The Pit [54]
hansom cabs around, but he was too proud, to say the least, to ride in 'em when some one else paid.
Page scolded him roundly. What next? The idea. He was not to be so completely silly. She didn't propose to have the responsibility of his catching pneumonia just for the sake of a quibble.
"Some people," she declared, "never seemed to be able to find out that they are grown up."
"Very well," he announced, "I'll go if I can tip the driver a dollar."
Page compressed her lips.
"The man that can afford dollar tips," she said, "can afford to hire the cab in the first place."
"Seventy-five cents, then," he declared resolutely. "Not a cent less. I should feel humiliated with any less."
"Will you please take me down to the cab, Landry Court?" she cried. And without further comment Landry obeyed.
"Now, Miss Dearborn, if you are ready," exclaimed Corthell, as he came up. He held the umbrella over her head, allowing his shoulders to get the drippings.
They cried good-by again all around, and the artist guided her down the slippery steps. He handed her carefully into the hansom, and following, drew down the glasses.
Laura settled herself comfortably far back in her corner, adjusting her skirts and murmuring:
"Such a wet night. Who would have thought it was going to rain? I was afraid you were not coming at first," she added. "At dinner Mrs. Cressler said you had an important committee meeting--something to do with the Art Institute, the award of prizes; was that it?"
"Oh, yes," he answered, indifferently, "something of the sort was on. I suppose it was important--for the Institute. But for me there is only one thing of importance nowadays," he spoke with a studied carelessness, as though announcing a fact that Laura must know already, "and that is, to be near you. It is astonishing. You have no idea of it, how I have ordered my whole life according to that idea."
"As though you expected me to believe that," she answered.
In her other lovers she knew her words would have provoked vehement protestation. But for her it was part of the charm of Corthell's attitude that he never did or said the expected, the ordinary. Just now he seemed more interested in the effect of his love for Laura upon himself than in the manner of her reception of it.
"It is curious," he continued. "I am no longer a boy. I have no enthusiasms. I have known many women, and I have seen enough of what the crowd calls love to know how futile it is, how empty, a vanity of vanities. I had imagined that the poets were wrong, were idealists, seeing the things that should be rather than the things that were. And then," suddenly he drew a deep breath: "_this_ happiness; and to _me._ And the miracle, the wonderful is there--all at once--in my heart, in my very hand, like a mysterious, beautiful exotic. The poets _are_ wrong," he added. "They have not been idealists enough. I wish--ah, well, never mind."
"What is it that you wish?" she asked, as he broke off suddenly. Laura knew even before she spoke that it would have been better not to have prompted him to continue. Intuitively she had something more than a suspicion that he had led her on to say these very words. And in admitting that she cared to have the conversation proceed upon this footing, she realised that she was sheering towards unequivocal coquetry. She saw the false move now, knew that she had lowered her guard. On all accounts it would have been more dignified to have shown only a mild interest in what Corthell wished. She realised that once more she had acted upon impulse, and she even found time to wonder again how it was that when with this man her impulses, and not her reason prevailed so often. With Landry or with Curtis Jadwin she was always calm, tranquilly self-possessed. But Corthell seemed able to reach all that was impetuous, all that was unreasoned in her nature. To Landry she was more than anything else, an older sister, indulgent, kind-hearted. With Jadwin she found that all the serious, all the sincere, earnest side
Page scolded him roundly. What next? The idea. He was not to be so completely silly. She didn't propose to have the responsibility of his catching pneumonia just for the sake of a quibble.
"Some people," she declared, "never seemed to be able to find out that they are grown up."
"Very well," he announced, "I'll go if I can tip the driver a dollar."
Page compressed her lips.
"The man that can afford dollar tips," she said, "can afford to hire the cab in the first place."
"Seventy-five cents, then," he declared resolutely. "Not a cent less. I should feel humiliated with any less."
"Will you please take me down to the cab, Landry Court?" she cried. And without further comment Landry obeyed.
"Now, Miss Dearborn, if you are ready," exclaimed Corthell, as he came up. He held the umbrella over her head, allowing his shoulders to get the drippings.
They cried good-by again all around, and the artist guided her down the slippery steps. He handed her carefully into the hansom, and following, drew down the glasses.
Laura settled herself comfortably far back in her corner, adjusting her skirts and murmuring:
"Such a wet night. Who would have thought it was going to rain? I was afraid you were not coming at first," she added. "At dinner Mrs. Cressler said you had an important committee meeting--something to do with the Art Institute, the award of prizes; was that it?"
"Oh, yes," he answered, indifferently, "something of the sort was on. I suppose it was important--for the Institute. But for me there is only one thing of importance nowadays," he spoke with a studied carelessness, as though announcing a fact that Laura must know already, "and that is, to be near you. It is astonishing. You have no idea of it, how I have ordered my whole life according to that idea."
"As though you expected me to believe that," she answered.
In her other lovers she knew her words would have provoked vehement protestation. But for her it was part of the charm of Corthell's attitude that he never did or said the expected, the ordinary. Just now he seemed more interested in the effect of his love for Laura upon himself than in the manner of her reception of it.
"It is curious," he continued. "I am no longer a boy. I have no enthusiasms. I have known many women, and I have seen enough of what the crowd calls love to know how futile it is, how empty, a vanity of vanities. I had imagined that the poets were wrong, were idealists, seeing the things that should be rather than the things that were. And then," suddenly he drew a deep breath: "_this_ happiness; and to _me._ And the miracle, the wonderful is there--all at once--in my heart, in my very hand, like a mysterious, beautiful exotic. The poets _are_ wrong," he added. "They have not been idealists enough. I wish--ah, well, never mind."
"What is it that you wish?" she asked, as he broke off suddenly. Laura knew even before she spoke that it would have been better not to have prompted him to continue. Intuitively she had something more than a suspicion that he had led her on to say these very words. And in admitting that she cared to have the conversation proceed upon this footing, she realised that she was sheering towards unequivocal coquetry. She saw the false move now, knew that she had lowered her guard. On all accounts it would have been more dignified to have shown only a mild interest in what Corthell wished. She realised that once more she had acted upon impulse, and she even found time to wonder again how it was that when with this man her impulses, and not her reason prevailed so often. With Landry or with Curtis Jadwin she was always calm, tranquilly self-possessed. But Corthell seemed able to reach all that was impetuous, all that was unreasoned in her nature. To Landry she was more than anything else, an older sister, indulgent, kind-hearted. With Jadwin she found that all the serious, all the sincere, earnest side