Chapter 14

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_ CHAPTER XIV

She had no definite idea; all she craved for was the open--or its metropolitan substitute--sunshine, air, the glimpse of sanely preoccupied faces, the dull, quickening tumult of traffic. The tumult grew, increasing in her ears as she crossed Washington Square under the sycamores and looked up through tender feathery foliage at the white arch of marble through which the noble avenue flows away between its splendid arid chasms of marble, bronze, and masonry to that blessed leafy oasis in the north--the Park.

She took an omnibus, impatient for the green rambles of the only breathing-place she knew of, and settled back in her seat, rebellious of eye, sullen of mouth, scarcely noticing the amused expression of the young man opposite.

Two passengers left at Twenty-third Street, three at Thirty-fourth Street, and seven at Forty-second Street.

Preoccupied, she glanced up at the only passenger remaining, caught the fleeting shadow of interest on his face, regarded him with natural indifference, and looked out of the window, forgetting him. A few moments later, accidentally aware of him again, she carelessly noted his superficially attractive qualities, and, approving, resumed her idle inspection of the passing throng. But the next time her pretty head swung round she found him looking rather fixedly at her, and involuntarily she returned the gaze with a childlike directness--a gaze which he sustained to the limit of good breeding, then evaded so amiably that it left an impression rather agreeable than otherwise.

"I don't see," thought Aphrodite, "why I never meet that sort of man. He hasn't art nouveau legs, and his features are not by-products of his hair.... I have told my brothers-in-law that I am old enough to go out without coming out.... And I am."

The lovely mouth grew sullen again: "I don't wish to wait two years and be what dreadful newspapers call a 'bud'! I wish to go to dinners and dances _now_!... Where I'll meet that sort of man.... The sort one feels almost at liberty to talk to without anybody presenting anybody.... I've a mind to look amiable the next time he----"

He raised his eyes at that instant; but she did not smile.

"I--I suppose that is the effect of civilization on me," she reflected--"metropolitan civilization. I felt like saying, 'For goodness' sake, let's say something'--even in spite of all my sisters have told me. I can't see why it would be dangerous for me to _look_ amiable. If he glances at me again--so agreeably----"

He did; but she didn't smile.

"You see!" she said, accusing herself discontentedly; "you don't dare look human. Why? Because you've had it so drummed into you that you can never, never again do anything natural. Why? Oh, because they all begin to talk about mysterious dangers when you say you wish to be natural.... I've made up my mind to look interested the next time he turns.... Why shouldn't he see that I'm quite willing to talk to him?... And I'm so tired of looking out of the window.... Before I came to this curious city I was never afraid to speak to anybody who attracted me.... And I'm not now.... So if he does look at me----"

He did.

The faintest glimmer of a smile troubled her lips. She thought: "I _do_ wish he'd speak!"

There was a very becoming color in his face, partly because he was experienced enough not to mistake her; partly from a sudden and complete realization of her beauty.

"It's so odd," thought Aphrodite, "that attractive people consider it dangerous to speak to one another. I don't see any danger.... I wonder what he has in that square box beside him? It can't be a camera.... It _can't_ be a folding easel! It simply _can't_ be that _he_ is an artist! a man like that----"

"_Are_ you?" she asked quite involuntarily.

"What?" he replied, astonished, wheeling around.

"An--an artist. I can't believe it, and I don't wish to! You don't look it, you know!"

For a moment he could scarcely realize that she had spoken; his keen gaze dissected the face before him, the unembarrassed eyes, the oval contour, the smooth, flawless loveliness of a child.

"Yes, I am an artist," he said, considering her curiously.

"I am sorry," she said, "no, not sorry--only unpleasantly surprised. You see I am so tired of art--and I thought you looked so--so wholesome----"

He began to laugh--a modulated laugh--rather infectious, too, for Aphrodite bit her lip, then smiled, not exactly understanding it all.

"Why do you laugh?" she asked, still smiling. "Have I said something I should not have said?"

But he replied with a question: "Have you found art unwholesome?"

"I--I don't know," she answered with a little sigh; "I am so tired of it all. Don't let us talk about it--will you?"

"It isn't often I talk about it," he said, laughing again.

"Oh! That is unusual. Why don't you talk about art?"

"I'm much too busy."

"D--doing what? If that is not _very_ impertinent."

"Oh, making pictures of things," he said, intensely amused.

"Pictures? You don't talk about art, and you paint pictures!"

"Yes."

"W--what kind? Do you mind my asking? You are so--so very unusual."

"Well, to earn my living, I make full-page pictures for magazines; to satisfy an absurd desire, I paint people--things--anything that might satisfy my color senses." He shrugged his shoulders gaily. "You see, I'm the sort you are so tired of----"

"But you _paint_! The artists I know don't paint--except _that_ way--" She raised her pretty gloved thumb and made a gesture in the air; and, before she had achieved it, they were both convulsed with laughter.

"You never do that, do you?" she asked at length.

"No, I never do. I can't afford to decorate the atmosphere for nothing!"

"Then--then you are not interested in art nouveau?"

"No; and I never could see that beautiful music resembled frozen architecture."

They were laughing again, looking with confidence and delight upon one another as though they had started life's journey together in that ancient omnibus.

"_What_ is a 'necklace of precious tones'?" she asked.

"Precious stones?"

"No, _tones_!"

"Let me cite, as an example, those beautiful verses of Henry Haynes," he replied gravely.

TO BE OR NOT TO BE

I'd rather be a Could Be,
If I can not be an Are;
For a Could Be is a May Be,
With a chance of touching par.

I had rather be a Has Been
Than a Might Have Been, by far;
For a Might Be is a Hasn't Been
But a Has was _once_ an Are!

Also an Are is Is and Am;
A Was _was_ all of these;
So I'd rather be a Has Been
Than a Hasn't, if you please.

And they fell a-laughing so shamelessly that the 'bus driver turned and squinted through his shutter at them, and the scandalized horses stopped of their own accord.

"Are you going to leave?" he asked as she rose.

"Yes; this is the Park," she said. "Thank you, and good-by."

He held the door for her; she nodded her thanks and descended, turning frankly to smile again in acknowledgment of his quickly lifted hat.

"He _was_ nice," she reflected a trifle guiltily, "and I had a good time, and I really don't see any danger in it." _

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