Mate selection -- Fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
She rested lightly against a tree, her hands raised and clasped behind
her head, her fair hair fluttering like golden petals in the slight
breeze. Suddenly she turned, threw herself on her elbow, and crept a
little nearer as if drawn by the earnestness of a thought.
“Kit, it isn’t too hot to talk! It’s tropical enough to cast off the
conventionality that ordinarily clothes our thoughts. I’ve wanted for
weeks--forever--to get you to talk to me with the honesty no adult ever
uses,” she said in a low voice.
“Go ahead, Nell,” said Kit, uncomfortably.
“Look here, Kit, what are you going to do? Do you realize that you are
wasting opportunities? Well, then,” she went on, rapidly, as Kit nodded
hard; she was not ready to let him speak, “when are you going to put
yourself in my father’s hands? He can make you, put you right on top,
Kit! Kit, dear, handsome, splendid Kit, let him do it!”
“Oh, hold on, Nell!” he protested.
He was crimson and he edged away from her.
“I don’t mind telling you, but it is in confidence; Aunt Anne is not to
know yet; I’m going to New York in September. A college man I knew--he
was soph. in my fresh. year--took a liking to me and told me that when
I wanted to seek my fortune he was ready to push it. He’s inherited a
big business. I am going to get a job with him in September.”
“Nonsense!” cried Helen. “You’ll do nothing of the sort! Aunt Anne
has heaps; it’s all yours, unless you displease her. Father will put
you into a berth in the English, or some other first-rate embassy,
and you’ll go on to be minister, or something like that! And, in the
meantime, travel, art, luxury, and _love_! Kit, are you a fool, or
a man without eyes and blood?”
“It’s good of you, Helen, to take this interest----” began Kit with
difficulty.
“Kit, stop!” she whispered. “Look at me!”
He looked at her--slowly, reluctantly, and quickly again averted his
eyes. She half lay upon one hip, supported by her elbow, her face
turned toward him pillowed in her curved hand. She was handsomer than
Kit had ever before seen her, but he did not want to look at her.
“You idiot!” Helen said, fiercely. “Are you a girl of twelve? Though
I don’t know one who is such an idiot! Kit, see me! I know what I am,
what I can give you. Will you marry me?”
“Oh, my good Lord above us! Helen, for mercy’s sake,” he gasped.
“Don’t! It--it--it isn’t funny! It’s a poor joke!”
“You know as well as I do that I mean what I say,” Helen said. “In
these hands I hold influence, wealth, fame, every prize you can name.
In this brain and beauty of mine I have all the treasures a man could
desire. Humble? No. Why should I be? Vain? No! Not that, either. Sure
of myself and honest; saying what you can see is true. How many in your
place would turn from me? Let’s talk it out, Kit. Why won’t you marry
me?”
“I--I---- Oh, Helen! For heaven’s sake! I can’t!” cried Kit, tugging at
his collar.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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