Part 23 (1/2)

”O--h,” whispered the Girl with a little sigh of relief.

It must have been fully fifteen minutes before the Journalist spoke to her again. Then, in the midst of his salad course, he put down his fork and asked quite inquisitively: ”Aren't there any men at all up in your own special Maine woods?”

”Oh, yes,” the Girl acknowledged with a little crinkle of her nose, ”there's Peter.”

”Who's Peter?” he insisted.

”Why, Peter,” she explained, ”is the Philadelphia boy who tutors with my father in the summers.”

Her youthfulness was almost as frank as fever, and, though taking advantage of this frankness seemed quite as reprehensible as taking advantage of any other kind of babbling delirium, the Journalist felt somehow obliged to pursue his investigations.

”Nice boy?” he suggested tactfully.

The Girl's nose crinkled just a little bit tighter.

The Journalist frowned. ”I'll wager you two dozen squirrels out of Central Park,” he said, ”that Peter is head over heels in love with you!”

The Girl's mouth twisted a trifle, but her eyes were absolutely solemn.

”I suppose that he is,” she answered gravely, ”but he's never taken the trouble to tell me so, and he's been with us three summers. I suppose lots of men are made like that. You read about it in books. They want to sew just as long--long--long a seam as they possibly can without tying any knot in the thread. Peter, I know, wants to make perfectly Philadelphia-sure that he won't meet any girl in the winters whom he likes better.”

”I think that sort of thing is mighty mean,” interposed the Journalist sympathetically.

”Mean?” cried the Girl. ”Mean?” Her tousley yellow hair seemed fairly electrified with astonishment, and her big blue eyes brimmed suddenly with uproarious delight. ”Oh, of course,” she added contritely, ”it may be mean for the person who sews the seam, but it's heaps of fun for the cloth, because after awhile, you know, Pompous Peter will discover that there isn't any winter girl whom he likes better, and in the general excitement of the discovery he'll remember only the long, long seam--three happy summers--and forget altogether that he never tied any knot. And then! And then!” her cheeks began to dimple. ”And then--just as he begins triumphantly to gather me in--all my yards and yards and yards of beautiful freedom fretted into one short, puckery, worried ruffle--then--Hooray--swish--slip--slide--_out comes the thread_--and Mr. Peter falls right over b.u.mp-backward with surprise. Won't it be fun?”

”Fun?” snapped the Journalist. ”What a horrid, heartless little cynic you are!”

The Girl's eyebrows fairly tiptoed to reach his meaning. ”Cynic?” she questioned. ”You surely don't mean that I am a cynic? Why, I think men are perfectly splendid in every possible way that--doesn't matter to a woman. They can build bridges and wage wars, and spell the hardest, homeliest words. But Peter makes life so puzzling,” she added wryly.

”Everybody wants me to marry Peter; everybody says 'slow but sure,'

'slow but sure.' But it's a lie!” she cried out hotly. ”Slow is _not_ sure. It is not! It is not! The man who isn't excited enough to _run_ to his goal is hardly interested enough to walk. And yet”--her forehead crinkled all up with worry--”and yet--you tell me that 'quick' isn't sure, either. _What is sure?_”

”Nothing!” said the Journalist.

She tossed her head. ”All the same,” she retorted, ”I'd rather have a man propose to me three years before, rather than three years after, I'd made up my mind whether to accept him or not.”

”Don't--marry--Peter,” laughed the Journalist.

”Why not?” she asked--so very bluntly that the Journalist twisted a bit uneasily.

”Oh--I--don't--know,” he answered cautiously. Then suddenly his face brightened. ”Any trout fis.h.i.+ng up in your brooks about the first of May?” he asked covertly.

Again the knowledge of her mother's mother's mother blazed red-hot in the Girl's cheeks. ”Y--e--s,” she faltered reluctantly, ”the trout-fis.h.i.+ng is very generous in May.”

”Will Peter be there?” persisted the Journalist.

Her eyes began to s.h.i.+ne again with amus.e.m.e.nt. ”Oh, no,” she said. ”Peter never comes until July.” With mock dignity she straightened herself up till her shoulder almost reached the Journalist's. ”I was very foolish,”

she attested, ”even to mention Peter, or mankind--at all. Of course, I'm commencing to realize that my ideas about men are exceedingly countrified--'disgustingly countrified,' my aunt tells me. Why, just this last week at my aunt's sewing club I learned that the only two real qualifications for marriage are that a man should earn not less than a hundred dollars a week, and be a perfectly kind hooker.”

”A perfectly kind hooker?” queried the Journalist.

”Why, yes,” she said. ”Don't you know--now--that all our dresses fasten in the back?” Her little tinkling, giggling laugh rang out with startling incongruity through the formal room, and her uncle glanced at her and frowned with the slightest perceptible flicker of irritation.