Part 18 (1/2)

”I'm awfully sorry, Olga--” Hermia paused.

”About what?”

”Last night. How could _I_ have known that the pergola was occupied!”

”Oh, it didn't matter in the least,” she said coolly. ”Markham was making love to me, that's all. Pity--isn't it?”

”Yes, it is,” said Hermia slowly, ”a great pity--you're no respecter of persons, Olga.”

Olga shrugged effectively.

”How should _I_ have known?”

”You have had time enough to study him, I should say. Why couldn't you let him be? When there are so many other men--”

”Hear the child! One might think that I had brought him to my knees, _malice propense_. I didn't. _Mon Dieu_, one can't always prevent the unexpected.”

Hermia laughed dryly. ”One doesn't plan the unexpected _quite_ so carefully as you do, Olga, dear.”

It was beneath Olga's dignity to reply.

”At any rate,” continued Hermia, ”you've driven him away from 'Wake-Robin'.”

”Oh, he'll come back,” said Olga lightly.

”Do you think so?”

”Of course.”

”We shall see,” said the girl.

At the end of three days the Countess Olga realized that for the first time in her life she had made a mistake in judgment; for Mr. Markham did not return to ”Wake-Robin.” And when she went to the island in the launch to make her peace with him she found the cabin deserted.

It was not until some days later that she received a letter from him dated in New York, and sent on the eve of his sailing for Europe.

My Dear Olga:

It is to laugh! But you can be sure that I was angry for a day or two. What is the use? I have forgotten my misadventure and will consider it a warning against rose gardens. I'll not venture into a rose garden by moonlight again unless quite alone. It's dangerous--even with a sworn friend. It wasn't altogether your fault or mine, and you served me quite properly in cutting my self-esteem to ribbons. But it hurt, Olga. You know the least of us mortals thinks he's a heart-breaker, if he tries to be. You've put me back upon my shelf among the cobwebs and there I shall remain. I'm hopeless material to work with socially and deserve no better fate than to be laid away and forgotten. People must take me as I am or not at all.

I don't mind rubbing elbows with the great unwashed. They're human somehow. But your world of dissatisfied women and unsatisfied men!

It gets on my nerves, and so I've cut it and run.

I'm painting an antiquated countess in Havre, and then I'm off for the open country with a thumb box, a toothbrush and a smile, and with this equipment I have all that the world can offer. I shall live upon the fat of the land at forty sous a day--_ripaille_--under the trees--a sound red wine to wash the dust from one's throat--and an appet.i.te and a thirst such as Westport will never know.

_Au revoir, chre_ Olga. I could wish you with me, but I shall be many honest kilometers from a limousine, which is not your idea of a state of being.

With affectionate regards, Faithfully, J.M.

In the same mail was a note to Hermia:

My Dear Miss Challoner: