HEY had met at the seashore, in the usual seashore mood. The strip of Sahara called the beach had seemed like paradise to them, though it raised nothing but pale and skippy sand-fleas, and though the same sand in a drawing-room would have been accounted a disaster. They had heaved rhapsodic sighs about the ocean, which is, after all, only a very large pond, exceptionally messy and floppy at the edges.
The moon paced its usual beat, getting larger and later every evening, as of old; but they found something extraordinary in its radiance, though they would have complained to the Gas Company or the General Electric if such insipid illumination had been provided for ordinary purposes.
So they reveled in sea and sky and romance and all that sort of thing, which has been written up so often and so much better than it is likely to be done again.
But soon she left the sea and went to the mountains. And there he turned up, too, after a decent interval. Here there was more scenery, of a highly-embossed description. There were admirable peaks and thoroughly commendable valleys and pines and cedars, and things with gorgeous colors splashed round in excellent taste. But that also has been done so often and so well that, perhaps, one might better skip the landscape and get to the dialogue.
She was sitting in one of the parlors at the hotel, whose prices most nearly rivaled the magnificence of the peaks. She was talking about The Man to the Other Man:
"The thing I like most about Charles Newman is that he never sends me flowers."
"They're about the only thing he hasn't sent you," the Other Man growled.
"Yes; he has sent me candy by the ton, books enough for a fifty-five-foot shelf, bushels of trinkets—souvenirs! He's awfully generous."
"Oh, I know. He's one of those present presenters. The minute that sort of man is introduced to a girl he rushes out and buys her something. It's Christmas every day with him."
"A woman appreciates those little attentions, Ned."
"Attentions! They're nothing but tips. Men give those things to women to make 'em a little politer—as they slip a quarter to a waiter in the hope of getting some nearly-fresh eggs in the omelet or some coffee in the coffee. And you women are flattered by it instead of insulted!"
"Oh, I know you don't like Mr. Newman. You never did. You dislike him because I like him."
"Well, isn't that reason enough? Who is he, anyway? What does he do for a living?"
"Ugh, what a Yankee question! Mr. Newman is plainly a gentleman of means with sense enough to enjoy his leisure. Now, when I was abroad, I met any number of that sort."
"Oh, yes; I know. We've all been abroad, and met the male or female loafer who settles down on eight hundred dollars a year, calls himself a gentleman and does nothing but drink other people's tea. But in America it's suspicious. I'll bet he's a gambler or a promoter or something shady."
"Look here, Ned, do you think it's manly to run down a rival behind his back?"
"No; I don't think it's at all manly, but I think it's all-fired human. I love you, Gwen, and you prefer him. That drives me crazy and I don't care what I say about him. I only wish I could think of worse things than I do."
"You love me! Humph! Why, you haven't even remembered that it's my birthday."
"Oh, Lord! is it really?—the eighteenth! Of course it is! I'm an awful fool. I have no memory, but I have a big heart and I love you twice as much as that"
"There you go again. You love me twice as much and forget my birthday. But he remembered it. He's giving a dinner party here at the hotel tonight in my honor."
"Oh, yes; he invited me. He felt sure enough of you for that! But he didn't tell me it was your birthday."
"He flattered you by thinking you'd probably remember it, as you're always telling how you and I grew up together. I'm so afraid you'll give away my real age! And I know he thinks I'm as old as you are."
"You used to be within a year of it, Gwen. But you've been backsliding."
"If you dare tell him that, Ned Milholland, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live."
"Oh, I'm not going to tell anybody. I forget the date of your birthdays so easily I'm not likely to remember how many there have been. Besides, you don't look half as old as you are."
"You have the most atrocious way of saying things! I'm not old. I won't have the word used of me!"
Great tears filled her eyes and one rolled gleaming down her cheek. He stared in amazement.
"Why, Gwen, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I never dreamed that—you were so sensitive."