THE OLD, OLD STORY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2968, 1 February 1911, Page 77

THE OLD, OLD STORY.

By F. D’A. C. De L’lsle.

[All Rights Reserved.] He was sitting sketching—yellow sand, purple sea, white breakers, and blue sky; a really charming picture of seaside and summer weather. Yet the artist seemed unsatisfied- “ Deuce take that fighing smack!” he muttered vexedly. “Why can’t it remain steady for a moment ? The throb of the blue sea’s broken heart, I fancy. Pining ; for the moon! Never mind, dear; he’ll be here by-and-bye. From what little we’ve seen of him lately, it’s likely to l>e the sweet by-and-bye. By Jove; my hand shakes. 'That comes of getting on the Ra Ta! Result of the dilettante dinner last night. Egad! I cannot forget that fairv Matnganaase brought up from Whitechapel. She must have weighed at least 16 stone. And her liberal figure was tightly encased in a green liberty silk dress that was literally bursting at the seams.” He chuckled reminiscently, and his face brightened as he thought of the banquet.; “ She wore yellow suede gloves to the shoulder, and a blue breast-knot. Bah! it made me bilious. And her manners at table! Oh! my sainted Aunt Maria, what an accomplished juggler she would make! She ate fish with a knife, peas with a spoon, and she actually used the fish knife to ladle up the white sauce! She was splendid in the sword-swallowing act, and the disappearing trick with the fruit knife was magnificent. * She left early, thank heavens, but she left us a souvenir—a lock of her golden hair in the claret cup! Hope we’ll have a better crowd at the Pallet Club to-night. An • awfully naice’ crowd, as Gladys Framlingham would say; I hate a girl that gushes, and is always saying ‘awfully.’ As' a qualifying expression it sounds absurd. By jove! I feel awfully thirsty! ; 'Five minutes drying won’t do the picture ' any harm. I’ll waltz up to the caravanseray and have a oodliver oil and ice water. Then I’ll come back and put something in the foreground. ‘ Children building a castle,’ *An old salt, or ‘ Bathers,’ or any one of the stock subjects in sea pieces. Then up it will go to London, and that rascally old dealer will send me one guinea for what h© will ' sell for five; and I hope everybody will be satisfied. Now for the sperm and seltzer.” He put down the palette and) brushes on his sketching stool, and marched off up the beach towards the esplanade. “ „ . . . Presently a beautiful girl strolled into the vicinity. She held a six-shilling edi-tion-de-luxe of Unwin’s in her shapely, well-gloved hand. She' was pensive and soulful, and she communed: with herself as she sat down by a rock that formed a comfortable rest for her back. Placing a large scarlet parasol between her complexion and the ardent sun, she went on with the enthralling novel. “ What a lovely book! I really could not stay indoors and be roasted alive. Poor, dear Mamma went off to sleep, and I stole out to have a read all by myself. This is an awfully nice book! This is an awfully nice spot! This is an awfully nice way of passing the time! And I feel awfully glad that I came out! All those ‘ awfullvs ’ are in imitation of Gladys Pramlingham, the most stupidly affected girl that I know. She cannot gay anything without introducing the word ‘ awfully.’ I think it makes her appear most awfully ridiculous. But the men don’t seem to think so. They positively adore her. I think I will try it with my next conquest; though I hate that gushing style awfully. _ Good -oTaciouis me, I will be getting into the way of it if I’m not awfully careful. Pho ! Now for a magnificent read. I hope nobodv will come down to the beach for hours, and hours, and hours, to disturb me. This rock will shade Hire nicely from the sun, and 111 finish this sweet book before I get up.” . When the artist returned, his eye immediately discovered the red parasol. He stopped short, murmuring: “Ah ha! A stranger! My privacy is rudely broken. The subject for my foreground has come to hand. I wonder what the owner of that very skittish-looking parasol is like? Is she fair, or is she unfair? If she be not fair to me I’ll lay six to four she doesn’t go into my P icture. I’d like to get a peep at her, but my modesty forbids it.” He sat down opposite his easel and glanced pensively at the intruding parasol. “I’ll resume my sketching until the unknown rises. I must find some means of attracting her attention. I’ll whistle. Something soft and strong —like the best Irish whisky. It will have to be sweet and romanticsuited to the occasion.” He whistled, unmelodiously, and the lady received a ■severe shock. The air was not unfamiliar to her. in fact, at that time; it was unfamiliar to nobody, being one of the most popular music-hall ditties of the season—to wit, the Irish extravaganza entitled “Are you there, Mori arty ?” “Dear me!” gasped the girl. “_Who is that? What a very hideous noise!” She looked round under the edge of her parasol. “Ah! ha! That fetched her!” thought the artist with extreme glee. “Isn’t she a beauty! What stunning eyes she has! It’s a singular thing that whenever I make a picture of the seaside it is absolutely necessary that an entrancing female, with bewitching eyes, should occupy a portion, of the foreground. It is impossible, though, to put in an entrancing figure without a model. My genius does not extend to impromptu figures. They usually turn out with ghastly deformities. Their penultimates disagree with other portions of their anatomies. Heads have a disagreeable peculiarity of being half as large again as the bodies. And as for pose, they all appear to be convulsed, as if in torture, suggesting an overdose of rough on rats. It’s hard—-deuced hard! What a spirituelle creature! Oould_ I Set over the formality of an introduction might get her to consent to act as a ’ foreground. £ think I’ll whistle again

something heartrending and appealing." He whistled again the same tune, without variations. It did not have the effect desired. "He's whistling again," muttered the girl, moving uneasily. "Looks like an artist, though he whistles like a cad. I wonder if he will put me in his picture? Dear me, I hope he is not using strong language." In reference to a very provoked movement on the part of the whistler. "Hang it, that tune doesn't seem to he any good," growled the siffleur dejectedly. " And I can't change it much oftener: my repertoire is limited. Here goes for my cheffy-doover." He whistled once more. It was really melancholy, for ho whistled the same air again ; but the giddy music-hall refrain sounded like a dirge. "What a horrid nuisance he is!" thought the owner of the red parasol. " It's no good. She's adamant," sighed the disappointed artist in despair. Then the meddlesome fates intervened. They generally do when they're wanted. A huge crab crawled out from the sea and made for the rock by which the red parasol gleamed. There followed an agonised scream, and the lovely maiden mounted the rock precipitantly, gathering high her starched lingerie, exposing to view a pair of deliciously-shaped ankles and feet clad in white yachting shoes. The artist hurried to the rescue, and promptly demolished the crab. "Oh! oh! Keep it off! Take it away! Oh! oh!" panted the young lady. "Providence, I thank'thee," murmured the artist devoutly as he flung the deceased crab aside, and bowed. " Pray, don't be alarmed. I've squashed it. It was only a crab. Let me help you down," he asked, with outstretched hand. The lady demurred. ■ t "No! no! no! no! There might be another one!" she cried. '; "I fancy not," replied the artist. I don't see any more. This was a wandering Jew—l mean crab—on a pilgrimage evidently to some briny Palestine, -bet me help" you down." '*• "Are you sure there are no others: urged the lady. . ■ • " Quite sure. Do let me help you down. " Thanks! I can get down without any assistance," replied the lady, jumping lightly down. " How very foolish of me to be so frightened! I must apologise for disturbing you." " Pray don't mention it —only too happy, I'm sure," was the answer. "May I sit down here?" pointing to the sand by the side of the now seated young lady. She nodded, seemingly with some reluctance, and the artist flopped down promptly by her side, saying : ,; " Thanks!" The girl started, and looked searchingly at him, but he continued fi r GX'GTI6Iv " " What were you reading? 'At Heaven's Gate,' by Reginald Raymond! Felicitous title, isn't it?" ■ , The young lady frowned—she appealed puzzkd. "I beg your pardon?" she asked. "Felicitous title—er— awfully appropriate I mean," he replied with emphasis. "Describes my position just now exactly! She smiiled mischievously. "That's an awfullv pretty speech," and she was pleased to note the disgusted start of her vis-a-vis. . "Er—yes," he stammered. "Awfully! Worthy of the charming reader of—er—what's the fellow's name?" He looked curiouslv a tthe title page: "Er—Mr Reginald Raymond. What's it all about? "Oh, love!" she simpered; then Slushed. "Oh, love!" came the exasperating echo in a strained voice. "It's a peculiar disease. Takes a very virulent form sometimes. I suppose the book is one of those maudlin sentimentalities that morbidmir.ded writers, who have been crossed in lov?. delight to make public." * "It's nothing of the kind." The lady was instantly indignant. "It's an awfully —cli!—nice book—and aw—er—beautifully written." . *

"Really!" There-was a world of indifference in his tone. "So you like it? Is there anything new in it ? Anything ouc of the common? Anything that we don't meet with in every one of the library novels of the present day?" "Yes —indeed there" is. It is quite different to the trashy ■ yellow-backs of today. I think the author was an awfully clever man; and he must be awfully, awfully old. For he knows so much about our sex!" "There he has the advantage of me," replied the man eagerly. "I am a bachelor. A traveller on life's railroad who has failed entirely to make the proper connections." "And what is your opinion of woman?", she asked with evident interest. He smiled, and quoted: They talk about a woman's sphere As though it had a limit; There's not a place in earth or heaven, There's not a task to mankind given, There's not a blessing or a woe, There's not a whisper, yes or no, There's not a life or death or birth That has a featherweight of worth Without a woman in it! "Very pretty," pouted the girl. "Er—awfully"" Again he frowned, darkly. "Still, you must admit that we are sometimes wronged." "It is woman, and not her wrongs, that ought to be redressed," he replied serenely. "Oh, do you think so? What kind of woman would you marry?" "That's a debatable question. For instance, I would not marry a woman named Ann." "Why not?" "Because 'An' is an indefinite article! I would not marry a large widow." "And why?" "Because I would be the widow's mite! I would not marry a coquette." "I am getting tired of conundrums," she exclaimed; "'but tell me why." "Because a coquette steals your heart by her address, and steels her own heart to your addresses. I would marry a little woman.' 1

| "Most big men do. ? May I ask why you piefer a little woman?" ; "Because lam a firm believer in the proverb, 'Of the two greatest evils, choose the least!' " "You are not very complimentary to my sex! But tall men are always successful, thev say." "Indeed ; why so?" It was his turn to answer riddles. "Because ladies are always in favour of hy-men !" "Very good," he exclaimed. "Do you believe'in young folks marrying?" | "Certainly. See how they grow when ; they are in love. It increases their 'sighs' wonderfully. But you've not yet answered my question. What kind of woman would ; you marry?" i "Persevering!" he thought, and | answered: "I would marry a widow!" "A widow!" with unlifted and arched ! eyebrows. "Indeed; why? :" "A man never marries a-miss when he ! marries a widow! Besides, a widow has gained by experience." He chuckled gleefully. _ _' ... "Cannot a young girl gain experience: she asked. "With years only. A young woman's heart is the sweetest thing in the world.. It is a perfect honeycomb—full of cells!" "Do you think so? Some women would grieve if they heard you say that." "A woman's grief is very short. If she loses a lover she pines only for a second!" "You libel my sex. But let us change the subject. Why do you always whistle the same tune?" "Because it haunts me," he replied flippantly. ' 'No wonder! You are continually , murdering it. Do you believe in ghosts?" j "I once saw one," he asserted. "What did it <=ay to you?" she asked. "How should I know? I'm not skilled ' in the dead languages. 1 ' ! "You're too ready with your retorts. | I'm no match for you," she said with ' a- sly twinkle in her rich brown eyes. "Do you believe that the dead walk?" "There's no doubt of it," he answered \ slowly, with prepared malice. "I have i heard the Dead March!" "You are really too awfully absurd," she pouted with a frown. "Why will you persist in saying that silly word 'awfully'?" he asked. "I dietest the expression." She opened her eyes wide with surprise, and with apparent innocence replied: ''Do you ? Most men. don't. Gladys Framlingham is always using it, and the men consider her divine. I wonder what the time is?" She looked up the beach to where a huge clock hung in a tower. "Is that clock right over there?" "Well, it certainly isn't anywhere else, is it?" ; "Oh, I must really go," she exclaimed, gathering up her parasol and book. "And I haven't read this lovely book yet." j "Are you very interested in it?" he asked, detailing her. "Very. The hero is a struggling artist and hiii Boheanian life is beautifully pie* tured. I heard a celebrated artist saythat it was true to the life." "Flattered, I'm sure!" replied the ftian unthinkingly. "I mean —you know—l'm a. bit of a Bohemian myself." "Are you? Most good artists jjrow rich nowadays." "Ah!" It, was a heart-felt sigh. "Do you know many artists?" "A great many. My father's an artist." "Pardon my rudeness in asking, but 'may I know his name?" "I have only just realised the fact that we have not been introduced," she gasped. "Oh, yes, we have; the crab introduced

us. • "How romantic! An introduction, by a crab! But, really, I cannot consent to know you until we have been formally introduced." "As regards society, you are quite right. My Bohemianism tolerates an introduction, even by a crab. However, let us see if we know any people here. Do you go out much ?V "Oh, yes, a. great deal. And that reminds me that I must go and dress for dinner," she exclaimed, jumping up. "Are you going to the Yacht Club ball to-morrow night, Miss—Miss " "Medwyn," she replied unconsciously. "What? Dick Medwyn's daughter?" he asked, with pleasure "beaming in his eyes. She curtseyed prettily. ""The very same, sir." "I'm so glad. Dear old Medwyn; he was my master in the Art School. '. "Have you seen my father's pictures? she asked proudly. "Nearly all of them," he replied. "Which of his works do you like the best?" With unblushing impudence the artist murmured. "His daughter!" " You're really absurd. 1 must go now." She turned away half-heartedly. " One moment Miss Medwyn ! It may be a beautiful moonlight night tonight '' "And it may not!" she glanced shyly from under her eyelashes. "Well, if there's no moonlight, will you meet me bv gaslight?" he whispered. "How shocking! No, I certainly will not!" " Why not?" he persisted. "Because I'm not a gas-meter," she prompty answered. " One to you. Then we shall meet at the ball to-morrow night. Will it interest you to meet me there?" he asked persuasively. She murmured an affirmative. "Very much?" he persisted.^ And still she murmured "Yes." " Then to-morrow night I will get Lady Framlingham to introduce me to you. And now good-bye. The crab's introduction evidently precludes the possibility of my offering you an escort." He turned away towards" his easel. "I have quite forgotten my picture." She followed him, and after searching ■the sketch f<*r a Imoment, remarked: "Artists usually put their names on their pictures." \

" This picture is E-trf, finished yet," he replied. "It requires, an eiitwvftcing figure, with bewitching eyes, in the rifeground. After our introduction to-morrow night I may be able to finish it." "And to whom shall I have the pleasure of being introduced to-morow night?" she asked, curiously. " Well, I don't think he's a particularly clever man—or awfully, awfully old. And I am sure he would esteem it the greatest honour to be blessed with your regard. Lady Framlingham will introduce you to Reginald Raymond, author and artist." The lady started back astonished, and feebly asked: "You are Reginald Raymond?" " I am. And your very devoted admirer," he added gallantly. She turned from him hastily, saying, " Good-bye!" "One moment," he cried. "Don't be offen'ued with me. I am looking forward to so much. Forgive my silence when we first met." " I forgive you, because you wrote '' At' Heaven's Gate.' Good-bye!" She offered her hand. "'~ot good-bye—au revoir!" he said, bending over it. " Au revoir, then." She walked on. " Until to-morrow night, when we shall go over again that enthralling, that soulstirring theme on the old, old story," he soliloquised, as hat in hand he stood gazing after the fair lady of the scarlet parasol.