Puck — January 30, 1878 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

PUCK. stand what is going on about him. Mr. Sinith’s chances appear, at this moment, rather slim. “Don't leave me!” whispers Sylvia to Miss Joscelyn. And then she turns to Mr. Smith. “She is there, you see!” “T thank you,” returns the jover, in a low tone. “Gabrielle” — Miss Hardinge speaks ner- vously and hurriedly—let me present Mr. Peter Smith—one of my—one of my father’s dearest friends—” ; “ Sylvia—command yourself!” her friend | whispers warningly; and then proceeds aloud: “T think I Rave had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Smith. At the Toplofty's, I believe—was it not?” Mr. Smith murmurs his acknowledgment to the Toploftys. “Don't leave me, Gabrielle! He wants you to go—but you won't leave me; will you, dear?” “ He wants me to go!” “ Yes—but stay with me.” “Oh, certainly.” And Gabrielle returns to | her seat. Sylvia, with a quick movement, calls | Mr. Smith's attention to the fact that her pro- mise is fulfilled, and the wooer bows gratefully, but maintains a silence very suggestive of em- | barrassment. Sylvia makes an effort—an extremely obvious effort—to begin a conversation. “You have been—you have been—strolling through the grounds, have you not ?”” | “Yes—yes. I took quite a walk. Nearly | missed—' “ Alfem! My father has spent a great deal of his leisure time in laying out the place.” “Oh—yes! charmingly laid out, I'm sure,” | says Mr. Smith to his hostess. ‘‘So am I!” adds Mr. Smith to himself. “And the sheep —did you see the sheep ?” “Oh—yes! Magnificent sheep!” “« My father takes the greatest interest in his sheep. When he isn’t in San Francisco—for his health—he employs all his time to sheep- raising.” “Yes—excellent idea, I'm sure. I'd like nothing better myself if I were in San Fran- cisco—for my health—I’d employ my time in | sheep-raising. I mean—" “He cannot control his feelings,” Sylvia tells Miss Joscelyn, in a hurried whisper. “So I see,” responds that lady. “Tt is Love!” . “Tt is possible.” “ Perhaps I was wrong—I have.asked him to stay for dinner.” “¢Oh! he doesn’t look very dangerous.” “All the more to fear! Well, since I Aave invited him—” “You can’t send him away again.” “ What are they saying ?” Smith asks himself, as Sylvia arises to give orders for the dinner. “Are you leaving me?” Gabrielle asks her. “Yes! I leave you with him.” “But—I—” “I can’t stay—don’t you see? I shall expose my agitation.” And, in spite of a remonstrant gesture from Miss Joscelyn, Sylvia glides out of the room, with a bow of excuse to Mr. Smith. Left alone, the pretty brune glances furtively at the innocent Don Juan of Sylvia's fertile imagination. She wearsapuzzledair. So does Mr. Smith himself, as he rises and steps uneasily toward her. “Tt may be as Sylvia says,” thinks Gabrielle, “but I’m sure I don’t see any—je ne sats guot about Mr. Smith.” Then aloud: “ You are an old friend of Miss Hardinge’s, I believe?” Mr. Smith coughs nervously, and explains that he is an old friend of Miss Hardinge’s father. “You never told me.” Miss “You—you never gave me the opportunity.” “Tm sure,” Miss Joscelyn says to herself, “there's no je ne sais guoi at all! But Mr. Hardinge is in San Francisco—for his health— you came to see Miss Hardinge.” “Abt can you think—” bursts out the un- fortunate Smith; and then he checks himself. “ Why on earth is she looking at me like that 2” “No je ne sais quoi whatever,” is Gabrielle's private comment, her inspgction being finished. And just at this juncture Sylvia reappears. Sarah follows her, carrying a letter. “What is it, Sarah ?”’ asks her mistress. “A man from the village give me this letter, mum. For Mr. Smith—very immejit.” “For me? A letter—here?” stammers the | astonished recipient of this favor. “Give it to Mr. Smith, since it is so ‘ very immediate.’” Miss Hardinge laughs. Mr. Smith takes, the letter and reads the superscription with wide- open eyes: “© Al Signor Pietro Smith.’ mean? My name isn’t Pietro. mistake.”” He is abuut to return the letter to the servant, when Sylvia interposes a gracious: “Pray read your letter, Mr. Smith.” “You will permit me— ?” “Oh, certainly!” Miss Hardinge’s tone is no longer gracious. It might rather be called grim. Gabrielle utters a soft word of warning: “ Take care!” “Do you think it is easy for me to see him read that letter?” demands Sylvia in the same whisper. “ But—the servant.”” “That is true. Sarah Coes not wait. As she leaves the room, Hardinge draws a long breath of relief. Now!" Wwial” You are not reading your letter, Mr. Smith!” “If you will allow me.” He opens the mis- sive, and reads the first line aloud: ‘‘A 7idol dei mio cor!” “¢To the idol of my heart!’” interprets Sylvia, excitedly. “That's not English,” remarks Mr. Smith. This entirely gratuitous piece of information Miss Hardinge caps with another: “It’s Italian.” “Yes—it is signed ‘Gione.’" “Gione?” “ Yes—‘Gione.’” “Ah! if it bears ¢haf signature, you know well it is Italian.” : “Yes, of course! English, I’m sure.” Mr. Smith understands absolutely nothing. “You read Italian, do you not?” “No, I don’t read Italian—but then, you know, it’s easy enough to.read it. Latin and French help you. But then I don’t know very much French, and I've forgotten all my Latin.” “Do you read Italian, Gabrielle?” inquires Sylvia, turning to her friend. “Not a word!” “He thinks he is safe! But no—/ can read Italian!” “ But, I’m sure—Miss Hardinge—you attach too much importance to such a trifle. It’s somebody's joke. I don’t know any man by the name of Gione.” “ You don’t know this woman?” “Tt is a woman?” “You don’t know her ?” “©No!” And then Mr. Smith catches a warn- ing glance from his ally, and corrects himself: “That is to say—I—" “Ah, you see!” “ But, indeed—" “Well, Mr. Smith, since this letter is only somebody's joke, suppose I translate it for you?” Shae What does this There's some Oh, of course! 'Tisn’t You need not wait, Sarah.” | “Certainly—certainly! I'll be delighted!” And he shakes his head and inwardly remarks: “This is the most singular woman I ever met; and she has a queer way of making Miss Josce- lyn love me.” : Sylvia reads: ‘«*To sono una donna innamorata'—I am a woman in love!” “Is that the kind of letter you are in the habit of receiving, Mr. Smith?” asks Gabrielle, with a laugh, but with # rather odd glance. Mr, Smith stammers: “Indeed—I—" He subsides and sits on the edge of a chair. ‘‘ How she looks at me. This is the deuce of a way to make her love me!” Sylvia reads on: ‘ Appassionata—Infiammata—Brucciatal” “ Brucciata” comes out with the force of an explosion. Her listeners echo the word, without comprehending its meaning. To t'aspetto—hm-m-m-m—all’osteria del villagio’—1 am waiting for you at the hotel in the village. You will do well to go there, Mr. Smith!” “‘Let_me congratulate you, Mr. Smith!’”’ puts in Gabrielle. “Deuce of a way! the lover. “¢Si non vieni—more ta Giulia '—if you do not come, your Giulia dies! Signed- -Gione. Take your letter, Mr. Smith. And pray do not allow ‘somebody's joke’ to have such a tragic ending. Do not force Signora Gione to die.” “But—” Mr. Smith objects, in an undertone, “you know as well as I do there is no Signora Gione!” “ Of course I know it!” > ‘«Where do you wish me to go?” «Go see papa’s sheep—and return.” “When ?”” “Oh, go! only go! astonishment.” Gabrielle has been trying to spell out the mysterious letter. She hands it back to its owner. “Pray go and console Signora Giulia,” she says. And as Smith stands doubtfully looking at the door, she remarks to Miss Hardinge: “ Signora Giulia writes a very bad hand, and she has to write most of the words over two or three times.” “Tt is her haste and fervor,” answers Sylvia. But she explains confidentially to the mirror: “Sarah does not copy Italian easily.” Mr. Smith makes a desperate dive for the door: “ Miss Hardinge—ah—er—Miss Joscelyn— since you wish it—I go!” - And he goes. (To be continued.) I’m done for!" mutters I told you to show no Tue late King of Italy will be buried with imposing ceremonies and an imposing stone will be erected over his grave. Any obliging printer will explain.— Worcester Press. To one unacquainted with the beautiful vagaries of American art, there is somethin perplexing about the advertisement of a rail- road company hanging in the Lewis House, and which, while it tells of a land where rain never comes, is also embellished by the picture of a man rapidly making his way toward the place with an umbrella under his arm.— Fudton Times. Tuat was a bad year we have just left be- hind, wasn’t it? Surprising how it came on us all after the reception we gave it twelve months ago. It was a real bad year, Glad it is gone, with its load of guilt. But this isa good year, a real nice year. Heavens, what an amount of moral: grandeur we are all. to crowd into it! Ain't we?—Danbury