Part 15 (1/2)

”I should never have been so careless if something weren't on my mind,”

he laughed now. ”The truth--the true truth--is that I needed a drink of wicked whiskey. Forgive me?”

”I might not find it so difficult to forgive if, in the future, you either stop trying to deceive me or talking to me; I really don't care which!”

”I say!” he looked up in surprise. ”That's pretty straight talk! But it may be a worth-while thing for you to remember that a place does exist where men can't answer every question put to them, and I very much doubt your right to a.s.sume so much simply because I choose to keep a few of my affairs to myself. When I first came in here you asked what had happened. That was sympathetic, and I appreciated it; but it was something I couldn't answer, and told you so. You may remember that you seemed to resent that. Your manner was an invitation for me to make up some sort of a fairy-tale to appease your curiosity; and if I had, and you'd found it out, you would just as readily have called me a what's-his-name. You're illogical. You don't seem to share my sense of proportion, at any rate. I wanted a drink--I needed a drink; and I had every right in the world to take it, providing I didn't offend anyone.

But it would have offended you--so why announce my intention? If I'm put in a position where some sort of explanation is demanded, and the truth can't in fairness be told, I'm thrown back on the resort which your own s.e.x has taught me--that delectable s.e.x of sweet poisons and silent stilettoes, versatile in the art of lying; queens of the art, indeed--though innocent in it. And here's another plain truth: I'd love to be frank with you, and tell you everything in the world I can, because I think you are square with lots of things which most women side-step. I can't just express it, but you're broadminded and charitable, and smash right out from the shoulder at a thing as if you didn't have skirts on. I don't put it very well, but you know what I mean!”

She thought he did not put it very well, but she knew he put it sincerely, and her reply held a vein of banter which he might not have been expecting just then:

”Perhaps you'll begin by telling about your mysterious dryad in the Forest of Arden!”

”Suspicion,” he peered through the gloom at her reprovingly, ”is the solvent which disintegrates happiness; and happiness, reduced to its component parts, is trash. Withdraw your question!”

”Happiness cannot be reduced to its component parts,” she laughed, ”because its ingredients have strayed to us from the four corners of the universe, and cannot ever be returned. I insist upon your answer!”

”You are drawing a long bow,” he said more soberly. ”You employ femininity's imperfect warrant to shoot at random and trust her G.o.ds to put something in the way of getting hit. It's a satire on honesty.”

”Never mind about honesty,” she laughed again. ”Did my G.o.ds fail me?”

He puffed a few times at his cigarette, finally taking a deep inhalation and blowing it slowly on the lighted end until the outlines of his face became softly visible in the glow. She saw how serious it seemed, and guessed he was purposely making it so.

”Since you insist--!” he began very carefully. ”My dryad in this enchanted wood is the most enticing spirit ever clothed in the graces of woman. That's all.”

Again he turned to his cigarette. Again the red glow and the serious face. Again her accurate suspicion.

”If that is all, you're not playing fair. Does she live in a tree?”

”No. She lives in a big white house with big white columns; by night she haunts me, but by day she holds school for mortals in a shady grove.”

”I thought you were more original than that,” she said, in an expressionless voice. ”So we're not to talk any more, are we!”

”But I swear--” he began.

”So do I,” she interrupted him, ”that you bore me to extinction with things like that, Brent; honestly you do! If you can't be just a little bit sincere, I can't be interested in you.”

They had known each other for more than two months; two months of almost daily, unconventional contact, but this was the first time she had called him Brent. It came now as a master-stroke for true understanding, and he threw back his head and laughed.

”My, but you're a corker--beg pardon--I mean a live wire!”

”Overwhelming flattery in either case,” she smiled, ”and that's the second sincere thing you've said.”

”The second! Well, I like that! Perhaps when you begin thinking less about yourself, you'll be able to see more virtues in other people!”

”No one has ever accused me of thinking particularly about myself,” she righteously flushed.

”No one has to,” he replied, teasingly. ”Being a teacher--although a very young and charming one--presupposes egotism.”

”Your a.n.a.lysis is shrewd tonight,” she coolly observed.

”Not at all,” he affably continued. ”An egoist, and a woman whose dress is unhooked in the back, are always blissfully unconscious that the world is seeing more of them than they normally would permit.”