What Will People Say? Part 33

He would begin the day right with a wholesome morning smack. He tiptoed along the gra.s.s around to the door, and met her in the living-room. And as soon as he met her he set his arms about her. But she was almost sullen as she pushed him away.

"I won't have it!" she said, with a harshness that shocked him. "It's too early in the morning. And I don't like it. And I don't want gossip set going. And you must be doubly circ.u.mspect."

He fell back, baffled, and dropped his eyes in discontent. He saw that her little high boots were sprawling open. He smiled at the homely touch again.

"If you're so circ.u.mspect," he said, "you'd better b.u.t.ton your shoes."

"I forgot to bring up a b.u.t.ton-hook," she laughed, "and when I bent over with a hairpin I got so sleepy that I nearly fell back in bed."

"Permit me," he urged.

"No, thank you!"

"You can't walk with 'em falling off like that," he insisted. "A hairpin, please."

She took one from her hair, and he dropped to one knee. He could not seem to find the right position to work from. After hunching about from position to position he said:

"I reckon your feet are put on the wrong way."

"Thanks."

"For being b.u.t.toned, I mean."

"My maid b.u.t.tons them every morning."

"Tell me how on earth she gets at your foot?"

"No, thanks. I'll b.u.t.ton them myself."

"Oh no, you won't. How do the shoe clerks manage it?"

She set her foot on the rung of a chair, and he went at his task with all awkwardness. Her feet were small, yet the shoes were as tight as could be, and she winced as the b.u.t.tons ground or bit. But she choked back the little cries of pain that rose to her lips.

"Get away," she said; "you're killing me."

But he would not surrender the privilege. He took her foot on his knee and wrought with all care. The hairpin was soon a twisted wreck, and he must have another, and another.

When the lowest b.u.t.tons were done she checked him. "That's enough! I'd rather my shoes fell off than my hair. And that reminds me: where is my cap?"

"In my pocket next my heart."

"Give it to me, please."

"I'm going to keep it."

"By what right?"

"Conquest and possession."

"What if somebody should see you with it?"

"n.o.body shall."

"Somebody always does. n.o.body would believe it fell out of a window!"

"It fell straight into my heart."

She gave him up with a shrug. "Good Lord, you men! I don't suppose there's any coffee? I'm so used to having it in bed before I get up that I'm faint."

"I could make you some, if I knew where the coffee was, and the coffee-pot, and if there were any fire."

"Let's look into the kitchen."

She knew the way, and led him into a great food-studio--a place to delight a chef with its equipment and an artist with its coppers.

But the range was as cold as its white-glazed chimney. They cast about for fuel, and found that Prout had fetched kindling and coal the afternoon before.

Forbes soon had a fire snapping under one lid, and Persis hunted through cupboards and closets till she discovered a coffee-pot, evidently belonging to the servants' dining-room, and a canister half full of coffee.

"I haven't the faintest idea how much of that goes in, have you?" she said, helplessly. He nodded and made the measurements deftly.

"Where did you learn so much?" she asked, with a primeval woman's first wonder at a cave-man's first blaze and first cookery.

"A soldier ought to be able to build a fire and make a cup of coffee, oughtn't he?"

"Oh," she shrugged, "I always forget that you're a soldier. I've never seen you in uniform. You never tell me anything about yourself. I always think of you as just one of us loafers."

"It's mighty pleasant to be building a fire for you--for just us," he maundered.

"It is fine, isn't it?" she chuckled, with glistening eyes. "Rather reversing the usual, though, for idiotic woman to stand by while strong man boils the coffee--or are you baking it? I might be getting the dishes."

"I'd be willing to do this every morning--for you--for us," he ventured, his heart thumping at its own dauntlessness.

She evaded the implied proposal as she ransacked a cabinet. "I fancy it would rather lose its charm in time. As a regular thing, I like to see breakfast brought up on a tray by a nice-looking maid."

She brought out a perilous, double arm-load of cups and saucers, and a sugar-bowl.

"This is the service china, I suppose. You could drive nails with it."

He stared at her with idolatry. She was so variously beautiful; at the theater, the opera, the luncheon, here in a country kitchen--everywhere somebody else, and everybody of her beautiful. His hands went out to seize her again, but she tumbled the crockery crackingly on the table and waved a cup at him. "Stand back, or I'll brain you with this.

There's no cream. I suppose even the cows aren't up yet. And I can't find any b.u.t.ter--or any bread--just these tinned biscuits."

They sat at the kitchen table. The coffee was not good, really; but she found it amusing, and he thought it was ambrosia--Mars and Venus at breakfast in an Olympian dining-room. He told her something of the sort, and implied once more that he longed to make the arrangement permanent.

"I wish you'd quit proposing before breakfast," she said. "I feel very material in the morning, anyway, and I'm having a bully time. I'm feeling far too sensible to listen to any nonsense about the simple life. I can enjoy a bit of rough road as well as anybody. I can turn in and work or do without, or dress in rags--anything for a picnic--for a while. But as a regular thing--ugh! To get breakfast once in somebody's else kitchen at an unG.o.dly hour with a captivating stranger--glorious!

But to get up every morning--every every morning, rain or s.h.i.+ne, cold or hot, sleepy or sick or blue--no, thank you!"

"You think the rich are happier than the poor?"