The Fighting Chance. Chambers Robert William

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      “I notice,” observed Siward, “that you are perfectly qualified for membership in our association for the promotion of bad manners. In fact I should suggest you for the presidency—”

      “I suppose you think all sorts of things because I gushed over that dog.”

      “Of course I do.”

      “Well you need not,” she rejoined, delicate nose up-tilted. “I never kissed a baby in all my life—and never mean to. Which is probably more than you can say.”

      “Yes, its more than I can say.

      “That admission elects you president,” she concluded. But after a moment’s silent driving she turned partly toward him with mock seriousness: “Is it not horridly unnatural in me to feel that way about babies? And about people, too; I simply cannot endure demonstrations. As for dogs and horses—well, I’ve admitted how I behave; and, being so shamelessly affectionate by disposition, why can’t I be nice to babies? I’ve a hazy but dreadful notion that there’s something wrong about me, Mr. Siward.”

      He scrutinised the pretty features, anxiously; “I can’t see it,” he said.

      “But I mean it—almost seriously. I don’t want to be so aloof, but—I don’t like to touch other people. It is rather horrid of me I suppose to be like those silky, plumy, luxurious Angora cats who never are civil to you and who always jump out of your arms at the first opportunity.”

      He laughed—and there was malice in his eyes, but he did not know her well enough to pursue the subject through so easy an opening.

      It had occurred to her, too, that her simile might invite elaboration, and she sensed the laugh in his silence, and liked him for remaining silent where he might easily have been wittily otherwise.

      This set her so much at ease, left her so confident, that they were on terms of gayest understanding presently, she gossiping about the guests at Shotover House, outlining the diversions planned for the two weeks before them.

      “But we shall see little of one another; you will be shooting most of the time,” she said—with the very faintest hint of challenge—too delicate, too impersonal to savour of coquetry. But the germ of it was there.

      “Do you shoot?”

      “Yes; why?”

      “I am reconciled to the shooting, then.”

      “Oh, that is awfully civil of you. Sometimes I’d rather play Bridge.”

      “So should I—sometimes.”

      “I’ll remember that, Mr. Siward; and when all the men are waiting for you to start out after grouse perhaps I may take that moment to whisper: ‘May I play?’”

      He laughed.

      “You mean that you really would stay and play double dummy when every other living man will be off to the coverts? Double dummy—to improve my game?”

      “Certainly! I need improvement.”

      “Then there is something wrong with you, too, Mr. Siward.”

      She laughed and started to flick her whip, but at her first motion the horse gave trouble.

      “The bit doesn’t fit,” observed Siward.

      “You are perfectly right,” she returned, surprised. “I ought to have remembered; it is shameful to drive a horse improperly bitted.” And, after a moment: “You are considerate toward animals; it is good in a man.”

      “Oh, it’s no merit. When animals are uncomfortable it worries me. It’s one sort of selfishness, you see.”

      “What nonsense,” she said; and her smile was very friendly. “Why doesn’t a nice man ever admit he’s nice when told so?”

      It seems they had advanced that far. For she was beginning to find this young man not only safe but promising; she had met nobody recently half as amusing, and the outlook at Shotover House had been unpromising with only the overgrateful Page twins to practise on—the other men collectively and individually boring her. And suddenly, welcome as manna from the sky, behold this highly agreeable boy to play with—until Quarrier arrived. Her telegram had been addressed to Mr. Quarrier.

      “What was it you were saying about selfishness?” she asked. “Oh, I remember. It was nonsense.”

      “Certainly.”

      She laughed, adding: “Selfishness is so simply defined you know.”

      “Is it? How.”

      “A refusal to renounce. That covers everything,” she concluded.

      “Sometimes renunciation is weakness—isn’t it?” he suggested.

      “In what case for example?”

      “Well, suppose we take love.”

      “Very well, you may take it if you like it.”

      “Suppose you loved a man!” he insisted.

      “Let him beware! What then?”

      “—And, suppose it would distress your family if you married him?”

      “I’d give him up.”

      “If you loved him?”

      “Love? That is the poorest excuse for selfishness, Mr. Siward.”

      “So you would ruin your happiness and his—”

      “A girl ought to find more happiness in renouncing a selfish love than in love itself,” announced Miss Landis with that serious conviction characteristic of her years.

      “Of course,” assented Siward with a touch of malice, “if you really do find more happiness in renouncing love than in love itself, it would be foolish not to do it—”

      “Mr. Siward! You are derisive. Besides, you are not acute. A woman is always an opportunist. When the event takes place I shall know what to do.”

      “You mean when you want to marry the man you mustn’t?

      “Exactly. I probably shall.”

      “Marry him?

      “Wish to!”

      “I see. But you won’t, of course.”

      She drew rein, bringing the horse to a walk at the foot of a long hill.

      “We are going much too fast,” said Miss Landis, smiling.

      “Driving too fast for—”

      “No, not driving, going—you and I.”

      “Oh, you mean—”

      “Yes I do. We are on all sorts of terms, already.”

      “In the country, you know, people—”

      “Yes СКАЧАТЬ