Glory of Youth | Page 4

mocking
eyes, as he acknowledged the introduction, seemed to beat against the
door of her maiden heart and demand admission.
CHAPTER II
IN THE SHADOWY ROOM
The injury to Justin's hand proved to be one of strain and sprain.
"A bandage for a few days," the doctor pronounced, "and then a little
carefulness, and you'll be all right."
Justin lingered. The little fire was like a heart of gold in the shadowy
room. Plain little Miss Matthews sipped her tea, with her feet on the
fender. Bettina, during the doctor's examination of Justin's hand, had
seated herself in her low chair on the hearth, and now her eyes were
fixed steadily on the flames.

"It's a shivery, shaky sort of day," said Justin, surveying the teapot
longingly, and Anthony laughed. "He wants his tea, Bettina," he said,
"and a place by your fire. It's another of his pussy-cat traits--so if you'll
be good to him, I'll have another cup, and he shall tell us about his
hydro-aeroplane."
Justin, standing in front of the fire, was like a young god fresh from
Olympus. His nose was straight, his mocking eyes a golden-brown, and,
with his cap off, his upstanding shock of hair showed glittering lights.
In deference to the prevailing fashion, his fair little mustache was
slightly upturned at the corners. He had doffed his rain coat, and
appeared in a brown Norfolk suit with leather leggins that reached his
knees.
"I'm afraid I've intruded upon your hospitality," he said to Bettina, as
she handed him a steaming cup, "but I'm always falling into pleasant
things--and I haven't the will power to get out when I should, truly I
haven't. But it isn't my fault--it's just a part of my pussy-cat
inheritance."
"He can afford to say such things," Anthony remarked; "he's really
more like a bird than a pussy cat. You should see him up in the air."
Justin's eyes flashed. "You should see me coming down on the water
after a flight. By Jove, Anthony, that's the most wonderful little
machine. I've called her 'The Gray Gull' because she not only flies but
swims--cuts through the water like a motor boat."
As he talked his eyes were on Bettina. "You beauty, you beauty," was
the thought which thrilled him.
When, at last, he stood up, he apologized somewhat formally. "I've
stayed too long," he said, "but Anthony must make my excuses. I was
down there in Purgatory--and he showed me--Paradise."
The doctor looked at him sharply. He knew Justin as a man of the
world--gay, irresponsible--and Bettina had no one to watch over her.

"I'll take you as far as the shops," he said, crisply, "and then I must get
at once to my old man with the pneumonia."
As the two men rode away in the doctor's small covered car, Justin
asked, "Where did you discover her?" Anthony, his eyes fixed on the
muddy road ahead of them, gave a brief outline: "Professionally. The
mother died in those rooms. The girl is alone, except for Miss
Matthews and the old Lane sisters who own the house and live in the
lower part. I have constituted myself a sort of guardian for Bettina--the
mother requested it, and I couldn't refuse."
"I see." Justin asked no more questions, but settled himself back in a
cushioned corner, and as the two men rode on in silence, their thoughts
were centered on the single vision of a shadowy room, and of a slender
golden-haired, black-robed figure against a background of glowing
flame.
All that night and the next day the doctor battled with Death, and came
out triumphant. By four o'clock in the afternoon the old man with
pneumonia showed signs of holding his own.
Worn out, Anthony drove back toward the sanatorium. The rain was
over, but a heavy fog had rolled in, so that the doctor's little car seemed
to float in a sea of cloud. Now and then another car passed him,
specter-like amid the grayness. Silent figures, magnified by the mist,
came and went like shadow pictures on a screen. From the far distance
sounded the incessant moan of fog-horns.
Anthony stopped his car in front of a small shop, whose lights
struggled faintly against the gloom.
Crossing the threshold, he went from a world of dampness and chill
into the warmth and cheer of an old-fashioned fish house.
For fifty years there had been no change in Lillibridge's. The floor of
the main room was bare and clean, and, in the middle, a round black
stove radiated comfort on cold days. Along one side of the room ran
three stalls, in which were placed tables for such patrons as might

desire partial privacy. On the spick and span counter were set forth
various condiments and plates of crackers. A card,