She was lying on the bed when a relay of servants staggered in bearing
gaudy piles of the most recent and popular novels, and placed them in
tottering profusion upon the adjacent furniture.
The Lady Alene turned her head where it lay lazily pillowed on her left
arm, and glanced indifferently at the multi-coloured battlement of
books. The majority of the covers were embellished with the heads of
young women, all endowed with vaudeville-like beauty--it having been
discovered by intelligent publishers that a girl's head on any book
sells it.
On some covers were displayed coloured pictures of handsome and athletic
American young men, usually kissing beautiful young ladies who wore
crowns, ermines, and foreign orders over dinner dresses. Sometimes,
however, they were kicking Kings. That seemed rather odd to the Lady
Alene, and she sat up on the bed and reached out her hand. It
encountered a book on which rested a small, oblong package. She took
book and package. On the pink wrapper of the latter she read this verse:
Why are my teeth so white and bright?
Because I chew with all my might
The gum that fills me with delight
And keeps me healthy day and night.
Five cents.
The Lady Alene's unaccustomed fingers became occupied with the pink
wrapper. Presently she withdrew from it a thin and brittle object,
examined it, and gravely placed it in her mouth.
For a while the perplexed and apprehensive expression remained upon her
face, but it faded gradually, and after a few minutes her lovely
features settled into an expression resembling contentment. And,
delicately, discreetly, at leisurely intervals, her fresh, sweet lips
moved as though she were murmuring a prayer.
All that afternoon she perused the first American novel she had ever
read. And the cumulative effect of the fiction upon her literal mind was
amazing as she turned page after page, and, gradually gathering mental
and nervous speed, dashed from one chapter, bang! into another, only to
be occultly adjured to "take the car ahead"--which she now did quite
naturally, and on the run.
Never, never had she imagined such things could be! Always heretofore,
to her, fiction had been a strict reflection of actuality in which a
dull imagination was licensed to walk about if it kept off the grass.
And it always did in the only novels to which she had been accustomed.
But good heavens! Here was a realism at work in these pages so
astonishing yet so convincing, so subtle yet so natural, so matter of
fact yet so astoundingly new to her that the book she was reading was
already changing the entire complexion of the Yankee continent for her.
It had to do with a young, penniless, and athletic American who went to
Europe, tipped a king off his throne, pushed a few dukes, counts, and
barons out of the way, reorganized the army, and went home taking with
him a beautiful and exclusive princess with honest intentions.
The inhabitants of several villages wept at his departure; the abashed
nobility made unsuccessful attempts to shoot him; otherwise the trip to
the Cunard Line pier was uneventful, and diplomatic circles paid no
attention to the incident.
When the Lady Alene finished the story her oval face ached; but this was
no time to consider aches. So with a charming abandon she relieved her
pretty teeth of the morceau, replaced it with another, helped herself to
a second novel, settled back on her pillow, and opened the enchanted
pages.
And zip! Instantly she became acquainted with another athletic and
penniless American who was raising the devil in the Balkans.
Never in her life had she dreamed that any nation contained such
fearless, fascinating, resourceful, epigrammatic, and desirable young
men! And here she was in the very midst of them, and never had realised
it until now.
Where were they? All around her, no doubt. When, a few days later, she
had read some baker's dozen novels, and in each one of them had
discovered similar athletic, penniless, and omniscient American young
men, her opinion was confirmed, and she could no longer doubt that, like
the fiction of her own country, the romances of American novelists must
have a substantial foundation in solid fact.
There could be no use in quibbling. The situation had become exciting.
Her youthful imagination was now fired; her Saxon blood thoroughly
stirred. She knew perfectly well that there were in her own country no
young men like these she had read about--not a man-jack among them who
would ever dream of dashing about the world cuffing the ears of
reprehensible monarchs, meting out condign punishment to refractory
nobility, reconstructing governments and states and armies, and escaping
with a princess every time.
Not that she actually believed that such episodes were of common
occurrence. Young as she was she knew better. But somehow it seemed very
clear to her that a race of writers who were so unanimous on the subject
and a nation which so complacently read of these events without denying
their plausibility, must within itself harbour germs and seeds of
romance and reckless deeds which no doubt had produced a number of young
men thoroughly capable of doing a few of the exciting things she had
read about.
Now she regretted she had not noticed the men she had met; now she was
indeed sorry she had not at least taken pains to learn to distinguish
them one from the other. She wished that she had investigated this
reckless, chivalrous, energetic, and distinguishing trait of the
American young man.
It seemed odd, too, that Pa-_pa_ had never investigated it; that
Ma-_ma_ had never appeared to notice it.
She mentioned it at dinner carelessly, in the midst of a natural and
British silence. Neither parent enlightened her. One said, "Fancy!" And
the other said, "Ow."
And so, as both parents departed the following morning to investigate
the tarpon fishing at Miami, the little Lady Alene made private
preparations to investigate and closely observe the astonishing,
reckless, and romantic tendencies of the American young man. Her tour of
discovery she scheduled for five o'clock that afternoon.
Just how these investigations were to be accomplished she did not see
very clearly. She had carefully refrained from knowing anybody in the
hotel. So how to go about it she did not know; but she knew enough after
luncheon to have her hair done by somebody besides her maid, selected
the most American gown in her repertoire, took a sunshade hitherto
disdained, and glanced in the mirror at a picture in white, with gold
hair, violet eyes, and a skin of snow and roses.
Further she did not know how to equip herself, except by going out doors
at five o'clock. And at five o'clock she went.
From the tennis courts young men and girls looked at her. On the golf
links youth turned to observe her slim and dainty progress. She was
stared at from porch and veranda, from dock and deck, from garden and
walk and orange grove and hedge of scarlet hibiscus.
From every shop window in the village, folk looked out at her; from
automobile, wheeled chair, bicycle, and horse-drawn vehicle she was
inspected. But she knew nobody; not one bright nod greeted her; not one
straw hat was lifted; not one nigger grinned. She knew nobody. And,
alas! everybody knew her. A cold wave seemed to have settled over
Verbena Inlet.
Yet her father was not unpopular, nor was her mother either; and
although they asked too many questions, their perfectly impersonal and
scientific mission in Verbena Inlet was understood.
But the Lady Alene Innesly was not understood, although her indifference
was noted and her exclusiveness amusedly resented. However, nobody
interfered with her or her seclusion. The fact that she desired to know
nobody had been very quickly accepted. Youth and the world at Verbena
Inlet went on without her; the sun continued to rise and set as usual;
and the nigger waiters played baseball.
She stood watching them now for a few minutes, her parasol tilted over
her lovely shoulders. Tiring of this, she sauntered on, having not the
slightest idea where she was going, but very calmly she made up her mind
to speak to the first agreeable looking young man she encountered, as
none of them seemed at all inclined to speak to her.
Under her arm she had tucked a novel written by one Smith. She had read
it half through. The story concerned a young and athletic and penniless
man from Michigan and a Balkan Princess. She had read as far as the
first love scene. The young man from Michigan was still kissing the
Princess when she left off reading. And her imagination was still on
fire.
She had wandered down to the lagoon without finding anybody sufficiently
attractive to speak to. The water was blue and pretty and very inviting.
So she hired a motor-boat, seated herself in the stern, and dabbled her
fingers in the water as the engineer took her whizzing across the lagoon
and out into the azure waste, headed straight for the distant silvery
inlet.