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“You will entertain a great deal, I presume–that sort of thing?”

“We shall hope to make friends with people–and to meet old friends. It is such a pleasant surprise to find you here. I heard you were settled in Paris.”

“So I was, for several years; the Parisians said nice things about my pictures. But one may weary even of Paris. I returned here two years ago, and am now as much of a fixture in New York as if I’d never left it.”

“But not a permanent fixture. Shall we never see you in London?”

“My present probabilities lie rather in the direction of California. I want to make some studies of the scenery and the atmosphere. Besides, I am getting too old to think of another European residence.”

“No one gets old after thirty–especially no bachelor!” she answered, with a smile. “But if you were ever to feel old, the society of London would rejuvenate you.”

“It has certainly done you no harm. But you have the happiness to be married.”

She looked at me pleasantly and said, “Yes, I make a good Englishwoman.” That sounded like an evasion, but the expression of her face was not evasive. In the old days she would probably have flushed up and said something cutting.

“You must see my little girl,” she said, after a while.

The child was called, and presently came in. She resembles her mother, and has a vivacity scarcely characteristic of English children. I am not constitutionally a worshiper of children, but I liked Susie. She put her arms round her mother’s arm, and gazed at me with wide-eyed scrutiny.”

“This is Mr. Campbell,” said mamma.

“My name is Susan Courtney,” said the little thing. “We are going to stay in New York three years. Hot here–this is only an hotel–we are going to have a house. How do you do? This is my dolly.”

I saluted dolly, and thereby inspired its parent with confidence: she put her hand in mine, and gave me her smooth little cheek to kiss. “You are not like papa,” she then observed.

I smiled conciliatingly, being uncertain whether it were prudent to follow this lead; but Mrs. Courtney asked, “In what way different, dear?”

“Papa has a beard,” replied Susie.

The incident rather struck me; it seemed to indicate that Mrs. Courtney was under no apprehension that the child would say anything embarrassing about the father. Having learned so much, I ventured farther.

“Do you love papa or mamma best?” I inquired.

“I am with mamma most,” she answered, after meditation, “but when papa comes, I like him.”

This was non-committal. She continued, “Papa is coming here day after to-morrow. To-morrow, mamma and I are going to find a house.”

“Your husband leaves all that to you?” I said, turning to Mrs. Courtney.

“Mr. Courtney never knows or cares what sort of a place he lives in. It took me some little time to get used to that. I wanted everything to be just in a certain way. They used to laugh at me, and say I was more English than he.”

“Now that you are both here, you must both be American.”

“He doesn’t enjoy America much. Of course, it is very different from London. An Englishman can not be expected to care for American ways and American quickness, and–“

“American people?” I put in, laughingly.

“Don’t undress dolly here,” she said to Susie. “It isn’t time yet to put her to bed, and she might catch cold.”

Was this another evasion? The serene face betrayed nothing, but she had left unanswered the question that aimed at discovering how she and her husband stood toward each other. After all, however, no answer could have told me more than her no answer did–supposing it to have been intentional. I soon afterward took my leave, after having arranged to call to-morrow and accompany her and Susie on their house-hunting expedition. Upon the whole, I don’t think I am sorry to have renewed my acquaintance with her. She is more delightful–as an acquaintance–than when I knew her formerly. Should I have fallen in love with her had I met her for the first time as she is now? Yes, and no! In the old days there was something about her that commanded me–that fascinated my youthful imagination. Perhaps it was only the freshness, the ignorance, the timidity of young maidenhood–that mystery of possibilities of a nature that has not yet met the world and received its impress for good or evil. It is this which captivates in youth; and this, of course, Mrs. Courtney has lost. But every quality that might captivate mature manhood is hers, and, were I likely to think of marriage now, and were she marriageable, she is the type of woman I would choose. Yet I do not quite relish the perception that my present feminine ideal (whether it be lower or higher) is not the former one. But,–frankly, would I marry her if I could? I hardly know: I have got out of the habit of regarding marriage as among my possibilities; many avenues of happiness that once were open to me are now closed against me. Put it, that I have lost a faculty–that I am now able to enjoy only in imagination a phase of existence that, formerly, I could have enjoyed in fact. This bit of self-analysis may be erroneous; but I would not like to run the risk of proving it so! Am I not well enough off as I am? My health is fair, my mind active, my reputation secure, my finances prosperous. The things that I can dream must surely be better than anything that could happen. I can picture, for example, a state of matrimonial felicity which no marriage of mine could realize. Besides, I can, whenever I choose, see Mrs. Courtney herself, talk with her, and enjoy her as a reasonable and congenial friend, apart from the danger and disappointment that might result from a closer connection. I think I have chosen the wiser part, or, rather, the wiser part has been thrust upon me. That I shall never be wildly happy is, at least, security that I shall never be profoundly miserable. I shall simply be comfortable. Is this sour grapes? Am I, if not counting, then discounting my eggs before they are hatched? To such questions a practical–a materialized–answer would be the only conclusive one. Were Mrs. Courtney ready to drop into my mouth, I should either open my mouth, or else I should shut it, and either act would be conclusive. But, so far from being ready to drop into my mouth, she is immovably and (to all appearances) contentedly fixed where she is. I suppose I am insinuating that appearances are deceptive; that she may be unhappy with her husband, and desire to leave him. Well, there is no technical evidence in support of such an hypothesis; but, again, in a matter of this kind, it is not so much the technical as the indirect evidence that tells–the cadences of the voice, the breathing, the silences, the atmosphere. There is no denying that I did somehow acquire a vague impression that Courtney is not so large a figure in his wife’s eyes as he might be. I may have been biased by my previous conception of his character, or I may have misinterpreted the impalpable, indescribable signs that I remarked in her. But, once more, how do I know that her not caring for him would postulate her caring for me? Why should she care for either of us? Our old romance is to her as the memory of something read in a book, and it is powerless to make her heart beat one throb the faster. Were Courtney to die to-morrow, would his widow expect me to marry her? Not she! She would settle down here quietly, educate her daughter, and think better of her departed husband with every year that passed, and less of repeating the experiment that made her his! I may be prone to romantic and elaborate speculations, but I am not exactly a fool. I do not delude myself with the idea that Mrs. Courtney is, at this moment, following my example by recording her impressions of me at her own writing-desk, and asking herself whether–if such and such a thing were to happen–such another would be apt to follow. No; she has put Susie to bed, and is by this time asleep herself, after having read through the “Post,” or “Bazar,” or the last new novel, as her predilection may be. It is after midnight; since
she has not followed my example, I will follow hers; it is much the more sensible of the two.