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Page 15
She did not come in till Henry had waited some time in the parlour, and
then gave him her hand in a very lifeless way. She said she had a bad
head-ache, and seemed disposed to leave the talking to him. He spoke of
the picnic, but she rather sharply remarked that it was so long ago that
she had forgotten all about it. It did seem very long ago to her, but to
him it was very fresh. This cool ignoring of all that had happened that
day in modifying their relations at one blow knocked the bottom out of
all his thinking for the past week, and left him, as it were, all in the
air. While he felt that the moment was not propitious for pursuing that
topic, he could not for the moment turn his mind to anything else, and,
as for Madeline, it appeared to be a matter of entire indifference to her
whether anything further was said on any subject. Finally, he remarked,
with an effort to which the result may appear disproportionate--
"Mr. Taylor has been making quite extensive alterations on his house,
hasn't he?"
"I should think you ought to know, if any one. You pass his house every
day," was her response.
"Why, of course I know," he said, staring at her.
"So I thought, but you said 'hasn't he?' And naturally I presumed that
you were not quite certain."
She was evidently quizzing him, but her face was inscrutable. She looked
only as if patiently and rather wearily explaining a misunderstanding. As
she played with her fan, she had an unmistakable expression of being
slightly bored.
"Madeline, do you know what I should say was the matter with you if you'
were a man?" he said, desperately, yet trying to laugh.
"Well, really"--and her eyes had a rather hard expression--"if you prefer
gentlemen's society, you'd better seek it, instead of trying to get along
by supposing me to be a gentleman."
"It seems as if I couldn't say anything right," said Henry.
"I think you do talk a little strangely," she admitted, with a faint
smile. Her look was quite like that of an uncomplaining martyr.
"What's the matter with you to-night, Madeline? Tell me, for God's sake!"
he cried, overcome with sudden grief and alarm.
"I thought I told you I had a headache, and I really wish you wouldn't
use profane language," she replied, regarding him with lack-lustre eyes.
"And that's all? It's only a headache?"
"That's quite enough, I'm sure. Would you like me to have toothache
besides?"
"You know I didn't mean that."
"Well, earache, then?" she said, wearily, allowing her head to rest back
on the top of her chair, as if it were too much of an effort to hold it
up, and half shutting her eyes.
"Excuse me, I ought not to have kept you. I'll go now.'
"Don't hurry," she observed, languidly.
"I hope you'll feel better in the morning."
He offered her his hand, and she put hers in his for an instant, but
withdrew it without returning his pressure, and he went away, sorely
perplexed and bitterly disappointed.
He would have been still more puzzled if he had been told that not only
had Madeline not forgotten about what had happened at the picnic, but
had, in fact, thought of scarcely anything else during his call. It was
that which made her so hard with him, that lent such acid to her tone and
such cold aversion to her whole manner. As he went from the house, she
stood looking after him through the parlour window, murmuring to
herself--.
"Thank Heaven, I'm not engaged to him. How could I think I would ever
marry him? Oh, if a girl only knew!"
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