XXII
THE PUGILIST'S WHIM
An old servant had brought out the early coffee to the arbour in the garden. It was about eight o'clock, and in the shady retreat the freshness of springtime reigned. Soon down the gravel walk appeared the well-built figure of Dixon, dressed in white flannels. He bent under the arch of greenery that led to the arbour, and seemed vexed to find that it was empty.
Clearly the pugilist was not going to breakfast alone and, to while away the time until his companion should appear, he lighted a cigarette.
Suddenly the door of the house opened to give passage to a gracious apparition—Josephine. Wrapped in a kimona of bright silk and smiling at the fine morning, the young woman came slowly down the steps and then stopped short, blushing. Some one came to meet her—it was Dixon.
The giant, too, seemed moved. Lowering his eyes he asked:
"How are you this morning, fair lady?"
"And you, M. Dixon?"
"Mlle. Finette, the coffee is served, won't you join me?"
The two young people broke their fast in silence, exchanging only monosyllables, to ask for a napkin, a plate, the sugar. At last, overcoming his bashfulness Dixon asked in a voice full of entreaty: