Роберт Чамберс - A Young Man in a Hurry

Glancing at him a moment later, she was apparently surprised to find him still standing beside her. However, he had noted two things in that moment of respite: she held the book upside down, and on the title–page was written a signature that he knew—"Marlitt."

"Under the circumstances," she said, coldly, "do you think it decent to continue this conversation?"

"Yes, I do," he said. "I'm a decent sort of fellow, or you would have divined the contrary long ago; and there is a humiliating explanation that I owe you."

"You owe me every explanation," she said, "but I am generous enough to spare you the humiliation."

"I know what you mean," he admitted. "I hypnotized you into coming here, and you are aware of it."

Pink to the ears with resentment and confusion, she sat up very straight and stared at him. From a pretty girl defiant, she became an angry beauty. And he quailed.

"Did you imagine that you hypnotized me?" she asked, incredulously.

"What was it, then?" he muttered. "You did everything I wished for—"

"What did you wish for?"

"I—I thought you needed the sun, and as soon as I said that you ought to go out, you—you put on that big, black hat. And then I wished I knew you—I wished you would come here to the wistaria arbor, and—you came."

"In other words," she said, disdainfully, "you deliberately planned to control my mind and induce me to meet you in a clandestine and horrid manner."

"I never looked at it in that way. I only knew I admired you a lot, and—and you were tremendously charming—more so than my sketch—"

" What sketch?"

"I—you see, I made a little sketch," he admitted—"a little picture of you—"

Her silence scared him.

"Do you mind?" he ventured.

"Of course you will send that portrait to me at once!" she said.

"Oh yes, of course I will; I had meant to send it anyway—"

"That," she observed, "would have been the very height of impertinence."

Opening her book again, she indulged him with a view of the most exquisite profile he had ever dreamed of.

She despised him; there seemed to be no doubt about that. He despised himself; his offence, stripped by her of all extenuation, appeared to him in its own naked hideousness; and it appalled him.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "there's nothing criminal in me. I never imagined that a man could appear to such disadvantage as I appear. I'll go. There's no use in hoping for pardon. I'll go."

Studying her book, she said, without raising her eyes, "I am offended—deeply hurt—but—"

He waited anxiously.

"But I am sorry to say that I am not as deeply offended as I ought to be."

"That is very, very kind of you," he said, warmly.

"It is very depraved of me," she retorted, turning a page.

After a silence, he said, "Then I suppose I must go."

It is possible she did not hear him; she seemed engrossed, bending a little closer over the book on her knee, for the shadows of blossom and foliage above had crept across the printed page.

All the silence was in tremulous vibration with the hum of bees; the perfume of the flowers grew sweeter as the sun sank towards the west, flinging long, blue shadows over the grass and asphalt.

A gray squirrel came hopping along, tail twitching, and deliberately climbed up the seat where she was sitting, squatting beside her, paws drooping in dumb appeal.

"You dear little thing!" said the girl, impulsively. "I wish I had a bonbon for you! Have you anything in the world to give this half–starved squirrel, Mr. Tennant?"

"Nothing but a cigarette," muttered Tennant. "I'll go out to the gate if you—" He hesitated. "They generally sell peanuts out there," he added, vaguely.

"Squirrels adore peanuts," she murmured, caressing the squirrel, who had begun fearlessly snooping into her lap.

Tennant, enchanted at the tacit commission, started off at a pace that brought him to the gate and back again before he could arrange his own disordered thoughts.

She was reading when he returned, and she cooled his enthusiasm with a stare of surprise.

"The squirrel? Oh, I'm sure I don't know where that squirrel has gone. Did you really go all the way to the gate for peanuts to stuff that overfed squirrel?"

He looked at the four paper bags, opened one of them, and stirred the nuts with his hand.

"What shall I do with them?" he asked.

Then, and neither ever knew exactly why, she began to laugh. The first laugh was brief; an oppressive silence followed—then she laughed again; and as he grew redder and redder, she laughed the most deliciously fresh peal of laughter he had ever heard.

"This is dreadful!" she said. "I should never have come alone to the Park! You should never have dared to speak to me. All we need to do now is to eat those peanuts, and you have all the material for a picture of courtship below–stairs! Oh, dear, and the worst part of it all is that I laugh!"

"If you'd let me sit down," he said, "I'd complete the picture and eat peanuts."

"You dare not!"

He seated himself, opened a paper bag, and deliberately cracked and ate a nut.

"Horrors! and disillusion! The idol of the public—munching peanuts!"

"You ought to try one," he said.

She stood it for a while; but the saving grace of humour warned her of her peril, and she ate a peanut.

"To save my face," she explained. "But I didn't suppose you were capable of it."

"As a matter of fact," he said, tranquilly, "a man can do anything in this world if he only does it thoroughly and appears to enjoy himself. I've seen the Prince Regent of Boznovia sitting at the window of the Crown Regiment barracks arrayed in his shirt–sleeves and absorbing beer and pretzels."

"But he was the Prince Regent!"

"And I'm Tennant."

"According to that philosophy you are at liberty to eat fish with your knife."

"But I don't want to."

"But suppose you did want to?"

"That is neither philosophy nor logic," he insisted; "that is speculation. May I offer you a stick of old–fashioned circus candy flavored with wintergreen?"

"You may," she said, accepting it. "If there is any lower depth I may attain, I'm sure you will suggest it."

"I'll try," he said. Their eyes met for an instant; then hers were lowered.

Squirrels came in troops; she fed the little, fat scamps to repletion, and the green lawn was dotted with squirrels all busily burying peanuts for future consumption. A brilliant peacock appeared, picking his way towards them, followed by a covey of imbecile peafowl. She fed them until their crops protruded.

The sun glittered on the upper windows of the clubs and hotels along Fifth Avenue; the west turned gold, then pink. Clouds of tiny moths came hovering among the wistaria blossoms; and high in the sky the metallic note of a nighthawk rang, repeating in querulous cadence the cries of water–fowl on the lake, where mallard and widgeon were restlessly preparing for an evening flight.

"You know," she said, gravely, "a woman who over–steps convention always suffers; a man, never. I have done something I never expected to do—never supposed was in me to do. And now that I have gone so far, it is perhaps better for me to go farther." She looked at him steadily. "Your studio is a perfect sounding–board. You have an astonishingly frank habit of talking to yourself; and every word is perfectly audible to me when my window is raised. When you chose to apostrophize me as a 'white–faced, dark–eyed little thing,' and when you remarked to yourself that there were 'thousands like me in New York,' I was perfectly indignant."

He sat staring at her, utterly incapable of uttering a sound.

"It costs a great deal for me to say this," she went on. "But I am obliged to because it is not fair to let you go on communing aloud with yourself—and I cannot close my window in warm weather. It costs more than you know for me to say this; for it is an admission that I heard you say that you were coming to the wistaria arbor—"