The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him by Paul Leicester Ford

Author:Paul Leicester Ford
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781776670635
Publisher: The Floating Press

Chapter XXXVII - "Friends"

*

At first blush, judging from Peter's behavior, the girl was not going to bother him. Peter left his horse at the stable, and taking a hansom, went to his club. There he spent a calm half hour over the evening papers. His dinner was eaten with equal coolness. Not till he had reached his study did he vary his ordinary daily routine. Then, instead of working or reading, he rolled a comfortable chair up to the fire, put on a fresh log or two, opened a new box of Bock's, and lighting one, settled back in the chair. How many hours he sat and how many cigars he smoked are not recorded, lest the statement should make people skeptical of the narrative.

Of course Peter knew that life had not lost its troubles. He was not fooling himself as to what lay before him. He was not callous to the sufferings already endured. But he put them, past, and to come, from him for one evening, and sat smoking lazily with a dreamy look on his face. He had lately been studying the subject of Asiatic cholera, but he did not seem to be thinking of that. He had just been through what he called a "revolting experience," but it is doubtful if he was thinking of that. Whatever his thoughts were, they put a very different look on his face than that which it used to wear while he studied blank walls.

When Peter sat down, rather later than usual at his office desk the next morning, he took a sheet of paper, and wrote, "Dear sir," upon it. Then he tore it up. He took another and wrote, "My dear Mr. D'Alloi." He tore that up. Another he began, "Dear Watts." A moment later it was in the paper basket. "My dear friend," served to bring a similar fate to the fourth. Then Peter rose and strolled about his office aimlessly. Finally he went out into a gallery running along the various rooms, and, opening a door, put his head in.

"You hypocritical scoundrel," he said. "You swore to me that you would never tell a living soul."

"Well?" came a very guilty voice back.

"And Dorothy's known all this time."

Dead silence.

"And you've both been as innocent as—as you were guilty."

"Look here, Peter, I can't make you understand, because you've—you've never been on a honeymoon. Really, old fellow, I was so happy over your generosity in giving me a full share, when I didn't bring a tenth of the business, and so happy over Dorothy, that If I hadn't told her, I should have simply—bust. She swore she'd never tell. And now she's told you!"

"No, but she told some one else."

"Never!"

"Yes."

"Then she's broken her word. She—"

"The Pot called the Kettle black."

"But to tell one's own wife is different. I thought she could keep a secret."

"How can you expect a person to keep a secret when you can't keep it yourself?" Peter and Ray were both laughing.

Ray said to himself, "Peter has some awfully knotty point on hand, and is resting the brain tissue for a moment.

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