With a woman it is always a man"s eyes.
"And his father was the man who left you the fortune?"
"Yes," I answered, with a short laugh. Of course, I had never told Phyllis of that thousand-dollar check.
"You must run over this winter and see us," she said. "I antic.i.p.ate nothing but dinners, b.a.l.l.s and diplomatic receptions. I have never been there, it will all be new to me. Think of seeing Egypt, the Holy Lands, Russia, France and Spain, and yet not seeing the very heart of the continent! Thank goodness, I know the language."
"And will she not be a sensation?" joined in Ethel.
"A decided sensation," said I, scrutinizing the beautiful face so near me. What if they met, as probably they would--Phyllis and Gretchen?
"Phyllis," said I, suddenly, "where were you born?"
"Where was I born?" with a wondering little laugh; "in America. Where did you suppose?"
"Eden," said I. "I wasn"t sure, so I asked."
"I do not know how to take that," she said, with mock severity.
"Oh, I meant Eden when it was Paradise," I hastened to say.
"Yes," put in Pembroke; "please go back, Miss Landors, and begin the world all over again."
"Phyllis," said I, in a whisper, "have you ever met that remarkable affinity of yours?" I regretted the words the moment they had crossed my lips.
"Yes, you are changed, as I said the other night," distrustfully.
"There is something in your voice that is changed. You have grown cynical. But your question was impertinent. Have you found yours?"
I was expecting this. "Yes," I said. "Once I thought I had; now I am sure of it. Some day I shall tell you an interesting story."
"We came up to ask you to dine with us this evening," she said, trailing her brown-gloved finger over the dusty desk. "Are you at liberty?"
"No. I have only just met my cousin, and have promised to dine with him."
"If that is all, bring him along. I like his face."
We pa.s.sed out of the file room.
"Phyllis, we must be going, dear," said Ethel.
I led Phyllis down the narrow stairs. A handsome victoria stood at the curb.
"I shall be pleased to hear your story," said she.
It occurred to me that the tale might not be to her liking. So I said: "But it is one of those disagreeable stories; one where all should end nicely, but doesn"t; one which ends, leaving the hero, the heroine, and the reader dissatisfied with the world in general, and the author (who is Fate) in particular."
I knew that she was puzzled. She wasn"t quite sure that I was not referring to the old affair.
"If the story is one I never heard before," suspiciously, "I should like to hear it."
"And does it not occur to you," throwing back the robes so that she might step into the victoria, "that fate has a special grudge against me? Once was not enough, but it must be twice."
"And she does not love you? Are you quite sure? You poor fellow!" She squeezed my hand kindly. "Shall I be candid with you?" with the faintest flicker of coquetry in her smile.
"As in the old days," said I, glancing over my shoulder to see now near the others were. A groom is never to be considered. "Yes, as in the old days."
"Well, I have often regretted that I did not accept you as an experiment."
Then I knew that she did not understand.
"You must not think I am jesting," said I, seriously. "The story is of the bitter-sweet kind. The heroine loves me, but cannot be mine."
"Loves you?" with a slight start. "How do you know?"
"She has told me so," lowering my voice.
Frankness of this sort to a woman who has rejected you has a peculiar effect. The coquetry faded from her smile, and there was a perceptible contraction of the brows. Her eyes, which were looking into mine, shifted to the back of the groom. No, I shall never understand a woman. She should have been the most sympathetic woman in the world, yet she appeared to be annoyed.
"What"s all this between you and Phyllis?" asked Ethel, coming up.
"There is nothing between her and me," said I.
"Well, there should be," she retorted. "That is the trouble."
My observation was: "I have always held that immediately a woman gets married she makes it her business to see that all old bachelors are lugged out and disposed of to old maids."
"I shall never forgive that," Phyllis declared; "never."
"Then I shall always have the exquisite pleasure of being a supplicant for your pardon. It is delightful to sue pardon of a beautiful woman."
Phyllis sniffed.
"Forgive him at once," said Ethel, "if only for that pretty speech."
Mr. Holland pulled out his watch suggestively.
"Well," I said, "I see that I am keeping you from your lunch. Good-by, then, till dinner, when I shall continue at length on the evils--"
"William," interrupted Ethel, addressing the groom, "drive on."
And so they left us.
"Shall we go to lunch now?" I asked of Pembroke.
"Yes," rather dreamily I thought. "Do you know," with sudden animation, "she is a remarkably beautiful woman?"
"Yes, she is." After all, the sight of Phyllis had rather upset me.
"I had a glimpse of her in Vienna last winter," went on Pembroke. "I never knew who she was."