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6 American Sunday Monthly Magazine Section Hpmnr <-v w-L .1 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?”