Dennis was no faint shadow of a man who had frittered away in numberless flirtations what little heart he originally had. He belonged to the male species, with something of the pristine vigor of the first man, who said of the one woman of all the world, “This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh”; and one whom he had first seen but a few short months since now seemed to belong to him by the highest and divinest right. But could he ever claim his own?
In his morbid, wearied state, there seemed a “great gulf fixed” between them. For a moment he fairly felt faint and sick, as if he had received a wound. He was startled by hearing Miss Winthrop say at his side: “Mr. Fleet, you will not leave yet. I have many friends wishing an introduction to you. What is the matter? You look as if you were ill.”
At her voice he flushed painfully. He was so vividly conscious of his love himself that he felt that everyone else must be able to see it, and darkness and solitude now seemed a refuge. Recovering himself by a great effort he said, “Pardon me, I do—I am not well—nothing is the matter—a little rest and I shall be myself again.”
“No wonder. You have been taxed every way beyond mortal endurance, and I think that it is a shame the way you have been treated. Pray do not judge Chicago society altogether by what you have seen here. Let me get you some refreshment, and then I will acquaint you with some people who can recognize a gentleman when they meet him.”
“No, Miss Winthrop,” said Dennis, courteously but firmly; “you are not in your own home, and by staying I should not be accepting your hospitality. I appreciate your kindness deeply, and thank your friends who have expressed a willingness to make my acquaintance. It would not be right to stay longer in this house than is necessary. I do not feel resentful. I have no room in my memory for Miss Brown and her actions, but at the same time self-respect requires that I go at once;” and he took his hat.
“I am not surprised that you feel as you do. But give me the pleasure of welcoming you at my own home as soon as possible,” she said, and gave her hand to him in parting.
Dennis took it respectfully and bowed low, saying, “I shall not willingly deny myself so great a pleasure,” and was gone.
Christine came in a few moments later, and found only servants clearing the room for dancing.
“Where is Mr. Fleet?” she asked.
“Gone, mum.”
“Yes,” said Miss Winthrop, coming in at the same time; “he has gone now in very truth; and I don’t think the power exists that could lead him to darken these doors again. I doubt if I ever come myself. I never saw a clearer instance of—of—well—shoddy.”
“It seems to me that you Christians are as proud as any of us.”
“Isn’t there a difference between pride and self-respect? I am satisfied that if Miss Brown were in trouble, or poor, Mr. Fleet would be the first to help her. Oh, Christine, we have treated him shamefully!”
“You seem to take a wonderful interest in this unknown knight in rusty armor.” (Dennis’s dress was decidedly threadbare.)
“I do,” said the impulsive girl, frankly, “because he is wonderfully interesting. What man of all the large audience present tonight could have acted the part he did? I am satisfied that that man is by birth and education a gentleman. Are you ready, with your aristocratic notions, to recognize chiefly Miss Brown’s title to position? What could her coat-of-arms be but the dollar symbol and the beer-barrel?”
“Come, remember she is our hostess.”
“You are right; I should not speak so here; but my indignation gets the better of me.”
“Would you invite him to your house?”
“Certainly. I have asked him; and what is more, he has promised to come. Supposing that he is poor, are not many of your noblemen as poor as poverty? My parlors shall be haunted only by men of ability and character.”
“You are not going to shut out this little heathen,” said Christine, putting her arm about her friend.
“Never!” said Miss Winthrop, returning the embrace with double warmth. Then she added, sadly: “You are not an unbeliever from conviction and knowledge, Christine, but from training and association. While I admire and honor your father as a splendid and gifted man, I regret his and your scepticism more deeply than you can ever know.”
“Well, Susie,” said Christine, with a smile, “if they shut out such as you from your Paradise, I do not wish to go there.”
“If, with my clear knowledge of the conditions of entrance, I shut myself out, I shall have no right to complain,” said Miss Winthrop, sadly.
But the absence of two such belles could not long remain unnoted; and, having been discovered, they were pounced upon by half a dozen young gentlemen, clamorous for the honor of their hands in the “German.”
In spite of herself, Christine was vexed and annoyed. Dennis had seemed, in his obscurity, a nice little bit of personal property, that she could use and order about as she pleased. He had been so subservient and eager to do her will, that she had never thought of him otherwise than as her “humble servant.” But now her own hand had suddenly given him the role of a fine gentleman. Christine was too logical to think of continuing to order about a man who could sing Mendelssohn’s music as Dennis had done.
She congratulated herself that the arrangement of the store was nearly completed, and that only one showroom was unfinished.
“I suppose he will be very dignified when we meet again,” she thought to herself. “I should not be
