MRS. PEPPER IN PARIS
Mrs. Pepper went to Paris.
She went alone.
And so she was—lonely.
Why had she ever left New York?
Why had she ever wanted to leave New York?
Why had she ever wanted to leave New York—alone?
Tom had offered to go with her.
And so had Dick.
And so had Harry.
But she had wanted to be alone.
And she got what she wanted.
And a great deal more.
Good Lord!
What a place!
What a disgusting place!
Nothing to see!
Nowhere to go!
Nothing to do!
Who thought that Paris was gay?
Mrs. Pepper didn’t!
She thought that it was miserable.
Who thought that French women were stylish?
Mrs. Pepper didn’t!
She thought that they were frumps!
Who thought that French men were polite?
Mrs. Pepper didn’t!
She thought that they were boors!
So she wrote to Tom, in New York.
And to Dick, in New York.
And to Harry, in New York.
And she said, “I hate Paris!”
In the morning, she walked—alone.
Mile after mile.
In the afternoon, she drove—alone.
Hour after hour.
In the evening, she dined—alone.
Course after course.
But what was the good of anything?
Nothing!
She met a Count.
But he was a Frenchman.
And a puppet.
She met a Baron.
But he was a Russian.
And a savage.
Then she met—a Man.
He was an American.
And a gentleman.
She met him in the Bois de Boulogne.
It was in the morning.
She was walking.
So was he.
She was walking up.
He was walking down.
They met.
He looked at her.
She looked at him.
They passed.
He looked around.
So did she.
She walked on.
He followed her.
She knew when he was behind her.
She knew when he was beside her.
And then he spoke.
“I beg your pardon!” said the Man.
“What is it?” said the Woman.
“Please do not misunderstand me,” said the Man.
“I will try not to,” said the Woman.
“I am an American,” said the Man.
“Yes,” said the Woman.
“I am here alone,” said the Man.
“Well?” said the Woman.
“And I am—lonely,” said the Man.
“What has this to do with me?” said the Woman.
“That is what I want to know,” said the Man.
“Indeed?” said the Woman.
“You are an American,” said the Man.
“Yes,” said the Woman.
“You are here alone,” said the Man.
“I am,” said the Woman.
“And you are—lonely,” said the Man.
“I am—not,” said the Woman.
“Oh, I thought you were!” said the Man.
“Well, you have made a mistake!” said the Woman.
“You have misunderstood me!” said the Man.
“No,” said the Woman, “you have misunderstood me!”
She walked away.
He stood still.
That afternoon, when she drove, she saw the Man and he saw her.
That night, when she dined, she saw the Man and he saw her.
The next morning, when she walked, she saw the Man and he saw her.
And so it went—morning, noon and night.
Day after day.
He never spoke.
He never made a sign.
And neither did she.
But he was always—there.
Now he was a Man.
And she was a Woman.
He was an American.
And so was she.
So at last—one evening, in the foyer of the hotel, she bowed to him.
He came over to her.
She held out her hand.
He took it.
He looked into her eyes.
She looked into his.
“You are lonely!” said the Man.
“No,” said the Woman, “not any more!”
Mrs. Pepper wrote to Tom, in New York.
And to Dick, in New York.
And to Harry, in New York.
And she said, “I love Paris!”