Part 34 (1/2)

”To-morrow?” he suggested.

”I--don't know,” she stammered. ”Perhaps to-morrow. But it may be two or three days.”

Stanley looked crestfallen. ”That hurts, Mildred,” he said. ”I was SO full of it, so anxious to be entirely happy, and I thought you'd fall right in with it. Something to do with money? You're horribly sensitive about money, dear. I like that in you, of course. Not many women would have been as square, would have taken as little--and worked hard--and thought and cared about nothing but making good-- By Jove, it's no wonder I'm stark crazy about YOU!”

She was flushed and trembling. ”Don't,” she pleaded. ”You're beating me down into the dust. I--I'm--” She started up. ”I can't talk to-night. I might say things I'd be-- I can't talk about it. I must--”

She pressed her lips together and fled through the hall to her own room, to shut and lock herself in. He stared in amazement. When he heard the distant sound of the turning key he dropped to a chair again and laughed. Certainly women were queer creatures--always doing what one didn't expect. Still, in the end--well, a sensible woman knew a good chance to marry and took it. There was no doubt a good deal of pretense in Mildred's delicacy as to money matters--but a devilish creditable sort of pretense. He liked the ladylike, ”nice” pretenses, of women of the right sort--liked them when they fooled him, liked them when they only half fooled him.

Presently he knocked on the door of the little library, opened it when permission came in Cyrilla's voice. She was reading the evening paper--he did not see the gla.s.ses she hastily thrust into a drawer. In that soft light she looked a scant thirty, handsome, but for his taste too intellectual of type to be attractive--except as a friend.

”Well,” said he, as he lit a cigarette and dropped the match into the big copper ash-bowl, ”I'll bet you can't guess what I've been up to.”

”Making love to Miss Stevens,” replied she. ”And very foolish it is of you. She's got a steady head in that way.”

”You're mighty right,” said he heartily. ”And I admire her for that more than for anything else. I'd trust her anywhere.”

”You're paying yourself a high compliment,” laughed Cyrilla.

”How's that?” inquired he. ”You're too subtle for me. I'm a bit slow.”

Mrs. Brindley decided against explaining. It was not wise to risk raising an unjust doubt in the mind of a man who fancied that a woman who resisted him would be adamant to every other man. ”Then I've got to guess again?” said she.

”I've been asking her to marry me,” said Stanley, who could contain it no longer. ”Mrs. B. was released from me to-day by the court in Providence.”

”But SHE'S not free,” said Cyrilla, a little severely.

Stanley looked confused, finally said: ”Yes, she is. It's a queer story. Don't say anything. I can't explain. I know I can trust you to keep a close mouth.”

”Minding my own business is my one supreme talent,” said Cyrilla.

”She hasn't accepted me--in so many words,” pursued Baird, ”but I've hopes that it'll come out all right.”

”Naturally,” commented Cyrilla dryly.

”I know I'm not--not objectionable to her. And how I do love her!” He settled himself at his ease. ”I can't believe it's really me. I never thought I'd marry--just for love. Did you?”

”You're very self-indulgent,” said Cyrilla.

”You mean I'm marrying her because I can't get her any other way.

There's where you're wrong, Mrs. Brindley. I'm marrying her because I don't want her any other way. That's why I know it's love. I didn't think I was capable of it. Of course, I've been rather strong after the ladies all my life. You know how it is with men.”

”I do,” said Mrs. Brindley.

”No, you don't either,” retorted he. ”You're one of those cold, stand-me-off women who can't comprehend the nature of man.”

”As you please,” said she. In her eyes there was a gleam that more than suggested a possibility of some man--some man she might fancy--seeing an amazingly different Cyrilla Brindley.

”I may say I was daft about pretty women,” continued Baird. ”I never read an item about a pretty woman in the papers, or saw a picture of a pretty woman that I didn't wish I knew her--well. Can you imagine that?” laughed he.

”Commonplace,” said Cyrilla. ”All men are so. That's why the papers always describe the woman as pretty and why the pictures are published.”