American fiction -- 19th century; Manners and customs -- Fiction
"Don't you think it can?" asked Ludlow turning around. "I don't know,
though, perhaps it can't. Ugly sights can't make you unhappy,
necessarily. I've been working for a year in one of the narrowest,
darkest, dirtiest, and busiest streets in New York, with rusty bricks
and muddy gutters for scenery. But I think I can hardly set up to be
miserable. I wish I could. It might be a claim on your favor." As he
said these words, he stood leaning against the window shutter, without
the curtain, with folded arms. The morning light covered his face, and,
mingled with that of his broad laugh, showed Adela that it was a very
pleasant face.
"Whatever else he may be," she said to herself as she stood within the
shade of the other curtain, playing with the paper-knife which she had
plucked from the table. "I think he is honest. I am afraid he isn't a
gentleman--but he is not a simpleton." She met his eye frankly for a
moment. "What do you want of my favor?" she asked, with an abruptness of
which she was acutely conscious. "Does he wish to make friends," she
pursued, "or does he merely wish to pay me a vulgar compliment? There is
bad taste, perhaps, in either case, but especially in the latter."
Meanwhile her visitor had already answered her.
"What do I want of your favor? Why, I want to make the most of it." And
Ludlow blushed at his own audacity.
Adela, however, kept her color. "I'm afraid it will need all your
pulling and stretching," she said, with a little laugh.
"All right. I'm great at pulling and stretching," said Ludlow, with a
deepening of his great masculine blush, and a broad laugh to match it.
Adela glanced toward the clock on the mantle. She was curious to measure
the duration of her acquaintance with this breezy invader of her
privacy, with whom she so suddenly found herself bandying florid
personalities. She had known him some eight minutes.
Ludlow observed her movement. "I'm interrupting you and detaining you
from your own affairs," he said; and he moved toward his hat. "I suppose
I must bid you good-morning." And he picked it up.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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