"Not if I give her something real in the place of what you rightly term
her illusions."
"You can't. Sunday-school would not satisfy a broad-minded little
proletarian like Amarilly, so don't preach to _her_."
He winced perceptibly.
"Do I preach to _you_, Colette? Is that how you regard me--as a prosy
preacher who--"
"No, John. Just as a disturber of dreams--that is all."
"A disturber of dreams?" he repeated wistfully. "It is you, Colette, who
are a disturber of dreams. If you would only let my dreams become
realities!"
"Then, to be paradoxical, your realities might change back to dreams, or
even nightmares. Returning to soapsuds and Amarilly Jenkins, will you go
there with me to-morrow and make arrangements with Mrs. Jenkins for the
laundry work?"
"Indeed I will, Colette, and--"
"Don't look so serious, John. Until that dreadful evening, the last time
you called, you always left your pulpit punctilio behind you when you
came here."
"Colette!" he began in protest.
But she perversely refused to fall in with his serious vein. Chattering
gayly yet half-defiantly, on her face the while a baffling smile, partly
tender, partly amused, and wholly coquettish--the smile that maddened
and yet entranced him--she brought the mask of reserve to his face and
man. At such times he never succeeded in remembering that she was but
little more than a child, heart-free, capricious, and wilful. Despairing
of changing her mood to the serious one that he loved yet so seldom
evoked, he arose and bade her good-night.
When he was in the hall she softly called him back, meeting him with a
half-penitent look in her eyes, which had suddenly become gazelle-like.
"You may preach to me again some time, John. There are moments when I
believe I like it, because no other man dares to do it" "Dares?" he
queried with a smile.
"Yes; dares. They all fear to offend. And you, John, you fear nothing!"
"Yes, I do," he answered gravely, as he looked down upon her. "There is
one thing I fear that makes me tremble, Colette."
But her mood had again changed, and with a mischievous, elusive smile
she bade him go. Inert and musing, he wandered at random through the
lights and shadows of the city streets, with a wistful look in his eyes
and just the shadow of a pang in his heart.
"She is very young," he said condoningly, answering an accusing thought.
"She has been a little spoiled, naturally. She has seen life only from
the side that amuses and entertains. Some day, when she realizes, as it
comes to us all to do, that care and sorrow bring their own sustaining
power, she will not dally among the petty things of life; the wilful
waywardness will turn to winning womanliness."