The new era. (Walden, Colo.) 1906-19??, 1908-01-09
THAT IDEAL FACE.
BY
ROBERT CARLTON BROWN

Had he reached out his hand at
that moment he could have touched
her.
There she stood, plainly outlined be-
fore him, and yet Wallace did not
reach out and touch her-for Just then
he woke up.
1t was with pang that he realized
that II was only dream-a fancy
that she was not real-that she was
not there.
Slowly he pulled on his clothes,
thinking ever of that face, it had been
SO near to him. And yet 1t was but
a dream. The realization maddened
him. for now he knew that it was
the face of his ideal.
The face haunted him; he could not
get it off his mind. Somewhere, some
time, he had looked into those eyes
before. But where-where?
All during breakfast he thought OF
it, and now he had suddenly realized
that he knew it, that he was familiar
with its every feature.
But who was she? He was dimly
conscious that he saw that face daily.
But why-why had he never realized
before that this really was his ideal,
why had he not thought of it when
he had seen her, for surely this was
the girl, the only one whom Wallace
ever could love?
The strangeness of the situation
bothered him, to think that he had
seen this face daily and never be-
fore had realized that she was the one
for whom he had searched so long.
He blessed the dream which had
brought the realization and determine
ton to find her-and win her.
Not one face did he miss on his
ride to the city that morning. He was
certain of finding her somewhere, she
was so familiar. And yet, try as hard
as he might, he could remember moth
ing of her except that face, those
eyes which he was certain he looked
into daily.
He did not discover his ideal on
the car, but he knew that some time
during the day he would confront her.
There could be no doubt of that, and
as he walked slowly to the office he
began building more grand and ex-
travagant air castles than he had yet
allowed himself to indulge in.
During the morning he walked
through the several offices where he
was in the habit of going; searching
always for the ideal that had been
revealed to him in the dream, and
certain that he would find her.
At noon he still was hopeful, and
stood on the corner before going to
lunch in the hope of finding that
face.
Queer" he unused to himself. She
must be somewhere. I'll swear I've
seen that face every day for the
last six months wonder where she
can be?"
The whole morning had been wasted
in his futile search, SO that afternoon
he turned resolutely to his work and
banished the face-the ideal-for the
time being.
A stenographer stepped into his
office, he looked up eagerly, hoping,
ever hoping-but no, it was not
she.
Somehow the work would not go
right, and at three Wallace pushed
back his papers peevishly, closed up
his desk, and sat dreaming.
His eyes roved about the room abb
stractedly. He left his chair, walked
to the window, stood pensively lean
ing on his elbow, and looking far out
over the city with vacant, lovers
stare
He must find that face-that ideal.
He could not work, he could not be
himself, without it.
Suddenly his eyes started, he press
ed his face against the window pane
in his excitement, and stared straight
ahead of him
Slowly the color left his cheeks, his
hands dropped Imply to his sides, his
head bowed, and a sad look came
into his eyes as he passed his cold
hand over his feverish forehead.
For there, across the street, on
huge signboard. was that face-the
ideal face-a fanciful creation Of the
advertisers art, painted in tiaring
colors and her eyes-they were look
ing deep into his as he stood there
cursing the dream-the ideal-that
had caused such havoc in his heart.