“Wonder how far he’ll go on his honeymoon.”
“Oh, he’ll think I’m on the train till he gets to Elizabeth.” She shook her little fist at the great contour of the marble dome. “Oh, he’s getting off too easy—far too easy!”
“I haven’t f-figured out what the f-fellow did to you, M-myra.”
“You never will, I hope.”
They had reached the side drive and he hailed her a taxi-cab.
“You’re an angel!” beamed Myra. “And I can’t thank you enough.”
“Well, anytime I can be of use t-to you—— By the way, what are you going to do with all the rings?”
Myra looked laughingly at her hand.
“That’s the question,” she said. “I may send them to Lady Helena Something-or-Other—and—well, I’ve always had a strong penchant for souvenirs. Tell the driver ‘Biltmore,’ Walter.”
— ◆ —
The Smilers.
(The Smart Set, June 1920)
I
We all have that exasperated moment!
There are times when you almost tell the harmless old lady next door what you really think of her face—that it ought to be on a night-nurse in a house for the blind; when you’d like to ask the man you’ve been waiting ten minutes for if he isn’t all overheated from racing the postman down the block; when you nearly say to the waiter that if they deducted a cent from the bill for every degree the soup was below tepid the hotel would owe you half a dollar; when—and this is the infallible earmark of true exasperation—a smile affects you as an oil-baron’s undershirt affects a cow’s husband.
But the moment passes. Scars may remain on your dog or your collar or your telephone receiver, but your soul has slid gently back into its place between the lower edge of your heart and the upper edge of your stomach, and all is at peace.
But the imp who turns on the shower-bath of exasperation apparently made it so hot one time in Sylvester Stockton’s early youth that he never dared dash in and turn it off—in consequence no first old man in an amateur production of a Victorian comedy was ever more pricked and prodded by the daily phenomena of life than was Sylvester at thirty.
Accusing eyes behind spectacles—suggestion of a stiff neck—this will have to do for his description, since he is not the hero of this story. He is the plot. He is the factor that makes it one story instead of three stories. He makes remarks at the beginning and end.
The late afternoon sun was loitering pleasantly along Fifth Avenue when Sylvester, who had just come out of that hideous public library where he had been consulting some ghastly book, told his impossible chauffeur (it is true that I am following his movements through his own spectacles) that he wouldn’t need his stupid, incompetent services any longer. Swinging his cane (which he found too short) in his left hand (which he should have cut off long ago since it was constantly offending him), he began walking slowly down the Avenue.
When Sylvester walked at night he frequently glanced behind and on both sides to see if anyone was sneaking up on him. This had become a constant mannerism. For this reason he was unable to pretend that he didn’t see Betty Tearle sitting in her machine in front of Tiffany’s.
Back in his early twenties he had been in love with Betty Tearle. But he had depressed her. He had misanthropically dissected every meal, motor trip and musical comedy that they attended together, and on the few occasions when she had tried to be especially nice to him—from a mother’s point of view he had been rather desirable—he had suspected hidden motives and fallen into a deeper gloom than ever. Then one day she told him that she would go mad if he ever again parked his pessimism in her sun-parlor.
And ever since then she had seemed to be smiling—uselessly, insultingly, charmingly smiling.
“Hello, Sylvo,” she called.
“Why—how do Betty.” He wished she wouldn’t call him Sylvo—it sounded like a—like a darn monkey or something.
“How goes it?” she asked cheerfully. “Not very well, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes,” he answered stiffly, “I manage.”
“Taking in the happy crowd?”
“Heavens, yes.” He looked around him. “Betty, why are they happy? What are they smiling at? What do they find to smile at?”
Betty flashed at him a glance of radiant amusement.
“The women may smile because they have pretty teeth, Sylvo.”
“You smile,” continued Sylvester cynically, “because you’re comfortably married and have two children. You imagine you’re happy, so you suppose everyone else is.”
Betty nodded.
“You may have hit it, Sylvo——” The chauffeur glanced around and she nodded at him. “Good-bye.”
Sylvo watched with a pang of envy which turned suddenly to exasperation as he saw she had turned and smiled at him once more. Then her car was out of sight in the traffic, and with a voluminous sigh he galvanized his cane into life and continued his stroll.
At the next corner he stopped in at a cigar store and there he ran into Waldron Crosby. Back in the days when Sylvester had been a prize pigeon in the eyes of debutantes he had also been a game partridge from the point of view of promoters. Crosby, then a young bond salesman, had given him much safe and sane advice and saved him many dollars. Sylvester liked Crosby as much as he could like anyone. Most people did like Crosby.
“Hello, you old bag of ‘nerves,’” cried Crosby genially, “come and have a big gloom-dispelling Corona.”
Sylvester regarded the cases anxiously. He knew he wasn’t going to like what he bought.
“Still out at Larchmont, Waldron?” he asked.
“Right-o.”
“How’s your wife?”
“Never better.”
“Well,” said Sylvester suspiciously, “you brokers always look as if you’re smiling at something up your sleeve. It must be a hilarious profession.”
Crosby considered.
“Well,” he admitted, “it varies—like the moon and the price of soft drinks—but it has its moments.”
“Waldron,” said Sylvester earnestly, “you’re a friend of mine—please do me the favor of not smiling when I leave you. It seems like a—like a mockery.”
A broad grin suffused Crosby’s countenance.
“Why, you crabbed old son-of-a-gun!”
But
