"Much good fortune may it bring you."
"Let me try my fortune," said she, and began plucking off the leaves.
"He loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, he loves me not."
"There!" she said, holding up the naked stem triumphantly; "I knew
it."
"It would be a fairer test, had you a daisy, Helena," said I, "or
something with more leaves; not that I know whose has been this
ordeal. Suppose it were myself, and that you tried this one." I handed
her a trefoil, but she waved it aside.
"I will try to find you a four leaf clover for your own, after a
while," said she, and bobbed me a very pretty courtesy. Angered, I
caught at the stick I was carrying with so sudden a grip that I broke
it in two.
"I did not know your hands were so strong, Harry," said she.
"Would they were stronger!" was my retort. "And were I in charge of
the affairs of Providence, the first thing I would do would be to
wring the neck of every woman in the world."
"And then set out to put them together again, Harry? Don't be silly."
"Oh, yes, naturally. But you must admit, Helena, that women have no
sense of reason whatever. For instance, if you really were trying out
the fortune of some man on a daisy's head, you would not accept the
decree of fate, any more than you could tell why you loved him or
loved him not. Why does a woman love a man, Helena? You say I must not
be silly--should I then be wise?"
"No, you are much too wise, so that you often bore me."
"Nor should he be poor?"
"No."
"Nor rich?"
"Certainly not. Rich men also usually are bores--they talk about
themselves too much."
"Should he be a tall man?"
"Not too tall, for they're lanky, nor short, because they get fat. You
see, each girl has her own ideal about such matters. Then, she always
marries a man as different as possible from her ideal."
"Why does she marry a man at all, Helena?"
"She never knows. Why should she? But look--" she pointed out across
the water--"the train is leaving the ferry boat. Isn't that Captain
Peterson going aboard the train?"
"Yes, Helena, I've sent him down-town to get some light reading for
you and your Aunt Lucinda--Fox's Book of Martyrs, and the Critique
of Pure Reason--the latter especially recommended to yourself. I
would I had in print a copy of my magnum opus, my treatment on
native American culicidæ. My book on the mosquito is going to be
handsomely illustrated, Helena, believe me."
She turned upon me with a curious look. "Harry," said she, "you've
changed in some ways. If I were not so bored by life in yonder hat
box, I might even be interested in you for a few minutes. You used
always to be so sober, but now, sometimes, I wonder if I understand
you. Honestly, you were an awful stick, and no girl likes a stick
about her. What do girls care which dynasty it was that built the
pyramids?--it's Biskra they want to see. And we don't care when or why
Baron Haussmann built the Boulevard Haussmann in Paris--it's the
boulevard itself interests us."