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6
American Sunday Monthly Magazine Section
Hpmnr
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HA T Burroughs was talking to a
remarkably pretty woman at
the other end of the conserva
tory may or may not have been
the reason, but the fact remains
that Miss Martin was being un
commonly nice to me.
“ You may smoke, you know,” she said, kindly;
“J would myself, only ”
“Going a little too far?” I suggested pleasantly.
I may have glanced towards Burroughs as I spoke.
“Only I don’t really want to,” she explained.
“It’s as silly to do a thing when you don’t want
to, as it is not to when you do,” I remarked. I
was willing enough to be agreeable.
“That’s the best of being a man,” she sighed;
“he’s allowed to do as he likes.”
“H’m,” I said. “Still, he generally does.”
“Yes,” she assented, her tone a trifle flat.
“You’ve been dancing too much,” I cried, re
provingly, as I caught the expression in her eyes,
“you’re fagged out.”
“Do I look tired?” she cried, in alarm. “I’m
not a scrap, really.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” I said, consolingly; “I’m not
complaining. I know I’m not a very interesting
companion.”
“But you are, awfully. Didn’t I suggest myself
that we should sit the dance out? ”
“I had danced with you earlier in the evening,”
I pointed out, suspiciously.
“You mustn’t be so sensitive,” she chided me
with a smile. “I’m sure you dance quite nicely.”
I also smiled. Miss Martin is, say nineteen, and
I am . . . older.
“Mr. Blake,” she said, suddenly, “do men pre
fer short girls or tall?” She was tall herself, while
the woman in the corner was not.
“It’s more a question of heart than feet.”
She smiled appreciatively: the humour certainly
savoured of the schoolroom.
“No, do tell me.”
“With some fellows,” I remarked, “it depends
on the height of the girl they happen to be with at
the particular moment.”
“Oh,” she said. Her apprehensive glance strayed
from me for a moment.
“She—she is pretty, isn’t she?” she faltered.
“The next best thing to being beautiful is to look
beautiful,” I said.
“ Why, it’s the same thing.”
“Yes?”
Miss Martin considered for a moment, apd under
standing was vouchsafed her.
“Oh,” she cried delightedly, “do you really think
so? She—she does it very naturally, though,
doesn’t she?”
“Nature owes many a testimonial to art,” I
affirmed.
Honestly, my insinuation was scandalous, and
for all I know entirely without foundation. But
then I wanted to comfort Miss Martin.
Of course, she promptly bit the hand that fed her.
“ You men are so easily deceived,” she said, scorn
fully.
“ Happily,” said I.
“Happily? For whom?” Her manner was dis
tinctly threatening.
“For us,” I explained humbly. Though where
the difference came in I have yet to learn. However,
my reply calmed her.
She fanned herself for a while, and I smoked with
more or less content. Presently she withdrew her
gaze from the corner, and found me watching her.
She smiled doubtfully.
“Pooh!” I said.
My remark—such as it was—apparently renewed
her confidence as to her own superior attractions,
and a gratified expression came into her eyes.
“ I I don’t know why I told you,” she murmured.
As a matter of fact she hadn’t told me anything;
she only imagined that she had.
“A lot of people talk to you though, don’t they?”
The reflection, for some inscrutable reason, appeared
to comfort her.
“I have a word thrown me on occasion,” I ad
mitted, with a touch of pride.
“ Don’t be absurd. I wonder why? ”
“I have a notoriously bad memory,” I pointed
out. “And, anyhow, indiscretions are the better
part of conversation.”
“ Is that the reason everybody says you
are such a good conversationalist?” she asked
distrustfully.
I put the rose to my nose. From the corner my action may have
been misjudged
“My reputation as a talker,” I
asserted, "is based on the fact that
I don’t.”
For a while she allowed me to add
to my reputation.
“It’s quite amusing to watch them,
isn’t it?” I remarked, when I had
tired of the silence.
She turned with a start.
“Watch!” she cried indignantly.
“I’m sure I wasn’t. Whom?”
“I suppose,” I suggested, without
troubling to answer, “you’ve been flirt
ing again, and he’s angry-?”
She nodded, biting her lip.
“I wasn’t, though,” she asserted.
“I was only talking to the man.”
“The difference between talking and
flirting is that one is heard and not
seen, and the other is seen and not
heard. Still . . . Why not try the
homeopathic treatment?”
“The—?” She blinked her eyes in
bewilderment.
I moved an inch or so closer.
“It’s quite simple,” I informed
her. “I must have your undivided
attention, though,” I added, as her
gaze wandered.
Mir fa trio n
Burroughs rose tempestuously to his feet
and approached us
“If you could only contrive to appear in
terested,” I murmured protestingly, as she com
plied with my request.
“But I am,” she affirmed; “awfully interested.
You look so—so ”
“The reason is immaterial,” I said hastily.
1 took her hand, and she smiled delightedly. But
I did not misinterpret that smile.
“Of course I’m not young,” I said, apologetically.
“Oh, but you are,” she cried, gurgling, “for
your age.”
A compliment of course—from one point of view
. . . but it didn’t happen to be my point of view.
“That rose,” I hinted.
She glanced at me from beneath her lashes.
“Oh, well,” she smiled, deprecatingly, fumbling
at her bosom, “you’re old enough ”
“To give you good advice,” I put in. A not very
definite age period.
I put the rose to my nose. From the corner my
action may have been misjudged. At all events
Burroughs seemed ill at ease.
“You’re awfully silly,” declared Miss Martin.
Though I had done no more than smell it.
“A forgivable fault,” I interjected.
“ But I should have liked to have know-n you
when ”
“ When I was young?” I cried, enchanted, stretch
ing out my hand.
She hastily withdrew her own out of reach, and
as she did so Burroughs rose tempestuously to his
feet, and approached us.
“My dance, I believe?” he said, glowering at me.
“Is it?” said Miss Martin, rising with a reluctance
that I flatter myself was not entirely assumed.
I glanced from her retreating form to the rose.
Then I noticed Burroughs’ deserted partner.
“Why, Airs. Veralour!” I cried, recognising her
for the first time.
She smiled mockingly; we are quite old friends.
“Poor man, she quickly deserted you.”
“Come to that—” I began.
“I told him to go,” she said quickly; “he bored
me dreadfully.”
“Now I found him awfully amusing,” I said.
“Ilim, Mr. Blake?”
“I mean her,” said I.
“Apparently she didn’t find you so,” she said,
maliciously.
“Not exactly amusing, perhaps,” I admitted;
“there are higher roles. Shall we go down to
supper?”