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Page 35
She had suppressed the envy, and it had revenged itself by
assaulting her afresh in the form of the worst fit of the blues
she had had in two years.
She had been loyally ready to sink her depression in order to
alleviate Aline's, but it was a distinct relief to find that the
feat would not be necessary.
"Never mind," she said. "Tell me what the very little thing was."
"It was only father," said Aline simply.
Joan cast her mind back to the days of school and placed father
as a rather irritable person, vaguely reputed to be something of
an ogre in his home circle.
"Was he angry with you about something?" she asked.
"Not exactly angry with me; but--well, I was there."
Joan's depression lifted slightly. She had forgotten, in the
stunning anguish of the sudden spectacle of that hat and that
tailor-made suit, that Paris hats and hundred-and-twenty-dollar
suits not infrequently had what the vulgar term a string attached
to them. After all, she was independent. She might have to murder
her beauty with hats and frocks that had never been nearer Paris
than the Tottenham Court Road; but at least no one bullied her
because she happened to be at hand when tempers were short.
"What a shame!" she said. "Tell me all about it."
With a prefatory remark that it was all so ridiculous, really,
Aline embarked on the narrative of the afternoon's events.
Joan heard her out, checking a strong disposition to giggle. Her
viewpoint was that of the average person, and the average person
cannot see the importance of the scarab in the scheme of things.
The opinion she formed of Mr. Peters was of his being an
eccentric old gentleman, making a great to-do about nothing at
all. Losses had to have a concrete value before they could
impress Joan. It was beyond her to grasp that Mr. Peters would
sooner have lost a diamond necklace, if he had happened to
possess one, than his Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty.
It was not until Aline, having concluded her tale, added one more
strand to it that she found herself treating the matter
seriously.
"Father says he would give five thousand dollars to anyone who
would get it back for him."
"What!"
The whole story took on a different complexion for Joan. Money
talks. Mr. Peters' words might have been merely the rhetorical
outburst of a heated moment; but, even discounting them, there
seemed to remain a certain exciting substratum. A man who shouts
that he will give five thousand dollars for a thing may very well
mean he will give five hundred, and Joan's finances were
perpetually in a condition which makes five hundred dollars a sum
to be gasped at.
"He wasn't serious, surely!"
"I think he was," said Aline.
"But five thousand dollars!"
"It isn't really very much to father, you know. He gave away a
hundred thousand a year ago to a university."
"But for a grubby little scarab!"
"You don't understand how father loves his scarabs. Since he
retired from business, he has been simply wrapped up in them. You
know collectors are like that. You read in the papers about men
giving all sorts of money for funny things."
Outside the door R. Jones, his ear close to the panel, drank in
all these things greedily. He would have been willing to remain
in that attitude indefinitely in return for this kind of special
information; but just as Aline said these words a door opened on
the floor above, and somebody came out, whistling, and began to
descend the stairs.
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