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requirement of hands.

Irma had persuaded Rahel to prepare herself for life in the beau monde, and Lanny had

helped to teach her. Then he had given the same sort of help to Marceline, who was going to be

thirteen in a short while, and already was the most perfect little society lady you could imagine.

Even on board a yacht she spent much time in front of the mirror, studying her charms and

keeping them at their apex; surely she ought to be preparing to defend herself against those

harpies with signaling-systems who would soon be trying to deprive her of her pocket-money.

After she had been taught, Lanny could plead that he wasn't needed any more, and go back

to the study of Liszt's four-hand piano compositions with Bess: the Concerto Pathetique, a

marvel of brilliant color, turning two pianos into an orchestra; the Don Juan Fantaisie, most

delightful of showpieces— Hansi came in while they were playing it, and said they really ought

to give it on a concert stage. A memorable moment for two humble amateurs.

XIII

The Bessie Budd came to rest in the harbor of Cannes, and the company returned to Bienvenu

for a few days. Beauty wished to renew her wardrobe—one gets so tired of wearing the same

things. Lanny wished to renew the stock of music-scores—one's auditors get tired of hearing the

same compositions. Also, there were stacks of magazines which had been coming in, and

letters with news of one's friends. Lanny opened one from his father, and exclaimed: "Robbie's

coming to Paris! He's due there now!"

"Oh, dear!" said the wife. She knew what was coming next. "I really ought to see him, Irma.

It's been eight months." "It's been exactly as long since I've seen my mother." "Surely if your

mother were in Paris, I'd be offering to take you." "It'll be so dreadfully lonesome on the yacht,

Lanny!" "I'll take a plane and join you at Lisbon in three or four days. You know Robbie's

been in a crisis and I ought to find out how he's getting along."

Irma gave up, but not without inner revolt. She was going through such a trying ordeal,

and people ought to do everything to make it easier for her. A violent change from

being the glamour girl of Broadway, the observed of all observers, the darling of the

columnists and target of the spotlights—and now to be in exile, almost in jail for all these

months! Would anybody ever appreciate it? Would Baby appreciate it? Irma's

observation of children suggested that Baby probably would not.

She thought of taking a couple of cars and transporting her half of the lactation

apparatus up to Paris. But no, it would upset all the arrangements of the admirable Miss

Severne; Baby might pick up a germ in the streets of a crowded city; it was so much safer

out at sea, where the air was loaded with a stuff called ozone. And there was Rahel, with

whom Irma had agreed to stick it out; knowing it would be hard, she had wanted to tie

herself down, and had made a bargain.

"Another thing," Lanny said; "Zoltan Kertezsi should be in Paris and might help me to

sell a picture or two."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed the wife. "Do you still want to fool with that business?"

"A little cash would come in handy to both Beauty and me."

"I don't think it's kind of you, Lanny. There's no sense in your bothering to make

money when I have it. If you have any time to sell, do please let me buy it!"

They had talked about this many times. Since Robbie couldn't afford to send Beauty

her thousand dollars a month, Irma insisted upon putting it up. She wanted the life of

Bienvenu to go on exactly as before. The cost was nothing to her, and she liked the

people around her to be happy. She would send money to Lanny's account in Cannes,

and then she didn't want anybody to talk or think about the subject. That her husband

might actually enjoy earning a few thousand dollars by selling Marcel's paintings, or those

of old masters, was something hard for her to make real to herself. It was harder still for

Lanny to explain that he sometimes wanted to do other things than entertain an adored

young wife!

4

I Can Call Spirits

I

FROM the windows of the Hotel Crillon Lanny Budd had looked out upon quite a lot of

history: the World War beginning, with soldiers bivouacked in the Place de la Concorde; the

war in progress, with enemy planes overhead and anti-aircraft firing; after the armistice, with a

great park of captured German cannon, and May Day mobs being sabered by cuirassiers. In the

hotel had lived and worked a couple of hundred American peace-makers, all of them kind to a

very young secretary-translator and willing to assist with his education. The only trouble was,

they differed so greatly among themselves that Lanny's mind had reached a state of confusion

from which it had not yet recovered.

Now the hotel had been restored to the system of private enter prise in which Robbie Budd so

ardently believed and which he was pleased to patronize regardless of cost. In view of his reduced

circumstances, he might well have gone to a less expensive place, but that would have been to

admit defeat and to declass himself. No, he was still European representative of Budd

Gunmakers, still looking for big deals and certain that Europe was going to need American

weapons before long. Keep your chin up, and make a joke out of the fact that you have lost

five or six million dollars. Everybody knows that you had to be somebody to have that

happen to you.

Here he was, comfortably ensconced in his suite, with a spare room for Lanny; his whisky

and soda and ice early in the morning, his little portable typewriter and papers spread out on

another table. He was in his middle fifties, but looked younger than he had in New York under

the strain of the panic. He had got back his ruddy complexion and well-nourished appearance;

a little bit portly, but still vigorous and ready to tackle the world. Already he was in the midst

of affairs; there was a Rumanian purchasing commission in town, and a couple of Soviet agents—

Robbie grinned as he said that he was becoming quite chummy with the "comrades"; he knew

how to "talk their language," thanks to Lanny's help. He meant, not that he could speak

Russian, but that he could speak Red.

Lanny told the news about the Dingles and the Robins, and Robbie in turn reported on the

family in Newcastle. Amazing the way the head of the Budd tribe was holding on; at the age of

eighty-three he insisted upon knowing every detail of the company's affairs; he sat in his study

and ran the business by telephone. Esther, Lanny's stepmother, was well. "I really think she's

happier since the crash," said the husband. He didn't add: "I have kept my promise to stay out

of the market." Lanny knew he didn't break promises.

They talked about Wall Street, about that "little bull market" which had everybody so stirred

up, a mixture of hope and fear currently known as the "jitters." When the Bessie Budd was

setting out, the market had been booming, and Robbie in a letter had repeated his old formula:

"Don't sell America short." Now stocks were slipping again, business going to pot,

unemployment spreading; but Robbie had to keep up his courage, all America had to hold

itself up by its bootstraps. The most popular song of the moment announced: "Happy days

are here again."

II

They discussed Johannes Robin and his affairs, in which Robbie was deeply interested. He was

going to Berlin on this trip: a subtle change in the relationship of the two associates, for in the

old days it had been Johannes who came to Paris to see Robbie. The Jewish trader was on top;

he hadn't lost any part of his fortune, and wasn't going to. He would never make Robbie Budd's

mistake of being too optimistic about this world, for he had made most of his money by

expecting trouble. Now he had sent a message, by Lanny, that he was going to help Robbie to

come back; but it would have to be

by the same judicious pessimism.

"He's a good sort," said Robbie, English-fashion. He knew, of course, that his old associate

couldn't very well drop him, even if he had wished to, because Hansi and Bess had made them

relatives. Moreover, Johannes was one of those Jews who desire to associate with gentiles and are

willing to pay liberally for it.

Having had long talks with the financier on board the yacht, Lanny could tell what was in his

mind. He considered that Germany was approaching the end of her rope; she couldn't make any

more reparations payments, even if she wished. Taxation had about reached its limits, foreign

credit was drying up, and Johannes couldn't see any chance of Germany's escaping another

bout of inflation. The government was incompetent, also very costly to deal with; that, of

course, was a money-man's polite way of intimating that it was corrupt and that he was

helping to keep it so. Elections were scheduled for the end of the summer, and there would be

a bitter campaign; sooner or later the various factions would fall to fighting, and that wouldn't

help the financial situation any. Johannes was trimming his sails and getting ready for rough

weather. He was taking some of his investments out of the country. Those he kept in Germany

were mostly in industries which produced goods for export.

Lanny made a brief report upon the younger Robins, and the present condition of their

political diseases. Fate had played a strange prank upon the business association known as

"Robin and Robbie." The Robin half had got somewhat the worst of it, having two Reds and two

Pinks, whereas Robbie had only one Red and one Pink, and didn't see either very often. The

Robin half was considerate and never referred to the fact that the infection had come from

the Robbie side. Johannes knew how his associate hated and despised Jesse Blackless, the man

who had talked revolution to Lanny, and then to Hansi and Freddi, seducing these sensitive,

idealistic minds away from their fathers.

Robbie wanted to know about Irma, and how she and Lanny were making out. Very

important, that; the father had found out last October what a convenient thing it was to have

the Barnes fortune back of you. He hoped that Lanny wasn't going to fail to make a success of it.

Lanny reported that he and Irma were getting along as well as most young couples he had

known; better than some. Irma wanted a lot, and most of the things he was interested in didn't

mean much to her, but they were in love with each other, and they found the baby a source of

satisfaction. Robbie said you never got everything you wanted out of a marriage, but you could

put up with a lot when it included a thumping big fortune. Lanny knew that wasn't the noblest

view to take of the holy bonds of matrimony, but all he said was: "Don't worry. We'll make

out."

III

One of Robbie's purposes was to see Zaharoff. The New England-Arabian Oil Company had

managed to survive the panic, but Robbie and his associates at home needed cash and must

find a buyer for their shares. Doubtless the old spider knew all about their plight, but Robbie

would put up a bold front. As usual, he asked if his son would like to go along, and as usual the

son "wouldn't have missed it for anything. He had never given up the hope that somehow he

might be able to help his father in his dealings with the retired munitions king of Europe.

Robbie phoned the old man's home, and learned that he was at his country estate, the

Chateau de Balincourt in Seine-et-Oise, close to Paris. Robbie sent a telegram, and received an

appointment for the next afternoon; he ordered a car through the hotel, and they were

motored to the place, which had once belonged to King Leopold of Belgium. Now there was a

new kind of kings in Europe, and one of them was this ex-fireman of Constantinople. A lodge-

keeper swung back the gates for them, and they rolled down a tree-lined drive and were

received at the door by an East Indian servant in native costume. All the servants were Hindus;

an aged king wanted silence and secrecy, and one way was to have attend ants who understood

only a few simple commands. One of Zaharoff's married daughters lived with him, and no one

came save by appointment.

The visitors were escorted into a drawing-room decorated in the lavish French fashion. On

the walls were paintings, and Lanny had been invited to see them, so now he took the

occasion. But it didn't last long, for the owner came in. His heavy shoulders seemed a bit more

bowed than when Lanny had watched him, in his undershirt, burning his private papers in the

drawing-room of his Paris house and setting fire to the chimney in the process. Now he wore

an embroidered purple smoking-jacket, and his white mustache and imperial were neatly

trimmed. He had become almost entirely bald.

"Eh, bien, mon garçon?" he said to Lanny.

Being at the beginning of his thirties, Lanny felt quite grown up, but understood that this

might not impress one who was at the beginning of his eighties. "I was looking at your

paintings," he remarked. "You have a fine Ingres."

"Yes; but I have looked at it for so many years."

"Paintings should be like old friends, Sir Basil."

"Most of my old friends are gone, and the younger ones are busy with their affairs. They tell

me you have been making your fortune."

It was an allusion to Irma, and not exactly a delicate one; but Lanny knew that this old man

was money-conscious. The duquesa, his companion, had tried tactfully to cure him of the defect,

but without succeeding. Lanny was not surprised when Zaharoff added: "You will no longer have

to be a picture-dealer, hein?"

He smiled and answered: "I get a lot of fun out of it."

The old man's remark was noted by Robbie, who had said on the way out that if Zaharoff knew

that Lanny had the Barnes fortune behind him, he might expect to pay a higher price for the

shares of the New England-Arabian Oil Company!

They seated themselves, and tea was served; for Robbie it was scotch and soda. The two men