The “Pot and Kettle” was up in the hills near Tuxedo, within motoring distance of the city and near enough to a station to be convenient to those who were forced to depend upon the railroad. It was a gabled farmhouse of an early period converted by the young men of Colonel Broadhurst’s generation into its latter-day uses as a club for dilettante cooks, where the elect might come in small parties on snowy winter nights, or balmy summer ones, and concoct with their own hands the glasses and dishes most to their liking. Its membership was limited and its fellows clannish. Most of the younger members of the Club had been proposed on the day of their birth, and accession at the age of twenty-one to its rights and privileges had always been the signal for a celebration with an intent both gastronomic and bibulous. On club nights every one contributed his share to the evening’s entertainment, and the right to mix cocktails, make the salad dressing, or grill the bird was transmitted by solemn act in writing from those of the older generation to those of the new, who could not be dispossessed of their respective offices without a proper delegation of authority or the unanimous vote of those present.

A member of the “Pot and Kettle” had the privilege of giving private entertainments to a select few, provided due notice was given in advance, and upon that occasion the Club was his own and all other members were warned to keep off the premises. This gave the “Pot and Kettle”[201] affairs a privacy like that which the member enjoyed in his own home, for it was the unwritten law of the Club that whatever passed within its doors was not to be spoken of elsewhere.

Egerton Savage had long ago discovered that no preparation was necessary to make entertainments successful at the “Pot and Kettle.” The number of a party given, to the steward and his wife, all a host had to do was to put on his white apron and await the arrival of his guests. But to give an added zest to this occasion the fortunate ones had been advised that the party was “for children only.”

And as children they came. Ogden Spencer, Larry Kane and Coley Van Duyn in a motor direct from the Cosmos Club arrived first and hurried upstairs with their packages from the costumers to dress; the Perrines and Betty Tremaine followed; then Mrs. Pennington, the chaperon, and a limousine full of débutantes; Jane Loring with Honora Ledyard and Bibby Worthington; and Dirwell De Lancey with Clifford Benson, and Freddy Sackett. Nina Jaffray had driven out alone. Most of the girls had dressed at home and arrived ready for the fray, and after a few finishing touches in the ladies’ dressing-room upstairs were ready to greet their host, at the foot of the stairs. Egerton Savage, his thin legs emerging from velvet knee breeches, as Little Boy Blue, met Little Miss Muffett, Old King Cole, Old Mother Hubbard, Peter Piper, Margery Daw, Bobby Shafto, Jack Spratt, Solomon Grundy, and all of the rest of the nursery crew. Nellie Pennington’s débutantes scattered about the building like a pack of inquisitive terriers, investigating every nook and cranny, peering into cupboards and closets and punctuating the clatter of arrival with pleasant little yelps of delight.

[202]

As they all assembled at last in the kitchen, large white aprons, which covered their costumes from neck to foot, were handed out and the real business of the evening was begun. Egerton Savage, chief-cook and arbiter, with a shrewd knowledge of the capabilities of débutantes, handed each of the young ladies a loaf of bread and a long toasting fork, their mission being to provide the toast, as well as the toasts of the night; and presently an odor of scorching bread pervaded the place.

Jane rebelled.

“I simply won’t be subjected to such an indignity, Mr. Savage,” she laughed. “I can cook—really I can.”

He eyed her askant and laughed.

“You must be Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary, aren’t you?”

“I am, and I won’t cook toast.”

At last he commissioned her to poach the eggs.

Larry Kane, a club member, as the Infant Bacchus, in fleshlings and cheesecloth with a garland of grape-leaves on his head, had already begun the concoction known as the “Pot and Kettle punch,” an amber-colored fluid with a fragrant odor of spices, and a taste that was mildness itself, but in which there lurked the potent spell of the wassail of many lands. It was against this punch that Nellie Pennington had taken pains on the way out in the machine, to warn her small brood; and some of those young ladies who had already retired from the fire, stood beside the mixer of ingredients, sniffing at the uncorked bottles, making pretty faces and lisping in childish disapproval.

Coleman Van Duyn, as Little Jack Horner, his scarlet face rising like a winter sunset from his white apron, was superintending the broiling of the lobsters; Dirwell De Lancey, who proclaimed himself Simple Simon, was[203] carving cold turkey, Freddy Sackett was making the salad-dressing; while Betty Tremaine, a very comely Bo-Peep, was drying the lettuce leaves and crushing them to the proper consistency between her slender pink fingers; Yates Rowland stewed the terrapin; Percy Endicott made the coffee; and Sam Purviance, with Nina Jaffray’s help, made the cocktails.

The festivities of supper were well under way before Phil Gallatin arrived. It had been late before he could leave the office, and so he had been obliged to come out by train. After getting into costume he sought the room eagerly for Jane and their eyes met in wireless telegraphy across the table. The chairs beside her were occupied by Worthington and Van Duyn, so he dropped into a chair Savage offered him between Mrs. Pennington and Miss Tremaine. His host thrust a cocktail in front of him on the table, and Phil thanked him over his shoulder, but when Savage had gone, he pushed it away. Nellie Pennington realized that he looked a little tired and serious, but made no comment. Gallatin had been working hard all day and until the present moment had forgotten that he had had no lunch. Food revived him and it was not long before he could enter into the gay spirit of the company. They were children, indeed. The cooking finished, their white aprons had been discarded and loud was the joy at the appearance of the men and eager the compliments for the ladies. The babel of baby rattles and tin whistles, discontinued for a time, arose again and the table rang from end to end with joke and laughter. Bibby Worthington’s wig of Bobby Shafto got askew and at an unfortunate moment was jostled off into the salad-bowl, upon which his bald head received baptism in fizz at the hands of the Infant Bacchus. Freddy Perrine, who had had more than his share of punch, was shooting[204] butter-balls from the prongs of a fork at Kent Beylard’s white shirt-front, for Beylard hadn’t had time to go to the costumer. Dirwell De Lancey insisted upon singing “The Low-Backed Car,” but was prevented from doing so by the vehemence of his chorus which advised him to get a limousine. Sam Purviance began telling a story which seemed to be leading toward Montmartre when Nellie Pennington rose from the table, and followed by her buds, adjourned to another room. Here the sound of a piano was immediately heard and the tireless feet of the younger set took up the Turkey Trot where they had left off at three o’clock the night before.

No word had passed between Phil Gallatin and Jane, and he had just gotten to his feet in pursuit of her when Nina Jaffray stood in his way.

“Hello, Phil,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to see you.”

“Me? I’m glad of that, Nina. You’re certainly a corker in that get-up. What are you?”

“I’m Jill. Won’t you help me fetch a pail of water?”

“And have my crown broken? No, thanks. Besides I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be in the part. You see I’m——
“‘Tommy Trot, the man of law, Who sold his bed to lay on straw.’”

“Are you? It isn’t true, is it, Phil? I heard you were going out of the firm.”

“Oh, no. I’ve been working, Nina. Sounds queer, doesn’t it? Fact, though.”

“There’s something I want to see you about, Phil. I’ve been on the point of looking you up at the office.”

“You! What is it?” he laughed. “Breach of promise or alienation of the affections?”

“Neither,” slowly. “Seriously—there’s something I[205] want to say to you.” Gallatin looked at her and she met his eye fairly. “I’d like to talk to you here—now—if you don’t mind.”

“Oh—er—of course. But if it’s anything of a serious nature—perhaps——”

“I can speak here—will you follow me?”

Gallatin glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the room into which Jane had disappeared, but there was nothing left but to follow, so he helped the girl find a quiet spot on the back stairway where Nina settled herself and motioned to him to a place at her feet. Gallatin sat trying to conceal his impatience in the smoke of a cigarette, and wondering how soon Nina would let him go to Jane.

“Phil, you and I have known each other a good many years. We’ve always got along pretty well, haven’t we?”

“Of course,” he nodded.

“You’ve never cared much for girls and I’ve never thought much about men—sentimentally I mean—but we always understood each other and—well—we’re pretty good friends, aren’t we?”

“I’d be very sorry if I thought anything else,” he said politely.

She paused and examined his profile steadily.

“You know, Phil, I’m interested in you. I think I’ve always been interested—but I never told you so because—because it seemed unnecessary. I thought if you ever needed my friendship you’d come and ask me for it.”

“I would—I mean, I do,” he stammered.

“Something has been bothering me,” she went on slowly. “The other morning at Nellie Pennington’s, Jane Loring told us the truth about the Dryad story.”

“Yes.&rdqu............