Passing of the Third Floor Back | Page 8

the
question. "I was hoping he might have chosen another topic for the first
evening!"
"He did try one or two," admitted the stranger; "but I have been about
the world so little, I was glad when he talked to me about himself. I feel
we shall be friends. He spoke so nicely, too, about Mrs. Devine."
"Indeed," commented the girl.
"He told me he had been married for twenty years and had never
regretted it but once!"
Her black eyes flashed upon him, but meeting his, the suspicion died
from them. She turned aside to hide her smile.
"So he regretted it--once."
"Only once," explained the stranger, "in a passing irritable mood. It was
so frank of him to admit it. He told me--I think he has taken a liking to
me. Indeed he hinted as much. He said he did not often get an
opportnnity of talking to a man like myself--he told me that he and
your mother, when they travel together, are always mistaken for a
honeymoon couple. Some of the experiences he related to me were
really quite amusing." The stranger laughed at recollection of
them--"that even here, in this place, they are generally referred to as
'Darby and Joan.'"
"Yes," said the girl, "that is true. Mr. Longcord gave them that name,
the second evening after our arrival. It was considered clever--but
rather obvious I thought myself."

"Nothing--so it seems to me," said the stranger, "is more beautiful than
the love that has weathered the storms of life. The sweet, tender
blossom that flowers in the heart of the young--in hearts such as
yours--that, too, is beautiful. The love of the young for the young, that
is the beginning of life. But the love of the old for the old, that is the
beginning of--of things longer."
"You seem to find all things beautiful," the girl grumbled.
"But are not all things beautiful?" demanded the stranger.
The Colonel had finished his paper. "You two are engaged in a very
absorbing conversation," observed the Colonel, approaching them.
"We were discussing Darbies and Joans," explained his daughter. "How
beautiful is the love that has weathered the storms of life!"
"Ah!" smiled the Colonel, "that is hardly fair. My friend has been
repeating to cynical youth the confessions of an amorous husband's
affection for his middle-aged and somewhat--" The Colonel in playful
mood laid his hand upon the stranger's shoulder, an action that
necessitated his looking straight into the stranger's eyes. The Colonel
drew himself up stiffly and turned scarlet.
Somebody was calling the Colonel a cad. Not only that, but was
explaining quite clearly, so that the Colonel could see it for himself,
why he was a cad.
"That you and your wife lead a cat and dog existence is a disgrace to
both of you. At least you might have the decency to try and hide it from
the world--not make a jest of your shame to every passing stranger.
You are a cad, sir, a cad!"
Who was daring to say these things? Not the stranger, his lips had not
moved. Besides, it was not his voice. Indeed it sounded much more like
the voice of the Colonel himself. The Colonel looked from the stranger
to his daughter, from his daughter back to the stranger. Clearly they had
not heard the voice--a mere hallucination. The Colonel breathed again.
Yet the impression remaining was not to be shaken off. Undoubtedly it
was bad taste to have joked to the stranger upon such a subject. No
gentleman would have done so.
But then no gentleman would have permitted such a jest to be possible.
No gentleman would be forever wrangling with his wife--certainly
never in public. However irritating the woman, a gentleman would
have exercised self-control.

Mrs. Devine had risen, was coming slowly across the room. Fear laid
hold of the Colonel. She was going to address some aggravating remark
to him--he could see it in her eye--which would irritate him into savage
retort.
Even this prize idiot of a stranger would understand why
boarding-house wits had dubbed them "Darby and Joan," would grasp
the fact that the gallant Colonel had thought it amusing, in conversation
with a table acquaintance, to hold his own wife up to ridicule.
"My dear," cried the Colonel, hurrying to speak first, "does not this
room strike you as cold? Let me fetch you a shawl."
It was useless: the Colonel felt it. It had been too long the custom of
both of them to preface with politeness their deadliest insults to each
other. She came on, thinking of a suitable reply: suitable from her point
of view, that is. In another moment the truth would be out. A wild,
fantastic possibility flashed through the Colonel's brain: If to him, why
not to