"Why, she did."
I had caught Dickie off his guard. There followed an interesting bout between manly shame and the pride of youth. It was a draw. Dickie resumed:
"Anyway, maid or no maid, rich or poor, high or low, she's the sweetest girl that ever breathed. Those two minutes when I felt her in my arms and looked into her eyes I shall remember as long as I live."
"Good for you, my boy," said I, and grasped his hand. I believe they do that on the stage, and, heaven knows, Dickie was theatrical. His shame had short life.
"But say, how the devil did you know? Has it got about the club so soon?"
"Dickie," said I, "it is useless for me to deny the thing any longer; I am Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, chuck it, now. Who told you?"
I pointed my cane at Dickie.
"I?"
"It was the same. You said you were asked out to the Park for a few days. Then you wanted to know what sort the Munnigrams were. Now you tell me about golden eyes with brown spots in them. Dickie, you were right; there is only one such pair of eyes in the world—and they belong to Mrs. Munnigram's parlor maid."
Dickie drank an unuttered toast. Then he reverted to his trouble.
"But what shall I do? Where shall I go? I can't stand the chaff of the fellows at the club, you know, and when I think of what the women will say—'more business by Dickie, very dramatic'—I—I'll go to Philadelphia."
Clearly, here was a desperate man.
"Don't," said I. "It's all right."
"All right?" he said, with wonder in his eyes.
"Why, of course, you cub. We all take toll of Peggie O'Neill when we go to the Munnigrams; only we don't make pigs of ourselves, and we are not always caught."
When I left Dickie he had his feet on the window seat. The Avenue was once more the primrose path.
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THE DAWN OF LOVE
SWEETER than any earthly dawn is this,
The morning of our love, when her fond eyes
Open like little flowers of Paradise
And fill the garden place of dreams with bliss.
No glory of the daybreak do I miss—
Her blushes are far fairer than the skies,
Her smile than all the beauty of sunrise,
And like a breath of heaven is her kiss.
Her hair is like a golden mist above
The snowy bosom, that unsounded sea,
The undercurrent and the tide whereof
Are but the yearning of her heart for me;
And in the lyric whisper of her love
Sounds the far murmur of eternity.
