Green Roses

CHAPTER 2

A KISS FOR LUCK

"Why not?" and Betty's round, chubby face registered fine indignation. "Girls nowadays can go to anything evil, see anything evil, hear anything evil-"

"You sound like the Japanese monkeys," Pennington laughed at her. "And don't say 'nowadays' to me! I'm not your uncle."

Jim Pennington was a man of thirty, but to flapper Betty he seemed a generation removed. He was an erratic playwright, some of his work achieving marked success and some falling flat. One of his plays had been suppressed and others ought to have been, but they were not quite popular enough to make it worth while.

He was not distinguished-looking in any way, but his bored, languid air and his soft, drawling voice had an attraction for some women.

He made slight appeal to Betty, however, who liked her men louder and funnier.

"How'd you come to marry your wife?" she said, feeling she ought to startle a playwright.

"She made me," returned Pennington, straightforwardly.

"Why, what a churlish speech!"

He stared at her, and comprehended.

"Oh," he laughed, "I didn't mean it that way! I mean she was the making of me-of my career. Her sympathy and help-"

"I see-your dearest friend and severest critic-or whatever it is. She's very beautiful, too."

"Yes; if she weren't quite so pretty, she'd be the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Does that mean anything?" asked Betty idly. She was bored with the man, and didn't want to waste any sparkle on him.

"Not to you, I daresay. Are you to be maid of honor?"

"Yes, and Mrs. Pennington is matron of honor, I know. We'll do well together."

"Watch your step, then. Polly is a marvel when she's in regalia."

"So'm I," returned Betty; "what's she going to wear?"

"Lord, I don't know. Let me see-she should wear-oh, well, nothing short of a complete Carmen costume brings out her best points."

"Yes, I can see that. She's a perfect Carmen. That wonderful black hair, those eyes-even the very way her cigarette droops from her lips. Do you care for any other woman, Mr. Pennington?"

"Woman? No. Women? Yes. I adore many of them. May I adore you?"

"'Fraid I haven't time. There are so many enticing strangers here. Look at that man who just came in! Is he the one they're all crazy about?"

"Yes, he's the Swami. His name is Lal Singh. I think he's a faker."

"Fakir with an i or an e?"

"All the same. Want to meet him?"

Betty did and the two went across to where the Swami and Emily were talking together, a little apart from the rest.

"Do we intrude?" said Pennington lightly. "Miss Bailey wants to meet a real live celebrity."

Lal Singh bowed, gravely accepting the compliment.

Whereupon Betty monopolized him, and Emily turned to Pennington.

"Where's Polly?" he asked.

"In the present room. Oh, Penn, look at my necklace! Isn't it perfect?"

"Let me see it," and Pauline Pennington came toward them. "Yes, Emily, it's awfully good. Might have been a bit heavier-"

"Not at all. I wouldn't have it of larger stones. Just because Penn gave you a Kohinoor-"

Polly held up her chin, as if to show off better the diamond pendant that had been her wedding gift six years ago.

"Funny for you to have the Rehearser, Emily. What's the idea?"

"Oh, everybody does now. Of course, six years ago, such a thing was unheard of, but it's a great discovery, really."

"But Spinks is the undertaker."

"What of it? Can't he undertake a wedding as well as a funeral?"

"Oh, you give me the creeps-"

"Don't come to rehearsal if you feel nervous about it, Polly dear."

Emily was not of a catty disposition, but Polly Pennington, though one of her dearest friends, often rubbed her the wrong way.

Moreover they were rivals for social queendom.

Emily, as a belle and heiress was easily first with the younger men, but Polly, who was really a married flirt, had a long list of admirers.

The two girls were opposites as to character, Emily being daring, unafraid and impulsive.

Pauline, nearly seven years older, had learned to be diplomatic, discreet and careful. She had the mentality of a Machiavelli and the suave countenance of a Mother Superior.

Not that she looked nun-like. Her suavity was a mask and she meant it to be known as a mask. Beneath it were fires of many sorts, to be kindled or extinguished at her pleasure.

Emily's personality was frank, free, and open. Pauline's was deep, mysterious, hidden.

Yet the two were friends, after a fashion, and Emily never fought Pauline with her own weapons of sarcasm and pettish faultfinding, unless goaded to it.

And during the preparations for the wedding Pauline had been especially irritating. Both jealous and envious by nature, she resented Emily's triumphs and sought to belittle the elaborate plans.

"Oh, yes, I'll come," she answered Emily's suggestion. "I want to see what the undertaker person does. I never should have had such a thing at my wedding."

"Of course not-seven years ago."

"Six."

"Well, six, then. You see, modes were very different then. How would I look having the sort of wedding you had?"

"What do you know about it? You weren't there!"

"No, I was in the nursery. But, now, the Rehearser is a regulation thing; one has to have him. You'll see."

"And that Spinks is a general-utility man. Why, he manages bridge games and costume parties."

"Of course he does. He attends to everything except christenings-"

Emily stopped suddenly, and quickly changed the subject. There had been one great tragedy in Pauline's life, the loss of her baby.

She worshipped the child, really idolized it, and when the little thing died of croup the night before the christening day, Polly Pennington almost went mad.

Highly strung and nervous of temperament, she was a long time regaining her poise and her health.

Her friends even now were careful not to mention children or christenings in her presence, and Emily's slip was a real catastrophe.

She turned quickly toward the pair at her side, Betty and the Swami.

The Hindu would, she knew, distract Pauline's attention at once.

"Come with me, Betty," she said, peremptorily. "There's some one I want you to meet."

Betty was enjoying herself and didn't want to leave, but the look on Emily's face compelled her, and she obeyed.

"Wassamatter?" she said, curiously. "You and Polly had a spat?"

"No. Keep still, do."

She shepherded Betty across the room toward a man who had just come in.

A man much older than the rest, a man who gave the effect of an elderly beau, which, indeed, is just what he was.

Abel Collins, sixty or thereabouts, was the friend of all the world.

He had been a friend of Emily's parents and had known and loved the girl all her life.

His bright, blue eyes gleamed from beneath shaggy gray eyebrows, and his gray hair, a bit long, curled at the ends.

He was good-looking in the sense that he looked good and his attire was immaculate, if not quite of the latest styles.

He put an arm round Emily without speaking to her and held out a hand to Betty as Emily introduced them.

"My godfather," Emily said, "and my guide, philosopher and friend. My overseer and general superintendent. My mentor and tormentor-"

"There, there," Abel Collins interrupted, "I'm sure Miss Bailey knows enough about me now to last the rest of her life. Let's talk of something else."

"Talk about me," said Betty promptly. "I'm maid of honor, and I'm next to the bride in importance now, and as soon as she goes off with Rod, I'll be top of the heap! I guess you'll be glad then that you know me, Mr. Collins!"

"Oh, I hope so," he returned. "My dear young lady, I truly hope so! And if you'll only behave yourself-"

"Now, now," said Betty, taking to him at once, "don't set me too hard a task-"

Seeing the two fairly launched on a gay conversation, Emily slipped away from Abel Collins' clasp and went to Sayre's side.

She slipped naturally into Rodney's circling arm and joined in a spirited discussion he was having with Burton Lamb.

"You're crazy, Burt," Sayre was saying; "what do I care what Emily does?"

"Why, why!" Emily said, smiling up at him as she felt his arm tighten round her. "What's the wild Lambkin saying to make my sweetie talk like that?"

Her perfect faith and trust left no room in her heart to imagine that Sayre's words cast any aspersion upon herself, as indeed they did not.

"He's a goof," Rodney informed her. "And he's also an interfering old cuss and a general rotter. Want to know any more?"

"I do," said Emily, "I want to know it all. First, the subject of the debate."

"No debate about it," Lamb said, with some heat. "I merely told this lunatic that you're planning to marry that you had been bamboozled into giving a lot of money to the present pet of Hilldale, the dear little Swammikins-"

"Oh, that!" and Emily laughed. "Well, go on, my Lamb, go on; I'm a member of the What-Of-It? Club."

"Oh, nothing much," said Lamb, airily, "only I thought...