Seventeen [19]
don't understand it they don't feel it. Don't YOU think so?''
``Ess.''
``Love,'' William continued, his voice lifting and thrilling to the great theme--``love is something nobody can ever have but one time in their lives, and if they don't have it then, why prob'ly they never will. Now, if a man REALLY loves a girl, why he'd do anything in the world she wanted him to. Don't YOU think so?''
``Ess, 'deedums!'' said the silvery voice.
``But if he didn't, then he wouldn't,'' said William vehemently. ``But when a man really loves a girl he will. Now, you take a man like that and he can generally do just about anything the girl he loves wants him to. Say, f'rinstance, she wants him to love her even more than he does already--or almost anything like that--and supposin' she asks him to. Well, he would go ahead and do it. If they really loved each other he would!''
He paused a moment, then in a lowered tone he said, ``I think REAL love is sacred, don't you?''
``Ess.''
``Don't you think love is the most sacred thing there is--that is, if it's REAL love?''
``Ess.''
``_I_ do,'' said William, warmly. ``I--I'm glad you feel like that, because I think real love is the kind nobody could have but just once in their lives, but if it isn't REAL love, why--why most people never have it at all, because--'' He paused, seeming to seek for the exact phrase which would express his meaning. ``--Because the REAL love a man feels for a girl and a girl for a man, if they REALLY love each other, and, you look at a case like that, of course they would BOTH love each other, or it wouldn't be real love well, what _I_ say is, if it's REAL love, well, it's--it's sacred, because I think that kind of love is always sacred. Don't you think love is sacred if it's the real thing?''
``Ess,'' said Miss Pratt. ``Do Flopit again. Be Flopit!''
``Berp-werp! Berp-werp-werp.''
And within the library an agonized man writhed and muttered:
``WORD! WORD! WORD--''
This hoarse repetition had become almost continuous.
. . . But out on the porch, that little, jasmine- scented bower in Arcady where youth cried to youth and golden heads were haloed in the moonshine, there fell a silence. Not utter silence, for out there an ethereal music sounded constantly, unheard and forgotten by older ears. Time was when the sly playwrights used ``incidental music'' in their dramas; they knew that an audience would be moved so long as the music played; credulous while that crafty enchantment lasted. And when the galled Mr. Parcher wondered how those young people out on the porch could listen to each other and not die, it was because he did not hear and had forgotten the music that throbs in the veins of youth. Nevertheless, it may not be denied that despite his poor memory this man of fifty was deserving of a little sympathy.
It was William who broke the silence. ``How--'' he began, and his voice trembled a little. ``How --how do you--how do you think of me when I'm not with you?''
``Think nice-cums,'' Miss Pratt responded. ``Flopit an' me think nice-cums.''
``No,'' said William; ``I mean what name do you have for me when you're when you're thinking about me?''
Miss Pratt seemed to be puzzled, perhaps justifiably, and she made a cooing sound of interrogation.
``I mean like this,'' William explained. ``F'rinstance, when you first came, I always thought of you as `Milady'--when I wrote that poem, you know.''
``Ess. Boo'fums.''
``But now I don't,'' he said. ``Now I think of you by another name when I'm alone. It--it just sort of came to me. I was kind of just sitting around this afternoon, and I didn't know I was thinking about anything at all very much, and then all of a sudden I said it to myself out loud. It was about as strange a thing as I ever knew of. Don't YOU think so?''
``Ess. It uz dest WEIRD!'' she answered. ``What ARE dat pitty names?''
``I called you,'' said William, huskily and reverently, ``I called you `My Baby-Talk Lady.' ''
BANG!
They were startled by a crash from
``Ess.''
``Love,'' William continued, his voice lifting and thrilling to the great theme--``love is something nobody can ever have but one time in their lives, and if they don't have it then, why prob'ly they never will. Now, if a man REALLY loves a girl, why he'd do anything in the world she wanted him to. Don't YOU think so?''
``Ess, 'deedums!'' said the silvery voice.
``But if he didn't, then he wouldn't,'' said William vehemently. ``But when a man really loves a girl he will. Now, you take a man like that and he can generally do just about anything the girl he loves wants him to. Say, f'rinstance, she wants him to love her even more than he does already--or almost anything like that--and supposin' she asks him to. Well, he would go ahead and do it. If they really loved each other he would!''
He paused a moment, then in a lowered tone he said, ``I think REAL love is sacred, don't you?''
``Ess.''
``Don't you think love is the most sacred thing there is--that is, if it's REAL love?''
``Ess.''
``_I_ do,'' said William, warmly. ``I--I'm glad you feel like that, because I think real love is the kind nobody could have but just once in their lives, but if it isn't REAL love, why--why most people never have it at all, because--'' He paused, seeming to seek for the exact phrase which would express his meaning. ``--Because the REAL love a man feels for a girl and a girl for a man, if they REALLY love each other, and, you look at a case like that, of course they would BOTH love each other, or it wouldn't be real love well, what _I_ say is, if it's REAL love, well, it's--it's sacred, because I think that kind of love is always sacred. Don't you think love is sacred if it's the real thing?''
``Ess,'' said Miss Pratt. ``Do Flopit again. Be Flopit!''
``Berp-werp! Berp-werp-werp.''
And within the library an agonized man writhed and muttered:
``WORD! WORD! WORD--''
This hoarse repetition had become almost continuous.
. . . But out on the porch, that little, jasmine- scented bower in Arcady where youth cried to youth and golden heads were haloed in the moonshine, there fell a silence. Not utter silence, for out there an ethereal music sounded constantly, unheard and forgotten by older ears. Time was when the sly playwrights used ``incidental music'' in their dramas; they knew that an audience would be moved so long as the music played; credulous while that crafty enchantment lasted. And when the galled Mr. Parcher wondered how those young people out on the porch could listen to each other and not die, it was because he did not hear and had forgotten the music that throbs in the veins of youth. Nevertheless, it may not be denied that despite his poor memory this man of fifty was deserving of a little sympathy.
It was William who broke the silence. ``How--'' he began, and his voice trembled a little. ``How --how do you--how do you think of me when I'm not with you?''
``Think nice-cums,'' Miss Pratt responded. ``Flopit an' me think nice-cums.''
``No,'' said William; ``I mean what name do you have for me when you're when you're thinking about me?''
Miss Pratt seemed to be puzzled, perhaps justifiably, and she made a cooing sound of interrogation.
``I mean like this,'' William explained. ``F'rinstance, when you first came, I always thought of you as `Milady'--when I wrote that poem, you know.''
``Ess. Boo'fums.''
``But now I don't,'' he said. ``Now I think of you by another name when I'm alone. It--it just sort of came to me. I was kind of just sitting around this afternoon, and I didn't know I was thinking about anything at all very much, and then all of a sudden I said it to myself out loud. It was about as strange a thing as I ever knew of. Don't YOU think so?''
``Ess. It uz dest WEIRD!'' she answered. ``What ARE dat pitty names?''
``I called you,'' said William, huskily and reverently, ``I called you `My Baby-Talk Lady.' ''
BANG!
They were startled by a crash from