“I’m very sorry, old fellow,” said Stratton, lighting the cigar. “I am not dismal. I feel very happy and contented.”
“Then you’re easily satisfied,” cried Guest.
“Yes; because I hope and believe that if I am patient, my time will come.”
“Not it. It’s too bad of Myra.”
“No; I would not have her change,” said Stratton dreamily. “It is a hard and long probation, but I can wait, and I love her all the more dearly for her true womanly behaviour. There, hold your tongue, you miserable, selfish reviler of one whom in your heart you look up to as a pattern of womanhood. The joy would be almost greater than I could bear if she said ‘Yes’; but she is right, and I will patiently wait, for some day the time will come.”
“There you go again. Presently. It’s all very well for you with your calm worship of your ideal woman, and your high-falutin talk about womanhood, etcetera, but I love my little Edie in a non-aesthetic, Christian-like, manly way; and it’s maddening to be always kept off by the little thing with, ‘No, not till I see poor Myra happy. Then, perhaps, you may begin to talk.’ Perhaps and presently make poor food for a fellow like me.”
Stratton smiled at him gravely.
“That’s right—laugh at me. Tell you what, Mal, you’re a poor lover. Why don’t you ask her plump and plain?”
Stratton made no reply but sat back smoking, and his friend said no more for a time. At last, quietly:
“Not such a bad cigar after all, Mal.”