Alice Adams | Page 9

do just cheer him up a little. I'll say good-bye to
him before I go out."
"Where are you going?"
"Oh, I've got lots to do. I thought I'd run out to Mildred's to see what
she's going to wear to-night, and then I want to go down and buy a yard
of chiffon and some narrow ribbon to make new bows for my
slippers--you'll have to give me some money----"
"If he'll give it to me!" her mother lamented, as they went toward the

front stairs together; but an hour later she came into Alice's room with a
bill in her hand.
"He has some money in his bureau drawer," she said. "He finally told
me where it was."
There were traces of emotion in her voice, and Alice, looking shrewdly
at her, saw moisture in her eyes.
"Mama!" she cried. "You didn't do what you promised me you wouldn't,
did you--NOT before Miss Perry!"
"Miss Perry's getting him some broth," Mrs. Adams returned, calmly.
"Besides, you're mistaken in saying I promised you anything; I said I
thought you could trust me to know what is right."
"So you did bring it up again!" And Alice swung away from her, strode
to her father's door, flung it open, went to him, and put a light hand
soothingly over his unrelaxed forehead.
"Poor old papa!" she said. "It's a shame how everybody wants to
trouble him. He shan't be bothered any more at all! He doesn't need to
have everybody telling him how to get away from that old hole he's
worked in so long and begin to make us all nice and rich. HE knows
how!"
Thereupon she kissed him a consoling good-bye, and made another gay
departure, the charming hand again fluttering like a white butterfly in
the shadow of the closing door.
CHAPTER III
Mrs. Adams had remained in Alice's room, but her mood seemed to
have changed, during her daughter's little more than momentary
absence.
"What did he SAY?" she asked, quickly, and her tone was hopeful.

"'Say?' " Alice repeated, impatiently. "Why, nothing. I didn't let him.
Really, mama, I think the best thing for you to do would be to just keep
out of his room, because I don't believe you can go in there and not talk
to him about it, and if you do talk we'll never get him to do the right
thing. Never!"
The mother's response was a grieving silence; she turned from her
daughter and walked to the door.
"Now, for goodness' sake!" Alice cried. "Don't go making tragedy out
of my offering you a little practical advice!"
"I'm not," Mrs. Adams gulped, halting. "I'm just--just going to dust the
downstairs, Alice." And with her face still averted, she went out into
the little hallway, closing the door behind her. A moment later she
could be heard descending the stairs, the sound of her footsteps
carrying somehow an effect of resignation.
Alice listened, sighed, and, breathing the words, "Oh, murder!" turned
to cheerier matters. She put on a little apple-green turban with a dim
gold band round it, and then, having shrouded the turban in a white veil,
which she kept pushed up above her forehead, she got herself into a tan
coat of soft cloth fashioned with rakish severity. After that, having
studied herself gravely in a long glass, she took from one of the
drawers of her dressing- table a black leather card-case cornered in
silver filigree, but found it empty.
She opened another drawer wherein were two white pasteboard boxes
of cards, the one set showing simply "Miss Adams," the other engraved
in Gothic characters, "Miss Alys Tuttle Adams." The latter belonged to
Alice's "Alys" period--most girls go through it; and Alice must have
felt that she had graduated, for, after frowning thoughtfully at the
exhibit this morning, she took the box with its contents, and let the
white shower fall from her fingers into the waste-basket beside her
small desk. She replenished the card-case from the "Miss Adams" box;
then, having found a pair of fresh white gloves, she tucked an
ivory-topped Malacca walking-stick under her arm and set forth.

She went down the stairs, buttoning her gloves and still wearing the
frown with which she had put "Alys" finally out of her life. She
descended slowly, and paused on the lowest step, looking about her
with an expression that needed but a slight deepening to betoken
bitterness. Its connection with her dropping "Alys" forever was slight,
however.
The small frame house, about fifteen years old, was already inclining to
become a new Colonial relic. The Adamses had built it, moving into it
from the "Queen Anne" house they had rented until they took this step
in fashion. But fifteen years is a long time to stand still