A Disappointment

A DISAPPOINTMENT.

Of course it would be a disappointment.

I had recently returned from abroad and had been called upon by duty to journey down to the deserted village of Mayburn to pay proper respects to my aunt and to make the acquaintance of the cousin who had just left school.

I had never seen her before, except perhaps as a baby, but I could picture her exactly--dressed in the vile country style, very likely freckled, and a wearer of spectacles; crammed to the throat with new education and individuality of women doctrine certainly.

And, of course, for aunt possessed no tact at the best of times, I should be left alone with this interesting female for the greater part of a hot summer afternoon. She was 18, too--a most offensive age.

Well, I should have to be polite and talk to her and aunt of my experiences abroad, and then, if I had luck, I could plead the excuse of dinner in town and escape by an early train.

The train jolted itself to a standstill. A crowd of loafers posed as professional eyesores in front of a grimy inn and commented upon my appearance. What a place!

A stupid looking servant told me that the ladies were in the garden, so to the garden, grumbling, I had to go. Certainly it was all awfully pretty. I began to wonder how I was looking.

"You've never met Ida before, Philip, " I heard aunt saying. "Well, here she is."

I believe I said something. I might have remarked upon the weather, but am not sure. I know that there was a lot of gold, fluffy hair and some blue eyes.

"I must leave you to entertain each other for a few minutes. You will hear the luncheon gong out here." And the old lady withdrew. Really, aunt has wonderful tact.

We began to talk. I never found talking come so easily. "So you really are my cousin?"

"I believe I am. But l hope you don't mind. It's not my fault, you know." A funny little smile quivered round her mouth. She covered it up with a white rose.

"I didn't think you'd be a bit like what you are," I said wildly.

"People never are what you expect them to be. I'm sorry you're disappointed."

"I'm not. I think you're"--I didn't know what to say.

"What?" She certainly was laughing now.

"Indescribable."

Her face was half buried in the rose, and two bright eyes looked at me over the petals. "I've known lots of girls--indescribable. They weren't all nice. Some were horrid. But you must have been disappointed--really. There are pleasant disappointments, just as much as there are unpleasant ones."

"In what way were you disappointed when you saw me?"

"I saw your last photograph."

"It was an awfully libelous one," I hastened to say.

"It was. It flattered you horribly. I wonder you weren't ashamed of it."

"I was; not because it flattered me."

"I'm glad you admit that. I have one or two theories, you know. One must have a little excitement."

"What is this particular theory?"

"That men are vainer than girls. No, you're not to say anything, it would lead to an argument, and that wouldn't be fair. It doesn't need a reply, does it?"

"No, I suppose not."

"I've quite proved my point, haven't I?"

"Rather!" somewhat absently, because I was wondering how I could miss the last train from Mayburn that evening.

I believe I must have moved. Anyhow she seemed nearer.

"Now we'll talk about something else."

"You, for instance," I ventured.

"That would be as dull as--as the books I read to my mother. Such words! I have to twist my mouth into all imaginable shapes."

"Give me an example. "

She thought for a moment, while I thought, too, that I should like to be the word that she was thinking about.

"Psy-cho-log-ic-al." It came very slowly.

I believe I moved in again, for she stepped back.

"Isn't that an awful word!" She made a little distracting hoop of her mouth. I began to feel strange.

"Don't say that again," I cried.

Her eyes opened in wondering circles. "Why not?"

"Because--I'll tell you later on."

"Oh!" Suddenly, "Isn't this a pretty rose?"

"I have seen prettier."

"Oh!" "With a delicate drawing in of a lower rose leaf lip.

"I mean I do see a prettier."

"I'm quite sure that isn't true."

"Did you ever know me to tell an untruth?"

She pulled out the tiniest, most delightful watch. "I've known you just 11 minutes."

"And seconds?" I demanded, determined to have my due.

"Sixteen about. But you shall have the benefit of the doubt. I'll say 20. And you are surprised because you haven't told me an untruth during that time. Oh, Mr. Percival!"

"You have caught me in the act," I said quite triumphantly, "unless you wish to withdraw your statement."

"I never withdraw anything."

"I shall bind you down to that."

"All right. Really, I don't see any rose besides this one. "

"I have the advantage over you. Of course, now, if I were a looking glass"--

"Oh, that is what you mean. No! Stand just where you are and don't move until we hear the luncheon gong."

It had been a very little movement but I obeyed.