With the same inward bitterness that attends the mental processes of a

performing tiger on being sent back to its cage, Courtlandt returned to

his taxicab. He wanted to roar and lash and devour something. Instead, he

could only twist the ends of his mustache savagely. So she was a grand

duchess, or at least the morganatic wife of a grand duke! It did not seem

possible that any woman could be so full of malice. He simply could not

understand. It was essentially the Italian spirit; doubtless, till she

heard his voice, she had forgotten all about the episode that had

foundered his ship of happiness.

Her statement as to the primal cause was purely inventive. There was not a

grain of truth in it. He could not possibly have been so rude. He had been

too indifferent. Too indifferent! The repetition of the phrase made him

sit straighter. Pshaw! It could not be that. He possessed a little vanity;

if he had not, his history would not have been worth a scrawl. But he

denied the possession vehemently, as men are wont to do. Strange, a man

will admit smashing those ten articles of advisement known as the

decalogue and yet deny the inherent quality which surrenders the

admission--vanity. However you may look at it, man's vanity is a complex

thing. The vanity of a woman has a definite and commendable purpose: the

conquest of man, his purse, and half of his time. Too indifferent! Was it

possible that he had roused her enmity simply because he had made it

evident that her charms did not interest him? Beyond lifting his hat to

her, perhaps exchanging a comment on the weather, his courtesies had not

been extended. Courtlandt was peculiar in some respects. A woman attracted

him, or she did not. In the one case he was affable, winning, pleasant,

full of those agreeable little surprises that in turn attract a woman. In

the other case, he passed on, for his impressions were instant and did not

require the usual skirmishing.

A grand duchess! The straw-colored mustache now described two aggressive

points. What an impossible old world it was! The ambition of the English

nobility was on a far lower scale than that of their continental cousins.

On the little isle they were satisfied to marry soubrettes and chorus

girls. Here, the lady must be no less a personage than a grand-opera

singer or a première danseuse. The continental noble at least showed

some discernment; he did not choose haphazard; he desired the finished

product and was not to be satisfied with the material in the raw.

Oh, stubborn Dutchman that he had been! Blind fool! To have run away

instead of fighting to the last ditch for his happiness! The Desimone

woman was right: it had taken him a long time to come to the conclusion

that she had done him an ill turn. And during all these weary months he

had drawn a melancholy picture of himself as a wounded lion, creeping into

the jungle to hide its hurts, when, truth be known, he had taken the ways

of the jackass for a model. He saw plainly enough now. More than this,

where there had been mere obstacles to overcome there were now steep

mountains, perhaps inaccessible for all he knew. His jaw set, and the

pressure of his lips broke the sweep of his mustache, converting it into

bristling tufts, warlike and resolute.




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