Joan and Co.

The afternoon at Delmonico’s was speeding, and with every passing minute Dicky was becoming more impatient and Joan more willful. She seemed to be taking almost the delight of a coquette in teasing him. Dicky never remembered having seen her more beautiful. It was worth the price of being annoyed occasionally to watch the sparkle in her eyes, little gleams of mischievous laughter like stars struck from steel; to enjoy the heightened color of her cheeks and the quick play of her mobile lips. But back of it all Dicky felt as though there was something serious. Perhaps because back of his own lightness there was something very serious indeed. Before this day was out he meant to be more serious than he had ever been in his life. Had he the opportunity he would have begun right here among the gay couples who to the music of the hidden orchestra hopped in fox-trots over the polished floor. But every time he leaned forward with the words on his lips, either he was interrupted or he found her attention diverted to something else. He could have strangled Diblee, who strolled over and insisted on sitting out the dance which she had refused him. The man talked like an ass, but Dicky derived some satisfaction from the knowledge that the fellow was heartily boring her.

At half-past four she rose abruptly.

“I think I’ll go home now,” she informed Dicky.

“Good!” he exclaimed.

She glanced up at him, somewhat surprised at his earnestness.

“Why, Dicky,” she returned, “it can’t be you’re getting tired of dancing.”

“It isn’t that,” he interrupted. “But I have something to say to you. I want to see you alone.”

They had been skirting the dance floor on their way to the cloak-room, nodding to this one and that; but she paused a moment at this before going on. She looked at Dicky’s flushed cheeks and alert eyes and firm mouth. Then she sat down again.

“I’m not sure that it is best you should,” she said. “I’m tired. I was going to ask you please not to come with me.”

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because,” she answered slowly,—“because I have a feeling I want to be by myself.”

“Why?” he persisted.

“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s only a fancy.”

“You’re going right home?”

“Yes.”

“Then—”

The orchestra had swung into a valse hésitation—a slow, dreamy sort of thing, a shadowy air on the border-land of reality.

“Dicky,” she said, “something is going to happen to me to-day—somehow, somewhere.”

“Eh? You haven’t been talking with a fortune-teller!”

She shook her head, remaining serious through her light smile.

“They sound foolish when you put such thoughts into words,” she admitted, “and I’m not much given to things of that sort. But all this afternoon I’ve had a feeling that I was starting on some big adventure. It’s as though I were going to sea on a long voyage.”

“That’s queer!” exclaimed Dicky.

She met his eyes. It was as though he understood; and she had not expected him to understand.

“That,” he said a little breathlessly,—“that is what I was going to talk to you about.”

“You?”

“That is why I wished to see you alone.”

“You?” she repeated again.

“You’ll give me a chance, Joan?”

She appeared startled.

For a second she searched her soul. Then she answered slowly.

“I’m quite sure it wasn’t with you—that adventure.”

It was Dicky’s opportunity; and, if it were necessary to take it right here in the crowd, he would take it. If every eye were turned upon him and every ear listening, he would take it.

“It’s because you don’t understand,” he rushed on. “You see, you—you felt what I didn’t have the nerve to speak. I love you. Joan, I love you.”

With a little cry, she reached for his hand beneath the table before which they were sitting.

“Hush!” she pleaded.

But he would not hush.

“I’ve got to tell you now—here,” he persisted. “I’ve waited as long as I can. I know I’m not big enough for you. I know you’re too fine for me. But that would hold true of any man. And I’m ready to give my whole life to making you happy. Joan, dear, I don’t know just what I can do for you. You’re—you’re like a princess. Now I want to make you a queen if I can. I—”

“Dicky,” she whispered again, “you mustn’t talk like that!”

“Maybe—that’s the big adventure you were thinking about,” he breathed.

For a heart-beat she was tempted to laugh—to laugh out loud. It was a demoniacal impulse unworthy of her, because she knew Dicky was in earnest. She knew he was speaking from the depths of him—such as those depths were. So she choked back that devil and tried to think calmly of what she could answer without hurting. But how little he knew her and what she craved! He would make her a queen, he said. He would give his life to making her happy with petting and baubles, and be her slave. Yes, he would do that. He would do it to the best of his ability. He would do it better than any one she knew. And he would call that the great adventure!

It was something from the swirling snow which struck her face when she left the house that had stimulated her imagination this afternoon. The sting had brought back those vivid pictures of bleak, stern hardships that Mildred had painted for her. Out of sheer contrast they had stirred in her a craving for something like that—a primitive craving such as seizes men in the spring and drives them back to forest and stream-side. She wanted to get out and away where life would bite. She wanted, not more of those things she had now, but opportunity to do without some of those things. She wanted a chance to be stripped to herself—a chance to use herself.

“Joan,” he choked, “Joan—you believe me?”

“I do,” she said quickly. “That’s the trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Oh, I wish you had not spoken!”

“You mean you—this is not—the adventure?”

How could it be? It was no more an adventure than getting into a waiting limousine with him.

“Dicky,” she said, “I told you I wanted to be by myself. I want it more than ever now.”

“Because of me?”

“Because of everything.”

“You don’t love me, then?”

“You want me to tell you the truth, don’t you, Dicky?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” she said slowly and as gently as she could,—“then the truth is: I don’t love you.”

Dicky took it like a man. He neither refused to meet her eyes nor made a long face about it.

“That,” he said, “seems to settle it. Are you ready?”

He escorted her to the cloak-room, and went back and called her machine and found his own coat. Then he waited and helped her in. Uncovered, he stood in the snow before the open door.

“Dicky,” she said, giving her hand, “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to feel like that,” he said. “I’d rather you felt you had some one—always ready—to call on.”

“Oh, I do!”

“For anything you may want within my power to give you!”

“Yes.”

As he stood, straight and slim with a brave face, she thought of him as some story-book prince. For a second it was as though this were some unreal world—a world of romance where princes of that sort could be.

Then he closed the door upon her and the machine started through the blinding snow.

Charles, the driver, took his usual course. If any one had told him that he was in the hands of Fate, he would probably have inquired, “Who is Fate, sir?”

He was a careful driver, who minded his own business and the traffic regulations. This late afternoon he was more than usually careful, because it was with difficulty that he saw three feet ahead. And yet—when a half-dazed figure stumbled from the sidewalk into the road, he could not stop his machine in time to avoid hitting it. He threw on the emergency brake, but it was too late.

Jumping from his seat, he picked up the unconscious man and looked about for help. But the snow came down all around him like a screen.

Joan threw open the door. She saw the limp figure.

“Bring him here!” she commanded.

Charles stumbled forward with his burden.

“Put him on the seat,” she commanded. “Quick! Drive home!”

As the car started on, she bent over the stranger. Then, with an amazed cry, she uttered his name.