Torchy and Vee Part 26

"But I'm not, really," says Peyton. "It isn't that I am not fond of Ethel, and all that sort of thing. Walter--that's her husband--is a good sort, too, and the children are nice enough. But it's quite a trip to take for such a short visit--and rather expensive, you know. I've just been figuring up."

So he had. There on an office pad he's jotted down every item, including the cost of a ten-word day message and the price of a box of candy for the youngsters. He hadn't sent the wire yet, or bought the candy.

"Got your dinner coat in there?" I asks, noddin' to the suitcase.

He says he has.

"Then listen," says I. "Cross New Haven off the map for this time and lemme put you next to a week-end that won't set you back a nickel.

Haven't seen my place out on Long Island yet, have you; or met the new heir to the house of Torchy?"

"Why--why, no, I haven't," hesitates Peyton.

"High time, then," says I. "It'll all be on me, even to lettin' you punch in on my trip ticket. Eh? What say?"

Havin' known Peyton Pratt for some years I could pretty near call the turn. That free round trip ought to be big casino for him. And it was.

Course, he protests polite how he couldn't allow me to put up for his fare, and adds that he's heard so much about my charmin' little fam'ly that he can't really afford to miss such a chance.

"Sure you can't!" says I, smotherin' a grin.

Not that Peyton is one of your common cheap skates. That ain't the idea at all. He's a buddin' financier, Peyton is; one of these little-red-notebook heroes, who wear John D. mottoes pasted in their hats and can tell you just how Carnegie or Armour or Shonts or any of them sainted souls laid up their first ten thousand.

He's got all that thrift dope down fine, Peyton has. Why, he don't lick a postage stamp of his own but it gets entered in the little old expense account along with the extra doughnut he plunged on at the dairy lunch. He knows that's the way to win out for he's read it in magazine articles and I'll bet every time he pa.s.ses the Sub-Treasury he lifts his lid reverent.

I expect it's something Peyton was born to, for his old man was a bank cas.h.i.+er and his two older brothers already have their names up on window grills, he tells me, while an uncle of his is vice-president of an insurance company. So it's no wonder Peyton is a reg'lar coupon hound.

His idea of light readin' is to sit down with "Talks to Investors" on one knee and the market report on the other. Give him a forenoon off and he'd spend it down at the Clearing House watchin' 'em strike the daily balance. Uh-huh. The only way he can write U. S. is in a monogram--like this--$$

Not such a bad-lookin' chap though; tall, slim and dark, with a long straight nose and a well-developed chin. Course he's got kind of a bilious indoor complexion, and them thick gla.s.ses don't add to his beauty. You can imagine too, that his temperament ain't exactly frivolous. Hardly! Yet he thinks he's a great jollier when he wants to be. Also he likes to have me kid him about bein' such a finicky dresser, for while he never splurges on anything sporty, he's always neat and well dressed.

"Who's the little queen that all this is done for?" I asks him once.

"When I have picked her out I'll let you know, Torchy," says he, blinkin' foxy.

Later on though he tells me all about it confidential. He admits likin'

well enough to run around with nice girls when it can be done without danger of being worked for orchestra seats or taxi fares. But there was no sense gettin' in deep with any particular one until a feller was sure of a five figure income, at least.

"Huh!" says I. "Then you got time enough to train one up from the cradle."

"Oh, I don't know," says he. "Anyway, I shall wait until I find one with tastes as simple as my own."

"You may," says I, "and then again--Well, I've seen wiser guys than you rushed off their feet by fluffy young parties whose whole stock in trade was a pair of misbehavin' eyes."

"Pooh!" says Peyton. "I've been exposed to that sort of thing as often as anyone. I think I'm immune."

"Maybe you are," I has to admit.

So as I tows Peyton out to the house that afternoon I kind of hands it to myself that I've filled Vee's order. And there standing on the front veranda admirin' the lilacs is Lucy Lee in one of her plain little frocks--a pink and white check--lookin' as fresh and dainty and inexpensive as a prize exhibit from an orphan asylum.

I whispers to Vee on the side: "Well, you see I got him. Peyton's someone she can practice on, too, and no harm done. He's case hardened."

"Really," says Vee, lookin' him over.

"Admits it himself," says I.

"Oh, well, then!" says Vee, with one of her quizzin' smiles.

And at first it looked like Peyton was about to qualify as an all-'round exempt. He barely seemed to see Lucy Lee. While she was unreelin' the sprightly chatter he was inspectin' the baby, or talkin' with Vee, or askin' fool questions about the garden. Hardly takes a second glance at Lucy Lee. I expect he had her sized up as about sixteen. He could easy make that mistake.

Maybe that's what started her in on this brisk offensive at dinner.

Nothing high-school girly about Lucy Lee when she floats down the stairs at 7:15. It's a grown-up evenin' gown she's wearin' this time. No doubt then whether or not she'd had her comin' out. The only question was where she was going to stop comin' out. Not that it wasn't simple enough, but it sure was skimpy above the belt.

After his first gasp you could see Peyton sittin' up and takin' notice.

Couldn't very well help it, either, for Lucy Lee sure had the net out. I hadn't noticed them big innocent eyes of hers brought into full play before but now she cuts loose regardless. And Peyton, he is right in range. She's givin' him samples of them Oh-you-great-big-wonderful man looks. You know. And inside of ten minutes Peyton don't know whether he's bein' pa.s.sed the peas or is being elected second vice-president of something.

And I'd always cla.s.sed Peyton as a cold storage proposition! You should see the way he thaws out, though. Why, he tells funny stories, throws off repartee, and spreads himself generally. That long sallow face of his got tinted up like he'd had a beauty parlor treatment, and his serious eyes got to sparklin' behind the thick panes.

As for Vee and me, we swapped an amused glance now and then and enjoyed the performance. After the coffee, when Lucy Lee has led him out on the east terrace to see the full moon come up, they just naturally camped down in a swing seat and opened up the confidential chat. By the deep rumble we could tell that Peyton was carryin' the big end of the conversation.

"I know," says I. "Lucy Lee is makin' him tell how he's goin' to have Wall Street eatin' out of his hand some day, and every once in a while she's remarkin': 'Why, Mr. Pratt! I think you're wonderful; simp-ly wonderful!'"

"But I thought you said," puts in Vee, "that he was--er--case hardened?"

"Oh, he's just playin' the game," says I. "Maybe it's gone to his head a little tonight, but when it comes time to duck--You'll see."

One of my pet notions has always been that breakfast time is the true acid test for this romance stuff. Specially for girls. But next morning Lucy Lee shows up in another little gingham effect, lookin' as fresh and smilin' as a bed of tulips. And the affair continues right on from there. It lasts all day and all that evenin' except when Lucy Lee was makin' another quick change, which she does about four times accordin'

to my count. And each costume is complete--dress, hat, shoes, stockings all matchin'. The only restless motions Peyton makes, too, are durin'

these brief waits.

"Entertainin' young party, eh?" I suggests to him as Lucy Lee does one of her sudden flits.

"A most interesting and charming girl," says Peyton.

"Some cla.s.s, too. What?" I adds.

"If you mean that she dresses in excellent taste, I agree with you,"

says he. "Such absolute simplicity, and yet----" Peyton spreads out his hands eloquent. "Why can't all girls do that?" he asks. "It would be--er--such a saving. I've no doubt she makes them all herself."

"If she does," says I, "she must have put in a busy winter."

"Oh, I don't know," says Peyton. "They're all such simple little things.

And then, you know--or possibly you don't--that Lucy--er--I mean Miss Vaughn, is a surprisingly capable young woman. Really. There's so much more to her than appears on the surface."

"Tut, tut, Peyton!" says I. "Ain't you gettin' in kind of deep?"

"Don't be absurd, Torchy," says he. "Just because I show a little natural interest in a charming young woman it doesn't follow that----"

"Look!" says I. "Someone's givin' you the come-on signal."

Course, it's Lucy Lee. She's changed to an afternoon costume, sort of an old blue effect with not a frill or a ruffle in sight but with everything toned in, from the spider-webby hat to the suede slippers.

And all she has to do to bring Peyton alongside is to tilt her chin invitin'.