Now, Dal, you know you admire her immensely.She is lovely, she is charming, she hails from the land whose women, when they possess charm, unite with it a freshness and a piquancy which place them beyond compare.In some ways you are so unique yourself that you ought to have a wife with a certain amount of originality.Now, Ihardly know how far the opinion of your friends would influence you in such a matter, but you may like to hear how fully they approve your very open allegiance to--shall we say--the beautiful 'Stars and Stripes'?"Garth Dalmain took out his cigarette case, carefully selected a cigarette, and sat with it between his fingers in absorbed contemplation.
"Smoke," said Jane.
"Thanks," said Garth.He struck a match and very deliberately lighted his cigarette.As he flung away the vesta the breeze caught it and it fell on the lawn, flaming brightly.Garth sprang up and extinguished it, then drew his chair more exactly opposite to Jane's and lay back, smoking meditatively, and watching the little rings he blew, mount into the cedar branches, expand, fade, and vanish.
Jane was watching him.The varied and characteristic ways in which her friends lighted and smoked their cigarettes always interested Jane.There were at least a dozen young men of whom she could have given the names upon hearing a description of their method.Also, she had learned from Deryck Brand the value of silences in an important conversation, and the art of not weakening a statement by a postscript.
At last Garth spoke.
"I wonder why the smoke is that lovely pale blue as it curls up from the cigarette, and a greyish-white if one blows it out."Jane knew it was because it had become impregnated with moisture, but she did not say so, having no desire to contribute her quota of pats to this air-ball, or to encourage the superficial workings of his mind just then.She quietly awaited the response to her appeal to his deeper nature which she felt certain would be forthcoming.
Presently it came.
"It is awfully good of you, Miss Champion, to take the trouble to think all this and to say it to me.May I prove my gratitude by explaining for once where my difficulty lies? I have scarcely defined it to myself, and yet I believe I can express it to you."Another long silence.Garth smoked and pondered.
Jane waited.It was a very comprehending, very companionable silence.Garth found himself parodying the last lines of an old sixteenth-century song:
"Then ever pray that heaven may send Such weeds, such chairs, and such a friend."Either the cigarette, or the chair, or Jane, or perhaps all three combined were producing in him a sublime sense of calm, and rest, and well-being; an uplifting of spirit which made all good things seem better; all difficult things, easy; and all ideals, possible.
The silence, like the sunset, was golden; but at last he broke it.
