“Is she a feminist now?” slyly inquired the Explorer.
“She, too, married, after a while—a fine fellow, but—anything but a student. I can’t help....”
“Mine,” said the fourth, the Socialist, “will sound least dramatic of all—though I assure you the time was dramatic enough for me. You talk about your goddesses; my pedestal held just a sweet human girl,—a nurse, serving her first year at the hospital, that time we had the smash-up in ’80. And you talk of beauty, and style, and brain; but with me it isn’t of a pretty face or graceful form I think when I recall that magic time; and least of all is it of any intellectual prowess. I’m not sure whether she knew the difference between physics and metaphysics, or whether she’d ever heard of a cosine. But she was endowed with the charm of charms in a woman—sympathy. She would listen by the hour while I poured out to her my young hopes and ambitions; I could tell her all the dreams a young fellow cherishes most deeply—and would die of mortification if even his best friend guessed at their existence. She always understood; and though she talked little herself, she had the effect of making me appear at my very best. I felt I could move the world if she would just stand by and watch. But in spite of her kindness and gentleness she turned me down. Many times I’ve questioned....”
“That was all right for a sick boy,” commented the Diplomat, “but for a wife, a girl like Alison——”
“‘Alison,’” echoed the Engineer, involuntarily, “a nice name, anyway; that was her name.”
“Why——” the Explorer mused—“that’s an odd coincidence; so was hers—Alison Forbes.”
“Alison Forbes”—breathed the Socialist—“Alison Forbes—Marsden!”
And suddenly there was a silence, and the four friends looked strangely at one another. For they knew in that moment that there had been in those lives of theirs left far behind, not four first girls, but one—seen with different eyes.
A SOPHISTRY OF ART
By Eugene Smith