The Brimming Cup

He opened them again in a moment, moved subconsciously by the life-time

habit of making sure what Vincent was up to. He smiled at the keen look

of alert, prick-eared attention which the other was still giving to that

room! Lord, how Vincent did love to get things all figured out! He

probably had, by this time, an exact diagram of the owners of the house

all drawn up in his mind and would probably spend the hour of their

call, seeing if it fitted. Not that they would have any notion he was

doing anything but talk a blue streak, or was thinking of anything but

introducing an old friend.

One thing he wanted in his garden was plenty of gladioli. Those poor,

spindling, watery ones he had tried to grow in the window-box, he'd

forget that failure in a whole big row all along the terrace, tall and

strong, standing up straight in the country sunshine. What was the

address of that man who made a specialty of gladioli? He ought to have

noted it down. "Vincent," he asked, "do you remember the address of that

Mr. Schwatzkummerer who grew nothing but gladioli?" Vincent was looking

with an expression of extreme astonishment at the sheet of music on the

piano. He started at the question, stared, recollected himself, laughed,

and said, "Heavens, no, Mr. Welles!" and went back into his own world.

There were lots of things, Mr. Welles reflected, that Vincent did not

care about just as hard as he cared about others.

In a moment the younger man came and sat down on the short, high-armed

sofa. Mr. Welles thought he looked puzzled, a very unusual expression on

that face. Maybe, after all, he hadn't got the owners of the house so

well-plotted out as he thought he ought to. He himself, going on with

his own concerns, remarked, "Well, the name must be in the Long Island

telephone directory. When you go back you could look it up and send me

word."

"Whose name?" asked Vincent blankly.

"Schwatzkummerer," said the other.

"What!" cried Vincent incredulously, and then, "Oh yes," and then,

"Sure, yes, I'll look it up. I'm going back Thursday on the night train.

I won't leave the Grand Central without going to a telephone booth,

looking it up, and sending it to you on a postcard, mailed there. It

ought to be here on the morning mail Saturday."

The older man knew perfectly well that he was being a little laughed at,

for his absorption in gladioli, and not minding it at all, laughed

himself, peaceably. "It would take a great deal more than a little of

Vincent's fun," he thought, "to make me feel anything but peaceable

here." He was quite used to having people set him down as a harmless,

worn-out old duffer, and he did not object to this conception of his

character. It made a convenient screen behind which he could carry on

his own observation and meditation uninterrupted.