“And what next?” Brock inquired, the next morning. “Market,” Nancy replied.
“To spend your guinea?”
“Hush!” she bade him, with a startled glance over her shoulder.
“Oh, you needn’t worry. Barth never gets around till the fifty-ninth minute. He’ll wait until the last trump sounds, before he orders his ascension robe, and then he’ll tip Saint Peter to hold the gate open while he puts it on. But what about the market?”
“I am going with the Lady.”
“To carry the basket?”
“No. I’ll leave that for you,” Nancy retorted.
A sudden iniquitous idea shot athwart Brock’s brain.
“Very well. What time do you start?”
“At ten.”
“Right, oh! I’ll be on hand.”
An equally iniquitous idea entered Nancy’s head.
“Have you ever been to market?” she asked.
“Never.”
“And you want to go?”
“Surely I do.”
“Then we can count on you?”
“Yes. Ten o’clock sharp. If I’m not there, I’ll agree to send a substitute. But count on me.”
When they went their separate ways from breakfast, Brock sought the town house of the Duke of Kent; but Nancy went in search of the Lady.
“Were you going to take Tommy to carry the basket?” she asked.
“Yes. He always goes.”
“And will the basket be very huge?”
“Yes.”
“Good!” Nancy said, laughing. “I am glad, for we are going to leave Tommy at home, to-day, and take Mr. Brock in his place.”
“Nancy!” the Lady remonstrated.
“He insisted upon being invited,” Nancy returned obdurately; “and, if he does go, he must be made useful. We sha’n’t need both him and Tommy; Mr. Brock wants to carry the basket.”
Brock, meanwhile, had left the maid standing in the lower hallway and, two steps at a time, was mounting the ducal staircase which led to Barth’s room. His fist, descending upon the panels, cleft the Englishman’s dream in two.
“Oh, yes. What is it? Wait a bit, and I’ll let you in.”
From the other side of the door, muffled sounds betrayed the fact that Barth was struggling with his dressing-gown and slippers. Then the door was flung open, and Barth stood on the threshold. He started back in astonishment, as he caught sight of his unexpected guest.
“Oh. Mr. Brock?”
“Yes. Sorry to have routed you out so early; but I came to bring you word from Miss Howard and the Lady.”
Barth stepped away from the doorway.
“Come in,” he said hospitably. “Excuse the look of the place, though.”
Brock’s keen eyes swept the room with direct, impersonal curiosity, took note of the half-unpacked boxes, the piles of books, the heaps of clothing, then moved back to Barth’s face, where they rested with mirthful, kindly scrutiny. Then he crossed the room and dropped into a chair by the window.
“You brought me a message from Miss Howard?” Barth queried tentatively, after a pause which his companion seemed disinclined to break.
“Not so much a message as a—a suggestion,” Brock answered, with a hesitation so short as to escape the Englishman’s ear. “Miss Howard and the Lady are going to market, this morning, and I gathered, from what Miss Howard said, that she would like you to be on hand.”
“To—market?”
“Yes. She evidently thought you understood it was an engagement. The only question seemed to be about the hour.”
“Oh. What time do they go?”
“Ten.”
“And now?”
“It is past nine now.”
Barth stepped to the table and glanced at his watch.
“Fifteen past nine,” he read. “There is plenty of time. And you are sure Miss Howard wanted me?”
“Perfectly,” Brock answered, with brazen mendacity.
“How strange!” observed Mr. Cecil Barth.
“Strange that she should want you? Oh, not at all,” Brock demurred politely.
“Oh, no. Strange that she shouldn’t have mentioned it before.”
“Didn’t she say anything about it, last night?” Brock inquired.
“No. At least, I don’t remember it.”
“It may have slipped her mind. You had a good deal to talk over, I believe.”
“What do people do, when they go to market?” Barth queried, with sudden and intentional inconsequence.
“Buy things.”
“Yes. But what sort of things?”
“Haven’t you been down into the market yet?” Brock asked, as he craned his neck to watch two girls passing in the street beneath.
“Oh, no. Why should I?”
“Strangers generally do; it is quite one of the sights.”
“Do you mind if I begin dressing, Mr. Brock? What sort of sights?”
“Oh, cabbages, and pigs, and country things like that.”
Barth’s brows knotted, partly over his dressing, partly over his effort to grasp the situation.
“And is Miss Howard going down to—to look at those things?” he inquired.
“No, man; of course not. She is going down with the Lady to buy them.”
“To—buy—a pig?” Barth spoke in three detached sentences.
Brock smothered his merriment according to the best of his ability.
“The Lady will do the buying. Miss Howard goes to look on.”
“And does she expect me to look on, too?”
“Certainly.”
Barth sat with his shoe horn hanging loosely in his hand.
“But, Mr. Brock, I don’t know a bad pig from a good one,” he protested hastily.
“Oh, it’s quite easy to tell. Just pinch him a bit about the ribs. If he is fat and squeals nicely, he’ll go. But, as I understand it, you aren’t to do the marketing. You are expected to carry the basket for them.”
Barth looked up from his second shoe.
“The basket?”
“Yes. Women here take their baskets with them.”
“And get them filled?”
“Surely. Then they bring them home.”
Barth finished the tying of his shoestrings. Then he rose and picked up his collar.
“Oh, really!” he remonstrated, as he fumbled with the buttonholes. “Miss Howard can’t be expecting that I am going to bring a pig home in my arms.”
Brock rose.
“It is never safe to predict what a pretty woman will expect next,” he said oracularly. “I usually make a point of being ready for almost anything. As far as Miss Howard is concerned, I’d rather carry a pig for her than a bunch of roses for some women.”
This time, Brock’s words rang true. Moreover, they dismissed any doubts lingering in the mind of his companion.
“Oh, rather!” he assented, with some enthusiasm.
A mocking light came into Brock’s clear eyes.
“I am glad you agree with me. You knew her before I did, I believe.”
“Yes. At Sainte Anne-de-Beaupré. Miss Howard was very good to me, when I was there.” Over the top of his half-fastened collar, Barth spoke with simple dignity.
Brock liked the tone.
“I can imagine it, Barth,” he answered, with a sudden wave of liking for the loyal little Englishman before him. “Both St. Jacques and I would gladly have offered up our ankles at the shrine of Sainte Anne, for such a chance as yours.”
“What kind of a chance do you mean?”
“Chance to be coddled by Miss Howard, of course.”
Barth slid the string of his glasses over his head, put on his glasses and looked steadily up at Brock.
“It was a chance,” he assented gravely. “Chance and the handiwork of the Good Sainte Anne. It might have meant a good deal to me. Instead, I threw it all away by my own dulness; and now, instead of having the advantage of a three-weeks’ acquaintance, I have to start at the very beginning once more. If, as you are hinting, you and Mr. St. Jacques and I are on a strife to win the regard of Miss Howard, you and Mr. St. Jacques have already distanced me in the race.”
Brock laughed; but his eyes had grown surprisingly gentle. In all his easy-going life, a life when friends and their confidences had been his for the asking, few things had touched him as did this direct, simple expression of trust on the part of Mr. Cecil Barth. Contrary to his custom, he met confidence with confidence.
“You’re a good fellow, Barth,” he said heartily. “I am a little out of the running, myself. I’d like to wish you success, if I could; but St. Jacques is the older friend.” Then, relenting, he recurred to the object of his call. “Now see here, Barth,” he added; “you needn’t feel obliged to go to market. There may be some joke in the matter. Miss Howard laughed, when she was talking about it. Don’t go, if you don’t wish to. They can take Tomm............