A Woman's Will. Warner Anne
away with any other man’s? Does he lie, or drink beyond the polite limit, or what?”
“Why, the truth is,” said the American slowly, “many people consider him an awful bore. The fact is, he’s most peculiar. I’ve had him stare at me time and again in a way that made me wonder if he was full-witted. I don’t know anything worse against him than that, though.”
“If that’s all,” Rosina answered, laughing, “you need not fear for me. I’ve lived in good society too many years not to know how to deal with a bore. A little idiosyncrasy like that will not mar my enjoyment one bit. Do go and get him now.”
“But some consider him a very big bore indeed.”
“One can see that at the first glance, and just on that account I shall have infinite patience with him.”
“I warn you beforehand that he’s very much of a character.”
“I always did like characters better than people who were well-behaved.”
The American took one step away and then halted.
“Your mind is set upon meeting him?”
“Yes, quite; and do hurry. He may disappear.”
He laughed.
“Possess yourself in patience for five short minutes,” he began, but she cut his speech off.
“There, there, never mind; while you’re talking he’ll take a train or a boat, and I’ll be left to go geniusless to my grave.”
He lifted his hat at once then and walked away without another word, although inwardly he marvelled much that any woman should care about meeting that man—that particular man; for he was one of those whom the man bored out and out.
The Schweizerhof Quai is long, but not so long but that you may meet any one for whom you chance to be searching within ten minutes of the time of your setting out. The young American was favored by good luck, and in less than half that time returned to Rosina’s bench, his capture safely in tow. She rose to receive them with the radiant countenance of a doll-less child who is engaged in negotiating the purchase of one which can both walk and talk. Indeed her joy was so delightfully spontaneous and unaffected that a bright reflection of it appeared in the shadows of those other eyes which were now meeting hers for the first time.
“Shall we walk on?” she suggested; “that is the pleasantest, to walk and talk, don’t you think?”
Von Ibn stood stock-still before her.
“What will monsieur do?” he asked, with a glance at the other man.
“He will enjoy walking,” Rosina answered.
“But I shall not. I find nothing so tiresome as trying to walk with two people. One must always be leaning forward to hear, or else hearing what is not amusing.”
After which astonishing beginning he waited, pulling his moustache as he contemplated them both. The American glanced at Rosina as much as to say, “There, I told you that he was the worst ever!” But Rosina only smiled cheerfully, saying to her countryman:
“Since Herr von Ibn feels as he does, I think you’d better go and study the Lion or meditate the glaciers, and leave me here with this lion to do either or both.”
The American laughed. He might not have been so amused except that he knew that she knew all about the girl in Smith College. Such things count sadly against one’s popularity, and being a man of sense he recognized the fact.
“At your service, madame,” he said; “I’m going to turn the care of you over to our friend for the remainder of the promenade hour. He will no doubt appreciate to the fullest extent the honor of the transferred charge.”
Von Ibn bowed.
“I do appreciate,” he said gravely; “thank you. Good-morning.”
Then as the other walked away he turned to Rosina.
“Was I impolite to him?” he asked, in quite the tone of an old and intimate friend.
“Yes, very,” she answered, nodding.
“You are then displeased?”
“Not at all; I wanted him to go myself.”
“Ah, yes,” he exclaimed eagerly, “you feel as I. Is it not always ungemüthlich, three people together?”
“Always.”
He glanced about them at the crowd of passers-by.
“It is not pleasant here; let us take a walk by the river, and then we can talk and come to know each one the other,”—he paused—“well,” he added.
“Do you really want to know me—well?” she asked, imitating his pause between the last two words.
“Yes, very much. I saw you in the hotel this morning when you came down the stair, and I wanted to know you then. And just now when we passed on the Quai I felt the want become much greater.”
“And I wanted to know you,” she said, looking and speaking with delicious frankness. “I wanted to know you because of your music.”
“Because of my music!” he repeated quickly; “you are then of interest in the music? you are yourself perhaps a musician?” and he turned a glance, as deep as it was burning, upon her face.
“A very every-day musician,” she replied, lifting her smile to his deep attention. “I can accompany the musician and I can appreciate him, that is all.”
“But that is quite of the best—in a woman,” he exclaimed earnestly. “The women were not meant to be the genius, only to help him, and rest him after his labor.”
“Really!”
“Of a surety.”
“But what made you want to know me?” she continued. “I had a good reason for desiring your acquaintance, but you can have had no equally good one for desiring mine.”
“No,” he said quickly and decidedly; “that is, of an undenying, most true.” He knit his brows and reflected for the space of time consumed in passing nine of the regularly disposed trees which shade the boulevard just there, for they were now moving slowly in the direction of the bridges, and then he spoke. “I do not know just why, yet I am glad that it is to be.”
“Would you have asked some one to introduce you if I had not sent for you?”
He thought again, this time for the space of six trees only, then:
“No, I do not think so.”
“Why not? since you wanted to meet me.”
“I never get myself made known to any one, because if I did that, then later, when they weary me, as they nearly always do, I must blame myself only.”
“Do most people weary you—later.”
“Oh, so very much,” he declared, with a sincerity that drew no veil over the truth of his statement.
Rosina, remembering the American’s views in regard to him, stifled a smile.
“Our friend,” she asked, “the man who presented you to me, you know, does he weary you?”
Von Ibn frowned.
“But he is a very terrible bore,” he said; “you surely know that, since you know him.”
Then she could but laugh outright.
“And I, monsieur,”