“Everybody calls you ’Joe’,”
she said reproachfully, as the car dropped downward.
“Why don’t they call you ‘Mr. Fleming’?
That’s no more than proper.”
But he was staring moodily at the elevator boy and
did not seem to hear.
“What’s the matter, Joe?” she asked,
with a tenderness the power of which to thrill him
she knew full well.
“Oh, nothing,” he said. “I
was only thinking—and wishing.”
“Wishing?—what?” Her voice
was seduction itself, and her eyes would have melted
stronger than he, though they failed in calling his
up to them.
Then, deliberately, his eyes lifted to hers.
“I was wishing you could see me fight just
once.”
She made a gesture of disgust, and his face fell.
It came to her sharply that the rival had thrust
between and was bearing him away.
“I—I’d like to,” she
said hastily with an effort, striving after that sympathy
which weakens the strongest men and draws their heads
to women’s breasts.
“Will you?”
Again his eyes lifted and looked into hers.
He meant it—she knew that. It seemed
a challenge to the greatness of her love.
“It would be the proudest moment of my life,”
he said simply.
It may have been the apprehensiveness of love, the
wish to meet his need for her sympathy, and the desire
to see the Game face to face for wisdom’s sake,—and
it may have been the clarion call of adventure ringing
through the narrow confines of uneventful existence;
for a great daring thrilled through her, and she said,
just as simply, “I will.”
“I didn’t think you would, or I wouldn’t
have asked,” he confessed, as they walked out
to the sidewalk.
“But can’t it be done?” she asked
anxiously, before her resolution could cool.
“Oh, I can fix that; but I didn’t think
you would.”
“I didn’t think you would,” he repeated,
still amazed, as he helped her upon the electric car
and felt in his pocket for the fare.
Genevieve and Joe were working-class aristocrats.
In an environment made up largely of sordidness and
wretchedness they had kept themselves unsullied and
wholesome. Theirs was a self-respect, a regard
for the niceties and clean things of life, which had
held them aloof from their kind. Friends did
not come to them easily; nor had either ever possessed
a really intimate friend, a heart-companion with whom
to chum and have things in common. The social
instinct was strong in them, yet they had remained
lonely because they could not satisfy that instinct
and at that same time satisfy their desire for cleanness
and decency.
