It is not the purpose of this tale to tell in detail how Arthur
Caldwell laid siege to Ann Austin. He was a cautious man, and for
some time he contented himself by presenting occasional reports of his
progress with the damsel of the Telephone Company. Ann, in her friendly
and unselfish way, was delighted to hear, a few days later, that he had
met his ideal. Then, averring that he needed further counsel, Arthur
persuaded her to have lunch with him one day; and Ann, convinced that
the young man was in love with someone else, saw no reason why this
should not be done. Perhaps it was a little odd that at their various
meetings they should have talked so much of themselves, their ambitions,
the books they had been reading, and so on; and so little of the
Telephone lady. But surely it was strictly a matter of business that
Arthur should send Miss Austin some of Fawcett's novels, for her to
review in the _Planet_; and equally a professional matter that he should
discuss with her her opinion of them. And then came the day when Arthur
called up to say that things were going so well with the Telephone
lady that he wanted Cynthia to meet her; and would she join them in St.
Paul's Churchyard at half-past twelve? Ann, with just a curious little
unanalyzed twinge in her heart, agreed to do so.
But when she reached the bench in the graveyard, where a bright autumn
sunshine filled the clearing among those tremendous buildings, Arthur
was there alone.
“Where's Alice?” said Ann, innocently--for such was the name Arthur had
always given the lady of the Telephone Company.
“She couldn't come,” he said. “But I want to show you her picture.”
They sat down on the bench, and he took out of his pocket a copy of
the noon edition of the _Planet_. He turned to the feature page, and
displayed the little cut of Cynthia at the head of the Lovelorn column.
“There,” he said, stoutly (though his heart was tremulous within him),
“there, you adorable little thing, there she is.”
It would be pleasant to linger over this scene, but, as I have just
said, this is not our _denouement,_ but only an incident. Ann, shot
through with delicious pangs of doubt and glory and anger, asked for
explanations.
“And do you mean to say there never was any Alice, the beautiful
Telephone blonde?” she said. “What a fraud you are!”
“Of course not,” he said. “You dear, delightful innocent, I just had
to cook up some excuse for coming up to see you. And you can't be angry
with me now, Ann, because in your own answer to Sincerity's letter you
said the girl ought not to be offended. You told me to take a chance!
Just think what self-control I had, that first time I came up to see
you, not to blurt out the truth.” And then he tore off a scrap of margin
from the newspaper and measured her finger for a ring.