The Honorable Percival

								

"It's going to be awfully stupid here with everybody gone," she
persisted. "Why won't you come?"
She was dressed in a short white serge and the Panama hat, which as yet
was innocent of autographs. It was astonishing what a difference the
absence of conflicting colors made in her appearance.
For a moment Percival's decision wavered before those pleading tones,
but the next he caught sight of Mrs. Weston and Elise evidently watching
with amused interest the result of Bobby's bold move.
"Another dare, as I think you call it?" he asked. "You'll have to excuse
me, Miss Boynton. Sight-seeing is quite out of my line."
He watched the gay party board the launch, Mrs. Weston, the two girls,
and the college boys whose raucous voices and offhand manners had grated
upon him ever since leaving San Francisco. As the small boat got away
from the steamer, one white-clad figure separated itself suddenly from
the rest, and waved a friendly hand to him. He started, then, lifting
his cap stiffly, moved away from the rail. The little minx was pretty;
in fact, he acknowledged for the first time that she was distractingly
pretty. But she was also presuming, and presumption was a thing he would
permit in no one.
For the next few hours Percival found life not worth living. He sat
on the hot deck in solitary state, gloved in white chamois, with a
newspaper over his white-clad knees, engaged in the forlorn hope of
trying to keep clean while the ship was coaling. Finding this an
impossibility, he took refuge in the deserted-writing-room, where all
the port-holes were closed and the air as dead as that of an Egyptian
tomb.
Satirical letters home were Percival's chief diversion. In them he
expressed his unqualified disapproval of the Western Hemisphere. The
assurance that they would be read by an adoring group of feminine
relatives gave wing to an imagination that was not wont to soar. Today,
however, inspiration was lacking. On opening the drawer of the first
desk he came to, he found a letter half begun which had evidently been
thrust there suddenly and forgotten. Across the top of the page was
written:
"My darling H-----"
Percival closed the drawer hurriedly. The conjunction of the letter H
with that particular adjective started echoes. He circled the room in
search of a desk not haunted by epistolatory ghosts.
"Particularly asinine brand of pen!" he exclaimed in disgust. "Must have
been used for a corkscrew!"
Corkscrews changed the current of his thought into a more pleasant
channel. But even the mild consolation thus suggested was denied him.
The smoking-room was closed. He wandered disconsolately to his
state-room and, flinging himself on the narrow sofa, stared at the
ceiling. Every fiber of his being shrieked for England and for the
revivifying warmth of adulation.
His mind dwelt longingly upon Hascombe Hall and the acres of parkland,
moorland, and farmland that were its inheritance. Then he thought