Robert did not ask Margaret to set the day for their marriage that day.
It was no time for him to be planning his nuptials while his buddy was
risking his life in the hospital. He told Margaret of the operation and
she sympathized with him.
“What a dreadful thing the war is,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’d
care to go anywhere under the circumstances. I can just understand the
way you feel. We might just sit at home tonight if you wish and I’ll
sing you some ballads.”
She confided her own troubles to him. Difficulty in getting the proper
clothing in Corinth. Difficulty in getting her parents to appreciate
her more liberal views. Difficulty in getting her mother to allow her
to discard corsets. What had happened to the comparatively demure miss
that Robert had left behind when he had left Corinth? Two years ago she
would no more have dreamed of mentioning corsets than she would have
dreamed of smoking a pipe. As for not wearing them, Robert remembered,
with amusement, that whereas preachers in describing Corinth as a
second Babylon two years ago had pointed to the fact that women were
pinching in their waists and allowing their skirts to drag on the
ground for the sake of increasing their fascination in the eyes of men,
they were now decrying the shameless Jezebels who went with skirts but
to their knees and without certain garments that women had always worn.
Times had changed.
“I’m thinking of bobbing my hair,” said Margaret. She was curled up on
the couch beside him in a childish posture which she would have thought
unladylike before the war. “Irene Castle has bobbed hers. But mother
has a fit whenever I mention the subject. She won’t even let me smoke.
What do you think about it?”
“Oh, I suppose I’m a little old-fashioned--”
“All the men are like that. Howard says the same thing. Dad says it’s
immoral. For heaven’s sakes, what’s the way you’ve got your hair combed
got to do with morality? Or whether you smoke or not? Men can do
everything and the minute a woman wants to do something they do, every
one sits on her.”
Robert laughed.
“You look exactly like a small child protesting because you can’t have
another piece of candy.”
Margaret pretended to cry in vexation.
“That’s the trouble with you men, you refuse to take us seriously.”
“Well, if you were old and ugly, I suppose I could sit down and argue
the thing out with you. But in that case, of course, I wouldn’t care
if you clipped your hair or chewed tobacco. Taking you as you are,
however, and as I expect you to be to me, I prefer you with your hair
exactly as it is--even if it is hard to comb--and without any cigarette
between your ruby lips. Of course, in France I saw many splendid women
with bobbed hair, and of course, every one smokes there. But that was
Paris--and I don’t think you’d look well with a cigarette.”
“That’s no reason at all.”
“Perhaps it isn’t. Still, why shouldn’t it be? Suppose you didn’t look
as well with bobbed hair or smoking a cigarette. Shouldn’t that be
reason enough?”
“But supposing _I_ thought I looked just as well? If we were married
would you forbid me to bob my hair?”
Hamilton considered.
“Not that it would do any good, perhaps, but I think I would.”
Margaret sat up very suddenly.
“There,” she wrenched the ring from her finger, “if you expect to
control me after we’re married, we might as well call it off now before
it’s too late.”
Robert turned white and his hand trembled as it went out. He stammered
unintelligibly.
“Wh-why--why?”
Margaret suddenly laughed.
“I ought to have a snapshot of you. You really thought I meant it. You
put your hand out to take it. There, now you may have the pleasure of
putting it back again.”
She moved closer to him and placed her right arm about him as he
replaced the ring.
“My, you look solemn. You look as though you were actually sorry that I
didn’t give you the ring back.”
“No, but you did shock me. Why did you do it, dear?” As he said this he
was dimly aware of the fact that there was a trace of truth in what she
had said. A very faint trace. He drew her to him and patted her dark
hair slowly.
“Well, that is what I wanted,” she blushed. “You’ve acted so cool
lately. You haven’t kissed me once this evening.”
“Oh, yes, I did.”
“I mean since you came in. You seem always thinking about something
else. So I gave you this shock to, to--”
He kissed her warmly on the lips. He noticed her eyes close and her
head tilt back and against him. He heard her sigh and wondered that he
could so coolly watch her the while. Poor child, she expected his love.
He drew her still more closely to him.
“You haven’t said a word about--about our wedding.”
Robert flushed.
“No, darling. I haven’t talked over business matters with father yet.
He seems so busy lately. But as soon as I do we’ll talk it over.”
Love is a peculiar thing, Hamilton thought on the way home. He felt
sorry for Margaret. He sympathized with her. Still he had no desire to
fondle her. He had done so simply because he knew that she desired it.
Was this love? Or was it something else?
Perhaps it was the highest form of love--the love springing from
sympathy. And still he had postponed making the decision as to the date
of their marriage. Well, by right he should talk to his father first
about the business. Here a whole month had gone by during which he had
simply loafed about the house and attended innumerable society affairs.
He decided that he must return the poem to McCall, or rather to
Dorothy, with a little note explaining how he had found it. Margaret’s
actions had given him a new insight into such things. He appreciated
better how Dorothy would miss it. He could enclose the poem and the
note in another letter to Levin, whose address he had. Levin would
surely know where to reach her. Perhaps it would be better to wait
until tomorrow, until after the operation. In any case Dorothy would be
glad to get the poem back again, but he would know better tomorrow how
to word the letter to her.