A Fool and His Money Part 34

"Certainly," said I, coldly. "What's that got to do with it?"

"Nothing, I suppose," said he resignedly.

I hesitated. "Of course it is the work that upsets me. What are you driving at?"

He stared for a long time at the portrait of Ludwig the Red. "Isn't it odd that the Countess, an American, should be descended from the old Rothhoefens? What a small world it is, after all!"

I became wary. "Nothing odd about it to me. We've all got to descend from somebody."

"I dare say. Still it is odd that she should be hiding in the castle of her ances--"

"Not at all, not at all. It just happens to be a handy place. Perfectly natural."

We lapsed into a prolonged spell of silence. I found myself watching him rather combatively, as who would antic.i.p.ate the move of an adversary.

"Perfect rot," said I, at last, without rhyme or reason.

He grinned. "Nevertheless, it's the general opinion that you are,"

said he.

I sat up very straight. "What's that?"

"You're in love," said he succinctly. It was like a bomb, and a bomb is the very last thing in succinctness. It comes to the point without palaver or conjecture, and it reduces havoc to a single synonymous syllable.

"You're crazy!" I gasped.

"And the workmen haven't anything at all to do with it," he p.r.o.nounced emphatically. It was a direct charge. I distinctly felt called upon to refute it. But while I was striving to collect my thoughts he went on, somewhat arbitrarily, I thought: "You don't think we're all blind, do you, Mr. Smart?" "We?" I murmured, a curious dampness a.s.sailing me.

"That is to say, Britton, the Schmicks and myself."

"The Schmicks?" It was high time that I should laugh. "Ha! ha! The Schmicks! Good Lord, man,--the _Schmicks_." It sounded inane even to me, but, on my soul, it was all I could think of to say.

"The Schmicks are tickled to death over it," said he. "And so is Britton."

Collecting all the sarcasm that I could command at the instant, I inquired: "And you, Mr. p.o.o.pend.y.k.e,--are you not ticklish?"

"Very," said he.

"Well, I'm not!" said I, savagely. "What does all this nonsense mean.

Don't be an a.s.s, Fred."

"Perhaps you don't know it, Mr. Smart, but you _are_ in love," said he so convincingly that I was conscious of an abrupt sinking of the heart.

Good heavens! Was he right? Was there anything in this silly twaddle?

"You are quite mad about her."

"The deuce you say!" I exclaimed, rather blankly.

"Oh, I've seen it coming. For that matter, so has she. It's as plain as the nose--"

I leaped to my feet, startled. "She? You don't--Has she said anything that leads you to believe--Oh, the deuce! What rot!"

"No use getting angry over it," he said consolingly. "Falling in love is the sort of thing a fellow can't help, you know. It happens without his a.s.sistance. It is so easy. Now I was once in love with a girl for two years without really knowing it."

"And how did you find it out?" I asked, weakly.

"I didn't find it out until she married another chap. Then I knew I'd been in love with her all the time. But that's neither here nor there.

You are heels over head in love with the Countess Tarnowsy and--"

"Shut up, Fred! You're going daffy from reading my books, or absorbing my ma.n.u.scripts, or--"

"Heaven is my witness, I don't read your books and I merely correct your ma.n.u.scripts. G.o.d knows there is no romance in that! You _are_ in love. Now what are you going to do about it?"

"Do about it?" I demanded.

"You can't go on in this way, you know," he said relentlessly. "She won't--"

"Why, you blithering idiot," I roared, "do you know what you are saying?

I'm not in love with anybody. My heart is--is--But never mind! Now, listen to me, Fred. This nonsense has got to cease. I won't have it.

Why, she's already got a husband. She's had all she can stand in the way of husb--"

"Rubbis.h.!.+ She can stand a husband or two more, if you are going to look at it in a literal way. Besides, she hasn't a husband. She's chucked him. Good riddance, too. Now, do you imagine for a single instant that a beautiful, adorable young woman of twenty-three is going to spend the rest of her life without a man? Not much! She's free to marry again and she will."

"Admitting that to be true, why should she marry me?"

"I didn't say she was in love with you. I said you were in love with her."

"Oh," I said, and my face fell "I see."

He seemed to be considering something. After a few seconds, he nodded his head decisively. "Yes, I am sure of it. If the right man gets her, she'll make the finest, sweetest wife in the world. She's never had a chance to show what's really in her. She would be adorable, wouldn't she?"

The sudden question caught me unawares.

"She would!" I said, with conviction.

"Well," said he, slowly and deliberately, "why don't you set about it, then?"

He was so ridiculous that I thought for the fun of it, I'd humour him.

"a.s.suming that you are right in regard to my feelings toward her, Fred, what leads you to believe that I would stand a chance of winning her?"

It was a silly question, but I declare I hung on his answer with a tenseness that surprised me.

"Why not? You are good looking, a gentleman, a celebrity, and a man.

Bless my soul, she _could_ do worse."

"But you forget that I am--let me see--thirty-five and she is but twenty-three."

"To offset that, she has been married and unhappy. That brings her about up to your level, I should say. She's a mother, and that makes you seem a good bit younger. Moreover, she isn't a sod widow. She's a gra.s.s widow, and she's got a living example to use as a contrast.

Regulation widows sometimes forget the past because it is dim and dead; but, by George, sir, the divorced wife doesn't forget the hard time she's had. She's mighty careful when she goes about it the second time.