Gladys didn't seem aware of this supreme
fact, and (though she affected the giddy airs of eighteen) she was
getting perilously near the age when the country considers a woman is
wise and staid enough to vote, yet she still remained unwed.
Never for a moment did it occur to me, when I asked her to dine with us
one evening, that she would go for William. Still less did I think
that he would take even the faintest interest in such a vapid creature.
But, as I wanted to say before, it's the unexpected that always happens.
William was looking unusually nice that evening. His eyes had a
far-away, rather haunted expression, due to his wearing sock-suspenders
for the first time, but, of course, Gladys didn't know that. He seemed
like one of the strong, silent heroes of fiction. I can testify that
he was silent--perhaps because Gladys did all the talking--and he
looked unusually strong. They sat together most of the evening, and
she only left his side to go to the piano to sing one of her 'stock'
French chansons. Even then she directed it entirely at William.
'_Mamman, dites-moi, ce qu'on sent quand on aime
Est-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment?_'
she warbled, rolling her r's and looking so fixedly at William that he
seemed quite uneasy--he might, indeed, have been more uneasy had his
French been equal to following the words of the song. Modern
languages, however, like modern writers, do not appeal to him.
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