The Survival of the Fittest (Warner)

By Anne Warner

T was an amateur studio, very pretty and effective with papier-mâché shields and spears in profusion and a particularly poor light exposure. The lady who owned it, and who bore upon her black-edged calling cards the name “Mrs. Lindley,” was the prettiest and most effective thing about it, and if her artistic instincts ran to bogus armor and knew no aversion to a southern reflection across her canvas, no one ever laid it up against her. She was too adorably dainty and delightful for even a Bouguereau to have scolded, and when she drew three nymphs and had their hair blown by three different breezes none of her visitors ever thought of calling her attention to the fact.

“Don’t you think it’s funny,” she said one day to Rex Lindley, her deceased husband’s cousin, when that gentleman had strolled in to mention a theatrical first night for which he had tickets, “don’t you think it’s funny—a gypsy read my character out of my hand yesterday and never said a thing about my being an artist!”

“That is odd,” said Rex, who had a sense of humor but never discharged it at his ingenuous little relative-at-law. “What did she tell you?”

Mrs. Lindley took a sketch-block and two pencils and sought a seat somewhat aloof from her caller.

“I’m going to draw your head while we talk, ” she remarked parenthetically. “You won’t mind being drawn again, will you? You see you're so good-looking, and then, too, you keep so still.”

Rex laughed; she looked so dear and childlike, waiting for his permission, with her pencil’s tip in her mouth.

“You don’t mind?” she questioned again.

“No, of course not. But what else did the gypsy tell you?”

Mrs. Lindley twisted up her eyebrows and gazed hard on the subject and then on the sketch-block.

“Oh,” she said, “she talked just the usual light woman and dark man and said I’d be married within a year. I—” her words died away; all her soul was absorbed in the outline on the sketch-block.

“So you do not expect to be married within a year?”

“Rex! The idea! You know I’m never going to marry again. I’m going to live for Art. But that reminds me”—she ceased drawing suddenly—“what do you think? I’ve had a proposal!”

Lindley started slightly.

“A proposal!”

“Yes; a real one. I never had thought of such a thing. You know I’m not the kind that thinks every man that is nice to me is nice just for love. Why, if I thought that—” she went on sketching with an expressive shrug.

He considered it best to keep still.

“I mustn’t tell you who it was—must I? But he felt so badly that I cried afterwards—honestly I did.”

“Then you refused him?”

“Why, of course. Don’t speak for a minute—I’m doing your mouth. You have such a nice mouth; he had a mustache. I fancy that was one reason why I refused him. I don’t like mustaches.”

She held the sketch-block off and frowned thoughtfully at it—then shook her head gloomily.

“It doesn’t look a bit like you, Rex, not a bit. Oh, dear, I do wish my sketches would look like people.”

“But they do,” said Lindley hurriedly, “I have that one of Camp hung up in my room and everyone knows it’s he.”

“That’s because of the way he shows his teeth when he smiles; he was smiling when I drew him. But he didn’t smile much when I refused—oh!” she caught her breath, blushing madly.

“Never mind,” said Lindley kindly, “I won't tell.”

She looked so conscience-stricken that he laughed aloud.

“Get your hat and let us walk a bit,” he proposed; “‘ you'll feel better then. Mind what I say.”

So they went out to walk.

It was quite two months later that, coming to take her out to dine, he found her sobbing on the sofa,

“I’ve had—to—to refuse a—another man,” she confessed between chokes.

He dragged a chair close to her side and took the hand that was not wielding a pocket-handkerchief into both his own.

“My poor child,” he said pityingly.

“Oh, it was awful—it was Mr. Liggett!”

Lindley bit his lip hurriedly at the unconscious hyphen between her phrases. “But didn’t you suspect?” he hazarded mildly.

“No, how could I? He’s taken me to drive—and I’ve enjoyed it, but so many men take me to drive and I always enjoy it—and now, oh—oh—oh!”

Lindley held her hand in silence.

After a while she wiped her eyes and looked up.

“How could I marry Mr. Liggett?” she propounded. “Fancy his kissing me! Fancy his holding my hand! Why, Rex, when you hold my hand it’s a real comfort, but the mere idea of Mr. Liggett’s holding my hand rubs my backbone all the wrong way!”

“I’m glad you decided against him, then!”

“Yes”—she rose from the sofa—“I am, too. But I wish they wouldn't do it—it makes me feel so badly. I sha’n’t enjoy myself half as much as usual tonight.”

“That will be a pity.” He was bringing her cloak.

“Yes; because I always have such a good time with you. I'll never marry any man unless I have just as good a time with him as I do with you.”

“Thank you, dear. That’s a great compliment.”

She smiled sweetly.

“But it’s true, Rex,” she said, nodding additional emphasis to her statement; “come—let’s go.”

And again they went out.

Spring came next, with its usual Locksley Hall effect on all things masculine.

Lindley—going to see his cousin-in-law—found her in great distress—and all in white (for the first time).

“Just think,” she said, her underlip trembling, “I’ve worn black three whole years and I’ve so looked forward to getting out of it and now—here—the first day—” she broke down abruptly.

“Was it Atherton?” Rex asked.

She nodded. “Yes, and I didn't know what to say to him because he hasn’t any mustache and he really is splendid and—and—oh, I don’t know”—her voice trembled and then she added in a whisper, “You know with all my practice the sketches don’t look like the people yet, either!”

Lindley didn’t smile; instead he divined. “You mean Art isn’t proving entirely soul-filling?” he said.

She nodded.

“And I’m getting awfully blue, too,” she confessed. “Some days I wish I was dead—truly I do.”

“Wouldn’t Atherton have helped?”

She shook her head. “No,” she sighed.

They were sitting—not in the studio—but in her little drawing-room below; she was occupying a large easy-chair of the satin-tufted variety—the sort that have wide, broad arms. Lindley left his seat and went and sat on one of the wide, broad arms. She leaned back and looked up at him.

“Be comforting,” she said. “Say something nice to cheer me up—something about my drawing—or my eyes.”

“Which shall I praise first?” he asked, “You know that I think they are both wonderful.” (He saved his reputation for truthfulness by looking into “both” as he spoke).

She smiled. “Oh, tell me about my eyes first,” she said, her womanliness worsting her art without even a battle.

“Ah,” said Rex, still looking down, “you must know that two such were never made before and that the spirit that looks out of them—” he hesitated.

“Go on!” she said. “I feel a little better already.”

“But I’m not very comfortable,” he said frankly. “I’m afraid I'll break the arm.”

“But I’m comfortable,” objected Mrs. Lindley, “and I don’t believe you'll break the arm”

But he had risen.

She stared at him.

He was big and she was little, and he stooped and picked her up in his arms and then seated himself in the selfsame chair.

“Why, Rex!” she said, a little appalled.

He put his arm around her and drew her close and put his hand against her head and drew that close.

“Why, Rex,” she said, struggling a little.

“You didn’t know that I could draw, too—did you?” he said, “or that I could draw you so quickly?”

At that her lips parted merrily.

“It’s a joke—isn’t it?” she asked. “But, truly, I’m all comforted now, and I think I’d better go”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Lindley hastily. “And if you will give the subject an instant’s reflection I feel sure that you won't think so either. I have no mustache and I keep you happy when you are with me; I consider your talent as something that oversteps genius and I adore your eyes. If you are lonesome, why—” he kissed her and ended the discussion.

“And the gypsy said so, too,” said Mrs. Lindley, an hour later. “How strange that she knew.”