# Peggy-in-the-Rain/Chapter 12

XII
HITHERTO quite unknown restlessness pursued Gordon. He knew the meaning of it, but resented it impatiently. No place seemed able to hold him for long. In the morning he was out of the house as early as the duty of sitting through an almost untasted breakfast would allow. He wandered into one club or another only to wander out again. One afternoon he drove his car up and down the Avenue and through the principal cross streets until darkness, his eyes searching the crowded sidewalks, peering into carriages and automobiles and 'buses. Once a brougham passed him near Thirty-fourth Street, and he was shouted at by a traffic officer because he swung his car around short of the street intersection and went racing back to overtake it. And when he ran alongside he found that the likeness which had deceived him was infinitesimal. The girl in the brougham ​laughing and talking with a red-faced middle-aged man was no more like Peggy-in-the-Rain than day was like night. His emotion following the discovery was difficult of analysis, being partly relief and partly disappointment, but there had been nothing complicated about the fierce, blind rush of jealousy that had overmastered him when he had first caught sight of the girl. That had been plain and primitive, and it had left him with shaking hands and hot cheeks. He guided his car to the front of a hotel, went inside and dropped into a chair, and while the drink he ordered was being prepared he considered himself with something closely bordering on dismay.
What in Heaven's name had gotten into him? He had been attracted by women before; he had been in love before; one affair had even been for a time rather desperate; but never had a woman taken possession, of him as Peggy had. It seemed to him uncanny, and the more he thought of it, the more he realized his subjection, the more uneasy he became. There was a fair leaven of New England caution in his make-up, and the idea of losing control of himself was at once distasteful and alarming. A waiter brought his ​drink and he gulped it down eagerly. Gradually it produced a change of mood. The whole thing was absolutely absurd, he told himself. The idea of letting any woman get such a hold on him! Why, he was worse than any silly, love-sick schoolboy! He lighted a cigar, with a smile for his folly, and went out to his car. And in the act of entering his glance fell on a slim, black-clad figure and his pulses pounded and his heart leaped into his throat!
A second look showed that, the girl was not Peggy-in-the-Rain, and Gordon cursed himself for an idiot and resolved savagely to stop thinking about her. But in spite of that resolve his eyes searched for her in the gathering twilight all the way back to the club, where, discovering Peter Waring, he worked off a good deal of ill-temper on that good-natured and long-suffering friend.
The next morning there was a meeting of Central and Western directors, and Gordon, seated at the head of the long table listened absently to the proceedings and wrote "Peggy" over and over on the blue blotting-pad before him. The Commission was to proceed with its inquiry, but, ​explained Mr. Lovering blandly, there—ah—need be no uneasiness as to the result. Nods of satisfaction went up and down the table and the matter of the quarterly dividend was taken up and put through. After that Gordon signed some papers, accepted an envelope containing a twenty dollar gold piece and took his departure.
So far Leona Morrill had eluded him, but he ran across her that evening at a dance. He put his name down twice on her card, danced the first number and sat out the second. But Leona was still adamant. She apparently took a malicious satisfaction in refusing the knowledge he asked. Gordon, grown desperate, charged her with it, and they parted ill-temperedly. Two days later the Siren took aboard a party of eight carefully selected persons and dropped down the coast. But if Gordon hoped to find peace of mind by getting away from New York he was doomed to disappointment. Even the dazzling Miss Standley who, having labored valiantly and failed bravely to make "Winning Winnie" a success at the Metropole, had flatly refused to eke out the season with another vehicle, thereby precipitating a quarrel with Mr. Frohman which was still interesting ​the public, failed to distract Gordon. On the second day out Miss Standley—whose given name was Bessie—announced with ludicrous pathos that "Winning Winnie" was child's play compared with "Winning Gordon." At Charleston Gordon received a mythical telegram and headed the yacht sharply around for New York, turning what was to have been a fortnight's cruise into a week's. Peter Waring, who had upset all calculations by paying assiduous attention to the fascinating chaperon, wanted to know why Gordon had bothered with the Siren. "You might have taken us over and back on the Weehawken ferry, old chap. Just when we're sort of getting acquainted——"
"Getting acquainted!" sneered Gordon. "Do you call sitting up all night with Mrs. Ferris and drinking wine at four o'clock in the morning over my state-room getting acquainted?"
"Was that your room?" asked Peter mildly. "Grace bet me it was Miss Massey's. Joke on her, what?"
"Look here, Pete, you were supposed to be nice to Alice Roberts and not gallivant about with Mrs. Ferris. Damn it, you said you wanted to get married! You can't marry Grace Ferris, you ​simple idiot! She's got a husband and two kids!"
"I know," replied Peter, "but when it comes to choosing a wife I want to do the choosing, Gordon."
"Well, I dare say you do. What of it?"
Peter grinned. "That's the answer," he replied.
"What's the answer?"
"Miss Roberts. She was doing the choosing."
"Piffle!"
"Fact," said Peter gravely. "She almost had me tagged, old chap."
"You're a damned conceited idiot."
"Conceited if you like, old chap; idiot, no. I've played it safe, what?"
"Yes, unless Bob Ferris hears what you've been doing. Then you may get your silly head knocked off."
Peter grinned again. "Say, Gordon, you've got a peach of a grouch, haven't you? What's the matter? Wouldn't she come along?"
"Oh, go to thunder!" growled Gordon. "I'll be glad when I've got the whole bunch of you dumped in New York again."
"Nice, hospitable host you are," mourned ​Peter. "And, say, you hypocritical old cuss, I like your cheek, rowing me because I didn't do my duty by that Roberts girl! Why, confound you, why don't you play your own hand decently? Miss Standley has yawned her head off ever since we left home!"
"To the devil with Miss Standley! And you, too! Anyway, we're going home. I've had a telegram——"
"Sure; I know; and I don't wish her any harm, but I hope she chokes!"
"She?" demanded Gordon irascibly.
"Whoever she is," replied Peter calmly. "Trust a woman to spoil the fun somehow or other. Why the dickens don't you run home by rail, hold her hand awhile and come back and finish out the cruise? We'll get on all right, old chap."
"You're a fool four ways from the ace!"
"Well," Peter chuckled, "I'm not fool enough to believe in that telegram!"