Mr. Anderson had finished with women forever. And this resolve gave to
his face a new and not unbecoming sternness; the old ladies noticed it
directly he entered the dining room that evening. Miss Selby noticed
it, too, but pretended not to; she smiled that same chilly, polite
smile, and said never a word—neither did he.
Supper was set before them, and they began to eat, still silent. And
then she spoke suddenly.
“What’s the matter with your hand, Mr. Anderson?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing; thanks!” he answered.
Again a silence. But she could not keep her eyes off that
clumsily-tied bandage on his hand.
“I wish you’d tell me!” she said.
It was an entirely different tone, but he was no longer to be trifled
with like that. He smiled, coldly.
“No doubt you’ll be very much amused,” he remarked, “to learn that
I’ve been bitten by a dog!”
He waited.
“Why don’t you laugh, Miss Selby?” he inquired. “It’s funny enough,
isn’t it? After I said that dogs always know. It’s what you might call
‘biting irony,’ isn’t it?”
“I—don’t want to laugh,” said she. “I’m—just sorry.”
He looked at her.
“Miss Selby!” he cried.
“I took your flowers upstairs,” she said. “I think—they’re the
prettiest—the prettiest flowers—I—ever saw.”
“Miss Selby!” he exclaimed again. “See here! Please! When I thought
you were ill—”
“I only had a little cold.”
“I wrote a note,” he said. “I tore it up. I—I wish I hadn’t.”
Miss Selby was looking down at her plate.
“I wish you hadn’t, too,” she agreed.
The old ladies had all finished their suppers, but not one of them
left the room. They were watching Miss Selby and Mr. Anderson. Surely
not a remarkable spectacle, simply a nice looking young man and a
pretty young girl, sitting, quite speechless, now, at a little table.
Yet one old lady actually wiped tears from her eyes, and every one of
them felt an odd and tender little stir at the heart, as if the
perfume of very old memories had blown in at the opened window.
“Let’s go out on the veranda,” said Mr. Anderson to Miss Selby, and
they did.
The rain was coming down steadily, and the wind sighed in the pines.
But it was a June night, a summer night, a young night.
Not an old lady set foot on the veranda that evening, not another
human being heard what Miss Selby from Boston, and Mr. Anderson from
New York had to say to each other.
Only Mrs. Brown, opening the door for a breath of fresh air, did
happen to hear him saying something about the “best sort of paper for
wedding announcements.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 1926 issue of
Munsey’s Magazine.]