TWO AND AN UMBRELLA

New Zealand Mail, 22 January 1902, Page 8

TWO AND AN UMBRELLA

(By AMY A. SPOTTiSW'OOD.)

.“Tor goodness’ sake say somethingl leu have not uttered a word for tae length of tiiis square.” 1 don't know how. I was waiting for you to take the lead.” “It is not for women to-take the lead in anything.” “Crim-i-ni! I wonder who took it last. AVlio was it broke the silence bv asking me to talk?” Taking the alternative so often used bv those already worsted iu aigument, she answered—- “ I shall not argue with you. Only please talk.” “ Two things have so kept my attention for the last five minutes that I have not had time.” It was very wet, and the rain drops were coming down a thousand to one. Side by side they trod the long street under the shelter of one umbrella. They were a remarkable - looking couple—he, tall and big, in brown cycling c-ostume, and heather-mixture stockings; she in long cloak and light tweed cap, her faca as pink as the sweet wild rose. Afternoon was dipping suddenly into night, missing almost entirely that love of the English race, the twilight. That is the way with our Australia—out of light into darkness, and from that to the brilliant of the almost perfect day. To return to the jiair under the big umbrella. She was saying, “And so your poor brain can only hold two tilings at a time. At least thev must be goou. What are they?” “I— Now don’t disturb me! I u’as trying to keep the rain off your dear little big little— Oli, bother it! Your dear perfect self.”

The piquant nose gave an upward tilt as she moved a pace away, saying, “I won’t walk with you if you make fun; it is not witty fun either.” “ It's all because I am so stupid. I did not- mean to be funny at all. But wait a minute. Come right under the umbrella* or you will get your fringe wetter than it is. AN ill you take my arm? No? AY ell* I was about to say, if I call you a big woman you don’t like it, and if I call y fl! j a little one you tell me just how man) feet and how many inches you are; ana although I am a stupid fellow, I don t like hearing the same tiling too often. Now that is a really rude thing to say as much as to say I am a very mouotonon person indeed.” “Dear me, wliat a fool I am! I meant anything like that. I don ttm you are at all monotonous. I think... are very nice indeed.” . ,- te An impatient jerk was her immeu , answer, then “AYe have been I ling all this time about one or two W » you were thinking about. I want a cna * now; what was the other?” , vo a “I always tell you the truth when W ftsk me. But I suppose I shall gH hot water again, I’m a bit afraia. “ j A pity to be so largo and such & c

ot rhe same time, isn’t it? But it is nuite true; I am afraid.” q !< Largeness has not much to do with courage?” This with another tilt of the disdainful nose. “I was wondering how many more drills from the peak of your cap it would fa iA before your fringe would be quite straight” And a muffled chuckle was heard under the long moustache. Her eyes were big and bright, and such a look as they cast at him should have withered him on the spot. Anger, even furv the strong desire to hit and to hit hard looked out for three seconds from their depths. Then, with a sweep of the long lashes, she said—

“Since you can only be rude, or silent, 1 am going away. I don’t want your umbrella, thanks. Good-bye.” “Good-bye, Betty; but won’t you take all the umbrella. Stupid people' are often called thick-skinned, so I don’t suppose I shall feel the wet. And, besides, my hair will not come out of curl.” And re ran his fingers through the unruly mop under liis cap.

“I don’t want the umbrella. Good-

bve.” He watched her go up the street. “Poor little girl,” he thought; “she will get very wet indeed. But it won’t hurt her; her boots are strong, and that long cloak covers her up. But the poor hair will get wet—wet. She will have to do it up in those funny little curlvwigs to have it ready for the dance to-night. I wonder why we always ‘quarrel so. I can’t make out why she does.” Then with a low whistle and a pleased pucker round the corners of liis rather impudent eyes, he continued—“l know well enough why I do; she is just the dearest little thing to make it up with afterwards.” A graver look came into his eyes, as he added, “ To-night, dear little girl, I would like to make something up for good.” Then, reaching the light of the next street lamp, he passed through it and beyond, and was lost to view. ,

« * * * e Later the same evening Tewkesbury Place looked certainly like a palace of fairyland. From basement to topmost storey was a blaze of light. Salon, arch, and corridor were alike gorgeous with liiflit and colour. Music the sweetest and the gayest smote upon the ear, and ncn harmonies rolled up wave upon wave, until, caught by the azure dome, they were there repeated again at their own sweet will.

Into the conservatory the music floated, softened by the distance. Lingeringly it dwelt on the scented air, that air which was heavy with the odour of bouvardia, gardenia, and a myriad of rare exotics. Over pretty nooks hung huge Japanese umbrellas, suspended from each of which were a dozen or more of tiny electric lights. The place looked like a fairy dell of childhood’s fond imagining. Here beneath one of these umbrellas Betty was found by the broad-shouldered individual of the afternoon—found, and as some unhoped-for chance had it, alone.

He looked very different to-night in full evening dress. With a low bow he remarked, “You have the umbrella this time. Will you be generous enough to give me half?”

Without waiting for an answer he took a seat beside her.

“This is very good indeed,” he murmured with a long drawn sigh of contentment. „ “ J hope I shall not offend tonight,” lie continued. “I- have on my society suit, and I have been trying to gather together a few polite savings.”

A smile rippled across her lips as she answered, “ 1 nope it will work well. Have you the list with you?” “Yo; I am trusting to my head. Pardon me, but that gown suits you to perfection. \'ou could not have chosen anytumg better. It is just the thing for a complexion like yours. Do you know,” with a smile gathering in his eyes, “ that it one think of a kitchen garden.” “ \\ hiah, the dress or the complexion?" He could not easily ruffle her now, she knew she was looking her best. He answered, “ The dress, of course, but that does not sound very polished either, doss it?”

“Not very. You did not have that on your list, surely?” , * that was a side remark, suggested ov the colour of your gown. It is like a lettuce leaf—just as cool and fresh; hence Dl 'X ®‘msion to the kitchen garden.” . bo lam like a cabbage? Well, never 1° lon g as I have a good heart.” ~ l la V’ "'ith a look into the radiant ejes I have my doubts. But—let me see it is not polite to be personal; but, wheeVl 1 1 kn °J’ 1 nd hal ' d not to be ni ??, V ako . a de T e P interest in—well, the erieak J°c T- 1 a ’, n talki »g- Let me Bpeak of something else.

refilmVti'pedlntrT! 11011 COnthuied " How many different and beautife better'thin « re! ?, u l , do you kn ™ that rose” Tf t all 1 lqve sweet briar should “ 1 7L er . 6 , a sentimental man I

make you ill. And, by the way, you seem to have forgotten that the wild rose is very thorny indeed.”

“1 remember only too well—it keeps me often at bay when I would put out my hand and gather one for my own. Perhaps if once I did so gather I might approach without fear of rebuff-—the bloom would be my own, and my hand master of the thorns.”

“Faint heart never won roses fair,” hummed the lady in the robe of “ lettuce leaf.”

“ Why don’t you qirote correctly if you will quote at all? But to return to the wild rose. Do you know that your face often makes me think of one ?”

“Never,” with a low laugh; "pink all over and thorny! You certainly are very complimentary.” “If I try to say a pretty thing you won’t let me; you twist it always the wrong way. I meant its sweetness and its wild variety.” “ Perhaps by the word ‘ wild’ you mean unconventional. I don’t object to being called that. Please say that is what you mean.”

“Don’t you think it is a trifle too bright under this umbrella, bedizened with circular light. I begin to feel something l’ke a circus. I shall be expecting to hear the band strike up soon, and sea the performing donkey enter.” “ Perhaps the performing donkey has entered,” with an arch uplifting of the lashes. „

“My dear lady, I am afraid you are just as personal and impolite as I am, only rather more polished. Come, that ferny hollow looks shady and cool. Come, and I will tell you what, i mean by the word ‘wild.’ It looks so shadowy, you say? What need of lamps, my love, with those bright eyes of thine?” “ That was really pretty,” with sweet condescension.

He held his arm towards her, and there, where the lights were low, he told her the meaning of the promised word, and many, many more besides. Once his voice rose a little above the monotone in which he was speaking, and this is what was heard—

“ There is only one wild rose I want for my own. I want its beauty, its sweet waywardness, its own dear self.” The rest was indistinguishable. To the strains of the “Sweethearts” iraltz they entered the ball-room later. The sweet wild rose looked x - adiant, and an air of deep contentment pervaded the face and manner of the “so stupid man.”