Quick Action

by Robert W. Chambers

  XVI

  "She goes upstairs as though she were floating up," he wrote, withenthusiasm; "her lovely figure, poised on tip-toe, seems to soar upward,ascending as naturally and gracefully as the immortals ascended thegolden stairs of Jacob----"

  In full flood of his treacherous imagination he seated himself on achair beside her bed, rested the note-book on his knees, and scribbledmadly, utterly oblivious to her. And it was only when he had finished,for sheer lack of material, that he recollected himself, looked up, sawhow she had shrunk away from him against the wall--how the scarlet haddyed her face to her temples.

  "Why--why do you come--into my bedroom?" she faltered. "Does ourfriendship count for no more than that with you?"

  "What?" he said, bewildered.

  "That you do what you have no right to do. Art--art is _not_ enoughto--to--excuse--disrespect----"

  Suddenly the tears sprang to her eyes, and she covered her flushed facewith both hands.

  For a moment Brown stood petrified. Then a deeper flush than herssettled heavily over his features.

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  She made no response.

  "I didn't mean to hurt you. I _do_ respect you," he said.

  No response.

  Brown gazed at her, gazed at his note-book.

  Then he hurled the note-book across the room and walked over to her asshe lifted her lovely head, startled and tearful.

  "You are right," he said, swallowing nothing very desperately. "You cannot be studied this way. Will you--marry me?"

  "What!"

  "Will you marry me?"

  "Why?" she gasped.

  "Because I--want to study you."

  "No!" she said, looking him straight in the eyes.

  Brown thought hard for a full minute.

  "Would you marry me because I love you?" he asked timidly.

  The question seemed to be more than she could answer. Besides, the tearssprang to her blue eyes again, and her under lip began to tremble, andshe covered her face with both hands. Which made it impossible for himto kiss her.

  "Isn't it wonderful?" he said earnestly, trembling from head to foot."Isn't it wonderful, dear?"

  "Yes," she whispered. The word, uttered against his shoulder, wasstifled. He bent his head nearer, murmuring:

  "Thalomene--Thalomene--embodiment of Truth! How wonderful it is to methat at last I find in you that absolute Truth I worship."

  "I am--the embodiment--of your--imagination," she said. "But you willnever, never believe it--most adorable of boys--dearest--dearest ofmen."

  And, lifting her stately and divine young head, she looked innocently atBrown while he imprinted his first and most chaste kiss upon the fresh,sweet lips of the tenth muse, Thalomene, daughter of Zeus.

  * * * * *

  "Athalie," said the youthful novelist more in sorrow than in anger,"you are making game of everything I hold most important."

  "Provide yourself with newer and truer gods, dear child," said the girl,laughing. "After you've worshipped them long enough somebody will alsopoke fun at them. Whereupon, if you are fortunate enough to be one ofthose who continues to mature until he matures himself into theEwigkeit, you will instantly quit those same over-mauled and worn outgods for newer and truer ones."

  "And so on indefinitely," I added.

  "In literature," began the novelist, "the great masters must stand asparents for us in our first infantile steps----"

  "No," said the girl, "all worthy aspirants enter the field of literatureas orphans. Opportunity and Fates alone stand for them _in locoparentis_. And the child of these is known as Destiny."

  "No cubist could beat that, Athalie," remarked Duane. "I'm ashamed ofyou--or proud--I don't know which."

  "Dear child," she said, "you will never know the true inwardness of anysentiment you entertain concerning me until I explain it to you."

  "Smitten again hip and thigh," said Stafford. "Fair lady, I am far toowary to tell you what I think of the art of incoherence as practisedoccasionally by the prettiest Priestess in the Temple."

  Athalie looked at me as the sweetmeat melted on her tongue.

  "You promised me a dog," she remarked.

  "I've picked him out. He'll be weaned in another week."

  "What species of pup is he?" inquired Duane.

  "An Iceland terrier," I answered. "They use them for digging out walrusand seals."

  "Thank you," said Duane pleasantly.

  "After all," observed the girl, lifting her glass of water, "it does notconcern Mr. Duane what sort of a dog you have chosen for me."

  She sipped it leisurely, looking over the delicate crystal rim at Duane.

  "You are young," she said. "'_L'enfance est le sommeil de la raison._'"

  "How would you like to have an Angora kitten?" he asked, reddeningslightly.

  "But infancy," she added, "is always adorable.... I think I might like awhite one with blue eyes."

  "Puppies, kittens, children," remarked Stafford--"they're all tolerablewhile they're young."

  "All of these," said the girl softly, "I should like to have."

  And she gazed inquiringly at the crystal. But it could tell her nothingof herself or of her hopes. She turned and looked out into the darkcity, a trifle wearily, it seemed to me.