# Peggy-in-the-Rain/Chapter 4

IV
T all events, he could easily discover her identity. He had only to question Leona Morrill, and Leona would undoubtedly be at the dinner which he was attending. And yet it would be a good deal like throwing himself on the mercy of the enemy, for ever since the newspaper had predicted an engagement between him and the girl, and a certain journal of society had actually announced it, Leona Morrill had disliked him. He knew it and the rest of the world guessed it. There were some who declared—women, these—that Gordon Ames had behaved badly when the enterprising press had sought to hasten the engagement. Others—and these were the men, chuckling wickedly—declared that he had been "jolly wise." What he had really done was to run! Leona, possibly finding something uncomplimentary in the precipitancy of his flight, had seemingly never forgiven it. It wag a recognized rule that the two were ​not to be seated together at the table, although they met in public without open hostilities.
Miss Morrill was a very handsome girl, tall, finely built, a good horsewoman and the only child of Anderson Morrill, whose Morrill's Magic Malt, handed down to him by his father, has been a household word—and a household necessity—for sixty years. "Old Magic" Morrill they had called Leona's grandfather back in Utica, since on all his preparations for restoring and preserving the health of humanity the word magic had featured. But the Magic Malt was the only one of the long list which had survived the test of time—and the Pure Food and Drugs Act. Whether there was aught of the magic about his medicines and cure-alls, it must be acknowledged that there was something closely akin to magic in the manner in which the astute old Yankee had accumulated wealth. Anderson Morrill retained a controlling stock in the business, but did not soil his hands with it. Nor, you may be sure, did he serve Morrill's Magic Malt as an appetizer at his dinners, although that excellent concoction contained ingredients not out of place in an appetizer. Anderson Morrill held true to the ​principles and obligations of the Second Generation. He rode to hounds in a pink coat, maintaining his own pack on Long Island and being M.F.H., cruised about the world in a steam yacht that was the last cry in nautical comfort, kept up three estates, and, in brief, proved to the world that only one generation is required to make a gentleman—when aided by magic. He was a fair horseman, a poor huntsman, a mediocre shot, a good husband and an indulgent father. He gave much to charity and saw that the world learned of it. He was ambitious regarding his daughter, and it was said that his disappointment when her engagement to Gordon Ames was denied was truly pathetic. At present, having failed at an alliance with America's Aristocracy of Wealth, he was patently negotiating for an alliance with England's Nobility of Poverty, and the fair-haired Earl of Marctdell—pronounced Mardel, if you please—who had been under his wing most of the winter was about run to earth. The earl was a good-natured, not overly scintillant youth who was known through the colony as Tommy or Tommy Tupence. "I say, don't call me that," he had begged a lady who addressed him as Your ​Grace. "Call me Tommy. The rest of it isn't worth tupence over here, you know."
It was Tommy whom Gordon gently but firmly detached from Leona Morrill on the porch after dinner.
"It won't do, Tommy," he said severely. "You're constituting yourself a combination in restraint of trade, old chap."
"Oh, but I say!" remonstrated Tommy as Gordon pushed him away.
"Objection overruled. If you don't run along I'll fine you twenty-nine million dollars, Tommy."
If Leona was surprised she failed to show it. She looked merely languidly amused. She affected languor, and it became her.
"It wears four shoes and only three stockings," said Gordon, taking the chair beside her. "Guess my riddle."
"The Tiger," replied Leona. "He's not for sale."
"Um; sorry. I saw him yesterday and I like his looks."
Miss Morrill remained silent.
"A—er—a girl was riding him, I believe. A friend of yours?"
​She nodded, watching him calmly. Gordon smiled disarmingly.
"The fact is," he confessed, "I ran across her during the thunderstorm and we shared the same shelter for a few minutes. One can't discover young ladies in forests without becoming at least mildly curious about them."
"What is it you want to know about her?" asked Leona.
"Well, who she is, for one thing. After that, where she is."
"She didn't tell you her name?"
"Why should she? One doesn't ask a girl under such circumstances "
"No? How long did you—share the same shelter?"
Gordon shrugged. "Five minutes, perhaps; ten, maybe. It was banging away most of the time and there wasn't much chance for confidences."
Miss Morrill smiled. "Ten minutes? Then I fancy if you didn't learn her name it was because she wouldn't tell it."
Gordon made a grimace. "That doesn't sound flattering," he laughed.
​"We are hardly—strangers," she replied coldly.
He was silent a moment. Then,
"Suppose we pass on to the second question," he suggested. "Where is she?"
"What time is it?"
"Ten minutes to nine," he answered, after looking at his watch.
"Then—I'd say—she was about at Washington."
"Washington! You mean that—she's gone?"
"Yes, she left this morning on the early train."
"For New York?"
"She told you that much, then?"
"Incidentally, yes."
"But not her name?"
"Surely, that's not strange," he smiled. "The meeting was rather—er—casual, you see."
"But you want to know it?"
"Please."
"Why?"
"Curiosity."
"Vulgar—and sometimes dangerous."
"But I'm not a cat; at least, I hope not."
​"No, you're not catty. But I can't tell you her name."
"Can't or won't?"
"Well, won't. I'll tell you why. She is a friend of mine. We went to the same school a few years ago and she was one of the very few girls who were genuine. Her people—" Leona paused a moment—"were poor. She herself works for her living. She is not in our set and she's not your kind of a girl. And—well, in short, Gordon, it's no good."
"My kind of a girl," he repeated questioningly. "Just what is my kind of a girl?"
"You surely understand me," she replied a trifle impatiently. "I mean that she is not a girl you would marry and she's not a girl who would—take you without marriage. Is that frank enough?"
"Quite," he said dryly. "I must either marry the young lady or keep away, then. Is that it?"
"Exactly."
"You haven't much of an opinion of me as a friend, have you?"
"I don't think you'd make a very good friend for a girl who is situated as she is."
​"You reminded me a moment ago that we are scarcely strangers," he said mildly. "Is that your real opinion of me?"
"I am considering you as one of—of your set," she answered calmly. "Besides, she doesn't want you to follow her."
"Then she thought it possible that I would? She told you so?"
"The expression is mine. What she did say was that she hoped you wouldn't try to find out about her. That was before the telegram came. She expected to remain with me another week."
"Oh, so it was a telegram that took her home?"
"Yes. Gordon, the girl is in trouble, a whole big lot of trouble. Let her alone, please."
"I'm sorry," he said, after a moment's silence. "You won't tell me her name, then?"
"No, I won't."
"I could learn it, I suppose," he mused.
"Yes, you could question the servants."
"I might even do that in my desperation," he replied with a smile. "However, I won't. Just to prove that I am not quite as bad as you paint me, I won't. Are you satisfied?"
"Yes, if you mean it."
​"Much obliged!"
"Oh, I'm not questioning your veracity," she said calmly. "I'm sure you mean to steer clear now, only—I'm wondering if it will last."
"I see. Well, I'm only agreeing not to ask any more questions now—and here. If I should learn by accident I'd probably try to see her again. I suppose it's the—well, the element of mystery that has got me going. I dare say if she had told me her name I wouldn't have thought about her again."
"Then you did ask her?"
He nodded: "Yes; she told me the Peggy part of it."
"Oh!" Leona frowned. "She didn't——"
He laughed. "She didn't fess up to that?" he asked.
"She may have mentioned it. I don't remember. And now, if you're quite through——"
"Quite, thank you. Yes, I'd better go, for Tommy is scowling quite fiercely at me. By the by, you and she write?"
"Occasionally."
"Then, in your next letter——"
"No," she said decisively.
​He laughed as he arose. "Not even that?"
"Not even that."
"Do you know, Leona, I believe you're queering your own game?"
"In what way?"
"By—well, by flaunting the 'Keep off the Grass' sign too violently. The grass begins to look terribly inviting. Good night."
The Northern mail had arrived at the hotel during his absence, and Gordon found a letter from his mother. Mrs. Ames wrote regularly to her son and married daughter every Monday afternoon at a certain hour. She was the kind of woman whose life is ruled off into squares, with a duty for each square. Gordon had declared once that the notion that the country set its clocks by the Government Observatory was exploded, that the clocks were corrected every morning at seven-fifteen, when his mother rang for her maid, and again at four-thirty in the afternoon, when Hurd, the butler, paraded solemnly into the drawing-room with the tea-cart. There was only one portion of Mrs. Ames' four pages—she always wrote four pages; never more nor less—that interested Gordon, and that only slightly.
Gordon was more concerned over the butler's rheumatism than anything else mentioned in the letter. Hurd and he had been chums ever since he had been big enough to ride around on the old man's shoulders. He dropped the mail into his pocket, and procured a highly colored postcard exhibiting an expanse of unnaturally green grass ​sprinkled with white costumes and backed by a lemon-yellow building. It was inscribed "Palmetto Golf Club House, Aiken, S. C."
"Dear Mums," he wrote. "Tell Hurd to carry a horse-chestnut in his pants pocket. Much love. Gordon."
He chuckled as he addressed it and dropped it into the box. His mother detested postcards, disliked being called "Mums," and thought the word "pants" extremely vulgar.