And the nice straw hat with the roses, and the nice linen dress. My, my!”
The roses were red; the dress white, with thin, green ribbon run through it here and there.
She was keenly aware of the reason for his enthusiasm.
He was so different from Harold, so healthy and out-of-doorish, so able.
To-day Harold had been in tantrums over fate, life, his lack of success.
“Oh, I shouldn’t complain so much if I were you,” she had said to him, bitterly.
“You might work harder and storm less.”
This had produced a scene which she had escaped by going for a walk.
Almost at the very moment when she had returned Aileen had appeared.
It was a way out.
She had cheered up, and accepted, dressed.
So had Sohlberg.
Apparently smiling and happy, they had set out on the drive.
Now, as Cowperwood spoke, she glanced about her contentedly.
“I’m lovely,” she thought, “and he loves me.
How wonderful it would be if we dared.”
But she said aloud:
“I’m not so very nice.
It’s just the day—don’t you think so?
It’s a simple dress. I’m not very happy, though, to-night, either.”
“What’s the matter?” he asked, cheeringly, the rumble of the traffic destroying the carrying-power of their voices.
He leaned toward her, very anxious to solve any difficulty which might confront her, perfectly willing to ensnare her by kindness. “Isn’t there something I can do?
We’re going now for a long ride to the pavilion in Jackson Park, and then, after dinner, we’ll come back by moonlight.
Won’t that be nice?
You must be smiling now and like yourself—happy.
You have no reason to be otherwise that I know of.
I will do anything for you that you want done—that can be done.
You can have anything you want that I can give you.
What is it?
You know how much I think of you.
If you leave your affairs to me you would never have any troubles of any kind.”
“Oh, it isn’t anything you can do—not now, anyhow.
My affairs!
Oh yes. What are they?
Very simple, all.”
She had that delicious atmosphere of remoteness even from herself.
He was enchanted.
“But you are not simple to me, Rita,” he said, softly, “nor are your affairs. They concern me very much.
You are so important to me. I have told you that.
Don’t you see how true it is?
You are a strange complexity to me—wonderful.
I’m mad over you.
Ever since I saw you last I have been thinking, thinking.
If you have troubles let me share them.
You are so much to me—my only trouble.
I can fix your life. Join it with mine.
I need you, and you need me.”
“Yes,” she said, “I know.” Then she paused.
“It’s nothing much,” she went on—“just a quarrel.”
“What over?”