Iole

by Robert W. Chambers

  XIV

 

  She had no definite idea; all she craved for was the open--or itsmetropolitan substitute--sunshine, air, the glimpse of sanelypreoccupied faces, the dull, quickening tumult of traffic. The tumultgrew, increasing in her ears as she crossed Washington Square under thesycamores and looked up through tender feathery foliage at the whitearch of marble through which the noble avenue flows away between itssplendid arid chasms of marble, bronze, and masonry to that blessedleafy oasis in the north--the Park.

  She took an omnibus, impatient for the green rambles of the onlybreathing-place she knew of, and settled back in her seat, rebellious ofeye, sullen of mouth, scarcely noticing the amused expression of theyoung man opposite.

  Two passengers left at Twenty-third Street, three at Thirty-fourthStreet, and seven at Forty-second Street.

  Preoccupied, she glanced up at the only passenger remaining, caught thefleeting shadow of interest on his face, regarded him with naturalindifference, and looked out of the window, forgetting him. A fewmoments later, accidentally aware of him again, she carelessly noted hissuperficially attractive qualities, and, approving, resumed her idleinspection of the passing throng. But the next time her pretty headswung round she found him looking rather fixedly at her, andinvoluntarily she returned the gaze with a childlike directness--a gazewhich he sustained to the limit of good breeding, then evaded so amiablythat it left an impression rather agreeable than otherwise.

  "I don't see," thought Aphrodite, "why I never meet that sort of man.He hasn't art nouveau legs, and his features are not by-products of hishair.... I have told my brothers-in-law that I am old enough to go outwithout coming out.... And I am."

  The lovely mouth grew sullen again: "I don't wish to wait two years andbe what dreadful newspapers call a 'bud'! I wish to go to dinners anddances _now_!... Where I'll meet that sort of man.... The sort one feelsalmost at liberty to talk to without anybody presenting anybody.... I'vea mind to look amiable the next time he----"

  He raised his eyes at that instant; but she did not smile.

  "I--I suppose that is the effect of civilization on me," shereflected--"metropolitan civilization. I felt like saying, 'Forgoodness' sake, let's say something'--even in spite of all my sistershave told me. I can't see why it would be dangerous for me to _look_amiable. If he glances at me again--so agreeably----"

  He did; but she didn't smile.

  "You see!" she said, accusing herself discontentedly; "you don't darelook human. Why? Because you've had it so drummed into you that you cannever, never again do anything natural. Why? Oh, because they all beginto talk about mysterious dangers when you say you wish to be natural....I've made up my mind to look interested the next time he turns.... Whyshouldn't he see that I'm quite willing to talk to him?... And I'm sotired of looking out of the window.... Before I came to this curiouscity I was never afraid to speak to anybody who attracted me.... And I'mnot now.... So if he does look at me----"

  He did.

  The faintest glimmer of a smile troubled her lips. She thought: "I _do_wish he'd speak!"

  There was a very becoming color in his face, partly because he wasexperienced enough not to mistake her; partly from a sudden and completerealization of her beauty.

  "It's so odd," thought Aphrodite, "that attractive people consider itdangerous to speak to one another. I don't see any danger.... I wonderwhat he has in that square box beside him? It can't be a camera.... It_can't_ be a folding easel! It simply _can't_ be that _he_ is an artist!a man like that----"

  "_Are_ you?" she asked quite involuntarily.

  "What?" he replied, astonished, wheeling around.

  "An--an artist. I can't believe it, and I don't wish to! You don't lookit, you know!"

  For a moment he could scarcely realize that she had spoken; his keengaze dissected the face before him, the unembarrassed eyes, the ovalcontour, the smooth, flawless loveliness of a child.

  "Yes, I am an artist," he said, considering her curiously.

  "I am sorry," she said, "no, not sorry--only unpleasantly surprised. Yousee I am so tired of art--and I thought you looked so--so wholesome----"

  He began to laugh--a modulated laugh--rather infectious, too, forAphrodite bit her lip, then smiled, not exactly understanding it all.

  "Why do you laugh?" she asked, still smiling. "Have I said something Ishould not have said?"

  But he replied with a question: "Have you found art unwholesome?"

  "I--I don't know," she answered with a little sigh; "I am so tired of itall. Don't let us talk about it--will you?"

  "It isn't often I talk about it," he said, laughing again.

  "Oh! That is unusual. Why don't you talk about art?"

  "I'm much too busy."

  "D--doing what? If that is not _very_ impertinent."

  "Oh, making pictures of things," he said, intensely amused.

  "Pictures? You don't talk about art, and you paint pictures!"

  "Yes."

  "W--what kind? Do you mind my asking? You are so--so very unusual."

  "Well, to earn my living, I make full-page pictures for magazines; tosatisfy an absurd desire, I paint people--things--anything that mightsatisfy my color senses." He shrugged his shoulders gaily. "You see, I'mthe sort you are so tired of----"

  "But you _paint_! The artists I know don't paint--except _that_ way--"She raised her pretty gloved thumb and made a gesture in the air; and,before she had achieved it, they were both convulsed with laughter.

  "You never do that, do you?" she asked at length.

  "No, I never do. I can't afford to decorate the atmosphere for nothing!"

  "Then--then you are not interested in art nouveau?"

  "No; and I never could see that beautiful music resembled frozenarchitecture."

  They were laughing again, looking with confidence and delight upon oneanother as though they had started life's journey together in thatancient omnibus.

  "_What_ is a 'necklace of precious tones'?" she asked.

  "Precious stones?"

  "No, _tones_!"

  "Let me cite, as an example, those beautiful verses of Henry Haynes,"he replied gravely.

  TO BE OR NOT TO BE

  I'd rather be a Could Be, If I can not be an Are; For a Could Be is a May Be, With a chance of touching par.

  I had rather be a Has Been Than a Might Have Been, by far; For a Might Be is a Hasn't Been But a Has was _once_ an Are!

  Also an Are is Is and Am; A Was _was_ all of these; So I'd rather be a Has Been Than a Hasn't, if you please.

  And they fell a-laughing so shamelessly that the 'bus driver turned andsquinted through his shutter at them, and the scandalized horses stoppedof their own accord.

  "Are you going to leave?" he asked as she rose.

  "Yes; this is the Park," she said. "Thank you, and good-by."

  He held the door for her; she nodded her thanks and descended, turningfrankly to smile again in acknowledgment of his quickly lifted hat.

  "He _was_ nice," she reflected a trifle guiltily, "and I had a goodtime, and I really don't see any danger in it."