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He turned his palm upward, but before he could seize her fingers she had eluded him. "But I'm not ready yet, Philidor," she laughed, "and when I am I shall not seek a husband on the highroads of Vagabondia." Her speech puzzled him for a moment. In it were mingled craft and artlessness with a touch of dignity to make it unassailable. But in a moment she was laughing gaily. "Whom shall it be?
It would have been impossible for a witticism to fall short of its mark under her active superintendence, even if witticisms had been prone to fall short in Vagabondia, which they decidedly were not.
You shall," fiercely. "You've got to know the truth now. There's no other woman in the world but you. There never has been another. There won't be. I love you, child. I always have from the first. I wanted to keep it form you because I didn't want to make you unhappy, because I wanted you here in Vagabondia. When the chance came to take you, I welcomed it, though I knew I was doing you a wrong.
Why hadn't he cabled her at the first moment of his decision to sail or why hadn't he relayed his wireless across when the opportunity had offered? All his hopes seemed to be slipping from his finger ends. Was this Vagabondia? It seemed different somehow. He was aware of his neatly creased trousers, his bowler hat, his gloves, and the leather bag which reeked of sophistication.
They obtruded unbearably, proclaiming their importance in terms which there was no denying. Vagabondia, it seemed, was a forgotten country. Had Hermia forgotten? Was his idyl, the one dream of his life, to end in waking? Was Hermia's mad excursion but another item in the long list of entertainments by means of which she exacted from life payment in diversion which she considered her due?
Dolly shook her head doubtfully. "It wouldn't be serviceable, because you could only have the one, and you could n't wear it on wet days," she said. "I should n't care about its being serviceable," burst forth innocent Vagabondia, rebelling against the trammels of prudence. "I want something pretty. I do so detest serviceable things.
Her love for Ralph Gowan had rendered her restless and despairing, and so she had worked out this innocent romance, intending to defend herself against him. The heroines of her favorite novels married for money when they could not marry for love, and why should not she? Remember, she was only seventeen, and had been brought up in Vagabondia among people who did not often regard consequences. Mr.
Three days had passed since the wise one left London, three miserable, dragging days they had seemed to Mollie, despite their summer warmth and sunshine. Real anxiety and sorrow were new experiences in Vagabondia; little trials they had felt, and often enough small unpleasantnesses, privations, and disappointments; but death and grief were new.
He had thought her mad before when she had volunteered with him for Vagabondia, but now What could he think of her now? There was a difference. Even his pipe failed to advise him. He knocked it out and wandered forth, his footsteps taking him down the street through which the pair had fled.
I am sure this was not wholly true, for on this occasion he told me he had read "Huckleberry Finn," and doted on "Uncle Remus." He also spoke with affection and feeling of Walt Whitman, and told me that he had read every printed word that Emerson had written. And further he congratulated me on the success of my book, "Songs From Vagabondia."
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