Part 79 (1/2)

”Humph! Say, Loosh, may I ask you a purely personal question? Will you promise not to be offended if I do?”

”Eh? Why, of course, Cousin Gussie. Of course. Dear me, ask anything you like.”

”All right. Loosh, are you in love with Miss Phipps?”

Galusha started so violently as to throw him off his balance upon the fence rail. He slid forward until his feet touched the ground. His coat-tails, however, caught upon a projecting knot and the garment remained aloft, a crumpled bundle, between his shoulder blades and the back of his neck. He was not aware of it. His face expressed only one emotion, great astonishment. And as his cousin watched, that expression slowly changed to bewilderment and dawning doubt.

”Well, how about it?” queried Cabot. ”Are you in love with her, Loosh?”

Galusha's mouth opened. ”Why--good gracious!” he gasped. ”Dear me--ah--Why--why, I don't know.”

The banker had expected almost any sort of reply, except that.

”You don't KNOW!” he repeated.

”No, I--I don't. I--I never thought of such a thing.”

Cousin Gussie slowly shook his head.

”Loosh,” he declared, ”you are superb; do you realize it? So you don't know whether you are in love with her or not. Well, put it this way: Would you like to marry her, have her for your wife, live with her for the rest of your days?”

Galusha considered this astounding proposition, but only for the briefest possible moment. His gentle, dreamy, wistful countenance seemed almost to light up from within. His answer was given in one breath and as if entirely without conscious volition.

”Oh, very much,” he said, in a low tone. ”Oh, yes, very much.”

The Boston banker had been on the point of laughing when he asked the question. But he did not laugh. He whistled instead. Then he smiled, but it was not a smile of ridicule.

Jumping from the fence rail, he laid a hand on his relative's shoulder.

”Well, by Jove!” he exclaimed. ”Forgive me, old man, will you? I had no idea you were taking it so seriously. I... Well, by Jove!”

Galusha did not speak. The same queer ecstatic brightness was upon his face and he was looking now, not at the grinning cherub, but at the distant horizon line of gray-green ocean and slate-gray sky. Cabot's grip on his shoulder tightened.

”So you really want to marry her,” he said.... ”Humph!... Well, I'll be hanged! Loosh, you--you--well, you certainly can surprise a fellow when you really make a business of it.”

The brightness was fading from Galusha's face. He sighed, removed his spectacles, and seemed to descend from the clouds. He sighed again, and then smiled his faint smile.

”Dear me,” he said, ”how ridiculous it was, wasn't it? You like a joke, don't you, Cousin Gussie?”

”Was it a joke, Loosh? You didn't look nor speak like a joker.”

”Eh? Oh, yes, it was a joke, of course. Is it likely that a woman like that would marry ME?”

Again he astonished his relative into turning and staring at him. ”Marry you?” he cried. ”SHE marry YOU? For heaven's sake, you don't imagine there is any doubt that she would marry you if you asked her to, do you?”

”Why, of course. Why should she?”

”Why SHOULD she? Why shouldn't she jump at the chance, you mean!”

”Oh--oh, no, I don't. No, indeed. You are joking again, Cousin Gussie, of course you are. Women don't like me; they laugh at me, they always have, you know. I don't blame them. Very often I laugh at myself. I am eccentric. I'm 'queer'; that is what every one says I am--queer. I don't seem to think just as other people do, or--or to be able to dress as they do--or--ah--oh, dear, everything. It used to trouble me a good deal when I was young. I used to try, you know--ah--try very hard not to be queer. I hated being queer. But it wasn't any use, so at last I gave up trying. My kind of queerness is something one can't get over, apparently; it's a sort of incurable disease. Dear me, yes, quite incurable.”

He had moved forward and his coat-tails had fallen into their normal position, so the ”queerness” of his outward appearance was modified; but, as he stood there, with his puzzled, wistful expression, slowly and impersonally picking himself to pieces, so to speak, Cabot felt an overwhelming rush of pity for him, pity and a sort of indignant impatience.