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.