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                        <title>Sunny-San [Part 6]</title>
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                              <name ref="pers:LW1">Leean Wu</name>
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                                          <bibl xml:id="bibl219"><author><name ref="pers:WE1"
                                                  >Watanna, Onoto</name></author>. <publisher
                                                  ref="org:Sovereign">Sovereign
                                                Magazine</publisher>. <title level="a">Sunny-San
                                                  [Part 6]</title>. <title level="j">Sovereign
                                                  Magazine</title>, vol. <biblScope unit="volume"
                                                  >4</biblScope>, no. <biblScope unit="issue"
                                                  >32</biblScope>, <date when="1922-05">July
                                                  1922</date>, pp. <biblScope unit="page"
                                                  >193-201</biblScope>.</bibl>
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            <pb n="193"/>
            <body>
                  <div>
                        <head>Sunny-San</head>
                        <opener>
                              <byline>By <name ref="pers:WE1">Onoto Watanna</name></byline>
                        </opener>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                        <head>SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS INSTALMENTS.</head>
                        <p>It was the night of the Festival of the Full Moon, but Hirata, the
                              proprietor of the House of a Thousand Joys, was infuriated, for was
                              not Madame Mary Smiles, the famous dancer, lying dead among her robes?
                              At her feet knelt her child, crushed and hurt by a grief that nothing
                              could assuage, and it was for the sake of her mother’s honour that
                              presently she stood a-tiptoe on the tight-rope, laughing at the sea of
                              faces round her and throwing her kisses right and left. So charming
                              was she that the Lord of Negato, amorous for this lovely child, tossed
                              her a jewel and a handful of coin, which she cleverly caught on her
                              fan but, acting under a sudden impish impulse, she suddenly threw them
                              in her admirer’s face and, jumping to the ground, vanished into the
                              tea-house.</p>
                        <p>A party of English students visiting Japan had witnessed this scene and,
                              learning that she was to be punished for her slight to the Japanese
                              nobleman, they made a sudden raid on the tea-house and carried off the
                              girl before Hirata’s lash could fall a second time upon her
                              shoulders.</p>
                        <p>These four students and their tutor then decided to adopt Sunny-san, the
                              dancer’s child, whose father was a white man. They formed a syndicate,
                              and together raised sufficient money to provide for Sunny during her
                              lifetime.</p>
                        <p>Soon a time came when the Englishmen had to return to their own country,
                              and they regretfully departed, leaving Sunny in charge of a
                              missionary. She begged them to take her with them, but the hardest
                              moment came when she said good-bye to Jerry Hammond, who had been her
                              faithful champion from the first. However, the ship carrying the
                              Englishmen sailed away, and left a sorrowful Sunny languishing in
                              Nagasaki.</p>
                        <p>As time went on, Sunny’s friends across the sea reached a period where
                              they thought of her as a charming and amusing episode of an idyllic
                              summer in Japan. One bleak March day, Jerry was surprised to learn, on
                              the telephone, that Sunny-san was in London and waiting instructions
                              from the Syndicate. He hastily collected her other friends, and while
                              they were discussing position Sunny entered. She had grown to be a
                              charming young woman, and her friends, agreeably surprised, cannot do
                              enough for her. Jerry cabled to the Professor to return from Canada to
                              take charge of Sunny, but he was unable to do so, and she took up her
                              abode in Jerry’s flat.</p>
                        <p>Sunny has proposals from Monty, Bobs, and Jinx, but refuses them all.
                              Acting on the advice of Hatton, Jerry’s valet, she decides to wait
                              till Leap Year, and then ask Jerry to marry her. She learns then that
                              Jerry is already engaged, but he goes home to break off his
                              engagement, because he realizes that he loves Sunny. Two days later
                              Jerry’s mother and <emph>fiancée</emph> arrive and drive Sunny out of
                              the flat while Hatton is in a drunken sleep, and Jerry returns to find
                              her gone.</p>
                        <p>Katey Clarry, a shopgirl, takes charge of Sunny, and goes with her to
                              deliver a letter addressed to Stephen Wainwright, the financier, given
                              to Sunny-San by her mother. In the meantime, after an unsuccessful
                              search for the missing girl, Jerry is taken seriously ill.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                        <head>CHAPTER XVII (<emph>continued</emph>)</head>
                        <p> Sunny took the chair opposite him. Their glances met and remained for a
                              long moment locked. Then the man tried to speak lightly.</p>
                        <p><q>You wished to see me. What can I do for you?</q></p>
                        <p>Sunny extended the letter. When he took it from her hand, his face came
                              somewhat nearer to hers, and the closer he saw that young girl’s face,
                              the greater grew his agitation.</p>
                        <p><q>What is your name?</q> he demanded abruptly.</p>
                        <p><q>Sunny</q>, said the girl simply, little dreaming that she was speaking
                              the name that the man before her had himself invented for her
                              seventeen and a half years before.</p>
                        <p>The word touched some electrical cord within him. He started violently
                              forward in his seat, half arising, and the letter in his hand dropped
                              on the table before him face up. A moment of gigantic self-control,
                              and then with fingers that shook, Stephen Wainwright slipped the
                              envelope open. The words swam before him, but not till <pb n="194"/>
                              they were indelibly printed upon the man’s conscience-stricken heart.
                              Through blurred vision he read the message from the dead to the
                              living:</p>
                        <q>
                              <floatingText type="letter">
                                    <body>
                                          <p><q>On this sixth day of the Season of Little Plenty, in
                                                  the reign of Meeijii. A thousand years of joy. It
                                                  is your honourable daughter, who knows not your
                                                  name, who brings or sends to you this my letter. I
                                                  go upon the long journey to the <foreign
                                                  xml:lang="ja">Moido</foreign>. I send my child to
                                                  him through whom she has her life. <foreign
                                                  xml:lang="ja">Sayonara</foreign>. Haru-no</q>.</p>
                                    </body>
                              </floatingText>
                        </q>
                        <p>For a long, long time the man sat with his two hands gripped before him
                              on the desk, steadily looking at the girl before him, devouring every
                              feature of the well-remembered face of the child he had always loved.
                              It seemed to him that she had changed not at all. His little Sunny of
                              those charming days of his youth had that same crystal look of supreme
                              innocence, a quality of refinement, a fragrance of race that seemed to
                              reach back to some old ancestry, and put its magic print upon the
                              exquisite young face. He felt he must have been blind not to have
                              recognised his own child the instant his eye had fallen upon her. He
                              knew now what that warm rush of emotion had meant when he had looked
                              at her in that outer office. It was the intuitive instinct that his
                              own child was near—the only child he had ever had. By exercising all
                              the self-control that he could command, he was at last able to speak
                              her name huskily.</p>
                        <p><q>Sunny, don’t you remember me?</q></p>
                        <p>Like her father, Sunny was addicted to moments of abstraction. She had
                              allowed her gaze to wander through the window to the harbour below,
                              where she could see the great ships at their moorings. It made her
                              think of the one she had come to America on, and the one on which
                              Jerry had sailed away from Japan. Painfully, wistfully, she brought
                              her gaze back to her father’s face. At his question she essayed a
                              little propitiating smile.</p>
                        <p><q>Mebbe I are see you face on American ad-ver-tise-ment. I are hear you
                                    are very grade man</q>, said the child of Stephen
                              Wainwright.</p>
                        <p>He winced, and yet grew warm with pride and longing at the girl’s
                              delicious accent. He, too, tried to smile back at her, but something
                              sharp bit at the man’s eyelids.</p>
                        <p><q>No, Sunny. Try and think. Throw your mind far back—back to your sixth
                                    year, if that may be</q>.</p>
                        <p>Sunny’s eyes, resting now in troubled question upon the face before her,
                              grew slowly fixed and enlarged. Through the fogs of memory slowly,
                              like a vision of the past, she seemed to see again a little child in a
                              fragrant garden. She was standing by the rim of a pool, and the man
                              opposite her now was at her side. He was dressed in Japanese <foreign
                                    xml:lang="ja">kimona</foreign> and <foreign xml:lang="ja"
                                    >hakama</foreign>, and Sunny remembered that then he was always
                              laughing at her, shaking the flower weighted trees above her, till the
                              petals fell in a white and pink shower upon her little head and
                              shoulders. She was stretching out her hands, catching the falling
                              blossoms, and, delightedly exclaiming that the flying petals were tiny
                              birds fluttering through the air. She was leaning over the edge of the
                              pool, blowing the petals along the water, playing with her father that
                              they were white prayer ships, carrying the petitions to the gods who
                              waited on the other side. She remembered drowsing against the arm of
                              the man; of being tossed aloft, her face cuddled against his neck; of
                              passing under the great wistaria arbour. Ah, yes, how clearly she
                              recalled it now. As her father transferred her to her mother’s arms,
                              he bent and drew that mother into his embrace also.</p>
                        <p>Two great tears welled up in the eyes of Sunny, but ere they could fall,
                              the distance between her and her father had vanished. Stephen
                              Wainwright, kneeling on the floor by his long lost child, had drawn
                              her hungrily into his arms.</p>
                        <p><q>My own little girl!</q> said the Man of Steel.</p>
                        <p>CHAPTER XVIII</p>
                        <p>Stephen Wainwright, holding his daughter jealously in his arms, felt
                              those long-locked founts of emotion that had been pent up behind his
                              steely exterior bursting all bounds. He had the immense feeling that
                              he wanted for evermore to cherish and guard this precious thing that
                              was all his own.</p>
                        <p><q>Our actions are followed by their consequences as surely as a body by
                                    its shadow</q>, says the Japanese proverb, and <pb n="195"/>
                              that cruel act of his mad youth had haunted the days of this man, who
                              had achieved all that some men sell their souls for in life. And yet
                              the greatest of all prizes had escaped him—peace of mind. Even now, as
                              he held Sunny in his arms, he was consumed by remorse and anguish.</p>
                        <p>In his crowded life of fortune and fame, and a social career at the side
                              of the brilliant woman who bore his name, Stephen Wainwright’s best
                              efforts had been unavailing to obliterate from his memory that tragic
                              face that like a flower petal on a stream he had so lightly blown
                              away. O-Haru-no was her name then, and she was the child of a Japanese
                              woman of caste, whose marriage to an attaché of a Russian embassy had,
                              in its time, created a furore in the capital. Her father had perished
                              in a shipwreck at sea, and her mother had returned to her people,
                              there, in her turn, to perish from grief and the cold neglect of the
                              Japanese relatives who considered her marriage a blot upon the family
                              escutcheon.</p>
                        <p>Always a lover and collector of beautiful things, Wainwright had harkened
                              to the enthusiastic flights of a friend, who had <q>discovered</q> an
                              incomparable piece of Satsuma, and had accompanied him to an old
                              mansion, once part of a Satsuma <foreign xml:lang="ja"
                                    >yashiki</foreign> , there to find that his friend’s <q>piece of
                                    Satsuma</q> was a living work of art, a little piece of
                              bric-à-brac that the collector craved to add to his collections. He
                              had purchased O-Haru-no for a mere song, for her white skin had been a
                              constant reproach and shame in the house of her ancestors. Moreover,
                              this branch of the ancient family had fallen upon meagre days, and
                              despite their pride, they were not above bartering this humble
                              descendant for the gold of the Englishman. O-Haru-no escaped with joy
                              from the harsh atmosphere of the house of her ancestors to the gay
                              home of her purchaser.</p>
                        <p>The fact that he had practically bought his wife, and that she had been
                              willing to become a thing of barter and sale, had from the first
                              caused the man to regard her lightly. We value things often, not by
                              their intrinsic value, but by the price we have paid for them, and
                              Haru-no had been thrown upon the bargain counter of life. However, it
                              was not in Stephen Wainwright’s nature to resist anything as pretty as
                              the wife he had bought. A favourite and sardonic jest of his at that
                              time was that she was the choicest piece in his collections, and that
                              some day he purposed to put her in a glass case, and present her to
                              the Museum of Art of his native city. Had indeed Stephen Wainwright
                              seen the dancer, as she lay among her brilliant robes, her wide
                              sleeves outspread like the wings of a butterfly, and that perfectly
                              chiselled face on which the smile that had made her famous still
                              seemed faintly to linger, he might have recalled that utterance of the
                              past, and realised that no object of art in the great museum of which
                              his people were so proud, could compare with this masterpiece of
                              Death’s grim hand.</p>
                        <p>He tried to delude himself with the thought that the temporary wife of
                              his young days was but an incident, part of an idyll that had no place
                              in the life of the man of steel, who had seized upon life with strong,
                              hot hands.</p>
                        <p>But Sunny! His own flesh and blood, the child whose hair had suggested
                              her name. Despite the galloping years she persisted ever in his
                              memory. He thought of her constantly, of her strange little ways, her
                              pretty coaxing ways, her smile; her charming love of the little live
                              things , her perception of beauty, her closeness to nature, her
                              innocence. There was a quality of psychic sweetness about her,
                              something rare and delicate that appealed to the epicure as exquisite
                              and above all price. It was not his gold that had purchased Sunny. She
                              was a gift of the gods, and his memory of his child contained no
                              flaw.</p>
                        <p>It was part of his punishment that the woman he married after his return
                              to England from Japan should have drifted farther and farther apart
                              from him with the years. Intuitively his wife had recognised that
                              hungry heart behind the man’s cold exterior. She knew that the
                              greatest urge in the character of this man was his desire for
                              children. From year to year she suffered the agony of seeing the
                              frustration of their hopes. Highly strung and imaginative, Mrs.
                              Wainwright feared that her husband would acquire a dislike for her.
                              The idea persisted like a monomania. She sought distraction from this
                              ghost that arose between them in social activities and passionate work
                              in the cause of woman’s suffrage. It was her husband’s misfortune that
                              his nature was of that unapproachable sort that seldom lets down the
                              mask, a man who retired within himself, and sought resources of
                              comfort where indeed they were not to be found. Grimly, cynically, he
                              watched the devastating effects of their separated interests, and in
                              time she, too, in a measure was cast aside, in thought at least, just
                              as the first wife had been. Stephen Wainwright grew grimmer and colder
                              with the years, and the name applied to him was curiously
                              suitable.</p>
                        <p>This was the man whose tears were falling on the soft hair of the strange
                                    <pb n="196"/> girl from Japan. He had lifted her hat, that he
                              might again see that hair, so bright and pretty that had first
                              suggested her name. With awkward gentleness, he smoothed it back from
                              the girl’s thin little face.</p>
                        <p><q>Sunny, you know your father now, fully, don’t you? Tell me that you
                                    do—that you have not forgotten me. You were within a few weeks
                                    of six when I went away, and we were the greatest of pals.
                                    Surely you have not forgotten altogether. It seems just the
                                    other day you were looking at me, just as you are now. It does
                                    not seem to me as if you have changed at all. You are still my
                                    little girl. Tell me—you have not forgotten your father
                                    altogether, have you?</q></p>
                        <p><q>No. Those year they are push away. You are my <foreign xml:lang="ja"
                                          >chichi</foreign> (papa). I so happy see you face
                                    again</q>.</p>
                        <p>She held him back, her two hands on his shoulders, and now, true to her
                              sex, she prepared to demand a favour from her father.</p>
                        <p><q>Now I think you are going to give Katy and me mos’ bes’ job ad you
                                    business</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Job? Who is Katy?</q></p>
                        <p><q>I are not told you yet of Katy. Katy are my frien’</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>You’ve told me nothing. I must know everything that has happened to
                                    you since I left Japan</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Thas too long ago</q>, said Sunny sadly, <q>and I am hongry. I lig’
                                    eat liddle bit something</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>What! You’ve had no lunch?</q></p>
                        <p>He leaned over to the desk and pushed the button <choice>
                                    <sic>?</sic>
                                    <corr>.</corr>
                              </choice> Miss Holliwell, coming to the door, saw a sight that for the
                              first time in her years of service with Stephen Wainwright took away
                              her composure. Her employer was kneeling by a chair on which was
                              seated the strange girl, whose hat was off, and who was holding one of
                              his hands with both of hers. Even then he did not break the custom of
                              years and explain or confide in his secretary, and she saw to her
                              amazement that the eyes of the man she secretly termed <q>The
                                    Sphinx</q> were red. All he said was:</p>
                        <p><q>Order a luncheon, Miss Holliwell. Have it brought up here. Have the
                                    restaurant rush it through. That is all</q>.</p>
                        <p>Miss Holliwell slowly closed the door, but her amazement at what she had
                              seen within was turned to indignation at what she encountered without.
                              As the door opened, Katy pressed up against the keyhole, fell back
                              upon the floor. Now during the period when Sunny had been in the
                              private office of Miss Holliwell’s employer, she had had her hands
                              full with the curious young person left behind. Katy had found relief
                              from her pent-up curiosity in an endless stream of questions and
                              gratuitous remarks which she poured out upon the exasperated
                              secretary. Katy’s tongue and spirit were entirely undaunted by the
                              chilling monosyllabic replies of Miss Holliwell, and the latter was
                              finally driven to the extremity of requesting her to wait in the outer
                              office:</p>
                        <p><q>I’m awfully busy</q>, said the secretary, <q>and really when you
                                    chatter like that I cannot concentrate upon my work</q>.</p>
                        <p>To which, with a wide friendly smile, rejoined Katy:</p>
                        <p><q>Cheer up, Miss Frozen-Face. Mum’s the word from this time on</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Mum</q>, she actually kept, but her alert pose, her cocked-up ears and
                              eyes, glued upon the door had such a quality of upset about them that
                              Miss Holliwell found it almost as difficult to concentrate as when her
                              tongue had rattled along. Now here she was engaged in the degrading
                              employment of listening and seeing what was never intended for her
                              ears and eyes. Miss Holliwell pushed her indignantly away.</p>
                        <p><q>What do you <emph>mean</emph> by doing a thing like that?</q></p>
                        <p>Between what she had seen inside her employer’s private office, and the
                              actions of this young gamin, Miss Holliwell was very much disturbed.
                              She betook herself to the seat with a complete absence of her
                              cultivated composure. When Katy said, however: <q>Gee! I wish I knew
                                    whether Sunny is safe in there with that old man</q>, Miss
                              Holliwell was forced to raise her hand to hide a smile that would come
                              despite her best efforts. For once in her life she gave the wrong
                              number, and was cross with the girl at the telephone desk because it
                              was some time before the restaurant was reached. The carefully ordered
                              meal dictated by Miss Holliwell aroused in the listening Katy such
                              mixed emotions, the hungry youngster leaned over and said in a hoarse
                              pleading whisper:</p>
                        <p><q>I say, if you’re orderin’ for Sunny, make it a double</q>.</p>
                        <milestone unit="line"/>
                        <p>Inside, Sunny was telling her father her story. <q>Begin from the
                                    first</q>, he had said. <q>Omit nothing. I must know everything
                                    about you</q>.</p>
                        <p>Graphically, as they waited for the lunch, she sketched in all the sordid
                              details of her early life, the days of their mendicancy making the man
                              feel immeasurably mean. Sitting at the desk now, his eyes shaded with
                              his hand, he gritted his teeth, and struck the table with repeated
                              soundless blows when his daughter told him of the lash of the <pb
                                    n="197"/> man Hirata. But something, a feeling more penetrating
                              than pain, stung Stephen Wainwright when she told him of those
                              warmhearted men who had come into her life like a miracle and taken
                              the place that he should have been there to fill. For the first time
                              he interrupted her to take down the names of her friends one by one on
                              a pad of paper. Professor Barrowes. Zoologist and Professor of
                              Archeology. Wainwright had heard of him somewhere recently. Yes, he
                              recalled him now. Some dispute about a recent <q>find</q> of the
                              Professor’s. There was some question raised as to the authenticity of
                              the fossil. Opposition to its being placed in the Museum. Newspaper
                              discussion. An effort on the Professor’s part to raise funds for
                              further exploration in Canada north-west.</p>
                        <p>Robert Mapson, Jr. Wainwright knew the reporter slightly. He had covered
                              stories in which Senator Wainwright was interested.</p>
                        <p>Montague Potter, Jr. City people. His firm did business with them.</p>
                        <p>J. Lyon Crawford, son of a man once at college with Wainwright. Sunny’s
                              father recalled some chaffing joke at the club anent <q>Jinx’s</q>
                              political ambitions. As a prospect in politics he had seemed a joke to
                              his friends.</p>
                        <p>And, last, J. Addison Hammond, Jr.—<q>Jerry</q>.</p>
                        <p>How Sunny had pronounced that name! There was that about that soft
                              inflection that caused her father to hold his pencil suspended, while
                              a stab of jealousy struck him.</p>
                        <p><q>What does he do, Sunny?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Ho! He are goin’ be grade artist-arki-tuck. He make so beautiful
                                    pictures, and he have mos’ beautiful thought on inside his head.
                                    He goin’ to make all these city loog beautiful. He show how make
                                    ‘partment houses, where all god light and there’s garden grow on
                                    top, and there’s house where they not put out liddle bebby on
                                    street. He’s go sleep and play on those garden on top
                              house</q>.</p>
                        <p>Her father, his elbow on desk, his chin cupped on his hand, watched the
                              girl’s kindling face, and suffered pangs that he could not analyse.
                              Quietly he urged her to continue her story. Unwillingly she turned
                              from Jerry. Of her life in Jerry’s flat, of Hatton and his <q>yuman
                                    ‘ankerings</q>; of Itchy, with his two fleas; of the canaries in
                              the gold cage, of the goldfish who swam in the glass bowl; of the
                              honourable mice; of the butcher and caretaker gentlemen; of Monty, of
                              Bobs, of Jinx, who had asked her to marry them, and up to the day when
                              Mrs. Hammond and Miss Falconer had come to the apartment and turned
                              her out. Then a pause to catch her breath in a wrathful sob, to
                              continue the wistful tale of her prayer to Kuonnon in the raging,
                              noisy street; of the mother’s gentle spirit that had gone with her on
                              the dark long road that led to—Katy.</p>
                        <p>It was then that Miss Holliwell tapped, and the waiters came in with the
                              great loaded trays held aloft, bearing the carefully ordered meal and
                              the paraphernalia that accompanies a lunch <emph>de luxe</emph>.
                              Someone besides the waiters had slipped by Miss Holliwell. Katy,
                              clucking with her tongue against the roof of her mouth, tried to
                              attract the attention of Sunny, whose back was turned. Sniffing those
                              delicious odours, Katy came farther into the room, and following the
                              clucking she let out an unmistakably false cough and loud Ahem.</p>
                        <p>This time, Sunny turned, saw her friend, and jumped up from her seat and
                              ran to her. Said Katy in a whisper:</p>
                        <p><q>Gee! You’re smarter than I gave you credit for being. Got him going,
                                    ain’t you? Well, pull his leg while the going’s good, and say,
                                    Sunny, if them things on the tray are for you, remember, I gave
                                    you half my hot dogs and I always say—</q></p>
                        <p><q>This are my frien’, Katy</q>, said Sunny proudly, as the very grave
                              faced man whom Katy had tried to trip came forward and took Katy’s
                              hand in a tight clasp.</p>
                        <p><q>Katy, this are my—<foreign xml:lang="ja">Chichi</foreign>—Mr.
                              Papa</q>, said Sunny.</p>
                        <p>Katy gasped, staring with wide-open mouth from Mr. Wainwright to Sunny.
                              Her head reeled with the most extravagantly romantic tale that
                              instantly flooded it. Then, with a whoop curiously like that of some
                              small boy, Katy grasped hold of Sunny about the waist.</p>
                        <p><q>Whuroo!</q> cried Katy. <q>I <emph>knew</emph> you was a princess.
                                    It’s just like a novel—better than any story I’ve read</q>.</p>
                        <p>There in the dignified office of the steel magnate the shopgirl girl drew
                              his daughter into a delicious war dance, full of sheer fun and
                              impudent youth. For the first time in years Stephen Wainwright threw
                              back his head and burst into laughter.</p>
                        <p>Now these two young radiant creatures, who could dance while they
                              hungered, were seated before that gorgeous luncheon. Sunny’s father
                              lifted the top from the great steak, entirely surrounded on the board
                              with fried potatoes, ornamental bits of peas, beans, carrots,
                              asparagus, cauliflower, and mushrooms.</p>
                        <p>Sunny let forth one long ecstatic sigh as she clasped her hands together,
                              while Katy laid both hands piously upon her <pb n="198"/> stomach,
                              and, raising her eyes as if about to deliver a solemn Grace, she
                              said:</p>
                        <p><q>Home, sweet home was never like this!</q></p>
                  </div>

                  <div>
                        <head>CHAPTER XIX</head>
                        <p>Society enjoys a shock. It craves sensation. When  that brilliant and
                              autocratic leader returned from several months’ absence abroad, with a
                              young daughter, of whose existence no one had ever heard, her friends
                              were mystified. When, with the most evident pride and fondness she
                              referred to the fact that her daughter had spent most of her life in
                              foreign lands, and was the daughter of Mr. Wainwright’s first wife,
                              speculation was rife. That the financier had been previously married,
                              that he had a daughter of eighteen years, set all society agog, and
                              expectant to see the girl, whose <emph>début</emph> was to be made at
                              a large coming-out party given by her mother in her honour, the final
                              touch of mystery and romance was added by the daughter herself. An
                              enterprising society reporter, had through the magic medium of a card
                              from her chief, Mr. Mapson, obtained a special interview with Miss
                              Wainwright on the eve of her ball, and the latter had confided to the
                              incredulous and delighted newspaper woman the fact that she expected
                              to be married at an early date. The announcement, however, lost some
                              of its thrill when Miss Wainwright omitted the name of the happy man.
                              Application to her mother brought forth the fact that that personage
                              knew no more about this coming event than the reporter herself. Mrs.
                              Wainwright promptly denied the story, pronouncing it a probable prank
                              of Miss Sunny and her friend, Miss Clarry. Here Mrs. Wainwright
                              sighed. She always sighed at the mention of Katy’s name, sighed
                              indulgently yet hopelessly. The latter had long since been turned over
                              to the efficient hands of a Miss Woodhouse, a lady who had accompanied
                              the Wainwright party abroad. Her especial duty in life was to refine
                              Katy, a task not devoid of entertainment to said competent young
                              person, since it stirred to literary activity certain slumbering
                              talents, and in due time Katy, through the pen of Miss Woodhouse, was
                              firmly pinned on paper.</p>
                        <p>However, this is not Katy’s story, though it may not be inapropos to
                              mention here that the Mrs. J. Lyon Crawford, who for so long queened
                              it over, bossed, bullied and shepherded society, was under the skin
                              ever the same little shopgirl who had marched forth with her army of
                              one down the steps of a tenement house.</p>
                        <p>Coming back to Sunny. The newspaper woman persisting that the story had
                              been told her with utmost candour and seriousness, Mrs. Wainwright
                              sent for her daughter. Sunny, questioned by her mother, smilingly
                              confirmed the story.</p>
                        <p><q>But, my dear</q>, said Mrs. Wainwright, <q>You know no young men yet.
                                    Surely you are just playing. It’s a game between you and Katy,
                                    isn’t it, dear? Katy is putting you up to it, I’m sure</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>No, mama, Katy are—is—not do so. <emph>I</emph> am! It is true! I am
                                    going to make marriage wiz Englishman gentleman mebbe very
                                    soon</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Darling, run along. That will do for just now, dear. <emph>I’ll</emph>
                                    speak to Miss Ah—What is the name of the newspaper
                              reporter?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Holman</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Ah, yes, Miss Holman. Run along, dear</q>—in a tone an indulgent
                              mother uses to a baby. Then with her club smile turned affably on Miss
                              Holman: <q>Our little Sunny is so mischievous. Now I’m quite sure she
                                    and Miss Clarry are playing some naughty little game. I don’t
                                    believe I’d publish that if I were you, Miss Holman</q>.</p>
                        <p>Miss Holman laughed in Mrs. Wainwright’s face, which brought the colour
                              to a face that for the last few months had radiated such good humour
                              upon the world. Mrs. Wainwright smiled, now discomfited, for she knew
                              that the newspaper woman not only intended to print Sunny’s statement,
                              but her mother’s denial.</p>
                        <p><q>Now, Miss Holman, your story will have no value, in view of the fact
                                    that the name of the man is not mentioned</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>I thought that a defect at first</q>, said Miss Holman, shamelessly,
                                    <q>but I’m inclined to think it will add to the interest. Our
                                    readers dote on mysteries, and I’ll cover the story on those
                                    lines. Later I’ll do a bit of detective work on the track of the
                                    man! We’ll get him!</q> And the man-like young woman nodded her
                              head briskly, and betook herself from the Wainwright home, well
                              satisfied with her day’s work.</p>
                        <p>An appeal to the editor of the paper on the telephone brought back the
                              surprising answer that they would not print the story if Sunny—that
                              editor referred to the child of Mr. Wainwright as <q>Sunny</q>—herself
                              denied it. He requested that <q>Sunny</q> should speak on the
                              telephone. Mrs. Wainwright was especially indignant over this, because
                              she knew that that editor had arisen to his present position entirely
                              through a certain private <q>pull</q> of Mr. Wainwright. Of course,
                              the editor himself did not know this, but Mr. Wainwright’s wife did,
                              and she thought him <pb n="199"/> exceedingly unappreciative and
                              exasperating.</p>
                        <p>Mrs. Wainwright sought Sunny in her room. Here she found that bewildering
                              young person with her extraordinary friend enthusing over a fashion
                              book devoted to <emph>trousseaux</emph> and bridal gowns. They looked
                              up with flushed faces, and Mrs. Wainwright could not resist a feeling
                              of resentment at the thought that her daughter (she never thought of
                              Sunny as <q>stepdaughter</q>) should give her confidence to Miss
                              Clarry in preference to her. However, she masked her feelings, as only
                              Mrs. Wainwright could, and with a smile to Katy advised her that Miss
                              Woodhouse was waiting for her. Katy’s reply, <q>Yes, ma’am—I mean,
                                    Aunt Emma</q>, was submissive and meek enough, but it was hard
                              for Mrs. Wainwright to overlook that very pronounced wink with which
                              Katy favoured Sunny ere she departed.</p>
                        <p><q>And now, dear</q>, said Mrs. Wainwright, putting her arm around Sunny,
                                    <q>tell me all about it</q>.</p>
                        <p>Sunny, who loved her dearly, cuddled against her like a child, but
                              nevertheless shook her bright head.</p>
                        <p><q>Ho! That is secret I not tell. I are a tomb</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Tomb?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Yes, thas word lig’ Katy use when she have secret. She say it
                                    are—is—lock up in tomb</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>To think</q>, said Mrs. Wainwright jealously, <q>that you prefer to
                                    confide in a stranger like Katy rather than your mother</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>No, I not told Katy yet</q>, said Sunny quickly. <q>She have ask me
                                    one tousan’ time, and I are not tol’ her</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>But, darling, surely you want <emph>me</emph>to know. Is he any young
                                    man we are acquainted with?</q></p>
                        <p>Sunny, finger thoughtfully on her lip, considered.</p>
                        <p><q>No-o; I think you are not know him yet</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Is he one of the young men who—er—</q></p>
                        <p>It was painful for Mrs. Wainwright to contemplate that chapter in Sunny’s
                              past when she had been the ward of four strange young men. In fact,
                              she had taken Sunny abroad immediately after that remarkable time when
                              her husband had brought the strange young girl to the house, and for
                              the first time she had learned of Sunny’s existence. Life had taken on
                              a new meaning to Mrs. Wainwright after that. Suddenly she comprehended
                              the meaning of having someone to live for. Her life and work had a
                              definite purpose and impetus. Her husband’s child had closed the gulf
                              that had yawned so long between man and wife, and was threatening to
                              separate them forever. Her love for Sunny, and her pride in the girl’s
                              beauty and charm was almost pathetic. Had she been the girl’s own
                              mother, she could not have been more indulgent or anxious for her
                              welfare.</p>
                        <p>Sunny, not answering the last question, Mrs. Wainwright went over in her
                              mind each one of the young men whose ward Sunny had been. The first
                              three, Jinx, Monty and Bobs, she soon rejected as possibilities. There
                              remained Jerry Hammond. Private inquiries concerning Jerry had long
                              since established the fact that he had been for a number of years
                              engaged to a Miss Falconer. Mrs. Wainwright had been much distressed
                              because Sunny insisted on writing numerous letters to Jerry while
                              abroad. It seemed very improper, so she told the girl, to write
                              letters to another woman’s <emph>fiancé</emph>. Sunny agreed with this
                              most earnestly, and after a score of letters had gone unanswered she
                              promised to desist.</p>
                        <p>Mrs. Wainwright appreciated all that Mr. Hammond had done for her
                              daughter. Sunny’s father had indeed expressed that appreciation in
                              that letter (a similar one had been sent to all members of the Sunny
                              Syndicate) penned immediately after he had found Sunny. He had,
                              moreover, done everything in his power privately to advance the
                              careers and interests of the various men who had befriended his
                              daughter. But for his engagement to Miss Falconer, Mrs. Wainwright
                              would not have had the slightest objection to Sunny continuing her
                              friendship with this Mr. Hammond, but really it was hardly the proper
                              thing under the circumstances. However, she was both peeved and
                              relieved when Sunny’s many epistles remained unanswered for months,
                              and then a single short letter that was hardly calculated to revive
                              Sunny’s childish passion for this Jerry arrived. Jerry wrote:</p>
                        <q>
                              <floatingText type="letter">
                                    <body>
                                          <p>’Dear Sunny, — Glad get your many notes. Have been
                                                away. Glad you are happy. Hope see you when you
                                                return.</p>
                                          <closer>
                                                <signed><q>JERRY</q>.</signed>
                                          </closer>
                                    </body>
                              </floatingText>
                        </q>
                        <p>Why, a  telegram would have contained more words, the ruffled Mrs.
                              Wainwright was assured, and she acquired a prejudice against Jerry,
                              despite all the good she had heard of him. From that time on her
                                    <emph>rôle</emph> was to, as far as lay in her power, distract
                              the dear child from thought of the man who very evidently cared
                              nothing about her.</p>
                        <p>Of course Mrs. Wainwright did not know of that illness of Jerry Hammond
                              when he had hovered between life and death. She did not know that all
                              of Sunny’s letters <pb n="200"/> had come to his hand at one time,
                              unwillingly given up by Professor Barrowes, who feared a relapse from
                              the resulting excitement. She did not know that that shaky scrawl was
                              due to the fact that Jerry was sitting up in bed, and had penned
                              twenty or more letters to Sunny, in which he had exhausted all of the
                              sweet words of a lover’s vocabulary, and then had stopped short to
                              contemplate the fact that he had done absolutely nothing in the world
                              to prove himself worthy of Sunny, had torn up the aforementioned
                              letters, and penned the blank scrawl that told the daughter of Stephen
                              Wainwright nothing.</p>
                        <p>But it was shortly after that that Jerry began to <q>come back</q>. He
                              started upon the highroad to health, and his recuperation was so swift
                              that he was able to laugh at the protesting and anxious Barrowes, who
                              moved Heaven and earth to prevent the young man from returning to his
                              work. Jerry had been, however, <q>away</q> long enough, so he said,
                              and he fell upon his work with such zeal that no mere friend or mother
                              could stop him. Never had that star of Beauty of which he had always
                              dreamed seemed so close to Jerry as now. Never had the incentive to
                              succeed been so vital and gloriously necessary. At the end of all his
                              efforts, he saw no longer the elusive face of the imaginary
                                    <q>Beauty</q>, of which he loved to tell Sunny, and which he
                              despaired ever to reach. What was a figment of the imagination now
                              took a definite lovely form. At the end of his rainbow was the living
                              face of Sunny.</p>
                        <p>And so with a song within his heart, a light in his eyes, and a spring to
                              his step, with kind words for everyone he met, Jerry Hammond worked
                              and waited. Mrs. Wainwright by this time knew the futility of trying
                              to force Sunny to reveal her secret. Not only was she very Japanese in
                              her ability to keep a secret when she chose, but she was Stephen
                              Wainwright’s child. Her mother knew that for months she had neither
                              seen nor written to Jerry Hammond, for Sunny herself had told her so,
                              when questioned. Who then was the mysterious <emph>fiancé</emph>?
                              Could it possibly be someone she had known in Japan? This thought
                              caused Mrs. Wainwright considerable trepidation. She feared the
                              possibility of a young Russian, a Japanese, a missionary. To make sure
                              that Jerry was not the one Sunny had in mind, she asked the girl
                              whether he had ever proposed to her, and Sunny replied at once, very
                              sadly:</p>
                        <p><q>No-o. I ask him do so, but he do not do so. He are got ‘nother girl he
                                    marry then. Jinx and Monty and Bobs are all ask me marry wiz
                                    them, but Jerry never ask so</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Oh, my dear, did you really <emph>ask</emph> him to ask you to marry
                                    him?</q></p>
                        <p><q>No! I hint for him do so</q>, said Sunny, <q>but he do not do so. Thas
                                    very sad for me</q>, she admitted dejectedly.</p>
                        <p><q>Very fortunate, I call it</q>, said Mrs. Wainwright.</p>
                        <p>Thus Jerry’s elimination was completed, and for the nonce the matter of
                              Sunny’s marriage was dropped for the time being, to be revived,
                              however, on the night of her ball.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                        <head>CHAPTER XX</head>
                        <p>There have been many marvellous balls given in London, but none exceeding
                              the famous Wainwright Cherry Blossom ball. The guests stepped into a
                              vast ball room that had been transformed into a Japanese garden in
                              spring. On all sides, against the walls, and made into arbours and
                              groves, cherry trees in full blossom were banked, while above and over
                              the galleries dripped the long purple and white heads of the wistaria.
                              The entire arch of the ceiling was covered with cherry branches, and
                              the floor was of heavy glass, in imitation of a lake in which the
                              blossoms were reflected.</p>
                        <p>Through a lane of slender bamboo the guests passed to meet under a cherry
                              blossom bower the loveliest bud of the season, Sunny, in a fairy-like
                              maline and chiffon frock, springing out about her diaphanously, and of
                              the pale pink and white colors of the cherry blossoms. Sunny, with her
                              bright, shining hair coiffed by the hand of an artist. Sunny, with her
                              first string of perfect pearls and a monstrous feather fan, that when
                              dropped seemed to cover half her short fluffy skirts. Sunny, with the
                              brightest eyes, darting in and out and looking over the heads of her
                              besieging guests, laughing, noddin, breathlessly, parrying the
                              questions that poured in on all sides. Everybody wanted to know who
                                    <emph>the</emph> man was.</p>
                        <p><q>Oh, do tell us who he is</q>, they would urge, and Sunny would shake
                              her bright head, slowly unfurl her monstrous fan, and with it
                              thoughtfully at her lips she would say:</p>
                        <p><q>Ho, yes, it are true, and mebbe I will tell you some other day</q>.</p>
                        <p>Now among those present at Sunny’s party were five men whose acquaintance
                              the readers of this story have already made. It so happened that they
                              were very late in arriving at the Wainwright dance, this being due to
                              the fact that one of their number had to be brought there by physical
                              force. Jerry at dinner <pb n="201"/> had read that story in the
                              newspaper, and was reduced to such a condition of distraction that it
                              was only by the united efforts of his four friends that he was
                              forcibly shoved into that car. The party arrived late, as stated, and
                              it may be recorded that as Sunny’s eyes searched that sea of faces
                              before her, moving to the music of the orchestra and the tinkle of the
                              Japanese bells, they lost somewhat of their shining look, and became
                              so wistful that her father, sensitive to every change in the girl,
                              never left her side; but he could not induce the girl to dance. She
                              remained with her parents in the receiving arbor. Suddenly two spots
                              of bright rose came to the cheeks of Sunny, and she arose on tip-toes,
                              just as she had done as a child on the tight rope. She saw that
                              arriving party approaching, and heard Katy’s voice as she husbanded
                              them to what she called <q>the royal throne</q>.</p>
                        <p>At this juncture, and when he was within but a few feet of the
                                    <q>throne</q>, Jerry saw Sunny. One long look passed between
                              them, and then, shameless to relate, Jerry ducked into that throng of
                              dancers. To further escape the wrathful hands of his friends, he
                              seized some fat lady hurriedly about the waist and dragged her upon
                              the glass floor. His rudeness covered up with as much tact as his
                              friends could muster, they proceeded, as far as lay in their power, to
                              compensate for his defection. They felt no sympathy nor patience with
                              the acts of Jerry. Were they not all in the same boat, and equally
                              stung by the story of Sunny’s engagement?</p>
                        <p>Both hands held out, Sunny welcomed her friends. First Professor
                              Barrowes:</p>
                        <p><q>Ho! How good it is and my eyes see your kind face again</q>.</p>
                        <p>Alas! for Sunny’s several months with especial tutors and governesses,
                              and the beautiful example of Mrs. Wainwright. Always in moments of
                              excitement she lapsed into her strangely-twisted English speech and
                              topsy-turvy grammar.</p>
                        <p>Professor Barrowes, with the dust in his eyes and brain of that recent
                              triumphant trip into the north-west of Canada, brushed aside by the
                              illness of his friend, was on solid enough earth as Sunny all but
                              hugged him. Bowing, beaming, chuckling, he took the fragrant little
                              hand in his own, and with the pride and glow of a true discoverer, his
                              eye scanned the fairy-like creature before him.</p>
                        <p><q>Ah! Miss—ah—Sunny. The pleasure is mine—entirely mine, I assure you.
                                    May I add that you still to me strongly resemble the child I
                                    first saw in tights</q>—Ah, Man of Fossils!—<q>the child, who
                                    came upon the tightrope, with a smile upon her face and a
                                    dewdrop on her cheek</q>.</p>
                        <p>(Before this I have observed that poetry is not absent from the soul of
                              any dreamer.)</p>
                        <p><q>May I add</q>, continued Professor Barrowes, <q>that it is my devout
                                    hope, my dear, that you will always remain unchanged. I hope so
                                    devoutly. I wish it</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Ho! Mr. dear Professor, I am jos’ nothing but little moth. Nothing
                                    moach good on these earth. But you—you are do so moach I am
                                    hear. You tich all those worl’ <emph>how</emph> those worl’ are
                                    be ad the firs’ day of all! Tell me ‘bout what happen to you.
                                    Daikoku (God of Fortune) he have been kind to you—yes?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Astounding kind—amazingly so. There is much to tell. If you will allow
                                    me, at an early date, I will do myself the pleasure of calling
                                    upon you, and—ah—going into detail</q>.</p>
                        <p>Miss Holliwell, smiling and most efficiently and inconspicuously managing
                              the occasion, noting the congestion about Sunny, and the undisguised
                              expressions of deepening disgust and impatience on the faces of
                              Sunny’s other friends, here interposed. She slipped her hand through
                              the Professor’s arm, and with a murmured:</p>
                        <p><q>Oh, Professor Barrowes, do try this waltz with me. It’s one of the old
                                    ones, and this is Leap Year, so I am going to ask you</q>.</p>
                        <p>Now, Miss Holliwell had had charge of all the matters pertaining to the
                              dinornis, her association with Professor Barrowes had been both
                              pleasant and gratifying to the man of science.</p>
                        <p>If anyone imagines that sixty-year-old legs cannot move with the
                              expedition and grace of youth, he should have witnessed the gyrations
                              and motions of the legs of Professor Barrowes as he guided the
                              financier’s secretary through the mazes of the waltz.</p>
                        <p>Came then Monty, upright and rosy, and as shamelessly young as when over
                              four years before, at seventeen, he imagined himself wise and aged
                              looking with his bone-ribbed glasses. The down was still on Monty’s
                              cheek, and the adoration of the puppy still in his eyes.</p>
                        <p><q>Sunny! It does my soul good to see you. You look perfectly
                                    great—yum-yum. Jove, you gave us a fright, all right. Haven’t
                                    got over it yet. Looked for you in the morgue, Sunny, and here
                                    you are shining like—like a star</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Monty! That face of you will make me always shine like star. What you
                                    are doing these day?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Oh, just a few little things. Nothing <pb n="202"/> worth
                                    mentioning</q>, returned Monty, with elaborate carelessness, his
                              heart thumping with pride and yearning to pour out the full tale into
                              the sympathetic pink ear of Sunny. <q>I got a year or two still to put
                                    in—and then I’m going to Panama, Sunny. Connection with fever
                                    and sanitary work. Greatest opportunity of lifetime. I’m to be
                                    first assistant—it’s the literal truth, to—</q> He whispered a
                              name in Sunny’s ear which caused her to start back, gasping with
                              admiration.</p>
                        <p><q>Monty, how I am proud of you!</q></p>
                        <p><q>Oh, it’s nothing much. Don’t know why in the world they picked
                                          <emph>me</emph> . My work wasn’t better than the other
                                    chaps’. I was conscientious enough and interested of course, but
                                    so were the other fellows. You could have knocked me down with a
                                    feather when they picked me for the job. Why, I was fairly
                                    stunned by the news. Haven’t got over it yet. Your father knows
                                    Dr. Roper, the chief, you know. Isn’t the world small? Say,
                                    Sunny, whose the duck you’re engaged to? Go on, tell your old
                                    chum</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>No, Monty, I will tell you—to-nide mebbe some time</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Here, here, Monty, you’ve bagged enough of Sunny’s attention. My turn
                                    now</q>. Bobs pushed the unwilling Monty along, and the
                              youngster, pretending a lofty indifference to the challenging smiles
                              directed at him by certain members of the younger set, was
                              nevertheless soon slipping over the floor, with the prettiest one of
                              them all, whom Mrs. Wainwright especially led him to.</p>
                        <p>Bobs meanwhile was grinning at Sunny, while she, with a maternal eye,
                              examined <q>dear Bobs</q>, and noted that he had gotten into his
                              clothes hastily, but that nevertheless he was the same charming
                              friend.</p>
                        <p><q>Hello, old thing!</q> was his greeting. <q>By gum, you look positively
                                    edible. What you been doing with yourself, and what’s this
                                    latest story I’m hearing about your marrying someone?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Bobs I are goin’ to tell you ‘bout those Sonofagun some time this
                                    nide</q>, smiled Sunny, <q>but I want to know firs’ of all
                                    tings, whad you are do, dear Bobs?</q></p>
                        <p><q>I?</q> Bobs rose up and down on his polished toes. <q>City editor of
                                    my paper, old top, that’s my job. Youngest ever known on the
                                    desk, but not, I hope, the least competent</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Ho, Bobs. You are  one whole editor man! How I am proud of you. Now
                                    you are goin’ right up to topnotch. Mebbe by’n by you get to be
                                    ambassador ad anudder country and—</q></p>
                        <p><q>Whew-w! How can a mere man climb to the heights you expect of him.
                                    What I want to know is—how about that marriage story? I printed
                                    it, because it was good stuff, but who is the lucky dog? Come
                                    on, now, you know you can tell me anything</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Ho, Bobs, I <emph>are</emph> goin’ tell you anything. Loog, Bobs, here
                                    are a frien’ I wan’ you speag ad. She also have wrote a book.
                                    Her name are—is Miss Woodenhouse. She is ticher to my frien’,
                                    Miss Clarry. She are—</q></p>
                        <p><q>Are! Sunny?</q></p>
                        <p><q>‘Am.’ She am—no, is, very good ticher. She am—is—make me and Katy spik
                                    and ride English jos same English lady</q>.</p>
                        <p>The young and edified instructor of Katy Clarry surveyed the young and
                              edified editor with a quizzical eye. The young editor in question
                              returned that quizzical glance, grinned, offered his arm, and they
                              whirled off to the music of a rippling one-step.</p>
                        <p>Sunny had swung around and seized the two plump soft hands of Jinx, at
                              whose elbow Katy was pressing. Katy, much to her delight, had been
                              assisting Miss Holliwell in caring for the arriving guests, and had
                              indeed quite surprised and amused that person by her talent for
                              organisation and real ability. Katy was in her element as she bustled
                              about in somewhat the proprietary manner of the floor walkers and the
                              lady heads of departments in the stores where she had one time
                              worked.</p>
                        <p><q>Jinx, Jinx, Jinx! My eyes are healty jos’ loog ad you! I am thad  glad
                                    see you speag also wiz my bes’ frien’, Katy</q>. She clapped her
                              hands excitedly. <q>How I thing it nize that you and Katy be——</q></p>
                        <p>Katy coughed loudly. Sunny’s ignorance at times was extremely
                              distressing. Katy had a real sympathy for Mrs. Wainwright at certain
                              times. Jinx had blushed as red as a peony.</p>
                        <p><q>Have a heart, Sunny!</q></p>
                        <p>Nevertheless he felt a sleepish pride in the thought that the
                              piquant-looking and piquant-talking young person who was Sunny’s best
                              friend should have singled him out for special attention. Jinx, though
                              the desired one of aspiring mothers, was not so popular with the
                              maidens who were pushed forward and adjured to regard him as a most
                              desirable husband. Katy was partial to flesh, and she made no bones
                              about letting the world know it. She had no patience with the artist
                              who declared that bones were aesthetic, and, to suit his taste, he
                              liked to hear the bones rattle. Katy averred that there was something
                              awfully cosy about fat people.</p>
                        <p><q>I hear some grade news of you, <pb n="203"/> Jinx</q>, said Sunny
                              admiringly. <q>I hear you are got nomin—ation be on staff those
                                    governor</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Gosh! That’s only the beginning, Sunny. I—well, the fact is, I’m going
                                    in for politics a bit. Life too purposeless heretofore, and the
                                    machine wants me. At least, I’ve been told so. Your father,
                                    Sunny, has been doggone nice about it—a real friend</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Sunny</q>, said Katy in her ear, <q>ain’t it perfectly scrumptious to
                                    be refined like this. It’s positively painful. How’re you
                                    gettin’ on? Hope your tongue don’t blister twistin’ about words
                                    you don’t know the meanin’ of</q>.</p>
                        <p>A broad grin lighted up Katy’s wide Irish face. Shoving her arm
                              recklessly through Jinx’s, she said:</p>
                        <p><q>Come along, old chap, let’s show ‘em on the floor what reg’lar dancers
                                    like you and me can do</q>.</p>
                        <p>Sunny watched them with shining eyes, and once as they whirled by, Katy’s
                              voice floated above the murmurs of the dance and music:</p>
                        <p><q>How light you are on your feet. Plump men usually are. I always
                                    say—</q></p>
                        <p>And Katy and Jinx, Monty and Bobs and the Professor and all her friends
                              were lost to view in that moving, glittering throng of dancers, upon
                              whom, like fluttering moths the cherry blossom petals were dropping
                              from above alighting upon their heads and shoulders and giving them
                              that festival look that Sunny knew so well in Japan. She had a
                              breathing space for a spell, and now that very wistful longing look
                              stole like a shadow back to the girl’s young face. All unconsciously a
                              sigh escaped her. Instantly her father was at her side.</p>
                        <p><q>You want something, my darling?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Yes, papa. You love me very much, papa?</q></p>
                        <p><q><emph>Do</emph> I? If there’s anything in the world you want that I can
                                    give you, you have only to ask, my little girl</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Then papa, you see over dere that young man stand. You see
                              him?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Young Hammond</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Jerry</q>. Her very pronouncement of his name was a caress. <q>Papa, I
                                    wan speag to him. All these night I have wan see him. See, wiz
                                    my fan I are do lig’ this, and nod my head, and wiz my finger,
                                    too, I call him, but he do not come</q>—dejectedly. <q>Loog! I
                                    will do so again. You see!</q> She made an unmistakable motion
                              with her hand and fan at Jerry and that unhappy young fool turned his
                              back and slunk behind some artificial camphor trees.</p>
                        <p><q>By George!</q> said Wainwright. <q>Sunny, do you want me to bring that
                                    young puppy to you?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Papa, Jerry are not a puppy, but jus’ same, I wan’ you bring him unto
                                    me. Please. And then, when he come, please you and mamma stand
                                    liddle bit off, and doan let nobody else speag ad me. I are got
                                    something I wan ask Jerry all by me</q>.</p>
                        <p>The music had stopped, but the clapping hands of the dancers were
                              clamouring for a repetition of the crooning dance song that had just
                              begun its raging career in the metropolis. Sunny saw her father clap
                              Jerry upon the shoulder. She saw his effort to escape, and her
                              father’s smiling insistence. A short interval of breathless suspense,
                              and then the reluctant, very white, very stern young Jerry was
                              standing before Sunny. He tried to avoid Sunny’s glance, but
                              fascinated, found himself looking straight into the girl’s eyes. She
                              was smiling, but there was something in her dewy glance that reached
                              out and twisted the boy’s heart strings sadly.</p>
                        <p><q>Jerry!</q> said Sunny softly, her great fan touching her lips, and
                              looking up at him with such a glance that all his best resolves to
                              continue calm seemed threatened with panic. He said, with what he
                              flattered was an imitation of composure:</p>
                        <p><q>Lovely day—er—night. How are you?</q></p>
                        <p><q>I are so happy I are lig’ those soap bubble. I goin’ burst
                              away</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Yes, naturally you would be happy. Beautiful day—er—night, isn’t
                                    it?</q></p>
                        <p>He resolved to avoid all personal topics. He would shoot small talk at
                              her, and she should not suspect the havoc that was raging within
                              him.</p>
                        <p><q>How are your mother?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Well, thank you</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>How are your frien’, Miss Falconer?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Don’t know, ’m sure</q>.</p>
                        <p><q>Hatton are tol’ me all ‘bout her</q>, said Sunny.</p>
                        <p><q>Hatton? He’s gone. I don’t know where?</q></p>
                        <p><q>He are officer at Salavation Army. He come to our house, and my father
                                    give him money for those poor people. Hatton are tell me all
                                    ‘bout you. I are sawry you sick long time, Jerry. Thas very sad
                                    news for me</q>.</p>
                        <p>Jerry, tongue-tied for the moment, knew not what to say or where to look.
                              Sunny’s dear glance was almost more than he could bear.</p>
                        <p><q>Beautiful room this. Decoration—</q></p>
                        <p><q>Jerry, that are your beautiful picture you are made. I am remember it
                                    all. One time you draw those picture like these <pb n="204"/>
                                    for me, and you say thas mos’ nize picture for party ever. I
                                    think so</q>.</p>
                        <p>Jerry was silent.</p>
                        <p><q>Jerry, how you are do ad those worl? Please tell me. I lig’ to hear.
                                    Are you make grade big success? Are you found those Beauty thad
                                    you are loog for always?</q></p>
                        <p><q>Beauty!</q> he said furiously. <q>I told you often enough that it was
                                    an elusive jade, that no one could ever reach. And as for
                                    success. I suppose I’ve made good enough. I was offered a
                                    partnership—I can’t take it. I’ll—I’ll have to get away. Sunny,
                                    for God’s sake, answer me. Is it true you are going to be
                                    married?</q></p>
                        <p>Slowly the girl bowed with great seriousness, yet somehow her soft eyes
                              rested in caress upon the young man’s tortured face.</p>
                        <p><q>Jerry</q>, said Sunny dreamily, <q>this are the Year of Leap, and I
                                    are lig’ ask you liddle bit question</q>.</p>
                        <p>Jerry neither heard nor understood the significance of the girlish words.
                              His young face had blanched. All the joy of life seemed to have been
                              extinguished. Yet one last passionate question burst from him.</p>
                        <p><q>Who—is—he?</q></p>
                        <p>Slowly Sunny raised that preposterous fan. She brought it to her face, so
                              that its great expanse acted as a screen and cut her and Jerry off
                              from the rest of the world. Her bright lovely gaze sank right into
                              Jerry’s, and Sunny answered softly:</p>
                        <p><q><emph>You!</emph></q></p>
                        <milestone unit="line"/>
                        <p>Now what followed would furnish a true student of psychology with the
                              most irrefutable proof of the devastating effect upon a young man of
                              the superior and civilised caste of association with a heathen people
                              in a heathen land. Even the unsophisticated eye of Sunny saw that
                              primitive purpose leap up in the eye of Jerry Hammond, as, held in
                              leash only a moment, he proposed then and there to seize the girl
                              bodily in his arms. It was at that moment that her oriental guile came
                              to the top. Sunny stepped back, put out her hand, moved it along the
                              wall, behind the cherry petalled foliage, and then while Jerry’s wild,
                              ecstatic intention brought him ever nearer to her, Sunny found and
                              pushed the button on the wall.</p>
                        <p>Instantly the room was plunged into darkness. A babble of murmuring
                              sounds and exclamations; laughter, the sudden ceasing of the music, a
                              soft pandemonium had broken loose, but in that blissful moment of
                              complete darkness, oblivious to all the world, feeling and seeing only
                              each other, Jerry and Sunny kissed.</p>
                        <trailer>THE END.</trailer>
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