“And I really think her hair is just as beautiful as her eyes. It’s light brown, very curly, and—”
“Her complexion!” exclaimed Madge. “Is she a mulatto? And, if so, how can a complexion be curly?”
“Her complexion,” I said, not a bit rattled, “is another great beauty of hers. She has one of those skins—”
“Furs are out of fashion at present,” she interjected, laughing wickedly.
“Now look here, Miss Cullen,” I cried, indignantly, “I’m not going to let even you make fun of her.”
“I can’t help it,” she laughed, “when you look so serious and intense.”
“It’s something I feel intense about, Miss Cullen,” I said, not a little pained, I confess, at the way she was joking. I don’t mind a bit being laughed at, but Miss Cullen knew, about as well as I, whom I was talking about, and it seemed to me she was laughing at my love for her. Under this impression I went on, “I suppose it is funny to you; probably so many men have been in love with you that a man’s love for a woman has come to mean very little in your eyes. But out here we don’t make a joke of love, and when we care for a woman we care—well, it’s not to be put in words, Miss Cullen.”
“I really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Mr. Gordon,” said Madge, gently, and quite serious now. “I ought not to have tried to tease you.”
“There!” I said, my irritation entirely gone. “I had no right to lose my temper, and I’m sorry I spoke so unkindly. The truth is, Miss Cullen, the girl I care for is in love with another man, and so I’m bitter and ill-natured in these days.”
My companion stopped walking at the steps of 218, and asked, “Has she told you so?”