第55章

Of course the stranger was very soon at his ease and chatting along comfortably.The average American girl possesses the valuable qualities of naturalness, honesty, and inoffensive straightforwardness; she is nearly barren of troublesome conventions and artificialities, consequently her presence and her ways are unembarrassing, and one is acquainted with her and on the pleasantest terms with her before he knows how it came about.This new acquaintanceship--friendship, indeed--progressed swiftly; and the unusual swiftness of it, and the thoroughness of it are sufficiently evidenced and established by one noteworthy fact--that within the first half hour both parties had ceased to be conscious of Tracy's clothes.Later this consciousness was re-awakened; it was then apparent to Gwendolen that she was almost reconciled to them, and it was apparent to Tracy that he wasn't.The re-awakening was brought about by Gwendolen's inviting the artist to stay to dinner.He had to decline, because he wanted to live, now--that is, now that there was something to live for--and he could not survive in those clothes at a gentleman's table.He thought he knew that.But he went away happy, for he saw that Gwendolen was disappointed.

And whither did he go? He went straight to a slopshop and bought as neat and reasonably well-fitting a suit of clothes as an Englishman could be persuaded to wear.He said--to himself, but at his conscience--"I know it's wrong; but it would be wrong not to do it; and two wrongs do not make a right."This satisfied him, and made his heart light.Perhaps it will also satisfy the reader--if he can make out what it means.

The old people were troubled about Gwendolen at dinner, because she was so distraught and silent.If they had noticed, they would have found that she was sufficiently alert and interested whenever the talk stumbled upon the artist and his work; but they didn't notice, and so the chat would swap around to some other subject, and then somebody would presently be privately worrying about Gwendolen again, and wondering if she were not well, or if something had gone wrong in the millinery line.

Her mother offered her various reputable patent medicines, and tonics with iron and other hardware in them, and her father even proposed to send out for wine, relentless prohibitionist and head of the order in the District of Columbia as he was, but these kindnesses were all declined--thankfully, but with decision.At bedtime, when the family were breaking up for the night, she privately looted one of the brushes, saying to herself, "It's the one he has used, the most."The next morning Tracy went forth wearing his new suit, and equipped with a pink in his button-hole--a daily attention from Puss.His whole soul was full of Gwendolen Sellers, and this condition was an inspiration, art-wise.All the morning his brush pawed nimbly away at the canvases, almost without his awarity--awarity, in this sense being the sense of being aware, though disputed by some authorities--turning out marvel upon marvel, in the way of decorative accessories to the portraits, with a felicity and celerity which amazed the veterans of the firm and fetched out of them continuous explosions of applause.

Meantime Gwendolen was losing her morning, and many dollars.She supposed Tracy was coming in the forenoon--a conclusion which she had jumped to without outside help.So she tripped down stairs every little while from her work-parlor to arrange the brushes and things over again, and see if he had arrived.And when she was in her work-parlor it was not profitable, but just the other way--as she found out to her sorrow.

She had put in her idle moments during the last little while back, in designing a particularly rare and capable gown for herself, and this morning she set about making it up; but she was absent minded, and made an irremediable botch of it.When she saw what she had done, she knew the reason of it and the meaning of it; and she put her work away from her and said she would accept the sign.And from that time forth she came no more away from the Audience Chamber, but remained there and waited.After luncheon she waited again.A whole hour.Then a great joy welled up in her heart, for she saw him coming.So she flew back up stairs thankful, and could hardly wait for him to miss the principal brush, which she had mislaid down there, but knew where she had mislaid it.However, all in good time the others were called in and couldn't find the brush, and then she was sent for, and she couldn't find it herself for some little time; but then she found it when the others had gone away to hunt in the kitchen and down cellar and in the woodshed, and all those other places where people look for things whose ways they are not familiar with.So she gave him the brush, and remarked that she ought to have seen that everything was ready for him, but it hadn't seemed necessary, because it was so early that she wasn't expecting--but she stopped there, surprised at herself for what she was saying; and he felt caught and ashamed, and said to himself, "I knew my impatience would drag me here before I was expected, and betray me, and that is just what it has done; she sees straight through me--and is laughing at me, inside, of course."Gwendolen was very much pleased, on one account, and a little the other way in another; pleased with the new clothes and the improvement which they had achieved; less pleased by the pink in the buttonhole.

Yesterday's pink had hardly interested her; this one was just like it, but somehow it had got her immediate attention, and kept it.She wished she could think of some way of getting at its history in a properly colorless and indifferent way.Presently she made a venture.She said:

"Whatever a man's age may be, he can reduce it several years by putting a bright-colored flower in his button-hole.I have often noticed that.

Is that your sex's reason for wearing a boutonniere?""I fancy not, but certainly that reason would be a sufficient one.I've never heard of the idea before.""You seem to prefer pinks.Is it on account of the color, or the form?""Oh no," he said, simply, "they are given to me.I don't think I have any preference.""They are given to him," she said to herself, and she felt a coldness toward that pink."I wonder who it is, and what she is like." The flower began to take up a good deal of room; it obtruded itself everywhere, it intercepted all views, and marred them; it was becoming exceedingly annoying and conspicuous for a little thing."I wonder if he cares for her." That thought gave her a quite definite pain.