XIV.
THIS IS NOT A BOON.
Othello; iii.—3.
"'I strew these opiate flowers
On thy restless pillow;'"
Hummed Grant Herman to himself, taking his lonely way down the dim and dingy streets leading to the wharves where he had his abode:
"'I strew these opiate flowers—'
Oh, what a woman she is! She might be Brunhilde, or she might be Burd
Helen;
'I strew these—'
I wonder what she had to say to Fenton that she made him stay. Confound that fellow! I'm not more than half sure that I'm fond of him; though I can't bring myself fairly and squarely to dislike him. But I wish he didn't know Mrs. Greyson quite so well; he's going to be married, too. I wonder how he came to know her, any how. It is strange she doesn't wear black if she is a widow. I'd like to learn something more definite about her, but Fenton's the only one who would be likely to know, and I certainly will not ask him. I suppose he is there yet, lounging in some sort of an outlandish shape."
Arthur was indeed still in Helen's parlor, and in as crooked an attitude as a man ever compassed. He had so managed to dispose of himself over three chairs as to give the general effect of having been suddenly arrested in the midst of an acrobatic feat of unusual difficulty, and with a cigar in his long, nervous fingers, was watching Mrs. Greyson, who occupied herself in tidying the room a little.
"We have been too good friends," she said, "to say good-by in public.
The old days have been pleasant, and it is hard to give them up."