Perkins, the Fakeer. Edward Sims van Zile
such queer things to-day, madame!" she murmured, presently, resuming her duties in a melancholy way. "What will madame wear for breakfast?"
Her question startled me. My mind endeavored, without much success, to recall Caroline's morning costumes.
"What's the matter with her–ah–my plum-colored–ah–tea-gown?" I asked, recklessly.
"Madame is jocose–facetious," remarked Suzanne, pretending to laugh. I reflected bitterly that I could not see the joke.
"You have such excellent taste, Suzanne," I said, proud of my cleverness. "Tog me out in any old thing. But it must be warm and snug, girl. I have had chills up my back until I feel like a small icicle in a cold wind." Suddenly an inspiration came to me. "Suzanne, you'll find a bottled cocktail in the bedroom closet. Never mind the cracked ice. Pour me out about four fingers and bring it to me at once. Don't stare at me like that, girl! Quick work, now. And–ah–don't let Caro–that is, Mr. Stevens hear you. Go!"
Suzanne, pale with amazement, hurried away to find the stimulant that had become suddenly the one thing on earth that I really desired. Presently, she returned, carrying a half-filled cocktail glass.
"Here's how, Suzanne!" I cried, joyously, forgetting caste distinctions in my delight at the opportunity of restoring my waning vitality. I swallowed the smooth concoction at a gulp, Suzanne watching me with a puzzled smile on her disturbed countenance.
"Jenkins is with monsieur," she remarked as she took the empty glass from my white, slender hand. Apprehension clutched at my heart again.
"Does–ah–Mr. Stevens–monsieur–seem to be–ah–quiet?" I asked, eagerly.
"I didn't hear his voice, madame," answered Suzanne, arranging a sky-blue morning-gown for my use. "But Jenkins is talking, talking, talking all the time, madame."
"Damn him for a confounded cockney gas-bag!" I murmured, despondently, but fortunately Suzanne was at that moment busy at the further end of the dressing-room. I stood erect, impatient of further delay.
"Look here, girl," I exclaimed, "will you quit this fussy nonsense and get me out of here? I've got an engagement at–"
My sweet, velvety voice failed me as I realized that I was again forgetting myself, or, rather, Caroline.
The long suffering Suzanne was at my side, instantly.
"Madame may go now," she said, giving a finishing touch here and there to my hair and costume. I made for the bedroom eagerly, but tripped over my dress, recovering my equilibrium and went on. Suzanne said something to herself in French, but the only words that came distinctly to my ears were:
"Le cocktail! Il est diabolique!"
CHAPTER III.
CAROLINE'S USURPATION
In philosophic mood last night, as idly I was lying, That souls may transmigrate, methought, there could be no denying; So just to know to what I owe propensities so strong, I drew my soul into a chat–our gossip lasted long.
It was not wholly unpleasant to find myself facing Caroline across the breakfast-table. There she sat, attired in my most becoming gray business suit, in outward seeming a large, well-groomed man-of-the-world. The light in her–or my–eyes suggested the possibility that she had found compensations for her soul's change of base. If that was the case, Caroline was more to be envied than I was, for, despite the feminine beauty that had become mine for a time, I was wholly ill-at-ease and disgruntled. My hand trembled and I spilled the coffee that it had become my duty to serve. Jones, our phlegmatic butler, appeared to be politely astonished at my clumsiness and glanced at me furtively now and again.
"Two lumps, Caroline?" I asked, absently. Catching my wife's masculine eye, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. "Reginald, I mean!"
"Three lumps, and plenty of cream, Caroline," said my wife, with ready wit. What a domineering note there was in my voice when used vicariously! I wondered if Caroline had noticed it.
"You may go, Jones," I said, presently. "I'll ring if we need you."
A gleam of surprise came into the butler's eyes, but he controlled it instantly, and strode from the breakfast-room like a liveried automaton.
"You are not eating, Reginald," said my wife, in a gruff whisper, glancing at the door through which Jones had made his exit. "You must not give way to your nervousness, dear boy. You'll need all your strength before the day is over."
"Gad, you're right–if I can judge by the last hour, Caroline," I remarked, endeavoring by force of will to beget an appetite for toast and eggs. "Just hand me my letters, will you? Here are yours, my dear."
I saw the masculine cheeks redden, but Caroline made no effort to act upon the suggestion that I had thrown out.
"Reggie! Reggie!" she moaned, hoarsely, "is there no help for us? Can't you think of something that will change us back again? It's simply unbearable. Sometimes it makes me laugh, but I almost died before I got out of the bath-room. And Jenkins was simply detestable! You must get us out of this, Reginald, or I warn you I shall read these letters, go down to your office and your club–and enjoy life in your way for a while, my dear."
There was something in all this that I did not altogether like, but I smiled as I said:
"Are you laboring under the delusion, Caroline, that my daily life, filled to overflowing with business cares that you know nothing about, is pleasanter than yours? You can do as you please all day long–see people or deny yourself to them, as you choose. I had noticed a tendency upon your part, my dear, before this–ah–accident occurred, to complain that your existence was dull, that a man had a happier lot than a woman. It's all bosh, that idea. From the moment when I leave this house in the morning, Caroline, I am a slave to duties that I cannot shirk. I am under a terrific strain all day long. As for you, my dear, you may go and come as you please, see the people you like, and dodge those you detest; take a nap if you're tired, a drive if you're suffocated, a walk if you feel energetic. And you have nothing but petty worries that don't amount to a row of beans. Great Scott! Caroline, what an easy job a woman in your position has!"
Caroline refused to meet my gaze, and I observed with annoyance that my eyes sometimes had a shifty way with them. She had placed one large relentless hand over my small pile of letters. Presently, she said, in a tone that indicated a stubborn spirit:
"You are off the track, Reginald. What I want to know is whether you think that we have exhausted every method for getting out of this queer scrape?"
"Drop that, will you, Caroline?" I exclaimed, petulantly. "I'm no theosophist nor faith-curist. I'm not going to fool with this thing at all. If we get to tampering with it–whatever it is–you may find yourself in Jenkins's shoes and I may be Suzanne or Jones for a change. I'm banking on a readjustment in our sleep to-night. Until then, we'll have to accept the situation as it stands."
"Then I'm going to boss things, Reggie," remarked my wife, firmly. "If I'm obliged to get about in your great, hulking figure, my dear, I'm going to enjoy all the perquisites for the next few hours. I don't believe–I never did believe–that you work half as hard as you say you do, nor that you have such horrible dragons to slay every day before dinner. Then, I want you to see for yourself how much leisure I really enjoy. You can stay at home and run my affairs, Reggie, dear. I'm going down-town to see 'the boys' at work!"
"Good heavens, Caroline, you are joking!" I cried, my delicate hand trembling as I endeavored to raise my coffee-cup to my white lips. "It would be utter madness–what you plan! I'll have to let things slide for to-day. I'll telephone to the office saying that I'm down with the grip. Grip? That's good," I went on, hysterically. "It's just what we've lost, Caroline. But never mind! It's a word that will serve my turn. And then, my dear, we'll pass the day together here. We might get a readjustment at any moment, don't you see, if we stick close to each other. If you're down-town–great Nebuchadnezzar! anything might happen to us, Caroline."
"But there's the telephone, Reginald,"