The Agony Column | Page 7

But I whipped him. Glory be! I did for
him.
We are young but once, I told him. After that, what use to signal to
Romance? The lady at least, I said, will understand. He sneered at that.
He shook his silly gray head. I will admit he had me worried. But now
you have justified my faith in you. Thank you a million times for that!
Three weeks I have been in this huge, ungainly, indifferent city,
longing for the States. Three weeks the Agony Column has been my
sole diversion. And then--through the doorway of the Carlton
restaurant--you came--
It is of myself that I must write, I know. I will not, then, tell you what is
in my mind--the picture of you I carry. It would mean little to you.
Many Texan gallants, no doubt, have told you the same while the moon
was bright above you and the breeze was softly whispering through the
branches of--the branches of the--of the--
Confound it, I don't know! I have never been in Texas. It is a vice in me
I hope soon to correct. All day I intended to look up Texas in the
encyclopedia. But all day I have dwelt in the clouds. And there are no
reference books in the clouds.
Now I am down to earth in my quiet study. Pens, ink and paper are
before me. I must prove myself a person worth knowing.

From his rooms, they say, you can tell much about a man. But, alas!
these peaceful rooms in Adelphi Terrace--I shall not tell the
number--were sublet furnished. So if you could see me now you would
be judging me by the possessions left behind by one Anthony
Bartholomew. There is much dust on them. Judge neither Anthony nor
me by that. Judge rather Walters, the caretaker, who lives in the
basement with his gray-haired wife. Walters was a gardener once, and
his whole life is wrapped up in the courtyard on which my balcony
looks down. There he spends his time, while up above the dust gathers
in the corners--
Does this picture distress you, my lady? You should see the courtyard!
You would not blame Walters then. It is a sample of Paradise left at our
door--that courtyard. As English as a hedge, as neat, as beautiful.
London is a roar somewhere beyond; between our court and the great
city is a magic gate, forever closed. It was the court that led me to take
these rooms.
And, since you are one who loves mystery, I am going to relate to you
the odd chain of circumstances that brought me here.
For the first link in that chain we must go back to Interlaken. Have you
been there yet? A quiet little town, lying beautiful between two
shimmering lakes, with the great Jungfrau itself for scenery. From the
dining-room of one lucky hotel you may look up at dinner and watch
the old-rose afterglow light the snow-capped mountain. You would not
say then of strawberries: "I hate them." Or of anything else in all the
world.
A month ago I was in Interlaken. One evening after dinner I strolled
along the main street, where all the hotels and shops are drawn up at
attention before the lovely mountain. In front of one of the shops I saw
a collection of walking sticks and, since I needed one for climbing, I
paused to look them over. I had been at this only a moment when a
young Englishman stepped up and also began examining the sticks.
I had made a selection from the lot and was turning away to find the
shopkeeper, when the Englishman spoke. He was lean,

distinguished-looking, though quite young, and had that well-tubbed
appearance which I am convinced is the great factor that has enabled
the English to assert their authority over colonies like Egypt and India,
where men are not so thoroughly bathed.
"Er--if you'll pardon me, old chap," he said. "Not that stick--if you don't
mind my saying so. It's not tough enough for mountain work. I would
suggest--"
To say that I was astonished is putting it mildly. If you know the
English at all, you know it is not their habit to address strangers, even
under the most pressing circumstances. Yet here was one of that
haughty race actually interfering in my selection of a stick. I ended by
buying the one he preferred, and he strolled along with me in the
direction of my hotel, chatting meantime in a fashion far from British.
We stopped at the Kursaal, where we listened to the music, had a drink
and threw away a few francs on the little horses. He came with me to
the veranda of my hotel. I was surprised, when he took