THE COMPLETE NOVELS OF MARK TWAIN - 12 Books in One Edition. Марк Твен

eyes of women or for effect upon men. It is a very important problem, and has been a good deal discussed, and its solution would form one fixed, philosophical basis, upon which to estimate woman’s character. We are inclined to take a medium ground, and aver that woman dresses to please herself, and in obedience to a law of her own nature.

      “They are coming this way,” said Blanche. People who made way for them to pass, turned to look at them. Washington began to feel that the eyes of the public were on him also, and his eyes rolled about, now towards the ceiling, now towards the floor, in an effort to look unconscious.

      “Good morning, Miss Hawkins. Delighted. Mr. Hawkins. My friend, Miss Medlar.”

      Mr. Hawkins, who was endeavoring to square himself for a bow, put his foot through the train of Mrs. Senator Poplin, who looked round with a scowl, which turned into a smile as she saw who it was. In extricating himself, Mr. Hawkins, who had the care of his hat as well as the introduction on his mind, shambled against Miss Blanche, who said pardon, with the prettiest accent, as if the awkwardness were her own. And Mr. Hawkins righted himself.

      “Don’t you find it very warm to-day, Mr. Hawkins?” said Blanche, by way of a remark.

      “It’s awful hot,” said Washington.

      “It’s warm for the season,” continued Blanche pleasantly. “But I suppose you are accustomed to it,” she added, with a general idea that the thermometer always stands at 90 deg. in all parts of the late slave states. “Washington weather generally cannot be very congenial to you?”

      “It’s congenial,” said Washington brightening up, “when it’s not congealed.”

      “That’s very good. Did you hear, Grace, Mr. Hawkins says it’s congenial when it’s not congealed.”

      “What is, dear?” said Grace, who was talking with Laura.

      The conversation was now finely under way. Washington launched out an observation of his own.

      “Did you see those Japs, Miss Leavitt?”

      “Oh, yes, aren’t they queer. But so high-bred, so picturesque. Do you think that color makes any difference, Mr. Hawkins? I used to be so prejudiced against color.”

      “Did you? I never was. I used to think my old mammy was handsome.”

      “How interesting your life must have been! I should like to hear about it.”

      Washington was about settling himself into his narrative style, when Mrs. Gen. McFingal caught his eye.

      “Have you been at the Capitol to-day, Mr. Hawkins?”

      Washington had not. “Is anything uncommon going on?”

      “They say it was very exciting. The Alabama business you know. Gen. Sutler, of Massachusetts, defied England, and they say he wants war.”

      “He wants to make himself conspicuous more like,” said Laura. “He always, you have noticed, talks with one eye on the gallery, while the other is on the speaker.”

      “Well, my husband says, its nonsense to talk of war, and wicked. He knows what war is. If we do have war, I hope it will be for the patriots of Cuba. Don’t you think we want Cuba, Mr. Hawkins?”

      “I think we want it bad,” said Washington. “And Santo Domingo. Senator Dilworthy says, we are bound to extend our religion over the isles of the sea. We’ve got to round out our territory, and — ”

      Washington’s further observations were broken off by Laura, who whisked him off to another part of the room, and reminded him that they must make their adieux.

      “How stupid and tiresome these people are,” she said. “Let’s go.”

      They were turning to say good-by to the hostess, when Laura’s attention was arrested by the sight of a gentleman who was just speaking to Mrs. Schoonmaker. For a second her heart stopped beating. He was a handsome man of forty and perhaps more, with grayish hair and whiskers, and he walked with a cane, as if he were slightly lame. He might be less than forty, for his face was worn into hard lines, and he was pale.

      No. It could not be, she said to herself. It is only a resemblance. But as the gentleman turned and she saw his full face, Laura put out her hand and clutched Washington’s arm to prevent herself from falling.

      Washington, who was not minding anything, as usual, looked ‘round in wonder. Laura’s eyes were blazing fire and hatred; he had never seen her look so before; and her face, was livid.

      “Why, what is it, sis? Your face is as white as paper.”

      “It’s he, it’s he. Come, come,” and she dragged him away.

      “It’s who?” asked Washington, when they had gained the carriage.

      “It’s nobody, it’s nothing. Did I say he? I was faint with the heat. Don’t mention it. Don’t you speak of it,” she added earnestly, grasping his arm.

      When she had gained her room she went to the glass and saw a pallid and haggard face.

      “My God,” she cried, “this will never do. I should have killed him, if I could. The scoundrel still lives, and dares to come here. I ought to kill him. He has no right to live. How I hate him. And yet I loved him. Oh heavens, how I did love that man. And why didn’t he kill me? He might better. He did kill all that was good in me. Oh, but he shall not escape. He shall not escape this time. He may have forgotten. He will find that a woman’s hate doesn’t forget. The law? What would the law do but protect him and make me an outcast? How all Washington would gather up its virtuous skirts and avoid me, if it knew. I wonder if he hates me as I do him?”

      So Laura raved, in tears and in rage by turns, tossed in a tumult of passion, which she gave way to with little effort to control.

      A servant came to summon her to dinner. She had a headache. The hour came for the President’s reception. She had a raving headache, and the Senator must go without her.

      That night of agony was like another night she recalled. How vividly it all came back to her. And at that time she remembered she thought she might be mistaken. He might come back to her. Perhaps he loved her, a little, after all. Now, she knew he did not. Now, she knew he was a cold-blooded scoundrel, without pity. Never a word in all these years. She had hoped he was dead. Did his wife live, she wondered. She caught at that — and it gave a new current to her thoughts. Perhaps, after all — she must see him. She could not live without seeing him. Would he smile as in the old days when she loved him so; or would he sneer as when she last saw him? If he looked so, she hated him. If he should call her “Laura, darling,” and look SO! She must find him. She must end her doubts.

      Laura kept her room for two days, on one excuse and another — a nervous headache, a cold — to the great anxiety of the Senator’s household. Callers, who went away, said she had been too gay — they did not say “fast,” though some of them may have thought it. One so conspicuous and successful in society as Laura could not be out of the way two days, without remarks being made, and not all of them complimentary.

      When she came down she appeared as usual, a little pale may be, but unchanged in manner. If there were any deepened lines about the eyes they had been concealed. Her course of action was quite determined.

      At breakfast she asked if any one had heard any unusual noise during the night? Nobody had. Washington never heard any noise of any kind after his eyes were shut. Some people thought he never did when they were open either.

      Senator Dilworthy said he had come in late. He was detained in a little consultation after the Congressional prayer meeting. Perhaps it was his entrance.

      No, Laura said. She heard that. It was later. She might have been nervous, but she fancied somebody was trying to get into the house.

      Mr. Brierly humorously suggested that it might be, as none