The Forbidden Way

"Fearing it? What do you mean? Tell me at once."

"Oh, nothing," he murmured.

"I insist on knowing."

"I wanted you to like me – and yet I dreaded it, too."

"Don't say that again," she whispered. "I can't stand it, Larry. I do care for you – more and more every time I see you. But it makes me terribly unhappy to feel that anything is bothering you."

"It needn't bother you."

"Yes, it does – if it makes you miserable. What is it? Won't you tell me?"

"I – I don't think we ought to be too friendly."

"Why not?" in surprise.

"Because it wouldn't be good for you – for either of us."

"That's no answer at all. I refuse to listen. What do I mind if it's good for me or not – if I care for you enough to – to – what is it, Larry? Answer me."

"Well, you know I'm all right now, but when I went West my bellows – my breathing apparatus – oh, hang it all! The reason I went West was on account of my health. My lungs, you know – "

"You silly boy. I've known that for ever so long. That's one of the reasons why I fell in love with – "

She stopped, the color suddenly rushing to her cheeks as she realized what she had been saying. But Larry's fingers had found hers in the corner, and she looked up into his eyes and went on resolutely. "I do love you, Larry. I think I always have. Are you glad?"

Then Larry kissed her.

* * * * *

On the other side of the screen, to her own accompaniment on the piano, the Baroness Charny began singing:

"Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux
Qui voltigent fous sur mes lèvres,
Ils y versent l'oubli des fièvres
Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux,
Aussi légers que des roseaux,
Foulés par les pieds blancs des chèvres
Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux
Qui voltigent fous, sur mes lèvres."

Amid the chorus of approval, as the Baroness paused, a thin little lisping voice was heard.

"Oh, how too utterly thweetly exthquithite! I never thought of kitheth being like the flight of little birdth. Are they, Mr. Bent? I thought they lathted longer."

Bent shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "How should I know, Miss Champney? I've never been married."

"Married? How thilly! Of courthe not! It would be thtupid to kith then– tho unneth-eth – unneth-eth – oh, you know what I mean, don't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't. I'd be tempted not to understand, just to hear you say 'unnecessary' again."

"Now you're making fun of me. You're perfectly horrid. Ithn't he, Mr. Perot?"

"He's a brute, Miss Champney – an utter brute; that's because he's never been kissed."

"Oh, how very interethting! Haven't you really, Mr. Bent? Oh, you're really quite hopeleth."

Mrs. Cheyne sipped her tea quite fastidiously and listened, bored to the point of extinction. Nor did her expression change when, some moments later, Jeff Wray was announced. Camilla's face was the only one in the room which showed surprise. She had not seen her husband for several days, and she noticed, as he came over and spoke to Mrs. Rumsen, that he looked more than ordinarily tired and worried. With Camilla he exchanged a careless greeting and then passed her on his way to the others. The servant brought the decanter and soda bottle, and he sank on the divan by the side of Rita Cheyne. It surprised him a little when she began talking quite through him to their host and the Baroness, whom they were asking to sing again.

It was a Chanson Galante of Bemberg

"A la cour
A la cour
Aimer est un badinage
Et l'amour
Et l'amour
N'est dangereux qu'au village
Un berger
Un berger
Si la bergere n'est tendre
Sait se prendre
Sait se prendre
Mais il ne saurait changer.
Et parmi nous quand les belles
Sont legeres ou cruelles,
Loin d'en mourir de depit
On en rit, on en rit,
Et l'on change aussi-tot qu'elles."

Jeff listened composedly and joined perfunctorily in the applause. Rita Cheyne laughed.

"Charming, Baroness. I'm so in sympathy with the sentiment, too. It's delightfully French."

"What is the sentiment?" asked Jeff vaguely of any one.

Mrs. Cheyne undertook to explain.

"That love is only dangerous to the villager, Mr. Wray. In the city it's a joke – it amuses and helps to pass the time."

"Oh!" said Jeff, subsiding, conscious, that the question and reply had been given for the benefit of the entire company.

"Rather dainty rubbish, I should say," said Perot, with a sense of saving a situation (and a client). "Love is less majestic in the village – that's all, but perhaps a little sweeter. Ah, Baroness!" – he sighed tumultuously – "Why should you recall – these memories?"

The conversation became general again, and Wray finished his glass and set it down on the edge of the transom.

"What is the matter, Mrs. Cheyne?" he asked. "Aren't you glad to see me?"