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Page 59
"What is your name?"
"Jim."
"You can go."
CHAPTER II
The drawing-rooms of one of the most magnificent private residences in
Austin are a blaze of lights. Carriages line the streets in front, and
from gate to doorway is spread a velvet carpet, on which the delicate
feet of the guests may tread.
The occasion is the entree into society of one of the fairest buds in
the City of the Violet Crown. The rooms are filled with the culture, the
beauty, the youth and fashion of society. Austin society is acknowledged
to be the wittiest, the most select, and the highest bred to be found
southwest of Kansas City.
Mrs. Rutabaga St. Vitus, the hostess, is accustomed to draw around her a
circle of talent, and beauty, rarely equalled anywhere. Her evenings
come nearer approaching the dignity of a salon than any occasion,
except, perhaps, a Tony Faust and Marguerite reception at the Iron
Front.
Miss St. Vitus, whose advent into society's maze was heralded by such an
auspicious display of hospitality, is a slender brunette, with large,
lustrous eyes, a winning smile, and a charming ingenue manner. She wears
a china silk, cut princesse, with diamond ornaments, and a couple of
towels inserted in the back to conceal prominence of shoulder blades.
She is chatting easily and naturally on a plush covered tete-a-tete with
Harold St. Clair, the agent for a Minneapolis pants company. Her friend
and schoolmate, Elsie Hicks, who married three drummers in one day, a
week or two before, and won a wager of two dozen bottles of Budweiser
from the handsome and talented young hack-driver, Bum Smithers, is
promenading in and out the low French windows with Ethelbert Windup, the
popular young candidate for hide inspector, whose name is familiar to
every one who reads police court reports.
Somewhere, concealed by shrubbery, a band is playing, and during the
pauses in conversation, onions can be smelt frying in the kitchen.
Happy laughter rings out from ruby lips, handsome faces grow tender as
they bend over white necks and drooping beads; timid eyes convey things
that lips dare not speak, and beneath silken bodice and broadcloth,
hearts beat time to the sweet notes of "Love's Young Dream."
"And where have you been for some time past, you recreant cavalier?"
says Miss St. Vitus to Harold St. Clair. "Have you been worshipping at
another shrine? Are you recreant to your whilom friends? Speak, Sir
Knight, and defend yourself."
"Oh, come off," says Harold, in his deep, musical baritone; "I've been
having a devil of a time fitting pants on a lot of bow-legged jays from
the cotton-patch. Got knobs on their legs, some of 'em big as gourds,
and all expect a fit. Did you every try to measure a bow-legged--I
mean--can't you imagine what a jam-swizzled time I have getting pants to
fit 'em? Business dull too, nobody wants 'em over three dollars."
"You witty boy," says Miss St. Vitus. "Just as full of bon mots and
clever sayings as ever. What do you take now?"
"Oh, beer."
"Give me your arm and let's go into the drawing-room and draw a cork.
I'm chewing a little cotton myself."
Arm in arm, the handsome couple pass across the room, the cynosure of
all eyes. Luderic Hetherington, the rising and gifted night-watchman at
the Lone Star slaughter house, and Mabel Grubb, the daughter of the
millionaire owner of the Humped-backed Camel saloon, are standing under
the oleanders as they go by.
"She is very beautiful," says Luderic.
"Rats," says Mabel.
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