Command. William McFee

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СКАЧАТЬ of the passion she could evoke had filled her with exquisite shame. Or perhaps pride. Her clear, delicate English face, the mouth barely closed, the short straight nose slightly raised, the brown hair spread in a slight disorder upon the pillow, were surely indicating pride. Some inkling of this possibility came to Mr. Spokesly, and he sat regarding her, while he waited for her to speak, and wondering how a woman like her had come to marry one of these here dagoes. Peculiar creatures, women, Mr. Spokesly thought; knowing nothing whatever about them, it may be mentioned. And when Mrs. Dainopoulos turned to look at him, soon after she began to speak, the prevailing fancy at the back of his mind was "She thinks I don't know anything about the ladies! Fancy that!"

      "His business takes him out a good deal," she said in a low voice, "but he wouldn't go if he could help it. To-night is unusual."

      "The pleasure is mine," said Mr. Spokesly.

      "Not altogether," she smiled, and her speech became perceptibly more racy and rapid. "Don't flatter yourself. Mr. Dainopoulos was thinking of me."

      "I dare say he does a good deal of that."

      The woman on the sofa laced her fingers lightly and regarded her guest afresh.

      "You are saucy," she murmured with a faint smile. Mr. Spokesly smiled more broadly. He was saucy, but he was certainly at home now with his companion. There was in her last speech, in the accent and inflection, something incommunicably indigenous, something no alien ever has or ever will compass.

      "No need to ask what part of England you come from," he ventured.

      "No?" she queried. "There seems nothing you don't know."

      "Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Dainopoulos, that ain't fair. I can't sit here and twiddle my thumbs all the evening, can I? That wouldn't be giving you any pleasure as far as I'm aware. The boss didn't reckon I was going to play a mandolin or sing, did he?"

      "Well, since you're so clever, what's the answer?"

      "Not so very many miles from Charing Cross," he hazarded.

      "Wonderful!" she said, laying her head back and smiling. Mr. Spokesly admired the pretty throat. "You ought to be in the secret service. Perhaps you are," she added.

      "Of course," he agreed. "They've sent me out to see where all the nice London girls have got to. But am I right?"

      She nodded.

      "Haverstock Hill," she said quietly.

      "No! Do you know Mafeking Road? When I was a kid we lived at sixty-eight."

      "Yes, I know it. Don't you live round there now?"

      "No, not now. We live down Twickenham way now."

      And Mr. Spokesly began to tell his own recent history, touching lightly upon the pathos of Eastern exile, the journey home to join up, and his conviction that after all he would be a fool to go soldiering while the ships had to be kept running. And he added as a kind of immaterial postscript:

      "And then, o' course, while I was at home I got engaged."

      Mrs. Dainopoulos stared at him and broke into a brief titter behind a handkerchief.

      "That's a nice way to give out the information," she remarked. "Anybody'd think getting engaged was like buying a railway ticket or sending a postal order. Is she nice?"

      "Well," said Mr. Spokesly, "I think so."

      "Very enthusiastic!" commented the lady with considerable spirit. "Dark or fair?"

      "Well," he repeated, "I should say dark myself."

      "You don't intend to take any chances," Mrs. Dainopoulos retorted. "Haven't you a photo to show me?"

      Mr. Spokesly felt his pockets, took out a wallet containing a number of unconvincing documents, some postage stamps and a five-piaster note.

      "Matter of fact," he said, "I don't seem to have one with me. I got one on the ship, though," he went on. "Bring it ashore to-morrow."

      "Sure you didn't tear it up by mistake or send it away in the laundry?" she demanded, watching him intently.

      "Oh, all right, go on with the sarcasm," he protested, but enjoying it very much none the less. "Mr. Dainopoulos, you'll be telling me, has got your hair in a locket, I suppose."

      Mr. Spokesly stopped abruptly. He saw an expression of extraordinary radiance on the girl's face as she lay there, her thin pale fingers holding the handkerchief by the corner. It suddenly occurred to Mr. Spokesly that this woman was loved. For the first time in his life he became aware of a woman's private emotional existence. He achieved a dim comprehension of the novel fact that a woman might have her own views of these great matters. He did not phrase it quite like this. He only sat looking at the girl on the sofa and remarking to himself that women were peculiar.

      "Wouldn't you do that?" she demanded. The light in her eyes diminished to a steady warm regard.

      And Mr. Spokesly began to assert himself once more. Women being so peculiar, there was no sense in being bullied into any of this here sentiment. He was a man of the world about to make a—what was it called? Marriage of convenience … something like that. Not that exactly, either. Ada was a darned fine girl. This invalid lady seemed to think he didn't know what love was.

      "Who? Me?" he ejaculated. "Can't say as I see myself, I admit. Not in my line. Not in any Englishman's line, I don't think. And speaking for myself, Mrs. Dainopoulos, I reckon I'm past that sort of thing, you know. Can't teach an old dog new tricks, can you? I look at it this way: so long as there's enough to keep the pot boiling, it's easy enough to fall in love with anybody, you see, and when you're married … soon get used to it. Ada and me, we're sensible."

      "You've got it all arranged, then," said Mrs. Dainopoulos, smiling faintly and looking out into the darkness once more.

      "What's the use o' bein' anything else?" inquired Mr. Spokesly, resuming something of the perfect officer pose, hard-bitten, practical, and matter-of-fact. "All that business o' dyin' o' love, you know, I reckon's so much moon-shine. All right in a novel, o' course, but not in real life. You don't reckon there's anything in it, really, I mean?" he asked doubtfully.

      "I think everything's in it," she sighed. "I think it must be horrible, being married, without it. Haven't you felt you couldn't do without her? That you'd die if you didn't get her; work, and do somebody else in the eye for her? Haven't you?"

      "That lets me out," he said soberly, lighting a fresh cigarette. "I'm not guilty."

      There was a brief silence. Mr. Spokesly was puzzled. He could not fit this experience in with one of the two cardinal points in an Englishman's creed, the belief that no English girl can really love a foreigner. The other, of course, is that no foreign girl is really virtuous.

      "That's a nice thing to say!" she retorted, trembling a little with her emotions. "If that's the new way they have at home——"

      "Oh, I don't know," he began and he looked at her. "I'm afraid you're getting all upset. I'm sorry, really, I didn't think you'd have been so serious about it. As if it mattered to you!"

      "I'm thinking of her," СКАЧАТЬ