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Page 4
"Gawd knows _I_ don't want it," protested George. "I got no truck with
your swell friends what know your real name and write to you on
per-_fumed_ paper with monograms and everything."
He held the envelope close to his nose and sniffed in ecstasy until it
was torn rudely from his grasp.
"Here!" he cried resentfully. "Where's your manners?... Perceval!"
Dumb with impotent rage, P. Sybarite climbed back on his stool, while
George sat down at his desk, lighted a Sweet Caporal (it was after
three o'clock and both the partners were gone for the day) and with a
leer watched the bookkeeper carefully slit the envelope and withdraw
its enclosures.
Ignoring him, P. Sybarite ran his eye through the few lines of notably
careless feminine handwriting:
MY DEAR PERCEVAL,--
Mother & I had planned to take some friends to the theatre to-night
and bought a box for the Knickerbocker several weeks ago, but now
we have decided to go to Mrs. Hadley-Owen's post-Lenten masquerade
ball instead, and as none of our friends can use the tickets, I
thought possibly you might like them. They say Otis Skinner is
_wonderful_. Of course you may not care to sit in a stage box
without a dress suit, but perhaps you won't mind. If you do, maybe
you know somebody else who could go properly dressed.
Your aff'te cousin,
MAE ALYS.
The colour deepened in P. Sybarite's cheeks, and instantaneous
pin-pricks of fire enlivened his long-suffering eyes. But again he
said nothing. And since his eyes were downcast, George was unaware of
their fitful incandescence.
Puffing vigorously at his cigarette, he rocked back and forth on the
hind legs of his chair and crowed in jubilation: "Perceval! O you
great, big, beautiful Perc'!"
P. Sybarite made a motion as if to tear the note across, hesitated,
and reconsidered. Through a long minute he sat thoughtfully examining
the tickets presented him by his aff'te cousin.
In his ears rang the hideous tumult of George's joy:
"_Per-ce-val!_"
Drawing to him one of the Whigham & Wimper letterheads, P. Sybarite
dipped a pen, considered briefly, and wrote rapidly and freely in a
minute hand:
MY DEAR MAE ALYS:--
Every man has his price. You know mine. Pocketing false pride, I
accept your bounty with all the gratitude and humility becoming in
a poor relation. And if arrested for appearing in the box without
evening clothes, I promise solemnly to brazen it out, pretend that
I bought the tickets myself--or stole them--and keep the newspapers
ignorant of our kinship. Fear not--trust me--and enjoy the masque
as much as I mean to enjoy "Kismet."
And if you would do me the greatest of favours--should you ever
again find an excuse to write me on any matter, please address me
by the initial of my ridiculous first name only; it is of course
impossible for me to live down the deep damnation of having been
born a Sybarite; but the indulgence of my friends can save me the
further degradation of being known as Perceval.
With thanks renewed and profound, I remain, all things considered,
Remotely yours,
P. SYBARITE.
This he sealed and addressed in a stamped envelope: then thrust his
pen into a raw but none the less antique potato; covered the red and
black inkwells; closed the ledger; locked the petty-cash box and put
it away; painstakingly arranged the blotters, paste-pot, and all the
clerical paraphernalia of his desk; and slewed round on his stool to
blink pensively at Mr. Bross.
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