With Edge Tools

by H. C. Chatfield-Taylor

Mrs. Sanderson had arranged designedly the dinner to which she had invited Duncan. He had been much in her thoughts in the interim, and, being anxious to see what method he would adopt to overcome her assumed enmity, she looked forward to their next meeting with curiosity. She was a strong impressionist, and when she had first heard him described by her New York friend, Sibyl Wright, she had mentally resolved that he was a person she would one day meet and like. She had also formed a picture of him in her mind, and, curiously enough, the likeness had been exact. She now felt that her impression had been a presentiment, and this thought appealed to her peculiarly constituted nature. She wanted to know Duncan better and analyze his character, so she arranged her table to further this desire, placing him at her right, and, as Florence Moreland did not like him, she was given the next seat; next to Florence she put Harold Wainwright, feeling sure that they would both be oblivious to their neighbors, while about the table she maliciously scattered a trio of drawing-room musicians. There was Herr von Steubenblätter, a musical professor, Mdlle. de Longchamps, an amateur soprano, and Mr. John Smith, who, after studying singing in Italy and passing five years without an engagement, had now assumed the more euphonious name of Signor Frivogini. Besides these there were several inoffensive people who never said much, but who would consider it their duty to applaud the musicians and keep them employed after dinner, so that Marion and Duncan might talk unobserved.

Unfortunately Duncan's manner was not at all what she had expected. He talked to her about the most conventional and trivial subjects in a most conventional and trivial way, until about the second entrée, when he entered into a literary argument with Florence which lasted during the entire dinner. Both Marion and Wainwright considered themselves very much abused, and Marion in particular thought that somehow her elaborate plans had failed and that Duncan was purposely neglecting her. She endeavored to listen to a discourse on the relative merits of canvas-back and red-head, delivered by an experienced diner on her left, but she felt much relieved when she was able to make the signal for the ladies to file out. When the men had finished their cigars and found their way to the drawing-room she boldly conducted Herr von Steubenblätter to the piano, trusting, from her experience of the opera, that Duncan would disregard the music and talk to her. Marion had provided a formidable array of drawing-room musicians, but they failed to serve the purpose for which they were invited. They played and sang in continuous succession, but Duncan, instead of taking a seat beside her and making the music a cloak for conversation, went to the other side of the room and sat down near pretty, smirking Miss Ender. There he chatted assiduously and made her giggle so loudly that Herr von Steubenblätter sent withering glances through his gold bowed spectacles which made the poor girl blush and stop simpering for two entire minutes.

Marion was furious with everything, but with Duncan most of all. She tried to conceal her anger and listen to the insipid chatter of an under-graduate, but her replies were generalities, delivered without reference to the sophomore's platitudes, and her thoughts were entirely across the room. "What did Duncan mean by such negligence? Why did he challenge her to a verbal combat and then refuse an engagement? Why had he appeared to be interested in her on one day and then utterly indifferent the next?" It was in forming and revolving such questions in her mind that she passed the evening, and, meanwhile, the harmless college boy struggled and sputtered on.

At one end of the Sanderson drawing-room was a settee placed behind a few palms; although it was in the room, it was sufficiently hidden to remove people sitting there from the observation of others. When music had been suggested Florence Moreland and Harold Wainwright had wandered toward this seat. The two had been childhood friends and in later years the intimacy had continued. Harold had been left an orphan without fortune, and Florence had always taken a deep interest in his success.

After leaving college Harold had come to the western metropolis and, by hard and creditable work had built up a flourishing law-practice. He was only twenty-seven and possessed in a marked degree the best qualities of young American manhood. He was one of those young men so numerous in Western cities, whose earnest and energetic characters, untouched by Old World follies and vices, make them the heirs of the pioneer of the past. Florence had admired Harold as a sister might admire a strong, splendid brother. She trusted and looked up to him, and she often confided her thoughts to him. He was a sympathetic friend, but that was all; she, at least, was not a lover.

"Do you know, Harold," Florence said, as they took their seats on the settee, "that we have not had one of our old talks since you were home last summer. There has been a succession of bothersome people to interfere ever since I arrived. Tell me, are you working as hard as ever?"

"Yes," he replied. "I am still toiling away, but to what end I don't know."

"That doesn't sound like you, Harold."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you are not the man to mind the bumps in life's road. You can see beyond them."