"Nor I," says she; "but we can try."

Three or four holes was enough for her, though, and then she has a new idea. "You rag, don't you?" says she.

"Only a few tango steps," says I. "My feet stutter."

"Then I'll show you how," says she. "We have some dandy records, and the veranda's just right."

So what does she do but tow me back to the house, ring up a couple of maids to clear away all the rugs and chairs, and push the music machine up to the open window.

"Put on that 'Too Much Mustard,' Annette," says she, "and keep it going."

Must have surprised Annette some, as I hadn't been accounted for; but a little thing like that don't bother Robbie. She gives me the proper grip for the onestep,--which is some close clinch, believe me!--cuddles her fluffy head down on my necktie, and off we goes.

"No, don't try to trot," says she. "Just balance and keep time, and swing two or three times at the turn. Keep your feet apart, you know.

Now back me. Swing! There, you're getting it. Keep on!"

Some spieler, Robbie; and whether or not that was just a josh about orchids bein' invented for her, there's no doubt but what ragtime was.

Yes, yes, that's where she lives. And me? Well, I can't say I hated it. With her coachin' me, and that snappy music goin', I caught the idea quick enough, and first I knew we was workin' in new variations that she'd suggest, doin' the slow toe pivot, the kitchen sink, and a lot more.

We stopped long enough to have tea and cakes served, and then Robbie insists on tryin' some new stunts. There's a sidewise dip, where you twist your partner around like you was tryin' to break her back over a chair, and we was right in the midst of practisin' that when who should show up but the happy bridegroom. And someway I've seen 'em look more pleased.

[Ill.u.s.tration: We was right in the midst of practisin' the sidewise dip, when who should show up but the happy bridegroom!]

"Oh, that you, old Grumpy?" says young Mrs. Talbot, stoppin' for a minute. "You remember Torchy, from Uncle Robert's office, don't you?

He came up with some orchids. We're having such fun too."

"Looks so," says Nick. "Can't I cut in?"

"Oh, bother!" says Robbie. "No, I'm tired now."

"Just one dance!" pleads Nick.

"Oh, afterward, perhaps," says she. "There! Just look at those silly orchids! Aren't they sights?" With that she snakes 'em out and tosses the wilted bunch careless over the veranda rail. "And now," she adds, "I must dress for dinner."

"You've nearly two hours, Pet," protests Nick. "Come to the outlook with me and watch the sunset."

"It's too lonesome," says Robbie, and off she goes.

It should have happened then, if ever. I was standin' by, waitin' for him to cut loose with the cruel words, and maybe introduce a little hair-draggin' scene. But Nick Talbot just stands there gazin' after her kind of sad and mushy, not even grindin' his teeth. Next he sighs, drops his chin, and slumps into a chair. Honest, that got me; for it was real woe showin' on his face, and he seems to be strugglin' with it man fashion. Somehow it seemed up to me to come across with a few soothin' remarks.

"Sorry I b.u.t.ted in," says I; "but Mr. Robert sent me up with the flowers."

"Oh, that's all right," says he. "Glad you came. I--I suppose she needed someone else to--to talk to."

"But you wouldn't stand for invite the leftovers on your honeymoon, eh?" I suggests.

"No, hang it all!" says he. "That was too much. She--she mentioned it, did she?"

"Just casual," says I. "I take it things ain't been goin' smooth gen'rally?"

He nods gloomy. "You were bound to notice it," says he. "Anyone would. I haven't been able to humor all her whims. Of course, she's been used to having so much going on around her that this must seem rather tame; but I thought, you know, that when we were married--well, she doesn't seem to realize. And I've offered to take her anywhere,--to Newport, to Lenox, to the White Mountains, or touring.

Three times this week we've packed to go to different places, and then she's changed her mind. But I can't take her back to Long Island, to her mother's, so soon, or ask a lot of her friends up here. It would be absurd. But things can't go on this way, either. It--it's awful!"

I leaves him with his chin propped up in his hands, starin' gloomy at the floor, while I wanders out and pipes off the sun dodgin' behind the hills.

Later on Robbie insists on draggin' me in for dinner with 'em. She's some dream too, the way she's got herself up, and lighted up by the pink candleshades, with them big pansy eyes sparkling and the color comin' and goin' in her cheeks--say, it most made me dizzy to look.

Then to hear her rattle on in her cute, kittenish way was better'n a cabaret show. Mostly, though, it's aimed at me; while Nick Talbot is left to play a thinkin' part. He sits watchin' her with sort of a dumb, hungry look, like a big dog.

And it was a punk dinner in other ways. The soup was scorched somethin' fierce; but Robbie don't seem to notice it. The roast lamb hadn't had the red cooked out of it; but Robbie only asks what kind of meat it is and remarks that it tastes queer. She has a reg'lar fit, though, because the dessert is peach ice-cream with fresh fruit flavorin'.

"And Cook ought to know that I like strawberry better," says she.

"But it's too late for strawberries," explains Nick.

"I don't care!" pouts Robbie. "I don't like this, and I'm going to send it all back to the kitchen." She does it too, and the maid grins impudent as she lugs it out.

That was a sample of the way Robbie behaved for the rest of the evenin',--chatterin' and laughin' one minute, almost weepin' the next; until fin'lly she slams down the piano cover and flounces off to her room. Nick Talbot sits bitin' his lips and lookin' desp'rate.

"I'm sure I don't know what to do," says he half to himself.

At that I can't hold it any longer. "Say, Talbot," says I, "before we get any further I got to own up that I'm a ringer."

"A--a what!" says he, starin' puzzled.

"I'm supposed to be here just as a special messenger," says I; "but, on the level, I was sent up here to sleuth for brutal acts. Uh-huh!

That's what the folks at home think, from the letters she's been writin'. Mr. Robert was dead sure of it. But I see now they had the wrong dope. I guess I've got the idea. What you're up against is simply a spoiled kid proposition, and if you don't mind my mixin' in I'd like to state what I think I'd do if it was me."

"Well, what?" says he.

"I'd whittle a handle on a good thick shingle," says I, "and use it."

He stiffens a little at that first off, and then looks at me curious.

Next he chuckles. "By Jove, though!" says he after awhile.

Yes, we had a long talk, chummy and confidential, and before we turns in Nick has plotted out a subst.i.tute for the shingle programme that he promises to try on first thing next morning I didn't expect to be in on it; but we happens to be sittin' on the veranda waitin' for breakfast, when out comes Robbie in a pink mornin' gown with a cute boudoir cap on her head.

"Why haven't they sent up my coffee and rolls?" she demands.

"Did you order them, Robbie?" says Nick.

"Why no," says she. "Didn't you?"

"No," says Nick. "I'm not going to, either. You're mistress of the house, you know, Robbie, and from now on you are in full charge."

"But--but I thought Mrs. Parkins, the housekeeper, was to manage all those things," says she.

"You said yesterday you couldn't bear Mrs. Parkins," says Nick; "so I'm sending her back to town. She's packing her things now. There are four servants left, though, which is enough. But they need straightening out. They are squabbling over their work, and neglecting it. You will have to settle all that."

"But--but, Nick," protests Robbie, "I'm sure I know nothing at all about it."