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The Parlor-Car
by
MR. RICHARDS, wheeling round so as to confront her: “I wish you would speak to me half as kindly as you do to that darky, Lucy.”
MISS GALBRAITH: “HE is a GENTLEMAN!”
MR. RICHARDS: “He is an urbane and well-informed nobleman. At any rate, he’s a man and a brother. But so am I.” Miss Galbraith does not reply, and after a pause Mr. Richards resumes. “Talking of gentlemen, I recollect, once, coming up on the day-boat to Poughkeepsie, there was a poor devil of a tipsy man kept following a young fellow about, and annoying him to death–trying to fight him, as a tipsy man will, and insisting that the young fellow had insulted him. By and by he lost his balance and went overboard, and the other jumped after him and fished him out.” Sensation on the part of Miss Galbraith, who stirs uneasily in her chair, looks out of the window, then looks at
MR. RICHARDS, and drops her head. “There was a young lady on board, who had seen the whole thing–a very charming young lady indeed, with pale blond hair growing very thick over her forehead, and dark eyelashes to the sweetest blue eyes in the world. Well, this young lady’s papa was amongst those who came up to say civil things to the young fellow when he got aboard again, and to ask the honor–he said the HONOR–of his acquaintance. And when he came out of his stateroom in dry clothes, this infatuated old gentleman was waiting for him, and took him and introduced him to his wife and daughter; and the daughter said, with tears in her eyes, and a perfectly intoxicating impulsiveness, that it was the grandest and the most heroic and the noblest thing that she had ever seen, and she should always be a better girl for having seen it. Excuse me, Miss Galbraith, for troubling you with these facts of a personal history, which, as you say, is a matter of perfect indifference to you. The young fellow didn’t think at the time he had done anything extraordinary; but I don’t suppose he DID expect to live to have the same girl tell him he was no gentleman.”
MISS GALBRAITH, wildly: “O Allen, Allen! You KNOW I think you are a gentleman, and I always did!”
MR. RICHARDS, languidly: “Oh, I merely had your word for it, just now, that you didn’t.” Tenderly, “Will you hear me, Lucy?”
MISS GALBRAITH, faintly: “Yes.”
MR. RICHARDS: “Well, what is it I’ve done? Will you tell me if I guess right?”
MISS GALBRAITH, with dignity: “I am in no humor for jesting, Allen. And I can assure you that though I consent to hear what you have to say, or ask, NOTHING will change my determination. All is over between us.”
MR. RICHARDS: “Yes, I understand that, perfectly. I am now asking merely for general information. I do not expect you to relent, and, in fact, I should consider it rather frivolous if you did. No. What I have always admired in your character, Lucy, is a firm, logical consistency; a clearness of mental vision that leaves no side of a subject unsearched; and an unwavering constancy of purpose. You may say that these traits are characteristic of ALL women; but they are pre-eminently characteristic of you, Lucy.” Miss Galbraith looks askance at him, to make out whether he is in earnest or not; he continues, with a perfectly serious air. “And I know now that if you’re offended with me, it’s for no trivial cause.” She stirs uncomfortably in her chair. What I have done I can’t imagine, but it must be something monstrous, since it has made life with me appear so impossible that you are ready to fling away your own happiness– for I know you DID love me, Lucy–and destroy mine. I will begin with the worst thing I can think of. Was it because I danced so much with Fanny Watervliet?”