The Cream of the Jest by James Branch Cabell (the first e reader TXT) 📕

not a ray of good looks left. And he would meditate that he had certainly been fond of Margaret Hugonin, even though in the beginning it was her money which attracted him; and that Marian Winwood, despite her underhanded vengeance in publishing his letters, had been the most delectable of company all that ancient summer when it had rained so persistently. Then there had been tall Agnés Faroy, like a statue of gold and ivory; Kitty Provis, with those wonderful huge green eyes of hers; and Celia Reindan, she who wore that curious silver band across her forehead; and Helen Strong; and Blanche Druro; and Muriel.⁠ ⁠… In memory they arose like colorful and gracious phantoms, far more adorable than they had ever been on earth, when each of these had loaned, for a season, the touch of irresolute soft hands and friendly lips to a half-forgotten Felix Kennaston. All these, and others, had been, a long while since, the loveliest creatures that wore tender human flesh: and so, they had kissed, and they had talked time-hallowed nonsense, and they had shed the orthodox tears; and⁠—also a long while since⁠—they had died or they had married the conventional someone-else: and it did not matter the beard of an onion to the pudgy pasty man that Felix Kennaston had come to be. He had possessed, or else of his own volition he had refrained from possessing, all these brightly-colored moth-brained girls: but he had loved none of them as he had always known he was capable of loving: and at best, these girls were dead now, or at worst, they had been converted into unaccountable people.⁠ ⁠…

Kathleen was returning from the South that day, and Kennaston had gone into Lichfield to meet her train. The Florida Express was late by a full hour; so he sat in their motorcar, waiting, turning over some verses in his torpid mind, and just half-noticing persons who were gathering on the station platform to take the noon train going west. He was reflecting how ugly and trivial people’s faces appear when a crowd is viewed collectively⁠—and wondering if the Author, looking down into a hot thronged street, was never tempted to obliterate the race as an unsuccessful experiment⁠—when Kennaston recognized Muriel Allardyce.

“I simply will not see her,” he decided. He turned his back that way, picked up the morning paper on the seat beside him, and began to read an editorial on immigration. What the deuce was she doing in Lichfield, anyway? She lived in St. Louis now. She was probably visiting Avis Blagden. Evidently, she was going west on the noon train. If Kathleen’s train arrived before midday he would have to get out of the car to meet her, and all three would come together on the platform. If Muriel spied him there, in the open car, it would be not uncharacteristic of her to join him. And he could not go away, because Kathleen’s train was apt to arrive any minute. It was perfectly damnable. Why could the woman not stay in St. Louis, where she belonged, instead of gadding about the country? Thus Kennaston, as he reread the statistics as to Poles and Magyars.

“I think there’s two ladies trying to speak to you, sir,” the chauffeur hazarded.

“Eh?⁠—oh, yes!” said Kennaston. He looked, perforce, and saw that across the railway track both Muriel Allardyce and Avis Blagden were regarding him with idiotic grins and wavings. He lifted his hat, smiled, waved his own hand, and retired between the pages of the Lichfield Courier-Herald. Muriel was wearing a light traveling veil, he reflected; he could pretend not to know who she was. With recognition, of course, he would be expected to come over and speak to her. He must remember to ask Avis, the very next time he saw her, who had been that familiar-looking person with her, and to express regret for his shortsightedness.⁠ ⁠…

He decided to step out of the car, by way of the farther door, and buy a package of cigarettes on the other side of the street. He could loaf there and pray that Muriel’s train left before Kathleen’s arrived.⁠ ⁠…

“I don’t believed you recognized us,” said Avis Blagden, at his elbow. “Or else you are trying to cut your old playmates.” The two women had brazenly pursued him. They were within a yard of him. It was indelicate. It was so perfectly unnecessary. He cordially wished some friendly engine had run them both down when they were crossing the tracks.⁠ ⁠…

“Why, bless my soul!” he was saying, “this is indeed a delightful surprise. I had no idea you were in town, Mrs. Allardyce. I didn’t recognize you, with that veil on⁠—”

“There’s Peter, at last,” said Avis. “I really must speak to him a moment.” And she promptly left them. Kennaston reflected that the whole transaction was self-evidently prearranged. And Muriel was, as if abstractedly, but deliberately, walking beyond earshot of the chauffeur. And there was nothing for it save to accompany her.

“It’s awfully jolly to see you again,” he observed, with fervor.

“Is it? Honestly, Felix, it looked almost as if you were trying to avoid me.” Kennaston wondered how he could ever have loved a woman of so little penetration.

“No, I didn’t recognize you, with that veil on,” he repeated. “And I had no idea you were in Lichfield. I do hope you are going to pay us all a nice long visit⁠—”

“But, no, I am leaving on this train⁠—”

“Oh, I say, but that’s too bad! And I never knew you were here!” he lamented.

“I only stopped overnight with Avis. I am on my way home⁠—”

“To Leonard?” And Kennaston smiled. “How do you get on with him nowadays?”

“We are⁠—contented, I suppose. He has his business⁠—and politics. He is doing perfectly splendidly now, you know. And I have my memories.” Her voice changed. “I have my memories, Felix! Nothing⁠—nothing can take that from me!”

“Good God, Muriel, there are a dozen people watching us⁠—”

“What does that matter!”

“Well, it matters a lot to me. I live here,