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Carolyn Wells' "The Vanity Case" is a captivating murder mystery novel that blends elements of detective fiction with humor and wit. Set in the early 20th century, the story follows detective Pennington Wise and his sidekick Zizi as they unravel the complex web of lies and deception surrounding the death of a wealthy socialite. Wells' writing is characterized by its clever wordplay, engaging dialogue, and well-crafted plot twists, making it a delightful read for fans of classic mystery novels. The novel also reflects the societal norms and values of the time, providing readers with a glimpse into the upper-class world of New York City during the Gilded Age. Carolyn Wells, known for her prolific contributions to the mystery genre, drew inspiration from her interest in puzzles and riddles to create a story that keeps readers guessing until the very end. Her expertise in crafting intricate plots and memorable characters shines through in "The Vanity Case". I highly recommend this novel to anyone who enjoys a well-written mystery with a touch of humor and a clever twist.
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The Vanity Case
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 Beautiful Myra Heath
MRS. PRENTISS enjoyed insomnia, but she didn't know it.
That is, she knew she had insomnia, of course, but she didn't know she enjoyed it. On the contrary, she thought it made her miserable. But it didn't. It was really her best asset, socially, and she could get herself into the limelight almost any time, by descanting and dilating upon her long hours of wakefulness, when others were sleeping.
Sympathy flowed freely at hearing of her weary vigils, her interminable but futile efforts to get to sleep, her tossings and turnings on her bed of unrest
Moreover, it was an excuse for afternoon naps, or for occasional dropping to sleep at the Bridge table, at the Movies or on a motor drive.
And if she chanced upon a fellow sufferer, then it was a matter of each politely waiting for a pause, to interrupt the other with the tale of her own experiences.
Partly because of a physical tendency that way, and partly by reason of nurturing, pampering and aggravating the disease, Mrs. Prentiss was chronically and happily insomniac.
Which explains why, one night, she prowled about her bedroom, in her not very fetching Mid-Victorian nightdress, and gazed out of one window after another.
For her bedroom had windows facing three ways, which enabled the wakeful Mrs. Prentiss to note conditions in the houses of her neighbors on either side as well as across the street.
And from a window that looked West, she could see, late as it was, sundry goings on that thrilled her curious soul. And when the goings on had ceased and no hint of them was left save two tiny specks of light, Mrs. Prentiss thought the show was over, only to have it reopened two or three times more.
Breathlessly she watched, and though her soliloquized exclamations were of homely diction, such as "For the Land's sake!" or "My goodness!" they none the less expressed the whole gamut of human surprise and wonderment.
Gaybrook Harbor was one of the most beautiful bits of natural charm on Long Island, and one of the most desirable locations for a summer colony.
So, of course, the Summer Colony came. Collectively, they were much the same as the average summer resort residents, and individually, too, they showed the same traits of extravagance, ostentation, exclusiveness, unneighborliness and brotherly unkindness.
Yet they were a congenial bunch, a light-hearted, carefree lot, with generally similar tastes and pursuits, and an eye single to the ultimate purpose of having a good time.
The Harbor was, as harbors have a way of being, crescent shaped, and down to the middle of its curving rim ran a little stream of pleasant water.
Though really a tiny river, the stream was called Gaybrook and was as pretty as its name.
Now this arbitrary provision of Nature divided the Harbor into halves socially as well as topographically. Not far from the shore, a bridge, a miniature Rialto, connected the land on the two sides of Gaybrook, but except for that there was a great gulf fixed.
On one side, the North side, the collection of estates and dwellings was called Harbor Gardens, and the other side was Harbor Park.
United municipally, geographically and patriotically, the two were yet divided socially, or at least in some phases of the social life.
Harbor Park was there first, and it held the Railroad Station, the Post Office, the church, the Clubhouse, the amusement halls and the "places" of many of the rich and great, whose greatness was the direct result of their riches. They were men of wealth, with wives of extravagance, with spoiled children and pampered servants. They were, for the most part, men of hearty good fellowship, of outdoor habits and convivial tastes.
Now, somewhat as a reaction, there had sprung up on the other side of the bridge, the modern institution known as an artist colony.
These people were not wealthy, but were talented. They lived in bungalows, more or less elaborate, they drove cars that were not of the Rolls-Royce breed, they had a Persian Tea Garden instead of a Movie Palace, and they unblushingly claimed intellect and erudition far above those commodities as sported by the Harbor Park denizens.
As one of their brilliant minded youths put it, "In Harbor Gardens you find men who do things. In Harbor Park, you find men who do people."
Yet they came together in many ways. They all belonged to the one and only Country Club, they all went to the one and only church, and they all shopped at the stores in Harbor Park. In fact there were no outward and ordinary signs of friction or dissension, but the Park people felt they were more worthwhile than the Gardens people, while the Gardeners, as they came to be called, knew they were superior to the Parkers.
The bungalows, which were deemed artistic, were set in carefully planned gardens, while the mansions on the other side were in large and landscaped parks; and as a matter of fact, either side of the bridge the homes were of great charm and beauty and usually masterpieces of care and skill.
So the Harbor people lived and flourished, with the silent bond of The Harbor holding them together, and the subtle bar of The Bridge dividing them.
Mrs. Prentiss, she of the insomnia, was a resident of The Gardens. The widow of an artist, she had lived on in their attractive bungalow, covered with honeysuckle and Virginia Creeper, and furnished with wicker things and rush rugs.
Next door to her, toward the West, was the far more pretentious bungalow of the Perry Heaths. It was indeed, a two story house, but when Heath was told that bungalows didn't have more than one story, he merely replied, "This bungalow has."
He was an artist, was Perry Heath, and though his pictures were not of great value, they were graceful little aquarelles, and found an ultimate if not a ready sale in the New York shops.
That is, they had done so, but with the recent fad for "no pictures at all," the water color Othello began to find his occupation going.
Yet, in a way, it didn't matter much, for Myra, his wife, had always had money, and recently, by reason of an uncle's death, had inherited a lot more. Heath's work was rather desultory, anyway. He painted when he felt like it, and the rest of the time, he spent on the water or in it, or else he ran down to New York for a few days.
An impulsive, irresponsible existence was his, but his artistic temperament balked at dates or fixed hours, and he was far from being alone in that attitude.
Most of the Harbor Gardens people were alike oblivious to routine or to definite engagements, and invitations were given and accepted with the mental reservation that they were in no way binding.
Myra Heath, an acknowledged beauty, of the ash blonde, Saint Cecilia type, was superior and self-contained by nature. Many called her cold, others opined her inordinately calm exterior covered a flaming Vesuvius of temper, if not temperament.
No one ever caught sign of a jarring note between husband and wife, yet no one ever saw a sign of affection. If they did not wash their dirty linen in public, neither did they air their clean linen there, and this mere absence of anything to talk about caused the gossips to talk volubly about them.
The neighbor, Mrs. Prentiss, was deeply curious, and spent much of her insomnia at her West window, hoping for a cloud as big as a man's hand to appear, that she might draw some conclusions as to the family status.
So far, she had been unsuccessful. The Heaths lived most naturally and ordinarily. Now and then they had parties. Now and then they went to parties. He went to the Club, she went to Bridge games, and they both went to church. A more exemplary couple could not be imagined. Yet Mrs. Prentiss, perhaps in the vagaries of her insomnia, had a persistent intuition that there was a fly in the Heath ointment, and she was determined to swat it.
The bungalow of the artist was a long-fronted house, shingled and painted white. With the superior taste of the Harbor Gardens crowd, he scorned such things as Living Rooms, Sun Parlors, Breakfast Alcoves and Sleeping Porches.
The whole of the middle of the house was one great room, called the Lounge, which had doors back and front, and from which the staircase ascended. Then, one end was the studio, spacious and well lighted, and the other end the dining-room. That was all, save for the long rear extension, back of the dining-room, which housed the kitchens and servants' quarters.
Owing to the large size of the rooms there was ample space upstairs for many chambers, guest rooms and baths.
A wide brick terrace ran along the whole front of the house, and the back doors opened onto the garden.
The studio was on the end of the house next Mrs. Prentiss, and its great rear windows looking north, showed the garden, a blazing mass of color all through the season.
Though the Lounge was attractive, and planned with an eye to comfort and convenience, the studio was also a comfortable cozy room, and oftener than not, family and guests gathered there to smoke and talk, for Perry Heath was never too busy to stop work.
It was on a soft, lovely evening in late June that the two Heaths sat there with two house guests, who, as they figure largely in this story, may as well be described here.
Bunny Moore, whose real name was Berenice, was the girl guest, and she was beautiful with the loveliness of youth. Though nearly twenty-two, she looked no more than eighteen, and her golden bobbed head, her big blue eyes and her unnecessarily touched up complexion were of that Dresden china variety that, in its perfection, is perhaps the fairest thing God ever made.
Anyway, she was terribly pretty, and her long, lithe slimness was draped along a wicker steamer chair, that was by far the most comfortable seat in the studio, and usually appropriated by Bunny.
Eight years younger than her hostess, they were Home Town friends, and Bunny was happily spending a month at the Gardens.
In her Paris frock, which was merely a wisp of orchid-colored chiffon, Bunny looked like a French doll. But she was far from being of a doll-like nature.
"I say," she remarked, as her well reddened lips opened to allow the words to come out and a cigarette to enter, "any of the hilarious populace coming to dinner?"
"No," said Myra, her pale lips lazily smiling, as she glanced at Bunny. "We're all alone, for once. After dinner, we'll have a spot of Bridge and tuck in early."
"Fine!" Bunny said, "I think I'll wash my hair. Don't want to trail down to New York just for that. Katie can help me dry it."
"Yes, after she comes in," Myra acquiesced. "It's her night out."
"I'll help you dry it," volunteered Larry Inman, the other guest. He was a distant relative of Myra's, a second or third cousin, once or twice removed, but he traded on the relationship to come now and then for a visit.
He was a wholesome looking, well set up chap, with dark, crisp hair and red brown eyes. Tall, broad-shouldered and athletic, in his white flannels, he looked a typical summer guest, and Perry Heath often said, he wasn't a bit crazy over Larry, but he tolerated him around, because he fitted into the atmosphere.
Inman's face in repose was somber, and a little cynical, but when he smiled all was forgiven and he won the heart of anyone who saw him.
Bunny liked him a lot, and though they were eternally sparring, they were the best of friends.
" 'Fraid not," she returned, "the ceremony has to take place in my bathroom, and Myra is such an old fuss where the proprieties are concerned."
A maid entered, pushing a perambulator which was really a small cellaret. She brought it to rest in front of Heath, who at once set himself to the business of mixing cocktails.
Myra, from her lounge chair, studied the maid critically. But she could find nothing to censure. Cap, apron and personal attitude were all perfection, for Katie was quick to learn and Myra was a thorough and competent teacher.
Though there was supposed to be about the house the careless and informal air always associated with a studio or a bungalow, Myra Heath's housekeeping instincts rebelled, and she was most punctilious in the matters of domestic etiquette.
So Katie took the glasses from Heath, on her perfectly appointed tray, with its caviare canapes and tiny napkins, and served them properly.
But after that she was allowed to leave the room, and "dividends" were portioned out by Heath himself.
"Rotten to have a snoopy maid around," he growled, "cocktails should be absorbed only in the bosom of one's own family."
"Katie isn't snoopy," his wife rejoined, not curtly, but with the air of one stating an important fact.
Indeed, everything Myra said, carried an effect of importance. There are people who can make statements or ask questions and get no response whatever. Though they talk, there is no speech nor language, their voice is not heard.
But Myra Heath's slightest word commanded attention, arrested all other conversation. This was not of her conscious volition, it seemed more the result of cosmic law. It had always been so, and complete strangers as well as those who knew her better, involuntarily obeyed.
"Not snoopy exactly," offered Inman, "but so softly and cat-footed, she gets on my nerves."
"I wouldn't have a noisy servant about," Myra informed him, with a calm glance of hauteur.
"Well, she spoils the whole day for me," Heath declared. "I do wish, Myra, you'd let us have the cocktail hour au naturel. Without hired service. Larry could pass the tray, or, if he balked, Bunny could."
"No," Myra said, and the one word was far more eloquently final, than any tirade could have been.
She did not smile, but neither did she frown. It was her way of closing an incident.
Her pale oval face was of a classic beauty, which would have been rendered a thousand times more attractive by even a fleeting smile. But smiles were not Myra's strong point. Her calm was superb, her dignity was unassailable, her poise was never shaken; but of merriment she had none, nor ever showed response to its manifestation in others.
There were irreverent minded people who dubbed her a "cold fish." But more accurately descriptive of Myra Heath, would be Tennyson's lines:
"Faultily faultless, idly regular, splendidly null: Dead perfection, no more."
Secretly, she gloried in this immobility, this placid superiority, but when accused of it, she denied it flatly and finally.
Of course, she was inordinately vain of her looks; of her quiet, well behaved ash blonde hair; of her large grey eyes, that never grew dark and stormy with rage, or soft with unshed tears; of her pale pink lips, and dead white complexion, untouched by the make-up box; and of her individual style of dressing.
Her wardrobe included only gowns of white or pale grey, or elusive shades of fawn or beige. And all were made on soft, clinging lines, that made her look like an exquisite Burne-Jones picture, in unusually modish garb.
All these effects should have appealed to her artist husband, but they didn't. He was all for color, and he begged Myra to wear pale green or yellow, or even black, but a calm "No," was his answer.
And so, though few people knew it, he became a little fed up with Myra. To be sure, she had the money, so he couldn't seriously offend her, but by slow degrees, they drifted a little more apart, spiritually, and though outwardly just as usual, they knew themselves where they stood.
Heath's absences in New York, when he went down to see about selling his pictures, became a little longer each time. He paid more attention than he used to to feminine guests in the house. He contrasted in his own mind the deadly dullness of his wife and the gay bantering moods of Bunny or other girls and women who visited Myra.
For she loved to entertain. Her superiority complex craved opportunity to display her home in all its marvelous perfection of detail. Consequently no weekend found them without guests, and many remained as longer time visitors.
Lawrence Inman, also an artist, dabbled about in Perry's studio, producing futile attempts at seascapes, or garden pieces, at which Heath laughed good-naturedly and told him to try blacksmithing.
A distant relative of Myra's, Inman was her only kin, and except for Heath the natural heir to her large fortune.
Moreover, he was in love with her, or as near it as one could come to such a thing as romance with Myra Heath.
He had often told her so, only to receive a grave look and a calm "No," in response. But Larry Inman was not easily daunted, and he continued to dance attendance on his beautiful kinswoman, to the secret amusement of her true and lawful husband.
For Perry Heath was astute to a degree, and very little went on in his house of which he was unaware.
He even sensed, through sheer intuition, that Larry contemplated proposing to Myra some plan of divorce or elopement, and he idly wondered how his wife would take it.
This conviction, however, made not the slightest difference in his attitude toward the pair, and the peace of the household was unruffled.
But Heath, not illogically, told himself that sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander, and if Myra chose to philander with Inman, her husband was excusable if he flirted a tiny bit with the bewitching Bunny.
So that's how matters stood. The quartette, as a whole, was an affable, congenial and good-natured bunch. All were of broad and tolerant views, all had similar tastes and ideas, and each was modern-minded and wise in his own conceit.
Cocktails finished and dinner announced, they went across the Lounge to the dining-room.
Here again, the absolute perfection of the appointments and the excellence of the food justified Myra in her pride in her housekeeping.
As it never fell short of this standard, it naturally evoked no comment, nor did the hostess expect any. Achievement was all she desired; approbation, save for her own, she did not care for.
Dinner was rather a merry feast, for the cocktails had been potent, and though Myra smiled but seldom, the other three were in fine fig and feather, and a pleasant time was had by all.
Coffee was served on the front terrace, that looked out to sea, and later, as the darkness settled down, they went inside for Bridge.
"Let's play in the studio," Bunny said, "it's so much more cosy."
"Yes, I know your idea of cosiness," Heath retorted, "it's to babble all the time you're dummy and most of the time you're playing."
Bunny made a face at him, and went on to the studio, where Katie was deftly placing table, chairs and smoking stands.
They played a few rubbers, for moderate stakes, and then, Bunny, being dummy, and chattering as was her wont, Heath said, sharply:
"Do shut up, child! I can't think straight with your tongue clattering like that!"
"Oh, all right!" and the girl flounced out of her chair, went through the French window and out on the terrace.
"Now, she's mad," observed Inman, but Perry Heath said, gayly:
"Not so you'd notice it. That's a bid for me to follow her."
"Run along, then," said Myra, tolerantly, "I'll entertain Larry till you get back."
It was not entirely unprecedented, for their Bridge games occasionally broke up in just this fashion. Heath strolled along the terrace to the far end, where he found Bunny in a Rambler Arbor, exactly where he had expected to find her.
Very fair she looked, as she stood, leaning against its trellised window, her fair hair a soft gold in the moonlight, her flower-like face a little wistful as she gazed up at him.
Perry Heath was not a handsome man, but he was gentle and kindly, and little Bunny, unversed in the ways of men of the world, had fallen for his gay, good-natured charm.
His appearance was a bit inconspicuous in its lack of distinction or striking features. His rather pale face was surmounted by a shock of dark brown hair, which he had a habit of impatiently pushing back from his forehead, over which it invariably dropped again. His eyes were a grey blue, and he wore large tortoiseshell rimmed glasses, which, he said, having put on for his painting, he was later compelled to wear constantly.
They were not specially becoming, but Bunny contended they lent distinction to his face, and gave him a Bohemian look.
For the rest, Heath was average sized, average weight, and always dressed in the perfection of good taste as well as in the latest mode of tailorings.
His manner was always pleasant, receptive, responsive and generally charming. This, though habitual with him, was looked upon by Bunny as specially for her, and she was rapidly becoming his abject slave and adorer.
Heath saw this, of course, and tried to stave it off, by coolness and even negligence toward the girl.
But Bunny disregarded this and blithely went on falling in love, with neatness and dispatch.
"Come along, Bunny girl, they're waiting for us," Heath said, trying not to look too directly at her.
"Stay just a minute," she whispered, stepping a bit nearer to him. "Just one little minute—to look at the moon."
"Why, there isn't any moon, child," he exclaimed.
"There will be, in a minute. It's just going to rise—up out of the sea. Oh, do wait for it. Do,—dear—"
Of course, Perry had to meet the occasion. He waited. Waited, with Bunny in his arms, her slim little form held so close, he could feel her quick, startled breathing, could hear her ecstatic little gasps as she nestled her chin in his cupped hand that sought to raise her face to his.
But as the golden disk began to show above the sea horizon, Myra's voice sounded from the doorway:
"Come on in, you two,—the evening's over."
They obeyed her summons, and returning to the studio, found Inman mixing himself a nightcap, and Myra looking with deep interest at an old brown bottle she was holding.
Myra was an enthusiastic collector of Early American glass. Her cabinets held specimens of Sandwich, Wistarberg, Melville, and the worshipped Stiegel.
Of late her attention had turned to bottles and flasks, and, much to Heath's disgust, she had amassed a quantity of homely old whisky bottles, of amber, green and white, that bore precious, though inartistic devices and letterings.
To-day she had come across what she deemed the gem of her collection, a flat bottle, with the head of Washington on one side, showing the legend, "The Father of his Country," and a bust of General Taylor on the other, with the declaration, "General Taylor never Surrenders."
Chapter 2 Hopelessly Mismatched
THIS bottle, Myra was holding to the light and admiring its ugliness; the while she referred to a big book on glass, and verified its exact status.
"Yes," she said, raptly, "it's all right! Dyottville Glass Works—Philadelphia—oh, it's a gem! A wonderful find!"
"Damn your wonderful find!" cried her husband irritably. "It amazes me, Myra, when you are so un-enthusiastic over most things, how you can go into ecstasies over a bit of ugly old glass, just because it is old. I have a feeling for beauty, in any form, but for a rotten old whisky bottle,—no!"
"But, dear, your natural intelligence and breadth of experience, must make you realize that better judges may be better pleased. That one who is up in these things understands and appreciates values that are not apparent to the layman."
Myra's tone was kindly,—too kindly,—such as one would use to an uneducated child, and Perry resented it.
"Oh, I know all that, old thing," he said, "but so much of your glass collection is really beautiful, and of true artistic value, I don't see why you condescend to these ugly and uninteresting bits."
"Ugly, I grant, but not uninteresting," Myra returned, and Perry gave up the contest.
"I expect it held mighty good whisky," he said, "a bit different from the stuff we get now,—even prewar. This held early American booze, I suppose."
Myra took the flask from his irreverent fingers, and began to polish it with her handkerchief.
"It isn't what it held," she said, "nor is it its beauty or intrinsic worth. It's age and genuineness that make it of value."
"Oh, I know!" Perry was distinctly irritable. "Don't think I am an absolute imbecile about this collecting business! I have heard of collections before yours!"
"I'm sure you have," Myra said, with that exasperating condescension of hers. "But I have one of the finest glass collections in the country, and if I am proud of it, I am justly so."
"Of course you are!" said Inman, with enthusiasm. "I know a little about such things, and yours, Myra, is a marvelous bunch of stuff."
"Yes, it is. I am fond of it as well as proud of it."
"Marvelous bunch of rubbish," Perry said. "Half a dozen of the pieces are delightfully worthwhile, but these corner saloon bottles you've accumulated recently are commonplace as well as hideous."
Myra looked at him a few seconds, without speaking, and then returned her attention to the brown bottle.
"I love that particular stare my wife gives me occasionally," Heath said, addressing no one in particular. "It perfectly represents the attitude that is sometimes spoken of as 'God Almighty to a black bettle.' It is very amusing."
"You shall have it again, if you care for it so much," Myra returned, and gave him another look, this time showing a more definite trace of contempt.
"Come, come," said Larry, "birds in their little nests agree. Let up on the bickering, if only to spare your guests embarrassment. And, too, old scout, your pictures are no more uniformly good than Myra's glass junk. This isn't saying that some of them are not masterpieces, but on the other hand—"
"Shut up," growled Heath, "yours are uniformly bad, you know. Well, consistency's a jewel."
"Larry knows more about color than you do," said Myra, judicially, speaking almost as if she were judging an exhibition of art.
"Pooh, color is my middle name," Heath retorted. He was not miffed at all, these altercations were of frequent occurrence. "I wish to goodness, Myra, you had a little sense of color. It might lead you to see how a touch of it would improve your pure, angel face. Your lips are perfectly shaped, but too pale. Your delicate but high cheek bones would welcome a touch of rouge, and your ash blonde eyebrows are simply screaming for a pencil!"
"That's so, My," agreed Bunny, who would have agreed with Perry had he said just the reverse. "Here's my vanity box, have a try at it."
"No," said Myra, with her most negative inflection. "My face is perfect as it is."
Her assured tone robbed the words of any semblance of petty vanity. It was as if the Venus of Milo had said quietly that she had a good figure.
Inman laughed. "That's true, sweetie," he said, "but just as an experiment, I'd like to see how you'd look with some pigment on your map."
He took the vanity case from Bunny and made as if to apply some rouge to Myra's face, but she waved him away with a soft, slow movement of her long white hand, and closed the incident with her characteristic "No."
Bunny, sitting on the arm of Heath's chair, clasped her knee while she swung a well-dressed and impertinent leg.
Her own face was a trifle over-decorated, but the garish tints couldn't hide the soft loveliness of her natural complexion, and though her nose was white as a clown's, it was adorably impudent and bewitching.
She had tossed around her neck a filmy scarf of American Beauty red, and its deep tone brought out the fairy-like charm of her soft pink throat and golden hair.
"Wish I had a cigarette holder to match this scarf," she said. "Can't you get me one, Perry? Doesn't amber ever come in deep red? I believe this is my color,—don't you?"
She leaned over Heath, her saucy face near his own, and by her own movement brought herself within the circle of his arm.
"You let my husband alone, Miss Vampire," said Myra, with more spirit than she often showed.
"Good gracious! I don't want him!" and Bunny hopped off the chair arm, and pirouetted about the room.
"I know you don't," and Myra's voice grew sharper, "but you play with him, and he, poor fool, falls for it."
"Hoot, toot, Myra!" Heath cried, in astonishment at this outburst, "let her play with me if she likes. I like it myself."
Perry said this merely to rouse his wife's temper, for, as a matter of fact. Bunny rather bored him, unless he was just in the mood for her wiles.
"I know you do," Myra looked at him coldly, "you like any girl who flatters you and makes you think you're a devil. You grub at any flapper with dabs of war-paint on her face, who puffs smoke into your eyes."
"Try a dab on your own face," said Bunny, impudently, pushing her vanity case toward Myra.
"Clear out, Bunny," said her hostess. "I'm fed up with you! And, unless you transfer your very marked attentions to some other man than my husband—"
"Well, well, was she jealous?" and Bunny threw her arms round Myra's neck and kissed her.
The girl was not a bit embarrassed by the older woman's outburst; in fact, she had been expecting it, and rather welcomed it. It added excitement to the situation, and Bunny gloried in a fuss.
"Let me alone," and Myra flung the girl from her. "I'm in earnest—"
"You seem to be," and Bunny stood a pace off, and scanned her critically.
Perry Heath laughed.
"She isn't really," he said. "One can't be jealous of a man one scorns—"
"Yes, I can," Myra declared. "I do scorn you—you're little and petty and mean. You're a trashy artist and a mere apology for a man. But you are my husband, and my dignity resents your foolish actions with other women. I refuse to put up with it, and—"
"Wait a minute," said Heath, in a drawling tone, "before you proceed, what about your own actions with our friend and fellow artist here? What about your foolish actions in that direction?"
"Larry? Oh, he's my cousin—"
"Distant cousin by the family records, but a very dear cousin in actuality." Heath said, but with more the effect of amused chaffing than real accusation.
Myra flared up.
"He is my cousin and my heir. The family fortune follows the family record, and at my death—"
"Good Lord, Myra, you're not thinking of dying, are you? For Heaven's sake, don't spring these shocks so suddenly!"
"I don't know when I shall die. but I have certainly made my will in Larry's favor. To my mind that is just and right. It is far more appropriate that my father's money should revert to my father's relatives than a man my father never saw, and would never have accepted as a son-in-law, had he been consulted."
"The woman with a serpent's tongue!" exclaimed Heath, really surprised at this outburst, so unlike his calm wife. "Is this a parlor entertainment you're giving us? Whose stunt is next? I've had enough of this number."
"Don't try to be funny. You're not clever enough for that. The idea of the Country Club wanting a man of your calibre for president! They little know your limitations!"
"Well, Myra, you're getting on fine! Proceed, go right along."
"Yes, do," urged Bunny. "When you get all wrought up like that, you almost get a shade of color in your face!"
"Yes, a touch of angry brick red," Perry remarked, looking thoughtfully at Myra, as if at a picture.
As a matter of fact, she was, if anything, paler than usual, and her cold gray eyes glittered in her intense rage.
The whole scene was unprecedented. Never had Myra Heath shown this phase before.
Larry Inman was dumb with surprise. Bunny was joyously excited; and Heath himself was frankly puzzled.
"Sam Anderson is a thousand times better equipped for such a position than you are!" Myra went on.
Anderson was another candidate.
"Anderson is a freak," put in Larry, but Myra snatched back the conversational ball.
"He isn't," she declared. "And, anyway, he'd make a better president than Perry, whatever he may be! Imagine Perry presiding at a meeting of the board of governors!"
"Oh, I could swing it," Heath said carelessly. "But don't think I can't see through this tirade of Myra's. It's all her exclusiveness, you know. She thinks that as we are Harbor Gardens people, it's degrading to have too much to do with a club In Harbor Park, even to be president of it."
"Yes, I do," Myra admitted. "Let the Harbor Park people take one of their own men for president. We of the Gardens have no call to mix in with them to that extent. If Perry chooses to go over there to play golf, because the links are better than the Garden links, let him do so. Let him be a member of the club so he can do so. But as to being president—no."
"All right, old thing," said Heath, amiably, "I'll refuse the candidacy, since it pesters you so. We've been married six years, and I never before saw you so het up. Give me a light, somebody."
He lazily held a cigarette to his lips, while Bunny picked up one of four lighted candles that stood on a refectory table, and held it for his use.
As she put it back, she idly opened a portfolio of sketches that lay on the table. Inside was a card, which said, in elaborate lettering:
"The Work of Perry Heath."
"What's this for?" she said, taking it up and closing the portfolio.
"Oh, that's a work of art in itself," Heath told her. "There was a loan exhibition here last summer and that was the card that designated my collection of masterpieces. It is such a gem of Spencerian work, I saved it."
The lettering on the card was ornamented with the old-fashioned Spencerian flourishes, and further embellished with the strange bird of unknown species, with which Spencerians were wont to decorate their pen work.
Bunny laughed at it, and gayly stuck it in the corner of the frame of one of Heath's best sketches that hung on the studio wall.
"All right, then, Perry," Myra said, more mildly now, "you'll withdraw your name from the candidates, and give up the idea of the club presidency?"
" 'Nobody, my darling, could call me a fussy man'," sang Heath. "Of course I will, if your ladyship decrees it. That will leave three names to vote on still. But I doubt if Anderson gets it. Seems to me Pinkie Garrison is a more general favorite."
"Nixy," Inman disagreed. "If not Anderson, then George Morton."
"Well, they're all Park men," Myra argued. "I don't care which of them is elected, if Perry doesn't run."
"I won't, I won't, I won't!" Heath reiterated. "Now, for Heaven's sake, drop that subject. Come on, let's all go to bed. A spot of Scotch, Larry?"
"Sure. This has been an exhausting conference. Gosh, what a watery concoction! You take this, I'll mix my own!"
Inman set back on the table the mild highball Heath had compounded for him, and, his eye lighting on the card in the picture frame, he took it down and set it up against the tall glass, so that "The Work of Perry Heath" seemed to refer to the Scotch and soda.
With a smile, Heath appropriated the drink. He cared little for whisky, while Inman was rather too fond of it.
Bunny sidled up to Heath, and begged a sip from his glass, while Myra, now apparently reconciled again to the "vamp," herself accepted a portion of Larry's nightcap.
"The dove of peace once more hovers in our midst," Perry said, as he rescued his glass from the absent-minded Bunny. He beamed through his shell-rimmed glasses, with the air of a kindly paterfamilias.
"I believe those convex lenses make your eyes look bigger," said Bunny, looking closely into the said lenses.
"A good thing," remarked Myra. "Perry's eyes are all the better for a bit of magnifying."
"I rather fancy my eyes," Heath said, imperturbably. "Awfully good color, what?"
