The other--well, I couldn't help it. It was _Kismet_, fate, the turn
in the road, what you will. I fell heels over head in love with her at
once. She was charming, exquisite, one of those delicate creatures who
always appear in enchantments; a Bouguereau child grown into womanhood,
made to fit the protecting frame of a man's arms. Love steals into the
heart when we least expect him; and before we are aware, the sly little
god has unpacked his trunk and taken possession!
Eyes she had as blue as the Aegean Sea on windy days, blue as the
cloud-winnowed sky of a winter's twilight, blue as sapphires--Irish
eyes! Her hair was as dark and silken as a plume from the wings of
night. (Did I not say that I had some poetry in my system?) The shape
of her mouth--Never mind; I can recall only the mad desire to kiss it.
A graceful figure, a proud head, a slender hand, a foot so small that I
wondered if it really poised, balanced or supported her young body.
Tender she must be, and loving, enclitical rather than erect like her
authoritative companion. She was adorable.
All this inventory of feminine charms was taken by furtive glances,
sometimes caught--or were they taking an inventory of myself?
Presently my appetite became singularly submissive. Hunger often is
satisfied by the feeding of the eyes. I dropped my napkin on the table
and pushed back my chair. My hostesses ceased conversing.
"Ladies," said I courteously, "I offer you my sincere apologies for
this innocent intrusion." I looked at my watch. "I believe that you
gave me an hour's respite. So, then, I have thirty minutes to my
account."
The women gazed at each other. One laughed, and the other smiled; it
was the English girl who laughed this time. I liked the sound of it
better than any I had yet heard.
(Pardon another parenthesis. I hope you haven't begun to think that
_I_ am the hero of this comedy. Let it be furthest from your thoughts.
I am only a passive bystander.)
"I sincerely trust that your hunger is appeased," said the one who had
smiled.
"It is, thank you." I absently fumbled in my coat pockets, then
guiltily dropped my hands. What a terrible thing habit is!
"You may smoke," said the Bouguereau child who was grown into
womanhood. Wasn't that fine of her? And wasn't it rather observant,
too? I learned later that she had a brother who was fond of tobacco.
To her eyes my movement was a familiar one.
"With your kind permission," said I gratefully. I hadn't had a smoke
in four hours.