When, an hour later, they called to us in our secluded corner of the library that it was our turn to take a hand, the dear woman replied that she had a headache and really did not care to play, and I, for my part, vowed that bridge bored me to death. So we talked on. I must say that I was at my best. She was tremendously interested in everything, and seemed to enjoy having me explain how we bought stock on margins, and hearing about the time I was arrested for over-speeding my car, and of the coup I made at the Brooklyn Handicap last year. We got on tremendously. At first we thought it strange that we had not met before, as her former husband and I belong to the same clubs, but then she has been living abroad and has but lately returned. Curiously enough, we found that we had the same tastes in everything. She is devoted to riding and motoring and yachting. She is fond of the theatre, and abhors German opera. She loves literature, and was delighted when I promised to send her a batch of new detective-stories I recently picked up at my bookseller's. Then she is very strict in her religious views, a quality which I greatly admire in her sex, and I must confess that, as I peeped out of the window in the morning and saw her alone climbing into the trap and driving off to church at White Plains, I roundly cursed myself for sleeping so late and promising to ride with Mrs. Tommy Tattler before luncheon.
But we go through fire to victory. In the afternoon a drive down to the Country Club for tea gave me an opportunity on the quiet to propose to her a little theatre-party next week, with supper at Flurry's, and at bridge in the evening I actually insisted on carrying her, thereby in three rubbers losing to Tommy Tattler and Sally Bilberry all I had taken from Julius Hogginson Fairfield, with quite a sum more. But I have a good tip on Kalabash, second preferred, and can afford to be reckless. Love does make us reckless, and I suppose this is love. Of course these attacks never amount to anything as long as a man keeps his head when he loses his heart. I have ever managed to hold on to my head. The trouble with most men is that they think that death or matrimony is the only cure for heart-trouble. They succumb at the first attack.
A little experience would teach them better, but they never gather it. I know how it has always been with me. For example, now as always, there will be a loss of appetite, a few books and flowers, the theatre-party, and perhaps another week-end down on Long Island or at Exudo.
Then I shall, as of old, run over my accounts and see that to marry I should have to resign from half my clubs, for, of course, I could not live on alimony. Then some day I'll smoke it all off. A headache, and love's old dream will have vanished.
Still, I agree with Mrs. Timpleton Duff. Some of us came down to town in her car to-day, and when we had left Mrs. Underbunk at the Holland House and were heading uptown, my hostess said to me, "Isn't Gladys a dear?"
"Thoroughly charming," said I. "Tremendously jolly."
"I wanted you so to meet her," said she. "I knew you would find each other so congenial. Gladys has brains."
So I am off for a stroll alone in the park.