"I never pry into other people's affairs. You are the last person I
expected to see this night."
"Will you answer a single question? I promise not to intrude further
upon your time, which, doubtless, is very valuable. Have you either the
hat or the letter?"
"Neither. I knew nothing about any letter till Mr. Chittenden came. But
he came too late."
"Too late?"--in an agonized whisper.
"Yes, too late. I had, unfortunately, given his hat to another gentleman
who made a trifling mistake in thinking it to be his own." Suddenly my
manners returned to me. "Will you come in?"
"Come in? No! You have given the hat to another man? A trifling mistake!
He calls it a trifling mistake!"--addressing the heavens, obscured
though they were by the thickness of several ceilings. "Oh, what _shall_
I do?" She began to wring her hands, and when a woman does that what
earthly hope is there for the man who looks on?
"Don't do that!" I implored. "I'll find the hat." At a word from her,
for all she had trampled on me, I would gladly have gone to Honolulu in
search of a hat-pin. "The gentleman left me his card. With your
permission I will go at once in search of him."
"I have a cab outside. Give me the address."
"I refuse to permit you to go alone."
"You have absolutely nothing to say in regard to where I shall or shall
not go."
"In this one instance. I shall withhold the address."
How her eyes blazed!
"Oh, it is easily to be seen that you do not trust me." I was utterly
discouraged.
"I did not imply that," with the least bit of softening. "Certainly I
would trust you. But...."
"Well?"--as laughingly as I could.
"I must be the one to take out that letter,"--decidedly.
"I offer to bring you the hat untouched," I replied.
"I insist on going."
"Very well; we shall go together; under no other circumstances. This is
a common courtesy that I would show to a perfect stranger."
I put on my hat, took up the Frenchman's card and tile, and bowed her
gravely into the main hallway. We did not speak on the way down to the
street. We entered the cab in silence, and went rumbling off southwest.
When the monotony became positively unbearable I spoke.
"I regret to force myself upon you."
No reply.
"It must be a very important letter."
"To no one but myself,"--with extreme frigidity.
"His father ought to wring his neck,"--thinking of Toddy-One-Boy.
"Sir, he is my brother!"
"I beg your pardon." It seemed that I wasn't getting on very well.
We bumped across the Broadway tracks. Once or twice our shoulders
touched, and the thrill I experienced was as painful as it was
rapturous. What was in a letter that she should go to this extreme to
recall it? A heat-flash of jealousy went over me. She had written to
some other fellow; for there always is some other fellow, hang him!...
And then a grand idea came into my erstwhile stupid head. Here she was,
alone with me in a cab. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. I could
force her to listen to my explanation.
"I received your note," I began. "It was cruel and without justice."
Her chin went up a degree.
"The worst criminal is not condemned without a hearing, and I have had
none."
No perceptible movement.
"We are none of us infallible in keeping appointments. We are liable to
make mistakes occasionally. Had I known that Tuesday night was the night
of the dance I'd have crossed to Jersey in a rowboat."
The chin remained precipitously inclined.
"I am poor, and the case involved some of my bread and butter. The work
was done at ten, and even then I did not discover that I had in any way
affronted you. I had it down in my note-book as Wednesday night."
The lips above the chin curled slightly.
"You see," I went on, striving to keep my voice even-toned, "my uncle is
rich, but I ask no odds of him. I live entirely upon what I earn at law.
It's the only way I can maintain my individuality, my self-respect and
independence. My uncle has often expressed his desire to make me a
handsome allowance, but what would be the use ... now?"--bitterly.
The chin moved a little. It was too dark to see what this movement
expressed.
"It seems that I am only a very unfortunate fellow."
"You had given me your promise."
"I know it."
"Not that I cared,"--with cat-like cruelty; "but I lost the last train
out while waiting for you. Not even a note to warn me! Not the slightest
chance to find an escort! When a man gives his promise to a lady it does
not seem possible that he could forget it ... if he cared to keep it."
"I tell you honestly that I mixed the dates." How weak my excuses
seemed, now that they had passed my lips!
"You are sure that you mixed nothing else?"--ironically. (She afterward
apologized for this.) "It appears that it would have been better to come
alone."
"I regret I did not give you the address."
"It is not too late."
"I never retreat from any position I have taken."
"Indeed?"
Then both our chins assumed an acute angle and remained thus. When a
woman is angry she is about as reasonable as a frightened horse; when a
man is angry he longs to hit something or smoke a cigar. Imagine my
predicament!
When the cab reached Washington Place and came to a stand I spoke again.
"Shall I take the hat in, or will you?"
"We shall go together."
Ah, if only I had had the courage to say: "I would it were for ever!"
But I feared that it wouldn't take.