The Mystery of Murray Davenport | Page 9

what it is that we love them for;
they think it is for the outward beauty, and that that is enough. They
don't even know what it is that we, misled by that outward softness,
imagine is beyond; and when we are disappointed to find it isn't there,
they wonder at us and blame us for inconstancy. The beautiful woman
who could be what she looks--who could really contain what her beauty
seems the token of--whose soul, in short, could come up to the promise
of her face,--there would be a creature! You'll think I've had bad luck in
love, too, Mr. Larcher."
Larcher was thinking, for the instant, about Edna Hill, and wondering
how near she might come to justifying Davenport's opinion of women.

For himself, though he found her bewitching, her prettiness had never
seemed the outward sign of excessive tenderness. He answered
conventionally: "Well, one would suppose so from your remarks. Of
course, women like to be amused, I know. Perhaps we expect too much
from them.
'Oh, woman in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made.'
I've sometimes had reason to recall those lines." Mr. Larcher sighed at
certain memories of Miss Hill's variableness. "But then, you know,--
'When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel them.'"
"I can't speak in regard to pain and anguish," said Davenport. "I've
experienced both, of course, but not so as to learn their effect on
women. But suppose, if you can, a woman who should look kindly on
an undeserving, but not ill-meaning, individual like myself. Suppose
that, after a time, she happened to hear of the reputation of bad luck
that clung to him. What would she do then?"
"Undertake to be his mascot, I suppose, and neutralize the evil
influence," replied Larcher, laughingly.
"Well, if I were to predict on my own experience, I should say she
would take flight as fast as she could, to avoid falling under the evil
influence herself. The man would never hear of her again, and she
would doubtless live happy ever after."
For the first time in the conversation, Davenport sighed, and the
faintest cloud of bitterness showed for a moment on his face.
"And the man, perhaps, would 'bury himself in his books,'" said
Larcher, looking around the room; he made show to treat the subject
gaily, lest he might betray his inquisitive purpose.
"Yes, to some extent, though the business of making a bare living takes
up a good deal of time. You observe the signs of various occupations
here. I have amused myself a little in science, too,--you see the cabinet
over there. I studied medicine once, and know a little about surgery, but
I wasn't fitted--or didn't care--to follow that profession in a
money-making way."
"You are exceedingly versatile."
"Little my versatility has profited me. Which reminds me of business.
When are these illustrations to be ready, Mr. Larcher? And how many
are wanted? I'm afraid I've been wasting your time."

In their brief talk about the task, Larcher, with the private design of
better acquaintance, arranged that he should accompany the artist to
certain riverside localities described in the text. Business details settled,
Larcher observed that it was about dinnertime, and asked:
"Have you any engagement for dining?"
"No," said Davenport, with a faint smile at the notion.
"Then you must dine with me. I hate to eat alone."
"Thank you, I should be pleased. That is to say--it depends on where
you dine."
"Wherever you like. I dine at restaurants, and I'm not faithful to any
particular one."
"I prefer to dine as Addison preferred,--on one or two good things well
cooked, and no more. Toiling through a ten-course _table d'hôte_ menu
is really too wearisome--even to a man who is used to weariness."
"Well, I know a place--Giffen's chop-house--that will just suit you. As
a friend of mine, Barry Tompkins, says, it's a place where you get an
unsurpassable English mutton-chop, a perfect baked potato, a mug of
delicious ale, and afterward a cup of unexceptionable coffee. He says
that, when you've finished, you've dined as simply as a philosopher and
better than most kings; and the whole thing comes to forty-five cents."
"I know the place, and your friend is quite right."
Davenport took up a soft felt hat and a plain stick with a curved handle.
When the young men emerged from the gloomy hallway to the street,
which in that part was beginning to be shabby, the street lights were
already heralding the dusk. The two hastened from the region of
deteriorating respectability to the grandiose quarter westward, and
thence to Broadway and the clang of car gongs. The human crowd was
hurrying to dinner.
"What