The Good Comrade

by Una L. Silberrad

"I haven't;" Julia cried hotly. "I have not lost my heart; that has nothing to do with it."

"I did not say that you had," Rawson-Clew reminded her; "of course not, you have not lost it, and could not easily. I did not mean that; I only meant that it would interfere with your success as an adventuress."

"It would not," Julia persisted; "I don't care about people a bit; it isn't that, it is simply that I am sick of deception, that is why I am telling you the truth. And as for the other thing—the daffodil"—she forgot that he did not know about it—"I couldn't take it from any one so silly, so childish, so trusting."

"Of course not," Rawson-Clew said. "I don't know what the daffodil thing is, nor from whom you could not take it—please don't tell me; I never take the slightest interest in other people's business, it bores me. But, you see, you bear out what I say; you are of those strong who are merciful; you would make no success as an adventuress. Besides, your tastes are too simple; I have some recollections of your mentioning corduroy—er—trousers and a diet of onions as the height of your ambition."

Julia laughed in spite of herself. "That is only when I retire," she said. "I haven't retired yet; until I do I am—"

"The incarnation of the seven deadly sins?" Rawson-Clew finished for her, with a smile in his eyes. "No doubt of it; I expect that is what makes you good company."

So, after all, it came about that she did not get her confession made in full. But, then, there hardly seemed need for it; it appeared that Rawson-Clew already knew a great deal about her, and did not think the worse of her for it. Rather it seemed he thought better than she had even believed; he, himself, too, was rather different—there had crept a note of warmth and personality into their acquaintance which had not been there before. Julia had pleasant thoughts for company on her homeward walk, in spite of the worry of the letters she carried with her; she even for a moment had an idea of putting the matter they contained before Rawson-Clew and asking his advice; that is, if the friendship which had begun to dawn on their acquaintance that evening grew yet further. It did grow, but she did not ask him, loyalty to her family prevented; there were, however, plenty of other things to talk about, and the friendship got on well until the end came.

The end came about the time of the annual fair. This fair was a great event in the little town; it only lasted three days, and only the middle one of the three was important, or in the least provocative of disorder; but—so Mijnheer said—it upset business very much. After inquiry as to how this came about, Julia learnt that it was found necessary to give the workmen a holiday on the principal day. They got so drunk the night before, that most of them were unfit for work, and a few even had the hardihood to stop away entirely, so as to devote the whole day to getting drunk again. Under these circumstances, Mijnheer made a virtue of necessity, and gave a whole holiday to the entire staff.

"Does the office have a holiday too?" Julia asked.

Mijnheer nodded. "These young fellows," he said, "are all for holidays; they are not like their fathers. Now it is always 'I must ride on my wheel; I must row in my boat; I must play my piano; let us put the work away as soon as we can, and forget it.' It was not so in my young days; then we worked, or we slept; playing was for children. There were some great men of business in those days."