Love, The Fiddler | Page 6

Almost awed at his own presumption he sat down and wrote to Miss
Fenacre.
It was a short note, formally addressed, begging her for a position in
the engine-room staff. He knew, he said, that the quota was probably
made up, and that he could not hope for an important place. But if she
would take him as a first-class artificer he would be more than grateful,
and ventured on the little pleasantry that even if he had to be squeezed
in as a supernumerary he was confident he could save her his pay and
keep a good many times over.
He got an answer a couple of days later, addressed from a fashionable
New York hotel and granting him an interview. She called him "dear
Frank," and signed herself "ever yours," and said that of course she
would give him anything he wanted, only that she would prefer to talk
it over first.
He put on his best clothes and went to see her, being shown into a large
suite on the second floor, where he had to wait an hour in a lofty
anteroom with no other company but a statue of Pocahontas. He was
oppressed by the gorgeousness of the surroundings--by the frowning
pictures, the gilt furniture, the onyx-topped tables, the vases, the
mirrors, the ornate clocks. He was in a fever of expectation, and could
not fight down his growing timidity. He had not seen Florence for a
year, and his heart would have been as much in his mouth had the
meeting been set in the old brick house at Bridgeport. At least he said
so to himself, not caring to confess that he was daunted by the
magnificence of the apartment.
At length the door opened and she came in. She stood for a moment
with her hand on the knob and looked at him; then she came over to

him with a little rush and took his outstretched hand. He had forgotten
how beautiful she was, or probably he had never really known, as he
had never beheld her before in one of those wonderful French creations
that cost each one a fortune. He stumbled over his words of greeting,
and his hand trembled as he held hers.
"Oh, Frank," she said, noticing his agitation. "Are you still silly enough
to care?"
"I am afraid I do, Florence," he said, blushing like a boy at her
unexpected question. "What's the good of asking me that?"
"You are looking handsome, Frank," she ran on. "I am proud of you.
You have the nicest hair of any man I know!"
"I daren't say how stunning you look, Florence," he returned.
"Frank," she said, slowly, fixing her lustrous eyes on his face, "you
usen't to be so grave. ... I don't think you have smiled much lately ...
you are changed."
He bore her scrutiny with silence.
"Poor boy!" she exclaimed, impulsively taking his hand. "I'm the most
heartless creature in the whole world. Do you know, Frank, though I
look so nice and girlish, I am really a brute; and when I die I am sure to
go to hell."
"I hope not," he said, smiling.
"Oh, but I know!" she cried. "All I ever do is to make people
miserable."
"Perhaps it's the people's fault, for--for loving you, Florence," he said.
"It's awfully exciting to see you again," she went on. "You came within
an ace of being my husband. I might have belonged to you and counted
your washing. It's queer, isn't it? Thrilling!"
"Why do you bring all that up, Florence?" he said. "It's done. It's over.
I--I would rather not speak of it."
"But it was such an awfully near thing, Frank," she persisted. "I had
made up my mind to take you, you know. I had even looked over my
poor little clothes and had drawn a hundred dollars out of the savings
bank!"
"You don't take much account of a hundred dollars now," he returned,
trying to smile.
"I know you don't want to talk about it," she said, "but I do. I love to
play with emotions. I suppose it's a habit, like any other," she continued,

"and it grows on one like opium or morphine. That's why I'll go to hell,
Frank. It wasn't that way at all when you used to know me. I think I
must have been nice then, and really worth loving!"
"Oh, yes!" he returned miserably. "Oh, yes!"
"I have a whole series of the most complicated emotions about you,"
she said, "only a lot of them are unexploded, like fire crackers before
they are touched off. If I lost all my money I'd be in a panic till you
came and took me; but as long as I have it I don't think