Arms and the Woman | Page 4

going to make me one of her favorite children. I had reached the end of the long lane.
As I left the restaurant I decided to acquaint Phyllis with my good luck and also my desire that she should share of it. I turned into a florist's and had a dozen roses sent up to her. They were American Beauties. I could afford it now.
I found Phyllis thrumming on the piano. She was singing in a low voice the aria from "Lucia." I stood on the threshold of the drawing-room and waited till she had done. I believed her to be unaware of my presence. She was what we poets call a "dream of loveliness," a tangible dream. Her neck and shoulders were like satin, and the head above them reminded me of Sappho's which we see in marble. From where I stood I could catch a glimpse of the profile, the nose and firm chin, the exquisite mouth, to kiss which I would gladly have given up any number of fortunes. The cheek had that delicate curve of a rose leaf, and when the warm blood surged into it there was a color as matchless as that of a jack-rose. Ah, but I loved her. Suddenly the music ceased.
"There is a mirror over the piano, Jack," she said, without turning her head.
So I crossed the room and sat down in the chair nearest her. I vaguely wondered if, at the distance, she had seen the love in my eyes when I thought myself unobserved.
"I thank you for those lovely roses," she said, smiling and permitting me to press her hand.
"Don't mention it," I replied. It is so difficult for a man to say original things in the presence of the woman he loves! "I have great news for you. It reads like a fairy tale, you know; happy ever afterward, and all that."
"Ah!"
"Yes. Do you remember my telling you of a rich uncle who lived in the South?"
"Is it possible that he has left you a fortune?" she cried, her eyes shining.
"You have guessed it."
"I am very glad for your sake, Jack. I was beginning to worry about you."
"Worry about me?"
"Yes. I do not understand how a newspaper man can afford to buy roses four or five times a week--and exist." She had the habit of being blunt and frank to her intimate friends. I secretly considered it an honor when she talked to me like this. "I have told you repeatedly to send me flowers only once a week. I'd rather not have them at all. Last week you spent as much as $30 on roses alone. Mr. Holland does not do that for Ethel, and he has a million."
"I'm not Holland," I said. "He doesn't--that is--I do not think he--." Then I foundered. I had almost said: "He doesn't care as much for Ethel as I do for you."
Phyllis pretended not to note my embarrassment. The others came in then, and conversation streamed into safer channels.
When we entered the box at the opera the curtain had risen. Phyllis and I took the rear chairs. They were just out of the glare of the lights.
"You are looking very beautiful to-night," I whispered lowly. I was beginning business early. There was no barrier at my lips.
"Thank you," she replied. Then with a smile: "Supposing I were to say that you are looking very handsome?"
"Oh," said I, somewhat disconcerted, "that would be rather embarrassing."
"I do not doubt it."
"And then it would not be true. The duty we men owe to a beautiful woman is constantly to keep telling her of it."
"And the duty we women owe to a fine-looking man?" a rogue of a dimple in her cheeks.
"Is to explicitly believe all he says regarding your beauty," I answered, evading the question. "A man may tell a woman that she is beautiful, but a woman may not tell a man that he is fine-looking, that is, in public."
"The terms are not fair."
"That may be true, but they make the wheels of the social organization run smoother. For instance, if I met a strange woman and she told me that I was handsome, I shouldn't be able to speak again the whole evening. On the other hand, a beautiful woman, after you say that you are delighted to meet her, expects the very next remark to concern her good looks."
"Your insight is truly remarkable," she said, the dimple continuing its elusive manoeuvres. "Hush; here comes Carmen."
And our voices grew faint in the swell of melody. Mrs. Wentworth was entranced; her daughter was fondly gazing at the back of her fiancé's head; Phyllis had turned her face from me to the stage. As for myself, I was not particularly interested in the cigarette girl. It was running through my head that the hour