"Dear me! Is it so bad as that?"
"Worse, Helena."
"Then I am to continue a prisoner in that hat box?"
"Until you love me, Helena, as I do you."
"As I told you, that would be a long time."
"Yes! For never in the world can you love me as I do you. I had
forgotten that."
"If only you could forget everything and just be a nice young man,"
said she. "It is such fun. This dear old town, don't you know? Now,
with a nice young man to go about with Aunt Lucinda and me----"
"How would a man like Calvin Davidson do?" I demanded bitterly.
"Very well. He is nice enough."
"I suppose so. He is rich, able to have his horses and cars--even his
private yacht. He can order a dinner in any country in the world, or
tell you the standing of any club, in either league, at any minute of
the day or night. Could I say more for his education? He has two
country places and a city house and a business which nets him a
hundred thousand a year. How can he help being nice? I do not resemble
Mr. Davidson in any particular, except that I am wearing one of his
waistcoats. Also, Helena, I am wearing a suit of flannels which I have
borrowed from John, his Chinese cook. You can readily see I am a poor
man. How, then, can I be nice?"
"No one would see us here," said she, sublimely irrelevant, as usual.
"There are some little yellow flowers over there on the bank. Maybe I
could find some violets."
There was a wistfulness in her gaze which made appeal. I could not
resist. "Helena," said I suddenly, "give me your parole that you will
not try to escape, and I will walk with you among yonder flowers. You
look as though just from a Watteau fan, my dear. It is fall, but seems
spring, and the world seems made for flowers and shepherds and love,
my dear. Do you give me your word?"
"If I do, may I walk alone?"
"No, with me."
"I'll not try to take the train. On my honor, I will not."
I looked deep into her eyes and saw, as always, only truth there--her
deep brown eyes, filled with some deep liquid light whose color I
never could say--looked till my own senses swam. I could scarcely
speak.
"I take your parole, Helena," I said. "You never lied to me or any
other human being in the world."
"You don't know me," said she. "I used often to lie to mama, and
frequently do yet to Aunt Lucinda. But not if I say I give my word--my
real word."
"When will you give me your real word, Helena? You know what I
mean--when will you say that you love me and no one else?"