Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 50: what you’re looking at

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

676 a few hours before, possibly at the very time the girl was phoning him, expected ever to see, much less dwell in the studio on the Street of the Broken Jug! The conclusion was inevitable, and overwhelming. It was not he at all whom she expected, but rather Count Vaudreuil, masquerading under his name. Probably Mme. Volontiers had at- tended some of his parties; come to know him well enough to make an appointment a deux at a Latin Quarter café. The let-down was terrific. All the joy of the mellow afternoon passed from the sky, and from George’s soul. And with this thought came another. Not only would the lady be disappointed when the opulent Vau- dreuil failed to appear, but when his substi- tute turned up with one lone, sad dime in his clothes, what would become of the or- nate little dinner she was anticipating? If George had been a coward, he would have fled back to his studio. Then, when Mme. Volontiers called up to learn why she had been so outrageously treated, he would have told her that her George had unfortu- nately been yanked home by a capable and irresistible wife, to be replaced by another and totally inadequate namesake. But he could not bring himself to do this. He felt that it was up to him to appear in person, and make the explanation. would then recognize him as the man who had rescued her perambulator, and on part- ing had presented the card of M. le comte de Vaudreuil. This would in a measure verify the truth, as he would relate it. Coupled. with this courageous and manly attitude was a very urgent desire to see the little lady once more. He was more lone- some than ever since she had by her tele- phoned message revived her image in his mind. Perhaps she would not feel too bad- ly about it, and might even console herself by accepting a little of George’s society. But—hang it all! How could that be when he had but a fifty centime piece to his name? ‘The situation was as distasteful as possible to a youth who had for years been accustomed to sign for whatever he wanted at half a dozen clubs of his own, and one or two of his father’s, It was plain that poverty was a habit one had to accustom one’s self to little by little. . Probably she — ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Not therefore with the sparkling eye and buoyant tread of one going to a rendezvous with a charming girl, but rather with the subdued tramp of an elderly and disillu- sioned man, did he enter the undistinguished portals of the café over which hung, as a symbol, an enormous ostrich egg attached to a light chain. It appeared that the interior offered little to the eye to set it apart from the usual type of the lower-priced restaurant, despite its unique title. There were, close by the door, the little fruit-piled counter back of which sat the caissiére, and about three sides of the room dingy mirrors, in tarnished gold mounting, with imitation leather seats beneath, and a multitude of small, marble- topped tables. ‘There were other tables, for four to eight, up and down the center of the room. At this hour, the place was nearly empty. George at once identified Mme. Volontiers among the half dozen there, sitting alone, of course, and at the far end on the right. How demure she looked, and how marvel- ously she wore her simple clothes! Na-- tional gift, he reflected, pausing a moment to drink her in ere she should look up and spy him. He compared her with the elabo- rately dolled-up girls he had left behind him, with their bobbed hair, bizarre chains, skirts frankly revealing dimpled knees as they sat, and sometimes even when they walked, their furs and expensive hats. The almost severe black gown of Mme. Volontiers, her little toque, worn at just the right angle, a single pearl—imitation prob- ably, since it was rather large—a glimpse of silken, high-arched insteps over little black suede shoes, would have been scorned, he thought, by a parlormaid back home; yet she wore it with superb verve, and an air of distinction. He was admiring the curve of her smooth, ivory white cheek, the arro- gant little nose above generous lips, the mass of her blue-black hair and the eagle sweep of her brows over those odd, prune- purple eyes—ridiculous figure! Then, as if drawn by his regard, she looked up and saw him. Before he had got halfway down the room he read the disappointment in her eyes. But with the disappointment was coupled no “comichooks. com,