Mrs. Brevoort and Ned Strong sped along in silence for a time. The roads
were dry and hard, and there was enough life in the breeze that had
kissed the sea to make even violent exercise seductive. Ned’s companion
was an enthusiastic and accomplished wheelwoman, and she pedalled on
merrily by his side, sometimes smiling up at him in the mere joy of
physical exertion. They had reached the high-road, and were rapidly
making their way toward New Rochelle when Ned turned to his companion and
said:
“Tell me, Mrs. Brevoort, what is your idea of Kate’s feeling toward Count
Szalaki? Do you think she is really interested in the man?”
“How stupid you are!” cried the little woman, who seldom failed to
display either real or assumed enthusiasm regarding any given topic of
conversation. Turning in her saddle, she looked back, and saw that Kate
Strong was wheeling steadily forward a hundred yards to their rear. “But
what else could I expect? All men are stupid about certain matters.
Of course your sister is interested in Count Szalaki. So am I. I am
wild to see the boy. From what you both say of him, he must be simply
irresistible.”
Ned Strong frowned and impatiently increased the speed of his wheel. He
knew how to withstand the coquetry of a young girl, but the “in-and-out
running of a widow,” as he called it to himself, kept him in a state of
nervous worry most of the time.
“I suppose,” he remarked crossly, “that what a man needs in these days to
make him interesting are black curly hair and an air of mystery. In that
case I’m out of it completely.”
Mrs. Brevoort laughed aloud.
“What a jealous creature you are, Mr. Strong! Your wife will have a sad
life of it, unless she is a very clever woman.”
“I don’t intend to marry,” remarked the youth sternly. “What a fool I’d
be to sell my birthright for a mess of affectation! And that’s what a
woman is to-day—simply a mess of affectation.”
“What an elegant expression!” cried Mrs. Brevoort, a gleam of malice
in her laughing eyes as she looked up at the youth, who was gazing
stubbornly forward and pushing the pedals of his wheel as though he had
suffered a great wrong and was obliged to work for his living. “But it
does you credit, Mr. Strong. It indicates on your part a remote but more
or less intimate acquaintance with biblical lore.”
“But there’s one thing certain,” continued the young man, not heeding her
sarcasm, “and that is that if I _should_ marry I would not tie myself
down to a silly girl who might at any moment meet a curly-haired man with
a title and leave me in the lurch.”
Mrs. Brevoort laughed mockingly.
“How self-confident you are, little boy!” she exclaimed. “Let me
tell you, sir, it is my opinion that you will marry a blue-eyed,
golden-haired young doll, who will make you believe that you are the most
wonderful man on earth and that she is the happiest woman. I can see it
all in my mind’s eye. You prize your freedom, as you think, more than
most men. It is just your kind that fall victims to the sweet-faced,
blond-haired little vixens who make the most tyrannical wives in the
world. Do you like the prediction?”
The youth turned a frowning face to his _vis-à-vis_. “Why, oh, why, Mrs.
Brevoort,” he cried, “will you check the natural flow of my spirits by so
dire a prophecy? Think of the awful fate that awaits me, if your words
are true! I acknowledge that I have seen other men, perhaps as hard to
suit as I am myself, falling into the clutches of spotless young girls
who have lured them into the awful maelstrom of marriage; but I swear to
you that I shall profit by their experience. I should never marry because
I wanted a parlor ornament. When I give up my liberty, I shall insist
upon a _quid pro quo_.”
“What in the world is that, Mr. Strong?” cried Mrs. Brevoort, looking
shocked as she glanced up at him with exaggerated amazement.
“That’s Latin,” answered the youth densely. “It’s a dead language, but I
used it for a very live purpose. I am not talking at random, you know,
Mrs. Brevoort. There is method in my madness.”
Ned Strong looked down at his companion meaningly, but she refused to
meet his gaze.
“But method never yet saved madness from disaster,” she remarked, sagely.
Her words seemed to check the youth’s impetuosity, for he cast a
pleading glance at her averted face and then wheeled forward in silence
for a time.
“The fact is,” he began again, after he had renewed his courage, “the
fact is, Mrs. Brevoort, that you don’t understand me.”
A smile that he could not see from his exalted perch crossed the widow’s
face. It is only a very young man who ever dares to tell a woman that
she does not weigh him justly. The average man may deceive other men; it
takes a genius to blind a woman.
“Explain yourself,” she urged, not too warmly.
“I don’t want to give you the impression,” he went on, hesitatingly, “you
know, that I don’t admire women—that is, some women, don’t you see?”
“I see,” she answered pitilessly; “you admire women—some women, that
is—for anything, everything, but matrimony. You said a few moments ago
that you would never marry.”
“Did I?” he asked, almost penitently. “I had forgotten that I went so
far. But, I assure you, I didn’t mean to imply, you know, that under
certain circumstances and—don’t you see—if I got the promise of just the
right woman, that I shouldn’t be very glad to give up my freedom, don’t
you know; that is, if it was perfectly agreeable to her, of course.”
Mrs. Brevoort laughed outright, as they bowled down a long hill at the
top of which the Strongs’ manor-house peeped above the trees.
“You are the most amusing man I know, Mr. Strong,” she exclaimed, as they
reached the level road and moved forward more slowly. “If you were more
consistent, you wouldn’t be half so much fun.”
The youth was not altogether pleased at her remark. He glanced at her
searchingly.
“You may do me an injustice, Mrs. Brevoort,” he said firmly. “It is more
than possible that I am more consistent than you suspect.”
“In what?” she asked, rather recklessly, looking up at him mischievously.
The expression in his eyes caused her a pang of regret at the challenge
she had made.
“In my ideas regarding matrimony, in my convictions as to the woman I
should wish to marry,” he answered, meaningly. “Shall I explain?”
Mrs. Brevoort gave a questioning glance at his face and realized that he
must not explain. She turned in her saddle, as if seeking the support of
an ally at a crisis that must be averted at any cost.
“Why, where is Kate?” she cried, checking the speed of her wheel and
gazing back eagerly along the road and up the hill that crept toward the
manor-house.
Ned Strong turned, rather impatiently, and saw that the road was
deserted, save that half-way up the hill an open vehicle, that he and
Mrs. Brevoort had been too absorbed in conversation to notice when it
passed them, was slowly mounting toward the summit.
“We must go back and find her,” cried Mrs. Brevoort, dismounting from her
wheel and looking at Ned anxiously.
“It would be useless,” he said, stubbornly. “She has grown tired of
riding alone and has gone back to the club-house. Or perhaps she has
stopped at the lodge to speak to Rudolph. That’s our old homestead up
there, you know, Mrs. Brevoort. Really, I don’t think it would pay us to
climb that hill on the remote chance of finding her. We’ll turn off the
main road just above here and get back to the club-house at once if you
wish. It’s a shorter cut than we could make by retracing our road over
the hill.”
Mrs. Brevoort reluctantly remounted her wheel.
“If you had not talked so much nonsense,” she remarked unjustly to Ned
Strong as they resumed their way, “we would not have lost track of Kate.”
“A remark that I consider highly complimentary,” commented the youth,
smiling contentedly down at the disturbed countenance of Mrs. Brevoort.