Part 39 (1/2)

The novelist gazed at the speaker with a strange look.

”I have treated you like a brute,” he said, slowly. ”And I have treated Mr. Fern just as badly. My punishment is well deserved. But how can this puzzle of her absence be accounted for! Of course she would have had to satisfy me on that point before I could have married her.”

The listener turned giddily toward a window.

”And yet you talk of love!” he said, recovering. ”If that girl had done me the honor she did you I would not have _asked_ her such a question--I would have refused to _listen_ if it gave her the slightest pain to tell.”

”I wonder she did not love you instead of me--for she did love me once,”

was the sober reply. ”You would be a thousand times better, more suitable, than I.”

There was no reply to this, but the two men walked slowly out of the house and to the station, where they took the next train for the city.

On the way they talked little, and at the Grand Central Depot they separated.

Lawrence Gouger, who had in some strange way learned the news of Miss Fern's return, was awaiting Roseleaf in his rooms.

”Well, I hear the missing one is found,” he said, as the novelist came in.

”Yes. She is with her father. But the peculiar thing is that she closes her lips absolutely about her absence. She not only refuses to speak now, but announces that her refusal is final.”

Mr. Gouger hesitated what card to play.

”When does the marriage take place?” he asked, finally.

”With me? Never. I have been thrown over. Unless she had explained I could not have married her, any way; could I?”

The critic said he did not know. It would certainly have been awkward.

”And what is your theory?” he added. ”Do you still lay anything to Weil?”

”No. I am completely nonplussed. But, never mind. It is over.”

Roseleaf stretched himself, and yawned.

”Do you know, Gouger, I almost doubt if I have really been in love at all. I feel a queer sense of relief at being out of it, though there is a dull pain, too, that isn't exactly comfortable. I told Archie coming in that she should have married _him_. Upon my soul I wish she would.

She's an awful nice little thing, and he has a heart that is genuine enough for her. Well, it's odd, anyway.”

Astonishment was written on the face of the other gentleman as he heard these statements.

”You have at least gained one point,” he said, impressively. ”You have done the best part of the greatest novel that ever was written. Sit down as soon as you can and finish it, and we shall see your name so high up on the temple of fame that no contemporary of this generation can reach it.”

”So high the letters will be indistinguishable, I fear,” responded Roseleaf, with a laugh. ”Where do you think I can get the heartiest supper in New York? I am positively starved. I don't believe I've eaten a thing since yesterday. If you can help me any to clear the board, let us go together.”

This invitation was accepted, and Roseleaf began making a more particular toilet, taking great pains with the set of his cravat and spending at least ten minutes extra on his hair when he had finished shaving himself. He never had allowed a barber to touch his face.

”You won't lose any time on the novel, will you?” asked Gouger, anxiously, while these preparations were in progress. ”You must take hold of it while the events are fresh in your mind.”

”All right. I'll begin again to-morrow morning, and stick to the work till it's done. Where shall we go to supper? I'll tell you--Isaac Leveson's.”