Mademoiselle pouted.
'Candy man,' she said, softly and deeply, 'yet you shall say that I am beautiful. All men say so and so shall you.'
The candy man laughed and pulled out his pipe.
'Well,' said be, 'I must be goin' in. There is a story in the evenin' paper that I am readin'. Men are divin' in the seas for a treasure, and pirates are watchin' them from behind a reef. And there ain't a woman on land or water or in the air. Good- evenin'.' And he trundled his pushcart down the alley and back to the musty court where he lived.
Incredibly to him who has not learned woman, Mademoiselle sat at the window each day and spread her nets for the ignominious game. Once she kept a grand cavalier waiting in her reception chamber for half an hour while she battered in vain the candy man's tough philosophy. His rough laugh chafed her vanity to its core. Daily he sat on his cart in the breeze of the alley while her hair was being ministered to, and daily the shafts of her beauty rebounded from his dull bosom pointless and ineffectual. Un- worthy pique brightened her eyes. Pride-hurt she glowed upon him in a way that would have sent her higher adorers into an egoistic paradise. The candy man's hard eyes looked upon her with a half-con- cealed derision that urged her to the use of the sharp- est arrow in her beauty's quiver.
One afternoon she leaned far over the sill, and she did not challenge and torment him as usual.
'Candy man,' said she, 'stand up and look into my eyes.'
He stood up and looked into her eyes, with his harsh laugh like the sawing of wood. He took out his pipe, fumbled with it, and put it back into big pocket with a trembling band.
'That will do,' said Mademoiselle, with a slow smile. 'I must go now to my masseuse. Good- evening.'
The next evening at seven the candy man came and rested his cart under the window. But was it the candy man? His clothes were a bright new check. His necktie was a flaming red, adorned by a glit- tering horseshoe pin, almost life-size. His shoes were polished; the tan of his cheeks had paled -- his hands had been washed. The window was empty, and he waited under it with his nose upward, like a hound hoping for a bone.
Mademoiselle came, with Sidonie carrying her load of hair. She looked at the candy man and smiled a slow smile that faded away into ennui. Instantly she knew that the game was bagged; and so quickly she wearied of the chase. She began to talk to Sidonie.
'Been a fine day,' said the candy man, hollowly. 'First time in a month I've felt first-class. Hit it up down old Madison, hollering out like I useter. Think it'll rain to-morrow?'
Mademoiselle laid two round arms on the cushion on the window-sill, and a dimpled chin upon them.
'Candy man,' said she, softly, 'do you not love me? '
The candy man stood up and leaned against the brick wall.
'Lady,' said be, chokingly, 'I've got $800 saved up. Did I say you wasn't beautiful? Take it every bit of it and buy a collar for your dog with it.'
A sound as of a hundred silvery bells tinkled in the room of Mademoiselle. The laughter filled the alley and trickled back into the court, as strange a thing to enter there as sunlight itself. Mademoiselle was amused. Sidonie, a wise echo, added a sepulchral but faithful contralto. The laughter of the two seemed at last to penetrate the candy man. He fumbled with his horseshoe pin. At length Mademoiselle, ex- hausted, turned her flushed, beautiful face to the win- dow.
'Candy man,' said she, 'go away. When I laugh Sidonie pulls my hair. I can but laugh while you remain there.'
'Here is a note for Mademoiselle,' said Fe1ice, coming to the window in the room.
'There is no justice,' said the candy man, lift- ing the handle of his cart and moving away.
Three yards he moved, and stopped. Loud shriek after shriek came from the window of Mademoiselle. Quickly he ran back. He heard a body thumping upon the floor and a sound as though heels beat alter- nately upon it.
'What is it?' be called.
Sidonie's severe head came into the window.
'Mademoiselle is overcome by bad news,' she said. 'One whom she loved with all her soul has gone -- you may have beard of him -- he is Monsieur Ives. He sails across the ocean to-morrow. Oh, you men!'
SQUARING THE CIRCLE
At the hazard of wearying you this tale of vehe- ment emotions must be prefaced by a discourse on geometry.
Nature moves in circles; Art in straight lines. The natural is rounded; the artificial is made up of angles. A man lost in the snow wanders, in spite of himself, in perfect circles; the city man's feet, denaturalized by rectangular streets and floors, carry him ever away from himself.
The round eyes of childhood typify innocence; the narrowed line of the flirt's optic proves the in- vasion of art. The horizontal mouth is the mark of determined cunning; who has not read Nature's most spontaneous lyric in lips rounded for the candid kiss?
Beauty is Nature in perfection; circularity is its chief attribute. Behold the full moon, the enchant- ing golf ball, the domes of splendid temples, the huckleberry pie, the wedding ring, the circus ring, the ring for the waiter, and the 'round' of drinks.
On the other hand, straight lines show that Na- ture has been deflected. Imagine Venus's girdle transformed into a 'straight front'!
When we begin to move in straight lines and turn sharp corners our natures begin to change. The consequence is that Nature, being more adaptive than Art, tries to conform to its sterner regulations. The result is often a rather curious product -- for in- stance: A prize chrysanthemum, wood alcohol whis- key, a Republican
