The Deluge Part 11

"It's a nasty habit--smoking," said I.

"Do you think so?" said she, with the slightest lift to her tone and her eyebrows.

"Especially for a woman," I went on, because I could think of nothing else to say, and would not, at any cost, let this conversation, so hard to begin, die out.

"You are one of those men who have one code for themselves and another for women," she replied.

"I'm a man," said I. "All men have the two codes."

"Not all," said she after a pause.

"All men of decent ideas," said I with emphasis.

"Really?" said she, in a tone that irritated me by suggesting that what I said was both absurd and unimportant.

"It is the first time I've ever seen a respectable woman smoke," I went on, powerless to change the subject, though conscious I was getting tedious.

"I've read of such things, but I didn't believe."

"That is interesting," said she, her tone suggesting the reverse.

"I've offended you by saying frankly what I think," said I. "Of course, it's none of my business."

"Oh, no," replied she carelessly. "I'm not in the least offended.

Prejudices always interest me."

I saw Ellersly and his wife sitting in the drawing-room, pretending to talk to each other. I understood that they were leaving me alone with her deliberately, and I began to suspect she was in the plot. I smiled, and my courage and self-possession returned as summarily as they had fled.

"I'm glad of this chance to get better acquainted with you," said I. "I've wanted it ever since I first saw you."

As I put this to her directly, she dropped her eyes and murmured something she probably wished me to think vaguely pleasant.

"You are the first woman I ever knew," I went on, "with whom it was hard for me to get on any sort of terms. I suppose it's my fault. I don't know this game yet. But I'll learn it, if you'll be a little patient; and when I do, I think I'll be able to keep up my end."

She looked at me--just looked. I couldn't begin to guess what was going on in that gracefully-poised head of hers.

"Will you try to be friends with me?" said I with directness.

She continued to look at me in that same steady, puzzling way.

"Will you?" I repeated.

"I have no choice," said she slowly.

I flushed. "What does that mean?" I demanded.

She threw a hurried and, it seemed to me, frightened glance toward the drawing-room. "I didn't intend to offend you," she said in a low voice.

"You have been such a good friend to papa--I've no right to feel anything but friendship for you."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," said I. And I was; for those words of hers were the first expression of appreciation and grat.i.tude I had ever got from any member of that family which I was holding up from ruin. I put out my hand, and she laid hers in it.

"There isn't anything I wouldn't do to earn your friendship, Miss Anita," I said, holding her hand tightly, feeling how lifeless it was, yet feeling, too, as if a flaming torch were being borne through me, were lighting a fire in every vein.

The scarlet poured into her face and neck, wave on wave, until I thought it would never cease to come. She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand away and from her face streamed proud resentment. G.o.d, how I loved her at that moment!

"Anita! Mr. Blacklock!" came from the other room, in her mother's voice.

"Come in here and save us old people from boring each other to sleep."

She turned swiftly and went into the other room, I following. There were a few minutes of conversation--a monologue by her mother. Then I ceased to disregard Ellersly's less and less covert yawns, and rose to take leave. I could not look directly at Anita, but I was seeing that her eyes were fixed on me, as if by some compulsion, some sinister compulsion. I left in high spirits. "No matter why or how she looks at you," said I to myself. "All that is necessary is to get yourself noticed. After that, the rest is easy.

You must keep cool enough always to remember that under this glamour that intoxicates you, she's a woman, just a woman, waiting for a man."

XIII. "UNTIL TO-MORROW"

On the following Tuesday afternoon, toward five o'clock, I descended from my apartment on my way to my brougham. In the entrance hall I met Monson coming in.

"h.e.l.lo, you!" said he. "Slipping away to get married?"

"No, I'm only making a call," replied I, taking alarm instantly.

"Oh, is _that_ all?" said he with a sly grin. "It must be a mighty serious matter."

"I'm in no hurry," said I. "Come up with me for a few minutes."

As soon as we were alone in my sitting-room, I demanded: "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing--not a thing," was his answer, in a tone I had a struggle with myself not to resent. "I've never seen any one quite so grand--top hat, latest style, long coat ditto, white buckskin waistcoat, twenty-thousand-dollar pearl in pale blue scarf, white spats, spotless varnish boots just from the varnishers, cream-colored gloves. You _will_ make a hit! My eye, I'll bet she won't be able to resist you."

I began to shed my plumage. "I thought this was the thing when you're calling on people you hardly know."

"I should say you'd have to know 'em uncommon well to give 'em such a treat. Rather!"

"What shall I wear?" I asked. "You certainly told me the other day that this was proper."

"Proper--so it is--too d.a.m.n proper," was his answer. "That'd be all right for a bridegroom or a best man or an usher--or perhaps for a wedding guest.

It wouldn't do any particular harm even to call in it, if the people were used to you. But--"

"I look dressed up?"

"Like a fashion plate--like a tailor--like a society actor."

"What shall I wear?"

"Oh, just throw yourself together any old way. Business suit's good enough."

"But I barely know these people--socially. I never called there," I objected.