Betsy began to laugh, but Tib spoke seriously. “Every man has a secret notion that he’s going to marry a blonde. And when he sees me, he thinks I’m it. But I’m not!”
“You’re a blonde.”
“But not the kind of blonde I look like. For example, they think I live on rose petals.” And she raised delicate eyebrows at the corned beef and cabbage the waitress had just placed before her.
“Oh, Tib! Tib!” laughed Betsy.
“They think I’m frivolous,” Tib went on, “because I have so many pretty clothes. But you know I make most of them myself. Often I rip a dress up at night and it comes to the store a different one next day.”
“I know.”
“But that’s not the worst of it.” She put down her fork. “Just because I’m small, men think I’m a clinging vine. They think I need to be protected. Imagine that! Why, I like to paddle my own canoe! I like adventure. I want to see the world.”
She was so much in earnest that Betsy stopped laughing. “Don’t be so hard on them, honey! You are deceiving! Take the war—”
Most people didn’t think much about that any more. Since the opposing armies had settled down for the winter in so-called trenches, the war wasn’t so interesting as it had been at first. Betsy grieved about it sometimes. But she was so happy that she tried to put it out of her mind. Tib was different.
“You’re so much more concerned about the war than anyone would expect you to be,” Betsy tried to explain.
“Ja, that’s another thing! I’m serious. I read the newspapers. But these men think I’m a Dummkopf. Don’t bother your little yellow head about the war, they say! Think about me, instead! Lausbub’n!”
Tib turned to apple pie à la mode. “I’m saving my money to buy an automobile,” she remarked in her usual cheerful tone.
“An automobile!” Betsy did not know an unmarried girl who owned an automobile. They were still not common. Old Mag, the Ray horse, had not liked Minneapolis and had long since been sent to the peaceful countryside. But Mr. Ray had not bought an automobile.
“No one in our family even knows how to drive,” Betsy said.
“Well, I do!” answered Tib. “I used to drive my Uncle Rudy’s auto. When I’ve bought my own, I’m going to go traveling.”
“In the auto?”
“In the auto.”
“But the roads! You’d get stuck! And who’d change your tires?”
“I would.”
“Or some man who thinks he’s going to marry a blonde.”
Betsy burst into laughter again, and this time Tib joined her. Tib was sometimes a little slow to see a joke. But when she understood, she responded with delight. Her appreciation of other people’s wit was one of her most endearing traits.
“Ja, that’s good! Let them change my tires, the Lausbub’n! I’m going to drive my auto all over the United States.”
If she keeps on talking like that, Betsy thought, Tacy and I will never be bridesmaids. And the next day she telephoned Tacy and asked her to bring the baby and come over, to discuss something important.
Tacy came in, her color even richer than usual from the cold. Kelly’s cheeks were like winter roses. Tacy took off his bonnet and proudly fluffed up his light hair. It was perceptibly thick and curly now.
“What a chunk of sweetness!” Betsy cried, hugging him.
“Isn’t he a cherub?”
When Betsy had brought in coffee and muffins—muffins were her latest accomplishment—she reported Tib’s plans.
“She isn’t even thinking about getting married!” Betsy cried. “She goes out all the time but she doesn’t give a snap for the men.”
“When girls don’t marry young,” Tacy said profoundly, “they get fussier all the time.”
“That’s right. You know the old saying about a girl going through the forest and throwing away all the straight sticks only to pick up a crooked one in the end.” Betsy looked wise as befitted an old married woman.
“There’s a lot of truth in that.”
“And Tib will soon be earning so much money that she won’t meet many men who earn as much money as she does.”
“That would be bad.”
“And then she’ll start driving around in her car, and getting more and more independent, and she won’t marry at all, maybe! And then what will she do when she’s old?”
Betsy and Tacy looked at each other in alarm.
“She can come and play with my children,” said tender Tacy. Although Kelly was sleeping, she picked him up and hugged him.
“Of course,” volunteered Betsy, “she can have a share in Bettina. Whenever I get Bettina! But the best thing, Tacy, is for you and me to get busy and find the right one for her. Ask Harry to think about it. Joe’s friends are all newspaper men, and they’re very interesting, but they’re not rich, and you know Tib! She’s so practical. She’d be more apt to marry someone with money.”
“Harry can find someone,” Tacy said confidently.
Tacy thought Harry could do anything. Betsy thought Joe could do anything. But with the perfect accord which had always characterized their friendship, they agreed that both husbands were supermen and never made comparisons.
Kelly had been wakened by the hug, and Tacy discovered that it was time to go. But while Betsy made macaroni and cheese—a good winter meal, and cheap, too—she kept thinking about their plan.
She told Joe about it at dinner, but he didn’t take it seriously.
“You women! I should think anyone as pretty as Tib could do her own matchmaking!”
Before Betsy had time to reply, the telephone rang, and it was Tacy, her voice quivering with excitement.
“Betsy!”
“Yes.”
“You know what we were planning—about Tib?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Well, Harry has just the one. He’s a New York millionaire!”
“A millionaire!”
“Well, practically!”
Betsy squealed until the small apartment echoed. Joe came rushing to share the receiver.
“Can you and Joe come to dinner Saturday night? If I can get Tib, that is! Harry has already called this Mr. Bagshaw.”
“Yes, yes, we’ll come! Oh, Joe! Isn’t it thrilling?”
But Joe, after discovering the nature of the news, had gone back to his macaroni. It was good.
10
A Millionaire for Tib
“BAGSHAW!” SAID JOE. “Bags of money—p’shaw!” And he was so pleased with his joke that he took Betsy for a running slide along the frozen sidewalk. “Wait till I tell that to Harry and Sam!”
“Joe Willard!” Betsy panted, “Don’t you dare!”
“Lady, I dare anything!” Chuckling wickedly, he hurried her along under the icy stars and into the sizzling lobby of the Kerrs’ apartment building.
Harry greeted them, holding a sturdy angel in a white flannel night gown, embroidered in blue, who inspected them brightly while scraping a rattle across his father’s well-brushed hair.
“Here! Stop that!” Harry said. “I’m putting him to bed, Joe. Want to help? I’m sure our Little Aids to Cupid need to talk over their big enterprise.”
Joe threw an arm around his friend’s shoulders. He hissed, “Bags of money—p’shaw!”
“You two behave yourselves!” Betsy ordered as they whooped, and she ran into the bedroom to drop her wraps, pat her hair, and smooth down the dark maroon silk.
The roomy apartment was even more immaculate than usual—and Tacy was always a meticulous housekeeper; Betsy never ceased to marvel at it. There were daffodils and pussywillows on the living room table. The dining room waited in formal splendor.
“Hello!” Tacy called from the kitchen. She was kneeling at the oven, gingerly drawing out a roasting pan. She lifted it to the top of the stove, and transferred a plump, savory bird to a hot platter.
“Roast chicken,” she remarked, covering it snugly, “and chocolate meringue pie are my company dinner. It’s a
great help, Betsy, to have one company dinner that you know how to make really well.”
With the assurance born of practise, she set about compounding giblet gravy.
“When I can make gravy for a millionaire,” Betsy said, “I’ll think I have arrived.” She perched on a kitchen stool. “Tell me about our hero.”
Tacy laughed and stirred. “Well, he’s a widower! Older than Harry! Out here for an eastern bank. He’s trying to get the bank’s money out of a bankrupt wholesale dry goods house. He’ll be in town several months, Harry says.”
“How marvelous!”
“He’s a friend of Harry’s boss. Mr. Goodrich is in Florida and asked Harry to meet Mr. Bagshaw’s train and help him get settled. He’s staying at the Club.”
“The Club! It sounds like an English novel.”
“He plays bridge with a group there. He knows all the Minnesota bigwigs, including Sam’s father. And he’s taken a great liking to Harry. He hinted that he’d like to come out here. He hinted it the very day you and I were talking about Tib.”
“It’s Fate!” Betsy cried, jumping up, and the doorbell rang and Tacy stripped off her apron, revealing dark green elegance, but she put the apron on again, for the new arrivals were only Carney and Sam.
Sam joined the men in Kelly’s room and Carney, looking as pretty as a pink, came out to the kitchen, borrowed an apron, and started to mash the potatoes. Tacy was stirring up baking powder biscuits now. Betsy was allowed to make ice water.
“But don’t fill the glasses yet. Tib will be a little late.”
“We planned it that way,” Betsy explained.
“Does she know about this scheme?” asked Carney.
“Heavens, no! We’re acting very casual.”
“She asked if she shouldn’t bring a man.”
Carney snorted. “You two always did dream up fantastic things!”
“I don’t see what’s fantastic about Tib marrying a millionaire!” said Betsy, righteously indignant.
“Tib won’t be a bit flustered by a million dollars,” Tacy said.
“She’ll be as cool as a cucumber in a Fifth Avenue mansion,” said Betsy. “Brownstone fronts! I’ve seen ’em!”
“But it’s so ridiculous! You marry someone you fall in love with.”
“Well, how can Tib fall in love with this Mr. Bagshaw until she meets him?”
Carney was stumped by that. The doorbell rang again and this time Tacy and Carney both pulled off their aprons, and Tacy joined Harry at the door.
Mr. Bagshaw was tallish, thin, with a small dark mustache and dark hair carefully arranged to hide a bald spot! He wore convex eyeglasses which gave him an inscrutable look. He seemed able to see them better than they saw each other. And he was, Betsy admitted with a shock, definitely older even than Harry, who topped the rest by a few years.
“He must be nearly forty.”
But he had the fascination of this great maturity. Suave, leisurely, he passed a leather cigarette case, selected a cigarette, and poised it in long, slender fingers, inquiring about Sam’s father. Betsy followed Tacy to the kitchen.
“Isn’t he perfect?” she whispered.
Tacy’s eyes sparkled. “Speaking of English novels! He’ll expect the men to stay behind after dinner with port and cigars.”
“If he were spending the night, he’d put out his boots!”
Tacy popped the biscuits into the oven and she and Betsy dashed back to the living room, for the bell was ringing again.
Betsy heard Tib’s light, gay voice saying good-by to a male voice on the threshold. Then she came in, waving her muff.
“Wie gehts?” she cried and ran to kiss Betsy and Carney, and threw elfin kisses to Joe, Harry, and Sam. When Mr. Bagshaw was presented, however, the affectionate little Tib vanished.
“How do you do?” she asked, putting on her disdainful air.
When she acts like that, Betsy thought, she’s like a little girl playing lady.
Tib drew Betsy to the bedroom where she doffed her fur cap and fur-trimmed coat. Betsy expected a question about Mr. Bagshaw, but Tib only wanted to show off her dress—lavender messaline with a short tunic wired out above a slinky skirt.
“I finished it after work tonight,” she said, pirouetting.
She took down her yellow hair and dressed it again in the feathery swirl which was Tib’s version of the French roll. She liked this style because it made her look taller, and put in a shell pin which added another inch.
Back in the living room, the boys began to tease her while Mr. Bagshaw took off his glasses, polished them with a snowy handkerchief and put them back, looking at Tib all the while.
“How’s the big business woman?”
“What dance have you learned today?”
“And what dance did you learn yesterday?”
“The lulu-fado. And if you weren’t such clodhoppers, I’d show you how to do it.”
Mr. Bagshaw spoke softly. “They were dancing the lulu-fado when I left New York.”
Tib raised her eyebrows. “Do you dance it?”
“I attempt it,” he replied in polite deprecation.
“After dinner,” she said loftily, “if we can find the right record, I’ll see how you do it.” She turned to Tacy. “May I make the gravy, darling?”
“All made. Everything’s ready.” Tacy acted calm, but her cheeks were like flames.
At dinner the talk continued to be youthfully lively. Mr. Bagshaw did more listening than talking, and more looking than either. He looked at Tib. Now and then polishing his glasses, now and then poising a cigarette in long, nervous fingers, he watched her intently. Tib had forgotten him and was laughing and chattering, enjoying the ease of being with old friends.
The company dinner was perfection.
I must learn a company dinner, Betsy thought as Harry carved second portions and the gravy, steaming hot, was passed again.
Mr. Bagshaw, although he ate sparingly, accepted a second biscuit with high praise.
“See what I mean, Rick?” asked Harry. He always found it easy to get on a first-name basis.
Carney decided to help out the plot. “You ought to taste Tib’s cooking,” she observed.
Mr. Bagshaw smiled at Tib. “What does she specialize in? Rose petals?” he asked, and Tib gave Betsy a look.
Oh, dear! How unfortunate! Betsy thought.
But when they finished the chocolate meringue pie and coffee, and gathered in the living room again, Mr. Bagshaw redeemed himself. He not only talked, he took command of the conversation and was most interesting.
He had been present at the sensational New York opening, two or three weeks before, of a motion picture called The Birth of a Nation.
“It was stupendous!” he said.
He spoke of The Ziegfeld Follies and The Passing Show—of Rector’s, where one dined and danced in a grove of palms.
“I plan to go to New York some day,” said Tib in a patronizing tone.
He had seen Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Castle and discussed their effect on the dance craze. They had not returned, he said, to the old forms; they used the new rhythms, but with grace and elegance.
“They’ve brought us out of the turkey-trot-bunny-hug vulgarity. The maxixe and the tango are quite lovely.”
“That’s true,” Tib said, looking at him with respect.
Sam, returning from a trip outside to warm up the engine of his car, suggested bridge, but Harry demurred.
“Rick wouldn’t like our bridge, woman bridge and no stakes.”
“I’m sure it would be delightful,” Mr. Bagshaw said. “But how about that lulu-fado Miss Muller was kind enough to suggest?”
“Yes,” said Tib. “What records do you have, Tacy?” And she and Mr. Bagshaw strolled out to the glassed-in porch where the phonograph stood. Betsy and Tacy exchanged meaningful glances.
Evidently the Kerrs did not have the proper record for a lulu-fado.
“We’ll have to go to the Radisson and dance it,” Betsy
heard Mr. Bagshaw say.
They began a maxixe.
Tib’s dancing was lighter than foam, lighter than a hummingbird, lighter than a flower in a breeze. And Mr. Bagshaw was dexterous in the turns and dips and tricky skating steps. He danced very well, despite his age, Betsy noted with relief. The plot would have collapsed if he hadn’t.
They put on a fox-trot, and everyone started dancing.
“By the sea, by the sea,
By the beautiful sea…”
Betsy whirled in Joe’s arms.
“You’re the prettiest girl at the party,” he whispered.
They put on “Tipperary,” but then in the midst of all the gaiety something pressed on Betsy’s heart. For she had seen the British Territorials march off to war to that tune, just boys most of them, and many had not come back. Crossing battle lines, she thought of her dear German servant, Hanni, who had so wished to come to America, and of the Baroness Helena who had given her the cup that Goethe drank from!
Betsy was glad when “Tipperary” ended. (The next record was “I Didn’t Raise My Boy To Be a Soldier.”) Soon everyone stopped dancing except Tib and Mr. Bagshaw, who executed a tango. As they finished that, his voice floated into the living room.
“You don’t look like Mrs. Castle. She looks like a boy, and you look like a sprite. But you dance with the same impersonal grace.”
Betsy leaned toward Tacy. “Even Tib can’t resist that!” she whispered.
When the party broke up, Sam called out that he would drive everyone home. Joe and Betsy accepted with thankful shivers, but Tib refused carelessly.
“Thanks a lot. Rick’s taking me,” she said.
Rick! Betsy and Tacy telegraphed that to Carney.
“Boy!” said Sam. “I didn’t know you had a car here, or I’d have warned you. You have to go out and warm up the engine once in a while, in this Minnesota weather.”
“Oh, my chauffeur is picking me up!” Mr. Bagshaw glanced surprisingly at his wrist. He was the first man Betsy had ever seen wear a watch on his wrist.
“He’s out there now.”