To this statement Hugh nodded approvingly.
“It’s dull for her, very. She has no friends of her own age. I have not let her associate with the people hereabouts, and, as for myself, I am not much of a companion for a lass like her. Am I?”
Hugh tried his best to look complimentary. He failed, however, and said nothing. But the old man’s eyes were fixed on the floor and he ran on, unheeding:
“No, I am not, and she hasn’t any relatives, either. I am the last of my race. I am a Sisseton, and my brother Paul was killed at my side in the war. My wife, she died before I came here. So it’s dull for her, you see, very; and this being her birthday and you being a stranger, I just thought I might ask would you spend the evening with us?”
“Why, my dear Mr. Sisseton, nothing on earth, no, absolutely nothing could give me greater pleasure.”
“Well, then, that is settled. There will be some cake, and I don’t promise it, but there may be a glass of sweet wine.”
“I adore cake,” Hugh fairly shouted. “As for wine, I never touch it.”
“Don’t you, now?” And the old man looked up very sharply at Hugh. “Well, well, I have heard as much. I have heard—But there, never mind. It’s settled, then, is it? We may expect you at eight?”
“To the minute, Mr. Sisseton.”
But he spoke to the walls. The old man had disappeared as in a trap, closing the door noiselessly as he went, and Hugh returned to his lilies.
The work progressed slowly enough after that, for between the canvas and the brush every now and again a face would appear—one that was neither Roman nor Syrian, a bewilderment of yellow hair, blue eyes, kissable lips and a complexion of roses and cream.
“I am in luck,” Hugh decided. And had he not reached the austere age of three-and-twenty I promise you he would have danced for joy.
The afternoon took itself away. At six o’clock Hugh began touching up the dimmed splendor of a pair of patent-leather pumps which he found wrapped in an old newspaper at the bottom of his trunk. He got out his best coat and brushed it carefully; he got out a very large neckcloth, which he tied with the nicety of a geometrician; there was, he discovered, a crease still in his trousers, there was a pair of gloves that still could be worn, and—though you or I would have expected to be cut dead by our best beloved had we dared to wear such a hat as his—when he went out that evening for dinner no nicer, fresher, handsomer young fellow ever strode through Tompkins Square. Nevertheless, at one minute before eight precisely, when this hero of a midspring night rapped on an old man’s door his hand was trembling and he blushed like a girl.
It sounds like a phrase in a novel to say that the room into which he was then ushered was scrupulously neat, but it would take a maker of dainty ballads to describe its sweetness and simplicity. Barring the old man, who would have been a blur on a desert, there was not a thing in it that jarred. Two windows, which looked on the street, were hung with lace, which was imitation, of course, yet brilliantly white, and these curtains were looped to the wall with strips of canary silk that had probably come from a cigar-box. There were four chairs unconventionally arranged. There was one small table on which there was a large cake. There was another on which there was a lamp and a pink shade. On the walls were two colored lithographs, unframed, that were recognizedly supplements of a London weekly. In the air was the scent of innocence, and on one of the chairs, blushing like mad, sat the prettiest little girl in the world.
Hugh distinguished himself at once by tripping over a mat, and so confused was he that when his host mumbled some form of introduction he awkwardly stretched his hand and as awkwardly withdrew it.
“And are you very well, sir?” the young woman inquired, her head held a trifle to one side and in her eyes a manifest delight at finding him more embarrassed than herself.
Hugh declared that he had never felt better in his life. The young woman, in reply to a question which he then addressed, announced that her own health was perfect; the old man, duly interrogated, answered in the same strain, and then all three earnestly discussed the weather. Presently there was cake and lemonade, which Hugh lauded to the skies. Never had he eaten such ambrosia, never had he sipped such nectar; and, in the enthusiasm of the moment, he consented to play poker for imaginary stakes—a game at which, at the expiration of an hour, he had lost not a penny less than two million dollars. At one moment, however, during the progress of the play he had everything in his own favor. A rap had come on the door, and the old man had jumped as though a dog under the table had bitten him on the leg. “Don’t let anyone in,” he beseeched. “Say I have moved; say I am dead. Here, let me get into the other room.” And with that he had risen, his face contracted, shaking in every limb. But already Jenny had gone to the door. It was a mistake, she announced. A visitor for another tenant. Thus reassured, gradually the old man’s calm returned and the game continued. When it was done, there was more ambrosia, more nectar, more small-talk, and, finally, the inevitable good night.
After Hugh had gone, father and daughter sat awhile in silence. Suddenly Jenny jumped
