Arms and the Woman

The first time I met her I was a reporter in the embryonic state and

she was a girl in short dresses. It was in a garden, surrounded by

high red brick walls which were half hidden by clusters of green vines,

and at the base of which nestled earth-beds, radiant with roses and

poppies and peonies and bushes of lavender lilacs, all spilling their

delicate ambrosia on the mild air of passing May. I stood, straw hat

in hand, wondering if I had not stumbled into some sweet prison of

flowers which, having run disobedient ways in the past, had been placed

here by Flora, and forever denied their native meadows and

wildernesses. And this vision of fresh youth in my path, perhaps she

was some guardian nymph. I was only twenty-two--a most impressionable

age. Her hair was like that rare October brown, half dun, half gold;

her eyes were cool and restful, like the brown pools one sees in the

heart of the forests, and her lips and cheeks cozened the warm

vermilion of the rose which lay ever so lightly on the bosom of her

white dress. Close at hand was a table upon which stood a pitcher of

lemonade. She was holding in her hand an empty glass. As my eyes

encountered her calm, inquiring gaze, my courage fled precipitately,

likewise the object of my errand. There was a pause; diffidence and

embarrassment on my side, placidity on hers.

"Well, sir?" said she, in a voice the tone of which implied that she

could readily understand her presence in the garden, but not mine.

As I remember it, I was suddenly seized with a great thirst.

"I should like a glass of your lemonade," I answered, bravely laying

down the only piece of money I possessed.

Her stern lips parted in a smile, and my courage came back cautiously,

that is to say, by degrees. She filled a glass for me, and as I gulped

it down I could almost detect the flavor of lemon and sugar.

"It is very good," I volunteered, passing back the glass. I held out

my hand, smiling.

"There isn't any change," coolly.

I flushed painfully. It was fully four miles to Newspaper Row. I was

conscious of a sullen pride. Presently the object of my errand

returned. Somewhat down the path I saw a gentleman reclining in a

canvas swing.

"Is that Mr. Wentworth?" I asked.

"Yes. Do you wish to speak to him? Uncle Bob, here is a gentleman who

desires to speak to you."

I approached. "Mr. Wentworth," I began, cracking the straw in my hat,

"my name is John Winthrop. I am a reporter. I have called to see if

it is true that you have declined the Italian portfolio."