And thus she bore Elena off, and I knew that within ten minutes Elena would have been warned against me, as “not quite a desirable acquaintance, you know, my dear, and it is only my duty to tell you that as a young and attractive married woman—”
II
“And so,” I said in my soul, as the men redistributed themselves, “she is married—married while you were pottering with books and the turn of phrases and immortality and such trifles—oh, you ass! And to a man named Barry-Smith—damn him, I wonder whether he is the hungry scut that hasn’t had his hair cut this fall, or the blancmange-bellied one with the mashed-strawberry nose? Yes, I know everybody else. And Jimmy Travis is telling a funny story, so laugh! People will think you are grieving over Rosalind. … But why in heaven’s name isn’t Jimmy at home this very moment—with a wife and carpet-slippers and a large-size bottle of paregoric on his mantelpiece—instead of here, grinning like a fool over some blatant indecency? He ought to marry; every young man ought to marry. Oh, you futile, abject, burbling twin-brother of the first patron that procured a reputation for Bedlam! why aren’t you married—married years ago—with a home of your own, and a victoria for Mrs. Townsend and bills from the kindergarten every quarter? Oh, you bartender of verbal cocktails! I believe your worst enemy flung your mind at you in a moment of unbridled hatred.”
So I snapped the stem of my glass carefully, and scowled with morose disapproval at the unconscious Mr. Travis, and his now-applauded and very Fescennine jest. …
III
I found her inspecting a bulky folio with remarkable interest. There was a lamp, with a red shade, that cast a glow over her, such as one sometimes sees reflected from a great fire. The people about us were chattering idiotically, and something inside my throat prevented my breathing properly, and I was miserable.
“Mrs. Barry-Smith,”—thus I began—“if you’ve the tiniest scrap of pity in your heart for a very presumptuous, blundering and unhappy person, I pray you to forgive and to forget, as people say, all that I have blatted out to you. I spoke, as I thought, to a free woman, who had the right to listen to my boyish talk, even though she might elect to laugh at it. And now I hardly dare to ask forgiveness.”
Mrs. Barry-Smith inspected a view of the Matterhorn, with careful deliberation. “Forgiveness?” said she.
“Indeed,” said I, “I don’t deserve it.” And I smiled most resolutely. “I had always known that somewhere, somehow, you would come into my life again. It has been my dream all these two years; but I dream carelessly. My visions had not included this—obstacle.”
She made wide eyes at me. “What?” said she.
“Your husband,” I suggested, delicately.
The eyes flashed. And a view of Monaco, to all appearances, awoke some pleasing recollection. “I confess,” said Mrs. Barry-Smith, “that—for the time—I had quite forgotten him. I—I reckon you must think me very horrid?”
But she was at pains to accompany this query with a broadside that rendered such a supposition most unthinkable. And so—
“I think you—” My speech was hushed and breathless, and ended in a click of the teeth. “Oh, don’t let’s go into the minor details,” I pleaded.
Then Mrs. Barry-Smith descended to a truism. “It is usually better not to,” said she, with the air of an authority. And latterly, addressing the façade of Notre Dame, “You see, Mr. Barry-Smith being so much older than I—”
“I would prefer that. Of course, though, it is none of my business.”
“You see, you came and went so suddenly that—of course I never thought to see you again—not that I ever thought about it, I reckon—” Her candour would have been cruel had it not been reassuringly overemphasized. “And Mr. Barry-Smith was very pressing—”
“He would be,” I assented, after consideration. “It is, indeed, the single point in his outrageous conduct I am willing to condone.”
“—and he was a great friend of my father’s, and I liked him—”
“So you married him and lived together ever afterward, without ever throwing the tureen at each other. That is the most modern version; but there is usually a footnote concerning the bread-and-butter plates.”
She smiled, inscrutably, a sphinx in Dresden china. “And yet,” she murmured, plaintively, “I would like to know what you think of me.”
“Why, prefacing with the announcement that I pray God I may never see you after tonight, I think you the most adorable creature He ever made. What does it matter now? I have lost you. I think—ah, desire o’ the world, what can I think of you? The notion of you dazzles me like flame—and I dare not think of you, for I love you.”
“Yes?” she queried, sweetly; “then I reckon Mrs. Dumby was right after all. She said you were a most depraved person and that, as a young and—well, she said it, you know—attractive widow—”
“H’m!” said I; and I sat down. “Elena Barry-Smith,” I added, “you are an unmitigated and unconscionable and unpardonable rascal. There is just one punishment which would be adequate to meet your case; and I warn you that I mean to inflict it. Why, how dare you be a widow! The court decides it is unable to put up with any such nonsense, and that you’ve got to stop it at once.”
“Really,” said she, tossing her head and moving swiftly, “one would think we were on a desert island!”
“Or a strange roof”—and I laughed, contentedly. “Meanwhile, about that ring—it should be, I think, a heavy, Byzantine ring, with the stones sunk deep in the dull gold. Yes, we’ll have six stones in it; say, R, a ruby; O, an opal; B, a beryl; E, an emerald; R,
