Part 11 (1/2)

He was, as I have said, almost rich, which would of itself, to the cynic, preclude his being at all nice. But he was nice. I liked him, the Angel liked him, and these two girls loved him.

I will admit, however, that I was surprised,--just a little,--at first, but after I thought about it, I said to Aubrey, ”Well, why not?” He said, ”Why not what?”

”Why _shouldn't_ two girls be in love with him?”

”They should,” said the Angel, pleasantly. ”There is no doubt in the world that they should. But who are the girls and who is the man?”

I thought of course that he knew what I was talking about, or I shouldn't have begun in the middle like that, but after all, if you _do_ begin in the middle, you can often skip the whole beginning, and hurry along to the end.

”Why, Artie Beg, to be sure! Who else? And as to the girls--well, as I discovered it for myself, I shall not be betraying their confidence to say that the girls are--will you _promise_ not to tell nor to interfere in anyway?”

”Of course,” said the Angel.

”Well, the girls are Flora Forsyth and Cary Farquhar.”

”Flora Forsyth!” exclaimed the Angel, with a wry face.

”Now, Aubrey, what _have_ you against that poor girl? To me she is one of the most fascinating creatures I ever saw. If I were a man, I should be crazy about her.”

”Then if you had been Samson, Delilah would have made a fool of you just as easily as she did of him.”

”But Flora is no Delilah, Aubrey.”

”She's worse!” said the Angel, shortly.

Aubrey leaned back in his Morris chair and puffed at his pipe.

Presently he spoke:

”Those two girls are both clever,--as clever as they make 'em,--but Cary's cleverness is full of ozone, while Flora's is permeated with a narcotic. Cary's tricks make one laugh, but the other girl's give one the s.h.i.+vers.”

”Oh, is it as bad as that?” I said, in affright. ”Don't you like her?”

”Like her!” reflected the Angel, slowly. ”I hate her.”

I gasped. Never, never had my husband expressed even a settled dislike of any one before, while as to the word ”hate”--

”Oh, Aubrey!” I cried, tearfully. ”I _wish_ you had said it before.

The fact is, I've--well, I've invited her to visit me and she says she'll come.”

If I expected an explosion, I was mistaken. Aubrey bit into his pipe-stem and sat looking at me for a moment without speaking, a kind, wistful look which completely undid me, and made me resolved never, _never_ again to do a single thing without consulting him first. Then he leaned forward and slowly began to empty and clean his pipe.

”You like her very much?” he said, tentatively.

”I do, indeed!” I exclaimed, enthusiastically. ”And she is _so_ fond of you. She fairly adores you. If you would only _try_ to like her, Aubrey--she likes you so much--don't smile that way. You don't do her justice. Indeed you don't. Why, she is the dearest, most confiding, innocent little thing, just out of college last month--a baby couldn't have more clinging, dependent ways.”

”I'm glad she is coming to visit you, if that's the way you feel about her,” he said.

I drew a sigh of relief. _Some_ husbands would have made such a fuss that their wives would have felt obliged to cancel the invitation.

Aubrey was different.