As he turned a rounding corner in the path, and saw a girl seated on a park bench some dozen paces ahead, the idea that had been dimly revolving in his brain crystallized into a definite intention.
The girl’s face, shaded from the sun by a large, filmy, lacy hat and a still more lacy parasol above that, was turned directly toward him. Its creamy whiteness was half hidden by a coat of tan that reached clear to that delightful curve where the top of the lacy collar appeared as a jealous shield; and the effect was one of which Thrawn thoroughly approved.
As he approached nearer and read on her face the expression of a mood that exactly matched his own, Thrawn hesitated. Then, with a reflection that sympathy would perhaps serve as well as gayety, he stopped directly in front of her, bowed politely, and smiled sadly.
“Is this your dog?” he asked.
The girl regarded the terrier with an impersonal curiosity, and then looked up at Thrawn.
“Yes,” she answered, “it is. Where did you find him?”
Thrawn sat down on the bench at her side, still holding the terrier. This was rather more than he had bargained for. He had expected the dog to serve as an introduction, but he had not expected to find a claimant in this charming brown and white nymph. He looked first at the girl, then at the terrier, perplexed. They certainly did not seem suited to each other.
“Are you sure he is yours?”
The girl looked slightly amused. “Do you doubt it?” she asked. “See!”
She held out her arms, and the terrier leaped into them and nestled cozily in her lap. That, of course, was convincing.
“He will soil your dress,” said Thrawn, indifferently.
The girl was silent, running her slender white fingers through the terrier’s silky hair.
“What... what sort of a dog is he?” asked Thrawn.
“A... a... Paisley,” answered the girl. “English. You must forgive me,” she continued after a pause, “if I don’t thank you for finding him for me. The truth is, I am not thankful.”
Thrawn looked uncomfortable.
“Don’t do that,” said the girl abruptly. “That’s the way I feel.”
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Thrawn. “So do I.”
They smiled at each other sympathetically. Then, as a flush slowly appeared under the coat of tan, the girl turned her face away.
“That,” said Thrawn almost cheerfully, “was what I needed. I suppose I should go now. What would you do,” he continued, “if I should insist on sitting here and talking to you?”
“That depends,” answered the girl. “Are you ever amusing? You see,” she went on, without giving him time to answer, “that is the only thing that matters. For you are evidently quite harmless.”
At this Thrawn was almost indignant. To be called harmless by a pretty girl is anything but comforting.
“I’m not a pirate,” he said, “if that’s what you mean. Nor a murderer. But there are times—” He hesitated.
“There are just two kinds of men,” said the girl, speaking to the terrier, “that are dangerous. First, the impossible kind.”
“Well?” asked Thrawn.
“Oh, one merely calls a policeman. Of course,” regarding him critically, “you are not impossible.”
“Thank you,” said Thrawn gravely.
“Then,” the girl continued, “there is the masterful kind. Like the heroes of novels. There are such men, you know.”
“And I, of course, am not one of them,” said Thrawn foolishly.
The girl laughed. “Never!” she declared. “Can you imagine such a man walking in Central Park with a fuzzy terrier in his arms, at four o’clock on a Friday afternoon in June?”
“It was your terrier,” said Thrawn, with just resentment.
“That only makes it worse,” declared the girl. “No; you are too safe to be interesting.”
“You are taking an unfair advantage,” Thrawn asserted hotly.
The girl smiled sweetly. “Do you know,” she said thoughtfully, “you ought to be a school teacher. You talk just like one. Are you?”
Thrawn turned and faced her squarely, and saw the teasing smile, the roguish tilt of the head, the dainty whiteness of her hands resting half hidden in the terrier’s coat.
“For the first time in four months,” he said evenly, “I am thoroughly angry. The last time was — but that doesn’t matter. What I wanted to say was that since I am safe, it naturally follows that anything I do is proper.”
He bent his head swiftly over the terrier in her lap, and on one of those hands imprinted a well-directed and unmistakable kiss.
The girl remained motionless and silent. “Of course,” she said, finally, “I can’t very well be angry, since it was my own fault. But it is really too bad, for now you must go.”
“You know perfectly well,” protested Thrawn, “that within five minutes from the time I leave you will be frightfully bored. And so will I.”
The girl was silent. Thrawn rose from the bench and beckoned with his stick to a taxicab that was passing on Central Park West. The taxi circled back to the park entrance and stopped on the drive some twenty feet from the path.
“Of course,” said Thrawn,” you are probably right. Discretion is the better part of valor. Like all sensible people, you realize that it is wiser to avoid danger than to overcome it. It is rather curious that you should have been so mistaken when you first saw me. Only one other girl was ever unfortunate enough to tell me I was harmless.”
“I suppose,” said the girl scornfully, “that she died of a broken heart.”
“No,” said Thrawn, with a reminiscent sadness, “she is still living. You see,” he continued, “there is no good in your feeling mortified, because your asking me to leave is a confession of weakness. It’s universal. Not, of course, that I am irresistible.”
“But you think you are,” declared the girl. “You have more conceit with less reason than any man I know. Where are you going?”
Thrawn hesitated. “To the Plaza, for tea,” he hazarded.
“I’m not surprised,” the girl declared. “The palm room at the Plaza is exactly suited to you.”
“Should I carry the parasol?” asked Thrawn.
“No. You may take the dog.”
Thrawn took the terrier in his arms and led the way across the lawn to the taxi.
“What was it,” he asked, as the taxi swept through the park, “that first made you like me?”
“Your hat,” said the girl, after a careful scrutiny. “Yes, it must have been your hat. It is so flat and ugly.”
“Thank you,” said Thrawn.
As they were passing into the tea-room from the outer corridor at the hotel the girl halted suddenly.
“Where’s the dog?” she asked.
Thrawn stopped and gazed at her blankly.
“Lost,” he said simply.
For ten minutes they tramped through corridors and ante-rooms — all in vain. The little Paisley had completely disappeared. Thrawn had lifted it from the taxi, turned to pay the chauffeur, and forgotten all about it.
“It was extremely thoughtless of me,” said he, as they sat down on a divan to rest. “I am dreadfully sorry.”
The girl was silent.
“You see,” continued Thrawn presently, “its all your own fault. If you hadn’t said I was harmless we would be sitting in the park in the sunshine talking about Browning or something, instead of running after a confounded dog.”
“It isn’t,” the girl contradicted. “It isn’t a... a... that kind of dog.” She was either laughing or crying.
“Beside,” Thrawn continued, “how could I help forgetting? You should have known that a creamy white face with a coat of tan, a little nose and funny twinkly eyes is to me the most beautiful sight in the world. The dog demanded too much attention. I’m glad I forgot him. I’m glad he’s gone.”