They had not talked upon disturbing subjects, pleasant or the reverse, but had chatted happily, in complete harmony, laughing over their own nonsense, telling each other new bits of confidences, those insignificant-significant trifles of past experience which, taken together, make up a mosaic of complete mutual knowledge. There was nothing for Cis to tell except school scrapes and triumphs, funny or piteous things which she had encountered on her short road so far through life; stories of people whom she had known, pleasures and annoyances; her reactions toward them. They were simple tales to which Rodney harkened with profound interest, deriving from them an accurate estimate of this clean-minded, gallant Cis who loved him, as he saw; whom he meant to marry, and not Gertrude Davenport with her money, realizing that in Cis he had found the woman whose existence his experience had led him to doubt.
In return for her confidences Rodney told Cis similar stories of his boyhood, of his merry college days, of victories which he had won on the fields of sport, and, later, in the field of business competition. That there was much that Rodney did not tell her, honest Cis never suspected, still less that there was a side of his life, parallel with his advancement in business, upon which he did not touch. She listened breathlessly to Rodney’s charming recitals, treasuring up his every word, so that it surprised him later to find how conversant she was with his boyhood and youth; proudly recognizing him as the cleverest and the best of lads whose present perfection had been clearly foreshown, missing nothing, because she looked for nothing beyond his revelations.
The remembrance of these intimate confidences of the evening before, lay warm at her heart; the picture of the close-drawn crimson sash curtains in the leaded window beside them; the cream-white table, with its heavy cut work doilies; its delightful copper candlesticks, their parchment shades decorated by a skilled hand in Persian colors and designs, made a poetic background for her memories. Cis went out on Monday morning, whistling in her mind, her breath keeping up the air soundlessly against her motionless lips—Cis, the secretary, no longer whistled in the street as Cis, the telephone operator, would have done—and she almost ran into Miss Hannah Gallatin.
“Good morning!” they cried together, as Cis swerved to avoid a collision.
“I sort of hoped I’d meet you, Miss Adair; I had an idea you went out about this time,” Miss Gallatin said, and added: “Mind if I walk along to talk to you?”
“Glad to have you, Miss Gallatin,” Cis replied truthfully. “I’ve thought of you lots of times, and of how kind you were that morning when you asked me home with you, and advised me about boarding at Mrs. Wallace’s.”
“But haven’t felt the need of a friend yet, so haven’t hunted me up, as I told you to in case you ever did need one?” Miss Gallatin commented.
“I’ve been busy, learning all sorts of new things in the office——”
“And out of it,” Miss Gallatin interrupted Cis. “See here, my dear girl, let me ask you bluntly: Are you engaged to my boarder, Mr. Moore?”
“No, Miss Gallatin, but I am really engaged without being! It is exactly the same thing, and I’d have been engaged when you asked me, if you hadn’t asked me to-day!” Cis laughed, but Miss Gallatin shook her head violently, having been shaking it gently as a running accompaniment and comment from the first syllable of Cicely’s answer.