There was something of the great lover about Palgrave in his new and changed condition.He had laid everything unconditionally at the feet of this young thing.He had shown a certain touch of bigness, of nobility, he of all men, when, after his outburst in the little drawing-room that night, he had stood back to wait until Joan had grown up.He had waited for six weeks, going through tortures of Joan-sickness that were agonizing.He had asked her to do what she could for him in the way of a little kindness, but had not received one single line.He was prepared to continue to wait because he knew his love to be so great that it must eventually catch hold of her like the licking flame of a prairie fire.It staggered him to arrive at the Hosacks' place and find her fooling with a smooth-faced lad.
It outraged him to be left cold, as though he were a mere member of the house party and watch her to whom he had thrown open his soul go joy-riding with a cursed boy.It was, in a sort of way, heresy.It proved an almost unbelievable inability to realize the great thing that this was.Such love as his was not an everyday affair, to be treated lightly and carelessly.It was, on the contrary, rare and wonderful and as such to be, at any rate, respected.That's how it seemed to him, and by God he would see about it.
He drew up short, at last, on his strange walk across the undulating course.The light from the Country Club streamed across his feet, and the jangle of the Jazz band broke into his thoughts.From where he stood, surprised to find himself in civilization, he could see the crowd of dancers through the open windows of what resembled a huge bungalow, at one side of which a hundred motor cars were parked.He went nearer, drawn forward against his will.He was in no mood to watch a summer dance of the younger set.He made his way to the wide veranda and stood behind the rocking chairs of parents and friends.But not for more than fifty seconds.There was Joan, with her lovely laughing face alight with the joy of movement, held in the arms of the cursed boy.Between two chairs he went, into and across the room in which he was a trespasser, tapped young Oldershaw sharply on the arm, cut into the dance, and before the boy could recover from his surprise, was out of reach with Joan against his heart.
"Oh, well done, Gilbert," said Joan, a little breathlessly."When Marty did that to you at the Crystal Room..."She stopped, and a shadow fell on her face and a little tremble ran across her lips.
Smoking a cigarette on the veranda young Oldershaw waited for the dance to end.It was encored several times but being a sportsman and having achieved a monopoly of Joan during all the previous dances, he let this man enjoy his turn.He was a great friend of hers, she had said on the way to the club, and was, without doubt, a very perfect person with his wide-set eyes and well-groomed head, his smooth moustache and the cleft on his chin.He didn't like him.He had decided that at a first glance.He was too supercilious and self-assured and had a way of looking clean through men's heads.He conveyed the impression of having bought the earth,--and Joan.Apity he was too old for a year or two of Yale.That would make him a bit more of a man.
When presently the Jazzers paused in order to recuperate,--every one of them deserving first aid for the wounded,--and Joan came out for a little air with Palgrave, Harry strolled up.This was his evening, and in a perfectly nice way he conveyed that impression by his manner.He was, moreover, quite determined to give nothing more away.He conveyed that, also.
"Shall we sit on the other side?" he asked."The breeze off the sea keeps the mosquitoes away a bit."Refusing to acknowledge his existence Palgrave guided Joan towards a vacant chair.He went on with what he had been saying and swung the chair round.
Joan was smiling again.
Oldershaw squared his jaw."I advise against this side, Joan," he said."Let me take you round."He earned a quick amused look and a half shrug of white shoulders from Joan.Palgrave continued to talk in a low confidential voice.
He regarded Oldershaw's remarks as no more of an interruption than the chorus of the frogs.Oldershaw's blood began to boil, and he had a queer prickly sensation at the back of his neck.Whoo, but there'd have to be a pretty good shine in a minute, he said to himself.This man Palgrave must be taught.
