“Yes, Mrs. Jack, that it is! It’s just what I was after tellin’ her meself.”
Mrs. Jack glanced swiftly at Nora and saw with relief that she was clean and plain and sober. Thank heaven she had pulled herself together! She hadn’t taken another drink since morning—that was easy to see. Drink worked on her like poison, and you could tell the moment that she’d had a single one.
Janie and May, passing back and forth between the kitchen and the maid’s sitting-room in their trim, crisp uniforms and with their smiling pink faces, were really awfully pretty. Everything had turned out perfectly, better than she could possibly have expected. Nothing had been forgotten. Everything was in readiness. It ought to be a glorious party.
At this moment the buzzer sounded sharply. Mrs. Jack looked startled and said quickly:
“The door-bell rang, Janie.” Then, almost to herself: “Now who do you suppose—?”
“Yes’m,” said Janie, coming to the door of the maids’ sitting-room. “I’ll go, Mrs. Jack.”
“Yes, you’d better, Janie. I wonder who—” she cast a puzzled look up at the clock on the wall, and then at the little shell of platinum on her wrist. “It’s only eight-fifteen! I can’t think any of them would be this early. Oh!”—as illumination came—“I think, perhaps, it’s Mr. Logan. If it is, Janie, show him in. I’ll be right out.”
“Yes, Mrs. Jack,” said Janie, and departed.
And Mrs. Jack, after another quick look about the kitchen, another smile of thanks and approbation for Cookie and her arts, followed her.
It was Mr. Logan. Mrs. Jack encountered him in the entrance hall where he had just paused to set down two enormous black suitcases, each of which, from the bulging look of them, carried enough weight to strain strong muscles. Mr. Logan’s own appearance confirmed this impression. He had seized the biceps of one muscular arm with the fingers of his other hand, and with a rueful look upon his face was engaged in flexing the aching member up and down. As Mrs. Jack approached he turned, a thickset, rather burly-looking young man of about thirty, with bushy eyebrows of a reddish cast, a round and heavy face smudged ruddily with the shaven grain of his beard, a low, corrugated forehead, and a bald head gleaming with perspiration, which he proceeded to mop with his handkerchief.
“Gosh!” said Mr. Piggy Logan, for by this affectionate title was he known to his more intimate acquaintance. “Gosh!”—the expletive came out again, somewhat windy with relief. At the same time he released his aching arm and offered his hostess a muscular and stubby hand, covered thickly on the back up to the very fingernails with large freckles.
“You must be simply dead!” cried Mrs. Jack. “Why didn’t you let me know you had so much to carry? I’d have sent a chauffeur. He could have handled everything for you.”
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” said Piggy Logan. “I always manage everything myself. You see, I carry all of it right here—my whole equipment.” He indicated the two ponderous cases. “That’s it,” he said, “everything I use—the whole show. So naturally,” he smiled at her quickly and quite boyishly, “I don’t like to take any chances. It’s all I’ve got. If anything went wrong—well, I’d just rather do it myself and then I know where I am.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Jack, nodding her head with quick understanding. “You simply can’t depend on others. If anything went wrong—and after all the years you must have put in making them! People who’ve seen it say it’s simply marvellous,” she went on. “Everyone is so thrilled to know you’re going to be here. We’ve heard so much about it—really all you hear around New York these days is----”
“Now—” said Mr. Logan abruptly, in a manner that was still courteous but that indicated he was no longer paying any attention to her. He had become all business, and now he walked over to the entrance of the living-room and was looking all about with thoughtful speculation. “I suppose it’s going to be in here, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes—that is, if you like it here. If you prefer, we’ll use another room, but this is the largest one we have.”