# Ainslee's Magazine/The Flights of Mr. Doe

Extracted from Ainslee's, Nov 1913, pp. 115–123. Title illustration may be omitted.
THE FLIGHTS OF MR. DOE
NEITH BOYCE
I'VE just been out for a quiet week with the Bellamys,” said Milly, giving tea to her visitor in the parlor of her tiny flat.
“Nice people,” said the young man. “And a quiet week does you good—you're looking ripping. Anybody there?”
“No—yes, there was a man named Doe—not John, Jim Doe.”
“Oh, I know him. Big fellow, always off in the wilds somewhere—Africa, Kashmir—that sort of thing.”
“That's the man.”
“He was down at my cousin's last spring—came for a week and only stayed two days. He's a woman hater, I hear.”
“Is he?” smiled Milly.
“So the women say. But I don't doubt you tied him to your chariot wheels in a jiffy—that's what that smile means—eh?”
“No, I don't think I did,” said Milly.
“Oh, come now—a whole week in the house with him, and he didn't fall at your feet? I can't believe that.”
“Well, I'll tell you what he told Anne about me,” said Milly, and her eyes danced wickedly. “He said that I was an uncommonly nice little girl, no nonsense about me, and never in the way—yes, and he called me a sweet little woman.”
“Oh, I say!” The young man shouted with laughter. “My word, that's the best I've heard yet! What on earth did you do, Milly?”
“Nothing,” said Milly. “I just kept still, wore a middy blouse, and parted my hair in the middle. I looked as dull as I felt. I acted as I often want to act, when I'm expected to amuse people instead.”
“Awful bore, amusing people,” agreed the youth sympathetically. “But it seems to come natural to you, Milly.”
“Well, it doesn't always,” said Milly rather tartly.
“But I can't imagine you in the rôle of the sweet little woman—even your deadliest friend never called you that! Didn't you hate him when you heard it?”
“I resented it,” confessed Milly. “But you see I'd promised——”
“Promised what?”
“To let him alone—Mr. Doe, I mean. Reggie asked me to. He said Jim liked a quiet life.”
“Well, you see I told you he was a woman hater.”
“Not exactly. But he's afraid of us. He told Anne that whenever he meets a girl he likes, he sends a telegram to himself, and packs his trunk and runs.”
“Not really! Why, I wonder?”
“He doesn't want to fall in love.”
The young man slapped his knee, and laughed again uproariously.
“Well—'pon my word! I'd never have thought of that, would you? It is rather a good idea, though. So that's how he got his reputation as a woman hater! I say, isn't it a lark! And didn't he get a telegram at the Bellamys'?”
“No,” said Milly, laughing. “Oh, yes, he did, too. But it was from Bella Goodridge, saying that Peter threatened to have the scarlet fever, and putting off her house party. He was going there.”
“And so were you, weren't you?”
“Oh, yes. I've just had a note from her. It was only indigestion for Peter, so I've got to go out to-day and help her with her party. I've a letter from Anne, too.”
“Any news of the timid Mr. Doe?”
Milly glanced through the letter, smiling.
“No—except that they've missed me.”
“I'll bet they have!” said the young man heartily, as he rose to take his leave. “Good-by, fair Millicent—wish Bella'd asked me, too.”
When he had gone, Milly read Anne Bellamy's letter again. After reporting several mildly appreciative remarks on the part of Mr. Doe, the ingenuous Anne proceeded:
    He even said last night, Milly—and this is really why I'm writing you—that if he ever married, he thought he would like to marry a person like you! He said American women generally have too much individuality and are too disturbing, and that what a man wanted in a wife was something soothing and restful and unexciting; and he said he thought you were a remarkably unspoiled, nice little thing. And just then Reggie laughed and started to say something, and I gave him an awful frown, for I think it is most amusing to hear Mr. Doe talk about you that way, and if he should fall in love with you, after all, how funny it would be!
    He is going to the Goodridges' in a few days, and I suppose you will see him there, and, now, Milly, you know how to please him. I asked him why he didn't marry, when he said that about you, and he replied that he had always kept from falling in love by running away in time, but that he thought now he would like to marry sensibly, as he was getting on to forty, and liked domestic life.
    I know he was thinking of you, Milly, but I didn't say anything, for don't think you and he would suit at all. I am sure you are not domestic, and he has quite a wrong impression of you, and so, after all, it would be too bad if he wanted to marry you. should hate to have him disappointed. Do let me know how it comes out.
Milly read this letter twice, laughed, and tore it up. Then she packed two trunks with her very best clothes, and went out to the Goodridges'.
It was a large house party, and Milly, from the moment she arrived, was the life and spirit of it. In her gay moods she had a wonderful buoyancy, a vitality as fresh and untiring as a child's, a wild joyousness quite irresistible; and now she let loose her pent-up energy and swept the whole crowd with her.
She knew what day Mr. Doe was expected, but did not show any interest in his arrival. It happened that he was driven straight from his train to join a picnic party in the woods for supper. The supper was ready laid when he arrived with Mrs. Goodridge, but the other guests were out on the lake, rousing the woodland echoes.
Being signaled by an automobile horn, the boats turned toward the shore. And Mr. Doe's first sight of Milly showed her approaching in a canoe, with her black hair loose and crowned with flowers; her sleeves were rolled up to the shoulders, she was lazily paddling and singing, in a full, thrilling voice.
In the bottom of the boat knelt a young man in white flannels, and from his wild gesticulations it could be guessed that, amid applause from the other boats, he was laying his heart at Milly's feet. Evidently this offering was rejected, for he rose, tearing his hair, and nearly upsetting the canoe, and prepared to leap overboard. But just then the canoe grounded and he fell instead on the slightly muddy marge, saluted by shouts of laughter from the rest of the party.
Mr. Doe stepped forward, pulled the canoe up on the shore, and offered Milly his hand to disembark.
“It is you?” he said incredulously.
“It is,” said Milly, stepping out, with flushed cheeks and her head held high.
The supper was riotous. A long day spent in the open, in the sweet, pungent, sparkling air, had half intoxicated the whole party. Married, most of them, and responsible parents and citizens, they now declared themselves a band of fauns and dryads, wreathed themselves in green branches, sang, made love, and generally let joy be unconfined.
And Milly led them. With her crown of purple flowers, with vines trailing over her shoulders, and her arms bare, she looked like the warm, laughing spirit of the autumn woods. The clear-flowing air, with its tang of wood smoke, had got into her veins; the blood pulsed in her cheeks and beat at her temples and her throat, light as the giddy bubbles of the wine that they were drinking. Her hilarity was by no means dampened by the astonished face of Mr. Doe as he watched her.
Mr. Doe was the sole spectator of the group. He made no attempt to join in the general gayety. One young matron having tried to draw him into it, by means of a leafy garland thrown about his neck, he mildly resisted, and unobtrusively got rid of the garland and the lady, and continued to study Milly.
Milly was being made love to, and apparently did not mind; but when the ardor of the youth on her left, and the middle-aged gentleman on her right, became more pronounced, she began to sing. She sang Irish love songs, sweet and melancholy, and the uproarious crowd fell silent and grew sentimental.
There was a late moon to light their way home. To the disappointment of several aspirants, Milly offered the seat beside her to Mr. Doe, having previously insisted on driving the motor herself. The pace that she set was a smart one, in spite of the narrowness and the many turns of the forest road. Once they had a narrow escape, for Milly, chattering to the taciturn Mr. Doe, nearly ran off an unrailed rustic bridge. There was a shriek from the back of the car, and Mr. Doe said sharply:
“Better keep your eyes on the road and both hands on the wheel—or else let me take it.”
“Thanks!” drawled Milly. “I'll be more careful.”
Furious with him, she stopped talking—and let out a little more speed. Arriving at the house, there was a second supper for those who wanted it, and dancing in the big hall. Milly did a wild Spanish dance with abandon and applause, after which she departed abruptly to bed, and the party broke up for the night.
Some twenty-four hours later occurred her first talk with Mr. Doe, which neither of them had seemed to seek. There had been a formal dinner for twenty people, at which Milly had appeared in her most dashing frock, a confection of silver lace and mauve velvet, with a silver wreath in her high-piled black hair. She had looked quite radiantly handsome, and her end of the table had been expansively gay. Mr. Doe had sat at the other end, and he had not been gay, nor had he contributed to the gayety of others.
After dinner people had scattered on the terrace and in the gardens, and Mr. Doe had joined the group that surrounded Milly. And after a time it came about that he and she were strolling alone along the garden paths, which were illuminated with Chinese lanterns. For some time they were both silent. Then Mr. Doe said abruptly:
“Now are you really the same person I saw last week at the Bellamys'?”
“Then,” explained Milly demurely, “I was having a vacation. Now I am earning my living.”
“I don't understand,” said Mr. Doe.
“Why, it is very simple,” said Milly. “I am a sort of unpaid entertainer—or, rather, I am paid by my keep—and perquisites. By my lodging and food at rich houses, yachting trips, motors, an opera box sometimes when the owner doesn't want it, or a dress that doesn't fit the purchaser—this one, for example.”
Mr. Doe turned and looked at the shining dress, and at Milly's face.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Oh,” she replied, “I'm used to people, and I like them. I'm poor, and I don't want to be a governess or a secretary or a companion. I can't do anything well except what I do—and, yes, I get a good deal of amusement out of it.”
“What an awful mistake I made!” said Mr. Doe moodily.
“What mistake?” inquired Milly sweetly.
“Why, when I saw you at the Bellamys', I thought you were a gentle, quiet, rather shy little girl, such as one doesn't often see nowadays——”
“And now,” said Milly, even more sweetly, “you find I'm just like everybody else.”
“No, I wouldn't say that,” murmured Mr. Doe. “You are more beautiful than most people, for one thing. And certainly cleverer. Now, at the Bellamys', I didn't think you beautiful, and most certainly didn't dream that you were clever.”
“However, you liked me, didn't you?” inquired Milly.
“Certainly, I liked you—very much!” said Mr. Doe, with emphasis.
“I wonder why,” said Milly. “Or how! You didn't talk to me—except incidentally with the others. I suppose you liked me because I was never in the way, and had no pretensions to your attention—as an unobtrusive piece of furniture, in fact. You liked me merely because you didn't dislike me.”
“Well, I have always thought,” said Mr. Doe slowly, “that it's best not to like people too much. I think the best women are not the disturbing, maddening sort, but the soothing:
“Life isn't soothing,” said Milly abruptly. “I think your ideal is rather—somniferous.
“Perhaps it is,” Mr. Doe admitted. “But it's likely to remain an ideal. You see, I'm an unbalanced sort of fellow, and feel that I should like an anchor.”
“Well, can't you find one? A solid person of middle age, say a widow who has settled down and——”
“Perhaps could,” said Mr. Doe mournfully. “But the misfortune is that that sort of person doesn't attract me.”
“In short, it's the noxious kind that attract you?”
“I wouldn't say noxious—say dangerous.”
“But you are afraid of that kind?”
“Scared to death,” said Mr. Doe. “When I meet one, I run.”
“Perhaps you are too timid,” suggested Milly. “Perhaps they aren't as dangerous as they seem, and if you faced them manfully——”
“I don't dare,” said Mr. Doe. “And running away does just as well. I find that after a few weeks I forget about them.”
“I don't at all admire your attitude,” said Milly. “You should grasp the nettle firmly, and——”
“But I don't want a nettle,” objected Mr. Doe. “That's exactly what I don't want—and yet their purple flowers attract me.”
There was a pause, and Milly glanced down at her pale-purple dress, and Mr. Doe glanced at it, too; but the darkness was merciful to his blushes.
“Not all attractive plants are nettles,” said Milly coldly.
“Yes, they are, for me. It's just in their being so alluring that the sting lies—don't you see?”
“He either fears his fate too much Or his desert is small Who fears to put it to the touch
quoted Milly.
“That's it,” agreed Mr. Doe. “I fear my fate too much, and also, my desert is small.”
“I don't sympathize with you at all,” said Milly. “To run away from the great adventure of life—for, after all, everybody says it's the great adventure. Now, if I felt myself falling in love, I should just let go and fall in. I should dive in! What could be more exciting?”
“Ah, it's easy to see,” said Mr. Doe, “that you're not susceptible.”
“And are you?”
“Oh, terribly! Why, I'm almost in love with you at this moment.”
“Then,” said Milly, taking a path that led toward the house, “you would better run away at once.”
“I believe I shall,” said Mr. Doe.
“And yet you stayed a week in the house with me at the Bellamys'.”
“True; but you were different then. Now, if I had fallen in love with a person who was what I thought you were, I don't believe I'd mind it.”
“Only you wouldn't fall in love with such a person.”
“That's exactly—er, well——” stammered Mr. Doe.
“Well,” said Milly, “I'm afraid your case is hopeless.”
“I fear it is,” said Mr. Doe. “I shall soon return to the wilderness—it's the only place where I can lead a quiet life.”
Here they were joined by some other people, and Milly talked no more that night with Mr. Doe. But the next afternoon, feeling suddenly tired, she escaped for a walk alone, and was overtaken by Mr. Doe, who had perhaps been on the watch.
“May I walk with you?” he asked.
“If you like,” said Milly listlessly. “But I'm not feeling very talkative.”
“So much the better,” he responded hearty. “For I am.”
They walked on through the woods, Mr. Doe glancing now and again at Milly's face.
“You look tired,” he said finally.
“I am,” said Milly.
“Then shan't we sit down somewhere?”
“No—my fatigue is the kind that's best walked off.”
“Ah, nervous—I know! Now, at the Bellamys' you didn't seem nervous.”
“Why should I? I've told you that I was resting,” said Milly, rather tartly.
“You were leading a natural life, you mean,” said Mr. Doe severely. “And here you're forcing yourself. I am convinced that this sort of thing doesn't suit you at all.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Oh, all this frivolity—this chase of amusement——”
“It isn't frivolous for me,” said Milly wearily. “And I don't chase amusement; I furnish it. As I told you, I get my bread and butter by it, or at least my jam—and I don't like bread and butter without jam.”
“Ah, that's it! What you mean by jam is what I call frivolity,” said Mr. Doe sternly. “For the sake of luxurious living you devote yourself to amusing a lot of——”
“You think it would be nobler to take my bread and butter plain?” suggested Milly ironically.
“Well, I think it's poor business for a woman to be in,” Mr. Doe responded brusquely. “At least, a woman like you. Entertaining a pack of idiots that haven't brains enough to appreciate you, and that——”
“I suppose you would think it better for me to spend my time on one, instead of a pack?” said Milly, with a glint in her eyes.
“Yes, I should. You should marry and——”
“Possibly I shall, when a favorable opportunity offers.”
Milly said this meditatively, looking at Mr. Doe. Mr. Doe looked into her violet-blue eyes, opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, shut his jaws firmly together, and walked on in silence.
“You must have plenty of offers,” he said at last, in a suppressed voice.
“That isn't the point,” said Milly. “I wouldn't marry unless I were quite crazily in love—unless I couldn't help it, in short.”
“I think you're wrong,” said Mr. Doe positively. “Marriage should be a sensible compact——”
“Leaving out all that makes life exciting? I don't think so,” said Milly.
“Domestic life——” began Mr. Doe.
“Please don't talk about it,” interrupted Milly. “It gives me the creeps.”
Mr. Doe looked very much put out.
“Very well,” he said stiffly. “I see you have a lot of false, romantic notions. I suppose you are looking for a hero—sort of a Bulwer-Lytton or Ouida kind of person—who will——”
“I'm not looking for anybody,” said Milly. “Not even for a sensible person who could give me a home.”
Having said this, she began to walk more rapidly, and Mr. Doe kept pace with her for some time in silence. Milly's color began to come back. Her face changed subtly.
“You're looking better,” observed Mr. Doe.
She smiled.
“But I suppose to-night you will be dancing and flirting till three in the morning, and to-morrow——”
“Oh, never mind to-morrow.”
“But I do mind it! And you ought to. You should take care of yourself, instead of wasting your energy on a lot of stupid people whose only idea is to make love to you——” Mr. Doe's eyes gleamed angrily, and he switched viciously with his stick at the bushes. “And you seem to like it!”
“I can't see why it matters to you whether I like it or not,” said Milly coldly
“Well, it does matter! I hate to see you being exploited—as you are! I tell you it's no sort of proper life for you—or any woman.”
“You are rude!” said Milly, with compressed lips. “I came out for a quiet walk, and not for a lecture—from a stranger, too, who certainly has no concern how I live.”
“You mean it is none of my business,” said Mr. Doe stonily. “And if I have been rude, I beg your pardon.”
“Oh,” said Milly carelessly, “let's talk of something else.”
But her bright color faded as suddenly as it had come.
She turned back presently, and they returned to the house, Mr. Doe well aware that he had not made his peace, and Milly aware that he was miserable. But she was hurt and angry. She was foolish enough to cry when she found herself alone in her room, and it took her fully two hours to make herself presentable for the evening.
She ignored Mr. Doe completely. The party went to a dance at a neighbor's. Milly led the cotillion with a dashing young Southerner. Mr. Doe hung about the doorways, and watched her floating light as thistledown in a filmy white dress cut very low.
And the next day, when Milly came downstairs, Mr. Doe had departed.
“He had a telegram early this morning,” said Mrs. Goodridge. “I knew he would—I never saw him look so bored as he did this time. And yet I'm sure we're amusing enough. But he acts like Methuselah, or whoever it was that said there's nothing new under the sun. You'd think he was ninety instead of thirty-seven! Well, he brought me a beautiful tiger skin, anyhow—I forgive him.”
Milly had a brief note from Mr. Doe:
    I am off to South America. You hit me terribly hard by what you said about not marrying unless you fell in love—crazily in love, you said. Nobody could fall crazily in love with me. I shall try to forget you. Pray take care of yourself, and try to lead a more rational life.
Two months later she had a short letter dated from Trinidad:
    I find I have not forgotten you. I believe it was the week at the Bellamys' that did it. I was taken unawares. If only that nice, quiet little girl were your real self! Don't write to me. I may get over it. I hope you are not going the pace too hard. Better marry some nice, sober fellow who will take care of you. If you think of it, I can recommend one
A month elapsed; then came another letter, from Caracas:
    It was no use running away this time. I have not got over it. Such a thing never happened to me before. Six weeks has always seen me out of it. Heavens, suppose I should not get over it? If not, don't you think you could reconsider your notions about marrying? After all, they were romantic, you know, and you are getting on toward the time when one should think of being sensible and arranging a comfortable middle age for oneself.
    When I first saw you, I took you to be about twenty—but after seeing you at the Goodridges', radiant and full of color one minute and the next tired and bleached out, I think you must be at least thirty. Now, at thirty, a woman shouldn't wait for a fairy prince; she should make the best of what she can get.
    If you should entertain the idea I mentioned, write me. or still better, cable to the above address. It will always reach me, though I am going on a short expedition.
Milly filed this letter away with the other two, but she did not write or cable to Mr. Doe. She was in the thick of a busy winter, and Mr. Doe would certainly not have approved of her way of life.
And, besides, she had not forgiven him. She couldn't forget what he had said. His words rankled and stung. His criticism cut her, all the more as she was sometimes in the mood to feel that it was just. No one had ever spoken to her like that! But perhaps other people thought the same things of her? She became more sensitive to the bearing of people toward her, to slight shades of tone, to light words. He at least had not taken her lightly.
Life was not all cakes and ale to Milly. Sometimes she was very tired, sometimes she was sharp; sometimes, when she looked in the mirror in the morning, she saw the “bleached-out” effect that Mr. Doe had alluded to; and then she thought of his suggestion about a comfortable middle age.
She thought that he had perhaps been moved to pity her and to wish to save her from her wretched mode of life, and this, of course, was reason enough for not writing him, even though at times she had the impulse.
Milly had a healthy amount of pride and vanity, and did not like being pitied, nor did she pity herself, even in her blue moods. She thought Mr. Doe pedantic, and composed some sarcastic missives to him which never got as far as pen and paper. Then came from him a letter in a different tone:
    I am disappointed not to find a line from you on my return. I looked forward to it. I thought that, considering the interest I take in you, you might at least write a few words, just.to say how you are and what you're doing. Oh, Milly, won't you please write to me? I am sure now that it's happened to me—what you called “the great adventure,” and it only shows how right I was in running away from it. For I am confoundedly miserable. Nerves worn to a frazzle. Can't sleep. If this keeps up, I might as well be in New York.
    Now, Milly, you owe me a little consideration, for this is all your fault. You sailed under false colors. If I had seen you at first as you really are—courted and capricious and spoiled and seductive—I should have made a bolt for it at once, and undoubtedly would have got off. But you got me to stay a whole week near you on the pretense that you were harmless, and I got to like you, and then your blossoming out into a beauty put the finishing touch. In vain is the snare spread in the sight of any bird, but even an old bird like me couldn't escape so subtle a snare. I don't believe, either, that you meant to do it—and that's just why you now owe me, as I said, every care and consideration. And you owe me at least three letters.
Milly read this letter sitting before the gas log in her flat, and pondered long over it.
“No, I will not write to him,” she resolved, at last. “He might have got over it—or he might already have started for New York.”
She looked dreamily at the illusive blue flame of the gas log; and wondered if it was not, after all, an image of life. That unburnable asbestos and its somewhat chilly cheer—— She shivered slightly. But she was conscious of a spot of warmth somewhere in the universe—and felt that at last she could fully forgive Mr. Doe.
She read his letter several times thoughtfully, smiling a little; and then carefully put it away with the others. Yes, she had forgiven him, but she was in no great hurry to let him know it.
Some weeks later, on a rainy evening, Milly was in her kitchenette, cooking her own solitary meal, when a ring summoned her to the door; and at the door, looking bigger than ever in a dripping mackintosh, stood Mr. Doe.
“Why, is it you?” Milly cried in her most social manner. “Come in and dine with me!”
“Thank you!” said Mr. Doe huskily.
He left his mackintosh in the hail, and, entering the parlor, seemed to fill it with his large, embarrassed presence.
“How did you find me out?” cried Milly.
“Telephoned Reggie. Only got in this afternoon,” said Mr. Doe apologetically.
“Well, sit down! Dinner will be ready in a jiffy. Smoke, if you like.”
And, motioning him into the only big chair, Milly set a table at his elbow, and vanished into the kitchenette, where she just saved the steak from burning. In a few moments she returned, and beckoned Mr. Doe into the minute dining room, where he found a round table set for two, with shaded candles on it, and red roses, and a small pot steak and a complex salad, and a few other things.
“I did not expect this,” he said solemnly. “I thought I might get you to go out to dinner with me. I had no idea you could cook. This steak is very good—also the salad. You are a remarkable person.”
Camembert cheese, hothouse grapes, and coffee followed, while Milly put Mr. Doe through a rapid-fire catechism on his recent travels. Then they returned to the parlor, and Mr. Doe tremulously bit off the end of a large cigar.
“You did not write to me,” he said.
“No,” said Milly thoughtfully, “I thought it would not be much use.”
“It would have been a good deal of use to me,” said Mr. Doe. “It might have saved me some sleepless nights. Now, will you answer me a simple question?”
“If I can,” said Milly cautiously.
“Then here it is: Will you marry me?”
Milly looked pensively at her visitor.
“Come—yes or no,” he said firmly.
“Then, yes,” said Milly.
Mr. Doe dropped his cigar, picked it up, and threw it into the gas grate.
“Do you mean——" he gasped.
“I said yes,” said Milly.
“Do—do you mean it?”
“Yes. You see—I have thought a good deal about what you said to me at the Goodridges', and I have decided that you were right. I was romantic. But, as you said, I am getting on, and marriage should be a sensible compact and——”
“I never said it!”
“Why, yes, you did! You said I should marry a sober person who would take care of me——”
“But I am not a sober person——”
“You said it was time to think of making a comfortable arrangement for middle age——”
“Never!”
Milly looked at him austerely.
“I believe you are trying to get out of it,” she said.
“I—I——” stammered Mr. Doe.
“I believe you thought I would refuse you,” said Milly indignantly.
“Yes, I—I did,” he confessed.
Milly stood up. very tall and stately.
“Then I think you have behaved badly,” she remarked. “Who is sailing under false colors now? I could not have believed it of you.”
“And I would not have believed it of you!” cried Mr. Doe. “Didn't you tell me you would never marry unless you were in love?”
Milly blushed deeply, but retained her composure,
“I explained to you,” she said, “that I had changed my mind.”
“But I don't want you to change your mind!” cried Mr. Doe.
“What do you want, then?” asked Milly.
“l want—I want you—— You know what I want! I want you to marry me, but not in that way.”
“But it seems to me it is a good way. I appreciate your good qualities, and respect you, and——”
“I don't want you to! You were perfectly right, you know, about not marrying unless you fell in love. It's the only way. One must go it blindfold or not at all. I wouldn't dare take you on any other terms. I don't love you because of your good qualities—and I am certainly not good enough to be taken on a rational basis——”
Mr. Doe hesitated, then added in a husky tone:
    “Would thou couldst love me and know not why. So hadst thou the more reason to dote upon me ever!”
“Then,” said Milly, after a pause, “it appears you have refused me.”
“I knew you didn't mean it,” said Mr. Doe still more huskily. “Good-by. I'm off to Africa to-morrow.”
“Why Africa? What are you fleeing from now?”
“From you, and from the terror of not being loved by you. Far from you, I think I could bear it, but near to you, I——”
Mr. Doe drew in his breath sharply.
Milly said mournfully, lifting her blue eyes:
“If you go, I shall——”
“Marry some one else.”
“Perhaps. But I shall fancy I am in love with you.”
“And I suppose you couldn't fancy it if I stayed here?”
“No, for you would be sure to weaken, and in an unguarded moment marry me.”
“Never, I swear!” said Mr. Doe fervently. “Nothing would induce me to! However, I shall go. I shall leave a cable address, and shall return on one condition. You know what that is.”
“Very well,” said Milly coldly. “Good-by.”
Mr. Doe slowly went into the hall, and put on his mackintosh. Then, hat in hand, he came back, and sadly looked at Milly.
“No man can avoid his fate,” he said. “It was wasted energy, my running away from the others. You were the dangerous one, and I couldn't run from you—that is, not fast enough! Good-by, Millicent, my love!”
“Good-by,” said Milly, giving him her hand, but keeping her eyes down.
Then he went out, closing the door behind him. Milly's thought was: “He has not left the cable address,” and as she stood there, she felt her eyes smarting strangely.
There was a timid ring. Milly opened the door, and there stood Mr. Doe.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I think I forgot my umbrella.”
“Come in,” murmured Milly. “I'll look for it.”
They looked for the umbrella, but it was not to be found.
“Do you know,” said Mr. Doe suddenly, “I don't believe, after all, that I had an umbrella.”
“No,” said Milly, “I don't believe you had.”
They looked at one another steadfastly.
“I never believed I had an umbrella,” said Mr. Doe.
“Neither did I,” said Milly meekly.
Mr. Doe paused a moment.
“Did you believe,” he demanded, “that I meant to go to Africa?”
“I—yes, I rather did,” said Milly.
“Then you are very much less intelligent than I thought you.”
“And did you believe,” retorted Milly, with spirit, “that I would marry you merely as a decayed gentlewoman's refuge?”
“A decayed—dear me, how unpleasant! But I catch your meaning. Yes, I—rather did.”
“Then,” said Milly, “you are the least intelligent man I know. I really think that, after all, you had better——”
The rest of the sentence was lost in the depths of a damp mackintosh.
“I will,” said Mr. Doe.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1951, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 72 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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