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American Sunday Monthly Magazine Section
IN leaving the hotel
porch after nightfall
they had broken the
oldest and most sacred
tradition of the Lees-
burg Springs. The
lit suggestion had come from Amy
Burden as she sat with her fiance
in the blackest corner of the hotel piazza, and this
piazza was noted throughout the South for its partic
ularly black corners. The idea was conceived in a cer
tain distrust of her lover’s sporting blood, but it must
be said, to the young man’s credit, that if he winced
at the proposition his chagrin was not apparen;
through the general blackness. Their escape had
apparently been carried out most successfully and
they were now seated side by side on the horse-block
in the Baptist churchyard. The night was warm
and cloudless and a little silver crescent of a moon
hung just over the high chimney of the old brick
church. In the distance, through the spreading
branches of a sycamore grove, shone the dim rows
of iights of the hotel, and from time to time there
reached across the lawn to the young lovers the echo
of a waltz from the ballroom, or a low-pitched
melody from the negroes at the servants’ quarters.
For some moments there had been silence between
them. The young man held one of the girl’s hands
in both of his and and at intervals gently pressed
the long delicate fingers.
“I hope,” said the girl, “that we will always be
known as ‘The Bopps.’”
“It would be pleasant,” the .lover replied, “but
you know there are a whole lot of Bopps, and beyond
the fact that I am engaged to you, I don’t think
that I have ever done anything to deserve the title
of ‘The Bopp.’”
“I didn’t say anything about ‘The Bopp’ or
‘The Bopps,’” the girl replied. “What I said was
‘The Bopps.’”
Bopps nodded his head and said, “Oh!” It was
a very weak imitation of a man who understands
the meaning of what is being said.
Miss Lenore Craig—or, as she was known to her
intimates and through the columns of the society
journals, “Patsey” Craig—was a young woman
of considerable beauty, splendid physical condition,
and a wholesome love for games in the open rather
than those played in the dark corners of hotel pi
azzas. She had long been a friend of Amy Burden’s
and was now her guest at the Leesburg Springs.
The young women occupied adjoining rooms, and
when Miss Burden stealthily opened her door on this
particular night, she found the narrow bed occupied
by her friend. Miss Craig had apparently inter
rupted her own preparations for the night by lying
down on the bed and staring, wide-eyed, at the
cracked whitewashed ceiling overhead.
“Well?” she asked, still staring at the ceiling.
Miss Burden walked over to the bureau mirror,
and, holding up a candle, took a long deliberate look
at herself in the glass. Then she put down the candle
and tried to undo a brooch at the back of the lace
collar on her shirt-waist.
“Well,” she said, “I have had him out in the
Baptist churchyard.”
“ I hope you broke it off? ”
“Do girls usually take men to churchyards on
moonlight nights to break off engagements? I don’t.
Patsey, dear, will you never get used to the idea of
my marrying Ned?”
“I will,” said Miss Craig, “when I see the clergy
man shake hands with you after the ceremony. I
am not looking to you to marry into the nobility—
even the American variety; but you are pretty, your
position is fairly secure—that is, on the West side—
and you have some money. As long as your en
gagement is not announced, I shall certainly not
give up hope. I am your friend.”
Miss Burden took off one of her patent-leather slip
pers and threw it with considerable force into a neat
row of carefully treed shoes at the end of the little room.
“ If you were really a friend, you would, instead
of finding fault, spend your time trying to get used
to him.”
“ I’ll leave that to you after your marriage,”
snapped Miss Craig. “In the meantime, I am
against Bopps, strong.”
“Why?”
“ Why?—for twenty reasons. Principally, he is
Fir?
2-L
T7
i\.
wholly lacking in
a sense of humor,
and that, I claim
in the case of hus
bands, is the es
sential sense.”
“I can cure
that,” suggested
MissBurden some
what peevishly.
“No, you can’t.
Two tears
forced them
selves into
the girl’s eyes; the situation had
far exceeded her sense of humor
You can cure a man of drink, perhaps, or the opium
habit, or undisguised admiration for other women,
but you can’t cure him of a lack of humor.”*
“Perhaps I have enough for both?” There was
a touch of irony in Miss Burden’s voice.
Miss Craig, still lying on the bed, with her fingers
interlaced under her head, smiled broadly. “Any
girl who marries a man named Bopps has no humor
to throw about foolishly.” The speaker suddenly
shifted her position, so that she could look directly
at her friend.
“Who is the man, anyhow? As a matter of fact,
he is the only man at the Springs. I admit, it is
something to carry off the one beau here, but for
Fleaven’s sake, don’t tote him any farther than the
other girls can see you. He may be the only male
at Leesburg Springs, but he’s not the only man who
lives in New York—at least he wasn’t when I
left it.”
Miss Burden further disturbed the long row of
shoes by bombarding it with her second slipper.
Then, ironically:
“Suppose—I say, suppose I am in love with
the man?”
Miss Craig smiled cheerfully. “You don’t love
Bopps,” she said, “you pity him. It may be un
conscious on your part, but that’s what it is—pity.
You are just as sorry for a man with a name like
Bopps as you would be if he had been born without
legs or had a fearful past and had asked you to reform
him. You’re sorry, but you’re not in love. There
always was a bit of the martyr about you. Do you
remember the time you took up settlement work
and the week you spent at the hospital? I only
hope this affair will turn out as half-baked as your
other charities have. You can resign from sanitary
lodging-house boards and hospital visiting commit
tees, but you can’t resign from Bopps—not when
you are Mrs. Bopps.”
“Patsey,” said Miss Burden, “you know perfectly
well why I gave up those charities. The doctor
said—”
“I certainly do know why you gave up those
charities,” interrupted Miss Craig, “and the doctor
had nothing to do with it.”
The argument promised to be long. Miss Burden
sat down and tilted her chair against the waff at
a dangerous angle. Miss Craig sat on the edge of
the bed.
“ You quit the hospital because Archie Brewster
was in some crazy business with queer hours so that
he could only call on you in the morning, and that
was when you ought to have been at the hospital.
The reason you dropped the settlement game was
because your committee was called for the first time
the day May Wilson was married to Joe Corcoran,
and you said that considering the way you and Joe
had played around together at Jamestown, it
wouldn’t do for you not to be at the wedding—
committee or no committee. That’s really the
cause of all your trouble. You try to make yourself
believe that you are naturally serious and a born
settlement worker, while, as a matter of fact, you
are as full of romance as an Adirondack canoe. If
you must marry some one, do wait until you get
back to town. Bopps is a case of propinquity.”
“He lives in New York,” suggested Miss Burden.
“In a way he does,” corrected Patsey. “He
lives in a boarding-house and he works in Paterson.
I know all about him; he’s an iron peddler.”
“A what? You probably mean puddler, and he’s
not that. He has a very responsible position in an
important foundry.”
“I’ve no doubt it’s very responsible,” snapped
Miss Craig—“buf I understand it’s not sufficiently
responsible to trust him with a very large sum of
money to take home on pay-days.”
“We’ll have quite enough,” replied Miss Burden.
“ We have discussed it at length.”
“Disgusting,” said Miss Craig, rising from the
bed. “What’s the matter with Sam Ogden? Have
you forgotten him entirely? I don’t believe you
and Sam have been separated forty-eight hours for
the last two years. Has he no rights? ”
“Well, if he has, it’s all he has got and it’s all
he ever will have. I’m very fond of Sam, but he’s
just an idler.”
“He’s a very charming idler,” said Miss Craig,
“ and he is very much in love with you.” She crossed
the room and opened the door into her own room.
Then she turned to Miss Burden, who was non
chalantly swinging her stockinged feet.
“Amy, will you make me one promise?”
Miss Burden shook her yellow hair. “Perhaps,”
she mumbled.
“Don’t announce your engagement until you get
back to New York. The night you arrive I will
have a dinner for you and Bopps and Sam. Please
give Sam that chance.”
“Sam Ogden,” said Miss Burden doggedly, and
looking directly into the empty space before her,
“is just like all the other young men who play at
making a living on Wall street.”
“There is just one difference between Sam and
the other young men you speak of,” said Miss Craig.
“Sam is in love with you and the others are not.
Sam is sympathetic and amusing and has a sense
of humor, and a cheap spirit of romance, which is
just what you crave, although you will not admit it.
Bopps has all the instincts of a Paterson commuter.
He is sympathetic to you just now, because he loves
you, but he has no sense of humor. If you marry
him, you will regret it within three months, and in
six months you will be in love with Sam Ogden.
I know you for what you are.”
“Notwithstanding which fact,” answered Miss
Burden tartly, “I am going to marry Ned Bopps.”
The answer was an explosive bang caused by the
slamming of a door.
II
Like all newly wed couples who live in New
\T>rk and are not blessed with unlimited means, the
Bopps had been confronted with the eternal question
—the choice between a high-ceiling, derelict apart
ment on Washington Square and a kitchenette flat
in Harlem. They compromised on an apartment
on a crosstown street, not far from Riverside Drive,
with a restaurant on the ground floor. It was the
original understanding that this arrangement was