Ethan finished his second cigarette and tossed it hissing into the
pool. The nearest swan immediately paddled over to investigate. Ethan
sighed exasperatedly.
[Illustration]
“Go ahead, then, you old idiot!” he muttered. “You won’t like it any
better than you liked the last one; they’re out of the same box; but
try it if you want to. There, I told you so! Oh, that’s it; blame me
now! Blessed if you aren’t almost human!”
He looked for the twentieth time toward where the corner of the white
pergola gleamed through the trees and for the twentieth time turned his
gaze disappointedly away again. He had been there almost three-quarters
of an hour, and he wasn’t going to stay another minute! If she didn’t
want to come, all right! Only she wouldn’t get her handkerchief if she
didn’t! He had begun to doubt this morning whether she had dropped
that article on purpose, as he had suspected yesterday. If it had
been an accident she had probably returned already and searched for
it, and he could not base his hopes of seeing her on the score of the
handkerchief. It was quite evident, anyhow, that she wasn’t coming.
That farewell remark of hers which he had translated to his own liking
meant nothing, after all. He would throw his things into his bag and go
on to Stillhaven after dinner. He had been a comical ass to fool around
here like this tagging after a girl who didn’t want to be bothered
with him and risking dyspepsia at the Inn! And what the deuce was he
thinking about women for, anyway? Hadn’t he taken a solemn vow on the
occasion of his first, last and only affair to leave them severely
alone? He grinned reminiscently.
That had been a desperate affair, brief and tragic. It had occurred
in his freshman year. _She_ was a “saleslady” in a florist’s shop on
the Avenue. She had cheeks like one of the bridesmaid roses she sold,
a tip-tilted nose, sparkling gray eyes and a mass of black hair which
stood up from her forehead in a mighty rolling billow and smelled
headily of violet perfume when she pinned a carnation to his coat. It
had been love at first sight with Ethan, and he had seldom appeared
in public without a flower in his button-hole. He remembered with
something between a shudder and a sigh the exaltation of pride and joy
with which he had accompanied her to the theatre that first time! When
he had returned from his Christmas vacation to find her engaged to
the red-haired drug-clerk on the next corner he had promptly become a
confirmed misogynist. During the seven years which had elapsed between
that time and this he had relented somewhat, had gone through more than
one mild flirtation and had kept his heart. There had been so many,
many other things to occupy him that love had remained unconsidered.
And now, what was he doing here, sitting in a canoe in a lily pond when
he ought of right to be at Stillhaven helping Vincent sail the “Sea
Lark” in the club races? Wasn’t he making a fool of himself again? Then
something white moved toward him between the trees and the question
went unanswered.
[Illustration]
“I think I must have lost a handkerchief here yesterday,” she announced
by way of greeting and explanation.
“A handkerchief?” he cried. “Let me help you search.”
“Oh, don’t bother! It doesn’t matter, of course, only――I thought that
if it was here I’d get it.”
But Ethan was already out of the canoe.
“Er――what was it like?” he asked.
“Rather plain, I think; just a narrow lace edge.”
They looked diligently over the grass. Plainly it was not there. She
raised her head, brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead and
laughed.
“I’m always losing them,” she said apologetically.
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “it might be well to offer a reward.”
“A splendid idea!” she cried. “We’ll post it on this tree here. Have
you a piece of paper? And a pencil?”
“Both.” He tore the front from an envelope and handed her his pencil.
She accepted them and set herself down on the grass.
“Oh, dear, what shall I write on? The canoe paddle? Thanks. Now let me
see. What shall I say?”
“You must start by writing ‘Lost!’ in big letters at the top. That’s
it.” Ethan’s rôle of adviser carried delicious privileges. It allowed
him to kneel quite close behind her and observe the pink lobe of one
small ear from a position of disquieting proximity.
“And then what?”
“I beg your pardon!” he said, with a start. “Why, then――er――let me see.
‘Lost’――――”
“I have that,” she said demurely.
“A small handkerchief belonging――――”
“How did you know it was small?” she asked with smiling interest.
“They always are,” he answered. “Where was I?”
“‘A small handkerchief belonging’――――”
“That doesn’t sound quite shipshape. Let’s try again. ‘Lost, a small
lady’s’――――”
They laughed together as though it was a most novel and excellent joke.
“I don’t care to advertise my smallness,” she objected.
“Well, once more now. ‘Lost, a small handkerchief with a funny little
lace border and an embroidered D in the left-hand lower corner.
Finder――――’”
“An embroidered D?” she asked puzzledly.
“Wasn’t it a D?”
“Perhaps it was,” she allowed. She leaned a little farther forward, for
the brief glance she had cast toward him had revealed the fact that his
head was startlingly near. “And――and the reward?” she asked a trifle
constrainedly.
“Finder may keep same for his honesty!”
“But――but that’s ridiculous!” she cried. “What’s the use of advertising
at all?”
“To save the finder from committing theft,” he answered soberly. “Think
of his conscience!”
“How do you know it’s a ‘him’?” she asked carelessly.
“I used the masculine gender merely in a――er――general way.”
“Oh!”
“Yes. Have you written that?”
“No, what’s the good of it? If the finder is dishonest enough to keep
it he may look after his own conscience!”
“That’s unchristian,” he answered sadly.
“I’ll do this, though,” she said. “If the finder will produce it I will
allow him to keep it on one condition.”
“And that?” he asked suspiciously.
“If there is a D on it he may have it. Otherwise――――”
The finder produced it, unfolded it and looked at the “left-hand lower
corner.”
“Well?” she asked, smilingly. He frowned.
“It――it looks more like an H,” he answered.
“It is an H! Now may I have it?”
“But it ought to be a D,” he said. “H stands neither for Devereux,
Laura, nor Clytie.”
“I never said it did!”
“This is quite plainly not your property,” he went on, refolding it.
“Being unable to find the owner, I shall retain possession of it.”
“But it’s mine!” she cried.
“Yours? What does the H stand for, then?”
She hesitated and flushed.
“I never said my name was Laura Devereux,” she murmured.
“No, but you see I happen to know that it is.” He replaced the
handkerchief in his pocket. Then he reached forward and took the paper
and envelope from her lap. “I shall write an advertisement myself,” he
said.
She watched him while he did so, biting her lip in smiling vexation.
When it was done he passed the composition across to her.
“FOUND!”
“A lady’s lace-bordered handkerchief bearing the initial H in
one corner. Owner may recover same by proving ownership and
rewarding finder. Apply to Vertumnus, care Clytie, Lotus Pool,
Arcadia, between ten and twelve.”
[Illustration]
“What’s the reward?” she asked. He shook his head thoughtfully.
“I haven’t decided yet. Something――rather nice, I fancy.”
A faint flush crept into her cheeks and she turned her gaze toward the
pool.
“It is much cooler to-day,” she said.
“Yes, last night’s thunder-storm cleared the air,” he replied, in a
similar conversational tone. She glanced at the tiny watch hanging at
her belt. Then she murmured something and sprang lightly to her feet
before Ethan could go to her assistance.
“You are not going?” he asked in dismay.
She nodded gravely.
“But it’s quite early!”
“I don’t think it right to associate with dishonesty,” she answered
severely. “You know very well that that handkerchief is mine!”
“Yes, I do,” he answered. “That is, I saw you drop it yesterday.
Probably it belongs really to someone else. Unless――” he smiled――“unless
you bought it at a bargain sale? In which case the initial didn’t really
matter, I suppose.”
“Will you give it to me?” she asked unsmilingly.
“But it’s such a little thing!” he pleaded earnestly. “You have so many
more that surely the loss of this one won’t inconvenience you. And
I――I’ve taken a fancy to it.”
“That’s a convenient excuse for theft!” she answered.
“It’s the only one I have to offer,” he replied humbly.
“But――it’s so absurd!” she cried impatiently. “What can you want with
it?”
He was silent a moment. She glanced furtively at his face and then
moved a few steps toward the house.
“I wonder if you really want me to tell you?” he mused.
“Tell me what?” she asked uneasily.
“Why I want to keep it.”
“I don’t think I am――especially interested,” she answered coldly. “Are
you going to return it?”
“Maybe; in a moment. You don’t want to hear the reason?”
“I――Oh, well, what is the reason?” she asked impatiently.
“A very simple one. As a handkerchief merely it doesn’t attract me
especially. I have seen more beautiful ones, I think――――”
“Well!” she gasped.
“My desire to keep it arises from the simple fact that it is yours,
Clytie.”
She strove to meet his gaze with one exhibiting the proper amount of
haughty resentment. But the attempt was a failure. After the first
glance her eyes fell, the blood crept into her face and she turned
quickly away.
“May I keep it, please?” he asked softly.
She went swiftly up the little slope under the trees.
“Clytie!” he called. She paused, without turning, to listen.
“May I keep it?”
Clytie dropped her head and passed quickly from sight.
[Illustration]