolutely nutty over this dance business. A little more and they'd have had the waiters trotting in with soup."

"But what are we to do with our afternoons?" Winifred sighed.

"What did you do before?" said Willie.

"I don't know; but I'm sure it was stupid."

Ten Eyck, the consoler, came to the rescue. "Sigh no more, ladies! There'll be turkey-trotting in this old town when we're all trotted out to Woodlawn. Forbesy, were you ever in Yellowstone Park?"

"Yes."

"Did you see the Old Faithful geyser geyse?"

"Yes."

"Remember how she would lie quiet as a tub for an hour, and then blow off her head and explode a stream of water to the clouds, make an awful fuss for a few minutes, and then drop off to sleep again?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's reform in New York or any big town. There's wild excitement now; there'll be editorials and sermons and police raids and license-revoking for a few days. Then everything will quiet down, and in a week all the old dancing-stands will be running away as before."

Willie changed the subject with his usual abruptness. All this time he had been revealing an unexpected enthusiasm for the little purple forest of lilacs in the centerpiece. He kept pulling the nearest sprays to him and breathing their incense in.

"Do you know I simply adore lilacs," he smiled. "Up at my country place they must be glorious. My gardener writes me they have never been so good as this year. I wish I could see them."

Nobody paid much heed to his emotions until, a little later, he broke out suddenly:

"By Jove, I believe I'll take a run up in the country and see my lilacs and spend a night in real air."

"That's a fine idea," said Winifred; "we'll all go along."

"Oh no, you won't," said Willie. "The place isn't open yet. Nobody there but the gardener and his helpers."

This checked Winifred only for a moment, then she returned to the charge.

"All the more fun," she exclaimed. "Let's all go up and make a week-end of it."

"But there are no servants there, I tell you," Willie insisted.

"That's where the fun comes in," said Winifred, in love with her inspiration. "It would be a glorious lark. There's nothing to do here in town."

"We have to eat, you know," Willie reminded her, coldly; "and nobody to cook it."

"I'm a love of a cook," said Winifred. "And I've been through your kitchen up there. It's a model—electric dingblats and all sorts of things. I'll cook the meals if the rest of you will build the fires and make the beds and wash the dishes."

"Oh, Winifred, behave!" Willie sniffed.

But Winifred would not behave. She drummed up her scheme until she raised the others to a kind of amused interest in the venture. It would be a novelty at least.

"We can always cut and run at a moment's notice," Winifred explained, for a clincher. "A couple of hours in a car and we're back in town."

"But there are no servants there, I tell you," Willie reiterated. "You don't seriously expect us to go up there and do our own work?"

"Why not?" said Winifred. "It's time you learned to use your lazy hands before they drop off from neglect."

"No thank you!" Willie demurred. "If we've got to go, we'll take along some deck-hands. What do you say, Persis?"

"The only thing I like about it," said Persis, "is the absence of the servants. I can't remember a time when they haven't been standing round staring or listening through the doors. Oh, Lord, how good it would be to be out from under their thumbs for a few days!"

"We can't afford the scandal," said Willie. "Servants are the best chaperons there are. If we went up without them there'd be a sensation in the papers."

"You and your fear of the newspapers!" Winifred retorted. "They need never know."

"You can't go up to my place without some chaperon!" Willie snapped, with a pettish firmness. "I don't run a road-house, you know."

"If you've got to have a chaperon, maybe you'd take me," said Mrs. Neff.

"You!" Willie laughed cynically. "And who'll chaperon the chaperon? You'll make more mischief than anybody. Your affair with Mr. Lord—er, pardon me, Mr. Ward—is the talk of the town already."

Mrs. Neff's laugh was a mixture of ridicule at the possibility and yearning that it might not be impossible. Her comment was in the spirit of burlesque.

"But if I marry him afterward it will put a stop to the scandal."

"Mother, you are simply indecent!" her daughter piped up, with a kind of militant innocence.

The luxury of such a reproof was too dear to Mrs. Neff's unwithered heart to be neglected. She added her vote to those of Winifred and Persis.

Forbes dared not speak, but he was aglow with the vision of a few days with Persis in the country. As he crossed the continent he had seen the traces of spring everywhere; everywhere the mad incendiary had been kindling fires in tree and shrub and sward. From the train window he had watched the splendors unroll like a moving film. He had wished to leap from the car and wander with somebody—with a vague somebody. And now he had found her, and the golden opportunity tapped on the window.

Willie fenced with Winifred till the luncheon was finished. Then they retired to the lounge for coffee. Here women had the franchise for public smoking, and they puffed like small boys. Winifred renewed the battle for the picnic.

Ten Eyck had watched the contest with a grin. At last he spoke: "It's a pretty little war. Reluctant host trying to convince guests that they are not invited. Guests saying, 'We'll come anyway.' Better give in peacefully, Willie, or they'll take possession and lock you outside."

Then Willie gave in, but on the ground that Persis wanted it. He attempted a sheepish gallantry and a veiled romantic reference. He, too, had a touch of April in his frosty little heart. Forbes winced at the rivalry; but at any price he wanted to be with Persis where the spring was.

Willie, yielding to the rÔle of hÔte malgrÉ lui, announced that since they were determined to invade his respectable ancestral home, the sooner they got it over with the better. Persis and the rest were creatures of impulse, glad to have an impulse, and they agreed to the flight as quickly as a flock of birds. What engagements they had they dismissed. Their maids could send telegrams of "regret that, owing to unexpected absence from town," etc.

Willie went to call up his gardener and have the house thrown open to the air and fresh provisions ordered in.

He had just gone when a page came to Persis with the word that her father wanted to speak to her on the telephone.

She gave a start and looked afraid as she rose. Forbes watched her go, and his heart prayed that no bad news might await her. She was so beautiful as she moved, and so plucky. He knew that she was frightened, but she spoke to various people she passed with all the light-hearted graciousness imaginable. She came back speedily with a look of anxiety vainly resisted. She explained that her father was leaving for Chicago on the Twentieth Century, and wanted to tell her good-by. She would barely have time to reach the house before he left.

Forbes offered to accompany her home. She insisted that he should not leave his guests. Winifred and Mrs. Neff rose at once, claiming that they must also leave to make ready for the excursion.

Forbes bade them good-by rather awkwardly. He regretted the disorder of his exit as a host, but he would not forfeit this chance to be alone with Persis.

She was so distressed about her father that she forgot Willie's existence, and left no message for him. When he had finished his tempest in a telephone-booth, and conveyed his orders to his head gardener, he found Mrs. Neff and Winifred waiting for their cars. They explained Persis' flight and made arrangements for the hour and place of meeting for the journey.