Bluebeard’s Goat and Other Stories by H. L. Mencken

Author:H. L. Mencken [Mencken, H. L.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Short Stories
ISBN: 9780802360236
Publisher: Dufour Editions
Published: 2013-12-19T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER IV

As he slipped the engraven cardboard into those slim white hands they curled over it and their owner made no movement. The danger of assault had apparently passed away, for while holding the card she had equably answered some question of Colman’s.

Her lack of action was beginning to unnerve him when, at the end of another “chukker” she turned about and looked at him as though suddenly discovering an old friend. That radiant smile he had seen wasted on others was now for him alone.

“Surely it’s Mr. Blackwell,” she cried. “When did you come?”

He took her hand, prayed that he was not blushing, and said he had arrived perhaps an hour before.

“Of course you know Wolfston Colman?” she remarked.

“By sight only,” he returned easily as he was introduced. He was relieved to find his apprehension that everyone on the field might be watching him was a wrong one. None took the slightest notice.

“What do you think of the Hurlingham lot?” Colman demanded.

Horace had not been listening to the horseman’s critical remarks for nothing.

“If our men are not trained as well as they are we shall lose the cup,” he said.

Colman turned to Mrs. Buxton with rather an air of triumph. “You see? That’s exactly what I said!” In which, of course, he was right.

After a few moments she dismissed Wolfston Colman with a pleasant little nod.

“I shall see you later,” she assured him. “I’m simply dying for some tea.”

And with Horace at her side she walked over the ground to where in their scores motors were parked. Where tea was to be found he did not know. He was embarrassed by his ignorance.

“We’ll go over to the Philipps’,” she said casually. “Do you know them?”

“I’ve met some of them,” he said guardedly.

“Have you your motor here?” she asked.

“I came over with another man in his,” he returned, and made a vow that his aunt’s money could be well expended in purchasing one on the morrow.

She paused by the side of a big car.

“Here’s my husband’s. We’ll use it. He’ll probably be furious.” The chauffeur opened the door for her. “I, too, came in another man’s.”

When for the first time they were free from observation she threw him another ravishing smile.

“Well,” she said, “and why did you do it?”

His voice came thickly. Experience had not permitted him to do these things without effort.

“How could I help it?” he cried. “There was never anyone so adorable as you.”

Mrs. Hamilton Buxton did not answer for a moment. She was far too experienced to be deceived at the gulp in his voice. A number of men she knew could do that admirably, and none of them would ever see forty again. And she admitted frankly that she was adorable. “I ought to be furiously angry with you!”

“But you are not,” he said, growing courageous.

She looked at him curiously.

“That depends.”

“On what?” he demanded.

“On you,” she told him. “If I am disappointed in you I shall be furious.”

He wondered what she meant. How many plays had he not seen and how many novels had he not read where some such remark was made by a heroine.

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