A Little Love Affair

by Rex Stout

 

A Little Love Affair

By Rex T. Stout

MR. BOB CHIDDEN sat on a box in the September sunshine, in the back court of a private dwelling in West Twenty-third Street, long since converted into a rooming house. He had for some time been examining the worn toes of his boots with a stare of melancholy interest. On his head was a broad-brimmed straw hat of a dingy color, with a crack in the crown; to his form and limbs there hung a faded blue shirt and a pair of shiny black trousers; he held in his hand the handle of a dilapidated broom. Suddenly, as a soft sound came from behind, he removed his gaze from the boots and twisted his neck, and beheld a large gray cat advancing cautiously and daintily along the cement walk.

“Fuzzy thing!” said Mr. Chidden, in a tone of deep contempt. Then he turned around with a hasty glance at the kitchen window. No one was in sight.

“Disgustin' animal!” said Mr. Chidden, and gave a vicious poke with the broom handle. The cat leaped aside with a snarl, and disappeared up the side of the fence. Mr. Chidden allowed himself a momentary grin of appreciation, then sighed and resumed the melancholy stare at the toes of his boots. Five minutes passed.

“Robert!” came a sudden voice, harsh and authoritative, from the kitchen door.

Mr. Chidden rose to his feet and faced about. In the doorway appeared the form of a woman, angular, red-faced, something above fifty. She had the appearance of that class of females who manage somehow to exist in a perpetual state of agitation; and at this moment her emotion was apparent in every feature of her forbidding countenance.

“Well?” said Mr. Chidden.

The lady snorted. “Didn't you hear the bell ring?”

“I did not.”

“Well, it did. Answer it. I'm too busy.”

Mr. Chidden proceeded through the kitchen and lower hall, up a flight of stairs, and down another hall to the front door. There he found a boy from the tailor shop at the corner, who announced, in a squeaky voice, that he had come for Mr. Stubbs' suit. Mr. Chidden mounted two flights of stairs to the third-floor front and returned with a heap of gray material hanging over his arm.

“Be ready in half an hour,” said the boy, taking the suit. “Tell Mr. Stubbs he'll have to send for it. I got to go to school.”

Mr. Chidden nodded and closed the door. As he did so, a voice floated up from the kitchen:

“Robert!”

Mr. Chidden halted abruptly, while the settled melancholy of his face deepened to an expression of despair.

“It's too much!” he muttered aloud. “I'll revolt, that's what I'll do, I'll revolt!” Then he sighed, thrust his hands deep in his trousers pockets, and descended to the kitchen.

“Have you removed that coal?” demanded the red-faced woman, as he entered.

“What coal?” inquired Mr. Chidden.

“Lord save us!” grunted the lady. “The coal! Are you without brains, Robert Chidden? If ever woman were hangin' on the neck of a worthless brother, you're it. Go and move that coal!”

“You ain't hangin' on my neck,” protested Mr. Chidden, with some energy. “You ain't hangin' on my neck, Maria Chidden.”

“I'm not, perhaps, in a way,” agreed Miss Chidden. “As a figure of speech, which you don't understand, I am, and have been for twenty years. But I've got no time for argument. Go and move that coal!”

For a single moment Mr. Chidden's brain entertained a giddy and audacious thought. The words, “I won't move coal,” were formed in his throat. But, alas! they stuck there. He turned without a word, took the key to the cellar door from a nail on the wall, and made his way to the regions below. There, at the end toward the street, he found a large pile of coal which had been dumped in through the sidewalk, and which it was his painful duty to move with a shovel and basket to the vicinity of the furnace, some forty feet away. Mr. Chidden set about the unpleasant task with a dogged and gloomy air. It was easy to see that his heart was not in the work.

Little wonder, for even his sister Maria would have admitted, if absolutely pushed, that Mr. Chidden was not born to move coal. Indeed, at one time in their lives—when, on the death of their father, they had found them- selves in undisputed possession of an inheritance of six thousand dollars—she had regarded him as an equal. But when he had taken his half and gone up to New Rochelle to open a haberdasher shop, she had allowed herself certain dark observations concerning the state of his intellect; and when the haberdasher shop had failed and left its enterprising founder penniless, the observations had become painful convictions, declared with painful directness.

Twenty long years had passed since Mr. Chidden, finding his inheritance gone and with it all his youthful ardor, had come to live with his sister in the rooming house she had established with a portion of her share of the patrimony. At first he had intended to make it merely a temporary visit, to recuperate his powers; but time had drifted on. At the end of a year he had become a fixed institution, and had remained so ever since. Several times he had made a desperate and spasmodic attempt to break away by getting a job of one sort or another, but the difficulties and disappointments encountered in each instance had filled him with the settled conviction that fate had marked him for the victim of a cruel and remorseless tyranny. He gave up altogether, and became a furnace tender and handy man around the house.

Now and then, during the twenty years of horror, Mr. Chidden had lashed his sinking spirit to the point of rebellion. Once he had openly and fearlessly run away, only to be driven back by stern necessity in less than a fortnight. On another occasion he had conceived a bold and brilliant plan; and, after cogitating on it for two weeks and—more specifically—having fortified himself with a glass of blackberry cordial surreptitiously procured from a bottle in the sideboard, he had advanced a certain proposition to his sister Maria.

“My money!” Miss Chidden had exclaimed, after gazing at her brother for two minutes in dazed stupefaction at his unspeakable temerity. “Give you my money to throw away, Robert Chidden! I'm not crazy, thank you.”

“But it's a chance,” Mr. Chidden had argued desperately. “I tell you it's a real chance, Maria. Fine little shop—Seventh Avenue—has to sell—forty per cent—can't lose. It wouldn't cost more than a thousand—fifteen hundred at the outside. You wouldn't miss it. You must have ten thousand by this time. Where is it? Railroads, I suppose. Six per cent. Is it railroads?”

“No, it ain't. And if you think——”

“It don't matter,” said Mr. Chidden, actually interrupting her in the excitement of his feelings. “I'm your own brother, Maria. I'd pay you back in a year. Eight per cent. Wouldn't you take eight per cent from your own brother? You wouldn't miss it out of ten thousand.”

“You're right,” said Miss Chidden grimly. “I won't miss it, Robert. I won't miss it at all. It may be ten thousand, and it may be more, and it may be less, but whatever it is, I'll keep it. It ain't in railroads, and it pays some better than six per cent. When I invest money, I don't put it where them Wall Street robbers can peck at it. Neither do I give it to a lummox like you to throw away. Now you go out and clean off the sidewalk.”

“But, Maria——” Mr. Chidden began, almost tearfully.

“Robert! There's the broom.”

That had been the last eruption of the spirit of revolt in Mr. Chidden's bosom. The fire still smoldered, but it gave off nothing but smoke—mutterings and moody thoughts. The chief pity of this proceeded from the fact that he was constitutionally a cheerful man. For two weeks following the unpleasant episode related above, he had endeavored to drown his discontent by frequent sippings of the blackberry cordial; then his sister, actuated by a mean suspicion, had put a lock on the sideboard door, and he had been denied even that medicinal solace.

The amazing part of it was that Mr. Chidden was able to preserve the faintest trace of individuality under such trying conditions. But his was a spirit not easily conquered, even by twenty years passed under a galling yoke. We have seen him descend meekly to the cellar, resigned to the dirty task of moving coal. But it must not be supposed that he did so with any sense of appropriateness or true humility. He lacked the coal-moving instinct. As he inserted the blade of the shovel, with a vicious push, into the pile of hard black lumps, his imagination was no less active than his arms.

“That for you!” he muttered. “That for you——” A grunt, and another savage lunge. “That for you, Maria Chidden, you domineerin' despot!”

Thirty minutes had passed in this manner, and a considerable hole had begun to appear in the black pile, when Mr. Chidden suddenly paused in the act of inserting the shovel, to consult a dollar nickel-plated watch in his pocket. Then, with the expression of one who has suddenly remembered something not unpleasant, he threw down the shovel, turned out the gas jet, mounted the stairs to the kitchen, crossed to the sink, and began washing his hands.

“Now what's the matter?” demanded Miss Chidden, entering from the dining room.

“I've got to go to the tailor for Mr. Stubbs' suit,” replied Mr. Chidden calmly, feeling himself in a safe position.

“Humph!” grunted the lady. “It's a pity he don't go himself.”

“Couldn't,” said Mr. Chidden. “Sartorial wretchedness. He ain't got but one.”

This argument being incontrovertible, Miss Chidden returned to the dining room without further comment. Mr. Chidden scrubbed his hands and face, put on a collar and tie and coat, and sought the street. Half a block to the east, he turned into the door of a basement shop, above which was a blackboard with the legend in gilt:

M. STURCKE,

Fine Tailoring

Gents' Suits Sponged and Pressed 50c.

“Morning,” said Mr. Chidden, entering.

Two persons were in the shop—a fair-haired little woman with laughing blue eyes and an air of cheery amiability, and a young man with black hair and a pale, tragic countenance, who was energetically pounding on a tailor's goose with a heavy iron. The woman, laying aside a piece of cloth on which she was sewing, rose to greet the new-comer.

“Good morning, Mr. Chidden.”

The caller, suddenly remembering his manners, jerked off his hat before he spoke:

“Very fine, Mrs. Sturcke. Out for a little breath of air. By the way, you have a suit—belongs to one of the roomers——”

“You want Mr. Stubbs' suit, yes? Leo, is the gray suit done?”

“In a minute,” replied the pale-faced young man, and began to pound with the iron harder than ever.

“I'll wait,” said Mr. Chidden, leaning himself gracefully against the counter.

Mrs. Sturcke resumed her chair and took up her work. The pale-faced young man glanced twice at the pair, and each time the iron came down with a fearful thud.

“How's business?” asked Mr. At Chidden, with a professional air.

“Business is good,” replied Mrs. Sturcke, in a tone which implied that nothing else was.

“It appears so,” said Mr. Chidden, glancing knowingly at the row of coats and trousers hanging on the rail in the rear. “You've done admirable here, Mrs. Sturcke.”

“As well as could be expected,” agreed the lady.

“Yes, you have indeed. It's really surprising. As I said to Maria when your husband died two years ago, 'Women ain't tailors. She'll cavort.' But you haven't.”

“No, I aind't.” Mrs. Sturcke smiled. “But, of course, Miss Chidden—your sister—knew better yet. Not but what it's been hard. It's hard, anyway, being a widow.”

Mr. Chidden shook his head sympathetically. “I know. Lonesome memories. Past illusions. I have 'em myself, though I must say I ain't a widow.” Mr. Chidden sighed. “The fact is, I've never been married.”

Mrs. Sturcke had begun to smile at his little joke about not being a widow, but this last statement sobered her instantly.

“And that's a pity,” she observed gravely. “It's not right, Mr. Chidden.”

“Right!” exclaimed Mr. Chidden, with sudden energy. “Of course not! It's a fault! I admit it; it's a fault! But it's not mine. It takes two to make a bargain, Mrs. Sturcke, and I've never found the coequal.”

“Some women is fools,” declared Mrs. Sturcke emphatically.

“Here's the suit,” the pale-faced young man broke in, glancing from one to the other.

Mr. Chidden took the suit and placed it over his arm—with the trousers underneath so the suspenders wouldn't show—and prepared to leave. Mrs. Sturcke helped him with the adjustment.

“Thanks,” said Mr. Chidden courteously. “Good morning, ma'am.”

There was a little, perplexed frown on Mr. Chidden's brow as he turned down Twenty-third Street, a frown that alternated, now with a smile, now with a whistle. When he reached the steps of the rooming house, the smile was in the ascendant, but as he entered the door the frown returned.

“I wonder,” he said musingly to himself, “what the little widow meant by that about women being fools.”

Then back came the smile, indicating, perhaps, that he had answered the question to his complete satisfaction.

By twelve o'clock the coal was moved to the last shining lump, and Mr. Chidden went to the kitchen to wash up. Throughout that operation he whistled—there was no tune to it, but he whistled—and his sister Maria, hearing it, looked across at him suspiciously.

“Robert,” she exclaimed, “for goodness' sake stop that noise!”

He returned her gaze with an air of the utmost cheerfulness, threw the towel on a nail, and wandered into the back court.

After lunch, which he ate in the kitchen with his sister and the cook to avoid messing up the dining room, Mr. Chidden prepared to go out. This hour, from one to two, was his to do with as he liked, and he usually took advantage of the opportunity to walk down to the river, where he would loiter around watching the ferryboat crowds and the wagons of merchandise. For years he had been on friendly terms with the cabbies of the neighborhood, but the advent of taxis had thinned their ranks, and most of the old faces were gone.

On this day Mr. Chidden somehow did not feel like walking to the river.

“Sentiment of unrest,” he muttered to himself, taking down an old brown slouch hat from a hook in the basement hall. He put the hat on his head, then suddenly snatched it off again, and stood gazing at it in quick fury. The next moment he started up the stairs with a firm and resolute step, down the hall and into the parlor, where his sister was removing the summer covers from the furniture.

“Well,” said Miss Chidden, without looking up, “what are you fooling around here for? Remember, you get back by two o'clock. There's some rugs to beat.”

“Maria,” said Mr. Chidden calmly, “I want two dollars.”

At that she did look up.

“What for?” she demanded in amazement.

“For a new hat. Look at that!” said Mr. Chidden, holding up the old brown slouch. “It's a disgrace. And, what's more, it don't fit, and it knows it. It's even ashamed of itself.”

“That's all right,” replied the lady accusingly, “but you bought it new last year.”

But Mr. Chidden was in no mood for argument. He threw the hat on the floor with a gesture of scorn, and put his foot on it.

“Maria,” he said coldly, “I asked you for two dollars.”

“And I said,” retorted his sister, “or at least I say, which is the same thing, that you shan't have it. Don't try to bully me, Robert Chidden. I won't stand it. Don't abuse your own sister. You can either wear that hat or go without. Pick it up!”

“Maria a——”

“Robert!”

Mr. Chidden surrendered before the gleam of her eye. Fool that he had been, ever to have imagined he could conquer that steely glance! He picked up the hat, walked slowly to the hall, opened the door, and descended the steps to the street.

There he paused, undecided which way to turn. Certainly he did not want to walk to the river. The thing he would have liked most to do was to fight some one, pull his hair, kick him, punch his face; but that, he acknowledged to himself, was an impractical desire. He was a small man physically. He pulled the hat over his head, sighed heavily, and turned down the street to the right.

He walked slowly, aimlessly, with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his shoulders stooped in dejection.

“Domineerin' despot!” he muttered aloud. “A man as is a man wouldn't stand it. Bob Chidden, you're a sexual disgrace.”

These and other sundry self-accusations occupied his thoughts till he had nearly reached the end of the block. Suddenly he stopped and turned. Before him was a window bearing the inscription:

M. STURCKE,

Fine Tailoring

Gents' Suits Sponged and Pressed 50.

For a minute Mr. Chidden stood and stared at the window, while his face gradually lost its gloom and became luminous with the brilliance of an idea. He took his hands from his pockets, removed the brown slouch hat, and pulled it into some sort of shape.

“My foot!” he exclaimed to himself, as if dazed by the temerity of his own conception. “My foot!”

Then suddenly his eyes brightened with the fire of determination. He pressed his lips firmly together, stepped down to the door of the tailor shop, and opened it with a resolute hand.

“Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Sturcke, looking up from her sewing as he entered.

“How de do, ma'am?” Mr. Chidden, glancing hastily around, observed with relief that the pale-faced young man was not in sight. “Out for a breath of air,” he added, leaning against the counter and looking down at the plump little widow from the corner of one eye.

Mrs. Sturcke smiled pleasantly.

“I'm glad to know you can enjoy it, Mr. Chidden. For me, I don't ever seem to get the time. More work every day, though I suppose I shouldn't complain about that yet.”

Mr. Chidden agreed that it was a good thing to have work to do, but hastened to add that it was a great pity that ladies should have no time for recreation.

“Walking,” he declared, “is one of the great pleasures of life. It takes you away from things.”

At this the widow smiled again, and invited Mr. Chidden to be seated. There were two empty chairs in the shop—one near the outer door, two paces from where he stood, and the other behind the counter, near that occupied by Mrs. Sturcke. Mr. Chidden hesitated a moment, then deliberately walked through the aisle to the other side of the counter and seated himself on the second chair.

This was, in fact, an amazing performance. In all the years that Mr. Chidden had been sitting down in the tailor shop, whether to wait for a suit of clothes or merely to chat, he had never chosen any other chair than the one by the outer door. It would appear that Mrs. Sturcke appreciated the significance of his action, for she colored visibly and bent a little closer over her sewing. Mr. Chidden himself appeared to be somewhat embarrassed. He took off his hat and put it on again, then removed it once more and dropped it on the floor.

“Don't do that, Mr. Chidden,” said the widow, picking up the hat and placing it on the counter. “It'll get all soiled.”

“Not it,” said Mr. Chidden gloomily, his thoughts reverting to the late unpleasantness with his sister. Then he added hastily: “It's a bit off in color, but it's my favorite hat.”

“Quite right, too,” Mrs. Sturcke assented somewhat vaguely. “I like to see a man make his choice and stick to it. That was my husband's fault; he never knew what he wanted. Why, if you'd believe me, Mr. Chidden, he'd have some kind of newfangled thing in here every week. Otherwise he would have done well by the business, for he was a good worker.”

“Still, he left you pretty well fixed,” observed Mr. Chidden, glancing round the neat, well-kept shop.

Mrs. Sturcke stared at him as if surprised.

“As to that,” she said finally, “you know well enough how I'm fixed, and your sister does, too. Not that I've anything to complain of Miss Chidden.”

“It would be a wonder if you hadn't,” returned Mr. Chidden, not quite understanding the widow's reference to his sister. Nor did he care to discuss so unpleasant a topic. “I tell you what, ma'am,” he continued, throwing one leg over the other and sliding forward in his chair, “I have just about decided to leave my sister for good.”

“You don't say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Sturcke, stopping her sewing to look at him.

“I do say so,” declared Mr. Chidden almost fiercely. “Shall I tell you the truth, ma'am? I am not happy. I am becoming melancholy. Lonely aspirations. I shall leave and go far away.”

“But where would you go?” cried the widow in evident eagerness. In her tone was admiration of the man's daring, and a note of something else—was it disappointment?

“I don't know,” rejoined Mr. Chidden somberly. “But what does it matter, so long as I leave this life behind me? What does——”

“Mr. Chidden!” the widow interrupted in a voice of horror. “You wouldn't—you wouldn't—make away with yourself?”

Mr. Chidden stared at her blankly for a moment; then his face suddenly filled with comprehension.

“You misunderstand me,” he explained. “Still, I have had the thought. There are some things, ma'am, that are more than enough to drive a man to suicide. A great sorrow—unguarded affections—only to be met with heartlessness and cruelty——” Mr. Chidden paused, overcome with feeling.

“It's a woman!” cried Mrs. Sturcke, dropping the sewing to the floor in her excitement.

“It is,' agreed Mr. Chidden sadly. “But not my sister,” he added hastily. “Not her. This woman—this heartless creature—is not like my sister. She is beautiful. She is a widow. She is far too beautiful for sanguinary hopes. And now you know who she is.”

“I do not,” declared Mrs. Sturcke. But her voice trembled, and her eyes were downcast.

“Then must I pronounce her name?” demanded Mr. Chidden, who was now pretty well worked up. “You will laugh at me, ma'am. Very well. I cannot control my affections. Unhappy passion! Mrs. Sturcke, the woman is you!”

Never was amorous avowal better delivered, nor with more telling effect. The widow's face grew red to her throat and ears. She kept her eyes on the floor, after one fleeting glance at the eager face of the impetuous lover.

“I don't know what you mean, Mr. Chidden,” she said finally. But, hearing the tremble in her voice, Mr. Chidden cocked one eye—is it possible that he was winking to himself?—and leaned forward in his chair. His expression of hopeless despair gave way to an air of jaunty confidence; he reached forward and took the widow's hand in his own, and held it tight.

“Mrs. Sturcke—Gretta,” he demanded in a voice vibrant with emotion, “am I to suffer longer?”

The widow raised her head, turned beaming eyes to his.

“I'm sure I don't want you to suffer,” she declared tremulously. “But, Mr. Chidden—are you sure yet—iss it me?”

Mr. Chidden masterfully took possession of the other hand. “Gretta, dear,” he murmured, “Gretta, call me Robert.”

“Well—Robert——”

“Will you marry me, Gretta?”

“Ach!”

Then and there was Mr. Bob Chidden like to have been smothered beneath the caresses of a transport of ecstacy. He was in fact bewildered and astonished, for though he had received more than one amiable smile from the plump little widow, he had not supposed that so violent a passion could have been aroused in her white bosom. It was an ordeal he had not counted on, and he might have been smothered literally but for the timely appearance of the pale-faced young man with the tragic eyes, who stopped short on the threshold at the sight that met his astonished gaze.

“Look out—it iss Leo!” cried the widow, tearing herself loose and retreating to her own chair.

The pale-faced young man passed through the shop to the room in the rear without speaking.

“Come back to-night,” whispered Mrs. Sturcke softly. “He goes home at six o'clock.”

“To-night at seven. Darling! Happy love!” returned Mr. Chidden, pressing her hand. “You will be waiting for me?”

“Yess, Robert.”

Mr. Chidden emerged into the sunshine of Twenty-third Street with a springy, youthful step and a heart bounding with happiness. His hat was placed at a perilous angle on one side of his head, his hands were thrust deep in his pockets, and his shoulders swayed from side to side as he walked.

At last freedom! The twenty years' tyranny was at an end.

What a pleasant place that little shop was, to be sure! Of course, it wasn't worth much—perhaps six or eight hundred—but the custom was very good. It was two years now since Sturcke had died, and his widow had begun to run the place alone; it really wouldn't be surprising if she had managed to save up a thousand dollars. Just the right amount to put in a little stock of gents' furnishings—nothing elaborate, of course.

Suddenly Mr. Chidden stopped and swore at himself. As if it mattered whether the widow had saved up a thousand dollars or a thousand cents! As if it were not enough, and more than enough, that he was at last to escape from the inexorable clutches of his sister Maria! Never again to hear that hated voice raised in command! The joyousness of the thought caused Mr. Chidden to dance about on the sidewalk. He declared to himself that it would be worth it, even if he had to fire Leo and do all the work himself. At least, he would be master. He was humming a little tune under his breath as he turned in at the door of the rooming house.

“Robert!” came his sister's voice from the kitchen as he entered the hall.

Mr. Chidden descended the stairs with the step of a conqueror, flung the kitchen door open, and stood on the threshold.

“Well?” he inquired insolently.

His sister looked up from a pot she was stirring on the stove, and grunted.

“So you're back,” she observed. “It's time. I want you to beat them rugs.”

“All right,” said Mr. Chidden cheerfully.

He went to the closet in the back hall, took therefrom the carpet beater, and returned to the kitchen. For some time he stood in the middle of the room, regarding his sister's back as she bent over the pot. His expression was an indescribable mixture of triumph and impudence.

“I'll clean 'em good,” he observed finally, whirling the carpet beater about in the air, “because I may not get another chance at 'em.”

“Now what are you talking about?” came from the pot.

“I say, I may not get another chance at the rugs, because I'm going to leave.”

His sister turned to look at him.

“Leave! Leave where?”

“Leave here. This house. I'm going away, Maria.”

But Maria refused to be at all impressed by this startling information.

“I suppose John D. has given you a million to start in business with,” she observed sarcastically. “Now, you stop talking nonsense and do what I told you. And I don't want you running off for a day or a week, either. I thought you was done with that foolishness. If you do, I won't let you in when you come back.”

“Don't you worry,” retorted Mr. Chidden. “I won't come back. It's different this time. The fact is, as you might say, I'm going to get married.”

His sister whirled around, dropping the spoon in the pot with a splash.

“Married! You!” she exclaimed in a tone of scornful disbelief.

“Yes, married—me!” repeated Mr. Chidden warmly. “Married in every sense of the word. Just because you don't appreciate your own brother, Maria Chidden, is no sign some others wouldn't. It's a little love affair I run into. Amorous passion, my dear. She's a widow—remarkably beautiful woman—about half as old as you, I should say. Modern romance. I can't help it.”

“Half as old as me! Romance!” cried Miss Maria shrilly, her face flaming, and trembling all over with anger. “Half as old as me, indeed!” she repeated. “Thank you, Robert Chidden!” She stopped a moment, choking with indignation; then demanded sternly: “Who is this woman?”

“You'd like to know, wouldn't you?” observed Mr. Chidden impudently.

“Yes, and what's more, I'm going to know.”

“Maybe.” Mr. Chidden threw the carpet beater over his shoulder and started for the door. “She's a lady, and she's a widow, and that's all I have to say,” he threw back.

Silence pursued him to the door and a few paces into the court. He had flung four rugs over the line and was picking up the fifth when his sister's voice, sharp, with a ring in it, came from the kitchen:

“Robert! Is it Gretta Sturcke?”

Mr. Chidden returned to the door, and stood looking in.

“If it is,” he replied truculently, “what about it?”

Then he became silent with wonder at the change that took place in his sister's face. Her eyes, which had glared with indignation, lost their fire and assumed their normal expression of calm and relentless tyranny; her lips were pressed together in a grim smile of satisfaction; the red flag of agitated displeasure disappeared from her cheeks. Mr. Chidden's brain entertained the astounding idea that his sister Maria was actually pleased by the information that he was to marry Gretta Sturcke!

“What—what is it?” he faltered at last. “What's the matter?”

“Matter? Nothing!” Miss Chidden chuckled. “So she got you, did she? I suppose she thinks I'll make a fool of myself. Well, I won't. What I've got, I'll keep. Though, to be sure, I shan't be sorry to have you around the shop; goodness knows you're no account here. And it'll save me Leo's wages, as soon as you learn to do the work.”

These words were Greek to Mr. Chidden, but he felt somehow that they were ominous. Why should his sister Maria pay Leo's wages? Why—— He felt himself grow pale as a horrible thought entered his mind. Could it be possible? Could fate play him so dastardly a trick?

“Maria,” he stammered, “what do you mean?”

Again Miss Chidden chuckled.

“Ask Gretta Sturcke,” she advised sardonically. “Ask her why she wants a little spindle-legged thing like you for a husband. Lord knows she didn't have much luck with the first one. If it hadn't been for me stepping in when he died and paying eight hundred dollars for a business that wasn't worth a cent more than seven hundred and fifty, she'd have found herself without a roof over her head. And besides that, I gave her a job to live on. Ain't I been payin' her twelve dollars a week just to look after the place? Lord knows it ain't made me rich, but I haven't lost anything, and with you there, Robert, to watch things, and me to watch you, I guess it won't be so bad. Only I have to laugh at Gretta Sturcke. I suppose she thought I'd give you the shop for a wedding present. Humph!”

Mr. Chidden gasped, tottered, and sank into a chair.

“Maria,” he said weakly, “do you mean to say that tailor shop is yours?”

“I do,” answered Miss Chidden dryly. “Can't understand plain English? Romance! Huh! You're a fine subject for romance, you are! Go on out and beat them rugs.”