The Triflers | Page 3

them pass, felt strangely isolated. They hurried on without seeing him, as if he were merely some spectral bystander. Yet the significant fact was not that a thousand strangers should pass him without being aware of his presence, but that he himself should notice their indifference. It was not like him.
Ordinarily it was exactly what he would desire. But to-night he was in an unusual mood--a mood that was the culmination of a restlessness covering an entire month. But what the deuce was the name and cause of it? He could no longer attribute it to the fact that he had gone stale physically, because he had now had a rest of several weeks. It was not that he was bored; those who are bored never stop to ask themselves why they are bored or they would not be bored. It was not that he was homesick, because, strictly speaking, he had no home. A home seems to involve the female element and some degree of permanence. This unrest was something new--something, apparently, that had to do vaguely with the fact that he was thirty-two. If Edhart--
Impatiently he started again for his hotel. This confoundedly good-natured, self-satisfied crowd moving in couples irritated him. At that moment a tall, slender girl turned, hesitated, then started toward him. He did not recognize her at first, but the mere fact that she came toward him--that any one came toward him--quickened his pulse. It brought him back instantly from the shadowy realm of specters to the good old solid earth. It was he, Covington, who was standing there.
Then she raised her eyes--dark eyes deep as trout pools; steady, confident, but rather sad eyes. They appeared to be puzzled by the eagerness with which he stepped forward and grasped her hand.
"Marjory!" he exclaimed. "I did n't know you were in Paris!"
She smiled--a smile that extended no farther than the corners of her perfect mouth.
"That's to excuse yourself for not looking me up, Monte?"
She had a full, clear voice. It was good to hear a voice that he could recognize.
"No," he answered frankly. "That's honest. I thought you were somewhere in Brittany. But are you bound anywhere in particular?"
"Only home."
"Still living on the Boulevard Saint-Germain?"
She nodded.
"Number forty-three?"
He was glad he was able to remember that number.
"Number sixty-four," she corrected.
They had been moving toward the Metro station, and here she paused.
"There is no need for you to come with me," she said. "But I'd like to have you drop in for tea some afternoon--if you have time."
The strangers were still hurrying past him--to the north, the south, the east, the west. Men and women were hurrying past, laughing, intent upon themselves, each with some definite objective in mind. He himself was able to smile with them now. Then she held out her gloved hand, and he felt alone again.
"I may accompany you home, may I not?" he asked eagerly.
"If you wish."
Once again she raised her eyes with that expression of puzzled interest. This was not like Monte. Of course he would accompany her home, but that he should seem really to take pleasure in the prospect--that was novel.
"Let me call a taxi," he said. "I'm never sure where these French undergrounds are going to land me."
"They are much quicker," she suggested.
"There is no hurry," he answered.
With twenty-four hours a day on his hands, he was never in a hurry.
Instead of giving to the driver the number sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain, he ordered him to forty-seven Rue Saint-Michel, which is the Caf�� d'Harcourt.
It had suddenly occurred to Monte what the trouble was with him. He was lonesome.
CHAPTER II
THE TROUBLE WITH MARJORY
She was surprised when the car stopped before the caf��, and mildly interested.
"Do you mind?" he asked.
"No, Monte."
She followed him through the smoke and chatter to one of the little dining-rooms in the rear where the smoke and chatter were somewhat subdued. There Henri removed their wraps with a look of frank approval. It was rather an elaborate dinner that Monte ordered, because he remembered for the first time that he had not yet dined this evening. It was also a dinner of which he felt Edhart would thoroughly approve, and that always was a satisfaction.
"Now," he said to the girl, as soon as Henri had left, "tell 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