"Leith, what are you doing?"
Leith Pierrepont sat beside the window of the bachelor apartment which
he and Olney Winthrop had taken together. It was a handsome apartment,
fitted up with one reception-room, in which no one by chance was ever
received, a library the delight of a man's heart, two bedrooms, a
dining-room in which the breakfasts and dinners, if they wanted them,
were served by the caterer in the house, and a bath-room, perhaps the
most sumptuous and pretentious room in the apartment.
It was in the library that they were now, Winthrop stretched at full
length upon a huge couch, large enough for two to lie upon in comfort
without interference one with the other, a pile of pillows under his
head that might have satisfied a woman, and a meerschaum in his mouth
that was as black as ebony and quite as well polished. His hands were
clasped under his head, and his eyes were turned with great interest to
his chum, who, as has already been said, sat beside the window with a
cigar between his lips and a book in his hand.
Occasionally the cigar was rolled from side to side of the man's
handsome mouth, the eyes were thrown ceilingward, where they remained
for a moment or two, then returned with interest to the book.
It was after half a dozen of these performances that Olney Winthrop
put his question, which had to be repeated the second time before it
attracted the attention of the individual to whom it was addressed.
"Leith, what are you doing?"
"Studying."
The answer was given curtly enough, and for a moment Olney was silent;
but once again curiosity mastered him.
"Studying what?" he ventured to inquire.
"Spanish."
Another silence, this time much longer than the other. A change
had come over Olney suddenly. He took his hands out from under his
head, and looked toward the ceiling himself, as if he expected some
inspiration from that quarter. But evidently it did not come. He drew
on his beloved pipe for some moments thoughtfully, then arose to a
sitting posture and leaned his arms upon his knees.
"What the dickens are you studying Spanish for?" he demanded at last.
Leith Pierrepont turned his eyes in the direction of his friend and
looked at him absent-mindedly for a moment, then said, calmly:
"H'm?"
"I asked what the deuce you are doing that for?"
"Doing what?"
"Studying Spanish, of course."
"Why, to learn it, to be sure," returned Leith, indolently. "What did I
study French or German, or any of the rest of it, for?"
"You did that in French and German countries, and it was different. You
are doing this here in America, where no one speaks Spanish."
"It strikes me that you forget Miss de Barryos very readily."
Leith knocked the ashes from his cigar as he spoke, with the
nonchalance of a person absolutely indifferent to the subject upon
which he is speaking; but Olney happened to know him a little better
than to believe he felt as he appeared.
"She speaks English," he said, sententiously.
"I know, but she also speaks Spanish."
"And you are really learning it for that reason?"
"Certainly. What other?"
"Would you learn Chinese if Jessica were to happen to speak it?"
"Certainly not. The interest is not the same by any means."
Leith returned to his book, and Olney resumed his position upon the
couch. He did not look in the direction of his friend, but steadily
at the ceiling, or in a line with it, for there was such a cloud of
smoke between that he could not see it. He pulled at the pipe with
a steadiness and strength that argued well for the condition of his
lungs, then rose at last and laid it almost tenderly upon a table.
He thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers and walked once or
twice nervously up and down the room; but Leith only kept on diligently
with his study, never glancing away from his book, except toward the
ceiling.
Olney could bear the silence no longer, and broke it himself by and by.
"What do you mean by it, Leith?" he asked at last, forcing himself to
speak quietly, though he was far from feeling it.
"Mean by what?" asked his preoccupied companion.
"Studying Spanish."
"My dear fellow," drawled Leith, "you really appear to think there is
something criminal in the fact of my learning a language. What is there
extraordinary about it?"
"I never knew you to do it before for any girl."
"You never knew any girl before that I had determined to make my wife."
Olney did not stare. A crimson glow crept from throat to brow, but he
did not cease in his walk for some time. The desultory conversation
stopped again for a time; then he paused in his walk, at no great
distance from Leith, and leaned his elbow upon the mantel-shelf.
"Dear old boy, this is the first time in all our histories that it has
ever happened," he said, somberly.
Once more Leith looked up from his lesson, this time with a faint show
of annoyance.
"Why will you persist in breaking out in that fashion, as if you
expected me to know in what groove your mind has been wandering for the
last half hour?" he asked, irritably. "It is the first time that what
has ever happened?"
"That you and I have fallen in love with the same woman!"
Leith looked at his friend for a moment, then put his book upon the
table, face downward, and threw his cigar into the cuspidor.
"I was afraid of that," he said, slowly.
"Afraid of it!" echoed Olney. "You must have known it."
"How should I? A fellow isn't always in love with the girl to whom he
pays attention."
"He is when the girl is one of the same kind that Miss de Barryos is."
"Perhaps you are right. I'm awfully sorry, old fellow."
"Sorry for what?"
"Sorry that you are in love with her."
"Why?"
"Because she can't be wife to both of us, and I mean to have her."
"Oh!"
"You see, Olney, you and I have been good friends for ten years
now, and ten years is a long time, as years go. We've never had a
disagreement in our lives, except that you have perhaps had a little
more energy than was altogether comfortable, and I'm as fond of you as
I could possibly be of a brother. You believe that, don't you?"
"I know it; and it is that which hurts me."
"But you can't expect me to give up the woman I love for you, can you?"
"Has she consented to be your wife?"
"No; I've never asked her."
"Then, you confounded, conceited cad, how can you presume so upon her
consent?"
There was no ill-temper in the remark. They frequently used such tender
epithets with each other; and Pierrepont only smiled as he answered,
with perfect good nature:
"Did you ever know me to set my heart upon anything that I did not
accomplish?"
"No, confound you!" returned his friend. "But I'll be hanged if you
shall succeed with this!"
"Why?"
"You can't expect me to give up the woman I love for you," returned
Olney, repeating his friend's words with a sort of sneer; "now, can
you? Well I propose to marry Miss de Barryos myself."
"Has she consented?"
"I have not asked her."
Pierrepont laughed.
"Then, so far, apparently, we are on a perfectly equal footing. All
right, old fellow. It is rather hard lines that we should have gone
a-foul of each other in this, of all things; but since it is so, let us
treat each other with perfect fairness. I tell you frankly that I mean
to marry Miss de Barryos."
"And my intention is equally strong that she shall be my wife."
"So be it," returned Pierrepont with more earnestness than he usually
showed, though there was still a smile clinging to his lips. "At least,
one is not deceived in the intentions of the other. I want you to
clearly understand me that I intend to marry her. People have accused
me of making love to women every time I speak to one; but I swear to
you that I have never uttered to any woman the words that I shall
speak to her, never asked a woman in my life the question that I shall
put to her. I am thirty-four years old, Olney, have never been balked
in a desire in my life, and I don't intend to begin with this which
means so much to me. It's a fair warning, old fellow."
Olney smiled.
"And forewarned is forearmed," he said, gravely.