‘But I am certain that is my wife’s handkerchief.’ He said he was certain it was not. ‘I am sure your wife would never want to claim she is the only charming lady in town who carries a handkerchief.’ ‘If you are so positive it is not hers,’ I said, ‘suppose you let me show it to her. You’ll agree, won’t you, that she should be able to recognize her own property better than anyone else. I give this to you under protest,’ he said, ‘ask and convince yourself. She will tell you herself. Then I would like it returned to me in her presence with an apology.’ ”
“Whoever it belongs to,” she said, “really ought not to feel flattered at the way he tamely let you carry it off like a sample of goods to be matched.”
“He probably felt it was either that or come to blows with me about it. I had no intention of letting him keep it. Now I’m heartily sorry I didn’t. I’ll telephone and beg his pardon. (Primer piso, numero cinco —”)
“Wait!” she said, starting up, “ring off a moment, I want to tell you something. He’s already said it wasn’t mine. I could very easily say the same thing. I can see he evidently counted on my denying it. But I’m not going to. I had a handkerchief tied around my wrist the other day and he took it off and asked me whether he could keep it. I didn’t stoop to trying to get it back, which was probably what he wanted me to do. Instead, all I said was that a handkerchief was only a handkerchief to me, and would never be anything else.”
“What was his answer to that?”
“ ‘Sometimes a handkerchief can be more than a handkerchief.’ Pure pose on his part. We finished the set and I threw my racket down and walked off the court without another word.”
She rolled the object that had created the discussion into a ball and petulantly flung it on the floor.
“I’m sick of hearing any more about this handkerchief, and all others as well—or do you wish me to continue?”
He leaned over her and touched the top of her head with his lips. “Do you suppose I would care if you had given it to him, in a sentimental way or any other? I would be slighting myself to think twice about someone you know less than two weeks. And slighting you to think twice about any man, whoever he was. These little surface courtesies are nothing. Your heart isn’t tied up in your handkerchief. Any more than when I tip my hat to a lady it means I am thinking of love. Our cordiality toward the rest of the world was not supposed to disappear after we knelt together in the church that day and everything turned to a rosy blur before our eyes.”
Suddenly she had begun to cry. Quite inexplicably, she put her mouth to her clenched hand, and tears stood in her eyes.
“Blair, he kissed me. Oh, I don’t see how I could have.”
With his hand still resting on her shoulder he said, “He isn’t very brave, this Serrano.” He took a handkerchief of his own from his breast pocket and touched her eyelids with it.
“You love life so, Eleanor.”
“It was the time that old Mrs. Galbraith and I stopped to take tea together at a little summer-house. He must have followed us in another carriage. He sat down at our table without being asked, and then Mrs. Galbraith went away and left me. And they lit lanterns all around us and they played a tango and he showed me how it was danced. Then he taught me how to mix anisette with my tea. And the sunset made the sky all colors imaginable. You know I didn’t mean anything—and I didn’t let him see me back to the hotel, either.”
She turned around and realized he hadn’t been listening. He had left her and gone to the window, and was standing there gazing up at some stars again.
6
For two days after this Eleanor remained constantly at Blair’s side. He could not make out whether this was to prove her devotion to him or to avoid meeting Serrano alone. He did not ask her. She said nothing about it, one way or the other. Then on
“Whoever it belongs to,” she said, “really ought not to feel flattered at the way he tamely let you carry it off like a sample of goods to be matched.”
“He probably felt it was either that or come to blows with me about it. I had no intention of letting him keep it. Now I’m heartily sorry I didn’t. I’ll telephone and beg his pardon. (Primer piso, numero cinco —”)
“Wait!” she said, starting up, “ring off a moment, I want to tell you something. He’s already said it wasn’t mine. I could very easily say the same thing. I can see he evidently counted on my denying it. But I’m not going to. I had a handkerchief tied around my wrist the other day and he took it off and asked me whether he could keep it. I didn’t stoop to trying to get it back, which was probably what he wanted me to do. Instead, all I said was that a handkerchief was only a handkerchief to me, and would never be anything else.”
“What was his answer to that?”
“ ‘Sometimes a handkerchief can be more than a handkerchief.’ Pure pose on his part. We finished the set and I threw my racket down and walked off the court without another word.”
She rolled the object that had created the discussion into a ball and petulantly flung it on the floor.
“I’m sick of hearing any more about this handkerchief, and all others as well—or do you wish me to continue?”
He leaned over her and touched the top of her head with his lips. “Do you suppose I would care if you had given it to him, in a sentimental way or any other? I would be slighting myself to think twice about someone you know less than two weeks. And slighting you to think twice about any man, whoever he was. These little surface courtesies are nothing. Your heart isn’t tied up in your handkerchief. Any more than when I tip my hat to a lady it means I am thinking of love. Our cordiality toward the rest of the world was not supposed to disappear after we knelt together in the church that day and everything turned to a rosy blur before our eyes.”
Suddenly she had begun to cry. Quite inexplicably, she put her mouth to her clenched hand, and tears stood in her eyes.
“Blair, he kissed me. Oh, I don’t see how I could have.”
With his hand still resting on her shoulder he said, “He isn’t very brave, this Serrano.” He took a handkerchief of his own from his breast pocket and touched her eyelids with it.
“You love life so, Eleanor.”
“It was the time that old Mrs. Galbraith and I stopped to take tea together at a little summer-house. He must have followed us in another carriage. He sat down at our table without being asked, and then Mrs. Galbraith went away and left me. And they lit lanterns all around us and they played a tango and he showed me how it was danced. Then he taught me how to mix anisette with my tea. And the sunset made the sky all colors imaginable. You know I didn’t mean anything—and I didn’t let him see me back to the hotel, either.”
She turned around and realized he hadn’t been listening. He had left her and gone to the window, and was standing there gazing up at some stars again.
6
For two days after this Eleanor remained constantly at Blair’s side. He could not make out whether this was to prove her devotion to him or to avoid meeting Serrano alone. He did not ask her. She said nothing about it, one way or the other. Then on
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