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Max–Or His Picture
by
“Is he a German? Miss Parker said his name was Cutler.”
“It is Butler,” the girl said, flinging her head back, while a spark crept into her liquid, troubled, dark eyes, “but he is a German. Don’t you know the Butlers in ‘Wallenstein?’ You know he was a real man; and he founded a family. He–my–my friend is the Count von Butler.” Miss Wing’s chair, like other desk chairs, was set on a pivot; she turned very slightly and slowly, at the same time resting her elbow on the desk. The girl ventured a timid glance at her, and thought that she looked sterner, wherefore her heart sank; but she only continued the faster: “He isn’t in America just to travel; he was sent by his government to watch the Cuban war. He’s very brave; and he isn’t a bit like a foreigner and hasn’t any nasty supercilious notions about women. Mr. Grier says he has a future. And really, Miss Wing, he is just like a–a–a kind of knight.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“At Helen’s last summer. And he was going out to Minneapolis to see papa, I–I think. But he got a cable of his uncle’s death. And his two little cousins died last year; so now he is the head of the family; and he must go to Germany at once. For his father is dead, you know. So he wrote (in Helen’s letter, because he is so–so awfully proper!) asking to let him come here and take me to drive–in the American fashion. I know who put him up to that scheme; it was Helen. I had to ask Miss Parker, because you were out; and she said if he wasn’t a relation or the man I was going to marry I couldn’t go. ‘Of course, if he were the man you expect to marry,’ she said, and–and I–I said, ‘But he is!’ Just like that. I can’t fancy how I came to say such a thing, but when it was said I didn’t know how to explain; and I was so awfully ashamed; and, besides”–she lifted her eyes in the frank and direct gaze that Miss Wing always liked–“besides, I do want to see him.”
“And do you expect him to ask you to marry him?” said Miss Wing, with a deepening of the color on her cheek, which went out suddenly like the flame of a lamp in the wind.
Florence Raimund blushed again, but this time she laughed: “I don’t know. He is so awfully proper,” said she, “and he hasn’t had a chance to ask papa; but–I think he wants to.”
“In that case, isn’t he the man whom you expect to marry?” asked Miss Wing dryly. “But it was deceiving her just the same. I am glad you came, Florence.”
Here the girl looked up; and something in Miss Wing’s eyes made her dash across the room to fling herself on her knees before that lady with an inarticulate gasp between a sob and a laugh, and the sentences came in a rush: “I had to come! I couldn’t deceive you if I never saw him again. And besides, I hoped you would think of some way!”
“And you escape quite unpunished?” said Miss Wing gently.
At which the black head sank lower, while a smothered voice mumbled: “Do you think I– liked it, coming to tell?”
Miss Wing smoothed her hair. “It would have pained me very much if you had not come. Tell me; whether he sees you or not, will he not write to your father? Do you think his feeling is so slight that a disappointment will turn it?”
The black head threw itself up bravely and the fearless young eyes met Miss Wing’s pensive brown ones. “No, Miss Wing, I know it will make no difference.”
Miss Wing stifled a sigh; it may be that she was not so sure of the firm purpose of a lover; she spoke more gently: “It is only the disappointment, then, if you can’t see him?”