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that comedy he had assumed to play the one-night part of a butterfly
of fashion and an idler of means and taste. He was dressed for the
part, and all his good angels had not the power to prevent him from
acting it.
So he began to prate to Miss Marian of clubs, of teas, of golf
and riding and kennels and cotillions and tours abroad and threw out
hints of a yacht lying at Larchmont. He could see that she was vastly
impressed by this vague talk, so he endorsed his pose by random
insinuations concerning great wealth, and mentioned familiarly a few
names that are handled reverently by the proletariat. It was Chandler's
short little day, and he was wringing from it the best that could be
had, as he saw it. And yet once or twice he saw the pure gold of this
girl shine through the mist that his egotism had raised between him
and all objects.
"This way of living that you speak of," she said, "sounds so
futile and purposeless. Haven't you any work to do in the world that
might interest you more?"
"My dear Miss Marian," he exclaimed — "work! Think of
dressing every day for dinner, of making half a dozen calls in an
afternoon— with a policeman at every corner ready to jump into your
auto and take you to the station, if you get up any greater speed than a
donkey cart's gait. We do-nothings are the hardest workers in the
land."
The dinner was concluded, the waiter generously feed, and the
two walked out to the comer where they had met. Miss Marian
walked very well now; her limp was scarcely noticeable.
"Thank you for a nice time," she said, frankly. "I must run
home now. I liked the dinner very much, Mr. Chandler."
He shook hands with her, smiling cordially, and said something
about a game of bridge at his club. He watched her for a moment,
walking rather rapidly eastward, and then he found a cab to drive him
slowly homeward.
In his chilly bedroom Chandler laid away his evening clothes
for a sixty-nine days' rest. He went about it thoughtfully.
"That was a stunning girl," he said to himself. "She's all right,
too. I'd be sworn, even if she does have to work. Perhaps if I'd told
her the truth instead of all that razzle-dazzle we might — but,
confound it. I had to play up to my clothes."