Produced by Eric Eldred, Charles Bidwell, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
by
(Eastlake has renewed an episode of his past life. The formalitieshave been satisfied at a chance meeting, and he continues.)
… So your carnations lie over there, a bit beyond this page, in aconfusion of manuscripts. Sweet source of this idle letter and gentlememento of the house on Grant Street and of you! I fancy I catch theirodor before it escapes generously into the vague darkness beyond mywindow. They whisper: "Be tender, be frank; recall to her mind what isprecious in the past. For departed delights are rosy with deceitfulhopes, and a woman's heart becomes heavy with living. We are the womanyou once knew, but we are much more. We have learned new secrets, newemotions, new ambitions, in love—we are fuller than before." So—forto-morrow they will be shrivelled and lifeless—I take up their messageto-night.
I see you now as this afternoon at the Goodriches', when you came intriumphantly to essay that hot room of empty, passive folk. Someone wassinging somewhere, and we were staring at one another. There you stoodat the door, placing us; the roses, scattered in plutocratic profusion,had drooped their heads to our hot faces. We turned from the music toyou. You knew it, and you were glad of it. You knew that they werebusy about you, that you and your amiable hostess made an effectivegroup at the head of the room. You scented their possible disapprovalwith zest, for you had so often mocked their good-will with impunitythat you were serenely confident of getting what you wanted. Did youwant a lover? Not that I mean to offer myself in flesh and blood: Godforbid that I should join the imploring procession, even at arespectful distance! My pen is at your service. I prefer to be yourhistorian, your literary maid—half slave, half confidant; for then youwill always welcome me. If I were a lover, I might some day beinopportune. That would not be pleasant.
Yes, they were chattering about you, especially around the table wheresome solid ladies of Chicago served iced drinks. I was sipping it allin with the punch, and looking at the pinks above the dark hair, andwondering if you found having your own way as good fun as when you wereeighteen. You have gained, my dear lady, while I have been knockingabout the world. You are now more than "sweet": you are almosthandsome. I suppose it is a question of lights and the time of daywhether or not you are really brilliant. And you carry surety in yourface. There is nothing in Chicago to startle you, perhaps not in theworld.
She at the punch remarked, casually, to her of the sherbet: "I wonderwhen Miss Armstrong will settle matters with Lane? It is the best shecan do now, though he isn't as well worth while as the men she threwover." And her neighbor replied: "She might do worse than Lane. Shecould get more from him than the showy ones." So Lane is the name ofthe day. They have gauged you and put you down at Lane. I took an iceand waited—but you will have to supply the details.
Meantime, you sailed on, with that same everlasting enthusiasm uponyour face that I knew six years ago, until you spied me. How extremelynatural you made your greeting! I confess I believed that I