“Woman in bicycle costume is an acquired taste,” Ned Strong had once
remarked to a friend. That was before Mrs. Brevoort had taken to
wheeling. She had converted him to a belief in the artistic possibilities
of a bifurcated dress for women. He had come to the final conclusion
that the desirability of a bicycle costume, so far as the gentler sex
is concerned, must remain wholly a local issue. Experience was teaching
him that generalizations regarding the progressive woman of to-day are
worthless. Furthermore, he had learned that whether or not he admired
their ways and costumes made little difference to the women of his
set. The iconoclastic tendency of recent years finds no more striking
illustration than in the fact that women no longer sacrifice their
comfort to their dress for the sake of man’s approval, but dare to be
unconventional for the sake of their own comfort.
And Ned Strong was obliged to acknowledge to himself that Mrs. Brevoort,
dark, _piquante_, vivacious, presented an extremely attractive picture
on this September afternoon as she sat gazing at the blue waters of the
Sound, equipped for a long ride on her wheel.
That Kate Strong was a much more striking and impressive figure than
Mrs. Brevoort was a fact that had not appealed to the young man’s mind.
Perhaps he had not observed his sister critically. Or it may be that he
had so long taken it for granted that Kate always made a good appearance
that he was not inclined to waste time on the question as to the
adaptability of a bicycle costume to his sister’s use. At all events, the
youth found pleasure in confining his attentions to Mrs. Brevoort, and
failed to notice that his sister’s face wore an expression of melancholy
and that there was a listlessness in her manner that the warmth of the
day could not wholly explain.
“And you have heard nothing more about him?” asked Mrs. Brevoort, gazing
interestedly at Ned Strong. “It seems very strange that he has never
written you a line.”
“Doesn’t it?” cried the young man. “And he was such a thoroughbred in his
manner and appearance! Wasn’t he, Kate?”
“He was very attractive,” answered his sister, somewhat reluctantly, it
seemed. “I feel sure that some day we shall find an explanation to the
mystery.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” exclaimed Mrs. Brevoort, airily. “You see, I don’t
take a bit of stock in these foreigners. I have seen so much of them! It
may be bad form on my part, but I prefer an American gentleman to the
most fascinating European that ever claimed descent from Charlemagne or
William the Conqueror.” She cast a mischievous, challenging glance at Ned
Strong, and went on: “There’s something about monarchical countries that
begets ideal lovers but impossible husbands. The greatest complaint over
absentee landlords on the other side comes from American girls who have
married titled foreigners.”
Ned Strong laughed. “On behalf of my fellow-countrymen I thank you,
Mrs. Brevoort. It is too bad that your convictions have not a greater
following here among us.”
“So much the worse for those who do not agree with me. How much can an
American girl know about a titled foreigner who comes over here looking
for a rich wife? Take the case you have just been telling me about,”
continued Mrs. Brevoort, vivaciously. “This fascinating youth called
himself ‘Count Szalaki.’ How easy it was for you to discover that there
was no such title in Rexania! ’Twas surprisingly clumsy on his part.”
“That’s one reason that leads me to think,” remarked Ned, “that there is
something more in the affair than a mere adventurer’s escapade. If he had
been a fraud he would have been more careful in his choice of a name.
If he was, as I have sometimes suspected, a man very high in rank, who
wished to disguise his identity, he would have chosen a title that did
not exist, taking it for granted that we would respect his wish to remain
unknown. There are royal personages on the other side who travel under
names that one cannot find in Burke’s Peerage or the Almanach de Gotha.”
“That’s merely a matter of form,” exclaimed Mrs. Brevoort, glancing at
Kate. “Everybody knows who they are, wherever they go. I was introduced
to a king in Paris who had chosen to trot around under the name of
Mr. Smith, but it was a very thin disguise. He was such a wretched
conversationalist that I knew at once that he concealed a throne behind
his stupidity. A real Mr. Smith could have talked about something besides
the weather.”
Kate smiled at the sarcastic little woman’s words.
“What a thorough democrat you are, Mrs. Brevoort!” she remarked. “I
almost suspect that you intend to go in for politics.”
“Why not?” cried Mrs. Brevoort enthusiastically. “If we don’t take part
in public affairs, other women will. I believe it is our duty to raise
the tone of politics by taking an interest in them. If the men of our
class won’t do their duty by the State, it is for us to take their
place.” She looked at Ned Strong defiantly.
“I suspect,” he remarked, cautiously, “that you do not approve of my
indifference to public affairs, Mrs. Brevoort.”
“Most assuredly I do not,” she exclaimed emphatically. “A youth who
claims a divine right to occupy a European throne and defends that
assumed right with cannon and gunpowder is, to my mind, in a false
position, but he is more consistent than a young American who possesses
the prerogative of the ballot and won’t take the trouble to go to the
polls to vote.”
Ned Strong laughed merrily. “What a long memory you have, Mrs. Brevoort!
It is nearly a year since you learned that I failed to register last
fall, and now you bring a sweeping accusation against me. I fear you do
not find me possessed of the saving grace of patriotism.”
“Patriotism!” cried the youth’s accuser. “Surely, if you have it, it
finds queer ways of expression, Mr. Strong. You fail to vote, and yet
you are forever denouncing this country for going to the dogs. I really
believe that I have heard you crack a joke at the expense of George
Washington.”
A smile of amusement crossed Kate Strong’s face. “He deserves what you
are giving him, Mrs. Brevoort. Ned is a thorough believer in his divine
right to let other people save the country.”
“This is unfair,” cried the young man, with assumed annoyance. “I am
outnumbered two to one. You have me at a disadvantage. But I will not
attempt now, Mrs. Brevoort, to defend my position. And, luckily for me,
here comes my chance for escape. You cannot talk politics on the wheel,
you two. Are you ready to mount? It is just three o’clock, and we are in
good time for a long spin.”
A boy in livery had brought their wheels to the front of the club-house,
and, mounting quickly, the trio sped down the pathway toward the entrance
that opened on to the grounds from the main highway. Mrs. Brevoort and
Ned Strong led the way, and Kate followed them, a flush of physical
enjoyment mounting to her cheeks as she chased the south wind inland.