Raspberry Jam

“I’ve had a right good time,” he said in his boyish way, as he rose to go. “Thank you, ma’am, for the tea and things. I liked it all.”

His comprehensive glance that swept the room and its occupants was a sincere compliment and after he had gone there was only kindly comment on his personality.

Except from Aunt Abby.

“He’s an ignorant boor,” she announced.

“Now, now,” objected Eunice, “you only say that because he upset your favorite delusions. He punctured your bubbles and pulled down your air-castles. Give it up, Aunt Abby, there’s nothing in your ‘Voice of Isis’ racket!”

“Permit me to be the judge of my own five senses, Eunice, if you please.”

“That’s just it, Miss Ames,” spoke up Hendricks. “Is your psychic information, or whatever it is, discernible to your five senses, or any of them?”

“Of course, or how could I realize the presence of the psychic forces?”

“I don’t know just what those things are, but I supposed they were available only to a sort of sixth sense—or seventh! Why, I have five senses, but I don’t lay claim to any more than that.”

“You’re a trifler, and I decline to discuss the subject seriously with you. You’ve always been a trifler, Alvord—remember, I’ve known you from boyhood, and though you’ve a brilliant brain, you have not utilized it to the best advantage.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” and the handsome face put on a mock penitence, “but I’m too far advanced in years to pull up now.”

“Nonsense! you’re barely thirty! That’s a young man.”

“Not nowadays. They say, after thirty, a man begins to fall to pieces, mentally.”

“Oh, Al, what nonsense!” cried Eunice. “Why, thirty isn’t even far enough along to be called the prime of life!”

“Oh, yes, it is, Eunice, in this day and generation. Nobody thinks a man can do any great creative work after thirty. Inventing, you know, or art or literature—honestly, that’s the attitude now. Isn’t it, Mason?”

Elliott looked serious. “It is an opinion recently expressed by some big man,” he admitted. “But I don’t subscribe to it. Why, I’d be sorry to think I’m a down-and-outer! And I’m in the class with you and Embury.”

“You’re none of you in the sere and yellow,” declared Eunice, laughing at the idea. “Why, even Aunt Abby, in spite of the family record, is about as young as any of us.”

“I know I am,” said the old lady, serenely. “And I know more about my hobby of psychic lore in a minute than you young things ever heard of in all your life! So, don’t attempt to tell me what’s what!”

“That’s right, Miss Ames, you do!” and Mason Elliott looked earnestly at her. “I’m half inclined to go over to your side myself. Will you take me some time to one of your séances—but wait, I only want to go to one where, as you said, the psychic manifestations are perceptible to one or more of the five well-known senses. I don’t want any of this talk of a mysterious sixth sense.”

“Oh, Mason, I wish you would go with me! Madame Medora gives wonderful readings!”

“Mason! I’m ashamed of you!” cried Eunice, laughing. “Don’t let him tease you, Aunt Abby; he doesn’t mean a word he says!”

“Oh, but I do! I want to learn to read other people’s thoughts—not like our friend Hanlon, but really, by means of my senses and brain.”

“You prove you haven’t any brain, when you talk like that!” put in Hendricks, contemptuously.

“And you prove you haven’t any sense,” retorted Elliott “I say, who’s for a walk? I’ve got to sweep the cobwebs out of the place where my brain ought to be—even if it is empty, as my learned colleague avers.”

“I’ll go,” and Eunice jumped up. “I want a breath of fresh air. Come along, San?”

“Nixy I’ve got to look over some papers in connection with my coming election as president of a big club.”

“Your coming election may come when you’re really in the prime of life,” Hendricks laughed, “or, perhaps, not till you strike the sere and yellow, but if you refer to this year’s campaign of the Athletic Club, please speak of my coming election.”

“Oh, you two deadly rivals!” exclaimed Eunice. “I’m glad to be out of it, if you’re going to talk about those eternal prize-fights and club theatres! Come on, Mason, let’s go for a brisk walk in the park.”

Eunice went to her room, and came back, looking unusually beautiful in a new spring habit. The soft fawn color suited her dark type and a sable scarf round her throat left exposed an adorable triangle of creamy white flesh.

“Get through with your squabbling, little boys,” she said, gaily, with a saucy smile at Hendricks and a swift, perfunctory kiss on Embury’s cheek, and then she went away with Mason Elliott.

They walked a few blocks in silence, and then Elliott said, abruptly: “What were you and Sanford quarreling about?”

“Aren’t you a little intrusive?” but a smile accompanied the words.

“No, Eunice; it isn’t intrusion. I have the right of an old friend—more than a friend, from my point of view—and I ask only from the best and kindest motives.”

“Could you explain some those motives?” She tried to make her voice cold and distant, but only succeeded in making it pathetic.

“I could—but I think it better, wiser and more honorable not to. You know, dear, why I want to know. Because I want you to be the happiest woman in the whole world—and if Sanford Embury can’t make you so—”

“Nobody can!” she interrupted him, quickly. “Don’t, Mason,” she turned a pleading look toward him; “don’t say anything we may both regret. You know how good Sanford is to me; you know how happy we are together.”

“Were,” he corrected, very gravely.

“Were—and are,” she insisted. “And you know, too—no one better—what a fiendish temper I have! Though I try my best to control it, it breaks out now and then, and I am helpless. Sanford thinks he can tame it by giving me as good as I send—by playing, as he calls it, Petruchio to my Katherine—but, somehow, I don’t believe that’s the treatment I need.”

Her dark eyes were wistful, but she did not look at him.

“Of course it isn’t!” Elliott returned, in a low voice. “I know your nature, Eunice; I’ve known it all our lives. You need kindness when you are in a tantrum. The outbursts of temper you cannot help—that I know positively—they’re an integral part of your nature. But they’re soon over—often the fiercer they are, the quicker they pass,—and if you were gently managed, not brutally, at the time they occur, it would go far to help you to overcome them entirely. But—and I ask you again—what were you discussing to-day when I came?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I think I do know—and forgive me, if I offend you—I think I can help you.”

“What do you mean?” Eunice looked up with a frightened stare.

“Don’t look like that—oh, Eunice, don’t! I only meant—I know you want money—ready money—let me give it to you—or lend it to you—do, Eunice—darling!”

“Thank you, Mason,” Eunice forced herself to say, “but I must refuse your offer. I think—I think we—we’ll go home now.”

Chapter VI

A Slammed Door

“Don’t you call her ‘that Desternay woman’!”

“I’ll call her what I please! And without asking your permission, either. And I won’t have my wife playing bridge at what is practically a gambling house!”

“Nothing of the sort! A party of invited guests, in a private house is a social affair, and you shall not call it ridiculous names! You play for far higher stakes at your club than we ever do at Fifi Desternay’s.”