"Much good fortune may it bring you."

"Let me try my fortune," said she, and began plucking off the leaves.

"He loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, he loves me not."

"There!" she said, holding up the naked stem triumphantly; "I knew

it."

"It would be a fairer test, had you a daisy, Helena," said I, "or

something with more leaves; not that I know whose has been this

ordeal. Suppose it were myself, and that you tried this one." I handed

her a trefoil, but she waved it aside.

"I will try to find you a four leaf clover for your own, after a

while," said she, and bobbed me a very pretty courtesy. Angered, I

caught at the stick I was carrying with so sudden a grip that I broke

it in two.

"I did not know your hands were so strong, Harry," said she.

"Would they were stronger!" was my retort. "And were I in charge of

the affairs of Providence, the first thing I would do would be to

wring the neck of every woman in the world."

"And then set out to put them together again, Harry? Don't be silly."

"Oh, yes, naturally. But you must admit, Helena, that women have no

sense of reason whatever. For instance, if you really were trying out

the fortune of some man on a daisy's head, you would not accept the

decree of fate, any more than you could tell why you loved him or

loved him not. Why does a woman love a man, Helena? You say I must not

be silly--should I then be wise?"

"No, you are much too wise, so that you often bore me."

"Nor should he be poor?"

"No."

"Nor rich?"

"Certainly not. Rich men also usually are bores--they talk about

themselves too much."

"Should he be a tall man?"

"Not too tall, for they're lanky, nor short, because they get fat. You

see, each girl has her own ideal about such matters. Then, she always

marries a man as different as possible from her ideal."

"Why does she marry a man at all, Helena?"

"She never knows. Why should she? But look--" she pointed out across

the water--"the train is leaving the ferry boat. Isn't that Captain

Peterson going aboard the train?"

"Yes, Helena, I've sent him down-town to get some light reading for

you and your Aunt Lucinda--Fox's Book of Martyrs, and the Critique

of Pure Reason--the latter especially recommended to yourself. I

would I had in print a copy of my magnum opus, my treatment on

native American culicidæ. My book on the mosquito is going to be

handsomely illustrated, Helena, believe me."

She turned upon me with a curious look. "Harry," said she, "you've

changed in some ways. If I were not so bored by life in yonder hat

box, I might even be interested in you for a few minutes. You used

always to be so sober, but now, sometimes, I wonder if I understand

you. Honestly, you were an awful stick, and no girl likes a stick

about her. What do girls care which dynasty it was that built the

pyramids?--it's Biskra they want to see. And we don't care when or why

Baron Haussmann built the Boulevard Haussmann in Paris--it's the

boulevard itself interests us."




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