Part 41

“As to that--” she began--“I'm a very poor correspondent.”

“But won't you write?” he insisted.

“I do not make it a custom to write to young men.”

“Oh!” he cried, believing himself enlightened. “Will you answer if I write you?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether there is a reply to make.”

“But may I write you?”

“I suppose I couldn't very well prevent you, if you were sure to put on a three-cent stamp.”

“Do you want me to?” persisted Orde.

She began gently to laugh, quite to herself, as though enjoying a joke entirely within her own personal privilege.

“You are so direct and persistent and boy-like,” said she presently. “Now if you'll be very good, and not whisper to the other little pupils, I'll tell you how they do such things usually.” She sat up straight from the depths of her chair, her white, delicately tapering forearms resting lightly on her knees. “Young men desiring to communicate with young ladies do not ask them bluntly. They make some excuse, like sending a book, a magazine, a marked newspaper, or even a bit of desired information. At the same time, they send notes informing the girl of the fact. The girl is naturally expected to acknowledge the politeness. If she wishes the correspondence to continue, she asks a question, or in some other way leaves an opening. Do you see?”

“Yes, I see,” said Orde, slightly crestfallen. “But that's a long time to wait. I like to feel settled about a thing. I wanted to know.”

She dropped back against the cushioned slant of her easy chair, and laughed again.

“And so you just up and asked!” she teased.

“I beg your pardon if I was rude,” he said humbly.

The laughter died slowly from her eyes.

“Don't,” she said. “It would be asking pardon for being yourself. You wanted to know: so you asked. And I'm going to answer. I shall be very glad to correspond with you and tell you about my sort of things, if you happen to be interested in them. I warn you: they are not very exciting.”

“They are yours,” said he.

She half rose to bow in mock graciousness, caught herself, and sank back.

“No, I won't,” she said, more than half to herself. She sat brooding for a moment; then suddenly her mood changed. She sprang up, shook her skirts free, and seated herself at the piano. To Orde, who had also arisen, she made a quaint grimace over her shoulder.

“Admire your handiwork!” she told him. “You are rapidly bringing me to 'tell the truth and shame the devil.' Oh, he must be dying of mortification this evening!” She struck a great crashing chord, holding the keys while the strings reverberated and echoed down slowly into silence again. “It isn't fair,” she went on, “for you big simple men to disarm us. I don't care! I have my private opinion of such brute strength. JE ME MOQUE!”

She wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes. Then ruthlessly she drowned his reply in a torrent of music. Like mad she played, rocking her slender body back and forth along the key-board; holding rigid her fingers, her hands, and the muscles of her arms. The bass notes roared like the rumbling of thunder; the treble flashed like the dart of lightnings. Abruptly she muted the instrument. Silence fell as something that had been pent and suddenly released. She arose from the piano stool quite naturally, both hands at her hair.

“Aren't Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard dear old people?” said she.

“What is your address in New York?” demanded Orde. She sank into a chair nearby with a pretty uplifted gesture of despair.

“I surrender!” she cried, and then she laughed until the tears started from her eyes and she had to brush them away with what seemed to Orde an absurd affair to call a handkerchief. “Oh, you are delicious!” she said at last. “Well, listen. I live at 12 West Ninth Street. Can you remember that?” Orde nodded. “And now any other questions the prisoner can reply to without incriminating herself, she is willing to answer.” She folded her hands demurely in her lap.

Two days later Orde saw the train carry her away. He watched the rear car disappear between the downward slopes of two hills, and then finally the last smoke from the locomotive dissipate in the clear blue.

Declining Jane's kindly meant offer of a lift, he walked back to town.