VANE went home much discontented with himself. He had not only behaved
like an ass, but he had made a blunder. He had gone much further than
he meant to in seeking not to go so far. And he found that he loved
her more than he thought, now that he had displeased her. He wanted
diversion that night, and did not know what to do. Miss Thomas was his
usual diversion. John was away. Finally, after dinner, he happened into
Wallack's theatre--it was the interval between the first and second
acts. The first person that he saw was Miss Thomas, and a young man in
evening dress was seated next her. Vane paid little attention to the
play, and at the end of the second act he went out without speaking to
her.
This was simply incredible! Vane could not conceive of it. It was a
pitch of innocence beyond the range of imagination of a man educated
in France. This was America with a vengeance. It must be that she
did not care what people said. Could she know that bets were made at
the club upon the state of her own affections and the sincerity of
her admirers? Vane was much offended. He was angry with her for her
own sake. At first he thought he would go and tell her so; then he
reflected that the affair of the handkerchief would put him in rather a
false position, and, after all, she was not worth the trouble. For the
present, at least, he would not go near her.
The next night Vane went to a "german" at Mrs. Haviland's. Miss Thomas
was there dancing with Mr. Wemyss. She received him very pleasantly.
He danced with her once or twice, and then sat down beside her, Wemyss
not coming back. Miss Thomas was dressed in a white, cloudy dress, with
sprays of violet and smilax. A wreath of the green vine was in her
black hair, and she had a large bouquet of the violets in her hand,
nearly the color of her eyes. The dress was cut low to a point in front
and behind, showing the superb poise of her small head upon her neck.
Whoever had sent her flowers must have known what her dress was to be,
or he could not have sent her the violets to match.
When Vane left, he had made an appointment for a walk the next fine
afternoon. She had said nothing about the handkerchief. Vane feared,
every morning, to find the parcel containing it at his rooms, but it
was not sent back. He was encouraged by this, and began to make excuses
to himself for her being at the theatre. This still gave him much
anxiety, and he half decided that he would speak to her about it.
At last there came a fine day for the walk, and Vane called at
her house at four. He had also called one day before, but she had
complained that it was too cloudy and looked like rain. This day he
found her ready. They went up Fifth Avenue to Fifty-ninth Street;
then he persuaded her to go into the park. She fascinated him that
afternoon. There was something peculiarly feminine about Miss Thomas.
Although her hair was black, it was not coarse and lustrous, but
very fine and soft, dead black in color. A soft, creamy dress hung
lovingly about her figure. She talked much about herself in a sisterly
sort of way. Vane felt a desire to protect her. She had a gentle way
of yielding, of trusting to him, of allowing him to persuade her to
continue the walk. They sat down a moment on a wooden bench among some
seringa-bushes; above them were the branches of an oak just leafing
out, swaying in the wind and casting changing flecks of light and shade
upon the gravel path and the folds of her gown. There were soft lights
in her face, and her eyes were like two blue gentians.
"Miss Thomas, I have a question to ask you," began Vane, suddenly. "You
will promise not to be offended?"
"Yes," said she innocently, opening her eyes wider.
"Are you engaged to be married?"
"No," said she almost instantly, as if without reflecting. Then she
blushed violently, and silently rose to go home.