“Good Lord!” laughed I. “What are they?”
She explained—as well as she could—probably as well as anybody could. I admired her learning but the thing itself did not interest me. “I guess there must be something in it,” she went on. “I’m sure in a former life I was something a lot different from what I am now.”
“Oh, you’re all right,” I assured her, putting my arm round her in the friendly darkness of a row of sidewalk elms.
When we had indulged in an interlude of love-making, she returned to the original subject. “I wonder how much rent we could afford to pay,” said she.
“They say the rent ought never to be more per month than the income is per week.”
“Then we could pay twenty-five a month.”
That seemed to me a lot to pay—and, indeed, it was. But she did not inherit Weeping Willie’s tightness; and she had never had money to spend or any training in either making or spending money. That is to say, she was precisely as ignorant of the main business of life as is the rest of American womanhood under our ridiculous system of education. So, twenty-five dollars a month rent meant nothing to her. “We can’t do anything to-night,” said she. “But I’ve got my days free, and I’ll look at different places, and when I find several to choose from we can come in the evening or on Sunday and decide.”
This suited me exactly. We dismissed the matter, hunted out a shady nook, and sat down to enjoy ourselves after the manner of young lovers on a fine night. Never before had she given herself freely to love. I know now it was because never before had she loved me. I was deliriously happy that night, and I am sure she was too. She no less than I had the ardent temperament that goes with the ambitious nature; and now that she was idealizing me into the man who could lead her to the fairy lands she dreamed of, she gave me her whole heart.
It was the beginning of what was beyond question the happiest period of both our lives. I have a dim old photograph of us two taken about that time. At a glance you see it is the picture of two young people of the working class—two green, unformed creatures, badly dressed and gawkily self-conscious. But there is a look in her face—and in mine— To be quite honest, I’m glad I don’t look like that now. I wouldn’t go back if I could. Nevertheless— How we loved each other!—and how happy we were!
I feel that I weary you, gentle reader. There is in my sentiment too much about wages and flat rents and the smells that come from people who work hard and live in poor places and eat badly cooked strong food. But that is not my fault. It is life. And if you believe that your and your romancers’ tawdry imaginings are better than life—well, you may not be so wise or so exalted as you fancy.