Arms and the Woman

"Phyllis," said I, in a whisper, "have you ever met that remarkable

affinity of yours?" I regretted the words the moment they had crossed

my lips.

"Yes, you are changed, as I said the other night," distrustfully.

"There is something in your voice that is changed. You have grown

cynical. But your question was impertinent. Have you found yours?"

I was expecting this. "Yes," I said. "Once I thought I had; now I am

sure of it. Some day I shall tell you an interesting story."

"We came up to ask you to dine with us this evening," she said,

trailing her brown-gloved finger over the dusty desk. "Are you at

liberty?"

"No. I have only just met my cousin, and have promised to dine with

him."

"If that is all, bring him along. I like his face."

We passed out of the file room.

"Phyllis, we must be going, dear," said Ethel.

I led Phyllis down the narrow stairs. A handsome victoria stood at the

curb.

"I shall be pleased to hear your story," said she.

It occurred to me that the tale might not be to her liking. So I said:

"But it is one of those disagreeable stories; one where all should end

nicely, but doesn't; one which ends, leaving the hero, the heroine, and

the reader dissatisfied with the world in general, and the author (who

is Fate) in particular."

I knew that she was puzzled. She wasn't quite sure that I was not

referring to the old affair.

"If the story is one I never heard before," suspiciously, "I should

like to hear it."

"And does it not occur to you," throwing back the robes so that she

might step into the victoria, "that fate has a special grudge against

me? Once was not enough, but it must be twice."

"And she does not love you? Are you quite sure? You poor fellow!" She

squeezed my hand kindly. "Shall I be candid with you?" with the

faintest flicker of coquetry in her smile.

"As in the old days," said I, glancing over my shoulder to see now near

the others were. A groom is never to be considered. "Yes, as in the

old days."

"Well, I have often regretted that I did not accept you as an

experiment."

Then I knew that she did not understand.

"You must not think I am jesting," said I, seriously. "The story is of

the bitter-sweet kind. The heroine loves me, but cannot be mine."