A Likely Story. Howells William Dean
it repeatedly to her pretty nose, in the endeavor to ascertain.
Campbell: "Oh, hello!"
Mrs. Campbell, laughing: "Willis, you are delightful. I should like to see you really jealous once."
Campbell: "You won't, as long as I know my own incomparable charm. But give me that letter, Amy, if you're not going to open it. I want to see whether Welling is going to come."
Mrs. Campbell, fondly: "Would you really like to open it? I've half a mind to let you, just for a reward."
Campbell: "Reward! What for?"
Mrs. Campbell: "Oh, I don't know. Being so nice."
Campbell: "That's something I can't help. It's no merit. Well, hand over the letter."
Mrs. Campbell: "I should have thought you'd insist on my opening it, after that."
Campbell: "Why?"
Mrs. Campbell: "To show your confidence."
Campbell: "When I haven't got any?"
Mrs. Campbell, tearing the note open: "Well, it's no use trying any sentiment with you, or any generosity either. You're always just the same; a teasing joke is your ideal. You can't imagine a woman's wanting to keep up a little romance all through; and a character like Mr. Welling's, who's all chivalry and delicacy and deference, is quite beyond you. That's the reason you're always sneering at him."
Campbell: "I'm not sneering at him, my dear. I'm only afraid Miss Rice isn't good enough for him."
Mrs. Campbell, instantly placated: "Well, she's the only girl who's anywhere near it. I don't say she's faultless, but she has a great deal of character, and she's very practical; just the counterpart of his dreaminess; and she is very, very good-looking, don't you think?"
Campbell: "Her bang isn't so nice as his."
Mrs. Campbell: "No; and aren't his eyes beautiful? And that high, serious look! And his nose and chin are perfectly divine. He looks like a young god!"
Campbell: "I dare say; though I never saw an old one. Well, is he coming? I'm not jealous, but I'm impatient. Read it out loud."
Mrs. Campbell, sinking back in her chair for the more luxurious perusal of the note: "Indeed I shall not." She opens it and runs it hastily through, with various little starts, stares, frowns, smiles of arrested development, laughs, and cries: "Why – why! What does it mean? Is he crazy? Why, there's some mistake. No! It's his hand – and here's his name. I can't make it out." She reads it again and again. "Why, it's perfectly bewildering! Why, there must be some mistake. He couldn't have meant it. Could he have imagined? Could he have dared? There never has been the slightest thing that could be tortured into – But of course not. And Mr. Welling, of all men! Oh, I can't understand it! Oh, Willis, Willis, Willis! What does it mean?" She flings the note wildly across the table, and catching her handkerchief to her face, falls back into her chair, tumultuously sobbing.
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