VIII
EONA MORRILL was at dinner that evening, but almost the length of the table separated them, and it was only later, in the hall, that Gordon found an opportunity to speak to her. Leona and Mrs. Morrill, attended by Tommy Tupence, were leaving early, and she was already cloaked when he reached her. Since there were others around them, they shook hands.
"Have you relented yet?" he asked.
She raised her brows languidly. "Relented?" she repeated.
"Repented, if you like," he replied with a smile.
"You still remember—at the end of a fortnight? The lady must have made a real impression on you!"
"She did. I hope she is well."
"I believe so. I haven't seen her since she left me at Aiken."
"I wish you'd be generous."
"To her?"
"To me. If you think you oughtn't to tell me her name, will you write to her and ask her permission?"
"Is it as bad as that? " she mocked.
"Well, I'm—very much interested in her, Leona."
"Can't you find some one in your own set to be—interested in?"
Tommy laid a persuasive hand on Gordon's arm. "You're blocking traffic, old chap."
"Hello, Tommy. Good evening, Mrs. Morrill. Won't you try to persuade Leona to be kind to me?"
Mrs. Morrill, stout and good-natured, struggled with her gloves, beaming archly at the petitioner.
"Fancy any one being unkind to you, Mr. Ames! What have you done to him, dear?"
"Merely refused him something that wouldn't be good for him, mamma."
"But why not let me be the judge of that?" asked Gordon.
"You're not a good judge, Gordon."
"Then you won't?" he asked dejectedly.
She shook her head, smiling. Tommy Tupence, his face convulsed with his efforts to fathom the conversation, glanced at his watch. Mrs. Morrill nodded to him and laid her gloved hand on Leona's elbow.
"Perhaps she will think better of it, Mr. Ames," she said. "Let her reflect. Come, dear."
Gordon said good night and watched them go through the big copper-grilled glass doors with a frown.
"Hang it," he muttered. "I'll find out now if only to get the best of her!" He went in search of Peter Waring, and a few minutes later they were speeding toward the theater, Peter grumbling because he feared they had missed the first act entire. They had, as it proved. As, however, the last act failed to please them Pete forgot his regrets. After the play they dropped in at Rector's, where, over coffee, Benedictine and cigars, Gordon suddenly demanded:
"Pete, what do you think about honesty?"
Peter looked a little startled. "Why," he replied, "it—it's a good thing."
"Well, is it practical nowadays? Can one be honest and get along?"
"Why not? I'd say it was easier to be honest than dishonest, Gordon."
"I think it is for you, old man. You're about the—well, the squarest chap I know." Peter colored faintly with embarrassment. "But you don't get up against any problems. If you were in business, Pete, I'll bet you'd go bankrupt in a month."
"I don't see it," said Peter stoutly. "Business isn't different from anything else. A chap acts square in anything, doesn't he?"
"Some, perhaps. No, he doesn't—not if it's business. The trouble isn't with the man, it's with business itself. Business seems to me to be just another name for dishonesty. There are men who wouldn't think of double-crossing a friend in the ordinary relations of life, who'd shoot themselves rather than cheat at cards, who'd be as square as a block with a woman, Pete. Put that same man in business and he'd cheat the eye-tooth out of his dearest friend!"
"Piffle!"
"By gad, no, it isn't piffle! It's the lamentable truth, old man. Why, hang it, I'll bet there's graft in even a Bible society! Only they don't call it cheating or grafting; they call it 'business.'"
"Well, maybe. Glad I'm not in business, then. Glad you're not, too."
"But I am, and that's what makes me mad. So are you to a lesser extent. You rent your buildings, don't you?"
"A chap does it for me," said Pete.
"Well, how do you know that you are dealing honestly with your tenants?"
"Because if I wasn't I'd knock that chap's damned block off!"
"Then knock it off. Afterwards look into things and you'll find you were justified. My business is railroading. You'd think a big system like the C. and W. could be run honestly and make enough money to satisfy the stockholders, wouldn't you?"
Peter blinked. "I'm satisfied with what I get."
"Yes, and you get what you do because—or in spite—of the fact that the road is run like any other business."
"Oh, I say, old man!"
"Fact, though. And I'm not telling you anything you won't learn for yourself in a week or two. They're after us now, the Government. We've been rebating and juggling cars and all the rest of the damned programme. Oh, they all do it—until they get found out. And even if we get punished we'll go on doing it—in another way. Squeeze the public, jump on the small shipper, doctor the rates—and fill the pockets of the share-holders!"
"What's it for? Can't you make enough without it?"
"Yes, or I believe we can. But you can't convince the directors. They don't want to be convinced, hang 'em! They'd rather get a dollar by some underhand 'business' methods than get two dollars by being plain honest. It's a good road, too. I'm fond of it. My dad made it; bought here and there, built connections, fought the Mardens for four years and won, and finally created the finest railroad system in the world. And now it's being run by a lot of—of vultures who don't give a continental cuss what becomes of the road as long as it fills their damned purses. I've a mind, Pete, to"
He paused and puffed savagely on his cigar. Peter maintained a sympathetic silence. Gordon dropped his cigar in the ash-tray.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go home. I want to walk."
They left Broadway behind them and crossed to the Avenue, an almost deserted and silent canyon above whose rims the stars shone white in a purple April sky. They walked in silence for a while. Then,
"I've a good mind, Pete," Gordon continued quietly, "to oust the whole lot of 'em, to put my own directors in and see if a railroad system can't be run honestly and still make money. Sounds a bit—quixotic, eh?"
"Sounds like horse-sense," growled Peter.
"It would be a fight," reflected Gordon aloud. "Some of 'em would struggle like fiends before they'd let go. Why, hang him, even Lovering smiles at me sadly and shakes his head when I talk about honesty. And he'd be horrified and insulted if I so much as hinted that he wasn't the—the personification of probity!"
"He's a deacon in his church," murmured Peter mildly.
"Why, I'd trust him with anything I've got—outside of business, Pete! But there it is. 'Make a clean breast of it,' I said yesterday. 'Tell 'em we've done this and that and are ready to take our medicine. Tell 'em we'll behave after this. What's the use of having an investigation with the papers full of it?' He was terribly distressed. 'It would never do,' he said. 'No, no, we must fight it out. There are interests that can be reached; it's quite probable that the Commission will act—er—discreetly; after all our methods have been only those universally followed; let us sit snug and—er—see what happens.' That means that there's to be dirty, underhand work at Washington, and a raft of money spent in an effort to hush it all up, or, failing that, to get off easily. Got any money not working, Peter?"
"A little, I guess. How much do you want?"
"I don't want it; you do. You're going to be a director of the C. and W., old man, and it will cost you something."
"All right," said Peter. "Let me know when you're ready."