Free An Officer and a Lady by Rex Stout Page B

know is, who is she, and how long have you known her, and all that sort of thing.”
    “Do you love her?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, then why don’t you tell her so?”
    Arthur was silent.
    “Why don’t you tell her?” Miss Carlisle repeated grimly.
    “I—I’m afraid to,” the young man stammered.
    “Pooh!” the lady snorted contemptuously. “I can tell you one thing; you won’t get any satisfaction out of me. Of course you’re afraid! You’re afraid she’s poor. You’re afraid her great-grandfather was as disrespectable as your own. And more than everything else, you’re afraid of your mother!”
    “I am not!” the young man declared hotly, his face very red.
    “Yes you are!” Miss Carlisle almost shouted, rising and waving her arms excitedly. “Don’t contradict me ! And I can hardly blame you; She’s worth a dozen of your kind. She’s a thousand times too good for you. If she’d only had sense enough not to fall in love with you!”
    “What!” cried Arthur, turning pale.
    Miss Carlisle sank back into her chair. “Now what have I done?” she said helplessly. “Anyway, it was a lie. I wanted to see what you’d do.”
    “Oh!” said Arthur, doubtfully.
    Then the door opened to admit Miss Moulton herself.
    Arthur arose awkwardly, and there ensued the uncomfortable silence which always greets the entrance of one who has been the subject of conversation. The young lady looked from Arthur to Miss Carlisle and back again, as if to inquire the cause of their very evident embarrassment. Then the young man pulled two slips of blue paper from his pocket and advanced toward Miss Moulton with an attempt at naturalness that fell quite flat.
    “Here are your tickets,” said he, smiling foolishly. Miss Carlisle arose, muttered something unintelligible, and disappeared in the direction of her bedroom.
    “What’s the matter?” asked Miss Moulton coolly.
    “Nothing,” said Arthur, visibly ill at ease. “Nothing whatever. The fact is, I wanted to talk to you.”
    “Well?”
    “Well—er—I—” he hesitated stammering.
    “Go on,” Miss Moulton said encouragingly.
    Arthur gulped hard. “Haven’t you noticed anything funny about me lately?” he demanded desperately.
    “No—o, I think not. Are you ill?”
    “Well, you see—” Arthur looked at her appealingly, “by Jove, I believe I am. The fact is, I—hang it all—I love you!”
    “Indeed!”
    “Yes, I do,” he said doggedly, as though she had contradicted him. “Odd, isn’t it?”
    “Is it?” this with a rising inflection.
    “Well, perhaps not exactly odd.” He appeared to be considering the matter. “But very curious, you know—wonderful, and all that sort of thing. Er—moonlight rides, and all that sort of thing. I’ve thought of nothing else since I saw you. I’m a regular blooming idiot.”
    “Are you trying to make run of me?”
    The young man’s face reddened and he straightened himself stiffly. “I am not,” he declared, with dignity. “I am trying to ask you to marry me.”
    “Oh!” said Miss Moulton weakly. Evidently it was more than she had expected. She advanced a step toward Arthur, then turned aside and sat down in the chair recently vacated by Miss Carlisle. For a few seconds there was silence. Then,
    “Of course,” the girl sighed, “it’s impossible.”
    “Oh, I say—”
    “No,” she interrupted firmly, “it is quite impossible. Quite. You know why as well as I do. But I—I really appreciate the honor you do me.”
    Arthur considered this for a minute in silence. Then he approached her chair and stood looking down at her uncertainly. “Of course, I didn’t think you loved me,” he said, his voice trembling. “But I thought there might be a chance—and today you are leaving. It was just possible that you cared for me a little—just enough to make it—I say, you couldn’t?”
    Miss Moulton was silent.
    “Because,” Arthur went on, “if you do, nothing else matters. Nothing about—you