Oriel Pilaster, Jr., was the proudest young man in the city that day. He was proud of having been recently admitted to partnership with his father, the noted architect. He was proud of his fine new tandem. He was proudest of all of having, as he fondly believed, “cut out” David Dewness with the pretty and piquante May Bentley, whom he had long admired at a distance. He was about to pass his supposed rival with a smile and nod of lofty triumph when, to his extreme consternation and chagrin, Miss May put on the brake hard and brought the machine to a standstill, at the same instant calling out:
“Mr. Dewness! David!”
David instantly went to her, hat in hand, and she smiled her very friendliest smile, and put out her hand, which David shook frankly.
“Excuse me a minute, Mr. Pilaster,” she said to that shocked youth, “I want to say a word to Mr. Dewness.”
So saying, she alighted nimbly, took David’s arm, and walked a few steps away, coolly leaving young Pilaster a statue of petrified chagrin seated on a tricycle, in full view of all the park loungers. That amazed young gallant was at first half inclined to ride off in a huff, but he wisely concluded that his best plan was to try and look just as happy as though this was exactly what he had all along been expecting, and wait until he knew the reason.
As soon as they were a little out of hearing, May volubly explained:
“I know who she is, David! It’s all right! The nicest girl! If you’d only said who it was I shouldn’t have cared. But, dear me! what a fool I was to quarrel with you, anyway! Because, you know, really and truly, you and I don’t care a button for each other except as friends, and it was nonsense to pretend anything else. Why, she’s just the girl that I should pick out for you! I half thought I knew her all the time, though she kept her face away from me. But the instant it flashed upon me—why I couldn’t mistake her for anybody else if I tried! Come, shake hands again over it!”
David shook hands again with a great pretense of enthusiasm. Then he calmly asked.
“Well, who do you think she is now?”
“Why, Miss Daphne Dalrymple, of course. Ah, you needn’t try to fool me any longer!”