“You’ve made me happier to-night than I’ve been for a long time. But I don’t want to be left alone. I’m afraid I’d get to thinking about Mr. Curtin. You get the carriage and take me with you to the Bagsburys’. I shan’t mind the rain.” “All right,” he said. CHAPTER X NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH “Have you any idea what it is that’s keeping Mr. Bagsbury?” Alice asked of Jack. She had been expecting him every moment while they were at dinner, and the tone of her question betrayed nervousness. “No,” said Jack, abstractedly, then, rousing himself: “no, he just told me I’d better come out here to dinner and tell you not to wait for him as he would be late. He said it might be eight o’clock before he could get home.” “Then you had two invitations,” said Dick. “That’s why I ate two dinners.” Alice rose. “I promised Martha to help her with her lessons. I’ll leave you to entertain each other until John comes back.” “You must be blue,” Dick remarked when she was gone. “You never make jokes like that except when you’re blue. Oh, I know, you want to smoke. Let’s go into the library.” She led the way thither; and, after turning on the electric lights, seated herself at the end of the sofa. Jack lighted a cigar and stood looking about with a frown. “Not satisfied yet?” she asked. He shook his head. “This room’s all right,” he said, “but we see it too plainly.” He turned off all the light, and groping his way to one of the windows drew wide the curtain. For a moment he stood looking out; then he raised the window, and they heard the summer shower which was beating straight down through the still air upon the pavement. The big arc lamp from the street threw a patch of white light upon the floor. “For purposes of romance,” he said, as he seated himself near her on the sofa, “that doesn’t quite come up to the moon; but it does its best, and it has sense enough not to go out just because it rains.” During the next two minutes, as Dick watched the rim of fire which glowed now bright, now dull, between Jack Dorlin’s cigar and its ash, she thought of many things to say, but none of them seemed to fit. Jack, apparently, had no idea of saying anything, and the silence seemed to her to be acquiring a discomforting significance. It was most absurd to feel that way about it; she and Jack were certainly old enough friends. “Luckily, we don’t need it for purposes of romance--” That wasn’t just what she meant, either, and she added hastily, “You know this is to be a business conversation. We’ve got to decide what we’ll tell John when he comes home.” “That’s so,” said Jack, vaguely. Evidently he had nothing more to contribute to the conversation. “Don’t you suppose,” Dick began again, “that perhaps the bank was hurt by Mr. Pickering’s failure? John had just lent him a great deal of money, you know.” “He’s got the lard.” “Yes; but the lard isn’t worth nearly as much as it was.” “That’s so,” said Jack, more abstractedly than ever.