CHAPTER XX

Forgiveness and garters lose their snap when they are stretched too

often. Once before Forbes had apologized to Persis for an excess of

enthusiasm, and her forgiveness had brought back her cordiality with

perfect elasticity. The second time there had been a slight sag.

The boundary between the impertinence of a cad and the privilege of a

suitor is vague and wavering. The act that is accepted as a

manifestation of devotion, a pretty caress, from the accepted lover

becomes a liberty from the libertine. In his ardor Forbes had

overstepped the dead-line.

There was no especial reason why the pressure of foot upon foot should

be a less poetic tribute than a lingering clasp of the hands. But

thinking makes it so, and when Forbes put his best foot forward, Persis

resented it as a familiarity, an affront. It meant in her eyes that he

held her cheap and easy. It was like her to be less angry with him than

with herself. She reasoned that if a man she had just met could so

speedily rate her so low, there must be some appalling fault in her

manner. Her self-confidence was shaken.

But just as she had set Forbes in the category of men with whom a woman

must be on her guard, he spoke of being jealous of her, and his very

eyes and the flush on his cheeks shouted that he meant it.

There is, perhaps, no other tribute a woman prizes so highly as

jealousy. Other tokens of esteem may be silver, gilt, or plated ware,

but jealousy is the hallmark of sincerity; jealousy is at least eighteen

karats fine.

The moment Forbes said he had been jealous, and by his eager questions,

by their very insistent impertinence, indeed, proved that he was now

jealous, he became important to Persis. The fervor of his previous

actions was almost justified. Even the intrusion upon her foot was a

different act.

Women usually think that love excuses almost everything, and sanctifies

what were else ridiculous or disgusting. They absolve the sinner who can

plead, "I was in love," more easily than the self-righteous abstainer.

Besides, there was something uncanny to Persis in Forbes' statement that

he had followed her up the Avenue, and had felt a jealousy of her haste;

because that had been a momentous day altogether.

She had begun it by a shopping raid. She had run across a flock of new

hats, curious oddities from Paris, perched like strange birds alighted

in a window. They pulled down so far on one side that they blinded one

eye of the wearer, and they thrust out so far to the rear and the side

that they blinded the passer-by.

As she was trying one of them on, she turned her head to speak to the

rhapsodical manager. She swept the face of the saleswoman till she

sneezed; and when Persis turned to apologize to the saleswoman, the

manager found himself inhaling exotic goura. It was fascinating. She

simply must have some of these hats.

But there had been a very polite note with her last bill, a timid plea

that she pay a trifle on the venerable debt. She hardly dared increase

the sum instead of diminishing it. She decided to ask her father's help.

The price was beyond her own private bank-account, which was usually

chaotically overdrawn, and which the bank carried along with an amused

patience, because her father was one of its oldest customers.

Determined to have those hats that day or die, Persis had ridden all the

way to her father's office in Broad Street to ask him to buy them. She

had found him in great distress. Before she could explain her errand,

he had said, with a smile that was pitifully brave:

"I needn't ask what evil motive brings you down here. It was just to

tell your old father how much you love him."

"Yes, of course; you know how I worship you." She sat on the arm of his

chair with a smile as alluring as a mining-stock prospectus. "Also, I

thought you'd like to know that I've struck the most wonderful hats ever

imported. They're marked down to almost nothing, and they're really an

amazing bargain--especially when you deduct the cost of an ocean voyage,

for I couldn't equal them this side of Paris."

He shook his head with a helpless finality that gave her pause. This

terrified her. He had refused her something! She knew that the only

things that would prevent him from giving her money were absence of

funds and inability to borrow them. He explained, tenderly:

"I'm in a lot of trouble, honey. I've got to shift some of my loans to

other banks, and I've got to borrow a lot more somewhere. And I don't

know where. I'm sorry to tell you, but you'd better know."

She soothed him with loving terror. She told him how little she really

cared for the hats; she wanted them only because everybody else had

them. The hat she had on would do for a while. It had been so far in

advance when she bought it that it was quite good style now--not the

very latest, of course, but still good enough since he was feeling poor.

He told her that she need not worry; everything would come out all

right. He was just a little pinched for the moment. But he kissed her

very devoutly, and sighed and told her how beautiful she was and how

dear to him.

She returned to her car, and ordered the driver home. It was a long

journey up the canon of Broadway, a plank road for miles, since a subway

was burrowing underneath. She had ample time to figure out just what it

meant to her to be poor. They had been pinched before. Her father was

the fourth generation of wealth, and the inheritance of financial genius

was wearing out in the family.

Cold flashes of fright ran through Persis as the car rumbled and

swerved. Then she remembered that Willie Enslee was to call upon her

that afternoon. He had said that he had something very important to say,

and she had laughed inly, knowing just what he meant. He was so

ridiculous in his love. But now she thought of him as a salvation. She

resolved to be sensible and cut the silly romance out of her hopes. She

could save her father, and have all the hats in the world. She must not

keep Willie waiting. He might not wait. It was in this mood that Forbes

had first seen her and her old hat from the bus.

At home she had found Willie. As she walked into the drawing-room he was

pacing up and down rehearsing his proposal in whispers. He went into a

blue funk at the sight of her, and she had the greatest difficulty in

coaxing him to propose. Then she accepted him with proper surprise.

Willie had brought the ring--a wonderful composition by Rene Lalique.

Fashion had changed enough to permit an engagement ring to be something

besides a solitaire diamond. This poem in gold had cost him more than

Forbes' salary for two years. Persis had worn it when she met Forbes

that same night at the theater. She had worn it when she taught him to

turkey-trot. It was the edge of that ring that had cut her finger till

it bled under the fierce grip of Forbes' hand at the performance of

"Tristan and Isolde."

Thoughts like this danced through Persis' mind now, while her body

danced in Forbes' arms. And Forbes was talking of his jealousy!

Forbes was different from Willie in so many ways. He could be loved. She

did not love him now. But he was of the type that women love. She

wondered, rather helplessly, if she were going to love him. She

certainly could never love Willie, and no woman wants to die without

loving somebody.

She would not be indiscreet, of course, or disloyal in any important

way. But--After all, she might not marry Willie. She might marry Mr.

Forbes. All things were possible. Why not this? He would be a husband

worth having--a soldier, a gentleman, a lover, distinguished--nobody

would laugh if she went up the aisle with him.

Luckily Forbes had money. He was surely not so rich as Willie. But then

Persis was not mercenary. She wanted only a reasonable amount--just

enough to keep up with the procession, have a fresh hat now and then,

and some gowns and a contemporary car, and a place in town and a place

out of town, and enough to go abroad on every summer, and South every

winter, and a few things like that. Surely Mr. Forbes must have enough

money for such a simple household.

Of course, she would not marry him, and it might be dangerous to play

with fire; but it would be pitiful never to go near the fire. Worse, it

would be pusillanimous. Now that she had accepted Willie, it was certain

that she was not to have love in her life unless she took it outside.

Not all of this Cubist chaos of meditation went on during the brief

remainder of the dance. But it began there, and it was small wonder if

the logic had a little rag-time in it; as for instance:

Since Persis and Willie had agreed not to announce their engagement just

yet, this justified lying to a lot of people; for one surely had a right

to evade a question that nobody had a right to ask. Of course, if Forbes

were really in love with Persis he had a right to ask. But if she told

him, then he would stop loving her; at least he would stop seeing her.

She knew the man. And she didn't want him to stop seeing her. He was

really very nice!

He was a box of matches. She would not strike a light. Or perhaps she

might strike one; but she would let it burn only a moment, and then blow

it out and not light another. Besides, she was not an official fiancee

till it was announced. And Mr. Forbes danced so wonderfully--oh, Lord,

it was a sad world. Yet it was very comfortable, dancing in this man's

arms.

Meanwhile he was pounding at the door of her heart again:

"Are you going to ride in Central Park to-morrow--this morning?" he

said.

"Yes."

"Rain or shine?"

"Yes."

"May I ride there, too?"

"It's not my park."

"That's not very encouraging."

"Isn't it? Well, haven't you been a trifle discouraging yourself?"

"I'm terribly sorry," he pleaded; and she surprised him by sighing:

"I'm rather glad."

"Glad? Why?"

"Because I had come dangerously near to feeling that you

were--different."

"I am," he cried, stung by the deep significance of her light regret.

"Please let me prove it. Please let me ride with you in the park?"

"I'll be with my father, you know," she answered, with a trace of

relentment. "It's my only chance to visit with the poor old boy. You'd

better not."

"But some day you will ride with me?"

"Maybe."

"To-morrow may I stand on the bridge and watch you go by?"

"The park is open to the public at all hours."

"Would you mind if I got a horse and rode by and said 'Good morning!'"

"Fine. Come along. I'll introduce you to my father."

"I'll be there!"