The Place of Honeymoons. Harold MacGrath

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      “This is the first time in five years. I came here to-night because I wanted to be alone, because I did not wish to meet any one I knew. I have scowled at every girl in the room, and they have wisely left me alone. I haven’t scowled at you because I do not know what to make of you. That’s frankness. Now, you answer my question.”

      “Would you spare me a glass of wine? I am thirsty.”

      He struck his hands together, a bit of orientalism he had brought back with him. The observant waiter instantly came forward with a glass.

      The young woman sipped the wine, gazing into the glass as she did so. “Perhaps a whim brought me here. But I repeat, Monsieur is lonely.”

      “So lonely that I am almost tempted to put you into a taxicab and run away with you.”

      She set down the glass.

      “But I sha’n’t,” he added.

      The spark of eagerness in her eyes was instantly curtained. “There is a woman?” tentatively.

      “Is there not always a woman?”

      “And she has disappointed Monsieur?” There was no marked sympathy in the tone.

      “Since Eve, has that not been woman’s part in the human comedy?” He was almost certain that her lips became firmer. “Smile, if you wish. It is not prohibitory here.”

      It was evident that the smile had been struggling for existence, for it endured to the fulness of half a minute. She had fine teeth. He scrutinized her more closely, and she bore it well. The forehead did not make for beauty; it was too broad and high, intellectual. Her eyes were splendid. There was nothing at all ordinary about her. His sense of puzzlement renewed itself and deepened. What did she want of him? There were other men, other vacant chairs.

      “Monsieur is certain about the taxicab?”

      “Absolutely.”

      “Ah, it is to emulate Saint Anthony!”

      “There are several saints of that name. To which do you refer?”

      “Positively not to him of Padua.”

      Courtlandt laughed. “No, I can not fancy myself being particularly concerned about bambini. No, my model is Noah.”

      “Noah?” dubiously.

      “Yes. At the time of the flood there was only one woman in the world.”

      “I am afraid that your knowledge of that event is somewhat obscured. Still, I understand.”

      She lifted the wine-glass again, and then he noticed her hand. It was large, white and strong; it was not the hand of a woman who dallied, who idled in primrose paths.

      “Tell me, what is it you wish? You interest me, at a moment, too, when I do not want to be interested. Are you really in trouble? Is there anything I can do … barring the taxicab?”

      She twirled the glass, uneasily. “I am not in actual need of assistance.”

      “But you spoke peculiarly regarding loneliness.”

      “Perhaps I like the melodrama. You spoke of the Ambigu-Comique.”

      “You are on the stage?”

      “Perhaps.”

      “The Opera?”

      “Again perhaps.”

      He laughed once more, and drew his chair closer to the table.

      “Monsieur in other moods must have a pleasant laughter.”

      “I haven’t laughed from the heart in a very long time,” he said, returning to his former gravity, this time unassumed.

      “And I have accomplished this amazing thing?”

      “No. You followed me here. But from where?”

      “Followed you?” The effort to give a mocking accent to her voice was a failure.

      “Yes. The idea just occurred to me. There were other vacant chairs, and there was nothing inviting in my facial expression. Come, let me have the truth.”

      “I have a friend who knows Flora Desimone.”

      “Ah!” As if this information was a direct visitation of kindness from the gods. “Then you know where the Calabrian lives? Give me her address.”

      There was a minute wrinkle above the unknown’s nose; the shadow of a frown. “She is very beautiful.”

      “Bah! Did she send you after me? Give me her address. I have come all the way from Burma to see Flora Desimone.”

      “To see her?” She unguardedly clothed the question with contempt, but she instantly forced a smile to neutralize the effect. Concerned with her own defined conclusions, she lost the fine ironic bitterness that was in the man’s voice.

      “Aye, indeed, to see her! Beautiful as Venus, as alluring as Phryne, I want nothing so much as to see her, to look into her eyes, to hear her voice!”

      “Is it jealousy? I hear the tragic note.” The certainty of her ground became as morass again. In his turn he was puzzling her.

      “Tragedy? I am an American. We do not kill opera singers. We turn them over to the critics. I wish to see the beautiful Flora, to ask her a few questions. If she has sent you after me, her address, my dear young lady, her address.” His eyes burned.

      “I am afraid.” And she was so. This wasn’t the tone of a man madly in love. It was wild anger.

      “Afraid of what?”

      “You.”

      “I will give you a hundred francs.” He watched her closely and shrewdly.

      Came the little wrinkle again, but this time urged in perplexity. “A hundred francs, for something I was sent to tell you?”

      “And now refuse.”

      “It is very generous. She has a heart of flint, Monsieur.”

      “Well I know it. Perhaps now I have one of steel.”

      “Many sparks do not make a fire. Do you know that your French is very good?”

      “I spent my boyhood in Paris; some of it. Her address, if you please.” He produced a crisp note for a hundred francs. “Do you want it?”

      She did not answer at once. Presently she opened her purse, found a stubby pencil and a slip of paper, and wrote. “There it is, Monsieur.” She held out her hand for the bank-note which, with a sense of bafflement, he gave her. She folded the note and stowed it away with the pencil.

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