The Indiscreet Letter | Page 7

you're a good deal more of a 'lady' than
you'd even be willing to tell us. There ain't any provincial--
'Don't-you-dare-speak-to-me--this-is-the-first-time-I-ever-was-on-a-trai
n air about you! I'll bet you've traveled a lot--all round the world--froze
your eyes on icebergs and scorched 'em some on tropics."
"Y-e-s," laughed the Youngish Girl.
"And I'll bet you've met the Governor-General at least once in your
life."
"Yes," said the Girl, still laughing. "He dined at my house with me a
week ago yesterday."
"And I'll bet you, most of anything," said the Traveling Salesman
shrewdly, "that you're haughtier than haughty with folks of your own
kind. But with people like us--me and the Electrician, or the soldier's
widow from South Africa who does your washing, or the Eskimo man
at the circus--you're as simple as a kitten. All your own kind of folks
are nothing but grown-up people to you, and you treat 'em like
grown-ups all right--a hundred cents to the dollar--but all our kind of
folks are playmates to you, and you take us as easy and pleasant as
you'd slide down on the floor and play with any other kind of a kid. Oh,
you can tackle the other proposition all right--dances and balls and
general gold lace glories; but it ain't fine loafers sitting round in parlors
talking about the weather that's going to hold you very long, when all
the time your heart's up and over the back fence with the kids who are
playing the games. And, oh, say!" he broke off abruptly--"would you
think it awfully impertinent of me if I asked you how you do your hair
like that? 'Cause, surer than smoke, after I get home and supper is over
and the dishes are washed and I've just got to sleep, that little wife of
mine will wake me up and say: 'Oh, just one thing more. How did that
lady in the train do her hair?'"

With her chin lifting suddenly in a burst of softly uproarious delight,
the Youngish Girl turned her head half-way around and raised her
narrow, black-gloved hands to push a tortoise-shell pin into place.
"Why, it's perfectly simple," she explained. "It's just three puffs, and
two curls, and then a twist."
"And then a twist?" quizzed the Traveling Salesman earnestly, jotting
down the memorandum very carefully on the shiny black surface of his
sample-case. "Oh, I hope I ain't been too familiar," he added, with
sudden contriteness. "Maybe I ought to have introduced myself first.
My name's Clifford. I'm a drummer for Sayles & Sayles. Maine and the
Maritime Provinces--that's my route. Boston's the home office. Ever
been in Halifax?" he quizzed a trifle proudly. "Do an awful big
business in Halifax! Happen to know the Emporium store? The London,
Liverpool, and Halifax Emporium?"
The Youngish Girl bit her lip for a second before she answered. Then,
very quietly, "Y-e-s," she said, "I know the Emporium--slightly. That
is--I--own the block that the Emporium is in."
"Gee!" said the Traveling Salesman. "Oh, gee! Now I know I talk too
much!"
In nervously apologetic acquiescence the Young Electrician reached up
a lean, clever, mechanical hand and smouched one more streak of black
across his forehead in a desperate effort to reduce his tousled yellow
hair to the particular smoothness that befitted the presence of a lady
who owned a business block in any city whatsoever.
"My father owned a store in Malden, once," he stammered, just a trifle
wistfully, "but it burnt down, and there wasn't any insurance. We
always were a powerfully unlucky family. Nothing much ever came our
way!"
Even as he spoke, a toddling youngster from an overcrowded seat at the
front end of the car came adventuring along the aisle after the swaying,
clutching manner of tired, fretty children on trains. Hesitating a

moment, she stared up utterly unsmilingly into the Salesman's beaming
face, ignored the Youngish Girl's inviting hand, and with a sudden little
chuckling sigh of contentment, climbed up clumsily into the empty
place beside the Young Electrician, rummaged bustlingly around with
its hands and feet for an instant, in a petulant effort to make a
comfortable nest for itself, and then snuggled down at last, lolling
half-way across the Young Electrician's perfectly strange knees, and
drowsed off to sleep with all the delicious, friendly, unconcerned
sang-froid of a tired puppy. Almost unconsciously the Young
Electrician reached out and unfastened the choky collar of the heavy,
sweltering little overcoat; yet not a glance from his face had either
lured or caressed the strange child for a single second. Just for a
moment, then, his smiling eyes reassured the jaded, jabbering
French-Canadian mother, who turned round with craning neck from the
front of the car.
"She's all right here. Let her alone!" he signaled gesticulatingly from
child to mother.