"She goes upstairs as though she were floating up," he wrote, with
enthusiasm; "her lovely figure, poised on tip-toe, seems to soar upward,
ascending as naturally and gracefully as the immortals ascended the
golden stairs of Jacob----"
In full flood of his treacherous imagination he seated himself on a
chair beside her bed, rested the note-book on his knees, and scribbled
madly, utterly oblivious to her. And it was only when he had finished,
for sheer lack of material, that he recollected himself, looked up, saw
how she had shrunk away from him against the wall--how the scarlet had
dyed her face to her temples.
"Why--why do you come--into my bedroom?" she faltered. "Does our
friendship count for no more than that with you?"
"What?" he said, bewildered.
"That you do what you have no right to do. Art--art is _not_ enough
to--to--excuse--disrespect----"
Suddenly the tears sprang to her eyes, and she covered her flushed face
with both hands.
For a moment Brown stood petrified. Then a deeper flush than hers
settled heavily over his features.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She made no response.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. I _do_ respect you," he said.
No response.
Brown gazed at her, gazed at his note-book.
Then he hurled the note-book across the room and walked over to her as
she lifted her lovely head, startled and tearful.
"You are right," he said, swallowing nothing very desperately. "You can
not be studied this way. Will you--marry me?"
"What!"
"Will you marry me?"
"Why?" she gasped.
"Because I--want to study you."
"No!" she said, looking him straight in the eyes.
Brown thought hard for a full minute.
"Would you marry me because I love you?" he asked timidly.
The question seemed to be more than she could answer. Besides, the tears
sprang to her blue eyes again, and her under lip began to tremble, and
she covered her face with both hands. Which made it impossible for him
to kiss her.
"Isn't it wonderful?" he said earnestly, trembling from head to foot.
"Isn't it wonderful, dear?"
"Yes," she whispered. The word, uttered against his shoulder, was
stifled. He bent his head nearer, murmuring:
"Thalomene--Thalomene--embodiment of Truth! How wonderful it is to me
that at last I find in you that absolute Truth I worship."
"I am--the embodiment--of your--imagination," she said. "But you will
never, never believe it--most adorable of boys--dearest--dearest of
men."
And, lifting her stately and divine young head, she looked innocently at
Brown while he imprinted his first and most chaste kiss upon the fresh,
sweet lips of the tenth muse, Thalomene, daughter of Zeus.
* * * * *
"Athalie," said the youthful novelist more in sorrow than in anger,
"you are making game of everything I hold most important."
"Provide yourself with newer and truer gods, dear child," said the girl,
laughing. "After you've worshipped them long enough somebody will also
poke fun at them. Whereupon, if you are fortunate enough to be one of
those who continues to mature until he matures himself into the
Ewigkeit, you will instantly quit those same over-mauled and worn out
gods for newer and truer ones."
"And so on indefinitely," I added.
"In literature," began the novelist, "the great masters must stand as
parents for us in our first infantile steps----"
"No," said the girl, "all worthy aspirants enter the field of literature
as orphans. Opportunity and Fates alone stand for them _in loco
parentis_. And the child of these is known as Destiny."
"No cubist could beat that, Athalie," remarked Duane. "I'm ashamed of
you--or proud--I don't know which."
"Dear child," she said, "you will never know the true inwardness of any
sentiment you entertain concerning me until I explain it to you."
"Smitten again hip and thigh," said Stafford. "Fair lady, I am far too
wary to tell you what I think of the art of incoherence as practised
occasionally by the prettiest Priestess in the Temple."
Athalie looked at me as the sweetmeat melted on her tongue.
"You promised me a dog," she remarked.
"I've picked him out. He'll be weaned in another week."
"What species of pup is he?" inquired Duane.
"An Iceland terrier," I answered. "They use them for digging out walrus
and seals."
"Thank you," said Duane pleasantly.
"After all," observed the girl, lifting her glass of water, "it does not
concern Mr. Duane what sort of a dog you have chosen for me."
She sipped it leisurely, looking over the delicate crystal rim at Duane.
"You are young," she said. "'_L'enfance est le sommeil de la raison._'"
"How would you like to have an Angora kitten?" he asked, reddening
slightly.
"But infancy," she added, "is always adorable.... I think I might like a
white one with blue eyes."
"Puppies, kittens, children," remarked Stafford--"they're all tolerable
while they're young."
"All of these," said the girl softly, "I should like to have."
And she gazed inquiringly at the crystal. But it could tell her nothing
of herself or of her hopes. She turned and looked out into the dark
city, a trifle wearily, it seemed to me.