The Grain of Dust Part 54

"I didn't mean that--that kind of a kiss," said she dejectedly.

He paused with a quick characteristic turn of the head, looked keenly at her, resumed his brus.h.i.+ng. A quizzical smile played over his face. "Oh, I see," said he. "You've been thinking about duty. And you've decided to do yours. . . . Eh?"

"I think--It seems to me--I don't think--" she stammered, then said desperately, "I've not been acting right by you. I want to--to do better."

"That's good," said he briskly, with a nod of approval--and never a glance in her direction. "You think you'll let me have a kiss now and then--eh? All right, my dear."

"Oh, you _won't_ understand me!" she cried, ready to weep with vexation.

"You mean I won't misunderstand you," replied he amiably, as he set about fixing his tie. "You've been mulling things over in your mind.

You've decided I'm secretly pining for you. You've resolved to be good and kind and dutiful--generous--to feed old dog Tray a few crumbs now and then. . . . That's nice and sweet of you--" He paused until the crisis in tying was pa.s.sed--"very nice and sweet of you--but--There's nothing in it. All I ask of you for myself is to see that I'm comfortable--that Mrs. Lowell and the servants treat me right. If I don't like anything, I'll speak out--never fear."

"But--Fred--I want to be your wife--I really do," she pleaded.

He turned on her, and his eyes seemed to pierce into the chamber of her thoughts. "Drop it, my dear," he said quietly. "Neither of us is in love with the other. So there's not the slightest reason for pretending. If I ever want to be free of you, I'll tell you so. If you ever want to get rid of me, all you have to do is to ask--and it'll be arranged.

Meanwhile, let's enjoy ourselves."

His good humor, obviously unfeigned, would have completely discouraged a more experienced woman, though as vain as Dorothy and with as much ground as he had given her for self-confidence where he was concerned.

But Dorothy was depressed rather than profoundly discouraged. A few moments and she found courage to plead: "But you used to care for me.

Don't I attract you any more?"

"You say that quite pathetically," said he, in good-humored amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I'm willing to do anything within reason for your happiness. But really--just to please your vanity I can't make myself over again into the fool I used to be about you. You'd hate it yourself. Why, then, this pathetic air?"

"I feel so useless--and as if I were s.h.i.+rking," she persisted. "And if you did care for me, it wouldn't offend me now as it used to. I've grown much wiser--more sensible. I understand things--and I look at them differently. And--I always did _like_ you."

"Even when you despised me?" mocked he. It irritated him a little vividly to recall what a consummate fool he had made of himself for her, even though he had every reason to be content with the event of his folly.

"A girl always thinks she despises a man when she can do as she pleases with him," replied she. "As Mr. Tetlow said, I was a fool."

"_I_ was the fool," said he. "Where did that man of mine lay the handkerchief?"

"I, too," cried she, eagerly. "You were foolish to bother about a little silly like me. But, oh, what a _fool_ I was not to realize----"

"You're not trying to tell me you're in love with me?" said he sharply.

"Oh, no--no, indeed," she protested in haste, alarmed by his overwhelming manner. "I'm not trying to deceive you in any way."

"Never do," said he. "It's the one thing I can't stand."

"But I thought--it seemed to me--" she persisted, "that perhaps if we tried to--to care for each other, we'd maybe get to--to caring--more or less. Don't you think so?"

"Perhaps," was his careless reply. He added, "But I, for one, am well content with things as they are. I confess I don't look back with any satisfaction on those months when I was making an a.s.s of myself about you. I was ruining my career. Now I'm happy, and everything is going fine in my business. No experiments, if you please." He shook his head, looking at her with smiling raillery. "It might turn out that I'd care for you in the same crazy way again, and that you didn't like it. Again you might get excited about me and I'd remain calm about you. That would give me a handsome revenge, but I'm not looking for revenge."

He finished his toilet, she standing quiet and thoughtful in an att.i.tude of unconscious grace.

"No, my dear," resumed he, as he prepared to descend for dinner, "let's have a peaceful, cheerful married life, with no crazy excitements.

Let's hang on to what we've got, and take no unnecessary risks." He patted her on the shoulder. "Isn't that sensible?"

She looked at him with serious, appealing eyes. "You are _sure_ you aren't unhappy?"

It was amusing to him--though he concealed it--to see how tenaciously her feminine egotism held to the idea that she was the important person.

And, when women of experience thus deluded themselves, it was not at all strange that this girl should be unable to grasp the essential truth as to the relations of men and women--that, while a woman who makes her s.e.x her profession must give to a man, to some man, a dominant place in her life, a man need give a woman--at least, any one woman--little or no place. But he would not wantonly wound her harmless vanity. "Don't worry about me, please," said he in the kindest, friendliest way. "I am telling you the truth."

And they descended to the dining room. Usually he was preoccupied and she did most of the talking--not a difficult matter for her, as she was one of those who by nature have much to say, who talk on and on, giving lively, pleasant recitals of commonplace daily happenings. That evening it was her turn to be abstracted, or, at least, silent. He talked volubly, torrentially, like a man of teeming mind in the highest spirits. And he was in high spirits. The Galloway enterprise had developed into a huge success; also, it did not lessen his sense of the pleasantness of life to have learned that his wife was feeling about as well disposed toward him as he cared to have her feel, had come round to that state of mind which he, as a practical man, wise in the art of life, regarded as ideal for a wife.

A successful man, with a quiet and comfortable home, well enough looked after by an agreeable wife, exceeding good to look at and interested only in her home and her husband--what more could a man ask?

What more could a man ask? Only one thing more--a baby. The months soon pa.s.sed and that rounding out of the home side of his life was consummated with no mishap. The baby was a girl, which contented him and delighted Dorothy. He wished it to be named after her, she preferred his sister's name--Ursula. It was Ursula who decided the question. "She looks like you, Fred," she declared, after an earnest scanning of the weird little face. "Why not call her Frederica?"

Norman thought this clumsy, but Dorothy instantly a.s.sented--and the baby was duly christened Frederica.

Perhaps it was because he was having less pressing business in town, but whatever the reason, he began to stay at home more--surprisingly more.

And, being at home, he naturally fell into the habit of fussing with the baby, he having the temperament that compels a man to be always at something, and the baby being convenient and in the nature of a curiosity. Ursula, who was stopping in the house, did not try to conceal her amazement at this extraordinary development of her brother's character.

Said she: "I never before knew you to take the slightest interest in a child."

Said he: "I never before saw a child worth taking the slightest interest in."

"Oh, well," said Ursula, "it won't last. You'll soon grow tired of your plaything."

"Perhaps you're right," said Norman. "I hope you're wrong." He reflected, added: "In fact, I'm almost certain you're wrong. I'm too selfish to let myself lose such a pleasure. If you had observed my life closely, you'd have discovered that I have never given up a single thing I found a source of pleasure. That is good sense. That is why the superior sort of men and women retain something of the boy and the girl all their lives. I still like a lot of the games I played as a boy. For some years I've had no chance to indulge in them. I'll be glad when Rica is old enough to give me the chance again."

She was much amused. "Who'd have suspected that _you_ were a born father!"

"Not I, for one," confessed he. "We never know what there is in us until circ.u.mstances bring it out."

"A devoted father and a doting husband," pursued Ursula. "I must say I rather sympathize with you as a doting husband. Of course, I, a woman, can't see her as you do. I can't imagine a man--especially a man of your sort--going stark mad about a mere woman. But, as women go, I'll admit she is a good specimen. Not the marvel of intelligence and complex character you imagine, but still a good specimen. And physically--" She laughed--"_That's_ what caught you. That's what holds you--and will hold you as long as it lasts."

"Was there ever a woman who didn't think that?--and didn't like to think it, though I believe many of them make strong pretense at scorning the physical." Fred was regarding his sister with a quizzical expression. "You approve of her?" he said.

"More than I'd have thought possible. And after I've taken her about in the world a while she'll be perfect."

"No doubt," said Norman. "But, alas, she'll never be perfect. For, you're not going to take her about."

"So she says when I talk of it to her," replied Ursula. "But I know you'll insist. You needn't be uneasy as to how she'll be received."

"I'm not," said Norman dryly.

"You've got back all you lost--and more. How we Americans do wors.h.i.+p success!"

"Don't suggest to Dorothy anything further about society," said Norman.

"I've no time or taste for it, and I don't wish to be annoyed by intrusions into my home."

"But you'll not be satisfied always with just her," urged his sister.

"Besides, you've got a position to maintain."