It Pays to Smile

by Nina Wilcox Putnam

"Almost as big as Golden Americans!" he exclaimed jokingly.

Below us, down the moon-swept hillside, lay the Mediterranean, reflecting the mystery and romance of Italy almost, as it were, audibly. And audible also, but not too violently so, was the gayly costumed orchestra which sang as it played, and swayed with the rhythm of its own music. There were uniforms and beautiful dresses everywhere, picked out and accentuated by the sombre formal clothes of the civilians. Indoors there was laughter and dancing. The ballroom was a pool of yellow light in which the dancers seemed to swim in a melted sweetness of sound. Every one was gay. I was gay because of that lovely romantic reference of Mr. Pegg's to the lanterns. And then a series of events rose out of which my gayety seemed curiously to increase.

I was sitting outside alone, my escort, Sir Anthony, having gone off to speak to some one, when I saw Peaches and the duke emerge laughingly from the ballroom. I have often seen her beautiful, but never so beautiful as on this occasion. She was clad in an amber satin gown of the exact hue of her marvelous hair, and her only ornament was a huge string of amber beads. She looked like the incarnation of all the gold and sunshine of her native State, and the duke was gazing upon her in a way that sent shivers up and down my back. They came along the path slowly, utterly absorbed in each other. The dance music inside had ceased and the orchestra was singing again—a sweet agony of sound with the ancient words: O dolce Napoli!

The lovers passed into the darkness just beyond me—the darkness pulsating with that utterly unrepressed foreign music. And then somebody opened an upper window, from which came a ray of light. It lifted the heads of the two out of their seclusion as though with a knife. But they were oblivious of it. Never have I hoped—I mean, expected—to witness anything like those two blind faces pressed together. They were mouth to mouth, immovable, like Rodin's statue. There is something very terrible in seeing a thing like that—in seeing something which even the participants close their eyes upon. I staggered to my feet and made a run for the house—as efficient a run as my new high-heeled slippers would permit, and there encountered Sir Anthony on the terrace.

"Miss Talbot!" he exclaimed. "You look quite upset! Allow me to get you a glass of wine!"

"I am upset—but oh, so happy!" I exclaimed.

But I accepted the wine. It was a very mild yellow fluid which tickled the throat pleasingly and, far from administering any shock to the system such as I had anticipated, it seemed to have no effect whatsoever beyond creating a feeling of thirst. I took a second glass, which only increased my need, and as it was so light and harmless I partook of a third.

I then began to realize more fully what a truly delightful evening we were having, and even whispered to my escort that I had good reason for believing that Peaches and her Sandy were engaged. I even called him Sandy, I recall. Sir Anthony at once proposed that we drink their health—quite between ourselves, of course. Which we proceeded to do, and followed it by drinking that of Nedra, a race horse belonging to His Lordship, which was to—er—perform in some race on the morrow.

And after that my memory becomes a trifle dimmed, except for dancing with dear Mr. Pegg. It was a species of quadrille, I recall, except that we seemed to be doing it alone. There was great applause, so it must have been successful, and I remember Cousin Abby exclaiming, "Just see what Europe does for us Boston girls!" but that was only her jealousy because of Mr. Pegg's stealing my slipper.