“You were in the War?” she asked, quickly, and as quickly answered herself, “Of course you were!’
“I was a left-over; they only let me out about four months ago,” he said. “It’s quite a shake-up trying to settle down again.”
“You were in France, then?”
“Oh, yes; but I didn’t get up to the front much— only two or three times, and then just for a day or so. I was in the transportation service.”
“You were an officer, of course.”
“Yes,” he said. “They let me play I was a major.”
“I guessed a major,” she said. “You’d always be pretty grand, of course.”
Russell was amused. “Well, you see,” he informed her, “as it happened, we had at least several other majors in our army. Why would I always be something ‘pretty grand?’”
“You’re related to the Palmers. Don’t you notice they always affect the pretty grand?”
“Then you think I’m only one of their affectations, I take it.”
“Yes, you seem to be the most successful one they’ve got!” Alice said, lightly. “You certainly do belong to them.” And she laughed as if at something hidden from him. “Don’t you?”
“But you’ve just excused me for that,” he protested. “You said nobody could be blamed for my being their third cousin. What a contradictory girl you are!”
Alice shook her head. “Let’s keep away from the kind of girl I am.”
“No,” he said. “That’s just what I came here to talk about.”
She shook her head again. “Let’s keep first to the kind of man you are. I’m glad you were in the War.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She was quiet a moment, for she was thinking that here she spoke the truth: his service put about him a little glamour that helped to please her with him. She had been pleased with him during their walk; pleased with him on his own account; and now that pleasure was growing keener. She looked at him, and though the light in which she saw him was little more than starlight, she saw that he was looking steadily at her with a kindly and smiling seriousness. All at once it seemed to her that the night air was sweeter to breathe, as if a distant fragrance of new blossoms had been blown to her. She smiled back to him, and said, “Well, what kind of man are you?”
“I don’t know; I’ve often wondered,” he replied. “What kind of girl are you?”
“Don’t you remember? I told you the other day. I’m just me!”
“But who is that?”
“You forget everything;” said Alice. “You told me what kind of a girl I am. You seemed to think you’d taken quite a fancy to me from the very first.”
“So I did,” he agreed, heartily.
“But how quickly you forgot it!”
“Oh, no. I only want YOU to say what kind of a girl you are.”
She mocked him. “‘I don’t know; I’ve often wondered!’ What kind of a girl does Mildred tell you I am? What has she said about me since she told you I was ‘a Miss Adams?’”
“I don’t know; I haven’t asked her.”
“Then DON’T ask her,” Alice said, quickly.
“Why?”
“Because she’s such a perfect creature and I’m such an imperfect one. Perfect creatures have the most perfect way of ruining the imperfect ones.”
“But then they wouldn’t be perfect. Not if they–-“
“Oh, yes, they remain perfectly perfect,” she assured him. “That’s because they never go into details. They’re not so vulgar as to come right out and TELL that you’ve been in jail for stealing chickens. They just look absent-minded and say in a low voice, ‘Oh, very; but I scarcely think you’d like her particularly’; and then begin to talk of something else right away.”
His smile had disappeared. “Yes,” he said, somewhat ruefully. “That does sound like Mildred. You certainly do seem to know her! Do you know everybody as well as that?”
“Not myself,” Alice said. “I don’t know myself at all. I got to wondering about that—about who I was—the other day after you walked home with me.”
He uttered an exclamation, and added, explaining it, “You do give a man a chance to be fatuous, though! As if it were walking home with me that made you wonder about yourself!”
“It was,” Alice informed him, coolly. “I was wondering what I wanted to make you think of me, in case I should ever happen to see you again.”
This audacity appeared to take his breath. “By George!” he cried.
“You mustn’t be astonished,” she said. “What I decided then was that I would probably never dare to be just myself with you—not if I cared to have you want to see me again—and yet here I am, just being myself after all!”
“You ARE the cheeriest series of shocks,” Russell exclaimed, whereupon Alice added to the series.
“Tell me: Is it a good policy for me to follow with you?” she asked, and he found the mockery in her voice delightful. “Would you advise me to offer you shocks as a sort of vacation from suavity?”
“Suavity” was yet another sketch of Mildred; a recognizable one, or it would not have been humorous. In Alice’s hands, so dexterous in this work, her statuesque friend was becoming as ridiculous as a fine figure of wax left to the mercies of a satirist.
But the lively young sculptress knew better than to overdo: what she did must appear to spring all from mirth; so she laughed as if unwillingly, and said, “I MUSTN’T laugh at Mildred! In the first place, she’s your—your cousin. And in the second place, she’s not meant to be funny; it isn’t right to laugh at really splendid people who take themselves seriously. In the third place, you won’t come again if I do.”
“Don’t be sure of that,” Russell said, “whatever you do.”
“‘Whatever I do?’ ” she echoed. “That sounds as if you thought I COULD be terrific! Be careful; there’s one thing I could do that would keep you away.”
“What’s that?”
“I could tell you not to come,” she said. “I wonder if I ought to.”
“Why do you wonder if you ‘ought to?’”
“Don’t you guess?”
“No.”
“Then let’s both be mysteries to each other,” she suggested. “I mystify you because I wonder, and you mystify me because you don’t guess why I wonder. We’ll let it go at that, shall we?”
“Very well; so long as it’s certain that you DON’T tell me not to come again.”
“I’ll not tell you that—yet,” she said. “In fact–-” She paused, reflecting, with her head to one side. “In fact, I won’t tell you not to come, probably, until I see that’s what you want me to tell you. I’ll let you out easily—and I’ll be sure to see it. Even before you do, perhaps.”
“That arrangement suits me,” Russell returned, and his voice held no trace of jocularity: he had become serious. “It suits me better if you’re enough in earnest to mean that I can come—oh, not whenever I want to; I don’t expect so much!—but if you mean that I can see you pretty often.”
“Of course I’m in earnest,” she said. “But before I say you can come ‘pretty often,’ I’d like to know how much of my time you’d need if you did come ‘whenever you want to’; and of course you wouldn’t dare make any answer to that question except one. Wouldn’t you let me have Thursdays out?”
“No, no,” he protested. “I want to know. Will you let me come pretty often?”
“Lean toward me a little,” Alice said. “I want you to understand.” And as he obediently bent his head near hers, she inclined toward him as if to whisper; then, in a half-shout, she cried,
“YES!”
He clapped his hands. “By George!” he said. “What a girl you are!”
“Why?”
“Well, for the first reason, because you have such gaieties as that one. I should think your father would actually like being ill, just to be in the house with you all the time.”