Part 6 (1/2)

Mr. Gouger, who had never been known to take so much time from his work during business hours, tried to begin his reading, but without success.

When at his usual occupation he would not have been disturbed by the conversation of a room full of people, so preoccupied was he with what he had to do; but on this occasion he was too much entertained with his companions to do anything but hear them through.

”Is there no such thing as unselfish love--in a woman--love that sacrifices itself for its object?” asked Roseleaf, with a trace of anxiety in his tone.

”M----m, possibly,” drawled Mr. Weil. ”A female animal with young sometimes evinces the possession of that sort of thing, and women may have touches of it on occasions. That will be a good point for you to remember when you are deeper in your investigations. However, I ought not to fill your head with ideas of my own. I think what we most desire in our friend,” he added, turning to the critic, ”is complete originality.”

The young man s.h.i.+fted his feet nervously.

”Pardon me,” he said, ”would it not be well to talk with people and learn their impressions? Then I can compare these with my own experiences, when they come. You would not send a blind man out on the street unled.”

Archie Weil laughed deliciously.

”You are ingenious, when you should only be ingenuous,” he replied. ”You do not act at all like the young man from Mars that I have in mind.

Perhaps, nevertheless, you are not wholly wrong, for even my traveler from that planet might have to ask his way to the nearest town.

Supposing you had just reached the earth, and had met me with a thousand questions. What could I answer that would be of any use?”

Mr. Roseleaf reflected a moment.

”You could tell me your idea of a perfect woman,” he suggested.

”Well, I will,” said Weil, glancing meaningly at Mr. Gouger. ”The perfect woman is about nineteen years of age. She is neither very light nor very dark. Her eyes are hazel, with a touch of gray in them. She measures, say, five feet, four inches in height, and--about--twenty-two inches around the waist. She has a plump arm, not too fleshy, a well-made leg, a head set on her shoulders with enough neck to give it freedom and grace of movement, but not sufficient to warrant comparison with a swan, or even a goose. Her hands match her feet, being not too slender nor too dainty. Her hips are medium, but not bulging. She weighs in the vicinity of a hundred and twenty-five pounds. And her hair--there is but one color for a woman's hair--is t.i.tian red.”

The young man had taken out his note-book and rapidly sketched this list of attractions.

”Every woman cannot have t.i.tian hair,” remarked Mr. Gouger. ”Would you condemn one with all the other attributes on account of missing that?”

”I would, decidedly,” was the reply, ”when it is obtained so easily. I think it only costs two dollars a bottle, for the finest shade. Have you written it all down, Mr. Roseleaf?”

The young man ran over his notes.

”I have it--all but the hair,” he said. ”Of course I could not forget that.”

”Very well. And this hair must be long enough, but not too long, remember, for everything unduly accentuated spoils a woman. It should hang about five inches below the waist, when unfastened, and be thick enough to make a noticeable coil. There should be sufficient to hide her face and her lover's when he takes her in his arms.”

Mr. Roseleaf started slightly.

”Then she should have a lover?” he remarked, curiously.

”Undoubtedly. Else why the hair and the arms, and the five feet four! It is a woman's business to be loved and to make herself lovable. When you have found this woman, if she has no lover, you will be expected to officiate in that capacity. If she has one, you must supplant him as soon as possible. And when you have fallen desperately, ravingly in love with such a creature, you will not have to come to me for further advice.”

The young man surveyed the speaker with the utmost gravity.

”Have _you_ ever been in love?” he inquired.

”Never.”

”Why?”

”It was not necessary; _I_ did not intend to write novels,” said Archie, with a laugh. ”But, come, we have bothered Lawrence enough. Let us go.”