The Triflers | Page 4

me about
yourself."
"You knew about Aunt Kitty?" she asked.
"No," he replied hesitatingly, with an uneasy feeling that it was one of
those things that he should know about.
"She was taken ill here in Paris in February, and died shortly after we
reached New York," she explained.
What Covington would have honestly liked to do was to congratulate
her. Stripping the situation of all sentimentalism, the naked truth
remained that she had for ten years given up her life utterly to her
aunt--had almost sold herself into slavery. Ostensibly this Aunt Kitty
had taken the girl to educate, although she had never forgiven her sister
for having married Stockton; had never forgiven her for having had this
child, which had cost her life; had never forgiven Stockton for losing in
business her sister's share of the Dolliver fortune.
Poor old Stockton--he had done his best, and the failure killed him. It
was Chic Warren who had told Covington the pitiful little tale. Chic
always spoke of the aunt as "the Vamp.," the abbreviation, as he
explained, being solely out of respect to her gray hairs. Marjory had
received her education, to be sure; but she had paid for it in the only
coin she had--the best of her young self from seventeen to twenty-seven.
The only concession the aunt had ever made was to allow her niece to
study art in Paris this last year.

"I have n't heard from Chic since Christmas," he explained; "so I did n't
know. Then you are back here in Paris--alone?"
Unconsciously he had emphasized that word "alone."
"Why not?" she asked directly.
She held her head a bit high, as if in challenge.
"Nothing; only--"
He did not finish. He could not very well tell her that she was too
confoundedly good-looking to be alone in Paris. Yet that was what he
thought, in spite of his belief that, of all the women he had ever met,
she was the best able to be alone anywhere. There were times when he
had sat beside her, not feeling sure that he was in the same room with
her: it was as if he were looking at her through plate-glass. To-night,
however, it was not like that. She looked like a younger sister of
herself.
"Still painting?" he inquired.
"As much as they will let me."
"They?"
She leaned forward with a frown, folding her arms upon the table.
"What is the matter with men?" she demanded. "Why won't they
believe a woman when she tells the truth?"
He was somewhat startled by the question, and by her earnestness.
"Just what do you mean?"
"Why can't they leave a woman alone?"
It was clear that he was not expected to answer, and so, with her
permission, he lighted a cigarette and waited with considerable interest

for her to go on.
For a moment she studied him, as if wondering if it were worth while
to continue her confidence. Her acquaintance with Monte dated back
ten years, when, as a girl of seventeen, she had met him on one of his
rare week-end visits to the Warrens. She was then fresh from finishing
school, and he was one of the very few men she had been allowed to
meet in any more intimate way than merely to shake hands with in
passing. She had been tremendously impressed. She could smile at it
now. But, really, she had been like one of the younger sisters, and for a
year or so after that he had been to her a sort of vague knight errant.
It was three years ago that her aunt had begun to travel with her, and
after that she had seen Monte not oftener than once or twice a year, and
then for scarcely more than a greeting and good-bye. On the other hand,
Mrs. Warren had always talked and written to her a great deal about
him. Chic and he had been roommates in college, and ever since had
kept in close touch with each other by letter. The trivial gossip of
Monte's life had always been passed on to Marjory, so that she had
really for these last few years been following his movements and
adventures month by month, until she felt in almost as intimate contact
with him as with the Warrens. She had reason to think that, in turn, her
movements were retailed to Monte. The design was obvious--and
amusing.
On the whole, Marjory concluded that it was not especially worth while
to burden him with her troubles; and yet, it was just because of that she
was inclined to continue--in, however, a less serious mood. Monte had
so few burdens of his own. That odd little smile--scarcely more than
the ghost of a smile--returned to the corners of her