The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936, 1886-06-03

an Earl to Miss Grey beforehand he
did the deed with satisfaction to himself
at least.
Miss Grey bowed slowly to Coniston,
and then she turned her attention to a
group of lady friends sitting near, leav-
ing Coniston to the agreeable know
her the next time he met her or the
piazza or the corridor.
1t didn't satisfy him.
He went off and smoked a cigar, and
conjured up Cicely in the fragrance OF
the Havana.
Even Cicely did not seem to be as
complete a boon as he had fancied she
ought to be.
For five days he wandered up and
down, and round and round the hotel,
''lounging." he called it; but the more
correct term to describe these pere-
CARNATIONS would be-politely chasing
Polly Grey.
Finally he beheld her alone. Neither
aunt nor Bradford nor friends-Heaven
be praised!-were anywhere about.
He drew near the big rocker, where
she sat with Il book in her lap; and sud-
denly Coniston remembered that he
should have to say something beyond
''good-morning," and for the first time
in forty-one years he actually wonder
ed what it should be.
She spared him the attempt, howev-
er, and CHANGING up. said:
"Ah! good morning; you have been
up in town, / suppose, ever since the
day Mr.. Bradford presented you?"
up in town. This was too much,
when he had followed her like a de-
tective the entire time.
Coniston looked feehly at her, and
then he laughed, and his fair face flush
ed as he ventured to sit down on the
piazza step at her feet. Polly glanced
down inquiringly with steady, demure
eyes.
NO" he cried. Miss Gray, I've
been most of the time about q yard
and q quarter away from you; but you
never seemed to see me-"
How strange!" Polly says, wonder
ingly. ''Most people would have seen
you, now, wouldn't they:?"
Women always have BEFORE" he
a~ssents, with a sigh.
Then you must have rejoiced in a
change, didn't you? Variety is so
pleasant to an appetite jaded by same
ness!"
NO." he answers; 1 didn't enjoy it
at all. I'll tell you," he says. looking
up at her with wide, clear eyes; .'to be
frank, 1 hate American women, and
you're the only one who ever inspired
me with the Slightest"
Coniston stops short; there is some
thing i'll his listeners face that
marks an unerring period in his reck-
less speech.
''Well?" she asks. sweetly and clear
ly, "-the slightest"
The English language is Coniston's
native tongue, but it fails him now:
he feels the warm blood suffusing his
face and his mind runs after an elusive
woman.
'.Ah, [ see; there are some things so
much better implied than expressed.
But I am so matter-of-fact that | must
translate your mute ~eloquence, Lord
Coniston-" At this instant Coniston
is lost in calculating how many minutes
he can stand this present temperature
of his head and face-'into words, or
a word-curiosity, Ell? Come, be twice
franks it not SOP"
You may christen it curiosity, and
call it so, pro tenn, if you choose, Miss
GRAY, but"
The earl again ~falters.
'Ohr" cries the girl, with a little i'm
patient "a of her hand. and throw
ing back her pretty blonde head; show
l abhor Englishmen! They are so il
terror of even their minor emotions. A
F~renchman, a German, an Italian, any
other nationality in the world is ready,
to put his fiirtatious ~propensities
into the most delicious language; but
Englishman!"-she shudders--.'he
stops to wonder what he is about to
feel, and loi the emotion vanishes! ha!
ha! hal"
Miss Grey laughs a long, musical,
laugh.
Coniston looks at her, and he Won
ders if he has ever really seen her until
this morning? She looks like the
brightest part of the sunshine as she
sits there in it, hooking him.
Perhaps we do avoid putting what
you call our .iIrtatious propensities'
into words; butt if you will permit me
to say so, an Englishman is only too
ready to speak u that which he really
do they ever feel anything outside
the hunting field and the House of Com
mons?" she asks, provokingly.
He smiles as he looks at her.
II will tell you some day"
Not long after Coniston rides with
Miss Grey-a long afternoon ride IN
the road by the bay, and through the
woods and past the farms busy with
their autumn fruit gathering.
They chat of commonplace things
the flowers, the birds, the clouds, the
blue'of sea and sky. and they come
home soberly enough, too soberly, he
thinks.
There is a ball that night, 1.-The last
of the season." Coniston is not a dane
ing man, so he has the satisfaction Of
watching Miss Grey floating about the
ball room in the arms of other men
principally Bradford. He smokes CT
gars; be ever goes so far as to drink
brandy. and invoke the image of the
reposeful Cicely-all have little effect.
He stalks out on the piazza, brilliant
With 1ap+ornr OWL tbop countarc TO tho !