ONE Saturday evening she said to me: "Lord! you
are so educated. I wish I had a head like yours."
"Why, you have an excellent head, Dora," I replied. "You have no
reason to complain."
She sighed
"I wish I had not gone into business," I resumed
I had already told her, more than once, in fact, how I had been
about to enter college when an accident had led me astray; so I
now referred to those events, dwelling regretfully upon the sudden
change I had made in my life plans
"It was the devil that put it in my head to become a manufacturer,"
I said, bitterly, yet with relish in the "manufacturer." "Well, one
can be a manufacturer and educated man at the same time," she
consoled me
"Of course. That's exactly what I always say," I returned, joyously.
"Still, I wish I had stuck to my original plan. There was a lady in
Antomir who advised me to prepare for college. She was always
speaking to me about it."
It was about 10 o'clock. Max was away to his dancing-schools. The
children were asleep. We were alone in the living-room
I expected her to ask who that Antomir lady was, but she did not,
so I went on speaking of Matilda of my own accord. I sketched
her as an "aristocratic" young woman, the daughter of one of the
leading families in town, accomplished, clever, pretty, and
"modern."
"It was she, in fact, who got me the money for my trip to
America," I said, lowering my voice, as one will when a
conversation assumes an intimate character
"Was it?" Dora said, also in a low voice
"Yes. It is a long story. It is nearly five years since I left home, but
I still think of it a good deal. Sometimes I feel as if my heart
would snap unless I had somebody to tell about it."
This was my way of drawing Dora into a flirtation, my first
attempt in that direction, though in my heart I had been making
love to her for weeks
I told her the story of my acquaintance with Matilda. She listened
with non-committal interest, with an amused, patronizing glimmer
of a smile
"You did not fall in love with her, did you?" she quizzed me as she
might Lucy
"That's the worst part of it," I said, gravely
"Is it?" she asked, still gaily, but with frank interest now
I recounted the episode at length. To put it in plain English, I was
using my affair with Matilda (or shall I say her affair with me?) as
a basis for an adventure with Dora. At first I took pains to gloss
over those details in which I had cut an undignified figure, but I
soon dropped all embellishments. The episode stood out so bold
in my memory. its appeal to my imagination was so poignant, that
I found an intoxicating satisfaction in conveying the facts as
faithfully as I knew how. To be telling a complete, unvarnished
truth is in itself a pleasure. It is as though there were a special
sense of truth and sincerity in our make-up (just as there is a sense
of musical harmony, for example), and the gratification of it were
a source of delight.
Nor was this my only motive for telling Dora all. I had long since
realized that the disdain and mockery with which Matilda handled
me had been but a cloak for her interest in my person. So when I
was relating to Dora the scenes of my ignominy I felt that the
piquant circumstances surrounding them were not unfavorable to
me
Anyhow, I was having a singularly intimate talk with Dora and she
was listening with the profoundest interest, all the little tricks she
employed to disguise it notwithstanding
In depicting the scene of the memorable night when Matilda came
to talk to me at my bedside I emphasized the fact that she had
called me a ninny
"I did not know what she meant," I said.
Dora tittered, looking at the floor shamefacedly. "The nasty thing!"
she said
"What do you mean?" I inquired, dishonestly
"I mean just what I say. She is a nasty thing, that grand lady of
yours." And she added another word--the East Side name for a
woman of the streets--that gave me a shock
"Don't call her that," I entreated. "Please don't. You are mistaken
about her. I assure you she is a highly respectable lady. She has a
heart of gold," I added, irrelevantly
"Well, well! You are still in love with her, aren't you?"
I was tempted to say: "No. It is you I now love." But I merely said,
dolefully: "No. Not any more."
She contemplated me amusedly and broke into a soft laugh
The next time we were alone in the house I came back to it. I
added some details. I found a lascivious interest in dwelling on
our passionate kisses, Matilda's and mine. Also, it gave me
morbid pleasure to have her behold me at Matilda's feet, lovelorn,
disdained, crushed, yet coveted, kissed, triumphant
Dora listened intently. She strove to keep up an amused air, as
though listening to some childish nonsense, but the look of her
eye, tense or flinching, and the warm color that often overspread
her cheeks, betrayed her